The Further Adventures of Mark Antonious deMontford

By GA Hauser

In this sequel to Mark Antonious deMontford, we find Mark back on the farm in Newbury, England. After five years of working, living with his simple wife, Mary, and raising his son Francesco, Mark longs to avenge the death of his Italian lover, Francesco Cavalla. His lover was cut down by his brother, Guido, in cold blood.
As Mark returns to Italy and reunites with his past conquests, he becomes torn as to which life he prefers.
In this follow up, we enjoy more sexual romps with the high and mighty of 18th Century life, as the irresistible Mark Antonious deMontford, flits from bed to bed, a toy for the rich and powerful.
This novel contains explicit sex and some violent situations which might be upsetting to some.
MM/MF

• Language: English
• Publisher: GA Hauser
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215978900

GA Hauser

About the AuthorAuthor G.A. Hauser is from Fair Lawn, New Jersey, USA. She attended university at The Fashion Institute of Technology in NYC, and has a BA in Fine Art from William Paterson College in Wayne NJ where she graduated Cum Laude. As well as degrees in art, G.A. is a Graduate Gemologist from the Gemological Institute of America (GIA). In 1994 G.A. graduated the Washington State Police academy as a Peace Officer for the Seattle Police Department in Washington where she worked on the patrol division. She was awarded Officer of the Month in February 2000 for her work with recovering stolen vehicles and fingerprint matches to auto-theft and bank robbery suspects. After working for the Seattle Police, G.A. moved to Hertfordshire, England where she began to write full length gay romance novels. Now a full-time writer, G.A. has penned over 200 novels and short stories. Breaking into independent film, G. A. was the executive producer for her first feature film, CAPITAL GAMES which included TV star Shane Keough in its cast. CAPITAL GAMES had its Film Festival Premiere at Philly's Qfest, and its television premiere on OutTV. G.A. is the director and executive producer for her second film NAKED DRAGON, which is an interracial gay police/FBI drama filmed in Los Angeles with the outstanding cinematographer, Pete Borosh. (also the Cinematographer for Capital Games)The cover photographs of G.A.'s novels have been selected from talented and prolific photographers such as Dennis Dean, Dan Skinner, Michael Stokes, Tuta Veloso, Hans Withoos, and CJC Photography, as well as graphic comic artist, Arlen Schumer. Her cover designs have featured actors Chris Salvatore, Jeffery Patrick Olson, Tom Wolfe, and models Brian James Bradley, Bryan Feiss, Jimmy Thomas, Andre Flagger, among many others.Her advertisements have been printed in Attitude Magazine, LA Frontier, and Gay Times.G. A. has won awards from All Romance eBooks for Best Author 2009, Best Novel 2008, Mile High, Best Author 2008, Best Novel 2007, Secrets and Misdemeanors, and Best Author 2007.G.A. was the guest speaker at the SLA conference in San Diego, in 2013, where she discussed women writing gay erotica and has attended numerous writers’ conventions across the country.

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF

MARK ANTONIOUS deMONTFORD

By G. A. Hauser

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2023

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF

MARK ANTONIOUS deMONTFORD

Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2023

ISBN Trade paperback: 979-8375-3172-5-0

© The G.A. Hauser Collection

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WARNING

This book contains material that maybe offensive to some: graphic language, homosexual relations, adult situations. Please store your books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

First The G.A. Hauser Collection publication:

March 2023

Please note:

This story is written in Third Person Omniscient point of view, or what some people call, ‘head hopping.’

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Prologue

England 1718

By his twenty-fourth birthday the world had changed drastically. Queen Anne had died in 1714 without a royal heir. No heir. A woman who suffered eighteen pregnancies; five born alive; only one living past infancy, yet not old enough to inherit the throne.

Could life get any worse for that poor woman whose carriage Mark had thrown himself on at the tender age of nineteen? He still regretted not telling her he loved her.

But Mark knew he wasn’t the only one to have regrets in life. Her successor King George I had taken over the crown. A coronation such as the likes of his had never been seen by any who were alive that day.

An extravagant coach of white enamel and golden trim was constructed, as if George must outdo the Sun King in France. And a short reign it was to be, only thirteen years in duration.

Inheriting the throne wasn’t without its chaos as he was challenged by the Roman Catholic, James Stuart, who attempted to raise some Scottish clans on his behalf. He was unsuccessful. George I was not popular in the least with the London Whigs who scoffed at a king who did not speak fluent English but preferred conversing in German or French.

The poem of Daniel Defoe once again circulated as it had in 1701 when it was created. ‘The True Born Englishman’, intended to raise as many questions as it did controversy, sought to attack any king with foreign roots. With George spending all his time in Hanover, Germany, where he eventually died, the Whig party learned to enjoy his absence and created policy in which the king was powerless to resist.

