Edward Burr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-16 07:59 pm
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-16 07:59 pm
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The Price of Peace - Chapter Seven
The Price of Peace
Book Three
Chapter Seven
David closed his eyes as he leaned back against the divan in the rooms his parents let to him and his wife. Abigail sat across the room, her legs tucked under her as she worked on her needlepoint. She could sew very well, having had to provide her own clothes most of her life, but she had never had cause to learn to embroider. After she had complimented a piece of Faith’s—a ship at sea she had sketched herself from a painting—his sister had drawn simple patterns to let Abigail learn on. This piece was a little bluebird perched on a branch. In David’s opinion, she was learning quickly and doing very well.
She gave him a few more moments to silently torture himself before she asked, very sweetly, “What troubles you so, my dear?”
David smiled at the words. Alone with one another, they could affectionate. There was no romance, but they cared for one another. Certainly, that was more than many married couples could boast, he felt. Too many married for status or to avoid scandal. The poor struggled to survive, and hardship could wear away warm feelings quickly. The wealthy clamoured for more of everything and thought nothing of how life together would answer. Only with Abigail, David felt, could he be happily wed. They understood one another, respected the trials each had faced, and shared a mutual disinterest in the rites of marriage for their own sakes. They were engaged in the attempt to create a child, but their aim achieved would see them quitting each other’s intimate company with a deep relief.
“Mister Burr has gotten himself into something of a mess,” David replied. “So long as Faith does not know, all will be well, but I worry myself over them both. I do not wish to see them suffer.”
Abigail frowned sharply and said, “He has taken up with another woman?”
“No.” David saw the growing distaste in her eyes and spoke quickly to cut it off. “I would not let that stand. If he had a mistress, I swear to you that I would denounce him at once.” Her left brow quirked, and David bowed his head. “He does have a lover.” He held up a hand to silence whatever she planned to say. “He’s rather passionately taken with the Frenchman you met at Baron Astin’s party—Martineau. They have some sort of history. I am not sure of the details, but I know they have, at least, begun something as of late.” He sighed, and she did not interject. “Perhaps I should have interceded, but Burr looked so conflicted and so fond. It will burn itself out, sooner the less it is given protest. He will marry Faith; he just needs to have had this.”
“And if,” Abigail licked her lips, running her teeth across her bottom on, which warned David they were about to enter personal and possibly painful areas, “it proves to be more than that? What will you do if Mister Burr becomes as attached to Mister Martineau as you were— and still are— to Mister Hawke?” David had to look away from her; Abigail kept her voice warm and gentle. “Will you require him to make the same sacrifice you did? To suffer as I know you do? As I know Mister Hawke does, too?”
David closed his eyes again and leaned forward. She did not intend to wound him, he knew, and in another situation her concern would have merit. He would not speak to himself or Gregory, but he would answer the truly relevant portion. “I know Martineau. If he does not grow bored in another week, I will be shocked.”
“He may surprise you and Mister Burr yet, my dear.”
David looked at her. The small smile on her features compelled him to chuckle. He opened his arms, and she abandoned her stitching to nestle into his embrace. His apathy to feminine charms allowed her fearlessness with him. He kissed her forehead, and settled against his chest. “I worry only that Burr will grow too fond, be wounded when Martineau moves on. He is a romantic, Burr; Martineau is a rake where other men are concerned. Faith will men whatever severity of a broken heart Martineau leaves Burr with.” He frowned. “I don’t like leaving her with that burden, but better to let Burr chance this now than after he has a marriage to ruin. He does not deserve to lose both at once.”
Abigail kissed his cheek. “I hope it is all as easy as you expect it to be, David. For all your sakes.”
He stroked her hair, silent. He knew Martineau too well, the man and the general personality. The man would have his fun then abandon Burr entirely. His inconsistency could be relied upon. Martineau preferred casual lovers. He would never settle into any sort of true relationship. Not, at least, the sort Burr could abide. Martineau would require multiple lovers to keep him satisfied, but Burr would expect some semblance of loyalty, if his rouble with this situation could be taken as any indication. Once his infatuation with Martineau ran its course, as David knew it would, Burr would act as an exceptional husband for Faith. She was not Abigail; she would never understand the passions that could exist between two men. His sister, dear as she was to him, need never know about this brief weakness from the man she loved and who, David was sure, loved her. As he held his wife and thought of Burr’s look when speaking of Martineau, one thought gnawed at his heart: he missed Gregory.
