“What do you have from your side? Letters, diaries, anything?” George knew there were boxes of the stuff too in the attic of his cottage. “And did the Reverend leave anything among the manor papers? He lived there long eno—” George blinked. “Fitz, you don’t think…?”
“A load of it went to the county archive, courtesy of my grandfather. But there might still be—what?” Henry stifled a laugh. “My dear, loving friend? You don’t think—no! That they…?” Henry wafted his hand about, indicating the two of them. “In those days? Then again, I wouldn’t put it past Billy, would you? Looked like quite the rascal!”
“A couple of respectable widowers, not even middle-aged?” George raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”
“I always wondered why they didn’t remarry. That was the usual thing, wasn’t it, a wife to help them look after their children and their house, but instead the Reverend moved into the manor.” Henry scratched his head, laughing again. “We’ve still got Bad Billy’s bed! It’s a bit wormy now, it’s in a lumber room in the attic. But…maybe we should—”
“I’d love to know what the Rev. looked like, but no paintings, sadly!” George tutted. “Georgie said he took after her, though, which means he was a hell of a looker.”
“The ravishing Reverend!”
“Who lost the bloody scorecard!”
“Toot-toot! Toot-toot!”
Their table was surrounded in seconds by drunk men in an assortment of rugby shirts and T-shirts, leaning into George’s personal space and snapping selfies. Henry managed to move their nearly empty plate out of the way in time to stop it getting knocked onto the ground. George’s first thought was for Jez, the little foal looking somewhat perturbed by this good-natured but loud invasion into his guardian’s peaceful supper.
Without being asked, Henry took Jez’s lead rein and led him into a farther corner of the beer garden, away from the noisy interlopers. George watched them both, then pasted on a smile for the fans. Having people bellow toot-toot at you and mimic the horn of a Jaguar is a small price to pay for success, he told himself as he posed and grinned and laughed and signed. Invitations to arm wrestle were politely declined and the men departed happily, leaving George to join his partner and the wide-eyed little horse. He stooped before Jez and whispered, “You all right, little man?”
“Maybe he needs a short walk before bedtime? It’d help his leg. We could take him through the woods—no marauding drunkards there, I hope!”
“Nor puckish boys falling out of trees?” George touched his hand to Henry’s shoulder. “Let’s go before we get pounced on again.”
“Too right!”
As they made a move to go, the other occupants of the beer garden waved farewell to their local celebrity. George returned the gesture and called, “Drinks are on me, have a good night!”
Then he strolled away, toward the trees into which Alan Belcher had once hurled the cricket ball that had been intended for his best friend.
As they entered the cool, shady wood, Jez became calm and snuffled contentedly at the trees and the grasses. Everything was new to him.
Now that they were concealed by the trees, Henry and George were able to hold hands.
“You and I should go to Brighton next summer,” George decided, realizing that perhaps meant he would still be here by then. Brighton was a long way from the Amazon, after all. He turned to look at Henry, that face he had known all his life, whose family had been there when his own father died, who knew him as no one else ever had. “And take Jez too.”
“Are you going to gallop him along the beach at sunset? But yes, we should go to Brighton. It’s only an hour in the car. Although—might take longer with a horsebox!” Henry smiled and ruffled his hand through George’s hair.
“The Jag won’t pull a horsebox. If only I knew a big, strong vet who had his own Land Rover.” George pulled a comically thoughtful face. “I’d be so grateful, I’d push him up against the nearest tree and give him the biggest kiss…”
“The Landy is at your command.”
“At my command-y?”
“If you give me a kiss-y.”
George laughed, in so much of a hurry to get to the kissing that he forgot the pushing up against a tree part of the deal. Instead he slipped his arm around Henry’s waist and pulled their bodies together, his lips tender and soft against his friend’s. Henry’s arms were tight around him, a slight tremble in his kiss as he ruffled George’s hair again, his other hand settling in the small of George’s back, holding him firm against him.
