Ghosts of Winter

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “I’m particular to English vulgarity myself,” Lord Percy said, patting his wife’s hand comfortingly.

  “There’s nothing a French woman can do that I am incapable of,” Georgiana replied indignantly.

  “As I’m sure Percy can testify,” Lord William said.

  “Perhaps we should ask Percy and George to compare the merits of each nation’s women for us?” Henry Branton said, with a smirk that suggested he would really enjoy such a description.

  “And maybe this house party is a respectable gathering.” Lord William’s protest produced contemptuous peals of laughter from all of his guests. Henry Branton played his card, Lord William followed suit, and the game continued. He pondered that laughter though. For all the sins of the company he kept, he felt himself to be, at his core, a respectable man. His father had been a fair and efficient landowner; he had himself studied at Cambridge to be sure his intellect did not stagnate as a result of his wealth; he neither drank nor gambled to excess; and he even listened to the sermon from the family pew in the local church most Sundays.

  Lord William took a sip of his claret and leaned back in his chair to survey his gathered friends. A former actress and woman of easy virtue leaned lovingly on the shoulder of a lord wealthier than himself who had spited his family and married for true love. A knight who spent most of his time enclosed in his library and planning fine buildings sipped his claret with true appreciation. A country gentleman studied the cards intently, and his rather silly, yet accomplished, younger sister smiled as she played the harpsichord. A self-obsessed French aristocrat glanced around at the company as keenly as he did himself. And an English Marquess reclined in his chair, watching the game with a relaxed countenance. Lord William’s eyes lingered on the Marquess. He loved Georgiana, it was true, but suddenly everyone in the room except the Marquess appeared frivolous and pointless. None of them were as solid, as deeply thoughtful, as substantial as the Marquess.

  George, Marquess of Danbridge and his wife, Claudette, were also the only members of his party who were both welcome in respectable society and actively sought out such approval. Both attended King George II at court when they were in London, and the Marchioness’s French style was envied and copied by many of the nobility’s most proper ladies. That he claimed them among his own close friends was a privilege he did not quite understand. They took a risk in being associated with Lord William, not because of Lord William himself, but because Lord William maintained friendships with people such as Lady Georgiana—who were generally bitterly condemned by polite society—and preferred the company of men such as Sir Robert, who were shunned for their eccentricity. The Marquess was different, he straddled both worlds without duplicity, and Lord William was endlessly fascinated by him. It had changed everything when he’d discovered, during their last meeting, that the Marquess returned similar feelings. Since that time, Lord William had been able to think of very little else.

  Lord William found it no great revelation that he should be attracted so compulsively to one of his own sex. His time at Cambridge had educated him in more ways than one. The surprise was that a man such as the Marquess would share any of those feelings, and that they should be inspired by him. Certain comments had passed between them, and more meaningful glances, until there was no doubt of their shared sentiments. The uncertainty came in whether either of them would yet act on their feelings. The Marquess was a married, respected man, but somehow the look in his eye suggested he was also a man of action, who would not leave his desires unfulfilled. Lord William found that glimmer in the Marquess’s expression desperately exciting.

  The card game was eventually won by Sir Robert, who was very pleased with himself. Lord William ordered a footman to go to the kitchens and bring them further refreshments, since there was no indication of any of his guests being ready to retire to their chambers just yet. Eleanor Branton had ceased playing the harpsichord and suddenly found herself the uncomfortable centre of attention, as Lady Georgiana quizzed her about her future marriage plans, of which, aged just sixteen, she had only the vaguest, most optimistic of ideas. The Marchioness appeared a little distracted from the conversation, as did Henry Branton, who was gazing at the Marchioness with an inscrutable expression, apparently unnoticed by its object.

  The Marquess rose to his feet and brushed the skirts of his coat smooth, announcing his intention to take a brief turn outside, for the sake of the fresh air. Lord William immediately rose to his feet and declared that there was an aspect of the columns on the façade of Winter that he especially wanted the Marquess to examine, and followed him from the room.

