Read An Improper Holiday Online
Authors: K.A. Mitchell
An Improper Holiday (4 page)
Nicky escorted Charlotte directly into the family pew in front. When Ian would have stopped mid-
nave, Mrs. Collingswood continued forward down the aisle until it was clear her aim was the same
destination. Not knowing quite how to correctly steer a lady, he would have delivered her to her relations and found a seat elsewhere, but Nicky’s father greeted him like a son, with a familial clasp of Ian’s
forearm, and ushered him into their pew.
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Carleigh’s face bore the deep grooves of age, but Ian sensed it was more from joy than cares. Lord
Carleigh had always been as ready with a laugh as his son. The marquess’s handsome weathered face might well be Nicky’s someday.
At the thought, a hollow regret echoed beneath Ian’s breastbone in answer to the last of the joyful
peals summoning the party to church. He certainly would see no such future day. Whatever had happened
that Twelfth Night past, he and Nicky could only ever meet as friends. Nicky had his duties to family and title, and Ian—well, he would have to find where duty lay now that he was neither fish nor fowl, not
soldier, but without use to anyone.
Ian found himself between Nicky’s sister, Lady Anna, and Mrs. Collingswood. Charlotte, seated on
the widow’s other side, appeared to be fighting off a giggle, so Nicky on her left must be keeping her amused. As they rose for the processional, Ian tried to fix her with a stern glare, but she only fluttered her lashes at him. Short of lunging across Mrs. Collingswood and laying his hand upon her, Ian failed to see how he was supposed to correct her behavior. He wondered what Edward had been doing to try to keep the hoyden from disgracing them all.
His own behavior was hardly a sterling example, since although they had been honored by a bishop as
celebrant, he could not keep his mind on the joyful service. His attention and even his gaze strayed to where Nicky sat at the end of the pew, dark gold side whiskers angled as if to deliberately accent his lean jaw and wide soft mouth. How could Ian ever endure a week of not staring at Nicky’s mouth, of not
recalling all the things he could do—had done—with that mouth? It would be far easier if the recipient seemed conscious of Ian’s gaze, if Nicky were embarrassed, disconcerted or even amused by it. Any
response and Ian knew he would be free of this childish urge to somehow regain Nicky’s attention, to seek his approval or disapprobation.
During the Eucharist, Mrs. Collingswood whispered, “Is something amiss, Mr. Stanton?”
Startled, Ian looked at her. “Not at all, madam.”
“It is just that you are chewing on your lower lip with great industry. I have been known to
unwittingly tread on a gentleman’s foot.”
“Nothing of the kind, Mrs. Collingswood. I apologize if I have given you distress.”
“I know what it is.”
Ian gave his lower lip further abuse while shielding his sudden inhalation at her remark. “Yes?”
“It is concern for Lady Charlotte. I assure you, sir, she is in the best of company. Lord Amherst would keep her safe against all the world.”
Nicky—and Charlotte? The candle flames bent and blurred as Ian tried to reorder his world. The
Eucharist turned to chalk in his mouth. What level of sin was vomiting the Host?
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An Improper Holiday
Nicky to be his brother-in-law? Was that why Charlotte had insisted on this trip, been so eager, so full of questions about Nicky? Was this to be Ian’s expiation, to give his sister in marriage to the man who had been his lover?
He gazed at the Holy Family in the crèche, considering all that they had been required to endure for
the world’s salvation. How disgraceful that Ian could not even let this unnatural infatuation die a normal death. Of course, Nicky had been happy to see him, the greeting reflected the warmth and affection due the season and their long acquaintance. Now Nicky desired a deeper bond, one of family. If he were planning to offer for Charlotte, it was plain Nicky had put those illicit fumblings out of his mind.
It was past time for Ian to do the same.
