by Lee Rowan
Brendan reached over and slipped his hand into Carlisle’s. “Alone?” he asked.
Carlisle’s breath caught in his throat. Two violent impulses seized him: one, to draw his hand away immediately; the other, to pull Brendan close and kiss those half-parted lips once more. The conflict left him motionless, but he did not release the hand that held his.
“I—I am sorry,” Brendan said, flushing. “Please forgive me, that was an infamous request.”
“No…” Carlisle still felt frozen in the grip of his emotions.
“You—” Brendan swallowed. “I thought I was being so discreet, and I’m sure you guessed from the start. Everything you have said to warn me against Tony, you should say to yourself, about me. I am surely no better.”
“I think you are.” Carlisle smiled. “Even if you and Tony were both mad for women, you have character that he lacks. As for the other matter…do not distress yourself. I am no better, either.” Gazing into the soft dark eyes, he could only think how different Brendan was from Lillian—and how strangely similar. “I simply never had your opportunities… or your courage.” He leaned forward a little, and Brendan reciprocated, and their lips met.
Brendan pulled back abruptly. “No. No, sir, I must not, you have been too kind—”
It might have been the brandy, the high emotional fervor of the evening, or the loneliness that had been Carlisle’s constant companion for the past decade. Perhaps it was all three. “If you don’t wish this, then go. But I’m eighteen years your senior, and you need not fear for me.”
Brendan pulled him close as a drowning man might, and his kiss was Paradise. They clung to one another, embracing so fervently that the chairs they sat upon began to creak.
“Not here.” Carlisle managed to resist the intense attraction. “We must go upstairs. If you wish—”
Brendan stared at him as though mesmerized, his pupils huge and dark. “Yes. Please. But the servants—?”
“They never come up unless I ring. Are you sure?”
“Since the moment I first saw you.”
Somehow they managed to remove to Brendan’s bedroom, which was the nearest, without waking any servants. A small part of Carlisle’s mind was warning that this was a terrible mistake and he must stop immediately, but he could not heed it. For the first time in ten years he felt alive again, consumed with affection and desire for this beautiful young man.
He locked the door after they entered; locked, and slid the bolt home for safety’s sake. “I’ll not ask again if you are certain, but if you should change your mind—”
Brendan spun and threw himself against Carlisle, wrapping both arms around him. “Please,” he said hoarsely, “please stop asking me to run away. Send me off if you will, but I should rather be dead than endure your indecision.”
He took Carlisle’s face between his hands, and kissed him. The faint tang of spirits from the brandy, the taste of passion, the smoothness of that hungry mouth devouring his own… Carlisle surrendered his wish to stay in control; he let the slim young body mold against his, accepting this unfamiliar role as object of desire. Need surged through him as Brendan’s hands slid down and squeezed his arse, and his hips thrust forward involuntarily. His own hunger was fanned by the desperation in the younger man’s touch.
“How—?” he mumbled against Brendan’s lips. “I don’t know… I haven’t…”
Brendan laughed, a brief puff of breath. “It must be the only thing you don’t know … Come, I’ll show you.”
They undressed each other by the light of a single candle. Carlisle wondered if his body would be a disappointment, then forgot his concern as he gazed upon the perfect form of this boy who would be his lover. Not a boy, though; the strong shoulders were equal to his own, the chest dusted with a sprinkling of dark hair, the slender hips, strong thighs… he looked away from the dark patch of hair above the thighs, but his eyes were drawn back to the strong young cock standing upright.
Why now, after all these years, should he think back to that night before a battle, and the surge of mingled pride and desire he’d felt then? Was it just that Brendan Townsend bore some chance resemblance to a man he’d loved, without ever realizing it until he’d lost him?
Then he looked up, and saw that Brendan was looking just as avidly at him. “You’re perfect,” Brendan breathed. “My god, I can’t believe this,”
Carlisle felt himself flushing. “Too much brandy,” he said.
“Too much time spent wanting you.” Brendan held out a hand, a dark Adonis in the candlelight. “Please?”
He stepped forward, pulled down the brocade bedspread, and climbed between the sheets. “Come, then.”
Brendan pursed his lips and blew out the candle, then slid in beside him. Carlisle gasped as their naked bodies met. “My god—!”
“No, only a fool.”
They kissed again, and Carlisle was surprised once more as Brendan shifted around to lie full-length atop him. His body felt aflame, every tiny movement setting off flares along every nerve. Their cocks ground together and he groaned with pleasure.
“You’ve never been with a man?” Brendan whispered, undulating against him
“No, never.” And Carlisle realized he was glad of it. For this to be the first time… it was right.
“Will you think me a whore if I show you things?”
“Never,” he repeated, touched that Brendan would care. He could sense the face hovering just above his own, feel Brendan’s tension. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I feel like one,” he whispered, with a catch in his voice. “I wish you were my first.”
Carlisle reached up and caught his face, pulled him down for a kiss. “My dear boy,” he mumbled against Brendan’s lips, “it’s better that one of us knows what he’s doing. Perhaps… perhaps I’ll be your last.” He knew it had been the right thing to say as Brendan collapsed upon him with another of those endearing, whole-body embraces. It had been a stupid thing to say, Carlisle knew; he was eighteen years older, and likely to die first. That was only natural, and of course he would not want this sweet passionate creature to be alone for the rest of his life.
