“It would be sensible.” Henry leafed through the laundry lists until, folded in half near the bottom, he found a receipt. “Well, they certainly splashed out, didn’t they? This is a receipt from bloody Fortnum’s—pickled quail’s eggs, and game pie, and bonbons and a fruitcake! Oh, and what a surprise—look at the date.”
Two days before the date on the miniature.
“It’s a little wedding feast, Fitz.” George blinked and looked at Henry, as though the enormity of the discovery had silenced him. He pressed a soft kiss to his lover’s lips and whispered, “They were just like us.”
“How brave they must’ve been. Back then. If anyone had found out that they were lovers—but if you look at the memorial tablets in the church, they died in old age, within days of each other. And were buried side by side.”
Henry put the papers down so that he could hold George tightly to him.
“I hope that was a comfort to Toby when Rupert bleated his last,” George murmured mischievously.
“He wasn’t entirely alone in the world, because he still had his bad, blue-eyed squire!” Henry ruffled his hand through George’s hair and kissed him, but before it could turn into a deeper embrace, he had a thought. “Rupert was buried in the grounds at the manor, that’s what I heard—my grandad said something about the grave of the vicar’s pet. There’s supposed to be a headstone somewhere, but I’ve never seen it.”
“I thought you knew that place inside out. I want to lay flowers on Rupert’s grave.”
“There’s overgrown corners that I’ve never ventured into. Brambles taller than a house, like Sleeping Beauty! I’ll borrow a chainsaw maybe and cut it back—and then we can find Rupert’s last resting place.”
“I never even imagined—did you?” George kissed him again. “But this gives the Reverend motive for losing the score sheet, doesn’t it?”
“Sadly, it does.” Henry sighed, taking in the disordered piles of paper. “Maybe he chucked it on a fire or, if he didn’t destroy it, it could be anywhere amongst this mess! We can’t let Belcher get the house, though—because it’s not just my family pile, is it? It’s where two men lived together and loved when they shouldn’t have. Longley Parva Manor is a piece of history.”
“Part of me wants to make this the documentary, and nobody would dare touch the house.” Henry felt George’s sigh against his skin. “But another part says, let them keep their secret.”
“And ours?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just can’t—I mean, I don’t want the press banging on our doors and I don’t know—do you think it’d be a big deal for viewers?”
Henry caressed his hand across George’s shoulders, feeling the strength in him.
“Do it when it feels right, George. And if it never does, we’ll be like the squire and the vicar—but with a horse in the lounge rather than a goat in the drawing room.”
“I hope their wedding day was perfect, Fitz. They deserved it to be.”
“I’m sure it was, Standy-Bee.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I’ll help you tidy all this up, George. Papers flung about all over the damned place—sorry, I’ve turned up at your cottage and caused merry havoc!”
George, however, was still gazing at the image in the miniature as though hypnotized, his face showing a nostalgic smile. He pressed his fingertip to the glass, the plaited hair beneath, and told Henry, “This is their anniversary. We were meant to find this.”
Henry glanced up at the portrait of Lady Georgina. The dancing candle flames imbued her face with life. She was smiling on them, just as she had smiled upon her son, Tobias, and his husband.
“I’m not superstitious, but even so—when was the last time anyone saw this?” Henry rested his head on George’s shoulder. He was so comfortable there, as if the two of them had been molded specifically to slot together. “Tobias, once his husband had breathed his last, and he wanted one more glance at their faces as younger men, with all their lives ahead of them? Then he hid it away. Didn’t destroy it—perhaps he couldn’t bear to.”
“He barely had time to do anything, did he? Passed away a day later or so.” George stroked Henry’s hair. “And said in his will that no man would die happier than he. He wanted us to see this—they chose us to share their secret.”
“It’s a precious secret to hold. And I suppose—the Reverend trusted us to do what was best. In their memory. All that time they lived together—did they keep it from the servants, or did they just pay them for their silence? Or did the staff respect them and never told? What did their children make of it! Such an extraordinary story.”
