Page 23 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Jack emptied the wine bottle into Rivington’s glass. “We’re seeing a man about a horse.”
“You’re not serious. That’s an old cliché.” At some point Rivington had lost the shifty dishonest look and settled back in his chair. This was likely how he looked at his club—his long limbs loose and relaxed, his glass casually propped in his hand. That thought was an unwelcome reminder of who Rivington really was.
“It’s a cliché for a reason,” Jack said, his voice harsh. “Men are always buying horses. It’s completely unremarkable.” The best lie was the one that sounded like a truth too boring to merit discussion.
“Whose horse?”
“How the hell would I know? We’ll figure that out when we get there, and then we’ll look at his bloody horse. That’s the easy part. The more difficult question is why the Earl of Rutland’s son would be traveling with plain Jack Turner.”
Rivington took a slow sip of his wine. “You could pose as my valet. You were a valet in the past, after all, so it wouldn’t be a challenge.”
“You must be cracked.” Jack shoved his own glass away from him. “I’m not pretending to be your servant or anybody else’s servant either.” Jack realized belatedly that he was nearly shouting. “Not ever,” he added, bringing his voice to a calmer register.
Rivington seemed unperturbed by Jack’s loss of temper. He rubbed has hand along his jaw. “In that case, we could pretend to be cousins by marriage. And then we can both act appalled by the connection.”
Jack laughed, feeling his anger dissipate. But Rivington’s blithe assumption that Jack wouldn’t object to posing as a servant—as his servant, no less—reminded him of the gap that lay between them. He would have to tread carefully here. Because he very, very much wanted to strip every stitch of pricey clothing off Rivington’s back and see what it felt like to get that man’s lean body beneath his own. He wanted to know how many different ways he could make that handsome face flush with color. But he didn’t want it so much that he was willing to sacrifice his self-respect.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Since Oliver had been meaning to purchase a curricle anyway, he hadn’t felt too bad about fibbing that he already had one. An afternoon spent at the carriage seller’s and Tattersall’s, and he was practically an honest man. Ordinarily he would balk at the notion of spending so much in a single day, but he had recently received the proceeds from the sale of his commission. There was probably some irony in the fact that the funds that had once made him a soldier were now equipping him for life as a frivolous man about town.
But he didn’t care. Irony be damned. He had a purpose, and while he wasn’t sure whether his purpose was to protect the Wraxhalls, buy an estate to house the wife he would likely never have, or get seduced by Turner, that purpose required a carriage and horses.
No. Get seduced by Jack. He was quite determined on that score. There were hardly any men alive whom Oliver addressed by their Christian names. Even his older brother had always been called by his courtesy title, even when they were children.
But you couldn’t call a man by his surname when you were in bed with him. Or at least that was Oliver’s best guess. His previous encounters had not, as a rule, involved beds or much conversation beyond the strictly logistical. He wanted to know what it was like when relations weren’t hasty and shameful and soon forgotten.
He suspected that nothing about Jack Turner was hasty or shameful or soon forgotten.
Surely, his conscience ought to have something to say about this. At the very least Oliver might have expected a pang of concern about spending a week in the company of a man who, a few days earlier, he had found morally questionable in the extreme. But his scruples had begun to disappear around the time he learned that Charlotte needed precisely the kind of help that Jack could offer. By the time of their chaste little kiss, Oliver’s conscience was nearly silent.
On Wednesday morning he turned his curricle up Sackville Street toward Turner’s rooms. Jack emerged from the building with his brows knit together and dark circles under his eyes. The stubble on his jaw was visible at a distance of five yards and the scrape on his cheek looked angry. He couldn’t look less reputable, Oliver thought. “Tie your case onto the back,” Oliver called down, “and then hop up.”
“What have you done with your valet?” Jack asked, climbing into the conveyance. “Tell me you haven’t had him follow behind in another vehicle.” His voice was laced through with scorn.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort.” Not that it would be such an outrageous thing to do, though. Gentlemen frequently had their valets and sometimes their grooms travel separately with the luggage. A curricle only comfortably sat two men and wouldn’t hold too much luggage strapped behind. Oliver, however, had left his servants at Rutland House for a holiday, because a man couldn’t very well get himself seduced with his valet looking on, could he? “I can fend for myself for a few days, you know.”
“Can you?” Jack slouched sullenly against the side of the curricle.
“I was in the siege of Badajoz, for God’s sake. I didn’t have a valet then.”
“You were in Badajoz?” Jack asked. Of course he would know what a bloodbath that had been. Everyone knew.
“Yes, and a number of other places besides,” Oliver said lightly, having no intention of summarizing his war record. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it would take a bigger fool than Oliver to let that nightmare intrude into their day. “I don’t care to talk about it.”
“Why in hell would you?” Jack’s tone managed to convey sympathy for Oliver’s experiences and scorn for anyone who expected him to talk about them, while somehow giving the impression that if Oliver were indeed looking to unburden himself he need look no further. Or perhaps that last bit was only Oliver’s imagination run wild.
The farther they got from Sackville Street, the lower Jack’s spirits seemed to get, however. His occasional grumbles and snide comments decreased in frequency until he was silent, slumped despondently against the corner of the curricle seat, his hat pulled low over his forehead.
It took Oliver another mile to realize what was bothering Jack. It wasn’t the company—if Jack hadn’t wanted to make this journey with Oliver he could have come up with any number of excuses. “Are you going to be sick?” Oliver asked cheerfully.
“Bugger off. No, I’m not going to be sick.” After a moment he added, “I only feel like I’m going to be sick. But it never actually comes to pass.”
“Oh, bad luck. I get seasick myself. Every time. Without fail, there I am, casting up my accounts over the side of the ship. It’s only the puking that makes you feel better, you know.”
Jack groaned and covered his face in his hands. “Are you trying to make it worse? Puking, indeed. Who raised you?”
