Best Gay Romance 2013 (5 page)

“You will not be staying here,” she said as if the very thought was repugnant to her. “You are going to the country to work for my son, Mr. Marcus Wynterbourne, who fancies he is writing a book. He wants me to send him a young lady, but I don't trust him with one.”

Not to be trusted with young ladies? Just my luck!

The journey to East Sussex on the public coach was hellish, to say the least. Squashed in for the first half of the journey between a fat, dirty woman and her farting husband, then for the second leg, alone in the carriage with a man with roving hands and halitosis, my senses were outraged along with my very person. The first I ignored as best I could: the second I slapped, then bit when he refused to accept my firm refusal.

I arrived eventually in the pitch dark at a vast country estate, tired, hungry, dejected and wanting my mother. None of my needs were met except for a bed, and I retired hungry and miserable, bursting into tears under the covers. Sometime later I paused in my pathetic weeping, swearing I heard a step outside my door. I drew the eiderdown up under my chin like a maiden
defending her virtue, though my virtue was long since trampled upon, and I was more disappointed than anything when no one entered my lonely chamber.

Over breakfast with the servants, who never spoke directly to me, and looked at me as though I were a recent escapee from a traveling freak show, I fantasized about my new Master as I had done since first hearing his name: Marcus Wynterbourne. Since childhood I had dreamed of a man, cold and haughty, whose icy heart could only be melted by me. But Mr. Wynterbourne liked the ladies, it seemed, and he was probably ugly anyway.

At length I was shown into a sunny morning room, where a man stood at the window with his back to the room, ignoring me. I remained standing by the door until he deigned to turn around. When at last he did, the sight of him captured my breath as I had dreamed it would.

When he approached me, I observed a man nearly as slender as myself, though far taller and more masculine. He had black hair beginning to be streaked with silver, intense dark eyes and a frenetic presence. I stepped back, afraid for a moment he would grab me to examine me more closely. Instead he pulled a letter from his pocket and held it at arms' length to read it. “James Swift,” he pronounced. “Eighteen years old, well read, handwriting excellent.”

“Jade,” I corrected. “Sir, my name is Jade Swift.”

He laughed, an almost frightening sound, then stopped abruptly. “Jade? My mother changed your name. She wants you to be James while you work for me.” He looked me up and down, a sarcastic smile playing about his mouth.

“Well, I won't be,” I said, petulantly. I had had quite enough. “My name is Jade. I insist upon it.” My heart fluttered as I spoke.

“Do you?” He stepped closer, looking down at me. He really was very tall.

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered, not quite so sure of myself now that I could feel his breath against my cheek. He smelled wonderful, nothing fancy, just expensive, masculine soap and a splash of Bay Rum. He was clean-shaven in a time when whiskers on a man were all the rage. I could not admit him handsome with his strong jaw and thin face. In fact he was a bit scary looking. However, it would not be a lie to call him attractive.

“Jade,” he said, as if mocking me. “I am writing a book and you will take dictation and fetch any volumes I require for my research, though most of my writing is a memoir of my extensive travels. Go to my office at the end of the hall and wait there for me.”

As I trotted down the carpeted hall I experienced a violent excitement in my stomach.
Love at first sight
is what they call it, and a romantic boy like myself had passed many a happy hour envisioning such an event. I had felt attraction at first sight so many times it did not bear scrutiny. Indeed, there were times when a wink from a pretty boy or handsome man was sufficient to have me following him like a puppy into the first dark corner available. But this weakness of the stomach, this unfathomable desire, was new to me. Several minutes later my Master entered the room, threw himself into the chair behind the desk and began to dictate.

 

That was it for the next month and a half. He dictated while I transcribed. He ignored me completely while I sat bored stiff and longing to be noticed. He marched up and down the room speaking into the air, hands clasped behind his back. I caught my breath every time he walked too close, which he did increasingly as the weeks passed until I was driven insane with yearning. I entered my room each evening, my cheeks drenched in tears of frustration, to write a missive to mother about how desperate I was for London, the Theater and her.

