Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (3 page)

By the time they had piled into the carriage and made their way to Avery House, where the Duke and Duchess of Culfrey were putting on the wedding breakfast for the bride, Sam’s stomach sent acid up his throat in painful little spurts. He was not sure why. He could avoid Henry easily enough, as he had been doing since Henry's arrival in town. Perhaps Sam was afraid of what he would hear if he did speak to Henry. Recriminations? Flippancy? Or worse, pity?

He can choke on his damn pity.

The breakfast was insipid in the extreme. No spirits, no cards, no dancing. Just a great deal of food, sugary drinks, and equally sugary conversation. Sam stood with his sister as she spoke to some old school friends and their husbands, replying with noncommittal nothings when it seemed appropriate and adding his opinion of the weather. Eventually, Kat spotted another acquaintance across the room, and he took the opportunity to slip away to the open terrace doors.

He looked out on the sculpted gardens of Avery House and sighed. He was out of his depth. A mere baronet in the palatial home of a duke. Sometimes he wished that every female member of his family had not made such advantageous marriages, thus thrusting him up to platforms where he never felt he belonged. Or was wanted. The snubbing was never overt, for as a baronet and gentleman he was a member of their club in every technical sense, but it hardly helped if one was disliked anyway.

He turned away from the window with a huff and faced the room again. He was working himself into a good lather with his thoughts, a common occurrence for him.

As he ran his gaze over the room, sipping his lemonade as if it was whiskey, he soothed his temper by letting his eyes feast. There was little harm in that, but like all self-defeating idiots, he directed his hunger straight to the most unattainable dish.

On the far side of the room, holding court with a half dozen of his sporting mates, was John Darnish. Darnish lifted his hand above his head in a flat plane, demonstrated to the others the height of whatever they were discussing—probably a horse—and finished his explanation with a smile that made Sam’s groin tighten. God, he was an impressive specimen.

Lord John Darnish, of one of those rare families in which the title and the surname were identical, was what many fashionable people called a Corinthian. He stood well over six feet, with long, muscular legs that had been formed from a lifetime of horseback riding and fencing. His bronze-brown hair glistened with gold streaks from his countless uncovered hours in the sun, usually racing his curricle to Brighton or daring to splash into the Serpentine on a bet. Such outlandish behavior never lessened his reputation or brought him scorn, however, because he did it all with a white smile that exuded charm. And if the smile did not work, his copper-flecked brown eyes would accomplish the task soon enough.

Surely no man on God’s Earth deserved to be so handsome, so talented, so unbearably tempting.

“‘If any could desire what he is incapable of possessing, despair must be his eternal lot.’”

Sam startled before the sentence was complete, but Julian Garrott finished it smoothly. He stood at Sam’s shoulder, a glass of champagne poised at his naturally pink lips, and made a bemused smile. His eyes flitted across the room to Lord Darnish.

“Don’t waste your time, Sam.” Julian sighed into his glass.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sam snapped.

Julian took a sip and stared at him. “Nothing outside of the obvious, of course. He prefers women.”

Sam glanced around out of habit but was not too concerned. Julian was always careful, and his refined voice was so soft that one had to struggle to hear him anyway.

“I know that. I’m not stupid.”

“But there’s nothing wrong in looking.” Julian chuckled coyly. “And if one must look, Darnish is quite an excellent choice.”

“That he is,” Sam muttered. He lifted his glass to take another sip, then frowned. “Where did you get the champagne?”

Julian smiled. “I ran into the housekeeper in the hall and convinced her to bring out something more interesting. She was more than happy to oblige.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He could just imagine. Aside from being beautiful to the point of pretty, Julian had a way of charming anyone, man or woman, into coddling him. No doubt the housekeeper had resisted the urge to pet him the whole time they spoke. Having been the object of Julian’s unique allure on several occasions, Sam knew the feeling. Not that he had ever resisted much.

Julian returned his attention to Darnish and gave a theatrical sigh. “It almost makes you glad he is not a possibility, doesn’t it?”

“How do you mean?” Sam asked, growing a little uncomfortable. He felt as if Julian had caught him doing something perverse, lusting after someone so obviously above him and so obviously out of contention.

