Page 31 of The Ruin of a Rake
At least Courtenay had the sense to leave before Julian woke. God only knew what kind of awkward conversation they’d resort to under the circumstances.
As he made for the door, it swung open, revealing Courtenay carrying a parcel. “I brought some rolls,” he said, dropping the parcel onto the table.
Rolls. Were they to breakfast together? That seemed unwise. “I ought to leave,” Julian said, suddenly conscious of the scratchiness of his jaw and the rumpled state of his cravat. But the yeasty, sweet scent of fresh bread rose to his nostrils and made his mouth water. He had hardly eaten dinner last night, and now it was—he pulled out his watch—“It’s half past noon!”
“You were tired.”
“Tired!” He shook his head, horrified. “I haven’t slept past nine since I was a child.”
“High time, then,” Courtenay said, sitting on the arm of the sofa and helping himself to a roll. “Eat.”
Julian sat at the table and bit into a roll. It was soft and buttery and studded with currants, simultaneously rich and light. It was quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten in his life, certainly in the last few years. He finished the roll and licked his fingers, not realizing what he was doing until he caught Courtenay watching him intently. He hastily pulled his finger from his mouth and wiped it on his handkerchief.
“Thank you. I’ll arrange for your things to be brought to Eleanor’s house this afternoon. Now I ought to be—”
“I got an invitation to the Blacketts’ Venetian breakfast.”
That was quite a coup. Julian had feared that after the events of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s dinner, Courtenay would never receive another invitation from a respectable hostess. “That’s good. I’m going, and so is Eleanor.”
“And Standish?”
“Hell.”
“Quite.”
“Wear your gray trousers,” he snipped. “And endeavor to tie your cravat less terribly. And for God’s sake, cut your hair.”
His rudeness somehow put them back on comfortable ground. “You like my gray trousers?” Courtenay raised his eyebrow. “You think I’m handsome in my gray trousers?”
Julian bit back a smile. “Shut up. You’d be handsome in a tattered burlap sack or in—” He had nearly saidor in nothing at all,which was true but not the direction he needed this conversation to go. “Your looks aren’t the problem. Strive for some conduct and we might pull this thing off.”
He headed for the door but was stopped by Courtenay, who silently held out a pastry.
“Fine,” Julian sighed, as if taking another pastry were a favor and a concession. “Fine.”
As he walked home, he tipped his face up to catch the bright midday sun. The buttery scent of the bun wafted up to him. The scent, the sunshine, and the memories of last night mingled together, and it was only when Julian got back to his lodgings—the bun now cool and the sun having passed behind a cloud—that Julian realized he was smiling broadly. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.
Chapter Thirteen
Courtenay wore the gray trousers. It wasn’t as if his wardrobe had him spoilt for choice, and besides he would have worn pretty much anything to earn the look of hot approval he caught in Medlock’s eyes when they met on the Blacketts’ terrace during the party. That look quickly evaporated when Medlock’s gaze narrowed on Courtenay’s cravat.
“It could be worse,” Medlock said, frowning slightly.
For some reason—likely his own perverse nature—Medlock’s criticism delighted Courtenay almost as much as his stingy scraps of praise. The knowledge that Medlock wanted him despite everything was a sop to Courtenay’s vanity.
Also, Courtenay suspected that if Medlock were honest and free with his criticism, then it might mean that his approval was equally sincere. Courtenay told himself that he wasn’t interested in acceptance, nor in praise, not from anyone and especially not from Medlock. He had spent years telling himself that after being complicit in his sister’s misfortune, he didn’t deserve anything good for himself. But Medlock’s approval made Courtenay want more for himself. It made Courtenay expect more from himself as well, and wasn’t that a bizarre novelty? This morning he had woken up, read a segment in the newspaper about the mismanagement of a workhouse, and seriously wondered if he ought to take up his seat in the House of Lords and try to do something about it. It was the height of lunacy, of course, but he found his thoughts returning to it throughout the day.
“What’s the matter with you?” Medlock asked, eyes narrowed. “You look very handsomely tragic. Stop that, before the ladies swoon.” His words were sharp but Courtenay heard the concern in his voice.
Courtenay forced a smile and returned his gaze to the lawn. The guests were valiantly pretending that it was fine weather to be strolling about outside, rather than the unseasonably chilly and damp April day that it sadly was. They ought to be huddled around a fire. It was too damned cold for this mummery. But if one didn’t look too closely, one wouldn’t see the shawls wrapped a bit too tightly around ladies’ shoulders or the men’s hands jammed too deep in their pockets.
“Come here,” Medlock said, gesturing to a set of doors that led off the terrace to an unoccupied parlor. Courtenay felt his heart thump in anticipation, even though it was impossible that Medlock of all people would risk exposure by carrying on with a man in a room anyone might walk into. Still, when Medlock raised his hands to Courtenay’s shoulders, he felt a flush spread across his body, as if he were a schoolboy instead of a jaded debauchee of over thirty. It had been a week since that night at Courtenay’s lodgings, and he was hungry for more.
But instead of pulling Courtenay into an embrace, Medlock simply unknotted his cravat and deftly retied it. There was nothing in the least erotic in Medlock’s efficient folding and knotting the length of starchy white linen, but Courtenay couldn’t help remembering how clever—and bossy and gentle and maddening—those hands had been. He didn’t know if he was only imagining a proprietary quality to Medlock’s touch, but he felt marked.
“That’s better,” Medlock said, holding Courtenay at arm’s length and squinting at his handiwork.
Courtenay cleared his throat. “Quite a trick to tie another man’s cravat.”
