Lessons in Power now in print
Sep. 7th, 2010 11:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charlie_cochraneBook four in the Cambridge Fellows series has been unleashed. You can find it here and all the usual sources.
Cambridge, 1907
After settling in their new home, Cambridge dons Orlando Coppersmith and Jonty Stewart are looking forward to nothing more exciting than teaching their students and playing rugby. Their plans change when a friend asks their help to clear an old flame who stands accused of murder.
Doing the right thing means Jonty and Orlando must leave the sheltering walls of St. Bride’s to enter a labyrinth of suspects and suspicions, lies and anguish.
Their investigation raises ghosts from Jonty’s past when the murder victim turns out to be one of the men who sexually abused him at school. The trauma forces Jonty to withdraw behind a wall of painful memories. And Orlando fears he may forever lose the intimacy of his best friend and lover.
When another one of Jonty’s abusers is found dead, police suspicion falls on the Cambridge fellows themselves. Finding this murderer becomes a race to solve the crime…before it destroys Jonty’s fragile state of mind.
Here's a snippet
It was funny, Orlando reflected, how his attitude towards sleeping together had changed so much in a matter of weeks. When they’d first shared a double bed, it had seemed daring in the extreme and the sheer delight of being next to his lover in a state of undress had been enough to make him overexcited. Now that they shared every night, there was no longer the sense of audacity or novelty, although the outcome of any of their romantic encounters remained dazzling.
In fact, Orlando was prepared to swear that side of things only got better and better.
This night they lay and read their novels, lighthearted Grossmith for the lover of Shakespeare’s sonnets, Doyle with his clinical logic for the mathematically inclined. At a time they seemed to agree on without speaking, they turned out the lights and snuggled into the covers.
Frost was predicted and already the fire was fighting a losing battle against the cold that seeped in through the window. Orlando wound his arms around his lover’s body, placing his hand over Jonty’s heart, enjoying the feel of its strong and steady beat. His fingers slowly wormed themselves into the gaps between the buttons and twiddled with the scant hairs gracing his lover’s muscular chest.
Jonty sighed, wriggling his back into Orlando’s stomach. “Sweetheart, would you mind if we didn’t go the whole hog tonight? If we just—sort of—played a bit, kissed and cuddled, and the like. As we used to when we were first in love?”
Orlando could only guess at why this unprecedented request had been made, and none of his guesses made him comfortable. When time and opportunity presented, Jonty had never been one to spurn the chance of adventure. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Your wish, my command and all that.”
Jonty giggled. “You do make me feel like I’m a character in some adventure of old. You know the sort of thing, days when knights were bold and maidens were simpering.”
“If that’s how you want it to be then I’ll be your valiant knight. Your Lancelot.”
“He rather had a thing for Guinevere, so I’m not sure he’s at all a suitable model. Just be yourself, Orlando. It’s the thing I love best in all the world.”
“Soppy pants. Turn round and let me kiss you.”
“Shan’t. If you want to be my Sir Orlando you’ll have to earn the right to these lips.”
Orlando could feel his lover’s body shake as he tried to control his laughter. It was one of the most striking things about Jonty and lovemaking—the way he was prone to mirth at the most intimate moments. “And how shall I go about earning it?”
“Be audacious. Be creative.”
Orlando needed no second invitation. Creativity no doubt demanded that he couldn’t take the easy option of going for the piece of flesh above Jonty’s collarbone which, when kissed, sent the man all of a divvy doo-dah, so he would have to find a more novel approach. Unbuttoning Jonty’s nightshirt and unpeeling it like the skin of a succulent orange seemed to be a good start—although Orlando reflected that he’d got his fruit analogy wrong. Jonty’s skin was more like a firm but ripe peach, soft and covered with a golden fuzz with, in places, just a trace remaining of the tan he’d acquired back in their little cove last summer.
As Orlando made his way down his lover’s back, he was struck by the thought that there was one part of Jonty he had never kissed, so he began an immediate assault on it, not just touching it with his lips but licking and tasting, enjoying the unusual feel of the skin.
“You win, you win.” Jonty turned over, still laughing. “You’ve got the right to my lips. And I must say that’s the first time anyone has ever made love to my elbow. Really quite an unusual sensation, yet not one I wish to repeat tonight.” He kissed his lover with a fire belying what he’d said before. “I do love you, noodle head.”
“And I you, fancy pants.” Orlando, emboldened by the fierceness of the kisses, began to caress the small of his lover’s back, inching his fingers lower until a firm but polite hand removed them.
“Sorry.” Jonty’s voice sounded small, uncertain, lost. “I just can’t be fussed, not tonight.”
“I understand.” Orlando didn’t understand, of course, as much as he tried. The fire dimmed, and the comfort they usually found in each other’s arms was for once as paltry as the warmth the hearth gave out.
