Seducing Stephen

Seducing Stephen

Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon

Seducing Stephen Copyright © February 2010 by Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. eISBN 978-1-60737-519-7 Editor: Sandra Rychel Cover Artist: Anne Cain Printed in the United States of America

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Chapter One Summer 1856

“Gads, there's a boy in my bed. It's Christmas come early.” The laconic drawl jerked Stephen from a deep sleep, snapped him awake, and set him bolting upright, blinking in the candlelight at the dark devil who stood over him. He gasped for breath and sputtered for an answer, but words failed him, as they so often did. Words like “who,” “why,” and “what” all stuck to his tongue, and only an anguished, stammering w-w-w-w came from his throat. The man shed his midnight jacket and began to unbutton his gleaming white shirt. His shoulders broad, his back ramrod straight, his dark hair falling in loose curls around harsh, shadowed features—he was Stephen's every nighttime fantasy made flesh, the fascinating, frightening creature of erotically charged dreams, the man who would touch him in ways he'd only furtively touched himself up to now. “Shove over then, and make room for an old man on the warm side of the bed.” The devil's quiet chuckle was like fingernails scraping Stephen's spine. “Well, perhaps not old. I prefer to think of myself as seasoned, like a good piece of meat.” “W-who…?” Stephen finally managed to blurt. He was deeply aware of the man's gaze lingering on his bare chest, so he pulled his gaping nightshirt closed. “Lord Northrup, Earl of Stafford, but you may call me Peter since it appears we're going to be such intimate companions as to share sleeping quarters.” He pulled the shirt off his shoulders, and the candlelight made his skin glow golden. Shadows delineated the muscles of his biceps and chest. A darker shadow of hair furred his pectorals and his flat belly. “I'm not one to raise a fuss in the middle of the night when it's my fault for arriving so late to the party. So, my lad, I'm willing to share if you are.”

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Stephen could no longer manage so much as a vowel. He was struck speechless by the outspoken earl who made suggestive comments without a thought for how they might be construed by a stranger. The man was stripping off his boots and breeches now. What kind of an earl traveled without a valet to help him with his attire? When the stranger tossed back the covers and started to climb into the tall bed, Stephen scooted over as fast as a fox chased by hounds. The man wore no nightshirt. He was barely clothed in drawers, the drawstring of which was tied loosely so they hung halfway down his hips. Before Northrup pulled the covers over himself, Stephen beheld the shallow indentations below each hip bone and the shape of his erect cock beneath the undergarment. “Sir, I could go elsewhere,” Stephen finally said with a gasp. “It's no b-bother at all for me to move to another room.” One dark brow rose high as Northrup settled back against the pillow, an arm behind his head. The position lifted his chest, and Stephen's gaze was drawn to the hard nubs of his brown nipples. “Come now. No need to keep pretending. I know Euphemia Pratt and her pranks. This is the room she always gives me. If she placed you in my bed, it's for a good reason. One I think we'll both enjoy.” Beneath the covers, Stephen pinched his forearm, checking to see if he was perhaps still asleep. This was the stuff of dreams, waking up to the impossible fact of a handsome man making sexual suggestions—and reaching for him under the covers. The young man flinched when a warm, heavy hand settled on his thigh, burning through the light cotton of his nightshirt, but his cock swelled, thrilled at the touch. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. He smelled the fresh scent of night air and a whiff of whiskey on his late night visitor. “Will you deny Mrs. Pratt told you to expect me?” Here it was—the moment for him to explain this was a huge misunderstanding, a double booking of one of the bedrooms. He was a friend of Brian Pratt, come to visit over the holidays. All he had to do was protest and climb out from under the bedcovers. But Stephen felt paralyzed by the hand on his thigh, sliding nearer his groin. He held utterly still, kept his denial to himself, and held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

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The demon gazed at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “You're a very pretty one, with your tawny, tousled hair and that pouting lower lip. However, I'd like to see more of you. Why don't you take off that rather unattractive nightshirt and show me.” Another hard swallow and Stephen moved to obey. It was as if Northrup was a hypnotizing cobra and he a quivering rodent eager to be eaten up. With shaking fingers, he gathered the soft cotton of his nightshirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it onto the floor. He tried to convince himself he had no choice, that he had to obey the earl's commanding tone, but deep inside he knew the truth. This was something he'd craved for a very long time—for someone to take control and “force” him to give in to his natural inclinations. “My God,” the earl muttered, his gaze raking Stephen's body and setting his flesh afire. He reached out a hand and rested the palm against the younger man's chest, then slid it down from chest to groin. Stephen's stomach muscles trembled, and his cock hardened further. Northrup focused his gleaming eyes on the erect shaft. “No drawers beneath your sleeping attire? Now tell me you weren't expecting me, my lad.” A grin transformed the man's severe features into the face of a fallen angel—once holy, now dark and dangerous. “Don't look so frightened. I'm not going to hurt you.” His hand curved around Stephen's cock and gripped it, squeezing lightly. “Much. What's your name?” “S-stephen.” “Pleased to meet you, Stephen. Now we've introduced ourselves, why don't you come here and get to know me better?” The earl's hand snaked around the back of his neck and pulled him over for a kiss. Heart nearly choking him, Stephen leaned over the other man's reclining body, naked chest to chest. His lips touched another man's for the first time in his life. Warm, moist, moving, Northrup's mouth was a living thing, and the touch of it thrilled him. Their breath mingled. Stephen tasted the sharp, oaken flavor of whiskey. Was the earl drunk? Would he be angry when he realized what he'd done while in his cups? But from his words and actions, it seemed Lord Northrup was accustomed to having men in his bed. He wouldn't have later regrets such as Stephen might have. No regrets now, however.

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Stephen pushed guilt and doubt from his mind, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips more firmly against the soft mouth. Northrup's hand caressed his nape, pushed into his tangled hair, and cradled Stephen's skull. His tongue teased his lips open, then slipped between them. Stephen gasped as the earl's tongue stroked sinuously over his. The man released his cock to curve a hand around his waist and pull him closer. It was almost too much—the glide of skin over skin, the hard, muscular body underneath his, the powerful, passionate kiss, and…oh God…his cock pressed into the other man's groin while the bulge of Northrup's erection strained to reach him. Stephen pulled away from the hungry mouth claiming his and gasped for air. He opened his eyes and beheld the stranger's face only inches from his own. “Sir, I'm not…” The earl frowned slightly, dark brows drawing together as he looked into Stephen's face. “You kiss like a novice. Mrs. Pratt did tell you to expect a companion, didn't she?” The drunken joviality was suddenly gone from his voice. “N-no. I'm her son Brian's friend, visiting for the holidays.” Rough hands thrust him off the warm body. “Good Christ, a child!” “I'm not. We're in our second year at university. I-I…” Damn his tongue that, under pressure, always froze like a lake in January. “I'm sorry. You're not the sort of guest I thought you were. Must've come on the wrong weekend.” Northrup sounded coldly sober now, perhaps afraid of the tales his accidental bed partner might spread about him. I'd like to be that sort of guest. And what kind of wild weekend parties do the Pratts have when Brian isn't around? Stephen felt his body melting into a puddle of shame. The handsome man fondling him in the middle of the night had been too good to be true. Northrup wasn't interested in bedding a schoolmate of his host's son. But why not? Wasn't this a perfect opportunity for both of them to indulge in something they could never acknowledge in the light of day? Swallowing his embarrassment and the consonants that kept sticking in his throat, Stephen dared to reach out a hand and place it squarely on the bulge in the front of Northrup's drawers.

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He didn't speak, but merely looked at the man with eyes revealing all the desires he'd hidden for so very long. A moment like the stopped pendulum of a grandfather clock passed before Peter Northrup, the Earl of Stafford, broke the silence. “It's like that, is it? I see. Very well, then.” He rolled onto his side to face Stephen, cupped his cheek, and leaned to kiss him once more. His lips were gentle, a sweet plucking of Stephen's mouth over and over. Then the man's tongue slipped between his lips, encouraging his to play. They twisted around one another in a supple dance that made the young man's heart pound. His hand was still planted on Northrup's erection, and he squeezed the hard bulge through the fabric. The earl slid his hand down between them to loosen the drawstring on his linens and pull the garment down his hips. Stephen's fingers slid through the crisp hair covering his groin before finding and curling around the man's hard staff. It fit into his hand with a satisfying girth and weight. He slid his fist from base to tip, exploring the length and texture. Lord Northrup gave a low groan and thrust into his hand. His response reassured Stephen, making him feel a little less uncertain and incompetent. He could please his lordship. Perhaps he should think of him as Peter now that he'd made his intimate acquaintance. After a few more deep kisses, Peter let Stephen draw a breath while he moved his mouth to his jaw and neck. His soft, nibbling kisses tickled, but Stephen raised his chin, offering his throat for more. Meanwhile he continued to pull the thick cock with long strokes of his fist, moving the foreskin down and rubbing his thumb over the smooth cap, moist with pearly droplets. After a moment, Peter curled a hand around his and guided him to tug a little harder and a great deal faster. Friction heated Stephen's palm as it glided furiously over the smooth shaft. He studied the other man's face, the parted lips and hooded eyes. Oh yes, he was definitely doing this right. Another low groan confirmed it. He wanted to do more, another impossibly daring thing. He wanted to take the man's cock in his mouth, taste his flesh and the flavor of his spendings. But Stephen was nervous. Deeply hidden daydreams were a world away from the raw truth of flesh and blood, muscle and bone. He was afraid to slide down and latch his mouth onto the man's penis, and so he continued to stroke and pull.

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“You're doing fine, lad,” Peter encouraged in a low, rough voice. “Just a little more, and— ah, God.” He grunted, thrust, and froze. Stephen felt warmth spilling over his fist and dripping down the back of his hand. A sense of triumph swelled in him. He'd done what he wanted to, what he'd often dreamed of when he'd developed an interest in this boy or that one during his boarding school years and beyond. Never brave enough to pursue his feelings or learn if any of the objects of his affection were inclined the same way, Stephen had languished alone in his prison of solitude. “Very nice,” the older man murmured as Stephen released his pulsing cock and wiped the residue on his discarded nightshirt. The earl opened his dark, dancing eyes and gazed at Stephen. He smiled, and delightful crinkles marked the corners of his eyes. “Now let me do something for you in return, my little virgin.” His splayed palm pressed warm against Stephen's chest, pushing him back to the mattress. The man straddled him, his hot, heavy body pinning him down, and Stephen was in heaven. His heart raced, his skin burned all over, and his cock felt like an iron rod. He frowned and concentrated on not exploding against the other man's stomach right then and there. How humiliating it would be to have it over so soon. But the excitement of being touched and fondled by another man's hand was almost too much to bear. Peter kissed him on the mouth once before moving lower. His lips, tongue, and hands explored Stephen's torso, stroked across his chest, felt his biceps, skated over his stomach. His touch was better than anything Stephen could have imagined, because it was real. No more phantom hands stroking and pleasuring him while really it was his own fist rapidly bringing himself to orgasm. Peter's mouth was warm on his nipples as he licked and bit. His tongue left moist trails, and his hands knew exactly where and how to touch. Soon Stephen's entire body was vibrating with need, but most of all his cock, which the man had not yet touched. Peter teased his way around it, hands holding Stephen's hips while his mouth tickled the younger man's groin. He nuzzled between Stephen's legs, licking his inner thighs, coming so close to his balls that they tightened hard. Still he would not touch the rigid erection that thrust demandingly before him.

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Stephen glanced down at what he could see of the dark face in the simmering shadows cast by the fire's glow. He sucked in a breath at the beautiful profile seen from above, harsh angles and soft, seeking lips. He lifted his hips, begging for more, and when Peter still ignored his plea, Stephen voiced it at last. “Please…” A devilish chuckle let him know that was what the man had been waiting for. The earl looked up at him, meeting his gaze as he took Stephen's cock in hand and ever so slowly descended on it, sucking the tip into his mouth. Rapture. Swallowing hard, he fought again to control his reaction. The man's teasing torture had brought him so close to the edge that the mere touch of his lips was nearly enough to undo Stephen. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something utterly unappealing: playing cricket in a cold drizzle, the monotone of his grammar school Latin teacher, his foul-breathed Aunt Bettina. He relaxed slightly, felt a little less like he might jump right out of his skin, but still struggled to keep control as Peter inexorably engulfed the length of his shaft. The heat and moisture was like a humid August day wrapping around him. Peter clamped a tight hand around the base of his cock, suppressing Stephen's ability to come, if not his need to. Then he proceeded to attend to the rest of his cock, alternating between sucking deeply and gently licking or nibbling its length, with one long foray below to lick Stephen's ball sac. The sight of the man lying between his legs, ravishing him, was nearly as exciting as the physical pleasure he provided. Stephen groaned and thrust toward him, asking for more and even more. He couldn't get enough of Peter's touch, the soft, slow strokes of his tongue, or the almost painful sucking when he took him in deep. Soon he lay writhing on the bed, his body nearly convulsing with the need to come. Only then did Peter release his punishing grip around the base and begin to glide his hand up and down Stephen's cock. He stopped playing and sucked steadily while building momentum with the strokes of his fist. Stephen watched through nearly closed eyes for as long as he could. He wanted to see every moment of this. But at last the mounting pleasure was so great he couldn't keep them open any longer. He arched his body, let his head roll back on the pillow, squeezed his eyes shut, and came and came into that hot mouth.

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The orgasm rolled through him in great, seemingly unending waves. It was like nothing he'd experienced when indulging in self-gratification, an ecstasy beyond a quick tug and spill. It was the difference between coming alone in a lonely room and sharing the experience with another person, albeit a complete stranger. This was the bliss he'd longed for. But even as the shimmering glow sifted through his body from head to heels, the darkness of doubt already began to infiltrate his joy. Shame, guilt, and loss tainted it. Too many headmasters and chaplains had warned impressionable schoolboys about the spiritual dangers of self-abuse or, much worse, “perversions of nature,” for Stephen to be unaffected by their drilling. And his sense of loss came from the knowledge that this glorious moment could not last. The handsome man, who even now sucked the last drops from him before letting Stephen's cock slip from between his lips, was only to be enjoyed for this one night. He might as well be merely another fantasy. If Peter sensed his unease and gloom, it wasn't apparent as the man moved up to lie beside him, head propped on his hand. “Did you enjoy that, young Stephen?” “Yes, s-sir.” The stammer was back. Who was he fooling? It had never left. He wished he could exorcise the nervous weakness forever, but no matter what efforts he tried, the affliction haunted him. The man smiled and trailed a finger down the side of Stephen's jaw. “That's good. I'd like to do more.” He paused as though considering his options. “Much more. But I think this is enough for you tonight. Food for thought, as it were. And as cozy as it is lying here with you, it wouldn't do much for your reputation to have me still here by morning.” He sighed. “So I suppose I must bid you good night and retire to a colder bedchamber.” So soon? Stephen longed to stop him but knew the man was right. He risked everything if Peter should linger. Servants gossiped. While a rich and titled earl might be able to weather a storm of innuendo, a simple student from less noble lineage could not afford to have his reputation ruined. “I…” He wanted to thank the man for what he'd done. Tell him he could be assured Stephen would never breathe a word. Explain that he was grateful and happy, anxious and ashamed, all at the same time. But there were no words to say everything he felt, and likely the sophisticated earl wouldn't be interested in his fumbling stammering anyway.

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Peter reached out and caressed his hair, a light brush of the fingers that made Stephen's heart rocket. “It's not easy, I know. You'll find your way.” With that he was out from under the covers, leaving cold emptiness behind him. He quickly dressed in his shirt, breeches, and boots, tossed his greatcoat over his shoulders, then marched to the door. There he stopped, winked, and blew a kiss. “Good night, Stephen. I imagine I'll meet you properly tomorrow.” His lips twisted in a sardonic smile before he turned and slipped out of the room. Stephen stared at the closed door, then down at his pale, naked chest and his cock lying depleted on his belly. Had this even really happened? It seemed like too much of a fantasy. But his balled up nightshirt, sticky with cum, assured him the dynamic demon who'd invaded his bed had been real.

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Chapter Two Taking too many chances, old boy. When is it going to end? When you've completely disgraced the family name and gotten yourself blackballed from society? Or when you're tried, accused, and hung from the gallows for committing sodomy? One of these days… Peter silenced the cranky inner voice that reminded him far too much of his dowager aunt, the Lady Elspeth, who'd ruled the family estate no matter which male heir was supposedly in charge, right up until the day she passed from this earth. But the berating voice had a point. He'd been well into his cups when he'd stumbled into the wrong room. What if the boy in the bed hadn't met his attentions with pleasure? What if he'd yelled the house down for help and accused the Earl of Stafford of making improper advances? Northrup knew he was turning into a sad case, an aging roué—well, maybe not so very old at thirty-three—mucking about with a lad of barely twenty. And not some paid nancy boy from Hawthorne Street, but a university student from a no doubt well-to-do family. He had to take hold of his life and steer it instead of drifting on the surface of it. All traces of drink were gone from Peter's system as he trudged downstairs to Pratt's library, where he knew a comfortable armchair and footrest could serve as his bed. He wasn't going to ask a servant to guide him to an empty bedroom. Not at this late hour. Besides, there was brandy in the sideboard. He would light a lamp, read, and drink. Maybe he'd even manage a few hours' sleep tonight. In the library, Peter pulled off his boots again, got his drink and book, and was soon ensconced in the master's wing chair. There was no fire on the hearth, and the room was chilly. He couldn't help but think of that warm young man and soft bed only a floor above him. Would have been heavenly to curl up next to the youth and share his warmth through the night. If he'd left the room before dawn, likely none of the servants would have seen him, but he hadn't wanted to put Stephen at risk.

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With an exaggerated sigh, he shifted in the chair, which wasn't as comfortable as he remembered it, and tried to concentrate on the book in his hands. It was a volume from Pratt's private collection, hidden on the highest shelves of the library behind other books. The story, which Peter had read before, involved a vicar, a serving wench, the lord of the manor, and a wandering gypsy, who intermingled in all sorts of intriguing combinations. Tonight the sexual exploits in the manuscript did not hold his attention. He couldn't stop his mind from returning again and again to the lad upstairs. Schoolboy. Friend of the Pratts' son. Completely inappropriate lover. He must put out of his mind any idea of a dalliance during his visit. But of course, the moment the thought struck him, there was nothing else he could concentrate on. A dalliance, a seduction which he'd begun tonight by showing the youth a taste of pleasure. Think of all the other things he could teach him. University student, he reminded himself. Not fair game. And why in hell had he believed this was the weekend for one of the Pratts' exclusive parties? He knew the event wasn't until next month, had known it while he was on the road here, but had forgotten by the time he'd drunk himself stupid during the carriage ride. Or maybe he'd remembered right up until he saw the sandy blond head and angelic face on the pillow. After that, he'd conveniently believed what he'd wanted to—that the handsome young man was there for him. Brian's friend, he reprimanded. Whenever Peter visited the Pratt family on a regular occasion, he was on his best behavior. The couple, like many of Peter's friends, had two faces: the one they showed the world, including their own son, and the secret one which was unmasked during their erotic parties. To find like-minded friends, ones who would accept all sexual permutations without judgment, was a rare thing. Northrup cherished Edward and Euphemia Pratt's friendship greatly and would never do anything to risk losing their trust or involving them in scandal. For if his name were blackened, surely theirs would be too, since they were known to be his close friends. Peter took another sip of his brandy and turned another page of the book before gazing blindly at the painting of a sea battle above the fireplace. Stephen's skin had been so soft and smooth. The muscles beneath not hardened from horseback riding or sports, he wagered, but taut nevertheless. From the lad's demeanor, Peter imagined Stephen was quite bookish, the kind of young man who kept to himself and had very few friends. Back in preparatory school, no doubt he'd been alternately picked on or ignored. At university, he could get away with being studious

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and was the type who'd probably stay in academia for the rest of his life, hiding his sexuality, his dreams, and his desires behind a safe hedge of books. As opposed to you, who pokes at trouble? A label of “eccentric” can only go so far in protecting you. Keep acting out as you do, and one of these days… Again Peter silenced Aunt Elspeth's voice of caution, although he knew she was right. Of course, the real lady had never known of her great-nephew's true nature. Peter had hidden it well back then. He'd been the popular lad, the athlete, the one who picked on quiet, uncertain boys like Stephen. His mask had been firmly in place for many years. It was only when he was in his twenties that he'd finally come to accept and act on his desires. But that wasn't a time he wanted to dwell on tonight. Better to daydream of softly curling hair that felt like silk when a man ruffled his fingers through it. Or wide, pale eyes that looked like pools in which stars were reflected. Picturing moist lips and flushed, unshaven cheeks was far more interesting than reading about the vicar and the gypsy pummeling one another in a sunny meadow. And when Peter imagined those lips wrapped around his cock, the fantasy became even more intriguing. He slept with the book fanned across his chest and his hand resting on the crotch of his breeches. When Northrup woke again, weak sunlight shone between the heavy drapes covering the library windows. A hand clapped on his shoulder startled him from vague, anxious dreams. “We weren't expecting you so soon.” Pratt loomed over him. Even standing, the man's eye level wasn't much higher than Peter's. He reminded Peter of a salt cellar more than anything: short, plump, and round, but filled with the zest that flavored a plate full of food. “The party is the second weekend of next month, not this one.” The man chuckled. “You won't find our usual complement of guests here. We're strictly family style this weekend.” You've no idea, Peter thought. I found something much better last night than the usual company. As far as he was concerned, Edward Pratt would never learn of how Peter had encountered his son's friend. Some things were a step too far even for the outrageously playful Pratts. “I'm surprised one of the servants didn't show you to a room last night.” The master frowned.

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“I arrived quite late and insisted that preparing and warming another room was too timeconsuming. Told your footman I'd be more than content to lounge with a drink in the library,” Peter hastened to explain lest the servants be reprimanded. “Come along to breakfast then,” Pratt urged. “You must be hungry.” Peter removed his boots from the ottoman and rose. “Lead on. Your cook's meals are always worth getting up for.” As they approached the breakfast room, his pulse sped in anticipation of seeing his temporary bed partner. Of course, neither he nor the lad would acknowledge having met before. They would greet one another politely, sit at the table and maybe exchange surreptitious glances when no one else was looking. The thought made his skin tingle and his cock harden. Naughty secrets were so deliciously erotic. But when he and Edward entered the room, Peter was disappointed to find Stephen wasn't present. Perhaps he and Brian had eaten earlier, or more likely, the two youths hadn't roused from their beds yet. He greeted Mrs. Pratt and took his usual seat at the table. Sunlight streamed through the windows, sparkling on the crystal dishes and making the bowl of strawberries glow. A large vase of fat pink roses scented the air, their perfume mingling with the cinnamon aroma from the equally fat muffins. “I'm so sorry for arriving on your doorstep as I did, Euphemia. I will take myself off directly after breakfast and return next month when I'm expected.” “Nonsense, sir,” she replied as he knew she would. “We wouldn't dream of it. Stay for the week. You can meet Brian again and his school friend. And I'm sure Edward will want to show off his newest broodmare.” Just then the sound of clattering footsteps in the hallway and two male voices made Euphemia clap her hands together. “Ah, here come the boys now.” Her unfortunate use of the word “come” forced Peter to hide his grin by pretending to cough into his napkin. He still held it to his mouth when the two young men entered the room, and his gaze met Stephen's over the folded linen. “Ah, the late risers. Brian, come greet our guest. And Lord Northrup, may I present Mr. Stephen Peregrine?”

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Peter rose and nodded at the late risers. “Good day.” “Good morning, Lord Northrup.” Brian's low voice and Stephen's tenor mingled in ragged unison. Peter resumed his seat, and the latecomers sat across from him. It was all he could do to drag his gaze away from examining Stephen, who wore a plain white shirt and waistcoat with no jacket, and whose hair looked like it had been combed with his fingers rather than a brush. Brian was equally casually dressed and coiffed. Perhaps this was the new style for university students, a casual disregard for overdressing. Peter heartily approved if the four-in-hand neckties, wellgreased hair, fancy waistcoats, and velvet jackets of young fops were growing passé. These youths' simpler appearance was much more attractive. Stephen focused his attention on his place setting, fiddling with the knife and spoon, his tousled bangs shielding his eyes. “So you will stay, Lord Northrup,” Mrs. Pratt continued. “We insist.” Peter considered his options. He could ease this poor young man's tension by quitting the place as soon as possible, simultaneously preventing any further unwise contact. Or he could linger another day or two. A bracing hike across the moor followed by a good meal sounded quite enjoyable. “You know I can't deny you, Mrs. Pratt, or the delectable meals your cook provides.” He chewed and swallowed a bite of toast and sipped his tea before turning his attention to Brian and Stephen. “How was your term? Learn anything of value?” “If you consider studying classical Greek as a language valuable,” Mr. Pratt said dryly. “This is the education our tuition buys.” “Father, I told you I'd be more than happy to travel to Greece and Italy and experience them firsthand rather than study their cultures at a remove, but you insisted on shipping me off to Cambridge.” Brian popped a strawberry into his mouth. The lack of heat in his tone informed Peter that this was an ongoing argument between father and son that had long since become rote. “What about you, Mr. Peregrine? What are you currently studying?” Peter asked. The youth couldn't refuse to look up without appearing rude, and for the first time since he'd entered the breakfast room, his gaze met Peter's. “M-mathematics, sir. Trigonometry and calculus.”

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“Something useful,” Pratt chimed in. “More than casting dreamy eyes at ancient civilizations. Young Stephen is learning knowledge that can advance the world we live in.” The man added a laugh that took some of the sting from his words. “I don't know exactly what it is mathematicians do, but it certainly seems more sensible than learning a dead language.” “You have an engineer's mind,” Peter guessed aloud. “It takes some intense focus to envision how something should work and then create it.” “I'd like to be an engineer. My particular interest is bridges,” Stephen agreed, and his stammer receded as he warmed to a subject of significance to him. “My father owns a construction company, but he started as a bricklayer, like his father.” “The emerging middle class will soon make the peerage as antiquated as my Greek,” Brian remarked, blatantly poking his father with the verbal spur. “Brian!” his mother snapped, clearly aghast since his comment insulted Lord Northrup as well. For all that the Pratts were broad-minded enough to host the most scandalous play parties and indulge in sexual mischief, the couple could be very narrow in their other views. “No, Mrs. Pratt, the boy is correct,” Peter said. “A new wind is blowing through England. We might not see the result in our lifetime, but in a few generations the land will be changed. Estates and titles may be a thing of the past.” And good riddance to them. His had certainly never brought him happiness, and he hadn't done a thing to deserve a shilling of the wealth. Stephen regarded him, his gray eyes widened in surprise at the opinion. He said nothing and turned his attention to the untouched plateful of food before him. An unusual lad, Peter thought as Mrs. Pratt diverted the conversation to less incendiary channels, discussing the likelihood of rain in the afternoon. He wagered Stephen held more deeply considered opinions in the privacy of his mind than his vociferous friend Brian uttered. Peter would like to quiz him more about those opinions, but given the extraordinary circumstances of their first meeting, any conversation he struck up with Stephen would be stilted and strange. Remembering those circumstances served to give Peter a throbbing erection. The thought of warm, male-scented flesh; smooth, grasping hands; and soft, moist lips ensured he wouldn't be able to rise from his seat for a while.

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On his left, Edward Pratt spoke to him about his hound, which had whelped, and his latest acquisition of horseflesh. Peter nodded and responded politely; all the while, his attention was on the young man across the table. What was it about Stephen—a quiet, self-conscious, uncertain young man—that intrigued him so? It was more than mere sexual attraction, and that was worrisome. Whatever he was feeling, be it the start of a fever or a lack of sleep, he must dispel it immediately. Nothing could come of any attraction he might have toward Stephen. Last night's anomaly could certainly not be repeated, and the fewer words they exchanged, the better. Peter turned his attention firmly to Mr. Pratt. “I'd enjoy seeing your new mare. We'll go out to the stables directly after breakfast, if that's all right.” He tried to keep his attention focused on Pratt's discourse on horse breeding for the rest of the meal, but even so, he couldn't avoid an occasional quick look toward the young men across the table from him. Once when he glanced, he met Stephen's eyes looking back at him. Something like a crackle of lightning flew back and forth between them in that brief meeting of gazes before Peter quickly turned away. Luckily the Pratt family seemed oblivious to this charged moment between their guests. Mrs. Pratt was busy haranguing her son about a local soiree she wanted him to attend and a particular young lady she wanted him to meet. Brian was rebelling against her matchmaking wiles, and his father was lost in his love of horses. When at last the awkward breakfast was finished, Peter accompanied Edward to the stables and spent some time admiring his new acquisition. After the groom saddled the bay mare and a chestnut stallion, the two men rode as far as Buckworth, where they stopped at an inn for a midday luncheon. But all the time he spent with Pratt, Peter's thoughts kept drifting to last night's bed companion. He could imagine the young man moving through his day at the Pratts' house, wondered how he and Brian were amusing themselves, and berated himself for his interest. When they returned to the house in midafternoon of the hot, sunny day, it was to find the place quiet. The butler informed them Mrs. Pratt was napping and the young men had gone off on a walk. Peter was ridiculously disappointed by the news. Edward took his leave, saying he wouldn't mind a rest himself during the heat of the day, and Peter was left at loose ends. He sat in the library for a bit, flipping absently through the

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pages of books. But the day was too fine for a man to be caged indoors, and he felt too restless to slip into a comfortable doze. He abandoned his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves like a workingman before leaving the relatively cool house to stroll through the gardens. Mrs. Pratt's rose garden was at peak bloom, the sweet fragrance almost overpowering. The cloying scent was cut by the sharp tang of evergreen as he left the rose garden and entered the verdant green of the maze. A bad idea. The tall walls of yew trapped the heat, and Peter's shirt was damp with sweat by the time he finally approached the center of the maze. He made the last turn and came to an abrupt halt, arrested by the vision before him. Stephen was sitting on the grass, reading a book in the shade cast by the wall of evergreen. His boots were off and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a white undershirt beneath. He looked up, startled, his light gray eyes reflecting the bright sunlight and appearing even more luminous than they had in the firelight's glow last night. The young man scrambled to his feet and bowed toward Peter, the appropriate response to a man of higher rank, but hardly necessary under the casual circumstances. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you,” Peter said. “Please, sit. I plan to do the same myself.” Ignoring the stone bench, he crossed the small clearing and dropped down onto the grass in the small bit of shade. He looked up at Stephen, who still stood over him. “Won't you sit down?” “Y-yes.” The youth began to button his shirt as he folded his long legs and resumed his seat on the ground. Peter fanned his face with his hand. “Don't know what I was thinking of, walking in this heat. Where's Brian?” “He's much cleverer than I. He stayed indoors.” A smile flickered over Stephen's mouth. “The idea of exploring the maze was too tempting. I've always wanted to walk one and never had the opportunity. But I guess waiting until evening would've been better.” “At least you brought rations. Smart boy.” Peter gestured to the corked bottle leaning against the hedge. “Oh. Please.” Stephen offered it to him.

