Page 77 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
Kit took hold of Percy’s shoulders. “It likely means she needs time.”
“Right. Right. That makes sense.”
“Who chose the artist?”
Percy raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t taken Kit as someone who was interested in art or artists. “I did. I visited Signore Bramante’s studio in Venice and liked his work.”
“Why? I mean, the likeness is good, and it’s not a bad-looking painting, but there’ve got to be dozens of artists who can do the same, and who wouldn’t need to be shipped in from Venice.”
Percy cast his mind back to what felt like a lifetime ago but was only earlier that year. “His subjects seemed to like one another.” There were other reasons, ones having to do with light and composition and a certain misplaced optimism about getting into Bramante’s bed. But the truth was that when he’d learned that his father had married Marian, of all people, he had hoped it was a love match. And so he had hired Bramante, as if spending a silly amount of money on a portrait might make it so.
That answer seemed to satisfy Kit, as little as it pleased Percy, though. He nodded. “You look like family. You and Marian and the child.”
Percy, who had more or less kept his cool for the past abominable week, for the past wretched couple of months, felt tears prickle his eyes. “Oh, damn you, Kit Webb. I ought to go,” he said, even as Kit pulled him close. “I have more trouble to make for the solicitors. And you might not be aware of this, but it might raise eyebrows if I broke down and started to sob on your shoulder. Commoners must be discreet.” He knew he was being absurd; the shop was empty, they were safe and alone. But he couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried. It felt rather nice, though, in a self-indulgent and histrionic way, to let himself go a little, and to know that Kit was fond of him just the same.
“There are other things commoners can do, though,” Kit said, pulling back and looking Percy in the eye, and Percy knew he was referring to what Percy had said at Cheveril, about how Percy could be with Kit in a way the Duke of Clare never could.
Percy flushed. “I hope so,” he said.
He had begun to imagine what his life could look like now, and how it might be a life he could share. He imagined two houses close enough that traffic through the alley behind them might not attract notice, whatever the hour. He imagined shared meals, shared time, coffee cups migrating from one building to the other.
He had thought of his changes in circumstance in terms of loss, but what he had gained was precious. “I find that I have nobody to oblige but myself,” Percy said. “Nobody to please but myself. But I want to please you. Of all the choices that I never thought I’d get to make, that’s the one I want the most, Kit. If you’ll have me.”
“I love you, too,” Kit said, and pulled him close.
Epilogue
One month later
One morning in the middle of January, when it was early enough that the winter sun hadn’t quite risen and Kit had only just lit the fire, a knock sounded at the door.
“Some of us can’t tell time,” announced Percy as he entered the shop, looking sleep rumpled and holding a furious baby.
“So I see.” Kit ushered them in toward the hearth. “Are you going to burp that child or not?”
“I beg your pardon. Talbots do not belch.”
“Give her over,” Kit laughed, holding out his arms. “There now,” Kit said, firmly patting the child’s back.
“I tried patting her. I’m not entirely incompetent with— Oh, that’s revolting. Eliza, I’m appalled. We need to discuss standards.”
Kit laughed as the baby gave him an indignant look that closely resembled one of Percy’s. “Have either of you managed any sleep at all?”
“Well, not recently. She seems to be getting a new tooth and is under the impression that it’s my fault.”
“They often are,” Kit said, and saw a stricken look flicker over Percy’s face as he recalled how Kit came by his knowledge of babies. “This one, however, comes from a long line of complainers, so I daresay she came by it honestly.”
The baby was getting to the age where she was a bit too heavy and wriggly to hold with one arm, so Kit sat before the fire and let her chew on the collar of his coat.
“Put that kettle on, will you?” Kit asked, then watched as Percy glanced around, as if not entirely clear what a kettle was or where it was supposed to go. “On the hook over the fire,” he clarified. “Then come here.”
Percy came to sit on the arm of his chair. When Kit tilted his head up and raised his eyebrows, Percy bent down for a kiss. He tasted of tooth powder and smelled of shaving soap, and Kit’s heart thrilled at the normalcy of it.
“You could come for supper,” Percy said softly. “Collins hired a cook, because apparently he’s far too grand to get his food from taverns and chophouses.”
Kit was impressed with how well Collins had maneuvered Percy into living in a way that Percy—and, presumably, Collins—would find acceptable. “The baby will need nourishing food to eat with all these teeth you’re insisting she grow. Collins is staying on, then?”
Percy sniffed. “He’s being quite unreasonable. I told him to go to Marcus, because Marcus doesn’t have a valet, and I tell you, Kit, it shows.”
