Will let out a frustrated noise because they’d had this unsatisfactory conversation several times now.“If only there was a way to communicate with him and find out for sure.”
Treating that sarcasm with the disdain it deserved, Lyndon returned to firing arrows and drinking brandy.Tomorrow afternoon, he would occupy himself doing the same.And the afternoon after that.
“Why are you visiting your aunt, anyway?”he grumbled.I don’t want you to go.
“It is an important trip.One I should have taken weeks ago.”
“It all sounds very spur of the moment.You never do anything on the spur of the moment.And you haven’t mentioned your cousin Lucinda in eons.Or that you have a dying aunt.”
“That’s because we only ever talk about you and your woes.”
“Not true,” Lyndon retorted crossly.“Why, only yesterday we talked about your mangel-wurzels.”
Will huffed.“You’re a bloody mangel-wurzel.A clogged up, constipated one.Your Rollo had a way with words, I’ll give him that.”
They were speaking in the past tense about him, depressingly.
“And why are you going away for so long?”Lyndon barked.“Norwich is but half a day.You never travel anywhere overnight.”
“No, but perhaps it’s time I began.We can’t both idle our lives away in this godforsaken corner of the country.I daresay I’ll come back.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
DECLARING HIMSELF WEARYof the unchanging view from his bedchamber, Willoughby decamped to the drawing room, whereupon he regally dictated proceedings from an ornate recliner, which their father had always grandly referred to as thegondola chaise.When they were small, Rollo and Willoughby would dress up as sailors and pretend to paddle it.
Willoughby had grown weary of being a patient, too, and though he’d never admit, Rollo had wearied of pandering to his every whim.With his brother’s strength returning by the day, he’d become less a nursemaid and more a punchbag for every one of his brother’s understandable frustrations.Yesterday, with the aid of a crutch and some colourful language worthy of a sailor, Willoughby had walked five paces.The effort had exhausted him, though afterwards, he ate like a soldier returned from battle.Moreover, he’d beaten Rollo twice at dominoes already this morning, as sure a sign as any that he was thoroughly on the mend.
“Tonight, at dinner, I’m going to announce my amour for Fitz,” Rollo confided as he shuffled the dominoes face down.“And that I would like to return to Goule, if you are able to manage without me.I’ve already sent a letter proclaiming the good news to my darling man this morning.”
“I suppose I shall do my very best to cope,” answered Willoughby magnanimously.“Though you must write daily.Stuck here, limping about, I shall be living vicariously through you.”He frowned.“Why haven’t you heard from him?Do they not have quill and ink out in the wilds of Norfolk?”
“He’s an artist, not a writer,” Rollo informed him.“If one can call it art.And Fitz’s feelings towards me are too…fulsome…to put to paper.”
“Too vulgar, more like,” huffed Willoughby.
With a smirk, Rollo served them each seven dominoes.Just imagining running into Fitz’s open arms warmed his nether regions.He’d drag the man to bed and not let him leave for a week.“When I write to you, I shall be sure to include every detail.”
“Please don’t,” Willoughby said hastily.“A rough outline will be fine, thank you.I’ve been very ill, you know.”
Smiling, Willoughby examined the tiles in his hand and cursed.“I suppose I should be grateful that at least one of us will have some…intimacy to look forward to.How the devil am I going to seduce a blasted girl in thetonthis season if I’m hobbling around on a crutch?”
Rollo heaved a sigh as Willoughby placed a double, and Rollo picked up from the stock.“Listen to me, Willoughby.You are Lord Cavendish, heir to Rossingley.You will be shaking them off.And as for, you know, the rest of it—” He pointedly flicked his gaze down to the fall of his brother’s trousers and then back up again.“‘To him that will, ways are not wanting’.”
Willoughby snorted.“Why are you quoting ancient poetry at me?What does it mean?How can I swive a woman when I can scarcely move one of my wretched limbs?”
An image of himself sitting tall and proud and naked above Fitz, pleasuring both himself and his lover, flashed through Rollo’s head.Soon, my love, he silently promised them both.Soon.
“It means,” Rollo said, “that there is more than one method of satisfying a man’s needs if one is determined to try.Flat on your back and thinking of England, whilst a chit does all the hard work, would be a jolly good place to start.”He grinned at his exasperated, innocent treasure of a brother.“Though I suspect with your increasing desperation, her work wouldn’t be very taxing at all.And I imagine the view looking up is delightful, if one is of that persuasion.”
His unworldly twin blushed adorably.Teasing Willoughby was one of Rollo’s favourite ways to pass the time.
“Frankly, I don’t understand how a chap could be of any other.Hidden under those demure layers of taffeta, Lavinia has a bosom I’d give my inheritance to get my hands on.”
“You very nearly did, you clot.And I don’t know whether it has escaped your notice, but dear Lavinia and her divine bosom haven’t paid you a single call since you nearly died.And how come you have had the double-six in your hand every single game?”
Willoughby placed his final winning domino then clasped his hands together with satisfaction.“Because I’m not as beastly as you.”
“Master Rollo?”Inglis, the head butler, appeared.They’d been bickering so happily neither heard him approach.“You have unexpected callers.Two gentlemen and a lady.”
