Page 60 of The Ruin of a Rake
Julian was sitting in the library at Carrington Hall, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, obviously deep in thought. He had insisted that they remove immediately to the main house so his plotting could disguise itself as a normal social call. Courtenay had agreed. Of course he had. He’d like a lifetime of opportunities to acquiesce to Julian’s every whim.
Tea was carried in by a curtsying housemaid and Courtenay asked that she also bring up a plate of biscuits or whatever sweets the kitchens could come up with on such short notice, and she returned with a tray heaped with raisin-studded saffron buns and an entire treacle tart, as if the cook had been waiting for an opportunity to send up a feast.
Courtenay had the impression that the staff were doing their best to impress him. On his first day here, he had gone down to the kitchens himself and apologetically requested that a tray of something, anything, be sent up to him. He had been astonished to find that he remembered the cook from when he was a boy. Stranger still, she seemed pleased to see him. “It’s right to have the master here,” she had said, and he had heard the sentiment echoed repeatedly by people in the village. He belonged here. And while it offended his egalitarian principles that he was welcomed principally by virtue of his being the lord of the manor, he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he was glad for the warm welcome he received, regardless of the cause. He was going to try his damnedest to earn their respect.
He poured out two cups of tea. By now he knew how Julian liked it—sweet beyond all reckoning and nearly as white as milk. He put a thick slice of the tart and a buttery bun on a plate and set it before him. Julian absently picked up the bun and took a bite out of it, making a happy, satisfied sound that Courtenay delighted in.
“How do you find the best pastries?” he said, popping the rest of the bun into his mouth.
“I really don’t,” he said, although he probably ought to take credit for it. “This is just what the kitchen sent.”
“Your cook must be in love with you.”
“She’s sixty years old and knew me as a baby.”
“Well, you must have some talent in inspiring bakers to ply their craft excessively well, because I swear that every morsel I’ve eaten in your company has been better than anything else I’ve ever had.” And then he paused, a forkful of treacle tart halfway to his mouth, and blushed deeply, as if realizing what Courtenay had known for weeks now. “I suppose it’s the company. It’s part of your sinister charm, no doubt. Do you still have that pistol?”
Startled by this abrupt change in conversation, Courtenay asked, “Do you mean the one you shot my wall with?”
“Yes, because I know it shoots straight.”
Courtenay retrieved the pistol from the drawer where he had decided to keep it—it was a strange thing, distributing two trunks’ worth of belongings across a house of this size. He figured he’d find out what Julian was planning soon enough. Meanwhile, Julian had risen from his chair and was pacing the length of the room. The man never looked happier than when he was scheming. “It’s loaded,” he said, handing it carefully over.
Julian took the pistol and held it, his finger off the trigger, then proceeded to lock the library door. “Now sit in that chair,” he said gesturing to the chair he had just vacated.
Courtenay complied, faintly amused by the fact that Julian had a deadly weapon in one hand and a half-eaten saffron bun in the other.
Then Julian raised the pistol and aimed it at him.
Courtenay didn’t move a hair but he braced himself. This must have shown on his face because Julian dropped the pistol to his side. “I’m not going to shoot you, you pillock!”
“That’s a relief,” Courtenay said with feigned nonchalance.
“I needed to know where to aim the bloody thing to make it look right, and it’s the whorl in the paneling just next to your left shoulder.”
“Quite,” Courtenay said, his heart still beating madly.
“You really thought I was going to shoot you and you sat stock-still!”
“I knew you weren’t going to actually harm me. Maybe wing me. Draw a bit of blood for whatever fell purpose you’re entertaining.”
Julian was staring at him. “You trust me that much?”
“You’re a terribly good shot, so I knew you wouldn’t hit anything vital.”
Julian slid the pistol onto the nearest table and crossed the room in three strides. “I wasn’t going to shoot you at all.”
“Well, I understand that now,” Courtenay said, not quite grasping why Julian had that look on his face. But then Julian was sitting astride his lap, kissing him fiercely, and he didn’t care anymore.
If Julian had ever thought he understood the faintest, sorriest thing about love, he now knew he was wrong. Love was somebody aiming a pistol at your heart while you sat there and acted like it was perfectly fine because you trusted them. Courtenay perhaps had always known that, had always been open to that kind of love and trust and the danger that came with both.
Julian would learn how to exist alongside such an unreasonable emotion. Somehow.
But first he had a wall to shoot.
“Come over here,” he said, extracting himself from the circle of Courtenay’s arms and getting to his feet. Courtenay at his side, he turned and aimed at the spot in the paneling he had marked out. He braced himself and fired the pistol, sparing only the briefest of glances to confirm that he had hit his mark. Then he pressed one last kiss to Courtenay’s mouth before they’d be interrupted by the servants who would inevitably come running.
“What’s our story?” Courtenay asked.
