The Captain and the Theatrical

by Catherine Curzon

  He tutted upon seeing that his sister was not present, but bowed to the rest of the party. “What a day I have had, I declare myself quite exhausted yet I could not be so rude as to fail to wish you goodnight!”

  “How charming of you, Mr. Orsini!” Mrs. Pendleton smiled. “I do hope you were able to complete all your business. Perhaps we shall see more of you tomorrow?”

  Ambrose had risen from his chair as Orsini had come in. “I must retire myself. Goodnight, all. And Mother, I’m sure we shall see Orsini tomorrow if he has attended to all his affairs today.”

  Mrs. Tarbottom yawned delicately. “I must retire myself.”

  “I might tell all of you one very important thing.” Orsini laughed, draping his hand theatrically over his brow. “Never attempt to walk to town. It is a long, long, long way.”

  At the third long he looked toward Ambrose, sure that his lover would appreciate the rather saucy double meaning he intended. It seemed to work, as Ambrose fiddled with his neckcloth as if it was suddenly too tight.

  “Walk from here?” Mr. Pendleton laughed and shook his head. “Good heavens, sir, I’m surprised to see you back before tomorrow! Was the mail coach glad of your custom?”

  “Delighted.” Orsini laughed. “Or I might not have found Pendleton Hall again! I confess I failed to reach town at all, but had a delightful day exploring your county instead, especially one or two rather well-stocked inns. I shall sleep soundly tonight!”

  “I’m sure you will, Mr. Orsini!” Mrs. Pendleton laughed.

  Mrs. Tarbottom ushered Harriet from her seat. The younger woman wrinkled up her nose in obvious disdain at being packed off to bed, but Mrs. Tarbottom appeared not to brook any refusal.

  “We shall see you all in the morning,” Mrs. Tarbottom announced to the room. She let Harriet go ahead of her into the corridor. Apparently unseen by everyone else, Mrs. Tarbottom ran her fingertip across the back of Orsini’s hand as she passed him in the doorway. He smiled in response, hoping it didn’t come out as a grimace.

  With a low bow to those still remaining, Orsini followed the party from the room. What delightful torture to say goodnight, but what fun awaited once he had donned his costume of Cosima and Amadeo combined. He would not think of the touch of the American’s cold fingertip, though it sent a shiver through him despite the warmth of the night.

  At the top of the stairs the group went their separate ways, with Pagolo singing Mrs. Pendleton a gentle song as they receded along the corridor. Orsini slipped into his own room and began to undress again, for what felt like the hundredth time that day. From the valise he took Cosima’s stays, which he fastened himself into. Then he sat at the dressing table once more. He took his time now because he could afford to, safe in the knowledge that there was no point in going anywhere until the household was sleeping. This was the greatest risk he had dared to take since he arrived here, but once the hallways were dark and the only sound that of slumber, it was a risk that he was willing to take. After all, were he to be disturbed the worst that would be suspected was the revelation that Cosima had taken to trysting while disguised as a boy, and he suspected that nobody would be at all surprised. Only when Cosima blinked back from the mirror did Orsini pick up his shirt, satisfied that the time had come to finish dressing.

  Someone knocked at Orsini’s door, and a swish of fabric suggested it was Ambrose in his banyan.

  With the tasseled belt?

  A loud whisper followed that told Orsini it was most certainly not Ambrose, but the insinuating voice of Mrs. Tarbottom.

  “Orsini…you dropped something while you were downstairs. A button. You dropped a button.”

  Oh God.

  The door handle was already turning and Orsini, his face painted as Cosima, his padded stays there for all to see, was caught in the middle of the room. He looked left and right then, in a scene he would reject from his own plays as too ridiculous to be believed, darted behind the heavy curtains that hung down to the floor. A cool breeze blew through the open window and Orsini shivered, peering through a sliver in the fabric at the candlelit room beyond.

  Don’t come in, he prayed, drawing the curtains firmly together. Please, madame, stay on the other side of that door.

  The heavy wooden door creaked as it slowly opened. Footsteps on the polished wooden floorboards made it clear that Mrs. Tarbottom had crossed the threshold. She closed the door behind her with a soft click, then pattered over the floor.

