So many years had passed since he’d ever come close to having a man.None but this young man and his dearest Will had ever given him cause to want to.But, by God, at this moment, how Lyndon wanted to.
“I’ve laid out your light charcoal linen topcoat, my lord, and linen trousers,” prompted Berridge as if the damned picnic was a fait accompli.“Given that the day is so fine.And there is soap and hot water in your bedchamber.”
“Huh.”Lyndon resumed his path to the stairs.“Down by the beech trees, you say.”
“Yes, my lord.It is an excellent day for it.Do have fun.”
“You’re a traitor, Berridge.”
“Yes, my lord.Quite possibly.”And on that note, Berridge became terribly busy polishing a silver candlestick.
*
FROM ACROSS THEexpanse of lawn, Lyndon stood quietly for a few minutes, observing his young guest.Sprawled on a checked woollen rug, Rollo had made a pillow of another and read from a book propped on his chest, his neat bare feet crossed at the ankles.Lyndon had half hoped, in the intervening days, that Rollo’s allure would have somehow lessened.Alas, watching him now, a bundle of silky, relaxed, elegant limbs laid out like a harvest feast, only fanned the flames of Lyndon’s hunger.
He strode across the grass.
“You came!”Rollo exclaimed, turning with apparent delight at Lyndon’s approach.
Lyndon stifled a grin.Give an inch and Duchamps-Avery would seize a yard.He’d have Lyndon making a crown out of daisies or hand feeding him stoned cherries.“The alternative was starvation, seeing as you have bewitched my servants and commandeered my lunch.”
Indefatigable in the face of Lyndon’s determination not to appear pleased, Rollo pressed a palm against his chest.“Your charm is unrivalled, my lord.”He gestured to a small patch of rug next to him.“Look, there is space for both of us.”
Resisting the urge to take Rollo’s hand or, indeed, push him to the ground and mount him like a rutting stag, Lyndon distracted himself by plucking at blades of grass and watching his companion out of the corner of his eye as he poured them both modest glasses of wine.When he was done, Rollo lay back down and patted the rug behind where Lyndon stiffly sat.
“Lie here a moment.Rest yourself.Tell me about your trip to Norwich.I have never visited.”
“I thought the purpose of coming here was to eat.To endure a picnic.”
Rollo laughed.Was there nothing Lyndon could say to pierce that excellent humour?“All in good time, Fitz.But let me warn you, I’m the picnic that talks back.”
He lifted his head from his makeshift pillow to sip at his wine.Thanks to the awkward position, a few ruby drops dribbled down his chin.Eyes bright with amusement, Rollo wiped them with the back of his hand before his pink tongue darted out to lick them up.
Though shaded by trees, the picnic spot was still awfully close to the house.Too close for anything other than picnicking, and Lyndon’s ballocks sensed a long, achy afternoon ahead.More so when the pup patted Lyndon’s leg and then, as if checking his belongings were all present and correct, let his light fingers wander along it.
“Ravish me with your words, my lord,” Rollo declared lazily.“This fine weather puts me in a romantic mood.”He closed his eyes against the sun.“Undress me with your cleverness.Touch me with your soul.Seduce me, Fitz.”
Reaching the end of their travels, the young man’s long fingers took up thankfully modest residence on Lyndon’s lower thigh.Perhaps his ballocks might get a reprieve after all.
“I’m not entirely convinced much seduction is required,” Lyndon observed.“One, your hand is already touching my person.Two, you have invited me here, alone, to this sheltered spot, when we could so easily have eaten in the dining room in the presence of Greaves.Three, at your request, I am informed those baskets contain some of my favourite delicacies, and four, you are halfway down a glass of good wine.”Which has brought a rosy flush to your cheeks that I would like nothing more than to kiss away.“Oh, and lest we forget—five, you have already seduced me.Twice.”
“Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon.Do it anyway.Romance me, Fitz!”
“For heaven’s sake.Must I?”
“Yes, you must.Otherwise, I shall keep all the pigeon pie to myself.”
Lyndon adored Cook’s pigeon pie.Gingerly, he lay down, but on his side and propped on an elbow so he could keep his eyes peeled for marauding ants and wasps.Most certainly not to admire the set of excessively fluffy eyelashes feathering his companion’s cheeks.It was a wonder they didn’t get tangled up in themselves each time the pup blinked.
The day’s temperature had reached its peak, and a sliver of perspiration coated the youth’s smooth upper lip.Dampness darkened the roots of his pointlessly showy blond hair.With his mere existence Rollo was successfully seducing Lyndon, laying bare Lyndon’s own seductive inadequacies without even trying.What should he do?Romance and he were barely acquainted.Compliment his attire—again?Concoct an impromptu ode?
“I’m waiting,” Rollo said in a sing-song voice.“There will be no pigeon pie.”
Frowning, Lyndon tried to recall the romantic sonnets he’d been forced to learn by rote at school.Alas, only snatches of the most popular verses came back to him.Oh well, he’d improvise.
“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”he began.
Rollo clapped his hands with delight.“Do!Do!I am a mere swoon away from melting already.”
