Page 22 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“I can walk,” Holland—Percy—said, rising unsteadily to his feet.
“Like hell you can. You’ll walk straight into the Thames.”
“Pfft,” Percy scoffed. He tried to step toward the door but tripped over the leg of his chair. Kit was by his side in a single stride and caught the man before he hit the floor.
“Oops,” Percy said, making a half-hearted effort to right himself but instead leaning on Kit. His forehead rested on Kit’s shoulder. Kit could feel Percy’s ribs under the linen of his shirt, could feel his heartbeat against Kit’s chest.
“Tell me again how you’re going to walk home.” Kit was surprised by how soft his own voice had become, but Percy’s ear was right there, inches from Kit’s mouth, so it was only natural to speak quietly. But still, the gentleness of his tone and the closeness of their bodies did something to make their nearness feel intimate rather than incidental. When Percy mumbled “slowly” into Kit’s shoulder, and Kit could feel his lips move, it sent a shiver through Kit’s body.
“All right,” Kit said briskly, setting Percy back in his chair. “You’ll spend the night here.”
“Oh really,” Percy said with a leer.
Kit snorted. “Can I trust you not to set yourself on fire or wander into the streets?”
“You can’t trust me at all,” Percy said, but he rested his headon the table beside him, cushioned on his folded arms, so Kit thought the odds against him going anywhere were fairly good.
Kit looked at the stairs and sighed. Leaning heavily on his walking stick, he made his way up to his bedroom. He grabbed the pillow and blanket off his own bed, as well as a shirt for himself. He supposed he could have managed to get Percy upstairs and put him into Kit’s bed, but Kit balked at the idea of letting Percy into his bedroom. He didn’t think he could handle knowing what the man looked like in his bed.
When he went downstairs, Percy was fast asleep. Kit laid out the blanket and pillow before the fire, then got an arm around Percy and managed to wake him up enough to lead him to the makeshift bed.
“Enough room for you,” Percy said, his eyes half-shut, lazily patting the blanket next to him.
Kit couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted. It had felt good when he caught Percy. It had been months since he had been that near a person and even longer since he had wanted to be. But of all the people in the world he needed to share a bed with, the Duke of Clare’s son was at the bottom of the list. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t even care whether this man made it home alive, let alone safely. It was bad enough that they were working together at all; Kit couldn’t afford to let any emotions cloud his judgment. Anger and resentment were troublesome; softness and sentiment would be disastrous.
With his foot, Kit shoved Percy so he was resting on his side. Then he lowered himself into a chair, resting his head against the wall behind him. He doubted he’d be able to sleep upstairs with the knowledge that Percy was asleep in the shop, so he might aswell stay where he was. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t standing watch in case Percy needed him, but he couldn’t even believe his own lie. The last thing he saw before his eyes drifted closed was pale hair spread on his own pillow, catching the firelight and glowing.
Chapter18
“Her Grace was most concerned when you disappeared from the drawing room last night,” Collins said when Percy returned to his apartments in the small hours of the morning. Motivated by pure cowardice, Percy had crept out of the coffeehouse before Kit woke. Now he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep off his headache.
“Tell me you didn’t wait up all night,” Percy said, rubbing his eyes.
Collins remained pointedly silent.
“I do apologize,” Percy said. “I ought to have sent word.”
“I took the liberty of mentioning to Her Grace’s maid that you had spoken of your intention to visit an establishment that caters to gentlemen.”
Percy was very tired and knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, but it certainly sounded like Collins was suggesting he had passed a message to Marian’s maid with the understanding that it would mean one thing to the duke and another thing entirely to Marian. Which perhaps meant that he understood that Percy and Marian needed to communicate secretly. And that could simply be because he understood they had been childhood friends andwere now effectively under surveillance. But it could also mean that Collins understood that Percy and Marian were conspiring against the duke. Percy could not decide whether Collins was declaring himself an ally or gently hinting at blackmail.
“You’re an angel and a genius,” Percy said lightly. “That’s possibly the only answer that would stop my father from asking questions. I’m forever in your debt. Marian won’t believe that story for a minute, though.”
“Precisely, my lord.”
“Thank you, Collins. Now, I suppose I ought to make myself presentable and show my face at breakfast.” He sighed. “I was hoping for a nap, but that will have to wait until my father’s had a chance to scold me.”
Collins sent him a brief, skeptical look as if to suggest that Percy shouldn’t aspire to anything so grand as presentability, given his current state. But after a bath, headache powder, and the judicious application of Collins’s considerable skills, Percy thought they had achieved sufficiently passable results. When he descended the stairs and found both Marian and his father at the breakfast table, he felt considerably more alive than he had upon his arrival home.
“You’ve been whoring,” the duke said before Percy had pulled out his chair.
“Good morning, Father, Marian,” Percy said, helping himself to kippers and ham. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve been whoring.”
“Where?”
Percy had not been expecting that question, and could not imagine why his father needed to know the particulars. He could name a handful of brothels but that would only be meeting his father on the ground of his choosing. He chose a different tack.“You can’t expect me to admit to the name of the sort of establishment I frequent,” he said. “Wouldn’t do to have any dear friends stuck in the pillory, now, would it?” That made the duke’s cheeks redden, because he simply hated to be reminded that his son fucked men.
“You will not speak that way in front of Her Grace,” the duke said.
