Mending Him (6 page)

Chapter Six

Charles wanted to laugh. He enjoyed farce, although perhaps not when he was pitchforked into the middle of it. And not when Robbie’s face had drawn into a tight, unhappy blankness. Had Charles done that with his confrontation or was it young Samuel’s presence that made the man vanish into himself?

He wheeled away from Robbie and toward the newcomer. “How are you, Samuel?”

The young man graced him with a nod. “I’m tired after my journey from France. Lord, what a time I’ve had.” His careless manner seemed unstudied. Samuel was either a fine actor, or he hadn’t overheard their conversation.

Charles said, “Pardon me for not rising to greet you. We have met, although you were very young at the time—perhaps Gemma’s age.” He grinned up at his cousin.

Samuel didn’t smile back. He took Charles’s proffered hand and squeezed it far too tightly for a polite exchange of greetings. Had the young master heard of his disgraceful drunken arrival or was he simply aggressive for no real reason?

For a brief moment, less than a second, Charles considered what he should do. Allow the blighter to injure his hand and back down from the challenge— or fight the unspoken expression of dominance?

He squeezed back, hard.

Samuel released his grip almost at once. One handshake demonstrated that Samuel would be a nuisance but probably a controllable one.

At the moment, Charles worried more about Robbie. He cursed himself for losing his temper just before Samuel appeared. He shouldn’t have been hurt by the fact that Robbie claimed to help him only from a sense of obligation. The fact that it did prickle him worried Charles a little.

Ah well, Robbie wasn’t going anywhere. Charles had time enough to retreat and try again with more élan. Or perhaps he should retreat entirely and concentrate solely on recovering his strength and finding how he could make his way in the world. He damned well wasn’t going to impinge upon his relations a moment longer than he had to.

“Have you enjoyed your exhausting life at university, Samuel?”

“Lord, yes, and my tour of Europe even more so.” He walked around the library, now bedroom, stopping beside the bed and makeshift night table to grunt his distaste at the changes. “But now I’m back here. Back to stay, I should think.”

Samuel’s words, the way he swaggered about the library, all seemed like a threat directed at the two others in the room. Charles felt his mouth twitch into an involuntary grin. During his long, dreary days shut up in his slowly emptying house, he’d raided McNair’s penny dreadful collection for entertainment. Samuel reminded him of a sheriff in one of the American Western stories, threatening the evil-doers who’d come to town looking for trouble. Or perhaps Samuel was one of the gunslingers bent on breaking the lawmen?

“And are you glad to be home?” he asked.

“Yes. I am.” Distaste still evident on his fine features, Samuel watched Robbie, who was placing the chess pieces back in their box. Surely the topic of Samuel taking his place in the family business no longer disturbed Robbie. Why was his head ducked, and why on earth did he look as if he loathed each little carved figure he touched?

Did Phillip know his son and ward disliked each other or felt some other antagonistic tension? If Charles could see it in five seconds, surely everyone in the family knew.

He knew the cousins didn’t suffer from the sort of tension Charles and Robbie inflicted upon each other—he understood that down to his bones. Thank God for that.

Phillip must have an imp in his head to set these two up against each other in competition. Charles wondered if Samuel knew his father’s plans. Easy enough to find out.

“Cousin Samuel, it will be a shame that just as you come home, Mr. Grayson will move on to his new life.”

Samuel’s start was almost comical.

He and Robbie turned to stare at Charles, who gave a dismissive shrug.

“Oh, of course he won’t leave right away. Didn’t you say you’re supposed to tutor your cousin in estate matters, Mr. Grayson?”

“These plans are still forming.” The look of disgust Robbie directed at him was pointed. This man had a dislike for plain speaking.

Charles reflected that though an invalid should take entertainment where he could, he should stop needling Robbie, or he might be abandoned.

“My mistake, then,” Charles said.

Samuel took another circuit of the room. He glared at a marble bust of Shakespeare, lifted the lid of the Majolica cigar humidor, then put it down with a clink that threatened to crack the pottery.

He took a very long minute to examine the armoire and trunk hauled down from the attic to hold Charles’s small collection of belongings.

“Hardly suitable furnishings for a library.” Samuel’s nose wrinkled with distaste.

