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JONATHAN’S REGARDS
WRAYTON HARCOURT, DERBYSHIRE
SEPTEMBER 1821
John Raven did not glance up from his book when the doors suddenly burst open and a disgruntled Lord Corvin stomped into the room. He resolutely kept his eyes on his book, even though he was not taking in a word of what he was reading. While Corvin had clearly come in seeking something from him—and John would be damned if he went readily offering that which had not yet been requested—it was also impossible for him to focus on anything else.
Corvin sighed rather magnificently, trying to get John’s attention, until he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
“You used to know when I was upset,” he said.
“It’s not a matter of knowing. The whole world knows when you’re upset. It’s a matter of caring, and I decisively do not,” John readily replied, turning an unread page of his book.
“Liar. You do care, and that’s why you’re going to console me,” said Corvin loudly, but John could hear affection in his voice.
“You’re a middle-aged man and I will do no such thing. Now leave me be, I’m busy,” said John without much of a bite.
This wasn’t exactly true. The renovations at Wrayton Harcourt had gone as smoothly as John could have hoped. Now, with most of the work completed, all that was needed of him was to supervise the hanging of the new drapes in the east wing parlour—indigo velvet with gold embroidered lace to match the freshly upholstered settees and the new Oriental rugs—and he could officially move onto his next project. So, no. John Raven was not busy, but the idleness he’d had in mind for today was meant to be enjoyed in the company of a book, in silence.
He’d had so little of that ever since Corvin had come back.
Corvin had not been actively participant in the renovations from the beginning. However, late into the project he began coming up with the occasional ludicrous request with increasing frequency, (no, John had not raised the floor in Corvin’s bedchamber to make a dais) so John had sent him off to Wiltshire instead, hoping the trip would offer enough distractions to keep Corvin’s mind occupied, and give John some much needed moments of peace.
Corvin had only been back a few days but the words Gothic Revival had been uttered enough times to make John seriously regret his decision. The whole purpose of remodeling the property was to step away from the Gothic style that had adorned Corvin’s house for the past ten years. Going back to it after all this work… He should have shipped him off to the Continent instead.
“It’s Doomsday,” said Corvin, so suddenly that if John hadn’t heard that joke at least a thousand times, he would have thought his friend meant it in the Biblical sense. “He’s leaving me.”
John blinked, surprised at the dramatic phrasing but not yet overtly concerned.
“He has resigned?”
John liked Luke Doomsday well enough, as far as philistines went. He was competent, practical and discreet, which were absolute requisites for Wrayton Hartcourt, let alone for someone who’d been Corvin’s personal secretary and occasional bed partner for the past three years. He had thought, all things considered, that it was only a matter of time before they made the position permanent. The secretarial position, he added mentally, because they did not need a fifth side to their four-sided triangle, which led him to wonder…
“Is he in love with you?” he asked, although he didn’t think so. Doomsday was at least twenty years their junior, but he struck John as someone with too much common sense to do something as stupid as falling in love with Corvin.
“Worse,” said Corvin, “he’s been offered another post. A better post.”
“Where?” John asked, his interest finally piqued.
“I don’t know. Does it matter? The point is, he’s leaving. He’s asked me for a letter of reference not an hour ago.”
John felt his eyebrows raise. “And you are distressed because…?”
“I am upset, not distressed,” said Corvin, then sighed heavily. “He’s just so very competent. And his name is Doomsday, for heaven’s sake. I enjoyed telling people that Doomsday would call on them shortly with my regards.”
John kept himself from rolling his eyes with difficulty. “Name envy aside, is that all?”
“Of course it bloody well isn’t.”
There was more than quiet, unassuming competence when it came to Luke Doomsday. To begin with, the man came from a notorious gang of smugglers, which might have been the reason he carried an old, jagged scar that went from temple to cheekbone. But both John and Corvin had dismissed that possibility. The scar was old where Doomsday was not. He must have had it since childhood, and though John knew little of smugglers, he’d have liked to assume they did not often recruit children for the more perilous tasks. The scar must have come from elsewhere. Somewhere painful and intensely private, for Doomsday never spoke about it. Yet the secretary carried it with enough grace and confidence that within the hour of meeting him, one tended to altogether forget that it was there, despite how much it marred is otherwise handsome features.
Needless to say, Corvin was rather taken by that from his first interview, having something in common with the young man, albeit in the much less conspicuous form of an additional finger on his left hand.
John often wondered if Corvin had seen that part of himself in Luke Doomsday, and if that was the reason he had become rather protective of him from the beginning.
That would certainly explain why Corvin had not taken Doomsday’s notice with much excitement.
Corvin sat in silence for a moment, seemingly contemplating the same as John, for he tapped six fingers against his leg in a thoughtful fashion.
“You’re worried about him,” John offered tentatively, and Corvin’s fingers froze.
“Doomsday is a grown man, he can do as he pleases,” he replied.
That wasn’t an answer, but John hadn’t exactly asked a question. This wasn’t the first time Corvin had taken up a protégé, and would most certainly not be the last. And with the renovations all but done and the Murder coming to Wrayton Harcourt a fortnight from now to indulge in the fruits of John’s labour, Corvin would not be in urgent need of a replacement.
