The Sugared Game (The Will Darling Adventures, #2)

by K.J. Charles

Phoebe’s eyelids drooped. “How Victorian of you. I don’t intend to sit at home doing needlework, darling. It is 1924, after all.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into. I don’t like it.” “Then don’t,” Phoebe said, and her cut-glass voice was sharp enough to hurt. “Because it is neither your business nor your right to tell me what to do. Is it?”

OOP

“You bloody did. You knew there was something up: you all but told him you knew what was going on. How?” “More fool him for believing a stranger’s meaningful statements,” Kim said. “It’s an old technique: tell someone you know what they did and watch the blush of their guilty conscience. You’ve heard that old story? Someone sends a telegram as a prank to White’s with no name, saying Fly, all is discovered, and six of the members leave the country?”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” “What, and expect you to sit tamely at home, keeping out of danger, because I said so? You aren’t famous for your obliging nature.”

There’s no point waiting for me to do otherwise. There’s no point waiting for me at all.” “I haven’t been waiting for you,” Will said indignantly. “I haven’t happened to meet anyone else I wanted to fuck, but that’s not the same thing.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Kim said. “But I really can’t bring myself to regret the man you might have been, given the one you are.”

“What if I don’t want it any more?” Will asked. “What if there’s something else I want instead?” “Is there?” Their eyes were locked. The silence rang like crystal. Oh, what the hell. “You sodding know there is.”

“Scars are always beautiful,” Kim said. “They’re proof we lived.”

“If what you believe in goes wrong, either you let go the belief, or you believe even harder.”

“Christ,” Kim said. “Are you trying to kill me?” “Might be.” “Carry on.” “Pleasure.”

Is there anything more terrifying than getting what you hope for?”

NOON ON A SUNDAY WAS a bloody stupid hour to have a confrontation with a criminal, in Will’s view. There was a reason that people did these things under cover of night.

Kim had given Beaumont forty pounds to cover the costs of vanishing with his lover. Will very much hoped they would be safe, and also that he wouldn’t see them again.

“You’re sweet to offer, darling, but you can’t punch everyone in the face.” “I don’t mind trying.”

He couldn’t even be bothered with subtlety. “Get your arse down here so I can kick it!” “Are you talking to a burglar, or to me?” Kim called down. “Either,” Will snapped, and stamped up the stairs. Kim was in his armchair again. He looked shocking.

Kim was back within the allotted time, which was mildly impressive since he looked as if it hurt to move. Will doubted he’d eaten anything. “Tea?” he said, because the kettle was on and he was furious but not a monster. “God, yes.”

“That’s not a relationship!” Will shouted. “That’s not how you treat a friend or a lover or a partner, or any damn thing! ‘Take it or leave it’ is for customers, not people you care about. You’re meant to compromise, and find a way through, not just say this is how it is because you don’t have the guts to face up to things. You’re meant to give a damn when you hurt people!”

Kim stared at him, eyes wide, and Will didn’t even think. He just kissed him, hard, and felt Kim’s mouth responding desperately, hands clutching his shoulders, hanging on for dear life. Kissing in the open because nothing at all mattered at this moment but to know they were together. The rest could wait for later, if there was a later.

“I,” Kim began at last, and had to try again. “I would like to be—not alone.” “Shoulders right here. Suitable for leaning on, crying on, or standing at for the purposes of a fight.”

“A very good question. I don’t know about you, but the position of hand puppet to Lord Waring does not appeal to me.” “Nor me. If I want someone sticking their hand up my arse—” “Oh, do go on,” Kim said, in a tone of great interest. “I’m not going to be his hand puppet either, was what I meant.”

“Only I didn’t think you were getting on with him very much.” “Sometimes I don’t,” Will said. “When I do, though— It’s like the poem, honestly. When it’s good, it’s very, very good, and when it’s bad, it’s horrid.”

“Bit ripe, proposing to Phoebe five times if he’s got a mistress.” “So? Phoebe has a fiancé and Hetta Galloway has a husband. God, you’re bourgeois.”

Cheveley grasped Phoebe’s wrist. She looked down at it with a bewildered expression, looked up, and cracked her free hand across his face so hard that Cheveley’s head snapped back.

QUEEN

“We’d probably be better at those if you were able to trust me.” “I could trust you,” Will said. “I truly could. Could you not let me down when I do?” Kim breathed out. “I could try.” “That’s what I want, then. To find out what we’re doing, and to do it a bit better.

“But aren’t asking. Should I take a guess?” He flicked over a glance. “I think—I flatter myself—that you want to know if I care for you. No: you must know that I do, so what you want is for me to say so, and I do, Will. I care for you far more than makes me feel safe. I want you, but you’re well aware of that. I feel at peace with you, and I don’t often feel at peace. And without excusing the trouble I have given you, it brings me to my knees that you’re strong enough to bear it. I wish I were worth you, Will.”