Right now I have to go do the fun thing of skinning chicken thighs for supper. Blecch.

I need a cook. A cook and a maid. A cook, a maid, and a chauffer. (Is that spelled right? You know, the guy in the uniform with the tight pants, who drives a car? It doesn’t look like it’s spelled right.)

Thank you Coffee Time Romance for the chance to do this. The company wasn’t numerous but it was choice.

Excerpt from Betsy (c) Ruth Sims

PROLOGUE

THAT WHICH WAS, IS

November, 1854

Washington City, District of Columbia

The cardinal flew away, deserting the windowsill and the breadcrumbs she had put out, and the old lady’s smile faded. “Prisoner,” she muttered. “That’s what I am. A prisoner. He can fly away. They won’t even let me go out walking alone anymore.” She thumped her walking stick on the carpet. “A prisoner!”

Only five years ago she had walked for miles to visit elderly friends, and she had done it in rain, shine, or snow. Now they wouldn’t let her. They fussed over her. Everyone fussed; they were making an old woman of her. It was not fair.

Her faded eyes were no longer as black as the weeds she wore, but they still saw sharply. Her memory was better than her daughter’s. And if she put aside her small amount of vanity and used the ivory ear trumpet she still heard quite well also. But sight, memory and hearing aside, she supposed she had to admit age was catching up with her body. She heard them–when they thought she couldn’t–refer to her as elderly.

“Ninety-seven,” she mumbled. “It’s a number, that’s all. ‘Elderly!’”

Her thoughts returned wistfully to the walks she had always taken. As a girl she had shamelessly hiked her skirts above her ankles, taken off her shoes and crossed creeks on the slippery stones. She had climbed trees like a boy. She had walked hills and valleys, and … “Ninety-seven,” she said again, defeated. They were right. She was…elderly.

These days her exercise was taken in the garden, only in good weather, and never alone.

She touched the old gold locket that dully gleamed on her bodice, which she was never without. Alex had given her the locket and its contents on the first anniversary of their meeting. In it was a lock of his hair, still bright auburn, and a little poem he had written for her. The paper was fragile and had crumbled in places. She had repaired it with needle and thread many times, but there was nothing left that was firm enough to repair. It didn’t matter. She would soon no longer need it.

Slowly her eyes became dreamy. Not long ago at all. If she shut out the present world she could recapture that frigid winter day when they met. She was twenty-two again, General Schuyler’s favorite daughter, and her body was lithe and strong, and her hair was ink-black and thick. She knew she wasn’t a great beauty like her sister Angelica, but it didn’t matter. She was young and healthy and she had dancing black eyes.

…………..

On that snowy day she had just arrived in a sleigh at headquarters in Morristown, bearing a message from her father for General Washington and a little gift from her mother for Martha…

One aide divested her of her warm hooded cloak and fur mittens. Another went to fetch hot chocolate while another led her to a chair near the fire, as if she couldn’t find it unescorted. A fourth knelt before her, took one snow-covered boot in his bare hands, and looked boldly up at her.

She forgot the other boys as she stared into the depths of eyes that were such a dark blue they were nearly violet. As he removed the first boot, he grinned in a way that could only be described as charmingly impudent. Her breath stopped for a moment. Oh, those blue, blue eyes! Auburn curly hair. Very white teeth. Red, white, and blue, she thought. He even looks patriotic. He held her bootless left foot in his hand far longer than he needed to and the heat of his hand sent her blood racing. She knew a blush had risen to her face.

Then he released her foot, quickly removed her other boot, and stood. “Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton at your service, Mistress Schuyler,” he said.

She stifled a laugh. How strangely formal for a man who had just had his hand—and he had beautiful hands, she noticed—wrapped around her almost naked foot. And despite the respect in his voice, an impudent rascal still lurked in his blue-violet eyes. She did not have Angelica’s experience with men, but even she recognized that the young soldier would like to remove far more than her boots…

====================

I hope lots of people read this today. Since this is a blog, I’m gonna blog about something I think is important: Independent Bookstores.

