“Trying the thing on, of course!”Duchamps-Avery flung his trousers aside, caring not where they landed.On the wooden horse, as it happened.“One can’t play pirates and damsels without a proper costume, can one?And I’m under no illusion you’ll be content to take the role of damsel.”
Thank all that was holy that the boy had taken up the vulgar fashion of wearing silken drawers.Lyndon had no intention of adopting modern ways; he was perfectly content wrapping his undercarriage in his shirttails, thank you very much.But then he also had no desire to strip down to his unmentionables in the bloody nursery.Blood heated his veins as Duchamps-Avery’s shapely, milky, bare calves danced before his eyes.Calves sculpted by Satan himself for the singular purpose of wrapping around Lyndon’s back.
“We’re not playing damsels and pirates!I’m attempting to paint that bloody chapel roof, and you’re supposed to be reading a disreputable work of literature.Quietly.”
Lyndon might as well have been speaking to the damned three-cornered hat still wedged on his head.“And…what the blazes?For heaven’s sake.Leave your undershirt on!Where’s your sense of decorum, boy?”
“Oh, I don’t know, hiding out there somewhere—” Duchamps-Avery flung a hand in the direction of the window.“—having kidnapped your sense of adventure and scarpered with it.”By now, he was hopping about on one leg, the other caught up in the petticoats.“One can’t wear a shirt under a dress like this.”He laughed again.“For a start, it will spoil my decolletage!”
Never mind that, it was rapidly spoiling Lyndon’s resolve to keep his hands to himself.To pretend he had a grip on things was an insult to grips and things.Briefly, he closed his eyes.Then prised them open again.
Hell and damnation.Those deft, delicate fingers had half the shirt already unfastened.And then the thing was off the pup’s shoulders altogether.Not many seconds after that, time took on its own dimensions.
Lyndon stared.He couldn’t help himself.Sometimes, beauty crept into your bones unnoticed in the warmth of a gaze, the generosity of a soul, the subtle swell of a breast.It seduced gradually with a sly glance here and a curvy hip swing there, until hooking one to be left dangling like a fish.
And then there was that other rare beauty.A beauty that screamed its name so loudly it made the hairs on one’s arms stand up, such as when Duchamps-Avery stood near naked in the nursery, his modesty covered only by a flimsy pair of cream bloody silk drawers.
Mesmerised, Lyndon licked his lips.The portion of beauty allotted this man was undeserving—a beauty already tunnelling into Lyndon’s core, into his very marrow, and stealing it away.And the devil was Duchamps-Avery bloody knew it.It was plain for Lyndon to see in the tips of his long fingers, idly smoothing a path along his flat belly, in the languorous, idle way he contemplated the dusty dress, in no hurry to cover himself with it.
“What ails you, Lord Lyndon?”The change in Duchamps-Avery’s voice was unmissable, too, huskier, suggestive.“Have you never seen a man undress down to his drawers before?You have brothers, do you not?Surely you have boxed with other gentlemen at Jack’s?”
Lyndon’s blood burned.He wanted this youth like he wanted his next breath.Will’s words floated back to him through the sun’s rays.Courage, my old friend.
“None…none like you,” he whispered.“None so fair.”
Duchamps-Avery dropped his gaze, looking down at himself as if through Lyndon’s carnal gaze.His long fingers teased at the ties of his drawers, and the corner of his soft mouth curved into a smile.“Why, thank you, my lord.Pretty looks aren’t everything.But I like to think I have them anyway, just in case.”
“Put on the damned dress,” Lyndon barked.And then, because he could hide his desire no longer and knew that damned Duchamps-Avery had spied it, squeezed his cockstand through his breeches.“Before I am undone, damn you.”
Even the most revered of French courtesans never made such a spectacle of covering themselves.Lyndon was torn between losing the miles of bare marbled flesh and yet gaining the most coquettish vixen he’d ever imagined existed.Having arranged his ruby decolletage to his liking, Duchamps-Avery sashayed towards him, picking up the small sword along the way.Flowing around his legs, the silk skirts whispered like a cool breeze.
“Now for the sword play, my lord.”He trapped Lyndon in his glittery gaze.“Tell me, Fitz, when you played with your friend alone up here, did he ever wear this dress?Did he pretend to be a damsel in need of your strong, protective embrace?”
“Yes,” Lyndon croaked.“Though never as well as you.”
“You were of an age for swordplay?”
“He had eighteen years to my seventeen.”
Duchamps-Avery nodded, fondling his wooden sword before encasing the blunted blade in the tunnel of his fist, performing a lewd action that could not be mistaken for anything else.That wicked smile played at his lips again.
“Did you chase your damsel first, as dastardly pirates are wont?”
“Yes,” Lyndon breathed.
“And did you catch him?”
“Yes, but…but not without a fight.”
With a grin, Duchamps-Avery offered his hand.“Then rise, Captain.”He took up an elegant fencer’s stance, one foot ahead of the other, his back ramrod straight.His short, blunted weapon pointed directly at Lyndon.“My family’s honour is at stake!”he cried in a ridiculous high-pitched voice.“I must protect my virtue at all costs.En garde!”
Lyndon found himself grinning and holding up his own harmless sword.His brain insisted he’d never behaved sillier, that he must look an utter fool prancing around in his three-cornered hat, waving a wooden toy.He should cease immediately.His body, however, refused to pay attention as he easily parried Duchamps-Avery’s cautious opening jab.
Duchamps-Avery was well-schooled, that much was evident.Nonetheless, the pup didn’t stand a chance.Though rusty, Lyndon had the advantages of a longer reach and longer weapon, combined with an urgent need to catch his damsel and dosomethingto relieve himself.
His opponent drove forward with a quick, forceful stab.Lyndon stopped it with a flick, lunging in a determined counterattack.He came down lightly onto Duchamps-Avery’s shoulder, and the pup danced away, laughing delightedly.
“Your sword is thirsty for me tonight, Captain!”He feinted a high attack, then switched to a deft low strike.“You fight like a man in a hurry.Something more pressing on your mind?”
