Monday, December 30, 2013

Update: New Release Lord Byron's Secret Obsession- with corrected links!

Lord Byron Wilton, fearing exposure as a sodomite after a public argument with his secret lover Lord David Litchfield, leaves England for the Americas. On his return, he finds his delicious man in the hands of the brute, Hale and his cohorts.

Discovering Lord David is an unwilling sex slave for these three disgusting men, he makes outlandish and somewhat dangerous plans to outwit the trio. Byron must use every trick in the book, and a considerable amount of his fortune, in an effort to regain his lover’s freedom and trust
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London 1772

Lord Byron Wilton opened his pocketbook and paid the tailor's account,
grateful to be finally out of uniform. He met the gaze of Mr. Joseph Brown.
The man had produced every inch of clothing he had worn since a boy. "Have
everything else sent over to Spencer Street, there's a good man."
Donning the new hat he had purchased from Locks in Bond Street, Lord Byron
pulled on his gloves and turned to look in the mirror. The new, delightfully
comfortable, clothes fitted well. Soft and fresh against his skin the linen
provided a welcome change from his stagnant, uniform shirt and stiff smalls.
At last, after three despicable years, he resembled a gentleman again. The
new clothes, ordered by letter some three months previously, had surprised
him with their elegance. Mr. Brown had tailored each garment in the height
of fashion, right down to the fine lawn ruffles and silver buttons. White
silk stockings, and a cloak of the finest black wool lined in silk completed
his dress. He rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully at his reflection.
The breeches stretched tight about his thighs and bottom, and Mr. Brown had
pinched the jacket in at the waist to enhance the width of his shoulders.
The cravat sat in exquisite folds. Dressed as such, in blue velvet, with his
hair tied in a neat queue, men of his predilection would admire his
appearance. Christ, I look like a peacock. In truth, his body had changed
from soft, to hard and muscular-but a commission in the Americas did that to
a man. His face had altered too, but not in a bad way. He had not suffered
any serious injury during his time abroad, but the man with haunting eyes in
his reflection had replaced the exuberant expression of youth.
Although, relieved by the sale of his commission and consequent arrival in
England, his thoughts were not on returning immediately to his country
estate in Surrey. Rather, he had spent the last two days in his townhouse a
short distance from Hyde Park, not wanting to endure the immediate duties of
Lord of the Manor. His ailing father, the Marquis of Wilton, who lay near
death in Bordeaux, had thrust this responsibility legally upon him.
Lord Byron stepped from the shop and glanced down Oxford Street. Nothing of
note had changed in London during his three years abroad with exception of
women's fashion and the volume of carriages barreling along the dusty roads.
He drew a deep breath to enjoy the scents of normality after enduring an
eternity of stinking jacks and sweat. The smell of gunpowder and the
unforgettable stench of a military camp had combined with horrors a man
could never forget.
Christ, he'd had little choice but to remain abroad. His role as a lover of
unusual pleasures had become impossible after a very public argument with
David had threatened to expose them both. Indeed, wealth alone would give an
enemy cause to bear false witness on the most pious of men let alone a
jealous lover's remarks. He ground his teeth with the memory of the stunned
expressions of the fellows who witnessed the spat. Of course, he'd covered
the incident with good humor making the play that the young lord was in his
cups. He'd waved Lord David into a coach and returned to the card room.
Nevertheless, to avoid the scandalmongers and the chance of prosecution for
the act of sodomy, he made the heart wrenching decision to leave his lover.
He'd purchased a commission abroad and joined the 29th Regiment of Foot in
Boston, Massachusetts as Captain, under the command of British Lt. Colonel
William Dalrymple.
He grimaced at bloody images too raw in his memory. On5 March 1770, he'd had
the misfortune to witness the results of the Boston Massacre. During a riot
in front of His Majesties customs house, five colonists had died. The
subsequent arrest and trial of Preston and his men led to the immediate
withdrawal of British soldiers from Boston. The decision to move the 29th to
British controlled Florida had been somewhat of a relief. Arguments over
taxes and the constant clashes between the colonists and the British
soldiers would no doubt boil over into war.
Not wanting to appear cowardly, Byron had gone to Dalrymple and put forward
his request to return to England, stating family problems. This application,
due to the ill health of his father, met Dalrymple's approval. The wait to
find someone to take his place had been impalpable. Months had passed before
Byron received an offer for his commission. He'd accepted with a short
prayer of thanks, and returned to London on the first available ship. He
smiled into the sunshine. It would seem, for once in his life, good fortune
had shined down on him.
Byron stood for a few seconds to enjoy his surroundings. There had been a
meager amount of birds brave enough to negotiate the noisy camps and his
heart lifted to see an abundance of sparrows on the footpath, feasting on a
discarded crust of bread. Above, a blue sky peeked briefly through a
profusion of white fluffy clouds. A stream of sunlight bathed a rose bush,
sitting in a large, yellow glazed pot, beside the milliners next door. The
rich perfume from the red blooms mixed with the pungent odor of horse dung
squashed on the road; the hay infused clumps thrown in all directions by the
constant stream of carriage wheels. Everything is so normal as if no one
knows a war of great proportions is looming.
Moving toward the curb, Byron called out to his driver to take him to
Charters, a gentlemen's club in Vauxhall, and climbed into the carriage. He
sighed, rested his head on the back of the squabs, and closed his eyes. A
familiar memory flooded his consciousness. A soft gaze the color of a summer
sky, hooded with long tawny lashes and set in a countenance sated from hours
of glorious sex. David. The memory of the man he had loved above all else
had not faded. Christ, he heard David's voice in his dreams. The vivid
recollection of the way the young man had touched him, loved him had never
left his memory. Heat pooled in his loins curling into a deep longing for
the only man he craved. He yearned to see his lover once more and touch the
young man's tender skin. The thought of marking David's pale flesh with a
birch cane made him hard. He craved the taste of his succulent lips, and the
joy of sinking to his balls in David's tight arse. The sweet recollection of
his young lover's moans of delight had haunted him during the long nights
away from his love. He would wake to the scent of the man and the taste of
David upon his lips. Then face another day, lonely and mean spirited

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