An Unsuitable Heir Read online

  He fished the box from his pocket and held it out. Pen didn’t take it. “Mark—”

  “No, wait. Just take it first, all right? It’s yours. And then you can tell me to piss off and I will, I promise. But I’ll be right here anyway as long as you want, till I know you’re safe, and I’ll do anything in my power to fix what I did to you. And I’m sorry. I thought I knew what was best, and I didn’t. I’m the one who should have listened better, and I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I’d bloody like it if you let me help you as much as I can. Take the box, will you?”

  Pen took it and opened it. His eyes widened.

  Mark had seen the earrings a couple of weeks back when he’d done a bit of work for a jeweller of Clem’s acquaintance. They were the kind that sat on your earlobe, not hoops or dangling ones, but they were big ovals, women’s jewellery, definitely not discreet little studs. A pair of glowing deep brown amber-flecked stones that reminded him irresistibly of Pen’s hair, each set in gold, and bearing a cameo of a woman’s head.

  “They…” Pen said numbly. “They’re beautiful.”

  “I thought you’d like them,” Mark said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want them from me now, but…I thought they might help.”

  Pen took out an earring without speaking. He slid it into his ear, put in the other one; lifted his hair with both hands, and shook it out. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, then looked at Mark. “They help. You help.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You bought me these.” Pen touched his ears with both hands. “I’m an earl and you bought me earrings anyway. Oh God, I missed you.”

  He was in Mark’s hold again then, and this time they were kissing. One delicate, trembling, impossible moment of incredulous hope as their lips met, and then Pen’s powerful hands grabbing wildly, mouths frantic, each of them devouring the other. Desperately seeking something Mark, at least, had been missing all his life without knowing what it was, and finding it right here with Pen. He got his hand into Pen’s hair, seizing handfuls and letting them drop through his fingers in order to take more, and felt Pen’s hands tight on his upper arms, pulling him as close as any two people could be.

  “God,” Pen said. “Mark.”

  “I love you,” Mark said. “You’re bloody amazing and I love you so much, I can’t even say it. Whatever happens, I love you. And I am so sorry and I don’t expect you to forgive me—”

  “Shut up,” Pen said, and kissed him again.

  They ended up sprawled together on the four-poster bed, wrapped around each other. Just kissing, nothing more. Just kissing, just touching, just holding one another; just magical.

  “I don’t know if I can do anything,” Pen said softly. “Not tonight. It’s been a lot of—”

  “Dizzy spells?” Mark had grasped that those came on when the whole man/woman business got too much for Pen. In his line of work he saw a lot of people dealing with too much. Minds stopped working right when there was more to take in than they could reasonably cope with.

  “Those. I feel better now you’re here, but I still don’t feel right.”

  “Of course not. There’s going to be something we can do, Pen. I mean, God’s sake, you don’t have to stay here. You can pay someone to manage the estate and leave the country.”

  “I thought of that,” Pen said. “It’s one of those tangly things again, though. If I shut up the house, what happens to all the servants? If the earl doesn’t run the lands properly, what happens to all the people who live on it? Do you have any idea how many people work for Moreton or depend on it for their livelihoods?”

  “No?”

  “Hundreds. Literally hundreds.”

  Mark winced. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s a proper responsibility,” Pen said. “Desmond talked to me a lot about that, it’s the only thing he’s talked to me about. The duties of the position. All the awful things that happen if you don’t do it right. And the lands are bringing in less than they did, apparently, which makes things harder for the tenant farmers, and there are whole families where everyone works for Crowmarsh one way or another, and…Oh God, I don’t know how to do this, I’m a trapeze artist! But I can’t take the money and run. That would be stealing from the people who live here.”

  “It’s what a lot of gentry do,” Mark observed. “Live off the land and sod the people.”

  “Well, I won’t. I expect you can learn not to notice ordinary people if you grow up in a house like this, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t have realised if I hadn’t come here, but it’s—it ought to be—a duty. Oh God.”

  Mark shut his eyes. “Ah, Pen. It’s one fucking thing after another, isn’t it.”

