Band Sinister Page 21

  There were a lot of private activities. Philip could have stayed in bed with Guy all day, for the closeness and the look in his eyes, and because when it was just them there was no self-consciousness, no fear of observation, no hesitant restraint or shame or flinching in anticipation of hurt. He needed nothing more than Guy’s happiness; as it was he got plenty more, because Guy was warm and eager and had a lot of lonely nights for which to make up.

  “Philip?” Guy asked, on the third night. He was sitting on their—Philip’s—bed, stripping off his stockings with joyous unselfconsciousness.

  “Beloved?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, as such,” Guy said carefully. “But, well. Would I like sodomy?”

  “That is without a doubt the best question that has ever been asked. English was invented purely so that you could ask that.”

  “Seriously, though,” Guy said, blushing but grinning. “You made it sound rather enjoyable when you were telling me all about what you’d got up to with the others.”

  Philip had done that with Guy’s prick in his hand, his own pressed between Guy’s thighs. It had been highly effective. “It can be marvellous, but not everyone finds it so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some people find it painful. Some find the concept distasteful. And even when one enjoys it, it’s not always easy for a man to admit he likes to be fucked, the world being as it is. Some feel it to be unmanning.”

  “Oh.” Guy looked as though he hadn’t thought of that.

  Philip could have kicked himself. “I think that’s arrant nonsense, myself,” he went on. “It makes you no less a man than ever you were—no, that’s not true, actually.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Philip stroked his hair. “No, because it’s the opposite. There’s nothing brave about hiding from one’s desires. It takes far more courage to know yourself. But other than that, the act has no significance at all. It’s purely a matter of taste.”

  Guy nodded. “All the same, you haven’t suggested it.”

  “A month ago, you’d never been kissed. I thought we might take our time.”

  “But Amanda’s walking,” Guy said. “We don’t have much more time. Do you think I’d like it?”

  “I don’t know, beloved. If you would care to try, I am at your disposal, in either part.”

  “I think I’d like you to do it,” Guy said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know really—or if it would hurt—but I can’t stop wondering what it would be like if you did it to me.”

  “With you. It will hurt a little, inevitably. And if it isn’t to your taste, we’ll stop.”

  That won him, unexpectedly, an eye-roll dramatic enough for Corvin. “I know that, you idiot. For heaven’s sake, we’ve been doing this for weeks.”

  “Well, you haven’t had much practice in asking me to stop. Barely any. In fact, you’ve been as ripe for every sort of ruin and debauchery as my most sordid imaginings could have hoped. Who knew that pose of virginal innocence hid such a shameless sensualist?”

  Guy was blushing fiercely. “I was virginally innocent, and everything else is your fault. Tell me, these sordid imaginings—”

  “Have involved you bent over a bed pleading for me, yes. Now and then.”

  “I thought they might. Debauch me, Philip?”

  Philip pushed him gently onto his back. “I will educate you, my love, and I will strive to please you. And, yes, I will also debauch you like the eager little wanton you are. If I absolutely must.”

  “Not if it’s an imposition,” Guy assured him, and they were both giggling as Philip went looking for the oil.

  That was mostly what he remembered of that night, afterwards: the easy happiness. He’d had a superstitious fear, against all his experience, this might feel significant, as though it would be some final act of deflowering that changed things. That Guy would hate it, that he’d feel it a sin, that something would go wrong. In the event Guy followed instructions with no more than little gasps and a few pauses to get it right, and took Philip with a determination that ripened quickly into joy. Philip held himself back for longer than seemed possible, concentrating fiercely on Guy’s pleasure, making sure every slow stroke counted, until Guy was moaning under him, clutching the sheet.

  “I want you to spend,” Philip whispered. “I want you to spend while I’m in you, fucking you. I want you to like it.”

  “I love it. Touch me,” Guy panted. “If you— God! Yes.”

  Philip had a hand on his shoulder to brace himself. The other, oil-slick, he slid round to circle Guy’s prick, sliding his hand up and down in time with his thrusts. “Tell me how it feels. Speak to me, beloved.”

  “It’s—you’re— Oh God, it’s good, you’re good, it’s marvellous, I can’t say. Me pedica, Philip. Don’t stop.”

