Page 21 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
All the same, Georgie was touched by the man’s care. “Don’t worry about me,” he said gently. Georgie cleared his throat. “You were married,” he ventured. Of course he knew that some men who enjoyed the company of men also sought pleasure with women. Georgie himself found that his desires were pretty evenly split between men and women. But there was something about the way Radnor had spoken of his desires that made Georgie think that he believedallhis desires to be forbidden.
Radnor laughed, bitter and short. “Briefly. I’m no fit husband. Isabella ran off with some blackguard and died in Italy. I can hardly blame her. She couldn’t very well spend the rest of her life in a place like this. With a person like me.”
Georgie knew from Jack that Radnor had gotten married before he was of age and that a child had been born. Presumably the child had died in Italy with the mother.
“Never?” Georgie asked.
“Pardon?” Radnor said, his voice hoarse.
“You never act on your . . . impulses?”
“Not since I was a young man.”
“You’re not yet thirty. That’s no way to live, Radnor.” Georgie could hardly stand the idea of Radnor alone, ashamed, turning away from companionship and pleasure. Life was too short, too cold, too bloody hard as it was, without making it worse.
Georgie would make it easy for the earl. It was a small thing he could do. It would not be a hardship at all. He felt his mouth curve into a smile and watched Radnor’s eyes go wide in answer. Not a hardship in the slightest.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Lawrence leaned on his shovel and wiped the sweat from his brow. Halliday had come by earlier to tell him he ought to hire laborers to do this sort of job. “Spread the wealth,” the vicar had pleaded. “Throw some money around and endear yourself to your tenants.”
Lawrence hadn’t any answer to that kind of nonsense. He could offer any sum and still nobody would come to work at Penkellis ever again. And thank God for it. Less noise, fewer people, and Lawrence could cling to the last bits of his sanity for a while longer. If he had known that blowing up the conservatory would bring him such peace and quiet, he would have done it a decade ago.
This trench ought to have taken two full days to dig by himself. But after this morning’s damnable conversation with Turner, he had needed fresh air and physical exertion, and now he had a ditch running nearly the length of the castle. With any luck, he’d have the wires safely encased in an insulated pipe and buried in the trench by tomorrow evening, and then he could test the device under those new conditions.
With a grunt, he buried the shovel in the earth and lifted out another mound of soil, tossing it onto a hill with the rest of the dislodged dirt and weeds. His muscles ached but his head was clear. Tonight he would fall into bed and sleep easily. Last night he hadn’t even tried, not after grappling on the floor with Turner.
That thought sent unwanted sparks of desire through his body, like so much electricity coursing through copper wires, only more dangerous. He looked over his shoulder to check the progress of the sun, to see how much daylight he had left, how much time he had to burn off this restless energy.
But there, leaning against a tree, was a slim, dark figure. Turner. And the way he was standing—legs crossed easily at the ankles, arms folded across his chest—suggested that he had been there awhile.
When he saw that Lawrence had noticed him, Turner pushed off the tree and came closer. “Digging graves for your enemies, my lord?”
Turner only bothered withmy lordor evenLord Radnorwhen he was being facetious. “What do you want?” Lawrence asked, deliberately rude.
“My bedchamber,” Turner said, and for a long moment Lawrence’s thoughts couldn’t get past the tantalizing intersection of Turner and bedchamber. “It’s very clean. Thank you.”
Lawrence turned back to his work, hefting another mound of earth. “Thank the girl,” he said, panting. “She did the work.”
“At your request, I don’t doubt.”
“Can’t have you sleeping in my dressing room.” Lawrence would never have any peace of mind knowing that a single door was all that stood between him and a half-naked Turner. He lifted another shovelful.
Turner didn’t say anything, but Lawrence felt his gaze. Usually Lawrence preferred silence—so much less potential to get things wrong, so much bloodyquieter—but there was something about this that wasn’t right.
“Why aren’t you talking?” Lawrence demanded.
“I’m quite enjoying watching, to be perfectly frank.”
Lawrence went still, shovel poised midair. “I told you not to talk like that.”
“No, you told me that if I talked like that I’d cause you to have unnatural desires, or however stupidly you phrased it. And I don’t much care about that, so I’ll talk how I please, thank you.”
Lawrence felt his cheeks heat. He didn’t respond; words didn’t exist that could give voice to the confusion of desire that swirled through his mind. He buried his shovel deep in the earth, savoring the clarity of his muscles’ ache.
“Is that why you avoid people?” Turner asked.
“What?” Lawrence panted.
