My True Love Gave to Me (4 page)

December 1821
London, England

Thomas’s heart slammed against his ribs as he came to a stop on the second to last step of the grand staircase leading to the ballroom. If Sasha wasn’t here, then he would have to give up the search for the night. Declare defeat and start anew in the morning with another call to the man’s town house, the address of which he obtained from his first stop at Sasha’s parents’ home. But when he had made his inquiries at White’s not two hours ago, Lord Benjamin Parker, an old acquaintance from his short time at Oxford, had said Sasha mentioned attending a ball that night. Which ball specifically, Parker hadn’t a clue. Given it was the first week of the Christmas Season, there were a good number of card-parties, balls, routs and dinners underway. But at least Parker had provided some information for Thomas to narrow his search.

If only the post-chaise from Plymouth had not been delayed, then he could have been at White’s while Sasha had been there and he would not be walking into his second ball of the evening at well beyond midnight with the probability of locating Sasha dwindling fast.

After what felt like near endless weeks to cross the Atlantic…Christ, after waiting four years, one night should not seem like any amount of time. A mere whisper of a delay. But every night for the past month, since he had made the decision to return to England, he had fallen asleep clinging to the promise of this night. The chance of it passing without laying eyes on Sasha…

A wince compressed his lips.
No.
He mustn’t focus on the possibility of defeat, no matter how heavily it loomed over his head. Even if the night ended with disappointment, there was always tomorrow and the next day and the day after. Sasha was in London. He would find him eventually, and he would not stop searching until he did.

When he found him though…well, therein lay its own set of worries. During the long sea voyage to Plymouth, he had come to terms with the possibility of rejection. Acquainted himself with the notion and tried to prepare for the accompanying crushing disappointment. A very likely outcome given how they had last parted, never mind that Thomas had not returned to Oxford and in fact done everything in his power to avoid coming face to face with Sasha since that night. One couldn’t get much farther from London than New York. Still, he could not help but hope with all his heart that Sasha could find it within himself to forgive him.

He had to, right? Sasha had loved him once. Surely Thomas had not single-handedly destroyed every trace of that love. Surely some bit remained, even if only the memory of it.

Reassured, he pulled his shoulders back and forced his attention to the crowd of people before him. His gaze instinctively went to the far corner of the ballroom, to where a small group of gentlemen stood near the refreshment table.

His heart skipped a beat. A smile curved his mouth.

It felt so good to simply lay eyes on Sasha. His gaze traced Sasha’s profile, the straight line of his refined nose, the graceful curve of his high cheekbones, those familiar full lips. He did not know how it could be possible, but Sasha was even more beautiful than Thomas remembered. Perhaps it was the cut of his black coat or merely the distance separating them, but if he wasn’t mistaken, Sasha’s shoulders appeared broader. And his hair was longer, the honey-blond waves just grazing the stark white cravat covering his nape.

Sasha made to bring his glass to his mouth but paused, the cut crystal suspended inches from his lips. His head turned. Large light blue eyes met Thomas’s.

The noise of the ballroom, the chatter of hundreds of people and the music from the quintet, faded to nothingness.

A furrow flickered across Sasha’s brow, then he turned his attention back to his acquaintances.

Thomas flinched. While he had hoped to receive one of Sasha’s bright smiles, he had been prepared for shock and even anger. A dispassionate cut? As though Thomas meant no more to him than an anonymous guest at the ball? Not in the least prepared for that.

And not a good sign at all. That brief furrow of his brow indicated Sasha had recognized him.

His pulse skittered through his veins. He clenched his hands tight at his sides in an effort to will the tremor away. The heavy promise of rejection made it so very tempting to turn on his heel and leave the ballroom. To run like a coward, just as he had done four years ago.

No.

He kept his feet rooted to the floor. He would not run. He was not that same nineteen-year-old boy, frightened out of his wits by his own desires. He had not come all this way to be put off by a mere cut. Quite honestly, he deserved that cut.

