Chapter Fifteen
My dearest Willoughby. His lordship is as well hung as the innocent women at Pendle witch trials.
My dearest Willoughby. I find that his lordship is fast becoming Napoleon to my Josephine.
Samson to my Delilah. Orsino to my Viola.
He is wild and self-willed, and a desperate mass of inconsistencies, and I’m scandalously, hopelessly, one thousand degrees in love with him.
And before you say it, yes, I know I’ve referred to him as an ogre, and I must confess that he has a darker side.
But really, when one teases a tiger, shouldn’t one learn to expect the odd scratch?
Papa. I must add another string to Lord Lyndon’s already impressive bow: swordsmith extraordinaire!
“HIS LORDSHIP HAS requested your presence at luncheon, sir.”
Greaves concealed his astonishment at this unusual turn of events by brushing imaginary lint from Rollo’s topcoat. In contrast, Rollo’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Mr Simpson and his daughters will also be in attendance,” the footman elaborated.
Rollo could not deny a twinge of disappointment. For the shortest of seconds, he’d allowed himself to imagine Lord Lyndon as eager to be alone in Rollo’s company as Rollo was to be in his.
He let out a heavy sigh. Dear Heart, let’s pretend yesterday never happened. “I am to be a foil,” he observed.
Greaves inclined his head slightly. “I believe there are to be some deeds drawn up finalising their charitable venture. His lordship and Mr Simpson are engaged in that currently. Naturally, the squire wishes to use the opportunity to encourage further friendship between his daughters and his lordship.”
“Naturally,” Rollo agreed. “Tell me, Greaves, has Lord Lyndon ever entertained the idea of marriage?”
Greaves considered for a moment. “I believe not, sir. There is talk he had his heart broken as a much younger man and never recovered from it.”
Something in the footman’s manner suggested he did not share that opinion.
“I understand he spent many idyllic summers here as a youth.”
“He did.” Greaves tidied Rollo’s shaving things, seemingly determined not to meet Rollo’s eye. “And this year, I believe he is finding certain aspects of his summer at Goule equally agreeable.”
“Oh.” Rollo’s heart fluttered with hope. “Are you…are you suggesting that—”
“Shall you be requiring the charcoal stripe or the pale yellow today, sir?”
Greaves held up both cravats, his neutral gaze fixed somewhere over Rollo’s left shoulder.
An idyllic summer. Rollo adored a challenge.
“Most definitely the yellow,” he decided. It was the colour of endless possibilities. “And my navy waistcoat with the inlaid paisley.” If Lord Lyndon requested his presence, then that was what he’d have. A shimmering, dazzling, unmissable bright spot of it.
*
HIS HOST’S EXPRESSION held nothing but polite acknowledgement when Rollo joined him in the dining room, not a flicker of what had passed between them. A less optimistic man than Rollo might have imagined he’d dreamed the whole thing.
Simpson and his daughters had already arrived, the man sipping at a thimble of dry sherry whilst his daughters had arranged themselves prettily on the chaise.
From the way the ladies pounced on him, Rollo surmised Lord Lyndon’s efforts at courteous chit-chat had been as feeble as he’d come to expect.
“Miss Eliza, Miss Nancy! Such an unexpected pleasure!”
Indeed it was, and not only because his gushing elicited one of Lord Lyndon’s thunderous scowls.
“May I say, sir, your waistcoat is surely the most divine Goule has ever witnessed,” Eliza trilled. “I covet those buttons.”
“I shall fight you for them,” declared Nancy.
“They were chosen with you two delightful ladies in mind,” Rollo lied and swept a theatrical bow, making them giggle. “With your auburn hair, Miss Nancy, and your scarlet reticule, Miss Eliza, my navy complements you both to perfection.”
Eliza’s cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “And on a summery day such as this one, the shade of your cravat is also a joy to behold.”
“You a shine as radiantly as a second sun, sir,” added Nancy, rapidly fanning herself.
A faint groan sounded from Lord Lyndon’s direction. It was a miracle he’d held back this long.
