David had worked at building sites that crawled with busy men hammering, shouting, raising walls. He left the peaceful upstairs studio and walked downstairs into exactly such a controlled mayhem.
“So much fuss for one night,” he whispered to Bethie.
The three of them, David, Bethie, and Jensen, stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking around.
“I think you’re not needed after all.” Jensen sounded cheerful. “Why don’t we go out for a ride? I can show you some of the sights of London, Miss Lewis.”
She protested and David joined in, but Jensen barely heeded them. He led them out the door. “We’ll take a hack. I used to keep a carriage in London, but sent it back to the country.”
“A cab seems most extravagant,” Bethie said. “We might walk.”
“If you’d rather. I don’t mind the fare of a cab, but the afternoon is pleasant enough for a stroll. It is entirely up to you, Miss Lewis.” Jensen treated them with more than civility. “What would you care to see? What have you seen in the past?”
“’Tis my first time in the city,” she admitted.
“That settles it, then. We must take a cab. We’ll drive past the usual sites, and you’ll tell us when we shall stop and explore by foot.”
He quickly found a cabbie glad to be hired for a couple of hours of easy work. After that, Jensen the taskmaster painter behaved as if David and Bethie were honored guests up from the country at his most earnest requests for their company. True, he hadn’t given them the choice to say no to the tour, but once they set out, he paid full attention to their wishes. He seemed eager to point out the silly and interesting points of interest in his city.
They got out to explore the clock tower and the Tower of London. They entered a bookshop and purchased a guide to London.
Bethie relaxed and her eyes sparkled with interest at everything around her. It had been such a time that she appeared to be a carefree girl. She laughed at Jensen’s recounting the list of the Tower’s ghosts, which included a bear. For the sound of his sister’s laughter alone, David could have kissed Jensen.
“We couldn’t pay for a better guide than you,” Bethie told Jensen as they got back into the carriage and continued the ride away from the river. She apparently had left behind her suspicion about the gentleman, but David couldn’t help wondering why someone, who seemingly lived to paint, would be willing to use the last of his free time to walk out of his studio without a look back. And such a driven man turned soft for the two of them. A changeable nature, the pursuit of them both, reminded him too much of George.
“I wonder why you’re not taking us to look at art,” he said.
“Another time. This is for Miss Lewis to play the part of tourist.”
“And what part are you playing?”
Jensen shot him a glance with a raised eyebrow—annoyed or perhaps amused. It was difficult to tell with that face that seemed to register as frozen but had so much heat below. “At the moment, I am a gentleman entertaining two guests to his city.”
Funny how exactly he echoed David’s thought.
Jensen continued, sounding slightly surprised, “I haven’t done such a tour before, myself, and it is more enjoyable than I’d expected.”
He pointed to a crooked little building housing a pub. “I should like to take you there. It’s been in business for well over a hundred years, but the establishment doesn’t have a private parlor, so no lady should enter.”
Bethie snorted. “We have one or two such places at home. Since they’re usually filthy and smoky, I don’t mind at all. You should take Davey in a few days.” She twisted from the window and looked at David. “If we’re still here.”
“Of course you will be. There is no reason to flee.” Mr. Jensen sounded like his usual dictatorial self, but at least he abandoned the subject to tell them about the statue of Robert Peel that stood in Parliament Square.
Bethie grew tired, so they returned her to the house. Mr. Jensen summoned Susan and asked her to sit with Bethie—as if the Lewises really were guests.
“Use the time to sketch,” he told the delighted maid, then he turned to David. “You and I will continue our tour.”
They stood next to the carriage. David wanted to climb in so they might sit in the dark interior close together, perhaps allow their thighs to touch, but Mr. Jensen remained wrapped in his role of tour guide. “What would you like to see?”
“A gallery perhaps?”
He must have sounded too dubious, because Mr. Jensen scowled. “Do you mean Madame Tussauds?”
“No,” David said. “Not every bumpkin up from the country wants to see those wax figures.”
He wouldn’t mind, come to that, but he’d learned from George what gentlemen like Mr. Jensen thought of the exhibit.
“Forgive me.” Mr. Jensen sounded actually contrite but then regained his more normal teasing manner almost at once. “I had rather hoped to see it myself someday. So what have you dreamed of seeing in the city? Dancing girls? Shall we visit that pub? If you can’t think of a specific location, perhaps there is some city pleasure you’ve longed to enjoy?”
