A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (14 page)

When the cake was cut, Martin got some for Henry, then for Miss DeWitt and her Helena, who were monopolizing Henry’s attention, then finally for himself, eating it at Henry’s side, his elbow brushing Henry’s sleeve as he raised the fork to his mouth. He tried not to feel hurt or let down by how little attention Henry was able to pay him. After all, he’d had all of Henry’s attention at his own party.

Martin collected Henry’s cake plate and those of several guests to be returned to the kitchen, and then he went to find Mr. Tim. As he headed for the hall door, he was waylaid by Miss Pearl.

“Tim tells me the dancing will start any minute,” Miss Pearl said. “Mrs. Blackwell wants very much to dance the first number with her son.” She indicated Mrs. Blackwell, who was ensconced on a settee at the wall, with a nod of her head. “She’s been resting up in anticipation. Do you think he’ll be willing?”

“I’m sure he will,” Martin assured her. “I’ll let him know.”

When he returned to Henry’s side, Henry readily agreed to do this, and together they made their way over to his family. Little Miss was delighted to see them both, though perhaps she was a little happier to see Martin, and he actually did like that he was her favorite brother—for now—though he didn’t think he would admit this to Henry.

He trailed Mrs. Blackwell and Henry to the ballroom. A group of his friends stood at the foot of the room, and he joined them to watch this first dance. The perimeter of the room was crowded with couples waiting to take to the floor. The music began, a light waltz, and Henry and his mother began to dance.

Really, Mrs. Blackwell must have been a very popular young lady in her day. She seemed an excellent dance partner, and her pleasure in the dance made her faded beauty vivid. She and Henry were both smiling, and their faces seemed very like. As they made it halfway down the room, other couples fell in behind them, and soon the dance floor was a swirl of skirts and nimble feet.

Henry was a Wilton, to be sure, with all of that family’s beauty and physical elegance, and to Martin’s eye he represented the pinnacle of Wilton breeding. He hadn’t his handsome uncle’s airy frivolity, nor his cousin’s flighty enthusiasm, but instead had a singularly masculine grace, light yet strong and substantial, and perhaps that manliness, along with his height, was his true inheritance from his imposing father.

Martin was prepared to help Henry find partners, but he proved quite capable on his own. After relinquishing his mother to Miss Pearl’s care, he danced with Miss Sinclair, the girl he’d so enjoyed dancing with at Mr. Wilton’s party. Henry was such a beautiful dancer, graceful and dashing, and Martin had an intense, muscular recollection of being in his arms at the men’s ball, the air full of the smell of sweat and cheap cologne. This was certainly a more refined crowd, not least due to the inclusion of young ladies.

After handing Miss Sinclair off to Mr. Wilton, Henry seemed to be searching the crowd, perhaps for Martin, and Martin was making his way toward him, but then Henry was waylaid by Miss DeWitt and plunged back into the dance.

Someday he’d like to dance with Henry again. Maybe they could go to the dance hall if they were discreet, if they were careful. Henry whirled past with Miss DeWitt, who threw her head back and laughed, and Martin remembered doing the same, giddy on champagne. He remembered how proud he’d felt, that his partner was so handsome, so graceful, so attentive, and he’d felt he was the envy of everyone at the dance hall.

He’d wanted to come home, without a doubt, but he’d enjoyed some of his experience downtown. He’d had moments when he hadn’t felt exactly
free
, whatever that might be like, but not entirely a slave, either. He had been Martin Durant, a person with opinions and preferences that might not have corresponded with Henry’s, and he’d felt entitled to them. These last few days, with Henry being so solicitous and concerned, he’d felt a little of that again, that Henry encouraged his independence.

Henry, with Miss DeWitt on his arm, made his way toward the reception room, and Martin met them and Helena near the punchbowl. He was tasked with fetching punch for everyone. Miss DeWitt, now an engaged woman, had a different use for Henry now. She’d seemingly abandoned her romantic notions and wanted him as a friend, which Martin was a little suspicious of, not sure how regular-seeming men and women might go about being friends. Gentlemen such as Mr. Phipps or Henry’s uncle were understood to be harmless company for ladies, but Henry was
not
going to be in that category, not outwardly.

Miss DeWitt, along with her Helena, was swept away by Mr. Wilton, back to the dance, leaving Henry and Martin alone.