They’re disappearing faster than ethics in politics. And book buyers are the only ones who can rescue them.

It’s not an easy call. The economy’s bad, we’re all being more cautious with their money now, and, sadly, for most of us, including me, there isn’t an independent bookstore for miles and miles. So for a lot of reasons, we order more from EBay, Amazon, discount houses, and online.  But whenever it’s possible, please, please, please, patronize an independent bookstore. Here’s a site where you cal locate the one nearest you.

The Phoenix print book is available online but it’s also in independent brick and mortar stores such as Giovanni’s Room, TLA, and Lambda Rising.

Independent Bookstore Finder:

http://www.indiebound.org/indie-bookstore-finder

And while I’m on the subject of book-buying, if you get e-books, please don’t order them from one of those “free-download” websites. They are nothing more nor less than pirates who are violating international copyright. Maybe they’re not making money from the sale of the e-books but they ARE FOR PROFIT. They get a lot of advertising. Most people, I really believe, don’t knowingly support piracy. But now you know. An author puts months and sometimes years into writing something, work, research, frustration, heart and soul. Every free download is money taken away from the author. So if you’re ever tempted by the seduction of “Free” please stop and think before you hit the download button.

Finally! I got the cover image to load. This is the cover by Ben Baldwin for the NEW edition, published by Lethe Press February 2009.  The original edition was self-published and has a brown cover.

See the video trailer at www.ruthsims.com and read the reviews.

Here are the plain-jane facts about it:

Lethe Press; New Edition (February 1, 2009)
ISBN-10 1590210468
ISBN-13: 978-1590210468

Listing in the Lethe catalog

http://lethepressbooks.com/gay.htm#sims-the-phoenix

Ebook available for Kindle on Amazon, and also in several formats at:

http://allromanceebooks.com/product-thephoenix-14023-145.html

(reminder: Counterpoint is unpublished at this time)

===================================

The next morning was fog-gray and as Dylan left the lodging-house he was disconcerted to find Dohnányi sitting like a beggar﷓boy on the bottom step. He was the last person Dylan expected or wanted to see. It was cold and the stupid fool did not even have the common sense to wear a coat.

Geoffrey leaped to his feet as Dylan came down the stairs. “Mr. Rutledge, may I please speak with you?”

Dylan said brusquely, “I enjoyed the performance. You are even more brilliant than Schonberg said. Now go away. I have work to do.” He hurried toward a cab, for the day was too wet to ride his bicycle.

“Please, I need to explain about—”

“You owe me no explanation.”

Geoffrey tagged after him. “But I do. The man you saw last evening—”

Dylan took a deep breath. “I met him at the Maestro’s party, if you recall. You owe me no explanation,” he repeated.

“But I want you to understand.”

Dylan rounded on him. “Why?”

Geoffrey’s gaze did not waver. “I don’t want you to tell Maestro Schonberg what you saw.”

“I saw nothing. Good day.” Dylan had one foot in the cab when Geoffrey spoke again, in anger.

“You judge me without knowing anything about me.”

“I’m not jud— What you do is no business of mine.”

“But you make my business yours when you look at me so.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As if I stole your chickens. That look.”

“Your imagination is overworked.” He climbed into the cab, shut the door, started to tap on the roof, changed his mind and got out. Geoffrey was walking away and he followed. Geoffrey kicked a large stone, hopped as if it hurt his foot, kicked it again, then reached for his bicycle. “Wait!” called Dylan, and when he was inches away from him demanded, “As long as you feel like explaining, explain why you changed my St. Joan?”

Geoffrey’s chin lifted. “It was made better, wasn’t it?”

“Whether it was or wasn’t is a matter of opinion, and at any rate that is not the point. The point is: you didn’t ask.”

“Do I ask Beethoven? Do I ask Mendelssohn? No. I’m an artist. I interpret.”

“Those composers are conveniently dead. I’m not.”

“Mr. Rutledge, you are a great composer. You’re also a great fool.”

“Oh, really! Well, you’re a great violinist. And no less a fool!”

