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If Guy had been asked at any point in his entire adult life prior to this week how he might envisage himself speaking to Sir Philip Rookwood, “planning illicit amours” would have been the least likely answer imaginable, matched only in its implausibility by “up a tree”. Yet here they were, unless Guy had taken ill and this was a detailed fever dream. Considering how heated he felt, it wasn’t impossible.
He wasn’t an idiot, even if he was inexperienced. He knew very well that rich London gentlemen toyed with country innocents for their entertainment; he’d heard enough ballads on the subject, and he was well aware that the erratic baronet with his unthinkable life wouldn’t be staying in Yarlcote long, whereas Guy was here forever. Philip’s words had made his skin tingle and his blood thump, but they were only words and, as he’d pointed out, held no promises.
But Guy wasn’t a young lady who required promises. Far from it. He had carefully refused ever to think about the sort of feelings Philip evoked in him, let alone act on them, because the consequences were too terrifying, and because he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea how to begin. And now he was staying in what might as well be an isolated castle for a period outside time, with its sinister master proving as unexpectedly hospitable as any fairytale beast. He was being offered something that might finally be an answer to the questions he couldn’t ask and the longings he couldn’t stem, and he was damn well going to do it. Whatever ‘it’ proved to be. Guy wasn’t quite sure of that, practically speaking, but whatever it was, he would trust Philip, and snatch this chance because there wouldn’t be another. He would not recoil in fear and spend the rest of his life wishing he’d been bolder. He’d done that too often.
It might prove calamitous; he could imagine a thousand ways in which it would. His mother had thrown her cap over the windmill and destroyed them all; it would be a bitter irony indeed if Guy too let himself be ruined at a Rookwood’s hands. But he’d sat and listened to the Murder speak as they chose for hours, and it had felt as though he’d been in a box without even knowing it, and someone had taken a crowbar and pried off the top. Guy had blinked at first, and shied away from the light as too painful. Now he felt the urge to stretch.
Philip was apparently perfectly happy on the branch, contemplating the landscape. His well-cut and decidedly fashionable clothes were utterly incongruous in a blasted oak tree, but the sunlight haloed his fair hair and put sapphire into those cool eyes. Guy watched his profile, lost in wanting, and when Philip turned his head and smiled, Guy didn’t look away.
“Shall we go back?” Philip suggested. “If you’re ready. And if you can advise me on removing my person from this tree, because this is going to be inelegant.”
It was indeed inelegant, and Philip swore impressively when he discovered a long scratch on his boot, but it didn’t seem to impair his mood. He wasn’t a precisely cheerful man so far as Guy could tell, his humour tending to the flippant or the sarcastic, but he seemed content to walk in silence, almost as though they hadn’t agreed to...well. Nothing new to him, Guy supposed. No wonder he didn’t look as though his every nerve ending was afire.
Guy cleared his throat as they walked down the hill. “Did you say beetroot?”
Philip shot him an amused glance. “I don’t think I said anything, but if I had, it wouldn’t have been that. I was thinking of an entirely different subject.”
“I mean earlier,” Guy ploughed on. “The reason you came here. Is that the white beet you’re growing?”
“Indeed. With the right manufactory, one can extract sugar from it. The French are building their own domestic sugar industry as we speak.”
“Actual sugar? Out of beets?”
“I assure you.”
“But does it not taste of, well, beetroot?”
“It can be absolutely vile, yes,” Philip said. “The strains, and indeed the manufacturing processes, are being refined yearly on the Continent. Domestic sugar production in the near future is a possibility, or should be. The French government is both mandating and funding their industry with a far-sighted approach to national sufficiency; you may guess for yourself if our own government is doing the same. Sugar production at home might mean less profits from the plantations, you see, and since the plantation owners sit in Parliament, we need not expect them to vote against their own interests. If we want to create an English sugar industry, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
“So do you own a manufactory?”
“Corvin does, and we’ve a friend—an occasional guest of the Murder, not with us—who is an enthusiast of agricultural innovation and has studied the Silesian model. It can be done, I am certain of it: sugar not flavoured with human blood, as they say, but grown by free men, and sold at a price that more people can afford to pay. This may yet prove a white elephant, but we’re giving it a try. Despite the lack of enthusiasm on the part of my steward, who is unconvinced.”
“I don’t think anyone quite understands why you’re growing a worthless crop,” Guy suggested.
“I know. He made that very point to me in explaining why I’m not getting a satisfactory yield.”
“You could explain. Hold a demonstration, show them the process if you can do it there and then, let them see sugar come from beet. Taste it, even, if it isn’t too beetrooty. I wouldn’t have understood anything of what Mr. Street said about fossils if I hadn’t had the stone creature in my hand. I think you could make people understand what it’s for and believe in it if you took the time. You’re awfully persuasive when you set out to be.”
