3. Sage
SAGE
Sage had been silently observing the interloper from the moment he entered the sitting room.
He had already been introduced to the rest of the guests that he was not at least somewhat familiar with as they arrived throughout the remainder of the day, so Sage knew this must be the man he would be sharing his room with for a night.
When Torquil interrupted his bath earlier to ask if he would be amenable to the idea, Sage had given pause in sliding the lathered sponge along his leg.
The tub was offensively small compared to the one he used at home; with his heel propped on the edge, his knee was pressed firmly against his shoulder.
First, he’d been beckoned halfway across the country to aid in a party for his ex-lover, and now he was expected to share a room?
He gave an indignant huff and agreed. He was no stranger to sharing a bed with men he did not know.
There was so much hesitation in Roger’s face and posture as he approached with the man on his arm that he looked as though he was guiding a lamb into a lion’s den.
“Conrad, this is Mr. Ravenwing,” Roger said. “Mr. Ravenwing, please allow me to introduce Mr. Moore.”
Sage did not stand from his chair as he let his gaze roam sedately over Mr. Moore.
Remarkably, he was even shorter than Roger.
His eyes were the same shade of brown as his hair, which now that he was closer, Sage could see had obviously been styled with nothing but his fingers and was still damp from a bath.
Rounded, human ears peeked from beneath the wet strands.
The smile he wore was eager and confident, but it did nothing to mask the thirst for approval simmering just below the surface.
After a sip of wine from his glass, Sage turned his attention away from them and he focused on nothing in particular across the room. “I was not aware I’d be sharing my bed with a schoolboy.”
Roger let out a sharp, startled sort of laugh.
“I assure you, Conrad is of age.”
Mr. Moore was not deterred. He spoke up for himself easily. “I will not make any trouble for you, Mr. Ravenwing. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
Sage looked him up and down again, faster this time.
“I daresay you might be right.”
When dinner was announced, everyone wandered to the dining room in high spirits.
Sage was not surprised to discover that he had been seated at the far end of the table—with as much distance between Wyndham and himself as possible.
The premise of Roger’s invitation was still absurd, but the man was not as witless as he seemed.
Instead, he found himself situated between the Ladies Fitzhugh, dividing two groups of people who obviously knew each other quite well.
Their conversations were easy and dotted with laughter.
Before long, Sage felt like a lame horse in the middle of a busy London street, clearly in the way but ultimately something that could be worked around.
Even if they had been paying him any mind, he had little interest in conversing, so instead he settled for more quiet observations over the rim of his wine glass.
Wyndham was as beautiful as ever. Seeing him poised at the head of his own table and dressed down just enough to fit with life in the country stirred a fantasy within Sage that he’d spent months trying to forget.
He would have been willing to travel for this, to follow Wyndham anywhere if it meant seeing him so at peace.
But that relaxed smile was not for him. It was for Roger.
The two of them exchanged several glances throughout the meal, each more tender than the last. Sage finally forced himself to look away.
Everyone was endlessly curious about the man who had wandered up to the house like a stray animal.
Roger filled Mr. Moore’s plate three times as he answered questions about his life, his family, his work, and his desire in earning a position on the Council.
Sage was barely listening to begin with, but he lost interest entirely after that.
The Council for Fae & Human Magical Relations was designed to bring both sides of society closer together.
For over a century, they had been working to manage and better understand the similarities and differences between fae and human magic.
On occasion, radical minds approached the Council to share ideas of their own. Roger had been one of them.
Within a couple of months, he and Wyndham had worked together to change policies that had been in place for decades.
Shortly after, Torquil became involved to represent the “dramatically underserved” fae-humans of society.
The entire thing had been highly controversial.
It was all anyone could talk about at social events or read about in the papers.
The unprecedented shifts in the Council left everyone stunned, and they were seemingly far from over.
To Sage’s limited understanding, there remained only one human spot open on the Council, and Mr. Moore was after it.
He wanted it so desperately that he had reduced himself to the likes of a twine-wrapped parcel and journeyed for days at the mere chance that he might be given the opportunity to speak with the newest members of the Council and prove himself worthy.
Sage rolled his eyes and drained the last of his wine.
* * *
When dinner was over, Roger invited everyone to return to the sitting room to allow their meal to settle in continued good company.
One of the ladies offered to play a couple of songs for everyone on the pianoforte, which got several delighted responses.
Sage cast one last look in Wyndham’s direction and left the room without speaking to anyone.
The faint sounds of music and laughter carried up the stairs.