Except Corvin did seem more than reasonably upset.
“What is it?” John asked, putting his book down at last.
Corvin sighed and drew his fingers through his hair. “Sir John Grayson,” he said, as if that explained everything.
John narrowed his eyes. “The name sounds familiar.”
“It bloody well should. He raised more than a few objections to Cruikshank’s sketches about the Albany scandal. Why, you’ve met him.”
John’s mouth fell open.
Francis Burdett, for whom John had campaigned during the 1807 elections, had been briefly involved in the Duke of York scandal, after which the Duke had been relieved of his duties as Commander-in-Chief of the Forces. John’s colleague and good friend Isaac Cruikshank had created a series of brutal satirical sketches about the scandalous affair. And while that had seemed the peak of his career—and in John’s opinion, his best work to date—he had been widely attacked and ultimately horsewhipped for it. The campaign against him was largely led by a few members of the Duke of York’s inner circle, which prominently featured Sir John Grayson.
“That weak-chinned, petulant swine? Don’t tell me… that’s Doomsday’s prospective employer?”
“Mmm,” Corvin muttered. “Do you believe he knows?”
“Who, Doomsday? If he does, he is an idiot.”
“He isn’t an idiot, he’s simply not political,” Corvin argued back.
“One does not need to be political to understand that a powerful man who raises objections against satirical caricatures most certainly has something to hide,” said John with passion. “Why on earth would Doomsday resign to go work for someone like him? Has he taken the appointment already?”
“It’s as good as done. He has corresponded with the weak-chinned, petulant swine. I believe he has a final interview in the imminent future, date pending. Now, should I talk him out of it?”
John realised he had almost left his seat. He sat back and took a deep, calming breath. This was none of their business. Sir John Grayson was not someone John was eager to know more intimately, let alone work for, but he, John, was also not a young, clever, disfigured secretary looking to further his career. If there was something for certain, it was that Luke Doomsday was not about to become England’s most sought-after secretary simply for having withstood Corvin’s company for a few years. Hell, if he, John, had been in his position, he would have been looking for a new post to broaden his range of experience for months now. If Grayson had offered him an interview, Doomsday would be a fool to refuse.
“Well?” Corvin prompted yet again.
“If you want him to stay, offer him more money,” John replied, stating the obvious, even though he knew that wasn’t what Doomsday was after. Corvin was soft-hearted and generous; he might even have doubled Doomsday’s salary if asked, and the secretary probably knew that very well.
As expected, Corvin shook his head. “It isn’t a matter of money. And I don’t necessarily want him to stay. He’s been an excellent secretary, and what a name. And yes, perhaps his talents may be put to better use elsewhere. But I’m mostly not inclined to see him go off to work for a swine.”
“That isn’t your problem. You can’t protect him forever,” said John, although distantly, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it either. Luke Doomsday was hard working, humble and appeared to have suffered enough for a man in his early twenties. John would know a thing or two about that, but at least he’d had powerful friends who had always shielded him from the worst.
“Then what can I do?” Corvin did sound rather distressed, despite having affirmed John that he wasn’t.
“Let him go?”
“Yes, thank you. I didn’t intend to imprison the young man. Although, it would grant me the opportunity to put that dungeon you built for me all those years ago to some use. I haven’t had anyone down there in an age, and I’m almost certain Doomsday wouldn’t mind; he’s had one of my Jonathans for a while.”
“It’s a wine cellar, V,” John muttered.
“It’s a dungeon. Philip and Guy agree.”
“I—” John stopped. “I will not be baited into that discussion again.”
Corvin raised a finger and seemed about to retort, but let his hand drop slowly. “You’ve given me an idea.”
Despite the streaks of gray in his hair and the lines that had become increasingly prominent around his eyes and mouth, the years had been kind to Corvin, but the way his lip curled—in a way that told John he most decidedly did not want to know what Corvin was up to—made him look as if no time had passed at all.
John’s eyes narrowed instinctively. “Do I absolutely need to know?”
“I’ll tell you all about it, after,” he said. “But first, can you write me a letter of reference for Doomsday?”
John sighed. “A viscount in your forties, and you still can’t write a letter for yourself.”
“That’s why I have—had—a secretary. But you’ll have to do.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Luke knocked on Lord Corvin’s study at exactly nine o’clock, as per his appointment. He’d arranged for a carriage to be waiting at half past ten, and all his luggage had already been taken downstairs.
It had been an eventful few weeks since he’d given notice, most of which had been spent packing and taking care of a few final errands, making sure he left everything in perfect order for his future replacement. During those days, Luke had seen very little of his now former employer, but with his impending departure looming closer and closer, so close now that he barely had an hour and a half left to spare before he was on his way downhill from Derbyshire, Luke realised he had been pushing back the bittersweet moment in which he would bid Lord Corvin farewell.
He would have pushed it further back still—he wasn’t expected at Sir John’s for another fortnight—but the other members of Lord Corvin and John Raven’s inner circle were due to arrive in the following days, and Luke wasn’t in the mood for a repeat of the last time the entire Murder had gathered at Derbyshire. His head still pounded at the memory, and he hadn’t had, nor would he ever have, port again.