These were the sort of arms that George could happily imagine melting into, the sort of broad chest where he would rest his head as he slept. And it didn’t matter that the world couldn’t know, because Henry wasn’t the sort of man to make a show of them. Henry was private and quiet and—wonderful. He wondered vaguely if would be possible to reawaken the love that Henry had spoken of but pushed the thought away. Such lofty ambitions were not for this evening.
The hand on George’s back slipped lower, stroking over the curve of George’s buttocks—that famous bottom that he had displayed for all to see on television screens across the nation. George noticed that there was something in Henry’s trousers, and it was unlikely to be another carrot. He wouldn’t draw attention to it, George decided. Who knew how experienced Henry was, after all, and the last thing he wanted was to scare Henry off.
Henry nudged his knee between George’s legs, his hand coming to rest on George’s waist as he walked them backward against a tree. George, however, broke the kiss to check that Jez was still happy with his lot. Seeing the foal chewing the grass, he allowed himself to be distracted by Henry once more.
Henry whispered as he ran his mouth over George’s face. “I want to touch you, George. But does one touch on a first date?”
Perhaps he was more experienced than George had guessed, in that case. And the woods weren’t the wrong place, were they, but would Henry look back at this and think they had been too quick? George, however, managed a gasp of, “Would you like to?”
Henry’s blue eyes gazed into George’s as he found his way to the front of George’s jeans and cupped George’s erection. Nimble fingers unbuckled his belt, then unfastened the top button. Henry slid his hand down inside the elastic of George’s boxer shorts as Henry’s panting mouth fell back to George’s in a deep, sloppy kiss. Henry’s other hand tugged down the zip and George groaned as Henry at last had him in his strong hand.
George pressed his back against the tree and closed his eyes, surrendering to Henry’s touch and that irresistible kiss. He heard a slight, merry whinny from Jez, but it wasn’t a sound to cause concern, he knew. Nobody would see them here.
“It’s all in the wrist, that’s what you always told me.” Henry nipped at George’s earlobe as he moved his hand back and forth. George replied with a soft moan of pleasure that turned into a cry of surprised pain when something hard dropped onto his foot, seemingly out of nowhere.
“What the—” The moment shattered. George’s head snapped to the right where Jez stood a few inches away, peering at him. Then he looked down, past the intoxicating sight of Henry’s hand on him, and saw—
“Bloody hell!” As George spoke, Henry released him. He quickly fastened his jeans before stooping to retrieve an object the size of an apple, caked in mud and moss, but beneath the foliage he could just see the hint of red. It can’t be the cricket ball, George told himself, but still he scraped at the caked-on dirt of fifteen years and there beneath it, revealed as slowly as the inscription on a forgotten tomb, was the tribute he had etched more than half a lifetime ago.
HF—130—GSB
“It can’t… Blimey, it is!” Henry put his arm around George’s waist. “You know what this is, dear old Standy-Bee? It’s a sign. Together, you and I, we can defeat the Belchers. Knock ’em for six!”
“Just like you’ve knocked me for six?” George pressed his lips to Henry’s hair. For a second, no more, he almost tol
d Henry about his plan to infiltrate the Belchers and put a stop to their schemes through money or charm, but he could already hear Henry telling him not to do anything silly. Instead, he told him, “When I was in Afghanistan, and it was all a bit nuts and things were blowing up and—I kept thinking of this bloody cricket ball and you and wondering, does he think about me?”
“Of course I did. Every day.” Henry danced his fingertips across George’s face, his lips brushing over his skin. “Your mum told me when you were deployed. You were in my thoughts all the time you were out there. And I had no right to, not after— Every day I’d look up at the sky and say, keep him safe. Then you were injured, and the first I knew of it was when I saw your mum loading a suitcase into that car of yours. She told me. That was before the photo was everywhere. I couldn’t— My selfless, brave Captain George.”
