Lessons in Power (24 page)
very audible. On this beach the men were alone and it was just as well.
They made a handsome couple, lying out on the sand, muscles scarcely contained by their bathing
suits—an ornament to any gathering, a fine pair of men.
“I hate the beach if there are women about. I always suspect them of fantasising about me,” Rex
confessed as they soaked up the sun. “Don’t look so shocked, I’m not that vain. Some of the more forward Massachusetts minxes tell me so.”
“And what do you say to them?”
“That I’ve never dreamed of anything but cash registers or the raising of Aberdeen Angus cattle.” Rex smiled, sighed, drizzled more sand onto Matthew’s chest. “I like women, although only the hearty,
maternal type, not young, flirty ones. And then just as pleasant company. For anything else I prefer a man—one who’s quiet, intelligent, sensible and amusing.”
Matthew guessed the words were aimed at him but knew they’d apply equally well to his host.
Alistair Stafford was now free, somewhere on the continent or so rumour had it, still bitter, resentful, conceited, handsome, childish. He could stay there, out of Matthew’s life forever. “Will we go out again tonight for a walk under the moon? I’ve never heard such a cacophony of insect noise.”
“If you wish. All the business is pretty well sealed, there’s nothing else on that front until the papers come back from the legal men and we see how they want to poke their noses in. Under the moon it is,
but…” Rex stopped drizzling sand, looked serious. “Look—this publishing business isn’t the only merger I have in mind, if you get my drift.”
“I think—” Ainslie swallowed hard, containing the excitement, “—I catch it entirely.”
“Then tonight, you let me kiss you, okay?” Rex grinned broadly, ridiculously handsome and full of
life under the blazing sun.
“Aw, Rex.” Ainslie produced an approximation of the East Coast drawl. “Why wait till tonight?”
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Charlie Cochrane
July 2nd. Delivery of a package to Forsythia Cottage, around breakfast time.
“Don’t you like it then?”
“It’s very well made, but then I’d expect that of Waite’s.” Orlando sounded as if he’d made purchases at those particular tailors all his life.
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
“It’s very nice. I’m just not sure that red velvet is really my sort of thing, in a jacket. When would I wear it?”
“High Table, naturally. Oh steady on, don’t choke, that was just a joke, you know. You could wear it
at Mama’s at any time. It would quite turn the old girl’s head. But mainly I’d like you to wear it here, at home. For me.” Jonty smiled and gently stroked the fabric. He’d ordered the garment secretly, knowing that Waite’s had his lover’s measurements and would be able to produce a work of art without the sitter being actually present. He had been
with child
to see the finished product. “Put it on for me, please?”
Orlando pulled on the jacket. It fitted to perfection and looked in many ways sensational. It certainly evinced a certain look in both their eyes which made them wish it wasn’t breakfast but supper time instead.
“Does it make me look like a Nancy boy?”
“No. A hint of the aesthete, although you’re far too masculine to worry about that.”
“Just as well.” Neither man appreciated effeminacy. They were first and foremost men and didn’t ever
choose to be like women, even if some of their inclination did. “I’ll wear it tonight at dinner, which will be here and not at High Table, thank goodness.” Orlando smiled. “I don’t recommend that you buy one like this. With your slovenly eating habits poor Mrs. Ward would be beside herself trying to keep it clean.”
Jonty cocked his head to one side and smiled—it was the look that meant mischief. “We could ask
Mrs. Ward to make us a picnic, take it and a bottle of bubbly down to the river. I’ll get a punt organised and we can meander along until we find a convenient willow. You can have control of the pole, you like that.”
He tried an encouraging look and was pleased to see it returned.
“That would be pleasant enough. Long time since we went punting.”
“I always thought you were avoiding it, given what happened last time.”
Orlando began to redden. “Hmm. Well, that might not be possible this time, given how late it stays
light. Bit further on in the year is a much more tempting time.”