David felt rather foolish in his attempt to seem sophisticated. What would give him pleasure, other than touching Mr. Jensen? He recalled the excitement of exploring the details of Mr. Jensen’s home, examining the carved fleur-de-lis in the library.
“It’s not in this city, but I should like to see the carving in the Orléans Cathedral. My uncle saw it and told me about it. Is there work like that in London?”
Jensen beamed as if he’d been particularly clever. “I should have thought of that! What a marvelous idea. We’ll take the railway to Hampton Court Palace.”
“I didn’t mean we should leave London.”
“We won’t,” Jensen assured him. “There is some Grinling Gibbons work. Gawping faces and garlands galore. And we’ll walk the maze as well.” They said goodbye to the cabman, who’d become something of a friend. It occurred to David that gentlemen didn’t usually engage in much conversation with drivers or servants—or so he’d observed back home. Perhaps London gentlemen were a different breed. This one certainly was.
They walked through the hodgepodge of buildings that was the palace. David tried to pay attention to the magnificence of the State Apartments, but he was too keenly aware of the man dragging him through all the rooms, pointing out not only the woodwork but also the tapestries and paintings. Mr. Jensen also seemed to know who had sneaked into which bedroom in the 1600s.
Even as they walked through the rooms, David was more aware of the man at his side, the way he strode along, his eyes bright with his usual fervent interest, hands clasped at his back. He spoke quietly enough that David had to move close to hear. He barely heard the explanations of some tapestry of knights—he’d been caught by the way Jensen’s chest rose and fell with each breath. Such an elegant sort of a chest at that, those good solid shapes but with no gawkiness in the strong neck and the nicely shaved chin.
“Do I have a smudge on my collar?” Jensen’s amusement showed he knew that wasn’t the cause of David’s fascination.
But David was shameless, or perhaps desperate, enough to use the moment. “Indeed, I think so.” He wasn’t wearing gloves—he wasn’t such a gentleman as Jensen, so his hand was bare as he reached out and smoothed the pads of his fingers along Jensen’s jaw.
As David pretended to brush away something that didn’t exist, Jensen stood very still. His lips parted, and that breath David had noticed came faster now.
“I still see it?” David whispered the question. His hand rested on Jensen’s slender cheek.
Jensen’s head moved in a slow, regretful shake—at least David hoped it was regret. “Not here,” he said.
They drew apart and after a few moments, their private tour began again, though their steps had slowed, and every now and again they brushed hands, or arms.
When they reached the Tudor chapel, David forgot everything, even Jensen, as he looked up. He’d never seen such magnificent carving.
A faint scratching roused him from a study of a carved cherub. Jensen had pulled out a small notebook and a pencil.
“It is amazing.” David pointed at a finial. “No wonder you want to draw it.”
Jensen tapped the book with the end of his pencil. “I was trying to get your expression. You looked like a man discovering beauty for the very first time.” His voice was quiet and a little husky, perhaps with arousal, perhaps reverence.
The thought made David uncomfortable. “It’s silly to look at me when this is so much more glorious.” He waved at the vaulted ceiling towering above them.
“We each may form our own definition of glorious, Mr. Lewis,” Jensen said. He tucked away his notebook. “But let us go outside. We only have time to walk the maze. We’ll have to return to explore the rest of the gardens.”
David wondered if they ever would come back. He wouldn’t come alone because he knew the palace would be tied to Jensen in his heart. Too much regret threatened to topple him into the dismals. He’d enjoy what time he had.
They walked over the grass, which was damp, but naturally Jensen didn’t notice his well-polished shoes growing wet.
He led David into the maze. “Sadly, the hedges aren’t tall enough to hide us from other tourists. Now there is a story about Ann Boleyn meeting an unknown gentleman in the privacy of the maze—”
David began to laugh. “You’re a gossip.”
Jensen grinned at him. “Not at all. You must understand that when a scandalous account is more than seventy years old, it is regarded as history. It’s certainly not gossip.”
As they walked, a fine drizzle began to fall, chasing off other tourists. That suited David, who could walk closer to Mr. Jensen, even allow himself to draw near enough to feel the heat of his body. He drew in a long breath and smelled damp earth, cut grass, and Mr. Jensen’s soap. It was even sweeter than the scent of cut wood. He asked, “How on earth do you know all these stories?”
