by Lee Rowan
He’d never gone back, of course. There’d have been no point. He didn’t grudge her the money, though; at least she hadn’t laughed at him. She had even consoled him by sharing a small secret: he was not the first young man who had failed to live up to his father’s expectation. “It’s the nerves, dearie. Happens to all gentlemen sometimes, don’t fret yourself.”
It had been easy to deceive his father the next day, pitifully easy. All Brendan had needed to do was allow his parent to believe that things had gone as expected, accept his new status as a man of experience, and promise to be discreet in his future sowing of wild oats.
Life had become easier when Brendan went up to Oxford. Contact with the gentler sex was rare and strictly regulated, so he was seldom required to feign an interest he did not feel. His first year was spent either reading history—the subject he was supposed to be studying—or filling an empty seat in lectures on art or the natural sciences, which he found far more interesting.
If he’d had his way, he would have stayed at home in his father’s stables, working with the hunters and other horses, learning what he most wished to know under the tutelage of their head groom, Spencer. But the paternal foot was put down at that. No Townsend was going to be a glorified groom. Horses were all very well, but they were a diversion, not one’s life. He would get an education first and consider gentlemanly amusements in the future, when and if he could afford them.
If Sir James Townsend, Viscount Martindale, had any notion of what his son would be learning in the hours after classes, he might have thought twice, because in his second year, Brendan found himself sharing rooms with Antony Hillyard. And by the end of term, he was also sharing his body.
It had all been so much simpler then. And exciting. Tony was a handsome young man, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, hair the color of wheat-straw, and sparkling blue eyes. His father was a commoner, but he had a respectable self-made fortune, enough to send his heir to school with the sons of the ruling class. Tony’s manners were a trifle less refined than they might have been, but he was never short of pocket money. He also had a knack for secreting the odd bottle of sherry or gin amongst his personal effects, and was quite generous with it.
As the weeks passed, Sunday evenings became the time that Brendan and Tony would draw their chairs closer to the fire, the bottle on a low table between them, and enjoy the last few hours before the start of another week. Sometimes they read, sometimes they played cards, but most of the time they simply chatted and enjoyed one another’s company.
The drink had been Brendan’s downfall. As the level in the bottle grew lower, so did his discretion. One evening, when Brendan was pleasantly foxed and contemplating the play of light on Tony’s hair, the lovely balance of his lips and chin, he was startled when the object of his attention turned suddenly and smiled in a knowing way.
“I have noticed you looking at me, Mr. Townsend.”
Taken aback, Brendan floundered. “I—I beg your pardon, I meant nothing by it.”
“That’s a pity. I hoped you did, for I’ve been looking back.” And it didn’t stop with looking; Tony had leaned across and given Brendan a light kiss, the barest touch of lips. If he’d been sober, Brendan would have stopped then and there, but it felt so very good that he leaned in for more, his usual reticence discarded.
He had no idea what he was doing, but Tony had experience enough for both of them. Before he knew what was happening, Brendan found himself embraced and unbuttoned, caught somewhere between mortification and ecstasy. Everything that hadn’t worked with a hired doxy was suddenly functioning perfectly. He didn’t stop, then, to wonder where Tony had learned to do such things; the only thing he regretted was the speed at which it was all over.
From that moment, Brendan’s education after lights-out outpaced his daytime schedule. He made sure his studies did not suffer; Tony would tease him for being a stick-in-the-mud in that regard, but Brendan was able to exert some benevolent influence himself, and keep his companion at his studies far longer than Tony would have otherwise had patience for the task. It was no chore. For the first time in his life, Brendan understood what all the fuss was about. It was no wonder men did mad things for love, took foolish risks. To be held by a lover, to lose oneself in passion—it made every day something new and wonderful.
Living day by day, they had never given serious thought to the future. Brendan had expected to turn his hand to some useful task on the family estates, perhaps helping his brother James, who was gradually assuming some of the management in preparation for the day when he would one day inherit. James was the best of brothers, but he had no understanding of horses, and that was one area, perhaps the only one, where Brendan knew his expertise was superior.
But the day that James might need his assistance was a long way off—very long, God willing; Brendan’s father was still in excellent health for a man halfway through his sixties. When Tony had taken a room in London to have a place away from his own father’s vigilant eye, Brendan had accepted his invitation to come along. With James as heir to the family estate and his other brother Andrew in His Majesty’s Navy, Brendan was in the ambiguous position of a young man with no heavy demands placed upon him, but no clearly defined role in life.
Tony seemed to envy that, in a good-natured way. “You’re a lucky old thing, Bren,” he said, not long before they’d left Oxford. “Money enough to live on, older brothers to carry on the family line—you’re free to do as you please.”
“If I’d money enough to do as I please, I’d call myself lucky,” Brendan had retorted. “My grandmother left me a competence, but it’s not enough to do what I wish. I could not afford to set up my own household, even if I wished to marry. From where I stand, you’re the one who seems to have all he could desire.”
