The Price of Temptation Page 9

  “I—all right,” he said. Jamie steeled himself and looked up into the earl’s eyes. A man could get lost in those eyes, get lost and never even try to find his way back—warm, dark, liquid. Mesmerizing. Oh God, is this what it feels like to fall—to fall—? He couldn’t even think it. Jamie shook his head in desperate negation, rolling away and burying his face in his hands.

  “Jamie,” the earl spooned up behind the young man, and stroked his hair. “Don’t turn away. I want you. You want me,” he whispered. “What’s the problem? Come upstairs with me now. Let me make love to you.”

  Jamie shook his head mutely.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” urged the earl. “Let me show you what it’s like. A scholar like you should want to try it for the experience alone—”

  Jamie looked at him then, and tears were welling up in his blue eyes faster than his impossibly thick lashes could blink them away. Those were hardly words of affection, were they? Julian was right. He was just convenient to the earl. “Stop it,” he repeated. “I can’t.” He rose awkwardly to his feet and looked around blindly. Stephen took pity on him, and retrieving Jamie’s spectacles and book, stood up and handed them over.

  “Thank you,” murmured the boy, not looking at him. “Good night.”

  “Good night, my sweet Mouse,” whispered the earl, but Jamie was already at the door, and probably didn’t hear him.

  Up in his room, Jamie wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, reliving the feel of being held in the earl’s arms. He told himself that it was just desire he felt. Stephen Clair was gorgeous to look at, and his voice was a delightful cross between velvet and a cat’s purr. But there was little else to admire about him, certainly not to — to —

  Love. That was the word he was avoiding, and he made himself say it out loud. “I do not love the Earl of St. Joseph. Lord Stephen Clair. Stephen.” The name became a verbal caress, quite against his will. Jamie blinked and shook himself. His employer was a drunk, a libertine, arrogant, careless. Spendthrift.

  And... warm-hearted, a collector of misfits like himself, broken-hearted over his brother’s death. So good-natured, too: he laughed off his troubles with an ease Jamie envied, and refused to take offense for long. Sensuous. Jamie shivered again, thinking with longing of the kisses they had shared. Not to mention, the only person in the world who had ever looked at Jamie with lust. Ah, there it was. “See? It’s just desire.” If he said it enough, it might turn out to be true.

  Chapter Ten

  Stephen stared up at the bedroom ceiling in the house in Floral Street, feeling restless and unsatisfied. Perhaps he should have pursued the red-haired singer more assiduously, just for a little variety on the side. Julian was a devil in bed, there was no denying that, but no matter how inventive their romps, more and more something had been lacking. But the baritone would have been just the same in the end, wouldn’t he? They all were.

  Perhaps this mood was just annoyance over his failure to seduce his mouse. In the weeks since their last encounter, Mr. Riley had been avoiding him as much as possible, and in their necessary meetings concerning his schedule the secretary had kept his demeanor formal and distant. Stephen scowled at Julian, sprawled next to him, his bare skin golden in the light of at least a dozen wax candles. How Jamie would squawk over that extravagance.

  “I’m bored.” Stephen winced to realize he had spoken the thought out loud.

  Julian sat up and looked at his reflection in one of the many mirrors festooning the walls, patting his hair back into shape. “It’s early yet. We can still make the card party at Lord Kerrigan’s.”

  It didn’t sound intriguing. “I’d have to go home and get dressed first.”

  “Nonsense. You wore evening clothes out to dinner, and Bertie can help put you back into order.”

  “The play’s bound to be deep. We should drop in at the Johnstons’ instead—Eddie and Pamela know all the best gossip.”

  “Don’t be so tight-fisted, Stephen.” Julian rose from the tangle of sheets and rang for his dresser. “Besides, the deeper the play, the more you’ll take home if you win. This losing streak of yours is bound to end sometime. Which reminds me, the boot-maker sent his reckoning here by mistake. Shall I send it over to you, or just throw it on the fire?”

  Stephen sighed. “Just give it to me. I’ll take it back for Mr. Riley to add to the list.”

  “That dreadful little man. You said once you really don’t need a secretary. If you’re so concerned about expense, why not sack him?”

