“What you used to have then,” Theo said, shrugging. When George opened his mouth to argue again, Theo added succinctly, “The members of this club come here to fuck, George. That’s it. That’s what they want.”
George flinched when Theo said the word fuck, but Theo went on, not mincing his words. “We find someone to fuck and then, afterwards, we go home. Alone. And the next time we come, we might fuck someone else. Perhaps more than one.” He paused, meeting George’s red-faced gaze with his own very direct one. “It’s not romantic, George. It’s just meeting physical needs—like scratching an itch.”
“Are you trying to shock me?” George replied. “If so, don’t bother. I’m not as naïve as you seem to think. I can assure you, I’m well aware of what happens here, and for your information, it’s exactly why I came.”
His unexpected vehemence set Theo back on his heels.
The thought of George coming here, deliberately, for the same reason Theo did, made Theo’s prick rise and throb insistently. An image flashed in his mind of George in the back room, standing there as a score of men looked on, his attention all on Theo as Theo unravelled his cravat and pulled the snowy linen away from his throat…
Theo almost groaned aloud at the thought, shifting in his chair to ease the sudden pressure in his trousers. Thankfully, just then, a footman arrived at their table. As the man set about unhurriedly pouring their wine, George leaned back in his chair and turned his head away, giving Theo his irritated profile.
Theo gave in to the temptation to look his fill. He had begun to notice George’s appeal during his final year at St. Dominic’s. It had felt like the longest year of his life as he tried to hide his growing fascination. Staring at George now, openly, was like satisfying a long-denied hunger. His fingers itched to touch the dark, silky hair that flopped over George’s forehead and to trace the tender curve of that full mouth. And as he stared, George’s last words played over and over in his mind:
“It’s exactly why I came.”
Both of them were here, now, wanting the same thing, and a traitorous voice inside Theo wondered, Is there any chance in this world that George would want that with me?
His rational mind immediately balked at the thought, reminding him that George had chosen to come to Redford’s for the first time on the eve of Oliver Fletcher’s wedding. That was no coincidence. Especially when one considered that—according to Piers—George had been rusticating on his family estate for the better part of a year and hadn’t seen Fletch for months until this evening.
“Ollie and I don’t have anything.”
George’s bitterness had been obvious when he'd bitten those words out. Was he nursing a broken heart? Looking for another man to distract him from his heartbreak?
Theo frowned, disturbed by that idea. He did not entertain romantic entanglements and made as much clear to all his bed partners. But, strangely he did not like the idea of George having romantic feelings for anyone else.
Once the footman had moved away, George lifted his wine glass and took a deep swallow. When he set it down again, he said, "I didn’t realise that coming here this evening would be so difficult.” His voice shook slightly, and Theo was reminded of when George was a new boy at St. Dominic’s, so obviously trying to be brave as he was introduced to the other boys at assembly.
“Is it worse because I’m here?” Theo asked. "If so, I’m sorry. But you honestly needn’t worry. As Potter said, all the members here are honour-bound not to speak of who or what they see.”
“I know,” George said. “I’m not worried about that. It’s more that—” He broke off.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“It’s—” He rubbed his hands over his face. “You wouldn't understand. I have waited for this for so long. Too long.”
“Waited for what?”
George dropped his hands and sent him a despairing look. “For this,” he said, a desperate note in his soft voice. “To experience… intimacy, with another man.”
Theo blinked. “But—” he began. “You and Fletch. You were lovers, were you not?”
George’s face flamed. “No,” he said shortly, his gaze sliding away from Theo’s. “We were not.”
Theo stared at him, disbelieving. “But that summer,” he began. “When I came upon the two of you—” He broke off mid-sentence, struck silent by the distraught expression on George’s face—until George seemed to realise what he was revealing and looked away, composing himself. For long moments, neither of them spoke. Then Theo said quietly. “Forgive me. It’s none of my business.”
After a long moment of silence, George said stiltedly, his eyes on his wine glass rather than Theo, “That summer was the end of anything like that between us—not that anything had really started. No more than what you saw.”
A kiss, Theo thought, reeling. That was all he had seen—a fumbling, clumsy kiss between boys.
George took a deep, shaky breath. “After that, we were only friends. That had to be enough for me. And it was enough, for a long time. Until last year.”
“What happened last year?”
George shrugged. “Ollie was trying to find a wife. He invited me to join him in London for the season, but after a few weeks, he told me I was hindering his chances of securing a suitable young lady’s affections. So… he asked me to leave town.”
Theo stared at him. “He did what?”
“He asked me to leave. And I did.” George shrugged. “I hadn’t wanted to be in town anyway. I was only there because he'd invited me.” He took a sip of wine, setting his glass down carefully on the table. “And then he met Miss Hewitt, and here we are.”
