Mending Him (15 page)

Those fingers were busy, prodding, pushing into him. And then came something enormous and slow, so huge he stopped moving and breathing to concentrate.

“Relax.” Charles leaned over him again, that enveloping warmth against his back.

Robbie gave a short involuntary laugh. “I’ve never been less relaxed in my life,” he said and then gasped as the enormous, implacable cock began its inexorable push in.

He felt invaded, and for a moment, in pain, but then he was conquered, and the pain gave way to almost too much pleasure filling him almost beyond capacity. And then, when that clever hand reached around and began to move on his cock, still better. Robbie swayed back a little to encourage Charles. That large body possessed him, and Charles could do whatever he wished.

“My body is yours,” Robbie whispered against Charles’s hand braced against the bed. Robbie wiggled. The pleasure might be too much, but he wanted even more.

Charles at last stopped moving forward and back so carefully and slowly. With a quiet curse, Charles moved faster, pounding into Robbie with his cock. And Robbie loved every single unforgiving push into his body.

He wasn’t going to last. He strove to hold on, gritted his teeth against pleasure—waiting for what? Waiting for Charles. Together, he thought. He begged and threatened and pushed and reached behind so he could send them both over the edge. Charles slowed for a moment, and Robbie thought he might kill the man.

“Harder, harder,” he growled. “Damn you.”

Charles put a large hand over his mouth, and then he obeyed him. And he shifted just a little. Down a bit, so that the sensation grew sharp and almost painful again, and that would be too much.

“Charles, yes.” Robbie sank his teeth into Charles’s palm.

“You devil.” Charles grunted in his ear. Three more deep hard pushes. So deep that the pleasure swirled through him, from his balls to the sweet pressure inside filled by Charles’s cock that seemed to expand to fill every bit of Robbie.

The hand on his cock, the hand over his mouth, the body pumping into him—those touches controlled him now. He let go of the struggle. One stroke, two, and then orgasm seemed to explode from him, almost terrifying in its strength. He barely noticed the hand over his mouth tightening and convulsing in the same rhythm. Robbie gasped as the last of the tremors rolled through his body.

He panted hard, breathing through the fingers that still clamped around his face. As his heart and breathing calmed, he rubbed his mouth on Charles’s palm.

Charles moved away, and Robbie sighed as he left. But his whole body still savored the struggle they’d been through together. He sagged against the bedstead and felt each stretched muscle and the stinging in his rear with a kind of happy triumph. Soon he would come back to himself, but for now—

Something wet brushed his back.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, then realized Charles was there, a flannel in his hand.

“I’m cleaning you,” Charles explained. “Sorry the water isn’t hot anymore.”

Charles had limped to the washstand and come back with the cloth—and Robbie hadn’t even noticed.

He wanted to take the cloth away and clean himself, but the circles Charles made with the damp cloth soothed him.

He arched his back and let Charles wipe his chest and stomach, where his ejaculate lay.

Charles had taken charge of his body as he’d ravaged Robbie. Now with his hesitant, soft touch, he cleaned Robbie’s body and gave it back to him, better than before.

Robbie grinned at the silly thought. He slid under the covers and rolled onto his side. If they lay close, wrapped in each other’s arms, they might both occupy the narrow bed. This might be the only time they had together. He was unwilling to spend any unnecessary moments away from Charles. Away, in this case, meant more than a few feet apart.

Chapter Sixteen

Charles lay in the dark, listening to Robbie mumble. The man spoke in his sleep, nonsense phrases, though Charles heard his own name once or twice.

When the mutters from Robbie turned into deep, even breaths, Charles shifted his attention to the still night sounds. A deluded rooster crowed far away. Nearer to the inn, a baby cried. A horse clopped by on the cobbled street. He’d grown used to the night sounds of the Hall—the wind in the eaves, owls and other animal cries in the wild outdoors.

His arm began to tingle, and for a moment, panic filled him. The strange symptoms starting again? But then he realized Robbie’s weight on him had sent the limb into that uncomfortable state, so he carefully, slowly withdrew his arm.

