The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 22

“As you already know,” Christopher said, “the previous Lord and Lady Eden, my parents, had two children. Twins. A boy and a girl.” He paused. “I would say I was the girl and my brother was the boy, but that’s not quite correct.”

“I understand,” Har-ding told him gently.

“Right. Yes. Anyway, those early days of our childhood were spent here at Eden Abbey. It was livelier then; I recall dozens of servants, nannies, gamekeepers, gardeners—-you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting one of the staff. Not that I would ever hit one of the staff with a stone, mind you,” he added quickly. “I was a mischievous child, but not a cruel one.”

Har-ding’s mouth tilted up at one corner just a tick. “I believe it.”

Christopher didn’t bother to hide his smile. He looked into the small, cheery fire in the grate as he remembered. “Well, I was disciplined on more than one occasion for sneaking into my father’s dressing room and touching all his fine coats. I thought every child had the same feelings I did about men’s fashions.” He tipped his head to the side. “Surely no woman liked wearing stays or huge gowns. Surely every girl in the world hated having her hair arranged as much as I did. Not just annoyance, but proper, intimate hatred that carved me out.” He squinted at Har-ding. “Did you feel similarly?”

“Of course,” he said. “Naturally.”

Christopher felt his heart settle in its proper spot for the first time in a very long time—-perhaps ever. It gave him the courage to go on to the story’s eventual end.

“Yes, so: you know the outline of what happened next. My father decided to travel to Pennsylvania to personally oversee some of his investments there. The Abbey was already beginning to fall apart even before he inherited it, and the costs of the estate’s upkeep were mounting. He had a hand in something like a dozen textile mills—-a business I refused to continue, by the way, once I realized the excremental manner in which the raw materials were procured.” Nearly all dealings in that part of the world were touched by slavery, and though Christopher was quite aware that he could not change that fact or make it right, he would be damned if he allowed his money to be used in such a way. “At any rate, it meant that my father would be abroad for many years at a stretch. My mother insisted we go as a family. I think she must have loved him, because she certainly did not love the idea of living in Philadelphia. She thought it was a filthy town, and uncultured, and a poor place to raise children. Yet she could not bear to be parted from Papa.

“She wasn’t wrong about Philadelphia, of course. Waves of illness were an annual event. One summer yellow fever swept through earlier than expected, and before we could flee to the countryside, my entire family took ill. My brother and I recovered. My parents did not.” Christopher paused. “It’s odd; I was almost fifteen when they died, and yet I remember so little of them, I might as well have been an infant. It’s only snatches of memory left, tiny flashes.” He pictured his mother sitting at the pianoforte, but he couldn’t recall a single song she had played, only her laughter. “Isn’t that awful?”

Har-ding must have sensed that no words would have offered sufficient comfort, for he made the wildly improper decision to put his arm around Christopher, a heavy weight against his back, his thumb rubbing circles into the perpetually tight muscle at his shoulder. Christopher tossed him a look of gratitude before continuing.

“After my parents were buried, it was decided by the solicitors that my brother and I were to return to En-gland. I wanted so badly to stay abroad. It is where I had spent my formative years, after all, and I was nervous about entering London society. My brother told me not to fret. That it would be an adventure.

“We boarded a ship called the Stargazer with all of our possessions in trunks and sailed for Liverpool. The journey was uneventful at first. I spent most of my time in our shared cabin, in tears. My brother was given to awful bouts of seasickness, so he was often on deck to take the air—-and to vomit over the side of the ship. The crew would comment on never seeing young Lord Eden’s face, as it was so often occupied with this.

“He was miserable, but so was I. There was nothing about life in En-gland that appealed to me. As the last remaining Winterthropes, my brother and I were set on diverging paths. The solicitors advised that I should marry as soon as I was able. Have children. Take the burden of my existence from my brother. We were close, he and I, but when I tried to explain to him the shape of my anxieties, he misunderstood me terribly. He promised he would find me a very decent match. He said every woman worries about such things, that it was only natural.” Christopher shook his head. “I had no words to tell him that this wasn’t the usual cold feet. That I was not as ‘every woman’ is.

