Another Place in Time Page 8

  “Good evening,” he said, eyes dancing with merriment. “I hope you have your dancing slippers on.”

  Adam opened the carriage door, waving the hovering groom back to his perch.

  “Despite my inability to dance,” he said, “yes, I do. So I look the part, at least.”

  Winterbourne climbed in beside him and closed the door before settling himself on the seat beside Adam.

  “If I could get you alone for a while, I could teach you a few steps. Enough to stumble through one dance at least.”

  It occurred to Adam that if he could get Winterbourne alone for a while, he’d be able to think of far better things to do than dancing.

  “I think you should consider me a lost cause,” he said instead, lips twitching. “I am one-and-thirty, far too old to learn now.”

  “Nonsense! There are men far older than you who’ve taken dancing lessons, I’m sure.”

  “Ah, but not from a youth like yourself, Winterbourne.”

  “I am three-and-twenty!” Winterbourne protested. “Hardly a youth.”

  Adam chuckled, but privately he thought that Winterbourne was right—he was a man in his very prime. Ripe for the picking, a bright shiny fruit, tempting Adam to reach for him.

  If he dared.

  When they first arrived at the ball, Lysander had no choice but to dance, firstly with Melisande and then with each member of the group of young ladies that comprised her particular friends. Once he’d performed that duty, and some more gentlemen had arrived to fill up the young ladies’ dance cards, he was able to escape further dancing obligations by pleading wretchedness over having abandoned his own guest so unforgivably.

  Freeman seemed a little easier than he had during the afternoon calls. He’d fallen in with two older gentlemen, and when Lysander reached his side, they were deep in conversation about an investment that one of them had made into a tin mine in Cornwall. Nevertheless, when Freeman turned his head and saw Lysander, his sherry-brown eyes warmed with something that looked very like pleasure. It gave Lysander a heady feeling, to think that he was the cause of that look.

  Shortly after Lysander arrived, the two gentlemen wandered off in search of their wives, one of them promising to write to Freeman with details of some matter they’d discussed earlier.

  “Shall we get some punch?” Lysander suggested. “I’m parched.”

  Freeman readily agreed, and they skirted the edge of the ballroom floor, careful to avoid the exuberant turns of one youthful set of dancers, until they reached the refreshments table. A footman stood sentry in front of an enormous silver bowl, doling out his bounty into tiny crystal cups. At Lysander’s request, he ladled some of the pinkish liquid into two cups and passed them over with an impassive look.

  They strolled away, sipping the punch, which was tepid and sweet. Lysander glanced at Adam, who was wrinkling his nose.

  “Not to your taste?”

  “Not really. I’d rather have something stronger.”

  “Well, if you can bear another hour of this, we could respectably make our apologies and go and find you something a little more to your taste.”

  “That sounds—intriguing.” Amusement gleamed in Freeman’s warm gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Lysander felt a betraying heat stain his cheeks and wasn’t sure why he was blushing.

  He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “We could go back to MacGill’s,” he said. “They keep a good cellar.”

  Freeman caught his eye and held it. “So do I.”

  For a moment, Lysander just stared at him. Was Freeman inviting Lysander to his house? His stomach lurched with mingled nerves and excitement as his mind raced as to how to respond. But already he’d paused too long. Freeman’s gaze shifted away.

  “I don’t mind, though,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter where we go, so long as I don’t have to dance.”

  Disappointment gripped at Lysander. He was suddenly quite sure he’d missed a fumbling attempt at . . . something. Something he’d regret letting pass him by.

  “You don’t get away that easily,” he said.

  Freeman glanced at him, uncertain. “Sorry?”

  “Dancing,” Lysander explained. “I’m determined you’ll dance at least once before we leave. Melly told me there’s a waltz soon. Nothing could be easier than a waltz, I assure you.”

  “If you think I’m about to make a fool of myself on the ballroom floor—”

  “Of course not—I’ll teach you first.”

