Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  This was nothing like that.

  Once Mellick had unbuttoned Iain’s placket, he glanced up again. He wasn’t grinning now, but there was still a half smile on his face and his eyelids were half-lowered, giving him a look of languid promise. Slowly, without moving his gaze from Iain’s face, he reached inside Iain’s breeches and drew out his cock.

  For several of James’s frantic heartbeats, the groom simply admired Iain’s sizeable prick, his frank gaze warm, then he leaned forward, engulfing it in his mouth.

  Iain’s head went back, eyes closing, lips parting in obvious pleasure.

  Oh God.

  James rubbed his hand over his breeches a few more times, but it wasn’t enough. With a rough exhalation that was part helpless gasp, part protest, he ripped the buttons of his own breeches open and drew out his hard shaft.

  Mellick’s head was moving up and down. James couldn’t see precisely what he was doing, but it didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t have looked if he could see. His eyes were all for Iain, for the strong arch of his throat and the abandoned, almost painfully intimate expression on his face. For the way he gripped Mellick’s shoulder with one hand and palmed the back of his head gently with the other, canting his hips forwards for more.

  Oh God, Iain.

  James’s hand was moving with a steady rhythm now. As he watched Iain respond to Mellick’s attentions, he felt oddly at one with him. Imagined that, somehow, Iain’s pleasure was mounting at the same pace as his own.

  Strange, to feel so intimately connected to someone who didn’t even know he was there.

  He saw the pleasure peak and crash through Iain’s body. Saw the way his hand tightened, knuckles whitening, on Mellick’s shoulder and his whole body seemed to go taut and still, other than his hips, which stuttered in Mellick’s firm grip. And then James’s own crisis was upon him. He bit his lip against the desire to cry out and, eyes still fixed on Iain Sinclair—now caressing Mellick’s hair with seeming affection—stroked himself to a wrenching completion, spilling his seed on the ground like an offering.

  After that, everything was different. The instant James’s seed hit the ground, it was as though he’d sobered. Suddenly, he was aware of the cold of the night and the wetness from the grass seeping into his evening slippers. The window of the boathouse was grimy, and inside it looked little better.

  This was unseemly—sordid and secretive. Pulling out his handkerchief, he cleaned himself up as best he could, hoping he hadn’t marked his clothes, and fastened his breeches. When he looked up, Mellick was back on his feet, and Iain was the one lowering himself to the floor.

  James’s heart twisted at the sight. He didn’t want to see any more.

  Instead, he spun on his heel and ran back to the house to join the party again.

  Chapter Six

  Now: 1824

  27th May, 1824

  On the way to Holmewell, Hampshire

  By the time Iain was halfway to Hampshire, he was regretting accepting his sister Isabel’s offer of a place in her carriage.

  The setup was certainly as comfortable as it could be, with blankets and cushions and baskets of refreshments—and thankfully, Isabel’s four very loud children were in a separate carriage with their nursemaid—but Iain had forgotten just how much his sister talked. She never let up the whole way. She seemed to have decided that, since Iain hadn’t attended any Hart family events for a few years, she ought to inform him of every little thing that had happened in the Hart clan since then, as though he might be examined on the topic as soon as he walked through the door. Every baby that had been born—and there seemed to have been legions of them—was identified, along with their godparents and christening arrangements. Every illness and death was covered in excruciating detail, with particular attention given to a bout of mumps suffered by Kate’s youngest boy, Harry.

  Eventually, though, Isabel turned her attention to the one and only member of the Hart family about whom Iain actually gave a damn.

  “Apparently, there’s still no sign of James marrying,” she said. “Kate says he’s on his way to becoming a confirmed bachelor.”

  Iain schooled his features into a neutral expression. “Well, he’s only—what, three- or four-and-twenty?” In truth, he knew James’s age very well, but it was better to seem only vaguely interested. “Plenty of time to find a wife,” he added.

  “He’s five-and-twenty, actually,” Isabel corrected absently. “But Kate says he’s never shown the slightest interest in any young lady.”

