“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Arthur said. “Only a complete lout throws a sucker punch like that.”
“And maybe the fight went sour, but the dancing was real good,” said Rory. “Where’d you learn to tango anyway?”
“Probably from some gorgeous woman in love with him,” Wesley muttered. “I’m sure it’s an outrageously sexy story.”
“Oh yes, very sexy,” Sebastian said, deadpan. “Isa made me learn.”
Wesley blinked.
“My cousin Isabel,” Sebastian said, for Arthur and Rory, “who is like my sister, and who only likes art—and women.” He looked over at Wesley. “It was just a dance. But if you mind—”
“Of course I don’t,” Wesley said curtly. “Honestly I wasn’t even paying attention. Did you tango? Didn’t notice.”
“Okay,” Sebastian said uncertainly. He ran a hand over his hair and found it stiff with dried sweat. “I was just going to buy Edith the drink,” he said, more quietly. “I told her I had to go back to my friends.”
“It was a dance, not a fuck,” Wesley said dryly. “I don’t need to be reassured.”
Of course he didn’t, and Sebastian was probably insulting him by implying that Wesley might care if he danced with someone else. He hunched back against theseat. The ache in his cheek had seeped down to his jaw, crawled up to his temple and spread across his forehead, so that his entire head throbbed.
Wesley glanced at him, then huffed. “Here.”
He shifted in the seat, awkwardly maneuvering until he’d managed to slip out of his jacket. He leaned over and wrapped it around Sebastian’s shoulders. “I really should let you suffer, because you purposely under-dressed just to tease me and now you’re hoisted on your own petard. But you’re shivering and our overcoats are back at the Magnolia.”
Sebastian bit his lip. The jacket’s lining was silk, and still warm from Wesley’s body heat. He threaded his own arms through the sleeves, then glanced at Wesley. “Good thing it fits me.”
The corner of Wesley’s lips turned up in a grudging smile. “Youwishit fit you.”
And Sebastian abruptly was aware how much had happened that evening, and how very tired he was. How much would have liked to scoot across the seat to Wesley’s side.
But the streets of Midtown were crowded, even on a cold night, with traffic thick enough that Arthur had to drive slow. Any passersby might see him pressed against Wesley unless he lay down on the seats. And as tempting as that was, if he lay down now, he might not be willing to get back up, so he pulled the jacket more tightly closed instead.
* * *
At the hotel, Sebastian hung back and let Wesley do the talking. As Wesley had predicted, the staff were properly horrified that an English aristocrat and histraveling companion had been mugged on their streets and injured.
A doctor was fetched immediately. Sebastian was bustled up to Wesley’s parlor, where he was sat on the settee and had to submit to being poked at and prodded.
“Well, someone cleaned your clock, didn’t they?” the doctor said, examining Sebastian’s cheek.
Sebastian tried to keep his voice polite. “Nothing is broken,” he told the doctor, smothering a wince as the man pressed on his face. “And I already put a cold compress on it.”
“What Sebastian means is that he slapped some filthy alley snow on his cheek and thinks that’s laudable,” Wesley said dryly. “Please accept my apologies on the former army medic’s behalf, doctor. He’s unsurprisingly a terrible patient.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes at Wesley.
“Well, he’s right enough.” The doctor straightened and addressed Sebastian. “You’ll have a bruise for a while but that should heal up, and there shouldn’t be any scarring.” He looked over at Wesley. “He doesn’t seem to have had a concussion, but someone ought to stay with him tonight, just in case. I’ll send for a nurse.”
“No need, no need at all,” Wesley said breezily. “He’ll stay in my quarters tonight. For his own good, of course.”
Sebastian fought back a grudging smile. Wesley was so shameless.
The doctor reached into his bag. “I have a powder you can take for the pain.” He handed a small tin to Sebastian and added, kindly, “Next time, try to duck.”
Sebastian was suddenly exhausted.
The doctor picked up his bag and Wesley beganwalking him to the door. Sebastian seized his chance and disappeared through the bedroom and into the large adjoining private bath. He was achingly tired, but he smelled like blood from his nose, along with sweat from dancing and flowers from Stella’s dressing room. The thought of lying on clean sheets made him cringe.
In the bathroom, he put some of the powder on his tongue, the bitter medicine flooding his mouth as he chased it with a few handfuls of tap water. As he started the bath, the phone rang out in the parlor, Wesley’s voice a low rumble as he answered.
