Chapter 29
Charles couldn’t breathe. There was no way to spin the truth of what they were about to do—what they were already doing. He cleared his throat, finger’s fumbling to right his clothes. Behind him, Warren was doing the same. “Your Grace, I—”
“You mustn’t mind me, truly,” said James. “I only came in to retrieve a pineapple.” He stepped past them both, needing no light as he wandered a few feet away towards a dark spray of spiky plants.
Charles could feel his blood pulsing in his ears. What the hell was happening? What was James doing in here? Why wasn’t he angry? Why didn’t he yell or curse in disgust?
Casual as can be, James called over his shoulder, “My wife is not having an easy time with the babe. Pain and discomfort day and night. If I could take away her pains, lord knows I would. But I can’t, I’m afraid.”
Finding the right plant, he lowered himself down to one knee.
“In lieu of curing all her ailments, Rosalie gets whatever she wants from me whenever she wants it. And what she wants tonight is a pineapple. So here I am, wandering my hothouse in the dark, desperate to fetch one for her. It makes me feel useful, you see, to do it myself.”
He fished something from his pocket as he spoke.
“I could send a man, but then I’d still feel so .
. . helpless. Fetching a pineapple may be the work of a gardener, but it is honest work.
” There was a clipping sound, and then James was back on his feet, brandishing a freshly cut pineapple.
“They’re a bit small, don’t you think, Warren? ”
Behind him, Warren stiffened. “Aye, Your Grace. Not yet ripe.”
James held the little fruit up to the light, turning it. “Well . . . I’ll have them add sugar to sweeten it. Hopefully she’ll accept my offering, meager as it is.”
Charles couldn’t understand what was happening. The duke caught him with his pants down, riding Warren’s fingers in his arse, and James only wanted to talk about a damn pineapple?
“Your Grace—”
The duke silenced him with a look, still brandishing the fruit. “Warren, do me a favor, and bring this to the kitchen. Ask the cook to sprinkle some sugar on it before he serves it to the duchess.”
Warren took the pineapple. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Bray and I will be along soon.”
Charles wanted to crawl under the pineapple bushes and die of mortification.
Warren moved so silently for someone his size. He left Charles standing in the dark hothouse, alone with the Duke of Norland. Charles couldn’t bear the awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I—”
“Do you have the time, Bray?”
Charles fell silent, patting absently at his vest pocket. “I . . . my pocket watch is being repaired, sir.”
“Never mind, I have one,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his vest. “I just can’t see the bloody thing in this light. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid. Too many long nights spent pouring over accounting sheets.”
He tugged the pocket watch free and held it flat in his palm, extending his hand out towards Charles.
Charles stepped forward, closing the space between them until he could read the watch’s face. “It is a quarter to seven, sir.”
“Perfect.” James slipped the watch back in his pocket. “We have just enough time for a drink.”
Charles took a deep breath, readying himself to follow the duke back into the house. But then James surprised him yet again. “Have a seat, Bray. I think I have something here that will suit.”
To his utter astonishment, the Duke of Norland started walking circles over the flagstones, giving the stones a little stomp with his heel here and there. He looked . . . well, mad.
“Can I assist you, sir?” Charles asked hesitantly.
James just chuckled. “Only if you can recall for me where a pair of sixteen-year-old lads would hide a whisky bottle—aha—” He dropped down to one knee again, prying at a stone with both hands.
In moments, he had the flagstone tipped up and balance in one hand while he searched the cavity beneath the stone with the other.
Charles couldn’t help but smile as James pulled out a perfectly intact bottle of whisky. “It’s a bit of an odd place to store your spirits, Your Grace.”
“Aye, well, Burke and I had something of a drinking problem in our misspent youth. Or at least, that was my father’s opinion.
But then he didn’t touch a drop in the last several years of his life.
” He stepped forward, dropping down onto one of the metal chairs.
“There are bottles hidden all over the estate. You know, I once found a case of gin tied up in the boughs of a tree. Burke swore it wasn’t his doing, so it must have been my brother’s work. ” He gestured towards the empty chair.
Charles sat stiffly across from him.
“This is a lovely single malt from Vauxhall,” James went on, tugging the stopper loose and giving the contents a sniff. He took a sip. “Still good.” With a smile, he leaned across the table, setting the bottle before Charles.
