One
February 1810
Kent was still there.
Gareth had tumbled into the Three Ducks with his lungs burning from walking too fast in the cold night air, his face instantly reddening as the warm fug of the taproom assailed him. He didn’t even know why he’d hurried: he was over two hours late and he’d told himself the whole way that Kent would have left already. If the situation were reversed, Gareth would have decided his lover for the night wasn’t coming and left cursing the man’s name. He’d fully expected Kent to do the same or, even more likely, find another warm body to go upstairs with.
He’d come anyway because…well, because, that was all. Because it was rude to miss an appointment, because he had nowhere else he wanted to go, because he hoped against hope that just this one thing might not be taken from him today.
And there Kent was, unmissable, the only man in a room crowded with men. He was sitting with a mug of ale and his feet up on a stool, chatting to the landlord without a care in the world. Then he looked round at the door and smiled, and the sight of him took Gareth’s remaining breath.
The landlord slouched away as Gareth came to the table. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“Watcher, London.” What cheer, Gareth had worked out that phrase meant: Kent’s version of good evening. Gareth would have been furious in his place, but the smile in Kent’s warm golden-brown eyes looked entirely real. “Thought you weren’t coming.”
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.” Thank you for staying, Gareth wanted to say.
Kent waved a hand before he could go on, dismissing his failure to appear as though it didn’t matter at all. “You look fraped. Everything all right?”
Gareth didn’t know what fraped meant, but he had no doubt he looked it. “Not really. No. It’s been rather a bad day. Terrible, really.”
“Here, sit down. I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me about it.” He rose from his seat.
“No, don’t.” Gareth regretted the words as he spoke them. He would have liked very much to have a drink with Kent, to pour out what had happened and the bewildering uncertainty that now surrounded him. Except that if he tried to explain anything he’d have to explain everything, and he didn’t want to do that. To present himself as a pitiable object, an unwanted thing, to easily confident Kent who didn’t look like he’d been rejected in his life, then to watch him be repelled by the stench of failure, as people always were—No.
Anyway, Gareth had better ideas of how to spend the evening than brooding about his dismal situation. He had the rest of his life for that. “It doesn’t matter. Could we go upstairs?”
Kent’s thick brows angled. “In a hurry?”
“It’s late. And I was looking forward to seeing you.”
Kent frowned, just a little. Gareth probably didn’t seem a particularly desirable prospect, sweaty and flustered as he was. Fraped, even. He reached for Kent’s mug of ale, watching those glowing brown eyes watching him, and took a long, deliberate swallow.
“Thirsty?”
“In need,” Gareth agreed, and dragged the back of his hand over his mouth in a meaningful fashion.
Kent’s lips curved. “Better?”
“Getting there.”
“Suppose we might as well go up, en.”
The Three Ducks made the back room and the dark covered courtyard available for illicit fumbling and spending. Gareth knew the spaces well, having come here many times over the years. He’d always assumed the upstairs room was private, but Kent, who he’d never seen in here prior to this week, apparently had the privilege of using it. Perhaps he was an old friend of the landlord. Or perhaps it was just that smile of his, that wide, irresistible grin that sluiced you in happy anticipation and confidence and sheer joy of living. Gareth had gone down poleaxed at the first flash of that smile. He wasn’t surprised the Ducks’ taciturn landlord couldn’t resist it either.
They crashed into the upstairs room together, already kissing wildly. Kent was strong, with broad shoulders and taut muscle, several inches under Gareth’s height but a lot more solid, and he moved with all the confidence of his smile. He planted a hand on Gareth’s arse, pulling him close, and Gareth sank into the sensation with a flood of relief.
Fingers grasping, lips and tongues locking, the press of thigh against thigh—Gareth got both hands into Kent’s long, loose curls, the strands so thick and strong by comparison to his own flyaway hair. He held on hard as Kent kissed him, and felt Kent’s smile against his mouth.
“London,” Kent murmured. “I want you bare.”
Gareth let go with a touch of reluctance: he liked Kent’s hair. But Kent liked him undressed, so he stood as Kent pulled first coat then waistcoat off his shoulders; raised his arms obediently as Kent tugged his shirt over his head.
He’d worn trousers and shoes partly because the Three Ducks was not a place to dress well, partly because Kent dressed like a working man, and mostly because they came off easily. He kicked off his shoes, inhaled as Kent unfastened the buttons at his waist, and bent to peel off his stockings.
And there he was, exposed to Kent’s gaze in the golden lamplight.
It had felt very odd the first time he’d stood naked like this under Kent’s scrutiny. He’d never been fully bare with a lover before Kent. Surreptitious fumblings in dark corners didn’t come with the luxury of time, or of more undressing than necessary. And he had no idea why Kent liked to look at him so much. Gareth was nothing special: tall but thin, pale and uninteresting. He wouldn’t have noticed himself in a crowd, whereas a man could look at Kent’s firm, fit body and that outrageous smile for hours.
Yet there was no mistaking the heat in Kent’s eyes when he stood back and examined Gareth, and the frank appreciation tingled like a touch on his skin.
“Hearts alive, you’re a pretty one,” Kent said, voice a little deeper than usual. “Ah, London.”
Gareth breathed the feeling in: naked, exposed, offering every inch of himself up and waiting for Kent’s touch. His prick was stiff at the thought. “Christ,” he said. “I love it when you look at me.”
“Makes two of us.”
Kent moved forward, slid his hand over Gareth’s chest. It was narrower and far less impressive than Kent’s own broad muscles, but Kent didn’t seem to mind. His fingertips were light. Gareth quivered under the feathery touch as it roamed his skin, and couldn’t help a gasp as Kent’s hand finally closed around his jutting prick.
“Eager,” Kent murmured. “You ready for me, London?”
“Whenever you are.” Kent was still fully clad. “If you’re joining me, that is.”