“Many of them are the sort of tale boys hear in school. Many I invented to entertain you.”
“That Grinling Gibbons carver—did you invent him?”
“Not at all. He has some marvelous work at the Tower, horses and whatnot. We should have looked at it today.”
He didn’t say anything about another visit, and again David felt the ache, the sorrow of a coming time when he’d be without Isak Jensen.
The rain began to fall harder, and Jensen drew his coat tighter around himself.
“We should leave,” David began.
“Yes, but first…” Jensen led him to a large birch tree. He put his hands on David’s shoulders and turned him so they faced each other.
“First,” David said. And as if they’d practiced dozens of times, each took a single step forward so they were exactly toe to toe, as close as they might get without embracing.
David laid his hand on Jensen’s cheek as he’d done indoors. He’d kept his hands in his pocket, so Jensen’s skin under his palm felt chilled and damp.
When he leaned close and put his lips on Jensen’s, all the cold in the world couldn’t dampen the eager heat of the mouth.
He longed to pull Jensen closer, full up against him, but was afraid of what he would do with all the need rising in his body. So much desire wouldn’t be satisfied. This must do in a deserted public spot. The brush of lips and then, oh God, that tongue on his made him groan, though the sound was lost in the patter of water.
Rain dripped on their hats, their shoulders, but the kiss went on and on, warm and deep though their bodies remained apart. Only the stroke of David’s thumbs over Jensen’s face, the slight tilt of Jensen’s head, changed as they took their time.
At last, Jensen pulled away. He gave a shaky laugh. “I know we aren’t the first to dally in this garden, but oh Lord that kiss must be the very best.”
He took off his hat, gave it a vigorous shake, then replaced it on his damp head. The kiss was done.
David imitated him, thinking of the word he’d used. Dally? As in a dalliance? Yes, that must be what they’d done. Such a trivial word for the sharp yearning that affected every inch of David’s body and skin.
The very best he’d experienced. He and Jensen crossed the grounds in silence though the rain lessened again. David felt too full of untamed need to talk of trivial things, and perhaps Jensen sensed his mood.
Could he feel the same bottomless desire? Unlikely that such a worldly gentleman would. As they climbed onto the train, Jensen jested with the conductor about allowing drowned rats onto the train. David’s mouth curved into a smile, though he felt only the tingle of that kiss on his lips.
They returned to the house after dark.
The activity inside the mansion had died down slightly. Bethie greeted them at the door. As she walked with them through the foyer, Fallon appeared and announced that the servants were having dinner. He raised his eyebrows as he said this, and David understood. “My sister and I shall join them, I expect.”
“Nonsense. You will dine with me. I’ll have a tray brought up to…” Mr. Jensen peered up the stairs. “Ah, I suppose it is a long climb for a tired maid. We’ll eat in the breakfast room.”
Again, he set off for the room at the back of the house, calling “Come on, you two,” over his shoulder.
“It’s not right,” Bethie said in a low voice to Mr. Fallon. “We would be glad to join you and the others for your meal.”
That must have been the right thing to say, because Mr. Fallon’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “He is rather an eccentric gentleman,” he whispered. “Best accommodate him where we might.”
The carpets had been rolled up all over the house, so their footsteps echoed through the large rooms.
They were led to a comfortable room that was only as large as Bethie and David’s cottage instead of two or three times its size.
Mr. Fallon and another man served them a meal, which made David itch to jump up. Both men were far more dignified, well-dressed, and likely better educated than David would ever hope to be, and it felt like a terrible joke that they should act as servants with him and Bethie.
Once he’d served Mr. Jensen, who entirely ignored him, Mr. Fallon gave a signal and a nod that must have been a dismissal. Mr. Jensen must have taken lessons on how to make the sort of conversation he seemed to avoid in the studio, because, just as during their ride around London and the visit to the palace, he managed to talk and get David and Bethie to talk without prying or ordering them about.
“You’re not acting like yourself,” David said at last, too uneasy about the change in Mr. Jensen to stay silent. He wanted to ask Was it the kiss? Did it change you as well? Will you be uncomfortable with me now? But he didn’t dare ask in front of his sister.
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“You’re all polite and kind today. Like the vicar after the sermon on Sunday.”
