Page 27 of Once a Gentleman
Andrew finished his coffee slowly, listening for the sound of Hewlett coming downstairs. A few moments later, he caught his light, brisk footsteps, first on the stairs and then crossing the hall. Andrew’s heart gave a quick, unsteady thump. Hewlett passed the drawing room and entered the breakfast parlor. He wouldn’t be in there for long; Hewlett never lingered over breakfast, and given the kitchen’s usual offerings for that particular meal, Andrew didn’t blame him.
But that gave Andrew five minutes to sneak out of the drawing room and upstairs, where he could make himself presentable. There was little he could do about his undoubtedly bloodshot eyes, but otherwise—otherwise, he would do his best.
A quarter of an hour later, he emerged from his bedchamber dressed, shaven, and relatively refreshed. Cold water on his face and the perfect adjustment of his cravat had given him hope. Hewlett had run the night before, true, but he had gone down to breakfast just as he always did. Clearly, Hewlett had gone a long time—years, perhaps—without any encounter of the sort they’d had the night before. His nerves had gotten the better of him.
Or more hopefully still, it was possible his feelings had overcome him. Had he thought Andrew would be less than kind in the aftermath of pleasure? If so, then it behooved Andrew to disabuse him of any such notion. Andrew could be kind. He could be more than kind, damn it all, he could lavish Hewlett with the kind of attention the man had probably never known.
Hewlett was intelligent, witty, competent, observant, and tolerant. Tactful and generous, to boot, to Andrew and to his guests the night before. For once, another man’s physical attributes constituted by far the least of his attractions—though Andrew burned for him, the thought of that clever mouth and that slim waist and lovely arse nearly obliterating his common sense, which urged caution in his approach.
Caution. Which meant no bursting through the study door and sweeping Hewlett into his arms, or pushing him down flat onto the desk with his legs around Andrew’s waist.
Andrew came to a halt outside that door, drew a deep breath, and opened it.
Hewlett sat behind the desk, busy but composed as he always was. He showed no sign at all of sharing in the turmoil filling Andrew’s breast, unless one could count the very slight flush along his cheekbones as he looked up from his ledger. His clothes were the usual drab, plain coat and simply tied cravat, the rest of him hidden behind the desk. Andrew felt suddenly overly conscious of his own new and fashionable garments, far too much for a morning spent at home, which he’d chosen to be as flattering as possible.
God, but he was such a fool. “Good morning,” Andrew said, his voice coming out husky and unfamiliar. “I trust you slept well?” Oh, God. More than a fool. Anidiot.
A slight pause. “Yes.” Was it Andrew’s imagination, or was Hewlett’s tone tinged with frost? “And you?”
Certainly not his imagination. Hewlett could have chilled a chunk of ice. Fresh resolve welled up. Andrew would melt him, he vowed. With attentions, with thoughtfulness, with charm—with anything and everything at his disposal. He needed, more than anything, to entice Hewlett to spend more time in his company, time in which they were not separated by a stack of dusty correspondence. Andrew could win any man over, given sufficient time.
“Hewlett, I thought to ride out this morning. Some fresh air might be pleas—”
“I’m certain you will benefit from it,” Hewlett interrupted briskly. “After an evening of entertaining, it will no doubt prove salutary.” He bent his head back to the ledger, a clear dismissal that would have been almost rude had Hewlett been speaking to a footman, let alone to his employer.
Andrew gaped at him, for once totally nonplussed. What the devil? Did Hewlett not understand that Andrew meant to invite him?
A strange, aching, sinking sensation caught him by the solar plexus. Yes, Hewlett no doubt understood perfectly well. He understood, and he wanted no part of Andrew or his company. But Andrew—Andrew would force him to say it, damn it all, to be honest in this at least.
And perhaps, in the process, to give Andrew something with which he could argue.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his anger heating the words to boiling. “I had meant to invite you to accompany me. Would you care to ride out? Those ledgers can wait, I’m sure.”
“If you wish your affairs to fall into disorder, as they were before I took them on, then they certainly can, of course. But I would still beg to be excused. I am not much of a horseman.”
That had to be a blatant falsehood. Hewlett’s father had owned a country estate. Hewlett was obviously no sportsman, but he could certainly keep his seat on a ride about town. Andas they were before I took them on? Well. Hewlett was not pulling his punches this morning. He had not even looked up again in order to deliver his final shot.
And it was quite final, that was clear. How could Andrew grapple with a man so determined to slip out of his hold?
“Will you not at least take coffee with me before you continue your work?” he tried, rather desperately. Yes, his pride rose up in utter revolt, but he could force it down. He must, if he were going to penetrate Hewlett’s stony façade. He cast about for some way to make that suggestion more businesslike, and thus more likely to be palatable. “We could discuss my investments.”
A dreadful thought, to be sure, but anything, anything to force Hewlett to come out from behind the bulwark of that bloody desk and look Andrew in the eyes.
Hewlett slowly set down his pencil, adjusted it precisely into alignment with the edge of the ledger, and stood. He looked up at last.
Andrew rather wished he had not after all. Those lovely green eyes had gone dark, cloudy, and cold, rather like a thunderstorm raged behind them. “Nothing that passes between us would have the slightest bearing on your position. Do those words sound familiar to you, Turner? Or has your memory suffered the same injury that has apparently befallen your common sense and your decency?”
“I—am aware that I spoke them, and I meant them,” Turner stammered, his heart kicking up to a speed that it had never reached even in the midst of battle. He could feel his cheeks flushing crimson, burning like embers. His pride surged, wresting away his control. HowdareHewlett address him so? “And I beg your pardon, but neither my common sense nor my decency are betrayed by attempting to speak to my own secretary, Hewlett! Nor by expecting some pretense at civility in response!”
“Then speak to me as your secretary!” Hewlett snapped. “Not as someone you wish to—to—good God, I don’t know what you wish, butIdearly wish that you’d leave me in peace! Last night we were both the worse for wine. What happened,” and here his voice shook, as if he could hardly bring himself to contemplate it, “shall be forgotten. And if not, please accept my resignation as of this morning.”
Hewlett stood as straight as a ramrod, meeting Andrew’s gaze unswervingly, but his face had gone milk-white and his hands trembled where they rested on the desk.
His resignation. His bloody, buggering resignation of all things—Hewlett’s standard threat, it seemed, whenever Andrew stepped over the line Hewlett had drawn without ever consulting Andrew on its placement. Oughtn’t the boundaries of a friendship, or of more than a friendship, be something upon which both parties could agree, or at least offer an opinion? Rage at the unfairness of it—no, the sheerhypocrisyof it—well-nigh bowled him over. Distantly, he knew that rage was itself unfair.
But his vision clouded as his heart beat too strongly, Hewlett wavering before him like a mirage.
Precisely like a mirage, for Hewlett was a vision of something Andrew longed for and could never reach, no matter how he strived; he would always melt away like mist on the sea the moment Andrew reached out to touch him.
