Speak Its Name: A Trilogy (17 page)

“How can you say that? We’ve only made love once, and it was—” Jack had no reservations about sex, but he felt shy about discussing the details. “It was delightful, but I can’t imagine you’d be satisfied with nothing more than what we’ve done. What if you find I don’t measure up?”

“I’d be astonished. But if you’d like to explore further possibilities, I am reasonably experienced and entirely at your service. You may observe the jar of facial cream conveniently located on the bedside table.”

“My lord?”

“Not while we’re in bed together, I’m not.” Lord Robert administered a kiss that took the sharpness from his words. “Jack, we’ve spent too many years hiding from each other, denying our feelings because of an absurd misunderstanding, and now that we’re finally naked together, we’re building walls of words between us. I’m tired of talking. Show me what you want to do—and what you want from me. If I have any objections, I’ll voice them.”

Jack blinked. The room was quite bright now, and his lover was watching him expectantly. “Would you prefer—”

“I prefer you use your initiative, Sergeant.” Lord Robert reached down between them and wrapped his fingers around Jack’s cock, giving it a gentle squeeze that set his nerves afire. “I prefer we make love, not conversation.”

“Very good, sir.” Jack grinned, taking the lid off the conveniently located jar. Since kissing had been highly successful thus far, he started with that. Cradling his lordship’s head in one hand, he tilted his face up and dropped a light kiss upon his lips, just the barest touch. He did it again, lingering a bit longer, and then again, repeating the teasing kisses until he could feel Lord Robert reaching up every time he came close. He stopped teasing and opened his mouth, inviting his lover’s tongue out to play.

But that wasn’t enough. And he was at something of a disadvantage, because the other gentleman had neglected to remove the top of his pyjamas. Still administering kisses, Jack slid his hand down the front of the shirt, opening the buttons as he went, until he reached the highly agitated object at the bottom. Robin gasped when Jack’s hand closed around his cock, but he was playing fair, not trying to take control.

Oh, what to do next... with ten years of wishful thinking and fantasy to choose from, he felt like the proverbial donkey starving between two piles of hay. But one thing he did want to do was feast his eyes. He flipped open the shirt front and gazed at the sculptural symmetry, from delicious collarbone all the way down to the foolishness of toes. He couldn’t keep himself from touching, brushing his lips along jawline and throat, blowing cool air against the warm skin. He caressed the flat belly, scratching it lightly with his nails as he closed his mouth around a nipple. He teased it with his tongue while he pinched the other. Lord Robert moaned softly, tangling his fingers in Jack’s hair.

Jack glanced over at the jar beside the bed, and hesitated. “Are you sure you want me to—”

Robert grabbed Jack by both shoulders and shook him. “Yes, I am sure! For God’s sake, Jack, I don’t think anything less would convince you I’m in earnest!” He pulled him down for a kiss, then fell back against the pillow, arching up in a way that drove Jack to distraction. “And you ought to know,” he added with a lazy, sensuous smile, “I really do enjoy it.”

Was there a more beautiful man on the face of the earth? That was theoretically possible. But why look anywhere else with perfection before him? Jack had begun with a vague idea of making long, slow love, but he realised his own body wasn’t going to cooperate. And judging by the way—he grinned—the way Robin’s cock leapt when he touched it, there was no reason to delay.

It seemed rude to give orders to the lord of his heart, so he stroked gently down those muscled thighs before insinuating a hand between them, coaxing them apart. The face cream was indeed convenient, and he warmed it in his hand before putting it to the necessary use. “Is this all right?” he asked, guessing from the way his lover pushed down against his fingers—and the blissful look on his face—that it was perfectly all right.

“Yes.
Oh,
yes. Shall I turn over?”

“If you like.”

“No. This would—oh!” His voice wavered. “Jack, I don’t mean to rush you, but—”

“Not at all.” He took his time, making certain that both of them were as ready as humanly possible, and then positioned himself between his lover’s knees and lifted him slightly. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” He pushed inside slowly, biting his lip against the intensity.