“And it’s one more reason for me to promise again that I would never make this village a joke. It’s a place that’s not quite— Well, I’ve been all over the world and I’ve never known anywhere like it.”
If only Henry had seen more of the world than the occasional caravanning trip to Devon.
“Really? I’m biased, perhaps, but—isn’t Longley Parva not that different from any other English village?”
“You’re probably right, but…well, maybe I just care more about this one.”
“All those places you’ve been to, and Longley Parva still your home. You still came back. Like—like a…” Henry, overwhelmed by their earlier discovery, was struggling for similes. “A salmon!”
“I hope that isn’t a comment on my personal hygiene!”
Henry tweaked his nose and grinned. “Well, you do like splashing about in the water! Perhaps I should check to see if you have a tail?”
“And I thought you were a quiet sort of boy.” He laughed. “But you’re just sex mad, Fitz!”
“Me? Innocent old Henry?” He tickled his way under George’s shirt and whispered, “I’ve brought my toothbrush, by the way.”
He felt George’s smile against his lips before they kissed, his lover’s elegant fingers twining gently in his hair. George shifted in his seat to straddle Henry’s lap, his other hand already working at the buttons of Henry’s shirt.
“I like courting,” he whispered.
Henry caught George’s hand. He had to warn the fellow. It wasn’t fair to subject him to his body without warning. Perhaps he should’ve told him earlier, before it was too late and they’d fallen in love.
“George—hang on. There’s something I should tell you. It’s embarrassing. You’re so perfect, and I’m…not.”
“I’m not perfect!” George laughed, perhaps suspecting some innocent bit of shyness. “I’ve got a hell of a shrapnel sprinkling across my shoulders for a start. I just know my best angles, that’s all.”
“But you got that from being heroic. And I—” Henry hung his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push back the horrible memories that came to him whenever he remembered that day, his father leaning over the fence, laughing—until his face had turned as pale as the whitewashed wall behind him.
“What’s wrong?” George took a gentle hold of Henry’s chin and tilted his face up. In the green eyes that met his own, Henry saw such tenderness that it almost undid him, and George whispered, “Whatever it is, tell me?”
Henry took a deep breath. The scar was ugly, he’d been told enough times. Perhaps if they kept the lights off, it wouldn’t matter too much?
“Righty-ho, I’ll tell you, then. It was a few years ago now, before Dad retired. We went out to Chibcombe Farm to examine a bull. Dad was going, ‘Bloody useless vet you are, Henry, too much of a sissy to hold a sheep between your thighs, let alone a bull! Go and live in a city, hamsters are about your limit!’ And usually, I’d just nod, but that time…” Henry swallowed. A shiver started up in him. “Oh, it’s horrible. I thought, I’ll show you! As soon as we arrived, I got out of the Landy and ran over to the pen. Climbed over the gate. Dad was watching. ‘Go on, my son! That’s my boy!’ And I thought, Blimey, I think he might be proud of me. The bull was tethered, but I—I looked over at Dad and waved. Waved! And didn’t notice that the rope was longer than I realized.
The bloody bull came straight at me and got me right in the stomach with its horns.”
“My God.” George whispered the words. “Were you—you could’ve been killed.”
“Yeah. Out of my own stupidity. Why do you think I couldn’t summon up the courage to find a boyfriend? I didn’t want to see the disgust on their face. I’d already seen it on— Well, I’d already seen it on someone’s face. So I tended to keep my vest on.”
Steph. Who hadn’t visited him in the hospital and had laughed with Henry’s father when she came to see him once he had been brought home. And who had told Henry that she was doing him a great favor by continuing to go out with him after he had been so disfigured.
“Whoever that was, they’re not someone you want in your life.” George’s voice was firm, his gaze refusing to let Henry’s skitter away again. “But I won’t push you—this is at your pace, not mine. I love you, though, Fitz, whether your vest is on or off.”
