The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 9

That night, Christopher went to sleep at his usual early hour despite the city still teeming with noise and life. With his predisposition for bad dreams, he found it useful to go to bed early; it allowed him to snatch at least an hour or two before the dreams overtook him. If he was lucky, he could fall right back asleep until the next bout, and so on until sunrise. This time, however, Christopher’s dreams were not of the terrifying variety.

Instead of the deck of a pitching ship, he dreamt of the woods surrounding Eden Abbey. A sliver of lucidity came to him as he stepped along the mossy ground, his mind surprised at the change of scenery. “This is new,” he murmured in the dream. “I wonder why . . . ?”

He caught a glimpse of black out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Har-ding walking alongside him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, dear god,” Christopher said, “am I -really dreaming of you?” Such a thing was inevitable when he was spending so much of his waking time with the man, he supposed, but it was still a bit much.

Har-ding, for his part, merely inclined his head in polite affirmation.

It must be exhaustion, Christopher told himself as they tromped through the forest like children. The introduction of James Har-ding into his heretofore quiet and boring life was a big change; one’s brain wanted to spin these sorts of things into poetic meaning. Though Christopher did not believe in fortune--telling and augury, he could concede that his dreams had fashioned Har-ding into a symbol.

Why he was now holding the hand of that symbol, he couldn’t rightly say. He looked down, startled, as he realized Har-ding’s work--roughened palm was resting against his, their fingers entwined. It was warm and dry, and he gave it a little squeeze just to make sure it was -really there—-well, -really there in this dreamworld.

He faced forward, swallowing hard. “It’s a matter of exposure,” he said aloud to the woods. “A sleeping mind tends to populate one’s dreams with the things one knows best. We’ve been spending too much time together, is all.”

“If you say so, my lord,” said Har-ding, who appeared to be just as smug in dreams as he was in reality.

“Even if I did have designs on your person—-which I most certainly do not, as I am a gentleman,” Christopher rushed to say, “it’s not as if anything could ever come of it. Not only are you a man, but you are my manservant, not to mention the matter of my unique situation.” He supposed he should feel some measure of fear in mentioning the thing aloud, even if it was only a dream, but in the hazy confines of their private forest, Christopher felt it was the most natural thing in the world to say.

“Very true,” Har-ding agreed, much to Christopher’s consternation.

“So then why are we here?” he demanded.

“Would you rather have another awful dream instead?”

Christopher considered this as Har-ding assisted him over an extremely charming babbling brook. “No, I suppose not. This is much more pleasurable.” Something tickled his mind, the sort of thought he would never allow himself in his waking moments. “Although—-”

And in a flash, there they were in the middle of Oxford Street. It was the busiest and most horrible street in all of London, as far as Christopher was concerned. Carriages rattled nonstop and there were more bodies crammed onto it than the thing could safely hold. And yet, because it was a dream, Christopher stood untouched by the flowing crowds. Har-ding’s hand was still in his, and with a tug he was led down, down, down to lie atop the thin black line that was Har-ding’s body.

“Look here!” Christopher cried as he was positioned astride those narrow hips. “I don’t care if it isn’t real! I’m not going to fuck you in the middle of a street!”

“Why not?” Har-ding’s eyes danced with that queer sort of humor that meant he was having a silent laugh at Christopher’s expense. “No one seems to mind.”

Christopher looked around and saw it was true. Not a single passerby was giving them a glance. It was as if they were invis ible to the world around them. “Damn my excellent imagination,” Christopher muttered.

“Shall I?” Har-ding asked, even as his hands reached for Christopher’s lapels to shove his coat down his arms.

“Now wait just a moment—-” Christopher could not help the panic that gripped him by the throat. He was not sure what would be revealed here if Har-ding undressed him. Like any healthy young man, Christopher had had his share of scandalous dreams in the past, and the chances of his body appearing as it actually was in waking life were even with his body taking on the shape he wished it would be. Yet those dreams had been so ephemeral and never involved his real acquaintances; this one felt different, and Christopher was seized by the notion that he might disappoint this dream version of Har-ding somehow.