“I hate that photo,” was his whispered confession. He had never said it before. Instead he went on chat shows and spoke of the horrors of war and the reward of knowing he’d done a good thing, that a child got a second chance because of him, but really, if he could wave a wand and have that picture disappear forever, he’d do it. It had defined him just as it had Darioush, the little boy he had carried to safety, whom George had sheltered from razors of shrapnel with his own body, and it had turned George Standish-Brookes from an officer with the Household Cavalry into a symbol for a hundred different causes. Those who wanted war, those who hated war, hawks and doves alike, he was suddenly used by them all to promote this agenda or that cause, when all he really wanted was to get on. Let the photographer have her moment and win the prizes, for he wanted none of them.
“I always wondered what you made of all that.” Henry didn’t say anything else, but traced his fingers over the inscription that George had carved into the ball. “Just think, all that has happened and that ball has been here all along. It’ll look nice on your mantelpiece, with Georgina to watch over it so it never gets lost again.”
“I didn’t win it, Fitz, you did.”
“No, because I lost my claim to it when I accused you. And after all”—Henry swept his hand toward the foal—“Jez did give it to you!”
“Only because he doesn’t know our story yet, so he wouldn’t have recognized it as yours.” George weighed the cricket ball in his hand. “I want you to have it. I mean, if you’d rather not have a ball that’s been stuck in a wood for fifteen years, that’s fair enough, of course!”
“All right. I’ll put it on my mantelpiece and Bad Billy can keep an eye on it. Though he might take one look at the ball and initiate another cricket wager, and God knows what he’ll bet on this time.”
“No more gambles, Fitz, you’re too sensible for that!”
“Not for me—the closest I get is the tombola at the summer fête.”
“I hope,” George murmured, looping his arms around Henry’s neck, “that crazy old Billy approves of soldiers.”
“He had something to do with the Sussex Militia. His sword’s in the attic somewhere. So yes, I’m sure he does approve!”
George smiled, sure that Reverend Standish would, too. Something was nagging at him, though, the thought that they might move too fast and miss something or, even worse, burn out the fire that had smoldered for so long.
“Would you mind if we slowed things down a bit? I want to enjoy courting my Fitz. I feel as though we’ve waited so long for each other, and—” He laughed, feeling his face flush. “It’s important to me that we give ourselves a chance. I don’t want this to be a fling.”
“Of course, George.” Did a blind come down over Henry’s face then? George wasn’t sure. A veneer of gentlemanly reserve, perhaps. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put my— I could get rather carried away.”
“No, no, it’s not you, honestly!” Ridiculous, really, but he had the distinct impression he had punctured the mood of the evening. “I’m rather public property sometimes, you must’ve noticed. I want this to be romantic, old-fashioned, I suppose. Silly of me, I know.”
“Not at all—it’s sweet. It’s better than a”—Henry looked down at the ground—“a quick grope. And I’m not saying that’s what this is. Far from it. Very far from it. We should have a courtship.”
When Henry looked up again, he was smiling. He looked, weirdly, five or even ten years younger than he had when George had first clapped eyes on him at the Bonny Baby Competition. Maybe it was that grin of his, that distinctly boyish grin.
“A romance,” George concluded. “I’m so glad I came home.”
“Me too. Let me help you get Jez to bed, and then—we can arrange our second date. What do you say to that?”
“I say yes. I’ve got my producer over tomorrow, but why don’t we open a bottle of something in the evening and have a look through Billy’s papers? I can throw us some supper together if you like.” What would Henry eat? Sensible food, George imagined, even as he pictured some exotic Middle Eastern tagine tempting Henry from his Sunday roast.
They were off again, leading Jez through the evening woodland. Birds flew overhead, swooping to their roosts, and the dew began to fall.
“Your place or mine tomorrow?” Henry asked. He patted Jez’s shoulder as George opened the garden gate.
“Let’s make it mine, I’ll cook something really special for you and we can sit out by the pond and find out what our two Regency bucks got up to.” He watched Jez amble past, seemingly untroubled by his lame leg. “And Jez can chill out with the ducks.”
“That will be lovely.”