  “Isn’t it just,” Pen said. “Hold on to me.”

  “Can I stay with you tonight?”

  “As long as we mess up the bed up in the dressing room. I was going to lock the door anyway. I’m supposed to leave it unlocked so the maids can make the fires and bring tea in the morning while I lie in bed, which is nice, but I’d prefer not letting a murderer in.”

  Someone had tried to kill him on this bed, not twenty-four hours ago. The thought shuddered up Mark’s spine. “Yeah. Keep it locked. And I’m staying here.”

  “Good,” Pen said. “I love you too.”

  Chapter 11

  The next morning started promisingly, as Mark woke tangled round Pen, with hair in his face and a warm body against his. That meant he also woke with a solid morning stand, and had to spend a moment easing himself carefully away. He’d have liked nothing more than to cement their reunion in shared pleasure, but he was well aware that Pen didn’t always want to be reminded of the parts of his body that didn’t fit his mind, and it was obvious the last days had been a hellish strain.

  Christ, what it must be like. Mark felt a hot, sick anger thinking of the difficulty of Pen’s path. And for what? Who did it hurt if he wore eye paint? Why should what you had in your drawers dictate if you cut the hair on your head? He couldn’t see what good it did anyone to set rules about hair: it was simply a because we say so law. You had to do as you were told even when—especially when—it was bloody stupid, and show how obedient you were by turning on people who didn’t obey. His mother always said those were not merely the hardest laws to change, but also the hardest to break, because they were the hardest to see.

  She was right. Mark had never thought twice about why he cut his hair or wore trousers before Pen; he’d simply done it because you did. He was beginning to understand the daily courage and effort it took his lover not to contort himself into the shape dictated by birth and the world around him. Pen was as profound an anarchist as Mark’s mother, he decided, in his own way.

  He would have wished the burden off Pen’s broad shoulders, except that would be wrong. He was perfect as he was, changeable, rare, flinching, and brave, and Mark couldn’t want him different. The problem wasn’t Pen, it was the rest of the world, and Mark felt at this moment quite ready to burn the lot of it to the ground. That wasn’t possible—though if and when he got hold of the Fogman he intended to administer the kicking of a fucking lifetime—but he would stand with Pen through whatever the day held.

  It was a good resolution, one cemented by the look of sleepy content on Pen’s face as he woke up. “Mark.”

  “Morning.” Mark twisted round to kiss him. “Sleep all right?”

  “Better than last night. Better than since I’ve been here. I missed you.”

  “Me too.”

  “And not just you. I missed us. What we had. It felt like that hadn’t been real.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologise,” Pen said. “I didn’t mean to reproach you, that’s not what I’m saying. I meant—it mattered so much, so quickly, and it was devastating to think it hadn’t been true. I’ve been miserable as sin, and I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t have liked it here anyway, but an awful lot of what was wrong was you.”

  “Ah, Pen.” Mark hid his face in Pen’s thick ha
ir. “Honestly, the last few days. Not good.”

  “No. And I don’t know what we’re going to do but if I know this, us, is true—”

  “It really is.” Mark pushed himself up on his elbow. “I don’t know either, but I’ve never known anyone like you, and I’ve never felt like this in my life, and whatever you have to do or choose to do, I’ll work round it. I’m not letting this—you—go again. Not till you send me away.”

  “You’d better not, and I’m not planning to. I love you.”

  “Me too. Oh, mate, what the hell do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” Pen said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Not here, now. I can’t let it. I might have been killed the other night, but then, I could have fallen off a trapeze at any point in the last ten years. Obviously I’m terrified about what’s going to happen but I’m not going to let that take this morning away from us. Greta says I’m irresponsible because she thinks about what’ll happen in twenty years’ time but I just want to enjoy what I can while I have the chance.”

  “I’m with her, in general,” Mark admitted. “But I’d have made less of a balls-up of this if I’d thought more about the now, so maybe you’ve a point.”

