“Yes!” He clapped his hands merrily and kissed Ambrose’s shoulder. “Yet as the younger son, I can never make you my comtesse, my darling, you must simply remain Captain Pen.”
“Perhaps I might sign my plays as Captain Pen—or might people think me rather full of myself?”
“I think they would love it,” Orsini assured him. “And when we wed, Cosima might wear a gown fashioned to capture a certain feminine sense of that splendid uniform of yours. What say you, sir?”
“With gold braid and little buttons?” Ambrose tapped his fingertips up Orsini’s chest as if suggesting the track of the fastenings. “And frogging. And a sash…” He kissed Orsini’s ear, which at that moment, so pink and perfect, he couldn’t resist.
“And a feather in my hair, because La Cosima must have her feather!”
“Oh, yes—the tallest we can find in all of England!”
“All the better to tickle you with!”
With their legs still locked together, they tickled each other and rolled across the large bed. On they went until they were quite breathless, and drunk with the silliness and joy of being in each other’s embrace.
At the end of the landing the grand clock that Mr. Pendleton had proudly purchased last Michaelmas chimed the hour, yet Ambrose barely heard it, entirely lost in this delightful encounter. Instead the kisses went on and on, his embraces more loving than ever.
Ambrose fidgeted with the corner of the bedclothes. He knew that what he was about to say was fraught with danger, for what would be said if they were found? But not to ask seemed even worse, for he couldn’t bring himself—and didn’t want—to usher Orsini out into the cold corridor.
“Would it be a naughty thing indeed if you stayed in my bed tonight? To sleep, just as we did in Pall Mall?”
“I must be back in Cosima’s room before breakfast, for tomorrow Orsini will spend the day in business, and Cosima shall leave her room,” Orsini told him, chewing at his lip as he considered the question. “But I shall take the risk!”
Ambrose’s heart beat so violently that he was sure Orsini must have heard it.
“I shall keep on my breeches, as we’re courting.” Ambrose ran his thumb under the waistband. They wouldn’t be the most comfortable clothes to sleep in, but if they both—no, he could not think of that now. Their evening so far had been chaste. At least, as chaste as two shirtless men very much enjoying each other’s company could be.
“What do you usually wear for bed, Pen? Just wear that.” Orsini stifled a soft yawn. “I wear nothing, as you know, but I shall throw on my shirt for the sake of decency unless you have a silky something I might borrow, as tradition dictates?”
“I have my nightshirt—I sleep in that. Very comfortable it is too. Nice and…erm…loose.” Ambrose popped open the top button on his breeches, which certainly were not. “And as a matter of fact, I do have a banyan. I wear it when I’m writing. I drift about in it, like a fool. You should laugh to see me at my endeavors! But you may borrow that, and the next time I wear it, I shall think of that soft silk against your bare skin.”
Once again Orsini clapped his agreement, then he pushed himself up against the pillows to watch Ambrose. In fact, even when he leaned forward to slip off his shoes and stockings, his gaze never left his lover, and Ambrose saw in it every proof of the love and devotion they shared.
Ambrose kissed the top of Orsini’s head, then left the bed to retrieve his banyan from the clothes press. He draped the silk garment over his arm and trotted back to the bed.
“Well, here we are, my darling Orsini—the silkiest one that I could find, and, so I am told, Mr. Brummell has one just like it! Though I’m convinced you should look a thousand times more appealing.”
“My friends tell me that your Mr. Brummell will soon be selling that banyan, along with everything else he possesses, on pain of two broken legs or worse!” Orsini took the banyan and ran his hand appreciatively over the delicate fabric. “Mark me well, Pen, all is not well with our Beau. When you join me in the theater, you shall hear all the gossip!”
“How terribly exciting!” Ambrose took his nightshirt from the chair by the bed and went behind his dressing screen. “I do try, you know, to follow the ton, but as you could see earlier, that cravat knot was entirely ridiculous. I nearly choked myself.”
“La Cosima’s ladies shall take care of you,” Orsini called, and Ambrose heard the sound him discarding what remained of his clothes. “They know how to tie a cravat!”
