by Lee Rowan
Table of Contents
“I simply never had your opportunities… or your courage.” He leaned forward a ...
M/M Romances from Running Press
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright Page
“I simply never had your opportunities… or your courage.” He leaned forward a little, and Brendan reciprocated, and their lips met.
Brendan pulled back abruptly. “No. No, sir, I must not, you have been too kind—”
It might have been the brandy, the high emotional fervor of the evening, or the loneliness that had been Carlisle’s constant companion for the past decade. Perhaps it was all three. “If you don’t wish this, then go. But I’m fifteen years your senior, and you need not fear for me.”
Brendan pulled him close as a drowning man might. They clung to one another, embracing so fervently that the chairs they sat upon began to creak.
“Not here.” Carlisle managed to resist the intense attraction. “We must go upstairs. If you wish—”
Brendan stared at him as though mesmerized, his pupils huge and dark. “Since the moment I first saw you.”
Somehow they managed to remove to Brendan’s bedroom without waking any servants. A small part of Carlisle’s mind was warning that this was a terrible mistake and he must stop immediately, but he could not heed it. For the first time in ten years he felt alive again, consumed with affection and desire for this beautiful young man.
He locked the door after they entered; locked, and slid the bolt home for safety’s sake. “I’ll not ask again if you are certain, but if you should change your mind—”
Brendan spun and threw himself against Carlisle, wrapping both arms around him. “Please,” he said hoarsely, “please stop asking me to run away. Send me off if you will, but I should rather be dead than endure your indecision.”
M/M Romances from Running Press
TRANSGRESSIONS, by Erastes
FALSE COLORS, by Alex Beecroft
TANGLED WEB, by Lee Rowan
LOVERS’ KNOT, by Donald L. Hardy
Available now
Wherever books are sold
DEDICATION
As always—PS I love you
In memory of Waya, who mas my sunshine
CHAPTER 1
London, 1816
He must be insane!
Brendan Townsend cursed his own stupidity in accepting Antony Hillyard’s invitation to the private gentleman’s club, The Arbor. He hadn’t understood what was so hilarious about the name until they were within its luxurious walls, and Tony explained that the name was short for Arbor Vitae— and not the classical “tree of life,” but thieves’ cant for the erect male member.
Which was precisely what Tony was displaying now. He’d had too much to drink, which Brendan might have expected and probably should have discouraged, but as Tony’s guest here, he really had no right to tell him what to do and small hope that he’d have been able to stop him in any case. Along with plenty of his father’s money, Tony had a total lack of common sense, and Brendan had known that before he’d agreed to come here.
So all he could really do now was thank God that the members of the Arbor, as well as their guests, were able to enter through a private door and to don black velvet masks before being allowed to meet anyone else in the place. Safely anonymous, they were admitted to the private rooms upstairs… to watch the show.
Tony had said “Oh, you must see the show, Bren. I promise, you’ve never seen the like.”
He never would have believed Tony could accomplish understatement, but when the masked fellow at the front of the room had flipped back his cloak and revealed nothing beneath but an abundance of body hair, Brendan had been not only startled, but forced to confess the truth of the promise. He’d certainly never seen anything like that happen in polite company. Or anywhere else.
When the performer started fondling himself, Brendan had been repelled and begun edging back toward a quiet corner. But Tony, ever the attention seeker, had applauded the exhibitionist’s efforts. His approval had been rewarded with an invitation to join in the fun, and to Brendan’s utter mortification, Tony had done just that. Like a schoolboy promised a treat, he’d skipped up to the area set off as a stage. The naked fellow had seized him in an intimate embrace and immediately started unbuttoning his trousers.
“That’s the boy, all balls and no brain. Let’s have a seat now, shall we?” He dropped into a chair, pulling a laughing Tony down into his lap.
Brendan retreated immediately, getting as far away from the stage as he could, fetching up in a curtained nook where the shadows were deep and reassuring. But what was he supposed to do now? There was Tony, his host, the only son of a well-to-do merchant, lounging in a stranger’s naked lap with his pantaloons puddled around his ankles and his cock being expertly manipulated by a total stranger.
“Ah, there’s a brave lad, look at ‘im,” the showman crooned. “More meat and potatoes than many a man ever sees on his plate, wouldn’t you say so, gentlemen? And proud of ‘em, he is, aren’t you, boy?”
Tony grinned vapidly. He was drunk. Drunk, and stupid with drink. Watching his friend writhe around, Brendan slouched down in his chair and thanked Heaven that every eye on the house was focused elsewhere.
The show didn’t last long—Tony never did when he was in his cups. He shouted, pumped wildly against the hand that encircled his cock, and shot his load toward a piece of furniture that had a piece of muslin tossed over it—no doubt that he’d been aimed in that direction.
Brendan glanced around. He must be the only man in the room who was not enjoying the performance. Some of the men—respectable, well-to-do English gentlemen, from the look of their clothing—were practically falling out of their chairs as Tony lolled, limp and spent, in the stranger’s arms.