What was he thinking? There was no way they could be together like—God in heaven!
Brendan had slid down just a bit and caught one nipple in his mouth, grinding his belly against Carlisle’s cock while his own slid between the older man’s legs. The sudden assault on Carlisle’s senses stopped all thought, and when that hot, teasing mouth slid down to his over-excited organ, Carlisle could not bear it. Too soon, too soon… his fingers tangled in Brendan’s hair, meaning to pull him away, but his lover’s fingers kneading his arse shredded his last remnant of self-control. He pulled him closer instead, thrusting up until he could stand it no more, and climaxed like the Royal fire-works bursting in the dark.
He came back to himself slowly, his chest heaving as though he’d run a mile. “Oh… why did … Dear boy, how could you… what shall I—”
“Shh.” Brendan rolled to one side, nestling in Carlisle’s shoulder. “You needn’t do anything.” Carlisle felt a bit of fabric wipe against his thigh. “There, mustn’t give the servants gossip-fodder.” He relaxed again, burrowing his face against the side of Carlisle’s neck. “Thank you, so wonderful…” Brendan mumbled, and in a moment he began to snore.
CHAPTER 14
Carlisle’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. It was late, he knew—the dead-still hours between midnight and dawn. There was a warm body lying beside him, the gentle pulse of breath against his collarbone. He could hear Brendan breathing softly, and he felt cold all over as he realized what he had done. Dear God!
How—? Why did I—the brandy?
But he had not been that drunk. No, he might blame the brandy, but he could not believe that lie. He’d known what he was doing, and he’d done it anyway.
But he could not remain here in another man’s bed. The servants would be stirring soon. They should not come in, but if one chanced to
see him leaving, in the clothing he’d worn the night before—no. He must not be found here, under any circumstances.
He carefully disentangled himself, slipped out from under the covers. Beside him, Brendan murmured but did not waken. The chill of early spring seeped into Carlisle’s bones as he fumbled about in the dark, collecting his clothing.
Just as well he kept only a skeleton staff here in town.
Feeling like a burglar in his own home, he slipped silently from his guest’s bedchamber and back to his own. When the door was shut, and the key turned, he finally felt safe enough to light a candle.
The mirror showed him a haunted face, the face of a hypocrite. A scant handful of hours earlier, he had been excoriating the keeper of a den of sodomites.
Now he was one of them.
He turned away from the mirror, wondering what on earth he was going to do. If he had any sense of honor at all, he would get his service pistol and put a period to his existence. If he wanted to make a thorough job of it, he would shoot Brendan, and then himself.
The very thought was nearly a physical pain. No. He could not do that. It was not Brendan’s fault at all; he might have awakened the hunger, but he could never have done so if it had not lain sleeping within Major Philip Carlisle’s heroic and widely-respected breast. No, there would be no blaming the young man for his own nature. He was merely young, and affectionate, and wholly beautiful.
And so was what they had done together. If this was sodomy—it was no wonder that it was fought with such violent prejudice, for there was nothing in Carlisle’s experience that surpassed the wonder of it.
But he had loved Lillian, too—loved her deeply and honestly. And they had made love with that same sort of wondrous joy, and he had looked forward to that joy manifesting itself in their child.
Who had died, after his birth had taken his mother’s life.
How could Carlisle dare to displace Lillian’s sacred memory with this? What he felt now… how could it be the same?
But it was the same; the trust, the tenderness—there was no difference.
Lillian had told him to love again. Not only for the child’s sake, but for his own. And if he had been the one to die, would he not have told her to do the same? Would he have been so selfish as to demand that she never find joy again?
Was it possible that the sex of one’s lover could make so little difference? Could it truly be a matter not of bodies, but of souls?
Even if that was the case, though, Society would not understand, or appreciate… or forgive. It had not been so many years ago that a man of the India Regiment, and his lover as well, had been hanged on the merest circumstantial evidence, and the testimony of a man they had insisted was a liar. How could he, in any honor, expose someone he loved to that horrible risk?
If Carlisle himself could put aside his long-ago infatuation with Michael Lockwood, if he had been able to find and love and marry a good and beautiful woman, then surely Brendan would be able to do the same. It would be better for him. It would be so much safer. And Brendan did not carry a curse in his blood; he might sire children and have a normal, happy life.
But only if this ended. Here and now.
In four long strides, Carlisle was at his desk, seeking pen, ink, and paper. He would leave Brendan a courteous note, worded in a way that would make the meaning perfectly clear only to the two of them. He would leave before Brendan woke, and he would stay away until he knew the boy had returned to a sane, conventional way of life.
Brendan was only two-and-twenty, and he had spent nearly all his time with other young men. What did he know about his potential? It would only take one young woman, the right woman. There had to be at least one reasonably eligible girl who could set the boy on the right path… or at least provide him with reasonable companionship and a proper, conventional household.
James Townsend was a good man, a steadying influence. He would be far better suited to guide his younger brother and steer him into a way of living that would allow him to keep living.
