Page 57 of Once a Gentleman
When Kit turned that hand over and squeezed Andrew’s fingers, his chest clenched with it. Thank God, thank God he had for once managed to be both honest and to say what would ease Kit’s mind, rather than distress him further.
“It was not the—the suicide,” Kit said quietly, eyes still downcast, though he clung to Andrew’s hand as if it were a lifeline. “That I understand, as a natural impulse in such distress. I consider it cowardice, a way to run from the consequences of his actions and leave them for me to—anyway I don’t consider it a mortal sin the way perhaps I ought. But he did cause the ruin of a great many others. Their anger is entirely too rational for me to resent.”
Andrew caught Kit’s slip, his near-criticism of his father that he so quickly and so loyally suppressed. He felt his own anger rise up, nearly choking him—cowardice indeed, to abandon your own child to face the fury of the world, to be left entirely alone.
But he swallowed it down. Kit needed his sympathy more than his impulse to protect him, an impulse that would be futile anyway, given that the circumstances of his father’s death were no longer fresh.
He silently vowed, though, that Kit would never be left friendless and penniless again. Andrew would not allow it.
“Their anger may be rational,” he said as evenly as he could. “It still ought not to take away any happy memories you have of your own father. God knows I have none at all of mine; he was unpleasant enough in life, and I was young when he died. You should never feel as if you can’t speak of your father to me, Kit.”
Kit let go his hand at last, leaving Andrew’s feeling chilled, as if that connection had been warmer than mere flesh.
Kit lifted his glass of wine, took a much deeper draught than Andrew usually saw him drink, and then set it on the table, turning it so that the base made little ripples in the tablecloth. “He did indeed keep early hours,” he said finally, with a funny little quirk to his lips that could almost have been a smile. “He would have thought dining on cold meat at this hour the height of libertinism.”
Andrew couldn’t help laughing, and was glad of it when Kit looked up, his smile growing more genuine. “If I had had the honor of meeting him, I promise I’d have behaved myself.”
“Would you, though?” Kit asked, his eyes gleaming. “In private, anyway?”
While he had little experience with navigating a lover’s feelings—for he had never spent sufficient time with one to make that necessary—Andrew could recognize a plea for a distraction when he heard one.
He rose and held out his hand, and Kit laid his in it. Andrew tugged him up and out of his chair and into his own arms, kissing the traces of fine Bordeaux from Kit’s soft lips. “I think there is no power on this earth that could compel me to behave myself with you in private,” he murmured. “Upstairs with you, love. And I’ll show you libertinism.”
He reached down and pinched Kit’s arse, making him startle and let out something like a squeak, kissed his laughing mouth, and pulled him out of the dining parlor and up the stairs.
Cold dinner or not, Andrew had never felt so very warm.
The morning of Andrew’s departure dawned very cold and very grim indeed, with the sound of rain washing down in sheets and pelting against the windows, and when Kit rose and pulled back the curtains the gloom increased rather than lessened.
Andrew had already risen and slipped out of bed, disappearing into the corridor and shutting the door behind him. He hadn’t so much as kissed Kit as he did, and Kit felt the lack keenly, though he attempted not to.
In fairness, Andrew had probably thought him too worn out to rouse and had hoped to allow him to sleep a little longer.
Not an unjustified assumption, for Andrew had done his level best to wear him out. The night before had been spent in a frenzy of—God, Kit felt such a fool calling it lovemaking even in the privacy of his own mind, but he could think of no other word that fit. Andrew hadn’t spoken of love. He hadn’t needed to. He had worshiped every inch of Kit’s body with his hands and his mouth, and when their eyes met, what Kit saw in Andrew’s made his breath catch in his throat. Andrew had looked up at him, his hands pinning Kit’s thighs to the bed and with Kit’s cock in his mouth, and Kit had arched, and cried out, and spent, half from the tight heat around his prick and half from the intensity of his lover’s gaze.
Andrew had taken him twice after bringing him off with his mouth, the first time with Kit on his hands and knees, pounding into him like a man possessed. And the second—the second time had been face to face, Andrew staring down at him as if he meant to memorize each of his features and expressions, to imprint his gasps and moans on his mind to take with him when he had gone.
Kit watched the rain spatter against the glass for a moment, and then turned away with a shiver, snatching the dressing gown he had borrowed from Andrew up from the floor where it had slid in the night.
The house already felt cold and lonely even with Andrew still in it. And he would return within a fortnight, supposedly—although one never knew, and that brought on another shiver. A few banked embers remained in the fireplace, and Kit set himself to stirring them up and getting the fire going. Andrew would be dressing, and he’d return when he had, Kit had no doubt; he wouldn’t go without saying farewell. In the meantime, Kit could only wait, alone and half-chilled, attempting to get used to the idea of both.
For he had grown far, far too accustomed to company and laughter and warmth and life, so much so that the idea of mere weeks without Andrew left him melancholy and a little bit lost.
Less than a fortnight, and he had already become dependent, weak, almost unable to imagine a life alone.
And by the time Andrew returned, his feelings might very well have faded. In fact, Kit ought to count on that being the case.
Kit wrapped his arms around himself and stared down into the little dancing flames beginning to lick up and cast a bit of heat.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Kit leapt to his feet just as Andrew opened the door without knocking and slipped inside. He looked as pale and drawn as Kit felt, and guilt smote him hard. Here Kit was, bemoaning his impending loneliness, when Andrew was about to board his ship and go into danger, a danger he could easily avoid if he wished—for Andrew had no need at all of his lieutenant’s pay. They would be equally separated, but Kit’s greatest concerns, beyond missing his lover, would be cold coffee and a drunken butler.
Pallor aside, Andrew took Kit’s breath away. The blue of his uniform coat made his eyes all but glow, even in the faint gloom from the window and the bit of light cast by the growing fire. And his figure, so tall and trim and strong…
“You look every inch the officer, Andrew,” Kit said. “I would be proud to serve under you.”
He didn’t realize how that could be taken until Andrew grinned, bright and wicked. Kit looked away, feeling his cheeks turn red. “Don’t, love,” Andrew said, advancing quickly across the room and taking him by the shoulders. He leaned down, peering into Kit’s face, and managed to land a kiss on his burning cheek. “I’m proud to serve on top of you.”
Kit dared to glance up, only to find Andrew waggling his eyebrows in the most absurdly exaggerated fashion. He couldn’t help bursting into laughter. “You are quite shameless,” he said, and turned his head for a real kiss.
