Restored (Enlightenment Book 5)

by Joanna Chambers

  “God, no!” Henry interjected, horrified. “You didn’t believe that, did you?”

  Corbett looked abashed. “Later, I realised it was nonsense, but at the time I didn’t know what to think—why else would you turn him off so suddenly? And there was no retribution.”

  Henry’s stomach churned. “Is that why he—is it true he took up with Lionel Skelton?”

  Corbett’s brows drew together in a frown. “I’d forgotten about that,” he said. “Yes, he did. That was a bad business.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Well, I only heard about it after,” Corbett said, “but the story I got was that Skelton was a brute. Used his fists on Kit and one night went too far—left him in a bad way.”

  “Christ,” Henry whispered. He felt sick.

  “I used to make him beg for my cock like a dog.”

  “Are you all right?” Corbett asked, frowning. “You’ve gone as white as a sheet, Avesbury.”

  Henry swallowed and nodded. “Yes. I just—I didn’t know any of this. And the thing with Christopher being turned off by me? He never did anything wrong, Corbett. That was all my fault.” Henry took a deep, shuddering breath. “He suffered because of me.”

  Corbett’s frown deepened. “Come with me. You need a drink.”

  He was only vaguely aware of Corbett steering him towards a couple of armchairs and urging him to sit down. He sank into the comfortable leather, his mind racing, while Corbett summoned a servant and ordered brandy for them both.

  “I shouldn’t have told you like that,” Corbett muttered when the servant had gone. “It must have been a shock.”

  “It’s my fault,” Henry said. “I had no idea.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Corbett said gently. “And look at Kit now. He must be worth a pretty penny. He owns this place and dresses as elegant as the finest dandy you ever did see. Whatever bad things might have happened, he overcame them.”

  When the servant arrived with their brandy, Corbett fell silent, leaning back while the man set the glasses down on the table.

  Henry lifted his as soon it was poured and threw back the contents in one go. The spirit burned his throat and a fresh wave of nausea rose in him, threatening to bring up his dinner. He swallowed hard and thankfully the feeling subsided.

  “Do you remember Phineas Warren?” Corbett asked.

  Puzzled, Henry looked up, meeting his friend’s serious gaze. “The name is familiar… wait, was he that old banker who used to go to the Lily with his own boy so he could watch him with other men?”

  Corbett nodded. “That’s him. Well, that’s who Kit took up with after Skelton.”

  Henry blinked, remembering the elderly banker and his pretty companion very well. It was all too easy to imagine Christopher as he had been then—pliable and lovely—sitting quietly at Warren’s feet with a collar around his neck.

  Though not so much the Kit of today, Henry thought, with his cutting comments and angry green gaze.

  “They were together a good few years,” Corbett continued. “And Warren left Kit nicely set up, I heard. Nothing in the will—Warren was too smart for that, he made all the arrangements before he died. Wanted Kit to be looked after, he said. Course, he was so rich that what he gave Kit was a drop in the ocean compared to what his nephews and nieces got, but it must have been enough to start Redford's. And Kit’s made a great success of the place, I must say.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Henry said faintly. And looking around he could see it was true—the furnishings were tasteful and expensive. Beyond this room, he could see a glimpse into the dining room next door, which was also bustling with well-dressed patrons. It all looked so respectable—it was difficult to believe there was anything debauched going on anywhere in the building.

  It wasn’t a bit like the Golden Lily. Christ, the second you walked in that place, you knew you were in a brothel. All those scantily clad young beauties… But Henry could already see that Redford’s catered to an entirely different sort of customer.

  Yes, Kit had made a success of his life—no thanks to Henry.

  “So you see,” Corbett said gently, “you don’t need to feel so terrible. Kit’s done all right. Better than most that come from where he did.” He smiled. “And he can’t be holding a grudge, or you wouldn’t be here, would you? He’s very particular about who he lets over the door. You need at least two personal recommendations from existing members, and Kit’s own approval to even be considered.”

