From this vantage point, Ian couldn’t help but imagine him in a different setting, on his knees, looking up, long fingers fumbling with the buttons on Ian’s trousers. His cock ached—an instant reaction—a shock of lust so powerful it made his breathing falter.
Damn it. He pushed the image aside almost as quickly as it had appeared. He didn’t even like Townsend. There was no excuse to get distracted by fantasies. They had more important things at stake.
Townsend’s gaze flickered back to the ball. His arm muscles flexed against his sleeves, and then he struck. The cue ball collided with the red ball and sank it straight into the pocket at the far corner. He straightened and smiled at Miss Worthington.
“My cousin uses a cue stick instead of a mace,” Miss Hale said.
Ian stared at her blankly.
“Most ladies use a mace,” she explained. “But my cousin is very good. She plays to win.”
Miss Worthington stepped to the table, lining up her shot with fierce concentration, a notch forming between her eyebrows. Ian found his attention drifting to Townsend instead of Miss Worthington—he was still smiling slightly, watching his opponent with undisguised appreciation. Ian wasn’t sure if it was admiration only for her skill at the game, or if it was something more.
His gut clenched. He tried to focus on the game itself rather than the players, though it was difficult. Townsend drew his interest without even trying.
“You’ve won,” Miss Worthington said, a few minutes later.
Townsend smiled. “Don’t sound so vexed. It was a close match. I was not at all certain of the outcome.”
He was like this with all the guests—friendly, teasing, always doing his best to put everyone at ease. It had aggravated Ian from the start. He wasn’t sure why it aggravated him more now.
Miss Worthington’s expression eased. “You are a flatterer, Mr. Townsend.”
“You don’t like to be flattered?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He laughed.
“Before we depart, I will defeat you,” she warned.
“I’ve no doubt of it,” he said. Eyes still dancing, he turned toward Ian. “Do you play?”
Billiards was a rich man’s game. The table alone probably cost as much to build as Ian’s entire cottage. Not to mention the ivory playing set. Ian wasn’t even sure of the rules. Townsend should have known that. He knew, instinctively, how to make everyone else feel comfortable, didn’t he?
“No.”
Townsend’s friendly expression faltered under the whipcord lash of Ian’s response. Ian tried not to feel too guilty about that. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”
So he could fumble in front of the Worthingtons? And would Townsend have to touch him to teach him? It sounded like a new form of torture—a mix of humiliation and unfulfilled lust. And it wasn’t as though he was interested in the sport anyway.
“I don’t wish to learn,” he said flatly.
Townsend’s face smoothed, the easy openness of before all but erased. “Mr. Hale,” he called out. Hale startled. He’d been staring at the billiards table with the air of a man lost deep in thought. “Are you up for a match?”
He stepped forward tentatively. “Well…I…”
“I’ll play you, Townsend,” Mr. Worthington cut in. “If you can beat my daughter, Mr. Hale will be no match for you,” he muttered as he set his book aside and strode forward.
Hale stepped back, his cheekbones taking on a distinctively reddish shade.
“A match later, perhaps, Mr. Hale? I’ll look forward to it,” Townsend said.
Hale swallowed, nodded, and turned toward the bookshelves, reaching out blindly for a volume, which he nearly dropped.
Ian almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t think he’d ever met someone as painfully shy as Mr. Hale. But he didn’t feel too sorry—if Hale’s biggest problem was an inconsiderate uncle, Ian’s pity would be wasted on him.
Townsend leaned over the table to line up a shot. He carefully avoided looking at Ian, but Ian was still a little too aware of the strong, smooth lines of Townsend’s body, of the way his lips parted slightly as he adjusted his confident grip on the cue stick, of the lock of dark hair that fell into his eyes, the way he jerked his head absentmindedly to get rid of the annoyance.
Ian turned away, wondering if the gentry and aristocracy had realized exactly how sexual billiards could be when it became popular.
Or maybe it was just Townsend. The man would probably look good shoveling horse manure.
He glanced down at his teacup and wished he had a stronger drink.
…
After a few hours’ reprieve and then dinner, night fell, and they were back in the library once more. The drawing room of Llynmore Castle was too small to house larger gatherings.
The fire had been stoked, and in addition to the chandeliers, candles in wall sconces around the periphery of the room had been lit to keep the black night at bay. Ian was on the settee next to Miss Hale. He didn’t know how long he could take this sort of idleness. His body longed for physical labor, for something he could do with his hands, for something tangible he could accomplish.
He wasn’t sure if Georgina and Townsend had observed anything more than he had, but so far, there was nothing suspicious. Miss Hale liked to talk to him. Mr. Hale didn’t, but he didn’t seem to like to talk to anyone very much. The Worthingtons were polite but distant. But that was probably due to their difference in status. Worthington was a writer, but during the course of their conversations it was made clear they were gentry. Worthington didn’t write because he had to.
It felt like Ian was simply wasting time, trying to get along with people he would never see again in a week or two at the most. He wished there was something he could actually do.
A pressure against his leg made him look down to see Willoughby the cat butting his head against Ian’s calf. He scratched between the cat’s ears and was rewarded with a soft purr.
“Do you like cats?” Miss Hale asked.
“Aye.”
He heard Townsend make an amused noise. Willoughby slunk away when Miss Hale leaned forward to pet him. “What?” Ian asked.
Townsend was sprawled in the winged chair by Ian’s side of the settee, hand clasped around a crystal glass of port. He grimaced as he took a sip, which made Ian think he probably didn’t like port as much as whisky. “Why am I not surprised?”
Ian’s eyes narrowed, but he decided not to ask.
Georgina came over with a stack of books and thrust them into Townsend’s hands. “Read something for us.”
“George,” he muttered quietly, but not so quietly that Ian couldn’t hear.
“You have a lovely reading voice,” she insisted.
“I should very much like to hear something,” Miss Worthington put in.
“A reading?” Mr. Worthington perked up. “What will you read?”
Townsend sighed, defeated. “It looks like our options are Shakespeare’s sonnets, Macbeth, or Robert Burns. Shall we take a vote?”
“Mr. Cameron?” Georgina asked.
Ian didn’t particularly want to listen to Townsend read anything. “Macbeth,” he said shortly.
No one else voted for Macbeth. The sonnets won over Burns by a narrow margin, and Townsend flipped through the volume. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll select a few of my favorites, instead of reading all one hundred and fifty-four.” He smiled charmingly.
Ian stifled a groan. He hoped he wouldn’t have to sit through this for very long. Poetry and Townsend’s voice and Townsend’s charm…it was just too much.
And then Townsend spread the book in his lap, leaned back, cleared his throat, and started reading, and his voice rasped like velvet over Ian’s skin.
Ian was an animal caught in a snare. Too startled to move. Too mesmerized to do anything but wait for the killing blow. Robert Townsend had the sort of voice the devil would use to tempt mortals to sin, and when he read, he knew it. He used it to his full advantage—taking its depths lower, its width wider, its huskiness huskier.
Ian imagined waking up to that smoky voice murmuring suggestions against his ear, a long, warm body pressed against his back, and he shivered.
He dug his fingernails into his palm savagely. The last thing he needed was to get a cockstand in front of the whole room.
“That time of year thou mayst in me behold