Son of a Scoundrel, Heart of Gold (Pete/Patrick)
Title: Son of a Scoundrel, Heart of Gold (for the DYW Romance Novel Cliche Challenge (yes, it is this late))
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R-ish?
Disclaimer: Hey, the joy of AUs! Clearly, this is totally false!
A/N: Thanks to the girls of Oxford House for listening to me babble about this for MONTHS. Special thanks to marigolde and hetrez for the betas (bonus to marigolde for the hilarious romance title). Sorry there was not more porn, but I refuse to use the word "manhood"!
**Also, instead of writing the entire insane story in my head, I’ve done what we ALL do with romance novels-I’ve skipped ahead to the good parts.**
(page 1)
Prologue
Devonshire, 1872
Margaret opened the door and gasped. Gabriel stood on the stoop of the parish house, one hand in his pocket, the other still raised as if to knock. She hadn’t seen him in so long, she barely recognized him-his hair was long, curls pulled back at the nape of his neck, and his clothes were expensive, almost garish.
“What?” She started, still surprised.
“Is he home?” Gabriel asked with more of a sneer than a smile, and she realized the years may have been outwardly kind, but possibly less so in other ways.
“No, you know he’s not. It’s Thursday and he has his Parish rounds.”
Gabriel just nodded. “Good. You’re the one I wanted to see anyway. I have a… problem.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “I can’t give you any money.” She was startled by his harsh laugh.
“Do you think I need money? Look at me. I have more money, more everything than I ever had here.” He sounded bitter, and she did not think unkindly of him for it. They had tried to tame the wild part of him and had never succeeded. He looked to have everything he’d ever really wanted now, and she hoped it was enough.
“Then what, Gabe, I don’t-“ but she was distracted by a noise to their right, a thud and a small voice saying “uh oh”. When she looked, there was a small blond boy standing up in her begonia bed, eyes wide.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Gabe rolled his eyes and she sucked in a breath at the curse. He glanced at her once, almost pitying, and reached down to grab the boy’s arm and pull him forward.
The boy blinked up at her with wide hazel eyes. “Hello,” she said kindly and he managed half a small smile. “Who might you be?”
“He’s mine,” Gabriel said harshly and her head shot up in amazement.
“Oh, my. I didn’t. We never got word that you had married.” It was more than she’d hoped for, but perhaps…
“I didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly, his eyes almost gleaming like he was happy to shock her, to make her go pale. “His mother was a girl I knew. She died this winter and I didn’t even know he existed until last month when her lawyers tracked me down. I can’t keep him. It’s… there isn’t a place for him in London.”
“Gabriel, you can’t honestly ask us to-“
“So it’s here or the orphanage.” Gabe finished shortly and stared her down. “Your choice, Mother.”
Her stomach twisted in horror at the idea that Gabe would leave this boy, her grandson, in the hands of callous strangers, but she knew better than to tell him so. Gabe had been troubled since he was old enough to talk, to say ‘more’ and ‘want’ and ‘now’. “Taken up with the Devil,” her husband had finally said six years before when he’d come home drunk again after stealing from the church coffers, and Gabe had no longer been welcome in their house. She felt a soft tug on her skirts and looked down to see the boy blinking up at her. “What’s your name, little one?” She asked through the tightness in her throat.
“Patrick,” he said in a clear, sweet voice, and when she looked up again, Gabriel was already walking down the path to his carriage.
“I won’t bother you again,” he said over his shoulder and her heart ached sadly as he rode off down the bumpy country road.
She glanced down and the boy was still holding onto her skirt, watching the carriage with wide, worried eyes. She swallowed and reached down to smooth back his fine hair. “Hello, Patrick. I’m your grandmother, and you’re going to stay here for a while.” She smiled kindly and the boy seemed to relax a fraction. “Now, I think we have some biscuits and jam in the kitchen. Would you like some?” He nodded enthusiastically and she reached down and gathered him up in her arms, turning back into the house. “Good. This is your new home, Patrick. Everything is all right now.”
***
(page 25)
“Gabriel, what a pleasure to see you!” the Duke said.
Patrick forgot entirely about the strange looks his clothes were drawing in the parlor, the bright colored silks making his skin look pale as usual. Standing in the foyer, striking in a black suit with a red scarf thrown rakishly around his neck was his father, so like and yet so unlike the photos he’d uncovered in his mother’s things, packing them up for their long journey home. He put a hand unconsciously to his side pocket where he carried a small portrait of Gabriel and his mother… or grandmother, he reminded himself for the hundredth time in as many days.
Gabe was walking toward them with a practiced air of nonchalance. 'Don’t trust him farther than you can throw him,' his solicitor had warned him, and Patrick could suddenly see why. Gabriel Saporta (ne Stumph) moved with an air of confidence, looking aloof and above all those in the room he towered over-which were most. Patrick felt suddenly self-conscious about his short stature, and wondered if his mother was a small woman, or if he were merely an aberration there as well.
“Gabriel, do sit down and join us,” the Duke was saying and Patrick forced his hands still in his lap. “I was just speaking to young Master Stumph here about his wondrous travels. Patrick, this is Gabriel Saporta, and he can certainly give you a run for your money in terms of exciting lives!”
Patrick saw Gabe look at him sharply, eyes narrowing, and Patrick opened his mouth then shut it quickly, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. All his practiced speeches were useless under that imperious gaze. “Yes, h-hello sir,” Patrick stammered and Gabe sat forward in his seat, elbows on his knees.
“Patrick Stumph, with an ‘h’?” he asked. His tone was light but Patrick could see him gripping tightly at the felt brim of his hat.
Patrick’s mouth went dry. “Yes, I’m-“
The Duke interrupted with his usual disregard, and for once Patrick was grateful. “Patrick’s family were missionaries in India! Isn’t that splendid?” He gestured to Patrick’s purple and red woven shirt. “From the age of, what was it again? Seven?” Patrick nodded, and he continued, “seven years old and he was living in huts among the natives! He even took to several of their languages, isn’t that right? Helped his father minister to those in need in their native tongue.”
To be fair, Patrick had done more to help people learn basic English, encouraging them to be questioning and independent of their colonial overseers, but he wisely refrained from saying as much to the Duke. Gabe was still looking at him, eyes bright.
“And where are your saintly parents now, Mr. Stumph?” he asked with a slight trace of animosity and Patrick’s stomach tightened with a hot stab of anger.
“They are dead, sir. Malaria,” he said flatly and watched with some small satisfaction as Gabriel’s face twisted with some barely contained emotion.
“I am. Sorry to hear,” he said, voice taut, and Patrick could feel his face flushing, the pain of the last few months still fresh in his heart. The Duke was looking at them questioningly and Patrick was glad when he was distracted by a wave from across the room.
“Oh, bother, it’s the Earl of Whethersfield. He’s trying to get me to pass through his legislation on salt importation tariffs,” he said quietly, waving back. “I’d best go tend to him now before he corners Barker and the idiot makes promises we can’t keep. If you will excuse me?” The Duke sailed across the room. When Patrick looked back, Gabe was still staring at him.
“Patrick Stumph,” he said, as if testing the words against his tongue. “That’s a rather unusual name in Britain.”
“You would know… Father,” Patrick said and Gabe’s posture changed instantly, back rigid and fingers curled around the wooden arm of his chair.
“So, you’ve been trying to find me, then?” he asked, “Because I don’t believe in happy accidents.”
“Nor I,” Patrick replied icily, finding his tongue finally. “Though I am not sure this qualifies as happy.”
“Was there a reason you decided to tromp on my privacy, or just morbid curiosity?” Gabe bit out, and Patrick took some satisfaction in the fact that Gabe’s eyes never flickered from him, from his Indian slippers to his plain black trousers to his striking shirt, and finally to his face. “You have her eyes,” he murmured almost to himself and Patrick felt his palms itch with the now-familiar need to know more. No matter how awful his father happened to be, he was the only one with the answers Patrick wanted. “Is there money, then? My inheritance, such as it is?” Gabe asked suddenly.
Patrick had never wanted to strike a man with as much ferocity as he did at that moment. “No, sir, there is no money. Everything Mother and Father had was bound up in the mission, and most of the rest was used to get me back to London. Not that you would have seen a penny had they been richer than the Raja,” he added hotly and Gabe glanced around as his voice grew louder.
“Careful, son. A quick temper is the Devil’s tongue,” he quoted and Patrick blanched. “If there is nothing else I can do for you, I suggest you head back to wherever you came from and let me get back to forgetting all about you.”
Patrick stood quickly, fists balling at his sides. “Gladly,” he hissed and stomped out the door.
**
(page 40)
“Are you going to tell me why you lured me here, under false pretenses I might add?” Patrick crossed his arms. His father smiled up at him beatifically.
“You were looking for me for a reason, and by the way you called them Father and Mother, and the fact that I was dead to Martin Stumph long before you came along, I am going to bet that they never told you about me at all. I made a guess. You can tell me if I’m wrong.”
Patrick stood silent and still.
“Right,” Gabe nodded. “So, you want answers, and I can give them to you. But in return you will do something for me, right? A fair trade.”
Patrick’s jaw clenched. “You don’t seem to be well known for your fairness.”
“Possibly, but that’s the offer,” Gabe leaned back and stretched a little in his chair. His long legs hooked at the ankles in front of him and he tucked his hands behind his head, as though this were a perfectly reasonable conversation. Damn him, Patrick thought.
“What would I have to do?”
“You are fluent in Hindi and Farsi, then?”
Patrick furrowed his brow in confusion. This wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. “Yes, and some Arabic,” he answered.
“Just spoken, or written as well?”
“Written as well,” Patrick said and he shook his head. “What does this have to do with?”
“Do you like your job, Patrick? You’re a bookkeeper, right?” Patrick just stared at him. “I have a job offer for you. A dear friend of mine is trying to break his shipping business into the Indian market, and he is in dire need of someone who can read both numbers and languages.”
“I don’t want to be a party to any of your dirty schemes,” Patrick spit and Gabe just laughed, a sharp pleased sound.
“You give me too much credit, Patrick! My schemes are much too base to involve shipping and industry. I deal in hearts and desire, my boy. The job is perfectly legitimate, and the pay will be more than adequate.”
“But why me?” he asked leaning his hands on the back of the brown leather chair he was standing by. “You didn’t seem at all eager to see me last we met.”
