Page 3 of Molly Boys
He stepped out and walked shamelessly across the room in nothing but his lace gloves, stockings, and richly embroidered brocade corset, leaving his cock exposed and swinging freely as he moved.
The shadows cast by the dim lamplight rippled and danced across his skin as he sauntered to an intricately painted screen and reached up, unhooking a delicate silk robe from the corner. He slid it over his slim shoulders and crossed the front ties over his body, albeit not from any real sense of modesty. Francis just loved the feel of silk against his skin.
“What’s wrong, Ev, darling?” Francis lowered himself to the sofa beside his friend, curling his legs beneath him as he lifted the cigarillo from Everett’s fingers and took a drag.
“I received a letter from my father,” Everett confessed morosely.
“Ah.” Francis took another drag and handed it back to Everett. “In that case, I think we’re going to need something stronger.”
Everett watched quietly as, from a steamer trunk tucked into the corner of the room, Francis retrieved a large, black lacquered box inlaid with delicate orchids made of mother-of-pearl.
Settling down comfortably on the rug in front of the sofa, Francis leaned against Everett’s legs as he opened the box and began to lay out the contents in front of them. Inside was a rectangular tray of deep red with an intricate gold inlay, upon which sat a delicate oriental lamp, a pipe, several minute tools, and a small pot.
“So what did the old bastard want?” Francis asked as he opened the pot and revealed raw opium.
“The usual.” Everett sighed heavily as he watched Francis pick up the delicate tools in turn and use them to shape the opium into pellets. “He wants me back at Hillingdon.”
“Ah… the old family seat in the middle of Derby with nothing to see for miles but the odd sheep or, if you’re lucky, a randy young farmer.” Francis’ mouth curved in sardonic amusement as he lifted the long, fluted pipe.
“He wants me there Sunday next, he has Bishop Goodwin visiting.” Everett’s lip curled in distaste.
“That perverted old bugger,” Francis sneered, using a needle-like tool to place the opium in a tiny bowl which sat upon a saddle at one end of the pipe. “Your father better lock up all the housemaids unless he wants to discover they’re suddenly breeding ecclesiastical bastards.”
“I don’t think he’d notice or care,” Everett replied as he took the pipe Francis offered. He waited as Francis retrieved the lamp and set it on a sturdy footstool in front of him. “He’s too focused on me,” he added.
“You have my deepest sympathies.” Francis smirked as he watched Everett lean over the lamp, its warm flame giggling and hiccupping drunkenly when he used it to heat the bowl of the pipe. “I don’t want to even contemplate what my life would be like if I was still beholden to my father. The best thing he ever did for me was die.”
As the opium vaporised, Everett took a long, deep drag, feeling the smoke snake down his throat and fill his lungs. He held his breath for a moment, savouring the burn before exhaling slowly.
“That’s because your father was even worse than mine.” He handed Francis the pipe. “And rest assured, your father is more than likely turning in his grave right now.”
“I do hope so.” Francis puckered his rouged lips and blew Everett a kiss before lifting the pipe to his lips and inhaling blissfully. “I thought your father had allowed you a year in London before… you know…”
“What my father says and what he actually means are two completely different things.” He raised his drink to his lips and drained the heavy glass.
“I still can’t see it, you know.” Francis blew out a thin, elegant stream of smoke and handed the pipe back to Everett, then climbed to his feet to retrieve the bottle of whiskey from his dressing table.
“What?” He placed the pipe between his lips and sucked, frowning for a moment before leaning back over the lamp and letting the heat vaporise more of the poppy.
“You.” Francis dropped back onto the rug and curled into the side of Everett’s legs as he picked up the glass and refilled it with a grin of amusement. “A man of the cloth. I can’t think of anyone more ill-suited to a life in the clergy.”
“You, darling,” Everett laughed, two thin tendrils of smoke escaping his nostrils.
“That’s true.” Francis smirked again. “Christ… Father Francis. Could you imagine?” he exclaimed, aghast. “But that was never going to be my fate.”
It was true. As a first-born son and only child, Francis Tiverton had been born to inherit his father’s title of Marquess of Lichfield, just as Everett’s own brother would inherit their father’s title of Marquess of Derby, along with all the estates and family fortune.
Everett, on the other hand, had a far worse fate in store. As the second-born son, it was expected that he join the clergy. It was why he’d been pressed to study theology as well as mathematics at Cambridge. His father had wanted to present him to the bishop for ordination as soon as his education had concluded—a fate he’d manage to elude thus far, but unfortunately, the clock was ticking.
“What are you going to do?” Francis asked.
“What I’ve been doing ever since I arrived in London—avoid my family. Although I have a feeling I’ll be receiving a visit from my brother before long.”
“Urgh, Hugh.” Francis had never really cared much for Everett’s priggish older brother. “Your brother needs to remove that stick from his arse.” Francis’ expression turned sly as he raised a brow. “I’m sure I could stick something far more enjoyable up there.”
Everett chuckled at the unlikely scenario. Hugh would be horrified to learn that his own brother was a molly, much less indulge in that kind of behaviour himself. “I fear my brother might disagree somewhat and, I imagine, so would his wife.”
“Pft,” Francis huffed. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Besides, it’s not as if he’d be able to report you. He’d never risk that kind of damage to the family legacy.”