A Minor Inconvenience Read online

  They returned to the ballroom to find the cotillion over and Sophia seated once more, a glass of ratafia in her hand. Once he had presented Miss Williams to Sophia, he asked about her dance partner.

  “That was Colonel Lindsay,” she said carelessly. “He is just back from the war and was interested to hear of you and James. I mentioned you were here, so perhaps he might seek you out if he is not too busy dancing. He is a very charming and graceful partner, so I am sure he will be much in demand, even if he is a trifle old.”

  Hugh had already seen that the man was graceful; the discovery that Colonel Lindsay was charming did not somehow surprise him. He also knew that anyone above the age of twenty-five was considered old by Sophia. The figure he had seen had the appearance of a man of action who was in his early thirties, five years or so older than Hugh himself, who teetered on the edge of what Sophia might consider acceptable rather than a completely ancient decrepit.

  Leaving Sophia to talk ribbons and lace with Miss Williams, Hugh did his duty, circling the room to be introduced as necessary, although no one could fail to notice he was scarcely in demand these days. It gave him the opportunity to search for the dark green uniform, but to no avail. Neither was any sign of Colonel Lindsay to be found in the card room nor the supper room. The only comfort to be found was in Stanton’s absence, meaning that as the evening wore on, Hugh felt he no longer needed to watch over Sophia but could retreat to the quieter atmosphere of the card room, where he was drawn into a game of whist. Although that passed the time tolerably, he was thankful when his mama and Sophia finally decided they had enjoyed enough merriment for one evening and that it was time to return home.

  He was not looking forward to the carriage ride because he knew Sophia would be disappointed by Stanton’s failure to appear. As it happened, he was mistaken—Miss Williams had turned out to be a wonderful companion and Sophia was certain they would soon be the best of friends, and her pleasure at that thought seemed to banish all thoughts of Stanton. As Sophia chattered gaily, Hugh tried to drive from his mind the recurring image of a powerful body in a Rifles uniform. He was not entirely successful.

  Chapter Two

  Hugh came slowly awake, aware of wind-blown rain rattling against the window of his room and a fire burning brightly in the grate. He pulled the bedclothes higher over his shoulders and sighed contentedly. It was impossible not to think of how fortunate he was to be back in England, with all the comforts of home around him. Even the steady ache from his leg wasn’t enough to outweigh being warm, dry and clean, in a comfortable bed and not surrounded by hundreds of men, at least half of whom at any one time were struck down with some sort of fever or other illness. Hugh had been fortunate enough to escape the privations of most of those illnesses. The only time a bad fever took him was after he had been injured, one of his lower leg bones smashed into pieces by a musket ball. Had the ball broken both bones, or had it been but inches higher, the surgeon would have taken his leg and with it, in all probability, his life.

  He turned over in the bed, and that was when his leg made its unhappiness with the previous evening’s events fully known to him. He hissed and froze, willing the pain to die down. It always did eventually. It wasn’t this bad all of the time. He could walk some distance without difficulty, but stairs caused him hardship, and standing for most of a very long night had been a further ordeal. He could have seated himself in the ballroom, but a sense of pride had stopped him, for he refused to be watched by gossiping members of the ton having to struggle clumsily from his chair. At Horse Guards, where they were used to relics of war, most people seemed not to notice. That was one of the things he liked most about his duties there. Other aspects, however, were beginning to cause him concern, and he hoped that James would be granted leave soon so that he might discuss those with him.

  Hugh was certain that it was due to George’s contacts in the War Office that he’d been given the position at Horse Guards when it became clear he could no longer fight. At first he’d been pleased he could continue in the war against Napoleon, but four months after having first reported to Horse Guards, he was no longer sure that what he was set to do was as helpful as he had originally imagined. Headquarters seemed to be waging their own war against Wellington, placing officers according to seniority rather than competence and approving leave requests without any reference to Wellington’s requirements. As he rose from his bed to dress before reporting to Horse Guards, he hoped yet again that he was mistaken in thinking that to be the case.

  …

  That afternoon, he was alone in the office he shared with a captain in the 52nd Foot, compiling a list of leave requests for Colonel Dalrymple.

  A drawling voice interrupted his concentration. “Fanshawe, must you really report at such an ungodly hour in the day? It makes the rest of us look such frippery fellows.”

  He looked up to see Captain Francis Courtenay leaning in the doorway, regarding him plaintively. Courtenay unpeeled himself from the doorframe. “But I should not complain. I expect you have discharged at least half of this office’s work already, leaving me at a loose end.”

  Hugh blinked down at the paperwork on his desk and realised it was true. He’d had a very definite need for distraction today, because whenever he allowed his mind to wander, thoughts of a strong yet graceful figure in a Rifles uniform kept intruding.

  He split the paperwork on his desk into two piles and pushed one of them towards Courtenay. “I would not deprive you further for the world.”

  “Damn it, Fanshawe. There’s no need to be quite so literal, you know.”

  “I know,” Hugh said. “But it amuses me.”

  Courtenay snorted as he picked up the pile of papers and transferred them to his own desk, situated on the other side of their office. “You are too easily amused, it seems to me. You need more excitement in your life.”

