Read Online The Gentleman and the Rogue by Bonnie Dee, Summer Devon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bonnie Dee, Summer Devon
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smile actually reached his eyes, and he was almost completely transformed from the granite-faced Lord Doom. “Fool that I was, I thought I knew cant.”
Pleased that he'd managed to again get Lord Grim to smile, Jem grinned back. “Epergne. Hmm. Can't recall any other words from you. Now it's quite a lot of fine language you owe me, sir.” He crammed the rest of the ham into his mouth and stood. “You ready? I am.”
* * *
Alan wasn't sure why he wanted to show the man the rest of the house. It was hours past the time they should have parted ways—setting aside the fact that they shouldn't have met at all. He searched his heart for the sick regret and contempt he'd felt the two other times he'd indulged in his perversion, and felt nothing but a curious lightened sensation.
Odd, because yesterday he'd hit upon a solution that had given him a sense of peace, and now he'd abandoned it. Sometime during the night he'd decided against the sin of suicide. If the heavy blanket of misery could lift for a few minutes now, perhaps in time he'd live without it for hours, and he might eventually even shed that weight for an entire day.
He supposed if he had decided to live, he'd best grow used to such frighteningly changeable moods. The ground under his feet had shifted, and as a result, he was no longer the same steady, calm man. No longer a soldier, son, or brother. What would he be instead?
He led Jem through the red drawing room and answered his many questions about the marble fireplace, the inlaid wood floors, the paintings, and the pianoforte his mother used to play. The man seemed honestly curious, not simply looking over Alan's home for the best items to steal.
When they entered the library, Jem gave a low whistle. “Take a look at that. Never seen so many books in one spot. Must have paid a goodly sum in paper taxes. Nearly makes me wish I could read better.” He glanced at Alan and shrugged as if he'd asked a question. “I can scratch out my name and a bit.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the room until he came back to Alan's side and caught sight of the mahogany desk.
Alan had avoided this elaborate, ugly thing, with its vast surface that still carried the hint of his father's snuff and cologne. He still thought of it as his father's and used the much smaller escritoire in the cramped study for his correspondence and work.
He'd avoided the library altogether, and now, as the memories poured in, swamping him with bleak and bitter loss, he remembered why.
He wondered how he might end this tour. Which brought up the question of what he would do once Jem left the house.
Why had he come home to London? He should go to his family's seat in Shropshire. He imagined riding through fields that weren't scarred with blood or cannon fire. His army charger had been shot from under him during the second-to-last campaign, and he hadn't replaced the big gelding, hadn't wanted to.
Jem stopped running his hands over the carved lotus flowers on the desk leg. He straightened and sauntered over to Alan. “Come now, sir. Didn't yer mum or old nanny tell you yer face will freeze like that?”
“Never.” Alan forced his scowl to relax, amused that he would give in to the bullying of a thief who sold his body on the street. “I'm certain this is dull for you,” he said and left the room. When Jem didn't immediately follow, he reluctantly reentered the library.
Jem stood in front of the family portrait. “Tell me about 'em,” he said without taking his gaze off the painting.
When Alan said nothing, Jem pointed to the boy standing behind the mother's chair, his hands on her shoulders. “That's you, no doubt. The eyes tell me. And that's your brother next to you. He looks less merry than you, I'd say—leastways, less merry than you was back then. Older 'n you?”
Alan turned away.
Jem put his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet as if he hadn't noticed Alan's disinterest. He kept
Pleased that he'd managed to again get Lord Grim to smile, Jem grinned back. “Epergne. Hmm. Can't recall any other words from you. Now it's quite a lot of fine language you owe me, sir.” He crammed the rest of the ham into his mouth and stood. “You ready? I am.”
* * *
Alan wasn't sure why he wanted to show the man the rest of the house. It was hours past the time they should have parted ways—setting aside the fact that they shouldn't have met at all. He searched his heart for the sick regret and contempt he'd felt the two other times he'd indulged in his perversion, and felt nothing but a curious lightened sensation.
Odd, because yesterday he'd hit upon a solution that had given him a sense of peace, and now he'd abandoned it. Sometime during the night he'd decided against the sin of suicide. If the heavy blanket of misery could lift for a few minutes now, perhaps in time he'd live without it for hours, and he might eventually even shed that weight for an entire day.
He supposed if he had decided to live, he'd best grow used to such frighteningly changeable moods. The ground under his feet had shifted, and as a result, he was no longer the same steady, calm man. No longer a soldier, son, or brother. What would he be instead?
He led Jem through the red drawing room and answered his many questions about the marble fireplace, the inlaid wood floors, the paintings, and the pianoforte his mother used to play. The man seemed honestly curious, not simply looking over Alan's home for the best items to steal.
When they entered the library, Jem gave a low whistle. “Take a look at that. Never seen so many books in one spot. Must have paid a goodly sum in paper taxes. Nearly makes me wish I could read better.” He glanced at Alan and shrugged as if he'd asked a question. “I can scratch out my name and a bit.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the room until he came back to Alan's side and caught sight of the mahogany desk.
Alan had avoided this elaborate, ugly thing, with its vast surface that still carried the hint of his father's snuff and cologne. He still thought of it as his father's and used the much smaller escritoire in the cramped study for his correspondence and work.
He'd avoided the library altogether, and now, as the memories poured in, swamping him with bleak and bitter loss, he remembered why.
He wondered how he might end this tour. Which brought up the question of what he would do once Jem left the house.
Why had he come home to London? He should go to his family's seat in Shropshire. He imagined riding through fields that weren't scarred with blood or cannon fire. His army charger had been shot from under him during the second-to-last campaign, and he hadn't replaced the big gelding, hadn't wanted to.
Jem stopped running his hands over the carved lotus flowers on the desk leg. He straightened and sauntered over to Alan. “Come now, sir. Didn't yer mum or old nanny tell you yer face will freeze like that?”
“Never.” Alan forced his scowl to relax, amused that he would give in to the bullying of a thief who sold his body on the street. “I'm certain this is dull for you,” he said and left the room. When Jem didn't immediately follow, he reluctantly reentered the library.
Jem stood in front of the family portrait. “Tell me about 'em,” he said without taking his gaze off the painting.
When Alan said nothing, Jem pointed to the boy standing behind the mother's chair, his hands on her shoulders. “That's you, no doubt. The eyes tell me. And that's your brother next to you. He looks less merry than you, I'd say—leastways, less merry than you was back then. Older 'n you?”
Alan turned away.
Jem put his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet as if he hadn't noticed Alan's disinterest. He kept
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