  “Oh really? And where is this lesson to take place, pray tell?”

  “There’s a balcony that looks out over the garden,” Lysander said. “Lady Prentice has the house locked up tight to ensure none of the young ladies get compromised, but we’ll be allowed to go out. Come on.”

  He took Freeman’s punch cup from his unprotesting fingers and strode away, leaving Freeman to follow. Depositing the still-full cups on the refreshment table, he edged his way back around the ballroom to the balcony doors on the other side. An attentive footman stood in front of them, guarding against the possibility of a young lady being enticed outside by an ardent gentleman.

  “We’re going to take a bit of air,” Lysander informed the footman. The servant looked faintly surprised and glanced around uncertainly. No doubt he’d been warned by his mistress that on no account was any young lady to be allowed to slip out—but since there were no young ladies asking, nor any sign of his mistress, eventually he nodded and opened one of the doors, holding it open for the two men to exit before closing it softly behind them.

  It was cool outside, and the darkness was soft, the gardens below the balcony nothing more than whispering shadows. There was a little more light on the terrace, though not much. The only illumination came from the lines of candlelight limning the edges of the window drapes. It was precious little, and Lysander found he was glad of it.

  He crossed the terrace and leaned over the stone balustrade, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was a cloudy night, with no sign of the moon or any stars. No one in the gardens below them. He turned and examined the windows—the last thing Freeman needed was someone spying him receiving a dance lesson. The drapes were heavy and undisturbed. In any event, it was so dark out here he doubted anyone in the ballroom could make anything out even if they did peek out.

  As Lysander’s eyes became more used to the lack of light, he was able to see that, although the terrace wasn’t huge, it was long enough and wide enough for a few basic turns. Good.

  Freeman joined him at the balustrade. Their sleeves brushed companionably. Lysander could sense the heat and vitality in Freeman’s body, and it made him want to move closer.

  Desire threatened to break him open—just from this simple, innocent contact. And all he could think was, Was it worth it? Dared he take a risk? Dared he spill his secrets on the balcony floor?

  “It’s nice out here,” Freeman said.

  His voice had a deep, rich tone, and Lysander suspected he would be a good singer. A baritone, probably. He found himself wondering how that voice would sound groaning with pleasure, and had to shift to ease the sudden constriction in his breeches.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s peaceful,” he agreed. “I much prefer it to the ballroom.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Lysander felt rather than saw the other man look at him. He kept his own eyes on the shadowy gardens below them.

  “It reminds me of the country.”

  “You prefer the country, then?”

  “Infinitely. I was supposed to go back to Winterbourne Abbey today, only—” He broke off awkwardly, realising what he’d been just about to say.

  Freeman was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Only you had to stay and show me around, is that it?”

  “It’s been no hardship,” Lysander said truthfully. “I’ve enjoyed today a great deal.”

  “But you were hoping to leave Town?” Freeman didn’t sound annoyed, only curious.

  “Y
es,” Lysander sighed. “If I had my way, I would live in the country. Ideally, I’d manage the Winterbourne estate. But my father—” He broke off, feeling suddenly and intensely sad. Only now did the finality of his father’s words from the day before hit him.

  “Your brother is the heir. He will deal with the estate as he sees fit. Your path in life will be different.”

  He would never have his dream. Another dream, perhaps, but not that one.

  “I recently acquired an estate,” Freeman said, distracting him. “Edgeley Park. It was an impulsive purchase. I am not quite sure what I am going to do with it.”

  Lysander turned his head. “Where is it?”

  “Not far from Town actually. Buckinghamshire. A very pretty little corner of the world. Not that I’ve spent much time there yet.”

  “What made you buy it?”

  Freeman smiled at him. “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps—” He broke off, laughing a little to himself.

  “What?”