“Oh, you know.” Julian shrugged. “If a man is a possibility, it means he can reject you. If he isn’t, it leaves you free to fantasize without fear. It’s almost like dreaming about a Greek statue. The statue will never come to life and say ‘Thank you, love, but not interested.’”

Sam was struck silent. Julian played the shallow coquette to perfection, and yet there were those moments when he would say something so astute that it felt like one’s mind had been read. Julian might as well have done just that, for it was precisely how Sam viewed a man like John Darnish; it was better that he be at a distance. One could not be scorned from a distance.

Both men stood silent and perused the room.

Near the long table where the bride and groom still sat, Sam saw Henry and Richard. They nodded at something the groom’s father was saying, but their eyes kept meeting over their glasses, as if they were in their own silent conversation. It was during one of those looks that Henry’s gaze shifted out to the room and met Sam’s straight on, and his expression visibly faltered.

Sam turned away.

“It may be rude of me to ask, but what was the manner of your relationship with Brenleigh?” Julian said, lifting his chin in Henry’s direction. Sam stiffened and lowered his eyes to a different spot on the carpet, but Julian continued. “I was under the impression that before Richard he was rather, shall we say, uninitiated.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Sam said through his teeth. “It probably took him a long time to find someone able to meet his high standards.”

Julian’s brow went up at this remark, which only caused Sam to grow more uncomfortable. He was not about to explain to Julian that Henry and he had been close in their school days. In fact, they had been so close that Sam had risked everything by inviting him to that damned storage room. What a fool he had been.

“You’re filthy, trying to kiss me. I’m not a woman.”

Sam forced a smile to his lips. “Do you plan to stay in town for the Little Season? I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“I haven’t decided yet either.” Julian turned his back to the room and leaned toward Sam. He tilted his head and raised his brow in a way that always looked mischievous. “But,” he whispered, “if you don’t have any prior engagements, we could take dinner at the club tonight and then have dessert in my rooms.”

Pleasant heat crawled over Sam’s scalp and down his neck. It was tempting. It was always tempting with Julian, but there was something missing. Sam cared for Julian as a friend, but both of them knew there was nothing more to it than that. In fact, Sam was relatively sure that Julian’s waning and waxing interest in him coincided with the ups and downs of his own personal life; in other words, Sam was conveniently available for Julian when others were not.

Their casual affair had never bothered Sam before. It was better to have casual relationships, after all. It was safe. And why the hell was even thinking like this? Of course he wanted to spend the night with Julian. It wasn’t even a question. The man knew how to do things with his mouth that—

Before Sam could eagerly accept the invitation, his attention was drawn to the commotion caused by a group of men coming inside from the terrace. Sam recognized two of the men immediately and made an attempt to turn his back, but it was too late.

“I say, Shaw. Didn’t think to see you here.” Elliot Evers laughed and made his way over as if he had been invited. His cohorts followed.

Julian frowned before his polite mask fell into position. Sam, who lacked Julian’s grace, stared coldly.

“Evers,” he said stiffly.

Elliot Evers was in his late twenties, a year older than Sam, and had all the degenerate cockiness of a rich second son. His father was an earl, but unlike many in the peerage, the earl had never required his younger son to join the clergy or take a military commission. Evers’s life was one never-ending bout of revelry, drink, and arrogant condescension. The fact that he was painfully handsome, with his wheat-gold hair and light blue eyes, only made Sam hate him more.

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with the bride or groom,” Evers continued. He held a glass of brandy, which he must have gotten from the library sideboard since none was being offered at the refreshment table.

“I am not,” Sam snapped.

“Ah, your good sister,” Evers mused, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “I forgot that Lady Crowl is your sister. Good friends with the groom’s mother, I believe. That explains it.”

It
being the shocking fact that Sam was there.

Sam sipped his warm, sugary lemonade to cover his scowl. As boys in school, Sam had allowed Evers’s jibes about rank and social place to bother him too many times, which explained why the man was still at it. Being a baronet was nothing to sneer at in the grand scheme of things, and Sam knew for a fact that Evers had friends from gentry families of no rank at all. Still, it did not seem to matter where Sam was concerned. Evers had it out for him.

