Chapter 008 Percy
“I do not understand why I must attend.”
Henry’s glare moved from the invitation to the evening itself, and then—perhaps—to me. His mouth tightened as though the paper had offended him by existing.
“Because you received an invitation from Blackthorne Manor, and you shall attend,” I said. My tone was firm, but I kept it gentle. He needed this. He needed to leave the house and discover—again—that he could. I needed it too, though I would never have admitted it aloud.
A selfish part of me wanted to remain abovestairs with him, where the world could not intrude; to keep him close, to take comfort in him, to lose myself in the quiet pleasures we had learned to claim. But wanting was not the same as doing. So instead, we set out along the path to the carriage.
His pace was careful and steady, each step measured. November had slipped away almost unnoticed, and our first snow had fallen last week—only to melt quickly, leaving the grounds damp and heavy. The earth looked sodden, but the stones of the walkway were dry. I watched his cane: the way it touched down, the way he leaned, not heavily now but with a lighter confidence. Progress. I felt a fierce pride in it, so sharp my chest ached.
Tonight, he could find no excuse. Not with Lord Blackthorne waiting.
John Sutherland—sailor, newly made lord, a man of dark skin and rare standing in a pale world—was like Henry in ways few could understand. Precious, for that alone. They would have much to share: military pasts, unexpected titles, the particular loneliness of being watched and measured before one even spoke. Navy and army, different worlds, but perhaps the same solitude.
Henry, however, only grumbled.
“Harumph.”
It was all he offered.
At the carriage, the footman helped him in with practiced care. I climbed up to my place above, where the cold air found my face at once and the leather creaked beneath me. The driver said nothing. The journey passed in silence, the wheels chewing steadily through damp roads while my thoughts ran warmer than the weather had any right to allow.
When we arrived, I jumped down first. Henry emerged more slowly, taking his time as though refusing to be hurried by anyone—not even his own body.
A man waited at the door.
He was tall and striking, his dark skin catching the torchlight as if the flame had been made for him. He was younger than I expected—perhaps a decade younger than Henry—and his grin widened the moment he saw my lord. He strode forward with an ease that was both confidence and welcome.
“You are most welcome, sir, to Blackthorne Manor.”
“Yes, well.” Henry frowned, surprise likely written across his features—at the youth, perhaps, or the warmth that carried no condescension. Still, he took the offered hand.
“Lord Blackthorne,” Henry said.
“Lord Hartridge,” John replied, and his eyes sparkled. “I look forward to discussing many things with you. Would you like a glass of port? A tour of the house? Or shall we go straight to food?”
There was an eager, almost boyish quality to him, as though he entertained so rarely that hospitality had become a hunger. Or perhaps he was simply starved for kinship—another man like him, another unexpected heir, another former officer whose skin marked him before his title could. Two Black lords. Two men who had survived long enough to inherit what the world never meant to offer them.
The carriage rolled away behind us. The lords went inside, their conversation already beginning to find a rhythm.
And I stood, suddenly and absurdly alone, as though someone had set me down in a place where I belonged only by proximity. For a moment I felt like a fish on dry land—no purpose, no direction beyond following Henry wherever he went.
“You are the earl’s valet, are you not?”
The voice was soft, and it belonged to a man approaching from the side. He had a weathered face and blond hair streaked with grey. Forty, perhaps more. He was shorter than I, but he carried himself with a quiet pride I recognized.
“Yes,” I answered.
He smiled as though he had been waiting for the chance. “My name is Phillip. I am Lord Blackthorne’s valet. If you wish to accompany me, I will be happy to find you somewhere quiet to wait. Perhaps you would like some food while our gentlemen speak?”
Our gentlemen.
Not our masters.
The distinction landed lightly and warmly, like a hand offered without presumption. I felt something in me loosen—a small, guarded knot easing for the first time in longer than I cared to admit.
I followed.
Hours passed. Conversation flowed, easy but careful at first, as though we were each testing the ground beneath the other’s feet. Then, as the night deepened, it opened. By midnight, we were friends.
Phillip spoke of the sea, of years that had shaped him into someone both wary and capable. He spoke of a young midshipman—twelve years old—taken under his wing and taught to read properly, to love books, to find refuge in words when the world became too sharp. In return, when the boy became earl, he chose Phillip: valet, companion, lover.
They were careful, Phillip said. Always careful. But together. Long together.
Something in my chest lifted with such force I nearly laughed. Recognition. Relief. Kinship. I had not known how badly I needed to see it—proof, not in whispered rumors but in a living example: that this life could be made, piece by piece, with patience and caution, and still be a life worth having.
When Henry finally emerged, his face was lighter. His grin—rare as sunlight in winter—was real.
The carriage ride home was different. He spoke through the window, animated and a little tipsy, words tumbling over themselves as though he could not contain them. John’s library. Their shared tastes. Politics and literature. The navy versus the army. He even laughed, a true laugh that startled me with its ease.
I smiled into the dark, letting his brightness warm the cold air.
Back at Crosswood Hall, in his bedchamber, I undressed him slowly. I drew off his coat and unfastened what needed unfastening, mindful of the ways his body demanded care now. When I pulled the nightshirt over him, he smelled of port and warmth and something rarer still—happiness.
I tucked him in. He caught my hand.
