A Nobleman's Guide to Seducing a Scoundrel (The Doomsday Books, #2)

by K.J. Charles

He walked to the point where a thorn tree grew by the Channel. A man had died here thirteen years ago, his neck wrung like an unwanted dog’s in the dark. He’d been little mourned then and was mostly forgotten now, and if any part of his life had done any good to anyone, Luke wasn’t aware of it. All the same, he stood watching the ripples on the water and thinking about the ripples from that long-ago death until he heard the faint bell of the half-hour roll down from St. Mary-the-Virgin in Stone, and echoed by St. Mary’s in Appledore. Time to go.

lief

lief /lēf/ I. adverb — (as lief) 1. ‹archaic› as happily; as gladly • he would just as lief eat a pincushion. – origin Old English lēof ‘dear, pleasant,’ of Germanic origin: related to leave2 and love.

The North Wing was, it seemed, unused. It did have a portrait gallery, though, to which Odo took them as a sort of grand finale. This included indecipherably dark fifteenth-century images painted on boards, and crumbling parchments, reverently kept, that Odo said went back to the thirteenth. “These show that William le Bâtard, the Conqueror himself, bestowed the barony of Stone on Aymer d’Aumesty in 1068. Henry the First created the earldom, making Pagan d’Aumesty the first Lord Oxney in 1129. Of course Henry founded the Angevin dynasty”—his tone suggested that this was a regrettable faux pas—“but as the Conqueror’s son, he was of the true Norman blood, which we have the honour of carrying in our veins. Aymer was a paternal cousin of the great William, as you know.” “I didn’t,” Oxney said. “So as the twenty-second baron, I’m William the Conqueror’s first cousin twenty-two times removed?” “Well, the exact number—” “And that’s impressive?” “Of course! The unbroken lineage—” “Everyone’s got an unbroken lineage,” Lord Oxney said. “We’ve all got a father and a grandfather and a twenty-two-times great-grandfather. Can you name your twenty-two-times great-grandfather, Doomsday?” “Aymer d’Aumesty,” Luke said without thinking. “I beg your pardon?” Luke cursed himself mentally. He ought to have learned about keeping smart remarks inside his head a long time ago. At least Oxney looked startled rather than annoyed. “Well, if the Doomsdays are an offshoot of the d’Aumestys at some poin...

He ushered Luke into an extremely depressing room. It had small leaded windows that needed cleaning, dull and very dark wood panelling, a rug on the floor that had had the pattern walked out of it, as his Aunt Mary might say, a couple of etchings of Stone Manor with some suspiciously egg-headed figures in the foreground, and an extremely faded armchair which was sprouting horsehair and had been sat on to the point that the seat had an arse-shaped dint. A clock ticked like doom. “Apparently my grandfather sat here every day for eighty years,” Lord Oxney said, adding sourly, “You can hardly tell.” “New furniture?” Luke suggested. “When I’ve summoned up the energy.” “Would you care for me to organise it?” Lord Oxney cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” “Well, I’m a secretary,” Luke said. “This is the kind of thing I do. And if you don’t have anyone else to do it—” “Won’t you be busy in the archives?” “I like to be busy. And I’d like to be of help.” “Very kind, but I’d advise you to make sure of your ground before you go into battle,” Oxney said. “Changing anything from how ‘dear Father’ liked it is a mortal insult round here, and while it might be amusing to pit you against Matilda in full tragedy-queen voice, it would be a little unfair on you.” Luke tilted his head. “Have you heard of Ma Doomsday, at all, Lord Oxney?” “My valet mentioned something. A local legend, yes? Some appalling ogress who led smugglers into pitched battles, and whose name is used to frighten the children.” “M...

“The estate should be grateful you inherited, then.” “I wouldn’t say that.” Oxney threw himself back in the chair and met Luke’s eyes. “You want the truth, Doomsday? Actually, you’re getting it, want or not. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t make head or tail of the books, I’ve no idea what it means to manage an estate, and nobody here wants to help me even if anyone is competent to, which I’m beginning to doubt. I’m in the middle of a slow disaster and there’s nothing I can do about it. We’d all better pray that you’re the true heir, because I’m not fit for the role.” “I take leave to differ, my lord.” Luke took Odo’s abandoned chair and pulled it over, without waiting for a nod to sit. “Lord Oxney, you cannot possibly tackle this alone. That’s not your failing or fault: you’re unfamiliar with this work and faced with years of incompetence, mismanagement, and neglect. Therefore, you need help. You need an excellent secretary as a matter of urgency, to deal with the details while you start taking control of the overall situation.” He waited a second for that to sink in, and went on, deliberately, “Whereas I need a post with someone who will shield me from any retaliation over this affair, and if that someone was titled, it would be very useful for my future career. It seems to me, my lord, we could help one another.” Oxney gave him a long look. “I see. And are you an excellent secretary?” “Yes. I am.” He glanced around at the distressing piles of paper on the floor. “No...

Lord Oxney was so obviously a man who gave people chances: there was a very kind heart under the thick muscle and temper. It made him staggeringly easy to manipulate. Luke made a silent vow that nobody else would be doing that while he was here.