“It’s all right,” Har-ding was saying. “It doesn’t matter to me what you look like.”

“It matters to me.” Christopher grabbed his strong wrists but could not wrench them away as they worked open his waistcoat buttons. “Stop that this instant!”

Har-ding sat up so that Christopher was balanced in his lap, his capable hands holding him tightly by the hips. His mouth hovered over Christopher’s, and for a moment, they merely breathed each other’s air. “I’m not permitted to dress you; I’m not permitted to undress you,” Har-ding murmured. His lips brushed against Christopher’s in not quite a kiss. “What am I permitted to do, my lord?”

Then, in the usual manner of dreams, their clothing vanished. Christopher screwed his eyes shut and refused to look. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to see.

“Aren’t you curious?” Har-ding whispered in his ear.

He shivered. “Har-ding . . .”

And then that clever mouth was at his neck, his throat, moving along his jaw as their bodies pressed together. A carriage passed by, much too close, the wheels a mere inch from Christopher’s head.

“Har-ding, no,” he panted. “Har-ding! Ah, Har-ding!”

“My lord?” Har-ding said, though his mouth was occupied with nuzzling the point where Christopher’s neck met his bare shoulder.

“Har-ding,” he whimpered, and was on the cusp of allowing the dream to run its course, his own dignity be damned, when a harsh shake woke him.

He lay there in his bed, flat on his back in a daze, and blinked up at the dark ceiling. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat over every inch of his skin, and fine tremors ran through his limbs.

Har-ding—-the actual Har-ding—-swam into view above him, his handsome face pinched in concern. “Lord Eden!”

Christopher yelped and tugged the bedclothes, which were already providing him with all the necessary cover, right up to his chin. He had not worn his bandages to bed. Would his chest’s shape somehow be apparent? “What are you doing? You’re—-I’m—-you’re supposed to stay in your room all night!”

Much like the master’s suite of rooms at Eden Abbey, Christopher’s bedroom in the townhouse featured a connected dressing room and valet’s quarters, and their previous arrangement regarding Har-ding’s confinement still held.

“You called out for me, my lord.”

Christopher blinked. “I did?”

Without deigning to answer, Har-ding reached out and brushed a lock of sweat--soaked hair from Christopher’s brow. In his agitated state, Christopher at first thought the gesture held some note of affection, which made the tremors in his limbs even worse, but soon Har-ding pressed his palm to Christopher’s forehead and he realized it was only for practical reasons that his valet had initiated the touch. “You’re a tad warm, but you don’t feel feverish. Did you have another terrible dream?”

“Y--yes,” Christopher stammered, for he could not tell the truth. “Yes, I must have— Did I -really call for you? I didn’t intend to.”

Har-ding’s cool palm fell away. Christopher tried not to miss it too much. “Perhaps I was in your dream this time, my lord.”

“Perhaps. I . . . don’t recall.” He couldn’t look Har-ding in the eye after what he’d just dreamed. He looked away, his whole face flaming hot. “I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep, dear fellow. Go back to bed; I’m fine, truly.”

“If I may be so bold, my lord, you don’t seem fine.”

Christopher slid his gaze back to Har-ding, who was hovering at his bedside and dressed in a hastily knotted dressing gown over what looked to be a rather voluminous nightshirt. If his undressed state was not enough to convince Christopher of his sincere worry, there was also a frantic look in his eyes for good measure.

“It happens often enough.” Christopher swallowed. “I’m used to it.”

“Will you be able to go back to sleep?” Har-ding asked after the silence had stretched out another moment. When Christopher hesitated to answer and add another lie to the pile, Har-ding took the initiative. “Why don’t I make you a cup of warm milk, my lord? That might help.”

“Yes,” Christopher agreed. Anything to get Har-ding out of his bedroom when he was in such a state. “Yes, why don’t you go down to the kitchens and get a pot going? I’ll join you in a moment.”

“Your Lordship can stay in bed if you—-”

“I think a little ramble around the house will do me good.” Christopher shooed him away. “Go. I’ll be down shortly.”