“Then came the storm.”

Christopher took a deep breath. He dreaded saying what came next. He glanced at Har-ding, wondering if he should take the coward’s way out and leave this part of his story untold. Yet Har-ding’s eyes were soft and kind, and his arm exerted some small pressure where it lay across Christopher’s shoulders, as if to remind Christopher that he was here, and he would not leave.

Christopher took strength from this and plunged onward:

“The ship was halfway into the journey when a mid--Atlantic gale swept us up. I had fallen into a restless doze still dressed in mourning clothes. One moment I was in my little bed, the next I was being tossed to the floor with seawater flooding my mouth. I looked around the quarters for my brother, but he was nowhere to be found. He’d been spending most nights up top due to his seasickness, so I climbed to the deck to find him. I remember my black skirts became so heavy and wet, I could barely move. The waves were like walls on every side of us. It was as if god had fashioned a jar out of the ocean and dropped the Stargazer down into it. By flashes of lightning, I could see that we’d lost the mizzen mast, and the mainmast creaked dreadfully. The sailors were shouting; I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the roar of the storm. Someone—-a foolish passenger, I think—-came up top with a lit oil lamp to investigate. He was tossed violently, and the lamp shattered, setting the ship ablaze. Everyone was rushing about, trying to contain the fire.

“In the commotion, I saw my brother. He was midship, on the starboard side, clinging to a rope that ran from the deck to the remains of the splintered mast. I saw that it would not hold. That it was about to snap. The ship rolled so that the entire world seemed to tip on its side. My brother’s grip was slipping. He looked right at me. I could see the terror in his eyes. I ran -toward him, or tried to. A wave crashed over the deck and almost felled me.

“Then I looked up. And he was gone.” Christopher swallowed. “He had fallen into the sea. I didn’t scream for help. I didn’t even make a sound. I— I just stood there . . .”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Har-ding said. His hand pressed over Christopher’s where it lay in his lap, a grounding presence. “It was a terrifying ordeal. Of course you were frozen in fear.”

Christopher made a low, desperate sound. “You don’t understand. I stood there—-for a moment. An eyeblink or less. And then I raced belowdecks and ransacked our cabin. I found some of his clothing in a soaked heap and began dressing myself in it. I—-”

He shivered as he remembered the smell of the smoke, the way the floor pitched beneath his feet. How he stood unsteadily in front of the tiny looking glass and tied the stolen cravat around his neck in a faultless, beautiful series of knots. He couldn’t speak of that terrible particular.

“I grabbed a penknife from my brother’s effects and hacked off my hair. It must have looked horrid, but I was like a man possessed. My brother and I always shared more than a passing resemblance, you see, and my first thought—-my very first thought—-before I even thought to mourn him—-” Christopher’s throat went tight. “But he might have still been alive then; he might have still been breathing. He wasn’t even cold before I—-” He choked, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to spill from over his lips.

Har-ding moved closer, his flank pressed flush. His hand rubbed Christopher’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he murmured.

“No, it isn’t!” Christopher exploded. Tears streamed down his cheeks at last. “It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever done. I watched my brother disappear right before my eyes and I did not so much as offer up a prayer in my rush to pick over his life like a vulture.” His eyes went cloudy and far away. “I could hear the first mate calling for all hands to help put out the fires, but I stayed there in my cabin to complete my disguise. I remember thinking none of this would matter if the ship went down. That I should go assist the crew. But I did not care. I weighed death against this one chance I had to live the life I wanted, and my own selfishness won out.”

“My lord—-”

“Please, no ‘my lords’ right now, Har-ding. I can’t bear it, truly.” After all, he was not the rightful Lord Eden, and now Har-ding knew it.

“Apologies.” Har-ding ducked his head. “And after? What became of you after the storm?”

Christopher saw in his mind’s eye the bundle of skirts and locks of long blond hair pitched into the black sea to join his brother in drowning. “In the chaos, no one suspected the truth. The crew did not notice my ragged hair or my stilted way of walking—-I was still getting used to his boots, you see. My voice, I hadn’t yet learned to let it drop into a deeper register. I sounded like a high--pitched child. I suppose they chalked up all these little inconsistencies to grief. My sister had just fallen overboard, and I was alone in the world. They only thought me inconsolable.”

