Simply Wicked

12

Anthony pushed open the front door of the shipping office and shut it quickly behind him to keep out the rising wind. The main office was half empty, but Taggart, the manager, was at his desk. He looked up when Anthony reached him, and took off his spectacles.

“You’re in early this morning, sir.”

Anthony removed his hat and gloves. “Miracles do happen, Mr. Taggart, although in truth, I haven’t actually been to bed yet. Is my brother in?”

Taggart polished his spectacles on his handkerchief and nodded. “Yes, indeed he is, sir. Always an early riser, our Lord Valentin.”

“And let’s not forget all his other Godlike qualities either, shall we?” Anthony muttered as he set off past Taggart to his brother’s office, his heart hammering in his chest, his mouth dry. He knocked on the door, heard Val’s muted voice bidding him enter.

His brother sat at his desk, pen in hand, attention fixed on one of the accounting books. Despite the chill in the oak-paneled room, his black coat hung over the back of his chair. He glanced up, irritation clear on his fine-featured face and in his violet eyes.

“What is it, Taggart? Oh, it’s you Anthony.”

“Good morning, Valentin.”

Anthony ignored his brother’s gesture for him to be seated and instead found a spot to plant his booted feet right in front of Val’s desk. Eventually Val looked up at him again.

“Is something the matter?”

“You could say that. I had the misfortune to be cornered by our father last night.”

“Did you?” Val put down his pen and sat back, his expression guarded. “And what did he have to say for himself?”

Anthony set his jaw. “You should know. You bloody well orchestrated it.”

“What are you implying?”

“You told him I would make the perfect estate manager for you.”

“I told him that you had an excellent head for business and that if he needed any help with the books then he should have no hesitation in coming to you.” Valentin shrugged. “If he took that to mean you should be in charge of running the estates, then surely that is a compliment?”

“You are his heir.”

“And I have my own business to run.” Val held his gaze, all traces of amiability gone from his face.

“So I should take on the job until you feel like dabbling in it yourself?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what.” Anthony glared at his brother. “As usual, you get to do whatever you please, and I have to sacrifice what I want to keep you and Father happy!”

Valentin raised one scathing eyebrow. “You don’t know what you want. All you know is how to destroy yourself. I thought that if you knew Father and I believed you could run the estates, it might give you a purpose, a reason to succeed, a way out of this mess you have created.”

Anthony planted his fists on Val’s desk and leaned forward. “How dare you presume to know what I need or what I want? All you care about is yourself. That’s all you’ve ever cared about.”

“And you haven’t?” Val suddenly stood up and faced Anthony. “You’ve spent the last few years trying to kill yourself. Does that show much care for your family or the people who love you?”

“That’s a cheap shot, Val. And let’s be clear on one thing: as far as our father is concerned, I don’t exist. You are his heir; you even have a son to succeed you. I’m just supposed to lie back and do my duty to the family.”

“Devil take it, Anthony, if I could give you the title and all the responsibility that goes with it, I would.”

“Easy to say when it can’t ever happen.”

Val’s eyes flashed. “Now who’s being unfair? I didn’t make up these ridiculous rules about who can inherit what. When I say I’d give it all up for you, I mean it.”

Anthony raised his chin. “Don’t patronize me. I know what you and Father think of me.”

“And what is that?”

“That I’m useless, that I’m a child.”

Val sighed and sat back down. “No, Anthony, that’s what you think about yourself. Don’t try to pretend any differently.”

“I’m twenty-five, Val, I know what I am!”

“Do you really? And what is that?”

“The second son of the second wife of a marquis. A son who should stop complaining and do his duty.”

There was a long silence while Valentin stared at him. “You really have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Anthony.”

“I do not feel sorry for myself.”

Val shrugged. “Then I suggest you make the best of the situation. Prove to me and our father that you are capable of running the estate. In fact, let me make the decision easier for you. I don’t want to see you back here for a month. That should give you enough time to investigate the Stratham estate books and come to a decision.”

Anthony struggled to contain his temper. “If our positions were reversed, is that what you would do, Val?”

“Of course not, but then I am a fool. I live to antagonize my father. You are not like me.” He held Anthony’s gaze. “I’ve watched too many people I care about try to ruin themselves. I’d rather not have to go through it again.”

“Father thinks I’m jealous of you.”

“Are you?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Anthony let out his breath. “How could I be when you have suffered so badly, and I . . .”

Val leaned back in his chair. “You’re not jealous, but I suspect you are angry with me.”

“Surely they are the same thing?”

“Not at all. You’re angry because I involved you with Aliabad.”

