The Price of Temptation Page 8

  “You wouldn’t need to. Jamie, do you have any idea what I settled on Julian? A man—if you don’t happen to actually be Julian—could live quite comfortably on what he’s getting from me. Do you imagine I’d be any less generous with you? You could get your own house—”

  “Damn you.” Jamie picked up one of the heavy ledgers on the desk and threw it on the floor. “Oh, damn you. Do you know what I do in here from morning to night? I work. I catalogue your library, handle your correspondence, plan your social calendar, manage your household and placate your staff. I’m trying desperately to find you the means to discard your current lover, and then there’s your debts—Julian’s debts, and his predecessors’ as well—remember them?” He took a sheaf of papers from the front of a second ledger. “Hector Quinn? Anthony Basingstoke? There were two Elphinstones—brothers, I assume?”

  “Twins,” confirmed Stephen.

  “And remember Daniel Post?” Jamie brandished a sheet of paper. “Because his tailor certainly remembers you.”

  “Oh, Danny had the longest tongue in Christendom. I could hardly forget him.”

  Jamie stopped dead in the midst of his tirade, looking confused. “What good is—”

  The earl laughed. “I’ll wager you don’t actually want to know. But believe me, it was well worth—” he plucked the paper from his secretary’s hand and frowned at the crabbed writing “—seven hundred pounds? Jesus.”

  Jamie snatched it back and continued. “I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to come up with the means to pay these off, on top of everything else I do. And yet you have the gall to tell me I’m worth more to you if I’d only—if I’d—” Lacking both the vocabulary and will to continue, Jamie expressed his anger and frustration by throwing the second ledger, sending the enclosed bills scattering in a satisfying arc.

  The earl stared, appalled. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Riley. I know you do a lot for me, I just never put it together quite how much. Perhaps a raise?”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Jamie’s voice was weary. “No, I don’t want a raise. Good night, my lord.”

  When he was gone, the earl stooped and picked up Jamie’s ledgers and papers, placing them slowly and neatly on the desk. Somehow, he’d managed to blow it again. There was an ache in his throat as he thought, again, of the brief kiss they’d shared. Its sweetness, its passion. Stephen closed his eyes, imagining Jamie’s hands caressing his flesh with that same tender shyness. “Jamie. My mouse,” he whispered. “What the hell do you want from me?”

  Chapter Nine

  Jamie was hard at work in the library the next morning when he heard voices in the hall. Mr. Symmons, speaking to an unknown visitor, sounded frostier than ever. He craned his head to try to see who was calling.

  “Mr. Riley has his lordship’s schedule. Perhaps he can help you.” The butler tapped on the open door. “Mr. Riley?”

  The visitor nodded with an air of condescension the Prince of Wales could only aspire to. Jamie took in his appearance with a sinking heart. Guinea-gold curls, artfully arranged, framed a chiseled countenance that might have been sculpted by Phidias himself. It was the first time he’d seen the actor since the one distant glimpse on the night he’d arrived, but it could be no one else.

  Julian Jeffries’ smile did not warm his lovely green eyes. “The Earl of St. Joseph was supposed to meet me this morning for a ride in Rotten Row. Is he very ill?” The implication seemed to be that only a deathbed might be sufficient excuse for the lapse.

  “I—I believe he had an emergency to attend to.” With effort, Jamie kept his eyes from flicking to his copy of the earl’s engagement schedule, which clearly showed a late breakfast with the Johnstons this morning. If there had been an appointment with Julian, it had probably been crossed out after one of their many fights.

  The actor advanced with enviable grace. “You’re the secretary, of course.” The smile grew a trifle broader. “To think I worried about his having a fresh young man in the house.”

  Jamie couldn’t help but be stung. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, that was no comment on your looks.” The dismissive flick of the sea-green eyes belied his words. “Although, you don’t seem to be quite Stephen’s type, do you?” Julian caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece and preened slightly. “I just meant, of course, that you seem the quiet, bookish sort.”

  With reluctance, Jamie regarded his reflection, next to Julian’s, in the glass. With his spectacles and ink-smudged fingers, he did look like the bookworm he was. Quiet, colorless. Almost invisible compared to the actor’s physical brilliance.

