He moved closer and raised his hands to do something he had only dreamed of. He brushed his fingers over Henry’s soft hair. Henry gasped and swayed closer to him, which was all the encouragement Sam needed.
“I knew you felt the same way. I knew it,” Sam whispered, moving his fingers through Henry’s hair and down over his ears and neck. He had imagined this countless times and yet the reality could not compare. It overwhelmed him until he was saying things he had not planned to say. Things he had only dared think in the fuzzy moments before sleep.
“Sammy.” Henry’s voice trembled as he lifted his hand and touched Sam’s wrist.
“I know you’re frightened. I am, too, but it’s good. We’ll always be safe together, and no one will ever find out. I just want to be closer to you. You’re so
perfect
.”
Telling Henry he was perfect was one of the many things Sam had never intended to say, and yet saying it was like a release. Henry let his hand fall away from Sam’s wrist to slide down his arm, and it broke the last of his control.
“Hen,” Sam whispered before he slid his hands to the back of Henry’s neck and tilted his head up to meet him. He watched Henry’s parted pink lips for as long as he could, then closed his eyes just as he felt the warm brush of Henry’s breath. Their lips touched with only the slightest pressure, and Sam’s heart soared.
Henry, I love y—
“Ow!”
The wind was knocked out of him just as the earth beneath his feet vanished. It was not until he hit the ground on his side and pain shot through the middle of his chest that he realized he had been pushed. Shoved. Shoved away.
“What are you doing?” Sam cried. When he looked up, Henry was still standing in the same place, but everything else had changed. His eyes were narrow and hard, their sky-blue depths suddenly cold.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Henry demanded. “Don’t touch me, y-you abomination!”
The word sliced through Sam like a blade. He fought to breathe, but the air in the room was gone.
“How dare you?” Henry cried, his face growing red. “You, you’re nothing but a-a molly. You want to touch men the way they’re supposed to touch women. Like
you’re
a woman."
Stop. Oh, please, stop.
Sam cowered on the stone floor, unable to move, unable to even fill his lungs. Each word slashed at him until the pain was so bad he could feel the room spinning. How could this be happening? No, no, he had been so sure. How could he have made such a horrible mistake?
“A sod!” Henry shrieked, his voice cracking as if threatening tears. “You’re a filthy sod, that’s what you are. Well, I’m
not.
I’m not that!”
Tears were running over Sam’s jaw and stinging the skin of his neck before he realized he was crying. He stared into Henry’s enraged eyes and silently begged him, fate, anything, for Henry’s turn to not be true. He opened his mouth to beg aloud.
“Shut up!” Henry bellowed. “I don’t want to hear any of your filth. Do you know what they do to people like you? They get hanged, that’s what. For being unnatural.” Tears had begun streaming down Henry’s face, but rather than soften him, they only seemed to increase the appearance of his rage. “You’re not even a man. I don’t know what you are, but you stay away from me. Do you hear? Don’t come near me ever again.”
Sam whimpered and shrank back as Henry came forward. He braced himself to be kicked, but Henry swept past and unlatched the door. A second later he disappeared into the corridor, taking the oil lamp with him.
Sam was plunged into blackness. He remained perfectly still, only the sound of his sobs and the smack of Henry’s running feet reaching his ears. He could not move. It was as if the blood in his veins had ceased to move. How could it, when there was nothing left of his heart? He sank farther down on the cold floor just as Henry’s footfalls echoed away. But as soon as he heard the last, he also heard Henry’s disgusted words again.
“They get hanged, that’s what.”
“No, no.” Sam scrambled to his knees and flung himself toward the door. His hand struck the frame, causing him to cry out in pain. He was in total blackness, and he had no more matches, making the candle in his pocket useless. He felt his way past the door and into the corridor.
“Henry?” Sam’s voice echoed. “Please don’t tell.
Please
!”
The sound of his own voice, hoarse and pitched like a distraught child’s, was the last straw. He was a fool. A stupid, unnatural fool. How could he have thought that someone like Henry, so manly and perfect, would ever want him? Would ever
be like
him? He had imagined everything and now he was going to pay the price. They would come for him. Henry would tell and then they would come for Sam and it would all be over.
