Almost a Gentleman (5 page)

He'd been chagrined; rejection is hard for any young person, particularly one who believes in doing the decent thing. He persisted, though, making his fair and logical case until he wore her down. The laws of inheritance brooked no compromise: if she delivered a son, that son must be a legitimate one in order to inherit the peerage. And didn't she want the best for their child? he asked. Not simply wealth, but a chance to help decide the affairs of the country.

Finally, she capitulated. They were married in a secret ceremony several parishes away, less than a week before Alec's birth. David's family—he'd confided in a few old uncles—had been furious.

And yet it had all worked out quite well. Margery had continued as innkeeper, and Alec had been a cheerful, loving, extremely intelligent child who'd understood very early that his parents came from different worlds. His large, greenish eyes—Margery's eyes—seemed to consider this fact judiciously, and to conclude that it was, on the whole, a good and interesting thing. And as he came to reasoning consciousness, it appeared that he'd accepted his situation quite happily.

Both Mummy's and Papa's different houses were fun in their own ways, Alec had remarked when he was about three years old. Papa's house was bigger, of course, and full of funny old suits of armor. But you never knew who'd come visiting at Mummy's house. And, he'd added (with a quick glance at David to assure himself that he wasn't hurting his feelings), the food was better at Mummy's. By which time it seemed clear to David that Alec knew that—each in their own ways—both Mummy and Papa loved their little boy quite delightedly and unreservedly.

They agreed on most things having to do with his upbringing. Though Alec lived with his mother until he was ten, Margery had consulted David about all the important decisions. They agreed that Alec's welfare was more important than either of their desires or prejudices. And so, tearfully, Margery agreed to send him to Eton, where he'd suffered a rough first month from some beastly little snobs before becoming generally accepted, partially through the use of his fists—David had taught him to box—and partially through his own sunny self-confidence.

Margery wanted him to have every advantage David could afford to give him, and she feared that Alec might find her common some day, or be ashamed of his lower-class origins. Happily, he never did. He'd been devoted to his mother until she'd died five years ago from pneumonia.

He was at Cambridge now, wrestling enthusiastically with natural philosophy. David regretted not having more children, but if you had to have only one, Alec was an excellent one to have. Lately, though, he'd begun to feel awfully old when thinking about this son, suddenly almost an adult and a scholar as well. Alec used his own title now; the young Viscount Granthorpe was beginning to be invited to balls and house parties. Young ladies paid attention to him, for he'd inherited David's rugged looks along with Margery's large light eyes. He'd gotten David's height, too, and even a bit more: on his last visit home he'd measured an inch taller than his father.

David missed Margery terribly, though he knew that they'd never been passionately in love. Two lonely people in need of companionship, they'd bonded together to help each other through life's challenges. Two sexual beings in need of pleasure, they'd always enjoyed each other's bodies. Two well-ordered, highly responsible people, they'd met regularly for twenty years, to hold each other through the night, refreshing themselves for their daily responsibilities: hers to her business, him to his lands and the people of his district.

It had never really been a marriage, David thought, except in a strictly legal sense. But it had been better than a great many marriages he knew, for it had been based upon mutual respect and admiration—and upon a shared love for a beautiful child. Margery's death had left a huge gap in his life, but David was wise enough to know that you couldn't easily replace such an arrangement,

For a while, a few years ago, he'd tried buying sex. Not back home, for he couldn't rid himself of a stiff-necked notion that to do such a thing in his beloved Lincolnshire would be to wreak some obscure violence upon Margery's memory. No, he'd come up to London for it, during a winter when the vile weather would have kept him inside anyway.

It had seemed the sensible thing. London was the world's center for buying and selling: stocks and bonds, securities and futures (what odd, homely names the money men gave to the abstractions they traded in!). Brokers and solicitors prospered and grew fat on other people's greed, aspirations, and desires. You could buy anything if you knew where to find it.

At first, innocently, he'd tried the streets, where youth and beauty could often be gotten cheaply. But the streets were dangerous. Better to stick to the network of procurers who catered to the needs of the Polite World, cold-eyed men and women who made it safe and easy for you, while pocketing most of the money that passed from hand to hand.

He'd spent a few uncharacteristically wild months indulging himself in the pleasures these transactions had brought him. A veritable harem of girls had passed through his hands—each very nice in her way, he thought, and some, the more expensive of them, offering quite interesting specialties. All in all, he'd quite enjoyed the interlude. The girls had been good at what they did and of course he'd tried to make things agreeable for them in return. Perhaps he'd been naive, but it seemed to him they'd rather liked him.

