“Says the man who started this whole business by firing a pistol in his lodgings. Fine. I’ll check myself.” Still naked, still brandishing the weapon, Medlock crossed to the curtained window and touched the wall. “You were quite correct,” he called. “It does not pull left.”
Only then did Courtenay realize what had happened. An instant later he was beside Medlock, examining the wall, which still bore only the single bullet hole. He touched the divot in the plaster, and it was hot to the touch.
“Holy mother of God,” Courtenay muttered. Medlock had hit the bullet hole Courtenay produced earlier. “I wasn’t expecting you to be a sharpshooter.” There was barely any light, and the fellow had been in bed. Hardly ideal conditions for accurate shooting.
“It’s just a knack.” Medlock blew the residual smoke away from the pistol. He looked damned smug, though.
“Like hell it is.”
Then Medlock adopted an entirely different tone, the brisk and businesslike register that meant Courtenay was about to get ordered about. Courtenay couldn’t say that he minded. “I’m afraid I’ve made an awful mess of your wall, though, Courtenay.”
“You know perfectly well I’m the one who put the hole there in the first place.”
Medlock waved this concern away. “I’ll settle matters with your landlord tomorrow.”
Courtenay shook his head in bewilderment. Medlock was a madman. Courtenay had just been fucked ragged by a madman. A sharpshooting lunatic. And he wanted it again, as soon as possible.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Medlock snapped. “It’s much better that I’m thought to have had target practice in your lodgings than it is for anyone to think you were attempting murder or that you might have been drunkenly playing with your pistol.”
“I see,” Courtenay said slowly.
“Now let’s go back to bed.”
Julian hadn’t meant to spend the night, but he must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes the sun was streaming brightly through the gap in Courtenay’s tatty curtains. The room was silent except for the sounds on the busy street below. Courtenay was nowhere to be seen.
He made use of the ewer and basin and dressed himself as tidily as he could. Thank God he hadn’t had time to change before dinner last night, or he’d have to make his way home in what was blatantly the previous day’s evening clothes.
Upon further reflection, that was the least of his problems. He glanced at the bed out of the corner of his eye, as if looking at it head on would be too harsh a reminder of what had transpired there. He had been utterly lost to all sense of perspective and proportion. He had vague, disjointed memories of Courtenay’s hands on his body, stroking and touching and coaxing him on like the devil he was.
The oddest thing was that Julian had the sense that Courtenay had been nervous. Julian had taken care to be . . . not gentle, but cautious. And now he felt strangely embarrassed about that, as if the care he had taken of Courtenay had exposed something he didn’t wish to think about. Another night like that and Julian might not be able to pretend that he wasn’t getting a trifle attached to Courtenay. How lowering to develop a tender for Courtenay. How cliché. Julian had thought he was made of sterner stuff than that.
At least Courtenay had the sense to leave before Julian woke. God only knew what kind of awkward conversation they’d resort to under the circumstances.
As he made for the door, it swung open, revealing Courtenay carrying a parcel. “I brought some rolls,” he said, dropping the parcel onto the table.
Rolls. Were they to breakfast together? That seemed unwise. “I ought to leave,” Julian said, suddenly conscious of the scratchiness of his jaw and the rumpled state of his cravat. But the yeasty, sweet scent of fresh bread rose to his nostrils and made his mouth water. He had hardly eaten dinner last night, and now it was—he pulled out his watch—“It’s half past noon!”
“You were tired.”
“Tired!” He shook his head, horrified. “I haven’t slept past nine since I was a child.”
“High time, then,” Courtenay said, sitting on the arm of the sofa and helping himself to a roll. “Eat.”
Julian sat at the table and bit into a roll. It was soft and buttery and studded with currants, simultaneously rich and light. It was quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten in his life, certainly in the last few years. He finished the roll and licked his fingers, not realizing what he was doing until he caught Courtenay watching him intently. He hastily pulled his finger from his mouth and wiped it on his handkerchief.