Would they summon his father first, or go directly to the magistrate?
Oh, God. No, no, no.
He stumbled to his feet and pressed his hands against the rough stone of the passageway. If he could only catch Henry, he might be able to change his mind. He would beg, he would promise anything. He would swear that he would never be unnatural again. It didn’t matter. Keeping one hand on the wall and one hand in front of him, he moved as fast as he dared, but he was not sure how far it was to the winding stairs.
When he finally met a break in the stone, it was not the entrance to the staircase. It was another door. And then another and—was the wall beginning to curve? When had there been a curve?
He kept going, and when he reached a dead end, he had no choice but to turn back. Still he could not find the staircase. As panic set in, so did his defeat. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he was unnatural, an abomination. Everyone would know soon and then his world would vanish before his eyes. Would they hang him or put him in prison? Would he ever see his little sisters again?
Exhausted and hopeless, he slid down against the wall and curled into a ball on the hard stone floor. His father hated it when he cried, but what difference did it make now? Being strong wouldn’t help anything. It was over.
And so he cried and moaned and begged Henry over and over, “Don’t tell, don’t tell. Please. Don’t tell.”
He had no idea how much time passed when he heard the footfalls and saw the black pierced by the faint light of a candle. He closed his eyes and prayed they would just arrest him, that they wouldn’t show their disgust of him too harshly.
“What the devil is this, then?” came a mocking voice. There were others too, laughing, but Sam did not open his eyes to look.
“It’s Shaw,” the mocking voice continued. “What happened, little Sir Samuel? Lose your way in the dark? More like Sir Sob to me.”
The magistrate never came, and no one ever mentioned anything, but it did not matter. Sam was to realize in the weeks and months to follow that a man doesn’t have to die to experience hell.
Chapter One
Coveting
London, 1808
What the bloody hell am I doing here?
Sam shifted in his seat and let his gaze drift over the interior of St. George’s church. Half of London society was present and, unfortunately, that half had somehow come to include him. He doubted if the bride and groom knew even a quarter of the people watching them. Brides and their families wrote invitations for all manner of reasons, the least of which tended to be actual sentiment.
That was probably why Sir Samuel Shaw, baronet, found himself seated in the third row with his older sister, Lady Katherine Crowl. As a countess and a stalwart of society, she had been invited but would never bring herself to attend a wedding unescorted. Thus, the necessary use of her little brother.
Sam clenched his jaw and fought to keep a blank face.
The church was filled to capacity and the ceremony almost at an end. He wiggled in his seat, gaining a disapproving glance from his sister. He didn’t want to be there. He knew the bride’s brother, Lord Richard Avery, certainly didn’t want him there, and Sam didn’t know the groom or his family from Adam. He also highly doubted that the bride’s
former
betrothed wanted him there either.
Yes, a
former
betrothed.
All of London society knew about that juicy bit of gossip, how Lady Anne, the bride, had been betrothed to Lord Brenleigh but had eventually cried off to marry Ben Cayson, or whatever the hell his name was. Sam shook his head. It was a convoluted mess of a story, and he did not know which parts were true and which were lies put up by the bride’s family to save face.
All he knew for certain was that Lord Brenleigh, otherwise known as Henry Cortland, and the bride’s brother, Lord Richard Avery, were lovers. Sam had two eyes, and he wasn’t a fool. Henry and Richard were the very best of friends, always in each other’s company, and the
ton
had decided to lay upon them all the credit for bringing the bride and groom together. What a romantic turn of events. How thoughtful of Lord Brenleigh to sacrifice his own interests so that Lady Anne could marry for love. What a treasure he would be for any young lady lucky enough to catch his interest.
What a load of bollocks.
Sam scoffed under his breath, and his sister glared at him. Again.
