“In a g-g-good way?” Albert pressed.
Michael smiled. “In a good way.”
The carriage stopped shortly after that, taking them to Euston Station, which Michael had ridden past a thousand times but never entered. They didn’t enter it now, either. First Albert scribbled a few notes and gave them plus a small satchel to a porter who promised, “I’ll deliver them right away, m’lord, and see to it that your bag makes it safe onto the train.” Then they headed toward a coffee shop across the way. It was noisy and crowded, and Michael glanced at Albert, worried.
Albert, who had gone white, tried to smile back.
Relieved when he saw a small park and a bench beneath a tree, Michael pointed at it. “We’ll be stuck on the train all afternoon. Perhaps we should sit outside for a while?”
Albert gave him a long, strange look. “It’s r-r-raining and c-c-cold,” he pointed out.
Michael squinted up at the gray sky. “Well—yes, but—” He searched for a polite way to duck around Albert’s fear of crowds, but it wasn’t easy. “It’s…so busy in there, and I don’t feel like—I had coffee at Dove Street, really, and—”
Albert’s bemusement gave way to comprehension, and his mouth flattened into a thin line. Before Michael could decide how to react, his escort took hold of his forearm and walked with grim purpose toward the shop.
It was loud outside, but the din was deafening within. Michael stepped in to guard Albert’s wallet as he recognized a few of the gentlemen at the bar working unsuspecting travelers. There wasn’t a free table anywhere.
“We don’t have to do this,” Michael said, leaning in close to Albert.
Albert ignored him, pressing on white-lipped to wave down a host. Retrieving his handy notebook and paper, he scribbled a note and showed it to the host, who nodded and motioned to a waiter. Just like that, they were led down a hall to a parlor, not empty, but with better chairs and a lot more quiet. The waiter seated them, Albert scribbled another note, and then he collapsed carefully into his seat, shutting his eyes with a shuddering breath. He stayed that way for several seconds, at which point he withdrew his pill case from his vest pocket with a shaking hand.
The opium.
Michael watched the white pill tumble into Albert’s hand. He thought of everything Rodger had said about it, of how it ruined lives. Of how it was the reason Rodger wanted Michael to end their affair.
As Albert lifted the pill to his lips, Michael reached out without thinking and knocked it out of his hand.
Albert stilled. Michael drew his hand back quickly as the pill sailed over the edge of their table and onto the floor. It felt like he’d walked into a dream. Had he seriously done that? Knocked the pill out of Albert’s hand? He had. Oh God in heaven, but he had.
“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered to the tablecloth, unable to meet Albert’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just—” He swallowed hard, and then it all came out in a hushed torrent. “Rodger told me you take opium, told me what it does to people, and I saw it in your hand and thought of it destroying you like he said it did so many people, and I didn’t think.” He shut his eyes. Good God, he should just get a shovel and make burying himself so much simpler. “I’m sorry. Truly, I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
He kept his gaze down as a waiter appeared with their coffees. Neither of them spoke. Michael made a few tentative sips, then sank back in his chair, wishing he could crawl under the table.
A hand pressed gently against his knee.
Darting a glance at Albert, at first he thought he must have imagined it, for Albert was engrossed in his coffee, not looking at him at all—but no, that was his arm disappearing beneath the table. And that had to be his hand, his large, strong hand on Michael’s knee, drifting to the edge of his thigh.
Stroking.
Gently—not hard, not angrily. And not sensually, either. His hand shook a little, and his face was pale. But the touch was…odd. Michael didn’t know what to do with it. He reached down to close his hand over Albert’s, worried that he might not be well.
Albert’s hand captured his—and squeezed.
Lord George Albert Westin, he supposed, had made a lifetime’s practice of expressing himself without words. Looks, glances, mannerisms—and now this, a touch. It was odd, because Michael had been touched so much, but never like this. Never beneath a table in a fine salon. And never with such…passion. Intensity.
Abruptly Albert’s hand went away, withdrawn almost guiltily. “V-Vaughn.”