  It hurt.

  Julian squeezed his shoulder in commiseration. “I hope he doesn’t bother you anyway, out of sheer proximity. Just hold your ground if he does, he’ll soon lose interest.”

  “You should know.” As soon as the words slipped out, Jamie wished with all his might he could take them back. “I mean, knowing him so well.”

  The actor allowed his smile to show pity. “I do know Stephen well, in ways you can only imagine. Or... perhaps not.” He made a show of consulting the expensive gold watch dangling from a fob. “Oh, dear. I’ll have to hurry if I’m going to make my tailor before luncheon. So nice to meet you, Mr. O’Reilly.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Jefferson.” Jamie immediately regretted playing Julian’s spiteful little game. Julian had no reason to get his name right, but as Stephen’s secretary it was his responsibility to know the actor’s name. Pretending otherwise only made him look foolish. Julian’s self-satisfied smirk as he left drove the point home nicely.

  Once Julian was gone, Jamie decided to treat himself to a day out. Well, it was his birthday. One year ago, in honor of his twenty-first birthday, he and his mother had hitched up their pony cart and driven the six miles from the village of Wheldrake into York. It had been one of his mother’s good days. She had been able to join him for a tour of York Minster and even walk a short bit of the ancient city wall with him. They’d concluded their day with a special birthday tea in a cozy teashop on High Petergate. Jamie’s smile of remembrance faded. This year, he was without family, and his birthday excursion would be solo.

  He wrapped up some of Sam’s bread, leftover from last night’s dinner, and a hunk of cheese, and went out to explore London properly at last. The earl’s townhouse was on Hanover Square, just off Oxford Street, so it was a reasonable walk to the center of the city. St. Paul’s Cathedral looked just like the etching the vicar had of it, but was even larger than he’d imagined, Wren’s magnificent edifice looming benevolently over the City. Jamie admired its clean lines and airy interior, but it was the dark and ancient Westminster Abbey that stirred his soul. Here were entombed the great figures from English history: the kings and queens who had shaped this green and pleasant land.

  Edward I, Hammer of the Scots, who had pilfered their sacred Stone of Scone and brought it to captivity, to rest beneath the Coronation Chair near the High Altar. Henry VII, the Welsh opportunist who had staked a bloody claim to England at the Battle of Bosworth, lay beyond in the Lady Chapel, his Yorkist bride at his side. Nearby were his polar opposite granddaughters Bloody Mary and Good Queen Bess: the intolerance of the former driving the country to the brink of religious civil war; the good sense and crafty politics of the latter bringing years of peace and prosperity.

  Jamie spent a good deal of time in the Poet’s Corner, able to forget about the earl’s tangled finances, smoldering eyes and unpleasant paramour while he stood in reverence before Chaucer’s grave. The painted letters of the inscription on the grey marble monument were flaking badly, but he could make out the date the poet had died: October 25, 1400. Four hundred sixteen years and two days ago. Stephen’s brother, like Jamie, had adored Chaucer; there were at least six different editions of The Canterbury Tales alone in the library, not to mention a miscellany of other works and a number of commentaries. Someday, when he had time, he would delve into the collection properly. But not now—there was simply too much to do. Thr
ee weeks of dedicated labor had barely made a dent. Jamie sighed, thinking he had best get back to the town house and get to it. He left the dark sanctuary of the Abbey for the tumultuous streets outside.

  Even on a grey, foggy day London was a riot of color and noise—maybe just a bit too much noise, Jamie thought, nursing a slight headache as he finally made his way home in the late afternoon. He was pleasantly tired when he opened the kitchen door, in search of a cup of tea.

  Jamie stopped, just inside the threshold. He hadn’t expected the kitchen to be so busy at this hour, but it seemed the whole household was present, with some additions as well. Sam was over at the huge iron cook stove, supervising Rebecca as she stirred something with care. At one end of the table, Mrs. Symmons was sitting with Betsy and Maisie, folding some linens which had dried on a rack near the fire. Charles and Mr. Symmons were at the other end of the table, enjoying tea and arguing amiably over some gardening books with a third man, tall and brown-haired with an engaging smile. Jamie hadn’t met him before, but he was almost certainly Rebecca’s sweetheart Christopher. Abby Sawtell wasn’t there, but her son Alex was sitting in a quiet corner, dark hair flopping over his face as he contentedly worked his way through a plate of biscuits. Well, he doubtlessly needed the fuel: the boy was only ten years old, but was growing so fast he’d nearly reached adult size already.

