Dances Long Forgotten

by Ruby Moone

  Lyndon kissed his chest, one hand drifting down Hugo’s stomach, making him squirm. Lyndon only had to breathe near him, and he was hard. His fingers trailed down, dipped in his belly button, and then skirted his straining erection to slide into his groin, making Hugo moan and move his hips to try and direct him to where he needed his touch.

  When Lyndon’s fingers tickled the inside of his thigh he groaned. “Dammit, stop teasing.”

  “But it’s so much fun,” Lyndon whispered, and cupped his jewels gently, making Hugo gasp. He wanted to bundle Lyndon onto his back and plunge deep inside him, but he made himself lay back and acquiesce to his teasing ministrations and found he loved the feel of his fingers drifting over his skin.

  “You have the softest skin, just here.” Lyndon’s fingers probed beyond his jewels. “It’s like a little patch of velvet.” He stroked softly, and Hugo’s breath left him. His eyes drooped closed, and his mouth opened as Lyndon’s finger worked a gentle kind of magic. He opened his legs wider, encouraging him to explore more. He stopped breathing entirely when Lyndon rubbed a finger over his entrance, working in soft circles. Lyndon moved to lean over him, and Hugo reached up for a kiss, but before he could touch his lips to Lyndon’s, they were yanked apart by a loud hammering on the front door.

  They both shot up, clutching each other, staring in horrified fascination at the bed chamber door.

  “Who’s that?” Hugo hissed.

  Lyndon shook his head as he leaped from the bed. “Get some clothes on. I’ll get rid of them.”

  Hugo flung himself out of the bed and started dragging on his shirt, hunting for his breeches. Lyndon wrapped himself in his dressing gown.

  “Stay hidden,” he whispered. The bedchamber door opened onto the parlour, so he slid through and closed it behind him.

  Hugo’s heart was hammering as he fumbled with his clothing, cursing and muttering as he stumbled. They should have just ignored it. The door was locked, they didn’t need to let anyone in, but it was too late now. He could hear Lyndon talking to someone. A man, judging by the deep voice.

  He dragged on his stockings and hopped about as he shoved his feet into his boots. He went to stand by the door as he hastily tied his cravat, leaning closer to hear what was being said. He ran his hands over his hair to tame it.

  “I’m looking for Lord Hugo.”

  That brought him up short. Frowning, he stayed his hands and leaned closer.

  “What on earth for? And at this hour?” Lyndon’s voice was muffled, but calm and clear.

  “Because Winsford is driving himself demented looking for him.”

  Hugo closed his eyes and sighed. Hessledon.

  “Ah.”

  He heard footsteps as though someone were pacing. He held very still and waited.

  “I saw Hugo today. I talked to him and I hope he might be able to forgive you?”

  “Thank you, but do you think we could have this conversation tomorrow? It’s the middle of the night.”

  Hessledon carried on as though Lyndon hadn’t spoken. “If I could just persuade Winsford to tell the boy the truth, I’m sure all would be well. He’s an intelligent lad, he’d understand.”

  “Hessledon.” There was a sharp note of warning in Lyndon’s tone. Frowning, Hugo held his breath and pressed closer to the door.

  “Why he can’t just come out and let the boy know that he’s his father, God alone knows.”

  “Hessledon!”

  “What?”

  Hugo wasn’t listening anymore. His stomach was rolling; his heart beating like a wild thing as he unlatched the door that stood between them.

  It opened slowly to reveal Lyndon and Edgar Hessledon, both of whom were stuck like a tableau, pale with shock, eyes filled with remorse.

  “Christ, I’m so, so sorry,” Hessledon said, moving and holding out a hand towards him.”

  Hugo drew up to his full height, centuries of inbuilt breeding holding him upright, he ignored the hand.

  “You knew about this?” he said to Lyndon.

  Lyndon’s eyes were wide. Unblinking. He swallowed and nodded. Short, jerky movements.

  “And you knew.” He looked at Hessledon.

