A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (22 page)

Henry had not seen him play this way before. “Can you really
play sitting down?”

Martin snorted. “I can play standing on my head.” He shifted
his weight from one hip to the other. “In the orchestra at Ganymede I always
sat.”

“Oh.” Henry could imagine this; whenever he’d had opportunity
to see an orchestra play, all the musicians had indeed been in chairs. “Well,
that makes sense.” He thought a moment. “But how’s your ass? For sitting, I
mean.”

Martin grinned. “A little sore. I don’t mind.” He played a
few careless notes. “I haven’t practiced much recently. I’m going to play it
badly, Henry, please understand this.”

“I understand,” Henry told him. “I’ll like listening
anyway.”

Martin began to play. He still dipped and swayed just as he
did while standing, and the mattress tilted beneath them, one way and then the
other. Henry lay back on the bed and listened to the familiar music, finding it
calming. For a little while, he’d almost been able to forget about the ball and
Abigail and Louis’ jealousy and the pressure to dance with a bunch of girls,
but that had all come rushing back while Martin had been mopping at his groin.
The music pushed those thoughts away again, giving him a little welcome mental
distance.

Martin stopped playing at the end of the third movement, the
sarabande
and sighed. “Can you hear all my mistakes?”

Henry scoffed at this. As far as he was concerned, Martin
played it perfectly. “Of course not. You’re too hard on yourself.”

Martin ignored Henry’s commentary and leaned to peer at the
alarm clock. “It’s getting late. Henry, do you want lunch?”

“Yes, of course. I suppose I have to get up, then.” But he
was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

They dressed and went downstairs to the breakfast room. No
other family were there. Martin made Henry a plate before also making one for
himself and sitting down a little gingerly at his side.

“Do you think I’ll see my parents before we leave tonight?”
he asked Martin. “It’s kind of a big deal, don’t you think? My first ball?
Our
first ball. I would think they’d want to, I don’t know, give me words of wisdom
or something.”

Martin finished chewing and swallowed before turning to look
at him. “I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you at dinner, Sir. They’ll want to
see you in your tailcoat, looking so grown-up.”

Henry hoped Martin was right. His friends, he knew, would
have the occasion marked. They’d be having special dinners. Photographs would
be made. Fatherly advice would be dispensed. Henry knew for a fact that Louis
would have all of these things and felt envious. Most likely, Father would have
forgotten about Henry and his stupid rite of passage. Suddenly, he worried that
Father would have taken the Clarence, leaving him with no way to transport
Abigail to the dance, and he made Martin call the stable to confirm that Jack
would be pulling up in front of the house at seven-thirty in a four-passenger
carriage.

Martin came back from making the call and sat down again at
the table—wincing a little as his buttocks met the chair seat—and picked up his
half-finished sandwich. “Jack will be here at seven-thirty sharp, Sir.
Everything will go as planned, I’m sure of it.”

“What about the flowers?” Henry suddenly remembered the
bouquet and grew worried that it wouldn’t be delivered in time, or that it
wouldn’t look right, or that it would somehow be made up of the wrong flowers.
They’d ordered them Wednesday afternoon from the florist Father had an account
with, and the shop owner had been delighted to acquire the patronage of the
younger Mr. Blackwell, as well, anticipating a future full of balls and parties
with their accompanying floral requirements. He and Martin had stood in the
shop for at least an hour looking at the floriography dictionaries and trying
to decide which color of roses was the least lover-ly.

“The problem, Sir, is that they all give a loving message of
one sort or another,” Martin had told him. “But it really needs to be roses,
Sir; she’ll be disappointed if you choose something else.” Henry hadn’t known
where Martin had gotten his knowledge of girls and their expectations for
bouquets, but he had spoken with such authority that Henry had believed him.
Besides, the other expensive flowers, such as orchids, were even worse in terms
of romantic sentiment. Henry had flipped through one of the books, and discovered
that striped carnations were used for romantic rejections, but Martin had said,
“Sir, no. You absolutely can’t, Sir,” and that was that. They’d settled on
lavender roses, representing enchantment, which Henry thought acceptably vague.

