She’d been so very alive, his mother. Even when she was thin and ravaged by disease, life had shone fiercely in her. Right up to the morning Nick had walked into her chamber and found her body. He’d stood there, at the foot of the bed, staring at her shell, wondering where she’d gone. Where her spark had disappeared to. Strange that she looked exactly the same in every particular, and yet the thing that made her Darklis Hearn was gone. He’d felt—known—her absence as soon as he’d walked in the room. Had known, with complete certainty, that she’d passed in the night and was no longer with him. That her small body was as empty as a house that no one lived in anymore.
When they reached their destination, it was almost six o’clock. Ward looked up from his reading, seeming surprised.
“Are we here already?” he asked, and Nick couldn’t help but laugh. The man had been so absorbed in his reading he had no idea how much time had passed.
They climbed out of the carriage, and Nick looked about himself curiously. The Fox and Swan was a large and bustling coaching inn, its courtyard thronged with carriages, horses, guests, and ostlers. Ward started across the courtyard, and Nick followed, watching as Ward gave his name to the slip of a girl who came to greet them. She scurried off, and within moments, the innkeeper’s wife was sailing towards them, a small, wide woman with a ruddy face and greying hair, mostly hidden beneath a lacy cap.
“Sir Edward,” she gushed, “it’s an honour to welcome such a distinguished guest.”
“Ah. Good evening, Mrs . . .?”
She blinked at the sound of his rasping voice, then seemed to collect herself, saying hurriedly, “Bassett. Mrs. Bassett.”
“Quite. Mrs. Bassett. Charmed,” he said, inclining his head politely. He gestured at Nick. “And this is my companion, Mr. Hearn.”
Nick inclined his head, and Mrs. Bassett did likewise, her gaze darting between himself and Ward.
“I’ve reserved you my best room, Sir Edward,” she said then. “If you’ll kindly follow me, I’ll show you up.”
She led them through two doors and up a flight of stairs, her step light for such a heavy lady, leading them to a pair of rooms joined by a connecting door. One of the rooms was large and well-appointed with a sizeable bed and a small writing desk and chair. The other was positively pokey with little more than a truckle bed in it.
She sent Nick a brief, apologetic glance as she showed them the smaller room. “I’d thought when Sir Edward asked for the second room, that it was for a manservant . . .”
She trailed off, meaningfully, glancing at Ward and raising her brows at him in silent query. But Ward, being Ward, didn’t take the hint and made no move to explain Nick’s position to her, though he had spoken of him in a manner that indicated a degree of equality between them.
Ward said merely, “Will this do, Mr. Hearn?” His face was expressionless. Was he thinking what Nick was thinking? That there was no need for Nick to use that truckle bed when they had locks on the doors that gave onto the corridor and a connecting door between the two chambers. That large bed in Ward’s chamber would do very well for two . . .
Unless Ward had no interest in repeating what they’d begun a week ago? Well, even if that was so, Nick had slept on far worse than that truckle bed.
“It’ll be fine,” Nick replied. “It’s only for two nights after all.”
He was acutely aware of Mrs. Bassett’s curiosity, could practically see the wheels in her brain turning as she tried to work out what Nick was to Ward. Astonishingly, Ward didn’t even seem to notice her interest. For a man who was incredibly observant about the tiniest of details in his field of study, he could be remarkably dense about ordinary, everyday things.
“If Mr. Hearn is content, that will be fine, Mrs. Bassett,” Ward said then, his rasping tone dismissive. “We’ll dine at seven, if that suits.”
The if that suits was a mere formality. There wasn’t so much as a hint of a question in Ward’s tone. These were the civil words of a man used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
She smiled politely. “Of course, Sir Edward. I will make arrangements.” She inclined her head and glided away, retreating downstairs again.
Nick chuckled as he closed the door of the little chamber, shutting them inside. “She can’t work out what I am to you, and it’s annoying her,” he observed.
“Do you think so?” Ward said.
