The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting Read online

  That was frank, almost disarmingly so. Hart wasn’t quite sure where it left them. “So you owe a debt of honour that you can’t pay,” he said, returning to the main point.

  “Indeed.”

  “You understand the consequences of that.”

  “Of course I do. I would prefer to avoid disgrace as far as possible, to avoid embarrassing others.”

  “Is that a threat to Alice?”

  “What? No, of course not.” Loxleigh sounded slightly testy. “I mean my sister.”

  “Your...” Hart hadn’t given a thought to Miss Loxleigh, or her campaign to snare Tachbrook, but if Loxleigh were drummed out of his club for non-payment of a debt of honour, that would inevitably sway the self-important marquess. “Yes. Miss Loxleigh’s aspirations will suffer along with your reputation.”

  “And she has done you no wrong, so she should not pay the price for my folly. You’ve won, Sir John. You hold my and my sister’s fates in your hand, and there is very little I can do about it because I cannot pay that debt. Hence, I’m hoping we can come to an agreement.”

  An agreement was exactly what Hart wanted, and if Loxleigh proposed it, so much the better. He might renounce his pretensions to Alice more willingly if it was his idea to do so. Hart leaned back in his chair, and gave the man a long look. “So if you don’t have the money, what do you propose to offer me instead?”

  Loxleigh’s eyes snapped to his, widening sharply. Hart didn’t understand why for a second, and then realisation dawned with a dizzying rush of blood to the head. He opened his mouth to say, Christ, no, I didn’t mean that! but somehow the words wouldn’t come as he stared at Loxleigh’s wide hazel eyes, his parted lips.

  Neither spoke, and every second that ticked by made it more impossible to recant, carved the meaning deeper into stone. Hart’s pulse was thudding. The air felt thick.

  After a very long moment, Loxleigh broke the silence. “You suggest I pay my debt another way. Well. That is an idea, Sir John. A fascinating idea.”

  “I am making no sort of demand on you.” Hart’s lips felt oddly stiff.

  “Oh, naturally not,” Loxleigh said. “Not a demand, that wouldn’t be fair. Shall we say, a gentleman’s agreement? A matter of business, entirely between you and me.”

  His lips were curving. Hart couldn’t stop looking at his mouth. He couldn’t think for the blood roaring in his ears.

  Loxleigh cocked his head. “Well? Are we negotiating a...private arrangement?”

  No. Say no, tell him you want the money. Say no now.

  Even better, make Loxleigh be the one to voice it. Let him make an offer that Hart could refuse with outrage, or of course accept if he’d misread the situation entirely and Loxleigh had something entirely different in mind. He swallowed. “What do you suggest?”

  “I think we should probably specify the terms first,” Loxleigh said. “For avoidance of doubt.”

  “Go on.” The words came out roughly.

  “The forgiveness of the whole debt, all four thousand two hundred and whatever. Easy come, easy go. And I want your word that you will not impede my sister, directly or through me, by act, word, or complication.”

  “I don’t give a damn for your sister. For her aspirations, I mean. She can marry a dozen marquesses for all I care.”

  “One will do,” Loxleigh said. “If you ask me, Tachbrook is more than enough. Are my terms acceptable?”

  “As far as they go. And you will break things off with Alice. Leave her alone.”

  “I should rather let her break things off with me, as a matter of courtesy. And she may wish to remain on civil terms, since she likes my sister. I’ll promise you I won’t marry her, or cause her any form of harm: will that suffice?”

  It would avoid a fuss and please Edwina, Hart thought through the haze in his brain. “I don’t want you embarrassing her in any way.”

  “I won’t. I really wouldn’t want to.”

  “Then those are the terms. What’s your offer?”

  “Why, whatever you want,” Loxleigh said softly. “Exactly as you want it.”

  “You—”

  “Me.” He breathed the word. It tingled through Hart’s skin. “Myself. Entirely at your disposal for...shall we say a month?”

  Oh Christ, he did mean it. Hart hadn’t misread things; the flaring heat between them that he’d felt at the fishpond hadn’t just been his imagination. He could actually truly have this.

