Page 14 of A Gathering Storm
God, that voice of his. So hoarse and ugly. It didn’t fit how he looked at all. Again Nick felt that deep, disconcerting thrum of attraction. He’d never felt such a profound pull to another person, but Sir Edward Fitzwilliam wasn’t just comely, he had that fierce, elusive spark oflifethat seemed to burn brighter in a very few people. Nick wanted to curse—why this man of all men?
“Mr. Pipp,” Sir Edward said, addressing his servant now. “We’ll take tea and scones in my study.”
“Very good, sir,” the servant said, as Nick made for the staircase.
Nick was absurdly aware of Sir Edward’s gaze on him as he climbed, and he hated how that made him feel, how it made him wonder if the man felt any attraction to Nick in return. As though that was likely.
Sir Edward waited at the top of the stairs, bathed in the sunlight that streamed through the arched windows. He stepped forward as Nick reached the top, offering his hand, gilded by the sun. He was quite a sight, standing there, all golden, and somehow Nick knew this moment was going to become a lifelong memory. Like the way Nick remembered his mother, long, black hair flying as they ran along a windy beach when Nick was small, or Gabe by moonlight in the dunes, his eyes gleaming with lust as he leaned over Nick’s prone body to kiss him.
This memory wouldn’t be of wind or moonlight though. It would be of sunbeams and dust motes dancing. A rich, golden youth, slender and elegant, offering his hand with a confident smile, all easy privilege.
Nick took the offered hand and gave it a quick workmanlike shake before he dropped it.
“Follow me,” Sir Edward said, smiling. “My study’s in the east wing.”
He led Nick to a door off the gallery. “I have my private apartments and laboratory in this wing,” he explained as he preceded Nick down a spacious corridor. Nick stared for a moment at the tight perfection of the man’s arse as he walked, before dragging his gaze up and following.
“Everything was built to my precise specification,” Sir Edward continued. “The other wing has the drawing room, dining room, kitchens, et cetera.” The tiny hand wave he gave as he mentioned the contents of the west wing left Nick in no doubt that Sir Edward had little interest in such tedious details. “Here we are—this is my study.”
He opened a door, then stood aside to allow Nick to pass him.
The study wasn’t at all what Nick had expected. He’d been imagining something like Godfrey’s library: a gloomy room with dark wood furniture and heavy, velvet drapes. But this room, like the hallway, was surprisingly bright and spacious. The walls were the colour of freshly churned butter, the drapes covering the window the yellow-green of the gooseberries that grew in Nick’s garden.
Other than a large walnut desk, a couple of armchairs, and two full walls of bookshelves, the room was curiously sparse. The only decorative object anywhere in the room was a large, beautifully framed photograph of a man in military uniform. He looked very like Sir Edward, though noticeably bigger and more muscular. Nick hadn’t seen many photographs before, and he stared at the picture, fascinated both by its eerie realism and by the similarity of the subject to his host.
“Is this your brother?” Nick asked.
“My twin,” Sir Edward confirmed. “George.”
They didn’t look like twins. Not that there wasn’t an obvious family resemblance between Sir Edward and the man in the photograph, buttwins? The man in the photograph appeared more physically imposing than Sir Edward. Older too, especially with those whiskers he’d been sporting at the time the photograph was taken.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Hearn,” Sir Edward said, his harsh voice making Nick jump. He turned round to find that the man had already taken a seat behind the walnut desk and was gesturing at the comfortable-looking leather armchair on the other side.
Nick sat down, making a conscious effort to mask his immediate irritation at that order disguised as an invitation. No doubt Sir Edward thought he was being the soul of magnanimity, inviting Nick to take tea with him in his private study, but Nick had had a lifetime of sitting on this side of a rich man’s desk, and it bothered him that his first interview with Sir Edward was taking place in these circumstances. His fingers strayed to his silver watch chain, fiddling with the fine links.
“First of all, thank you for coming today,” Sir Edward began. He offered a wide smile, eyes glinting with excitement, plainly eager to begin. Nick tried to ignore his body’s undeniable reaction to the man. Yes, he found him appealing. Who would not? But it was an unwelcome distraction and one he must ignore.
“No need to thank me,” Nick said in the neutral tone he used with old Godfrey. “It’s not as though I had a choice.”
Sir Edward flushed at that, and Nick was reminded of their last encounter down by the mill stream when the man’s cheeks had been stained scarlet with embarrassment almost the whole time, even as he made his outrageous demands. Well, good. Nick was glad he was discomfited, even knowing the cause of his feelings was likely disgust at what he had witnessed between Nick and Gabe, rather than shame over his own actions.
Sir Edward looked away under the guise of reaching across the desk for a notebook. Pulling it towards him, he opened it and leafed through a few closely written pages till he reached a fresh one. Smoothing his hand over the clean, white paper, he cleared his throat—or rather tried to, since, when he ultimately spoke, it was with the same barking intonation as always—and said, “Perhaps we could start with you telling me about your background, Mr. Hearn?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well,” Sir Edward began, slowly, tentatively, “that fellow at the inn said your mother was a Gypsy?”
“Roma,” Nick said flatly. “My mother was Roma. Romany.”
Sir Edward looked up at that, his gaze curious. Today his eyes had a greenish tinge to them, like new wood. Nick frowned at that wayward thought, pressing his lips together into a firm line as though to stop it spilling out.
“I’m sorry, do you not like me referring to your mother as a Gypsy?”
“It’s agadjikaneword.”
“Gadjikane?”
“Non-Roma,” Nick said shortly, annoyed with himself. Why was he telling Sir Edward this? He usually didn’t bother to object to whatever people called him. Had long ago decided that would be a waste of time.