Nick rolled his eyes. “For an intelligent man, you’re rather oblivious at times.”
Ward frowned, and all Nick could think about was how appealing he was with faint puzzlement pleating his brows. How ridiculously youthful.
Strange that this man—clever as an owl and rich as Croesus—looked like a boy sometimes. For some reason, it made Nick feel tender towards him, and when he stepped closer, he couldn’t stop himself raising a hand and brushing back the wayward lock of dark-blond hair that was always falling over Ward’s brow.
“How old are you?” he asked, curious.
Ward blinked, seeming surprised by the question, which had admittedly, rather come out of nowhere. “Twenty-six.”
“You’re a year older than me?” Nick said, wonderingly. “You look younger.”
“No, I don’t!” Ward protested.
Nick moved in closer. He slid his palms over Ward’s hips and tugged him forward so that their groins met, and he could feel the fronts of Ward’s thighs against his own. “Oh, but you do,” he said. “You look like a lad sometimes. A right handsome one.”
Nick saw that Ward liked that. Saw the gleam of pleasure in those tawny eyes before Ward’s lashes fell. The shy smile he immediately tried to bite off, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Oh yes, he was handsome, and there was that twisting feeling in Nick’s gut again, making him feel exposed as a shucked oyster. He barely knew what to do with himself. It was all he could manage to keep his gaze on Ward as he leaned forward to kiss him.
Ward met Nick’s questing lips with his own, and despite the urgent twisting desire in Nick’s belly, it was a sweet kiss. Ward’s lips were warm, and he yielded to Nick with unexpected hesitancy. Despite all his impressive carnal experience with the former lover he’d spoken of, it seemed that in this one activity, Ward was more than content to let Nick take the lead.
“Ayes, you’re a handsome lad,” Nick murmured against Ward’s lips. “And all mine.”
Ward moaned again, seeming to like that idea, and Nick liked it too, though he knew they were nonsense words. Ward would never be truly his. Only for tonight and tomorrow, and for whatever other scraps of time they might share together before Ward grew bored of him or left Porthkennack.
Pushing that depressing thought aside, Nick deepened the kiss and shuffled forward, urging Ward to step back, then back again, till he was leaning against the wall between the two chambers.
“I want you so much,” Nick breathed against Ward’s lips. “It feels like years instead of just a week since last time.”
“I want you too,” Ward whispered back urgently. “Nicholas—I want you inside me tonight. Will you do that with me? I’ve brought oil. I’ll teach you how.”
Nick groaned, far too close to climaxing just from this—from these kisses, and Ward’s foolish, whispered promises. Nick loved Ward’s whispers. The tone of Ward’s speaking voice might be raw, but his whispers were just like anyone else’s: rich with emotion and yearning.
Just then, a rap at the door invaded the silence.
Nick leapt back from Ward as though he’d been burned, lifting his hands to smooth his ruffled hair. Ward righted himself more calmly, with the confidence of the wealthy man who never expects anyone to open a door on him without invitation.
“Come in,” Ward called out. The words emerged in his usual bark, and the expression on the face of the little maidservant who opened the door a moment later was wary.
“Pardon me, sirs,” she said. “But Mrs. Bassett sent me up to tell you she’s set aside the small dining parlour for you for dinner and it will be served
at seven and do you think you’ll be wanting a bath brought up in the meantime?”
Ward didn’t even consult Nick, merely nodded. “Yes, please. A bath each for myself and Mr. Hearn.”
Nick opened his mouth to say there was no need to have two baths—he could just as easily jump in Ward’s water when he was finished—but then it occurred to him that was very far from appropriate. What gentleman would want to share another’s bathwater? So instead he closed his mouth and resolved to enjoy the rare luxury of a tub of hot water all to himself.
