The Ruin of a Rake

by Cat Sebastian

  “Tell me if you like what I’m doing,” Julian said, raising his head. He needed to hear it.

  “Yes. God. That feels good.” Courtenay’s voice was a thready rasp and it made Julian’s prick throb. “Keep touching me like that.”

  And so, Julian did. He kept touching Courtenay as if it were the only thing he had to do in the world, because at the moment it was.

  “Fuck me with your fingers.”

  Julian smiled. Courtenay was getting the hang of this. Good. Julian licked his fingers, aware of Courtenay’s gaze intently on him. Then he slid the tip of one finger in, then the other, stretching and stroking, enjoying every quiver and sigh of Courtenay’s response. He knew when he had brushed against the spot he was seeking when Courtenay arched off the bed.

  “There,” Courtenay groaned. “Keep touching me there.”

  Julian sat back on his heels so he could watch but he didn’t stop moving his hand. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Just look at you.” Courtenay was trying not to writhe, but his fists were balled and his arms taut. Sweat beaded on his brow. He was desperate and wanting, and it was all for Julian.

  “Come up here,” Courtenay said. “Please. But keep your fingers—yes!”

  Julian stretched himself out over Courtenay, taking his mouth in a desperate kiss as their erections rubbed together. It was an awkward position but it would get the job done.

  “Don’t stop,” Courtenay pleaded. “Julian. I’m going to—”

  And he did. He came, Julian’s name on his lips, shuddering around Julian’s fingers, his body tense beneath Julian’s own, his arms straining and his mouth parted in pleasure.

  That was all it took to bring Julian off, the sight of Courtenay’s release along with the friction of his erection rubbing between them.

  “That was—”

  “Julian.” Courtenay whispered the word into Julian’s hair. “Julian,” he repeated, and he sounded almost wondering. He lifted his head to look at Courtenay’s face. Courtenay raised a single eyebrow, as if asking a question they both knew the answer to.

  Julian buried his face in Courtenay’s neck, a halfhearted attempt to prevent Courtenay from seeing the emotion Julian suspected was written all over him.

  “Shhh,” Courtenay whispered soothingly, even though Julian hadn’t said anything. Probably Courtenay knew what a person looked like when he was a welter of half-resented emotions. Probably this sort of thing happened to Courtenay all the time. Julian almost laughed, because he realized he could tell Courtenay every bizarre notion flitting across his brain and Courtenay would likely have heard stranger things. He could probably have told Courtenay everything—except about the book, of course. He went rigid at the thought.

  “It’s not that bad,” Courtenay said, misunderstanding Julian’s reaction. “Happens to people every day.”

  “Oh, Courtenay,” Julian sighed. “You don’t know.”

  Reluctantly, he pulled away from the warmth of Courtenay’s body. He got a wet cloth and cleaned them both up before finally untying Courtenay’s bindings. He rubbed and kissed each wrist as he released the knots, even though the time for tenderness was gone and if Julian were half as clever as he thought, he wouldn’t let it happen again. But he couldn’t resist, and when Courtenay pulled him down, he realized how much he had missed the feeling of those sure hands on his body. He sank on top of Courtenay, reluctant to leave his arms before he absolutely had to.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Courtenay woke, it was still dark. He was surprised to find Julian still in his arms, their limbs intertwined, Julian’s open eyes colorlessly reflecting the moonlight.

  “Trouble sleeping?” Courtenay murmured.

  “I told you I’m in the habit of waking early.” And then, in a softer tone, “It’s when I get most of my thinking done.”

  It was very early, so early it was more accurately late. No sounds rose from the street—no costermongers calling to one another on their way to the market, no servants pattering back and forth in the mew, no hoof beats or cart wheels in the street. Nothing.

  But Julian seemed to be wide awake, and judging by the look in his eyes, he had been thinking for a while. He hadn’t gotten up though, he hadn’t pulled away from Courtenay’s embrace. Whatever he was thinking about—interest rates, taking over the world, whatever it was that flitted through the minds of financial geniuses in the small hours of the morning—he could have done his thinking in his sitting room, fully clothed, far away from Courtenay.

  Instead he was here, tucked against Courtenay’s side. Courtenay pulled him close and Julian melted against him, his head nestled into Courtenay’s neck.

  Last night had perhaps been the strangest sexual encounter of Courtenay’s life. If anyone had asked him yesterday afternoon whether there were things he didn’t know about pleasure, he would have laughed in their faces. He had spent years pursuing pleasure as his only real goal and it might be the only field of knowledge he could be said to have made a study of. But tied up, helpless, with Julian ruthlessly forcing him to say aloud everything he wanted? That had undone him completely, even though nothing they had ultimately done together was so very exotic.

  It had been the combination of Julian’s mastery with his own grudging awareness that Julian had somehow found out a secret he had kept from himself: he had, more or less, drifted from pleasure to pleasure without any real thought as to what he really wanted. The world, as far as he could tell, was filled with people who would happily take him to bed; once they got there, Courtenay tended to defer to the other person’s pleasure. He wasn’t entirely devoid of strategy: obviously scrupulous attention to a partner’s pleasure made it more likely that rumors of one’s prowess would spread, making it easy to keep one’s bed warm in the future.

