calmly put away his writing slope, before making his way back to his bedchamber to dress.
He selected a cream-and-maroon striped waistcoat and a beautifully tailored coat, tying his neckcloth with great care. He put a little pomade in his hair, used a little of his favourite cologne—a blend of bergamot, orange blossom, and rosemary—and pushed a large topaz and gold ring on his right index finger
He examined himself in the looking glass.
His stomach was in knots, his palms damp.
God damn but he was as nervous as a kitten and he hated that. He didn’t want to be nervous. He wanted to be cool and in control. Reserved and unaffected.
He said aloud, “Henry. To what do I owe this pleasure.”
He groaned. His voice was thin and tense, and “Henry”? “Pleasure”? No!
He took a deep breath, then another.
“Your grace. How may I help you?”
Christ, no.
“Your grace. This is unexpected.”
Yes.
He took another breath, in and out, and said it again, his voice a little deeper this time.
“Your grace. Well, this is unexpected.”
No, he sounded arch now. He went back to first version.
“Your grace. This is unexpected.”
Now he sounded defensive.
“Your grace—” He broke off, groaning.
Perhaps he should have told Tom to send Henry away.
Henry.
“Henry,” he said. “This is unexpected.”
The lump in his throat was unexpected.
He used to think that “Henry” was the dearest name in all the world. The most perfect two syllables created.
Strange, how one’s reaction to a mere word could change so fundamentally.
He turned away from the looking glass and strode to the door, trying to take big, even breaths, to consciously manage his own racing nerves.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Tom. “Come on,” he said. "You can announce me. It’ll be good practice.”
Tom grinned and straightened his coat. “Right-o!” he said, and started down the corridor at a clip, Kit following in his wake.
Kit’s heart thundered his chest as he followed Tom, an odd mix of nerves and long-suppressed, slowly-building anger filling him. And something else too, mortifyingly. A touch of the old excitement he used to feel, on the nights he knew Henry was coming. He was honest enough to admit that, and had enough pride to hate himself for it.
When Tom reached the drawing room, he opened the door with sweeping formality, as if Kit was the duke in this tableau.
Just before he stepped inside, Kit wondered what Henry would make of this grand entrance. Perhaps he’d think Kit was putting on airs? That he’d got above himself over these last eighteen years?
Well, what if he did think that?
Fuck him.
Fuck Henry Asquith, Duke of Avesbury.
Kit lifted his chin and stepped inside.
10
Henry
Henry stood at the window of Christopher’s drawing room, looking down at the street below. The street where Christopher now lived. This was a quiet corner of London. Not fashionable but reasonably well-to-do, and the house was much larger than the one he’d bought for Christopher in Paddington Green.
He hadn’t been sure if Christopher, would agree to see him. The footman who greeted him had been wide-eyed from the moment Henry gave his name. He’d respectfully—and rather too trustingly, in Henry’s opinion—shown him into what looked to be the best room of the house, before offering to have tea sent up without even checking with his master.
When the same footman had opened the door again less than ten minutes later, Henry had half-expected to be asked to leave, but the man had merely said that Mr. Redford would be down in a few minutes, if he would care to wait.
And that was what Henry was now doing. Waiting nervously. Staring unseeingly out of the window at the street below as his mind whirred with thoughts.
When the drawing room door finally opened again, he spun on his heel.
The footman was holding open the door, and the man who was stepping forward, into the room, was, quite possibly the most elegantly dressed man Henry had ever seen. His clothes were beautifully tailored, his hair perfectly coiffed. His face—
It was the same face.
“Christopher—” The name escaped him on a shaky breath.
Christopher Redford was just as he had been nearly twenty years ago—and he was so very different.
For several long moments, they stared at one another. Henry couldn’t have moved or spoken to save his life. His gaze moved over Christopher hungrily, absorbing every fascinating detail. His hair was a more seasoned, darker gold than before, but otherwise he wasn't much changed. Still slim, still fine-featured, unmistakably the same man, only older.