“This arrangement is temporary,” Robbie said.

“Very well.” Samuel waved a hand as if dismissing the matter. “Lord, I’m hungry. I’ll see you at tea, I expect,” he said in that irritating manner of a young man who knows he’s vastly superior to the people he addresses. Charles suddenly understood there were advantages to succumbing to illness, injury and helplessness. The humility they created stopped one from behaving like that young fool.

He watched the replica of himself from a year earlier saunter from the library. Something deep inside Charles relaxed or perhaps gave up. He would never regain that blithe confidence that he was king of all he surveyed. And he was surprisingly glad of it.

“Are you determined to make trouble?” Robbie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Not at all. Do tell me, does young Samuel snap his fingers when servants don’t move quickly enough to do his bidding?”

“How did you know?”

“He reminds me of someone I used to know.”

Robbie thumped into the chair next to him. Charles wished he could pull poor Robbie into his arms and comfort him. Still, the glare he directed at Charles was silly.

Charles said, “My friend, you’ve already lied to me today. Don’t try to convince me you and young Samuel are the best of friends and I’ve blundered and caused irreparable harm to that friendship.”

Robbie growled. “No, of course not. But perhaps Uncle Phillip wished to broach the subject of Samuel’s future with his son. It wasn’t your place to do so.”

“Perhaps.” Charles shrugged. “Do you suppose it’s a surprise to Samuel that he was to take your place?”

“No.” Robbie stretched one of his legs in front of him, slumped down in his seat and rested his folded hands on his flat stomach, a position far more informal, and defeated, than his usual posture. “And so I must beg your pardon. Of course Samuel knows or must strongly suspect his father’s plans.”

“Why were you so upset?”

It was Robbie’s turn to shrug. He propped his elbow on the mahogany table and rested his chin on his hand. At least he’d lost the angry twist to his mouth.

Charles waved a hand to catch his attention.

Robbie almost smiled. “Go on, you must have theories. I’m sure you’re eager to tell me.” His eyes had regained the light of patience and humor.

Charles considered lying, but, even if he might drive off his one friend, he’d lost patience with dissembling. “I expect you’re upset because your uncle probably discussed the situation with your cousin but not with you. It’s difficult to feel vital and needed when you’re not consulted about your own position.” More harping upon the theme of humiliation, he thought.

“It hardly matters why I was upset. I’m not anymore. I am master of my emotions.”

“I can see that.”

“Yes, and I hope you respect my position on the matter.” Robbie gave him a crooked smile. “
Lord,
as my cousin would say. Forgive me. I’m rude again. It’s just that I don’t like what you said just before Samuel came into the room…”

“I’d accused you of wanting me.” Charles leaned close. “We hadn’t gotten to the other half of that interesting conversation. I want you too. Very much. I want to hold you and kiss you and do unspeakably obscene and wonderful things with you.”

Robbie jumped up quickly and backed away as if Charles held a knife or had transformed into a poisonous snake. He breathed hard. “Please. Don’t do that, Charles.”

“All right.” Charles leaned back in his chair. He wanted to call Robbie a coward, but that was unfair. He’d give his friend time to absorb the idea, sleep on it—or lose sleep over it.

“You are smiling at me,” Robbie accused.

“I like you.”

“Good heavens. You’ve said as much in a most unseem—”

Charles interrupted, “‘I want you’ and ‘I like you’ are two different statements, Robbie. Both happen to be true. You told me to shut up about the one only. Do you want me to stay silent about our friendship as well?”

A small smile quirked Robbie’s mouth but only for a moment. “Of course not. Despite my best judgment, I like you too.”

Charles felt absurdly pleased. “You want me as well, but I promise not to mention that again.”

“No you shouldn’t talk—”

“Robbie! Didn’t you hear me? I
won’t
mention it. Any further conversation on the subject will be up to you, my friend. I won’t turn you into a victim of my lust. Or yours,” he added, because honestly, watching Robbie squirm was amusing.

“Worthington,” he groaned.

“Yes?” Charles adopted the attitude of eager innocence. That manner worked so well when Robbie employed it.

“You’re… Never mind.” Robbie sat again and folded his arms tight over his chest. “Please. I ask you as a friend. Leave off. It’s—it hurts.”