  It had been more than a year since his last furtive encounter, four since he’d been with a man whose name he knew. Loneliness and lust ignited together, like brandy thrown onto flame, and sucked all the air from his lungs.

  He was still a tradesman, though. “You rate your charms highly. A thousand a week?”

  “It is, isn’t it. A thousand a week.” Loxleigh’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Might that make me the most expensive fuck in London?”

  Hart nearly swallowed his tongue. He had to clear his throat before he could say, “If not, you wouldn’t be far off.”

  “But worth it. Anything you want. Whenever and wherever and especially however. At your pleasure. Starting now.”

  Christ. This was unconscionable and outrageous, and his cockstand was pushing painfully against his breeches. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. It had been so long, and Loxleigh was beautiful, and he’d desired him from the first moment he’d seen him.

  He ought not do this. Obviously he ought not. But it was Loxleigh’s idea, and four thousand pounds was no negligible sum to forgive, and mostly words like ‘wrong’ and ‘stupid’ held a lot less power in this moment than ‘anything’ and ‘now’. Still, there was something he could not ignore. “You spoke of my pleasure,” he managed. “What about yours?”

  Loxleigh raised a quizzical brow. Hart glared at him. “I’ve no interest in a partner who finds me repulsive.”

  “Repulsive?” Loxleigh echoed, sounding somewhat startled.

  “Unappealing, then, or what you will. I don’t want an unwilling man, does that make it clearer?”

  “Entirely. You needn’t worry about that.”

  “I want a proper answer. Not fine words.”

  Loxleigh’s brows tilted to a frown. “Did I offer any?” His gaze flickered over Hart’s face, then slid down his chest and lower, the kind of blatant assessment Hart had never been subjected to in his life. It had to be a performance, but it was a bloody good one. “Are you really asking if I want those thighs of yours wrapped round me? I’m quite sure we settled that question last night, just before you took me for four thousand pounds like a hopeless flat. You could have taken me over the table instead, and saved us both a lot of effort.”

  Christ almighty, he sounded—truly sounded—like he meant it. Hart wanted to believe him so much it ached. He gathered the shreds of his composure together. “If that’s the case, shouldn’t you pay me?”

  Loxleigh snorted with real amusement. “I would, but for some reason I find myself financially embarrassed at the moment. Quite seriously, Sir John, I assure you I don’t grudge this. I’ll enjoy making sure you get your money’s worth.”

  “You seem very certain of that.”

  “Of course I am. Modesty aside.” Loxleigh’s lips curved. “But naturally you don’t care to buy a pig in a poke. Why don’t I demonstrate?”

  Hart couldn’t find words. Loxleigh clicked his tongue. “Come on, you pride yourself on being a plain-spoken man. Tell me what you want and let’s see if I can give it to you.”

  He swallowed. “Show me that you’re willing.”

  “How?”

  “You choose.”

  Loxleigh paused for a couple of seconds, head cocked in thought, then he leaned back in the armchair. “We’re alone, yes? Won’t be interrupted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He settled himself, legs sprawled, and ran his hand—that clever card-sharp hand—over the front of his pantaloons, where there was a notable bulge. “You want to know
I’m willing. Willing to get on my knees and suck your prick, for example. Would you like me to do that at some point?”

  “Get on,” Hart rasped.

  “I talk, you listen? All right. Where were we? Me, swallowing you down. Maybe at some society event, a ball, perhaps, you might give me the nod—not in the ballroom, of course, though could you imagine? If I dropped to my knees there and then? Because I would, you know, given the choice; I’d let them all see your cock between my lips with pleasure. But, things being as they are, you’d tell me to meet you upstairs. Me, in my best clothes—not paid for, but you know that, don’t you?—sliding down in front of you. You’d already be hard, I think. Excuse me.”

  He flicked the buttons that secured the front fall of his breeches. Hart watched, barely able to breathe, as he pushed cloth aside and bared the thick flesh of his stand, leaving it untouched, entirely visible to Hart’s gaze.

