Page 38 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Was it? A year ago Hartley might have said he was absolutely fine despite everything that had happened with Easterbrook. His days had been filled with engagements and conversations—all hollow and empty, but at least they passed the time. If he couldn’t fuck, that was a small thing, really. But now his life had shrunk to the precise dimensions of the house on Brook Street, had dwindled to the size and shape of his own body. What he had lost loomed larger than what he still had. And he was furious. He wanted to raise his godfather from the grave just to have the privilege of sending him back there.
“It’s all right, you know.” Kate squeezed his hand.
“It really isn’t,” he said.
“Not what happened to you. That’ll never be all right. Butyouwill be.”
“I’m fine,” Hartley insisted. “Except for...” He wasn’t going to sayfuckingin Sam’s pub, and besides, it wasn’t just fucking anyway. It was all the things that went along with it. “It’s shit to want something and also feel sick at the thought of it.”
“It’s utter shit,” she agreed, squeezing his hand.
“I mean, I know everyone has things they want and can’t have. I’m not that spoilt. And what I want isn’t important. I have wealth and health. My brothers and father seem to tolerate me. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself. But I still want...” He shrugged, not wanting to complete the thought.
“A cock in your arse,” she murmured sympathetically.
He didn’t know if it was the contrast between the coarseness of her words and the sympathy underlying them, but he burst out laughing. He laughed until his shoulders were shaking and the dog had woken up to lick the tears that streamed down his cheeks. When he looked at the bar, he saw that Sam was watching him, his mouth curved in the beginnings of a smile, as if he were happy to see Hartley laugh. As if Hartley’s happiness mattered to him.
Sam kept himself busy wiping down the bar and collecting empty tankards while the last patrons left the warmth of the Bell for the cold autumn night. Hartley, though, was still at the same table he had occupied with Kate, even though she had long since left, taking the dog with her. He had put his gloves back on and held his hat in his hand as if he were ready to be sent on his way. Sam debated whether to lock the door. He usually waited until the last patron had left, and sometimes even longer after that, in case anyone needed him. But Hartley was still here, and he was a patron.
He wasn’t fooling himself. Hartley wasn’t here for the ale. He was waiting for Sam. Sam threw the bolt and turned to face him.
“I won’t keep you,” Hartley said, rising to his feet. “I only wanted to apologize. I never meant to hurt you, but I did. I ought to have realized before I spoke.”
“What are you sorry for?” Sam needed to hear it.
“I’m sorry I suggested you walk away from the Bell. I’m sorry I suggested you didn’t count as a visitor at my house, because truly Sam, I’ve enjoyed your visits more than I’ve enjoyed anything in the past twelvemonth, and not just because...” He gestured between their bodies, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I understand if you don’t want to see me again. After I destroy the paintings, I’ll send word.” He stepped toward the door. “But I didn’t want to end things badly.”
“I accept your apology,” Sam said.
“Really?” Hartley stopped and turned to Sam, his expression startled.
“Would you rather I didn’t?”
“No, of course not. I—Thank you.”
“Sit back down, will you?”
Hartley sat, and Sam filled them each a tankard of his best porter. Sam pulled out a chair, and Hartley began the process of unbuttoning and removing his gloves. Sam put out a hand to stop him.
“Let me help,” Sam said, and Hartley held out his hands. Sam didn’t dare look at Hartley’s face, just kept his attention on the soft leather stretched tight and thin over Hartley’s palms. They were perfectly clean, even the fingertips. He held one of Hartley’s hands palm up in each of his, running his thumb from palm to wrist, tracing over the buttons and then the soft skin above the glove. Only when he heard Hartley sigh did he look up.
“It’s not just fucking, is it?” Hartley asked.
“No,” Sam said, and began unbuttoning the gloves.
“I was afraid of that.”
“You would be.” He flicked open the final button.
Hartley cracked a laugh and then looked very sternly across the table at him. “It’s a bad idea.”
“It was a bad idea a month ago. We’ve gotten beyond the idea stages now.” He began tugging the gloves off Hartley’s hands, one finger at a time, sliding the soft leather over each digit in turn.
“You’re saying now it’s just bad.”
“No, it’s good.” Sam pulled the gloves off Hartley’s hands and held them in his own, rubbing the hollow of Hartley’s palms with his own thumbs. “There are damned few good things, but this is one of them, I think.”
Hartley pressed his lips together and looked like he was about to argue. Sam didn’t want to hear it, so he brought one of Hartley’s hands to his mouth for a kiss.