“Unless it turns out you’re the earl.” Luke winced. “Could we work on the assumption that I’m not? I really would prefer to make as little of that tale as possible. The jokes will be endless, and I’d rather not have future employers think I’m grasping at privilege above my station.” “That would be a damned unfair interpretation to put on things.” “But it will be put on. I’d rather be here as a secretary than a pretender.” “Is that you knowing your place?” “A secretary’s place is quite flexible,” Luke said. “Let me know what you want from me, and I’ll do my best to provide it.” He should probably not have said that, because Oxney’s eyes widened. Just a little flicker, just there, that sudden crackle of awareness at a second meaning.

(Rufus had asked how the devil he managed that. “I didn’t shout at him,” Doomsday said, “and I let him tell me all about the family history while we worked, in full detail. I think we reached the reign of Queen Anne.” Rufus had not pressed further: he could see when a man’s eyes held pain.)

Oh God, he was making such a bad mistake. He knew it all too well, but Luke was very good at not thinking about things he didn’t want to face: he’d been well trained. The realisation only hit home at occasional moments, such as when he found that he’d been daydreaming of Oxney at his desk, and realised his prick was thick and heavy with it. This was stupid beyond belief. He’d lost his last position because his employer had wanted his body as well as his talents; he ought to know where that led. Admittedly, he’d been very happily seduced by his employer in the position before that, to no ill effect, but Lord Corvin was an excellent man to be seduced by, mostly because he was quite frank about what he offered. Entertainment if you care for it, no hard feelings if you don’t, he had said in so many words, and Luke had indeed been entertained. That wasn’t this. That was nothing like this, because while Luke had liked Corvin, he hadn’t cared for him in the slightest. That was why he’d fucked him: because for all his vaunted brains, Luke was painfully aware that he did not love intelligently. So he tried his best not to love at all. He chose as partners men who could fuck with friendliness and part without dramatics, because he had control of his life these days, and didn’t intend to lose it again. But there was still a kernel of him that was a desperate, lost, hungry thing, and no matter how hard he tried to starve it out, it was always there, poking its head out at a sniff of a...

He was here for a reason. He deserved this. And he was earning his wage, even if he wasn’t dedicating all of his time to the job. When he left Stone Manor in triumph, he vowed, he’d also leave the household in the right frame of mind, the books in good order, and the d’Aumestys a cowed, subservient rabble. The first of those was going to plan. Mrs. Conrad had downed tools, demanding a full apology for Oxney’s many offences and submission as to her right to direct the running of the Manor and its staff. He had apologised for his language but stood his ground otherwise, and she had accordingly refused to instruct Cook or the housekeeper any further since her labour went unappreciated. That had been a tactical error since, while the butler adored her, the others did not. Under Emily’s guidance, Luke had made sure both women knew that this was their opportunity to claim their domains, while encouraging Oxney to offer them profuse apologies, well-merited praise, and thanks for their assistance in a difficult situation. They had both risen to the occasion with a show of competent authority that suggested they preferred not to work under Mrs. Conrad’s close supervision. Emily assured him that the phrase ‘His lordship’s orders’ was starting to trump ‘Mr. Pauncefoot says’. Factions had formed. Several of the upper servants weren’t speaking to one another. Luke lived for it. The second aim was also going well. Odo’s bookkeeping hadn’t been dishonest, just extremely Odoesque, and whi...

Rufus sat for a moment, thinking about Luke Doomsday awake and two rooms away. He was so bright, in every way. The hair, the intelligence, the vibrant force of personality. A bright spark in a dark house, worth his weight in gold, and Rufus would be a damned fool to jeopardise that simply because he couldn’t stop noticing the man. Rufus wasn’t generally speaking a slave to his desires. He’d been a late developer in the petticoat line; he’d felt no urge to trouble the camp-followers, and nobody had troubled him, since he hadn’t been a pretty youth, but rather an awkward, bulky lout. He had discovered tupping in due course, but he also discovered he only cared for it when he liked his partner, when you could share a laugh and you both enjoyed yourselves. He couldn’t see the point of putting his prick in someone for whom he had no affection, as a merely physical act. In short, where his fellows all seemed to have spent years in thrall to the beast with two backs, Rufus had never found it particularly compelling. That was probably a blessing, given his desires had always seemed to run towards men. He’d assumed he’d eventually meet a woman who would spark his interest, or at least those interests, enough for marriage, but that was yet to happen. At the age of thirty-three, Rufus thought he might be set in his ways, and wasn’t troubled by the fact. It was his body and he’d use it as he pleased, whether that was with men or with nobody at all. He’d been entirely content with that...

I want you to explain why you’re roaming the house, or the grounds, at this hour!” “I am conducting my life,” Doomsday said, with something of a hiss. “I don’t see I need to account for that.” Rufus had dressed down too many misbehaving junior officers not to spot evasion when he saw it. “Oh, yes you do. I won’t have my staff creeping round doing God knows what at God knows when. Explain yourself. Now.” “If you insist. I had an assignation.” “A—” “Assignation. An appointment to get fucked, if you want it spelled out. Which, sadly, did not come to pass, so it seems I got up for no reason. I trust that suffices?” “No, it bloody doesn’t,” Rufus said, on a wave of feelings he didn’t stop to examine. “Your private life is your business, but my household is my responsibility. I won’t have local girls popping out my staff’s bastards—” Doomsday’s head went back as though he’d been slapped. “It is my business, and I am not basket-making, and if I were, that would also be my business and I would deal with the consequences. Which will not in any case happen, so—” “You know damned well you can’t promise that, and don’t try to distract me,” Rufus said. “This is a bloody lie. Why the devil would you be meeting girls at two in the morning?” Sneaking off for a roll in the hay was a time-honoured country activity, but nobody was wandering around the Isle of Oxney at this hour for that. There was no shortage of opportunity for a fumble in this barely-populated place: a girl could surely eva...