  “You wanted to see willing,” he murmured. “Is this willing enough? Because I’ll be this willing as I suck you, with the music and chatter below us hiding the noises I make as you hold my hair and fuck my mouth. Driving it in, bringing tears to my eyes.” He wrapped his fingers round his erection, moving them up and down. “And you can tell I’m fumbling for my own prick, tossing myself off as I suck you, and you say, ‘Stop.’”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you want me to go downstairs with your taste in my mouth and an unslaked prick of my own, so hard I can barely do my breeches up and it hurts to move. You want to make me spend the rest of the evening thinking of nothing but the ache between my legs.” Loxleigh’s hand slid up and down his prick, caressing it faster. “So when you tell me to come back here, you’ll know I’m in a fever for release. And that way you can take your pleasure with me squirming and begging for it—”

  “Stop.”

  Loxleigh snatched his hand away. The sense of power was overwhelming, sending a shock to Hart’s groin. The moment stretched out—Loxleigh bared, shamelessly aroused, prick glistening at the tip, red with friction; Hart stiff in his armchair in every way.

  “Come here.” His voice didn’t sound like his own.

  Loxleigh rose, and walked over, standing before him, apparently unconcerned by his jutting erection.

  “Turn round.”

  He turned.

  “Sit.”

  “On you?” He didn’t say it as a question, more confirming the order.

  “Yes.”

  Loxleigh sat, putting his considerable weight on Hart’s lap. Hart’s erection pressed against his buttocks. Hart put one arm round his waist, holding him still, and got his other hand to that jutting prick.

  Loxleigh inhaled. “Oh.”

  “Now go on.” Hart began to stroke him, rejoicing in the sensation of firm flesh. It had been far too long since he’d felt one not his own, and Loxleigh’s was sized just right for a big hand, fitting to Hart as if made for him.

  “Where was I? Here, of course, with my cock aching with need, and you tell me, ‘Over the desk.’ No niceties, I wouldn’t expect that. And you take your time, making me tell you how much I want it, making me plead for your prick until you’re deep in me—Christ.”

  “Keep talking.” Hart’s fingers were slick with moisture now, with Loxleigh aroused and leaking. He moved his hand faster.

  “Oh God. And I say, fuck me, please, and you ask me, what are you, and I tell you I’m your thousand-a-week whore, and you drive into me till I cry out, and you do it again and again, and fuck—”

  He convulsed on Hart’s lap, thrusting into his hand, hips lifting, tensed stomach muscles straining against Hart’s encircling arms. Hart tightened his grip and firmed his fingers, until he felt a last dribble of hot wetness against them, and Loxleigh moaned and slumped back against his chest.

  Hart’s blood was thumping, and he felt almost dizzy with the unreality of it. Loxleigh had talked more in that one fantastical encounter than the sum total of words Hart had had from every partner of his life. He’d had no idea anyone could be so exuberantly, vocally unashamed. He wanted more.

  “Thousand-a-week whore?” he said in Loxleigh’s ear.

  “The thought occurred to me.” Loxleigh sounded rather breathless. “I have a vivid imagination.” He resettled himself on Hart’s lap, a deliberate movement that made it impossible to ignore his own insistent need. “Talking of which, what might you be imagining now?”

  “Wait,” Hart said. “The terms. My niece and your sister to both go about their respective businesses unmolested by action, word, or implication. The debt fulfilled after one month. Or four weeks?”

  “A calendar month is fair. This day next month.”

  “And—” He had to clear his throat. “You, uh, at my disposal until then.”

  “Entirely.”

  This didn’t feel so much like a primrose path to destruction as an open gate clearly signed ‘Calamity This Way’. But it was too late now. It might have been too late for a long time, and there was no point pretending he would refuse. “We have a bargain.”

  “I’d offer to shake your hand,” Loxleigh said. “Unless you’d prefer me to seal the agreement another way?”

  Hart let go the softening prick he held. “My hand is a little sticky.”

  “Let me help with that.” Loxleigh leaned forward, taking the fingers in his mouth, tongue and lips sliding up and down. Licking off his own spend. Hart felt his balls clench at the thought, while his fingers tingled at the ministrations. He wanted—

  And he could have it, whatever it was, for the asking. Those were the terms, and at a thousand a week, he was entitled to make full use of them. As if he had the first idea how.

