Mending Him (8 page)

The publican brought the first round of drinks directly to their table, a gesture of honor for members of one of the best families in the district. The old man’s face was seamed with wrinkles, and veins traced his cheeks and his purple nose. A habitual drinker, unsurprising given his livelihood.

“Welcome,” he greeted them. “Good to have you back, Master Samuel.”

“You’ll likely see a lot of me now, Mister…”

“Green,” Robbie supplied.

“Oh right. Mr. Green. I do recall. Go ahead and chalk it on the slate, my good man.”

The welcoming smile on Green’s face dimmed. “Yes, sir.”

Charles knew that look. He’d seen it on the face of his tailor, his barber, and many other tradesmen, who feared giving offense to a superior even more than they feared running a line of credit. Eventually those faces had grown harder and the demands for money more urgent. Only when lawsuits threatened had Charles come to the realization that his old life was truly over.

“Well, gents. Here we are. Drink up.” Samuel’s bonhomie was as thin as tissue paper and nearly as transparent. Charles wasn’t quite certain why the young man, who clearly resented both of them, had dragged them to the alehouse with him, but he guessed it had much to do with Samuel dreading quietness and the opportunity to look into his own soul.

Such deep and maudlin thoughts for so early in the evening and after only a few sips of beer, yet Charles couldn’t help but continue to see his old self reflected in young Samuel Chester. Drinking, carousing, gambling and any sort of diversion had always been preferable to time spent alone. But now he didn’t mind solitude nearly as much. He’d come to terms with it. And it was much easier with Robbie there to talk to. Quiet evenings were pleasant at last. He’d never have guessed that playing cards with Gemma and Bertie would be preferable to, say, going to the races with his friends. If he were healthy and wealthy again and able to pursue livelier activities, Charles realized he was no longer much interested in them.

After about fifteen minutes of monologue about his friends and their adventures in Europe, Samuel interrupted his own chatter. “Lord, but you two are gloomy! We’re here to have fun. Do you know any jokes or bawdy stories, anything to pass the time?”

Charles met Robbie’s gaze over the rim of the glass Robbie drank from—another deep draught, Charles noticed. Robbie rolled his eyes, and Charles smiled.

“Yes. I have a tale. Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” Charles began.

Just then the door of the crowded Rye and Oats opened, and a party of young people came into the pub along with a blast of cool air. Several gentlemen were accompanied by a couple of brightly dressed ladies who appeared very fun-loving and more than a little drunk already. Boisterous voices and loud laughter proclaimed their presence.

“Isn’t that Jarrod Watersmith?” Samuel asked, nodding toward a young man with extremely wide lapels and a garish green-and-yellow-striped waistcoat. “I do believe it is.” He lifted his hand and half rose from his seat. “Smithy, could that be you? It’s been dogs’ years since I’ve seen you.”

“Jarrod Watersmith?” Charles asked Robbie.

Robbie shrugged and set down his empty glass. “Another land-owning family in the district. They run mostly sheep. The family hasn’t been here as long as the Chesters, but they’re certainly well established.” He squinted at the group. “I believe the other men must be visiting friends, and the ladies…”

“Ah, the ladies I believe I recognize,” Charles said archly. “They’re the sort who hover around rich young gentlemen, hoping for a leg up in the world.”

Robbie frowned and squinted harder before leaning toward Charles. “Pros-itutes?”

Sour mash scented his breath. Drunk, off one tall glass of ale? Charles smiled and shook his head.

“Maybe not quite, but certainly women of easy virtue.”

Robbie seemed to study the fancy-dressed escorts, who bloomed like fresh flowers in the purely masculine pub.

Around the big room came soft mutters about forward women and the lack of a ladies’ bar in the small pub, but no one demanded the ladies leave.

Samuel leaped out of his seat and was across the room in three strides, greeting his boyhood friend. He spoke loud enough that Charles and Robbie could clearly hear him. “Odd we haven’t run across each other before now, seeing as we occupy the same circles.”

“I spent some time in New York with relatives.” Watersmith spoke with a world-weary drawl even more affected than Samuel’s. His auburn hair lay in artfully tousled curls, no doubt made wilder at the hands of one of the young ladies in the group. He studied Samuel with keen eyes, as if assessing what, if any, value his old acquaintance might have. Charles recognized that look. He was sure he’d worn it himself as a younger man. If Watersmith deemed Samuel less than up to snuff, he’d cut off the conversation, but if he thought Samuel might fit in with his crowd, he’d bring him along. “Quite a different world across the puddle. I highly recommend it. Do catch me up on what you’ve been doing.”

“I graduated and toured Europe. You simply must go.”

Samuel pulled up a chair at the table of fun, lively youths without ever looking back at his relations.

“Well, there’s dear Samuel lost to us.” Charles shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Appears he’s found greener pastures with the shepherd’s son.”

