very hard. When she passed, they needed me in a way they hadn’t before. And I needed them too.”
“They’ll all be grown now, I suppose,” Kit said. Henry hadn’t mentioned his family a great deal when they were together, but Kit had known he had four children, two boys and two girls—two young men and two young women now—and it had been obvious that Henry adored them.
When Henry said nothing, Kit glanced at him, worried. Had he misspoken?
“Three of them are grown,” Henry said at last, staring down at his loosely linked hands. He took a long, steadying breath before adding, “My youngest, Alice, took scarlet fever and passed away when she was five.” When he finally raised his grey gaze to meet Kit’s, the grief in his eyes was unbearable.
“I’m so sorry, Henry,” Kit said, his voice cracking on the words.
Strange how, every time Kit had thought of Henry over the years, he’d imagined him living a golden life in his stately pile in the country. Even when he’d heard about Caroline's death—many years after her actual death, it transpired—he had not, to his shame, considered how much her loss would have hurt Henry. He’d simply imagined Henry casually selecting another wife for himself, siring a second brood of children.
When had he begun to think of Henry in such an ungenerous way?
He'd never had reason to doubt that Henry had loved his family. The fact that he did not cherish such feelings for Kit did not mean that he was incapable of them. After all, why would a man like Henry Asquith think of a paid whore as anything other than a servant? Kit had chosen to sell his body for money. He’d put a price on himself, body and soul. He could hardly mind when his customer took him at face value.
It hurt, yes, but it only hurt because Kit had let himself feel things he ought never to have allowed. He’d been foolish, and he only had himself to blame.
Kit glanced at Henry, who was was staring down at his hands, his expression still wrecked. Kit wished he could touch him, offer some comfort, but he didn’t know how, or if Henry would even want that.
Perhaps he would prefer some privacy, to collect himself again?
Kit stood and stepped away from the bed. “I’ll let you get dressed in peace,” he said quietly. “I’ll be in the parlour when you’re ready.”
Henry looked up, blinking, as though Kit’s words had just reminded him where he was. Without waiting for a reply, Kit left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
He padded through to the parlour, curling up in one of the armchairs to wait. He felt oddly shaky after the intensity of what had just happened with Henry. Stripped, somehow, of his usual self-possession. He wished he could wash up and put his clothes back on. Restore his elegant armour before Henry came into the parlour. But he’d have to wait for Henry to be done now.
After a few minutes, the parlour door opened and Henry stepped inside. His neckcloth looked rather limp, but otherwise he was back to being the elegant, soberly dressed duke. The devastated expression that had shredded Kit’s heart was gone, thank God, though Kit could not quite decipher the one that had replaced it. There was something about it that was diffident and determined and uncertain all at once.
When Henry made no move to sit, Kit rose from his chair, uncomfortable to be the only one seated. Immediately, though, he felt the disadvantage of being naked under his dressing gown while Henry was fully dressed.
He was swithering over whether to ask Henry to sit, when Henry said, “I feel that our conversation just now went rather awry.”
“Awry?”
Henry cleared his throat. “I was trying to tell you something, but then we began to talk of other things—important things, but still…” He trailed off, frowning.
Kit’s heart began to pound in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. “What were you trying to tell me?”
Henry rubbed a hand over his face. “I was… trying to apologise.”
This again.
Stiffly, Kit said, “Henry, I accept it was your servant who cheated me, not you. You don’t need to apologise again.”
Even as he said the words—even as he believed the truth of them—they rang hollow in his own ears, and he wasn't even sure why that should be.
Henry said, “I wasn’t apologising for that—although I do feel utterly wretched about it.” He swallowed visibly, then added, “I was