“Explains why Sir Samuel would tolerate this insipid gathering?” Julian suggested, cocking an eyebrow. “I should think so. No doubt the happy bride and groom are just as anxious to see us all out.”

Evers’s friends laughed and made suggestive faces.

“The groom, perhaps.” Evers snorted. “Can’t imagine Lady Anne is very, ah, anxious to be smothered.”

Sam widened his eyes, his shock overpowering his distaste. It was one thing to make a comment like that across a card table when everyone was in their cups, but not at eleven o’clock in the morning in a room filled with ladies and relations of the groom.

“Surely you are not implying that Lady Anne is frigid,” Julian said, his violet eyes gleaming with intent. “I can’t imagine Cayson or either of Lady Anne’s brothers would appreciate such a comment.”

“Not remotely, Garrott,” Evers scoffed at Julian as if he was an idiot. “I was referring to Cayson and that wine barrel he carries around his midsection. Lady Anne can probably avoid the whole affair tonight if she just leaves out a plate of pastries for him.”

His friends laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. It was becoming clear that Evers had been drinking longer than his comrades. He took another draw of brandy and turned his attention back to Sam. “But Cayson’s father is a baron, and I hear he has a decent fortune. It makes up for a lot, though one wonders why the daughter of a duke would—”

“Rank and fortune do make up for a lot,” Sam cut in, his voice tight. “Unfortunately, they don’t seem to do much for stupidity and drunkenness.”

Everyone went still. Julian closed his eyes in a sad show of disapproval, for he knew what was to come. The muscles in Sam’s back and neck tensed, and his skin grew hot. It was the same every time. He did not have Julian’s grace with euphemistic replies or freezing looks, nor his controlled temper.

Damn it.

Evers’s lips twitched on the beginnings of a snarl. Their bad blood was years old, but time never seemed to lessen it. Evers took a step forward, and for a moment, Sam thought he meant to strike him.

But then Evers’s snarl twisted into a smile. “Are you quite well?” he said sweetly, his eyes roving over Sam’s face. “Your cheeks are all red as if you’re about to cry. Sir Sob.”

Sam’s throat closed like a vise. After nine years, years of supposed maturing, it might as well have been nine days. There stood Evers, his light blue eyes laughing just as they had that day in the cellar and so many times afterward.

“What happened, little Sir Samuel? Lose your way in the dark? More like Sir Sob to me.”

The memory was so sharp Sam didn’t hear the sound of the glass shattering, nor feel the shards as they crunched in the grip of his hand.

“Sam!” Julian gasped.

Sticky lemonade splattered over Sam’s hand and down to the plush Persian rug. Evers had the good sense to take a step back.

“Oh, my!” came a lady’s distressed voice. It pulled Sam from his paralyzed fog just in time to see the Duchess of Culfrey, their hostess, gliding toward them. “Sir, your glass must have been cracked. My butler assured me that all the tableware had been thoroughly inspected.”

All the men smiled pleasantly, trying to lessen the tension now that the duchess was among them. Sam looked down as he opened his fiercely clenched fist. A shard of glass a good inch in length protruded from the soft flesh near his thumb. Opening his hand proved to be a mistake too, as it allowed the blood to flow freely.

“Oh my.” The duchess, seeing the gush of blood, suddenly lost all her color.

“Shaw, you damn fool,” Evers said. “Do something about that before you make the ladies faint.”

The arrival of the duchess, plus Evers’s outburst, had drawn most of the attention in the room. Sam struggled to retrieve his handkerchief, but it was in the opposite pocket and he could not use his bleeding hand to retrieve it.

“Sam, here. Take this.”

What little blood Sam had that was not in his cheeks or running from his hand went cold. That voice. That kind, soothing voice. How could it still be so warm and yet make him shiver with rage?

“Sam?” Henry said again. He stood just beside Julian, having crossed the room at the sound of the commotion. He held a table linen in his outstretched hand. Behind him stood Lord Richard, his black eyes narrowed on Sam.

Seeing no other option, Sam snatched the linen from Henry’s hand and grunted an inarticulate thanks. He would not have bothered with even that much had the duchess not been standing there.