“So I hope,” Philip said, with a smile that put all thoughts of root vegetables out of Guy’s head.
The walk back home felt like part of the fever dream. One simply didn’t agree to commit nameless and unlawful acts and then go for a pleasant country stroll with one’s co-conspirator. But he had, and they were, and as they approached Rookwood Hall, Guy felt the nerves rising. What might be expected of him? What had he agreed to? What if he had, after all, made a mistake, if he found himself horrified, or incapable, or ashamed of his weakness, or ridiculed by the man who had exploited it?
The panic came on him with sudden, breath-stopping force as they walked up the drive, so dizzying that Guy grabbed at Philip’s arm. He couldn’t walk another step towards his doom, he had to say something—
And Philip’s hand was on his, warm and gentle. “Guy? What’s wrong? My dear, breathe, please. Just breathe. Do I detect second thoughts?”
Guy couldn’t say no to that, and didn’t want to say yes. He stared at his own fingers gripping Philip’s sleeve, and the long slim fingers over his.
“Never anything against your will, your liking, or even your whim,” Philip said. “I did give you my word, you recall. You are not bound to anything at all.”
“Sorry,” Guy muttered. “I just...”
“Nerves.”
“Nerves,” he agreed miserably.
“I wish I could say I know how you feel,” Philip said, tugging him gently on, but veering off the drive and toward the gardens. “Or rather I don’t, because you look as though you feel rotten. I, by contrast, had Corvin showing me the ropes when I was sixteen or so, which made it a great deal easier. One can’t panic with Corvin involved, he’s too absurd and too warm-hearted. The only problem is that everyone falls in love with him, even when specifically and clearly warned that he won’t reciprocate. I certainly did.”
That cut through the gibbering in Guy’s brain. “I thought you said—”
“I got better,” Philip said. “I fell so hard that I feared I might die from what I couldn’t have, and made an absolute copper-bottomed fool of myself for six months in which I tried even Corvin’s patience to the limit—John has none to start with, so he was fairly trenchant about my idiocy—and then I got better. Because that’s how life tends to work in all its aspects. We try things out, and make mistakes, and recover, and learn from our experiences. We live, we learn. There are no lifelong, life-ruining consequences to fear from a little private dalliance in my house, or under my aegis, and you cannot possibly be more absurd about matters than I’ve been in my time. Consider yourself shielded.”
Guy nodded. “I suppose I’m being ridiculous.”
“You aren’t. You are, however, making a mountain out of—no, I’m not going to describe myself as a molehill. Let me rephrase that. Can you say ‘stop’?”
“Stop?”
Philip stepped away, letting Guy’s arm go. “And there you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. You say stop, I stop. It is no more complicated than that.”
He didn’t sound impatient, or wheedling. He was simply explaining, in much the same way as he explained sugar beet, and it felt like a soothing salve to jangled nerves. Guy took a breath. “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Philip said. “Well. Shall we sit out here a while, or would you care to accompany me inside?”
Guy dredged up his courage. “Let’s go in.”
They walked in silence, a few brisk strides. Guy could hear music from the sickroom, and assured himself, with a twinge of guilt, that Amanda didn’t need him. He followed Philip up the stairs and around, not, to his relief, into the parlour where he’d seen Philip with Corvin, but up the little side stair. A door stood open at the top; Philip knocked anyway, then gestured Guy in to a very pleasant little sitting-room.
“If you’d care to lock the door, do,” Philip said. “If you’d rather not, don’t.”
Guy did, leaving the key in the lock. His hands were rather shaky.
He turned. Philip was standing, waiting, watching him. Guy made himself meet those grey-blue eyes. “I’m, uh, not sure what I should do.”
“Well, let’s see. You might ask if you can kiss me.”
“If I—?”
“You’re doing this too, my dear. And you need my permission as much as I need yours.”
“What do I say?”
“I think ‘Can I kiss you?’ would do very well.”
Guy swallowed. “Can—can I kiss you?” It came out as a whisper.
“You can,” Philip said. “Come here.”
Guy closed the two paces between them, and found himself staring at a cravat, which was somewhat dishevelled after the walk and the tree. A gentle finger nudged his chin up.
“You’ve my permission,” Philip said softly.
He’d assumed Philip would take the lead. Guy stood on the balls of his feet to make up the extra height, awkwardly tried to move his mouth to the right place and angle, and wobbled. Philip’s hands came up, one steadying Guy’s arm, one applying the gentlest possible pressure to the back of his head, and their lips met.