George’s words made Henry feel brave. He wanted more than anything to feel George’s skin against his own. And what about George’s scars? They didn’t seem to bother him at all.
“Shall I show you, then?” Henry would look away. He could avoid George’s reaction if he looked away.
“If you’re ready to, that’s all that matters.”
Henry guided George’s hand back to the buttons on his shirt. He held George around the waist with his other hand. “Will you undo me? I mean, you already have! But—”
George smiled and put both his hands to work on the buttons, kissing Henry again as he carefully unfastened his shirt. There was no going back now. Would George laugh or recoil or, worse than either, give pitying looks and brave smiles?
In fact he did neither. Instead he parted Henry’s shirt without breaking the kiss and the softness of his polo shirt with its vivid regimental colors settled against Henry’s bare skin.
Henry sighed and held him close. It was going to be all right. George seemed to understand. Surely even Captain George must’ve had his moments when the scars he bore were too much, when the memories that came with them were overwhelming. And yet George was held up as a handsome heartthrob—a line of puckered skin would hold no horrors for him.
“I love you,” George whispered, sliding his hands down Henry’s chest, the touch caressing. “My Fitz.”
It had been so long since anyone had touched Henry there—at least, anyone other than the doctor and his stethoscope. He gasped at the contact of another human being and the love that he felt in his touch. George drew back just as long as it took him to drag the polo shirt over his head and cast it aside, then he pressed his naked torso to Henry’s, grinding his hips down as he did.
Henry tipped his head back against the sofa and ran his hands up and down George’s back, from his shoulders all the way down to cup his buttocks, then back again. A soft grunt escaped his mouth at the hardness of those nipples pressing against him and those exquisite, perfect muscles that Henry could feel tensing with each of George’s movements.
George’s lips were warm against Henry’s throat, his tongue tracing sinuous shapes where his kisses landed. He didn’t seem interested in looking at the scar at all, but instead was devoting himself to his lover’s pleasure, his palms sliding softly down Henry’s back as his lips moved lower on his chest.
Goodness me.
“My dear old George—I love you!” Henry combed his fingers through George’s hair, capable of little else as George bathed his untouched body with bold, loving kisses. Henry wondered how could he ever have been nervous about showing himself to this man.
George didn’t seem to be stopping, though, and he continued to kiss his way down Henry’s body. He drew Henry’s nipple between his lips, teasing it with his tongue as he unfastened his lover’s trusty old leather belt, then the unbreached button of his corduroys and finally the zip beneath it. All the time he was working at that stiffened nipple, drawing soft gasps from Henry’s parted lips.
Henry reached one hand behind his head, clutching the back of the sofa, clutching anything, because this felt so good, and if George was headed where he seemed to be, then Henry was rather worried that he might fling himself off the sofa at the first brush of George’s—hand? tongue?—against him. The thought of it was enough for a jolt to shoot through Henry’s groin and his hips tried to lift from the cushion.
And did George remember that comment earlier about his thighs tensing? Perhaps, because that was precisely what he did in response, the slightest tightening of his muscles pushing Henry’s hips back down. He took the prompting, though, and continued to kiss his way lower until he was sliding from Henry’s lap to kneel on the floor between his legs. He was close to the scars now, but there was no change in the heated tenderness of his lips as the next kiss landed on the scarred skin that caused Henry so much pain.
A silver line, starting just under his ribs, cutting diagonally across him until it reached to the top of his leg.
‘I don’t want to see it, it’s ugly.’
Henry shook his head, forcing those words and that voice out of his mind. It wasn’t ugly. He could’ve died and he hadn’t, and the reason for him receiving the wound didn’t matter. Because he’d survived it—so that he could meet George once again. Because, at the moment he had realized that he could not escape the onslaught of the bull, it had been George he had thought of, and only him.
