Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
A Private Gentleman (23 page)
nothing s-s-so g-g-grim.” Lord help him, but he felt a fool beside her. Who had
troubles such as hers?
“I should say,” she went on, “that not every stammerer has a tale of woe. I
don’t want you to assume so. Something in your eyes, however, insists that you
do. And I want you to feel comfortable telling me, which is why I tell you mine.
Do you know, everyone who tells me their tale begins as you did: ‘it isn’t so bad.’
As if they should be ashamed for letting it affect them, as if everyone in the
world has better right to sorrow than they.” She shrugged. “Life is pain, Lord
George. We all deal with it as we can. Some of us feel safer swallowing our
voices. Some of us hide in our anger. I prefer not to judge the method of coping
but to do what I can to help others let go of the pain.”
She let him digest this, taking his teacup from his hands and reaching for the
pot to refill it.
“I think,” she said, her tone light once again, “we should touch only on
pleasant subjects from here on today, sir, but I do hope you will come visit me
tomorrow? Or would another time be better?”
She added milk and a sugar to his tea and passed it over. Wes sipped
absently, still reeling. But after a few moments he said, “F-F-Friday. At t-t-ten. W-
W-Would it s-s-suit you?”
Her smile split to show pretty, even teeth. “It suits me very well, Your
Lordship.” She took up her own cup of tea and sat back. “Now you tell
me
, sir, about your plants. Because from what I have learned, you are famous for them.”
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Wes laughed. After another sip of tea he was still smiling. And as he
launched into an explanation of the Royal Society and the gardens at Regent’s
Park, he realized he was scarcely stammering at all.
By the third week of seeing Albert, Michael began to feel impatient. With
himself, with Albert—he wasn’t sure of the source, but he couldn’t seem to shake
the sense that more should be happening. His nightmares had stopped. He had,
twice, napped in his own bed, alone. He felt ready for something more. For
congress, possibly. Their last few carriage rides had left them both breathless and
flushed and rock hard. Kisses had become only the opening act. They soon gave
way to fondling beneath waistcoats and groping trousers. Their hair knew no
mercy. Their necks were banquets. Any second now Michael suspected he would
undo Albert’s trousers and reacquaint himself with his lover’s cock with the
same sort of passion. He simply hadn’t quite done so yet.
Albert hadn’t ever pushed him to do so, nor to let him have the same
pleasure, the pleasure he was, in fact, paying for. In fact, he made no moves of a
sexual nature without Michael’s express permission, and sometimes even then he
had to give him a second encouragement. Though once that was settled, he
clearly had no reservations of any kind.
It wasn’t just sexual encounters Michael was starting to want. He longed to
do
things with Albert and not tour another bloody garden. He’d managed to get Albert into a bookstore, once. That hadn’t been so bad, but Albert had merely
waited near the door looking uncomfortable, not browsing with Michael as he’d
hoped he would. Forget coffeehouses, and never speak of pubs. Albert simply
went white and shook his head when Michael mentioned them.
The thought of taking him to Covent Garden was laughable.
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Actual gardens, however, or parks, were fine, and any day the weather was
good enough, they toured them. And they were lovely, true. It was only that
Michael wanted something more. Something… Something…
Something normal.
He let this revelation rattle around in his head as he stared at his own
reflection in a mirror, getting ready for yet another day with Albert. Yes, normal.
That was what he wanted. A foolish yen, most likely, and yet no amount of
chastising himself kept the desire away. Perhaps
that
was what he was in love with, what Rodger saw.
Normal had evaporated so long ago, and the joke was that even then Michael
had struggled for it. He hadn’t thought about his school days in years, but every
time he was with Albert he couldn’t help but remember what it had been like to
stride about London as a normal boy, wondering how he could swindle his
mother out of more sweets or a new book. He’d closed his heart to that boy so
long ago, not letting him out, for the world Michael lived in now was too grim
for him. But with Albert, the boy, now a man, always wanted to come out to
play. With Albert, Michael wanted to explore London. To share books. To delight
in things. And yes, sometimes they did. But all too often just as Michael felt that
boy inside him rising from his sleepy corner, ready to play again, Albert was
coming up against his own terror of public places and shutting down.
Michael stroked his reflection in the glass. He had a pretty face, he knew. A
boyish, pretty face. Many, many men had told him so, had traced the outline of
his lips, praising the beauty of their line before nibbling on them as if they were a rare delicacy. When he worked, he made sure to rouge them slightly, and he
powdered his face, smoothing and whitening it. His hair was always loose and
down, as pampered as a girl’s.
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But not with Albert. When he prepared himself to spend the day with Albert,
he applied no rouge and no powder. His hair went back into a queue, leaving
bits on top to style with pomade, and each time he prepared himself he wished
he could cut it and give himself a modern style.
Normal. A normal style for normal outings.
He finished his toilet, tugged on his jacket and shoes, and headed downstairs
to wait for Albert. He had been coming later and later, explaining that a project
was keeping him through most of the mornings. More and more lately he
seemed to welcome their naps as much as Michael. Except today Michael didn’t
want to collapse in Rodger’s office, nor did he want to doze as they drove around
town. Today Michael had a plan.
When Albert finally arrived, Michael drew a deep breath, steeled himself,
and asked, “Could we go to the Athenaeum today?”