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Peter drank deeply of the tepid water with the slight tang of citrus, then poured a little into his cupped hand and splashed it on his face. After he recapped the bottle and handed it back, they sat in strained silence for several aching moments. The events of the previous night hung in the air between them like a rock balloon. Peter studied the pale gold sweep of Stephen's lashes against his flushed cheeks—pink from either embarrassment or heat. Someone must break the awkward mood, and since he was older and more experienced, it seemed it would have to be him. “About last night.” The two spoke in unison, the words tumbling against one another. Stephen smiled. Peter chuckled. “Do go on. What did you want to say about last night?” The young man licked his lips, and the flash of tongue sent a frisson of lust shimmering through Peter. “I'm sure you could guess I've never done anything like that. B-but I've wanted to. I would like to learn more…from you…while we're both here.” He added a codicil. “If that's possible.” Was it possible? Peter had spent all morning trying to convince himself it wasn't. A dalliance with his friends' son's university chum was out of the question. But with Stephen expressing an equal interest in and attraction to him, Peter couldn't for the life of him remember why such a liaison was impossible. He pursed his lips as he considered. “We would have to be extremely circumspect.” Stephen nodded. “Of course.” “And I will only be here through the weekend.” “I understand.” Peter smiled slowly. “Long enough to get up to some trouble.” Stephen seemed to have used up his store of words and courage, because he merely nodded again. “If you're very sure about this,” Peter added, giving the young man every opportunity to change his mind. “I wouldn't want to be corrupting an innocent. Any more than I already have, I mean.”

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The youth stared at the bottle in his hands, corking and uncorking it over and over. “Can you tell me, sir, how you first knew you were…different from other men? You seem so comfortable with your desires. Unafraid. I want to be like that.” “You're young. It takes time, and some never are able to accept themselves. I know many men with wives and children who only rarely dare to satisfy their secret need. Others who never do, although one can see that need in their eyes.” “Why?” The word was a gusting sigh. “Why do some of us have these perverted desires? Is it really the devil who's touched us? I didn't ask for this. I don't want it. I want to be normal.” His voice picked up volume and ended nearly as an angry cry, all trace of hesitation and stuttering gone. Peter waited, giving Stephen the opportunity to let out more of his feelings while he worked out how he was going to answer. “I've looked at girls, at women, and tried to feel what I'm supposed to,” Stephen continued. “They look very pretty in their beautiful gowns, with their hair in curls and ribbons, but they don't move me. Not in the s-slightest. I can't…feel anything about them. Do you know what I mean?” “Yes.” He reached out and touched the other man's bare forearm, the skin warm and slightly moist beneath his hand. “I understand completely.” Peter knew what the poor, confused lad needed most right now was to be able to voice what he'd had to keep hidden for so long. He remembered what it had been like for him before he'd finally admitted to his needs and at long last accepted them. Only years later had he found broad-minded people like the Pratts who would remain his friends despite his proclivities. Stephen gazed at Peter's hand on his arm before looking slowly up to his face. “How did you do it?” Peter shook his head slightly. The journey was different for every man. He didn't know if he could give an answer that would help Stephen's particular situation. “I just did it. Stopped trying to please society and started pleasing myself.” “Show me how.”

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The husky whisper raised gooseflesh on Peter's arms and made his cock stiffen. Oh God, how he wanted to show him, to tutor him in the ways of the flesh, but he wasn't certain if a kind ear wasn't more what Stephen needed right now. Peter stroked his hand from the smooth, strong forearm down to Stephen's hand and curled his fingers around it. “Tell me a little more about yourself first.” He brought the younger man's hand to his own lap and cupped it between both his hands. “We have all afternoon. No one else would be fool enough to tackle the maze in this heat. Let us take a little time to get to know each other first.” Stephen looked at their joined hands. “As I said, my father owns a construction company. We live in Perford. I'm the first in my family to attend university. And I am learning to be an architect.” “Wasn't it engineering?” Peter asked. Stephen shrugged. “One is for pleasure. The other… Suffice it to say my life is made up of study and more study. I haven't had enough experiences to be considered interesting.” Peter smiled. “Just being alive makes you interesting. Surely you have thoughts and opinions about things, like your very opinionated friend Brian.” “I suppose.” “But you don't wish to talk right now,” Peter guessed as he traced little circles on the back of Stephen's hand with his thumb. “Then we shall get to know each other a different way.” With that, he lifted Stephen's hand to his mouth and kissed his palm, gratified by the soft catch of the other man's breath. Peter drew one long finger into his mouth and toyed with it, swirling his tongue around it before sucking, tasting the delicious saltiness. The obvious parallel to what he planned to do to Stephen's cock was not lost on the younger man. He shifted and groaned. Peter looked into his eyes as he sucked one finger after another, lightly, playfully. He stroked his hand up Stephen's arm, pushing his rolled sleeve higher as he kissed his wrist and the tender inside of his forearm. Peter shifted closer so their legs pressed together. He lifted his mouth from the man's arm and bent toward his lips, cupping his face in one hand. Warm breath brushed his lips before they descended on Stephen's soft, pliant mouth.

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An afternoon kiss, stolen in the secrecy and stillness of the maze, seemed more precious, more memorable than many he'd experienced during fervent grappling in the dark. Sweet, nearly chaste, their mouths blended and melded together. Peter tasted the tang of the lime-flavored water and more salt from the sheen of perspiration on Stephen's upper lip. He opened his mouth wider and angled his head, deepening the kiss. His tongue coiled around the other man's, feeling its sinuous strength, warmth, and wetness. He wrapped his other hand around Stephen's waist, drawing him closer, and stroked up his back, feeling the solid muscle beneath his sweat-damp shirt. And still their mouths were fused together, stronger now, more aggressive, hungrily seeking more. At last Peter drew back, his eyes lust-hazed as he regarded Stephen through his lashes. “Now that was a kiss. Your first lesson and you've already mastered it.” He grinned, and Stephen's lips quirked at the corners. Peter unbuttoned and shrugged off his shirt and undershirt. He reached for Stephen's shirt as a fat bee bumbled overhead, buzzing loudly. Peter glanced up at the bee and at the blindingly blue sky above. This day was the epitome of what summer should be, and he knew this experience was one he'd never forget. He turned his attention back to Stephen, gazing into his darkening eyes while he continued unfastening his shirt. “Are you ready for your next lesson?” “Yes. Teach me.”

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Chapter Three Stephen could scarcely breathe, not only because the day was sweltering hot, the air heavy and thick, but because the sight of Lord Northrup's naked torso seemed to suck all the oxygen from his lungs. He wanted to feel the hard biceps, the broad shoulders, and solid chest. And then he realized he could. He could reach out and touch all that lovely muscle, sample the texture of the dark hair furring the other man's chest, stroke his palms over the smooth skin of his shoulders. That's what they were here for. Meanwhile, Lord Northrup—Peter—was quickly unbuttoning and tugging Stephen's shirt down his arms and tossing it aside on the grass. He lifted the edge of his undershirt. Stephen raised his arms so Peter could pull it over his head. How odd to be bare-chested in the outdoors under the wide-open sky. Air tickled his skin, drying the sweat on his back, and every bit of his flesh tingled with energy. Peter's hand slid down his back, and Stephen thought he might jump out of his skin. He'd never felt so alive, his body so sensitive to every sensation. And now the other man was pushing him onto his back and into the soft grass. Little sticks and dried leaves from the hedge crunched beneath him. Peter's body on top of him was heavy. The hair on his chest and stomach prickled Stephen's skin. Heat built quickly between them, and sweat slicked their skin. Stephen curled a hand around the back of Peter's neck and kissed him as though he'd suck the life from him. He slid his hand up the length of the other man's back and gripped his powerful shoulder. This moment was everything he'd ever wanted. Just to hold and be held, to kiss and be kissed without fear or shame. He thrust his hips, rubbing his erection against the hard bulge in the other man's breeches. It wasn't enough. He was desperate for more.

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Peter pulled his mouth away with a gasp. “Slow down, lad. You'll kill me with kindness, as they say.” He braced himself on hands and knees before loosening the front of his breeches and smalls to pull out his engorged cock. Stephen did the same with shaking hands. The man crouched above him, still braced on one hand but wrapping the other around both of their cocks. He glided his palm up and down, skin sliding deliciously over skin. Stephen fixed his gaze on the erotic sight of their two heads emerging from that big fist. He swallowed hard and forced back his raging desire lest he explode in only a few short moments. This had to last. He had to make a memory that would sustain him in the bleak, lonely times ahead. Peter massaged their cocks, his breath panting raggedly, his hand moving with a soft slapping sound. Stephen groaned and lifted into that amazing touch. His eyes nearly closed, but not completely. He wanted to see everything, to watch as one or the other—or maybe both of them at once—spilled their seed. It would spurt onto his stomach in warm, white bursts of cream. But after several minutes, Peter released their two cocks and shifted lower between Stephen's legs. As his face neared Stephen's crotch, the younger man tensed in eager anticipation of what Peter was about to do. His balls drew so tight and his cock swelled so hard that he again feared he'd erupt. Stephen clenched his jaw tight and held his breath as Peter grasped his cock and brought the tip to his mouth. Sparkling dark eyes gazed up at him. “Lesson two. Relax and enjoy.” Peter licked the length of Stephen's cock, and then sucked the head deep. Fire raged through Stephen, and he let out a strangled moan. The hard tugging and wet warmth of Peter's mouth surrounding him were almost too much stimulation. His back arched off the ground, and his fingers dug into the turf on either side of him. “Oh, please,” he begged, not knowing what he was asking for. There couldn't be more than this, the strong pull of Peter's hand around the base of his cock and the astonishing suction of his mouth. But there was more. Peter scooped his other hand between Stephen's legs to cup his sac. He rubbed lightly, manipulating the balls within, sending shivers of pleasure through his groin. Stephen groaned again and thrust his hips. Peter wasn't finished with him yet. He let go of Stephen's balls and slipped the same hand farther back between his legs, a single finger sliding along the tender path to his hole. He teased

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the puckered opening, and Stephen's muscles clenched. Delicately Peter sucked on his fingers, then inserted one moistened digit, moving around the opening and stretching gently. He inserted a second finger, slick with saliva, widening the opening. All the while he continued to pull and suck on his cock, drawing Stephen up to the very brink of orgasm. The tension in Stephen's belly drew tighter and tighter, a tangled knot like an equation that refused to make sense no matter how long he studied it. And then suddenly, that last element would fall into place, the missing part making the answer clear. That element came in the form of a third finger probing his anus. Three fingers, the approximate girth of a man's cock, equaled one powerful eruption. Stephen stifled his loud groan in case a gardener or someone else was within earshot. He clutched handfuls of grass as his body arched again. His balls drew tight and his cock pulsed rhythmically as he spent into Peter's willing mouth. The man continued to frig his hole and massage his cock until Stephen had finished writhing like a man having a fit. Panting, he subsided to the ground as the powerful waves crashing through him slowly receded, leaving him wet and breathless and limp, nearly drowned by passion. He felt outside of himself, studying with a strange detachment the reactions of his body. Peter withdrew his exploring fingers from Stephen's ass and released his cock with a smack of his lips. “Mmm.” What now? Should he offer to return the favor, use his hands and mouth on Peter's rigid cock? Or should he turn over, offering his backside? Stephen's hole clutched hard again at the very thought of it. Although his orgasm had barely died away, another surge of lust rushed through him at the idea of Peter taking him from behind. “Shall I…? Do y-you want…?” His aborted attempts at speech were met with a smile by the other man. Peter still lay between his legs, propped on his elbows, and he gazed into Stephen's face. “I would like nothing more, but here's where lesson three comes in—delayed gratification. What is pleasurable is made exponentially more pleasurable by a forced postponement. I want to fuck your sweet ass with every fiber of my being. I could do it now, but with no lubrication on hand, the prospect would not be very satisfying for you. And I could ask you to treat me as I just have

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you, but I would prefer to wait for full penetration, to savor the idea of it throughout the rest of this day and anticipate having it all tonight.” Just the way the man said the word “tonight” sent sparks of fire racing through him, and Stephen could understand the logic behind the concept of delaying desire. “Like Christmas gifts. One might discover them early, hidden somewhere about the house, but learning the secret takes away from the greater pleasure of unveiling them on Christmas morning.” “Quite so.” Peter's warm chuckle was nearly as pleasurable as the man's hands stroking his skin. “Besides, I fear we must get back to our hosts. We must be amusing guests for a time.” “I'm not sure I'm ever able to do that. Certainly not today.” Peter ignored his interruption. “We will talk and smile and dress for dinner. All that is expected of us. Later tonight, however, I should sincerely look forward to resuming your tutelage.” Stephen offered a smile. “And I to being your student.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows and regarded his cock, lolling limply to one side now that its moment of triumph was over. “Do you believe it is safe to meet again tonight? Shall I come to your chamber or you to mine? Or maybe we should go outdoors somewhere?” Peter laid a light finger to Stephen's lips, brushing it over his lower lip before pulling away. “Shh. Leave the details to me. I will find you or come to you.” He laughed again and repeated. “Trust me, I will come.”

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Chapter Four The day would never end. The sweet, boneless joy created by the encounter in the maze could sustain Stephen for only so long. An extraordinary impatience seized him. He was starved for one sort of activity but must at least move his body, and so when Brian suggested a walk before dinner, he jumped on the idea eagerly. They strolled through the late afternoon heat, past the copse of huge, ancient trees, almost all the way to the lodge gates and the lake, for an illegal swim. Stephen looked at the summerhouse and the grotto, and instead of noting the pleasant arched doorway of one and the contrived artifice of the other as he had the other times he'd walked this path, he daydreamed about them as possible sites for clandestine meetings. So many hidden spots with just enough daylight to let him explore the naked limbs, taste the texture of that muscled belly— “I say, Perry, you aren't paying the least bit of attention to me,” Brian said. Stephen stopped to think. “You were talking about…” He shook his head. “I have no notion.” “Caught up in one of your calculations, I imagine. Your brain will explode if you don't let some steam off with your body.” Stephen laughed. His friend had no idea about the steam he'd released. And never would. Brian gave a snort of mock dismay. “I'm amusing you?” “Your notions of physiology are…interesting. Exploding brains.” “What has you so deep in thought?” “Oh, nothing in particular. I like your family. And their friends.” Careful, he warned himself. He'd witnessed infatuated friends in the past. The casual way a name would creep into every conversation. Brian, for instance, had mentioned Miss Hathaway only a dozen times in the last couple of days.

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It had been the tutor's daughter a few months earlier, but Brian's ardor had cooled. Would his for Peter? Difficult to imagine, but then again, how could he even begin to feel such infatuation? He didn't truly know the man. That thought should have disturbed him. A passion for a person he knew nothing about had changed his world, and he'd feel the transformation forever, even if he never saw the man again. But those encounters. Peter's body and that unabashed celebration. Deep inside, Stephen felt another flash of secret, twisting delight—furtive, obscene, and more precious than any fantasy he'd ever indulged in before. The memory of Peter's harsh features, his head back as he spent in Stephen's hand. “You're not here again,” Brian accused. “Are you ill, perhaps?” Stephen felt guilty. Not only was he indulging in the most pornographic thoughts, he was ignoring his good friend. “Distracted,” he said. “The heat.” “It is beastly.” They came to the lake and unceremoniously stripped off their garments. Stephen avoided looking at his friend. In the past he'd always been careful to stay away from any situation like this. His worst nightmares involved experiencing an uncontrollable erection whilst naked in the company of boys. He was older now, more able to control his body, but he still experienced the echo of fear and disgust. Some of the sweat trickling down his spine wasn't due to the heat. He plunged into the water at once, diving deep and coming up to gasp at the cold. Brian laughed and pointed at him. Stephen tucked his chin and imitated a professor they'd both had a year earlier. “Pray tell, have you something to share with your fellows, Mr. Pratt?” he growled in a deep voice. “You've got milfoil on your head, ass.” Stephen reached up and found the strands of the delicate, trailing green water plant over his ear. “So I do.” Brian flicked another milfoil at him. “Here now, stop it. That looked good on you, Peregrine.” He found some more and waved it at Stephen as he swam closer. Before he could get near, Stephen groped underwater for a handful of greenery to throw at Brian. Sputtering and laughing, they ducked each other, splashed, and kicked water in a mock

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battle. Stephen dove deep underwater to grab his friend's legs from behind, attempting to upset him so he'd go under. They were locked in a wrestling match then, shouting and laughing. As he swam away from his friend, being sure to kick huge spouts of water, Stephen at last felt entirely at peace. He was naked with Brian and didn't desire him in the least. In the past when he'd been near Brian, there had always been a tension deep in his gut—not quite desire, but an awareness. It was gone now. They played as if they were children again, without that wretched tension Stephen had felt since he'd turned fifteen, the tension that had been transformed by Peter into something sharp and real. He imagined this sort of play with Peter, grasping his wet, slippery arm and struggling to escape his grasp. Ah, now he felt the stir of lust. He'd been floating on his back and immediately turned over to swim out to the middle of the small lake. “Thank you,” he called to Brian. “This is exactly what I needed.” “The swim or the visit?” “Both, I expect. It's jolly decent of your family to let me barge in. I'd planned to mope about and work on some plans for my father. This is much more fun.” Brian paddled over to him and turned over onto his back. His white belly surfaced. “Why would you mope? You're still going to go work for him?” “For a time.” Stephen pushed some wet hair from his eyes and swam in a circle. “What about the bridges?” Brian asked. Stephen wanted to tell his friend about how fast his heart beat when he saw the glorious swooping lines of suspension bridges and the long days he'd clambered all over the Clifton Bridge. But as always, any strong emotion stopped his words. “I like 'em, but that's not our family business,” he said at last. A cloud blotted the sun, and the water was suddenly warm, for the air grew cold. “Storm's coming,” Brian said. “At last. The tension is fearful, innit?” Stephen thought of Peter, of course. “God, yes.”

*** They hurriedly dressed and fled to the house before the clouds finally burst. The wind picked up as they slipped in through a side door.

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“Come on,” Brian said and made for the sitting room where the drink tray had been set. “We dine early when Brian's home. Country hours,” Pratt was telling someone. “We want to at least keep the appearance of normalcy on these visits.” Brian frowned. He put out an arm and stopped Stephen. They stood in the hall, listening. “You shouldn't have allowed me to stay on then.” Stephen knew that deep, lazy voice, of course. He felt giddy with sudden lust. “Nonsense. What the lads don't know won't hurt 'em.” “Not really lads anymore, are they?” There was the sound of liquid gurgling into a glass, then silence. “What are you saying, Northrup?” “Nothing. I promise.” “Because Brian is not the—” “I wouldn't touch your son. But I'll wager he has been shaving five years or more.” “Oh, certainly.” Pratt laughed, the edge gone from his voice. “But they seem so much younger than we did at that age, eh? Practically innocents.” “Indeed.” Stephen frowned. He had been an innocent in action only. His thoughts had been anything but for years. Brian scowled as he leaned close to Stephen to whisper indignantly. “Ugh. What does he mean he wouldn't touch me?” Stephen shrugged without meeting his friend's eye. They remained in the hall, but he stopped concentrating on the conversation when Pratt senior started in on some racehorse or another. Brian pulled a face. “I sometimes wonder about my parents' parties,” he whispered again. “The ones they hold when I'm at Cambridge.” Stephen only nodded, unable to imagine what it would be like to have mysterious parents. He knew exactly what his parents did when he was away from home because their routine never varied. Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine ate every meal at the same time every day, rotating the same menu on a weekly basis. They retired to bed by ten and went to church every Sunday. The Pratts,

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however… He recalled what Lord Northrup had said about the amusing Mrs. Pratt's plans for guests. These people were so far out of his sphere he couldn't comprehend their thinking. He could bloody well be excited by it, however. The semi-erection stirred to life just thinking about the man in the next room. Brian touched his shoulder again, then ambled into the drawing room. Stephen followed and politely greeted the older men, who'd risen at their entrance. He walked to the drinks tray with his friend, trying hard not to stare at Peter, but felt too greedy for another look to turn entirely away. From the corner of his eye, he examined the overall effect of wide shoulders, lean hips, long legs, and then allowed himself some of the details. The harsh curve of his jaw and nose—no one would call this man pretty. Stephen had no use for pretty. He admired magnificence. Mr. Pratt gave them a broad smile and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Boys! You're just coming in?” Mr. Pratt studied his son carefully, and Stephen supposed he wondered how much they'd heard from the hall, but then Brian's father narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. Both with wet hair? Aha! You went in the lake, didn't you?” “It was a beastly hot day.” Brian grinned sheepishly as he handed a drink to Stephen. “What'll it cost me to keep you from spilling my secrets to Mum?” Stephen watched and envied the easygoing relationship between father and son. Mr. Pratt tapped his chin and pretended to consider the matter. “She does worry about that lake excessively. I'd say you could buy my silence with a thousand pounds. No? Then more letters from you next term. That should do it. At least one a week. Or…” He frowned deeply. “Let me know next time you jump in the lake so I might join you.” Stephen couldn't help it. He burst into laughter. He caught Peter's eye then. No, in company he must be Lord Northrup. But those eyes held his—dark, amused, and full of some fire. Understanding? Lust? Stephen didn't know, but he was the first to glance away.

*** Dinner was what Mr. Pratt called a small affair, but he warned the boys they must not tarry. Stephen hurried off to dress. He donned the white vest that reeked a bit of camphor.

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He thought the meal an opulent event even if the guests were only a baronet and his wife, the vicar and his family, and several other local worthies. Lord Northrup was the luminary in their midst. Stephen was seated next to the vicar's wife and a thin, pale young lady whose name had escaped him. He spent most of the first course in a strange state—trying to recall the young lady's name and tamping down the excitement created by Peter's presence and those promises he'd made. Delayed gratification—a delectable, bittersweet lesson to learn. He spoke politely of his classes to the vicar's wife and listened for the low, delicious sound of Peter's laughter. He agreed with the blonde lady that he'd never felt such heat in his life even as he half watched the long fingers wrapped around the stem of Northrup's wineglass, remembering how they had stroked him and driven him into a frenzy. Two places and across the table, the hands with the clean cuffs deftly broke bread, precisely used the fork and knife. Stephen had never been so fascinated by such mundane tasks at the dinner table. The pale young lady asked him in a low voice if perhaps he didn't feel entirely well. “The heat,” he responded. The same excuse he'd given Brian earlier in the day. God, but he didn't mean the weather. She smiled and raised her nearly invisible brows, and he understood that Miss Troy—he'd finally recalled her name—had been flirting with him for some time. He had to stop trying to watch Peter from the corner of his eye. It was something of a relief as well as a disappointment when it was time to turn to the vicar's wife on his other side to listen to her chatter about her five children. The ladies rose from the table, and after they left, the stronger drink was handed around. Stephen gratefully accepted the cognac. He spoke across the table, finally able to abandon the formality of dinner. Now he could look the man full in the face, no more furtive glances. “Have you had a pleasant day, my lord?” Peter shot him an amused glance. “Somewhat, yes.” He swirled the brandy in his glass and sniffed it. After giving Stephen a small nod, he turned in his seat to talk to the baronet who sat near him. Stephen stared at the well-combed hair, the ear, the sliver of lean cheek, and his chin that showed the shadow of a beard. The broad shoulder covered in the correct dark dinner jacket.

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Stephen, who didn't know or much care about such things, could see that Lord Northrup's evening dress was impeccable. The vicar asked him for the decanter, and Stephen realized he must stop this mooning nonsense. He let himself be drawn into a discussion by the vicar, a well-educated man who had a vague understanding of bridge building and had heard Mr. Peregrine had some interest in that field. Stephen felt his old self emerging—the man who could think of something other than Lord Northrup. He talked of the right materials, caissons and steel cable, of cable stayed versus suspension. As he waved a hand, talking about catenary formulae, Stephen realized that Lord Northrup listened. Oh God, he heard himself and understood he sounded too eager, too much like a young boy raving on about the boring topic with boring detail. And such plebian enthusiasms too. The vicar didn't seem to notice that Stephen had withdrawn. He asked what a builder must do about the bedrock under so much silt. The coolly amused Lord Northrup folded his hands over his flat belly, lounging back on his chair to watch. Sophisticated, wealthy, mocking, painfully attractive—so exactly like the boys, and then men, Stephen had watched and longed for at school. Unattainable until now. This one had decided Stephen was a pleasant toy. An object for sex. Even as the thought brought him to near full erection, it filled him with a sense of loneliness. Relief from those unnatural urges and nothing more. For a moment Stephen thought of excusing himself and going up to his room to read a book. He already needed to escape his own body's new awareness. Its constant tension blended with the dreary, familiar sense of inferiority and made him dizzy with shame. But no. He'd done nothing wrong. At least not in this room. So he cleared his throat and, after a single glare at Lord Northrup, continued his discussion. He even pulled out his small notebook and a pencil to show the vicar the equation to decide necessary cable size. He wouldn't hide his true nature—at least this aspect of it.

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Chapter Five Good. The boy's next lesson must be discretion, and he seemed to be learning it. The way his clear gray eyes had shone each and every time he looked at Peter made Peter want to shake him. The hunger and something too similar to admiration in that face made Lord Northrup's skin prickle with peril and a responding yearning. Such a sweet mouth and such dangerous things young Stephen could do with it. He'd learn more, but first he must understand how to keep himself contained. Peter had years of practice and knew how to smile and talk and laugh even as he planned the night ahead. He wouldn't bother with the props. No masks or silken cords with Mr. Innocence. And such things were hardly necessary to whet the appetite when faced with such youthful…enthusiasm. Teach him, yet don't pervert him any more than you already have, Peter thought, and he licked the drops of cognac from the corner of his lips, wishing he licked into Stephen's mouth. He dreamed of unspeakable acts with a tender youth as he easily discussed taxes with the baronet. Sir Brandon grew so outraged by the money he must pay out, he fell into a glum silence and stared at the decanter. Peter could listen to the man he thought of as his protégé without fear of being obvious. Apparently Mr. Peregrine didn't reserve his passion only for bed sports. Peter hadn't given bridges a thought, not even as he rode over them, but Stephen had. And although his voice stumbled on occasion, that light of fanaticism had filled his face and air, the drive to learn and do and to accomplish something magnificent. God, Peter felt old, although truthfully he'd never been that young or inspired. He leaned back in the chair and smiled ruefully, for he'd always envied anyone with a vocation or who cared so very much. The boy seemed to know what he was talking about too.

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Funny how Peter had never paid any heed to the intelligence of his bed partners, but then again, under normal circumstances he didn't sit through an evening and listen to them speak, at least not of anything other than the delicious, wicked fun they'd enjoy together. Even when he indulged in weeklong retreats and had partners he'd fucked more than once, they might discuss topics beyond the matter in hand, so to speak. Yet they'd held only light, almost trivial, conversations. Not passionate scientific lectures. Except for the Pratts and another dear friend who tolerated his tastes, Peter didn't foul his nest, and he kept his social connections separate from his sexual conquests. He suddenly wished he knew a little about the subject that animated the man, perhaps as much as the vicar, so he could converse intelligently with Stephen. Never mind. He hoped to employ Stephen for far more agreeable pastimes soon enough. Soon enough that young, strong body would be his. “You look like a cat that swallowed a flock of canaries, Northrup.” Pratt had moved from his chair to ring the bell. “I'd have thought this house party would be dull for you. For once you're taking a repairing lease that actually includes some rest.” “That's it exactly,” Peter said. He raised his voice. “In fact, I might retire to bed early this evening.” Stephen's back straightened. He dropped the pencil he held and scrabbled down to the floor for it. That's it, Stephen, Peter silently urged, feel that bursting anticipation spread from your toes and your fingers straight to your cock. He remembered his own first encounters and how he'd quiver with that eager, untutored response. Except now he realized that he, Peter, was entirely excited, hard, and his mouth watered for the man. They joined the ladies in the drawing room, and soon after, he pleaded a headache and said he'd retire. As he shook Stephen's hand, felt the slightest tremble up his arm, he said, sotto voce, “Eleven, the summerhouse near the lake.” Stephen's smile made his young face slightly older, the lines at the corners of his eyes the glowing look of a man who sees pleasure ahead. He kept his grasp on Peter's hand. “Pray do not beam at me,” Peter said, half smiling. “You look as if I've just awarded you a great sum of money.”

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Stephen's smile didn't fade, but at least he let go of his hand. “Something far better,” he said softly.

*** Peter went to his room, discomfited by that glowing smile. He felt positively dispirited by the time he slipped out the back door and made his way down the gravel path in the moonlight. Worse than that, he felt silly. He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. He was an abominable man; he'd known that for years and been rather bored by the fact. But this new sign of his corruption, a friend of young Pratt perverted by his touch, pricked his conscience. That was only a matter of guilt, which he'd managed to dismiss for years. But now Stephen seemed fond of him in a way that had nothing to do with gratifying the sweet hunger. Couldn't the man see what would have happened had they met in the usual manner of country houseguests at the same dull party? Peter could easily imagine their meeting at breakfast. He was far more at his ease in company than Stephen, so he'd be the jolly old family friend searching for a topic over the kippers with a diffident young man. They would have discussed Cambridge, of course. He could see himself relating an amusing anecdote about his years at Trinity, although God alone knew what he could find amusing about those years. Brian was at Christ's College. Perhaps Peregrine was as well. During that first houseguests' meeting, they would have exchanged a few words about what places had changed in the ten years since Peter had been there, which old dons had died. They'd run out of things to say very soon, for they were of an entirely different generation and their interests had no commonality. They had nothing in common beyond desire. Walking across the still-damp lawn to the summerhouse, Peter suddenly felt very lonely. His step slowed, and he almost turned around to trudge to his room. Ah well, he rarely denied lust. And he'd have to face the recriminating looks from young Stephen in the morning if he didn't go to their tryst. It occurred to him that it might be Stephen who would change his mind, and Peter would wait in the rustic little building alone. He rounded the corner. Something near him stirred, the lightest brush of a branch in the breeze. A voice came from nearby. “Do you know I thought of this all afternoon? I looked at the summerhouse and thought of you there.”

