Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  This time he found his mark: Lucas’s mouth. Lucas’s lips.

  Lucas jerked his head back again and made a wordless sound of protest—and Tom’s certainty twisted into sick realization that he’d made a mistake, that the attraction was one-sided—and then Lucas uttered a sobbing sound and kissed him back.

  The kiss was a clash of mouths—rough, fierce, clumsy, desperate. He felt Lucas’s fingers dig into his arms, felt their bodies strain against each other.

  Tom kissed Lucas until he was breathless and dizzy, until his hat tumbled off, then he gulped a breath and kissed him again—and again—again—years of pent-up desire compressed into a handful of seconds. Each kiss was frantic, savage, hungry, their mouths colliding bruisingly.

  Finally he tore free and rested his cheek against Lucas’s, gulping air, dizzy with euphoric disbelief. Lucas was panting, too, and shaking. Tom was aware of his own arousal beating in his blood, and he was aware of Lucas’s arousal, too. How could he not be aware of that pressure against his hip? Lucas’s cock, as hard as it had been last night.

  Tom fumbled at Lucas’s waist, slipping one hand inside his pantaloons.

  Lucas made a grab for his wrist. “No.”

  Tom gave a breathless laugh. “Why not?” He twisted his wrist free and slid his hand through the fly front of Lucas’s drawers.

  Lucas jolted, as if his touch stung.

  Tom wrapped his fingers around hot, hard flesh. “I want to suck you again,” he whispered in Lucas’s ear.

  “No . . .” Lucas’s voice strangled in a groan as Tom squeezed.

  “Why not?” Tom said.

  Lucas caught his breath, and groaned again deep in his chest, and said hoarsely, “Because if anyone sees us, we’ll be hanged.”

  “It’s as dark as a coal-pit, Lu. No one’s going to see us.”

  Lucas’s breath was wheezing. “Someone could.”

  “I can’t even see you, Lu.” He pressed his mouth to Lucas’s earlobe, to his cheek, to his lips, while his hands were busy with Lucas’s buttons. “And if I can’t see you, no one else can.” He freed Lucas’s cock from the drawers, took it in his hand again, stroked its length.

  Lucas trembled, and groaned breathlessly, and said, “Tom, we can’t—”

  “It’s all right, Lu,” Tom said, and he kissed Lucas again, a longer kiss this time, reassuring him, and then he knelt and took Lucas’s cock in his mouth.

  Lucas inhaled sharply, a sound like a sob. His fingers buried themselves in Tom’s hair, not pushing him away, not pulling him closer, just holding him.

  Tom let that hot, smooth, blunt head rest on his tongue for a moment. Pleasure hummed in his throat. No taste in the world could possibly be as exhilarating as this. He ran his tongue over the contours, tracing the slit, following the ridge between head and shaft.

  Lucas groaned, and trembled.

  Tom took more of Lucas’s cock into his mouth and sucked hard.

  Lucas grunted as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. His hips bucked.

  Tom laughed around Lucas’s cock, took a good grip on the shaft with one hand, and sucked a second time, even harder.

  He set a fast rhythm. There were times when slow was good and times when fast was good, and here, in a public mews in the middle of London, fast was definitely best.

  Lucas was gasping for breath, and each gasp had a moan in it. His fingers clenched in Tom’s hair—and then his body shuddered and his cock jerked.

  Tom stayed where he was for almost a minute, kneeling, reveling in the powerful intimacy of the moment: Lucas’s fingers relaxed in his hair, Lucas’s musky scent in his nostrils, Lucas’s cock hot and spent in his mouth, the taste of Lucas’s mettle on his tongue. This isn’t a dream; it’s real.

  Finally, he gave a silent sigh and sat back on his heels. Lucas’s fingers slid from his hair, Lucas’s cock slid from his mouth.

  Tom climbed to his feet. He fastened Lucas’s drawers, fastened the pantaloons, tucked the shirt back in. Lucas was shaking. His breathing was low and ragged, almost as if he was weeping. Tom put his arms around him and held him tightly. I love you, Lu.

  “Damn you,” Lucas whispered hoarsely, and then he took a deep, hitching breath and shoved Tom away, pushing past him, heading for Avery Row.

  Tom reached out blindly, caught Lucas’s arm, and swung him back. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, because we both know you damned well did.”

