​Table of Contents

  A NineStar Press Publication

  To Hold a Hidden Pearl

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Fearne Hill

  Connect with NineStar Press

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  To Hold a Hidden Pearl

  ISBN: 978-1-64890-295-6

  © 2021 Fearne Hill

  Cover Art © 2021 Natasha Snow

  Edited by Elizabetta McKay

  Published in May, 2021 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

  Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-296-3

  CONTENT WARNING:

  This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers, homophobic language used by a side character; grieving for deceased family members; depiction of a terminal patient with severe burns and disfigurement; mild eating disorder; alcohol use.

  To Hold a Hidden Pearl

  Rossingley, Book One

  Fearne Hill

  To my sister Ella, who has managed to keep my sexy books a secret from our parents. Keep up the good work.

  ​Prologue

  Rossingley

  Rossingley, also known as the Rossingley Estate, is located in Allenshire, a county in Southwest England. It is the ancestral seat of the Duchamps-Avery family, which is headed by the Earl of Rossingley. The estate covers over 6,000 acres (24 km2).

  Originally built circa 1400, then destroyed by fire, Rossingley House was completed in 1641. The Grade I listed property stands in an estate park of 500 acres, featuring a fifty-acre lake, many specimen trees, and a trout stream, which is a tributary of the river Allen. Rossingley Church, a small family chapel thought to be built at the same time as the main house, stands at the north edge of the parkland. Rossingley’s neoclassical façade was remodelled in the mid-seventeenth century, and although the name of the architect is not known, the influence of Robert Adam is evident in the grand Doric columns, emphasising the lack of adornment around the ten elegant upper-floor windows. The influence is also clear from the symmetrical interior floor plan which complements the geometric designs of the walled gardens to the west of the property. A wing on the north side of the house was destroyed by fire at the beginning of the 1800s and never rebuilt. Many windows at the rear of the third floor were bricked up during the period of the Window Tax in the 1700s and not replaced.

  Duchamps-Avery Family

  Rossingley has been the seat of the Duchamps-Avery family since its inception. Originally from Normandy, there is evidence the family had property on the land dating back to the 1100s. The first resident of the original house was Charles Duchamps-Avery (born c.1420). The first ancestor to reside in the current dwelling was Robert Duchamps-Avery (born c.1620); he was the grandfather of the first Earl of Rossingley.

  A complete history of the Duchamps-Avery family can be found in Rossingley: Ascent to Power

  The vast properties, lands, and holdings, including commercial land and property in London, have effectively solidified the Duchamps-Averys as one of the wealthiest families in England.

  Recent History

  In 2019, the family was struck by tragedy when Lord Edward Duchamps-Avery, fifteenth Earl of Rossingley was killed, along with his wife Lady Elizabeth, in a helicopter crash whilst attending a family event in Morocco. His eldest son and heir, Oliver Duchamps-Avery and his pregnant wife, Isobel, also died in the crash. They did not have children. The inheritance consequently transferred to his younger brother, Dr Lucien Duchamps-Avery who now resides at, and manages, the Rossingley Estate.

  Chapter One

  Lucien

  I don’t do nightclubs anymore. It’s not an age thing. Sure, I’m thirty-four, but there are plenty of men and women older than me in here seemingly having a blast. It’s…it’s just that I hoped I’d never need to, I suppose. I think I had this ridiculous notion I’d be happily settled with a great job, an even better loving partner, and a comfortable home. I have the job, and I certainly have the home, not that I particularly wanted it. But the loving partner? Not so much. To be fair, though, I’m quite difficult to love.

  So here I am, propping up the wall in Spangles, a club I haven’t visited in years, watching my pissed former work colleagues, Sam and Louis, make complete arses of themselves on the dance floor.

  There’s a whole gang of us here. I don’t know any of the others, and I don’t really want to become better acquainted with them either, but Sam has been begging me to come up to London for months and months. He’s been a decent friend since the accident, as much as I’ve let him, and joining him for his boyfriend Louis’s thirtieth birthday is the least I can do to show my appreciation. So I’d downed a few colourful cocktails, which seem to have had no effect on my mood whatsoever, put on my glad rags, done my eyes, and now pretend to be the sexy guy I used to be before my former existence was comprehensively annihilated. And tomorrow, when it’s thankfully all over, I’ll whizz back down the M4 to Allenmouth, and having seen how absolutely spiffily I’m coping, they’ll hopefully leave me alone for a while. I deserve an Oscar for tonight’s performance, but I’m starting to flag. Another ten minutes of hugging the wall and my Campari and soda, and I’ll be on my way.

  An enormously tall, Italian Stallion kind of guy gives me a blatant once-over, and my eyes skirt past him. Thanks, but no thanks. Curly black hair, eyes like pools of melted chocolate, bulging shoulder muscles, and a broad chest threatening to break out of his tight white T-shirt. As if at any minute, the T-shirt might rip open and his skin turn an ugly shade of green. As he is, with T-shirt intact, he’s what Americans refer to as a jock. Or an especially buff Danny Zuko. But I’m no simpering Pink Lady. He’s absolutely not my bag at all.

