A Wager of Love: M/M Historical Romance (11 page)

Smiling at the sight of him, Laurie felt his heart turn over with longing.

“May I join you?” Laurie asked, once he’d made his way to the end of the patio.

Gilbert’s head lifted drowsily, eyes unfocused, but then he saw Laurie and startled. “
Laurie
!”

The pleasure of being able to startle Gilbert so made him grin, and Laurie helped himself to the empty chair at the table. “Good afternoon.”

“Laurie,” Gilbert said again, at a loss for words for the first time in their acquaintance. “… How are you here?”

“By a lengthy journey on two very unsteady ships,” Laurie said, reaching into his breast pocket for the book of poems, “during which I did not sleep nor eat and am now devilishly ill and exhausted. But I felt that I must return this to you.”

Bewildered but happy, Gilbert took the little volume, running his thumb over the edge of it. “You might have sent it. Or left it with my butler.”

“Which would most assuredly have been the more sensible course of action,” Laurie said, blushing at the thought of the impulsive letter tucked between the pages and wondering if it was too late indeed to snatch it back. “But I fear that would not have helped with the much more serious trouble.”

Focused intently on the cover of the book, Gilbert glanced up quizzically at the comment.

Laurie sighed and rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “To wit, that I missed you.”

Gilbert’s face lit with a smile, happy and relieved. “As did I miss you. Are we friends, then?”

“The dearest of friends,” Laurie promised, smiling and blushing with pleasure to see Gilbert returned properly to smiles. “Will you… will you read to me, Gilbert?” he asked, wanting his friend to open the book.

“Gladly, if it please you,” Gilbert said, but then he got to his feet. “But you do look as though you might collapse. Come. We’ll take you to bed, and I will read to you until you fall asleep. We may talk more once you’ve recovered.”

He took Laurie hand, and they went upstairs to Gilbert’s spacious, sunny suite overlooking the sea. Laurie settled back on the bed, sighing with gratitude at its softness, and Gilbert took a seat by his side to read to him.

Laurie was half asleep already when he heard the crisp of a paper that wasn’t a page of the book, and his eyes opened swiftly as he remembered.

Gilbert already had the letter opened and was staring at the page, lips half-parted as he read. Laurie propped himself up on his elbows, cheeks flushed as he tried to remember what exactly he had written.

“Laurie,” Gilbert said, face writ broadly with emotion. “Did you—is this to me?”

Embarrassed and uncertain, Laurie nodded.

Gilbert’s grin was wide and happy. He leaned over, pressing Laurie gently down on his back and hovering above him, elbows bracketed on either side of Laurie’s head. “You love me?” He whispered.

“I do.” Laurie slid his hands up Gilbert’s sides, feeling the warmth of his solid, healthy body and feeling more certain by each moment that he was truly and deeply in love.

“And for winning the wager,” Gilbert asked, “what will you have for your forfeit?”

“I believe,” Laurie said, as he reached his arms up around Gilbert’s neck, “that it is traditional, in such matters, to ask for a kiss.”

Gilbert’s mouth was already hovering above Laurie’s, and at the request he laughed joyously and kissed him.

L
aurie was awoken
by the smell of breakfast.

Dizzy with sleep, he rolled on his side and propped himself up on an elbow.

Gilbert looked over from the breakfast table, grinning to see him awake, and brought over a tray to set on Laurie’s lap. “Will you eat?” he asked, and promptly kissed him.

“Yes,” Laurie said, when his lips were released again. He smiled and blushed, amazed at this new pleasure of being in love, and sat up properly. Reaching for the tea, Laurie watched as Gilbert made his way around the bed and sat close by Laurie’s side.

“How do you feel?”

“Besotted,” Laurie said, giving him a smile.

“Ah, that is well.” Gilbert kissed his cheek, affectionate in his joy. ”And less ill and tired, I hope?”

“Much improved.” Laurie sipped at his tea, blushing happily. “You did promise to read to me.”

“You,” Gilbert accused, “fell asleep.”

“That is no proper excuse,” Laurie scolded him, but he did turn his head for another kiss.

Gilbert gave it, then got up to fetch the book of poetry. He hooked his arm around Laurie’s waist when he returned, holding him close as Laurie ate. “
Come live with me and be my Love,
” he read, his voice as low and sweet as ever.

