“Tax, indeed. Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” With these cryptic words, she stepped aside with obvious reluctance and gestured inside the house as if to say that Phillip could have his way if he insisted.
“I assure you,” he repeated, “this agreement would be very much to your benefit.”
Her rheumy eyes looked skeptically at him. “I don’t suppose I have any reason to believe you mean to bleed us dry,” she said, “but that’s what seems to be happening lately.”
Ah, so that’s what this was about. “I have no intention of treating my tenants as Easterbrook does his,” Phillip said. “You have the leasehold of this property for another ten years, according to the land steward. So even if I were inclined to raise your rent, which I am not, I couldn’t.”
The old woman’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “My brother had another five years left on his leasehold, and that’s what he told Sir Martin’s land agent when he came to demand a rent increase. Sent the land agent away with a flea in his ear. Next he knows, his grandson is brought before the magistrate for poaching.”
Phillip’s eyebrows shot up at this mention of poaching. “Surely that’s a coincidence,” he protested.
“Oh, come now. You know better than that.” She shook her head. “Sit here by the fire until the vicar comes out, then you can go in.”
“The vicar?” Phillip asked stupidly.
“Aye, Mr. Sedgwick is here to do whatever he does with invalids. Pray, I suppose. Mr. Farleigh is always in a cheerful state when the vicar leaves. So sit by the fire and make yourself comfortable, I suppose.”
She went into the kitchen and shut the door loudly behind her. Phillip had no interest in sitting by the fire. It was a warm day and the parlor was stuffy and close. But he sat anyway, because he’d be damned if he’d disobey a woman as old as Mrs. Farleigh. As he sat back against a chair that smelled of must and long-dead lavender, he heard Sedgwick’s voice. He knew he shouldn’t lean closer to hear, but he did so anyway.
Sedgwick’s voice was low, and Phillip couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. But the rhythm of the man’s speech suggested a prayer. Or, was he singing? A hymn, then, perhaps. It was an unwelcome reminder that the man he had touched and kissed was part of an institution that disapproved of everything they had done and everything Phillip most wanted to do.
Then Phillip heard a phrase that didn’t make sense in either a prayer or a hymn. Something about a blacksmith and his forge? What the devil was Sedgwick up to in there? He leaned even closer, so his ear was all but pressed against the rough wood of the door. Now he could make out individual words.
“Six times did his iron by vigorous heating grow soft in her forge in a minute or so . . .”
It was a bawdy drinking song. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the shocked laughter that threatened to burble out.
“And as often was hardened, still beating and beating, but each time it softened it hardened more slow.”
Phillip managed to get outside before he was overcome by laughter. Then, leaning against the crumbling stone of the woodshed, he laughed until his sides hurt and he thought he might be sick. The dog pulled at his rope and whimpered, plainly thinking something was deeply wrong with this human. He bent forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, and tried to catch his breath. He hadn’t laughed in so long, he felt out of practice.
“Dare I even ask what’s gotten into you out here?” It was Sedgwick, of course, hands in his pockets and an amused expression on his face.
“Well you might. Did my ears deceive me or were you truly serenading that poor old man with a song in highly questionable taste?”
“Oh dear.” He looked decidedly sheepish. “Nobody was meant to hear that.”
“I should damned well think not.” Phillip straightened up. “‘A Lusty Young Smith,’ good God.” He started a fresh peal of laughter and had to wipe tears from his eyes. “‘He’s always in such a cheerful state when the vicar leaves,’” he managed, quoting the old man’s wife. “I can see why.”
Sedgwick frowned. “Poor old Mr. Farleigh hasn’t much time left, I’m afraid, and if bawdy songs amuse him, then who am I to be disobliging?”
“I thought you were praying,” Phillip sputtered.
Sedgwick was silent for a beat. “Mr. Farleigh doesn’t go in much for that sort of thing. He says he prays in his own way and doesn’t need my assistance. But he likes being reminded of his youth. The last of his friends died years ago, and he hasn’t anyone to reminisce with. I don’t feel the songs do anyone harm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few other people to visit this morning.” He turned away.
