SUMMARY: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan (Quinton/Benjamin). Explicit sexual
content. AU, First Time, hurt/comfort, angst. Set in Regency
England. Quinton James, earl of Gwineden falls in love with a
stage actor. However, when he makes that actor an indecent
proposal, what reason does the actor have to stay?
ARCHIVE: Please. As often as possible, and wherever you like.
NOTE: All of my stories can be found on my web page
(http://www.europa.com/~mercutio/Stories.html).
The Earl of Gwineden settled into the leather-upholstered
armchair at his club of choice, White's, unfolding his
newspaper with the air of a man who has escaped certain doom.
His seventeen-year-old niece required an introduction to
London society, complete with balls, evenings spent at
Almack's, and other unpleasant entertainments which would keep
him from his quiet life of study and contemplation for months
to come. The entire season and longer still, he supposed, if
the girl didn't catch a reasonable marriage prospect the first
time off the mark.
Unpleasant entertainments like this evening's night at the
theater.
Quinton James had nothing against the theater. In the
abstract.
But the London theater, especially during the Season, was
nothing but a spectacle. The well-to-do and wealthy attended
merely to be seen. The 'actresses' were nothing more than
pieces of muslin waiting to be bought by the right man and set
up as mistresses. Tonight's production would be not about art,
only about salesmanship.
On the part of both the cast and the audience.
For the moment, thankfully, he was hidden safely away in his
club, where his sister could not penetrate to draw him into yet
more dull and fundamentally useless duties shepherding her
daughter.
He turned to the second page of his newspaper, and sighed with
contentment for the first time in days as he began reading an
intelligent discussion on the subject of taxes. Both
intelligence and discussion were a premium since his sister had
descended upon him, given as she was to mindless ordering about
of all and sundry, including him.
A contentment that shattered abruptly as three more gentleman
took seats in the quiet room he'd chosen and began speaking in
loud voices.
Drat.
He had almost convinced himself to ignore them, when he
realized that they were speaking of the play he intended to see
that night.
He glanced up. Two of the three men were known to him by
sight.
Lord Michael Ardsley, Sir Percival Jenkins, and a third man.
Quinton returned his eyes to his paper, snorting inwardly.
Ardsley, heir to a dukedom and altogether too pleased to wait
for his inheritance, was a near contemporary of Gwineden's.
Three years younger, the black-haired man had rakish good
looks, which he combined with wealth and a flair for fashion to
make himself one of the leading figures in London society.
That Michael had lost his idealism as well as any remnant of
brains he'd possessed at the same time had saddened Quinton,
who remembered with fondness the viscount as a younger man and
a very good friend.
Sir Percival was a useless man, a wastrel Quinton would be
sure to steer his niece away from. Not that the man lacked
money, seemingly Sarah's largest concern when it came to her
daughter, but he squandered all he had. Michael at least had
the good sense -- or the hard hand of his father -- to stay
within a monthly limit and not exceed that amount no matter the
provocation.
The other man's brightly colored suit hurt Quinton's eyes, and
he dismissed him as more of the same kind. A foolish man who
had not yet grown out of being a boy.
The earl returned his eyes to his paper, but could not help
overhearing the loud conversation.
"The Tempest, you say? And Ariel?"
"Yes. Just as I told you."
Sir Percival's voice was bored. "I fail to see the boy's
attraction. Miranda is far more to my taste."
"Ah, yes," Michael said, voice drawling. "The fair Miranda.
One can have her like anywhere. Women are... so predictable."
Quinton did not dare look up. His history with Michael was not
one which would stand up to the scrutiny of polite society.
He was not ashamed of his emotions or his past... but in that
past Michael had made an ugly thing out of something that was
far from ugly, and the earl did not wish to stir that up now or
ever.
"What are you suggesting?" the third man asked.
"Only that our dear Benjamin is a gifted actor, and one well
worth watching, if you care to catch the theater."
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"If he isn't," Sir Percival said slyly, "then I bet he will be
by the end of the Season."
"That's hardly sportsmanlike, Percy," Michael said. "One
should not bet on a sure thing with someone like our poor
Cecil, who will no doubt bet against you merely for the sake of
a wager."
"What do you suggest then?" Sir Percival asked.
"Make it more even. Raise the stakes a bit? Say not merely
that I bed the boy, but..."
'Poor' Cecil interrupted with a sharply interested tone. "Yes,
let's do make this a challenge. Make the boy fall in love with
you."
"And how do I prove that?" Michael asked.
"By making the boy give up his precious theater for you. Out
of his free will. Not because you paid him to do so, or told
the manager to fire him, but out of sheer love for you. Ruin
him, and make him like it."
There was a pause, as Sir Percival considered the offer. "Yes,
done! You may have money, Flewelling, and you may have looks,
but only a damned fool would fall in love with you."
"Ah," said Michael lazily, "what fools these mortals be."
[Later that evening]
Quinton did his best not to sigh. Earls did not sigh.
Even not when seated in a box above a noisy theater, the
action of the play nearly drowned out by the chatter of the
crowd, even when he was forced into his least comfortable
clothes, in a stiflingly hot room.
Particularly not when seated next to his sharp-tongued sister.
It was such a pity that Charles had joined Lord Wellesley in
Europe. Gwineden did not deny that Napoleon needed to be fought
back, but his brother-in-law had terrible timing.
And then, suddenly, without warning, the audience went silent.
The silence rippled across the crowded room, breaking talk
against it, and Quinton focused his attention back on the play.
Miranda had fallen asleep. Prospero stood alone -- no. There
was another.
A young man, clothed in light, gauzy fabrics, completely
inappropriate to the angular shape of his lean body. Despite
what Shakespeare had intended, Ariel was not a role meant to be
played by a man, not in those clothes at any rate.
Then Quinton saw the sprite move.
Graceful, yes. Grace was a word he would use to describe the
man's movement. Athletic -- no. While the twirls and the leaps
the man performed required physical power, it was lack of
effort that those moves portrayed. The sprite moved the way
only an otherworldly creature could move, and Quinton found
himself leaning forward.
"All hail, great master!"
The voice, those eyes... from the distance of the box, it was
difficult to see many details of the actors, but their clarity
sought him out, and Quinton knew now why Michael wanted this
one to call him 'master'.
"Grave sir, hail! I come to answer thy best pleasure; be it to
fly, to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curled
clouds. To thy strong bidding, task Ariel and all his quality."