  “You naughty Italian gentleman—you’re here somewhere, I know it!” Her husky voice was rich with lust, a tone Orsini had of course never heard her use. It wasn’t a timbre that any married woman should use to address a man who was not her husband, but Mrs. Tarbottom’s boldness told Orsini that this wasn’t her first attempt at making a cuckold of the American industrialist.

  He heard her feet moving around the room then the sound of the pillows being arranged and, horror of horrors, rustling sheets. She was on or—heaven forbid—in his bed and he was trapped, half-Cosima, half-Orsini, behind the curtain.

  She won’t stay.

  Yet stay she did, and long minutes ticked by as each waited, one for an arrival, one for a departure, both in vain. There was nothing for it, Orsini decided from his helpless perch on the window seat. He would have to risk his neck again.

  Moving painfully slowly lest he disturb the curtain, Orsini tugged his shirt into the waistband of his breeches and scrambled out through the open window and onto the ivy. Then, as though the devil himself were at Orsini’s heels, he clambered down onto solid ground.

  Orsini stood and peered up at the house, breathing deeply. The night was warm but a cool breeze touched his skin, so he pulled his shirt on over the stays, glad at least that he hadn’t taken off any more of his suit before he was disturbed. Yet where could he go now, with the house locked up and his own room occupied by the enemy? Other windows on the first floor were open but he could hardly risk climbing into Theodore Tarbottom’s bedroom, let alone Mr. Pendleton’s. In fact, the only window he could risk was Ambrose’s, and open it might be, but the ivy had yet to climb far enough around Pendleton Hall to make it accessible from the ground.

  For a while Orsini made a circuit of the building, yet it was shut up tight against invasion. At the ornamental fountain in the garden he paused and considered washing away Cosima’s face but what was worse than Cosima in her brother’s clothes than her brother with bosoms? Instead he scooped up a handful of stones and returned to Ambrose’s window. Then, with the accompanying chirrups of the nightbirds as the only sound in the almost still night, Orsini began to throw pebbles up at the panes of his lover’s window, missing three times for every one that tapped against the glass.

  A gap appeared in the closed curtains and a sliver of Ambrose’s face appeared. He was blinking, dazed, as if he’d only just fallen asleep and was now awake. Then his gaze roamed down to the terrace below his window, and he began to smile. He opened the window and leaned out.

  “Ors—? Cos—Evening!” Ambrose leaned out a little farther. “What are you up to down there?”

  “Help!” Orsini whispered, laughing despite himself. He made a gesture that was intended to indicate a door being unlocked, but somehow it managed to look utterly obscene. Then he shrugged glanced around, seized by the spirit of mischief. “Fancy a wander?”

  Ambrose grinned. “Why not? I’ll be down in a moment!” He disappeared from the window and drew the curtains. Long minutes passed and a door somewhere along the terrace opened to reveal Ambrose wearing boots, breeches and his banyan. His toned chest showed between the folds of loose fabric.

  “It’s a warm night,” Ambrose told him by way of explanation. Orsini trotted over to his friend and slipped his arms around Ambrose’s waist. Instead of replying he simply greeted him with a kiss, any concerns melting away now they were together once more.

  “This day has not been a good one.” Orsini pouted. “But it has already improved.”

  “It most certainly has.” Ambro
se gave him a cautious kiss in return. “Come, let us walk—there is a delightful corner of these gardens where we might dip our toes and speak without eavesdroppers.”

  “Then lead on, Capitano, for a dip sounds perfect to me!”

  They headed down from the terrace onto the lawn, taking a walk that was shaded with thick hedges. Ambrose looked over his shoulder until, presumably satisfied that they would be unseen from the house, he held Orsini’s hand and they walked on with their fingers entwined.

  “It is not far, but it is secluded. A spot where I go when I need peace for reflection.” Ambrose spoke fondly of the place and once more Orsini was reminded of the unconscionable wrench his lover would face if he was forced to leave England forever. “Now pray tell me why the day has been a bad one.”

  “The jewel box was locked,” Orsini told him, hearing frustration in his own voice. “Understandable, one imagines, but I can only hope that it will not always be so. Then to spend all day with those dreadful women as you worked! Is it a new play, Pen? Your father so adored Cosima’s song last night, did he not?”

