“This is even more foolish than sword fighting,” Fitzsimmons muttered. Nonetheless, two strong arms curled around Rollo’s narrow back. For several minutes, they stood that way, one rigid as a pencil, the other trying his damnedest not to grind his fresh cockstand against a firm hip bone.

  “Tell me,” Rollo asked. “When were you last embraced?”

  Fitzsimmons’s low chuckle rumbled beneath Rollo’s ear. “Is that what this is?”

  “It’s a facsimile of one, yes. More of a work in progress. Very much like your oils. We could call this one A Study in Discomfiture.”

  Another rolling chuckle reverberated beneath his ear. “I would cuff you for that.” The lord’s nose and mouth skimmed over the fine ends of Rollo’s hair. “If I didn’t think you’d enjoy it.”

  Rollo’s urge to rub himself against the man’s nether regions intensified. “My papa declares a warm embrace a cure for most ills.”

  “Sometimes, I feel as though your papa is in this room with us. Surely, he doesn’t believe this…this thing we’re attempting to be even more efficacious than oil of lavender?”

  Rollo giggled. His lordship’s posture had softened, now less a pencil or a tree, more a malleable but sturdy willow branch. Progress indeed. “That very much depends upon where one is applying the lavender oil, my lord.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THEY WERE STILL in a bloody hold. Or embracing, or whatever the damned pup called it. Five minutes later!

  Just when Lyndon thought he’d have to suggest something devilishly uncomfortable along the lines of shall we continue this on the settee, Rollo tipped his head up from its nest on Lyndon’s chest to regard him.

  “The servants remember you as a lively child, but not a bad one,” he said.

  “How generous of them.”

  “You were always polite and charming. They say you suddenly changed.”

  “For better or worse?” Lyndon already knew the answer.

  “Mmm. Worse, I’m afraid.”

  “I must sack them all immediately.”

  Rollo—Lyndon enjoyed testing his Christian name in his mind far too much—chuckled, locking his arms around Lyndon even more tightly. “They are very fond of you. And loyal. They fret for your happiness.”

  “Yes. I believe they do.”

  Lyndon leaned into the warm, slight body wrapped around his own. A body so insubstantial, Lyndon felt a sudden urge to pick Rollo up, sling him over his shoulder, and carry him up to bed.

  Instead, as if they were a pair of starstruck lovers, he continued the damned foolish clinch. His defences against Rollo were as robust as a paper lantern. He had prised almost all of Lyndon’s deepest regrets from him as easily as peeling a plum; a knife to the throat would have been less efficacious. And in Lyndon’s bloody drawing room of all places, his refuge. He should draw the embrace to a close before any more truths and sorrows—the worst of him, in fact—bled from his soul.

  Yet, a minute later, they were still entwined, thus ensuring even more words and confessions would pour from him as though Rollo had turned on a bloody tap.

  “There was an incident,” Lyndon admitted, “of which I do not wish to speak. When I was much your age. And, as a consequence, I became unwell. I quarrelled with my parents, incessantly. I drank too much. After reaching my majority, I spent several years as a scoundrel, a rake, a spendthrift. Our father died, but not before removing the bulk of my annual income. At the time, I could not see he did it in my best interests and in the best interests of Ashington. It felt like the cruellest blow and…and I sought revenge by hounding Benedict. I blamed him for everything. I behaved abominably and almost destroyed the Fitzsimmons name and my dear, kind brother’s life.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  Lyndon hated how his voice broke. How that single syllable could so easily have been a yes. And how much this extraordinary creature in his arms, on hearing that syllable, wanted to believe Lyndon to be a good man.

  “Yet I would have done,” he confessed. “Gladly. Except Benedict admitted his mounting concerns to your father, who intervened. Together, they taught me a most harsh lesson in a manner most brutal and humiliating and absolutely everything I deserved.”

  Rollo let out a long breath. “That is why you disliked me so.”

  “Yes.” Lyndon laughed softly. “The arrival of the Earl of Rossingley’s bantling did not improve my mood. Clearly, your father was of the opinion he hadn’t punished me enough.”

  “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that.” Rollo’s fine hair fluttered every time Lyndon exhaled. Even more so when Lyndon rested his chin on his head. Somehow, their feet had moved closer together too. They had become so interwoven that it was difficult to define where one had ended and the other began.

