Mark Antonious Demontford

Mark Antonious deMontford by G.A. Hauser

Linden Bay Romance, LLC www.lindenbayromance.com

Copyright ©2008 by Hauser, GA First published in www.lindenbayromance.com, 2008 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Mark Antonious deMontford by G.A. Hauser

CONTENTS Acknowledgement: Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue Coming Soon... Chapter One About the Author Other works by G.A. Hauser: Recommended Read: 3

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****

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MARK ANTONIOUS deMONTFORD G.A. HAUSER

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Mark Antonious deMontford by G.A. Hauser

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement of the copyright of this work. MARK ANTONIOUS deMONTFORD Copyright © G.A. HAUSER, 2008 Cover art by DAN SKINNER ISBN Trade paperback: 978-1-60202-141-9 ISBN MS Reader (LIT): 978-1-60202-140-2 Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned): PDF, PRC & HTML Linden Bay Romance, LLC Palm Harbor, Florida 34684 www.lindenbayromance.com This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written 6

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permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Linden Bay Romance publication: December 2008

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Acknowledgement: I'd like to give a special thank you to Elisa Rolle for her help with the Italian translations. Thank you, Elisa, it was very much appreciated. Grazie. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Prologue "Oi, gather round, boys." Mark Antonious Richfield signaled his lover, Steve Miller, his best friend, Jack Larsen, and Jack's lover, Adam Lewis, together for an intimate conversation. "Mum's just come back from a visit with her relatives in London," Mark began, "and she had a chat with a genealogy specialist from Cambridge." He winked at Steve. "One of her old school mates. Anyway, you'll never believe what she found out." Jack wrapped his arm around Adam as Adam rested against his shoulder. "We can't wait, Mark. Knowing you, there's no telling what she found out." Adam laughed. "Come on, Mark. What is it? Descended from a Roman god?" "Greek, more like," Steve added mischievously. "No. Shut up, all of you." Mark sat straight in the chair. "Eight generations back ... yes, eight..." He pointed his finger to chide anyone who spoke up. "Mum found I was the product of a Venetian patriarch—Oi! Steven, stop laughing." "Sorry. Go on." Steve covered his smile. "Well, it seems my ancestor had similar problems to yours truly." Adam exclaimed sarcastically, "He was a sex fiend?" "Well, close," Mark chuckled. "If you'd be quiet a moment, I may even be able to tell you the story." "Sorry." Jack gestured. "Go on. We're listening." 9

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"It seems it all started back in Newbury, England," Mark began. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter One London 1713 During the final year of Queen Anne's reign of England, Antonio Vivaldi astonished audiences with his miraculous Four Seasons while a flourishing new commerce helped London grow at a remarkable pace to become a "wonder city". Men came and went in white powdered wigs, wearing colorful brocade vests with elaborate floral patterns, rows of pewter buttons over their stocking covered legs, and black buckled shoes. Mark Antonious deMontford knew nothing of the world until his nineteenth year, though his Uncle David insisted he not be as illiterate as the hogs. Mark absorbed everything he was told, for he was bright and extremely quick-witted. So much so, that his questions were ignored, especially concerning the parents he had never known. The mystery preoccupied Mark so completely at times that he could not sleep. A sense of not knowing who he really was gnawed at him like the mice on the crop. Could he have been some royal heir left mysteriously in a basket by the lane? His first trip outside Newbury was with his Uncle David to visit some distant cousins in London. Mark could hardly contain his excitement as they rode in the hired stagecoach. In his preacher monotone, Uncle David engaged Mark in some discussion about the family in order to pass the time. "Thomas and Gabriel Holloway have three children: Richard, Margaret, and Peter. You are to behave whilst you are around 11

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them. I assume you will act accordingly. There is a code of conduct to high society, not unlike the Royal Navy. I insist you perform courteously, like a gentleman, and remember to use your knife when eating. Never forget to bow and thank them for the meals and the stay." Uncle David paused as he concentrated. "Oh, and keep quiet unless you are asked a question. Under no condition are you to venture out alone. Do you understand me?" "Yes, Uncle." Mark absorbed the lecture with a dull attention. He knew no matter how he tried to be good he would misbehave miserably. He was so starved for a good adventure he felt giddy at the possibility of a day without shoveling animal dung. After a two-day journey the carriage finally stopped in front of an exceptionally large home. Mark hung his head out of the window to gape at the rows of brownstone and brick buildings that dwarfed anything he could have imagined back on their little farm. The Tower of London, the spires of churches, the bustle of so many people—almost six hundred thousand—was more than Mark could absorb. The valet opened their carriage door and Uncle David climbed out, brushing the dust off his brown coat. Removing a coin from one of the oversized pockets, he handed it to the driver with a bow. An efficient valet carried their bags as Mark tried to keep his lips closed while his silent gasps of awe sought to keep them open. A woman with an affectionate smile and plump, rounded cheeks greeted them at the door. His uncle warmly embraced the woman Mark assumed to be his cousin, Gabriel. 12

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"So good of you to come. Why has it taken so long for you to accept my invitation?" When Mark attempted to hide behind Uncle David's broad back, though his six-foot height made him far from invisible, Gabriel intercepted him and crooned, "And this must be Mark." As his eyes raced to find hers he knew he'd been caught admiring the two velvety mounds that rose up above her low neckline. His face grew crimson. So much for first impressions. "What a lovely young man you are." She caressed his smooth skin with a sensuousness that made him imagine he was already on top of her and shoving up those satin skirts. His brazen thoughts shocked him. He'd never been with a woman but knew how the pigs did it on the farm. Uncle David was obviously waiting for him to accept the compliment gracefully. He even cleared his throat trying to remind Mark. Mark's mind was a clutter of visions of Gabriel's lovely, naked cleavage, the tantalizing city, and the rock hardness agonizing his body. With all the disorder in his head, he managed a, "Thank you, Cousin Gabriel," spoken so softly that she had to lean forward to catch it. Mark distracted himself from Gabriel by moving his admiration to the home itself. The wealth of this family was displayed with obvious pleasure. A gilded harpsichord filled one corner of the sitting room, an unlit candelabra on its white enamel surface. Oil paintings of fine gentlemen and ladies in luxurious dress lavished with pearls and intricate lace hung on the walls, each in heavy, gold leaf frames. The 13

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windows towered over him, as high as the ceilings, and were surrounded by dark burgundy curtains. Each piece of furniture had a touch of gold to tantalize the eyes. So much richness encircled him, making Mark wonder why on earth he lived on a modest farm. Uncle David wasn't poor, merely frugal, and only opened the purse when necessary. He wore no rings and bought only what was practical to cover his body. He made no exceptions for Mark, and until now, Mark had never thought he was lacking. Mark realized that Gabriel could not keep her eyes from him. Forcing himself to keep his posture impeccable, Mark wanted to die of embarrassment as her gaze kept darting to his tight breeches. She was old enough to be his mother. Whatever could she be thinking? A servant appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. Mark sat on the settee and, before he could blink, his cousin sat next to him, quickly preventing Uncle David from getting in her way. Thinking only of pretending to be a gentleman in such fine company, Mark nodded and said, "Thank you," to the servant and lifted the teacup carefully, horrified he might spill it. Pausing to see the appropriate way to drink, Mark waited for his uncle to sip his, mimicking him perfectly. An amazing heat was coming from Gabriel's body. It distracted Mark so badly he couldn't hear a word his uncle said. What was he going on about? Trying to act like a civilized human being and not an animal though his body was on tenterhooks of unabashed 14

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passion, Mark raised his gilded porcelain cup to his lips for another tasty sip of the lovely milk and honey flavored tea. At that moment Gabriel turned to ask his opinion on something and jarred his elbow ever so slightly. A drop of tea made a swan dive off the rim and onto his immaculate white breeches. And he had tried so very hard to prevent any sign of clumsiness on his part. Instantly, Mark raised his chin up to his uncle, expecting a rebuking. Gabriel apologized profusely, having the servant remove the cup and attending to the spill herself. When she produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and rubbed the spot, that was no larger than his pinky nail, Mark held his breath and caught his uncle's impatient eyes. "Gabriel, leave it! We'll tend to it later," Uncle David scolded. After she had a good feel of how large and hard Mark had gotten under her rubbing, Mark waited for her to recoil or humiliate him at her discovery. Instead she finally tucked her tiny kerchief back away, never missing a word as they continued in their debate. "Yes, isn't the national debt a horrible thing!" Afraid to breathe, Mark sat frozen. He knew if he moved the friction might make him come in his breeches. At that moment of Mark's embarrassment, a commotion sounded in the entranceway. "That must be Margaret and Richard returning from their shopping!" Two of Cousin Gabriel's three children were coming in after their excursion. Gracefully, Gabriel rose up like she was on a 15

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pulley, seemingly elevating without the use of any of her muscles. She met them at the opening of the room and kissed a fifteen year old Margaret on the cheek and her nineteen year old son Richard on the lips. Holding their hands, Gabriel brought them deeper into the room to proudly make the appropriate introductions. With none of Gabriel's grace, Mark stood and tried to dry off his sweaty palms on his jacket. His uncle shook hands with the tall, slender Richard who wore a small white wig on his head and a very costly coat of purple velvet on his back. When Richard turned to welcome Mark, something odd happened to Richard's expression. Being innocent, Mark felt its disorientating effect, but never understood the message. Next the sweet, pure Margaret bowed to him. Mark bowed in return and tried to remember she was only a child and he shouldn't keep staring at her cleavage. Now in a terrible state and quite sure this torment of the flesh was not some heavenly gift to be guarded with one's life, as his uncle and aunt had preached to him on more than one occasion. Mark was sure this craving in his loins was becoming a satanic curse. Could he be reading lust in every eye, or had he simply gone insane? Maybe he had been bitten by something on the farm and his brain was dissolving. He'd heard nightmares about the Black Death in 1349. Maybe he was sick with some strange disease? "You must all be famished from your journey. I've had a meal prepared. If you need to freshen up, the servant will show you the way." Cousin Gabriel gestured to the waiting butler. 16

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Mark and Uncle David were shown to their rooms. Sighing with relief to see that he had his own sleeping quarters, for his uncle snored something awful, Mark felt a sense of liberation. He dipped his hands into a basin of fresh water and splashed his face. Wiping the drops off on a towel, he took a better look at the room. It was as extravagantly dressed as the sitting room. Its scent reminded him of a church. Incense of some kind? The bed made of thick, dark wood with four corkscrew spires had a burgundy curtain drawn back from it to reveal the lush satin of the pillows and quilt, all very colorful and uplifting. He had never slept in anything like it in his life. His own bed back home was a bit hard and lumpy. He noticed the door moving and remembered he was going to change his breeches and had forgotten. He wondered if it was his uncle gathering him up for the meal. Dipping the towel into the basin, Mark tried to rub out the tiny stain quickly, thinking of an excuse as to why he hadn't changed from these soiled clothes. Cursing under his breath as he scrubbed, Mark heard the door close and latch. Raising his head up, he was stunned to see Richard. His white wig had been left behind somewhere and his own brown hair had been brushed and left flowing softly, though a little flattened. Richard had a very pleasing face and an air of wealth that Mark envied instantly. "Am I late?" Mark asked shyly. Richard's lips curled into a very wicked smile. "No?" Mark tilted his head curiously.

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"You lovely thing. Why have they kept you away from us for so long?" Richard closed the gap between them and dug his left hand into Mark's long hair. Mark swallowed down a dry throat. Could he have been right then? "God, you are glorious. I must have you!" Richard pressed against his length. "Don't say no, it isn't polite." Mark leaned back on the dressing table as a very hungry hand made its way inside his breeches. When Richard's mouth touched his lips, Mark's eyes widened in astonishment at his first kiss. It was only when Richard backed off and knelt down before him that Mark was able to catch his breath. His ruffles were heaving from the attempt to fill his lungs with oxygen, his exhale making them wave like a fan. When his pewter buttons fell back and a hot mouth surrounded him, Mark thought he was hallucinating. He'd heard of such things. A kind of madness where you invent things in your head and they seem so real that you could not distinguish them from fantasy. He was sure this was one. "Ah!" Mark cried out before he could prevent it. "Richard! What on earth are you doing to me?" As the sensation overwhelmed him, Mark's knees gave out and his entire weight dropped against the dresser behind him. "Oh, Lord ... Oh, Lord!" he moaned in a prayer. From his wet dreams as a youngster to the pleasure of his own hand, he knew exactly what his body was about to do. Never could he imagine someone sucking his penis this way. It was so unforgivably naughty that Mark wondered if he'd be killed instantly by a 18

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bolt of lightning. All thoughts of God and Country flew out of his mind when Richard's tongue swirled around his cock. Closing his eyes, Mark came with so much power he thought he'd collapse to the floor in a heap. Even whilst his head still spun, Richard nudged him to lie on the bed, face down on the quilt. Mark's breeches were drawn down to his ankles. With the fluffy spread under his chin, Mark peered at the locked door, wondering when his uncle would come pounding. When Mark felt a hard shaft between his legs, he gasped and stiffened. "Tighten your thighs, my pretty," Richard ordered as he hammered between them. Mark did as he asked, clamping that hot, hungry dick between them. In a matter of seconds Richard came in a blaze of pleasure. Shocked at this turn of events, Mark lay panting in disbelief. Once Mark regained his sanity, he twisted around to find Richard's wicked smirk as he fastened his own breeches, staring down at Mark's exposed ass. "You are divine! But I fear Mother awaits. Come, fix yourself up." "Dear Lord!" Mark panted. "What the devil was that all about? Is this the way things are done here in London?" Mark leaned up and climbed off the bed, holding onto his clothing to cover himself. Hot, sticky goo ran down his leg. He blinked and looked sheepishly into Richard's face. "You're dripping down my thigh." Richard's eyes widened in surprise first, then he burst with laughter. "Oh, Cousin Mark, your innocence is something I 19

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want to devour." Richard tugged at the fabric. "Come on then, down they go." Mark let his britches drop, flopping over his stockings. With swift efficiency, Richard found the towel and knelt low to mop him up. They both froze at the pounding on the door. "Mark? What is taking so long, boy? Your meal is ready!" "Yes, Uncle! I shall be down. Give me a moment, would you?" Mark heard the grumbling and could well imagine the expression of impropriety. Richard had him tended and raised up his tea-stained breeches. Before they parted, Richard lay his hand gently behind Mark's head and kissed his lips. "Leave your door unlocked. I'll come again in the night." Before Mark could answer, Richard vanished down the hall. **** Stiffly nervous after an encounter he still was trying to get his head around, Mark sat at an oak table that could have easily held twenty. A servant stood behind Mark's left shoulder ready to top off his wine or replace a soiled utensil. His back ached from the tenseness in his body and his cock twitched at the memory of Richard's wet mouth. An eleven-year-old lad had joined them, who Mark learned was the third child of the voluptuous Gabriel, young Peter. Raising a wine glass to his lips, Mark caught three sets of eyes staring at him. Richard's hungry yet satisfied leer, Gabriel's undisguised lust, and Margaret's curiosity. Giving each an angelic smile, Mark caught the slight but obvious scowl of Uncle David. Mark sat straighter and realized he'd 20

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forgotten to use the knife. He cursed under his breath and grabbed it, trying to remember how to use the darn thing. Let's see, scoop? No. Oh, that's right, use it as a wall to fill the fork. Warmth covered his inner thigh. Mark peeked down to see a pudgy little hand. His Cousin Gabriel had managed to sneak under the table and touch him. It slipped off once again as she dabbed her lip with her napkin. "Have you heard of Scarlatti?" she asked Mark. "Or been to the opera?" For some reason Uncle David's face went into an instant contortion of anger at the mention of the word "opera". Mark cleared his throat and checked to see if his uncle approved of his answering her question. Mark assumed he did not and shook his head silently. Richard appeared so enamored by him he almost laughed out loud at Mark's timid response. "I'd love to take you. How long are you staying?" "Can I stay forever?" Mark whispered. Gabriel's tinkling laughter filled the room. "What did he say, Mum?" Peter asked. Richard dabbed his eyes as Margaret asked the same thing, "Can he stay?" Gabriel leaned over to Mark and clasped his hand. "You may stay as long as you like, my lovely young man." Glancing back at his uncle, Mark caught his disapproving glare. Sighing and lowering his lashes, Mark knew it was too good to be true. Following a little clamor at the entrance of the large home, an elegant gentleman entered the dining room with a flourish. 21

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Mark assumed he was Cousin Thomas just coming back from Parliament. He kissed Gabriel's cheek and stood to look at the table for a moment whilst the servants hovered around him, taking his coat and filling his wine glass. He took the chair at the head that had stood so obviously vacant. He was a man so alive with a robust energy it seemed the room grew smaller. His wig was a bit askew from his rushing. Mark was surprised Thomas wasn't the least bit upset they had started without him. "I am happy that I have caught you still dining! I'm sorry I'm so late." Finishing his glass of red wine in one gulp, Thomas had another poured for him as he held it elevated in the air. "Welcome! Welcome!" he cheered, patting Uncle David's back with such a heartiness that Mark thought he would snap his uncle in two or at least knock his wig off. When Thomas' eyes came to rest on Mark, Thomas seemed to pause, as if considering something. Mark cleared his throat and made the necessary greeting. "Nice to meet you, Cousin Thomas." "So, this is our little Mark. Well, not little at all anymore. How old are you, lad?" Before Mark could open his lips, his uncle said, "Nineteen. Just turned." Thomas acknowledged this information and gave Mark a very generous smile. "Splendid!" ****

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After the meal they adjourned to the sitting room where Margaret was going to sing and play on the harpsichord for them. Mark held onto a glass of wine as he walked, trying his best not to stain anything. The tapestries on the floor looked as if they were paid for with a king's ransom. He decided to just suck it down to prevent any disasters. As the servants lit the wall sconces, Mark stopped in the hallway and guzzled the contents of his glass, savoring it, loving the light-headed feeling it gave him. Drinking wine in the farmhouse was far too wasteful of an expense to be a nightly occurrence, according to Uncle David. Mark gasped when a hand caressed his bottom. He expected Richard or Gabriel. To his complete astonishment he found Cousin Thomas' very impish grin. Thomas seemed to vanish into the sitting room after the incident and Mark tried to replay it in his head. Maybe he was mistaken and he hadn't been caressed. Yes, that was it. He was just going mad again. A servant plucked the empty glass from his suspended fingers with silent efficiency. Upon entering that brightly lit room, for all the candles on the candelabrum were now burning, Mark almost wanted to shield his eyes. Making his way toward Richard's invitation, when Mark lowered himself into the chair, Richard moved instinctively closer so Mark brushed by him with his body. It sent a tremor through Mark and he could almost feel Richard's groan vibrating beside him. The music started and sounded too loud for such a close room. At first it was offensive to Mark, but when Margaret 23

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started to sing, her sweet voice seemed to soften the keyboard. Never had he heard such a lovely sound. He wasn't used to hearing music other than the chirp of the birds. But this sound! It was like angels! The church! That was what it reminded him of. The choir at the church. No, this was better. Less religious. This had a theatrical quality to it. Something risqué. Oh, look at that lovely songbird. Why hadn't he paid more attention to her? Richard nudged Mark in irritation but Mark ignored it. At the second elbow in the ribs, Mark faced Richard. The glint of his glare summoned Mark's attention. Smiling meekly, Mark gave a little shrug. He hadn't meant any harm. The music brought Mark back again to Margaret's angelic face. She sung to Mark with so much feeling, never taking her eyes off him. It was as if they were lovers. Mark felt like the core of a great spinning ball of fire. What was it about him? It quite simply had to be his looks. He knew no other explanation. When the song ended, his uncle sputtered and awoke. The long journey had taken its toll. Uncle David pretended he had not fallen asleep and stood, making his intention known that he must rest. Reaching for Mark, as if signaling the end of the night for him as well, Uncle David paused before taking another step. Mark wanted to stay up. He wanted to hear another song. "Come, lad. Let's get some rest." That hand was outstretched and Mark knew if he disobeyed it would embarrass his uncle in front of these refined people. And that 24

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was unacceptable. Pouting, Mark stood slowly, head lowered in slight humiliation to be treated as less than an adult. After he and his uncle had left the room, Mark heard Thomas utter, "What a remarkable looking boy!" **** It was as dark as the forest in his bedroom. Not one to fall asleep too easily, Mark lay with his head on that lusciously soft pillow. His dressing gown twisted like a ghost with a stranglehold from his tossing under the quilt as he strained his ears to the sound of the house creaking and moaning below him. He heard a click and peered into the blackness to see the door through the heavy canopy of the bed. That particular door was not moving. Then a dim candlelight showed off the pattern on the wall at the other end of the room, a space that he had not noticed before had opened. Another entry. One that had been painted to be concealed. But now that he knew it, he could clearly see its outline. Mark sat up and tried to squint through the distracting curtains to see who it could be. The person set the candle down on the bureau and pressed the canopy back from the outside. Gabriel, in a sheer dressing gown, climbed on the bed and enveloped him in her embrace. Mark moaned in pleasure as her fingers pushed the fabric of his nightgown up and her little hands molded his cock until it hardened. When she smoothed her palm over its length she muttered a little prayer at its size. Straddling his hips, she mounted him without a word to fill his ears or answer any question. When her breasts pushed into his face, Mark closed 25

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his eyes and smothered himself in them. They were as soft as kneaded dough and fragrant with expensive French perfume. Grabbing them with both hands, he found a nipple and sucked it, releasing into her and tilting back his head with a breath. Mark's head spun as the sensations of his first female sexual encounter made him wonder how he had gone without for so long. Once he lay back, panting to catch his breath, she seemed satisfied. She leaned over to kiss his slack mouth before she climbed off. The candlelight blackened, the rush of air from a closing door brushed past his cheek. Blinking in shock, Mark lay partially exposed to the night, wondering what on earth had happened. Surely he must be dreaming. He hopped up to wash himself in the basin for he felt sticky. Once he had cleaned up to his satisfaction, he climbed back into bed. Before he had time to assess the sexual act with any clarity, another sound drew his immediate attention. With his head tilted this time to the door at the hall, yet another yellow flicker came into view. The tiny wick was set on the bedside table and the drapes of the canopy pulled back to reveal a wicked demon. Richard raised his bed shirt over his head, baring his slim, hairless build. "Roll over, my sweet." Mark did. His thighs were spread wide and the bed shifted from Richard's weight. When something cold and wet touched him, Mark jumped in surprise. Richard's hands spread a slippery substance on him. As Mark waited in anticipation, he was entered from behind. Mark shouted out in shock, but soon the contact brought something else to raise the goose 26

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pimples on his arms. Pleasure! Intense, deep pleasure, like he had never imagined. Grabbing him around his waist, Richard raised Mark's hips up to meet his own. Richard clasped Mark's flaccid cock in his hand and worked it ruthlessly. Mark's eyes widened in awe as he felt himself rising for yet another blast, even more intense than the first. When he heard that male grunting in his ears, Mark let go into that aggressive palm, dropping to the blankets in exhaustion. Richard kissed his left cheek bottom and left. The candlelight flickered and died. Once again he dragged himself out of bed to clean up at the basin. He heard a scratching at his door. Mark shook his head in denial, knowing he must be delirious because none of this seemed real. The door opened and one of the old servants came in and requested, "Master Mark, could you please follow me?" Unsure what this summons was about, Mark wondered if something was wrong. He was sure he was in trouble. You couldn't have this much ecstasy without punishment, or at least that's what his uncle always said. Sin and you shall burn in hell. Wasn't that it? Mark assumed he was being led to the fire. Mark's bare feet chilled on the stone flooring as he paraded slowly behind the bent old man with the tiny candle. The arthritic servant opened a door at the very end of the elongated hall, bowing and gesturing for him to enter. Mark peered in. Where was he? Whose room was this? A dim, peach colored candle showed him another dark, oppressive, incense scented bedroom. Mark spun back as the door was 27

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closed and he was left seemingly alone. Did they want him to sleep in another room? How utterly confusing. He tiptoed to the bed stopping short when he saw it was occupied. The master of the house, who looked quite different without his fancy clothes and white wig, smiled greedily at him. Reaching out his long, narrow hand, Thomas said, "Come here, my lovely." Mark studied those intelligent, youthful eyes and full head of dark hair in amazement. "Sir?" he whispered, like this needed clarification. Thomas rolled the quilt back. "Take off your dressing gown, let me see you." No mistake now. Mark lifted the gown over his head. Thomas' eyes began their inspection at his mane of hair and worked their way down Mark's body to his thighs. "What an extraordinary lad you are. Come here." He beckoned. Boldly, Mark climbed onto the warm bed. Thomas embraced Mark and sealed his solid, fit length against Mark's. As Thomas squeezed and prodded Mark, he inhaled him like Mark was a rich perfume, caressed him like a fine fabric, and tasted him like favored wine. Mark accepted that mouth on his and the weight of Thomas' whole body. Mark gave what he could to please the man who just may ask him to stay if he was satisfied. Rolling over, feeling cool oil on his bottom, Mark was once again taken. When the master of the house reached his peak, he crushed Mark in a vise-like hold and whispered into his ear how glorious he was. "You've the skin of a princess," Thomas hissed. 28

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[Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two To a slanted sunlight, Mark awoke in the guest bedroom he had first been escorted to. He heard a loud knocking at the door. His uncle stepped in and shook his head in dismay. "Why are you still in bed? The meal is about to be served. Look lively, lad! You want to make a good impression on these people, don't you?" Mark burrowed under the pillows and moaned. This man had no idea what his night had been like. How if he had gotten more than a few hours in a row of sleep he would have been lucky. But obedient as ever, Mark rolled over to squint at him. "Yes, Uncle." Mark made his way to the dining room. Everyone was awake and obviously eager for a sight of him. Keeping his eyes lowered, he avoided accepting anyone's gaze out of the sheer embarrassment that they would figure out he had contact with each. Sitting heavily in the vacant chair between his uncle and Thomas, Mark nodded in thanks for the coffee the servant poured. After eating, Mark raised his head from his now empty plate. He had consumed every last tasty morsel. The quality of the meal was such that he imagined lifting the china dish for a lick. But he'd already caused enough of a lasting impression in this house and it would be in bad taste, even though he was tempted. The damn knife was there, clean. He had forgotten it once again. They must think him a barbarian. 30

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When Richard had his attention, he said, "I insist you come out with me today. I'll show you some marvelous shops." Imagining Richard naked and standing before his bed, Mark fixed his gaze on Richard's face. Richard had that white wig on once again. Mark wondered if he only took it off to make love. Richard had a nice full head of hair, like his father Thomas. Why did they hide it? The wigs seemed silly to him. He couldn't imagine tucking his lion's mane into one. Not for a moment. Old men like Uncle David did that. Gabriel smiled sweetly at him. "You must. Allow me to treat you." Feeling his face warm up in a blush, Mark checked with his uncle before committing himself either way. "It's not necessary, Gabriel. The boy has all he needs," came the predictable reply. "Nonsense!" She waved him off like she was shooing a gnat. "I insist!" **** Seated in the carriage Mark startled out of his thoughts when Richard's hand cupped over his breeches. A very wicked smile emerged from under that white wig, one Mark was growing used to. Richard pushed Mark down and went to work on his pewter buttons. "Oi? In the carriage?" Mark gasped. "It's a fair ride. It'll kill the time," Richard replied whilst he tugged Mark's cream colored breeches down. 31

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Gasping as Richard sucked on him, kneeling in front of him in the swaying coach, Mark closed his eyes and gave in to the rising bliss. **** The traffic of horse and carriage, noise and commotion, were like nothing Mark had ever seen. Hundreds of people all on the move, shops were crammed door to door behind a wet glazed cobblestone track, uneven and rutty. Horses jingling their bridles in the mist and hawkers shouted out their wares of newspapers, fruit, fresh meat, and vegetables. The scent of baking contrasted to sewage. And the brilliant rainbows of color of proper ladies in high brimmed hats who walked with gray and brown-suited servants doting behind them or dogs barking from straining leashes. Bewildered and overwhelmed by the complete overload of his senses, once inside a shop Mark gazed around at all the slick material and shiny mirrors in awe. Richard chatted with the tailor, expounding on the fact that Mark was to be clothed in the finest money could buy. The princeling clothed as a prince. Unable to prevent it, Mark's eyes were very wide as rich silky fabrics were laid across him. The tailor measured his sleeves, his chest, and his inseams. Richard insisted on almost the entire spectrum in velvet, though to Mark's taste they seemed a bit bright. "Richard, yellow? I cannot be seen in yellow. Blue is more to my liking, thank you kindly." 32

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"Fine, Mark, fine. But you do need a little lightening up. I'm afraid farm life has turned you dull." After they had ordered the new clothing, Richard dragged Mark to the next stop. Mark was led by the hand to try on a wig. "Oh, Lord no!" He resisted with every bone in his body. Staring in the mirror, Mark shook out his thick, brown tresses. "No. I must refuse this, Richard." "Try one. Let us just see." Richard nodded to the shopkeeper. "You will never get me out in public." Mark crossed his arms defiantly. "You know how desirable you are when you pout?" Richard crooned softly into his ear. Mark blushed crimson and peered around to see if it was overheard. A white dusted wig elevated like a cloud in the air, then descended. His hair was unruly at best, so off came the wig and netting was set up to gather the rich chocolate waves to hide them. When that big white thing was placed back on his head, Mark immediately rolled his eyes at the folly. Richard covered his mouth over his greedy smile. "You appear to be a woman disguised as a man. You are far too pretty, Mark. Far too feminine for your own good." Mark reluctantly found a looking glass. "Oh, this is pitiful! Feminine. Yes, I look like a bloody tart!"

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Richard stood behind him, pressing his hardness into Mark's bottom, leering over his shoulder at him in the mirror. "You look divine. Positively edible." "I look like a woman!" Mark reached to tug it off. The shopkeeper hurried to take the wig before it was damaged. "I draw the line, Richard. Please respect my feelings." "All right, my beauty. New shoes?" Peering down, Mark noticed his old ones did seem a bit worn. "Yes. All right then." **** After the shopping excursion, they sat in a pub to enjoy a beer and light snack. Mark overheard a conversation behind them. Some English astronomer had calculated elliptical orbits of comets. Halley? What did he say? Edmond Halley? Mark leaned over his ale to ask Richard, "What's a comet?" Richard tilted his head at the unusual enquiry, disregarding it with a wave of his hand. Richard mirrored him until they were nose to nose. "You are so remarkable looking. Do you realize what you do to me?" Mark leaned back instantly and took a gander around, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. The noise level masked everything but their obvious body language. "Come back here, you Ganymede," Richard purred. "Who?" Mark's eyes once again became wide. "You are so naïve and innocent. It is a far contrast to those lush looks of yours." 34

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"Yes, but..." Mark leaned over once again to whisper discreetly, "You must be careful." "Yes. I know." Richard smiled. "Do you like women?" "No, not really." Richard whispered back, "Do you?" "Yes, I think I do. I've had little experience in any type of physical touch, Richard. I'm such a novice. There was no one down on the farm to play with." Mark recalled rubbing his face into the ample bosom of this boy's mother and went into a deep blushing shade of red. "Women?" Richard drew back at first as if he was insulted but soon his expression straightened out to complete control. "We should head back now. Mother will be waiting." Wondering if Richard had read his thoughts, Mark finished his ale in a gulp. "I don't mind if we take pleasure together, Richard. Honestly. There is something heavenly about touching both. Don't you agree?" Spinning back to catch his gaze, Richard's lips parted. "Where did you come from, Mark Antonious?" "How on earth did you learn my middle name?" It shocked and mortified him. It was a secret! No one was to know it. It didn't sound English. It horrified him that somehow it had gotten out. Richard grinned in his demonic way. "I know many things about you, my love. Come. Let's go." **** When Mark stepped into the manor house, he found his Uncle David appeared more unsettled than ever. Mark wanted 35

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to speak to him in private to ask him why. On his way to do just that, Gabriel intercepted him. "Come, my lovely boy. Come and have tea with me for a moment." Mark resisted her pulling at first to gaze back at Uncle David to see if he approved. "Uncle?" Mark asked meekly. But his uncle's eyes merely turned away. Like a whore in heat, Gabriel's clutching, chubby hand dragged him into the sitting room. The harpsichord had a sheet covering it. The late afternoon sunlight poured into the room, little sparkles of light shimmered as the rays flickered over the gilded trim. "Sit, sit." She gestured to the settee and made herself comfortable next to him making sure both his hands were clasped in hers and on her satin and lace lap. Pausing a moment to stare into his eyes, she whispered, "My adorable cousin, I have had a long discussion with your uncle and we both feel it is for the best that you stay and get a taste of London life. You are too isolated on the farm in Newbury and lack the culture and style London can offer you." Mark tried very hard to hide this excitement, biting his lip to stop his glee. Suddenly realizing he was squeezing her hands mercilessly, Mark released that iron grip. "But what of Uncle David?" he whispered, a lump coming to his throat. "I have offered him a few hired men to help him whilst you are here with me. When you return, you can resume your normal life there, if you wish." Return? Did she think he would be content on a farm after experiencing the lush wealth that the Holloway family had offered? 36

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It appeared as if Gabriel was struggling to read his mind. "What are you thinking, my sweet?" "Then he approves?" She smiled tightly. "He said it is up to you." "Did he?" Mark doubted that very much. Was she making this up as she went along so she may keep coming to his bed? "He actually told you it was I who would make this decision?" When she nodded, Mark continued, "Why do I have an impossible time imagining that line coming out of Uncle David's mouth?" "My luscious young man. You must decide." "May I speak with him?" Her smile dipped as she hesitated. Releasing one of his hands, she reached out and caressed his long, soft hair. In the pause that followed, Mark expected her lips to make contact on his own. He wasn't disappointed. Closing his eyes as her tongue wrapped around his, Mark groaned softly as it lingered. Anxious fingers pressed against where he'd grown hard. When she parted, her lids were at half-mast, her voice smoky and sensual. "I would like it if you stayed, Mark." "Ah..." he moaned at the passion she ignited in him. Her hands molded him where he had hardened down one leg of his breeches. Seeming to sense he was still undecided, she reached behind Mark's head and pushed his face into her exposed cleavage. "Say you will stay." Hands lifted in the air for balance, he grunted and pressed his lips against that delightful crease that separated those two 37

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large, velvety mounds. Mark knew if anything touched him, he would explode in his pants. "Come, let us announce that you have decided to stay." Disoriented and flustered beyond his experience, his new shoes scuffed the flooring and dragged an area rug with him for a few paces. Gabriel clutched his hand and hauled him along with her defiantly. Uncle David, Richard, Margaret, Peter, and now even handsome MP Thomas were there waiting for them. As Mark made his awkward entrance, Richard was the first to notice his state. Mark was humiliated, his face flushed and hot, his posture not its usual crisp stance, and the large mound under his pewter buttons could not be overlooked. Mortified at the way this would appear, Mark would have appreciated a moment to get himself together. It was all happening too quickly and he was more than a page behind. "Sorry, wait, could I just—" "Mark would like to make an announcement." Gabriel nudged him front and center. Uncle David was in the midst of a growl of resentment. "Please..." Mark tried to slow it all down. "Uncle David. Can we have a word?" Mark spied Gabriel. She couldn't hide her disappointment. In a huff, Uncle David followed him to a quiet conservatory. It viewed the modest back garden and the large homes that were built up to it. Mark invited his uncle to sit, pacing before him, his hands drawn back behind him and clasped. Finally Mark stopped and addressed him. "Tell me what to do, Uncle." 38

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Uncle David's face hardened even further. "Please. I am helpless to make a decision without you." Uncle David sat heavily on a wrought iron chair and rested his head in his hand. A sob exploded from Mark as he knelt before him and reached for him over his lap. "Please ... help me. I am so lost, Uncle." Gently, Uncle David patted Mark's head, a very sad smile on his lips. "I never would have admitted Gabriel could be right in this, lad. But, I'm afraid she is. Maybe you need to grow up and to make a man out of yourself. Is it possible we have babied you too much on that farm?" From the warmth of his uncle's lap, Mark raised his head and stared at this man who he loved like a father. "Without you? Without Auntie Katie?" "Yes, lad." David wiped at Mark's tears as they spilt. "You can always come back. You know we would never turn you away. Spend a month here. Take it a day at a time. We are only a two days' journey away." "And she will provide you with help?" Mark needed some reassurance. "She will." With a dry callused hand, he caressed Mark's face affectionately. Mark lay his head down on his lap once more and cried. "I will miss you." "Nonsense, lad. We are just a coach ride away." ****

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Mark tried to hide his red-rimmed eyes, but he knew Gabriel noticed. She stood in anger, assuming he had cried when denied the right to stay. Thomas spoke first. "What is it to be, David?" With his arm around his nephew in a tight adoring squeeze, David said, "He's decided to stay here with you. A month for starters, if that is acceptable." Trying not to cry, Mark looked up to see four sets of eyes brightened in amazement. Richard let a chuckle slip out before he could cover it up with his hand. Gabriel rushed to Mark and reached up to cup his face. "I am so pleased. Why, then, beautiful young man, do you look so sad?" Mark bit his lip to try and prevent more tears. "I am not sad. I am overjoyed." Thomas rose to his feet. "A drink! To celebrate!" The servant hurried out to get a bottle of wine. Twisting away from Gabriel's grasp, Mark lowered his face shyly. "Please excuse me for a moment." Wondering whether he was making the right decision, Mark scuffed his paste-buckle shoes down the hall and ended up in the sitting room. He plopped down at the bench behind the harpsichord and slumped over. It was what he had dreamed of. Why wasn't he happy? He did want to live here. What was there at the farm for him? Hog excrement? He would have grown resentful. But Uncle David and Auntie Katie were his only parents. He adored them. If he hurt either of them, he would never forgive himself. 40

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A rustle of fabric caused him to raise a weary head. Margaret stood at the doorway, looking like the picture of purity. Mark wiped at his wet eyes roughly, feeling completely humiliated to be so weak in front of a fifteen year old, one who in his mind had more sophistication in her little dainty pinky finger than he hoped to attain in a lifetime. Without a word of acknowledgement, she stood behind the harpsichord and slid off the cover letting it fall to the floor in a soundless pile. Sitting beside him at the bench, she started playing a slow, soft tune, full of yearning and sadness. Lifted on the melody like a dream, Mark closed his eyes and let the music surround him, mellow him, seduce him. Suddenly Margaret attached herself to his mouth and tumbled them off the bench and onto the floor. Mark's hands raised in the air like he was the victim of a stagecoach robbery and a pistol was pointed at his chest. He knew if someone came in and witnessed this, his visit would end as quickly as it had begun. Twisting to the side, he removed his lips from hers. "No! Margaret, you must get up! This cannot occur!" With a sense of urgent panic, he backed her off and jumped to his feet, reaching to get her to stand and look respectable. "You are fifteen!" he shouted. And I am not pleasing one more member of the Holloway family! A pain shot through him when from the corner of his eye he felt a presence. Seeing it was just the servant announcing dinner, Mark felt so much relief he almost passed out. Margaret waited for the old man to leave, sending a wicked smile at Mark. "I am so glad you are staying." Her 41

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hips swayed sensually as she sauntered out, peering over her shoulder at him like she had been in her twenties and this seduction was acceptable. "No ... no ... NO! Margaret, I tell you, no!" He raced after her. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Three Mark knew his uncle would stay for the week, then he would leave him there. Good or bad? Good, right? Freedom, wealth, sex ... Sex! Mark sat up in bed. The curtains tied back on the bedposts so he could see both doors plainly. Is this how it would be? Was he expected to do this every night? First he closed his eyes, rubbing them tiredly. It was stuffy in the room tonight. It smelled of dust. The nightshirt seemed like a skin of fur. Lifting it over his head, he felt the coolness of a draft moving through some crack in a leaded windowpane. A tiny flame still burned next to him and the shadows danced over the patterned walls in a ghostly minuet of shapes, two by two. The double shadow intrigued him. Being over-tired had taken its toll. His lids started falling and soon he was in a dream. Music was playing, drawing him out of the bed. The stairs were narrow and vague. His hands ran against the walls to guide him. That melody, he recognized it. Humming it in his head as he walked, he imagined Margaret's silhouette, her long hair curling down her narrow back. Her voice was the call of the nightingale. "Mark?" He grunted, only half believing he was hearing his name. "Mark ... lover..." "Oi?" He squinted. "Are you ready for me?" 43

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Obediently, Mark rolled to his stomach and spread his legs. His ass was caressed and greased lovingly and a loud, masculine purr reached his ears. With the penetration, Mark was now wide awake. An arm lifted his hips high into the air and Mark leaned up on his elbows as he was toyed with and teased. Richard came inside him and then seemed to focus on pleasing Mark. When it hit, Mark clenched his jaw to prevent shouting out. A butterfly kiss touched his shoulder blade as he was released from the embrace. They both stood at the basin to wash up before climbing back to bed. When they heard a light scratching at the door, Mark froze and hid under the covers dreading seeing Gabriel. It was all a mess. A terrible mess. "Master Mark?" a servant called in a hoarse whisper. Mark knew immediately the head of the house was summoning. "Why does the servant call to you?" Richard asked, full of suspicion. Mark bit his lip. "Uh, I have to take medication in the night." He knew it was a horrible tale, but nothing else came to mind. "Are you ill?" "No! I mean, yes, but not very." Mark climbed out of the bed and found his nightshirt. "I had no idea." Richard sat up and stared at him. "You needn't worry. I can't spread it. It isn't like that." "Can I wait for you?" 44

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"Could we meet tomorrow? I'll be awfully tired." Richard seemed to melt at Mark's words. "Yes, of course." Feeling like a thief in the night, Mark followed the old servant down the hall, glancing back at the door that held his uncle. What would Uncle David do if he knew what was going on? Surely he would go completely mad. The door was opened and the same feeling penetrated his bones. How could it be thrilling and petrifying at once? This was a Member of Parliament, a man of power, handsome, fit, craving him! Only with Thomas did he feel the pressure to perform. Richard and Gabriel were playtime. A sensation washed over him that somehow this was his destiny. His calling. Everyone excelled at something. Maybe pleasing people in this way was what he was placed on this earth for. It seemed natural. He had no regrets, loved the work, and knew nothing else he'd rather do. Could he do this and continue to have his clothing paid for? A roof over his head? Fed sumptuous meals? Were there men who did this for a living? Should he ask someone if this was considered a proper job? This was London! Here these things were acceptable. They must be. Everyone in this house was doing it. "Come here, my beauty." Thomas reached out to him. Mark approached and climbed onto the foot of his bed with the casualness of someone who has some power and influence and can do as they like. He curled his knees under him and tilted his head seductively. "Why do you not sleep with your wife? Uncle David sleeps with his." 45

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A pleasant smile grew on Thomas' lips. "When you are wealthy enough to have separate rooms, you'll savor your peace and quiet." Mark absorbed that information just as if he were at his lessons. "Will I be wealthy then?" "Come here." Again the hand beckoned him closer. Mark shimmied over the quilt to Thomas, yet still just a fingertip away. "How old are you?" Pausing, Thomas replied, "I am thirty-eight, why?" When Mark didn't answer, Thomas requested, "Take off your nightshirt." Obeying at once, Mark didn't even hesitate to raise it over his head. As it lay crumpled beside him Mark asked, "Is this my vocation?" The expression that followed the question was unreadable to Mark. It was somewhere between hilarity and astonishment. "Come here. Closer so I may touch you." Those large, masculine fingers reached and curled like they were each little asps. Mark slid closer. Now the little serpents could lick him with their tiny tongues. As soon as Thomas could get his hands around Mark's shoulders, he drew him near enough to taste. With his eyes closed, Mark could feel that warm, dry palm smoothing down his side and hip hungrily. He nuzzled into Thomas' neck. "You did not answer my question."

