Lord Loxley's Lover (8 page)

Startled as she saw Baron Rochester, Sarah looked over the strange old man in confusion and gave a hurried curtsey by way of greeting.

“Sarah, this is Baron Alexander Rochester, Mr. Rochester’s father. Baron Rochester—Baron Rochester? This is Miss Sarah Meriwether.”

The Baron gave her a very friendly smile and bowed to her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Meriwether.”

“Is Mr. Rochester back?”

“No,” Sarah said. “I’m afraid not, Fitz. Did you expect him?”

“I suppose not,” Fitz said, swallowing down his disappointment. “Mr Egby, will you see Baron Rochester to a guest room, please? Probably on a rather semi-permanent basis.”

“Yes, sir,” the houseman said, and led off Baron Rochester.

Sarah hooked her arm through Fitz’s as they watched them go. “That poor man.”

“Yes,” Fitz agreed. “And it may break Miles’ heart anew to see him so addled. But we shall feed him, and care for him, and it is my hope that his wits will improve with time, care, and the return of his wife and son.”

“His wife!” Sarah echoed. “Fitz, what have you done?”

“Oh,” Fitz said, realizing he should have mentioned that. “I invited her to the wedding.”

“
Fitz
,” Sarah groaned, and spent the next hour scolding him for not telling her about having invited additional wedding guests, not to mention putting himself at risk and haring off across the country on mad schemes.

Fitz endured it good-naturedly, since most of the scolding happened during and after he’d been provided dinner and ale, and he found that he really quite enjoyed Sarah’s sisterly fussing, having not had any family but Lady Mathilda Loxley to worry over him since age thirteen.

T
he wedding had almost started
when Miles arrived.

Fitz was near to panicking, retying his neckcloth for the hundredth time. When Miles walked through the door, Fitz seized him. “Miles!” he cried, and then released him and set about blushing over his hasty embrace. “I had feared you were not coming.”

“I did promise,” Miles said, taking it upon himself to tie Fitz’s neck cloth properly. “Come on then, let’s see you wedded.”

“I would speak to you after the wedding,” Fitz said. “Urgent business matters. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I will be right here, my lord,” Miles vowed.

“Good,” Fitz said. “Now go and sit with your parents.”

Fitz got to enjoy the shocked look on Miles’ face for a brief moment and made his escape before Miles had a chance to react.

Despite Fitz’ title and the Meriwethers’ money, the wedding was a simple country affair, sprawled across the manor lawn in the June sunshine. Sarah looked pretty in a light blue dress, although Fitz rather suspected that she was eager for it all to be over. He didn’t dare look towards where Miles might be sitting, having not had the chance to explain to him about the arrangement with Sarah and his feelings toward Miles. If he looked, he knew he might see hurt on Miles’ face or, worse, a blank coldness.

When the ceremony was over and the guests had begun milling around the refreshments, Miles cornered him. “Fitz, what did you do?”

“I invited your parents,” Fitz said, sipping blithely at his champagne and doing his best to appear nonchalant despite the urge to hide his face in the cup.

“How?” Miles asked. “My father isn’t making much sense; he appears to believe that you heroically fought off a dozen men in order to rescue him.”

“That,” Fitz said, “is precisely what happened.”

Miles glowered. “What did you do?”

“I think we should discuss this
after
the guests have left,” Fitz said, having mostly surrendered by now to the urge to hide behind his cup.

Miles continued glowering at him, so Fitz retreated swiftly amongst his guests. He found that no one had very high standards for conversation from him on his wedding day, on account of most of them wanted to speak at him about how lovely they had found the ceremony, how beautiful Sarah’s appearance, and how lucky a bridegroom he was.

When at last the guests—most especially Lady Mathilda Loxley—had begun to depart, Fitz retired to his study and asked Mrs. Pellicott to send Mr. Rochester. As he waited, Fitz fretted over his papers, leaning against the desk and not allowing himself to pace.

Mr. Rochester was perfectly composed as he stepped through the door. Lord Loxley felt his heart flip over at the sight of the tall, well-dressed Mr. Rochester, looking more handsome than ever. Whatever misery and jealousy Miles felt was hidden behind a composed facade.

“Your bride is waiting for you,” Mr. Rochester said, advancing to stand in front of Lord Loxley. “And here you are hiding in your study.”

“I assure you that Sarah is otherwise occupied,” Lord Loxley said, flushing nervously as he struggled with how to begin, and ended up blurting out: “I wish to dissolve your contract of employment.”

He regretted it at once when he saw the flash of confused hurt cross Mr. Rochester’s face, and blustered onward in an attempt to explain, holding out the second document. “I’d like you to sign this, instead.”

Mr. Rochester took it, glancing it over in deepening puzzlement. “Fitz, what is this?”