  “Tell me in English. You know the words.”

  “Fuck me,” Guy said on a breath. “I love you, keep fucking me, please.”

  And Philip did, driving into him, feeling Guy’s whole body tense as he spent and finding his own release in a near-painful rush that left them both in a wet, shivering, tangled heap.

  “Christ,” Philip said after a while. “Latin imperatives in bed. I had no idea. Well, now we know why the Roman empire declined and fell.”

  “They were declining the wrong verbs.” Guy snuggled into him. “Do you remember telling me I might enjoy being ruined?”

  “I remember being an unnecessary prick to you, yes.”

  Guy kissed him on the collarbone, presumably since that was where his lips were. “You had a point. Thank you for debauching me, Philip. You’ve done it beautifully.”

  “I should probably feel guilty about taking your virtue.”

  “But I don’t think you have. I feel more—more loving, in all the different ways, than I ever have in my life. I feel as though, while you love me, I could be better and kinder to the whole world. If that’s not virtue, I don’t know what is.”

  “Nor do I,” Philip said, and pulled him close.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Two days later, the carriage came up the drive.

  They weren’t expecting visitors. They were, in fact, so far from expecting visitors that Guy was in their bedroom, braced against a table, legs wide, with Philip’s oiled fingers sliding and probing inexorably against his backside. He’d been kissed into delirium and stripped naked with agonising slowness, and he was anticipating this with a combination of some nerves—last time had been the most overwhelming experience of his life—and mounting pleasure. Philip was going to bend him over the table and fuck him in broad daylight, the window uncurtained because they were too high up to be seen, and Guy was lost in delicious anticipation when he heard the sound of horses and the crunch of wheels on gravel.

  “Who the hell is that?” Philip muttered.

  Guy looked up and saw the coach, a vividly memorable shade of blue. It was coming up to the house and it swept out of his line of sight after a second, but that was quite long enough.

  “Oh God. Oh my God. Philip!”

  “What? Guy?”

  “It’s my aunt,” Guy said, lips numb. “Lady Paul Cavendish. My aunt, here!”

  “Christ’s balls,” Philip said. “All right, don’t panic. Dress, quickly, remembering that you have done nothing wrong. Calm, Guy. I will be with you.”

  Guy grabbed for his clothes, hoping they could be rendered decent. His stand had wilted, not surprisingly, but Philip had been thorough in his caresses, and Guy knew he must look a dreadful, criminal mess. “I’m sticky. Oh God, my face!”

  Philip rang the bell then returned to dressing himself, which he was doing very quickly. “Right. Do what I say. Get your drawers on, taking deep breaths as you do it. Do not try to speak.”

  Guy heard noises from below. The door, the tortured vowels of an extremely well-bred voice that he’d heard dispensing measured denunciation all too often. “It’s her. What’s she doing here?”

  “We’ll find out.”<
br />
  There was a quiet knock, and Sinclair slid in. Guy, not even half-dressed, froze in horror. The valet did not. “You rang, sir?”

  “Get Mr. Frisby dressed and groomed,” Philip said shortly. “I want him downstairs in five minutes looking like the perfect gentleman.”

  Sinclair gave Guy a swift but gloomy once-over. “Five minutes. You don’t ask much, do you?”

  “If you were bad at your job I shouldn’t pay you. I certainly don’t have you around for your personal graces.”

  “Yeah, well, same,” Sinclair assured his master. “All right, Mr. Frisby, why don’t you stand up?”

  “Do what Sinclair says,” Philip told Guy. “He is competent if you can look past the manner.” He hadn’t stopped dressing throughout. Guy wondered, in a dizzy sort of way, if he was used to this urgency. By the time Sinclair had Guy’s waistcoat buttoned, Philip had shrugged himself into his coat, tied an adequate knot to his cravat, wrenched his boots on, and run a comb through his hair. “Right. I’m going down. You have been, uh, out for a walk. Get him out the back, Sinclair, without anyone seeing him. Hold fast, beloved.”