“Surely you were,” Har-ding said. His hand kneaded at Christopher’s shoulder. “What you must have gone through, and entirely alone—- I cannot imagine.”

“Do you know what the worst part is?” he whispered. “Because of my deception, I was never able to mourn the real Christopher Winterthrope. His portrait will never hang on these walls. His name will never appear on the vicar’s prayer list.” He closed his eyes against more tears. “And now, sometimes, entire weeks will go by in which I do not even think of him at all. What sort of monster am I, to have forgotten him so thoroughly?”

“That is no fault of yours,” Har-ding said. “You were forced by circumstance into an impossible choice; of course you tried to forget. Any man would.”

“I think we have quite established,” Christopher said mirthlessly, “that I am not a—-”

A thin, warm hand clapped over Christopher’s mouth.

Christopher’s eyes went wide as they stared at Har-ding. He could feel the trembling of his lithe fingers against his lips. His manservant, normally so reserved, now had the look of a wild thing, eyes blazing.

“If you aren’t, then neither am I,” Har-ding bit out. “Would you dare say so?”

Christopher shook his head in a daze.

“Then don’t apply such faulty logic to yourself.” The hand fell away, and Christopher sucked in a deep breath.

Despite the impropriety of the touch, he found himself missing it. His eyes lifted to meet Har-ding’s and they both held the shared gaze, breathing as hard as if they’d just run from the village.

“Sorry,” Christopher whispered. “I didn’t—-”

Har-ding clicked his tongue. “Come here,” he said, and folded Christopher into another embrace. Christopher found his nose mashed up against Har-ding’s shoulder, and the scent of him—-shoe polish and hair oil—-made his eyes squeeze shut with want. It was a damnable state of affairs when the most precious man in the world cannot be approached for anything more than companionship. Christopher couldn’t ever risk losing this, not for all the tea in China.

“May I ask you for a favor?” Har-ding said.

His fingers tightened on Har-ding’s shoulders. “Anything.” He leaned back and gazed up into Har-ding’s lovely, earnest face and tried not to think of all the things he’d be willing to give, if only Har-ding would ask.

Har-ding licked his lips. The movement went straight to sing in Christopher’s blood. “I was hoping, now that we two have taken each other into our deepest confidence,” he said, “that you might allow me to . . .”

Christopher’s heart went up on tiptoe. “Yes?”

“To dress you.”

Disappointment crashed overhead like an ocean wave. Christopher was certain he was not doing a very good job of hiding it, dripping from every inch of him as it was. “Dress me?” he squawked. “All this hashed out between us!” He released Har-ding’s shoulders and made a frantic gesture between their chests, as if sketching out a route between two hearts. “And all you can think about is shoving me into my togs. Dress me, indeed.”

Har-ding held out his hands in defensive protest. “We needn’t make the attempt if you don’t wish it, of course,” he said in a rush, or as much of a rush as he was capable of while still maintaining his calming, placid tone, “but I thought—-since there’s no reason to hide yourself from me now—-you might indulge me.” He ran a critical eye over Christopher’s form. “I daresay a change of ensemble is in order at any rate, no matter how you choose to go about it.”

Christopher looked down at himself, noting the soaked shirt, his damp waistcoat, his soaked boots. He sighed. “May god in his mercy save me from work--obsessed valets,” he muttered. Then, shaking his wet head, he faced Har-ding. “All right. Since, as you so rightly point out, there’s no reason for me to keep you out of my dressing room. Now that you know.”

He felt a crackling sensation go through his chest at the thought. This would be the first time he’d allowed anyone to dress him—-in this life at least. Lady’s maids were another story during his petticoat years. He wondered what Har-ding’s petticoat years had been like, squinting at his blank face as he tried and failed to imagine it. James Har-ding, it seemed, had leapt fully formed as Athena from her father’s head, though that metaphor in particular seemed a bit lacking.

Never any lads leaping fully formed in myths, he mused. More’s the pity.