  Isabel’s husband, Bertie, gave a tiny snort at that, and Iain glanced at him, wondering what had prompted that reaction. Did he suspect James of being a sodomite? Iain didn’t think James was obvious, not in the way of some men he knew, but nor was he as thoroughly...well, masculine as Iain. He didn’t seem to have mastered the sort of overtly male mannerisms that Iain had. But then Iain had been utterly determined from boyhood to exhibit no sign of his secret inclinations—James did not seem to suffer from the same anxieties.

  Sometimes, Iain thought James moved his hands in a suspiciously graceful way as he spoke. And he did have that habit of crossing his legs and leaning towards one in a confiding way when he was talking about something that amused him. Tiny things, really. Nothing to them, only they’d struck Iain on occasion as small betrayals. And perhaps they had struck others similarly.

  When they were alone, and James did little things like that, Iain...liked it. But when James did those things in front of others, Iain became uncomfortable, and found himself wishing James would be a little more circumspect. But James was different from Iain. Unlike Iain, he didn’t spend his every waking hour trying not to betray himself or worrying about bringing shame on his family. He didn’t have to be mindful, as Iain did, that if he caused his parents to lose a second son, the cost would be unendurable.

  “...because he’s so engrossed in his plants. Apparently, he spends all his time at Wylde Manor either out gathering specimens or closed up in his study, peering at them through one of his contraptions.”

  Belatedly, Iain realised his sister was talking again, and that he hadn’t been listening to a word of what she’d been saying—except that last part, which made it clear she was still on the subject of James.

  “Is that so?” he replied, aiming for polite interest.

  “Yes, indeed,” Isabel continued, seeming to warm to her subject. “Kate told me it took all her powers of persuasion just to get him to come to Holmewell this week, and even then, she says he only agreed because there’s some butterfly or moth he wants to find while he’s here.” She laughed. “Honestly, it’s such a waste of time, but then his father was the same, do you remember? Always out with a satchel, grubbing around in the dirt to find some old weed or bit of grass.”

  “His father was a renowned scientist,” Iain pointed out. “And so is James. He’s published papers.”

  Isabel’s eyebrows rose at Iain’s defence of the Hart men. She glanced at Bertie and added in a quieter voice, as though she thought Iain couldn’t hear, “He was always protective of James, even when we were children.”

  “Only because you and Kate and Lucy teased him so much,” Iain said. “Someone had to stick up for him. God knows he was no good at sticking up for himself.”

  Isabel laughed. “Do you remember when you insisted that you and James alone would play cricket against all of us girls?” She glanced at her husband. “There were five of us and only two of them.”

  “You weren’t going to let him play at all,” Iain pointed out.

  “We already had even numbers without him!” Isabel protested, laughing. “And of course, the two of you had to win, didn’t you?”

  Bertie laughed. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Iain was ripping at cricket at school.” He glanced Iain’s way, his expression a mixture of approval and envy. “You could bowl out anyone—even us older boys.”

  “Oh, well, he was ripping at everything, wasn’t he?” Isabel replied, rolling her eyes.
“It’s hardly surprising that James hero-worshipped him. Do you remember, Iain? He used to look at you as though you’d hung the sun in the sky.”

  Iain was mortified to feel heat warming his cheeks. “Well, I was four years older,” he said, turning his head to hide his blush. He stared out of the window at the rolling countryside. The truth was, he remembered too well how James used to look at him, not just when James was a little boy, but later too, when he was a fully grown man. Most especially, he remembered the passionate devotion with which James had looked at him the last time Iain had visited Wylde Manor. And how he’d looked, months later, when he hunted Iain down in London.

  The ultimate disillusionment in that turbulent grey gaze.

  Could Iain really hope to remedy that?

