“Because I am a man built like a very slender young lady. Beauties interest me only when we are borrowing one another’s gowns and learning little makeup secrets!” Orsini gave a gentle laugh and tentatively stroked his fingers over Ambrose’s thigh. “And what does a young lady need if not a strapping, brave soldier to keep her safe from the villains of this world?”
Ambrose brought his other hand up into Orsini’s hair and tried one little kiss just below his ear.
“I shall be your champion, Orsini, your defender and your shield. You can have no worry about that.”
“When you went to war, I was beside myself.” He shifted just a little, pressing his cheek to Ambrose’s. “I thought you would be lost to me forever, and I would die that day too. My heart stopped with every piece of news from the field, Pen, for I have loved you since that first day on the beach.”
“I thought about you every day, I swear to you I did. Always thinking, what if I die now, and I’ve never told him? But how could I tell you?” Ambrose drew his lips down to Orsini’s throat to kiss his soft skin. “Although, as it happens—I wasn’t expecting to tell you tonight. It fell out of my mouth, darling.”
“I have been torturing myself with the thought of you, wishing I might be Cosima so you would love me as you pretend to love her.” Orsini closed his eyes and gave a long, happy sigh. “I would never have thought you might look at me and see anything more than your silly friend who looks nice in a gown!”
“I see the man I love.” Ambrose smiled. “I’m looking at him now, in fact—he’s the most beautiful creature you ever did see. Big, dark eyes, and an elegant nose and a gentle face, and—my word—such lips! I dream of kissing them.”
“Amore mio,” Orsini purred. “I wish that you would kiss me.”
“You do?” Ambrose was still surprised that his love was returned. How impossible the very idea had seemed.
Smiling, he brushed his lips over Orsini’s. Answering what seemed like yearning in their brief kiss, Ambrose brought his mouth closer and claimed Orsini’s lips with own. And Orsini, the middling actor turned great impresario, the cool theatrical negotiator who had steered La Cosima through the great houses of Europe on her way to the pinnacle of comedic theater, showed himself to be little changed from the enthusiastic young man with whom Ambrose Pendleton had spent a rather frolicsome summer some years ago. He gave a little gasp of delighted pleasure and returned Ambrose’s kiss with an enthusiasm that stole his breath, clutching his fingers tight to Ambrose’s shirt.
Ambrose held Orsini tighter still, delighting in the press of their bodies. They were lost in lips and tongues, their kiss growing deeper, each man reassured by each other’s touch. Still kissing, they slipped over sideways onto the bed, then they lay facing each other, cushioned by the plush bedding.
“I had thought you would think it very odd that I made my fortune as a girl,” Orsini whispered as they broke for breath. “But most of all, I had not thought you would want to know that I prefer gentlemen.”
He dotted a kiss to Ambrose’s nose. “And I prefer you most all, tato. All that summer, trailing around, gazing at you, wishing you might see me as I saw you.”
“I did! My God, Orsini, I think back to our naked swim and I tremble at the force of the desire I felt then. Feel now, in fact.” Ambrose saw so much love in Orsini’s beautiful face that gazing at him was like gorging on honey. And Orsini gazed back at him through his large, dark eyes, framed by long eyelashes that any actress would likely kill for. He was as beautiful now as when he wore Cosima’s makeup, more so, and Ambrose could scarcely recall a sight more glorious.
“I had not imagined you would like men,” he murmured, carefully dancing one finger down Ambrose’s chest to his stomach. “I dreaded the marriage notices too, Pen. What a bundle of silliness I have been.”
Ambrose took Orsini’s wandering hand and kissed it. “My precious Orsini, I always thought the same of you—dreading to see some remark in the theatrical gossip page, or hearing at third-hand that you had a bride. And always thinking, what a fool I am, how could he want a beefy fellow like me! But you do after all…so…”
Ambrose raised an eyebrow and worked off his neckcloth, throwing it over the side of the bed followed swiftly by his coat and his jacket. “Should you like me to take off my shirt? So you might see if I’m still as strapping as you remember?”
“I know that you are, for I have dreamed of you often enough.” Orsini lazily unfastened Ambrose’s shirt as he spoke. He smiled very tenderly and gave another one of those delicate sighs. “Would you take it off, tato?”
