When the servant finally led Michael’s horse into the yard, he mounted in one bound and galloped out into the open fields. He could not imagine what threatening knowledge Shaw could have on Darny, so sainted and dull with his one boring mistress, but something about Shaw made Michael think that dirt on him would be anything but sainted and dull. Oh, no. Shaw had that closed look about him, and men like that always had something of interest to hide.
Chapter Twelve
A Stupid Man
I should have stayed.
Sam had realized even as he was trotting away on his horse in the midmorning sun that he had made a terrible mistake, but by then it had been too late. He had already told his lie and made a great show of it for Mosley and the servants. To suddenly change his mind after that would have made them question his sanity
and
his truthfulness. And why not? Sam was already questioning his intelligence. Not only had he made the unimaginably stupid decision to flee like a scared child, he had done so under the protection of one of the flimsiest lies he had ever concocted. An urgent message by rider whom he just happened to waylay before reaching the house. What the hell had he been thinking?
That I imagined everything. He doesn’t really want me.
There was no denying it. Despite the looks John had given Sam, despite the touches when he thought Sam was asleep, despite him practically mauling Sam in the riverbed, Sam had still chosen to believe as he always believed. No one like John could possibly want him. Believing otherwise led to hope, which led to risk taking, which led to humiliation. He had taken the risk that night—Lord, what pleasurable risk!—but that traitorous part of his brain told him that rejection and humiliation were next, and he had panicked.
He was a damn fool.
Rather than spin his web of lies further by coming up with an explanation for his sudden return to town, Sam did not inform Kat and practically barricaded himself at home for four days. He heard nothing and saw no one as he tried to stave off boredom and worry with every scrap of correspondence and estate work he could lay his hands on. But he could not do it forever, and after sending a vague note to Kat about his return, he was very displeased to learn about what had been going on in his absence.
“He pays her great attention, Sam,” Kat had said the morning after he sent the note. “And Florence likes him.”
His sister had been speaking about Evers, of course. In Sam’s absence, Evers had apparently danced twice with Florence at every party and had taken her to ride in the park every day. Talk was that their betrothal was practically a given since Evers was hardly being coy with his interests.
Damn him!
Even more frustrating were the unconvincing and flustered objections he had been forced to make to Kat, seeing as he could not very well elaborate on why he detested the man. What was he to say, after all?
I don’t want Florence to marry him because he was cruel to me in school.
Damned if that didn’t sound pathetic even to his ears when laid out so simply.
Now, as he sat in White’s reading the same few sentences from a newspaper for the fifth time, he could not stop his mind from leaping between worries. Evers was playing the charming lover to his sister for her money, and John could be back in town at that moment, perhaps seething with rage.
The only benefit Sam could grasp at the moment was that the ton seemed to have forgotten about his fight with Henry. All the talk, according to Kat, was about the untimely death of the Marquise of Bourick along with his only son and heir. They had both been killed in a carriage accident in Scotland almost a week ago, and the news had only just made it to town. Normally, Sam would shy from being pleased at such a horrible thing, but he was too exhausted for hypothetical morals. He would take the breaks he could get and be happy for them, because his other worries remained.
He kept hearing John’s last words to him before he had passed out in a drunken, satisfied stupor.
“Why?”
In the sober light of day, that question would be even more pressing on John’s mind. Sam could so easily imagine what John might be thinking. Why did Sam lie to me? Why did he pretend to be so noble about it all when he was just like me anyway? Was this all just a game to him? Sam dreaded all the conclusions John must be making, but he had only himself to blame. He was the one who ran. He was the one who was too cowardly to stay and answer questions.
Sam had been sitting too long, and the newspaper was doing nothing to distract him. Perhaps a brisk ride in the park would do something to clear his head. He instructed one of the footmen to send for his carriage, as it had been raining all day. Ten minutes later he held his hat against the wind as he bounded down the steps and into the waiting open door of his small town carriage. What if he sent John a note of apology? Something safely worded, but clear enough—
His thoughts stopped when he heard a familiar, laughing voice.