Soon after, Rupert Walpole, who was selected by the king himself, took over as the liaison between the throne and Parliament, inadvertently becoming the first Prime Minister to live at number 10 Downing Street, as well as belonging to the longest running administration in British history.

Mark Antonious deMontford could not get his head around politics. Uncle David, moving on in years, that same worn-out white wig covering his skull, would wind himself into such a state as to pop veins in his temples. Mark blamed the newspaper for all his uncle’s woes.

Whilst Uncle David slouched over that wet candle in the dimness of the sitting room, reading that black and white printed page as if it were the Holy Bible, Mark would confine his own worries to the crops. Barley for malting was the newest wave of livelihood in that fertile Kennet Valley in Newbury.

Against David’s wishes, Mark made the decision himself. He was sure it would pay off as Newbury was beginning to grow as the Great Bath Road brought even more development and traffic to their modest community. And it did pay off. Mark Antonious’ pockets were once more lined with gold, and this time from honest hard work, not his prowess in bed.

His wife Mary was expecting, again, their second child. Mark tried not to pace and grow restless as the winter months dragged on like the agony of the plague for him. That growing five-year-old son of his kept him entertained at times. Little Francesco, whose name created more discourse in that farmhouse than he would mention, was even more of an imp than his father at the same age.

His curiosity and barrage of questions were trying Mark’s frazzled patience though he pleaded inside his own mind to have tolerance and answer those ridiculous riddles.

Why were the cows spotted? Where did baby chicks come from? Why do hogs smell? Why doesn’t he ever wear a wig like Grandpa David? Why is the sky blue? Why is Mama getting so fat?

By the fifth round of questions, Mary would intervene and take little Francesco by the hand to leave his father alone. She noticed some changes in her husband as of late, not all wholesome and kind. After that adventure, the one in the fall of 1715, that fateful four months when, Lord-knows-what-he-experienced-because-he-spoke-nothing-about-it. Oh, except of that one acquaintance that had the unfortunate experience of getting his throat cut. This incident left her Mark Antonious deMontford seemingly, scarred for life. It wasn’t entirely clear to her, even five years after the tale, why this man had meant so much to him, so extraordinarily much that he even insisted on naming his first-born son after a foreigner.

Well, it simply was outrageous. She and the rest of their family tried to be understanding when Mark’s fury about such a remarkable thing grew to epic proportions. It would be Francesco or nothing!

Mary didn’t even recognize Mark during those arguments, the rage in him was so consuming. What could she do but give in submissively whilst her family raised their eyebrows in concern.

And to top that awful err in judgment, Mark had been taking lessons in Italian! Every day the tutor would show up, being paid a king’s ransom for the task, and go through the vocabulary of that barbaric tongue! And in front of the child! Who was learning inadvertently the same dialect! Scandalous! It’s just as well the farmhouse was almost isolated, for the things that occurred in its four walls would disgust even the most seasoned Londoner.

It wasn’t until this past year that she noticed his discontent quadruple. She had no idea what brought it on. Was it little Francesco’s constant queries? Uncle David’s sober political grumbling? The exhausting effort of the horse and plow? Or yet, even more convincing, the whole of the three?

As he stood there, his hands behind his back, his white lacy blouse open at the chest, his cream-colored breeches, tight and buckled at the knee, and his hair, so incredibly long and full she was a little jealous of the texture. He was the picture of perfection in male beauty. Breastfeeding had thinned her modest head of hair a bit, but Mark’s mane was always luxurious and shining healthy, pulled back in a blue satin ribbon.

In the darkness of their bedroom, when the hour of midnight approached, she would roll over to see his light green eyes, wide open, and staring at the ceiling. Previously, she would comment on this and push him for an answer. Never again. His irritation with her simple request made her sure something was deeply troubling him. Something he would never share. In her mind she kept asking, why?

Yet, she knew.

Mark Antonious deMontford had tasted the spectacle of London’s wealth, pleasure gardens, and sexual promiscuity. This, only to be topped by France’s rolling green hills, and Italy’s decadent and improvident lifestyle. He hated the food in that farmhouse, calling it ‘cattle feed’, and ‘uncouth’. Why couldn’t someone come up with a dish of garlic and olive oil?

With complete disdain he would push the plate aside and leave the table as Aunt Katie, and she, tried everything they could to entice him to eat something.

He was twenty-four, the father of one and a half children, the husband of a simple farm girl, and he was truly and completely miserable.

At the first light of dawn, he would wander the fields, barley up to his shoulders, hiding him from the world. This was what he wanted. Wasn’t it? The simple life. No more living to please the middleclass in their posh four-poster beds?

