His words were nonsense, of course, but he and Clermont both knew he was not speaking of railroad stocks or financial markets.
Clermont gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing temptingly. “I…I do not know if I could,” he said shyly, glancing away.
“But of course you could,” Howard said, reaching for his fork once more to satisfy one sort of hunger before working on the other. “I would be more than happy to teach you everything I know.” He wiggled his eyebrows for good measure.
Clermont seemed to choke on nothing. “I couldn’t,” he said, flushing again. “I have a great deal of work to do. My clients are relying on me…I have a duty…I must maintain my focus.”
Howard arched one eyebrow slightly. That was an odd way to put thing.
“Work is important, yes,” he agreed. “But it is the Christmas season. One must also take time to enjoy oneself.”
“Truly, I cannot,” Clermont said with surprising firmness.
Howard stared at him for a moment as he finished his dinner. There was something behind the way he refused, something that made Howard’s rakish heart turn tender for a moment. Clermont would not be the first of their sort to have been burned in some way and left with scars that made them afraid to accept the touch of another man. He found that sort of fear and reticence frustrating, however. It was useless and defeatist to let the judgmental world keep one from pleasure and passion.
His plans as regards to Yves Clermont shifted slightly. He would not simply seduce the man, he would teach him to embrace life and pleasure again. The more he studied Clermont, the more he was certain that was what ailed him.
“You can do whatever you set your mind to, Yves Clermont,” Howard said, finishing his dinner and putting his cutlery on his place. “Do not let the strictures of the world hold you back.”
“The world has quite a lot of strictures,” Clermont argued.
“And The Chameleon Club does not.” Howard pushed back his plate and stood. “Now, why do you not let your accounting rest for a moment and join me in joining the others who are decorating this lovely establishment.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Clermont said, glancing down at his work. More specifically, he looked at the corner where he’d placed the letter that had been at the forefront of his business earlier.
“I insist,” Howard said, holding out his hand to the man.
Clermont hesitated. He bit his lip in a fashion that had Howard’s heart beating harder and his trousers tightening. So much earnestness wrapped up in such a sweet parcel was more than he could possibly resist.
“Well, I suppose it would hurt nothing to leave things for a moment to help out,” Clermont said at last. “In the spirit of brotherliness.”
“That’s it,” Howard said, smiling his most alluring smile.
Clermont gazed up at him, and Howard saw unmistakable desire and interest in the man’s blue eyes. More than that, Clermont slipped his hand into Howard’s and allowed him to help him to stand.
He had him. Clermont would be his within a matter of days. Perhaps it would be a merry Christmas after all.
Two
Guillame was dead. Yves still couldn’t believe it. The letter from his twin sister, Yvette, had come with the morning post and caught him in the middle of his daily work on behalf of the club. It wasn’t unusual for Yvette to send him letters weekly, sometimes daily. Ever since he’d taken refuge in The Chameleon Club three years before, his whereabouts had been a carefully kept secret, but Yvette had always known.
But now Guillame was dead. Their brother, who would have been the Marquis de Fontenay, had the title not been declared illegal when their grandparents had fled from Normandy to England during the Reign of Terror, the man who had made Yves’ life a living hell from the time they were boys, the man who had caught him in bed with another man and threatened to have him arrested and killed, was no more.
He could go home now if he wanted to. If he dared to. He could leave The Chameleon Club, where he’d been hiding for so long and return to the bosom of his family.
Or could he?
Howard Bradford had caught him in the middle of his conflicted thoughts, as he tried to scribble his way through sums and figures to stop his spinning mind and his racing heart.He knew Bradford, of course. Not personally, but he knew the man by reputation. He’d watched from the corners of the club’s ballroom every time Bradford had returned to London, like a conquering hero, to celebrate life and passion with his friends.
He'd watched Bradford single out any number of young men at the club over the years, always wondering what they did when they disappeared upstairs for the night, or even just for a few hours. Those men had always come back looking dazed and happy, their faces pink and their gaits just a little off. Yves had watched and wondered if he would ever be the man Bradford chose for the night, or perhaps a bit longer?
And now the moment had come. It had happened. Howard Bradford had singled him out for seduction.
It was far more terrifying than Yves could ever have imagined.
“Do you have a burr in your saddle?” Bradford asked as he led Yves across the ballroom to the table that had been made into the hub of the club members’ decorating efforts. It was piled with branches and garlands, brought in fresh from the country that morning, ribbons donated by Mr. Wilkes, and various other trinkets and things that club members had donated to make The Chameleon Club glow with Christmas cheer.
“Hmm?” Yves blinked from the table of greenery and glanced up at Bradford, heart racing. “Oh. I am not a horse,” he said, then immediately felt ridiculous for pointing out something so obvious. “That is,” he rushed on as Bradford chuckled, “I do not know what you mean, sir.”
