by Lily Maxton
Robert lifted a shoulder. “For fun?” For me? He didn’t voice that last part.
“I don’t usually have time to be idle,” he said. “Billiards isn’t a working man’s sport.”
The problem was Cameron seemed to have no qualms about bringing up the differences between them, as though he wanted some kind of barrier in place, and Robert was helpless to do anything but watch as it was erected.
He felt like he was losing hold of something, like it was slipping away before he’d ever really had a chance to possess it.
“You would be good at it,” Miss Hale said to Ian. “You have the focus required.”
Robert stared at her. He’d nearly forgotten she was standing there.
“It’s about more than focus,” Ian said with a wry smile. Robert hadn’t seen him smile at Miss Hale before. He wondered if he was softening toward her. He realized he didn’t like the idea of Cameron softening toward a girl who was clearly besotted with him—it was a pinprick of irritation, needling his chest.
Not directed at Miss Hale, though. It was mostly directed at himself. Maybe he wasn’t special. Maybe he was imagining there was something between him and Cameron that wasn’t actually there.
“How much was your bracelet worth?” Robert asked suddenly.
Miss Hale stared. “Pardon me?”
“The one you…” He was going to say the one you lost, but didn’t want to sound too accusatory. “The one that’s missing.”
“Not much. They were paste jewels. I suppose the silver is worth something, though it was a delicate chain.”
Any thief worth their salt would recognize paste jewels. Robert wondered why he hadn’t asked sooner, but he knew the answer to that—he’d been distracted. He’d been too caught up in spending time with Cameron to look at the situation from every angle. Maybe they both needed a reminder of where they should be placing their priorities.
“So it wasn’t an expensive chain? Is it possible it broke and slipped from your wrist?”
She blinked. “I suppose. Though it’s also possible someone took it.”
Robert was skeptical. “You said yourself it was hardly worth anything. And the other things that were stolen wouldn’t amount to much, either.” Small scraps of fabric…expensive fabric like silk, yes, but would there be enough of it to justify attempting thievery right under the victims’ noses?
Robert doubted it.
“What are you saying?”
“You do know that thievery is a serious accusation. Thieves are not punished lightly.”
Her cheeks were starting to turn red. “Of course I know that. Are you insinuating that I made up a story as…as some kind of lark?”
“No.” After a pause, he added. “Though if you had…if you felt like continuing to the end was your only option, it’s not. It would be better to tell the truth later than never.”
Miss Hale’s face turned a darker shade of red with every word he spoke. “Then it is a good thing that I’m already telling the truth,” she said haughtily.
She strode away to observe the game of quadrille, and Robert was left to Ian’s scrutiny.
“That wasn’t like you,” Ian said.
Wasn’t like him? Robert almost snorted. Was Ian Cameron an expert on his habits now? “I wasn’t trying to be cruel, but we’re getting nowhere by searching quietly.”
“Why do ye focus on Miss Hale? If someone simply wanted to cause mischief, it could have been any of them. You never look at Miss Worthington with suspicion.”
Robert glanced to the side. The woman in question was discussing something related to billiards with Mr. Hale, who looked flushed but happy.
“She’s not that kind of woman,” he said.
The look Ian gave him then was strange and intent, and Robert couldn’t really decipher it. “And how would ye know that?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Miss Worthington was sensible. Miss Hale was not—and he wasn’t trying to be unkind. Robert had known both men and women like Miss Hale before, people who liked drama and excitement enough to create their own when it wasn’t available otherwise. He didn’t know why Ian seemed so oblivious about the girl.
Unless she’d needled her way into his affections through sheer persistence.
He stared at Ian, trying to tell just by studying him, but it was impossible. The man’s face gave little away at the best of times, and now he just seemed annoyed.
“Mr. Hale, then?” Ian asked obstinately. “Why couldn’t it be him?”
He supposed it was possible, but Mr. Hale was just so meek that Robert didn’t readily suspect him of nefarious plans.
He felt a presence at his shoulder suddenly and turned. Speak of the devil. Mr. Hale was regarding him like an eager puppy, all wide, hopeful eyes. “I’m ready, Mr. Townsend.”
Robert summoned a smile. “All right. Show me what you’ve learned.”
With a little practice and no disapproving uncles looming over his shoulder, Hale did much better. After he sank a somewhat difficult shot into the corner pocket, he turned to Robert, beaming. Though he seemed to realize that brooding poets didn’t beam and quickly suppressed his smile for a more indifferent nod.
“That was good,” Robert said. “All it takes is some confidence.”
Hale clasped his arm and leaned forward to speak. “Thank you for your help. Most people don’t have much patience with me, I’m afraid.” He spoke in a low voice, embarrassed.
Robert grasped his shoulder. “It’s more important to have patience with yourself. You did well, Hale.”
He smiled, flustered and pleased, and broke away to speak to Miss Worthington again. Over his shoulder, Robert glanced at Ian—and his breath hitched.
No one else would have noticed it, but Robert was becoming a scholar in Ian Cameron, was learning all the subtleties of his nonverbal language—would happily study them, for years, if he was allowed the chance.