  My gaze settles on a little cutie chatting to his friends near the bar. Much more like it, exactly my type of guy. Perfect tight arse in the skinniest of black jeans, and he’s demonstrating the grace of a ballet dancer as he reaches upwards onto his toes to speak into a friend’s ear. Slight of build, and floppy, dirty-blond hair with pink frosted tips. Sensing my interest, he shyly smiles at me, and I look away. We all know the rules to this game, and a few seconds later, I glance back at him. He returns the look at precisely the moment that a protective, possessive arm comes to rest across his narrow shoulders, and the ruggedly handsome owner of that arm plants an adoring kiss on his cheek. With a regretful shrug, the cute guy turns to his companion and is pulled into a loving hug. A keeper for sure, only not my keeper unfortunately. Oh well, c’est la vie.

  Gloria Gaynor is belting out ‘I am what I am’ at the top of her lungs. Most definitely my cue to leave. I finish my drink and head to where I last saw Sam and Louis. With a bit of luck, they’ll be so engrossed in each other they’ll let me slip out unnoticed to find a taxi to take me home. As I begin to push through groups of sweaty clubbers, the Italian Stallion guy blocks my path. And I mean blocks—he’s broad and beefy. He’s giving me another once-over, this time anxious, through thick black lashes, and his liquid-brown eyes are strangely as skittish as a colt’s. I make to squeeze by. But his big hand reaches around, catching me unawares, settles firmly around my wrist, and I’m tugged towards a dark corner of the club. Granted, it’s an unconventional hook-up technique, but I’m pissed enough and curious enough to go with it—perhaps in the dim light, he’s mistaken me for my cousin Freddie; it wouldn’t be the first time. We both have rather striking features.

  So it seems that now he’s got me here, he’s not quite sure what it is he wants. He hovers in front of me, one hand resting lightly at my hip, and I can’t tell if he’s very nervous or very drunk. I’m happy to wait; I’ve nothing better to do. Anyway, I’m mildly intrigued as I have a feeling that, like me, he doesn’t really belong. He licks his lips once—yes, definitely nervous—and it draws attention to his fine mouth, a full Cupid’s bow, now glistening wetly. The sort of generous wide mouth made for laughing. Or cock sucking. I’m focusing on those lips now because the background thump of Ms Gaynor makes audible speech nigh on impossible.

  “Can I suck your cock?” he asks.

  Gosh, we must be acquainted after all, as this is one of my all-time favourite questions.

  Okay, so I’ve not had any sexual activity in any of its manifestations for approaching two years, and I can’t recall the last time I even bothered employing my own right hand. Months and months ago. So if there is a single man in
the history of the universe in my current sexual desert who would answer his question in the negative, then I’d like to meet him and shake his hand.

  I contemplate replying with a sarcastic “Yes, if you can find it, darling” because, frankly, it’s most likely shrivelled up and died somewhere. But instead, I nod coolly and find myself mouthing, Be my guest, accompanied by a faintly ridiculous sweeping gesture of my arm as if inviting him in for afternoon tea. And that mouth is quite enticing, even if it is attached to a man built like Tarzan. Beautiful skin, too, a rich natural olive.

  I don’t know the extent of his lip-reading skills, but I think he gets the message. Still looks nervous as hell though. I’d go so far as to say bloody terrified. I’ve no idea why, as he’s the one leading on this, and it’s not like my cock is going to bite back. If he’s afraid we’ll be spotted and turfed out, then he need not be. This corner of Spangles might as well have a sign above it advertising Sloppy Blow Jobs Here, judging by the stickiness of the carpet and the blatant activities of the couples nearby. However, whatever internal battle he’s fighting, his desire to suck me bizarrely wins out, and he sinks to his knees rather gracefully for such a big bloke.

  All fingers and thumbs, he unfastens my belt, then wrestles with the buttons on my skinny Levi’s. If we weren’t in the situation we are, and if he hadn’t made his rather forwards suggestion, I’d assume he’d never done this before because he’s certainly making a hash of undoing my trousers. But eventually, they’re open, and I give him a helping hand by lowering them slightly around my hips. I’m treated to a rather lovely whiff of good old-fashioned Fahrenheit aftershave; it’s been years since I inhaled its woody, leathery aroma. With one last anxious glance up through his thick lashes, he slides his fingers inside the slit in my boxers and unceremoniously pulls out my cock. I think it’s that endearing last look up that gets my juices flowing, a vulnerable mixture of fear and need, and thankfully, my cock is half hard and getting harder. Which is infinitely preferable to watching him endeavouring to shape his lips around something akin to a clammy slug, even if he is a total stranger.

  And the blow job isn’t half bad, even for someone who I’m utterly convinced hasn’t ever done it before. There’s a bit too much toothiness at the start, and some overenthusiastic sucking that has me wincing and nearly pushing him away, but then he settles and finds a rhythm and mmm…really not bad at all. What he’s lacking in expertise, he’s more than making up for in enthusiasm.

