His Brother's Viscount Read online

Wentworth laughed. “Yes, but with the greatest respect.”

  “Arse.” He nudged the other man’s leg, and they both smiled. “You used to call me dear.”

  “Did I?” Wentworth said, tightening his hand on the window frame.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Of course, of course, dear.”

  He poked Wentworth in the ribs. “Still an arse.”

  “Duly noted.”

  They sat in silence, Hector blissfully lounging in his lover’s arms. Eventually the quiet became unbearable, so he said, “Speaking of names, Wentworth is so formal. Doesn’t roll of the tongue well. I can call you Tyler.”

  “Good God, no. I hate that name.”

  “How can you possibly hate a name?”

  “I do. It means footman or tile maker or some such drivel. A layman named Tyler saved one of my ancestors, and Tyler became a cherished given name in the family after that. It is very embarrassing, really. In fact, I dislike my name so much, I never think of myself as Tyler.”

  “No? Then what do you think of yourself as?”

  “Wentworth, of course.”

  Hector laughed. “You really are an arse.”

  Wentworth ruffled Hector’s hair.

  “Stop that.” He tried to lean out of reach, but the carriage was too small. “I know. I’ll call you Ty.”

  “No!” The man snorted like a bull. “No one calls me that.”

  “William has always called you Ty.”

  Wentworth’s shoulders stiffened. “Not anymore.” Simple words, quietly spoken. How could they convey so much pain? So much world weariness?

  He reached again for the bulge at Wentworth’s crotch but did not reach his goal.

  Wentworth’s grip, like iron manacles on his wrist, stopped him cold. “Waiting builds anticipation, increases pleasure. Be patient, Hector. Besides, this morning I have found myself in a less-than-perfect mood. Perhaps due to exhaustion. Thought I had a few more hours of energy, but apparently not. At any rate, I doubt I could pay attention if twenty-seven naked men danced around the carriage.”

  “You look tired. Was your journey long today?”

  “Yes. I left Portsmouth at moonrise on horseback to make it back in time.”

  Back in time. To collect him for their holiday. Just like that, his heart swelled and his world blossomed. The most important thing at the moment was making Wentworth comfortable so he could rest.

  “Here.” He arranged a few cushions. “Take a respite on the way. We have a good two hours yet to go.”

  Wentworth settled into the plush pile and grinned. “A whole two hours. Will you not be bored?”

  “Not if I have you to look forward to when we arrive.”

  Wentworth pulled him against his chest. “This will help me rest,” he murmured.

  Hector tried to sit quietly while Wentworth dozed off and on.

  Occasionally, Wentworth teased his curls with long, strong fingers. It was wickedly erotic. Waiting certainly did increase the anticipation.

  He had already waited eighteen months. He was long past ready, so lounging against the man he’d pined for, more like grieved for—the emotion too devastating to be anything other than grief—without gaining release was excruciating.

  Chapter Three

  The vibrant countryside slid by the carriage windows. Bone weary but unable to sleep, Wentworth watched the perfectly straight rows of timber plantings rush past, boys fishing in a pond, then miles of green fields and sheep.

  Hector’s warm body nestled close, but being close to him, seeing Will again, and watching Will kiss Mary brought back vivid memories of the worst day of his life. He had hidden them so deep inside, he was disappointed to find they had not rusted and crumbled to dust.

  It had happened during his last winter in Grantham, a brutally cold and windy winter season. He wanted nothing more than to sail for the Mediterranean and stay anchored at a port in Greece until his bones were thoroughly stewed.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  Eighteen months prior, December 18, 1806, Grantham

  Waiting in a borrowed cottage far away from civilization, Wentworth looked at the overly ornate clock. It was almost midnight.

  They would kill a man soon.

  His turbulent emotions made him careless—or was it bolder?—than was his nature. He walked over to Hector, his lover of one spectacular month, unable to resist the boy turning into a man. His overly long, near-black hair curled in disarray, his muscular frame relaxed in a large wine-colored chair. He touched Hector’s shoulder. The fabric was warm from the fire blazing in the hearth.

