Page 10 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne
Chapter 5
“So,” Freeman said,once they were outside, “what time shall I call on you this evening for Lady Prentice’s ball?”
He was back to being stiff and severe again, probably because of that odd moment after their bout. Lysander hadn’t been quite sure what to make of it—sometimes these things happened between men, when they fought. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
But perhaps it did?
He found himself thinking of how Freeman had looked during that spirited battle, the way he’d come to sudden, vivid life, laughing without inhibition, eyes dancing with pure enjoyment as they thrust and parried.
His smile.
It was that more than anything—more than the sight of the man’s stiff member in his tight breeches—that made Lysander’s heart speed up now. That made him suddenly reluctant to part from Freeman and risk losing that tentative connection.
“Why don’t you join me for an early dinner at my club first?”
Freeman had been consulting his pocket watch, but at Lysander’s invitation his gaze snapped up, eyes wide with astonishment—it seemed that Lysander had confounded him again.
“All right.” Freeman sounded a little surprised at his own answer. “That would be pleasant, if you’re quite sure.”
“Of course,” Lysander said easily. “It’s not far. Come on.”
It took less than ten minutes to walk there, and as they approached MacGill’s modest exterior, Lysander glanced to Freeman to gauge his reaction. MacGill’s wasn’t like White’s or Brooks’—it was primarily a sportsman’s club and quite lacking in any splendour. Most of the members were keen horsemen, and many boxed or fenced, like Lysander. When he entered the clubroom with Adam in tow, he felt obliged to warn him what that meant.
“I hope you’re not expecting a stimulating discussion about politics,” he murmured. “The fellows here—well, they don’t talk about much beyond horseflesh and prize fights, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t mind that in the least,” Freeman said. “To be honest, I’d be happy to just sit and have some half-decent burgundy and an early dinner. I’m famished.”
“Very well,” Lysander said, smiling. “We’ll go straight to the dining room.”
It was early yet, and the dining room was quiet. Lysander led Freeman to a table in the corner.
They made easy, if cautious, conversation while they waited for the footman to bring their wine, Lysander telling Freeman about MacGill’s and some of its members, and Freeman offering his first impressions of the place. When the footman returned, he went through the usual ceremony of pouring the wine while reciting the various dishes the chef was offering that evening. They both ordered roast beef—Lysander purely because it was the easiest to remember. He was having difficulty concentrating on what the footman was saying when, in front of him, Freeman was lifting his glass to taste the wine, tipping back his chin to briefly expose the strong, pale column of his throat.
Lysander swallowed and thought again of the man’s unruly erection and what it might’ve meant.
It would be foolish—unforgivablystupid, in fact—to mention it. Lysander had a better sense of self-preservation than that. He’d always been prudent about such things—so much so that, at three-and-twenty, he was almost wholly inexperienced. Yet today, he was tempted. He searched his mind for a way to raise the subject without giving offence, and found none.
“Do you still intend to come to the ball?” he asked instead. “I realise this afternoon wasn’t awfully pleasant ...”
Freeman sighed. “I promised Simon I’d attend everything you asked me to, at least for one day. And I do not give promises lightly.”
“I’ll let you off if you like,” Lysander replied, “But I’d appreciate the company in truth. I promised Melisande Prentice I’d be there. And at least there will be dancing.”
“Dancing?”
Lysander laughed at Adam’s panicked expression. “Well, of course. It’s a ball.”