Sasha looked toward the tall clock in the corner behind the refreshment table. After draining the contents of his glass, he dropped it on the tray of a passing servant. A tip of his head to his fellows, and he turned and disappeared out the double doors to the back terrace.

Sasha had to know Thomas was watching him. Had he left the ballroom deliberately? A test to see if Thomas would follow?

He would certainly pass that test.

Not even five paces into the ballroom he met with a delay in the form of his uncle. His father’s brother, not the little spoken of brother of his mother, Mr. Grantham, who had done something so scandalous as to seek his fortune as a hotelier in America. Thomas much preferred that uncle over this one.

“Thomas—” his uncle thrust out his hand to him, “—good to see you, boy.”

He shook his uncle’s hand. “Good to see you, too, Uncle. I hope all is well.”

“Very well. Your father did not mention you were in Town. Did you finally tire of being under Grantham’s thumb?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Good, good. We have you back where you belong on English soil. You are staying, aren’t you?”

“I have not yet decided,” Thomas replied, though in actuality the decision rested in Sasha’s hands and not his own.

“Haven’t decided?” His uncle frowned, doing a very good imitation of a confused mastiff.

“Do you at least plan to remain until the New Year?”

“That is my hope.”

“Well, you must stay. And your mother must be delighted you’ve returned.”

Not about to disagree with his uncle and thus prompt further discussion, Thomas merely tipped his head. As he had taken a cab directly to Warren’s Hotel upon arrival in London and from there began his search for Sasha, he had not yet stopped in to visit his parents. In any case, he rather doubted his mother had ever felt an emotion as strong as delight where it concerned him. New gowns were delightful. He was not.

His attention skipped over his uncle’s shoulder to the double doors on the far side of the room. Darkness backed the many neat panes of glass.

Eager not to leave Sasha waiting too long, he gave his uncle a short bow. “If you will excuse me, I must be on my way, Uncle.”

“Yes, yes, of course. And I’ll expect an invitation from your mother soon for supper. Celebrate your return and all.” With that, his uncle left him, going in the general direction of what was likely the card room judging by the two elderly gentlemen who emerged from the door along the wall of the ballroom.

A celebratory supper hosted by a mother who had not written to him once since he left England? What a farce that would be, and one he was certain his mother would preside over. One must maintain appearances, after all.

How had he ever let propriety and concerns over how others perceived him influence him? He had grown so accustomed to working side by side with people who judged one on their merits, he had not realized just how superficial London was. What had once been of paramount importance now seemed so…hollow. If he peeled back the thin veneer of proper decorum from the
ton,
he would not be surprised to find absolutely nothing of any substance beneath it.

Well, there was one individual amongst the
ton
who had a great deal of substance to him. Hopefully that man had not grown irritated at the wait. Well, if Sasha was in fact waiting for him. He could have very well left the ball, gone out the back in an effort to avoid him.

No way to know unless Thomas went out those double doors.

Fortunately, he was able to avoid the notice of any other family members that might be in attendance or of any old acquaintances. In a matter of moments, he was shutting one of the double doors behind him. He stepped beyond the pool of golden light that fell through the glass panes and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

A full moon hung high in the sky, gilding the back garden in silvery light. A breeze which carried a hint of dampness slid around him. To think he had once considered the winters cold in London. The night was downright mild compared to the frigid temperatures that gripped hold of New York. He scanned the terrace which stretched across a good portion of the back of the mansion and then scanned the surrounding grounds. No sign of Sasha, or anyone else for that matter.

Undeterred, he took the stairs and followed the dirt path that led into the garden. Neatly manicured hedges of about chest height bordered the path. He stretched out a hand, brushed one of the bushes and then stopped in his tracks.

The night air carried the sound of a muted voice. A male voice. Then the distinct sound of footsteps on wooden floorboards. He peered into the darkness, but he could not make out what was hidden behind the small cluster of trees ahead.

