by Bonnie Dee
“A little. But Gus won’t mind if supper is undercooked or burnt. He’ll clean his plate anyway.”
“Ah, Daisy,” Cyril sighed as Jody headed the wagon down the drive. “The boy swoons over her. Soon we’re going to have to address the issue of two healthy young people living under our roof.”
“We could send Daisy home. Have her come a few times a week to do the housework,” Jody pointed out. “It’s not that long of a walk.”
“I’d sooner have her raised by badgers than that family of hers! You know we can’t have her living there.”
“No. Of course not.” The angry hornet swarm of Daisy’s inbred relatives was no place for a sensitive young woman like artistic, imaginative Daisy. “I’ll see about making Gus a room of his own in the barn. That’ll at least put some distance between the youngsters.”
Cyril nodded. “That sounds better. I think he’ll like having some privacy now that he’s growing older.”
Jody gave Cyril’s thigh a light squeeze. “We’ll enjoy some privacy too, not having the boy’s bedroom so near ours. We can make a little noise again.”
Cyril smiled and reached over to rest his hand right on Jody’s crotch. “I do miss having only us in the house. Remember when we could fuck whenever and wherever we wanted to?”
It was still disconcerting to hear Cyril say “fuck” in that cultured voice, and it still set Jody’s lust galloping. They were utterly alone on the road, so he leaned to cradle Cyril’s face and kiss him. “Want to take a moment in the woods ahead? I’ll pull off the road, and we’ll make it quick.”
“Hm. I should say no. The sooner we get the plants delivered, the fresher they’ll be, but…” Cyril clutched Jody and gave him a bruising kiss. “Another few minutes won’t matter.”
In the cool shade of interlacing branches, Jody set the brake, and the two men reached for each other. Jody kissed Cyril deeply and loosened his fly. “I want you so badly,” he gasped between kisses. “I’d like to bend you over and pound you right here.” He quivered at the powerful thought of it.
“I want that too. Maybe on the way home, when we have more time and can take our leisure. Meanwhile…” Cyril opened Jody’s trousers to slide his hand inside.
They fondled and stroked each other’s cocks while plying each other’s mouths with deep kisses. And that, it turned out, was sufficient. All Jody really craved was Cyril’s touch upon his naked flesh. It took very little time or effort for his lover to draw gasps and then shouts from him.
The birds in the canopy of trees silenced their twittering at his raucous cries, and then one single singer trilled a fanfare of jubilee almost perfectly timed with the orgasm that rocketed through Jody.
He took but a moment to revel in the moment before focusing his attention on bringing Cyril to the same elated conclusion.
“How I love being alone with you like this. How I love you,” Jody murmured against his ear as Cyril melted into his embrace and rose into Jody’s busy hand.
“Oh, yes,” he groaned. “Love you too.” Cyril looked at Jody through sex-glazed eyes until climax seized him. “Oh. Yes!” he moaned again.
Jody held him, and for several moments, they remained leaning against each other and enjoying the silence. But the horse, Bess, began to whicker and move, anxious to be on her way. With a sigh, Jody released Cyril, and they both straightened their clothing until they became once more two gentleman farmers on their way to market.
“I love you.” Cyril’s gaze assured Jody this was absolutely true. “Surely, life can’t get any better than this.”
Jody smiled. “I doubt it can.”
The drive into New York City took most of the morning, even though the farm wasn’t too far north. Once the wagon reached city traffic, it was stop and go until Jody and Cyril reached their first destination.
“When are you going to bring me some of those orchids you’ve been promising?” the proprietor of the floral shop asked. “I have customers waiting for them.”
“Soon,” Cyril assured him. “They are nearly in bloom.”
By the time they had delivered boxes of marigolds to each of the ten stops on their list, the afternoon was waning and they’d eaten nothing more than a pretzel bought from a street vendor.
“What if we rented a room at The Happy Traveler and stayed the night? Enjoyed a meal out and went home in the morning?” Jody suggested as he and Cyril stood admiring the suits in a store window.