Anthony took a step back. “I’m not going to discuss him with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it happened in the past, and it has no bearing on our present disagreement.”

Val got up slowly, his eyes full of concern, yet Anthony still flinched away from him. “That is the most ridiculous thing you have said so far. What happened with Aliabad changed you.”

“I said I did not want to talk about it.”

“But you should.” Val slammed his hand down onto the desk. “Dammit, Anthony, I know how it feels to be forced . . . to be raped . . .”

Anthony turned toward the door as nausea overwhelmed him. “I refuse to discuss this.” He struggled to open the door and felt it shoved shut as Valentin reached him.

“Listen to me,” Val said urgently. “It was not your fault. What happened to you was my responsibility, and you have a perfect right to be angry with me because of it.”

Anthony closed his eyes, leaning his forehead into the harsh wood of the door. “Let me out, Val.”

His brother didn’t move so Anthony did. He managed to push past Val, open the door and escape into the morning.

An hour later, he found himself staring up at the facades of Angelo’s fencing academy and Jackson’s boxing salon, which were conveniently situated next door to each other on Bond Street. He flexed his fingers inside his gloves. Perhaps this was what he needed, the opportunity to pick a fight, to let the rage churning in his gut find a sanctioned “gentlemanly” outlet.

He relinquished the notion of boxing, having seen enough blood for one day, and entered Angelo’s. A portrait of the great Chevalier de Saint-George hung on the opposite wall and seemed to gaze down with a critical eye on the proceedings in the almost empty room below. Anthony nodded at a couple of acquaintances and caught the fencing master’s eye.

“Have you time to take me on this morning?”

“Always, sir.” Henry Angelo bowed with a flourish. “If you would only practice, you could become a master.”

Anthony barely raised a smile at that piece of outright flummery. He headed past the displays of foils and fencing shoes into the back of the house, where he deposited his coat, waistcoat and boots. It was early enough that the vast majority of his peers were still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. After an hour or two of mindless physical activity, he’d feel in a far better position to think about his next move. He walked back into the main salon and headed to the center of the room.

Angelo bowed low as Anthony stepped forward and the master presented Anthony with his favorite foil.

“En garde. Pret. Allez.”

Without thinking, Anthony settled into his fighting stance and crossed blades with the master. Luckily, fencing required his entire concentration, both in body and mind, in a lethal dance of attrition. It also sharpened his senses, made him calculate the risks, the parries, the potential blows.

After a long while, when his arm began to ache and his errors became more frequent, Angelo spoke again.

“Halte.”

Anthony disengaged his blade and bowed again, became aware of the spectators who had gathered around them. Angelo wiped his brow.

“That was excellent, my lord. If you practiced every day, you would be a worthy opponent.”

Anthony nodded. “Thank you.” He turned around and met the familiar derisive gaze of Lord Minshom.

“You are definitely improving, Sokorvsky.”

Anthony started to walk and kept moving, his eyes fixed at some point beyond Minshom. He made it to the deserted changing room, heard the door click shut behind him and spun around. Minshom leaned against the door, his foil dangling in his hand, his expression far too amiable.

“Angelo is right. You could be good at this if you tried. But then you never try, do you?”

Anthony ignored him and looked around for a cloth to wipe his face. He flinched as Minshom’s foil whipped past him, hooked into the white towel and whisked it away.

“I’m leaving, Minshom. Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?”

“Not really.” Minshom smiled, expertly flicked his wrist and drew his blade across Anthony’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. Stinging heat flowered over Anthony’s skin, and he tasted the warm coppery taint of his own blood.

“What the hell was that for?”

“To teach you to pay attention.”

Anthony set his jaw. “And what if I no longer want to pay attention to you? What if I have moved on?”

He winced as Minshom’s blade darted out again and sliced through his shirt, leaving a stark line of red on his chest.

“You haven’t moved on. I haven’t given you permission to.”

Anthony’s hand clenched on the handle of his blade. “Minshom, I’m not in a good mood this morning. I’m also quite sure that I don’t require your permission for anything.”

Minshom’s foil came up, but this time Anthony was ready. Metal rang together and their blades clashed. Too enraged to bother with the niceties of etiquette, Anthony shoved Minshom back against the wall and held him there with the weight of his body.

“I’m going to get changed, go home and have a bath. Now let me get on with it.”

Minshom met his gaze, leaned forward and licked at the blood on Anthony’s chin, then followed a slow salacious path along Anthony’s bloodied lower lip.

“Are you sure about that?”

Anthony dropped his foil and jerked his head away from Minshom. He froze as the other man ran his fingers down the wound in his chest. His blood was on Minshom’s fingers, in his mouth, on his tongue. He groaned as Minshom twisted his nipple and then sucked it into his mouth.