  Hector looked so in love at that moment, you could read his emotion in the blown pupils swallowing those lovely tea-colored irises on the smooth skin of his flushed face. Wentworth, ready to explode with need, was blinded to everything around him except the lovely lad.

  He never even considered the other people in the small sitting room as he allowed Hector to cover his hand with his and smile up at him.

  With a roar, Will, his lifelong friend, came unhinged. “You son of a whore!” Trembling, his eyes narrowed and his breathing strident, he stared at their joined hands for a few moments, then launched himself at Wentworth, howling. “He’s my little brother, you sodomizing bastard.”

  Wentworth blocked his blows. He wanted to reason with Will, but his own temper got the best of him. “You condescending arse…always acting so…perfect. Just because you are normal…but still you felt it your…duty to remain my friend?”

  “Keep away from him, or I swear I will kill you!” Spittle flew along with the threats.

  Will forced him against a recessed bookshelf. Books and wood stabbed against his spine as Will pressed one arm against his throat.

  Turning to keep his windpipe from collapsing, he said, “What good would that do? He likes men. He will never find a woman to love. Never. He is unnatural just like me.”

  Will said nothing. Instead, he sent a short jab to Wentworth’s cheek and nose.

  Pain and blood clouded his vision. He no longer held his temper. He fought back. They were well matched, his height and longer reach against Will’s stockier frame. They often brawled while growing up and knew each other’s tactics, so no real damage was done. Because of their knowledge, most of the blows did not land.

  Eventually, their fatigued muscles slowed, and they threw blows less frequently as they stumbled. They wrestled on the floor, sliding on a tasseled rug, each man trying for the upper hand. Will ended on top with arms and legs locked, and neither man could move from sheer exhaustion. Snot choked their hoarse curses.

  “Will, stop it!” Mary said.

  Wentworth could see Mary struggling to free herself from Hector’s grip. Hector held her back, his fingers tight around her arm. Did the silly woman think she could stop them when no one could do anything to help what had been building for years? He and Will had been friends since childhood. Had fought and played and helped one another through war and Will’s brutal father.

  And it was this closeness that made loving Hector unforgivable. Still, Wentworth tried to make Will understand. “Let him find what happiness he can.”

  “With you? You traitorous bastard.” Will was crimson.

  “Yes, with me. I finally found someone who accepts me as I am.” He bucked his hips, trying to throw Will off. “Who loves me.” He glared at Will. “Let me make Hector happy.”

  Exhausted, they could do little more than hold each other’s arms to keep any more punches from flying. Will’s weight felt intimate, comforting. They could have been lovers passionately coupling, if circumstances were different.

  Will’s shoulders relaxed, and he sobbed into Wentworth’s neck. “How could you do this? How could you? How could you?”

  He felt like three kinds of ugly sea creatures for his actions, but he had always taken care of Will. He was the oldest by two years, and they were best friends, so he comforted Will. It came naturally to wrap his arms around the man.

  That was when H
ector yelled, “Get up, you two. Stop this. Now!”

  Mary helped Will extricate himself from Wentworth’s embrace, while Hector stood very still, his beautiful eyes smoldering.

  Then Wentworth did the rashest thing in his whole sordid life—he decided to clear his conscience.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  “We will arrive at your estate soon.” Hector’s comment brought him out of his self-castigation.

  He sat up and shook off the tension from his remembrance. “Hmm, indeed we will. I am pleased you are accompanying me. Honestly, I have found the estate dreadfully lonely since Gabriel died.”

  While Wentworth was away at sea, the typhus epidemic had struck. Gabriel, his favorite brother, was supposed to have inherited the title, but instead died only days before his father and the second eldest, Victor. His sister and much of the staff at Wentworth Manor followed. He did not see them nor say goodbye one last time. When he rushed home after getting word, Grandfather locked him up to keep him from going to the manor. To keep him alive. When he was the least worthy of surviving.

