Henry’s chest ached.
He set the heel of his hand against his breastbone and rubbed there, but it did nothing to ease him.
These last months, his feelings for Christopher had started to alarm him. The young man haunted his thoughts ceaselessly, and Henry’s growing fondness and protectiveness towards him had begun to feel like something far more profound than the light affection he’d decided would be acceptable in an arrangement of this nature.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
He did not want these feelings. He did not need them. He had entered into this arrangement to deal with other needs—physical needs he had denied too long. He had expected it to be uncomplicated. Christopher was lusty and willing, a hedonist as well as a beauty, and Henry wanted to slake his desires upon the man’s body. That was all it was ever meant to be. All it could be.
Henry sighed and turned away to fetch his clothes, noting that Christopher had neatly hung them up for him last night when he was so tired it was all he could do to take them off before he fell into bed.
Moving quietly, Henry took his clothes into the neighbouring dressing room so he wouldn’t disturb Christopher as he dressed.
Once he was ready, he briefly considered going back into the bedchamber to wake his lover to say goodbye, before reminding himself that he needed start exercising some discipline over his unruly feelings. Instead, he left the dressing room by the door that gave onto the corridor outside, and briskly descended the stairs.
He rang the bell in hallway and soon enough, Hodge appeared to unlock the front door and let Henry out, quietly closing it behind him, and shutting him out of Christopher’s life for another few days.
Outside, dawn was not so much breaking as creeping, the greyish sky gradually lightening by degrees.
Henry set off for home on foot. His coachman had dropped him off the night before. Henry never asked him to wait—it was little more than two miles back to the townhouse, and he didn’t mind the walk. It gave him time to assume once again his ducal persona and the weight of the everyday obligations associated with his real life.
But as he walked home this morning, it was not the life he was returning to that he thought of. It was the man he had left sleeping in the little house in Paddington Green, and the fact that it would be three long days before he saw him again.
Henry had decided at the outset of his arrangement with Christopher that he would allow himself to visit the man twice each week. That would meet his physical needs while ensuring that his other responsibilities were not affected. He had not expected to spend the days in between each visit longing to see the man, his concentration ruined by speculation over what Christopher was doing while Henry was away. Worse than that, each time they were reunited was too intensely joyful.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that.
Lustful, yes. Passionate, yes. But this?
He wasn’t supposed to be watching the boy sleep with his damned heart in his throat.
Had his father not warned him about this? Precisely this?
“Take lovers by all means—but don’t lose your head over them, Henry.”
Was he losing his head over Christopher?
Perhaps it was because this was the first taste of freedom he’d had in years, and Christopher made him feel young and carefree. Not that Henry was so very old—only nine-and-twenty—but when he’d been Christopher's age, six years ago now, he’d been married with a child of his own and a second on the way. He’d already held the ducal title for three years, following his father's sudden death. At three-and-twenty, Henry’s life had been full of responsibilities.
It wasn’t all responsibilities though. In Caroline, Henry had found his dearest friend, and the children were the light of his life. The love he felt for his young family was calm and pure and abiding, very different from the muddled, almost agonising feelings Christopher inspired in him. Again, Henry thought of the advice his father had given him on the day he had told him of the marriage he’d arranged between Henry and Caroline. The old duke was already dying, and was anxious to see Henry settled.
“Take your pick of whoever tickles your fancy, my boy, but mind this: save your romantic feelings for your wife.”
Henry had taken that advice to heart. During their brief courtship, Henry had treated the shy, reserved Caroline with a gentle gallantry that had been almost chivalric. The love that had grown between them had been devoted and pure.
As Caroline said, they did not need to share a bed to love one another.
Henry had realised early in the marriage that Caroline had no real interest in bed sport, but it was only after the birth of their fourth child, Alice, that he had learned how deep her aversion truly went. It had come out when he’d gone to her one night, several months after Alice’s arrival, thinking she must be wondering why he had stayed away from her so long. But when he’d removed his robe and slipped into bed beside her, she had begun to sob.
It had all come out then, in a storm of terrible weeping. She loved Henry, but she hated this. She wanted no more children, and she wanted no more of the physical intimacy between them.
As she had sobbed out her confession, she had apologised over and over, saying that she was a terrible wife and that she knew very well that if Henry was like other husbands, he’d have beaten her just for saying such things to him.
And all Henry could think was that, if he had ever truly desired her, perhaps Caroline may not have hated the marriage bed so much. Overcome by guilt and, shamefully, a crawling sort of relief, he’d taken her in his arms, met her wild, grief-stricken gaze, and assured her that he would never want to divorce her. He valued her for far more than her body. And it had been true, every word. She was the mother of his children and, by then, his dearest friend in the world. He had hated seeing her pain.
And he’d had his own secret desires that he’d never confessed to her.