God, this was so wrong, yet so right. Bloodlust roared through him, and he struggled to avoid the trap of the familiar, the desiring, the wanting . . . the pain.

“No.” Anthony pulled back, yelping as Minshom’s teeth scraped over his nipple. “I don’t want this.”

Minshom raised his head. “Why not? I want it. You should stop saying words that mean nothing and use your mouth for a better purpose. I want your bloodied lips around my cock, sucking me dry.”

“No.” God, he could see it, him on his knees, Minshom over him, goading him on, laughing.

“You’re hard, you want it.”

Anthony stepped back, shaking his head, words beyond him. Minshom remained against the wall, stroked himself through his breeches.

“You want it, Sokorvsky. Kneel down and give it to me. Or is it true that you only fuck women these days?”

Anthony stilled. Did everyone think they had a right to rule him? Was he ever going to be allowed to be his own master? Cold fury filled him, replacing his anxiety and enhancing his arousal to the point of pain. He stared down at his fisted hands and then at Minshom.

With a curse, he grabbed Minshom by the throat, spun him around and shoved him over the nearest table. “You want it, Minshom? Then take it.”

He reached around, grabbed for Minshom’s cock and started to rub it hard through his breeches. Minshom groaned and tried to throw Anthony off. Furious now, Anthony ground his cock against Minshom’s arse, felt his swollen flesh expand and burn against the buckskin of his tight breeches.

Even through his clothing, Minshom’s big cock felt good in his hand—hot, wet with pre-cum and ready to explode. Anthony leaned harder on the man; bit his neck to hold him still like a stallion mounting a mare.

“You’re good at giving it out, Minshom, so how about taking it? How about my cock slamming into your arse for a change?”

Minshom bucked hard and writhed underneath him, caught Anthony off balance and the two of them rolled to the floor. Anthony kept his hand wrapped around the other man’s cock and gasped as Minshom grabbed for his, squeezing it painfully, making him want to come.

Side by side, they wrestled for dominance. Anthony managed to get his hand inside Minshom’s breeches and felt the metal piercing on the crown of the other man’s cock graze his palm. He closed his fist around Minshom’s shaft and pumped hard.

“Christ . . .” Minshom groaned as he shoved his tongue deep inside Anthony’s mouth, working him to the rhythm of their combined fingers, the rhythm of rough hard sex.

Minshom climaxed, his hot cum pouring out over Anthony’s still-working fingers, his shaft twitching and pulsing with every thick spurt. Anthony pulled his hand free and rolled away, got hold of Minshom’s wrist and ripped it away from his cock. He refused to let that man make him come ever again.

He stumbled to his feet, grabbed his clothes and stuffed his feet into his boots. Minshom lay on his back, looking up at him, his dark hair disordered, his pale blue eyes glinting. Anthony’s blood covered his face and chest, his own pre-cum darkened the buff color of his breeches around his groin.

“We’re not finished, Sokorvsky.”

Anthony buttoned his waistcoat, his fingers shaking and throbbing in time to his engorged cock.

“How many times do I have to say this? What will make you listen to me and leave me alone?”

Minshom laughed. “The fact that one day you won’t get hard the moment you see me? The announcement of your wedding, perhaps?”

“Damn you to the devil, Minshom.” Anthony shrugged into his coat and smoothed down his hair. The cut on his face had stopped bleeding, yet it still stung, much like Lord Minshom’s remarks. “Next time I won’t just bring you off—I’ll fuck you until you’re the one begging for mercy.”

“And you think I would mind?” Minshom licked his lips and shivered extravagantly.

“Yes, because you consider me beneath you, much like everyone else in this damned world.”

Minshom sat up and Anthony tensed. “But surely the balance of our relationship has just changed. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

“Proud of myself for hurting you, for proving that I can behave like an animal?” Anthony shook his head. “It makes me want to puke. The last person I want to be like in this world is you.”

“What a pity. And I was hoping for so much more.”

Anthony put on his hat and bowed. “Good morning, Lord Minshom, and go to the devil.”

He walked out, ignoring the startled comments from Angelo about his face, and headed for the park. He couldn’t go home—his father might be waiting for him—and he couldn’t go to work because it seemed he was no longer employed. He sat down on a bench and stared at the hopeful sparrows gathering around his boots. He had nothing to give them, nothing to give Marguerite either, even though that was what he yearned for.

A sudden flurry of rain helped make his decision. Madame’s was also out of the question because he wanted sex too much. He set off back through the park gates. Perhaps David would be home and at least willing to let him in.