Restored (Enlightenment Book 5)

by Joanna Chambers

  Relief suffused Henry’s expression as he lowered his arms, then draped his big body over Kit’s smaller one, carefully keeping his weight off Kit.

  Kit wound his arms and legs about him, rubbing himself against Henry’s hard length.

  “Fuck me,” he whispered against Henry’s mouth. “I want to feel your spend leaking out of me when you’re done.”

  Henry’s moan was deep. He wasted no time, pulling back his hips and adjusting his angle to sink deep into Kit’s body.

  Kit was sensitive still, but he didn’t care—he wanted this. Wanted to welcome Henry into his body and give him pleasure. Wanted to reward him for the pleasure Henry had just granted him with his willing, perfect obedience.

  Henry was close already, so it wasn’t much more than a minute before his thrusts began to stutter. He pushed deep, holding Kit close as he emptied himself, mouthing his throat and moaning low as he came, long and hard.

  They lay entwined for several minutes after, breathing slowly returning to normal as Henry’s cock softened and their mingled spend dried stickily between them.

  Kit sighed contentedly. “I wish I’d known this was how you liked it when we were first together,” he murmured into Henry’s ear.

  “I could say the same to you.”

  Kit laughed softly. “True. Did you know back then?”

  Henry lifted his head and met Kit’s gaze. “Back then, I couldn’t even admit it to myself, never mind to you.” He shook his head, regret in his soft grey gaze.

  Kit’s heart ached, but it was a joyful sort of ache. The pain of the past was still there, but it was part of the joy of the future. What they had once lost, they had now regained, and this time they were older, wiser, kinder men.

  Kit had once despaired at how much he loved Henry—the young god who looked certain to crush his heart.

  Who had indeed done so.

  But this Henry was a man that Kit could trust with his heart. This Henry was a man who had already set his own bruised heart on a silver tray and handed it to Kit, without knowing what damage Kit might do it. Trusting that Kit would not hurt him, but willing to be hurt if it came to that.

  This Henry—softer, more vulnerable, and entirely less godlike—was so very much stronger than he had once been. So very much braver.

  Kit laid his hand against Henry’s cheek, meeting his gaze.

  “Better late than never,” he whispered, smiling.

  Henry’s answering smile was sweet.

  Epilogue

  Kit

  Avesbury House, June 1827

  14 months later

  It was a beautiful morning, so Kit decided to walk down to the green and tranquil pool in the middle of the woods

  It was one of his favourite spots in the sprawling grounds of Avesbury House. The canopy of trees over the clearing shaded it from the sun, only letting through gentle, dappled sunlight that glinted on the smooth surface of the water. Kit liked to sit at the base of the willow tree that peered into the pool, listening to the insects drone, and the frogs croak and topple into the water.

  Sometimes Kit brought a notebook with him, and sometimes he just sat and looked at the water. Sometimes he came alone, and sometimes with Henry—sometimes they kissed under the tree, like boys. Today, though, Kit was alone. Henry was spending the day with his steward, and Kit was only too happy to leave him to it. He had no interest in estate business—agriculture bored him senseless.

  But he loved the countryside.

  He loved long, vigorous walks, exploring his new home and learning about the flora and fauna of the area. He was growing quite a library of books on the subject. He had even begun taking his own samples home to study under a microscope that Henry had bought him, and his notebooks were full of drawings.

  “You’re turning into quite the gentleman scientist,” Henry had teased him just the other night, as they lay in bed.

  “Perhaps I should do something more productive with my time,” Kit had said, frowning.

  “Oh, I think you’re quite productive enough with the school,” Henry had said, then distracted him from his thoughts with a deep kiss.

  Had he not been distracted, Kit might have pointed out that the school did not, actually, take up a great deal of Kit’s time. Clara and Tom did most of the work: Clara teaching and Tom dealing with everything else. Kit had only provided the money to set it up. Well, that and he financed five annual scholarships—and of course, he helped Clara select the scholarship pupils. Oh, and he did help teach literacy and numeracy to the local villagers two evenings a week. And took a turn teaching the local children at Sunday school every other Sunday too.

  But all these activities still left him with plenty of time to indulge his own interests to the full. And Kit was trying to teach himself not to feel guilty about that. He was allowed to enjoy some of the fruits of his labours. He had plenty of money carefully invested. As for the rest, he'd used a good portion of it setting up Clara and Peter—and Tom too, who, having fallen in love with Clara, persuaded her in short order she ought to return the favour.

  Well, he was a handsome devil.

  And entirely unsuited to being a footman.

  Kit smiled to himself as he walked the uneven path to the pool, thinking of his friends, and the unexpected happiness they had found together. Gentle sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead. A bank of wild garlic gave off a warm, spicy scent.

  As he approached the clearing where the pool was, Kit realised there was already someone sitting beneath his willow tree: a tall, rangy figure with an oddly pensive droop to his shoulders, staring at what looked to be a letter.

  George.