Later, when Caroline was calm, she’d told Henry that he should feel free to go elsewhere to have his physical needs met. She did not expect him to remain celibate. She would look the other way, and they need never speak of it. She asked only that he be discreet, treat her always with respect, and break off any arrangement if she asked him to do so.
He had promised her, then and there, to abide by her rules, assuring her that he was devoted to her in all the ways that mattered, and that no lover he took would ever usurp her.
He’d felt so confident about those promises, envisaging a future in which he would silently slake his lusts on a parade of faceless men. After all, up until then, his experience with other men had amounted to little more than a series of forgettable encounters with accommodating whores.
But he had not envisaged meeting anyone like Christopher Redford. Had not thought it possible to feel such compelling desire for anyone—a desire so intense he would agree to spend a fortune setting Christopher up in his own house, with a handsome allowance, and a generous severance arrangement—just so Henry could have him all to himself for one year.
A year that would soon be up.
What was he to do in two months’ time? Let Christopher go, or continue for another year? God knew he did not want to give Christopher up, but was he flirting with danger if he continued?
“Take lovers by all means—but don’t lose your head over them, Henry. Whether they’re women, or men, or both, it matters not. Whatever morality lessons powerful men may espouse publicly, the truth is that nothing is forbidden to men of our station. However, one must be responsible about one’s actions. We cannot allow the common man the same licence. Can you imagine the effect on society?”
Henry could still see his father’s chilly smile.
“It is different for us. Men of our class carry a great weight of responsibility in this world, and so, such outlets are permissible for us, within limits. By which I mean that you must keep in mind the need for proper discretion at all times, and always remember where your loyalty lies. Take your pick of whoever tickles your fancy, my boy, but min
d this: save your romantic feelings for your wife.”
Henry knew, without a doubt, that his father would not have approved of his arrangement with Christopher Redford. The old duke would have told him to end the arrangement when the year was up.
But Henry wouldn’t be doing that. He couldn’t. The thought of never seeing Christopher again made him feel physically ill. And the thought of Christopher with anyone else was… well, it was intolerable.
By now Henry was nearly home, turning onto Curzon Street and walking towards his own house. As he approached, the lock scraped and the door swung open, a sleepy footman stepping aside with a slight bow to let Henry pass.
Henry nodded a greeting.
“Your grace,” the man murmured. Henry handed off his hat and cane then headed upstairs to bathe and change into fresh clothes.
His bedchamber was dim and shadowy, thanks to the thick drapes that kept out the morning light. He crossed to the window and yanked the drapes aside, only to startle when he turned around and realised there was a person lying in his bed, sleeping.
Caroline?
She never came to his bedchamber—and it had been several years since he’d visited hers—but here she was, a small, slight figure in the middle of the mattress, her long, loose hair covering her face.
Puzzled, he approached the bed carefully, sitting down gently and reaching out to carefully comb her hair back from her face.
She stirred and turned her face, and he saw it was blotchy and swollen from what must have been recent tears. His gut hollowed with dread.
Please, don’t let it be one of the children.
Caroline blinked her eyes open. There was a long moment when she seemed entirely normal, entirely well. And then some horrible realisation seemed to come over her, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
“Henry,” she gasped. “Oh God, Henry.”
She scrabbled up onto her knees and launched herself at him, burying her face in his shoulder as she began to cry in great wrenching sobs that sounded as though they’d been dragged from the depths of her soul. Henry stared at her in shock for a moment before folding his arms around her and pulling her trembling body close.
“What’s wrong?” he said urgently.
She felt both familiar and strange in his arms. It had been so long since they’d touched each other like this. The rosewater scent of her soap was like an old memory.
She pulled back and met his gaze, her face wrecked by tears.
“What is it?” he breathed, terrified.
She didn’t say anything, only reached for his hand and lifted it to her breast, guiding it with her own. Pressed his fingers against the soft flesh.
When he felt the lump, he understood, and their eyes met.
“What’s that?” he breathed, but he knew—he could feel it, under his fingers.
“Just like Mama,” she said thickly, and now Henry felt tears spring to his own eyes. Caroline’s mother had died a few months after he and Caroline had married. It had been shockingly quick, and Caroline had been distraught.
“I can’t bear it!” she half-sobbed. “The children are so young. You are going to have to be everything to them, Henry. From now on.”
“Don’t talk like that!” he exclaimed. “How do you know? Have you even seen the doctor yet?”
“Of course I have!” she cried, and she pressed his hand against her breast again, forcing him to feel the hard, uncompromising lump.
He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat, fighting for control. When he felt he could speak again, he said as calmly as he could, “Was it Doctor Jenkins? He’s not the only one—”.
“I’ve seen two,” Caroline interrupted dully. She closed her eyes briefly, gaining control over herself, before she added quietly, “Dr. Jenkins and another man he called for. They both said the same—they believe there is little they can do, other than provide pain relief.”
“But surely there’s something, some treatment—” Henry said, his voice cracking with disbelief. After a moment’s hesitation, he added weakly, “Surgery?”
