A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (16 page)

They returned to the ballroom, Martin and Russ trailing behind their masters. Martin was in a happy daze. He had not expected anything to happen immediately, so did not mind the delay in their plans. What was important was that everyone was in agreement.

Russ took Martin’s hand for a brief squeeze. “I’m glad we’ll get to play together,” he said, voice low. “Of course,
you
know it will be fun, but we’ll all have to make sure Mr. Blackwell has a nice time.”

“He’s nervous,” Martin said, “though he has no reason to be.” He bent to whisper in Russ’ ear. “You’ll be quite jealous of me when you’ve seen him naked.”

Russ laughed loudly enough that both Henry and Mr. Wilton turned around with questioning expressions, wanting to be in on the joke.

When they entered the ballroom, Mr. Wilton went to join some fellows on the far side of the room, and Russ went with him, but Henry stood with Martin, side by side, watching the dancers. Their arms were touching full-length, warm contact. Martin felt that he couldn’t stop smiling. He was sure he was glowing, radiating happiness.

Every now and then, a departing guest would approach and thank Henry for the party, and that person’s slave would likewise thank Martin. After several of these goodbyes, Henry grew restless. His fingers encircled Martin’s wrist, low and hidden, just briefly, and he said, “I suppose I should find a partner and dance.”

“Indeed you should, Sir. Let’s see if any of your particular favorites are still here.” Martin looked out over the crowd, hoping to spot Miss Sinclair or Miss DeWitt.

“Oh, there’s Miss Collingsworth,” Henry said. “I’ll go ask her.” He touched Martin’s sleeve. “Find your friends,” he said. “Have fun.”

“I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Oh, how he wanted to kiss Henry, a kiss full of lingering promise. But instead he smiled and gave Henry a little wave as he turned away.

Tom popped up at his shoulder. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said. “It seemed rather intimate.”

Martin was horrified. “Did it?”

“No, no,” Tom assured him. “Not really. Not to anyone who doesn’t know.”

Martin was not sure he believed him. He would have to be more careful.

“Come with me,” Tom said. He took Martin’s hand and led him through the crowd to stand with the rest of the Orpheus boys (Mr. Hollingsworth was dancing, so Allen was free). Russ came over with the rest of the Lawton slaves, including flirtatious Warren, who asked hopefully if Mr. Blackwell might have changed his mind about swapping.

Martin’s friends flirted with female slaves, and some dared dance a few steps with these girls, but this wasn’t meant to be a party for slaves. Martin paid little attention to these intrigues, keeping his eyes on Henry, who seemed to never tire, light and lithe and strong.

While he was busy watching Henry, Warren and Tom had made an expedient match, amorous opportunists with their arms around each other’s backs, whispering in each other’s ears, touching a little more than they ought.

“Martin.” Tom held Warren’s hand, and in a low voice asked, “Is there somewhere we can go? Just for a minute?”

Martin laughed softly. “You’re incorrigible, Tom.” But he knew how lonely Tom had been. There’d been so much gossip about him, and he’d had trouble finding affection, much less sex. If Warren would touch him kindly, speak to him sweetly, it would surely do him good.

He hesitated to leave the ballroom, leave Henry. But he wouldn’t send Tom wandering around the Blackwell house on his own.

“Come with me. Let’s be quick.”

Martin set off down the hall at a fast pace with Tom and Warren giggling together at his back. There was a room at the end of the hall, an unremarkable room with no current purpose, but it did have a camelback sofa and a lock on the door.

He hurried back to the ballroom, hoping that Henry had not required his attention in the interim. As he passed through the doorway, he looked for Henry on the floor, and when their eyes met, he offered Henry a broad and beaming smile, generous and heartfelt, and Henry returned it with enthusiastic delight, and just that little bit of connection was a happy comfort. And then Henry whirled past, directing a tempered version of his smile at the blonde girl in his arms.

Feeling loved, Martin got some punch just in case Henry might want to take a break, but Henry danced with two more girls while Martin absently sipped from the cup.