  “Do you still feel the same?” Rollo enquired against Lyndon’s chest. “Bearing in mind I am standing nearer to the poker than you.”

  Lyndon laughed again. “I have since found out that his unwelcome gift is a capricious sprite. And his torment is an excellent tonic for the blue devils.”

  “Heavens above. Better than lavender oil?”

  “As I have absolutely no intention of ever putting my body anywhere near that most unmanly of potions, I shall never find out.”

  Lyndon embraced him even tighter, one last time, then stepped back a little. A smug smile crept across Rollo’s face as if he knew exactly how much Lyndon had relished their intimacy. Lyndon could easily have kept it going another hour, though who knew where his garrulous tongue might have led him if he did. He attempted a severe look.

  “Now it is time to leave me in peace. No doubt you have a dreadful novel to read and pages of foolscap to fill with inane drivel, and I certainly have a painting of the chapel roof to ruin. Otherwise, heaven forbid, you will think I’m soft.”

  *

  “I SHALL TAKE my luncheon in the library today, Berridge,” Lyndon announced, handing his hat to the waiting butler and continuing apace towards the stairs. “I’ll wash first.”

  Having spent an hour reading to Will, then weeding his potato patch under a relentless hot sun and to a background of Will’s running critique of his prowess with a hand fork, Lyndon was ravenous. “Simpson has sent over a mound of papers relating to the building accounts for me to wade through. I may as well get started.”

  “Um…” For once, Berridge appeared ill at ease. “Mr Duchamps-Avery has…ah…requested a picnic be made up.”

  Lyndon’s long stride came to a juddering halt. “A picnic?”

  “Yes, my lord. Cook advised him regarding your preferred meats and cheeses. He has food and drink in baskets. Rugs and a flagon too. Plates, and a cloth to cover the grass.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lyndon sighed. His routines and the running of his household used to be so straightforward. “I am abreast of the fundamentals of a picnic, Berridge. But I’m at a loss to explain how it pertains to me.”

  “You are to be his picnicking guest.”

  Lyndon sighed again. “I assume this is an outdoor picnic?”

  “Yes, my lord. They…um…generally are.”

  The last time Lyndon had picnicked outside, he’d been in short trousers. “If I’d wanted ants crawling over my food, I’d have put in a request to Cook first thing. Could we not dine on the same lunch inside? Insect free?”

  Berridge looked pained. “It…ah…it may be too late for that, my lord. My understanding is that Greaves and young Jack have already carted everything out onto the south lawn. They have set up under the beech trees overlooking Beccles Vale. Mr Duchamps-Avery has chosen a delightful spot, if I may say so. I believe he already awaits your presence in the gardens.”

  “I see.”

  “He particularly requested Cook prepare rout cakes, and I believe there is salmagundi.”

  Lyndon’s mouth watered. Two of his absolute favourites. Since his extravagant display of verbosity two days earlier, he was no longer sure he had the nerve to look Rollo in the eye. He’d admitted he found the young man beguiling! And had poured out his woes, one by one. Even Will, privy to all of Lyndon’s numerous failings, had never been subjected to the horror of hearing them enumerated so thoroughly.

  Thus, Lyndon was ashamed to admit he’d been avoiding him. He’d found an excuse to spend the entirety of yesterday in Norwich, managing spurious financial affairs, rising early and returning late. But he couldn’t avoid his house guest forever, and the trip had been rather less successful in relegating Rollo from his mind than he’d hoped. The warm leather of his carriage seat, for instance, had brought to mind the heat of Rollo’s trim body crushed against his own. The squeak of a carriage wheel mimicked the cry of his release. The undulating curve of Bishop Bridge, taking Lyndon over the murky waters of the Wensum and into Norwich, had taken the shape of the supple arch of Rollo’s back as Lyndon pleasured himself against him. Honestly, the damned pup was everywhere he bloody went.

  So many years had passed since he’d ever come close to having a man. None but this young man and his dearest Will had ever given him cause to want to. But, by God, at this moment, how Lyndon wanted to.

  “I’ve laid out your light charcoal linen topcoat, my lord, and linen trousers,” prompted Berridge as if the damned picnic was a fait accompli. “Given that the day is so fine. And there is soap and hot water in your bedchamber.”