The usual look came to his eyes. “Are you saying I’m sanctimonious?”
He wasn’t sure what that word meant and said, “Maybe.”
“I’m trying to be polite. I do know how.”
That was more like the man he knew. David felt a sense of relief. “Yes, I expect you do. And you’ll be polite and gracious and whatnot day after tomorrow for the party. But for us. For me…” He shook his head. “We don’t need it.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Bethie, whose eyes were dancing. She’d apparently decided their host wasn’t a threat during their tour of London. Now she seemed to relax and enjoy herself, and, more to the point, Mr. Jensen’s company. But she best not do such a thing, not if she wanted to keep her heart whole. He wondered how he could tell her so.
The rest of the meal passed with mild flirtation between Bethie and Mr. Jensen. David enjoyed their idle chitchat but felt more and more uneasy that Bethie might be in danger. After dinner, he pulled her out to walk about the garden and warn her. “His family is even more high and mighty than other people’s.” He wasn’t sure if he could say George’s name to her.
“He is funny. I don’t find him frightening at all.”
“He could hurt you. I don’t only mean in body but in…in soul,” he finished, unsure of how to describe what George had done.
She obviously understood, though. “George made it so men won’t fool me any longer. I doubt I will ever love this one.”
That was the very reason that he felt the power of “this one”—meaning Mr. Jensen. She might not feel as if she could love him, but David was more than half-gone. He was restless and anxious to be near Mr. Jensen. This must have been the way she’d felt about George for a short time.
Bethie went to bed, and the household settled around them. A young man called Stiller came into the room David had been given. He’d claimed the other bed, and his belongings were in a small valise. He had been taken on by Mr. Fallon and hoped to have a permanent position once the party ended. Stiller talked and talked about his time in service and about London and about his family. David made the appropriate remarks and barely listened.
At last, Stiller fell asleep; the man snored like the very devil. David lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling, trying to make plans.
The party would come in two days. Bethie had told him she’d written to Bartlett, and an answer from him would arrive about then as well. David had sent a letter to his aunt and uncle, reassuring them that Bethie had arrived in London and was well—and had not had an answer from them yet either.
He and Bethie had been determined to run away to Paris to give the coming baby a real name, but perhaps they might stay in England and take up that other plan mentioned by Jensen, Bethie playing the part of a widow.
He turned onto his side and wondered why Stiller didn’t wake himself up with all that noise he created with his mouth and lungs. David wished he could sneak off and talk to Bethie again, see if she’d be willing to pretend to be a widow. She would have to lie to her baby, no matter if she married Bartlett or pretended a dead husband. And where to live? In Paris, it would be easy enough to deceive people in a land with a language they didn’t know, though there was the baby to face soon enough. Poor liar that she was, at least Bethie could have had some practice before the baby could understand the truth.
And he would be there to help her and the baby. There, wherever it was, seemed more and more likely to be more than just the two of them—there would be the baby. No more Mr. Jensen and his strange habits and ways. And that thorough, careful way he kissed.
David rolled onto his back again, dismay filling him at the thought of never seeing Jensen again, and never seizing the chance. He trusted Mr. Jensen and wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He thought of the smell of him as they’d walked together in the garden or rode side by side in the second-class train car—Jensen mixed with wool, turpentine, and expensive soap. He craved the flavor of the man. This was the only time he’d taste it.
David rose to his feet. He’d gone to bed in his smalls but now grabbed his clothes and his shoes. He put on everything but the shoes. If anyone caught him sneaking about the house, he’d claim he was on his way out the front door and didn’t want to disturb the household by clacking around the wooden floors.
He knew his way to Jensen’s bedroom and tried to walk down the stairs confidently as if he had a right to skulk around the place late at night. Some clock in the house chimed the half hour, and David wondered which half hour it could be.
The next night would bring overnight visitors but at the moment, no one else slept on the floor where Jensen’s bedroom lay—although perhaps Mr. Fallon had a room. He walked more carefully, stopping to listen now and again.
But then he was down the wide corridor, and there was the glossy white bedroom door. Did he knock? Or simply open?
David stood trying to decide which step to take when he heard a creak of a floorboard. He quickly pushed open the door and closed it behind him, trying to be silent. A small fire had been built in the fireplace.