Henry, the acclaimed earl himself, was seated in the next row up, just a few yards closer to the aisle. Turning his head, Sam could see Henry’s profile and the immaculate fit of his coat over lean, rounded shoulders. Henry had always been handsome, but his beauty had only blossomed over the years. He had grown from a beautiful boy with golden blond curls into a Roman statue of a man, with blue eyes that always looked so soft and welcoming. Oh, but Sam knew how swiftly they could change.
“What do you think you’re doing? Don’t touch me, y-you abomination!”
The hot stab of misery those remembered words brought was always an embarrassment. He should be over it. It had happened nine years ago for God’s sake, yet it did not feel that way. The nine years had been a kind of pause, for Sam had not laid eyes on Henry once in that whole time, not until Henry’s sudden arrival in London just four months ago. Still, his presence was no excuse for being miserable, no excuse for being resentful, and no excuse for wondering what Henry saw in Richard that he, clearly, had never seen in Sam.
As if you have to wonder, you damn fool. Just look at him.
Richard Avery stood to the side of the altar as Cayson’s best man, his hands held behind his back in a pose worthy of any regal portrait. He was tall and muscular, with a head of mahogany brown hair and sultry black eyes that looked upon the world with cocky amusement. While the assembled guests focused their attention on the bride and groom’s joining hands, Sam watched Richard shift his gaze toward the second row, a subtle little smile turning up his lips. Nothing too obvious, but enough to be understood by those who knew.
Henry’s return smile looked almost sheepish.
“Samuel,” his sister hissed under her breath. “What is wrong with you?”
The cynical noise he had made in the back of his throat must have been louder than he thought. Several heads nearby turned to look at him. He coughed, cleared his throat, then pulled out his handkerchief for good measure. The cover worked, and everyone returned their attention to the altar.
When the ceremony finally ended and the guests jostled together to follow the happy couple out to their carriage, Sam felt a weight lift from his shoulders. It was all done. Perhaps Henry would be returning to his estate in Lancaster soon. Sam would no longer have to worry about seeing him at White’s or running into him at the theater. He used his handkerchief to dab the sweat at his hairline.
“Kat, I’ll leave the carriage with you for the breakfast,” he said, drawing her aside from the crowd. “Be in no rush. I won’t need it the rest of the day.”
“But, Sam, aren’t you coming to the wedding breakfast with me?”
Nothing would give him greater misery, he was sure. Not only were Henry and Richard going to be there, but he had recognized a good many of his old schoolmates in the church pews. He had no wish to reacquaint himself. Passing them occasionally at society functions was already enough. Plus, he felt unwell with something every time he looked at Henry.
I’m
not
jealous.
“I have somewhere else to be,” he lied, looking over Kat’s head as the bride and groom stepped up into their open carriage.
“Sam.” She sighed, giving him that motherly look that always made him feel guilty. “I don’t know why you make such a recluse of yourself. It is just a wedding breakfast. We were invited—”
“
You
were invited,” he snapped, immediately regretting it. Kat did not deserve his surliness.
“As if that makes any difference,” she said dismissively. “We won’t stay long. Besides, you will have to get out of this habit of avoiding functions now that Florence is out. It’s her Season, you know, and she’s counting on you to be our escort in town. Never mind the fact that you will never find a wife if you continue as you are.”
“I do not avoid functions,” he protested, ignoring the marriage reference. He did not mind accompanying Kat and Flor around town, really. He had always had a soft spot for his oldest and youngest sisters, respectively, and he could at least rely on Flor to whisper some clever observation to him when the parties got too dull.
“Have I not accompanied you and Flor on five invitations already?” he pointed out.
“And played cards the whole time. You did not speak to anyone except your friends from that strange philanthropic society—”
“Kat.” He looked around him to see who might have heard.
“Oh, Sam.” She rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to do good works, you could at least use them to some social advantage. Young ladies look sweetly on men with kind hearts.”
“And handsome faces,” he muttered, running his hands over his own face. He felt his smooth jawline and the stubble indentations where his cheeks always dimpled. Add to that his ample cheeks and overfull lips, and he had a face like an overgrown boy.
He sighed. There was no escaping the wedding breakfast, just as he had known all along. He would just have to tolerate it and avoid certain people. It was a skill he had honed over the years.