The line took on new meaning as this Ariel spoke it to
Prospero, and Quinton found himself looking at this play in a
different way. Answer his best pleasure? It was difficult being
what he was, and hiding it. His position helped while at the
same time hindering -- his lack of a wife or heir at his age
was remarkable. It had been a long while since he had taken any
lover... and he could think of many pleasures to bid this young
man to.
The earl could hardly bear to see the first scene of Act Two
end. He knew 'The Tempest', and knew how long it would be until
Ariel's next appearance. To suffer through those scenes of the
play without Ariel was difficult, especially Ferdinand's dull
courting of the beautiful, but equally dull Miranda. Caliban he
suffered only because the second scene of the third act brought
Ariel back on. Again, the audience hushed for the actor, as one
accolading him the greatest honor they could muster -- to be
allowed to exercise his craft, the spell that he wove over each
of them. Ariel was alive, a sprite of mischief, and yet of duty
as well, tied to Prospero and to servitude in a way that almost
hurt, to see how the bond crippled that soaring heart.
The constant promise of Prospero to free that spirit and the
magician-duke's repeated demands taxed Quinton's patience as
much as it did Ariel's. The sprite was desperate in his
obedience, longing to be free.
When Prospero finally spoke the brief words, "My Ariel, chick,
that is thy charge. Then to the elements, be free, and fare
thou well," Ariel's joy was so well felt in the spinning leaps
and impossible brightness of the sprite that the actor playing
Prospero had no attention placed on his epilogue. The lovely
poetry of Prospero's apology went unlistened to, and Ariel
departed the stage.
The earl was on his feet without quite knowing how he'd gotten
there, applauding long and hard. It had been years since any
living person had managed to touch his heart so strongly. A
long-dead philosopher or poet perhaps might, but this... he
pounded his hands together until all of the bows had been
completed, and Ariel would not be called forth any longer.
When he looked to take his seat, he found his sister glaring
at him. "Quin."
"What is it, Sarah?"
"You know what. Please do not think of repeating that vulgar
display."
He lifted his eyebrows. "I doubt it possible, unless you
wished to see the play again on another occasion."
"Nevertheless, Quin..."
He glanced at his niece. Juliana's attention was elsewhere, on
her second escort, Major John Ashton, a friend of her father's
invalided home. The major was lucky to be alive at all.
And Gwineden felt himself especially blessed to have this
moment unobserved to speak frankly with his sister.
Softly, he said, "Sarah, I will do my best for my niece, but
you do not rule my behavior now or ever. Do not forget that."
She sniffed. "My only concern is for Juliana. Vulgar attitudes
will attract only the wrong sort of suitors."
He gave her a long, hard look. "I have said enough, and that
is more than enough." Quinton turned to his niece's escort.
"Major, I have just recalled an urgent piece of business that
must be taken care of. Would you do me the honor of escorting
my sister and her daughter to my townhouse?"
Ashton eyed him, but nodded stiffly. "I'll do that, Gwineden."
"Thank you, Major."
And the earl used his large shouldered frame to crowd his way
out of the box, and into the throng outside the boxes. The
social scene here was as important as any at a formal ball, and
as badly packed. But people gave way before his determined look
and measured stride.
He did not hear his sister calling out for him, and doubted
she would. That would, after all, be a vulgar display.
His mouth quirked slightly. Leaving her was a harsh thing to
do, but they had along two female companions as well for
propriety's sake, so their ride home should be within the
bounds of propriety.
But it would embarrass the status-conscious Sarah, and
hopefully convince her not to ever do such a thing again.
Unfortunately it was a ploy that worked best in public.
As he found his way out of the hall, Quinton wondered where he
was going. Back to White's, he supposed. Or --
He saw Michael making his way in the direction of the stage.
What the devil was he up to?
Ah, yes, the bet. And the boy.
Was it possible to meet with the actors backstage? Suddenly
the unsocial Lord Gwineden was feeling very social indeed.
The green room area backstage was as packed with people as the
upper hall had been.
A different crush of people, however. The expensive clothing
belonged mostly to the male contingent. Less expensive, and far
more gaudy garb clothed the fairies from the night's production
who accompanied the gentleman, tawdry accessories to the men's
finery. Miranda, of course, was the center of attention.
The actress must not have a current protector. She certainly
appeared to be in the market for one. She paid no marked
attention to any one man in the swarm surrounding her.
Quinton had never maintained a mistress of that class or in
that fashion. His few affairs were discreet and careful, and
all the more unemotional for it. He thought perhaps he could
not feel anything for a woman, and the near-catastrophe of his
past with Michael had kept him from venturing down that path
again.
But he did not care for the fair Miranda, and cast his gaze
about, looking for a different form.
Ariel.
Quinton's height gave him the advantage in the crush, and he
moved toward the young man. The actor's head would only reach
his shoulder, Quinton mused. So much smaller and more delicate.
His features were hidden by so much pancake makeup, and
glittered under these bright lights, but so close, Quinton
could see the fineness of the sprite's facial structure, the
angular chin and arched eyebrows. Beautiful.
Green eyes looked his way, and Quinton looked back silently,
allowing approval to show in his face.
Their gazes held until another head blocked his line of sight.
He recognized that black, curling hair and the arrogant set to
those shoulders. Michael.
The earl stepped forward, bringing the young man back where he
could see him, and realized that Michael was talking to him.
And the actor was smiling back as though enraptured.
No.
Something in him instinctively rejected that picture.
It was wrong, it should not be.
And then Quinton remembered the bet. The viscount's only
interest in the actor was to break the man's heart and ruin his
career. All for a bet.
He could not allow that to happen. Not to such a charming
sprite.
Not to his sprite.
He stepped forward into the innermost circle of people
surrounding the actor.
"Good evening," he said, and was satisfied when the actor's
attention came to him and away from a suddenly scowling
Michael.
Michael no longer looked young or handsome while scowling,
Quinton reflected. Someone should mention that to him.
Sometime.
He kept his voice low so that the young man would have to step
close to hear him. "You are Benjamin, correct?"
The actor stepped forward, body close to the earl's, nearly
brushing his. He could swear he could feel heat from the hips
cocked so close to his own body. "Ben Darthing, at your
service. And you are?"
"Quinton James, Earl of Gwineden."
"M'lord," came the ever-so respectful reply.
Over the actor's shoulder, Quinton caught the impatient look
in Michael's eyes and knew that he had one chance to save the
boy, and that it was right now.
And knew also that salvation had little to do with what he was
contemplating.