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Peter stopped dead. “You frightened me, lurker. Do you wish to cause me an apoplectic fit? I'm too old for such shocks.” Stephen gave a soft laugh and ducked under an evergreen branch to stand at his elbow. Even in the dim moonlight under the shadows of the tall trees, Peter could see the man glowed with excitement. The flash of his white teeth as he laughed, the wide eyes he turned to Peter. “You aren't old.” Peter only snorted. They walked together quietly, though no one could hear voices this far from the house or the gamekeeper's cottage. Peter liked the fact that Stephen didn't try to fill the silence with nervous chatter. Stephen placed his hand on Peter's shoulder for only a second—a touch of greeting such as any man might give another, but the warm clasp and the promise in the contact brought Peter's body to life. He walked faster. The summerhouse smelled of damp wood. Some of the seats had cushions, but most were simple wooden benches set around the single round room. Someone had dragged in a rowboat, treating the house next to the lake like a storage shed. Peter suddenly recalled his very first tryst, a desperate event in a boathouse with the same scent of neglect and water. He'd been young then—younger than Stephen. Those furtive embraces had made him run away from the man who'd taught him. “Are you all right?” Stephen asked. Peter realized he was staring down at the moonlight on the wood floor when he should be enjoying the extremely delicious young man who stood next to him. He looked up at the dark form, silvered by the moonlight. “Yes, I'm fine, and will be better soon.” He reached for Stephen, who slipped away from his grasp and took two steps back. “You seem angry.” “Not at all.” Peter clenched his teeth. “And you can see this in the dark exactly how?” “I can sense it, I think.” “Impatience. I'd be delighted to show you my signs of that.” He wasn't fully aroused yet, but he would be very soon. “Come here, boy.” He reached for Stephen's hand, intending to show him exactly how impatient he was. “No. No. I'm not a boy because I've learned to delay my gratification,” Stephen said, and there was huskiness in his voice. Good God. The imp was flirting with him.

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“This is all very well and good. You are a good student,” Peter said. “But the point is gratification eventually.” Stephen laughed. He had a tenor voice, but his laughter was deep and entirely free of any cynical note. It displayed the quality in him that both attracted and appalled Peter. Stephen was obviously intelligent, but he didn't appear to guard against hurt. Surely a lad with such proclivities would have had to sustain wounds of the spirit and learned some caution, but he apparently left off such fears when he looked at Peter. Perhaps he felt too much hunger to care about anything else. God, yes. Peter forgot his qualms and advanced on Stephen again. “Must you always make me the hunter and you the prey?” he asked. “I thought you w-would stab me.” At first Peter didn't understand his meaning, but then gave a little snort at the joke. “Such a dirty mouth on you.” He made a grab at him. “Yes.” Stephen backed away from him, nimbly avoiding the chaise hidden in the deep shadows—the one Peter found after he rushed forward, barking his shins on it. He cursed and collapsed on the chaise. He stretched out on his back and groaned. The pain wasn't bad, but he hoped he might snag Stephen, who did indeed step closer. “Are you hurt?” “Desperately,” Peter moaned. “Shall I summon help?” Peter sat up at once. Then he noticed a gleam of white in the darkness. The devil grinned at him. “That depends. Whom did you have in mind to help?” he asked. That deep, uninhibited laugh, and then Stephen was pushing him over and straddling him, his knees on either side of his hips on the chaise. His kiss started awkwardly, their teeth clicking together because Peter was caught by surprise, but Stephen didn't grow flustered or draw back. Peter could taste the desperation, the delayed hunger that didn't allow any room for embarrassment or finesse. This boy—this man—was all heat and need. Peter gasped and bucked up, unsure if he wanted to unseat Stephen or rub against him. Stephen sat back on Peter's thighs and loomed over him, panting. Peter put his hands on the top of his thighs and squeezed. “You are no longer a shy man, Mr. Peregrine.”

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“I-I need you too much to care.” Before Peter could protest that far too passionate statement, Stephen was hunched over him again, kissing and touching, unbuttoning his waistcoat and then shirt with clumsy fingers. He gave a deep groan as his hands touched Peter's chest. He spread his fingers and flattened his palms on Peter, warm hands on his chilled skin. Peter hissed as those fingers grazed his nipple. “You like that?” Stephen whispered. “Yes.” Stephen slid down, his rock-hard cock rubbing along Peter's thigh. He licked and kissed Peter's throat, his mouth hot at the touch and cool a moment later. Peter wasn't used to giving over control to his partners, but he lay as still as possible as the younger man explored his body with his hands and mouth. Need seized him when Stephen's fingers brushed over his aching cock. He had to arch up to the light touch. Stephen made an approving sound in the back of his throat—apparently that delicate touch was to tease and not hesitant. He rested his hand over Peter's light woolen trousers as if he could hold his eagerness in check. “Did you…” Stephen swallowed. Too bad it was dark and Peter couldn't see his blushes. Stephen tried again. “Did you bring something to make it easier?” “Something? It?” Peter pushed against his restraining hands with each syllable. Stephen stroked him and didn't speak. He began to unbutton Peter's fly. Peter decided he'd had enough of allowing Stephen control. He sat up and seized the younger man's wrists and held his arms out to the side. “Yes, I brought a jar of lubricating unguent so that I might fuck you.” Stephen whimpered. “Which I plan to do most thoroughly. Later,” Peter finished. “Now,” Stephen whispered. “I have waited.” He rose to his feet, and with no ceremony or teasing, ripped off his clothes and tossed them onto a chair. When he was naked, he stood, waiting. The moonlight bathed his hair, turning it silver. His shoulders and arms were also easy to see, but the rest of him was hidden in shadows.

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Peter gave up. The teasing games he'd planned seemed superfluous and so unnecessary. He shed his clothes and went to Stephen. Before he reached him, Peter sank to his knees on the cold stone floor. He kissed Stephen's thighs, tongued the indentation of his navel, smoothed his fingers over his perfect, tight rear. He ignored the cock that nearly pointed at the ceiling as he sampled the rest of Stephen's flesh with his mouth, the smooth, nearly hairless sides all the way to the line of springy hair from his navel. Stephen had better self-control than Peter had shown. Except for the twitch of his cock and his trembling legs, he didn't stir. He groaned though and whispered, “Please.” Peter kissed the underside of his penis. “So polite.” He licked it from base to tip, and Stephen's gasp broke the still night. “Hush,” Peter scolded. He slowly slid his tongue up and down Stephen's penis, tasting musk, the lake, and the salty start of Stephen's spendings. It would take so little to tip him into bliss, and with another man, Peter knew he would go quickly, eager to get his own needs for pleasure met. But for such a responsive learner, first some teasing. With his mouth and hand he did his best to engulf the rod, almost choking when Stephen's control broke and he drove hard into Peter's mouth. Peter put his hand on Stephen's hip and pushed him away. “Patience.” Stephen's hoarse laugh had an edge of desperation. “None with you.” “You will have everything you wish for, but what's today's lesson?” “D-delayed gratification,” the young man repeated like a dutiful student, but with the shimmer of laughter in his voice. “The longer you maintain control, the greater the pleasure when it finally bursts through you.” Peter opened the jar of lubricant and placed it within easy reach beside him; then he clamped his forefinger and thumb in a tight circle at the base of Stephen's shaft. He resumed licking and nibbling the man's cock, toying with him, but not sucking him again. Then he dipped his head lower, nudging between Stephen's thighs, and licked his balls. They were drawn tight, and Peter felt a tingle of empathy in his own pair. He could hardly wait for the moment when he

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could bury himself in Stephen's body—had been yearning for it all day—but he reined in his arousal, holding it champing at the bit while he continued his seduction. With one hand he cupped the soft sac. He dipped several fingers of his other hand into the lubricant, then stroked the sensitive strip behind Stephen's balls toward his hole. Teasing around the puckered entrance, he waited for Stephen to push back against him, silently asking to be probed. Only then did he slip his lubricated finger inside—just one to start. Stephen gasped, and the ring of muscle clenched around Peter's finger. He waited for the man to acclimate to the new sensation as he carefully, patiently pumped the single digit in and out. He took a quick moment to slather more unguent on his fingers and then pressed two into the tight opening, stretching it easily to encompass them. When he added the third, plunging them in and out, Stephen groaned and pushed back onto them. Peter released Stephen from his makeshift cock ring so he could hold onto his hip. He resumed sucking the straight, long cock while frigging the other man with his fingers. It was all he could do to maintain control over his own body. His cock ached and wept droplets, and he growled as he swallowed Stephen and pushed his fingers as deep as they could go. The other man thrust into his mouth faster, and his panting breaths grew louder. Peter could tell he was near the edge and beyond concepts like waiting for what he craved. He gripped Peter's head, holding him steady as he drove into his mouth. And then suddenly Stephen cried out as his climax burst through him. Peter felt the warm jets hit his tongue, and he swallowed. He pulled his fingers from Stephen's ass and gripped his hips with both hands, holding him steady on his trembling legs. When the last ripple of pleasure had passed through Stephen, Peter finally released his spent cock and sat back on his heels to look up at him. A single shaft of moonlight penetrated the dark summerhouse and happened to fall across Stephen's beautiful face. His eyes were closed and his mouth open, an expression of utter ecstasy twisting his features. Peter's heart clenched at the lovely vulnerability in his face. It made him feel old and jaded, and brought back memories of what sex had felt like when it was new and emotional and transcendent. But then, he doubted he'd ever been as open as young Stephen. The other man opened his eyes at last and looked down at Peter, who was at his feet, in an attitude of worship. “Thank you.”

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Peter dipped his head in acknowledgement before rising. He took Stephen by the hip and pulled him close. He kissed his mouth, nuzzled his neck, and nipped his earlobe; then he whispered, “And now, if you don't mind, I should like to stop delaying my gratification.” He would have preferred to have Stephen in a nice soft bed with plenty of pillows for his first time. But sometimes discomfort and strange surroundings could be an aphrodisiac, so he would make the most of the summerhouse. Peter pulled away from Stephen, opened the door a little wider for better visibility, and spotted an overturned rowboat on the floor. The chaise was available, but the upside down boat would make a more intriguing support for Stephen to drape over. “On your knees beside the boat,” Peter ordered, allowing his voice to deepen and roughen. “Bend over it, and brace your arms on the other side.” Stephen obeyed, positioning himself awkwardly over the boat bottom, which was too wide to be properly straddled. That was fine. The hard wood rather than soft padding, the awkward position, and Peter's rough commands were all part of the excitement. For a moment, Peter simply gazed at the erotic sight of the young man draped over the boat with his ass tilted enticingly. The line of his back, the smooth muscles in his legs and arms, the sweet curve of his neck, and the slice of his profile outlined against dark wood all combined to make him a picture of submissive beauty. Peter grabbed hold of his cock, which was weeping copiously now, and clenched the base tight. He dipped into the unguent again and smoothed it over his erection, then knelt behind Stephen. With his free hand he caressed the warm body stretched out before him, stroking his palm down Stephen's back and feeling the bumps of his vertebrae. He cupped the taut cheeks, lightly squeezing and pulling at the pliant flesh. Finally he let go of his cock to grasp a buttock in each hand and pull them apart. He slid his thumb down the groove between, locating Stephen's hole and probing into it. Stephen whimpered and lifted toward him, his thigh muscles corded, his arms spread wide across the rowboat. Peter slathered lubricant into the tight channel and stretched it with his fingers. His cock vibrated. It was so hard and aching he could scarcely stand it. His head felt light as all his blood rushed to his erection.

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He hadn't been this excited about a sexual encounter in longer than he could remember. He'd never been one to choose virgins for bed partners, preferring men with experience to match his own. In fact, he found aging roués who hired a succession of extremely young “houseboys” in their endless quest for youth, beauty, and something fresh to be rather sad and pitiful. But although Stephen was inexperienced, he was no child, and Peter felt an interest in him beyond admiration for his face or form. This felt right and good, in addition to being wildly erotic. He guided his cock to Stephen's entrance and pressed inside. Immediately he was enveloped by tight heat. The way was narrow, but the spirit willing, Peter misquoted the Bible to himself as he pushed harder. He gripped Stephen's hips and filled him in steady increments as the man's body acclimated to his presence and allowed him inside. Peter's knees pressed into the hard floor. His cock was deliciously engulfed to the root. For a long moment he paused there, enjoying the sensation before slowly disengaging. Stephen moaned as his muscles reluctantly surrendered Peter's cock. He shifted against the boat, and Peter guessed his penis was rebounding with the energy of youth to swell once more, which couldn't be too comfortable given that it was pressed into hard wood. Although he longed to assault the other man's ass with his cock like the battering ram of an invading army, Peter forced himself to continue a slow and easy glide as he thrust once more. And as he entered Stephen, he had the strange sensation of coming home. It was odd and something he'd never experienced during sex before. Yes, there was the expected rush of blood, the excitement, the heady thrill of knowing they were engaged in something deemed “perverse” by society. All of those things made a potent sexual cocktail, but this was something else. It was like that moment when a man's carriage clattered up the drive of his own house with its windows brightly lit, and he felt relief in knowing he'd soon be stretched out in his favorite armchair before a roaring fire while the wind continued to bluster outdoors. Comfort. Safety. Home. Peter shook off the strange notion and concentrated on fucking Stephen's ass.

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Chapter Six Stephen closed his eyes and pressed hard against the rowboat, breathing in the strong, musty odor of tarred wood. His hands scrabbled for purchase against the sloping surface since he couldn't quite reach the floor on the other side, and his burgeoning erection pressed painfully against unforgiving wood. His knees ached from being braced against the hard floor, and his backside burned, burned, burned from the penetration of Peter's cock. Oh sweet Jesus, it was a good burn! He pushed back, trying to get even more of that thick rod inside him. This was everything he'd wanted, but he'd never truly been able to imagine what it would feel like to be filled in this way. In truth, he hadn't imagined he'd ever achieve the goal, only perpetually daydream about it. Yet here was Peter, a physical fact, a heavy body curved over his backside and a potent cock driving into him, filling him. Excitement, shame, joy, humiliation, ecstasy, dismay thundered through him as the word “sodomy” flashed in his mind like a lighthouse beam. And more. He felt a sense of being claimed as the other man took possession of his body. It was a wonderful, sweet feeling, a sensation of surrender into Peter's care. He trusted the other man, knew he would not hurt him more than what was pleasurable. They were complicit in this act. It was their private, special secret, which automatically drew them close together in a little bubble that excluded the rest of the world. This night, this moment, Stephen would remember forever. With Peter's every thrust, Stephen slid a little against the worn wood. His chest, his stomach, and especially his cock, rubbed painfully. His astonishing orgasm was barely over, and yet he ached to come again. Perhaps when Peter was finished, he would oblige him in that. But for now, Stephen enjoyed the incredible closeness of being wrapped in the other man's body, flesh heaving against flesh, skin sliding over skin, no space between them. Peter's arms were stretched over his arms, hands clamping around his wrists. The other man's body lay over his

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back, a heavy shroud pinning him down, but Stephen loved the weight of it. With every push, the head of Peter's cock hit a spot inside that sent pleasurable waves coursing through him. Peter kissed the side of his neck, his breath warm against Stephen's cheek. It was scented with the after-dinner brandy they'd sipped, and cloves, which Stephen realized Peter had chewed prior to meeting him so his breath would be fresh. That small, thoughtful detail struck him deeply, as it let him know Peter had been anticipating kissing him, maybe as much as Stephen had fantasized about it. Peter grunted a little with each thrust and moved faster now, pistoning his hips, his groin slapping against Stephen's ass. His breathing was harder. There was a heightened tension in him that told Stephen he was close. And then Peter groaned once more, loud and deep, a primal sound that made Stephen's hair rise. He bucked and thrust erratically, then froze. Stephen could actually feel his cock pulsing and releasing inside him. When he was finished, Peter remained sprawled over him for a few moments, both men breathing in unison, their bodies melded together as one. At last, Peter pushed his body off Stephen's and rose, leaving his backside cold. Stephen remained for another few seconds, memorizing the feeling of the hard wood beneath him, the dank smell of the lake, the faint whiff of cloves, and the imprint his lover's body had burned into his skin; then he stood too. “Are you feeling all right?” the other man asked as he pulled him into his embrace. Stephen nodded, suddenly too emotional to speak. He knew he'd stammer like a loose shutter flapping in the breeze if he opened his mouth. “Good.” Peter hugged him for a moment, and Stephen rested his head on the other man's shoulder. Then abruptly, Peter pulled away. “I suppose we should dress now.” Stephen searched the floor for his discarded clothes and began to put them on. He wasn't at all ready to return to his room. He couldn't possibly sleep after this, or even sit still and read a book. He wanted to run across the ground yelling his joy to the moon and stars. Silently he pulled on his stockings, linens, and breeches, tucking his half-hard erection away. As he buttoned his shirt, he looked over at Lord Northrup sitting on the rowboat and jamming his foot into his boot. “Sir, would you…”

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“Peter. I believe we decided you might call me Peter now.” “Yes. P-peter…” He cleared his throat and inhaled in an effort to slow his throbbing heart, then enunciated every word carefully. “I wondered if you might like to take the boat out on the lake.” He couldn't read Peter's expression, but the man stood silently considering before he finally answered. “I guess that would be all right. A bit of an adventure before we retire. And it is a very pleasant night.” Together they flipped the rowboat and carried it to the water. Peter held the craft steady while Stephen got in and sat down, then took his place on the seat across from him and pushed off. The little boat glided smoothly across the water where he'd so recently swum with Brian. He was a little disoriented as the jumbled images of the day shot through his mind. So much had happened in such a short time, it seemed unreal. Surely he, boring, average Stephen Peregrine, had not performed lewd sexual acts with a peer of the realm—twice in one day! If he allowed himself to dwell too deeply, guilt would wash over him. He'd think of his parents or the vicar at the country church he'd attended since childhood and their vague remonstrations about touching one's body or unclean acts. But tonight Stephen was invigorated, so charged with energy he felt he could float on air, and he refused to allow himself to be brought down by such thoughts. The night was balmy, the frog chorus trilling loudly, the annoying flies from earlier in the day asleep. It was the perfect time to be out on the water, beneath the star-studded sky with the sharp-edged moon frosting the lake in white. Peter had taken charge of the boat and was expertly guiding them toward the center of the lake, the oars cutting through the water in perfect synchronization. Stephen watched his strong arms plying the oars and remembered what they'd felt like wrapped around him mere minutes ago. His body could still feel the warm impression of Peter's embrace. What a strange thing lovemaking was—not only in their perverse case, but between male and female couples as well. To be so very intimate in secret yet maintain a polite and cordial distance in front of people seemed ludicrous and wrong. Stephen felt like shouting about what he'd done and how happy it made him feel. “You're an expert oarsman,” he said.

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“Sculling isn't quite the same, but I was in the rowing club during my years at Cambridge. I decided I needed to do something to keep fit and balance out all the alcohol I was drinking.” Peter shook his head. “I'm afraid I was a bit of a wastrel at the old alma mater. Not a devoted scholar like yourself.” Stephen felt he ought to protest, but it was true; he was completely devoted to his studies and spent little time in recreational pursuits. He knew many men like his lordship, who gave as little effort to academics as possible and spent most of their time gambling, drinking, or playing games of one sort or another. He wanted to ask Peter more questions about himself, to learn everything about the man, but suddenly he was tongue-tied and couldn't think of a thing to say. “Tell me more about these bridges of yours. I overheard some of your discussion at dinner, and it sounded fascinating.” Stephen looked at him sharply, checking to see if he was being sarcastic, but Peter seemed sincere. He didn't want to talk about engineering though. “I could drone on about bridges for hours. I'd rather learn more about you, sir. When did you attend Cambridge? What did you study?” “It's been a decade since I walked those hallowed halls. Like your friend Brian, I was interested in the classics, literature, and art. But I was even more interested in keeping myself entertained.” He shook his head as he drew the oars from the water, allowing them to drift. “I came into my inheritance and left university to pursue even more delights of the flesh. I'm afraid you've stumbled into a shallow pool. There's not much to me.” “I don't believe that.” Stephen leaned forward in the gently rocking boat to study the man before him, his features cast in harsh contrasts of shadow and moonlight. “I'm afraid it's true. In my youth, I drank hard, gambled heavily, and bedded women in an attempt to eradicate the part of my nature that would not be subdued. After I finally admitted to my proclivities, I pursued that course of action with an equal hedonistic intensity. Just think of what I could've accomplished if I'd turned such focus on something useful—like you have with your bridges and buildings.” The man sounded positively wistful, surprising Stephen. Lord Northrup was a gentleman, a wealthy and powerful man who appeared confident and in control of the world around him. But

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there was regret mingled with the flippant sarcasm in his voice, a vulnerability beneath his brazen exterior. That was the man Stephen wanted to get to know better. “What do you wish you had done? Do it now.” His temerity in speaking so to a social superior was unacceptable, but then, their relationship was hardly ordinary. Again Peter shrugged. “I don't know. I suppose my greatest use to society would be in politics. I should take my seat in Parliament and push through useful reforms or something. But quite honestly, the idea of sitting in a stuffy room full of bewigged, blustering fools sounds rather like a prison sentence to me. I can't bring myself to do it any more often than I absolutely have to.” “Then you shouldn't. If you enjoyed studying the arts, perhaps you'd like to write or paint or sculpt.” “Perhaps.” Peter's answer was perfunctory, but from that single word followed by a long silence, Stephen got the idea that perhaps his lordship dabbled in one or more of those things—a secret life he kept even more hidden from the world than his sexual orientation. “But neither poetry nor painting is hardly what one would call useful,” he added. “On the contrary,” Stephen said. “It is the arts, perhaps music most especially, that give joy to this world. They are absolutely necessary.” “Have you some architectural designs I might look at tomorrow? I imagine you carry a sketch book of your ideas.” “I do, if you'd really like to see them.” Stephen felt both embarrassed and excited at the prospect of sharing his work with this man. “But don't feel you must show an interest.” “Never. My boy, I'm known for my rudeness. If I'm not interested in something, I don't subject myself to it.” A rustling in the cattails and reeds at the water's edge caught Stephen's attention. In the dim light, he made out the form of some kind of animal. He pointed. “Look.” Together they watched the squat figure of a badger drink its fill from the lake, then disappear back into the thicket of weeds. “I've never seen one before,” Peter said. “They keep themselves well hidden in their burrows by day. How odd to think of the natural world going on around us, creatures living the entire span of their lives right near us, and we are blind to them. Man is a self-involved animal,

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certain his desires are paramount and that the so-called lesser creatures of the earth are there to serve his needs.” “Shall we feel bad about eating our furry brethren?” Stephen dared to tease. “I think I will from now on.” “Ah, but it won't stop us from enjoying them, especially in a delicious sauce,” Peter shot back with a grin, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Although I think I'll forgo the badger au cassolet.” They floated in silence for a bit. As the boat drifted too near the shore, Peter thrust the oars back into the water and stroked toward the center of the lake again. Stephen realized he was heading toward the summerhouse. Their magical evening was almost over, and it was difficult to say whether they would get another chance to be alone together in the few days they had left to share. There was so much he wanted to talk about, he couldn't bear letting the time pass in silence. “May I ask you s-something?” Damn, his stammer was creeping back in as his tension rose. But he found it impossible to relax when what he wanted to ask was so very personal. “Certainly.” Peter waited for him to continue. “When was your first…experience with another man? And you never really answered my earlier question. When did you first recognize your nature?” Peter was quiet for so long, Stephen was sure he'd offended him, but at last he drew a deep breath and answered. “The first. It was not a good experience, and after that, I preoccupied myself with bedding women until my third year at Cambridge. I'd felt sexual stirrings since puberty, and maybe before, when looking at other boy's bodies. I was aroused. But I didn't allow myself to dwell on it. I don't know how that's possible—to know yet not know the truth about oneself—but somehow I managed the juggling act.” He paused again, letting the oars float and trailing his hand in the water. “Realization dawned on me in one fell swoop, a powerful experience that tore the blinders off my eyes that third year in college. I had long known I could not change, and I believe, after that year, I didn't want to.” “But that wasn't your first time with a man?”

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“No.” Peter pushed the oars back into their locks and began to row again. “Not then.” Stephen wished he hadn't asked. The question had broken the confiding mood that he understood was a rare event with Peter. Stephen guessed something about his first time with another man—deceit perhaps, or broken promises, or physical abuse—had hurt Peter. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You are generous when y-you touch me. So you must have, uh, had some good teachers yourself.” “Oh, yes, indeed I did.” Peter's chuckle was soft and arousing. “And do you know him still? Them? What has happened to him?” He longed to discover if Peter had some long contract with another, if his affection was still claimed. “I have no notion.” “Did you love him?” “Love? Good God. What a ridiculous man you are. Love.” Stephen tried one more time. “Have you been lonely for him then? Or for anyone?” Peter deftly stroked so the boat steered toward the house. “This indulgence in selfinspection leads to nothing appetizing, young Peregrine,” he said lightly. “My advice to you is to learn to not examine life so very closely. Keep your eyes closed when you indulge yourself.” “If I have my eyes closed, how will I see you?” “You want to see me?” Peter's laugh seemed to express genuine amusement. “Take a good look tonight. And perhaps we could have another time or two to further your education. You can gaze upon me then. But more than that?” He pulled at the oars. “I shouldn't think so. Dear Stephen, my next lesson for you should be carpe diem. And remember always that the day you seize often lasts less than twenty-four hours.” Stephen suddenly felt tired. “Gutted like a poached salmon” Brian called that peculiar sense of desolation. He was tired of not-very-clever word games. “I-I like you, Peter.” Love, he thought, but Stephen knew it wasn't true yet, and he understood he mustn't use any such sweet word for what they had shared. He was a fast learner. “Why…um… Why can't we see more of each other? As if we were friends.” Plain speaking, his father always said, though Mr. Peregrine would never imagine such things ever uttered aloud.

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The boat's bottom scraped against the sandy shallows with a grinding clatter. Peter hopped out and dragged it onto the shore almost before Stephen could more awkwardly clamber out. “So we shall see each other,” Peter said with an unnatural air of jollity. “For the rest of this visit, we will talk, and perhaps, if we are lucky, have another educational session or two. With discretion, of course, my friend. Always thus. We don't want to embarrass our host or your friend.” “Of course not.” Stephen felt stung, no matter that the warning was justified. Peter's presence filled him with a recklessness that was new to his nature. He knew he'd been indiscreet through dinner. The longing had been too much to quell. He'd never felt anything so powerful before. “That is of primary importance.” Peter pushed a lock of hair impatiently from his forehead and tugged at his waistcoat, fruitless attempts to tidy himself as if he might encounter a Pratt at any second. The cheeriness was gone. “So you must not pay me any special attention. No secret smirks or winks or, God forbid, touches.” Peter ran a finger along his collar. “If you so much as pat me on the shoulder, I will ignore you for the rest of our time here chez Pratts.” “I wouldn't—” “No? Good.” Peter crunched over the pebbles and stood near Stephen. “Do you see?” He put his hand on the younger man's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “None of this.” He ran two fingers over Stephen's throat and up to his jaw. “Nor this.” He shifted closer. With both hands he cupped Stephen's face and brought his mouth down on his, soft brush of lips at first, then the full, deep kisses Stephen had never imagined before and would never forget now. He wrapped his arms around Peter's lean form, pulled him hard against his body. And then he felt the lift of arousal even though his body and balls ached with use. A warm ache he welcomed and wanted to feel every day. Always. Peter pulled away and detached Stephen's arms from his middle. His face was drawn and serious. “And never, ever that. You understand?” “You are a t-tease,” Stephen managed to say.

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Peter didn't smile. He nodded and walked to the far end of the boat. Bending, he seized the bow. “Ready?” Stephen wasn't ready for the night to end. “Yes,” he said glumly and reached for the stern. They walked the boat back onto the grass and flipped it over. Stephen wiped his hands on his trousers. “Will you walk with me?” “No,” Peter said softly. “Back to the house together? I think not, young Stephen. Good night to you.” He flicked his fingers, a shooing motion. “Go on.” Stephen walked away and left Peter standing in the dark.

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Chapter Seven Peter leaned against the tree and watched him leave. Stephen walked slightly hunched, as if he was in pain. His bum? No, not likely, or he would have been more restless on the boat. Peter's fingers curled slightly, as if remembering the feel of Stephen's hips. He wished he'd taken more time to learn that lean form filled with raw energy, but he'd been too hungry for the boy, too focused on his ripe ass. He needed a whole day uninterrupted with Stephen. They'd end up beard chafed and exhausted. Sick of the sight of each other. Then he'd walk away without looking back. At the moment, he still could bring himself to arousal just recalling the soft groans Stephen had made as Peter had pushed into him or the way he smiled just before making some outrageous request. Peter sternly drew his mind away from the temptation of Stephen. He would make plans as he walked across the lawn to the library's French windows, open to the cool night air. Somehow the week of revelry the Pratts planned after the departure of the boys next month would not do for him after all. Sentiment, he warned himself, and he didn't indulge. But he'd move on anyway. Italy would be too hot this time of year. France, insipid. He might return to Stafford. He'd been blessed with the best of managers, so he didn't need to visit the property. The whole operation—farms, the small factory, collecting rent from houses and businesses in the village— all ran smoothly without him. He let himself into the library silently and went up to bed, alone. Peter undressed and readied himself for bed. Stephen wouldn't sneak into his room, more's the pity. That didn't seem to stop Peter from conjuring interesting pictures and plans, almost all involving a naked Stephen. Usually Peter slept easily, the dreamless sleep of the wicked, but tonight he lay on his back and stared into the dark for more than hour.