Realizing that Sedgwick was serious, and that he had interpreted Phillip’s laughter as scorn, Phillip tried to compose himself. “I didn’t mean to mock you.” He took a step nearer and put a restraining hand on Sedgwick’s sleeve. “You were kind, Sedgwick. I’m sure you did the old man good.”
“I try to do what’s right.” Sedgwick looked pained. It was such an uncharacteristic expression for the man that Phillip was momentarily taken aback. He instinctively brought his hand up to touch the vicar’s face. Sedgwick’s eyes went wide, but he didn’t pull away. His lips parted a little and Phillip felt his own heart speed up. They were alone in a corner of the neglected farmyard, invisible to any passersby, but Phillip glanced hastily over his shoulder anyway.
“You’re so good,” Phillip murmured. “So good.” He pushed a lock of hair off Sedgwick’s forehead, wanting to see his entire face, needing to watch for any signs of hesitation or distaste. Nothing. Sedgwick’s face was open, willing. Wanting. Phillip threaded his fingers through Sedgwick’s hair, bringing his hand to cup the back of his head. They were only a few inches apart, and almost the same height, and all it would have taken was a single fraction of a step forward and they would be kissing. Not even a step, just a sway, a mere leaning in the right direction. Phillip felt like it was taking more effort to not bend towards Sedgwick than it would take to simply give in.
With his hand still threaded in Sedgwick’s hair, Phillip leaned forward, let his lips brush against Sedgwick’s. Just that, nothing more. He felt a puff of air come from the other man’s mouth, the faintest sigh, and then Sedgwick’s body was against his own, and Phillip felt something terribly like relief.
As Dacre’s lips brushed across his own, a ripple of awareness spread down Ben’s body. He didn’t know how a mere whisper of a touch could send him spiraling into a world where he cared about nothing but the need to have this man in his arms. Instinctively, he touched Dacre’s cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble against his fingertips, and heard a groan come from the other man. Then Dacre’s arms were wrapped around him, his mouth heavy and hot on his own.
Their time in the boathouse had been about pleasure, satisfaction. In broad daylight and with no possibility of release, their kisses were slower and softer and infinitely more dangerous. Ben could have stayed like that forever, could let his life collapse into a shape the precise dimension of his body and Dacre’s pressed together. His world was Dacre’s jaw beneath his fingertips, Dacre’s steadying hand on his own waist. Everything else could slip away—St. Aelred’s, Alice, all of it. He’d happily wave goodbye to duty, to order, to everything he had ever wanted, because this was more, and better, and true.
The starkness of this realization made him pull away and stare at Dacre in dismay. He could not allow this to happen. He couldn’t plunge into disorder; he couldn’t let the chaos of his youth find him in the idyllic peace of his village, surmounting his duty to a dying parishioner.
Some of his horror must have shown on his face, because Dacre dropped his hands to his sides and stepped away.
“Forgive me,” the captain muttered, plainly misunderstanding the cause of Ben’s anguish. “I thought you . . . I didn’t—”
“No,” Ben said quickly, trying to explain that the kiss hadn’t been unwanted, but merely catastrophic. He reached a hand out to touch Dacre’s arm before realizing
that additional contact was the last thing they needed. He hastily snatched his hand back and saw the hurt flash in Dacre’s eye. “No, dash it. That isn’t—”
They were interrupted by a cacophony of sounds. The dog was barking and Mrs. Farleigh was shouting and Jamie and Peg were racing down the lane.
Ben had never been so glad to see the Dacre children as he was at that moment. What he needed was time. Time to figure out how to make sense of this world he now found himself in, how to do what was right and good.
It took about three-quarters of an hour for Ben and the twins to unload the hamper into Mrs. Farleigh’s kitchen while Dacre spoke with Mr. Farleigh, and then another several minutes to collect the dog, who had gotten off his rope and was attempting to menace a pair of bored-looking chickens.
That ought to have been enough time for Ben to get his thoughts in order, to weed out any stray impulses and mad desires that didn’t belong in the life he wanted. But that was just the trouble—the more he thought, the clearer it was that he didn’t want a life that didn’t include soft kisses and steady hands, whispered praise and shared touches.