After a moment the performer patted him on the cheek, shoved him to his feet, and directed him through a doorway to one side of the stage as the audience applauded enthusiastically. One older gentleman went so far as to catch at Tony’s hand on his way out, and say something that Brendan could not hear but could imagine. The man was old enough to be his father, for pity’s sake; he looked very much like—
Dear God!
Brendan felt the blood drain from his face. I could be wrong, I could be mistaken… no, he was not mistaken, and he had better make himself invisible.
The alcove he was in had a curtain that could be drawn across it; there for the convenience of members and guests, Tony had said, and now Brendan had a notion of what that meant. He drew the curtain shut and positioned himself where he could view the room without being seen.
At first he’d been afraid Tony would march right back to him; as it happened, he disappeared into what was probably some sort of area for performers to tidy themselves up. With the show over, the audience began to disperse, and the gentleman Brendan had recognized headed off to the adjacent card room where refreshments were being dispensed.
Brendan waited. And waited. After a barely-endurable stretch of what felt like hours, Tony came prancing out, very pleased with himself and ready to join the party once more. He surveyed the room as though he’d expected the audience to wait for an encore.
His patience stre
tched beyond its limits, Brendan shoved the curtain aside and seized his friend’s arm. “We’re going home.”
“Home? But the party’s just begun!”
“The party is over,” Brendan said shortly. “You can stay if you like, but I’m going right now, and you’re so damned drunk you need a keeper.”
“But—you saw, that older gent invited me upstairs!”
Gritted teeth. “Yes, I saw, and that’s why I must go before he returns. I am leaving. Now. I cannot be seen here!” He pushed open the hall door, nodded to the gatekeeper, went down a steep stairway toward the private exit Tony had shown him earlier. He dropped his mask in the box on a table beside the doorway; it was obvious from the other masks already inside that it was put there for that purpose.
Tony trailed along as the passageway led them out into a narrow lane between two buildings. There were several doors along the lane, mainly businesses that had closed for the evening; Brendan decided it would be wise to take the longer way, which would bring them out on a street that was not the one from which they’d entered. He kept his wits about him and his stick at hand, but they were in luck and encountered no trouble.
After several minutes in the cool night air, Brendan’s head began to clear and he realized that Tony was talking to him. Or, rather, babbling: “If you must drag me out of a fine party, you might at least talk to me, Bren. I thought you’d enjoy the show!”
“Then you were mistaken. I’d never have set foot in the place if you’d told me you were planning to be the show. How could you be so imprudent?”
“Imprudent? Bren—”
“I will not speak of this matter in the open street. We were both mistaken—you, in your notion of my tastes, and I in your judgement.”
And that was the root of this, wasn’t it? He had entered into a highly dangerous relationship with Tony, never realizing that his college roommate had such a tendency to reckless living. College discipline must have exerted more restraint than Brendan had realized. He’d only been sharing Tony’s lodgings in London for a few weeks, but he was already coming to realize that their friendship was not what he had believed it to be.
It wasn’t until they were back in their room at the top of the lodging house, a room chosen for its solid construction and quiet, that he found himself able to answer Tony’s question. He’d probably have to answer it again tomorrow, since Tony was so soused right now he might not even remember the evening’s events in the morning. Brendan tossed his hat on the rack, hung his coat on a peg, and said, “Very well. I’ll tell you why we left, and why I am not going back there ever again. That gentleman who solicited your company, after a performance any whore would be proud of? That was my godfather!”
Brendan wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but Tony actually sobered at the news. He dropped onto the chair beside their bed and said, “Oh.”
“Indeed. ‘Oh.’ So I’m afraid I shan’t be able to accept your generous hospitality at that foul pit you call a club, and if you have any sense you’ll resign your membership. If you have plans to move into Society, you will not improve your chances by trying to creep in through the gutter.”
Tony blinked foolishly. “Oh. Then I sub—suppose you don’t want to hear what the manager offered me—us.”
“I suppose you’re right, but speak if you must.” Brendan undressed and quickly slid into his nightshirt; he was in no mood for any rambunction tonight.
“He told me it was a stunning performance and invited me to come back again—and you, as well!”
A chill touched Brendan’s heart and found its way into his voice. “I beg your pardon?”
“He asked if you were my guest. I said yes, we were friends. He said—” Tony’s brows drew together in muddled concentration. “He said ‘intimate friends?’ so I said that—”
“You what?” He seized Tony’s shoulders and shook him. “You fool! How very tactful of you, to share my exceedingly personal information with a stranger!”
“But he’s not a stranger, Bren, he’s the proprietor—”
Distaste made him release his grip. “He’s a stranger to me, Mr. Hillyard, and I hope he remains so. Have you forgotten that what you and I have done together in private could get us hanged? If you cannot exercise the merest discretion, I dare not continue to associate with you.”
Tony’s handsome features blurred into a sulk. “I did not tell him your name or pedigree. Really, Mr. Townsend, if I’d known you to be such a prig I’d never have invited you to join me.”
