Page 16 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
A crack of laughter came from Sam, and Hartley looked over despite his efforts not to see the man bare-chested. Sam’s broad shoulders were shaking with laughter, firelight flickering off dark skin and outlining the heavy muscles of his arms and chest. Hartley had known that Sam was a large man, had felt that his body was strong and hard, but he hadn’t quite been prepared for this visual proof of power. His mouth went dry and he hastily looked away. But he was weak and Sam really looked a treat so he stole another glance. This time Sam caught him looking and stopped laughing. Hartley’s breath caught when he realized what was happening; they were both enjoying one another’s company—not planning a burglary, not dancing around the topic of sex, but simply taking pleasure in their time together. The air between them felt charged with the intimacy of the moment and the shared recognition of what it meant.
“I’d like to know what’s so amusing,” Hartley said, even though Sam had long since stopped laughing.
“Just what a dolt I am,” Sam answered, because that was God’s own truth. “I brought him here to annoy you. I thought you wouldn’t like a dirty dog in your house.”
“To annoy me? We’re talking about the front door, aren’t we? I owe you an apology about that, and an explanation too.”
Sam was taken aback, not only by the fact that Hartley had brought up the door incident, but that he looked so conscience stricken. “Yes,” he managed.
Hartley frowned. “I know how it sounded, and I’m sorry for that. You must have thought me a high-handed bastard who had treated you like a servant—”
“Not quite,” Sam said, remembering the servants who had come in and out of the kitchen door when he had been spying on the house. They had been clean and tidy, and Sam had felt very aware of his rough coat and shoes.
“As someone unfit to use the front door, then. And to get even with me, you decided to arrive with a filthy old mongrel who would most definitely not be granted access to the front door.”
That was about the size of it. “Right.”
Hartley turned his attention to the dog. “You poor dear, to have been used so poorly.” He spoke in the sort of singsong voice a fond mother might use to talk to a baby. The dog was looking at him with wide eyes, likely confused because nobody had ever spoken to him that way in his entire miserable life. “Dragged out into the cold and the rain, just so this rude man could make a point. And at your age.” And then, in a normal voice, “How old is he?”
“It didn’t start raining until we were halfway here,” he protested. “Kate got him about eight years ago, and he wasn’t a puppy then.”
“What’s his name?”
“We call him Dog.”
“You’ve called him Dog for eight years,” Hartley said, in obvious disbelief.
“Well, the rat pit man called him Duke, but Kate said she has no use for any lords in her bed, so she wouldn’t call him that.” He realized too late that he shouldn’t have repeated Kate’s ribald joke. His face heated. “But he won’t answer to anything at all. I think he’s deaf. Watch.” He patted his leg. “Come here, Dog.” The dog didn’t even turn away from Hartley. Sam whistled, which at least got the dog’s attention. “Heel, Duke.” Nothing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Hartley, still holding the dog under one arm, opened one of the doors off to the side of the kitchen, probably leading to a pantry or larder. He returned with a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. After setting the dog on the floor by the fire, he took a few steps away. “Here, Dog,” he said, holding out a bit of cheese. “Good Dog.” Eventually, the dog came and ate the cheese. “See,” Hartley said smugly. “He answers.”
“Of course he comes when you put food on the floor. He’s deaf, not daft.”
For the next hour, Sam sat by the fire while Hartley trained the dog. He put the bread farther and farther away, and sometimes called the dog even without a bribe. By the end of the hour, the dog was looking at Hartley with wide, pleading eyes every time he heard the man’s voice.
“I grew up with dogs,” Hartley explained after the dog had fallen asleep at his feet. “Usually sheepdogs that weren’t fit for work, which my brothers took pity on. And they always had the run of the place.”
“I didn’t. Ever. My mum was house proud. No dogs, not even shoes, only a cat in the kitchen to keep away the mice.” And looking at the amount of filth the dog had tracked onto the stone floors of the kitchen, he could see why.
Hartley must have caught the direction of Sam’s gaze, because he asked, “Now who’s fussy?”
“Ha. Point taken. You grew up in the country, then?”
“In the north. Not far from Keswick.”
Sounded like the middle of nowhere. “Are your people farmers?”
“No. My father is—well, more or less an idler. He writes poetry and sponges off his friends. The poetry is supposed to be good, which I daresay counts for something. I haven’t eaten,” he said, rising fluidly to his feet. “The day rather got away from me. Let me see if I can scrape together something for both of us.” He disappeared again into the larder. “Do you care for ham? I still have some bread,” he called, but didn’t wait for an answer. “That cheese was meant for my supper, so I hope you appreciated it, Dog.” He came out laden with a couple of dishes, some pots of what looked like jam or mustard, and a jug that proved to contain ale.
As they ate, they talked about nothing in particular. The dog sniffed around the edges of the kitchen and made a general nuisance of himself, which Hartley seemed to enjoy. Sam’s shirt dried, so he put it back on. He was warm, his belly was full, and his frame of mind much improved from when he had arrived. Hartley met his gaze and looked hastily looked away, but not before Sam saw the shadow of a smile on his lips. This could be the beginning of something, Sam realized. And while only a fool would believe that a kitchen table supper between a rich man, a black boxer, and a three-legged dog could be the beginning of somethinggood, maybe Sam was more foolish than he thought.
“What happened to your face?” Hartley asked, gesturing to his own cheekbone.
“Fight.” Sam saw a pale eyebrow shoot up. “Breaking up a fight,” he added hastily. “At the pub.” Something—either concern or distaste—flickered across Hartley’s face.
Suddenly, the dog’s ears pricked up and a moment later Sam heard footsteps outside. Without thinking about it, he got to his feet, positioning himself between Hartley and the door, clutching a fire iron in one hand.
The door swung open, revealing a gangly youth with a shock of unkempt hair, accompanied by a girl in a somewhat disordered frock. Not a likely pair of housebreakers, but still Sam didn’t move.