He heard the crunch of dirt beneath shoes before a figure appeared from around a bend in the path. Tall as himself and broad of shoulder. His heart did not even have the chance to leap on to the possibility before it became obvious the man was not Sasha.

“Pardon,” the man said, gruff with impatience, as he brushed past Thomas.

Thomas’s head snapped over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. Why had that man been buttoning his coat?

He looked back up the path, beyond it to the cluster of trees which likely hid a gazebo or similar ornamental structure common in the gardens of the aristocracy. Suspicion formed in the pit of his stomach.

His strides now swift, he continued along the path and found a white gazebo in a clearing beyond the trees. Inside was none other than Sasha. Even with his hands braced on the far rail, slumped back to Thomas and golden head bowed, he knew it was him.

His footsteps echoed on the wooden steps as he went inside. “Who was that man?”

Sasha straightened. For a long moment, not a sound broke the silence. Then Sasha turned to face him. “Linus Radcliffe.”

Radcliffe?
The man was a known rake of the worst order, or at least he had been before Thomas had left London. Hot and swift, jealousy coursed through his veins at the mere thought of Radcliffe laying even one hand on Sasha, never mind whatever had necessitated buttoning his coat afterward. “You were meeting with
him?
”

“In what fashion does it concern you?”

None. Thomas had no right at all to jealousy. Yet he could not deny it, and it hurt tremendously to know Sasha had left the ball to meet another man when he knew Thomas was there.

And in a gazebo out of doors, no less, where anyone could have walked by and seen him. Had the man no sense?

“Why are you here?” Sasha asked, breaching the distance between them.

He stopped less than a pace from Thomas. So close, the night air carried the scent of his skin, of Sasha, awaking old memories he would never forget. Had never been able to forget, no matter how he had once tried.

It had been so very hard, coming to terms with the feelings Sasha roused within him. He’d spent a good three years fighting them, but even working himself from dawn until past dusk for endless days managing one of his uncle’s hotels had not done a bit of good to rid Sasha from his thoughts or from his heart. And the past few months… He resisted the urge to shake his head at himself. Why had he thought someone else could possibly take Sasha’s place? Ridiculous, and a pathetically desperate notion.

But if nothing else, the time apart simply reinforced what he’d known from the first moment he’d pressed his lips to Sasha’s—that there would be no one else for him.

“Why are you here?” Sasha demanded again.

“I wish to speak with you, Sasha.”

Sasha glared at him. A shiver gripped Thomas’s spine. He felt the chill in that stare, even in the darkness of the shadows. A firm reminder Thomas no longer deserved the use of the intimate name, but he couldn’t bring himself to call him by his family name. The man could never be anyone but Sasha to him.

“About?”

He shrugged, distinctly uncomfortable in the face of Sasha’s obvious hatred, and well deserved hatred at that. “It has been some time since we have spoken.”

“And with good cause.” Sasha flicked his fingers, an impatient little motion for Thomas to move aside. “I need to return to the ballroom.”

He stood his ground. “I wish to speak to you.”

The shadows from the wooden beams overhead could not mask the way Sasha’s beautiful features hardened. “We have nothing to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.”

“No. You left me,” Sasha shot back, the iron in his tone poorly masking the pain behind the words.

Thomas flinched. Sasha might as well have punched him in the gut, for the effect was the same. The wind knocked from his lungs, his senses left reeling.

As he stood there, struggling to gather the words within, the ones he promised himself to speak to Sasha, all those apologies and pleas for his forgiveness, Sasha cursed under his breath. With a hand on the rail, he vaulted out of the gazebo, landing on sure feet in the small space between two low bushes.

A tug on his coat, and Sasha disappeared down the path, without one glance behind him.

Alexander drained the last of his glass and poured himself another from the decanter on his dresser. He took a long swallow, but the whisky did nothing to ease the tension in his spine.

“Goddamn him!”

