It Takes Two to Tumble Read online

  Ben didn’t want to let the captain know about Jamie’s problem until he could be trusted; frankly, the captain seemed just the type to think punishing knowledge into a child a reasonable course of action.

  After supper, he sent the children up to the nursery to eat their tart—in the end, they each agreed to get a third, which was extravagant, but it might put them into a deep enough sleep to last until morning.

  That left him alone at the table with the captain. All of a sudden it seemed like they were sitting too near to one another, even though neither of them had moved. Ben was close to people all the time. He prayed with the old and he sat with the sick. He dandled babies on his knee and embraced brides on their wedding days. He was no stranger to proximity.

  What was new and unsettling was the way the captain was looking at him. There was something in the captain’s expression, some measure of interest that Ben feared mirrored the expression in his own eyes. That was something he hadn’t seen in a long while. Outside in the barnyard, the fresh air and tiny animals had washed the scene with ordinariness; he had halfway convinced himself that he hadn’t seen anything like desire on the captain’s face, or that if it was desire, it didn’t matter. But now, alone in the candlelit dining room, there was no mistaking it for what it was, and there was no telling himself it didn’t matter. The tiny spark that flared between them seemed, at this moment, to matter more than anything else in Ben’s small universe.

  He watched the captain open his mouth to speak, but then close it again, and instead swallow. He was handsome, Ben supposed, if you liked angry men, which Ben wouldn’t have thought he did. Unfortunately, the captain’s face relaxed a bit at that moment, some of his crossness smoothing away, and Ben had to acknowledge that he was rather desperately handsome. Ben hastily looked away and took a drink of his brandy.

  “It’s getting late,” Ben said, flustered. “I probably ought to get some sleep.”

  “Wait.” The captain took a sip of his brandy and regarded Ben over the edge of his glass. Those eyes, which were supposed to be black, were undeniably, unforgivably blue, and Ben felt a surge of inane, betrayed anger at the portraitist. “Don’t go yet.”

  For a moment Ben was at a loss. He didn’t know if it was the low timbre of Captain Dacre’s voice or the heat of his gaze, or if maybe he had managed to get drunk on a few sips of wine, but if the captain had leaned over and touched him, kissed him, done whatever he liked to him, Ben would have hardly known how or even why to protest. He felt rooted to the spot.

  And he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to come up with another feeble excuse to get out of the dining room. He wanted to stay here and find out what happened after another hour and another few glasses of wine. He knew it would be putting paid to his hopes and dreams, because it was one thing to quietly and privately desire men and quite another to act on it, or so he told himself. He could lust after all the men in the north of England and he could still have the safe and comfortable life he longed for. This was what he told himself in the quiet hours of the night when doubts assailed him.

  Sitting there, wishing there was some way to will Captain Dacre to act on the interest that was so plain in his eyes, the truth struck him. This was something he wanted, and it was something he’d never have if he married, and neither would Alice; he’d be selling himself and Alice a bad bargain by going through with their marriage.

  He wanted to turn back the hands of the clock to a time before he had realized that.

  “Why do you look like that?” Phillip demanded. The vicar’s face had turned grave. Gravity didn’t sit well on his cheerful features. His mouth belonged in a smile. And if that wasn’t a harebrained notion, Phillip didn’t know what was.

  “Oh, woolgathering,” Sedgwick said, looking almost normal again except for a slight furrow between his brows.

  Suddenly Phillip wished he hadn’t insisted that the vicar stay at the table. He had been quite attractive outside in the barnyard, but here, two feet away, lit by candles and dressed in spotless evening clothes, he was something else entirely. And that little performance with the children might have been amusing or even impressive if they had been anyone else’s children who required such bizarre management.

  He had felt like a guest in a foreign land, a country where children came to dinner with seams unraveled and hair that hadn’t seen a comb in many moons, children who resolutely did not acknowledge their father. Beneath the grime and raggedy too-small clothes, Phillip could see only ghosts of the children he had known.