  Pen snaked a hand round the back of his head, pulling him closer, the caress of his fingers sending shivers through Mark’s scalp. “And as it happens, we’ve got each other now, with a locked door.”

  Mark blinked. “You sure that’s all right? With you, I mean?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I’d rather you didn’t touch me down there, but I want you to touch me.”

  “And it’s safe?”

  “If we’re quiet.”

  Mark examined his eyes. “What do you feel like?”

  “Not a man,” Pen said softly. “Love me like I’m not.”

  Mark rolled over, getting a leg astride him and bracing himself on his forearm. They’d both slept naked, preferring contact and body heat to nightgowns. He dipped his head, kissing his way over Pen’s ear and cheek, avoiding the bristly jaw area altogether, took hold of a handful of long hair and pulled it up for a kiss. “God, you’re a beauty,” he said hoarsely.

  Pen purred response. His hands were on Mark’s chest, exploring his muscles, circling the nipples and sending exquisite sensation rippling down his nerves. Mark lowered his hips a bit, making contact, rubbing their bodies together. He could feel Pen’s hard-on under him and felt a momentary twinge, because he’d have liked nothing more than to take that in his mouth and get Pen writhing and yelping, but it wasn’t that kind of day. If it was never that kind of day again, he’d live. Anything that made it right for Pen.

  He bucked his pelvis, thrusting a bit harder, running his tongue over Pen’s lips. “I want to fuck you.”

  “That’s lucky,” Pen murmured. “I want you to fuck me.”

  Their mouths met, hard. Pen was opening to him, and Mark thrust with tongue and pelvis at once, letting Pen take his full weight. He got his hand down to Pen’s chest, cupping the well-developed pectoral, saw Pen’s eyelids flutter, had to swallow against a sudden tightness in his throat. My Pen, my flier.

  He pushed himself down a bit, getting his prick between Pen’s muscular thighs. “Like this?”

  “I think so,” Pen said. “I…God, Mark, I want you to fuck me all the way some time, but not today. It isn’t—”

  Mark touched a finger to his lips. “The day we’re doing that is the day you want to, all right? Not before. And if you fancy taking a turn, let me know, but it’s still only when you want to.”

  “Ooh. I wasn’t sure you liked that.”

  “Tell you the truth, I’ve only done it with women,” Mark admitted. “Girl I was with for a year or so had a sort of harness affair with a pego attached. Well, and Phyllis, but that was a while back.”

  Pen paused, considering. “Are you saying you take it up the arse from women, but not from men?”

  “Well, it’s not like a policy,” Mark said, feeling a touch defensive for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on. “It never came up with blokes, that’s all.”

  “As the actress said to the bishop,” Pen spluttered, and Mark had to stick his hand in his mouth to muffle his laughter.

  “Shut up,” he hissed, once he’d got a grip on himself. “Anyway, I’m just saying, if you want to.”

  “I would love to, one day. You really like women doing that?”

  “Why not?”

  “No reason in the entire world.” Pen’s eyes were glowing, brimming with light. “I would love to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me, and—oh God.” He squirmed under Mark, pushing his thighs together.

  Mark thrust between his legs. They didn’t have any lubrication but it didn’t matter, the press of firm warm flesh did very well. “I was thinking,” he panted in Pen’s ear. “If you painted, dressed your hair. Wore something nice. If you wanted to do it to me then—”

  “Oh Jesus.” Pen sounded agonised and his cock was rigid and damp against Mark’s belly. “Would you like that?”

  “Beautiful hair and a hard-on,” Mark whispered. “Two of my favourite things. Put ’em together and I might die of it, you utter fucking gorgeous—Pen—”

  Pen was rocking and shuddering. “God, just fuck me now, I love you, oh God.” He was bucking under Mark, strong as a young horse. Mark drove between his legs, abandoning himself to frantic friction, his lips clamped against the noise he couldn’t make, and he felt Pen spend a few seconds before his own release rushed through his nerves in an overwhelming tide of pleasure and adoration and joy.

  He collapsed over Pen, sticky and panting. “God. Couldn’t wait.”

