Page 46 of By Any Means

“Ah—” Chary gasped. “This seems very fast to me, Mr.—”

“Call me Laurie, for God’s sake. Your domestics are bored, Chary Wright.” Laurie reached for him. “So, let’s make a spectacle.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. Put your head back.”

Chary obliged. If he was being honest, he would have done so without being told; Laurie cradled his head, exposing the spot where he was bruised, then threaded fingers into his hair. Good lord. The light touch made him boneless, breathless with gooseflesh and sensation, made his chin tilt up farther, involuntary.

What a good thing this wasn’t Laurie’s true attempt at seduction—it would’ve worked.

“I’m glad you took care of the bastard that did this,” Laurie muttered, and then the door to the breakfast room opened again.

Chary startled, but Laurie didn’t jerk away or act surprised—as though he had always belonged between Chary’s legs and cared not at all who saw him there. He glanced up.

“Oh, Sarah.”

Sarah’s steps halted before she reached the wide rug. Chary, stiff all over, wondered what she could’ve possibly returned for. “Yes, sir?”

Laurie’s fingers kept carding through his hair, casually soothing.

Chary closed his eyes. It was that or laugh or—worse—groan. As it was, his mouth fell open a little. He needed more air, but all of it smelled deliciously like Laurie, and that was a problem if he wanted to stay decent, to keep his breath steady. Which he needed to do, because he could feel Sarah’s stare.

“Mr. Wright’s poor face is in fact much worse off than I had feared.” Laurie’s cadence shone with perfectly indulgent, gay New York camp. A light touch, but plenty enough, like his fingers on Chary’s scalp, oh, Lord. Chary had to bite fiercely into his bottom lip and hope it looked like pain. “Could you please ask for a poultice of comfrey?”

Symphytum officinale. Good for bruising; toxic when ingested.

“Comfrey?” Sarah confirmed. She sounded mystified.

“Comfrey. Boneset. Steeped. The cook should know. Thank you, Sarah.”

The door shut again.

“Criminy.” Laurie stepped away, taking his warmth with him. “What kind of country maid hasn’t heard of boneset, I ask you?”

“Mm.” Chary’s voice wasn’t working.

“You can relax for now,” Laurie said. “She won’t come back soon when she’s dismissed with a task. Even the worst housemaid knows better than that.”

“Mm.”

Laurie took in Chary’s flaming face coolly and replaced the Wall Street Journal in its basket.

“You know what, though?”

“Yes?”

“You’re gonna have to lie down to take that poultice. Where’s a good spot? Where’s your room?”

Chary was thankful for his earlier foresight in the bath, whereupon he’d shoved the components of his bed into the window-box seat. No, not there. Too far from the kitchens, in any case.

“How about,” Laurie said slowly at his silence, “how about I pick, after you show me around? A tour’s something a lover would do, yeah?”

“You are not that; let us be clear.” Chary folded his napkin—which had been no help—and stood away from the table, the crooked chair. “But all right.”

Laurie watched him as he drew to his full height, eyes sweeping all over. When Laurie looked up, as he must, he tilted his chin just so, like he knew what angle to best present.

It was a good angle. Thank the Lord that Chary had controlled himself already.