Lyndon let out a relieved sigh.“Over the last few weeks, I have wondered if you were created solely for the conflicting purposes of annoying and pleasing me.”His jealous streak flickered to life.“And no one but me.”
Rollo giggled.“Then I shall delight in my endeavours to succeed in both.”
Kissing distracted them for a few minutes.Lyndon might have let that and more distract him for a good while longer, except Rollo pulled away.
“And?”he said.“That is not the end of the story, I feel.”
Lyndon shut his eyes briefly.Nothing dampened one’s ardour like a terribly sad tale, but today had been a day for unburdening.He’d never related this one, not even to Benedict, though all his family knew the bones of it.
“Will and I had spent the early afternoon down by the lake on a summer’s day much like today.We swam to stay cool and then lay on the bank in the sun to dry off.”He pressed his lips against Rollo’s forehead as if to remind himself he could.“And to do a little of what we’re doing now.”
The memory of what came next turned Lyndon’s belly sour.Goose bumps prickled the hairs on his arm, and he squeezed Rollo tighter.“Cousins of ours were coming to stay.I had promised Mama I would not be late for tea.When I heard their carriage wheels spitting up gravel, I said my goodbyes to Will and left him there, waiting for his own mother to finish working in our kitchen.They often walked home across the fields together; he helped carry whatever linens she took home to press or mend.”
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.“And I heard nothing more.Ithoughtnothing more until dinner that evening.There were twelve of us at the table.The meal dragged out, my cousins were dull, and they had interrupted my afternoon of lovemaking.And then…and then, without warning during the fish course, Mama told everyone that the body of Mrs Elliot, the farmer’s wife, had been dragged from the lake not two hours earlier.And her son, Will, alongside her.And that the rhubarb was forced this year and more woody than last.And that Cook should be commended for the excellent turbot.”
Hot tears pricked at his eyes.He tried in vain to blink them away.“And that was that.As if it didn’t matter, as if an ordinary young woman who laundered your drawers whilst you sipped champagne and dined on excellent turbot, was expendable.And that her death was as noteworthy as a poor rhubarb crop but certainly no more.”
Lyndon dashed the heel of his hand across his eyes.God knew he wasn’t perfect, but he cared for those who loyally served him with a great deal more compassion than that.
“But Will lived,” confirmed Rollo.
“Barely.”Lyndon shook his head.“I despised my mother from that day forward, though she never knew.Whilst my resentment of my father had already festered for years, that he allowed that horrific event to pass in such a callous fashion strengthened it into a hatred which began to consume me.And swept along in its path, a bitterness grew towards Benedict, whose birthright was no more his fault than my own.”
Dampness trickled into his hairline unchecked.Unblinking, Lyndon stared up at the ceiling, waiting for his eyes to dry and the dull ache in his chest to subside.He’d read somewhere that grief was as individual as snowflakes; his manifest itself in a cold, dark anger, which he’d never quite resolved.
Rollo remained silent, and for a long minute or so, there was only the sound of their breathing.
“What do you believe happened at the lake?”Rollo’s fingers tangled with the coarse hair covering Lyndon’s chest, his nails scratching at the skin.
Lyndon gave a small shrug.“No one is sure.On account of our guests, Mrs Elliot had worked later than usual.Will might have taken another swim to cool down.Or she may have slipped, walking along the lake’s edge, and Will tried to save her, or the other way around.The pond weed is virulent on the shaded side down by the woods, and the bank easily crumbles when the weather is dry.Will has no memory of any of it, so we shall never know.”
He sighed.“In a way, it matters not.Because that is not the end.Will’s father perished six months later.He’d been left with a much beloved young wife in a wicker casket and a son more like a waxwork effigy than the boy he loved.Though he took to drink, the local folks say he died of despair and a broken heart.I cannot find it in my own heart to disagree.”
“And a vital piece of you perished too,” whispered Rollo.He hugged Lyndon close, every bit of him clinging, as if he would crawl inside if he could.
Lyndon huffed a humourless laugh.“Or lies at the bottom of that damned lake.And I have spent the last decade searching for something to fill the hole it left.”
Perhaps, in this funny, wise, sweet young man, he’d found it.He stroked Rollo’s hair, planting kisses to the top of his head, his forehead, his eyelids, working his way down until he sought out Rollo’s slack, pliant mouth.Rolling him onto his back, Lyndon blanketed his lithe body with his own, captured by a sudden need to touch his lips to every living, breathing part of him.Raw, carnal, lust took over as his mouth trailed a path down Rollo’s soft belly.All thoughts of the past fled.There would be no ghosts in this bed.Not tonight.No “what could have beens,” no “if onlys.”Just two men, together as one.And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.
Chapter Twenty
Dear Fitzsimmons, I hope this finds you well.I must express in words my thanks for making my darling son, Rollo, so splendidly at home at Goule.Tommy Squire also reports that he is in fine fettle.Rollo’s numerous and voluminous missives home have overspilled with examples of your kind spirit and generosity.
It would be no exaggeration to acknowledge that you and I have not always seen eye to eye.Nonetheless, I feel I owe you an apology.From Rollo’s singular praise, you are a much better man than I have given you credit for.Whatever aberrations occurred when you last stayed in London, you have clearly put all that behind you.I am determined to do the same.In his turn, and thanks to your guidance, it appears that Rollo, also, has turned over a new leaf.
Willoughby and I miss him dreadfully.To that end, we shall burden you with his company no longer.Though he has only been with you for half the time we agreed, he is now free to leave Goule and return to Rossingley, whereupon, thanks to you, I daresay he shall continue shaping up to become an excellent young man.A carriage will be leaving Rossingley forthwith.
Yours etc, Rossingley.
His missives home have overspilled with examples of your kind spirit and generosity.
THE PUP HADbeen true to his word.How easily he could have carped on about Lyndon’s peculiar ways and unfriendly manner and begged his papa to retrieve him.Instead, he’d chosen courage over his own comfort.He’d painted Lyndon as a beacon of respectability and good sense, because when Rollo had insisted that a man’s business under his roof was no one’s but his own, he had meant every word.Not knowing that, one day, his father would play his exact words back to Lyndon.
Never had Lyndon’s heart felt so full yet so empty.The thought blindsided him.
“I’m in love,”he informed the letter he grasped in his hand.He said it out loud again, testing the veracity of it, those three simple words sounding even more sure of themselves the second time.“I’m in love,” he declared.“I love him.”
He stared at the foolscap.For a moment, Rossingley’s looped, elegant hand and brute reasoning stared back at him.Then Lyndon crunched up the letter and hurled it across the room.