“I wish we could, but the young ones are expecting us. We certainly don’t want to leave them to their own devices all night,” Cyril reminded him.
Someone on the crowded sidewalk jostled Jody hard. He recognized that move, having done it himself countless times. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of the wrist of a little boy rummaging in his pocket.
Dark eyes set deep in a pale face stared defiantly at him. The ragged boy kicked, but Jody held him at arm’s length to avoid his boot, which was split at the seam so his bare foot showed through.
Since Jody always kept his wallet close, the boy hadn’t nicked anything. He could let the child go with a reprimand and a reminder of what happened to thieves. Instead, he held on. “What’s your name?”
“None o’ yer business.”
“You on your own?”
“None o’ yer business.”
“Hungry?” Cyril interrupted. “I have a bit of pretzel left.” He took folded waxed paper from his pocket and offered the salty dough to the child. “Go ahead.”
The kid snatched and gobbled the pretzel in the blink of an eye. His hair was the color of mud and his skin, paler than milk. Dark smudges beneath his eyes spoke of too little sleep and too much fear. His clothes were beyond tattered. They were mere rags draped on his skinny frame. Attached to a bit of rope cinched around his waist was a knotted handkerchief that likely held the boy’s worldly possessions.
“Do you have someplace to go home to?” Cyril asked.
“None o’ yer—”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it,” Jody interrupted. He already knew the answer to Cyril’s question. If there was a home at all, it likely wasn’t a place worth returning to. “I been where you’re at, lad. If you’re on your own, we can help you.”
“I ain’t goin’ to no orphanage. Already been there. They beat ya.”
“Not an orphanage. We own a farm. Maybe we could find some work for you to do.” Jody glanced at Cyril for confirmation. In truth, they had no need of any extra hands on the farm, but Jody knew exactly the sort of freezing nights and starving days that made up the malnourished little fellow’s existence. The urge to help and protect him was primal and powerful.
Cyril replied to Jody’s look with a nod, then crouched in front of the boy. “If you’ve no home to go to, the farm is a good place to live. There’s plenty of food. Will you trust me?”
Hell, yes. Jody thought. How could anyone doubt that sweet voice and those kind eyes?
The little boy licked mustard from the waxed paper, and his gaze shot back and forth between them. Jody let go of his arm, but he did not run.
“Wagon’s just down the street,” Jody informed him. “If you want to go with us, you may. It’s up to you.”
As Cyril rose and stretched out an inviting hand, the boy sidled away.
“Come on, Cyril,” Jody said. “Let’s go.”
Cyril backed his gamble, and together they turned to walk toward the wagon. A glance over his shoulder told Jody the boy was following. He remained at a safe distance as Jody untied the horse.
Jody climbed onto the seat and looked toward the boy, who appeared on the verge of flitting away. He would disappear forever into the hellish slums of the city. Larger, more frightening animals would eat him alive. Or worse, he would make it to adulthood by transforming into an even larger, more vicious beast. That fate had been Jody’s until Cyril arrived to claim him. But they could not force the child to join them. Some strays were already too feral.
Cyril had stopped beside the wagon and again extended hi
s hand. “Do you want to come with us? We will bring you back if you don’t like it there, I swear.”
The lad hesitated, looked all around him, and at last grasped Cyril’s hand. Cyril boosted him onto the wagon box and climbed up behind him. It took a moment for the three of them to settle on the narrow bench meant for two, with the newcomer wedged between Cyril and Jody.
At first, Jody felt the boy’s stick-thin body tense like a coil, one sharp elbow digging into Jody’s side. Any moment, he would change his mind, squirm away, and leap from the cart.
But he didn’t, and by the time Jody woke Bess from her daydreams with a slap of the reins and got her moving, the child had relaxed a bit. In fact, he seemed to slump against Cyril like a runner who’d reached a finish line, expending the last of his energy before collapsing.
“What’s your name, son?” Cyril asked as the wagon rumbled over brick-paved streets.
