Page 49 of Two Rogues Make a Right
Martin flushed. “Is it so obvious that I’m terrible at this?”
“It would be a miracle if you were otherwise, Martin. Do you want to leave?”
“No. I do find all of this very interesting.”
“I’m glad. Oh, here’s Madame Bisset. She plays the dowager countess.”
“William,” said an older woman in full stage makeup and a heavy French accent, kissing Will on both cheeks. She proceeded to speak animatedly to Will, too quickly for Martin to understand. Occasionally she cast a curious glance in Martin’s direction, before eventually turning to him and speaking in rapid French.
“She’s saying that she very much enjoyed your translation of the play and sent it to her son, who manages a theater in Paris. If he wishes to stage it, she’ll take twenty—” he broke off, switching to French to hold a conversation with the lady “—she’ll taketenpercent as a fee.”
“I only did it to occupy myself,” Martin said when they found seats in the pit to watch the next act.
“If you fancy translating things,” Will said, trying to keep his voice casual, “you’d do even better to translate French novels into English. Remember Jonathan York who visited us in Sussex? His father is a publisher, and the lady who used to do translations for him left for Canada. He’d probably pay a few pounds a book.” Will had been thinking along those lines since he saw Martin’s careful translation of the play. Nobody grew rich as a translator. It probably wouldn’t even pay enough to keep Martin fed. But it would be something. “May I mention your name to Jonathan as a possible solution to his problems?”
“Yes,” Martin breathed, and when Will looked at him sidelong he saw that his friend was almost pink with pleasure.
They found seats in the pit for the remainder of the rehearsal. It turned out that watching the play be performed on stage was more than Will’s nerves could take, so instead he watched Martin out of the corner of his eye. Martin was rapt, staring at the stage like a child at the circus.
“That’s not how I imagined Esmerelda at all,” he whispered. “And I see that they cut most of that scene with the priest. But somehow it’s all perfect.”
“Do you think so?” Will asked.
Martin must have heard the anxiety in Will’s voice because he turned his head. “I’m hardly a capable theater critic, but I think it’s lovely. When I read it last, I could tell the lines that were yours from those that were Hartley’s but now it’s all blended together. Are any of your other brothers coming to see the play?”
“Not this time,” he said, and as soon as he said the words his stomach roiled, as if he had cursed himself by anticipating a next time. Perhaps guessing this, Martin squeezed his thigh. “Thank God you’re here. I’ve been putting off watching a rehearsal since I came to town.”
Martin was silent for a long moment, and Will thought he had become absorbed in what was happening on stage. “I hope you know how gratified I am to be useful to you.”
If it hadn’t been for the hand on his thigh or the choked quality to Martin’s voice, Will might have thought that a chilly sort of sentiment. Instead he knew it for what it was, and briefly laced his fingers with Martin’s.
By the time they passed through the back door of the Fox, Will was all but steering Martin directly toward the stairs. At any other time Martin might have been embarrassed by what amounted to a mad dash from street to bedroom but Will had spent the entire interminable duration of the hackney ride stroking circles on the inside of Martin’s thigh. And even before that, in the shadows of the narrow alley behind the theater, sheltered by fog and Will’s hand cradled against Martin’s face, Will had kissed Martin against the cold stone wall. That moment, the warmth of Will’s body, the chill of the wall, the mad thrill of being kissed in near public, of being kissed at all, of loving and being loved—Martin thought he had never been so alive.
There was still some light coming through the window of Will’s sitting room, enough to see the flicker of amusement in his eyes when Martin locked the door himself and all but pushed Will into the bedroom.
“In a hurry?” Will asked, falling backward onto the bed.
“You,” Martin said menacingly, untying his cravat and flinging it onto the chair. “You know what you did.”
“Oh?” Will asked, looking up at him with innocent eyes.
“I truly do not think I could ever have an orgasm in a hackney cab or any other kind of conveyance, but by God I was tempted to try.”
Laughing, Will threw his coat and waistcoat onto the floor, then knelt up to help Martin out of his own clothes. Narrowly tailored clothes were not meant for speedy or single-handed undressing, Martin was learning.
“And you,” Will said, “with those pantaloons. You could be arrested.”
They landed on the bed, their lips finally meeting in a kiss that had Martin digging his fingernails into Will’s hips. “At some point,” Will said, “I need you in bed for a solid week. Maybe then we can wear one another out and I can hope to spend time with you without wanting to tear your clothes off.”
Martin nearly responded that they could do precisely that if they returned to the country. He knew he needed to leave London. He had gotten sick during his past three stays in town and couldn’t ignore the pattern anymore. He’d stay for Will’s play, but then he needed to go as soon as possible. The news that he planned not to marry, but instead to live off the pittance he could get from leasing Friars’ Gate, would also keep until after opening night. If he told Will now, Will would worry instead of enjoying the opening night of his play. Besides, he shouldn’t even dream of asking Will to leave London, even briefly. He shouldn’t even suggest it. He recalled everything that Will would be giving up. In the country he’d only have Martin. And while Will might think now that it was a fair trade, he’d eventually grow tired of having no company but Martin. Martin knew what it was like to be isolated, and he wouldn’t wish it on Will.
“Come here,” he said, tugging Will up from where he was kissing a path across Martin’s collarbone, and gave him a proper kiss. It didn’t have to mean a parting. Will could visit him in the country. That would be better than nothing. It would be enough, more than enough. Martin had never asked for anything like enough, had never expected it.
“Where did you go?” Will asked. “A minute ago you were kissing me, and now you’re away with the fairies.”
“I was just thinking that I’m grateful for every moment we have together. And also that you should stop making me say these embarrassing things.”
That seemed to satisfy Will, who laughed and pulled Martin down to the bed, then rolled them over so Martin was pressed into the mattress by the satisfying weight of Will on top of him. Martin sighed in contentment. It was just kissing, languid, lazy, late afternoon kissing as if they had all the time in the world, until Will whispered, “Do you want to try?” and Martin whispered back, “Yes,” and then Will was showing Martin how to touch him, their breaths coming faster, their hands slippery and searching. Martin wasn’t sure anything in his life had ever been easy or uncomplicated but this came close, Will rising over him and sinking down, letting him in, whispering praise that devolved into nothing more than Martin’s name, repeated and repeated.