Met, and touched, pressing chastely together, and Guy had just enough time to wonder if this was what the fuss was about when he felt Philip’s lips part against his. Guy’s mouth opened in surprise rather than imitation, and then Philip was kissing him, mouth open, not hard but thoroughly. His mouth was moving, and the extraordinary thing was, so was Guy’s, as if he knew how to do this all along. He felt the strong wet stroke of what had to be tongue, Philip’s tongue in his mouth, and the idea sent a shudder directly to his belly. He tried to reciprocate, so strongly aware of his own tongue that it felt three times its normal size, and felt it touch Philip’s. He pushed, tentatively, and felt Philip’s tongue curl against his.
Guy wasn’t sure how he could be doing this. He’d never kissed, he’d never so much as held hands with a girl, and now here he was with his mouth open to Philip’s, and each slow stroke of lips and tongue felt like Philip reaching into his most intimate, private self. It might have felt like an invasion, except Guy had thrown the gates wide and welcomed him in.
His mouth opened on the thought, without his conscious intent, and Philip made a pleased noise that hummed in Guy’s lips. He pressed harder, too, his mouth a little firmer, kisses a little hungrier, still slow, but now with an intent behind them that sent a shiver of anticipatory nerves and desire down Guy’s spine. He couldn’t help a little inadvertent sound of alarm. Philip stilled instantly, starting to move his mouth away, and that could not possibly happen now, so Guy grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in.
There was just a fraction of a second where Philip was completely still and Guy became aware that he might have been somewhat forward, and then Philip’s hand tightened on the back of his head, not gentle at all, and Guy found himself hanging on to Philip’s shoulders for dear life, because Philip was bending him backwards, other arm around his waist, his mouth ravaging and demanding and glorious. Guy was kissing and being kissed as wildly as anything he’d ever imagined, and oh God he was roused. He became aware of it very abruptly indeed, because Philip’s thigh was pressed hard between his legs, and surely he would notice any second. Guy attempted to ease his hips back a little, to reduce the pressure of body contact, and failed.
Philip slowed, gave Guy one very deliberate open-mouthed kiss more, then lifted his head, not letting go his grip, but looking down with a smile. “Enjoying yourself?”
Guy didn’t think he’d ever blushed harder. “I, uh, I’m—that is—”
Philip lowered his head, pressing his mouth to Guy’s neck, sending exquisite shivers across his nerves. “You’re meant to enjoy it,” he murmured, moving his mouth up but not away, so the words vibrated against the skin. “You’re meant to respond.” A deliberate press of his thigh. Guy gave a sharp gasp, and another as Philip’s tongue traced curves and lines on his neck. “You’re meant to want me, and ache for me, and long for more, as I am quite, quite desperate for you. Am I pleasing you, Guy?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
Philip’s thigh shifted, rubbing against his trapped stand. “Do you want more?”
Guy had no idea what more would entail and wanted it anyway. “Yes. Please.”
Philip smiled. “So polite. Let me know when you’re desperate.” He kissed up Guy’s jawline, and then his teeth closed gently on the earlobe and Guy almost cried out with the shock of pleasure.
“Oh! Oh.” Philip’s mouth was doing extraordinary things, and Guy’s skin was more than tingling, the excitement almost overwhelming. He squirmed against Philip’s thigh, setting off another wave of sensation, and heard himself whimper aloud.
“Christ, yes.” Philip sounded ragged. “Oh, you beauty. I thought you were ripe for picking. My God.”
“Please,” Guy whispered.
“Anything. What?”
“I want—” He wanted Philip to keep doing what he was doing, and he wanted him to do the unnamed more, because his body was straining for it, and he wanted very much not to spend in his drawers, and that was an urgent concern. “I, uh...”
“I’m going to teach you to speak,” Philip assured him. “It will make life a lot easier. I’ve my tongue in your ear and your cockstand against my leg. You can share your thoughts too. How may I serve you?” That wicked smile again. “Are you desperate yet?”
“I’m afraid I might spend,” Guy blurted out, because that was slightly less humiliating than doing it. “Sorry. I don’t want to stop, but—”
“We’re not going to stop, dear heart. I’m going to please you till you can’t stand up, starting here. May I touch you?”
Guy nodded. Philip moved his hands down, and then they were at the buttons of his breeches. He screwed his eyes shut.
“You don’t have to watch,” Philip said softly. “But I’m planning to commit the sight of you in my hand to memory. Let’s get you out. Oh, good heavens. Lovely.”
Guy half-looked, through half-shut eyes. He’d always found the sight of his member aesthetically displeasing: puny when flaccid, ungainly and undignified when roused. The Greeks had considered a large member a sign of low character and limited intelligence, and he could see why.