I was completely infatuated with my Master and I had a suspicion that he knew. I had a great tendency to fall easily in and out of love, and every time I did, I thought it would last forever. But what I was beginning to feel for Mr. Wynterbourne was different. The usual intense emotions were there, but it was as if something deep-rooted had begun to grow inside me. I sought a communion with him I did not understand and could not have put into words even if I had wanted to.

One afternoon he leaned over my shoulder so closely that his body touched mine and said, “Let me see what you have so far, boy.” The feel of his warm breath against my ear caused my cock to rise. I swear he chuckled as he walked back to his desk. Sometime in early July he caught me distracted and staring out into the grounds, which had grown beautiful with the fullness of summer. I had missed several lines of dictation.

“Am I keeping you from something you would rather be doing, boy?” His sarcastic schoolmaster tone snatched me from my reverie. I turned to him, my ire raised. I was sick of the job and sick of pining for a kind word or a warm look from him. I would rather he slapped me than offer this total negation of my being.

“I should never have left London!” I burst out like a ridiculous child.

Very calmly he asked, “What would you have done had you remained?” With one hand, he pulled the chair from behind his desk, plumped it in the middle of the room and sprawled in it, elbows propped on the arms, fingers steepled, long legs stretched out before him. His intense gaze rested upon me and my cheeks began to grow warm. The only thing I hated about being so blond was the tendency for every emotion to show in my face. He beckoned me to stand before him. “Speak,” he demanded. “Tell me all about yourself.”

I was in shock. Moments ago I was bored to tears and resentful that he ignored me. Now I stood before him, all his attention focused on me, and I wished myself a mile hence. I had no idea where to start. “My mother is on the stage. I too worked on the stage.”

“What did you do on the stage?” His eyes looked serious yet his mouth tilted at the corners and I was certain he wanted to laugh.

“I was a magician's assistant for a time and sometimes I would dress up to take part in skits, but I want to be a singer again. I sang on the stage when I was younger. I was billed as
Amethyst
'
s Angel
. But then my voice broke.”

“That does tend to happen. Sing for me,” he ordered.

I trembled. I stood only a few feet from him utterly exposed in this small venue. I clasped my hands before me and raised my voice in an old music hall love song. When I was done the silence filled the room with far more intensity than my singing.

At last he spoke. “Why did you leave the theater?”

“My mother insisted I do something more respectable.” I hated saying that, but it was what she told me.

“Your mother wanted you to do something you could make a living at because you will never again make a living with that voice. It's awful,” he said calmly.

I turned from him quickly to hide the hot tears coursing down my pink cheeks. I hated him! I wanted to strike him and run from the house back to my mother. How could he treat me so cruelly?

“Boy,” I heard him say. I would not face him again, but stood at the window with heaving shoulders, crying silently. Then he was behind me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist, pinning my body to his. With his other hand he wiped my tears and drew me round to face him. I pressed my hot face into his chest and
felt his hand on the back of my head, caressing my hair.

“Jade. Precious Jade,” he whispered my name. “Don't cry, beautiful boy.” Thrilled and shocked by turns at this unexpected intimacy, I dared not move for fear he would become sensible of his madness and let me go. “Your voice is dreadful but I was rather cruel in saying so. Your writing on the other hand is excellent. You take fast dictation and your skill at research is impressive. You are a clever boy. Well spoken and with a fine vocabulary.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I replied through my tears, thrilled at the praise, yet still feeling limp and stupid.

“I have grown very fond of you,” he said quietly. Then he held me at arm's length, gazing down at me. “And you are beautiful.”

I was so confused. For weeks he had been distant, calling me Swift or boy, mostly boy. Now he called me precious Jade and held me in his arms. Was he toying with me? I threw myself at him and wrapped my arms around his waist as if I would never let him go. “Sir, Mrs. Wynterborne said you are not to be trusted around young ladies,” I ventured. “Yet I have never seen a lady in your company.”