“Well, the Watersmiths don’t actually
tend
the sheep. They only own the land.” Robbie spoke as seriously as a parson. The little furrow between his brows was adorable and Charles abruptly wanted to kiss it—kiss tipsy Robbie right there on his forehead.

Robbie lifted a hand, hailing the server to ask for another drink.

“Do you feel maybe you’ve had enough?” Charles asked, utterly aware at the irony of
him
being the one to worry about quantities of alcohol imbibed in.

“It tastes quite good. Very quenching,” Robbie said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything other than a glass of wine or port to drink.”

“It’s fairly potent beer,” Charles warned.

“Yes. Rich and dark and with an interesting aftertaste.” Robbie held the glass of ale up to the light and studied it intently.

“Oh, my friend, you are going to have a big head on you come morning.”

Robbie looked at him. “Big head?”

“A morning-after headache,” Charles explained. “You’re not used to drinking at all.”

“Nonsense. I’m fine.” Robbie slurred his esses like a music hall parody of a drunk.

“Perhaps we should leave after you finish your drink. I hardly think Samuel will mind if he’s left to find his own way home.”

They both looked over to the table where uproarious laughter erupted. One of the girls had sidled up close to Samuel and was whispering in his ear.

“No, I don’t think Samuel will miss us at all,” Robbie agreed. “Whoo. I feel a little woozy. I suppose I wouldn’t mind some fresh air. I’ll get someone to help transport you to the cart and tell Shmamual…tell my cousin what we’re about.”

He rose from his chair, swayed for a second and touched the edge of the table to steady himself, then Robbie moved with slow, stately steps across the room, relying heavily on his cane to keep him upright.

It took him a moment to get Samuel’s attention. The young man was much more interested in what the pretty blonde had to say than in listening to his dreary cousin. At last he turned to Robbie with an expression of exasperation.

The din of voices in the pub had grown so loud that Charles couldn’t hear the exchange, but a wave of Samuel’s hand let him know they were cavalierly dismissed. Good! He’d had more than enough of the boy’s company for one evening.

It galled him that he couldn’t stand and walk to the cart under his own steam. Waiting to be carried like an infant was excruciating. Charles finished off his glass of India Pale Ale. A drop in the bucket, not remotely enough to fog his senses—unlike Robbie, who weaved his way back to Charles with a couple of hefty young lads in tow.

In short order, they’d laced their hands and lifted him up, with an arm around their shoulders. The night breeze was a slap in the face after the overheated pub. Charles felt every sense alive with awareness as he settled onto the front seat of the pony trap beside Robbie.

After thanking the young men, Robbie took the reins and clucked at the little pony to move it forward. The cart rattled over cobblestones in town and a rutted dirt road once they reached the village limits. Charles clung to the edge of the bench as the cart jostled over a particularly deep pit, sliding him even closer to Robbie. Their hips and thighs pressed together warmly.

Charles glanced at Robbie’s profile, the high-bridged nose and strong chin, eyes on the road before them. They were alone out here on the country road. Completely alone, without any chance of a servant or cousin or anyone else interrupting them. It was all Charles could do not to put his hand on Robbie’s thigh, just to check his reaction. But he’d promised he wouldn’t push beyond friendship—not unless invited.

Overhead, brilliant stars glittered in a velvet sky and a nearly full moon rose above the trees. Charles tipped his head back to study the stars, so beautiful and aloof and far above human weaknesses and tragedies, hopes and fears. He tilted his chin back down to say something along those lines to Robbie, only to find Robbie staring at him.

He dropped the reins into his lap, giving the pony its head. The animal continued to plod forward while Robbie reached out, grasped the back of Charles’s neck and dragged him in for a kiss.

Charles grunted in surprise. Explosions went off inside him. His lips burned. It was as if he’d never been kissed before, and it wasn’t as though Robbie had some great technique. His lips were a bit dry, his mouth closed and mashed bruisingly against Charles’s mouth, but the
fact
of that kiss, the desperate passion behind it, was thrilling.

He’d dreamed of this for days but had begun to realize nothing was actually going to happen between them. Now here it was Robbie who’d gone berserk and was attacking him with kisses and holding him so tightly he could hardly breathe. Astonishing and wonderful what a glass or two of ale could do!

But Charles didn’t want to take advantage of Robbie’s drunken state. He would hate regrets to arise the next morning and possibly ruin their friendship. Charles took Robbie by the shoulders and gently pushed him back.

“Do you know what you’re doing? Are you sure?” He looked into lust-glazed eyes that glittered in the moonlight.

“Yes.” Robbie exhaled the word on a sigh. “Yes, I’m absolutely sure. I’m not
that
inebriated. I know what I want.”