“Allow me to change into something clean and dry first,” Har-ding said, sweeping a hand down his dark trousers, which were still dripping rainwater onto the floor. “I will be with you momentarily.”

Christopher adjourned to the dressing room and spent a few scant minutes waiting in something of a daze. His grief had so suddenly turned to celebration. He sent a silent prayer to Plinkton, wishing he could share this fortuitous turn of events with his protector. For the first time in his life, he was unburdened by his secrets—-who he was and how he’d come to be—-and he had been wholly accepted. Har-ding was like him—-a man of unique, no, merely unusual make. What strange twists of fate must have occurred, he wondered, to put them on this path where they could meet? What were the odds of such a thing? Or perhaps—-and here Christopher’s belly gave a giddy flutter—-the chances were much higher than one could guess, and around every corner and in every tiny village there existed men like them, quietly and with mundane fortitude living out their lives. The thought made Christopher’s head pound.

But then his heart sank. Even if there were dozens, hundreds, thousands of men such as them—-how many could possibly be a combination of that along with an inverted nature? There were men like étienne who shared beds with other men, and there were men like Har-ding who were shaped in secret ways, but Christopher had never known anyone to be both, except perhaps himself. His spirits, so high just a moment ago, were laid low as he considered it. He thought of asking Har-ding if perhaps he knew of any, but the idea of exposing this other, more deeply kept secret made Christopher’s teeth hurt. If Har-ding discovered his latent desires, his prurient imaginings that featured Har-ding himself all too prominently, he would surely no longer view Christopher as a brother--in--arms. Despite étienne’s advice that his desires in no way infringed on his manliness, Christopher couldn’t help but think Har-ding would not share the same view, and he certainly would not share his feelings.

He would hardly think him a man at all.

The door opened and Har-ding appeared like a wraith in a clean coat of dark grey. In deference to their newfound informality, perhaps, he had eschewed his cravat, leaving the collar of his shirt gaping open. Christopher could see the very edge of a linen bandage peeking out at his chest.

“May I, my lord?” he said, gesturing to Christopher’s lapels.

Christopher swallowed. “-Really, Har-ding, I think we’re beyond niceties now.” He held his arms out in a T. “How do I—-? That is, do I just stand here like—-?”

“However you are most comfortable,” Har-ding said, and proceeded to divest Christopher of his clothing.

It was not what Christopher had imagined when he’d thought of a manservant’s hands on his person. He’d always assumed that the act of being valeted to, for want of a better phrase, would be quite perfunctory. Business--like. A little brusque, even. He’d pictured dour--faced octogenarians practically bruising him with their efficiency and speed.

Har-ding was not like that at all. He was careful, so careful, his fingers a mere whisper over the sodden fabrics that Christopher wore. He undid each button of his pale grey waistcoat as if it was constructed of the finest porcelain and not the gold plate they actually were. Then he stepped behind Christopher and gently removed the thing from his shoulders, slipping it down his arms in slow, measured movements. Christopher could feel Har-ding’s exhale across the nape of his neck, warming the cool skin there and raising gooseflesh all up and down his arms.

“Well,” he said shakily, “this isn’t that bad, actually.”

“No?” Har-ding asked, and the word on the back of his neck made Christopher tremble all over again. “You’re shivering with cold,” he said, aghast.

“Yes.” He swallowed. “Cold.” Christopher stood there like a marble statue in the middle of his dressing room, wondering if allowing this untruth counted as a lie. It seemed a smaller sin than the alternative, which was to turn in the circle of Har-ding’s arms and inform him that any shivers he was exhibiting were due wholly to Har-ding himself.

Har-ding worked faster to divest him of his shirt and stockings, leaving him in just the binding waistcoat and smalls. He paused then, and Christopher turned his head to catch a glimpse of the two of them in the full--length mirror that stood along the wall. Har-ding was staring at the custom undergar ment that étienne had fashioned for him, his lips parted in what looked like awe.

“Do you like it?” Christopher did a turn, arms raised, for Har-ding’s elucidation. “A sight better than my old bandages, I wager.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Har-ding whispered. “What is it?”