Her mother had undergone surgery—to no avail—and it had been agonising.
Caroline shook her head swiftly.
“We’ll get another doctor,” Henry interjected desperately. “My dear, you can’t give up. The children—”
“I know!” she broke in, her voice low and fierce. “You think I don’t know, Henry? The thought of leaving them breaks my heart!”
And then she was crying again, and so was he. Till he had no tears left and felt like an empty husk.
“I want to go home,” she said. “Today. I want us all to go home to Avesbury House. Just us and the children.” Her fingers tightened on his. “May we, Henry? Please?”
He did not hesitate. “Of course. Whatever you want, my love. The doctors can come to you there and any treatment you need will—”
She interrupted him. “You will have to leave everything else behind.”
“Darling, it’s fine,” he interrupted. “I don’t mind—”
But she carried on, apparently needing to say more. “You will have to leave your young man behind,” she said. “You will have to give him up, Henry.”
She was talking of Christopher.
Henry’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak at all.
“I know you will miss his company,” she added, “but, my dear, it is time to put your toys away. We must think of the children now. They will need this time with us together—what little we can give them—and then after, you will have to put them first, Henry. Before your own desires.”
Somehow, Henry managed to swallow against the rocks in his throat.
“I know,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Sssh, I know.”
But she was too caught up in her own urgency to quiet. “Promise me, Henry,” she begged. “Promise me you will put them first, always.”
“I promise,” he said, though it felt like a wild thing was clawing his heart to pieces. “We will go home, and I will be very glad to do without Parliament and all the hubbub of London to have this time with you and the children. And as for my—my friend—” Somehow, he managed to quirk a smile, despite his sore, raw heart. “He will receive a parting gift and he will be perfectly content when I explain. I can arrange things so that we leave tomorrow—”
“No!” Caroline interrupted. “No, Henry, today. We must leave today.” She began to weep again, and he stared at her helplessly.
“All right,” he said. “All right. Don’t cry, my dear. I will speak to Parkinson, and he will arrange everything. We will leave today, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Henry,” she whispered.
He pulled her close again, and in that moment, grief swamped him.
He grieved for Caroline, and for their children—for the sorrow that would soon be coming their way. But he also, shamefully, grieved for himself.
For the loss of Christopher.
For the loss of the young man who Henry’s heart had fastened upon, despite his better judgment, and who he did not at all wish to lose.
II
London, April 1826
18 years later
3
Kit
Kit was running his finger down the long list of entries in the expenses ledger, totting up pennies, shillings, and pounds in his head, when the door of his office burst open and a small and very grubby person rushed inside.
“Mama!” the small person cried. “Look!” He held something between his closed, cupped hands—God only knew what, but it would be alive, Kit was sure.
“For heaven’s sake, Peter, what is it now?” Clara, his mother, asked wearily.
A former governess, Clara had been working for Kit at his club, Redford’s, for six years now. Peter had a nursemaid, Betty, but Betty had taken ill yesterday. And so Clara had brought Peter to the club with her today, so that, with the help of Kit and the kitchen staff, she could look after the boy as she worked.
It was not going very well.<
br />
Clara set down the bundle of invoices and delivery notes she had been sorting through and turned in her chair to face her small son, whose lip had already begun to wobble alarmingly. Her eyes widened at the sight he presented.
“Peter, how on earth did you get so dirty?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair and hurrying across the room. “You look as though you’ve been rolling around in a cellar!”
“I have!” Peter assured her.
Clara closed her eyes.
Kit bit back a laugh and said in the gravest voice he could manage, “Peter, you were supposed to be sitting in the kitchen quietly with Mary.”
“I know, Uncle Kit,” Peter said reasonably, “but I was playing with Gimlet”—Gimlet was the kitchen cat —“and she ran off, so I followed her down the stairs to the cellar, and it was dark and dirty at the bottom, which is how I got so mucky.”
Clara groaned. “Can’t you sit still for a minute even?” she gritted out, her thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose.
Peter coughed then, a wheezy sound that made Clara’s expression change from one of irritation to anxiety. He’d had a weak chest since he was a baby, and Clara worried terribly about every cough and cold. She dropped to her knees beside him. “You shouldn’t go into damp, dusty places,” she scolded. “They’re bad for your chest.”
Peter nodded and wheezed again.
“And cover your mouth when you cough,” she added, frowning.
“Yes, Mama,” Peter said, though he kept his hands where they were, cupped around whatever it was he held.
“Clara,” Kit said gently. “Why don’t you take him home?”
Clara gave him a helpless look. “I’ve barely done anything today.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kit assured her. “I can manage to hold the fort for a few days till Betty recovers.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, her expression worried.
“Of course. Before you came along I used to do everything myself, if you recall”—he grimaced—“not that I’d want to go back to that for more than a few days.”
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 2