They glared at each other for a moment, and finally Brendan, recognizing that he wasn’t going to get any sense out of Tony until he’d had a chance to sleep off the drink, forced a laugh. “Ah, I suppose there’s no harm done. But I really must not go back there, Tony. If Uncle Cedric knew I’d seen him there—”
“Well, he was there himself, was he not?” Tony began undressing, letting his clothes lie where they fell. “A member of the club. He has just as much reason as we do to keep mum.”
“He does, to be sure, but you must remember that he’s older than either of us, richer than both your father and mine put together, and he’s a damned old hypocrite besides. You should hear him holding forth in other venues—on the evils of sodomy!”
Tony gave an unpleasant laugh. “Oh, that sort?”
“Very much that sort. Tony, he’d see us both hang—and I mean that literally—before admitting he’d been in that club. He’s never seen us together, so far as I know, and as long as you politely decline his invitation—”
“Oh, must I?” Tony leaned forward, and said, on a gust of spiritous breath, “He seems a most vigorous gentleman.”
“If you do—if he sees your face, unmasked—I swear I shall sever our association on the spot.”
Looking around the room—his room—Tony asked sarcastically, “And where would you go, Mr. Townsend? Home to rusticate?”
“If necessary.” He’d been happy enough to take Tony up on his offer of shared lodgings. As a youngest son of a none-too-wealthy family, there was never an excess of funds for hotels when his family had a perfectly fine town house in London. But Brendan was beginning to realize that the opportunity to spread his wings a bit had some unforeseen drawbacks. “I am serious, Tony.”
“You always are.” He dropped onto the bed and flopped back, spreading his arms in a way that pulled his nightshirt tight against his well-knit frame. As a general thing, Brendan would find that pose enticing, but not tonight. “Someday,” Tony announced, “I shall teach you to frivol.”
“Not likely, if tonight’s performance was how you define the word. Whoring around in public is not my style. But I may teach you some small measure of discretion—if I’m not already too late.”
He cleaned his teeth and climbed into bed on the side opposite Tony, shoving away a clumsy attempt to embrace. “You’ve had enough for one night, I think.”
“True enough, Bren, but you haven’t—”
“I haven’t the—” He almost said “stomach for it,” but caught himself. This was not the time to start a fight. “Haven’t the strength. Seeing my godfather in there simply unmanned me.”
“He’d never have known you—the mask, remember?”
“I recognized him, mask or no mask. And I hope to God he never sees us together in public. He may be a hypocrite, but he’s no fool, and I promise—he would recognize you.”
“Not in a thousand years. Don’t fret, I shan’t pursue the acquaintance if it bothers you. Never thought you’d be so chickenlivered, though.”
Brendan ignored him, and in a few moments Tony began to snore. Weary, but still unnerved by the narrow escape, Brendan pulled the blanket up to his ears. He ordered his body to relax, but his mind would not be still.
Uncle Cedric, of all people! Brendan could still remember the day—he could not have been more than eight or nine years old—that he realized he was not quite like the other boys. It had been the occasion of some older cousin’s marriage, one of Cedric’s so
ns. The family had trooped out of church after the wedding, to wave goodbye as the bridal couple drove away in their carriage.
Brendan had asked, in all innocence, why Cousin Gilbert had to marry a girl, since girls were good for nothing but sewing and couldn’t even ride very well. That had given all the adults a fine laugh, and Uncle Cedric, the old fraud, had said in a patronizing tone that irritated even then, “Oh, when you’re older you’ll change your mind about girls. I suspect by the time you’re sixteen you’ll understand well enough.”
But here he was, twenty-two years of age, and he had somehow never arrived at that understanding. He still felt, as he always had, that women were so vastly different from men that there could be no true attraction between them. He was fond of his mother and had a great deal of affection for his sister and even his nieces, but the notion of going to bed with a woman left him unmoved.
One thing he had learned, though, and learned young. He had observed that men could admire the abilities of other men, especially if they were good at manly pursuits—riding, hunting, swordsmanship and the like—but if they noticed a man’s looks, “Young Smythe is growing up handsomely,” they must immediately add some remark about how popular that man would be with the ladies. If a man had breeches that fit exceptionally well, emphasizing his thighs and calling attention to tight, strong buttocks, it was appropriate to inquire the name of his tailor; if one’s eyes were drawn to a handsome face, one might ask its owner what he called the style of his cravat. A man’s looks could be appreciated, but there was a subtle difference in the way such admiration was expressed, very different from the way one would compliment a lady.
By the time Brendan turned sixteen and his father had The Talk with him, he’d already learned to mask his impulses. If a handsome gentleman caught his attention, he would let his admiring gaze slide over the man and come to rest on the nearest female form. When his father had escorted him to an irregular establishment and left him to the tender mercies of an experienced and really quite pleasant lady, he’d emerged the next morning with several guineas’ worth of restful slumber and the lady’s invitation to return some time in the future when he was not too nervous to enjoy himself.