“An invention of étienne’s.” He caught Har-ding’s eye and saw in it something he could not quite parse. Incredulity, he suspected. The instinct to defend his friend’s talents came to the fore. “It’s ingenious, -really. It hardly chafes at all, though of course now that it’s soaked through—-”

“Charbonneau?” Har-ding interrupted, which was unlike him. His tone was quite sharp, which was even more unlike him. “He knows?”

Christopher lowered his arms with a frown. “Of course he knows. He’s my dearest friend. And it’s not as if I could hide such things from my own tailor.”

Har-ding blinked at that, apparently unable to keep his eyes off the garment that wrapped around Christopher’s chest. “I see,” he murmured in a quieter, strange fashion. One of his slim, elegant hands came up to rub at his heart—-no, at the peek of linen bandages he wore over his breastbone.

Christopher wondered if they were giving him a pain, as Christopher’s old bandages so often had. “Would you like étienne to make one for you as well?” he offered.

“For me?” Har-ding raised his startled eyes to Christopher’s.

“Yes, for you. He can sew one together in a week or two.” Christopher eyed his torso. Har-ding was not as broad as he was, and much longer in the rib area. “He’d need your measurements, of course. Pity we aren’t closer in size; I’d offer you some of mine in that case.”

A rapid flush spread across Har-ding’s face. He seemed a bit overcome, struggling to bring himself back to perfect placidity. The idea of sharing clothes must have offended him deeply, Christopher thought. “I am sure Monsieur Charbonneau’s work is second to none,” he said, “and of course if you vouch for him, he must be trustworthy, but I’m not sure if I could—-that is, as good a friend as he has proven to you, he and I are little more than acquaintances. I’m not sure if I would be able to reveal . . .”

“Oh, of course!” Christopher said, coloring slightly. “I should have considered that. It’s not like sending you to a shoemaker with my recommendation for a new pair of boots. It’s so much more . . .” He groped about for the right word.

“Intimate,” Har-ding put forth.

The word hung there between them in the dark privacy of the dressing room. Christopher felt light--headed with it.

Then Har-ding cleared his throat and the world began to turn once more. “How does one—-?” He gestured to the binding waistcoat.

“Ah, it fastens here, at the side.” Christopher raised his bent arm like a wing to give Har-ding access to the dozens of hook--and--eye closures that ran along his flank.

“Shall I . . . ?”

“Oh, please do. I love this thing, but it’s hell to get it off on my own. I feel like a Gordian knot in want of an oxcart, I daresay.” Christopher’s empty--headed laughter filled the room before it sank back into his chest. Har-ding’s hands were at his side, deftly undoing each tiny hook, and Christopher couldn’t breathe. Surely his thudding heartbeat could be heard over in Essex. The organ was liable to burst from his chest any minute now and ruin étienne’s hard work.

“Would you like me to dress you in a clean one?” Har-ding asked. His head was bent -toward Christopher’s ear, the better to concentrate on the fiddly closures, and the whisper of them threaded through Christopher’s fine golden curls. “Or do you prefer to go to bed . . . unencumbered?”

Christopher swallowed. “I -really shouldn’t bother with it if I’m going to retire soon.” He glanced at the window. The sun had long sunk, but a few rays of light pierced the cloudy skies over the hills. The rain had stopped at some point. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Not so late.” Har-ding went through the motions of peeling away the binding waistcoat and Christopher’s smallclothes. He kept his touch light and his gaze professionally blank. Christopher had no time to panic about his nudity as Har-ding efficiently dressed him in a soft, clean nightshirt, pulling it over his head before wrapping him in his favorite banyan of watered silk. It was odd, being dressed by someone else after so many years of adamantly doing so himself, but Christopher found the experience comforting in its own way. As if Har-ding was caring for his person in a way no one else ever had, not even étienne.

“I could fetch you a glass of something if you’d like. Brandy? Sherry?” Har-ding suggested.

“No, no, I daresay if I have a sip of liquor in this state it will all go to my head.” Christopher turned then, not realiz ing just how close Har-ding was until he found them standing nearly nose to nose. He gave a nervous titter. “I have so many questions for you. I feel as if I could talk all night.” He licked his lips. “Would you like to—-? Possibly—-?” He gestured -toward the valet’s room. “Chat?” he finished in a flounder, as if having such a life--altering conversation could be called such a simple thing.