“It’s a deed of ownership for Loxley Manor. Aunt Mathilda had the papers transferred into my name a week ago, and I had my solicitor draw this up a week ago. It’s already in your name. You need only to sign.” He moved the inkwell and pen to the front edge of the desk.

“Fitz,” Mr. Rochester repeated, looking befuddled. “You can’t—“

“I can. I have. I would have you manage Loxley Manor as you’ve been doing, but I would have you do it in your own name, for a half share of the proceeds, as my equal.”

“You are being childishly reckless and naive,” Mr. Rochester said, shoving the paper against Lord Loxley’s chest. “This is an insult to your wife.”

“My wife is in full support of it. It is a parcel of the arrangement that Sarah and I have discussed. Would you like to see the rest of the papers we’ve drawn up? You’re aware that Sarah comes with a rather substantial dowry: we’ve arranged that only Sarah will ever have management of it, and if Sarah should die, it reverts to her sisters and their heirs. If I should die, the manor falls to you,” Lord Loxley said, providing him with the accompanying folio of papers. “You’ll notice that there is no provision for any offspring, as there is no possibility of ever having any.”

Mr. Rochester looked up confusedly at that.

“Sarah and I have an arrangement,” Lord Loxley said, “as I have been
trying
to tell you for this past month. Sarah shall never be anything more than a sister to me. She wishes very earnestly to never share a man’s bed nor to ever bear children, and I have gladly promised her that.”

Mr. Rochester’s brow had furrowed, and Lord Loxley could see that he was beginning to understand.

“Sarah and her sisters are downstairs now, in secret, making preparations for a second wedding. If you’ll have me.”

“What?” Mr. Rochester asked, setting down the papers on the corner of the desk and stepping close to Fitzhenry.

“I have also,” Fitzhenry explained, curling his hands lightly around Mr. Rochester’s sides, “been trying to tell you that I’m in love with you.”

“Fitz,” Miles said, very softly. He still seemed puzzled and disbelieving, but his hands came up to wrap around Fitz in return.

“Miss Lucy has very generously offered to marry us in the faery tradition. It seems she is quite qualified and experienced in the matter, and has overseen several marriages among the wee folk, whose laws allow, as you may recall, for a person to marry whosoever he chooses.”

“Fitz,” Miles said again, smiling with warm amusement. “This is ridiculous.”

“I’m given to understand that such things are also done among human folk, as molly weddings, although I think I’d be a rather poor molly and I hope you won’t mind if I don’t wear a dress.”

That made Miles laugh, pressing in closer against him. “Fitz.”

“Please,” Fitz whispered against his lips. “Stay. Manage the manor with me. Marry me.”

“Yes,” Miles promised, and kissed him.

S
arah
and her sisters were waiting downstairs in the candlelit parlor, along with Mr. and Mrs. Meriwether and Baron and Lady Rochester. The girls had built a little bower along one end and draped it with flower garlands. They further bestowed flower crowns upon Miles and Fitz as they entered, all of the girls giggling with delight at the little secret wedding.

Miles endured all this with happy puzzlement, keeping hold of Fitz’s hand. “Father,” he said, gazing upon his parents. “Mother.”

Lady Rochester, who was a tall and very beautiful woman dressed in simple but handsome garments, gave her son a very stern look. “You told me that you
wrote
to him,” she scolded, which caused Miles to look like a guilty child and made Fitz laugh with delight.

“It’s all right,” Fitz said, smiling and turning his lover’s head for a soft kiss. “He has come back to me now.”

“I’m grateful that you’re here,” Miles said to his parents. “Although Fitz still has quite a bit of explaining to do regarding exactly how that came about.”

Fitz winced.

Miss Anne came over to tug at Fitz’s hand, leading the couple over to the faery bower where Miss Lucy was waiting. Miss Lucy had a flower halo and was holding a beautifully illustrated book of fairies which Fitz supposed served the place of a faery bible. She looked the two of them over, smiling.

“We have come here today,” said Miss Lucy, drawing herself up with great authority, “to witness the wedding of these two spirits, in accordance with faery law and custom.”

She looked so
very
serious about it that Fitz was forced to bite his tongue so as not to laugh. He looked over to his beloved, who smiled back at him, squeezing Fitz’s hand warmly.

“Do you, Fitzhenry Loxley,” she said, “feel your love for this man truly in your heart and in your spleen, which is the source of love—“

Miles made a very small coughing noise.

“—And do you vow to love him truly and honestly, with no resentment or cruelty in your heart?”

“I do,” Fitz vowed.

She repeated the oath for Miles, who bravely managed to repress his smiles and vowed earnestly.

“Good. Then in accordance with faery law and custom, before the witnesses of friends and family, I do declare you wed.”

Fitz bit his lip and blushed, grinning happily.

“You should kiss him now,” Miss Lucy prompted.

Miles snorted warmly at the suggestion, and cupped his hand around Fitz’s cheek, drawing his partner in for a kiss.

