A Fashionable Indulgence (Society of Gentlemen #1) (5 page)

“You seem pensive,” Richard remarked. “I expected you to be triumphant.”

“I am. Regard my wild enthusiasm.” Julius gave a very small bow.

Richard laughed. “No need to be immoderate.
I
am triumphant, at least. And shall look forward to showing Harry’s grandfather what the pair of you have achieved.”

Julius stoutly disregarded any thoughts set scurrying by “the pair of you,” locking on to something he had wanted to ask. “Harry’s grandfather. Tell me something, Richard. Why did the old man not send for Harry when his father died?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Harry raised it. It struck me as something that, in his shoes, I should wish to know.”

“I am not in Gideon’s confidence. I wasn’t even aware of Harry’s existence until recently.”

“Are you avoiding the question, dear Richard?”

Richard hesitated a moment, then spoke with care. “You know, of course, that Gideon’s son and grandson died some eight months ago, in a house fire. Gideon’s only surviving grandchild, as we thought, was my cousin Verona. Miss Vane.”

That seemed a non sequitur, but Richard was not in the habit of meaningless talk. Julius spelled it out, slowly. “Gideon had a son and a grandson. They died, leaving no male heir. And Gideon searched for Harry
after
their deaths. Until then, Gideon didn’t need him.” A simple chronological progression, and Julius could not believe he had failed to see it before now.

“Gideon knew the conditions to which Harry’s parents had condemned him. Yet he left his own grandson to live in the mire, alone, for
six years,
until he required an heir?” His throat felt constricted by his cravat, his waistcoat suddenly tight. “Is that what you mean?”

“I’m not in his confidence,” Richard repeated.

Julius took a deep breath. He was distantly surprised at the surge of anger rushing through his veins. “And do you propose to speak to his grandfather on this, Richard? Do you propose to ask him why he abandoned his own grandson to life in the stews?”

“I do not need to. Gideon is an intensely proud man. Alexander’s marriage was perhaps the most bitter blow of his life. It contaminated the family line, degraded the name. I’m not surprised Gideon failed to seek Harry earlier; I’m surprised that he did it at all. I am quite sure that he would not have done so had the alternative been anything less than the end of his line.”

“Good God, are there not enough Vanes already?” demanded Julius. “Your brother’s nursery teems with brats!”

Anger flared briefly in Richard’s eyes, then he exhaled hard. “I’ll overlook that remark on this occasion. I don’t excuse Gideon. Had I known of Harry’s existence…But what would you have me do now? I could rebuke Gideon, yes. I could tell Harry the truth, poison his mind against his grandfather, cause Gideon to rue the day he ever sought him out. I could announce Gideon’s callousness to the world, and the truth of Harry’s past with it. Would that help Harry, do you think?”

In the garden, Harry made some nimble movement with the spillikins that elicited a shout of laughing dismay from Ash, and a round of ironic applause from Francis. Julius stared down. “No. I see.”

“Gideon can leave his fortune as he wishes, Julius. To Harry, to his cousin Verona, to an orphanage if he prefers. Harry’s entire prosperity depends on pleasing his grandfather. Gideon wants, quite desperately, to see his own family line continue, and if Harry can win his approval, the rest of his life will be comfortable and secure. If he fails to step up to the mark, I would not put it past Gideon to throw him back whence he came.”

“Are you serious?” Julius twisted to stare up at him. “After giving him all this, he would take it away?”

“Tainted blood, Julius. His worth to Gideon is his ability to continue the family line.” Richard rested his hands on the window frame. “Harry would be well advised to meet his expectations.”

“And what if he does not?”

“I shan’t let him starve. But compared to the life Gideon could give him…”

Julius nodded, seeing his shadow in the glass of the window as he did so, thin and insubstantial. “Of course.”

“We’ve conjured up a Cheltenham tragedy here, but there is really no need,” Richard added, in a tone of determined cheerfulness. “Harry is a delightful fellow, he looks excellently—you were right about the Titus—and he will doubtless please Gideon and the ladies both. I am quite sure all will go on well, thanks to you.”

“Yes, it will go on,” Julius agreed tonelessly. “Harry will act the gentleman, Gideon will play the role of affectionate grandfather, property will be transferred, and the dance continues as it should.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. It is, as you say, for Harry’s benefit.” Julius put down his unfinished glass. The excellent port tasted sour. “Come, let us join the others.”