  “Hugo…”

  “Lord Hugo.”

  Hessledon let go of a breath. “Lord Hugo, please accept my most humble apology. This is not something you should have heard from me, and I beg of you, to remain calm. Winsford will be able to explain everything. He will want to speak to you, explain to you why he felt he couldn’t tell you the full truth.”

  Hugo pursed his lips and nodded. “Do all my family know?”

  Hessledon and Lyndon exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  “I see. Anyone else? The butler, the gardener? Or maybe the paper seller.” His voice was getting shrill, so he took a breath.

  Lyndon came to him and took hold of both his hands. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry you heard this way.” He kissed the backs of both. “Come, have a brandy, let us talk. Please?”

  Hugo looked at Lyndon and saw genuine contrition and sympathy in his beautiful eyes. Noted the endearment, and the fervent touch, heedless of Hessledon’s presence, and wondered if he’d ever learn not to trust people.

  He extricated his hands. “I think I’d like to leave now.” He nodded. That was what he needed to do. Go someplace where he could think. Work out what to say to Winsford, to his family, and try and wrap his feeble mind around the fact that Simon, Winsford, his beloved brother, was his father. That his mother and father were actually his grandparents. Who the hell was his mother?

  He made for the hallway to collect his greatcoat.

  “Hugo, let me come with you,” Lyndon said, rushing to help him. “It will only take a moment for me to dress.”

  “Very well.”

  Lyndon looked almost comically relieved and dashed for the chamber.

  Hugo looked at Hessledon. “I presume you will tell my brother that I now know?”

  The man looked uncomfortable, so Hugo didn’t press. Instead, he pulled open the outer door and left safe in the knowledge that Lyndon couldn’t follow. Hessledon called out to him, but he hurried down the walk, crunching through the snow, and made for his own rooms.

  Chapter 13

  Hugo welcomed the cold. He rammed his hat on his head and tucked his chin into his scarf. The snow had stopped falling, leaving London blanketed in crisp, clean whiteness. Like something out of a fairytale, it shimmered as the moon peeped out from behind the clouds.

  Simon was his father.

  Simon was his father.

  The words ran through his head in time with his steps. Simon was his father.

  It explained why his father, or grandfather, was cool towards him. Explained why his mother, or grandmother, always tried to coddle him. Explained why all his siblings coddled him. He thought it was simply because he was so much younger. Evidence that there was still some sparkle between his parents. He’d thought perhaps he was a last, longed for babe.

  Instead, it would appear, he was a mistake.

  A mistake.

  He felt cold all through.

  Unwanted.

  Again.

  He knew vaguely that Simon had married years ago, but it had been short lived because his wife passed away not long after the wedding.

  He couldn’t be the product of that marriage because he’d be Simon’s heir. His wife couldn’t have been his mother. So, who had he lain with to get them with child? Who had warmed his bed that he couldn’t acknowledge as his bride? Was it during his marriage? Before? After?

  One thing was clear, he was probably illegitimate; a bastard.

  Bastard.

  Christ.

  He swallowed down the emotion that threatened to swamp him.

  Lyndon had known about this. All the time that they’d been together at the house, in London, even that night, he knew. Knew that Simon was his father, and he’d never said a word. In an effort at being reasonable, he acknowledged that it wasn’t his secret to tell, wa
sn’t something he’d want to inflict on him, but even so. The thought that both he and Edgar Hessledon knew about his parentage, had talked about him, speculated about him, made him queasy inside.

  He’d have liked nothing more than to saddle his horse and get out of London and away from anyone who knew him, but he knew it was impossible as he crunched through snow that was, in places, knee deep. He was stuck here.

  By the time Hugo was in his own rooms, wrapped in his dressing gown with the fire blazing, he was able to breathe again. He poured himself a brandy, and pushed his freezing feet into his slippers, then pulled the chair closer to the fire and settled in front of it. He wondered about putting a blanket over his knees but concluded he wasn’t an invalid; he’d only had a shock. He took a mouthful of the brandy and let its warmth work its way down his throat, and wondered why his entire life had to be a series of catastrophes. Why every single time he thought things were improving, everything fell apart and he was alone again. Each time, more so than the last.

