Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (6 page)

After seeing to the ladies, John took his seat and made the mistake of sighing like a disgruntled old man.

Aunt Eloise gave him a narrow look. “Don’t be disagreeable,” she said, tapping his arm with her fan. “I know for a fact you enjoy music.”

“I enjoy
music
, Aunt. I do not enjoy listening to amateurs butcher notes, no matter how lovely and well-meaning they may be.”

He was telling the truth, but only by half. The fact of the matter was that he had every intention of feigning boredom and disinterest regardless of the caliber of music involved. It was expected of him. Sportish Corinthians who raced their curricles to Brighton at breakneck speed and spent summers tearing across the countryside on horseback
did not
get absorbed in music. It simply wasn’t the thing.

“Shows what you know,” Jane whispered. “Henrietta and Constance are far from amateurs.”

John rolled his eyes. The sound of tuning instruments was the final warning for the audience to go silent. He waited for the onslaught of scraping strings and pounded piano keys, but was treated to a superb crescendo into one of the lesser-known Mozart sonatas. His surprise must have shown on his face, for he heard a distinct humph of satisfaction from his aunt just as she tapped his arm again.

The evening was not going to be a total loss after all, he decided as he settled into the beautiful music. Still, he listened and watched with his face a blank mask of disinterest. It was obvious by the time the musicians faded into the sonata’s second movement that most of the men in the audience were following his example of apathy. Either that, or they were genuinely bored.

But not Shaw.

As John looked around the room, observing the audience in the great ton tradition, his gaze fell on Shaw and he was struck still. The man sat in the same row on the other side of the center aisle, giving John a perfect view of his profile. His attention was fixed forward in a determined sort of way, but there was no hiding the watery sheen over his eyes. He blinked slowly, purposefully, and his chest rose and fell with the deep, conscious breaths of a man trying to hold himself together.

My God, he’s weeping.

John, usually so careful of his behavior, continued to stare. He was not certain why, for at any other time he would have looked away from something so private. But he could not seem to look away. Shaw was…

Mediocre
. His mind spat out the word like a challenge. Shaw was shorter than average, five foot eight or nine at most. His figure, while obviously strong and compact, had that mild softness that suggested a persistent layer of baby fat, and that same trait reached to his face. His features were soft and smooth. They were…kind? And compared to the rows of dismal, bored men surrounding him, Shaw looked absolutely—

Dark green eyes fixed on John’s, and he panicked. John flinched like a pickpocket caught in the act just as Shaw’s eyes flared and his cheeks turned crimson. Yes, even in the wavering candlelight, John saw the flush crawl over Shaw’s face.

Damnation!

John turned his head forward with a snap, causing his aunt to frown at him. He had not meant to stare, and he had certainly not meant to embarrass the man by catching him in a forgetful moment. But it was just music, after all. Wasn’t it a bit much to become so overwrought over some well-played notes?

Something in John’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t always thought like that. When had he become so jaded?

Sitting through the rest of the Mozart piece was a unique kind of torture as he struggled not to glance at Shaw. Instead, he managed to give himself a headache trying to examine him in his peripheral vision. Finally, he gave up and focused his eyes on the musicians. When the piece ended, to genuine applause and people rising for the relief of an intermission, John looked across the center aisle.

Shaw and his sisters were gone.

* * * *

“Come here, boy. That’s it. Don’t be afraid.”

The filthy creature that one could barely discern to be a dog whimpered and made a half step. Its tail was tucked so far between its legs as to almost touch its concave belly. It limped forward another few inches, its misty eyes shifting between Sam’s face and the hunk of warm mutton in his hand.

“It’s all right, boy. I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam soothed, his voice as soft as goose down. The poor wretch limped another step, renewing Sam’s anger and pity. The pity won out, which was why he was not currently flogging the paperboys across the street with his cane. They had been harassing the poor mongrel when Sam happened by. They must have lured it close enough, probably with food, to tie a brick to its tail. The dog had managed to hide himself behind some rubbish bins outside a tavern where Sam currently knelt, no doubt ruining his trousers. Boys could he cruel, a fact Sam knew firsthand.