  Sedgwick must have guessed some of that, because he frowned and slid his hand closer to Phillip’s as if thinking to offer comfort. Then he snatched it back, whether because he didn’t think Phillip worthy of comfort or didn’t want to risk touching him, Phillip could not tell.

  “What was the meaning of that business earlier?” he growled, trying to bring them back to comfortable antipathy.

  “Oh, did you want a slice of tart?” Sedgwick asked, an amused sparkle in his warm brown eyes. “And I gave it all away. Bad form.”

  Phillip bit back a renegade smile. Damn the man for trying to make him laugh and nearly succeeding. Phillip didn’t have defenses that could withstand this sort of assault. “No, blast you. What the hell kind of circus did I just witness? This house is like some kind of lunatic asylum.” He noticed that the vicar did not disagree. “And now I—you—we have to come up with a better arrangement. There must be some sort of tutor who can manage them properly and give them the education they require.”

  Sedgwick took a sip of his brandy. “Your children seem quite determined not to have a tutor, or a governess, or to remain enrolled in any decent school. If there were any other option, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Phillip grumbled his assent. “But why?”

  Sedgwick shrugged and looked into his brandy glass. Phillip had the distinct impression that the vicar was holding back vital information, but he suspected this man couldn’t be strong-armed or badgered into doing anything he didn’t want to.

  “What do you suggest I do?” Phillip asked.

  “I think your first priority needs to be just getting to know them.”

  “But—”

  “I know, discipline. I might even agree,” he said, leaning back in his chair, still holding his glass in his hand. “But they’ll take orders more willingly from someone they trust.”

  Phillip had to concede the wisdom of that approach. That was how he had always run his ships. “They don’t trust me.” He hadn’t trusted his own father, come to think.

  The vicar regarded him sadly. “They aren’t acting like they do.”

  Phillip poured himself another glass of brandy and shoved the bottle towards his guest. It would have been better if he could have stayed away. He didn’t belong here; he had nothing to offer. These were the constant whisperings of his mind during its darkest times, and he had lived long enough to recognize this voice, but not long enough to disbelieve it.

  “Ned’s bright and responsible,” the vicar said in a reassuring tone. “You’ve nothing to worry about there. Peggy is about twice as clever as any person needs to be, and she knows it. As for Jamie, you can see for yourself how intelligent he is. Get to know them, spend some time doing what they like doing, and then by the end of the summer they’ll trust that whatever arrangements you make for them are for the best.”

  Phillip did not like waiting. He preferred action. But either the calm tones of the vicar had lulled him into agreeableness, or that second glass of brandy had rendered him totally insensible, because he found himself nodding. “All right. We’ll do it your way. And with you here.” There Sedgwick’s face went again into that unsmiling wrongness. “God help me, I’m not that bad,” he said, affronted. “You know, my officers actually like me. I can give you their addresses for references, if you like.” It was only half a joke, but Sedgwick laughed—a sad echo of his usual laugh, but Phillip felt inordinately pleased with himself for having made it happen. “So it’s settl
ed,” he said. “You’ll stay on as the children’s tutor. As for salary, I was thinking—”

  “No,” Sedgwick interrupted. “Definitely not.”

  “You’re doing the work already,” Phillip protested. “You might as well be paid for it. It’s hardly unusual for a clergyman to earn an extra income by tutoring young people.” Vicars in need of extra income sometimes helped gentlemen prepare for university. That wasn’t what Sedgwick was doing here, and they both knew it.

  “If you want to slip a few extra shillings into the poor box, I won’t complain,” said Sedgwick. “Some families in the parish are having an unusually bad time of it.”

  Phillip noticed that the vicar didn’t mention by name the reason for this unusual distress. After less than two days here, Phillip had already heard of rents being raised, tenants evicted, pastures closed off by the same Sir Martin Easterbrook who had suspected two of his children of poaching. Phillip did not find that he was inclined to look favorably on his neighboring landowner.

  “I don’t need extra money,” Sedgwick continued. “They do.” He took another long drink of his brandy.