‡ ‡ ‡
There was something about bearing witness to the internal struggle Edward seemed constantly engaged in that struck a chord in Martineau. For the first ten days or so, he had been highly amused. There had been something very rewarding about drawing him to a bed or shoving him against a wall or pinning him to a desk while he was obviously at war with himself and driving the Englishman near mad with the utmost pleasure. For the next seven days, it had become an invitation. He so rarely had Edward’s full attention, and there was always a protest on the tip of his tongue he could not quite bring himself to make. Now, during the last three days, he looked on Edward’s difficulty with some strange fondness he could not precisely identify, let alone rid himself of.
Most men who were uncertain made their decision fairly quickly. They either fell into complete indulgence of their lusts or withdrew entirely. They did not see him and fret and the same time. They did not refrain from meals because their disquiet minds would not allow them to eat. He had expected to find a very different kind of appetite and, if he were wholly honest with himself, an extremely different kind of lover than he now found himself having.
Edward possessed a strange sincerity to his adoration. He did not praise glibly or mutter affectionate remarks with a laugh under his tone. The warmth in his voice was utterly genuine. Remy wasn’t sure how he ought to regard such feelings. They were not what he expected, was used to, or even wanted. The way in which he sometimes caught the other man staring at him and the caresses Edward would bestow without prompting after the heat of passion passed and the sweetness in every parting kiss made Remy increasingly sure that Edward would fight if he tried to leave him, and he was not wholly sure he could resist.
It must, therefore, be Edward’s idea that they cease to see one another. Both of them would benefit from the separation. Edward would marry his pretty sweetheart, and he would return to France. No one there had ever stirred any sort of feelings similar to these in him. Not, at least, since before the revolution. Even then, it had been an Irish youth, and he had not made Remy feel quite so tender. Perhaps he would seek out Etienne, as he had called his dear friend who had been such a passionate Republican, who had helped fan the flame in his own soul. Maybe, if the man had not overly committed himself elsewhere, his charms would serve as a partial balm against the coming loss of Edward.
Remy told himself he would enjoy the difficulty Edward would face when presented with the decision. Granted, it would be a thought that would consume him only briefly. There was no hardship once Edward really considered the idea. He would choose what society, law, and religion told him to choose. The more bitterness he felt at being so challenged, the better. Anger was easier for both sides to bear than grief ever proved to be.
He braced himself as he heard footsteps on the servants’ stairway. They were heavy, made by a strong stride, not one accustomed to seeing tasks done without being noticed. There was the very strong temptation to lead the English commander to his bedroom before he spoke of all this. Yet, he knew he could not trust himself. If he saw Edward, contentedly sprawled on his bed, passions freshly sated, Remy worried he might reconsider, decide that they could both bear Edward’s near constant uncertainty. He would keep them here in his sitting room; refrain from touching him or tempting him into touching him. That way, he could accomplish his aim without more difficulty than needed.
‡ ‡ ‡
Edward barely resisted the urge to take the stairs two at a time. It was awful, this burning excitement, the driving need to see Remy. He always felt light-headed at the prospect of seeing the Frenchman, his spirits high. It was a perilous feeling, for he knew that every peak had a valley. There would be a low he must answer to for this. Yet, he could not resist these meetings.
He knocked on the door of Remy’s rooms and was bid to enter. Even now, his heart was racing. It always did when he went to meet the man. The sight of Remy made him smile. The man looked as polished as ever, cool and aloof as he sat on the divan like some sort of king. Edward crossed the room in a heartbeat and leaned over the seat. Before Remy could say any smut little remark, Edward pressed his lips against the other man’s. It was a firm, passionate gesture. He felt like a man marooned, finally granted a cup of clean water. It had only been a day since last he had seen Remy, but he was starved for him all the same. Remy, too, seemed eager enough for it. He grabbed hold of Edward’s coat and pulled him down to straddle him.
Their mouths separated only when both were unable to draw the air they needed through their noses. Edward at once tugged at Remy’s cravat, bearing the skin of his neck. He kissed at it, scraping his teeth over the flesh while grinding his hips against Remy’s offered leg. When he reached down, seeking the buttons of the other man’s trousers, Remy’s hands met his. Their fingers entwined, and the Frenchman seemed intent on not allowing him access to what his aim was. Edward kissed him again, and Remy put his hand against his waistcoat and gave a gentle push. Reluctantly, Edward pulled back.
Remy chuckled, no doubt beyond amused at Edward’s obvious confusion. However, he said nothing until Edward had sat back. He reached out, put his hand on Edward’s thigh, and slowly rubbed up. Edward gave a quiet groan, leaning back and arching his hips up toward the touch. Remy watched him for a few moments then withdrew his hand.
