by Ruby Moone
Regency Rogues Box Set
4 Gay Regency Historical Romances in 1
By Ruby Moone
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2017 Ruby Moone
ISBN 9781634864947
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Regency Rogues Box Set
By Ruby Moone
Fallen
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
The Heat of the Moment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
The Wrong Kind of Angel
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Trapped
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Fallen
Chapter 1
Major Oliver Thornley pulled up the collar of his greatcoat against the foul London rain and almost fell over a bundle of rags on the ground when it moved unexpectedly. He danced around it, splashing himself in a freezing puddle as he did so and narrowly missing a passing hackney carriage. He stumbled and grabbed the bundle to steady himself and in doing so revealed a man hidden beneath. He righted himself, and dusted his coat. “My apologies,” he said. A filthy face peered out at him. Blood and mud daubed over part of one cheek. The man was struggling to open his eyes. Oliver went to tip his hat and foraged in his pocket for a coin when he noticed the man wore filthy regimentals. Old soldiers littered the streets as they were returned from the battlefields in Europe, and more recently from the victory at Waterloo, and as winter approached, it didn’t feel like much of a victory when the men who gave their all were reduced to penury and starvation on their return.
“Here you go,” Oliver said, gathering what coins he had, and then he stopped. The man was staring at him. Intense, shocked blue eyes locked with his and Oliver could no longer breathe. His heart pounded in his chest.
“Simpson?”
The man struggled to sit up and executed a shaky salute. “Sir,” he croaked.
Oliver dropped the coins back in his pocket and grabbed the man by both arms and held him fast. “Simpson, dear God, is that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, my dear boy…” he began and had to stop as the pressure behind his eyes threatened to undo him. Corporal Daniel Simpson had served with him in Belgium, fought by his side at the battle of Waterloo, and had searched the battlefield at the end to find his half-dead carcass and drag him to safety. Without Daniel Simpson’s bravery and loyalty Oliver would have died on the field. Oliver had lost track of the man when they returned and had often wondered what had become of him. He had tried to find him, but to no avail. He wanted to thank him, but most of all wanted his company again. Never in all his life had he imagined that the fierce, quietly proud young man would be reduced to this. He wanted to take the man in his arms and hold him tight, but he had to content himself with a brisk squeeze to the shoulders beneath his hands.
“Major,” Simpson began, but his head lolled to the side and his eyes rolled a little.
Oliver shook him gently. “Stay with me, old chap,” he whispered and then shouted for a hackney. The carriage pulled up as Oliver dragged Simpson to his feet. The man was skin and bone, and the stench that rose from him made him want to gag. He dragged him into the carriage, and gave his direction to the driver. Inside, Oliver put his arms around his charge and held him.
“Is it really you, sir?”
“It’s me. You’re coming home with me. I’m here,” Oliver murmured, rocking the man. “I’m here.”
* * * *
Oliver had lodgings just off Brook Street. A quiet row of houses in which he had secured a suite of rooms that suited him fine. He called out for his valet as he stumbled through the door. Dixon came running with his housekeeper, Mrs. Dawsley, hurrying behind him. “Sir?” he said as he stared at the bundle that Oliver was struggling to keep upright.
“Help me get him to the guest room and put on hot water for a bath.”
Dixon took one arm and then turned his face away with a sharp breath. They managed to drag him into the bedroom.
“I wouldn’t put him on the bed yet, sir,” Dixon said. “Perhaps the chair?”
The man had a point. The way that Simpson smelled they would be lucky to ever get the stench out of the room. They arranged him in the chair as comfortably as possible, and unwrapped the blanket from around him. Simpson laid his head against the padded leather surface and closed his eyes. Oliver exchanged a glance with Dixon, and when he was satisfied the man was asleep he headed for the kitchens with Dixon in tow. Between them they manhandled the large tub in front of the fire in the bedroom. Dixon banked the fire and got it roaring, and between them they filled it with warm water.
“I want you to send word to my physician that I need him here, and then I want you to go and procure some clothing for my guest.”
“Of course, sir. Ah, what kind of clothing?”
“Everything that a gentleman needs.”
Dixon bowed. “Certainly. Would you require help in getting the…gentleman into the bath?”
“No. Please have Mrs. Dawsley bring through some light foods. Perhaps some soup or something, oh, and some coffee and brandy.”
Dixon bowed his way out of the room, leaving Oliver with his unexpected houseguest. He sighed and scratched the back of his head for a moment before kneeling before Simpson.
“Wake up.” He shook his arm.<
br />
“Sir?” Simpson said immediately and stirred.
“You need a bath. I need to get you into the bath.”
“Bath?” Simpson sounded as though he had never heard of the word.
