“All those tickets for charity, and you might win a car blanket or a sharing platter for two at The Green Man?” Henry smiled falsely. “You’re the soul of generosity, aren’t you, Ed?”
“That’s the general idea, mate.” Ed smiled toward the camera. “Can’t take my millions with me, after all!”
Realizing the camera was on him again, Henry assumed the mantle of phony bonhomie and laughed, patting Ed’s shoulder.
“How true that is! The whole lot could be gone tomorrow in a stock market crash! Ha ha! Imagine!” Henry inclined his face toward Ed’s, which was struck by a fleeting, nervy look. “Imagine.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve taken that into account,” the millionaire assured him. “And that’s all I’ll say—I’m sure you follow.”
Henry turned away and saw Barney, son of one of the farmers, talking animatedly to George. He had gussied up for the occasion, his hair an elegant plume. Henry had roped Barney in to help on numerous occasions when he needed a hand wrestling uncooperative livestock on the farm. He was a good lad.
What Henry hadn’t quite expected was that Barney would talk George into dancing with him, but that was exactly what he had managed to do. And just as another camera flash went off, realization struck Henry. Barney was, possibly, gay. How had he never noticed? Perhaps seeing Henry and George whirl across the dance floor together had made Barney brave enough to seek a dance with a man himself.
“Mr. Fitzwalter?” There was a gentle pull at his sleeve and there, standing beside him, was Polly, the small, wide-eyed child of the village’s underworked constable. He had last seen this little girl when she’d pronounced him a real-life wizard for saving the life of her Yorkshire terrier puppy after an overzealous leap from a high wall had nearly done for the little chap. She held up the little dog and said, “Will you hold Nancy so I can dance for a bit? I was going to ask Mum but Nancy wanted to hang out with the wizard again.”
Henry chuckled, thinking of George’s idea of playing their local wizard in the nip. “Yes, of course, let me hold him.”
But just as Polly skipped away to her friends, there was another tug at Henry’s arm.
“Mrs. Tanvir—how are you?”
“Very well. Nice dog! Now how about a dance?”
Henry looked about for someone to hold the dog for him, but with no one forthcoming, he slipped her into his large jacket pocket. “As long as you don’t mind a third coming along for a ride?”
“Not at all!”
The camera operator appeared in Henry’s face again, but he didn’t mind. Yes, to the rest of the world, it probably would look a bit eccentric but, he realized, maybe it was endearing. He half-turned to the camera, giving his best angle. Not that he’d practiced in the mirror, of course. Heaven forbid.
And on and on they danced, Henry with his own fan club, George with anyone that asked, regardless of age or gender. The cameras whirred and flashes flashed and even Ed and Steph took a turn, though her grin wasn’t half as bright as it had been for the village’s favorite soldier. Nancy peeked out from Henry’s tweed pocket, seemingly having the finest time any dog had ever had and attracting a fair few admiring glances herself.
George, a man who had never really left the 1940s in a lot of ways, had seen none of his fan club disappointed. The heroic Captain Standish-Brookes had earned his place among the pantheon of WI greats tonight, lending that most particular charm of his to any who hoped for a little glimpse of the fabled twinkle that had made many a duchess and even a couple of dukes flutter their eyelashes.
The closing bars of We’ll Meet Again ended the evening. The Parvans flowed from the doors of the village hall into the gloaming, arms filled with raffle prizes. Even Ed had won a prize, though he looked far from happy with his basket of fungal foot powder treatments. Henry was a winner too, taking home an enormous poster of none other than George in full WWII RAF gear posing beside a Spitfire. Across it, in bold silver pen, he had written, ‘Toot-Toot, George S-B xxx’.
Henry rolled his poster into a baton and tucked it under his arm. He lurked about in the car park, waiting for George to disentangle himself from his adoring public. Would it be odd if he hung the poster over his bed? Maybe put it up in the surgery somewhere? It would make a change from pharmaceutical adverts warning of fly strike and kennel cough.
