My True Love Gave to Me (6 page)

“I never forgot you.” Thomas spoke softly, barely loud enough to reach Alexander’s ears. Yet the regret in his voice…

With a hard jerk, Alexander pulled back to free his blade, to put the distance he desperately needed between them.

A wince crossed Thomas’s features. His left hand came up to briefly touch his jaw, his fingertips leaving a smear of crimson blood in their wake.

Remorse slammed into Alexander.
Good God.
His stomach dropped like a leaden weight. He had cut Thomas with his blade.

Horrified, Alexander opened his mouth, the apology on his tongue. But the true hurt, more than mere physical hurt, in the dark depths of Thomas’s eyes had Alexander’s jaw snapping shut.

Thomas had no right to that hurt. No right at all. He wasn’t the one who had been left alone in that stable yard. He wasn’t the one who had been abandoned.

Alexander tossed his foil to the ground. The clang of metal on wooden floorboards echoed off the high ceiling of the hall. “The victory is yours. I’m late for an appointment.”

And with that, he turned on his heel. Left Thomas standing alone, the hurt written all over his handsome face.

The faint
click
as Alexander set his wine glass on the dining table seemed unnaturally loud, the sound taking exceedingly long to fade into nothingness. It made him acutely aware that he sat alone at his own table. And it made him feel rather pathetic at that. But it was the least of his worries at the moment.

Four years ago tonight, he’d held a freshly broken heart in his chest. The wound so new, so raw, the pain had been all he could think about. His family merry and lively at Christmas Eve dinner, and Alexander fighting with all his might to keep the tears from falling. He couldn’t even remember the excuse he had used to remove himself from the table before the pudding had been served.

Footsteps approached the dining room. Alexander went still, fork poised over his plate. His pulse sped up, his heart leaping into his throat. Those footsteps grew louder, then his footman passed the open doorway and continued down the corridor toward the back of the house.

With a shake of his head, Alexander let out a huff of self-disgust. He’d left the dining room door open for a reason. The room was on the ground floor, paces away from entrance hall. If it had been
him,
Alexander would have heard the knock on the front door.

Enough.

He set his fork beside his barely touched plate and pushed from the table. He left the dining room yet paused at the foot of the steps and glanced to the front door. But he resisted the urge to go hide himself at some gambling hell and forced his feet to take him up the stairs.

He found the fire already lit in the study and the drapes pulled tight to keep out the cold winter night. He made a point of closing the door behind him. His servants had already been notified that he was at home if Thomas Bennett called tonight. No need to keep an ear attuned to the entrance hall like some sort of lovelorn chit waiting for her beau to call. When Thomas arrived, his servant would show him to the study, just as they would for any other caller.

After grabbing the decanter and tumbler from the console table, he sat in one of the leather armchairs and settled in for the wait.

The worry that Thomas wouldn’t knock on his door tonight flittered through his head. Alexander pushed it aside.

Odd, that he could be so certain the man would show himself, when he’d been so certain but a fortnight ago that Thomas would never return to London. That he would never see him again.

Thomas would show, and when he did Alexander would not be a bloody bastard. The man deserved an apology—Alexander
owed
him an apology…more than one, in fact—and Thomas would get them. Might not be an easy conversation, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Nothing more than that. One did not nick another with a foil and then stomp away like a disgruntled, spoiled adolescent. Alexander wasn’t fifteen anymore…though he would not be surprised if Thomas now doubted that fact. He was a man of three-and-twenty, and it was about time he behaved like one when it concerned Thomas.

A light, rapid tap filled the air around him. He glanced down and stilled his leg. With another shake of his head, he poured a glass of whisky.

Yet as he sat there, the room quiet and still about him, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he had waited for Thomas Bennett. And how that wait had been in vain.

Thomas stopped before the tidy, brown-brick town house and pulled out his pocket watch, angling the face to catch the moonlight. Ten past nine. He didn’t know when Sasha’s servants left for the evening, but based on his calls over the past week, he surmised sometime between nine and half-past nine. The time of day did not seem to matter one bit though. Midafternoon or late in the evening, each call had had him turning away from that front door without even a glimpse of Sasha.

He tucked his watch back into his waistcoat pocket. Perhaps he should have let Sasha win the bout, or at least let him get in the first touch. Fencing never used to be about competition. It had been something they did together, for the mere enjoyment of spending more time with each other. And, Thomas suspected, the means to provide the excuse Sasha had first used to move their relationship beyond kisses and scandalous touches.

