Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  For several long heartbeats, they just stared at one another. Distantly, it occurred to Iain that James’s ordinarily quiet, grey gaze looked suddenly wild, turbulent as a rainstorm.

  “Iain—” James whispered, barely breathing.

  Oh hell.

  This was wrong, this was beyond wrong.

  Somehow, Iain managed to drag his gaze away. He pushed James gently back, creating an arm’s length distance between them. Looking down, he studied the buttons of James’s coat. “Let’s get these unfastened,” he husked, reaching for the first one.

  It was no sort of distraction at all. He could feel James’s gaze upon him as he worked the buttons free—the man’s attention seemed to thicken the air between them—and when he was done, when he finally looked up again, it was to find James watching him with a raw, hungry expression that was unmistakable.

  Iain had no time to move away before James pressed forward, fastening his mouth on Iain’s.

  Iain froze.

  Several things occurred to him at once, first among them that James didn’t have the first idea of what he was doing—his lips were stiff and unmoving, his mouth pressing so hard that Iain’s lips were crushed against his teeth.

  It was an awful kiss.

  And yet.

  And yet—and this was the second thing—the warm, male body pressing against his own was so beautiful to Iain, and so dear. He’d never felt such a wonderful, awful coincidence of feelings for a man he’d been intimate with. The combination of desire and affection—it was heady and frightening at the same time. No way to deny how much, at this instant, he wanted to teach this boy—this man—what a kiss could be...

  But damn it all to hell, this was Jamie. And Iain knew with sick certainty that he’d never done this before.

  Aching with want, Iain wrenched James’s wrists from his neck and thrust him away so that he fell back onto the mattress. Then he stood quickly and backed away from the bed.

  “That isn’t a good idea,” he said.

  James stared at him, his face a mask of hurt and injured pride. “Why won’t you kiss me?” he said. “I know you like men.”

  “What?” Iain said sickly.

  James’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I saw you,” he whispered. “With Mellick, at the boathouse. On the night of Marianne’s betrothal ball.”

  Mellick.

  Iain dredged his memory for the name—it felt like ages before he finally remembered who James was talking about. Then it came to him—the dark-haired groom from Wylde Manor.

  The boathouse.

  James had seen them there, together.

  Iain turned away, stomach churning, guilt already pricking at him. The incident with Mellick had been years ago. How old had James been then—fifteen? Sixteen?

  Iain rubbed his hand over his mouth, his mind racing as he tried to recall the details. Christ, but James had idolised him back then—hell, he still did, if the expression on his face when Iain had arrived here this morning was anything to go by. Had James kissed him just now because he thought Iain wanted him to? To earn Iain’s favour?

  The very thought made his blood run cold.

  “I hope you don’t think,” he said carefully, still turned away, “that just because I have...indulged in such things with others, that I was looking for that from you.”

  The silence behind him was deafening. It went on so long that at last he had to turn round and look.

  James was lying on his back on the bed again, but now one arm was thrown over his face.

  Iain stepped closer, wary. “James?”

  “Go away,” James said thickly from under his arm.

  Was he...crying?

  Iain sat gingerly on the mattress. Slowly, he stretched out a hand and gently moved James’s arm aside. Sure enough, his face was streaked with tears.

  “What’s wrong?” Iain whispered.

  “What do you think?” James snapped, pulling his arm back and covering his face again. “Just go away if you don’t want me!”

  “James, it’s not that I—” He broke off before he could finish the sentence—because wasn’t it that? As desirable as he found James, Iain didn’t want to lose his dearest friend, and he surely would if he allowed anything to happen between them, especially when he was very far from convinced that James knew what he was about. He couldn’t allow his drunk friend to confuse what might be no more than innocent hero worship with the much darker kind of desire that he’d witnessed between Iain and Mellick.

  “Please go away,” James mumbled under his arm, dark blond head moving from side to side. “I’m not so drunk that I don’t know how humiliating this is.”

  “James, don’t—that is, you shouldn’t confuse our friendship with what you saw between me and Mellick. You and I—” He stopped, unsure how to go on, then tried again. “Men like Mellick—I never spend more than one night with them. Hell, it’s usually not more than an hour or two, and when it’s done, it’s done. I don’t see them again.” He swallowed. “It’s just something I need to do every now and again.”

  James flinched—Iain saw it, despite the arm still covering his face. “You make it sound so cold.” His voice was muffled, but Iain could hear the bewilderment in it.

  “I know,” he admitted. “But when I do that, it’s only because of bodily urges. I don’t want...” He trailed off.

  “You don’t want that from me,” James finished flatly.

  Iain swallowed again and was glad that James wasn’t looking at him now, that he wasn’t able to see that betraying signal.

  “No,” he lied. “I don’t want that from you, Jamie.” Then he added, more truthfully, “Your friendship is important to me. I don’t want to lose it.”

  For a while, James just lay there, absorbing Iain’s words. Then, slowly, he uncovered his face and sat up without so much as glancing at Iain. He looked utterly done in, and when he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he put his elbows on his knees and leaned over tiredly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes on the floor.