“True, but you have skills my friend wants, and my friend… well. I hope to make him much more than that soon, and you will be a nice feather in my cap if I can deliver you in a neat little package. He’ll be very happy with me indeed.”
“What’s the catch?” Patrick asked, wary.
“He’s never to know that we’re… related. You are an old family friend, nothing more.” Gabe looked at him disdainfully and Patrick felt something inside him twist with shame, the familiar flash of anger following quickly behind.
“Related is too strong a word for what we are,” Patrick said harshly and Gabe stood and smiled.
“Good, then I trust this will be easy for you. I will send word in a few days about how we are to proceed.” Gabe motioned to the door with one manicured hand and Patrick practically tripped over his feet in his hurry to leave.
**
(p. 50)
He should have worn the starched shirt he’d purchased at the tailors, he thought again, noting how the butler stared with some concern at his traditional woven shirt. He wore it under a brown jacket, the one he wore to services for years. The ends of the sleeves were frayed in places and he picked at an errant string as he was shown to a large parlor.
“Please wait here. Lord Wentz will see you as soon as he is able.”
Patrick just nodded. His soft shoes made no noise on the large Oriental rug. He stood by the fireplace, eyes going to the ornate gilded frames on the walls but barely registering their contents. Gabe had told him to come to this house for an interview, “a mere formality, I assure you,” he’d said, but when Patrick had rounded the corner to this quiet, well-tended street, he was suddenly a bit overwhelmed. The houses were grander than any he’d seen yet in England and he felt more and more out of place as he walked the nice hedgerows to the largest house on the end. It belonged to Lord Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, young heir to a shipping fortune and ‘dear friend’ of his father’s.
As the minutes ticked by in the parlor, Patrick wondered if this was worth it. He wanted to know the name of his mother, what happened to her and Gabriel those twenty years ago, but he didn’t belong here. Perhaps, if he left quietly now, no one would think of him, and he could pay his solicitor to look harder for his answers. But he didn’t have the money for that. He barely had money for his rented flat. He sighed heavily and put his hand on the marble mantle.
“Now, it can’t be as bad as all that,” a voice said from behind and Patrick turned quickly, face flushing.
“I’m sorry, I was only,” he stopped short. The man in the doorway was dressed smartly, his jacket accented by a blue flower in his lapel. His hair was thick and dark, grown long until it almost brushed his bright, expressive eyes. But the most striking feature was his smile, wide and toothy and genuine. Patrick literally felt his breath catch as the man laughed as his obvious discomfiture.
“Nothing in my house is untouchable,” he assured, striding into the room quickly. “Touch is one of the most important senses, I think, and to own something one is not allowed to touch is a waste and a bother.” He paused and looked at the small table next to the blue flowered sofa. “Have you not been offered some tea?”
Patrick opened his mouth but it was bone dry. He closed it again quickly and merely shook his head. The man-Lord Wentz, he had to assume-sighed and rang a small bell.
A servant girl in a gray cap appeared at the other end of the room. “Sonia, dear, can you please bring us a small refreshment?” The girl nodded and curtsied and was off in a flash. “Now,” he said, turning his blinding smile back to Patrick. “You are Mr. Patrick Stumph, and I am Lord Peter Wentz, and we don’t stand on much ceremony here so I shall call you Patrick and you shall call me Pete and damn the rest of the world if they don’t like it.”
“I. All right,” Patrick answered, his voice barely coming back. Lord Wentz-Pete, he corrected himself-- gestured to a small seat. “Sit, please.”
Patrick paused, still a little unsure of how to react to this beautiful man. His eyes flitted to the blue flower.
“Unless,” Pete said thoughtfully, “you would be amenable to a walk in the gardens? They are gorgeous this time of year and I will have Sonia bring the tray to the back.”
Pete rang the bell as though Patrick had already agreed, and maybe he had. His head was nodding, he realized with embarrassment but Pete didn’t seem to notice. “Come,” he said with the tilt of his head when the tea arrangements had been made. He was already bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet as Patrick followed him through the large house and out to a patio with steps to a truly magnificent garden.
Patrick stopped short. “This is. Incredible,” he said before thinking, and Pete’s smile was warm but a little sad.
“It was my mother’s pride and joy, other than myself and my siblings, of course,” he said. “I keep it just as she did. It’s a bit selfish, really. When I walk in it, I feel as though she’s still here.” Patrick felt the still-new sorrow in his own chest flare up a bit as Pete talked.
“Why is that selfish?” he asked, already falling into the easy conversation. “To honor the dead and keep them alive in your heart seems a great achievement.” Patrick thought of two small graves behind the mission and looked away for a moment. He wished he’d been able to do more to honor them, more than run away from his grief to track down a man who had never loved him.
“Thank you,” Pete said quietly and when Patrick turned back Pete was looking at him thoughtfully, his eyes curious and searching. “So, Patrick, Gabriel tells me you have the skills I need to help grow into the Indian market.” His eyes wandered over the soft weave of Patrick’s blue shirt. “You certainly dress the part, I must say.”
“Is this acceptable?” Patrick asked anxiously. “I don’t mean any disrespect. Starched shirts are too harsh for me, after years of my own clothes. I will of course wear whatever you think-” he babbled, and Pete cut him off with a laugh and a wave of his hand.
“You may wear whatever you like, as long as your work is up to par,” he smiled. “Starched shirts are my lot, but this suits you better-and I daresay will be give you an air of authenticity when dealing with my trade partners. Besides,” he added, glancing again at Patrick and then off to the distance, “that blue is rather handsome on you, I must say.”
Patrick blushed to his toes. “Th -thank you,” he stammered and Pete took his elbow, leading them to down to the garden.
**
(p. 72)
“I sound like I’m sneezing.”
Patrick snorted and wrote the word out again, first in Hindi and then an English approximation. “Only because you’re terrible at this,” he said with a grin and handed the pen to Pete. “You try.”
Pete sighed and carefully recreated Patrick’s characters, sounding the words out under his breath. Patrick tried to hide a laugh behind his hand, but Pete looked up sharply. “What?” he asked shortly, but his eyes were bright and Patrick didn’t hesitate answering.
“You just asked if I was selling my grandmother,” he said, grinning and Pete groaned. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be run out of town if you slip up on that one,” he added and Pete leaned back into the cushions and closed his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Patrick took a moment to glance at Pete’s arms, tanned and strong where his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
The sun was warm through the glass of Pete’s sunroom, and Patrick wondered how much later the lesson would last. He knew Pete had a ball to attend that evening; Gabriel would be there too, and Patrick’s stomach twisted at the thought. He forced himself to believe it was the same disgust he always feels when thinking of his father, but as Pete stretched and leaned back over, glancing up at Patrick through dark lashes, he knew it was a lie.
“Why do I have to learn this, anyway?” Pete bit his lip and picked up the ledger to read Patrick’s careful handwriting again. “I have you, what more do I need?”
Patrick’s stomach fluttered and he could feel his cheeks flushing. “I won’t always be around, Pete,” he said, eyes on his lap. Pete reached over and squeezed one knee.
“You will if I have any say in it, and luckily I do,” he grinned and Patrick just shook his head.
“Fine, but you should still know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’. It’s basic manners and knowing whom you can speak to and whom you can’t is vital in Indian society, Pete. It’s not like you can just-“
“Fine, you win!” Pete laughed and threw his hands up. “I will be a good little pupil, and you will come by every day until I am presentable in Indian society.” He leaned into Patrick’s shoulder companionably. “It may take years, though, you know.”
“Decades,” Patrick corrected and grinned down when Pete rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder with a sigh.
“Just so long as you don’t get sick of me,” Pete said quietly and Patrick had to force himself to not press his cheek to the top of Pete’s head. “Your shirt is so soft,” Pete added, rubbing his cheek against the blue cotton of Patrick’s everyday shirt.
“You could stop using starch,” Patrick said wryly. They’d had this conversation a dozen times in the weeks the Patrick had been working with Pete. For Pete, he corrected himself harshly. Pete was still his employer, as unconventional as the arrangement might be.
Pete shook his head. “Marjorie would fall over dead if I even suggested it,” he reminded Patrick and they both laughed. Marjorie ran Pete’s house like a general and Pete admitted to Patrick at their third meeting that he was terrified of her. “I tried to get her to push back dinner by an hour last week, and she acted like I’d asked her to kill the Queen.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few long moments. The sun was low enough that Patrick knew it had to be nearly time for tea, and his stomach rumbled at the thought. Pete chuckled.
“We can set the clocks by your stomach, Patrick,” he said fondly and reached out to ring for Sonia. Patrick stopped him with a hand to his forearm.
“No, I should. It’s late, and I should be giving you time to get ready for your engagement,” he said, stammering a bit at the end. Pete’s skin was warm and smooth under his fingers.
“All right,” Pete answered quietly after a long moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Patrick’s pale fingers clashed against his olive arm. He glanced up and Patrick held his breath. He’d forgotten Pete’s face was so close. “Dhanyavaad,” he said softly. Patrick nodded, his mouth dry, and stood up quickly enough to jar the small writing desk.
“You’re welcome,” he rasped, throat hot and tight, and slipped out into the dark hall before Pete could reply.
**
(p. 90)
“It wasn’t breathtaking, it was totally factually inaccurate,” Patrick exclaimed and Pete grinned at him.
“It’s a musical number, it’s not supposed to be factually correct, Patrick,” he answered breezily. The night air was warm but not damp as they walked companionably away from the theater district. “Come this way,” Pete tugged at his elbow and led them toward a small park. “We’ll pick up a hansom cab on the other side, away from the crowds.”
The show had been something of a revelation to Patrick. They’d had nothing like a musical revue in India, and even if they had, the Reverend Stumph wouldn’t have allowed Patrick to go. It was a big, gaudy production, and the singing had been quite fine, but there were a few numbers that made Patrick wince. “I still wonder that they think Indians are so barbaric,” he said, a little hurt. “No one I knew would ever be so ignorant as to not understand the seasons like that. I mean, they have crops of their own that they have to-“
“Patrick, it wasn’t meant as an insult to you! And yes, it was probably insensitive, but no more than the number about Parliament buffoons was insensitive to, well, me.” He shook his head and Patrick huffed loudly. “All right, then. Tell me about the people you knew. Open my clearly muddled eyes,” he took Patrick’s elbow like he did every day in the garden and Patrick glanced around, worried that someone would see. But no one seemed to give them any notice.