It had been a very good and frankly liberating three-years employment for Luke, and he had managed to save a tidy amount that could keep him afloat for months if his appointment with Sir John were to fall through.
Lord Corvin had been an excellent employer; a man who shared Luke’s inclinations and with whom Luke had felt safe. Too safe, in fact. Complacent, even. Luke’s fingers tightened around the leatherbound book, sorry to part with it, and just like that, he had to start reminding himself of his ten thousand reasons for leaving.
“Enter,” came Lord Corvin’s voice from within the study.
Luke pushed the door open and took a moment to glance around the newly redecorated room. It suited Lord Corvin’s taste very well indeed; the deep reds and dark wood panels accentuated with gilded details here and there, it was all still very Gothic, but the room now felt airier, unpretentious even, and that was despite the enormous oil painting that hung behind Lord Corvin’s desk, depicting himself and his two best friends, Sir Philip Rookwood and John Raven, the artist behind the work.
Lord Corvin sat at his desk. Luke had very rarely seen him actually sitting there, but it seemed fitting for the occasion. It wasn’t the first time Luke had been in the finished room, given that he had been an active participant in its refurbishing from beginning to end, and he knew better than anyone what those bookshelves held, but there was something almost satisfying about seeing the room finally put to use.
Put to proper use, Luke corrected himself, for he had accidentally seen Lord Corvin and John Raven… christening the room—for lack of a better word—as soon as the painting had been rehung over the fresh damask wallpaper. Luke should have been scandalized, most people would have been, but he had only been mildly annoyed at the prospect of having to wait for the two men to finish before he could confirm with his employer the number of Claret casks he’d wanted purchased from a certain French merchant Lord Corvin had had his eye on for a while; to make matters worse, his eventual answer had been: “Why, all of them, of course!”
“My lord,” Luke inclined his head, his eyes going straight to the corner of the desk over which he and Raven had... he shook his head and banished the memory from his mind.
Lord Corvin’s smile grew knowingly as he followed Luke’s eyes, but if the Viscount was not in the habit of closing doors, he was at least tactful enough not to comment on it.
“Doomsday,” said Lord Corvin, as if Luke had caught him by surprise. “I take it all your affairs are in order?” He was in the process of folding what appeared to be a finished letter.
“Yes, my lord. The carriage will be here shortly. I came to return your book, before I forgot.” He placed Jonathan on the desk almost tenderly.
“Ah,” said Lord Corvin, getting to his feet. “We never discussed what you thought about it.” He walked around his desk, motioning for Luke to join him in one of the armchairs by the window.
Luke’s mouth twitched. Before coming to Derbyshire, he had never read a novel the likes of Jonathan, and he had not shared with Lord Corvin how much the story had affected him. The prose—and the man for whom the story had been written—had been effective enough to land Luke into his employer’s bed only two days after borrowing the godforsaken book. Lord Corvin, ever tactful and seemingly not surprised in the slightest, had not commented on the fact but he did make a small suggestion afterwards, and begged Luke to make use of the other books in his collection if that was the effect Gothic novels had on him.
Luke had in fact gone into Lord Corvin’s private library on a handful of occasions after that first time, if only to test if what his employer was offering him was as uncomplicated as it sounded. Entertainment if you care for it, no hard feelings if you don’t. It had been every bit of that, but its charm had quickly faded as Luke eventually realised that the right to a hedonistic life was meant for unburdened men like Lord Corvin and his Murder alone. Luke had forfeited his right to guilt-free indulgence when he was thirteen years old, and the longer he fooled himself and stayed in the company of Lotus-eaters, the harder it would be to leave.
“Would you care for a drink?” asked Lord Corvin at Luke’s silence.
Luke blinked, then glanced at the beautiful filigree clock that sat on Lord Corvin’s desk, short hand clearly pointing at the number nine. In the morning.
Lord Corvin laughed. “Indulge me,” he said, his hand flicking towards the decanter. “I don’t believe I’ll be seeing you again for quite some time, and I’d like to raise a glass to your good fortune, at the very least.”
“My good fortune?” Luke smiled. “I thought your lordship wasn’t exactly impressed by my choice of employer.” Lord Corvin hadn’t said anything at the time, but the way his mouth had twisted the moment Luke had informed him of his prospects had been rather indicative, and Luke hadn’t had time to prod further.
Lord Corvin’s dark eyes narrowed good-naturedly, folding comfortably into their laugh lines.
“My opinion is irrelevant in this matter, Doomsday. Although…” He fell silent while he poured the wine, giving Luke’s eyebrows time to float into his forehead.
“Although?”
Corvin smiled. “John doesn’t like him. Granted, he doesn’t like most people, but he especially loathes those who object to caricatures.”
“Sir John Grayson has a problem with satire? I’m not surprised.”
“Nor should you be, most men do. That’s why John hates almost everyone. I personally love a good scandal, especially if it features me.”
“I am well aware of that,” Luke laughed. He took the glass Lord Corvin was offering him with an appreciative nod and proceeded to break his fast with… Claret of all things.
