Convincing Leopold (10 page)

A heavy thump rent the air.

Arthur went utterly still.

No, no
. He hadn’t actually…

Breath held, he blinked up into the darkness, the mattress beneath him perfectly, ominously motionless.

Thick and stifling, dread descended, sent his heart slamming against his ribs. He forced himself to push up and look beside him. In the weak light from his small hearth, he could make out a shadowed form standing up next to the bed.

Guilt stabbed into him. He cringed. He had not meant to push him that hard. “Thorn, I—”

“Don’t!”

Harsh and sharp, the word snapped against Arthur’s skin.
Ah hell
. His stomach sank. Now Thorn was angry with him. He had every right to be, though. Even if Arthur had tried, he could not have delivered a more cutting insult.

You’re a damn
arse
, Barrington.

Arthur dragged a hand through his hair and tried again to apologize. “Thorn, I didn’t mean to push you out of bed. I’m—”

“Bugger off, Barrington!”

Arthur jerked back at the pure venom in the curse. Thorn snatched his clothes from the floor and stalked to the door.

A sharp slam cracked through the room.

He dropped his head into his hands. “Bloody hell.” How had the evening gone so wrong so fast?

The night had been so perfect…up until the moment when they had walked into his bedchamber. Then the more recent version of his lover had reared its head. Persistent. Demanding. Pushing and pushing and pushing. The bed looming behind him as Thorn insisted on removing Arthur’s clothes himself. Those long, elegant fingers taking every opportunity to brush Arthur’s prick as they stripped him
bare with
startling efficiency. The promise of another near-sleepless night had turned him into a downright irritable bastard, and a selfish one at that. The type of man who would actually shove his lover out of bed.

His heavy sigh echoed in the near-dark room. He lifted his head and looked toward the closed door. Should he go after Thorn?

No. Call him a coward, but he honestly did not want to be the recipient of any more of Thorn’s curses. Not now. Not tonight. Best to let the man’s anger subside.

He should have just told Thorn flat out that he was not at all up for anything more than slipping into bed and letting sleep overtake him. But he had told Thorn he could stay and… Arthur shook his head. Instead he had let frustration and…yes, disappointment get the better of him.

No, significantly more than disappointment, for each wicked word, each decadent touch, had chipped away at that rock-solid certainty, snatching the hope from his grasp and allowing the worries, those doubts, to form anew. Worries he had firmly believed barely more than an hour ago had finally been put to rest. And it had hurt far more than he could have imagined possible to have those doubts slam back down on him.

The muted
snap
of a door closing reverberated in his bedchamber.

Thorn had left his apartments.

A sense of loss, sharp and acute, stole the breath from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, tried to push back the threat of tears that suddenly stung his nose.

It’s not the end
. He repeated the words over and over in his head. It had just been an argument, nothing more, and definitely not irreparable. The last time he touched Thorn would not have been to push him away.

Pain lanced into his chest.

“You’re a goddamn fucking bastard,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

Yes, indeed.

His shoulders slumped. “Ah hell,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face.

Couldn’t very well deny the truth.

Feeling wrung out and utterly drained, he snagged the blanket clinging to the edge of the bed and lay back down. But as he tried to quiet his mind enough so sleep could overtake him, he could not ignore the sinking feeling he had made the absolute wrong choice in not going after Thorn.

Leopold stopped at the street corner and glanced about. Thick clouds hung in the night sky, masking the moon, leaving only the occasional streetlamp to illuminate the empty intersection.

Where the hell were all the bloody hackneys? By God, he needed one right now.

Clenching his hands at his sides, he fought to hold tight to the anger and wounded pride still churning through his veins. Fought to keep the dark, heavy blanket of despair from completely overwhelming him. If he could just make it home…

Giving up on a hackney as a lost cause, he crossed the street and continued on. Definitely should not have sent his carriage home earlier. He should have known Arthur would not hold true to his word. Should have known the man had simply been pushing him off, yet again, last night during the ride from his uncle’s. Arthur had not really wanted him to stay tonight. The offer had been simply a means to pacify him, a polite version of no. Now he would have to walk all the way to Mayfair. With each step he took, a twinge of pain flared from his left hip. He would surely find a spectacular bruise come morning. A physical mark declaring Arthur’s true feelings.

He doesn’t want me anymore.

His legs gave out from under him, his knees impacting with the stone walkway. His gut lurched violently, his back bowing under the force of it. The acrid taste of bile stung his throat, filled his mouth. He tried to fight it, tried to take a shallow breath and push it down. But the effort proved in vain.

His stomach heaved. The remnants of his supper splattered the walkway. His stomach clenched again and again, the spasms seizing his body and rendering him completely helpless, until absolutely nothing remained.

Hanging his head, he gasped for breath in long yet shallow pulls. Cold sweat pricked his skin. His gut ached as though he had been the recipient of a prizefighter’s blow, but at least the spasms had subsided.

Far beyond caring enough to reach for a handkerchief, he dragged his forearm across his mouth. As he gave himself a moment to verify that his stomach had finished torturing him, he stared down at the mess he had created on the cold, stone walkway.

