Chapter Two #3
Mickey barked a laugh. “And you think I have spotted these things already?” On all counts, the Frenchman’s observations were accurate, each one already filed away some weeks ago in Tommy’s locked desk. The bunions he’d omitted to record. “You overestimate my interest in such matters, monsieur.”
Mickey’s gaze returned to tracking Willoughby and Miss Amelia Chesterton, whose respective gazes still hadn’t left each other.
“I think not,” Beauregard corrected. “And I know from watching you that you have high ton friends here—Ashington and Fitzsimmons, for instance—but you are not high ton yourself. You have a polished surface, plain Mr Maurice, and you perform well, but only because you have diligently rehearsed your lines.”
“And under your polished surface, you are making up stories about those around you, including myself, in the hope that a dull evening passes more quickly.” Mickey tone was sharp.
“Perhaps it is time I made up a few about you. I could suggest that you are not a vicomte at all, for instance. That your manners are mimicry, that your accent is exaggerated, and that your motives for being here are impure.”
Just because a handful of the high ton had the capacity to overawe him, didn’t mean they all did. And this French fellow was not high ton, whatever his fancy foreign title.
To Mickey’s astonishment, Beauregard threw his head back and laughed. “See, plain Mr Maurice? I was right about you all along. You are an observer.”
Slippery? And some. Irritated at having been played so easily, Mickey stared blindly out at the dance floor, too cross to notice the accidental brush of Beauregard’s fingers against his hip until it happened a second time. On the third occasion, they drifted a fraction lower.
“Perhaps we could continue this discussion out in the garden.” Beauregard’s tone softened, making no bones about his preference for bedsport. “If discovering what else lies under my polished surface is of interest to you?” He winked slyly. “We could explore a few more of my impure motives.”
The ground under Mickey’s feet solidified.
This was far more familiar territory. He hadn’t had a man in a while—a clever, annoying Frenchman never—and Tommy had asked him to keep an eye on this one.
He’d kill two birds with one stone; if his methods weren’t what Tommy had in mind, then that was no one’s business.
He leaned a fraction closer to Beauregard, their shoulders lightly grazing. “Perhaps we should.”
Beauregard took a sip of brandy, swiped a rich drop from his lower lip with his thumb, then sucked on it. Mickey’s cock stirred.
“Warm in here, isn’t it?” Beauregard declared a little louder. “I’m of a mind to take the air in Lady Butterworth’s garden a while. The evening is clement, for November.”
“How curious.” Desire roughened Mickey’s accent, revealing a hint of his common roots. “I was just thinking the same myself, monsieur.”
Beauregard’s slow, teasing smile felt like the warmth of his hand was already pressed against Mickey’s stiffening shaft. “Then we are of accord, plain Mr Michael Maurice. When you rid yourself of that revolting cup of ratafia, you must join me.”
*
NOBODY NOTICED MICKEY slip out. Not even Tommy or Rollo, or the ever-watchful Kit Angel.
Unremarkable and disregarded, Mickey knew full well he was sort of man who existed only on the periphery of life’s grander spectacle.
It served his and Tommy’s purposes well.
Built for survival, not ballrooms, he’d pushed his way up through the cracks in society—lean and wiry, not broad and grand like those around him.
Tonight, the mask shielding his blue eyes was nothing but unadorned black satin, his evening wear bland.
Few in the room would even recall his name, especially when introduced as an afterthought alongside the likes of Rossingley and the hulking, midnight power of the duke.
Except Beauregard had noticed him for exactly all of those reasons. He’d watched Mickey catalogue the room and everyone in it. And Mickey couldn’t help but find that intriguing and, if he dared admit, flattering.
Once one strolled beyond the bright circle of light radiating from the ballroom windows, Lady Butterworth’s gardens were black as pitch.
The damned itchy mask blinkering the edges of Mickey’s vision didn’t help.
Blindly, he wandered away from the house, unsure whether he was tramping over flowerbeds or about to sink his foot into a muddy pond.
He fancied he’d be pushed to find his own hand, let alone another man, and never mind one dressed in black.
As luck would have it, Mickey didn’t need to, the fingers roughly closing over his shoulder told him Valentin Beauregard had already found him.
“Imagine stumbling across you out here, plain Mr Maurice,” the Frenchman rumbled, low enough for his tone not to carry. Fresh warmth flooded Mickey’s cock at the delicious hum. He sensed Beauregard’s full lips smiling down at him even though he could hardly make them out.
“Are we far enough away?” Mickey glanced back at the house. Blurry colours swirled behind steamed windows, muted laughter and the plangent tones of a stately minuet floated across the cool, still air.
“That all depends on what you have in mind.”
Beauregard dragged him by the wrist farther down a path, or perhaps across a lawn.
Or even, from the brush underfoot, a shrub border.
All Mickey knew was that he suddenly found himself pushed against a clammy wall, his arms held in a tight grip at his sides, and Beauregard’s solid chest up against his own.
“I think this is far enough—” Beauregard ground his hips, just once, into Mickey’s. “—for what we need from each other. Don’t you?”
Sharp-edged anticipation clung to Mickey as, for a long second, the Frenchman did nothing but hold him still.
Finally, he nosed along Mickey’s jaw, up to his ear and back down to his neck, breathing him in as if sniffing and marking cornered prey.
The cool fabric of Beauregard’s mask stroked Mickey’s cheek.
“London,” Beauregard sighed. “Lovely, lovely London.” He ran his nose over Mickey’s skin again, filling his lungs. “The scent of work and ruin. Mon dieu, I’ve spent too long amongst soft Italian dandies.” He moaned contentedly, low and throaty. “It’s good to be back, Michael Maurice.”