  “I wonder where Harriet keeps the key?” Ambrose pondered this a moment, then grimaced. “Somewhere I should not like to venture, I expect! But yes, I wrote much today—a play about an ambitious industrialist who overreaches himself and—oh, but I cannot give it away. Wait until it is finished and you shall be the first to read it, I promise! As for Cosima’s song, my father did indeed enjoy it. What he would say if he discovered that I had written it, I daren’t imagine.”

  “I hope that Lord Hartington accepts the invitation to the ball, for I know that his mother’s pearls are in that box,” Orsini told him. Then he opened his eyes wide and gasped, “You will never guess who is in my bed as we speak, Pen!”

  Ambrose stared at him, wide-eyed. “I think I can! Of all the—so this is how you happen to be outside, half-Cosima’d? To escape the unwanted attentions of Mrs. Tarbottom? Good lord.”

  “I had an idea that I would creep along to see you, tato, as Cosima herself, clad saucily in the clothes of a boy. It is like something from one of your plays, after all!” He grinned, then winced. “But Signora Tarbottom stole into my room and I had no choice but to flee the field before she discovered me!”

  “Or did anything else!” Disgust rang in Ambrose’s voice. “I wonder what my father would say if I were to tell him? Though I doubt he would believe me—he would think it a mere lie to discredit the Tarbottoms and end this dreadful engagement. But…look before you, Orsini. Under starlight, do you see how beautiful this corner is?”

  Sheltered from the gaze of the innumerable darkened windows by a bower of pale pink roses that joined a hedge that had been trimmed to resemble a peacock to another that looked like a vast acorn, Orsini smiled. He felt as though they were the only men on earth who were awake at this moment, the soft breeze singing through the trees on the horizon just as he had sung Cosima’s song, a voice of longing and love.

  In America Ambrose would have a home grander than even this, grander than any Prince Regent even, and a wife who was beautiful and accomplished and everything society thought a young lady should be, and he would be the most unhappy man alive. Sitting in his office, moving men and money around, counting his gold, raising a glass to his own accomplishments in clubs full of Theodore Tarbottoms and Barnaby Pendletons, wasting sadly away amid the splendor.

  Ambrose wasn’t made for a life like that, and Orsini would not let it claim him.

  Orsini clutched at his arm as though he was a blushing young lady, then whispered, “To Gretna, Captain?”

  “In a heartbeat!” Ambrose whispered in reply. He brought Orsini into his arms. “Might I kiss you again, my darling Orsini?”

  “Of course you should.” Orsini wrapped his arms around Ambrose’s waist, his full lips already brushing against Ambrose’s, the scent of powder and perfume filling the air around them. “As often and as keenly as you wish.”

  “Then I shall—whatever my darling wishes.” Ambrose tightened his embrace and sighed as his lips met Orsini’s in a delicate kiss.

  But it didn’t remain delicate for long. Orsini was utterly intoxicated by his lover, by the man he had longed for all those years. And he had thought it hopeless. Now, he knew, it was not. He felt affection in every touch, not lust, even though their kiss deepened and became ever more passionate. Ambrose was positively bewitching, as much now as he was years ago when they toured the continent as carefree youths. He slid his hands over Ambrose’s back, tracing the contours until one palm came to rest very firmly on his buttock.

  And squeezed.

  Taken by surprise, Ambrose groaned into their kiss. Orsini slipped his hand between their bodies and stroked it over his lover’s breeches, seeking out the erection that strained at the fabric. He began to softly caress it, all the time kissing him with that same heated intensity.

  And where might this lead?

  Hopefully to two men, splashing naked in the lake, just as they once had swum together naked in the sea.

  Gasping with pleasure, Ambrose brought his hand between them and stroked his way to Orsini’s erection and began to unbutton him.

  Ambrose broke from the kiss to whisper, close to Orsini’s ear, “May I? Can I touch you without the hindrance of clothes, my love?”

  “Oh yes,” came the answering whisper, full of longing and heat. “Please, Pen.”

  Ambrose grinned as he nimbly unfastened Orsini’s buttons and brought down the flap on his breeches. It was a work of moments to slip inside, and both men sighed as Ambrose’s strong hand closed around Orsini’s erection. Ambrose paused to enjoy the firmness and heft of it before he began to stroke with determined movements.