“My beautiful man,” George murmured as he lifted his hand to ease Henry’s boxers lower and free his erection. He shifted his gaze to meet Henry’s and in one slow, sinuous movement, drew his tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, his eyes sparkling.
Was it polite to watch? Would it put George off?
But as Henry’s eyes stayed locked on George’s, it was evident that George was certainly not discouraged by his audience. If anything, those green eyes glittered all the more.
Henry gave himself over to George, a willing receiver of pleasure as George licked his length again. His erection twitched at the contact and Henry giggled—it was so intimate and loving and happy.
And really bloody good.
One last flick from that tongue then George parted his lips and slowly took Henry’s cock into his mouth. He eased down, taking an inch at a time, holding Henry’s hips against the sofa no matter how much they tried to rise.
Not that he would admit it right away, but Henry had dreamed of this moment. Both asleep and waking. Wondering. What would it feel like, the warm softness of George’s mouth? But he had told himself so often that he shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t even wonder, and now the forbidden was his. And the forbidden was amazing, it had to be said.
He knew he was shouting something—George’s name or words that sounded like it. He couldn’t watch anymore, because he was poleaxed by pleasure, helpless as he lay against the sofa, George rising and falling on him. He was aware of nothing else, no cares or fears or the memory of anything bad ever having happened to him before.
Only this moment, this furnace of bliss that he had somehow tumbled into.
And George’s pace increased, his lips growing tighter and his tongue caressing Henry’s cock with each movement. He heard soft moans of encouragement in George’s throat, urging him on.
Henry crossed his arm over his face. Let go, just let go.
Let go of the tweed and the fear and the cantankerousness.
Let go of all that, Henry—was it Bad Billy whispering to him?—let go, my lad, and live.
A jumbled mess of words fell from Henry’s mouth as a shudder took over his limbs. At the last moment before his orgasm slayed him, he gripped George’s hair. Even with George trying to hold him down, Henry’s hips bucked up from the sofa. He shook then fell still, exhaling all the breath he had in him as he sagged into a wanton yet satiated heap.
George slowed his pace, easing Henry down from his pleasure before he rocked back on his knees. There was something rather dainty about the way he touched his fingers to his lips and whispered, “I love you, darl
ing, so bloody much.”
“Thank you,” Henry whispered to him. “Thank you for loving me.”
“You look tired and happy.” George reached out and took Henry’s hand. “Even happier than Kermit. I never had you down as a Muppets boxers sort of chap.”
“They were a Christmas present.” Was Henry blushing? Quite possibly. Were these the underpants of a television celebrity’s boyfriend? Possibly not. “I’m a vet—what else could I want other than a pair of pants with a cartoon frog on them?”
“Kermit isn’t a cartoon, he’s real.” George shook his head disapprovingly. “And if he wasn’t real, he still wouldn’t be a cartoon. He’d be a puppet.”
“Yes—silly me, he’s real, George, he lives in a swamp! Maybe you’ve even met him in your travels?”
“A hundred times, Fitz. Miss Piggy’s a fan of mine.” George rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Come to bed?”
Henry took George’s hand and let him help him up to his feet—his legs were very far from steady. He pulled up his trousers and the embarrassing underpants with one hand. But the shirt Henry left undone, leaving his chest and his stomach on show. And the scar, too, but he didn’t mind it because George didn’t. And, he realized, neither should he.
Ever the gentleman, George scooped up Henry’s overnight bag and slung it effortlessly over his shoulder. Then he looked to the portrait and said, “Goodnight, Georgie.”
“Do you always say goodnight to her?”
“No.” He laughed and admitted, “Yes.”
“I will too, then.” Henry paused in the doorway and raised his hand. “Goodnight, madam! Tell your son to give Billy Fitzwalter a hug from me.”
George led Henry up the creaky old stairs, and Henry grinned at the photos covering the walls. George as a baby, as a small boy, George and his friend Henry.
“Do you still have that poster of David Gower on your bedroom wall?”
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 16
