Rollo moved swiftly on.“The ostler, then?His wife?His mother?His grandmother?”
At Lord Lyndon’s increasingly murderous stare, he clamped a hand over his mouth, as if aghast, and spoke in a hushed whisper.“I’m aware how lonely one can get out here.But—and as you insist you are an adventurer, not—surely…not one of the…the horses?”
Lord Lyndon’s throat generated another rumbling snarl that, frankly, a man had no place making outside of a bedchamber.Not that Rollo was disposed to pointing that out.
“Not all delinquencies in life revolve around damned swiving, pup.”
“Don’t they?”Rollo batted his eyelashes at him.“Oh, righty-ho.In that case, I’ll change tack.How about I run through all the possible—”
The lord made a frustrated moan somewhere between a sigh and a despairing lament.“If only your silence were as voluble as your voice, Duchamps-Avery.Did your dear papa not school you in the benefits of it?”
“He taught me that one should never be afraid to ask questions and have an enquiring mind.”
“And evidently an interrupting one too.”Lord Lyndon frowned again.It was like watching Zeus gathering thunderclouds.“Listen to me carefully, young man, as I am not in the habit of repeating myself.
“I came to stay here at Goule,exiled, as you insist on dramatically referring to it, as the culmination of several misadventures over the preceding few years which served to slight the good Fitzsimmons name.Beginning with a duel in 1821, whereupon I limited myself to removing a slice of gristle from the Marquess of Fording’s left ear.It was that or end his life.A little later the same year, I ran a curricle into Lord Horsham’s privet hedge.Behind which Lady Horsham was having an illicit liaison with Sir John Pimperne.Their amour did not survive his broken foot.The following winter, I bilked Tuffy Bannister out of one hundred pounds.In the spring of the same year, I bilked him out of two hundred more and used it during the autumn to drink White’s brandy stores dry.Furthermore, two years ago, I stole a quantity of Ashington silver, then pawned it to pay off gambling debts.In addition, I fed my brother’s prize stallion a bucket of sand to ensure it lost at Ascot, but not before placing heavy bets against it winning.For a hippophile such as Benedict, that was the final nail in my coffin.”
Rollo, undeniably impressed, was hungry for more.“Sounds like you came here for a jolly good rest after all that lot.”If his companion would stop pointing his silly little bow at him and treating him like an imbecile, they might get on splendidly.“So, during your sojourn here, you’ve turned over a new leaf?”
“Not quite.”Lord Lyndon threw him a threatening smile, dark as a demon.“I’m currently plotting another dastardly act.”
“Ooh!Really?”
“Yes.My most glorious yet.”
Goodness, the man was beautiful when he smiled.Even when it had an evil twist to it.
“Am I to be privy?”
“Most certainly.In fact, you have a starring role.”The lord smiled again, and this time, Rollo’s cock gave a little twitch in response.“I’m going to shoot an annoying young man.With this child’s bow and arrow.Through the heart.Because he won’t.Stop.Pestering.”
A sixth sense whispered to Rollo that he’d poked the devil enough for one night.Uncurling himself from the settee, noting the manner in which Lord Lyndon fleetingly appraised him before looking away, and not sure what to make of it, he performed a mocking bow.
“No mention of swiving though, my lord, amongst your long list of antics.Very interesting.No wonder you’re so damned miserable.”
And on that note, he scarpered before he could receive a sharp arrow in the backside.
Chapter Eight
ABHORRENT, ABNORMAL, ANDunnatural.A story Lyndon told himself for years.A sour lie that didn’t improve with repetition.And no matter how hard he tried, he failed to squash the truth.
Ah, William,all those years ago, what did you start?
Stretched out in his bed with nothing but bitter memories for company, Lyndon sighed.Images of the Duchamps-Avery boy’s slim thighs, crossing and uncrossing, played on his mind and thickened his cock, though he’d die rather than succumb to relieving the ache.Damned fidget, the pup was forever drawing attention to every bleeding lean inch of them, dredging up every single one of the urges Lyndon tried to suppress.
The boy was a sodomite.He’d freely admitted as much and flirted like an alley cat, his flirtation loosely wrapped up as taunting.He flaunted his effeminacy, and Lyndon had found it thrilling.The boy himself was thrilling, from his long pale fingers pressed against lips ripe as spring blooms, to his pale glittery eyes, so like those of his acerbic, clever papa’s, yet softer, more forgiving.Kinder.
Naturally, Lyndon had not flirted back.
*
A FEW DAYSlater, not content with hounding Lyndon’s evenings in the drawing room, the confounded boy appeared in the bloody study.During the middle of the afternoon!Lyndon didn’t recall inviting him to join him there and made that perfectly clear by picking up his bow and declaring war on the 1st Royal Dragoons, temporarily on a reconnaissance mission on the fifth shelf of the bookcase.
“You have the run of the whole bloody hall, you know.”His grumbles landed on deaf ears.
According to Berridge, Duchamps-Avery had spent the morning pruning the roses on the front lawn—as if they weren’t already perfectly pruned.Dressed in a mulberry silk banyan of all things—the bloody tulip—paired with mulberry kidskin gloves.Thank the lord, he’d changed into a sky-coloured topcoat, which was an improvement, though tailored within an inch of its life, mind.The youth was slim as a crayon.Both hands around his waist would have Lyndon’s fingertips joining at the back like a bloody corseted chit.
A yellow rose—one of Lyndon’s perfect yellow roses—sat in his buttonhole.Bloody dandy.Berridge reported he’d requested ratafia with his supper of an evening, Lyndon’s expensive French liquor apparently not to his liking.Ratafia was a stupid drink, a prissy, made-up concoction for folks who couldn’t stomach their brandy neat.