  Should I have warned him against the perils of offering blow jobs to random strangers in dodgy Soho nightclubs? Probably. I am a doctor after all; surely it falls within the bounds of my Hippocratic oath. But I don’t. Because looking down, I find myself suddenly mesmerised by the sight of that big dark head bobbing up and down on my cock, not to mention the rather lovely sensations as his raspy tongue lathes along the length. As my orgasm builds, I bury my hands in the mop of dark curls, arch my hips up, and forcefully fuck his mouth, my cock reaching right into the back of his throat, and he takes it all, bless him, he gamely takes it all.

  And so for the first time in eighteen months, I’m transported out of myself to a place where Dr Lucien Avery, the reluctant sixteenth Earl of Rossingley, is reminded of what joy can feel like. To a place where he remembers what pleasure feels like, where he can smile, and his heart can briefly sing again. Because, finally, something good and pure and simple is happening, and he can believe just maybe there is a path leading out of this wretched sadness after all. And the boy who is making this all happen is some big lump of a creature, lacking in finesse, but with such soulful brown eyes and swollen red lips. A boy who even now is gazing up at me through his long lashes with such devotion to his task that my balls clench and my hips jerk, and without giving him the customary polite warning, I spurt again and again into his mouth until my legs wobble dangerously and I sink back against the damp wall.

  I eventually open my eyes to find him standing in front of me once more. Well-mannered boy that he is, he’s poking my cock back inside my boxers and putting my jeans back together, acts which seem somehow more intimate and sweeter than sucking my cock. After wiping a trail of my spunk off his cheek with a sweep of his hand, he gently smiles, and it’s the smile of a fairy-tale prince. Such a charming smile that it could launch ships and incite men to fight wars; it sparks sensations in me I’d forgotten existed but want to experience again. I decide, in a moment, when I’ve collected myself—when I’ve come down from my unexpected high—I’ll suggest we go back to my place so I can return the favour. I close my eyes briefly, wanting to hold on to this blissful forgotten feeling for as long as possible.

  And of course, as in all good fairy stories, when I open them again, he’s gone.

  Chapter Two

  Jay

  “You’re a fucking bastard, Jay. A fucking cruel, heartless bastard. If I didn’t have an operating list, I’d come over to your house right now and stove your fucking, bastard head in.”

  Such an erudite surgeon. His patients would be so proud. I hold the phone a safe distance from my ear until he’s finished his rant, deserving every single word of it, including having my head stoved in. Unfortunately, that volley of swearing was only a warmup. Already my headache throbs.

  “I mean, what the fuck Jay-Jay? You’ve called off the wedding, like, six days before—six days! And you won’t explain why? Are you mad? I’m surprised you haven’t had your head smacked in already by Ellie’s dad.”

  I’m surprised, too, but thankfully, he managed to restrain himself at the last moment for the sake of his successful legal career. And anyway, Ellie is quite capable of giving me a head injury herself, to be honest. She doesn’t need men fighting battles on her behalf. I may have broken her heart, but she’s still got a decent left hook—as I discovered yesterday, by breaking the news that after four years of togetherness, a mortgage, an engagement, and plans for wedded bliss, I’m pulling the plug. Suffice to say, Evan’s current tirade isn’t the first I’ve received on the subject, and I daresay it won’t be the last.

  “Fuck, Jay. I spent fucking weeks on my speech. It was fucking hilarious.”

  Evan is my best mate and was supposed to be my best man. We met on the first day of med school and got very drunk together at freshers’ fair. Cementing our new friendship, I puked down his shirt, and he pissed in my wardrobe, mistaking it for the toilet. Neither of us have touched vodka since, although other alcoholic beverages are more than welcome to pass my lips, none more so welcome than now. As of yesterday, the role of best man is redundant, and he may choose to rescind the best mate position, too, since all my other friends have deserted me and taken root in Camp Ellie. Even my own parents and sisters are giving me the cold shoulder. But perhaps I’ve underestimated him because now that he’s got it all off his chest, his tone is definitely softer.

  “Just give us a clue, Jay. We all deserve that, at least. Have you been over the side and found another girl?”

  “No,” I sigh tiredly. “As I have reiterated several times, I haven’t found another girl.”

  It’s as if I haven’t spoken.

  “Because your Ellie is a fucking angel, mate. You can’t let someone like her get away.” He swears under his breath. “Listen, Jay, I’ve got to go; they’ve just wheeled the first patient into the anaesthetic room. We’ll talk later, yeah?”

  We probably will talk later, or rather, he’ll yell some more, and I’ll suck it up. That’s all I can do because the truth is unpalatable to everyone apart from me, and even if I did have the balls to tell them what’s going on, I’m not sure they’d believe me.

  Chapter Three

  Lucien

  I never planned to end up working here. Not that it isn’t a decent hospital, because it is. It’s just that I was quite happy with my anonymous London existence. Being a square peg in a round hole is fine as long as there are other square pegs nearby with whom to compare notes. At St George’s there were plenty, but here, in sleepy, provincial Allenmouth Hospital Department of Anaesthesia and Intensive Care, I’m the only one. Probably the only gay in the village where I reside, too, and certainly the only gay in the anaesthetic department.