K
atherine Marlowe has
a history degree specializing in LGBTQA+ history, and she can very easily be distracted into lengthy discussions on queer cultures and subcultures in dozens of different historical eras and subcultures. When she isn’t writing novels and novellas about handsome men smooching and living happily ever after, she is usually baking, hiking, or fighting eldritch deities in Arkham.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the book please consider leaving me a review! I’d love to hear from you.

T
he bees were
in the lilacs as Percival made his way along the Linston Village road. A particularly fat bumblebee looped sleepily across his path, and then latched on to a spill of flowers that hung down over the stone wall along the road.

Young and in excellent spirits, Percival Valentine twirled his cane as he walked, overseeing everything in the parish with an approving eye. The new spring lambs gambolled happily in the meadows, and all the fields were green with fresh growth. Everything, it seemed to him, was in order, with the exception of Mrs. Hartley’s damaged roof.

He frowned as he approached Mrs. Hartley’s cottage, finding that the damage was more extensive than he had expected. The recent storm had blown down several limbs from the tall oak tree that stood next to her house, one of which had gone fully through the roof and remained there, sticking out in an indignant tangle of leaves and branches.

Rapping politely at her door, Percival sorted mentally through what would need to be done. Mr. Rackham and his son would be best for the work. They might rig up a winch to remove the intruding branch, and Percival trusted to their good sense in the matter of roof repair.

The woman who answered the door was round and smiling, and she invited Percival in at once, clucking at him to sit while she put the kettle on and set about making coffee. “Mr. Valentine, how good of you to come so quickly. I’ve asked Mr. Green to come around with his ladder and rig up a tarpaulin over the hole before it goes and rains.”

“I’m glad for that,” Percival said. He took his hat from his ginger hair and stooped slightly as he stepped through her door, which had been built for a shorter man than himself, into a kitchen hung liberally with drying herbs from Mrs. Hartley’s garden. He kept his head ducked until he had seated himself safely at the kitchen table. “I shall speak to Mr. Rackham about removing the branch and repairing the hole, I’m certain that he and his son will see to it gladly.”

“That’s very good of you, Mr. Valentine,” Mrs. Hartley said, and went on for a bit in a friendly manner about the ferocity of the storm and the awful shock of being awoken by such a great crash.

The oaken instigator of such crash lurked leafily in one corner of the kitchen roof, eavesdropping on their conversation like a particularly nosy neighbour.

“But I said to myself, I did,” Mrs. Hartley said, as she set down the cup of coffee within his reach, already doctored to his taste with generous amounts of sugar and milk, “our Mr. Valentine will see to it right away, and here you are, just the next day, even with your new tenants to be seen to.”

Percival choked on his coffee, and coughed. “The new tenants, Mrs. Hartley?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Green was telling me about it, their carriage arrived just this morning at the Grange. A young lady and two young gentlemen, all three of them very elegant, that’s what Mr. Green said, the very height of the ton, a piece of the
beau monde
right here in our Linston.”

Percival cleared his throat, still coughing a bit on the coffee. “Just this morning?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hartley beamed, and then all at once her eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh, you didn’t know. Didn’t they send anyone to tell you? Oh, but here you are, and how would they find you? Dear me, Mr. Valentine, yes, just this morning.”

Swallowing a large gulp of coffee, Percival got to his feet. “Then I must see to them at once.” He kissed Mrs. Hartley’s round cheek, being thoroughly fond of the older lady, whom he had known all his life. “But not until I have seen Mr. Rackham and secured his promise that he will see to your roof.”

“What a dear you are, Mr. Valentine,” said Mrs. Hartley, blushing happily at receiving kiss from such a handsome young man, which had been her reaction since he began the habit at the age of three. He was, in Mrs. Hartley’s opinion, quite a bit taller but no less charming.

Donning his hat, Percival tipped it to her and took his leave.

Linston Grange was on the far side of the village, and just as far on foot as it would be to return to his own residence at Linston Manor, so there was little use in turning back to fetch a horse. Percival thought that the walk might suit him, so long as it did not rain, and there was still the matter of Mr. Rackham.

It had begun to rain, in a halfhearted little drizzle, by the time he reached Linston Grange. He had been reassured that Mr. Rackham and his son would be able to manage the roof repairs that same day, which allowed him to straightaway put the matter out of his mind. Tomorrow, if he were able, he would visit Mrs. Hartley again. There would be more coffee, the roof would be fixed, and all would be well in his little world of Linston.