Michael turned to where Albert was looking, and he felt himself go pale too.
Standing before them was Daventry’s eldest son.
Chapter Eleven
Vaughn’s smile was strained as he regarded his brother. It vanished almost completely as he took in Michael. “George Albert. Good to see you. And your…friend.”
A movement beside the earl caught Michael’s attention. A small, pale boy stood beside Vaughn.
Albert saw this too and frowned. “Wh-What is w-wrong with Edwin?”
Vaughn’s lips flattened into a line. “I think Father is running him a bit too hard. Or perhaps the tutor. I don’t know. He simply—” He cut himself off, but Michael thought the man seemed worried before he erased the emotion from his countenance. “At any rate, Edwin’s mother wants to see him, so it works out. He gets a reprieve from the old man’s schooling on how to be a marquess, and his mother gets to coddle him for a time.”
Michael made eye contact with the boy and shivered at the vacantness he saw there.
“We should get going to our train,” Vaughn said. “Alice is already waiting in Bristol for us.” His thin smile returned, and he made a slight bow with his head. “Good to see you, George Albert. Sir,” he added, making an even tighter bow to Michael. He tugged on his son’s hand. “Come along, Edwin.”
For several minutes Wes and Michael sat silent at their table, the earl’s interruption resonating between them. Eventually Albert cleared his throat and stood. “We sh-should get to our t-train.”
Michael rose too, but he did not miss Albert slipping one of his pastilles into his mouth.
Albert kept a hand on Michael as they pushed through the crush to the door, trying not to lose him.
Inside the station it was madness, hundreds of voices and harpers echoing against the high ceiling, but Albert pressed on, huddling close to the wall, eschewing ticket stations and leading them straight to the platform.
Their coach was sleek and black, boasting glass windows, the only car to do so. Glancing forward, Michael saw the second class had a roof and open walls, and third had no roof at all and not even seats, everyone clustered in like cattle. In their car, Michael and Albert had fine leather seats, cushioned, and with lap rugs, which Michael didn’t hesitate to put on. He sat beside Albert, who after tucking his own rug into place, withdrew his notepad and began to write.
Michael settled in to wait. After several seconds of dutiful scribbling, Albert handed it over. His writing looked rushed and slightly frantic.
I am not an addict. The laudanum is for my nerves. It’s true I’ve used too much lately, but I am working on using less.
Michael glanced around the car, which wasn’t crowded but seemed too full of ears. He took the pencil from Albert and wrote back.
But if you hadn’t gone into the coffeehouse, you wouldn’t have needed it. I wouldn’t have minded waiting outside.
This only made Albert frown and scribble faster.
I will not have you thinking I am some pathetic weakling. It’s true that I don’t do well in crowds. But I am not incapable. Only out of practice.
Michael barely had time to read this before Albert, looking pained, snatched the notebook back and wrote again.
I wanted to do something special with you today. I wanted to see you smile again the way you did when you saw the Athenaeum. I didn’t want you to think of me as an addict. Michael had read over his shoulder, but at this point Albert paused. Then he went on. I
would tell you I would stop entirely, but I don’t think that’s wise. But I promise you I will use it as little as I can.
Michael claimed the pencil again, but he fingered it nervously. I don’t think you’re weak, he wrote at last. You don’t need to prove yourself to me. Especially at such cost. I am content—
He stopped, the lie catching him up. Content to tour gardens and ride in his coach? No. He wanted more. But he couldn’t say that to Albert.
Albert took the pencil and paper back.
You aren’t content. I can tell. Please, don’t worry. You were right, I didn’t need the drug just then. It’s a habit as well, taking a pill when I need to calm myself. The pills, yes, are a weakness. I apologize. But I want to do this with you. To spend time with you. To prove to you—he paused, smiled sadly, and went on—and perhaps to myself, that I can do this.
Michael replied.
