The Gentleman and the Rogue (2 page)

It was like talking to a rock. The man showed no expression. “Take off your clothes, and wash yourself. There's soap and a rag on the stand by the tub and a towel to dry off with after.”

Jem considered for a moment, but just then, the wind rattled the windowpane, and he knew he didn't want to go back out into the cold just yet. He'd see how this played out and hope he didn't find himself later with his throat cut, dead in an alley. He shrugged off his coat, let it drop to the floor, and began to unbutton his shirt.

Old Badger gazed off into space, not watching him. He was there to guard the silver, no doubt. Wise decision.

Jem took off his shoes and breeches, and when he was completely naked, he padded across the cold flagstones to the bath and tested it with one hand. The water was deliciously warm. He glanced over his shoulder at the servant, but the man was still giving him privacy by ignoring him completely.

Gingerly Jem stepped over the edge of the tub, and his leg sank into the water. He paused for a moment, almost afraid to take his other foot off the floor. But he couldn't hang there forever, so he took the plunge.

As he sank into the water, the level rose until he was covered nearly to his neck. Once he'd adjusted to the heat and the odd sensation of floating, he found it heavenly. He reached for the flannel, wet it, and rubbed it over the soap. He scrubbed his face and rinsed it with a quick dip, the suds stinging his eyes. Then he washed the rest of his body leisurely, resuming his whistling as he soaped and splashed.

“The hair too. Master don't want your fleas hopping through his house.”

Jem kept his mouth shut for once and did as he was told, submerging his head completely underwater and scrubbing his hair with the soap. Wasn't his place to argue if his customer wanted him clean, and truth to tell, the bath wasn't so bad. The heated water relaxed his muscles till they felt like jelly and warmed him to his very bones.

“Hurry along now,” Badger urged as the water grew colder.

Jem reluctantly rose, toweled off his torso, then stepped out of the water, leaving a puddle on the floor, and dried his legs. He slung the towel around his hips and stared at Badgeman. “Now what?”

“Clothes are there. Put 'em on.”

Jem picked up the trousers from the pile on the wooden chair. They were smooth broadcloth, finer than any fabric that had ever touched his body. The shirt was soft linen, white and as clean as snow before chimney soot got mixed up in it. So he was playing a role, then, maybe the part of someone Lord Fancy had loved and lost, which would explain all the talk about anniversaries. He'd give the gentleman his money's worth, put on his best impression of gentry, talk high-class, and pretend the bath had washed the stink of the gutter from him.

When Jem had dressed from his skin out, including slipping his feet into high, buckled shoes that were a bit too tight, he turned to Badgeman and drawled in a nasal tone, “Very well, then. I'm ready to meet his lordship. Lead on, sirrah.”

* * *

Alan sank deep into the cushions of the wing chair that faced the fireplace in his study. The room had become his lair, his den from which he rarely emerged these days. He'd brooded here so much, he was losing his muscle tone, the fit shape from years of riding that had served him well on the battlefield. Soon he'd be nothing more than a lumpish, nearly middle-aged man perched on this chair like a gargoyle, slowly drinking himself to death.

Enough dwelling on a future he had no interest in facing. Tonight's venture to Southwark was part of it. He'd decided to allow himself one last bit of pleasure. The youth standing outside the tavern had caught his eye, but mostly his ear with his joyful laughter. Christ, how could anyone living in the hellish stew of Southwark sound so damned happy?

Alan had drifted closer, intrigued. That was when the rest of his senses had been engaged. The lad was handsome, with a smooth, clear-skinned face framed by dirty, disheveled brown hair. His bone structure was strong, with a firm chin, sharp jaw, straight nose, and high cheekbones. But the feature that truly riveted Alan was the young man's eyes, so wide and blue. Even in the dim light from the smudged windows of the pub, Alan could see their pale clarity. They were as guileless as a child's, yet perversely knowing. He'd wanted to take the lad's hand and pull him off the street, take him away someplace and bathe in that joyful laughter.

The youth, Jem, had turned from the friend to whom he was speaking and focused on Alan.

“Good evening, sir. Cold night, eh?”

From there he'd turned the conversation to “What's yer pleasure?” and Alan had found himself offering a ride. This was the young man he wanted to share his bed with. Just once. Just tonight on the anniversary of the horror of Badajoz, the day the siege ended. The boy would be gone before morning, and if he was strong enough to go through with it, so would Alan.

