Read Online Discreet Young Gentleman by M.J. Pearson - Free Book Online
Authors: M.J. Pearson
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has left me starving."
Peter glanced back at a bevy of young beauties, one of which had claimed a considerable amount of his attention during the evening. "I'm staying to the bitter end, but I've no objections if you want to call it a night. Take the coach, and send it back here when you get to Stonehurst." "You'll make my excuses?"
"Don't I always?" Peter grinned at him. "I know the effort you've made tonight, and it's been much appreciated. Back to your hole now, hermit. Will you be taking your friend with you?"
"He's not my—"friend, Dean started to say automatically, then stopped himself at the last moment. "—charge. Rob can look after himself."
"Certainly turned out well," Peter said, looking at Rob with admiration. "Look—even Lord Colby likes him, and he doesn't like anybody."
The elderly man Peter pointed to was indeed chuckling amiably at something Rob had said, and patting the young man's arm with a tremulous hand. Dean's lips tightened. "Yes, he's always enjoyed a rare popularity among the elderly."
"Among everyone, I'd say. Did you see Portia Henry's face after he led her through a second country dance? She'll be posting banns all night in her dreams. Just as well you're not dragging him away, hey? The girls would beat you to death with their dancing shoes." Peter clapped him on the back. "Have something to eat for me when you get home. Bonbons." He shuddered theatrically.
Stonehurst was empty and silent when Dean arrived back at the house. He wasn't really hungry, and felt too restless to sleep. Perhaps he should check on Erich. The coachman might be at a loss in an unfamiliar place, among people who didn't speak his language. Peter's butler, who would remain on duty until his employer and friends arrived home in the small hours of the morning, gave directions to the servants'
quarters where Erich was housed.
Erich was not in the tiny room allotted to him, nor was he enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchens with the handful of servants who were reveling in a quiet night with their master out. Dean, red-faced to have disturbed their rare luxury, backed quickly out of the kitchen and continued searching. He found Erich at last in the stables, brushing one of the horses.
"Ah, Erich," Dean said with relief. "Alles ist gut?"
He received a rare smile in return. "Ja, Herr Graf. Alles ist gut."
"The horses, you're very good with them," Dean said in German.
Erich tilted his head in response. "I suppose. I like horses," he offered in the same tongue. It was rare for him to volunteer information. Dean, who had been on the verge of leaving the stable, perched cautiously on a bale of hay instead. "Did you have a horse back home?"
The servant continued brushing, brow furrowed in concentration. "I remember.. .I had a pony. When I was small."
"Do you remember its name?" Erich didn't answer, and Dean felt awkward, wondering if he should go now, or make one more try at getting the young man to open up a little. "I had a pony, too," he ventured. "Her name was..." Did one try to translate names? With a shrug, he gave it in English. "Milky." He waited a moment, but there was no response, and he rose, unaccountably downcast. "Gute Nacht, then."
"Blümchen."
"Sein Name?"
Erich nodded. "Ja. Gute Nacht, Herr Graf." He looked down at the brush in his hand. "Und. "Ja, Erich?" "Danke."
Erich seemed pleased that his employer had taken the trouble to speak to him, and that warmed Dean more than an entire evening full of empty compliments. He nodded again, and went to find his own bed, stopping only to look up the name of Erich's pony in his dictionary. Blümchen meant "little flower." Dean smiled to think of the sober young man giving his pony such a sweet name. But doubtless he'd been much different in his youth.
Dean awoke in the middle of the night, lying on his side, a masculine arm heavy across his shoulders. Someone was nuzzling the back of his neck. Rob, he thought, freezing, unable even to breathe. There were so
Peter glanced back at a bevy of young beauties, one of which had claimed a considerable amount of his attention during the evening. "I'm staying to the bitter end, but I've no objections if you want to call it a night. Take the coach, and send it back here when you get to Stonehurst." "You'll make my excuses?"
"Don't I always?" Peter grinned at him. "I know the effort you've made tonight, and it's been much appreciated. Back to your hole now, hermit. Will you be taking your friend with you?"
"He's not my—"friend, Dean started to say automatically, then stopped himself at the last moment. "—charge. Rob can look after himself."
"Certainly turned out well," Peter said, looking at Rob with admiration. "Look—even Lord Colby likes him, and he doesn't like anybody."
The elderly man Peter pointed to was indeed chuckling amiably at something Rob had said, and patting the young man's arm with a tremulous hand. Dean's lips tightened. "Yes, he's always enjoyed a rare popularity among the elderly."
"Among everyone, I'd say. Did you see Portia Henry's face after he led her through a second country dance? She'll be posting banns all night in her dreams. Just as well you're not dragging him away, hey? The girls would beat you to death with their dancing shoes." Peter clapped him on the back. "Have something to eat for me when you get home. Bonbons." He shuddered theatrically.
Stonehurst was empty and silent when Dean arrived back at the house. He wasn't really hungry, and felt too restless to sleep. Perhaps he should check on Erich. The coachman might be at a loss in an unfamiliar place, among people who didn't speak his language. Peter's butler, who would remain on duty until his employer and friends arrived home in the small hours of the morning, gave directions to the servants'
quarters where Erich was housed.
Erich was not in the tiny room allotted to him, nor was he enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchens with the handful of servants who were reveling in a quiet night with their master out. Dean, red-faced to have disturbed their rare luxury, backed quickly out of the kitchen and continued searching. He found Erich at last in the stables, brushing one of the horses.
"Ah, Erich," Dean said with relief. "Alles ist gut?"
He received a rare smile in return. "Ja, Herr Graf. Alles ist gut."
"The horses, you're very good with them," Dean said in German.
Erich tilted his head in response. "I suppose. I like horses," he offered in the same tongue. It was rare for him to volunteer information. Dean, who had been on the verge of leaving the stable, perched cautiously on a bale of hay instead. "Did you have a horse back home?"
The servant continued brushing, brow furrowed in concentration. "I remember.. .I had a pony. When I was small."
"Do you remember its name?" Erich didn't answer, and Dean felt awkward, wondering if he should go now, or make one more try at getting the young man to open up a little. "I had a pony, too," he ventured. "Her name was..." Did one try to translate names? With a shrug, he gave it in English. "Milky." He waited a moment, but there was no response, and he rose, unaccountably downcast. "Gute Nacht, then."
"Blümchen."
"Sein Name?"
Erich nodded. "Ja. Gute Nacht, Herr Graf." He looked down at the brush in his hand. "Und. "Ja, Erich?" "Danke."
Erich seemed pleased that his employer had taken the trouble to speak to him, and that warmed Dean more than an entire evening full of empty compliments. He nodded again, and went to find his own bed, stopping only to look up the name of Erich's pony in his dictionary. Blümchen meant "little flower." Dean smiled to think of the sober young man giving his pony such a sweet name. But doubtless he'd been much different in his youth.
Dean awoke in the middle of the night, lying on his side, a masculine arm heavy across his shoulders. Someone was nuzzling the back of his neck. Rob, he thought, freezing, unable even to breathe. There were so
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