“Tonight it is, though, Orlando. You can wear that new jacket and I’ll count the number of girls who
blush or flutter their eyelashes at you. We can stay out very late, stagger home up the Madingley Road and let our good lady housekeeper tell us off.” Jonty looked into his lover’s eyes and knew that the man
couldn’t say no.
The evening was perfect, hardly a cloud in the sky to spoil the vast expanse of blue which enveloped
Cambridge like the canopy of a great tent. The sun had seemed reluctant to head for the horizon and
lingered in the west, colouring the blue with ever-deepening red and orange hues. Perhaps it was
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Lessons in Power
determined to treat East Anglia like the Scottish Isles and barely allow a hint of darkness to spoil the evening.
They punted leisurely up the river, finding a sward of green upon which they could spread a rug and
enjoy a cold omelette bursting with herbs, some excellent canapés, cake, and more champagne than any
man might dare to consume while remaining relatively sober. Jonty wondered whether the police would be likely to come and see if Orlando could steer his punt in a straight line after two glasses of bubbly, which was countered with speculation about whether Jonty would like the punt pole inserted into a certain part of his anatomy.
The punt rested under the willows, peaceful under the darkening sky. It reminded Orlando of sitting
beneath the apple tree in the garden of his family home, fascinated by the dappled light through the
branches which made strange, flowing patterns on the pages of his books. Trigonometry, they usually
concerned, the beautiful interactions of sine and cosine that made sense of line and angle and the ninety-degree corner that had no place in nature. Now he had something, or someone, more beautiful to consider.
It was wonderful here, an almost sacred place for them and one where the chances of being caught—while not nonexistent—were very small.
They lay quietly as the gloaming descended, watching the diminution of the light through the curtain
of the willow fronds. They chatted, in voices hardly above a murmur, held hands and made plans for the summer ahead. The magnificent red jacket, which had, according to Jonty’s tally, turned the heads of fifteen ladies—four of whom were old enough to know better—had been turned on itself and folded to
make a silken pillow for their heads, alongside Jonty’s older, favourite sports jacket.
“Been an interesting year, hasn’t it?” Jonty reached for one of the fronds that canopied them,
caressing the long leaves and enjoying the feeling of them going through his fingers.
“Interesting is one word for it. Somehow a quiet existence continues to elude us, and we cram as
much excitement into six months as most folk manage in a lifetime.” Orlando bravely kissed his lover’s brow. “There’s been times this year when I was so worried about you, that you might crumble completely under the pressure of turning the chase on Rhodes and his hounds, but you’ve proved as strong as the very walls of St. Bride’s itself. The child of your parents indeed.”
Jonty returned Orlando’s kiss, not confining himself to forehead but venturing to his cheek. “I suspect
interesting
is the price we pay for wanting to be Sergeant Cuff. You will note that I didn’t mention the denizens of Baker Street this time, as I know you object to them.”
“You’re no doubt right.” Orlando parted the green curtains, looking up and down stream, not that
much could be seen in the twilight. It would soon be pitch dark, with only the stars to light their way as they eventually punted downstream to stagger home. But they were still young, as madly in love as they’d been eighteen months before and none of this seemed in any way important.
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Charlie Cochrane
A small but particularly persistent set of fingers made their way across Orlando’s stomach and began
to insinuate themselves between the buttons of the man’s shirt. “No one’s going to come along now. Even if they did, they wouldn’t notice if we were entirely silent. Entirely.” It was as well that Orlando couldn’t see the look on his lover’s face.
“I can manage that admirably well. I can’t vouch for you, though.”
“I can be as quiet as a church mouse should I need to be.”
“That’s not exactly an appropriate analogy, but it will have to do, I suppose.” They kissed, began to caress in earnest. “Jonty?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever worry that we’ll be caught? Knowing this is illegal even when we do it in the privacy of our own home?”
