Chapter 2

Blake did not stay terribly late at Ash's—he did not want to impose, and he had to be careful, so careful, because if he stopped being careful he'd blurt out when I think of home I think of you —and he considered going out, after.

Drinking. Gambling. Certain houses with reputations for pleasure. Everything everyone would believe of the Earl of Thorns, on his first night back in London.

In the end he opted for none of those. Gaming-tables were too easy. He had no wish to drink himself senseless, nor to wake up with a pounding head; what if Ash needed him? And he could certainly find a discreet brothel, but that did not sound appealing, because even if the person had blond hair and rainfall eyes, they wouldn't be Ash, and they wouldn't be right.

He might be getting old. Or only tired. Tired of pretense, tired of trying to bandage up the tiny hole in his heart with poor substitutes.

So he just went home, after making sure Ash had actually got to bed, or at least securely into a bedroom. His own house, Wildborough House, wasn't far away; his father had attempted to sell that off too. Blake had bought it through a solicitor. And had, once he'd had the funds, redecorated.

As lavishly and decadently as he could. Red velvet. Nude sculptures, classical goddesses and Muses in outrageous bare marble. Gaudy striped paper in crimson and gold.

He walked in the door, gazed at tasteless extravagance wearily, and wondered who he'd been, who he'd wanted to be, to make that statement. To shout so loudly.

He did not have a valet, because his valet had fallen in love with a French dressmaker and decided to remain in Paris. Blake hadn't argued—who was he to argue with love?—and had given Thomas a decent amount of money and an excellent reference. He supposed he ought to see about hiring someone new, in the morning; he could manage to put on his own coat and tie his cravat in a passably stylish careless manner, but he would never have the polish of a professional. And Ash would probably like him polished. Neat and tidy. Showing that it mattered, that Blake could dress properly for his friend. Showing respect.

The little hole in his heart pulsed, unhappy; but he was used to that.

He tried to go to bed early, being virtuous. He couldn't sleep, tossing and turning, unused to this bed and this house. The mattress was too soft, or too feathery, or something undefinable. The bedposts stood upright and stiff, wreathed with abstract carvings that looked simple until one got close, at which point they proved to be fabulously erotic, dancing over dark wood. The bed-hangings were a rich burgundy, the color of wine and spice.

Blake lay there staring at the posts and the curtains for a while, and then got up, because he wasn't going to sleep, and he might as well be productive.

His publisher, Murray, would joyfully accept the new installation of the travel memoirs whenever he delivered it; there'd be a new play, or prints of his own silhouette, or decorative plates, or something of the sort. They'd like it if he actually finished the book in question, so he found paper and pen and his storm-and-sea-smudged journal, and lit a candle, and poked at some words: turning sketches into sentences, patiently chipping lapidary glints out of his dashed-off scribblings.

Sunlight across sparkling blue waves, framed by Venetian canals. The solid philosophical bones of the university in Frankfurt. Wild heather and gorse tumbling over the Scottish Highlands, a fierce free tempest of purple and gold and rough hills and ancient stone.

He thought, pen momentarily still, about red hair and green eyes and skillful hands, hands that'd known when to push and how to put him on his knees and how to be gentle, after, not letting go until convinced that Blake no longer needed support. The man's name had been Cameron—Cam. They had not exchanged surnames, or any other identifying information. Cam had seemed bemused, in fact: as if, perhaps, he did not go home with willing strangers often.

A man like that would never want Blake, though. Cameron was a physician—Blake had seen his bag—and a serious, responsible, respectable man. Someone who saved lives. The opposite of a frivolous aristocrat who'd done nothing but inherit a viciously penniless title, and write a few books, and roam about the world building nothing of substance.

Of course that was a dream. The way Ash was a dream, a familiar one. Blake put his pen down, and pressed both hands over his face, hiding from the candlelight.

He knew himself. He knew how little he was worth. What he had to offer: his body, such as it was; his devotion, such as that was. No skills, no contributions, no legacy. Some words, some fame; but only the dramatic sensational disposable kind, frivolous and good for a nine-days' wonder, nothing beyond that.

The hideous striped wallpaper concurred. Blake couldn't even argue.

He pushed the pile of paper into a neater stack, edges aligned.

He made himself go back to bed, because he wanted to get up early to check on Ash.

To his surprise, he did sleep, though not well. He had dreams, though he did not recall them upon waking; he got out of bed at an hour that fashionable London would not have believed to exist, and then made himself find some occupying tasks in case Ash needed to sleep late.

He had a bit of a headache. Or a full-body ache. Or not precisely an ache: simply a sense of feeling unsettled, unfocused. Most likely the fault of the terrible bed. And his own choices, as usual.

He handled some estate business, approval of a new bridge and funds for construction, a note about the drainage where the river had flooded. He knew nothing about drainage, but he trusted his estate manager; the man had been dismissed by Blake's father for protesting the deliberate neglect. Blake had found him and hired him back.

He wrote to his sister Frederica, to tell her he was back in London. Freddie and her husband, the Marquess of Deane, lived contentedly in the country year-round and engaged in botanical gardening experiments. Blake appreciated gardens as much as the next person—unless that next person was his sister—but preferred to stroll in them rather than conduct scientific cultivation.