Carlisle sat for a time and thought, and then dipped his pen into the inkwell.
Brendan stirred as the morning light and warmth made an impression on the south-facing bedroom. He drifted up to drowsy wakefulness, knowing he felt happy but not remembering why.
As consciousness returned, and with it the memory of the night before, he stretched luxuriously. Philip! Philip, golden and warm and slightly tipsy, intrepid in the face of danger but tentative as a maiden in bed, admitting his inexperience and letting Brendan take the lead, giving him the honor of being the first.
Brendan’s cup overflowed. He had not in his wildest flights of imagination ever expected last night’s events to happen. What an astonishing difference compared to his last encounter with Tony. How amazing to make love to someone that he could not only love but admire, someone he could look up to instead of worrying what sort of idiotic problem he would next be called upon to solve.
Philip.
Eyes still closed, he reached out, but touched only an empty pillow. Reality brought him back to earth. Of course Philip would have gone back to his own room; it would never do for them to be discovered in bed together. They dared not indulge in such luxury; every tryst would have to be as carefully planned as the raid on The Arbor. It would not be easy—but his life had never been easy, not since he realized he was a lover of men. Not easy, perhaps—but now, from time to time, joyful.
He closed his eyes, reliving each moment. He had imagined how it would feel to lie in Philip’s arms, how his lips would taste, how that thick mane of hair would feel sliding through his searching fingers.
The reality had surpassed all imagining.
It had been exciting to be the one taking charge, leading his lover through their mutual exploration. He had never done that before. His only experience had been Tony’s practiced—and, he now realized, rather mechanical—seduction.
What would happen when Philip felt confident enough to take the lead? Brendan had no doubt that he would. He could not imagine Philip staying passive for very long, for any reason.
His eyes opened suddenly, with a sudden burst of delight. There was something he could give to Philip, to him, and him alone, something Tony had never desired. Brendan felt a slight twinge of trepidation, for Philip was magnificently endowed. Still, Tony had always seemed to enjoy taking Brendan’s cock inside him, and though Brendan had never felt any interest in allowing his erstwhile friend to reciprocate—nor, in truth, had Tony ever shown any interest—he felt sure that Philip would be most careful. He expected to enjoy it.
Indeed, if Tony’s reaction were taken as an indicator, he expected to enjoy it very much.
Brendan dozed for a little while longer, reluctant to leave the sheets on which the scent of Philip’s body still lingered. He threw an arm across the other pillow, rubbing his face against it like a cat.
Best not to stay abed too long, he reminded himself. He was a guest here, and it was the duty of a courteous guest not to delay the servants’ work schedule. Giving the pillow one last affectionate squeeze, he tossed the covers aside and sprang out of bed.
He saw the folded notepaper propped against his shaving-case, and recognized Philip’s handwriting. Perhaps he had needed to leave early on some errand? The note was not sealed, so it would not be—he suppressed a grin—a billet-doux.
He read the words quickly, and could not breathe. He read them once more, unable to believe what they said, or even comprehend the meaning.
Mr. Townsend—
It distresses me to tell you that I have been called away unexpectedly, and do not know when I shall be likely to return. You are welcome to stay at this house for as long as you wish, at least until your family’s visitors have departed. I thank you for the pleasure of your company; do give my regards to your family and particularly your brother.
Please accept my apologies for this unintended breach of hospitality, and the informality of this note...
Carlisle
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And that was all.
He stood there for a long time, the paper in his hand and a block in his throat that felt like a shard of glass. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, but apart from that, nothing.
…the pleasure of your company… breach of hospitality…
When he was a child, his parents had hired a puppet show for the nursery. His birthday, Elspeth’s—he could not remember the occasion and it hardly mattered. One of the puppets had gotten its strings tangled somehow, and while the other moved and gesticulated, the stricken marionette simply stood in place, paralyzed.
That was how he felt. He could not move, could barely breathe, and the only emotion that registered was utter bewilderment. Somewhere, far away, was a great mass of pain, anger, and confusion, but he could not quite reach it and was genuinely afraid to try.
He stumbled back to the bed, still feeling like a broken toy, and crept under the covers. He lay there for awhile, numb, the note crumpled in his clenched fist while the scent of Philip’s body slowly faded from the pillow.
Eventually he noticed that the sun had moved, and the light on the bed was now playing across the floor. It was time to get up.
Time to go.
He looked at himself in the mirror over the dressing-table, and thought that he looked much as his maternal grandfather had when he was laid out in his coffin. That seemed right; everything within him felt dead, he had simply not had the sense to stop breathing and moving about.
Was this how true shock felt? Home on leave during the Peace of Amiens, his brother Andrew had once described a strange phenomenon called Shock of Ball—a thing that was said to happen when a cannonball passed so close to a sailor’s body that it sucked the very life from him. But such a shock was supposed to cause instant death. This… this numbness was unnatural.
His mind shied away from that word, but the numbness receded, a little, and he realized he had to get out of this house. Conversing with Philip’s butler would require more strength than he had to call upon. He had shaved just before the excursion to The Arbor, so his face would pass muster for a little while.