It couldn’t be.
He hunched over in the carriage and peered out the side window, searching the busy street. Nothing. He was being absurd. John would not even return to town for another few days.
“Coming up!” came the laughing voice.
Sam gasped, twisted around, and stumbled back onto the velvet-cushioned seat. John. It was John.
“I swear, Sam, if your mind was a net, the fish would swim right through. You offered me a ride, and here you are forgetting about me.” John laughed again as he passed the inscrutable footman still holding the door. The carriage shook as he squeezed his wide shoulders through the door and fell into the opposite seat, still smiling.
It’s a show, for the footman.
Sam tried to swallow, but his throat turned to parchment when John’s bronze eyes met his. Past the smile, they were hard.
“Of course. Yes. Sorry,” Sam managed. The footman gave no indication of curiosity and closed the door with a snap. Sam stared at the floor as his pulse began to pound in his ears and sweat beaded under his collar. As soon as the carriage lurched forward, he felt as if he would be sick.
“John,” Sam started, but stopped when John slowly closed the curtain over the window near him. His smile was gone, and he met Sam’s eyes again with a hard gaze as he reached over his seat and closed the other curtain too.
Prickling fear had Sam pressing his back into the seat. It was going to be bad. How angry must John be if he was worried people might see him raging?
“Close your curtain, Sam.” John’s voice hard and constrained. Yes, that was the edge he saw in John’s eyes: barely maintained control.
Sam gripped the cloth with a shaking hand and pulled it closed. Dim light barely filtered through the gray silk, but it was enough to see. If only it were darker, he might be spared the disgust that John was about to level at him. He drew a breath and forced himself to raise his eyes.
That was when John moved.
In a flash, Sam was pushed back against the velvet squabs and his lips covered in a bruising kiss. At first he struggled, too shocked to know if he was being attacked. It was the demanding sweep of John’s tongue against his lips that stilled him. He was afraid to move, afraid to do anything. Then John breathed out a deep, gravelly moan, and Sam was lost.
He wrapped his hands around John’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the taut muscles as he returned the kiss with abandon. It was as if the world around them had vanished and the recklessness didn’t matter. He swept his tongue against John’s, sucking his bottom lip when he could before John would regain position and cover him again. Never in his life had Sam kissed in such a way. Never had it been such a battle for dominance, and never had he felt so certain that he would lose the battle and be thankful for it. He wanted to lose, and he wanted John to fight like hell for the victory.
Sam heard a strangled sound like a whimper and realized it was him. He had managed to work one of his hands up to the back of John’s head, and the feel of his hair almost had Sam tipping over the edge.
“God, that sound.” John gasped against his cheek.
Sam covered John’s lips again, but he delved his tongue deep, and Sam collapsed into willing submission. He rarely kissed, and now he knew why. He had always controlled it, always led, but this was what he wanted. This was what made his thoughts scatter and his insides melt.
“Don’t stop,” Sam begged when John stilled, pressing their foreheads together.
“We need to talk,” John said over heavy breaths. “But if I didn’t do that first, I think I might have clawed out of my skin.”
Sam laughed, which came out sounding more like his aroused whimper. He had to force himself to let go when John pushed back and fell into the opposite seat again. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed both hands over his flushed face. Some of the hardness came back to his eyes.
“I’m sorry!” Sam belted.
John faced him with guarded eyes. “For lying to me or for leaving?”
“Both.”
“Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think you couldn’t trust me?”
“No, it wasn’t that,” Sam said at once, pleading. He didn’t want John to think that.
“Then why?” John clenched his jaw as he slumped back in the seat. “I was terrified when you saw me. And even after that night I came to your house, I still spent so much time worrying. ‘What if he changes his mind? What if I offend him somehow?’ And all that time you were…” He threw up his hands.
Sam’s stomach twisted. There was little choice but to be honest, not just with John but with himself.