“None ’o yer—” The boy fell silent a second before answering, “Joey.”
Hearing a name so similar to his shocked Jody. He locked gazes with Cyril over the child’s head and lifted his eyebrows, asking without words, Is this all right? Do you mind?
Cyril smiled and shrugged as if to say, What’s one more stray? He fished in his pocket for a tin of hard sweets, which he offered to their foundling.
The little fellow swiped the entire tin and emptied its contents into his pocket before popping one piece into his mouth.
“Oy, don’t be greedy,” Jody chastised him gruffly. “Gotta learn some manners if you’re gonna stay with us.”
Cyril merely said, “Welcome, Joey. Settle in and make yourself comfortable. It’s a long ride home, but I think you’re going to like it there.”
Squashed between the two men, the child seemed to waver between suspicion and relief. For better or worse, he had taken a plunge. Jody recalled that feeling from the day Lassiter invited him to join the other boys in the safety of their thieves’ den. Then he thought of the far better and more rewarding decision to join his future with Cyril’s.
Home was wherever you made it, Jody supposed, but he and Cyril offered the sort that could bring true happiness to those who entered the orbit of their love.
A NOTE FROM BONNIE: If you want to stay informed about new releases, please SIGN UP FOR MY NEWSLETTER. You may check out my entire backlist at http://bonniedee.com. Find me on FB and Twitter @Bonnie_Dee. Read on for an excerpt from The Artist.
Titles by Bonnie Dee
Phin’s Christmas
The Artist
The Medium
The Fortune Hunter
The Masterpiece
The Tutor
The Copper
The Au Pair Affair
Jungle Heat
Peter and Wendell
Undeniable Magnetism
Cage Match
Ignite!
Caring for Riggs
Chilling with Max
Snow Angels with Bear
The Medium
Titles by Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon
Seducing Stephen
The Gentleman and the Rogue
The Nobleman and the Spy
Sin and the Preacher’s Son
The Psychic and the Sleuth
The Gentleman’s Keeper
The Gentleman’s Madness
Mending Him
The Bohemian and the Banker
Victorian Holiday Hearts series:
Simon and the Christmas Spirit
Will and the Valentine Saint
Mike and the Spring Awakening
Delaney and the Autumn Masque
Creating love from darkness is the greatest art…
Living a bohemian lifestyle in Paris is wonderful for Teddy Dandridge, but disastrous for his finances. His unconventional artistic creations find few buyers. After a year of failure, he returns to England to fulfill a portrait commission for a wealthy family, but he finds a different, source of inspiration secreted away in their sprawling house.
Isolated and rejected by his family, Phineas Abernathy haunts the west wing like a ghost. A physical deformity has locked him away from society for all his life. Filling his days with reading and drawing, he dreams of a life that seems unachievable…until irreverent, opinionated Teddy explodes into his quiet world
Intrigued by the kind and creative man beneath the ungainly exterior, Teddy gives Phin nightly drawing lessons. A private friendship is born as the men share life stories, future hopes and a growing attraction. Phin agrees to pose for a portrait in which Teddy tries to illustrate the depth and beauty he sees in him. He also guides the eager virgin in the ways of love between men.
When persecutors from Phin’s past arrive at the house, the slights and hurts he has suffered his entire life boil over. He must at last be brave enough to emerge from his cocoon and venture into an often cruel and judgmental world. And Teddy must risk Society’s censure to embrace his protégé’s love.
Excerpt:
Part of what kept me in France long after my illusions were dashed and my pockets frighteningly empty was my desire not to give my family the satisfaction of being proven right. I’d learned one could not simply survive on a dream, and even artists must sometimes accept less than desirable commissions. But I was not giving up on my own creative vision, merely taking a temporary side step.
I wished I’d brought my sketchbook to the wild garden so I could capture the ancient crab apple tree clinging to the last leaves of faded summer. It made a poignant statement about human nature, for didn’t we all clutch at life until our very last breath? A movement behind a nearby bush accompanied by a rattle of branches drew my attention from musing on life and death.