“I would enjoy that very much,” Har-ding said. He glanced down at his state of undress, his shirt still hanging open. “Perhaps I should make myself decent first.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Christopher said. “I’m in my damn nightclothes. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

Har-ding seemed to hesitate, his sense of propriety clearly at war with Christopher’s orders. “Let me at least throw on my dressing gown over this,” he said at last. Christopher had no objection.

They adjourned by unspoken agreement to Har-ding’s quarters once more. It was impossible to say why they seemed to mutually gravitate to the cramped room, with nowhere for two people to sit save the narrow bed. Christopher thought that perhaps it was the room’s smallness that made it feel safer. Out there, in Christopher’s own room, or in the rest of Eden Abbey, the real world threatened. They were, at the moment, a nation of two, a pair of co--conspirators, and anything they could do to preserve the quiet trust between them seemed worth doing.

Not to mention, the bed was exceedingly small, and Christopher rather enjoyed being in such close proximity to Har-ding. He sat on the edge of the thin mattress with a happy bounce and watched Har-ding remove his dressing gown from its peg and shrug into it. It was a delight to see his valet once again in his dressing gown. Christopher hadn’t glimpsed it since that night in London, when they’d shared cups of warm milk. It reminded him that he was occasionally granted the privilege of seeing Har-ding’s more human side.

“Come!” Christopher patted the bedclothes next to him. “Sit, sit. I feel more awake than I ever have. My brain is absolutely buzzing with curiosity.”

“About me?” Har-ding asked, his head tilting in amusement as he sat very close. “I hardly warrant curiosity, I should think.”

“I disagree. You’re the most curious valet I’ve ever hired.”

“I’m the only valet you’ve ever hired.”

“So you admit I’m right.” Christopher flopped back onto the bed, dangling off the side from his waist downward with his arms folded under his head. He had never participated in the all--night tête--à--têtes in fellow students’ rooms at Cambridge, but he imagined it would have been a little like this: the quiet dark cocooning them, the whole night stretching out before them, a thousand things to talk about, and a kindred spirit with whom he could truly speak.

Har-ding did not lounge, per se, but he did curl up on his side with his head propped up on his fist so he could look down at Christopher. “You said you have questions?”

Christopher began counting off the fingers of one hand. “When did you know? Did you ever tell anyone? What’s your one magic wish?”

“Magic wish?” Har-ding’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” Christopher waggled his head, still pillowed on his one palm. “If you could magically wish for one thing, what would it be? Or am I the only one who thinks about such nonsense?”

“Tell me your wish first,” Har-ding said.

“Well, that’s easy. If it were possible,” Christopher sighed, “I would be taller.” He stuck a finger in Har-ding’s face. “Taller than you, I wager. Six feet would do nicely, though I wouldn’t say no to a few more inches on top of that.”

Har-ding seemed to be suppressing one of his smug smiles again. “Your horsemanship would suffer, surely.”

“I would manage. So would Orion. No, I would be quite tall. That is not up for debate,” Christopher said. He allowed himself to imagine that dreamy version. “I would be broad as well, downright barrel--chested with no need for my bandages or binding waistcoat any longer.” He restrained himself from mentioning any unmentionables: having a cock, for example, something of substance between his legs that was a part of him and not some rolled--up ball of linen (an uncomfortable but necessary accessory when one wore revealing breeches).

“That sounds pleasant,” Har-ding agreed, “but—-” Here his cheeks seemed to take on a pinkish hue, though it was likely a trick of the firelight. “I find your current stature and shape quite pleasing already.”

“Well, of course I am already very good--looking,” Christopher huffed. He hid his own blush with a duck of his head and hoped the firelight cast most of his fiery face in shadow. Facts were facts, but still. It was pleasing to hear Har-ding say so. “This is but a fantasy. Don’t you have one?”

Har-ding considered this for a long moment before saying, “I don’t believe I’ve ever allowed myself to think on it. It seems almost cruel to wish for things you know cannot possibly happen.”