How tempting to peer around the edge and see what he had once seen, years before, on a sunny beach in Italy. But no. Ambrose Pendleton was a gentleman and he did not peek on naked men as if he were an elder spying on Susanna. Ambrose tugged at his hair and dismissed the temptation, then kicked away his breeches and stockings and pulled his nightshirt over his head. There was no disguising his desire, other than by a discreetly placed hand, and this Ambrose attempted as he made his way back to the bed. Orsini was already there, perched very neatly on the covers against the pillow, resplendent in the banyan that he had somehow transformed into a picture of decadence simply by wearing it. He hopped up onto his feet and greeted Ambrose with a bow.
“I hope you shall find the accommodation comfortable.” Unwittingly, Ambrose’s careful hand dropped from his loins as he pulled back the bedclothes. “And that looks a lot better on you than it does on me!”
“I think it looks possibly more feminine, but better? I doubt that!” Orsini slipped into the bed beside him. “I should like to see you lounging about in this, Pen, and nothing else. Those gorgeous legs of yours just teasing beneath the silk, a little hint of chest? Say you will when we are married, tato?”
His cheeks warm with awkward fire, Ambrose put his arm around Orsini. “Anything you like, darling. Anything at all. Perhaps we can lounge about together, a banyan each…I can see it now, on a chaise longue before a huge window overlooking…overlooking—well, I can’t see what’s outside, because the vision of you is so very distracting.”
“Mine would be red, yours…blue, perhaps. Or perhaps red also or—” Orsini sighed and snuggled closer. “—or no banyan at all, for you are too perfectly formed to hide, but simply a Grecian sort of diaphanous draping affair to keep us cozy.”
Ambrose pulled the bedcovers up to cocoon them, and smiled as the feather pillow sank under his head. “Me, perfect? I’m not sure about that. Although my arms are just the perfect size to embrace you, and my lips are just soft enough to kiss you. So perhaps I am.”
“I thank God that He brought you home to me,” his lover whispered. “We are blessed, my love.”
Ambrose clutched Orsini’s graceful hand in his large, square palm. “We are, indeed.”
“How does one obtain such a splendid physique, Pen?” Orsini’s tone was playful, his free hand gently stroking over Ambrose’s nightshirt-clad chest. “One imagines we are made the same, but you? You are perfect!”
“I’m rather solid, I’ll grant you.” It was only then that Ambrose realized he had accidentally rested his hand against Orsini’s thigh, but he made no attempt to move it away. “Out on the horses, bit of bathing…my brother and I used to box, until Mother forbade it as she was scared we’d spoil our noses!”
“Thank heavens she did!” He shuddered theatrically. “You cannot risk that jaw either!”
Ambrose stroked a circle on Orsini’s thigh. “Really? You don’t like the thought of the two Pendleton boys shirtless, in the stables, hair sticky with sweat as their fists fly?”
“I do not!” And Orsini’s tone certainly seemed to confirm his words. “There is nothing to be admired in flying fists, tato. And if you are to be shirtless and sweating in the straw, let it be with me, and for a far more entertaining pastime than boxing!”
Now that was certainly more appealing than seeing his brother ready to throw a punch. “Such things you promise, darling Orsini—and shall we romp in the straw before or after our wedding? Shall we make a habit of it, the rest of our lives t
hrough?”
“We shall before and after, and forever.” He kissed Ambrose’s cheek. “Now, tell me, Pen, should I untie my hair or would you prefer your Orsini a little more masculine? What say you, my darling?”
Orsini’s hair was so glossy in the dying candlelight, and Ambrose reached for the ribbon that secured it. “Loose, I think, for tonight.”
“Loose it shall be. Will you untie the ribbon, Pen?” He lifted his head a little and blinked his dark eyes at Ambrose. “We will be so very happy.”
“We will.” Ambrose unfastened the ribbon with one gentle tug and combed his fingers through Orsini’s hair, humming a half-remembered tune. “Will you let me comb it for you one day?”
“Of course. And will you make me the neatest plait on an autumn evening, my darling?”
Ambrose chuckled at the thought of his large, clumsy hands dressing Orsini’s elegant hair. “I might have to practice!”
“We have a lifetime to get it right.”