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His eyes felt sandy and his limbs stiff when he went down to breakfast the next morning. As he lifted the covers of the serving dishes, the scent of coffee and sausages cheered him slightly, and he was glad to be alone in the breakfast room. Just as he was finishing his second cup of coffee, Brian and Stephen came in, arguing in a furious undertone. They broke off when they spotted Peter. “Good morning, my lord,” Brian said. “Why are you two having a row?” Brian shook his head. “Peregrine here thinks I'm too young to plan more than a holiday excursion.” Stephen said, “Before you make an offer for a girl, you should have a plan for your life. That is all I said.” “Marriage? That is absurd, Pratt. You are too young to consider making a lifelong alliance. Good God, do your parents know?” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Peter felt absurd. Old and stodgy—right, of course, though that hardly mattered. Brian cleared his throat. “Peregrine exaggerates. Of course I would never take such a step without consulting my father.” And now Peter felt even older. “Pardon. It is none of my business, of course.” He rose from the table and tossed down his napkin. “I bid you good morning.” As he left the room, he felt Stephen's stare on the back of his neck. The morning had gone from gray to black, and the skies opened up with steady rain. Peter found his friend Pratt pacing in the library. “Terribly sorry the weather is so rotten we shan't get out, Northrup.” “Yes, I expect English weather is your fault. Never mind. I shall amuse myself with a good book.” He headed to the shelves. “Nothing from my special collection,” Pratt said. “We're trapped with the boys, after all.” “So we are.” “We'll play cards later, eh? Wonder where my wife got to.” Pratt restlessly paced the room and eventually went off in search of her. Peter found Edward and Euphemia's close relationship touching. The way the two pecked at each other in public hid a deep, abiding bond, made even

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stronger by their shared secret way of life. The sex games the couple enjoyed would've dumbfounded their local peers, which was why the guests at their play parties came from far afield and cut across social classes. Peter found an antique copy of Tom Jones and settled in a wingback chair to read. He dozed off almost at once and woke to the sound of pages rustling near him. Stephen sat in the chair facing him, a pencil in his hand, a tablet on his knee. When he saw Peter watching him, he turned red and dropped the pencil. “Drawing,” he explained. “Nothing wrong with that, you see,” he added in a low voice. He wore a small grin. “Must examine my subject thoroughly, you know.” Peter ignored the slightly flirtatious tone. “Where's your friend Master Pratt?” Stephen jerked his head at the door. “Off to find his father. He is going to marry Miss Hathaway, I think.” “You know he's too young.” Stephen leaned over and picked up the pencil. “Perhaps. But I can understand. About love. And w-wanting to make a promise.” He stared down at the picture, frowned, and got to work again. Peter decided he didn't want to ask for an explanation. He picked up his book, then put it down again. “Let me see your drawings,” he demanded. Stephen's face lit with that enthusiasm that made him glow. Peter wanted to squint in the light of such joy. “Yes, of course.” Stephen scrambled from his chair. He pulled up two leatherbound portfolios that he'd put under his chair. “I was bringing them to show you. But you'd fallen asleep.” “We old people do that,” Peter said. Stephen only smiled. “Especially old people who stay out late.” After Stephen handed over the thick portfolios, he backed away. He stood gazing up at a painting of hunting dogs with pheasants in their mouths on the wall, but his stiff back showed he wanted to lean close to Peter and describe each sketch. Peter paid no heed to his tense presence as he leafed through the pages.

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Stephen was very good, yet he had two conflicting ways of drawing. Some drawings were precise and detailed technical drafts. Others were wild, free pictures, with character and energy. “Such different hands you display here,” he said. “Is that because you haven't found your style yet? Or are some of these for work?” “Some are for work.” Stephen turned away from the hunt picture over the fireplace to face him. “And the others?” Stephen shrugged. “It's an indulgence. Dangerous, perhaps.” “What can you mean? They're all lovely.” “Thank you.” Stephen didn't sound enthusiastic. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around his other wrist as if guarding a wound. “I was born left-handed.” “Many people are,” Peter said. “You make it sound as if it were the mark of the devil.” “It's not exactly normal,” Stephen said. “And it might be the reason for my other…aberrations.” “I've never heard that theory. I'm right-handed, and uh…” “I know you are,” said Stephen, and Peter wasn't surprised—the boy was an observer. Peter turned the page to the last drawing, a finely done portrait of his own face in repose. Only the small lines between his brows showed tension or age. He looked noble and kind in that drawing. Not like a drooling middle-aged man caught napping in the middle of the morning. “So some drawings are done with one hand and some with the other?” he asked at last. Stephen nodded. “That one of you is both. Left and right.” “Did you have to be trained out of using your left?” “Oh, yes. But I knew early on I had to hide my left-handed use from my father. He can be superstitious.” He twirled his pencil—between the fingers of his right hand. “I think it might be another sign of why I'm so…why I don't fit in.” “Or a sign that you've got twice the skill of most people,” Peter said acidly. “Which hand does this?” He held up the plans for a house that consisted of neat, ruled lines. “My right hand makes the careful lines, or I'd show everyone I was born left-handed.”

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“You'd also show that under that polite, diffident surface you've erected with years of training, you're a wild young thing, chafing at constraints.” Jesus, why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? The radiant smile Stephen gave him practically burned his eyes. A voice spoke from the doorway. “Ah, there you are, Northrup, Peregrine. Up for a game of billiards, gentlemen?” “I'll just work, sir, if that's all right.” Stephen held up a drawing tablet. “I promised my father some potential plans.” “Fine, fine.” Pratt waved a hand and turned away. Peter rose and joined him. “I'll take you on, Pratt. Should we play for money? I vow if we play long enough you'll eventually owe me your estate.” Pratt smiled, but he was distracted. They walked down the hall until Pratt stopped abruptly and looked all around. “It won't do,” he said in a low voice. “Pardon?” “I saw that lad's face. He's… He looked besotted. And I think something's going on.” Peter didn't want to lie to his friend, but he had to protect Stephen, the young idiot. “He loves his work. Did you hear him talk about bridges last night to the vicar?” Pratt smiled briefly. “He's a good lad. Brian doesn't make friends easily, and Peregrine seems truly fond of him. But he's from a class of people who don't easily forgive sin of any sort.” “Including being born left-handed,” Peter muttered. “What are you talking about?” “Never mind. Finish your lecture, Pratt.” “I promise, not a lecture, just a statement. Master Peregrine doesn't need any sort of influences that could lead him away from the straight and narrow path, Northrup. He's dependent upon his father, whom I've met. Peregrine senior is solemn and humorless and hardworking. I'm sure he loves his son, but the man passes judgment with the zeal of a reformist preacher.” Pratt sighed and started toward the billiard room again.

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“And you think I could somehow corrupt Peregrine junior so his own father would disown him? You do believe me powerful.” His voice was light, but his stomach churned. “Perhaps you were right to say I should leave.” Pratt surprised him by agreeing. “I hate to drive off my own friends, but I feel responsible for the lad.” “He's not a lad. He's a full-grown man who can make his own decisions.” He didn't want to be rude to Pratt, who'd always been a friend to him. But he most definitely wanted to rid himself of the sensation that might have been guilt. “Oh, no. It's happened already?” Pratt's eyes went wide, and he chewed on the edge of his pudgy thumb. “Relax, Pratt. I will leave, just as you wish.” Peter put his hand on the other man's upper arm and gave him a quick squeeze. “No harm has been done, I promise you. Let's play a game or two, and then at lunch I'll recollect a sudden appointment I must keep in London. Will that suit?” “Yes, it will. I am sorry, Northrup, but—” “No need. I understand entirely. One must drive off the wolves when one is caring for lambs.” He attempted a laugh, but it felt rusty. “I think I should probably say good-bye to Mr. Peregrine in private for five minutes, and then you should make a noisy and obvious entrance.” He pushed open the door to the billiard room and made for the rack of cues. Pratt remained planted in the doorway. “I wish you hadn't said that. Oh, blast it, Northrup, tell me he's come to no harm or—” “Of course not.” Peter selected an ebony cue and looked along its length to see if it was bent. It would do. “But he fancies himself my friend.” “After so few days?” “Indeed. They haven't been here long, have they?” Peter leaned against the edge of the table. “Go ahead, mine host. A fast game, and then I shall recall that London message.” “You'll come back again?” “Not right away, thank you. Do invite me again eventually, if you please. I will miss you and your lovely wife too much if I stay away too long, but next month might be too soon.” “Why?” Pratt peered at him.

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“I can't really say. No, I mean I don't understand,” Peter said, truthfully. “Never mind that. When we are back in London, I will take you and Mrs. Pratt out to dinner and spare no expense. You will tell me amusing stories, if you please, and shock the waiters.” “If you say so, Northrup. You're not storming out in a high rage, are you?” “Not at all, no.” Just with the feeling that my heart has been replaced by a stone. They played with the usual good cheer, and Peter won five pounds from his friend. No more mention was made of Peter's departure until the party sat down to lunch together. As they started on the main course, he cleared his throat. “I'm afraid I must go to London immediately after luncheon.” “In this wet weather?” cried Euphemia. “Is it an emergency?” Peter watched Stephen from the corner of his eye. The younger man only paused as he cut into his mutton and shot a glance at Mr. Pratt. “It is rather urgent,” Peter said, pleased that Stephen had hidden any response. He was learning. “Will you return soon?” Stephen sounded only polite. Perhaps he'd lost interest in Peter, and this harried departure was unnecessary. Peter grinned at the thought. “No, I think this will be farewell for a while. I must go to Stafford after London. And then?” He shrugged. “But I was very glad to have met you, Mr. Peregrine. And it's always a pleasure to visit the Pratt family.” That was easy, he thought as he ate and chatted with Euphemia. Yet the sensation of carrying a burden wouldn't dissipate. He excused himself early and went to his room to pack. When his valet returned from holiday, he would be scandalized at the way Peter tossed his belongings together. Jeffers would fuss and groan over Peter's mistreated clothes, and life would return to normal. Life hadn't actually been anything else, he told himself. The episode with Stephen had been like any other pleasant, stimulating encounter. Peter's sensation of loss must be due to the discomfort he'd soon endure—he'd be out in the rain on horseback because he refused the Pratt's traveling coach. There was a small knock at the door, and Stephen came in before Peter spoke.

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“Mr. Pratt is sending you off, isn't he?” “Were you eavesdropping?” “I could see his face when he came into the library. He was not happy. I-I'm sorry.” “Everyone is apologizing to me today,” Peter said and folded a shirt before shoving it into his valise. “Don't go,” Stephen said. “If someone must leave, it should be I.” “Stephen, don't be an ass. Of course I'll go. Don't make this out to be a heartbreaking event.” “To me it is,” Stephen said. Peter looked up and realized the younger man's eyes were filled with tears. Stephen hurriedly wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I know you don't want me to say I'm sorry, but I must do something. I feel terrible. Mr. Pratt…he's your friend.” Peter, who'd thought Stephen was acting tragic about the loss of a sex partner, was touched that Stephen worried for him. “He still is. My dear lad, there was no vile scene or denunciations.” “That's good.” Stephen nodded but still looked miserable. “Peter, you're not sorry you came into my room that night, are you?” “Not I. Carpe diem. I enjoyed our time together.” Peter hesitated. “I suppose if I were another sort of man, I might worry that I've injured innocent youth.” For the first time, Stephen smiled. He even laughed. “Oh, if you'd read my thoughts, you'd know there was nothing innocent in them.” He sat on the bed heavily. “I can't believe you are able to walk away so easily.” He sounded surprised, almost stunned, but not injured. “I suppose it's because I like you.” “This again?” “Perhaps it's because you're my first that I'm sad to part from you. Did you easily walk away from the first man you lay with?” “Lay with? You pick such a pretty phrase.” Bile rose in Peter's throat. “I didn't walk away. I ran away from the first man who fucked me.” “Peter.” Stephen rose at once. He didn't speak again, and that made it easier for Peter to tell the rest. The inexperienced lad might as well know such things could happen, after all.

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“I was young and didn't know what I wanted. I wanted him, but it was so much so fast.” Peter shook his head. “And when it hurt, I begged him to stop. Ah, at least it was fast.” “I'm sorry.” “Again with the apologies?” Peter reached for another shirt. His hands trembled. “That was my first and, at the time, I swore it was my last, but lust wins over caution every time.” “How long did you take to recover?” “No time at all. Months.” “And then always it was better?” Stephen whispered. “Oh yes. After that no matter how fast my encounters, all have been mutually satisfying.” Peter smiled. “Though many have been nearly as rushed as that first time. You'll discover that there's some pleasure in the fast grope, a heady excitement that keeps your body humming hours afterward. A chance-met man in a public washroom. One you don't know from Adam.” “Is that what you prefer?” Stephen sounded horrified. Peter looked him in the eye. “Indeed. My favorite sexual experience is entirely anonymous.” The words seemed forced and false to his own ears, but apparently Stephen believed him. “They aren't really lovers, are they?” Stephen said softly. “I feel as if you and I are.” Peter turned back to his packing. “We were. But my attention is brief, and as I told you before, I don't spend time on things that don't interest me.” It was a calculated cruelty. He didn't look up but heard Stephen's sharp intake of air at the cut. His stomach twisted, and his chest felt like someone had set an anvil on it, but the harsh words would make it easier for Stephen in the long run. Break the boy's heart and send him on his way a wiser man. “I see.” Stephen's voice was quiet. Peter closed his valise with a decisive snap and lifted it off the bed. He could've rung the bell for a servant to take it downstairs, but carrying the bag gave him something to do with his hands to keep them from reaching for Stephen. No last caress or kiss. He must do this fast.

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He looked straight into Stephen's troubled eyes. “You'll get past this, and there will be plenty of others in your future, be assured of that. So thank you for the grand time, it really was a pleasant diversion, but now it's time for me to bid you adieu.” Peter gave a small bow, didn't reach to shake Stephen's hand, and turned on his heel to walk from the room. Once more he swore he could feel the younger man's gaze burning into his back, scorching a hole right through his jacket, between his shoulder blades, and into his heart. A ridiculous notion, for he didn't have a heart, at least not the kind that went weak and swoony because of a young man's affections. This out-of-character emotionalism was a momentary lapse of common sense. He'd get past it and be as right as rain in a couple of days. A week at most. Or maybe a month.

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Chapter Eight Stephen felt sick, his stomach aching fiercely and his body feverish. His lethargy was such that he could scarcely rise from his bed, or the divan, or an armchair to play cards, take a stroll, or ride horses with Brian. His friend was convinced he was actually ill, and Mrs. Pratt seemed equally concerned. He realized he should put up a pretense of normalcy before they called in a doctor. Manufacturing a smile, he made small talk and went through the motions of being a healthy, normal man whose heart hadn't been ripped from his chest. The rest of his visit with the Pratts passed by in a blur. His memories of every second spent with Peter Northrup were far more vivid than the details of the passing days. From the moment that deep, slightly drunken voice had drawled, “Gads, there's a boy in my bed,” to his casually dismissive, “As I told you before, I don't spend time on things that don't interest me,” every word Peter had said to him was etched in his mind. Every gesture, look, and touch—oh God, the touches and the kisses—were so potent, Stephen knew he'd never forget them. If anything, instead of gaining perspective on this romantic encounter, his feelings seemed to strengthen by the day. He could think of little else besides scenarios in which he chased down Peter and confronted him, forcing him to admit that what had passed between them was more than a brief liaison. And God help him, he wrote letters—long, passionately worded letters which he actually sent to Peter when he should have burned them, with no other eyes but his own ever seeing those foolish, heartfelt words. As days passed and Stephen examined and reexamined Peter's protestations of losing interest in him, he became increasingly convinced it wasn't true. Peter had wished to stay longer. He hadn't been bored with Stephen and had felt something too. It wasn't possible for all the powerful emotions tumbling through him to be completely one-sided, was it? Or was Stephen as

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naive as the older man had informed him he was? Had he mistaken a jaded rake's experienced flirtation and sexual skills for true emotion? It hardly mattered now. The holiday was drawing to a close. Brian and Stephen were packing in preparation for returning to school. The luxury of the Pratts' home would be replaced by a small room in the residence hall to start the Michaelmas term, and soon enough the heat of summer would be followed by a rainy autumn in Cambridge. The night before they were to leave, Brian chose to wreak havoc by announcing to his parents right in the middle of dinner that he planned to ask for Miss Hathaway's hand. The letter writing between the two had reached a feverish pitch, and Alice's most recent missive, hinting at another possible suitor for her affections, had Brian in a lather. “I know what your objections will be, Father. I know you think I'm too young. You'll say I need to finish my studies first. But I can't wait. If I wait, I'll lose her, and if I lose her, I'll die.” Stephen winced at Brian's dramatic announcement and stared at his roast beef with intense concentration, wishing he were anywhere but at this table. “Son, this is not the appropriate time or place to come forth which such an announcement. This is a family matter and will be discussed as such, after dinner, in private.” Stephen mentally applauded Mr. Pratt's words. He did not want to be witness to this thunderstorm. But Brian had been holding back his secret for too long. Now that he'd confessed his intentions to his parents, it was as if the floodgates had burst. “Alice is beautiful and kind and sweet. She's from a good family, so you couldn't possibly find any objection to this match except for our young age. And yes, I know”—he spoke over his mother's attempted interruption—“it is customary for a man to reach his majority, to carve out his place in the world before choosing a wife, but if you knew how I felt inside, you'd understand. This is not infatuation or lust. The devotion, the passion, the pure love I feel for Alice is real. It's the strongest, most real thing I've ever felt.” Brian's melodramatic proclamation would usually have made Stephen feel an affectionate impatience for his theatrical friend, but tonight, with his own emotions in an uproar, he thought he knew exactly what Brian meant. In the past, from an outsider's perspective, he'd seen Brian's passion for this girl or that ebb and flow. Now he understood the pain of separation, the angst of longing, the depth of obsession. Good God, did that mean his emotions toward Peter really were

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just a young man's infatuation, something to be outgrown? He couldn't help his grim smile. At least there wouldn't be the threat of a breach of promise suit at the end of his sordid affair. “My dear,” Mrs. Pratt spoke sharply, “I'm certain you don't believe your father and I were born middle-aged. We understand about love. We are in love. But if your love for this Miss Hathaway is true, then spending an appropriate amount of time on consideration and reflection will not diminish, but strengthen your bond.” Stephen pushed a green bean around on his plate and considered asking to be excused and taking his leave before the family drama grew more heated. “You've always been rash, thundering from one craze to another ever since you were a boy. If you want your mother and me to start thinking of you as a man or treating you as such, then you must learn to show some restraint and a little more self-control.” Mr. Pratt was surprisingly calm, much calmer than Stephen's father would've been in such a situation. “Every human being is full of passionate desires and needs, Brian. That doesn't mean a person should instantly act on them.” Brian threw his napkin on the table. “I knew you'd object. I knew you wouldn't even listen to what I have to say.” Actually Stephen thought the Pratts were listening and making remarkably good sense in their responses, but Brian had clearly made his announcement with an intention to provoke and wouldn't stop until he'd caused some fireworks. Now it really was time for Stephen to retire. “Please excuse me.” He pushed his chair back and half rose. “Sit,” Mrs. Pratt ordered. “I'll not have a guest driven from my dinner table, Brian. We will discuss your proposal after the meal in the privacy of your father's study.” Although as short and round in stature as her husband, Euphemia Pratt could be a formidable woman. Her tone brooked no argument, and Stephen plopped back into his seat. Everyone at the table fell silent, including Brian. Stephen ate as fast as he could without appearing completely rude, thanked his hostess for the delicious meal, and made himself scarce for the rest of the evening. He hid in his room for a time, but it was a warm night and the outdoors called him. He wished to walk one last time to the summerhouse, the scene of his fulfillment.

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He hurried along the drive toward the road and the side path that led to the lake. When he reached the darkened summerhouse, he stood in the doorway with his eyes closed and breathed deeply. The sent of dank wood and lake water took him immediately back to those precious moments when he'd lain prostrate over the rowboat while Peter pushed into him. Stephen went outside in search of the boat. It was where they'd left it, turned facedown a few yards from the edge of the lake. He knelt in the weeds beside the hull and stretched his body over it, pressing his cheek to the smooth wood. It was slightly damp from humidity, and the smell of tar was strong. His cock grew hard. He clenched his fingers against the wood and pushed his groin against it. Peter's mouth was around his cock, sucking, sucking, sucking the very blood out of it until he exploded. Then Peter's cock was inside him, pressing hard, the bigger man's heavy body pinning him flat to the overturned rowboat. Stephen groaned and thrust his hips. He snaked his hand between his body and the hard wood, slipped it down the front of his trousers, and grasped his cock. But every pull only reminded him that it was not Peter's mouth or hand on him. He was alone here. He would be alone for a long time to come. Desolation swept over him, and his cock went limp. He dragged his hand out from under himself and pushed off the boat, rising to his feet. As he trudged back to the house, Stephen thought about everything the Pratts had said to Brian and everything Lord Northrup had said to him. He was young, foolish, too sensitive and passionate, although he'd never thought of himself as such until now. It had always been Brian who'd acted from the heart. Stephen had allowed himself to wallow in misery all summer, but it was time to grow up. He'd return to college tomorrow and throw himself into his work. He'd channel all this unfocused energy into something useful and challenging, and soon he'd move past this impossible passion. Someday he'd be able to think about Peter Northrup and remember him fondly as what he was—a summertime fling he'd had in his youth.

*** Peter grunted and thrust into the hard body beneath him. He gripped the man's biceps, digging his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises. When that didn't satisfy him, he grasped the

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back of the man's hair and yanked his head back, making him cry out. “Damn, Northrup, you're in a rough mood tonight. Don't stop. I love it!” “Shut up,” he slurred, blinking away the haze before his eyes. He didn't want to hear Barnaby's whining voice. If the man kept his mouth shut and his face turned away, and if Peter drank enough and squinted, he could almost pretend it was a different man's body beneath him. The build was right, as was the feel of the smooth, taut flesh across his back. The narrow hips and the clench of his ass were close enough. Even the color of Barnaby's hair could pass if he'd just keep his damn mouth shut. Peter hadn't fucked any man face-to-face in a long time. He couldn't maintain his illusion when he looked them in the eye. Christ, how he wished he'd taken Stephen that way, face-toface, just once before leaving him. In his mind, he could imagine the youth's gray eyes, how they would widen when Peter thrust into him, then close in ecstasy, and how his soft lips would part as he called Peter's name with a sigh. Pratt needn't have known. Perhaps one last session with Stephen would've been enough to lay that liaison to rest so it wouldn't have haunted him. As it was, four, nearly five, damnable months since that summer interlude had passed, and he still couldn't get the schoolboy out of his mind. Peter growled and jammed himself into Barnaby with a punishing thrust. Luckily the man liked it harsh, and the stroke seemed to be exactly what he'd needed to push him over the edge. He nearly bucked Peter off him as he thrashed in the throes of orgasm. When he went still, Peter pulled out of him—still hard. He was bored with trying to come. It was too much damn effort, and he'd drunk too much. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes while his dick slowly turned flaccid. Gaining an erection wasn't his trouble, but recently he'd found reaching climax was elusive. It was ridiculous that something as simple as falling off a log was beyond his ability to achieve. Gasping, Barnaby turned on his side and wiped off his hand, which had been pumping his cock while Peter fucked him. He flicked a glance at Peter's flagging erection. “Maybe next time, old boy. We all have our slow spells.”

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Not me. Not ever. Not until now. Peter grunted and got up off the bed. “I'm going back to my room. I won't see you tomorrow. You rise too late, and I've an appointment with my solicitor.” He walked from the room without a backward glance. Barnaby was a friend at whose house he was staying rather than one of the nameless men Peter usually fucked. They'd see each other again. Their paths occasionally crossed. But he hardly felt the need to give Barnaby a kiss good night. Despite the occasional fuck, they weren't that close. More days slipped past, immeasurable in their sameness. Yes, he might engage in different activities each day, but there was an identical flavor of self-indulgence about them. Whether attending a dinner, a ball, a card party, the theater, the races, or engaging in the seamier aspects of London social life, such as gambling, drinking, betting on cockfights, dogfights, fistfights, smoking opium, fucking strangers, it was all the same—one hedonistic world of pleasures, none of them with any real meaning. When each day was over, he slept alone, and his bed felt lonelier than it ever had in his life. He couldn't stop the memory of that single night with Stephen—not just the fucking, but their conversation as they floated on the lake under a magical moon. Romantic rubbish which he must exorcise from his mind. Perhaps a week or two after his evening with Barnaby, Peter found himself once again at a gambling hell, tossing dice. His lackluster luck soon nearly cleaned his pockets. The noise, heat, and press of the crowd made his head ache. Peter decided he'd retire to do some steady drinking until he passed out after one last throw. He gathered up the dice. “Lord Northrup, hullo!” A familiar voice came from behind him just as he cast. Peter didn't wait to see if he'd nicked before turning around to face Brian Pratt and a group of young men who, from the cut of their clothes, must be more university students. And Stephen. His heart pounded, and a jolt of lust washed through him. Peter's gaze barely flicked over Pratt before settling on the taller young man behind him. The pale gray eyes were even more compelling than he'd remembered. Stephen inclined his head and murmured, “Good evening, Lord Northrup.” “Pratt, Peregrine, good to see you. What brings you down from Cambridge?” “The train, sir.” Brian grinned. “Best invention of the century. We're able to enjoy our weekends in the city and make it back for class on Monday.”

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He introduced the three friends that were with them. Peter acknowledged each one and promptly forgot their names. His gaze was drawn back to Stephen as if magnetized, but it wouldn't do to stare, even though he could feel the air between them simmering with heat. “Come, I can hardly hear you in this crowd.” He beckoned the group to follow him to a slightly quieter antechamber, where his prestige was enough to clear a table for them. Peter paid for a round of drinks for the young men, then reclined back into his seat to regard Brian. “So, how are your classes going? Learning anything new about the Greeks?” “I've changed my focus. The classics are quite dusty, don't you agree? I've turned from moldy old tomes to studying modern poets and authors. I'm going to be one—a writer, that is,” Brian announced. “The new Lord Byron is our Brian,” one of the youths inanely quipped. “Did you pursue your engagement to the young lady in question last summer?” Peter asked, not thinking about whether the question was inappropriately personal. He was too busy trying to make casual eye contact with Stephen without being blatantly obvious. There was only a moment's pause before Brian answered. “Miss Hathaway proved untrue, and I've heard recently she's engaged to a baronet. But that's all right. My parents were right about one thing.” He gestured at his friends. “We're young bucks who should be enjoying all the lovely faces life has to offer. I have been. Surprising how a pretty, willing miss can take away the sting of rejection and give you a new perspective on life.” Peter smiled and made some sound of agreement, then turned his attention to Stephen. “And you, Mr. Peregrine, how are your bridges coming along?” At last he was free to keep his gaze on Stephen for several moments. He noted how he seemed to have filled out, his muscles bulkier and his face thinner. There were even faint grooves cutting the corners of his mouth that gave Peter an image of what he would look like as an older man—austerely handsome, with a quiet reserve that invited people to trust him. “…at least that's what my professor says.” Stephen was speaking, and Peter had lost the first part of his narrative. “There is so much to learn, I feel I could spend the next fifteen years devoted to my education alone. On the other hand, sometimes it feels like one more day spent in study is too much. I'm ready to begin doing something.”

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“Here, here.” The stocky black-haired lad raised a glass. “Here's to matriculating and rejoining the real world.” Peter beckoned a waiter to refill their glasses and sat back as the young men prattled on. He occasionally asked a prompting question to feign interest, but inside his focus was completely on Stephen. He was impressed by the man's new air of confidence and realized he no longer stuttered at all when he spoke. With every glance they shared, the air between them seemed to sizzle and pop. Stephen's tone might be calm, but his eyes were blazing hot every time they focused on Peter. How could the others be oblivious to it? But each was too caught up in his own wittiness to really notice what went on around him. Peter had played this scene many, many times in his life. A chance meeting. The exchange of heated glances in the midst of an oblivious party of people. And then one man would excuse himself and head for the washroom. The other would wait an appropriate time before leaving the group to get a breath of fresh air, praying no one would offer to stroll with him. He would go to the washroom, find the other man waiting, and their perverse nature would take its course—fast and furious. After the rushed, stolen moments, they'd return to the party with cravats straightened and not a hair out of place, first one man, then the other. And no one was ever the wiser. Half the excitement of the encounter was in the secrecy and danger and sheer unexpectedness of it. Here Stephen was now, murmuring an excuse, rising, and shouldering his way through the crowd. Peter's leg jiggled under the table as he waited for several excruciating minutes to tick past. “Well, lads. It's been lovely sharing a drink with you and hearing about my old alma mater, but I have an engagement for later tonight, and I must be on my way. If you'll excuse me.” He rose and nodded at the group, shaking hands with Brian. “Continue to sow your oats, young man. What are we here for if not to enjoy life to the fullest?” “I intend to, sir. Thank you.” Peter turned and pushed through the crowd to follow his own directive.

*** The men's washroom could be busy, circumventing its use as a place for trysts. That was a problem. But the luck that hadn't been with Peter at the gaming tables tonight showered him with

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fortune now, for when he opened the door and entered the small room, Stephen was the only other occupant. Peter locked the door behind him. “We haven't much time.” Before the words were out of his mouth, Stephen was in his arms. The young man curled his hand around the back of Peter's neck and held him while he delivered a punishing kiss. His mouth smashed so hard against Peter's that his teeth cut his lip, and he tasted blood. Peter groaned and opened his mouth wider, accepting the invasion of Stephen's tongue. The shy boy he'd first met was gone, replaced by a young man who appeared to know exactly what he wanted. Strong hands splayed over Peter's back, pressing him close against Stephen's body. There were far too many clothes between them, but no time to shed them and enjoy the pleasure of flesh against flesh. For several moments, their mouths and bodies were fused together; then Peter pulled back. He started to reach for Stephen's flies to free his cock, but Stephen pushed his hand aside and impatiently unbuttoned Peter's pants and shoved down his linens. He roughly grasped Peter's cock and began to pull. The shock of the sudden contact coupled with the public location—a loud buzz of many voices just on the other side of a thin door—combined to send a powerful rush of desire through Peter. His already swollen cock grew even harder as Stephen massaged it. Stephen pressed a hand against Peter's chest, pushing him aggressively against the wall, and then he suddenly dropped to his knees before him. Peter exhaled shakily as he looked down at the top of Stephen's head and his profile. The sight was thrillingly erotic—Stephen fully clothed and kneeling on a lavatory floor, grasping his cock and bringing it to his open lips. Peter groaned and pressed his palms flat against the cool wall while he pushed his hips forward. The hot mouth surrounded his cockhead, then drew it deeper, engulfing him in heat and wetness. Pleasure flooded him, and he nearly closed his eyes, but he didn't want to miss a second of this experience. He stared down at the beautiful young man and reached out to place a hand on the crown of his head, feeling his soft hair and the solid warmth of his skull beneath. Stephen. Here and real at last, not a daydream or a fantasy he transposed onto another man's body.

