The Ruin of a Rake

by Cat Sebastian

Courtenay paused, as if performing a mental calculation. Julian inwardly grimaced.

  “No other relations, but there are a few former servants. An old nurse, a groom. I can’t quite remember who. They get annuities.”

  “Of course they do,” Julian said acerbically. “Who needs the Poor Laws when instead we can have viscounts living in squalor in order to pay annuities to aged servants and estranged parents. That’s quite a system.” Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, perhaps it was the ill-judged quantity of port he had consumed earlier, but he was developing odd protective urges where Courtenay was concerned.

  “It’s not squalor,” Courtenay said, sounding peeved. He had now rolled to face Julian, his head propped in one hand. “These lodgings suit me as well as any.”

  “Then why do you spend all your time with my sister?” Julian didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but perhaps it was. “Aren’t you meant to be gaming and whoring and doing all the things reprobates do?” But even as the words left his mouth, he realized what he ought to have noticed weeks ago: whatever Courtenay had done in the past, he wasn’t dissipating himself in that manner currently.

  Courtenay held his gaze for a moment before speaking. “Your sister is my friend. And, besides, I suppose I don’t like to be alone.” He said this almost sheepishly, as if he were confessing a great secret.

  “Nor do I,” Julian admitted.

  Julian was suddenly aware that at some point in the last few minutes, he had twisted in his chair so he was fully facing Courtenay, in fact leaning towards him. Courtenay was evidently aware as well, because when Julian’s gaze caught on Courtenay’s, Courtenay raised a single dark eyebrow.

  It had to be some kind of witchcraft, that was the only explanation, because during the hours of sifting through Courtenay’s papers, Julian had let the idea creep into his mind that perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to pick up where they had left off at the opera. He wasn’t opposed to discreet affairs, in fact considered them necessary to the orderly functioning of his life. An interlude in the privacy of Courtenay’s lodgings was nothing if not discreet, entirely safe, nothing to worry about.

  He was dimly aware of a voice deep within some very sensible but utterly tired part of his mind that was shouting at him not to be such a blasted fool. There was nothing safe about Courtenay, not when Julian’s desire for him was so drastically out of proportion to what he was used to.

  But in the dark and the quiet and in such close quarters, it didn’t seem to matter.

  “Well, this is a regular orgy of emotions we’re having,” Medlock said briskly. The fellow really had no idea about emotions or orgies if he thought this qualified as either. “On to your affairs. Why did your mother disown you?”

  Courtenay regarded Medlock quizzically. This topic had nothing to do with Courtenay’s financial affairs, and in fact was a direct route to the dreaded emotional orgy. “Why wouldn’t she have disowned me?” he said easily. “I’ve been a thorn in her side since I was in leading strings. Imagine such a one as me as your only son.”

  “Oh, your mother sounds charming.” There was something about the angry twist of Medlock’s mouth that went straight to a part of Courtenay’s heart that he hadn’t known was still there. It had been years since anyone had thought to defend him, even longer since he had believed he merited any kind of defense. And having a man like Medlock—stuffy, prim Medlock—take one’s part made it worth even more.

  “I expect she’s very pretty,” Medlock continued, wrinkling his nose. “Otherwise nobody would tolerate such airs. You probably got your looks from her, I daresay. Why are you laughing like that? I don’t gamble, but if I did I’d wager twenty crowns that I have the right of it.”

  He did, of course. “I got sent down from Oxford for carrying on an affair with the chancellor’s wife.”

  “Did you? Good Lord. How ambitious. And she disinherited you over that?”

  “Not yet. My father died and she blamed my carousing and expensive habits for overtaxing his heart.” Medlock sucked in an angry breath through his teeth and Courtenay had the demented sense that this was how people felt when duels were fought for their honor. “Then I came to London and started to run through my inheritance. Drinking, gaming, whoring. The usual.” All the things Medlock had accused him of only a few minutes earlier. “My younger sister made her debut during that time, and I had the bad judgment to introduce her to some of my more dissolute friends.” There were some things he wouldn’t tell Medlock, because they weren’t his secrets to share—properly speaking, they were Simon’s—and they didn’t matter much anyway. “She found herself ruined—”

  “Wait. You’re missing some crucial steps. One doesn’t go from an introduction to ruination without a good many adventures in between. Had she no chaperone?”