  “How do you—we—proceed?” he found himself asking.

  “However you please. Talk to me. The more you tell me what you like, the better I can fulfil it.”

  “And if you don’t care for it?”

  Loxleigh gave a tiny shrug, as if that were irrelevant. Hart scowled, fruitlessly since he could see only the back of Loxleigh’s head. “Well?”

  “Do you want me to tell you that?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “If you like.”

  “I mean it, curse you. I don’t wish to be constantly wondering if you’re wishing you were elsewhere.”

  Loxleigh twisted round to look at his face, then shrugged. “All right, you have my word I will tell you if anything is not to my liking. Though don’t expect it, honestly: I have extremely catholic tastes. That’s with a small c. Not, you know, the Pope. I’d object to that.”

  Hart spluttered. Loxleigh resettled his seat on Hart’s lap to ease the strain on his neck. It brought their faces so close they could have kissed. “I can see you mean it, and your consideration is appreciated, but really, you needn’t fear you’re forcing anything on me. I like to fuck, and you must have noticed I wanted you. To be quite honest, I think I’ve got the best of this bargain.”

  Hart stared at him, the bright eyes, the curved, full lips. “Are you enjoying this situation?”

  “Shouldn’t I be? I mean that,” he added. “If you’d prefer reluctant submission, or a struggle—”

  “No!”

  Loxleigh lifted his thumb to brush Hart’s jawbone. “You don’t play much, do you?”

  “I play piquet.”

  “Don’t remind me.” His thumb moved up, stroking Hart’s heavy scowling brows. “Very, very serious.”

  Hart caught his hand. They stared each other. Loxleigh’s brow lifted in a question. “You don’t want to be touched?”

  Oh God, he wanted it, painfully, as a marooned man wanted water. “I—”

  He shut his eyes. This was ludicrous. He’d bought, or at least rented, this man for a month: he ought to feel strong and in control, rather than exposed and afraid. It was absurd to be trembling at a tender touch; that was not what this was. He wanted another taste of the power he’d felt when Loxleigh had responded to his words.

  “You’re here for my pleasure,” he sai
d, voice rattling in his throat. “So pleasure me.”

  He still had his eyes shut so he didn’t see Loxleigh’s expression, but he felt the swift, sinuous movement as the man slid off his lap. The hands that ran up the insides of his thighs, the fingers that ran over his arousal, still covered by cloth, then nimbly unfastened his breeches.

  He had to look when Loxleigh’s fingers curled round his prick. He didn’t know what he’d see on his face, and couldn’t help but fear, for all Loxleigh’s fine words. If it was reluctance, resignation, disgust, he ought to know it.

  He opened his eyes. Loxleigh was examining his member with both brows up. The hazel eyes flicked to his, and all Hart saw in them was a wicked, laughing glint that set off a bubble of lightness in his chest.

  “Maybe I should be paying you,” Loxleigh said. “Good heavens.” He leaned forward to take Hart in his mouth.

  It was superb. He hadn’t had this in far too long, and Loxleigh was good at it, using lips and tongue, the very edges of teeth, even the roof of his mouth to bring Hart to a toe-curling ecstasy of sensation. His hands were on Hart’s thighs, holding the meat of them, so he used only his lips, slowly sliding up and down, warm and wet. He pleasured Hart till his muscles were rigid with anticipation, slowly bringing him close to the edge and keeping him there till he could have begged or bellowed for the torture to end, and never wanted it to stop. And then finally he moved faster, the slide of Hart’s prick through tight wet lips creating a delicious friction, and Hart shouted aloud as he spent, jerking and thrusting into Loxleigh’s mouth.

  He let his head flop back against the chair for a moment as he recovered himself, then looked down.

  Loxleigh was still on his knees, arms resting on Hart’s thighs, apparently quite comfortable. He caught Hart’s eye, winked, and swallowed, then drew a pink tongue slowly over his reddened lips.

  Christ.

  They stayed that way in silence for a few moments, only the crackle of the fire and the sound of breathing in the room. Finally Hart said, “What’s your name?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your first name. I can hardly do this for a month without knowing your name.”