He rubbed feeling back into it, recalling all those days and nights he’d tried so hard to do the same for his legs and his arms—without success.

It won’t come back. The illness is over
. Those were the words he’d used to himself through other long nights. Now, he actually believed the words. And even more astonishing, he wasn’t even sure it was as important to his well-being as another silent chant he found himself repeating. Two words, repeated.
Robbie, my Robbie.

The use of the possessive was funny because he’d never in his life wanted the work that came with the proprietorship of another person. He’d heard other men his age say “my wife” or “my child” with a kind of pride that he’d never understood. Belonging to a club had been enough for him to feel he had people of his own.

He’d lost his immediate family, his parents, but those scars were old and familiar, the pain of their deaths turned into a whisper. He’d lost his money, and so his membership to the London clubs where he’d felt most at home. And soon after that, he’d lost his home.

All of those losses were vague unpleasantness compared to the thought of losing Robbie, or of never feeling anything like this uncomfortable, splendid night again.

He smiled into the darkness. He’d never been ambitious before, but then again, he’d never had to be. Since he’d lost his wealth, he’d gained humility and perspective. Now he must gain the right to call Robbie his own. Quietly, of course. He had no intention of sending himself or Rob to prison. The smile on his face grew wider. Speaking of noisy, they would have to live in a sturdy house, or perhaps out in the country. Robbie was not a quiet man when it came to pleasure.

The next morning, they set off back to the hall at a quick pace once the fabric had been delivered to the inn for them to carry back to the hall. The ball was only days away, and Lenore must be going mad without her chief consultant and dogsbody, Robbie, at her beck and call, Charles thought.

Gemma was probably looking for her favorite cousin.

No doubt Phillip checked his watch to see when he might discuss some estate detail with Robbie.

Bertie likely wanted to show Robbie his latest little sculptures. When Lenore had moaned about the boy getting underfoot, Robbie had given Bertie a knife and wood and carving lessons— providing a new single-minded focus for that young brain. Every few hours, Bertie emerged from the woods where he played pirate—usually in search of food and to track down Robbie to show him something or get his help sharpening the knife.

Samuel. Well. That whelp was probably imagining all sorts of horrible thoughts when he’d heard Robbie and Charles had been out all night together.

They’d nearly all miss Robbie, so vital to the hall, because Charles fully intended to rob them of their Robbie and make him his own.
My Robbie.

If Lenore had been in a tizzy of preparation over the past few weeks, in those final days before the harvest social, the entire household was absolutely frenzied. There was barely a moment when Charles and Robbie could speak privately, let alone do anything more. No chance to run an errand to the village or take an excursion into the woods, and no opportunity to delve further into the topic of Samuel’s stealing or his appropriation of their secret. Their overnight in Durham was hardly noted, such was Lenore’s intense focus on the upcoming event. And, although Samuel’s disgusted gaze lingered on Charles and Robbie, he kept his silence.

At last it was the night of the ball, and the whirlwind died to a dull roar.

Charles emerged from the small guest room on the second floor, which he now called home, straightening the length of his shirt cuffs so they protruded just a stylish inch from the cuffs of his dark tailcoat. He’d dispensed with the crutches and tonight relied on a tortoiseshell-headed cane that Stewart had dug up from the attic. Just as he took a step forward, barely leaning on the cane, Robbie’s bedroom door opened and the man emerged.

Charles caught his breath.

There was little room for variation in men’s evening wear. The peacock colors of women’s gowns were denied them. Gleaming white against stark black was a man’s only option so far as color palette was concerned. Instead, it was the precise cut of a coat, the length of a sleeve, the drape of trousers—those minute details—which gave one’s appearance a slightly different flare.

The tailor from the city had worked magic on Robbie’s slight frame. The shoulders of his jacket were cut at a sharp angle and lightly padded to provide more breadth. His waistcoat emphasized his trim figure. And his trousers made his legs longer than ever. Like Charles, Robbie had a cane at hand, but this was not his regular crutch. The silver head of a lion peeped from between his fingers—a gift from Phillip, Charles knew.