“What, no glasses hidden in the flowerpots?”
“Not that I know of,” James replied.
Charles snatched up the bottle, his thumb brushing over the dusty label as he brought it to his lips. He took a swig, waiting for the spicy kick to hit the back of his throat. He wasn’t disappointed. It was sweet and smooth. He slid the bottle back across at James.
The duke took it, lifting it to his lips. “Tell me about you and Warren,” he said as he took a drink.
Charles tensed. “There’s nothing to tell,” he lied.
James held his gaze, lowering the bottle to the table.
Those green eyes narrowed under studious brows.
“You know . . . it is very rare in my marriage that I get to say the words ‘I told you so.’ I typically cherish those moments because it means that, for once, I get to be right. But this is one moment where I do not feel that same rush of righteous vindication. This is a hollow victory, and I hate hollow victories.”
“I don’t understand.”
James offered him the bottle again.
Charles shook his head.
“I mean to say that I knew something was amiss,” the duke explained. “Why else would you take off and leave your dying uncle alone here? You’re not a cruel man, Bray. Something had you on the run. And why, when I made you such a reasonable offer, did you refuse me?”
“James, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, shame bubbling in his gut. “I never meant to offend you.”
“No offense was taken,” James replied. “It merely made me curious. But then Rosalie and Burke all but cornered me two nights ago, telling me in no uncertain terms how I was not to interfere in Madeline’s scheme to bag herself a husband.
They picked you as the ideal candidate . . . but I admit I had my doubts.”
Charles fought the urge to hang his head in shame. So, it was true. They were all in on the plan, but the duke had tried to stop it from moving forward. He didn’t want Madeline setting her cap at Charles. He knew Charles could never deserve her.
“Do you love him, Bray?”
“I . . . you ask a difficult question,” he replied noncommittally.
“Let me rephrase. How long have you loved John Warren?”
Charles sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of this exposed truth. “I hardly know,” he admitted with a shrug. “It started as friendship . . .”
“And grew naturally into more,” James finished for him. He was quiet for a minute, taking another sip of the whisky. “I always knew you held a deep fondness for each other. You were each other’s shadows as lads. Selby took him in for a while when he had difficulties with his family, did he not?”
Difficulties with his family? Charles fought the urge to scoff.
Is that what you called having a snarling bitch of a stepmother who forced your own father to disown you, kicking you out at twelve and leaving you to fend for yourself?
Because that was the difficulty that shadowed Warren’s young life.
He showed up at the back door of the parsonage, tears streaming down his face, a bundle of clothes under his arm. Charles took one look at him that night and claimed him for his own. They were inseparable until the day Selby forced him out.
“Sure,” he muttered, snatching for the whiskey bottle and taking a swig. “We’ll call it difficulties.”
The duke pursed his lips. “But then you left Finchley to attend Cambridge, sponsored by my father. Why did you not come back? Not for summers . . . not for holidays . . .”
He sighed, setting the bottle aside. “Warren and I . . . we were intemperate in our youth. My uncle found us one night. He scared me with talk of fire and brimstone. He buried me in shame and suffocating feelings of disloyalty. I convinced myself it was nothing more than lust and loneliness. I thought if I left, I could forget him. I could move on. For how can I serve the Church with the weight of this truth between us?”
James steepled his fingers under his chin, elbows on the arms of his chair. “So, you chose God over Warren. You chose career. And how did Warren take that?”
Charles groaned, dragging a hand through his tousled curls. “As you see.”
“He’s in love with you.”
The words, spoken so softly by the Duke of Norland, pierced through all Charles’s armor. It rattled down the shields he kept around his heart. He sucked in a sharp breath, holding the duke’s gaze. “He sees me as a possession, nothing more.”
But James shook his head. “He is possessive,” he corrected.
“John Warren is covetous by nature, clever and competitive. He is a hunter by trade and by choice. But you are not his possession, Charles. You are his prize. The harder you seek to evade him, the more desperately he will fight for you. He quite literally cannot help himself.”
The idea thrilled Charles as much as it terrified him. He didn’t want to keep hurting Warren. He couldn’t stand it. But he could never be what Warren needed either. He glanced across the little table at the duke. “How do you know the man so well, sir?”