Page 38 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“Yes,” Oliver said softly. “Just like this.”
Jack managed to reach his hand behind him and grasp Oliver’s erection. It was hardly graceful, and the rhythm they achieved was clumsy and frantic, but the solid presence of Oliver behind him and the scent of that godforsaken laundry soap lingering on his skin might have been enough to finish him off with little extra effort.
A moment later they were both spent. Jack rolled over to face Oliver. The other man’s cornflower-blue eyes were half closed and his mouth was turned up in a very smug little grin.
“You look like the cat who got the canary,” Jack said.
“That’s how I feel.”
So did Jack. “Good,” was all he said though.
“I was thinking,” Oliver said, and Jack felt his stomach drop because that phrase never meant anything good. “Instead of stopping near Grantham on the way back, we could perhaps break the journey at Alder Court.”
“Alder Court,” Jack repeated. “That’s your father’s house.” It was Lord Rutland’s principal estate, a fact Jack would not have known had he not had occasion to visit the place in the service of his former employer, Lord Montbray, Oliver’s brother-in-law. He had no idea how Oliver thought he was going to explain Jack’s presence to the earl.
“I haven’t been there since I returned to England, and my father never visits London.” He turned his gaze innocently on Jack. “And he’s getting old.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Jack swung his legs off the bed and reached for a cloth to clean himself up, because this was not a conversation he was prepared to have naked and sticky. “Fine. I’m not going to keep you from seeing your elderly father.” But he didn’t have to like it, either. And if Rivington thought he was going to bring Jack under his father’s roof in the guise of a servant, Jack would give him hell to pay.
He dressed quickly and silently and left Oliver alone in bed.
“You know, if you’re trying to prove to yourself that you aren’t ashamed of having gotten fucked by a former servant, there are better ways to go about it than doing it under your father’s nose,” Jack grumbled, once they were situated in the curricle that afternoon.
For the most part, Jack was out of sorts because he had failed to turn up any additional information that morning. Nobody at the inn was willing to say anything about the Lewises that Jack didn’t already know. The couple of servants who looked after Pickworth Hall in Mrs. Durbin’s absence had nearly slammed the door in Jack’s face. Small wonder he felt a bit disgruntled. Whenever he looked at his cards he saw hints of a pattern he did not like one bit. He was going to have to have words with Mrs. Wraxhall as soon as he got back to London.
“I’m not in the least ashamed of having gotten fucked by you,” Oliver said lightly, but a telltale blush spread across his cheeks. Jack was too distracted by his tightening trousers to care that Oliver was certainly lying. It hadn’t taken Oliver long to figure out how much Jack liked to hear coarse language. “I enjoyed it a great deal and would like to do it again, but if you object to doing so under my father’s nose, as you so charmingly put it, I’m certain I can wait.”
Jack growled in response.
“Besides,” Oliver went on, as if he weren’t in danger of getting throttled, “I have a hankering for the pork pie my father’s cook makes.”
Jack turned his head and stared. “You’re a devil,” he said, half admiringly. First obscene language, now this? Since meeting the man, Jack had experienced an uncharacteristic mother hen urge to feed him. Maybe it was because Oliver had so plainly lost weight since his injury and looked in need of food. Maybe it was the obvious relish he had for a good meal that made it a pleasure to watch him eat. Whatever the case, he was a manipulative little sod to use that knowledge against Jack. Pork pie, indeed.
“I’ll introduce you at Alder Court as a friend,” Oliver said firmly, as if daring Jack to object to the designation. “My father seldom leaves his apartments, so there won’t be any awkwardness at mealtimes, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” he went on, answering the question Jack hadn’t yet brought himself to ask.
That was only half acceptable, though. Jack’s main concern wasn’t over any difficulties in interacting with Lord Rutland. He cared little enough for inherited privilege to dismiss any discomfort a peer of the realm might feel at dining with a man who had once been a servant. But the idea that the old butler at Alder Court might actually be called on to serve Jack? That was unthinkable. As much as Jack might like to see the order of civilization set on its head, he wasn’t going to do anything to put the butler out of countenance, nor the cook or any of the other staff.
However, Jack would be glad to have a chance to talk to the earl about Montbray’s return. Rutland might have connections he could call on to dispose of his violent son-in-law less feloniously than Jack was intending to. A diplomatic assignment to China, a grant of property in Barbados—anything to keep Montbray out of England and away from his wife and child.
When they stopped at an inn to change horses and for Jack to send a hastily scrawled letter to an associate in London, Jack noticed Oliver leaning on his walking stick a bit more heavily than usual. He wondered if there could be another motive for this plan to stop for a day. If so, Jack approved. Surely over the past few days Oliver had walked more than usual, and even though the curricle was well sprung as far as carriages went, it still jostled a fair bit. That couldn’t be any good for his leg.
And then another idea struck Jack—had he been too rough with Oliver’s leg last night? He had tried to take every possible care, but there had been a point when he—
“Take my arm,” he offered.
Oliver looked at him askance. “How gallant.” He sounded suspicious but took Jack’s arm with the hand not gripping his walking stick. And then he proceeded to touch Jack’s elbow with all the vigor one would use to hold a newly hatched chick.
“Lean on me,” Jack ordered.
“I can fend for myself,” Oliver replied frostily.
“I know that. I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need—”
“We’ve already established that you don’t need anything. The Honorable Captain Oliver Rivington doesn’t need a bloody thing he can’t get with a couple of coins and a twinkle of his pretty eyes. But maybe I can help anyway.” Why the devil was he pushing this? It shouldn’t matter one jot to Jack whether or not Oliver wanted to limp around on his sore leg or whether he wanted to be carried around like a baby, for that matter. Oliver’s comfort, or lack thereof, officially did not matter to Jack, not a bit. “Just take my fucking arm.”
Oliver shot Jack an inscrutable glance before gripping the offered arm.
