The Captain and the Theatrical

by Catherine Curzon

  “Would it be dreadfully forward of me if I suggested a move to the bed?” His voice was caught in gasps of pleasure, his hips pushing forward.

  “To bed!” Ambrose grasped Orsini about the waist and put him over his shoulder. He playfully tapped his bottom as they crossed the room, then lay Orsini down upon the bed. Ambrose grinned at him, embarrassed. “Sorry—I’m enthusiastic.”

  Orsini, however, was gazing up at him with wide, wondrous eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly. He opened his mouth and closed it, then opened it again and gasped, “Heavens!”

  Ambrose felt awkward and silly, but he lay down beside Orsini and kissed him as he took his erection again. His hips stirred against Orsini’s as he stroked him, moaning softly against his lips. He felt his lover’s hands at the fastening of his own breeches, felt cool air as his erection was freed from the fabric then only warmth, the firm touch of Orsini’s fingers encircling him.

  He had wanted to ask Orsini if he had been too rough or too fast. Had he failed him as a gentleman by lugging him about like a shepherd running to a haystack with a hoyden? But as he felt Orsini’s hand on him, any doubts or fears flew away. For Orsini wanted him—Orsini loved him.

  “I had always thought myself too short and too skinny,” Orsini murmured, his hand matching Ambrose’s pace and rhythm. “But not anymore, not if I can be carried over the threshold!”

  “You are neither too short, nor too skinny. You are perfect, and you are beautiful, and you are also—” Ambrose watched his hand move upon Orsini, and whispered, “very hard and very long.”

  “And very, very enthusiastic.”

  “I’ve—I’ve…” Ambrose’s hips rose up off the bed and he struggled to bring them back down again. “I’ve waited so long for this moment, my love.”

  “Since that day on the beach when I first saw you,” Orsini whispered, tightening his fingers and looking down to watch their hands moving together, “I have dreamed of you like this.”

  “Let’s go back to the beach and swim there together again.” Although it wasn’t swimming that was on Ambrose’s mind, only their intimate, shared pleasure. He had put his hand to himself in this very bed many times before, dreaming of Orsini’s touch. Now it was real, and his heart swelled.

  “Beneath the moonlight,” Orsini whispered, his fingers growing tighter as his hand moved faster. “Will you make love to me on the sand?”

  “Yes—just as we should have done back then.” Ambrose gasped as his hips rose from the bed again, from the force of the joy that coursed through him. “I’ll make you so happy, just as you do me.”

  “I love you,” Orsini whispered as he entwined his leg with Ambrose’s and kissed him again and again, his tongue teasing and exploring as they brought each other to the edge of that wonderfully overwhelming, helpless pleasure.

  Ambrose forgot how to speak, existing only in the place where their bodies and their pleasure met. He stroked Orsini all the faster, sensing that his lover was nearing his bliss just as Ambrose was. It was the Italian who surrendered first, shuddering through his pleasure with a soft, almost singsong cry of delight, his large eyes fluttering closed in the moments of his deepest ecstasy. Yet his hand didn’t pause or slow and his kisses didn’t falter. The sight of Orsini reaching his peak overwhelmed Ambrose with a sense of such tender beauty that his own bliss soon followed. This time, when his hips rose from the bed, he made no attempt to still them, and all the love he had for Orsini blossomed into his lover’s hand. He brought Orsini into his trembling arms, half-undressed and glorious both.

  “Amore mio,” Orsini whispered, snuggling his soft, slight body against Ambrose’s muscular form. “My soldier.”

  A rather shaky soldier at that moment, but Ambrose smiled. “You are quite the loveliest person on earth. I cannot tell you how happy I am to lie here, like this, with you.”

  “And at the ball, will you wear your uniform?”

  “Oh, but of course! A proper captain, with shiny leather boots and well-fitted breeches, an elegant tunic and—” Ambrose punctuated each word with a kiss. “Lots. Of. Gold. Braid.”

  Orsini settled back onto the mattress and blinked up at his beloved, his eyes so bewitching and dark that Ambrose felt as though he might fall into them. “Will you wear it for our wedding?”

