Part One
15 th April 1799, Kensington, London
Behind his mask of bored indifference, Vaughan, Marquis of Pennerley, inwardly grimaced. His hostess might call this overblown cacophony singing. He called it torture. Two minutes of screeching scales and he already felt as if someone had gone at his head with a saucepan and ladle; much more and he’d gladly perforate his own eardrums to end the malaise. The sound, reminiscent of a fox let loose in a chicken coop, was not a form of entertainment he normally sought.
Vaughan turned to his lover. They were standing at the back of the small seated audience of guests invited to the evening music recital along with a few other latecomers. “Lucerne, can we not leave?” he whispered. Lord help him for wishing it, but the young woman tormenting them with this aria would benefit from an acute case of the morbid sore throat.
Despite the halo of golden hair that framed Lucerne’s face and his serene expression, Vaughan knew his companion found the performance equally excruciating. Although not a musician, Lucerne appreciated such talents in others. Sadly, unlike Vaughan, he was far too polite to express his disappointment at tonight’s torment. “We can leave only if you intend it as a deliberate snub,” he observed. “The girl is our hostess’s niece. A little fortitude will serve us well enough.”
“Assuming my ears don’t start to bleed.” The woman deserved more than a snub for putting him through this. “How much longer is the bloody piece?” Vaughan flicked open the case of his pocket watch and stared in irritation at the ornate face. Alas it did nothing to speed up the performance.
“Shh! Stop it.” Lucerne closed his hand over the top of Vaughan’s, flipping the watch lid closed in the process. “Mrs. Wincombe will be mortified if she hears you, and she’s desperate to impress. So let’s just persevere and try to enjoy ourselves. She has a nice figure, don’t you think?”
Vaughan stared at the joined palms for a moment, before returning the timepiece to his waistcoat pocket. “Wincombe?” Their hostess sat at the front of the rows of seated guests, balancing a pudgy toy poodle upon her lap.
“Miss St John.”
“Hm.” Vaughan gave the songbird another pained glance. She was skeletal in all regards save for an over-endowment of bosom, which he provisioned in part to judicious bolstering. He couldn’t in all honesty say that she’d have turned his head, but then his attention rarely strayed in the direction of women.
“Not to your taste?” Lucerne asked in response to his silence.
“You know me. I’ve always had a thing for blonds.”
A wide, disarming smile spread across Lucerne’s face, causing delicate creases to appear around his eyes. They crinkled in the exact same way after sex, when for a few brief moments they were truly at peace with the world and one another.
Things were simple when they were lost in one another’s arms. Only when their embrace ended did the trouble start. As Vaughan gazed at Lucerne, captivated by the thought of oneness, a warm glow slowly suffused his loins. That’s what he wanted to be doing with this evening—making love, not listening to this caterwauling.
Lucerne’s smile turned to bemusement over Vaughan’s prolonged scrutiny. “I don’t need to ask what you’re thinking, but you might consider our location before it becomes perfectly apparent to everyone else too.”
To the devil with perseverance! It was time he turned the tide of the evening’s events in a more enjoyable direction. Instead of tempering his thoughts, Vaughan allowed them to expand and solidify into a far filthier image of him and Lucerne top to tail in bed, sucking upon one another’s cocks. His lips parted as his imagination filled in the details of texture and taste. He caught an undercurrent of Lucerne’s scent in the sticky heat of the salon, and breathed deeply. It was a scent he associated entirely with indolent
15 th April 1799, Kensington, London
Behind his mask of bored indifference, Vaughan, Marquis of Pennerley, inwardly grimaced. His hostess might call this overblown cacophony singing. He called it torture. Two minutes of screeching scales and he already felt as if someone had gone at his head with a saucepan and ladle; much more and he’d gladly perforate his own eardrums to end the malaise. The sound, reminiscent of a fox let loose in a chicken coop, was not a form of entertainment he normally sought.
Vaughan turned to his lover. They were standing at the back of the small seated audience of guests invited to the evening music recital along with a few other latecomers. “Lucerne, can we not leave?” he whispered. Lord help him for wishing it, but the young woman tormenting them with this aria would benefit from an acute case of the morbid sore throat.
Despite the halo of golden hair that framed Lucerne’s face and his serene expression, Vaughan knew his companion found the performance equally excruciating. Although not a musician, Lucerne appreciated such talents in others. Sadly, unlike Vaughan, he was far too polite to express his disappointment at tonight’s torment. “We can leave only if you intend it as a deliberate snub,” he observed. “The girl is our hostess’s niece. A little fortitude will serve us well enough.”
“Assuming my ears don’t start to bleed.” The woman deserved more than a snub for putting him through this. “How much longer is the bloody piece?” Vaughan flicked open the case of his pocket watch and stared in irritation at the ornate face. Alas it did nothing to speed up the performance.
“Shh! Stop it.” Lucerne closed his hand over the top of Vaughan’s, flipping the watch lid closed in the process. “Mrs. Wincombe will be mortified if she hears you, and she’s desperate to impress. So let’s just persevere and try to enjoy ourselves. She has a nice figure, don’t you think?”
Vaughan stared at the joined palms for a moment, before returning the timepiece to his waistcoat pocket. “Wincombe?” Their hostess sat at the front of the rows of seated guests, balancing a pudgy toy poodle upon her lap.
“Miss St John.”
“Hm.” Vaughan gave the songbird another pained glance. She was skeletal in all regards save for an over-endowment of bosom, which he provisioned in part to judicious bolstering. He couldn’t in all honesty say that she’d have turned his head, but then his attention rarely strayed in the direction of women.
“Not to your taste?” Lucerne asked in response to his silence.
“You know me. I’ve always had a thing for blonds.”
A wide, disarming smile spread across Lucerne’s face, causing delicate creases to appear around his eyes. They crinkled in the exact same way after sex, when for a few brief moments they were truly at peace with the world and one another.
Things were simple when they were lost in one another’s arms. Only when their embrace ended did the trouble start. As Vaughan gazed at Lucerne, captivated by the thought of oneness, a warm glow slowly suffused his loins. That’s what he wanted to be doing with this evening—making love, not listening to this caterwauling.
Lucerne’s smile turned to bemusement over Vaughan’s prolonged scrutiny. “I don’t need to ask what you’re thinking, but you might consider our location before it becomes perfectly apparent to everyone else too.”
To the devil with perseverance! It was time he turned the tide of the evening’s events in a more enjoyable direction. Instead of tempering his thoughts, Vaughan allowed them to expand and solidify into a far filthier image of him and Lucerne top to tail in bed, sucking upon one another’s cocks. His lips parted as his imagination filled in the details of texture and taste. He caught an undercurrent of Lucerne’s scent in the sticky heat of the salon, and breathed deeply. It was a scent he associated entirely with indolent
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