He had worked out the phrasing of this carefully, but even now he had to
bite his tongue almost literally to keep from tacking on softeners. He wanted to
brush this off as a casual, almost random request, but it was not. He’d been
waiting for Albert to suggest this himself since they’d first discussed it weeks
ago, but he had not once so much as brought it up again. This was another case
where that boy inside him had come out again, desperate and eager, determined
to let no one and nothing take away his pleasure.
The hardened, world-weary Michael who had spent a decade whoring
braced himself for a rejection. He tried not to look it. He tried to project easiness, as if he didn’t really care, it was just a whim, but he suspected he failed.
Albert blinked at him. “M-My club? You w-w-want to g-go?”
Michael did his best to steady himself. “Yes. Please?”
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He waited for the excuse, for the dismissal, for the awkwardness. Though
Albert did look slightly uncomfortable, he only nodded and said, “Sh-Shall we g-
g-go now?”
And they went. After all his preparation and fear, Michael found it hard to
believe it had been this easy, but it was, and they were in the carriage and
headed for Pall Mall.
Michael had only been to this part of town with Albert a few times when
traffic routed them so. He had done his gawking then, trying to be casual until
he’d realized the heavy traffic made Albert so uncomfortable he wouldn’t notice.
Michael was able to temper himself somewhat this time, though he still had to
press his face to the glass like an eager child as they passed Trafalgar Square, St.
Martin-in-the-Fields and the line of gentlemen’s clubs until at last they arrived at
the Athenaeum.
It took every ounce of Michael’s control to contain his giddiness. When he’d
been a boy in school he’d boasted to the boys in his dormitory that he’d be a
member of the Athenaeum one day. He’d wanted to be a scholar of books then,
until his mother had pointed out a more practical career would be better. He’d
decided to be a lawyer, but he would be the most
literary
lawyer London had
ever seen. And he would belong to the Athenaeum, he’d bragged, and he’d take
all his meals there, spending evenings he wasn’t working on cases discussing the
arts and sciences with the most brilliant minds in Britain.
He’d become a whore instead. Yet here he was, at the Athenaeum at last.
It was so
white.
So gleaming clean and classical and
white
, not even a pigeon dropping staining its marble stairs. He longed to crane his head and gape like a
country bumpkin at the decorative frieze, but he managed to resist, looking as
collected as he could as he followed Albert up the steps. When he felt his queue
brush the back of his neck, he touched it self-consciously and tucked it into his
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collar. He would not play Albert’s whore today. He would be a literary man, as
he had wanted to be long ago. Just for today.
“Good afternoon, Your Lordship.” The doorman welcomed them inside—
and Michael gave up and gaped as he saw the foyer.
Grand didn’t even begin to describe it. It wasn’t ostentatious, either. It was
simply…perfect. Elegant, aristocratic, clean and spare. Great classical arches and
curved ceilings with geometric relief contrasted marble statuary and grand
tropical plants. Gas lamps burned everywhere, their soft hiss contrasting against
the hushed sound of men’s footsteps on the parquet. It smelled elegant as well:
the gas, to start, but also the mixture of tobacco, sandalwood and the distant
whiff of scrubbed floors. Only a few men lingered in the main entrance, but in
the distance he heard muted voices in conversation and laughter. Educated
voices, trained in elocution.
Michael faltered, falling back.
Albert turned toward him immediately, looking concerned. “Everything all
r-r-right?”
No, it wasn’t. Michael tried not to glance around like a nervous cow in the
slaughterhouse, but he couldn’t help it. What had he been thinking? What on
earth had possessed him to think he belonged here, even for a visit? And what if,
God help him, he met a client? Rodger kept the
ton
well away from him, but not everyone here was upper class, were they? He ran a nervous hand over his hair.
A firm clasp stopped his arm from falling back down. He’d been so lost in
his paranoia he was almost surprised to see it was Albert’s grip that had caught
him.
Albert smiled at him, a patient, kind, Albert sort of smile. The smile widened
and reached his eyes as he nodded at the hall before them. He lowered Michael’s
arm and held on to his elbow a moment, squeezing it. The touch lingered once he
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let go, as if he were still holding Michael there as he walked them forward,
remaining as close at Michael’s side so that, indeed, he could have kept holding
him.
Which, Michael realized, he likely would have were others not around to
witness them. The thought warmed him deeply and propelled him forward, on
into the hall.
It was without question the sort of place one went only if one belonged. The
halls were a maze of doors, opening and closing to reveal men in various
displays of fine dress. Upon peering discreetly inside one of the rooms, Michael
saw men in their shirtsleeves—shirtsleeves rolled up—smoking cigars and
drinking brandy and guffawing over something one of their peers had said. In
others it appeared the men were conducting some sort of meeting, around a table
and all. Other salons saw men grouped around fireplaces, chatting with one
another in one and sitting silently together in another. Old men leaned back in
chairs and napped with their mouths hanging wide open. Younger men read by
windows or sat reviewing papers. Men, men everywhere, existing in pods and
groups, united in station, divided by individual and unspoken selection.
In short, just like school had been.
Occasionally Albert offered quiet explanation of where they were, or what a
portrait on the wall depicted. At one point they ended back up in the main foyer
and headed up the stairs, where on the landing Michael saw a strange clock.
“Why does it have two sevens and no eight on the face?” he whispered to
Albert as they finished ascending.
Albert’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “N-No one knows. Has always b-been
that way.”
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They toured some more, up and down different sets of stairs. Michael was