  “That is hardly your concern.”

  Julian’s eyes were cool as he climbed back onto the bed, creeping with the grace of a panther until he was on all fours directly above Stephen, his naked form elegant and sinuous. “To hell with Kerrigan’s. Let’s stay in tonight. I can make you forget all your troubles.”

  With difficulty, Stephen extracted himself from the bed. “But I’d still have them, wouldn’t I?” There was a knock on the door. “Here’s Bertie. Let’s get dressed.”

  The card play that night was even worse than he expected. Marcus, Lord Kerrigan, was a confirmed bachelor with no interest in his surroundings. His slovenly staff barely kept the house livable, and Stephen frequently found his sleeve sticking to the tabletop in the game room when they played cards. In previous days, the exciting play had more than made up for the squalor, but tonight the room seemed populated with a combination of the worst of London’s pleasure-seeking bucks and dead-eyed professional card sharks. Between them, they cleaned out his purse twice over, and it was only a single lucky run as the faro bank that kept him from having to write out an IOU.

  After, he allowed Julian to talk him back to Floral Street to demonstrate a new delaying cream that the actor’s apothecary had made specially for him. The effect, Stephen thought, was to lengthen the session without improving its quality. And once more he found himself staring blankly at the ceiling, thinking I’m bored. I’m truly, truly bored.

  Charles and Rebecca were not about to let their plans slide. As November sidled toward December and the earl still spent too much time away, they put their heads together to come up with a good reason to keep him home. The week after Lord Kerrigan’s card party, they put it into action.

  “Your game, Stephen.” The valet smiled brightly as he began to count out the hand’s winnings.

  The earl stared in disbelief at the cards on the table, suspicion storming in his eyes. Their nightly pre-dinner game had most decidedly been in his favor this evening. “You wouldn’t let me win, would you, Charles?”

  “Certainly not,” Charles waved one of his plump hands in dismissal. “You just have the devil’s own luck tonight. Perhaps you ought to stay in for a few more hands?”

  “You’re not very good at deception,” said Stephen. “What is it? Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Well, now that you mention it...” Charles hesitated. “I wonder if we could talk about the greenhouse.”

  The earl frowned. “It’s a good plan, Charles, but I don’t see how it’s possible right now.”

  “I was looking over Jamie’s figures, Stephen, and I was thinking, how much did you lose at Lord Kerrigan’s card party last Wednesday?”

  Stephen looked startled at the sudden change in topic. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You did lose, didn’t you?” Charles asked. “And you paid your vowels in cash?”

  “I certainly did. A gentleman doesn’t welsh on his gambling debts, it just isn’t done. But if it makes you feel better, it was only what I had with me. About seventy pounds.”

  “You played cards again on Friday?”

  “Friday?” The earl thought. “I broke even, or nearly. I may have lost twenty or thirty pounds.”

  “One hundred pounds then, just last week. And you usually play more than twice.”

  “So what?” Stephen sounded irritated. “Is everyone in my household going to hound me about my expenses? These are trifling sums for gambling deb
ts—last week at White’s, Lord Derby lost over twenty thousand pounds. And I do win occasionally.”

  “Just not lately,” Charles said. “You’re right, of course. Never mind. I guess I just thought—it just seemed to me—that in a very few weeks, the money you usually spend on gambling... ” He shrugged, dejected.

  The earl smiled. “Could pay for your greenhouse? Now, that’s a plan worthy of Mr. Riley himself.” He sat and thought for a moment. “I promised you roses, Charles, when you saved me from that preposterous bout of self-pity all those years ago. If you prefer to grow them, that’s your affair. Mine is keeping my promise.” He paused. “All right then, I’ll be a good boy and put, say, twenty pounds in a kitty for the greenhouse for every night I stay home.”

  Charles beamed. “Thank you, Stephen. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  “Yes, well, consider it your job to entertain me on those evenings. Deal the cards, Charles.”

  “Of course. I hope you don’t mind? Jamie was going to read to me tonight, while I worked on some sewing. Would it be too distracting if he did so while we play?” Charles looked hopeful. “I’m keen to hear some of this Lord Byron’s poetry.”

