by J. A. Rock
Yet still he kept his face pressed to Gale’s skin, inhaling its scent—hints of bergamot and musk from his cologne, and a note that was uniquely Gale—and imagining that this did not have to end.
Gale’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “I don’t imagine you will easily forgive my transgression yesterday, but I am sorry.”
“Your transgression?” Now Chant did lift his head, settling it on the pillow once more so he could see Gale’s eyes.
“In obtaining information about Reid.”
Chant gazed at him for a long moment. “You are already forgiven. It is I who must apologise to you. I have likely strained your patience, both with my behaviour and my tale of woe. But I do thank you for your concern last night. You have been very kind.”
Gale slowly drew in a breath.
Here it comes, Chant thought.
“How anyone could have you and leave you is beyond me.”
“What?”
“Whoever is lucky enough to have you for a husband or a lover, may they appreciate every good thing you are. Don’t ask me how seldom I say that of people. I doubt I have ever spoken such words before in my life.”
Hope and disappointment warred in Chant. Gale was praising him and with no prompting whatsoever. But he was not saying that he intended to be Chant’s husband or lover.
“You said you wished us to be friends, no more,” Gale said. “I presume that is still true?”
“I don’t know.” Chant’s voice was soft. “It seemed to me, when I said that, you were not willing to be more than that to me.”
Gale’s dark eyes flicked upward, and his gaze moved slowly down Chant’s face, as if taking in every detail. Chant hardly dared breathe, wondering what Gale was seeing, what he was thinking. He longed to reach out and use his thumb to smooth one of Gale’s black brows where the hairs had been forced every which way by the pillow. To run the backs of his fingers over that sharp cheekbone and see if Gale would close his eyes and drink in the pleasure of the caress.
Gale spoke at last. “I have thought about what you said by the river. I should like to try, Chant. To be… something more to you. But I cannot promise I won’t make horrible mistakes. You have already been hurt, and I don’t want to be the one to do it again. And so I don’t know that it is fair for me to make any sort of pledge to you.”
Chant wanted to say he didn’t care. That if Gale was willing to try, that was all Chant wanted. That he would forgive any mistakes Gale made if only Gale would do the same for him. But he forced his racing mind to slow. What Chant wanted was somebody who would remain by his side all his life. Someone secure in himself and secure in his love for Chant. It would be folly to compromise on this, no matter the attraction he felt to the man beside him. That was the far-from-simple truth of it.
“You are honest with me.” Chant’s throat was tight. “I appreciate that. I know I owe the same honesty to you, and so I will say this. I wish to be loved. I have always wished that. I understand it is not an easy thing to predict how you may feel in a week's time or in a month or several years. But if you are in doubt right now, I think it best we make no pledge.” He gave Gale a gentle smile. “I do not know that my heart can take another pummelling.”
The words, sincere though they were, tasted like a mouthful of ash. He could still feel Gale’s lips against his. That kiss—so gentle, no demand in it at all, nothing but tenderness. One could not fake the feeling behind a kiss like that.
Gale nodded slightly against the pillow. He still had his arm draped around Chant, and he didn’t take it away. “All right.” He looked slightly relieved, and that made Chant feel all the worse. Had Gale been hoping Chant would free him of any obligation to attempt a courtship?
Chant sighed.
“You are not happy,” Gale murmured.
“I am content enough.”
“But not happy.”
Chant hesitated. “No.”
Neither of them said anything for several minutes.
Chant finally offered, “Over the past few years, I have learned to play with whatever hand life deals me. To accept my lot with good nature and not to take anything too personally. It has worked out well in a way. But I have also been in a sort of fog. It is as you said… I am not entirely honest, with myself or with others, about what I feel. You have lifted that fog. You have made me feel so many things and so deeply. Frustration, anger, affection, desire… I cannot pretend anymore that nothing hurts me. I cannot pretend to smile at all I see. And that is a good thing.”
