James steeled himself and set off, stomach churning with mingled dread and excitement, palms damp with nerves. The back room could only be accessed by a narrow servants’ passageway, carefully tucked away so as to attract as little attention as possible. The club room and games room at the front of the building looked much like any other gentlemen’s club, and beyond mild flirting, nothing much happened there. It was only when you ventured into the secret depths of the club that things changed. Behind the large wooden door of the back room was where the real business of Redford’s happened. Where men could find a partner either to slip away with or to have right there, in front of anyone who wanted to watch. The casual nudity had astonished James the first time he’d come. The frankness of these men when they were away from the strictures of polite society was staggering.
He wondered how Iain behaved when he was here. Did he treat the men he went with as he’d treated James, with tenderness and care? Or did he just want a quick cocksucking, a convenient arse to fuck? James could understand if Iain saw it like that—Christ, he’d only been coming here a few nights, and even he, heartsick as he was, had been tempted. It was difficult to say no with all that naked flesh on display and the scent of desire and semen and male sweat in the air. Not to mention his own deprived body craving release.
Yet the thought of Iain doing that—wanting that—somehow crushed him. How could James ever compete with all this endless choice and novelty?
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was busy tonight, and something in the middle of the room had captured the attention of the crowd. Men gathered around, necks craning to see the action. James wasn’t much interested—he was more concerned with finding Iain, and he began to work his way through the melee, his gaze searching the sea of faces. He stopped, though, when a hard voice cracked out an order.
“Strip.”
A murmur of excitement rose in the wake of that single word. James looked then, straining his neck to see past the men in front of him. He made out two men standing in the centre of the room. One was in military uniform—a junior officer, by the look of him, with coppery hair that glinted in the candlelight. The other man was of a similar height and build, but with dark hair and elegant evening clothes. Perhaps it was naïve of James to be surprised that it was the second man who was giving the orders.
Already the soldier was removing his uniform, his movements quick and efficient, the pile of clothes at his feet growing quickly, till he was fully naked, his pale skin glowing in the candlelight.
He had a beautiful body, as well formed as a young god, but his features were homely, even a little coarse. There was something arresting about him, though, as he stood there in front of all those avid eyes. He seemed almost to vibrate with desire—James found the naked expression on his face difficult to look at. The need there.
The second man unbuttoned the placket of his trousers and drew out his hard, flushed member.
“Suck it,” he said in a sneering voice. “On your knees, if you please.”
The soldier visibly shuddered, then folded himself onto his knees and shuffled forwards to do as he was bid.
“Hands behind your back.”
Again, the soldier obeyed, taking hold of one wrist with his other hand. The dip of his head as he ducked to take the other man’s cock into his mouth was submissive, the curving movement of his neck, graceful. And that young, godlike body, pale as marble, anatomically perfect.
God, but the intimacy of this went right to James’s gut. Almost more so when he glanced around and saw how many of the other faces looked bored or not much more than mildly interested. Such a naked bit of real desire playing out before them, to be greeted with such apathy.
Unable to watch any more, James turned away to complete his circuit of the room. And just then, there he was. None other than Iain Sinclair himself, moving towards him.
James stopped in his tracks, stunned. Stunned, then hollow when he saw Iain glance over his shoulder at a man behind him, a big, brawny fellow who looked to be around the same age as Iain, with black hair and a compellingly attractive face. The man raised his eyebrows at Iain and smiled at him. And God, but he was a handsome fellow.
James realised then that Iain was about to walk past him without so much as noticing him. He stepped forward, right into Iain’s path.
“Iain,” he said, his stomach dropping as he noticed the expression of shock on the man’s face. “Please—I have to talk to you—”
Iain reared back. “James? What the hell?” He sounded furious, truly angry. “You shouldn’t be here!”
James drew away as though he’d been slapped. He shouldn’t be surprised, but perhaps the stupidly naïve part of him had secretly thought to see that smile of pleasure that used to bloom on Iain’s face just from seeing James.
James swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders. “I’m a member just like you. Mr. Redford let me join.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have!” Iain bit out. “I’d’ve blackballed you if I’d known!”
The big man had caught up with Iain now, and he stood at his shoulder, a politely curious expression on his face as he shifted his gaze between them.
“Kit doesn’t allow blackballing,” Iain’s companion said, and when Iain sent him a furious look, his lips twitched as though he were amused.
“Yes, but he needs references!” Iain snapped before turning, quick as lightning, back to James and demanding, “Who the fuck gave you a reference? Tell me their names!”
For several seconds, James just stared at him, struck dumb by the anger on his face. And then, just as he opened his mouth to respond, Iain grasped his forearm and began to drag him towards the door, muttering something at the other man as they passed him.
“What are you doing?” James protested, even as he allowed Iain to drag him forward.
Iain hauled the door of the back room open and pushed James outside, following him out into the dim corridor and slamming the heavy door shut behind them.
“What the hell are you thinking, coming here?” he yelled.