  But at some point he had lost sight of what he really wanted, lost the ability to name and demand and beg for things. And throughout it all, anchoring the entire experience, was the sight of Julian’s barely checked passion, watching him so carefully not touch himself, so thoroughly devoted to simultaneously annoying and pleasuring Courtenay.

  Something changed in Julian’s breathing, and when Courtenay looked down, he saw that the man’s eyes were once again shut. He was sleeping, and Courtenay felt like it was a benediction, or maybe proof that he wasn’t the only one whose heart had taken a dangerous turn.

  When Courtenay woke—after procuring and delivering the required buns for Julian—he went to Eleanor’s house.

  That infernally high-hat butler could hardly conceal his delight in informing Courtenay that the lady of the house was not at home to visitors.

  Courtenay refrained from rolling his eyes. “I’m staying here, Tilbury. And I have been for the past week.” Upon leaving the house yesterday morning, optimistic about his prospects with Julian, he had left a note for Eleanor informing her that he had business that would take him out of London until perhaps the next day.

  “Let him in, Tilbury,” said a deep voice that came from behind the butler. The door swung open, revealing Sir Edward Standish.

  Courtenay bowed and wished Eleanor’s husband good morning as the butler shuffled off.

  “Care to have some brandy, Courtenay?” There was a flash of something unpleasant in Standish’s eye.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning and Courtenay had no intention of drinking brandy at any time, but Standish’s words sounded like a challenge. Courtenay had never been wise enough to stand down a challenge. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

  Standish led the way into a room Courtenay had never known Eleanor to use. It was a small book room of vaguely masculine character: the walls were papered in a dark green stripe and the furniture appeared to have been chosen more for comfort than for style. The bookcases were filled with elegantly bound volumes, each row arranged in the orderly fashion that books acquire only when they are not read. Eleanor’s own study had shelves that looked like they had been arranged by a hurricane. This room, he realized
, had been put together as a study for the master of the house, at a time when Eleanor hadn’t realized her husband’s absence would stretch so far into the future. Unlike the rest of the house, which in its strict adherence to rules of fashion was unmistakably the work of Julian, in this room he thought he saw Eleanor’s hand. On the chimneypiece, instead of the symmetrical and pristine arrangement of clocks and figurines, a jade elephant stood next to a whittled tiger. Neither object was particularly interesting in its own right, so Courtenay supposed they had sentimental value to Eleanor and perhaps to Standish.

  Courtenay thought he could almost smell the aroma of hopes gone stale.

  His good mood having quite evaporated, Courtenay sat in the seat Standish indicated and took the glass he was offered. He wouldn’t drink it, but he found it easier to say yes to spirits and then simply not drink them. Hardly anyone ever noticed or cared except Julian. He remembered what Julian had said about Courtenay’s habit of saying yes, of spending his life drifting between yeses. Julian had been right. He usually was.

  “I’m not having an affair with your wife,” Courtenay said abruptly. He ought to have said as much a week ago, but if Eleanor preferred to let her husband believe she had a lover, that was her business and he didn’t like to interfere. But looking at this room, thinking of Eleanor’s past hopes and her best chance of future happiness, he couldn’t keep silent.

  Standish didn’t seem surprised. His handsome face betrayed no reaction of any kind. “I hoped as much, given how you quite clearly are carrying on with her brother.”

  A wave of cold swept over Courtenay’s body. He thought he could brazen out a blackmail attempt, but didn’t relish the prospect, especially not if Julian’s name were to be dragged into it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I had you followed yesterday. I’m not blackmailing you, so you don’t need to look like that. I’m quite aware you aren’t touching my wife. But I’d almost rather she have an affair than simply pretend to have one, which is what she’s doing by letting me believe you’re lovers. I can’t understand what’s going through her mind, but I gather she must want me to leave as soon as possible.”

  Was it possible that Eleanor—brilliant, ingenious Eleanor—had somehow married an utter fool? He spoke like an intelligent man and had obviously devoted a good deal of thought to coming to this outrageously wrong conclusion. “Have you considered that she might have another reason? From her perspective, you married her and then traveled everywhere in the world where she wasn’t.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “I know,” Courtenay said patiently. “But put aside the circumstances that precede your marriage—please,” he hastily added, seeing a look of fury dawn on Standish’s face, “just put them aside. Medlock told me you were fond of one another. Did Eleanor negotiate her marriage settlements herself?”

  “Of course not.” Standish’s brow creased. “Julian arranged everything, of course.”

  Courtenay tried to imagine eighteen-year-old Julian negotiating his sister’s marriage settlements, and how protective he would have been. “Well, I daresay he felt justified in keeping Eleanor’s settlement as safe as possible. He is”—how to put this delicately—“rather dedicated to defending the interests of people he is fond of. He put you on allowance, did he?”

  Standish sat back in evident surprise. “Something to that effect. She—he—paid off my late father’s debts, which were . . .” His voice trailed off, and Courtenay was given to understand that these debts along with the death of Standish’s father were the circumstances that made his marriage an immediate necessity. “They tied up all Eleanor’s funds for her own use and left me with a token amount.”

