Page 22 of The Wrong Rake
“Only because you were with me. I’d have lost it completely if you hadn’t reminded me how to laugh, Simon.”
Simon’s hands had been resting against the door, but he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Harry’s waist, drawing him closer until their foreheads leaned together. The small, warm space between them felt more intimate than no space at all would have: a corner of the universe carved out just for them.
“I think you haven’t had enough laughter in your life, Harry,” Simon murmured, something vulnerable and soft flashing through his eyes. “I’d like to change that, if you’re willing.”
“Very, very willing,” Harry whispered back. “Now show me where you keep your cravats. I need to tear this one off of you, and we might as well go where you can find a ready replacement.”
Simon grinned, kissed him, and gently pushed him away so that he could unlock the door.
They went up the stairs hand in hand.
And Harry absolutely ruined Simon’s cravat.
Simon didn’t protest.
Chapter Nine
Harry only survived the ten (and a half, with every minute feeling like a dozen) hours of travel from London to Bath, trapped in a post chaise with the Beaumont brothers, by reminding himself of the many longer and more arduous journeys he’d endured during the war. He was not riding in the rain. No partisans were shooting at them from the hillsides. Dinner would consist of more than hard biscuits and possibly stringy rabbit in a stew.
Adam had kept up a constant litany of whining, imprecations, and sullen denials of wrongdoing until Harry had threatened to gag him with his cravat and tie him to the roof of the coach.
After that, no conversation had seemed possible. Simon, the bastard, had leaned his head against the side of the chaise and fallen asleep, and he’d even managed neither to snore nor drool.
Worst of all, Harry hadn’t been able to watch him as he’d liked, because Adam would certainly have wondered why his sleeping brother was so fascinating.
He alighted from the coach stiff, irritable, and caught between the need to fling himself on the largest dinner he could find and the burning desire to throw Simon over his shoulder and bear him off to the nearest bedchamber. That would be impossible, of course, for a wide variety of reasons, but so many hours spent with his leg pressed against Simon’s, feeling the heat of his body and catching the scent of the lavender he used for his clothing and of the rich sweetness of his skin…if Adam hadn’t been present, Harry would have thrown caution to the winds and discovered precisely how much one might get up to in a carriage without breaking anything.
The inn Simon had chosen, on Potts’ recommendation, was a little outside the central bustle of Bath, with only a few guests coming and going. But by the smart livery and smarter courtesy of the stable boy who came out to assist the postilions, and the cleanliness and order of the place, the inn compensated for a smaller custom with its prices.
That suited Harry perfectly well. If they set a good dinner, he’d empty his pockets gladly.
“We’ll have to dine with him,” Simon muttered as they stood by the chaise stretching their legs, and a servant removed their luggage from the back. Adam had stalked a few feet away, perhaps relieved to be out of range of Harry’s fists. “But then we can send him off to his room, and perhaps I’ll be able to quietly join you in yours for a while.”
A while. Not the whole night, and the force of his regret shocked him. When they were back in London…and that brought Harry up short as if he’d hit a brick wall.
What reason would he have to go back to town? None whatsoever, on the face of it. His family resided in Bath. He had no employment in London, no residence, and no particular friends; his acquaintance there would hardly justify an extended sojourn. And while he had money of his own, and had increased that quite a bit during the war, he didn’t have the income of a society gentleman.
He swallowed hard, the thought of an imminent separation from Simon making his head spin.
Or perhaps that was hunger.
He came back to himself to find Simon staring at him, one peaked eyebrow raised.
“Excuse me,” he said huskily. “I was woolgathering. I need dinner. And yes, even Adam’s company won’t put me off it.” He tried for a smile, not succeeding terribly well by the look of concern on Simon’s face. “And any time you’re willing to spend in my company tonight, in private or otherwise, will delight me.”
That, at least, cleared some of the clouds from Simon’s expression. He nodded and called out to the innkeeper, who’d stepped out into the yard, striding off to order their rooms and their dinner.
Harry followed more slowly, pausing to take a few deep, cleansing breaths of air free of London’s taint. It was a clear night, the half-moon riding high, and a pleasant cool breeze off the Avon brushed through the stable yard, sweeping away the odors of manure and dust and bringing with it a green, growing sort of scent.
What would Simon think of him, if he followed him back to London? Did Simon want their visit to Bath to form a natural end to their association? Was he counting on leaving Harry here after a day or two?
The only way to know would be to speak of it openly.
And Harry had never shied away from a difficult task. Simon might laugh in his face, or become awkward and uncomfortable, attempting to extricate himself without too much mortification.
But then again, he might not.
What the devil would Harry do in London, though? He could hardly hang about Perdition all day and night waiting for an opportunity to fuck Simon senseless. He didn’t like gaming and couldn’t afford to play much even if he did, and he had no interest whatsoever in attempting to go into what society would be within his reach. No profession but the military had ever appealed to him, even if there had been more than two or three others that would be suitable for a gentleman with no real need to work. Idleness simply wasn’t in Harry’s nature. And London idleness would be the worst possible kind.
