The Price of Temptation Page 13

  Jamie shut his eyes, hyper-aware of his own physical being. The solid warmth of Stephen’s body beside him. The earl’s breath stirring his hair, the pressure of his arm around Jamie’s back and shoulders. The ache in his groin clamoring for attention. For release.

  “Mouse,” the earl whispered, taking one of Jamie’s hands and raising it to his lips. He nibbled a finger gently, as the carriage slowed to a stop. “We’re home, and it’s a damned cold night. Let’s go upstairs where it’s warm.”

  Jamie found his voice. “Not in my room, it isn’t.”

  “Mine, then. The fireplace doesn’t smoke, and the bed is big enough for four.”

  “I won’t ask how you determined that.” A timeless silence. “I can’t.” Jamie peered up at the earl as best he could in the uncertain light from the carriage lamp outside. “I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s not—pleasure just isn’t enough.” He laughed, a little wildly, opening the door. “Now you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? Goodnight, Stephen.”

  “Mouse... please.” But the carriage light was shining full onto his secretary’s face, and it was clear which Jamie he was dealing with. The earl slumped, defeated. “All right then. May I kiss you goodnight?”

  “Better not... oh, hell.” Jamie grabbed Stephen’s lapel and kissed him full on the mouth, thoroughly, not hiding his hunger. He let go without warning. “Goodnight,” Jamie said again, and fled into the house before he could change his mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jamie sat at the kitchen table staring into his tea the next morning, long after he should have been at work in the library. In anticipation of quarter-day coming up at Christmas, a new batch of bills had arrived with the morning mail, and they had to be figured into his plan for the systematic retirement of the earl’s debts.

  But last night’s carriage ride consumed his attention. It had been utter folly to kiss Stephen again, to express even a hint of the passion the other man had aroused in him. Unfair to himself, and unfair to Stephen, who of course was ignorant of Maria Riley’s history and the effect it had on her son. His employer was doubtlessly confused — why wouldn’t any young man who was so obviously attracted to the earl leap at the chance to bed him?

  The back door to the kitchen shut with a bang. It was Rebecca, her cheeks pink with cold, toting the day’s provisions in two wicker baskets. “Hello, Jamie. Any more of that tea left?”

  Jamie looked at his cup. “Sorry. It’s been cold for hours, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll make some new, then.” She hummed to herself as she set the kettle to boil, then unpacked her turnips and beef.

  “Rebecca?”

  The cook looked up swiftly at the plaintive appeal in his voice. “What is it?”

  “Is a mouse ever anything but a pest?” Stupid question, but Rebecca seemed unperturbed. Trusting, no doubt, that there was a good reason behind the inquiry.

  “Well, boys sometimes keep them as pets. My little brother did. It was a lively and inquisitive little thing. He adored it. Kept it in a little box for months and fed it kitchen scraps.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Cat ate it.”

  “Oh.” For some reason, Julian’s green eyes came to mind. “In case you’re wondering, it’s his lordship.”

  Rebecca poured them each some tea and sat down across from him. “I was thinking it would have to be, to keep you from your library. Did he call you a mouse?”

  “Yes. But not in a mean way. In the carriage last night. We were—he—I—oh, hell, Rebecca. I think I have feelings for him.”

  “Ah.” She added sugar to her cup, stirring thoughtfully. “And is that necessarily a bad thing?”

  “He’s offered me money. He’s offered me rare books.” Jamie stopped and swallowed a mouthful of tea, not tasting it. “Last night, he offered me... pretty much anything I wanted in bed. At least I think he did. But he’s never once—not once—said a word about how he feels about me. Well, no, that’s not quite true. He did say he admires my convictions.” Jamie laughed mirthlessly. “If he only knew how close I was to abandoning them last night.”

  Rebecca took his hand. “Jamie,” she said. “It’s hard for men to talk about their feelings.”

  Jamie squeezed her hand. “Especially if they don’t have any. Sometimes I think he does, but that might just be because I want him to so badly. Then he tries to seduce me again, and I’m scared it’s just a ploy.”

  “Oh, poppet, give him time. Charles says he likes you.”