“If you stop, I’ll do something we’ll both regret,” Lord Robert said raggedly. “Could you lie down upon me? That would feel... oh, yes.”

Jack was happy to oblige, but the feel of his lover’s hot organ against his belly, the feel of his own moving within, the unbearable need to go deeper, took the last remnants of his self-control. When he felt his lover’s legs wrap around his own, locking them together, the rhythm of thrust and response passed back and forth between them until they were moving as one being. The pleasure flowed, built, and finally peaked, leaving them lying panting, drenched in sweat and satisfaction.

“That’s better than conversation,” Lord Robert said drowsily.

“Infinitely.” It felt good to lie here like this. So good...

Jack only realised he had fallen asleep at that point when he awoke some time later. The room was filled with a golden glow of full daylight filtered through the heavy draperies, and that same wonderful warmth once again enveloped him.

“Good morning, slug-a-bed,” Lord Robert murmured in his ear

“Are you certain it isn’t afternoon?”

“Still morning. Just past ten.”

“Mm.” He stretched against the body behind him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a babe in arms. The most comfortable arms I can remember.”

“And did I pass muster?”

Lord Robert laughed. “If you think you can apply yourself, I believe fifteen or twenty years of diligent practice should make up for any minor deficiencies. Yes, of course. It was lovely.”

Jack rolled over and stole a kiss. “I promise to practice every day, sir. I will be a credit to the regiment.”

“The one thing that drives me to distraction is to think of all the years we’ve wasted,” his lordship said, cradling Jack’s face in his hand. “So many nights we’ve slept alone.”

Jack felt free to touch in return, and caressed the long line of his lover’s body from shoulder to hip. “Not entirely wasted. I think we may know one another better than if we’d spent all that time in bed.”

“That’s true. You’ve seen me at my worst without giving notice.”

“The thought never crossed my mind. Except those times you had a lover stopping by—those times I felt sorely tried.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. I never realised. I was just relieved that you didn’t seem to object to my illegal, immoral behaviour. I was grateful for your loyalty and tolerance.”

“My cowardice, more like.”

“Never.”

“Yes. It was my fault. I should’ve come to you and said, ‘My lord, this job is splendid, I’ve never had more comfortable quarters, my pay is more than generous, but if you don’t roger me right this minute I shall die of longing.’”

Robert smiled. “Is that a request?”

“Absolutely. But might we get a pot of tea or coffee up here and turn that late supper into a late breakfast? I’d like some sustenance first, if there’s time.”

“There’s time,” his lover said. “All the rest of our lives. We may not be able to retrieve the past, Jack, but now we’ve got the future.”

Return to TOC

June, 1919

London

It was a gentleman’s club like so many others in the better part of London—deep leather chairs, well-cooked meals, discreet servants who came and went on silent feet—a reserve of men, ladies permitted only in the Visitors Room and, on certain days, the dining room.

As Lord Robert Scoville threw in his hand and bade his card-playing companions good night, he caught the attention of a pair of older gentlemen sitting near the fireplace in the front parlour. Glancing up, he said, “Colonel,” sketched a salute, and continued on his way.

“Wasn’t that Scoville?” asked the other gentleman.

“Yes, the younger son. Good man. Under my command in India—if it hadn’t been for him I’d not be here today. And he pulled his weight in the late unpleasantness as well. He must be nearly sixty now, but you’d never guess it to look at him.”

“Hm. My wife carries a mild grudge against that gent. She thought he’d be just the husband for our Penelope, but nothing ever came of it.”

“Your Penny? Happy enough with Cooper, isn’t she?”

“I’ve heard no complaints. They’re starting my grandson at Eton next term. It surprises me a bit that Scoville never married. No shortage of pretty girls thrown his way, but he’s just holed up with his gardens, his manservant, and that pack of Springer Spaniels.”

“Well, lucky him,” said the Colonel. “He’s bred some steady gun dogs—and they won’t turn him old before his time. Did you hear what Phyffington’s boy got up to last week? Ran his motor off the road, drunk as a lord, with a girl in the car—they’re both in hospital, the girl’s parents are fit to kill—Scoville’s well out of all that, and that man of his keeps the place running well enough.”