  “Huh.” Lyndon resumed his path to the stairs. “Down by the beech trees, you say.”

  “Yes, my lord. It is an excellent day for it. Do have fun.”

  “You’re a traitor, Berridge.”

  “Yes, my lord. Quite possibly.” And on that note, Berridge became terribly busy polishing a silver candlestick.

  *

  FROM ACROSS THE expanse of lawn, Lyndon stood quietly for a few minutes, observing his young guest. Sprawled on a checked woollen rug, Rollo had made a pillow of another and read from a book propped on his chest, his neat bare feet crossed at the ankles. Lyndon had half hoped, in the intervening days, that Rollo’s allure would have somehow lessened. Alas, watching him now, a bundle of silky, relaxed, elegant limbs laid out like a harvest feast, only fanned the flames of Lyndon’s hunger.

  He strode across the grass.

  “You came!” Rollo exclaimed, turning with apparent delight at Lyndon’s approach.

  Lyndon stifled a grin. Give an inch and Duchamps-Avery would seize a yard. He’d have Lyndon making a crown out of daisies or hand feeding him stoned cherries. “The alternative was starvation, seeing as you have bewitched my servants and commandeered my lunch.”

  Indefatigable in the face of Lyndon’s determination not to appear pleased, Rollo pressed a palm against his chest. “Your charm is unrivalled, my lord.” He gestured to a small patch of rug next to him. “Look, there is space for both of us.”

  Resisting the urge to take Rollo’s hand or, indeed, push him to the ground and mount him like a rutting stag, Lyndon distracted himself by plucking at blades of grass and watching his companion out of the corner of his eye as he poured them both modest glasses of wine. When he was done, Rollo lay back down and patted the rug behind where Lyndon stiffly sat.

  “Lie here a moment. Rest yourself. Tell me about your trip to Norwich. I have never visited.”

  “I thought the purpose of coming here was to eat. To endure a picnic.”

  Rollo laughed. Was there nothing Lyndon could say to pierce that excellent humour? “All in good time, Fitz. But let me warn you, I’m the picnic that talks back.”

  He lifted his head from his makeshift pillow to sip at his wine. Thanks to the awkward position, a few ruby drops dribbled down his chin. Eyes bright with amusement, Rollo wiped them with the back of his hand before his pink tongue darted out to lick them up.

  Though shaded by trees, the picnic spot was still awfully close to the house. Too close for anything other than picnicking, and Lyndon’s ballocks sensed a long, achy afternoon ahead. More so when the pup patted Lyndon’s leg and then, as if checking his belongings were all present and correct, let his light fingers wander along it.

  “Ravish me with your words, my lord,” Rollo declared lazily. “This fine weather puts me in a romantic mood.” He closed his eyes against the sun. “Undress me with your cleverness. Touch me with your soul. Seduce me, Fitz.”

  Reaching the end of their travels, the young man’s long fingers took up thankfully modest residence on Lyndon’s lower thigh. Perhaps his ballocks might get a reprieve after all.

  “I’m not entirely convinced much seduction is required,” Lyndon observed. “One, your hand is already touching my person. Two, you have invited me here, alone, to this sheltered spot, when we could so easily have eaten in the dining room in the presence of Greaves. Three, at your request, I am informed those baskets contain some of my favourite delicacies, and four, you are halfway down a glass of good wine.” Which has brought a rosy flush to your cheeks that I would like nothing more than to kiss away. “Oh, and lest we forget—five, you have already seduced me. Twice.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon. Do it anyway. Romance me, Fitz!”

  “For heaven’s sake. Must I?”

  “Yes, you must. Otherwise, I shall keep all the pigeon pie to myself.”

  Lyndon adored Cook’s pigeon pie. Gingerly, he lay down, but on his side and propped on an elbow so he could keep his eyes peeled for marauding ants and wasps. Most certainly not to admire the set of excessively fluffy eyelashes feathering his companion’s cheeks. It was a wonder they didn’t get tangled up in themselves each time the pup blinked.