“Yes, a bath. You’re a bit worse for wear,” Oliver said with a smile.
Simpson began plucking at his shirt. “Bath,” he repeated and tried to sit up.
Oliver rocked back on his heels and pulled of his own coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. “Come,” he said and set about peeling the stinking garments from him. Bit by bit he revealed Simpson’s pale, wiry body. He was covered in bruises and his feet were blistered and raw. Emotion almost choked Oliver as he dumped the clothes in a pile. He should have tried harder to find him. Should have helped him. Made more effort. How could the man who saved his life be brought to this? It was unthinkable.
“Up you go,” he said, and standing between Simpson’s legs he took him under the arms and pulled him up. Simpson shook himself and managed to stand. He got into the bath with a little help and then sank into the heat and moaned. He sank lower and lower until his head was submerged and his boney knees poked out. When he came back up for air he stripped the water from his eyes, pushed his hair back, and looked up.
“Major Thornley?” he whispered, blue eyes wide.
“Hello.” It was all Oliver could think of to say.
Simpson nodded and laid his head against the bath. “Major Thornley,” he repeated as his eyes drooped.
Oliver cleared his throat and picked up the soap and washcloth that had been left. He dipped them in the water and lathered the soap up. “Come on, let me help.” He hesitated, and then applied the cloth with some vigour to Simpson.
“Ow,” he protested before pulling away.
Oliver bent and picked up another cloth and handed it to Simpson. “You can help, but you need to be clean before you get anywhere near my sheets.”
Simpson’s eyes widened. Fair lashes spiked with water framed wary eyes. “Your sheets?”
“Yes, you will be staying here tonight. Now lean forward.”
Simpson leaned forward and Oliver ran the cloth in wide, gentle strokes across the muscles of his back. Hard, wiry muscle that looked underfed and pale, but unspeakably beautiful. Heat from the water made his face warm but he continued smoothing the cloth over his skin, and then rubbed up onto his shoulders and down one arm. Oliver dipped the cloth and squeezed. The trickling water sounded loud between them. Simpson dipped the cloth in his hand, rubbed it on the soap, and scrubbed under his armpits and between them they lathered him from head to foot. Oliver was relieved to note that Simpson did not appear to be suffering with lice or any other kind of infestation, and when he moved to wash between his legs Oliver averted his gaze. When he turned back, Simpson’s head was lolling against the back of the bath, eyes closing.
“Here, let me wash your hair.”
“Hmm? I can do it.” He tried, but his arms didn’t seem to want to lift up.
“Drop your head under the water.”
Simpson sank and when he came back up Oliver lathered the soap through his hair. Simpson moaned softly and leaned into his touch. Oliver swallowed and gently washed the grime away until it felt soft and clean.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of there. You’re starting to wrinkle.”
Simpson managed a small smile and opened his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. For a moment, Oliver could not look away from those beautiful blue eyes and they stared at each other.
Oliver was the first to look away. “Give me a hand,” he said and set one arm around Simpson’s back. He managed to get him out of the bath but ended up almost as wet as Simpson was. He bundled the man in big towels and sat him next to the roaring fire. He smiled when Simpson pulled his knees up and curled into the chair. Oliver towelled the worst of the wet from himself and then his housekeeper arrived with plates of soft chicken and vegetables, bowls of steaming broth, and hot coffee. She had added a plate of macaroons. As she set up the table, Dixon returned armed with numerous bags of clothing.
“Mr. Farrah will be along as soon as he can,” Dixon said, depositing the bags.
“Good, good.” Farrah was his physician and a good man. He needed Simpson checking over. “Would you burn the old clothes?” he asked, indicating the fetid pile by the door.
“Of course.” Dixon bowed out and the housekeeper bustled after him, leaving him along once more with Simpson who was peering out of the towels at the food.
“Would you like to dress or eat?”
“Eat,” Simpson said on a swallow. “Please.”
“Of course.” Oliver brought the food to him and they sat opposite each other in front of the fire. Simpson took a few sips of the broth and closed his eyes, then he filled his mouth with the chicken and Oliver’s heart clenched when a single tear ran down Simpson’s cheek. He’d never gone hungry in his life but he knew what it felt like to be safe, warm, and dry after being cold and terrified, knew what it felt like to think you were going to die. He had to force himself to remain seated and not take the man in his arms and hold him tightly.
Chapter 2
Dr. Farrah came out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly. Oliver ushered him into his study.
“How is he?”
Dr. Farrah patted Oliver on the arm. “He’s fine. Exhausted and starving but otherwise quite well. He has something of a fever and I have left a draught that can be administered, but he is a strong young man. With care, I am sure he will come around.”
