by Anna Butler
“Indeed,” I choked out, riding out the sudden thud my heart made and the clench of an icy fist about my innards. Good Lord, I had never considered the possibility.
“I have my heirs, and he says he quite recognises he’s exhausted all his credit when it comes to my private life.” Ned gave me the crooked little smile that made my foolish heart beat faster. In relief, this time. “Besides, he likes you. I can’t think why! Dear Jove, what a scare you gave me! I believe I need some sort of compensation to restore my shattered nerves.”
This, it appeared, was to take the form of physical worship and gratification.
“A great deal of gratification,” he added, his tone stern. “I’ve had a severe shock.”
“Really, Ned, you have no sense of perspective. I was more than shocked. I was horrified. If anyone deserves physical comfort—”
I broke off, because Ned lunged at me. Believe me, leather sofas are the work of Satan. Far too polished and slippery for close-quarters grappling of the sort Ned had in mind. The impact had me flailing and sliding, Ned half on top of me, his mouth fastening onto mine like a leech. It was all I could do to keep from slipping to the floor. I hung on to Ned instead, and returned his kisses with fervour.
Well, wouldn’t you?
Ned managed it so we spent the whole night together. He sent both boys to their grandparents with his compliments and a prettily worded note to his mother, calculated to induce her to coddle her motherless grandsons—“She loves indulging them. They’ll be allowed to sit up late and eat far too much cake. They’ll be very happy.”—to ensure nothing could stop us from enjoying a lazy, gentle time recovering from the myriad shocks the day had bestowed upon us.
We dined in town after tossing a coin to decide between the Criterion or Wiltons. To my delight, Wiltons won. I had a yen for oysters, and Wiltons did shellfish so superlatively good, mere words fail to convey their wonder.
Oysters are, of course, reputed to be an aphrodisiac. Not that I needed one with Ned sitting opposite me.
Wiltons had every modern advantage in the way of lighting. The foyer was brilliant with aether chandeliers, but by the time a patron found his way into the restaurant proper, the lighting was stage-managed to provide a discreet, romantic setting for a meal. The room’s pearl-and-aqua decor was both enriched and softened by shadows and mellow light. Not candlelight, of course, but the muted aether flares gave the same effect, flattering everything they danced over. We had a table in one corner. Quiet. Discreet. Not even the presence at the next table of Sam Hawkins, Ned’s fearsomely armed shadow, was intrusive.
I boggled for an instant at Sam’s companion, who sat with his back to us. “Is that George Todd with him?”
George was a senior Gallowglass guard who’d shared our Aegyptian adventures in the last two seasons. The 1900-01 season in particular had seen him use his considerable martial skills in our favour. In marked contrast, the following season, just gone, had been peaceful. I had still been reassured to have George with us.
“Yes.” Ned seemed more focused on tasting the classic ’99 vintage Château d’Yquem, a Sauternes that complemented the salty tang of the oysters. But then he smiled. “I believe my father noted you never take a House guard around with you and deputed Todd to fill the vacancy when we’re out together.”
“Unusual.”
Ned laughed. “As I told you, he likes you. He says you have a refreshing, caustic, and clear-sighted view of House affairs.”
“Hmmph. Most House Principes suppress heresy, not protect it. Although, it does show his practical nature. After all, it ensures Sam isn’t diverted from his primary task of protecting you, if he has George to keep an eye on me.”
On reflection, the Gallowglass’s kindness was remarkable. I was not daft enough to think Sam would spare me even a passing glance in such circumstances, much less be diverted one iota from Ned’s defence to consider mine, and the Gallowglass must know it. Ned was Sam’s pole star, whereas I was barely a faint twinkle off somewhere in the Southern Cross.
I put such profitless musings aside and returned my attention to Ned and the molluscs on my plate. The meal was perfect, the wine a delicious nectar.
And Ned. Ned was both perfect and delicious.