Pretending he hadn’t heard, Rollo imparted his most charming smile on the sweet girls. “Then, with you and your sister in attendance, by my calculations, that brings the total number of suns up to four.”
Lord Lyndon muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.
Rollo stifled his amusement. “Yet still, we cannot compete with this feast Lord Lyndon has bestowed on us today.”
As the girls oohed and aahed, Rollo made a great performance of cooing his own admiration for their smart hats and pretty dresses.
In truth, it was no hardship. If only his lordship would alight from his noble high horse, he’d discover it for himself.
Both ladies were a credit to their father; the young beaux of the ton would welcome them with open arms—literally and metaphorically.
Rollo would be more than happy to facilitate introductions.
Thoroughly enjoying his lordship’s discomfiture, Rollo compounded it by unleashing his enthusiasm for an update on the vicar’s lumbago. Much improved, it transpired. Lavender oil, on this occasion, had not been required.
“Such marvellous news, is it not, Lord Lyndon?”
“Rivalling, if not surpassing, this morning’s headlines in the Norfolk Chronicle,” Lord Lyndon responded in a tone drier than the parched lawns outside the window. “I’m quite giddy from it.”
“Then that’s twice you’ve experienced giddiness in a matter of days,” said Rollo smoothly. “Perhaps it’s the heat. Although, if memory serves me well, when you came over faint in the nursery, it was far cooler, and you were already seated, if I recall. You—”
“Lunch,” Lord Lyndon declared. He marched over to the bell and gave it a furious jingle. “We need lunch. And something stronger than damned sherry.”
*
SEATED BETWEEN THE girls and across from Lord Lyndon, Rollo batted his eyelashes in his host’s direction every time the poor man looked up. It was set to be the most entertaining luncheon he’d had in years.
“I’m famished,” Rollo declared, casting his gaze over the spread.
At his shoulder, Greaves ladled steaming celery soup into his waiting bowl.
“Cook has outdone herself again. Never have I been as well fed and watered as here at Goule.” He shot another mischievous glance at Lord Lyndon.
“Why, only yesterday, as I sought to escape this stifling heat by climbing the stairs up to the old nursery, did I quench my thirst on the most divine—ouch!”
His left foot found itself suddenly squashed between the hard parquet floor and a heavy boot.
“I need an update on the building progress, Simpson,” barked Lord Lyndon so loudly the girls jumped. “If you would be so kind,” he corrected more quietly.
“Certainly, my lord.” Dabbing nervously at his mouth, Simpson launched into a complex, thorough, brick-by-brick account.
Much of it flew straight over Rollo’s head.
Although, with his host’s solid foot still grinding into his own, concentrating on anything except supping his consommé proved impossible.
Thus, Rollo remained silent. As was the heavy foot’s intention.
Listening attentively, Lord Lyndon ate in silence, too, though his strong, furrowed brows spoke eloquently on his behalf.
Every now and again, he glanced up at Rollo, his dark eyes ruffled with thunder and, unless Rollo was mistaken, a promise of something else.
How Rollo wished they were dining alone!
And that he could offer himself up as dinner.
He let his thoughts drift. What was the correct etiquette after unexpectedly fellating one’s host?
Should he follow his host’s example, grimly tearing at a heel of bread as if it were Rollo’s neck, whilst pretending absolutely nothing had passed between them?
Or did one awkwardly join him and Simpson in a conversation about which he knew nothing, simply to remind his lordship of his existence?
Neither seemed satisfactory. Thankfully, at the end of the soup course, the dull discussion regarding building matters ran out of steam.
Conversation lightened, and Eliza raised a rare glimmer of a smile from their host by expressing admiration for his lordship’s gardening prowess.
He began a description of how he’d pruned the bushes along his southern border.
Should Rollo join in? Or would the temptation of double entendre prove too much?
The topic of gardening was rife with them.
Or should he stay silent and use the time wisely to devise a strategy to seduce his lordship again, if only to convince himself the damned thing had actually happened?