  He stretched, as much to forget as to work out stiff muscles, and then hugged Hector. He felt so much like Will, the man who had been by his side for nearly twenty years, through youthful friendship, through school, and through war. The brothers were almost the same size, and absolutely the same build.

  Pulling Hector’s cravat and collar out of the way, he nuzzled his neck.

  Hector sighed and relaxed, sensual and trusting.

  “I am sorry,” Wentworth whispered, and Hector twisted his neck to look at him.

  Turning away from Hector’s eyes, he scanned the scenery. The sun, low in the sky, cast long oak shadows across grassy fields.

  “Whatever for? For exhausting yourself by riding all night so you were on time to pick me up? I find that admirable.”

  He did not see himself as admirable. He was anything but admirable. To his ears, his apology rang hollow. Was he sorry? Sorry for hurting so many people? Sorry for the pain he had inflicted on Hector? Yes, but even more, he was sorry, deeply sorry for having lost the things that meant most in the world to him, and afraid he would lose them all over again.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  The carriage stopped at Hector’s request, and he felt a twinge in one thigh as he climbed out of the small space. He regretted not having stopped earlier. Sitting for hours was not a favorite pastime of his. He walked to the edge of the road, loosening his tight muscles.

  Wentworth exited the carriage with much more grace, and stood beside him.

  Down in the valley stood Forsythe Manor. Small compared to Wentworth’s estate in the neighboring valley, it was only thirty acres but nonetheless impressive in its own right. He walked down the road, knowing Wentworth and the vehicle would follow. This was his favorite part of the trip. With his family’s gray stone manor in the distance, forest on one side of the road and meadow on the other, his breathing expanded and his muscles eased. This was home.

  “The pond is full. Walk with me?” Hector said.

  “It will be dark soon.”

  “Just for a moment. I’ve been in London too long. I need to see clean skies and clean water.” They walked side by side until they reached the edge of a jade-green pond. “Look. Ducklings.”

  Wentworth threw his head back and laughed, startling the little downy birds.

  “What the devil is so funny? You scared them away.”

  Wentworth ruffled his hair, and Hector leaned away and glowered at him.

  “Look.” Wentworth nodded toward the pond. One little duckling was out swimming around. The little bird was fast and curious, chasing an insect almost twice its size, then investigating the shore while its siblings were well hidden in the reeds. “That little fellow reminds me of you.”

  “What?” Hector felt his hackles rise. “I remind you of a guinea-sized baby bird? That is not quite the impression I wanted to leave you with during our fortnight together.” He tossed a twig into the water.

  Wentworth squeezed his shoulder. “I meant no offense. Look at the bird. What do you see?”

  “A fuzzy, floating duckling.”

  “Yes, but look at his energy. He is constantly moving, inquisitive and inventive while his siblings hide in fear. He is an adventurer, young and strong.”

  Hector looked at Wentworth then. The late afternoon sun made his skin almost glow as he watched the little bird, and at that moment, Hector felt like an adventurer. He felt brave and fearless.

  “Let’s go to your estate,” Hector said as he stood. “There are things I want to do to you.”

  “With pleasure.” Wentworth’s smile was dark and sensuous as he ushered them to the carriage, his hand warm on the small of Hector’s back.

  Chapter Four

  Hector removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and then stepped toward the large white and blue patterned bowl sitting on a chest of drawers. He dipped a linen cloth into the cool water to wash his face, wanting to be newly clean even though he’d bathed after arriving at the estate.

  He’d shared a country dinner with Wentworth. Country meant the hour would be early, for there was nothing simple about the food. They dined in the manor’s grand hall as spectacularly as any king, at a long table lit by candles set into silver candlesticks. They enjoyed tender pheasant stuffed with truffles and turnips, fluffy hot bread, buttered carrots, and fresh berries with cream. Hector had eaten his fill, pushed his heavy chair back, and then taken brandy.

  Neither of them lingered over the drink.

  Ready to get on with the more energetic parts of the evening, Hector excused himself and went to his room. He’d been to the manor many times as a child, so the opulent carpets, flooring, and paneling held no interest for him. He was much more preoccupied with preparing himself for a visit from Wentworth.