“I was selfish,” Sam said, gripping the edge of the closed curtain. “I didn’t think you would want to spend time with me if you knew.” Seeing the baffled look on John’s face, he raised his palm. “No, listen. I thought it would be awkward if we were both… Well, if my choice was between being your friend and nothing, I at least wanted to be your friend.”
John stared at him for a time, emotions and thoughts playing across his face. Sam’s skin prickled under the scrutiny. Finally, John said, “So you thought if I knew about you, we couldn’t be friends? Can men like us not be friends?”
“Not when one of them already wants the other.” As soon as the words left Sam’s mouth, he wanted to bolt for the door.
John’s lips parted. Then, just before Sam was sure he would die or smash the door to bits or both, John smiled. A slow, mischievous smile that grew.
“What?” Sam snapped, feeling lost.
“I think I understand. You already wanted me—your words—and you thought I wouldn’t want you. That would be awkward, wouldn’t it? But how would I have known unless you told me? Or…” John’s smile faltered. “Or did you think I would reject you before having any reason to think you felt anything for me?”
There it was. In truth, Sam had hoped John would not deduce it that far, but the longer he knew John, the more he came to see that he was far more than a handsome face and a title. Sam rubbed his hand over his eyes. “You’re very handsome. It would have made sense for you to assume—”
“Assume that you wanted me as soon as I learned you preferred men?” John made a sour face. “Good Lord, Sam. I have vanity like anyone else, but I’m not so bad as all that. What an arrogant ass you must have taken me for.”
Sam had never thought of it all like that. All his thoughts had been about how he could not possibly measure up. A part of him had even believed, and probably still did, that someone like John was justified in a mountain of vanity. Regardless, his actions had not spoken to a high opinion of John’s character.
“I didn’t know you. I’m sorry.” Sam ran his hand through his hair, careless of disheveling it. Although John had already seen to that. A fresh wave of heat suffused his face. Honestly, if he blushed any more, his heart was going to fail from the effort.
“All right.” John leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. “That answers the first question. Second, why did you leave?”
Simple questions with simple answers, and yet Sam felt like he was being asked to strip in the middle of Piccadilly. He could not remember the last time he had been open with someone. Truly open. Henry had been the closest thing, and that had gone to hell with no warning. It didn’t matter, though. He could not lie to John. This time, it was all or nothing.
“I thought you would be angry with me and I was too cowardly to face it,” Sam said to the curtain.
“Why would I be angry with you? Sam”—John chuckled—”I admit my memory is fuzzy, but I’m sure I was anything but angry.”
“You were foxed.” Sam twisted his hands in his lap. “You could hardly stand. I thought, maybe, you would wish I hadn’t touched you.”
Christ, this is torture.
Sam stared at the floor until he felt the carriage shift and John settled into the seat next to him. The very narrow seat. Sam turned, startled, and pressed his back to the window.
John’s lips twitched, as if trying to hold back laughter. “Are you trying to say that you were worried you had taken advantage of me?” He spoke the last words as if they were alien, as if the sound of them was comical. He made a clownish face and shook his head.
The devil?
“This isn’t funny!” Sam cried. “Don’t act as if I’m being ridiculous. You very well could have changed your mind and thrown accusations at me. Or worse, played the kind friend and let me down gently. ‘I consider you a fine fellow and all, Sam, but not quite like that.’ Don’t act like it wasn’t possible.”
John turned serious, and Sam instantly regretted his outburst. John had kissed him. Clearly he had some interest. Why could Sam not just let a good thing be?
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make light of it.” John rolled his eyes. “All right, I was. That is why you left, then? Because you thought I would be upset or become distant?”
“Yes,” Sam said miserably.
“Well. I was not upset and far from distant. In fact”—he leaned closer, making Sam shudder when their thighs touched—”I went looking for you as soon as I woke up. I had plans before I even learned you were gone.”
“Plans?” Sam clenched his fist in his lap, trying to not to reach for John.
“Yes. There are ruins on Mosley’s estate that all of us have seen a dozen times. I was going to show them to you, and I knew the others would decline the boredom. I was going to get you alone for half the day and enjoy every minute of it, but you were gone.”