“Well,” he started, unsure of where to begin. “Sarit was the head of Father’s staff. He was older than anyone I’d ever met as a child, and smarter than most of them. His grandfather had owned a good deal of land, and Sarit was well educated. His youngest son, Sanji, was about ten years older than me, and he used to steal me away from my studies to go for walks to the river.”
“You had a river nearby?” Pete asked, curious, and it was Patrick’s turn to laugh.
“In some seasons, there is always a river nearby. In the summer months, the rains came with such a fury as you’ve never dreamed. You learned to build on hills, or at least to not keep the valuables on the ground floor where they could be swamped. But when you’re eleven, there is nothing more fun than running around in a monsoon, catching water on your tongue.”
Pete was quiet for a moment and Patrick glanced over to see him looking at his face, bemused.
“What?” Patrick asked.
“I just. Never took you for the running in the rain type, I suppose,” Pete said with a small smile. “It’s a nice picture.”
“Well, there is the fact that most other months I barely went outside for fear of poaching in the sun like a lobster,” he grinned and Pete snorted in laughter.
“You are shockingly pale, Master Stumph,” he conceded. “What else did you love about home, besides your monsoons?”
Patrick thought for a long moment. “Ripe fruit off the trees,” he finally answered quietly. “The sounds of the market, women in saris, wedding banquets that went on for days, boys leading elephants through the streets--”
“Elephants!” Pete exclaimed delightedly. “Did you have an elephant?”
“No,” Patrick shook his head, grinning. “I wanted one, though! They are marvelously smart animals, and very clean, but Mother said rightly that we couldn’t afford to feed one.”
“But you’ve ridden one, though?” Pete pressed, his eyes bright in the darkness. Patrick’s heart skidded for a second when he realized how close they were, Pete’s shoulder bumping his every few steps. Pete never asked questions of politics or race when Patrick talked of home, only of favorite foods and animals and what songs he sung as a child, and if he’d ever learned to swim. Maybe it was naïveté, but to Patrick it was refreshing and warm, comforting. Talking to Pete about home was almost as good as being there.
“I’ve ridden a few elephants in my day, Lord Wentz,” he finally nodded and Pete threw his head back with a whoop.
“Someday you will take me there, and I will buy you an elephant, and we shall ride it every day. How does that sound?” Pete slipped his arm around Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed him closer.
“Perfect,” Patrick answered, his voice nearly a whisper.
**
(p. 101)
“I’ve no idea how you talked me into this,” Patrick groused quietly and Pete grinned at him.
“I’m a charming bastard, what can I say?” he replied and motioned for the server to bring the wine around again.
“Yes, and you told me I had to, and you’re my employer, so,” Patrick huffed. Pete’s latest dinner party could not have been more uncomfortable, but Patrick tried to be fair. There was no way Pete could know the horror of being forced to sit at the same table as Gabriel Saporta (and why isn’t Stumph good enough for you, he thought angrily). After all, he was only in Pete’s house on Gabe’s recommendation.
Pete had seated them on either side of him, commanding the head of the table like the lord he was. Gabe took a sip of his wine and watched Patrick fidget over the top of his glass. Patrick’s outfit was formal for the occasion; Pete had lent him a fine blue jacket and Patrick was doing his best not to spill anything on it. Gabe had noted the jacket as soon as he arrived, eyes narrowing.
“Isn’t that smashing?” Pete had laughed and clapped a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Almost no one is bizarrely small enough to share my clothes. But Patrick and I can play dress up whenever I want!” Patrick flushed at the joke and Gabe’s countenance had darkened.
His mood hadn’t improved through dinner, as Pete talked enthusiastically to his other guests about the progress he and Patrick were making in talks with Indian merchants, throwing in a few phrases in Hindi and laughing when Patrick corrected him. By the time port was served in the sitting room, Gabe was scowling. Patrick avoided him as best he could, but couldn’t escape when Gabe found him getting some air on the small portico.
“Enjoying yourself?” Gabe asked, his voice icy.
“Not particularly, no,” Patrick replied in kind. Gabe snorted.
“You should be. Young Lord Wentz seems to have taken quite a liking to you.”
Patrick flushed at his tone. “You were the one who insisted I come here, insisted I do everything in my power to ensure the success of Pete’s business venture.”
“Lord Wentz,” Gabe said with a sneer, “has atrocious taste in friends. After all, look at me.” Patrick crossed his arms and looked stony faced over the gardens where he and Pete spent nearly every fine afternoon, walking and talking, sometimes about business plans, sometimes about life, art, religion. It was a friendship, possibly the best Patrick had ever had. “It won’t last, you know,” Gabe added with a small smile.
“I don’t-“
“This little obsession he has with you. He’ll get over it, get bored and move on, and then where will you be? It’s always best not to let one’s feelings--”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Patrick interrupted hotly, his knuckles white on the railing of the portico.
Gabe laughed. “Of course you don’t. Just a warning, son-the way he looks at you is based in fascination, not affection. Once he sees past the odd clothing and the pale eyes…” Gabe paused for a second, glancing away and then back again as if stirred by an old memory.
“You can tell me what I want to know now,” Patrick said quietly.
“And what?” Gabe smiled again, cold and calculated. “You’ll walk away from all this? From him? Could you do that?”
Patrick’s stomach tightened at the thought. It had always been the bargain, that Patrick would stay just long enough to get the information about his mother, enough to continue his search. But Patrick’s found his thoughts were taken up more with Pete every day; he woke smiling knowing that they were to spend a day together, he cherished every time he could make Pete laugh, looked forward to every evening walk, not just for the conversation, but for the way Pete hooked his arm through Patrick’s and stood so close.
Gabe sighed. “I thought as much.” He took a sip of wine. “But as I said, do not worry. He will tire of this soon.” His eyes ran over Patrick’s jacket, down to his usual slippers. Inside, Pete was laughing over the clinking of expensive glassware. “This will never be your world, Patrick,” he said almost sadly and Patrick clenched his jaw in embarrassment.
“Then just tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you to it,” Patrick lied. Gabe shook his head.
“Finish the job,” he said as he tossed back the end of his drink and turned to go back inside. “Wherever it leads you, finish it, and then you shall have your answers.”
Patrick was still standing there ten minutes later when Pete cam to find him, winding his arm in Patrick’s and pulling him inside. “Don’t disappear on me like that, man!” he said low in Patrick’s ear, and Patrick felt suddenly cold.
**
(p. 114)
The wind on the docks whipped past Patrick fiercely, and he pulled his wool coat tight around himself. The captain was busy yelling orders and Patrick found himself with little to do but watch his luggage and finger the now-worn letter in his pocket.
After some consideration, your talents would be much better suited elsewhere in the business, he could recall the words from memory now, smudged by his greasy fingers. The frigate Mary Claire will be departing for India tomorrow with our first shipment of goods, and I’d like for you to accompany it. You know more of the terrain and the language than I ever could, and there is no one more up to the task.
But Patrick felt anything but up to the task. The idea of another long sea voyage was bleak enough, but the fact that Pete had not delivered the news himself, that he’d left the task to a messenger boy stung more than he could fathom. He thought back to moment three days ago when a stumble in Pete’s hallway had become something so much more, of the look on Pete’s face when Patrick pulled himself away from Pete’s careful hands before he could do something stupid, before he could lean in and kiss Pete’s full mouth, and he knew he’d given himself away. Pete was too good a friend and too generous an employer to fire him outright for such an abomination, but somehow, shivering on the docks and waiting to return to the only real home he’d ever known, Patrick thought his punishment far outweighed his crime.
The crew was almost finished loading the cargo and Patrick turned his attention back to his few belongings. He could carry most, but needed to negotiate a few members of the crew to help with his small trunk. He barely noticed the commotion behind him-shouting and the sound of a carriage being driven at great speed-before the noise was almost on top of him.
“Patrick!” He turned and blinked up as Pete swung hurriedly out of his carriage and ran toward him. “Patrick, what are you thinking, going off like this, no word,” Pete started in, yelling, and it took Patrick a full moment to catch up. Pete’s hat was gone and under his coat he wore only basic trousers and what appeared to be a nightshirt. His tone changed abruptly. “Whatever it was I did, I am so, so sorry, don’t you see that,” he said, eyes wide, and took Patrick’s hand in his. “Please don’t leave. Please.”
“Pete,” Patrick replied, bewildered. The letter in his pocket had been so clear…
“I’ll pay more. Double. Whatever it takes.” Pete said firmly, holding tighter to Patrick’s hand. “You can’t just quit, Stump. It’s completely uncivil.”
“I didn’t quit!” Patrick pulled his hand back and thrust it into his pocket, pulling out the letter and waving it in front of Pete’s face. “This was your idea, don’t go blaming me if,” but Pete was reading the letter, closely, eyes narrowing.
“Who gave you this?” He asked viciously, and Patrick opened his mouth, then clicked it shut.
“Y-you did, or, rather, the boy you employ from the messenger service. It had your seal so I just assumed…”
“Get in the carriage, Patrick.”
“I don’t,” Patrick started, but Pete had already motioned for his footman to gather Patrick’s things. The crew on the dock bustled around them without so much as a glance.
“I don’t know who sent this to you, but it wasn’t me. I couldn’t.” Pete paused before pressing his warm hand to Patrick’s cheek. “I would never send you away. Do you understand that?”
Pete sounded almost desperate and Patrick’s heart ached as hope coursed through him. Maybe he hadn’t done irreparable damage. He nodded and Pete tucked his hand behind Patrick’s neck and tugged until they were walking side-by-side to the carriage. They didn’t speak again until they were both inside, sitting next to each other as the city flashed by through the curtains.
“Patrick,” Pete started, and his voice was a bit hoarse.
“How did you find me?” Patrick interrupted quietly. “If you didn’t send the letter, then.”
“I sent young Michael to your place with new ledgers before breakfast, and he returned with the news that you’d left, and all your belongings with you. I tore out of the house so fast I’m barely dressed. Thank God you’d told your landlady of your plans, or there might have been no way to track you down.”
Patrick swallowed. Pete had been looking for him all day, running around London in his nightclothes.
“Who would do this?” Pete asked tightly. He was looking out the window, but he cast his hand out to hold Patrick’s firmly. “What villain would want to send you away from me?”