“You think you are God!”

“And you would rewrite the Ten Commandments. Without asking permission of the Author.”

They glared daggers at one another. “If you truly consider me a great violinist—”

“I said as much, didn’t I?”

Geoffrey did not acknowledge his words. “If you consider me a great violinist,” he repeated, “why do you object to my playing St. Joan?”

Dylan pounded his fist into his other hand to emphasize each word. “You. Didn’t. Play. It. The way. I. Composed. It. Is that plain enough?”

“Anyone other than Dylan Rutledge would be flattered. Or is it that I played it? A nobody. A Gypsy orphan from nowhere. Is that it?” A muscle worked in his lightly whiskered jaw. “Very well. I give you my word. I shall never again perform your work.” He righted his bicycle.

“I didn’t mean that. All I ask is that you play it as I intended.”

“Am I to read your mind? I’ve never seen the score.”

Dylan was thunderstruck. “Not seen the score? Then how could you play it?”

“I remember it.”

“You heard it once, long ago.”

Geoffrey’s voice was low, the strain and anger were gone. “I loved it then. I still do.”

“You picked it to shreds that night!”

“I said the scherzo in the first violin and cello were flawed. If you’ve not revised them, they still are. It doesn’t affect my love for the work.”

At a loss for words, Dylan finally managed to say, “That is the strangest compliment I’ve ever had.”

“Perhaps if you could give me a score…?”

“Yes. Yes. Then you’ll play it as written, I presume?”

Geoffrey grinned. “Dine with the Maestro and me Sunday. Bring the score and we’ll discuss it.” He hopped on his bicycle and sped off.

“Wait!” Dylan called. “What do you mean ‘discuss?’ There’s nothing to discuss!” He heard Geoffrey’s laughter as he turned a corner and was gone from sight. “Damn him! If he thinks that I will change anything, he’s sadly mistaken. And there’s nothing wrong with the scherzo. I know there isn’t.” Dylan once again set off in the cab. “The scherzo is perfect,” he said to himself as the vehicle rattled through the street. “I’ll prove it. I’ll get it out tonight. If I can remember which box it’s in. Damn him!” Yet there was still the provoking memory of those grating double-stops which so aptly portrayed the fire and St. Joan’s terror. And which he had not written.

=================================

A man in a tailcoat came out from the wings. Smoothing his impressive handlebar mustache, he bellowed, “Ladies and gentlemen, a few weeks ago La Bohème had the great pleasure of introducing you to higher class entertainment when we introduced a world-famous ar-teest who’s a favorite with all of you and even your kiddies. After a triumphant tour of wild, romantic Hungary where he played for the king he has returned. Here he is by popular demand, the star of the evening: London’s own Prince of the Gypies, youngest son of the King of the Gypsies—Chavula Dohnányi!” The applause and whistles were deafening. Geoffrey strode onstage with a confident swagger.

This was a Geoffrey Dohnányi Dylan had not even known existed. Chavula? Tight black trousers were tucked into calf-high, polished black boots which emphasized his long legs and lean build. He wore a white blouse unbuttoned to the wide, fancifully embroidered sash of blue, crimson, and gold that was knotted at his waist. His hair was brushed back and the gold hoop was audaciously displayed. He lowered his head slightly and threw a seductive glance at the audience, emphasizing it with a slow grin.

The mother in the box breathed, “Cor’. He’s so byoo-tiful.” Her husband growled, “A bloody mandrake, I don’t doubt.” The whistles became louder, and then Geoffrey’s expressive face became serious. He tucked his violin beneath his chin and positioned the bow. Silence fell like a blessing upon the raucous crowd.

Dylan had never heard a violin played as Geoffrey Dohnányi played that night. The piano accompanist floundered and quit; no one noticed. Geoffrey’s slim body was in constant motion from head to feet, almost dancing when he played a czardas that had the people clapping in rhythm, slow … slow … faster … faster … and still faster until his fingers were flying over the strings. He stopped, breathing hard; the rhythmic hands burst into wild applause. He played songs they could sing. He played Schumann. He played musical jokes, making the violin hiccough, and whine, and scold. He played magic.