Julius stalked along the hall, glass in hand, looking for Harry as the clocks chimed eleven.

He’d left Dominic and Richard in the drawing room together, since it was evident they had wanted to talk. He was fairly sure they would do no more than talk—their
affaire
had ended well over a decade ago, and Richard had not taken a lover since he and Julius had embarked on an embarrassingly unsuccessful liaison two years back—but one never knew, and he had no wish to act the gooseberry. Those marks on Dominic’s wrists had come from large, strong hands, and Richard was a big man. Perhaps Dominic was playing at all fours for Richard once more—it was notorious among them that Dominic took his pleasures on his knees—and that was what had put him in a better frame of mind.

Perhaps Julius should stop thinking about what other men did with their pricks, and find something to do with his own.

Of course, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it, which was all the more reason he should not be looking for Harry now. He should go back to London and find someone who wasn’t full of youth and passion and joy and didn’t have a future to secure. Absalom Lockwood, maybe. The poor fellow was hopelessly, humiliatingly in love with Ash; perhaps they could fuck the discontent from each other.

He should go to bed—alone—rather than torturing himself with temptation that he had no intention of indulging.

He turned the corner. Six feet ahead of him, the study door was open. Harry stood in the corridor just in front of it, staring in, stunned.

Julius opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a voice came from the study, strained and muffled but entirely audible in the silence of the hall.

“Gabriel. More. Harder.”

“Oh Jesus, Francis,” Ash gasped from within the room. There was a slap of flesh against flesh. “God, that’s good. I love you.
Fuck.
”

Julius moved. He took two silent strides, clapped his hand over Harry’s mouth, wrapped his other arm round his neck to ensure immediate obedience, and dragged him, unresisting, sideways and back around the corner. There was a curtained alcove in the hall, the thick damask drawn to keep out the night chill, and Julius pushed Harry through the gap in the thick drapes, feeling the air cool on his heated skin, then released him. It was very dark.

“Julius? What are you doing?” Harry asked. He sounded bewildered but not frightened, thank God. In the last three seconds Julius’s imagination had shown him an endlessly detailed nightmare of consequences: weeping, denunciation, arrest, and shame; or worse, what they’d have to do to keep him quiet, the constant threat he’d pose. If Harry kept calm, perhaps the worst could be averted.

“Privacy,” Julius said. “For everyone.”

“I didn’t mean to…I just opened the door and they were backgammoning right there!”

“Yes, I know. Listen to me, Harry.” Julius took hold of his shoulder, putting all the intensity he could behind his words. “You will not tell a soul of this, do you understand? Not a word, a hint, a nod, or a wink. Richard is your cousin and I am your friend, but if you endanger Ash and Francis—”

“I won’t.” Harry spoke over him. “I swear I won’t.”

“You
can’t.
” Julius gripped harder, fingers biting Harry’s flesh. “They could hang for this. I am very fond of you, Harry, but do not cross us, or we will have to act.”

“Us?”

Julius stared through the dark, trying to make out Harry’s features. Outside, the night was pitch black. The faintest glow reached through the thick curtains from the sconces in the hallway so that he could see only the pale oval of Harry’s face.

“What do you mean,
us
?” Harry repeated.

“The Ricardians. Their friends,” Julius said shortly.

He felt rather than heard Harry’s inhalation. “Do you all do that?”

Julius felt a sensation of cold that was nothing to do with the night. “That is a serious accusation.”

“I had guessed about Ash and Francis anyway. You can see it. The way Ash looks at him.” That was, regrettably, true. Julius had often wanted to slap some sense into the young fool. Harry moved nearer, the brush of shifting cloth sounding very loud in Julius’s ears. He could feel Harry’s warmth through the air. “Are Cousin Richard and Dominic—”

“No.”

“They seem close.”

“They’re good friends.”

“Are we good friends?” Harry asked, and Julius realized that his face was a matter of inches away. “Because I’d like to be. With you.”

Oh sweet Jesus. Julius wished he could see more. “What do you mean?” he managed, and was instantly annoyed by the feebleness of his own words.