He raised his hand, nearly brushing against that white cheek,
hovering over the golden-brown hair. "You are so beautiful."
"Are you offering?"
"Yes, young Benjamin, I am."
Their conversation was conducted in whispers, barest breaths
brushing against each other. "Can you afford me?"
"I could afford the entire cast. But I want you."
"I could receive a better offer."
He could. As uncommon as it was to form such an open liaison
with another man, Benjamin could no doubt still find a wealth
of offers. The earl's gaze turned sad, filled with the
acceptance of inevitability that age brought. "You might. I
cannot demand."
"I doubt that," Benjamin said, swaying closer. "I think you
could have anything you liked simply by raising your voice."
"I have no intention of doing so."
"Really?" Fine eyebrows arched. "How... mysterious."
"As you like."
"As I like? I like."
This beautiful young man wanted him? Truly, Quinton thought,
as he smiled at Michael over Benjamin's shoulder, there was no
justice in life.
The house in Half Moon Street was easily arranged. Quinton
gave a handful of instructions to his man of business and it
was done. He was taking refuge in conformity, he knew. One
housed one's mistresses in Half Moon Street. That was how it
was done. He had little experience in these matters.
The earl took his new... -- what was the word for it?
Ladybird? Mistress? Those terms didn't work. Companion. That
was all he could call it. -- his new companion to the house
with him.
He handed the key to Benjamin as they stood in front of the
door. "This is yours."
The door was opened from the other side before either man
could attempt it. "Your lordship, sir," the butler said, bowing
to both the earl and the actor. "It is good to welcome you."
"Your staff," the earl said into Benjamin's ear.
He dismissed the butler with a nod, and ushered Benjamin
further into the house. "You may get to know them after I've
gone. If you are dissatisfied with any of your staff, you may
replace them or direct the situation my way if you prefer not
to handle it yourself. The house is yours to do with as you
please."
Benjamin nodded. "And the bedroom?"
They ascended the stairs. This had been the only room needing
to be redecorated for male tastes. The rest of the house
reflected the need to please masculine sensibilities. Deep
blues and greens soothed his eyes. What Sarah had wanted to do
to his townhouse in the name of fashion was unspeakable.
Quinton waved the younger man through a door and into the
bedroom.
"Nice bed."
The earl shut the door behind them and leaned against it,
absorbing the sight in front of him.
His 'companion' was sitting on the edge of the bed, energy
only barely leashed, looking up at him, gaze lambent.
For a moment, Quinton was disturbed by that gaze, by the other
man's willingness to do this. Benjamin was too light-hearted,
easy about this, as though he placed no value upon himself.
The earl wanted to take advantage of the situation he had
placed himself in. The person who breathed life into Ariel was
both lively and beautiful.
More temptation than anyone had been since he was at Eton so
many years before.
Benjamin should want more for himself than this, to blithely
sell his body to the highest bidder. The spirit housed in this
shape, the man who had so embodied the essence of a sprite,
that man should not be bound. To play Prospero to Benjamin's
Ariel... it was painful to have to fetter one such as this.
Painful, and yet... as Benjamin took off his shirt and laid
back on to the bed... oh so gratifying.
"My brave spirit," he whispered, as he went to the bed,
kneeling next to the reclining man.
Arms came up, and as Quinton kissed the smile waiting for him,
he knew he was already in this too far.
He was going into this with his heart open, and that, that was
a mistake.
Hands accustomed to a myriad of costumes and quick changes
stripped him of his tight jacket, intricate cravat and his
shirt until they could meet skin to skin.
Quinton wrapped his arms under the actor's shoulders in a kind
of embrace, affection mixing with the throbbing need beginning
to make itself known.
Oh, yes. Definitely making itself known as his sprite wriggled
underneath him.
Quinton held much of his weight on his braced elbows, aware of
his larger size as only one who has learned to be gentle
through breaking things can be.
A sly tongue crept into his mouth, and he groaned into that
hot wetness. His hands left Benjamin's shoulders and went to
his face, holding him still so that he could kiss him again and
again, possessing that mouth.
And then hands tickled his sides, making him pull away,
kneeling back to avoid them.
Quinton growled at Benjamin, at the merriment in his eyes.
"You don't like being teased?" the sprite asked, laughing.
The earl responded by unfastening the younger man's breeches,
and, lying down, slipping his hand inside to stroke the waiting
erection. "About as much as you do, I'd wager."
But his sprite arched up under his touch, back curling
seductively off of the bed, hands fisting into the bedclothes.
Quinton teased the hardness with his hand, then settled down
to a hard, demanding rhythm until gasps and half-phrases
spilled out of Benjamin's throat.
"Oh, please. Please, I want. Let me. Please."
And then the earl stopped.
Accusing green eyes looked back at him, and Quinton smiled.
"Just proving my point."
He grinned at the frustrated expression, then pulled the
breeches down further, freeing the other man from the confines
of the cloth.
Quinton moved to kneel on the breeches that he hadn't had the
patience to take all the way off Benjamin. Without teasing
further, he took the hard penis into his mouth, and swallowing,
reached for his sprite's hands and moved them to rest on his
head.
He caught a slightly incredulous expression on the younger
man's face, and then Benjamin pulled down on his head and began
thrusting purposefully.
Quinton savored the feel of his sprite's desire, of how much
he wanted this. To be so desperately needed...
He brought his hand and began stroking himself through the
fabric of his own breeches, heedless of his balance, or indeed
of anything but the pressure and the heat.
A deep groan warned him, then Benjamin stiffened and fluid
spurted into Quinton's mouth. He swallowed, wanting to bring
his companion as much pleasure as he could -- wanting this
bright, beautiful sprite to have nothing but the best of
experiences -- and then, as hips began to only lazily circle,
licked the subsiding erection clean.
When he was finished, the earl laid down next to Benjamin and
pulled him into his arms.
He had a soft languid armful of half-naked man.
Quinton found himself rubbing against the thigh so close to
his groin, wanting more but unwilling to give up his
satisfaction in what he was holding. It felt good to possess,
to have, and he only hoped that Benjamin felt the same way
about his possession.
The earl sat in the growing darkness of the later afternoon,
lightly swirling the brandy around in his glass as he watched
his sprite sleep on the bed.
The shadows obscured his own form as he rested in the
armchair.
Benjamin's was not so obscured. The western light spilled
through the window onto the bed, touching his nude form with
the same gilding that gauze and body paint had achieved the
night before on stage.
Otherworldly, his sprite was.