Patrick didn’t have to think about it, not really. When Pete put it like that, the answer was clear. His silence must have spoken loudly because Pete turned his gaze to Patrick, squeezing his hand. “You know, don’t you. Who on earth could you have upset so much they’d want you out of all of England? Surely your shirts aren’t that scandalous.”
“My father,” Patrick said quietly, and he knew it was the last time he would ever utter that phrase. Pete looked at him in confusion.
“But it thought your parents,”
“My real father,” Patrick said, and let the story unfold in small pieces, Pete’s hand warm in his as they rode quickly back to the manor.
**
(p. 120)
“I still say I could have argued for my room,” Patrick sighed as Pete watched the staff carry Patrick’s things upstairs.
Pete snorted. “A room left empty in London for that price? She had it rented before you had found a cab at the curb.”
Patrick just shook his head fondly. He was full from a late lunch, laid out by Sonia and the house staff with great care. They all seemed quiet relieved to see Patrick back. Patrick wondered what sort of terror Pete had really been that morning when he discovered Patrick’s disappearance. He glanced at Pete and found him looking back, dark eyes shining. Patrick’s returning smile slipped into a yawn and Pete laughed.
“I know how you feel. Come on,” he held out a hand and Patrick took it without thinking, the gesture seeming natural and easy. Pete smiled wider and started them up the stairs.
In all his months in the Wentz estate, Patrick had never seen the upstairs. Pete led him past a few airy rooms decorated in soft blues and greens, a small study with a window overlooking the gardens. “That way to the guest wing,” Pete pointed down a short hallway but didn’t loosen his grip on Patrick’s hand. An upstairs maid Patrick had only seen glimpses of passed them with a shy smile and Pete greeted her by name. “Are Master Stumph’s effects in order?” he asked lightly and she nodded, blushing a little.
Patrick was tired but he didn’t imagine the way Pete’s thumb brushed gently over his, turning a bend and tugging Patrick into an immense corner room. The windows ran almost to the floor, and two large, worn armchairs nestled near the marble fireplace. The bed was dominated by four large oak posts, the bedcovers ornate in red and gold. Patrick’s mouth went dry when he caught sight of his battered trunk tucked into a corner of Pete’s dressing room, open and empty.
“Pete,” he said, breathless and suddenly wide-awake. Pete’s hand was still in his, warm and sure and when Pete turned to look at him, he stood too close.
“I hope I’m not… No, I know I’m being presumptuous, but I don’t care.” Patrick watched Pete form the words quickly, tripping off each other as he took an impossible step closer. “When I heard you’d gone, I thought that was it, that I’d lost my only chance to tell you,” Pete paused, taking a deep a breath. “It can’t come as a shock to you, how I feel.”
“How,” Patrick asked, and shivered when Pete’s other hand came up to caress his cheek. “How do you feel, Pete?”
“I can’t do any of this, not without you,” Pete smiled. “And not the business, I was doing just fine in that before I met you, you know. But everything else, every day. I was being courted by one of the most eligible men in London society,” he noted, eyes flashing darkly for a moment, “but what I looked forward to most every day was seeing you, the thrill of making you blush, touching your hand.”
Patrick’s hand tightened reflexively in Pete’s and Pete smiled. “I. Me too,” Patrick said quietly, leaning into the hand at his cheek. “But I couldn’t… I don’t belong here, Pete.”
“Of course you do,” Pete smiled wider, leaning close enough that his nose brushed Patrick’s and made him gasp. “You belong with me, wherever that is.”
Patrick wanted to protest, to remind Pete that he was not only awkward and odd, not fit for Pete’s parties and banquets, but he was a bastard on top of it all. But Pete tipped his head a fraction and his lips were on Patrick’s, soft and wet and insistent. Patrick sighed and let Pete lead, opening his mouth when Pete pressed the tip of his tongue against the seam of his lips. Patrick’s heart was beating so fast he could feel his pulse racing against Pete’s palm. When Pete finally pulled away, Patrick was gasping, dizzy.
“Stay. With me,” Pete said.
“Yes,” Patrick nodded and Pete laughed delightedly and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s neck, kissing his cheek. It might be a stupid decision, one they would both regret come morning, but Patrick let Pete lead him slowly to the bed, stripping back the covers and pressing Patrick into the mattress. Pete’s shirt came off easily and Patrick tried not to blush as Pete’s mouth followed his fingers on Patrick’s buttons, kissing the exposed skin from his neck to his stomach, palming over the bulge in Patrick’s trousers. “Please,” Patrick arched. Pete’s moan vibrated through Patrick’s ribcage and heat pooled in his stomach. “Pete, I want,” he started, but Pete was already there, his body hovering over Patrick’s, kissing him as he eased his way past Patrick’s clothes. Patrick cried out as a hand wrapped around him snugly, so different than Patrick’s own, soft and firm and sure.
“My God, Patrick,” Pete whispered and put his lips to Patrick’s pale throat. Patrick’s fingers dugs deep into the flesh of Pete’s shoulder as he began stroking him slowly. “So beautiful.”
“Pete,” Patrick gasped as he sped up. It was nothing like when Patrick allowed himself the fantasies of Pete touching him like this. Pete’s kisses were tender but his hands were not, his thigh sliding over Patrick’s and trapping him against the mattress as he panted and keened. The tumble of words in Patrick’s head, things like I will never leave you and every day I wanted you more coalesced into an easy “Love you” as Pete’s touch pulled him over the edge, his whole body trembling.
“Love you, too,” Pete whispered low in his ear like a secret, barely audible over the blood rushing in Patrick’s veins. When Patrick blinked his eyes open, Pete was watching him closely, eyes soft and smiling.
“Pete?” he said hoarsely and Pete tipped his head to the side.
“Yes, Patrick?”
“Why are you still wearing trousers?” he asked with mock-seriousness and Pete laughed.
**
(p. 130)
Patrick paused on the stairs when he heard the voices coming from the parlor. It was mid-morning already, as Patrick had overslept and then had to hunt for his things in Pete’s large dressing room. His skin was still tingling from the memory of Pete’s hands on his skin, his voice low and sweet in his ear.
“No, he’s gone! His landlady said he was leaving on some sort of long voyage,” Pete’s voice cut through Patrick’s reverie. “You’ve no idea what happened?”
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Gabe’s voice was calm and placating and Patrick’s hands tightened on the railing. “He was an old family friend, but we weren’t that close. I’m not surprised he didn’t tell me he was planning to run off, especially since he had the job on my recommendation.”
“It’s only,” Pete paused. “He was so very good for the company.”
Patrick slipped the rest of the way down the stairs and hid in the small hall off the main room, listening intently. He wasn’t sure what Pete was doing; there must be a reason Pete was pretended last night never happened.
“Peter,” Gabe sighed. “You’d grown far too attached to the boy, look at you.” Gabe was nearly smiling, Patrick could tell from his voice. “I am sorry if it upsets you, but his ship is probably long gone now, there’s nothing to be done.”
There was a stretch of silence and Patrick held his breath. “I suppose you’re right,” Pete replied. Patrick snuck a quick look around the doorframe. Gabe was sitting on the couch with his arm around Pete’s shoulder companionably. Patrick dug his nails into his palms, determined to let Pete finish whatever act this was. “You said you had good news, though?” Pete asked, tipping his head to Gabe’s shoulder.
“Yes, in fact,” Gabe leaned forward to place his teacup back on the tray and turned to face Pete full on. Patrick ducked back quickly. “It appears I am coming into a bit of money.”
“Really,” Pete said, “and where did this lucky windfall come from?”
“An old friend who had a bit of affection for me even years later, it seems,” Gabe replied with a hint of dry humor.
“You don’t seem all that broken up about it,” Pete noted, and Gabe laughed.
“Actually, she’s been gone a good while. There were just some… complications I had to clear up before the money could be released.” Patrick bit the inside of his cheek. It was too much of a coincidence, he thought, that Gabe would try to get rid of him the same day he came into this money.
“Well, its been a whirlwind few days for both of us,” Pete noted, and from the edge in his voice he could tell Pete fell the same way. “Would I know her?”
“I doubt it. Her father owned a large mercantile firm. Prettiest girl in three counties, pale skin, clear eyes. A little too trusting, but that was her charm,” Patrick’s heart was beating so hard, he was sure it would give him away. “Her name was Sarah. Lady Sarah Ashbrook.”
“Thank you,” Pete said sincerely, and called out “Patrick, love? What do you say we pay a call on the Ashbrooks?”
Patrick stepped into the hall, hands balled as his sides. Gabe’s eyes were wide as saucers, his face pale under his dark hair. When Patrick spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
**
(p. 150)
“I did say I hate boats, right?” Patrick muttered as Pete steadied him with one tan arm.
“This is hardly a boat,” he chided, tugging Patrick into the deck chair beside him. The small vessel was anchored off a sandy coast, and Pete had shed his jacket and shirt and leaned back to get as much sun as possible. Patrick was covered to his wrists, with a large straw hat on his head. “We’re on holiday, Patrick. Can you relax?”
Patrick sighed and leaned back in his chair, ankles crossed in front of him. “That is quite easy for you to say, Lord Wentz. We have to impress an entire board of investors tomorrow!”
“Indeed, Lord Ashbrook,” Pete mocked him fondly, “and I’m sure if I just shut up and let you do all the talking, we’ll be fine.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Patrick grumbled. A moment later he had a lapful of Pete, the sheen of sweat along his shoulders close enough for Patrick to taste, his tongue flicking against the hollow of Pete’s collarbone.
Pete murmured in appreciation and shifted a bit in Patrick’s lap until he could rest his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “You’ll do an amazing job, Patrick,” he said quietly, twining their fingers together. “And then, we can pack our bags, and you can show me your elephants.”
Patrick chuffed a laugh against Pete’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you agreed to a trip to India,” he noted for the hundredth time.
“You share my home,” he said with a shrug and Patrick kissed his shoulder again. “I just want to see yours.”
“You really are too sentimental for words,” Patrick said, and swallowed Pete’s indignant reply with a kiss.
END
My original prompt:
When the Seminary for Young Ladies where Lady Alice had sent 8-year old Priscilla closes, she must take back the daughter she never loved. Fearful that Sean O'Rourke, a handsome admirer, will spurn the youthful Lady Alice when he learns that she has a now grown-up daughter of 22, Alice forces Priscilla to take on the guise of her lowly secretary.