Har-ding reluctantly went to the door and, finding it locked, turned the key in the latch with a quizzical look over his -shoulder.

“Right behind you,” Christopher said with a wan smile in lieu of explaining why he locked his bedroom door at night.

Har-ding sketched a bow and disappeared.

Christopher flopped back onto his pillows and grabbed a spare one to press over his red face. “Oh, dear god above.” His body was still alight with the memory of that damned dream. What sort of employer—-what sort of man was he, to have entertained such provocative notions about Har-ding? How could he calmly sit at a kitchen table with him now, sipping hot milk like nothing un-toward had occurred?

He removed the pillow and took a deep breath. Dreams were just dreams, he reminded himself. They were not real and therefore meant nothing. He would stuff this dream down into the sea chest to join all his anxieties, which he’d been ignoring for nearly a decade. And anyway, one dream about the man, however scandalous, hardly meant that Christopher’s heart was fixed on him. What he was feeling was obviously jealousy. He wanted to be James Har-ding, not be intimate with him. The dream was merely a metaphor.

Christopher slid his palm under the loose collar of his nightshirt and felt his heart rabbiting in his chest.

An extremely affecting metaphor.

The soft sounds of someone moving in the kitchen below floated to Christopher’s ears, and he heaved himself out of bed with a sigh. If he didn’t keep his word and venture downstairs, no doubt Har-ding would come looking for him. He locked the bedroom door anew, stripped off his sweat--damp nightwear, bound his chest with speed, and dressed in a fresh nightshirt, shrugging into his banyan for good measure. He stepped into the house slippers Har-ding had placed neatly by the door for just such an occasion and made his way down the stairs -toward the smell of warm spices.

Christopher paused in the kitchen doorway to watch Har-ding moving about the room. Several candles had been lit, not to mention the cookstove fire, above which a pan of milk simmered, and by this light Christopher saw that his loyal valet was not perfectly put together. His black hair was mussed, hanging in his eyes as he fiddled with some jars of what looked like cinnamon sticks and bits of clove. The collar of his mud--colored dressing gown was turned up in the back; Christopher’s fingers itched to reach out and coax it flat.

He looked, in a word, human. It was rather refreshing—-and achingly domestic.

Har-ding’s deep brown eyes flicked up to the doorway and saw Christopher standing there like a frozen fool. “Have a seat, my lord,” he said, and pulled out one of the chairs that surrounded the simple kitchen table.

Christopher sat. There was a cloth--covered something on the table near his elbow, and he twitched back the fabric to find a lump of uncooked dough. The morning’s bread, he assumed, and left it well alone. He felt suddenly like an interloper in his own house; though he owned the place, this room was meant for his staff. He was infringing on that. He wanted desperately to go back to his bed, if only to lie awake until the sun rose.

Har-ding plunked a mug in front of him. “Drink that,” he said—-ordered, -really. It should have rankled, to have such a bully for a servant, but Christopher found he was happy to do as Har-ding said.

He lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. The milk was warm and gently spiced, like a soothing tea. He hadn’t been given warm milk since he was a child; Cook had supplied it then in droves. He drank more deeply and watched Har-ding over the rim of his mug as he puttered about the kitchen, putting things away and tidying up.

Christopher lowered his mug and wiped away the inevitable milk mustache with the back of his wrist. “Aren’t you going to have some?” He glanced at the pan on the cookstove, still half full. “You’re awake at this god--awful hour too, after all.”

“His Lordship may want the rest,” Har-ding said.

“His Lordship is content with the one cup. Go on.” He nodded at the pan. “Drink it before it cools.”

Har-ding hesitated before apparently deciding that Christopher meant what he said. He fetched a clean mug from a high cupboard and deftly poured the remainder of the milk into it with not a drop spilled. He cradled the drink in his fine--boned hands and leaned back against the counter, miles away from the table.

“Will you sit?” Christopher nudged the chair opposite him out from under the table with his foot. “Propriety be damned. I’ll break my neck looking up at you.”

