Page 19 of The Wrong Rake
“Do you really mean to go to Bath and resolve this situation, Beaumont? Needless to say, I would defray the expenses of the journey, and advance any funds needed to satisfy your odious brother, but—”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” Simon cried indignantly, popping up on his elbow and glaring down at Standish. “I have a very adequate fortune invested in the four percents, not to mention the substantial sums I earn from my part-ownership of Perdition. And I consider myself honor-bound to take any—no, don’t bloody well interrupt me, I shan’t be overborne in this matter. Adam is my problem. He usedmyname. Whatever the damage to Miss Standish’s reputation, the damage to mine is even greater! I’m now known as a spendthrift, a cad, and a fly-by-night libertine. It’s the most terrible blot on my bad name. I am a very steady libertine, I’ll have you know! And besides which, Adam can’t bloody well dress himself, no matter how top-of-the-trees he thinks he is. I won’t have everyone who met him posing as me thinking that I’d wear coats cut like that. Or tie my cravat in that absurd style. Good God.”
“Of course not,” Standish said gently, though his voice quivered a little with what Simon suspected was suppressed amusement. “No one could expect you to allow such an insult to your reputation to go unanswered. But I mean it, that I am—your friend mentioned that you almost never leave town, that you detest traveling. And you hardly know me. My family can mean nothing at all to you. To inconvenience yourself so greatly for Amelia’s sake—even if it is also for your own. I’m grateful, Beaumont. More than I can properly express.”
The lump in Simon’s throat didn’t shift in the slightest, even when he swallowed hard, twice. Standish laughing at him could be forgiven when he also gazed up at him with that soft, fond look in his eyes. And when he still had that muscular arm looped around Simon’s waist, the big hand resting possessively on the swell of his arse.
Muchcould be forgiven with that hand on his arse.
Still, he couldn’t let that unnecessary gratitude pass without comment.
“I have honor too, as well as you do. Though I may not be a soldier.”
Standish nodded. “Of course you do. And perhaps you don’t want my gratitude,” he said with shocking insight. “But will you at least accept my profound apologies? For the way I misjudged you, and treated you so poorly on our first meeting. I did apologize earlier, but you never had the opportunity to tell me whether or not you’d be gracious enough to forgive me. I assure you, I respect you greatly. And your coats. Though I draw the line at your cravats, Beaumont. Those, I reserve the right to tear off of you whenever I wish.”
His eyes darkened as that last sentence passed his lips, his eyes dropping to Simon’s mouth, and then lower, as if he were imagining doing it right then and there.
Not that Simon wore anything to tear off, but he found himself responding similarly to the idea. Standish ripping his cravat off of him, pushing him up against a wall or over a desk, ravishing him…
His cock stirred against Standish’s hip, and he forced himself to focus, clearing his throat noisily enough to startle Standish into meeting his eyes again.
“Not now,” Simon said, sounding rather unconvincing even to his own ears. “Later. Most assuredly. I forgive you, and I deeply appreciate your respect for my person and my tailor’s efforts. Let no more be said about it. If you truly do wish to make it up to me, though?”
“I do indeed,” Standish said, his voice going low and husky in a way that entirely failed to make Simon’s cock settle down.
“Then call me by my given name, if you would? You’ll be meeting my brother. And while there’s only one Simon, there will be rather too many Beaumonts present. Everyone in Bath may mistake me for Adam, but I’d hate it if you did, even for a moment.”
Standish’s eyes narrowed, and then he moved, so quickly and suddenly that Simon could only cry out in surprise and flail his limbs as the world spun around him. He landed flat on his back, the wind half knocked out of him, with Standish above him, arm still around his waist and holding Simon to him.
His eyes held Simon’s, his bright gaze inescapable. As if Simon would want to escape.
“I did mistake you for him, the other night, but never again,” Standish said. “Now that I’ve met you, you are entirely unmistakable. Simon,” he growled, and swooped down to take his mouth in a kiss that tasted all the sweeter for being flavored with the intimacy of his name.
Well. Perhaps they were not in such a very great hurry after all.
Chapter Eight
The hack stopped in front of Perdition at a quarter to four, two lads busy sweeping the street hopping out of the way. Harry eyed the building warily. At this hour, he supposed the place must be rather less filled with gentlemen seeking the finest in expensive debauchery, but as out of place as he’d felt in it the other night, he’d have preferred that sense of discomfort to the company of Adam Beaumont.
Not that he tended to flee from confrontation, of course, quite the reverse. Even with Simon’s restraining presence, he feared he might plant the bastard a facer the moment he came in range.
“Perhaps I can nip up to my bedchamber and put myself to rights first,” Simon said wistfully—and not for the first time. He’d offered some variation on that idea every two minutes since they’d begun the lengthy process of dressing an hour before. Harry could dress in thirty seconds when necessary. Simon, on the other hand, had fussed over every garment, borrowed a fresh cravat from Harry, bemoaned the quality of the linen, blushed and apologized…and then fussed a bit more.
Of course, stolen kisses and Harry’s hands wandering to Simon’s arse every other moment probably hadn’t helped.
“I don’t think your brother’s first concern will be for the neatness of your clothing,” Harry replied for the umpteenth time. “Anyway, he may not even have waited for you. We may need to go in search of him after all.”
“He’ll be here,” Simon said confidently as Harry opened the door of the hack and jumped out. He followed with rather more grace. “He suggested I might give him several hundred pounds. And he’d wait much longer, and much less comfortably, for a tenth that sum.”
Well, Adam Beaumont truly did sound like a delight.
Harry shut the door of the hack, handed the driver a few coins, and followed Simon up the front steps of Perdition.
The view—Simon’s lean, well-shaped arse in very tight trousers—had him thanking the heavens that his own buckskins were rather less fitted, and it also distracted him sufficiently that he started and reached for a sword he no longer wore as they stepped into the front hall and were immediately assailed with an unholy hubbub.
“Thank God you’ve returned at last!” said a handsome young fellow who was striding forward from the stairs. Two servants, meanwhile, were talking at Simon a mile a minute, telling him some jumbled tale of a man forcing his way inside, and Mr. Potts settling him down and taking him upstairs, and then a fresh quarrel breaking out.
“Not all at once!” Simon cried, his voice ringing with authority. Rather to Harry’s surprise, everyone went silent. “George, what’s to do? And is Caesar with my brother?”