  The two men were silent as they crossed the hallway to the front door, their heeled shoes loud on the tiled floor, and went out onto the front steps. There, the Marquess paused and turned to Lord William, as though there was something to say he did not quite have the words for. Lord William heard his heart in his ears and began to fiddle nervously with the lace trim of his cuffs. He waited for the Marquess to speak, knowing he could not break the silence himself.

  “What is it you wanted me to see, William?” the Marquess enquired, with a slight raising of his eyebrows. Lord William felt his eyes drawn back to that soft mouth, such a contrast with the otherwise brusque character of the Marquess’s face. There was the slightest hint of the regrowth of his dark beard along the firm jawline.

  “You can admire the Greek pillars if they draw your interest, George,” Lord William replied, tension coming into his voice.

  “They don’t really draw my interest at all, William,” the Marquess returned, his dark eyes now fixed on Lord William’s face.

  “No?” Lord William said weakly.

  “Not particularly.”

  “What does draw your interest, George?” As the question passed his lips he wondered if it was too bold.

  “I think you know what draws my interest, William.” The Marquess’s expression intensified and he closed the space between them. Lord William took a step back and found his back pressed against one of the stone columns. The Marquess moved closer still, until the skirts of their coats touched and Lord William could smell the wine on his breath. He felt a familiar tightening in his crotch. The Marquess placed one hand either side of Lord William’s shoulders and leaned still closer until Lord William could feel his heat along the length of his body, and his face blurred with proximity, all except those deep brown eyes. The pressure in his breeches grew.

  “And…what is that, George?” Lord William asked, trying to maintain his end of the conversation with something like composure.

  “You know they could hang you for the thoughts you’re having, William?” the Marquess said in a breathy whisper that caressed Lord William’s lips.

  “Just for the thoughts?”

  “Maybe not just the thoughts.” The Marquess pressed his mouth to Lord William’s, in a kiss that was at first exploratory and tender. The force of the kiss increased then, and the sensation which had swept through Lord William’s entire corporeal form suddenly became increasingly focused in his crotch, growing from pleasurable warmth to searing heat. Caught by the intensity of the passion the Marquess’s kiss inspired, he wrapped one arm around the Marquess’s muscular body and pulled him tight against his own chest, whilst his other hand slid lower, to discover that the Marquess was just as aroused as he was. That first contact with the hardness in the Marquess’s breeches was almost his undoing, and he groaned with the effort of resisting the urge to release.

  The sound seemed to jolt the Marquess, as though he had been in a daze. Suddenly he stepped back from Lord William, breathing hard and wide eyed. Lord William found himself still leaning against the stone pillar, his legs not strong enough to support him on their own. He looked at the Marquess and tried to understand what was happening.

  “George?” he said, frightened by the ragged tone of his own voice.

  “William.” The Marquess paused and seemed to consider his next words. “I cannot do this.”

  “Bu
t why, George?” Lord William demanded, feeling almost desperate.

  “I want you too much, William. You’ll never be some meaningless and fleeting liaison, easily forgettable. We’ll have to see each other in the world.”

  “You’re worried for your reputation?” Lord William was surprised. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. Don’t you trust me, George?”

  “I do trust you, William. But can we do this? You realise I’m a married man.”

  “Claudette need not know.”

  “If she did it could break her heart.”

  “She has a heart?”

  “Now, William, don’t be cruel.” The Marquess’s face twitched with the flicker of a smile.

  “But George, really.” Lord William walked towards him and reached to run his fingers over the planes of his face. Now that he knew how that mouth tasted, how those lips felt against his own, he needed more. “Can you deny this?”

  The Marquess leaned towards him, and Lord William felt the excitement growing once more. But he pulled back again. “I want to, William, I can’t tell you how greatly. But could you stand it if, in a year or so, we are in the same society, and I have to play the doting husband and pay you little regard? It is not merely Claudette’s heart that I worry for.”