Linston Grange was an opulent Elizabethan estate, considerably more spacious and luxurious than his own Gothic manor, and Percival smiled to see it bustling with activity once again. Servants were at work all about the lovely estate, cleaning windows and airing out linens. He had been by twice in the past week to oversee matters and ensuring that everything is done to his satisfaction. The new servants were acquainted with him, and the old ones knew their new duties. Percival was determined that everything should be in readiness for the new tenants, who hadn’t been expected to arrive for another week.

The butler, Mr. Elkins, greeted him properly at the door, taking Percival’s hat and cane. “Mr. Valentine, how pleased we are to see you. I shall inform Mr. and Miss Bolton promptly of your arrival. Ah, Mr. Valentine—” With the utmost decorum, the butler reached out and plucked a sprig of rosemary from Percival’s wavy hair.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Elkins,” Percival said, not concerned in the least by his herbal stowaway. “Mrs. Hartley has very low ceilings, you see.”

Mr. Elkins, who had been hired and sent up from London only a week ago by the new tenants, looked puzzled at this information about Mrs. Hartley but was too well-mannered to inquire.

Once he had been appropriately defoliated of wayward herbs, Percival was shown in to a well-appointed drawing room and announced.

The occupants of the room were threefold: seated on a couch were a gentleman and lady of familial resemblance, while near the mantlepiece stood a third gentleman of generous height and regal bearing. The duo on the couch were too near in age to be anything but siblings, and their likeness of appearance—both of brown hair and warm brown eyes, with small noses and pointed chins—signalled that they might even be twins. The gentleman by the mantlepiece was dark-haired, with lively blue eyes. His shoulders were quite broad and seemed muscular by the way they pulled at his well-fitted coat, and his body tapered to a fine waist above a well-formed leg.

The butler introduced them as Mr. Bolton, Miss Bolton, and Mr. Everett.

“Good morning,” said Percival, and cut a fine bow. “I pray you allow me to earnestly welcome you to Linston Grange.”

All three of them stared at Percival in a state of shock for a moment longer than was polite.

“Oh, forgive us!” said Miss Bolton, rising swiftly to her feet. “We were expecting Mr. Valentine. Unless you are indeed Mr. Valentine? Or perhaps you are his son! You must forgive our surprise.” She glanced toward Mr. Everett at the mantlepiece. “Did you not tell me that Lord Barham had said that Mr. Valentine was elderly? And here you are, sir, of our own age!”

“You are correct on all counts, madam,” Percival assured her, and made a bow. “I am Mr. Valentine of Linston Manor, and also the son of the same. I have inherited the management of the estates from my father, who has been dead these past five years.” His curiosity was much piqued by the mention of Lord Barham, Marquess of Linston, in whose absence Percival and his father had performed management of the Linston estates for decades. “Are you indeed acquainted with Lord Barham?”

“We all are,” Mr. Everett said. “It is our pleasure to be in residence here at Lord Barham’s generosity. Mr. and Miss Bolton are his tenants and I am to be their guest. I understand that he has writ to you of the matter?”

“He did indeed,” Percival confirmed, with a forthright nod, wanting them all to be assured that he was entirely capable in his management of the estates and that he acted with Lord Barham’s full authority. “And it has been my pleasure to coordinate with your staff to ensure that everything is in readiness for our new tenants.”

“A most admirable job you have done of it,” Mr. Bolton commented. “You should know that Lord Barham himself did express to us that he had always respected the competent management of Mr. Valentine of Linston Manor, which competence, he said, only seemed to increase with the passing years.”

Percival flushed with pleasure at the compliment to himself and his father, which was almost the first compliment he had ever received from the strange and distant landlord of Linston. “It has been my honour and pleasure to oversee the Linston estates. And an even greater pleasure to welcome new tenants to Linston Grange. This elegant old place has been too long lonely and empty. She will be glad of such charming occupants.”

Miss Bolton laughed with delight at the compliment. “She can hardly have suffered much, when she kept such a charming overseer. Do sit with us, Mr. Valentine. I shall call for tea.”

Guiding him to a chair, Miss Bolton went to ring for tea. Mr. Bolton leaned in at once to chat, while Mr. Everett left his post by the mantlepiece and came over to take a chair by Percival’s elbow.