Ian’s shoulders held the slightest tension, and his jaw was just a little too sharp. He caught Ian’s gaze before he had a chance to look away, and there was something hard in his eyes. Hard and hot and almost possessive.
Because of Hale? The idea was so ridiculous Robert wanted to laugh. But it also sent a thrill down his spine.
Hope surged, swift and potent, and he was stunned by its intensity. It felt like stars exploding in his chest.
But Ian turned away quickly, and Robert didn’t speak to him for the rest of the night. When the other guests left to retire, Ian was fast on their heels.
Robert decided not to rush after him. It was a clear night, and he suspected he’d be able to find him soon enough if he wished to. For now, he simply wanted to carry this hope in his hands and pretend it wasn’t brittle.
Because he knew…if he broached the subject, there would be no turning back. It was dangerous. And he didn’t know what good could come of it, except it was getting more and more difficult not to touch Ian the way he wanted to.
He was scared. He could admit that. He was scared of what would happen when there was nothing left between them. But in the end, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.
Ian pulled him like the tide, inexorably, out into the night.
Chapter Twelve
Robert made his way to the outbuilding, breathing in cool night air. Below, the grass was slick with dew, and above, the stars were brilliant and the moon hung like an upside-down scythe, a sliver of white gold.
His heart was beating, loud in his ears. He almost hoped Cameron wouldn’t be there when he reached the top of the steps, but he was, knees bent in the same position as the night before, arm slung across them.
His eyes glinted in the dark as he looked at Robert, giving nothing away.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Robert said. His voice sounded raspy. He cleared his throat but didn’t move closer.
“What do ye want?”
It was a good question, with too many answers to voice. He wanted to be Cameron’s friend. He wanted to be more than h
is friend. He wanted to know what would happen when the guests left and Theo returned. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to do so much more than kiss him.
A verse came to his mind: Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And thus, it was official—he was ridiculously besotted. He would have to be to think of poetry at odd, random moments, and it was always Elizabethan poetry, too. This was clearly the other man’s fault. He reminded Robert of the moors and the sea and the stars and ancient, unchangeable things. Things that Robert had no hope of fighting.
Robert moved closer and then knelt down in front of Ian, the cold damp of the stones seeping into the fabric of his breeches at the knee.
“Are you jealous of Hale?” he asked. This seemed an easier question—it was a concrete thing. A yes or no.
Ian seemed impossibly still and quiet. Finally, he said, “You shouldna ask me that.”
“But I am asking,” Robert insisted.
Ian didn’t answer. The space between them was somehow both too wide and too narrow.
“I was jealous of Miss Hale,” Robert admitted.
Ian blinked. “Why?”
“You defended her. You never defend anyone. You must like her, at least a little.”
“I had…I have a younger sister. She reminds me of her.”
“That’s all?” Robert’s skin felt hot, flushed and feverish against the night air.
“That’s all. I don’t—” Ian suddenly stopped.
“You don’t what?” Robert asked, leaning closer. He was almost pressed against Ian’s bent knees now, but he didn’t want to miss a second of this, didn’t want to miss a single sound.
A muscle in Ian’s jaw twitched, as though he was trying to stop himself from speaking, but in the end, he spoke anyway. “I’m not attracted to women like you are.”
Robert’s heartbeat nearly stopped. He’d been guessing and wondering and now, after all this time, Ian simply said it out loud. Maybe there were a few things he needed to clear up, too. “I’m not only attracted to women.”
Ian tipped his head back to look at him more fully. “How does that work?”
Robert laughed, breathless. “What do you mean, how does it work? Do I need to go into the basic mechanics?”
“I mean, has it always been like this?”
Robert thought about it and then nodded. He had only ever pursued women romantically. On the few occasions he’d admired men, he’d admired them from afar. But those attractions, though less prevalent, had still been there, even early on, even as a boy.
Not that either inclination mattered much in terms of experience. He wasn’t the sort who placed much importance on sowing his wild oats. He’d gone through his adolescence and young adulthood flirting and talking and sometimes touching but never finding that missing piece that would induce him to go further.
Until he’d returned from university to his aunt and uncle’s home and become acquainted with a young widow who’d lived in a neighboring estate. Their friendship had grown into love—on his side, at least—and she’d invited him to her bed, and he’d finally been ready, he’d finally wanted someone enough to take that step.
For several months, things between them had been good…more than good. But even as he lost himself to pleasure, he’d found himself holding something back. He could tell she didn’t love him, that, even if she cared for him, she didn’t envision a future with him.
When things had ended, as he’d assumed they would, his heart emerged bruised but unbroken, and his grand total of lovers had remained at one ever since.
And he hadn’t really cared, until now. He wondered if this would have been easier if he’d had more experience with this sort of thing. With other men. If he wouldn’t be so hesitant, so unsure about his own observations.
But that probably wasn’t right, either. Cameron was such a taciturn bastard, it would have been difficult for anyone to be sure.
“So anyone would do?” Ian asked. “You just need a warm body?”
