Mending Him (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Charles used his handkerchief to wipe himself off. The incident, a bit of groping and awkward frottage, would once have struck him as nothing spectacular. The whole thing from kiss to finish took less than fifteen minutes. A real treat would be Robbie, naked on a wide bed, some delicious oils and several long hours of privacy. He grinned into the night as he shoved his shirt back into his trousers and buttoned himself up.

But he fooled himself to call this mere fumbling. What they’d just done together had been glorious. The fast and furious session, uncertain groping and all, had been quite his most erotic encounter for years. His previous high point, his first surprisingly educational session with the flexible Paul Martin, might even be eclipsed. Hunger, he reflected, made the bread taste like a feast.

Or perhaps it was Robbie’s avid response that had made it memorable. Who would have guessed that the quiet young man would turn into a lithe animal? And with such an ability to use simple words to set a man on fire. All right. Charles might have guessed all that, thought about that, imagined that for days now. Yes, hunger and anticipation and a lewd imagination given too much time to dwell on details—those gathered together to turn what might have been a grubby little encounter into the stuff of dreams.

“Are you all right?” Robbie, sitting next to him now, pressed him from shoulder to hip.

“Never better, my Robbit.”

“No, I say. Why have you invented that odious nickname?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I’m an adult, a man, not a stuffed animal.” He sounded amused rather than indignant.

“Mm.” Charles stretched and yawned. He resolved to use the name whenever they were alone together. Every bone in his body felt melted and reformed. Not a tightness or tingling disturbed him. “I had no hopes for tonight, but you have made it a most agreeable outing.”

“And now? What shall happen now?” Robbie sounded serious and entirely sober.

Charles tried to stifle his impatience, but, by God, he knew this would happen. “Are you feeling regret? Argh, I knew you would regain your damnable conscience and—”

“The only regret I feel is that I can’t do that again, now or later or every day for the rest of my life.”

That silenced Charles as nothing else could. “You astound me,” he said after a full minute of silence. “I thought you’d speak of your obligation to Phillip.”

Robbie groaned. “I had managed to forget that topic for a time. But yes, you’re right to bring me back to reality.” He shuffled on his seat, jumped down and rustled in the bushes.

“Are you doing what I think you are, my proper Robbit? Peeing in the great outdoors?”

“I am a country lad,” Robbie said as he climbed back up. “But I was reclaiming the reins. I tied the pony up. Don’t call me Robbit.”

“Did you? To that tree? I hadn’t even noticed.” And Robbie was the one who’d had too much to drink this evening. Charles had been too intent on dreaming of kisses.

“One more,” he said aloud. “One more kiss for luck before we reclaim the road and return to the hall.”

Robbie leaned to him, and their mouths met perfectly for a long, languid and sweet exchange, with heat flaring at the end. Charles pulled away, panting.

“You leave me breathless.” He couldn’t see Robbie in the darkness but heard his soft laugh.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way home. The air was cool and held the scent of growing things and the hint of coming rain. Robbie had to pay careful attention.

A cloud covered the moon, and the dark road was nearly invisible, though the pony apparently knew the way well enough to trot. At last the twinkling lights of the hall became visible.

As they drew close to the gates, Robbie said, “Your chair will be waiting at the side, and I’ll take you into bed.”

“Wish you could stay there with me.”

Robbie didn’t say anything, but Charles felt his body stiffen.

“
Pax
, Robbit. Once we enter those gates, the old arrangement stands. No torturing you with attempts at seduction. I’ll be thinking of our brief encounter night and day, but I won’t attempt to repeat it. That shall be up to you.”

“Thank you.” Robbie sounded thoroughly sober and himself again.

Had he really succumbed to alcohol or had he needed to pretend he was squiffed to gather the nerve for their encounter? Charles wouldn’t accuse him of fakery. He was too grateful for the evening and those kisses. He touched his mouth with his fingers, glad for the slight tenderness created by Robbie’s beard. “Thank you,” he said. “I feel better than I have…” He stopped to consider. “Than I have for a very, very long time. I feel alive.”

“We are through the gates,” Robbie reminded him.

“Ha, and perhaps it was the outing, the company in the inn, or the starlight that brought me such enormous…pleasure.”

Robbie chuckled.

Charles could undress himself these days, but Robbie had gotten into the habit of standing near to help him should his trousers cause trouble—or perhaps he lingered for other reasons. Now Robbie positioned himself at the far end of the room, with a writing table between them, as if he could flee should Charles make another attempt at seduction.

“Will Samuel be all right, do you suppose?” Charles called over to him.

Robbie rubbed his brow as if trying to recall who exactly Samuel was. “Yes, I hope so. Perhaps I should go tell Uncle Phillip where he is.”