Quinton watched the lean form turn over, pale flesh searching
for the missing warmth in the bed.
So Benjamin was used to waking up in company.
Unsurprising, really. Such a handsome, talented young man
would not lack for partners, whether paying or not.
The stirring turned more active, and the golden head came up,
looking.
Benjamin did not spot him immediately, and the earl took that
time to study the unguarded expression.
Slack, exhausted features, except for the slight lifting
around the eyes and mouth that suggested the young man was
well-sated. Apparently, Quinton had not been that far out of
practice.
Then those eyes caught his, despite the dimness, and the smile
firmed up.
Quinton felt a little sad that the more honest expression was
covered by the wider smile, and spoke, voice low. "You don't
have to pretend with me. I would prefer that you show me your
reactions as you feel them, not as you think I wish to see
them."
Eyebrows drew together. "Can't I enjoy being with you?"
"Do you?"
The smile grew larger. "After that? How can you even think of
asking?"
The earl sighed. "Perhaps I'm simply older than you are."
"And wiser, and more experienced?" Benjamin said, leaning
forward until he was lying flat against the bed, staring at
Quinton with his head propped on his hands. "That's what you
mean, isn't it?"
"You don't agree?"
"An earl has much experience on my end of this?"
"I don't have any experience on either end of hiring an actor
as my 'companion'. You are the first."
"Well, then." Benjamin turned over, still with that effortless
grace, and laid on his back, head hanging off the edge of the
bed. "I'll tell you something you don't know. You're different.
Not like the others."
Quinton snorted.
"No. Unless I'm completely deluded, and I don't think I am,
you appear to genuinely care. That is... odd."
"Really?" The earl set his brandy down, then spread his hands.
"Surely someone with your looks and profession is suitably
worshipped. Even if you play to one-man houses of aged satyrs
like myself, you must have a someone or someones special to
you."
Eyebrows went down comically. "You'd think that, would you?"
"It's not true?"
"Oh, it is. You're right about that. It's quite a thing to be
worshipped. There isn't anything like the applause of an
audience. Nothing at all. I don't think any person could give
that kind of adulation and praise."
"So instead you prefer money?"
Benjamin's mouth drooped into a grin. "It is a form of praise.
A rather flattering form, at that."
"But you don't wish for more than applause and monetary
compensation?"
"What more is there to want?" The actor flipped off of the
bed, landing on his feet and quickly sliding into a kneeling
position before the earl.
The grin enticed Quinton. Too much. He tilted forward out of
his chair, capturing Benjamin's mouth in a kiss even as he
swept the younger man up in his arms and back to the bed.
"Quite a bit, sprite. Quite a bit."
The situation continued like that for nearly two weeks. Quinton
stole time from his days to spend with Benjamin, while
simultaneously spending his evenings and early mornings with
Sarah and his niece in a diligent pursuit of husbands.
Of the two, he preferred the diligent pursuit of his sprite,
he thought as he glared down yet another feckless young pup
come to dance with Juliana.
For his trouble, he got his hand slapped with a fan. "Will you
stop that, Quin? Lord Mellydil was on her dance card."
"'Was' being the correct verb tense. He isn't appropriate for
Juliana."
"Why not?"
Quinton thought about telling her the real reason, just
because it would shock her, then regretfully decided against
it. It wasn't the sort of thing one told a woman. "Trust me,
Sarah."
She looked at him incredulously.
"Not in this lifetime, right." Quinton smiled slightly. "If it
eases your mind, I approve of the rest of the night's list."
She sniffed and looked away. Quinton supposed that meant that
if he approved of them, there must be some previously unseen
flaw hidden in each of the remaining gentlemen.
The earl stifled a smile, and returned his gaze to the
ballroom.
Not as interesting as a good book, and several widths of the
Thames more boring than spending time with his sprite.
He caught sight of a dark head making its way toward him
through the crowd.
Michael. Why the devil could he not seem to avoid the man of
late?
Viscount Flewelling stopped inches from him, well within what
the earl considered the polite boundaries. Then he placed a
hand on Quinton's shoulder.
Quinton regarded the hand in the same fashion as he might have
regarded an inkstain on the frontispiece of one of his favorite
books.
Michael did not seem disturbed by the cutting look. "Old
friend. So good to see you once again."
Sarah stared as discreetly at them as someone with her long
nose could.
He could not, and would not, cause a public scene.
"Flewelling. Yes, we attended Eton together, did we not?" An
understatement at best. For almost two years, Michael had been
the only reason he was at Eton.
"Yes. And attended last night's production of 'The Tempest'
together as well, it seems."
Blandly, Quinton replied, "Yes, I believe I saw you there
after the play."
The hand remained on his shoulder, and if anything, seemed to
be caressing...
Quinton smiled coldly. He could not step back without coming
up against a chair, and even if he could, he had a horrid
presentiment that Michael would simply allow the hand to slide
down his chest. "What do you want, Michael?"
"What do you think I want?"
"I don't have the vaguest idea."
Michael laughed, a low rippling laugh that was entirely
inappropriate for their situation. "I think you do know."
"I think you're making a laughingstock of yourself."
"No, dear," Michael purred, and in a low, intimate whisper,
added, "I'm making a laughingstock out of you."
"I can see that," he replied calmly, keeping his expression
unperturbed and controlled. "What do you want?"
"I want Benjamin."
"No."
"I can destroy your reputation, as well as that of your
family. No one knows precisely what went on at Eton, but
everyone could know what you are doing in Half Moon Street."
"The converse holds true for you."
"I have no one I am trying to launch into Society this Season.
By the time the scandal had passed over, your niece would be
permanently on the shelf."
"Thus freeing me up to spend the rest of this deadly dull time
in my library. Thank you, Michael. What an excellent friend you
are. Now, if you have no further business with me, please do
leave. I'm already not enjoying this ball. I would prefer to
continue not enjoying it without you unless you intend to make
good on your offer, in which case, I shall spend the rest of my
evening at home, where I would much prefer to be."
Quinton noted with satisfaction the frustrated look on
Michael's face.
The viscount turned and walked away without even acknowledging
Lady Sarah.
"Who is Benjamin, Quin?" Sarah asked.
"Someone you would not wish to know."
"Ah."
As all of his friends fit into that category, as well as
himself, Quinton felt safe with that description. It was better
than telling the truth. Any evasion was better than telling
Sarah the truth.
He told himself that, and knew at the same time that he was
ashamed of his sprite. Ashamed at having to hide him, both as a
paid companion and as a male lover.