  “Which I doubt you’ve touched,” Courtenay said with a sigh.

  “I’ve refused to draw on the account.” Standish had his chin in the air.

  Courtenay was striving for patience. “Which Eleanor has no doubt noticed and interpreted as a sign you regret the marriage.”

  Understanding finally dawned on Standish’s face. “I see.”

  “She seems to have been under the impression you would eventually join her in England—no, don’t point out that you have in fact joined her, because we both know six years is enough to make a lady doubt the strength of a man’s affections.”

  Standish ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. “I know you think I ought to have had faith in her constancy, or whatever rot you’re thinking now, but the fact of the matter is that I think Eleanor and Julian tend to forget I’m Indian.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I didn’t—oh damn it—I didn’t know whether she’d want an Indian husband with her in England.”

  Courtenay did not know what to say. “I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Did she ever say anything to make you suspect—”

  “No, nothing like that,” Standish said, shaking his head. “But sometimes the stories we tell ourselves in the dead of night are hard to forget in the daylight.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. “You can look around this room and come to your own conclusions.”

  Standish glanced around him, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. When he reached the trinkets on the chimneypiece, his cheeks flushed. “I see. I’m afraid I don’t know what to do. We’ve spent six years thinking the worst of one another and that can’t be easily undone.”

  If there were words or deeds that could silence the nighttime stories of doubt and pain, he certainly didn’t know about them.

  “That isn’t why I asked you in here today, though,” Standish said, fiddling with the edge of his cuff and not meeting Courtenay’s eyes. “Oh, damn it, this is none of my business but there’s something you need to know about Medlock.”

  For the second time that morning, Courtenay felt overcome with cold.

  Julian was the first to arrive at the stables where he kept his saddle horses. He wanted to make sure the chestnut mare he meant to lend Courtenay was ready.

  He had been almost jubilant all day. The vision Courtenay had sketched—sharing breakfasts and rides in the park and nights in bed—had left him positively optimistic about the future. He hadn’t ever contemplated the possibility of going through his life with another person, but now that the idea had crept into his mind, he couldn’t shake it loose. He wanted whatever Courtenay had to offer, and he wanted it with a force he hadn’t thought himself capable of. All the grasping and climbing he had done in society had occupied his mind like a particularly challenging word puzzle might, and had allowed him to drop invitations and recognition at Eleanor’s feet as a cat might bestow mice upon his owner. But he hadn’t yearned for any of it. He hadn’t thought he was meant for yearning—that was for warmer, gentler people.

  It was tempting, this promise of days filled with shared kisses and tea cakes. He could see it so clearly it felt almost within reach. All he would have to do was to let Courtenay in past his polished façade, but that was never going to happen because he hardly even let himself consider what lay beneath that façade. He didn’t want to think about illness or loneliness or frightened purposelessness, and the idea that somebody else was thinking those things about him was terrifying. His suspicion that Courtenay wouldn’t think less of him only made it worse, because that made him like Courtenay even more. The last thing he needed was more affection for Courtenay. He was already almost drunk on it. The fact that he was even thinking of letting Courtenay inside his heart was cause for alarm.

  “Medlock.” Courtenay’s voice came from behind.

  Julian heard the ice in Courtenay’s voice before it registered that he had reverted to using Julian’s surname. Turning, he saw on Courtenay’s face a glacial expression that matched his tone. Courtenay’s jaw was set, his eyes as cold as Julian had ever seen, with none of the usual laughter in them.

  “I had this chestnut saddled for you,” Julian ventured, but stopped talking when he realized Courtenay wasn’t wearing riding clothes. Instinctively, he led to the way to t
he stable door. They could have a measure of privacy in the lane.

  Once outside, Julian could see exactly how grave Courtenay looked. He wanted to touch him, even to comfort him, but when he reached out, Courtenay stiffened. Julian pulled his hand back as if from open flame. Instead he wrapped his fingers tightly around the riding crop he still held and waited for Courtenay to speak.

  “We’re not riding today.” Courtenay took a deep breath and paused just long enough for Julian’s mind to race through every bad piece of news Courtenay could deliver. Had his nephew fallen ill? Or Eleanor? “How much of it was an act?”

  “Pardon?” Julian wasn’t following. He couldn’t make his brain work when Courtenay was looking at him like that. Had it only been last night that Julian thought Courtenay’s eyes the green of a warm, foreign sea? Today they were ice.

  Courtenay made a scoffing noise. “When you fucked me, Medlock, did it give you an extra thrill knowing you had ruined me beforehand? I never would have guessed that you hated me enough to write an entire book about it.”

  The blood drained from Julian’s face. He wanted to grab for something to steady himself but he didn’t. He opened his mouth to speak, but for once he had nothing at the ready. His years of calculating his every utterance to strike the precisely the right tone left him without anything to say in this situation. “What book?” he asked, hoping against hope that there had been a mistake and Courtenay didn’t know the truth.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Courtenay said, his teeth clenched. “Standish told me. Aren’t you going to say anything?” he demanded. “Don’t you think you owe me at least that? I’m trying to understand why you would do this and you aren’t making it easy for me.”