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Chapter Three
After a rich supper that would have tested even a royal larder—which in turn tested the strength of
many a waistcoat button—the gentlemen of the house party showed every sign of continuing their
celebration of the Savior’s birth until well past dawn of that happy day. The ladies were all safely abed—
Charlotte twice accounted for—and with his resolution to keep his unrequited lust locked safely in the back of his mind, Ian began to enjoy the party. During his recuperative exile in Norwich, he had mastered the ability to play whist aided by a small wooden-covered spring that held the cards for him while he drew to follow suit. With the other players deep in their cups, Ian grew tired of answering “What is trumps?” so he retired from the table and went to observe a billiards game.
In addition to his button-sized playing card holder, the clever craftsman he had met in Norwich had
fashioned a wooden bridge for him so that he could aim the cue stick. Still no easy feat, play required pressure from his stump to keep the stick in the groove as he imparted momentum with his right hand. He thought himself no worse a player than he had been before. After watching the looks exchanged at the
table, Ian decided he’d enjoy buggering that pitying stare out of Weatherby’s eyes. As he crossed the hall, intent on retrieving the bridge from his room, he nearly collided with someone who stepped into his path.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Captain Stanton.” The interloper bowed politely.
Ian nodded in return then froze. He hadn’t known Julian Lewes would be here. From all accounts,
Lewes never left London, preferring to maintain a readier access to all avenues of debauchery.
They had never been formally introduced, but it was impossible not to hear stories of Julian Lewes, to not have seen him pointed out in loud whispers. Lewes took pleasure wherever he chose to find it and if his fortune and family were not enough to deter dangerous allegations, he was reputed a lethal duelist, though he never issued the challenge himself.
Ian would have a strong word of warning for Charlotte in the morning, though the
on dit
was that Lewes was inclined to make other men the targets of his seductions. How even having the Duke of Norfolk as his grandfather allowed Lewes to still move freely in society with such a reputation Ian could not
fathom.
Ian could see how Lewes might hold a certain fascination for some. He was handsome, as classically
beautiful as a statue. He put Ian in mind of a panther he had seen when his nurse had taken them to Astley’s Exhibition. There was beauty in the pacing beast’s graceful strength and clean muscle under the midnight
An Improper Holiday
coat, but not even the cage bars between them could spare Ian the fear of immolation he had felt from
staring into the flame-colored eyes.
“Captain Stanton?”
Ian was still frozen, though he knew his ruminations could have taken but a second.
“Rather I should say Mr. Stanton then? I see you have forsaken the uniform for that handsome coat. It
is quite an improvement from when I saw you last, despite the missing arm.”
Not even the surgeon had made such bald-faced pronouncements about Ian’s injury.
Lewes’ smile brought Ian to an understanding of the allure of creatures like panthers and men such as
Lewes. A desire to possess that power and grace, to revel in the illusion of control before being consumed in fire.
He tore his gaze free of Lewes’ eyes to stare at the similarly colored topaz stickpin winking in the
starched folds of Lewes’ cravat.
“Merry Christmas, sir.” With a nod, Ian endeavored a polite extrication from the repellent company.
“I do hope you are enjoying the holiday as much as I am. Lord Carleigh and his son are such
wonderfully accommodating hosts.”
Ian looked back at Lewes’ face. If this filthy bastard was trying to say— “Yes, the whole family take
great pleasure in celebrating the season.”
“Lord Amherst in particular. I’ve been enjoying his hospitality tremendously. I came up last week,
you know.”
Something tried to break free under Ian’s breastbone, prickling like fire on the inside of his skin. The animal within fought for release, the creature of pure instinct which had lent him the strength to plunge his sword forward until the resistance of cloth and skin yielded to the liquid grip of guts and blood, the strength to withstand the shock vibrating up his arm as he swung at head and neck.
No saber here, his fist would do. The clarity of battle-readiness would direct his arm to connect
precisely with the mole on the side of Lewes’ mouth.
But he stopped short of planting his fist, a mere breath away from that irreversible action. Perhaps it was the amused tilt to Lewes’ black brows, the way the lip so near the mole lifted in a half-smile of success.
Dragging his animalistic rage back under lock and key, Ian forced the tendons in his hand to relax. “I am surprised you could tear yourself away from Town. You must find the country dreadfully dull.”