“Pity his lordship can’t just marry the fellow,” said his friend, probably grudging the lost connection to the Scoville fortune.

The Colonel frowned. “None of that, now. Darling’s been with him through two wars, and I know for a fact you once tried to hire him away.” He chuckled. “Half this club has tried—I did myself. Never been told off so politely. No, Lord Robert’s an honest man.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “See here, if he’d married your girl you’d have no chance to brag about your grandchildren. Scoville took a bullet at Maiwand...” he shrugged expressively. “Darling got him to the medic, but I never was certain the doctor did him any favours keeping him alive.”

His companion winced. “Christ. Funny, though. You’d never know it to look at him.”

“He’s a brave man,” the Colonel said sternly. “And you keep it to yourself, Carstairs, or I’ll know where the whispers started.”

Carstairs was suitably chastened. “God, yes. The poor bastard!”

In the vestibule just off the parlour, out of sight but not out of hearing, Jack Darling grinned and gave the Colonel a mental tip of the hat. He had long since discarded his jealousy of Robin’s former lovers. Most of them were decent men, after all, and the Colonel, one of the few who knew their secret, was a positive angel. They’d have to invite him over for dinner one evening so he could regale them with the story of spiking Carstairs’ guns.

Still smiling, Jack went off to summon a cab to take them home.

Return to TOC

In which I meet the young lady my father has meant for me and I deflect my father from spoiling his own endeavours.

There are certain things expected of a third son. That one will not put oneself forward, that one will join the army, or the church, or the bar. That one will not, in an attempt to inherit and whatever the provocation, murder one’s elder brothers and that one will, if at all possible in the circumstances of
being
a third son, marry well.

This is particularly important if one’s family is wealthy, (but not titled), and one’s brothers have married ladies who have increased the financial aspects of the line, but who have disappointed one’s father in being, like him, rich but ignobly born. One is taught that one does not talk of the origin of such income. One’s ancestors may have their portraits on painted walls and may well have been forced by circumstances to work for their subsistence but that same shameful toil enables their grandsons and further scions to live in comfort without ever having to mention such endeavours.

One is taught, from the nursery and all through one’s schooldays, that one should be a gentleman above all things. To be a good shot, to honour one’s parents, to do well for the school and to be gallant to the fairer sex. One is schooled to deal kindly with staff, and otherwise with bullies and cads. One is equipped for life.

But I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own.

To say that I was shaken to discover this about myself, would be an understatement in the same vein as were I to airily state that the Taj Mahal was an attractive mausoleum or that Switzerland was a trifle undulating. The sight of a curving cheek, a chestnut curl, a well turned ankle and a trim waist, these are all things that I expected to wake the first stirrings of Eros, and indeed they did; it is just that I did not think they would come from such a wholly unexpected direction.

You might, were I so injudicious to write this account down, raise an eyebrow, your quizzing glass and your voice. You might order me out of the club—blacken my name and drive me out of England and on to the continent—or you might ask me how this came to be. But would I answer you?

I might.

~

It was last spring, the first spring free of war—a soldier’s spring—and London, though cold as h—, was still resplendent in red and white. It was, it seemed to me, as I drove through St James’s with my father, as if London had draped itself in the colours of Victory, daring the Corsican to come again if he dared, to strike north and east—for London at least was ready for him should he dare. It was a glorious puff. I could not begrudge the city for its arrogance. We were all still living on borrowed glories.

We paused as a brougham pulled up beside us and my father, dressed in a jacket from an older bloodbath, raised his hat to the occupants. I followed suit.

“Colonel Chaloner.” The lady within the carriage lowered her parasol and inclined her head in greeting.

“Lady Pelham. Wonderful morning, is it not? You know of my youngest, of course. Did well under Wellesley. Very proud.” My father laughed at his own pun. “Geoffrey, may I introduce Lady Pelham and the Honourable Miss Emily Pelham, of whom I have spoken.” His voice was fraught with inference. He paused and addressed the third occupant of the brougham. “If I knew your name, sir, I forgot it.”