But Philip—cultured, sophisticated Philip—was looking down with a hunter’s smile and no sign of distaste, and as Guy watched, he wrapped his manicured fingers around the straining shaft, sliding them up and down as though Guy’s part was his own. Philip was touching him, there, and his other hand came around Guy’s waist before he’d even realised his knees were like to give way. “You lovely thing. Hot in my hand. Ripe and ready and aching for pleasure, and waiting all this time for me to give it to you.” His fingers were moving faster now, commanding Guy’s pleasure, owning it. “Are you desperate now?”
“Yes! Philip, please—”
“Spend for me, beloved. I need to watch you spend.”
Guy couldn’t have stopped himself. The glorious sensation of Philip’s sure fingers on his quivering piece, the outrageousness of those murmured words, the wetness still on his ear, which caught the faintest air current and tingled under it, most of all Philip’s certainty that this was good and right, which was so overpowering that Guy simply let himself be told: all of that came together in an overwhelming rise of need that burst out of him, jerking and shuddering in pulse after pulse, until he collapsed, gasping, against Philip’s strong shoulders.
All over the carpet. He’d self-polluted, or had Philip self-pollute him—no, that wasn’t right—well, whatever you called it, he’d done it all over what looked like an old and fine carpet.
Which belonged to Philip, and he surely wouldn’t have asked Guy to do it if he hadn’t meant it. Although Guy wasn’t quite sure why he’d wanted to watch that. Would he want to watch Philip spend, and hold him as he did it, even stroke that helpless response out of him?
Christ, yes, he would. He truly would.
“Thank you, Guy. That was beautiful.” He felt Philip’s lips brush his hair. “And thank you for trusting me with your pleasure. Could I persuade you to trust me a little more?”
Guy almost laughed. “I think you could persuade me to do anything.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Philip said. “Keep a critical mind at all times, that’s my advice. Could we get this coat off?”
Guy found himself bare to the waist in short order, coat and waistcoat and linen all discarded, breeches still hanging open, sprawled on a couch as Philip stripped off his own shirt. He was pale, chest sprinkled with sparse golden-brown hair, much leaner than Guy’s own compact build and thick muscles that betrayed his domestic work. Philip was all refinement, except for the way he spoke, and behaved, and thought.
He dropped to a knee by the couch, gently running a finger over Guy’s chest, curving around the swell of muscle, then tapping lightly up to the nipple. “You may touch, if you like, or you can lie back and let me touch you. Do you think you could speak?”
“What should I say?”
“What pleases you. What you think you might like. What you’re hoping I’ll do, if you care to say it: you won’t shock me, and I’ll let you know if it’s impractical. You could start with how this feels.” He leaned forward, and licked Guy’s nipple.
“God!” Guy yelped, the blasphemy coming to his tongue without volition.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Philip’s lips closed over the nub, which hardened almost painfully, tense with sensation. His head was bowed over Guy’s chest; Guy dared to put his hand on the fair hair, running his fingers through it, felt Philip’s purr of pleasure against his skin, even as fingers went to the other nipple, rolling it gently to hardness. He could feel his piece stirring again, which seemed implausible. Philip’s hands and mouth were roaming and Guy let himself explore in return, wanting to touch more. “Philip?”
Philip raised his head. He was flushed, lips reddened. “Mmm?”
“Could—could I kiss you?”
“Yes,” Philip said, with emphasis, rising to get a knee on the couch, which was of the sort without a back for most of its length. He more or less crawled over Guy, bracing himself with an arm, so they lay against one another, bare chest to chest, lips gently closing together, Philip’s arousal a hard presence against Guy’s thigh. He’d never been so close to another person in his life, and it seemed only natural to rock his hips forward.
Philip grunted into his mouth. “Christ.”
“Was that wrong?”
“The opposite. If you squirm under me like that, you’ll have me begging.”
The very idea of squirming under Philip’s weight went straight to all the over-sensitised areas of his body. Guy wriggled experimentally, heard Philip’s deep groan, and could have shouted for triumph.
“I want to debauch you as thoroughly as any virgin has ever been debauched,” Philip whispered. “I want to lick every last shred of innocence off you, piece by piece. Will you touch my prick?”
Guy nodded. Philip fumbled at his breeches; Guy reached down with tentative fingers, and found Philip’s—prick, he supposed he should learn to call it, a rigid length encased in oddly soft skin, and stickily wet to the touch already. He moved his fingers as Philip had, and felt a thrill of power as his lover’s face convulsed. “Is that good?”
“Very. Up and down. A little harder. Christ, yes.”
“But mightn’t you spend on me?” Guy blurted. There would be nowhere else for Philip’s seed to go but between them, on his skin. His chest tingled at the thought.
“I might indeed, my sweet, and joyfully too. Or would you rather I didn’t?”