“You work for me, rot you! Do you not realise the position you’re putting yourself in?” “I was hoping you’d do that.” Rufus stared at his secretary. Doomsday stared back, chin high, eyes a little wide. “Specifically, I hoped you might get over your moral scruples and give me the tupping we both want.” His lips curved suddenly and irrepressibly, a painfully familiar, lovely sight. “I’ve been waiting for you to exercise your droit du seigneur for weeks.” Rufus couldn’t think of a thing to say. There were things, he knew, important ones; there was common sense to be exerted, and an entire array of second thoughts and warning signs to be taken into account. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see any of them because his vision had shrunk to Doomsday’s guinea-gold hair, the dark eyes on his, the reddened lips, just slightly parted, waiting. He lifted one tentative hand to his secretary’s face, and found it caught at the wrist in a hard, almost convulsive grip. He tried to jerk away, horrified. Doomsday didn’t let go. “Sorry, sorry. Just, not the scar, that’s all. Don’t touch it, don’t talk about it. I’m open to more or less anything else.” Rufus might have thought of that for himself. At least now he knew Doomsday had no hesitation in raising objections. It ought to have been a reassurance. “Would you please, in simple words, tell me what you want?” Doomsday relaxed his tight grip, but didn’t altogether let go. Instead he slid his hand up to intertwine his fingers with Rufus’s, sending ...

He lifted one tentative hand to his secretary’s face, and found it caught at the wrist in a hard, almost convulsive grip. He tried to jerk away, horrified. Doomsday didn’t let go. “Sorry, sorry. Just, not the scar, that’s all. Don’t touch it, don’t talk about it. I’m open to more or less anything else.”

Rufus walked him against the wall, this time pressing the length of his body against his secretary, holding both his hands palm to palm, curling their fingers together. “Doomsday. Luke,” he tried. The name suited him, the smooth sound, closed off with a determined click. “Luke,” he said again, enjoying the way the name felt in his mouth. “What do you want?” “Is a damn good fucking out of the question?” His breath was warm on Rufus’s face. “Tell me you’ve thought of oil.” “In my pocket.” “Absolutely enragingly competent,” Rufus said. “I may have mentioned that.” He hauled Luke bodily off the wall with a hand under his—yes, as firm as it looked—arse. Luke yelped. Rufus half carried him the couple of steps across the room, and dropped him on his back on the bed. He stared up, eyes very dark, that irresistible mouth curving. “Seigneur.” Rufus climbed onto the bed, over him, trapping Luke’s arms with his knees, saw his eyes widen. Luke licked his lips with a slow, entirely deliberate tongue, wetting them so they gleamed in the dim light. “To be clear,” Rufus said. “I’m not a man for hints. If there’s something—something particular—you want of me, spit it out.” “Spitting it out is the last thing I’m going to do. I want you in my mouth. Like this, now.” Rufus fumbled with buttons, pushing cloth out of the way with clumsy urgency till he had his stand clear. He leaned forward as Luke curled up to meet him, and then his mouth was on Rufus’s prick and the pleasure spiked so hard he ...