  He was reaching for a nightshirt when the knock he anticipated sounded on his door. He smiled. At dinner, Wentworth had hinted he would call that evening.

  Walking to the door, he pulled on the shirt, wishing he’d skipped the brandy. He felt slow and drowsy, not at all the way he wanted to welcome his very good friend into bed after such a long absence.

  Wentworth sauntered in, aloof and godlike, his ebony hair glinting in the light of the lone candle by Hector’s bed.

  Lethargy forgotten, he reached for Wentworth, who avoided his touch, gripped his shoulder, and pushed him face against the door. Hot breath excited the skin at the back of his neck.

  “Do you know what I have missed most about fornicating with you, Hector?”

  He shook his head, forehead rubbing against freshly polished wood.

  “I missed those sweet, smooth thighs.”

  At the reminder of what was once one of their favorite activities, Hector’s cock grew hard and needy in his trousers. He grabbed the doorframe with both hands, one on each side of the door, and spread his feet a foot apart. “Slip my pants down. I need to feel you rubbing against my balls, my hole.”

  The breath at the back of his neck hitched, but sure fingers undid his falls and cool air soon tickled the back of his arse.

  A firm hand slid up the inside of one thigh. “So smooth, just as I remembered. No hair here, perfect for a man’s prick.”

  Hector shivered and pushed back against the strong, large body behind him. Felt the hard cock behind cloth so fine, it felt like a layer of cream between himself and what he wanted sliding between his legs.

  “Did you bring oil?”

  He felt Wentworth nod along the top of his head.

  He placed his feet together. “Use it.” He heard the pop of the stopper and then felt a hard, warm poke between his legs. He looked down to see the dark-pink head of Wentworth’s impressive cock slip between his thighs, and then felt Wentworth’s oiled hand on his greedy flesh.

  “Feels so good. So firm and smooth.”

  Hector pushed back to allow for more friction on his balls and perineum, the pressure right under his cock so close to his hole. It was an exquisite ac
companiment to the slip and slide on his aching prick. God, he would come in a few more strokes.

  He turned his head to kiss Wentworth, but the angle would not allow for such intimacies. He could only see a strained, almost pained profile. And then he came. Huge contractions expelled seed out of him in rhythmic spurts as he rocked himself into Wentworth’s fist. Closing his eyes, he rode the tingles and rush of euphoria until drained.

  Sometime during his climax, Wentworth came as well. Two long, pearly streaks of seed dripped down the dark oak door.

  Hector’s knees nearly collapsed as he said, “Bed.”

  They stumbled toward the firm cotton mattress together. Slumberous and sated and feeling the effects of the encounter and the brandy, he mumbled, “Come to bed with me, Wentworth.” He slipped in, holding up one side of the blanket in invitation. He felt the bed dip but was nearly asleep before his head hit the pillow.

  When the rising sunlight filtered through a gap in the drawn curtains, Hector woke alone.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  Four days of fucking, drinking, and excellent company had Wentworth up early every morning looking forward to the day. He would open and read the prior day’s correspondence. Invitations, he ignored; a letter from an impoverished third cousin asking for funds, he could postpone answering; and the notice from his solicitor about a property he wished to purchase could wait as well. The owner still did not wish to sell. Nothing urgent. Nothing from his commodore. Nothing from his second-in-command. So each day there were no distractions from enjoying time with his guest.

  After a good day hiking his estate they were having dinner, and he found himself laughing at Hector’s stories.

  “You cannot be serious.”

  Hector smiled. “One hundred percent earnest. I swear to you I added no embellishment.”

  He chuckled. “I can envision old Professor Weatherston standing to his full height of exceptionally short, grabbing—what was the boy’s name?”

  “Timothy Blair,” Hector said, his voice quivering with mirth.

  “Right. Grabbing young Blair by the ear and marching him out of the classroom, dripping lemon curd with each step.” He laughed. In fact, he had been laughing all day. Hector knew how to tell a good story, and the effect had Wentworth’s face muscles hurting from overuse.