That’s well and good, but please don’t ever hurt yourself for me. I don’t care how bored I get of gardens. I don’t wish harm for you, Albert. I care—
He stopped abruptly, realizing what he’d been about to write. He tried to scribble it out, but Albert stayed his hand. He was looking intently at the paper.
“F-Finish,” he demanded.
With a shaking hand, Michael dislodged Albert’s enough to write the rest.
I care about you. He swallowed a lump of fear and pressed on. I care very much about you.
They stared at the words. Around them the porters arranged the other passengers, wealthy men and women chattering and complaining and speaking in excitement to one another.
Albert gently took the pencil from Michael’s hand and wrote, in careful letters with the notebook still on Michael’s lap, I care for you as well. Very, very much.
He left the notebook in Michael’s lap, their twin confessions laid bare. When the porter came by, Michael shut the book, but he held it close, remembering the look of those sentences together, in his handwriting and in Albert’s own. Those words, so simple, so dear.
They were seated at the back of the train, with no one behind them and only a single seat across. The seats were all arranged like benches facing front, as if they were in a church without a pulpit. The other passengers seated themselves and looked around, but never back.
Beneath their lap rugs, their legs were pressed together, knees touching intimately. Michael could feel the heat of Albert, could smell his toilet water, the lavender his maid used on his clothes.
Albert, who cared for him.
When the train pulled out of the station, rain pattered down upon the windows. Wearing his glasses as he always did with Albert now, Michael could see outside, but everything was runny and vague, blurred by the rain. He watched the London he knew go by, while before him the rich prattled on, settling into their seats, and beside him Albert remained still, except for his foot, which tentatively reached over to brush his toes.
Michael smiled.
An old woman was seated across from them, and she was asleep before they left the city limits. Soon there was only the rhythmic clack of the train along the rails, the creaking of the car and the leather seats, and the hushed conversation of the passengers.
Albert leaned down to Michael’s ear. “There is a t-tunnel ahead,” he whispered.
He kept his face nearby, and Michael turned toward him slightly as well, keeping one eye on the window. He could see it, a mound of earth with a dark mouth to swallow the train. He remembered what the girls who had ridden the train down from the northern cities had told him about the tunnels. If you didn’t like the look of the man beside you, put your hatpins in your mouth to keep him from stealing a kiss in the dark.
But Michael very much liked the look of the man beside him, and he was more concerned with making sure he did steal a kiss.
When the darkness enfolded them, he turned to his lover. Their mouths met like magic in the darkness, finding each other without a fumble. It was a soft, sweet kiss—innocent and desperate as a kiss stolen in the first-class train car should be. He tasted Albert’s breath, felt his sigh, felt him shake, just a little, echoing the trembling Michael felt inside himself.
The light grew—they pulled away quickly, but not too quickly. Their eyes locked.
Albert smiled.
There were no more tunnels, but there was the lap rug. Beneath it, all the way to their destination, Michael and Albert discreetly held hands. No groping. No fondling. Just hands touching, lightly teasing, silently celebrating what they had confessed in Albert’s notebook.
I care for you.
Just when Michael began to nod off, the train pulled over for another stop, and this time Albert rose, urging Michael up as well.
“Where are we?” Michael asked.
Albert smiled at him, looking delighted again. “Oxford.”
As much as the coffeehouse had been a mistake, Oxford was all Wes had wanted for Michael and more.
After securing umbrellas from a porter, they began their tour of the town. The rain was coming down in buckets now, but Wes suspected it could have been sheets and a degree above freezing, and even without an umbrella Michael would have delighted in it all.
“It’s so charming,” he said, over and over. “Like a toy village. So busy, and yet, after London, it’s—” He laughed. “Charming. Completely, utterly charming. I could stay here forever.”
“You haven’t even b-been inside a shop,” Wes pointed out, aiming them toward a bakery. “And you m-m-must be hungry.”
Michael, Wes had come to learn, was always hungry, or rather, he could always eat. Meat pies, sweet rolls, hot cross buns—Wes thought even with half the bakery at his disposal Michael would find somewhere to put the food away. They ate as they walked, Wes only nibbling at a bun and Michael wolfishly consuming not one but two pies, and when Wes tempted him with a gooey sweet roll, he hesitated only a moment before taking that up as well.