“Lord” seigneur /sānˈyər / seignior I. noun ‹chiefly historical› a feudal lord; the lord of a manor. II. derivatives seigneurial /senˈyo͝orēəl sānˈyərēəl / adjective – origin late 16th cent.: from Old French, from Latin senior ‘older, elder.’ A seigneur (French pronunciation: [sɛɲœʁ] ⓘ) or lord is an originally feudal title in France before the Revolution, in New France and British North America until 1854, and in the Channel Islands to this day. The seigneur owned a seigneurie, seigneury, or lordship—a form of title or land tenure—as a fief, with its associated obligations and rights over person and property.[1] In this sense, a seigneur could be an individual—male or female, high or low-born—or a collective entity, typically a religious community such as a monastery, seminary, college, or parish. In the wake of the French Revolution, seigneurialism was repealed in France on 4 August 1789 and in the Province of Canada on 18 December 1854.[2] Since then, the feudal title has only been applicable in the Channel Islands and for sovereign princes by their families. Sophie Masson, seigneuresse of Terrebonne, Canada Terms edit The English seigneur is borrowed from the French seigneur, which descends from Middle French seigneur, from Old French seignor (oblique form of sire), from Latin seniōrem, the accusative singular of senior ("elder"), the comparative form of senex ("old, elderly"). It is a doublet of the English words senior, sir, sire, seignior, sieur, and monsieur and shares the same provenance as the Italian signore, Portuguese senhor, and Spanish señor, which—like mister—referred to feudal lords before becoming general words of respectful address towards men. The noble title and land title of a seigneur is a seigneurie or lordship, the rights that the seigneur was entitled to is called seigneuriage, and the jurisdiction exercised over the fief was seigneur justicier. The bearers of these titles, rights, and jurisdiction were generally but not exclusively male. A female seigneur was generally known as a seigneuresse or lady. The seigneur could be a noble or a roturier (commoner) as well as a corporation such as religious order, a monastery, a parish. In English, seigneur is used in historical scholarship to discuss the French seigneurial system.[3] It is also frequently calqued as "lord", the analogous term in the English feudal system. The term grand seigneur has survived in English and French. Today this usually means an elegant, urbane gentleman. Some even use it in a stricter sense to refer to a man whose manners and way of life reflect his noble ancestry and great wealth. In addition, Le Grand Seigneur had long been the name given by the French to the Ottoman sultan.[4] Notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ is the French equivalent of the English Our Lord Jesus Christ. The English word seignorage is also derived from seigneur. Current use in the Channel Islands edit Main article: Feudalism in the Channel Islands The title is still used in the Channel Islands, self-governing territories in the English Channel which swear fealty to the British Crown as the successor to the Duke of Normandy.[5] In particular, it refers to the Seigneur of Sark, the hereditary ruler of Sark, a jurisdiction of the Bailiwick of Guernsey. The Seigneur of Saint Ouen and the Seigneur of Samarès are titles in the Bailiwick of Jersey. According to the Feudal Dues Law of 1980 of Guernsey, the style of Dame or Seigneur is legally authorized for use by Seigneurs and Dames of Fiefs of the Crown Dependency of Guernsey.[5] Guernsey or the Bailiwick of Guernsey is one of the Channel Islands that is a Crown Dependency. Guernsey still has feudal law and legal fiefs in existence today. Each fief has a Seigneur and/or Dame that owns the fief. The Guernsey fiefs and seigneurs have long existed before baronies and are part of Normandy. While nobility has been outlawed in France and Germany, noble fiefs still exist by law in Guernsey. The owners of the fiefs actually convene each year at the Court of Chief Pleas under the supervision of His Majesty's Government. There are approximately 24 private fiefs in Guernsey that are registered directly with the Crown. Some Fief Seigneurs own more than one Fief or have several Fiefs within their Fief territory. [6]

Luke sat on the bed, bare-chested himself, staring. “You’re magnificent.” He rose to his bare feet, with a hand out, face almost awed. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d look like.” His fingers skimmed Rufus’s chest, dragging through the tangle of hair, sliding over a hard nipple. Rufus reached for his head, getting his hands into the gold hair—thick, smooth, wonderfully grippable—feeling Luke’s hands roam over his sides, his belly, his thighs. Both touching their fill, because they had been waiting far too long. Luke’s fingers paused on Rufus’s right thigh, where gnarled scar tissue told its story of the musket ball and, far worse, the camp doctors. By comparison the various sabre-slashes were quite tidy. “You don’t mind this?” “I minded a great deal at the time, but there’s no shame in scars.” Christ, could he not say anything right tonight? “I mean, nothing to it, for me. I see it as a useful reminder, that’s all.” “Reminder of what?” Rufus shrugged. “To stand a foot to the left next time.” Luke burst out laughing. Rufus dragged him closer, clamping his hands on that absolutely irresistible arse, and kissed him, feeling the smile against his mouth. “You bloody beauty. Get these off.” He was working at Luke’s buttons as he spoke. Luke took a hand, wriggling breeches and drawers off and kicking them away, and Rufus pushed him back onto the bed again. He was stunning naked. The gold of his hair was carried down in the thick chest hair, the line that arrowed down to his g...

“I don’t want you to fear for your position any more than for yourself. I had told myself I would not touch you for exactly that reason.” Luke gave a tiny shrug. “I also intended to be sensible.” “Good intentions,” Rufus muttered. “Not worth the paper they’re written on.” “And I realise that last night, ah, overstepped the boundaries. You may not wish to do that again.” Rufus didn’t know if one could overstep boundaries again when they had already been thoroughly and mutually trampled into the ground. Perhaps he ought to re-erect them. If he only knew where they should be. He knew where he wanted them to be, in this moment, with Luke inches away and the memory of his touch, his taste. “I do wish to do it again,” he said. “I’d sodding love to do it again, repeatedly. Just not at the cost of your job, or your well-being, or our friendship. I hope you count us friends.” “Yes,” Luke said, voice rather constricted. “Yes, I…have come to do that.” “As your friend, I don’t want to hurt you. As your employer, I don’t want to lose you. As the man whose bed you adorned last night, I’d very much like you back there, but not at the expense of the rest. So tell me what you want, and I will do my best to do right by you, which includes taking your ‘no’ with all the grace I can muster.” Luke’s dark eyes looked huge. “I believe that you would hear my ‘no’. Could I persuade you to hear my ‘yes’?” “I would take that with pleasure.” Rufus’s chest felt rather tight. “A lot of pleasure.” “Promi...

“I will let you know if you do or suggest anything I don’t want. I won’t gloss my objections, spare your feelings, or worry for my employment. Does that satisfy you?”

