Page 52 of Once a Gentleman
Chapter Twenty
A sharp, demanding knock at the front door startled Andrew out of his contemplation of his cooling cup of coffee.
Rather, his contemplation of Kit’s wanton moans as Andrew had swallowed his cock with three fingers buried in his arse that morning, but the coffee cup provided a convenient reason to sit and daydream rather than doing something more useful. Kit had retired to the study and threatened to take Andrew’s key and lock him out of it if he were not allowed two hours of uninterrupted time to work, and Andrew had reluctantly agreed to his terms.
He had been rather regretting it, and considering breaching the study in any case, when the knock came.
A moment later, Peter stepped into the breakfast parlor, bowed, and announced Captain O’Neill, stepping back to allow him in as he did so.
Andrew popped to his feet, biting back a curse. Peter ought to have shown a guest into the drawing room so that Andrew could have run upstairs and made himself presentable, and instead he would be greeting his commanding officer in his shirtsleeves, without either cravat or waistcoat, with nothing on the table but bitter coffee and a few crusts of toast.
Captain O’Neill walked in directly, pausing a few steps into the room and raising his bushy gray eyebrows. O’Neill was a tall and excessively lean man, strong and hale despite being a decade or more past his prime.
And he had immensely expressive eyebrows. At the moment, they were expressing primarily amusement, very much at Andrew’s expense.
“Sir,” Andrew said, rounding the table and stopping a few feet away to bow. “I beg your pardon most profoundly. If I had expected—”
“Oh, don’t bother, Turner,” O’Neill cut in. “I’m lucky to find you as decent as this, hey?” Another waggle of the eyebrows seemed to signify an understanding of Andrew’s usual goings-on.
Hopefully not too much of an understanding, although if so, O’Neill seemed inclined to ignore it.
“Yes, sir, and thank you,” Andrew managed. “Will you take coffee? I’ll ring for a fresh pot. This isn’t really hot anymore.”
O’Neill shrugged and took the seat to the left of the head of the table where Andrew had been sitting. “You know I’m not fussed about it.”
He helped himself to a cup, and Andrew seated himself again, thanking all the stars above—and not for the first time—that of all the captains he could have been stuck with, both of them doomed to be passed over for promotion forever, it was this one.
O’Neill sipped at his coffee and then set it down again, letting Andrew stew, the old bastard.
At last he said, “I was called to the Naval Office yesterday and given new orders. The refit is to be hastened, workers pulled from other tasks to complete it in less than half the time it had been estimated to take. And we will sail in ten days.”
Andrew sat back, stunned. Ten days. If he had received this news only a week before he should have been delighted, relieved beyond measure to be returning to sea and resuming his duties, all-consuming as they were. He could have escaped the hash he had made of matters with Hewlett and hoped that the distraction of a war and all his officer’s responsibilities would clear his mind of the obsession he had developed with his secretary.
But now—now, he had Hewlett in his bed, in his arms, and had devoted himself entirely to the project of winning him over. It was only the second morning since he had persuaded Hewlett to stay. Eight-and-forty hours. He still didn’t know if Hewlett would attempt to leave at the end of the week he had promised.
And now that they were due to sail in so short a time, not only would Andrew be departing with everything still so unsettled, he would be required to spend the bulk of his time over the next ten days supervising the preparations: rounding up the crew, loading provisions, going over and over a dozen lists of supplies that must then be argued over with the Naval Office’s skinflint quartermasters.
“Turner?” O’Neill spoke sharply, and Andrew jumped. “What the devil? You were champing at the bit to sail the last I saw you. I was half afraid you’d find a berth on another ship just to be away again.”
“Forgive me,” Andrew stammered. “You know I would never do such a thing. If they saw fit to give me my own ship I’d leave your command with regret, sir. But I won’t serve as anyone else’s lieutenant.” He forced a smile. “Who else would have me, in any case?”
O’Neill sat back with a frown that wiped Andrew’s smile away. “Fiddlesticks. You sell yourself short, although I suspect you know it perfectly well. A dozen captains would have you in a trice and it might not be the worst thing for you. No, listen to me,” he added, when Andrew began to argue. “It’s the truth. You may never make post. I’ll acknowledge it. Even though you’d manage a sight better than most of those jumped-up fools with friends in Whitehall. And the likelihood of our taking a prize you can command into port and make your promotion that way isn’t high, either. But you’re not bound to me, you young fool. If you want to transfer, tell me now, and I won’t hold it against you. We’re not bound for any duty that’s likely to win prizes. Or glory, for that matter.”
“I don’t need prizes, sir,” Andrew said, gesturing around him. “And as for the glory. Didn’t a wise man tell me once that glory was for idiots who enjoyed being blown to bits?”
That won him a grin, O’Neill’s crooked, yellowed teeth on full display. “Yes, I did say that, but at your age I didn’t believe it.”
“Perhaps I have more common sense than you do. Sir.”
O’Neill let out a full-bellied laugh, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. “Doubtful. Now, are you going to ask me why they’re rushing us out of port, or are you too damn wrapped up in whatever bit of muslin you’ve been tupping this week and fancy yourself in love with, hey?”
Oh, thank God the study didn’t adjoin the breakfast parlor, and thank Peter for bringing Captain O’Neill in here after all, instead of the drawing room, which did. The thought of Kit overhearing this conversation gave Andrew a shudder of horror.
“I don’t have a—” And then it dawned on him, what it would mean to sail if Kit remained here, still Andrew’s secretary, but parted from one another. Andrew would be gone, hopelessly in love, knowing Kit could and possibly would forget whatever impression Andrew had made upon his heart—and unable even to write to Kit of anything that mattered unless there were some subterfuge in place. The only hope for him would be some kind of misdirection. And if he wished to avoid lying to a man he respected, carefully chosen language. “My love isn’t a bit of muslin, sir,” he said. “Not this time.”
O’Neill humphed, but he confirmed he had taken that as Andrew intended him to do when he said, “Well, my apologies to your lady, then. Not that it was an unwarranted assumption, mind.”
Andrew mentally drew a deep sigh of relief. Kit was certainly not a bit of muslin. Nor a lady, but honor didn’t require him to clarify that point when he was not the one to call him that.
