Convincing Arthur (10 page)

driving away from the house.

Through sheer will, he forced air into his lungs. “Who's in it?” he demanded

without bothering to look at his footman.

“Pardon, Mr. Thornton?”

“The bloody carriage. Is it Mr. Barrington?”

A pause. “Yes, sir.”

He gripped the knob tightly, his arm shaking. Perhaps Arthur wasn't leaving for

good. Perhaps he was just going…

“Where is he headed?”

At Jones's silence, he whipped his head around to look over his shoulder, needing

the answer.
Now
. He'd rip the word from the man's throat if need be.

Jones dropped his gaze to the marble floor. “London.”

He swore he felt his heart rip in two.

In a daze, Leopold stared back out at the departing carriage, that one word

repeating in his head, as he watched Arthur move farther and farther away from him.

The moment the dark shape disappeared into the fog and rain, he whirled from the

door.

“Saddle a horse. Now!”

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61

Jones's head snapped up. If there had been pity in his eyes, Leopold would have

discharged the man on the spot. “Yes, sir.”

Leopold bolted upstairs, taking the steps two at a time and pulling off the dressing

gown. He slammed the bedchamber door against the wall as he opened it, and then he

flung open the narrow dressing room door, hand closing around soft white linen on one

of the shelves lining the walls. After tugging the shirt over his head and shoving his

arms through the sleeves, he grabbed his boots. He had them on in a trice, and he ran

back out of his bedchamber, down the corridor, down the stairs, out of the house, and

toward the stables.

He skidded to a halt inside the stables and swiped a hand over his face to wipe

away the rain. Breathing heavily, he blinked, willing his eyes to adjust to the change in

lighting. Jones and one of the grooms were in the aisle scurrying around Vice, his burly

iron gray hunter. Nothing usually bothered the tall stallion, but the groom flinging a

saddle onto his back as Jones tried to attend to the bridle had the horse flicking his long

black tail and stomping his feet.

“Done yet, Jones?” the groom asked as he buckled the girth.

Jones had half the headstall behind Vice's ear and was struggling to get the other

half in place. Vice tossed his head, resisting Jones's efforts. “No, he won't stand—”

“I'll do it.” For God's sake, if he left it to the two men, noon would come and go

before he tracked down Arthur.

Both men jumped back at the sound of Leopold's voice.

Ignoring the shocked stares, he took Jones's place at the horse's head. “Easy, boy,”

he crooned, gently righting the bridle. A few flicks of his fingers, and the small buckles

under the horse's throatlatch and jaw were done.

Vice made to rub his head affectionately against Leopold's arm, but he was

already swinging up into the saddle and grabbing the reins. With a firm nudge of his

heels, Vice leaped forward, eager to be off. As soon as they cleared the stable door,

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Leopold nudged the horse again. Vice slipped obediently into a ground-covering

gallop.

The cold November rain smacked Leopold's face, stinging his cheeks. He squinted,

trying to see more than a few paces in front on him, and asked Vice for more speed. The

massive stallion gave it and more, his long strides devouring the gravel path under his

hooves. Urgency pressed heavily on Leopold. Still not fast enough. The road forked two

miles ahead. One way led to the village, the other around it. If he chose unwisely, he'd

end up either past Arthur or farther behind him.

Why the hell had Arthur left? Had Leopold done something or said something

horribly wrong? Or was it what was not said or not done? He could think of nothing to

explain the man's abrupt departure. Last night defined perfect.

You didn't do anything but be yourself. Of course he left you.

Those same doubts from two evenings ago came rushing upon him.
Goddamn

whore. Why would he want you?
But he refused to pull Vice to a stop, to announce defeat,

to give up on his chance with Arthur. He could not allow the man to sneak away at

dawn, like he himself had done with so many lovers in the past. And certainly not

without a word to him. Gripping the reins tightly, he leaned low over the stallion's neck

and dug his heels into his sides. Vice's mane whipped his face, but he was numb to it.

The sweet taste of relief hit his tongue when he caught sight of the carriage.

“Halt!”

The footman perched on the back glanced over his shoulder, then pounded on the

roof. To Leopold's utter gratitude, the carriage began to slow.

Vice tossed his head in protest as Leopold yanked hard on the reins, pulling the

horse to an abrupt stop to keep from colliding with the back of the carriage. He flung

himself out of the saddle and tossed the reins at the startled footman.

Not bothering to make sure the servant had a hold on Vice, he grabbed the small

brass lever, yanked the door open, and sat on the bench opposite Arthur.

“Thorn?”

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63

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Instead of worry and fear, the

demand came out drenched with indignant anger. He wanted to both pummel Arthur

with his fists for daring to leave, for daring to make him believe they could be together,

and launch himself at the man, beg him to stay.

Arthur leaned left, closing the door with a smart
snap
. A small brass lantern

attached to the wall illuminated the interior. The brown leather bag lay at Arthur's hip,

within easy reach but not yet opened. “Back to Town,” he said, measured and resolute.

“If you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my carriage, I can be on my way.”

“No!” Savage and vicious, the denial popped out of his mouth, jolting even

Leopold. He scrubbed his hands over his wet face, trying to calm himself. Screaming

would do nothing to convince Arthur to stay. Rain beat against the roof, filling his ears

to the point where he couldn't even hear the pulse pounding hard and frantic through

his veins. “Don't leave yet. Come back to the house.”

“No.”

“But you agreed to stay until Monday.”