Guy had no idea at all. Furtive nocturnal stickiness had always been a regrettable necessity, to be hastily concealed. To have Philip do that, deliberately— “I don’t know. Um, do you want to?”
“Oh, I want to, very much indeed. I don’t have to if you’d rather not.”
“It’s all right.” Guy had no idea if it was anything of the kind, but he could hear the urgent desire in Philip’s voice and the thought of pleasing him outweighed all else. “If you want, then do. Please do. I’d like it.”
“Jesus Christ.” Philip’s voice was rather high. “Say that again. Ask me.”
Guy couldn’t previously have imagined himself asking that of anyone, but then, he hadn’t imagined this business would involve nearly so much talking. He’d always heard coupling described as men having their way with their partners. The idea that one sought permission to do things, that one asked other people to do things to one...
It meant this was up to him, in his control. It meant that he could give pleasure to Philip, rather than Philip taking pleasure from him. He could say the words and let, make this thing happen.
“Spend on me,” Guy whispered, moving his hand faster. “Please spend on me. I want you to.”
“Christ Jesus God,” Philip said, face contorting, hips jerking, and Guy felt the splatter on his skin with a surge of pure triumph. Philip grunted with something like pain and came down hard, hitting Guy’s mouth with glorious clumsiness. They rocked together, sticky and sweaty, and kissed and stroked and mumbled incoherencies until Guy found he was thrusting up against Philip once more, his stand rising inexorably to attention.
Philip propped himself up on an elbow, hips heavy over Guy’s with delicious pressure. “How’s the debauching?”
“I think it’s coming along quite well.”
Philip snorted with laughter. “God, you’re marvellous. You have no idea. My uncertain virgin, begging for my spend. I’m going to be thinking about that every solitary night for years.”
Guy couldn’t help a whimper at the picture that conjured up. Philip grinned down at him. “Do you like the idea? Me, bringing myself off, thinking about you with my hand on my prick?”
“Oh God.”
“As I thought. And in the meantime, what are we going to do about this?” He moved his hips indicatively, thrusting against Guy’s stand. Guy gasped; Philip all but purred. “Ah, the joy of youth. You’ve got a lot of time to make up, don’t you? Two possibilities leap to mind. You could see how you feel on top of me. Put your cock between my legs, and get a sense of how it is to fuck a man. Or, alternatively, you could recline like the prince you are, and let me get my mouth to your prick.”
“Your mouth?”
“You don’t think I’m good with my mouth?” Philip leaned down, tongue flickering over Guy’s ear with much the effect of before, mercilessly tormenting. “You wouldn’t like that on your prick?”
“Do you really want to do that?”
“I’d love to do it, and I’d put a substantial sum on the probability that so will you, and on no very distant day. Why don’t you think how it might feel to take me in your mouth while I show you how delicious you are?”
“I don’t know how you say things like this.” Guy felt almost envious as Philip slid down to the floor. To be so shamelessly free, so confident in saying such outrageous things, as though there was nothing embarrassing in doing that—
Then Philip’s tongue curled around the head of his piece and Guy stopped thinking altogether. He stared down at Sir Philip Rookwood, baronet, performing an act for which he only knew the Latin name and even that was omitted from most dictionaries, mouth wet, with that look of intense absorption that Guy had wanted so much, and it was truly all for him. Philip kneeling, one hand on Guy’s thigh, the other exploring between his legs with tantalisingly light strokes to untouchable places. Philip’s lips closing over his member, and his head moving, so that Guy’s piece slid into his mouth in a movement so obscene and animal and glorious he couldn’t look away. He thrust up without meaning to, and felt Philip chuckle around his stand.
And dear God, yes, he wanted to do it. He wanted to kneel and let Philip do that to his mouth—no, he wanted to do that to Philip, take him in his mouth and make him feel this rising, burning need, the banked fire building and building as Philip tormented him until it erupted in a surge of heat that remade the world.
He lay back, chest heaving, Philip’s mouth still on him, barely touching. He could feel Philip’s throat work, and realised with a disturbed thrill that he was swallowing.
“That was wonderful,” he said. “At least, for me it was.”
“Oh, the same, believe me. I’ve been thinking of doing that for some time.” Philip manoeuvred himself back onto the couch to lie by, or over, Guy. “It was a privilege. May I make an observation?”
“Um...yes?”
“You’re probably going to start worrying that you made an almighty fool of yourself, said or did terrible things, and looked ridiculous. Accept my assurance now that you didn’t.” Philip brushed a kiss across his lips. He tasted odd, slightly astringent, and Guy realised with a shock that must be the taste of his own seed. “You have been generous and open-hearted and truly lovely, and please remember that I said so. I would like to stay in here with you doing nothing else for several days. Or weeks. I’m not suggesting your sister break another leg, but if she wanted to—”
“Philip!”
