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Authors: Heidi Cullinan

A Private Gentleman

To seal their bond, they must break the ties that bind.

Painfully introverted and rendered nearly mute by a heavy stammer, Lord

George Albert Westin rarely ventures any farther than the club or his beloved

gardens. When he hears rumors of an exotic new orchid sighted at a local

hobbyist’s house, though, he girds himself with opiates and determination to

attend a house party, hoping to sneak a peek.

He finds the orchid, yes…but he finds something else even more rare and

exquisite: Michael Vallant. Professional sodomite.

Michael climbed out of an adolescent hell as a courtesan’s bastard to become

successful and independent-minded, seeing men on his own terms, protected by

a powerful friend. He is master of his own world—until Wes. Not only because,

for once, the sex is for pleasure and not for profit. They are joined by tendrils of a shameful, unspoken history. The closer his shy, poppy-addicted lover lures him

to the light of love, the harder his past works to drag him back into the dark.

There’s only one way out of this tangle. Help Wes face the fears that cripple

him—right after Michael finds the courage to reveal the devastating truth that

binds them.

Warning: Contains wounded heroes, bibliophilic tendencies, orchid

obsessions, a right bastard of a marquis, and gay men who get happily-ever-

afters.

eBooks are
not
transferable.

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

A Private Gentleman

Copyright © 2012 by Heidi Cullinan

ISBN: 978-1-60928-852-5

Edited by Sasha Knight

Cover by Lyn Taylor

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Firs
t Samhain Publishing, Ltd. e
lectronic publication: February 2012

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A Private Gentleman

Heidi Cullinan

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Cate for research help, and Kate, Dan and Jason for beta reading,

Jules for all manner of brainstorming and mental support poles, Marie for

putting up with my bitching and whining, Dan and Anna for uncomplainingly

foraging for food and clean underwear pretty much all the time, and the

Minions, Signy and Asrion, for platinum-level service in research, moral support,

entertainment and beyond.

Dedication

For Anne.

Chapter One

London, February 1844

Standing in the receiving line outside Russell Gordon’s Kensington ballroom,

Lord George Albert Westin smiled and inclined his head at the other guests,

trying not to let his panic show. Given the amount of laudanum he’d drizzled

into his tea in anticipation of this outing, he shouldn’t have any panic left to

display. But were it not for the telltale sense of floating, of a world carried on

clouds and fuzzy around the edges, he would have wondered if he’d

remembered to add the opiate at all. The problem, he acknowledged grimly, was

not that he’d forgotten. It was that once again he’d acclimated to the dose and

would require more to achieve the desired effect.

“Quite a crush,” a lady said beside him.

Wes blinked. To his surprise, it appeared it was he to whom she spoke.

Everyone else was busy removing wraps and handing over canes and hats to

footmen, and she was staring directly at him. He scrutinized her face, not

recognizing her but thinking perhaps he had only forgotten her, but she seemed

too singular to do so. She had a flat American accent, an elegant but eclectic

dress, and flaming scarlet hair.

She chuckled. “No, you don’t know me, so you can stop trying to recall

where we have met. My name is Penelope Brannigan. But you may call me

Penny.” She arched an eyebrow. “Go ahead and be appalled at my lack of

manners. I’m accustomed to it, and I don’t mind.”

Heidi Cullinan

Wes was indeed appalled. First she spoke to him as if they were longtime

friends, then she introduced
herself
, and to seal the outlandishness told him to call her Penny. Unwilling to cut a woman direct, unable to form complete

sentences and not knowing what he would say even if he could, Wes simply

stared at her.

As the foyer quieted, he realized he wasn’t the only one staring, though

people were watching him, not his companion. It had taken the small crowd

lingering at the door a few moments to identify him, but they knew him now.

Fans and drinks shielded the gossiping tongues, but the eyes followed him as his

identity spread like wildfire.

“Daventry, that’s who he is! He’s the Marquess of Daventry’s son!”


Daventry’s
son? Do you mean to tell me that’s the Earl of Vaughn?”

“No. That’s the
other
one. Lord George Albert. The stammerer.”

The woman regarded Wes with new interest—and a strange empathy.

Wes left. He told himself he was only moving forward in line, that Mrs.

Gordon was looking at him expectantly, wanting to perform her hostess duties,

but the plain truth was that he’d cut Penelope Barrington. He’d had to. His

hands shook, the panic of so much attention threatening to drag him down. It

was all he could do to keep walking as the whispers around him continued.