“I was looking for you!” James shouted back, angry and embarrassed in equal measure. “A few days ago, you were in my bed—by your own choice, I might add—though you ran away like a coward while I slept.”
Iain’s cheeks reddened. “What of it?”
What of it?
“I want to know why you left! Why you’ve been ignoring my letters—” James’s voice broke with emotion, and he stopped abruptly, hating how betraying that was.
Iain just stared at him, his face a picture of misery.
“I’ve called at your rooms,” James went on. “But I expect you know that already.”
Iain closed his eyes as though he couldn’t bear to look at James, and God but that was humiliating. This wasn’t going anything like the way he’d hoped. He saw now that he’d made a mistake coming here. Imagining there was something between them that could be saved, that actually needed to be saved, when the truth was, Iain plainly wanted no more to do with him. And how could James even claim to be surprised by that? Iain had been proving it to him, over and over, since last summer.
Except for that one night, of course, a week ago—when he was in his cups.
I’m afraid your captain is going to disappoint you, Mr. Hart.
Kit Redford had been right.
All at once, standing there watching Iain squirm, James felt utterly defeated. Sick at heart and lost. After what had happened between them last week, he’d thought if he could just see Iain, speak to him, he’d be able to... What? Make him admit to feelings he simply didn’t possess?
He realised he was staring dumbly at Iain. No doubt with an expression on his face that made his pain and disappointment all too humiliatingly obvious. His throat felt clogged and achy, and he knew with sudden certainty that if he didn’t walk away now, Iain would witness the even greater humiliation of him weeping. Without another word, he turned on his heel and sta
rted striding away down the corridor.
“Oh bloody hell,” Iain groaned behind him. “Where are you going now?”
The exasperation in Iain’s voice flayed him. He wanted to howl, but instead he kept walking and forced himself to call over his shoulder, without turning round, “I’m leaving. You should be pleased about that.”
He heard Iain’s heels on the flagstones behind him, but he just kept going, afraid that if he paused for even a moment, he would disgrace himself beyond what he could bear. When he reached the door that led onto the club room, he yanked it open so hard, it shuddered on its hinges.
“James. For God’s sake—”
That tone again. Apparently, he was nothing but an aggravation to Iain. A problem.
It was so very far from what he wanted to be.
He strode through the club room, Iain on his heels. Kit Redford looked over at his entrance, his attractive face creased with worry. He sent James a questioning glance, and James paused for an instant, giving a quick shake of his head in return that somehow expressed all the disappointment and heaviness in his heart.
The pause was unwise.
“James, wait.”
Iain’s hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
He wanted to tug free. To run away, refusing to listen to whatever words Iain wanted to say now. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to behave like that in front of the other patrons. Instead, he steeled himself and turned. And perhaps, as he did so, a tiny part of him still hoped.
The hope died as soon as he laid eyes on Iain. An unhappy expression marred his handsome face, and the firm set to his jaw spoke of settled determination. He seemed as resolved, as determined, as he’d been that day at Wylde Manor, ten months before, when he’d told James he couldn’t consider anything beyond friendship.
“What is it?” James asked. And suddenly he was tired. Weary of it all.
“I just—I want you to understand.”
“Understand what? That you don’t want to see me?” He gave a weak laugh. “You’ve made it very clear these past few days. Admittedly, it’s taken me a while to really take the hint, but I think I’ve finally got it.”
Iain closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said bleakly, “Of course I want to see you again—but as my friend. Not as anything more.” His blue eyes searched James’s face for a reaction, and whatever he saw there made him heave a sigh. After a pause, he added, “I admit I was shocked to see you just now. You don’t belong here, Jamie. You’re not like the men who come here. They’re only looking for something quick and easy—”
“You’re wrong,” James interrupted flatly. “I’m no different from any other man here. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve been hoping for something different—something only with you—I’d probably be the man standing in the middle of that room, being fucked in front of everyone.”
Iain reared back a little, clearly shocked. “Don’t say that!”
“Why shouldn’t I say it? What does it matter it to you?” His voice had risen, but he didn’t care anymore. “Fine, I accept that you don’t want me. Am I to put myself away in a drawer because of it? Never come to a place like this, where I might at least get to fuck someone once in a while? Feel alive and not alone?”
Iain stared at him. He swallowed hard. “I assumed you came here to see me, but is that why you’re here? To find someone to fuck?”
James laughed, though the awful wrenching noise that emerged from his throat didn’t sound much like a laugh. “Christ, you’re dense,” he said. “I’m here because you’ve broken my heart, Iain. And because, despite that, like an idiot, I couldn’t stop hoping that if I could only see you and speak to you, you might change your mind.”
“Jamie—” Iain shook his head as though denying everything James had just said. “Don’t do this. We’re friends. We’ve said it a hundred times—we’ll always be friends. I don’t want that to change. Please.”
“No,” James said wretchedly. “I can’t go along with this anymore. This isn’t just friendship to me. I can’t get by on whatever crumbs you choose to throw me.”