  “Charles is an optimist, and a romantic.” Jamie took another sip of tea, then smiled at his companion. “Poppet? I’m—what?—three years older than you, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Yes, I know. But I have little brothers, and you just seem younger, sometimes, maybe because—” She shrugged.

  “Because I’m a timid little mouse.” Jamie sighed. “I’ve heard him refer to Julian as ‘the Golden One.’”

  “Don’t you think it’s encouraging that he has a pet name for you?”

  Jamie considered it. “Maybe. Maybe it is. But I wish he’d give up that blasted actor. For good, this time.”

  “He will. Don’t give up on him yet,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ll try not to. Will you do me a favor, though? If you see Charles, will you ask him to stay in tonight? I don’t think I can handle quite so much time alone with his lordship.”

  “Of course I will,” Rebecca said, rising. “I need to get to work now, poppet, but stay and talk as long as you like.”

  Jamie got to his feet. “No, I have a lot to do, too. But Rebecca,” he paused, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Oh, off with you, now,” she said, pleased.

  Neither noticed the pantry door closing softly.

  “Jamie?” Stephen opened the door to the library that afternoon and poked his head in. There was no one at the desk, but there was a clatter and sharp cry over from the fireplace.

  “Oh, your lordship! You startled me, and now I’ve banged my noggin.” The young housemaid tittered nervously, rubbing at her head.

  “Here, let me see.” The earl crossed over to the girl—what was her name? Bess? Betty? no, it was— “Betsy, you’ve got a bit of a bump. Why don’t you go have Mrs. Symmons look at it?”

  “Oh no, my lord, ‘taint nothing, this, an’ I have to finish cleaning the fireplaces by supper time, or Maisie won’t tell me a story about Christmas tonight when I go to bed, before she— Do you like Christmas, my lord?” Betsy picked up the whisk she had dropped and continued cleaning the ashes out of the fireplace.

  “Um. Yes, I do. I was looking for Mr. Riley, have you seen him?”

  “Sam said he’d make us plum pudding. I never had plum pudding, is it nice?”

  “Quite nice—especially Sam’s. But about Mr. Riley—”

  Betsy was not to be deterred. “Maisie’s been telling me all about how flash folks like you pretty up their houses with ribbons and holly and mistletoe.” She giggled. “Do you put up mistletoe, my lord?”

  “I—um—well, I suppose I could. We’ll do the house up proper for Christmas this year, but right now I’m looking—”

  “Maisie says girls get kissed under the mistletoe. Maybe Jamie would give me a kiss, like—like—” Betsy giggled again.

  “Betsy,” the earl said patiently, smiling. “If you’ve seen Jamie and me kissing, it’s probably not a good idea to talk about it too free—”

  “Not you, my lord! I meant Rebecca. Maybe if you put up mistletoe—”

  “What? He, who?” Stephen could feel the blood draining from his face, leaving him light-headed and sick.

  “Rebecca. I saw him kiss Rebecca just this morning. Well, and before, too, but not really, ‘cause the other time she kissed him, but it’s almost the same—”

  “You’ve seen them together—more than once?” Betsy didn’t notice the change in the earl’s demeanor, and laughed.

  “They’re together all the
time! Jamie and Rebecca are ever such good friends. I know a secret that I’m not supposed to know. Well, two secrets, but this one—”

  “Do share it with me,” Stephen managed.

  “Rebecca borrows Jamie’s spectacles, but she doesn’t need them at all!” Betsy said. “She just doesn’t like Jamie to hide his eyes like that—I heard her tell Charles that Jamie has the prettiest eyes she ever saw.”

  “And where—is—Mr. Riley?” his lordship whispered coldly.

  “Who, Jamie? He went out. If we have mistletoe this Christmas—oh. Well. Goodbye, my lord. I’ll tell you Maisie’s secret later.” Betsy shrugged and went back to clearing the grate.