Freddie, of course, was likely also not the old earl's daughter—the mutual loathing between the earl and the countess had been regarded as a matter of course, the state of the world—but any attempt to legally prove it, given that Blake and Freddie had both technically been born in wedlock, would have been difficult. Freddie had never cared, even less so now that her botanist George regarded her as if she were worth more than all the expensive pineapples in existence, ever, for eternity.

The notorious Earl of Thorns, Blake thought, with irony: writing to his sister, writing letters about drainage. But someone had to. And he could always go out to a club or a house of ill repute later. If he wanted to.

He had a few discreet letters from admirers—readers, who'd figured out he was back in town, and in one case a former lover. Blake regarded that small stack, sighed, and set them to one side to deal with later. Mostly the letters went to his publisher, but some were persistent. He'd tried to answer them all, after the first book; after the third note suggesting in brazen terms that the writer should be his next adventure, he'd given up.

Ash would likely be awake by now. Blake glanced at the window—grey and hazy, not raining, simply London on a chilly morning—and tapped his fingers over his desk. Too eager? Too early?

He didn't give a damn if it was. The Earl of Thorns could ignore conventional time if he wanted to.

He did want to look acceptable, though. Unfortunately, he also needed a new wardrobe; he'd put on some more muscle, what with the climbs and hikes and distractions. He settled for a russet-brown coat and a deep blue waistcoat that just about fit, and muttered silent prayers about the stretch of pantaloons over his thighs.

He yanked his cravat about until it did a hopefully interesting adventurous sort of style, not merely disheveled.

He looked at himself in the long glass, the one he'd placed near the bed for even more decadence.

He thought of Ash, made of starlight and knowledge, old books and parchment and simple unthinking goodness.

He looked away.

He went out. He walked briskly. Matching the sharpness of the morning.

The early hour meant that not much of the ton was up and stirring, but a few whispers followed him: Blake Thornton, back from the latest new country or new conquest or both. Striding down the street with uncouth roughness and speed. Dark and dangerous. In need of a hair-trim.

Blake heard the tap of his boots upon pavement, felt the scratch of his own annoyance—didn't the whisperers have any more pressing topics of discussion?—and realized that, in fact, it was his own fault. He'd made himself a story.

He had even wanted that. Or he'd thought he had.

Right now, this morning, he wasn't sure why. A shocking immoral reputation wasn't important. Ash was. Caring for Ash was.

He turned a corner. Someone was out, after all, at this unfashionable hour; a carriage had drawn up at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Straithern. Blake noted that fact idly, without thinking much about it; but then the person got out of the carriage, and a long greatcoat swung, and burly shoulders took up space across the world, and that smoky red hair was too long for fashion, and that familiar lochs-and-hillsides voice was saying kind words to a driver—

Blake froze mid-step. Worlds, universes, desires colliding.

His Cam. Here. Carrying a doctor's bag, turning toward the tall golden townhouse under pewter-colored skies.

Cam saw him, too. And so many expressions crowded through those green eyes, too many to count: shock, wariness, curiosity, something like affection, perhaps even pleasure—sharpening to sudden concern, as that gaze kindled—

Blake could not face concern, not for him, not so raw and true. He fled.

Not literally. He did not run.

But he did cross the street. He needed to do that in any case, eventually.

He did not have any memory of crossing the street, after. Nor of ducking around a neatly manicured corner.

He forced his breathing to slow. Tried to tell his heart to ease. The tall houses with their matching stone steps, freshly brushed, surrounded him with conventional societal judgment.

It was too much. So much. Such want, safe when far away, now landing here at home. Guilt—because he loved Ash, of course he did, but Cam—the way that'd felt, that sure and heavy anchor—and now Cam was here, no doubt attending to someone ill in the Straithern household, and that meant they were all here, Cam and Ash and Blake himself—

The thunderclap of it battered him. He fought not to crumple under the weight of all his own stories.

When he breathed, the air tasted brittle. Crisp. Biting, in his lungs.

He needed to make certain Ashley was well. That was a truth, amidst the tempests. He clung to it.

Ash's butler—not a footman—let him in before Blake had even knocked. Baynes possessed an even more dour droop of shoulders than usual, and intoned dolefully, "Good to see you, sir…" while shutting the door.

Blake stopped walking. "How is he?"

"Not well, sir. In fact—" They both heard it. The coughing. Echoing. Freezing the hall, Blake's bones, Blake's blood.

"He would get up," Baynes said, "and we couldn't argue, but…perhaps you can persuade him, sir…he listens to you…"

"He'd damned well better." Mountain-climber's legs. Multiple stairsteps at once. Ash's study. Slamming the door open. Aware of firelight, heat, Ash's startled sound at the forcefulness.

Blake snapped, "Get back in bed, you're not well—" and stomped into the room. He'd use all his muscles to haul Ash bodily back to bed if he had to.

Except he might not have to. Because Ashley, face pale, had taken a step, begun coughing again, and—

And lost his balance, and fell to the carpet. Right there. On both knees.