  Ambrose smiled gently. A wedding, between himself and Orsini, between Ambrose Pendleton and the man he had loved so long and had never thought he would hold. “If my darling wishes it.”

  “You in your uniform, and me in my military-inspired gown, with hair cascading down over my back,” Orsini murmured. “Perfect.”

  “And just think, when we first met you said I was a stuffy English gent.” Ambrose grinned at their debauched appearance. “I am not such a stuffy English gent now!”

  “You never were really, tato.” Orsini lazily entwined his fingers with Ambrose’s. “You have always been my capitano.”

  Ambrose lay down on the bed beside Orsini, feeling the heat of his body against him. He brushed his lips against his Orsini’s, tangling a delicate kiss before it grew deeper. He felt Orsini’s arm slip around his waist and draw them together, holding him there. Ambrose sighed into their kiss at the touch of Orsini’s skin as he fluttered his fingertips over his lover’s body. Reverentially they eased each other from what remained of their clothes, what remained of the world.

  “Make love to me, Captain.” Orsini sighed. “Make me yours.”

  Ambrose gazed into Orsini’s dark, gold-flecked eyes. All he had ever wanted was here in his arms. All he could see in Orsini’s face was desire and love. He kissed Orsini again, caressing him, stroking his way down his back. As they continued to kiss, more heated now with each breath, Ambrose danced his fingers at the base of Orsini’s spine, then tenderly circled his way farther down, catching Orsini’s every melodious sigh with his lips.

  One of those graceful hands, elegant and assured, moved to rest on Ambrose’s buttock, stroking the firm skin appreciatively. The other slid in sinuous patterns over Ambrose’s muscular back, as toned and contoured as Orsini was slender and soft.

  Ambrose gently rolled their entwined bodies over until Orsini was lying beneath him. He broke from their fevered kisses, and smiled gently. Ambrose was not without experience, but he loathed the very idea that he could spoil their first encounter with enthusiastic yet ill-timed passion.

  “I want you so much, my Orsini, my Cosima—will you guide me?”

  “Have you never—” He blinked then smiled rather serenely. “A man so handsome as you?”

  “I’m not entirely vestal.” Ambrose blushed. “But…you’re too precious to be treated with roughness. Do you—do you mind me being above you? Am I heavy?”

  “I would not like roughness,” Orsini agreed, reaching up to stroke his fingertips down Ambrose’s face. “But I am rather partial to a strong sort of fellow. A man who is a man.”

  Ambrose pushed himself up, his hands on either side of Orsini’s face. He glanced down at their bodies. “I am fairly strong.”

  “I am fairly delicate.” Orsini blinked. It was a coquette’s blink. “And you are very big. But I will not break, Captain.”

  “Erm…big. Yes.” Ambrose blushed even more. His erection had returned with impressive yet unsurprising speed. He moved a little so that he might stroke his way down Orsini’s chest, teasing Orsini’s nipples as he dropped his hand farther still until he closed his fingers around Orsini’s revived erection. He nibbled Orsini’s ear as he began to pleasure his lover again with firm strokes. Gently holding his other hand before Orsini’s lips, Ambrose asked, his voice low and catching with desire, “Will you prepare me?”

  “You have a most delightful bloom to your cheeks,” Orsini told him sweetly. Then he lifted his head just a little and drew his tongue over Ambrose’s palm, holding his gaze all the time.

  Ambrose kissed Orsini a thank you, and, lying between Orsini’s legs, applied his hand to his erection. He touched the tip of his nose against Orsi
ni’s, gazing at those glittering, loving eyes as he gently brought their bodies together. They could not be any closer, and Ambrose had no wish to let Orsini go.

  “Amore mio,” his lover sighed, lifting his hips. His legs encircled Ambrose’s waist, holding him there as the two men began to move together. Orsini’s lips parted slightly and he let out a sigh of unrestrained pleasure, his hands clutching at Ambrose’s back.

  Ambrose kissed his way around Orsini’s face, pressing his mouth to his lover’s neck as Orsini arched back against the pillow in delight. The closeness of Orsini’s body, and the pleasure Ambrose felt, and which he was bringing to his lover, drove him on. To think that he had never imagined his love for Orsini was returned—but it was—twofold, threefold. Ambrose didn’t pause in his lovemaking, for he was intoxicated by adoration for his theatrical.