Lord Lyndon’s sensual mouth tilted in another half-smile at Simpson’s appreciation of the hydrangeas clambering up his northern wall. Apparently deeming it safe, he removed his foot from atop Rollo’s.
I’d like to clamber up his northern wall, thought Rollo. And his southern one. And also up his tree trunk legs and across his Herculean chest.
As he swallowed, Fitzsimmons’s broad Adam’s apple bobbed down to his impeccably tied charcoal cravat and then back up again.
A desperate need to lean across the table and bite it assaulted Rollo, or at least nibble on it.
He longed to mount the man’s lap, to chew on the curve of that full bottom lip, to lick the wine from his tongue and—
“Hydrangea colours are so very susceptible to changes in the soil composition, are they not, my lord?” enquired Miss Nancy shyly.
Lord Lyndon nodded, delivering his third half-smile of the meal, not that Rollo was counting. His heart fluttered happily. So beautiful.
“It is my understanding that the shades produced in the flowers are related to the acidity of the soil,” he explained. “In these parts, they naturally tend to blue, unless one meddles with the composition.”
He took another sip, his damned Adam’s apple teasing Rollo once more.
Safely hidden under the table, he shifted uncomfortably.
Twice now, Lord Lyndon had shot him glances loaded with intent.
Once, Rollo was certain he’d foregone his napkin to deliberately swipe a drop of wine from his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, regarding Rollo as he did so.
Hydrangeas be damned. There was a limit to which restraint ceased to be a virtue.
Rollo sank a little in his seat, disguising the movement with a polite cough into his napkin. Then he stretched out a toe and lightly grazed Lord Lyndon’s foot. The lord’s hawkish nostrils flared.
“And do you think they grow best in an open bed?” Miss Nancy pressed.
Fitzsimmons toyed with his wine glass as Rollo ran the tip of his boot up his lordship’s muscular inner calf, eliciting a brief unyielding stare from him, betraying every single one of his desires. None of them noble.
“Whilst they may crave a bed, Miss Nancy,” Lord Lyndon stated calmly, “I find they also behave very well against a wall. Especially from a young age. It trains them.”
“Is that so?” answered Nancy, her eyes widening with interest.
“Oh yes,” he continued wolfishly. “I tend to pin the young ones against it. One must show who’s in charge, don’t you agree, Simpson?” Simpson gave a firm nod as the toe of Rollo’s boot ascended higher.
“Even more so when they lack maturity,” added Fitzsimmons.
By now, Rollo sported a cockstand fit to burst. Reaching the bend of Fitzsimmons’s knees, he nudged them apart.
“Absolutely, my lord,” agreed Simpson. “They require a firm hand; otherwise, they take liberties.”
“Precisely.” Lord Lyndon gave a satisfied harrumph. “I could not have phrased it better myself, Simpson. And when they climb too high, I snip them back down to size.” His dark gaze fastened onto Rollo. “Believe me, I can be quite ruthless.”
A small squeak slipped through Rollo’s lips. Not trusting his own body, he retreated down his lordship’s calf. As his foot touched the floor, a smirking Fitzsimmons once more trapped it under his own.
“Are you quite all right, Duchamps-Avery?” Fitzsimmons enquired, his face a picture of concern. “Have you bitten off more than you can chew?”
“Apologies,” Rollo croaked, waving his hand in front of his face. “It is merely a tickle.”
“I blame this awfully sticky weather,” Eliza responded kindly. “So drying, I find.” She turned her attention back to a surprisingly garrulous Lord Lyndon. “Does your personal taste favour a particular shade, my lord?”
Lord Lyndon tilted his head to one side as if considering it. His polished mahogany eyes continued to bore into Rollo, and the foot pressed harder. Rollo gulped. “I believe I run the gamut of all colours. I like to experiment. Here at the Hall, my tastes vary depending on my mood.”
“And…how is your mood currently, my lord?” Rollo dared.
“Rather splendid, actually.”