The erection he'd sported on the ride home in the carriage had flagged while he waited for his guest to get cleaned up and dressed. Now he was half regretting his decision to bring the lad home at all. Hell, he should pay Jem the half crown or whatever it was he owed him and have Badgeman take him back where he'd come from.

But a soft rap on the door of the study set his cock raging again. It rose like a saluting soldier at the very thought of seeing the handsome young man again.

Badgeman opened the door and stepped inside. “Your guest, sir.”

Jem followed him into the study and stood looking around while Badgeman discreetly disappeared.

Alan caught his breath. The man was more handsome than ever. His hair, wet from the bath, was slicked back and held in a small queue at the nape. Jonathan's clothes fit him quite well, if a little short at the cuffs and ankles. Jem hadn't attempted to knot the cravat, and Alan saw the piece of fabric peeking out from his jacket pocket. How familiar the jacket was. He remembered his brother wearing it often, as it was one of his favorites. Hell, they should've buried him in it instead of the suit his aunt had chosen.

Suddenly Alan could hardly bear to look at the young man standing before him. What had he been thinking of, having him dress in his dead brother's old clothes?

“What a fine establishment you have here. Very impressive.”

Jem's attempt at a cultured accent wasn't half bad but so exaggerated, it almost made Alan smile. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Please sit.”

“Don't mind if I do.”

He perched on the edge of the seat, forearms on his knees, and gazed at Alan. The firelight flickered, sending light and shadow dancing over his beautiful face. His blue eyes shone as luminous as stars. Alan swallowed. He couldn't tear his own away from that sapphire gaze.

“So, now you've got me all cleaned up and presentable, what are you going to do with me?” His voice was huskier, deeper than before. The sound of it tugged on Alan's cock like an invisible thread. His stomach flipped, and his erection grew harder.

“Would you like a drink?” Suddenly as nervous as an unbroken colt, Alan rose from his chair and went to the sideboard to pour a goblet of brandy from the decanter. He resisted the urge to down a shot and refill before carrying the glass over to his guest.

Those astonishing blue eyes gazed up at Alan, and he could barely breathe. His hand shook slightly as he offered the glass to the handsome young man who hardly looked the part of a whore. Cleaned up and clothed in Jonathan's castoffs, he could've been a student home on holiday from university…or with those soulful, innocent eyes, an angel. Then he opened his mouth, and the illusion of innocence vanished.

“What you got for me beneath them trousers?” Jem set the brandy on a nearby table and reached to brush the back of his hand against the bulge in Alan's trousers.

He gasped and jerked away as a bolt of lightning shot through his crotch from the casual touch. Alan could easily count the number of times he'd surrendered to his need for a sex partner. This wasn't something he indulged in regularly, and even though he'd brought the lad home for this purpose, he couldn't help his shock and his shame.

“What? You don't like to be touched?” Jem lowered his lids. His seductive look made Alan's stomach flip. “Maybe you'd rather watch till you get a little more used to me, eh?”

With that, he reached for the front of his shirt and unbuttoned it, revealing no underlinen, only his smooth, muscled chest. He trailed his hand from his collarbone over his chest, then down his taut abdomen to the fly of his trousers, which he then began to unfasten. Before Alan could summon enough saliva in his dry mouth to form words like “No. Not here. Wait. I'm not ready,” the young man already had his erect cock out of his pants. It thrust, hard and proud, from the nest of brown hair between his thighs. Jem stroked its length while focusing his gaze on Alan. He ran his tongue over his lips, making them glisten, and gasped softly as he pumped his dick with his fist.

Alan couldn't drag his gaze from the thick column and the purple head protruding from its foreskin. From the torn knuckles of Jem's fist, it looked as if he'd been in a fight recently, which suggested he was more than a pretty face. He knew how to handle himself and to survive in one of London's grittiest slums.

Guilt washed over Alan. It was wrong to take the body this young man sold through necessity, but he couldn't resist now if he tried. He wanted to touch him so badly—to feel his smooth, clean skin, smell his hair, taste his cock. He wanted to fill him and to be filled, to spend the night curled into the warmth of another body. He
needed
to experience the union with another human being, which he'd denied himself for so long.