  There was the slightest change in Orsini’s manner, a lessening of tension in his muscles, a softening of his kisses into something deeper than before. He seemed to sink into Ambrose’s arms, his own hand still stroking over his breeches, his breath mingling with the softest sounds of pleasure.

  “I’ve wanted you for so long, Pen, dreamed of you all these years.” Orsini abandoned words and returned to kisses. He felt Ambrose move into his touch, and Orsini matched his rhythm to his lover’s, wanting more than anything to bring pleasure to this man, yet Ambrose’s hand on him stole his breath as well as his heart and he felt Ambrose’s fingers move over his back until they clutched his long hair. The night was theirs alone, full of secrets and sighs.

  Orsini’s soft gasps were more frequent in reply, the fingers that clutched at his hair growing tighter as his release approached. His hips moved with a little more force, pushing into Ambrose’s hand until, with a stifled cry of pleasure, Orsini finally reached his climax.

  “A year from now we will come back here,” Orsini told Ambrose, bringing his hand up to caress his lover’s face, “as husband and— Husband and Cosima, wife and husband in one. I love you, mio capitano.”

  “And I love you, dear Orsini.” Ambrose guided them to a bench in the hollow of the roses and they sat down together.

  “Will you allow your Orsini to take your mind from your worries?” Orsini whispered softly, his hand stroking Ambrose still, already reaching down to unfasten Ambrose’s breeches. He slid one hand inside, gently caressing the erection that he found there and purred, “As only Orsini can?”

  A soft groan escaped Ambrose’s lips as Orsini touched him. He leaned back against the bench and half-closed his eyes.

  “My darling Orsini, how I’ve longed for this moment.”

  One more kiss found Ambrose’s lips, then Orsini slipped from the bench to kneel on the grass at his lover’s feet. He gazed up at Ambrose even as he dipped his head to stroke the tip of his tongue along the shaft of his erection.

  Ambrose sank his fingers into Orsini’s hair, gasping in response to Orsini’s tongue.

  Those full lips that Ambrose had kissed so fervently now formed into a perfect, sensuous O. Orsini slowly took Ambrose’s erection into his mouth, teasing the very tip with soft, delicate strokes from
his tongue. All the time he was gazing up at Ambrose with eyes that were lit with love, his hands settling softly against his thighs.

  There was only here, only now, only the bench and the garden and Orsini and Ambrose. Orsini could feel Ambrose battling to keep his hips on the bench, to stop them rising up to Orsini’s questing mouth with most ungentlemanly haste.

  “I love you, Orsini!” Ambrose moaned. In reply, Orsini lowered his head farther, taking Ambrose fully into his mouth even as his hands tightened, holding Ambrose’s legs against the bench. Now he moved with more purpose, his tongue sweeping and tasting, the tightness of his lips as he rose and fell, driving his lover on.

  A gentleman wasn’t supposed to creep about gardens in the dark, he wasn’t supposed to cavort with theatricals. He was supposed to be a good son and do as his parents wished and find a bride who would please him or risk them finding him one who did not.

  But Orsini knew that Captain Ambrose Pendleton no longer cared. He had spent years doing what he was supposed to do, and it had not brought him happiness. The joy they had found together was all that they wanted. On and on it went, Orsini’s hands keeping him down, his mouth drawing him on to the pinnacle of pleasure and all the time those eyes, that loving gaze, was fixed on him. Orsini heard soft murmurs of pleasure in Ambrose’s throat, mingling with the sounds of the night.

  Despite Orsini’s efforts to hold him down, Ambrose’s hips bucked up off the bench and his bliss claimed him.

  All was quiet until Ambrose murmured, “Thank you, darling Orsini—thank you!” He sagged back against the bench, a soft smile on his lips.

  Orsini, ever the theatrical, dabbed demurely at his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief then sprang nimbly to his feet and dropped down onto the bench. He rested his head on Ambrose’s shoulder and gave a happy sigh.

  “I’ll definitely have to marry you now!” Ambrose joked.

  “You will!” Orsini agreed. “And I shall be a most fetching bride.”

  The warm night was still and very quiet as Ambrose led Orsini to the edge of the lake. There, they threw aside their clothes and swam together in the cool water, as happy and as free as Orsini remembered they had been in their days under the hot Italian sun. Until, from the stableyard, came the shimmering chime of the clock striking one.