Glass in one hand, he tugged at the knot of his cravat with the other. The knot gave way and with a harsh jerk, he pulled the long length from his neck.

How dare Thomas just…appear like that? After four years?

He flung the cravat to the floor and took another long swallow of whisky. And why was Thomas back in Town? If he thought he could simply walk back into his life…

“Bloody fucking—” teeth bared, he let out a low growl, struggling to find the right word, “—damn bastard!”

Not even close. Doubtful there was a vile enough word that could come close to satisfying the noxious mixture of frustration and fury that churned through his veins.

There had been a time when he would have given anything for a chance to speak to Thomas. A word, a letter, anything. A time when he would have traded his very soul for the man to return to him.

That time had long passed.

Not that Thomas had returned to London specifically for him. Hell no. That would imply—

He went still and listened.

There it was again. The muffled sound of a knock on the front door.

“Damnation.” He had been clear enough with Radcliffe in the gazebo. He was no longer in the mood to suck him off. Any trace of desire to engage in a tryst had died the moment he’d laid eyes on that damn, cold-hearted bastard.

And why the hell had Thomas returned? Why now of all times? As if he needed a reminder of exactly why he loathed the Christmas holiday.

He let out another growl, the sound rumbling around him. With a sharp smack, he slammed the empty glass down onto the dresser.

Stepping over the black coat and pale blue waistcoat he’d earlier thrown to the floor, he left his bedchamber.

A knock sounded yet again on the door.

Did Radcliffe intend to wake his neighbors? He quickened his pace as he went down the two flights of stairs that would take him to the entrance hall. But persistence would get Radcliffe nowhere. Alexander dallied with him on occasion, and certainly enough for Radcliffe to have no qualms knocking on his door so late at night. And he did consider the man a friend. A rather good one at that. But tonight… Tonight, he could go bugger himself for all Alexander cared, nor did he care if he gained his friend’s displeasure. The man would just need to learn to live with disappointment. Alexander certainly had.

His footsteps echoed off the marble floor of the entrance hall, mixing with the sound of another crisp knock. He reached for the brass knob, turned it and flung the door open. “I told—”

The words stopped in his throat.

“Good evening, Sasha.”

The shock vanished. He called upon the anger and frustration, held tight to it to cover the sharp lance of pain. How he hated that pain. Hated that it was still there buried deep within.

Squaring his shoulders, he glared at Thomas.

To Thomas’s credit, he didn’t avert his eyes but kept his chin up. “I was hoping you would answer the door.”

“There’s no one else here to see to the task. The servants have already returned home for the night.” He preferred his nights to be free from even the possibility of curious servants, yet he suddenly wished he kept a night butler who could send Thomas away for him.

“You had said you intended to return to the ballroom, but I didn’t spot you anywhere.” His gaze swept the length of Alexander’s body, settling on his bared throat. His eyes briefly flared. Thomas dropped his voice, yet the low rumble couldn’t hide the censure. “Do you have a guest?”

He should say yes. The damn prude clearly had not liked the thought of him meeting Radcliffe in the gazebo. But Alexander kept his jaw clamped shut and stared at him.

Thomas must have interpreted his silence as a no, for he asked, “Will you allow me inside?”

Hell and damnation, the man had ballocks. “Why should I?”

“I wish to speak to you.”

“And I’ve already told you, we have nothing to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.” Thomas flicked a glance behind him, toward the empty street and the town houses lining the other side of Brook Street. “Please, Sasha.”

Raw pain skittered along his nerves. Alexander’s hand curled into a tight fist. One more time, and Thomas would get a fist to his jaw, if for no other reason than to shut him up.

Silence stretched between them. Thomas did not move, did not offer up another plea. He stood there, resolute and unbending.

Bloody hell.
The man would not budge. Alexander knew it without a doubt.

So tempting to slam the door in his face. To leave him there. Alone. Just as Thomas had left him. Just as Thomas would surely leave him again. To give him a tiny taste of the confusion and anguish that had long consumed him by the time that fateful night had finally given way to the first rays of dawn. But…

Christ, he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep knowing Thomas stood outside his door. And he wouldn’t put it past him to remain there on the stone step all night.