“But you hear me, yes?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Philip rested his head on Guy’s shoulder. They lay in silence a moment, skin to skin, the rise and fall of chests coming into time. Lying with a man as with a woman, the Bible called it, and said it was an abomination. Guy had never lain with a woman, but he couldn’t really see how the experience could be like at all, except in the closeness, and if it was wrong to lie close to someone and feel beloved—
Philip had called him that. Beloved. It was just a word, just the way he spoke, as he had spoken to Corvin, and doubtless others. Still, he’d said it, and Guy had felt it, and he was damned if he was going to let his habit of worrying spoil this charmed, forbidden interlude.
***
THAT RESOLUTION LASTED until he was back in his room tidying himself up for dinner. Philip had helped him adjust his clothing, assuring him that he looked very well and it didn’t matter if he didn’t. Guy had accepted that blithely, gone back—thankfully without meeting anyone—looked at himself in the mirror, and almost had a conniption. His hair was a tangle, his face marked with the tracks of tears and saliva and the dust of the road, he was feverishly flushed, and his eyes bright. He looked different, he was sure. He looked as though he’d eaten the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and everyone would be able to tell it on sight.
Oh dear heaven, they’d know. What if Lord Corvin jested in the coarse way some men did? What if Philip was wrong and his other lover took offence? Why had he even done those things with a man who had another lover staying in the same house?
Guy grabbed the mantel. Philip had told him he’d feel like this, and given him words to remember, and Philip knew what he was about. He’d said, Consider yourself shielded. He wouldn’t let Guy twist in the wind, having got what he wanted. Surely he wouldn’t. Would he?
He managed to restore himself to decency and be down in Amanda’s sickroom before the dinner gong was struck. She was sitting alone, absorbed in a book, but looked up with a smile that made him feel a swine for having all but forgotten her. “Guy! I thought you’d disappeared from the face of the earth.”
“I’m sorry. I went for a walk.”
“With Sir Philip, I know. David—Dr. Martelo told me. And I’m only teasing, it’s marvellous you’re making friends. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we stayed on terms whenever he came down? You may take some time to yourself, Jane,” she added at the maid’s audible snort.
“Such nonsense,” Jane said, rising. “This is a wicked house, and the sooner you’re home and away from these people the better.”
“It is not a wicked house and you’re being very rude about our host and his friends,” Amanda said.
“I’ve heard how they talk, miss. It’s not right and it’s not Christian.”
“You don’t sound very Christian yourself, talking that way about people who’ve been nothing but kind. Go and take some air.” Amanda regarded the departing woman with a darkling eye. “Ugh, Jane is trying my patience. I’ve had one or another of the Murder in here most of the day, just to keep me entertained—Mr. Raven was here for an hour or more and he says I could draw perfectly well if I tried and he’ll bring me some pencils—and she just sits in the corner and sniffs. I’m so tired of judgemental people. I don’t think I realised how much until we came here. One feels as if one could say almost anything to Sir Philip’s friends and they shouldn’t disapprove. They might argue or say one was an idiot, but they wouldn’t shake their heads gravely and sigh about one’s character. It’s such a relief. Guy? Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, why?”
“You’re quite pink.”
“It was hot. We went up to the Gallows Tree.”
“Oh, lovely. Oh, I wish I could walk. Is that all? You look rather— I don’t know. Unsettled.”
“Well, it’s unsettling,” Guy said. “I’ve had more to think about here than I’ve had in my entire life till now.”
“That’s true. What did you talk about with Sir Philip?”
Do not blush. Do not blush. “Oh, this and that. Beetroot.”
“Was that unsettling?” Amanda asked doubtfully.
“No, but it was very interesting,” Guy said, thankful for the escape, and launched into Philip’s grand plans for a domestic sugar industry. Amanda listened with surprising attentiveness, asking for more detail, and that took up the time until the gong struck for dinner, and there was no avoiding it any more. He would have to face the Murder, and dine with Philip, with his guilty knowledge upon him.
Consider yourself shielded, he told himself, and did his best to walk in with his head high.
“Frisby,” Raven said, lifting a glass of wine in salute as he entered. “I hope you had a good walk? I spent the time teaching your sister to draw, and I’m telling you now, you had the better of that bargain. I don’t know who she had as a drawing-master but I’d like ten minutes with him and a sharp pencil.”
“Oh, she loathed him. She wanted to draw knights and castles and he only let her paint watercolours of flowers. Not even any flowers; they had to be things like daisies or blossoms. Low and gentle, he used to say, without thorns or long stems. He thought those were unladylike.”