Henry radiated heat, and Martin wanted to taste his neck. But all he did was lean close and ask, “Sir? Shall we find you another dance partner?”

Henry’s voice was low and playful. “What if I want to stay here with you?”

“But I want to watch you dance, Sir.” Martin leaned closer still, his lips brushing Henry’s ear. “I want to watch and remember dancing with you downtown.”

Henry looked at him quite seriously. “Do you mean that? Do you really want to remember?”

Martin laughed and dared to touch Henry’s hand. “Of course I mean it, Sir. I definitely do. Parts of that night were lovely.”

Henry seemed very pleased that Martin had some good memories of their escapade. His tone implying that he was doing it for Martin’s benefit, Henry said, “All right, then. I suppose I ought to find a partner.”

Henry found a girl to dance with and Martin found a spot to observe him from. He joined a circle of his friends and listened absently to their chatter, but his eyes were on Henry, and he thought only of dancing with him in the girl’s place, showing everyone how obviously they belonged to each other.

When the music concluded, Henry shot him a significant look over the heads of the crowd and escorted the girl back to her slave. Martin caught up with him at the ballroom door.

“Did you want some punch, Sir?”

“No, not now. Come on. Come with me.” Henry urged him on with impatient gestures and set out for the entry hall.

“Where are we going, Sir?” Martin kept his voice low, trying to be discreet. There were a few people moving in and out of the front parlors, but most guests were gathered in and around the ballroom.

Henry pulled him toward the stairs by his wrist. “Hurry, before someone sees us.”

Giddy and nervous, Martin cast a quick glance back over his shoulder and followed Henry up the stairs. He was quite sure what Henry had in mind, and just as sure he would go along with it, provided they could do it quickly.

What they did—Henry jerking Martin’s cock, letting Martin finish in his mouth—was raw and sweet, and Martin would have liked to return the favor, but they didn’t have time, and they both knew it. If Mr. Blackwell found out they’d left the party, he’d know exactly why, and Martin did not think they could depend upon him to be lenient yet again.

Afterward, Henry sat on Martin’s bed, his hard cock obvious in his well-fitting trousers, and watched as Martin put his own clothes in order. Henry said, “Months ago, I had this idea that I’d get you something new and I’d dress you up for our birthdays.” He gave Martin a crooked smile, a little sad. “I tried to tell myself that you’d enjoy it, too, but you wouldn’t, would you?”

No, Martin wouldn’t.

“You know I don’t want to do things differently than the others, at least not in public.” He paused a moment, thoughtful. “But in private…” He smoothed his chrysanthemum waistcoat against his chest and belly, loving the silky brocade. “With how interested you are in dressing me up, I’ve often wondered why you’ve never asked me to wear
your
clothes when we’re alone.”

“
My
clothes?” It had plainly never occurred to Henry that he had this option, that they needn’t run away in order to dress Martin as a free man.

“Yes,
your
clothes.”

Despite his obvious excitement, Henry did not want to presume. “But I know you…you don’t want to play at being free. I know this, Martin, and I said I wouldn’t make you do—”

Martin shook his head. “This is different, Henry. A game we play at home, in private, will be fun for both of us. I don’t want to go out into the world pretending to be someone I’m not, but I’m happy to do it for you here in your bedroom with the door locked. Just us.”

Henry looked so hopeful! “You’d really do it? Wear the whole outfit?”

Martin laughed and bent to kiss him. “Of course I would.”

“Plaid suit?” Henry asked. “Paisley waistcoat?” His voice had a distinct quaver as he asked, “Collar and tie?”

Martin smiled. “Most certainly a collar and tie.” He leaned in, lowering his voice, “And I’ll introduce myself to you as Mr. Durant.” He felt a little thrill saying the name aloud; he hadn’t had reason to do so since they’d been at the Calamus.

“Oh…” Henry gave a little shiver and squirmed in his seat.

Martin laughed again. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Stop thinking about it, dirty boy. We need to go downstairs.”

“Can we play later?” Henry asked. “After everyone leaves?”

Martin grinned. “I look forward to it.”

Downstairs, they had not been missed in the crowd. Henry was in high spirits, seeming especially handsome, and never lacked for a partner. He danced every tune, whirling girl after girl around the floor. Martin stood with his friends and tried to pay attention to their conversation, but all he could think about was approaching Henry in the guise of Mr. Durant, a person who was and wasn’t himself, who had preferences and desires that Henry would need to accommodate in order to win his favor.