“If you carry tales, it will only serve to make the boy’s resentment stronger.”

The frown deepened as if this obvious point was hard to understand.

“I didn’t think of it that way,” Robbie said. He came around the table and moved closer. “You’re right. I’m used to acting as my uncle’s agent.”

“You are Samuel’s cousin, not his keeper.”

“Yes. I’m to keep an eye on him and help him, but I don’t suppose that means being his nursemaid.” He sat heavily on the chair near Charles’s bed. “The trouble is, should he get into trouble, I will at least share the blame.”

Charles, who’d managed to strip to his drawers, paused as he pulled on the loose gown he wore at night. “Truly?” he said, astonished.

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s idiotic. Samuel is no child. Phillip, a strong-willed man with power over the puppy’s purse, can’t keep him in line. How does he expect you to accomplish the task—you, a cousin Samuel apparently barely heeds?”

The frown returned. “I—I don’t know.”

“You’re wearing the dourest expression. This is not worthy of doom and gloom.”

Robbie mastered his features, then slapped his thighs. “Yes, I expect you’re right. I shall leave you and go to my own bed.”

Robbie, running away again. Obviously he was not interested in discussing the fact that his uncle wasn’t a perfect man. The old Charles would have pointed this out, of course, ready to drive home a point no matter the consequences. Being right and self-righteous felt delicious. But Charles knew Robbie and suspected loyalty would drive him to defend the uncle he’d always admired. Better to let him think about this on his own.

“Will you be busy tomorrow too? I missed you today.” He winced at his own wheedling tone. “Poor Robbie, pulled in all directions by uncle and invalid.”

Robbie looked up then, the ghost of the smile on his face again, his eyes less troubled. “I think I shall be able to help you with your exercises again tomorrow. After all, the sooner you are able to walk, the sooner…” He waved a vague hand.

Yes, the sooner what will happen? The family might reclaim their library? The sooner he might be shuffled off to another branch of the family or perhaps a small cottage on Phillip’s lands? A decrepit dependent, waiting for the soup and attention.

Charles bit the inside of his lip sharply to bring him out of these familiar useless thoughts. Then he recalled that the sooner he recovered, the sooner Robbie might move along to something brighter than life at the hall. He’d move to London again, perhaps, or at least Durham, and he would have a chance to discover work he enjoyed and start his real life.

The thought of remaining trapped in this house or village or of removing to another distant cousin’s home seemed far less dreary than the thought of losing Robbie forever.

He realized Robbie waited for him to say something. “Yes. The sooner the better,” he said at last. “Good night and sleep well, Robbit.”

Robbie groaned. “I shall have to think of some odious name for you, Worthlessington.”

“Maybe, but
that
is most definitely not a good start.”

Robbie moved forward as if he would drop a kiss on Charles’s mouth or forehead. Instead he patted his upper arm and picked up the trousers and other clothing Charles, still untrained to life without a manservant, had dropped on the floor. Robbie folded them as if he were a valet, moving gravely as if this was important work. No matter what Robbie did, his employment would never demean him. He would take every task seriously.

Charles had lost any interest in mocking that sort of intensity. Watching that solemn face as Robbie inspected a bit of dirt on the sleeve of a jacket, Charles wished he could make things well and right for his friend. This new desire settled deep within him. It would make a fine replacement for self-pity.

He smiled, and Robbie caught sight of the grin and returned it, that shy, pleased smile Charles tried so hard to coax from him.

God in heaven, he did love that smile. Charles should have been panicked to realize how dearly he held it, but he already had had several moments tonight when he’d been forced to realize how important Robbie had grown. Ah well. Panic and melancholy could wait until Robbie’s time at the hall had ended. In the meantime, he’d enjoy the moments they would grab together. He felt confident more kisses lay in his future.

Chapter Ten

Rain drizzled down the windowpanes in long streaks, and the gray gloom outside made the firelight in the parlor all the cheerier. Robbie reached to turn up the flame on the kerosene lamp on top of a nearby end table. Although this room was gaslit, as were all rooms in the old house since the remodel, he needed the extra light cast by the lamp in order to see his work.

Was it work, though? No ledgers and columns full of useful numbers or information. Uncle Phillip would no doubt view Robbie’s sketches as a silly hobby. His uncle had never been foursquare behind Robbie’s time spent training under M. Richaud. He’d never understood the value of room design.
Buy a carpet, some drapes and a bit of furniture and have done with it,
was his feeling. And yet, though he hadn’t been particularly encouraging, Phillip had not stood in Robbie’s way back then. Robbie would always be grateful for that.

