“You…” began Lyndon and trailed off.
“Do not feel you have to speak of this, my lord,” offered Duchamps-Avery pleasantly.“We could carry on much as before if that is your preference.”He held up the novel.“I shall reacquaint myself with Count Rodolfo’s misadventures, and you may attend to yourPointless House Of Worship.I could ring Lucy for refreshments, and we could eat them whilst marvelling at how the light lands so beautifully on the stones of the north wall.”
“I…” Lyndon was lost, a bewildered mess in the face of this boy’s composure.Should he congratulate the pup on his excellent technique?How well the dress had suited him?How the vision of his red lips, stretched tight around Lyndon’s cock, had been the most singular, spectacular, filthy thing he’d witnessed in the entirety of his fairly extensive sexual explorations?That the sound of the pup’s melodic tenor, still hoarse, already had his cock stiffening again?Which of the hundreds of sensations pulling at his mind did he indulge first?Or did he explain that the yellowing limestone of the north wall was well known for its visual trickery at around this time of day, and that several had tried to capture its iridescence on canvas but miserably failed.Including himself.
Duchamps-Avery had given him a means of escape, and coward that he was, he gratefully seized it.“I…yes.It does rather, doesn’t it?I shall ring for Lucy.”
Chapter Fifteen
My dearest Willoughby.His lordship is as well hung as the innocent women at Pendle witch trials.
My dearest Willoughby.I find that his lordship is fast becoming Napoleon to my Josephine.Samson to my Delilah.Orsino to my Viola.He is wild and self-willed, and a desperate mass of inconsistencies, and I’m scandalously, hopelessly, one thousand degrees in love with him.And before you say it, yes, I know I’ve referred to him as an ogre, and I must confess that he has a darker side.But really, when one teases a tiger, shouldn’t one learn to expect the odd scratch?
Papa.I must add another string to Lord Lyndon’s already impressive bow: swordsmith extraordinaire!
“HIS LORDSHIP HASrequested your presence at luncheon, sir.”
Greaves concealed his astonishment at this unusual turn of events by brushing imaginary lint from Rollo’s topcoat.In contrast, Rollo’s eyebrows rose to his hairline.“Mr Simpson and his daughters will also be in attendance,” the footman elaborated.
Rollo could not deny a twinge of disappointment.For the shortest of seconds, he’d allowed himself to imagine Lord Lyndon as eager to be alone in Rollo’s company as Rollo was to be in his.
He let out a heavy sigh.Dear Heart, let’s pretend yesterday never happened.“I am to be a foil,” he observed.
Greaves inclined his head slightly.“I believe there are to be some deeds drawn up finalising their charitable venture.His lordship and Mr Simpson are engaged in that currently.Naturally, the squire wishes to use the opportunity to encourage furtherfriendshipbetween his daughters and his lordship.”
“Naturally,” Rollo agreed.“Tell me, Greaves, has Lord Lyndon ever entertained the idea of marriage?”
Greaves considered for a moment.“I believe not, sir.There is talk he had his heart broken as a much younger man and never recovered from it.”
Something in the footman’s manner suggested he did not share that opinion.
“I understand he spent many idyllic summers here as a youth.”
“He did.”Greaves tidied Rollo’s shaving things, seemingly determined not to meet Rollo’s eye.“And this year, I believe he is finding certain aspects of his summer at Goule equally agreeable.”
“Oh.”Rollo’s heart fluttered with hope.“Are you…are you suggesting that—”
“Shall you be requiring the charcoal stripe or the pale yellow today, sir?”
Greaves held up both cravats, his neutral gaze fixed somewhere over Rollo’s left shoulder.
Anidyllic summer.Rollo adored a challenge.
“Most definitely the yellow,” he decided.It was the colour of endless possibilities.“And my navy waistcoat with the inlaid paisley.”If Lord Lyndon requested his presence, then that was what he’d have.A shimmering, dazzling, unmissable bright spot of it.
*
HIS HOST’S EXPRESSIONheld nothing but polite acknowledgement when Rollo joined him in the dining room, not a flicker of what had passed between them.A less optimistic man than Rollo might have imagined he’d dreamed the whole thing.
Simpson and his daughters had already arrived, the man sipping at a thimble of dry sherry whilst his daughters had arranged themselves prettily on the chaise.From the way the ladies pounced on him, Rollo surmised Lord Lyndon’s efforts at courteous chit-chat had been as feeble as he’d come to expect.
“Miss Eliza, Miss Nancy!Such an unexpected pleasure!”
Indeed it was, and not only because his gushing elicited one of Lord Lyndon’s thunderous scowls.
“May I say, sir, your waistcoat is surely the most divine Goule has ever witnessed,” Eliza trilled.“I covet those buttons.”
“I shall fight you for them,” declared Nancy.
