Lord Loxley's Lover (3 page)

Mr. Rochester did not comment further, focusing instead on his meal.

Lord Loxley poked at his food. “At whom is your anger directed?”

“What anger?” Mr. Rochester asked, flat and emotionless.

Lord Loxley gestured his spoon generally in Mr. Rochester’s direction. “Your constant anger. It’s new. Like you’re wroth with the entire world.”

Mr. Rochester gazed at him, irritable and tense as ever, and then took shelter behind his job title. “Lord Loxley, I assure you, I am capable of remaining fully professional, even when irritated.”

Lord Loxley rather thought that was part of the problem. In his opinion, Mr. Rochester could do with a good deal
less
professionalism. He ate a little more of his food, and then they went to resume their errands.

M
r. Rochester paced
as he looked through Lord Loxley’s account books. “Why do the yield numbers of the orchards go down so much?” he asked aloud.

Lord Loxley sat at his desk, admiring Mr. Rochester’s fine form as it moved back and forth through his study. “I don’t know. Because there are fewer apples?”

Mr. Rochester paused at his pacing and visibly refrained from making a comment in response to that. He took a deep breath. “Have you spoken to the orchard keeper regarding the yield? Discussed methods of increasing the orchard’s output to what it was in former years?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Lord Loxley said. “I don’t know the first thing about orchards. Mr. Kepley, who sees to the orchards, knows far better than I do. I trust to his judgement.”

“And you haven’t asked, in his judgement, why the orchard yields are half of what they were a decade ago?”

That made the problem rather clearer. Lord Loxley grimaced. “Ah. No.”

Shutting the account book but keeping his place with his thumb, Mr. Rochester gazed at the floor and took another deep breath in order to control himself. Lord Loxley watched with admiration and interest, hands folded neatly on the desk.

“May I have your permission to pursue this matter?” Mr. Rochester asked.

Lord Loxley pursed his lips together, privately judging as to whether or not Mr. Rochester might be inclined to being inappropriately irritable toward Lord Loxley’s tenants and employees. He decided that Miles could be trusted in this, and his handling of Mr. Nestlehutt had indeed been adequately deft, even if it was excessively suspicious towards poor Mr. Nestlehutt who was in all likelihood indeed quite ill. “Yes.”

Mr. Rochester resumed his reading and his pacing, pausing only occasionally to query Lord Loxley’s notations.

“Are your parents well?” Lord Loxley asked, watching Mr. Rochester with perpetual hope that if Lord Loxley offered enough friendship and sympathy, it would crack through Mr. Rochester’s shell and bring back the Miles that he’d known in school.

Mr. Rochester once again went still, shutting the account book quietly. “They are well enough, my lord. I beg you not to trouble yourself with concern for them.”

“Miles—”

Rounding on him, Mr. Rochester set the account book back on Lord Loxley’s desk with excessive force, staring at the cover of it. “My lord, why did you give me this position?”

Sitting straighter in his chair at the show of temper, Lord Loxley watched him closely. He wasn’t at all certain where Mr. Rochester intended to take this line of questioning. “Because you asked for it.”

“You demanded no references, no qualifications, not even an explanation of why I’d come to
you—
“

“Why did you come to me?” Lord Loxley picked up the inquiry at once.

“Because no one else would
have
me, my lord, on account of my color. And if you’ve given me this position out of
pity
, from the goodness of your gentle heart, which, evidently,” Mr. Rochester snapped the book open and flipped through the pages of accounts, many of which had gone unpaid for years, “has continued to significantly hamper your good judgement, then perhaps you will do me the
pity
of leaving me my privacy.”

He’d leaned across the desk in his temper, which brought him very close to Lord Loxley.

“I didn’t give you the position out of pity,” Lord Loxley said. His eyes skittered down to Mr. Rochester’s wide, full mouth, and he licked his own lips at the memory of how Miles Rochester tasted.

“
Oh
,” Mr. Rochester said, and Lord Loxley knew he was caught. Straightening up, Mr. Rochester drew away from him, keeping the desk between them. “Lust, is it? Even after all these years?”

Lord Loxley felt his face heat, all the way to the tips of his ears. “I gave you the position because you were my
friend
, and because you
asked
me for it. I trusted your judgement in the request. I’ve always trusted your judgement.”