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"No. How am I expected to answer a question so unusual?" Thomas made little kisses down his forehead and nose to his mouth. Mark opened his lips to receive him and tasted the wine Thomas had drunk. Mark surrendered. What else was there to do? He loved being touched like this. Like he was an object of so much desire no one could resist him. As if he were a satin doll, he would lie back and be caressed, handled, sucked and ultimately, fucked. Could life be any grander? And these were the Holloways! Influential, powerful, wealthy! Oh, I must be made of velvet the way I am being stroked. Mark was so hard he ached for the release. Richard was too hungry for the act and let nothing build. For him the sooner he drove inside the better. But what Richard didn't understand was this play before hand. This gradual rising of the pleasure. It was so much richer than that simple act of pushing in. Would Richard allow Mark to slow him down? He doubted it. Besides, he was not the master in any of these encounters, only the eager slave. He did not care how each liked it. Mark was happy to please. And they did please him. Each one in their own manner. An evil smile played on his lips as he kept his favorite to himself. That large hand was between his thighs. How did it know just how to stroke him? If he were a kitten he would purr. Opening his knees, he invited more. Splayed out, vulnerable and absolutely ecstatic. When the bed shifted Mark blinked his eyes open. A set of heavy balls and a large engorged penis hovered over his face. 47

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At the same time his own set slid into a hot mouth. The tip nudged him. He got the message. His lips opened tentatively to receive it. It felt odd. Very strange to have it in his mouth. But his own body was being sucked so skillfully, Mark ignored the strangeness of the act. Unable to prevent it, he groaned and reached for that soft dangling sack. It pushed him over the edge instantly. His cries of pleasure were muffled while his mouth was full. That penis moved on its own, in and out of his throat. Mark gripped it with both hands, preventing it from choking him and also giving it a tighter hold. When it came, he was stunned. He knew if he didn't swallow it immediately he would gag and need to spit it out. One shiver and a gulp sent it down. It had an odd taste and almost numbed his tongue. Soon after, Thomas' face was next to his, sporting a very sleepy smile. "You are a princeling." "Am I?" Mark liked the sound of that. "Yes, indeed." That rich deep voice flattering him was really the ultimate reward, wasn't it? "Your beauty will only grow as you age. I can tell. Nearing twenty and already you are so endearing. Irresistible." "You will make me conceited and spoilt with your words, my handsome MP." Mark's smile softened. Thomas stared at Mark's eyes in the dim candle flicker. "Your long black eyelashes seem to be lined with paint, they are so enchanting. A man more beautiful I have not seen." "Flattery ... flattery..." Mark teased, batting his lashes at him. 48

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When a very strong grip held his face and Thomas kissed his lips, Mark moaned softly. Loving the taste and the tip of Thomas' tongue as it made circles around his own, Mark adored him. As they parted, Mark whispered, "Please, Thomas, may I sleep in your bed?" "No, Mark. You must go." Mark sighed and stared at him for a moment longer. "Did you know my father? Was he a Member of Parliament like you?" Even though Thomas tried not to show emotion, Mark could tell the question took him aback. "Off with you. It is getting late." Like a good lad, Mark found his nightshirt and stood as he draped it back over his nakedness. The coolness of the floor felt soothing on the soles of his feet. Mark shut the door and made his way to his own bedchambers. When he had closed himself in, the hidden door began to move. He could not believe his timing. How could he keep this up without someone finding out about someone else? Gabriel set her candle down. She appeared surprised to see him standing next to his bed. "Can you not sleep?" "I sleepwalk." Mark nodded, assuring her it was true. "Oh! How remarkable." She crawled onto his bed and reached out to him. He climbed on it and sat up, staring at her. She was beautiful in her plumpness. So soft and womanly. Her scent was like a sweet flower or maybe fruit pie. She pinched his nipple through his nightshirt and Mark flinched and scolded her. "Oi! That hurt!" 49

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"Take it off!" she said, like he had been completely ridiculous to have kept it on this long. He shimmied out of it and lay back, a grin on his lips. "I am all yours." This seemed to delight her immensely. She reached between his legs and amused herself with him, like he was a wonderful new toy. In the dimness Mark could make out her erect nipples. He reached out to them and pulled on them with gentle little tugs. Her breasts were very heavy and delightfully large. Leaning up on his elbows, he sucked one through the sheer fabric, wetting a little aureole around the hard tip. Gabriel moaned in pleasure and mounted him. When he felt that damp heat, Mark sucked harder, feeling the urge to chew through that fabric and shove the whole of her breast into his mouth. He climaxed and arched his back. Number three was even more intense than its predecessors. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four Once again morning came cruel and hard. Uncle David shouted, knocking at his door and scolding him through the wood panel, "Why is it you cannot manage to wake up with the rest of the household and be present at the morning meal at a reasonable time?" Mark burrowed under his pillows and moaned in anguish. "If you are not dressed and down at the table in five minutes, you will be in trouble, young man!" came a very stern admonishment. "Yes, Uncle." Mark tried not to cry out the words in a groan. **** At the end of one week, Uncle David stood beside a coach with his kit stowed. He brought Mark to the far side of it to give him that expected private lecture. "I don't know why you cannot acquaint yourself with the routine of this household, nor why you must lollygag in bed every morning. You never behaved in this way on the farm and I find no reasonable excuse for this behavior now." Mark lowered his eyes submissively. "I just hope you pull yourself into shape and get something positive out of this experience. I don't want to find out that this whole escapade has been just a waste of everyone's time. Do make a man out of yourself, Mark." "Yes, Uncle," Mark whispered softly. 51

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"Right. I'll be expecting you in a month's time." "Yes, Uncle." Mark kissed his cheek and stepped back from the carriage whilst his uncle was assisted in getting in. "Goodbye, lad." The water threatened to spill from Mark's eyes as he stood on the cobble lane watching the sway of the carriage. When the dust had settled, the small crowd at the mansion's door came into his view. Lifting his face to the noon sun and fast moving clouds that sought to cover it, Mark inhaled deeply and knew he was in for one very strange adventure. Allow the excitement to touch you. Don't dwell on the loss of security. Right. With a pivot of his new paste-buckle shoes, he marched to that welcoming committee. The adoring smiles were a bit unnerving. Though they should have offered comfort, they didn't. They were filled with some expectation level he was having trouble coping with. The Holloways parted like the Red Sea for him to pass unmolested, but he knew every finger wanted a taste of his tight velvet. He dropped heavily on the settee in the sitting room and rested his chin in his palm. Richard shook his head at that forlorn look. "Are you already bored, cousin?" Margaret squeezed past her brother and stared at Mark curiously. Gabriel and Thomas peered over their son and into the room. Peter leaned on Mark's lap and tried to rouse him. 52

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"Let him be, Peter," Thomas admonished softly. "I must go." Thomas turned to his wife. She kissed her husband's cheek and walked him to the door. Richard moved closer to Mark. Before he touched Mark, Richard sneered at Margaret, "Don't you have a dolly to play with?" She snorted in disgust and left. "You too, little one." Richard gave Peter a shove. When he and Mark were alone, Richard sat next to him and placed his arm around his shoulders. "You need this, love. You need to cut the strings." "Yes, yes, I know." Mark sighed. "Right. Off to town we go." Richard rose up and reached out his hands. Mark clasped them and was assisted up to his feet. They passed Gabriel who asked, "Where are you off to?" "Out for his first lesson in being a gentleman." Richard gave her a nasty smile. "Just behave and keep him out of harm's way," she warned. When she grabbed Mark's face and gave him a wet kiss, Mark blushed crimson and tried to wipe his mouth discreetly. Once in the privacy of their carriage, Richard leaned on his shoulder. "Has Mum seduced you yet?" Mark swallowed in a noisy gulp and stared straight in front of him at the interior of the carriage. Richard obviously guessed. "Never mind. You didn't go with her, did you?" 53

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Still mute, Mark tilted his face out of the window. "I'd be ever so cross with you if you had." Mark figured that response. He faced Richard and with as much conviction as he could muster, said, "I have not." Lesson one: How to lie. **** Once in the center of London's bustling mayhem, Richard stopped the driver and they exited the coach to walk along the Thames in the shadow of Parliament. Mark leaned over the retaining wall to peer into the water. It was murky at best. Any browner or thicker and it would have been a tide of flowing custard. They paused and absorbed the view as pedestrians and horses marched on around them. There were so many people, Mark had a hard time conceiving himself it was real and not some carnival that would be dismantled when the show was over. "How do you know my middle name?" It was a hoarse whisper and did betray some pain, though Mark hadn't intended it to. Richard let out a heavy sigh and said as if he were alone, "Why is it I who must tell you all this?" Spinning around to face him, Mark was intrigued. He tapped Richard on the arm and gestured to a stone bench. Richard inspected the slab carefully and shook out a handkerchief to spread out under his derriere. Mark had no such care. He dropped down without a second thought. 54

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"Tell me all what?" Mark wondered why he needed to ask again. Richard eyed the skyline, noticeably hesitant. Mark sighed. "No one will tell me. Why? Is it all so bad?" he asked. "Could hiding it from me forever be the only solution?" "No," Richard replied, "but if I tell you, you will undoubtedly let it slip to my parents that you know. You think they will not suspect me at once of telling?" Mark ground his jaw. He rose up in a single movement and envisioned himself leaping on top of that wall and diving into the murky depths of that river. The frustration was overwhelming. As if he knew Mark's intentions, Richard gripped his velvet sleeve and brought him back down to the seat. "All right. I will tell you what I know. But so help me, if you let on you heard this tale to anyone, I will forever be your enemy." Anxious to hear, Mark twisted his knees to him and waited, trying to be patient. When it seemed that Richard would not go on without him speaking some sort of vow, Mark muttered, "Yes, yes, I will keep it silent." Richard inhaled deeply before he began to unwind the mystery. "Your mother sang with the London Italian opera. She was their leading prima donna. Mother said her voice was remarkable, like some wooded instrument. I would not know. I have never heard it. I am too young, obviously." In his cluttered mind, Mark tried to picture it. He could not believe this story, so bizarre, had anything to do with him. 55

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"She traveled with her group to all the major stages. They were a tremendous success here in London, so they went on to Paris, Naples, and of course, Venice." Richard paused and stared into Mark's eyes. A light drizzle started to fall, but it was harmless in the mild air. After taking a peek at their surroundings, Richard continued. "In Venice she was a triumph, singing as well as any of those gelded males that strut around like peacocks. Her fans were many, as you can guess. You have no idea what these people are like when they adore a singer. I can only imagine, for even when I myself witness the opera, I fall in love with every painted male contralto I hear. One of these suitors was a very wealthy Venetian aristocrat. This man was extremely powerful and everyone around him referred to him as 'Excellency'. From what Mother has told me, he was a man of remarkable beauty and grace. He went backstage to compliment your mother and..." Like a barn owl with mouse meat in his sights, Mark's eyes had widened as he drank in this unbelievable tale. "Well, my lovely, you are the product of that union. He could not marry her. She was not a woman of any title, and those Venetians are so very strict in their laws. I don't think your mother would ever have been happy to be locked away in some villa and never appear on stage again. She was not left behind in a way you might think. At least not according to Mother. But you have to understand the scandal surrounding it back then. And she was in no position to give a young child a proper home. Not with her traveling. So, your uncle and 56

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aunt, who could not have children between them, gladly offered to take you." Mark's mouth tightened. For some reason anger was taking hold of him. "Your father, he gave you his Christian name. He is Marc Antinous Caeserni. You take the surname deMontford from your uncle. Your father gave your mother the harpsichord that is in our sitting room. The one Margaret plays on." Mark was stunned. Nineteen years had gone by in his life and no one could tell him this? He was left to always wonder where he had come from? Well? This was an abomination! A traveling singer had a horrid affair with a foreigner, tossed the baby aside without so much as a desire to give up singing and be its mother and then? And now? Richard's face began showing signs of regret. "And what of them presently?" Mark growled. "Your mother is gone. She passed after an illness. But your father, I assume he lives still. In Venice where he has wed and, I suspect, conceived children." Richard added as an afterthought, "You are his first born, and yet you are worthless. You inherit not one ducat of his vast wealth." Punishment. That was what this was. Oh, that wonderful feeling he had once had. How he had this calling from the heavens. He would be this prancing, carefree lover. A life filled with pleasure and lust. No. He was simply an unwanted bastard that people had taken pity on. He was standing now though he didn't remember rising. "Mark! Mark, where are you going? Mark!" Richard chased after him. 57

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"Leave me! Leave me!" he roared. As the story sank in, Mark was nearly in pieces from its meaning. He could not abide someone touching him, talking any more to him. He needed to be left alone. "Mark! No! Not like this. Do not run away. I need take you back. Now! I will get us some wine. We will sit and be still if you wish. Please!" Jerking his arm violently, Mark tore out of Richard's grip. "Just come back with you?" Mark shouted. "Like this is nothing? Like I am the same person? What am I? What do you think this does to me? You speak abominations to me! I cannot abide myself now. Could my life have been so sheltered? Was I so blind to never guess what I am? I am worthless! I am the lowest form of life on this earth!" Richard tried his best to hold him, comfort him. "No! Do not touch me! You must let me be. I need time to think. Please, respect my wishes." "You are alone here in the city. You don't know the way—" "Alone? Alone here? I am alone in the world!" Mark shuddered visibly. "I know the way. Let me be." Again Mark walked away. In a very black cloud of rage, Mark stalked the narrow streets and dark places of London. He pressed himself back against a soot-covered stone wall to allow a carriage to pass. It was so tight in the little alley he could stroke the horses as they thundered by. Over him read a street sign, "Cock's Lane". In misery, Mark covered his face as he wept. The drizzle grew thicker and Mark turned his shoulder to the wind. His path took him deeper into realm of the brothels. 58

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Young men watched him from their doorway perches. Only tight breeches and an opened blouse covered their bodies. No cape to keep them hidden. It sent an odd rush over Mark's length. They were giving him very inviting looks. He knew why now. He was different from them. A half-breed. He had that Venetian blood in his veins, making him darker skinned. Did they think him a freak? Was that why they stared? One man caught his attention. His jaw was so coarse with shadow it seemed it would scratch to touch it. His eyes were as black as a deep well and very sensuous. He too was olivecomplected. Yet he was broad, solid, and wide, not the tall, lithe spirit Mark knew himself to be. No six feet height to give him the appearance of a wraith. This man uttered a word that Mark heard. "Catamito." Italian, like himself. Mark sneered at his own internal dialogue. He approached the man to see him in more detail. "Do you speak English?" The man smiled like Mark had asked a very odd question. "Of course. What do you want, my beautiful one?" "What did you call me?" The man's dark hand reached out to brush the hair back from Mark's face. "Tesoro mio. Vieni. Vieni tra le mie braccia, amor mio. My treasure. Come. Come into my arms, my love." Mark followed him up a flight of stone steps. The building appeared to be a century old and the large stone masonry gave off coolness he enjoyed. Mark had no idea why he was following this "foreigner". For all he knew he would be robbed and beaten. He didn't care. He wanted punishment. 59

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A creaking sound accompanied the door closing. The dark man leaned against the old splintery wood and stared at Mark like he was simply an object. "Do you know of a Venetian named Marc Antinous Caeserni?" The man's expression revealed to Mark he had heard the name, though he never said a word. He moved across the expanse of that small space and cupped Mark's face in his callused, workingman's hands. When their lips touched, Mark closed his eyes and tried not to tremble. As they parted Mark repeated his question. "Why do you ask this?" The man started pushing Mark's expensive coat off his shoulders. "Why do you not answer?" The velvet fell to the dusty floor. "I know of him. He is a member of the Council of Three." "What is that?" The man kneeled and opened the pewter buttons of Mark's breeches. "It is one of the highest powers in Venice. Look, my pretty. Did you come here for your lesson in politics? Or for some pleasure?" "Pleasure?" His breeches were peeled back to his stockings. The man stared up at Mark and smiled. "Si, yes, pleasure. You came to me and I will see to it you are pleased." Mark swayed back as a very strong arm held him firm and a mouth sucked him expertly.

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When the climax rushed over Mark, the man stared up at his face to see it. Mark recuperated slowly and opened his eyes to get used to the dimness in the room. The man gave a slow, deliberate smile. "You forget everything you ask me. Good." "Good ... oh, very good." Mark gathered up his breeches and, very gently with two of his knuckles, he caressed the roughness of this man's face. Mark had never seen a shadow so coarse. Then he touched his own hairless one. He thought this man was incredibly beautiful. More beautiful than any other he had met so far in this trip. And his masculinity and size intrigued him. The man smiled sweetly. "You will not grow it like this." "No, I am not pure Italian." The man's expression dropped and he seemed to study Mark more closely. "Do I pay you? Or do I return the offer?" Mark asked innocently. "You choose this yourself, bello mio, my beautiful man." Mark instantly dropped to his knees, delighted to be able to taste a man so fantastic. Mark padded down the stone steps, glowing after the encounter. The feeling of yearning to be with this man again and again gnawed at him. But how could he do that? He was in no position to choose. Yet he had gotten more information about his father. It was mostly general knowledge about the comings and goings of statesman in that city of water. The name of Caeserni had been written into the Golden Book. If he had been a legitimate child of this man, he would have had 61

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a future. As it was, he was a farm hand. A hog tender. A nothing. It was raining harder now. With one hand Mark shielded his eyes to see through the gray water coming down like urine in a gutter. A public house came into view on his left so he ducked into the doorway to get out of the torrent. So many people were rushing, caught unprepared for the change in weather. The drops of water fell from him like pellets of mud from a beaten rug as he brushed his fingers down his coat and hair. It was very dim inside without the sunlight to lift the gloom. The landlord had begun lighting several candles. A vacant seat enticed him. Mark sat heavily in its embrace, one that had been worn by hundreds of bottoms so that it was concave. Completely preoccupied, Mark ordered a bottle of ale and fingered the coins in his pockets. Gabriel made sure he was never short on funds. After sating his thirst, the first waves of melancholia washed over him, followed by a creeping malaise. What if... What if he set out to Venice and confronted the mighty Marc Antinous? The Italian whore had told him that this man, this man who people claimed was his father, had the power to put people to death. He was greater in influence than even the Doge. How did that compare to the MPs of Parliament? To the Queen? Mark rubbed his face. Oh, why didn't I learn more about the world of politics? Here I sit so naïve to everything. I know 62

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nothing. No. I know one thing. Giving and receiving pleasure. What has that done for me? Where will that bring me? It didn't take long on an empty stomach to feel the alcohol. He knew not the time, nor did he care. Mark thought not of his uncle, nor his cousins. He wanted to vanish forever rather than live with what he considered an embarrassment that everyone knew of. Deep in his heart he was ashamed. Ashamed of his mother's behavior. And that shame burned in him like a hot coal. His impeccable posture changing, Mark slumped over his beer. Through his stupor, Mark felt someone brush by his elbow. In his state he could hardly raise his head to acknowledge it. Richard sat down next to him and leaned over to see under all his unruly hair. "Come home, Mark Antonious." In a far off place of his mind Mark heard it. He wept again. "Marc Antinous." "Mark Antonious." Branded. He had been branded with that name. A foreigner. In distain, Mark muttered something profane under his breath. Richard leaned closer to whisper into his ear, "Come home where I may tend you properly, my lovely prince." Mark managed to raise his chin and make out the white wig and outline of Richard's familiar features. "I am a whore's son." "Shush..." Richard shook his head. "Come." He stood and held Mark's upper arm. Mark staggered to his feet. The tables made complaining noises as he fell against them and they scraped heavily on the hard tile floor. 63

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"I am a whoreson!" Mark shouted before Richard could cup his hand over his mouth. **** Their carriage had come to a halt. Richard leaned out to see why and Mark woke up a little from his stupor to lean out as well. A parade of armed horsemen led a small procession and a gilded, white carriage drawn by white horses with tall white plumes in their bridles. Through the gloom they pranced to the palace. When it seemed no one was moving anywhere whilst the spectacle continued, Mark opened the carriage door and climbed out. Shoving himself to the very front of the line of waiting coaches, Mark moved as close as he dared. A soldier's steed veered out as if to warn him to back up. Mark took heed of it and stayed back. Suddenly shouts surrounded him of, "Long live the Queen!" He blinked in amazement. "Anne is in there?" Why did a lowly soldier keep him back? He was the son of a Caeserni! One of the most powerful men in Venice! Would she shun his father? Would His Excellency be denied access to her halls? With defiance, Mark cut between the enormous chargers and made for her window. Before he could be stopped or sliced in two, for no one ever dared approach Her Majesty this way, Mark peered in. To his amazement he found a very infirm woman in her late forties. Though her dress was lavish and covered in gems, her face was withered and worn. "Your Highness," he whispered, "long may you live." 64

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Right before he was dragged back, she met his eyes. A fragile smile formed on her lips. A force as strong as a mule's kick sent him to the wet cobbles. Four soldiers surrounded him with bared swords. Mark knew he was as good as dead. The parade had halted. The crowd held its breath. A pale hand appeared first, pushing back the curtain. The Queen showed her sickly pallor to all. When she found Mark on his back, hemmed in by cold steel, she called out to her guard, "Leave him be!" Their fury was contained with great frustration. No one risked an act of insolence as great as this against the royalty. But obviously Queen Anne did not feel threatened or violated. Perhaps to her eyes a young, innocent man wanted to view his Queen and had the courage to come to her. "Let him be," she repeated, retiring back into the gloom of her carriage. The honed steel withdrew from his chest. As the cavalry mounted their chargers Mark was left behind, soaking wet and soiled from the drenching rain and sloppy streets. Richard made it through the chaos to him and helped him to his feet. "My God, Mark! I already envisioned you in the prison tower awaiting execution." With a hand around Mark's back, Richard helped him to return to their astonished driver, shoving Mark into the carriage. The line of waiting coaches moved on once again. Richard stared at him and Mark felt his fury. As if acting on impulse, Richard slapped Mark's face, hard. Mark felt his skin burn on his cheek from the power of it. "How could you do 65

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that? How could you risk your life like that?" When Mark touched the raw spot with his muddy hand, Richard took him into a passionate embrace. "I adore you! Never do that again!" They were back at the house to find both Gabriel and Thomas waiting. Seeing Richard flinch in regret, Mark paused before he stepped out of the carriage. Richard whispered, "You know when they realize the state you are in, I will be held responsible." "No. It is I, not you, who is responsible." Spent from exhaustion, Mark leaned heavily on him as Richard helped him out of the back of the coach. Gabriel's anger was at such a state she didn't wait more than a moment for them to enter the house to slap her son in the face. The sound woke Mark up. Richard took it calmly. In an irritated huff, Gabriel nudged her two younger children out of the sitting room so they did not hear what was said. Mark could see Margaret grow resentful as she turned her cold shoulder to her mother and stormed out. Before Mark could say a word, he found Gabriel's infuriated eyes, then even more frightening, Thomas'. "Let me explain..." Richard began, his hands seeming to hold off their wrath. Thomas crossed his arms and puffed up in a very threatening gesture. Before he blasted out a ferocious shout at his son, Mark stood between them to deflect it.

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"I am to blame. Richard did his best to control me. Please. I beg you to believe me. He tried his best to get me home. It is I who must be punished. I who was defiant and willful." Richard added, "No, it was I who let you down, Mark." "If someone does not tell me what has occurred, you will both be whipped!" Thomas roared. Waving her hands, Gabriel tried to calm everyone. Mark glared at Thomas. "Punish me then! I deserve to be beaten." Richard grabbed at Mark to stop him from revealing what Mark knew could not be revealed. "Your insolence is pushing me to my limit," Thomas warned with an index finger extended into Mark's face. "Do you know what I have done?" Mark thundered. "I am not fit to be in your presence. Punish me!" As if in fear of that unknown act, Gabriel covered her mouth. She looked down at Mark's spattered fine fabrics. "Oh, my word!" When Thomas grabbed Mark's arm violently and started to drag him off, Richard went to protest, but Mark intervened. It was then Mark witnessed the unbelievable fury in Thomas' face. A mask so enraged Mark had never recognized it in him before, and quickly shut his mouth. A door of a room Mark knew was seldom opened, never used, was forced back and Mark was shoved into it. He regained his balance and through his wet, wild hair he watched Thomas. "Get me a switch!" Thomas shouted to his servant and Mark cringed at the volume. 67

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Mark had no fear of the thrashing, none, but he was cold, damp to the skin, and losing the battle for sanity. What had happened? A day back he had been so pleased, he would have begged to stay in this city of wonder and life. Now it was his hell. With a flicker of light, a candle was set out and the door was closed. "Drop your breeches, boy!" Mark could tell Thomas was grinding his teeth in his fury. His wig had gone askew. "NOW!" Fumbling with his buttons, Mark peeled his soaking wet breeches down over his equally soaked, mud covered stockings, and faced a wall. A painting of the family came into view. He recognized Gabriel instantly. But she was so young! Mark took a step to it instinctively to get a closer look. Like he had forgotten for a moment what was to come, Mark gasped in surprise as a heavy hand pushed him forward, bending him in two until his fingertips touched the ceramic floor. At the first lash, Mark was stunned. He had never been punished in his life. All his nineteen years he had been the dutiful, obedient, humble servant to his uncle, thanking him, appreciating everything he had been given. He remembered only once Uncle David having to raise his voice to him. But it had never been in fury, more out of fear for his safety. Again the switch came down. Mark cried out from it. The coolness of his skin was heating up to flames, painful flames. 68

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One more licked his cool, damp skin before it stopped. Just three lashes. Three painful, excruciating, wonderful lashes. Mark was sweating profusely. In moments, he had gone from chilled dampness to boiling steam. With his right hand Mark reached out to steady himself on a chest, one directly underneath that painting. All he could hear was his own pumping heart and breathing. It felt as if he were alone in the room. That was, until he was caressed. While complete exhaustion threatened to make him drop, Mark lowered his head to his arm to rest. Thomas' large fingers tried to comfort him, smoothing down Mark's hot flesh, raising the goose bumps on him. Without an effort, Mark grew incredibly hard. Hands wrapped around his waist and lips kissed his neck through his damp hair. The tip of a cock poked at Mark between his legs. Allowing entry, Mark widened his stance as it pushed under his balls. Mark clamped tightly around it with his thighs. When Thomas' hand brushed by Mark's penis and discovered how excited Mark was, it seemed to ignite more passion in Thomas. He moved quickly to give Mark satisfaction. Mark panted in time with Thomas' thrusts, his eyes coming to rest again on that painting. On a woman. One next to his cousin Gabriel. A beautiful woman with long, flowing hair and a narrow face. His eyes clenched. Mark came and his knees gave out. Behind him a masculine grunting noise filled his ears. Every pulse of that large cock echoed through Mark's body until hot semen ran down his leg. When Mark was released he 69

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lay his head back down on that ornate painted surface, closing his eyes. Mark heard Thomas fastening his breeches and trying to catch his breath behind him. Unmoving, lifeless, Mark's pants were still folded at his knees. He rested his chin on the back of his hand and stared at the painting. Gabriel had been so beautiful in her youth. She was still comely now, just a bit heavier and certainly older. Other than that, his mind was blank. Once again hot wetness trickled down the inside of his thigh. Thomas touched his back gently. "Mark..." In what felt like a distorted dream, Mark raised his weary head. "Come, Mark. Let's get you a hot bath and some brandy." Mark pivoted around. His hips pushed out forward as he leaned with both hands on the table behind him for support. Staring in confusion, like he was hearing a foreign language, Mark could not grasp what was expected of him. There was a numbness to him like he had never encountered. Thomas gathered Mark up in his arms and squeezed him, inhaling him. "I am sorry. Forgive me." Thomas crushed Mark mercilessly, burrowing under his long hair to his neck, rushing his hand down to cup Mark's tight, rounded cheeks and massage them lovingly. Mark heard Thomas' apology in confusion. His nakedness rubbed against those rough clothes and a spark of passion seared through him unexpectedly. His sex drive was so great he was only just beginning to understand the extent of it. Mark was elevated off his feet. "I do not understand." 70

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As if it took a great effort of will, Thomas forced himself to release Mark and set him on his feet. Before Mark covered himself decently, Thomas ran his hand over his length. "Pull up your breeches, Mark." Obeying slowly and silently, Mark pushed his hair out of his face, for it was now driving him crazy it was so wild. Once Mark had settled himself, he found Thomas' beautiful, sad eyes. "Do not apologize to me. I get what I deserve." "No ... no, Mark, you didn't deserve what I did." Thomas held Mark's hand and brought him out of the room. "Come, let me get a servant to draw a bath." Behind a screen, Mark disrobed. A servant mixed one pail of boiling water to two at room temperature. It seemed the right recipe for a comfortable soak. He eased down into it and sighed audibly. A servant handed Mark a glass of strong brandy. Mark drank it like water and handed him the empty glass. Peeking timidly, Richard appeared from behind the screen. "You all right?" Mark met his eyes. "As well as can be expected." Entering the room, Richard flipped over one of the empty pails to sit on. "I'm sorry about Father. He feels he must play disciplinarian in the absence of Uncle David." Richard found the soap and rubbed a wet cloth to it, scrubbing Mark's back. "I know. I deserved it, Richard. What a fool am I. Rushing the Queen's carriage. I should be dead. She is lucky I am no assassin. So? What do I do now?" "Do?" Dropping the cloth into the tub, Richard dried his hands. "Like the rest of us, you act like a perfect prince in 71

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public and then do as you like behind closed doors. What else is there?" "That's it? You have no other aspirations?" Richard studied Mark's face carefully before he spoke. "No. Nothing else. I want only pleasure. That is where you fit in, my lovely." Mark sighed. "Yes, yes, pleasure, but what about the world?" Richard's smirk faded. "Somehow I feel you are seeking something deep and meaningful. If so, my gorgeous Ganymede, you have come to the wrong house. The Holloways are known for their excesses. We drink, eat, play heavily, and do not mention our liaisons. You will insult us if you act shocked." Richard found a towel and held it in ready. Mark stood, the water rushing off him. "Yes, I begin to see that wealth and power bring with it excess." Mark took the towel and rubbed it through his hair and over his face. Stealthily, Richard leaned forward to kiss Mark's cock. Mark stared down at him curiously. "Power and excess. Yes, my plaything, so very right." "What if I were to travel to Venice? On a pilgrimage." "Go to Becket's shrine instead," Richard admonished. Gingerly, Mark stepped out of the tub to the wet floor. "No, no. Not that type." "You don't think I know what you say? To your father? He will behead you. No, stay here. Play with me." Richard tried to touch him everywhere at once. The sound of the harpsichord reached Mark's ear. 72

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The hearkening to it was so abrupt that Richard could not help but look jealous. "The music. Your mother passed it to you in your blood." "Hmm?" Mark pretended to not understand. "Every time Margaret plays you get lost. You make me envious of her talent." Mark had stopped listening to him. The towel was limp in his hand and he was naked and completely still. A servant stood by with fresh clothing. Enraged, Richard shouted, "Stop this! Get dressed!" The tone brought Mark back. He twisted to his right to see the servant waiting patiently. Mark reached for the pile in his arms and went to work covering himself. As he did, turning his back to Richard, Mark felt Richard run his fingers lightly over the three red lines crossing his bottom before the material was drawn up to cover it. **** When Mark entered the room, he paused. Margaret was not singing. She was playing a concerto. It was pleasant and had some complexity to it Mark enjoyed. Gabriel immediately stood and reached for him. "My lovely man, come here to me. How are you, my sweet? You can tell me anything. That is why I am here." She petted back his long hair to clear the view of his face. "I am fine, for a bastard." He nodded to the servant in thanks for his glass of wine. "Stop. Don't be silly." She kept in contact with him, obviously not willing to let him go. 73

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Mark wished to be left alone. He wanted to be able to sit and listen to Margaret sing and play undisturbed, on that harpsichord. That gift from his father to his mother. Why wouldn't everyone just let him be? When Gabriel kept prodding him to talk, Mark stood and approached Margaret. She moved over at once to allow him to sit near her. Mark focused on how her fingers seemed to have a life of their own, moving with a satanic possession over the white and black keys. He'd never witnessed anything like it. Turning her face to him, Margaret smiled as if making sure he knew it was for him she played. At her attention Mark's pensive mood vanished. A sweet smile emerged from him and he gave it to Margaret. When she noticed it, her cheeks went raspberry in her blush. She focused back on her playing, as if trying to hit the notes perfectly for him. Yes, perhaps music was in his blood. Perhaps. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five The chiming of church bells sounded the distance. Midnight. Mark lay awake, his hands behind his head, staring at nothing. Like an irritating hammer on an anvil, he was going over and over again the things in his head that seemed to need sorting. He wished he could take them out, shuffle them correctly, and place them back inside. Richard had come and gone for a brief snuggle. There was no way the servant would summon him tonight to attend the master of the house. Even Gabriel must have thought he needed the night alone. He was glad for it for he felt spent. What course would be wise? What path would be a fool's folly? Were they both the same? If the great Marc Antinous Caeserni wanted his son with him, surely he would have sent for him nineteen years ago. A chariot of gold would have come to his door. Liveried servants would have bowed to the ground and called him "Excellency". No. He did not exist. The title granted him was "farm boy". Stop fussing and get to sleep! Oh, but if he could forget. How long would it take to get to Venice? He had no concept of it. Surely Cousin Thomas would know the way, which boat would sail him across the Channel, which coach would rush across France's green hills to the very edges of the earth. It seemed so inconceivably far. But his opera singer mother had made the journey, so obviously it was not impossible. 75

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How would he finance a venture such as this? His father, Marc Antinous Caeserni, was wealthy. The "farm boy" was not. Sleep would not come. Stepping out onto the cold floor, he straightened his nightshirt and padded out into the hall. He raised a tiny candle and made his way down to the lower level. Outside the world had come to a stop. It was the dead of night and no horse or carriage roamed. Pitch dark. Rain. He trod silently to the sitting room. The harpsichord so dominated that space. The white sheet covering it made it appear like an apparition, a haunted creature bent over with a wide back and narrow spindly legs. A gift. A present to his mother. "The music is in your blood," Richard had said that to him. Passed down to him by his mother. The woman he was trying so hard not to hold in utter contempt. Had he meant nothing to her? Did she ever think about him after she had handed him off? Was he her only offspring? Had he a legion of brothers and sisters, all living scattered across the country, like so many seeds to the wind? Something raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Why was he convinced if he spun around he would see something frightening? When he did he found Margaret and exhaled in relief. She moved nearer to him, her thick dressing gown brushed the floor when she walked giving her the illusion of floating. 76

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Delicately she set her candle beside his own and sat next to him. They stared at each other for a long moment before either of them spoke. "You cannot sleep." Her voice was so high and pure it brought a shiver to his skin. "I know what happened yesterday. They think me an idiot and try to hide things, but I know, Mark. I know what they told you." It shamed him. Instantly the heat and redness came to his face. She knows! She knows I am an unwanted bastard of an opera singer and a Venetian! Could life become any more of a torment? Margaret touched his hand as it rested on his nightshirtcovered thigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause more harm." Lifting his wet lashes, Mark stared at her hand. It was petite and pale, more so from the yellowish candle flames and his darker shade under it. Her fingers tightened around his hand, trying to comfort him. "What are you doing down here? Why aren't you in bed?" He sounded like her father suddenly. "I was thirsty. When I came past this room to the kitchen, I found you here." "Go then. Leave me." He twisted his face away to the curtained window, removing his hand from her grip. As she rose up slowly, the material of her gown slipped past him in a soft rustle. "Would you like to see a picture of your mother?"

