Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thiry-One
Their father, the earl, still wasn’t quite Lyndon’s cup of tea, in the same manner that Lyndon himself and Tommy Squire would never quite be bosom chums either. They’d rub along though, for the sake of Benedict. Lyndon could manage that.
He yawned, ready for his own bed. It had been a day of two halves (the second by far more palatable than the first), the kind of day that would live inside him forever.
Rollo awaited him in his bedchamber. Soon, Lyndon would climb the stairs and join him, whereupon, despite his exhaustion, he intended to twist that supple, little body into the kind of knots keen fishermen only dreamed of.
For the last time, he hefted Major General Ponsonby in his palm.
The toy had a nice, solid weight to it. It was a shame to say goodbye, really, but the battle was done.
He’d have Greaves tidy them all away tomorrow.
Settle them into a new home inside the old toy chest, nestled inside the warm folds of an unfashionable red dress.
A dream come true for most serving soldiers.
His bow and quiver of arrows could be stowed in there, too, though he’d still enjoy a snifter or two of brandy of an evening.
Even his dear boy couldn’t rid him of all of his bad traits.
Pissing in the fireplace, though, he probably shouldn’t push his luck with that one.
Young Rollo Duchamps-Avery’s tongue might be mostly laced with honey, but his eyes could kill without ever drawing blood.
And right now, they’d be demanding a gallon of his if he didn’t get up those damned stairs.
On that note, Lyndon pressed his lips to the proud general. Then, after carefully placing him back on the mantelpiece at the head of his men, he headed for the door.