“Fitz!” George emerged from the crowd at the door to the village hall and trotted over to where Henry waited. “I hoped I’d catch you. Can we have a quick couple of minutes about Jez? I can run you home while we talk if you like.”
“Yes, yes—of course. Doing well, your little chap, I hope?”
“Splendidly.” George strolled on, his hands behind his back. “And did I see you with a terrier in your pocket or was it something in the punch?”
“Oh—that. Yes. One of my patients! Seemed to enjoy it.”
“Good, good.” They ambled on in innocent silence for a minute or so, the twilight deepening around them. George’s pale pink cottage was not hard to miss and with TV’s famed Jaguar parked outside it with the top already lowered and its owner clad in the immaculate mess dress of his regiment, it was a promo calendar just waiting to happen. George unlocked the door and opened it for Henry, who put the poster behind the seat as he climbed in.
When George slipped into the driver’s seat he turned to look at Henry and asked, “Did I look all right tonight? Would you let this dashing soldier sweep you off your feet?”
“Did you look all right?” Henry laughed and gently slapped his palm against George’s thigh. “I had to remind myself to breathe, for heaven’s sake! That jacket—it does things to me. All I can say is, I’m bloody relieved these trousers are loose-fitting! You handsome bloody bastard, Captain George.”
“This old thing?” George blinked his long eyelashes. He reached to the top of the dozens of buttons of the tunic and unfastened a few, just enough to give a glimpse of the skin beneath. “Would you like me to keep going, Fitz?”
Henry squeezed George’s firm, uniform-clad thigh. Barely opening his mouth, he groaned his answer.
“Yes. For God’s sake, yes.”
George glanced over his shoulder at the empty road, the few stragglers who remained from the dance having scattered to the winds and fast-arriving night. Then, with deliberate, delicious slowness, he unfastened the buttons of the mess jacket, revealing the body that was so familiar to Henry now. He felt as though he knew every contour of that muscled chest, every inch of the skin that he had kissed and teased and loved, but this was like seeing it afresh all over again, tan and forbidden beneath the immaculate uniform.
“Bloody hell, Captain George.” Henry’s voice was thick was desire. He sat forward in his seat, gazing at his lover. Gazing, but unable to draw any nearer. “I can’t touch you, can I, here? Take me home.”
George’s movements were lazy as he reached to turn the ignition key, but the rise and fall of his chest betrayed his own need. When the Jaguar pulled away from the cottage it was at a slightly impatient speed, the lights falling on the tarmac as they peeled out into the empty road that would take them between fields and around the twisting lane that led to Longley Parva Manor.
The gates of the manor had rusted open long ago, so George entered the driveway unimpeded, heading up past the lake to Henry’s front door. The trees were dark with the advancing night, birds looping across distant clouds, heading home to roost.
As soon as the engine was turned off, Henry had his arms around George, pressing his lips to his. All those people had crowded around his lover at the dance, clamoring for him, but it was Henry who was kissing him, Henry who was running his fingertips light and teasing down George’s skin, exposed by the opened jacket.
“Dancing with you,” George whispered, “was the most perfect thing.”
“Would you like to dance with me again? Without an audience.”
“I would love to,” was the purred reply.
Henry combed his fingers through George’s previously immacu
late hair.
“Captain Standish-Brookes, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the bedroom?”
“Mr. Fitzwalter, it would be my pleasure.” George kissed Henry’s lips softly. “Lead the way.”
Henry proudly took George into Longley Parva Manor. A quick detour to the kitchen to collect a bottle of wine and glasses and they headed upstairs, kissing on every step.
The staircase still had portraits of Henry’s family on it, but pale squares on the decrepit wallpaper showed where his father had sold the older, more valuable artworks. The landing above was silvered by the moon, which shone through the cracked glass of the skylight. It illuminated the way for the two lovers as they went along the corridor’s worn and faded carpet.
“I haven’t any music to dance to,” Henry said, “so we’ll just have to make up our own.”