  “That is your concern, George?” Lord William considered for a moment. He could not deny the difficulty the Marquess put between them. Though fashionable society was full of rumours of such relations between men, it was an open secret, never spoken of and most certainly never acknowledged by the men involved. To show any symptom of such a relationship, or even the desire for such a relationship, could mean social exile and the very real spectre of the death penalty. Moreover, Lord William certainly had no wish to injure the Marchioness, or her reputation. Yet the temptation was so strong. It was difficult to convince himself something that felt so correct, so straightforward, was in reality so much more complicated. He assessed his own fortitude, his ability to be in society with the Marquess and give no hint of what had passed between them. He was strong enough. “Do not concern yourself with my heart, George.”

  “Is that not what one does with the heart of the one they love?”

  Lord William caught his breath. “You love me, George?”

  “Since the first moment we met, William,” the Marquess replied, his voice wavering.

  Drawn inextricably by the emotion in the words, Lord William bent towards the Marquess once more. Their lips met and their tongues slid together. Then the Marquess eased away from the kiss. “Which is why I can’t do this, William,” he whispered thickly and then walked away, up the steps and into the house. If he had gone in the direction of the gardens, Lord William could have followed him, pleaded with him to change his mind. But the house, with their friends and the servants, was the one place he was helpless. So he remained where he was.

  The night was cooler now, and a strong breeze was blowing. Lord William’s fine clothes felt suddenly as though they were suffocating him, and he was gripped by an absurd urge to rip all of them from his body and stand naked in the night air, to roll in the grass and feel its cool dampness against his skin, to run down to the river and let its cold currents wash the longing and wanting away from his body. He could still taste the Marquess on his lips, feel that hard flesh against his fingers. To know he aroused a man like the Marquess caused another wave of sweat to prickle all over his skin. To hear the Marquess’s pained declaration of his love, and yet to know the same love was the reason he was denied, was the most terrible torture for his heart, unused to such emotions as it was.

  He looked out across the dark parkland. An owl screeched somewhere in the thick trees, and the eerie sound made him shiver. There was no choice but to return to the bright candlelight of the drawing room and the company of his friends, to ignore the Marquess, and to smother his own heart. It would be good rehearsal for the rest of his life.

  Lord William turned and glanced at the impassive statues on either side of the steps. They reminded him of his own predicament, loving, looking, longing, and yet unable to move any closer because of the stuff they were made of. Only he knew his craving for the slightest touch of the Marquess was far greater than anything these classical, stony lovers could ever be capable of representing with their unmoving features. He sighed and took the remaining steps to the front door quickly.

  In the entrance hall, Lord William closed the door quietly behind him. He glanced around and was relieved to see no skulking footman had observed him. He began to walk towards the Drawing Room, his footsteps ringing loudly on the floor.

  “William.” The voice came from the shadows below the grand staircase, close to the entrance to the Saloon. The distinct resonance of the Marquess’s voice was instantly recognisable. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lord William went towards it. He saw the tall shadow lingering near the open Saloon doorway. He had the notion if he were to hold up a light, the shadow would vanish in a moment. Seize the moment now or forever regret it.

  “George?” he said, as he approached, scarce able to believe what was happening. The lack of illumination in this part of the house was disconcerting, and Lord William felt almost afraid, filled with anticipation of what would happen next. Suddenly the shadow moved in front of him, and he was taken by the arm and dragged into the Saloon. The candles had not been lit in that room, for Lord William had had no intention of using it tonight. A bluish light filtered through the Venetian window, but the darkness was thick and enveloping. The Marquess pushed him back against the door as he closed it behind them, and kissed him with a passion that made their first kiss on the steps entirely innocent in comparison. The Marquess’s strong fingers cradled Lord William’s face, pulled him deeper into the devouring kiss. The whole of Lord William’s body seemed to combust in one moment as he gripped the Marquess and pulled him closer so their bodies were touching.