“Anything for you, dear heart!” Ambrose sat up, and grinned as he pulled his shirt over his head and threw it aside. He enjoyed feeling Orsini’s gaze on him, then he stroked Orsini’s hair, hoping he wouldn’t think him horribly vain. Yet Orsini seemed to think nothing of the sort, for he took in the sight of his shirtless friend with one sweep of a gaze that was suddenly blazing with fresh heat. Then he pressed his lips to Ambrose’s again, both hands sliding down over his muscular chest, caressing his skin with no effort to conceal his appreciation.
Ambrose rolled onto his back and brought Orsini on top of him, caressing Orsini’s back but steadfastly not going farther, despite the temptation of his rounded bottom. It was enough to feel Orsini’s hands on his bare chest, to hold him and kiss him.
Bringing his mouth away from Orsini’s, Ambrose whispered, “Do you want to take off your coat too? Only if you want to, of course.” At the thought of unbuttoning it, Ambrose’s hips twitched and he knew that Orsini could not have failed to notice the hardness in his breeches—just as Ambrose was aware of Orsini’s.
“How much of it would you have me remove, Pen?” The Italian blinked, all innocence. “For unlike on Pall Mall, I have no marvelously decadent robe at hand to keep me decent tonight.”
“You, in that robe—the softness of it, the color…” Ambrose almost drifted off into his memories of that night, but the man he loved was here in his arms and he soon brought himself back. “Take off the coat.”
Orsini shrugged his arms out of the coat and flung it aside. Ambrose cuddled Orsini to him, his shirt soft against Ambrose’s chest, and for once Orsini was silent—a rare state of affairs for him—seemingly content with simply snuggling with his love. He let his head rest on Ambrose’s shoulder, his soft hair ticklish against Ambrose’s cheek.
Orsini’s hand was moving lazily, drawing gently sinuous patterns with his fingertips on Ambrose’s broad chest. His lips followed just as lightly, soft kisses fluttering to his shoulders like butterflies. The strapping soldier trembled—undone, conquered by the love of Amadeo Orsini.
“I adore you,” Ambrose murmured, stroking Orsini’s hair.
“Ambrose and Amadeo, and sometimes La Cosima,” Orsini whispered, kissing his throat. “From now until forever.”
Ambrose smiled, tipping back his head, encouraging Orsini in his kisses. “There’s nothing more in all the world that I want besides you.”
“Kissing an Italian boy… What would your father say?” Orsini trailed his kisses lower once more, lips softly traveling down to Ambrose’s chest.
Ambrose wanted to cry out for joy, but only sighed as he arched his torso up toward Orsini’s mouth. “He’d say, thank goodness you’re not going after the maids!”
“Why would anyone chase a maid,” came the answering murmur, “when there are heroes to kiss?”
“Do you think me heroic?” Ambrose stroked the delicate contour of Orsini’s cheek. “It’s easy to be brave in a uniform, with a sword, but you, Orsini—you’re going into battle in a gown!”
“And there is nobody charging down on me with gun loaded nor bayonet sharpened,” he reminded Ambrose. “The stakes are rather less high for me!”
Orsini fell silent, attending instead to another flurry of tender kisses against Ambrose’s chest. All the time he was murmuring gentle expressions of affection in his native tongue, his tone melodic and gentle. One hand trail
ed down Ambrose’s side, stroking the muscular lines with obvious appreciation, and the fingers of the other linked with Ambrose’s hand, holding tight.
Ambrose returned the pressure of Orsini’s hand. “Now we’re together, no one will separate us—no one.” He gasped, arching his back again, desire taking hold of his every fiber. “Will you let me kiss you, Orsini, my love?”
“You need not even ask,” he whispered. “For I have longed for it.”
Hand trembling, Ambrose brought Orsini toward him, their mouths meeting in a deep kiss. Gently, never breaking their kiss, Ambrose rolled them over together so that Orsini was on his back. He found the hem of Orsini’s shirt and slid his hand underneath, his caresses tender against Orsini’s delicate skin as their kiss went on.
“I must tell you a very deep, dark secret.” Orsini murmured the admission against Ambrose’s lips, but something in his tone suggested that this wasn’t about to be too troubling a deep, dark secret. “Cosima’s bosoms…they aren’t real, Pen.”
