A Private Gentleman (6 page)
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
quite nicely.” He bent and nipped at Wes’s chin. “Fuck me, Albert. Fuck hard
against me, and I will make love to your mouth.”
It was foolish, surely, to behave so wantonly there with Sir Joshua only a
room a way, with no doors locked and anyone able to walk in. Reckless, chasing
such fleeting, selfish pleasure that would bring exquisite suffering for them both,
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should they be caught. Yet as Vallant eased them together, as his hand closed
over their shafts, as hips began to buck and thrust and lust pounded in Wes’s
veins, Wes thought of nothing, nothing at all but how delicious he felt. When
Vallant’s tongue slipped into his mouth, the Queen of England herself could
have walked in and he would have barely been able to spare her a nod.
He came first, groaning into Vallant’s mouth as the whore twisted their cocks
into a sweet, tight angle, as Wes fucked hard and fast into the towel. Vallant
came shortly after. They hovered there, shaking and out of breath, sated and
smiling against each other’s mouths.
A loud bleat and snort from the other room stirred them. When Sir Joshua
began to murmur and mumble to himself, sounding dangerously conscious,
Vallant slid off Wes’s lap and hurriedly did himself up. Reluctantly, Wes did so
as well.
Before Vallant left, he turned and pressed one last kiss on Wes’s cheek, so
soft and sweet that it melted what remained of Wes’s insides.
“Thank you.” Vallant smiled.
And then he slipped into the hall. Wes did not follow, waiting as long as he
could, letting Vallant move far away before he went out as well, heading toward
what he hoped was the front hall stairs.
He was sliding into his coat when he realized he had not finished his sketch
of the orchid. He paused, momentarily considering going back upstairs to do so,
but then he caught sight of Vallant with a dark-haired woman on his arm. Wes
remembered that all the pages of his notepad were full, all the room for sketches
taken up by his foreplay.
Wes smiled all the way back to Mayfair and tossed the conversation with
Vallant into his fire with great reluctance.
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Chapter Three
It was shocking how very much Lord George Albert Westin looked like his
father.
All the rest of the night, Michael’s mind kept coming back to Lord George’s
resemblance to his sire. He thought of it quite a bit as he rode with Clary across
town to a masquerade party where he had absolutely no luck finding a client. It
flitted through his mind as he wove his way through the crowd at the Kilpatrick
ball, trying not to let anyone see how he had to squint to identify people more
than fifteen feet away. He even thought of it as he sucked down Mr. Kilpatrick’s
thick rope of semen in a dark corner of his study. And back at Dove Street, after
enduring Rodger’s angry lecture, he finally sank into his bed in the attic at dawn,
still thinking of Lord George and Daventry.
So very alike in looks. So absolutely different in manner in every single way.
Michael disliked thinking of him as Lord George, for Daventry too was a George.
Only such an arrogant man could name not just his first born but his
second
son after himself.
Albert, he’d said. Call him Albert. Well, that was how Michael would think
of him. It was perhaps a bit intimate for a marquess’s son, but then, they’d been
rather intimate, hadn’t they?
Whatever he called him, he couldn’t deny the physical resemblance, so he
tried to focus on where they differed. The easiest was that Daventry had an older
man’s paunch where Albert was tantalizingly fit, and Daventry had graying,
curling hair, where Albert’s dark locks were straight and only slightly mussed
Heidi Cullinan
even after a good fucking. Daventry had more sense of fashion, though. Albert
didn’t dress poorly, but he did dress more conservatively than most of his peers.
He dressed like Rodger when he was in his gentleman’s getup, which was what
had thrown Michael in the first place. No, Albert and his father dressed nothing
alike.
But they had the same eyes. It was so strange to look into the same pair of
eyes he had hated more than any other and…not hate.
Eyes and mouth. Same shape of the lips. Even the same sideways curve
when they smiled. The smiles were the worst. Michael lay awake a long time,
haunted by that smile. Daventry was a cold, cunning bastard, and his smile was
a portal to hell. Albert’s eyes were pools of quietness, a little sadness too, and
they invited, not lured. His smile was like the sun in England. Rare, dim, but in
its full glory, a cause for celebration.
Good Lord, he was becoming a poet over Albert.
God knew he would never wax rhapsodic for Daventry.
Daventry’s son. I have fucked Daventry’s fucking son.
Daventry’s son, the shy botanist. Who had hidden Michael from Sir Joshua,
flirted with pencil and paper, and who loved orchids.
Michael smiled to himself at the memory.
He picked up a book to try and distract himself, but his mind would not
follow the words. Eventually he simply gave up and lay down, pulling the
blanket over his head. It made him think of being under the sheet tent with
Albert, and there beneath his linen where no one else would know that he did it,
he shut his eyes and relived the moment, that first kiss, the intake of breath…
The sofa…
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Michael fell asleep. And he dreamed. He dreamed of kissing Albert, of lying
naked for him, of offering up his body. He dreamed of fucking him face-to-face,
of Albert sliding in deep, and Michael cried out his name.
“Albert. Oh, Albert.”
But when his lover lifted his head, it was Daventry who leered down at
Michael as he thrust inside him.
“That’s right, my darling whore. My sweet little cunt. Moan for me, lovely.
Show me how much you love my cock.”
Michael stiffened, pulled back and screamed.
He woke in a pool of his own sweat, throat hoarse from shouting, Rodger
shaking him violently. When Michael calmed down enough to sag against him,
Rodger swore.
“Fucking hell, love.” Rodger bussed a kiss against Michael’s forehead and
fumbled at his belt before pressing a flask into his hand. “I thought you was
murdered.”
Michael tipped the whiskey back with a shaking hand. “Dream.” He wiped
his mouth, forced bile down and added, “Daventry.”