“I don’t want you to fear for your position any more than for yourself. I had told myself I would not touch you for exactly that reason.” Luke gave a tiny shrug. “I also intended to be sensible.” “Good intentions,” Rufus muttered. “Not worth the paper they’re written on.” “And I realise that last night, ah, overstepped the boundaries. You may not wish to do that again.” Rufus didn’t know if one could overstep boundaries again when they had already been thoroughly and mutually trampled into the ground. Perhaps he ought to re-erect them. If he only knew where they should be. He knew where he wanted them to be, in this moment, with Luke inches away and the memory of his touch, his taste. “I do wish to do it again,” he said. “I’d sodding love to do it again, repeatedly. Just not at the cost of your job, or your well-being, or our friendship. I hope you count us friends.” “Yes,” Luke said, voice rather constricted. “Yes, I…have come to do that.” “As your friend, I don’t want to hurt you. As your employer, I don’t want to lose you. As the man whose bed you adorned last night, I’d very much like you back there, but not at the expense of the rest. So tell me what you want, and I will do my best to do right by you, which includes taking your ‘no’ with all the grace I can muster.” Luke’s dark eyes looked huge. “I believe that you would hear my ‘no’. Could I persuade you to hear my ‘yes’?” “I would take that with pleasure.” Rufus’s chest felt rather tight. “A lot of pleasure.” “Promi...

“If I wanted accurate historical detail I’d fuck Mr. Odo, and don’t ever make me have that thought again.”

“I don’t want you to fear for your position any more than for yourself. I had told myself I would not touch you for exactly that reason.” Luke gave a tiny shrug. “I also intended to be sensible.” “Good intentions,” Rufus muttered. “Not worth the paper they’re written on.” “And I realise that last night, ah, overstepped the boundaries. You may not wish to do that again.” Rufus didn’t know if one could overstep boundaries again when they had already been thoroughly and mutually trampled into the ground. Perhaps he ought to re-erect them. If he only knew where they should be. He knew where he wanted them to be, in this moment, with Luke inches away and the memory of his touch, his taste. “I do wish to do it again,” he said. “I’d sodding love to do it again, repeatedly. Just not at the cost of your job, or your well-being, or our friendship. I hope you count us friends.” “Yes,” Luke said, voice rather constricted. “Yes, I…have come to do that.” “As your friend, I don’t want to hurt you. As your employer, I don’t want to lose you. As the man whose bed you adorned last night, I’d very much like you back there, but not at the expense of the rest. So tell me what you want, and I will do...

“Right of the lord…” droit /droit/ I. noun [Law] ‹historical› a right or due. – origin late Middle English: from Old French, based on Latin directus ‘straight, right, direct.’ A droit (French for right or Law) is a legal title, claim or due. Droits of admiralty (English law) edit The term is used in English law in the phrase "droits of admiralty". This refers to certain customary rights or perquisites, formerly belonging to the Lord High Admiral, but now to the crown, for public purposes and paid into the Exchequer. These droits (see also wreck) consisted of flotsam, jetsam, ligan - (goods or wreckage on the sea bed that is attached to a buoy so that it can be recovered), treasure, deodand, derelict (maritime), within the admiral's jurisdiction; all fines, forfeitures, ransoms, recognizances and pecuniary punishments; all sturgeons, whales, porpoises, dolphins, grampuses and such large fishes; all ships and goods of the enemy coming into any creek, road or port, by durance or mistake; all ships seized at sea, salvage, etc., with the share of prizes such shares being afterwards called "tenths", in imitation of the French, who gave their admiral a droit de dixième. The droits of admiralty were definitely surrendered for the benefit of the public by Prince George of Denmark, when Lord High Admiral of England in 1702. American law does not recognize any such droits, and the disposition of captured property is regulated by various acts of Congress.[1] Other legal connexions (French law, etc.) edit The term droit is also used in various legal connexions (i.e., French law), such as the droit of angary, the droit d'achat (right of pre-emption) in the case of contraband, the feudal droit de bris (see wreck), the droit de regale or ancient royal privilege of claiming the revenues and patronage of a vacant bishopric, and the feudal droites of seignory generally.[1] In French, droit can mean the whole body of the Law, as in the motto "dieu et mon droit", which is to say "God and my whole body of Law." Droit d'auteur is a term for French copyright law.[citation needed]

That first time in the study, Rufus had sat in the chair reading Jonathan, the erotic novel—it had a good-sized, clear typeface, and the content offered a powerful inducement to take the trouble—for far longer than Luke had found reasonable. Turning pages, occasionally licking his finger to do it, all but forcing Luke to calculate where in the story he’d got to. Luke had impressive powers of concentration, but that morning he’d had all the focus of a four-year-old who’d eaten too many sweetmeats. He’d almost cried with relief when Rufus had finally crooked a finger. Come here. Suck me. Bring yourself off while you do it. That had been copied from a scene in the book, and Luke could only applaud. Applaud, obey, tumble headlong down the primrose path because it was so very, very pleasant to be on. It had been a week now, in which they’d fucked at least twice a day. Luke didn’t have the time for that, and did it anyway. He wanted to do his job. He had work to do and the books were crying out for deliverance. But there were only so many hours in the day and night, and Rufus was claiming so many of them. Obviously, he could say no. No, I will not put down my pen and come to your arms; no, I don’t want you sitting there reading Jonathan in the corner of my eye; no, I will not join you for a brandy in your rooms after dinner, and end up on or over the settle at midnight when I ought to be searching your house. No. Chance be a fine thing.

