The Wrong Kind of Angel

Chapter 1 Charles Farrington had long ago resigned himself to the fact that his deviant nature meant he was destined to be alone. He found himself unable to return the affections of a lady, and was unwilling to set up a pretence, so he embraced his solitude and satisfied himself with the very occasional foray into London for business and places where he could seek out likeminded company. After Napoleon’s eventual defeat he had resigned his commission and set up home in small, but pleasant house on the outskirts of a small village on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, not too far from the coast. There was a distinct lack of local young ladies who might wish to pursue a bookish ex-officer, which pleased Charles, but this also meant that there was a complete lack of likeminded company which in many ways was a relief. To counteract the lack of company, Charles surrounded himself with things that gave him pleasure. Things like his growing collection of snuff boxes, his garden, and lately his writing of, what he considered to be, rather daring novels involving dashing young men flinging themselves into battle. So life, for the most part, was pleasant. Or so he told himself. Over the past year or so he had spent rather more time with his writing, and to his everlasting surprise he had published some of his stories, making a small sum of money from it. This supplemented his military pension nicely, and supported his rather expensive snuff box collection. So, as winter approached, he was happy to while away the dark hours hunched over his manuscript, fortunate in the fact that he could afford a good number of candles. As Christmas drew near, and the weather worsened, he tucked himself away with only his cat, housekeeper, and groom for company. Mr. and Mrs. Darnley lived in the village and came in daily to wash, clean, and feed both him and his horses. Horatio, an enormous ginger tom, kept the mice at bay. It was a good arrangement. They had established a routine for the Christmas period that suited all of them; Mrs. Darnley left the house laden with food for both him and the cat, her husband organised the livestock for him, and then they returned to their family on Christmas Eve, not returning until after Boxing Day. He couldn’t quite countenance the idea that they would forsake their large, jolly family during the Christmas period to hang around to see if he needed anything. When the weather turned particularly nasty, he begged that they leave early on Christmas Eve. “But it isn’t even lunchtime,” Mrs. Darnley said, shaking flour from her apron. “Have you seen the weather?” Charles said, pointing to the window. “If you and Darnley don’t go now you may not make the village. I would not wish to be answerable to your entire family if they missed out on your dinner.” She looked out and sighed just as her husband came into the kitchen, stomping snow from his boots making Horatio flick his tail in disgust. “Darnley, my dear fellow, will you have words with your good wife?” Charles said. “You need to leave. I have enough food to feed an army. Several armies. I will not starve if you leave now.” Darnley stuffed his cap in his coat pocket. “He’s right, m’love. Temperature is dropping and there’s a north wind coming in. I reckon snow’s set in for a day or two.” All three stared at the whitening landscape and listened to the howling wind for a moment and then Mrs. Darnley sighed. “I don’t like leaving you here alone.” “My dear Mrs. Darnley. No harm shall befall me. I will enjoy the solitude and no doubt laze the days away in front of the fire.” “You should consider getting someone to live in, you know,” she said for the hundredth time as she bustled about. “Not right, a lovely gentleman like you on his own. Not right.” Charles smiled at her. “I give you my word I shall consider it,” he said, laying a hand on his heart. What she really meant was that he should find a wife. With a little more huffing and puffing the Darnleys finally left, but not before she had made him a pot of tea. After he closed the door on the dreadful weather he took the tea and the plate of cake into his study, piled the fire high with logs, and settled himself in with a sigh as the well-banked fire blazed and drove away the worst of the cold. Listening to the howling wind and watching the falling snow blanket the landscape from the safety of his study made him feel exceedingly cosy. He picked up the paper, sipped his tea, and propped his feet on the stool. Horatio promptly settled himself on his lap and he was tempted to kick off his shoes and toast his feet by the fireside Mrs. Darnley had adorned with holly, making the room feel almost festive. By early evening the snow had covered the land as far as he could see and the wind was causing spectacular drifting. Charles banked the fires in the study, the kitchen, and his chamber. There was no point heating anything more. He had catalogued more of his snuff boxes, written a couple of chapters of his book, and tidied his papers again, so he picked up a book on the history of York and helped himself to a glass of brandy. After a while his eyes began to tire. He tipped his head back and closed them for a moment and indulged himself. He pretended he was not alone. Pretended that there was someone with him; someone special. Someone who would come into the room and take the chair opposite him, but first would lean over, run a hand over his hair, and kiss him. Someone with whom he could exchange a Christmas gift, kiss under the mistletoe, and retire to bed with. Wake up with. So vivid was the image, so clear the warm promise of the kiss, that when there was a noise at the front door he wondered if he had conjured it from his imagination. He jerked upright and listened. There it went again. Charles hastened from the room into the freezing hallway, pulling the study door closed behind him to preserve the warmth. He dragged the bolt from the ancient door and heaved it open, wincing at the blast of icy air and wet, swirling snow that hit his face. Standing propped in the door was the most handsome young man he had ever seen in his life. Charles’ jaw actually dropped. He was tall, with sodden, inky black curls plastered to his hatless head and eyes so dark they appeared black in a sharp angular face. He had the sort of direct, piercing gaze that made whomever was subject to it faintly uncomfortable. The eyes fluttered shut. “Thank God,” the man muttered and staggered over the threshold. Charles grabbed him awkwardly and shoved the heavy door back, shutting out the freezing snow and wind. The man was dead on his feet. He swayed badly and Charles caught him under the arms, staggering a little as he did so. He was soaked to the bone and the icy chill of his body soaked into Charles. The man’s head lolled and Charles braced himself to hold him up, but he regained his balance a little and stood, swaying precariously. Charles maintained his grip on him just in case. Before he could speak, the man’s eyelids fluttered open and Charles found himself eye to eye with that searching gaze. “Oh…” he said. Dark brows narrowed into a quizzical frown, and those equally dark eyes ran over every inch of Charles’ face. “Oh…” he said again, and Charles held his breath, barely daring to move when the man ran his hand over his hair, actually touched him, and then trailed a thumb across his cheek. Charles’ mouth went dry and his heart thundered in his chest. “Are you an angel?” the man said and brought his other hand up so he was cupping Charles’ face. Charles couldn’t have spoken or moved if his life had depended on it. “You must be,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, and his eyes continued to search Charles’. “You are all golden. A beautiful, beautiful golden angel,” he said in an odd singsong voice, and tilted his head to one side. Charles’ knees were about to buckle so he held on to the stranger and presumed he was talking about his fair hair. “Thank you for saving me, beautiful angel,” he whispered, his eyes appeared to lock onto Charles’ mouth. “Thank you, thank you…thank you…” the stranger whispered as his mouth came closer, closer to Charles’ until it hovered so close over his that he could feel the warmth from the stranger’s skin, his breath, his very being. Charles was not sure who closed the fraction of an inch until their lips met, touched, and held, but he knew that the strangled sound of naked, shocked pleasure and need came from his own throat. It had been an age since he had been kissed; he pressed his lips to the other man’s and squeezed his eyes shut. The stranger sighed and his lips moved over his with increasing, rhythmic pressure that Charles, after a faltering start, echoed. The man held his face, and he held it still whilst he dragged his lips away to touch them to Charles’ eyes, his forehead, and then came back to his mouth. They kissed until the man pulled back again and Charles let go of him. His hands were shaking, so he balled them into fists and tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he couldn’t. The man smiled. Smiled right into his eyes. “Beautiful, beautiful angel, thank you,” he said, and crumpled to the ground.