“Fine.”Lyndon grinned.“But be careful what you wish for.”
Pursing his lips and straining at the edges of his memory, Lyndon adopted the grave baritone of his old English tutor.“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’Thou art more sweaty and this heat is more hellish—rough winds today would be greeted with joyful abandon, and thou goest on and on interminably when more than anything, I’d like my lunch and then a peaceful postprandial snooze.”
He clamped his mouth shut, at risk of producing an undignified giggle.“Art thou happy now?”
Rollo gave his thigh a well-deserved slap, then giggled himself, a sound warming Lyndon’s bones better than the smoothest of French brandies.“You are a beast, Lord Lyndon, of the most delicious kind.And your grammar is atrocious.You and Willoughby would be splendid chums.You could concoct dreadful odes together.”
Opening a pale, glittery eye, Rollo held up an admonishing finger.“Just one minor point, my lord: I do not sweat.I sparkle.My papa always says—”
“Oh, good.I wondered if your papa would be joining our picnic.WhenI’m finally allowed to have the blasted picnic.That’s a strong hint, by the way.”
Grumbling, Rollo sat up and began passing bread and cheese to Lyndon.“I was about to say my papa’s a great fan of bastardising Shakespeare to suit his needs.He would have found your impromptu verse hilarious.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
Nothing Lyndon had ever done in his former existence as a rogue about town had ever met with the Earl of Rossingley’s exacting approval.He had no reason to believe seducing his precious second son would either.
“You have the wrong impression of him entirely, Fitz.After all, he begat me, so he can’t be all bad.”
Lyndon should have argued that point on principle alone.But he was too hot and too sleepy.And Rollo was feeding him tasty morsels directly into his mouth as if his own hands had suddenly stopped working.Being so indulged was far too lovely to interrupt.
“My father wouldn’t have sent me here if he didn’t believe there was some good in you,” the pup prattled between popping delightful slivers of pigeon pie between Lyndon’s lips.“He cares too much for me to put me in the company of a poor influence.”
As Rollo reached up to place a honeyed walnut on Lyndon’s tongue, Lyndon took his wrist, his fingers easily wrapping around it.
“And if he knew of our sport in the nursery?”Lyndon asked.“And drawing room?What then?”
Rollo shrugged.“He is aware of my preference for men.He shares it himself.”
Lyndon traced the path of a fragile blue vein with his thumb.“But a preference for me in particular?”
“He is, of course, unaware.But his opinions on the matter are not relevant.I may not have yet reached my majority, but I am still master of my own desires.”
Lyndon chuckled.Lately, his own enslaved him.“You have mastered frustrating me and very little else.”
With his belly full and his empty plate—a tasty lure for crawling insects—placed well clear of his person, Lyndon lay down again.As his eyelids drooped, he clasped his hands behind his head.Sun, wine, rich food, and a perpetual state of arousal tired him out.
Next to him, Rollo picked at the cold cuts, wittering on about how he enjoyed them with Cook’s piccalilli, yet at bloody Rossingley, they also ate them with a ferment of fennel.Personally, Lyndon thought that sounded vile.Nonetheless, Rollo’s light tenor, endlessly washing over him, was soothing.Lyndon would never admit that, of course.He’d already made a cake of himself admiring the pup’s slender form.The compliment had slipped from him as Rollo topped up his wine before he’d had time to rein it back in.And then he’d pointed out that the slenderness extended to his fingers too—Lyndon had even held one up for closer inspection whilst rubbing his thumb along that bony little wrist, holding on to it for far longer than necessary.Bloody idiot.So, he decided to shut up for a bit.
“All this romantic twaffle is exhausting,” he announced sleepily.“I need to recover.Which means silence, pup.”
As the scarred old branches of the beech trees whispered to one another, Lyndon’s mind drifted in that rare, comfortable twilight haze, which only the very best of afternoon naps reliably delivered.Not quite awake but not asleep either, he inhaled a few long deep breaths, letting the sweet scents of the wild Norfolk earth waft up his nose.Somewhere above his head, a lethargic orchestra of songbirds composed a few half-hearted sonnets, far sweeter than his own.
A drop of something warm and damp landed on his forehead.And then another, heavier this time, against his temple.Most odd.Lyndon didn’t think he’d been snoozing for more than a few minutes and not a single cloud had marred the sky all day.Furthermore, the rest of him remained perfectly warm and dry.Begrudgingly, he prised opened one eye, expecting to see clouds gathering through the green canopy of beech leaves.Instead, Rollo loomed over him, his face awfully close and grinning like a court jester.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing.I’m kissing you.Or trying to.”
As if to demonstrate, he bent closer and briefly pressed his lips to Lyndon’s mouth.Soft and light as a feather.Then he pulled away.Lyndon frowned, dabbing a finger against where Duchamps-Avery had kissed him.
“Why?”
Rollo chortled.“My mouth has already tasted your cock, so I thought it was time I tasted your lips.”
Lyndon’s member thickened at the reminder.He glanced back towards the house.Alas, it had not moved farther away during his snooze.“Is that something sodomites do?Do they not simply fornicate in order to attain bodily release?”
Rollo’s smile stretched even wider.“Do you not kiss your female lovers?”