“Well, we’re not going to go all the way, are we? It’ll overturn the punt for one thing. I think we’d better confine it to relatively innocent activity tonight, especially as we don’t want the wrath of Mrs. Ward for soaking that nice new jacket. Although we’re actually much further away from any living thing than when we’re at home, or when we were in Bride’s, so…” The fingers edged on, closer to their intended
target, the one which made Orlando roar like a lion.
“It’s still illegal.”
“I know. And it’s a crying bloody shame.”
Orlando held his lover closer, although he didn’t restrain the wandering hands. “No crying now,
Jonty. No more tears.”
“I think,” Jonty sighed, letting his nomadic hands meander further south, “you could just be right. No need for tears now. All better.”
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About the Author
Charlie Cochrane’s ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching
rugby, and a church service in the evening, with her husband and daughters tagging along, naturally. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport, especially rugby. She started writing relatively late in life but draws on all the experiences she’s hoarded up to try to give a depth and richness to her stories.
To learn more about Charlie Cochrane, please visit her website
www.charliecochrane.co.uk.
You can send an email to Charlie at
[email protected]
or join in the fun with other readers and writers of gay historical romance a
t http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SpeakItsName.
Look for these titles by Charlie Cochrane
Now Available:
Lessons in Love
Lessons in Desire
Lessons in Discovery
Coming Soon:
Lessons in Temptation
Lessons in Seduction
Lessons in Trust
He didn’t think he had a heart. Until he lost it.
Lessons in Love
© 2009 Charlie Cochrane
Cambridge Fellows Mysteries, Book One
St. Bride’s College, Cambridge, England, 1905
Jonty Stewart is handsome and outgoing, with blood as blue as his eyes. When he takes up a teaching
post at the college where he studied, his dynamic style acts as an agent for change within the archaic institution. He also has a catalytic effect on Orlando Coppersmith.
Orlando is a brilliant, introverted mathematician with very little experience of life outside the
university walls. He strikes up an alliance with Jonty and soon finds himself heart-deep in feelings he’s never experienced. Before long their friendship blossoms into more than either man had hoped.
Then a student is murdered within St. Bride’s. Then another…and another. All the victims have one
thing in common: a penchant for men. Asked by the police to serve as their eyes and ears within the
college, Jonty and Orlando risk exposing a love affair that could make them the killer’s next target.
Warning: Contains sensual m/m lovemaking and men in punts.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Lessons in Love:
Just how they’d ever got themselves invited to a rowing club party was a great mystery, particularly to Orlando, who’d just tagged along after his friend as usual. The intense strain they’d been under had been eased by the first glass of the black and bubbly, and life became rapidly rosier with every subsequent one.
Orlando had only managed three and that had been enough to make him almost incapable.
Jonty had been forced to remove him from the gathering before he disgraced himself. There had been
vague mutterings about “too smoky in here, feel the need of a good wash” and some fumbling at waistcoat buttons. Jonty had retained enough presence of mind to whisk him out the door and past the college
fountain, which he’d eyed longingly.
“Could do with a good shower, Dr. Stewart,” Orlando had mumbled at the time and had made an
attempt to remove his jacket.
“Not here, you clown! In the middle of St. Thomas’s and in the middle of winter.”
Orlando had merely looked blearily at him in reply and they’d slithered through the streets back to the sanctuary of Jonty’s rooms. There, the need for cleanliness seemed to overcome Orlando again. “Could do with that bath now, Jonty.”
While St. Bride’s had been behind the times in many things, it had been forward thinking about
bathrooms. And an endless supply of hot water. Orlando removed his jacket and began an attempt on his
waistcoat buttons. Tricky little buggers these proved, all of them seeming to be too big to pass back through the holes from whence they came.
Jonty stood in silent amazement, a rapid wave of both realisation and sobriety passing through his
brain.
He’s going to take off all his clothes, here, in my rooms, and take a soak. In my bath. Then he’s
going to sober up and find himself naked, in my bath, and I daren’t even begin to guess what he’s going to
say or do then. I’m not sure I know what I’ll do, except pray I can resist seducing him.