“Do I need to know anything about your relations with Sir Gareth?” “He’s the best man I know. He changed my life out of nothing but kindness and took me into his home and paid for my education, and if you’re looking askance at that, get your mind out of the gutter.” “I see. Well, if he’s been such a good friend to you, with no ulterior motive—” “He is and has,” Luke said, bristling.

And since his holiday was beginning in this ancient bed… “So we have an hour.” He rolled over onto his side, under Rufus’s arm, and ran his hand down the strong flank, noticing—it was hard to miss—that Rufus had an admirable case of morning wood. “And the door is locked. Both doors?” “Both…? Ah.” Luke made a strangled noise, rolled out of bed, and locked the door that led to his own room, then tested the other door was in fact locked as promised, because Rufus was an idiot. He turned back to see that the Earl had kicked off the coverlet and was sprawled naked over the sheets. An idiot, but a glorious one. Luke took the time for a good look at his thick, muscled body, pale in the dim light, framed by the weird carving of the bed that caged him. “God.” “What?” “You look like… I don’t know. Like the Baron Stone and Earl of Oxney.” “What did I do to deserve that?” “I don’t mean badly.” Luke moved forward, got onto the end of the bed rather than round the side, kneeling erect in every sense so he looked down at Rufus’s long-limbed sprawl from an unaccustomed height. “You look like the master of the halls and lord of all he surveys, in the ancient bed of his ancestors, and I want to do something absolutely filthy to you.” “Well, if you put it like that. What do you have in mind?” “I don’t know. Stroke your cock while I think about it.” Rufus’s hand moved. “You’re in an authoritative mood this morning.” “Does that suit you?” “It always does. I’m just pointing out your mask has sl...

“Ah, families,” Gareth said drily. “I rather liked Miss d’Aumesty, myself. She came to the Marsh to paint a few years ago. Lodged in Dymchurch for two weeks and did any amount of sketching people and wandering around the Marsh. She and Emily hit it off wonderfully: I believe she arranged Emily’s post at the Manor. And Catherine took to her very much. She came for tea once or twice.” “She did your drawing of Joss, yes? I have no idea where she gets her talent. There’s a painting she did of the Marsh which is, uh. I’d like you to see it one day.” He described the rainbow painting, trying to convey the magic of it. “It doesn’t make the Marsh beautiful, exactly, but it also doesn’t make you think that the rainbow is beautiful and the Marsh isn’t. It shows…oh, that there’s glory in the world, and some of it is here too. Do you know what I mean?” Gareth was watching his face. “I would love to see it. I don’t think I’ve seen you moved by art before.” “I have it on good authority that I’m a philistine, but that painting…it made me see why people care about art. It made me feel like the sort of person who cares.” “Good. I would like you to feel that way more often.” Luke looked up at that, startled. “I care about lots of things. I care about—” His goal, of course, reaching it for himself and to show everyone he’d reached it. Rufus: he cared far too much about Rufus. “You, and Catherine, and Cecy.” Gareth’s smile didn’t look as happy as it might have. “I know you do. You seem to hav...

“When did you ever get anything wrong?” “You’re joking. I threatened Gareth in court, remember, made him call himself a liar. I’m lucky he ever spoke to me again.” Luke had accepted those events as he had a lot of things in his boyhood. Now he thought that probably had been a challenge to get over. “What did Great-Uncle say about that?” “Not much. He never did. He’d just ask you questions till you reached an answer yourself.” “The Socratic method,” Luke said. “A dialectical style of enquiry named after a Greek philosopher.” He was being a bettermy prick, and he knew it. Joss didn’t rise to the bait. “I dare say. Granda was good at it. Not sure I knew how good till now, because I’m sitting here, and the only question I can think of is, what the blazes were you playing at?” Luke stared at the grey waves. “I don’t know.” “Gareth’s fraped about this, Luke. I’m not pleased myself. You’ve done Emily an ill turn, and lied to all of us, and I doubt me the new earl’s a happy man either. You want to tell me why?” “No.” Joss breathed out. “Wasn’t a question.” “It’s my business.” “It’s Doomsday business when you involve Doomsdays.” “Then don’t be involved,” Luke said. “I didn’t want you involved. It’s not up to you.” He thought, if he pushed hard enough, Joss would shout at him and walk away. He didn’t. Instead, there was a long silence, and when Joss broke it, it wasn’t with anything Luke had expected him to say. “Ah, Luke. You ever going to forgive us?” Luke would have got up and wa...