  “Our older sister—the one in Somerset—was supposed to—”

  “But she made a terrible job of it, evidently.”

  “I suppose she did.” He hadn’t ever really thought of it in that light.

  “And that’s why your younger sister, Isabella, married Lord Radnor so precipitously. I see.” He only saw part of it, but it was enough. “Then Simon was born, and within the year your sister had run off with some blackguard. One of your acquaintances?”

  “Yes.” The same married man who had gotten her with child, in fact. “I didn’t trust him, so I followed her to Italy to make certain she was safe. She eventually tired of the fellow, and he of her, but of course she would have been a pariah in England, so we stayed in Italy. My mother thought I ought to have brought Isabella back to England, tail between her legs, and forced a reconciliation with Radnor.”

  “What an idiot.”

  That was a bit too much. “You really can’t talk that way about my mother, Medlock.”

  “No, I meant you. You’re an idiot to have put up with such ill treatment. The entire world knows you’re a menace with your lusty ways and your dissolute habits. Did your mother imagine that disowning you—I hope you can hear the inverted commas around that—would help in the least bit?”

  “You yourself took issue with my friendship with your sister,” Courtenay pointed out.

  “Because I didn’t want her to be considered a loose woman for associating with you. I should hardly think your mother had that to fear. If she hadn’t cast you off, you could have come back to England without this cloud of ignominy surrounding you.” He made a noise of sheer frustration. “Instead she has the vicar’s daughter write to you and you send her hundreds of pounds a year in addition to letting her live in what I have no doubt is a very fine house.”

  Courtenay was still struck by the novelty of hearing someone defend his character, but he didn’t quite believe Medlock to be correct. “It’s the least I can do after costing her the life of her first husband and youngest child.”

  Medlock sucked in a breath of air. “Oh, so you’re a murderer as well as an idiot, then. What was your weapon?”

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better—”

  “I am not,” Medlock protested.

  “—but this is no laughing matter. Isabella caught a fever that she never would have contracted in England. She was highly strung, and I ought never to have introduced her to any of my set in the first place. Of course I ought never to have countenanced her leaving her husband or taking up with other men. Her death is on my conscience.” It always would be. “I miss her every day.”

  There was a long moment of silence, during which the close confines of the room seemed to get closer still. Courtenay could hear the man’s breathing, smell his shaving soap. It would take the only the smallest effort to haul Medlock onto the sofa beside him.

  When Medlock finally spoke, his voice was softer and lower than it had been. “I say, Courtenay. You’ve put me in the damnable position of having to argue that your behavior was defensible. And while I believe that ninety nine percent of the time you behave abominably and you’ve given me six white hairs tonight alone, in t
his single instance you acted well. Your sister had ruined herself, and it was probably best that she live abroad rather than stay here and be considered a harlot. I would certainly have taken Eleanor to the Continent in that situation.” He scowled. “There, now my principles are in confusion and I hate it.” He turned back to the papers on the desk before him, even though the candle was guttering and there was no way he could see well enough to read. “Now go to sleep and I’ll wake you when I’m through.”

  Medlock’s approval shouldn’t matter, not to Courtenay, who didn’t need anyone’s approval and never had. But what made Courtenay’s breath catch was that Medlock was admitting he’d do something improper, something the world would hold against him, if it meant caring for someone he loved. Courtenay found that his opinion of Medlock, which had been thawing over the course of the evening, suddenly got dangerously warm indeed. “I’m not going to sleep, Medlock.”

  “Fine. Stay awake and watch me work. That’s peculiar but so are you and I shan’t object.”

  “You know, before tonight I never would have thought sums were . . . erotic, but it seems I’m not too old to learn new things.”

  The only light was from the moon and a dying candle, but Courtenay could see the blush spread across Medlock’s cheekbones.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” But he shifted in his seat, no doubt to accommodate his swelling prick. Courtenay watched in deep interest as he licked his lips and canted his body ever so slightly closer. There was no mistaking what this meant.

