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Authors: M.J. Pearson
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many rooms at Stonehurst, but somehow his traveling companion had found him. No. More likely, stumbled upon him by chance. If Rob were looking to seduce anyone, there were better-looking choices among Peter's guests. And, of course, he'd be more likely of success with someone drunker than Dean. If Rob had climbed into his bed, it could only be by accident.
The lips on his neck became more ardent, sparking an unwelcome glow somewhere to the south. He'd best put an end to this, now. Before he could speak, the arm moved, a hand groping his chest. "Sadie," moaned an unfamiliar voice in an exhalation of whisky fumes. "Oh, Sadie."
Dean spent the rest of the night on the floor.
Chapter Seven
ewkesbury," Rob said, leaning out the coach window for a better view of the enormous Abbey tower looming over the town ahead. "I've never been here. Do you know it, my lord?"
My lord. Dean supposed it was his fault that Rob had dropped the easy familiarity of address appropriate to their visit with Peter at Stonehurst. Out of sorts from his uncomfortable night, Dean had been brusque enough this morning to induce Rob into treating him with careful formality. But there were long days to get through yet, he'd best make an effort to be pleasant. Especially since his companion had handled himself so well at Peter's. "I know it well enough, I suppose. Erich and I were here just last month on estate business. There was that battle in Tewkesbury, of course, back in...in..."
"1471, wasn't it? War of the Roses. Henry VI's son was killed, pretty much ending the Lancastrian cause until the Tudors came along."
Dean stared. "I thought you were thrown out of school. I couldn't remember half of that."
Rob laughed. "I lived with an...uncle who encouraged me to read books about things he was interested in, so we would have something to talk about. I ended up with a sort of education after all."
Dean, who'd been blessed with nine uncles of his own, rather thought Rob's was a very different sort of relation. "Oh? What sorts of things was your uncle interested in?"
"History, of course, and I rather enjoyed that. Poetry, as long as it was written before 1700
he had no patience for this 'modern nonsense.' Fishing, which became sort of a passion of mine. That book of yours, The Compleat Angler. I must have read it a dozen times—wonderful book."
Dean sat up straight. "You really are a fisherman, then? I thought that was just for Peter's benefit. You should see the trout streams at Carwick—" He broke off, appalled at himself. Absurd to think he would ever invite the prostitute to visit his home, even if Rob were a fellow angler. "What about your own interests? Were you encouraged to pursue those?"
"No. No, I wasn't." Rob was silent a moment. "My uncle liked art. Hired a tutor to give me drawing lessons, even though I had absolutely no aptitude for it. I begged him to let me take music lessons instead—he had this wonderful pianoforte which had belonged to his wife, just sitting there, unused—but he was tone-deaf himself, and wouldn't let me even try to play it. I envy you your skill."
"You didn't miss much." Remembering his resolution to be pleasant, Dean continued warily. "My father fancied himself a composer, you see, and was determined to bring up his own little Mozart. I was forced to practice constantly from the time I was in skirts, and I hated it. Playing those damned scales over and over, when all I wanted was to be outside riding, or fishing." Dean frowned, feeling the need to change the subject. "About those art lessons. Is there any chance you could make a sketch of the man who hired you to accost me?"
"No. I told you I was no good at it."
"But even a rough sketch might give me enough of an idea—" 'No," Rob said, folding his arms.
Dean narrowed his hazel eyes, losing his patience. "Sometimes I wonder if you really were trying to rob me. You've certainly been uncooperative in helping me so far."
"Oh, have I? I'm missing at least two
The lips on his neck became more ardent, sparking an unwelcome glow somewhere to the south. He'd best put an end to this, now. Before he could speak, the arm moved, a hand groping his chest. "Sadie," moaned an unfamiliar voice in an exhalation of whisky fumes. "Oh, Sadie."
Dean spent the rest of the night on the floor.
Chapter Seven
ewkesbury," Rob said, leaning out the coach window for a better view of the enormous Abbey tower looming over the town ahead. "I've never been here. Do you know it, my lord?"
My lord. Dean supposed it was his fault that Rob had dropped the easy familiarity of address appropriate to their visit with Peter at Stonehurst. Out of sorts from his uncomfortable night, Dean had been brusque enough this morning to induce Rob into treating him with careful formality. But there were long days to get through yet, he'd best make an effort to be pleasant. Especially since his companion had handled himself so well at Peter's. "I know it well enough, I suppose. Erich and I were here just last month on estate business. There was that battle in Tewkesbury, of course, back in...in..."
"1471, wasn't it? War of the Roses. Henry VI's son was killed, pretty much ending the Lancastrian cause until the Tudors came along."
Dean stared. "I thought you were thrown out of school. I couldn't remember half of that."
Rob laughed. "I lived with an...uncle who encouraged me to read books about things he was interested in, so we would have something to talk about. I ended up with a sort of education after all."
Dean, who'd been blessed with nine uncles of his own, rather thought Rob's was a very different sort of relation. "Oh? What sorts of things was your uncle interested in?"
"History, of course, and I rather enjoyed that. Poetry, as long as it was written before 1700
he had no patience for this 'modern nonsense.' Fishing, which became sort of a passion of mine. That book of yours, The Compleat Angler. I must have read it a dozen times—wonderful book."
Dean sat up straight. "You really are a fisherman, then? I thought that was just for Peter's benefit. You should see the trout streams at Carwick—" He broke off, appalled at himself. Absurd to think he would ever invite the prostitute to visit his home, even if Rob were a fellow angler. "What about your own interests? Were you encouraged to pursue those?"
"No. No, I wasn't." Rob was silent a moment. "My uncle liked art. Hired a tutor to give me drawing lessons, even though I had absolutely no aptitude for it. I begged him to let me take music lessons instead—he had this wonderful pianoforte which had belonged to his wife, just sitting there, unused—but he was tone-deaf himself, and wouldn't let me even try to play it. I envy you your skill."
"You didn't miss much." Remembering his resolution to be pleasant, Dean continued warily. "My father fancied himself a composer, you see, and was determined to bring up his own little Mozart. I was forced to practice constantly from the time I was in skirts, and I hated it. Playing those damned scales over and over, when all I wanted was to be outside riding, or fishing." Dean frowned, feeling the need to change the subject. "About those art lessons. Is there any chance you could make a sketch of the man who hired you to accost me?"
"No. I told you I was no good at it."
"But even a rough sketch might give me enough of an idea—" 'No," Rob said, folding his arms.
Dean narrowed his hazel eyes, losing his patience. "Sometimes I wonder if you really were trying to rob me. You've certainly been uncooperative in helping me so far."
"Oh, have I? I'm missing at least two
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