A Private Gentleman
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
To seal their bond, they must break the ties that bind.
Painfully introverted and rendered nearly mute by a heavy stammer, Lord
George Albert Westin rarely ventures any farther than the club or his beloved
gardens. When he hears rumors of an exotic new orchid sighted at a local
hobbyist’s house, though, he girds himself with opiates and determination to
attend a house party, hoping to sneak a peek.
He finds the orchid, yes…but he finds something else even more rare and
exquisite: Michael Vallant. Professional sodomite.
Michael climbed out of an adolescent hell as a courtesan’s bastard to become
successful and independent-minded, seeing men on his own terms, protected by
a powerful friend. He is master of his own world—until Wes. Not only because,
for once, the sex is for pleasure and not for profit. They are joined by tendrils of a shameful, unspoken history. The closer his shy, poppy-addicted lover lures him
to the light of love, the harder his past works to drag him back into the dark.
There’s only one way out of this tangle. Help Wes face the fears that cripple
him—right after Michael finds the courage to reveal the devastating truth that
binds them.
Warning: Contains wounded heroes, bibliophilic tendencies, orchid
obsessions, a right bastard of a marquis, and gay men who get happily-ever-
afters.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
A Private Gentleman
Copyright © 2012 by Heidi Cullinan
ISBN: 978-1-60928-852-5
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Lyn Taylor
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Firs
t Samhain Publishing, Ltd. e
lectronic publication: February 2012
A Private Gentleman
Heidi Cullinan
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Cate for research help, and Kate, Dan and Jason for beta reading,
Jules for all manner of brainstorming and mental support poles, Marie for
putting up with my bitching and whining, Dan and Anna for uncomplainingly
foraging for food and clean underwear pretty much all the time, and the
Minions, Signy and Asrion, for platinum-level service in research, moral support,
entertainment and beyond.
Dedication
For Anne.
Chapter One
London, February 1844
Standing in the receiving line outside Russell Gordon’s Kensington ballroom,
Lord George Albert Westin smiled and inclined his head at the other guests,
trying not to let his panic show. Given the amount of laudanum he’d drizzled
into his tea in anticipation of this outing, he shouldn’t have any panic left to
display. But were it not for the telltale sense of floating, of a world carried on
clouds and fuzzy around the edges, he would have wondered if he’d
remembered to add the opiate at all. The problem, he acknowledged grimly, was
not that he’d forgotten. It was that once again he’d acclimated to the dose and
would require more to achieve the desired effect.
“Quite a crush,” a lady said beside him.
Wes blinked. To his surprise, it appeared it was he to whom she spoke.
Everyone else was busy removing wraps and handing over canes and hats to
footmen, and she was staring directly at him. He scrutinized her face, not
recognizing her but thinking perhaps he had only forgotten her, but she seemed
too singular to do so. She had a flat American accent, an elegant but eclectic
dress, and flaming scarlet hair.
She chuckled. “No, you don’t know me, so you can stop trying to recall
where we have met. My name is Penelope Brannigan. But you may call me
Penny.” She arched an eyebrow. “Go ahead and be appalled at my lack of
manners. I’m accustomed to it, and I don’t mind.”
Heidi Cullinan
Wes was indeed appalled. First she spoke to him as if they were longtime
friends, then she introduced
herself
, and to seal the outlandishness told him to call her Penny. Unwilling to cut a woman direct, unable to form complete
sentences and not knowing what he would say even if he could, Wes simply
stared at her.
As the foyer quieted, he realized he wasn’t the only one staring, though
people were watching him, not his companion. It had taken the small crowd
lingering at the door a few moments to identify him, but they knew him now.
Fans and drinks shielded the gossiping tongues, but the eyes followed him as his
identity spread like wildfire.
“Daventry, that’s who he is! He’s the Marquess of Daventry’s son!”
“
Daventry’s
son? Do you mean to tell me that’s the Earl of Vaughn?”
“No. That’s the
other
one. Lord George Albert. The stammerer.”
The woman regarded Wes with new interest—and a strange empathy.
Wes left. He told himself he was only moving forward in line, that Mrs.
Gordon was looking at him expectantly, wanting to perform her hostess duties,
but the plain truth was that he’d cut Penelope Barrington. He’d had to. His
hands shook, the panic of so much attention threatening to drag him down. It
was all he could do to keep walking as the whispers around him continued.
“Second son. I’ve heard stories about him. Wrong in the head, isn’t he?”
