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He was the very model of what the preacher in Hyde Park was pleased to call A Virtuous Life and the boredom of it would probably kill him.
“He’s not a”—Percy lowered his voice so the portraitist, situated a few feet away behind his easel, wouldn’t overhear—“a highwayman. He’s a shopkeeper. And just about the most boring man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Percy had become momentarily intrigued when he realized how often Webb went to the baths, but the man seemed to spend his time there actually bathing, so Percy resumed being unimpressed.
Marian remained silent rather longer than Percy thought it ought to take to agree that murder and arson were undesirable courses of action, however dreadful their present crisis.
He would probably be as boring in bed as he was out of it, but when a man looked like that, one could lower one’s standards.
His entire life was a picture of almost soporific boredom, and if Marian’s informant hadn’t been certain, Percy wouldn’t have believed that this man had ever done anything as thrilling as go for a walk without an umbrella, let alone engage in any criminal activity.
His voice was, Percy reflected inanely, the verbal equivalent of the stubble on his jaw—rough, careless, inconveniently attractive. Percy
Percy seemed like he’d be game—had spent the last fortnight making as much clear to anyone with eyes and ears.
“Amorous predilections?” Betty asked. “Is he just talking about fucking men or some fancy shite I don’t want to know about?”
I didn’t ask for any of this. And one day when I have time to think, I’m going to be terribly angry about being forced to deal with all this.”
He ought to be pleased that Percy was out of his hands, back where he belonged. He ought to hope that Percy never showed his face again. Instead, Kit had to admit that he had . . . not minded Percy’s presence the previous night.
“I see. You want me to put you off him.” “I don’t—” “You’re in danger of liking the man.”
He looked disheveled and badly shaven and as if he hadn’t run a comb through his hair since God was a boy. In other words, he looked as he always did.
Was there such a thing as an affectionate glare? Percy found that he very much hoped so, because Percy was an idiot.
Kit could have identified Percy by his eyelashes alone, which was a lowering thought.
There were lords and ladies who had to be wondering where Lord Holland was. And all the while, Lord Holland was here, in a dirty and badly lit room, sharing cheap ale with a criminal.
They had been looking at one another for weeks—Percy shamelessly, and Kit at first reluctantly but now hungrily, avidly, as if there were no sight in the world quite as worth looking at as Percy.
He looked like he had slept in those clothes, then rolled out of bed and into his boots, and still Percy wanted to crawl into his lap.
“I should stop,” Kit said. “You should fuck me,” Percy countered. “You can, you know.” There was something about Percy’s tone on those last words—prim, matter-of-fact—that made Kit feel slightly hysterical. He started to laugh. “Oh, delightful,” Percy said. “Precisely what a man wants to hear in the middle of a tryst.” He shoved Kit half-heartedly with one palm. “I can, can I?” Kit asked. “Christ. Everyone who’s spent more than a quarter of an hour at the coffeehouse over the past month knows I can. My God, you are a lot of things, but subtle isn’t one of them.”
“I hope you know,” he said, “that I realize how lucky I am to have women like you and Betty looking out for me.” “Spoken like a man about to ignore some good advice,” Scarlett said ruefully.
The leather waistcoat with all its little metal buttons had been bad enough. The breeches were an atrocity. Kit wanted to throw a cloak over the man. Surely, the law was being broken.
“I told you,” Kit panted. “I’ve never done this before.” “You’ve— I beg your pardon?” “I don’t fuck men. Or, I haven’t. I told you that.” “Yes, but men often tell me they don’t fuck other men, often right before—or after—we’ve fucked, so you’ll excuse me if I take those proclamations with a grain of salt.”
“I don’t know how not to think about you. I don’t know how to stop, and I don’t want to.”
“Make it so this is what I remember,” Percy said as they fumbled with one another’s clothes. “You may be overestimating my abilities,” Kit said.
Percy’s eyes prickled and he cursed himself. But he wasn’t grieving his father’s imminent death so much as he was sad about not having anything to grieve.
Kit stared at him. “You’ve gone daft.” “I love you.” “Like I said.”
Love, while a fine thing, might be little more than an accident. It was what came next that mattered.
“I’d be delighted to turn traitor to my class,” Percy said easily. “Honestly, I’ve been wondering when you’d ask.”