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He spun around with so much speed, she let out a gasp. Rising up at once, Mark stood and towered over her menacingly. "What picture?" Shaken slightly by his reaction, she took a moment to get herself back, her small hand fluttering like a butterfly near her throat. "What picture?" he repeated, about to shake her violently if she did not respond. In obedient silence, she picked up the candle and started out of the room. Mark followed after her, trying not to pant, holding his breath. It was down that same long stretch of hall he'd moved earlier, when the sting of the switch had tamed him. A sudden ripping sensation seared through his lower abdomen. He already knew where she was headed. Somehow a face came back to him from a painting. How this could be possible he could not explain. The air inside this room was moldy, dust covered, it was so seldom used. She moved to that side of the room directly. Now he was certain. Mark rushed to her as she held the candle aloft over that ornate piece of furniture he had been bent over. The family portrait came to view. "Wait!" He stopped her from pointing his mother out and did it himself. "It is she." She twisted to face him and asked, "Has Richard already shown you?" 78

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Mark did not answer. How he knew this, he could not guess. But when he had first lain eyes on that fragile face captured on canvas, he knew. There was a likeness. She was quite possibly his age when it had been done. She could be his sister. Mark pushed the candle to the side, trying to see through the annoying reflections on the surface. "Do you know her name?" It was nothing more than a strained whisper of a request. The pain was so constant in him now, he could hide nothing. "You mean you don't even know her name?" She took a deep breath and said, "Elizabeth Jones." He repeated it silently. "She went by the stage name, 'Maria'," Margaret continued. They knew so much. They knew all his history. This was inexcusable. He never wanted to see his Uncle David and Aunt Katie again. What they did to him, what they kept from him, it was criminal and certainly unforgivable. After a very long moment, memorizing his mother's features, Mark turned, head down, and made for the door in the dimness. Margaret followed. He ascended the staircase, still silently brooding. His young shadow followed him until Mark stood before the door to her bedroom. Pausing, he twisted back to see her. "Good night, Margaret." Mark continued down the hallway. He rested his cheek against a door and scratched lightly at the wood. When he 79

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heard nothing, Mark turned the latch and pushed it back. A rush of warm air brushed by his face. Gliding to the bed, Mark stared down at its occupant. Thomas was peaceful as he rested. His handsome face, passive and sweet. Mark tickled Thomas' forearm as it lay over the quilt. He was lonely and wanted a companion to ease his ache. Thomas was the strongest and most tender of the three. Richard hadn't the wisdom or patience, Gabriel hadn't the power. Moving to the surface of consciousness, Thomas came to life slowly and opened his eyes. A smile soft and kind came to his face. "You cannot sleep?" Mark shook his head. Slowly, Thomas moved over for him. Mark climbed in and the warmth was welcoming as if he were fresh from playing in the snow and this was a coal-burning stove. "You must go to your own room before the dawn," Thomas warned as he wrapped around Mark and brought him to his chest. "Yes." Mark drifted off into a deep slumber soon after. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Six Mark thought they would have to drag him here, this spectacle of light and paste-covered faces. But he came willingly. His curiosity piqued. Their box seat was set high above the noise and to the right of the stage. Mark leaned over the edge to peer into the musician's pit. A few of the men had begun taking their seats in it and papers flapped like doves' feathers as they were set on stands. Suspended from the ceiling was the most enormous chandelier he had ever seen. Hundreds of wax tapers shot up from it and illuminated the ornate gilded columns to the painted ceiling. Over his head angels reached out their wings to one another. Wisps of fabric covered them modestly as they seemed to float naked in the depicted sky. The stage was curved and drew in tight at its ends like a bow pulled taut before the arrow flies. The curtains were black in the dimness, but Mark was sure he would see a color if he stood closer. Below, the noise and number of patrons astonished him. Everywhere the low murmur of voices and rustle of cloth surrounded him. He wore the finest fabric money could buy. The lace at his neck and wrists burst out like overflowing sea foam and the royal blue velvet of his frock was embroidered with white stitching, spinning around shining brass buttons. His white knee breeches were crisp and tight, right to his cream colored stockings. He wore a short sword on his belt, mostly for ornament. He wasn't sure he knew how to use it 81

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any more than playing with tree branches at the farm, lunging and stabbing at imagined dragons whilst standing on a log in a stream. His hair shone in the rising chandelier light, so long and flowing from the back he knew he could easily be mistaken for a woman in a man's uniform. (Or so Richard had said.) His sharp eyes studied every detail below whilst his cousins sipped their wine and murmured behind him about the wonderful new composer, some German named Georg Friedrich Handel. A man who had endeared himself so much to London society that Queen Anne had granted him an annual income. When the chandelier rose to the ceiling and the room became all but black, Mark leaned over the ledge to be able to catch every sound. The composer bowed and stood before the orchestra. When those first few notes of violin, il Pastor fido, reached Mark's ears, he thought he would burst into tears. The melody had a moaning sadness he found painful. That shimmering, eerie reverberation coming from bow and string was like nothing he had ever heard before. His skin broke out into a shiver of gooseflesh. The curtain drew back and a gasp of pleasure rose at once from the illusion created behind it. Puffy clouds hung over a Grecian courtyard where statues bigger than life loomed beside a fountain. A woman appeared in white, her wig tall and covered in pearls. When she opened her mouth and sang in the crispest soprano voice he had ever imagined, Mark cried. Suddenly he was transformed back to the stage where a young woman 82

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named Elizabeth Jones chased her dreams. That would be her down there, in satin and lace, her bosom crushed up from the seams of a tightly constricting bodice, her slippers shushing on the wooden stage. And that sound! Those notes more resonant than any violin, pouring out of her. A largeness came to her, so grand that she could fill and silence this mass auditorium. He could not stand it. Emotionally he went haywire. Frozen, Mark stayed until she had finished and from the crowd came a roar of applause and shouting. To his stunned ears he thought he heard, "Maria! Maria!" Though several sets of arms reached to stop him, Mark pushed through the dusty curtain to the aisle, oblivious to the few people he shoved past to get out. He needed air. Madness. Madness came over him. He was rabid. Mark could not see. In the wet streets he floundered, stepping back as horses almost ran him over, carriages listed to scrape his shoulder. He wanted to retch, to throw up all this poison inside. How foolish he was to think the simplicity of the farm was a bad thing! A thing of contempt! Oh, the lessons one learned in life were so hard. So punishing. Four black horses thundered by. The carriage itself was the color of tar, glossy and shiny whether wet or dry. Gold touched the carved scrolls of its edges. Mark noticed them just in time. It was raining and the visibility was waning with the deepening hour of night. He shouted as he jumped aside, falling to his knees on the hard cobbles. The carriage ground to a halt and the driver climbed down to make sure he was all right. 83

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Dizzy and sick, Mark was on his knees, his hands on the wetness, trying to get out of this eternal nightmare. "Lad! Are you hurt?" The occupant of the carriage peered out and shouted to the driver in a coarse angry roar, "Get back and resume your speed at once!" The driver yelled back his apology, "Sorry, Your Lordship. I've hit a young lad." Out came a white slipper on the boards, gem encrusted and followed by imported and richly embroidered silk stockings. A walking stick emerged with a sapphire on its top. The sway of a white satin cape moved side to side with the swagger. "I've no time for peasants who are too stupid for their own sense they cannot get out of the way of a carriage." "Yes, Your Lordship. I'm sorry, Your Lordship. I just wanted to see the lad was all right," came the driver's stammering reply. The man peered down his nose in repugnance. "Well? Is it alive?" The driver helped Mark to his feet. As Mark stood tall, he pushed the hair back from his eyes and he could see them both staring at him. As if he were just noticing Mark's expensive clothing, fine lace, and jeweled sword, the man's gaze came to rest on Mark's face. Mark's fury was like a lighthouse's torch in a black sea. He was puffed up in a rage, but it had nothing to do with this near miss of a coach. "He seems all right, Your Lordship," the driver said. 84

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Slowly, the man moved closer to scrutinize Mark's face. "No peasant are you. What a remarkable looking young man, and such finery. Who is this charming fellow?" Not interested in his comments, Mark snarled. Grinning in wicked delight, the man appeared even more amused. "Let me take you to my home where you will get cleaned up and some wine in you. I insist. After all, I almost killed you tonight. Come along." He reached out his gloved hand. With disdain, Mark inspected the tall white wig and the fake birthmark on his cheek. Those narrow, pursed lips were even painted whore red. In odd curiosity Mark took that hand and entered the lush gilded carriage. Climbing in, Mark sat heavily, just noticing the mud on his pure white breeches. It angered him terribly somehow. The horses resumed their fast pace over the narrow lanes as the man stared at Mark in the dimness. As if he were pleased of an audience, he spoke softly to Mark, obviously not caring if he was heard or even replied to. "I ask that you tell me your name." With an act of elegant poise, the man moved to Mark's side of the carriage. "What does it matter? What if I am merely no one?" "Ah! Such anger! I was once an angry young man. I dueled and fought my whole young life away. What has it ever gotten me but scars." Boldly the man reached for Mark's jaw and turned his head so he could see him straight on. A kerchief came out of the man's sleeve as he tried to wipe the mud from Mark's cheek. "A lovelier face I have not seen," he purred seductively. 85

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At the comment, Mark connected to his eyes. That horrible showy wig! That set of red lips! How repulsive! And how indescribably exciting! A wicked smirk curled Mark's lips. Before the man could recognize his intent, Mark shoved him back and lay over him, sucking on the man's mouth hungrily. Shocked, the man grunted at the surprise and then closed his eyes and allowed Mark's enormous appetite to envelope him. As Mark squirmed on him and dug deeper into this man's clothing, he tried to block out that noise in his head, "Maria! Maria!" With a deep gasp, Mark twisted away from his mouth and violently tore at the breeches under him, trying to get the man naked so he could lose himself. Once Mark found that hardness, he lowered down and took it into his mouth. A deep, masculine groan filled his ears as he sucked. Within moments the man cried out as it overwhelmed him, "Oh, sweet mother of God!" The carriage came to a halt, the quarter horses shifted noisily in their harnesses blowing out clouds of steam with their breath. The driver climbed down and opened the door. The step rolled out and once again a white satin slipper touched it. On his powerful legs, Mark raised up on the coach to see over the man's head. A massive structure appeared silhouetted against the creeping night, a castle with four towering spires. Helped to the ground, Mark straightened his back to stand tall and followed this dandy into his palace. 86

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In the candlelight they appraised each other more carefully. Servants hovered around them, taking their cloaks and offering them tea and food. With a wave of his gloved hand they were sent scurrying in every direction. Mark was led to a cavernous space with walls covered in thick tapestries. An enormous fireplace lit and heated the stone coldness. On one wall a narrow window rose with painted glass. In the darkness Mark could not tell what it depicted. A brandy was slipped into his fingers. Mark found his host in the room and bowed to him, thanking him, sipping it. "Such a pretty boy you are. Scorching passion such as yours I have not felt since the first time I lay with a woman." Mark roamed around the room, trying to gather all the details in. His mind was full and empty together. Full of the desire to get to Venice and settle the anger in his mind, and empty of the families he'd left behind. He knew neither would assist him on his journey, and on the contrary, they would do all they could to prevent it. Mark wondered if this man knew the way. These aristocrats, they were so vain, so indiscreet with their passions. Could he buy his way there through favors? Mark moved closer to this slender man in the horrid wig. Like a court concubine, he knelt down before the man and set his empty glass on the decorated tile floor. Slowly Mark's fingers touched that warm satin covered thigh. "Though you deny me a name, I shall tell you mine. We shall not be strangers to one another under my own roof. I am Percivel Goodrich. The Duke of Warwick." 87

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"I am Mark Antonious deMontford," Mark revealed with some fraudulent pride. "One can tell an enormous amount of information from one's name. Very good, Mark. Now we are acquainted." "You live alone in these halls?" Mark crept up higher on Percivel's lap so he could whisper. "I do. Along with a hundred servants." "Do you ever get lonely?" "No. I am too busy for that nonsense. If anything, I need more time alone." Squinting at him, Mark wondered what he would look like without the wig and with his face washed of the paste and dot. He didn't seem homely. Just very thin. Percivel eyed him suspiciously. "What do you seek, Mark Antonious? Why do you seduce me?" It stunned him. He had been seen through. Though Mark tried to prevent it, his face flashed disappointment. He wasn't supposed to be exposed so soon. With a calming grace, Percivel smiled. He cupped Mark's face. "Do you think me naïve? No, do not underestimate me. I have been alive for twice your own lifetime, maybe more. You are what, fifteen?" "Nineteen!" Mark corrected angrily. His plans were crashing down on him. "Fifteen? Oh, please!" Percivel whispered, "Oh, such a lovely pout. Even more endearing than that of my five-year-old niece. Come here." He patted the spot beside him. Raising himself up with some effort, Mark slid onto the lounge, staring at the duke curiously. 88

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"Just because I have discovered you have an ulterior motive, does not mean I will not try to assist you. Come now, Mark, what is in that lovely head of yours?" Mark twisted his face away as his cheeks burst into a hot blush. Is this it? I have to tell people this humiliation? Oh, this is cruelty at its highest form. Patiently, lovingly, Percivel petted his hair. "You seem to have little faith in people. Why? At such an age as yours has someone already disillusioned you so completely?" The tears welled up in Mark's eyes. "Why is it you weep? You have wealth, you have beauty. What more do you desire?" Mark's anger ignited. "I have no wealth." With careful deliberation, Percivel eyed his attire once more. "No?" He rubbed the texture of the lace at Mark's sleeve. "Why do you lie?" "You don't understand," Mark groaned in anguish. "No, of course I do not understand. It is up to you, my lovely, to explain things." Mark brooded, lost in his own world. Percivel shook his head sadly. "Fine, my young prince. Maybe after some rest you will feel more amiable." When he stood, the duke's slippers hardly made a sound. Percivel reached out his gloved hand and Mark took it after giving his empty glass to the waiting servant. Another servant lit the torches on the walls as they ascended a spiral stone stair lifting them up to the second floor of a tower like structure. 89

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The room illuminated for Mark held a grand bed of linens and lace. I am not sleeping alone in this place. He felt an eerie presence of spirits around him. A nightshirt and a basin were provided for him. Before Percivel took his leave, Mark asked, "Which is your room?" Percivel studied Mark carefully, his eyes moved quickly to that jewel-encrusted sword at his hip as if he were considering the motives. Taking Mark's velvet shoulder in his hand, he tugged him out to the hall and pointed. "That door." Mark exhaled in relief and said, mostly to himself, "Then I will see you soon." As he removed each layer of his garments, a servant gathered them up to tend and clean. Mark slid the nightshirt over his head and stood waiting until the servant had gone. Taking one last look at that lonely bed, he raised his candle and made his way down the hall. From outside Mark could hear the duke talking. Mark scratched at the door to be allowed in. "That did not take long," Percivel announced. Mark peered inside after yet another silent sentry had opened the door. Mark could see the duke was still being attended. Setting aside the candle, Mark waited by the door, hands laced nervously behind his back. When the duke was finished, he sat atop a very high bed lavished with satin pillows and an embroidered quilt. His attention once again on Mark, he sighed and reached out his hand. 90

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Hesitating, Mark waited until the last servant had gone before he moved quickly to the bed. He climbed with an effort onto the high mattress. Now that he had settled down, Mark took his first look into the face that had been almost completely concealed by make-up and white curls. The cocky boldness, the coquettishness, had gone away with the paint. It was possibly a cover to what may even be a shy nature. Percivel had a sweetness to his face. That long, narrow jaw and those very light blue eyes, so different to the darker brown shades Mark was used to. "Why do you stare at me?" It was as if Mark had come awake. He lowered his eyes demurely and said, "You are very pleasing. I wonder why you hide under the paint." Stunned by the comment, at first Percivel broke into laughter. "It is in the name of fashion, my natural beauty. Fashion." Slowly taking in Percivel's appearance, Mark raised his lashes to those laughing eyes, trying to conceive of a fashion that made one so unappealing. "Can I kiss you?" "You ask me?" Percivel's eyebrows became expressive. "You did not ask me in the carriage." Mark blushed in remembrance. He wondered if he could please the duke, then maybe the duke would help him. He needed a benefactor to finance his way to Italy. Confident of his skill in the bedroom, Mark most certainly knew he could. His doubt was only on one thing. Would the duke agree to his requests? 91

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Percivel's smile mellowed to a soft, contented gaze. "Yes, Mark Antonious, you may kiss me." More gently, and with some tenderness he hoped to share, Mark leaned forward and closed his eyes. When their lips met, Mark let a soft moan escape him and urged that narrow body close to his own. They lay side by side, exploring each other more slowly, the nightshirts getting in the way, so they removed them. "What a skin you have on you," Percivel groaned and ran his hand over Mark's chest. "I want to satisfy you again." Mark drew him closer under the quilt. "You will, you lovely creature, you will." **** After they were both spent, they lay curled together, a dew-like sweat covering them. Mark asked, "Will you help me get to Italy?" To his sleepy ears his own voice sounded like crushed velvet against Percivel's chest. Percivel let out a soft laugh. "What are you escaping?" "No ... I am not escaping." "Play me as anything, Mark, but not a fool. Tell me who is out looking for you now." "No one." "No? You have no parents fretting of their lost prince?" Taking it as insult, Mark sat up instantly, the pain in him growing unbearable once again. Percivel sighed. "Do not lie to me. You are not on your own, love. Someone who owns you and is missing you will be 92

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searching. Who and why, you must tell me. For if you involve me in some mess I will not be pleased." The anger defused and the defeat came back. "Why must I retell something that is pure humiliation? Can I just simply say, I am no fugitive. I've committed no crime. And I have no parents." "No? Then who provides for you the finest clothing in all of London?" Defeated, Mark lay back and released a sigh of stress. It was no use. Rising up on his elbows, Percivel leaned over him. With a long, reaching index finger, he traced the line down Mark's smooth jaw to the skin at his neck. "No crime. No reason to run. Just a flight of fancy to Italy." "Yes! Maybe I just want the experience of it." After Percivel drew a circle around Mark's small nipple, he made it the object of caressing. "Why? Why Italy? Why not Germany? Why not France?" "I do not know. It has just always held some fascination for me. Look, if you will not help me, leave it." Mark closed his eyes and placed his hands over his ears in an attempt to cut out the comments. Percivel's tireless fingers moved down Mark's side to his hip. "I did not say I would not help you. But you ask a great deal of me. I have my position to take into account. I am already not the favored son of the Queen." At the mere mention of Her Majesty, Mark dropped his hands and shivered. "Nor am I," he whispered bitterly. 93

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Stunned at the reply, Percivel sat up. "Now you say you've had audience with the Queen? Who are you? Please stop this charade!" Groaning in frustration, Mark pulled the quilt over his head. Percivel tugged it back. "I will put you out on the street. Take care!" he warned. "So? I am not afraid. You think you are the first to declare you do not want me?" Mark's anger was like steam, boiling rage. "I will get to Italy! If I have to walk there on my own two feet and arrive in rags and starved. I shall get there. I need no one! Do you understand? If I am unwelcome here, I will be gone!" Dramatically, he threw off the covers and attempted to get off the high bed. Percivel yanked him back. "Calm," the duke shouted. "Calm your rage. I will at least give you leave to remain here until a decent hour. I am no inhospitable host." Pouting, brooding, Mark was drawn back and the quilt once again covered over him. "You are a puzzle, young one. One I would like to unravel. Why you hold so much contempt is beyond me. You could have it all with those fine looks of yours. You could bed anyone at any castle. No one would turn you away. Fine ladies and lords would do any of your bidding. But you have no finesse. No way about you to woo a lover. How do you think you will be treated if all you do is rank and rail after every passionate encounter? The sooner they are rid of you the better. That is what you will find. You will get to Italy. Of course you will find your benefactor and you will go. But 94

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patience and some class, my lovely thing. Learn it, or yes, you will indeed be there in tatters and starved." Mark's eyes were wide as he absorbed the lecture. It softened his fury instantly. He closed his eyes and shuddered as a deep sob overwhelmed him. Lowering himself, Percivel took Mark into his arms to comfort. Though Mark tried like a demon to hold it in, he could not. He cried and cried against this noble's shoulder until he finally fell asleep. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seven The next day Mark awoke to find it was past noon. Stunned he had slept so long, he jolted out of bed and located his neatly folded clothing that had been attended to during the night. Once he washed, dressed, and brushed his hair, he was back to being a clean, polished young man. Lastly, he fastened his sword to his hip and checked his reflection in a mirror. When he made his way down to the first floor he was stunned to see several people had come to pay the duke a visit. He noticed Percivel's outstretched gloved fingers and drew near for an introduction. Mark took the hand of a lady and kissed it lightly. It seemed her wig competed with Percivel's at being the loftiest. "What a fine young man." She admired Mark's features lovingly. "Have I heard the name deMontford before?" she mused out loud. After he was introduced to Lady Ridgeway, Mark studied her intently, estimating her age to be about sixty. He asked boldly, "Do you know a singer of the name of Elizabeth Jones?" She gave the question some serious thought. "I know only of one. A lovely soprano for the opera. But she was known then as 'Maria'." Percivel addressed Mark, "Why do you ask this? Who is Elizabeth Jones to you?" "No one," Mark said softly. 96

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Lady Ridgeway seemed to let her focus blur as she recalled what she knew. "I remember seeing her on stage at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane." Mark grew a bit pale at that news. "She was brilliant! A voice like hers has never been heard on stage again. Tragically, she passed away. Several years ago now." Growing concerned by Mark's waning color, Percivel prodded, "What is it, Mark? Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?" Swallowing his anxiety, Mark regained his composure. "Are you a fan of the opera?" he asked her, giving his empty teacup to a waiting servant. "Oh yes! Very much so." "Do you ever dream of seeing it in Italy? Like on the stage in Venice, perhaps?" Suddenly as if understanding the ulterior motive, Percivel rolled his eyes. "I have. I have been to Naples and Venice. It is so lovely. Is it something you have an interest in?" "Yes," Mark said with all seriousness. "I have a dream to see opera in Venice. Tell me, how does one get there?" Percivel tapped his satin toe impatiently as the lady recounted her trip in great detail whilst Mark memorized every word. When Percivel could, he brought Mark aside. "It did not take you long." "What have I done?" Mark stood defiantly. "You told me I could bed them and they would help me." 97

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"Not Lady Ridgeway! Surely!" Mark twisted back to see her. Though she was way past her prime and quite plump, Mark decided he would do whatever he needed to do, if the means justified the end. "No. I don't want you to sleep with her. She and Lord Ridgeway are not the type. No, you will not get her to finance your little excursion with your penis." Peering behind him, Percivel contained his voice. "Look, Mark, there are others who will, but take a moment to compose yourself. Go out to the courtyard for a few moments and gather yourself together. You need to sort yourself out and I don't want you doing it here, in front of my guests. Allow me to send the appropriate ones to you." Mark plodded along a corridor and found the sunshine beaming down on a small, open, grassy courtyard. There were barren fruit trees and dried shafts from flowers, gone with the coming fall. First—book passage on a ship across the Channel. It wasn't as difficult as it sounded, was it? People came and went daily to mainland Europe. There was commerce, holiday traffic, and so many other reasons for that connection. He would be simply one of many making a trip. It occurred to him that he could go back to the whore district. How difficult could it be to make some money there? Maybe in just a few nights he would have enough in his purse to make the trip across the water. Then, once in France, he could sleep with others to get what he needed.

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The language barrier hit him. English was the only one he knew. How would he communicate with foreigners? How had his mother? Oh, how appropriate that part was! The Moor of Venice. Ha! Didn't that fit so well when she bed that horrible Venetian? She spread her legs for a man she did not know! A choking sound came out of his throat. As a child he imagined his mother closer to the Virgin Mary. She was supposed to be a saint. His father a vicar. He had convinced himself that he was born of two of the most pious people, that they gave him up as charity to a loving couple who could have none of their own. Oh, if he had just been left to his ignorant fantasies. Why did he leave the farm? Why couldn't they let him be? And in his head he could not erase the shouting, "Maria! Maria!" He didn't know how long she had been standing there, observing him, this woman in yet another pompous white wig. Only he had refrained from covering his hair with that nonsense. And why should he? He had a glorious mane of brown hair. Damn them to hell if they thought him crass or uncouth. Who the hell ate with a knife anyway? Was she staring because she thought him a freak? Why was she doing this to him? Could she not see he needed a moment to reflect? He grabbed a handful of his own very thick hair and used it to cover his face, like a mask. He heard her laughter. He peeked through his waves at her. 99

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"Are you trying to hide?" Her tiny gloved hand covered her painted smile. "It is not working. You are too large to be concealed, even by locks as lovely as yours. Oh, look at those bright green eyes of yours, blinking at me with so much innocence." With the bold confidence of a man, she approached and stood before him. "I am Lady Grey. And you, my gorgeous nymph?" Embarrassed by his immaturity, Mark pushed all his hair back out of his face and stood. "I am Mark Antonious deMontford." He bowed and took her hand. "At your service, m'lady." "My word! Why have we not met before? Have you known Percivel long?" Her satin dress was a deep plum color. On its edges were white ruffles sewn with a delicate hand to the layers of panniers that surrounded her petite waist. He imagined fitting both his hands around that narrowness and lifting her up. The curls of that wig danced over her naked shoulders like clouds over mountain peaks. It was covered in tiny sea pearls. Her breasts were pressed back and, from what he could tell, they were large and lovely. When he did not answer her immediately, Mark caught her studying him more closely. "Why haven't we met?" she asked once again. "We would not travel in the same circles, m'lady." "Do you mean to insult me or yourself? Whatever the reason, I am very glad to have found you now."

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Taking that as a sexual invitation, Mark met her eyes quickly. They were light brown and very intelligent. "Why? Why is it you are glad to meet someone like me?" "Do you not even see it yourself? Or do you tease me?" His gaze made a quick sweep of the courtyard. They were very much alone. Mark moved to her with a swiftness of a fencer and wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her to him. When she was caught up against him, Lady Grey arched back to be able to keep her eyes on his face. When the aureole of her nipple became exposed, Mark thought he would go mad. A groan escaped his lips before he could stifle it. He ground his teeth and inhaled her perfume. "Oh, lady ... you are so magnificent." "Let us be discreet, my gorgeous man. This castle has so many empty rooms, surely we don't need to be spied." Heeding her warning, Mark released her at once. "Tell me where I will find you." "I know this castle well." She grinned wickedly. "Go up the stair you so gracefully came down earlier. At the end of the long corridor there is a door to your right. You'll know it by the red paint on the wood. Meet me inside. Go!" Rejoicing at so lovely a conquest, Mark was panting in excitement. Slipping back into the main party, attempting to become invisible, Mark tried to keep against the walls. Free of the crowd, he pumped his legs to get where he wanted to be, sprinting down the halls. The doors washed by him in a blur. The last door on the right, red in color. Stopping short, he turned the latch and the eerie creaking 101

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sound made him hesitate. Swallowing his anxiety, Mark shoved it back. An elaborately decorated room with a canopy bed came into view. The light seeped in through a crack in the curtains. Dust motes spun in the still air. A whisper of a slipper on stone caught his attention. Spinning around to the door as she came in, Mark closed it tight behind her. As Mark stood with his back to it, he sucked the air in through his teeth as he gazed at her. She was so lovely he wanted to taste every part of her. Making his way across that great expanse of stone, the yearning between his legs like pain, Mark didn't want to waste a minute. He wrapped his royal blue velvet-covered arms around her as he pressed his face into her bosom, inhaling and tasting the flesh there. When Lady Grey's moan reached his ears, Mark lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her back gently, he stared down at her face in awe. It was porcelain and lightly painted, so very beautiful. His focus returned to that exposed skin of her neck, then her chest. Her breasts were large and tortured under the tightness of the bodice. He dipped his fingers into that plum satin and tugged it down, exposing the whole of her right nipple. It occupied him completely. Though he knew they only had a brief moment to be together, Mark wanted to take his time, to savor her. As he licked that hard nipple with the tip of his tongue, he began to unravel her, just enough to expose her and not so much that she could not get herself dressed again. When both breasts fell out of her gown, Mark had to still himself not to climax. Calming himself down, he sat up and 102

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closed his eyes, pressing his hand against his own hardened member trying to tame it. Like she was a demon possessed, Lady Grey leapt on top of him and tore open his britches. Mark gasped in awe, hoping he would be the man of this encounter. He was soon proven wrong. Turned from a refined woman to a wild animal, she opened her ruby lips and devoured him. Against his will he came. He was very disappointed because he wanted to wait and take her inside. When she heard him cry out his pleasure, she sucked him harder and swallowed him down in delight. A little shocked at the turn of events, imagining he would play the aggressor for once, Mark lay panting to catch his breath. As if he were her very own toy, she would not stop playing with him, keeping him hard. She mounted him after raising up the yards of fabric between them. When he felt her wet heat, Mark shivered in rapturous joy. With her breasts brushing against his face as she rocked on him, purely for her own satisfaction, Mark succumbed to her wishes with tacit approval. His fingers made their way gently around each breast and he suckled one, then the other until once again he came, gasping. This time the lady joined him, pressing down on him as if making the sensations linger. He was spent, sweating, trying to get his breathing back. Like a drunkard, she rolled over and lay sprawled out, calming her racing breath. 103

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Leaning up over her to savor their shared sensations, Mark reached to touch her dampness and closed his eyes. Impulsively he whispered, "You are beautiful. Live with me." She started to giggle, then to laugh, until they were both hysterical with it. Collapsing down on the bed, he lay spent as he recuperated. Finally finding his energy, he rose and washed up efficiently at a basin. Once they were both presentable, Mark stopped her from rushing off. "May I see you again?" "Of course. Won't you be at all of the duke's gatherings from now on?" His head lowered as well as his eyes. "No, I am leaving." "Leaving for where?" She acted as if the news upset her. "I need to go to Italy. It will take me some time to make the trip." "Italy?" She studied his features. "Of course. You are Italian. Mark Antonious. You just don't appear Italian. Your eyes are so light. Your chin has no beard. Do you go to Italy for family?" "Yes. It may just be for a visit. I don't know yet." "Is it where you are from? You have no trace of an accent." A wry smile appeared on his lips. "Indirectly." "When will you leave?" "Soon." He took her hands in his and met her eyes, which were wet and glistening. "How can you leave now?" It came out like she was accusing him. 104

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"I just have something I must do." "Are you traveling alone?" "Yes." "Do you need to?" Mark bit his lip, not knowing how to answer that question. "I'm sorry. I pry into something which is none of my business." She straightened up her shoulders. "I am glad we met before you left, Mark. Very glad." Raising his eyes to her topaz brown ones, Mark wondered if he could ask her to come. Would she? "Surely we have been missed. Let's get back to the party, shall we?" She held out her elbow to him. Gently he took it and walked her back to the gathering. Before they parted and were spied by the rest, Lady Grey reached into her purse and removed some golden sovereigns. "Here, for your journey." She pressed them into his hands. In astonishment at the gift, he watched her go. Opening his palm Mark found more than enough gold to get him across the Channel. Unsure of how he felt about the present, he hid it inside the deep pockets of his coat and went to join the rest. Musicians had arrived and a lively music filled the castle. Aromas of an enormous meal started to waft through the air. Simply because it was available, Mark was drinking too much wine for his own good and attempting to be the charming, loveable rogue. Try as he might, he could not take his eyes off the lovely Lady Grey. When an old man accompanied her to the sitting room where the music was being played, Mark wondered who it was, and if it could be her dear old father. 105

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Percivel answered his obvious unspoken question. "It is her husband." Mark cringed. "No!" "Yes, love. I hope you gave her an enjoyable romp." Sickened by the news, Mark's smile died as he thought of all that beauty wasted on an old man. After gazing at it, Percivel smoothed his hand down Mark's bottom. "I've someone who hasn't stopped admiring you all afternoon. You need to go and be polite and meet him." "Who?" Mark rose on his toes and peered around. "Lord Gremville. He very much wants to make your acquaintance and has been very patient, I may add." Mark met Percivel's eyes. "Will he give me a gift of money for it?" "Undoubtedly." Percivel's face became expressive. "Did our lady?" His cheeks tinged warm with a blush, Mark bit his lip. "Yes. A very generous one." "You see. You are on your way." Finishing the last gulp of wine in his glass, Mark said, "All right, where is this lord?" "Right this way." The duke held Mark's elbow and escorted him into a very crowded room. As he passed, Mark inspected every face. Many eyes were staring at him. He began to calculate the fortune he could make if he had time to bed several more. To each obviously inviting smile Mark returned in kind, bowing, trying to let them know to be patient and he would be happy to oblige them. 106

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When Percivel stopped, Mark found himself standing before an old man, toothless and shriveled. The charming smirk Mark wore fell off. Inhaling deeply at his disappointment, Mark tried to catch Percivel's eye to shake his head, no. Not this one! There were so many young, handsome people in the room, surely this one wasn't necessary. But suddenly Mark was bowing to him as they were introduced, trying not to visualize contact with someone so ancient. "I will leave you two alone, then." Percivel's glimmering eyes and laugh unnerved Mark, to say the least. "What a fine lad." The hoarse voice seemed to strain with even this effort. Surely an orgasm would kill the man. "Yes." Mark nodded, trying to give him the attention he deserved and not be rude. When the dry, creased hand slipped him some coins, Mark felt his face heat up miserably. Couldn't the man be careful? Must they exchange payment in front of so many? Palming the gold like a magician, Mark hid the handful and tried as casually as possible to get it into a pocket without making a jingling noise that would alert the whole room. With a tight smile on his face as he tried to hide his annoyance, Mark asked, "Yes, yes, which room?" The old man with the old wig, that was no more than a worn old cap from so much use, shuffled off to the staircase. Discreetly checking the surroundings, Mark waited until the man was well ahead of him to follow. He didn't dare catch anyone's eye. Being seen bedding Lady Grey was something he did in pride. But this old fellow? Was it worth the money? 107

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When he could, he checked to see how much worth it was. Mark was astonished when he counted the amount. He hurried after the man, at least to thank him. Pushing back a door that was ajar, he found Lord Gremville seated on a chair. "Lord, thank you kindly—" he was about to reconsider and hand him back his coins. A bony finger interrupted him. Mark quieted his voice and closed the door behind him. That same finger beckoned him closer. Holding his breath, Mark stood before the man in the chair. First those hands smoothed over the fine velvet of Mark's coat, and with a shaking clumsiness they opened the buttons of Mark's breeches. Committed to the act, Mark could only wait and see what was expected of him. He widened his stance as Lord Gremville spread and pushed back his breeches. Those spotty cracked fingers very gently lifted him out, balls included, to lie over the white fabric. When Mark opened his mouth to ask what he could do for the lord, he was once again silenced. With his arms relaxed at his sides, Mark realized that this man merely wanted to play with him. With a sigh of relief, he knew what was not expected. Using his right hand to stretch out and reach against a wall to steady himself and give him some support, Mark tried to relax. Lord Gremville's gaze moved from Mark's face to his growing masculine parts. In his mind, Mark was reliving his contact with Lady Grey. How everything about that woman had enticed him. That wonderful taste and scent. The feel of her breasts in his 108

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mouth and plunging into her wet heat. He wanted to have her once again before he left England, yet he had no idea how to accomplish this. That set of tepid hands urged him to reveal more of his body. Mark tugged down his breeches so they were at his knees, and raised his blouse to show his belly button. When those lips touched the tip of him, Mark closed his eyes and tried not to pull back in revulsion. Think of Lady Grey! Not this toothless lizard! With his head tilted to the ceiling and his eyes sealed shut, Mark allowed those fingers to explore into his anus and that mouth to taste his youth. He was stunned when he gave into it. Never would he have guessed he could perform under these conditions. The trick was his mind. He could envision so much beauty. As the sensuous gasp of his climax subsided, Mark dared a peek at the old man. He had obviously pleased him. Mark tried his best to smile and waited to see if the lord was through playing. After some loving caresses, Mark was allowed to back up and close his clothing. Then to his complete astonishment, Mark was handed a king's ransom. "No, Your Lordship, this is far too much. I simply cannot—" Through his pleading Mark was rebuffed as the man shuffled out of the room. Mark gazed down into his hands in awe. It was filled with golden sovereign coins. He had never seen so much wealth in one place, and particularly not in his own palms. Needing to hide them, Mark found his way to his room and tucked them out of sight. 109

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After another quick scrub at his basin, his face flushed and warm from his rushing, Mark found Percivel in the crowd. Mark leaned down to his powdered wig dusted ear and whispered, "Who is next?" Percivel covered his mouth before he erupted in a laugh. "You have more in you?" A proud smile broadened Mark's face. "I have an endless supply." Percivel turned around to stare at that beaming grin. "Oh, to be young again," he giggled. "Leave one for me. It will be a way for you to thank me before you leave." Brushing up against him, Mark gave him a very seductive grin. "I shall. I shall save the best for last." "All right, my lovely." Percivel nodded to a gentleman leaning against the side of the fireplace. Young and fiery, with a long sword at his side. "Ah, delightful..." Mark hissed. "And rich. He will be rough on you, my dear. You will be ridden like his polo pony." The handsome man met Mark's eyes with such an air of wealth and elegance it set Mark's teeth on edge. Mark couldn't wait to get at him. "Come, let me make some kind of introduction so you are more civilized than mongrels humping in an alley." Percivel sauntered over to the dashing noble with Mark following hungrily at his heels. As if he were greeting a king, Mark bowed and took the noble's hand. It was a gripping strength Mark was not expecting. Raising his head quickly to the man's serious gaze, 110

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Mark knew they both wanted to race to a private room. All this talk was a waste of precious time. As Mark listened to the posh accent of Baron Abel, he tried to imagine him under those fine clothes. This man was muscular and solid, an obvious athlete and avid sportsman. Mark was astounded by the variations of the human form. How some were so thin and willowy, whilst others were portly and squat. Then the rare treat of a Lady Grey whose body was near ideal womanly perfection, to this handsome baron, who met the same standard in the masculine gender. Bliss! He had found bliss! Enough! Percivel rambled on miserably. Mark could tell Baron Abel was trying to politely end this torture as well. Finally Mark cleared his throat. "Allow me to show the baron some of your lovely artwork." At the ridiculous comment, Percivel stared at him in awe. Mark knew it was a pathetic attempt to get he and the baron alone as well. Percivel's smirk appeared and he bowed, allowing them to finally take leave of him. As Mark led the way up those narrow stairs, he heard the baron grumble, "Insufferable duke." Having infinitely more kindly thoughts of his host, Mark smiled to himself. "He means no harm." Mark peered down the hall first to check to see it was empty, and showed the baron into the room he had claimed as his own temporarily. "He means to tease us. He thinks we don't know his game." The baron laughed in a low, masculine murmur that made Mark's skin prickle. 111

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"Yes, he is an imp." Mark waited for a sign of what to do. It was quiet. The heavy doors blocked out the sound below. At the anticipation, Mark felt his breathing quicken. As if they were set free all of a sudden, the baron rushed at Mark and drew him into a rough embrace. Mark had no doubt he was playing the woman in this scene. He relaxed and allowed himself to soften as those lips sought to devour him, and those hands unclothe him. Mark gasped as he the baron lifted him into the air, carried him to the bed, and tossed him down carelessly. His clothing was almost torn off there was so much strength and force behind his passion. Mark closed his eyes and withstood it until he was completely naked. Peeking open his eyelids, he found the baron staring at him from beside the bed. The baron tugged his wig off, revealing a full head of black hair. He ran his hands through it to shake it out and then gave Mark a most seductive glare. The gaze raised the gooseflesh on Mark's skin. Mark was incredibly vulnerable to this man's clothed and armed presence. Trying to swallow the dryness in his throat, Mark's eyes never left those dark brown ones before him. The baron climbed onto the bed and reached his hand between Mark's thighs, cupping his balls, then sucked at Mark's mouth and tongue ruthlessly. The grip on his testicles was close to pain. Mark tried to relax under it, not push it away. A finger penetrated him. As it explored, Mark shivered and attempted to turn his face aside to gain air. Almost with anger, the baron turned him back just as quickly. That mouth wasn't through yet. Mark's 112

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tightly wound body finally yielded. He spread his legs and opened his mouth wider. This only served to bring the baron into a heightened state of arousal. With a gasp, Mark's mouth was released. No matter how he tried Mark could not gain enough air. Mark panted heavily as he attempted to stay calm. No one had ever handled him this way. It was sending him to new heights of delirium. The baron knelt up next to him and spread wide his britches. "On your knees. Suck it." Mark rolled to his knees quickly and opened his mouth. The organ was wide and solid like the baron himself. That musky, masculine scent sent him reeling. Mark groaned as he tasted him, trying his best to please. The baron shoved him back violently. The suddenness of it surprised Mark. He was about to ask if he had done something wrong when the baron forced him to roll over, face down, and wrenched his legs apart. Mark clenched his teeth and waited for the assault. He felt hot come on his ass first and then a penis pushed through the cream and into him. Mark arched his back and gasped. That powerful, velvet covered arm wrapped around his hips and raised him up to meet thrusting hips. Mark groaned and labored for air as if he were in agony, yet euphoria was mixed with the pain. The baron's cock slipped in and out of him for so long seeking its second pleasure, Mark didn't know how much more he could bear, his own satisfaction waiting untouched. 113

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Finally, a deep, aggressive grunting reached his ears. It seemed to linger, a release of need and yearning. Mark lay still, that weight and heat on top of him. He waited. He dared not move. A hot breath passed his ear, moved his hair as the baron recuperated. A long moment lingered before Mark was released from his captivity. Mark rolled to his side and wiped back his damp hair from his soaked brow. The baron washed himself clean at a basin and fastened his britches. Just as Mark thought he would turn and go, the baron crawled back onto the bed to mirror Mark's posture. Baron Abel cupped Mark's jaw and gazed into his eyes for what seemed like hours to Mark. Then Mark felt a hand on him. A hand to give him what he craved. Just as roughly as before, Mark was pushed to lie flat on his back. Mark kept his arms to his sides and watched the baron with unmatched intensity. His large hand gripped Mark's shaft as though it wanted to tear it off. Then it went to work. With all his might, Mark tried to keep his eyes open, but he could not. Mark writhed and rocked on the bed until he was spinning. When he came it was so powerful it hit the pillows next to his face. Mark blinked his eyes wide and twisted to see the spot in astonishment. The baron set back and smiled, trying not to laugh. Mark opened his mouth to speak some expletive, some verbalization of the shock he felt, but nothing came out. Even as the baron gathered himself together and poured a handful of gold onto the bed, Mark tried to think of some way to express himself. To thank the baron, maybe to share what 114