“Why?”

“I owe everything to Uncle Phillip. Without his aid, I might have ended up in a foundling home. He didn’t have to claim me, but he did. And you and I both know that any sort of inappropriate affection between us would pain him deeply. Do not ask me to indulge in anything that would insult my uncle. Especially while I live under his roof and eat his food.”

The quiet dignity of his answer—as well as his honesty—made Charles swallow his sniping comment about prudishness. “Alas. I’m right on all counts. Although it hardly gives me any sense of satisfaction to know I’m not the only one to suffer from unrequited…er…lust.”

Robbie opened his mouth but then just shook his head.

“Yes, I know you’re fed to the eyeteeth with this conversation, but it’s important to have it out in the open.”

“Why? Why do we need to talk about something that will never happen and that my family finds despicable?”

“At least you didn’t include yourself in that phrase about ‘despicable’. I’m glad you’re not one of those dreary men who hate their desires. You’re a plucky soul, dear Robbie.”

“I don’t have any reason to love that part of myself. I would much prefer to want something better.” Charles heard the unspoken part of the statement:
I wished I desired women.

“Yes, and you want to dance and fence too, my poor friend.” For the first time in quite a long while, Charles felt pity for someone other than himself. “But as you said yesterday or perhaps the day before, some things must be borne, and if we carry that weight, we might as well do so cheerfully. And now we both are aware of an extra burden we each carry.”

“About each other,” Robbie muttered, and it was as close to a confession as Charles would hear.

Enough.

He lightly brushed Robbie’s knuckles, hiding his surprise created by the heat of the contact. “Truly, I’m done and won’t torment you any longer. But baring the truth even for a few minutes is better than pretending it doesn’t exist. We will hide it again, see?” He closed his hands into fists and then mimed opening them with the dramatic flourish of a conjuror in a music hall. “Hey presto, and it is gone forever.” He couldn’t help adding, “Unless you find you wish to say more.”

Robbie rolled his eyes. Charles laughed.

He wanted Robbie more than he’d wanted any man in his life, hardly surprising when he reflected that it had been so very long since he’d held anyone. And of course, forbidden pleasures are the ones that tug hardest.

“Shall we go to tea?” Robbie asked.

He was about to answer when the tingling began. “No, oh no.”

“Charles? What’s wrong?”

Perhaps there was a wrathful god and Charles was being punished for attempting to seduce a good man. The fatigue hit him. Again. The sheer weight rolled over him, almost worse than the tingling fingers, the wave of tiredness so bone-deep he couldn’t lift his arm.

This awful symptom had stopped weeks ago. He’d finally beaten many of the imaginary foes in his body, and now the fact that this symptom returned, swooping out of the blue, was enough to make him want to scream and beat his own body to obey him.

If only he hadn’t emptied his flask with Forrester. He could drink and deaden the dread.

“Are you upset?” Robbie leaned close. “What’s wrong?” He peered into Charles’s eyes, so close he looked from one eye to the other. “You’re not punishing me with silence, are you?”

“No, no.” Charles felt his answer coming from far beyond his own body. “It’s nothing.”

At least he could speak. At the very worst time, when he thought he might die, his voice had failed him and he’d been trapped, mute, in his own body.

He stared up at Robbie’s worried eyes. “I’m fine,” he lied.

If his bladder stopped functioning this time, at least he could blame Gemma’s little dog.

Indignity.

He knew Robbie wouldn’t go away unless he explained. “Sometimes, I have what I call spells.”

“Do they last long?”

Charles swallowed. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t lie to Robbie. “Well. The longest lasted perhaps four months. But the doctors say it’s nothing, or rather it’s not really my body’s look-out.” He pretended to laugh,
ha-ha, it’s all absurd,
but his voice had grown thick and emerged peculiar, grating like a rake across gravel.

“That’s nonsense. I can see you’ve changed. Your skin has grown pale. Your eyelids are too heavy. Don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“You believe me.” Charles’s voice went gruff for a different reason now.

“I believe my own eyes, for pity’s sake. And you tell me your symptoms, of course I believe you. There is something physically wrong with you. And I would call a physician, not a nerve specialist, to help you.”