“Is that so.” Mr. Rochester’s lip curled. He walked around Lord Loxley’s desk, advancing on him.

Nervous about the sudden turn in the conversation, Lord Loxley pressed his spine against the back of his chair, as much of a retreat from Mr. Rochester as he could make while keeping his dignity intact.

“No,” Mr. Rochester said, placing his hand on the back of Lord Loxley’s chair and hovering over him. His dark gaze was intense, underlaid with the same anger and bitterness that broke Lord Loxley’s heart to see. “I think you gave me the position out of
lust
. As if I could have missed your lingering gazes, the color in your cheeks, or that particularly unsubtle suggestion that I might be measured for my suit while half naked.” His foot hooked around one of the legs of Lord Loxley’s chair, turning it towards him so that he could part Lord Loxley’s thighs with his knee.

Frozen in place, Lord Loxley couldn’t look away from Mr. Rochester’s eyes. It was so like and yet so unlike all the times that Mr. Rochester had advanced on him heatedly when they’d been at Oxford. Lord Loxley’s memories were full of occasions where Miles had pinned him playfully against a wall and kissed him breathless, or dragged him into the nearest cupboard and ravished him. He recognized the desire in Mr. Rochester’s eyes, the confident and demanding way that Mr. Rochester advanced, but in Oxford Miles Rochester’s eyes had only ever been underlaid with
joy
.

“Hardly surprising, I suppose,” Mr. Rochester continued. “I’d guess that it’s rather difficult to cater to your particular
tastes
out here in the country. Not quite so many colored gentlemen willing to fall into your bed, out here.”

The accusation was so surprising that it took a moment to make sense. Lord Loxley’s mouth fell open with flustered indignation. “
Miles
—“

“
Don’t
,” Mr. Rochester growled, “call me that.”

He was still hovering, braced above Lord Loxley with their faces only inches away. From this close, Lord Loxley could see the flush on Mr. Rochester’s brown cheeks, his pupils expanded and lips parted, all very familiar signs of Mr. Rochester’s desire.

“Mr. Rochester,” Lord Loxley amended, but he was too distracted by Mr. Rochester’s immediate proximity to remember what else he’d meant to say.

“Shall I satisfy your lust?” Mr. Rochester asked him, breath hot against Lord Loxley’s lips.

“If it pleases you,” Lord Loxley said, not moving an inch forward or back. The insult that he had only ever felt
lust
for Miles stung his pride, especially when combined with the insinuation that he had only been drawn to Miles out of a fetish for the exotic.

It evidently did please him, as Mr. Rochester immediately surged forward and caught Lord Loxley in a kiss. It was passionate, heated, and full of
hunger
, the way that Miles used to kiss him after spending winter holidays apart. One of Mr. Rochester’s hands fisted into Lord Loxley’s neckcloth, mussing it hopelessly, while his other hand tangled in Lord Loxley’s soft blond hair, holding him in place as Mr. Rochester took heated claim of Lord Loxley’s mouth.

The kiss broke open Lord Loxley’s heart like a floodgate. Desire and longing surged through him, everything that he’d kept pent up for so many years after losing touch with Miles. He’d touched no one, not through limitations of taste or availability, but because no one could ever compare to Miles. Even the thought of taking another lover was disappointing. He was happier alone.

The knee between his thighs slid upward, pressing against the cloth of Lord Loxley’s breeches and the swelling member contained within, and then Mr. Rochester pulled him to his feet, backing him against the desk so that their bodies could press fully against each other as they kissed. His hands closed around Lord Loxley’s hips, grip tight and commanding.

Lord Loxley had missed this.

He felt like Fitz again, a free-spirited young student whose days—and nights, usually—revolved around Miles Rochester. The same Miles Rochester who was now opening the buttons along the narrow-fall front of his breeches and sliding his hand within. Fitzhenry Loxley groaned, desperate and eager for him, and began pulling on Mr. Rochester’s buttons in return.

Mr. Rochester caught his seeking hand at once, pulling it away from the front of his breeches. The kiss broke, but Mr. Rochester lingered near his lips, noses brushing as Mr. Rochester’s hand remained clasped around Fitzhenry’s length. “No,” Mr. Rochester murmured against his lips, twisting Fitzhenry’s straying hand around and holding it behind his back while his other hand moved smoothly up and down Fitzhenry’s erect prick.