“It’s still early, Fitz. Fancy a G&T?” George closed the gate and turned to take Henry’s fingers in his own for a brief moment.
“Go on, then. And I promise to behave.”
Henry brought their linked hands to his mouth and kissed them. George darted a look over Henry’s shoulder then returned the gesture, pressing a kiss of his own to their entwined fingers. He smiled gently and told Henry, “Let’s have a snuggle in the sitting room. Jez can come in for half an hour without causing too much drama. It’s not as if Ma will find out there was a horse in her house!”
“Unless one swish of his tail destroys all her pottery.”
“Jez is a horse of taste.” George unlocked the cottage door and ushered Henry into the bright interior. “He likes his gran’s work.”
The young horse trotted into the cool hallway and George closed the door behind them. Henry glanced about, then took off his jacket and hung it on the newel post.
Now they were alone, and George found himself reaching for Henry’s hand again, pulling him back for another kiss.
They were taking things slowly, George reminded himself, even as he recalled the touch of Henry’s strong hand on his body. The name of the game was courtship and romance, even if Henry had filled his dreams for years. As they kissed again, he thought happily of how he, TV star, darling of every echelon of society, would use the charm and bravado that had served him so well to save Henry’s house. How hard could it be, after all? No harder than finding a cricket ball that had been lost for fifteen years.
Twining their fingers together, Henry broke from the kiss. George found himself fixed to the spot by Henry’s usually gentle blue eyes. There was a touch of fire in them now that George hadn’t seen before. Henry combed his fingers through George’s hair and swallowed before he spoke.
“I’m going to behave myself, dear old George.”
“We’ve known each other thirty years,” he murmured in reply, reaching his hand up to Henry’s face. It was warm, the soft skin betraying the slightest hint of stubble beneath his palm. “I’m sure no one would object to a few more kisses?”
“Oh, yes—there’s room to be a little naughty. Come here, Captain Standy-Bee. I have fifteen years of kisses for you.”
“Let’s go into the sitting room,” George suggested between increasingly heated kisses. “There’s a very comfortable sofa in there.”
“An admirable suggestion.”
They staggered in each other’s arms into
the lounge and collapsed onto the sofa. It gave a comical creak as they settled onto it, lying on their sides in a mountain of tie-dyed cushions. Henry’s strong hands cupped George’s buttocks again, pushing their hips together as they kissed deeply. George wandered his hand up the back of Henry’s shirt, trailing his fingertips against his warm, firm skin.
“Where’s your ball?” George’s voice was all innocence, his eyelids batting. “I hope you put it somewhere safe.”
“It’s in my jacket pocket. That’s not the cricket ball you can feel now.”
“Oh, Fitz, now you’ve really got my hopes up!” George laughed, burying his face against Henry’s shoulder.
“Gosh, George, that’s my wallet, what else could it possibly be?”
“If I weren’t a well-schooled gent who has squired members of the ruling house at Goodwood on more than one occasion,” George told him, “I’d say I hoped it was your big, hard cock.”
A grunt escaped Henry’s throat, a suggestion of a buck in his hips. His breath was hot against George’s neck as he spoke.
“I would ask you to unzip me and find out, but…we are courting. So the mystery of my trousers will have to linger on a while.”
“Does courting mean my shirt has to stay on?” It was nothing Henry hadn’t seen before, of course, but never quite so intimately.
Henry moved his large hands up from George’s bottom and slid them under his polo shirt, stroking George’s skin with strong sweeps.
He assumed a comedy Disgusted of Basingstoke voice, albeit rather breathless. “Dear Auntie Beeb, I must remonstrate in the strongest terms. I was romping on the sofa with television’s Captain George Standish-Brookes and he kept his shirt on the whole time. What do I pay my license fee for, if not to gaze uninterrupted upon that finest of torsos? Yours, hoping to see that shirt flung onto the floor at Captain Standish-Brookes’ earliest convenience, Mr. Henry Fitzwalter, RCVS.”
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 11