Ambrose’s trembling turned into shudders as he heaved with laughter. “How could you deceive me, madam!” he joked. “But I really should make a thorough examination, just to be certain.”
With a bawdy wink, Ambrose roamed his hand higher until he found the little hard peaks of Orsini’s nipples. He brushed over them and caught Orsini’s answering sigh of pleasure in a kiss.
“Wouldn’t it be a marvelous twist if I were a lady disguised as a gent?” Orsini gave another, deeper sigh of delight. “Happily that is not the case.”
“You would stand up to the accusations?” Ambrose winked again. He would not be so bold as to touch the shape in Orsini’s breeches, although he could feel it against him through their clothes. He was more than content to explore Orsini’s chest and enjoy his love’s reaction to his touch.
“All night long,” was the purred response, and Orsini’s dark eyes fluttered closed in an absolute picture of contentment.
“You would, too, you darling devil, and I would match you.” Ambrose grinned as he stroked Orsini’s nipples more firmly, before drawing up Orsini’s shirt. He took in the light olive glow of Orsini’s skin, recalling once again their swim all those years before. The memory was undimmed—he could hear the waves crash against the shore and feel the distant sun upon his body.
Ambrose pressed his mouth to Orsini’s stomach before slowly kissing his way up toward his chest. Orsini shifted a little, just enough to lift his back from the bed so he could throw his shirt off, his nimble fingers dispensing with the cravat with all the skill of an actor used to the quick change.
Ambrose halted his progress, struck by Orsini’s beauty. He’d seen it before—he’d seen a lot more as they had run into the sea, as Orsini had stood naked in his London bedchamber only days before. But they hadn’t been embracing as lovers.
“You’re perfect,” Ambrose whispered, and rested his cheek against Orsini’s stomach, just to gaze at him.
“I am a long, long way from that,” he replied gently. “But I am yours, all the same.”
Ambrose laughed softly and took Orsini’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He returned to his tribute, pressing his soft kisses against his lover’s body until he arrived at those perfect dark pink nipples. Taking one gently in his mouth, Ambrose tightened his grip on Orsini’s hand, as if he feared the moment would end too soon and his Orsini would disappear.
“My Pen,” he groaned breathlessly, his back arching up from the bed, and beneath Ambrose’s lips, he felt Orsini’s breath grown faster. “Amore mio…”
Ambrose reached his other hand into Orsini’s hair, tangling his locks about his fingers as he tweaked and bathed the dark pink peak with his warm mouth. He twined his leg around Orsini’s, their erections pressing together, insistent within their clothes. But Ambrose wouldn’t unbutton him, not yet. He would hold back and merely enjoy the knowledge of their mutual desire. Still Orsini sighed and gasped, his heart beating an ever-increasing tattoo as Ambrose’s attentions went on. He slipped one leg around Ambrose’s in turn, tangling them together, two halves of one.
Ambrose lifted his mouth away and propped himself up with his hands either side of Orsini’s dear face. Once he had recovered his breath, which was not an easy task with Orsini gazing up at him with such pleasure in his eyes, Ambrose was ready to speak.
“We must behave ourselves, mustn’t we?”
“Are you going to court me, Pen?”
“I fully intend to.” Ambrose sighed. “Would you like that? We can dance together at the ball—that would be a lovely thing for a courtship, wouldn’t it?” He felt so close to Orsini at that moment, legs wrapped around each other’s, bare torsos pressed together. And as for their loins—it was a promise, a gift reserved for later.
“I would truly love that,” Orsini told him, dotting a kiss to Ambrose’s forehead. “And Cosima would adore the chance to be wooed by a gentleman soldier such as yourself, Captain. I usually politely dismiss those who would pay their respects to my protégé but I believe you are worthy of the lady!”
Ambrose lay down beside Orsini, encircling him in his embrace. “Even having romped shirtless with a handsome fellow?”
“I shall not tell Cosima if you don’t.”
“It’ll be our secret. Just as much a secret as Cosima’s true identity.” Ambrose crossed his heart and pressed his fingers to Orsini’s lips. “Won’t tell a living soul.”