“Mr. Jensen?” he whispered as he crept over to the bed. Just as he noticed that the flickering fire lit an empty bed, the door opened again, and there was Mr. Jensen framed in the doorway.
“Good Lord,” David said in a hoarse whisper. “Where’d you come from?”
Jensen smiled. He walked toward David, undoing the belt of his dressing gown. “You do realize that I’m supposed to say a version of those words to you? This is my room, after all.”
He pulled off the gown to reveal that he was entirely naked beneath. Still as casual and undisturbed, he tossed the gown onto a chair, saying, “I needed to use the necessary—we don’t employ bedpans in this house.”
David’s mouth had gone dry, and he stared Jensen up and down. He hadn’t seen a naked man often. When he was a boy, he and his friends had cavorted naked in the river, but that was years ago and this was most definitely not a boy standing before him. Isak’s body was angular, with long muscular legs and broad shoulders. He put his hands on his narrow hips. “My turn to pose for you.”
“You’re lovely,” David whispered.
The smile vanished from Jensen’s face, to be replaced by a hungry predator’s expression, the one he’d worn when he’d run after David in the street.
“You took the words from my mouth again,” he whispered back.
“Take more than that from my mouth,” David offered. He pulled off his jacket, laid it on the chair next to the bed. He began to unbutton his waistcoat, and before he’d finished, Jensen was there, large and naked.
“Let me. I’ve imagined this.” The light in his eyes was as commanding and hungry as ever, and the sight of him, the feel of the heat radiating from his naked body, made David want to do whatever he wished. But while Jensen undressed him, David didn’t stay passive. He ran his hands over the broad back as Jensen dropped to his knees to pull down David’s trousers.
“You’re so warm,” he murmured as he ran his palm over Jensen’s shoulder. “You’re like an oven and—oh…”
The strangled words turned to a moan. Jensen had kissed his ankles, his knees, rubbed his face against his thighs. And now his searching mouth had discovered David’s aroused prick. He opened his lips and, with a firm, wet suck, ended David’s interest in talk.
He grabbed at Jensen’s short hair, but that slowed Jensen down, so David clenched his hands into fists.
The wet and warmth was more powerful and arousing than he’d ever imagined. His encounters with himself and with George had been hands on pricks, and had powered his imagination for months but this was beyond any pleasure he’d dreamed or thought, and not just because of the sensation. The smell of Isak, the sight of the powerful man on his knees, all added to desire, even as his hands and mouth squeezed and stroked. David had to close his eyes, but only for a moment, because he didn’t want to miss more than that.
He couldn’t remain still and moved a little, then tried to stop himself when he realized he was jamming himself hard into Jensen’s mouth—but Jensen reached up from his kneeling position on the carpet and placed an encouraging hand on his rear. He moved again and soon lost himself in the sensation alone.
His climax hit so hard and strong, he nearly dropped, but Jensen’s touch kept him standing, letting the pleasure rush into the hot and eager mouth.
At last, Jensen pulled away and got to his feet. David blinked, remembered to breathe, and spread his arms wide for an embrace. As he lifted them, his arms felt heavy, every inch of him languorous, yet he tingled with a greater awareness of touch than he could ever remember.
The chill of air against his wet skin felt delicious but the feel of that long, strong body against him was better. Jensen walked him backward. At the last moment, before they collapsed onto the bed, Jensen turned and pulled David down, so he tumbled half on top of Jensen, who let out an oof.
David pushed himself up onto his arms and off Jensen’s chest, but before he could ask if Jensen had been hurt, two strong hands had cupped his head and pulled him down to a seeking mouth. The hunger in Jensen’s kiss reminded David that the man hadn’t reached his own satisfaction. He sent out a searching hand, and yes, there, the man was hard as maple under his fingers. He stroked then palmed the blunt-headed prick, but he wanted to give Jensen the same astounding experience of a wet mouth.
For a few moments, though, he enjoyed the feel of the solid body writhing under his and the satisfying deep kisses, and then he pushed up onto his hands and knees so he could nuzzle and taste Jensen, feeling like an animal as he explored the scratch of his cheek, the tender flesh of his neck, and made his way along the form that waited impatiently for him. The enticing scent and salty tang of skin, the lightly haired chest and nipples hardening against his fingers then tongue, would have kept David busy for hours, but Jensen rolled his hips with a pleading groan.