“Second son. I’ve heard stories about him. Wrong in the head, isn’t he?”

“Didn’t even make it through Eton. Had to be tutored at home.”

“Horrible stammer.”

“Very private.”

“Fixated on plants. He’s in some society about them.”

“Never goes out. No idea why he’s here now.”

“Brain damage.”

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A Private Gentleman

Wes drew a deep breath and urged the drug to temper his fragile nerves as

the old black fears rolled around him.
No one will commit you to Bedlam tonight, no
matter what they think of you. No matter how frightened they are of a potential madman
in their midst, they’re more afraid of your father.

Mrs. Gordon pasted on her brightest smile as she held out her hand to him.

“My dear Lord George. Such a pleasant surprise to see you here today.”

Wes wished he could have swooped in with a smart smile and a breezy

retort.
Alas, madam. The Royal Botanical Society received your invitation, but it is with
great regret I report that only I was able to attend. But I am delighted to be here with a
peer of science. A lady who, according to my sources, is one of the most learned botanists
in all of Britain.

Instead he said, “It-t is g-good t-to s-s-see you, Mrs. G-G-Gordon.”

Mrs. Gordon’s countenance transformed into pity. “How kind of you to

grace our humble gathering—we are honored, my lord. Quite honored.” She

looked abruptly eager. “How does the Regent’s Park garden fare? I have heard

such wonderful things about it.”

Quite well, quite well. We finally have the piping sorted, and the tropical house is
finding its feet. You should see the bromeliads. Nothing finer. Would you care to stop by
sometime and see them yourself? I’d be happy to give you a personal tour.

“G-G-Good,” Wes said.

“Wonderful.” Mrs. Gordon fixed her smile a little firmer.

Wes stood there stupidly. This was his moment, he knew. This was where he

should make some small talk about her notable skill with plants, of how he

longed to see her conservatory, which reportedly rivaled any in London. This

was where he said,
I hear you have acquired a strange new orchid, delivered in full
bloom, with an unusual shape and oddly colored lip. Could you be persuaded to allow me
to see it?

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9

Heidi Cullinan

This was the reason he had drugged himself nearly insensible and braved

traffic and the crowd, the reason he’d sifted through the usual pile of discarded

cards to find Mrs. Gordon’s invitation. But while the drug could carry him here,

it seemed it could not grant him charm, could not even loosen his tongue, and in

the end Mrs. Gordon made him a curtsey and urged him to enjoy himself.

Wes moved away from the receiving line and into the room, hugging the

wall as much as he could as he looked for a safe place to stand. He ended up near

an ornate vase filled with flowers and greenery beside a window, an empty

space which, by the time he reached it, was noticeably larger because the guests

were giving him a wide berth.

He tried to tell himself it was because he was so far above the social station

of everyone here, but he doubted that was the truth.

A servant offered a glass of punch to Wes, who accepted it with a nod. He

didn’t drink, however, only continued to watch the others in the room. They

watched him back. He could not hear their conversations now, but he could

imagine them.

What is he, thirty? Thirty-one? Does he have his own money?

Thirty-three. And yes, his mother’s father left him five thousand a year. He’s hardly
touched it, with his father covering his apartments and his dues at the club, and
practically everything else. A girl could be very happy with Lord George. If she could
overlook his…problem. One would have to pray, of course, that the damage would not
pass on to the children.

Wes curled his lip as he raised his punch cup and pretended to sip. Even

within the Royal Botanical Society, where he monthly produced papers for

others to read in lecture, where no one could claim better knowledge of plants

and their care than he—even there he knew they whispered of him. He was a

member of all the right clubs, yes, but he got in not because of his merit but

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A Private Gentleman

because no one dared upset his father. They all talked of the crazy lording, he

knew.

What was wrong with his lordship’s mind? Yes, his papers were brilliant.

But why could he not read them aloud himself? Why could he not, most of the

time, even be present when they were read, and at best could only stand in the

back of the room? Why did he never go out? Why did he always look like a

rabbit about to bolt to its den?

Why couldn’t he speak even a single sentence without stammering through

every consonant like some simpleton dragged out of a village gutter?

Lowering the punch cup, Wes stared down into the fruit-scented depths.

This, his stammer and the public’s reaction to it, was why Wes never went out.

This was why it had taken a dangerous amount of Doctor Jacob’s wicked little

pills mixed in with his usual laudanum to bear him to the carriage and to this

party. It depressed him beyond measure that even despite this he had broken

into a sweat and stammered almost beyond comprehension at the door and had

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