“Doomsday,” Lord Corvin said suddenly, then stopped short as if tasting the word. “Doomsday… Christ, what a name. Your family must be a picture. Particularly that aunt of yours. What was her name again? The one with the fence post.”
Luke smiled fondly. “Aunt Sybil.”
“Right. I’ll forget a name, but never an image. I can conjure her up in my mind as we speak, riding a winged horse over the marshlands like a Valkyrie, smiting Preventives with her flamed fence post.”
Luke snorted into his wine. He sat up abruptly, cupping a hand under his glass to catch any stray droplets that might land on his breeches, but Lord Corvin’s quick handkerchief was already there.
“Thank you,” said Luke with some suspicion,
As their fingers touched, Luke glanced up to find Lord Corvin’s deep brown eyes fixed on him. A spark of excitement went through him because he had witnessed his share of coincidences in his lifetime, and this wasn’t one of them.
“My apologies. I hadn’t meant to startle you, but I trust you know I’ve always found your family fascinating. My God, smugglers. That’s the sole reason I hired you, Luke Doomsday.”
Lord Corvin’s easy laughter filled the room, and Luke found it just as easy to join in. It wasn’t true—his being engaged under Lord Corvin’s service on account of his smuggler’s background. He had confided in Lord Corvin with regards to his family trade, but that had been months into his appointment, and only when he had been certain it wouldn’t be held against him. He had not thought, in his wildest dreams, that Lord Corvin would take the news with enough enthusiasm as though Christmas had come early and asked to be taken to Romney Marsh immediately for an initiation into the trade.
Luke had done nothing of the sort.
“Well in that case, I’m glad your lordship did not ask me to demonstrate my smuggling talents, for they are nonexistent and you would have been disappointed.”
“Nonsense! You were an invaluable secretary, I’m sure you would have been a magnificent smuggler as well.”
Lord Corvin spoke lightly, the smile on his face never faltering, but the words fell heavy over Luke’s shoulders.
“I doubt that very much,” said Luke, and the recurring thought of what his life would have been like if things had gone only slightly different hit him again with force.
If Aunt Sybil, the flaming Valkyrie, hadn’t been so forgiving with her criminal brother, Luke would not have been abused from an early age; he would have been sent to school as a youngster, the way grand-uncle Asa and Joss wanted for him from the beginning. He would have grown to become a secretary surely, might even be here today, only without the scar.
But that hadn’t happened.
Luke’s father did what he did and he hadn’t been stopped until it was too late, and if Luke hadn’t twisted away at the right time, he would not be here today at all.
It seemed to him that his fate had been long carved in stone: secretary or dead man, scar or no scar, but in no way whatsoever had he been fated to become a smuggler.
“I’ve said something, haven’t I?” Lord Corvin’s voice brought Luke out of his reverie.
“No,” Luke lied, then plastered a smile on his face. Only too late did he realise that he had been touching his scar.
Corvin’s eyes were on him—on his scar. Luke was used to people staring at his scar as much as he was used to people resolutely avoiding looking at his face altogether. Lord Corvin fell into neither of those categories, for he seldom stared at Luke, and he never ignored him.
Luke almost flinched when Corvin reached for his hand.
“We do what we can with what we are given, beloved.” He stroked the back of Luke’s hand with his thumb, then flipped it over so that all six of his fingers rested on Luke’s palm.
“It’s a lovely thought,” said Luke, staring at the curious, readily-offered hand. “If it didn’t come from a man of inexhaustible wealth.”
Corvin’s smile widened. “You sound just like Philip. I’ll tell you then what I tell him: if you took all my wealth away, I would still be rich.”
Luke closed his hand around Corvin’s, interlacing their fingers.
“You say that because you’re rich,” he said.
Corvin pinched his wrist, so playfully it could have been a tickle, then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the offending bit of skin. And just like that, they were again past that line that divided them. Now, lips on skin, they were simply men who shared the same inclinations, indistinguishable but for their age, and type of disfigurement.
“Put it this way, then,” he said quietly against the soft skin of Luke’s hand. “If you took everything from me except my wealth, I would have nothing.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’d still have your good looks.”
In his early forties, Lord Corvin was still a very handsome man. Luke could only imagine how devastatingly beautiful he must have been in his youth, and if that portrait was anything to go by, Lord Corvin must have struck fear in the hearts of the parents of young men and women with a virtue to protect. His dark red hair was starting to thin, and gray streaks adorned his brow, but he had retained a devilishly attractive smile, with a set of full lips that now nipped at the meaty part just under Luke’s thumb.
“That might well be, but I hope you’re not missing the point I’m trying to make,” said Lord Corvin, now kissing Luke’s palm.
“You are being rather distracting, my lord.”
“Shush. Tell me, for the sake of my peace of mind,” he said, finding Luke’s eyes. “Is it a matter of money?”
Luke sighed. “I am well aware that if I had wanted to renegotiate the terms of my employment, your lordship would have obliged. But as it is, a larger salary is not what I’m after.”
He was careful with the phrasing, because he did not want to lie. He’d have to be careful from now on, if he was going to put into action the plan he’d been subconsciously plotting for years. And as it was, he did not want to think about that right now, not with Lord Corvin sitting so close and that overfamiliar look in his eyes.