They returned home near dawn. Giving the earl precisely twelve
hours before Benjamin would be leaving Half Moon Street for the
theater. And during which time, Quinton also had to sleep.
Perhaps he didn't really need to sleep.
But, no.
As enticing as the idea was of spending the evening -- or the
early morning hours -- curled up around an inviting warm body,
said body needed its sleep as well, and if he didn't
sleep, then there was a distinct possibility that Sarah might
be found strangled at the breakfast table one 'morning'.
Quinton climbed the stairs wearily, unwilling to go to his
empty bed. Perhaps he could find something to read. Yes, that
would help.
Seven and a half hours later, he rested on the bed, lying
back, arms spread out.
Quinton was resting quite comfortably now, but it had nothing
to do with literature.
It was entirely related to the sinuous body curled around his.
Sweat cooled on his skin. His heartbeat had already returned
to normal.
"You astound me, my sprite."
"Of course. I'm naturally astounding," came the purred reply.
He rolled over, half-trapping the actor beneath him, and
growled into his chest. "Yes, you are."
Strong arms pushed him up and back, and then a laughing face
was suspended above his own. "You're not all that bad
yourself."
"Care to give an old man some further lessons?"
The sprite's lips pursed. "Hmm..."
Quinton crushed him close, rolling him over again, this time
completely covering Benjamin's body with his own. "Yes?"
"Oh, very well," the young man said, his eyes twinkling. "I
suppose if you put it that way..."
"What if I put it this way?" Quinton demonstrated with a twist
of his hips.
"Definitely yes, if you put it that way."
"Then it's settled." He reached for the oil that Benjamin had
obtained. Quinton was entirely willing to honor Benjamin's
wishes and use it. That he got to use it was the important
part, he thought, smiling to himself.
He coated himself, and then his fingers, reaching under his
sprite to prepare him as well.
The opening was tight, and the heat of it on his fingers made
him twitch, knowing that the same heat and tightness
would soon be wrapped around his erection. Soon, very soon.
He slid down until his lips touched the soft skin of
Benjamin's penis, tongue flicking out to taste it.
The texture intrigued him, and he continued tasting as he
worked two fingers, then three into his sprite, who was
writhing under his determined assault.
Only when he had Benjamin on the verge of begging for release
did he stop.
He hauled the both of them into a kneeling position and turned
the other man until Benjamin's back was against his chest.
"Lean on the wall, my sprite."
Benjamin tilted forward until his hands reached the wall, and
then held himself there, arms stretched out.
"Perfect," Quinton crooned. He wrapped an arm around
Benjamin's waist pinning the two of them together, and began
stroking Benjamin's erection again with his free hand until the
younger man was bucking back against him.
Only then did he slip his hardness into that tight, waiting
heat, and his hand immediately returned to Benjamin's erection,
moving in time with his own thrusts.
There was little he could do to make himself last once he was
inside the other man, and didn't try. Any orgasm would be
heavenly, like this, in this man.
A prickling wave of heat enveloped him, and he shouted as his
muscles spasmed and he came, oh, how he came.
He was hardly aware of Benjamin's own orgasm a few seconds
later, of toppling backward onto the bed, the other man still
held firmly to him.
All he could do was bury his head in sweaty gold-brown hair
and sigh. "My sprite. Oh, my sprite."
Reluctantly, Quinton pulled his shirt on. He had no desire to
leave; he found himself enjoying Benjamin's company, in or out
of bed, more than he valued his time alone.
Indeed, he found himself wondering what exactly it was that
he'd previously valued about time alone.
Being alone was not amusing, and it was considerably less
fulfilling than he remembered it being.
"Do you have to go?" The voice came from the bed.
Quinton crossed to it, and sat down on the edge.
Dark, sleepy eyes met his.
"Yes, sprite. You have a rehearsal to attend."
"There's still some time left. You could stay and eat with
me."
"Ah, but I don't dare eat a thing. Sarah has undoubtedly
scheduled at least three entertainments for this evening, and I
will be stuffed with food at every stop. I make a practice to
not eat anything beforehand so that nausea does not threaten by
evening's end."
"You could stay for other reasons."
Quinton reached out to touch the other man, needing to feel
him, needing to stroke that bare skin and feel his warmth. "You
entice me, but I will not keep you from your responsibilities."
"Do you need me so little then?"
The pouting expression suited the sprite perfectly.
Quinton brushed Benjamin's hair back from his face, caressing
his cheek and forehead. "I want you very much. I want you too
much given our positions."
"True. You are excessively clothed."
"That's not what I meant." He tapped the actor's eyebrow
reprovingly. "You will no doubt find a better-looking, richer
patron, and move on. It is not safe to want you."
Those expressive eyebrows flickered. "I didn't choose you
because of your youth or your wealth. You hardly even made an
offer."
"I was too stunned into silence at the sight of you close up."
A pleased grin. "You are nearly as stunning, m'lord."
Quinton raised his eyebrows. "I'm flattered," he said drily.
"But nonetheless, when it happens that you move on..."
He stifled an incipient protest by putting his fingers over
Benjamin's lips. His fingers were kissed, but he left them
there. "When it happens, I wish to warn you to stay away from
Lord Flewelling. The viscount..."
His fingertip was bitten, and startled, the earl pulled his
hand away.
"You're jealous, aren't you?" Benjamin asked. He smiled. "No
-- don't worry. I think it's adorable. But as long as you
continue to pay me, I'm yours."
Repulsed, Quinton drew his hand back. "There is more to life
than money."
"Maybe." Benjamin continued smiling. "But the way I figure it
is this -- I get wonderful sex, sterling company and I
get paid as well! What could be better than that?"
"Perhaps nothing." Quinton rose from the bed. He could almost
make himself forget while in his sprite's arms that the young
man wasn't as mercenary as they came.
Could almost believe that this relationship was about
companionship, about something more elusive and worthwhile than
the mere pursuit of money. That he was desired for his gold
alone sickened him. "As I said, you will no doubt find someone
richer and better-looking than myself to take care of you. Good
evening, Benjamin."
He rose from the bed, collected his clothing, and left the
room to dress. At that moment, Quinton could see no reason to
continue being intimate with someone or something that was
merely an object, bought and paid for.
When the earl rose the next morning, only a little before
noon, there was a message waiting for him.
He took the envelope down to breakfast with him. Neither of
his houseguests had made it to the table, and he opened the
letter there.
There was only one thing in the envelope. It was not a piece
of paper.