  The day’s temperature had reached its peak, and a sliver of perspiration coated the youth’s smooth upper lip. Dampness darkened the roots of his pointlessly showy blond hair. With his mere existence Rollo was successfully seducing Lyndon, laying bare Lyndon’s own seductive inadequacies without even trying. What should he do? Romance and he were barely acquainted. Compliment his attire—again? Concoct an impromptu ode?

  “I’m waiting,” Rollo said in a sing-song voice. “There will be no pigeon pie.”

  Frowning, Lyndon tried to recall the romantic sonnets he’d been forced to learn by rote at school. Alas, only snatches of the most popular verses came back to him. Oh well, he’d improvise.

  “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’” he began.

  Rollo clapped his hands with delight. “Do! Do! I am a mere swoon away from melting already.”

  “Fine.” Lyndon grinned. “But be careful what you wish for.”

  Pursing his lips and straining at the edges of his memory, Lyndon adopted the grave baritone of his old English tutor. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ Thou art more sweaty and this heat is more hellish—rough winds today would be greeted with joyful abandon, and thou goest on and on interminably when more than anything, I’d like my lunch and then a peaceful postprandial snooze.”

  He clamped his mouth shut, at risk of producing an undignified giggle. “Art thou happy now?”

  Rollo gave his thigh a well-deserved slap, then giggled himself, a sound warming Lyndon’s bones better than the smoothest of French brandies. “You are a beast, Lord Lyndon, of the most delicious kind. And your grammar is atrocious. You and Willoughby would be splendid chums. You could concoct dreadful odes together.”

  Opening a pale, glittery eye, Rollo held up an admonishing finger. “Just one minor point, my lord: I do not sweat. I sparkle. My papa always says—”

  “Oh, good. I wondered if your papa would be joining our picnic. When I’m finally allowed to have the blasted picnic. That’s a strong hint, by the way.”

  Grumbling, Rollo sat up and began passing bread and cheese to Lyndon. “I was about to say my papa’s a great fan of bastardising Shakespeare to suit his needs. He would have found your impromptu verse hilarious.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  Nothing Lyndon had ever done in his former existence as a rogue about town had ever met with the Earl of Rossingley’s exacting approval. He had no reason to believe seducing his precious second son would either.

  “You have the wrong impression of him entirely, Fitz. After all, he begat me, so he can’t be all bad.”

  Lyndon should have argued that point on principle alone. But he was too hot and too sleepy. And Rollo was feeding him tasty morsels directly into his mouth as if his own hands had suddenly stopped working. Being so indulged was far too lovely to interrupt.

  “My father wouldn’t have sent me here if he didn’t believe there was some good in you,” the pup prattled between popping delightful slivers of pigeon pie between Lyndon’s lips. “He cares too much for me to put me in the company of a poor influence.”

  As Rollo reached up to place a honeyed walnut on Lyndon’s tongue, Lyndon took his wrist, his fingers easily wrapping around it.

  “And if he knew of our sport in the nursery?” Lyndon asked. “And drawing room? What then?”

  Rollo shrugged. “He is aware of my preference for men. He shares it himself.”

  Lyndon traced the path of a fragile blue vein with his thumb. “But a preference for me in particular?”

  “He is, of course, unaware. But his opinions on the matter are not relevant. I may not have yet reached my majority, but I am still master of my own desires.”

  Lyndon chuckled. Lately, his own enslaved him. “You have mastered frustrating me and very little else.”

  With his belly full and his empty plate—a tasty lure for crawling insects—placed well clear of his person, Lyndon lay down again. As his eyelids drooped, he clasped his hands behind his head. Sun, wine, rich food, and a perpetual state of arousal tired him out.

  Next to him, Rollo picked at the cold cuts, wittering on about how he enjoyed them with Cook’s piccalilli, yet at bloody Rossingley, they also ate them with a ferment of fennel. Personally, Lyndon thought that sounded vile. Nonetheless, Rollo’s light tenor, endlessly washing over him, was soothing. Lyndon would never admit that, of course. He’d already made a cake of himself admiring the pup’s slender form. The compliment had slipped from him as Rollo topped up his wine before he’d had time to rein it back in. And then he’d pointed out that the slenderness extended to his fingers too—Lyndon had even held one up for closer inspection whilst rubbing his thumb along that bony little wrist, holding on to it for far longer than necessary. Bloody idiot. So, he decided to shut up for a bit.