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we?”
The memory of Sasha’s voice echoed in his head. He could almost feel the heat of Sasha’s body as the man had stepped closer to whisper,
“Loser sucks off the victor.”

At the time, he had told himself he had won that bout in record time out of a reluctance to put his mouth on another man’s prick, not because he’d wanted Sasha’s on his.

Fool.

A fool who had been more than willing to continue playing by Sasha’s terms.

But today’s bout had borne no resemblance to the ones from years ago, when Sasha had eagerly allowed Thomas the wins. Maybe a victory today for Sasha would have earned Thomas a bit of goodwill from him. Anything to help him breach the formidable wall Sasha had erected against him.

As it was, Sasha had turned away from him yet again that afternoon at the fencing hall. His eyes cold and hard, his spine ramrod straight. A sight Thomas had come to expect.

Still, it had hurt.

Letting out a weary sigh, he surveyed Sasha’s front door. One more time. He’d knock once more on that door. And if Sasha refused to see him yet again, then he would accept the man’s wishes. Accept defeat and return to New York. Alone.

The expected pain gripped hold of his heart. Suppressing a wince, he walked up to the door.

But what if Sasha wasn’t at home? He couldn’t forget the image of Sasha standing with Anderson at the fencing hall, the line of his shoulders comfortable and easy and without a trace of the tension that gripped his muscles whenever Thomas had tried to speak with him. The faint smile on the other man’s mouth, the familiarity in his gaze. Tall and strong, handsome and confident, Anderson was a rake of the first order, just like Radcliffe. Had Sasha sucked him off, just as he had done with Radcliffe at some point? One didn’t plan to meet another in a gazebo on a whim. Sasha had obviously been with Radcliffe in the past, and perhaps even since Thomas had returned to London.

How many men had walked through this door over the last few weeks? Over the last four years?

Jealousy, thick and viscous, seeped into his gut, backed with a heavy measure of regret.

Sasha could have been his and only his, but Thomas had given him up. What he wouldn’t give to go back and give his younger self a swift smack upside the head for even thinking about walking away from Sasha.

He had been such a coward.

And now Sasha was a different man than the one from four years ago. The young man Thomas had known then would have never given his favors so freely. But if Thomas was indeed one of many to have stood on this spot, then it was his own damn fault.

He lifted his arm and knocked on the door.

Was it truly too late for them? The damage done long ago and irreparable?

He should have come back sooner. He should have never left.

The muffled sounds of footsteps approached. Thomas willed away the surge of anticipation. Likely just a servant.

The door opened, proving Thomas correct.

“I am here to call on Mr. Norton. Is he at home?” he asked, bracing for the refusal.

The maid nodded. “Yes, Mr. Bennett. Mr. Norton is at home.” She opened the door wider.

Thomas blinked. He gathered his wits and stepped into the entrance hall. Had Sasha truly not been at home all those other times he had called? Or had the man finally deigned to see him?

Or perhaps Sasha merely wanted to tell him to his face to stop knocking on his front door.

“May I take your coat?” the maid asked. “Mr. Norton is in his study.”

After relinquishing his greatcoat to the woman, he followed her up the stairs. A navy-and-cream-patterned rug covered the steps, muffling their footsteps. The walls were paneled in rich mahogany and graced with quite a few small oil paintings in gilded frames. He briefly wondered how Sasha could afford such a house. Most young gentlemen in London living on their own resided in bachelor’s apartments. Either Sasha had proved himself an astute businessman over the last few years, or his parents had been very generous.

Likely the latter. Socially he and Sasha came from similar families, though Sasha’s parents’ wealth far eclipsed his own. Even when Sasha had been but nineteen, he’d had his own team and racing curricle.

The memory passed through him. So brief yet bittersweet. Of chill wind blowing across his cheeks, the sun overhead, and Sasha’s hand wrapped tight around his prick, urging him toward a climax.

The maid pushed open the study door. Thomas tipped his head to her and crossed the threshold, stopping a few paces inside the room.

“Is there anything I can get you or your guest, Mr. Norton?” she asked.

Slouched in an armchair near one of the tall bookcases lining the wall, Sasha shook his head. It looked as though he had abandoned his coat long ago. The garment, with one sleeve turned inside-out, covered an arm of the leather couch. The cravat beneath his jaw was near undone, and his shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms. “That will be all.”

“A good evening to you.” She bobbed a short curtsey and turned.