“Then, what is it you’re after?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Luke slid to the edge of his seat and touched his fingers to Corvin’s chin.
“Right this moment? Would a proper farewell be completely out of the question?”
Lord Corvin inhaled sharply. He inclined his chin and pressed his lips to Luke’s fingers. “A proper farewell is very much in my mind,” he replied, the tip of his tongue flicking out teasingly as he slid onto the rug between Luke’s knees. He pressed forward and tilted his chin up, chasing Luke’s mouth, fingers raking up Luke’s thighs. “Same rules?”
Luke pressed his hands to Lord Corvin’s chest, gaining an inch, even though he knew Lord Corvin had never so much as grazed Luke’s scar ever since he’d asked him not to. “If you wouldn’t mind.” He slid his thumbs into Corvin’s lapels and pushed the man’s coat off his shoulders.
Lord Corvin left his coat drop unceremoniously and tilted away from Luke’s face smiling. He dug his nose into the crook of his neck instead, nipping at the skin there and eliciting a shiver down Luke’s entire body.
“Would you like me to fuck you, or would you prefer to fuck me? I would suggest we took turns but I’m not your age anymore,” he whispered against the skin, making Luke both laugh and shiver. “Perhaps I should suck your prick first and see where that takes us? Oh—” His hand slid to the front of his body until his palm was full of Luke’s increasingly interested bulge. “I think that’s a yes?”
Luke’s fingers were digging into Corvin’s shoulders. He leaned closer while tilting his head back, allowing Corvin better access to his neck. God, he loved having his neck sucked.
“Whatever your lordship—ngh… pleases,” he managed.
“In that case,” said Corvin, and he opened the front of Luke’s breeches so deftly that he might have undone them with his mind. Drawers followed and Luke raised his hips so that cloth could be slid down and pushed aside, until he sat there, bare-arsed and cock standing to attention on one of Lord Corvin’s freshly upholstered and outrageously expensive armchairs.
“Beautiful,” whispered Corvin, his exploratory fingers tickling the inside of Luke’s thighs as they reached for his cock, but his eyes were on Luke’s face.
Luke exhaled softly. Despite the brash exterior, Lord Corvin was a gentleman in bed and extremely prone to endearments. The first time he had called Luke beautiful, Luke had almost expected him to laugh. He hadn’t, and with time, Luke had learned to take the word as an indicative of Corvin’s rising passion and approaching climax alone, and nothing personal. It was easy to ignore words floating around you when you were being fucked.
Luke leaned down and kissed him instead of raising the issue. It was a soft, open-mouthed kiss. Corvin returned it enthusiastically, with a playful flick of tongue and a nip to Luke’s chin as he pulled away.
“When you’ve made up your mind, my lovely,” Corvin smiled, moving his hand up and down indicatively, “let me know. Whatever your choice, I promise to make this a memorable one for you.” He spoke through a hunter’s smile, eyes flashing, then he leaned down and took Luke’s cock in his mouth; his tongue curled around the head of his prick, lips tight around the shaft as he began to move.
“Oh, God,” Luke gasped, clutching the armrest.
During the handful of occasions in which Corvin had taken Luke in his mouth, Luke had come absurdly fast. Not only did the Viscount have all the experience in the world, he enjoyed giving pleasure. He knew how to read a body like a book and did so with academic fervor, delivering everything he promised and more. He knew, for instance, that the fastest way to make Luke squirm was to fondle his entrance with a cocksure finger while sucking his prick simultaneously.
Corvin did so just then, knowing perfectly well what he was doing. Luke effectively squirmed and slid slightly down on the armchair, giving Corvin better access, bodily begging for more.
Corvin released Luke’s cock and licked a long strip from base to tip, hands working. “You seem inclined to being fucked today.”
Luke moaned. “Your lordship’s fingers are—ngh… convincing.”
Corvin took the compliment by shifting his attention to Luke’s arse, slipping a considerable section of his finger inside and winning another gasp. The slight intrusion came not without a sting, but was also deliciously calculated, and paired with Corvin’s other hand moving up and down his shaft, Luke felt his decorum begin to crumble all around him. He would not spend two minutes after they had begun. He would not give Corvin that satisfaction again.
“I would very much like… to have a prick inside me before… ah,” he moaned, unable to finish.
“Before… doomsday?” Corvin offered.
Luke quickly found out he hadn’t needed to spell it out for Lord Corvin at all. The man had already let go of Luke’s prick and was fumbling with the front of his breeches.
“Turn around for me,” Corvin whispered, finger carefully slipping out. “And get on the chair.”
Luke turned and climbed back onto the seat, kneeling with his legs apart, his arse on display. He looked over his shoulder, peering through the strands of golden hair that fell over his eyes.
“Like this, my lord?” he asked in mock-innocence, leaning into the backrest.
Corvin’s eyes drank every inch of Luke’s exposed skin. He stroked his cock slowly, almost lazily, but it seemed fit to pound nails. “Christ, you’re young. And beautiful.”
“And waiting.”
