Page 26 of Once a Gentleman
Chapter Twelve
“Hewlett, wait—bloody hell,wait—” But it was too late. Hewlett had already burst from the drawing room as if pursued by demons, leaving the door open behind him. Cursing and staggering, Andrew managed to pull up the placket of his breeches with one hand and cross the room to fling the door shut.
At least Peter had abandoned his post and left the hall unattended, with no one left to witness the spectacle of the master’s secretary fleeing upstairs, and then the master himself appearing with his breeches down and his spent cock on full display.
Andrew slumped back against the door and did up his buttons, going slowly and methodically. He would not indulge in the weakness of shaking hands. He was quite calm, entirely collected, as always after spending down a willing throat. It was nothing, nothing at all to him.
He rested his head against the door and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. It did not matter that Hewlett’s mouth had been softer, sweeter, than anything Andrew had felt in years. Nor that the sight of his dark head bent down to Andrew’s cock had nearly made him spend without a single touch of that agile, clever tongue. Nor, most of all, that had Hewlett only stood still for one moment when he rose to his feet, Andrew would have pulled him into his arms and tasted that mouth for himself, and then Hewlett’s cock, and then any other part of him he could.
His instincts screamed to chase Hewlett upstairs, break down his door if necessary, and do all of that, and more, until Hewlett melted in his arms and offered himself to Andrew body and soul.
He would not. He could not. Andrew thumped his head against the door, rattling it in its frame. Hewlett had run from him. In disgust? In terror? He had no way of knowing. But he had promised Hewlett that this, whatever it was between them, would not affect Hewlett’s status in the household. If the man had his own residence, and had chosen to barricade himself within it, Andrew would have no right to force himself through the door.
But instead, Hewlett lived there, in Andrew’s own house, which made it all the more dishonorable should Andrew violate what privacy Hewlett demanded. Hewlett’s little corner of Andrew’s house must and should be sacrosanct, or Andrew would be the worst kind of cad.
Although Hewlett already thought that of him.Frivolous, degrading amours, andwhen I have seen no evidence that you possess such…Hewlett’s words tossed and turned in his mind, echoing and repeating. What would it matter if Andrew only confirmed his worst opinion? Took what he wanted, what he knew down to his bones they both wanted, and be damned to the consequences, to Hewlett, to himself, to his pride and his honor and his decency?
Sinking into Hewlett’s body, the heat of him, his cries…that would be worth the sacrifice of Andrew’s principles.
But no, dammit, no. Andrew pushed away from the door and made for the brandy decanter. No, that was the devil whispering in his ear, and he was made of sterner stuff than that.
He would remain in the drawing room. He would drink every drop of the brandy if necessary, and likely if unnecessary. He would open the door a little, leaving it ajar so that if Hewlett attempted to depart the house in the middle of the night Andrew would be able to beg him to reconsider, and he would under no circumstances venture to the upper floors of the house.
The door adjusted, and a chair set at an angle that would allow him to see through the gap into the hall, he settled in with a glass and a bottle. His earlier anger had already cooled, and the madness of his passion abated, leaving remorse and a heavy unhappiness in their wake.
Hewlett’s insults were in large part untrue, yes, but not…entirely. And what had Andrew done to change Hewlett’s mind, really? Given one small dinner for acquaintances who were neither dissolute nor offensive? He thought he had seen surprised approval in Hewlett’s face over the course of the party, but that was worse, in a way. To be approved of for such a minimal effort meant Andrew had set the bar low indeed. Andrew enjoyed confounding expectations, on the whole. In this case, confounding offensively low expectations in one he would have preferred to think well of him for his own sake was rather miserable.
As was the knowledge that Hewlett hadn’t wanted so much as the touch of Andrew’s hands after going to his knees and driving Andrew to the edge of that madness that had nearly taken him. And he’d had the temerity to call Hewlett a coward—a coward, forsooth, when the fellow had taken charge of Andrew so handily, without a moment’s hesitation.
Andrew ached to turn the tables. If given only a word, a look of encouragement, how he would take charge of Hewlett, and in a way that would leave him utterly ruined for any other man.
Instead, he sat in the dark, and drank his brandy, and brooded. He would find a way come morning, he swore it.
The morning brought nothing but an aching head, eyes that felt like desert sands baking in the sun, and Samuel, bearing a coffee tray and an air of disapproval.
“If I had known you wished to spend the night in the drawing room, sir, I could have brought you a pillow,” Samuel said, shutting the door behind him.
“Don’t,” Andrew replied, his voice rusty, attempting to force himself up. He had slumped down in the chair so deeply that he almost didn’t know where he ended and it began. One arm of it had embedded itself into his ribs. “Leave it open. And don’t do that either,” he said, as Samuel set down the tray and moved to open the drapes. The drawing-room windows would simply let in too much of the morning sun. Andrew could hardly bear to squint about him even with them drawn. Of all the bloody days for Portsmouth to have fine weather.
Samuel cocked his head and simply looked at him, in a way Andrew wished he had the wherewithal to correct. God, his head throbbed.
“Mr. Hewlett is dressing, sir,” Samuel said at last, very evenly, and handed Andrew his cup with a bow. “I believe he intends to come downstairs momentarily. Perhaps you would wish to keep the door closed for the moment, in order to drink your coffee in solitude.”
Just the sound of Hewlett’s name sent a thrill down Andrew’s spine, a less-than-pleasant mixture of delight and anxiety. It took a moment for Samuel’s meaning to penetrate Andrew’s fog of lust and confusion. Oh, hell. Samuel knew—something. Had he seen Hewlett leave the drawing room after all, perhaps hidden in the shadows at the end of the hall? Or perhaps Andrew had displayed his feelings far more obviously than he had thought or hoped.
“Do I appear so inhuman as that, Samuel?” He tried for an ironic tone, but feared he had achieved little better than plaintive. “Am I unfit for the company of my secretary? And he is dressing for the day’s work, I presume, not—”Not to leave this house. Not to leaveme. Andrew cleared his throat and swallowed a burning gulp of coffee. “Not to go out?”
“To answer your questions in reverse order, sir, he is not going out to my knowledge, you are unfit for any company at present, and as your sometime valet, I cannot bring myself to comment upon your appearance.”
“As my servant, you’ll comment on whatever I damn well tell you to,” Andrew snapped, braced up enough by half a cup of coffee to begin to take some offense at Samuel’s tone. Bloody hell, who paid wages to whom in this household? “I’m a bit rough, no more than that.”
“Sir, I can be as honest as my God requires of me, or I can lie to keep my place. I prefer to be silent. May I pour you more coffee, sir?”
Andrew held out his cup and muttered, “The day you’re silent will be the day I give up brandy.”
Samuel poured the coffee and replaced the pot on the tray. “Then perhaps we ought both to amend our habits, sir.” With that, he sniffed audibly and sailed out of the room.
Open-mouthed, Andrew stared at the door. What had his life become, that his own servant felt justified in speaking to him in such a way? And what hadhebecome, when he not only allowed it, but knew he deserved it?