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it felt like, to tell him he worshipped the ground he walked on, to ask the baron to marry him, all these insane thoughts passed through his mind and he could not utter a single sound. The baron touched his cheek lovingly and left the room. Through a strangled throat, Mark wanted to call out to him, to stop him, to say something! When the door closed he could only sigh and stare at it. **** It was past the midnight hour when Mark was woken by someone petting the fine hair back from his face. "Have you saved one for me?" the man whispered. Stirring, Mark started coming around slowly. He opened his eyes and squinted into the candle flame. It took a moment for Mark to realize where he was and who was with him. "I'm sorry..." Percivel leaned closer. "Sorry?" "I have fallen asleep. I didn't mean to. Is the party over?" Percivel smiled gently, caressing him to comfort him. "Yes. It is over. Have you done well?" Mark sat upright on the bed. "Another twenty sovereigns from the baron. Yes, I am very wealthy now." "Good lad. I presume you will take your leave in the morning and begin your quest." "Yes ... in the morning. Are you cross with me?" Percivel pressed his thumb into a crease between Mark's eyebrows to smooth it out. "No, why on earth should I be?" 115

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Mark worried. "You should be angry because I feel I have used you. Here I have come to your home and made a whore of himself with your friends. Now as quickly as I came, I will vanish. It seems rude somehow." "I will be cross only if I do not get a proper goodbye." Mark replied quickly, "Yes! Of course. I am awake for you now." "Give me a few moments to get ready." Mark waited as Percivel rose off his bed. He nodded in understanding, wondering how long to wait. Gathering the rest of the coins up, Mark opened the little compartment of the nightstand. He dumped the pile in, thinking he would count them before he went to sleep, or in the morning light. He was quite certain he had enough for the entire trip and possibly the return as well. It amazed him how much people thought the act was worth. Pure gold? Astonishing! Simply astonishing! Mark grew impatient and dove into his nightshirt. On tiptoes, he made his way down the hall. Scratching at the door, a servant opened it. "Am I too early?" Ready for him, Percivel was in bed, his wig off, his face washed, and his smile broad. "No, my lovely, come in." Mark raced in, bounded on the bed, and grinned wickedly. "Good!" Percivel dismissed the servants with a wave and then crossed his arms over his chest in amusement. "Well?" "I have saved the best for last!" Mark grinned. "Best? Oh, I doubt anything beats Baron Abel." 116

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"Do not underestimate yourself." Mark crawled under the quilt and embraced him. The duke gave him a generous smile. "Good man, always make your lovers feel they are the best. You have learned a lot very quickly." "Yes, I have. I am on my way." Percivel pinched out the candle flame and found Mark's lips. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eight The amount of gold Mark carried alarmed him. Percivel gave him several more weapons, including a long sword and a dagger to go with the short jeweled sword given to him by his cousin. In a suede bag that hung around his throat, Mark held the majority of his wealth. The spending money was in his jacket's deeply lined pockets. The duke had contributed to Mark's purse and his generosity amazed Mark. Did they all have so many riches to give? Or were they just kindhearted people? Both, maybe? Setting out on what he hoped was an adventure of a lifetime, Mark hailed his own carriage. It made him feel like a man for the first time in his life. After careful consideration, he had set out a plan in his head and only hoped it would go well. Did any of his plans? No, but he would not think of that now. Mark waved to his good friend who had provided travel papers and several introduction letters to important people to help him on his way. Before Mark started his journey to Dover he had one last stop to make. Asking the driver to turn back into London's crowded city to the tight alleys of the brothel district, Mark pretended he did not see the driver's disgusted expression, and sat in the rocking carriage, thinking, hoping things would go his way. When they slowed and the driver shouted they had arrived, Mark leaned out of the window finding the sign. 118

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Cock's Lane. Assuring the coachman he would only be a moment, Mark had the driver wait whilst he hunted for the right doorway. When he found it, Mark was dismayed. It was empty. Lowering his head in defeat, he headed back to the carriage. Taking one last look, Mark spotted a gentleman leaving and then that dark male back in his place, leaning against the frame. Without a second thought, Mark rushed to him and stared into his startled black eyes. "You remember me?" Mark tried not to gulp the air in excitement. He thought this man was divine and the thrill of being back in his company was spinning him to new heights. "Yes, of course, Catamito." He brushed the fringe back from Mark's eyes. "I have a proposition for you." "Yes, come up with me." The dark man gestured. "No! No. Not that kind. Come with me to speak privately in my carriage." Mark grabbed his hand and brought the suspicious man inside the secluded space. "Look, let me get this out before you refuse me." Mark felt as if he were on fire as he spoke. "I need you. You speak both English and Italian. I want to hire you to help me get to Venice. I will pay you extremely well. More than you will make here in months." The man stared at Mark curiously. "Why do you want to go to Venezia? London is so much more alive." "My father. Remember, I asked you about Marc Antinous Caeserni? He is my father." 119

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As he digested the words, the man's face paled a little. "Yes! I am telling you the truth. I want to meet him." "Meet him?" "I am his illegitimate heir. You must help me." A slow smile emerged from the man as if he now understood. "He will not acknowledge you. He will send you away. You waste your time." "Maybe. But it is something I must do. Please, will you help me? I will pay you. I will make it worth your while." Slowly, the man raised his hand to Mark's face and cupped it. "What if I want more than the shilling, tesoro mio?" Mark smiled seductively. He already adored this kind man. "Then you will get it. What is your name?" "Francesco Cavella. Yes. All right. I have a few possessions. Wait here." Looking back at Mark once, the man climbed out and disappeared. Mark's heart beat wildly in his chest. He knew Francesco would know how to get him there. It was working out exactly as planned, so far. The driver of the coach curled his lip and uttered, "Pooftahs," with contempt. Mark ignored it. **** Mark noticed Francesco had very few items he could not part with. A sword, a sharp stiletto, and a small purse of coins. Knowing the coachman disliked the contents of his carriage, Mark instructed the driver to take them as far as he could on their way to Dover, ignoring his sneer. 120

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As Mark sat back with a sigh, he stared at this dark man whose face had a deep, black shadow, like night, on his jaw. "Tell me about Venice." Francesco laughed like a rumble of a volcano. "What is to tell? It is filled with pompous fools who keep a crumbling city at bay." "No, come now. It can't all be bad." "No, not all bad. Sometimes it is wondrous. You sit in a gondola and watch the beauty of the Grand Canal flicker with a thousand lights reflected from the city. But she is a dying place, bello mio. Filled with greed and unwholesomeness." "Is that why you left?" "In part. I came here for love. But as you can see, that love left me penniless and in a bleak position." "Then am I helping you by getting you back to your home?" Appearing to consider that thought, Francesco chuckled softly, almost with a grumble in the way it came out. "Maybe so. We shall see." "Thank you. I don't know what I would do without you to help me. What can I say?" Francesco reached out his hand. Mark took it and Francesco brought him to the same side of the carriage as he was. "You can say nothing. We have many weeks ahead and silence would be the best. Incessant chatter is most unpleasant." Enjoying the heat emanating from his body, Mark sighed and laid his head down on that large, barrel chest. "Yes, it wears on me as well." 121

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"Good. Bene. Come, look at me." Mark sat up and faced him. Francesco smiled lovingly. "Yes, I will enjoy traveling with you." Feeling that large male urging him forward until their lips met, Mark closed his eyes and wrapped around him. He had no idea why, but this man gave him security. Maybe it was because he was strong, imposing, and confident. All the things Mark felt he lacked. Francesco was his bodyguard. Mark would reward him with money and with sex, as much as he could provide. Francesco was different from the others. He was real, honest, and to Mark's eyes, a gorgeous god. Mark already adored him though they hardly knew each other. **** They decided to sleep in the coaches as much as they could, eat only twice a day, and think of nothing but speed. If they dawdled, then the trip would last months. Mark's purse gave them enough for wine and meals, as well as the fast coaches that were becoming part of England's fame. In two days they arrived in Dover. It was the farthest Mark had ever been away from the farm. The farm. If he thought of his Uncle David and Aunt Katie, he'd cry. By now he was almost certain that Cousin Thomas had notified Uncle David of his disappearance. What would they do? Would they search frantically? He tried not to care. All would be explained when he returned. If he returned. 122

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Maybe his father would take one look at his gorgeous son and find him irresistible. He would open his loving arms and bring Mark home to introduce him to his family, his brothers and sisters, to live in a grand palazzo. And if pigs had wings they would fly. As Francesco looked on, Mark paid the driver upon arrival in the bustling seaport. They had no choice but to stay at an inn overnight as they learned the next ship out wasn't until morning. Noticing a shingle of an inn with the sign of a boar, Mark inquired of a room. Ducking his head as he moved through the doorway, Mark grew excited when he entered, enjoying the roaring fireplace and low, wood beam ceilings that were supposedly made from the hull of ancient ships. The long hours in the carriage had taken their toll. They found a table together, sitting stiffly. Waiting until Francesco was seated, Mark made sure his companion had everything he desired. Keeping his back to the graying walls, Francesco's eyes were on the occupants and door. Mark studied him closely. "You are very cautious." "Always, Catamito." "Do you think we will be attacked?" Mark surveyed the room. "Not if we are aware. No." Their drinks were served first and sated a great thirst. "Are you skilled with the sword?" Mark leaned closer to him. "I know enough." "Will you teach me?" 123

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Pausing as if attempting to read more than his words, Francesco met Mark's eyes. "If you wish." "I wish." Mark slurped down his ale and scooted his chair so close to Francesco he was leaning against his side. "Teach me. Teach me how to defend myself. I was raised on a farm. I know nothing of daggers and swords." At Mark's innocent confession, Francesco smiled to himself. "I was a bravo back in Padua. Protecting people was my business. Si, yes, I will do this for you." Grinning happily, Mark nodded in gratitude, sitting back to stare at his companion. "I will fall in love with you." Stunned by his comment, Francesco raised his dark eyes to Mark's. "Don't be foolish, Catamito." "What does that mean? Is it an affectionate term? Like what you would call a lover?" Mark whispered seductively. Francesco laughed to himself. "No, then maybe yes. It is one who sins against nature ... my Ganymede." "Ganymede!" Mark sighed. "If you only knew how many times I have been called that!" "Good. It fits perfectly." As the meal arrived Mark shifted over to give his companion some room. The food was superb and their mood elevated with the savory tastes and fine spirits. Mark loved watching Francesco as he devoured his plate. There was something so base and animalistic about him. A raw masculine essence to Francesco he adored. Like Baron Abel. Robust, muscular, confident. He wanted to be like them. He aspired to it, in fact. 124

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As Mark watched Francesco tear off the meat from the bone and shoved it into his mouth, the excitement Mark felt almost caused him embarrassment. Francesco used a chunk of bread to mop up the juices. No dainty little tricks with a knife. This man knew how to eat! **** After their meal, a swaying skirt led the way to their humble bedroom. The chamber was crudely furnished, but clean. Mark thanked the woman and closed the door behind her. Francesco watched him in the single candlelight's glow. Concentrating on his task, Mark latched the door and shook it to make sure it stayed. "You asked me for a lesson. Come. Before we get too tired." Francesco drew his sword. Wondering if he was already too exhausted, Mark nodded in agreement and stood on the same side of the room so they both faced the door. With an unaccustomed clumsiness, Mark drew the long sword given to him by the duke. Mimicking Francesco, he began learning the basics of fencing. Over and over again he would lunge and parry. Francesco drove him harder than anyone had so far in his many years of schooling. At one point Francesco said, "You have so little time to get skillful with the weapons that we must make sure you practice as much as possible. First with the long sword, then with the menacing stiletto." By midnight Mark's calves were aching, his head hurt, and his shoulders were in agony. Though he was in pain, Mark 125

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worked through it, not wanting to cry out he was too spent. Somehow he managed to continue until Francesco told him he'd done enough. The relief in Mark was overwhelming. He set the weapon aside and tried to gain his breath again. "You are very elegant with the blade," Francesco praised him. "A natural. For you this will come very easy. You will be surprised one day when you need it, and you will have it in you like a reflex." Thinking he was anything but elegant, Mark laughed softly. "Surprised. Yes, indeed. If I get anything but sore from it." Francesco gave him that low rumbling laugh. "Come here to me, Catamito." Scuffing his tired feet, Mark moved across the room to that set of outstretched arms. Falling against Francesco's solid body, Mark groaned as Francesco rocked him. Purring lovingly, Francesco kissed his hair and comforted him. "I will make you forget the ache. Take off your clothing, bello mio." Obedient as a servant, Mark nodded and stepped back. His coat had already been removed from the heat of his practice. He peeled off his blouse and breeches and respectfully set them aside. When Mark was unclothed he stood in the center of the room, watching Francesco's expression as it changed from a soft, tired gaze to one that was filling with passion. When Francesco beckoned, Mark approached. The embrace sent some unnamed sensation over Mark's entire length. It was so comforting, so loving. Mark exhaled a low, soft moan 126

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against this man's satiny open shirt and inhaled the spicy cologne on him. Francesco nuzzled into Mark's long, silky hair. "You will get there, my Mark Antonious. You only need some patience." As he was embraced, Mark could sense Francesco's breathing soften. Mark had completely recuperated from the exertion of before. When he raised his head off that broad chest, Mark connected to those black eyes. With careful deliberation, Mark began to undress Francesco. As he did, Mark stepped back to see what was revealed in the flickering small flame that illuminated the chamber. Dark hair. It came up Francesco's throat to the line where he had shaved it back. Even now that roughness had grown and was like the coarsest sandpaper. The pattern of that black hair amazed Mark. It seemed to dissect down the center of his chest and ribs and point outwards and upwards. A black line like an arrow aimed down his abdomen and then flared out once again at his pelvis. Completely mesmerized, Mark ran his fingers lightly over it, petting it in the direction it grew. The olive skin under it was taut as if it were wrapped tightly around that musculature. Every line of Francesco's solid anatomy showed through it. When Mark had pushed the blouse down those massive arms, he ran his hands over biceps that curved and bulged, forearms that swelled at the elbow and then tapered to powerful wrists. Kneeling down as he opened Francesco's breeches, Mark lowered them to see wide thick thighs covered once again by that black hair. 127

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Standing back, Mark took in the whole of him. From the thick black hair on Francesco's head to the tufts on the tops of his feet, he enthralled Mark. A smile curled Mark's mouth. This is the most masculine male I have ever seen. The differences in their appearance were marvelous to him. Of course, Francesco was in his mid-twenties, but Mark would never look quite like this! Mark gazed down at his own hairless body, touching it to see when and if some would grow. When Mark's hand caressed his own lustrous smooth jaw, his eyes once again found Francesco's. "You are very beautiful. Why do you look so troubled?" Francesco whispered. At first Mark couldn't think of the words to express himself. When he finally was able to, he said, "I ... I am like a baby still ... or a woman. Next to you I am not a man." Immediately Francesco crossed the small space to him and drew him to his chest. "No. You are a man, Mark Antonious. My beautiful Catamito. We just are of different blood." Arching his delicate body, Mark leaned his head back to watch as Francesco talked. It then occurred to him that even Francesco's voice was deep, like a cello string. Mark's was still quite high. In his head he again thought it had more of a feminine quality to it. Or perhaps not. Mark hoped its quality was masculine and only the range was high. Francesco kissed his neck. Mark softened immediately at the contact. Francesco coaxed him to back up until they felt the mattress hit their thighs. They lay on the quilt and tasted each other's mouths and tongues. 128

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The intensity enveloped Mark. There was a scorching heat to this man like there was in the baron, but Francesco wasn't nearly as violent in his loving. As if they were truly lovers who had their first chance to touch one another, they moved slowly, thoughtfully together into what felt like bonding to Mark. It fascinated him, the textures of Francesco's body. That tantalizing combination of soft hair and hard muscle, moist tongue, and dry scratchy beard. The surges to his loins were like flashes of fire from fresh tinder. At one point Francesco sat back to stare into Mark's face, petting gently the hair back from his forehead. Their legs intertwined, their bodies overlapping, it was so tender and kind. Mark gave in in the end. He would have it no other way. With a grogginess that was a gift of exhaustion, he opened himself up to be taken. His body lifted as if on wings and the gratification was so complete he knew nothing could compare. When his gasps and groans finally silenced, a deep comalike rest engulfed him. His bravo was well within reach. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Nine Another first for Mark Antonious came when he boarded the ship. Its tall masts speared the bluest sky as he craned his neck and shielded his eyes to see the sails flapping in the wind. Francesco was at his side, his eyes everywhere at once. Mark felt exhilarated as the journey before him became a reality. This would be the trip of a lifetime. Everything he had experienced in the last month had been new, a first, the most, and everything in between. The grandness of the whole threatened to swallow him. Somehow that little farm in Newbury seemed so meaningless in comparison. If he could open his mouth and sing, he would, like Margaret, and express his passion in the virtue of song. He knew nothing to sing. It seemed a terrible pity. The crowds were separated by fares. The wealthy had private cabins and meals, whilst the rest just stood crowded on the decks. Mark sneered as he and Francesco walked past the privileged who had their noses up in the air as if the "peasants" were repugnant. Mark had enough gold to buy them the best, but Francesco wisely held him back. They had a long journey ahead. The wind felt refreshing at first, growing colder as they gained speed. Mark turned his back to the chill and Francesco brought him closer to his chest to keep warm. The shivering subsided in Mark and he closed his eyes and rested against 130

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Francesco as the boat rocked and splashed its way to mainland Europe. Mark's legs ached from standing and his head hurt from the constant breeze. When land came into view on the other side and drew close enough to touch, Mark sighed with relief at the thought of a warm cozy carriage and a nap in its interior. The seaport of Calais did not appear much different from the one they had left behind in Dover. The lines were long as authorities requested traveling papers. Mark showed his and was let through. Wondering how his partner would be received, he stood and twisted back as Francesco only needed to open his mouth for entry. When fluent French came out, Mark was in awe of him. Mark waited until they were both standing side by side once more, staring at Francesco with so much pride he could burst. Francesco grinned modestly back. "What? Again the looks. Go get us a carriage, Catamito." Knowing he had been understood, Mark laughed to himself and stretched tall over the rest to wave and see if he could find one in all this turmoil and crowded mayhem. It seemed an impossible task. After some determination, Mark finally managed to catch a driver's attention. Mark spun around for Francesco and just caught him hurrying back after buying a loaf of bread at an open-air stand. Mark climbed into the carriage and told Francesco to ask the driver to get them as far as he could across France, hopefully to the next coach stop where they could continue. 131

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With a nod, Francesco leaned out to discuss this with the driver, handing Mark the crusty loaf. Listening to the different dialect, Mark sat back and admired his lover's tight bottom and strong thighs as they tensed and shifted on the ledge. Bowing low to avoid the top edge of the carriage, Francesco withdrew and closed the window so they were once again in a private compartment. Mark handed him the bread and asked, "Does he understand?" "Of course!" Francesco ripped off the top and handed the baguette back to Mark. Mimicking his lover, Mark tore a piece off and ate it hungrily. "You speak French?" Having been waiting for that question, Francesco's eyes lit up impishly. "Only the English have no interest in other languages." "No! This is not true. You cannot judge all Englishmen by me. I was raised in Newbury on a farm. I am not as sophisticated as a Londoner." "A sophisticated Londoner..." Francesco scoffed and finished the bread, reaching for more. Mark took the slight as he chewed quietly. Finally he said, "I am ignorant. I am sorry." "You always wound yourself. You must stop doing this." It was an odd thing to say to someone. Wound myself? Mark thought this through very carefully. Was he inflicting pain on himself? "Why is this journey so important to you? Was your life, with all the finery and riches you left behind, so bad?" 132

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The bread poked him. Mark took it and tore another piece off, ignoring the question. "We need wine." "Ah! Sorry." Francesco shook his head. "No, I did not mean it was your fault." "Who do you blame? Yourself once again?" Feeling like a bad little boy, Mark stopped chewing and said, "Why are you behaving dreadfully to me?" "Why? Are you about to apologize yet again for something that has nothing to do with you?" Francesco stopped eating and stared at him. "Catamito, there are things you must give up on as, how can I say..." He thought hard first before he found the right words. "As things that you cannot make different. Look at me. I came to Inghilterra with a dream of a lover. When he betrayed me I brought pain upon myself. It took me many months to see this betrayal was not for what I had done but was my lover's own action. You see?" Mark did. "I am so sorry he hurt you." Dramatically, Francesco threw up his hands in a comic version of frustration. "Even for this he is sorry!" "No! I didn't mean—" "Come. Come here to me. Why are you so far?" In the close confines of the coach, Mark crouched to stand, brushed the crumbs from his lap, and sat next to Francesco so they could touch. The roads were rutty and rough compared to the ones they had just left in England. The carriage lurched back and forth occasionally, and rumbled constantly. **** 133

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Francesco set the bread aside and put his arm around Mark's shoulder, urging him to his chest to rest. Kissing his hair, Francesco set his cheek down against Mark's head. He was afraid for Mark. Though Francesco dreaded verbalizing that fear, he felt it. Mark had no sense of the world, no thick skin, no street skills. He imagined Mark alone on this trip. What if they hadn't had that chance meeting? Or if Francesco were still involved and not willing to leave England, where would this young man be now? Traveling like a babe in a world of the wolf. That gold that hung from his neck would have vanished, and so would the body in some canal. Fearing for him, Francesco wrapped tighter around him and nuzzled into Mark's fragrant hair. **** Since Calais, they had spent two nights inside a carriage, only stopping quickly for some food, fresh horses, and to urinate. They felt filthy and worn out. Mark suggested the next country inn and a bath would be in order. Heading southeast through the rolling green farmland of France's countryside, they bypassed Paris and stopped in Fontainebleau. Aching from being cramped and in need of a bed, Mark straightened his back up and handed Francesco a few sovereigns to pay for their journey. When two came back to his purse, Mark blinked in surprise. Francesco shrugged, "Honest driver." "One was enough?" 134

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Francesco shook his head. "You have any idea how priceless English gold currency is?" "Obviously not," Mark whispered as they took what few things they had with them into the inn. With fluency and style, Francesco greeted the owner and very efficiently requested a room and two baths. When a woman nodded to follow, Francesco made a silly bow to Mark and gestured for him to make his way behind her. A small chamber was prepared and two tubs were filled. "Le bain pour le garcon," Francesco said, smiling wickedly at Mark. Francesco's tease was overridden by the landlord whose hand was out, shouting at Francesco in anger. Snarling his lip in disgust, Francesco grumbled something that sounded profane to Mark's ears. The landlord reacted to the insult, scuttled out, and left them to their baths, without his advanced payment. "What was that all about?" Mark waited before he disrobed to make sure things were all right. "Nothing, you go and enjoy your soak. I will wait until you are finished." Not convinced things were quite calm enough, Mark touched the hilt of his sword. "Why?" "You ask too many questions. Get in the bath." Seeing he would get no more from the very tired Italian man, Mark sighed, giving in without further arguments. Mark stripped and sank into the water. Francesco watched the door until Mark splashed and moaned behind him. Peering over his 135

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shoulder, Francesco whispered seductively, "Get yourself good and clean, Catamito, for I intend to devour you." "You will just get me sweaty when we practice fencing." Mark dipped his head under the water and shampooed his hair. Francesco grinned devilishly. "I do not mind your sweat on me." "You've made that quite obvious." Mark rubbed the soap on his face, staring at Francesco's broad back as he watched the door. "Will you tell me about your family later?" Again Francesco peered over his shoulder. "Why do you ask it?" "I don't know." Mark shrugged. "Is it a secret? Or embarrassing?" Francesco lowered his head. "No. Nothing like that. It is just needless information. It makes no difference to us. I am no patrician's son." Right after he said it, Francesco's face showed regret. Pain. Mark flinched at the bite. "No, I did not mean this. Please forgive me, Catamito. I lament my words as soon as they come out." "No. Don't apologize. I know what you meant." With his bottom lip pouting, Mark rinsed out his soapy hair and stood to get out of the bath. Patiently, Francesco waited until Mark was fully clothed and armed before he started to undress. Without the need of directions, Mark sat in the spot previously occupied by his lover and watched the door, but his mind was elsewhere. Behind him Mark heard the bath 136

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water move and imagined with the sound what Francesco looked like while he bathed. Though he had the chance to compare his thoughts with reality, Mark never turned around. Their conversation had evaporated. Mark grew bored with the door. It didn't seem too threatening to him so he decided to stare at his friend instead. Once Francesco had dried himself off and dressed in his breeches, he sat before a mirror to shave. With very well trained hands, Francesco spread the prepared cream on his face, down to his chest, and lifted the razor. Using confident strokes Francesco shaved the heavy beard off his jaw. Mark's eyes widened in awe. Instinctively, he reached for his own chin and tried to feel anything, a bristle, a nub. Mark sighed. Nothing. I am a woman! Fascinated by this ritual, Mark stood behind Francesco, who could see him in the mirror's reflection. Mark was anxious to shave and assume yet another manly function. Watching Francesco run the razor across his chin was driving Mark mad. Trying not to let it distract Francesco, Mark looked away so the poor man could finish without cutting himself. Taking the soft towel off the rack, Francesco wiped the foam clean. Hearing his movements close by, Mark turned to look at him. That beautiful, damp, thick head of black, wavy hair covered his head to the tops of his ears and danced over Francesco's huge rounded shoulders. The almost gray colored skin from where he had just erased the growth of two days was still so dark it tantalized Mark. 137

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Francesco stood and slipped on his blouse, his eyes fixed on Mark. "We are hungry. And some wine I think. Si?" "Yes. Yes, please." "Come, Catamito, come let us drink our fill." Following him out to the tavern, Mark was unused to being in a place where he could not understand the language. It frustrated him beyond measure. He grew weary of asking Francesco to translate, as weary as Francesco had grown of the task. Giving up, instead Mark tried to understand the words simply through the gestures, quite unsuccessfully. "I am a foreigner," he sighed, curling his lip in distaste. An impish light came into Francesco's eyes. "Yes, it is your turn. What do you think of it?" Mark grumbled, "I don't like it." "How do you think they will treat you in Venezia then, hmm?" It stung. Pretending it didn't matter, Mark turned his gaze to anything but the dark black eyes in front of him. The inn's ceiling hung low, like the English style of dark tar-stained crossbeams and smoke-coated white stucco panels, as well as a sensuous roaring fire. The walls were covered in old, burnt umber oil paintings. Men occupied every candle-lit, scarred oak table. This was a common stopping place for the passing carriages. The men appeared tired, bent over their wine, haggard looking, with beards on their faces and dark, heavy, soiled wool clothing. No white wigs here. No. Not a wig in sight. Francesco caught Mark's gaze. Before he spoke, Francesco released a low long breath. "My treasure, tesoro mio, I say 138

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these things to you to forewarn you. Do not take it as I am insulting you. I just know how it will be, Catamito. You will be so mortally wounded by their distant coldness, their rudeness. You needn't even open your mouth for them to see where you are from. Your dress is foreign to them." "Then I will buy new clothes," Mark said dryly, lifting his tankard of wine "Mark Antonious in a tabarro. Yes, it suits you." Francesco covered his laugh. Rising up, Mark could stand no more abuse. Francesco stood quickly to apologize. It was as if Francesco had no idea these little jests of his would be quite so upsetting. "Wait ... Mark ... fermo! Stop!" That large hair-covered hand gripped Mark's elbow. Men turned to watch them. The agony in Mark sought to overwhelm him. Eyes lowered, lip bitten and tight across his mouth, Mark's face felt rosy as the heat inside him made him an explosion of anger. A roar threatened to escape. One he would not be able to contain in another moment. It seemed Francesco realized this in an instant. He tossed coins on the table and ushered Mark outside like the place was on fire. Pushing him out onto the wet streets, Francesco escorted him away from the prying eyes. Mark felt the coolness of the air with some relief, but it wasn't nearly enough to calm him. And his frustration burst through him. Like thunder Mark shouted and growled, "What am I to do? What choice do I have? You act as if I chose this lot for myself! Should I have made the choice myself I would be at his side now. Speaking his language, wearing his 139

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clothing. I had no choice. I was cast as an outsider against my will. As an infant these things were decided for me. I want my father. I want us to love one another like fathers and sons do. You have no idea the hollow shell I am inside wondering who he is." Mark breathed deeply. "Why was I rejected before anyone had a chance to know me? And you tease me. Like this is a game to me and not my whole life. You think I cannot guess how I will be received? Like a beggar? Like an enemy?" Mark held back his cry. "I must still try. And my hope that our common blood will unite us when all our other differences separate us is all I cling to. Can you understand now?" Francesco knew all this. That was why he took Mark on this journey of foolishness. To find the answer. But the answer will be no. In no uncertain terms, Mark would be rejected. No matter how Francesco tried to warn him, Mark would have to experience this firsthand, no advice would he heed, no truth would he fathom. Mark's chest was heaving, his ruffles moving with it under his jaw. Mark clenched both hands into his hair looking like a tragedian in a Greek play who had just stabbed his mother. Men came and went past them, a glance was all Mark received for all the drama, and Francesco was glad, for he had not the will to fight at the moment. His heart was breaking. "Catamito, please. I beg your forgiveness. Come inside. Let us go to our little room. Please." He held out his hand. "Amor mio ... my lover..." Francesco purred when nothing else seemed to work. 140

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**** That night, in the privacy of their small chamber, they practiced the art of the stiletto. Handling the stunted blade as if he would use it to kill someone, in defense of course, frightened Mark a little. It was an assassin's tool. Cleverly concealed and only brought out for a quick mean thrust. "Why do I need to learn this? Why is this necessary? What are the people like in Italy that men need to kill one another this way?" Francesco splashed his heated skin in a basin and let the questions roll off his broad back unanswered. He was obviously tired and yearned sleep. Seeing his queries fall flat, ignored, Mark closed his mouth. When Francesco faced him Mark could see the exhaustion in him. "Why do you put up with me?" Mark whispered. Francesco paused as if once again he had to shake Mark and stop him from those self-destructive comments. "Get some rest, Mark Antonious," was all he said in the end. With only his breeches to remove, Mark was naked and under the quilt quickly. He peeled it back for Francesco and waited as Francesco stripped off the rest of his attire. The bed creaked when he joined Mark in it. Both yearning for a long, restful sleep, Francesco lay on his back and closed his eyes. Mark doused the single candle and curled up against him in the darkness. A strong arm wrapped around Mark and drew him closer. Mark's eyes were wide though he could not see yet as his irises adjusted. "Do you love me?" Mark whispered. Francesco hissed, "Yes." 141

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This settled him down. Mark was able to close his lids and rest. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Ten From Fontainebleau they rode again southeast to Burgundy. There they only stopped quickly for a meal and to find another coach to hire. The base of the Alps loomed and Mark could not get enough of staring at them and their snowcapped peaks. Grenoble passed them by and Italy was a breath away. Mark thought when they finally crossed the border into Italy he would know. It wasn't until Turin that he realized they had arrived. It mattered to him. He wanted to feel the difference. They came down into a valley of fertile green pastures and a little village all with tiled red roofs appeared. It was then Mark knew he was no longer home. This looked nothing like England. Nothing. The buildings seemed carved out of the side of a mountain and lay in tiers, all crammed to one another with narrow lanes and in pastel tones of peach and lilac. The coach halted and Mark prepared to pay the driver whilst Francesco haggled over the price. As the debate wore on, Mark searched the flat façades for a shingle or sign hanging outside the inn. The building they had stopped in front of appeared to be someone's home. After the fee for the ride was settled, Mark paused to allow Francesco to enter before him. What use was he without a tongue? Francesco took control here as he did everywhere. Though his dialect was different from those around them, Francesco was treated like he was a long lost son. They were given the best room and a meal that satisfied the deepest 143

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hunger. Their appetites sated, Francesco brought two bottles of wine up to the room and they sat with the shutters thrown wide to gaze at the expansive of view. The air was cooling, but Mark wanted to keep the shutters open longer. Though it was there before him, Mark could not believe the colors he witnessed with his own eyes. The brilliant green of the land topped by rust colored roof tiles and sandy beige buildings. Groves of olive trees made geometric lines up the hillsides like marching Roman soldiers. The air smelled of fall and some fragrance he could not identify, but reminded him of gardenia or rose. Up and down the hilly landscape, farmers herded their sheep and goats, white cottony clouds with legs rushing to and fro like swarms of bees. The sun wore its way to the hilltops and as it dipped the air cooled further. Once the twilight chilled his skin, Mark thought about where he could purchase a cape. His light coat was not enough to keep him warm in the evenings any longer. Without a thought, Mark tugged on the leather strap around his neck and revealed the pouch. Emptying it on the small table between them, he counted his reserve. Francesco watched him, sipping the wine and topping Mark's glass with the rest. "You still are doing well, Catamito." They counted at least twenty golden sovereigns among the shillings and francs now a part of his cache. "Yes, it should get us there." Francesco smiled. "And back." He finished his glass and opened the second bottle. "May I ask a question of you?" 144

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Giving him his full attention, Mark replied, "You may ask. I won't guarantee I will answer." "Ah! So much mystery." Francesco smiled sweetly. "I already know. You want to understand why I have so much money and fine clothing, if—" "Not if this upsets you." Francesco held up his hand in a gesture to stop Mark. "But I don't mind telling you. It is because I am a whore, like you." Francesco raised his eyebrows expressively. "A whore makes this kind of money?" "If you bed the rich, you get rich." Without answering or acknowledging him, Francesco stared back out at the vanishing rays of the sun. "Is it my turn to get an answer from you?" Mark began placing the coins back into the purse. "A wise man once said, 'You may ask. I won't guarantee I will answer'." Recognizing his own words, Mark nearly began laughing at the candor with which it was said. "Right. Well, I'll ask anyway. Are we near where you were born?" Without hesitation Francesco said, "I was born in Padua." Mark shrugged. "I don't know anything about the geography of Italy." "It is near Venezia. Venice." "Oh!" Mark sat up. "Then you will want to visit your family." Studying the remainder of wine in his glass, Francesco appeared deep in thought. Mark assumed his musing was 145

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about his parents. Did he leave on bad terms? Did he want to try and see them? "Never mind." Mark lifted his wine and drank it almost to the bottom. "We shall see, Catamito." "You can't be seen with an Englishman, I know." "It was an English lover who first lured me from my home." Francesco tried to smile and failed miserably. Sensing the pain this brought him, Mark felt awful. "Do they know?" Again, without answering, Francesco stared at the blackening sky. Small glimmering lights began to sparkle in the village as fires were lit. "I'll keep quiet now." Mark raised the bottle and topped off both their glasses. "No, I have one more thing." Francesco rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Si, tesoro mio?" he said, almost as if it were in sarcasm. Mark leaned over to whisper into his ear, "Will you make love to me tonight?" A broad smile appeared. Pure white teeth and dark eyes. "Oh, si, yes, my beauty." Francesco stood and reached out to him. Like he had been asked to dance, Mark took his hand and rose to his feet. Before they commenced their horizontal ballet, they closed the shutters and undressed for bed. Mark was falling hard for his beautiful man. And he didn't mind a bit. **** 146

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Though they thought about pushing on farther, Verona was all they could reach for the time being. One more coach trip would end their journey. When Mark exited the carriage at the Torre del Gardello, he raised up to his full height to take in the surroundings. It was dusk and once again growing cool. What he could see was a massive city complete with a forum and a huge marketplace. Ancient Rome's influence was everywhere. When Mark spun around quickly for Francesco, he slammed into him accidentally. "I want to explore here." Unaffected by the bumping, Francesco stepped back as the carriage left them. He gave Mark a loving smile. "Anything you wish, Catamito." "Yes, please. One day. We can afford one day to walk the streets here." "Are you falling in love?" Turning his face aside to hide his blush in the torchlight, Mark gave himself a private smile at his own thoughts. Francesco followed him, patting his bottom discreetly. As if his taste buds had finally awakened, Mark could not believe the flavor of the food. It was pungent and filled with the essence of garlic and olive oil. Tastes alien to his tongue, but like a blessing he was introduced to them and now knew what he had been missing. The eel and potato pies of his Aunt Katie seemed somehow brutish and uncouth in comparison. Mark sopped up the juices with some peasant bread that had made his mouth water on sight. It was hard and crusty yet with the inside of a cloud. Who needed a fork and knife? This was living! 147

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Francesco seemed to be enjoying the expressions on Mark's face as Mark devoured his meal like he had been starving in a prison. At one point Francesco reached across the scarred wooden table and brushed a crumb from Mark's cheek. High on the strong red wine and feeling aroused from the sensual meal, Mark leaned over the sagging candle trying to reach Francesco's mouth with his own. He heard that low, rumbling laughter and felt Francesco's admonishing gaze as Francesco threw him a kiss instead. "What is in this food? I am so excited I cannot sit still." Mark squirmed and rubbed his hand over himself under the table. Francesco peered around into the dimness of the room slyly. He stood and gestured for Mark to follow. Distracted to the point of madness, Mark asked him anxiously, "How much do I leave for the food?" Pausing to assist, Francesco seductively entered Mark's deep front pockets and brought out some coins. Slapping the handful on the table, Francesco winked as he walked away. Mark's mouth watered at the sight of that bold, confident strut. He caught up to Francesco quickly as he ascended a narrow set of stairs to the second floor. The noise level dropped and small candles hanging on the walls lit their way. Mark could not resist touching Francesco's back as he moved, next his ass and legs. Allowing Mark to play without responding until they were alone, Francesco pushed open the door to their room and waited for Mark to enter. Immediately Mark began undressing until his eyes caught sight of the view outside the window. Drawn to it like a moth to fire, Mark 148

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leaned against the frame and sighed. The warmth of Francesco mixed with his own from behind. A kiss caressed Mark's neck under his long hair. At a sense of contentment he had never felt before, Mark moaned softly and nuzzled back into Francesco. "You are so very lucky." Francesco's fingers continued to remove Mark's clothing. "Why is that, my treasure?" "Look at this place. I am in awe." That deep laugh rumbled again. "But you have not yet seen Venezia ... or Rome." "I could explore this country for a lifetime, couldn't I?" Mark opened his arms as his coat rolled down his shoulders. A deep purring sound came from Francesco as he turned Mark around gently. With deft fingers Francesco unraveled those ruffles, lace collar, and cuffs, to spread the blouse back and admire Mark's skin. First he inhaled him, next Francesco ran his tongue from his neck to his left nipple. Shivering at the sensation, Mark closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. Mark caressed Francesco's coarse, thick, black hair, digging his fingers through it. In his mind Mark was reciting, "Love you, love you, love you," like a song. With his teeth, Francesco teased that hard small nipple, working it ruthlessly until Mark's breathing deepened to a sprinter's pace. A lifetime here with you, couldn't I? Stay with you? Forever? Mark groaned as the passion began to consume him. His lips opened as his desperate sounds slipped out beyond his grasp. A hand found its way down Mark's pelvis and into 149

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his breeches. Whilst Francesco's mouth sought to lick all of Mark's hairless chest and neck, he made his way to Mark's ear, and then his final destination, Mark's lips. Delirium. Mark was on the verge of some higher plane. Maybe the wine had fueled this, or some magic potion in the garlic and olive oil. Whatever the cause, it was as if he were floating. He could not get enough of that tongue, the roughness of Francesco's jaw scratching him raw, that hand groping and squeezing him, making him rush with fire. Spreading his legs and pushing his hips out, begging for more, Mark's mouth parting for a breath, his head falling back with its mane of hair full and wild, and his pulse like a marathon runner in the Alps' thin air. As if the expression of bliss on Mark's face was more than Francesco could stand, like he was a beast, Francesco moaned, "I want to possess you, my angel." Growling like a jungle cat, Francesco stripped Mark of everything that covered him and swung him up into his arms. Like Baron Abel had done before, he carried Mark to the bed and sought to smother himself in him, inhaling him, tasting him, all the while tearing at his own clothing to get them skin to skin. "I need to see your beautiful face," Francesco purred, taking him face up. Mark felt like a weightless puppet against all that strength and power. Mark released himself like he had not a care in the world. Closing his eyes, Mark softened and yielded to this driving force. Never before had it been so cataclysmic. He arched his back and drove his head into the pillows behind him. That hand, that enormous hand worked him, almost with a brutality Mark could not bear. It brought 150