Oliver was so relieved it was hard to speak. “Thank you,” was all he could manage without betraying himself.
“How do you know him?”
“Army. One of the bravest men I know.”
Dr. Farrah scowled and shook his head. “Scandalous that he should be brought so low. I wish I could say he was the only one but he isn’t. So many…” He shook his head again.
* * * *
Oliver crept back into the room to find Simpson propped up in the bed and laid against several pillows. He was dressed in a clean nightshirt with his fair hair sticking up about his head. He looked like a fallen angel. Simpson’s eyes opened as he approached the bed.
“Doctor thinks you might live,” he said with a smile.
Simpson smiled back. “Good.”
They stared at each other for a moment and Oliver’s smile faded. “I wish you’d contacted me,” he said after a moment. “I would have helped.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were going home to your parents?”
Simpson fiddled with the sheet about his waist. “I did. They died. Fever.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I got sick, my left leg is…” He rubbed the offending limb. “I can’t manage manual labour and the money went…” Simpson sighed and closed his eyes.
Oliver sat carefully on the bed. “I never did get the chance to thank you properly for saving my life.”
“You would have been fine…”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Well, you’ve saved mine now so we’re even.” Simpson smiled up at him. Blue eyes met his and Oliver held his breath when Simpson reached up and squeezed his arm.
“Your hands are cold,” Oliver said with a frown. The man’s fingers were like ice. His cheeks were a little flushed too. “You need to take the draught the doctor left and sleep.” Oliver banked up the fire until it was roaring, added another blanket to the bed, and poured the draught down Simpson’s throat, laughing when the man pulled a face, but when Simpson sunk into the pillows and closed his eyes Oliver patted the man’s hand. “Sleep tight,” he murmured.
* * * *
A couple of hours later Oliver opened the bedroom door quietly. Simpson was fast asleep and so terribly pale. He moved quietly across the room, stood by the bed, and then pulled up a chair so he could sit and watch him. Candles cast a soft glow over the room and over Simpson’s pallid cheeks and struck gold from his fair hair. He
was the complete opposite of his own dark hair and eyes. They looked like night and day together, a perfect complement. Oliver rubbed his face. He recalled the day of the battle at Waterloo. Riding high, he had thrown himself into the fray with Simpson not far from him, and they had fought like madmen. When his horse was blown from under him he had been thrown. With broken limbs and a crushed chest, he recalled little of laying in the mud surrounded by the dead, the taste of death and blood in his mouth. He remembered he had reached the point of giving up. He’d tried to shout but couldn’t and the frustration of that had almost killed him. He had been suffocating. Sinking. Dying. Then a voice penetrated the blackness, a voice hoarse from shouting, and then he was in Simpson’s arms. Strong arms. Oliver wiped the tears from his face and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. He rarely allowed himself to think of that day, but sometimes the sounds and the smell of blood haunted his dreams. He had scars all over, and a weakness in his legs, but that was all. Simpson had carried him to the camp doctors and looking at the slight figure in the bed wondered again how he had managed to move him.
“Simpson,” he said. Nothing. “Simpson, can you hear me?” Again, nothing. Oliver stood up and wiped the tears again. He reached out and stroked Simpson’s head. Once, twice, and then Major Oliver Thornley did what he had wanted to do since the first moment he had laid eyes on Daniel Simpson. He leaned over and kissed him. Not the kind of kiss he wanted to give him, but a kiss nonetheless. He kissed him on his cheek at the corner of his mouth and his breath stuck in his throat at the touch and the scent of the man. He kissed him again. Gently and tenderly. Kissed the man that he loved. The love of his life. It took everything he had to walk out of the room and leave him there. Oliver went to his own chamber and laid on the bed, fully clothed, and curled into a ball. He stared unseeing into the dark.
* * * *
Oliver finished his cup of tea and then headed to the guest room. What he found there chilled him. Simpson was wet through, his hair plastered to his head and his cheeks flushed. Oliver leaned over the bed and laid a hand to Simpson’s head. It was burning. He dragged the covers back to cool him and yelled for his valet. Dixon arrived and immediately left to bring some cool water and cloths. When he came back the water was fragrant with some herb, a recommendation from his housekeeper no doubt. He dismissed Dixon and gently bathed the patient. His nightshirt was stuck to him so he managed to manhandle him out of it and drew the cool cloth over his chest, his arms, his stomach. He bathed his legs right down to his feet. Simpson murmured several times and twitched when Oliver ran the cloth back up his leg. He felt a cad staring at the man’s crotch while he was ill, but he needed to get him cool. He let the water dry on his body as he ran the cloth over his face. He sponged his cheeks, his lips, and smoothed his hair as he did so.