  “Nor me.”

  “Was that—”

  “Perfect.” Pen took hold of both Mark’s upper arms, strong pressure against both equally, smiling into his eyes. “You’re perfect.”

  They had to get up eventually. A maid had left hot water outside the locked door; Pen got that and they both washed off the stickiness of lovemaking. Mark dressed quickly, shivering in the cold, and rolled around on the truckle bed to make it look slept in.

  Pen came into the little anteroom while he was shaving. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Mark grunted in response, since he had his jaw angled. Pen watched him scraping the bristle. “I didn’t realise you could shave one-handed. Anyone, I mean, not you.”

  “Course you can. And I’d have to pay a lot of money to barbers otherwise, or grow a beard. That’s why Clem has a beard, so as not to shave.”

  “Why? I mean, it suits him, but he’s got two hands.”

  “Made up of ten left thumbs,” Mark said with more accuracy than charity. “Clumsiest bloke I ever met. He’d cut himself to ribbons.”

  Pen went to get his own razor and messed about with it for a bit. “Oh, come on. I can’t even open this one-handed.”

  “You need one with a barber’s notch.” Mark demonstrated his own blade with its notched end to get a fingertip in. “You work around stuff.”

  “Yes,” Pen said. “Yes, you do, don’t you?” He put weight on the you—not pointed, just wry, and Mark put the razor down.

  “I have to work around it, mate. I’m not an incapable.” He hated that word as much as he hated cripple. “I can shave, I can dress myself and cook a meal and manage as well as most people with two hands and better than some. I’m as capable as I need to be, and if people look at me and see an incapable, they’re not seeing me right. Any more than if they look at you and see a bloke.”

  “No. They aren’t.”

  “Well then. I need to do things the same as other people; you need to do things differently. And most people won’t see either of us right anyway, even doing all that, but—”

  “Most people are arseholes?”

  “Exactly.” Mark retrieved his razor and returned to the job.

  Pen took his turn after, then considered himself in the mirror. “I’m going to tie my hair back,” he said. “And I’m not going to wear the ea
rrings, because Desmond and Phineas will seize on any excuse to be awful, and I don’t want them insulting your gift. But this is me dressing up. I’m going to act the earl, and then when I’m finished acting, I’m going to wear my earrings and let my hair down. All right?”

  Mark wasn’t sure if he was the intended audience or if Pen was speaking to himself. He nodded anyway.

  —

  Breakfast was magnificent and uncomfortable. Greta and Tim ate with them, four people in a large room with an enormous fireplace and a great polished wood table, and a row of seven chafing dishes set out along the sideboard with enough food for twelve. There were sausages, bacon, and kippers, none of which Mark was even thinking about here. The table knives looked rounded and blunt, and the plates had no decent edges to wedge food against, and he was pretty sure you couldn’t stick a fork into a sausage and eat it off in an earl’s dining room, practical though that might be. Instead he served himself kedgeree, which he didn’t much like in general but was at least manageable, and was pleasantly surprised by its flavour.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Tim said, observing him. “Crowmarsh is famed for it. Mammee—Clem’s mother, you know—was from Calcutta. She taught the cooks here how to make it and they’ve followed her recipe ever since.”

  While taking the credit for it. Sounded about right. “Very good,” Mark agreed, pushing his cleared plate back. “Right. Plan. I’d like a look round the house and a word with everyone here, including the staff, and especially people who were here on New Year’s Day. I want Pen sticking with me all day, or with Greta if I need to do something else. Not on your own, Pen.”

  “Noted,” Pen said. “I’m sure I can tolerate that.”

  Tim looked slightly affronted at his exclusion from that, and Greta’s eyes flicked between him and Mark, but neither commented, which suited Mark. He had no desire to pick fights, and the bloke seemed pleasant enough, but Tim Taillefer was a member of a family he didn’t trust, and making friends came a long way second to Pen’s safety.

  “Do you want help looking around?” Tim asked.

  “Tim knows the house as well as anyone,” Greta put in.