  Perhaps it was a mistake to have come to Hampshire. It was certainly a mistake to have come with Isabel. If he’d journeyed alone, he could have stopped in his tracks and gone straight back to London. Made some pathetic excuse for not showing his face at Kate’s party. But there was no doing that now—already the carriage was swinging through the great iron gates of Holmewell, slowing down and halting outside a modern Palladian mansion, the grand house built by Sir Edward’s father on the occasion of being granted his brand-new title thirty years earlier.

  Their arrival was chaotic. The other carriage had arrived first, and the children were standing on the steps with their frazzled nursemaid, little Margaret bawling her eyes out. The reason became apparent as soon as they got out—Margaret had been sick on the steps of the house and was demanding her mother. While Isabel comforted her, the other children vied for their mother’s attention, tugging on her skirts and badgering her with questions like a gaggle of greedy goslings. The coachmen and grooms began unloading the carriages, only to drop a valise from the roof of the carriage, narrowly missing Bertie, which sent the nursemaid into a fit of mild hysterics and made Isabel fairly squawk with outrage.

  It was a relief when Kate’s housekeeper emerged and began to take calm control, at least of the servants. She was followed by the lady of the house.

  “Izzy, darling!” Kate drifted down the steps into the chaos and made everything right. She entered the fray of children with seeming ease, embraced Isabel, kissed Margaret, greeted the rest of the children with pats to their little heads, bestowed a smile on the poor nursemaid and teased Bertie about the silver hairs at his temples.

  Finally, she reached Iain.

  “Iain, dear. It’s been far too long,” she scolded him, squeezing his hands affectionately. “I’m glad you’re here at last, though. I’d wondered if you’d come.”

  He pretended bewilderment at that last comment, as though he hadn’t declined her last half-dozen invitations. “I can’t imagine why you’d wonder about that,” he said. “It’s always pleasant to visit Holmewell.”

  Kate raised an amused brow, but she didn’t challenge him, for which he was absurdly grateful.

  “Why don’t you and Bertie go and have some tea in the drawing room,” she suggested. “Your mother’s there already. Izzy and I will follow in a little while once we’ve settled poor Margaret.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Halliday, would you show the gentlemen to the drawing room?”

  Iain suppressed the sudden urge to ask if James was in the drawing room, simply nodding instead and following Mrs. Halliday and Bertie into the house.

  They were walking down the main corridor towards the drawing room when an unholy shriek split the air. A little girl with a mane of fat blonde ringlets burst out of one of the rooms and into their path, frantically plucking at the back of her dress and squirming. She shrieked again, then screamed, “I hate you, Christopher Potts!”

  From inside the room came screeches of childish laughter, then a maid hurried out.

  “Miss Emily!” she hissed, glancing nervously at the housekeeper and two gentlemen, who now stood in the corridor, staring at the enraged child. “What’s this about? What’s Christopher done?”

  Iain glanced inside the room—there was a table next to the window, set with teacups and plates of sticky buns and other treats. The rest of the furniture had been moved aside, and the large rug that usually covered the floor had been rolled up, leaving lots of space for the dozen or so children in the room to run around and play. Evidently, the children were having their own tea party in there, while the grown-ups enjoyed a more civilised affair nearby.

  “He put a spider down my neck!” the little girl wailed. She wriggled inside her dress, trying to pull the fabric away from her skin and shake out the intruder, still evading the hapless maid. “He’s horrid!”

  Iain bit his lip to suppress a laugh.

  “Perhaps—” the housekeeper began, stepping forwards, only to be interrupted when a boy rushed out of the room, skidding to a halt in front of her. He was nine or ten, Iain guessed. A sturdy, energetic little boy with a shock of dark hair and a mischievous grin he couldn’t quite put away, even as he attempted to look contrite.

  “It wasn’t a spider, Emily,” he said, all in a rush. “I was teasing you. It was just a scrunched-up leaf.” He glanced, guiltily, at the four adults staring at him and added weakly, “It was a joke...”

  Emily stopped dancing on the spot. She stared at the boy in horror before bursting into noisy tears. The maid coaxed her back into the room, with another apologetic look at Mrs. Halliday, who merely pressed her lips together.