“Oh, come now. It can be quite fun to imagine,” Christopher pressed. “Do you fancy yourself growing a full beard?” He squinted at Har-ding and tried to picture it. “I’m not sure it would be an improvement. What else, then?”

Har-ding rolled on his back in a mirroring of Christopher’s posture, his hands folded behind his head, and contemplated the ceiling. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “I would ask the magician to change the minds of my family so that they might accept what I’ve done, if I could only tell them.”

That gave Christopher pause. “I thought— You told me once you had no family at all.”

“A slight dissembling on my part,” Har-ding said. “I have a father and mother. A younger sister.” He stared at Christopher meaningfully, as if this information should not have been news to him.

“And they have no idea?” he asked. “About who you are, I mean.”

“You truly do not know?” Har-ding shook his head, returning to his upward gaze. “I thought this might all be rather obvious.”

“Not to me, I’m afraid,” Christopher said. He found himself momentarily stunned by the sight of Har-ding’s profile, an unfairly gorgeous assemblage of nose and chin and lips. He collected himself as best he could. “Do me the kindness of explaining?”

“I made the decision to leave and start my life over again. A new name, new clothes, new profession—-I longed to be a new man, but I could only do so by leaving the past behind. To disappear completely and be presumed dead.”

Christopher frowned. That sounded terribly familiar. Hadn’t Verbena Montrose and étienne argued about exactly that in the case of— But no, it couldn’t be. Could it?

His gasp caught in his throat, silent and breathless.

Har-ding continued: “More recently Providence has allowed my sister’s path to cross my own, so she at least is aware of what I am and what I’ve done. I’m extremely thankful for that; I would never have dreamed such a thing was possible before now.”

Christopher was not entirely a fool. “Lady Belinda?” he asked, blinking. “Is she your sister? That means your father—-Christ, man, your father is the duke.”

“Yes,” Har-ding said in a tired voice. His gaze did not leave the ceiling. “I am the missing Lady Constance. Or at least, I was. In another life.” He frowned. “It feels wrong to say her name. I have no claim to it even now.”

Christopher lay there, frozen in shock. “So you—-? But how? Why? Well, never mind the why; I can imagine why. But how ?”

“It was actually quite simple,” Har-ding said. He turned his head so he might look Christopher in the eye. “When I was still young, before my debut, I would sneak out of the house in Grosvenor Square. I had pilfered various bits and pieces of clothing from all over, mostly from serving boys. I would wear my collection, as I thought of it, and walk all through town in the middle of the night with my long hair stuffed into a cap. Just to walk. No one paid me any mind.”

“And a good thing!” Christopher cried. He couldn’t imagine what might befall a young innocent on the streets of London after dark, let alone the child of a powerful man such as the duke. If Har-ding had been recognized by any unsavory characters, it might have actually ended up as a kidnapping plot straight from étienne’s imagination. The idea was too terrible to be borne. “You were willing to risk that?” His voice shook so that he could not say anything further and could only attempt to compose himself.

Har-ding lifted a shoulder against the bedclothes. “It seemed worth it to live as I liked, if only for a few hours.” He sat up and picked a loose thread free from the quilt. “My sister would help me, on occasion. If I stayed out a bit too late, if I needed help sneaking back to my room undetected—-she distracted the staff and my father.” A fond smile reached his lips. It slipped away as he shook his head. “Then my debut was imminent, and I understood I could not survive on mere hours. I ran off in the dead of night. I could not even leave my sister a note for fear it would be discovered.”

Christopher’s heart jabbed at the inside of his chest. He turned on his side and propped his head in his hand, the better to watch Har-ding’s face as they talked. “That is why you suggested I marry Belinda,” he said. “You wished to be reunited.”

“Yes,” Har-ding said. “That would have been,” he hesitated, then said, “a comfort to me.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.” He winced, thinking of how enthusiastic he’d been to ruin Har-ding’s careful plans and see Belinda married off to Chester instead.

Har-ding, however, waved Christopher’s worries away. “You were right about her prospects. She deserved a chance at true happiness.”

“She deserves to have her brother in her life as well,” Christopher said before he could consider how accusatory it would sound.