Angevin,

Angevin /ˈanjəvən/ I. noun 1. a native, inhabitant, or ruler of Anjou. 2. any of the Plantagenet kings of England, especially those who were also counts of Anjou (Henry II, Richard I, and John). II. adjective 1. of or relating to Anjou. 2. of, relating to, or denoting the Plantagenets. – origin from French, from medieval Latin Andegavinus, from Andegavum ‘Angers’ (see Angers). The Angevins (/ˈændʒɪvɪnz/; "of/from Anjou") were a royal house of Anglo-French origin that ruled England and Ireland and in France in the 12th and early 13th centuries; its monarchs were Henry II, Richard I and John. Henry II won control of a vast assemblage of lands in western Europe that would last for 80 years and would retrospectively be referred to as the Angevin Empire. As a political entity this was structurally different from the preceding Norman and subsequent Plantagenet realms. Geoffrey of Anjou became Duke of Normandy in 1144 and died in 1151. In 1152, his heir, Henry, added Aquitaine by virtue of his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine. Henry also inherited the claim of his mother, Empress Matilda, the daughter of King Henry I of England and Matilda of Scotland (who was also the remaining descendant of the royal House of Wessex), to the English throne, to which Henry II succeeded in 1154 following the death of Matilda's cousin Stephen.[2] Angevins Arms adopted in 1198 Parent house House of Châteaudun Country England, France, Ireland Founder King Henry II of England Current head Extinct[1] Final ruler John, King of England Titles King of England Lord of Ireland Duke of Aquitaine Duke of Brittany Duke of Normandy Count of Anjou Count of Gâtinais Count of Maine Count of Touraine Count of Mortain In 1189, Henry was succeeded by his third son, Richard, whose reputation for martial prowess won him the epithet "Cœur de Lion" or "Lionheart".[3] He was born and raised in England but spent very little time there during his adult life, perhaps as little as six months. Despite this Richard remains an enduring iconic figure both in England and in France, and is one of very few kings of England remembered by his nickname as opposed to regnal number.[4] When Richard died, his brother John – Henry's fifth and last surviving son – took the throne. In 1204, John lost many of the Angevins' continental territories, including Anjou, to the French crown. He and his successors were still recognized as dukes of Aquitaine. The loss of Anjou, for which the dynasty is named, and other French fiefs made John the last of the Angevin kings of England.[5] However, there is no agreement among historians. Some make no distinction between Angevins and Plantagenets while considering Henry II as the first Plantagenet king.[6][7][8][9][10] From John, the dynasty continued on the throne of England and unbroken in the senior male line until the reign of Richard II before dividing into two competing cadet branches, the House of Lancaster and the House of York. In the 17th century, historians would use the term "Plantagenet" when describing the house.[11] Terminology edit Angevin edit Colour map of Northern France in the 1100s Northern France around the County of Anjou; red circles mark regional urban centres The adjective Angevin is especially used in English history to refer to the kings who were also counts of Anjou—beginning with Henry II—descended from Geoffrey and Matilda; their characteristics, descendants and the period of history which they covered from the mid-twelfth to early-thirteenth centuries. In addition, it is also used pertaining to Anjou, or any sovereign, government derived from this. As a noun, it is used for any native of Anjou or Angevin ruler. As such, Angevin is also used for other counts and dukes of Anjou; including the three kings' ancestors, their cousins who held the crown of Jerusalem and unrelated later members of the French royal family who were granted the titles to form different dynasties amongst which were the Capetian House of Anjou and the Valois House of Anjou.[12] Angevin Empire edit The term "Angevin Empire" was coined in 1887 by Kate Norgate. As far as it is known, there was no contemporary name for this assemblage of territories, which were referred to—if at all—by clumsy circumlocutions such as our kingdom and everything subject to our rule whatever it may be or the whole of the kingdom which had belonged to his father. Whereas the Angevin part of this term has proved uncontentious, the empire portion has proved controversial. In 1986, a convention of historical specialists concluded that there had been no Angevin state and no empire but the term espace Plantagenet was acceptable.[13] Plantagenet edit Ancient depiction of the first Plantagenet King Henry the 2nd of England Henry II (1154–1189) is considered by some to be the first Plantagenet king of England. Richard of York, 3rd Duke of York, adopted Plantagenet as his family name in the 15th century. Plantegenest (or Plante Genest) had been a 12th-century nickname for his ancestor Geoffrey, Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy. One of many popular theories suggests the blossom of common broom, a bright yellow ("gold") flowering plant, genista in medieval Latin, as the source of the nickname.[14] It is uncertain why Richard chose this specific name, although, during the Wars of the Roses, it emphasised Richard's status as Geoffrey's patrilineal descendant. The retrospective usage of the name for all of Geoffrey's male-line descendants was popular during the subsequent Tudor dynasty, perhaps encouraged by the further legitimacy it gave to Richard's great-grandson, Henry VIII.[15] In the late 17th century, this name passed into common usage among historians.[11] Origins edit An illuminated diagram showing the Angevins; coloured lines connect the two to show the lineal descent Thirteenth-century depiction of the Angevins (Henry II and his legitimate children): (left to right) William, Henry, Richard, Matilda, Geoffrey, Eleanor, Joan and John The Angevins descend from Geoffrey II, Count of Gâtinais and Ermengarde of Anjou. In 1060 this couple inherited, via cognatic kinship, the county of Anjou from an older line dating from 870 and a noble called Ingelger.[16][17] The marriage of Count Geoffrey to Matilda, the only surviving legitimate child of Henry I of England, was part of a struggle for power during the tenth and eleventh centuries among the lords of Normandy, Brittany, Poitou, Blois, Maine and the kings of France. It was from this marriage that Geoffrey's son, Henry, inherited the claims to England, Normandy and Anjou that marks the beginning of the Angevin and Plantagenet dynasties.[18] This was the third attempt by Geoffrey's father Fulk V to build a political alliance with Normandy. The first was by marrying his daughter Matilda to Henry's heir William Adelin, who drowned in the wreck of the White Ship. Fulk then married his daughter Sibylla to William Clito, heir to Henry's older brother Robert Curthose, but Henry had the marriage annulled to avoid strengthening William's rival claim to his lands.[19]

