Page 27 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
“I didn’t realize were using false names. I signed the book as Sam Fox.”
“Naturally. Now, get out of those trousers.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure lounging around in my drawers is going to be discreet.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’ll wear my dressing gown, Mrs. Wilson will launder and press your clothes, and I’ll order supper while we wait.”
Sam wondered how much Hartley had paid to buy everyone’s willing cooperation. The innkeeper’s wife appeared with an ewer and basin and left with Sam’s clothes. While Sam washed, Hartley lay back on the bed and filled Sam in on what he had learned so far. Sam could feel Hartley’s eyes on him, intent and appreciative. Sure enough, when he glanced over at the bed, he saw Hartley regarding him from beneath heavy lids. Sam felt his skin heat under the other man’s gaze.
“The house hasn’t been let,” Hartley said. “I walked through the property and there wasn’t even any sign of a caretaker. It’s ideal for a first burglary, I’d say.”
He sounded so cheerful about the prospect that Sam laughed. And then he winced, because every sinew in his body felt knotted with pain.
“What’s the matter?” Hartley asked.
“I hurt my shoulder,” Sam said. “It’s an old injury, but the journey made it worse.”
“Anything I can do?”
Sam turned to look at him. As far as he knew, there wasn’t any way to help a sore muscle that didn’t involve touching; surely Hartley knew that, and wouldn’t have offered if it were off the table. “Bet I could think of something.”
Hartley flushed but he didn’t look away. They were interrupted by a knock at the door and the arrival of supper. It was a shoulder of mutton, some stewed cabbage, and a loaf of bread. None of it was out of the ordinary in itself, but it was a rare treat to have a meal on dishes he wouldn’t have to wash himself, and in the company of a man whose gaze kept darting down to the triangle of bare skin at the neck of the dressing gown. Sam did his share of looking too. Hartley was at his most buttoned up (fourteen tiny waistcoat buttons, a personal record), but Sam knew by now that the starch and the buttons were armor that Hartley needed. To call Hartley handsome was to miss the point; he would have been delicately pretty if not for the set of his chin or shrewdness of his pale eyes. If Sam had to conjure up the ideal looks for a bed partner, he wouldn’t have come up with Hartley in a million years—too fine, too fragile, too sharply dangerous. But with Hartley sitting before him, he couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else.
Hartley had badly miscalculated. His little drama in the taproom had come off without a hitch, but now that he had Sam in his bedchamber, he wanted to crawl all over him and make terrible choices.
The innkeeper’s wife brought Sam’s clothes so promptly that they were still hot from the iron. “My compliments on supper, Mrs. Wilson,” Hartley said, pressing another coin into her hand. “And many thanks for having attended to this good gentleman after my clumsiness. I’ll ring when we’ve finished this superb meal.” All smiles and excessive gallantry, he showed her from the room and shut the door.
“You do that well,” Sam said.
“What? Order servants around?”
“No, the thing where you confuse everyone but pay them enough that they don’t worry too much about what’s going on.”
Hartley snorted and handed Sam his clothes. “We can meet tomorrow in the taproom at about nine and go for a walk, now that we’re acquainted. It’s about a mile to Friars’ Gate.”
“Nine o’clock,” Sam repeated, moving toward the door. Indeed, it was high time for Sam to leave, because with every passing minute the chances increased of Hartley attempting to climb his body like some kind of wild cat. The problem was that Hartley was blocking the closed door, and his feet weren’t doing a damned thing to move him away.
“Nine o’clock,” Hartley said again, because he was a brilliant conversationalist. This time he got his feet to move away from the door but instead of stepping to the side like a sane human being, he moved closer, so he found himself face-to-face with Sam. Well, more like face-to-shoulder, thanks to the height difference.
“Hartley,” Sam said. “I’m still wearing your dressing gown.”
“Oh. Right.” To be utterly accurate, it wasn’t Hartley’s dressing gown. His own would have been too small for Sam, and while lilac suited Hartley, it was perhaps not Sam’s favorite color. He bought this one when he thought of his beer-spilling scheme. It was made of a soft wine-colored wool that looked just as good on Sam as Hartley had thought it would. He would have offered it as a present, but feared Sam was too proud to accept costly presents, especially from a lover. “Are you going to get dressed?”
“That depends,” Sam said. He wasn’t smiling, thank God, because Hartley didn’t think he could live with Sam laughing at whatever rapid mental decline he was suffering. But he did look kind, as if he knew Hartley’s head wasn’t on straight and didn’t mind.
“What does it depend on?”
“On whether you want me to leave.”
“Right.” Of course. Sam was waiting for Hartley’s invitation. He was reliably considerate in that regard, as well as all other regards, which was why Hartley really ought to steer clear of him.
“I don’t think you want me to leave.”
“Was my blocking the door a subtle hint?”
“Something like that.” Sam rubbed a hand along his jaw. “We don’t have to do anything, you know. Whatever you choose is fine.”
Sam had made that clear from the beginning, that whatever Hartley wanted would suit Sam. Hartley was unspeakably grateful, but at the same time wished he didn’t have anything to be grateful for. He wished these decisions were straightforward for him.