  Damn the bitch. Stephen poured a third brandy from the good bottle, and knocked it back neatly. Rebecca, with her golden hair and soft womanly body. And damn the little mouse, too. It hurt, like salt in a raw wound, to think of Jamie kissing Rebecca with the same whole-hearted passion he had shown that second time in the library. More passionately, more whole-heartedly, without doubt. What would constrain him, with her? She was a far more comfortable match—no awkward social differences, closer in age, and of course, of course, of course: a woman. He picked up the bottle again, and a fourth measure soon joined the others in burning a hole in his guts. Oh, damn him for a duplicitous bastard.

  But that wasn’t fair, and he knew it. Jamie hadn’t played him false—all along he had resisted, and protested, and told him that he was confused and didn’t want to be involved. ‘It just isn’t enough,’ Jamie had said, last night. Isn’t enough to overcome the taboo, he’d meant, especially when there was a more conventional option waiting for him in the kitchen.

  Jamie had shown desire for him, it was true. But Stephen was well familiar with men who were attracted to other men, but chose not to follow through out of fear, or self-disgust, or because it felt safer and more comfortable to return to the familiar world of male/female relations. Men who might allow themselves to be kissed, and groped—sometimes more, who might even wake up in his bed with a shamefaced expression and an ‘I can’t believe I did that’ on their lips. Then the excuses—‘I was drunk’ ‘I didn’t know what I was doing’—‘I just needed to be with someone’—before the flight out the door, away from the temptation, away from the shame, and back to the wife or girlfriend or mistress who would make them feel like a ‘real man’ again.

  Stephen dropped his face into his hands. Sometimes, once at least, it had gone even further. His second year at Oxford, there had been an upperclassman, Mark Gregory. It had been his first serious affair after Jack. For two terms, they had been inseparable. Ate together, studied together, played together. Late at night, crept into each other’s rooms, or met in some deserted corner, to make love for hours with the stamina and enthusiasm of the young. Then it came time for Mark to leave, to graduate and take his place in society. A place, it was clear, where there was no room for Stephen.

  “Come visit me,” Stephen had begged. “Write to me. We can spend holidays together.”

  And Mark had looked at him like he was an imbecile. “Look. It was fun, but I have to join the grown-ups now. When your time comes, I suggest you do the same.”

  For Mark, at least, playing with other boys was a temporary measure, a school expediency, something you grew out of.

  Stephen had protected his heart after that, seeking his pleasures from the boys offered at the more sophisticated brothels, and eventually buying the little house in Floral Street, near Covent Garden, to keep his more expensive favorites in. He’d been fond of several of them, and even infatuated sometimes—but none of them had the power to hurt him that, it appeared, he had inadvertently bestowed on his little Mouse.

  A fifth brandy was spreading its poison through Stephen’s veins. If Jamie had been so damned reluctant, why that final, passionate kiss last night? It occurred to him that there was another sort of man he had encountered in the past, men who were thrilled by the sexual response they could elicit, who gloried in their own power to arouse, with absolutely no intention of following through. Cock-teasers.

  That time by the fire, when Jamie had allowed Stephen to kiss him until they were both well worked up, then suddenly refused to go any further. (In tears, the rational part of Stephen’s mind reminded him, but he ignored it). Last night in the carriage, letting Stephen hold him and feast on his throat. He didn’t have to do that. It was difficult, though, even with the help of alcohol, to envision Jamie for long as a cold-hearted, deliberate tease—easier by far to imagine him running timidly to the safety of Rebecca’s skirts.

  But why not a little of both? The boy might be just a little pleased with himself for inciting the kind of reaction he got from Stephen. “Well, fuck him.” Stephen twirled his brandy glass between his hands. Yes, and why not do just that? Show that prudish little mouse exactly what he’s missing. Show him what’s ‘enough.’ And if he were lucky, and that bitch Rebecca hadn’t bedded him yet, he might be able to steal him right out from under her perfect little nose.

  Stephen reached for the bottle again, then drew his hand back. He had a seduction to plan.

  The Earl of St. Joseph frowned at his reflection in the glass. “No, Charles, I think a different shirt. Where’s that silk one, with the big cuffs?”

  “I think we still have it, but the sleeves are too wide for your new coats.”