  Phillip wanted to protest, but he could hardly force money on someone who was unwilling to take it. “Fine,” he said. “You can stay here, or you can stay at your own house, or whatever arrangement suits you, I suppose. But I do need to make one point clear. I am not a violent man. I don’t do that sort of thing. Not to children and not to anyone else. I give you my word, and I assure you that—I’m dead serious now—if you asked any man who has served on any of my ships, they’d say the same thing.”

  Sedgwick ran his finger around the rim of his glass, as if not sure what to say or whether to say anything, and Phillip suddenly, wantonly, wanted those broad fingers on his mouth. Sedgwick cleared his throat. “My brother served on the Fotheringay.”

  Phillip drew in a sharp breath of air. “Under Captain Dinsdale?”

  “Yes.”

  Phillip grasped for something to say. “He was a monster.” This wasn’t an understatement. There were harsh captains, there were cruel captains, but Dinsdale was in a class of his own. “He’s dead now. Died last year. Typhoid.”

  “I know,” the vicar said in a tone of grim satisfaction.

  “Is your brother . . .” Phillip hardly knew how to finish the question. Alive? Well? Tormented by the memories of what happened on board that ship?

  “He lives in London,” Sedgwick said, which answered only one of Phillip’s concerns. “Anyway, you understand . . .”

  Phillip passed a hand over his mouth. “If that bastard is your family’s only experience with naval officers, then I damned well can’t blame you for thinking me likely to cause trouble.” He ought to leave it there, but he didn’t want Sedgwick to think him a villain. It mattered, somehow, that this man with his frank smiles and his blatant efforts to make Phillip smile in return not think him anything like Dinsdale. “But, Sedgwick, I do hope you can see the difference between a man like that and a man like me.” He was openly pleading now, so badly did he want this man not to think the worst of him.

  Something in the strain in his voice must have been apparent to Sedgwick, because he raised his eyes to look directly at Phillip. “A man like you,” Sedgwick repeated. From any other man Phillip would have recognized the words and the intent look as a plain invitation.

  But this was the vicar. Phillip hadn’t planned on lusting after the vicar. The vicar, of all people. There could hardly be anyone less suitable. But all that bashful, freckled righteousness was too good to resist. Phillip decided to take a chance. He slid his hand over to where Sedgwick’s rested on the table. It was no more of a touch than when Sedgwick had slid him that note earlier—that blasted note, which Phillip hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with. Sedgwick’s hand was warm and solid, as tan with the sun as Phillip’s own.

  Sedgwick lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

  Phillip lifted one of his in return, and moved his hand to cover Sedgwick’s. They were alone, and it was only hands, innocent to any observer, he told himself. Sedgwick’s hand felt strong under his, a little rough with work. He laced his fingers into Sedgwick’s and was startled to find that it felt right, as if he had always wanted to hold hands with a madcap vicar at his dining table, and only realized it now.

  Maybe Sedgwick’s thoughts were along similar lines, because Phillip could feel the man’s pulse quicken. Then, suddenly, the vicar let out a huff of laughter, as if it were only mildly amusing that the two of them were sitting here acknowledging an attraction, actually touching one another.

  Then Sedgwick pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. “I ought to go finish up tomorrow’s sermon. I suppose I’ll see you in church?”

  Well. That rather dampened Phillip’s ardor. Nothing like talk of sermons to ruin a moment. “Doubtful,” Phillip said, and he knew he sounded annoyed. The truth was that he didn’t trust the church any more than Sedgwick trusted the navy. He didn’t want any part of an institution that shamed and vilified what Sedgwick had alluded to as men like him. And he was rather surprised, disappointed even, that Sedgwick did. “Good night,” he said curtly.

  “Quite all right,” Sedgwick said, as if it did not matter to him in the least whether people went to church or had relations with other men. And maybe it didn’t. Phillip was out of his depth.

  Ben took the stairs up to his bedchamber two at a time, shut the door behind him, and turned the key in the lock because there was no doubt in his mind about what he was about to do. He flung his coat onto the bed and had his breeches unfastened before he had stopped walking.