Sage’s attention was drawn to the bedroom door when it opened and closed, allowing the noise in for a moment.
He watched in the reflection of the dressing table mirror as Mr. Moore walked silently across the room in the direction of the bed.
His smile was still brave, but the rest of him looked like he wished he’d been asleep hours ago.
Without so much as an abashed request for privacy, or even a glance of acknowledgement, Mr. Moore began to undress.
Sage arched a brow and resumed applying his favorite blend of rose water and sweet almond oil to his face, methodically working it into his skin.
When he finished with his neck and moved to his chest, he turned slowly on the ottoman in time to see Mr. Moore stepping out of his trousers.
The resulting view was less than exciting.
The man was so short that his shirttail reached his knees.
“Do all humans in Bristol lack propriety?” Sage purred.
Mr. Moore chuckled at that, but did not look up from folding his abandoned garments into a neat stack. “Only me, I’m afraid, much to my mother’s dismay.”
Sage rubbed the last of his oil into his hands and forearms as Mr. Moore produced a small bag from underneath the side of the bed he was standing next to.
His expression shifted to one of disbelief as the man stuffed his clothes inside with little care.
Was that where he planned to keep them? Worse yet, did all of his clothes fit in one piece of luggage?
Sage eyed the wardrobe in the corner of the room.
It had barely been able to contain what he’d brought.
“I hope that won’t be a problem.”
There was no time for Sage to answer if it was or not. Mr. Moore reached behind his head and grabbed his shirt in one fist, pulling it forward and off in one swift motion.
Now that , Sage decided, was a view.
Hidden beneath his clothes, Mr. Moore was muscled in every way that a man could be.
Sage remembered faintly that he did some sort of physical work for a living.
It was quite evident. He tilted his head slightly and did not look away as Mr. Moore folded his shirt and put it in the bag, too.
Perhaps this was what all human men looked like naked? He had never seen one before.
Sage stood lithely from the ottoman as a smirk curled at the corner of his lips. This was certainly an unexpected surprise. It took little effort for the silk of his banyan to slide from his bare shoulders and all the way to the floor. He stepped out of the puddle of fabric and left it there.
“No problem at all,” he confirmed airily.
Sage had given up wearing nightclothes the moment he was old enough to protest them. The convenience of such a decision only became more apparent with time and a more mature shift in his nighttime activities.
As a drunk might reach for their tankard, Sage took a half-step back and reached for a smaller jar of oil than the one he’d been using before.
The scrape of glass against the polished wood of the dressing table as he picked it up finally made Mr. Moore look at him, but only briefly, as he climbed under the covers they were about to share.
Anticipation of something—some one —new had Sage’s pulse fluttering a bit more than he might’ve expected. Certainly he had not come all this way thinking he might actually get what he truly wanted, but he had learned long ago to never be unprepared.
Sage made a small show of peeling the sheets back.
He placed one knee on the mattress, slowly shifted to the other, and then reclined onto his hip and elbow facing Mr. Moore.
With a coy smirk, he held the jar out for him to take.
Most men were plenty happy to allow him to apply the oil, but he always liked to offer.
Mr. Moore glanced at the jar and then flicked a small but polite grin at Sage.
“Oh, no thank you. It smells lovely, though. Roses always do.”
Sage huffed out a breath of a laugh. So that’s how it was going to be, then.
He was not opposed to games. With the right partner, a little teasing could be quite enjoyable.
Just as Sage opened his mouth to say as much, Mr. Moore leaned in the opposite direction, nearly so far that he might’ve toppled out of the bed, and blew out the candle on his side table with a sharp puff of an exhale.
Then, he turned fully onto his side, bunched up his pillow, and let out a content sigh as he relaxed into it.
Sage remained perfectly still for a moment, staring at the man’s back.
He was…going to sleep?
Sage’s surprise melted into outrage. With a heavy scoff, he shifted his weight off his elbow and collapsed back against his own pillow for a few seconds.
Then, with hot, jerky movements to match his foul mood, he sat up, set the jar of oil on his side table with a smack , and blew out his own candle.
In his effort to wrench the covers up over himself, he caused Mr. Moore to stir and resettle beside him, entirely unbothered by all the commotion. Sage’s jaw clenched as he drew in a deep breath.
His heart seized.
The smell of lavender soap—the same kind Wyndham always used—hit him with force. He glared over at Mr. Moore in the dark. Of course the man would’ve had to borrow soap to bathe with. With a sob of frustration, Sage rolled onto his opposite side and squeezed his eyes shut.