Alexander turned on his heel. Best to get it over and done with, and then he could go back to forgetting that he’d ever been fool enough to put his heart in another’s hands.

Familiar footsteps followed behind him, paused as the front door clicked shut and then continued to follow him up a flight of stairs and into the darkened study.

Alexander grabbed a candle from the fireplace mantel and stooped down to light it from the still-hot coals in the hearth. The wick flared to life. Keeping his back to Thomas, he set the silver candlestick back on the mantel. As he stared at the flickering flame, the question that had occupied his mind for the past couple of hours, since he had spotted Thomas at the foot of the ballroom’s stairs, popped out. “Why did you come back to London?”

Thomas had left four years ago. Hadn’t showed up for the next term at Oxford. Had vanished without even the courtesy of a goodbye. It wasn’t until Alexander returned to London after that long, lonely Hilary Term that he had heard Thomas had gone to New York.

Still, he had waited, broken heart still aching, desperate for some form of acknowledgment from Thomas. Something to show the man had indeed at one point cared for him. Alexander had let the excuses for his silence build as day after day the post had arrived without a note bearing Thomas’s neat masculine hand, until time had ripped all those excuses from his grasp and left him with nothing but the truth.

Floorboards creaked faintly behind him. “I came back for you.”

Alexander fought the urge to flinch.

Not fair. Not in the slightest. Thomas had no right to that answer.

“You have my apologies, for what they are worth, for the way in which we parted,” Thomas said.

“The way
we
parted?” Alexander asked, cynicism drenching his voice. He whirled about and found Thomas a step from him. Tall and broad of shoulder, the man’s very presence seemed to take up every available inch of space in the room.

Thomas tipped his head in acknowledgement to the truth in Alexander’s accusation. “The way
I
left your father’s hunting lodge.”

The way you left me!

Alexander crossed his arms over his chest, as if it could somehow keep the man out. “I heard you went to New York.”

“Yes. I went to work for my uncle. I managed one of his hotels.”

“I don’t recall you ever mentioning such a desire.” He hadn’t even known Thomas had an uncle in New York, never mind one who was a hotelier, until the gossip had reached his ears.

“Because I didn’t. At least not before I booked passage on the ship that took me to America.”

“And you’re back now.”

Thomas tipped his head. “Yes. I came back for you.”

Liar!

It was all he could do to keep from slinging the word at Thomas. If Thomas truly cared enough to come back for him and only him, he’d have at the very least written him a note at some point during the past four years.

“I came back to apologize.” Regret heavy in the brown depths of his eyes, he held Alexander’s gaze. “I am sorry.”

All the apologies in the world could not take back the hurt. The all-encompassing pain that had driven him to his knees and kept him there for endless hours. The memory rushed upon him, swift and violent in its intensity. So fresh, he could feel the warm tears that had covered his palms.

To think he once believed Thomas cared for him. Loved him even. How foolish he had once been.

Never again.

“Apology conveyed. You can leave now,” he said, pointing around Thomas’s shoulder toward the open door. He sidestepped around Thomas and did his best to keep his strides to a walk as he escaped the study and went up to his bedchamber.

Alexander flung the door shut.

A sharp slam cracked through the room.

He grabbed the decanter of whisky and poured another glass, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal tumbler. Damnation, his hands were shaking.

He brought the glass to his lips and tried not to listen for the sound of the front door closing.

Thomas turned the knob, pushed open the door Sasha had slammed shut and hesitated but a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold of what could only be Sasha’s bedchamber. A gray damask coverlet was folded back exposing the white sheet, as though Sasha had been preparing for bed…thankfully alone. A black coat, the sleeves turned inside out, a light blue waistcoat and a wrinkled white cravat were strewn across the polished floorboards. The drapes on the two windows were closed tight, with only a candle on the bedside table illuminating the room.