From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I
One evening, during that first year at Cambridge, George and I went to see a mesmerist, a Monsieur Beaumier, who was touring the music halls of England. The things we witnessed that evening were undeniably miraculous, and quite shocking. Beaumier put several assistants into mesmeric trances and having done so, was able to persuade one to hold her hand directly over a candle flame even as it scorched her palm; another to sit, unflinching, as Beaumier discharged a pistol next to his ear; and a third to sit quietly as a long, sharp needle was repeatedly stabbed into the tender flesh beneath her fingernails. Later, I would learn of the work of James Braid and come to understand better the true nature of the trance Beaumier’s subjects had been in—what Mr. Braid called neurypnology, or hypnosis. I would learn that the bringing about of such a state was far simpler than the mesmerists would have it, and the state itself far more subtle. Mr. Braid had the most important of all qualities in a scientist: open-mindedness. He had heard tales of the mesmerists and felt sure they must all be tricksters, but when he went to see a performance for himself, he was open-minded enough to own that there was something to their claims. The difference between Mr. Braid and certain well-known supporters of Mesmerism was that, whilst he accepted the truth of what he witnessed, he rejected the explanation given to him as to why it had occurred. Instead, he sought out his own explanation, one that was consistent with rational scientific principle.
The “small” parlour contained a table big enough to seat eight comfortably, but Ward and Nicholas were dining alone. Ward asked the maidservant who showed them to their table where the other guests were and was told they were all eating in the common dining room. Mrs. Bassett apparently reserved the small parlour for “special guests,” a class to which, as a titled gentleman, Ward belonged.
The inn was bustling with custom. Even with the door closed, Ward and Nicholas could hear voices from the common dining room a few doors down and, more noisily, from the taproom further along the corridor. When the maidservant brought their soup, her gait was swift, her expression harried, and she’d barely put the dishes down before Mrs. Bassett was shouting for her again, her sharp voice impatient. “Mary! Where are you, girl?”
“You’re run off your feet tonight,” Nicholas said to her when she returned to clear away the soup plates.
Ward glanced at Nicholas, surprised by this idle conversational gambit. Ward rarely engaged in everyday conversation with servants outside of his own home. Not beyond asking for what he wanted. Nicholas’s casual observation—and the sympathetic smile that accompanied it—struck Ward as overly familiar. Perhaps that was unfair. Nicholas probably felt quite differently about such interactions than Ward did. Whilst Nicholas’s present station in life was far above the maid’s, it hadn’t always been so. Indeed, a girl such as this might even have looked down upon Nicholas when he was a mere stable boy.
The girl returned Nicholas’s smile with a small one of her own. “Yes, sir, it’s been ever so busy,” she confided in a warm Cornish burr. “Mrs. Bassett turned the other girl off three days ago for thieving. She’s not managed to get a replacement yet, so I’m having to do everything.”
“You must be worn out,” Nicholas said with a sympathetic smile.
“I am that,” she said, heaving a sigh.
“Well, you can take your time serving us,” Nicholas said. “We’re in no hurry.”
He got a grateful look for that before she hurried off again.
“You might not be in hurry,” Ward said, when the door closed. “But I’d like to get back to my bedchamber.” He smiled. “I have plans for the rest of the evening.”
Nicholas smiled, foxy-like. “We can go now if you like. I’m not even especially hungry.”
“Let’s go after the next course. That should be enough of a showing to stave off any remarks from Mrs. Bassett.”
“Done,” Nicholas replied, eyes gleaming.
A few minutes later, Mary was back with a platter of roast chicken, suet puddings, and vegetables. Ward let her serve him a too-large portion and thanked her politely. Then he picked at his plate half-heartedly, barely tasting the food he was putting in his mouth as he watched Nicholas eat.
Nicholas was as bad, his attention all on Ward, his bright gaze lingering on Ward’s mouth so often, Ward felt it almost like a touch. It was Nicholas who finally pushed his plate aside first, his dinner barely half-eaten.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Ward croaked.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” Nicholas replied, a tiny smile teasing the corner of his mouth.