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him to such exquisite heights Mark burst open. His own come hit the underside of his chin with a heat he thought might burn him. Above him, that rich masculine grunting and throbbing overwhelmed him in its duration and intensity. Nothing, nothing could describe it out loud. Nothing. After the rush of fire, Francesco braced himself with both arms straddling Mark's hips. Francesco's head hung low as he gasped for the air to try to calm himself. Mark couldn't move. Slowly he relaxed his back and neck allowing it settle back down on the mattress, not realizing he had elevated off of it from the mixture of pain and pleasure. With a lazy blink, Mark opened his eyes. In the flickering glow, Mark made out his lover's stillness as it seemed to pray over him and deep inside him. When Mark tickled Francesco's forearm, Francesco raised his head with an effort. Meeting Mark's adoring smile, he returned it in kind. Slowly, he reached for the glistening drop under Mark's chin and scooped it up with his index finger. "Yes, this is why you have so much gold, my Catamito." Francesco tasted his finger like it had been in custard cream. At first Mark just blinked at him in amazement, beginning to laugh. Mark went hysterical with it suddenly, like a wonderful release had sprung forth. Francesco disconnected himself from him and lay over Mark to laugh with him. They tried to control their hilarity and soon were just spent, resting in each other's arms. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eleven At first light they washed and dressed, arming themselves with the swords and concealed stilettos. After some wine and fruit, bread and cheese for breakfast, they strolled out into the light to see the sights and buy new, warmer clothing. In the shops, Francesco had him clothed as a Venetian prince. They lightened those heavy pockets of a few golden sovereigns and splurged. Their shoes had high heels, their breeches buckled at the knee, the lace was the finest Mark had ever fingered, all covered by a fur-lined cloak. Francesco had purchased the loose fitting tabarro, shamefully concealing all the color and wealth underneath it. With wicked grins on their faces, like they had just committed the perfect crime, they emerged new men. Mark loved the fact that now, at least until he opened his mouth, he could be mistaken for an Italian. Or on careful inspection would his delicate English features be scrutinized? Who knew? The sway of his cloak mesmerized him. Oh, the royal splendor was such a thrill. Now they were eyed curiously as they passed. Who were these men of wealth? Ambassadors? Counts? Such mystery! It was grandness on the largest scale. At one point Mark's heart swelled to such a state he jumped into Francesco's arms and kissed him right on the lips. Stunned, Francesco set him back and tried to calm him down, searching the piazza for anyone who may have spied 152

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them. "My young lover, you must act with some reserve. We are roaming the streets." "Yes. I'm sorry. I just cannot express the joy in me." "I am glad you are getting pleasure from my country. It pleases me." With the comment smacking of a lie, Mark sensed Francesco holding something back from him. When Francesco caught Mark's gaze, he immediately distracted Mark and pointed out another marble sculpture to admire. At their evening meal, again Mark drank more wine than he could handle. Mark was unused to its strength and potency. And the velvety smoothness of the liquid was better than any wine he had ever tasted in England. Devouring a plate of what he thought was the finest seafood stew in the land, Mark wiped his lip and met with those dark troubled eyes. "What is it, Francesco? Why are you brooding?" Francesco sat up straighter and ran his hand tiredly through his hair, but never answered Mark's question. A sensation of alarm passed through Mark's mid-section. Not wanting to heed Francesco's advice, Mark had shut out the sound of the words he did not want to hear. But he had heard. In some deep-seated place in his body, he knew he was not headed to play some romantic part on a stage. Francesco tried to warn him of the grave consequences for his actions. This was simply not done. The illegitimate heir of a powerful ruler of Venice could simply not exist. This was pure embarrassment and would be quickly, and possibly ruthlessly, gotten rid of. 153

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Just recalling something, Mark reached into his shirt for the pouch. He withdrew the item and then set out to unfurl it on the table between them. Francesco eyed the paper curiously. When Mark had it all unfolded, he read it. It was from the Duke. Percivel had given him a letter of introduction to an Italian Countess who lived in Venice in an old grand palazzo. Mark twisted it to face Francesco. "I cannot read English. Tell me what is says." "It is a letter from one of my friends. The Duke of Warwick. He has made a contact for me in Venice so I may have someone there who will look after me." "Who is this contact? What is their name?" Francesco squinted at the page. Mark skimmed it in the dim light. "Contessa Masson." A flash of hope glimmered in Francesco's face. "You know her?" Mark caught that look of pleasure and leaned across the space to him. "Oh, my Catamito, there is someone very kind who looks out for you." **** At the insistence of Francesco, they went directly to the Villa de Masson. If Mark thought Verona was fantastic, he was slapped silly by Venice. Everyone was on foot or in a boat. The streets weren't wide enough for elaborate carriages and large horses. With some light luggage for their travel clothing, they raised their heads to the sprawling city with its waterlogged canals and bobbing crafts. 154

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In constant awe, Mark kept murmuring under his breath as they passed columned façades centuries old. The Basillica di San Marco was so overwhelming and covered with details and carvings that he stopped in the middle of the piazza just to gape at it. Francesco urged him along until they made it to the contessa's villa. One side of her palace felt the lap of the canals, whilst the other side was accessible from a narrow alley. Most guests arrived by gondola so the water entrance was the one used and by far the most attractive. Francesco summoned a servant with his pounding on a door that was so monstrously large, a galleon could pass through it. Or at least a schooner, Mark thought to himself. An old man bowed to them and Francesco immediately took the note from Mark's fingers and handed it to him. The servant first inspected them carefully, then bowed again and closed the door on them, taking the note with him. Nervous anxiety passed over Mark like a shiver from an icicle, one that drops water on you as you pass beneath. "What if he steals my letter?" "Stop this silly nonsense." Francesco nudged Mark gently with his elbow. After they had tapped their toes and hummed to themselves for what felt like ages, the door strained open. The servant once again bowed and allowed them to pass. The scent caught Mark by surprise. It had some dankness to it, like moldy water. This lessened as they rose above sea level. When a rat snuck by them, Mark grabbed hold of Francesco's arm so tightly Francesco shouted out from the pain. 155

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They were escorted to a grand salon with a high, painted ceiling and a long, narrow table. A massive chandelier, gilt with gold leaf hung in front of mirrors with golden frames. Textured wallpaper covered the room in a dizzying array of patterns. A woman was standing there, her dress was peach colored satin and her wig was a cloud of white over her head. Mark dropped his bag and hurried to her, bowing properly and raising her hand to his lips. "I am Mark Antonious deMontford, my lady. I am hoping you speak English and can hear how grateful I am for your hospitality." "I understand you, my charming boy. And you are welcome to my home as a friend of the Duke of Warwick." She raised her head to acknowledge Francesco. Mark gestured to his lover and introduced him. "He is traveling with me as a guide and translator. Please accept him into your home with the same civility as you do me." She bowed to Francesco and he nodded in greeting to her, keeping silent. "Come, you must be tired and hungry from your journey." She led them to be seated at the table that had bottles of red wine and a bowl of freshly sliced bread, fruit, and cheese. Mark handed his cloak to the servant and sat next to the contessa who was at the head. Francesco handed off his tabarro and sat across from Mark, at the other elbow of this elegant woman. "What brings you all the way to Venezia, Mark Antonious? It is such a long journey." 156

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Mark waited before answering while a servant poured wine. "I am an admirer of great opera. I was hoping to catch one of the finest in Italy. I have heard it is here that I will hear it." Lips parted in surprise, Francesco's eyebrows raised expressively. "Opera?" The contessa smiled sweetly. "How wonderful! Yes, Italian opera is the greatest gift in the world. We have some voices that can make one cry. You must come with me to see it. Caffarelli is going to perform one of Scarlatti's most beautiful works." Like he understood a word she was saying, Mark nodded. "How delightful. I hope we can arrange it." Francesco stared at Mark, blinking in disbelief. They enjoyed one another's company as the food and wine were consumed. As the hour drew late, and the fires needed tending, Francesco and Mark were shown up yet another level of white marble steps to a bedroom. At one point the servant bowed for Mark to enter a chamber. Mark knew Francesco would be led just as efficiently to another. With a discreet hand he drew Francesco to his ear to whisper, "Do not come to me, lover." "Yes, I know," Francesco whispered back. "I shall see you in the morning." Holding Mark by the shoulders, Francesco kissed both his cheeks goodnight. Before Francesco could vanish, Mark gripped him tight. In his mind he was asking Francesco to understand. As if 157

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Francesco knew the look and the message it conveyed. He gave Mark's hand a reassuring squeeze and left him. Remembering the past rendezvous, Mark waited, sitting on the bed. A dressing gown that had been provided was the only thing covering his nakedness. As he anticipated, there was a gentle knocking at his door. Mark called, "Come in," and the servant bowed, candle held aloft. Quickly, Mark hopped off the bed to follow. Another door opened and the servant bowed and vanished. Searching the enormous chamber, surrounded by tapestries and curtains, Mark found the contessa sitting up on her mattress, her wig now gone, her own black and gray tresses spilling down her naked shoulders onto her dressing gown. With respect, Mark bowed low to her, standing still, allowing her to reach out to him first. When she gestured for him to approach, Mark floated across the room to sit on her bed. He smiled sweetly at her pleasantly rounded face. "Tell me how to please you, my Lady." "Oh, I hardly think one such as yourself needs my instruction." She lifted the covers to invite him in. Curling around her, Mark purred softly. It had been so long since he had played the aggressor he almost had forgotten how. His hungry kisses caressed her neck and chest as his fingers probed under her satin gown to her breasts. His thoughts never far from his lover, and his concentration challenged because Mark wanted to love and be loved from one man, and only one man, Mark forced himself 158

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to perform, though it was more difficult than any of his past conquests. Gritting his teeth, Mark drove in between her legs. Both his hands were on her breasts and his eyes clamped shut. He came and shuddered, groaning in exaggeration for her pleasure as well as his own. In a gasping breath she uttered his name, kissing his sweat covered face and rushing her hands over his skin. He was spent. In yearning Mark imagined his own bed. No. He imagined Francesco's loving embrace, craving him. "Mark Antonious, you were a gift sent to me by your English duke. I must thank him with all my heart." Staring at Mark's face, she pushed his hair back from his sweating brow. A soft chuckle came out of him before he could prevent it. "Just knowing I was treated kindly will be enough of a gift for him, my lady, my lovely contessa." With his finger Mark lightly touched the tip of her nose in a playful gesture. "I love the way you say it. Say it again." A girlish smile illuminated her face. "Say what?" "Contesssssa!" She tried to imitate his accent without much success. "Contessa! Contessa! My princess in a silk dressa!" He rolled on top of her and hugged her tightly. Her laughter delighted him. It was so filled with joy and youthful fun. "Oh, you are such a man! Magnifico!" She kissed his cheek. "You will stay here, si?" Leaning up on his elbows so he could see her, Mark stared into her dark eyes. 159

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When his laughing stopped, it seemed to puzzle her. "What is it, darling child?" It shook him out of his dream. He wondered if he could confide in her. If she would help him. She nudged him to sit up as they lay on the soft pillows together. "What is it? Surely you cannot withstand this burden alone." With her left hand she pushed the long hair back from Mark's eyes. Horribly, it sought to overwhelm him. She was so much like Gabriel, so kind, so full-hearted and filled with some warm love he could not get enough of. And in a blink of an eye, his filled with tears. The mask had fallen off, the act was crumbling. "Shh ... oh my sweetness, amor mio, please, per favore, tell me, what is it?" She cooed and petted him lovingly, only making the anguish worse. "I am humiliated now." He covered his face in both hands to hide. "Nonsense. Please. What is the real reason you come here to Venice?" Swallowing down his grief, Mark fought to calm himself. Slowly, he lowered his hands to his sides and without looking at her directly, he told the tale. Patiently, she listened. She never interrupted him. At times he just rambled about his feelings and the frustration, then when he finally fell into a deep silence she whispered, "I know your father, my sweetness. I know him enough to tell you, do not do this." 160

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He had expected support! He had hoped for help. Guidance. Not this! Not more discouragement, more pain. Not after coming all this way. It flashed like anger, a lightning bolt that crackled and threatened to burn the house down, then as quickly as it had come, it subsided to just agony. "Why?" Mark sobbed. "He is my father. Why should we never meet?" "Shush, my lovely man. Shush your cries and I will tell you." Sitting up higher on her cushions, Mark wiped at his face roughly like the tears revolted him. When he settled down again, he did finally look into her eyes. Very gently, she began to explain, "Marc Antinous Caeserni is the son of a wealthy councilor who was the son of one who sat in the Most Serene Senate, who was the son of the doge. The Caeserni have been one of the most powerful families in Venice for as long as there has been a Libro d'Oro. When I say they are the most powerful you must believe me, I mean in every way. They have their wives chosen for them. Women who also are of nobility. It is like your royal family, my sweetness." She pushed the hair back from his eyes lovingly. "As I was saying, your father had a wife who was carefully chosen for him. She remained in a convent for him until they wed. In the open there is this perfection of their marriage and the sons who will also be leaders and taught in the finest school in Padua. Yes, we know there is indiscretion in high places. It is kept in the shadows and tolerated somewhat. But!" She waited until Mark felt the film of exhaustion lifted from his eyes and he paid close attention. "But ... to have an 161

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illegitimate son thrown in one's face, and if this were done in public, where anyone may overhear, and to add to this, this child is a foreigner—" It was too painful. Mark covered his ears and closed his eyes. Even through his actions she continued, "You cannot imagine the damage you will do to your father's career, his household, his standing in the community, and inevitably to yourself. My sweetness, he may even try to have you killed to keep you secret and gone from his life." A welling up began again in him. Even through his hands and closed ears he heard it. And it started so deep inside him it came from his soul. Sympathetically, she drew him to her as he wailed. "I know, my dearest. The pain of this injustice is stabbing me as well. Beautiful man, you only want to know your father. It is an ironic cruelty I cannot abide either, but one I know is as real as the assassins that would reach out to kill you, my handsome young man. I think you should go back to England. There you will be safe." Angry and betrayed, Mark pulled out of her arms to try and find some strength to deal with this, any of this. "May I take my leave of you, my gracious contessa?" His voice was not his own. It was empty of feeling and sounded like an echo of someone else. "Of course, my sweet. My servants will come for you in the morning when your meal is served." Before he left, Mark took her hand and toyed softly with her fingers. "Forgive me for unburdening myself with this 162

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foolishness. It was grossly unfair of me to share what are my own personal problems with one who has shown so much generosity and kindness. I am beside myself in embarrassment. And I seek your forgiveness. Come the morning we will not burden you with our presence any longer." She gripped his hand tightly. "You are not a burden. So, of this you can forget now. You are welcome here as long as you would like to stay, and the invitation to join me at the opera still stands, or any other event you would like to share. You flatter me, Mark Antonious, to share with me your feelings. I know you have done so with very few. I give you all my support and power if you need it." "You are too kind, beautiful Contessa Masson. And I am undeserving." When Mark scuffed out of her chambers, he ached like a carriage had run him down. Slowly he investigated the doors and passageways of the stone house. Paintings of dead family members hung on the walls. Gilded sconces lit the way. He came to a door and opened it. It was dark as night inside. Pausing at the entrance, Mark closed and latched the door behind him, then waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. On light, bare feet, he padded to the bed. The deep breaths of slumber gave way to watchfulness as Francesco's eyes opened wide to identify the intruder in his room. Recognizing Mark peeling back the covers to reveal his nakedness, he invited Mark to join him. Mark curled against him and exhaled some deep painful release of stress. Francesco didn't question him as to why he 163

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was there, and wrapped around him tightly as they both fell asleep. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Twelve At breakfast the next morning the contessa was seated with her coffee, her white pearl encrusted wig in place, her gown richly flowing and shimmering in the sunlight that poured through the open curtains. Like a proper gentleman, Mark kissed her hand and bowed low before seating himself. "Why do you leave so soon, Mark Antonious?" It was said without pain or emotion, just a simple question. "I have to keep my schedule, my generous lady." Mark's eyes turned to his plate, but he caught a silent exchange between the contessa and Francesco. He had felt their transmission though their heads had quickly turned to avoid it. Angry, Mark now ate his food with a chip on his shoulder. They hardly spoke during the meal. Once they had finished Mark stood up and announced their eminent departure. "I am afraid, my good lady, it is time for us to leave." Contessa Masson stayed him and made Mark wait in the salon. "You must accept a gift from me." "No, my lady, I cannot. My imposition on your time has been enough of a burden." "Do not insult me." She reached out her hand and a servant brought over a small chest which he held out. The contessa unlocked it with a key she had around her neck and removed several golden ducats. She reached out to hand them to Mark. He stepped back involuntarily. "Please, I cannot." 165

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"You must. I will be insulted if you refuse me. Now take these and put them away. My servant will show you to a private room." She nodded to her servant. Mark bowed and followed him out. **** The contessa grabbed Francesco and they dove deep into another silent salon. Quickly in Italian, she communicated to him her thoughts. "You must stop him! This is madness!" "Yes, I agree, but there is nothing I can do but protect Mark." "Do you want some bravos, in case things go terribly bad?" Francesco considered the request and nodded. "But please, do not let him know, keep them in the shadows." "Of course. Get him out of Venezia as quickly as you can." Francesco could feel the frustration in her words as well as him own. "He will not budge until he has this meeting." "Then do it will all possible discretion. Do not allow anyone to overhear what you discuss with that Venetian noble if you even get close enough to speak with him. If he thinks someone has learned of the truth, he will kill Mark. As God is my witness, he will kill him." The contessa was trembling from the mere act of telling him this. Francesco knew the risks already. The servant tried to alert them that Mark was looking for them. They ended the conversation quickly and hurried to meet with him. **** 166

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When Mark returned, he found them both the contessa and Francesco together, leaving another large room, he knew they had been discussing him. Instead of rage, Mark just felt exhausted. The contessa approached Mark and reached for his hand. "Please, if you ever need assistance, come to me. I know many who can help you safely out of the country." With everything he had Mark tried not to glare at her. "I need no one's help, but I thank you for the offer." He kissed her hand. "Your generosity has been unmatched. I hope my simple gratitude has been enough to thank you." "It has, Mark Antonious, it has. Go now, and please, be wise." Both men exited the villa quietly. Francesco walked a few paces behind Mark as Mark crossed the wide piazza to the front of San Marco. Dozens of Byzantine spires plunged into the cloudy sky. In the very center of the building stood a domed structure and everything seemed to revolve around it. Mark plodded up toward its double arched entranceway, which was surrounded by a colonnade of single arches, mirroring one another in procession. With heaviness in him like he had never imagined before on that farm in Newbury, that lifetime ago, Mark climbed those gray steps. And if he thought the outside appearance of the holy place would obliterate him, the inside overloaded his senses. The mosaics, the colored glass, the altar reaching high beyond the painted domed roof, and the candles. Hundreds of thousands of flickering mesmerizing lights. In a dream he 167

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wandered up the center aisle and moved to the platform where voices echoed like they were in hallowed halls. It made St. Paul's seem like a vicarage. Though he wasn't religious, Mark fell to his knees. Francesco crossed himself and then brought his attention back to that kneeling figure with his head bowed, his hair so long it ran down his back to almost his elbows. The cloak surrounded him like a king's robe. And if he didn't know better, he would have thought this young man was one of the few. The lofty few men that were blessed and written into that Libro d'Oro, that Golden Book. He was Caeserni's son, have no doubt. And the many who were worshipping in that place must have thought the same. Mark's clothing was now Venetian and most certainly costly. But it was his looks, his grace, and bearing that made him regal. Francesco knew if Mark spoke with a perfect Venetian dialect, he would be mistaken constantly for someone of import. An ironic smile came across Francesco's face. Mark was one of import, after all. The son of one of the most powerful men in Venice. If Francesco had a year to prepare, he would have taught Mark the language. But even if he had, perhaps that Englishman's tongue would have eventually given him away. Wasn't this all useless? **** Mark finally woke out of his dream. A very old woman was next to him, asking him something. Mark's eyes widened in curiosity and he shook his head. He didn't understand. Reaching for his hand, the old woman kissed his knuckles. 168

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With his lips parted in his surprise, Mark watched her move away from him. Standing beside him, Francesco petted Mark's hair softly, like he was savoring the silkiness, running it through his fingers. In Italian he said, "Come, Excellency." Aghast at the reference, Mark spun around when those words echoed through him. In an instant all eyes were upon him. Was Francesco testing it? Did he want to see the reaction? When Mark rose up, Francesco brushed his cape off like he was his servant. Unwilling to move a vocal cord and reveal he was not Italian, Mark swallowed nervously at this charade. It seemed dangerous to play this game. The parishioners were all staring at him as he made his way back down that long aisle and out into the sunlight. When Mark could he twisted to Francesco and breathed, "Why did you call me that! Are you mad?" "To see the effect." Francesco dragged him across the piazza. "Effect? What effect? To effectively get us killed?" Shivering in anxiety, Mark swallowed back his fear to see a massive Gothic structure that was so packed with narrow columns he couldn't count the number. The stones were each carved with a textured surface, squares inside squares, until it was a dizzying spectacle, too much to understand in one viewing. Holding his numb body by his elbow, Francesco led Mark to the side of a building so they could observe the comings and goings of the red robed councilors, the senate members in 169

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purple, and a host of others, all in white wigs and pinching snuff from jeweled boxes. "Bloody hell..." Mark whispered under his breath. "Look at the bastards." Francesco covered his laugh at Mark's reaction. It was a spectacle unlike anything Mark had ever witnessed. Even more of a mass of color and pomp than the Queen's entourage. "Would you know my father if he passed?" At the possibility, Mark's heart beat faster. "Yesss..." Francesco hissed. "Even though I have seen him only once. I have seen him standing with the doge in San Marcos as mass was sung in the choir." "Tell me if he passes. I promise I will not approach him." Like a vise, Mark felt Francesco fingers clutch his arm. "If you approach him this way, he will perceive you as a threat and his bravos will cut your throat before you can even explain yourself." Unconsciously, Mark touched his own neck. "No. I will not make a step to him." Glancing around quickly, Francesco brought them to a café where they could view the steady promenading of robed patricians without looking conspicuous. Seated with a glass of wine in his hand, Mark felt as if he were in a theatre. He sipped the deep purple burgundy and tried to study each face as it passed, scanning them to see if he would just know. Could you recognize your own parent without help? Was it something inborn, like a tiny chick to its 170

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hen? Hadn't he accomplished that with his mother's painted image? "Are you all right?" Francesco asked. It was as if a danger signal had gone off in his head. "Did someone threaten you? Are you harmed?" Francesco caught Mark's eyes as they darted quickly to something behind his shoulder. When Francesco turned to look Mark knew he had found the adoring gaze he was receiving. With a smile appearing on his lips, Francesco leaned to Mark and whispered, "You have an admirer." Mark cleared his throat and tipped the last drop of wine onto his tongue. "I know, she keeps staring at me." "She?" Francesco's smile broadened. "That is no woman, my beauty." "What ... what is it then?" Almost afraid to hear the explanation, Mark shivered, his eyes wide in his panic, waiting for the worst. "That is one of our castrato." "What the devil is that?" Mark gulped in terror. He wanted more wine desperately, but every time he looked for the serving girl this person caught his eye. Roughly, Francesco grabbed the material at Mark's shoulder to pull him closer to whisper. "A man who has been gelded for his voice." Mark heard it, but it did not sink in. As the idea took hold, he paled. Francesco leaned back to see Mark's expression. "Mark!" He mumbled something to himself in Italian and waved frantically for the serving girl. "More wine, quickly!" She 171

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nodded and raced off. Francesco kept shaking him. "What? It is nothing you need to be concerned about." Francesco burst out laughing. "Stop laughing at my expense. Francesco!" The bottle was set out and the serving girl poured two full glasses. Francesco reached into Mark's pocket for some coins, handing it to her. He then resumed his laughing fit. Mark crossed his arms over his chest, his bottom lip pouting. With some effort, Francesco contained himself and raised his glass in a toast. "Welcome to Venezia!" At the idea of his balls being cut off, Mark shivered in anxiety, lifting his glass to suck down the contents. A moment later, Mark fell into a deep fantasy about being with a eunuch. How exotic that would be to touch something that was so feline and smooth, and yet had an organ to play with as well. It sent an erotic shiver over him. If he could, he would find one to strip naked and explore. He was shaken out of his daze by Francesco, pointing a discreet finger. Inhaling a sharp breath, Mark sat up quickly and tried to find the person Francesco had seen. "There, you see that man? He is quite tall and wears a modest wig. He is surrounded by bravos. You see two with him, two behind him." "The man in the scarlet robes?" "Si." Mark had a tremendous urge to stand up, to get a better look, but a wise hand held him back. His father seemed so 172

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distant, so unapproachable. This was impossible. How would he gain audience with a man so high of importance without telling him who he was? "Father..." Mark breathed so only Francesco could hear. "Yes, that is His Excellency, Marc Antinous Caeserni." Though the man was moving at a leisurely pace, unhurried, preoccupied, Mark thought it was too fast. The desire in him to leap to his feet and kneel before him, arms outstretched, shouting, "I am Mark Antonious! Your son!" was almost too much to bear. That was when his throat would be slashed. "Francesco, help me. Think of something. A letter, perhaps. A note slipped to him secretly asking him to meet me somewhere alone. Would that work?" Musing wistfully, Francesco drank his wine and sighed. "No, if you forewarn him, he will only send assassins to meet with you." "What if I didn't tell him who I was? What if I was some diplomat from England requesting audience with him?" With his finger running along the lip of the glass, Francesco asked, "Why would an English diplomat be seeking audience with His Excellency?" "I don't know ... for some trade, perhaps ... or ... as a good will gesture between countries." "Others would be assigned to that detail. I hate to keep repeating to you, it is of no use. You have seen him now, yes?" Unwilling to give up, Mark lowered his face into his hands and tried to think. His head ached and he wanted to cry 173

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again. Why is it so complicated when in reality it is quite simple? I am a son who wants to speak to his father. When Mark raised his head up, Francesco said, "You have the look of someone resolved for some brutal task. No. Whatever you are thinking, no." "I have nothing to lose. I must." Mark muttered in a daze, "I threw myself on a carriage that held Queen Anne and lived to tell. I will throw myself at my father's feet and take my chances. If I am cut down, then that is the way it will be. Though the blades of the Royal Guard were at my skin, I lived. They stayed their weapons, Francesco." When Mark stood, Francesco gripped him as tightly as he could. "I beg it of you. Mark Antonious, I am madly in love with you and cannot allow you to march to your death." "Let me go." Mark's gaze was beyond the piazza in the direction his father had gone. "No!" Francesco rose up and gripped him in his iron fists. "NO!" At first Mark just tried to tilt back from him. Even this he could not do. "Please!" Mark cried, "For the love of the Queen, please!" Francesco's large arms wrapped around Mark and squeezed him so tightly he could not breathe. Mark witnessed some passersby give them a curious glance. The café occupants may have thought it mildly strange, though Mark knew two men embracing in Italy was not unusual for he had seen it again and again. But the anguish was welling in him, that great, heaving wail. Why could he not go to his father? 174

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Francesco practically lifted Mark off his feet to get him somewhere hidden to allow Mark the release without the spectators. They stood between two buildings in a narrow alley that ended at the canal. It was so tight they almost had to stand sideways to not brush shoulders with the stones. Francesco embraced him and rocked him as Mark's eyes filled as they stared into the green water. In a soft rhythmic verse, Mark repeated, "Why can't I see him ... Why can't I see him..." then it came out like a moan, low and filled with pain. "Shh, my Catamito ... shh..." Francesco kissed his hair and tried to squeeze him so tightly they'd meld into one. It quieted Mark's sobs. Mark rested against Francesco's chest, spent, his eyes closed and his body releasing the pain. He was startled as Francesco set him back and rushed out of the alley. **** With little effort, Francesco caught up to the man in a black tabarro and grabbed him roughly. In his Venetian dialect he demanded to know who he was. He was greatly relieved to hear the man worked for the Contessa Masson and she had hired him and another to watch over Mark. Suddenly Francesco remembered the conversation and brushed the man's cloak off, nodding his head. "Where is the other so I may know his face?" The large man pointed across the alley. Yet another dark sinister male was there. They met eyes. 175

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"Good. It is well." Francesco bowed and hurried back to find Mark. When he turned into the alley, it was vacant. A cool panic fell on him. "No! No!!" Francesco's shoes slipped on the cobbles as he took off in the direction of the path Caeserni had taken. Up and down every narrow street he craned his neck, his heart rate had soared to pain. **** Mark was left standing there in confusion. When he made it to the edge of the structure and looked both ways, Francesco was gone. He struggled to think for a moment. Maybe he should just stand and wait. In paranoia, Mark kept looking back over his shoulder. He just wanted one moment where he could find the house his father lived in. There were so many streets that ended in water it seemed impossible. Standing on a bridge that crossed one of the many canals, Mark craned his neck both ways, looking into gondolas. A glimmer of scarlet met his eye. He rushed down to the edge and waved for a gondolier to notice him. When one came to pick him up Mark stuffed a ducat into his hand and pointed to the boat holding that scarlet clad male. The man nodded he understood and pushed off the ledge to catch up. They were still a fair distance from the other boat. Mark had no idea if it was his father because so many robed males with white wigs wandered that place. The scarlet robed man's boat stopped and two of the four very large, black-clad men stepped out to steady it. A hand 176

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reached for the tall, handsome, scarlet-covered noble and assisted him to climb out. A moment later Mark made it to that same spot. He almost fell into the water he was so anxious to see if the man was his father. Scrambling as fast as his high heels would let him, Mark crouched behind the corner to peek around it. Marc Antinous Caeserni entered his enormous palazzo and closed the massive doors behind him. His son panted to catch his wind and stood straight. Walking to the front of it to get a good look at it, Mark nodded to himself. "I have found you now." Like the pounding of a horse, he heard Francesco's heavy trod. When he was standing near Mark, Francesco gripped his shoulder and warned, "Do not run away like this again!" "Why? Would you have allowed me to do this? I know where he lives now," Mark accused angrily. "And? So? You think you shall pay him a visit and sip some English tea?" Francesco could not hide his anger. "Let me be!" Mark shrugged off his hands. "You torment me! Leave me!" In complete frustration, Francesco replied, "Fine, Catamito, fine. You decide your own fate and the date of your death. Fine." "Yes! Precisely! Now you finally understand!" Mark shouted at him. Francesco made like he would walk away in disgust. With his broad back expanding with a deep breath, Francesco closed his eyes in defeat. 177

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Craning his neck, Mark stared at that enormous home. The windows were all arched and covered with leaded glass. It looked dark and mysterious, like the man himself. "Tomorrow I seek audience with you," he whispered to himself. "Tomorrow I choose to die." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Thirteen Their room faced the dome of San Marco. Mark would have preferred staring out to sea, or a canal, but this was the best they could do. He sat at the window for hours, his wine long consumed, his fingers toying with the empty glass. The sun had set and yet below people still rushed back and forth in the square. **** Trying to stay detached from this madness, Francesco was on the bed, leaning up on the headboard, staring at Mark. He was trying to deal with the coming loss. Go back to Padua, go see your family. What do you need this crazy Englishman for? He is a madman. You will be well rid of him. Yet he stared at Mark's profile, trying to somehow imprint it on his mind so he could remember it when Mark was torn away from him. Mark had a face like so many statues left by the Romans. He was the likeness of the emperor Hadrian's Antinous; a young erotic boy who the smitten Roman had made into a god; one whose image had been carved in marble and adored. And such a thick, long mane of hair. Without an effort Francesco knew the fragrance, the feel of its silkiness through his fingers. The taste of those lips. The color of those small nipples on that hairless chest. The shape of that penis, its length and scent. The weight of the testicles underneath. And those long, shapely legs. Francesco was in agony over him. 179

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He loved him so dearly if a hair was harmed on that beautiful man's head he would be in torment. **** Mark finally changed the direction of his gaze to the interior of the room. It was almost in blackness now. They needed to light a candle. One wall had a fresco on it. Some scene of a saint being martyred. His eyes gouged out. There on the bed sat a deity. The powerfully built Zeus. And at that moment, it seemed Mark would be struck down by one of his lightning bolts. "I am sorry," Mark whispered, "I have dragged you along and into my mess. Please forgive me." Francesco gave the subtlest hint of a smile. With an effort, Mark got to his feet and moved to the single candlestick. After lighting it, he turned very slowly again to that bed. With his own hands feeling foreign and slow, Mark released his sword to the stone floor. Francesco's eyes never left Mark's as his skin was slowly revealed. When he was totally nude, Mark shook out his hair, making it fuller, more savage. With both hands, Mark gathered underneath his testicles and held that handful, raising it up, offering. In a low, seductive purr, that wasn't anything more than a rumbling in his chest, Francesco beckoned him to come to him. That vision glided nearer. Francesco reached out with hungry fingers to it. "Come closer, Catamito..." Mark crawled across the covers to him on his hands and knees. 180

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Tenderly, Francesco took Mark's face in both his palms and pressed his lips over Mark's. Rolling over, he pinned Mark under him. On contact, Mark's skin was set on fire. Francesco cradled Mark against his clothed body. The hilt of a sword pressed into Mark, the secreted stiletto, a hardness against his stomach. How he loved Francesco's mouth, the way it kissed him and appeared to spin him in circles as his tongue displayed its dexterity and seemed to be teasingly showing him what it could do elsewhere. Like this was the last time he would feel these sensations, Mark cherished them, loving the roughness, the coarseness of that clothing pressed against him. How this man, armed and powerful had him helpless. Sending forth an animalistic growl Francesco flipped Mark over to his stomach and knelt up to release himself from his breeches. All Francesco's pent up emotions emerged in brutality. He was furious with Mark and the recklessness in which he played games. So he took Mark as if he was Francesco's to claim, beyond all else, Mark was his to devour. With a gasp, Mark clenched his eyes and arched his back as the assault began. Yes! Give me this! Give me this pain and pleasure, and show me right now I am alive! Mark lay beneath him. Trapped and unsatisfied. He cared not. He cared not. When Francesco came it burst out of him and into Mark like molten bronze. Finally Francesco seemed to find the 181

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strength to lift up off of Mark. He collapsed to the side of him and stared at the back of his head. Once again those heaving sobs wracked that fragile soul. "Oh, Catamito ... shh ... no..." Francesco struggled to bring Mark near so he could embrace him. When Mark leaned up and reached out his arms for him, Francesco wrapped him up and rocked him. "You do not have to do this.... please ... you do not have to do this..." Through his tears, Mark cried, "But I do!" **** At first light the next morning, with Francesco in the shadows, Mark raised his hand and knocked on that imposing door. A very long time passed. He knocked again, louder. It opened and a servant peered out into the sunlight. "Do you understand English?" Mark asked. The man only tilted his head in confusion. "Please. I must see His Excellency." Almost magically, Francesco appeared just when Mark could tell he was getting nowhere. Mark listened but could not grasp any of the conversation. The servant's face expressed his surprise. He bowed and closed the door. Mark twisted to Francesco. "What did you tell him?" "That you were from London and looked to meet His Excellency because he is known as a legend in your land." "Brilliant! You are brilliant! Appeal to his vanity. Yes. Don't worry." Mark patted him. "Just leave it to me, please." 182

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The door opened and the servant bowed. Mark was stunned they were allowed entry. They made their way into the cavernous palazzo. It was so filled with extravagant riches Mark could hardly absorb the details. The interior was lit with hundreds of tapers, making it almost as bright as the outdoor sun. Another door was opened to an enormous salon. In this room the morning light shone brightly through a massive cut glass window with an arch at the top. A fireplace took over one wall and was lit to warm the huge space. An elongated table stood in the center with many chairs to accompany it. The walls were hung with portraits. One that had a place of honor was of the man himself, dressed in his scarlet robes. Mark was drawn to it and could see a vague likeness to himself. He'd obviously inherited his light eyes and skin texture from his mother, but his facial features were identical to his father, along with his height and body shape. Two large men came into the room first. His Excellency's bodyguards. They questioned Mark, and then, when Mark could not understand them, they conversed with Francesco. They approached Mark first and removed his sword, then made no attempt to be polite about searching him. While he was violated in a hundred ways, his stiletto was discovered and removed. Francesco gave them his weapons and then raised his hands so they could see he was now unarmed. After he was searched they were told to wait. Mark wished he had a glass of wine. This was all unnerving him horribly. 183

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When the salon doors reopened, a man entered. He exuded so much power, Mark felt as if a ripple of heat touched his face. He was very tall and slender. The white wig fit perfectly on his head and sloped back from his forehead. He was clean-shaven, but still showed that sign of a very heavy shadow. Mark estimated his age to be about forty-five. Those dark eyes inspected him with so much suspicion and resentment, Mark wanted to back away. Bowing to the ground instinctively, Mark whispered, "Excellency." Marc Antinous studied Mark's actions, then they met with Francesco for an explanation. Now it seemed the event was on Francesco's shoulders. When Francesco began to talk, Mark raised his head and moved to stand near him to try and be the one who explained. "Wait ... you just translate for me, please. Promise me you will tell him what I say, verbatim." In anticipation, Francesco moved his stare from the very impatient Marc Antinous to his lover. "Yes, all right. Tell me then." "First tell him my name." Mark nodded in his father's direction. Francesco waved his hand as if he was introducing him. Mark wanted to see if that alone did anything. It did nothing. "Now, please, repeat what I tell you." Obediently, Francesco nodded. Mark wanted him to appear simply as an interpreter and not an accomplice. Gathering his strength, Mark faced his father and began to talk, as he did, Francesco kept up with it and it sounded like an echo. 184

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"Please, forgive me for intruding on your life like this," Mark said, "I come to you completely awed and humble. By allowing me to meet with you, shows me you are a man of great moral character and kindness." He waited for Francesco to catch up, returning his gaze to the expressionless Marc Antinous. "I come here not to ask you for a thing. You can see I am a very young man. Only nineteen." Mark opened his arms as if to reveal himself for the first time. "But I came on this long journey from my home in England to give you something." Instantly, Mark could tell the suspicion had turned to curiosity, though not in an enthusiastic way. As Mark approached this man, his father, he gazed directly into his face. "Your Excellency, look at me. I am nothing. I am a servant to your power. But this one gift I would like you to have." Marc Antinous glanced at Francesco briefly, then back at Mark. The man had not said a word, politely waiting his turn. Lowering to his knees slowly, Mark reached for his father's hand. The touch sent a charge through him as he squeezed it and kissed it. Mark raised his eyes to him. "I give you love. So much love I cannot contain it." This confused the man. He asked Francesco something in Italian. Patiently, Mark waited for Francesco's translation, which included an English warning of his own. "He asks why you feel this love. Please be careful in your reply." Mark disregarded it, he had come this far already. 185

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Still kneeling, Mark would not release his hand. "My mother sang for the Italian opera in London." He inhaled a deep breath. "You may know her as ... 'Maria'." Something registered in that stern face and it was not joy. It hardened. As a sickening feeling grew in Mark, he noticed Francesco flinch when he translated it. Knowing he had nothing to lose now, Mark went for broke. "I ... I am her son, though I have never known her. I was given away to my uncle and aunt as an infant. It is only now that I have learned who my real parents are." Mark waited as he watched his translated words working into fury on Marc Antinous' face. "I ... I have learned, to the pleasure of my heart, that you are ... my father." It was as if the great man had been told of a death. Though it jerked back to get free of his touch, Mark would not release that hand. "I want nothing from you!" Mark shouted, "It is just that I needed you to know who I am. To tell you I love you." Becoming more frantic, Francesco tried to keep up with him, his voice straining as Mark's did, with emotion. "Please! Look at me! Look down upon your son and at least give me the same kindness you would a stranger. I will leave and you will never set eyes on me again. But for the love of God, look at me." Francesco's voice broke with his tears. He covered his mouth to stop those words that were not his. 186