Suddenly Dylan did gasp aloud. St. Joan! Dohnányi was playing the theme from his St. Joan! But he dared—dared to alter the theme itself! Bad enough that he had once criticized the first violin and cello parts, but to alter the theme was unpardonable! And yet …  He listened, frowning. Dohnányi’s improvised double﷓stops produced a grating dissonance perfect for portraying the fatal flames that reached for the Maid of Orleans.

The audience was uncertain how to react to the serious music. The applause was more of a question than an accolade. “What kind of music was that?” yelled the man in Dylan’s box, waking one of his children. “Need a new fiddle, boy?” Scattered boos answered the man. With effort Dylan resisted the urge to drag the idiot into the street. One may as well paint rainbows for the blind!

Geoffrey’s skin shone with perspiration as he bowed low. He straightened and spoke. “I wish to close with a song I remember from many years ago when I played with my father. It is called Romnichel. I dedicate it to my people.” Geoffrey positioned the violin once more and drew the first melting tones from the strings. Romnichel was sound wrapped in velvet. The simple, rich melody spoke of wide, black skies with a single star, of the smells of dewy grass and rich, damp earth. Romnichel invaded Dylan’s being in a fever of both mind and body. He knew he would feel that music so long as he lived.

There was a momentary hush as the song ended. Geoffrey slowly raised the violin and bow as if offering them to the god of music. The silence was broken by an eruption of applause. As the audience applauded and stamped, whistled and called for more, Geoffrey bowed again before leaving the stage.

Dylan pushed against the crowd streaming through the door. He had to talk to Geoffrey. Had to! He found his way to the backstage area that he hoped led to the dressing rooms. Power! he thought. Such power! And he’s so young! I’ve got to talk to him—damn it, he shouldn’t have changed my work without—my god, the power—I wish I didn’t want him—must talk to him—beautiful, so beautiful—and he didn’t know whether he meant Geoffrey or the music. When he saw Geoffrey standing in the doorway of a dressing room, he was not alone. Dylan stopped short.

A well-dressed man was with him. Geoffrey held his violin case in one hand and with the other he unlocked the dressing room door. The other man said something and laughed. Geoffrey smiled wearily, glanced up and his eyes met Dylan’s. His lips parted as if he were confused. When the man slipped his arm around Geoffrey’s shoulders and nuzzled his ear, Geoffrey looked away from Dylan. They entered the dressing room. The door closed. Dylan heard the short, dull sound of a bolt going into place and was shaken by a strange, unreasoning anger.

Background: The book opens with Dylan at 18 in his last year at Venerable Bede School. He makes a clumsy and immediately rejected attempt at seducing his favorite teacher, Laurence Northcliff. He doesn’t realize that Laurence has fallen in love with him. Being honorable above all else, Laurence resigns his position and goes to Paris to pursue a writing career. A year later, finally out of school, Dylan goes to Paris to study composing. Unexpectedly they encounter one another. Equals now, no longer teacher and student, they spend a lot of time together and one thing leads to another…
==========================

They went one night to see Lucia di Lammermoor, and the tragic beauty of the acting and the music left a residue of emotion.

In the gig, in the darkness, Dylan put one hand on Laurence’s knee, crossed the fingers of his other hand and said, “I have to tell you something. Will you promise to listen?” Laurence said he would. Dylan’s heart pounded as he blurted, “You said yourself I’m not your student anymore. I’m a grown man and I know what I want from life. I know what I want from you. I’m not putting it very well, but … damn it all, do you know what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes.” Laurence’s voice was low, calm, serious.

Dylan moved closer on the seat, until he felt the heat of Laurence’s thigh against his own. “What is it about you that makes me persist in making a fool of myself?”

There was the hint of amusement in Laurence’s voice. “Dear boy, you don’t need my help to make a fool of yourself. You’re more than capable of doing it all alone.”