“Mon ami,” he murmured under his breath in husky French. The sound made Edward groan. Remy shouldn’t be able to speak like that when he was withholding all forms of physical attention. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he would find relief only in Remy’s touch. He ached for it, especially under the heated gaze the other man had fixed him with. “I’ve had enough of games, I think. Do you not agree, Edward?”
Certain Remy was speaking of this delay, Edward nodded. “Yes.” He breathed the word more than he said it, and he sat up to lean toward his lover. Remy met him for a fierce kiss then pulled back, grinning wickedly. “Remy,” he whispered, almost whining. “Please.”
Remy chuckled again. It was a cold, heartless sound that seemed, to Edward, to promise the most painful delights. It made him want him that much more every second. “You’ve had your fun, my dear captain,” he purred, stroking at both of Edward’s thighs. His nails dragged against the wool, and Edward closed his eyes against the feeling. It was more dizzying than absolute intoxication. “But now, you must choose. I have only so much time, you understand. I cannot waste much more while you flit back and forth.” It was so hard to pay attention to his words with how Remy touched him, but Edward tried. “So, the time for choice comes. Will you give yourself to Heaven or Hell? They will no longer share you.”
“What do you mean?” Edward managed to ask, though it took him a few seconds to steady himself and be sure his voice would remain even.
“I mean what I said,” Remy replied. His touches ceased, and his eyes seemed to ice over. The chance startled Edward a slight bit. He looked very solemn now. “Your girl or me, Edward. I’ve tired of playing around, so now you get to decide. Either you marry her, or you are mine entirely.” He chuckled again, the very sound enough to freeze Edward’s blood. “If you try to deceive me, my friend, I shall see that you have no secrets left to keep.”
Edward stared at Remy. What had caused this sudden change? It was not, he supposed, unwarranted. A lover ought to have the right to make such demands, but he had not supposed Remy cared so deeply. It warmed at the same time it tightened about his chest. How was he supposed to make such a choice? He struggled for a short while to properly order his thoughts and find a way to express himself while his mind was still surviving from the kisses and touches Remy had baited him with moments ago.
“Do I have to answer you at this very moment?”
Remy considered it then smiled cruelly. “I shall not be so heartless, though I could be. You have two days, my friend. If I do not hear from you, I shall know what you have decided.” He leaned over, kissed him hard, and then got up. Without another word, he departed from the room and went into his bedroom. He closed the door, and Edward heard the lock turn. For several moments, he waited in stunned silence before he realised Remy would not return or admit him. He rose and showed himself from the Astin home.
Book Three
Chapter Seven
David closed his eyes as he leaned back against the divan in the rooms his parents let to him and his wife. Abigail sat across the room, her legs tucked under her as she worked on her needlepoint. She could sew very well, having had to provide her own clothes most of her life, but she had never had cause to learn to embroider. After she had complimented a piece of Faith’s—a ship at sea she had sketched herself from a painting—his sister had drawn simple patterns to let Abigail learn on. This piece was a little bluebird perched on a branch. In David’s opinion, she was learning quickly and doing very well.
She gave him a few more moments to silently torture himself before she asked, very sweetly, “What troubles you so, my dear?”
David smiled at the words. Alone with one another, they could affectionate. There was no romance, but they cared for one another. Certainly, that was more than many married couples could boast, he felt. Too many married for status or to avoid scandal. The poor struggled to survive, and hardship could wear away warm feelings quickly. The wealthy clamoured for more of everything and thought nothing of how life together would answer. Only with Abigail, David felt, could he be happily wed. They understood one another, respected the trials each had faced, and shared a mutual disinterest in the rites of marriage for their own sakes. They were engaged in the attempt to create a child, but their aim achieved would see them quitting each other’s intimate company with a deep relief.
“Mister Burr has gotten himself into something of a mess,” David replied. “So long as Faith does not know, all will be well, but I worry myself over them both. I do not wish to see them suffer.”
Abigail frowned sharply and said, “He has taken up with another woman?”
“No.” David saw the growing distaste in her eyes and spoke quickly to cut it off. “I would not let that stand. If he had a mistress, I swear to you that I would denounce him at once.” Her left brow quirked, and David bowed his head. “He does have a lover.” He held up a hand to silence whatever she planned to say. “He’s rather passionately taken with the Frenchman you met at Baron Astin’s party—Martineau. They have some sort of history. I am not sure of the details, but I know they have, at least, begun something as of late.” He sighed, and she did not interject. “Perhaps I should have interceded, but Burr looked so conflicted and so fond. It will burn itself out, sooner the less it is given protest. He will marry Faith; he just needs to have had this.”