Cambridge, 1907
After settling in their new home, Cambridge dons Orlando Coppersmith and Jonty Stewart are looking forward to nothing more exciting than teaching their students and playing rugby. Their plans change when a friend asks their help to clear an old flame who stands accused of murder.
Doing the right thing means Jonty and Orlando must leave the sheltering walls of St. Bride’s to enter a labyrinth of suspects and suspicions, lies and anguish.
Their investigation raises ghosts from Jonty’s past when the murder victim turns out to be one of the men who sexually abused him at school. The trauma forces Jonty to withdraw behind a wall of painful memories. And Orlando fears he may forever lose the intimacy of his best friend and lover.
When another one of Jonty’s abusers is found dead, police suspicion falls on the Cambridge fellows themselves. Finding this murderer becomes a race to solve the crime…before it destroys Jonty’s fragile state of mind.
Here's a snippet
It was funny, Orlando reflected, how his attitude towards sleeping together had changed so much in a matter of weeks. When they’d first shared a double bed, it had seemed daring in the extreme and the sheer delight of being next to his lover in a state of undress had been enough to make him overexcited. Now that they shared every night, there was no longer the sense of audacity or novelty, although the outcome of any of their romantic encounters remained dazzling.
In fact, Orlando was prepared to swear that side of things only got better and better.
This night they lay and read their novels, lighthearted Grossmith for the lover of Shakespeare’s sonnets, Doyle with his clinical logic for the mathematically inclined. At a time they seemed to agree on without speaking, they turned out the lights and snuggled into the covers.
Frost was predicted and already the fire was fighting a losing battle against the cold that seeped in through the window. Orlando wound his arms around his lover’s body, placing his hand over Jonty’s heart, enjoying the feel of its strong and steady beat. His fingers slowly wormed themselves into the gaps between the buttons and twiddled with the scant hairs gracing his lover’s muscular chest.
Jonty sighed, wriggling his back into Orlando’s stomach. “Sweetheart, would you mind if we didn’t go the whole hog tonight? If we just—sort of—played a bit, kissed and cuddled, and the like. As we used to when we were first in love?”
Orlando could only guess at why this unprecedented request had been made, and none of his guesses made him comfortable. When time and opportunity presented, Jonty had never been one to spurn the chance of adventure. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Your wish, my command and all that.”
Jonty giggled. “You do make me feel like I’m a character in some adventure of old. You know the sort of thing, days when knights were bold and maidens were simpering.”
“If that’s how you want it to be then I’ll be your valiant knight. Your Lancelot.”
“He rather had a thing for Guinevere, so I’m not sure he’s at all a suitable model. Just be yourself, Orlando. It’s the thing I love best in all the world.”
“Soppy pants. Turn round and let me kiss you.”
“Shan’t. If you want to be my Sir Orlando you’ll have to earn the right to these lips.”
Orlando could feel his lover’s body shake as he tried to control his laughter. It was one of the most striking things about Jonty and lovemaking—the way he was prone to mirth at the most intimate moments. “And how shall I go about earning it?”
“Be audacious. Be creative.”
Orlando needed no second invitation. Creativity no doubt demanded that he couldn’t take the easy option of going for the piece of flesh above Jonty’s collarbone which, when kissed, sent the man all of a divvy doo-dah, so he would have to find a more novel approach. Unbuttoning Jonty’s nightshirt and unpeeling it like the skin of a succulent orange seemed to be a good start—although Orlando reflected that he’d got his fruit analogy wrong. Jonty’s skin was more like a firm but ripe peach, soft and covered with a golden fuzz with, in places, just a trace remaining of the tan he’d acquired back in their little cove last summer.
As Orlando made his way down his lover’s back, he was struck by the thought that there was one part of Jonty he had never kissed, so he began an immediate assault on it, not just touching it with his lips but licking and tasting, enjoying the unusual feel of the skin.
“You win, you win.” Jonty turned over, still laughing. “You’ve got the right to my lips. And I must say that’s the first time anyone has ever made love to my elbow. Really quite an unusual sensation, yet not one I wish to repeat tonight.” He kissed his lover with a fire belying what he’d said before. “I do love you, noodle head.”
“And I you, fancy pants.” Orlando, emboldened by the fierceness of the kisses, began to caress the small of his lover’s back, inching his fingers lower until a firm but polite hand removed them.
“Sorry.” Jonty’s voice sounded small, uncertain, lost. “I just can’t be fussed, not tonight.”
“I understand.” Orlando didn’t understand, of course, as much as he tried. The fire dimmed, and the comfort they usually found in each other’s arms was for once as paltry as the warmth the hearth gave out.
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Date: 2010-09-07 05:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-08 09:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2010-09-08 09:42 am (UTC)