  Kit stopped walking, but he must have made some noise, because George turned his head and looked at him. For a moment, their gazes locked, and Kit felt as though he should apologise for interrupting what seemed to be a private, quiet moment. But already, George was rising to his feet, and folding the letter up.

  “Kit,” he said. “Are you out for a walk, like me?”

  There was something about George Asquith that made Kit’s heart ache a little. He was such a serious, sober-minded young man.

  Kit sensed a rare sweetness in George that reminded him of Henry years ago. In George, though, that sweetness was both a little more tender and a little less obvious, buried beneath a stiffness of manner that made George seem always distant somehow. Almost stern sometimes.

  Kit was keen to know George a little better, but he was wary of scaring him off, like a skittish horse.

  “I am indeed,” he said. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you—you looked very peaceful, sitting there.”

  George shrugged. “I was only reading.” He lifted the hand holding the letter.

  “It’s a nice spot to sit and read,” Kit said. “My favourite, I think, in the whole park.”

  George smiled. “Yes,” he said. “It is.” But his smile was wan.

  If it had been anyone else, Kit might have asked him if something was wrong.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” George said. “And let you have your turn sitting under the willow tree.”

  As blissful as that sounded, Kit didn’t want to chase him off. “Not at all,” he said. “No need for you to vacate your spot. I wasn’t planning to sit here today. I’m heading back to the house now.”

  “Are you?” George said, tucking the letter into his pocket. “I’ll come with you, then.”

  “Oh,” Kit said, surprised—he’d rather got the impression that George avoided his company.

  They set off back through the woods, walking the narrow path in single file as they made stilted conversation about the weather, and how pretty the woods were, and how they’d been prettier still before the bluebells had died off.

  Once they emerged out of the woods into the wild garden, they were able to walk side by side, and it became a little easier to talk.

  “What was it like for you, growing up here?” Kit asked, glancing at him.

  George kept looking ahead
but his expression softened. “Idyllic,” he said. “We had all of this, you see. And Papa was—well you know how he is.” He sent Kit a slightly awkward smile.

  “Tell me,” Kit urged.

  “Indulgent,” George said. “Affectionate. Kind. Far nicer than any of my friends’—”

  He stopped walking suddenly and covered his mouth with his hand, as though to stop something coming out. He turned quickly away from Kit, but Kit saw the flash of torment in his grey eyes before he did so.

  Kit stepped closer, laying a careful hand on George’s shoulder. “George,” he said softly. “Is something wrong?”

  George shook his head, but Kit sensed he wasn’t so much answering Kit’s question as expressing some kind of deep denial.

  “What is it?” he prompted. “Was it the letter?”

  George gave a choked cry, and his shoulders trembled with the depth of his emotion. He choked again then, a horrible repressed sound. The sound of grief being pushed down and buried deep.

  Sensing George’s discomfort with his touch, Kit let his hand drop, even though it felt like the wrong thing to do.

  At length, George turned back to him. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his gaze was hopeless, but he was back under control.

  “I’m being absurd,” he said. “It’s happy news. My friend Ollie is getting married.”

  Ollie.

  Oliver Fletcher.

  “You don’t have to be happy,” Kit said carefully. “Especially if you have a fondness for the person yourself.”

  George looked at Kit and in that moment, Kit saw all his misery. How hard this blow really was.

  “Why don’t you talk to your father?” Kit said gently. “If there’s anyone who’ll understand how you feel, it’s him.”

  George stared at him for a few moments, saying nothing, then he nodded. “All right,” he whispered.

  They walked the rest of the way back to the house in silence.

  They were nearly at the door when George finally spoke.

  “Kit,” he said.

  Kit turned to him. “Yes?”

  “I’m glad Papa has you. He’s much happier now.” George smiled and there it was, that rare sweetness. “I used to worry about him so,” he said.

  The sudden lump in Kit’s throat took him by surprise, and then he was blinking back tears, feeling like a perfect idiot.

  George clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder and stepped ahead of him, heading for the door.

  “I’ll speak to him,” he said. “Thank you, Kit.”

  Later that evening, Kit was reading in bed when his bedchamber door opened.

  Flustered, he pulled off the spectacles he’d only recently begun to wear, causing Henry to chuckle.

  “Why do you take them off as soon as I arrive?” Henry said as he began to remove his clothes.

  Kit wrinkled his nose. “They’re ugly.”

  “Nonsense,” Henry said. “Actually, I rather like how strict they make you look.” He grinned. “I keep hoping you’ll threaten to give me six of the best.”

  Kit chuckled. “That can be arranged.”

  Henry began undressing again, and after a moment, Kit said tentatively, “How was George?”

  Henry’s expression grew pensive. “Sad,” he said. He sat down on the mattress, clad only in his drawers now. “I feel as though he has been sad for a long time, Kit. Sometimes I wonder if it is events, or his nature.” He paused. “Or both.”

  “This Oliver,” Kit said. “He is the one whose father caught them when they were boys?”