“I? Not likely! My course is set. I’m to spend half of every day with my father, learning all he knows. I shall acquire an encyclopedic knowledge of everything from the cargos of the ships he owns to the names of every rat aboard them. And if I’m a very good boy,” he said with his typical exaggeration, “he’ll find me some ugly maiden with a pretty title so we will be sure my sons get into the stud-book.”
“Don’t you want to marry?”
“Not I. I’d rather be a wastrel black sheep, traveling the world without a care or a connection. But I’ll never be free so long as my father’s alive—and he’ll see me tied down to wife and family before he goes, you may be sure of that.”
His bitterness made Brendan uneasy. What a wretched thing it must be, to have such animosity for one’s own father. “He can’t force you to marry, can he?”
“Oh, he certainly can. And he will, too, you just wait and see. My dear papa always gets what he wants—just ask him.”
Brendan pulled his mind back to the present, wishing he could quiet his thoughts and get some sleep. Why had he remembered that conversation now? Natural enough, perhaps. They’d had variations of it so many times. But after this evening’s near-disaster, Brendan knew he would have to quit this irresponsible dallying, move into the family’s house here in town, and consider his own future.
And it would have to be a future without Tony.
When they had first begun their pleasant games, Brendan had fancied himself in love and imagined wild, unlikely schemes in which they ran away together. He knew now that this would never happen. The young man he’d shared intimacy with had turned out to be, in the cold light of day, nothing more than a resentful, irresponsible boy. Far from loving him, Brendan was beginning to realize he didn’t even like Tony very much. Not anymore.
He was oddly relieved. Not that he regretted a moment of the affair; at the advanced age of two-and-twenty, it would have been a shame not to have at least experienced physical passion, even if it was the sort that would have horrified his father. Sodomy… Brendan shied away from the term, even though he knew it was what the law called the act. The law also called it a capital offense. Discretion was literally a matter of life and d
eath, and Tony’s increasing recklessness was bound to lead them into trouble. At best it would be a horrible scandal, and at worst it could get them both hanged.
And that would certainly ruin all those plans Tony’s father has laid for him, wouldn’t it?
Brendan’s eyes opened wide, sleep temporarily banished. Could Tony be that foolish, that reckless, that resentful—that fatally stupid—to risk his own life just to prove to his father that he would not be mastered?
Yes, he could.
Time to leave, before things get any worse.
CHAPTER 2
Brendan’s resolution wavered the following morning. He awoke to the snug comfort of Tony’s arm across his body, and Tony’s warmth curled against his back. As his body began to awaken, it reacted to that closeness, his cock stirring a bit in anticipation.
It was only as he came fully awake that he remembered his intentions of the night before, and the sensual appeal withered. A part of him would have shrugged off the night-fears, but in the light of cold morning he knew they were more real than this physical closeness.
Tony groaned. “Damnation, Bren, what was I drinking last night?”
“Brandy, mainly. And too much of it.” Brendan slid from beneath the covers, wrapping himself in a dressing gown. “I’ve never seen you so bottle-headed and still on your feet.”
His companion dragged the blankets up over his face with a groan. “I’ve a head the size of a coachwheel, and all you can do is lecture me. What did I do?”
Brendan found his watch, realized the housemaid would be bringing up hot water in only a few minutes, and began hunting for clean clothing. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t remember what you did?”
“I just said as much, didn’t I!”
Had Tony always whined so? “Very well,” Brendan said, setting out his brush and razor. “What do you remember?”
“We went to the Arbor, I had a lovely time, then you dragged me away and commenced scolding like a fishwife.”
“A lovely time?” He remembered what he’d done, Brendan was sure of it. But to go through it all once more… No. “That’s not what I should call it. You behaved disgracefully, you were propositioned by a gentleman who is a relative of mine—I believe he took you for an employee of the club. And if you remember anything at all, you must remember I advised you to resign your membership or forfeit our friendship.”
“You cannot mean that.” The blanket lowered to reveal a pair of bloodshot, accusing eyes. “Brendan, you are a beast!”
“Indeed, I am not. I am showing far more forbearance than you deserve.” Ah, the knock at the door. Brendan accepted the pitcher of hot water, confirmed that he would be at the breakfast table in fifteen minutes, and warned the chambermaid that Mr. Hillyard was not feeling well. The maid, a girl of twelve or thirteen, took that news with a knowing look and took her leave, as well.
“I’m off to Sunday services,” Brendan said, trying to speak between attempts to scrape the stubble from his face. “You may as well stay in bed until your disposition improves—there’s fresh water here, and by the time you bestir yourself I imagine it will be cool enough to drink.”
Tony only growled and burrowed deeper into the blankets. His lack of concern about the previous night’s misadventure allowed Brendan to depart with an untroubled conscience. He consumed a light breakfast of hot chocolate and bread-and-butter with jam before bidding their landlady farewell with an air of virtuous sanctity.
He did feel a bit of a hypocrite, given where he had been the night before. But church on Sunday was something he’d been doing since childhood; it was, for lack of any deep conviction either for or against religion, a commendable social activity, and most of all, the walk to church would give him the chance to spend some time alone and think the situation through.