  He groaned when he wrapped his hand around himself. The past few days had been torture, trying not to stare openly at Dacre while he did things like . . . smile . . . and talk. And every now and then he got this imperious look in his eye and he was clearly on the verge of ordering people about, but then he quelled it and did something decent instead. Even if he hadn’t been the handsomest man Ben had ever laid eyes on, Ben would still be here in an attic room with his hand tightly around his prick, tossing himself off like he hadn’t done this in ages, when in reality he had done it yesterday. Yesterday. He was acting depraved.

  He wasn’t even going to pretend this wasn’t about Dacre. He didn’t even stop himself from thinking about the man, the taut muscles of his arms and the habit he had of biting back a smile as if smiles cost extra and he was saving up for an especially big one. Every stroke of his hand, he imagined it was actually Dacre’s, spreading moisture along the length of his aching prick.

  And then he remembered the press of Dacre’s long fingers against his own, the heat of his palm and the strength of his touch. He brought his own hand to his mouth to wet it, and from there, it was easy to imagine himself licking Dacre’s fingers, drawing them into his mouth, watching Dacre’s eyes flare in desire. And then, since this was wanking logic and nothing had to make sense or even be physically possible, it was Dacre’s cock in Ben’s mouth and his hand on Ben’s cock.

  Ben braced his free hand against the bedpost and stroked himself faster now, not even bothering to hold back the images that flashed before his eyes. Hands, lips, sweat, wanting, being wanted—and then he was spending in his hand.

  He cleaned himself up and tried to steady his thoughts. Usually he regarded this a basic biological necessity, like eating or sleeping, and he didn’t refine too much on the passages in the Scripture that suggested masturbation might be sinful or shameful. He tended to think that when the Bible condemned something practically everyone did, whether it be tossing oneself off or eating pork, there was likely some nuance that had been lost either to history or to translation. And then he didn’t think about it anymore. He wouldn’t do the people of Kirkby Barton any good by thinking about bacon or wanking, so he didn’t think about either and had to imagine neither did God.

  This time, though, it hadn’t felt like a basic biological need but like an indulgence. This was the first time he had focused his desires on one per
son rather than the act of getting himself off efficiently.

  He realized to his horror that he felt like he had done something wrong by thinking about Captain Dacre. Was it that he thought the captain would mind? Hardly. Was it because he thought Alice would mind? That, he felt, was closer to the mark. He couldn’t know whether Alice would mind him wanking off to thoughts of a man because that wasn’t something that they could ever possibly discuss. And that, itself, was a problem.

  But there was more, lurking at the edges of his consciousness, if only he could be brave enough to look. He made himself examine his thoughts. He would never feel the enthusiasm for the marriage bed that he felt for tonight’s solitary relief. He had always known that, to some extent, but now that he had fixed a name and a face to his desire, what he had to offer Alice seemed inadequate in comparison.

  Men such as he married for many reasons. They wanted families; they wanted companionship; they needed a shield against suspicious minds. And Ben didn’t fault them. Couldn’t fault them. But now, for the first time he thought that his conscience might not let him go through with it.

  And if he couldn’t marry, then he’d need to jilt Alice. Sick, disabled Alice, who might not have any other chance to marry and certainly didn’t have any other means of providing for herself. The solution would be to talk about it, to see if they could find their way to a meaningful agreement on what their marriage would be like, but this wasn’t something he could talk about. To admit to his desire for men would be to risk his position and his life.

  He went over to the window, thinking that maybe the view from this height would give him some perspective, but it was all darkness below, and above was nothing but stars and a waning moon.

  Chapter Seven

  Phillip, waking at dawn on Sunday morning, was the last person in the household to rise. The children did not number sloth or idleness among their vices, it would seem. He found the twins mucking out the stables while Ned talked with a man Phillip dimly remembered as the land steward. The vicar, his coat once again gone missing, was nominally supervising the twins but any fool could see that he was actually feeding apple cores to one of the foals. The foal, predictably, was following him around as if he had the elixir of life.