  He let himself wander through his memories and thought of all the times that Simon had been with him. He remembered as a child; he’d thought his eldest brother was the most wonderful creature. Tall and handsome, yet always willing to play with him. He’d adored him. He let his mind wander over all the times he’d ridden him on his back, taken him to see things at the museum, helped him with his schoolwork… With hindsight, he could see that Simon had actually played a significant role in his upbringing. Far more than his father, or grandfather. His sister, Jossy too. Between them, they’d been like parents, and still were.

  He drank the last of the brandy in his glass and leaned his head against the wing of the chair. He wished he had a dog. Someone he could hold. Someone who would love him regardless. He closed his eyes and wondered if Winsford had any puppies on the estate.

  A knocking on the door roused him from his dreams of warm, sweet smelling dogs and his heart sank. It might be Lyndon and Hessledon, but there was a very strong possibility it might be Winsford. He wasn’t sure he was ready to talk to anyone, particularly not him. He toyed with the idea of ignoring it, but when a second knock came, somewhat less energetic than the first, as though the visitor was uncertain of his reception, he heaved himself to his feet.

  He pulled open the door. It was indeed Winsford. He stood as though frozen in place. His eyes were anxious and wide in a far too pale face. Lines bracketed his mouth and his lips were pinched. He swallowed, and Hugo realised that this must be unspeakably difficult for him.

  “You’d best come in.” He stood back and let the man he’d always thought of as his brother pass.

  He brought the fresh, snowy, cold air with him.

  “Brandy?” He stood by the sideboard and picked up the decanter.

  Winsford nodded.

  He replenished his own glass and filled another. He handed one over, and gestured for his brother, nay father, to sit in the chair opposite his own.

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Hugo took a sip without looking at him. “At the beginning?”

  Winsford nodded his head and took a breath. His eyes were glassy, and there was the tiniest tremor in his hand.

  “I…” he began, and immediately halted.

  “I’m presuming it’s true. That you are my father?”

  Winsford nodded staring at his glass. “It’s true.”

  “I’m also presuming that you were not married to my mother?”

  Winsford’s gaze shot to his immediately. “I wanted to marry her; I swear.”

  “Then why…” Hugo shrugged.

  Winsford threw the brandy down his neck, grimaced, put the glass down with a click, and seemingly pulled himself together.

  “I was twenty, and I fell in love for the first time and in the most inappropriate fashion. Your mother was the daughter of an apothecary, and when her parents died, she was brought to Winsford Green to live with her grandmother. I bumped into her one day, quite literally, and we talked a little until her grandmother took her away.” Winsford looked up at him. “She was so beautiful. So easy to talk to.” He hesitated, lost in the past. “Over the summer, I saw her several times. Sometimes we couldn’t talk because she was chaperoned, occasionally, we managed few words, and this went on for an age. The highlight of my week was going to the Green and hoping I might have a glimpse of her.” He considered his hands for a moment. “I thought I’d been terribly discreet, but Father got wind of it, and I was told in no uncertain terms to cease and desist. If I wanted to have fun, find it with someone of my own class.”

  “That sounds like Father.”

  Winsford nodded and sighed. “So, casting ourselves in the role of star-crossed lovers, we took to meeting in secret.”

  “Ah.”

  “Indeed.”

  “At first, we met once every couple of weeks, then that was too long and we met every week, and then even that wasn’t enough. Because we were meeting alone, we were reckless. I was careful, or so I thought, but inevitably there were consequences to our union.” He looked away. “I was young and naive. I thought I could avoid getting with her with child. I was wrong. God, I was wrong.”

  “Me?”

  Winsford hesitated, then nodded. “I didn’t realise it. But I should have. I should have known. I’m not sure she realised either.”

  Hugo frowned.