“Thank you. I’ll arrange for your things to be brought to Eleanor’s house this afternoon. Now I ought to be—”
“I got an invitation to the Blacketts’ Venetian breakfast.”
That was quite a coup. Julian had feared that after the events of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s dinner, Courtenay would never receive another invitation from a respectable hostess. “That’s good. I’m going, and so is Eleanor.”
“And Standish?”
“Hell.”
“Quite.”
“Wear your gray trousers,” he snipped. “And endeavor to tie your cravat less terribly. And for God’s sake, cut your hair.”
His rudeness somehow put them back on comfortable ground. “You like my gray trousers?” Courtenay raised his eyebrow. “You think I’m handsome in my gray trousers?”
Julian bit back a smile. “Shut up. You’d be handsome in a tattered burlap sack or in—” He had nearly said or in nothing at all, which was true but not the direction he needed this conversation to go. “Your looks aren’t the problem. Strive for some conduct and we might pull this thing off.”
He headed for the door but was stopped by Courtenay, who silently held out a pastry.
“Fine,” Julian sighed, as if taking another pastry were a favor and a concession. “Fine.”
As he walked home, he tipped his face up to catch the bright midday sun. The buttery scent of the bun wafted up to him. The scent, the sunshine, and the memories of last night mingled together, and it was only when Julian got back to his lodgings—the bun now cool and the sun having passed behind a cloud—that Julian realized he was smiling broadly. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.
Chapter Thirteen
Courtenay wore the gray trousers. It wasn’t as if his wardrobe had him spoilt for choice, and besides he would have worn pretty much anything to earn the look of hot approval he caught in Medlock’s eyes when they met on the Blacketts’ terrace during the party. That look quickly evaporated when Medlock’s gaze narrowed on Courtenay’s cravat.
“It could be worse,” Medlock said, frowning slightly.
For some reason—likely his own perverse nature—Medlock’s criticism delighted Courtenay almost as much as his stingy scraps of praise. The knowledge that Medlock wanted him despite everything was a sop to Courtenay’s vanity.
Also, Courtenay suspected that if Medlock were honest and free with his criticism, then it might mean that his approval was equally sincere. Courtenay told himself that he wasn’t interested in acceptance, nor in praise, not from anyone and especially not from Medlock. He had spent years telling himself that after being complicit in his sister’s misfortune, he didn’t deserve anything good for himself. But Medlock’s approval made Courtenay want more for himself. It made Courtenay expect more from himself as well, and wasn’t that a bizarre novelty? This morning he had woken up, read a segment in the newspaper about the mismanagement of a workhouse, and seriously wondered if he ought to take up his seat in the House of Lords and try to do something about it. It was the height of lunacy, of course, but he found his thoughts returning to it throughout the day.
“What’s the matter with you?” Medlock asked, eyes narrowed. “You look very handsomely tragic. Stop that, before the ladies swoon.” His words were sharp but Courtenay heard the concern in his voice.
Courtenay forced a smile and returned his gaze to the lawn. The guests were valiantly pretending that it was fine w
eather to be strolling about outside, rather than the unseasonably chilly and damp April day that it sadly was. They ought to be huddled around a fire. It was too damned cold for this mummery. But if one didn’t look too closely, one wouldn’t see the shawls wrapped a bit too tightly around ladies’ shoulders or the men’s hands jammed too deep in their pockets.
“Come here,” Medlock said, gesturing to a set of doors that led off the terrace to an unoccupied parlor. Courtenay felt his heart thump in anticipation, even though it was impossible that Medlock of all people would risk exposure by carrying on with a man in a room anyone might walk into. Still, when Medlock raised his hands to Courtenay’s shoulders, he felt a flush spread across his body, as if he were a schoolboy instead of a jaded debauchee of over thirty. It had been a week since that night at Courtenay’s lodgings, and he was hungry for more.