“I think you just insulted me,” Dylan said. “But I forgive you.” The horse turned its ears toward their soft laughter.
“I want to go to bed with you. Tonight. Now.”

Laurence looked at him. There was enough moonlight edging through the clouds that Dylan could see the shadowed hollows of his eye sockets and the silvered planes of his face. “Yes,” Laurence said.

“Just like that?” Dylan was dumfounded. He had been prepared to argue, seduce, or coax, whatever he had to do. “Just … like that?” he repeated and heard the surprise in his voice.

Laurence uttered a shout of laughter, and slapped the reins against the horse’s rump. The nag picked up the pace. It took only a few minutes to reach the narrow street, only a few more minutes to return the horse and gig to the livery stable and walk the short distance to the house, but it seemed like a very long time to Dylan.

Inside the parlor, with the only light being that of the flickering street lamp just outside the window, Laurence turned to him. “I’ve wanted it, too. Ever since you kissed me at Bede.”

“Mr. Northcliff, Sir, you are just full of surprises! You could have let me know a bit sooner.” This time the kiss was deep and hard and demanding. Not until that instant did it occur to Dylan that he had never kissed anyone but Laurence. He never wanted to stop.

Laurence stumbled backward against the door, pulling Dylan with him, their mouths still together until they broke apart, gasping for air. “Dylan, I don’t—I don’t have much—experience. The truth is, my love … I know about as much as a turnip.”

Dylan looked deep into the blue eyes he had dreamed about; in the semi-darkness, with wide pupils, they looked black. My love. Emotion shook him as Laurence touched his face with trembling fingertips. My love. Love. So this was what love felt like—being willing to die for just one more touch, being willing to wait for the rest if needs be. This was not Rob, ready at all times for mindless shagging that would be over and forgotten in minutes. Dylan held Laurence’s palm against his lips and said against the soft flesh, “Then I must play at being teacher.”

In the bedroom Dylan said, “Light all the candles. I’ve imagined you naked so often I have to see if I was right.”

Laurence protested in horror. “I’m too thin. And I’m—I’m almost middle-aged! Darkness would be far better for keeping your illusions alive.”

Dylan chuckled and did not answer until a half-dozen candles had flared to life. Then he said, “Don’t move. Don’t talk.” He removed Laurence’s clothing, article by article, and when Laurence stood naked, slim, and white, Dylan’s gaze roamed over him. “What were you thinking?” he said. “Your body is beautiful.” Then, looking downward, he added with a sly smile, “And I must say, my imagination was spot-on.”

Even by the candlelight he saw Laurence blush, and he laughed softly.

Dylan guided him down on the bed and on a whim lay down beside him, still fully clothed. “I am the maestro here,” he said. “You are not to move unless I tell you so. I’ll show you pleasure every way I know how.” And so he did, using his mouth, and tongue, and hands, not allowing Laurence to touch him in return. That was exquisite torment; he sometimes had to mentally count backwards to maintain control. Beneath his fingers he felt Laurence’s muscles draw tighter and tighter, and quiver with the effort not to move.

The time soon came when he knew neither of them could wait much longer. In a matter of moments he tore off his clothes and returned to the bed. At the instant of ecstasy Laurence cried, “I love you! My God, how I love you, Dylan!” With Laurence’s cry came Dylan’s own release.

They lay together for several minutes, without moving, until they shifted position so that Dylan could rest his head upon Laurence’s shoulder, his arm around Laurence’s narrow waist. They remained that way for a time. After a while Dylan yawned and said, sounding self-satisfied, “I’m a far better teacher than I was a student.” Laurence snorted and then laughed helplessly.

They dozed for a while and when their bodies signaled recovery, Dylan yawned, stretched like a lazy cat, and murmured, “They say repetition is the key to learning…”

“Do they really?” Laurence murmured in response, pulling him even closer until their bodies touched full length, and beyond the ultimate physical shock of release there was a blending of souls.