Raven choked on his wine. “Are you serious? No thrusting stems— Oh my God. Corvin! Come and hear this!”
Guy didn’t understand for a second more, and then he did. Well, that was a childhood mystery solved, albeit not in a way he could share with Amanda. It was perhaps the last subject he’d have wanted to raise in the entire world, but Raven was repeating the drawing-master’s edict to the others now, and the room erupted in laughter.
“Glorious,” Philip said, shoulders shaking. “It takes a truly special gift to find indecency in flowers.”
“Not at all,” Street said. “They’re disgraceful things. Notoriously promiscuous with bees and butterflies.”
“I quite agree with the drawing master,” Corvin said. “One only has to look at a daffodil to be consumed with inappropriate thoughts. And don’t soil my ears with talk of goldenrod.”
“Nobody needs to know about your goldenrod,” Raven said.
“I recommend mercury treatments for that,” Dr. Martelo offered, and that had them all howling again, even Guy. It was unseemly, perhaps, but—well, they were all gentlemen, and it was more silly than anything else. The coarse jests one heard in inn-yards tended to carry so much contempt for their object, but it was hard to be offended by people talking nonsense about flowers to make each other laugh. And he had a glass of wine in his hand, congenial company around him, people laughing at his comments but not at him, and it was, in fact, possible that he might be enjoying himself.
“Where did you walk to?” Corvin enquired once they were seated. “I heard rumours of some great exploration.” He gestured at Guy to fill his glass again.
“About eight miles roundabout here.” Philip graciously acknowledged the cries of disbelief. “Yes, thank you, my feet are very well apart from just a few blisters. I also climbed a tree.”
“You did not,” Street said. “You never climbed a tree in your life.”
“He did it very well,” Guy put in. “Considering.”
“I suspect ‘considering’ hides a multitude of sins,” Corvin said.
“And rents, and scratches,” Philip added. “I dare any of you idle swine to do the same. In fact, there are some rather marvellous views around here, in their way. It’s not Italy, or even Wrayton Harcourt, but it has its charms.”
“Who knew that Philip would find the English countryside so full of beauty,” Corvin said. Guy felt a pulse of instinctive alarm, but the Devil’s Lord sounded teasing rather than mocking, and there was a distinct laugh in his eyes.
“What’s Wrayton Harcourt?” he asked, hoping to change the subject anyway.
“My estate in Derbyshire,” Corvin said. “There’s a certain amount of jagged mountainous...ness to the view—”
“Not a word,” Raven told him.
“—and the weather is only tolerable three months of the year. We’ll be going up there soon enough. John is remodelling my gardens.”
“I’m not taking any responsibility for this,” Raven said firmly. “I’m drawing damn fool things for you only because if you draw the damn fool things, they’ll fall down as soon as built.”
“It’s going to be a garden of pagan follies,” Philip said, grinning. “Which should conclude Corvin’s programme of distressing the neighbours with an impressive flourish. Are you doing an Indian temple?”
“No, he is not,” Raven said on Corvin’s behalf. “If he’s doing this bloody stupid thing at all, it’s going to be follies that look right for the landscape in materials that’ll survive the weather. Northern Europe and Ancient Briton. Roman if we must. Not Hindu ones.”
“A stone circle,” Corvin said. “Druidic. I might purchase a robe.”
“No.”
“With a sacrificial altar?” Street clasped his hands. “Please have a sacrificial altar.”
“Just like the book. I wonder if copies have yet reached the circulating library.”
It was like a slap, a blow from nowhere just when he was relaxing. “Which book?” Guy asked, every muscle in his body tense.
“The Secret of Darkdown. Have you read it? I believe we had it from your sister.”
“It’s a Gothic romance, the usual nonsense, but it’s set in a hellfire club,” Street put in. “A hellfire club led by a red-headed rake—”
“Russet,” Corvin said.
“With his best friend, Sir Peter Falconwood, who happens to look exactly like Phil. They go around with their sinister band sacrificing people to Satan and in the end Corvin, sorry, Darkdown murders Phil by accident and throws himself off a roof in remorse.”
“The entire thing is a slander beyond all bearing. Do we know the author yet, John?” Corvin’s smile curled as wickedly as any Amanda had ever imagined on Darkdown’s face. Guy stared at his plate of perfectly cooked veal and wondered if he was going to be sick.
“I’ve sent to a friend who writes these things himself. He’s got an entry with most of the publishing lot. Shouldn’t take him long to winkle it out.”
“What are you going to do?” Guy asked. His voice didn’t sound quite right in his own ears, and he saw from the corner of his eye that Philip’s head turned, but he couldn’t meet the eye of the man he’d betrayed. “When you find out who wrote it, what will you do?”