Every time I looked at him, I could only admire the play of light on his face. The humdrum organ beating out my life inside my chest grew warm enough to ignite suns. Or at least galvanise several aethernet power grids. Until I’d met Ned Winter, I had derided love as something for fools and dreamers. But seduced in the most romantic way by the light now gleaming along Ned’s high cheekbones, casting faint shadows in the hollows underneath them, playing along his jaw and glittering in his eyes, I fell in love all over again. The light kissed those eyes, and cheekbones and jaw, with the same tenderness with which I kissed them whenever I could.
Ned raised his glass again. The wine glowed yellow-gold, all the sun on the grape captured in the crystal goblet.
The warmth inside me grew. By rights, I should be glowing too.
I gulped down my wine and pushed away my plate. “You know, Ned, I find that whatever it is I’m hungry for tonight it isn’t, after all, oysters. Let’s go home. Please.” I paused and thought about it for a second. “And let’s hurry.”
Ned’s answering smile was the sun coming up after a dark night.
In the quiet of my flat above the coffeehouse, Sam and George had ensconced themselves in the first-floor sitting room, well able to guard the house and us but far enough away from my bedroom on the top floor to ensure our privacy. Hugh Peters was out for the evening and wouldn’t return until late. Ned and I were alone, and safe to be ourselves.
I trailed my lips along Ned’s jaw, a line of little kisses. When I reached his mouth, it was with the slow, delicious slide of his lips against mine. Ned still tasted of the sweet Sauternes, with the salt of the shellfish under it.
Sometimes I couldn’t believe that Ned was mine to hold and touch and kiss. That it was my right, and mine alone, to kiss those eyes, to trail my mouth over his cheeks until it found his and I could die the little death of intense bliss as his lips parted and his tongue reached for mine in the duet. More than mere pleasure, it reached for the terror of the sublime.
I leaned in and kissed him again, this time tilting my head to fit his mouth to mine at exactly the right angle. Ned made a small noise in the back of his throat, a needy whimpering little noise. He curled his hand around the back of my neck and kissed me back, his mouth against my lips. I parted them to let him in.
I was kissing Ned, and this wasn’t sweet and affectionate. This was insistent, full of need and heat. Ned rolled on top of me, smoothly. It felt right. It felt like we’d always been doing it, this hot demanding kissing.
Caressing Ned’s sides, arms, the strong thighs thrusting against me… relishing the sensation of his body pressed up against mine… That felt right, too.
Now Ned’s kisses were slow and unhurried, languorous, dreamy—guaranteed to get me wanting more. His cock poked into my hip, and he chuckled against my mouth, touching and stroking my sides in counterpoint to the way I was caressing his.
He put his hand over my cock. Light exploded behind my closed eyelids. Breathing was difficult. I pushed myself into Ned’s warm palm. He tightened his grip and chuckled again. He pulled back, sitting up. When I opened my eyes, he was reaching for my shirt.
I sat up and pulled the shirt over my head without unbuttoning it. Ned’s eyes widened and darkened.
“I’ll have to take my hand away.” Ned plucked ineffectually at his own shirt.
I gestured to my cock. “It will still be there when you’re done.”
Ned laughed, as joyous and uninhibited as a boy. And then we were naked, and for the life of me I wouldn’t be able to explain how. Ned wrapped his arms around me, pressing in as if to make us one body, to merge us entirely, his warm mouth moving against the side of my neck as he murmured endearments and promises. I had my head bent to one side to a
llow him free rein with my neck, despite the shivers it sent down my spine, and it was the work of an instant to lean forward to touch and kiss his bare shoulder. His skin, smooth under my lips and fingertips, tasted as golden as it looked, with the faint tang of salt. I licked my way along his collarbone, eager to savour the sweeter, stronger sweat gathered in the hollows of his throat. Ned trailed his fingers over my nipples like fire, sending bolts of lightning to my groin. Our kisses, once soft and languid, became potent enough to turn my heart inside out.
It was my turn to roll over Ned. I knelt above him, the tip of my cock brushing against his stomach.
“Rafe,” Ned whispered.