  He departed with a long stride. Sinclair shook his head. “Always something, ain’t there? One thing after another with this lot. Well, never mind, it’ll all be the same in a hundred years. This neckerchief won’t do at all, sir, let me fetch a fresh one.”

  Guy followed Sinclair downstairs and was whisked out of the Hall unseen. He strolled round the side of the house, attempting to keep his countenance, and entered by the main door, where Sinclair met him.

  “Mr. Frisby, sir,” the valet said with a solemn bow. “Lord and Lady Paul Cavendish have arrived and request your presence in the Yellow Drawing-Room.”

  “Good heavens, really?” Guy tried, which was met with a ludicrous wink. “Um, thank you.”

  Sinclair preceded him to the door, announcing “Mr. Guy Frisby” with great seriousness, bowed, and departed. Guy stepped in and found himself faced with his relatives.

  Aunt Beatrice had been the older sister and the prettier of the two. Coming from a family of some wealth but no particular distinction, she had done extremely well to secure the younger son of a marquess in wedlock. She had adopted a haughty manner even before their mother’s flight, or so Guy’s father had complained; afterwards, her efforts to distance herself from the disgrace had led her to become correct to the point of striking fear into all hearts.

  Guy had always been terrified of her; he remembered her thunderous denunciations of Amanda’s criminal misbehaviour with wincing horror. He couldn’t blame her. Lord Paul was every bit as much a stickler as his wife, and they had three daughters, none of whom deserved to be associated with scandal, but the charity Guy and Amanda had had from the Cavendishes had not been given with love or understanding, and he didn’t see that on their faces now.

  Both sat bolt upright on the edges of chairs, as though preferring not to touch the furniture. There was no sign of tea things. Philip sat in another chair in a frankly slovenly posture, chin resting on his hand, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, with a hard light in his eyes that boded extremely ill. Amanda was on the sofa, leg propped on a footstool, face and lips very white.

  “Aunt Beatrice,” Guy said. “Lord Paul. I’m very pleased to see you. I had no idea you were going to visit.”

  “This is not a visit,” Lord Paul said in arctic tones, handling the noun as though with tongs. “We do not visit this gentleman and his associates.”

  “Please,” Philip said. “Make yourself free of the house.”

  “You uh, you have been introduced to Sir Philip Rookwood?” Guy said desperately.

  Aunt Beatrice looked the other way. It was as close to a cut direct as could be administered, in Philip’s own house. Guy didn’t dare look at him. “I’m afraid I didn’t expect you. May I ask—”

  “Guy Frisby,” Aunt Beatrice said, rolling the r. “The carriage waits. You and your sister will return to your home with us, as you should have done at once.”

  “But Amanda has a broken leg. That’s why we’re here. She can’t travel, her leg is too precarious.”

  Amanda winced. Philip was casually tracing a finger in a line across his throat. Guy understood as Aunt Beatrice swelled. “Your sister was walking—hopping—on the arm of a male individual when we arrived. She is quite evidently able to return home. I cannot understand how you should have so lowered yourself as to spend one hour—one minute!—longer than medically necessary in this house. You have behaved with gross irresponsibility and your sister has shamed herself, her family, and, what I cannot forgive, my family with her immoral and disgusting behaviour—”

  “Now wait a minute!” Guy hadn’t meant to shout, and it came out more of a squeak. “Wait. Amanda has done absolutely nothing wrong. Her bone broke so badly she nearly died of blood loss and fever. She would have died if Sir Philip hadn’t allowed us to stay, and she lived thanks to Dr. Martelo, who I’m very sure is the gentleman who was helping her walk. And Sir Philip has—has provided female attendance for her day and night, and I’ve been here the whole time, and—and—”

  “And the party which has, sadly, just broken up included a young matron of the utmost respectability who acted as chaperone,” Philip said, to Guy’s astonishment. Amanda didn’t even blink. “A Mrs. Salcombe, I will be happy to put you in touch with her. I must say in my defence that I have never in my life made such stringent efforts to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

  “Then you have failed, sir.”