Gale’s throat made a soft sound as he swallowed again. “As your friend,” he said, “I can promise you do not ever have to pretend around me.”
Chant’s heart ached even more terribly at that. He did not want to ask anything else of Gale. Did not want to admit that he needed anything else from the man. Yet… “May friends still embrace?”
Gale nodded and pulled Chant close again. Chant wrapped his arms around the long, lean frame, and Gale tightened his grip and rolled them both so that Chant was nearly on top of Gale. For a moment, their bodies pressed together full-length, and the heat between them was almost unbearable. Chant’s shirt had pulled so tight in places that it seemed the fabric might rip, but he didn’t care. He hugged Gale tightly, feeling Gale’s stand against his through their shirts. Gale wrapped his legs around Chant’s and squeezed even tighter until Chant shivered. He had not known contact this complete for years. He wished he could be held like this every day, and he thought, with frustration, that life had been so much simpler a few days ago when he had not allowed himself to crave such things.
Gale eventually eased them both onto their sides again, facing one another.
Chant reached out and stroked Gale’s hair, running his fingers through the soft strands, pleased when Gale sighed and let his eyes drift closed. “De Cock awaits us,” Gale said eventually.
“Precisely what I was thinking,” Chant murmured, rubbing his groin lightly against Gale’s.
A chuckle from Gale was followed by a brush of lips against Chant’s forehead. “We must see this through.”
Chant nodded. “All right. I’ll dress.”
He climbed out of bed before his regret could worsen and located his clothes. He could feel Gale watching him as he bent to pick up his stockings, and his stand hardened further, which was most inconvenient. He pulled on his right stocking with determined haste. Then his left. And then his breeches. But before he could button them, he heard Gale leave the bed. Chant stilled and listened to the soft footsteps as Gale came to stand behind him. Chant straightened slowly. Gale’s breath was light against his shoulder, and he turned, meeting Gale’s eyes for just a moment—and then he lifted onto the balls of his feet and pressed his lips hard against Gale’s. Gale wrapped one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders, cupping the back of his head. He kissed Chant as though he had been starving for him, meeting every hungry thrust of Chant’s tongue with one of his own. The hand at Chant’s back ran down to cup his arse and pull him closer, and Chant, unable to help himself, ground the swell at the front of his breeches against the matching bulge under Gale’s shirt.
Gale made a soft, high noise of what sounded like mingled surprise and pleasure. Chant ran his hands down the man’s sides, counting ribs through his shirt, until his hands rested on Gale’s hips. He was quite dizzy. In the years since Reid had left, he had learned to seize any moment he wanted, to take joy and pleasure where they could be found as long as doing so did not hurt anybody. But a more sensible voice in his mind pointed out that he ought not to be doing this. That he and Gale were complicating things in a way that would be difficult to untangle once they both came to their senses. But each time their lips met, there was a pull in the very pit of Chant’s belly, a rush of pure heat between his legs, and he realised he did not care at all about the sensible voice. The sensible voice could go to hell.
Gale’s hand slid from Chant’s back to his front, and he tugged lightly at the waistband of Chant�
��s unbuttoned breeches. Then he hesitated, and even his kisses faltered as though he thought he might have gone too far.
Chant could not have that.
He grabbed Gale’s wrist and guided the man’s hand down the front of his breeches, and Gale complied with such urgency that Chant smiled against his mouth. He tangled his other hand in Gale’s hair and gasped as Gale stroked his stand through his drawers. He let go Gale’s wrist and clumsily sought Gale’s prick. The warmth of it in his hand, the way it hardened further at his touch, made him groan as he tried to rut against Gale’s hand, his hip, anything.
Gale let go of Chant’s hair and gripped his arse again, kneading there while he continued to grope down the front of Chant’s open breeches. Chant cried out and suddenly braced both hands on Gale’s sides, resting his head against Gale’s shoulder as his hips jerked convulsively, and Gale held him steady as he spent.
