Page 39 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“Dare I hope it’s only physical?”
“Hartley!” Will knew he was blushing.
“How bad is it? Does he feel the same way?”
Will thought of the flowers pressed between the pages of his book and mumbled something that might be interpreted as assent. “In any event, it’s over,” he said, pushing food around on his plate.
Hartley sighed, whether with relief or sympathy Will could not tell. “You did the right thing by handing him over to his aunt. Well done. Heroic self-sacrifice, accomplished.”
“It was his idea,” Will said.
“Never thought sacrifice was much in Martin’s line,” Hartley mused. “But I suppose he yearned for the comforts of civilization—”
“It wasn’t like that,” Will protested, but even as he spoke he realized that Martin probably was very much enjoying having three hot meals a day and servants to draw his baths. And Will wanted Martin to have those things. He tried to remind himself that Martin was where he belonged.
“Regardless, now what you ought to do is give him some time to learn how to be Sir Martin again. You’ll call on him later, but first please finish your breakfast, shave as if you care about the results, and make some kind of effort with your hair. I’ll put some clothes that might fit you on your bed.”
When Will went upstairs, he half expected to find one of Hartley’s elaborate waistcoats and gold-buttoned coats sitting out for him. But instead there was a suit of clothes in brown wool, perfectly ordinary, and showing signs of wear. In fact, the last several times he had seen his brother, Hartley had been wearing unremarkable clothing—the sort of clothes one might expect to find on a man who lived above a pub, the sort of man you wouldn’t look at twice. With something of a start, he realized Hartley had done this to protect Sam, to keep anyone from reading anything specific into the nature of their friendship.
“You gave up your waistcoats,” Will said, pointing an accusing finger at Hartley when he walked into the room with a ewer of hot water. “And you dare accuse me of grand passions.”
“Fashions change, darling,” Hartley said. And then, busying himself in laying out a razor and a comb, “I’d go about in sackcloth for him if he required it, as much as it pains me to admit it.” He looked up sharply. “Don’t you dare throw it in my face.”
“I didn’t mean to!” Will held up his hands in surrender. “I think it’s... nice, that’s all.”
“You would,” Hartley sniffed.
An hour later Will was deemed sufficiently presentable to visit Bermondsey House. He knew where it was, because he had spent countless futile hours lurking around the place when he was looking for Martin the previous autumn. He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. “I’m here to call on Sir Martin Easterbrook,” he told the servant who answered the door.
Will’s borrowed clothing felt scratchy and too tight as he waited for the footman to return, but eventually the man did, and led him up a flight of stairs. Will found himself in an empty sitting room filled with furniture that he felt certain he shouldn’t be allowed to sit on. Everything was dainty, edged with gilt, and likely worth more than Will could ever hope to earn. He’d count himself lucky if he got out with nothing crashing in pieces to the polished parquet floor. On the chimneypiece stood a clock that seemed to be made of solid gold and comprised of intertwined cherubs who were up to no good. He stepped closer and squinted.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Will whipped around to see Martin in the doorway. The clock wobbled precariously and Will lifted a steadying hand, but was seized by the notion that he didn’t want to look like he was trying to steal it. Which was patently absurd—of course Martin knew he wasn’t in the business of stealing clocks or anything else. He tried to collect himself.
“I came as soon as I could,” Will said. “I told you I would.”
“You told me a good number of things,” Martin remarked flatly. He was wearing a pair of gray pantaloons that looked like they were sewn onto his body and a dark blue coat that threw the paleness of his skin and hair into relief. Will didn’t think he had ever seen Martin look so beautiful or so refined, but it was a reminder that Martin belonged to the same world as this sitting room, a world of thick carpets and impossibly delicate teacups. Will had known this all along, had known it when they were children and he had needed to tiptoe through the servants’ entrance at Lindley Priory if he wanted to see Martin. He had never not been aware of this fundamental inequality. Never before, though, had he felt like this gap between their stations could actually keep them apart. That gap was filled with gilt clocks and liveried servants and finely tailored clothes. In the country they had lived in a fantasy land where none of this mattered, but in the real world it did; even if it didn’t matter to Martin, it mattered to Will. Will hadn’t thought he had any pride left. He thought it had quite literally been flogged out of him, stripped away alongside his rank. But sitting here he felt like being among all this finery humbled him in some way that he didn’t want any part of.
They still had half the length of the room between them. Will took a tentative step to close the gap, aware that this should not have felt as difficult as it did. “You look good,” he said, aware that he was making an understatement. “All of that—” he gestured to Martin’s attire “—suits you.” It did more than suit him. It looked like a second skin and was just this side of obscene. Then Will remembered that he no longer had any right to look at Martin that way, and dragged his gaze to Martin’s face.
“You didn’t come here to congratulate me on my tailoring,” Martin said. He still leaned against the door frame, as if deciding whether to step into the room.
“I came because I missed you.”
“It’s only been a few days.” Martin’s expression was closed off, his eyes flinty and hard. It was nothing Will hadn’t seen before; this was fairly typical of Martin, in fact. But over the past months Will had started to take for granted Martin’s moments of openness and vulnerability. He had gotten used to being looked upon as something rare and loved and now he felt the lack of it.
“And I’ve seen you every day for months. Christ, Martin, this shouldn’t be so awkward.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it—admitting to the stiffness between them would only compound their problems.
But Martin huffed out a laugh—not a pleasant laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “I’ve reverted to form. I’m hardly known for my warm and inviting nature.”
“You can be warm and inviting,” Will said. “And you can be prickly and difficult. I like you this way and every way.”
Martin stared at him for a long moment, cool and considering. “You’re making a poor fist of returning to our usual friendship.”
“Bollocks. You’re my friend and I’m allowed to tell you that I like you.” He stepped closer, now within touching distance.
Martin shrugged. Will stuck his hands in his pockets and scuffed his toe against the pile of a carpet that he could only assume was priceless.
