Chapter 12 #3
Laurie snorted. “Hot ’n’ cold. Says the man who held me up and then asked for a f—”
He was cut off by the breakfast room door opening. It was Sarah, the lone housemaid, improbably bearing a fresh pot of coffee.
“Mr. Wright?”
“Good morning, Sarah. Can it be seven already?” He hadn’t put on his wristlet watch.
“Yes, sir.” Sarah took everything in stride—Chary’s being awake and not dressed, the already-laid buffet, Laurie’s presence—and said, “Do you need the fireplace laid?”
“No, thank you. I like the chill, and it’ll be hot shortly. Is that fresh?”
“Yes.” Sarah went to the buffet. Self-consciously, Chary watched her as she went to the table to refill their cups and back again. He felt keenly when Laurie leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles, bringing all of himself somehow closer—closer than any acquaintance would get.
“Barely up, isn’t he? Did you sleep alright?” Laurie asked him quietly. Lover’s spat? he mouthed. Yeah?
Across the room, Sarah moved slower than before, wiping the cold pot free of condensation, then wiping a tray.
“Yes,” Chary said, wary but meaningful; he nodded to Laurie. In for a penny, in for a pound. Why not? Laurie had said. And why not? August would’ve done it. “Thank you.”
Laurie acknowledged with a similarly meaningful nod. “Good,” he said. “You needed it, the way I left you.”
Chary choked on his coffee. Beneath the table, Laurie’s oxford nudged Chary’s tartan house slipper, pressing down lightly. Were male lovers really so casual and open—even in private? Maybe so. Laurie would probably know better than he. August too. Anybody would.
Sarah slipped out of the room, steps a little hastier than before.
“Was that necessary?” Chary muttered, when the housemaid was long gone down the hall, and he’d heard the baize door swing shut.
“Mm-hm,” Laurie hummed, low. “Terrible gossips, housemaids.”
“The human being is a terrible gossip,” Chary said, exasperated. “Surely, you didn’t have to go q-quite that far.”
“Maybe not, but isn’t it fun?” Laurie cocked his head. “Hang on. She’s coming back. Clever girl.”
Chary hadn’t heard it. “What—”
“One makes themself conspicuous, leaves, and then comes back immediately, when it’s least expected,” Laurie said quickly, murmuring in Chary’s ear.
All of him was so close, chills tramped rampant up Chary’s arms. “Or maybe”—he leapt out of his chair and pulled at Chary’s, scraped it sideways, turned it, Chary’s weight be damned—“somebody’ll have told her to go back and see what more spectacle she can catch us in.
” He put himself between Chary’s surprised knees.
“Ah—” Chary gasped. “This seems very fast to me, Mr.—”
“Call me Laurie, for God’s sake. Your domestics are bored, Chary Wright.” Laurie reached for him. “So, let’s make a spectacle.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. Put your head back.”
Chary obliged. If he was being honest, he would have done so without being told; Laurie cradled his head, exposing the spot where he was bruised, then threaded fingers into his hair.
Good lord. The light touch made him boneless, breathless with gooseflesh and sensation, made his chin tilt up farther, involuntary.
What a good thing this wasn’t Laurie’s true attempt at seduction—it would’ve worked.
“I’m glad you took care of the bastard that did this,” Laurie muttered, and then the door to the breakfast room opened again.
Chary startled, but Laurie didn’t jerk away or act surprised—as though he had always belonged between Chary’s legs and cared not at all who saw him there. He glanced up.
“Oh, Sarah.”
Sarah’s steps halted before she reached the wide rug. Chary, stiff all over, wondered what she could’ve possibly returned for. “Yes, sir?”
Laurie’s fingers kept carding through his hair, casually soothing.
Chary closed his eyes. It was that or laugh or—worse—groan.
As it was, his mouth fell open a little.
He needed more air, but all of it smelled deliciously like Laurie, and that was a problem if he wanted to stay decent, to keep his breath steady.
Which he needed to do, because he could feel Sarah’s stare.
“Mr. Wright’s poor face is in fact much worse off than I had feared.
” Laurie’s cadence shone with perfectly indulgent, gay New York camp.
A light touch, but plenty enough, like his fingers on Chary’s scalp, oh, Lord.
Chary had to bite fiercely into his bottom lip and hope it looked like pain.
“Could you please ask for a poultice of comfrey?”
Symphytum officinale. Good for bruising; toxic when ingested.
“Comfrey?” Sarah confirmed. She sounded mystified.
“Comfrey. Boneset. Steeped. The cook should know. Thank you, Sarah.”
The door shut again.
“Criminy.” Laurie stepped away, taking his warmth with him. “What kind of country maid hasn’t heard of boneset, I ask you?”
“Mm.” Chary’s voice wasn’t working.
“You can relax for now,” Laurie said. “She won’t come back soon when she’s dismissed with a task. Even the worst housemaid knows better than that.”
“Mm.”
Laurie took in Chary’s flaming face coolly and replaced the Wall Street Journal in its basket.
“You know what, though?”
“Yes?”
“You’re gonna have to lie down to take that poultice. Where’s a good spot? Where’s your room?”
Chary was thankful for his earlier foresight in the bath, whereupon he’d shoved the components of his bed into the window-box seat. No, not there. Too far from the kitchens, in any case.
“How about,” Laurie said slowly at his silence, “how about I pick, after you show me around? A tour’s something a lover would do, yeah?”
“You are not that; let us be clear.” Chary folded his napkin—which had been no help—and stood away from the table, the crooked chair. “But all right.”
Laurie watched him as he drew to his full height, eyes sweeping all over. When Laurie looked up, as he must, he tilted his chin just so, like he knew what angle to best present.
It was a good angle. Thank the Lord that Chary had controlled himself already.
“Where do you wish to begin?” he asked.
“What d’you think?” Laurie asked. He remained straight-faced. “Top-down?”
“Er—”
Laurie gestured to the basket. “You read all of that of a morning; I’d’ve guessed you have a multistory library. Start there.”
“Yes, there is a library, though it’s… small.”
“Hmm.” Laurie’s eyes finally gleamed with mischief. “Now, that I doubt.” With a bow, he turned away to the hall and held out a hand. “Well, then, Mr. Wright. Show me your library.”