Corvin laughed. “I absolutely adore you.”
He moved up against Luke, rubbing his prick between his arse cheeks. The feeling sent an entirely new wave of excitement down Luke’s back, because being fucked by Lord Corvin was much like riding bareback on a prized horse, and amongst other things, it meant Luke would not have a chance at it again and he was planning to enjoy himself.
Corvin leaned bodily over Luke, chest to back, and he began to kiss Luke’s neck all over again, closing his left-hand’s fingers around Luke’s cock, making him writhe and pant and shove his arse back in search for attention.
“I know, I know,” he whispered into Luke’s ear, then bit his earlobe. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Luke heard more than saw the small bottle being uncorked, then took a deep breath as he felt oil dripping down his arse.
“You’ve come prepared,” Luke laughed, delighted.
“More than that, beloved. I’m prepared to come. The question is—are you?” He carefully slid a finger into Luke’s entrance, slow and delicate and very, very targeted.
“Oh, that is. Christ, yes,” Luke gasped, thrusting back, fully enjoying the fact that Lord Corvin had probably done this at least ten thousand times before, and so he might as well close his eyes and let the prized horse take him for the ride of his life. He inhaled sharply and relished the feeling of Corvin nipping at his neck while stroking his cock and stretching him with very clever fingers. Luke moaned and gasped and took a moment to admire Corvin’s incredible multitasking abilities because he was doing everything right and God, he could come just from this.
“God, you’re lovely. I’ve missed being inside you,” Corvin muttered, now two fingers in. His other hand, slick with oil, gave him a sharp squeeze.
“Ah. Then… be… inside me!”
Luke distantly considered that the trouble of fucking a man twice his age and exponentially more experienced than him was that he thought he knew better. Luke just wanted to get fucked. Corvin wanted to torture him with well-versed lips and eleven fucking nimble fingers, make him beg for release while simultaneously pleasing him from beginning to end until he screamed his crisis and couldn’t walk straight for days.
“Just a bit more,” Corvin whispered, and Luke finally heard the right edge to his voice.
Luke swore when Corvin removed his fingers from his arse, then bit his lower lip in an effort at self-control when he felt the tip of Corvin’s cock prod his entrance. He slid in quite effortlessly, but stopped at the little resistance he encountered nonetheless, giving Luke a moment to adjust.
“God, yes,” Corvin’s hands were tight around Luke’s waist, pivoting him slightly so the moment he was in him to the hilt, they both gasped. He raised Luke’s shirt over his back and pressed a wet kiss between Luke’s shoulder blades. “You’re an angel. Lift up your arms, beloved. I want you bare.”
Luke raised his arms obligingly, allowing Corvin to pull his shirt over his head. Then Corvin was thrusting into him before the shirt hit the floor. He leaned over Luke, holding him around the waist, and gave a breathless little laugh near Luke’s ear. “Doomsday, Doomsday.”
Luke’s white-knuckled hands clenched at the backrest, pushing back as Corvin’s hips moved faster. He was strong and ideally-sized, and the man knew how to aim. Within a dozen more thrusts, he was hitting that spot that made Luke want to scream.
“Yes, fuck. That’s—that’s—just—ah.”
Corvin leaned in harder, driving into Luke mercilessly, grunting with every thrust, pulling him with a hand on his waist and another on his shoulder. “You will remember me, won’t you, Doomsday?” He leaned in and licked the back of Luke’s neck.
Luke arched back and turned his head, mouth searching. He yelped when Corvin pulled him upright, one hand around his neck, and kissed him over his shoulder, open-mouthed and desperate, pleasure pulsing through his body. His own neglected cock bounced up and down with every hard thrust, but Luke had barely thought about taking matters into his own hands when Corvin’s own hand wrapped around it, reading Luke’s mind. He worked the shaft to the rhythm of his thrusts, panting into Luke’s open mouth.
“You’re so tight. So tight. It’s been an age for you, hasn’t it my darling?” Corvin muttered into Luke’s ear, taking fistfuls of Luke’s arse as he plunged into him. “I wish you’d come to me more often. God, you’re tight. I—want to—spend inside you.”
“God—yes,” Luke rasped back, timing his words with Corvin’s thrusts. He raised his arms over his head and slid his fingers into Corvin’s hair. “Fuck me, my lord. Fuck me—one—last—time.”
With Luke in an upright position, Corvin’s hands began to roam the expanse of his chest, pinching his nipples and making Luke groan. “You like me doing that, my sweet?”
“Yes. Ngh… more.”
“God, I wish I could have you… like this… and suck your prick at the same time. I want you in my mouth, I want me in your arse…”
Luke couldn’t speak; the man’s words were driving him out of his mind with desire. He needed this. He had no idea how much he had needed it when he came into the study this morning. He needed this, and more of it. Harder. On his knees. Luke’s hands reached behind him, pulling Corvin closer, slamming back into the man’s cock.
“Christ,” Corvin interjected, then pulled Luke off the armchair, carefully bending his knees so Luke folded before him, landing him on all fours, just the way Luke had imagined. The fucking mind-reader.