He smiled without showing his teeth and leaned down farther. It would be best to put his face at level with the skinny hound, but he wasn’t willing to go that far with the gaggle of snickering people behind him. The mutton seller from whom he had purchased his bait was among them.

“Never be understandin’ the Quality,” the seller declared, “gettin’ down in the muck for a scraggly hound.” A few of the other men laughed and added their agreement. Surely it wasn’t
manly
for a gentleman to be cooing soft words in public like that, and to some dirty animal.

One of the tavern wenches thought differently. “Shut yer gob, Tom! You be more like to put a little beast
in
the muck than to help ‘em. That’s why Father Mick says ye ain’t gettin’ into heaven.”

“He don’t even,” the mutton seller objected.

“Oh,
that
ain’t why Father Mick says that,” some other man added, sending the crowd into further laughter.

Sam was hardly aware of any of it, being too focused on his goal. Still, some of the words made it to his ears. Unmanly, strange, soft. Sam cringed as his thoughts went to last night and the other
unmanly
thing he had been caught doing. The mournful sounds of that beautiful sonata had reached into his heart enough to make him forget himself, and look what had happened. Darnish of all people. What must he think of Sam now? Probably what many before him had thought. Sam remembered the words of his father and uncles and the various teachers at school when he would hide birds with broken wings or kittens whose mothers had vanished. To hell with them. He had his title, and he was no longer in school. He would do whatever he bloody well pleased.

“That’s it. Come along,” he whispered, laying his hand on the ground with the chunk of meat resting on his open palm. “You must be hungry, little fellow.”

The dog whimpered once more, a last plea to not be harmed, then took the meat. Sam opened his other hand and presented more mutton before the dog could decide to flee. Seeing the increase in the bounty, the dog moved to the second meal. After taking it, he sniffed at the bandage still wrapped around Sam’s hand. It had only been two days since the wedding breakfast, and the wound still throbbed.

“There you go. That’s better, huh? I’m glad you like it. Smells like rot to me.”

“Oi!” the mutton seller cried.

“Aye, the gent’s got it,” someone shouted. “Rot and swill.”

The crowd, deciding that their entertainment was over now that Sam had the dog in his control, broke up to go back to their occupations. Sam stroked a gentle hand over the dog’s greasy, smelly fur. Poor, filthy beast. He appeared to be a mongrel hound of some kind, his long ears telling at least that much. The wretch had obviously lived with people at some point, perhaps even been a cherished pet, for it nuzzled into Sam’s hand as if the affection fed him far more than the mutton. He whimpered again and stepped closer, pressing his muzzle against Sam’s thigh.

Sam smiled stupidly and scooped his arms under the pathetic thing. He was not even a block from home, and it was that time of day when there were few people out. He could even go around to the next block and go in through the kitchen door. That would certainly give his poor cook something to complain about. He cradled the surprisingly compliant dog against his chest, ruining his coat in the process, and turned.

His heart stuttered.

Standing on the other side of the street, one fine booted leg on the step of his carriage, was John Darnish. He appeared to be just leaving the solicitor’s office across the way. He stared at Sam and the dog in his arms. Making eye contact, Darnish tipped his hat in greeting and smiled.

Smiled.

He’s laughing at me, Sam thought. How long had John been there? Had he been listening to Sam coo stupid words at a dog for the past ten minutes, or was he just remembering Sam’s pitiful display at the concert last night? Suddenly, all Sam’s assertions about doing whatever he damn well pleased crumbled to nothing. They always did when he was faced with someone seeing him as weak.

He jerked the dog around in his arms and reached to pry open its mouth. “Swallowed it, did you, you little thief?” he declared loudly.

The dog cried at this shocking turn, twisting with what little strength it probably had left.

“Be gone with you, then!” Sam growled, dropping the dog to the pavement. It yelped as it landed and scrambled away.

Darnish’s smile disappeared. He waved his groom away as he crossed the street in Sam’s direction. “Problem there, Shaw?”

Sam swallowed hard.
He learned my name.