  “Fuck you,” Lucas said, shrugging off his hand.

  “You just did. Fuck me.”

  “This isn’t funny! This isn’t a joke!” There was real anguish in Lucas’s voice. “We could be hanged!”

  “Lu . . .”

  “I’m not doing this. I won’t do this!”

  Tom caught Lucas’s arm again and stepped close to him. “I almost died in Portugal,” he said, in a low, fierce voice. “I am not walking away from this.”

  Lucas said nothing. He was tense, trembling.

  Tom leaned close and kissed him, finding Lucas’s cheek with his mouth.

  Lucas turned his head away. “We can’t do this,” he said, sounding close to tears.

  “We can. If we’re careful.” Tom kissed Lucas again, pressing his lips lightly to the taut plane of Lucas’s cheek, and then released him and stepped back. “Good night, Lu.”

  Chapter Five

  October 8th, 1808

  London

  Lucas heard the knock on the door, but paid no attention to it. He sat in his armchair, a book unread on his lap, his head in his hands, reliving that dreadful moment in the Brook Street Mews.

  His strongest emotion was shame. Shame more intense than any he’d experienced in his life. How could I have let him do it? How could I have enjoyed it?

  But however much he wished it hadn’t happened, it had. He’d allowed it to happen—and now he had to deal with the consequences.

  I can’t see Tom ever again. He knew it—he was taking steps to ensure it—but the emotion he felt wasn’t relief; it was despair. He and Tom had been best friends since their very first day at Eton. Nineteen years. Nearly twenty. How could he never see Tom again?

  A key scraped in the keyhole. The door opened.

  Lucas lifted his head. Smollet was back already? He turned in the chair—and saw Tom step into the entrance hall.

  Panic kicked in Lucas’s belly. He scrambled to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  Tom put the key back in his pocket. “Came to see you, muttonhead. Why else would I be here?”

  “But it’s morning.” And then Lucas caught the significance of Tom’s clothes. “You’re not in uniform.”

  “Wellesley gave me some leave. Says he doesn’t need me under his feet.”

  “But the inquiry—”

  “They won’t be taking testimony for at least another month.” Tom halted in the middle of the sitting room. “We need to talk, Lu.” He caught sight of the trunk, already corded. His eyebrows rose. “Going somewhere?”

  “Whiteoaks,” Lucas said. “Always do, this time of year.” And then he shut his mouth and listened to his heartbeat thud in his ears.

  Tom looked at him for several seconds, his gaze cool and assessing. “Running away?”

  Lucas flushed—but didn’t deny the charge. Yes, he was running away.

  Tom pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the nearest table. “Look, Lu—”

  “I don’t want to discuss it,” Lucas said firmly.

  A faint glint of laughter lit Tom’s eyes. “Chickenhearted, Lu?” He took off his hat and shrugged out of his greatcoat.

  Lucas’s panic scrambled up from his belly to his chest, where it squeezed his lungs. “I’m busy. I must ask you to leave.”

  The glint of laughter faded. Tom’s expression became serious. “Is that what you truly want? For me to leave?”

  Lucas looked away. “Yes.”

  For a long moment, there was silence. Lucas stared at the nearest bookcase, and felt the panic tight in his chest, and waited
desperately for the sound of Tom picking up his greatcoat. It didn’t come.

  “Then you’ll have to throw me out, because I’m not leaving until we’ve talked about this.”

  Anger sparked in Lucas’s breast. He swung his gaze back to Tom. “Damn it, these are my rooms!”

  Tom shrugged. “So, throw me out.”

  Lucas clenched his fists and glared at him, torn between panic and anger.

  Tom stared back, a bulldog expression on his face.

  They both knew that if he wanted to, Lucas could throw Tom out. Tom was taller, but Lucas was brawnier—and he had a right hook that could floor an ox.

  Tom’s eyebrows lifted. “No? Let’s talk, then.”

  He crossed to the fireplace—and Lucas suddenly knew how a hen felt when it was cornered by a fox. He felt a burst of panic and struck out wildly. Not a right hook, and not with his full body weight behind it, but enough of a punch that Tom reeled back a pace, tripped over the ottoman, and fell heavily.

  Lucas took a horrified step forward—and forced himself to halt.