Once. Just once more. Maybe God will forgive me.

He took one step forward and another, then knelt in front of the chair while setting his glass on the floor. Jem slid his hand down his cock to the base and tilted it toward him like an offering.

Alan's breath sounded harsh to his own ears as he leaned in and rested his hand on one of Jem's hard thighs. A single pearl beaded on the dark head of the other man's cock. It seemed to fill his vision as he bent closer. Alan slipped his tongue from between his lips and tasted it—that one perfect drop, musky, salty, satisfying.

The young man sighed. “That's good. Now take me inside.”

Alan obliged, happy to obey his command. He sucked the head then the entire length of that sturdy cock into his mouth, feeling the smoothness of velvet skin against his tongue. The tip hit the back of his throat, and he nearly gagged before pulling back.

“Wrap your hand around it like so.” Jem continued to tutor as if he were the master and Alan the novice—which was right. For all his youth, the lad probably had years more experience doing this than Alan did, and he seemed to instinctively understand his client didn't want to take the lead. It was a relief to surrender control and just feel the sensations as they washed over him.

A hand settled on his head and petted him, stroking his hair. “Feels so good. Didn't expect this tonight.” His voice was rough. He gave a little grunt as Alan's teeth scraped the underside of his shaft.

“Now look at me,” he commanded as imperiously as a prince. “Look up. Don't be ashamed 'cause you like cocks. Lots o' coves do, you know. More than you'd think.”

It was harder than Alan expected, but he'd led troops into battle against overwhelming odds; he could surely meet and hold a street boy's gaze. He looked up the lightly haired stomach and ridged abdomen to the muscled chest, a half crescent of brown nipple peeking out on either side of the open white shirt. He studied the corded muscles of Jem's neck, his strong chin and sensuous lips, his jutting nose, and at last, his translucent eyes, all without breaking his rhythm. As Alan sucked and pumped with his fist, he registered the pleasure in the younger man's eyes.

The hand resting softly on his head suddenly clutched his hair and twisted, pulling his head away. “Stop now. Don't want me to come too soon, do you?” Jem gasped.

But Alan did want him to come. He wanted to see his face transported in ecstasy and watch his cock erupt, semen spilling over his fist and spurting onto Jem's belly. Alan's cock was as hard as the walking stick with the gold lion knob which still gathered dust in the umbrella stand in the front hall, but there'd be plenty of time for his own relief later. Right now he was desperate to see Jem come.

“Go ahead,” he murmured low. “I want to see it.” Alan encircled his girth and began to pump harder, drawing his hand over the head with each stroke.

Jem groaned and thrust his hips. He clutched the wide arms of the chair and let his head roll against the back. His pale throat was exposed. Alan could see the pulse jumping in its hollow. Jem's lips were parted, damp, pink. His long lashes lay against his cheeks, so beautiful. Alan rubbed his erection against the other man's leg while he continued to massage him to climax.

“Gawd,” Jem grunted, and his body bowed up off the chair as his seed spurted from his cock and landed halfway up his chest. Alan groaned and thrust harder against his leg, too many layers of fabric keeping his cock from the touch it sought.

Collapsing back into his seat, the young man opened his eyes. He stared down at Alan with eyes hazy with desire and so dilated they appeared more black than blue.

“Thank you very much, sir. You're most kind.” Jem smiled at his own mimicry of upper-crust tones. “Now you must let me return the favor. I insist.”

Alan rose abruptly, his throbbing cock scraping painfully against the fabric of his drawers. “I want you, now. In my bed.”

“As you wish, sir. I'm at your command.”

Chapter Two

The fire had been banked low in Alan's room, so it was slightly cool, the way he liked it for sleeping—not that he slept much. And tonight he was hot enough without an external source of heat. Simply looking at Jem, his cocky strut as he preceded Alan into the bedroom and the impish glance he cast over his shoulder, was enough to make Alan's body burn.

“Nice set o' rooms you got.” Jem looked around the dimly lit chamber at the heavy oak furniture, the burgundy velvet draping the bed, and the thick carpet on the floor. He pointed to the map of the Iberian Peninsula, which hung over the mantel and was covered with markings. “You a military man? Thought you might be from the way you carry yourself.”