“No,” Christopher said quickly, almost angrily. “You don’t know what it’s like to be used in front of others, with no care for your feelings or comfort or pride. Like a thing.”
For a moment, Henry felt like he couldn’t breathe, then he said faintly, “Was that how I made you feel?”
Strangely, Christopher looked shocked at the question. “What? No, I mean—” He broke off and looked away, closing his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he fought to control himself.
“Skelton then,” Henry guessed aloud, and he knew by the shudder that passed through Christopher’s body that he was right.
He yearned to reach for Christopher, to pull his slight frame against his own larger body and embrace him, but he had no right to touch Christopher, not now, not ever.
When Christopher finally opened his eyes, he said, “This afternoon I was angry, Henry. I spoke rashly, said things I didn’t mean.” He sighed. “I don’t want to humiliate you in front of my patrons, not really. They may be discreet out in the world, but they gossip amongst themselves. And I don't—” He broke off.
“Yes?” Henry prompted gently when he did not finish.
“I don’t want to be a person who would do that, just because I can.”
Christopher reached for the champagne bottle and sloppily poured himself another glass, drinking half of it down before meeting Henry’s gaze again.
“I’m letting you off,” he said. “You made your point. You came here, prepared to do what I asked. Let’s leave it at that.”
Henry stared at him, unable to speak. Christopher’s generosity moved him more than he could say, but still, he felt oddly crushed. Grateful, yes, and relieved, but unmistakably, gut-wrenchingly disappointed.
He levered himself away from the wall, standing straight again and tried to smile, though it felt like feeble effort. “I daresay if I were in your shoes—” he began. He searched for the right words. “Well, let’s just say I can understand your reticence to allow me anywhere near you again.”
He went to turn away, but Christopher caught his sleeve. “Henry—”
He turned back and gazed at Christopher. At that once-beloved face, the generous, so-often-smiling mouth, the inquisitive green eyes that glinted with intelligence. Christopher looked a little harder now than before, yes, but he still had that deep-down goodness to him. That sweetness that had drawn Henry to him just as much as his undoubted beauty and sensuality.
Christopher had every reason to hate Henry, every reason to take the opportunity to humiliate him. Henry would have willingly let him do it.
But, no. It wasn’t in his nature.
“Yes?” Henry said hoarsely.
Christopher was frowning. “That’s not why I’m letting you off,” he said. “It was never bad with you—not once.” He let go of Henry’s sleeve. “I’m not saying it was exactly how I wanted it, but it wasn’t like it was with Skelton or any of the others. I always”—he paused, met Henry’s gaze—“God help me, Henry, but I always wanted you.”
Unbidden, Henry felt tears prickle in his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“Thank you,” he said, thickly. “I’d be wretched if I thought you’d hated it.”
Christopher smiled then, a sweet curve of his mouth that Henry remembered so well, and that had his heart twisting in his chest.
Impulsively he said, “How did you want it with me, Christopher?”
Christopher looked almost comically surprised to be asked. He jerked his head away, lifting his champagne glass to his lips as though afraid Henry might see something betraying.
When he finally lowered the glass, he said, “I suppose, I wanted it to be real.”
“Wasn’t it real?” Henry asked sadly. “It felt real.”
Christopher’s gaze was rueful. “It did, didn’t it? I thought that too.”
“But it wasn’t?”
Christopher shook his head. “When you’re a whore, your answer to every question is yes. Even when you want to say yes, you are always aware that you can’t say no. It changes everything. It changes the very nature of who you are.”
The heaviness in Henry’s chest felt like grief. He blurted out, “I wish I could to be with you without that between us, if only just once.”
Christopher stared at him for a long time, his green gaze searching Henry’s face.
“Do you mean that?” he whispered at last.
Henry nodded. “I do.”
Christopher considered that for what felt like a very long time. Then, finally, he said, “All right then, Henry. Come with me.”
15
Kit
Kit took Henry upstairs, to his private rooms, where he’d lived before he bought the house in Marylebone. He still used his old bedchamber occasionally, when it had been an especially long