You’re goddamn pathetic.

And weak and worthless and beyond fucking pitiful.

No wonder Arthur did not want him anymore. He did not even want himself.

The sound of an approaching carriage reached his ears. Unwilling to remain on his knees for all to see, he urged his limbs to cooperate and pushed to his feet. The carriage rumbled past him, moving along at a nice clip.

To think he had once been so certain Arthur would come to love him.

Bloody fool. Why would a man like Arthur ever love someone like him? He had nothing to offer except his body and his skill at sucking cock. He flexed his hand at his side, trying to throw off the painful memory of Arthur, soft and flaccid, beneath his palm. He cringed; shame and self-loathing coated every inch of his skin. Arthur must think him the worst sort of whore. Desperately groping the man, pushing himself on him like a bitch in heat. For Christ’s sake, Arthur had to throw him from the bed to get him to stop.

If Arthur did not even want him for sex, then what could he possibly want him for?

Nothing at all.

By the time he reached Harley Street, a cold more frigid than the February night air had lodged deep in his bones. He went up the stone steps to his front door and made to reach into his coat pocket but stopped. Too focused on giving Arthur a perfect night, he had not thought to grab his key before leaving the house. Why would he have needed to? He should have arrived home far after his butler had risen for the day to begin his duties.

He could not recall seeing a carriage pass him on the street since before he reached Mayfair. It must surely be close to midnight, his staff long retired. Still, he tried the knob but found it locked, as it should be. Letting out a defeated sigh, he raised his knuckles and knocked. The servants’ quarters were on the fourth floor, far above him. If no one heard him, he would just… Hell, he did not know what he would do.

The door opened, revealing Jones. Did the man ever sleep?

“Welcome home, Mr. Thornton,” he said, as though it was completely normal to need to let his master into his own home at such a late hour.

With an automatic tip of his head, Leopold entered the house. The door clicked shut behind him.

“May I take your coat?”

One foot on the first step of the staircase, he paused and looked down at himself. Yes, his greatcoat. Should relinquish it to Jones, though… Hell, what did it matter? Wasn’t as if he had never returned home before with a bit of the night’s revelry splattered on the hem.

A shrug of his shoulders and he handed the coat to Jones. Then he made his way upstairs, each step requiring far more effort than he felt capable of expending.

Familiar footsteps came up behind him as he pushed open his bedchamber door.

“My apologies in advance, sir. You’ll find your bedchamber unprepared, but it will only take a moment to see to it.”

Leopold nodded and sat in his favorite leather armchair by the gray marble fireplace. The plush rugs covering the floorboards muffled Jones’s footsteps as he moved about the room, seeing to the candles, lighting the fire, tugging the drapes closed, and readying the bed.

After prodding the fire once again, Jones stood and faced him, hands clasped behind his back. Ever the efficient footman. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Thornton?”

For the first time in three months, he looked to the bedside table and wished it held more than a silver candlestick. The old craving, that need rose up within. His throat was suddenly parched and begging for the harsh burn that would make everything go away.

Get me a bloody damn bottle of gin.

Whisky would not even come close to blocking out the night. He so desperately needed to lose himself in the numbing emptiness that could be found only at the bottom of a bottle of gin. Needed that comforting black blanket of nothingness to swallow him up whole and take the pain away.

But his promise to Arthur kept the request from making its way past his lips. He might very well be a pathetic excuse for a man, but he refused to add drunkard to the list again.

Leopold shook his head.

A little furrow marred Jones’s brow. His gaze swept over Leopold sprawled in the armchair. “Do you need assistance removing your coat, sir?”

Another shake of his head.

The flames in the hearth popped and crackled, filling the silence.

Then Jones nodded. “Good night, sir.”

The fire had burned down to mere glowing embers by the time Leopold summoned the effort to push out of the chair and tug off his clothes. He extinguished the candles, plunging the room into darkness, and crawled into his empty bed.

* * *

Arthur stopped before the front door of Thorn’s town house and took a deep breath to steal himself.

The morning after their argument, he had come to the conclusion that perhaps he and Thorn needed a couple of days apart. Time for heads to clear and for emotions—more specifically, Thorn’s emotions—to settle. The law had taught him that hasty decisions often led to regret. He therefore wanted to give himself time to think, to assess, to be certain of the course he intended to take.

He had done a lot of thinking over the past two days. Quite frankly his relationship with Thorn baffled the logical part of his brain. They were so dissimilar in almost every facet of their lives, not to mention their personalities. If he had followed through with his original intention and actually searched for a man to spend his life with, he would have never thought to look in Thorn’s direction.

Yet being with Thorn felt right. More than right, in fact. Thorn felt like home.

That they were different did not make them wrong together, and he had decided once and for all to stop worrying about it. Thorn was the man he truly wanted to spend his life with. And in order to have a chance at that, he and Thorn needed to have a discussion… One that included a fresh attempt at an apology from him. No more trying to spare Thorn’s feelings or trying to guess why the man had become so restless of late. Blunt honesty and nothing less held a hope for them. And he damn well was not about to give up hope.