Har-ding’s eyes flickered with pain. “We cannot always have the whole of what we want. There are times when we must weigh our happiness against our need and be content with what we are given,” he murmured. “Bee is beyond delighted to be married to her Horace. It is not so terrible a solution.”

Christopher chewed at his lip. “Perhaps we can arrange to have the newlyweds visit the Abbey. Would that suit?” It was important to him to see Har-ding happy, or to see the scales of his contentment a bit more balanced at least.

Har-ding turned onto his side -toward him, mirroring Christopher’s posture once more. “I’m not sure I am ready to bring Mr. Chesterfield into our confidence, and I’m not certain waiting on my sister while serving tea to your guests would be an adequate reunion.”

“Oh, yes.” Christopher deflated a bit. “Your guise of a manservant has its pitfalls, I see now. It’s a shame that you had to lower yourself like that in order to live as you wish.”

“It is no guise,” Har-ding pointed out. “Despite my origins, I am a valet. I enjoy valeting. My references are genuine. There is nothing in my profession of which I am ashamed.”

“No, of course not.” Christopher felt himself coloring. “I only meant, you gave up many things. Not just your fortune and creature comforts, but your family.” He thought of his own family: parents buried in some Philadelphia graveyard, the real Christopher lost at sea. Their separation was not of his choosing, and despite the dangers, he would give anything to see them again. “I’m not sure I would have the fortitude to do what you’ve done.”

Har-ding reached out and touched the back of Christopher’s hand where it lay between them on the blanket. “And I am not certain I could have been as strong as you must have been all these years.”

“Oh, I’m not strong at all.” Christopher shook his head. “One little thunderstorm and I fall to pieces; you saw it yourself.”

“The fact of your existence is a miracle,” Har-ding said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I had my work and a certain measure of freedom, but the scrutiny that you must have lived under . . .”

“Well, I also have pots of money,” Christopher pointed out, “so let’s not pretend it’s all been a chore.”

Har-ding sighed. His hand began to slip away. “I wish you wouldn’t make a joke of this.”

Christopher’s heart lurched, and before he knew what he was doing, he snatched Har-ding’s hand back and held it tight. “Sorry, dear fellow,” he said, and he meant it. “I don’t know how to speak of any of this like a civilized person, I suppose. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Har-ding’s fingers threaded through his own. “It’s for your own sake that you’ll need to learn to take my compliments. You’re the one who deserves to hear them.”

Christopher did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe it. That a man like Har-ding thought him worthy of praise—-a shiver passed through him at the thought. He wanted very much to hear such praises again and again, in myriad situations.

“Still cold?” Har-ding’s brow furrowed in concern. He re-arranged them more solidly on the narrow bed and cuddled closer, his arm slipping over Christopher’s waist. “Is that better?”

“Oh,” Christopher said thickly, “much.” He knew he should -really admit that he wasn’t cold at all, that the fire in the grate was doing a fine job, but he discovered his empty head fit neatly against Har-ding’s shoulder, and he couldn’t bear to leave that spot so soon. After what felt like a lifetime of eschewing touch, Christopher was surprised to find that he did not mind it, at least in this instance. He could, in fact, come to crave it.

He stifled a yawn, not wanting the evening to end.

Har-ding reached for the blanket that lay folded at the foot of his little bed and drew it over their legs. “I would be a failure of a valet if I let my employer freeze to death,” he said.

The sparkle in his eye marked it as a jest, but Christopher did not think it a very good one.

He ceased his movements against Har-ding’s person—-he wouldn’t call it nuzzling, but -really, it was the best word for it—-and lay like a dead log beside him. Even with his entire soul laid bare, he was still but a master to his man.

“No judge would convict you,” he returned, but it lacked any wit.

“Even so.” Har-ding nudged closer, filling in the empty space that Christopher had begun to unconsciously put between them. His sharp chin rested atop Christopher’s head, nestled in his hair. “Could you sleep like this?” His voice was more of a rumble through Christopher’s ribs than sound in his ears.

“Probably not,” Christopher mumbled, and then, of course, he immediately slept like the dead.