Charles assessed Robbie’s commitment and level of tipsiness before nodding. “All right, then. Why don’t you pull this cart onto some quiet lane off the main road where there’s no chance of anyone passing by.”

“And then we can kiss some more?”

Charles smiled. “Then we can kiss
and
more.”

Chapter Eight

Only a few splotches of moonlight penetrated the dark grove Robbie chose. He tied the pony to a sapling, then climbed back up to Charles and more kisses. Their hats ended up in the cart. Their ties and collars soon joined the hats. The cob dozed in its traces.

No boundaries lay between Robbie and astounding pleasure.

Beautiful night, beautiful kisses, beautiful man in his arms. Euphoria bubbled over inside him as Charles pressed his
beautiful
soft lips against Robbie’s. Oh, so this was how it was done. Charles slid his lips softly, lightly over Robbie’s. He nibbled. He teased. He coaxed Robbie to open his lips and then, oh! His warm, wet tongue slid inside.

Robbie whimpered with sharp longing. Everything in his past, lascivious, guilty daydreams were nothing compared to this yearning. He had to get closer, touch as much of Charles as he could.

The large hands cupping his head held him steady, but as he moved closer, wrapping his arms around Charles, the dratted fingers grasped his shoulders and pushed him away. He opened his eyes and, in the pale shaft of moonlight, realized Charles regarded him steadily, without the usual smile he aimed at Robbie.

“Robbie. Now I’m remembering too much. Those things you said just yesterday in the library.”

Robbie’s lips felt chilled without the intoxicating heat of Charles against them. His mind whirled as if he’d drunk a dozen pints of ale. Why in God’s name was Charles talking when they should be kissing? Words abandoned him. He gave a small noise, a mix of protest and confusion, instead. “Hrm?”

Charles explained, “When I informed you that we would eventually come together, you appealed to my better self. You pointed out that you respect Phillip.”

“I do.” Robbie nodded.

“That respect meant following his rules under his roof,” Charles said.

A loophole. “We aren’t under his roof.”

“Is it that simple? I like you, Robbie, don’t forget. I won’t have you blaming yourself or me if you should end up with a wagonload of guilt. It has to be more than the beer speaking.”

“More than the beer speaking?” he repeated. Was that an expression he knew?

Charles said, “Ah, perhaps I’ve had a bit too much to drink as well. When alcohol is running through one’s system, it can make one abandon long-held principles.”

Robbie felt the rise and fall of Charles’s chest. A sigh. He went on, speaking slowly as if feeling his way through a novel thought. Robbie knew that sensation. He’d experienced it frequently since Charles had come to the hall—bombshells of emotion and beliefs, new and frightening and burning through his old notions.

He’d been blown up by his new friend. Now he needed Charles to put Robbie back together—more of those kisses and embraces would do the trick nicely. Less thinking. More action.

But Charles was still speaking, and he must pay attention. “If you avoided me after…after we indulged, I would be extremely—I would be bereft. Losing you as a friend would make me sadder than missing the chance for some embraces.” He sounded astounded by his own thinking.

“Ha! We are good friends, Mr. Worthington. I know that. Such good, close friends, but I think closer would be better.” He stroked his hand over Charles’s cheek, and ran his fingers through the thick, soft hair. Mm. He wanted to feel that hair against his mouth, perhaps taste the skin at his temple and throat, but dammit, Charles still gripped his shoulders.

“You contradict yourself.”

“Yes, I do.” Robbie laughed. “Every day is a giant hodgepodge of contradictions in my heart and brain when it comes to you. But see? It’s night, not day. We’re not under my uncle’s roof, and it is dark, and no one will know. If I have any regrets tomorrow, they will be mine alone, and I won’t blame you.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out the small leather-bound notebook he carried, along with the nub of a pencil. “See? I shall write this down right next to my estimations of the barley crop.” He flipped open the small book, such a familiar action, licked the end of the pencil, and began to write.

“I am an adult.” He read the words he couldn’t see in the dark as he scrawled them in his book. “Anything I do tonight or any other night or day is my own look-out. No one else can be blamed for my actions, including my good, dear friend, Mr. Charles Worthington. Tonight I will concentrate only on desire. Signed, Robert Grayson.”

“I had no notion you were capable of such silliness.” Charles’s smile warmed his voice.

“I had no idea either. I think it’s good for me.” Robbie suddenly felt solemn as he tucked book and pencil away. Somehow, saying and writing those words felt as if he’d evoked a genuine pledge. “Casting away concerns just for tonight, just for now—that will be good. I don’t think I have ever purposefully abandoned duty. Another fresh experience thanks to you.”

“Yes, this is new for me as well.”

“You? You are a man of the world. You know all about pleasure. You have kissed hundreds of men and touched them too.” The thought of this made his breath come faster. Charles would use those clever, experienced hands on him.
Now. Soon.