  The earl was feeling magnanimous. “As you please. Come on, let’s play.”

  His lordship’s night home turned out to be quite pleasant. Lady Luck proved even-handed, so neither he nor Charles had much to be disgruntled over there. After the first hour or so, Jamie took a break from his accounts to come and read to Charles, and despite his initial surprise at the presence of the earl, was quickly persuaded to stay and entertain both men. The earl wasn’t so very interested in poetry, but his secretary read well, and his voice was pleasing, soft but clear.

  Another hour passed, and Rebecca brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, staying for a moment to pour for them. “My, don’t you all look cozy.”

  Charles winked at her behind the earl’s back. “You should stay and listen to Jamie read. Such a lovely voice he’s got.”

  Stephen felt an irrational twinge of jealousy that Charles should have noticed. “Yes, by all means, let’s put him on display for everyone.”

  The valet and cook exchanged another glance. It sounded as if their employer wanted to keep Jamie for himself, didn’t it? How promising. “No, I’d best get back to the kitchen, my lord,” Rebecca said. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Jamie continued to read while the card players took a break to enjoy their snack. One particular poem definitely caught Stephen’s attention. When we two parted, in silence and tears... He listened, mesmerized, all the way through to the end:

  “In secret we met, in silence I grieve,

  That thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive.

  If I should meet thee, after long years,

  How should I greet thee? With silence, and tears.”

  Jamie finished and closed the book, snapping the earl from his reverie.

  “Funny how often Jack comes to mind when you’re around,” Stephen said, giving his head a shake. “I imagine he feels exactly like that. You’ve read enough—come have tea, Mou—Mr. Riley.”

  “I’d love some,” Jamie said, at the same time that Charles asked

  “Jack?”

  “Before your time, Charles, but I’m sure I’ve mentioned him. He was my first lover, and Jamie has his eyes exactly.” Stephen paused while he poured Jamie a cup. “Try these almond biscuits, Sam’s best, I presume?”

  “You’re wrong, actually,” Charles said.

  “I never told you about Jack?”

  “Who, your marquess? No, you did. I meant the biscuits, they’re Rebecca’s.”

  “Lovely,” the earl marveled.

  “Who, your marquess?” Jamie parroted, reaching for the plate.

  “No, I meant the biscuits, idiot,” the earl said. “Not that Jack wasn’t a fine looking man, of course.”

  “Of course,” Charles and Jamie chorused together, exchanging a glance.

  The earl lifted an eyebrow.

  “Well, it’s hardly likely you’d be seen with someone who wasn’t,” Charles said. He remembered something Stephen had once said, and grinned. “Unless he was a cache of hidden treasures.”

  Jamie looked up. “It can’t have ended pleasantly, if that last was the poem that brought him to mind.”

  Stephen nodded. “It was a long time ago. I was eighteen, he was nearly thirty years older. You never forget your first, do you Charles?”

  “Hardly,” Charles said. “Especially since he’d smack me if I did. Or worse, stop making me pastries.”

  “Sam was your first? You’re joking.” The earl looked aghast, and that piqued Charles enough to rub it in.

  “Some of us get it right the first time.”

  “Good for you, Charles,” Jamie said with a smile.

  “Yes, well, some of us aren’t so lucky. In my case, my first lover and I had a serious difference of philosophy.” The earl paused, setting down a third biscuit untasted. “I didn’t see any reason to hide what we were to each other. Jack insisted on secrecy.”

  “There are laws against it,” Jamie offered. “People get hanged.”

  “And when does that happen? When someone is stupid enough to annoy the wrong person. And not even then, if you’re a person of rank.” Stephen broke his biscuit in halves, then quarters. “Once,” he continued, “exactly once, Jack let me hold his hand during an opera.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t like people couldn’t guess—a man in his forties starts to spend all of his time with a boy less than half his age—”

  “ A beautiful boy, at that,” Charles added. Jamie silently nodded agreement, which did not escape his lordship’s notice.

  “But Jack said as long as we didn’t rub their noses in it, people wouldn’t notice unless they had to—and as far as I know, they didn’t. But it wasn’t the way I wanted to live my life.”