Later, as Laurence lay sleeping, Dylan woke to stare into the darkness, thinking about the hours of loving just passed. He had found something unexpected and sweet, and he couldn’t, at first, think of a word to describe it. Then it came to him: trust. Laurence had given himself over to him, body and soul, in complete trust. Smiling, he closed his eyes, sighed in contentment, threw one long leg over Laurence’s hip, and went back to sleep.

=============================

Background: The book opens with Dylan at 18 in his last year at Venerable Bede School. He makes a clumsy and immediately rejected attempt at seducing his favorite teacher, Laurence Northcliff. He doesn’t realize that Laurence has fallen in love with him. Being honorable above all else, Laurence resigns his position and goes to Paris to pursue a writing career. A year later, finally out of school, Dylan goes to Paris to study composing. Unexpectedly they encounter one another. Equals now, no longer teacher and student, they spend a lot of time together and one thing leads to another…
==========================

The rue de Savies, where Laurence lived, was a narrow and crooked cobbled street with a sharp downward direction. Almost every weathered building had small wrought iron balconies and window boxes bursting with brightly colored geraniums of every hue. Shrill-voiced children played on the narrow pavement that outlined one side of the street. Two women stood talking; one of them held a struggling toddler by the hand and stopped talking long enough to sharply smack his bum. A baker called out his wares as he pushed a handcart of pies down the street. In front of one house an itinerant knife grinder worked, one foot busily working the treadle while a long, thin blade whined against the whirring stone.

Dylan passed a shop where cookware and furniture were repaired, and next to that was a shop with the sign Blanchisserie. He wondered what kind of business it was until he saw an energetic woman walk out laden with a basket of clean, ironed laundry in a stack that reached to her chin. There were few places where a tree could grow, but once in a while a stubborn seed had managed to burst through and grow to maturity. As a horse-drawn cart, almost too wide for the street, rattled down the cobbles, its driver was roundly cursed by the mothers who snatched their children out of harm’s way, as well as by the scissors grinder and others who had to move to permit its passage.

At the bottom of the hill, Number 54 bore a small sign in the downstairs window, which was clean and curtained with white. When Dylan was closer he could see that the sign said:
Laurence Hanley Northcliff
Maître d’Anglais
et Élocution

Just as he lifted his hand to knock at the door, it opened and Laurence stepped out, broom in hand. Dylan was nonplussed at the broom, and Laurence said, “Go in and make yourself comfortable. I will be but a moment.” He set to work vigorously attacking dirt in front of the house.

Inside, Dylan saw an old friend: the typewriting machine. It welcomed him from a table near the window with the sign. As he had expected there were many books both on shelves and off, but all neatly aligned with the spines out. Hanging on the far wall was the painting of the young girl and the pony. His attention was drawn by another painting with brilliant mesmerizing blue water and a sky with puffy clouds over a village and a bridge. He didn’t realize Laurence had come in, until he spoke.

“Lovely, isn’t it. It’s called ‘

Dylan motioned toward the sign. “You teach English, I see.”

“I have every summer for years. Now I do it all year. It pays the bills. Some of those who come to me have been my students for years.” He laughed and added, “I suppose that means either I am a very incompetent teacher or I have very loyal students. I’ll get by until either my books produce an income or I die of old age.”

Dylan realized suddenly to his shame that he had not once inquired about Laurence’s work; he had talked only about himself—his plans, his music, his future. “Has your book been published?” he asked, hoping Laurence did not think badly of him.

“It hasn’t been finished. It changes constantly.”

“Might I read something you’ve written?”

“Dylan Rutledge? Asking to read something not written on score paper? My God, the Millennium is here!” Seeing Dylan start to bristle with indignation, he laughed. “Let an old teacher have his joke, Dylan. Of course you may read my novel … if I ever finish it. Now, there are biscuits in the tin if you want to help yourself while I change clothes.”

“Like the old days,” Dylan said.

Laurence smiled slightly. “Not very,” he said.
**
Dylan’s life settled into a pleasant, productive routine. Mondays and Fridays he went to Naszados. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, he worked alone, concentrating on his music until his head pounded. Rob, though still as mystified as ever by Dylan’s devotion to his dream, persuaded the hotel manager to grant Dylan the use of the ballroom piano. Dylan told himself that Rob was a good friend and he didn’t appreciate him nearly enough.