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Stephen had never sucked him off in the brief times they'd shared. Peter had tended to him and had assumed there would be more opportunities for reciprocal oral pleasuring. Now Stephen showed no hesitation and seemed to know exactly what he was doing with Peter's cock. It added to the general air of confidence the young man exhibited, and Peter had to wonder if Stephen had learned from other lovers during the time they'd been apart. Had he finally realized how to identify those who shared his needs and then stolen moments with them? A flare of annoyance shot through him at the thought. But why, when he himself had fucked his way through London in an effort to free his mind from Stephen? Exploring and accepting his sexuality was exactly what Stephen should be doing at his age. In fact, it was what Peter had advised him to do. So why did he feel a tension in his chest at the mere thought of Stephen on his knees with someone else's cock in his mouth? And why did the idea of Stephen lying prone with another man's dick up his ass fill Peter with sudden rage? He curled his fingers into the tawny hair and gripped it as he drove his penis into Stephen's mouth and hand. His hips pumped, and his balls drew tight as he came closer to the edge. Stephen rubbed his hand faster, building up the friction between his palm and Peter's cock. His saliva lubricated the shaft so his fist glided easily. Stephen looked up, his gray gaze meeting Peter's stare, and that brief moment of contact was all Peter needed to put him over the edge. This wasn't some anonymous mouth which simply felt good wrapped around him. It was Stephen. Peter could see in those eyes the thoughtful, creative, complicated man who'd somehow managed to break through his layers of veneer and touch his heart. Damn him for that! Peter groaned and shuddered as a slow wave surged through him. He closed his eyes at last and rolled with the wave that started someplace deep in his groin and gathered momentum until it broke, spilling through his cock. Dimly he was aware of someone pounding on the restroom door, but it hardly seemed to matter. Nothing was important but this, the pleasure rushing through his senses and his deep sense of satisfaction that it was Stephen and not anyone else at his feet. Abruptly it was over. Stephen scrambled up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and straightening his waistcoat. Peter tucked his spent cock into his breeches and fastened them. The hammering on the door grew louder and the voice more insistent.

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For one second the men gazed into each other's eyes; then Stephen busied himself at the washstand, and Peter moved to unlock the door. A man stumbled in past him, head down, both hands clapped over his mouth. He lurched to the nearest toilet and bent over it, his back heaving as he vomited. Peter exchanged another glance with Stephen and jerked his head toward the door. They both left quickly before the man could recover enough to consider the odd fact of a pair of men in a locked restroom. In the foyer outside of the lavatory, there was a modicum of space and privacy before they would reenter the rush and fury of the gaming hell. Stephen leaned close and murmured, “Carpe diem. You taught me well, and I've learned how to follow your advice.” Peter turned his head, mouth open, ready to ask if he'd like to leave and go to his place, but Stephen was already walking away, his back disappearing into the crowd. Peter's stomach lurched like the drunken man's in the washroom. It was over, just like that? No. Too brief. They hadn't even had time to talk, really talk about what was going on in Stephen's life, about his passion for design or his further plans for the future—about anything really. It didn't matter. Peter simply needed to hear more of the man's voice, to gaze into those eyes just a little while longer. Christ, what've I done? What have I turned him into? Stephen seemed callous, harder. Had Peter set him on the road to becoming just like himself? The idea of sweet, openhearted Stephen turning into a cold, jaded man distressed him, but what could he do? He couldn't take back the damage he'd done or the words he'd spoken at the Pratt house, when he'd pulled the gauze of idealism from Stephen's eyes, leaving his vision sharp and clear. Now his own vision was clouded, his mind a foggy mess. He didn't know how to return to the life he'd had before. He didn't know how to be content with less than the thing he really wanted. Peter blinked and passed a hand over his eyes. He blew out a long breath and pressed back into the throng, found his way out of the building, hailed a cab, and headed for home. In the privacy of his house, he had intended to wallow in his ridiculous self-pity and drink the night away, but once he got there, Peter couldn't swallow a drop. Instead he began pacing his study like a captured beast, circling the room, staring at the spines of books, at the painting over the mantel, at the black window between the elaborately looped drapes.

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He couldn't sit, couldn't rest, certainly couldn't sleep. All he could think of were scenarios in which he went to Stephen and asked for his forgiveness. He worded and reworded heartfelt apologies for his rude behavior and imagined Stephen's ready smile and open arms, offering him absolution. But it was over. The young man had demonstrated as clearly as he could that he understood how these things worked now. He'd dismissed Peter as Peter had done to him last summer. Any renewed acquaintance was impossible. They were through. In the distance, the knocker thumped twice against the door. Peter stopped pacing and listened; then he threw open the door of his study and hurried down the hall toward the front of the house. In the hall, Barker was straightening his coat and pulling on his gloves in preparation for answering the door. Middle of the night or no, the impeccable footman would not attend to his duties without perfect decorum. “That's all right, Barker; I'll answer myself.” “Sir?” The footman paused. His eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “You may go now. You're relieved of your duties for the night.” When Barker still hesitated, Peter snapped, “Go now!” Shouldn't the man be used to his eccentric ways by now? The Earl of Stafford was hardly a conventional master. “Very good, sir.” With a slight bob of his head, Barker left the foyer. Meanwhile the knocker hadn't sounded again. Perhaps the late-night visitor had thought better of his intrusion and gone away. Peter threw open the door to find out. Stephen stood on his doorstep. A light rain had begun to fall, and the droplets on his hair and eyelashes glistened in the glow cast from the hall light. He gazed into Peter's eyes and opened his mouth, but didn't speak. Peter grabbed the front of Stephen's coat, pulling him indoors and into his arms.

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Chapter Nine Stephen wasn't sure what to expect when he'd gone to Peter's house. He wasn't even certain why he'd ended up on this doorstep. Nothing he wanted to say would help either one of them. Bitterness was fruitless, and, according to the rules of their world, uncalled for. As far as he'd been able to discover, Peter had been right. In the shadowy world of the sodomite, sex and companionship were best kept separate. So he'd ask for the obvious, except now he vaguely recalled Peter didn't conduct sexual liaisons in his home. He shifted from foot to foot on the top step, ready to apologize to a sleepy, unhappy footman, then turn around to leave. But when the door opened, he stopped moving. He tried to speak but could only stare into the dark face of a sleek predator that has seen its prey. “Peter,” he managed at last, caught in the light of those glittering eyes. He'd promised himself he wouldn't be moved by the harsh, beautiful lines of Peter's face. All right, so he'd broken that promise immediately, but after all, he might admire art without wanting to possess it forever. Holy Jesus. Peter. And a moment later, Peter launched himself at Stephen, hauling him into the house without a word. Peter's arms were tight around him, and he pressed so close, Stephen had trouble drawing breath. Another astonishing realization—Peter shook. Stephen put his hands on the other man's shoulders and pushed away to look at him in the dim light of a single candle. “Are you laughing?” “No.” Peter looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and he appeared to make an effort to calm himself. His hunched shoulders relaxed. He met Stephen's eyes and smiled. “Or perhaps, yes. I'm glad to see you, Peregrine. Is there something I might do for you?”

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He'd regained his cool manner, and there was that possible ban on illicit activities in his home, but Stephen had felt that urgent need to be in Peter's embrace. God knew he was aroused enough to risk Peter's frosty rejection. He'd be direct; it had worked at the gaming hell. He answered, “You might show me your bedroom.” Peter gave a startled laugh. Without another word, he grabbed Stephen's hand and led him into the hall and up a wide, curving staircase. He gripped his hand tightly as they walked. A gesture of lust or affection? Stephen wondered, but forced himself to remain quiet. He wanted to speak, to pour out everything he'd felt when Peter had gone away. He'd gabble about all he'd done and seen since they'd last met. Ask him why he'd never answered his letters. Find out if he missed him at all. He remained silent. He'd accept the terms of Peter's conditions. Peter's bedroom contained an ordinary bed with a walnut carved bedstead, the usual complement of pillows. Stephen had pictured huge stacks of pillows or perhaps fur covering. The furniture—wardrobe, chairs, and table—was large, masculine, and well made, nothing gaudy or overtly sensual. The counterpane and walls were blue and tan, not the decadent scarlet and gold he'd imagined. This was the room of a gentleman with money but no need to show off. His curiosity to understand Peter overcame him, and he gently pulled his hand from Peter's so he might walk about the room. He stopped to examine a landscape. From behind him, Peter gave a harsh laugh. “Stephen. God, you're teasing me. Please.” At Peter's words, Stephen turned to look at him. Peter spread his arms, raised them in mute appeal. Come to me. Embrace me. The anticipation and semiarousal Stephen had felt since he'd ordered the cab to drive here twisted and grew into full, hard desire. In three steps he was across the room. He seized Peter. This time he'd be the aggressor. He liked this role. He loved it—almost as much as when Peter had taken control of him. Stephen treasured everything about those few hours they'd had together at the Pratts', and now they'd have more. It would be enough. Peter's scent filled him. Everything about the man's body—the hard muscle of his chest, the press of his thick cock—filled Stephen with ferocious, lust-filled joy. Stephen reached up to his face, trailed his fingers over his high cheekbones to the back of his head. He took a moment to let his fingers enjoy the feel of Peter's skull and the silk of his hair before pulling him close for

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a savage, consuming kiss. Nothing sweet or delicate in their kisses. They might have been trying to attack each other, each trying to subdue the other with kisses and grappling limbs. They stumbled backward and landed on the bed, Stephen on top, his arms tight around Peter. He straddled the other man's belly and kissed him hard again, but then drew back to look down at the face he'd imagined for months. Stephen had to kiss his cheek, his forehead, his neck, breathe him in. He hadn't forgotten the scent. And then, after reminding himself that this was Peter, he got to work. He fumbled buttons, snagged the man's neckcloth trying to unwrap it. Peter reached up and finished the job as Stephen shoved at his coat. Hard to do with him lying down on his back, but Stephen was in need. At last Peter sat up and, after pulling off his own coat, waistcoat, and shirt, reached for Stephen, who slid backward off the bed. “Soon,” he whispered and started to unfasten Peter's trouser buttons. No, wait. Shoes first. He squatted by the bed and yanked off his shoes. Peter continued to grab at him, but he wasn't going to be caught, not until he'd gotten his present unwrapped, his gift to himself of Peter's body. He ran his hands up Peter's trousers to feel the hard muscle under the fine wool cloth. The trousers had to go. The underlinen too. Peter pulled off his undershirt, and the moment he was naked, Stephen smoothed fingers over his skin and licked every inch he could reach of his belly, his chest, his throat. His cock. Enough tenderness. Stephen rose to his feet and quickly stripped. Naked at last, he moved to the bed to claim Peter. The other man stopped him, clutching his hips and holding him in place. “Let me look,” his lordship whispered. Stephen grabbed his wrists and pulled them away. “Later. I need this now.” I need you, he didn't say. Still holding Peter's wrists, he moved to the edge of the bed and stood between the man's open legs, pushing his hard cock forward. Peter couldn't reach for him with his hands in Stephen's grasp, so he canted forward, mouth open. The heat and wet of his mouth made the younger man groan and push hard. He let go of Peter's hands so he could thread his fingers through his hair. He'd forgotten how clever the man's tongue was and how demanding his mouth. He rocked and thrust into Peter's welcoming, hot mouth.

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Stephen would end his urgent need fast. He'd use this man like a wonderfully clever object designed for pleasure. Fuck his mouth as he'd done before. But he wouldn't walk away after that. Not until he'd memorized every freckle and hair of Peter's body and tasted them all. Peter used his hands—one on Stephen's hip to control his thrusts, the other at the base of his cock to yank him closer to that loss of control. Small, appreciative growls came from Peter's throat, vibrating on Stephen's swollen cock and increasing the coming pleasure. It would take no time at all. He could already feel the tightening and his body's anticipation. He'd wanted to make Peter come with him, but there was no time. Later. Later. Now there was nothing but the rush and dizzying spasms of his spending. Over and over his body clenched and released. Too much time dreaming of this man and not enough time touching. His legs went weak, and he grunted as Peter licked and kissed his balls and thighs. Peter's assault on Stephen's body spoke of his need, and he was rough. His grip on Stephen's hip was painful. Lord Northrup looked frantic; his breath came jerky and fast. Where was the accomplished, knowing lover? Stephen put his hand over the fingers clutching his hip and pulled away, smiling at the growl of protest from his lover. Peter sat unmoving, waiting for his signal, playing the follower in this silent game. Climbing onto the bed, he straddled Peter's lap, knees on either side of his hips. The other man wrapped his arms around his torso and held him tight, chest to chest, even while arching up and pressing his hard cock to Stephen's ass. Peter licked his collarbone, buried his face against his neck, and rhythmically, mindlessly thrust against his body. They kissed and fondled and stroked until Stephen slid off his lap and lay on the bed, facing Peter. His lover gave a shuddering sigh as Stephen lightly tweaked his nipple. Then Peter seemed to lose patience with the passive role, for he gripped Stephen's shoulders while kissing him deep and hungrily, and pushed his cock against Stephen's thigh. Stephen felt the slippery drops of Peter's excitement. He reached for the cock pressing to his leg, and Peter pumped hard against his hand. “You can have me if you want,” Stephen whispered. The silence was broken only by Peter's ragged breathing. He blinked and frowned at Stephen, who sat up again slowly.

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“Where is your unguent?” Stephen said. Peter's eyes narrowed. “Of course.” Stephen wondered why the man had seemed so startled. What else could Stephen have meant? Have me meant the obvious. “Is something wrong?” “Nothing at all.” Peter smiled. He climbed from the bed and walked to another room. Interesting he didn't keep the little jar by the bedside. Peter was such a sensual creature Stephen supposed he would indulge in self-pollution often. He pictured Peter on the bed, pumping into his hand, head thrown back, on the edge of ecstasy. His own cock twitched awake again. A minute later, when Peter returned with the jar, he still exhibited the unflagging erection. He reached down and fisted his cock. Stephen saw he had smeared himself with the stuff so his impressive penis glistened in the candlelight. “That is my job,” Stephen scolded. “If you touch me, I'll be undone too fast,” Peter said, sounding calm. “I want you to surround me again. It's been too long.” Too long since that time at the Pratts' or too long since Peter's last fuck? Stephen banished the question. He had more important things to attend to. “You take me from the front,” he said, or rather, commanded. He moved back, lay on the bed, and opened his arms to the bigger man, who didn't hesitate. Peter put the jar on the table next to the bed and almost flung himself on Stephen. He stretched out over him, chest to chest, belly to belly. The sudden weight of him made Stephen gasp. He spread his legs wide and squirmed against Peter, impatient and ready for more. He expected the trembling man to fumble between them, push into him immediately, begin plunging like a stallion. In fact, Stephen looked forward to the pain and the burn of that first thrust. But Peter lay over him, greased cock against his belly, hot and hard as a rock. Stephen didn't mind the weight of Peter or his kisses and hands reaching around to cup his rear. Peter murmured, “Your skin is so soft. But you're not a young boy at all. You are all hard strength, my Stephen. So hard.” Peter reached for the jar without moving off Stephen. An awkward motion, but Stephen didn't care. He felt wonderfully pinned even before Peter's cock had claimed him.

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Peter's ointment-laden finger slid under his body and smeared the cool unguent over Stephen's hole. His fingers were sure and deft, though he belied his calm with his disjointed words and heavy, uneven breathing. Stephen had rubbed and sucked several men to mutual satisfaction since that sojourn at the Pratts'. Peter had taught him the joy of physical exploration, and despite occasionally feeling lonelier than he had before the experiences, Stephen had no interest in returning to celibacy. But he hadn't allowed another man inside his body since their time at the lake. As Peter's finger slid into him, coaxing his ring of muscle to give, he forced himself to relax. His cock against Peter's belly had grown hard again. Peter stretched him with another finger and then another, and then the large, blunt end of his cock replaced the busy fingers. Jesus, he'd longed to feel the burn and the stretch of it, the sense of being invaded and full. With soft curses and grunts, they moved until at last Peter was balls-deep inside, his forehead pressed to Stephen's. At this angle, Peter's cock pushed against a startlingly sensitive, pulsing part inside Stephen, who hissed out a long breath of relief. At last. “Hurt?” Peter asked with a gasp. “No.” “Yes. Good.” Peter went onto his knees, and he hoisted up Stephen's legs, resting his ankles on his shoulders. With long, slow strokes, Peter fucked him. Now they were animals, and Stephen welcomed the roar of mindless sex. He lifted his hips even higher, and Peter gave a low moan. He grabbed Stephen's hard cock. With the ointment still on his fingers, his hand slid easily over Stephen, but his grip was hard, relentlessly pumping. “Soon,” Peter rasped. “Spend on me while I'm inside you. Soon, dammit.” Stephen bucked up, pushing Peter in even deeper. Far inside him, Stephen could feel the impossibly large cock swell larger. Peter's voice was hoarse as he cried out, “Now, oh, Stephen. Stephen, I need… Oh.” Hearing his lover say his name with such longing was more than enough to push Stephen over the edge. Still an animal but also entirely aware of who was fucking him, he jerked in Peter's fist. The strength of this second spending shocked him. They writhed together and cried out. Peter's response—and the very fact that this was Peter coming inside him, crying out to him—fed the raw power of Stephen's orgasm.

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For several heartbeats, Peter didn't move except for the rise and fall of his chest. “Perfect,” he whispered, and releasing Stephen's legs, he relaxed over him. His cum-slicked belly slid over Stephen's. Stephen loved the solid warmth of Peter's firm body, which was just a little too heavy and pushing him to the mattress. He wrapped his arms and legs around him to stop him from moving away. Even if he had trouble drawing a deep breath under his lover's weight, he felt as if he'd reached a haven. Temporary, of course, but that couldn't be helped. It existed, and that was enough. Too soon, Peter pulled from him and rolled onto his side. “Stay a while,” he whispered. “I'm too tired,” Stephen said. “I might sleep.” He'd led an active life. Fighting the urge to seek out and cajole Peter, he'd thrown himself into the spirited life of the big city. He'd enjoyed himself, though it had proved a useless exercise. Even after all that work, look where he'd ended up. In Peter's arms, literally. Perhaps he'd already gone too far for his own self-preservation. Very well; he'd draw back. Stephen hadn't known what to expect, but he'd promised himself he wouldn't sleep in this bed. He had no desire to return to that mewling, wheedling self he'd been a few months earlier, when he'd longed for Peter's friendship and had written numerous letters begging for it. Yet the pleasure of Peter's body, his flesh pressed to Stephen's, made it impossible to stand up and walk away. Peter rested a leg over his hip and drew him even closer. “You may sleep with me,” Peter whispered. A royal favor, Stephen thought fondly as he brushed back a damp lock of Peter's hair and kissed his temple. “Just a few minutes more,” he murmured to Peter, who was watching him. Stephen's eyes closed. When he woke several hours later, he slipped out of the bed at once, appalled that he had so easily broken the rules he'd made for himself. He considered leaving a message, but recalled how his letters had gone unanswered. Apparently that form of communication was not acceptable. He groped for a candle rather than turn on the gaslight. After he lit it, he stood on the carpet and watched Peter. Graceful even in sleep, his hand and well-shaped arm lay arching over

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his head as if he'd taken a pose for a dance. He breathed slow and even, his full mouth relaxed and lovely. The light lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth gave him the appearance of a man who smiled often. Did he? Stephen wasn't sure. His most vivid memories were of Peter's seduction and his body, and that strange mix of confidence and wistful insecurity. He'd envied Stephen his passions outside the bed but hadn't been willing to share any of his own. He must have them. Stephen believed a man could not survive and prosper with no goals. Without them, he would be little more than an animal, and he'd seen Peter did more than survive. The man enjoyed each day he lived. Did he truly only live for the moment? Stephen frowned. Could that be enough? A fribble, his family would say, but even before he'd left his father's house years earlier, Stephen had understood that the world was far larger and more complex than that reassuringly simple view. A fribble with enormous value. He bent closer to drink in the beauty of Peter and those lines on his face that marked his life. A drop of candle wax speckling his finger brought him back to himself. Stephen dressed. He blew out the candle and slipped out of the house into the thick darkness long before the servants awoke. His night of passion was over, and it was back to school with him. He'd managed to follow the code of the one-night liaison and had not outstayed his welcome. Another lesson well learned.

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Chapter Ten Just before dawn, Peter woke to an empty bed. When he looked for a note, he saw none. He searched the house, as if Stephen might have suddenly decided to spend the night in his library. When he returned to his room, he found nothing beyond a lingering scent to reassure him he hadn't been imagining things. Stephen had been there. Where would he go after their tryst? He was a young man on a rare trip to London, so no doubt his routine was barely interrupted for their interlude. Perhaps he'd slipped out of the house right after Peter had fallen asleep and had gone back to whatever party or gaming hell he'd been at before he'd been struck with the impulse to visit. If only Peter had fought his own instinct for self-preservation and had asked Stephen a few questions. He wished he knew where the man was going or where he'd come from. He wished he knew how to get him to come back. Peter didn't mean to go on a hunt, but during the day he found himself restlessly attending some exhibits and pacing the British Museum—places the younger man might enjoy. He told himself he didn't bother going to look for Stephen at night because he was tired. The truth of it was he knew he didn't want to run into Stephen in some hell and see him expertly pick another man with that so-subtle head tilt in the direction of the cloakrooms. The next day he stood in a Bond Street haberdasher, searching again, and realized he was behaving like a pathetic, lovelorn lad. “Northrup,” an acquaintance greeted him. “Why are you laughing to yourself?” “I'm laughing at myself,” he corrected. “Will you join me for a meal? No, I shan't explain myself.” As simply as that, he banished longing for Stephen to the background again and returned to his routine and life. Carpe diem, he reminded himself as he worked doggedly on squeezing every last bit of juice from each day. Hedonism could be such very hard and tiring work.

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About a week after that night with Stephen, he lunched at his club, where he ran into Pratt and realized he'd still been waiting, watching for Stephen. God, how a man could fool himself. And perhaps now he'd make a fool of himself, but he wasn't certain it was so important anymore. Peter took the armchair next to Pratt. After exchanging a few words of greetings, he casually asked him about his son. And then about his son's friend, the engineer. Pratt put down his glass and looked at Peter for a long time, his jovial smile of greeting gone. At last he answered. “Peregrine? He's well, I think. They're in London for a couple of weeks. Why do you ask?” “Why not?” “I'll be honest with you, Northrup. You already know I suspect the boy has tastes similar to your own. Brian said that Peregrine doesn't appear interested in women at all. What do you think? Could he be another like you and never grow interested in females?” “Do you imagine I can somehow sniff out fellow deviants?” Pratt smiled. “Yes, I rather think you can.” Peter summoned a waiter and ordered a brandy. “Why are you interested in your son's friend's preferences? Is the world so dull these days you must indulge in this sort of gossip?” He'd long ago learned to dance around subjects without lying outright to his friends. Pratt tossed back the rest of his drink and put down the glass with a thump. “All right, old man, no need to take a pet. I worry about the boy, that's all. I can't decide if it would be better or worse for him if you seek him out.” “What if he came to find me?” Peter asked softly. “Has he?” The waiter brought them each a brandy, and Peter cradled his glass and sniffed it appreciatively before answering. “I saw him the other night in a gaming hell. Never mind sniffing after sexual perversions. You should worry about your son and his friend dipping deep when they go to such places.” Pratt gave a disgusted click of the tongue. “Neither of them has shown signs of being helpless gamblers, but I'd wager that hell is exactly the sort of location his father would condemn. What is more, ten to one old Peregrine would come after me should he find out. He'd

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blame me because he's got some notion I'm corrupting the boy, trying to make him live above his station.” “Has his attitude something to do with Stephen's bridges?” Peter guessed. “You recall them? And you remember his first name? You do have a good memory.” Pratt's generous mouth thinned into something not very much like a smile but more like a grimace. Peter avoided eye contact and tried to sound minimally interested. “For some things, yes. Do you suppose your enthusiasm for the bridges could have roused the father's suspicions about you encouraging Stephen toward greater accomplishments?” Pratt raised his gray brows and looked mildly surprised. “I hadn't thought of that, but yes. Probably. I showed some interest in young Peregrine's obsession—he's good at his work, you know. His father thinks he should chuck it all and be nothing but an architect, designing cottages for the company. I swear, if it isn't the children's fits and starts driving one mad, it's some idiot associated with 'em. Let me advise you, my friend, do not become a parent.” “Very little chance of that,” Peter said. He changed the subject after that. It was never difficult to divert Edward Pratt to talk of horseflesh. But even as Peter asked questions about breeding, he never stopped thinking about the creative young man who reached for something more than his class allowed. Given sufficient encouragement and necessary funds, Stephen would rise above his father's modest expectations and build a future beyond his parents' wildest dreams. Perhaps Peter could help him with that, as a patron of sorts. He knew important people in society and, despite his reputation for eccentricity, still had many significant connections that might be of use in launching a young engineer's career. If his patronage happened to bring him in close contact with Stephen on a regular basis, which consequently led to more physical encounters…well, what other behavior could one expect from a dissolute roué?

*** Now that he'd stopped acting like a virgin miss hoping to snag her beau by showing up at any event he might possibly attend, Peter found that reconnecting with Stephen was as simple as sending a note.

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He'd learned from Pratt what friend the young men stopped with while in London nearly every weekend, and Peter penned a carefully worded missive inviting Stephen to lunch to discuss business. He received a prompt reply the same afternoon, and by the following day Peter was sitting at a table at Antoine's, waiting for his intended protégé to arrive. His leg jiggled a steady rhythm as he sipped wine and gazed at the door through which Stephen would arrive as eagerly as a dog awaiting its master's return. Oh how the mighty had fallen, for Lord Peter Northrup, Earl of Stafford, to be the punctual one while his lunch guest dared to arrive—he consulted his pocket watch—twenty-seven minutes late. His irritability evaporated like rain on hot pavement, and his heart arched like a rainbow after said rain when he saw Stephen coming through the doorway at last. Peter lifted a hand to catch the other man's attention, then quickly lowered it as he realized the gesture made him appear too eager. He mustn't behave so. He subsided back into his seat, legs crossed casually with no more jiggling, one hand fused to his glass. Stephen hurried toward the table, and Peter looked up with an air of nonchalance. “Ah, you were able to make it after all. I'd begun to despair. Please sit.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Terribly sorry to be so late.” Stephen sounded out of breath. “I was detained.” He didn't offer any further explanation, so naturally Peter couldn't stop thinking of things that might have kept him and growing both aroused and angered at the images evoked. Good Christ, he had sexual pleasure on his mind coupled with a ridiculous notion that Stephen's activities were any of his business. Peter waved a dismissive hand. “No matter. I've nothing better to do this afternoon than while away a few hours over drinks and a good meal.” After Stephen had ordered a brandy, he turned his attention to Peter. “Thank you for inviting me.” His storm gray eyes were as serious as always, imbuing the words with significance beyond simple gratitude. Peter found himself leaning forward eagerly. Did he imagine a depth of meaning because it was what he wanted to hear? When had he lost his ability to distinguish between plain words and suggestive ones?

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“You said you had something to discuss with me concerning business?” Stephen extinguished the wind from Peter's sails with the flatness of his statement and the way he almost primly placed his folded hands on the table. The whirlwind of passion that had carried them both away the other night was deeply buried. Stephen exhibited no sign of struggling with inner desires, no hint of the attraction he'd barely been able to hide in his open face last summer. “Business. Yes.” Peter sat back in his chair. “I once mentioned to you my intention of making better use of my time, perhaps becoming involved with politics. Recently I've joined a committee overseeing the building of a new road in Stafford. The project includes designing a bridge. I'm told the river isn't wide, even during flood season, and no tall boats make use of the waterway, so this isn't a major undertaking. But when the bridge was mentioned, I immediately thought of you. Such a project would be a chance for you to perfect your craft while learning under the direct guidance of a master engineer.” Stephen's eyes widened. “You would put forth my name?” “If you like.” Peter tried not to sound smug. He felt like he'd just given the best Christmas present ever. “I don't know what to say. 'Thank you' doesn't seem sufficient.” The younger man's eyes shone. “My father has poured so much money into my education because I convinced him I could work as an architect for his company. I would have to put aside grander notions and settle for what is reasonable and attainable, but with a start like this—” Peter cut him off with a laugh. “My dear boy, we're not building across the Thames near the London harbor. The scale of the bridge will hardly be grand.” “Still, thank you for thinking of me and for understanding the s-significance…” Stephen fell silent, letting the thought trail off. It was the first evidence of his stutter Peter had heard since meeting him again in London. Perhaps Stephen hadn't changed so much after all. “Of course, I realize you're in the middle of a term and your time is tied up with lectures and coursework, but you should meet with the engineer during the holidays. At winter break, you could stay at my house in Stafford and meet the committee as well as tour the building site. And after ground is broken in spring, you might stay with me again during the summer holiday. It would be convenient for you.” Peter shrugged. “If you like.”