Luke’s hair fell over his face, knuckles clutching at nothing on the rug, but he thrust back harder because Corvin’s relentless pounding was hitting that spot every time and pleasure was building so quickly he needed to memorize the feeling before it was over. It was perfect ecstasy—intense and uncomplicated. Just two men finding pleasure in each other’s bodies, one very experienced, the other very willing, and none looking for more than that, safe in the confines of a manor house, in a room full of dirty books.
“Fuck,” Luke yelped with startled pleasure. He wished he could go on forever, but he also desperately needed to spend. “Harder. Oh, Jesus. Please!”
“Say that again,” Corvin rasped. “God, you’re beautiful. You’re a perfect little angel.” He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in with startling force, aiming correctly and making Luke yelp again.
“Please, my lord. Fuck me. Don’t stop,” Luke panted.
Corvin picked up an almost erratic pace, hard and incredibly well-aimed, making Luke moan incoherently within a few punishing thrusts.
Luke shut his eyes, mouth hanging open. He took every bit of Corvin’s relentless pace with delight, pleasure rippling through him as his orgasm began to rapidly build at the pit of his stomach. If he so much as touched his prick, he would come and they both knew it.
“God, you beautiful creature. You’re going to make me spend. Come here.”
Corvin lifted Luke off the rug until his back was leaning against him and he was almost sitting on his lap. Luke’s fingernails dug into his own legs as Corvin continued to thrust upwards, but in this position, Luke also had more freedom to move. He did so, impaling himself on Lord Corvin’s cock as hard as he could. When Corvin’s nimble fingers slid past his waist and wrapped around his cock, Luke let out his loudest yelp yet.
“Come for me, beloved,” Corvin whispered into Luke’s ear. “Fuck yourself on me, make me come too. I want to, so very badly.”
“Fuck, fuck,” Luke muttered like a mantra, bobbing up and down as Corvin’s hand brought him closer and closer. The stiff cock in his arse and the nimble hand on his own piece would have been enough to make him come in a matter of seconds, but then Lord Corvin’s mouth closed around Luke’s earlobe and the world exploded. Luke shut his eyes and let out a loud cry of pleasure as he instantly came, painfully hard, spilling in hot, powerful spurts all over himself.
“God, fuck!” Corvin grunted, one hand still milking Luke to the last drop, another hand tight around his waist, holding him still as he gave little pointed thrusts and emptied himself inside him. “Christ, Doomsday! You beautiful, gorgeous, delicious—”
Luke sagged, certain Corvin would take his weight but not caring much if he didn’t. He couldn’t move, he could barely think. He felt Corvin’s hands on his hips, still urgent and tight, while the man continued to utter quiet words of praise into his ear, peppering kisses on his shoulders. Luke took a deep breath and groaned his satisfaction, feeling like he could sleep for the rest of the day.
A moment later, Luke’s heartrate somewhat back to normal, he found his voice. “I should get off you.”
“Lie down,” said Corvin, still panting slightly. “I’ll clean you up.”
Luke slid down onto the rug and lay on his back, perfectly satiated as Corvin reached for a handkerchief from his coat. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”
Corvin laughed and began wiping the mess on Luke’s stomach and between his legs. Luke closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of being taken care of, something that Lord Corvin always did for him after the act. When he was done, Luke opened his eyes to find the man coming to lie down on the rug next to him, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Are you well, my sweet?”
Luke smiled crookedly. “Perfectly.” He turned, finding Corvin’s deep brown eyes. They shone with genuine fondness, and Luke couldn’t help reaching out for the man’s fingers. “It really has been a pleasure.”
“The pleasure’s been all mine. Well,” he said, leaning down and nuzzling Luke’s unscarred cheek. “Ours.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to Luke’s, kissing him tenderly. There wasn’t anything overtly sexual about the way their mouths moved, nor were there hints of anything sentimental. It was only pleasurable, as kissing was ever meant to be, and Luke’s eyelashes fluttered shut of their own accord.
“Entirely ours,” Luke whispered once Corvin had pulled back.
“I do hope you find what you’re looking for, my sweet. Whatever that is.”
“I shall know if it was all worth it when I find it.” Luke thought that summed up very nicely his trepidation about the future, as well as his certainty that he would indeed succeed. After he walked out of these doors, there was no coming back. He wouldn’t need to spend too much time with Grayson, just enough for him to justify another reference, which he would need in order to put his plan into motion.
Corvin removed a strand of hair from Luke’s forehead. At times, Luke thought that the man was indeed a mind reader. “And while we’re on the subject. I don’t intend to presume to know much about Sir John Grayson,” he began, but was cut off by Luke’s laughter.
“I don’t believe we were on that subject at all, my lord.”
Corvin slapped him gently on the hip. “We were discussing your future, so this is well within the scope. Listen, John doesn’t like him, and nor do I. He might be a decent employer, that is for you to find out, but we are rather good judges of character. And if Grayson isn’t decent…”
Luke propped himself up on an elbow. “Yes?”
“John’s been much too idle now that the renovations are finished. I’m certain he wouldn’t mind a new project. To sketch.” He raised an eyebrow at Luke in a very telling fashion.