  “He has not.” Amanda’s voice was tear-stifled. “Sir Philip and his friends have been—the utmost consideration—”

  “‘Sir’ Philip,” Lord Paul said, the quotation marks almost audible, “has exposed you not only to the presence of an individual whose notoriety is such that I must decline to name him—”

  “Lord Corvin,” Philip said helpfully. “You must know him; Wrayton Harcourt is not far from Easterbury’s seat. Why, he’s all but your brother’s neighbour, Lord Paul.”

  “But also,” Lord Paul went on as if Philip hadn’t spoken, while his wife ruffled like a chicken with outrage, “to the contempt and disdain of any decent individual.”

  “Why?” Amanda almost shrieked. “All I did was break my leg!”

  “You have been staying in Rookwood Hall for weeks,” Aunt Beatrice said, voice like doom. “You must realise the interpretation that has been put on events.”

  “What interpretation?” Guy demanded.

  “Let me guess: London is ablaze with the news that Miss Frisby has become my mistress, as her mother was my brother’s,” Philip said. “It is untrue, and I am surprised to see people of sense or decency stoop to such sordid chatter. If I were Mr. Frisby I should gravely resent it on my sister’s account. Having not that right, I shall resent it on my own. You will oblige me by not repeating any further lies in my house.”

  That went down as well as Guy could have predicted. Lord Paul stood and denounced, waving his finger as though lecturing a schoolboy. Philip leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, an ugly sneer twisting his lip, replying with contemptuous scorn. Guy wished he’d be quiet. He slid over to Amanda and sat by her, grabbing her cold hand.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  “It’s not.”

  It wasn’t. Aunt Beatrice cleared her throat loudly, putting an end to Lord Paul and Philip’s exchange of compliments. “Excuse me. I will have silence, Sir Philip. Your denials and assertions notwithstanding, the fact is that my unfortunate niece’s whereabouts for this period are common knowledge. Her reputation has been entirely marred, her name, already tarnished by her mother’s reprehensible actions, brought to contempt. This is the result of her sojourn in your house, sir, and there is only one means of redress available.”

  Guy thought for a blank moment that Lord Paul was going to challenge Philip to a duel, and then he realised. Amanda said, loudly, “No,” and Philip’s lips curved in a smile as nasty as any Guy had seen
on him.

  “And now I grasp the game. Yes, that would be a convenient means by which to rid yourself of both an unwanted niece and a financial obligation. Never mind that you have denounced me as a disgrace whose chairs are not fit to be sat upon by the decent: you would hand over Miss Frisby’s person and future to my notorious and disgusting self to maintain your family respectability. I wish I were surprised by that. No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No,” Philip said again. “No, I will not offer my hand to a lady who neither needs nor wants it for the sake of your propriety. Not a chance.”

  “Sir, you are no gentleman,” Lord Paul said furiously.

  “I believe that fact is also notorious.”

  “Perhaps you will do us the favour of allowing my family private conversation,” Aunt Beatrice said, each word dripping ice.

  “Certainly.” Philip rose. “Mr. Frisby, Miss Frisby. Should you wish for me, or indeed footmen to escort anyone out, you know where the bell is. And allow me to reiterate that you are welcome to remain my guests as long as you care to do so.”

  He strolled out, shutting the door. Amanda gripped Guy’s fingers convulsively.

  “Well,” Aunt Beatrice said. “I had heard the worst, but that—”

  “He is a very kind and generous man,” Guy said, voice shaking.

  “How can you say such a thing in the face of that appalling rudeness?”

  “I think you were rude to him first,” Amanda said. “And it was not kind to—to attempt to force— How could you? What a dreadful thing to say!”

  “You may not speak to your aunt in that manner,” Lord Paul said. “The disgrace you have brought on our family— Lord Perivale himself heard the rumours!”

  “Who?” Guy asked.

  Amanda gave his hand a punitive squeeze, too late. Aunt Beatrice looked sabres at him. “Lord Perivale, whose eldest son is to marry Anne, your cousin. I am disappointed you have so little interest in the well-being of your only family.”

  “I’m sorry, I just forgot,” Guy said. “And I’m sure, uh—” He couldn’t for the life of him remember the fiancé’s name. “—Lord Perivale and his son won’t hold silly rumours against Anne. If you tell everyone it’s not true, surely you’ll be believed.”