  Tom pushed up on one elbow and gingerly touched his cheek. “What the devil was that for?”

  “I asked you to leave,” Lucas said stiffly. He felt sick to the pit of his belly. I hit Tom.

  Tom climbed to his feet. “If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to hit me harder than that.”

  Lucas clenched his hands again—and knew he couldn’t hit Tom a second time.

  Tom stepped over the ottoman. “Lucas, we have to talk.”

  Lucas retreated behind his armchair.

  Tom halted, and put his eyebrows up. The glint of laughter lit his eyes again. “Why are you hiding behind that chair?”

  “Because I won’t be a sodomite!” Lucas said fiercely.

  Tom blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. Get out of here.”

  “You think I’m going to bend you over a table and swive you, right now?” Tom’s expression was affronted. “Christ, Lu! Who the devil do you think I am?”

  “I don’t think you’ll do that,” Lucas said gruffly. I wouldn’t let you.

  “Then why the deuce are you behind that chair?”

  Lucas shifted his gaze back to the bookcase. “Because I don’t want . . . what happened last night to happen again,” he said, and felt shame heat his face.

  Stiff, stilted seconds ticked past, and Tom didn’t respond to this statement. The silence stretched. And stretched. Finally, Lucas risked a glance at him.

  Tom no longer looked affronted. All the emotion was gone from his face. He stood on the rug in front of the fireplace, a bruise swelling along his left cheekbone, his gaze fixed on Lucas, his eyes narrow. That cool, green gaze was as sharp as a saber. As if he’s dissecting me.

  Lucas looked away. He came out from behind the armchair and crossed the sitting room, opened the door to the entrance hall. “Please leave.”

  Tom didn’t move. “Why don’t you want it to happen again, Lu?”

  “Leave.”

  “Not until you tell me why.” Tom took a step back, and leaned against the mantelpiece, not nonchalant, but tense. “There’s no one here to see us if we do it, so if that’s not your reason, what is?”

  Lucas tightened his grip on the door handle. “Leave, damn it.”

  “You enjoyed it last night—we both know you did—so why don’t you want it?”

  Shame flamed in Lucas’s face again, even hotter this time. “Why? Because it’s wrong, that’s why!”

  “Wrong?” Tom’s lips thinned. He pushed away from the mantelpiece. “You mean it’s disgusting and unnatural.”

  Lucas nodded stiffly.

  Tom crossed the sitting room. “Is that how it felt to you? Disgusting and unnatural? Because that’s not how it felt to me.”

  Lucas found himself unable to meet that hard, challenging gaze.

  Tom halted in front of him. “Well, Lu? Did it?”

  This was a Tom he didn’t recognize, radiating tension, his good-humored face made of sharp angles. “Well?” Tom demanded again, thrusting out his chin, his eyes bright with anger. “Did it?”

  No, it hadn’t felt disgusting and unnatural, not while Tom had been kissing and touching him. It was only afterwards, when he’d come to his senses, his drawers hanging open and his cock soft and replete in Tom’s mouth, that the full weight of horrified realization had struck him.

  He’d accepted sexual intimacies from a man.

  Accepted them, and enjoyed them.

  “Answer me, damn you.” Tom stepped so close that their bodies almost touched. “Did it feel disgusting last night?”

  “Afterwards—”

  “Fuck afterwards,” Tom said. “Does this feel disgusting?” And he leaned in and kissed Lucas.

  Lucas flinched, and raised his hands to shove Tom away—and then he gave a helpless sob in his throat and surrendered, opening his mouth to Tom.

  Tom’s kiss was fierce, angry, almost desperate. His fingers dug into Lucas’s hair, holding him still, but Lucas didn’t try to break free; he gripped the lapels of Tom’s coat and kissed him back. Kissed him. Kissed him. It didn’t feel disgusting or unnatural. It felt as if he’d been living his whole life for this moment: Tom’s mouth devouring his, Tom’s body pressed close.

  Tom’s fingers relaxed in Lucas’s hair, cradling his skull. The kiss became comfort, not confrontation. Their mouths moved more slowly—long, deep, tender kisses. Kisses that turned Lucas inside out. Kisses that made him feel as if his soul had taken wings and was flying.

  Finally, Tom turned his head away and rested his cheek against Lucas’s.