  “Society doesn’t seem to have shunned you after all,” Jamie mused, “At least judging from the number of invitations you receive.”

  “Oh, believe me, there are a number of hostesses who won’t let me in their door,” Stephen said. “As for the rest—some people tolerate me for the sake of my family, especially Aunt Matilda. She’s been the reigning queen of financial advice for decades. And I have any number of cronies who’ll take my money at cards, but would hesitate to call me their friend—in case people thought we were, you know, too close. But my trump card, as far as society is concerned, is that I am an earl, and unmarried. As long as the ton still thinks I’ll make one of their own a countess someday, I could roast children for breakfast and still be invited to at least half of the balls in town.”

  “But you will, won’t you? Marry someday?”

  The earl laughed shortly. “Why? Because it’s my duty?”

  Jamie frowned, looking down. “Well, there is the title.”

  “So I should get myself a son to carry it on?” His lordship’s tone was deceptively soft. “On a woman I don’t love, who would suffer a lifetime of humiliation that I preferred other beds to hers?”

  Jamie lifted his eyes. “That would hardly be unique. And you know that there are plenty of women who would consider your infidelities a small price to pay to be a countess.”

  Stephen settled back in his chair. “Fine. I tie myself to some avaricious bitch, and get her with child. How many sons should I get on her, to make sure the title is secure?”

  Jamie swallowed, sensing too late where the earl was heading. “Oh God. I’m sorry—” he began, but Stephen cut him off.

  “One? Children are so fragile, you’d need at least a second: an heir and a spare. But anything can happen, so two isn’t enough. Three,” Stephen said, “now that would be especially safe. Wouldn’t you agree?” His dark eyes blazed with pain.

  “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Jamie laid his hand on the earl’s arm. “Please. I’m sorry.”

  Stephen softened. “No, I’m sorry, little one. It’s just—I never intended to marry, and
while Robert and his boys were alive there was no reason to. Then, after—Christ, what’s the point? There’s no such thing as ‘securing the title.’” He smiled crookedly. “And oddly enough, that philosophy exactly justifies me living as I please. Here’s to aimless pleasure and dissipation. And I don’t even have to pretend to give up boys.”

  “Do you regret it?” Jamie asked. “Your decision to live openly?”

  “No, I don’t.” The earl was silent for a moment. “I can’t imagine living in fear.” And then, “For the love of Christ, Charles, deal the cards. Care to join us, Jamie?”

  “I’m not very good at cards, and I don’t have any money.”

  “Nonsense. You’re good at everything.” Stephen’s eyes twinkled. “And how does that go? Cupid and my whoever?” He pursed his lips suggestively.

  Jamie laughed. “Cupid and my Campaspe played at cards for kisses? I don’t think so, my lord.”

  “Campaspe. I always wondered how you say that.”

  “One of the many benefits of learning Greek,” Jamie said primly.

  “Oh, I could give you Greek lessons,” the earl said with a slow smile.

  “This from a man who’s never declined o kouros in his life,” muttered Jamie.

  “Ho what?” asked Charles, who lacked a classical education.

  “A youth, Charles, and I can’t say I’ve ever declined one if offered,” said his lordship with delight. “But, while I agree there are many interesting nouns I can’t decline, I must say my conjugating skills are among the best. Or do I mean conjugal? Either way, I’d be happy to demonstrate with some of my very favorite verbs.”

  Jamie reddened. “Knowing you, they’re quite irregular.”

  “Oh, yes. But that’s the essence of fine scholarship, isn’t it? Getting a firm grasp on the unfamiliar. Assuming it is unfamiliar? After all, all sorts of things happen when the lights go out at school, if I remember correctly.”

  “I didn’t go to school, the vicar taught me.” And as the two other men burst into hilarious laughter, “Oh heavens! Not that! I mean, he gave me lessons—now, stop that! If I have any idea of what you’re talking about, it’s simply because some of the Greek literature is very frank.” Jamie paused, then admitted reluctantly “And besides, one of my friends in the Eboracum Antiquarian Society had a collection of antiquities — I saw a vase once.”