For a moment, it seemed Har-ding would decline and remain standing until the world ended, but then he relented, folding himself into the chair much like an umbrella being closed. “Your neck, of course, takes precedence, my lord,” he murmured.

Christopher flushed, remembering exactly which parts of his neck had received attention from the dream version of Har-ding minutes ago. He covered his awkward blushing with a deep drink from his cup.

They sat there at the table in silence for quite some time. After Christopher’s face returned to its usual temperature, the atmosphere felt almost companionable. It was deathly quiet, not a thing stirring in the house or in the street. Christopher heard the faint chime of the clock in the hall: three in the -morning.

Har-ding, shockingly, spoke first. “My lord,” he said, his thumbnail worrying at a chip in his mug’s handle, “I understand you are a private sort of man, and I would never intentionally pry, but these dreams of yours . . .” He lifted his calm gaze to meet Christopher’s wide--eyed one across the table. “If you ever wished to speak of them to someone, I would be a willing ear to you.”

Christopher opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t possibly tell Har-ding the truth of that night’s dream, of course, so he was forced to continue acting out the farce. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to hold Har-ding’s gaze, staring instead into the depths of his mug. “They’re nothing to worry about, -really. I’ve had them practically all my life.” He drained the last dregs of milk from his cup. “It’s just one of those tedious things I must bear.”

“Must you bear it alone?” Har-ding said.

Christopher fussed with his cup, turning it this way and that on the tabletop for lack of anything else to do. “I always have. I don’t see why I can’t continue doing so.”

“Lord Eden,” Har-ding sighed, “I have only been in your employ a short while, but I have never heard you scream in your sleep as you did tonight. I worry that your bad dreams are worsening.”

Christopher’s teeth ground together in his mouth. Oh, the irony! In truth, the last few days had been fairly excellent in terms of his sleep; the bad dreams had been minimal. And yet he could not say so, given how he had recently acted in the throes of Morpheus--induced passion.

“Possibly,” he conceded, though the small lie burned in his throat. “It, erm, comes and goes.”

Har-ding pinned him with a look. “Is it the upcoming ball at the Leftmores’ that’s caused it?” he asked. He had naturally been apprised of the expected invitation as well as the upcoming trip to the tailor’s in preparation. “I noticed the event has inspired not a little anxiety in you, my lord.”

“Anxiety? In me?” Christopher could not help the way his eyes skittered away to regard the transom above the kitchen door. “Why do you say that? Just because I’m going to be attending my first ball since I came of age where I will no doubt be exposed to the judgment of all of London society and be introduced to my future wife, all while being expected to dance, doesn’t mean I should be feeling anxious, surely.”

“It is good to see your lack of sleep has not affected your sense of humor, my lord,” Har-ding said in that bland tone of his.

Christopher felt his gaze drawn to Har-ding’s like dew to a windowpane. He detected a faint lift in Har-ding’s mouth that meant he found something amusing. “One of these days, my dear fellow, I might even make you laugh. The bells of St. Paul’s will ring out, I’m certain.”

Har-ding’s face took on an admonishing shape. Of course he wouldn’t be deterred by a few silly jokes. “I wish you wouldn’t place so much importance on the events of a single night, my lord. You may be introduced to a charming lady, or you may not. You’re still young; I know you must be eager, but you have plenty of time to find a wife.”

“Eager!” Christopher cried. “That’s a fine word for it.” His mouth immediately pursed closed. Did he always have to allow his tongue to get away from him like that? He stared into his empty mug and wished it contained something more to drink. Preferably something alcoholic. He turned the cup around and around in his hands instead.

Har-ding waited for a measure of silence before saying, “Am I correct in thinking a more appropriate word would be ‘terrified,’ my lord?”

Christopher dredged up a smile from the depths of his soul and plastered it on his face. “Perceptive as usual, Har-ding.” He preferred to skirt the truth of the situation—-that he would need to find, somewhere in London, a lady who could be trusted with his secret—-and so offered another morsel of fact instead. “I have very little experience with the fairer sex, you see. Not many eligible women traipsing around Eden. Why, I’ve never even held a lady’s hand, let alone . . .” He trailed off, wondering what exactly it was about this midnight tête--à--tête that made him so prone to sharing more than was strictly proper.