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R-ish?
Disclaimer: Hey, the joy of AUs! Clearly, this is totally false!
A/N: Thanks to the girls of Oxford House for listening to me babble about this for MONTHS. Special thanks to marigolde and hetrez for the betas (bonus to marigolde for the hilarious romance title). Sorry there was not more porn, but I refuse to use the word "manhood"!
**Also, instead of writing the entire insane story in my head, I’ve done what we ALL do with romance novels-I’ve skipped ahead to the good parts.**
(page 1)
Prologue
Devonshire, 1872
Margaret opened the door and gasped. Gabriel stood on the stoop of the parish house, one hand in his pocket, the other still raised as if to knock. She hadn’t seen him in so long, she barely recognized him-his hair was long, curls pulled back at the nape of his neck, and his clothes were expensive, almost garish.
“What?” She started, still surprised.
“Is he home?” Gabriel asked with more of a sneer than a smile, and she realized the years may have been outwardly kind, but possibly less so in other ways.
“No, you know he’s not. It’s Thursday and he has his Parish rounds.”
Gabriel just nodded. “Good. You’re the one I wanted to see anyway. I have a… problem.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “I can’t give you any money.” She was startled by his harsh laugh.
“Do you think I need money? Look at me. I have more money, more everything than I ever had here.” He sounded bitter, and she did not think unkindly of him for it. They had tried to tame the wild part of him and had never succeeded. He looked to have everything he’d ever really wanted now, and she hoped it was enough.
“Then what, Gabe, I don’t-“ but she was distracted by a noise to their right, a thud and a small voice saying “uh oh”. When she looked, there was a small blond boy standing up in her begonia bed, eyes wide.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Gabe rolled his eyes and she sucked in a breath at the curse. He glanced at her once, almost pitying, and reached down to grab the boy’s arm and pull him forward.
The boy blinked up at her with wide hazel eyes. “Hello,” she said kindly and he managed half a small smile. “Who might you be?”
“He’s mine,” Gabriel said harshly and her head shot up in amazement.
“Oh, my. I didn’t. We never got word that you had married.” It was more than she’d hoped for, but perhaps…
“I didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly, his eyes almost gleaming like he was happy to shock her, to make her go pale. “His mother was a girl I knew. She died this winter and I didn’t even know he existed until last month when her lawyers tracked me down. I can’t keep him. It’s… there isn’t a place for him in London.”
“Gabriel, you can’t honestly ask us to-“
“So it’s here or the orphanage.” Gabe finished shortly and stared her down. “Your choice, Mother.”
Her stomach twisted in horror at the idea that Gabe would leave this boy, her grandson, in the hands of callous strangers, but she knew better than to tell him so. Gabe had been troubled since he was old enough to talk, to say ‘more’ and ‘want’ and ‘now’. “Taken up with the Devil,” her husband had finally said six years before when he’d come home drunk again after stealing from the church coffers, and Gabe had no longer been welcome in their house. She felt a soft tug on her skirts and looked down to see the boy blinking up at her. “What’s your name, little one?” She asked through the tightness in her throat.
“Patrick,” he said in a clear, sweet voice, and when she looked up again, Gabriel was already walking down the path to his carriage.
“I won’t bother you again,” he said over his shoulder and her heart ached sadly as he rode off down the bumpy country road.
She glanced down and the boy was still holding onto her skirt, watching the carriage with wide, worried eyes. She swallowed and reached down to smooth back his fine hair. “Hello, Patrick. I’m your grandmother, and you’re going to stay here for a while.” She smiled kindly and the boy seemed to relax a fraction. “Now, I think we have some biscuits and jam in the kitchen. Would you like some?” He nodded enthusiastically and she reached down and gathered him up in her arms, turning back into the house. “Good. This is your new home, Patrick. Everything is all right now.”
***
(page 25)
“Gabriel, what a pleasure to see you!” the Duke said.
Patrick forgot entirely about the strange looks his clothes were drawing in the parlor, the bright colored silks making his skin look pale as usual. Standing in the foyer, striking in a black suit with a red scarf thrown rakishly around his neck was his father, so like and yet so unlike the photos he’d uncovered in his mother’s things, packing them up for their long journey home. He put a hand unconsciously to his side pocket where he carried a small portrait of Gabriel and his mother… or grandmother, he reminded himself for the hundredth time in as many days.
Gabe was walking toward them with a practiced air of nonchalance. 'Don’t trust him farther than you can throw him,' his solicitor had warned him, and Patrick could suddenly see why. Gabriel Saporta (ne Stumph) moved with an air of confidence, looking aloof and above all those in the room he towered over-which were most. Patrick felt suddenly self-conscious about his short stature, and wondered if his mother was a small woman, or if he were merely an aberration there as well.
“Gabriel, do sit down and join us,” the Duke was saying and Patrick forced his hands still in his lap. “I was just speaking to young Master Stumph here about his wondrous travels. Patrick, this is Gabriel Saporta, and he can certainly give you a run for your money in terms of exciting lives!”
Patrick saw Gabe look at him sharply, eyes narrowing, and Patrick opened his mouth then shut it quickly, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. All his practiced speeches were useless under that imperious gaze. “Yes, h-hello sir,” Patrick stammered and Gabe sat forward in his seat, elbows on his knees.
“Patrick Stumph, with an ‘h’?” he asked. His tone was light but Patrick could see him gripping tightly at the felt brim of his hat.
Patrick’s mouth went dry. “Yes, I’m-“
The Duke interrupted with his usual disregard, and for once Patrick was grateful. “Patrick’s family were missionaries in India! Isn’t that splendid?” He gestured to Patrick’s purple and red woven shirt. “From the age of, what was it again? Seven?” Patrick nodded, and he continued, “seven years old and he was living in huts among the natives! He even took to several of their languages, isn’t that right? Helped his father minister to those in need in their native tongue.”
To be fair, Patrick had done more to help people learn basic English, encouraging them to be questioning and independent of their colonial overseers, but he wisely refrained from saying as much to the Duke. Gabe was still looking at him, eyes bright.
“And where are your saintly parents now, Mr. Stumph?” he asked with a slight trace of animosity and Patrick’s stomach tightened with a hot stab of anger.
“They are dead, sir. Malaria,” he said flatly and watched with some small satisfaction as Gabriel’s face twisted with some barely contained emotion.
“I am. Sorry to hear,” he said, voice taut, and Patrick could feel his face flushing, the pain of the last few months still fresh in his heart. The Duke was looking at them questioningly and Patrick was glad when he was distracted by a wave from across the room.
“Oh, bother, it’s the Earl of Whethersfield. He’s trying to get me to pass through his legislation on salt importation tariffs,” he said quietly, waving back. “I’d best go tend to him now before he corners Barker and the idiot makes promises we can’t keep. If you will excuse me?” The Duke sailed across the room. When Patrick looked back, Gabe was still staring at him.
“Patrick Stumph,” he said, as if testing the words against his tongue. “That’s a rather unusual name in Britain.”
“You would know… Father,” Patrick said and Gabe’s posture changed instantly, back rigid and fingers curled around the wooden arm of his chair.
“So, you’ve been trying to find me, then?” he asked, “Because I don’t believe in happy accidents.”
“Nor I,” Patrick replied icily, finding his tongue finally. “Though I am not sure this qualifies as happy.”
“Was there a reason you decided to tromp on my privacy, or just morbid curiosity?” Gabe bit out, and Patrick took some satisfaction in the fact that Gabe’s eyes never flickered from him, from his Indian slippers to his plain black trousers to his striking shirt, and finally to his face. “You have her eyes,” he murmured almost to himself and Patrick felt his palms itch with the now-familiar need to know more. No matter how awful his father happened to be, he was the only one with the answers Patrick wanted. “Is there money, then? My inheritance, such as it is?” Gabe asked suddenly.
Patrick had never wanted to strike a man with as much ferocity as he did at that moment. “No, sir, there is no money. Everything Mother and Father had was bound up in the mission, and most of the rest was used to get me back to London. Not that you would have seen a penny had they been richer than the Raja,” he added hotly and Gabe glanced around as his voice grew louder.
“Careful, son. A quick temper is the Devil’s tongue,” he quoted and Patrick blanched. “If there is nothing else I can do for you, I suggest you head back to wherever you came from and let me get back to forgetting all about you.”
Patrick stood quickly, fists balling at his sides. “Gladly,” he hissed and stomped out the door.
**
(page 40)
“Are you going to tell me why you lured me here, under false pretenses I might add?” Patrick crossed his arms. His father smiled up at him beatifically.
“You were looking for me for a reason, and by the way you called them Father and Mother, and the fact that I was dead to Martin Stumph long before you came along, I am going to bet that they never told you about me at all. I made a guess. You can tell me if I’m wrong.”
Patrick stood silent and still.
“Right,” Gabe nodded. “So, you want answers, and I can give them to you. But in return you will do something for me, right? A fair trade.”
Patrick’s jaw clenched. “You don’t seem to be well known for your fairness.”
“Possibly, but that’s the offer,” Gabe leaned back and stretched a little in his chair. His long legs hooked at the ankles in front of him and he tucked his hands behind his head, as though this were a perfectly reasonable conversation. Damn him, Patrick thought.
“What would I have to do?”
“You are fluent in Hindi and Farsi, then?”
Patrick furrowed his brow in confusion. This wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. “Yes, and some Arabic,” he answered.
“Just spoken, or written as well?”
“Written as well,” Patrick said and he shook his head. “What does this have to do with?”
“Do you like your job, Patrick? You’re a bookkeeper, right?” Patrick just stared at him. “I have a job offer for you. A dear friend of mine is trying to break his shipping business into the Indian market, and he is in dire need of someone who can read both numbers and languages.”
“I don’t want to be a party to any of your dirty schemes,” Patrick spit and Gabe just laughed, a sharp pleased sound.
“You give me too much credit, Patrick! My schemes are much too base to involve shipping and industry. I deal in hearts and desire, my boy. The job is perfectly legitimate, and the pay will be more than adequate.”
“But why me?” he asked leaning his hands on the back of the brown leather chair he was standing by. “You didn’t seem at all eager to see me last we met.”
“True, but you have skills my friend wants, and my friend… well. I hope to make him much more than that soon, and you will be a nice feather in my cap if I can deliver you in a neat little package. He’ll be very happy with me indeed.”