“Oh, the right company can enliven any setting as I am sure you are aware, Mr. Stanton. And the
current company is most enervating, indeed. In fact, I am planning on some rousing cheer at this very
moment, if you will excuse me.” Lewes nodded. “Again, my compliments to your valet. If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t even have noticed the disfigurement.”
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Lewes turned for the doors to the India Room, leaving Ian alone in the hall. As he wrestled his rage
for control again, he was forced to admit that what had nearly earned Lewes a fist and Ian a dawn
appointment had less to do with outrage at the insinuations and much more to do with the bitter twist of jealousy in his heart.
~ * ~
Nicky was full to bursting with Charlotte’s advice. To have Ian here, to have him close by at last and yet be unable even to look at him was nothing short of hell. Safely obscured by Ian’s concentration on his whist game, Nicky had dared enter the India Room to observe Ian for a moment only to find him forced to use a device even for as simple an activity as a hand of cards. A fist of anger and pride gripped the breath in Nicky’s lungs, along with a soul-deep determination to see that the fool never again felt the need to get blown to pieces just to prove himself good enough.
Charlotte could take her advice and use it to stuff a goose. Before the night was out, he would see Ian and have his reasons on why he had cut off all contact.
Intent on his cause, Nicky took up a flanking position just inside the gallery doors. The lookout
provided a view of the main stairs Ian would have to take to go to bed, a venture Nicky suspected he would soon undertake as Ian had never been a candlewaster. Nicky kept ready an excuse, fiddling with the ties on his breeches in case anyone else who happened by wondered what Lord Amherst was doing lurking behind
doors.
At a violent burst of noise behind him, he snapped his head up, striking it on the doorknob. Vision
somewhat blurred, he turned to see Ian pop out of the salon doors like a clockwork toy. Excuses, advice and caution lost their foothold in Nicky’s dazed brain. He had rehearsed a speech as eloquent as any his father had delivered to the House of Lords, but when Ian strode toward him, those words took mount and cantered off as if the last hunt of the season had just been announced. Flushed by his own quarry, he
bleated, “Ian?”
Striding closer, Ian grabbed Nicky’s arm and shoved him aside before swinging the gallery door shut.
At first, the loss of light from the main hall left Nicky nightblind, but as his eyes adjusted to what little light filtered in through one of the gallery’s narrow windows, he thought darkness might be preferable to
beholding the fury on Ian’s face.
“Ian—what—?”
“Lewes?” The name seemed to choke Ian. “What are you thinking? That foul abomination is no doubt
poxed and if you—” Ian swallowed and ran a hand through his hair.
The condition of his hair and cravat suggested both had born the brunt of Ian’s distress. Nicky was
still trying to piece together Ian’s complaint when his hand shot forward and grabbed Nicky by his own cravat, hauling him forward and crushing their mouths together.
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The rough, angry kiss was unlike anything that had ever passed between them. Ian used Nicky’s
mouth, teeth and tongue, forcing his lips apart. Nicky gripped Ian’s shoulders, pulled him close and let him take whatever he sought to find with his tongue sweeping deep inside. Ian’s groan was barely more than a harsh breath, yet Nicky felt the change in the kiss. No less demanding, but it no longer felt like punishment.
Ian drew Nicky’s tongue back into his own mouth with a suction so sweet and strong the pull might have been on his cock.
It didn’t matter why Ian had stopped answering his letters, why he had disappeared so soon after his
return, because this thing between them was still alive, could still make Nicky willing to risk anything simply to bring a smile to Ian’s lips, to hear him laugh.
This time they would do it. They’d go to Italy and live in sun and smiles. Where the wrong whisper
wouldn’t mean their necks.
Ian made that groan again, the sound still soft, but his hard cock jutted against Nicky’s. Something
brushed his hair like the touch of Ian’s hand when it had so often pushed the curls from Nicky’s forehead.
But such a feat was impossible. Ian’s only hand still gripped Nicky’s cravat.
As suddenly as he had kissed him, Ian released him—shoved him into the door.