And that day may come all too soon. In two months, their year’s contract would be at an end, and it would be for Henry to decide whether to renew it.
Henry forced his smile back, raising his brows teasingly. “How could I not be happy?” he said. “When I have the most beautiful boy in London, all to myself?”
Kit saw the move for what it was—Henry swerving away from that brief moment of heartfelt intimacy, reaching for something light and easy instead.
“Christopher?” Henry said tentatively. “Is something wrong?”
A lump rose in Kit’s throat, and his heart grew heavy in his chest, even as he reminded himself of Mabel’s long-ago advice:
"Always be agreeable; never complain. You are your protector’s refuge from his other cares. If you can be that, he’ll keep you in luxury, and when you part, you’ll still be friends.”
Their bargain was really very simple: Kit’s smiling service for Henry’s gold. The truth was, Henry had neither asked for, nor did he want, Kit’s affection.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Kit said softly, forcing himself to smile. “Quite the opposite. Everything’s wonderful.” He began the awkward business of uncoupling himself from Henry and getting back to his feet. Henry didn’t press the point, but Kit felt the man’s gaze on him as he lifted his robe from the floor and slid it over his shoulders again.
Kit made himself turn, made himself smile at Henry invitingly and lift his eyebrows. “Are you coming to bed?”
The last remnants of Henry’s frown dissolved, his eyes warming with humour. “Yes, but I’ll need to sleep. I’m weary to my bones.” He yawned, then stood, tucking himself inside his breeches again before heading for the door.
Kit bent and picked up the coat and cravat Henry had discarded. He did not like to leave their discarded clothes on the parlour floor for the servants to tidy away. The house had only one live-in servant, Hodge, an old retainer of the Asquith family who Henry trusted implicitly and who slept in the butler’s rooms, just off the kitchen. Hodge retired to his rooms each evening, only coming out to admit Henry when he visited before returning to his own quarters. The other servants went home each evening after tending to Kit’s needs.
Kit extinguished the candles in the parlour, then followed Henry out into the hall and up the short flight of stairs to the master bedchamber where Henry was already wearily pulling off the rest of his clothes.
Kit picked up each discarded item and carefully hung them in the wardrobe, twitching the crumpled fabric straight to encourage the creases to fall out.
By the time he crawled into bed, Henry was already breathing rhythmically, his eyelids closed.
“You look exhausted,” Kit murmured, pressing a kiss to Henry’s broad shoulder.
“Been up since five,” Henry mumbled. “Long day.”
Kit leaned over and blew the candle beside the bed out, letting darkness swallow up the room. “Good night.”
Henry gave a little grunt of contentment and turned onto his side. In less than a minute his breaths had slowed and lengthened as sleep took him over.
Kit couldn’t sleep though. He lay awake in the darkness, Henry’s words playing over and over in his mind.
“I have the most beautiful boy in London, all to myself.”
They weren’t terrible words. He hadn’t called Kit his whore or belittled him in any way. And yet… Henry could have speaking about a prize stallion, or a beautifully-tailored coat, and Kit couldn’t rid himself of the sudden, lowering conviction that he was just a thing to Henry, perhaps a much-cherished thing, but still, a thing, not a person.
Why did he keep torturing himself by allowing himself to imagine otherwise? How else could he expect Henry to think of him? For Christ’s sake, when they’d met Kit had been wearing nothing but a skimpy, near-transparent tunic and had been sprawled over the lap of one of the several men who, at that time, were vying to become his new protector.
He’d been selling himself. Advertising his wares and handing out a few free samples. Letting the goods be well and truly examined.
Well, that was the kind of man Kit was. One who could be bought outright with gold.
“I have the most beautiful boy in London, all to myself.”
Kit made himself face the truth. He was a thing—an object to be used. And for now, he was Henry’s, fairly bought and paid for. Paid to provide services; to fulfil Henry’s desires, not his own.