“What’s the catch?” Patrick asked, wary.
“He’s never to know that we’re… related. You are an old family friend, nothing more.” Gabe looked at him disdainfully and Patrick felt something inside him twist with shame, the familiar flash of anger following quickly behind.
“Related is too strong a word for what we are,” Patrick said harshly and Gabe stood and smiled.
“Good, then I trust this will be easy for you. I will send word in a few days about how we are to proceed.” Gabe motioned to the door with one manicured hand and Patrick practically tripped over his feet in his hurry to leave.
**
(p. 50)
He should have worn the starched shirt he’d purchased at the tailors, he thought again, noting how the butler stared with some concern at his traditional woven shirt. He wore it under a brown jacket, the one he wore to services for years. The ends of the sleeves were frayed in places and he picked at an errant string as he was shown to a large parlor.
“Please wait here. Lord Wentz will see you as soon as he is able.”
Patrick just nodded. His soft shoes made no noise on the large Oriental rug. He stood by the fireplace, eyes going to the ornate gilded frames on the walls but barely registering their contents. Gabe had told him to come to this house for an interview, “a mere formality, I assure you,” he’d said, but when Patrick had rounded the corner to this quiet, well-tended street, he was suddenly a bit overwhelmed. The houses were grander than any he’d seen yet in England and he felt more and more out of place as he walked the nice hedgerows to the largest house on the end. It belonged to Lord Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, young heir to a shipping fortune and ‘dear friend’ of his father’s.
As the minutes ticked by in the parlor, Patrick wondered if this was worth it. He wanted to know the name of his mother, what happened to her and Gabriel those twenty years ago, but he didn’t belong here. Perhaps, if he left quietly now, no one would think of him, and he could pay his solicitor to look harder for his answers. But he didn’t have the money for that. He barely had money for his rented flat. He sighed heavily and put his hand on the marble mantle.
“Now, it can’t be as bad as all that,” a voice said from behind and Patrick turned quickly, face flushing.
“I’m sorry, I was only,” he stopped short. The man in the doorway was dressed smartly, his jacket accented by a blue flower in his lapel. His hair was thick and dark, grown long until it almost brushed his bright, expressive eyes. But the most striking feature was his smile, wide and toothy and genuine. Patrick literally felt his breath catch as the man laughed as his obvious discomfiture.
“Nothing in my house is untouchable,” he assured, striding into the room quickly. “Touch is one of the most important senses, I think, and to own something one is not allowed to touch is a waste and a bother.” He paused and looked at the small table next to the blue flowered sofa. “Have you not been offered some tea?”
Patrick opened his mouth but it was bone dry. He closed it again quickly and merely shook his head. The man-Lord Wentz, he had to assume-sighed and rang a small bell.
A servant girl in a gray cap appeared at the other end of the room. “Sonia, dear, can you please bring us a small refreshment?” The girl nodded and curtsied and was off in a flash. “Now,” he said, turning his blinding smile back to Patrick. “You are Mr. Patrick Stumph, and I am Lord Peter Wentz, and we don’t stand on much ceremony here so I shall call you Patrick and you shall call me Pete and damn the rest of the world if they don’t like it.”
“I. All right,” Patrick answered, his voice barely coming back. Lord Wentz-Pete, he corrected himself-- gestured to a small seat. “Sit, please.”
Patrick paused, still a little unsure of how to react to this beautiful man. His eyes flitted to the blue flower.
“Unless,” Pete said thoughtfully, “you would be amenable to a walk in the gardens? They are gorgeous this time of year and I will have Sonia bring the tray to the back.”
Pete rang the bell as though Patrick had already agreed, and maybe he had. His head was nodding, he realized with embarrassment but Pete didn’t seem to notice. “Come,” he said with the tilt of his head when the tea arrangements had been made. He was already bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet as Patrick followed him through the large house and out to a patio with steps to a truly magnificent garden.
Patrick stopped short. “This is. Incredible,” he said before thinking, and Pete’s smile was warm but a little sad.
“It was my mother’s pride and joy, other than myself and my siblings, of course,” he said. “I keep it just as she did. It’s a bit selfish, really. When I walk in it, I feel as though she’s still here.” Patrick felt the still-new sorrow in his own chest flare up a bit as Pete talked.
“Why is that selfish?” he asked, already falling into the easy conversation. “To honor the dead and keep them alive in your heart seems a great achievement.” Patrick thought of two small graves behind the mission and looked away for a moment. He wished he’d been able to do more to honor them, more than run away from his grief to track down a man who had never loved him.
“Thank you,” Pete said quietly and when Patrick turned back Pete was looking at him thoughtfully, his eyes curious and searching. “So, Patrick, Gabriel tells me you have the skills I need to help grow into the Indian market.” His eyes wandered over the soft weave of Patrick’s blue shirt. “You certainly dress the part, I must say.”
“Is this acceptable?” Patrick asked anxiously. “I don’t mean any disrespect. Starched shirts are too harsh for me, after years of my own clothes. I will of course wear whatever you think-” he babbled, and Pete cut him off with a laugh and a wave of his hand.
“You may wear whatever you like, as long as your work is up to par,” he smiled. “Starched shirts are my lot, but this suits you better-and I daresay will be give you an air of authenticity when dealing with my trade partners. Besides,” he added, glancing again at Patrick and then off to the distance, “that blue is rather handsome on you, I must say.”
Patrick blushed to his toes. “Th -thank you,” he stammered and Pete took his elbow, leading them to down to the garden.
**
(p. 72)
“I sound like I’m sneezing.”
Patrick snorted and wrote the word out again, first in Hindi and then an English approximation. “Only because you’re terrible at this,” he said with a grin and handed the pen to Pete. “You try.”
Pete sighed and carefully recreated Patrick’s characters, sounding the words out under his breath. Patrick tried to hide a laugh behind his hand, but Pete looked up sharply. “What?” he asked shortly, but his eyes were bright and Patrick didn’t hesitate answering.
“You just asked if I was selling my grandmother,” he said, grinning and Pete groaned. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be run out of town if you slip up on that one,” he added and Pete leaned back into the cushions and closed his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Patrick took a moment to glance at Pete’s arms, tanned and strong where his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
The sun was warm through the glass of Pete’s sunroom, and Patrick wondered how much later the lesson would last. He knew Pete had a ball to attend that evening; Gabriel would be there too, and Patrick’s stomach twisted at the thought. He forced himself to believe it was the same disgust he always feels when thinking of his father, but as Pete stretched and leaned back over, glancing up at Patrick through dark lashes, he knew it was a lie.
“Why do I have to learn this, anyway?” Pete bit his lip and picked up the ledger to read Patrick’s careful handwriting again. “I have you, what more do I need?”
Patrick’s stomach fluttered and he could feel his cheeks flushing. “I won’t always be around, Pete,” he said, eyes on his lap. Pete reached over and squeezed one knee.
“You will if I have any say in it, and luckily I do,” he grinned and Patrick just shook his head.
“Fine, but you should still know how to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’. It’s basic manners and knowing whom you can speak to and whom you can’t is vital in Indian society, Pete. It’s not like you can just-“
“Fine, you win!” Pete laughed and threw his hands up. “I will be a good little pupil, and you will come by every day until I am presentable in Indian society.” He leaned into Patrick’s shoulder companionably. “It may take years, though, you know.”
“Decades,” Patrick corrected and grinned down when Pete rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder with a sigh.
“Just so long as you don’t get sick of me,” Pete said quietly and Patrick had to force himself to not press his cheek to the top of Pete’s head. “Your shirt is so soft,” Pete added, rubbing his cheek against the blue cotton of Patrick’s everyday shirt.
“You could stop using starch,” Patrick said wryly. They’d had this conversation a dozen times in the weeks the Patrick had been working with Pete. For Pete, he corrected himself harshly. Pete was still his employer, as unconventional as the arrangement might be.
Pete shook his head. “Marjorie would fall over dead if I even suggested it,” he reminded Patrick and they both laughed. Marjorie ran Pete’s house like a general and Pete admitted to Patrick at their third meeting that he was terrified of her. “I tried to get her to push back dinner by an hour last week, and she acted like I’d asked her to kill the Queen.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few long moments. The sun was low enough that Patrick knew it had to be nearly time for tea, and his stomach rumbled at the thought. Pete chuckled.
“We can set the clocks by your stomach, Patrick,” he said fondly and reached out to ring for Sonia. Patrick stopped him with a hand to his forearm.
“No, I should. It’s late, and I should be giving you time to get ready for your engagement,” he said, stammering a bit at the end. Pete’s skin was warm and smooth under his fingers.
“All right,” Pete answered quietly after a long moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Patrick’s pale fingers clashed against his olive arm. He glanced up and Patrick held his breath. He’d forgotten Pete’s face was so close. “Dhanyavaad,” he said softly. Patrick nodded, his mouth dry, and stood up quickly enough to jar the small writing desk.
“You’re welcome,” he rasped, throat hot and tight, and slipped out into the dark hall before Pete could reply.
**
(p. 90)
“It wasn’t breathtaking, it was totally factually inaccurate,” Patrick exclaimed and Pete grinned at him.
“It’s a musical number, it’s not supposed to be factually correct, Patrick,” he answered breezily. The night air was warm but not damp as they walked companionably away from the theater district. “Come this way,” Pete tugged at his elbow and led them toward a small park. “We’ll pick up a hansom cab on the other side, away from the crowds.”
The show had been something of a revelation to Patrick. They’d had nothing like a musical revue in India, and even if they had, the Reverend Stumph wouldn’t have allowed Patrick to go. It was a big, gaudy production, and the singing had been quite fine, but there were a few numbers that made Patrick wince. “I still wonder that they think Indians are so barbaric,” he said, a little hurt. “No one I knew would ever be so ignorant as to not understand the seasons like that. I mean, they have crops of their own that they have to-“
“Patrick, it wasn’t meant as an insult to you! And yes, it was probably insensitive, but no more than the number about Parliament buffoons was insensitive to, well, me.” He shook his head and Patrick huffed loudly. “All right, then. Tell me about the people you knew. Open my clearly muddled eyes,” he took Patrick’s elbow like he did every day in the garden and Patrick glanced around, worried that someone would see. But no one seemed to give them any notice.
