Page 34 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“That house was hellish,” Oliver said in an effort to change the subject.
“So it was,” Jack said thoughtfully. “I’m glad you saw it too. You know, I’m inclined to think Mrs. Wraxhall made a lucky escape.” And with that, he pulled out some of those cards of his and began scribbling on them with the stump of a pencil.
Jack wasn’t fool enough to assume his clients told the truth when they engaged his services. During the first few cases after he set up his business two years ago, he had been offended by his clients’ lies and omissions, but now he sometimes wished they would simply walk into his office, throw a wad of banknotes onto his desk, and leave him to untangle their lives without any distractions.
The picture he now was forming of Mrs. Wraxhall’s situation didn’t map onto the one she had presented him with. It was difficult to imagine a man who lived in such a cold mausoleum of a house, a man who had as skittish a crew of servants as Jack had ever laid eyes on, penning the sort of love letter a woman would treasure. True, there were instances when people changed. But a forbidding house, a long-faced wife, and a crew of terrified servants were not circumstances that Jack could ignore.
With that in mind, he flipped through his cards again, more out of habit than thinking he’d see anything.
They were traveling along a stretch of road that was badly out of repair. One side had sunk to the level of the adjacent field and the other side was pitted with ruts and holes. Ordinarily Jack would have awaited certain calamity, his only question being which ditch his body would ultimately be found in, but Rivington managed the task with easy confidence. He kept up a steady stream of soothing chatter that might have been directed either at the horses or at Jack himself.
Jack had to tear his gaze away from the sight of Rivington’s long fingers in their kidskin gloves skillfully managing the ribbons. When he made the mistake of turning his head, Rivington’s face was boyishly happy, bits of golden hair curling from under the brim of his hat.
This morning, confused and frustrated by his reaction to what should have been a perfectly commonplace bit of fun, Jack had woken up in a right foul mood. But then Rivington sailed into his room like a bright ray of bloody sunshine and Jack let himself be coaxed back to his usual not-too-horrible humor. There was an alarmingly large part of Jack’s mind that would have done far worse than putting on a happy face if that’s what Rivington wanted. He was a lost cause.
Suddenly the curricle lurched to the side and his cards spilled off his lap. A breeze carried a few out of the vehicle and onto the road outside.
“Damn!” Jack muttered. “Damn, damn, damn!” He should have known better than to risk losing his cards in such a stupid way.
Without Jack having to ask, Rivington immediately brought the horses to a stop. Jack hopped out, scrambling to retrieve the cards. When he looked up he found that Rivington had looped the horses’ ribbons over a low tree branch and climbed down from the carriage as well. Presently he was bent over, attempting to use his walking stick to retrieve some cards that had blown under a bush.
“You don’t need to do that.” Jack knelt beside him and attempted to take over the task. Over the past few days he had seen how difficult it was for Rivington to bend his injured knee. And while the man was very good at concealing his discomfort and wearing that mask of bland politeness, sometimes an expression of pain and annoyance would flit across his face even when he did something as ordinary as rise from a chair.
“It was my own bad driving that caused the cards to tumble, so it’s the least I can do,” he said, and proceeded to drop to one knee to get close to the cards.
“Bullshit. I ought to have kept them tied up in string, like I usually do. I should have known better.” That might have been the first game of “No, It Was My Fault” that Jack had played in his life, to say nothing of the fact that they were now both kneeling in the mud, which was a waste of at least one pair of breeches.
Rivington handed him the cards he had retrieved, which Jack jammed into his pocket before extending his hand to help the other man up. It seemed crucially important that Rivington not incur any additional suffering on Jack’s behalf or for any other reason. The urgency of that need must have been why Jack forgot to rise to his own feet before offering his hand. So when Rivington, an amused half-smile playing on his mouth, peeled off his muddy glove before grasping Jack’s own bare hand, the result was that instead of Jack being able to tug the other man to his feet, he found himself being pulled against Rivington’s chest.
“You ran out on me last night.” Rivington’s voice was low in Jack’s ear, his arms tight around Jack’s back.
Jack caught the familiar scent of Oliver’s laundry soap. The bush hid them from anyone who might chance to come along the road, so Jack let himself relax against Oliver’s chest. He took a deep breath, and the warm June air felt cold in his lungs. “I’m an idiot,” he said for the second time in as many days. A pair of wiry arms tightened around him.
“Is that what you’re going to say every time you try to push me away?”
Every time? Every time? What could Rivington possibly be thinking? Jack ought to get away, say something cutting, something true and ruthless about how there wasn’t going to even be another time, let alone a sequence of events that could be described as every time.
But instead, when Rivington leaned in, Jack let himself be kissed. Rivington tipped Jack’s chin back and kissed him and Jack just let it happen, as if he weren’t watching his peace of mind and dignity slip farther away. Every sweep of Rivington’s tongue, every caress and every sigh loosened Jack’s resolve.
And Jack had half a mind to simply let everything else unfold however Rivington wanted. Kissing on the road, falling stupidly in love, why the hell not?
“Everything’s so easy with you,” Jack said, pulling back from the kiss. “It’s as if you don’t know what a bad idea this all is.”
Rivington didn’t answer, he only reeled Jack in for another kiss, soft and needy and dangerous. They had shared so few kisses but already Jack had memorized the feel of Rivington’s lips against his own. The sweet taste of Rivington’s mouth now felt familiar, expected. And when Rivington tugged him closer, the press of their bodies was relief from an absence he hadn’t known existed.
He ought to stand up. Hell, he ought to go back to London. Alone. He had no business feeling warm and safe in such proximity to a nobleman. This was like losing a hand of cards in a game where he had bet too much. But Jack didn’t gamble and he didn’t like the sick feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. But still, he let Rivington kiss him. He let the sensations sweep over him, as if this wouldn’t be the unmaking of him.
“Oliver,” he said against the other man’s lips. He didn’t know when they had slipped into using Christian names, only that it was a bad idea and that he would keep doing it.
“Hmmm?” Oliver’s lips lingered on Jack’s jaw.
This was the moment, his last clear chance to get out of here unscathed. He ought to say something cutting, something utterly offensive, something even worse than the words he had spoken in the graveyard last night. But all he said was, “We need to get out of the road.” He supposed this was the moment that sealed his fate.
“I know, I know,” Oliver said in the same tone of voice he had used to calm the horses, and Jack was struck by the fear that Oliver knew exactly what Jack was feeling.
With a sigh, Jack stood and extended his hand as he should have done minutes ago. He hauled Oliver to his feet, and the two of them climbed back into the curricle.
“I’m helping you with your boots tonight,” Jack growled after Oliver had set the horses in motion.