  “Then I won’t wear a coat this evening. I’m staying in, and I doubt Jamie will mind the informality.” The earl stripped off the rejected shirt and regarded his half-naked self in the mirror while Charles rooted in the wardrobe for the desired garment. Not bad — not as lean as he’d been a decade ago, perhaps, but he wasn’t running to fat, either. Strong torso, with good shoulders, narrow enough at the waist. Couldn’t fault the fit of his trousers, or the long, muscular legs they outlined so neatly. He turned for a side view. Arse wasn’t bad either. Jamie had the edge there, but that was because it was so surprising to see such nicely round buttocks on a slim frame like his. Slim, neat, compact frame, fine-boned but not—quite—delicate. Except maybe those lovely hands...

  Charles cleared his throat for the second time, and the earl tore his eyes away from the mirror. “Yes? Oh.” His valet was holding out the silk shirt, and so he put out his arms obediently and allowed himself to be dressed.

  “Now for the waistcoat. No, not the yellow one, it’s too cheerful. Something darker. What do you think — would a red be too blatantly seductive?”

  Charles was looking at him curiously. “Is that the effect we’re striving for tonight? Blatant seduction?”

  Stephen grinned. “Let’s not scare my little mouse away. Quiet seduction, make it. Which reminds me, your services are not desired tonight — go spend some time with Sam.”

  The valet blinked in indecision, engaged in some private battle. “I—I was thinking of staying home tonight. Sam has... um... Sam has a big wedding coming up,” he improvised. “He needs to work on the cakes. Try this amber one. It brings out matching tones in your eyes—very nice.”

  The earl slipped the waistcoat over the shirt and narrowed his eyes, considering the effect. “Don’t I have an amber pin of some sort? So go over to Sam’s and study your garden books while he works.”

  “Um... he says I’m too distracting. Let me look. Yes, here it is. Lovely.”

  “Too distracting, and after eight years? My, my.” The earl nodded, pleased. “This will do. If Sam doesn’t want you tonight, go out somewhere. There must be a play on somewhere, or a friend you can meet for a drink.”

  “I don’t have—I don’t have any mon—oh.” Charles blinked at the purse the earl had just tossed him, at a loss. “I—I—”

  “Did Jamie ask you to stay in with us tonight?” the earl asked.

  Charles looked around the room for inspiration, and, finding none, nodded hesitantly.

  “What exactly did he say?” There was an edge of hurt in the earl’s tones.

  “Well, actually, I haven’t spoken to him today, but Rebecca told me—�
��

  “Rebecca? Oh, Rebecca told you, did she?” No mistaking the blazing anger here. “I assure you, your little friend will come to no harm. Now, you will go out tonight, is that clear?”

  “Stephen—”

  “Charles, that is an order.”

  The valet’s jaw snapped shut in surprise. He stared in stunned silence for a moment, then said “Yes, my lord,” and turned on his heel.

  The earl watched him go, then turned back to the mirror, tilting his head this way and that to catch his reflection from all angles. Not bad, really.

  There was a knock on the door. Charles must have thought up a suitable retort.

  “Yes, what is it?” he called. The door opened, revealing Mr. Symmons.

  “Package from Hatchards for you, my lord.” The butler proffered his tray, upon which was a narrow, flat object wrapped in brown paper.

  “Must be the new Byron—is it Thursday already?”

  “Wednesday, my lord.”

  The earl shrugged. “Privilege of rank, I assume. It’s not supposed to be out until tomorrow. Thank you, Symmons.” He took the book. “I hope Jamie likes it.”

  The butler looked pleased. “Is it for Mr. Riley? How kind of you, my lord.”

  “Not at all,” the earl said shortly. “Again, thank you.”

  Mr. Symmons bowed and left, leaving him alone to contemplate whether or not to bother with a cravat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Good evening, Jamie,” the earl said as he entered the morning room after dinner, a flat package wrapped in brown paper in his hand.

  “My lord.” Jamie glanced quickly back down at the table, which he had been setting up for cards. His lordship was looking especially attractive tonight, and it shamed him that he had striven so carefully for the opposite effect, sporting his oldest, shabbiest garments. But it was better that he keep distance between them, if he could. At least until he could discern the earl’s feelings for him.