  Rebecca was the first to notice him. “Happy birthday!” she cried, handing her spoon to Sam and crossing over to kiss Jamie on the cheek. “And welcome home.”

  Home. Jamie breathed in the homely scents of cooking and fresh laundry and the damp wool of the coats on the rack by the door. And Rebecca had remembered his birthday. His headache eased immediately, and he smiled as he looked around, waving a hand at the stranger seated at the table. “Is this your Christopher?”

  “Yes, of course. Lady Feldsham gave him the afternoon off. Chris, this is our Jamie.”

  The young man held up a fragrant wafer. “Come try the almond biscuits, Jamie.”

  Rebecca nodded. “I finally got them right—”

  “Took her three batches,” Chris volunteered, exchanging a teasing smile with his fiancée.

  “Alex is gracefully taking care of the rejects,” Mrs. Symmons added.

  “He don’t mind,” snorted Betsy. “I bet the real reason the feed bill is so high is that Alex eats all the oats.”

  “Betsy,” Maisie’s voice was little more than a whisper, but the gentle reproof was evident.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Betsy said, contrite. “I didn’t mean no harm.” But over in his corner Alex just nodded cordially, and stuffed another biscuit in his mouth.

  Home.

  “Could I try one?” Jamie’s dimple flickered. “Of the good batch, that is.”

  “Over here,” Charles called. “Grab a cup, Jamie, the tea’s hot.”

  “But mind you don’t spoil your appetite,” Rebecca warned. “There’s a nice joint, and Sam’s teaching me how to make a lovely sauce. And wait—just wait until you see your birthday cake!”

  “Cake?” Jamie felt his smile grow wide, and foolish.

  “Of course.” Charles was positively beaming. “Didn’t I say Sam would make you one? But don’t get a swelled head over it—we try to find occasion to stuff Betsy with as many sweets as possible.”

  Jamie collected his tea and sat next to Charles. The valet and the others had been arguing about greenhouses, much as Jamie had thought. He listened with half an ear as they debated everything from east-west placement in the garden, to whether fewer larger panes were better in the long run than more smaller panes of glass. Then of course, there were problems of drainage, and protection from trees and other hazards.

  “No, Charles, we can’t put it in that corner, unless we dig out the walnut tree. And you are fond of walnuts, aren’t you?”

  Jamie let the conversations wash around him, more content than he could remember being for years, perhaps even before his mother had taken ill. Just this morning he had told himself he was without family. It seemed he had been mistaken.

  After a magnificent birthday dinner, including Sam’s towering cake, a many-tiered confection trimmed with marzipan roses, the party broke up. Jamie staggered up the stairs to his room on the top floor, his arms laden. His friends had even given him presents. Maisie and Betsy had knitted Jamie some fine white stockings, and Abby pushed into his hand a small figure of a horse which she had whittled herself—it was roughly carved, but she had caught a vitality and sense of motion a more technically-adept artist would have traded five years of training for. The Symmonses provided him with a greatcoat, probably not new, but warm and in perfect repair. There was clothing, too, from Charles, who had made over three more of his lordship’s discarded shirts, another waistcoat, and a lace-trimmed nightshirt for him. Rebecca gave him a new volume of Lord Byron’s Poems, elegantly bound in blue morocco.

  “Rebecca! You shouldn’t have. This must have cost—” He’d flushed in consternation, but the cook had just laughed.

  “Don’t worry about that. Three of Lady Feldsham’s, um, admirers gave her copies of the same book. She told Chris he could have one. He gave it to me, but I knew it would suit you better. I mean,” she gave him a sidelong look, “assuming you like the romantic stuff?”

  “Thank you, Rebecca, I love it. I can’t wait to read it,” Jamie said. “Thank you all. This is the most wonderful birthday I’ve ever had.”