“Who’s there?” I called, heartbeats ramping up at the unexpected intrusion. I calmed myself with the thought it was probably a gardener. God knew the place could use some pruning.
The hider behind the bush went utterly still. I moved cautiously as if tracking a deer as I edged around the shrubbery. When I glimpsed a gray jacket through red leaves, I had a fairly good idea who was spying on me.
“Mr. Phineas Abernathy, I presume.” I misquoted explorer Henry Morton Stanley.
The figure behind the bush did not reply, but a burst of laughter escaped him. He understood my quote, so he was not weak brained as his sister suggested, but he was clearly shy. I would make it my mission to entice him out into the open.
“My name is Theodore Dandridge. I’ve been hired to paint your sister Rose’s portrait. I believe you already know that.” I paused, and when Abernathy didn’t respond, I added, “Won’t you show me around your garden, and we can have a chat?”
“Not… No!” The mutter was followed by the clearing of a throat and stronger negation. “I’d rather not. But I will talk with you from here.”
“All right. I noticed you watching me paint earlier. Are you interested in art?”
“Yes. Very much. I wish I could see your work.”
“I could bring my sample portfolio to your quarters later,” I offered. “Or, if you don’t wish to invite me up, I could send it along with your servant whom I met earlier. What’s his name?”
“Ledbetter. Perhaps I’ll send him to you later in the day.”
“Do you draw or paint?” I asked.
“Oh no. I scribble a bit, but nothing worth looking at.” He shifted farther behind the bush, withdrawing his shoulder so all I could see was a bit of sleeve.
“Nevertheless, I’d like to see your work as well,” I said. “I’m interested in every type of art, from the great masters to children’s drawings. Art is an expression of the soul. Nothing is unworthy of interest and admiration.”
“I’m not an artist.”
“Of course you are. Everyone who puts so much as a mark on paper or molds a snowman out of his mashed potatoes is an artist.”
My bit of whimsy prompted another laugh from the lurker. He eased into his former position, and now I could see a bit of his face3. Maybe, in time, I could cajole him all the wa
y out of the bushes.
“The desire to create is universal. Many people suppress the artistic side of their nature because they don’t believe it is ‘good enough’ for others to see—or hear, if they are musically inclined. Perhaps they’ve been told the arts are frivolous, a waste of time. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Without creative expression, be it music, literature, art, acting, or what have you, we are less than our full selves.” I only half paid attention to my words, though I truly believed them. My companion was visibly relaxing, taking a less rigid stance as he listened.
“Sharing even primitive talent is a beautiful thing,” I assured him.
“I could never be so bold,” Phineas replied. “I don’t want anyone to see my doodlings.”
“Begin by sharing your drawings with me. I will give you honest suggestions for improvement, but not a harsh critique. I can teach you some technique, although personal expression is about so much more than that.”
“I would like to know how to draw a face that looks like a face and not a lumpy squash.”
“Shall I give you lessons while I’m here? In the evenings, after I’m finished working on Miss Rose’s portrait.”
“Oh! I don’t know…” Again he withdrew into the scarlet leaves.
I held my breath and waited. I’d made the offer and could do no more.
“Yes. I would like that.” He spoke with sudden determination. “I would like it very much. Might you come to my rooms after supper tonight?”
“Absolutely. Now that’s decided, perhaps we ought to meet face-to-face.” I took a step toward him.
“No. I’m not ready,” he said breathlessly. “Tonight will be soon enough. When it’s a bit…darker.”
“As you wish,” I replied mildly. “Still, you can’t hide away in the shadows forever, my friend.”
“You might not say so after you’ve seen me, Mr. Dandridge. I am more akin to a gargoyle than Michelangelo’s David.”
An arrow pierced my heart at his matter-of-fact tone. Someone had convinced the poor man he was hideous so he identified himself in no other way. As an unusual child, I’d certainly experienced my share of slurs, so I understood the powerful effect words held. I felt an immediate kinship and desire to help Abernathy realize his difference was only one part of his being.