But instead of pulling Courtenay into an embrace, Medlock simply unknotted his cravat and deftly retied it. There was nothing in the least erotic in Medlock’s efficient folding and knotting the length of starchy white linen, but Courtenay couldn’t help remembering how clever—and bossy and gentle and maddening—those hands had been. He didn’t know if he was only imagining a proprietary quality to Medlock’s touch, but he felt marked.
“That’s better,” Medlock said, holding Courtenay at arm’s length and squinting at his handiwork.
Courtenay cleared his throat. “Quite a trick to tie another man’s cravat.”
Medlock’s gaze stayed on Courtenay’s lapels, as if examining them for lint. “I used to tie my father’s when his hands shook from drinking and we didn’t have the money for a valet.”
Before Courtenay could picture Medlock as a child administering to a parent, or as a person who had experienced deprivation and shame, Medlock led him back out onto the terrace, which by now had filled with party guests.
It turned out that Standish had indeed come, and looked about as miserable as a man could be at a blasted garden party. Eleanor was at his side, wearing one of her staid Medlock-approved ensembles. She had on the sort of smile that might as well be a grimace.
“What a pair of idiots,” Courtenay said under his breath.
“Who?”
He gestured with his chin. “Your sister and Standish.”
“What did they do?” Medlock looked confused. He would be confused, because he was just as much an idiot as they were, if Courtenay had the right of it. And after nearly a week under the same roof as the Standishes, he was fairly sure he knew which way the wind blew.
“She’s fond of him. He thinks she isn’t,” Courtenay said patiently. “He’s fond of her. She thinks he isn’t. It would be the world’s easiest problem to solve if either of them had any sense.”
Medlock was still looking at him as if he were insane. “Of course they’re fond of one another. They were children together.” He hesitated, as if not sure the next bit of information really mattered. “They got married, for heaven’s sake.”
“They did indeed. And then they stayed away from one another for six years. I know you’re a stranger to the ways of the heart, but that’s not a typical mark of fondness, Medlock.”
“Surely now that they’re together, they’ll manage to work things out.” There was an unexpected tightness to Medlock’s voice. “If that’s what they want.”
Courtenay turned his head. Medlock looked uncertain, maybe even confused. He was usually so smugly arrogant, it was something of a shock to see him less than entirely confident. He was worried about his sister, which was natural. But there was something more there. A touch of guilt, perhaps. Courtenay understood that very well indeed. But why did Medlock feel responsible for Eleanor’s marriage?
“Why wouldn’t that be what they wanted?” Courtenay asked.
Medlock looked pained. “I had only hoped that this was what she chose. This life.” He gestured around him, encompassing the party and its guests. “Without Standish. And if it turns out that she wanted something different, then . . .” He sighed.
Was he saying that he would think less of Eleanor for wanting love? Courtenay felt a pang of disappointment at Medlock’s ignorance. He nearly pitied the man for not being able to understand why his sister—or Standish for that matter—might want something more than a marriage on paper, might want to go to bed with and wake up next to a person they loved.
But he also felt vaguely embarrassed, because to be disappointed in Medlock’s lack of interest in love meant that Courtenay must have harbored some slight hope of sharing such a thing with Medlock in the first place.
And he hadn’t, not really; he had never let himself hope for a future that included anyone wanting to wake up next to him day after day, straightening his cravat and sharing his breakfast buns, a series of days unfurling infinitely and impossibly. But to know that it wasn’t even a possibility—to know that Medlock hadn’t even imagined falling in love with him or with anyone—made him grieve something he never would have had anyway.
“Watch,” he said, suddenly wanting to prove his point to Medlock, without even knowing precisely what his point was. He sauntered over to Standish and Eleanor, affecting an ease he didn’t feel, and engaged them both in dull conversation, strictly confining himself to the Medlock-sanctioned topic of weather. After five minutes, he bowed and returned to Medlock. “Did you see?” he asked.
Medlock rolled his eyes. “What I saw were two well-bred people conversing with . . . you.”