“Hardly hundreds. The new experience is that I’m forced to worry about my partner.”

Robbie patted the notebook in his waistcoat. “I’m not your concern, see? We’re done with talking, damn you.”

“What would you like to do instead?” That warm, teasing tone would undo him.

“No talking, no thinking—that leaves only feeling. I want to touch every inch of you. I wish we could undress and be naked, but not here.”

“No,” agreed Charles. The single word was a growl.

“But I shall touch you,” Robbie warned. “As much of you as I can.”

“I hardly recognize you, Robbie.”

“I don’t recognize myself. Come here. Oh, pardon. I forgot.” He must go to Charles, whose legs didn’t work, but then there was a creak and a shift, and Charles had moved close. He grabbed Robbie and hauled him onto his lap.

Robbie leaned into a kiss and, yes, his hungry fingers found that warm hair, the unshaved skin and those impossibly wide, muscular shoulders.

Charles’s arms surrounded him, a shelter and the storm in the same locked embrace.

The kisses turned slow again, gentle and exploratory. But Robbie’s restlessness returned. He needed to move, and he must discover all of Charles. Hands weren’t enough. His body from his head to his cock to his thighs, hell, his toes, ached to touch Charles. He clutched Charles’s jacket and twisted. Placing his knees on the bench, Robbie spread his thighs wide to accommodate the large body under him.

Now he was the taller of them and bent his head to taste Charles while he pushed, demanding and hot, against Charles’s torso and, ah, yes, that lovely hard tree branch of a cock.

The breath hissed from Robbie’s mouth as he rubbed his prick against Charles. Too much cloth separated them. He reached down and unbuttoned their flies. He drew out the tails of their shirts, pushed them up, unbuttoned their waistcoats. Several square inches of uncovered skin lay within reach. He’d seen Charles’s body while he cared for him, and had imagined exploring the texture of the firm muscle and the hair on this belly. The reality left the fantasy behind. And then, rising up to meet the skin of his belly, was that magnificent cock.

“Oh God.” Charles moaned as Robbie fumbled at their trousers, their drawers. Charles placed his hands on Robbie’s shoulders again, clutching him in an almost ceremonial position as if refusing to take part in this debauchery—even as his hips arched up.

Robbie used both hands tucked between their bodies to grip their cocks, Charles’s almost extravagantly large and round-headed, and his own, not as large but so hard for Charles, already slick and harder than he’d ever been in his life. This was excitement defined.

His balls ached for release, but he wouldn’t allow this rare pleasure to end. He wrapped both hands around Charles and explored the heat and the iron and the lovely slide of him. The hands on his shoulders squeezed almost too tightly.

“Robbie, God. Oh.” The sound of Charles’s groans and heavy, uneven breaths filled the night air.

Charles still gripped him, but Robbie pushed forward so he could rest his head on that broad shoulder, and kiss and lick the salt of his throat as he experimented with the hot iron bar of flesh in his hands, the soft hair at its base.

The ecstasy of all that skin and solid muscle for him. He could finally do what he wanted, touch and taste and kiss, barely drawing enough air as the feverish excitement gripped him.

The crisis of orgasm grew too close, and he clumsily opened his hands so he could clutch them both, slippery skin to skin. Both men groaned as their erections clashed and slid.

Charles’s front, naked and open to him—the thought was enough to send Robbie to a climax—but the touch, that was more than enough to push his pleasure into something almost too strong to bear. His head went light, and he nearly blacked out.

Charles’s hands supported him then, wrapping tightly around him and hauling him close. Charles hadn’t erupted yet. Robbie could feel the restless tension coiled in his lover’s body and the erection that still throbbed against his own uncovered belly.

“Let me,” he whispered.

Charles only gave a soft, throaty grunt of refusal. His hand wedged between them, and Robbie thrilled to the understanding that the knuckles sliding up and down, brushing him, were bringing the ultimate pleasure. This was what Charles did when alone with his desire. Touching him had been unbearably erotic. The ripple of charged awareness now was almost as arousing.

“You’re going to climax soon,” he murmured against Charles’s neck, where he could feel the fast pulse beat under his lips and hear the gasping breath. He reached down and covered Charles’s hand with his, to feel the strength, the speed and grip. Next time it would be his hand alone and maybe his mouth.

Charles shuddered and pushed up. Robbie felt the splash of heat of the superb member as it spent. He pushed his mouth to Charles’s neck and kissed him because he wanted to tell him how much he adored this, and he never wanted to give it up. He had never in all his years felt even a shadow of this richness. He couldn’t babble those words, not to the worldly Charles. Instead, he buried his nose in at the crook of Charles’s neck and held on tight until at last, Charles gently guided him off his lap to sit on the bench again. Robbie had grown sober in these minutes but was still giddy with the new experience.