“Crumbs?” Iain exclaimed. “My friendship is crumbs to you?” He stared at James for long moments, seeming genuinely hurt. “I don’t understand you,” he said at last, his voice edged with frustration. “I don’t understand why you’re insisting on making this so bloody difficult. Why can’t we just be the way we’ve always been? Why do you have to ruin everything with this—this ridiculous, childish devotion! Don’t you see that it’s absurd? Christ, you’re not a boy any longer—you need to accept that you can’t always have what you want. None of us can. That’s just how life is.”
That stung. That hurt. It hurt so badly that James had to close his eyes for several seconds just to get hold of himself. And the worst thing was, when he opened his eyes, Iain still looked angry and frustrated, as though he hadn’t the faintest clue what impact his words had had on James.
James didn’t say anything more. Not one word. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode towards the front door.
“Where are you going?” Iain demanded behind him.
James didn’t answer. He nodded at Kit Redford as he left, and Kit nodded back unhappily, his expression promising a further discussion to come. The footman stepped forward with James’s coat, hat and cane. He took them automatically, murmuring the usual polite responses even as his heart crumbled to dust. And then the footman was opening the door and James was stepping out into the cold, clear April night.
Iain didn’t come after him, and the truth was, James wasn’t even surprised.
Chapter Eighteen
Now: 1824
28th May, 1824
Holmewell, Hampshire
Iain sat with his head in hands for a long time after James left the cottage, James’s words ringing in his ears.
Will you not be satisfied until you have destroyed me?
The storm inside him raged ever harder, even as the one outside the cottage gradually passed, the lashing rain diminishing first to a downpour, then to a shower, then to nothing.
When he stepped outside, it was to see that the dark grey clouds had rolled away, and the bright, hot sun was already warming the earth. But it did not warm him. He felt cold inside, right to his core.
Don’t ever follow me anywhere again.
Was James finished with him? The thought was unbearable.
He began the walk back to Holmewell, checking his watch and noting with disbelief that it wasn’t yet one o’clock. He felt as though he’d lived an entire lifetime already this day but there was still the picnic to get through and then a long evening of entertainments. Dancing tonight, Kate had promised. The young ladies had been all atwitter about it the night before.
How would he do it? How would he play cricket and eat and dance after what had happened in the bluebell woods and in the cottage? How would he manage to politely converse when his mind was filled with thoughts of James and the very blood in his veins seemed to be beating out the tattoo of the question that had been echoing in his mind, over and over?
Was it possible?
Was it possible?
Was it possible to give up everything you were, everything you’d set out to be? Was it possible to turn your back on the world when you realised that the life you’d made for yourself was...empty?
Iain walked quickly, needing the distraction of physical activity. He could still feel James in his arms, the ghost of his lips touching Iain’s. For two years, he’d been starved of any sight of James, haunted by the memory of the night they’d spent together two years before, that damned imperfect night. These two long years it had seemed like the only thing to do was to stay away, get further away. Free himself altogether.
He’d been stupid. He should’ve realised after all these years that, even though it was always Iain who walked away, he was always the one who came back too. Each time he’d gone, James had accepted his rejections, respecting Iain’s stated wishes, bu
t each time, Iain had been the one to return, tugged back by the invisible thread that connected them.
If he went to India, he wouldn’t be able to return very easily. And, God, but the thought of that vast continental distance stretching between him and James made Iain feel hollow.
As he crested the brow of the hill, breathing a little harder from the swift pace he’d set himself, he glanced up and saw a kestrel high above him, hovering on the air, small and still and quivering. And then a second bird wheeled into a view. Its mate.
And in that moment, a profound truth hit him: he and James were a pair.
Iain would never be free of James, and he didn’t want to be. His stated wish to make peace with James before he left England had been...a lie. One he’d told himself and allowed himself to believe. The truth was much simpler and much harder to live with—that he’d come here just to see James again, because he was miserable without him.
Because he missed him beyond anything.
The reason for his building unhappiness over the last few years, that unhappiness he’d been unable to articulate, even to himself, was suddenly as clear as day. And now the thought of leaving England struck him as madness. It was madness, wasn’t it, to set out to make himself so unhappy? To make James so unhappy too?
And for what?
To please a father who was beyond all pleasing? Who was so deep in his cups most days he couldn’t even remember what Iain said to him from one week to the next?
His father had told him over and over these last few years how disappointed he was in Iain’s army career. Now he was disappointed in Iain’s decision to leave the army. No doubt when Iain told him about the position in India, he’d be disappointed in that too, even though the only reason Iain had decided to take it was so he could continue to serve his country, and thus serve and honour his family. But regardless, it wouldn’t be enough.
Nothing would ever be enough.
Iain had realised a long time ago that, given a choice, his father would have opted for a military career himself, that he yearned for adventure and glory. But that hadn’t been his lot in life. His father was the only son, and by the time he was three-and-twenty, he had taken over the estate, with a wife selected by his own recently deceased father and the first of seven children in her belly: Tom. The boy whose death would break his father’s heart.
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