“Nothing to be done for it,” Sam said in a sneering voice. He brushed at the front of his soiled coat. The dog was no longer in sight, making Sam’s stomach drop to his knees. Poor wretch looked to be on his last legs.

“That dog?” Darnish ventured.

“What? Oh. That. My watch fob came loose and fell. That filthy thing snatched it up like it was a piece of roast. Hoped he still had it in his mouth, but the stupid cur must have swallowed it.” Sam continued to brush at his coat, trying not to make eye contact with Darnish. No doubt he would melt and lose all his nerve in the grasp of that handsome face.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be in his mistress’s place for just one night.

“I see,” Darnish said flatly.

“Yes, well.” Sam shrugged and sniffed, his lip twisting. “There really should be some sort of culling measure put in place. Damn city is overrun with these disgusting strays.”

“Yes. Quite.” Darnish looked down the street, then back over his shoulder to his carriage as if he had already grown bored. “Pity about your watch fob, then. I must be off. Good day to you.”

“Yes, good day,” Sam replied, still managing to sound distracted and irritated. He continued to brush at his coat as Darnish quickly returned to his carriage and was taken away. Sam felt bile rise in his throat, but managed to be proud of himself. Yes, he had pulled that off well. There would be no Lord Darnish going around to spread tales of Sir Samuel Shaw growing weepy-eyed over a starved dog.

Why would he, when he can just tell them about the concert?

Sam couldn’t imagine anything worse. There was nothing more humiliating than being thought weak and pathetic. Weak people became victims and targets. It was why Evers continued to torment him after so many years. Evers had once seen Sam at his weakest, and once was all it took.

Then the thought of feeling strong and in control, just for a while, sent his pulse racing. His groin tightened as images of heat and sweat ran through his head, but those images did not include Lord Darnish. No. He could not imagine being in control where that man was concerned. That was an entirely different fantasy.

But Sam brushed all such thoughts aside.
Later
. He had more pressing concerns at the moment.

“Goin’ to try again, are ye?” The mutton seller snorted as Sam handed him another shilling.

Sam took the papered hunk of meat and scowled. “Shut up.”

He had a poor, filthy wretch of a dog to find.

Chapter Three

Lust

Hypocrisy was not something to which John gave much thought. It wasn’t that he did not care or that he was unaware of the contradicting behavior of his peers. Quite the contrary. He had simply become
so
accustomed to it that noting the instances was like noting every piece of rubbish on the street: a waste of time.

So when his usually elegant and refined friends growled like beasts and shouted their encouragement at the brawl before them, John hardly blinked an eye. In fact, his own blood was pumping with a new heat as he watched the two men grapple with each other, their sweat-soaked skin shining under the torchlights.

Oh, God.

John stood at the rail of the makeshift ring, every possible inch of space around him taken up by shouting men. The fighters were well matched, skilled, and active. They circled each other for a second before punches flew, most connecting, followed by another few moments of focused circling. John watched them intently, his eyes shifting from one to the other. He tried to take in the spectacle as a whole, to acknowledge the fight and the audience, the men yelling to place bets and the bookkeepers struggling to keep up, but he wasn’t managing very well.

Instead, his vision narrowed to see bare shoulders glistening with sweat, exposed calves defined and flexing as they moved barefoot over the dirt floor. One of the men wore breeches that were too big on him, and they drooped low on his hips, exposing the tantalizing curve of a high, round arse.

I have to get out of here.

John swiped the rising beads of sweat from his brow and leaned against the wobbly railing. The position helped to flare out the front of his greatcoat, which was the only thing keeping the jutting press of his arousal from being visible to all. He was so overheated he felt nearly ill, but damned if he was going to remove his coat.

The crowd’s shouts exploded as one of the men jerked back and hit the dirt on his beautiful arse. The devastating left punch had done its job, leaving the half-unconscious man to swoon under the care of his handler while the bookmakers doled out winnings and other men grumbled at their losses. John pushed back from the railing but put his hands in his coat pockets to continue holding the garment away from him. He had to leave, and he knew exactly where he was going, prior notice or not. He did not give a damn.