He dumped it out into his hand.
It was a key. A very familiar key.
Quinton closed his fist around it, letting it disappear in his
hand as though that might make its presence less real.
It was over.
And despite what Benjamin had said, the actor had been the one
to end it.
The earl ate his breakfast in silence, and if anything inside
him hurt, one could not have told it by his face.
Quinton found out, weeks later, where Benjamin had gone.
In retrospect, it was obvious, but it stung no less to see
Michael and Benjamin driving together in the park.
The actor did not see him, but Michael did. His look of
triumph was not nearly as unsettling as the carefree look
Benjamin wore.
Not his sprite after all.
The earl wheeled his horse around, and trotted up to pace
alongside the phaeton carrying his party.
Juliana had found a very acceptable baron on whom to
eventually bestow her affections. The engagement was settled,
the papers signed. At the end of the month, Juliana and his
sister would both be gone, off to Gwineden to plan the perfect
wedding. He supposed he should be grateful that they were not
trying to stage a town wedding at the end of the Season.
As it was, he could see them off with a clear conscience and
not have to meet up with them again until the wedding, safely
months away.
And then Juliana would be a baroness, and he could go back to
his usual routine of sending her gifts for important holidays.
And back to his usual routine of ignoring Sarah at the same
times.
She'd complained about his idea of presents since he was a
small boy. He thought books were wonderful presents. When their
mother had died, he had stopped giving Sarah presents at all.
Juliana, on the other hand, appreciated books. Or at the very
least, was wise enough to keep her mouth closed once she
noticed that he had a habit of slipping other presents within
the folds of the uncut pages.
Quinton grinned. He liked Juliana. Perhaps he would invite the
Baron and Baroness to town occasionally. Now that seeing
Juliana did not automatically mean seeing Sarah as well, he
could indulge his affection for the girl.
Yes.
That would do. He had every reason to feel happy about the way
matters were progressing.
Except for the vague feeling that something very important had
just gone riding out of his life.
[One month later]
The wet, bedraggled heap on the doorstep shivered, then banged
the door knocker again.
In the black depths of a London downpour, there was no reason
to expect anyone to answer. There were few conveyances of any
kind on the road, and everyone with the good sense to stay
inside was no doubt curled up some place warm and cozy, and had
better things to do than answering the door.
And yet, the door swung open.
Silence met the figure. "P-please," he asked, shivering too
badly for complete coherence, "I need to speak with the Earl."
As though he saw this sort of thing every evening, the butler
stepped aside, and allowed him in.
True to form, the butler immediately showed the visitor the
way to the kitchen. "May I say who's calling?"
"I... my name is Benjamin Darthing. He... may remem-- member
me."
The butler departed, leaving Benjamin alone in the cold
kitchen.
Only a few minutes later, the kitchen door was flung open
violently, and a stern voice began snapping out orders. "I want
him in dry clothes as soon as possible. Have a warm bath run in
my chambers. Send a heated robe and suitable clothing there."
The earl took in the state of his visitor in a glance. "And
something to eat. A tray of it. Make sure whatever you bring is
hot."
And then strong arms surrounded Benjamin. A voice murmured
softly into his ear, "It's all right. You're safe now. I have
you."
"W-what are you doing?"
The actor was freezing cold against Quinton's warm body.
Chilled thoroughly. "I am taking you upstairs where I shall get
you warm and get some food into you. Damnit, haven't you been
eating, sprite?"
The endearment slipped out despite himself, but Benjamin
didn't seem to notice. "Eating?" He laughed bitterly. "That
would require having money."
"Didn't I leave you with enough of it? I made sure to send you
a generous severance payment."
"L-long story."
"You'll have plenty of time to tell me then, once you're
warmed up."
The earl pushed the door fully open by backing into it, then
dumped his burden on the floor of his bedroom. Without
ceremony, he began stripping the wet clothes off of the other
man's body.
"W-w-why are you d-doing this?" Benjamin asked, shivering and
loath to lose even the scant warmth of the wet clothing. "All I
wanted was a dry place to spend the night and enough money to
pay my fare back to the place I grew up."
"Why? I don't think it's the kind of thing you would
understand."
Quinton had the other man naked. The bath had still not
arrived; the water had not had time to heat. The earl flung
open his wardrobe and pulled out a dressing gown which he
wrapped around the younger man.
The garment was much too large, but more fabric was better
than less. Quinton began rubbing circulation into the actor,
while silently cursing his staff for being so slow.
"Maybe I want to understand," Benjamin said.
"Have you never been cared for in your entire life that such a
thing is difficult to comprehend? You came here, presumably
because you knew I would help you."
"Didn't know. Hoped."
"Very well. I will help you. There. Are you satisfied?"
The first bucket of water appeared, followed immediately by
the tub. Quinton held his temper, as he watched the tub be
filled.
When at last the tub was full, he took the robe off of
Benjamin and assisted him into the bathtub.
Almost immediately, the actor began shivering much harder, and
Quinton held onto his shoulders to keep him in the tub.
"You'll warm up soon enough," he said. "The water isn't hot.
Stay there."
Quinton retreated to the sitting room, where, as he had
expected, a tray of food had been left.
Mollified by the arrival of the food, he carried the tray into
his bedroom.
Benjamin appeared compliant to his order, and Quinton left in
search of dry clothing for the man. Surely it couldn't be
that difficult to find something he could wear.
When he returned several minutes later, Benjamin was still in
the bathtub. His head had slipped back, and his eyes were
closed. He looked asleep.
Quinton knelt down next to the tub, and tested the water.
Lukewarm now. "Benjamin," he said softly, not wanting to
startle the younger man.
Eyelids opened slowly. "Yes?"
"Are you warmer yet?"
"A little."
"Stand up then." He grabbed a towel and threw it over his
shoulder.
Benjamin stood up carefully, then overbalanced as he tried to
step over the high side of the tub.
Quinton caught him by the elbow and stopped him from swaying
to the floor. "Not your usual graceful self, I see."
"You don't have to do this."
The thin face looked pained.
Quinton held his face still with an effort, and enveloped the
man before him with the towel. "But I want to."
Still subdued, Benjamin made no effort to take the towel from
the earl. Quinton rubbed him, trying not to think too hard
about the body under his hands.
It wasn't his. The young man in his arms wasn't his.
That much he could give Benjamin. The earl could spare the
young man from realizing his desire.
Even as the actor sighed, and sagged against him, resting his
head against Quinton's chest.
Instinctively, his arms came up to cradle the other man.