Robbie caught sight of him and stopped. For a moment, they both stood, gazing at each other. The moment of silence was fraught with meaning, more than words could convey. Besides, in this busy house where servants darted about tending to guests from far away who would be spending the night, there was nothing they dared say aloud about their feelings.

“You appear very debonair, Mr. Grayson,” Charles offered after a moment. “Quite the thing.”

Robbie inclined his head. “As do you, Mr. Worthington. Are you quite ready to meet Misses Honoria and Celeste Brown?”

“Lead me to them. I shall be the most charming and excellent companion to ever squire a lady.” Charles stepped forward, his limp noticeably diminished. “By the way, which am I to partner with, Miss Honoria or Miss Celeste?”

Robbie smiled. “It is quite awful of me, but I tend to forget which name goes with which sister, despite the fact that one is slender and the other rather plump. They have a tendency of completing each other’s sentences, so one is never quite certain whom he is talking to.”

“A hydra,” Charles said. “Two heads on one body.”

“More like the opposite. Two bodies and one mind,” Robbie amended.

They walked companionably toward the stairs, Robbie telling the sisters’ history in more detail so Charles would know something about them.

Charles caught sight of a shadow and nudged Robbie’s arm. “Look there, a pair of ghosts haunting the festivities.”

Gemma and her nurse, Mary, sat by the railing, watching the entrance of guests in the foyer below. People were arriving steadily now. The great double doors of the hall opened and closed over and over. Women with high-piled hair and feathered headdresses wore gowns of every rainbow hue and long gloves. Glittering jewels or beadwork caught the light, making the costumes glow. Their partners accented them like black velvet existing to show off the color and cut of a precious gem. No wonder both Gemma’s and Mary’s expressions were awestruck. The country gentry must appear like members of highest society to them.

For Charles, who’d attended much more lavish events, Lenore’s party was less impressive. What held his attention were the expressions on the guests’ faces. They were eager to be here, happy to see their neighbors, excited about this once-a-year social event. This sense of innocence, of countrified charm, touched Charles. He’d experienced far too much ennui among his set, who tended to observe life with bored indifference. It practically took an earthquake to stir them to any emotion. What a different world here, and how glad he was that he’d been forced to experience it. The mysterious illness and ensuing carriage accident may just have been the best things to ever happen to him.

Charles glanced at the handsome young man beside him, drew on his gloves, took hold of the banister and started down the stairs.

“And then I told Mr. Parsons that it simply wouldn’t do.” Celeste Brown spoke adamantly and too loudly. She underlined her thought with a gesture that set the many bracelets on her arm jingling. Charles was momentarily distracted by the flash of paste gems. He knew fakes from the real thing, and the Brown sisters did not wear real diamonds or emeralds.

“Simply wouldn’t do at all.” Honoria nodded so emphatically, her bejeweled headband slid to a new angle.

“I would have the entire order in full, or he would receive no more business from us,” Celeste said.

“No more ever,” Honoria agreed. “The gall of the man, trying to take advantage of two ladies.”

“It’s not the first time he’s tried to cheat us on our meat delivery,” Celeste continued. “These butchers. One must watch them with a gimlet eye.”

“And one simply can’t count on one’s housekeeper to be aware of such discrepancies. That is why we had to let go our dear Mrs. Barney and now hire only a day maid.”

“Naturally,” Charles said smoothly. “Because you must run the household yourselves if it is to be done right. I admire your fortitude, ladies, and your economy. You make do under most trying circumstances.”

He snuck a glance at Robbie, then wished he hadn’t, for the man’s expression nearly made him laugh. Not
at
the Brown sisters, who were actually quite sweet and pathetic in their faded gentility, but at Robbie’s obvious attempt to bite back a yawn. The poor man’s eyes were glazed. He looked the way Charles felt after spending several hours catering to Celeste and Honoria.