“Schedules change, Thornton.”

His schedule? Leopold desperately grasped hold of a possible cause for Arthur's

departure. “Did you receive an urgent note from London? From your secretary?”

“No.”

Leopold winced. Then that meant he was leaving of his own accord. “But, Arthur,

last night—”

Arthur stiffened, his gaze darting to the door. “Keep your voice down,” he

admonished. “I do not wish my driver or footman to overhear anything you may say. In

any case, there is nothing to discuss.”

Arthur's resolute stance caused a near-paralyzing fear to grip hold of him. He

could feel Arthur slipping through his fingers. He leaned forward, his hand hovering

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over Arthur's knee for a moment before he snatched it back. He didn't dare touch him.

Not with the way Arthur pierced him with that hard stare. “Don't leave.”

A sneer that held a distinct layer of disdain curled Arthur's lips, making Leopold

acutely aware of how he must look. Soaked through from the rain, water dripping

down his face. He shifted on the leather bench and fought the urge to grimace as the

cold, wet fabric of his breeches rubbed against his ballocks.

“All right, then,” Arthur said, clearly against his better judgment. “I will give you

five minutes.”

His shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

“I'll meet you at the house.”

“I'll go with you.”

“Get out and get back on your horse,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. “I will

meet you at Ramsey House.”

Leopold nodded. At least Arthur was giving him a chance. Not much of one, but

at least something.

A bitter-cold gust of wind hit him as he got out of the carriage. He trudged to the

back and mounted his horse once again. With a tug on the reins, Vice moved off the

road. He waited under the branches of a tall oak tree as the driver turned the carriage,

leaving ruts in the grass on either side of the road. As the carriage passed him, he stared

hard through the window, willing Arthur to look at him, but the man's gaze remained

straight ahead.

Not a comforting omen of things to come.

He guided Vice back to the muddy road and set the horse to an easy trot,

matching the team of four, unwilling to let Arthur out of his sight until the man heard

him out.

What he'd say to Arthur, how exactly he would convince him to stay for two more

days, never mind that he was worthy of the man's affections… He hadn't the faintest

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65

notion. The distinct threat of rejection settled heavily on his chest, the weight pressing

harder and harder, fraying his nerves near to breaking as he slowly followed Arthur

back to Ramsey House.

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Ava March

Chapter Seven

“I'll be but a few minutes,” Arthur instructed the driver as he got out of the

carriage.

Ducking his head to shield his face from the driving rain, he hurried up the few

stone steps and into the house. He ignored the butler's outstretched hand, the silent

request to relinquish his greatcoat. No use giving it up when he would need it back in

just a few minutes. He paused and glanced up the stairs. No, he would not have this

conversation with Thornton in a bedchamber. Not when he could still feel every place

on his body that the man had kissed him last night. The entrance hall would not do

either.

“My study,” Thornton grumbled, walking past him.

Arthur did not consider himself a transparent man, but Thornton did possess an

uncanny knack at reading his thoughts. He hadn't had to ask anything of Thornton last

night; before the request could form in his head, he had given him what he wanted. So

in tune with each other. So perfect. He knew in his bones no future bed partner would

ever come close to comparing with Thornton.

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67

Therein lay the source of the regret that had gripped hold of him the moment

Thornton had fallen asleep in his arms. And a source of his anger. How dare the man be

so perfect yet also so wrong for him? Damn cruel. Like a taunt to his heart.

Following the track of wet footprints, Arthur went down the corridor and entered

the room on the right. The door shut behind him. He turned at the sound of a lock

sliding home. Palming the key, Thornton leaned a shoulder against the door and

crossed his arms over his chest, all pouting insolence. The ride back had taken him

beyond merely wet to completely drenched, as though he'd had a swim in a pond

without removing his clothes. Not that he would have had many clothes to remove. The

black breeches clung to the lean muscles of his legs. The white shirt plastered to his

sculpted chest revealed a hint of the copper nipples beneath the sodden fabric. His hair

was tousled as if he'd just run a hasty hand through it, his jaw darkened with a morning

beard, pale cheeks glistening from the rain… Absolutely gorgeous. Pure sin brought to

life.

But a temptation Arthur could and would refuse.

The silence stretched taut, broken only by the intermittent drops of water falling

from Thornton and forming little puddles on the wooden floorboards. The conversation

was not going to be pleasant, but it was a necessity. He couldn't risk Thornton

continuing his pursuit all the way to London. And he wouldn't put it past him, given

the reckless way he had come after Arthur.

Definitely had not foreseen that turn of events. Apparently Thornton took

exception to any change in plan not dictated by himself.

“You have five minutes. Then I expect you to unlock that door.”

“And what if I refuse?” Thornton asked, his chin tipped down and his gaze

pinned on Arthur.

They were men, for God's sake. Almost thirty years of age. Why did Thornton

have to behave like a surly adolescent? “You won't refuse. But if you do, I will simply

pry the key from your hand.”

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Ava March

Thornton's full lips curled in defiance. “You are welcome to
try
all you like, but—”

“And I will succeed,” he said curtly, cutting off the retort. Thornton's elegant build

would not stand a chance against him. “I am stronger than you.” His hand itched to

give Thornton a swift smack on the arse, to knock some sense into him. Clearly his

father had indulged him to the point where he couldn't tolerate someone going against

his wishes. If Arthur needed another example of why he and Thornton did not suit, it

stood right before him, slouched against the door and glaring daggers at him. “It was a