Like a mantra repeated in his mind, he would convince himself he was better for it. He knew the pain he would cause if he wandered again. Think of Mary and little Fran… think of them…

It was useless. He was being driven mad, slowly tormented. His eyes squinting into the sunlight, too brilliant to bear wide open, he imagined he was once again a free agent and could do as he pleased. He was only twenty-four! He still couldn’t grow a real beard! He was a baby! A baby having babies! No one told him this would happen!

They all went on about him doing the right thing. Being home. Being the dutiful father, the faithful husband, the fertile farmer, a hog tender, a chicken herder, an excrement shoveler…

‘Ohhhh,’ he would groan and run his hands through his hair. Euphoric recall had set in. It was too late. Images came back like a poltergeist haunting. Even without that lovely testosterone infused male, Francesco Cavella, he craved the beds of the nobles. Mad mindful vision flashes would seek him out unexpectedly; Baron Abel’s rough violence, tearing at his fine velvets, Lady Grey’s exotic perfume, even that dandy of a duke, Percivel Goodrich, and his white paste and painted lips.

Agony. If there was a hell, he had found it. But! But what if he journeyed once again… strayed from the farm? What if he left behind all that was dear to him? Wouldn’t that same feeling he had, that shallowness, that crassness of all things the aristocrats symbolized, leave him once again empty?

Yes, yes, of course it would. He was mad to think he could find the answer to his weaknesses there, in the satin and lace beds of royalty.

Yet, another matter gnawed at him. Chewed him like a mouse on barn wood. Revenge.

How could he have left the murder of his lover unavenged? Like a coward, he fled Italy. Like one of the many castrated men, he was savagely cut, emasculated, and then sent away to sulk and pine over the loss.

Five years later he still hated himself for it. For running like a milksop with his tail between his legs. Rising fury, uncapped hatred, and any other labels he could place on his feelings, it was now insufferable. In his nightmares he had raised an army.

British soldiers would march with him to the gates of Padua. To kill— whom? Well, Guido Cavella for one. It was he who betrayed his lover. He who brought the knife of a bravo to his own brother’s throat. But he knew who really was to blame.

It was His Excellency. The great Marc Antinous Caeserni. His real father. This left him weak. Kill his father? Even if it was possible, which without an army of British soldiers, it was not, could he have the blood of patricide on his hands?

Day after day he was plagued, and night after night he prayed to let it go. Defuse the hatred, rid the anger, ask the Lord for help in finding forgiveness, absolution.

But it stayed. It festered. That path to the mock grave he had given his lover five years prior had been worn to clay dirt. He had walked it so many times he lost count; to lay flowers, to cry, or to simply reflect on a love that was so profound he knew nothing could replace it.

"Bello mio, Mark cried, Why is it I cannot get over you? Why must every day your memory pass like a shade before my eyes? Will you ever forgive me, Tesoro mio? Your catamito is forever in your shadow."

Italian… barbaric of him to speak it fluently. But he did. He had paid that tutor to teach him this language. No more was he something Francesco scoffed at. ‘A sophisticated Londoner’, he had said in disgust when Mark did his best to defend why the English did not care to speak other tongues. Insular. Self-absorbed.

That explained his cousins in London. The Holloways. He did think of them as well. Thomas mostly. The head of that decadent household of sexual misconduct. One letter posted from his son, Richard, a few months after he had left their home five years back. One letter, begging him to come back to that nineteen-year-old set of male arms. One letter, insisting he would die without him in his life.

Was he dead then? Mark highly doubted it. And Margaret, now twenty. What of her? No longer the delicate innocent child whose voice and prowess on the harpsichord, the harpsichord his Venetian father had purchased for his opera singing mother, would seduce him into a state of arousal he found most peculiar. What would Margaret look like? Well, she must be ravishing. Wouldn’t it be worth seeking that Holloway family out, if for nothing else, to touch Maggie?

Or Cousin Thomas. He missed that set of reassuring arms. Though once they had swatted his bottom with a switch for misbehaving considerably, another thing he would not mention and would deny vehemently if interrogated. Yet even that punishment came with the reward of another bout of sex.

He wondered… did he still have it in him? After five years pushing a plow and shoveling animal feces, did he still have what it took to lure absolutely everyone he encountered, into a bed?

Curiosity was killing the cat. And the cat wanted to play with mice again.

Chapter 1

In the darkness of that October evening, the smell of kidney pie offered no reward to his nostrils. Little Francesco took a running start for him as he stepped through the door of the farmhouse. Mark lifted him into his arms and kissed his silky cheek.

David was in his favorite chair, the paper before him, memorizing its horrid tales like some rabid fox goes through a coop. Mary set the table as Auntie Katie, her frown in place, checked on the bland meal.

With his son nuzzling his neck, Mark made the announcement they had all expected, and dreaded.

I’m thinking of a trip to London.

As if he had proclaimed he was diagnosed with some ravaging illness, or that the Spanish army was raiding their shores, the expressions on the faces of his loved ones fell like stone.