Luke laughed again, and kissed him. There was a sense of finality in the air when he pulled back, but the smile that grew on his face held no regrets.
By the time they were both dressed and presentable, the filigree clock on the desk told that the time of Luke’s departure was nearing close. Lord Corvin approached Luke with an unsealed envelope.
“I’ve made two copies, just in case,” he said, offering it to Luke.
“Thank you.”
There was a discreet knock on the door and they both turned as Cornelius walked in, his timing impeccable as always.
“The carriage has arrived for Mister Doomsday.”
“Thank you, Cornelius.”
The man departed, closing the door behind him and leaving them in silence again.
“Well,” said Luke. “I’ll be taking my leave now, my lord.”
“Wait,” said Corvin. He turned and reached for the copy of Jonathan that lay on the desk behind him. “Take this with you.”
Luke stared, eyes going from the book to Corvin’s knowing smile, which widened with every passing second. “I couldn’t possibly,” he recoiled.
“Nonsense. I want you to have it.”
“It’s a limited copy, your lordship,” Luke muttered back, angry at himself for not accepting it quickly in the first place before Corvin changed his mind. But he couldn’t simply take Jonathan. It was too rare, too precious. Too dangerous.
“I am aware of that, Doomsday,” said Corvin with humor, “but I only need one. The others are for me to give away as I please.”
Corvin snatched the letters of reference back from Luke and slid them randomly between Jonathan’s pages. He took Luke’s hand and placed the spine firmly there, making Luke’s fingers close around it.
Luke was dumbfounded. He stared back at Corvin, well aware that his mouth was hanging open, but despite his mind working furiously, he couldn’t come up with a single thing to say. In the end, he pressed the book to his chest and smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Doomsday. Do me a favor and find happiness, will you? You deserve it.”
Luke nodded, not sure if he agreed.
“I will remember you, my lord.”
Corvin laughed and stuck his hand out. “Fondly?”
Luke shook it. “Very.”
He walked out of Lord Corvin’s study without looking back, aware of the man’s eyes on the back of his head, or perhaps on his arse. When he was finally in the carriage, he heaved a sigh that had nothing to do with the little bit of soreness he felt when he sat down.
Looking out the window as the carriage started to move, he held Jonathan to his chest and wondered what the future held for him.
WRAYTON HARCOURT, DERBYSHIRE
DECEMBER 1823
Lord Corvin glanced up from his book when the doors suddenly burst open and John barged into the room.
“V!” he said, laughing. “You must read this!”
Corvin’s eyes went straight to his friend’s raised hand as he approached with urgent footsteps.
“A letter? Is it from Philip and Guy?”
“You will never guess,” he said, giving Corvin the letter and going straight to the decanter. “By God.”
Corvin sat up straight and quickly scanned the letter. “It’s from Doomsday!”
“Read it. Out loud,” said John, making himself comfortable on an armchair and propping his feet up on the table, the very picture of a man readying himself for an absolute treat.
Corvin raised his eyebrows and began to read.
Stone Manor, Romney Marsh
December 24th, 1823
Mr. John Raven.
Dear sir,
I write to you from Stone Manor, Isle of Oxney, where I have been engaged as a private secretary for Rufus d’Aumnesty, nineteenth Earl of Oxney, twenty-second Baron Stone, since April of this year.
“Romney Marsh!” Corvin interjected. “How exciting. Is he back to smuggling? Wait, why is he writing to you and not me?” he added dramatically.
“Keep reading!”
It is a very good position and I am exceedingly happy here. It isn’t easy finding a suitable post these days, but in the past few years I count myself lucky to have found two, and under excellent men no less. I trust you know I am referring to Lord Corvin as well.
The reason I am writing to you and not him is something that he should be able to explain. I would not presume to rob him the pleasure of retelling the story.
After Lord Corvin’s explanation, this should make sense to you:
My secretarial post under Sir John Grayson was as short as it was unpleasant , and I left following a difference of opinion. He wanted me to bed his wife, and I didn’t. This appears to be an understanding between husband and wife, and the very reason behind my appointment and that of other secretaries who have sadly met the same fate as myself.
This, as you may presume, is strictly confidential. The mere whisper of these accusations would be enough to tarnish Sir John’s pristine reputation for the rest of his life. The very thought of what London society would say if this were to be known or—God forbid—turned into satirical prints, is simply appalling.
I embrace this favourable opportunity to wish you and Lord Corvin a Happy Christmas.
Should you ever intend to visit Romney Marsh at any point in the future, I beg you would grant Stone Manor the honor of your visit. I speak with the Earl of Oxney’s absolute consent. I should love nothing more than to regale you with a truly gothic tale of villainy and lost treasure that would most certainly live up to The Secret of Darkdown. Speaking of which, Jonathan sends his regards.
I remain, ever your servant.
Luke Doomsday
“Christ!” Corvin cried with laughter. He looked up and saw the same mirth mirrored in John’s eyes.
“I believe this calls for a toast,” said John, offering Corvin a glass. “I’m telling you, this couldn’t have come at a better time. I have been pestered with requests for new material for months now.”
“To Doomsday!” said Corvin, raising his glass.
“To doomsday indeed.”