  Henry couldn’t hold back a laugh at Corbett’s assumption that Kit had approved him, though he feared he might sound somewhat deranged. Corbett wasn’t to know why Kit had really invited Henry here.

  It was as that thought crossed his mind that he quite suddenly, and viscerally, realised the full import of what he had agreed to do tonight. To get down on his knees in this place and let the man who had once been his kept boy fuck his face in front of anyone who cared to watch.

  Oh God.

  Henry groaned and covered his face with his hands. His stomach churned, and his blood ran cold. What had he been thinking to agree to such a thing?

  But he had agreed. He had.

  “Avesbury?”

  Abruptly, Henry stood. “I have to find Christopher,” he said. “Have you seen him?”

  “Kit, you mean?” Corbett said. “He was in here earlier. He may be in the dining room or one of the card rooms now.”

  Henry nodded. “Thank you. Excuse me, Corbett.”

  “Of course,” Corbett said, but his expression was curious.

  Henry found Christopher in the third room he tried, a card room. Not that Christopher was playing cards, or even watching someone else play. He was standing with two gentlemen at the side of the room, talking and laughing, a glass of champagne in hand.

  Christopher was turned very slightly away, giving Henry an oblique view of his perfect profile. He was dressed with a sober elegance that Henry did not associate with the young man he had once known. His black coat was perfectly tailored, his black breeches very correct, and his high shirt points and cravat were pristine white.

  But when Henry stepped forward and said his name—“Christopher”—he turned to reveal a less sedate picture. His gold silk waistcoat was embroidered with an outrageous snarling sapphire dragon, and his beautifully carved lips were touched with vermillion, while the elegant fingers that cradled his champagne glass bore an array of gleaming and glittering rings.

  He was breathtaking.

  Christopher raised his eyebrows, his tone disbelieving as he echoed Henry’s greeting. “Christopher?”

  It was only then Henry remembered his words of earlier.

  “My friends call me Kit… you may address me as Mr. Redford.”

  Henry’s gaze flitted, unwillingly and uneasily, to the two elegant gentlemen standing on either side of Kit, both of whom were at least a decade younger than Henry, and who were now staring at him with unabashed curiosity.

  Clearing his throat, his neck burning with mortification, Henry said, “Sorry, Mr. Redford, I meant.”

  One of Christopher’s companions tittered at that, lifting a lace handkerchief to his mouth, though Henry thought not so much to hide his laughter as to draw attention to it.

  Christopher glanced sharply at the man, then back at Henry, and Henry feared he was about to be rather humiliatingly dismissed. Or perhaps ordered to his knees.

  But in the end, Christopher—Kit—cast a careless smile at his two companions and said silkily, “Do excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Stepping towards Henry, he took possession of Henry’s right arm with his free hand and expertly steered him away.

  Henry could not suppress the smile that tugged at his mouth, though he tried to bite it away.

  “Thank you,” he said in a low voice.

  “Don’t thank me too soon,” Christopher said lightly, offering a teasing smile to an elderly gentleman walking past them in the corridor. “You’ve only just arrived.”

  “Ah,
yes. I’m sorry about that.”

  “About what?”

  “Being so late,” Henry said. “I had something I had to attend to before I came.”

  Christopher seemed nonplussed. “You’re hardly late,” he said. “It’s only just past midnight.”

  “But you said to come at nine.”

  “I said to come any time after nine.” Christopher cocked a brow at him. “We’re open till four o’clock, so it’s still quite early by my standards.”

  Christopher led him back into the room where he’d been talking with Corbett. Henry saw that they were attracting some interest. Numerous gentlemen were glancing at them surreptitiously, then murmuring to their companions. He wondered if there was anyone here who recognised him. There was no sign of Corbett now—he must have gone to one of the other rooms.

  Christopher guided Henry over to a quiet corner, pausing on the way to ask one of his staff to fetch more champagne for them both.

  “This is where I like to stand,” he told Henry. “I can see everything that’s going on from here.” And it was indeed a good vantage point from which to view the room, especially for Christopher, who was a sight shorter than Henry.