“And if,” Abigail licked her lips, running her teeth across her bottom on, which warned David they were about to enter personal and possibly painful areas, “it proves to be more than that? What will you do if Mister Burr becomes as attached to Mister Martineau as you were— and still are— to Mister Hawke?” David had to look away from her; Abigail kept her voice warm and gentle. “Will you require him to make the same sacrifice you did? To suffer as I know you do? As I know Mister Hawke does, too?”
David closed his eyes again and leaned forward. She did not intend to wound him, he knew, and in another situation her concern would have merit. He would not speak to himself or Gregory, but he would answer the truly relevant portion. “I know Martineau. If he does not grow bored in another week, I will be shocked.”
“He may surprise you and Mister Burr yet, my dear.”
David looked at her. The small smile on her features compelled him to chuckle. He opened his arms, and she abandoned her stitching to nestle into his embrace. His apathy to feminine charms allowed her fearlessness with him. He kissed her forehead, and settled against his chest. “I worry only that Burr will grow too fond, be wounded when Martineau moves on. He is a romantic, Burr; Martineau is a rake where other men are concerned. Faith will men whatever severity of a broken heart Martineau leaves Burr with.” He frowned. “I don’t like leaving her with that burden, but better to let Burr chance this now than after he has a marriage to ruin. He does not deserve to lose both at once.”
Abigail kissed his cheek. “I hope it is all as easy as you expect it to be, David. For all your sakes.”
He stroked her hair, silent. He knew Martineau too well, the man and the general personality. The man would have his fun then abandon Burr entirely. His inconsistency could be relied upon. Martineau preferred casual lovers. He would never settle into any sort of true relationship. Not, at least, the sort Burr could abide. Martineau would require multiple lovers to keep him satisfied, but Burr would expect some semblance of loyalty, if his rouble with this situation could be taken as any indication. Once his infatuation with Martineau ran its course, as David knew it would, Burr would act as an exceptional husband for Faith. She was not Abigail; she would never understand the passions that could exist between two men. His sister, dear as she was to him, need never know about this brief weakness from the man she loved and who, David was sure, loved her. As he held his wife and thought of Burr’s look when speaking of Martineau, one thought gnawed at his heart: he missed Gregory.
‡ ‡ ‡
There was something about bearing witness to the internal struggle Edward seemed constantly engaged in that struck a chord in Martineau. For the first ten days or so, he had been highly amused. There had been something very rewarding about drawing him to a bed or shoving him against a wall or pinning him to a desk while he was obviously at war with himself and driving the Englishman near mad with the utmost pleasure. For the next seven days, it had become an invitation. He so rarely had Edward’s full attention, and there was always a protest on the tip of his tongue he could not quite bring himself to make. Now, during the last three days, he looked on Edward’s difficulty with some strange fondness he could not precisely identify, let alone rid himself of.
Most men who were uncertain made their decision fairly quickly. They either fell into complete indulgence of their lusts or withdrew entirely. They did not see him and fret and the same time. They did not refrain from meals because their disquiet minds would not allow them to eat. He had expected to find a very different kind of appetite and, if he were wholly honest with himself, an extremely different kind of lover than he now found himself having.
Edward possessed a strange sincerity to his adoration. He did not praise glibly or mutter affectionate remarks with a laugh under his tone. The warmth in his voice was utterly genuine. Remy wasn’t sure how he ought to regard such feelings. They were not what he expected, was used to, or even wanted. The way in which he sometimes caught the other man staring at him and the caresses Edward would bestow without prompting after the heat of passion passed and the sweetness in every parting kiss made Remy increasingly sure that Edward would fight if he tried to leave him, and he was not wholly sure he could resist.
It must, therefore, be Edward’s idea that they cease to see one another. Both of them would benefit from the separation. Edward would marry his pretty sweetheart, and he would return to France. No one there had ever stirred any sort of feelings similar to these in him. Not, at least, since before the revolution. Even then, it had been an Irish youth, and he had not made Remy feel quite so tender. Perhaps he would seek out Etienne, as he had called his dear friend who had been such a passionate Republican, who had helped fan the flame in his own soul. Maybe, if the man had not overly committed himself elsewhere, his charms would serve as a partial balm against the coming loss of Edward.
Remy told himself he would enjoy the difficulty Edward would face when presented with the decision. Granted, it would be a thought that would consume him only briefly. There was no hardship once Edward really considered the idea. He would choose what society, law, and religion told him to choose. The more bitterness he felt at being so challenged, the better. Anger was easier for both sides to bear than grief ever proved to be.