He would return the favor. His mouth watered as he considered the idea that had skittered through his mind before. And here the opportunity lay hard and eager. Once or twice, he’d rubbed his hands over some polished wood, imagining this. The hot, thrusting flesh was far better.
The musk of man in the soft hair around Jensen’s already damp prick woke David’s lust again. He stretched out to enjoy the treat, and felt his own cock ache and prickle with eagerness. He wanted to touch Jensen, though, with both hands and his mouth. He experimented with rubbing Jensen’s foreskin against hard flesh, then got down to the serious work of opening his mouth to take in as much of Jensen as he could. Not all of him fit—a blessed block of carved wood just for him. He had to keep his fist wrapped tight around the base of Jensen’s prick to stop himself from gagging in his eager exploration—though even that tickle wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And even the ache of his jaw was pleasure.
Standing with Jensen kneeling before him had been a moment of power, and giving in to the pleasure of orgasm through the most pleasurable means he’d experienced had been beyond his imagination. But this was even more, control and power over the most arousing sight he’d ever witnessed. He worked Jensen’s prick and watched as the man’s breath came hard and fast, the muscles of his torso flexed and released as he pushed up over and over, the slippery hot cock jammed into his mouth as deep as he could bear.
The prick in his mouth hardened and swelled. He slowed his motion, not ready to give up this favorite new activity, but Jensen pushed insistently, and David’s mouth and throat filled with the salty warmth. Jensen’s cry was a soft groan and obscenities.
David listened as he swallowed and then licked until Jensen yanked at his hair and his ear.
“You’ll kill me,” Jensen said. “I shall die.”
David laughed and crawled up Jensen’s body to rest on the bed facing him. He draped an arm and leg over Jensen’s lean form and pulled him close. “You’re stronger than that,” he said. “You have too many paintings left in you.”
Jensen kissed him. His mouth was cool, probably because he’d been panting as David worked him. After a long, melting kiss that deepened, nearly ended, then grew passionate again, Jensen pulled back. He reached over and traced David’s cheek, forehead and nose, then said, “At least with this method, I’d die with a smile on my face.” He wasn’t smiling, though; he was examining David again, and in the flickering light, David stared back, trying to memorize the details, the hint of the lines at the corner of Jensen’s eyes, the nose…which was familiar.
He blinked and touched the blade of a nose, wider and more masculine, but… David spoke before he lost his nerve. “Oh. I understand now. You’re related to Judge. That’s why you let him get away with as much as he did.”
Jensen’s eyes closed for a long moment. “Mm. Yes. He’s from the wrong side of the blankets. M’father’s cousin’s son, I heard, but no one talks outright about such things in the country.” Jensen sighed and rolled onto his back.
David suddenly wished he hadn’t asked, because he’d rather enjoy the time he’d have with Jensen than think or talk about the unpleasant Judge—or the matter of illegitimate children. Bethie, he thought and grew gloomy. He rested his hand on Jensen’s chest. Jensen reached up and folded his hand over his. Such a small sign of affection made him smile.
“Mr. Jensen, do you think—” he began, and was startled by the deep chuckle that rumbled in the other man’s chest.
“Christ, man, after I’ve had your cock in my mouth and mine in yours, I think you can call me Isak.”
“Isak,” he tried. Such a strange, foreign-sounding name on his tongue. “Zacky.”
There was another roll of laughter, considerably quieter—and less amused. “God, not that. But never mind my name. What did you want to say?” He paused a moment, then added, “Davey.”
“I’m David,” David corrected. “Bethie gets to say that because I was the one to call her Bethie.”
“So, we shall forgo all names that end with the ‘e’ sound, hmm? What did you want to say, David?”
He might as well say the words. He had no one else to ask, and the topic was important. “I wonder if you suppose Mr. Judge’s character was formed because of the condition of his birth? And do you suppose such…problems matter as much in a big city or only in a smaller place. Your family comes from a village, yes?”
“Yes, and with the young people moving to cities, it might soon be nothing more than a hamlet.”
A long silence followed. Isak—David must grow used to this name—stroked David’s fingers, and his breaths came long and slow. His hand stilled. Had the man fallen asleep?
Almost as David wondered this, Isak whispered, “You’re asking about the lot of illegitimate babies because of Bethie, aren’t you?”