Friday nights and Saturdays Dylan and Laurence attended a play, opera, symphony, ballet, or sometimes just joined an informal gathering of Laurence’s friends. He knew an astonishing number of people of all kinds: rich and poor, painters, musicians, shop girls, poets and barbers, and people without identifiable occupations or discernable morals. Without exception they had great affection and respect for Laurence.

On sunny Sundays he and Laurence went to the Bois de Boulogne, where they rented horses and enjoyed the miles of bridle paths. Rather, Laurence enjoyed them and Dylan faked enthusiasm; Dylan and horses had never been on good terms and it was damnably difficult to maintain one’s dignity when one’s arse felt as if it had been beaten raw and one’s thighs had turned to quivering gelatin.

Dylan thought often of Laurence’s statement that their new status was “not very” like the old days. There seemed to be only one thing they never talked about; with every hour they spent together, Dylan became more determined that they would talk about it. And he intended to do more than talk.

The charismatic, brilliant Kit, (picture a younger Simon Baker!) though only in his mid-twenties, is a practiced, charming seducer and sees in the innocent doctor a worthy prey. He has no inking that his life, too, is about to change forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dr. Stuart, have you decided about the party? You will go, won’t you?” As St. Denys talked, he sat down at the makeup table with its boxes and bottles, and removed the blood and sweat-streaked makeup. The tips of his blood-stained fair mane lay in waves against the nape of his neck and hid his ears; the downward curve of his jaw was strong.

Nick was near enough to notice the light brown freckles on his shoulders. The words “No, I don’t think so” died unspoken. Nick gazed at the actor’s naked back and muscular arms. Sinful thoughts and feelings flew like ravens through his mind and his body. How would it be to lay his hands on St. Denys? Was his skin coarse or fine? Nick shoved his hands into his coat pockets, lest he reach out and actually touch him. He wished he could put his eyes in his pockets as well.

A peculiar lattice of faded, jagged white lines marred the actor’s back. They looked like scars, but how could that be? A small dark mole resided on his lower back, just above the waist of the black tights. Just then Nick realized St. Denys, with a slight smile, was watching him in the mirror. Even the tops of Nick’s ears turned crimson.

“If your wife is with you, she is more than welcome to join us,” St. Denys said, as the last trace of makeup vanished.

“I don’t have a wife,” Nick croaked. He did not realize that the way he said it told Kit St. Denys a great deal. “Mr. St. Denys—”

“Please. Call me Kit; everyone does.”

“Mr. St. Denys, I wouldn’t fit in at your party. I don’t enjoy that sort of thing.”

“I assure you, Mr. Stuart, it’s but a late dinner, a bit of the grape, laughter, and dancing. It is not a Bacchanalian orgy.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Then you will come.” Kit turned toward him. Nick’s good resolves sank out of sight. Nick had hoped that the glamour and sensuality were all an illusion created by stage art and costume. Then he could go home, ask God to forgive his wicked thoughts, and forget he had ever spoken to the man. But that was not to be. The Devil himself had conspired to make St. Denys younger and more handsome than he had been with the makeup.

With complete unconcern, St. Denys stood up and let the old man help him finish undressing. Nick broke into a sweat and clenched his fists tighter in his coat pockets. How would it feel to spread his hands on that firm arse? Or see him erect and ready? Oh, dear God, he had to leave that room! But the same Devil who had made St. Denys beautiful had also nailed Nick’s feet to the floor.

St. Denys stepped into the high-backed tub of hot water and exhaled a gusty sigh of pleasure as the old man fussed over him with scented soap and a sea sponge. “What is your given name?” he asked. “I can’t just continue to call you ‘Dr. Stuart,’ can I?”

“My name’s Nicholas.”

“And what do your friends call you?”

“I have no time for friends.”

“We must do something about that. Tell me, are you particularly interested in Shakespeare?”

“Uh… yes. Very interested. In Shakespeare. Yes.”