He stood with Tom, Miles, Simon and Russ, who was flirting with Miles quite shamelessly. The other Orpheus slave in their circle of friends, Allen, was being monopolized by his master. All agreed that Mr. Hollingsworth should be more discreet.

“He’s not even bringing Allen to swaps anymore,” Simon complained, keeping his voice low. “The other masters are going to notice his attachment, don’t you think?”

Miles shrugged. “Well, none of them care very much about swaps anymore, though. All the masters are jaded now.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked. Were swaps falling out of fashion?

Miles sighed. “Well, Mr. Brand can’t be bothered to go to a party these days. He’d rather stay home and read.” He rolled his eyes. “He says it’s too bad I can’t go by myself, because he’s lost interest.”

“It
is
too bad you can’t go by yourself,” Simon said. “I’ve missed you. But you’re right. Mr. Ross’ last two parties were very poorly attended.”

“If Mr. Brand would really let you go,” Russ said to Miles, “I’m very sure Mr. Wilton would allow you to come without your master to any party he might host.”

Miles raised an eyebrow at this, seeming both doubtful and interested. “Things must be done very differently at Lawton,” he remarked.

Russ smiled up at him. “Mr. Wilton set a very permissive standard during his years at Lawton.”

Tom said, “The masters are different than us, though. They don’t look forward to parties the way we do. They’re only willing to put up with other men because it’s what’s allowed.
They’re
really only interested in girls, but most of
us
like both.”

“Some of the masters do, too,” Simon said with confidence, which seemed rather careless to Martin.

“And of course there’s Mr. Hollingsworth,” Miles said. “Though we all know he’s not the only one with such a preference.”

Martin went very still, inadvertently holding his breath, and suddenly everyone was dead silent and looking anywhere but at him, and he realized that they knew.

They all knew.

Russ and Tom both knew because Martin had confided in them, of course. Miles and Simon knew either because Tom had gossiped to them, or because they’d guessed.

Martin wanted to blurt out a vehement denial, but bit back the words. It was better to say nothing.

Tom cleared his throat. “I think we’re all used to keeping secrets, aren’t we? I never tell Mr. Caldwell anything about other masters. If his friends want him to know their business, they’ll tell him themselves.”

Affecting supreme disinterest, Miles said, “I don’t confide in Mr. Brand.”

Simon said, “Mr. Ross is
very
open-minded.”

Martin gave a little involuntary jerk and looked at him wide-eyed, nervous and wary.

“Oh, but I’m certainly not putting anything
in
his open mind!” He laughed and leaned across their circle to pat Martin’s arm. “But if Mr. Ross ever happens to learn anything interesting about his friends, he’ll be very understanding, I’m sure of it.”

Martin’s heart pounded a hectic tempo and his breath caught in his throat. His impulse was to run out on the dance floor, wrest Henry from his partner’s arms, and shield him from harm, but that was ridiculous and would do nothing but draw unwanted attention. Besides, it was too late. Everyone knew. Or, at least all the slaves did.

Miles said, “Mr. Blackwell is understood to be a very private person. Mr. Brand believes he’s quite uninteresting, a prude of the highest order, and I certainly haven’t disabused him of that notion.”

Tom reached out and rubbed his arm. “It’s all right, Martin. You needn’t worry.”

“Martin, no one tells masters anything, you know this,” Miles said, trying to reassure.

But Martin himself had told Henry all manner of things slaves shouldn’t tell masters. Martin had told Henry about Simon and Mr. Ross. Martin hadn’t named names, but he’d told Henry and Mr. Briggs secrets about Mr. Lovejoy and Julian, Mr. Hollingsworth and Allen, Mr. Fox and Howard, and probably others he wasn’t remembering.

“We all know whether or not our masters can be trusted,” Simon said soothingly. “Mr. Ross is very trustworthy.”

Miles gave a rueful smile. “Mr. Brand is
not
.”

Tom laughed. “Mr. Caldwell doesn’t give a fig about any sort of gossip, no matter who it’s about. Honestly, even if I wanted to tell him anything, he’d just be annoyed and tell me to be quiet.”

Martin knew this about Mr. Caldwell already. Tom was actually quite despairing about how little Mr. Caldwell wanted from him, desiring him neither as sex partner nor confidante.