Gale continued to hold Chant as Chant shuddered against him, panting hard. Gale tipped his head down and kissed the crook of Chant’s neck.
Chant felt quite as if all the bones had been removed from his body. But he moved his hand between the two of them and trailed his fingers lightly down the front of Gale’s shirt. He was surprised to find that Gale was no longer hard. Then he noticed how damp the fabric was.
“I spent,” Gale whispered. “Watching you. Feeling you. That has never happened to me before.”
Chant draped his arms around Gale’s hips and leaned against him once more.
“Is this also what friends do?” Chant murmured after a moment.
Gale’s breathing was still ragged. “I… Yes. There is nothing strange about a bit of physical affection between friends.”
For a few seconds, there was no sound in the room but their harsh breathing, and then they both began to laugh.
They laughed rather harder than the situation called for, and Chant relished the rare sound of Gale’s uninhibited amusement. Eventually, he kissed Gale again, soft and slow. And when they parted, Gale leaned forward and pressed his lips to Chant’s forehead. “I cannot resist you,” he whispered.
“Nor I you,” Chant replied.
“It is confounding.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Chant confessed.
“Nor I.” Gale pulled back so they were looking into each other’s eyes. “I do not ever wish to hurt you again. It pains me that I have done so before, and that was just what I managed in three days’ time. I fear what I might unthinkingly say in the future.”
“But if we… if we continued to learn each other… might’nt we both figure out how not to do harm?”
“I would hope so. But I fear this is the one area in which I have little competency.”
“Only one, is there?” Chant chuckled.
Gale squeezed his arse. “Yes. I am a genius, you know.”
“You scarcely let me forget.”
Gale’s expression grew sober. “There are also many times—many, Chant—when I cannot stand to be touched. When I feel I shall crawl out of my own skin if someone lays a hand on me. What sort of lover could I be to you or to anyone?”
Chant recalled the night in front of Gale House when Gale had pulled away from him. Not a rejection, then. If only Chant had known. “You think I should care for you any less on those occasions?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Gale was standing so the band of light coming in between the curtains fell partially on his face, illuminating the flush in his cheeks.
“I will not,” Chant said. “If there are times when you cannot stand to be touched, tell me, and I will not touch you.”
Gale narrowed his eyes as though searching for a trap in his words. “You say it as though it is simple, as though you would not tire of my inconstant moods if you were subjected to them every day.”
“I think there is no answer I can give you that will satisfy you,” Chant said. “I could tell you of the cat I loved deeply as a child, who blew hot and cold with me, or I can tell you that I fear my own imperfections of character will ruin whatever it is we build between us, but the only way we shall know for certain if we can be together or not is just by trying. Do you see?” reached up and tugged a twist of Gale’s auburn hair, relishing the way Gale’s eyes half closed in pleasure at the sharp sensation. “And I believe we both want to try.”
Gale’s breath slipped out of him on a sigh. “Yes,” he said at last, “I believe you are correct.”
Chant leaned in quickly and kissed the cold tip of his nose. “Then perhaps you are not the only genius in this room, Christmas Gale.”
Gale fixed him with a haughty stare. “Let’s not get too carried away, Chant, for God’s sake.”
Chant laughed, and kissed his nose again. He glanced down at his open breeches. “I suppose I ought to return home and change before we make any further plans for the day.”
“No,” Gale said softly but firmly, and Chant tilted his head, confused. Gale then began to do up the buttons on Chant’s breeches with remarkable efficiency. Chant tensed as the man’s knuckles brushed a highly sensitised area, and Gale kissed him briefly as though in reassurance. Then he cupped the front of Chant’s breeches. Chant let out a sharp puff of air, followed by a gasp. Gale rubbed with his thumb so Chant felt all the damp stickiness of his own spend against his skin as well as a dizzying rush that encompassed arousal, mild embarrassment, and an extremely pleasurable sense of being possessed. Gale snaked an arm around him and clapped his arse—none too gently either. “I rather like the idea of the Honourable Benjamin Chant sitting down to breakfast with me with a mess in his drawers and that very becoming blush on his cheeks.”