“You’re beautiful, Julius.” Harry’s voice was low. “And I have thought a great deal about you. And if you don’t mind about Ash and Francis…” Julius felt the brush of a hand against the cloth of his breeches, light and swift but unmistakable, and realized, with a combination of relief, gratitude, and astonished fury, that after all this time and all that self-restraint, the little wretch he’d so carefully kept his hands off was attempting to seduce him. He would have cursed but for the rush of sudden arousal that seemed to suck the blood from his head.

“Oh.” Harry’s hand came back, the touch a little firmer, and then Julius felt fingers slide with certainty over the rigid line of his prick. “Julius. You’ve a fine ramrod here.”

Julius took a very deep breath. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Well, yes.” There was a laugh in Harry’s whisper. “You don’t need to teach me this.”

God damn him, the earthy, vulgar, confident brat that he was. Julius sought for words, couldn’t find any, because now Harry was closer still, as close as could be, body to body, with his own solid length against Julius’s thigh and his fingers delving for buttons.

“Are we safe here?” Harry murmured.

“We won’t be troubled.” Richard’s servants were trained to leave certain portions of the master’s domain alone in the evenings unless rung for. It was one of the many ways he sheltered his friends. Not that Julius felt sheltered now. Harry was groping him expertly, the movement of his hands occupying every available thought in Julius’s brain, and his body was so close. He could smell Harry’s pomade, feel the warmth of his brandy-scented breath.

And then he could taste it, because quite suddenly, Harry leaned in that bit farther and kissed him.

Julius didn’t like to kiss. It was one of the many ways in which he and Richard had proven spectacularly incompatible. He didn’t seek affection or welcome entanglements, and kissing was
needy.
In the light, he would have turned his face away. But it was dark, and he hadn’t, and now Harry’s mouth was on his, the warm tang of alcohol and the wet rasp of his tongue, the surprisingly soft movement of his lips, and a hand at the back of Julius’s hair pulling him forward.

He would have had to pull away to resist. He didn’t. He planted a hand on Harry’s arse, which felt just as good as it had looked, and allowed Harry to kiss him, his tongue to plunge and tangle and invade, with a surge of sudden breathless wanting as his cock sprang free and met Harry’s knowing hand. Then there was another sensation, of silky-hard flesh, and he realized Harry had freed his own prick and had them together.

Julius brought his hand up, wrapping it around both lengths, over Harry’s work-roughened fingers. Harry groaned in his mouth and leaned against him, pressing his back to the wall, tugging at Julius’s hair as they rutted together with frantic urgency, prick to prick, mouth to mouth, with the pent-up need of weeks. Harry kept kissing him, hard and eager and undeniably experienced, his tongue sweeping Julius’s mouth, making him shudder, his hands working smoothly, pulling hair and cock at once as though he would drag Julius into him. Julius thrust back, kneading Harry’s flesh, felt his groan.

Harry was young, but Julius was desperate, and they spent within seconds and almost simultaneously, both into the hand that Julius had clapped over the tops of their pricks at the last moment. He was wearing his new gray satin waistcoat, after all. If he fired his shot on it, the stain would never come out.

They stood together in the dark, shoulders heaving, Harry’s mouth still locked over Julius’s lips as the pleasure subsided. Harry’s cock was still hard in Julius’s hand: warm, ridged, thick.

Harry pulled away first. “I wish we’d done that before.”

“It might have interfered with your lessons,” Julius pointed out with an effort at his normal tone, reaching for his handkerchief with his less sticky hand.

“It would have helped me concentrate.” There was very definitely a smile in Harry’s voice. “Could we do it again?”

Julius rubbed the handkerchief over his palm, wiping away the mess. “Have a heart, we’re not all twenty-three.”

Harry spluttered. “I don’t mean now. Look, I don’t know how gentlemen do this, if there’s an etiquette.” There was a laugh in his voice. “But I’ve wanted you so badly for weeks, and if you’d like to fuck, I’d love to fuck with you.”

As simple as that?
Julius thought, and then realized that yes, of course it was as simple as that. As simple as Harry’s hand on his prick, his laugh in his ears. “I could doubtless manage that.”

“Well, don’t let me press you to anything.” Harry sounded a little offended, just a touch, but Julius’s stomach plunged in the most absurd fashion and he found himself putting a hand out, aiming in the dark for Harry’s arm, instead meeting his hip.