“We do.” How quiet it was, the house sleeping around them, not a sound beside their whispers and the slowly failing fire. “If I fall asleep, it’s no bad reflection upon you. Only on how content I am, to lie here like this with you, my dearest.”
“I love you,” Orsini whispered. “Amore mio.”
Ambrose murmured something. He was fairly sure it was ‘I love you’ in reply, but the comfort of lying abed with Orsini was as delightful as reclining on the softest feather down. He rested his lips against Orsini’s throat, and he did mean to kiss him, but he began to drift off to sleep, seeing only himself and Orsini before his inward eye.
Chapter Twelve
Orsini opened his eyes slowly, snuggling with a sigh against Ambrose as he did so. They had hardly moved as the long hours of the night had passed, their limbs still entangled, Ambrose’s chest still firm beneath Orsini’s hair. He lifted his head just enough to look at Ambrose, his eyes still closed, a faint smile on his face, and Orsini pressed a soft kiss to his lover’s lips. How far they had come in the space of one night and how far they still had to go to not only save Ambrose’s future, but do so without tearing father and son apart, for that would not do at all.
As Orsini watched Ambrose sleep and pondered on their plan he listened to the faint sound of a chiming clock, counting the bells as they rang. It would be seven o’clock, he guessed, for the house was quiet. He could take his time strolling to Cosima’s room and changing then be safe in bed, ready to receive any morning visitors who might look in on the sickly young lady.
The seventh chime sounded and Orsini settled down against Ambrose again, just doing so as the eighth chime sounded.
And the ninth.
A theatrical like Orsini was hardly used to early starts and nine o’clock was a time he frequently failed to see but this morning was different. He had a distinct feeling that Mrs. Pendleton might be making an appearance, so concerned had she been at Cosima’s faint, and what would she think if she found the door locked and the lady unrousable?
She will have the door broken down!
Or find a spare key.
Nevertheless, the Cosima of pillows and blankets would be revealed by daylight and with that thought in his head, Orsini sprang from the bed. Ambrose slept on as his lover dragged his shirt over his head and tied his long hair back with his discarded cravat then, with a last look back at Ambrose, he fled the room.
Orsini dashed along the corridors toward Cosima’s room, expecting at any moment to hear the alarm raised or meet Tarbottom and Pendleton, the padded corsets that made up his female alter-ego clutched in their hands and their demands for an explanation echoing through the halls. He prayed to every saint he could think of as he turned each corner and the Lord, it seemed, was listening, for Orsini unlocked Cosima’s door and slipped inside without any interruption. In the darkened room he took a deep breath and turned the key in the lock. Then he crossed himself and whispered, “Grazie, Dio.”
All Pen’s fault. Orsini smiled and began to undress, his head filled with visions of Ambrose Pendleton, his muscular body accessorized by nothing but a flamboyant tasseled sash and a broad smile.
And maybe something else, but they were courting and he wouldn’t be so naughty as to even imagine—
Except now he was, picturing Ambrose naked on their Italian beach, waiting for his Orsini to tumble into his arms with a magnificent, hard—
A knock at the door wrenched Orsini from his reverie.
“Yes?” he called, summoning Cosima’s more gentle tones.
“Contessina?” The rich, slightly condescending voice of Mrs. Tarbottom came through the door. “Oh, you are awake now. Are you accepting visitors, only—”
“—only Mama and I felt it our duty to come and sit with you for a time.” Harriet chimed in with a sweeter, younger version of her mother’s tone. “Would you admit us, dear friend?”
By now naked and far from an innocent, dewy young lady in the thrall of a strapping soldier, Orsini froze. His rather spirited imagining of Ambrose beneath the Italian sun had left very hard proof of his masculinity there for all to see and though Cosima might be able to explain most things away, that certainly wasn’t one of them.
Blankets, he decided, quickly snatching up Cosima’s stays with their delicate padding in all the right places. And closed curtains.
“A moment, if you would,” he called back. “I look a terrible fright to visitors!”
“Very well, we shall wait,” Mrs. Tarbottom drawled. She chuckled, arrogant and self-assured.