  Henry leaned against the wall beside Christopher, reducing the height difference between them a good bit. When Christopher turned his head to look at him, Henry was struck by the strongest sense of familiarity—this was something he used to do in the old days, when they were standing together. Henry had performed the familiar choreography quite unconsciously.

  In the soft candlelight Christopher looked younger, and that provocative touch of red on his lips stirred Henry. He used to love the small feminine decorations Christopher employed to enhance his beauty. For Henry, it had never been because it made Christopher seem more feminine—almost the opposite in fact. Something about these decorative little adornments underlined his masculinity in a way that heated Henry’s blood and made him impossibly hard.

  He stared at Christopher, and Christopher returned his gaze, his own touched with curiosity—it felt almost as though no time had passed at all, as though Henry had somehow imagined all the years between then and now.

  “This feels so familiar,” Henry murmured.

  “Yes,” Christopher said. “The memory is a strange thing.”

  Henry tried to read what he saw in Christopher’s eyes. An edge of bleakness perhaps, but something determined too. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, how to read him. When he had first seen Christopher this afternoon, the man had been palpably angry. Henry had half expected to see the same fury in his gaze tonight, but Christopher seemed more wary than anything else.

  “Ah,” Christopher said then, his gaze moving over Henry’s shoulder. “Here’s our champagne.”

  Two servants approached, one carrying glasses and champagne on a silver tray, while a second carried a tall stand on which the tray was set. The servant with the champagne removed the cork without fuss and filled both glasses.

  “You can leave the bottle,” Christopher said, and they withdrew.

  Christopher touched the rim of his glass to Henry’s with a tiny clink. “What shall we drink to?” he asked lightly.

  “Your success?” Henry suggested. “This place is very impressive.”

  Christopher sipped his champagne and smiled. “What were you expecting? Somewhere like the Golden Lily?”

  Henry laughed. “I suppose I was. This is a deal more… restrained.”

  “Do you remember the first time you were at the Lily? Mabel was having a Roman orgy night and I was wearing this ridiculous garb—” Christopher broke off with a peal of laughter.

  Henry did remember that—only too well. Except the memory wasn’t having quite the same effect on him. His cock was filling at the mental picture of Christopher’s lean, beautiful body, decorated with a few floaty wisps of transparent fabric held together with golden clasps, a pair of golden sandals on his feet, a golden laurel wreath on his head… and very little else.

  Somehow Christopher had got even closer—or Henry had—their faces were only inches apart now.

  Christopher stopped laughing. He swallowed, then said something too softly for Henry to hear over the babble of conversation in the room.

  “What was that?” Henry asked, dropping his head a little lower and offering his ear.

  “I looked very silly,” Christopher whispered, his warm breath gusting pleasurably over Henry’s ear, making him shiver.

  He turned his head back, moving his lips towards Christopher’s ear to respond—to deny that statement—but as soon as he started to speak, Christopher whipped his head around and their lips grazed, shocking Henry into open-mouthed silence.

  Henry’s first thought was that Kit had intended to kiss him. But the immediate warm glow of pleasure he felt at that thought died when Christopher jerked back, his cheeks flushing.

  “Sorry,” he said hastily. “It’s just that I—I can’t hear in that ear.”

  Henry stared at him, frowning. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can’t—I’m—I’m deaf in that ear. I… had an accident.”

  His gaze slid away as he was saying the words, and Henry read in the gesture old hurt, old humiliation.

  Without thinking he blurted, “Did Skelton do that to you?”

  Christopher’s shocked expression told him he’d inadvertently hit on the truth.

  “He did, didn’t he?” Henry said. “I learned today that he was your—” He broke off. Swallowed. “And it seems he beat you so badly, you lost your hearing.”

  For a moment, Christopher stared at him, stricken, then he tore his gaze away and lifted his champagne to his lips, draining his glass.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said tightly. “As you can see, I recovered.”

