Page 21 of Moaning Under the Mistletoe
“I’m sure you can, as evidenced by this one, but the frequency is rather rare.”
Until he’d met Oscar, it’d been almost non-existent. He’d spent most of his time worrying about politics and the weather and how to live up to one thousand years of history when the last thing in the world he wanted to do was marry and create little Lordlings. The Benningtons had always been ridiculously fertile with every generation filled with siblings, and subsequently, he had distant cousins constantly appearing from the woodwork. Christmas was the worst when everyone turned up wanting to be handed gifts from the estate.
“Gosh. It seems the idea of making jokes has made you frown. It’s not exactly the response most jesters are aiming for.”
He sighed. “Will you stay for Christmas?”
“Yes. Christmas Day is three days before our arrangement ends. It would be a breach of our agreement for me to stay away.” At least Oscar knew what he meant. He knew that; had been counting down the days mentally for at least a week now. It wasn’t quite his point.
“Good.”
The footmen cleaned up their mostly empty plates and returned with more cutlery, more wine, and ramequins of cheese with a basket of pastries to go with them.
“These look lovely. I could easily do something like this at my club.”
“Have one.”
Oscar used a knife to dig out a piece of baked cheese from one of the ramequins and spread it onto a small pastry. Crumbs dropped from his fingers onto the little plate before him. “Oh, this is very good. So flaky and buttery.”
“I think they have a French pastry chef.”
“Oh la la.” Oscar winked. “On a serious note, it’s not a bad idea to employ someone like my mother to cook for me. Someone with my heritage could cook interesting food and it’d be—”
“A club for people with unusual tastes, in more ways than one.”
“I’ll write that on my business cards.”
Ambrose gasped. “You—”
“I don’t have business cards. I’m hardly going to put that truth in writing, Ambrose.”
He shivered. Why did he adore it when Oscar said his name in that tone? “Let’s go.”
“Are you suddenly in a hurry, Ambrose?” Oscar purred at him, and he gulped. Perhaps if he thought about orange jelly, he’d be able to walk to a hackney carriage. Once he put on his great coat, he’d easily be able to hide his raging cockstand, but until then, there was the potential for an incredibly awkward journey through the yellow dining room and down the hallway to the front desk, where any of his peers might wonder why he was walking oddly.
“I do like it when you are in a hurry.” Oscar’s taunting wasn’t helping.
“Come.” He stood up, with his napkin bundled in his fist. He dropped the napkin on the table, enjoying the way Oscar’s gaze stayed low, focused on his groin. The whole room faded away until it felt like it was just him and Oscar alone. A cough from a footman reminded him that they were in White’s, and he really needed to drag Oscar home where he didn’t need to worry about his surroundings. They could just be themselves. Together.
“Thank you.” Oscar nodded to the footmen, and it was a good reminder to move. Standing there awkwardly filled with lust wasn’t overly helpful to anyone. With a deep breath, he nodded to the footmen and walked out of the dining room. Because none of his blood was in his brain, he managed to go the wrong way, through the card room. Fortunately the room was empty; he hardly wanted to have to do political small talk while dealing with raging lust for Oscar.
“What is this?” Oscar stood next to the betting book, with its pages spread open to the latest nonsense. The shelf held a small jar of ink and a couple of fountain pens for the guests to use.
“It’s the betting book.”
Oscar flicked through some of the pages, while Ambrose tapped his toes. He was hardly in a fair state to be patient, but also, he understood the appeal of nosily looking at what nonsense the peerage bet on. It was irritating to wait because he wanted to get Oscar home to his bed. He also wanted to indulge Oscar in his every whim.
“Oh, this is you? When will the Earl of Bennington marry Lady Lavinia Waterhouse?”
Never. She’d taken away that option from him. It didn’t even matter anymore. Being with Oscar consumed him and that old public rejection was old news, discarded and irrelevant, especially while standing here with Oscar. Or being anywhere with Oscar. Lust had turned into obsession; Oscar was funny and wonderful and reminded him not to take life so bloody seriously all the time. He brought joy to the pressures of running an Earldom and he wanted to drag Oscar home and thank him for it all.
“Before Christmas is the most popular.” Oscar paused, then turned to face Ambrose with the book at his back. “You are to be married before Christmas?”
No. But the word wouldn’t come out. Stubborn, stubborn word. The switch from desiring Oscar to seeing him look so hurt was like being slammed by a steam train, and the only foolish thought banging into Ambrose’s skull was that it must matter to Oscar that he was going to get married, even though he wasn’t.
“Good day, Lord Bennington.” And then Oscar was gone, and he was left standing there. Rejected with a soft prick and sore chest, frustrated by his inability to say anything. Anything at all. Why wouldn’t the words come out?