  Now, Jamie put his new clothing away in the wooden wardrobe and set Abby’s carving on the desk, admiring its rough beauty. The book of poems he kept in his hand. Once again, the night was too cold to keep to his room; it would have to be the carpet in the library for him tonight. He didn’t mind. The library was cozy, and he relished the chance to read by the fire for a while. He flew lightly back downstairs, poked up the fire and stretched out, supporting himself on one elbow and opening the new book of poems. But despite Byron’s best efforts, Jamie’s attention wandered.

  Julian Jeffries had stood right here by the hearth just this morning, catty and sly, picking deliberately at Jamie’s confidence. Could the actor possibly be jealous? Of him? It seemed ludicrous, unless... Perhaps the earl had dropped a hint about the kiss.

  Jamie’s eyes were drawn back to the desk, its mahogany surface glowing in the firelight. The earl—Stephen—had kissed him there. He dropped his head down onto his arm, sleepy and warm. What if there were a reason for the actor to be jealous? It had been quite a kiss, after all. Jamie’s lips curved into a smile, even as he fell asleep.

  For the earl, perseverance paid off. Peering into the library that night, he at first thought the room was empty. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed what looked like a foot on the floor. It was a foot, shoeless and clad in a much-mended white stocking, peeking out from crumpled black trousers. His eye following up the graceful curve of a leg, his lordship perceived that it was attached to his secretary, who was stretched out on his side on the rug in front of the fire. Not surprisingly, even in sleep his hand was curved over a book.

  The earl removed his own shoes, and, creeping over to the sleeping Jamie, carefully arranged himself on the floor next to him, propping himself up on one elbow. As he had before, Stephen could not resist brushing a fingertip over Jamie’s lip. And as before, Jamie stirred in his sleep, head moving slightly as if trying to keep contact with the earl’s finger. I shouldn’t, thought the earl. But I’m going to. He brushed his lips over Jamie’s, then pulled back slightly. Jamie gave the slightest of moans, and turned his head, seeking. His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.

  “Jamie,” whispered Stephen. “My sweet Jamie.” He placed feather-light kisses on the sleeping—was he still sleeping?—man’s face, forehead, cheeks, chin. That ridiculously perfect nose. A slight hesitation, then back to the mouth. Gently, oh so gently, he nibbled on Jamie’s kissable lower lip. Again the other man stirred and moaned, and the earl lost the battle with his conscience. He began kissing Jamie in earnest, and then Jamie was kissing
him back, one of the secretary’s arms sliding around the earl’s back, pulling him closer.

  Jamie’s lips parted instantly under Stephen’s gentle probing, and a shiver ran the length of his body as their tongues met. Jamie was no expert at the art of osculation, but the earl showed him how it was done, teaching him how slow, deep, and delicious a kiss could be. The lesson went on for some time before Stephen felt a gentle but determined hand in the middle of his chest, pushing him away.

  Reluctantly Stephen obeyed, rolling off Jamie and back onto his elbow, staying very close beside him. He looked down at Jamie’s eyes, huge in the firelight, and smiled gently.

  Jamie’s return smile was tentative. “Hello, my lord.”

  “You taste like marzipan. And there’s the remains of a honking great cake in the kitchen. What was the occasion?” He licked the side of Jamie’s neck, making him shudder.

  Jamie flushed with mingled confusion and pleasure. “It’s my birthday, I’m afraid—” he rolled over and squinted near-sightedly at the clock on the mantle, “—or rather, it was.”

  “Happy birthday, then.” Stephen pulled Jamie back into his arms and kissed the corner of his mouth. The dimple appeared, and he kissed that, too. Several small, teasing kisses to Jamie’s lips, swollen deliciously from his lordship’s previous attentions, until Jamie couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled Stephen down for a proper kiss.

  After a long moment Jamie’s hand came up again. Reluctantly. “We need to stop. Please.”

  “All right,” the earl agreed. Jamie still hadn’t moved away from him, which was a very good sign, no matter what he said. “So, how old are you?”

  “Oh, ancient. Twenty-two,” Jamie admitted. “Do you see my spectacles?”

  “Yes, but I’d rather see your eyes, at least for a few more minutes. Mind terribly?”