  But he hadn’t. Not fully. He was deaf in one ear.

  “God, you must hate me,” Henry said thickly. “It was my fault. If I had taken more care—”

  Christopher’s gaze was impossible to read. There was a hint of the anger from earlier there now, but other things too. Resentment in the thrust of his jaw and, when his green gaze flicked to Henry, a kind of impatient pity.

  “Like I said,” he said tightly, “it was over a long time ago. I’m not—” He broke off, frowning to himself.

  “What?”

  Christopher sighed. “I don’t know what I was thinking this afternoon, asking you to come here.”

  Henry’s heart sank. Suddenly the thought of being ordered to his knees in front of everyone didn’t seem like the worst thing that might happen tonight.

  “I thought,” he said carefully, slowly, “that you wanted me to make amends to you.”

  “What I suggested wouldn’t be you making amends,” Christopher said wearily. “It would be punishment, pure and simple.”

  Henry stared at him—he didn’t know what to say. Relief and disappointment warred in him. He could see that Christopher was working up to letting him off the hook.

  “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I want to take my punishment. Perhaps I need to.”

  Christopher met his gaze. He looked like he was thinking.

  After a while, Christopher said, “You don’t have the slightest idea what it would be like, you know. You probably think, because you’ve been to brothels and bought whores and performed acts in front of other people that you wanted to perform, that you know what this will feel like. But you don’t.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “No,” Christopher said quickly, almost angrily. “You don’t know what it’s like to be used in front of others, with no care for your feelings or comfort or pride. Like a thing.”

  For a moment, Henry felt like he couldn’t breathe, then he said faintly, “Was that how I made you feel?”

  Strangely, Christopher looked shocked at the question. “What? No, I mean—” He broke off and looked away, closing his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he fought to control himself.

  “Skelton then,” Henry guessed aloud, and he knew by the shudde
r that passed through Christopher’s body that he was right.

  He yearned to reach for Christopher, to pull his slight frame against his own larger body and embrace him, but he had no right to touch Christopher, not now, not ever.

  When Christopher finally opened his eyes, he said, “This afternoon I was angry, Henry. I spoke rashly, said things I didn’t mean.” He sighed. “I don’t want to humiliate you in front of my patrons, not really. They may be discreet out in the world, but they gossip amongst themselves. And I don't—” He broke off.

  “Yes?” Henry prompted gently when he did not finish.

  “I don’t want to be a person who would do that, just because I can.”

  Christopher reached for the champagne bottle and sloppily poured himself another glass, drinking half of it down before meeting Henry’s gaze again.

  “I’m letting you off,” he said. “You made your point. You came here, prepared to do what I asked. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Henry stared at him, unable to speak. Christopher’s generosity moved him more than he could say, but still, he felt oddly crushed. Grateful, yes, and relieved, but unmistakably, gut-wrenchingly disappointed.

  He levered himself away from the wall, standing straight again and tried to smile, though it felt like feeble effort. “I daresay if I were in your shoes—” he began. He searched for the right words. “Well, let’s just say I can understand your reticence to allow me anywhere near you again.”

  He went to turn away, but Christopher caught his sleeve. “Henry—”

  He turned back and gazed at Christopher. At that once-beloved face, the generous, so-often-smiling mouth, the inquisitive green eyes that glinted with intelligence. Christopher looked a little harder now than before, yes, but he still had that deep-down goodness to him. That sweetness that had drawn Henry to him just as much as his undoubted beauty and sensuality.

  Christopher had every reason to hate Henry, every reason to take the opportunity to humiliate him. Henry would have willingly let him do it.

  But, no. It wasn’t in his nature.

  “Yes?” Henry said hoarsely.

  Christopher was frowning. “That’s not why I’m letting you off,” he said. “It was never bad with you—not once.” He let go of Henry’s sleeve. “I’m not saying it was exactly how I wanted it, but it wasn’t like it was with Skelton or any of the others. I always”—he paused, met Henry’s gaze—“God help me, Henry, but I always wanted you.”