Bennet, Pride Before the Fall (Love Austen 3)

Lyon struggled to hold back a grin and instead treated Bennet to a wobbly glower. Progress, really.

“Who atrociously pummeled you?”

Bennet moved Doll under cover. “I don’t know, but he headed toward Silverfield. Could be the owner’s come to town.”

Hard for Bennet to be sure. He’d only been back in Cubworthy four months.

Lyon scrambled overhead and peeked over the edge of the roof, gravity pulling at his hair. “I hope so. Maybe Henry’s here.”

“Henry?”

“The son. He comes with his sister and his dad all the time. Weekends, holidays. And whenever they’re here, I spend most of the time developing a bad case of RSI.” Not for the first time that day, Lyon mimed having a good old wank.

“Sounds to me like a daily green light to use up all the hot water.”

“Maybe this time I’ll spear myself on his dick and fuck myself silly.”

“Do you need a dick for that?”

Bennet led Doll through the wooden doors. Lyon was being like this—crass and dirty—on purpose, to rile him up. Picking fights. Bennet couldn’t let it get to him. A dark horse in the neighboring stall poked his head out, mouth working around hay. The thumps and whinnies almost drowned Lyon’s snicker.

He undressed Doll as Lyon dropped heavily off the roof and strutted into the barn after him. He leaned against the wall across from Doll’s stall, watching Bennet put away the tack and brush the sweat out of Doll’s coat.

“This could be good for you too, Benny.”

Did he even want to know?

“The dad’s, like, super rich. If snotty queen-of-the-village Caroline Bingley doesn’t help fund our Pride event . . .”

Bennet, hoof pick in hand, bent to Doll’s front leg. “I thought you didn’t care about that.”

“I don’t.”

Lyon’s Adam’s apple bobbed, that little tell—a tiny detail—warming Bennet and filling him with hoppy optimism.

He’d pitched the idea of a Cubworthy Pride event when Lyon refused to move out of the village. Bennet knew firsthand: feeling alone and different in this village was no fun. If Lyon was determined to stay here, Bennet was determined to rally the support for him that Bennet himself never had. This was the first time Lyon had alluded to liking the idea.

Bennet made his round checking and cleaning all four hooves. “What’s the dad’s name?”

A shrug. “Something like . . . from a book?”

“Does he visit often?”

“Pretty often? Every summer for a few weeks, sometimes weekends. Charlie says he’s ‘good for the village.’”

Bennet raised his brows.

“He buys lots of stuff. Everyone loves him.”

“I’m not convinced that’s such a glowing recommendation.”

“Guess you’ll form your own opinion. You always do. Maybe you already have.”

Bennet led Doll into her stall, then offered her a horse cracker. “Do you like him as much as everyone else?”

“I like his son’s ass, and that’s enough for me.”

Bennet grimaced. Doll wetly licked the sweat from his hand, searching for treats. “How old is this boy?”

“’Bout your age, I reckon.”

Early thirties? His pulse thumped. Too old, Lyon. “No one your own age around?”

Lyon smirked. “I like ’em older. Like ’em telling me they need my little mouth around their big cock.”

Being the grown-up sucked. He could either start another discussion about his brother’s vulgarity or . . . hit him.

“Like ’em making me call them daddy—”

Bennet flipped the lead rope over Lyon’s ass and drawled, “And asking them to spank you? Hard? So very hard?”

Lyon burst out laughing. On the surface, he sounded insolent: another day he’d worked a rise out of Bennet. But there was always a tremulous quality underneath . . .

Bennet slung on his satchel, gave Doll a last loving scratch and locked an arm around Lyon’s slender neck. “I’ll talk to snotty Queen Bingley tonight about funding. I’ll even schmooze and act like a good little peasant. She’s the only reason I’m headed for Singles Karaoke Night.”

Bennet scrubbed a hand through Lyon’s hair and pushed him away as they emerged into a fresh breeze. “Don’t forget your school bag, and Lyon?”

“Yeah?”

“If Bingley doesn’t want to fund us, I’ll proposition the other guy.”

“Darcy, that’s it.”

“I’ll proposition Darcy.”

Bennet, crammed between Cubworthy’s wall of achievements and his moody brother, observed the family-friendly pub from its roughhewn bar.

In his Liberty print button-down in twisting shades of turquoise, skinny white jeans, and brown leather boots, he drew the eyes of more than a few of the locals. His slender form, the boldness of his style, the perfection of his hair—Bennet imagined how they saw him: colorful and pretty with wiry definition. Maybe like a lithe cat that scampered between the feet of hulking bulls. Different.

Bennet smiled back at them. He felt good in his body. Energetic, playful. Sexy.

Out-of-tune voices sailed from a makeshift platform under a blue spotlight, followed by bemused clapping.

“Want to tell me what’s up?” he asked Lyon.

“Heard Henry’s not in town. It sucks. Or won’t suck, depending how you define sucking.”