  “What about…everything you said?” Lord William managed to ask between gasping breaths, as the Marquess left his mouth to bend his kisses to his throat, his hands working quickly to loosen the high white stock Lord William wore about his neck.

  “Nonsense, all of it,” the Marquess returned breathlessly. “This is too much to resist and pointless to deny, William. Society will never know more than whispers, and God knows there are those already. My dear wife is, I suspect, a faithless French whore, though I’ve not caught her at it.” He kissed Lord William again and trailed his tongue over his jaw and down his now-exposed throat. Lord William shuddered with arousal. “And even if there is only tonight for us, William, I have to know what it is to be with you.” His hands were working on the buttons of Lord William’s waistcoat now. He exposed the thin cotton of Lord William’s shirt and placed his hands over it. When Lord William felt the warmth of the Marquess’s hands through the thin fabric, it was almost too much.

  Lord William fought his way beneath the Marquess’s layers of clothing, knowing he had to feel the warm skin and smooth muscle against his hands, more than he needed air to fill his lungs. When he reached his target he leaned back against the wall, running his hands over the Marquess’s back with its very fine covering of hair, and the Marquess brought his mouth back to Lord William’s, his kiss this time infused with love and fed by the more frenzied passion pulsing between them, driving their bodies closer. Lord William felt they were fusing together, becoming one flesh, and knew there could be no better fate in this world.

  The Marquess’s hands worked at the button fastening of his breeches. Lord William could get no harder, but he felt his heartbeat focus in his groin. When the Marquess’s hand slipped into the opening he had created, William held his breath as the warm, dry fingers took hold of him. His whole body tensed, and he gripped the Marquess’s body hard. The Marquess’s hand moved gently, gripping tighter, as he brought his mouth to Lord William’s ear.

  “Don’t hold yourself back, William, my love, I want to feel you give yourself for me.”

  “All for you.” Lord William could restr
ain himself no more. The Marquess smothered his cry of release with more kisses as Lord William slammed his arms back against the wall, pressing his body forward into the Marquess’s muscular form. He knocked a candlestick from the nearby sideboard as he did so, but did not notice the sound as it fell. His ears were ringing and he was blind, but the Marquess’s mouth was still on his, those warm fingers still holding him. Whatever happened after this moment, he knew this was the pinnacle of his existence and the only time he would feel truly alive, ever in his life.

  *

  In the Drawing Room, Eleanor Branton heard a dull thud from somewhere beyond the walls of the Music Room. She listened carefully but heard nothing further.

  “Did any of you attend to that peculiar sound?” she asked of the company at large.

  Lady Georgiana, who was seated close to her husband on the settee, conversing with him with her forehead almost resting on his, looked up. “What was that, Miss Branton?”

  “Why, Lady Stanwell, I was certain I heard a sound from the rooms beyond this one,” Eleanor replied, flushing to feel several pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

  “I am quite sure it is merely a servant about some task or other,” Lady Georgiana replied dismissively.

  “Yes. Or Lord Winter, perhaps. He and the Marquess have been absent a long while.”

  “Haven’t they just?” Lord Percy agreed. “Perhaps I should go and investigate what has become of them.”

  “I think not, Percy dearest,” Lady Georgiana replied, placing a gentle restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “I think it is unlikely that William is lost in his own house.”

  Lord Percy caught his wife’s warning look and comprehension dawned on him slowly. “Oh yes, you’re right of course, darling Georgiana.” He smiled slightly to himself. Eleanor Branton caught that vague smile and wondered what it meant. She would be pleased when Lord William returned to the room, for he was by far the handsomest man in the party, and the sole reason she had begged to accompany her brother to Winter Manor tonight. She entertained a hopeful notion, if she could put herself enough in company with Lord William, he would pay her sufficient attention to realise what a suitable wife she could make him. Her mother had urged her to do everything within her womanly power to coax him into an interest in her, and she had to confess to herself there was something about Lord William she found rather compelling. When he looked at her it was all she could do not to blush.