Wet hair brushed against the bottom of his bare throat as
Benjamin nuzzled against him.
Quinton dropped his head, until his cheek rested against the
other man's hair. "You're safe now."
He wanted to do more than that. Was outraged that Benjamin had
come to be in this state, that any person or fate itself could
so mistreat him. His sprite did not deserve this. He deserved
admirers and appreciation, not whatever treatment had brought
him to Quinton's door in such a state.
"I feel safe," came the half-muffled reply. Benjamin's face
tipped up, and his gaze was open and assessing. "I only worry
what I owe you for this kindness. After the way we parted, I
don't deserve kindness from you."
"Being well treated is not something you have to deserve."
Eyebrows arched. "It would be generous of you to let me spend
the night in your stables, and then put me on the next coach
out tomorrow. It's something more than kindness for you to
personally take care of me. I know that. And I want you to know
that I'm willing." His hands crept to Quinton's chest, fingers
fumbling with the buttons. "I am grateful."
Quinton stiffened, and stepped back. When Benjamin would have
followed, he took the actor's hands in one palm. "No."
"No," he repeated more gently as the distance granted him some
measure of control. "You owe me nothing. I am taking care of
you because it pleases me to do so. You are not obligated to do
the same, and I know you don't have the right referents to
understand why I'm doing this. But, please, accept it."
"You don't want me?"
The earl closed his eyes, as if that would somehow reduce the
temptation. "I do want you, but..." his eyes snapped open,
forestalling any attempt of Benjamin's to get closer to him.
"But you don't want me. And for that reason, I cannot accept
what you are offering."
"You did before."
"I did," he acknowledged.
The towel had slipped to the ground when Quinton released it.
The earl took the clothes he had placed on the bed and handed
them to Benjamin. "Here. Get dressed, and then you can have
something to eat. You should feel better once you've eaten."
Puzzled eyes stared at him, and Quinton turned away.
He listened to the noises of fabric moving against skin, and
the slightly heavier breaths of exertion.
"I'm done. You can look now."
The tone was sulky.
Quinton looked around, and gestured Benjamin to a seat on the
bed.
The younger man sat reluctantly, and Quinton silently covered
him up with a blanket before fetching the tray and setting it
on the table next to the bed. "I apologize," he said, sitting
on the edge of the bed. "The food seems to have grown colder
than I would have liked."
He took the mug of steaming apple cider from the tray and
handed it to Benjamin, cupping his own hands around the smaller
pair until he was certain that the actor had a firm grip on the
cup.
When Benjamin started drinking the warm liquid, Quinton sat
back a little. "What happened to you?"
Benjamin let the mug fall away from his lips. Quinton took it
out of his hands, and exchanged it for a bowl of lentil soup.
"I... do you believe in love, m'lord?"
"Yes."
Benjamin spooned some of the thick soup into his mouth.
Swallowing, he said, "I didn't. I shouldn't have."
Belatedly, Quinton recalled the wager.
"Michael."
Benjamin stiffened.
Quinton scrubbed a hand across his face, suddenly weary. "By
telling you to leave him alone, I virtually thrust you into his
arms, didn't I?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Benjamin, the viscount made a wager that he could seduce you,
cause you to fall in love with him, and quit the theater.
Perhaps I'm wrong about Michael's character or your own. I'd
like to be wrong. Please tell me that this is not what brought
you here tonight."
"Not... entirely."
The pouting look was the closest to a normal expression he'd
seen yet. "What then?"
Benjamin huddled back into the support of the pillows. He let
the bowl sag in his hands. "I don't feel hungry anymore."
Quinton nodded and took the bowl away from him. "Sleep if you
like."
"Here?"
"Yes." Quinton stood up, then rearranged the covers of the
bed, touching Benjamin impersonally as he got the other man
under the blankets.
The actor looked younger and even more worn with the rich reds
of the bedspread close to his face.
"Are you leaving?"
The quiet question caught Quinton off-guard. "There's no one
here who will hurt you, Benjamin. I promise."
"Except you."
That saddened him. "No, Benjamin. Not me either."
"But you don't want me."
He stopped. "Is that the only way you know how to place value
on yourself? Whether I wish to sleep with you?"
"Well, you can't applaud..."
Quinton's mouth quirked into a smile. "You seem to be
recovering from your earlier shock."
Benjamin nodded. "Yes. And I don't want you to leave."
"Then I will not." He found a seat in a chair, and watched
Benjamin squirm around to face him.
For a long while, the other man said nothing. Quinton watched
the firelight playing on Benjamin's face, and wondered if he
would fall asleep like that.
"You were right. I should have stayed away from him," the soft
voice said.
Quinton said nothing, simply listened.
"He... flattered me and I needed that. You... I felt like a
prostitute, and he pretended to admire me and love me." A
hollow laugh. "You're right about that, too. He didn't. But I
couldn't tell the difference. An actor getting fooled by
someone else's act. Ironic, isn't it? Pathetic."
He shifted on the bed, but did not turn away, green eyes
piercing into Quinton's. "I thought I loved him. I believed the
things he promised me. And I did quit." He laughed again, the
same humorless cough. "Quit and more besides. I have no more
money, no friends -- I am unemployable in the theater business,
and unwelcome in London... I have made a fool of myself in
every way possible, in public, in front of the one audience I
wished most to play -- the cultural society existing in this
fair town.
"And then..." Benjamin sighed, and brought his hands up to his
face, fists clenched. In one of the saddest, stupidest gestures
Quinton had ever seen, Benjamin punched himself in the face.
"My fault. All my fault."
The earl was up out of his chair immediately, taking
Benjamin's hands and forcing them away from him before a third
punch could be thrown. "Don't. Do. That," he growled.
"Why not?" Benjamin asked defiantly, tears beginning. "Maybe
this way I'll learn something."
"The only thing you'll learn that way is how to flinch. I
apologize, Benjamin. I should have made a greater effort to get
through to you. I could have found some way to tell you about
the wager. You would have known why I wanted you to avoid the
viscount. You would have been wary of him."
Benjamin smiled harshly. "I would have burned any message
without reading it. I-- I was very angry with you."
"I was the one who made you feel like a prostitute."
The other man nodded.
"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Only... tell you that
there was more to your world than you realized."
"I've seen more than I ever want to see."
He let go of Benjamin's hands and reached out, stroking back
hair from the younger man's face. "Surely you knew that there
was a more sordid side to what you were doing?"