  Orsini’s mouth slipped over Ambrose’s jaw until his teeth were nibbling at his lover’s ear, his voice a whisper as he purred soft words of affection. His hands slid down to grip Ambrose’s bottom tight, encouraging him to thrust harder.

  Ambrose sighed. Still clutching Orsini’s erection, he stroked him as best he could as their bodies were pressed close, for he did not want to deny Orsini any pleasure that he could possibly bestow.

  “How do you want me, darling? Gentle, like this?” Ambrose delicately moved his hips, almost as if in a dance. “Or do you like to be taken by an energetic sort of fellow—like this?” He moved a hand to Orsini’s waist, holding him steady as Ambrose thrust with increasing vigor.

  Orsini’s reaction gave him his answer, as he gave a cry of delighted pleasure and arched his back from the mattress. His kisses were hungrier than ever and, in reply to Ambrose’s heated thrusts, he slipped his hand lower on his lover’s bottom, clutching tight until, in one smooth movement, he pressed one finger between Ambrose’s buttocks.

  At Orsini’s touch, Ambrose thrust inside him as far as he could, throwing back his head as he moaned with joy. The delicious sensation of Orsini’s touch had brought Ambrose to the verge of bliss again, and he struggled to keep his pleasure in reserve as he thrust harder still.

  Yet Orsini seemed intent on pushing him further along to his climax, adding a second finger as he moved his hand in time with Ambrose’s hips. His kisses were deep and fierce, his own hips rising from the bed with each thrust.

  Ambrose groaned deeply, trembling once more on the edge of bliss. Though his pleasure had increased, he went on stroking Orsini. This was without doubt the most perfect bedchamber encounter of his life. There was so much joyful debauching to be had with his darling lover.

  “Pen,” Orsini cooed, arching his back from the bed as, in one perfect thrust of his hips, his orgasm claimed him. He clutched one hand against Ambrose’s bottom, the fingers of the other still working at him.

  “Amadeo Orsin—” But Ambrose couldn’t frame the words as the sensuous movement of Orsini below him, around him, was too irresistible. His orgasm finally took him as his hips bucked firmly against Orsini one last time. He sagged down onto his lover, still holding him, their bodies slick with perspiration as they exchanged slow, sloppy kisses.

  “I shall be the finest bride you could wish for,” Orsini whispered. “I will love you until the end of days.”

  “And I the most true, most faithful, most adoring of husbands.” Ambrose combed his fingers through Orsini’s hair and gazed at him, utterly dazzled by his lover. Orsini blinked up at him, his eyes dreamy and joyous. Then he lifted his head a little and kissed Ambrose tenderly.

  The lovers kissed, adoring and soft with bliss, and Ambrose began to slide into sleep, his arms around his Orsini. The last he knew were his lover’s embrace and the gentle, harmonious sound of their mingled, dreaming sighs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  What a day it had been for Amadeo Orsini. Exhausting, frustrating and ultimately, when it came to his scheme to unmask Harriet Tarbottom as a thief, pointless. To make matters worse, he had barely glimpsed his lover since breakfast thanks to the necessary comings and goings of the day and their plan.

  The morning had begun in fine style in the arms of the captain, making love as the dawn bathed them in its gentle light. To leave that embrace, those kisses, had not been easy, but leave them he must and long before the household awakened, Amadeo Orsini was supposedly bound for business. Clad in orange silk, he bade farewell to the maids and footmen, merrily dismissing their offers of horse or phaeton in favor of a bracing walk. No doubt they thought their Italian visitor quite mad, since his bracing walk would be long indeed were it to take him into town, but they were too well-versed in the ways of service to inquire further. Of course none inquired of the valise that swung from his arm either, concealed within it his stays, as well a sensible walking dress and spencer for Cosima while a reticule that had been a gift from a Russian duchess of some renown contained the actor’s makeup and a mirror. Thank heavens his bohemian creation preferred her hair loose, for at least there was no call to squash a bonnet in there too!