The door opened with little pressure as the handle had repeatedly dropped off and now served only as an ornament. Beyond, Henry’s bedroom had blue wallpaper, over a century old, with a design of large paisley swirls across it. Henry put the bottle and glasses down on the bedside table and loosened his tie. George, already unbuttoned and rather ruffled, opened the bottle and filled the glasses. He held one out to Henry and said, “A toast?”
Henry took the glass.
“Yes, a toast. To us!”
They clinked their glasses together then, entwining their arms, drank deeply. This would be their home, Henry knew, because life was finally going right.
Henry put aside his glass and made a neat bow. “May I have this dance?” Henry tipped his head toward the roosting birds, who were calling in the trees outside the window. “The orchestra have struck up my favorite tune.”
“What the hell did I do to deserve a man like you? I must’ve been a saint in a past life.” George’s words were a whisper. “I love you, Fitz.”
“George, shush, you’re making me blush.”
And he was, too, because in the spotted mirror over the cracked washbasin, Henry caught sight of his face. He was reddening like a sunset.
“I like it when you blush.” George smiled, taking another drink. “And what would you have this soldier do for you?”
“Dance with me.” Henry looked from George’s handsome face to that bare torso that peeped out from his unfastened mess jacket. His eyes settled on George’s adoring gaze and he swallowed. “Then make love to me.”
George put his glass down and took Henry in his arms. Then he drew their bodies together as they swayed to the melodic birdsong outside. They kissed softly, tenderly, the taste of wine in each other’s mouths. Henry sank his hands into George’s thick hair, bringing their faces closer, deepening their kiss. He loved this man so much—he wanted to possess and be possessed by him. George’s arm was around his waist, pulling Henry ever closer to him, as if he would never let him go.
“Don’t ever change, darling,” George whispered against Henry’s lips. Henry breathed in the scent of him, the exotic cologne and the fragrance of his skin, the indefinable something that he had fallen in love with decades ago. He had never believed himself to be much of a dancer but here, in the dim light, safe in his lover’s arms, he could be anything.
“George, will you do something for me?” Henry laid his palm flat against George’s exposed chest and stroked gently up and down the firm, warm skin, the brocaded edges of the jacket brushing Henry’s hand.
“Anything.”
“Now, far be it for me to kick up a fuss about you going topless on television. Nor will I complain if they film you in this splendid jacket of yours. But…when it’s like this…half-on and half-off, your chest and your stomach peeking out—will you keep that just for us?”
Henry felt embarrassed even asking, let alone wanting such a thing. He bit his lip, watching George’s glittering eyes. They lit up with love at the words and George nodded, promising, “It’s ours, Fitz, I swear it.”
“Thank you.” Henry’s reply was breathless as he returned to kissing George, sliding his other hand to the small of George’s back. He could feel George’s erection against his own, the heat that coursed through Henry’s veins growing even warmer when his lover’s hand crept down to rest on his bottom, stroking tenderly. “I want you, George, I mean it.”
“Don’t ever stop.” Then they were kissing again and the hand on his bottom was still caressing, their dance having taken on a very slow, sensual pace by now.
“Help me out of this jacket, won’t you?” Henry reluctantly brought his hands away from George so that he could pull his arms out of his tweed. With another kiss, George slid the jacket down from Henry’s shoulders and it fell heavily onto the floor, but George was already nimbly unknotting Henry’s tie. With a flamboyant gesture he threw it aside, the movement causing the medals at his chest to add their metallic percussion to the birdsong.
Henry ran his finger over the medals. He didn’t want to turn them into a fetish, but he loved his courageous George.
“You’ve taught me to be brave,” Henry whispered. “You didn’t even intend to, but you have.”
“No—” George’s reply was a murmur. “You’ve always been the finest man I know.”
Henry guided George’s hand to his shirt buttons, their fingers moving together as they unbuttoned him, the soft rasp of fabric accompanied by Henry’s sighs as George kissed each inch of skin as it became exposed. It seemed absurd now to think that he had ever worried what George might think of his body, because there was only love and the heat of passion in each touch. He slid the shirt off then they embraced, the smooth fabric and coolness of the medals pressing against Henry’s bare skin. They tangled their fingers in each other’s hair, gasping as they kissed, hips circling just a little where their erections pressed together.