David didn’t answer.
Isak turned to face him again. He studied David for a long minute, then carefully, as if David were made of something fragile, he arranged their two bodies together, his own torso pressed close to David, and his arm over David’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what has made Judge so angry. Perhaps being raised for a position he didn’t like was enough to sour him?” His voice was low and enough to thrum again David’s own chest as the words came out as breaths on his cheek.
But all that unblinking focus was on David, who guessed what would come next—and wasn’t wrong. Isak said, “But please, David, my friend, tell me what happened to you and your sister. If you don’t want to tell me about the baby, I’d understand, but you’ve both been wounded, and I truly do want to help.”
No names, David thought. George didn’t deserve to be a secret—but the word might get back to Bidswell, their little village. George’s family knew at least one of the guests coming to the house for the party. Michael Bingham wasn’t one of George’s intimate friends, though he and his family came to stay with the Hucksley family often enough that he’d been mentioned in the local paper as a visitor.
“My uncle did a job in his house. I was there with my uncle too. And the man in question, a well-known local gentleman, came through one day as I was repairing a lintel in a room. He spoke to me. More than a nod and hello. I’m used to being invisible when I worked on the several grander houses in our town. I expect even the ones who know my name don’t do more than a mornin’, David, and we all go about our work and lives. But here was this man, the gentleman, who came and talked to me and listened as well.
“It was easy to seduce me, then. Not only because I ached for another person’s touch, but because I wasn’t used to being listened to by anyone other than Bethie.
“The fast version is for a short while, I fell into the habit of enjoying his company. He could tell I liked spending time with him, and his remarks changed—no longer such innocent passing comments, if you see what I mean. To think this all happened only two days into our project.” He gave a gusty laugh. “By the fourth day, he and I sneaked to his room, and well…”
“Oh, did you?” Jensen sneered as he spoke.
David was about to remind Jensen—Isak—that they were doing just the same thing when Isak said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interrupt. And I certainly didn’t mean to sound like a jealous idiot.”
“Jealous?” David laughed. “You, jealous of him?”
“I expect the answer to that has to be a yes, though I don’t know why you’re so amused. Since you’re here with me and not there with him, I suppose it’s silly to feel envy.”
“I laughed because it’s a silly thing. You are a far better gentleman by any way to measure a man, outside or in. The way you look, how you talk, your talent with paint.” He waved a hand in the air over their heads. “I could go on and on.” He turned his head to grin at Isak. “And include a great many words about the way you kiss and touch me, though that would be rude to talk about.”
“Ah. I’m no longer sad I interrupted. You have provided such a boost to my self-esteem.”
How funny that David held such power over Isak and that Isak would nearly admit as much with a light heart. David had something like a hold on George, but that gentleman had hated him for it.
“Pray continue,” Isak said.
“We had some time together, the gentleman and I, but it was wrong. For me, it was wrong, not because we were two men, but because it made him do and say…bad things. He loathed what we did, though he’d craved it. He hated wanting me.”
“Did he tell you as much?”
“In a manner of speaking. He began normal enough but after a few days, seemed to be seized by some sort of crisis. His mind, I mean.” One moment, George had called him filthy names and then the next began to cry and try to coax David up to his room. “I came to my senses. I’m lonely, but there are worse things than that, and I bid him goodbye. I told my uncle I couldn’t work at that house anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so abrupt or…” He swallowed because the memory mortified and angered him. “I didn’t understand what the gentleman felt, because even more than he didn’t like what was between us, he didn’t want to let me go. He was horrid and then all beseeching and kind again, until I had to go. Had to tell him to leave me be.”
David shifted, pulling a pillow under his head, rearranging his limbs, trying to gather the courage he’d need for the next part. He found none, but spoke anyway. “He knew of Bethie. I’d mentioned her. I think I made the mistake of calling her my best friend. And he went looking for my sister.” He licked his lips, which had gone dry. It was always so when he thought of it. The sick feeling and then a dry mouth because he’d carried disaster into his world.
“He called on her when the rest of us was at work and she was home alone. And he wooed her. He’s a fine-looking gentleman and so far above, top-of-the-trees higher than what she or I would ever expect. He went after her heart in secret, of course, so when it came to the matter, it was his word against hers.”
Isak cursed quietly. “Poor Miss Lewis.”
