Restored (Enlightenment Book 5)

by Joanna Chambers

  Henry, hoping his distress did not show, tried to keep his voice steady and calm. “I am generally reasonably diligent about my affairs, but I had no reason to doubt Parkinson’s loyalty. He had been my father’s private secretary for many years, and I trusted him implicitly. Besides, at the time I was preoccupied with Caroline.”

  “Caroline?” Christopher’s frown made Henry’s stomach sink. “Why were you preoccupied with Caroline?”

  “You don’t know?” Henry asked faintly.

  “Know what?”

  This was what he had feared.

  “Did Parkinson give you my letter?” Henry said hoarsely.

  Christopher’s blank look was all the answer he needed. A wrenching ache near split his heart into two, and for the first time ever, Henry wished Parkinson was alive again, just so he could punish him for his reckless, selfish actions.

  Christopher had been so young and trusting back then, despite his worldly ways—it was unbearable to imagine how he must have felt when Parkinson had arrived at the little house to turn him out. Without so much as even a note from Henry.

  Henry said huskily, “I had to leave London with Caroline and the children quite suddenly. Caroline was very ill—cancer of the breast.” He rubbed at his chest with the heel of his hand. “I got home early one morning—after our last night together—and she was waiting for me with the news. She asked me to take her back to Wiltshire straightaway.” He paused, swallowing hard before he added, “And she asked me to give you up.”

  He glanced back at Christopher who was staring at him with a stunned expression.

  “I had no idea,” Christopher said faintly. “I heard she’d passed away a few years ago, but I had no notion it was so soon after you left town.”

  “She died only a few months after we returned to Wiltshire. I’ve never come back to town to live since then. I only visit from time to time.”

  Christopher looked stricken. “Christ, Henry. That must have been awful.”

  Henry blinked, unsure how to respond. “It was… sudden,” he said. “She found the tumour in her breast, and it grew very quickly. We knew how things would likely go. Her mother had died of the same disease.” He came to a halt, a shard of old grief piercing his heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Christopher said, his eyes soft with sympathy. “I know how much you loved her.”

  He had loved her, but somehow, those words from Christopher’s lips filled him with another old pain. An old pain that threw up memories of Christopher; how he used to look when Henry arrived at the little house in Paddington Green, eyes shining with happiness and anticipation. The old pain of losing that. Of losing Christopher.

  The pain of Caroline asking him to give Christopher up.

  “It is time to put your toys away. We must think of the children now.”

  In the months—hell, the years—that followed, Henry had felt like a selfish cur every time he’d thought of Christopher. Every time he’d missed him. Every time he’d longed for him.

  “Take lovers by all means—but don’t lose your head over them, Henry.”

  Love was only for his family. For his wife and children.

  But the truth was, he had loved Christopher too. And what did that say about him? What did it say about him that he’d still longed for Christopher, when his wife and children needed him so?

  He hadn’t even had the decency to walk away without looking back. He’d written that letter for Parkinson to deliver, practically begging Christopher not to forget him. Even as he’d promised Caroline to leave his lover behind, he’d still wanted to keep some tiny flame of hope alive for himself.

  And now it turned out that Christopher had never received the letter. That he’d never even known how grieved Henry was over leaving him.

  “So,” Christopher said into the silence. “Caroline asked you to give me up?”

  “Yes,” Henry said, his voice raw now. “I’d promised her I would, you see, if she asked.”

  Christopher didn’t say anything, only watched Henry with his clear, green gaze.

  Henry continued, “I told Parkinson to make the house over to you and pass you a bank draft for three hundred pounds, just as we’d agreed. And—I gave him a letter for you.” He took a deep breath. “I always thought, until I spoke to Jean-Jacques a few days ago, that you had got everything that was due to you.” He gazed at Christopher. “Did you at least get the bank draft?”

  Christopher met his gaze. Slowly he shook his head.

  Henry groaned and closed his eyes. “God damn him.”

  Christopher was silent.

  When at last Henry opened his eyes again, he forced himself to meet Christopher’s gaze. The man’s face was quite unreadable. He’d changed in that respect, Henry thought. He used to wear his heart on his sleeve.

  “What did Parkinson say to you?” he asked.

  “Not much,” Christopher admitted. “He gave me fifty pounds and told me I had to get out by the next day.”

  “What?” Despite everything, Henry was still shocked to hear that.

  “He wasn’t unpleasant about it. Simply factual. He said you were finished with me, and I was to leave.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he tried to remember the long-ago conversation. “I think I said, ‘But we have a contract.’ He laughed at that part. As though I’d lost my mind. And then he said—and this part I do remember quite well—‘People like you do not have contracts with dukes.’”

  Henry stared at him in horrified disbelief. “But we did,” he breathed. “And he knew that I fully intended to honour that agreement. Back then, he knew all my business.”

  “Back then?” Kit echoed. “Doesn’t he work for you anymore?”

  “He died years ago,” Henry replied. “Soon after it was discovered that he’d been stealing money from me, and from my father before me. My father had taught me to trust him, and Parkinson himself had never given me any reason to doubt him.” He paused, then added, “I’m only surprised you took no action against me. Isn’t that how these things normally work?”