  They stood holding each other, panting. Lucas felt Tom’s hands cupping his skull, felt Tom’s long, lean body pressed close, felt Tom’s warm breath on his cheek. Now that they were no longer kissing, the panic returned, fluttering in his chest. “I won’t be a sodomite,” he whispered.

  “I’m not asking you to be one, Lu. On my word of honor, I’ll never ask that of you.” Tom’s fingers moved in Lucas’s hair, stroking gently. “All I’m asking is that you let me do what I did last night.”

  Lucas flinched inwardly. The flutter of panic became stronger.

  Perhaps Tom sensed that internal flinch, for he pressed his mouth lightly to Lucas’s cheek. “But only if you can bring yourself to allow it. And only on the understanding that you owe me nothing in return.”

  Lucas squeezed his eyes shut, and felt the panic expand inside him. Memory of the Brook Street Mews was vivid in his mind. From the moment Tom had touched his cock, he’d been helpless to resist. Reasoning had shut down. His awareness of the world had narrowed to one thing: pleasure. Pleasure so intense that a dozen carriages could have driven past and he wouldn’t have noticed. It was only afterwards that his brain had resumed working. The pleasure had snuffed instantly. Other emotions had taken its place: horror, shame, panic.

  Those three emotions were still with him—and accompanying them, tightly entwined, inseparable from them, was an ache of longing. Longing deep in his bones. He wanted what Tom was offering. Wanted the heart-stopping intimacy, wanted the ecstasy, and most of all, just wanted Tom. Tom with him. Tom touching him. Tom.

  “Nothing more than last night. I swear it, Lu.”

  Lucas wrestled with the shame and horror and panic and the bone-deep ache of his longing for Tom. I should push him away. But his heart was beating Tom’s name again: Tom, Tom, Tom.

  “Please, Lu.”

  Lucas gave in to the ache. “If . . . if it’s what you want.” On the heels of those words, came a spurt of panic. Oh, God, did I just say that?

  Tom exhaled, a sound like a sigh. “Thank you.” He pressed a kiss to Lucas’s mouth. One hand strayed down to Lucas’s waistband.

  “Not now,” Lucas said, the panic spiking in his chest. He drew sharply back.

  Tom looked at him for a moment, somberly, and then gave a small, wry, lopsided smile. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  Lucas flushed, and l
ooked away. “Smollet could return.”

  Tom reached out and touched Lucas’s hair again lightly. “Trust me, Lu. I’m not going to ruin us, or get us hanged.”

  You can’t promise that. Lucas turned his head and looked at Tom—the angular face, the unruly black hair, the sooty lashes, the mobile mouth. The drumbeat of Tom’s name grew louder in his head. Tom, Tom, Tom. He dragged his gaze from Tom’s mouth and fastened it instead on the swelling bruise beneath Tom’s left eye. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “I’m sorry I made you feel you had to.” Tom cupped the back of Lucas’s head in one hand again and leaned in and kissed him—fleeting, gentle—and then put his arms around Lucas and hugged him. “I’m coming to Whiteoaks with you.”

  God, it felt good to have Tom hold him. Lucas wanted to lean into that embrace. He held himself rigid. “The inquiry—”

  “Won’t start for weeks. Wellesley’s not even sure he’ll need my testimony. Burghersh will speak for him, and Torrens. They have higher rank than me.”

  “You’re an earl’s son.”

  Tom laughed softly in his ear. “Not that kind of rank, stoopid.” His hug tightened.

  Lucas gave in, and let himself lean into Tom.

  “And if it turns out Wellesley does need me, I can post back. It’s only Wiltshire, after all.”

  Lucas closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Tom’s shoulder, and inexplicably felt like crying.

  “Your brother’s got two hundred bedrooms. I doubt he’d begrudge me one.”

  “Seventy-six bedrooms,” Lucas said, into Tom’s shoulder. “Of course he wouldn’t mind. You’re one of the family.”

  Tom tightened his grip. “I’m coming. All right?”

  Lucas nodded, and squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t ever stop holding me. And then he took a deep breath and pushed away from Tom. “We’re leaving at one. Want to get to Reading by dark.”

  “One?” Tom glanced at the corded trunk, and then back at him. “You were running away, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lucas admitted. And perhaps it would be better for us both if I still did.