“She found out what had happened with me and him, I don’t know how and she hasn’t said. Maybe he told her—likely yes, that was some sort of threat he held over her. At any rate, I didn’t say a word about him. And when she went to speak to him after learning those facts about me and him together, he told her she was a sad imitation of—a sad…” He couldn’t repeat the horrible things George had told Bethie. “And then he took her against her will.”
He coughed, trying to dislodge the lump of horror and guilt created by that secondhand memory. “I had my secret and then she had hers, until I found her crying.”
“Oh Lord.”
David said, “I went to the estate and found Geo—the gentleman. To my shock, he pulled me into an embrace and tried to kiss me, to tell me that he wanted me still. I shoved him off. I asked him why he’d hurt my sister. He called her a whore, and that was when I grew so angry that I stopped caring. I beat him senseless. I tried to get Bethie to tell the world what he’d done to her, but she was fearful that my part of the story might come out. Over the next month or so, we made our plan to leave home and come to London, and you know the rest.” He rubbed his face, and the scent of linseed oil and Isak on his hands soothed him. He managed to speak calmly as he finished, “It weren’t enough that he would play with her affections, and then attack her. He had to leave her with a baby. She told him after she discovered the fact, and he said that he had no reason to believe it was his. I hear that’s what men who do such a thing often say.” He snorted. “Made me hate all men, I swear.”
A moment or two of silence passed before Isak spoke. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Didn’t seem as if you’d stop asking until you knew.”
“Hmm.” Perhaps an agreement from Isak, who fell silent for a time, then said, “Your sister might vanish for a time, one of those trips to the country that some young ladies make for a year or so. And then she might reappear, her inconvenient bundle left with a family.”
“That might work with young ladies, but not with a girl who has no relations to visit, nor savings enough to hide away.” David folded his arms over his chest, odd when the two of them were naked in the bed, but he felt as if he had to cover what he could as he said the rest. “Bethie tried to do what she could to get rid of it, but stopped after she made herself sick with some sort of herbal thing she took. That was just before I found her sobbing and she admitted the truth to me. The girl was racked with shame over every bit of it.” His voice cracked a little. “Especially the vile medicine that made her so ill.”
Isak touched his arm. He didn’t stroke or fondle him, simply laid his large hand over David’s upper arm. “She might find another solution later. Adoption, perhaps.”
“Yes.” He gave another humorless laugh because this was a familiar conversation to be held late at night when everyone else had gone to bed. The other times he’d whispered over it all with his sister. “As to that, Bethie sometimes says she wants the baby.”
“Sometimes? Not always?”
He ignored the question. “Both of us together should be able to make a sort of family for the creature. If I could forget its sire, I might be able to grow fond of the poor little thing that didn’t ask to be made. If Bethie can be so strong, I hope I could too.”
“Can you forget him?”
“No. Never.” A thought struck David, and he twisted to look at Isak. “That has to be a lie. I must have forgotten him in some ways, for here I am with you. A month ago, I hadn’t imagined I’d kiss anyone again. And certainly not a grand gentleman.” Or one who holds power over me, he thought. “It might be so with the baby too.”
“I’m glad to be of service to you.” And now the clever fingers stroked David’s arm, down the crook of the elbow, up to the top of his shoulder, a distracting sort of touch.
A rush of gratitude hit David. He’d not spoken of any of this with another person, and Isak had listened calmly, neither condemning Bethie nor calling David a fool.
“Thank you,” David said. “For everything. I had known I wanted you, Isak Jensen, sir. I have wanted you for days. And I respect you for that art you make. But I didn’t know that I’d like you. Thank you for listening to me.”
“I could listen to you talk all day,” Isak said. “And God knows I could look at you as well.”
David knew he was good-looking—he didn’t take pride in something beyond his control. It had been trouble at home when he’d had to avoid two infatuated girls and had had to hear the jeers of boys who mocked him. His attractiveness had never brought him such a fine prize as Isak Jensen.
True enough, it was lowering to realize that Isak’s good opinion was all about David’s looks. A gentleman like Jensen wouldn’t want a woodworker or clerk if he had a paunch or weak chin. Understanding this felt close to self-pity; David was tired of feeling sorry for himself.
“I can think of better ways to use my mouth than complaining about my lot in life,” David said and reared over him again and pressed his lips against Isak’s.