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A slow smile curved the other man's lips, and this time Peter had no trouble reading Stephen's face or decoding the message in his answer. “I would like that.” “It's settled then.” He nodded and opened his menu. “You must try the veal here. Quite delicious.” Peter deliberately kept the talk light after that, questioning Stephen about his studies, watching him glow as he discussed bridge design and things he'd learned. In exchange, he shared silly anecdotes from his own inconsequential, gadfly life. The meal was over, and they lingered, sipping brandy, when Stephen brought the conversation from mundane to more serious with a single comment. “Peter, you told me once that you used to have an interest in the arts. Did you draw or write, or was music your forte?” Peter thought of the sketches, poems, and poorly composed songs on yellowing paper in a locked drawer of his desk, the pianoforte which desperately needed a tuning from sitting so long in disuse. He forced a smile. “I had no discernable talent. Some of us are merely meant to enjoy rather than indulge in the arts.” Stephen frowned. “I don't believe that's true. I think everyone, whatever his level of ability or whatever subject interests him, should let creativity pour through him. To be creative in any way is to be alive.” Ah, here was the glorious passion, the fiery beauty that had first seized Peter's attention. No boredom, no jaded certainties or yawning condescension existed in Stephen's mind. He was fully alive in a way Peter doubted he himself—and most of his friends—had ever been. “If I should come to visit you, you should show me what you've done. I'd like to see—or hear—your work,” Stephen continued. Peter waved a hand and laughed. “I've thrown it all away. There was nothing worth salvaging there, I promise you. A few inane poems and bad drawings, some truly atrocious love songs… It was all juvenile rubbish.” Stephen dropped the subject then, and silence fell, a silence that grew and compounded and changed into something dark, deep, and hungry passing between them. Stephen drew his lower lip between his teeth, and Peter's heart catapulted through his chest. His cock went rock hard in a

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second, the flow of blood changing course from head to groin with a suddenness that made him dizzy. “Would you, uh, like to stop at my house right now? I have a nice bottle of Bordeaux you might like to sample.” It was Peter's turn to stammer as he made the offer. Stephen chewed his plump lower lip another moment before responding. “I'd better not. I have another appointment I must keep.” He paused, then added, “But another time, perhaps. I'll be in town again next weekend. You know my address.” Peter was so desperate to lick that delicious lower lip he nearly made another offer—to meet in the washroom of the restaurant for a quick coupling. But he maintained his composure enough not to beg the other man. “There's a traveling exhibit of Vermeer paintings at the British Museum I've been meaning to see. Would you care to go next Saturday?” Stephen smiled. “That would be lovely. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must leave.” He was gone so quickly he seemed to leave a palpable aura behind, shimmering in the seat he'd occupied. Peter downed his drink and poured another, reaching beneath the table to adjust his erection, which pressed painfully against the seam of his trousers. The younger man's mixed signals were driving him insane. There was no doubt from the look in his eye and the tone of his voice that he was sexually interested in Peter, and yet what was this excuse about a prior appointment that had Stephen practically scurrying from the restaurant? His behavior was bewildering. Men said women were impossible to understand. Maybe that expression simply applied to lovers in general. One could never truly get inside a person's mind and know what they were thinking—another strike in favor of sex with random partners, where it mattered not a whit what they were thinking. Pleasure for pleasure's sake. No emotional involvement. Why did these things no longer seem like enough?

*** Pleasure for pleasure's sake. No emotional involvement, Stephen reminded himself as he hurried away from the temptation at the restaurant. Since he apparently couldn't have sex with Peter without feeling strong emotion about the act, it was probably best he didn't fuck him at all, especially now that the man had offered a tremendous boost to his career. Stephen needed to consider that offer, figure out what it meant—a gesture of simple kindness, or something more?

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He'd sworn not to fall for Peter again as he had last summer. He must guard his heart against his own foolishness. He was probably reading too much into the earl's generosity to a younger, poorer man, and the noblesse oblige meant little to Peter. But what about his repeated references to Stephen staying at his house? Surely that meant he wanted some kind of ongoing relationship. It was definitely too much information to assimilate on the spot, so Stephen opted for distance and time to think, making his excuse and nearly running from the restaurant. He decided to walk the many blocks to his friend Miles Cavendish's home in order to clear his mind, but when he arrived at the pristine white townhouse, he was still in a fog of confusion. Brian and Miles were loitering in the library, drinking as usual, and although books lay open on their laps, Stephen doubted they'd turned a page in all the time he'd been gone. The pair was so obsessed with their sexual conquests there was room for little else in their minds. They had endless conversations about where, when, and how they could bed a willing older woman or bar girl with loose morals. Stephen rather missed the days of Brian pining for the elusive Miss Hathaway. Now that Brian had lost his romantic streak, Stephen found he had less in common with him than ever these days. “How was your lunch with Northrup? You've been gone longer than expected.” “Have I?” Stephen considered it would've been much longer if he'd gone back to Peter's house, but quickly suppressed the thought and all the images it stirred up. “He offered me a generous proposition to work on a construction project in Stafford this summer. It's a great opportunity for me.” “Lord Peter Northrup…” Miles mused. “An interesting character. You should be careful of your association with him. There are rumors.” He raised suggestive eyebrows. “Really? What kind of rumors?” Brian leaned forward in his chair. “Northrup is a close friend of my parents. They've never said anything.” “Well, they don't really come to the city, do they?” Miles said. “They're not part of the haut ton. Gossip spreads like wildfire here, and three-quarters of it is mere slanderous innuendo, but there is that last quarter that contains a grain of truth.” He poured himself another drink, the decanter in his unsteady hand clinking against the glass. “I wouldn't know what's true or what

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isn't about Northrup, but mere friendship with the wrong sort of man could tarnish your reputation, Stephen. I feel it's my duty to warn you.” A blaze of white-hot anger ripped through Stephen. He clenched his jaw and bit down on a cutting retort about those who spread gossip and innuendo that was none of their business. Instead he replied calmly, “Since my family is hardly an important one in society, I don't know that my reputation matters much.” “Au contraire. For a man like you, trying to pull himself up in the world, appearances are all the more critical, don't you see?” Miles poured a glass and offered it to Stephen. “Come. Sit and drink with us, Peregrine.” Stephen waved a hand. “No, thank you. I have some studying to do before dinner.” He made a hasty retreat upstairs, where he sat with his sketchbook on his lap. There were designs he should work on for one of his classes, but all he could do was gaze at the drawings of Peter he'd done last summer. He traced his charcoal pencil over the strong profile, added a few lines here and there, and wished he had dared to draw Peter nude. But having these sketches in his book was dangerous enough if someone—Brian, perhaps—should happen to skim through it. There was an inherent sensuality in the drawing of Peter's face, the droop of his eyelids, the set of his lips. God, it made him hard simply to look at the rendering. Stephen shut the book and rose to stare out the window at the rain rolling down the panes. He was lucky not to have gotten drenched in the sudden downpour on his way here. But then, he was already caught in a downpour, wasn't he? A swirling onslaught of passion and feelings for a person he could never be with—at least not in the way he wanted to be—with his heart on his sleeve and his emotions laid bare. For his own sanity, he mustn't be lovers with Peter again, but maybe they could at least be friends. A trip to the museum was something casual friends did. Besides, it was a public place, so what harm could come of it?

*** “Luminous.” Stephen gazed in awe at the painting of a maid pouring milk from a pitcher to a basin. “Makes me wish I was a painter. To execute something so perfect, so beautiful must be like”—he paused, searching for the words—“like pouring out all the emotions inside you onto the canvas.”

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“Isn't that what you do? You're an artist.” Peter stood beside him, radiating warmth from his body that bathed Stephen even from a distance of several feet. “Yes, but sketches only, charcoal or pen and ink, and usually of a mechanical nature. I've never had the time or funds to indulge in an expensive medium like painting. I already have my work cut out for me, with no time for anything extracurricular.” “Hmm.” Peter leaned closer, studying a detail of the Vermeer. The museum floorboards creaked under his weight, and even that tiny sound seemed heightened in the hushed stillness of the gallery. Stephen was attuned to every detail of the moment, the mood, and the man. “Wasn't it you who said something about pursuing one's dreams no matter what, or something to that effect?” Stephen smiled. “Within reason. We can't chase after every single thing that interests us. There are financial and family considerations to take into account. And time. A man only has so many days on this planet. He must decide what he wants to do and then work toward achieving that goal.” “Very industrious of you,” Peter drawled, passing behind him to move on to the next painting. “Just listening to you makes me exhausted.” Stephen ignored him. He'd begun to think Peter's world-weary persona was more act than fact. Beneath the lazy exterior was a man who wanted to accomplish things—who did accomplish things. Stephen had learned Lord Northrup was a charitable benefactor to many causes: he sat on several boards concerning the arts or public works, and he attended to his duties as Earl of Stafford. He might spend a great deal of time seeking entertainment, but he did have interests outside his own pleasure. Stephen joined him beside the small portrait of a girl wearing a blue headdress, a pearl dangling from one ear, and a mysterious expression on her face. He stared into her eyes and felt he could almost sense her longing for…what? Was she thinking of a lover, a better life, work she needed to do? Or perhaps she had a crick in her neck from posing and wished the artist would finish with her so she could go? “It really is quite remarkable.” The dry tone was gone, and Peter sounded almost awed as he gazed at the painting. “How many eyes have viewed this painting? How many more will see it as years pass—perhaps hundreds of years, with the world changing, but the portrait always

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remaining exactly the same? Will she appear different to those in the future, viewing her in a different context?” Stephen looked at him and fell in love with the openness of his face. For the first time, he felt he'd glimpsed the wide-eyed child Peter once had been, the sensitive man hidden under layers of veneer. Then abruptly, Peter shook off his solemn mood with a laugh and a shrug. “I suppose the ideal of beauty will change, as it has already, and a girl such as this will appear as archaic as a flat-faced Madonna in a medieval painting.” “No. There's innate beauty there. Not in her face or form or how she's adorned. It's in her eyes. Anyone can see it, and time won't change it,” Stephen suddenly decided. He turned to Peter. “True emotion goes beyond temporary things.” Peter gazed back at him, and in an instant the air between them was charged, a powerful bolt of something arching from one man to the other. Peter reached out his hand and took Stephen's arm. “Come with me.” He steered him toward the next gallery, letting go only when a strolling family entered the Vermeer exhibit. The two men strode quickly through the consecutive galleries, taking no time to study the masterful paintings of cities and civilizations, religious icons and daily human life. “Here.” Peter sounded as out of breath as Stephen felt as he directed him toward an antechamber off the main series of galleries. Away from the paintings now, past display cases of broken urns and headless statuary, and through another doorway into an even smaller antechamber, dark and deserted. There, Peter grabbed hold of Stephen and pulled him into his embrace. They kissed—just kissed—mouths clashing together hard enough that their teeth clicked. Stephen opened his mouth to accept Peter's tongue, welcoming him inside, swirling his own tongue around the other man's in a celebratory dance. He grasped the back of Peter's jacket, feeling the smooth brocade and wishing it was smooth flesh instead. He pressed his burgeoning erection against the front of Peter's trousers and felt the matching bulge of his erection. Not here. Not now. It was too dangerous. They could do no more than kiss and hold one another. But oh, how he ached for more.

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Peter broke off the searing kiss at last and moved his mouth to Stephen's jaw, nuzzling along the hard ridge to the soft flesh below. “Come home with me,” he murmured. “We can finish this there.” His hand slid down and clamped around Stephen's cock through his breeches. Yes. Of course. Stephen couldn't remember why he was supposed to turn down Peter's request, but an annoying, nagging voice told him it was so. “I-I don't think…” he muttered. “That's right. Don't think.” Peter gazed into Stephen's eyes, his own pitch-black and crackling with fire. “Don't think. Just come with me.” The devil was back, tempting and teasing him as he had the first night they'd met. His low, commanding voice was nearly impossible to resist. “No,” Stephen said with a gasp. “I can't. I have…uh, another engagement. I can't.” “Cancel it. Send round an excuse. But come with me.” “For what? Another stolen tryst and then we part again.” “You left last time. I didn't send you away,” Peter pointed out, his eyes narrowing. “Are you saying you wanted me to stay beyond a night? That you want more than a few illicit moments taken here and there?” Stephen challenged. They were on the brink of discussing something, admitting to something that men in their position didn't dare to voice. Peter sighed. “I'm simply saying I want you to come around to my house right now, this afternoon. I know you want it too.” But it's not enough. It will never be enough for me, and my heart will be broken all over again when you teach me once more that these things aren't meant to last. “I'm sorry. I can't, or rather, I won't.” Stephen's fingers reluctantly surrendered their grip on Peter's coat, sliding over the broadcloth as he stepped away. He drew a deep breath and exhaled while his galloping heart slowed. “I think it's best if we remain friends and avoid any other…entanglement between us.” Peter's hands clenched lightly by his sides. “That's what you want?” “It's best,” Stephen said slowly. “Especially since I'll be working on this project of yours. It wouldn't do for a taint of scandal to touch either one of us. My career depends on my having not only a solid reputation in my work, but in maintaining my good name.”

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He hated himself for suggesting what he'd despised Miles for mentioning only a few days before, but the words spilled out of his mouth unbidden. “That's certainly true.” No longer meeting Stephen's gaze, Peter straightened his collar and smoothed the lapels of his coat. “A young man's virtue, once besmirched, can never come clean again, and your career could hang in the balance. You're thinking with your head instead of your cock, which was more than I could ever do at your age. Bravo, Peregrine.” The cool, vaguely mocking tone was back. His Peter had transformed into sardonic Lord Northrup once more. “I-I'm…” He was going to say I'm sorry, but what was the point? The words wouldn't change the situation. “Are we finished here?” The other man gestured toward the galleries. “If so, I have some social functions to attend to myself.” Stephen couldn't speak. His tongue had tied itself in knots, as it hadn't done in months. He nodded silently. “Good luck with your exams,” Peter said as he led the way from the antechamber back toward the main rooms of the museum. “I shall contact you with the address of the engineer, Robert Wise, and give him your direction as well so you may communicate with one another about the project. He will tell you what he needs from you in your capacity as his assistant.” Stephen couldn't even manage a thank-you. As he mutely followed Peter from the museum, he thought he knew how the girl in the painting felt: frozen in a moment in time, longing, yearning, aching for something that was so close but would forever be just out of reach.

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Chapter Eleven Peter waited in the front parlor of Number 15 Bailey Street for the butler to take his card to Mr. Gilbert Foxworthy and his companion, Mr. Timothy Wainwright. Foxworthy and Wainwright had lived in unwedded bliss for more years than Peter had been aware of his sexual inclinations. The couple was rarely spoken of, never acknowledged or invited to take part in polite society. Many men lived together as confirmed bachelors. Such relationships were fully acceptable, but these two were unusual. They refused to hide the spark even in company. The smiles and quick caresses they'd exchanged scandalized too many important hostesses, so they lived beyond the pale in a world of their own. Of course, their relationship wasn't openly declared, but everyone knew of it, was shocked by it, or if they were of the same persuasion, secretly admired it. He didn't know what had prompted him to call on the gentlemen, whom he did not know all that well. Despite a shared sexual proclivity, Peter had always danced in wilder circles than the staid, reserved Foxworthy and his paramour. If they were a fox-trot, he was a mazurka. But recently, for the first time in his life, he could see the advantages of a more sedate dance. It left one less winded and able to dance longer. So he actually did know why he'd come. He wanted to learn from them what it was like to be in a relationship against all odds, to commit to one man for a lifetime. The butler returned to usher him into the main parlor, where the gentlemen rose from their armchairs to welcome him. Foxworthy was a man in his seventies with striking, snow-white hair. He was as trim and athletic as his partner was portly. Not that Wainwright was vastly overweight, but the middle-aged man's waistcoat was a little strained over his paunch. His grayshot hair was cut very close, and a pencil-thin mustache and goatee emphasized a pair of very full and sensuous lips.

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Wainwright's heavy-lidded eyes examined Peter with a connoisseur's appreciation for a fine wine. He smiled as he held out his hand to clasp Peter's. “Nice to see you, Northrup. We don't receive guests often.” “To what do we owe the honor?” Foxworthy added. Peter was at a loss to explain his visit. How could he ask the very personal questions for which he needed answers from two men he scarcely knew? “I've been remiss in not visiting you prior to now,” he began, then decided to plunge in. “I'm afraid my social life has kept me gadding about without taking the time to forge solid friendships. I know this visit is rather out of the blue, but I thought I would like to further my acquaintance with you.” “Please sit.” Foxworthy indicated a seat and lowered himself carefully back into his armchair. Wainwright was beside him immediately, setting a cushion behind his back. He rested a hand on his friend's shoulder for a fleeting moment before moving to pour Peter a drink. As he offered the glass, Wainwright again viewed Peter with assessing eyes. “I understand you're on the committee concerning the foundling hospital. Could your visit be a little fundraising effort? If so, Gilbert and I would be pleased to contribute to such a worthwhile project.” Peter gripped the cool glass while his skin burned. He'd nearly forgotten his affiliation with the hospital. He was associated with several committees for public works of one kind or another, which usually meant throwing some money their way rather than actually attending meetings. “No, my visit is of a rather more personal nature.” He drew a deep breath. “There's really no gracious way to broach the subject, so I'll simply lay out my situation before you and hope for the best.” Timothy Wainwright's eyebrows shot up, and he cocked his head. “Intriguing.” He moved to his chair and sat, crossing his legs gracefully. Watching his movements, Peter glimpsed the dancer he'd once been. The story went that Foxworthy had seen Timothy Wainwright's performance and been stricken by its beauty. After a stormy period of courtship, the lovers had forged a solid bond that had lasted through the intervening years. Of course, Peter had no idea what was true and what wasn't about the vastly embroidered legend of the two men. He could,

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however, see the connection as Wainwright shot Foxworthy a look, and a silent message telegraphed between them. Foxworthy smiled, and his sharp features softened, transforming the distinguished gentleman. “Go ahead, young man. Speak.” Peter nodded and cleared his throat. “I'm reaching a point in my life where the diversions I've indulged in for many years no longer amuse. I need…I want something more.” He paused, embarrassed at admitting such a personal feeling to strangers. “And there's a young man involved in the tale, I take it?” Gilbert gently prodded. “Well…yes,” Peter admitted. “Quite young. Too young perhaps to know his own mind and too inexperienced not to have a chance to discover life on his own terms. There's a bit of a problem right there. Not to mention his fear of a ruined reputation that could damage his career.” And the fact I've already hurt him once, so he doesn't trust me. Foxworthy nodded. “Ah yes, the older man singed by the flame of youth. Not an uncommon problem, but definitely an issue for those involved.” He shot another glance at his partner. “I know it was for me once, long ago.” “How did you…? If I may ask, sir, how did you come to decide it was worth the effort, the danger, and the possible heartache to forge a long-term friendship?” Gilbert Foxworthy laughed, a dry, dusty, yet pleasant sound. He gestured toward portly Wainwright. “Just look at him, Northrup. How could I not try to win and keep such a man? He is my treasure.” “Friendship is the key word in that question, you know,” Wainwright said. “You must realize your initial passion will flare and fade to a dull glow. Others will attract your attention. You may be tempted. But you must always stop and ask yourself, 'Do I want to hurt my friend for a moment's pleasure?'” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “For me, the answer has always been no.” “Always?” Foxworthy cocked an eyebrow. “I remember a certain party back in forty-six. And there was that Greek boy—” “Shush. Point taken.” Timothy held up a hand to silence him. “Maybe I haven't always been a paragon, but that doesn't make the lesson any less valid. You must make a decision and stick to it, and then you must do the hardest thing of all and trust your partner to do the same.”

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Peter sighed and set his untouched glass on the table near his chair. “Ah, that's the difficult part, isn't it? My friend is just venturing into the world for the first time. Temptations await him at every turn. Can I be strong or patient enough to allow him the time he needs to exorcise his needs? Am I meant to be steadfast and wait out the storm?” “Or should you choose a more settled man, someone closer to your own age?” Foxworthy nodded. “I remember that feeling well. In fact, it still haunts me sometimes. That is not a question anyone can answer for you. It's between you and your friend. You have to be honest and open about what is in your heart.” Peter cringed inside. He'd never been one to spend much time exploring his emotions until Stephen, and he still wasn't comfortable admitting to having them, especially to Stephen. But what else had he really expected to hear from this old pair of nancy boys? They offered the same advice a long-lived couple of any gender would give—honesty, sharing, commitment—an obvious but extremely difficult directive. “Thank you for talking with me. It was most generous of you to give me your insight.” “Our pleasure,” Wainwright said. “Please stop by again. We're always happy to entertain. In fact, you might bring your young friend to dinner some night. Is he a handsome lad?” Foxworthy shook his head. “You're incorrigible.” His partner shrugged. “Nothing wrong with enjoying beauty. I'll probably continue to look as long as I have eyes in my head. But looking isn't touching.” “Perhaps we shall come,” Peter replied. “As friends. Currently that's our designated relationship. Another problem to be overcome.” “Ah, to be young and in love.” Foxworthy chuckled. “I don't envy you the ups and downs, Northrup, not even for the extra passion they engender.” A little small talk and gossip later, Peter took his leave, noting the tenderness with which Timothy grasped Gilbert's arm and helped him rise from his chair. You may not envy me, you old codger, but I believe I envy you.

***

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“Is your father very ill?” Brian watched as Stephen folded a shirt and placed it in his portmanteau. “I mean, obviously he's ill enough that you must go home in the middle of a semester, but is he…?” “On his deathbed? I don't know. I really don't know what to expect. Mother's telegram was brief and cryptic.” “I'm sorry, old sport. I hope he recovers. I'll pray for it.” “Thank you.” Stephen smiled. There was still plenty of his old, faithful friend left in Brian, despite recent changes in his personality. “And I'll pray for your situation with Sally.” “Please, don't bring it up. I'd managed to put it out of my mind for a few moments!” Brian groaned and lay back on the bed, flinging an arm over his eyes. Sally Brewer was a milliner's assistant who'd set a snare for the wealthy young man and trapped him. Or, depending on how one wanted to view the story, she was an innocent, and Brian had led her astray and left her with a filled belly. Either way, and whether the child was actually his, Brian was in deep trouble, impossibly entangled with Sally because he was too much of a gentleman to shirk his perceived responsibility. Stephen wondered if she was even really pregnant. The one time he'd seen her when he'd accompanied Brian to the shop in Cambridge where she worked, Sally had exhibited no sign of the impending doom. “You're a lucky man,” Brian said. “You keep your dick in your breeches and your head in your books where it belongs.” You've no idea. He thought of his brief liaisons over the past school year—furtive eye signals leading to clandestine couplings. None had given him a grain of the great satisfaction he'd had with Peter. And here his mind was, dwelling again on the man he couldn't forget. When would he recover from his schoolboy crush and move on? “Do you miss it?” Brian asked. Stephen started. Since Peter's cock had been upmost in his mind, it was all he could think of for a moment. Then he realized Brian meant sex. “Well, I, uh, try to concentrate on my studies, like you said.” He pushed down the lid on the case full of shirts, trousers, and undergarments.

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Brian sat up and leaned on the case while Stephen fastened it. “Peregrine, may I ask you something quite personal? I know the timing is wrong. You're about to leave and you're worried about your father, but I've wanted to discuss this for a long time.” Stephen's already tense stomach gave a little flip. “What about?” “Last summer at my house, and again recently when we met up with Lord Northrup, with Miles's rumors about him and with hints I've remembered of things my parents said… Is it possible that Lord Northrup's interest in furthering your career might be, uh, self-serving in some way?” “I have no idea what you mean, Pratt.” Stephen picked up his valise. He needed to leave before the conversation took a turn for the worse. “And then I started thinking”—Brian also rose—“about what might lead a man with those kinds of inclinations to single you out, to even imagine that you might return his interest. It made me think that maybe…maybe… Perhaps it's not about him taking advantage of you. Maybe his interest is returned in some small way. What I'm asking is if you…admire Lord Northrup?” Oh God, there it was, couched in the most delicate terms possible, but bluntly clubbing Stephen over the head. Brian, against the unspoken code that demanded British men never discuss such things, was asking if Stephen was attracted to other men. “Of course I do. He's an admirable man.” “That's not what I'm asking and you know it.” Brian put a hand on his arm, stopping him from leaving the room. “We've been friends for a long time, but I begin to feel I never really saw you. You've listened to me prattle on about Alice Hathaway and Sally and a host of other girls who've taken my fancy, but I realize I've never given you the same courtesy of letting you spill your secrets to me. I want you to know you don't have to hide anything from me. I won't despise you for…anything you might confess.” A few months earlier, Stephen might have poured out the whole story. His bitter disappointment, the strange new sensation that might have been love. But he'd learned caution. “There is nothing I can confess,” he said lightly. Then seeing that his friend heard all the possible meanings of the phrase he'd picked, he went on. “I lead my life in my head rather than in other parts of my body.” He grinned at his friend's hooting laughter. “I was referring to the heart, you idiot. I shan't live anywhere else, I expect.”

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Brian stopped laughing. He moved his pudgy hand to Stephen's shoulder, and they stood in silence for a moment. “Well. I want you to know that I will visit you wherever you live. D'ye see? Anywhere. You do know that no matter what, I am your friend?” Brian said. And Stephen heard his hidden meaning. Brian knew. He wouldn't push the matter; he would respect Stephen's privacy, but he obviously knew. Stephen's eyes prickled with tears. Gads, he'd turned into a fainthearted maiden. Yet even as he fought the tears of gratitude, he felt giddy relief. Not every friend would desert him should the truth of his nature ever be discovered. Though such a possibility was far less likely to occur now that he'd been summoned home. News of Perford wouldn't reach his friends. And life in Perford wouldn't allow the possibility of dalliances. “And will you visit me when I move to the moon?” Brian didn't even smile. “Absolutely.” “Pratt, you are the best friend a man could ask for.” And for the first time since they'd met that day, he spoke the absolute truth.

*** The journey to his parents' house took longer than he'd expected. Arriving home, he knew at once the situation was serious. The shades were drawn. Straw had been strewn on the cobblestones and pavement out front to deaden the sound of pedestrians and carriages. There was no black crepe over the door, thank goodness. Mellon met him at the door before he could knock. Thin-shouldered and stooped, the manservant had always seemed funereal to Stephen. Paler than ever and with additional lines on his face, Mellon looked like a man hired by an undertaker as a professional mourner. He led Stephen in and whispered, “Mr. Peregrine is in the drawing room.” Stephen went cold with fear. Was he already laid out in his coffin? Then Mellon added, “The doctor is visiting him and should be done shortly.” Stephen could breathe again. “And my mother?”

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“Mrs. Peregrine is resting. She is worn out with nursing.” Mellon made the words sound slightly accusatory, as if it were Stephen's fault that she had to wear herself out nursing his father. Stephen barely noticed, though he felt the weight of the place settle on him. He'd forgotten how guilt seeped into his bones the moment he walked through the door. The air was saturated with a fog of mild censure: you could have, should have done better, sinner. “I'll wait in the receiving room,” he told Mellon. “Please direct Dr. Peachman to me when he's finished.” He refused Mellon's offer of refreshment and sat on the horsehair sofa. He didn't read or pull out his notebook. Even to work on one of his father's projects struck him as disrespectful. Instead he looked around the familiar room, pretending to be a new visitor. There was the large cabinet clock ticking in the corner. Stephen pulled out his watch. As usual, the clock was several minutes slow. He got up to look at the familiar pictures, starting with the portrait of the personification of Patience, a gracefully dressed girl draped on a broken plinth, staring sorrowfully into the distance. The limp figure of Patience seemed to be reading the framed needlepoint Bible verse worked by his mother that hung on the opposite wall. There was the photograph of his sister, Sybil. Stephen barely remembered her—she'd died when she was ten and he was a toddler—but he'd memorized this photo of the thin girl lying on a sofa. Her sunken, closed eyes, crossed hands, the bushels of lilies surrounding her, and the black cloth draped over the frame were the only indications that this was a memento mori portrait. On the wall next to Sybil were two shadow boxes. Etchings of crying cherubs covered each corner, and inside the black velvet-lined boxes lay a tiny lock of hair, a stylized sketch of a sleeping baby, and a silver rattle. Artfully arranged memorials to the babies that had been born dead. Stephen wondered why his parents would choose to make visitors wait in a room with so many reminders of mortality. Perhaps because they wanted to make certain the visitors wouldn't return. Stephen smiled. That was the sort of thing Peter might say. He might not have Peter's presence in his life, but he seemed to have a strong enough memory of the man that he could pull it up for his private amusement, a sort of comfort.

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“Mr. Peregrine. I am glad you're home.” Doctor Peachman entered the room. He usually resembled a young Father Christmas with his beard and twinkling eyes, but today he wore a sober expression. He put down his black bag and shook hands with Stephen. “Your father appears to be out of danger,” Dr. Peachman said. “Though I've told him he mustn't return to work.” “For how long?” Stephen asked. The doctor raised bushy brows in surprise. “Why, forever.” And at that moment, Stephen's future crumbled into dust. No bridges. No return to Cambridge. No Peter. Well…he'd never had him. Not really. “Are you well, Mr. Peregrine?” Stephen rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to control the nausea. “Yes, of course. I'm fine.” He drew in a long breath. “I should see my father now.” Dr. Peachman nodded. “He's expecting you.” They shook hands again, and Stephen walked away from Sybil and the slow-ticking clock to find his father. He concentrated on his gratitude that his father lived. The impact created by the doctor's words must pass quickly, because Stephen had always known what his future held. The momentary hope he might not have to return home and take up the family business had been selfish. Decadent. And that word reminded him of Peter, of course. But he couldn't think of the sins they committed together, not here. He'd be pulled straight to hell if he did, right down to roast with the other naked devils. And that irreverent thought, of course, reminded him of Peter. The room smelled of illness. Mr. Peregrine had lost weight, and his face was gray. His hair, usually carefully greased and held in place over the bald spot in the center of his head, had become a wispy gray halo on the pillow. But his breath came steadily, and the eyes that looked up at Stephen might be dim, but they held awareness. “Son,” he said simply, and Stephen felt a rush of affection. “Father,” he said. He grabbed a wooden chair. “May I?” His father nodded, and Stephen carefully placed the chair near his father's bed.

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“I do not like this bed in here,” his father said querulously. “As soon as can be, they should move it back upstairs.” Stephen hid a grin. “Everything in its place” was his father's motto. “You must be feeling better if you can concern yourself with this.” His father made a faint harrumph of disgust. He shifted in the bed and for a few moments studied Stephen's face. In a gruff tone he said, “Mellon's placed all the information you need on the desk in my office. Names, addresses. You must start at once. We shall need to pay the workers by Friday or risk serious difficulties.” And so it began. Stephen stifled a sigh. He pulled out his notebook, flipped past drawings of bridge abutments without looking at them, and used a pencil to take notes on his father's instructions. A few minutes into listing all that needed to be done, Mr. Peregrine fell silent. Stephen stopped writing and looked up to see his father glared at him with a positive look of fury. “Good heavens, lad.” That was as close to a curse as he'd allow himself. “You look as if you're being dragged to a guillotine. I should hope you're not ungrateful?” He was about to give a sharp response when he noticed his father's eyes shone a little too brightly. Tears? Stephen remembered then that Mr. Peregrine loved his work. He even enjoyed the day-to-day grind of business, and he had just been told he must leave it all behind. As much as Stephen hated the idea of shouldering the burden, his father hated putting it down. His father envied him. Stephen tucked his pencil into the notebook and laid a hand on the neatly folded bedclothes next to his father's shoulder. No one in the family would exchange embraces, and this was as close as he might come to an expression of physical affection. “Father, I know you can't come to the work sites, but I'm afraid I must badger you for help for some time to come. I'll need your assistance.” The grim set to his father's mouth relaxed slightly. “I'm sure Peachman won't give me trouble about that. After all, he wouldn't want you to drive the business I built up from the ground back into the ground.” “To be truthful, Peachman's disapproval doesn't frighten me. Now, if Mother should overhear…” He pulled a face of mock horror.

