Page 13 of Enlightened

“I worked hard, but I’m under no illusions. The thing that really made me successful was that I took advantage of all the privileges of my standing. I used my name to open doors and bring others with me. I built and built my fortune till I was satisfied I’d never need the old man again. Then I kept building it. I wanted an estate of my own, one that my father had no connection to. I wanted to be able to buy and sell him.” Murdo glanced at David over one hunched shoulder, revealing a glimmer of vulnerability. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years plotting to get away from him. It’s what this trip to London is all about.”

David opened his mouth to ask what he meant by that—what Murdo planned to do in London—but when he saw the distraught look on Murdo’s face, he stopped himself. Now was not the time to plague Murdo with questions David already knew he was reluctant to answer. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his side against Murdo’s, his hand still resting on the other man’s knee, musing over what Murdo had just told him.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” David murmured at last, turning his head to press a kiss to Murdo’s neck. The scent of bitter orange from Murdo’s hair pomade filled his nostrils, familiar and oddly comforting.

“No need for you to be sorry.”

“I know, but I’m sorry anyway. Sorry I wasn’t there to stop it. I wish I could make it right.”

“So very like you to want to put things right,” Murdo murmured. He turned his head till their eyes met, and his dark gaze was warm with affection. His lips sought David’s, and their mouths moved together in a consoling kiss that had nothing to do with passion.

“David,” he said, when they broke apart. “David.”

He said David’s name like it meant something all on its own.

Like a vow.

Like a promise.

Chapter Five

It was past five o’clock when they reached Murdo’s Queen Street townhouse. Their arrival flustered the housekeeper. She hadn’t expected Murdo till the following day, and now she trailed them to the drawing room, apologising profusely that the bedchambers weren’t ready yet. His Lordship’s was being aired, she said, and she hadn’t realised that Mr. Lauriston would be joining him.

Although that last observation was offered by way of apologetic excuse, David felt an immediate pang of anxiety. Did she think it odd he was here, and unannounced no less?

Murdo, of course, was unconcerned. He brushed the housekeeper’s apologies aside with a careless smile, saying that some tea and scones would occupy them very well while their chambers were made up, if she’d be good enough to see to it.

David watched as she left the room, an upright, starched little woman, nodding sharply at the footman who held the door open for her, as correct as any sergeant major.

David wondered about the footman too. Although the man’s expression was impassive now, David fancied he’d seen a flicker of curiosity there when they had entered the room. Or perhaps he was being ridiculous.

That was entirely possible. He’d been feeling conspicuous all day—as though he had a sign round his neck that declared him to be Lord Murdo Balfour’s lover. It was, after all, the first time they’d gone anywhere together since they’d begun to regularly share a bed. Suddenly, David found himself wondering what expression he wore when he looked at Murdo, whether he was standing too close to him, whether the casual little touches that Murdo bestowed on him—his hand on David’s arm, or at the small of his back—were unexceptional or entirely betraying.

“I’ve been dying to kiss you,” Murdo said now, interrupting David’s train of thought. Although they were alone and the door was firmly closed, David still felt a bolt of panic. His gaze flickered to the only other possible threat—the window—and he stepped back from Murdo’s advance.

“Not here,” he said. “The drapes are wide open.”

Murdo just smiled. “We’re on the second floor, and there are no houses opposite. No one can see.”

“Nevertheless”—David broke off, looking around, a shiver of unease running through him—“anyone could walk in.”

Murdo frowned. “No one walks in on me in my own house. My servants know to knock.”

David didn’t feel reassured. He moved across the room, his cane tapping on the polished parquet floor, to investigate just how private the window was.

It was, of course, as Murdo had said—and as David alreadyknew—entirely private. Just the street below them and, opposite, the broad, green stretch of square after square of private gardens. Not that they looked green right now. Already, it was dusk, and the world was suffused in the half-grey light that prevailed just before full darkness fell. At this time of day, the gardens looked shadowy and vaguely threatening.

Fenced round and locked up tight, these gardens were for the exclusive use of the proprietors of the houses that overlooked them. For some, it was a place to walk and sit, safe from the filth and squalor of the inconvenient poor of the city. There were others, though, who never stepped foot inside the gardens. For them, the gardens were a guarantee of privacy, a protection from anyone building more houses on their doorstep.

If you had enough money, you could protect yourself from most things. You could surround yourself with broad, green stretches.

Even then, though, sooner or later, you had to face the world.

Today David had left the broad, green stretches of Laverock House behind him. It felt different here. Murdo might ignore his servants, but David hadn’t missed their silent, careful interest. They would be speaking about him below stairs now, he was quite sure. The man who had been brought here, injured, months before. The man whose bedside the master had barely left for weeks, and who’d then gone with the master to his new estate in Perthshire.

“They must be wondering about me,” David murmured, turning to meet Murdo’s frowning gaze. “Your servants, I mean.”

“Quite apart from the fact that it’s none of their business, they know who you are. You were here before, after all.”