Rodger’s swearing would have taken the paint off the walls, had they been
painted. “Fucking ruddy fucking bloody fucking bastard! What in fucking hell
did you fucking dream about him for?”
Michael winced, then shivered and pressed tighter against Rodger.
That’s it, my cunt. Moan for me. Just like before.
He didn’t realize he’d started whimpering until Rodger nudged him again.
“The dream is over, love. No more, you hear me? Daventry’s not here. He
doesn’t have you. He’ll never have you again.” Rodger stroked Michael’s hair.
“What brought this on, ducks? Did you run into the bastard somewhere?”
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Michael shook his head, then prepared for his confession. “No. But I saw his
son.”
“Vaughn? He’s a pretentious ass. I hope you planted him a good one right in
the center of his fucking face.”
“No. The other one. The second son, Lord George Albert.” He shut his eyes
tight. “I fucked him.”
“
What?
” Rodger roared.
Michael put the flask Rodger had given him up to Rodger’s own mouth to
stop further swearing. “Drink. And listen.”
As Rodger slowly drained the flask, Michael told the story of running from
Sir Joshua, of mistaking Albert for Rodger, and all that came after. All of it.
“I’ll be damned,” Rodger said when he was done. “But what did you think I
was at the Gordons’s party for?”
“Well, I thought you’d followed me, and I was glad for it, because you were
right: I got into trouble. But it wasn’t you, obviously. I swear, Rodger, you and he
have the same tailor. And you’re the same height and build. Hair color too.”
Though Albert’s hair was much softer.
“You truly are blind as a bat, you poor sod.” Rodger climbed onto the bed,
leaned back against the pillow and put his feet on the mattress. “So this is
Daventry’s second son. I think I’ve heard of him. Shy fellow, I thought. Heavy
stammer. Didn’t know he was a mandrake. Or is he like his dear da and just likes
the power?”
“No. He’s a full-on sod. He knows his way around a cock, and he gives as
much pleasure as he takes.”
Rodger lifted his eyebrows. “You sound half besotted, love.”
“I’m
not
besotted. I’m just telling you how he’s different than his father. And he is. Completely.” Michael tucked himself into the crook of Rodger’s arm and
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rested his head on his shoulder. “He does stammer. Horribly. He clearly had to
fight for every word. And I heard whispers of how he went into pieces just
moving through the crush.”
“Why on earth was he there, then?”
“I’ve no notion. Something about an orchid, I think, but that doesn’t make
any sense.” Michael stroked Rodger’s shirt. “He fucked with abandon, as did I.
Just a heavy rub, but my God, I was shattered. I wasn’t even acting. I was
completely lost. I can’t remember the last time I let go as I did with him.”
“And now you dreamed of Daventry.”
Michael stared across the room at his bookshelf. “Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have fucked his boy. Stirred everything back up in your
damn head.”
“It was a very good fuck. But you’re right, it wasn’t worth this.” He dug his
fingers into Rodger’s chest. “It doesn’t matter. It was just a stupid nightmare. It
will fade soon enough.”
Rodger grunted. “Do you want me to nap up here a bit?”
Michael glanced up at him. “Would you mind?”
“Fuck yes. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in your attic.”
“But it doesn’t smell like sweat or sex, and no one moans unless I stub my
toe.” Michael shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Rodger sighed and nudged Michael with his hip. “Roll fucking over.”
Michael slept without dreaming, face to the wall and Rodger’s strong, hairy
arm around him.
But that afternoon as he ran some errands, he discovered the dream hadn’t
faded at all.
Twice he thought he saw Daventry on the street. Outside his favorite coffee
shop he saw a tall man stepping out of a black carriage, and when Michael
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lingered to see if he were handsome, his heart nearly stopped as he found it was
the marquess staring back at him, dark and hungry. When he stumbled
backward into the shop window, banging his head on the glass, he opened his
eyes once more and rubbed his stinging head. He saw that it wasn’t the
marquess at all. It was a gent, all right, but just some old toff. He didn’t even look like Daventry.
This was with his spectacles
on
.
It happened again outside the dressmaker’s. One of the girls wanted a new
frock to try and catch herself a rich coal merchant, and Michael was leaning
against the wall by the window when he saw Daventry again. This time the
marquess stood by a lamppost, leaning on a walking stick and grinning like the
lecher he was, staring right at Michael. He cried out and knocked over a
mannequin, had half the girls in the shop rushing over to see what was wrong—
and of course when he stood, Daventry wasn’t anywhere.
“You need to get your spectacles changed,” Rodger said when Michael told
him over dinner what had happened.
“There’s nothing wrong with my glasses,” Michael snapped. “Just my stupid
head. He wasn’t there either time. I only thought I saw him.” He drew his knees
up to his chest and sank deeper into the ratty sofa in the back of Rodger’s office.
“You’re right. I should never have fucked Albert.”
Rodger frowned. “Albert? You’re calling him Albert?”
“It’s complicated.”
Rodger grimaced. “Fuck someone else, love. I’ll find you one of your
favorites and nudge them to come round. Who would you like?”
Michael shrugged. “Billy Church?”
“Church!” Rodger laughed. “That old horse? What do you want him for?”
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“He’s gentle and comfortable.” Michael grabbed an afghan off the back of the
couch and tugged it over his legs. “He calls me his precious angel, right before he
buggers me silly. Yes, he’s one of my favorites.”
“As you like it,” Rodger said, and left to see to Billy Church’s nudging.
Billy was thin and slight and had a cock as thick and long as a thimble even
when erect. There wasn’t any way to mistake him for the Marquess of Daventry,
not even dead drunk. When he stumbled hesitantly into the room, smiling his
shy smile and mangling his hat in his hands, Michael smiled back and prepared