There were too many thoughts crowding his head. He sat on his heels, back to the wall, next to a stand of cow parsley, and just…breathed. He wasn’t sure how long he sat thinking of nothing, but eventually the rain ceased and when he looked up the sky was already streaking clear blue, in the way of Marsh weather. A couple of birds embarked on cautious song. He stood, stretched, and walked up onto the little mound in the centre of the ruins. It was perhaps two feet above ground level, but one advantage of the Marsh was that you didn’t need to climb far to improve the view. The grass was wet and fresh around his feet. The air was clean, full of the indefinable smell of rain. The Marsh stretched around him, its green-grey flatness cut with dykes, studded with thorn trees. And over it all, a double rainbow. One crisp, bright, perfect bow that looked like it arched from Millbank to the Isle of Oxney, and above it a second, fainter streak of colours against the scudding grey. Rainbows over the Marsh. Just as in the picture that Rufus had hung in his own rooms for no other reason than that Luke liked it. He stood and watched the rainbows till the brightening sun faded them to nothing. He walked the hour or so back to Dymchurch with his wet coat gently steaming in what was now unseasonable heat. He went into Tench House, found Gareth, and said, “Can I borrow a horse?”

“It must have been a damned nuisance doing this in the dark.” “It was.” Luke left that there for a few moments then added, almost reluctantly, “And trying to avoid making noise.” Rufus shoved a chest full of gently decaying dresses to one side with a loud scrape. “You must have infinite patience. If we simply burned the place down, would we find the guineas in the ashes?” “That’s the third time you’ve suggested setting fire to your ancestral home.” “Only the third? I’m amazed. Everyone thinks Baldwin had rats in the attic, but I quite understand wanting to pull this place down and build something new.” Luke sat back on his heels. “Are you thinking of doing that?” “The family would murder me. Well, my grandfather estranged himself from his own son and heir over the proposal. I don’t know what a child of mine would have to do for me to treat them like that, but it would be more than architectural preferences. Or an ill-thought-out marriage, even.” He got another chest open. “I don’t understand it. They were his sons: how would he not have sought reconciliation? Granted he cared about the name, and the bloodline, and this damn fool heap of stones, but would he not want to forgive his sons?” “Aunt Sybil forgave my father whatever he did, including what he did to my mother,” Luke remarked with that appalling matter-of-factness he had for dreadful statements. “She always had excuses for him. She was angry when he cut me, but I dare say she’d have forgiven that in time. She broug...

“They found him here,” he said. “In the Canal. I don’t know where he died exactly, so this is where I think of it.” “That’ll do, then.” Rufus came to stand by him, shoulder to shoulder, inches apart. “So. I’ve seen a lot of people die. Men I knew well, good friends, but also men I couldn’t abide. We developed a sort of informal ceremony. The idea came from a fellow who’d been a Classics scholar, but it caught on in my regiment. I thought it might be worth doing now.” “A ceremony? For my father?” Luke did not sound enthusiastic. Rufus pressed on. “The idea is, a funeral is for the best in a man. You say he was a good soldier even if he wasn’t, that people will miss him even if they don’t; you wish him the best for where he goes next, even if you expect the worst. We all need that last charity; none of us look good on a close accounting. But sometimes you need to say other things too, so we had what the classics fellow called libations. Drinks for the dead.” “He liked a drink,” Luke said. “I have no idea what you’re getting at.” Rufus stepped forward to the thorn tree, fishing out a hip-flask from his pocket. “Elijah Doomsday.” He spoke formally, in a carrying voice. “You were a disgrace, as a father and a man. You failed your son in every way; you took what wasn’t yours to take; you had a dog’s death and deserved it. I thank the man who snapped your neck because he saved me soiling my own hands. It’s a good thing you’re gone, and past time you were forgotten. Here’s your dr...

Is everything all right?” Rufus jerked his head, inviting Luke to come fully in. He did so, but didn’t take his chair. That would be presumptuous. “The Conrads, of course. I wanted to speak to them but they were out until almost dinner time, they ate in their rooms, and when I went up there just now, they were having a sodding great row with someone. I could hear them shouting from half way across the New Wing. I dare say I shall find out what’s going on tomorrow, but I’m so damned tired of this. If they can’t do better, they might at least stop making things worse.” “I’m sorry.” “Not your fault.” “It is,” Luke said. “Mine, and the Conrads, and more or less everyone in this house except you. You have done your best by so many people, and you ought not always be thinking what people want who never give a damn what you want.” “Nonsense. I’m doing my job.” “That’s not true. Or, yes, you are, but you do so much more than that, and never with yourself in mind.” He saw Rufus about to wave that away in the brusque manner that entirely failed to hide his heart, and Luke’s own heart twisted unbearably. “You know you do,” he said. “You always ask—asked—what I wanted. We always did what I like.” That landed like a stone in a still pool, ripples spreading outward. Rufus’s lips moved silently before he managed, “Luke—” “Let me say this. Please.” Doubtless he shouldn’t. Rufus had said they weren’t lovers any more. But this needed to be said, all the same. “When we were—before, you never...