You’re leaving us, Daddy? Little Francesco leaned back to see his father’s face.

Just a short trip. I feel a bit anxious. Caged. You understand what I mean? Mark was speaking to no one, no one but himself.

Everyone else in the room had continued what they were about to do, hoping he would drop the idea without the argument that would surely arise if anyone had questioned him.

He set his son down and tried to see if anyone had an opinion. He wasn’t sure why. It mattered not.

Only a fortnight. I shan’t be long. Again, he studied each face as they ignored his words. Hullo? Am I speaking to only myself? It is English you understand. Should I try again in Italian?

David rustled his newspaper in annoyance. Stop spouting nonsense. Now forget that silly notion. You remember what happened the last time.

How predictable! Mark shook his head. I was young and naïve. Besides, the winters are like purgatory to me. You know how mad I become. Humor me.

Don’t ask me to humor you. You’ve your wife and son to answer to. And with an end to the topic, David raised that paper once again like a wind screen.

Guilt was the next course of action when they knew logic would be defeated. Mark gazed at little Francesco as he leaned over the table to see if the food was set out yet.

Mary… Mark called out to her just as she returned with a tray of boiled potatoes. You don’t mind, do you, dear? It’s only a fortnight. I’ll bring you back something nice from the shops… and Uncle David, I’ll be sure to get you a fresh parcel of news. I’ve heard there are several newspapers being printed in London and not all of them reach you.

No one acknowledged him. He couldn’t decide whether it was simply annoyance or complete frustration he was experiencing. He knew no one would approve. He had rehearsed this scene repeatedly and it was playing out as if he had written it.

Having made the announcement, seeing no one cared to consider his feelings, he stated simply, I’ll pack my kit.

When he left the room the three others exchanged glances.

Mary paused to make sure he was out of earshot. I know he’s been listless. He no longer sleeps.

We can’t allow him to go! Katie tried to be restrained in her shout, David, talk some sense into him. Mary is with child! She needs him here. What if he goes off again? Like last time. We didn’t see him for months. We didn’t know if he was alive or dead!

David folded his newspaper and rubbed his face. Katie, love, I don’t know what good talking will do. I reckon he’s made up his mind. I’d only enrage him further. You know how he gets.

Katie peered quickly at Mary for her reaction. It was as she expected. Hurt. Rejected.

She held her for a gentle reassuring squeeze around her shoulders. It’s only a fortnight, Mary.

With her eyes filled with water, Mary raised her head to the staircase. No. He’ll be gone longer. He’s something in his mind he needs to settle. A fortnight isn’t going to do it.

What do you mean, ‘settle’. David rose up angrily. You don’t mean Italy!

Mary wiped at a tear before it fell. Little Francesco was staring at her, his light green eyes wide with curiosity.

Yes. I do. I mean Italy. Why do you think he has been trying to speak it flawlessly? He’s something in his head he needs to do there, and I know it has to do with that mate of his. The one he said got his throat cut ruthlessly.

"Mama? Non pi`angere! Don’t cry!" Little Francesco didn’t like to see his mother’s tears.

Hearing the child speak a foreign tongue, David grumbled in frustration. I don’t know what he’s thinking. But it’s unwholesome. He came back here five years ago from that adventure, kissing the front door in thanks to be home. Here he is, restless again, about to go out on his wife and child.

Katie moved across the room to him to squeeze his arm to calm him. David, there’s naught we can do.

Mark opened a leather kit and searched for his fine Venetian clothing and swords.

Mary leaned against the doorway. You need weapons to go to London?

He raised his emerald gaze to her, then went back to his task.

You are going to Italy. Why don’t you just admit it to me?

Still, he would not speak. His lips tightened in his growing annoyance.

Mark… she pleaded with him.

Again, his light eyes found her chocolate brown ones. I don’t know. Once I get to London I shall see.

Why must you make this trip?

Mark tucked his lush lace shirt into the case and stood tall to face her. You see me. You, of all people, you see me every night. Do you think I am content? That I am at peace?

And how is London going to make you peaceful? She took a step closer, her hand on her swollen belly.

He exhaled a great sigh. I do not know. I only know I need to find an answer.

What is the question?

He turned away from her to try and stop the conversation, continuing to pack. He located the suede pouch and felt its contents. The oval was inside. He removed it and stared at the face of his father sorrowfully.

Mark… please. I want to understand why you feel you need to leave your family again. Your son—

Stop.

But that is what you are doing. Tell me. How do I explain to Franny that you’re leaving him?

Irony. Here he was looking down at his father who had abandoned him, listening to his wife tell him he is doing the same.

No. It is not the same, he said out loud, then faced her. I am not abandoning you. A fortnight. Please. I am no good to either him or you in my present state.

She closed the gap between them. "I only need to hear the truth. Will it be a fortnight, or will it be three