  Keeping his eyes steady on Medlock’s face, he reached out and wrapped a hand around the leg of Medlock’s chair. He had done something similar at the opera, and he knew Medlock remembered that perfectly well. So when he saw nothing in the man’s face but raw anticipation, he tugged the chair close.

  Chapter Nine

  “You’ll need a budget. Careful retrenchment,” Julian said, clinging to the sides of his chair and also to the last shreds of his self-control. Perhaps this wasn’t happening. Perhaps that wasn’t Courtenay’s hand on his thigh.

  Courtenay was propped up on one elbow, the other hand inching slowly up Julian’s leg. “You’re terribly hard, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am, damn you,” Julian ground out. “What do you expect? I suppose everybody gets like this around you.”

  A soft chuckle. “Not really. How hard?” Courtenay’s voice was an insinuating purr but his hand wasn’t anywhere near Julian’s cock and everything about this situation was unsatisfactory.

  Julian made a sound of protest. “Hard enough to be damned distracting, thank you very much. Feel free to see for yourself, unless you prefer to torture me. It’s all the same, don’t mind me.” It wasn’t, though. He would have given three hundred guineas for Courtenay’s hand to move six inches upwards or for this not to be happening at all. Either one, really.

  “Likewise,” Courtenay said, and of course Julian had to glance downwards, where indeed he could see a very promising bulge in Courtenay’s trousers. “I got hard watching you be clever with my money.”

  Oh Jesus. Praise of his accounting skills really shouldn’t make his cock actually pulse. This could not be a normal subject for bedroom talk. “What money?” Julian said, somehow managing not to reach inside his own trousers. “You haven’t any.”

  Then Courtenay, bless his depraved nature, finally slid his hand up the final couple of inches and rested it on top of Julian’s aching prick.

  Courtenay made a low sound of approval. “The question is,” he said, looking Julian right in the eye, “what you’re going to do with it.”

  Julian drew in a deep breath. Was he really going to go through with this? The fact that he was even considering it meant that it was a terrible idea, meant that Courtenay’s wicked charm had compromised his judgment. Courtenay meant scandal and wildness, improvidence and recklessness, all the things Julian went out of his way to avoid. Going to bed with him would be opening the door to chaos of a degree he didn’t want to consider.

  As a counterargument, there was the knowing caress of Courtenay’s palm over his throbbing member.

  Julian took a deep breath. “Get it sucked, I hope.”

  Courtenay growled, actually growled, and grabbed Julian by the hand, pulling him straight off the chair and onto the sofa. Or, rather, onto Courtenay’s hard chest.

  For a moment they stayed like that, Julian braced on his arms over Courtenay, Courtenay’s hands smoothing down Julian’s back. And then Courtenay grinned wolfishly and really what was Julian to do if not kiss that decadent smile right off his face? He bent down and pressed his mouth against Courtenay’s, expecting to be met with the fierce collision of lips against lips that they had shared at the opera. Instead, Courtenay barely skimmed his mouth over Julian’s, and Julian found himself responding with the barest insinuation of tongue. It was hardly a kiss at all, and Julian thought he might die from lust anyway.

  Courtenay tasted of sugary tea, disconcertingly wholesome, and he kissed like he had all the time in the world. He had seemed sufficiently clean-shaven at dinner but now the stubble on his jaw rasped against Julian’s cheek in a way that surely ought not to have been pleasurable. Every lick and nibble pushed Julian farther into a future in which he was a person who went to bed with Lord Courtenay.

  Julian, slightly annoyed at being cast in the role of aggressor, pushed up so he had one foot on the floor and the other leg astride Courtenay. He began unfastening his trousers. Freeing his erection, he groaned with relief and heard Courtenay’s rumble of interest. He took his cock in hand, gripping it as surely as he would in the darkness and privacy of his own bedchamber. “The question is, what are you going to do with it?” he said, echoing Courtenay’s earlier taunt. Because if one couldn’t be as bold as one pleased with Courtenay, Julian didn’t know when one could.

