Page 18 of Once a Gentleman
He snuffed the candle nearest his elbow and turned the papers over to read them again from the beginning.
The sound of the front door roused him again some time later; the candle had burned down almost to a stub, and his eyes were dry and beginning to lose their focus. A glance at his watch showed it to be a quarter past nine.
Could that be Turner, coming home at this relatively early hour? Turner had entertained at home for sixteen out of the last twenty-two nights (Kit had thought marking the tally on the wallpaper with a pencil as a prisoner might have done would have been taking it too far, but he’d considered it), but on those other six nights, he’d never come home before Kit was asleep.
Turner’s voice in the hall confirmed it, though, and Kit’s heart gave a traitorous thump. He had avoided Turner as much as possible for weeks, andas much as possiblehad turned out to bealmost entirely. Only on one occasion had Kit needed to speak to him about a business matter, and that had been dispensed with in under a minute. But Kit did need to discuss this mill with him, though the hour might not be the most suitable.
For that matter, Turner’s state of inebriation might not be the most suitable.
Turner’s distinctively firm but quick footsteps came down the hall, and then to Kit’s surprise, stopped before the study. Kit stood and listened, but Turner neither moved away nor opened the door.
“Mr. Turner?” he called out, feeling rather foolish. What if Turner had someone with him, and Kit had simply not noticed a second voice or set of steps? His heart sank much farther than it should have. Bother. He was utterly indifferent to Turner’s choice of companions; it would be inconvenient and awkward, that was all, to have them engaged in—something—just outside the study. “Mr. Turner,” he said a little more loudly, “I am in the study, and the door is not locked, if you are looking for your key.”
There. That would give Turner and anyone else warning to shove off before Kit opened the door.
He expected to hear a flurry of receding footsteps. Instead, the door opened to admit Turner, looking a little the worse for wear but hardly as foxed as usual for this hour. His rumpled cravat hung loose around his neck, and the top button of his waistcoat had come undone. He was the picture of a gentleman who had spent the evening at some informal amusement, from the top of his dark-blond head to his polished Hessians. He’d foregone the more staid breeches and stockings for dark brown trousers, which hugged his muscled thighs.
Kit looked up at once, hoping he was too tired to blush. It was really unfair, that a man of Turner’s dissolute habits shouldn’t have the paunch to show for them. It was doubly unfair that Kit, denied any other object for his interest, should have only his employer to admire. If there were others available, surely Turner would pale in comparison.
“Good evening, sir,” Kit said, proud of how steady he sounded. “If you desired use of the study, my apologies. I was about to withdraw, in any case. Although if you would be able to give me a half hour of your time in the morning, there is a matter I’d like to bring to your attention.”
Turner fixed him with that uncannily intent stare of his, the one that always made Kit feel stripped down to his smalls. His eyes gleamed like aquamarines in the candlelight.
“And a good evening to you, Mr. Hewlett,” he replied, a half-smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “I have half an hour to spare right now.” Turner strolled to the sideboard and reached for the brandy decanter, pausing with his hand on the stopper. “Unless this matter is of such moment that I should keep a clear head?”
There could be, Kit knew, no correct answer. Either he would appear to improperly criticize his employer’s personal habits, or to suggest that his employer’s finances were of no moment. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then settled on, “That is for you to determine. I may be incorrect in my conclusions.”
Turner chuckled and let his hand fall away. “Very tactful. I’ll reserve judgment on the brandy until I’ve passed judgment on whatever you have to tell me.”
He strolled to the fire and bent to take up the poker, a graceful motion that stretched his already-tight trousers over his well-formed backside. Kit swallowed and forced himself to look away for the second time in as many minutes.
“If you are quite certain you had not rather wait until tomorrow?”
Kit only realized how that had sounded when Turner abruptly stopped prodding at the fire and turned to look over his shoulder, his face unreadable.
“Do you mean you had rather wait until tomorrow?” His tone was mild enough, but Kit winced all the same.
“Not at all, sir. I am at your disposal. Forgive me if—forgive me,” he finished rather lamely.
Turner let out a deep, gusty sigh and dropped the poker to the marble hearth with a clatter that made Kit twitch. “Mr. Hewlett. I am your employer, but that doesn’t entitle me to your time past some reasonable hour, which this is decidedly not. I had thought to demonstrate to you that I am sometimes capable of attending to something more important than the contents of a cask.”
Kit had rarely felt more wrong-footed. He had been annoyed by Turner’s blithe disregard for the time of night, and he was still angry over the events of thatothernight—an anger that simmered rather than boiled, but that remained beneath the surface of every one of his thoughts, nonetheless. And yet how could he possibly express that, when Turner spoke with such self-mockery? To agree was impossible, but to disagree would be disingenuous in the extreme.
He drew a deep breath and relaxed his jaw a trifle, so that he would not grind his teeth. “Mr. Turner, I beg your pardon if I gave you the impression—”
“Oh, come off it,” Turner snapped, crossing quickly to the desk. It was all too reminiscent of the night after the dinner party, and Kit’s whole body stiffened in reaction. “I’m not going to sack you for speaking your mind. Or for expressing your very obvious displeasure in some other way. If you want to hit me again, then do it, and get it over with. Shout at me, if you like. But don’t play the subservient hireling when I know damn well you don’t mean a word of it!”
Turner broke off, breathing hard, and Kit found that he was too, and that his heart was pounding away like a kettledrum. Turner had leaned in over the desk, and their faces were only two feet apart, if that. Kit could feel Turner’s exhales gusting over his face, warm and intimate.
“I’m not going to hit you again,” was all he could say. And then the absurdity of it struck him all at once. His stomach began to shake, and his chest tightened, and oh, God, no, it was quite improper—but he burst out laughing all the same, helplessly, leaning his hands on the desk to support himself. Between spasms, he choked out, “Turner, really, I nearly broke my hand the last time. It was sore for a week. You have—you have—really a very well-developed jaw—”
And then Turner was laughing too, a full-throated guffaw that sent Kit into another paroxysm. Kit dropped into the chair behind the desk, despite the fact that Turner remained standing, giving up entirely on behaving as a secretary ought.
Turner followed suit, though, and took the armchair opposite, leaning his head back and kicking his legs out before him carelessly, looking in that moment like a schoolboy at leisure, young and mischievous and all ungainly long limbs. It was horribly endearing.
“I’m sorry,” Turner said, still smiling. His real smile, the one Kit had only seen once before, that lit his usually hard face with uncharacteristic joy. “I’ll try to exercise it less frequently in future, for your convenience, of course. Soft foods only.”
That set Kit off into another fit, but at last that subsided too, leaving him with that oddly shaky, empty feeling that was the aftermath of any kind of hysteria. Turner’s lips had settled into their usual slight curl.