The little crowd of witnesses around them cheered and clapped happily.

Mr. Meriwether poured them all more glasses of champagne, with only a little taste for Misses Lucy and Anne, and Fitz blushed and smiled happily as everyone gushed congratulations at them while Miles’ arm remained protectively around his waist.

Sarah—now Mrs. Sarah Loxley—hugged her husband and gave Miles a stern little look. “You had best be good to him,” she warned, which made Miles’ eyes widen in surprise, being unaccustomed to stern warnings from young ladies nearly half his size.

It was quite late when they all went up to bed, after the second wedding and celebration. Miss Anne had fallen asleep on one of the couches, so Miles gathered her up and carried her up to the guest room she was sharing with Miss Lucy. Fitz trailed after him, watching with a smile as Miles gently removed Miss Anne’s little shoes and tucked her into bed.

Then, at last, they retired to their own room.

Miles shut the door, immediately wrapping Fitz up in his arms and pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you,” Fitz said at last, smiling at his husband.

“And I love you, Fitz,” Miles said. “I have indeed for a very long time.”

“Should have told me,” Fitz chastised loftily.

Miles grumbled at him, pulling him closer. “You’re an imp.”

Fitz hugged tightly to him, laughing. “Well, I am married according to faery law and custom.”

Joining him in the laughter, Miles sighed and then hugged him tight, simply holding him for several long minutes.

“Shall I call you Mr. Rochester as well now?” Miles asked, as he loosened his grip and began to untie Fitz’s neckcloth.

“I think you ought to call me Fitz. And I shall call you Miles.”

Smiling, Miles pulled him into a kiss. This kiss was warm and lingering, different from any kiss Miles had given him before. It was full of love and promise, an apology for all the years they’d been needlessly apart and a vow for their future together. Fitz relaxed into it, returning the kiss with heated devotion. He finally had his Miles again, and this time nothing could tear them apart.

They tumbled together onto the bed, limbs entangled and fingers tugging at each other’s clothing. Fitz laughed with effervescent joy, exchanging kisses and laughing as Miles’ fingers roamed ticklishly over Fitz’s newly exposed skin. They managed to both get tangled in Miles’ waistcoat while trying to remove it, which left them giggling helplessly until they finally untangled and shed the rest of their clothing.

Miles drew back only just far enough to gaze down at him skimming his fingers lightly over Fitz’s chest and belly. “You are exquisite, Fitz.”

“I’m afraid, dear husband,” Fitz teased, drawing Miles down into a soft, brief kiss, “that I am no longer a virgin. My maidenhead was taken by a handsome blackamoor at Oxford.”

“I am shocked,” Miles said, laughing and kissing him again. “Was he really very handsome?”

“Devilishly handsome. One glance and I was lost.”

Miles drifted his hands along Fitz’s sides, admiring him for a moment longer and then beginning to plant a line of kisses down the center of Fitz’s chest. He parted Fitz’s thighs, kneeling between them and pausing to admire again.

Fitz blushed at his gaze, flattered by Miles’ unabashed admiration. He felt loved, truly loved, and wished that he’d known sooner how he had felt so that he might have spared Miles the years of anguish. But he knew also that he was happy the way it had worked out, with a new trio of sisters such as he had never had, and Miles as the lord of the manor.

“The oil,” Miles said, brow furrowing briefly, “I don’t know where it is.”

“I kept it,” Fitz said nodding toward his nightstand, “in the hopes that you might be inclined to ravish me again.”

“I am indeed so inclined,” Miles said, fetching the bottle of oil from the nightstand. He returned to kneel between Fitz’s thighs, coating one finger with oil and massaging it gently against Fitz’s entrance. “We must, after all, consummate the marriage.”

“Vitally important,” Fitz agreed. He lifted his hips against Miles’ questing finger, eager as ever to have him within.

Miles obliged him, pressing his finger within and moving it slowly back and forth as he leaned over to kiss Fitz. The kiss was slow and lingering, both of them inclined to take their time now that they knew they had the rest of their lives together. Their tongues played against each other, tasting, coaxing, and exchanging pleasure.

When Miles added a second finger, Fitz moaned into his mouth, breathless and happy. He gasped as Miles explored and massaged within him, quite shameless about his noises. He knew how Miles loved hearing them, and the stone walls of his manor were thick.

“I need you,” Fitz begged.

“Impatient,” Miles grumbled, and increased his haste none whatsoever.

“Always, for you.”

“If I hurry,” Miles explained to him, twisting his two fingers within Fitz and only at length adding a third finger, “you will be sore tomorrow, and I will have to refrain from ravishing my new husband repeatedly and thoroughly, as is my right.”

Fitz huffed impatiently. “You make a valid point.”

“Besides,” Miles said, “I do so love watching you squirm with desire.”