He braced himself as he heard footsteps on the servants’ stairway. They were heavy, made by a strong stride, not one accustomed to seeing tasks done without being noticed. There was the very strong temptation to lead the English commander to his bedroom before he spoke of all this. Yet, he knew he could not trust himself. If he saw Edward, contentedly sprawled on his bed, passions freshly sated, Remy worried he might reconsider, decide that they could both bear Edward’s near constant uncertainty. He would keep them here in his sitting room; refrain from touching him or tempting him into touching him. That way, he could accomplish his aim without more difficulty than needed.
‡ ‡ ‡
Edward barely resisted the urge to take the stairs two at a time. It was awful, this burning excitement, the driving need to see Remy. He always felt light-headed at the prospect of seeing the Frenchman, his spirits high. It was a perilous feeling, for he knew that every peak had a valley. There would be a low he must answer to for this. Yet, he could not resist these meetings.
He knocked on the door of Remy’s rooms and was bid to enter. Even now, his heart was racing. It always did when he went to meet the man. The sight of Remy made him smile. The man looked as polished as ever, cool and aloof as he sat on the divan like some sort of king. Edward crossed the room in a heartbeat and leaned over the seat. Before Remy could say any smut little remark, Edward pressed his lips against the other man’s. It was a firm, passionate gesture. He felt like a man marooned, finally granted a cup of clean water. It had only been a day since last he had seen Remy, but he was starved for him all the same. Remy, too, seemed eager enough for it. He grabbed hold of Edward’s coat and pulled him down to straddle him.
Their mouths separated only when both were unable to draw the air they needed through their noses. Edward at once tugged at Remy’s cravat, bearing the skin of his neck. He kissed at it, scraping his teeth over the flesh while grinding his hips against Remy’s offered leg. When he reached down, seeking the buttons of the other man’s trousers, Remy’s hands met his. Their fingers entwined, and the Frenchman seemed intent on not allowing him access to what his aim was. Edward kissed him again, and Remy put his hand against his waistcoat and gave a gentle push. Reluctantly, Edward pulled back.
Remy chuckled, no doubt beyond amused at Edward’s obvious confusion. However, he said nothing until Edward had sat back. He reached out, put his hand on Edward’s thigh, and slowly rubbed up. Edward gave a quiet groan, leaning back and arching his hips up toward the touch. Remy watched him for a few moments then withdrew his hand.
“Mon ami,” he murmured under his breath in husky French. The sound made Edward groan. Remy shouldn’t be able to speak like that when he was withholding all forms of physical attention. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he would find relief only in Remy’s touch. He ached for it, especially under the heated gaze the other man had fixed him with. “I’ve had enough of games, I think. Do you not agree, Edward?”
Certain Remy was speaking of this delay, Edward nodded. “Yes.” He breathed the word more than he said it, and he sat up to lean toward his lover. Remy met him for a fierce kiss then pulled back, grinning wickedly. “Remy,” he whispered, almost whining. “Please.”
Remy chuckled again. It was a cold, heartless sound that seemed, to Edward, to promise the most painful delights. It made him want him that much more every second. “You’ve had your fun, my dear captain,” he purred, stroking at both of Edward’s thighs. His nails dragged against the wool, and Edward closed his eyes against the feeling. It was more dizzying than absolute intoxication. “But now, you must choose. I have only so much time, you understand. I cannot waste much more while you flit back and forth.” It was so hard to pay attention to his words with how Remy touched him, but Edward tried. “So, the time for choice comes. Will you give yourself to Heaven or Hell? They will no longer share you.”
“What do you mean?” Edward managed to ask, though it took him a few seconds to steady himself and be sure his voice would remain even.
“I mean what I said,” Remy replied. His touches ceased, and his eyes seemed to ice over. The chance startled Edward a slight bit. He looked very solemn now. “Your girl or me, Edward. I’ve tired of playing around, so now you get to decide. Either you marry her, or you are mine entirely.” He chuckled again, the very sound enough to freeze Edward’s blood. “If you try to deceive me, my friend, I shall see that you have no secrets left to keep.”
Edward stared at Remy. What had caused this sudden change? It was not, he supposed, unwarranted. A lover ought to have the right to make such demands, but he had not supposed Remy cared so deeply. It warmed at the same time it tightened about his chest. How was he supposed to make such a choice? He struggled for a short while to properly order his thoughts and find a way to express himself while his mind was still surviving from the kisses and touches Remy had baited him with moments ago.
“Do I have to answer you at this very moment?”
Remy considered it then smiled cruelly. “I shall not be so heartless, though I could be. You have two days, my friend. If I do not hear from you, I shall know what you have decided.” He leaned over, kissed him hard, and then got up. Without another word, he departed from the room and went into his bedroom. He closed the door, and Edward heard the lock turn. For several moments, he waited in stunned silence before he realised Remy would not return or admit him. He rose and showed himself from the Astin home.