Gentlemen Prefer Scandal - Chapter 1

Thursday, November 20, 1823

 

I am not boring.

I am not boring.

I am not boring.

My life is worthy of pen and paper and posterity.

And George Haddonfield can go to Hell.

***

It was half past four on Tuesday, and I was at Barrett’s for an early dinner.

As usual.

I was sitting alone at the back table, the small one with good chairs and pretty silver inlay along the apron.

As usual.

And I was waiting for George.

As usual.

The crowd was thankfully light: a few older gentlemen, already drunk and babbling on about Bonaparte; a portraitist whose name I can’t remember; and, at the far end of the room, surrounded by a boisterous group of younger men, Lord Percival Glyde—the baron returned from the dead.

As a rule, I avoid the news and the gossip columns. There is nothing I hate more than scandal, with the possible exception of George. But even I would recognise the sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones of Percival Glyde. His story really is quite the sensation. Years ago, he shipwrecked in the Caribbean or the Carolinas or some other such faraway place. The Royal Navy sent a fleet to search for him, but they found nothing. His mother died of grief and his father went mad and the rest of us forgot about the whole ordeal until last month when Percival Glyde arrived in London to reclaim his inheritance. Like I said, quite the sensation.

He certainly looked like he’d lived on coconuts and seawater for the past decade, though that may simply have been on account of his company. The other men at his table were bombarding him with the most insensitive questions: How did you wreck? Did you meet any cannibals? Weren’t you devastated to learn your father died just weeks before you returned? That last one came from a ridiculously mustachioed Frenchman with a heavy accent and the loudest speaking voice I’ve ever heard.

I really wouldn’t blame Percival if he decides to swim back to whatever desert island he was stuck on.

‘Nathaniel.’ And suddenly George was there, leaning jauntily against the table. ‘May I join you?’

‘You’re late,’ I said, trying unsuccessfully to sound stern.

His soft laughter—the music of angels. Treacherous angels who stab you in the back the moment you turn around.

He took the seat beside me. ‘I hope you didn’t miss me too much.’ His voice was deep and melodic, as always. Beneath the table, I felt the warmth of his hand brush against my thigh. He grinned his perfect, stupid grin. ‘Shall I tell you about my trip?’

I leaned toward him despite myself.

Apparently he’d spent the entire weekend with a ‘collective’ of writers at the house of some want-to-be Wordsworth in Cumbria. Which is totally fine, of course. I like that we have our own lives.

At least it would have been fine if he hadn’t fallen in love with someone else.

He actually used the L-word.

Love.

We’ve been shagging for three months and the best he’s ever said to me is ‘I quite enjoy our time together.’

At first I thought I’d misheard him. The dining room was filling up and that accursed Frenchman was shouting something about subtropical ocean currents.

I leaned in closer. ‘What?’

‘I’m in love with Alexander Denison.’

I definitely did not mishear him.

‘You’re lying.’ I knew he wasn’t, and I knew I sounded petulant. But what was I supposed to say?

‘He’s the most brilliant poet I’ve ever met. His words, his wit, his mind—’ He looked past me and smiled.

I thought I might vomit.

‘I love him.’

The most infuriating part was how earnest he was. He didn’t have the decency to weep or to lie or to say it had nothing to do with me.

He just said it.

Damn his tousled hair. Curse his perfect dimples. What god fashioned him from ichor and infidelity? What devil cursed me to crave his hazel eyes and his soft, pink lips?

I wish I stormed out right then. I wish I tossed my brandy in his stupid, self-assured face. I wish I flipped the table, silver inlay be damned.

But of course I did the worst possible thing a spurned lover can do.

I grovelled.

‘Let’s spend the week together, before you decide anything.’

A tired sigh.

‘Just the weekend—wherever you’d like!’

He looked down at his pocket watch.

Any remaining decency dissolved into desperation. ‘I can write.’

George’s head jerked up. At least I had his attention. ‘You can?’

‘Yes! I…I can write poetry!’

‘Poetry?’ He considered me for a moment, eyebrows raised. And then he burst into laughter. ‘What would you possibly write about?’

‘City life or romance or…or dogs—’

I hate dogs. I can’t be around them for five minutes without sneezing and tearing up. This man literally makes me lose all reason.

‘Painting—’

‘I’ve never even seen you paint—you won’t show me your studio!’

‘That’s—’ True. But none of his business. And barely mine, to be honest.

‘You know I adore you, Nathaniel—’

How couldn’t I from the zero times you’ve told me and the fact that you’re currently grinding my heart into cake flour?

I always think of the best lines too late.

‘—but you’re the most boring person I know!’

He might as well have punched me.

I wish he would have. At least then George might have been arrested and sent to jail. Where he belongs.

Before I could respond, a gloved hand tapped my shoulder.

‘Excusez-moi, Messieurs. I am terribly sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if you might—ehh—how do I say polite—hmm—talk this much quieter so perhaps the rest of us can hear ourselves to think?’

It was the Frenchman. When he said this, he stretched his arms as wide as they would go.

I’m not exactly sure what I said in response. I do know that it wasn’t ‘this’ much quieter. I know the entire room stopped their self-important conversations long enough to point and gawk—the portraitist, the old drunks, Lord Percival Glyde and his sunken eyes. I know that my face was red as I ran to the door.

And I also know that God is dead, or a swine, or a very unfunny comédien, because that Frenchman—that obnoxious, interrupting, goddamn Frenchman—was the most attractive man I’ve seen in my entire life.