“You realize the two of them…?” he began.
I held my breath, waiting.
“Well…” He scratched his nose, thinking hard. “Yes. I suppose it is because they were sailors?”
He squinted at me, earnest as a boy puzzling over a lesson.
I shook my head. “No,” I said firmly. “It is not because they are sailors. I am a sodomite, and I have never been a sailor or a soldier. I was born this way.”
The truth sat between us—simple, unwavering, and dangerous.
Henry blinked. “You are not afraid of people knowing?”
“Of course I am.” I arched a brow. “I would lose my position. I would risk jail. The gallows. Transportation.” I let the words stand as they were, ugly and real. “But Phillip and John are careful. We can be careful too.”
He cleared his throat and smoothed the edge of the blanket with his one hand, fussing as though the fabric required urgent attention. “Who said anything about us? I…”
“Yes?” I waited, my heart suddenly too loud for the quiet room.
“You are not still angry at me about the kiss, are you?” he asked at last, frowning.
“The kiss?” I stared at him.
“We kissed,” I said slowly. “In our seventeenth year. Mr. Bartley nearly caught us. You left for school days later. You never came back—”
“I came back,” Henry cut in. “With Caroline.”
The words hung between us like a door closing.
But you never came back for me.
I could not say it. Yet my face must have betrayed something, because Henry went very still.
“This must sound horrible,” he said quietly, “but I do not recall a kiss.”
He looked away, then back, as though forcing himself to stay present. “I was obsessed with books. With Oxford. With Father’s conditions. I wanted escape.” His hand lifted, uncertain, then fell again. “Though not from you. Never from you.”
He paused, swallowing. “I met Caroline. I brought her home. And the rest…”
He made a helpless gesture, then stopped himself.
“You cared for me,” he asked, “even back then?”
“Yes,” I said, steady.
“You have loved me ever since then?”
“Yes.”
Henry pursed his lips, contemplating. The lines in his face deepened as he thought.
“I am expected to marry,” he said at last.
“Do you wish to marry?”
He hesitated. “Isabella needs a mother.”
“She has Mrs. Fernsby. Martha. The entire household,” I said gently. “She will not lack for female care.”
“But when she grows?” His brow furrowed. “People will say—”
“You arranged for Mrs. Fernsby yourself,” I reminded him. “A governess. She will be fine.”
He stared at a point beyond me, thinking as though the answer might be written on the ceiling. “What about what people think?”
“About what?” I asked. “You not remarrying? Isabella’s governess?”
He swallowed. “About you and me.”
A soft smile tugged at my mouth. “Think you have a valet,” I said lightly. “Most lords do. Even without your injuries, you would not dress yourself. It is not done.”
“But…”
“Henry.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice as though the walls might listen. “Do you want a wife?”
He looked down, and the admission came out quiet. “Not really.”
“Then do not marry,” I said simply. “You do not have to.”
His eyes lifted. The panic was still there, but it had begun to fade, as though the mere idea of refusing expectation was a balm.
“You became a rake to prove you did not care,” I said. “Joined the army to prove you did not care.” I paused, letting him feel the weight of it without judgment. “How about discovering what you do care for?”
He nodded slowly, as if each word required a decision.
“Isabella,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Crosswood Hall.”
“Yes.”
“I want to live here,” he continued, voice roughening. “Quietly. Without demands.” He swallowed again. “And—”
He met my gaze. “—and I think I care about you too.”
For a moment my heart stopped, and then it raced as though trying to make up for lost time.
“Then grasp it,” I whispered. “Raise Isabella. Stay at Crosswood. Dare to love your valet.”
He eyed me with that old boyish suspicion, the look he used to wear when I tried to feed him frogs in the garden. “That sounds deceptively simple.”
“It can be,” I said, smiling. “Would you like to ask Phillip and John how they manage?”
“No.” His chin jutted, stubborn. “I am not that brave.”
“Then we forge our own path,” I said. I lifted my hand and touched his cheek, letting my fingers rest there only a moment longer than propriety would allow if anyone else had been present. “We make our own rules.”
Henry searched my face. “I never realized men could fall in love with other men,” he admitted. “I thought it was just… physical.”
He winced as though the word embarrassed him.
I grinned, unable to help it. “Sometimes it is,” I said. “Sometimes you simply wish to pleasure an earl in his bath.”
He flushed, and I let the teasing soften before it could turn cruel. “But yes,” I added quietly, holding his gaze. “Men can love.”
The room seemed to shrink around the question I had carried for years.
“Are you brave enough to try?” I asked.
Please. Please say yes.
Henry squinted, thinking. Then, as though deciding to step onto ice he had always feared might break, he said, “Yes.”
He drew a breath. “I think I am.”
Then, stronger—as if the sound of his own courage steadied him. “I am certain.”
Joy flooded me so suddenly I nearly laughed.
“Well, that is fortunate,” I said softly, my voice thick with it, “because I love you. You would have to banish me to be rid of me.”
Henry raised his arm. The invitation was clear.
“Please undress and join me forthwith,” he said, and his voice dropped into something laced with mischief and want. “I do not wish to be alone as we celebrate that we shall be lord and valet until the end of our days.”
Lord and valet.
The words curled with promise, meaning more than their plainness suggested.
I smiled, because it was perfectly acceptable to me.