  “It will sound whimsical, but—it had been so neglected. I rode round the estate with the agent, and everything was so dilapidated. Every wall was crumbling, every gate broken. The roofs on the buildings were falling in, for God’s sake. I felt as though it . . . needed me.” He laughed again, a little self-consciously. “Those structural things—the walls and buildings—are being put into order now, but I’m at a loss as to what to do with the land. I need to learn about farming.”

  “I envy you,” Lysander said. “I can’t imagine anything more rewarding than putting an estate to rights.”

  Freeman looked right at him then, his eyes searching Lysander’s face. He was so close that Lysander felt the warm gust of his breath, and somehow he knew that Freeman was seeing all his longing, all his secret pain. The things that no one else suspected when they looked at perfect, golden Lysander Winterbourne. A man who seemed to have everything.

  The sudden sound of the small eight-piece orchestra launching loudly into a new, and quite fast, piece of music made them both jump, then laugh at their shared reaction. It broke the odd spell between them, though something warm and intimate remained. They were, perhaps, a step closer to one another in their own singular dance.

  “That’s a waltz,” Lysander observed.

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, it’s the easiest of all to recognise from the music,” Lysander replied. “Listen. One, two, three—one, two, three—one, two, three—one, two, three—” He tapped the rhythm out against stone balustrade.

  He took a step back and opened his arms.

  “Come on,” he said, adding daringly, “I’ll be the woman, if you like.”

  He was accustomed enough to the darkness now that he saw Freeman’s lips twitch at that remark, and his own mouth curved a little in response.

  “Now there’s an offer that’s too good to pass up,” Freeman replied. He stepped forward, halting just in front of Lysander. “What do I do?”

  “Stand straight, that’s right, head up. Now, take my hand.” Lysander twitched his right hand imperiously, and Freeman stepped a little closer and obediently took hold of it, his warm fingers enclosing Lysander’s. “Good. Now I place my other hand on your shoulder—”

  “And what do I do with my other hand?”

  Lysander tutted impatiently. “Surely you’ve at least seen someone waltz?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever paid much attention before.”

  “Well, you put your hand on my waist—”

  Freeman’s hand landed on the small of Lysander’s back, firm and warm, scant inches above his arse.

  “Too low,” Lysander managed, though his voice was somewhat strangled. He grabbed Freeman’s hand and moved it up till it rested in the middle of his back. “Here.”

  “Now what?”

  That deep, rich voice again, only this time, it gusted close to Lysander’s ear, making him shiver and hunch one pleasure-pricked shoulder.

  “Now we dance,” he said. “The gentleman’s supposed to lead, of course, but you’ll have to follow me for now. You’ll be confused to start with, but then you’ll see it’s just the same few steps over and over. So—one, two, three—one, two, three—off-we-go—”

  The first few minutes were an utter shambles. Freeman couldn’t seem to predict which way Lysander was going to step at all, and soon they were tripping over each other’s feet and laughing uncontrollably. After a short while, though, Freeman began to pick the simple pattern up.

  “Yes!” Lysander exclaimed as they swept round in a neat circle, and Freeman unerringly set off in the right direction with the correct foot. “That’s it! You’ve got it! Keep going!”

  He did, and they swirled round the terrace a few more times until, soon enough, Freeman wasn’t making any mistakes at all.

  “Well done, you’ve got it,” Lysander said as the music came to a stop. He began to pull away, but Freeman resisted, drawing him even closer than before. So close that their thighs pressed together and Lysander’s mouth went dry.

  He met Freeman’s gaze, and what he saw near stopped his heart. Freeman looked at him with desire and heat and honest admiration. He exposed himself fully with that look, making himself naked and vulnerable.

  Perhaps Lysander’s expression was a mirror of Freeman’s, because the man’s lips curved as his gaze flitted over Lysander’s face. And then he said the impossible.

  “I want to kiss you.”

  Those words turned Lysander’s world on its head. Or perhaps it was just that, finally, the world had been righted, so that the impossible became possible, if only in this moment.