He dipped pen in ink and sketched a window with lightweight curtains drawn back to emit shafts of light. Every housekeeper knew that light was the enemy of upholstery and carpets. Most parlors were kept dim and shrouded on the sunniest days. Robbie thought that was a way of thinking that needed to be changed. Light should be incorporated into the room, brightening and lifting the spirits of all who entered.

The furniture should be lighter too. Surely the penchant for dark, hulking, over-upholstered pieces must end soon. If he were a designer, he would suggest his clients return to the graceful, airy lines of French provincial, but with a sparer style, fewer curlicues and less gilt.

Robbie sketched a sofa and a cluster of chairs companionably grouped together in that shaft of sunlight. He placed a few
objets d’art
on the fireplace mantel in his room and scribbled a few paintings on the wall—only a few, not stacked on top of each other all the way to the ceiling.

“Less is more,”
M. Richaud used to say.
“The eye can only observe so many details at once, and a cluttered room is stifling to the soul.”

Of course, Richaud’s method of design was old-fashioned and anathema to what most modern citizens considered good taste. But he was slowly making inroads among a few elite and forward-thinking members of society. Eventually the rest must surely follow.

Robbie blew lightly over the ink to make certain it was dry, then turned the page. He measured out the distances—chin to eyes, eyes to hairline—and blocked in the rough approximation of a face. Drawing people was not his forte, but he was accomplished enough, and infatuated enough, to soon produce a fair approximation of the face that haunted him constantly.

Charles Worthington had invaded his life, his mind, and now, even his sketchbook. Robbie added a sparkle to the eyes, twisted up the right corner of the mouth in a mocking smile and added more curl to the hair. He wished he had his watercolors handy so he might try to find the exact shade of mahogany for that hair.

The parlor door opened, and Robbie jumped and snapped the sketchbook closed, likely smearing Charles’s image. He turned toward the intruder and saw in living color the very face he’d tried to depict.

Stewart pushed the man’s chair, barely making it through the doorframe without scraping. An excited shaking passed through Robbie, but he schooled his face to nonchalance.

“Hoped I might find you here,” Charles said. “It’s dreadfully dull today, and you didn’t stop by to see me this morning.”

“I thought I’d… I wanted to work on some…” Robbie floundered, seemingly incapable of completing a sentence. He hoped Stewart didn’t notice his discomposure.

“What have you got there? A sketchbook? Let me see.”

“No!” Too loud, Robbie realized. “I mean, I don’t generally show my sketches to anyone.”

“Good heavens, why not? If I had any sort of skill at all, I’d be flaunting it for everyone to see. Park me over there, please, Stewart,” Charles commanded.

The footman trudged forward, pushing the chair with difficulty over the carpet and around the array of side tables and ottomans to place him near Robbie’s armchair.

“You may leave us,” Charles said, with the authoritative tone Robbie noticed he used when addressing servants. Robbie had never learned the knack himself. He could never speak so commandingly to Stewart, or Mrs. Jackson the housekeeper, or even the parlor maid, Lucy.

Once Stewart had closed the door behind him, Charles leaned forward as far as he could and placed a hand on Robbie’s knee.

“No. Please don’t.” Robbie moved his leg away. “Not here.”

“Then where, and when? For I definitely need more of you.” Charles’s eyes glinted exactly as Robbie had drawn them.

Robbie shook his head. “We can’t. The other night was… I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it. But we can’t repeat what happened. Not ever.”

“No. Of course not.” Charles grinned.

“I’m quite serious.”

“Oh yes, I know.” He continued to grin like the Cheshire cat in that children’s story. If the rest of the man faded away, his rakish grin would remain, haunting Robbie.

“Stop staring at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“As if I were something you wanted to devour.” Robbie understood the double meaning and regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth.

“Ah, my dear Robbit, you can’t tease me that way and not expect me to try to kiss you.”

“I’m not teasing, damn it.” He swallowed and pushed the stopper into his bottle of ink.

“All right, so I’m not to touch you or look at you a certain way. May I at least look at your sketches? Please?”

“I don’t… They’re not…” Robbie started fumbling again. But he’d made the mistake of setting his book on the arm of the chair, too close to Charles’s fast hands. The man grabbed it and began to leaf through.

“Why, these are marvelous. Why on earth wouldn’t you want to share them?” He turned another page. “The ones you’ve painted in particular. The light hues and the delicate lines of the furniture—these are rooms I could imagine living in. Certainly preferable to this monstrous collection. No offence to our dear Lenore but one can have too many Staffordshire figurines.”

Charles gestured at the room around them, so profusely packed with pictures and stuffed birds under glass and bone china ornaments that it made one giddy. He bent his head and examined the sketchbook, turning the pages slowly. “This is far better. I wonder how you came to such good taste, living here.”