“So,” George teased as his hand slid round to press against Henry’s trousers, “uniform on or off?”
“Is it exceptionally saucy of me to want you to keep the jacket on? Your trousers are fabulous too, but…I fear they might get in the way.”
“Whatever my chap wants.” He beamed.
Henry slipped his hand inside the waistband of George’s trousers, sliding it down as far as he could before the immaculately tailored fabric stopped him. “Imagine if we’d danced like this in the middle of the village hall!”
“They might’ve cried foul when you won that poster!”
“I had my eye on that. Glad I won it.” Henry winked and stroked George’s chest. “And I shall put it above my bed and kiss it every night before I go to sleep.”
“What about the real me?” He pouted. “I’ll be in your bed waiting to be kissed!”
“Every night?” Henry brought his hand round to the front of George’s trousers and cupped his erection.
“Sorry, Fitz, rather cheekily moved myself in there, didn’t I?” He smiled, bashful. “Bit full-on?”
“I wanted to ask you the other day, when you said you were going to look for somewhere.” Henry lowered George’s zip as he kissed his lover’s ear. “But I didn’t because I felt like such an idiot over all this business with the house. I can’t ask you to move in and then I lose dear old Parvy Manor. But we’ll be together whatever, won’t we? We’ll find somewhere.”
“You’re not going to lose this place, I gave you my word,” George told him. “No matter what it costs, you won’t lose it.”
“I hope not—because I started clearing out one of the stables for Jez!” Henry paused, about to lower George’s trousers down his hips. Was this an awkward moment to mention their equine son? George, however, kissed him again and unfastened Henry’s belt and the button beneath. He slid his hand inside, beneath the waistband of his lover’s boxers, until he could take Henry’s erection in his palm. Henry tipped back his head and George kissed his way around his neck. It took Henry a moment to recover his senses enough to continue stripping George. The fabric susurrated as Henry skimmed George’s trousers and boxer shorts down from his waist, freeing his erection. Henry sighed as he closed
his hand around its firm heft.
“So if you’re moving in—we’re past the courting stage, aren’t we?”
“First we’ll send Ed packing, then we’ll sort out the bedrooms.” George’s breath caught as his eyes closed at Henry’s touch. “But we’re definitely past courting.”
“I’d say we’re doing a capital job of sorting out this bedroom! If by that you mean wanton debauchery.” Henry’s hips moved against George’s hand, stroking George’s erection in time with his own thrusts. “And I’m so bloody glad we’re past courting.”
George kicked his boots off and stepped out of his pooled trousers, leaving him naked save for the bright-red jacket with its impressive array of decoration, and asked, “Shall we go to bed?”
“Yes—for heaven’s sake, yes!”
George made short work of the few clothes that Henry still wore and, amid kisses and caresses, they were soon tumbling down onto the bed in each other’s arms. He wasn’t sure if he had expected George to agree to keep the jacket on, but the fact that he had— Well, it seemed like the most erotic thing Henry could imagine as he ran his hands from the rich fabric to the bare skin beneath it.
He gazed into George’s dancing eyes and danced his finger from George’s mouth, down his neck to his chest and farther down still until he ran it along George’s cock.
“What is the captain’s pleasure this evening?”
“To please the squire.”
Henry kissed George’s jaw, then caught his glance again. “That jacket melts me. When I first saw you in it, I was so close to asking you, then and there, to pinion me against the wall and to just…just…” Henry sighed at the memory of it, aware that his cock had twitched in George’s hand. “Ravish me.”
“Do I get another medal for that?” George smiled a smile that might charm the devil up from hell, one eyebrow quirking. Then he dropped his head to Henry’s chest and drew his tongue from his throat to his nipple, teasing and tempting.
Henry responded with an abandoned moan, the kind that, only a couple of weeks ago, he hadn’t known he was capable of making.
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 22