Robert cocked his head, unoffended. He heard the uncertainty behind the words. “No. Not just anyone will do. Very few people meet my lofty standards.” He pushed Ian’s knees apart, making a space for himself in the cradle between his thighs. “Don’t be petty, Cameron,” he murmured. “It’s not a good look on you.”
Ian snorted. But Robert could tell their proximity was doing something to him—his breathing was too shallow, eyes just a little too wide. He was far from immune, no matter how much he tried to pretend.
Robert felt his heart jolt and his own breath stutter, fail, start again somehow, and oh, he wasn’t immune, either. He was the opposite of immune. Never in his life had he had such a visceral reaction to another person’s lust. It was just one more thing in a long list of things to worry about—death by stolen oxygen. “Please…just…” Words failed him. Those things that had been his companions and his joy and his art flew out the window, simply because he was close enough to feel Ian Cameron’s breath on his cheek. “Just…let me.”
And then he grasped Ian’s coat in his hands, closed the gap between them, and kissed him.
Ian was still, unmoving as a sculpture, and a moment of panic seized him.
He’d misjudged. Ian didn’t really want this. Ian didn’t want him.
All the looks, the brief touches…he’d been searching, hoping for something that wasn’t there.
He started to pull away—
Silence.
A quiet so complete the world faded.
Ian had taken hold of his waist.
Ian was kissing him back.
Like a wave, everything that had gone away came rushing back to shore. Sensation. Thought, flitting in and out of his mind like sparrows. His heartbeat, a dull roar in his ears.
Their breaths tangled. Their lips tangled. And impressions flooded him—Ian’s chest, hard beneath his hands, rising and falling in great, staggered breaths. His lips, surprisingly soft. His face was covered in a light stubble that scraped at Robert’s chin. The scent Robert had noticed before wasn’t just on Ian’s clothes, it clung to his skin, too—the smell of the moors—peat smoke and brine and cold, rain-drenched wind.
Ian’s hand was fisted at the bottom of Robert’s shirt, as though to hold him in place—as if Robert would even think about pulling back.
He was in this. He was in it too far to even think about stepping away. He couldn’t have stepped away even if he wanted to—Ian’s other hand maintained a steady, inexorable grip on his waist—but he didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was bask in the sensation of Ian’s mouth moving against his with a rough, quiet intensity that made his pulse falter.
Robert wondered if he was in over his head.
Maybe he was, he thought as he gasped against Ian’s lips, trying to draw in enough air to breathe and barely succeeding. Maybe he was drowning on dry land. But if Robert was drowning, Ian was melting. Thawing. Icy stoicism dripping down to something hot and intense, a flame that burned from within, brighter and faster than Robert could have imagined.
All he could do in light of that intensity was kiss him harder.
…
The way Robert kissed was cruel.
It left no place to hide, no shadow to escape in. It laid Ian open and cut him to the quick at the same time.
When he thought about easing out of it—when some small part of his mind wondered what the hell they were doing—Robert’s grip on his coat tightened, his tongue sliding past Ian’s lips, and Ian kissed him back even harder than before, led by instinct and want instead of thought.
And then it started all over again. Tongue and teeth and lips. Gasping and groaning into each other’s open mouths.
He’d been starving for this.
All of his reasons, all of the things he’d clung to—the differences between them, in both their positions and personalities, Robert’s faults, his idleness, his flippancy—began to l
ook like the excuses they were.
Because the truth was, some part of him had wanted Robert since the first moment he’d seen him. And every instant he’d spent with him after had shaken the foundations of the wall he’d laid between them. Robert’s kindness, his easy humor, the worries he kept hidden from everyone else, the writing he did privately with no thought of recognition—all of those things had battered the wall.
Robert wasn’t flippant. He wasn’t idle.
And this awareness left Ian reeling. Because if he wanted him and he respected him, how long could Ian possibly protect himself?
The handful of encounters he’d had before were desperate, furtive things, born of physical need and nothing else. He didn’t know how to be with someone in a way that wasn’t only physical. For so long, Ian had survived the only way he knew how to survive—alone. He’d relied on himself. No one else.
There’d been no one else there.
His own family hadn’t wanted him, not when his secrets were laid bare. He didn’t know why he thought Robert would be any different.
And Robert had a whole other world open to him—marriage and children and a life he wouldn’t have to hide. This thing between them, whatever it was, couldn’t possibly be anything other than brief.
And when it collapsed, which it surely would, Ian would be the one stuck in place, with reminders of Robert Townsend all around him.
This thought finally allowed him the strength of will to lay his hands on Robert’s arms and push him back.
“I’m not going to indulge your curiosity,” he said harshly.
Robert stared at him blankly, his lips dark and bruised, still kneeling but farther away now. “What?”
“If you’re curious. If ye just want a taste. If ye just want to know what it’s like. There are places you can go.”
“I’m aware of that,” Robert said.
A sharp pain went through Ian’s chest. He wasn’t sure if Robert knew this from firsthand experience, but he realized suddenly that he didn’t want to know.
“Then maybe you should leave. I’m not going to be the one you test your curiosity on.”