  It was the end of the summer, and I was preparing to go back to Oxford. I went to our appointed place to meet; I was worried because she’d been unwell of late. When I got there, there was no sign of her, only a letter addressed to me.”

  Winsford swallowed. “It said that she was leaving Winsford Green. That she’d enjoyed our friendship, but that it couldn’t go on. She begged me not to try and contact her as she knew I was duty bound to marry someone of my class, of my station, someone who would be suitable as my Marchioness, and that it would break her heart to see me marry another.” He hung his head and was silent for a long time.

  Hugo wanted to say something but couldn’t.

  “I believed it.” His words were barely a whisper.

  “It wasn’t true?”

  “No. I didn’t know what her hand looked like, so I didn’t know she hadn’t written it.” He nodded a couple of times. “No. Her grandmother wrote it. What she didn’t tell me was that she’d beaten Susannah so badly she feared she’d lost the child, and then taken her to a convent in Yorkshire.”

  “Oh, my God. How did you find out? Was that her name? Susannah?”

  Winsford gave him a sad smile. “Forgive me. Yes, her name was Susannah. Susannah Moreton.”

  “My middle name?”

  “I wanted you to have something of her.”

  Hugo nodded slowly. Questions hammered at him, but he couldn’t interrupt, Simon was too lost in the past. Too fragile in its remembering.

  “Your nose and mouth are like hers. Your eyes are like mine. You are the best of both of us.”

  Hugo couldn’t help touching his fingers to his mouth.

  “You are very like her. She was full of energy, did everything at incredible speed, frequently scooped everyone up with her passion, but worried about everything all the time.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s quite shocking how much like her you are. She was so full of life, so passionate about things…just like you.”

  “Is…is that how you see me?”

  Winsford nodded. “My little bundle of energy.”

  Hugo shook his head. He saw himself as fizzing about like a madman half of the time. It never occurred to him someone might find that endearing. He wanted to say more on the subject, but Winsford spoke again.

  “She disappeared from my life, and I was broken. I went back to university and moped about feeling sorry for myself. I had a halfhearted attempt at finding her, but…” He shook his head and looked down at his hands. “I settled back into my old life and tried to forget her.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was months later, after Christmas, and one of the foo
tmen came to Oxford to speak to me. He’d realised something was afoot, probably half of the household knew, but he came to me. Said that he’d heard something.” Simon hesitated. “He said that he’d heard that rumour in the village was, Susannah Moreton had been spirited away by her grandmother because she was enceinte.”

  “Christ.”

  “I was so…angry at myself for taking everything as truth. I should have known she’d never walk away from me like that. I should have known she wasn’t like that. I was so angry that I hadn’t tried to find her, tried to help her…” He shook his head. “The footman was Carter.”

  Hugo smiled. Anthony Carter had been Simon’s personal man of business for years. “He’s a good man.”

  “The best. Between us, we set about trying to locate her, but months had passed. I knew if true, the babe would either be born or due, and we tore the countryside apart searching, and eventually, eventually, we found her.”

  Hugo’s head was swimming.

  “And?”

  “I’d arranged for a special licence before I set off as I knew that I’d need to move swiftly. If there really was a child, if I could get to her in time, I could make sure the child was born in wedlock.”

  Simon’s hands were shaking.

  “We got there, and she was close to her due time.” He swallowed. “I sent Carter to see if he could find a minister, anyone who could marry us, but it turned out to be hopeless, because you came quickly that night.”

  Simon looked at him and smiled. “It took a long time, but you were born in the small hours of the morning. Suddenly, there you were. My son; my boy. The nuns tried to keep me away, but I wouldn’t let them. I held you. I’d never held a baby before. You were so small and warm.” Simon was lost in the past. A tear dripped from his eyelash and Hugo was transfixed by it. “I sat on the bed and held her hand. Told her I loved her, and all would be well.”

  Another tear.

  “You were strong. Beautiful. A beautiful baby boy that we had made together.”