Perhaps it was Har-ding’s placid nature, for he responded with a completely blank expression and no judgment in his voice: “Have you never had a kiss, my lord?”

Christopher opened his mouth to deny it, but found he could not. It was already painted on his face, clear as day, he felt. “I admit I have not yet had the pleasure,” he said, and it came out sounding less like the saucy throwaway comment he’d meant it to be and more a forlorn sigh. He cleared his throat and cast about for some excuse to take the spotlight off his nonexistent love life. “What about you, Har-ding? Have you kissed any women?”

It was an impertinent question for a man to ask his valet, and yet Har-ding seemed unbothered. “I have.”

“Ah.” Christopher shifted in his creaking chair. He thought of all the village girls he’d seen Har-ding dancing with that one evening in the tavern; surely they lined up for his kisses as they did for their turn at being his dance partner. “Many?” he asked, and if his voice squeaked a bit, it was only because his throat hurt from his earlier screams.

The corner of Har-ding’s mouth was flirting with an upward curl again. No doubt he found Christopher’s virginal inquiries very entertaining. “A sufficient amount,” he finally said. Despite the self--effacing turn of phrase, he seemed suffused with a confidence that Christopher could only dream of.

And had, come to think of it. He tamped down on that line of thinking.

“It’s a shame this is not something that can be practiced,” Christopher said, his words punctuated by nervous laughter. “I hate to think of inflicting my unlearned self on the poor girls.” His mind supplied a vision of how Har-ding might prove instructive in such matters, a thought that most assuredly had to be beaten back with a stick and locked away in the mental sea chest before being thrown into a lake. He shouldn’t even be having this conversation with his manservant; he certainly couldn’t ask him for instruction in how to kiss properly!

“I do not think you have any cause to worry,” Har-ding said. “You are a man of excellent comportment, grace, intelligence, and looks—-”

Christopher went warm all the way from the tips of his ears to his toes. “Oh, -really now!”

“—-but most importantly,” Har-ding charged ahead, “you are gentle and kind. Any number of women will be happy to make your acquaintance should you desire it.”

Christopher knew, but was too polite to point out, that Har-ding was likely only saying these things to ingratiate himself further so that he might be allowed to maintain his position beyond the Season. Still, it was a pretty piece of flattery, as false as it surely was.

“Thank you, Har-ding,” he said quietly, certain a blush was once again painting his cheek. “Shall we go back to our beds? We can get a few more hours’ sleep, if we’re lucky.”

“Let me scrub out the pan and cups first. The serving girls would be miffed if I left dirty dishes for them to wash in the morning.” Har-ding levered himself up from the table with a faint scrape of his chair.

Christopher stood as well and collected their two mugs. “Then, by all means, we should put everything back in its place so the girls are none the wiser.” He said it in a jocular manner, but in truth he very much wanted to keep his midnight drink with Har-ding a secret. Habit, he supposed. The less people knew of his life, the better. It wouldn’t do for the temporary staff to whisper about why Lord Eden was up at this god--awful time of night, drinking milk.

He took up a position next to Har-ding at the water bucket. “Hand me a rag. I will dry as you wash,” he said.

Now it was Har-ding’s turn to give him an incredulous look. “You do not honestly expect me to allow Your Lordship to dry the dishes?”

“It’s either that or His Lordship sits on his rump and watches you do everything yourself. I want to get to bed before sunrise, so please.” Christopher held out his hand. “Rag.”

Har-ding stared at him with a stubborn glint in his eyes, looking more formidable than a man holding a dirty pan had any right to be. Christopher stared right back. This battle of wills might have gone on for the remainder of the night, but Har- ding at last gave a deep sigh and surrendered a dry cloth to Christopher.

“I will never understand why you think you must play at being a servant, my lord.” Har-ding said. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

“Oh, just shut up and scrub,” Christopher said.