Gale let him go and strode for the door without another word, and Chant stood there, his face heating and pleasure snaking up his spine.
They breakfasted at the Bucknall Club, in one of the more ornate rooms that Chant usually avoided. Gale, however, didn’t seem to mind eating his cake and drinking his tea surrounded by the sort of overwrought neo-Classical architectural flourishes that made Chant feel as though he might at any moment catch a glimpse of a Neronian orgy. But despite the vastness of the dining room and the fact they were not the only occupants, it felt strangely intimate, as though their closeness from the night before had been carried with them out of the rooms on Russell Street, and they were still wrapped in it like a comfortable, soft blanket.
One night with Christmas Gale, and Chant was entirely soft-hearted. He felt like a fool, but a happy one. He had not felt like this since his time with Reid, and he was older now, certainly, and hopefully wiser too. He wasn’t the same starry-eyed boy who thought the man sitting across from him could do no wrong. He was well aware Gale could break his heart, and that love was not a happy ending where all day-to-day travails simply ceased to be, drowned under a sea of a pure, unchanging joy. There was no room in Chant’s heart for fairy-tale endings these days, but when he looked at Gale and saw him—his imperfections, his contradictions, his trepidations—it did not diminish his happiness. Just because he knew the road ahead of them was not without its potholes and wheel ruts didn’t mean he believed it wasn’t worth taking.
“We must go back to Rotherhithe,” Gale said, picking a caraway seed off his breakfast cake and examining it thoughtfully as though it contained all the mysteries of the universe. Then he ate it.
“To do what?” Chant asked. “To search for Flummery?”
“Flummery clearly has no interest in being found,” Gale said, “and I have no interest in being bested by a mutt. Again. So, no, not to find Flummery.” His expression grew serious. “To find de Cock.”
Chant felt an unpleasant thrill in his gut. “Gale…”
“He is the key to it all,” Gale said. “I believe the stolen jewels might have, at least at one time, been hidden on Flummery.”
“On Flummery?”
“On, or in, or through…”
“In?”
“Let’s not dwell on prepositions, Chant. But if Flummery had, or has, the jewels, it would e
xplain de Cock’s obsession with finding him.”
“But we don’t know for sure de Cock stole the jewels.”
“No. That is why he is now our key. And what use is knowing the key exists unless we possess it?”
“Leaving aside all ideas about”—Chant lowered his voice—“possessing de Cock—”
Gale choked on a sliver of ginger cake.
“Would now not be an excellent time to speak to your friend the Runner?”
Gale narrowed his eyes. “Your face.”
“What about my face?”
“Something about it twitches when you mention my friend the Runner,” Gale said. “It’s barely there for a second, just a tiny ripple, but I saw it. Good Lord. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“No,” Chant lied.
“You are,” Gale said, “and there is no point in denying it. Darling is an acquaintance, I suppose, and that is all.”
“I should think he is very much your friend since you brought him to dinner at your family home.”
Gale tilted his head and regarded Chant curiously. “I invited him to dinner that evening because we had spent the entire day chasing down rumours of Balfour’s fraudulent financial dealings, and his stomach was growling louder than a lion. That is all.”
Chant felt slightly mollified, yet he couldn’t help but ask, “Is he a handsome fellow?”
“He is quite comely, yes,” Gale said. “And his face also did the twitchy thing whenever I chanced to mention Teddy around him, so I suspect that, had I asked him, he would have agreed to be my companion.”
“And did you ask him?”
“I did not,” Gale said. “He’s not like one of the boys who lingers in the salons, content to catch the eye of a swell and be kept by him. And one certainly does not court a man from the lower classes. Darling is a decent man, for all that we do not see eye to eye, and an affair might ruin him.”
Chant’s nascent jealousy was washed away by a wave of admiration. Gale wanted to believe himself a misanthrope. Chant knew better.