They’d met the ladies upon their arrival, brought them light refreshments and chatted with them prior to the supper while the rest of the party danced, then escorted them into the dining room and smiled fiercely throughout the plain and filling supper. Charles and Robbie murmured and exclaimed over the minutia which filled the women’s conversation. Their world was very limited and their trials trivial yet oh so important to them.

Charles thought Robbie was quite heroic in his gallantry, so he strove to match his friend’s single-minded focus on the sisters. It was easy enough to be charming and give the Browns an evening they’d never forget as they escorted the ladies back into the ballroom.

“Miss Honoria,” Charles said when she stopped to draw breath.

“I’m Celeste.”

“Oh yes, forgive me. I received a severe rap on the head during my carriage accident, and since then, I’ve had some trouble learning new names.” Charles nodded at the gliding figures on the dance floor. “Would you care to dance?”

“Oh my.” One gloved hand went to Celeste’s ample bosom. “Are you able?”

“I do believe so, if we stay on the edge of the floor and move in small increments. Are you game, my dear?”

Celeste turned bright red at the scandalous endearment from a gentleman she barely knew. She fluttered a fan in front of her round face. “Why, I don’t know… Usually my sister and I merely
observe
the dancing. I don’t know if I should feel comfortable.”

Charles extended a gloved hand. “Let us find out what we are capable of. Shall we?”

He took the lady’s hand, tipping a wink at Robbie behind her back, and guided her onto the floor. Usually he loved to dance. He was light on his feet and quite skilled. Even with his lame legs, he was able to move in the familiar pattern of a slow waltz, one hand on Celeste’s great waist, her fingertips resting on his shoulder and her other hand palm to palm with his. He could feel her tension. She was afraid of the contact and probably hadn’t been this close to a man in years—or perhaps her entire life.

Charles guided her in the one-two-three glide of the dance. Small steps, a bit behind the beat and awkward, but they were moving. They were dancing. When the tension eased from Celeste’s body, when her hand relaxed against his and her eyes started to glow with joy, her straight lips to curve in a smile, Charles felt like a hero, and he fully understood that a simple act of kindness perhaps did more for the giver than for the person being given to. How had he lived most of his life without knowing that?

As if he weren’t feeling emotional enough, he glimpsed Robbie leading Honoria, a spindly stick of a woman, onto the floor. Robbie took her in an awkward embrace and together they shuffled around in a circle. Honoria’s smile was as bright as her sister’s, and when Robbie lost his balance slightly, she steadied him.

Charles couldn’t manage an entire waltz. After a few moments, he guided his partner off the floor with an apology. Red-faced from exercise rather than embarrassment this time, Celeste waved off the apology.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Worthington. My sister and I have enjoyed this evening immensely.”

Charles saw Celeste to a seat and dropped a bit heavily onto the one beside her, upholstered in exactly the perfect shade of gold, which brought back memories of his and Robbie’s brief sojourn in Durham. What an amazing night that had been. How wonderful it would be to share a flat in London or Durham, or a small house in the country, or anyplace in the world where they could be alone together, away from prying eyes.

How would they manage it? With no money, it wouldn’t be easy to launch themselves into the world. Charles knew Robbie had some savings, but as for himself…he was as poor as any beggar, beholden to the kindness of relatives. What in the world could he do to improve his circumstances? What skills did he have which might prove lucrative? He thought of the calligraphy he’d used on the invitations to tonight’s soiree. Cousin Lenore had been impressed by his hand. Perhaps others might pay for such secretarial skills.

Lost in thought, Charles paid little heed to whatever Celeste was chattering about. He watched Robbie and Honoria move past, tottering a little but still on their feet. And then, across the room, he noticed Samuel leaving through the French doors into the garden. Charles frowned. Something about the furtive way Samuel had looked around the room before walking from it—no, skulking from it—set off an alarm inside Charles. The boy was up to no good. Again. He knew it at a primal level, but what could he do about it? Excuse himself from Celeste’s company and go shambling after his young cousin? He’d never catch up.