“You shall make me fat,” Michael accused, falling to the sweet with relish.
Wes sincerely doubted that, but in any case, he wouldn’t mind. He would feed Michael all day long, were he allowed. But he only said, “Eat quickly. There is a b-b-bookstore ahead.”
This, as he knew it would, made Michael’s eyes go wide. “A bookstore—in Oxford?” he said around a mouthful. “Oh, I imagine it’s heavenly. I wonder what I should find there. If only I had made you go back to fetch my purse.”
“I sh-shall buy whatever you l-like,” Wes promised, but nudged his elbow and looked meaningfully at the roll. “Eat.”
“I can’t eat it all that quickly.” Michael tore half the roll away and held it up to Wes’s mouth. “Here. Take this. You must try it, Albert. It’s heaven.”
Wes longed to take the sweet directly from Michael’s fingers. He wondered, glancing up and down the street, if he could. Hedging caution, he accepted with his fingers instead, tucking his umbrella into the crook of his arm as he popped the roll into his mouth. It was heaven, yes. But better was to watch Michael lick the sweet from his fingers after.
The bookstore proved to fulfill all Michael desired. He found three volumes immediately that looked as if they might make him weep on the spot, and another half hour’s perusal provided four more. He then tried to spread the pile out on a table and choose his favorite, but Wes only motioned to the shopkeeper to wrap them all. He gave the man a slip of paper with an address to deliver them to and ushered a protesting Michael back onto the street.
“Albert, that will cost a fortune,” he hissed. He glanced back over his shoulder. “And where are you sending them?”
“To our l-lodgings,” Wes replied. “We cross h-here.”
Michael went, but he seemed oddly subdued. “Is it true that you have your own money? Apart from your father’s allowance?”
Wes nodded. “From my m-m-mother’s uncle.”
“I wonder that you don’t purchase a house with it.” Michael gestured to the town at large. “Somewhere quaint and quiet like this. Somewhere you could have your ow
n garden.”
This was something Wes had considered many times, often to the point of sending his solicitor to examine houses. But to Michael he only shook his head. “Too l-l-lonely.”
Did Michael blush there? And why? Wes wished he could ask.
“Where do you live in town?” Michael went on. “In some bachelor apartments, I suppose? Or a boardinghouse?”
“Ap-p-partments. In M-Mayfair.” Wes smiled. “First fl-floor. Gas l-lighting and r-r-running w-w-water.”
Michael laughed. “Goodness, Albert, you’re a prince. But then I already know you like the finer things in life.”
Wes directed them around a puddle, still smiling. He felt so very good with Michael. “I d-do.”
“I don’t mind them,” Michael said, sighing, “but there must be quiet, good light and many books. That is luxury to me. That and a hot stove. I do detest the damp.”
“D-Do you have your own r-r-room at Dove Street?”
“Yes. In the attic,” Michael supplied. “Well away from the sighing and banging of headboards. And with plenty of space for my books.”
“And l-l-light?” Wes ventured.
“Excellent light,” Michael agreed.
“You sh-should have pl-plants,” Wes suggested.
Michael turned to look at him severely. “You would wish the plants dead, my lord? I scarcely remember to take care of myself, and no maids are allowed in my room.”
Wes grinned. “I w-w-will give you a c-c-cactus.”
Michael blinked at him. “A what? That sounds like a disease.”
As they crossed the streets, Wes described in detail the prickly plant found in American deserts. He began to stammer as he realize he’d gone on and on, but a glance at Michael found him only listening intently, careless of the rain that drenched their boots and poured off the tarpaulin above their heads. He continued on, hesitating less as he warmed to his topic, explaining the beauty and even religious importance of the cactus. At one point Michael mentioned he would like to read a book about the Americas and the native cultures there, and Wes vowed privately to find him one as soon as he returned to London.
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