Chapter Eleven
Phillip was stationed at his monstrous fraud of a desk. It was the size of a dinghy and it was beyond Phillip’s imaginings why anybody needed such acreage on which to write their letters. He was determined to puzzle through his correspondence, but so far had only managed a single paragraph of a letter from the naval yard detailing the progress that was being made with the Patroclus. The clerk’s handwriting was a marvel of restraint, and Phillip could understand enough to grasp that the repairs were continuing on schedule, more or less. But his head was pounding, and there was nobody about to trick into reading the rest of his correspondence, so when he looked up and saw Sedgwick in the doorway, his annoyance was tempered by relief at having an excuse to stop reading. He stacked all the papers neatly and dropped them into a drawer.
“How can I help you, Sedgwick?” Phillip asked frostily. Go away, he wanted to plead. The way Sedgwick had looked at him after that ill-advised kiss had been like a bucket of icy water in Phillip’s face. He had felt guilty, sordid, unworthy. And now the man was back to torture him some more? It really was most unfair.
Sedgwick ought to be safely tucked in his bed, or saying his prayers, or visiting the drawing room of the lady he intended to marry. He was going to go off and have a nice, pleasant, safe life. That was all well and good, even if the idea of Sedgwick living at the vicarage with a faceless wife and a passel of towheaded children made him feel vaguely ill. A dalliance with Phillip would likely plunge the man into some kind of moral panic. Phillip didn’t want to be the subject of anyone’s penance or regrets. He would never again enter into an arrangement where convenience outweighed honesty, and he didn’t know precisely where he stood. His heart wasn’t cut out for it.
Sedgwick had his hands stuffed in his pockets and he was shifting foot to foot. “Well,” he said, “I came to talk about Jamie.”
“What about him?” It came out harsher than Phillip had intended. “Is he all right?” The lad had seemed fine at dinner—Sedgwick had led him through the usual mealtime mathematic acrobatics while Phillip tried not to look at Sedgwick.
“Oh, quite. I wanted to speak with you about hiring a tutor.” He pulled a folded square of paper from his coat pocket. “I wrote to an acquaintance of mine.” He was holding the paper between two fingers as if he weren’t quite sure what to do with it. “Well, really a friend of my father’s. He’s a mathematician in Edinburgh. I thought Jamie might enjoy seeing what can be done with his talent but it isn’t my strong suit, you see. And I hoped this friend of my father’s could point us in the direction of a suitable tutor.”
Phillip frowned. “Won’t he learn that in school?” Wasn’t that the point? Phillip was spending time with the children so they would ultimately trust his decision to send them to school. School was undoubtedly the best place for them in his absence. That way they could be with other children and, well, learn the things children needed to learn in order to belong in the world.
“Jamie’s abilities are a bit . . . varied from those of other children his age. Perhaps school would be . . . tedious for him.” Sedgwick was lying. Phillip didn’t know about what, and he couldn’t imagine why, but the man didn’t have a face made for deceit. He hoped the vicar didn’t make a habit of playing cards, because he’d be fleeced by anyone with the slightest bit of cunning. “I didn’t want to send the letter without your permission.” He stepped forward and placed the paper on Phillip’s desk.
Phillip shook his head in frustration and leaned back, as if to distance himself from the paper. “Just do as you see fit.”
“Oh.” Sedgwick looked deflated. “Well, then.” He made no move to leave. “I thought you might take an interest. But I see that I misjudged.”
Phillip sighed. “You have the wrong end of the stick. I trust your judgment, that’s all. If you think Jamie needs a mathematics tutor, then I agree.”
“Oh.” The vicar looked taken aback, but not displeased.
“You look as if you expected an argument. I keep telling you that I’m not a monster.”
“I’m well aware that you’re not a monster.” Sedgwick’s eyes opened wide and his cheeks darkened. For a moment Phillip saw a flash of temper in the young vicar’s face, something he had caught a glimpse of that first day when Phillip had grabbed his arm in the hall. “If you think that I’d do . . . what we did . . . with someone I thought a monster, you’re grossly mistaken.”