  “I don’t know how I could bear any greater excitement than leave requests,” Hugh said. “Truly. They render me positively giddy.”

  “You should come with me one night to Covent Garden. I warrant you would learn there what excitement really means.”

  Hugh cursed the slight blush that he knew rose to his cheeks, and which caused Courtenay to laugh at him. He was no innocent—he had been to more than one bawdy house in his time, but since Spain, something had changed. He knew precisely what it was. He did not, however, know what to do about it.

  Busying himself with the top sheet of the papers that remained in front of him, Hugh found himself staring unseeingly as he attempted to quiet the restlessness that Courtenay’s careless words had set loose in him again, mixing thoughts of carnal pleasure with those of the Rifles colonel from last night. It left him unsettled and wanting.

  While campaigning, he had stayed clear of the camp followers, knowing the risks of disease and not seeming to possess the same appetite as other men that drove them to frequent indulgence. He never had been that way; sometimes it worried him that he was different, yet being so saved him from spending his pay on whores from whom he might get the pox, so he failed to see it as too grave a disadvantage.

  What had happened at Albuera had changed that. It had changed everything. The battle had been the very worst of all the battles he had been in. It still haunted him sometimes, the sight of whole regiments slaughtered, lying dead in their ranks as they had stood, and the horrible, bloody fate of the Light Brigade in a wild hailstorm that had come from the very depths of Hell.

  Three days after the battle, three days of bringing in the dead who seemed to outnumber the living, of hearing the screams of men beneath the surgeons’ saws, he was half-mad with the need for it to stop, for a distraction, for the comfort of another living person. He had visited one of the ramshackle tents that the camp followers had erected, and had no problem making his wishes known. A dark-haired woman, who told him her name was Maria, had taken him to her own musty-smelling tent, which had water stains ar
ound the seams and looked as if it was home to many more than just her. He had held her close to him, feeling the press of her breasts under her chemise against his uniform and the curve of her hips beneath his hands. He had buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes as he breathed deep and slow, willing everything else away.

  He’d opened his eyes again in confusion when she pulled back gently. When he would have asked, she placed a finger on his lips and called quietly for someone named Danilo. A young man had come to her call, with curly hair and smiling brown eyes, and to Hugh’s consternation he had found himself taken by the wrist by Danilo and led into the woods behind the camp.

  He would not normally have acceded so quietly or easily to he knew not what, but his heart was thundering, the blood rushing through his veins so loud he fancied anyone within five miles could hear it. When the young man stopped, he turned to Hugh and stepped in close, his breath gusting softly against Hugh’s neck as he pressed his body close. At the feel of him, Hugh’s breath shuddered out of him in something close to a groan.

  Danilo had let go of his wrist, placing one hand on Hugh’s chest where the pounding of his heart seemed likely to shake him apart, and his other hand glanced over the fall of his breeches. Hugh had been unable to suppress his moan at the light touch where he needed it so badly. Danilo said something in Spanish and unfastened Hugh’s breeches before going to his knees.

  It had taken no time at all for things to be over, for Hugh to be fastening his breeches again and giving Danilo some coins before staggering dazedly back to his bivouac. Any mouth on him would have been enough with how he had felt that night, but the way his entire body had reacted, the jolt that had gone through him at the feel of Danilo’s hard, very male body pressed to his, left him confused and overwhelmed. The world was falling apart around him, wrenched end from end and put back in a way that could never be the same again, because that was what he wanted. And he wanted more of it.

  After that, he had gone looking for Danilo several times. He began to notice some of his fellow soldiers in that way, though he quickly schooled himself into not doing so. As he watched the world around him with new eyes, he became aware that there were several boys like Danilo among the camp followers, and that trysts between soldiers, if not precisely commonplace, took place often enough for it to be known.

  On his return to London, however, everything changed. It was not only that such a thing was not acknowledged anywhere in polite company, but that indulging in the vice carried with it severe risks. He had put from his mind all thought of being with another in that way, for it was not worth what might follow. But then there had been that damned Rifles officer. Strength and beauty had been in every line of his body, leading Hugh to wish for nothing more than to be held down by him and—

  Well, he was not entirely sure what else would happen, but he knew that he would enjoy it.

  From conversations in which his men had regularly engaged, he was intimately familiar with the areas of London in which whores, both male and female, might be bought either for money or for wine, and he had also heard jokes about the molly houses in the Strand and St George’s Fields. He attempted to put those thoughts from his mind, for he knew the potential for disaster should he weaken and yield to those longings.

  But as the afternoon wore on, the idea took hold of Hugh. It would not let him go even as he dined alone in his chambers, his usual practice. The need he felt grew increasingly insistent as he dipped rather more deeply than usual into the Tokay he favoured with his dinner now that French wines were no longer allowed. Once he had drained a third glass of port, he found his decision had been made. His only other option was to continue as he had been, with no relief save from his hand and no intimacy, ever. Danilo, and the others who had followed, had scarcely been intimate, but still it had been less lonely, having someone with whom to share the act.