  “Master Potts,” the housekeeper said, very quietly yet firmly. “That was not well done.”

  The boy’s face reddened. “Are you going to tell Mama?” he whispered. “I’m already in trouble about the china shepherdess I broke this morning.”

  Bertie snorted at that, and Iain had to look away to hide his amusement. Boys were ever thus, it seemed. His own childhood had been an endless parade of just such incidents.

  “If I remember,” Mrs. Halliday said quietly, “I shall certainly have to say something to your mother. But perhaps if you play nicely for the rest of the afternoon, it may...slip my mind.”

  The boy nodded and garbled out his thanks before dashing back into the children’s party room and closing the door behind him.

  Mrs. Halliday glanced guiltily at Iain and Bertie. Uncomfortably, she said, “Rest assured, I will certainly speak with the boy’s—”

  “Please don’t tell his mother on my account,” Iain interrupted.

  “Or mine,” Bertie added. “Boys will be boys, after all.”

  Mrs. Halliday paused, then she inclined her head gracefully and set off again, passing another few doors before she stopped at one a little further along the corridor and opened it, stepping aside to allow them to pass through.

  This, at last, was the drawing room. There were a number of guests milling around, some sitting, others standing around in groups, chatting. Bertie made for a small group that included Iain’s mother, calling out a merry greeting as he strolled towards them. Iain, however, stood frozen in the doorway. He had eyes for only one person.

  James stood on the far side of the large room, in front of the window. The sunlight streaming through the glass gilded his dark blond head, granting it the lustre of old gold, and as always, he looked a little rumpled, his cravat a little askew. He was talking, or rather listening, to a paunchy vicar with a prosy look on his face. Judging by James’s bored expression, he wasn’t much taken with what the vicar was saying.

  Iain found himself willing James to look up, to see him. He wanted to see surprise and pleasure transform James’s expression, like in the old days. But when James finally looked his way...

  ...his face fell.

  Iain felt as though he’d been kicked by a horse, shock drowning out pain till James looked away, as though a stranger, rather than his dearest friend—or at least the man he’d once called his dearest friend—had just walked into the room.

  Pain came then, a wrenching ache in his chest that he had to somehow ignore as he finally made his feet move, made himself step into the room and join Bertie and h
is mother. Bertie’s sister Anthea was in the same group, along with her two daughters. The last time Iain had seen Bertie’s nieces, they’d been hoydenish children, getting into all sorts of scrapes. Now they were young ladies, uncharacteristically demure in white muslin.

  “Iain, darling, you’re here!” his mother exclaimed, rising from her chair. She sounded surprised. Had she thought he wouldn’t come?

  He bowed over his mother’s hands, pressing a kiss to each set of knuckles. “I told you I was coming,” he said as he straightened.

  “Yes, but”—she paused, her hesitation obvious—“well, I’m glad you’re here, at any rate.” She smiled brightly.

  Her surprise at his appearance irritated him for some reason, though he knew perfectly well the reason for it. For years, his family and the Harts had visited each other’s houses regularly. Not only that, but Iain and James, being particular friends, had seen one another separately from these family gatherings.

  Until Iain had stopped seeing James or even mentioning him.

  After years of going to sometimes extraordinary lengths to make sure he was able to attend any Hart family invitation, over the last several years, Iain had been finding the flimsiest of excuses to stay away.

  Evidently, his mother had noticed.

  He watched as she settled herself back into her chair and reached for the teapot. She poured him a cup of tea, adding milk before handing it up to him. “James is here,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the other side of the room.

  “Yes, I saw him,” Iain said, sipping the tea. “I’ll go and speak to him in a minute.” He paused, then asked carefully, “Where’s Father?”

  “Oh, resting,” his mother said airily. “It was a long journey.” His poor mother. She’d had years of having to excuse Iain’s father’s erratic behaviour and inexplicable absences, and he knew it mortified her.