The door snapped shut.

“You’re goddamn persistent, you know that?” Without waiting for an answer, Sasha downed the last splash of amber liquid within his tumbler. Then he reached for the half-empty bottle on the side table and poured another glass.

“Yes. And are you foxed?”

Another long sip from that glass. “Not yet.”

Sasha rested the tumbler on the arm of the chair, his full attention on the liquid within. He had yet to look to Thomas since he had walked into the room. The flicker and play of the firelight from the candle on the side table highlighted the pale blond strands in Sasha’s golden hair. A small furrow pulled between his brows, his mouth drawn in a hard, firm line. A mouth that had once felt soft and warm and pliant beneath Thomas’s. Not a hard kiss of anger, but the soft kiss of one who had given his heart to another.

Perhaps it was truly too late for them, but Thomas didn’t regret trying. He’d had to return. To try to come back for the man he had never stopped loving.

With a bright smile and an offer to sit beside him in their first history lecture, Sasha had stolen that first piece of his heart. Every moment with him had not been long enough. And their first kiss… Thomas had sworn something had settled into place inside of him. Sasha’s lips on his, the man’s arms around his neck, his body pressed full against him—the very definition of perfection. On some level, beneath the worries and fears, he had known even then that was where he belonged.

Where
they
belonged. Together.

He could feel the promise of them. Knew with a certainty more solid than fact that they were meant to be together forever. He could almost see them, gray-haired and faces lined with age, sharing a supper at some tavern in the country. Completely content because they had each other.

Maybe that was why he had run so fast and so far away. He should have known better than to fight himself. To take even one step away from the promise of such perfect happiness. But based on Sasha’s continued ice-cold attitude, it looked as though Thomas’s once desperate hopes to wipe away all traces of that promise had finally come to fruition.

Who would have guessed he would have succeeded so admirably?

With a tired shake of his head, he dragged his palm across his jaw and flinched as he snagged the scab that had already formed.

“My apologies for that.”

His attention snapped back to Sasha.

Lashes grazing his high cheekbones, he continued to study the contents of his glass. “It was not intentional.” Those long, light brown lashes lifted. Sasha’s gaze went to his jaw before flickering up to very briefly meet his.

Thomas tipped his head in acknowledgement of the apology. “Understood. One doesn’t pick up a foil unless he’s willing to bear a few marks.” He took a deep breath, gathered his courage. He couldn’t very well stand there all night. “Do you have any intention to accept my apology? To actually forgive me? I am truly sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You’re sorry? You never meant to hurt me? That’s all? And you expect forgiveness?”

Thomas shook his head. No, that wasn’t all. Not even close. But before he could give voice to another word, Sasha slammed his glass down. Liquid splashed from the tumbler, spraying the polished mahogany surface of the side table.

“You
left
me!” Sasha’s voice slashed through the air. “I goddamn begged you to stay with me, and you wouldn’t even stay the night when I offered you a room of your own. Did you think I had plans to attack you? Force myself on you?”

“No, of course not.” Absolutely ridiculous notion. He outweighed Sasha by a good three stones of muscle and had five inches of height on him.

A fact Sasha illustrated when he shot to his feet. “Then why wouldn’t you walk through the front door? Was the thought of being with me that horrible?”

“No, no. That wasn’t it at all,” Thomas said, rushing to correct him. Was that what Sasha had believed all this time? “I wanted to be with you. Desperately. But…I—I…” The words stuck in his throat. He ducked his head, dragged his hand over his eyes and forced the truth out. “I was scared.”

“Of what? Me?” Sasha asked, as though the very notion defined
absurd.

“Of us,” he admitted.

Sasha gave his head a hard dismissive shake, mouth pulled in an ugly line. “Do you believe it was easy for me to love you? I would have done anything for you, and you—you kept me at arm’s length. I had to push, to cajole, to get every kiss, every touch from you.” The words slammed against Thomas harder than physical blows, battering his chest. “Yet still, I trusted you. Never doubted you when you gave me plenty of cause.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that!”

“But it’s true.” Then he added in a whisper, “I never deserved you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Sasha snapped with a conviction that could not be denied. “I stood in that stable yard in the dark. Alone. For what felt like hours. Believing you’d come back.” He advanced, closing the distance between them, his beautiful features contorted with four years’ worth of pent-up rage and pain. “And you didn’t come back for me. Do you have any notion of what that felt like? I loved you!”