  After a brief silence, he said quietly, “I understand.”

  Do you? Iain thought, but he didn’t say the words aloud.

  James sighed heavily. “And you’re right,” he said. “I’m drunk and I need my bed, so perhaps”—he paused—“perhaps you should go now.”

  Iain cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said at last. “It’s about time I left anyway.”

  He walked to the door of the chamber, but as his hand closed over the doorknob, he paused. Turned to look over his shoulder. “I’ll write to you once my new posting’s confirmed,” he said. “To let you know my direction.”

  Finally, James looked up, and their gazes met. James’s was wary.

  Iain gave him a crooked smile. “I expect you to write to me often.”

  James snorted at that, and the familiar sound settled something in Iain.

  “I don’t know why I bother writing to you at all,” James grumbled. “You’re terrible at writing back.”

  “I’m not a good correspondent,” Iain admitted, “But I love to receive your letters, and I keep them all. I read them often.”

  James looked faintly surprised at that. “Do you?”

  Iain felt a little foolish, but he made himself admit the truth. “Yes. I do.”

  James smiled. It was a sad sort of smile, not like his usual one at all, but at least it was a smile. “I don’t want to lose your friendship either, Iain,” he whispered. “It’s the most important thing in the world to me.”

  Despite everything, something inside Iain sang with pure happiness right then, hearing those words. To know that this friendship was as vital to James as it was to him.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Jamie,” he said softly. “Good night.”

  Chapter Nine

  Now: 1824

  27th May, 1824

  Holmewell, Hampshire

  James didn’t usually spend much time dressing for dinner, but on this particular evening, he found himself b
ehaving like a girl at her first ball, discarding no fewer than three coats before settling on his dark blue superfine and going through several neckcloths before he was finally satisfied with the knot of his cravat. Now he was fiddling with his hair, something he never did.

  It was absurd, and it was Iain Sinclair’s fault. Turning up at Kate’s after years of silence, just when James had begun to get used to his absence. And of course, it was bloody Kate’s fault too—for not telling James that Iain was coming.

  Of course, she’d probably guessed James wouldn’t have come if he’d known.

  James huffed out a sigh and turned away from the mirror. He hated that he cared how he looked. Hated even more that, when Iain had walked into the drawing room this afternoon, James’s gaze had gone straight to him, drinking in the sight of him. He’d been stunned by the difference in him. Oh, not in his appearance—he wasn’t changed much in that respect. It was that...he didn’t seem happy. James had always loved the twinkle in Iain’s blue eyes, but today, even when he’d been talking to the other guests, even when he’d been smiling and laughing, he’d looked strangely grave. James was used to seeing laughter lines at the corners of those eyes, a twinkle in their blue depths. Not today, though. Today Iain had been as serious as James had ever seen him.

  I can’t bear us not being friends anymore.

  That was another thing James hated. That when Iain had made his plea—please...hear me out—James’s heart had leapt with happiness, and a part of him had just wanted to forget everything that had happened between them, to accept the friendship Iain was offering him again and tell himself it was enough.

  Except, it wasn’t enough.

  James had finally learnt that lesson—and a long and painful lesson it had been: that sometimes half a loaf was worse than no loaf at all.

  He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was past time to go down for dinner. All this fiddling with his appearance was no more than sheer procrastination. No matter how long he stood here in front of the mirror, at some point, he was going to have to go down and face the other guests.

  Sighing, he turned from the mirror, put his shoulders back and left his bedchamber, making his way to the drawing room, where the guests had been instructed to gather before dinner.

  At the top of the stairs, he encountered Mr. Potts with his wife. Mr. Potts tightened his lips minutely and gave him a slight nod, still offended, it seemed, from earlier. James smiled anyway, then bowed politely in Mrs. Potts’s direction.

  “Good evening, ma’am, you’re looking well this evening.” He smiled serenely as she twittered her thanks, then turned to her husband. “And Mr. Potts, I apologise for this afternoon. I hope we will get a chance to continue our conversation this evening.”

  May God strike him down as an inveterate liar.

  Mr. Potts appeared to soften a little at that, inclining his head a tad more generously this time. “Perhaps so, Mr. Hart,” he said, his careful tone suggesting that, whilst he might be a little mollified, James was not yet entirely forgiven.

  Suppressing a smile, James offered Mrs. Potts his arm to escort her downstairs, leaving her husband to follow behind.

  Mrs. Potts was a matronly woman with an alarmingly huge bosom, who looked as though she could be anywhere between forty and fifty years. When James politely asked about her connection to Edward, it transpired that she was one of Edward’s three older half-sisters from his father’s first marriage and his senior by a dozen years. She was also the only one of the siblings who had been unable to attend Edward and Kate’s wedding five years before, which was why James hadn’t met her previously.

  Mrs. Potts explained that, whilst her mother—the first Lady Porter, she emphasised—had borne a number of daughters, she had failed to produce a son before her untimely death. The second Lady Porter had fared a great deal better, producing Edward a bare ten months after the wedding.