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For a moment, father and son shared a genuine smile.

*** He spent the rest of the day in his father's office, going through the projects, and didn't see his mother until dinner that evening. Dressed in black from head to foot, she met him at the dining room door. “Good evening, Stephen,” she murmured. She bowed her black-veiled head. He vaguely recalled reading in a letter that a second cousin had died, but to be truthful, he couldn't recall a time she wasn't in full or partial mourning. She laid her thin hand with its black lace mitten on his arm, and he led her to the table. “Father seems to be improving,” Stephen tried. He should have known better than to attempt an optimistic note. “The shadow of death still falls upon him,” she said. His mother spoke in her customary monotone, which sapped the drama from her words. “I shan't be sanguine until he rises from the bed and sits at his proper place at the table.” She nodded at the head of the table. He wondered if she was telling him that he might be home to help, but he was not to try take over more than the business. “Of course,” he said politely, since she seemed to be waiting for a reply. He'd forgotten what day of the week it was, but as he held the chair for his mother, he saw the boiled chicken, and he knew. Wednesday. Thursday it would be ham. Friday, plaice. Saturday, mutton. Sunday, a roast. And so on, forever and ever. He took his seat and waited as his mother prayed over their food and souls. As she spoke to God, he stared down at his plate and returned to an old childhood habit, recalling all he had to be grateful for. The food couldn't inspire praise, but it was always filling. The Peregrines would never starve. They would never lose their home. He and his mother were healthy. His father was alive. Somewhere in the world, Peter was too. Somewhere in the world, there was heart-soaring, body-releasing love. Sheer joy. Oh hell. This wasn't appropriate. And what was worse was he felt himself stifling a smile at the dreadful trend of his thoughts as he bent in prayer. Could anything be more inappropriate at this table? Of course. The memory of Peter's naked body made Stephen grin down at the pale potatoes and chicken.

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His mother finished praying and picked up her fork. Without glancing at him, she cut into her meat. “I hope that after dinner you will write to Cambridge and let them know you won't be returning. Father needs you too much.” All desire to grin fled Stephen, as did his appetite. “Of course,” he mumbled. He'd have to write to Peter and turn down the bridge project. He and his mother made desultory conversation through dinner. Over the blancmange, she looked up, and her gray, watery eyes searched his face. “I am sorry, Stephen, you must leave Cambridge early. I know you value your studies there.” He was touched. “Thank you, Mother.” Every now and then his parents startled him by paying attention to his private interests. Of course, no one in the family would ever allow those personal desires to change the prescribed path of the future. He squelched the flare of resentment. Stephen was no longer a selfish child who'd sulk about things he could not change. After all, this was the future he'd expected. Even as he'd invented bigger dreams in his mind, a part of him had known they couldn't possibly come true. Protesting or fighting it would only make himself and the people he cared about miserable. More miserable. After dinner, he excused himself to retire to his room to write the letters. The letters to the professor and the college bursar were relatively easy to compose, but the one to Peter made him pause. He pulled out the bottle of brandy he'd brought to his teetotalist parents' house and drank a quick glass before settling down to write. He began a polite and formal explanation for why he must decline Lord Northrup's offer. After a second very small glass of brandy, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and continued the letter. He felt as if he was conducting a ceremony, bidding his carefree youth good-bye. Why not indulge in sentiment? He wrote fast and refused to read back over the words he scribbled. Stephen suspected the letter was as terrible and sentimental as any he'd written during those agonizing weeks after the affair with Peter. But it wasn't as if he'd see the man again. He smiled, imagining Northrup shaking hands with Peregrine senior, or the earl gravely examining the shadow boxes with Mrs. Peregrine and making polite comments about the weeping cherubim.

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He added a postscript: If you hold me in any regard, please burn this note. And if by some miracle we should meet again, I beg you not to remind me of all that I've written here. If I had any sense, I'd burn this letter myself. But he didn't. He sealed it and drained his glass. He left the bottle and glass on the mantel rather than hide them away from the housemaids. He'd keep the biggest sin on his soul a secret from his parents, but he'd be damned anyway, so he wouldn't bother to hide every last one of his vices. In the house that whispered disapproval, there might as well be something obvious to invite condemnation. That night his dreams were simple. He and Peter walked past the green lawns and stone buildings of Cambridge down to the Bridge of Sighs on the river. It felt so real it might have been a memory. When he woke, he closed his eyes for a long moment to see the soaring buildings and Peter's laughing face again.

*** Stephen ran into trouble almost at once in the form of his father's second-in-command, Ballard, who showed up the next morning to breakfast with his father. Stephen shouldn't have looked so taken aback to see the man in rough work clothes sitting by his father's bedside. “I come some mornings,” Ballard said. “Since Mr. Peregrine was taken ill.” He was daring Stephen to protest. He was a short man with a big black mustache and bushy brows. Stephen had met him before and knew the pugnacious set of his shoulders and his hard mouth had always marked him as a man with a chip firmly in place. Just try to push it off, he silently challenged Stephen. “You remember Mr. Ballard,” his father said. “He's agreed to take you around the five work sites.” His challenges weren't so silent as the two of them toured the first building projects. “You shoulda spent your years as a 'prentice. Learning the business with your hands and not your head, you'd be in better shape,” Ballard informed him after he asked a worker about the types of bricks they used for the chimney. Another worker stopped with a sheet of instructions, and Ballard waved him away irritably. “Don't have time for it now. Walk with us, boy, and tell me what's it say.” Stephen slowed to examine the foundation of the new building and asked about the materials set into the ground.

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“You'd know that much if you'd been on the job for a week.” He snorted and added, “University education,” as if he said covered in shite. As they rode on the wagon toward the next home, Stephen decided it was time to speak up. He had suspicions, roused by everything from the defensive manner of the man to the way Ballard took instructions from his father. “My father has told me that you are the best in the business.” Mr. Ballard drew to a halt to allow a coal cart to cross the lane in front of them. His deepset eyes slid quickly to Stephen, then away again. “He's right,” he growled. “I believe it. Because of this, I am faced with a dilemma. I doubt I will be able to keep the company easily afloat without you. On the other hand, I'm facing enough difficulties because of my age. I can't function effectively with you in your present frame of mind. I can't have you show disrespect for me in front of the crews.” The wagon creaked and rocked as they turned a corner. “Is that a threat?” Stephen considered the question for half a minute. “Yes.” Ballard snorted. “You can't scare me. Your father values me.” “But I'm in charge now.” God, how he hated this part of the job. “Huh. And I can walk off anytime.” “I'm reasonably certain you'd have trouble finding another job with as much responsibility as my father gives you. As I'd like to give you.” “You just said it. I'm one of the best there is. I keep the jobs on time and—” “But most men in your position can read,” Stephen said gently. Ballard's hands stuttered on the reins, and the horses slowed at once. He blinked, and his mouth twisted tight. Stephen knew he'd guessed correctly. “I shan't announce this truth to anyone. I'll be as discreet as my father,” Stephen said after a moment's silence. Ballard snorted, and the truculent look returned. “I can do numbers just fine. The rest, he don't know.” “Then I won't tell him.” Stephen decided he couldn't afford to be entirely kind. “If you agree to help rather than hinder me.”

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Ballard gave a single nod. He pulled up the horses and climbed down from the wagon in silence. They made the last tour in silence. “That all, sir?” The last word, “sir,” told Stephen he'd won the battle, and perhaps even the war, with his father's second-in-command. “Yes. Thank you for your time.” He tried to sound bland. No point in offending the man with any sign of gloating. “I understand there hasn't been pay for two weeks, so I'll go to the bank and fetch the men's wages.” “Best take someone like Gleason along with you.” He added hastily, “Your father always does for protection.” He put his fingers to his mouth, gave a whistle, and the man in charge of the site, a strapping man only a year or two older than Stephen, came trotting up to them. He had bright blue eyes and a sun-browned face and arms from working outdoors. He hefted a crowbar and explained cheerfully he could use it, which was why he was the ideal candidate for the job. “We'll go on horseback,” Stephen said. As they swung up onto the animals, he tried not to notice Gleason's muscular, well-made body and tight-fitting work trousers. They trotted down the street, and Gleason babbled about his pleasure at working for a fine company like Peregrine Builders. He loved seeing every brick laid. “We're most unusual 'cause we do everything from the foundation to the slate on the roof.” Stephen knew all this, of course—had heard it all his life. He wondered if he was as dull about his bridges and felt grateful they weren't trapped in the small space of a closed carriage. But he knew himself to be churlish. If he could tap a tiny measure of the man's enthusiasm for the company, he'd be content with his life. Gleason's conversation suddenly veered off course. He was talking about stepping out with young women and asking Stephen if he did. “No,” Stephen said, startled into answering the truth. “That is to say, I have just returned home after years away.” “Me neither.” And something in the way Gleason spoke made Stephen slow his horse and look at him.

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Gleason winked at him and wiggled the bar resting on the saddle in front of him. Stephen pretended not to notice, but wondered what Peter would do in his place. Most likely he'd pull alongside Gleason's horse and manage to stroke the man's leg—something bold. Despite Stephen's admiration of the other man's fine body, he had no intention of looking for more signals. He wouldn't indulge his hunger here in his family's village, and certainly not with a man who worked for his father. Who worked for him. Peter would laugh at his scruples, and Stephen wished he could hear the older man's gentle—or not so gentle—mockery of his middle-class ways. Dear God, he felt a wave of loneliness that threatened to make him clap his heels to his horse and ride away as fast as he could. Even if he dared to have an affair, he didn't want this man. He only wanted Peter, longed for him with possibly an even stronger yearning than he'd suffered after his rejection last summer. Gleason didn't appear to notice how rattled Stephen was. He said something about how some night he and Stephen might step out for a pint. By then they'd reached the bank. Stephen dismounted and tied up the horse. “Perhaps some evening,” he said and swore never to indulge any such night.

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Chapter Twelve Peter opened the letter with some trepidation. After all, Stephen had vanished without a trace—an uncharacteristically irresponsible move. Perhaps he'd bid his whole life adios to run off to Italy or some other more pleasant climate—that's exactly the sort of thing Peter would have done at his age—and left behind this note to beg off the project. Peter had entirely forgotten about the parents and Stephen's well-developed sense of duty. He read it twice. For a long time he stared down at the neatly penned words. Stephen would use his well-trained right hand, he thought with a fleeting smile. He put the note in his pocket. When he finished his breakfast, he couldn't resist fishing it out and reading it again. The paper already looked crumpled and stained. The note started out formally. A polite decline of the work Lord Northrup had offered to him. Real regrets about the necessity to abandon the project. But then he wrote of other regrets and of soul-deep emotion. Peter had read and burned the other notes Stephen had sent, and they had a similar humor and voice, yet they were pleading missives with the goal of luring Peter back to him. Those had been surprisingly witty notes, and he'd disliked burning them. This letter writer had discarded the need to impress the reader. Stephen might have been writing to ease his own heart, but he wrote to Peter. Peter studied it as closely as any scholar reads an original text. The impossibly neat copperplate hand changed on the second page. Had he switched from his right to his left hand? Or had the two small glasses of brandy Stephen claimed to have drunk made such a change? Peter read the last lines again. I have lived, thanks to you. I can't resent you or even recall the pain I felt at your rejection, Peter. If you had never come to me that night, I would never have understood what it means to be fully alive, entirely human. You awoke a part of me that I shall treasure for the rest of my days, and no, I don't just mean the joy of physical union. There

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was laughter and acceptance I shan't find again. I know I was lucky to discover that even once in my life. Good God. It was a love letter, the first genuine specimen Peter had ever received or even read. With the mention of “smooth flesh” and the several references to Peter in his bed, the thing was tantamount to a prison sentence, or at least total disgrace should it fall into the wrong hands. Yet Peter couldn't bring himself to be sensible as before and burn it. He locked it in his desk drawer instead. The next time he drew it out, just after luncheon, he read it for new clues. Obviously Stephen had no intention of fighting the life plan dictated to him. He might as well be a blasted prince inheriting a kingdom. The die had been cast before his birth, and he didn't seem to imagine anyone else could step into that role designed for him. Stephen didn't go into details—he didn't complain in the letter—but Peter knew enough to understand Peregrine's father's business held very little interest to the dreamy would-be bridge builder. He might love sums and equations, but Stephen had little interest in cottages or payrolls. And what made Stephen think he had to give up all pleasure? He'd only moved back to his parents' home, not a prison. Because of his exalted position, Peter had never indulged in his perverse pleasures in Stafford, but surely even villages offered opportunities for dalliances, didn't they? “This won't do,” Peter said. He considered ringing for a glass of port but decided to keep his head as clear as possible. He tried on the idea of barging into Stephen's life as an indignant customer. That might appeal to the sense of honor of both father and son. He'd pretend that Stephen had made a verbal contract and that he, Lord Northrup, would suffer because he'd broken it. Stephen was beholden to the shareholders. No. That wouldn't work to convince Stephen, who knew about the master engineer. It would take nothing less than blasting powder to dislodge the man from his family home. And he had pride. Peter couldn't simply buy him out of the business. Or could he? He packed for his errand carefully. No brocade. Nothing more outrageous than a heather twill. He considered traveling in the carriage with the crest but decided instead on the easy railway

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journey. He hadn't realized, until he looked at a map, how close the village lay to Stafford. A hidden treasure. Peter rummaged in the drawers of his spare bureau, pushing aside old letters and invitations, programs, cards, and clipped newspaper articles, until he found the particular items he was searching for, deeply buried near the bottom. Barely looking at them, he stuffed the packets of bound papers into a satchel before he could change his mind. Then he summoned his footman and prepared to travel.

*** The house was a two-mile walk from the railway station. No servants came to greet him, so the carriage would have been lost on the inhabitants of the gray stone house on the main street of Perford. The rooms had been shut up too long, and they were musty and smelled of old meals and respectability. The reality of Stephen's family home was far grimmer than Peter had suspected. Perhaps the atmosphere was exaggerated because of sickness or death, though he supposed the place was always in need of some sunshine and air. The man who showed him in and took his card to Mrs. Peregrine was as gloomy as the house itself. In the antechamber, Peter examined the objects hanging on the puce-colored walls. How had Stephen, with all his eagerness and life, come from this place? Mrs. Peregrine herself entered the room, a thin wraith of a woman in deep black. Oh blast. He'd come to a house of mourning. On closer examination, the way she pressed her thin lips tight made her seem uneasy rather than in the throes of sorrow. “We are honored, Lord Northrup.” She eyed him nervously and attempted something like a curtsy. Peter suspected she didn't know how to cope with nobility. “I did not know you were acquainted with my husband, my lord.” He took her hand and bowed over it. Two pink spots appeared on her pale cheeks. “I know of his work,” Peter said. After all, he had seen some of the house designs Stephen had made for his father. And Stephen himself would qualify as the man's best product. “I had come to see your husband, but I understand that, uh…” He gave a delicate cough and let the sentence trail off.

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“Alas. We still fear for Mr. Peregrine,” Mrs. Peregrine said in a low voice. “The Lord almost took him from us.” “I am delighted to hear Mr. Peregrine is still alive,” Peter said, relief flooding him. But of course, there would have been black draped everywhere if the worst had taken place. If the father lived, Peter might still be able to pry Stephen away—for a time, at any rate. Perhaps he could tie him up and drag him away. Kidnap him and keep him at Stafford for the rest of their days. He grinned at the thought. Mrs. Peregrine must have read the smile as delight. “Mr. Peregrine is not out of danger, my lord.” She raised a hand in warning. “If you wish to discuss business, perhaps you'd best speak to my son?” Yes, indeed, that would suit him. She urged him to sit on the stiff horsehair sofa. He placed his satchel on the floor nearby, then took his seat, nearly sliding off, the thing was so slick. He imagined the horrid piece of furniture was a prized possession of this bourgeoisie housewife. Mrs. Peregrine sent the butler for Stephen and told him to arrange for a pot of tea as well. She sat in the chair across from Peter to wait, her spine erect and her hands folded as carefully as a corpse's, one over the other, on her lap. She couldn't have looked more uncomfortable if she were sitting on a cushion full of needles pricking her bum. Peter attempted to put her at ease with talk of the unseasonably warm weather and if that might herald an early spring; then he spoke at length about how lovely this area of the country was. Her responses to all his conversational gambits were brief and stilted. Peter thought he could strike up a conversation with a fence post and get a better response. What felt like several hours later, the parlor door opened, and Stephen stepped inside. Peter's heart somersaulted and spun like a circus acrobat. The words of that very secret and intimate missive filled his mind, and he wanted to throw all caution to the wind, stride across the room, and sweep Stephen into his arms. Imagining Mrs. Peregrine's shock as he plundered her son's mouth with a deep, passionate kiss put a small smile on Peter's face as he rose to shake hands with his lover. Stephen's face was pale, the muscles stretched tight and his mouth a tense line as he took Peter's hand. “Good afternoon, Lord Northrup.”

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“Good afternoon, Mr. Peregrine. I'm sorry to hear about your father's illness. I shouldn't have come to see him without notice.” Peter quickly sketched the story he was touting. “I'm pleased to meet you. Perhaps you can help me conduct the business I came to discuss with your father.” “I'll help you if I can. Do sit down.” Stephen's voice was faint as he indicated the awful sofa. Before Peter could resume his seat, Mrs. Peregrine rose and murmured an excuse about leaving the gentlemen to their business. With a curtsy, she exited the room. The moment the door closed behind her, Stephen turned on Peter. “What are you doing here?” “Is that any kind of a greeting for an old friend who's come to call?” Peter smiled and resisted the urge to reach out his hand and catch hold of Stephen's. He took a seat on the torturous furniture. “I thought we'd only just met,” Stephen said dryly, dropping into the chair his mother had vacated. “That's what I heard.” “A necessary fiction.” Peter waved a casual hand, then spoke more soberly. “Truly, I am sorry to hear about your father's illness. I didn't exaggerate that. Your mother says he's doing better. That's good.” “It will be a long time before he's well enough to resume even some of his usual activities.” “And so you must take over for him. I understood that from your letter.” Peter deliberately mentioned the missive with all its exuberant contents in order to watch Stephen's reaction. His cheeks flushed, and he looked away from Peter toward the god-awful shrine to a dead sibling which graced one wall. “Yes, I must. It is my duty.” “You sound like a soldier bracing himself to charge an enemy wall. Good Lord, lad, there's more to life than honor and duty. A person can't live his entire existence in misery simply to please others.” Stephen scowled. “You don't understand. You never had anyone depend on you.”

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That cut too close to home. It was true. Peter had lived his life doing the absolute minimum as far as getting involved with others. It wasn't as if he had a family left alive to depend on him, either financially or emotionally. Nor had he left his tenants in dire straits by profligate spending. Instead he'd hired others to run his estates responsibly while enjoying their fruits to the fullest. He'd even tossed money at numerous charities and benevolent foundations. But no, he couldn't say he'd ever had anyone depend on him in the manner Stephen was talking about. “I may be a wastrel,” he agreed, “but at least I'm honest with myself about what I am. I wouldn't act the part of a martyr, cutting out the heart of who I am like a cancer and burying myself beneath work I detest.” Stephen remained silent for several slow ticks of the cabinet clock's pendulum before he spoke. “I can no longer afford those kinds of feelings. I have work here to do, a duty to my family, and I will put my personal desires aside—forever, if necessary. Please forget anything I might've written in a drunken moment. I hope you've destroyed the letter I sent you.” Peter stared at that set expression, the stubborn mouth. The uncertain, stammering boy he'd first met was nowhere to be seen in this grave and resolute young man. Looking at him now, Peter was even more enamored than he'd been with the handsome youth he'd once found in his bed. A wide array of emotions tumbled through him. Admiration bloomed into love, love dissolved into lust, lust exploded into passion, and that fierce longing returned to a sense of awed esteem. He wouldn't care for Stephen half so much if the man wasn't so selfless, but it was the very qualities Peter respected in him which might tear them apart forever. How could he persuade Stephen he was here to win him not for a temporary liaison—not for a few months that would burn hot, then grow cold—but for a lifetime? If he could convince Stephen of that, would it be enough to outweigh his lover's overdeveloped sense of filial duty? Peter opened his mouth to speak. He'd come armed with convincing words just in case Stephen proved intractable, and he was ready to spill them when the parlor door opened to admit the butler with his tea tray. Both men waited in edgy silence for him to place the tray and pour the tea. Christ, couldn't the butler feel the tension in the room? To Peter it was as thick and potent as the charged air before a storm. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

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“No thank you, Mellon.” The stoop-shouldered butler seemed to take an age to shuffle to the door. When it finally closed behind him, Peter released his pent breath and turned to Stephen. “Might I ask you one favor, although after the way I've treated you I don't deserve it? Would you please just hear me out? I have some things to say, and I don't know if I shall be able to if you interrupt.” Stephen paused, and Peter feared he might simply say no and send him away, rejecting Peter as he'd once done to the younger man. For the lad's own good, Peter had convinced himself at the time, but now he knew it had been a lie. Easier to face a lie than his own fear. Stephen nodded slightly. “Go on.” “When we met last summer, I was a jaded, tired, and actually quite miserable man despite my blithe assurances that my life was exactly how I wanted it do be. In short, I was bitter and lonely, and there you were, as bright and clear a flame as I've ever seen. So idealistic, so energized, so enthusiastic about your future and with your heart worn so visibly on your sleeve that it frightened me. I cut you off and left you behind, certain I could resume my habitual ennui, but that brief encounter had changed me.” He lifted one of the teacups to have something to do with his hands but immediately set it back down, sloshing the tea over the rim and into the saucer. “In the months afterward, I did everything in my power to try to forget, barely reading your letters before burning them and keeping myself occupied with sexual frolics. Nothing helped. When I saw you again, I wanted you with an unreasoning desire, and I've never been happier than the evening you showed up on my doorstep. I knew from that night on something more than lust had taken over my senses.” Stephen sat straight in his chair, back erect, eyes downcast to the floor, face composed and unreadable. Peter wanted to shake a response—or kiss one—out of him. He'd fall to his knees and beg if that would win Stephen over, but Peter knew that wasn't what was needed here. “I know my rejection hurt you, and you were protecting your heart by rejecting me that day at the museum. But I never believed you really meant it, and your fervent letter proved me right. Now I'm here to try to win back your trust in me as well as to convince you not to give up your dreams for yourself—not even for the sake of your family.”

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Peter paused, drawing a deep breath as he steeled himself to do what he'd come here for. Just admitting to his feelings aloud had been hard enough. Now he wanted to offer Stephen tangible proof of his deep affection. He reached for the satchel he'd placed on the floor and opened it to take out the bound papers inside. His stomach churned, and he knew his face burned bright red. He held the bundles on his lap for a moment, fingers tapping the top sheet of one of the packets. “You said to me once, 'What do you wish you had done? Do it now.' Those words made me remember my dabbling in music, writing, and drawing, none of which I had any real talent for. But at least I was inspired then, motivated to create something of beauty and personal meaning. I lost that youthful passion for life. You brought it back to me.” He added with a smile, “I won't say I've begun writing again, although some ideas are tickling around at the back of my mind. However, most of my attention has been focused on how I might win over your affections.” “To what purpose?” Stephen spoke at last. “You were right to warn me there can be no future. Not for men like us.” “No.” Peter slammed his palm against the packet, breaking the frayed old string that bound them and sending pages fluttering to the floor. “That's not true, and that's not what I want anymore. A dalliance here and there, even with you, is no longer enough for me.” Stephen crouched on the floor and began to pick up the papers. He looked up and studied Peter's face with those wide, guileless eyes that had first won him over. “What are you suggesting?” Peter slid off the sofa—easily done—and knelt on the floor across from Stephen, but didn't pick up any of the scattered drawings and closely written pages. Instead he grasped the other man's wrists and held them. “I'm asking if you will be with me, permanently. No matter what the cost. If you want that, everything else is manageable. We can find someone responsible to carry on your father's business. Hell, I'll pay for an administrator if necessary.” Stephen was already shaking his head, but Peter noticed he didn't try to pull his hands away. “You can finish your studies, do your engineering work, and we can live together— circumspectly—any place we wish. With my name and wealth, no one will question any

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arrangement we may set up. I'll ensure this relationship doesn't spoil your chance at success in your chosen field or reflect on your family.” Now Stephen did pull away, and Peter was left grasping at empty air. “This is impossible. You say I won't be ruined, but how do I know how long I'll hold your interest? And what will happen to me and my career if I'm no longer under your protection? My family shouldn't have to suffer the shame of a ruined name because of me.” Peter's pulse beat even faster. He'd been quite certain he could win Stephen over, especially given the contents of the letter, but he hadn't bargained on quite so much stubbornness. For the first time, he began to fear his suit would not be successful. This middleclass lad would turn down the Earl of Stafford and send him packing. Peter held out a crumpled handful of the poems, essays, and sketches. “I brought these today to illustrate a point. I'm no longer ashamed of my emotional side. I will share every part of myself with you. And I promise you, Stephen, a solemn vow: I will not 'tire' of you or put you aside.” He held out his hand, not grasping at Stephen this time, but simply offering his. “Are you brave enough to make the same promise?” Stephen gazed at his proffered hand, then down at the pen-and-ink sketch of a flock of birds circling a wintry sky. “You can't turn up unbidden with such an astonishing proposal and expect an instant answer. I need to think. And I need to deal with family matters right now.” Peter could feel him slipping away. If he left here without extracting some kind of promise for the future, Stephen would settle back into this life that had been dictated for him since his birth, constrained by familiar ties which would fasten him down one by one until he was entrapped in a web. He would never leave Perford or his father's business. He would also probably never marry, for Stephen wouldn't condemn a woman to a loveless life, and he would die alone and lonely—as lonely as Peter was now. But arguing and wheedling at this juncture weren't going to help, Peter felt certain. That left him with one option. He nodded. “I understand. I won't press you today. I'll leave you to think about my offer. You may reach me at my country estate in Stafford. It's less than a three-hour train journey from here.” He gazed into Stephen's eyes, willing him to believe the depth of his commitment. “And I will be there as long as it takes for you to come to a decision. If you should arrive unannounced

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on any given night, you will find me alone and waiting for you. I will stand by my vow even if you release me from it.” There. He couldn't make his intentions any clearer. Peter set the pages in his hand on top of the other packet on the floor and rose—slowly, for inside he was hoping Stephen would jump up, throw his arms around him, and stop him from leaving. But that didn't happen. Peter paused at the drawing room door, taking a long last look at Stephen kneeling in the snow of paper, memorizing his face and form. “I pray for your father's return to good health, and please give my kindest regards to your mother. If you need anything from me during this difficult time, financial or otherwise, please don't hesitate to send a note.” With that he turned on his heel and walked out of Stephen's parents' home. As he left the gloom of the place behind him, he fancied he was leaving Stephen's dying spirit in a tomb. But if the young man would be free of it, he must come to that decision on his own.

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Chapter Thirteen After Peter walked out, Stephen sat back on his heels, staring at the evidence of Peter's youthful idealism spread out on his parlor floor. He only had a moment of such reverie before he heard approaching footsteps and quickly stacked the papers and returned them to the satchel. He didn't have a chance to look at Peter's work until later that evening in his room. First he was summoned by his father, who wanted to know what Lord Northrup had wanted, presumably either his mother or Mellon having told him about the earl's visit. Stephen was forced to invent a reason on the fly, and since Peter's bridge proposition was on his mind, he put forth that bit of truth, testing the waters of his father's flexibility. “His lordship is having a bridge built in his district. The engineer is in need of an assistant to help on the project, and my name was put forth as a candidate.” “Why would a nobleman be interested in such a minute detail as who is selected as the engineer's assistant on a building project? And who put your name forth? You know nothing of bridges. You build houses.” Stephen exhaled slowly. “Actually sir, my more recent studies have leaned toward a different aspect of architecture. Engineering, rather.” He felt guilty and awful. He'd never actually lied to his father, but he hadn't been open about the content of his coursework while continuing to allow the man to pay his university bills. “Bridges?” The rheumy eyes flicked back and forth, studying Stephen's as if searching for someone he'd recognize in this stranger his son had become. “You're interested in bridge building?” “Yes, sir. I am. And I have quite a talent for it. I could show you some sketches. I think you'd be quite fascinated by the mechanics of bridge building if you'd like me to explain more about what I've been doing.”

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Father lifted a liver-spotted hand. “That's quite all right. I'd be a bit too tired to follow just now.” The clock ticked as a silent moment slid by. “Bridges,” the elder Peregrine repeated. “That's quite a fanciful idea, isn't it? We already have a good, solid family business building houses.” “Yes, sir.” “You must tell this Lord Northrup that you are extremely grateful for his interest but must pass on his offer. Be certain to couch the note in the most polite and grateful terms. It's possible we might make use of this connection some day to further the business.” Stephen wanted to add that it was also possible they could branch out the business to include building projects greater than single family homes. If his father hadn't looked so exhausted with those deep circles under his eyes, Stephen might have confronted him, and they might have had an actual discussion. As it was, the old man's eyes were already drifting closed. He lifted a hand, as imperious as a king bidding his subject to leave. “That is all, Stephen. I would like a report from you tomorrow on the status of the Gates project.” “Yes, sir.” When that painful audience was finished, Stephen had to suffer through an interminable dinner with his mother, followed by an evening spent reading aloud to her from a book of pious, poorly written essays. After that, he continued to study his father's accounts to bring himself upto-date on the state of the business. He could hear his father's voice in his mind as he read the brief notations that accompanied the facts and figures. He noticed there were increasing references to Mr. Ballard's opinions and ideas on any given subject. For the first time, Stephen realized his father may have been weak and tired for quite some time and had been slowly releasing his tightfisted control of the business to his second-in-command. That wasn't a bad thing. Though an ass, Ballard seemed honest and true, a hard worker and a solid man. One could do worse in choosing a manager. Immediately Stephen realized where his thoughts were going. Peter's insidious voice had replaced his father's in his mind. It whispered things about managing to fulfill duty and have his own life too. Stephen wanted to listen to it, especially when the voice murmured promises for the future in a low, seductive drawl that made his skin tingle.

