Page 69 of Once a Gentleman
I am, as always, your obedient servant,
Andrew Turner
Kit could not credit his senses. Andrew had ended his employment; had, in fact, ordered him to vacate the house with all speed.
This could not be real. There must be some explanation in his other letter.
Kit tore it open with feverish haste.
The letter had no salutation, and its contents had Kit sucking in a breath that he couldn’t seem to exhale, his chest tightening and his throat closing up.
My fellow officer is writing this on my behalf.
While our association has been very pleasant, I must tell you, without any attempt at a gentle delivery that would only offend you with its condescension, that it must now come to an end. I am certain I will not wish to continue when I return. It would be the act of a thoughtless coward to wait until I do return in order to speak to you, though in general one would wish to have such a conversation face to face.
I have no doubt that with your myriad fine qualities you will have many suitors vying to take my place. You will forget me quickly, I am quite certain, and we may both consign the time we have spent with one another to the past.
I wish you nothing but happiness. Please believe that. I doubt we will ever meet again, and I would not want my last words to you to be uncharitable, and so I will merely say that you are worthy of much better than I can offer you.
Andrew
Andrew had signed it himself, albeit a little shakily. Perhaps with his left hand? But even so, Kit had studied his previous correspondence so thoroughly that there was no mistaking the way he formed the letters of his name. Kit would have known his signature anywhere.
He had signed it himself. There could be no doubt, no hope of a malicious prank by some third party or another misunderstanding. Andrew no longer loved him, if he ever had; he had thrown him over; it was over, quite done.
Rage and betrayal surged up uncontrollably, and Kit jumped out of his chair and paced back and forth, flinging the letters on the desk as he passed it, running his hands through his hair and breathing like a bellows.
Howdarehe? After everything he had promised, everything he had said and done. After his smiles and his lovemaking, and the way Kit had given himself up so entirely.
Or perhaps not quite so entirely.
Kit stopped mid-step, staring into space. Kit had never said he loved him. He had promised to remain for a fortnight, and had implied he would wait longer if there were some delay. But he had never spoken the words that rang in his heart and mind, that trembled on the tip of his tongue. He had doubted Andrew’s love too much to leave himself open to not only heartbreak but humiliation when and if Andrew changed his mind.
But what if those doubts were mutual, as they very well ought to be, since Kit had ensured they were so? Andrew didn’t believe Kit loved him. And now he was sending him away, so coldly and dispassionately.
Andrew might be something of a rake. He might be careless when it came to his household and his reputation.
But he had never shown himself to be selfish, nor had he ever been ungenerous when at fault. Whenever they had disagreed and Andrew had been clearly in the wrong, he had admitted it, asked forgiveness, and attempted at least to amend his behavior. Of course, he could be contrary, and malicious, even, when he thought himself wronged.
But Kit hadn’t wronged him, which Andrew knew perfectly well. And when Andrew wasn’t angry, he tended to be kind. Even when he was angry, he was rarely cold.
Kit seated himself at the desk and read both letters through twice more, forcing himself to attend closely to every word, no matter how much they hurt.
You will forget me quickly, I am quite certain.
Well, he certainly would not. And he did not believe that Andrew would, either. There was some mystery here, an incongruity between every bit of Andrew’s behavior Kit had ever observed and this dismissal.
Kit summed it up in his mind, drumming his fingers on the surface of the desk and watching their reflections in its polished surface. Andrew was a straightforward man. If he had some reason to be rid of him, he would tell Kit what it was. And therefore, if he didnottell him, that meant he might very well not want to be rid of him after all. Which meant he had some other reason for telling him to go.
Hurt and his own anger bid him heed the letters, accept their meaning on the face of it, and pack his trunk and depart, never to return.
But no. Kit would not so easily give up the only man he’d truly loved and the first home he’d had in years. He would not be sent away like an unneeded servant. He was Andrew’s lover, and also his secretary, and also, by Andrew’s own insistence, a gentleman, an equal, and Andrew’s guest.
Perhaps Andrew truly did want to be free of him without any of the inconvenience of doing what he had alluded to, telling him face to face and witnessing the consequences of his actions—and getting his nose broken, which Kit’s hand itched to do.
Well, too bloody bad for him. Be damned to Andrew and his cryptic letters. He had left Kit in charge of the household, and of his business affairs, and of his fortune, and even of his heart, and here Kit would remain, hang it all, until Andrew had the courtesy and the courage to look him in the eyes and tell him he no longer loved him or desired him.
Mechanically, he folded the letters and slipped them into the pocket of his coat along with the others, which he kept in his possession always. It felt a little wrong to carry them together, but where else would he put them?