“That’s enough. Hand it back, please.” Robbie felt quite light-headed and his cheeks burned. “Really. Please.”

But it was too late. Charles had reached the portrait of himself. It was a bit smeared from Robbie closing the book while the ink was still damp, but the likeness was clear.

“Oh.” Charles looked from the drawing to Robbie. “This is how you see me? I look like a smug, arrogant jackass.”

“No. Oh, no.” Robbie frowned. “Your smile isn’t smug, it’s charismatic, and that devilish glint in your eyes—”

“Makes me look the very devil.” Charles touched the eyes on the drawing.

“Charms me right out of my senses,” Robbie finished. “Everything about you is like…this light.” He pointed to the shining, rose-colored globe of the tabletop lamp. “You shine. You make everything around you brighter, more colorful, livelier than it’s ever been before. I can’t imagine how dark and dreary it would be here without you.”

“But it’s you who will soon be going away,” Charles reminded him. “Back to London perhaps?”

“Or I might settle in Durham. It would be less of an adjustment. And it’s closer. Easier to make visits home from there.”

“Less opportunity there to pursue this.” Charles tapped the sketchbook, which he had mercifully closed. “Your gift is too large for a small city.”

Robbie shrugged and didn’t say anything more. His rush of words about what Charles meant to him was apparently going to pass unremarked.

But no, he should’ve known better.

“So, you think I’m a light, eh?” Charles grinned the exact devilish grin that made Robbie’s stomach flip. “
Colorful and bright and lively,
I believe? And yet you still think you can withdraw into your shell and pretend that what happened between us is a one-time event? Come now, Robbie. You know better. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ but of ‘when’. Somehow we will find time to be together again.”

Together.
Robbie knew what that meant now. Not merely longing looks or the occasional graze of a hand. They couldn’t be content with that any longer.
He
couldn’t. Charles was right to think him foolish to believe it.

“All right, then. I will admit that I do want more of
that,
what we did together. But it will certainly not be anywhere in this house.” Robbie glanced at the rain streaking the windowpanes. “And we will surely not go riding anyplace today. So for now, we shall just be friends again. A game of chess perhaps?”

Charles sighed deeply and flopped back into his chair. “All right. I’ve won my point and will concede the match. For today, we will resume being merely friends.” He extended his leg and brushed the toe of his shoe up Robbie’s calf. Charles winced slightly as if his leg ached, but Robbie was pleased to note he could make this small movement. “Friends who occasionally touch each other,” Charles added.

“You are incorrigible. Perhaps you truly are possessed by the devil,” Robbie teased, but he didn’t move his leg away.

As he clutched his notebook and gathered up his pens, elation and pride filled him. He was glad Charles had seen his work and expressed more than mere politeness. Watching Charles’s reaction as he’d studied the drawings, Robbie had seen true interest and admiration in those dark eyes.

Charles was the first person to care about his talent or mention that he had any. Of course, M. Richaud had found Robbie’s work worthwhile, which counted for a great deal, but there was something even more satisfying about having someone close to him offer him praise.

“Let me put my drawing things away, and I’ll meet you in the library at the chessboard,” Robbie said. “I’ll send Stewart to move you there.”

“For now. But soon enough, I’ll be ambulating on my own with the crutches. Look.”

Charles reached out to take hold of the arm of the chair Robbie had been sitting in. After placing both feet firmly on the floor, he heaved himself out of the chair and upright with a grunt. His forehead glistened with sweat and he swayed, but he remained that way for a full minute.

It was the first time Robbie had seen Charles standing, and it sent a powerful twinge through him—happiness that his friend had regained his feet, a thrill of attraction at how handsome Charles looked standing his full height, and dismay and melancholy as he realized their time together was limited.

Charles was absolutely right. Before that time ended, they would, they
must
come together again. Robbie couldn’t go out into the world regretting the moments he hadn’t seized, the opportunities he’d lost due to straitlaced foolishness.

“Well done, Charles,” he said. “I’m so proud of how far you’ve come in such a short time.”

The smile Charles gave him as he dropped back into his chair wasn’t smug at all. In fact, to Robbie, it appeared shy, touched by the compliment. More of the angel than the devil about this diffident Charles.

Impulse grabbed him, and Robbie stepped over to the man in the wheelchair. He brushed his hand through that lovely ginger hair and let it rest on the warmth of Charles’s head for a moment, then he bent and pressed a kiss to Charles’s forehead, another to his mouth.

His heart pounded as he moved quickly away, nearly rushing out the door with his sketchbook under his arm.