  “Then do it,” Lysander whispered, and the mingled relief and excitement in Freeman’s gaze made his heart clench, hard.

  Lysander was not particularly experienced with kissing—or anything else, truth be told—but Freeman’s lips were warm and mobile, persuasive and delicious, and when he teased at the seam of Lysander’s mouth with the tip of his tongue, Lysander felt ready to come in his breeches. Instead, he opened his mouth, welcoming the surprising intrusion of Freeman’s tongue, helpless to stop the soft groan that escaped him as the slick muscle entwined with his own.

  Adam Freeman was kissing him.

  Adam Freeman was kissing him, and his big, square hands were cupping Lysander’s face, his touch as gentle as any more conventional lover’s. They were kissing and—

  The door to the terrace rattled.

  They sprang apart, staring at one another for a brief, shocked instant before turning to lean over the balustrade again. Just two friends enjoying the cool evening air.

  They greeted the group of middle-aged gentlemen who strolled out to join them a moment later, lingering to converse politely for a few minutes before they returned to the ballroom.

  The chandeliers blazed with candles, banishing the soft, forgiving night, restoring normality. That kiss on the balcony might never have happened. Lysander was once again an ordinary gentleman at a ball. Here to dance with lovely young ladies and drink weak, tepid punch. The world was back on its usual axis.

  Except that Adam leaned in and whispered, “How soon can we leave?”

  And Lysander replied, breathlessly, “When the supper dance starts. No one will notice if we leave quietly.”

  It was, as Lysander had anticipated, an easy time to escape. Their hosts were at their busiest, and the rest of the guests were either thronging the ballroom floor or going to the refreshment room early. They slipped away, collecting their coats and hats on the way out.

  Once they were outside, standing on the street, Freeman looked at Lysander. “What now, then? Your club?”

  Lysander shook his head, swallowing hard against the nervous lump in his throat. “How about your house? I’m told the wine cellar rivals MacGill’s . . .”

  Freeman’s house was very grand. Larger by far than the Winterbourne townhouse. Simon had rented it for him, for the whole season.

  Freeman dismissed the footman who’d opened the door to them, telling the man
to take himself off to bed. Then he led Lysander upstairs to his private apartments.

  “I spend most all my time up here,” he said. “The house is far too large for one man. I don’t know what Simon was thinking of.”

  “Don’t you?” Lysander prompted, his tone dry.

  “I suppose I do,” Freeman sighed. “It’s an illustrious address. In truth, I’d’ve been as happy in a hotel.” He glanced at Lysander over his shoulder. “Though I must say I’m glad of the privacy this evening.”

  When they reached the top of the second flight of stairs, Freeman turned off onto a narrow corridor.

  “Here we are,” he said, opening a door and holding it open for Lysander to precede him.

  Lysander walked into a comfortable gentleman’s sitting room. A few leather armchairs were grouped about a low table. On the table, on a silver tray, a crystal decanter of wine gleamed in the candlelight like a great ruby.

  Lysander stepped into the middle of the room and turned.

  “This is nice.”

  Freeman looked around as though that hadn’t occurred to him before now. Then he glanced at Lysander again and smiled. “Would you like some wine?”

  Not really.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He watched as Freeman poured the wine, accepting the glass he offered with murmured thanks. He took an obligatory sip and stood there, in the middle of the room, unsure how to move things forward now.

  He decided to be frank.

  “May I ask you something?”

  Freeman smiled. “Of course.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  Freeman studied him for several moments. “I have, yes,” he said. “Many times. Have you?”

  Lysander’s face flushed so hard he was sure he must be scarlet. God, he was stupid! Why had he blurted out such a thing? Freeman was experienced, while he was near enough a virgin. This was humiliating.

  Freeman saw his embarrassment. His expression softened with something—sympathy—that Lysander found unbearable, and he looked away, his pride smarting.

  “Winterbourne—” Freeman said, then stepped closer, adding with gentle emphasis, “Lysander—”