“Yes, I know. It is me who belongs on the stage, not you, boy. I'm a fine actor. But what choice do we have?” He smiled kindly for the first time in all those weeks and his voice was tender when he said, “May I have you?”

I nearly fainted. Was it really that simple? Had he really just offered to make me his own, or had I misheard? “Yes, please, Sir,” I said without hesitation, assuming he would sweep me up in his arms and carry me to his bedchamber, much to the shock and horror of any servant we passed on the way.

My Master was a very strong man despite his slender build, possessing tight, sinewy muscles, and now he put his strength
to good use. Before I could react, he had my trousers down and threw me over the back of a chair.

It seemed the virtue I thought I had lost long ago was still intact, because I had never dreamed of what he did to me next. I was an innocent. I was a virgin! All my kissing and fumbling in various cobwebby corners of London theaters was nothing but childish play, preamble to this moment. Mr. Wynterbourne reamed me good and proper, then fastened his trousers and sat down again behind his desk. I turned to look at him, myself still in dishabille, and he merely started to dictate again. Utterly humiliated, I dragged up my trousers, grabbed my pen and ink and attempted to keep up.

That night in bed, I cried my heart out. Master had pretended to want me, then he had done no more than use me like a piece of meat from Smithfield Market. My sobbing was so loud and indulgent that I did not hear him enter my room. At some point I looked up to find him standing silently beside my bed. I sat up at once and did the eiderdown thing again, which made him laugh. “You're cruel!” I burst out, and began to weep once more, before crying, “I love you.” How pathetic I must have sounded.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Of course you love me. I expected you would the moment I saw you with your peach-perfect skin and overly long hair.” He cocked his head to one side, looking down at me from his great height. Then he sat on my bed and took my trembling hands in his. “Do you wish to be my boy, precious Jade?”

I drew his hands to my mouth, smothering them with kisses. “Yes, Sir, yes please, Sir.”

Solemnly, he nodded. “I knew you would accept.” Had he been anybody else I would have wanted to teach him a lesson for being so smug. But he was not anybody else. He was my Master. All I felt was gratitude and a desperate desire to please him.
Disappointment flooded me when he stood and walked to the door. I thought at least he would invite me to his chamber. “Be prompt in my office in the morning as usual and in the evening we will talk about my expectations for your new position.”

My confusion must have been obvious; still, he waited for me to ask. “New position, Sir? I am still working for you, aren't I?”

“You will continue as my secretary,” he agreed. “Indeed, I could not do without you for my book. But now you are more than that. Now you are my slave.”

“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” was all I could say.

 

The next morning I reported for my day's work in Master's study, my heart pounding. I expected him to greet me with a kiss and an embrace. He did not. As always, he waited for me at his desk, and the moment I entered the room, he pointed at my escritoire. I sat down, and he began to dictate before I could pick up my pen.

All night I had hardly slept, sick with anticipation and excitement, and for what? This? Being ignored as usual. Being treated like a piece of furniture as usual. As the day wore on, so did my unease. Had I imagined him coming to my chamber last night? Had I wanted him so desperately that I had imagined the entire scene?

At six o'clock, just as I thought he would have me writing far into the evening, Mr. Wynterbourne stopped speaking and walked to the window. I watched him stand silent for a while, and then he looked at me with his intense gray eyes. “Come here, boy.”

In my excitement to get to him, I dropped my pen to the floor, then moaned in fear that I had splattered ink onto the beautiful Persian rug. I stooped to pick it up, fumbling stupidly, and returned it to the pen case. He watched, smiling, and waited
patiently until I stood before him. I wanted to throw myself at him but dared not presume.

He held out his arms to me, and I fell into them with such relief that I feared I might weep again. “Sir, I thought you had changed your mind,” I mumbled into his lapel.

“Not at all, dear boy. When I decide upon something, I always know I have made the right decision.”