“And you, sir, courting an impresario and a leading lady.” He kissed Ambrose’s fingers. “Your secret is safe with me, tato.”
“You know what they say about soldiers.” Ambrose grinned. “Actually, they—whoever they might be—say rather a lot!”
“Whereas everything they say about actresses is a bawdy lie!” He closed his eyes and laughed, adding, “But everything they say about Italians is entirely true!”
“Based on this evening alone, I would hasten to agree there about Italians.” Ambrose trailed his fingertips across Orsini’s chest. “But the actresses, well…”
He nuzzled his lips against Orsini’s neck. “You’re so lovely and warm and soft. I shall curl up around you and never let you go.”
“What a fine gentleman I have found.” Orsini smiled, running his fingers through Ambrose’s hair. “My very own soldier! Oh, Pen, how I longed for you when we traveled together… You were the most terrible temptation!”
“Perhaps I should apologize, but I won’t.” Ambrose danced his fingertips down to Orsini’s soft stomach. “Lying there night after night, knowing you were only on the other side of the wall… Longing to go out onto the balcony and climb across it to get into your room, if only to see you. One night, I actually got out of bed and stood there on my balcony, and I had to clutch onto the rail to stop myself from enacting my silly plan. For I was sure you would only laugh at me. The sight of a ridiculous Englishman in a nightshirt down to his ankles, appearing like a phantom on your balcony!”
“I think I would prefer you without the nightshirt, but I would certainly have welcomed you with very open arms indeed. I always thought you were hoping for a lovely young lady to sweep away into your embrace!”
Ambrose rolled onto his back and stared up at the bed’s canopy. He hoped Orsini wouldn’t misunderstand what he was about to say. “Do you know—I tried most hard not to feel the way I do. Not because I didn’t want to love you, but because I oughtn’t to. I tried to picture a bride, but whenever I did, she always had your face.” Ambrose laughed softly. “Isn’t that a funny thing?”
Orsini propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at Ambrose, his eyes shining in the candlelight. After a few moments he pressed a very gentle kiss to Ambrose’s lips and asked him, “Will you marry me, tato?”
Ambrose answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Yes! For heaven’s sake—yes!” He pulled Orsini down to him and kissed him with fervor, until a thought occurred to him. “And how do we accomplish that, darling—does Captain Pendleton wed Cosima?”
“He do
es!” Orsini agreed excitedly. “Alas, though, she cannot give you any little Pens, Pen.”
Ambrose kissed him tenderly. “We can borrow some little Pens. We shall fill our house with foundlings and the orphans of unfortunate theatricals.”
“You are truly a hero, my darling.” Orsini settled his head against Ambrose’s shoulder. His warm skin pressed to his lover’s. “I shall have to write to my mother. Happily, she has thrown up her hands and said, Orsini shall do what Orsini shall do!”
“Orsini shall marry a soldier.” Ambrose tangled his arms around him. “A retired one, but I do still have the uniform, of course. The sash has huge tassels on either end of it. Funny, really—whenever I wore it, I always thought, Orsini would love this sash! I pictured you flouncing about in it!”
Ambrose felt rather silly for admitting to that, but he had carried Orsini in his thoughts wherever he had gone, whatever he had done.
“What would you have me wear it with, amore mio?” As he spoke, Orsini began to dot those small, sensuous kisses against Ambrose’s jaw again. “Something in silk and lace? A manly uniform? Nothing at all?”
As if it were a terrible thing to want, Ambrose held his reply back until he could restrain it no longer. “Not a stitch else! Just you and the golden sash.”
“Well, perhaps you might get your wish,” murmured the coquettish actor. “And I shall say nothing of cavalry sabres.”
“I shall unleash my mighty sword!” Ambrose tickled Orsini, then gasped when he realized what he’d said. “Not at this precise moment, however…courtship and all that.”
“And when you are not cozy in the countryside with your Cosima, you might raise hell in town with her brother,” Orsini realized, snuggling down against him again. “Pen, we shall have the finest life anyone might imagine!”
Ambrose laughed. “Indeed! Let us go to Vauxhall Gardens again, but with you in the garb of a gentleman—oh, the larks, Orsini, just think!”
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 11