“They’ll be delivered before dinner, Sir,” Martin said,
putting a soothing hand on Henry’s arm. “Everything will be fine.” With a quick
glance to see if anyone might be watching, Martin dared to squeeze Henry’s
hand. “Do you want cake, Sir? It’s chocolate.”

After they ate, they returned to Henry’s room. Martin got
Henry’s tailcoat and trousers out of the wardrobe and hung them on the valet
stand and went in to his room to lay his own clothes out on the bed. Henry
remained restless and jumpy, but didn’t think he could reasonably ask Martin to
have sex with him again, at least not until after the ball. Instead, they lay
on the bed with their clothes on and Henry held Martin close, smelling his hair
and feeling the bones of his back. He slept a little, dreaming of Martin naked,
his cock replaced by a dewy lavender rosebud that unfurled when Henry licked
it. He woke to find Martin gently snoring in his arms and played with him a
little, tickling him and pinching his nose shut and blowing in his ear until he
woke, slapping irritably at Henry’s hands.

“What are you doing, Henry?”

“Sorry.” Henry was not sorry. “Let’s play poker.”

Martin got the cards and their cigar boxes of pennies down
from the mantel and they played on the floor in front of the cold hearth. They
heard the doorbell off in the distance.

“That’ll be the flowers,” Martin remarked.

Henry lost another hand, Martin’s straight beating his
three-of-a-kind.

“I’m just thinking …we’ll both need to shower again and
shave, and I’ll need my dinner.” Martin took out his pocket watch and frowned.
“One more hand, all right?”

Henry agreed. He had just enough pennies left to play one
more hand in any case. He ended up with a handful of hearts, his flush beating
Martin’s two pair.

“How much money do you have, Henry?”

“Thirteen cents.” Henry laughed. In all these months, he’d
never been the overall winner, not even once, and he had no illusions that he
ever would be. Instead, he found it amusing to see how long he could creak
along with fewer than fifteen cents, losing and losing, yet with the occasional
win to keep him in the game.

“I need to wash and shave.” Martin got to his feet and
brushed the creases out of his trousers, then put out his hand to pull Henry to
his feet.

“Can I watch you?”

Martin eyed him quizzically. “If you’d like.”

Martin undressed in his room and walked naked to the bath.
He tied his hair up on top of his head and did his best to avoid wetting it as
he stood under the spray. Henry leaned back against the door and watched him,
admiring the gleam of his wet skin, the way lather sluiced off the planes of
his back and the curve of his ass.

“Are you seeing what you want to see?” Martin looked over
his shoulder at him, eyebrow raised. “I’ve only been washing, not trying to
give you a show, but if there’s something you want me to do…”

Henry shook his head. Martin was so beautiful, so well-made
and elegant, that seeing him do even the most ordinary things seemed special.
He watched as Martin washed his ass, his cock and balls, and wanted to put his
mouth on all the clean, wet skin, but understood that Martin was following a
schedule now and wouldn’t let Henry get them off track. But he would have sex
again with Martin later, he promised himself, as his reward for dancing with
all the girls at the ball.

Martin stood before the fogged mirror with a towel around
his hips and shaved at a speed that unnerved Henry, who was certain that at any
moment gouts of blood would erupt from Martin’s slit throat. He’d never seen
Martin shave before, Martin always being up so much earlier than he was.

Henry shuddered. “Do you always shave like that?”

“Like what?” Martin paused, blade glinting before his
throat.

“So quickly.”

Martin frowned, dismissive of Henry’s concern. “It takes
only the time it requires.”

“Never shave me like that,” Henry insisted. “If I flinch,
you’ll kill me.”

Martin said nothing, but rolled his eyes and smiled at Henry
in the mirror.

Henry followed Martin out of the bath and into his room,
where he quickly dressed in the same clothes he’d had on before. “I’ll change
into my formal clothes after my dinner,” he explained.

Henry stopped him on his way out the door and kissed him and
was gratified when Martin put his arms around him and kissed him back with
passion. He worried sometimes that Martin didn’t love him quite as much as he
loved Martin, that Martin wanted him just a little less, and thought about him
less often, and on a day like today, when he was apprehensive and jittery, it
was especially nice to have Martin melt into his arms and cling.