“May I ask, Mr. Valentine,” said Mr. Bolton, “has your family had management of the Linston estates for many generations?”

“Oh, yes,” Percival said, sitting up proudly at the opportunity to speak of his favourite topic, which was to say anything whatsoever related to the lands and people of Linston. “My great-grandfather was the last Baron Lindsey, who had the Grange and Estates, but he was the last male heir, with nothing but daughters. I have the Linston Manor from my grandmother, which she held in her own right, but the title of Baron Lindsey is extinct. It was my grandmother and her husband who first had the management of the estates in the manner that I do today, first in the name of the Crown, and later in the name of Lord Barham, created Marquess of Linston.”

Mr. Bolton’s leaned forward during this recounting with polite and earnest interest on his pleasant face. Since Percival’s chair faced Mr. Bolton more directly and it was Mr. Bolton who had asked, he spoke primarily to Mr. Bolton, but found himself alertly aware of Mr. Everett at his side. Mr. Everett leaned his elbow idly upon his knee, chin rested upon his fist. His dark, handsome face was turned toward Percival, steady and intent in a way that sent an eager chill down Percival’s spine.

This was not the first time that a handsome and well-formed gentleman had evoked such a reaction from Percival, although he was somewhat preserved from the frequency these reactions by the obscurity of Linston, which had a significant lack of handsome young gentlemen, especially ones of noble birth. Percival was quite certain that his cheeks had flushed, and did his best to maintain control over himself in all manageable ways.

Near the end of his recounting, Miss Bolton sat down beside her brother once again, and Percival fixed his attention more certainly upon her. The elegant and refined Miss Bolton was of above average height, and her straight white dress, artfully trimmed with gold, served to accentuate her willowy figure. Her brown eyes sparkled engagingly above her pert nose and cupid’s-bow lips. Percival was entirely surprised that such a charming young lady of seemingly comfortable means should remain unmarried, when she was certainly old enough to have seen at least a season or two in London society.

“Do you not find yourself lonely, in such a sleepy village as Linston?” Mr. Everett asked. His voice was deep and rich, with what might have been a note of brogue tucked into the crisp respectability of his accent. “For surely there cannot be much society of your own rank and age.”

The sound of that voice, so near by his side, sent another chill down Percival’s spine and brought renewed colour to his cheeks.

“Certainly not at all,” Percival assured him. He turned his gaze to Mr. Everett’s blue eyes and found them to be focused upon him with the sort of idle intensity that Percival imagined he might find in a lazy tiger. Clearing his throat and continuing to blush, Percival dropped his eyes so that he might regain the ability to structure his thoughts. “There are an assortment of noble families in the district, many of whom are quite sociable.”

Mr. Everett’s gaze remained unwavering upon his face. Percival met it briefly and then looked away promptly, fastening briefly upon the much less alarming faces of Mr. and Miss Bolton for a few seconds each before he found his eyes returned to Mr. Everett’s face and remaining there.

“And—the—” Percival cleared his throat again. “Indeed, I quite enjoy the provincial society of Linston’s inhabitants.” He was staring at Mr. Everett. Realising this, Percival looked away swiftly, fixing his eyes upon the carpet out of desperation that he should be too blatantly obvious in his reaction to Mr. Everett. “They may not be people of Quality, but I am deeply proud to have the acquaintance—and hopefully the trust—of every one of them.”

When he looked up again, he found Mr. and Miss Bolton exchanging a glance, and feared that his lack of experience with the London ton must be quite evident in his countrified ways. Mr. Bolton looked particularly amused: his lips tilted with a smile that was thankfully free of mockery or malice.

“I am certain it is so,” Mr. Everett said in his smooth, deep voice. It raised the hairs on the back of Percival’s neck, and he began to fear that the colour on his cheeks would be permanent. “As Mr. Bolton did remark, Lord Barham has only ever evinced the highest regard for your—and your father’s—management of the Linston estates. Such a capable overseer must indeed be loved by his charges.”

Percival looked over in flattered surprise at the compliment and found Mr. Everett’s eyes to be as dangerously entrancing as they had been the last time he had looked. “It is good of you to say so,” Percival said, leaning sideways in his chair in the hopes that a few more inches of distance between them might diminish the intensity of Mr. Everett’s influence upon him. “Truly, Mr. Everett, you—and Lord Barham, I am sure—do me too much credit.”