  Mere minutes after Orsini left the house he could be found only by the most observant, concealed in the shade of a thicket of trees. There he became La Cosima again, slipping into her gown and sensible boots and painting on her dainty face. Into the valise went the trappings of Amadeo Orsini and he concealed it beneath the trees, satisfied it would remain undiscovered until nightfall.

  Nobody questioned Cosima when she strolled back to Pendleton Hall, for it was her concern whether she woke early and strolled as the sun rose. Indeed, in doing so she had happily coincided with her brother on his own constitutional, or so she told the household who bustled about their duties as their employers slept on. Returning from her morning walk and a fond meeting with her brother, Cosima was full of the joys of summer at breakfast. No one could steal the smile from her face, least of all the captain when he joined the party around the table, and it was all Orsini could do not to gaze at Ambrose quite openly, filled with memories of the night they had spent together and those strong hands on his body. What kisses they had shared, and what strength they had given him for the day ahead.

  Orsini had glided on his happiness upstairs to examine the jewels of Harriet Tarbottom, leaving his companions with tales of a letter that must be written to his mother in Scotland. Poor Ambrose was to escort the ladies around the grounds as Orsini went about his subterfuge but of course, nothing could be as simple as all that.

  Harriet Tarbottom was a rather security conscious sort of girl, it seemed, for the walnut box of jewels was locked, its brass lock and bands holding firm against every hairpin and blade Orsini could find. Worse still, that failure was compounded by an afternoon spent sitting with the blasted Tarbottom women, listening to the droning catalogue of Harriet’s accomplishments, when they should have been listing the charges against her for robbery, he was sure. Yet at least Pen was there too, sitting quietly at the writing desk, scribbling away at his work. It was a privilege to watch, and none but Orsini knew what an artist was in their midst.

  And a thief too.

  Those pearls…

  He would see her accused though, and the pearls would be returned to the elderly lady who mourned them even now.

  Orsini was missed at dinner, of course, by none more than Mrs. Tarbottom, though she did her best to keep her interest subtle. In her eyes that lust burned again and Orsini was sure her husband must know—how could he not? Perhaps he blessed it, for it meant he was spared her attentions. One could hardly blame him for that.

  What a frightful family they were.

  Seducers and braggarts and thieves, one and all.

  And he had met such charming Americans. They were letting down their whole people.

  After her early start, bedtime for Cosima came a little earlier than it did for her friends and, her face washed clean and concealed beneath a heavy cloak, she stole from the house one last time. The moonlight was her lantern as she hurried back to the thicket where she became Orsini once more, wearing the very clothes in which
he had left the house that morning.

  How exhausting this would be as a life!

  One would never get anything done.

  It was with a sigh of relief that Orsini greeted the porter at the door, the valise swinging from his hand as he did. A long day of walking and business, he reminded himself as he heard the key turn in the lock to admit him, nothing more than that.

  “What a day of it!” Orsini told the porter with a suitably elaborate stifled yawn. “I spied a light in the drawing room. Is there still time to wish the family a fond goodnight?’

  “Indeed there is, sir. Shall I take your bag?” The porter reached one immaculate, white-gloved hand toward the valise.

  “A gift for my sister,” Orsini told him, seized with a sudden naughty plan. Let Cosima steal along to Ambrose’s room tonight. Or better yet, Orsini and Cosima as one, silk gent’s suit, bosoms and full female face! “Put it in my room, please. I shall unpack it tomorrow.”

  A quick goodnight then upstairs, makeup, stays and a couple of feathers then off to see Pen. He smiled to think of it. If only I’d thought of the idea before I washed the powder off!

  But Orsini must show his face, or questions would be asked.

  “Thank you, sir.” The porter bowed as though the most mundane of tasks was something to be grateful for. He went off into the house with the valise, leaving Orsini to go to the drawing room. His hand was on the door when he glanced down and saw, on his finger, Cosima’s most dazzling diamond ring, that had so attracted the attention of Harriet at dinner.

  Almost.

  Orsini slipped the ring into his pocket and stepped into the room, calling, “Ciao, all, ciao, Cos—”