"What Mich--" he stopped, then changed his terms, as if
distancing himself from unpleasant reality, "the viscount did
wasn't sordid. It was wrong."
"Yes, yes, it was."
"You at least never lied to me. I didn't like what you said,
but it was true. I want--"
Quinton asked gently, "What do you want, Benjamin?"
"I want to believe in you. I want to believe that you really
are this kind, and that..." His voice faltered, and Quinton
waited patiently for him to continue. "That maybe the reason
you said the things you said to me was because you cared about
me. Thought more of me than just someone you wanted to have sex
with."
"I did. I do."
"Then why don't you want me?" Benjamin cried. "Is it because I
slept with the viscount?"
Quinton closed his eyes against a wave of sadness, then opened
them. "No, that's not it." He reached out, and pulled Benjamin
close, ruthlessly yanking at the blankets until he had the
younger man settled in his lap.
Benjamin cried out wordlessly and buried his head against
Quinton's chest.
The earl held the actor tightly until he could speak again. "I
care about you. That will not change because you are or are not
having sex with me. You do not have to pay for this or deserve
this. All you have to do is ask. Everything I am or have is
yours, my sprite."
Thin shoulders shook in his embrace. He half-expected to hear
sobs, but no sound emerged from the smaller man. Only heavier
breathing, and the shuddering of his chest.
And the only thing Quinton could do was hold him close and
stroke his hair. "I don't want to let you go again."
Bony hands clutched at his arms, but the shaking did not stop.
He pressed his lips against the brown-blonde hair.
Finally, after a very long time, Benjamin lifted his head
wearily. "Why did you say that everything you have is mine? It
isn't. You know what kind of person I am. Before, I would have
done anything you wanted and you only paid me..."
Quinton silenced him gently with a finger over the younger
man's lips. "And I would regret doing that if doing so had not
caused me to meet you. You are not a commodity to be sold or
bartered. You are my love, and all that I have is yours."
Benjamin laughed bitterly. "That's what Michael said."
"I am not Michael," Quinton said fiercely, then noticed the
wary look in those green eyes. "I..." he sighed. "I don't know
what to say. Trust me? When trusting the wrong person hurt you?
I won't say something as ridiculous as that. Unless..."
He thought for a moment, still with the other man bundled
close in his lap. The mortally weary man resting against him
had nothing left in him. The earl wanted badly to give Benjamin
something, to somehow restore the spirit that had been crushed.
"Unless," Quinton said quietly, "you might accept a promise."
"What kind of promise?" came the suspicious reply. "And what
do I have to do for it?"
"All you have is to be here tomorrow morning. I will make sure
that you are clothed and fed, and then I will give you as much
money as you like, and have my coachman take you wherever you
like. You needn't waste any money on the fare back home, if
that is where you wish to go."
Those green eyes looked up at his, still hurting, still alive
to the possibility of betrayal. "What do you want?"
"To see you happy."
"That's... insane."
"Then tomorrow morning shall be insanity itself," Quinton said
solemnly, and Benjamin fell silent.
The other man was perfectly quiet until he dropped off to
sleep and began to snore ever so softly against the earl's
chest.
Quinton smiled ruefully, then tucked the younger man back into
the bed and left the room, making sure that the door was locked
from the inside as he went.
The earl got very little sleep that night, and neither did
most of his household. He needed clothing for his sprite, a
letter of credit from his banker, and all in all, only the
coachman and Benjamin himself truly got a good night's sleep.
Quinton caught what little sleep he could curled up on the
sofa in his study. Fortunately, it was a comfortable sofa; this
was not the first time he had chosen to sleep there, although
generally he tended to fall asleep with a book in his hands, or
sink down on the sofa when he was too tired to make his way
upstairs.
He would not sleep with or near Benjamin. That much he could
do to prove his words true; he would not require or request
anything of the other man. What he wanted was only that which
was freely given.
Which Quinton expected to be nothing, after how Michael had
treated the man.
He ate breakfast alone in the study, and stayed there closeted
with his impatience until his butler came to fetch him
mid-morning. "The young gentleman is ready to leave now,
m'lord."
"Thank you, Newby."
Quinton made his way out to the front door, where Benjamin
stood waiting.
"Had you settled on a figure?" the earl asked as casually as
he could.
The gaze that met his was shuttered. "Five thousand pounds,
m'lord."
"Very well then." He extracted the bank draft from his pocket
and handed it to Benjamin, who took the envelope without
looking at it and put it into his own pocket.
"I suppose... I suppose I'll be going now."
"As you wish." Quinton kept his face still. He would not
influence the younger man. However much he wanted to.
Benjamin held out his hand, and the earl shook it. "Thank you,
m'lord."
And then he stepped toward the door, which was immediately
opened by the footman, and out the door to the waiting coach.
The footman closed the door behind him, and Quinton turned
away from the tall windows. He would not watch Benjamin riding
away from him.
To have the other man leave twice was too much to have to
bear, but he had to do it, and it had to be borne.
Somehow.
Quinton rested his forehead against the wall, breathing
deeply, struggling with the urge that said to run out the door,
to stop Benjamin before he could go, to chase down the coach if
he had to.
No. He would not.
He would let Benjamin make his own decision, and give him the
free choice to do what he wished.
Then the door opened behind him, cool morning air brushing
across his back.
Quinton straightened, holding his breath.
It was likely an early morning caller, or even Benjamin back
to collect a forgotten item. He refused to hope for anything
else.
A hand settled on his shoulder, drifted down to his arm, then
gripped, pulling him around.
"I couldn't go. I don't want to go."
Quinton embraced the smaller man tightly, knowing that voice,
eyes devouring that form. "I don't want you to go either."
"You know," Benjamin said conversationally when Quinton had
set him down and he could breathe again, "I was almost ready to
leave. I was going to leave."
Quinton just looked at him, cataloguing his features, needing
this man, knowing that to let him go a third time would be an
impossible strain on his already overtaxed heart and that he
would allow it even still if it would make Benjamin happy.
"Yes?"
"Then I opened the envelope." Benjamin held out the bank
draft, clearly written for 10,000 pounds, and the other thing
that Quinton had put inside. "You didn't have to give me this
much. Or give me this." He looked at the note that had
accompanied it, and read, "'As my heart is already yours,
please accept the key.' Isn't that a bit sentimental?"
"Did it work?"
Benjamin nodded, a bright smile filling his face.
"Then it's perfect." The earl wrapped an arm around the
younger man's shoulders. "Would you care to explore your
domain, my sprite?"
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