He pulled me down over him, bare skin to bare skin. He pushed up to meet me while I ground against him, Ned’s hard cock rubbing my own, and everything was heat and lightning and glory. I kissed his shoulders, then worked my way up his throat until I reached his mouth, the two of us rocking against each other, panting into each other’s mouths.
Ned slid his hand between us, fisting my cock inside his warm, dry palm. I managed to follow suit with his, although a tiny portion of my mind laughed with delight at the picture we must make, backs curving like contortionists to stay in contact, rubbing each other, kissing and gasping and panting. I held Ned’s heavy cock, squeezing and running my fingers over it… and all of a sudden this—Ned, me, everything we felt about each other—was so simple and so profound, so right and yet so deep, I couldn’t find the words for it.
Ned rubbed his fingertips over the head of my cock, giving it a peculiar little twist that had me letting loose a very manly yelp and moaning out loud. Ned caught the moan in his mouth, and did it again, and then I was riding the surge of pleasure, trying not to yell, grinding into Ned. His kisses lit the lightning flickering through every nerve until the pleasure was almost pain, and I spilt all over Ned’s hand while he pumped hot thick essence over my fingers. We shuddered against each other, panting, gentling the kisses, letting them cool us.
Ned rolled me over until we were lying side by side, then lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers clean, every movement of his tongue languid and luxurious, his eyes gleaming a golden hazel in the dim light. The sight, so wanton and sweet, sent a little jolt to my heart.
Ned’s smile was slow and sleepy now. I reached for the sheet and pulled it up over us, snuggled in, closed my eyes, and followed him into sleep, smiling.
When I woke, warm and drowsy, Ned was behind me, curved around me, his groin cupping my buttocks. I didn’t hurry my waking. Those mornings when I woke beside Ned were too important to be rushed. Seldom could we enjoy an entire night together—every second was to be relished.
Last night I had knelt over Ned, my stomach brushing against the tip of his cock. Last night we’d ground together, shuddering, cock sliding against cock, capturing each other’s moans in kisses. Last night we’d loved until we were exhausted.
Last night was, all round, a pretty damn good sort of night.
But the new morning?
The morning was for doing it all over again.
Ned turned his head, tilting it to one side as he listened to me outlining my plans for beginning this day as we’d ended the last. I kissed his lips, whispering secrets against them. His mouth curved up under mine.
Two smiles, kissing.
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time of the Cartomancer’s birthday ball, I was living in Stravaigor House.
At the end of August the Stravaigor’s health had undergone a sharp deterioration. I was at home at the coffeehouse when the news reached me of another heart attack. Though the doctors had staved off the Grim Reaper, their prognostications were gloomy. Nell, her voice cracking in the brass earpiece of the telephone, begged me to come at once.
I abandoned my plans to see Ned that night and went posthaste. After a precarious two or three days with Nell and me at his bedside, our father pulled through the crisis. He was delighted to confound his doctors yet again but, much weakened, he didn’t fight being confined to his bed. Nell pleaded with me to stay at the house for a while, and I couldn’t refuse her or leave her to cope alone.
As our father clawed his way back from the brink over the following weeks, Nell and I grew closer. I liked having a sister. One like Nell, in any event, who was a bracing and energetic sort of girl. I was more ambivalent about Emily, who was enceinte and therefore, in her own mind, too enfeebled and too engrossed with her precious cargo to support her sister.
I had brought Hugh Peters with me when I decamped from the coffeehouse, for the simple reason that he’d been indispensable to my comfort ever since he joined me after leaving the Aero Corps. He was worth ten highly trained valets. Hugh, being Hugh, settled in with aplomb, taking to our new circumstances with little more than a shrug and a cheerful “Well, this is a turn-up for the books!” What I wouldn’t give for his practical nature. My father’s valet, Harper, might sniff in disdain at the thought of a former military batman setting up as a gentleman’s gentleman, but I couldn’t manage without Hugh. I could manage admirably without the likes of Harper.