“Well,” he started, unsure of where to begin. “Sarit was the head of Father’s staff. He was older than anyone I’d ever met as a child, and smarter than most of them. His grandfather had owned a good deal of land, and Sarit was well educated. His youngest son, Sanji, was about ten years older than me, and he used to steal me away from my studies to go for walks to the river.”
“You had a river nearby?” Pete asked, curious, and it was Patrick’s turn to laugh.
“In some seasons, there is always a river nearby. In the summer months, the rains came with such a fury as you’ve never dreamed. You learned to build on hills, or at least to not keep the valuables on the ground floor where they could be swamped. But when you’re eleven, there is nothing more fun than running around in a monsoon, catching water on your tongue.”
Pete was quiet for a moment and Patrick glanced over to see him looking at his face, bemused.
“What?” Patrick asked.
“I just. Never took you for the running in the rain type, I suppose,” Pete said with a small smile. “It’s a nice picture.”
“Well, there is the fact that most other months I barely went outside for fear of poaching in the sun like a lobster,” he grinned and Pete snorted in laughter.
“You are shockingly pale, Master Stumph,” he conceded. “What else did you love about home, besides your monsoons?”
Patrick thought for a long moment. “Ripe fruit off the trees,” he finally answered quietly. “The sounds of the market, women in saris, wedding banquets that went on for days, boys leading elephants through the streets--”
“Elephants!” Pete exclaimed delightedly. “Did you have an elephant?”
“No,” Patrick shook his head, grinning. “I wanted one, though! They are marvelously smart animals, and very clean, but Mother said rightly that we couldn’t afford to feed one.”
“But you’ve ridden one, though?” Pete pressed, his eyes bright in the darkness. Patrick’s heart skidded for a second when he realized how close they were, Pete’s shoulder bumping his every few steps. Pete never asked questions of politics or race when Patrick talked of home, only of favorite foods and animals and what songs he sung as a child, and if he’d ever learned to swim. Maybe it was naïveté, but to Patrick it was refreshing and warm, comforting. Talking to Pete about home was almost as good as being there.
“I’ve ridden a few elephants in my day, Lord Wentz,” he finally nodded and Pete threw his head back with a whoop.
“Someday you will take me there, and I will buy you an elephant, and we shall ride it every day. How does that sound?” Pete slipped his arm around Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed him closer.
“Perfect,” Patrick answered, his voice nearly a whisper.
**
(p. 101)
“I’ve no idea how you talked me into this,” Patrick groused quietly and Pete grinned at him.
“I’m a charming bastard, what can I say?” he replied and motioned for the server to bring the wine around again.
“Yes, and you told me I had to, and you’re my employer, so,” Patrick huffed. Pete’s latest dinner party could not have been more uncomfortable, but Patrick tried to be fair. There was no way Pete could know the horror of being forced to sit at the same table as Gabriel Saporta (and why isn’t Stumph good enough for you, he thought angrily). After all, he was only in Pete’s house on Gabe’s recommendation.
Pete had seated them on either side of him, commanding the head of the table like the lord he was. Gabe took a sip of his wine and watched Patrick fidget over the top of his glass. Patrick’s outfit was formal for the occasion; Pete had lent him a fine blue jacket and Patrick was doing his best not to spill anything on it. Gabe had noted the jacket as soon as he arrived, eyes narrowing.
“Isn’t that smashing?” Pete had laughed and clapped a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Almost no one is bizarrely small enough to share my clothes. But Patrick and I can play dress up whenever I want!” Patrick flushed at the joke and Gabe’s countenance had darkened.
His mood hadn’t improved through dinner, as Pete talked enthusiastically to his other guests about the progress he and Patrick were making in talks with Indian merchants, throwing in a few phrases in Hindi and laughing when Patrick corrected him. By the time port was served in the sitting room, Gabe was scowling. Patrick avoided him as best he could, but couldn’t escape when Gabe found him getting some air on the small portico.
“Enjoying yourself?” Gabe asked, his voice icy.
“Not particularly, no,” Patrick replied in kind. Gabe snorted.
“You should be. Young Lord Wentz seems to have taken quite a liking to you.”
Patrick flushed at his tone. “You were the one who insisted I come here, insisted I do everything in my power to ensure the success of Pete’s business venture.”
“Lord Wentz,” Gabe said with a sneer, “has atrocious taste in friends. After all, look at me.” Patrick crossed his arms and looked stony faced over the gardens where he and Pete spent nearly every fine afternoon, walking and talking, sometimes about business plans, sometimes about life, art, religion. It was a friendship, possibly the best Patrick had ever had. “It won’t last, you know,” Gabe added with a small smile.
“I don’t-“
“This little obsession he has with you. He’ll get over it, get bored and move on, and then where will you be? It’s always best not to let one’s feelings--”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Patrick interrupted hotly, his knuckles white on the railing of the portico.
Gabe laughed. “Of course you don’t. Just a warning, son-the way he looks at you is based in fascination, not affection. Once he sees past the odd clothing and the pale eyes…” Gabe paused for a second, glancing away and then back again as if stirred by an old memory.
“You can tell me what I want to know now,” Patrick said quietly.
“And what?” Gabe smiled again, cold and calculated. “You’ll walk away from all this? From him? Could you do that?”
Patrick’s stomach tightened at the thought. It had always been the bargain, that Patrick would stay just long enough to get the information about his mother, enough to continue his search. But Patrick’s found his thoughts were taken up more with Pete every day; he woke smiling knowing that they were to spend a day together, he cherished every time he could make Pete laugh, looked forward to every evening walk, not just for the conversation, but for the way Pete hooked his arm through Patrick’s and stood so close.
Gabe sighed. “I thought as much.” He took a sip of wine. “But as I said, do not worry. He will tire of this soon.” His eyes ran over Patrick’s jacket, down to his usual slippers. Inside, Pete was laughing over the clinking of expensive glassware. “This will never be your world, Patrick,” he said almost sadly and Patrick clenched his jaw in embarrassment.
“Then just tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you to it,” Patrick lied. Gabe shook his head.
“Finish the job,” he said as he tossed back the end of his drink and turned to go back inside. “Wherever it leads you, finish it, and then you shall have your answers.”
Patrick was still standing there ten minutes later when Pete cam to find him, winding his arm in Patrick’s and pulling him inside. “Don’t disappear on me like that, man!” he said low in Patrick’s ear, and Patrick felt suddenly cold.
**
(p. 114)
The wind on the docks whipped past Patrick fiercely, and he pulled his wool coat tight around himself. The captain was busy yelling orders and Patrick found himself with little to do but watch his luggage and finger the now-worn letter in his pocket.
After some consideration, your talents would be much better suited elsewhere in the business, he could recall the words from memory now, smudged by his greasy fingers. The frigate Mary Claire will be departing for India tomorrow with our first shipment of goods, and I’d like for you to accompany it. You know more of the terrain and the language than I ever could, and there is no one more up to the task.
But Patrick felt anything but up to the task. The idea of another long sea voyage was bleak enough, but the fact that Pete had not delivered the news himself, that he’d left the task to a messenger boy stung more than he could fathom. He thought back to moment three days ago when a stumble in Pete’s hallway had become something so much more, of the look on Pete’s face when Patrick pulled himself away from Pete’s careful hands before he could do something stupid, before he could lean in and kiss Pete’s full mouth, and he knew he’d given himself away. Pete was too good a friend and too generous an employer to fire him outright for such an abomination, but somehow, shivering on the docks and waiting to return to the only real home he’d ever known, Patrick thought his punishment far outweighed his crime.
The crew was almost finished loading the cargo and Patrick turned his attention back to his few belongings. He could carry most, but needed to negotiate a few members of the crew to help with his small trunk. He barely noticed the commotion behind him-shouting and the sound of a carriage being driven at great speed-before the noise was almost on top of him.
“Patrick!” He turned and blinked up as Pete swung hurriedly out of his carriage and ran toward him. “Patrick, what are you thinking, going off like this, no word,” Pete started in, yelling, and it took Patrick a full moment to catch up. Pete’s hat was gone and under his coat he wore only basic trousers and what appeared to be a nightshirt. His tone changed abruptly. “Whatever it was I did, I am so, so sorry, don’t you see that,” he said, eyes wide, and took Patrick’s hand in his. “Please don’t leave. Please.”
“Pete,” Patrick replied, bewildered. The letter in his pocket had been so clear…
“I’ll pay more. Double. Whatever it takes.” Pete said firmly, holding tighter to Patrick’s hand. “You can’t just quit, Stump. It’s completely uncivil.”
“I didn’t quit!” Patrick pulled his hand back and thrust it into his pocket, pulling out the letter and waving it in front of Pete’s face. “This was your idea, don’t go blaming me if,” but Pete was reading the letter, closely, eyes narrowing.
“Who gave you this?” He asked viciously, and Patrick opened his mouth, then clicked it shut.
“Y-you did, or, rather, the boy you employ from the messenger service. It had your seal so I just assumed…”
“Get in the carriage, Patrick.”
“I don’t,” Patrick started, but Pete had already motioned for his footman to gather Patrick’s things. The crew on the dock bustled around them without so much as a glance.
“I don’t know who sent this to you, but it wasn’t me. I couldn’t.” Pete paused before pressing his warm hand to Patrick’s cheek. “I would never send you away. Do you understand that?”
Pete sounded almost desperate and Patrick’s heart ached as hope coursed through him. Maybe he hadn’t done irreparable damage. He nodded and Pete tucked his hand behind Patrick’s neck and tugged until they were walking side-by-side to the carriage. They didn’t speak again until they were both inside, sitting next to each other as the city flashed by through the curtains.
“Patrick,” Pete started, and his voice was a bit hoarse.
“How did you find me?” Patrick interrupted quietly. “If you didn’t send the letter, then.”
“I sent young Michael to your place with new ledgers before breakfast, and he returned with the news that you’d left, and all your belongings with you. I tore out of the house so fast I’m barely dressed. Thank God you’d told your landlady of your plans, or there might have been no way to track you down.”
Patrick swallowed. Pete had been looking for him all day, running around London in his nightclothes.
“Who would do this?” Pete asked tightly. He was looking out the window, but he cast his hand out to hold Patrick’s firmly. “What villain would want to send you away from me?”