“And your favorite of his plays is…?”

“Well, um, Hamlet, of course.”

“Of course.”

It annoyed Nick to know St. Denys was having fun at his expense. “Well, it is.” Then it didn’t matter because like a young Neptune rising from the sea St. Denys stood up in his tub and

stepped out. He grinned as if he knew the evil in Nick’s mind. Nick’s eyes sought a fascinating blank corner on the ceiling.

“Only a few more minutes, Dr. Stuart. Then we can leave.” The old man helped him into his clothing. As he started to do up the buttons on the shirt, St. Denys said, “I can manage from here,

Nathaniel. Thank you. You go freshen up for the party.”

“Very good, Mr. Kit.” Nathaniel favored Nick with one more disapproving glare and was gone.

“I’m surprised,” Nick said, still looking at the corner. “You socialize with your servants?”

“Nathaniel is not a servant. He’s my dresser and has been for a long time. I’ve had several valets and servants, but Nathaniel never felt they did it properly. He feels only he can do it;  he’s right. That I always have the right costume for any given scene is due to Nathaniel.”

Nick wondered how any man who had just been nude in front of a stranger could answer with such dignity. He was surprised when St. Denys said softly, “You’ll have to learn the ways of the theatre if you’re to be around me.” The actor’s dark eyes seemed to pull secrets from Nick’s soul.

At the assumption, Nick was dazed by a ferocious desire; he forlornly hoped St. Denys had not noticed the obvious, but the actor’s left eyebrow lifted quizzically and he said, “I knew the moment I looked into your eyes you that you were one of my kind. I’m never wrong.”

Nick’s lust was replaced by fear. ‘One of my kind.’ Hugh had said the same thing. If St. Denys and Hugh could recognize his demon so did God.

Then his fear was forgotten when St. Denys’ sultry expression gave way to one of guileless charm as he gestured to his unbuttoned shirt. “My hands are clumsy for some reason. Perhaps the blow on my head? It’s a bloody inconsiderate thing to ask of a guest, but could you help me?”

Nick’s fingertips brushed the damp, smooth skin of St. Denys’ chest and abdomen, and he was helpless against the sexual imagery in his mind as each button slid into its buttonhole. Then as he fastened the right sleeve button he saw the twisted little finger. Scars. A broken finger. What mysteries did they represent? He looked once more into St. Denys’ eyes.

“After the party,” St. Denys said, “you will go with me to my hotel.” It was not a question. He did not touch Nick, and yet Nick felt as if he had been caressed.

“Yes.”

“You’ll stay the night.” Still not a question.

“Yes.” With those two yeses he accepted everything and questioned nothing, and the knowledge made him afraid.

Ruth Sims is one smart cookie. I met with the historical romance author recently at her home in rural Illinois to get her take on my silly questions. While simultaneously churning butter with one hand, milking a goat with the other, and dictating her latest novel to her secretary who hid behind a bale of hay with a notebook, Ruth managed to wax witty on my ridiculous queries.

The link to it is: http://rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/

He asks such questions as “Who do you think you are?” “If you had just one wish would you give it to me?”

It will give you a chuckle. There are several comments.

And now I have to figure out just how to post excerpts. I tell you, when you’re my age (learned to write by chipping on stone tablets) all this new-fangled stuff is a challenge.

My name is Ruth Sims. I write a lot of different things, but mostly historical fiction because the past a whole lot easier to deal with than the present, which keeps changing on me. Some of my writing is categorized as gay romance, and some isn’t. Some isn’t romance at all, but I’m going to put excerpts on here anyway. Why? Because I can.  (Which, by the way, is the final line of a work in progress, about a serial killer in Edwardian England who makes Jack the Ripper look like a nice kid.)

I’ve been writing forever, taking time out to raise a husband and two kids.

I just did a fun interview with the great horror writer Rick R. Reed. He said I could quote his introduction, which is delightful and funny. I’m going to navigate to his blog and copy it now, since I forgot to do it earlier.

Forgetting is my middle name.