  Two hours and several more glasses of port later, Hugh hesitantly pushed open the door to a coffeehouse on the Strand, unsure if he was in the right place. He thought perhaps not, for he entered into a small vestibule in which there were two men who reminded him in stature and manner of prizefighters.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” Hugh said. “I was not quite sure— I was— That is to say…” As he stammered into nothingness, he wondered what had happened to the captain who was accustomed to commanding an entire company and leading his men confidently into battle.

  He found himself the object of close scrutiny before one of the men jerked his head at the door beyond the vestibule. “On you go, then.”

  Perhaps this was the right place after all. Hugh’s heart was thumping as he pushed open the door, and all doubt vanished.

  “Step in, boy, and let the door close,” he was adjured.

  He did so automatically, because his brain was no longer functioning. What seemed at first glance like a usual coffeehouse, the air filled with tobacco smoke and overly loud conversations amid raucous laughter, was the furthest thing from a usual coffeehouse he could possibly imagine. There were men seated close beside one another, closer than he had ever seen before. Some were touching one another, and others… Others were kissing.

  He looked away in confusion, only for his eyes to fall on a gentleman dressed in a rose-pink gown, seated upon another man’s lap. He was not just allowing the hands that slid beneath the dress, but he was positioning himself to welcome them. Hugh’s stomach swooped at the sight, and he looked away, his eyes fastening on the fire which burned so brightly in the fireplace, making the room uncomfortably warm. It was the only safe thing here. He was not able to recover his equilibrium before a fellow with a quizzing glass approached him, impertinently eyeing him up and down and providing his companions with a running commentary on what he found so interesting in the spread of Hugh’s coat across his shoulders and the fit of his pantaloons.

  Hugh did not know what to do—one instinct told him to retreat, yet he knew this might be his only chance to find what he wanted. He stood frozen, torn between looking at everything, and at nothing, and then something drew his attention to a corner he had not yet dared look towards.

  A man was leaning against the wall, his arms folded as he watched Hugh. Not that this was a particular novelty, for many of the occupants of the coffeehouse appeared to be observing him and deriving amusement from watching him flounder, but this man… His grey eyes were steady on Hugh’s face, and it was as if he were stripping Hugh of all he was, seeing right inside him. His dark hair was swept back from his face, his lips were slightly parted, and it hit Hugh with the force of a cannonball that he wanted this man, he wanted to touch him and feel him and to have those lips on his body. And then he saw how perfect he was, the strength and grace and power that was his, and he remembered all over again about his leg.

  He ducked his head and blindly pushed his way back to the door—he didn’t know how it was he had come so far into the room—and out into the damp night air.

  Chapter Three

  The next day, Captain Fanshawe did not put Captain Courtenay to shame by the time of his arrival at Horse Guards. In fact, Captain Fanshawe had arrived mere minutes before Captain Courtenay, and he still had not done so much as look at the papers on his desk. His head pounded and his stomach was delicate from the amount of brandy he had drunk on his return to his chambers last night in a desperate attempt to forget the entire humiliating experience. He had also sought to drive from his mind the images that haunted him, of men kissing one another, their hands roaming under one another’s clothes, and those grey eyes that had seen everything. But no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to forget.

  He groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Another thrilling night on the marriage mart at Almack’s?” Courtenay’s mocking tones announced his arrival. “I cannot conceive how you bear such excitement.”

  Hugh rubbed his hands over his face and looked up.

  “Good God.” Cou
rtenay stared at him. “Do you mean to tell me that Captain Dutiful was in his cups last night? And I was not invited to observe such a spectacle? I am cut to the quick, Fanshawe.” He put a hand to his wounded heart.

  Hugh simply shook his head dismissively, waited for the resulting nausea to subside, then bent his attention to the papers that awaited him.

  Working through them for the next few hours gave him a chance to recover somewhat from his delicate state, and by the time a knock sounded at the door, he was almost restored. That state of affairs lasted until he glanced up, and then he clambered swiftly to his feet and stood at attention, sure he swayed slightly as the blood rushed from his brain to leave him light-headed, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst from his chest.

  There was an officer standing in the doorway. An officer with a brow that was high and noble, a jawline that was clean and strong, lips that were neither too full nor ungenerous and penetrating grey eyes. The officer returned Hugh’s regard for a moment, with a suggestion of amusement in his face, and then sauntered into the office. As his gaze left Hugh to survey Courtenay, Hugh had the opportunity to take in the full effect of his powerful yet lean body, shown to advantage by the uniform he wore. The dark green uniform of the Rifles. Hugh swallowed and wondered if he had poisoned himself with too much brandy and would soon be dead after such vivid fever dreams.

  “Colonel Theo Lindsay, 95th Rifles,” he said. “No need to stand, gentlemen. I am merely seeking a diversion while I await the Adjutant General’s pleasure.”

  Hugh swallowed again and blindly felt his way back down into his seat, unable to take his eyes from the colonel. Surely it could not be… Surely he must be mistaken, his thoughts of the man from last night meaning he saw similarities where there could be none. This was Sophia’s partner from the ball, and that was what had caused the jolt of recognition. Yet something deep inside him knew otherwise.