But after a while he'd grown bored with it, coming, on the whole, to prefer the challenge of connecting a likely girl with better, less damaging work. The procurers had come to hate him; many refused his custom after he'd convinced one of the highest-priced girls in London to leave the business and accept a situation at an inn between Lincoln and London. A brilliant cook and hostess, Alison had not only made the inn's fortune, but had wound up marrying its proprietor. David had given the bride away, at about the same time that he'd concluded that he was more reformer than roue and had ceased going to London for sex.

No, he had to marry. Marry and perhaps even father some more children. Why not? He wasn't too old for it. It would be agreeable to fill the echoing halls and bedrooms of Linseley Manor with noisy, busy new life. Although he sometimes still dreamed of a romantic love—he'd never quite outgrown the misty chivalric fancies of his adolescence—he doubted that such a thing would come to him: somehow it seemed too late for that. But he thought he could offer some likely lady a good enough life. Devotion, decency, fidelity, and a measure of physical pleasure ought to be enough to promise a future countess of Linseley.

He'd intended to begin searching for the lady this evening. The Almack Assemblies were certainly the most practical way to meet prospective brides: the
Beau Monde's
trade in marriageable flesh was as efficiently and heartlessly managed as the traffic in less respectable flesh conducted at its fringes. The only trouble was…

But here he stopped, yawned, and glanced at the clock. Absurd, it was after three in the morning. In the country he often woke at four.

Confess it, David. You've spent hours avoiding the crux of the matter.

The
only trouble
was that if he attended the next Almack ball he might encounter that young man again.

Marston.

He stared into the low fire, but what he saw among the brilliant reds and yellows, the dead-white embers and tiny hot slivers of blue flame, was the proud set of a young man's torso, the energy rising from his hips and waist. And a pair of hungry gray eyes with strange golden lights in them.

I think he wanted me as much as I wanted
—as I want—
him. And we could both burn in hell for it
.

Of course, such liaisons happened all the time, at least in London. David had heard the rumors about Lord Crashaw, who would be his chief rival in Parliament later this week. Too bad you couldn't discredit a gentleman's political arguments on the basis of his sexual preferences. Well maybe it's not so bad after all, he thought with a wry turn to his mouth, if it turns out that I share the same sinful desires.

But desire was one thing. Action was quite another. And David knew that he'd never act upon whatever it was he'd felt for the young gentleman—even if he'd quite understood what one actually
did
under the circumstances. After all, he thought, life presents opportunities for many different sorts of desire. One simply learns to control one's feelings and move on, as he had when he'd ceased using prostitutes.

And it wasn't as though he'd be running into Marston every day in London. Those dandies had their own haunts, their own paths through Town. Fascinating ones, perhaps, but not David's. They certainly weren't interested in debating the future of British agriculture, for example.

And now it
was
time to go to bed. He'd sleep until noon, he told himself, and then he'd spend the entire afternoon on his speech. Crashaw was a decent orator: a fat, slow-moving gentleman, he used his bulk to put force and presence behind his orotund rhetoric. Somebody needed to make the opposing arguments with clarity, and with all the eloquence and persuasiveness that this critical issue required.

And if, next time he came to Town, he wished to attend another of those assemblies at Almack's, he'd certainly go. He'd go wherever he pleased, dammit.

Because it would be craven, silly, and an insult to his own self-respect to let a strangely attractive young gentleman stop him.

Phoebe had been as gentle as she could when she told Billy that she wouldn't be requiring his services this evening. But his pretty face fell nonetheless, his sunny blue eyes wide and stricken.

Quietly, he asked her if he hadn't pleased her on his last visit.

"Of course you did, dear," she protested. "Oh bless me no, it's not on
your
account that I'm refusing." Hardly. Billy was tall and well built, with a seraph's face atop a strong, column-like neck and plowman's torso. And he was obedient as well: skillful, compliant, and eager to please.

A gentleman need only send a note to Mr. Talbot's discreet establishment and Billy—or someone equally lovely—would be delivered to his doorstep like a well-wrapped Christmas present.

Phoebe had learned about Mr. Talbot from cronies at White's. As such topics were discussed largely through hints, winks, and innuendo, it had taken her a while to master this private coded language. She bent her skills to it, though, and had finally come into possession of one of Talbot's pasteboard business cards, along with an assurance that the boys were clean and healthy.