“In the name of God, don’t bring a lawsuit,” Salcombe said. “You’ll end up telling the court you are a devil-worshipper after all, just to annoy them, and find yourself gaoled, if not burned at the stake.”
“You could horsewhip the author. It’s all the rage,” Raven suggested, somewhat sourly.
“I’ll write you an opera based on the book,” Penn said. “Don Corvino.”
This met with general hilarity and various suggestions of how to refine the plot. Guy had to stop himself from shouting at them all to be quiet. “But will you go to law?” he asked again, as the riot died down. “Or—or ask for the book to be withdrawn?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Corvin said. “Actually, I think I’ll send a threatening letter to the publisher. John, can you write me a threatening letter?”
Raven shook his head despairingly. “A viscount, and you can’t write a letter for yourself.”
“But you’re so much better at it,” Corvin coaxed. “Excoriating rage, denunciation, and vows of revenge. With copies to all the newspapers, and you could have a satirical print ready.”
The conversation moved on. Guy couldn’t make himself rejoin it; he couldn’t swallow another bite of food. He sat and pretended the world, which had been so briefly bright, wasn’t collapsing around him, and as soon as the meal was finished he mumbled an excuse, pretending not to hear Philip speak his name, and hurried to see if Amanda was awake.
She wasn’t. The old woman who would sit the night in the room looked up with a smile and put her finger to her lips as though Amanda were a baby, not to be disturbed. Guy backed out obediently, and bumped into Philip, who was waiting with a frown.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Of course. I just...I want to go to bed.”
“Guy.” Philip’s hand closed on his elbow. “Whatever alarmed you, whatever distressed you, will you please speak to me? If it was one of my friends, I’ll deal with it. And if you’ve had second thoughts—”
“It’s not that,” Guy said wretchedly. “Honestly. Please, I just need to go.”
Philip released him. Guy more or less ran, feeling the gaze on his back like a touch.
He collapsed face down on his bed, wishing he hadn’t had the second glass of wine. This was a calamity. He’d persuaded himself that it didn’t matter, that the Murder would simply laugh off the absurd nonsense as they seemed to do everything else. He hadn’t thought that Corvin might find himself in serious trouble if he allowed such implications to pass unremarked. He hadn’t thought that they’d take the absurd plot, rather than the characters, as an affront.
But Corvin and Philip had been lovers for years. Philip had been in love with his friend, and Corvin adored him, and that thrice-damned book had Corvin killing him, and how would they not want revenge for that?
The guilt and self-reproach hammered in his gut. Philip had taken them in and paid for Dr. Martelo and the attendants, let them upend his party, directed his friends to entertain Amanda, and made love to Guy so kindly that he hadn’t even thought to fret. And all the while Amanda’s book had slandered him, and Guy had deliberately hidden his knowledge. Why had he not admitted the truth earlier, before Philip had lavished him with so much care? How had he persuaded himself that the accursed book would go away?
And now there would be consequences, and they would have to be faced. He couldn’t hide behind the hope Amanda’s authorship would go undiscovered. It wouldn’t be fair on the publisher, to be exposed to whatever terrible things John Raven might write; it was utterly unjust that Philip should unknowingly host his slanderer. He would have to admit the truth, and that he’d been too much of a coward to tell it earlier, and pray that he and Corvin would be merciful.
What if they weren’t? What if Philip ordered them gone from his home, with Amanda’s leg still mending? What if Lord Corvin took his revenge? He could destroy any hope Amanda had left of ever making a decent marriage with a few cruel words. All he’d need to do was say that he’d stayed in a private home with an unmarried, unchaperoned woman to destroy her. If he added that it was Miss Frisby, staying with Sir Philip Rookwood...
Bile rose in Guy’s throat. He wanted to tell himself that surely they wouldn’t, surely they’d permit Amanda to withdraw the book, but he was too overwrought to believe it, and in any case, could she do that? Would the publisher expect her to bear all the costs? They couldn’t possibly afford to pay for that—but if they didn’t even offer—
“Oh God,” Guy said aloud. “Oh, Amanda.”
He could take the blame.
The thought came to him, horribly plausible, sickening in its implications, impossible to deny. If he said he’d written the book himself, not just known of it but spun its slanders without Amanda’s knowledge, Philip would be furious and betrayed, but he surely wouldn’t punish Amanda. Guy could do that for her, and if it ended his new friendships, well, that would have happened anyway, when they left for Corvin’s estate, or Philip’s London home, and Guy was left here, with Amanda, on their own.
He stared at the ceiling long after his candle had burned out, listening to the faint hum of voices from downstairs. It sounded like the Murder were enjoying themselves.