By way of answer, Ward set his own cutlery down and leaned back. “Me either. I think I’m ready for bed now.”
Nicholas’s twitch of a smile grew into a grin.
Just then, Mary returned, a jug in her hand.
“Begging your pardon, sirs, I forgot your gravy,” she said. Then, spying their half-full, pushed-aside plates, added worriedly, “Oh, didn’t you like it?”
“The food was fine,” Ward said. “We’re just not very hungry.”
Mary flinched at his harsh tone, and he couldn’t help but be irritated by her reaction, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault.
She glanced at Nicholas, as though begging for help.
“Is it because I forgot the gravy?” she whispered, eyes wide.
Nicholas said calmly, “No, no, not at all, it’s just been a long day for us, and we’re needing our beds more than food.” He pushed his chair back and stood, drawing a couple of pennies out of his pocket and handing them to her. “Thank you for your service, Mary. I hope the rest of your evening is easier.”
“Thank you, sir,” the girl replied, hurriedly tucking the coins into the pocket of her apron. “Good night, sir. Sleep well.”
“That was kind of you,” Ward remarked as they walked down the corridor. He was conscious that it would not have occurred to him to give the girl a gratuity.
“It was just tuppence,” Nicholas said, shrugging. “Still, I suppose she only earns . . . what? A shilling a day?”
“A shilling? Is that all?”
Nicholas glanced at him, his expression amused. “Don’t you look at your household accounts?”
“Good heavens, no. Pipp deals with all that. I’m far too busy with my work.”
“Hmmm,” Nicholas said. He didn’t sound particularly impressed with Ward’s ignorance of his servants’ wages, and Ward felt unexpectedly embarrassed.
“I should know about such things,” he decided. “I’ll speak to Pipp about it when I get back.”
Nicholas made one of his smile-frowns at that, puzzled and pleased at once, and for some reason, that did Ward’s heart good.
As they began to climb the stairs, Nicholas leading the way, Ward wondered what salary Nicholas earned. How much of his daily earnings did tuppence amount to? Or a shilling? Even as he pondered, he felt downright traitorous just thinking such thoughts, because he knew, without a doubt, that Nicholas would hate it. For the first time, Ward felt glad, fiercely glad, that he hadn’t paid Nicholas even a penny for his time. If he had, everything would be different between them; he saw that now. Nicholas would feel entirely differently about him. About them.
“Thank you for your service.”
Service.
Service wasn’t just work, it was paid work. Work that was instructed by a master of a servant for payment. The money that changed hands for that work shape
d the relations of those two people in a way that could never be changed.
Ward realised, with sudden clarity, that if he had paid Nicholas, they would not be doing what they were about to do now. Nicholas would not have allowed it.
Tonight, Ward was going to undress Nicholas and be naked with him and take the man inside his body. The impossible intimacy of it made his head rush, not just because he wanted it so much, but because he knew this was going to be the first time Nicholas had known such intimacy, and that might just be the most astonishing and exciting part of this. That Ward was giving Nicholas something he’d never known before; that he was going to make this thing that had always been, for Nicholas, rushed and tainted by the fear of discovery, into something slow and languid, something to savour. At least, he hoped so. He planned to ready himself thoroughly, but it had been a while since he’d last done this, and he was very aware that there would likely be some discomfort, especially given how inexperienced Nicholas was. So yes, he felt a little nervous, but it wasn’t a fearful nervousness—more a giddy, happy sort of nervousness, like champagne in his belly, ready to pop and overflow.
When they reached the door of the bedchamber, Ward drew from his pocket the large brass key Mrs. Bassett had given him earlier. He felt the weight of Nicholas’s gaze on him as he fumbled it into the lock, all fingers and thumbs, and quickly glanced at the man. Something twisted in his chest to see the easy fondness in Nicholas’s eyes. It was not a look he’d seen on any lover’s face before, that pure, good-humoured . . . affection.
Affection and desire together.
What a breathtaking combination.
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 16