Patrick didn’t have to think about it, not really. When Pete put it like that, the answer was clear. His silence must have spoken loudly because Pete turned his gaze to Patrick, squeezing his hand. “You know, don’t you. Who on earth could you have upset so much they’d want you out of all of England? Surely your shirts aren’t that scandalous.”
“My father,” Patrick said quietly, and he knew it was the last time he would ever utter that phrase. Pete looked at him in confusion.
“But it thought your parents,”
“My real father,” Patrick said, and let the story unfold in small pieces, Pete’s hand warm in his as they rode quickly back to the manor.
**
(p. 120)
“I still say I could have argued for my room,” Patrick sighed as Pete watched the staff carry Patrick’s things upstairs.
Pete snorted. “A room left empty in London for that price? She had it rented before you had found a cab at the curb.”
Patrick just shook his head fondly. He was full from a late lunch, laid out by Sonia and the house staff with great care. They all seemed quiet relieved to see Patrick back. Patrick wondered what sort of terror Pete had really been that morning when he discovered Patrick’s disappearance. He glanced at Pete and found him looking back, dark eyes shining. Patrick’s returning smile slipped into a yawn and Pete laughed.
“I know how you feel. Come on,” he held out a hand and Patrick took it without thinking, the gesture seeming natural and easy. Pete smiled wider and started them up the stairs.
In all his months in the Wentz estate, Patrick had never seen the upstairs. Pete led him past a few airy rooms decorated in soft blues and greens, a small study with a window overlooking the gardens. “That way to the guest wing,” Pete pointed down a short hallway but didn’t loosen his grip on Patrick’s hand. An upstairs maid Patrick had only seen glimpses of passed them with a shy smile and Pete greeted her by name. “Are Master Stumph’s effects in order?” he asked lightly and she nodded, blushing a little.
Patrick was tired but he didn’t imagine the way Pete’s thumb brushed gently over his, turning a bend and tugging Patrick into an immense corner room. The windows ran almost to the floor, and two large, worn armchairs nestled near the marble fireplace. The bed was dominated by four large oak posts, the bedcovers ornate in red and gold. Patrick’s mouth went dry when he caught sight of his battered trunk tucked into a corner of Pete’s dressing room, open and empty.
“Pete,” he said, breathless and suddenly wide-awake. Pete’s hand was still in his, warm and sure and when Pete turned to look at him, he stood too close.
“I hope I’m not… No, I know I’m being presumptuous, but I don’t care.” Patrick watched Pete form the words quickly, tripping off each other as he took an impossible step closer. “When I heard you’d gone, I thought that was it, that I’d lost my only chance to tell you,” Pete paused, taking a deep a breath. “It can’t come as a shock to you, how I feel.”
“How,” Patrick asked, and shivered when Pete’s other hand came up to caress his cheek. “How do you feel, Pete?”
“I can’t do any of this, not without you,” Pete smiled. “And not the business, I was doing just fine in that before I met you, you know. But everything else, every day. I was being courted by one of the most eligible men in London society,” he noted, eyes flashing darkly for a moment, “but what I looked forward to most every day was seeing you, the thrill of making you blush, touching your hand.”
Patrick’s hand tightened reflexively in Pete’s and Pete smiled. “I. Me too,” Patrick said quietly, leaning into the hand at his cheek. “But I couldn’t… I don’t belong here, Pete.”
“Of course you do,” Pete smiled wider, leaning close enough that his nose brushed Patrick’s and made him gasp. “You belong with me, wherever that is.”
Patrick wanted to protest, to remind Pete that he was not only awkward and odd, not fit for Pete’s parties and banquets, but he was a bastard on top of it all. But Pete tipped his head a fraction and his lips were on Patrick’s, soft and wet and insistent. Patrick sighed and let Pete lead, opening his mouth when Pete pressed the tip of his tongue against the seam of his lips. Patrick’s heart was beating so fast he could feel his pulse racing against Pete’s palm. When Pete finally pulled away, Patrick was gasping, dizzy.
“Stay. With me,” Pete said.
“Yes,” Patrick nodded and Pete laughed delightedly and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s neck, kissing his cheek. It might be a stupid decision, one they would both regret come morning, but Patrick let Pete lead him slowly to the bed, stripping back the covers and pressing Patrick into the mattress. Pete’s shirt came off easily and Patrick tried not to blush as Pete’s mouth followed his fingers on Patrick’s buttons, kissing the exposed skin from his neck to his stomach, palming over the bulge in Patrick’s trousers. “Please,” Patrick arched. Pete’s moan vibrated through Patrick’s ribcage and heat pooled in his stomach. “Pete, I want,” he started, but Pete was already there, his body hovering over Patrick’s, kissing him as he eased his way past Patrick’s clothes. Patrick cried out as a hand wrapped around him snugly, so different than Patrick’s own, soft and firm and sure.
“My God, Patrick,” Pete whispered and put his lips to Patrick’s pale throat. Patrick’s fingers dugs deep into the flesh of Pete’s shoulder as he began stroking him slowly. “So beautiful.”
“Pete,” Patrick gasped as he sped up. It was nothing like when Patrick allowed himself the fantasies of Pete touching him like this. Pete’s kisses were tender but his hands were not, his thigh sliding over Patrick’s and trapping him against the mattress as he panted and keened. The tumble of words in Patrick’s head, things like I will never leave you and every day I wanted you more coalesced into an easy “Love you” as Pete’s touch pulled him over the edge, his whole body trembling.
“Love you, too,” Pete whispered low in his ear like a secret, barely audible over the blood rushing in Patrick’s veins. When Patrick blinked his eyes open, Pete was watching him closely, eyes soft and smiling.
“Pete?” he said hoarsely and Pete tipped his head to the side.
“Yes, Patrick?”
“Why are you still wearing trousers?” he asked with mock-seriousness and Pete laughed.
**
(p. 130)
Patrick paused on the stairs when he heard the voices coming from the parlor. It was mid-morning already, as Patrick had overslept and then had to hunt for his things in Pete’s large dressing room. His skin was still tingling from the memory of Pete’s hands on his skin, his voice low and sweet in his ear.
“No, he’s gone! His landlady said he was leaving on some sort of long voyage,” Pete’s voice cut through Patrick’s reverie. “You’ve no idea what happened?”
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Gabe’s voice was calm and placating and Patrick’s hands tightened on the railing. “He was an old family friend, but we weren’t that close. I’m not surprised he didn’t tell me he was planning to run off, especially since he had the job on my recommendation.”
“It’s only,” Pete paused. “He was so very good for the company.”
Patrick slipped the rest of the way down the stairs and hid in the small hall off the main room, listening intently. He wasn’t sure what Pete was doing; there must be a reason Pete was pretended last night never happened.
“Peter,” Gabe sighed. “You’d grown far too attached to the boy, look at you.” Gabe was nearly smiling, Patrick could tell from his voice. “I am sorry if it upsets you, but his ship is probably long gone now, there’s nothing to be done.”
There was a stretch of silence and Patrick held his breath. “I suppose you’re right,” Pete replied. Patrick snuck a quick look around the doorframe. Gabe was sitting on the couch with his arm around Pete’s shoulder companionably. Patrick dug his nails into his palms, determined to let Pete finish whatever act this was. “You said you had good news, though?” Pete asked, tipping his head to Gabe’s shoulder.
“Yes, in fact,” Gabe leaned forward to place his teacup back on the tray and turned to face Pete full on. Patrick ducked back quickly. “It appears I am coming into a bit of money.”
“Really,” Pete said, “and where did this lucky windfall come from?”
“An old friend who had a bit of affection for me even years later, it seems,” Gabe replied with a hint of dry humor.
“You don’t seem all that broken up about it,” Pete noted, and Gabe laughed.
“Actually, she’s been gone a good while. There were just some… complications I had to clear up before the money could be released.” Patrick bit the inside of his cheek. It was too much of a coincidence, he thought, that Gabe would try to get rid of him the same day he came into this money.
“Well, its been a whirlwind few days for both of us,” Pete noted, and from the edge in his voice he could tell Pete fell the same way. “Would I know her?”
“I doubt it. Her father owned a large mercantile firm. Prettiest girl in three counties, pale skin, clear eyes. A little too trusting, but that was her charm,” Patrick’s heart was beating so hard, he was sure it would give him away. “Her name was Sarah. Lady Sarah Ashbrook.”
“Thank you,” Pete said sincerely, and called out “Patrick, love? What do you say we pay a call on the Ashbrooks?”
Patrick stepped into the hall, hands balled as his sides. Gabe’s eyes were wide as saucers, his face pale under his dark hair. When Patrick spoke, his voice was surprisingly steady. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
**
(p. 150)
“I did say I hate boats, right?” Patrick muttered as Pete steadied him with one tan arm.
“This is hardly a boat,” he chided, tugging Patrick into the deck chair beside him. The small vessel was anchored off a sandy coast, and Pete had shed his jacket and shirt and leaned back to get as much sun as possible. Patrick was covered to his wrists, with a large straw hat on his head. “We’re on holiday, Patrick. Can you relax?”
Patrick sighed and leaned back in his chair, ankles crossed in front of him. “That is quite easy for you to say, Lord Wentz. We have to impress an entire board of investors tomorrow!”
“Indeed, Lord Ashbrook,” Pete mocked him fondly, “and I’m sure if I just shut up and let you do all the talking, we’ll be fine.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Patrick grumbled. A moment later he had a lapful of Pete, the sheen of sweat along his shoulders close enough for Patrick to taste, his tongue flicking against the hollow of Pete’s collarbone.
Pete murmured in appreciation and shifted a bit in Patrick’s lap until he could rest his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “You’ll do an amazing job, Patrick,” he said quietly, twining their fingers together. “And then, we can pack our bags, and you can show me your elephants.”
Patrick chuffed a laugh against Pete’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you agreed to a trip to India,” he noted for the hundredth time.
“You share my home,” he said with a shrug and Patrick kissed his shoulder again. “I just want to see yours.”
“You really are too sentimental for words,” Patrick said, and swallowed Pete’s indignant reply with a kiss.
END
My original prompt:
When the Seminary for Young Ladies where Lady Alice had sent 8-year old Priscilla closes, she must take back the daughter she never loved. Fearful that Sean O'Rourke, a handsome admirer, will spurn the youthful Lady Alice when he learns that she has a now grown-up daughter of 22, Alice forces Priscilla to take on the guise of her lowly secretary.