Still, this was Richard, who very rarely sought help, and Dominic had known for some time he had a weight on his heart.
“You have my every sympathy, dear fellow. What’s the problem with Harry?”
Richard made a face. “I don’t wish to be unjust. He scrubbed up very well. He’s acquired a good manner. He’s very likeable.”
“All that granted, feel free to be unjust. What’s the problem?”
Richard sighed. “Oh, curse it. In confidence, he is…not entirely free of his past.”
“I told you,” Dominic said. “I beg your pardon, Richard, but I told you this would happen. What has he done?”
Harry’s father had turned his back on the noble Vane family to elope with a radical agitator. Their son had been brought up in the midst of sedition; when Richard had found him, he was working in a bookshop that peddled radical politics. Richard had claimed that Harry had rejected revolution and sedition in his quest to become a gentleman. Dominic did not believe leopards changed their spots and had a wager with Julius that the boy would disgrace himself by Christmas.
“He’s got a stack of the Peterloo pamphlets in his bedroom,” Richard admitted. “Some of the worst kind.”
“For heaven’s sake. Now is not the time for bleating and sentimentality. Harry ought to be grateful he’s out of the radical cesspit, not throwing himself back in.”
“He is, I’m sure, but Julius is of the opinion that the past is not so easily discarded.”
Julius was the dandy who had taken on the task of reshaping Harry into a gentleman. He was also one of the Ricardians, the little set led by Lord Richard Vane, and perforce one of Dominic’s intimates, if not a friend. Dominic usually disagreed with him as a matter of principle. In this case he merely grunted.
The past left scars. He knew that; he bore enough. One great, gouged wound inflicted when he had plucked up the courage to stutter out the half-formed desires that were growing unbearably strong and seen the look of bewildered revulsion on his lover’s face. The amputation of Richard from his life not long afterward, like severing a limb, because he’d ruined everything between them with his filthy needs. And the years of little wounds after that from the desperate drive to find the physical satisfaction he wanted and, with it, the rising, choking awareness that nothing would ever compensate for the love he’d not been fit to keep…
Until Wednesdays.
One day to go.
He ought to be paying attention. “Is he talking to his radical friends? Writing letters? Visiting that bookshop where you found him?”
“He’s been there at least once, I believe,” Richard admitted. Dominic clicked his tongue. “Indeed, but I feel sure it’s more friendship than political enthusiasm. I don’t think he’ll risk himself. He, uh, has an eye to his own well-being.”
“Good. His well-being would be best served by putting nothing in writing and staying away from revolutionaries. We’re going to be dealing with these people, and harshly.” He yawned. “On which, I must go, Rich. It’s late and I’ve a deal of work tomorrow.” And would be up long into the night, he hoped.
“By all means. I shall see you soon, my dear.”
—
He was up betimes on Wednesday, before his valet arrived, selecting the clothes that the brute liked. Good cloth, good fit, ones that spoke of Dominic’s status in the world. Ones that came off without a valet’s help, because the brute wouldn’t lend a hand. He’d sit with that snarling smile of his and watch Dominic struggle with a tight coat, enjoying his discomfort…
Maybe he would wear a slightly better-fitted coat after all.
He wrote a note to the madam at Millay’s to ensure that the right bottle would be waiting. A Moselle tonight. The brute was learning to appreciate a good wine, even if he’d never say so.
The brute. The rough-spoken, grim-faced man, his thick fingers always chalky with dust, who swived him into oblivion with such savage care.
Dominic shut his eyes, feeling the swell of arousal. Maybe he should indulge it. He’d spend most of the day in a state of building excitement anyway, until it would be as much as he could do to hold back at the first barked order.
He let his hand skim over his hardening length. A light touch. The brute wasn’t light. He’d grip viciously, and it would hurt, and he’d demand submission. Dominic on his knees, whispering shameful things—no, crying them aloud, because the brute demanded it. No half measures. No mercy.
Except that everything he did was a mercy, a pure, agonizing relief to the desires that snarled in Dominic’s gut, like pulling a thorn out of skin.