Completely undone by need and pleasure, Fitzhenry studied his lover’s face from close-up, remembering all the little details that he’d almost forgotten. The arch of Mr. Rochester’s brows; the sharp line of his cheekbone; the wicked curve of his lips. Even the way he smelled—something like vanilla and woodsmoke beneath the milky, clean scent of the soap that Mrs. Pellicott made in-house.

Tilting his head, Fitzhenry took another kiss, tugging at Mr. Rochester’s lips with his own, which made Mr. Rochester crowd in even closer to him, sealing his mouth to Fitzhenry’s for a deeper, passionate kiss.

Untouched by any hand but his own for years and deeply aroused by the proximity and the kiss of his longed-for friend, Fitzhenry quickly found his completion at Mr. Rochester’s hand. He cried out against Mr. Rochester’s lips, and his valet claimed his mouth again, silencing and swallowing the cry of pleasure.

When Fitzhenry had finished, Mr. Rochester stepped away. He considered the mess on his hand dispassionately, and then glanced over the spattered droplets that had fallen upon Lord Loxley’s breeches and waistcoat. “Better?” he asked, holding Fitzhenry’s gaze as he licked up the length of his palm and sucked a droplet from his fingertip, causing Lord Loxley’s eyes to widen with awe and desire.

Absolutely speechless, Lord Fitzhenry Loxley stared at him as Mr. Rochester licked every drop of his spendings from his hand. His eyes were very dark, the warm brown pupils dilated with arousal, but his expression remained disinterested, as if this were merely the most efficient way of cleaning a mess.

Hand cleaned, Mr. Rochester buttoned up the fall of Lord Loxley’s breeches with the absolute professionalism of a valet. “I would recommend that you change at once, my lord. Best that we not allow the stains to set.”

Lord Loxley’s heart was still pounding as he recovered from what had just happened. The passion between them was none diminished from what he remembered, but Mr. Rochester’s confident and demanding lust followed immediately by aloof, icy reserve was confusing and heart-wrenching. “Mr. Rochester—“

“At once, my lord,” Mr. Rochester repeated. “Or shall I carry you?”

The spark of mirth behind Mr. Rochester’s eyes as he suggested—or threatened—that was almost recognizable as Miles.

“I can walk,” Lord Loxley said, straightening up. He felt vulnerable and humiliated by having his emotions and passions exposed by that, but it was quite clear that Mr. Rochester was not prepared to believe that Lord Loxley’s feelings in Oxford had been more than lust. Lord Loxley wondered if that was some part of Mr. Rochester’s bitterness and anger—Fitz hadn’t written. Fitz hadn’t gone to him in the aftermath of the Rochester family fortunes, when no doubt all of their dearest friends suddenly vanished into the woodwork as so often seemed to happen in society. Lord Loxley knew that he was largely oblivious to the nuances of society, but he was aware that the socially disgraced or impoverished always disappeared very quietly, to relatives in the country or to debtor’s prisons, and their society friends never, ever made visits to them.

Fitz had betrayed him by abandonment, even though he’d known nothing of it. It made Lord Loxley wonder just how desperate Mr. Rochester’s situation had become that he was willing to beg employment from a former paramour who had not written to him after his family’s disgrace.

Keeping his chin up stubbornly in order to draw attention away from the incriminating spatters along his waistcoat and breeches, Lord Loxley walked from the study without a word and returned to his room.

H
e had
Mr. Rochester draw a bath for him in the morning, after breakfast. Mr. Rochester had returned to his formal and unfriendly role as valet, which made breakfast very stiff, unpleasant and largely devoted to discussing preparations for Lady Mathilda Loxley’s visit that afternoon.

Feeling a bit sour about the incident in the study, Lord Loxley sat by the window with a book and watched with satisfaction as Mr. Rochester carried buckets back and forth from the kitchens. The houseman, Mr. Egby, provided assistance in this matter, but he only carried one bucket to each of Mr. Rochester’s two.