  Christopher flushed and turned away. He muttered, “I was a fool back then. I wouldn’t let Mabel—Madame Georgette, that is—do anything to you. The money from Parkinson was enough to pay her most of her cut, so she agreed to leave you be.”

  Henry’s gut clenched. “You gave her the fifty pounds?”

  Christopher sighed. “Yes. Like I said, I was an idiot. Later I wished I hadn’t been so stupid, but at the time I was convinced it was the right thing to do.”

  Henry was almost afraid to ask the next question, but he made himself do it. “And what did you do after that? How did you manage?”

  Christopher shook his head.

  “Please tell me,” Henry pleaded. His voice was hoarse.

  Christopher’s face, when he turned back to face Henry, was furious. “I was a whore! What do you think I did?” He shook his head. “Anyway, what do you care, Henry? You left. You had no intention of returning and you didn’t return. You never checked up on me once, till now, or likely gave me a second thought. It’s all water under the bridge.”

  “I did think about you,” Henry said in a low, driven tone. “Too often, in truth, when I ought to have been thinking of others.”

  “I understand,” Christopher interrupted tersely. “You had to put your family first. It’s not as though I didn’t always know that was the case. What eludes me is why you are here now, all these years later, when, to be frank, it’s too late for apologies.”

  “I want to make it up to you.” Henry reached into his coat and drew out the papers Reid had drawn up for him. “Here,” he said, thrusting them into Christopher’s hands.

  Christopher opened up the folded pages and stared down at the lines written there, his brows pleated in confusion. “What’s this?”

  “My solicitor wrote it up. It explains that I’ll either transfer the Paddington Green house over to you with the sitting tenant so you can collect the rent, or pay you the equivalent value. You’ve
only to decide which you prefer. And of course, I’ll pay you the three hundred pounds you ought to have had, and the back rent you’ve missed.”

  Christopher thrust the letter back towards Henry, the neatly written pages shaking in his grip. “I don’t want that,” he said angrily. “Not any of it!”

  For a moment, Henry could only stare at Christopher, shocked. Then, slowly, quietly, he said, “We made an agreement. You must allow me to honour it, Christopher, I shall be wretched if you don’t.”

  Christopher stared at him in astonishment. “I must allow you to”—he broke off, giving a harsh laugh—“I think you’ll find that I can do whatever I please, Henry! You didn’t give two hoots what happened to me eighteen years ago, but now your honour can’t bear it if I won’t let you pay up late?” He snorted disgustedly. “Well, here’s the thing, Henry: I’ve made my own way in this world without your money, thank you very much. I neither need nor want it now!”

  “Christopher, please,” Henry said. “It’s not about need, or even want—it’s about what’s fair. It’s only just for me to make amends to you, and I—”

  “Don’t give me that!” Christopher said sharply. “This isn’t about fairness, or justice. Or you making amends. It’s about you trying to buy off your guilt. But you can’t do that, Henry. You owed me that house and that money, eighteen years ago. That was when I needed it. That was when I suffered the consequences of not having it. You can’t balance the ledger between us simply by giving me that sum now, when I no longer need it—not even if you add compound interest—because there’s no cost to you. Not really. You’re so wealthy you could give me that money ten times over and still not notice its loss. So how does that—that transaction—make amends for what you did?”

  Henry stared at him, horrified. Horrified… and mortified, because there was something in what Christopher said, wasn’t there? Henry was trying to buy his way out of the guilt that had been dogging him since the day he’d sent Parkinson to Christopher’s door. Oh, he’d dressed it up in the fine clothes of principle and honour and fairness, but was he more driven by the desire to have his own sins forgiven, his own slate wiped clean, than by an honest desire to do right by Christopher? Was he even thinking about what that would entail?

  “I'm sorry,” Henry said desperately. “I do want to make amends to you, just tell me what you want and I will see it done.”

  Christopher’s expression was all bitter fury. He gave a harsh laugh. “What could I possibly want from you now? Wait, I know—perhaps you should earn the money you owe me the way I had to earn it? On your knees, and on your back, taking my cock like a whore.”

  Henry blinked, stunned—and, mortifyingly, aroused—by the filthy, furious words. He was suddenly aware of his cock pressing against the placket of his buckskin breeches, and when Christopher’s gaze dropped to his groin, his eyebrows slowly rising, Henry’s cheeks burned.

  “Well, would you look at that,” he said bitingly. “It seems you like that idea.”

  They stared at one another, the silence between them oddly charged.

  Christopher stepped closer to Henry. He was still a very beautiful man, but his face did not have the uncomplicated comeliness it had once had—it had more character now. More grit. There were faint lines of experience etched onto it. Creases at the corners of his eyes that—despite his current fury—suggested he smiled often.

  “Perhaps it would be interesting,” he said now, “to invert our transaction.” His gaze on Henry was curious. “I’m not sure you’d be up to the challenge though.”

  “What makes you say that?” Henry managed, his mouth very dry.

  “You’re a duke,” Christopher said, his tone making the title sound like an insult. “You’re used to being in charge, used to having your desires indulged, used to being the user—rather than the provider—of services.”

  Services.

