The Queer Principles of Kit Webb - Cat Sebastian Page 0,113
of Cheveril? In either case, he tore off the remaining paper with his own hands and stared at the life-size portrait of Marian and himself posed before the eastern facade of Cheveril Castle.
The portraitist had caught Percy in half profile, either turning his head toward Marian or away from her, and looking like he was about to laugh. Marian held the baby—who thankfully looked like a human infant rather than a small goblin—close to her chest, and wore an expression that hovered between serene and calculating. As for Cheveril, Percy could only speculate as to who had directed the portraitist to paint in the house in place of the duke.
“There’s a scrap of paper gummed to the back,” Kit said.
Percy moved to the back of the canvas and knelt to read the note. “‘Kiss Eliza for me,’” he read aloud. “What does that mean?” he asked in rising panic. “What can that possibly mean? Does it mean she isn’t coming back?”
Kit took hold of Percy’s shoulders. “It likely means she needs time.”
“Right. Right. That makes sense.”
“Who chose the artist?”
Percy raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t taken Kit as someone who was interested in art or artists. “I did. I visited Signore Bramante’s studio in Venice and liked his work.”
“Why? I mean, the likeness is good, and it’s not a bad-looking painting, but there’ve got to be dozens of artists who can do the same, and who wouldn’t need to be shipped in from Venice.”
Percy cast his mind back to what felt like a lifetime ago but was only earlier that year. “His subjects seemed to like one another.” There were other reasons, ones having to do with light and composition and a certain misplaced optimism about getting into Bramante’s bed. But the truth was that when he’d learned that his father had married Marian, of all people, he had hoped it was a love match. And so he had hired Bramante, as if spending a silly amount of money on a portrait might make it so.
That answer seemed to satisfy Kit, as little as it pleased Percy, though. He nodded. “You look like family. You and Marian and the child.”
Percy, who had more or less kept his cool for the past abominable week, for the past wretched couple of months, felt tears prickle his eyes. “Oh, damn you, Kit Webb. I ought to go,” he said, even as Kit pulled him close. “I have more trouble to make for the solicitors. And you might not be aware of this, but it might raise eyebrows if I broke down and started to sob on your shoulder. Commoners must be discreet.” He knew he was being absurd; the shop was empty, they were safe and alone. But he couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried. It felt rather nice, though, in a self-indulgent and histrionic way, to let himself go a little, and to know that Kit was fond of him just the same.
“There are other things commoners can do, though,” Kit said, pulling back and looking Percy in the eye, and Percy knew he was referring to what Percy had said at Cheveril, about how Percy could be with Kit in a way the Duke of Clare never could.
Percy flushed. “I hope so,” he said.
He had begun to imagine what his life could look like now, and how it might be a life he could share. He imagined two houses close enough that traffic through the alley behind them might not attract notice, whatever the hour. He imagined shared meals, shared time, coffee cups migrating from one building to the other.
He had thought of his changes in circumstance in terms of loss, but what he had gained was precious. “I find that I have nobody to oblige but myself,” Percy said. “Nobody to please but myself. But I want to please you. Of all the choices that I never thought I’d get to make, that’s the one I want the most, Kit. If you’ll have me.”
“I love you, too,” Kit said, and pulled him close.
Epilogue
One month later
One morning in the middle of January, when it was early enough that the winter sun hadn’t quite risen and Kit had only just lit the fire, a knock sounded at the door.
“Some of us can’t tell time,” announced Percy as he entered the shop, looking sleep rumpled and holding a furious baby.
“So I see.” Kit ushered them in toward the hearth. “Are you going to burp that child or not?”