Mr. Rochester made no comment as to the arduous nature of the task, and never once glanced over toward Lord Loxley watching from the windowsill. The kiss and the intimate encounter that they’d shared in the study had changed little in their relationship. If anything, Lord Loxley suspected that things were rather worse due to his own vulnerable resentment and Mr. Rochester’s icy reserve. But the incident had at least served to show that there was still lust between them, if nothing else.

“Your bath is prepared, sir,” Mr. Rochester said.

Now Lord Loxley looked away, playing at disinterest as he set his book down on the table and went over to the bath, beginning to untie his neck cloth.

“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Mr. Rochester asked in a blatant attempt to dismiss himself.

“Yes,” Lord Loxley said. “Stay.”

He undressed slowly, keeping his back to Mr. Rochester. Lord Loxley felt that he could be quite certain that Mr. Rochester would be watching.

As he removed each item of clothing, he dropped them to the side in a little pile. Mr. Rochester made no effort to retrieve the pile or to save it from wrinkling.

It was a comfort that Mr. Rochester could not see his blush as Lord Loxley revealed himself. His body was pale and slender, still flawless with youth. Bonier, he suspected, than he had been at university. Though Mrs. Pellicott did her diligent best to feed him up, Lord Loxley remained a distractible scholar, inclined to forget even the meals that had been set right in front of him.

His skin prickled under Mr. Rochester’s probable scrutiny. Keeping his face averted, Lord Loxley stepped into the basin and sank into the warm, steaming water.

Once he was settled, Mr. Rochester came to his side, bringing the tray of toiletries. His gaze did not stray as he offered soap and assistance. Lord Loxley took the soap, but not the assistance, letting Mr. Rochester watch as he scrubbed face and hair.

“You’re in need of a shave, my lord,” Mr. Rochester said. “Shall I?”

Lord Loxley glanced toward the straight razor on the tray. It was a matter of slight concern that they were both feeling rather vindictive this morning, but he trusted Miles utterly, even this new and unknown version of Miles. “Yes.”

Leaning back in the basin, Lord Loxley watched as Mr. Rochester prepared the lather, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to offer his throat. Then he felt Mr. Rochester’s hand tangle into his hair, holding his head in place and keeping it tipped back as he began to brush the lather onto Lord Loxley’s face and throat. It was an incredible breach of decorum for a valet to hold his master’s hair like that, and Lord Loxley’s lips curved with pleasure at Mr. Rochester’s confidence and control.

“Keep still,” Mr. Rochester warned, his voice very soft.

Breathing carefully, Lord Loxley kept his eyes shut, careful not to swallow as Mr. Rochester drew the blade up the length of his throat. His eyelashes fluttered at the sensation, feeling dizzy as he sank into the deep sense of trust necessary for this. Miles had done this for him before, in university, and Fitz had reciprocated the care. Since then, he’d gotten into the habit of shaving himself, except for his monthly trips to the village barber for a haircut and shave.

Of course, the barber’s hand had never fastened possessively into his hair like this. Lord Loxley thought Mr. Rochester might quite object to anyone else handling Lord Loxley in such a fashion, and hoped that were true. He knew that Mr. Rochester felt lust for him, but he had no evidence at all that Mr. Rochester’s feelings were—or ever had been—anything deeper. All he’d seen since Mr. Rochester’s arrival had been the bitterness and resentment hidden behind Mr. Rochester’s cold facade. It had cracked for lust. Perhaps nothing more.

The razor skimmed across his cheeks and jaw, shaving him in smooth, efficient strokes. Mr. Rochester turned his head gently in order to get the best angle, being exactingly careful with his employer—or lover, perhaps.

Lord Loxley’s breath hitched as the blade traced up over the edge of his jaw, cresting over the pulse point. And then he heard the clatter of the razor on the tray and felt the heat of Mr. Rochester’s mouth against his own.

Parting his lips willingly to the kiss, Lord Loxley reached wet hands up to curl around Mr. Rochester’s neck, holding him close as his tongue quested out. The kiss was greedy and heated, again, full of pent-up passion which Mr. Rochester had not yet released, and it ended very suddenly as Mr. Rochester let go and turned away.

Flushed and erect in the bath, Lord Loxley stared at Mr. Rochester’s back, quite overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotions, and how quickly they’d gone from the trust of the shaving to the heat of the kiss to… this. This empty aftermath, whatever it might be.