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Devastated by his father's expression, Mark thought it was through. He was about to get slapped, struck down. Those men, those bravos, they would be called to drag him out to the Ponte di Sospiri with the other prisoners. Clamped on for dear life, Mark would not release his father's hand. Boldly, he brought it to his own face and caressed it to his cheek. "Father ... Father..." he whispered softly to himself. In the same sad whisper, they were repeated in Italian for His Excellency to understand, though Francesco was crying. So much rage rose up in his father Mark knew it was finished. The hand was withdrawn and the voice was like a whip. Francesco tried to translate for Mark through his tears. He said, "You dare to come to me like this, like a beggar! You dare to make these accusations that I have committed some adulterous act with some foreign singer? Who do you think you are to come into my home and accuse me of this?" Instinctively, Mark's first reaction was to cover his face. He fought that urge and stood up, nose to nose with the great Marc Antinous Caeserni. With the rivers of tears running down his cheeks, Mark listened as his lover translated the most excruciating words he thought he could ever hear. Unloved? Despised? "Forgive me, Excellency." Mark bowed, meeting his father's eyes once more. "It must have been my mistake. Maybe I had just hoped it were true because I am named after you. It is just my foolish pride." 187

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With the backs of his hands, Francesco wiped at his face as he spoke Mark's words. It was obvious he was trying very hard to control himself. Suddenly, without warning, Marc Antinous moved across the dusty stone floor to confront Francesco. Mark panicked. He had no idea what was said, but it was most certainly accusatory. He could well imagine the questions, Why had a Venetian brought this foreigner to his very door? Why was he moved by these lies? Where were his loyalties? Placing himself between his father and his lover, Mark tried to shield him. "Tell him you are merely an interpreter! Tell him I am paying you!" **** But Francesco did not tell him this. Instead, in a soft voice he said, "Your Excellency, if you could only know the depth of love in this boy. He would travel to the ends of the earth for the love of a father. A heart such as this I have never encountered. You mean the sun and moon to him. He knew he risked death by seeking you out. He was willing to die today for the chance that you would show him some kindness. I tell you with all respect and honor, this boy will die willingly. Everyone warned him of your wrath, and still against all odds he came to your door. He will leave you and never return, Your Excellency. I beg of you, please, punish him no further. This rejection will already be the death of his heart." **** 188

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Mark was frantic. "No! Kill me! Let him go!" Marc Antinous grew quiet after Francesco repeated Mark's words. Mark swallowed audibly. "What is he doing, Francesco?" "He ponders things, my love." "Ask him when he will kill me." Mark never took his eyes off his father. Francesco repeated it. This question seemed to wake the man out of his dream. He approached Mark and cupped his jaw. "Though I will never acknowledge you as a son, for this is forbidden and criminal, you will not be killed, Mark Antonious deMontford as long as you do not repeat your impulsive thoughts to a soul." Mark waited for Francesco to translate it, never moving his eyes from those dark ones attached to his own. Mark nodded, he understood. With his face held still, Mark received a kiss on each cheek. In his astonishment, Mark wrapped around that robe-covered form and hugged him tight, crying as he did. At first Marc Antinous raised his arms in an instinct reaction. Slowly he wrapped around Mark and held him. "I love you, Father," Mark hiccupped as he wept. "Thank you ... thank you." Francesco could not repeat it right away as he wiped at his eyes. Finally he did. Marc Antinous caressed Mark's hair and actually smiled down at him. "I would ask you to stay, but I'm afraid there are many reasons I cannot." 189

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Francesco told Mark what he had said. Mark nodded and set back from him, averting his gaze. "Yes, yes of course." Marc Antinous looked over at Francesco and spoke with a slight smile on his lips. Mark turned from one to the other as they spoke. Both gave him adoring smiles. In a calm voice, Francesco translated a warning for Mark, that what they said here was not to be repeated. Mark twisted back to his father. "No. Of course. I understand. No one will know." Nodding, Marc Antinous left them for a moment. Moving across the room Mark stood by Francesco and asked him, "What is happening?" Francesco just shrugged. A moment later His Excellency returned. With loving kindness, he handed Mark a small oval portrait. It was painted enamel. It was a picture of his father. The water ran down Mark's cheeks again. He whispered, "Grazie, Papa." That brought a smile to his father's mouth. He kissed Mark and handed him yet another gift. A purse of gold coins. Mark was about to refuse when he found Francesco's admonishing eye. Instead he kissed his father's hand and stared at him with all the love he had in his heart. "Francesco, how do you say 'I love you'?" "Ti amo." Mark turned to his father and whispered, "Ti amo, Papa." **** 190

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Floating on feathered feet, Mark met the sun and the cobblestones outside the palazzo. He would have never guessed it would turn out this way. His heart bursting with delight, he wanted to tell someone, but obviously, he could not. They were both sworn to secrecy. "Catamito! You see. Your journey ends well." Mark spun around, an impish smile on his lips. "Like you predicted?" "Ah! No. But with you nothing is predictable. Come! We both need some vino." Jubilantly, they hooked arms and strode the piazza to a café. Mark was glowing in triumph. All right, he could not move in and claim the man as his own, but this wasn't bad! Gently, he removed the little portrait from his pocket and smiled. "You seem pleased." Francesco poured them both a glass from the bottle that had been set before them. "What did you say to soften him up?" As if it were a religious relic, Mark tucked the portrait back into his pocket. "Me? Oh, it was not me, Catamito. Surely it was that face of an angel." Shyly, Mark chuckled and raised his glass. "To you. A toast to my hero." Francesco tapped their glasses. "Yes, to my hero, Mark Antonious deMontford." They treated themselves to a seven-course meal, and with it four bottles of wine. It was as if they had been sentenced to death, then released unexpectedly. 191

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Mark was completely drunk and very full. "I want to do one last thing whilst I am in this city." Francesco picked at his plate with sticky fingers. "And what is that, my lovely treasure?" Peering around first, leaning over the table, Mark whispered, "I want to go with one of those eunuchs." Francesco sprayed out what was in his mouth. Making sure no one was staring at them, Mark dragged Francesco back over the table by the scruff of his shirt. "I mean it!" Pushing his hand aside, Francesco grabbed his wine and drank it so fast he started to choke on it. Impatiently, Mark rolled his eyes and tapped his foot. "I want to find one. Where do they all go?" With his eyes wide, Francesco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I cannot believe this is something you wish." The blush rose in Mark's cheeks. "But they are so intriguing. It is like nothing I have ever even heard of." Cautiously, Francesco scanned the area first. "They are singers. They go to the cafés where other singers go." That was all he needed to hear, Mark threw some coins on the table. "Take me. Now." **** Feeling like a predatory cat, Mark stalked the alleys of Venice. They rode in a gondola, passed under several delicate bridges and through many narrow channels. They got off near the opera house. Francesco led the way through the heavy 192

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crowds to another café, one out of the way and more boisterous and loud than the one near San Marco. It was filled with bodies, all shouting and chatting over each other, the smell of wine being exhaled hung in the room. Serving girls tried to navigate through the clutter of men, their trays high in the air. The only thing Mark could recognize, as far as the language was concerned, were names. And the one he kept hearing over and over again was "Caffarelli". With their seemingly never-ending wealth, Francesco purchased a bottle for them and brought with it two glasses. Eyeing the room curiously, Mark stood by an open space near the door. As Francesco poured, Mark held out his glass watching as it filled. "Are they all talking about the opera?" "Yes! Very good!" Francesco smiled. "You understanding the language more?" "No. Just the name Cafferelli, over and over again." "Ah. Well, he is the greatest castrato to sing on the stage." "He's one?" Mark gasped, his drink sloshing. Francesco stared at him in disbelief. "Have you not heard what I have told you?" Trying to cover his ignorance, Mark mumbled some apology, reminding him, "I've been distracted recently." Wanting to feel his closeness and whisper to him, Mark leaned against Francesco's solid shoulder. "Are there any in here?" "Yes, several. Can you not see which?" Francesco chuckled at him affectionately. 193

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Mark's expression dropped, knowing they were indeed here. Trying not to be too obvious, Mark lowered his glass and started to scan every face. And every face found his. He still wore his expensive Venetian clothing, and he knew he looked no less than a wealthy patron. "That one there?" He nudged Francesco. "She looks like a beautiful woman." Francesco squinted, "Which one?" "In the peach dress." "That is a woman, Mark. Look again!" he breathed in irritation. A loud sigh escaped Mark as he tried to solve this riddle. A young man came into his view, very tall with long, luxurious, wavy hair and a smooth skin that shone in the firelight. When he met Mark's gaze, Mark felt his insides ignite. He was incredibly pretty. It seemed he was a woman, yet not a woman at all, for he was tall and in men's clothing. Francesco whispered, "You have found one." "My God, he is so beautiful. I have never seen anything like this." The fire in him lit and he grew very hard thinking about touching the castrato. That feline male knew he was being openly admired. His movements were slow and hypnotic. Mark thought he was imagining it, but it seemed this man was moving towards him through the crowd. Shaking his head, Francesco sighed, "It did not take you long." "I have to have him ... do you mind?" Mark never took his eyes off of that face. 194

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"Do I mind? You ask it like I have an opinion?" Francesco gave a sarcastic laugh. "Come with us," Mark spoke quickly. "We shall share him." That seemed to ignite something in Francesco. He sat back and watched Mark. When the two men stood face to face Mark whispered, "You are magnificent." The very surprised man replied in Italian. Mark heard the word "Inglese" and nodded. "Francesco, tell him I want him." "I need not tell him. This he knows." Francesco finished his wine. Reaching out his hand to this man's, Mark felt his smooth skin against his own. They left the café and stood outside in the cooling dusky air as several people brushed by. "Ask him where we should go." Mark kept hold of the man's hand, shaping and massaging it in both of his. Francesco and the castrato exchanged ideas in Italian. Francesco turned to Mark. "He has a place close by. He wants us to go there." "Perfect ... perfect..." Mark reached out to touch his silky cheek. Though the man looked like he was in his twenties, not a hair stood on his face. In return Mark received a very sensual smile at the caress and was led efficiently through some alleys. As Mark hurried behind him, Francesco at his back, Mark asked, "Did he tell you his name?" "No." 195

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Racing, they entered an enormous building several stories high. Mark stared, enthralled at the way this man moved, his long limbs and graceful stride. Once inside a unit, the man lit a candle revealing a modest bedroom. Francesco closed the door and waited by it. Trying not to pant in excitement, Mark caught his breath. He crossed the room and dug his hands into the man's hair. Hair as long and thick as his own. When their lips met, Mark groaned in pleasure. He was like honey, soft and supple as a woman. "Oh, God!" Mark groaned. "I have to see you naked." The man didn't comprehend his words, but he understood Mark's intentions when Mark's anxious fingers started tugging at his clothes. The silent sentry, Francesco leaned against the door in the dimmest of shadows, a voyeur. His hands trembling, Mark peeled back that lace-covered blouse to reveal skin like his own. Completely devoid of hair. His chest was large from singing and filling his lungs. When those breeches came down, the hair on his pubis stopped in a straight line, like a woman's. In fascination, Mark dropped to his knees and handled the organ. It was hard and thick. But nothing was beneath it. Mark ran his fingers under it and felt only tight skin. "Amazing..." Mark sighed, opening his lips and sucking it, his fingers running over that scar and the shriveled sack. When Mark felt the man shudder and a moan escape his lips, Mark stopped and gently urged him back to the bed. Undressing quickly, Mark curled him into his arms, running 196

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his hand all over that satiny skin. "Your name ... what is your name?" "Che cosa ha detto?" His voice was high, like a woman's but resonant like a man's. Francesco asked the man's name for Mark. "Alessandro..." came the reply, like a hiss of a breath. Mark repeated it as he ran his hands over him hungrily. "You are so beautiful. I have never touched skin like this." Mark moaned and pressed his face into his chest, caressing it with his own smooth cheek. "Alessandro ... Alessandro..." Mark crooned. "Francesco, come. Get naked and share him with me." Mark wrapped his hand around Alessandro's organ to please him. When the heat of Francesco's naked skin sealed against his back, Mark quickened his hand on Alessandro's cock. In moments it erupted, depositing a tiny puddle of cream on Alessandro's abdomen. Behind him, Francesco pushed his own hard cock between Mark's thighs. Mark clamped his legs together tightly, giving Francesco the friction he craved. While he did this, Alessandro lowered himself on the bed, taking Mark's hard cock into his mouth. Being sucked from the front and humped from behind, Mark gasped in ecstasy. Reaching one hand behind him to his lover's coarse face, and the other down into Alessandro's long, thick hair, Mark closed his eyes and rose up to the heavens. Francesco's hips ramming against Mark's ass, his cock being devoured by an expert, Mark clenched his jaw and 197

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came as Francesco did the same between his legs. Slow to recover, glistening with sweat, Mark was floating high on love and life. Sated beyond his wildest dreams, Mark struggled to find the energy to move. Alessandro repositioned himself to lie next to Mark on the pillows. Francesco's deep warm breath moved Mark's hair as his panting slowed to a calm breathing. Seeing Alessandro's contented expression, Mark smiled. Alessandro stroked Mark's cheek softly as he stared back into his eyes. "Yes, I too am beardless." Mark chuckled mostly to himself. Alessandro's hand smoothed down Mark's throat to his pelvis and found his testicles, handling them with a fascinated delicacy. "But I still have those," Mark giggled. A breath like whisper escaped Alessandro's mouth. Mark nestled back into Francesco's body. "Did you enjoy it, my love?" "I always enjoy touching you, my treasure." Francesco wrapped his arm around Mark's waist, drawing him closer. Alessandro leaned up to look over Mark's shoulder, saying something to Francesco that only the two of them understood. They spoke together softly, Alessandro's left hand still toying lightly with Mark's soft sack. "What are you saying? Can I ask?" Mark's voice sounded crude by comparison. 198

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"He thought you were a eunuch, Catamito. He is surprised you still possess what is in his hand." "What?" Mark felt a coolness cover his forehead from fear. When Mark lay flat on the bed they were both staring at him, smiling devilishly. "I am only nineteen! I will grow hair!" Mark defended himself. "Yes, of course you will, my treasure." Francesco smirked. Mark backed away from both Francesco and Alessandro, climbing off the mattress. Doing the same, Francesco dressed silently. After washing at a basin, Mark reached down for his clothing, keeping his concentration on his task as well as the naked eunuch on the bed. It appeared Alessandro understood that this little session was now at an end. He kept up a steady flow of questions aimed at Francesco. Mark knew they were talking about him. As he was fastening his clothing he kept catching their eyes, that mischievous glint of Francesco's to that curious stare of Alessandro's. At one point Mark had enough. He stood tall and touched the hilt of his sword. "What are you talking about?" They both stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Francesco moved across the room to caress Mark's sweaty face. "Nothing, my Catamito." Alessandro laughed when he heard the pet name. Under his breath he whispered something in Italian. Mark bristled in anger. "Now I am the butt of your jokes? What are you saying to each other?" 199

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"Shush ... bello mio, my beauty. Alessandro is simply curious as to why you are here. Of course I did not tell him the truth. I once again use your excuse of opera." Trying to trust in his lover, Mark settled down a little and ran his fingers back through his hair to take it out of his face. "Oh, as long as that is all." "Yes, of course. We do not mock you. We do the farthest from that. He is enamored by you." Wondering if that was possible, Mark turned to face Alessandro again as Mark finished up fastening his clothing. "I will never want to leave your country. I have found so many new things to entice me." Mark dug his hands through Alessandro's long thick hair. Francesco lowered his eyes submissively. "What is it you plan now, Mark? You have accomplished your task, yes? You have no need for me?" Just realizing the effect of his affection of another on his lover, Mark felt the pain of his words. Francesco was trying to be generous with his feelings, but the emotions still came through his speech. Mark walked across the room to him and held his hands. "I need you. I love you. You are my best friend, Francesco. Forgive me. It is just that I am experiencing so many new things, I can hardly contain them. I am just being silly. You are anxious for Padua, aren't you?" Even though he frowned, Francesco said, "Yes. I am ready to see my family." Mark twisted back to Alessandro's dark eyes. "I wish we could all be together, but this is only a dream to me." 200

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His long hair fluffing out seductively, Alessandro tilted his head curiously. Again Francesco translated. After he did, Alessandro walked to join their close embrace. Mark was staring from one to the other. "What are you saying to each other?" Keeping silent, Francesco lowered his eyes and twisted away. Mark grabbed after him, shouting, "This language barrier is driving me insane. What was said to hurt you?" Gathering up his strength, Francesco said, "If you wish to travel with Alessandro, I will burden you no more." "What?" Mark tried to figure out what he had said to make Francesco so upset. "No! Are you mad? It is you I need, Francesco. What would I do without you? No. I will travel to Padua with you, if that's what you want. Please, just tell me what you want." Mark reached out to caress that rough jaw. Francesco kept his eyes down. Alessandro was making ready to leave. To Francesco, he said, "Ora devo andare." Alessandro straightened his room a little and then he gestured for them to exit. They made their way out to the street level and into the night. Alessandro tapped Mark at one point, preparing to take his leave from him. He held out his hand and instead of a handshake, Mark embraced him warmly, rocking him side to side. Mark became emotional at the parting though he could not explain why. A little surprised at the show, Alessandro pat his back gently, then kissed his cheek whispering, "Arrivederci." 201

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Alessandro waved goodbye and disappeared down the darkness of an alley. Mark stared after him with tears threatening. When he spun around to Francesco, who seemed too far away from him, Mark reached for him, needing a reassuring touch. When he received Francesco's hand, Mark gripped it and laid his head against Francesco's chest. "I am weak, love. I have no strength for a goodbye. Everything hurts me." Giving into his sorrow, Francesco wrapped his arms around him. "It is the youth in you. As you age you will lose this. And I will miss it." "Take me where you will. I have no purpose in life now." Nodding in comfort, Francesco held him around the waist and they searched for a carriage to take them to Padua. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Fourteen By morning the next day they arrived in Francesco's hometown. The carriage left them off at a café where they ducked in for some coffee and a meal. Seated comfortably, eating and drinking, they relaxed. It seemed to Mark that Francesco was dreading this reunion. Whilst Mark was anxiously reaching out to find his own family, Francesco was doing the opposite. He was putting it off. Mark knew Francesco wanted to see them but he dreaded it as well. No doubt it had to do with his traveling companion. Alone he would be tolerated. With a pretty young Englishman, he would be rejected. Mark kept one eye on the passing flow of pedestrians, the other on his silent companion. His worry grew. Mark reached out his hands and clasped those large dark ones in his. "Tell me. Why do you look so upset?" Francesco turned aside, denying an answer. Mark raised one of Francesco's fists to his lips to kiss in comfort. At that moment, a strange man stopped at their table. Mark watched as Francesco recognized him and panicked. The man had spied Mark's kiss and the fury it unleashed amazed and horrified Mark. In a language Mark could not grasp, the accusations flew. He felt completely helpless as the volume and violence increased until all three of them were standing. **** 203

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"How dare you show your face here?" Guido Cavella roared, "You bring nothing but shame to this family! You should have stayed hidden! What do you do now but flaunt your indiscretions in a public place where all who know our mother and father may see you. You disgust me! Get out of Padua! Get out of Veneto!" "Do not tell me what to do!" Francesco growled, "This is my home! I will not be told when and if I could stay here. You just leave me and let me decide what is right for our mother and father." Through the tail of his eye Francesco noticed Mark cringed at the escalating fury. When Mark tried to calm them down Guido heard his English language and went ballistic. "Another Englishman! Another? Like the one who destroyed you and this home wasn't enough? What is wrong with you that you hate the Italians so much that you choose one of them? You are a disgrace! How can you show yourself in public with this ... this ... enemy!" Pulling back his arm, Francesco was about to hit Guido. His jaw was so tense it seemed to grow a layer of muscle. Impulsively, Mark grabbed Francesco's fist before he let the punch fly. The more contact Mark made with Francesco, the more it infuriated his brother. Having enough, Guido shoved Mark back and away from the table. At the unexpected force, Mark went stumbling over someone's chair. 204

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It pushed Francesco over the edge and the two of them started a physical fight. The patrons of the café stood and backed away as the men scrapped, moving out onto the street. Mark tried to get in-between them to separate them. Guido kept hissing at him to get away from them, shouting and cursing him. "Non mi tocchi, Inglese!" Guido spat out, as Mark handled them both trying to stop them. "Stop! Francesco! Please!" Mark begged, shoving at the large man with all his strength. With a powerful push, Francesco freed himself of Guido's grip. They were both panting and sweating, glaring with hatred at each other. Guido pointed an accusing finger at his brother. Uttering what seemed like a warning, he then stormed away. Gaping in horror, Mark stared after him whilst Francesco's chest heaved to catch his breath. With a last furious roar, Francesco shouted, "Vaffanculo! Fuck you!" Then, rubbing the dirt off his clothing, he grumbled under his breath, "Mio fratello! My brother! My so loving brother!" And he spat into the ground in disgust. "Why did your brother react that way to you?" Francesco ran his hand through his hair and stormed away. Mark hurried after him, looking over his shoulder in paranoia. "Why should he be angry at you?" Mark shouted out. ****

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It seemed a storm cloud was over Francesco now. He would not talk or slow down his pace. When they arrived at a small home with a smooth plaster finish and a tiny courtyard, they stopped their rushing. Francesco stared at it for some time. Mark knew they were at his parents' house. Where else? "Wait." Mark held Francesco's arm. He reached into his suede pouch and took out two gold ducats. "Give them this. Tell them it is a gift for their hospitality." By the look of the house, Mark could tell they were poor and any money would be appreciated. Wrapping his large hand around it, Francesco took the coins and marched up to the front door defiantly. He banged on it and then tried the handle, vanishing into the interior. His hands idle, touching his sword, then in his pockets, Mark waited outside. After the reception Francesco's brother had given him, Mark thought Francesco might need time to explain. Mark tried not to catch the many staring eyes of the neighbors. He figured everyone there knew an Englishman had drawn Francesco away from home in the first place. Perhaps this was why he was a disgrace to his family. **** It seemed too dark in the interior to Francesco until his eyes used themselves to it. His mother was cooking over the stove. "Mama..." he whispered. She spun around at the sound and her eyes widened. Instinctively, she opened her arms for an embrace and Francesco lifted her off her feet. 206

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"Oh, my child, I thought we would never set eyes on you again. You grew tired of this English-crook and you came home. Yes? I am so pleased to see you. Where is Papa? Go see Papa..." She gestured to the back of the house. "Mama ... I have a friend with me," he whispered softly. Warily, she gave him her attention again. "He too is an Englishman ... but not the same as the first. A very sweet young man." Her expression changed drastically. "Why you do this again? Why are Italians not good enough, eh? Why do you go to a foreigner? It is bad enough you don't like the women! You could at least pick one of the lovely males from home! Our own boys are so marvelous. But no! You don't even look at them! They are not good enough for you. You pick a nice Italian boy, maybe then we can forgive you. No! You again pick a vile foreigner!" "Mama ... please ... you don't know him. He is not vile. He is lovely," Francesco pleaded, speaking softly to her furious shouts. In rage, she smacked him with her wooden spoon, one she was still gripping, hitting him over and over again. He put up his hands to fend off the attack. "At least give him a chance. Please. He is half Italian. Please, Mama, don't send us away. Just look at him. At least look at him. He is the son of Marc Antinous Caeserni," he blurted it out before he could stop himself. That jolted her, she squinted her eyes suspiciously at him. "Why do you lie? You always lie to protect your Englishcrooks!" 207

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"I do not lie, Mama. Here, he gives you a gift." He placed the two golden ducats on the table. "He is a fine man, Mama, covered in Venetian lace. He carries a portrait of his father in his pocket. Given to him by His Excellency himself." First she peered down at the gold, then back at her son. "You speak abomination. His Excellency has no bastard son from England." "Meet him. See him for yourself. He is as graceful as a king. He does not speak Italian, forgive him, Mama." Francesco had his hands together as he begged her. She took a peek out of the window. "He looks like a eunuch," she sneered in disgust. "No, he is just young. Only nineteen. A bambino. Yet, look how sweet his face is. Look at him. He is the son of His Excellency. Look and you shall see it." **** Even through the thick wooden door, Mark could hear their voices. More shouting. He glanced around the neighborhood. It was jammed with tiny homesteads, laundry hung in the breezy air, the smell of various cooking surrounded him. Eyes spied out of shuttered windows. Goats and chickens wandered in muddy fenced enclosures. After what seemed like hours, Mark heard Francesco calling his name. Taking a deep breath, Mark entered the small home, ducking his head under the doorframe, standing to his full height inside. A short, round woman was there, her hair peppered with gray, tied back from her face. The evil eye he endured from her intimidated him completely. She had an 208

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apron wrapped around her plump waist and wielded a wooden spoon in her hand like a weapon. Mark bowed to her and tried to smile kindly, wondering when she would smack him with that thing. As Francesco continued to speak in Italian to her, Mark knew she was getting the hard sell. He kept his mouth shut, knowing his language may anger her even further. Reluctantly she met Mark's eyes. When she did he smiled at her as affectionately as he could. She was the mother of his lover, after all. "Show her the portrait you have," Francesco told him, reaching out greedily for it. "What?" Mark was stunned. That was supposed to be a secret! "Show her!" he demanded. With trembling fingers, Mark dug through his pocket. He produced the portrait and handed it to her. She didn't reach for it, only leaned over to look at it. When she realized it was indeed a portrait of Marc Antinous her anger calmed. She mumbled something incoherent to Mark's ears. His lover quickly countered back, pointing to the portrait. Mark didn't know what was going on, but it frightened him. This was even more dangerous of a game than the one he played in Venice. No one was to know who he was. And even though Francesco was trying to use it to gain acceptance for him, it may backfire. If so, they would be hunted down.

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"Mama," Francesco stood behind her now and held her by the upper arms, leaning down to whisper into her tiny seashell ear while staring at Mark with wild eyes. When she reached out her hand to Mark he took it, bowing low, and kissed it. Francesco sighed with relief then yelled at her, pointing to the back of the house. The only thing Mark could catch was the word "Papa". Flustered by the order, she nodded to Francesco and hurried out. When she was gone Mark asked in a muted tone, "What are you doing? This can't get out! You know what my father will do if he finds out we told someone?" "It will not get out. It was the only way I could get her to calm down and not behave like an animal and throw us both out. I am sick of their judgment of me. Sick of being the target of their scorn." "But at what expense?" Mark panicked. They stopped talking when a man entered the room. "Papa..." Francesco reached for an embrace. When he only received a stiff hug, Francesco released him. With a face cut from granite, Franco Cavella took a long, punishing look at Mark. He approached him from across the room and grabbed his wrist, turning it to see the portrait he still grasped. He and Francesco exchanged heated words. Stepping back to study Mark's clothing, Franco seemed to investigate the fine fabrics and lace reserved for the wealthy, then the jewel encrusted swords. Next he raised his eyes to Mark's. 210

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Nervous as a cow sent to slaughter, Mark tried to be tough under the inspection. This was a mistake. No one was to know any of this. This would not end well. Finally, Franco reached out his hand. "Benvenuto a casa mia," he said to Mark. Mark bowed to him and shook his hand. "Grazie," he answered. **** They were served a meal and Francesco caught up on what he had missed whilst he was away. Mark stayed silent. He didn't ask Francesco to repeat a thing. A dread was growing in him. He felt a need to get away. For all Mark knew, Francesco was building him up to the status of a prince. Francesco was so determined to get approval he couldn't help himself. Mark knew he was tired of being ostracized, being the victim of racism by his own parents simply because they hated anything foreign. In acute paranoia, Mark peered behind his back at every sound. He imagined the authorities coming for him. He could hardly eat, though the food was divine. When Mark could he grabbed Francesco and dragged him close to whisper, "We are not safe here. I think we need to leave." "Why? This is the house of my family." Mark took a peek over his head to the other rooms. "No. It is not safe now. Listen to me. You have revealed something you should never have revealed." "They will tell no one." 211

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Mark couldn't be sure. After sitting by the fire and catching up, Francesco kissed his mother on the cheek, and he and Mark retired to a bedchamber. Mark wondered if sleeping together was yet another impropriety, but he could not get Francesco to budge. With a sickening dread that filled his stomach like acid, Mark lay in that tiny bed, awake, as Francesco slept deeply next to him. **** When morning light came and shined into the windows of their room it woke Mark up. Forgetting where he was for the moment, he stretched and felt the presence of Francesco in the bed with him. Somewhere in the house Mark heard the rumble of male voices. It sent an alarm rushing through him. Tossing off the covers, he stood and leaned out of the front window, pushing back the shutters. An ominous black carriage was parked out front. Inhaling in a gasp, Mark panicked, and grabbed at his clothing, trying to dress as he shouted to Francesco, "Wake up!" Shaking like a leaf, Mark strapped on his sword as his lover began to stir in his bed. "There is a carriage!" Mark pointed. "We are in trouble!" Hearing that sentence, Francesco jumped up and pulled on his breeches. "You wait!" He gestured, raising his index finger, leaving the room. Hands cold and clammy, Mark placed his stiletto in his shirt and the two swords were now on his waist. Sliding on his cloak, he listened. Shouting had begun. He recognized 212

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Guido's voice. Now he was sure there was a problem. Mark leaned out of the window to peer at the carriage **** Coming down the steps, Francesco stopped short when he came face to face with Guido conversing with two heavy-set bravos. One more was at the entrance of the home. When he met his brother's eye Francesco shouted, "What are you doing?" Very full of himself, Guido smirked and nodded to the men. "Where is your Venetian half breed? These men want to meet him." "Get out of my mother's house!" Francesco warned the men. The two came forward quickly to him and pressed him against a wall. "Where is the Englishman?" "He is not here. Why have you come? What lies has my brother told you?" Francesco tried to get out of their grip. Enjoying the power, Guido laughed behind them. "I did not tell the lies, big brother. But we see clearly who has. Go and get the son of Marc Antinous Caeserni! Surely his power will save you." "NO!" Francesco started to struggle with them. "Get out of my house!" Guido shouted over the noise, "He is upstairs! No doubt in my brother's bed." ****

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As Mark thought about climbing out of the window, two large men in black tabarros came into the room. "Oh, bloody hell!" Mark ducked out of the window opening, jumping down to the courtyard. As he got to his feet, he turned to look into the house. Francesco was shouting at him to run as he struggled to get through the open front door to Mark. Reluctant to leave him, Mark hesitated. When the sight of Francesco fighting one of the caped men reached his eyes, Mark took a step closer. When that man attempted to cut Francesco's throat Mark gasped and froze, screaming, "No!" Francesco shouted, "Run, amor mio!" His insides in turmoil, Mark spun around in confusion. How could he leave Francesco to fight alone? One of the dark cape-covered men stalked him. Drawing his long sword, Mark stood his ground. He kept trying to see inside the house. How could he leave without Francesco? What he had seen, the knife trying to cut Francesco's throat, it had to be an illusion! Mark and the black caped man squared off in the courtyard. As Mark stepped carefully around him, Mark did indeed get a better look inside. His lover had vanished from his sight and Francesco's mother was crying. Suddenly three men were approaching Mark menacingly. "No! Francesco!" Mark shouted trying to see if he was hurt. In rage, Mark dove for one of the men, confronting him, trying to impale him with his sword. With tears stinging his eyes, Mark fought that approaching long blade, trying to remember everything Francesco had 214

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taught him. He ground his teeth and lunged forward recklessly, stabbing the man in the chest. As Mark drew out his blade, he watched in astonishment as the man collapsed. Another first. The first time he had killed a man. The two others approached quickly. As if frozen, Mark was still mesmerized by the sight of blood on the long sword. Finally finding his wits, he fought for his life. Tears blurred his eyes as he tried to hold onto hope that his lover was still alive. Mark lunged at another dark figure, stabbing him in the ribs with his long reach. Withdrawing his blade quickly, he faced the last one, determined to die trying to get back to Francesco. Two large, dark shadows emerged from behind him. When they approached Mark, they drew their weapons. Terrified at being overwhelmed, Mark's head was spinning. The two men he had stabbed were down on the ground bleeding. Mark had no idea who these other men were who came to his aid. But they did. As one fended off the last attacker, the other grabbed Mark, shouting at him. Mark felt the man trying to drag him away from the danger, but Mark couldn't leave not without knowing if his lover lived or died. When there was a slight lull to the battle, the second bravo grabbed Mark into his arms, running away with him over Mark's protest. "No! Let me go! Francesco! Francesco!" As the trail grew silent behind them, they had appeared to outrun the murderous men. The two big bravos kept moving, 215

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holding Mark tight until they were far away from Francesco's home. When they finally set Mark down on his feet, they panted to catch their breath. They must have been attempting to tell him to go back to England, to go home, because Mark kept hearing Inghilterra over and over again. Shaking his head, pointing back in the direction they had come, Mark cried, "No! No! Francesco!" He didn't know how else to explain he could not leave without him. The men exchanged sad looks. Wiping his tears, Mark listened to the soft conversation between them. Then as if they were trying to tell him something very important, one of the men said slowly, "Francesco, no. No wait." "Why?" Mark dreaded they had seen his lover dead. "I can't leave him." One of the bravos flagged down a carriage. As he explained to the driver where to go, Mark dug in his heels. "Please, I have to go back for him. Help me. Help me save him. I love him. I cannot live without him. You don't understand!" Forcefully Mark was lifted and literally stuffed into the carriage against his will. With the bloody sword still in his grasp, the carriage lurched forward. Leaning out of the window, Mark watched the two men shake their heads sadly. What did that mean? What did they mean Francesco no? It couldn't mean what he thought it did. It couldn't. ****

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By nightfall he was on the border of Venice once more. Mark recognized a landmark as he passed in the carriage. A sculpture with enormous horses spouting water. He wanted to find the Villa Masson, but could not remember where it was and dreaded asking. In his heightened state of paranoia, he feared opening his mouth. What if the whole country had been alerted to search for the Englishman? The driver stopped. Mark peered out nervously. What was this man told? Stepping out, blood still caked on his hand and sword, Mark looked up at the man, receiving no eye contact whatsoever, and was quickly deserted. Trying to get his bearings, a familiar café came into view, the one were all the singers met. Mark looked behind him. No one was in sight. After dabbing a piece of his sleeve in the running water near a fountain, Mark leaned against a wall and wiped his bloody hands clean. The damp smell of the canal repulsed him. The sweat from his nerves and the muggy air ran down his temples. The blood dried to a caking brown color on his sword. After several tries he finally was able to get it back into its scabbard. His hands were trembling so severely he could not control them. Francesco. What he had seen, could that really have happened? Did he get his throat cut? Are these people so ruthless that they would kill an innocent man in cold blood? For what? For saying the wonderful Marc Antinous had a son? What kind of place is this? A place where one's own family members can turn you in? Such treachery! Such hatred! Still it had not hit him. He wasn't allowing that reality in. No, not yet. Now he was lost. Lost in a land where he could 217

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not communicate. And instead of wanting to explore, he just wanted to get home. Now. "Mark Antonious?" He grabbed his stiletto and aimed it, glaring in hatred. Alessandro stepped back in alarm. It took a moment for Mark to be able to really see him. When Mark did the relief he felt was enormous as he struggled once again to put the blade back in its place. With both hands outstretched, Mark reached for him and fell against him in an embrace. Alessandro petted his soft hair and rocked him. He posed several questions to him in Italian. But Mark could not answer them. When Mark finally raised his head he spoke very slowly. "England." Alessandro nodded. "Inghilterra, si." "Yes! Get me to Inghilterra!" Mark didn't know if he was really understood, or whether his words were merely being acknowledged for the sound. "Si, capisco. Inghilterra." Alessandro appeared he did understand. Finding him a seat in the café, Alessandro poured him a glass of wine. With trembling fingers, Mark guzzled it thirstily and tried not to meet anyone's eye. He leaned over to Alessandro to whisper, "A carriage. A carriage!" Shaking his head, Alessandro shrugged. Mark grew frustrated. Grabbing Alessandro's shoulder he made him lean to the ground. With his finger, Mark drew a horse and carriage in the dusty dirt under them. 218

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Immediately Alessandro understood. In Italian, Alessandro tried to tell him something to no avail. It was miserable trying to communicate. Drawing Mark down to see the dirt, as he had done, Alessandro drew a sun in the dust and pointed to the purple starlit sky. Mark got it. He didn't want to wait, but he understood. With exhaustion creeping into his limbs, Mark followed the tall man to his room in the large house. Once they were closed inside and the noise of the street was left behind them, Mark heard Alessandro repeating something over and over. Mark finally thought he caught it. With water filling his eyes, Mark used the thumb of his right hand to run his nail across his throat and shook his head. "Dead. They have killed my lover." Alessandro's eyes widened at the obvious gesture. "No! Morto?" "Si! Yes! They cut his throat! My Francesco! My lover! Amante mio!" Mark covered his face and burst into tears. Trying to comfort him, Alessandro hurried across the room and held Mark in an embrace. Softly Alessandro whispered his reassurances in his ear, though it was just sounds to Mark. The frustration at not being able to talk to each other was a misery for both. So many questions went unanswered. But the yearning for a safe haven and a bed were the one thing they understood. As Mark's weeping subsided, Alessandro undressed him for sleep. In what felt like relative safety, Mark allowed himself to close his eyes. The tears had dried on his face, and his body was completely physically exhausted. 219

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Chapter Fifteen The sun shone directly onto the bed. Mark squinted into the searing light like it inflicted pain. Jerking himself upright, he realized he was alone. A horrific thought occurred to him. Alessandro had gone to get someone. Someone in a black cape to turn him in. He leapt out of bed and scrambled to get his clothing on. When the door jiggled and started to open Mark gripped his sword and came en garde. Alessandro had a loaf of bread under his arm and some water. His eyes widened at the sight of Mark's stance. First Alessandro gazed behind him, closing himself in quickly. Seeing it was safe once more, Mark exhaled in relief and dropped the tip of the sword, laying it down to finish getting dressed. Alessandro whispered to him in Italian, shaking his head in sadness at Mark's fear. He set the food out for him and gestured for him to eat and drink. Mark thanked him and tore a piece of bread, chewing it hungrily. "A carriage?" Alessandro pointed to the front of the building. "Si!" "It is here?" Mark hopped up. Alessandro nodded, pointing. Mark wrapped his arms around him and kissed him. "Thank you! Grazie!" Gathering his things up and taking the water and bread with him, Mark checked around the area 221

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before he entered it. In appreciation, Mark handed Alessandro a gold ducat and Alessandro's eyes widened in amazement. Mark closed his hand around Alessandro's and squeezed it. "Grazie." Alessandro smiled at him and nodded, "Prego." Clearing his throat to get the driver's attention, Mark pointed to the long road ahead. "Inghilterra?" With a smile and a shake of his head he said, "Turin." Mark understood. Waving goodbye to Alessandro, he crawled into the back of the carriage and readied himself for a long dull ride. He was torn. Horribly torn. The yearning to go back to Francesco's house, to make sure he was truly dead overwhelmed him. He hadn't seen Francesco lying in a pool of blood. No. He remembered him fighting. Shouting at Mark to leave. Was he taking the word of two unknown bodyguards? Two men who had defended him for some unknown reason, that his lover had indeed been killed? No. It couldn't be. But what was he to do? Mark leaned out of the carriage. "Oi!" The man looked back from his high perch. "Padua!" "Padua?" "Si!" Mark had to know. The carriage halted. Climbing out, Mark rubbed his face in frustration at the language barrier. He held out a gold ducat, saying clearly, "Padua, then Turin. Si?" 222

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Taking the gold greedily, the man nodded, turning the horses back as Mark crawled back inside the coach. Mark watched warily as they drew nearer to the Cavella household. He shouted to the driver to stop. Peering out nervously, Mark found a horrific sight. Francesco's parents were dressed in black stepping out of their tiny home. A black, horse drawn funeral carriage held a coffin. Covering his mouth to stop the scream, Mark banged his hand on the side of the carriage trying to get the man to go. Finally the driver got the message. As Mark's carriage moved on to the long journey to Turin, Mark wailed in agony until he was spent and had no more tears to cry. **** It seemed like forever. The carriage rocking, the lack of a companion, the horrible image of that funeral procession. Somehow it had to be a nightmare. Not real. In his mind he replayed it the way it should have gone. He and his lover would have savored their success together with a night to remember before they went to that house of horror. Soft, slow loving, like they first had at the inn in Dover. Hugs and kind words. A life together back in England. Living the highlife. All this he was denied. Denied because of betrayal. Who were these men? Why did they descend on that house like a pack of feral rabid dogs? How could Francesco's own brother destroy him that way? Did Guido feel remorse? Did he know he would bring death to his sibling? And why kill him? It 223