The morning was fine, still a bit cool for April, but early daffodils made a brave show in garden boxes and the air was crisp and clear. If only he could somehow persuade it to waft through his brain as well as his lungs!
He should have told Tony that he intended to leave for good. He had deliberately avoided telling him anything, and that lie by omission went against the grain. But Brendan saw no other way, not at present. That news must wait until the very last moment, since it would cause injured feelings at best and at worst an ugly scene.
In any event, it could not truly be said that he was moving out, since he had never officially moved in. He kept only a few clothes at the rooming house, a pair of riding boots, and his toilet articles; for discretion’s sake, he had never stayed more than two or three nights in a row. He was a guest, not a regular lodger; his meals were paid for by the day, so all he needed to do was pack up, go back to his family’s town home, and cease visiting Tony’s place.
Easy enough—but it was a coward’s way out, and it would leave poor old Tony at the mercy of his own foolishness. Still—what else was there to do? If he stayed, Tony would make an effort to drag him back to the Arbor, and when his wish was denied, Tony was sure to create an unpleasant scene.
Brendan could not, must not, go back. That was indisputable fact. Equally indisputable was the way Tony craved attention. Foolish or not, whether or not Brendan was with him, Tony would be back there, and likely onstage, and eventually in Uncle Cedric’s bed. And when Tony was drunk, he babbled.
And then what?
Brendan shied away from the thought, but immediately forced his mind back to it. Think this through. What is likely to happen?
Well, at worst, Uncle Cedric might make inquiries, discover that his nephew had indeed roomed with Tony at University, and conclude that the claim might be true.
Would he pursue the matter further? Why should he? What benefit would that gain him? He would hardly want to stir up a family scandal, not with his own disgraceful secret the key to his knowledge. Even if he suspected that Tony was telling the truth, he would probably order him to keep his mouth shut if he valued his health. He might question Brendan about it privately, but even that would make him vulnerable to being questioned in return.
By the time he was climbing the church steps, Brendan had managed to convince himself that the most sensible course of action would be to remove to the family home, allow Tony to follow his own course to perdition, and staunchly deny any accusations, if it ever came to that. He hated the very idea of such deception, he did not believe he had much talent for lying…but there was no proof of any misbehavior on his own part. Damn, it, he had not misbehaved, at least not ever in public. If Tony had a particle of sense, he would realize that wild talk would only harm himself.
If Tony had a particle of sense…That was the question, wasn’t it?
Enough. He could fret himself into a state, and what good would it do? He needed a change; his thinking had gone stagnant. He’d been spending too much time indoors. He’d been spending too much time in bed. It was time to put aside his youthful indiscretions—everyone had them, even if his was more indiscreet than usual—and give serious thought to his future. After church, he would pop back to the rooming house, put on his riding togs, and revert to his natural state—horseback. A trot around the park would get his mind moving again, and he hadn’t had poor Galahad out for exercise in two days. Neglecting his own body was one thing, but neglecting his horse was inexcusable.
He’d arrived only just in time for service; the strains of the organ had begun. Brendan found a place in an anonymous pew near the door and settled into the familiar ritual. The scent of candle-wax, the soft colors of light through stained-glass windows, the hushed echoes from the high, vaulted roof above … Strange, since he had no strong feeling for religion, how much he enjoyed the calm, stately grace of churches and cathedrals.
From where he sat, he could see the family pew and observe that his eldest brother, James, was in attendance with as many of his nearest and dearest as could be trusted to sit through a sermon without fussing. Imogen and young Jamie, ten and eight years old, were well-behaved youngsters, but Alan was only four
and inclined to break into song at inappropriate moments. He was probably at home in the nursery, and just as well.
Brendan was happy to see his relatives here, more so than he’d expected to be, and made a point of meeting them at the door. “The prodigal returned,” he said, when James looked up and noticed him standing nearby.
“Indeed, and not a moment too soon,” his brother said sternly, using his additional inch or two of height to achieve a magisterial air.
They walked out into the sunshine. “How so?” Brendan asked.
“I have been commissioned to summon you to duty.” James maintained his solemnity for only a moment, then the smile he’d been suppressing broke through. “Via a letter from our mother. She and Elspeth are arriving from Bath this afternoon, and you are expected to escort your sister to Almack’s on Wednesday evening.”
“I see.” The children were obviously waiting for attention, so Brendan took a moment to express his admiration for Imogen’s new bonnet and return Jamie’s handshake. He offered his young niece his arm, and they strolled through the chatting crowd to where the family carriage waited at the curb. “Almack’s. Of course.”
Almack’s fashionable establishment, repressively respectable and exclusive to the point of absurdity, was the place for a young lady of quality to meet eligible gentlemen. Like most such gentlemen, Brendan found the place tedious. It served only lemonade and dry cake, small incentive to lure a man into a roomful of anxious, competitive misses hoping to be invited to dance. Still, Elspeth was a lovely young woman, hair dark as a raven’s wing, with expressive brown eyes and a fine complexion. She would do the family proud in any setting. Now that she was out in Society she would be obliged to attend those affairs—and, knowing her ebullient nature, she would be eager to step out onto the dance floor.