After a moment, Mr. Rochester collected himself and began to tidy away the shaving implements. Lord Loxley felt once again vulnerable and exposed, and no longer as in control of the situation as he had been when he’d begun to strip.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Mr. Rochester asked.

Fitzhenry’s heart ached. Feeling utterly lost, he gazed at Mr. Rochester, but Mr. Rochester did not return the glance.

“No,” Lord Loxley said at last. “You may go.”

L
ady Mathilda Loxley
was the one person in the world that Lord Loxley feared, not least because she had near total control over his fortune, and therefore his life.

He balked in the hallway, containing the urge to pace, and tried to persuade himself that he was no longer a thirteen-year-old recent orphan, but in fact a grown man fully capable of holding a conversation with an elderly woman. Mr. Rochester had followed him as far as the hallway and had stopped when Lord Loxley had stopped: outside the parlor where Lady Loxley would be growing increasingly impatient with every moment. Lord Loxley looked to him for help or rescue, and received only a raised eyebrow in response.

Resigning himself to his fate, Lord Loxley entered the parlor.

Lady Mathilda Loxley looked up from her tea with a stern expression that stated very clearly that she was Not Pleased to have been kept waiting.

“Aunt Mathilda,” Lord Loxley said, with a dutiful little bow.

“Fitzhenry,” she greeted him, frowning disapprovingly at her great-nephew. She was about to continue when she caught sight of Mr. Rochester over his shoulder, and Lord Fitzhenry Loxley had the pleasure of seeing his great-aunt Mathilda visibly startled for the first time in his life.

Rising to her feet and extracting her spectacles, she advanced upon Mr. Rochester and inspected him. “I do declare, you are Mr. Miles Rochester, are you not?”

“I am,” Mr. Rochester replied. He had the posture and tone of a perfect gentleman, much more elegant and composed than Lord Loxley and his tendency to fidget, a habit which even Lady Mathilda Loxley had not been able to break. “And a pleasure to see you looking so well, Lady Loxley.”

“A pity about your family,” said Lady Mathilda Loxley.

Lord Loxley saw Mr. Rochester’s jaw tense briefly, but he remained calm and proud. He looked breathtakingly handsome and noble when his pride had been stung, and Lord Loxley bit the inside of his cheek so that he wouldn’t smile at how endearing it was.

Lady Mathilda Loxley returned to her seat. “Are you here with my great-nephew on a visit?”

She had known, while Fitzhenry was at university, of their acquaintance, but Fitzhenry had been careful to present the friendship as nothing more than a shared circle of friends. Lady Mathilda Loxley had disapproved, of course, but she had enough refinement that her disapproval was focused primarily on Baron Rochester’s shamefully liberal Republican politics; secondly on Mrs. Rochester’s scandalous associations with artists and bohemians; and only ever through subtle, slantwise intimation of Mrs. Rochester’s unknown Caribbean heritage.

“Mr. Rochester has accepted a position as my personal valet,” Lord Loxley explained.

Lady Mathilda Loxley’s lips pressed together in disapproval. “I see. Well, perhaps we might speak privately, Fitzhenry.”

Stern and cold though Mr. Rochester might be, Lord Loxley felt much more confident facing his great-aunt Mathilda while Mr. Rochester was standing near him. Drawing upon that confidence, he lifted his chin. “Mr. Rochester is my trusted valet and his father remains a member of the peerage.” Lord Loxley hoped he was correct in that, since he had not yet been able to extract from Mr. Rochester the current status of his parents. “I prefer that he stay.”

Lady Mathilda Loxley’s disapproval increased exponentially. Lord Loxley strove not to quaver under her gaze, and hoped that Mr. Rochester would remain by his side in the face of Lady Mathilda Loxley’s wrath.