“God bless you!” Orsini pulled his nightgown over the stays and let his hair tumble over his shoulders. He put his hands on the dressing table and peered into the mirror. He was always feminine but there was no doubt that he was Amadeo. It was a subtle shade here and there, a gentle color and a touch of rouge that brought out Cosima.
And one doesn’t become a girl for a living without being able to put on a face in the dark, in two minutes or while the watch is knocking at the door and your partner is scrabbling out the window.
He kept the women waiting longer simply because he could, and because Cosima would look all the better with every extra second he spent on her face. She needed less makeup than Harriet Tarbottom, Orsini noted with a smile of mischief, as he patted powder to his skin and teased a few ringlets into place.
Perfect.
With that thought Orsini pulled his shawl around his shoulders, kicked his suit under the bed and turned the key in the lock.
“Forgive me, you must think me terribly rude,” he simpered, turning toward the bed. That troublesome appendage might have softened somewhat with the arrival of the cold water that was the Tarbottoms, but it was still something of a risk to go au naturel beneath one’s nightgown. He slipped beneath the covers and pulled them up, suitably decent to call, “Come in, please!”
Mrs. Tarbottom and her daughter crossed the room in slow, stately fashion, their faces masks of pious kindness. But they couldn’t hide their pride. This was no mercy visit—they were here to gloat. They sat near the bed on a sofa and neatly folded their hands in their laps.
“Have you recovered from your faint, Contessina?” Harriet asked. “Only we were so concerned for you yesterday, but you did want to rest, so we couldn’t bear to disturb you.”
Does Harriet’s mother know what sort of a girl she is? Orsini wondered. Or does she think her as sweet as she seems?
“I am recovered,” Orsini replied, resting one hand meaningfully atop the richly brocaded bedcover, just against his stomach. “My brother has told me that my capitano has made his choice, Miss Tarbottom.”
Harriet dipped her head, her eyelashes lowered. “He has, yes. He will marry me.”
She lifted her eyes to Orsini, her smile brittle with triumph.
“Once you are well, Contessina, you ought to leave,” Mrs. Tarbottom advised. “I really do not feel that your presence would be welcome at the wedding breakfast—neither for your sake nor anyone else’s.”
Mrs. Ta
rbottom tipped her head to one side as if she were trying to appear sympathetic, but the import of her words robbed her of any tenderness. She was rejoicing at making a bastard of Cosima’s child, of breaking lovers’ hearts. Ambition had turned many hearts to stone, and Mrs. Tarbottom’s was no exception.
“I cannot travel in my condition,” Orsini replied, the hand on his stomach shifting just slightly. “You are a lucky lady indeed, Miss Tarbottom, but I have not yet accepted defeat. My brother would have me leave today, but I will not go. He is furious with me and Captain Pendleton, and believes me cruelly misused. I had not thought he would be your ally.”
Orsini sighed deeply and shook his head, turning away just a little. Some instinct, he wasn’t sure what, told him that these ladies might like to think of Amadeo Orsini as their friend, angry at his sister and her seducer, not to mention as keen to clear up this sorry matter as they were.
“He believes that I should forget the captain,” Orsini went on sadly, dabbing at his eye with a silk handkerchief. “It would seem that he has been my suitor even as he was preparing to be yours, Miss Tarbottom. Perhaps we are both misled. You might well seek another man as your betrothed, or my brother believes that the capitano will break your heart one day too.”
And I believe that you will think this a scheme of mine, a very poor ploy to try and make you give up Pen for me. Which is precisely what I want you to think, so your mother might see your true colors.
Harriet gasped. “I realize you are saddened by this turn of events, but there is no need to attack the character of the gentleman I happen to love—the man who shall take me for his bride!”
“Harriet, my girl—quieten down. We don’t want to upset the contessina in her condition.” Mrs. Tarbottom’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “She cannot even look to her own brother for succour at this tragic time. Oh, poor friendless lady!”
“My brother has always been a fool when presented with a pretty face,” Orsini told them, though in truth he had never really cared for pretty gents. Better a man who looked like a man, strong and broad and handsome. “And your daughter certainly possesses one of those. When he came to me last night, his anger aflame, it was all I could do to keep him from striking Captain Pendleton or coming to your room, Miss Tarbottom, and telling you to flee before you marry a false man!”
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 12