“Didn’t even make it through Eton. Had to be tutored at home.”
“Horrible stammer.”
“Very private.”
“Fixated on plants. He’s in some society about them.”
“Never goes out. No idea why he’s here now.”
“Brain damage.”
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A Private Gentleman
Wes drew a deep breath and urged the drug to temper his fragile nerves as
the old black fears rolled around him.
No one will commit you to Bedlam tonight, no
matter what they think of you. No matter how frightened they are of a potential madman
in their midst, they’re more afraid of your father.
Mrs. Gordon pasted on her brightest smile as she held out her hand to him.
“My dear Lord George. Such a pleasant surprise to see you here today.”
Wes wished he could have swooped in with a smart smile and a breezy
retort.
Alas, madam. The Royal Botanical Society received your invitation, but it is with
great regret I report that only I was able to attend. But I am delighted to be here with a
peer of science. A lady who, according to my sources, is one of the most learned botanists
in all of Britain.
Instead he said, “It-t is g-good t-to s-s-see you, Mrs. G-G-Gordon.”
Mrs. Gordon’s countenance transformed into pity. “How kind of you to
grace our humble gathering—we are honored, my lord. Quite honored.” She
looked abruptly eager. “How does the Regent’s Park garden fare? I have heard
such wonderful things about it.”
Quite well, quite well. We finally have the piping sorted, and the tropical house is
finding its feet. You should see the bromeliads. Nothing finer. Would you care to stop by
sometime and see them yourself? I’d be happy to give you a personal tour.
“G-G-Good,” Wes said.
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Gordon fixed her smile a little firmer.
Wes stood there stupidly. This was his moment, he knew. This was where he
should make some small talk about her notable skill with plants, of how he
longed to see her conservatory, which reportedly rivaled any in London. This
was where he said,
I hear you have acquired a strange new orchid, delivered in full
bloom, with an unusual shape and oddly colored lip. Could you be persuaded to allow me
to see it?
9
Heidi Cullinan
This was the reason he had drugged himself nearly insensible and braved
traffic and the crowd, the reason he’d sifted through the usual pile of discarded
cards to find Mrs. Gordon’s invitation. But while the drug could carry him here,
it seemed it could not grant him charm, could not even loosen his tongue, and in
the end Mrs. Gordon made him a curtsey and urged him to enjoy himself.
Wes moved away from the receiving line and into the room, hugging the
wall as much as he could as he looked for a safe place to stand. He ended up near
an ornate vase filled with flowers and greenery beside a window, an empty
space which, by the time he reached it, was noticeably larger because the guests
were giving him a wide berth.
He tried to tell himself it was because he was so far above the social station
of everyone here, but he doubted that was the truth.
A servant offered a glass of punch to Wes, who accepted it with a nod. He
didn’t drink, however, only continued to watch the others in the room. They
watched him back. He could not hear their conversations now, but he could
imagine them.
What is he, thirty? Thirty-one? Does he have his own money?
Thirty-three. And yes, his mother’s father left him five thousand a year. He’s hardly
touched it, with his father covering his apartments and his dues at the club, and
practically everything else. A girl could be very happy with Lord George. If she could
overlook his…problem. One would have to pray, of course, that the damage would not
pass on to the children.
Wes curled his lip as he raised his punch cup and pretended to sip. Even
within the Royal Botanical Society, where he monthly produced papers for
others to read in lecture, where no one could claim better knowledge of plants
and their care than he—even there he knew they whispered of him. He was a
member of all the right clubs, yes, but he got in not because of his merit but
10
A Private Gentleman
because no one dared upset his father. They all talked of the crazy lording, he
knew.
What was wrong with his lordship’s mind? Yes, his papers were brilliant.
But why could he not read them aloud himself? Why could he not, most of the
time, even be present when they were read, and at best could only stand in the
back of the room? Why did he never go out? Why did he always look like a
rabbit about to bolt to its den?
Why couldn’t he speak even a single sentence without stammering through
every consonant like some simpleton dragged out of a village gutter?
Lowering the punch cup, Wes stared down into the fruit-scented depths.
This, his stammer and the public’s reaction to it, was why Wes never went out.
This was why it had taken a dangerous amount of Doctor Jacob’s wicked little
pills mixed in with his usual laudanum to bear him to the carriage and to this
party. It depressed him beyond measure that even despite this he had broken
into a sweat and stammered almost beyond comprehension at the door and had