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“I will share every part of myself with you. And I promise you, Stephen, a solemn vow: I will not 'tire' of you or put you aside.” Stephen closed the account book and rose abruptly, startling his mother from her knitting. “I have a bit of a headache. I'm retiring early.” He walked from the room and climbed the stairs to the second story and his boyhood bedroom, just as he'd left it. Reaching underneath the bed, he pulled out Peter's satchel and sat on the bed to study the pages inside. They proved much more interesting than his father's account book. The sketch of a flock of birds against a cloudy sky was the first to catch his attention. Drawn in black ink—now faded to indigo—on thick, creamy paper, stark, spare lines depicted the harshness of winter, with naked trees and dead weeds protruding from a powdering of snow. The clouded sky was ominous. A sense of despair imbued the drawing, but the birds… Stephen imagined they symbolized hope as they spiraled higher and higher into the sky. Was this what Peter had felt like as a young man—bleak and lonely, but with a glimmer of hope rising inside him? Or was Stephen reading far too much into a simple depiction of a winter scene? No. The fact that Peter had kept the drawing all these years seemed to indicate it meant something to him. Stephen set the sketch aside and picked up a poem written in beautiful, flowing script. He wished he'd met the youth who'd written with such fearless yet grim passion. They might have encountered one another. After all, Stafford was not far away. If they'd been strangers who met in the street in the last year, Stephen would have secretly admired the well-dressed, vibrant man. And the earl wouldn't have given him a second glance. Stephen smiled at himself. He felt a touch of pride that such a man yearned for him now. If Peter had only come with his passionate declarations of affection, Stephen would have felt honored yet entirely certain the man was chasing after a whim of a moment. The jaded earl, bored and in need of entertainment. But all these papers… Peter risked so much by displaying the callow passion of his youth. No matter what, Stephen must be in awe of such a disregard for possible ridicule or worse. Perhaps his willingness to share the papers demonstrated Peter's value for the way Stephen had not held back when he'd written all of his letters last summer. And that last one. Especially that last one.

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He hadn't been drunk at all. The letter was nothing more than opening the cage and bidding good-bye to that part of himself that allowed love to flourish. He'd shared the farewell with someone he thought might understand. Instead of respecting Stephen's choice, Peter had come to him and announced he needn't lose that part of himself. If only that imperious barging into his life hadn't been paired with visible signs of respect—all these drawings and poems—which Stephen hadn't seen in Peter before. Stephen wasn't sure he could resist such vulnerability. Stephen sighed and tucked away the papers. He couldn't see his two worlds existing side by side any more than he could imagine Peter sitting down to Tuesday's dinner—shepherd's pie—at his parents' table. By sharing these amateur pictures and poems, Peter sacrificed his cool, ironic air of sophistication and bared his throat. Stephen couldn't stay silent. He had to do something. He attempted a note, but it was as stiff and reserved as any business letter. Gratitude for the earl's visit and an earnest desire for his continued good health was as much emotion as he allowed himself. So he tore it up. Soon he was up to his ankles in a pile of ripped papers—shredded, really, for he couldn't allow anyone in this household to see a word of it. He picked up the last discarded copy. Dear Sir. I am returning the portfolio of materials you left with me on the seventh. Such stiff nonsense he'd scribbled. He read it and realized that this was the language of fear. What could he be frightened of? Peter wanted something familiar from him—commitment. Stephen was no stranger to duty and dedication. But now he had to face a new and threatening component to Peter's demands—happiness. If you never allow happiness to enter your life, you never have to fear its loss. The small moments of the days he'd had with Peter were precious. He'd already given them up once. He might be called upon to let go of them again. Not to mention life was far easier when you knew what to expect. Chicken on Wednesday.

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And with that thought, Stephen moved closer to a decision. He wouldn't return the portfolio. Not yet. He tried one more version of a note to Peter. Dear Sir. Thank you for your visit. You gave me much to think about. I will be in touch soon. He knew this note was also full of fear, but the formal language at least sounded neutral. He cleaned up the desk, carefully sliding the drawings and poems back into the satchel and tossing everything he'd written, except the sealed letter, into the fireplace.

*** In the morning, he put the note for Peter on Mellon's postal tray. He wanted to make the arrangements to travel and perhaps write a proposal for his father but didn't get very far before his hand was forced. Upon arriving home from work, he found himself summoned to his father's bedside. A familiar stack of papers lay on the bed next to Mr. Peregrine, Peter's satchel on the floor. His father greeted Stephen with a querulous, “What are these? They aren't yours. Some of these poems are quite disturbing.” Listening to his father's diatribe, Stephen soon understood what had happened. His mother, who claimed she was in search of a particular portfolio of hymns she wished to show the vicar, had gone into his room, found Peter's drawings, and had taken them to his father. Stephen stifled his protest at the invasion of his privacy. His father wouldn't understand, and perhaps he was right; at least one of the poems Peter had written might have vaguely hinted at suicide. Stephen pulled up a chair and sat down next to his father's bedside. “They are from a friend. Who wrote to me.” Not you, he almost added. But his father's health remained precarious, and Stephen had long ago learned that nearly any challenging retort would only make a situation worse. “Boy, you know what this stuff is? Drivel. Rubbish.” Stephen counted to ten before answering. “The writer was very young.” “Not everyone is idiot enough to indulge in this sort of tripe when they're young.” His father sounded proud. He muttered something under his breath that might have been “sensible lad his whole life.” Stephen rose to his feet. If he paced, perhaps he could remain less aggressive. He did manage a mild tone when he asked, “Father. Have you ever been less than sensible? When you

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went into business? Didn't your heart beat faster when you met Mother?” Now that evoked preposterous imagery, but Stephen didn't even smile. He kept his full attention fixed on his father. His father's eyes closed. “You are not yourself. I need you to be a steady man, not a flighty lad.” “I promise I will remain steady. Reliable. I won't allow the business to die. Yet I find I must do more, Father.” The time had come earlier than he'd expected, but this was the moment he would reveal his plans. Stephen raised his voice slightly to make certain his father would listen. “From now on, I will not be here every day.” Mr. Peregrine's eyes flew open. “What now? How can this be? What does this pile of…stuff”—he tapped the pile of drawings that lay on the bed—“have to do with your absence?” “Nothing,” Stephen lied. “I had been meaning to discuss this with you again.” “You're talking about leaving? But that makes no sense. Peregrine Builders is a family business. I built this for you and for your sons.” “Thank you, Father.” He felt no need to mention his father would never see a grandson inherit the firm. “But that leap you made when you began your life? I need to make my own.” His father's thick brows rose. “Bridges? That's folly. Nothing like the same materials. Nothing like the same business.” “No, nothing like,” Stephen agreed. “Although some of the materials—” he began and hastily changed the subject, for his father's brow darkened. “You have taught me to be fixed in my goals and to fulfill my obligations. But I fear that my nature forces me to take risks, just as you did. I will work on the bridge project for the earl. And furthermore, I will stay with him in Stafford when I do this work.” “I don't trust that man.” His father hadn't met the earl, so Stephen suspected his mother had given a less-thancomplimentary portrait of the urbane man. Neither Peregrine parent liked people who dressed too well or who were what they considered too personally attractive. “I won't ask you to deal with him. I can conduct that part of my life in private.” Stephen cleared his throat rather than allow the soft laughter at that thought to escape.

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His father must have seen Stephen's resolve and decided to lose the fight gracefully. “Very well. You may build this bridge. Not likely the project will take over two months, and we can spare you that long, I suppose.” This was more than he'd hoped for. His father had to have been tired to give in so easily. Stephen faced the next step without pause, though it was by far the steepest. “This will not be so simple, Father. I intend to make this the basis of my life.” Bridges and Peter. “Bridges.” His father moaned. “Yes.” The old man lifted a trembling hand and pointed at Stephen tragically. “You are abandoning us.” Stephen was reminded of the production of King Lear he'd seen in London, with his father playing the part of the king deceived by his children. “No,” Stephen said gently. “I promise I will come home at least two days a week. I can help Ballard.” By reading over the contracts. “It is not ideal for you because you want one man to run the business just as you have always done. But I should think among the three of us—you, me, and Ballard…make that four of us, for I think we ought to use Gleason too, as he's a smart and likely lad—we might be able to fill your single pair of shoes. And if that's not enough, I'll pay a new hand to help. From my salary.” “It's nonsense. I can't allow it.” This was the moment he would have to walk away. Perhaps he'd be banished, but it was the risk he must take, or something important would get away from him. He'd watched his dreams die once and couldn't live through that again. “I'm sorry, Father.” He hoped his father could hear the regret and finality in his voice. Stephen would not be ordered to stay. He'd make his decision clearer if he had to. But apparently his father understood, for after a silence, he croaked, “What has that earl done to you?” Stephen was in the act of picking up the satchel to tuck away Peter's old work. He froze, one hand on the bag, one on the stack of drawings. “What do you mean?” “He's put you up to this. Along with that Pratt family.” “You must give me some credit, Father. I am a man full grown. You can't blame others for my actions. Believe me, I've tried, and I can't blame anyone else either.”

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His father didn't smile. “You hate my business that much?” By all that was holy, yes. But he had no interest in causing more hectic emotion in his father, so he said, “No, of course not.” Peregrine senior shifted restlessly on the bed. “You have always been a good lad in the past,” he said. Stephen swallowed hard. All this praise just when he was trying to rid himself of his family's coils. Where was it before, during the years he craved it? People were so very perverse. Peter came trotting after him just when he bid his final good-bye. His father at last complimented him after he'd given up on ever impressing him. “Thank you,” he said. “I'm sorry if this action makes you think otherwise.” His father's face twisted into a grimace, or perhaps an approximation of a smile. “Naw. You been a good lad. I have to assume your nature hasn't changed. I don't comprehend your motives. I don't understand. I think you're a fool. But you are a man now, and I trust you know what you're about.” Stephen couldn't speak for a full minute. At last, he managed, “Thank you, Father. I hope I won't disappoint you.” But the rare moment of generosity and praise had come to an end. “See that you don't. And I want every idiotic idea of yours in writing before I approve anything.” He wrinkled his nose at the portfolio. “I need to make sure that the influence of whoever wrote this dreadful tripe hasn't poisoned your mind. It's not a girl, is it?” he added fearfully. “No.” Stephen gathered up the papers without meeting his father's eyes. “There is no female involved.”

*** Once his mother heard the news, she treated him with silent sorrow, answering his polite conversation nearly inaudibly and sighing every now and again. His father had lapsed into scowling. It took Stephen several hours to write up all the responsibilities of the position his father once held and reassign them. When he looked at the list, he realized that Ballard could truly do it all and had been for a while—estimating costs, hiring and firing workers, purchasing materials, overseeing the jobs, paying the workers. The man did know how to take measurements

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and add numbers, thank goodness, even if he didn't seem to understand how letters formed words. “Don't you forget, you swore to show up out of the blue and do inspections. And you must go to the bank every payday,” his father said the morning Stephen planned to leave for a few days. There was no way with his father watching and Stephen checking that Ballard could skim any cream from the expenses or the contracts. Stephen was appalled that his father wouldn't trust his second-in-command after ten years, but he knew his father had been duped at least once and was determined never to trust anyone outside the family again. That morning he waylaid Ballard on his way to his father's bedside and saw the man smile for the first time ever—a startling sight, and not only because Ballard was missing a great many teeth. It also showed a warmth Stephen hadn't thought possible. “This will work,” Ballard said, holding out a calloused hand for Stephen to shake. “You go do what you want for as long as you want. I'll make sure Mr. Peregrine don't overwork himself again. The company'll do more than stay afloat, I promise you. Now if you'll just read over that list with me again?” Stephen went upstairs to pack and had trouble deciding what to take with him. Obviously the satchel and his own drawings. But he was anxious about his clothing, of all things. Stephen, who'd barely noticed if he had ink splotches on his sleeves. He didn't want to look too pompous or eager or middle-class or poor or… In the end, he laughed at himself and packed as if he were on a trip to the Pratts', leaving behind the Sunday suits. He was going to see Peter again at last, and with any luck, whatever clothes he chose wouldn't stay on his body for too long.

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Chapter Fourteen Peter had been up since dawn. He'd ridden at least fifteen hard miles on a young horse that could have gone another twenty. He'd finally gotten around to answering two weeks' worth of correspondence and instructing Phillips, his secretary, which accounts should be paid and which to be questioned. Phillips, a thin, gangling man with ginger hair and an apologetic manner, was delighted to have Peter's serious attention to work for once and managed to produce another sheaf of papers. Bills under consideration in the House. The restlessness and lack of sleep caught up with Peter soon after lunch. He carried a book and the political papers into the garden room and within a few minutes ended up stretched out on a sofa, fast asleep, the book on his chest. He woke when the French door squeaked open, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. The soft footsteps had to be Phillips who, under normal circumstances, always walked about the place as if he were afraid of waking a baby. But Phillips wouldn't come close and stand over him. His eyes flew open, and he was half ready to attack whoever was attempting to sneak up on him. Stephen peered down at him. “You're here,” Peter croaked stupidly. He sat up, and the book and papers skittered to the floor. Stephen retreated several steps but didn't bang into the table behind him. “I'm sorry I woke you. You must have told them to expect me or a visitor, because your butler said I might enter and wait, but I took a walk instead and saw you through the window, and—” By now Peter had regained control. “And now you're babbling.” Stephen gave a small, crooked smile. “Yes.” Oh God, that smile. That face, open and filled with good humor.

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Peter was on his feet, and Stephen wasn't backing away. At last. Stephen, here with him. But he had to make sure. “You've come to visit for more than an afternoon? You're not simply returning a call?” “To be polite?” Stephen laughed. “I've come to stay—umph.” Before he could say anything else, Peter was on him, seizing him in a bear hug that might be interpreted as an enthusiastic friendly greeting. But then when Stephen drew back to speak again, Peter kissed him hard on the mouth. This was no gentle touch that slowly turned passionate. Peter couldn't hold back his possessive, hungry kiss. Thank God Stephen's arm went around his neck and his hand was at his back. Peter groaned and pushed against him. A soft tap on the door pulled them apart with a jolt. Peter stepped back, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve as the butler entered the room. Surprise flashed over the man's face before his countenance returned to customary blankness. “I see your guest has found you, sir.” Peter shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the obvious arousal. His mind went blank, still befuddled with the sudden onslaught of passion. “Uh, yes. Please bring some tea, and have Mr. Peregrine's things taken up to the blue guestroom.” “Very good, sir.” The servant retreated from the room with grave aplomb, leaving them alone once more. Peter drew a breath, alarmed at the close call. He mustn't allow all those years of discretion to drop away. He pointed to a seat and told Stephen, “Sit. Tell me about…about your journey. About your father and mother and…everything. Tell me everything.” Stephen had the satchel over his shoulder; Peter hadn't even noticed. He pulled it off and handed it to Peter. “Thank you for letting me see these.” Peter laughed. “I never thought I'd be grateful for my youthful propensity for bad poetry.” Stephen walked to the window and stood with his back to the room. His shoulders were tense. “You didn't let me finish what I was going to tell you before.” Peter wondered if Stephen had come all this way only to reject him. “Yes, I recall I interrupted you. You said you'd stay. What more is there to say?” Stephen didn't move from the window. “Simply that I can't stay long.”

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Damn. “You can't?” Peter tried to reach for his neutral, bored voice but failed miserably. “Only a few days.” Peter's heart started again. “Days!” He felt giddy with relief. “Days, not hours.” His voice cracked. Stephen turned to face him at last, and his gray eyes were puzzled. “Are you all right?” “I-I wasn't sure. I didn't know what you meant.” He was stumbling over his words the way Stephen did. Perhaps the condition was contagious. “You are going to stay here with me for days,” he said slowly. “And then leave me.” “Yes. Then I'll come back again next week.” Peter's breath caught and stuttered with sheer joy. He cleared his throat. “And how long will you stay with me when you return?” Stephen went to the chair and described the arrangements he'd made with his father. After he explained, Peter said, “So you'd be a sort of Persephone—half your time with your mother and half with the lord of the underworld.” Stephen's grin would very soon leave permanent lines at the corners of his eyes, and Peter would get to see that. The younger man stretched out his legs and sighed contentedly. “Yes, except I'd move between Hades and here, and it would be every few days instead of every six months.” The tea came, and Peter dismissed the butler and footman even before they could unload the tray. He wanted to celebrate his victory. He'd won. They'd have to be careful. They'd have to never offend the servants or upset the neighborhood. But he'd have Stephen for more than half the time. “I wish I could sing,” he said as he poured tea for Stephen and a brandy for himself. He piled little sandwiches onto the two plates and pushed one toward Stephen. “You can't? I think you'd have a pleasant voice.” Stephen crammed a sandwich into his mouth. “A baritone,” he said around the food. “God, I'm hungry.” “You look thinner.” He wished he could run his hands over Stephen's body to see if he had guessed right. And to feel the warm skin and muscle again. Stephen was starting in on another sandwich. “Mmm. This is good.”

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“Ordinary sandwiches?” Peter raised his eyebrows but decided not to press the issue. He suspected that the fact Stephen had called his parents' house “Hades” was as much complaining as he'd do about his family. Sure enough, Stephen only nodded. He finished two more sandwiches before rising to his feet. “I hope you might show me your house. From the outside, it's magnificent. I think it's the loveliest house I've seen. Although perhaps I'm influenced because I know who owns it.” Anyone else might have been arch, but not Stephen. He meant every word. “You are a sentimental fool,” Peter said. Stephen laughed. “Yes. And I will sing even though I can barely hold a tune.” He started to warble tunelessly, “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, which I gaze on so fondly today, were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms like fairy gifts, fading away. Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art—umph!” Again Peter cut him off with another kiss, drawing Stephen's body up hard against his and reveling in the warm, solid reality of him. Ignoring the windows, the possible presence of gardeners outside, he kissed and kissed his lover until his lips were bruised and tingling. At last he pulled away to whisper roughly, “I need you. Right. Now.” He started to slide down Stephen's body, ready to unfasten his trousers and greet his waiting cock. Stephen gasped and pulled on his arms, drawing him upright. “Remember lesson number three? Or maybe it was four. Delayed gratification.” “Overrated.” Peter kissed him again. Stephen pulled away. “Sometimes necessary.” He pointed at the bank of windows overlooking the gardens. “Besides, we don't need to rush and grasp at each other furtively any longer.” “Although that can be extremely exciting,” Peter interjected. Stephen's voice lowered, and he stared into Peter's eyes with his intense gray gaze. “We can take our time. In bed. All night long. Every night for the time I spend here.” Peter sighed and nodded, disappointed at his immediate pleasure being curtailed but ecstatic at the idea of the many days and nights he would have with his lover, his friend, his— dare he think the melodramatic word?—soul mate.

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“All right. If you like, we'll go outside first and start with the stables. I'll introduce you to Zeus. Do you ride?” “Not well. But I can sing.” Stephen resumed “Endearing Young Charms,” and Peter joined him in the saccharine promise of eternal devotion. “Let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still.” Baritone anchoring off-key tenor, they walked from the room.

*** Later that night, Peter at last got to unwrap his early—or was it a very late?—Christmas gift. With patient care, acting the part of a most devoted valet, he unlaced shoes, slid jacket sleeves down strong young arms which would be holding him soon, unfastened every button and hook, removed every civilized layer that hid the beautiful man beneath. When he at last had Stephen stripped down naked, Peter stroked his hands over Stephen's body, his palms tingling as they glided over smooth skin. He massaged his shoulders, his arms, his buttocks, then moved around to the front to touch his chest and abdomen and his narrow hips. Stephen's cock jutted out before him. Peter pressed his still-clothed groin against Stephen's shaft, rubbing the rough fabric of his trousers along the length. His own cock ached to be released, but he wanted this evening to last, and the best way to ensure that was to keep himself clothed for a bit longer. He knelt and slid his hands down Stephen's legs from hips to ankles, feeling the spring of hair beneath his palms. Stephen's cock was so close to his face, if he leaned only a little, he could take it into his mouth. Stephen rocked his hips forward to make that happen, but Peter wouldn't suck him just yet. He wasn't done exploring the rest of his lover's body. After placing one chaste kiss on his groin—off to the left of the yearning cock—Peter moved around to Stephen's backside. He made love to his buttocks, squeezing the firm flesh and kissing it, running his tongue along the groove between. He smiled when Stephen's ass clenched tight and he moaned softly. Reaching his hand between Stephen's quivering thighs, Peter fondled his balls, cupping and rubbing them gently. Again Stephen moaned and shifted. All of these delicate touches were driving him crazy, Peter knew, but still he denied his touch to both cock and anus. The postponement would make

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the contact seem all the sweeter when it finally came. Stephen deserved such sensual torture after his insistence on delayed gratification. Peter turned his attention lower still, massaging Stephen's calves and kissing the backs of his thighs. He glanced at their reflection in his wavy looking glass—the young, nude Adonis and the black-suited, devilish man crouched behind him. The image was darkly sensual. Just the sight of it sent a sharp blade of arousal cutting through him. Peter rose then and stood full-length behind Stephen. He wrapped his arms around him, stroked his hands up and down his torso, and kissed his neck. Another glance at their reflection gave him a new, striking visual of the contrast between them—dark and light, black broadcloth against pale skin, black hair and blond. They looked beautiful entwined together like this. Strands of Stephen's hair tumbled over his forehead, brushing his finely arched brows. He gazed steadily into Peter's eyes through the reflection of the mirror. Their gazes were as locked as their bodies. And now, at last, Peter dipped his hand down and encircled Stephen's cock. The girth and weight and warmth felt heavenly. He rubbed up and down, gliding the foreskin over the head, hiding and revealing the red tip with each stroke. He pressed his own bulging erection hard against Stephen's backside and held his body in a firm grip with his free arm. Peter watched the erotic sight of his hand massaging Stephen's cock for a while before returning his gaze to his lover's face. Stephen's eyes were nearly closed, and his slack lips were parted in an expression of utter pleasure. He allowed his head to fall against Peter's shoulder and relaxed his body in Peter's embrace, leaning back against him. Peter felt strong, aggressive, protective, and humbled by this submissive trust all at the same time. Not to mention incredibly aroused. He wanted to tear open his fly and release his cock to bury it in Stephen's rear. Instead he continued to thrust against him in a gentle rocking motion. His time would come soon enough. Right now he needed to focus on Stephen's pleasure. Stephen clung to his arm, fingers clutching the sleeve of Peter's jacket. His eyes were closed now as he thrust into Peter's hand. He covered that hand with his own, guiding the speed, urging Peter to go faster. Peter's gaze fixed on their hands and the hard shaft beneath their combined grip. He swore he could feel the blood pumping through Stephen's cock and the steadily gathering tension inside

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him. Then abruptly, Stephen cried out one strangled groan, and cum spurted from his cock. Cream splashed on the edge of Peter's coat sleeve—more contrast of white against black—and dripped onto his wrist. Most landed on the back of his and Stephen's hands. Stephen's body shuddered in his arms, and Peter held him until the last delicious quake had passed through him. Peter kissed the crook of the man's shoulder and neck, tasting salt and skin. “You look lovely like this. So abandoned and satisfied. I can't see you in front of others, dressed in a coat and tie, without picturing you like this—the real you, naked and vulnerable.” And mine. “It will make it very difficult when we must meet with the construction team and engineer or when we socialize with friends, for I shall constantly have an erection.” Stephen bumped his rear against Peter's groin. “You have one now. I think it's time we took care of that.” He pulled away from Peter's embrace and turned to strip the older man much more speedily than Peter had stripped him. As soon as Peter's clothes were shed, Stephen grasped his hand and pulled him toward the bed. He climbed up and scooted over to make room. Peter took the vial of ointment from the nightstand and lumbered onto the tall bed beside him. Stephen took the unguent from him and began to lubricate Peter's shaft. Every stroke of his hand was torture and sublime pleasure on his sensitive cock. Peter clenched his jaw. “This is heaven. I can't imagine why I denied myself the pleasure of having a permanent bed partner for so long.” “Because you hadn't met me yet.” Stephen smiled cheekily. “You were a repressed romantic waiting to blossom.” “Which I suppose makes you a gardener?” Peter pushed him onto his back and roughly nudged his legs apart, inserting himself between them. Stephen tilted his hips up, offering his backside. After dipping his fingers into the unguent, Peter slid them along the groove behind Stephen's sac until he felt the puckered hole he sought. “Mmm.” Stephen pressed himself down onto Peter's probing fingers. “No.” He gasped as Peter drove deep. “A bridge builder, creating a span for you to cross from where you were to the life you wanted.” “Oh my, and I thought my youthful poetry was bad.” Peter chuckled as he guided his cock to Stephen's entrance. And then they both stopped talking as he pushed inside.

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Stephen bit down on his lower lip as the burning sensation bloomed through his ass. He lifted his knees higher and slid his ankles around Peter's back, offering a better angle for even deeper penetration. He felt so incredibly full and completely stretched by Peter's thick cock. His intimate touch was wonderful, his mouth kissing his cock even better, but this union was beyond them both, deeper and more intimate. And to look up and see Peter looming over him like the dark demon he'd first taken him for shook him to the core. This man was all his at last. The earl was a handsome, powerful, and commanding presence. When he entered a room, Stephen had noticed, both male and female eyes focused on him. He was like a force of nature one couldn't look away from. Yet, after years of affairs with dozens—possibly over a hundred different lovers—this sexually potent man had fallen for him, Stephen Peregrine, a most average, unprepossessing person. That fact was astonishing to him, but he wasn't going to question his good fortune. The path to this night may have been difficult, fraught with self-doubt and external pressures, but both of them were here now. A commitment had been made and promises given, and Stephen trusted Peter's word when he said he would not lose interest and offered his heart. As Peter grasped his thighs and pumped into him with sharp thrusts of his cock, Stephen caught his breath. The man's cock hit against a spot in him that sent bliss flooding through him. His own cock, so recently depleted, twitched and rose again. He'd never realized he possessed such a sexual nature. If he wasn't careful, he'd become addicted to sex, unable to leave Peter's bed. Returning to his parents' house for a few days each week was quickly going to become torture, he realized. But then, as the saying went, absence makes the heart grow fonder, so maybe these enforced separations would only increase the passion every time he and Peter reconvened. “Look at me.” Peter's deep voice snapped Stephen's eyes open and pulled him back from his reverie. Dark eyes gazed down into his with piercing concentration, holding him in their depths. Stephen's hair prickled at his nape. He felt the incredible force of Peter's feelings shining at him through those eyes. His lover was sending him a message. He was connecting with him on a deep level, letting him know this was no anonymous sexual escapade such as he'd indulged in the past.

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“Be with me now, Stephen,” he muttered. Stephen nodded and gazed back. He reached for Peter's arms, the only part of him he could reach, and held on as the man thrust against him. Flesh slapped against flesh, their bodies heaving with the force of their coupling. Peter gripped Stephen's legs hard, his fingers digging in, and he froze. Only at the very end did he break the link between them and close his eyes as his climax overtook him. Stephen exhaled, feeling Peter's ecstasy as if it were his own. The experience was sublime. They were joined as one for this brief, precious moment, and it was as if no one else had ever known such joy. Were all lovers like that, imagining their love was unique and beyond what any other couple in the history of the world had experienced? All Stephen knew was he felt that way now—special, exclusive, and perfect in his union with Peter. When he was finished, Peter pulled out, gently lowering Stephen's legs back to the bed. He stretched out on top of him, his great weight pinning the smaller man down, and he looked into his eyes once more as he brushed the hair off Stephen's forehead. “You do know I care for you deeply?” Peter half stated, half questioned. “Yes. I know you do. I care for you too.” A smile curved Peter's lips. “What you don't know is that you were never really the one in danger of having his heart broken. It was always me.” Remembering the pain in his chest last summer after Peter summarily departed, Stephen raised a quizzical brow. “How's that?” “Why do you think I was so quick to run away? I knew you were a young man of great ambitions. You already had something to live for, a drive to accomplish great things, a creativity that would nourish you even if you spent your life alone. Your feelings may have been crumpled when I broke off with you, but I knew you would quickly recover—as indeed you did.” “You don't think you have the same capacity?” “I absolutely don't,” Peter said flatly, “which is why I've never put myself at risk before and have always kept my affairs shallow. I knew if I allowed myself to love, it would consume me, for I would have no other passions in life. And sure enough—here we are.” The words were so flippantly stated, the tone so light and casual, one might think Lord Northrup was making a jest. But Stephen realized the man was speaking from the heart,

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expressing a depth of emotion far beyond what Stephen had expected from him. He was shaken by the roundabout admission of love and moved to the point where tears stung his eyes. He hardly knew what to say, and then he realized there was really only one response. “I love you too, Peter.” Stephen wrapped his arms around his lover and held him tight.

About the Authors Bonnie Dee I began telling stories as a child. Whenever there was a sleepover, I was the designated ghost tale teller. I still have a story printed on yellow legal paper in second grade about a ghost, a witch and a talking cat. Writing childish stories for my own pleasure led to majoring in English at college. Like most English majors, I dreamed of writing a novel, but at that time in my life didn't have the necessary focus and follow through. Then life happened. A husband and children occupied the next twenty years. It was only in 2000 that I began writing again. Fanfiction helped me reawaken that creative facet of my life. Having an already created world and characters to play with, makes it easy for a writer to work at the other aspects of the craft. I was content with my fanfic writing for a couple of years before deciding it was time to create my own worlds. My friend, Lauren Baker and I wrote Finding Home, and then I worked on getting an agent or publisher. Meanwhile, I kept writing short stories, articles, and novellas. Since discovering the world of e-publishing and getting my start at Liquid Silver Books, I never stopped writing. I now have the confidence to say, "I am a writer," and the published works to prove it.

Summer Devon Summer Devon is the alter ego of Kate Rothwell. Kate invented Summer’s name in the middle of a nasty blizzard At the time she was talking to her sister, who longed to visit some friends in Devon, England—so the name Summer Devon is all about desire. Kate/Summer lives in Connecticut, USA, and also writes books, usually gaslight historicals, as Kate.