  Henry nodded. “He’s marrying. An arranged match. The estate needs money, and the father of the bride wants her married to a titled gentleman.” He shrugged. “It’s common enough.”

  That was certainly true.

  “Perhaps George should expand his horizons,” Kit said gently. “A stint in town might do him good. Or a trip abroad.”

  “He avoids London like the plague—he voluntarily exiled himself here as soon as he respectably could after university, and it’s nigh on impossible to get him to leave.” Henry sighed. “He hides it well, Kit, but he’s very shy.”

  Kit nodded. He’d guessed as much.

  Getting up on his knees, he shuffled closer, pressing his front to Henry’s back and kissing the nape of his neck.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said soothingly. “He has you—and there’s no better father in all England.”

  Henry huffed a laugh. “Hardly,” he said drily.

  “The best,” Kit repeated, insistent, pressing more kisses to Henry’s neck, and all the way around the shell of his ear. “Kindest, most affectionate, and tender.”

  “Tender, eh?” Henry said, squirming a little with pleasure. He twisted, catching Kit up in his arms, making him shriek as he rolled them both till Kit ended up lying on top of him, giggling hysterically.

  “Lout,” he accused breathlessly.

  “What?” Henry exclaimed, feigning offence. “But you said I was the kindest, most tender—”

  “All right, I spoke too soon!” Kit gasped. His stomach hurt from laughing, and his cheeks ached from smiling so hard. His heart felt good.

  They gazed at one another, smiling like lovesick fools, and as the bubbling mirth melted away, Kit felt the warmth of a deeper, quieter joy.

  “Kiss me, Henry,” Kit said.

  And Henry obliged.

  The End

  Thank you, dear reader

  Thank you for reading this book!

  I hope you enjoyed Kit and Henry’s story.

  I love hearing from my readers. You can:

  ~ Email me at authorjoannachambers@gmail.com

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  Joanna Chambers

  Acknowledgments

  Enormous thanks to Sally Malcolm, Annika Martin and Amy Koetel for beta-reading this book and providing such valuable insights.

  Also by Joanna Chambers

  Capital Wolves duet

  Gentleman Wolf

  Master Wolf

  Enlightenment series

  Provoked

  Beguiled

  Enlightened

  Seasons Pass *

  The Bequest *

  Unnatural

  Restored

  * exclusive bonus stories for newsletter subscribers

  Winterbourne series

  Introducing Mr Winterbourne

  Mr Winterbourne’s Christmas

  With Annika Martin

  Enemies Like You

  Porthkennack series (Riptide)

  A Gathering Storm

  Tribute Act

  Other novels

  The Dream Alchemist

  Unforgivable

  Novellas

  Merry & Bright (festive anthology)

  Humbug

  Rest and Be Thankful

  Gentleman Wolf, book one in the Capital Wolves duet

  He must master the wolf within…

  Edinburgh, 1820.

  Thirty years after leaving Scotland, Drew Nicol is forced to return when the skeleton of a monster is found. The skeleton is evidence of werewolves—evidence that Marguerite de Carcassonne, the leader of Drew’s pack, is determined to suppress.

  Marguerite insists that Drew accompany her to Edinburgh. There they will try to acquire the skeleton while searching for wolf-hunters—wolf hunters who may be holding one of their pack prisoner.

  But Drew has reason to be wary about returning to Edinburgh—Lindsay Somerville now lives there.

  Lindsay who taught Drew about desire and obsession.

  Lindsay who Drew has neve
r been able to forgive for turning him.

  Lindsay who vowed to stay away from Drew twelve years ago... and who has since taken drastic steps to sever the bond between them.

  Marguerite's plan will throw Drew and Lindsay together again—and into a deadly confrontation with Lindsay’s enemy, Duncan MacCormaic. They will be tested to their limits and forced to confront both their past mistakes and their true feelings.

  But it may be too late for them to repair the damage of the past. The consequences of Lindsay’s choices are catching up with him, and he’s just about out of time…

  READ ON FOR A TASTER OF GENTLEMAN WOLF…

  MacCormaic’s Keep, Achinvaig, Scotland March 1682

  Awareness returned to Lindsay one sensation at a time. First, the dank, rough stone beneath his cheek. Then the stale, chill air of the dungeon.

  The pain came last—when he tried to move his thin and wasted body. The agony of movement forced an inhuman noise from him, like the whimper of a dog.

  A cur.

  Swallowing, he tasted blood, sharp and metallic on his tongue. He tried to open his eyes but only managed the right one. The left stayed stubbornly closed. Not that there was anything to see down here.

  The thick, soupy darkness of the dungeon was all too familiar to him. He’d lost track of how many years—or decades—he’d spent being thrown into and plucked out of this putrid hole, over and over. A plaything to be used for his master’s entertainment.

  For all that time, his life had been nothing but shadows and madness and pain. And the pain was very far from being the worst of those things. Sometimes he even welcomed it. At least pain anchored him in the here and now. When it faded, there was nothing. Endless, immeasurable nothing, and no way of counting the hours or days or weeks.