  Henry did not want to let that pass.

  “I realise that is how you see our arrangement now,” he said. “As some hard-nosed exchange of services for money—and perhaps it was like that, at the beginning. But later… well it was not like that for me.” Heat stole into his face as he made himself admit the truth aloud. “Maybe I am being very naive, but… I felt that we were making love together.”

  For just a moment, Christopher looked wrecked, but then he gave a derisive snort. “Pathetically enough, I would probably have agreed with you once, but then I did used to be a perfect idiot.”

  “Don’t say that,” Henry breathed. His heart felt raw and bleeding, but he felt oddly alive too, for the first time in a very, very long time. Christopher might hate him, but he was looking at him, reacting to him. Reacting to Henry, as a person in his own right.

  In this moment, Henry wasn't the the Duke of Avesbury, or the father of the Asquith children.

  He was just… Henry.

  Christopher said flatly, “Before you get carried away, Henry, consider this aspect of our arrangement: I was always the one on my knees—or my back—and you were always the one shoving your cock in a hole.”

  Henry’s blush had faded, but now it returned, heating his cheeks.

  Christopher laughed, not particularly kindly. “Providing services, you see. Holes to be filled, just as often as you’d like.”

  “Christopher—”

  The man smiled brightly. “Would you like to give it a try? Earn back the money you owe me by letting me use your holes?”

  “Christopher, please,” Henry said weakly.

  Christopher laughed again, and this time a bitter edge crept in. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not really going to ask you to service my cock, Henry. But it was worth saying out loud, just to see your face.” A strange smile twisted his lovely mouth. “And now I think it’s time you left, your grace. I do believe I’ve had enough reminiscing for one day—for one lifetime actually. So, let us leave it at this: you have made your apology, and I have accepted it.” Christopher moved towards the bell rope, stretching his arm out to pull it and summon the footman.

  To see Henry out of his life, once and for all.

  Henry didn’t want that. He found himself stepping forward, taking hold of Christopher’s reaching arm and saying roughly, “Wait. Please.”

  Christopher turned, his expression mingled confusion and irritation.

  “I’ll do it,” Henry said. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Christopher’s eyes went wide. Henry had surprised him, it seemed. His expression flickered between disbelief, intrigue, suspicion… and yes, lust. It was that last that lit a fire in Henry’s belly and made him feel that strange sense again, of being fully alive for the first time in a long time.

  At last Christopher said, with almost eerie calm, “You really want to do this? To make amends to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not for your own gratification?”

  “No,” Henry said. “Though I can’t promise not to enjoy it. You seemed to do so, all those years ago.”

  Something flared in Christopher’s green eyes, then subsided.

  “If you are making amends,” Christopher said, “it has to cost you something. It cannot be some game for your own titillation.”

  Henry’s gaze was steady. “I understand.”

  Christopher gaze hardened and his light voice grew challenging. “Fine. We do it at Redford’s then. In the back room, where anyone can see. You, on your knees for me. Sucking me off in front of everyone.”

  The jolt of alarm in Henry’s chest at those words was profound, and he saw that Christopher noticed his reaction—a thin smile stretched his mouth and his hostile gaze was fiercely disbelieving. He was waiting for Henry to back down—certain of it, in fact.

  “All right,” Henry said faintly. “I’ll be there. When?”

  For the second time, Christopher’s eyes widened with surprise, but a moment later, he had himself back under control. “Tonight,” he said tightly. “I’ll tell my doormen to let you in. Come any time after nine o’
clock.”

  “Very well,” Henry said. “Until this evening, then.”

  He bowed then, very properly. As though to a lady he had called upon after a ball.

  When he straightened, Christopher was looking at him strangely, suspicion and disbelief in his cool green gaze. And something else. Something vulnerable.

  In that moment, Henry made his decision.

  As terrifying as the prospect was, he was going to Redford’s tonight.

  Come what may, he would be there.

  11

  Kit

  After Henry left, Kit didn’t know what to do with himself. He tried to go back to his letter, but he could not concentrate. He kept returning to his conversation with Henry.

  He was astonished at himself—where had that deep-rooted anger come from? Until today, he would have sworn that he had largely put his history with Henry Asquith behind him, but faced with the man, he had been blindly, violently furious.

  His old hurts and resentments had flowed out of him like lava, scorching the ground between them.

  Christ, where had his absurd idea of being serviced by Henry in public come from? What had he been thinking to suggest such a thing? What had Henry been thinking to agree to it?

  And Christ, he was coming to Redford’s tonight!

  Except, no. Of course he wasn’t. He would not. He would go away and think better of this madness.

  Surely he would think better of it?

  Kit was still brooding over an hour later when the quiet of the house was interrupted by a very loud knocking at the front door. Curious, Kit went to his front window and peered down. To his surprise, one of the two figures standing there was Clara—he recognised her pale-blue bonnet and shawl. She was leaning on the arm of an unfamiliar man wearing a high-crowned hat.

  What on earth?

  Kit turned on his heel and left his sitting room, heading for the stairs.

  By the time he had descended, Tom had already opened the front door and Clara and the strange gentleman were standing there, with Tom glaring at the young man.