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was Mark Antonious deMontford that was the bastard! The cause! Not Francesco Cavella! Mark fingered that portrait. What once felt like a gift of joy and love now burned his hand like a symbol of Hades. Some urge inside him wanted to toss it to the wind. Let the horses stamp it to dust. But he held it. It was really all he had to prove someone actually did father him. Mark insisted on sleeping in the carriage, afraid of being alone at an inn. The driver refused to go any farther than Turin and showed him to the next carriage stop for a fresh horse and driver. From Turin Mark once again made the journey into France, those beautiful mountains showing white and peach peaks in the morning sun. They passed Grenoble. He stopped only to urinate and get some bread and wine. Once again he could get the driver to move no further than Burgundy. And again a new carriage and driver were provided. The life and energy seemed to pass out of Mark with the journey. His limbs felt weak from lack of movement. His back was aching from sleeping at an odd angle, and some nights, not sleeping at all. He was afraid to close his eyes. Francesco had warned him of robbers. Mark had enough gold to make it worth someone's while to attack him. And he was too spent to fight. If it happened, he would allow them to kill him. Exhaustion was forming in him as well as a depression that was consuming him. He had caused the death of his lover. Could one ever get over that? Wearily, he stumbled out of the carriage. The drivers exchanged looks with each other at Mark's appearance. He 224

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knew he seemed nothing more than a beggar now. His clothing was covered in dust and his face was drawn and pale. He paid the Frenchman and stood before his replacement. "England," was all Mark said. "Calais," the man said. "Versailles, alors Calais." Mark nodded. Fine, whatever. Get me home. Just the sight of the inside of another carriage made his spine ache. He forced himself in and collapsed on the hard seat. "Just get me back to where I can speak English," he mumbled under his breath. The tears renewed when that port town came into view. Francesco's scent washed over him suddenly. The feel of his muscles under his skin. And that hair. That dark wonderful hair. No. No ... no. He is not dead ... no... When Mark finally stood before a clerk to buy passage to England, he could barely keep his eyes open. The man warned him, "The ship is about to leave." Twisting over his shoulder, Mark could see the line dwindling. Mark nodded and paid. With his last reserves of strength he rushed to the gangway, handing his ticket over and making that climb up the steep ramp. There was ice in the wind. His fur-lined cloak pulled tightly around him did nothing to stop that frigidity seeping into his bones. But like a song in his ear, he heard spoken English. What had felt like a lifetime of carriage rides behind him, he was closer to the shores of his home. Never before did he feel the urge to kiss the land where he'd been born. In his mind he vowed never to leave her again. 225

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Bowing his head against the lashing cold, his hair wild and flying like a standard whipping, he again thought of that man who had cradled him when he was cold, held him upright when he was weary, and nurtured him like a mother. The few around him heard his sobs. One woman with a small child studied the clothing. "Great, another bloody foreigner headed to England's shores." She shook her head in distaste. Mark turned away from her accusing glare. When they arrived, he didn't think he had it in him to even make the walk down that dock to the immigrations man. With cold numb fingers he tried to find the paperwork the duke had given him. In his frustration that he could not, he mumbled profanity to himself. "Bloody hell..." "You're an Englishman?" the man asked in surprise. "Yes. My name is Mark deMontford. I am from Newbury." "Go on! You need no papers!" He waved him by. Relieved it was simple, Mark nodded. Walking through the crowds, he stood still in the middle of a bustling port. Dover. After nearly three months of traveling. He was in Dover again. With gratefulness of his journey coming closer to home, he dropped to his knees and covered his face, weeping with relief. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Sixteen An odd feeling had him. The disorientation was overwhelming. Blinking his eyes open, Mark found he was in a richly dressed canopy bed. He sat up with a jerk and stared around the room. White and cream colored lace hung from the lavish satin drapes that were elevated on the wooden bedposts and framing cut glass windows. "Where the devil am I?" Mechanically, Mark reached for his suede pouch and found it gone. He was dressed in a sleeping gown and had no idea how or why. The door opened a moment later. Panicking, he grabbed at the quilt and tried to hide under it. A woman with a tray of tea and soup came in. She was a servant girl with a dull gray dress and an apron and hat of white. She was surprised to see him awake and fully alert. Smiling kindly, she set the tray aside and said, "I shall tell m'lady." With only his wide eyes peering from out of the bed sheets, he watched her go. Frozen until the woman of the house came into the room, Mark swallowed down a dry throat in awe. "Lovely! You are awake. Come let me have a look at you." In utter confusion, Mark stared at this comely woman who sat down next to him and tried to get the quilt down from his clenched fists. Her red hair was tied up on her head and her neck had an enormous strand of large pearls encircling it . 227

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"Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? Where are my things?" Mark whispered anxiously. Her laughter was light and full of affection. "An Englishman! How wonderful! My dear, you were in such a state." "Please..." Mark begged. "I think I have gone mad. Please tell me what is going on." She settled herself and reached for his hand to hold on her lap. With her maid servant's eyes wide and staring at him, the Lady said, "Three days ago we found you in the middle of the street in Dover. You were not aware of your surroundings and most certainly undernourished. No one knew your name or where you were from. Someone pointed out to me you had just come off the ship. That was all we knew. My husband and I took you in. We couldn't leave you out in the cold. You have been sleeping most of the time, but you have taken some broth and tea. This is the first time, my lad, that you are truly in the same world as I am." "Three days?" Mark gasped. "Yes." She pushed the long hair back from Mark's face. "Where are my things ... my ... my purse and sword?" "I have them safe." She rose up and opened a drawer on a small night table. Placing the suede purse down on his lap, she then gestured to where his clothing was, now clean, and with his weapons, along the wall on a dresser. Mark squeezed the purse and felt the coins and the portrait inside. He didn't want to seem rude and actually open it up and count the contents. He smiled sweetly. "Lady, you are too 228

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kind. I am not deserving of such charity. I thank you and will repay you anything you have spent." "Nonsense!" She blushed and waved him off like he was being absurd. "But what is your name?" "Mark Antonious deMontford." Mark tried to bow his head. "Lovely! Yes, I am Lady Wallace, and my husband is Lord Wallace. He is off to Parliament or we would bring him to meet you." "Parliament!" Mark's eyes widened. "Cousin Thomas!" "You have a relative who is an MP?" Her eyes widened hopefully. "Yes! Thomas Holloway. But are we not in Dover?" "No, my dear. We have taken you all the way to our home in Maidstone." "Where is that?" Mark's head started hurting. He began squinting from the pain. "Not far from London. A day's ride in a carriage." As he weakened, she whispered, "You are still ill. Please, sip the broth and tea." The maid hurried to the bedside and set the tray in front of Mark. She sat next to him and tried to feed him the warm broth. Not one to accept this kind of pampering easily, Mark opened his lips and allowed himself to be babied. In truth, he felt so weak, he wondered if he could feed himself properly. His appetite was returning and he finished all the broth and tea, as well as a biscuit. He thanked them both and found his eyes growing heavy. 229

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Lady Wallace waved the maid out and sat next to Mark on the bed. Once again she took the suede pouch and hid it in the drawer, raising the quilt up to tuck Mark in. Staring at him, she sat with him until he fell back to sleep. Lady Wallace found him awake when she came to his room to check on him in the morning. "You must be feeling better. Good. My husband would like a chat with you, then I shall get you some breakfast." "Thank you, m'lady." Mark smiled sweetly at her. A moment later, a compact, book-wormish, spectacled man with a white wig and a dark brown velvet coat that had worn at the elbows, knocked at the open door with a light rap and stepped in. Seeing Mark was alert, he sat down heavily on the chair near the bed. "Oh, good show! You are awake. Now, young man, my wife informed me that you have a family member who is a Member of Parliament. Is this true? A Thomas Holloway?" "Yes, sir, it is. He is my distant cousin." Mark tried to sit up higher on the pillows. "I am well enough to travel, Your Lordship. I wish to not burden you any longer." "No burden whatsoever. You stay until you are completely healed. The weather has turned frightful, and I don't think someone who is just getting over an illness should be out in it, even in a carriage." "Oh..." Mark tried to see out of the window, but the curtains were drawn. "Is it raining then?" "Oh, heavens no. It's snowing, my dear boy!" "Snow?" Mark couldn't imagine how that was possible. "What month is it?" 230

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"It is December, the third week. Today is the twentieth." "How can this be?" Mark rubbed his face tiredly. So much time had passed since he first set out. Over three months, in fact. "Christmas ... do you think I can make it home for Christmas?" "Where is home?" Lord Wallace leaned closer to the bed. "Well, I am from Newbury, but my Cousin Thomas and Gabriel live in London." "We will try, my boy. But it depends now on the weather, I'm afraid. The almanac threatens a very horrid winter is upon us." Mark moaned when he thought of his Uncle David facing it alone. "Are you tired? I shall let you rest." Lord Wallace mistook the groan for discomfort. "No ... no, sir, I am not tired. I am just frustrated. I have been away too long. Everything has gone wrong. I never should have left them. Now they are alone without me there to help ... everything has gone wrong," he cried. When Mark turned his face away to hide his tears, Lord Wallace patted Mark's leg over the quilt and said, "Tut tut, now, things will be just fine. We'll get you home, lad ... we'll get you home. When I can, I'll head into London and inform your cousin you are here with me. It just may take a day for the weather to turn." Mark pulled himself together and wiped his face dry. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Lordship. Thank you." 231

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"Not to worry, dear boy. Look, your breakfast is served." He tilted his head to the maid standing, head bowed, with a tray. When he left, Mark pressed back into the cushions and allowed the tray to be set before him. A fresh egg, bacon, and home baked bread were prepared, alongside tea with milk and honey. "Lovely ... thank you, this is lovely." The maid smiled at the compliment and sat near him. "Can you manage yourself?" "Yes. Yes, I can. You are a dear." He took his first mouthful of food in delight. "It is marvelous. Just what I crave." With her hands clasped on her lap, she watched him eat with what was now a hearty appetite. He tried to remember to use the knife, but it kept getting in the way and turned into a nuisance. When he used the bread the way Francesco had, she giggled and covered her mouth. "Sorry. I think I like to eat with more of an Italian flare than an English. Forgive me." "No. It is all right. I like watching you." "Even though I am barbaric?" He laughed as he sipped his tea. "You are far from it, my elegant lord," she sighed. He set the cup down and frowned. "I am no lord. I am a farm boy. And glad of it!" As if it startled her she blurted, "A farm boy?" Not answering, or meeting her eyes, he continued to eat. After Mark had finished she said, "I'll take that if you are done now." She lifted the tray and left the room. 232

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Mark thanked her, pushed back the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was trying to decide if he was strong enough to stand. He paused, waiting for the blood to catch up to his change in posture. When he did get to his feet it was with a wave of dizziness. He held onto the bedpost and waited for it to pass. Once the ringing left his ears he reached for his clothing. **** Lady Wallace looked up from her novel. She rose to her feet and rushed to him. "You shouldn't be out of bed. Sit!" She led him to the settee and helped him to relax on it. "I am fine. Do not feel you have to baby me. I am too much trouble as it is. I wear on your good nature." Though he felt shaky and weak, it felt good to be out of bed. "Nonsense. You are to make yourself at home. It is no bother at all. Our children are all grown and left us. It is nice to have a young man about the house again." With those kind words, Mark gave her a pleasant smile, suddenly noticing the whiteness outside the window. He twisted to stare at it. "How beautiful everything looks. When I was younger I would delight in the snow." "Yes, it does give a sense of serenity to it all. Are you hungry? Can I get my maid to make you a tea?" As she said those words, the servant seemed to appear at the doorway. "I am not hungry after your generous breakfast, Your Ladyship. But I would like some hot tea, if it's no trouble." Mark smiled shyly. 233

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"Elizabeth, do be a dear and fetch us a pot of tea." Lady Wallace smiled kindly at her. Elizabeth? That is my mother's name. She bowed gracefully and went to heat the water. After Mark's eyes lingered on the hall for a moment, he caught a strange look coming from Lady Wallace. Mark wondered with his fine Venetian clothing, clean and once again adorning on his tall frame, if it was upsetting her. What was she thinking? Possibly about the circumstances that brought him to the point where she found him in Dover? And seeing that was precisely what she had in mind he smiled when she asked, "Were you just on your way back from a trip abroad when we found you?" He answered her very softly, "I do not wish to speak of those things. Please forgive me. I don't intend to be rude." "Oh! No, of course not. I'm just surprised. Everyone I know loves to boast about their time in foreign places. It's a part of their status symbols, being able to afford to take leisure time away from home. You know." A stomping and rustling was heard from the front entrance way. Lord Wallace came in shaking off the white snowflakes and his slushy boots. With his butler standing by for his things, he handed off all his wet clothing. Coming into the parlor with a clamor, he appeared delighted to see Mark was up and about. "Good show! Glad to see you could join us." Mark tried to stand to bow respectfully, but feeling weak, he only managed to get halfway up before he sank back onto the settee. 234

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"Sit, sit. Don't be so formal." Lord Wallace waved to Mark as he relaxed on a chair near Mark, his glasses spattered from the wet snow. "A bit pale, perhaps, but coming along. What a handsome lad you are." He removed his spectacles and wiped them dry. The blush stained Mark's cheeks. "Thank you, sir." Elizabeth had come in with a tray of tea. She set it down and began pouring, handing off the cups as she did. "Thank you, Elizabeth," Mark said, trying to meet her eye. She wouldn't meet his, only bowed and then cleared out of the room as quickly as she had come. "I checked on the situation for traveling about," Lord Wallace began, cup in hand. "It isn't quite as bad on the main road. It seems our lane, being less traveled, looks the worse for it." "Oh, Harold, you don't mean to say you'll travel all the way in to London in the snow." Lady Wallace's pinky was lifted high as the gilded cup met her ruby painted lips. "Why yes. I mean to. I've a job to do and this boy needs to be home." "I'm well enough to travel, sir." Mark tried to make this sound convincing. He sat up and ran his fingers back through his hair. "You see!" Lady Wallace chided her husband, "Now you force the boy to push himself to travel when he is still so obviously ill." When they started a row, Mark was mortified. He set his cup down and stood between them. "No! I did not mean to— Please. Do not argue on my account." He began to sway 235

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precariously reaching for something to lean on without much luck. Lord Wallace got to his feet to steady him before he fell back to the hard floor and cracked his skull. "Back to bed, boy. You are in no shape to be up and about, let alone to travel." "I told you." Lady Wallace pointed an accusing finger once more. "You never listen to me, Harold. This boy needs more time to get well." "No ... I am fine ... please. I really must get home." A cold sweat broke out on his face and the ringing returned to Mark's ears as he leaned all his weight on Lord Wallace. The little man struggled with Mark's size. "Nonsense! Elizabeth! Charles!" he called out to his maid and his butler for assistance. When they appeared Lord Wallace said, "Help me get him back into bed. He's about to collapse." With one servant on either side of Mark, they managed to get him up the stairs to the bedroom. They set him down on the mattress and Elizabeth went to work removing his jacket, his slippers, his blouse, and finally, his breeches as the men disappeared to allow her to finish her task. With the nightshirt once again tugged over his head, she pulled the covers up to his chin as his teeth chattered. "Oh, you poor man," she sighed and stroked his hair back from the dampness of his brow. "I am sorry for this..." he whispered, his eyes feeling glassy and wet. 236

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"Shh ... rest." She pinched out the candle and closed the drapes. Mark remembered being this sick once before. He was a very small boy on the farm. Aunt Katie had been sure he would die. In his delirium he recalled her discussing where he would be buried. She had been sobbing like a baby over him. It had taken him weeks to recover. It was the same feeling again. The aching in his head, the swelling in his throat, and that hotness coupled with cold chills. Maybe he would die this time. He would have preferred getting his throat slit to a painful death from the plague, or whatever it was that had its grip on him. At least he and Francesco would be together again. He knew he was going to get ill. Weeks in a cold carriage with nothing more than bread and wine for sustenance. That malaise that had seeped into his bones. It was so predictable. But what he couldn't have predicted was that he would be here. In a stranger's home. Away from his family to die alone. Unloved. The fitting end to the unwanted bastard. All Mark could make out was a shining candle and some silhouettes as Elizabeth showed the doctor into his room. "Let's have a look at you, dear boy." The doctor peeled back the quilt as Mark's teeth chattered. He examined Mark thoroughly and then covered him back up. Opening his kit, he handed Elizabeth some powders. "I want you to make a tea with this one, three times a day. With this one," he handed her another packet, "in water, just in the morning." "Yes, doctor. Will he be all right?" 237

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"I do think so. It is something that seems to come with the season change. You just make sure he stays in bed and has no exertion. And plenty of tea and liquids." "Yes, I will. Thank you, doctor." Elizabeth took a last look at Mark, then showed the doctor out. **** The falling snow had ceased and the temperature rose to a whole two degrees above freezing. The lovely whiteness had turned to filthy brown slush on the cobbles and the confectioner's glaze had vanished and melted on the grass and trees. Richard raised his head from his palm, where it had been leaning as he gazed out of the window, to a carriage approaching and halting. He stood to go to the front entrance to meet it. With the door held open and the bitter air stinging him, Richard waited as a strange old man climbed stiffly out. "May I help you, sir?" The man tipped his hat and nodded. "I was informed that this was Thomas Holloway's residence." "Yes, that is my father. Do come in." Richard backed up and allowed the gentleman to pass. "I'll get Father. Have a seat. Would you like some tea?" "Yes, please. There is a frightful chill in the wind." The man nodded and rubbed his hands together. "Whom shall I say is calling?" "Lord Wallace from Maidstone." Richard left hurriedly to attend both tasks. **** 238

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Thomas entered the room to see a small, old man seated on the settee, his cheeks rosy from the cold. He extended his hand to him. "I am Thomas Holloway. Can I be of service, Lord Wallace?" "Thomas! Good show!" He stood up and shook his hand vigorously. "I know I have seen you pass in the halls of Parliament. Nice to finally make your acquaintance." "Please, sit down." Thomas gestured. The tea was brought in on a tray and they both waited until it was poured before they resumed their conversation. "Yes, right. Down to business. I have come on behalf of your cousin." Lord Wallace raised his cup in both hands to warm them. "My cousin?" Thomas tilted his head in confusion. "Which cousin are you referring to?" "Mark Antonious deMontford." Thomas felt his face go pale. "Do not bring news of his death, I beg of you." "No, good heavens!" Lord Wallace set his tea down, staring with all seriousness into Thomas' face. "But the boy is ill. Not deathly ill, I do hope. Perhaps, merely under the weather. But it's not good to take chances and that is why I am here. He is holed up at my residence in Maidstone now. In bed. And not up to travel." There were so many questions on Thomas' mind. He was struggling to stay calm and not leap into the air. "Yes. I'll come right away. Let me inform my wife and I'll take leave immediately." 239

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"Good. Very good." Lord Wallace chewed a biscuit he had just dunked and nodded he would wait. As soon as Thomas was out of the man's view, he stopped his stately walk and ran as fast as he could to find his wife. She was reading in the sitting room in front of a roaring fire. "Gabriel!" Grabbing her chest at the fright of his voice, she asked him, "What's wrong?" "Mark! Mark Antonious! He's been found! His Lordship, Lord Wallace, just now informs me that Mark is at their residence in Maidstone." "Mark? Alive? Oh, that is wonderful news! What on earth is he doing there? Yes, go to him and bring him back to us, Thomas." She stood, gripping him in both hands at the elbows of his coat. "I want to go as well." Richard was standing in the hall. "Please, Father." "Yes, all right, Richard. Go get your woolies and boots. I want to see him as soon as possible." Thomas could not believe how much this news excited him. Richard jumped into the air in joy and scampered off. Gabriel held her husband's hand in a warm loving grip. "You see. Our prayers have been answered, my love. He has come back to us." She brushed at a tear that had slipped down her cheek. "Yes, but what has he been up to? So much time has passed. I do wonder, Gabby, what has he done in that time?" "Let's not think of this now. Can we just be glad he is coming back to us?" 240

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"Right ... yes, of course, dear girl." He smiled and kissed her cheek. The sweat that came out of him drenched the sheet under him. It felt like his fever was cresting. When he pushed the heavy quilt off, he suffered with chills and brought it up again. Tossing and turning, trying to get some sleep, he could not find a comfortable position. Everything ached in him. Strange dreams began to plague him. Dreams one only had during a high fever. He was certain his eyes were open and he was awake when the big Italian man came into his room. The roughness of his jaw, like the grittiest sandpaper, the black curls on his head so soft in contrast. His lover was standing in the room watching over him. "Catamito..." he purred seductively. Mark rocked his head side to side to clear away that vision. No, this cannot be real. Now I hallucinate. When Francesco was still there and big as life, Mark reached out to it to see if maybe, just maybe, it could be true. "Francesco ... my lover ... come here so I may touch you and see that you exist." The image came closer until it was within his grasping hand. Mark did indeed feel his solidness. "Oh, dear lord, I am touching you! Oh, my lover! My life! I am sorry ... please, forgive me," Mark cried. "It is all my fault. I didn't mean to let you fight alone. Those men. They dragged me away. Will you ever forgive me?"

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"Again you blame yourself?" His rumbling laughter was felt through the contact he made with Mark. "Shush, amante mio ... you needn't worry," he whispered. "But, I need you with me ... Tell me I did not see your mother in black, please. Tell me it was a bad dream and this is reality. That now you have come to me and will stay with me forever. I am lost without you. Come back to me. Please, my lovely man, say you will." The tears ran down Mark's face and dried quickly on his hot skin. "I cannot, my treasure. I only come to see you are well." "Come closer to me so I may really feel you." Mark reached out as far as he could. When his hands felt that muscular arm and the dark hair on the back of that hand Mark clenched it with so much strength he would never release it. "Stay, please stay, I love you, I love you so dearly. Don't leave me again!" "Oh, my treasure, tesoro mio." "No ... do not leave me! No!!" Mark shouted out in terror as his image started to fade. "No! No! Come back! Francesco! Come back! I will never love another!" Mark heard once more his rumbling deep laughter. "Catamito ... do not worry." "No! Come back! Francesco Cavella, you come back to me! I beg you! Don't go! Please! Please!!" he wailed in agony. **** Lord Wallace showed Thomas and Richard into his home. The moment they came through the front door they could hear Mark's wailing cries. 242

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"Oh, good God! What on earth could be happening?" Lord Wallace exclaimed. The three of them hurried up the stairs and burst into the bedroom. When Richard set eyes on Mark again his entire being exploded into flame. That hair! Longer than he had ever seen it! And that skin of his, shining with his sweat and like pure satin in the shimmering candlelight. Mark's arms were wrapped around the maid as he cried and Richard had to hold back every bone in his body not to shove her aside and take her place. Under his breath he whispered to himself, "Oh, Mark Antonious, you mischievous, gorgeous creature. I have missed you." **** Near panic, Thomas went to him and knelt by him. A voice got through to him. "Mark! Mark, it's your Cousin Thomas ... can you hear me, lad?" Someone sat on the bed next to Mark and clasped his hand in his. "Mark ... Mark, can you hear me?" Moving stiffly, Mark opened his eyes. Squinting as though a searing pain were in his head, Mark met Thomas' gaze. "I am sorry. I have caused too much trouble." Thomas cuddled him to his chest lovingly. "No, lad, no bother at all. You need to get well so we can take you back with us, and get you home to Newbury." "Uncle David..." Mark whispered. "Tell him I am sorry. I have caused everyone so much pain." 243

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Richard reached over from the other side of the bed. "Mark. Mark, it is Richard. I am here with Father." Slowly Mark turned to face him. When he focused in on Richard's smile Mark softened considerably. "What an adventure, Richard. I would love to share it with you." Mark reached out his hand. "Stay with me, please." "I'm not going anywhere." He removed his jacket and leaned as far across the bed as he could, gripping Mark's hand tightly. A moment later, the maid came in with tea. The room was now so crowded with bodies she grew irritated. "He needs his medicine. Could you clear out so I can give it to him?" Lady and Lord Wallace backed away to allow her through. Thomas twisted over his shoulder to see her impatient glare. "I'll stay with him, Father." Richard spoke it like a reassurance. The three others nodded to him and left, rather reluctantly. Mark leaned over to Richard to whisper in a playful tone, "Elizabeth brings me horse urine and honey." Richard's eyes widened expressively. "No! It's not really urine. He just thinks it tastes like it, though how he would know the taste of horse's urine, I would never dream of asking." Elizabeth laughed in a short syllable and sat on the chair by his bed. Setting the tea down, she fluffed the pillows behind Mark's back to aid him in sitting upright.

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Richard released his hand and crawled closer on the bed to be in contact with his legs under the quilt. "Drink up, cuz." He grinned impishly. Mark curled his lip at him and pressed back into the cushions as the brew was shoved under his nose. "Agh! Didn't I just have some of this poison?" "Thrice daily. Come on now," Elizabeth insisted. "Yes, Mother," Mark teased and tried to hold the cup and his nose at the same time. Richard stifled a laugh as he watched Mark get the fluid down before he could taste it. When he did manage to swallow it all he handed the cup back to Elizabeth and shivered in disgust. "There! Get it away from me now." "You'll be thankful when you get well from it." She took the cup from him. He turned to Richard and said, "Her name is Elizabeth." Then he twisted to address her once more. "You know, my mother's name was Elizabeth ... Elizabeth Jones." "Really?" Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise. "That's me own mum's name." Richard knew what Mark was going to think next. "Mark, it's a very common name." Mark ignored him. "Was she an opera singer?" "Me mum?" Elizabeth asked. "I wouldn't know. I wouldn't think so. She gave me up when I was quite small. No one tells me a bit about it." Mark's felt his face pale. 245

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Richard grabbed at him. "Mark! Stop all this. It's not the same woman." Elizabeth got it finally. "You think we have the same mum?" She laughed at the thought. "I hardly think that's likely, you being a wealthy noble and me just a maid." "I'm no noble. I have told you. I'm a farmer's adopted son. You do not believe me." Irritated by this whole topic, Richard rose off the bed and made his way quickly to her. "Okay, let him rest." He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her out. The action surprised her so much she didn't have the chance to argue. Before she knew it she was on the other side of a locked door. "Don't be daft. There are a hundred Elizabeth Jones in England. Don't you go letting your imagination run off. Look at what state you're in from it as it is." Mark folded the quilt down on his lap. He tried to push his hair back from his face and then met Richard's eyes. "I met him, love." "Met who?" Richard scooted closer. "My father. Marc Antinous Caeserni." "You ... You did?" Richard was stunned. "What happened? What did he say?" Mark grimaced involuntarily. "That he did not recognize this bastard from England." A sad smile came to Richard's lips. "No, I would think not." "They are a bit ruthless, those Venetians. So very strict."

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"So, are you saying that right from the opera house that night, you simply hopped a carriage and went off?" Richard leaned over to him and found his thigh through the blanket. "No, not straight off. I was nearly run down by a carriage only a few streets from the opera house. Chance was, it was owned by the Duke of Warwick. He took me back to his castle with him. Uh, I think to make amends. I was quite muddy after the accident." "The Duke of Warwick?" Richard laughed. "He's a bit of a dandy. Mother always invites him to the Christmas dinners. That wig. Those painted lips." Richard bent his wrist in a mocking gesture. "Ahh, yes, well ... underneath it all, he's a very decent fellow." "And I am sure you got underneath it all." Richard rolled his eyes. "Well, I had to thank him properly." Mark gave him a weak smile. "Oh, Mark Antonious, those looks of yours. They make it so easy for you to get sex." Richard rubbed his eyes tiredly. "And Lady Grey, Lord Gremville, Baron Abel, Contessa Masson ... a whore ... I am a whore. Just like my mother." Mark toyed with the decorated buttons of his nightshirt as he pouted. Richard sat back to gape at him. "Those are several of my father and mother's lofty friends." "Don't ask me about your mother. Or your father for that matter." Mark growled, angry with himself. "The whore begot 247

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a whore. I am no better than she. Who was I to judge her? Like some pious priest come down from heaven? Ha!" "My mother and my father?" Richard wanted him to backtrack. "What are you saying?" "Nothing ... I have said too much already. It is the fever. I am delirious." Mark laid his head back on the pillows. Dazed, Richard sat back in the chair and stared off into the room. "And the one I loved ... loved truly? An Italian prostitute from Padua. For him I would have given the sun and the moon. And because of me, that man is dead." "My mother and my father?" Richard found all this inconceivable. "Dead. Murdered ... for me. One so dear to me he was like my life itself. And the one that meant the most, is taken from me. No one means a thing to me now. You see? I am like her. I would spread my seed to the wind and not know if I have fathered children. I am no different than she. And yet I judged her like I was God in the heavens. I am a miserable git." "Did you say both my mother and my father?" Richard grabbed his nightshirt at the shoulder, needing this clarified immediately. Mark finally gave him his attention. "No. I am delirious. Ignore what I say." "And Margaret?" "No. Not Margaret. I draw the line at children. Do not look at me like that. I disgust myself, that is enough." Mark's lip curled as he said it. 248

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Richard hunched over in his chair and leaned his face into his palms. "I knew Mother would attempt it, but Father?" he mumbled almost incoherently. "It should have been me they killed. Not my innocent lover. My throat they should have cut. Will I never stop seeing his mother all dressed in black weeping over him?" Mark explained. "What?" Richard sat up to stare at him, just now he seemed to be hearing what Mark was saying. "What did you tell me? Someone had their throat cut?" "Brutal men. In black tabarros, stilettos in their fists. He had no chance. All he thought was to tell me to run. To get away. Even in his death he was selfless and only thought of my safety. How will any other replace that?" "Who?" Richard was too many pages behind. "Who are you talking about? Who died?" Mark put his hands on both sides of his head and pushed his hair back from his face. "I need to tie it back. I am too hot and sweaty." He let it drop to his shoulders again. "And there were eunuchs, Richard. Half men to add to my list of conquests." "What?" Richard twisted to face him, giving him his undivided attention. "Half men?" "The singer, Alessandro ... so smooth and satiny. A skin like his I have never seen on any. Neither man nor woman. And his hair, oh, Richard, he was so beautiful." "A eunuch?" He cringed in disgust. "Did you say you slept with a eunuch?" 249

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"Like being with both at once. An experience I shall never forget. Like loving a woman with a penis. Extraordinary." He was talking to himself again, gazing off at the contents of the room. "You went with a ... a eunuch?" Mark settled into the mattress, growing weary. "And yet, all I think of is Newbury. My small room. My aunt and uncle. The farm, the animals. The work ... anything to forget my loss. My one love." "A eunuch?" Richard repeated in amazement. "I am tired, my love. Please forgive me. I need to rest." Mark closed his eyes and brought the quilt up to his chin. "Mark Antonious, I have never met anyone like you in my life," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seventeen Thomas opened the door to peek in on Mark. "How are you today, lad?" "Ready to go home." He drew the string of his pouch and looped it around his neck. "Please, take me home." "Only if it is wise to move you. Your health is what concerns me." Thomas leaned on the bed and stroked Mark's hair affectionately. "It is my mental health that is in peril now, Cousin Thomas. I need to be with my own family once again. Though the Wallaces are kind, they are not kin. Do you know what I mean?" He pushed the quilt aside and sat upright on the edge of the bed, once again, slowly, so he would not get faint. "Are you sure you should be out of bed, lad?" Thomas held him back. "Please ... help me with my things. I cannot stay here another day." Mark reached for him. "I beg of you to get me to my home." A sympathetic smile on his lips, reluctantly Thomas agreed and assisted him with his clothing. The group at the breakfast table was stunned to see him walk into the room. Mark nodded a greeting to everyone and sat down with them. Lord Wallace made sure he was poured tea. "You tried to get out of bed once before, young man. Do you think this is wise?" 251

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"Yes. I am better now. I assure you. Please, believe me." Mark begged with his expression as well as his words. "We can bundle him up, Father. We can keep him warm on the journey home," Richard echoed the pleading. Thomas and Lord Wallace exchanged worried glances. Mark frowned in misery. He hated others deciding his fate. He would go home. No one would stop him. If he had to fight his way through them, then he would. Somehow Thomas read that determination on his face. "All right. But we will make sure you aren't in the draft in the coach. We will try it. But if you take ill again, then back we come." "Thank you, Father." Richard smiled at him, turning his gaze to Mark. Mark didn't return his stare. He tried to sip his tea and not stew in his anger and frustration. **** The inside of the coach had been made cozy. Mark was under a mountain of blankets until he was too warm from it. He had thanked the lord and lady graciously, offering a gold sovereign for their trouble, which they refused adamantly. To Elizabeth he left his address and with a wink said, "Write to me, sis." She blushed and promised him she would. Richard climbed into the carriage next and sat with Mark, curling him against his chest, affectionately kissing and nuzzling him.

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In the damp, misty air, Thomas stood outside it, shaking hands and thanking the Wallaces profusely for all the trouble they had gone through to reunite the family once again. "I shall see you in the halls of Parliament, my good man. You take good care of that boy," Lord Wallace warned goodnaturedly. "I will, sir, I promise." Thomas tipped his hat and climbed aboard. When the carriage started moving Mark moaned happily. "Home. I am on my way home." "Yes, love. To London." Richard nuzzled into his hair. Thomas raised an eyebrow at his son's obvious show of affection. "To Newbury," Mark corrected. "In time." Richard kissed Mark's cheek. "I think that is quite enough, young man," Thomas growled at his son. Showing his teeth, Richard returned his steely glare. "Why? Are you jealous? Do not tell me what I can do to him," he snapped viciously. "Or I shall tell you the same." It was said with so much venom and knowledge that Thomas widened his eyes in shock and closed his lips on another comment. It humiliated Mark horribly to see the friction he was creating between father and son. Mark peered out from the pile of blankets from one to the other, not opening his mouth for fear of a greater row. It was a horrible strain of silence inside the coach until finally he whispered, "I am roasting." 253

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As if it had broken the ice, Richard laughed softly and peeled a few of the layers off of him. "You tell me what you need, love, and I will provide it." Mark knew all this doting was a way for Richard to goad his father into an argument. Mark glimpsed quickly at Thomas who was ignoring them, resisting the urge to have it out and risk more exposure, and trying to sleep. The three slept most of the way and by nightfall they were in front of the great mansion's main gate. When the carriage moved to the front entrance Gabriel rushed to meet it along with Margaret and Peter. There was some snow left on the lawn, though most of it had long melted in the rain. The wind was strong and blowing from the west. They helped Mark inside and escorted him right to his bedroom. He was glad for it for the journey left him weak and shaky. Richard helped him disrobe and get under the blanket. "I'll make sure dinner comes up for you." "Thanks, love. What would I do without you?" Mark smiled sweetly. "I'm trying to make you see you cannot live without me," Richard warned, and Mark knew he was not joking. The silly smile fell from Mark's face. Richard ignored his reaction and left the room. Innocent Margaret slipped in after Richard had left. She smiled in delight when Mark acknowledged her. "Hullo, Margaret." Unleashing her emotions, she rushed in and hugged him around the neck. "I missed you ever so much." 254

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"Did you? No one to play your songs for?" He squeezed her hand gently. "No one I would choose to play for." "Silly girl. I will only be here for a day or two. Then I must go home." "No! You are to stay here. Live with us." She appeared about to cry over it. Smiling gently, Mark touched her cheek and felt its softness. "No, lovely, I belong in Newbury. I have been gone too long as it is." "How will you ever be content in Newbury?" she shouted in exasperation. After a pause he whispered, "My sweet, you do not understand. It is the only place I will be content." Richard came in with a tray of food and curled his lip at his sister. "Leave him. He needs to rest." She snorted in disgust. "You're the reason he doesn't want to live here." And she left the room in a huff. A nervous expression on his face, Richard set the tray down in front of Mark and then pulled up a chair to sit with him whilst he ate. "What she said. Is it right?" "What?" Mark tore off a piece of bread and used it instead of the knife, like Francesco had always done. Watching him, Richard appeared shocked at the lack of manners. "What Margaret said, about you not living here." "My home is in Newbury, Richard. But it is not because of you that I go there. I simply must go and resume my life." "But how can you when you see what we and London have to offer you? I thought you would stay, that we would be 255

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together now. Mark, for the last several months I have dreamed it with visions of your return." Seeing the sadness in Richard's eyes, Mark set his fork down and smiled affectionately at him. "No, that's just it. It is because of the temptations she offers, I cannot stay. Do you see?" "She? Who? Margaret?" Richard sneered. "No! London, you prat." Mark laughed at him. "Not only do you fuck eunuchs, you eat like a barbarian." Mark finished chewing the bread and peered up at Richard at the comment. When he found Richard's impish grin, Mark laughed. "You keep your dainty knife. I learned how to really eat." Mark raised his bread up proudly. "You will embarrass me at the table now. I shall have to pretend I do not know you." Richard smirked, holding back his laughter. "You do not know what you are missing. The food in Italy is beyond compare. No offense to your cooks, Richard, but these bland meat pies are truly tasteless." Mark made a funny face to express his opinion further. Richard was about to defend the art of English cuisine when his mother poked her head into the room. "Here you are heating up over some topic. And Thomas tells me you are ill." Richard spun around to see his mother's broad smile. "Oh, he is, Mother. He's picked up some awful habits whilst he was away." "Has he?" She approached Richard and placed her hands on his shoulders to watch Mark from behind him. 256

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"He eats like a barbarian. Show her, Mark." Mark smiled mischievously and soaked up the juices with his bread, shoving the piece in his mouth, grinning at her as he chewed. "I don't think that's barbaric at all." Gabriel laughed. "Oh, please, Mother. It's horrid behavior. You would be embarrassed to have him eat in mixed company." "Well, he shall have his chance to show off his new table manners. Tomorrow night I am having a Christmas feast." "Ah yes, the dinner party." Richard's eyes twinkled wickedly. "I forgot to mention, Mark dear. Mother's friends will all be here. You may know them ... the Duke of Warwick? Lord and Lady Grey?" As Richard repeated the names, Mark tried not to show his shocked expression to Gabriel. "Wonderful. Yes, wonderful," he whispered dryly. "He may not be up to socializing, Richard. Mark still needs his rest." Gabriel patted her son's back. "I know something he better not be up to," Richard mumbled so only Mark could hear. "What's that, dear?" Gabriel leaned down to her son. "Nothing, Mother." Richard crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Mark. As if a halo were over his head, Mark simply shrugged innocently. The maid came in with a cup of tea. Gabriel acknowledged her and said, "Oh, yes, you are to have this tea thrice daily." Mark's eyes widened in panic. "No! You did not bring that horse urine with us!" 257

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Richard smiled devilishly. "Why of course, Mark. You need your medication." He lifted the tray off his lap and nodded for the maid to bring the tea. Mark cringed and pushed back into the headboard. "Now, now, you must do what the doctor ordered," Gabriel warned him. "Yes, dearest, what the doctor ordered." Richard's smile became more evil. The maid held the cup under his nose as Mark tried to get away from it. Gabriel took the cup from her and sat on the edge of his bed. "Now, Mark Antonious deMontford, you drink this right up!" Mark took it reluctantly. "Bloody hell..." "Such language!" Gabriel was stunned. "You see!" Richard laughed. "A barbarian!" "Sorry." Mark sipped it. "Oh, there's not even any honey in it." Gabriel pushed her maid off. "Get some honey, please." Mark glanced at Richard from the corner of his eye. "What are you staring at?" "I want to make sure you take your medicine." He stuck his tongue in his cheek. "You do, do you? I'll be giving you some later on," Mark growled. Gabriel's eyes widened. "Mark Antonious!" "What?" he moaned. "Have pity on me! I have to drink horse urine." 258

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The maid scampered back in and took out a spoonful of honey, mixing it into the tea. Still Mark cringed. With one hand he held his nose. Richard could not stop smiling, obviously loving it. Mark managed to get it down with a gag. He handed off the cup like it was a hot potato. "I'll make sure you get it all, until the medicine is gone," Richard said with a smirking grin. "Good boy." His mother stood. "Let's allow Mark his sleep. Come, Richard." Following his mother, Richard winked at Mark as he closed the door behind him. Smacking his tongue at that horrid aftertaste, Mark wiped at his mouth in disgust. "When I'm well, he's going to get it!" The next day Mark felt good enough for a bath, and after the bath, even better. Gabriel stood behind him whilst he sat on a bench and combed his long wet hair for him. She tied it back in a dark blue ribbon and then left him. Moments later she brought in a selection of some of the clothing he'd left there. English made. "No, do you mind?" He gestured to his Venetian garments. "My dear, there will be a house full of nobles." "I know, Gabriel. Please. They are not so different from my breeches and coat. Humor me." The redness showed in her cheeks. She narrowed her eyes. "You would humiliate me?" He rose up instantly and grabbed her hand. "No, I do nothing to insult you purposefully. It is just..." Pausing, Mark tried to find the right words. He released her hand and went 259

