Page 30 of Once a Gentleman
At last Rowley sighed, a strange look on his face. “Are we friends for any reason other than our shared vice and a few years of suffering together at public school, Turner?” he asked, his nose in the air.
Good Lord. He had not had nearlyenoughfor this sort of nonsense. And really, the bloody nerve of the man to show up on his doorstep at an hour that ensured he would be claiming Andrew’s hospitality until morning, at the least, and then climb up on a very high horse like this.
“Perhaps not. But there are worse reasons to share a friendship, believe me.” More of the brandy slipped down rather easier this time, the glass heavy and comforting in his hand. “Besides, you clearly depend enough upon our friendship to arrive unannounced and assume that I’ll put you up for the night.”
Rowley flushed a deep rose-red, dark gaze flicking away. That had hit its mark, though Andrew hadn’t given his tone any particular bite. He hadn’t needed to. Rowley had never been a fool, no matter what else one might say of him.
“Forgive me, my dear fellow,” Rowley said after a moment. “You are entirely in the right.”
His tone of utter mortification took the wind out of Andrew’s sails—or what wind they had left. He was beginning to feel rather like a leaky frigate becalmed in the baking tropics, all creaking timbers and limp canvas.
Oh, the devil with it all. When was the last time he’d had the company of a man he’d neither bedded, nor wanted to bed, and whom he trusted, more or less?
He waved his hand at the brandy bottle he’d left on the table, and then at the chair opposite. Perhaps shame would induce Rowley to behave a bit less like Andrew’s maiden aunt.
“It happens now and again, rather like a stopped clock. Now bend your righteous spine sufficiently to have a drink with me, and tell me what the devil you’re doing here.”
Rather to his surprise, Rowley sat, took up his glass, and began to tell a tale so absurd that Andrew became entirely absorbed despite himself. The deuce—Rowley wrote sensational novels? And that was merely the beginning of the story, which involved the seduction of his editor and the use of Rowley’s mouth to persuade the man to admit culpability in the theft of some silly story or other.
Andrew burst out laughing at that part of the tale, laughing all the more at Rowley’s expression of pinched annoyance.
“So you see, I must find him and set things right.” Rowley leaned forward, all earnest sincerity, his dark eyes blazing with—well, with lust, Andrew would wager. “I know you don’t set much store by the dictates of your conscience, presuming that is that you have one, but—”
“Oh, rot and nonsense, it’s the dictates of your prick,” Andrew choked out, rather stung despite himself. He had a conscience, of course he did! And the blasted, miserable nuisance had bright leaf-green eyes and the roundest, most delicious arse in England. “This has nothing to do with your conscience, and I do have one too, by the way—I acquired it quite recently, as a matter of fact.”
Had he slurred his words a trifle? Perhaps he had. Would Rowley even comprehend him? Likely not, with or without enunciation. The brandy glass. Still in his hand? Yes, by George. He brought it to his mouth, but nothing remained in it.
Oh, bloody hell.
“It has everything to do with my conscience,” Rowley snapped, eyes flashing and tone all offense, “and I would be grateful if you would simply direct me to the place—the Two Bells, I think it was called. And then I will leave you to sink into a drunken stupor. Or into the nearest whore, whichever you manage first.”
Too bad Hewlett couldn’t be here to witness one of Andrew’s oldest friends so neatly and disdainfully summing up his character and capabilities. The thought of Hewlett and Rowley striking up a friendly acquaintance based on their mutual contempt for him left Andrew feeling as if someone had dropped ice into his very soul.
Well. He’d set out to fulfill Hewlett’s worst expectations, had he not? He had no one to blame but himself.
“No doubt I shall manage both, in the fullness of time,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “And I don’t need to direct you anywhere. My carriage is at the door just for the purpose of ferrying my guests back and forth. Now pour me a little more brandy, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll give you the key in trade. I’m staying in here for the nonce.”
And after all, where else would he go? The thought of the ribald revelry taking place on the other side of the door made him sick, with a bone-deep nausea no quantity of brandy could soothe.
He fumbled the study key from his pocket and held it out, and Rowley took it with a small shake of his head, handing back Andrew’s refilled glass at the same time. “I will slip it back under the door once I lock it behind me,” he said, and vanished with no further ceremony, off to find his plebeian lover. No doubt that would be a reunion to behold. True bloody love, and all that poetic rot. Perhaps Andrew ought to have insisted on accompanying him, if only for the amusement of Rowley’s horror at the idea—though the very thought of witnessing such a thing turned his stomach.
Who could or would want to be limited in such a way, faithful to only one other, with all the disadvantages of a marriage and none of the benefits, such as respectability, or children?
The door shut behind Rowley, the lock clicked, and the key clinked sadly against the floorboards as he pushed it through.
And then Andrew was left to half a bottle of brandy and the sounds of his guests destroying the drawing room, with shouts and oaths and the occasional tinkling smash of glass. Could Hewlett hear it from upstairs? For that matter, had the party already made its way into the upstairs bedrooms, and would Hewlett have barricaded himself into his bedchamber and be listening breathlessly for any sign of an attempted entry?
No, and Andrew let out a laugh before he drank deeply. Since he did have a glass in his hand, didn’t he? Had he filled it? He couldn’t recall. No, Rowley had done it.
Hewlett wouldn’t be cowering in fear, he’d be pacing the confines of his room and cursing Andrew’s name. Or perhaps quietly disposed by the fire, with a pot of tea and a stack of books and a great, inexhaustible store of complete indifference to draw upon whenever the sounds of the orgy intruded upon his solitude.
It was the fourth night since Hewlett had gone to his knees.
Four days, and Andrew could still feel Hewlett’s touch singing in his body, setting his blood on fire and making his mind—and other parts, damn it all—throb with want. How many others had Andrew sought out since then? Far too many for only four days. And yet he couldn’t remember their faces, their voices, the texture of their skin. But every gesture, every moment with Hewlett, every hitch in his breath and every flash of emotion in his eyes, were so ingrained in Andrew’s heart and mind that he could not forget a one of them, no matter how he numbed himself with drink or with empty, unsatisfying pleasure.
Pleasure that really didn’t even please him, in fact.
He drank deeply, draining the glass; when the last drop slid over his lower lip, his head fell back, too heavy to hold up.
Well, at least he’d fulfilled one half of his promise to Rowley: a drunken stupor seemed entirely imminent, even if the whores were locked out of the room, thank God. Let them run riot in the rest of the house. Andrew would be quite well enough with his bottle—if he could only reach it.
The devil take it. His eyes slid closed. The house, and the whores and rakes occupying it, and for that matter Rowley and particularly bloody Hewlett could all look after their own bloody selves.