“Go to bed, Sedgwick. I can’t figure out what you’re still doing here.”
“Can’t you?” Sedgwick said, his voice low with anger. Phillip’s cock pricked up in a way it surely ought not to have.
“This may amaze you, Sedgwick, but I can’t be bothered to imagine the secret workings of your brain. All I know is that you’ve been following me about like a stray dog for two days, and then when I—today at the farm, you looked at me like I had slapped you.”
“Well, I’ll spare you the hassle, then.” Sedgwick shut the door, and Phillip’s mouth went dry. “I’m here—like a stray dog, very flattering, I thank you—because I enjoy your company, you infuriating man. I like you, and I thought we were becoming friends, and—”
“The sort of friends who grope one another in boathouses and behind woodsheds? The sort of friends who imagine one another while bringing themselves off? Because I most definitely did that this afternoon.” Twice, in fact. And once the night before.
Sedgwick’s cheeks went even redder, and his lips parted slightly. Phillip forced himself not to look away even though his breeches were growing tighter at the thought of what he’d like to do to those lips.
“I did that, too, you know, but that’s neither here nor there—”
It took Phillip’s brain a moment to catch up with his cock. “You thought of me while tossing yourself off?”
“Yes, but I can’t see—”
“Is that a typical mark of friendship for you? The boathouses and the wanking and so forth? Because I’ll have you know it isn’t for me, Sedgwick.”
“Don’t be absurd.” The vicar’s mouth was caught between a scowl and a smile and Phillip desperately wanted to kiss it. “But just because I want to touch you doesn’t mean I need to.” He sounded gratifyingly uncertain about that.
“That’s absolutely right it doesn’t,” Phillip growled. “I haven’t the slightest interest in going to bed with someone who’s going to have to do penance for it afterward. Rather ruins the moment.”
“Penance,” Sedgwick repeated slowly, as if he had never heard of the term. “You thought . . .” He shook his head, and when he spoke again it was in a deliberately light tone. “We don’t much go in for penance in the Church of England. I have a whole pamphlet you can read on the topic.” There was a twinkle in his eye, damn him. He was about to laugh, of all things.
“You can keep your blasted pamphlets. What I mean is—”
“I kn
ow what you meant. And don’t worry about penance. That’s . . . not a concern.”
“Isn’t it, though? If not actual penance, then guilt. Shame. I won’t have any part of your sin, Sedgwick.”
“You can leave it to me to decide what I think a sin is. Everybody’s a damned theologian on this topic. I’m so tired of it. If we can all quietly agree that eating pork and shaving aren’t sinful, I don’t see why we can’t extend that same grace to men like us.”
Phillip had never seen Sedgwick this angry. His body was taut with emotion and his cheeks were flushed. Phillip had the distinct impression that if Sedgwick hadn’t been carefully controlling himself, Phillip would already have a black eye.
Phillip’s cock was already hard. His cock had terrible, terrible judgment, but that was nothing new. He got to his feet, almost without thinking about what he was doing.
“Don’t bring me into it,” Phillip said, perversely trying to egg Sedgwick on, trying to see what lay on the other side of this hot anger. “I’m not ashamed of who I am or who I want to touch. And I don’t believe in sin.”
Sedgwick waved his hand in frustrated dismissal. “I tell you, there’s no shame between us.” He gestured between their two bodies. “Nor any sin.”
“Oh?” Phillip was playing with fire, and he knew it. “Then what is there?” He made the same gesture. It was a barefaced challenge, a shameless dare, and they both knew it. Sedgwick’s eyes glinted with acknowledgment. He could no more ignore the challenge than he could have avoided jumping in the lake a few nights ago.
Sedgwick shook his head, as if in disbelief at what he was about to do, and then his mouth crooked up in the barest hint of a smile.
He turned the key in the lock and stepped forward.
They were standing so close Ben could almost feel the heat rolling off Dacre’s body. He ought to leave, or at least come up with any excuse to put some distance between them. But he knew he wasn’t going to. He had known since walking into this room what was likely to happen, and he knew he wasn’t going to try to stop it.
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