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to locate his suede pouch. Removing the oval from it, he cupped it in both hands as if it were a fragile egg, standing silently. When he returned to her she met his eyes quickly, as if she hadn't peeked down at his crotch through his sheer nightshirt. Trying not to become distracted by her attraction, Mark placed the oval into her hand gently. Mark studied her expression. "This is my father. Though I owe him little respect, I don't deny my Venetian heritage." Yet, this was a lie. He wanted to wear them for Francesco, but how would he explain to this "sophisticated Londoner" that it was in honor of his Italian whore-lover. The memory of the sound of Francesco scoffing at that phrase made him smile. She held the small portrait up to inspect it closely. Mark wondered if she caught the resemblance. With her eyes flitting from one man to the other, she no doubt could. "Please. It is a small favor for one who will be gone from you, most likely until he dies." Very gently, Mark touched her hand. She clutched the portrait and hissed, "You will visit again! Or we will see you. You do not disappear from our lives after this." With quiet tenderness, Mark took back the oval. "Right. Maybe I am mistaken." But he knew he was not. He would have no reason to come to London again. She resisted his nudging towards the door. "You will visit. You will miss us. We are your family." 260

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He closed the door behind her. Carefully Mark placed the oval back in the pouch. He touched his fine velvet garments, always cleaned and pressed from a very efficient staff. The dust of a month on the road had vanished and the colors and textures of lace and finery were dazzling to him. Such royal splendor. As he slid on the silky blouse, the cuffs, a foaming frill of Venetian lace, he relived the little shop he and Francesco invaded. With so much joy they adorned themselves in the clothing of kings. Dabbing at a tear before it fell, he buttoned his breeches and buckled them at the knee, stepping into his high-heeled slippers. The lush royal blue velvet cloak covered in fine embroidery was next, lastly, all his armor, his two jeweled swords. The stiletto he left behind in the drawer with the pouch. When he was through, he found his reflection in the mirror. "Look at you," he whispered to himself, "a fine Venetian lord. Bello mio." A crooked grin shined through that pout. With his eyes to the ceiling he spoke to Francesco, "Your Catamito, he makes you proud tonight. He will see those who made him rich and gave him his time in Venezia with you. Amor mio. Tesoro mio." He surprised himself at how many words he had picked up from accompanying Francesco. With one last smile at the ceiling he said, "I will always love you. Ti amo, Francesco Cavella." **** More than ever Mark knew he appeared to be a foreigner. An exotic man from some far away land. 261

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He waited until all the eyes were upon him. With one hand on the hilt of the sword the Duke of Warwick had given him, one he had used to impale two assailants, Mark smiled at the gaping mob in complete satisfaction and made his way to Percivel. As he did the baron blocked his path. Mark bowed to him respectfully. "How are you, Baron Abel. Good to see you again." The baron peered over his shoulder first, leaning against Mark to whisper, "Would you do me the honor of allowing me to be the first one to tear off those fine Venetian clothes?" Mark laughed softly, lowering his head. "You flatter me." As Mark brushed by on his way to the duke, the baron hissed, "I must have you!" Leaving that hungry male behind, Mark once again tried to make his way to Percivel, who was watching his progress and the obstacles that prevented it in amusement. "Lady Grey," Mark bowed his head politely, "you look ravishing, as usual." One peek behind her at her suspicious husband and she whispered, "Meet me! Promise me you will!" "I thank you, dear lady, for the kind compliment." And again Mark brushed by to try and get to Percivel. With a smile too broad for his white powdered face, Percivel seemed honored to be the one Mark sought out. As Mark drew nearer to the duke, the few around them backed up to allow them to speak to each other privately. "You look well." Percivel raised up his wine glass as if toasting him. "I owe you a great thanks." 262

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Percivel gave him a deliberate appraisal from head to toe. "You shall set the English fashion world on its ear." "Is that so? Gabriel thinks I am shameful." Mark took a passing glass from a servant's tray. "What does she know? She wears last year's slippers!" He made a foppish gesture with his free hand. Mark laughed at Percivel's humor and gesture. "So much has passed since I last saw you, my friend. I could fill a novel." Mark kept his smile, though he knew Percivel could see through it to the sadness. "I can imagine. But, I can see, you are no longer content here. Off to? The wilds of Africa, perhaps?" the duke teased. It ignited Mark's laughter once more. "No, not as glamorous as that, my love. I am a farmer's son. So, I am a farmer." That stunned Percivel. He took a grand step back to once again take in the whole of Mark's appearance. At the gesture, Mark felt a little self-conscious and tried to peer around discreetly. Many eyes were spying their chat. Percivel stepped closer again. "A farmer? Hardly. My beauty, you are a prince, nothing less. What a waste all that sensuality and elegance will be picking corn." His nose tilted upwards in repugnance. "I do not expect anyone to understand. But, Percivel, what am I to do? Spend my life in the beds of rich people?" "Yes. Of course, dear. You see how lucrative it is. It is a natural career for you. Escort old shriveled countesses to grand balls. Make a hundred gold sovereigns a week. Such 263

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easy work. Look around you, Mark. They are so hungry for you." Percivel swept his hand grandly in a wide circle. Gutted, Mark did the opposite, he lowered his eyes to the floor. With one finger Percivel lifted Mark's chin back up so his eyes were once again his to admire. "It pains you now. I can see it. No. You go back to the farm. Follow your heart, lover." "I thought it was my calling. Some divine pleasure. But I am just a play toy for crass rich people. I need love. Real love. One on one. I had it once. I want it back." "Real love? Oh, how dull!" Percivel bent his wrist again and then gave Mark an impish grin. "Whoever this person was, he was mad to lose you." Darkness fell over Mark's features. "I lost him. He was murdered." "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry." Percivel touched his arm lightly. Regaining himself, Mark stood tall. "So, you see how it is. I just came to offer my humblest gratitude. And also a thanks for the letter of introduction to the wonderful Contessa Masson." "I see. And she was helpful in your journey?" "She was. And very generous, not to mention, a kind soul." "I hope you treated her well." Percivel rose his glass higher trying to hide his devilish smirk. Mark mirrored his grin. "She was treated to a wonderful evening." "Of your rich loving, my beauty?" 264

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"Now, what sort of a lover would I be if I answered that question?" Percivel's silly smile softened to a genuine one. "I will miss you, Mark Antonious." "Grazie." Mark bowed. "And I shall miss you as well, bello mio." That lit Percivel up into brilliant laughter. Mark winked at him and went to greet the Lord Gremville, feeling it impolite to ignore the old man. When Lord Gremville tried to push gold coins into his hand, Mark refused and turned his dry old fingers back to his own pockets, excusing himself as politely as possible. Gabriel was starting to escort everyone into the room to hear the music Margaret was going to play. She met Mark and took him aside. "You will tell me, of course, why it is you know all these people, and with a familiarity no less." Mark smiled very sweetly at her and said, "Or I may not tell you." "Oh!" She nudged him like he was a naughty little boy. Like a shark is drawn to bloody meat, Baron Abel made for Mark again and this time gripped his velvet elbow with all his strength to drag him out of hearing range. Tripping over his own feet, Mark was tugged down the passage near the room where he'd had his beating with the switch so very long ago. Next Mark was shoved against a wall rather violently. "You tease me. I do not like it," that low masculine voice growled before it made contact with Mark's mouth. 265

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As delicately as possible, Mark turned aside from the kiss. "Respect my wishes." The baron cupped Mark's crotch with a very firm hand. "Are they not the same as mine, you beautiful creature?" Holding his breath, Mark knew he needed to be tactful whilst the baron was holding onto something that could create pain if he said the wrong thing. "Of course. You know how I felt about you on our last meeting." "But?" The baron massaged the handful sensuously. "Do not deny me. You in your Venetian clothing, you drive me mad!" He reached up to dig his hand through Mark's hair and the ribbon untied and drifted to the floor soundlessly. "I am weak, baron, I cannot perform well for you," Mark breathed softly. "Weak? Why? You look fine to me." Baron Abel stepped back and glimpsed down at him. "No. I have just recovered from an illness. One in which I had a fever. Only today I feel well enough to be clothed and out of bed." Eyeing him suspiciously, the baron leaned closer to see into Mark's face. "Are you being serious with me?" "Certainly. I know you remember my feelings for you after the act. How can you doubt for a minute my word?" The baron softened his hold on Mark's crotch and took a step back, his hand still lightly caressing Mark's anatomy through his tight breeches. "When ... when can I have you again?"

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"Can I come to you? Will you allow me to decide?" Mark tilted his head slightly, giving this man his most fragile expression. The baron clenched his teeth in frustration. "I do not like being told I need to wait. Baron Abel waits for no one!" He kissed Mark's lips roughly, lingering, pressing him back into the wall, gripping Mark's cock, then parted reluctantly with a groan. "Make it soon. I will be furious if you don't." "I will try. First I need to get well completely. Please ... per favore." At the Italian words, the baron acted as if he felt a surging in his loins so powerful he almost could not bear it. "You ... you will talk like that for me ... during ... during..." Mark laughed softly. "I will do what I can to please you." Like Mark had whispered the magic words, his genitals were released finally. Mark took a deep breath and bowed his head. "Soon." The baron pointed his finger at Mark in warning. "Don't keep me waiting or I will come looking for you. And if that is how it happens, I will be very rough on you. So, you make sure it is very soon." "Yes, I will try." Mark watched that masculine strut as it vanished down the hall to meet the others. After the intense contact, Mark waited until he calmed himself down before he joined them. All he wanted was a simple life. Yet, the memory of such exquisite pleasure, made the choice so very hard. Mad rushes flashed over him of being held down by that man, assaulted, and then ultimately pleased by him. Life's paths were never 267

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easy. There had to be something more to living than being paid for the act. There had to be meaning. Mark had almost clasped his fingers around it once. He held onto that love with all his might and knew it meant something to him of deeper significance. It was so much more than physical love with Francesco. It opened his eyes to a new way of thinking. What were his choices? He knew them. He knew them very well. And he chose now what he thought was the wisest for his mental health. Bending down to the floor, Mark lifted the blue ribbon. Instead of trying to get it into his hair once more, he stuffed it into his pocket and made his way back to the party. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eighteen "Bello mio," Mark cried. "Why is it I cannot get over you? Why must every day your memory pass like a shade before my eyes? Will you ever forgive me, tesoro mio? Your Catamito is forever in your shadow." Italian ... barbaric of him to speak it. But he did. And though he knew he was mad to come back to this spot, Mark had to. He was drawn to it as if to say his final goodbye. It was dimming toward twilight when Mark began to recognize where he was. The row of brownstone homes gave way to the Mayfair district. Posh mansions appeared in the gas light's glow passed the squares and mews and the grandness of Hyde Park. Cock's Lane. Mark needed one last look at that doorway. One last chance to remember the man he could not forget. As the twilight began to throw shadows along the cobbled streets, Mark wondered why he had chosen this detour. Surely it was just to torment himself. The carriage halted. Sitting up, Mark leaned out the window. They had indeed arrived in the district known for its whores. Climbing out, Mark avoided the sneer of the coachman, shouting, "I shall be right back." The doorway was empty. What had he expected?

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Approaching it, standing where his Italian lover had stood so long ago, Mark touched the worn sooty stones, trying to feel some spirit or soul that may be left. A noise woke him out of his daydream. Men descending the staircase. One voice was English, high pitched, nervous. The other! The other voice? "No!" Mark felt his chest tighten. "I am imagining it!" As the door opened and an English gentleman appeared, Mark stepped back. The man had a look of horror at being spied exiting from the place. Mark wanted to shove him out of the way, get his view of the man behind him. When Francesco Cavella appeared, Mark nearly fainted. "I am dreaming!" "Mark!" Francesco wrapped his muscular arms around Mark and lifted him into the air. "Amor mio!" "How is this possible?" Mark gripped Francesco tightly around his neck, still in shock. "I saw your mother mourn! A hearse was bearing a coffin in front of your home." Francesco set Mark back on his feet, digging his hand into Mark's hair. "No, Catamito, it was not I that lay in that coffin." "Who?" "My brother, Guido." The relief Mark felt was unimaginable. "Wait. Wait here. Do not move!" Mark raced to the carriage and took out his traveling case. "Here!" He stuffed some coins into the driver's hand. "Go! Without another look, the man coaxed the horses to leave. 270

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The sound of their hoove's echoing on the wet cobblestones, Mark spun around to see his lover standing in the doorway, waiting for him. His heart was exploding in his chest. Hurrying back, Mark nodded for Francesco to climb the narrow stair. Once they were alone in the dark room, Francesco lit a candle to shine some light. Mark dropped his bag by the door, reaching out for Francesco anxiously. Blowing out the match, Francesco joined Mark on the small bed. "Mark, you cannot believe how long I have searched for you. I had no idea you were here, whether you had been killed, nothing." Savoring Francesco's touch, those large fingers combing through his mane, Mark tingled from head to toe. "I love you! I cannot believe you are in my arms again. I am touching you. Francesco, my lover, my prince. If you knew how much I mourned. My beautiful man, please, tell me what happened, Francesco. You tell your tale first." "What is to tell?" He shrugged. "You know Guido brought the authorities to the house. You know as well, I had to fight them." "There were two men, Francesco, two bravos that came to my aid." "Yes. They were from the Contessa Masson." "The contessa?" Mark held Francesco's hand. "You never said a thing about them." "No. I did not. I am sorry. She insisted." 271

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"They made me believe you were dead. They ushered me out of Padua. I ended up with Alessandro. He got me a carriage and I left Italy." "Ah." Francesco nodded. "I did not know. I checked everywhere, but I did not think to go back to the castrato." "How did you end up back here?" Mark gestured to the small flat. "I'm afraid after the incident with Guido, my family chased me away. And worse, His Excellency's bravos were out for my head. This much I knew. I assumed you had been killed, Catamito. I was crushed." Mark kissed Francesco's knuckles to comfort him. "What choice do I have?" Francesco's lips curled to a frown. "I come back here. I cannot live in Italy, and I always wonder if you do live, one day I can see you again." "Oh, love. I cannot believe you are here next to me. I mourned. For weeks I mourned. I was convinced you had died and I ran like a coward. I hated myself for not defending you, not dying with you." "Again you blame yourself?" Francesco laughed. "So? You were headed back to London to bed the rich?" Mark cupped Francesco's rough jaw. "Yes and no. I had intentions of going back to Italy eventually to avenge your death. I just had to form a plan. I needed to kill Guido." That seemed to amuse Francesco. "I beat you to it, Catamito." Smiling wryly, Mark whispered, "Now I can rest. I have found what I am looking for." 272

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Francesco pushed him back on the bed, smothering him with kisses. "Oh, bello mio, you are wonderful." The tears rolling down Mark's face, he accepted those kisses of love and devotion hungrily. "I have you in my arms. I will never let you go." Francesco buried his face into Mark's long hair. When Mark heard him sob and felt Francesco's body tighten, Mark squeezed him tight. "Never will we part." When Francesco leaned up on his elbows to look into Mark's face, he replied, "Ti amo, Mark Antonious." "Ti amo, Francesco." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Epilogue Mark waited. Watching everyone's face. No one was saying a word. "Well?" "Why am I not surprised," Steve sighed. "Not surprised?" Mark gasped. "No." Jack cuddled against Adam. "It's you all over." Adam laughed. "Mark, they say those who don't learn their history are destined to repeat it. What's your excuse?" "Oi! Is he insulting me?" Mark asked Steve. "Shut up and kiss me, Mark Antonious," Steve crooned. "With pleasure." Mark did. "As good as an Italian stallion?" Steve purred. "Mm, better." "Good." Steve went for his lips. "Ti amo, Mark Richfield." "Ti amo, Steve Miller." Mark laughed. The End [Back to Table of Contents]

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Coming Soon... Book One of G.A. Hauser's ACTION! SERIES: Turn the page for a sneak peek of... ACTING NAUGHTY Keith O'Leary has been trying to break into acting for ages. When he is offered a part in the newest cable television drama he realizes it could be the chance of a lifetime. Only it means playing a gay man and Keith, live-in girlfriend and all, is definitely straight. Or so he thought, until sexy Carl Bronson kisses him on camera. Carl Bronson, the consummate professional, never thought he'd fall for a co-star, but he has, and hard, for Keith. To Carl's amazement the feeling is mutual, and soon the sparks start to fly both on screen and off. Things are perfect until someone threatens to expose them as real lovers, placing their future in the acting business in jeopardy. Will they follow the advice of Keith's agent Adam Lewis, and deny, deny, deny their true feelings to the tabloids? Or take the chance and expose themselves, their love and possibly risk their careers? Sometimes the hardest role for an actor is real life. [Back to Table of Contents] 275

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Chapter One "Adam, Keith O'Leary is on line one." "Thanks, Natalie." Adam sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. "Keith?" "Hey, Adam." "Have you read the script?" "I have." Adam detected some hesitation in his voice. "Look, Keith, I know it's not what you were initially after. But before you turn it down, let me tell you how many other roles I've tried to hook you up with without success. Don't reject it outright until you've thought long and hard about it." "Adam ... I understand that and I do appreciate it." "But?" Adam tried not to grow angry. "I have to touch another guy." "I know. Forget it, all right?" Adam rubbed his forehead hating the fact that he had been sending out Keith's headshots and credentials for three months and no one was offering him a thing. "Don't get angry with me, Adam." "I am. Let me tell you why, Keith." Adam sat up in his chair and forced himself to speak calmly. "Forever Young is the hottest new drama on cable television at the moment. Okay? People would kill to get an audition, let alone an offer for a steady paycheck. Once you are in as a main character, you're set for years. Are you listening to me?" "Yes." 276

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"I haven't been totally honest with you because before this offer I didn't want to crush you, but I have to tell you, Keith, because of your..." Adam wanted to say it gently, but decided to just be blunt, "...your pretty looks," Adam heard his groan. "No one wants you. Okay?" "Pretty?" "Yes. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Keith." Adam laughed at the irony of the conversation. "But, you're fucking pretty. Okay?" "What should I do? Shave my head and grow a beard?" "Oh, hell no. You'd never get work at all." Adam straightened his back and stared down at the paperwork on his desk. "Please, don't reject it based solely because you have to have contact with another male actor. And that's why they call it acting, Keith. Remember?" "I just don't know if I can do it." "Fine. I'll tell them you've declined the offer. Just don't whine when nothing comes in for you for another six months. It's not because I'm not trying." "Hang on. Don't call them just yet." Exhaling in annoyance, Adam had too many other phone calls to make to get bogged down with this kind of indecision. "I have to call them, Keith. If I don't, they'll offer it to someone else." "Go over the figures again. How much?" Wishing he had sent a gay man to do the job, Adam cupped the phone to shout, "Natalie!" "Yes, boss?" 277

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"Can you find the offer for Keith O'Leary for the role of Dennis Jason in Forever Young?" "Yes. One sec." Adam listened to the other end of the phone line. "You still there?" "I am. I want to discuss it with my girlfriend a little. I mean, this may weird her out as well." "Why? Jesus, Keith, you're not expected to screw the guy. You know these dramas, if two men kiss it's monumental late night news." Natalie rushed in with a folder. "Thanks, Nat." Adam took it and pulled the paperwork out of the envelope. "Right. Ready?" "Shoot." Adam read the terms of the contract including the salary. Once he had he pushed the papers aside, he reclined in his leather chair. "I need to call them sometime today." "I'll get back to you in an hour." "Thank you, Keith." "No, thank you, Adam." Adam hung up and grumbled, "You better take it, baby, there ain't much out there for you." Natalie stood at his office door. "Is he passing it up?" Slipping the paperwork into its folder, Adam replied, "He's afraid to kiss a man. Believe it?" Smiling wryly, Natalie approached him to retrieve the folder. "You should invite him over for dinner with you and Jack. Oh, and Steve and Mark." 278

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Adam gave her an impish grin. "That would either convert him or scare the nuts off him." Natalie left his office, giggling as she went, to sit back at her desk. Adam kept his smile as he looked at a photo of he and Jack he had propped up on his desk. **** "What did he say, Keith?" Dropping down on the sofa beside her with the pad he had scribbled figures on, Keith showed her the numbers. "That much?" "Yes." "Do it!" Keith rubbed his face with both hands, leaning over his lap as he considered his options. Patty curled around him to support him. "Keith, I'm struggling to pay my half of the rent waitressing and you're living off your savings. It's not good." "I know." "We both have been dying to get into acting. That soap is awesome. It's the hottest show on cable at the moment." "I know," he echoed, moaning. "You'd be insane not to take it! Look!" She held the pad with the amount of his salary on it as if he hadn't been the one to write it. Flopping back to slouch on the couch, Keith connected Patty's worried eyes. "Fine. I'll take it." 279

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She wrapped around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Hollywood here you come!" **** Adam arrived home seeing Jack's Jaguar parked out front. Taking off his tie as he entered the house, hearing loud rock music, he peered into their home gym to find his blond hunk pumping iron. "Hello, handsome!" "Hey, cutie." "I'll be there as soon as I change." "Can't wait," Jack replied, pressing an enormous amount of weight over his head while he lay back on a bench. Ascending the stairs to their bedroom, Adam quickly shed his suit and dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a running top. Carrying his sneakers, he jogged back to the gym and sat down on a bench to tie his laces. "How was work?" Jack shouted over the loud music. "Good. Remind me to tell you something." "Oh?" "Yes." Adam gave Jack a smile. After Jack set the weights down on their mounts, he sat up, crossed the room to lower the music. "Now what?" "No. Nothing like what you're thinking. I know how your mind works, Larsen. I'm not in trouble." "Good." Jack approached. "Don't I get a kiss hello?" "Oh. I've been remiss! Get over here, stud." Adam jumped off the bench and onto Jack, wrapping his legs around his hips. Moaning softly at the taste of Jack's mouth, Adam enjoyed a good wet tongue kiss before he paused to stare 280

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into Jack's aquamarine eyes. "If we keep this up, we'll screw instead of working out." Jack set him back on his feet gently. "What happened at work?" As Adam stood on the treadmill, feeding it his info, he replied, "You know that incredible new cable television series, Forever Young?" "I do." Jack began adding more weights to his already loaded bar. "I sent a young pretty blue-eyed blond there for an audition for a new character. They loved him. Instantly made an offer." "And?" Jack lay back down on the bench, adjusting his leather fingerless gloves. "The guy is twenty-six and hasn't done anything but a few crappy commercials. But ... he's damn gorgeous." "And?" Jack asked with more emphasis. "He's straight and the roll is for him to play a gay partner to one of the regulars." "Which regular?" "If I tell you, it'll be a spoiler." "Adam..." Jack chided. "For Troy Wright. The character that plays the son of Sylvia and Marty. The actor's name is Carl Bronson." "He's going to be gay?" Jack laughed. "I love that show." "I know. He's fricken hot. Do you believe this client, Keith, almost turned it down because he has to touch the guy?" "I'd touch him." "Oi! You will not." 281

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"I'm teasing. So? Is he taking the part?" "He is. He called me right before I left the office." Adam began a slow jog to warm up. "Jack, he'd be nuts not to. The money is phenomenal, and if his character melds well with the existing cast, he could have a job for years." "He wouldn't be the first straight man to play a gay role. What's the big deal? Gay guys play straight roles all the time." "Shh, that's a secret." Adam winked. [Back to Table of Contents]

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About the Author Award-winning author G. A. Hauser was born in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, USA, and attended university in New York City. She moved to Seattle, Washington where she worked as a patrol officer with the Seattle Police Department. In early 2000 G.A. moved to Hertfordshire, England, where she began her writing in earnest and published her first book, In the Shadow of Alexander. Now a full-time writer in Ohio, G.A. has written dozens of novels, including several bestsellers of gay fiction. For more information on other books by G.A., visit the author at her official website at: www.authorga.com. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Other works by G.A. Hauser: The Vampire and the Man-eater Stock broker Brock Hart's idea of fun was playing at the local gay nightclub every weekend with someone new. He imagined the Rules of Relationships didn't apply to him, and his best friend thought his nonchalant attitude towards sex was crazy. Until one night his playboy image was put to the test. Spying Brock in a crowded club, Vampire Daniel Wolf sets his sights on the handsome 'man-eater' businessman. Sparks literally fly, between the two, and with one bite from the sexy vamp Brock is hooked. Never did Brock ever imagine falling for anyone, especially not a man from Sixteenth Century England! The only problem is, he's a vampire. Can love conquer all? It will be a challenge, but one Brock is up for, in so many ways. Murphy's Hero Sometimes ... being a hero isn't about putting on a cape. Alexander Parker has always been painfully shy and his job at the British Museum keeps him busy. Dedicated and serious, no one is more surprised than Alexander when the replica of a Greek warrior's helmet he impulsively places on his head suddenly transforms him from mild-mannered clerk into something else entirely. Adrian Mackenzie, the editor of a famous erotic gay magazine, is about to get the scoop of the decade. The crimeridden city seems to have a savior, a mysterious man who is 284

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righting wrongs, protecting innocents, and as luck would have it ... is extremely hot. When Adrian happens to stumble upon the Good Samaritan in action he falls hard and fast discovering love and Alexander's true identity. Now, if he can only get Alexander to come out of the closet. But is the world ready for a gay superhero? Let bestselling author G.A. Hauser take you on an unforgettable fun-filled adventure and discover the story that inspired Ewan Gallagher's famous movie roll in G.A.'s For Love and Money. Exposure Exposure ... the truth will set you free In politics for twenty years, Senator Kipp Kensington knows that even a whisper of suspicion about his sexuality could jeopardize his aspirations for the Presidency. Kipp thought he could be content living a lie in a marriage of convenience. Then he met Robin Grant. Leather-clad, motorcycle riding Robin isn't accustomed to hiding what he is or denying himself who he wants. The instant he meets Kipp, the sparks begin to fly and what started as a chance encounter soon turns into a full-blown affair of sizzling proportions. When the contract Kipp has had for nine years with his now alcoholic, bitter wife begins to crumble and he's threatened with blackmail, the senator needs to make a decision. Should he hide who he really is in order to avoid losing his career, or reveal the truth and set himself free? Leather Boys 285

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Book Four in the Men in Motion Series Start your engines, mount up, and get ready for the ride of a life-time... Sexy gay fiction author Devlin Young donned his helmet, black leather jacket, and jeans. Then he mounted his Kawasaki and set off for what he anticipated would be a wild ride to Sturgis. There were thousands of motorcycles, thousands of men, but only one Sam Rhodes. When web-designer Sam Rhodes joined a local group called The Leather Boys, he wasn't quite sure what to expect, but he knew what it was he wanted. Amidst the decadence and insanity of the monster event, all Sam could think about was what it would be like to share an erotic experience with the deliciously naughty Dev Young. Never one to apologize for who he is, or who he desires, Devlin doesn't understand Sam's reluctance to openly explore their relationship or his wish to keep their liaisons confined to the darkness of their tents while at the rally. Then he crosses swords with a tough-as-nails biker who both taunts and tempts him, unleashing a potentially dangerous craving and pushing Dev to make a choice. Cruising Book Two in the Men in Motion Series Brodie Duncan expected to be taking a week-long Alaskan cruise with his girlfriend. But when she ended their relationship just moments before boarding, he ended up on the ship alone. Determined to make the best of a bad situation, Brodie considers a no-strings-attached fling. What 286

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he didn't bargain for was a man as appealing as Julian Richards. Trapped in his own bad relationship with a selfish woman he was starting to resent, the charismatic Julian is shocked by his reaction to tall, dark, and handsome Brodie. Instantly attracted to each other, the men create enough heat on their trip to the Inside Passage to melt the Glaciers in the bay. In the end, on a vacation full of surprises, Julian and Brodie discover that not only do they have strong feelings for one another, by Cruising they just might have found their soul mates. Driving Hard Book Two in the Men in Motion Series They met on the highway. It was the beginning of ride they'd never forget... Texan Jude Rae Clark hit the road in his pride and joy, a jet black International big rig, searching for a new life after his divorce. Unfortunately the long, lonely hauls provided little comfort until just outside Houston on Interstate 10 a blueeyed stranger asked for a lift. Yale Law School graduate, Logan Bleau, set out to explore America and escape his past by hitching his way across country to San Francisco. When he meets up with a handsome stranger in his eighteen-wheeler, a physical attraction blooms and the two men end up taking a detour. When what began as sexual exploration on the open road turns into something deeper, the pair find themselves reevaluating their lives and Jude is faced with a decision. Give 287

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up his career of cruising the highways or pass up on the love of a lifetime. Mile High Book One in the Men in Motion Series Divorced accountant Owen Braydon spends his weeks working in Los Angeles and his weekends in Denver with his daughter. Straight-laced and mild mannered, he normally looks at the weekly flight to and from Denver as an opportunity to get some extra work done. But then he found himself on the same plane as the luscious Taylor Madison. Texas-born Taylor is from Denver, but for several months he's been flying back and forth to Los Angeles where he works as a project manager on a major construction job. Charismatic and confident, Taylor is a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to go after it. The second he lays eyes on bi-curious Owen, he knows he wants him. What starts out as a smoldering no-strings-attached initiation into the Mile High Club quickly turns into a weekly ritual that both men look forward to over all else. Soon their desire for one another deepens and both men find themselves wanting and needing more. When a possible change in work assignments threatens to end what they have, both men are faced with a decision. Can the heights they soared together in the air be maintained on the ground? Only if Owen and Taylor are willing to cast aside their doubts, open up their hearts, set aside all inhibitions, and go the extra mile. The Boy Next Door 288

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Brandon Townsend and Zachary Sherman were best friends and next-door neighbors. Growing up together in a cozy suburban town in New Jersey, they were inseparable and thought nothing could tear them apart. Then one night something happened between them, something that brought them even closer together... They didn't anticipate that what began as youthful sexual experimentation would lead them into an affair of the heart that would rock them to the core. Nor did they expect the danger of being discovered and separated by their families. At the time, neither Brandon or Zach realized that life would give them another opportunity. Now, ten years later, a chance meeting brings them together again. Let best-selling gay fiction author G.A. Hauser take you on an unforgettable journey. A coming of age story about faith, about courage, and about trust ... you'll never forget The Boy Next Door. When Adam Met Jack Attorney Jack Larsen may not have everything he wants, but between his successful career and best friend Mark Richfield, he's content. But when Mark comes out of the closet only to declare his love for ex-LAPD officer Steve Miller, Jack is devastated. Months later and still wounded, he's not looking to be swept off his feet, but it's hard to say no to handsome Hollywood hotshot Adam Lewis. Adam Lewis has made a name for himself representing some of today's brightest stars. But when his business partner is accused of unethical behavior, he finds himself in need of legal advice. When Adam walks into the law office of 289

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Jack Larsen, it's strictly business until he sets eyes on the powerful and sexy hero that's about to rescue his reputation. When Adam Met Jack is an amazing new novel by Amazon best selling gay fiction author G.A. Hauser featuring characters from Love you Loveday, For Love and Money, and Capital Games. It's got the glamour of the entertainment industry, the drama of the courtroom, and the amazing passion that you've come to expect from every G.A. Hauser book. Love you, Loveday Angel Loveday thought he had put his life as a gay softporn star of the 1980's behind him. For seventeen years he's hidden his sexuality and sordid past from his teenage son. But when someone threatens Angel's secret and Detective Billy Sharpe is assigned to his case, he finds himself having to once again face them both. Since his youth Billy Sharpe has had erotic on-screen images of Angel Loveday emblazoned in his mind. Now Angel is there in the flesh, needing his protection and stirring up the passionate fantasies that Billy thought he'd long ago abandoned. As the harassment continues and the danger grows, Billy and Angel become closer. What began as an instant attraction turns into an undeniable hunger that unlocks Angel's heart. It's a race against time as Billy tries to save the man of his dreams from a life without love and the maniacal stalker hellbent on destroying him. To Have and to Hostage 290

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When he was taken hostage by a strange man Michael never expected he'd lose his heart... Michael Vernon is a rich, spoiled brat with a string of meaningless lovers and an entourage of superficial friends. With no direction in life, he wastes his days spending his father's money and drowning himself in liquor ... until he crashes into a man even more desperate than himself, Jarrod Hunter. Jarrod Hunter grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Out of work, about to be evicted, and unable to afford his next meal, Jarrod thought he'd reached the end of his rope and was determined to take his life. Then fate intervened delivering him Michael Vernon. Why not take him home, tie him up, and hold him hostage to get the money he needs? Two men from two different worlds ... one dangerous game. Trapped together in close quarters, Jarrod and Michael find themselves sharing their deepest thoughts and fighting an undeniable attraction for each other. As the hours tick by, the captor becomes captivated by his victim and the victim begins to bond with his abductor. This wake up call might prove to be just what Michael needs to set himself free. To Have and to Hostage ... sometimes you have to hit bottom before realizing that what you need is standing right in front of you. Giving Up the Ghost The visit from beyond the grave that changed their lives forever... Artist Ryan Monroe had everything he wanted and then in a blink of an eye, he lost what mattered most of all, his soul291

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mate, Victor. Tortured by an overwhelming sense of grief and unable to move on, his pain spills out, reflected in the blood red hues of his paintings. Paul Goldman thought he'd found the love of his life in Evan, his beloved pianist. Their mutual passion for music was outweighed only by their passion for one another. They were planning a life-time together, but then one fateful night Evan's was taken. Drowning in sorrow, unable to find solice, the heart-broken violinist has resigned himself to a life alone. Now it's two years later and something, someone, is bringing them together. Two men, two loves, two great losses ... and one hot ghost. Giving up the Ghost by G.A. Hauser, you won't be able to put down! Captial Games Let the games begin... Former Los Angeles Police officer Steve Miller has gone from walking a beat in the City of Angels to joining the rat race as an advertising executive. He knows how cut-throat the industry can be, so when his boss tells him that he's in direct competition with a newcomer from across the pond for a coveted account he's not surprised ... then he meets Mark Richfield. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and fashion-model good looks, Mark is used to getting what he wants. About to be married, Mark has just nailed the job of his dreams. If the determined Brit could just steal the firm's biggest account right out from under Steve Miller, his life would be perfect. When their boss sends them together to the Arizona desert for a team-building retreat the tension between the two 292

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dynamic men escalates until in the heat of the moment their uncontrollable passion leads them to a sexual experience that neither can forget. Will Mark deny his feelings and follow through with marriage to a women he no longer wants, or will he realize in time that in the game of love, sometimes you have to let go and lose yourself in order to really win. Secrets and Misdemeanors When having to hide your love is a crime... After losing his wife to his best friend and former law partner, David Thornton couldn't imagine finding love again. With his divorce behind him, he wanted only to focus on his job and two children. But then something happened, making David realize that despite believing he had everything he needed, there was someone he desperately wanted—Lyle Wilson. Young and determined, Lyle arrived in Los Angeles without a penny in his pocket. Before long, however, the sexy construction worker nailed a job remodeling the old office building that held the prestigious Thornton Law Firm. Little did Lyle realize when he gazed upon the handsome and successful David Thornton for the first time that a door would be opened that neither man could close. Will the two men succumb to the tangled web of societal pressures placed before them, hiding who they are and whom they love? Or will they reveal the truth and set themselves free? Naked Dragon 293

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Police Officer Dave Harris has just been assigned to one of the worst serial murder cases in Seattle history: The Dragon is hunting young Asian men. In order to solve the crime it's going to take a bit more than good old-fashioned police work. It's going to take handsome FBI Agent Robbie Taylor. Robbie is an experienced Federal Agent with psychic abilities that allow him to enter the minds of others. You can't hide your secrets and desires from someone that knows your every thought. Some think what Robbie has is a gift, others a skill, but when the mind you have to enter is that of a madman it can also be a curse. As the corpses pile up and the tension mounts, so does the sexual attraction between the two men. Then a moment of passion leads to a secret affair. Will their love be the distraction that costs them the case and possibly even their lives? Or will the bond forged between them be the key to their survival? The Kiss Twenty-five year old actor Scott Epstein is no stranger to the modeling industry. He's done it himself between acting jobs. So when his sister, Claire, casts him in a chewing-gum commercial with the famous British model, Ian Sullivan, he doesn't ask any questions. He's a professional. He'll show up, hit his mark, say his lines, and collect his paycheck. Right? Ian Sullivan is used to making heads turn. Stunningly handsome, he's accustomed to provocative photo shoots where sex sells everything from perfume to laundry soap. Ian was thrilled when Claire Epstein cast him in the new Minty 294

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gum commercial. He has to kiss his co-star on screen? No problem. Until he finds out Scott is the one he has to kiss! Never before has a commercial featured two men, kissing on screen. Claire knows that the advertisement will be ground-breaking, and Scott knows that his sister needs his performance to be perfect. As the filming progresses and the media circus begins around the controversial advertisement, the chemistry between Ian and Scott heats up and the two men quite simply burn up the screen. Is it all an act? Or, have Ian and Scott entered into a clandestine affair that will lead them to love? For Love and Money Handsome Dr. Jason Philips, the heir to a vast fortune, had followed his heart and pursued his dream of becoming a physician. Ewan P. Gallagher had a different dream. Acting in local theater, the talented twenty-year-old was determined to be a famous success. As fate would have it, Jason happened to be working in casualty one night when Ewan was admitted as a patient. Jason was more than flattered and surprisingly aroused by the younger man's obvious attraction to him. The two men entered into a steamy affair finding love, until their ambitions pulled them apart. Now, one year later and stuck in a sham of a marriage that he entered into only to preserve his inheritance, Jason is filled with regret. Caught between obligation and freedom, duty and desire, Jason finds that he can no longer deny his passion. He plans to win Ewan, Hollywood's newest rising star, back! 295

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A Question of Sex Sharon Tice seems to have it all. She's beautiful, confident, sexy, and holds an executive position in her father's prestigious firm. But when her father puts her in charge of his latest building project, Sharon soon discovers that her life is missing something ... Mark Antonious Richfield. Mark is one of Los Angeles' most eligible bachelors, charming, charismatic and successful. His first encounter with Sharon takes him by complete surprise. The attraction between the two is undeniable and when they give in to the impulse to satisfy it, and one another, it's positively explosive. After his first taste of Sharon, Mark is left wanting more, and the sultry blonde is more than willing until she's introduced to Jack, Mark's roommate, and begins to suspect that they are lovers. Somewhere between rumor and innuendo lies the truth. Will Sharon put aside her fears and jealousy long enough to discover the possibility of love? Or, will it simply remain A Question of Sex? [Back to Table of Contents]

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This is a publication of Linden Bay Romance WWW.LINDENBAYROMANCE.COM [Back to Table of Contents]

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Recommended Read: Trilogy No. 111: Speak Its Name Expectations riding on a generation of young Englishmen are immense; for those who've something to hide, those expectations could prove overwhelming. Aftermath When shy Edward Easterby first sees the popular Hugo Lamont, he's both envious of the man's social skills and ashamed of finding him so attractive. But two awful secrets weigh Lamont down. One is that he fancies Easterby, at a time when the expression of such desires is strictly illegal. The second is that an earlier, disastrous encounter with a young gigolo has left him unwilling to enter into a relationship with anyone. Hugo feels torn apart by the conflict between what he wants and what he feels is "right". Will Edward find that time and patience are enough to change Hugo's mind? Gentleman's Gentleman Lord Robert Scoville has lived in a reasonably comfortable Victorian closet, without hope of real love, or any notion that it's right there in front of him if he would only open his eyes and take notice of his right-hand man, Jack Darling. Jack has done his best to be satisfied with the lesser intimacy of caring for the man he loves, but his feigned role as a below-stairs ladies' man leaves his heart empty. When a simple diplomatic errand turns dangerous and a man from their past raises unanswerable questions, both men find themselves endangered by the secrets between them. Can they untangle 298

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the web of misunderstanding before an unknown attacker parts them forever? Hard and Fast Major Geoffrey Chaloner has returned, relatively unscathed, from the Napoleonic War, and England is at peace for the first time in years. Unable to set up his own establishment, he is forced to live with his irascible father who has very clear views on just about everything—including exactly whom Geoffrey will marry and why. The trouble is that Geoffrey isn't particularly keen on the idea, and even less so when he meets Adam Heyward, the enigmatic cousin of the lady his father has picked out for him ... As Geoffrey says himself: "I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own."

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