  “Up here,” Courtenay said, and it was unmistakably a command. “Now.”

  Julian braced a hand on the arm of the sofa and with his other hand guided his erection just out of reach of Courtenay’s parted lips. He needed to see Courtenay reach for it. He needed to know that this man wanted this, wanted him.

  Courtenay’s hands came to rest on Julian’s hips and the same moment his tongue flicked over the head of Julian’s erection. Julian hissed in pleasure. Courtenay pulled him closer, so Julian was now half-kneeling, half-standing over Courtenay’s face when the man finally sucked him down.

  “Oh God,” Julian cried out. The warmth and wetness of Courtenay’s mouth was heaven. He felt the man’s tongue doing terrible magical things to the underside of his shaft, felt a hum that must have indicated Courtenay’s own satisfaction. “Yes,” he pleaded.

  Courtenay pulled on Julian’s hips and Julian groaned with pleasure and surprise at what that might mean. Tentatively, he eased himself farther into Courtenay’s mouth. He saw Courtenay’s lips wrapped around him, saw his eyes half closed in obvious pleasure. “Do you want me to?” Julian murmured.

  Courtenay moaned around him, and Julian, unable to hold back anymore, began tentatively thrusting into Courtenay’s mouth. It felt decadent, to be standing over this man, fucking his mouth, taking his pleasure in such a wanton way. He had never done such a thing. Oh, he had had his cock sucked, but his role in the business had always been passive, which only seemed proper and polite.

  At the moment, the idea that there was a proper or polite way to have his cock sucked seemed the height of inanity. This was what he wanted. This was what he dreamt of, even if he hardly knew it himself. And, God almighty, Courtenay seemed to agree. Julian suddenly remembered what Courtenay had hinted at the opera. He liked being manhandled. Well, this certainly qualified.

  Julian caressed Courtenay’s head, combed his fingers through the man’s hair, traced the outline of his ear, all the while feeling his pleasure build. When Courtenay tugged Julian’s trousers below his hips and then slid a few of his fingers into Julian’s mouth, Julian knew what to expect and sucked greedily at Courtenay’s fingers.
When he felt those slick fingers slide down the cleft of his arse and touch his entrance, he moaned and pressed back into them.

  “Please, yes, please,” he begged, and didn’t care that he sounded unhinged, didn’t mind the ragged desperation of his voice. Then he felt the welcome intrusion of fingers, twisting, probing. “I’m going to . . .” He meant it as a warning, but would have bet half his fortune that Courtenay didn’t give a damn about warnings. When he came, the pleasure feeling almost ripped out of him, it was deep in Courtenay’s throat, and Courtenay moaned and swallowed.

  Panting and delirious with spent pleasure, Julian stayed there, not moving, as his cock softened in Courtenay’s mouth. Courtenay licked and sucked and Julian only pulled back when the sensitivity of his organ outweighed the tender, filthy thrill of seeing his cock ministered to in such a way, by such a man.

  Finally, he stood, tucking his prick away and fastening his trousers. He looked down at Courtenay, still sprawled on the sofa, his mouth red and his hair spread out beneath him, the picture of decadence. When Julian knelt beside the sofa and opened Courtenay’s trousers, finally putting his mouth to Courtenay’s own rigid cock, he did so with the intention of performing every fancy cocksucking trick he had ever learned, and maybe some he had only dreamt of, as a way to pay the man back for the pleasure Julian had just received.

  But instead, when Courtenay’s hand settled on Julian’s head, idly stroking, all his grand plans went out the window. His brain turned entirely to mush, all thoughts replaced by the scent of Courtenay, the hot presence inside his mouth and throat, the garbled sounds of pleasure Courtenay was making.

  Courtenay tried to tell himself that this was all perfectly normal, that gratified lust and simple exhaustion had muddled up his feelings and created the illusion that Julian Medlock, kneeling on the floor with his head resting on Courtenay’s thigh, was a sight of uncommon loveliness.

  Medlock was not asleep—Courtenay could see the moonlight reflecting off his colorless eyes. But he wasn’t making any effort to move, either. He seemed stunned. Regretful and ashamed, in all probability.