  “But would you believe, Mr. Hart,” she continued in a low voice as they strolled into the drawing room, “in the twenty years of marriage that followed Edward’s birth, there was never so much as a whisper of another single babe!” She sniffed, a disapproving sound. “In fact, Edward’s mother spent nearly all her time in London after that, while Papa was always here at Holmewell—he was a very devoted father. He always professed to be fond of her, though, despite the fact that she was remarkably...well, free in her friendships, shall we say. For a married woman, I mean.”

  “I’ve always found Edward’s mother to be very kind,” James said mildly. “And she has always spoken of your late father with great affection, at least in my presence.”

  There was a brief awkward silence, then Mrs. Potts said coolly, “Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t dream of contradicting you, Mr. Hart.” Her faintly acid tone suggested just the opposite. “Please excuse me,” she continued, extricating her arm from James’s. “I see my sister is trying to catch my attention.”

  “Of course,” James murmured politely, and she stalked off. He couldn’t deny he was glad to see her go.

  Having freed himself of Mrs. Potts, James joined a small group of young ladies that included his cousin Sylvia, and her particular friend, Miss Alicia Whyte, a very pretty if somewhat hoydenish young lady with an unfortunate braying sort of laugh. The young ladies found his complete idiocy concerning all matters pertaining to fashion and society highly amusing, and there were a few flirtatious looks from one of them, a slight, dark girl with a secretive smile, Miss Helena Dobbie. James pretended not to notice her interest in him. He had long ago learned that encouraging flirtation from young ladies was a recipe for disaster. Now he generally treated any unmarried females he came across like troublesome younger sisters. He tended to find that quashed any romantic thoughts they may be harbouring about him fairly promptly.

  After a few minutes, Iain strolled up to join their group, tall and elegant in his black-and-white evening clothes, his thick brown hair glossy as a chestnut, a smile firmly in place beneath the waxed points of his moustache that didn’t quite, James thought, reach his blue eyes.

  God, just the sight of him made James’s chest ache.

  “Good evening,” Iain said, smiling round the circle of feminine faces before finally settling his gaze on James. “Hart, will you do me honour of introducing me to these lovely young ladies?”

  Somehow, James managed to dredge up a smile of his own, one he hoped wasn’t as strained looking as it felt, and made the introductions. The difference between how the young ladies reacted to James and how they reacted to Iain was palpable. James might have snagged the attention of one of the group, but when Iain arrived, each and every one of them perked up. They began vying for his attention, their gestures becoming more flirtatious and a competitive spirit coming to the fore. The laughter from their group increased in volume, attracting glances from the other guests, mostly of smiling indulgence, though Mr. Potts looked noticeably pained.

  James lapsed into silence, not that anyone noticed except Iain. He glanced at James from time to time, his gaze faintly troubled, before being distracted again by another breathless, feminine question. When James murmured an excuse and tried to draw away from the group, Iain put his hand on James’s arm, holding him back with a surprisingly firm grip.

  “Don’t go, Hart,” he begged. “You cannot leave me alone with the ladies. They will eat me alive!”

  The young ladies squealed with laughter and protested loudly, but through it all, Iain’s hand stayed on James’s arm, warm and firm and unyielding, even when James tried to surreptitiously pull away.

  He was relieved when the dinner gong sounded. Iain had to let him go then.

  Kate had seated Iain at a number of places distant from James, thankfully. Too far to make direct conversation easy. She hadn’t been entirely kind, though. He had the flirtatious Miss Dobbie on his right and the somewhat deaf Lady Jenner on his left. On Lady Jenner’s other side was Iain’s father, and from what James could make out, he was making no effort to talk to the querulous old lady
at all, his entire attention taken up with emptying his wineglass as frequently as possible. Consequently, James had to divide his time between fending off the advances of the determined Miss Dobbie and shouting himself hoarse at Lady Jenner.

  As dinner went on, however, the elder Mr. Sinclair became more talkative, even voluble. He began in a jolly enough mood, but his mood deteriorated when he started a long debate with Mr. Laughton, a Member of Parliament, about the act that had been passed the year before giving judges the power to commute death sentences for most offences.

  “I cannot believe you voted for this travesty, Laughton,” he said in a loud voice, drawing glances from some of the guests at the other end of the table. “The threat of the noose is the only thing that keeps us being overrun by criminals altogether. Without that deterrent, many more of these rogues will come out of the woodwork, mark my words. No decent Englishman will be able to sleep easy in his bed.”

  Laughton smiled patiently through his ranting. “In fact, Sinclair,” he said, “the opposite is true. Now that judges have the ability to commute sentences, juries will be more likely to convict. Have you any idea how many criminals escape punishment because juries are unwilling to send them to their deaths for petty crimes?”

  “I’ve never heard such nonsense!” the elder Sinclair spluttered. “And you call this progress?” In his agitation, he knocked over a glass of wine, causing the lady to his left to squeal and rear back in her chair. A footman moved forwards to clear up the mess and remove the upset glass.

  James glanced at Iain. He was watching his father with a resigned sort of dread that James recognised, a dread that struck him as all of a piece with the unhappiness he’d seen in the man’s eyes earlier.