“Exactly. Standish was terribly polite to me. He thinks I’m taking his wife to bed, but he was thoroughly affable.”
“Would you prefer that he call you out?”
“No, but your sister might.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Medlock scoffed. “Eleanor’s a sensible woman.”
“There’s nobody more sensible,” Courtenay agreed. “Which is why she can’t see that her husband is barely containing his jealousy and disappointment. I wonder if I ought to go back over and slap him with my glove or something, give him a chance to make a proper display of his affections.”
Medlock sighed. “Please don’t provoke my brother-in-law to a duel. You’re really a terrible shot.”
Courtenay snorted with laughter. “The duels I’ve had the honor of participating in don’t involve much aim,” he explained. “Both of us delope, shake hands, and call it a day.”
“That’s shockingly pointless.”
“I think shooting one another would be even more pointless, but reasonable minds may differ on that matter.”
“Hmmm,” Medlock said. “True. Then why the devil do you bother in the first place? I don’t much see why you’d want to fire a weapon at someone unless you want them dead.”
“It’s a way out of a situation,” Courtenay explained. “Let’s say you’ve wronged a man, say you’ve called him a liar or gone to bed with his wife. The fellow can’t just let that go, so you pretend you’re going to kill one another. Everyone wins.”
“What happens if the other man decides not to pretend?”
Courtenay shrugged. “It happens.”
“Wouldn’t it be a better idea not to take other men’s wives to bed in the first place? Avoid the necessity of a duel entirely?”
Oh, poor Medlock. Sometimes Courtenay had no idea whether they even inhabited the same world. “Let’s say a lady has a husband who is cruel or absent, or perhaps who doesn’t care for female company. Should she resign herself to a life of celibacy?”
“And those are the women you’ve been with? You confined yourself to unhappily married ladies?”
“No,” he said simply. “But I ought to have.” Another thing to feel guilty about. As he looked out across the lawn at the brightly dressed guests milling about, he was conscious of Medlock scrutinizing him.
“Ever given any thought to getting married yourself, Courtenay?”
He kept looking over the lawn. “Not the marrying sort, Medlock.”
“But you do like, ah . . .”
Courtenay didn’t have to
look to know Medlock was blushing. “Yes, I do. But I’d be a terrible husband. Any woman I liked enough to spend the rest of my life with, I’d be too fond of to punish with my presence.” He had made the same general comment dozens of times over the years, and he had always more or less believed it. But this time when he said the rote words they didn’t ring true.
Medlock, however, didn’t argue that a life with Courtenay would constitute a punishment. “You have a title and some land, badly managed though it is. You probably ought to have an heir. We could find a woman with her own money—”
“Stop,” Courtenay ground out. “I don’t want the sort of marriage your sister has. Christ, look at them. I don’t want to be purchased for my goddamn title. You think that’s never occurred to me as a way out of my troubles?”
“That’s a mercenary way of—”
“Stop,” Courtenay repeated. He felt tears pricking his eyes, whether from anger or sorrow he couldn’t tell. “Sometimes I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with your brain. It’s a fucking mess in there, isn’t it? It’s all columns of numbers marching in a row. I can’t . . . I’m not like that, Medlock. That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?” Medlock asked, exasperation in his voice.
Courtenay didn’t know what he wanted. But he knew it wasn’t a wife who looked down on him, nor was it the prospect of building a life and a family when he had robbed his sister of that chance.
Stupidly, he had the fleeting thought that what he truly wanted had something to do with deft hands on his cravat, a soft frowning mouth, and quicksilver eyes.
Julian cornered Eleanor in an alcove near the lady’s cloakroom. It was not a dignified way to accost his sister, but at least this way they were alone.
“Courtenay told me you and Ned are having some kind of misunderstanding,” he said, pitching his voice low, “and that you probably want to make things work between you. So you ought to get over whatever’s bothering you and hash it out.”
The Ruin of a Rake Page 12
