Page 15 of Moaning Under the Mistletoe
“Fine. But I’m not going to run to you whenever you waggle your finger.”
“I thought you liked commands?”
“Yes. In bed. Not in life. I don’t intend to be your servant, at your beck and call. That’s not at all what I want.” Hopefully he didn’t need to explain why to Bennington who had all the class advantage over him and might not necessarily understand how close Oscar was to being a servant.
Bennington nodded with his features more solemn than Oscar thought possible. “I didn’t intend to imply that.”
“Good. I will come to you when I’m ready and then once I arrive, you can command me, fill me, and fuck me to your heart’s content.”
Bennington leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yes.”
Oscar leaned forward, sliding on the seat until his forehead touched Bennington’s. “Wait up for me.” Then he sat up straight and banged on the roof, before giving the driver the directions to the King’s Book Club. Neither man said anything until the hackney arrived at Oscar’s club, and then Oscar stepped out. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Later.” He didn’t wait for Bennington’s answer as he trotted away into his club. He had work to do if he was going to go to Bennington’s residence tonight. And it wasn’t until he reached his office that he realised he didn’t know where that might be. If Bennington wanted him enough, he’d send a note, or something. First, Oscar had work to do; namely a budget for setting up a dining room. The food at White’s might have been boring, but using good food to get more income for the club was a brilliant idea.
Chapter Seven
Ambrose was a damnedfool. He should’ve stayed at lunch with Oscar because now it was late at night and Oscar hadn’t turned up and Ambrose was left with this feeling churning in his stomach. Was it regret? Rejection, again. He wished he’d stayed longer at lunch because he’d have had more time with him. He hadn’t expected to like Oscar. He wasn’t very similar to his uncle, freer, less intense, but with that same bright spark of intelligence that Ismail had had. Ismail suffered from a depressive melancholy that Oscar was fortunate not to have, or so it seemed from their first couple of meetings. Interactions.
Perhaps this feeling was anticipation? No, it was too unnerving and not exciting enough to be desire. For someone who usually had control over his body, it was very disconcerting to have feelings that he couldn’t understand.
Ambrose paced back and forth in his bedroom, lit by Carcel lamps with their familiar scent of whale oil, waiting. Waiting. This was ridiculous. Oscar had wanted to be here tonight. He’d said so. Why wasn’t he here? Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Ambrose’s body ached suddenly, remembering how it felt with the world staring at him as Lady Lavinia announced she couldn’t marry him because she’d already married. It wasn’t to be countenanced. He couldn’t just fuss about like this; perhaps he could do some correspondence as he waited. He had yet to reply to his oldest sister Mary’s latest missive. He picked up the envelope and growled as he stared at his direction written on the front. He was not just a damned fool, but also a bloody fool. Oscar hadn’t arrived because he didn’t have this address for the simple, foolish, reason that Ambrose hadn’t given it to him. Oscar had leaped from the hackney before Ambrose had thought of telling him his address. Of all the arrogant things... He’d basically set himself up for disappointment; hoist on a petard of his own making. He marched down the stairs to the butler’s pantry.
“Crowther, get me a hackney.” His townhouse’s location made it an easy task to summon a hackney cab whenever he wanted one, and it was much faster than waking the stablemaster and having his curricle readied.
“Yes my lord.” Crowther looked a little blurry-eyed, but he was well compensated for being at Ambrose’s beck and call at all hours. The best houses competed to keep butlers as good as Crowther and Ambrose wasn’t about to have him stolen away simply because he didn’t pay enough. He tried not to tap his toes as he waited. It was one thing to go scurrying off to collect Oscar, and quite another to give the impression that he was impatient to see him again. He did have some dignity as he rushed off towards another potential rejection. Was life trying to teach him something? No. It must be coincidence only.
Soon enough, Ambrose stood outside The King’s Book Club. Was it too keen to go in? But he could hardly stand on the footpath staring forlornly either. With a deep breath in, he entered—he was a member after all—and promptly almost bumped into Oscar.
“Oh good, you are here. You forgot to give me your address.”
“Yes.”
“It was rather high handed of you to command me to come to you and then not tell me where to go.” Oscar’s eyes twinkled. God, he looked so good and Ambrose didn’t regret his keenness in rushing here to see him.
“Yes.” He was about to say he was sorry.