Not quite three years earlier I’d returned home from the Aero Corps, eyes damaged, hard up, facing an uncertain future, and detesting my House and all connected with it. And now I was ensconced in the House as its First Heir, living in one of the most luxurious residences in Kensington as of right, and in imminent danger of becoming House Princeps. I found I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would. I wasn’t yet at ease with my new role, but I wasn’t kicking against the traces anywhere near so furiously as I’d expected. Part of my acceptance came from the social gap between Ned and me having closed, but still, it was a sad reflection on the deleterious effect material comfort had on my principles.
My costume for the bal masqué was brilliant. When a man has the calves for tight leggings, it’s a downright sin not to take advantage of them. The thigh-length cloak, a jaunty cloth of gold, hung over my right shoulder, brushing the hilt of my rapier. The doublet and codpiece of rich black velvet edged with gold lace were a touch immodest, perhaps, but under the guise of historical accuracy, I thought I could escape real criticism.
“I’m still not sure about the hat.” Hugh paused in his work of gluing a short beard to my chin, to glance askance at the soft velvet headgear completing my costume.
The hat had been a bone of contention for days. I’d pulled various illustrated histories and biographies from the library to prove it was perfectly in keeping with the clothing the Borgias wore. I threatened him with the history books again, and he laughed, giving loud thanks his part ended when I was dressed up.
“You should be ruddy grateful I don’t make you go with me as a papal bodyguard.”
“Not in a hat like that, sir.” He pressed the last bit of beard against my chin and held it until the glue dried. We’d have the devil’s own job getting that nonsense off. “Is Mr Winter going?”
I nodded.
“You haven’t spoken to him yet, then?”
My gaze met Hugh’s in the looking glass. “No. I will. Soon.”
He said no more, except to wish me an enjoyable evening. I’m sure he meant it, but the gingerbread had shed gilt wholesale. I had to speak with Ned.
Nell swooped on me when we met in the hall outside our father’s suite, and kissed my cheek. A bright little bird, all smooth dark hair, glitter, and polish, she put her hands on my forearms and pulled back to arms’ length, looking me up and down.
“No, really, don’t wear that hat. Carry it.” She plucked the hat from my head with a wince and handed it to me. “Very smart! But you’ll need to explain to everyone who you’re meant to be.”
“I think they’ll guess, given our father.”
She laughed. I smirked.
She had decided to attend as Medea, on the basis that the ancient Greek sorceress knew what she wanted and went after it. Nell felt that determination was a trait to be admired and emulated, adding, “Besides, I’m tall enough to look quite wonderful
in a chiton.”
Which indeed she did. She gave the plain white linen drapery an air of distinction, wearing it with all the elegant chic a lesser woman would accord the finest silk. She had clasped a broad zoster belt around her waist to accentuate its slenderness, using a supple gold leather studded with diamonds for the purpose, and pinned the himation mantle to her shoulders with two diamond brooches in the shape of the traditional Greek drama masks of comedy and tragedy, my gift on her birthday the previous week. With her dark hair bound up with gold chains threaded with yet more diamonds, and a Greek-style diadem borrowed from the House’s treasure box—Georgian, set with coral and yes, more diamonds—she would have put Aphrodite to shame. Far less interested in historical accuracy than she was in making a good show, she made a nod towards the accepted myth by carrying a small lamb’s fleece, which she’d painted a true metallic gold. It would be a bally nuisance when the dancing started. I anticipated being made responsible for it for most of the evening.
She was splendid, as I told her in the requisite offhand brotherly fashion. She showed her dimples in response, with a nod and an airy “I know, but thank you for saying so.”
We presented ourselves to our father before leaving, parading into his bedroom for his inspection. He had taken a great interest in our preparations. I’d been surprised when he’d showed the same artistic flair as Nell, the same grasp of what was needed to create a stunning effect. They were very alike, those two.
He sat propped up against a veritable Matterhorn of goose-feather pillows, his face the same colour as the bed linen, and laid the book he was reading on his knees when Harper shooed us in. His hands shook as he lowered the tome, as if he found the weight of it too much. We were greeted with the faintest of smiles.
“Ready for inspection, Papa!” Nell did a little twirl on the spot to allow him the opportunity to assess all her glory. “Do you think we’ll pass muster?”