“I’ll be back soon to get you ready, Henry,” Martin
whispered, kissing his ear and giving him a little pat so that Henry would let
him go.

Henry felt at loose ends as soon as Martin had gone. He
flipped open his Latin book and just as quickly flipped it closed again. He had
a chapter on the Crusades to read and summarize but found he couldn’t
concentrate. He picked up
Pals
and read the last chapter of
Drake’s
Progress
and felt better reconciled to its anticlimactic outcome, but did
feel that the story was missing something without Martin’s dramatic reading.

There was a tap on the door and Martin entered without
waiting for Henry to respond. “Hello, Henry.” He smiled warmly, so very fondly.
“I’ve seen the flowers and they’re perfect. Miss DeWitt will like them very
much.”

“Where are they? Can I see them?”

“They’re in the refrigerator. Can you wait until after your
dinner?” Martin touched his elbow and turned him toward the bathroom. “We need
to get you bathed.”

Henry showered and let Martin do all the work of drying him,
both skin and hair, and then let Martin shave him, getting his cheeks smoother
than he ever managed himself. He was dressed in silk jersey undergarments and
silk socks, everything a little slipperier than usual and making him more
conscious of his cock and nipples. This awareness didn’t let up during the rest
of the dressing process: trousers, crisp boiled shirt, pearl studs and
cufflinks, a stand-up collar, fancy embroidered braces, white piqué waistcoat,
and white linen tie, which Martin tied with especial care, wanting to get the
knot perfect. Henry slipped into his dancing pumps and held his arms so that
Martin could help him on with his jacket. Martin came around from behind and
smoothed his lapels over his chest. Together, they looked at Henry in the
wardrobe mirror.

“You’re such a handsome man,” Martin said very sincerely,
almost reverently. “I’m a lucky fellow, I really am.”

Henry kissed him and Martin let him do it, but too soon
broke away. “I need to dress now, also.”

“Yes!” Henry’s enthusiasm came rushing back to him. Martin
would be in a collar and tie! “Can I watch?”

“I think the effect will be more impressive if you wait
until I’m finished, but if you insist…”

“No,” Henry said, somewhat grudgingly. “I can wait.” While
he did so, he looked at the items Martin had set out on top of his dresser—a
white linen handkerchief, his pocket watch attached to a black silk strap, two
pair of white kidskin gloves. The leather cases holding their silk hats had
been brought out from the trunk room and sat in the corner; Henry opened his
and took out the hat, setting it on his head at a rakish angle. He thought he’d
never looked so elegant. As he returned the hat to its case, Martin spoke.

“How do I look?”

Martin stood in the doorway between their rooms, his body
angled to show himself to best advantage. He looked so dashing, sweeping
movement in all the long lines of his body. He’d combed his hair back and tied
it more tightly than usual, exposing his neck more definitively and drawing
Henry’s attention to the high collar that hugged his throat, the black bow tie.
It was the neck of a free man, covered and without mark.

“You look…” Henry didn’t have adequate words for how Martin
looked. Beautiful, exquisite. Like a faerie prince, young lord of some
glamorous realm where the likes of Henry would be lucky to be admitted. “Come
look,” Henry urged. “Come here and see.” They stood together before the
wardrobe mirror and Martin put his arm about Henry’s waist and leaned his head
on Henry’s shoulder a moment.

“We look wonderful, don’t we?” He gave Henry his dazzling
smile through the mirror then turned to look at him. In a low voice, close to
Henry’s ear, he said, “I want you to make love to me dressed like this, in your
beautiful suit. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course!” Henry blurted. He would do it now, for that
matter! He didn’t need dinner!

But Martin was working to a schedule. “We’ll need to go down
now, then.”

Mother and Father were already in the dining room and seemed
to be having a convivial discussion when they entered, which was a pleasant
surprise. Mother was in another new dress, this one a sort of bronze color with
a print of fuchsia roses.

“Oh, Henry, darling, you look so handsome!” Mother brought
her hands together in a single delighted clap. “So grown-up!”

Henry blushed with pleasure. Martin pulled out his chair and
Henry sat, flipping the tails of his coat out behind him.