Sasha stood before a mahogany dresser, his white-shirted back once again to him. Black trousers hugged his narrow hips. The nearby candle provided just enough light to give a hint of the body beneath the fine lawn shirt. The sleek, almost frail frame was a thing of the past. In its place were strong shoulders and solid, compact muscles. A visible reminder of the years that had passed.

The
click
of glass against wood echoed in the room as Sasha set an empty tumbler on the dresser. He did not make another move or say one word to acknowledge Thomas’s presence. Silence hung thick in the air, a heavy oppressive force. Silence that said quite eloquently Sasha did not want him there.

He shouldn’t intrude, but he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until he had tried to explain, to put something behind his apology that could possibly make Sasha understand why he had left him so long ago. And he could not possibly leave until he had done everything in his power to try to repair the damage he’d caused.

He had expected resistance, even acquainted himself with the possibility of defeat. But he had not expected in the least to find the man so altered.

His heart hurt, weighing down his chest, his soul, as though mourning the loss of a best friend. Yet he was the one who had stuck a knife in that young man’s heart. All the sweetness, the youthful eagerness was gone from Sasha. The smiles erased from his features as if they had never existed. Yes, the years would have aged him even if Thomas had not left him. But if he had stayed, or at the least returned that night, Sasha would have become a very different man. He knew it in his bones.

The regret he’d felt upon walking into the ballroom earlier tonight, the regret that had filled those years apart, could not begin to compare to what now filled his entire being.

He had turned Sasha into this. Hardened. Jaded. Cynical. A sharp-edged replica of that carefree, happy boy.

He swallowed hard, took a moment to gather the words and then stepped farther into the room. “Sasha.” Needing the man to look at him, he reached for Sasha’s shoulder. “I’m—”

“I had planned to suck off Radcliffe earlier tonight,” Sasha said, sharp and dismissive, cutting him off. Thomas’s arm dropped to his side. “But I found the notion lost appeal. I still remember how you taste. How could I forget, given the number of times I swallowed your seed. Not that you ever returned the favor.”

He winced, ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry for that as well.” How had he ever once earned Sasha’s love? He had done nothing to deserve it, that was for certain. All he had done was take and give nothing in return.

Sasha turned and crossed his arms over his chest. He arched a brow. “You’re sorry?”

Thomas nodded. He read the distrust, the doubt in Sasha’s beautiful features. The narrowed light blue eyes. The hard set of his jaw. The cynical curl of his upper lip.

He took a step closer, closing the remaining distance between them. Sasha stiffened but didn’t move away. Slowly, ever so slowly, Thomas lowered his head, his gaze locked with Sasha’s. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. Then he pressed his lips to Sasha’s.

Heart slamming high and hard against his ribs, he wrapped his arms around Sasha’s waist. Pulled him close until the full length of his body was pressed against his. Every fiber of his being pleaded for Sasha to respond to him. He needed to taste his sweet sighs, to feel his body yield into his. But Sasha’s arms remained crossed over his chest.

“Please,”
he begged against that hard mouth which held a distinct lingering hint of whisky.

Sasha stared up at him, an immovable wall of well-earned resistance.

Without giving it a second thought, Thomas dropped to his knees and reached for the placket of Sasha’s trousers.

Confusion and shock flashed across Sasha’s face then vanished, replaced once again by that jaded facade. He adjusted his stance, spreading his legs a bit and dropping his arms to his sides. A wavy chunk of his blond forelock hung over his brow as he regarded Thomas. “Have you ever sucked a cock, Bennett?”

Not Thomas, but Bennett.

Tugging the placket free of its buttons, Thomas nodded.

“How many times?” Sasha asked, more accusation than question.

He reached inside, hand closing around Sasha’s semi-erect prick. “Four.” A byproduct of one of his futile attempts to forget Sasha.

“Let’s discover if you are any good, shall we?”