Mr. Rochester stepped forward and drew out the second chair set at the table. As Lord Loxley settled into it, Mr. Rochester’s hand skimmed discreetly over his back. Utterly inappropriate for a valet, but very reassuring to Fitzhenry Loxley. Mr. Rochester maintained his place standing behind Lord Loxley’s left shoulder, with a hand resting on the back of Lord Loxley’s chair. Lord Loxley felt that Mr. Rochester was not so much
attending
as a valet ought, but supervising and guarding Fitzhenry Loxley like a possessive lover. He hoped that Lady Mathilda Loxley would not notice the distinction, and felt quite certain that if Mr. Rochester’s pride and possessiveness were any greater, that hand would be resting on his shoulder rather than the back of the chair, even under the disapproving gaze of Lady Mathilda Loxley.

“You’ll be glad to know, Fitzhenry,” said Lady Mathilda Loxley, as Lord Loxley poured himself a cup of tea and reached for a cube of sugar, “that I have selected you a wife.”

Lord Loxley dropped his cube of sugar into the little jug of milk. Lady Mathilda Loxley didn’t notice, but Lord Loxley heard Mr. Rochester stifle a cough. “A wife?”

“Yes,” Lady Mathilda Loxley sipped imperiously at her own tea. “It’s really high time you were married, Fitzhenry, however much you have been enjoying being a gentleman scholar.”

Lord Loxley decided it was best not to correct her on the subject that his current aspirations leaned more toward the term ‘confirmed bachelor’, which the obituaries always seemed to use when referring to a happily unmarried gentleman who had always preferred to cohabitate with other happily unmarried gentlemen, but that also felt rather optimistic when he was not at all on cordial terms with his desired fellow bachelor. “My dear Aunt Mathilda, I really don’t think that I’m
suited
for marriage.”

“We’ve discussed this before, Fitzhenry, and I am certain that a sensible-minded young lady would be able to take you in hand and make a proper husband of you, not to mention the trouble of your limited income.”

“I live perfectly well on my income,” Lord Loxley interjected, and promptly regretted his interjection when Lady Mathilda Loxley gave him a withering look.

“I intend for you to marry Miss Sarah Meriwether,” said Lady Mathilda Loxley. “Her family is quite comfortably situated and I have heard that on all counts she is an eminently sensible young woman. One hopes she might return a bit of respectability to Loxley Manor.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if I
like
Miss Sarah Meriwether,” Lord Loxley said, having never met the young lady in question and certain that he very much did not wish to marry her.

“No,” said Lady Mathilda Loxley. “It does not.”

Lord Loxley flushed indignantly, feeling very much like a child. “Am I to meet Miss Meriwether before the wedding?”

“Don’t be glib, Fitzhenry, it doesn’t suit you. I am having the Meriwethers to dinner at my home next Saturday. I expect that you will attend, and I expect that you will be well-mannered.”

Still quite high-colored, Lord Loxley stared fixedly at his tea. “Yes, Aunt Mathilda.”

“Good,” Lady Mathilda Loxley nodded once, considering the matter settled. “Now, provide your updates regarding the management of the estate.”

“In rentals and income for April, 34 pounds, 5 shillings,” Lord Loxley recited, back stiff and jaw tight with humiliation as he reported to her on the management of his estate. She listened, questioned his judgement, and criticized liberally.

When at last the ordeal was finished, Lady Mathilda Loxley took her leave.

Mr. Rochester stood in silence at Lord Loxley’s side until they could see through the window that her carriage was driving away.

“Why do you let her do that to you?” Mr. Rochester demanded.

“Because I must,” Lord Loxley said, remaining tensely in his chair. Mr. Rochester’s indignation on his behalf was doing nothing to ameliorate his embarrassment. “The estate is hers. While I retain the Loxley title, I reside here only by my aunt’s grace. She allows me the management of it, and to use the income from the estate toward my own upkeep. My parents left to me a trust with interest of a mere fifty pounds a year, and they lived here, as I do, by her grace. She is not, as you can see, very impressed by my management of the estate, but this arrangement saves her the trouble of managing it or providing for my upkeep, and allows me to maintain a measure of dignity. At least, it must be said, when she isn’t
visiting
.”

“You report to her like a schoolboy.”

“What would you have me do?” Lord Loxley asked, his color high as he rose to his feet. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“I would think you might at least choose your own
wife
,” Mr. Rochester commented icily.

“I do not
want
a wife. How shall I choose a woman, from Miss Meriwether to Princess Charlotte, if I do not want any of them?”
I want you
, Lord Loxley thought hopelessly.