Tom and Warren returned, their clothes in good order, but the skin around their mouths looking pink and faintly blurred from kissing. Smiling Tom moved and spoke with a sort of satisfied lassitude, and Martin was happy for him.

Still Henry danced, and it was his job as host to do exactly this, so Martin could not fault him for it. He did want Henry’s attention, though, wanted it all to himself. Hoping to shake off his mounting irritation, Martin left the ballroom and the spectacle of Henry embracing young ladies, and went for more punch, and when he returned to the ballroom, Henry was looking for him.

“Is that for me?”

“Indeed it is, Sir.” Martin handed the cup over.

“Thank you.” Henry drank, then leaned close. “I’m ready for everyone to go home now. I’m tired out from dancing and smiling at strangers, and I just want to be alone with you.”

This was gratifying to hear. Martin lowered his voice and asked, “Are you looking forward to playing a game with me, Sir?”

Henry laughed, his face instantly red, and looked shyly away. “I love playing games with you,” he admitted. He drank down the rest of the punch.

“Do you want more, Sir?”

“I’ll come with you,” Henry decided, and they made their way to the reception room.

As they stood drinking punch near the bowl, the DeWitt siblings found Henry and said their goodbyes while Martin thanked Stuart and Helena for coming.

Stuart, who had known Martin his entire life, leaned close and said, “I’m glad you’re getting along with Mr. Blackwell again,” pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as he patted him on the back.

So Stuart knew, too. Well, of course he did: everyone knew. Martin didn’t much like this, but it did seem that it wouldn’t necessarily hurt Henry.
He
may have been indiscreet, but apparently his friends were better at keeping secrets.

Other departing guests found Henry in the reception room to thank him for the party, and Martin said polite farewells to their slaves. He surreptitiously checked his watch and was relieved to discover that it was nearly time for the music to end, and surely all the guests would leave then.

Mr. Tim entered the reception room and came immediately to Martin’s side. “Take Young Sir into the hall, please. I think the goodbyes will go much more efficiently.” He clapped Martin on the shoulder. “I hope you’ve had a nice time. Your planning resulted in a lovely party.”

“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Tim.” The praise was very gratifying.

The next half hour was a blur of handshakes and bland politesse. Billy, Paul, Randolph and others of the Blackwell slaves were busy fetching hats and the occasional unseasonable coat. Henry’s smile began to look quite strained. Mr. Blackwell came out of his office and stood in the hall casting a baleful eye on the assembled young people, which did seem to help propel the laggards towards the door. At last, all that were left were Blackwell people and hired caterers, and Henry’s job was done.

Mr. Blackwell asked, “Did you enjoy your party, son?”

A little of the life returned to Henry’s smile. “I did, sir. Everything was wonderful.”

“I’m glad it was a success.” Mr. Blackwell gave Henry a jarring clap on the shoulder and called out, “Goodnight, son,” as he strode from the room.

“Goodnight, Father.” Henry took a step toward the stair, but Martin stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Just a moment, Sir. Before we go…” He went to the epergne on the sideboard, overflowing with flowers that were now slightly wilted, and teased out a red rose. With a quick look around to make sure no one was paying attention, he put the flower in Henry’s hand and smiled as Henry blushed. “I chose the roses especially for you, Sir.”

“I-I thought maybe you did. I hoped so.” Henry’s cheeks were so pink!

“Shall we go upstairs, Sir?”

They took the stairs two at a time. Henry took Martin’s hand at the top, and Martin should have discouraged it, but instead he slipped his fingers between Henry’s and squeezed, and they nearly ran down the hall to Henry’s room.

Inside, they embraced and shared a quick kiss, and Martin filled a drinking glass with water for Henry’s rose, which Henry placed on the nightstand. Martin stripped Henry’s clothes from his body and Henry went to lounge naked on the bed while Martin undressed. When Martin emerged from his own room in pajamas, laundry basket resting on his canted hip, he took a moment to admire Henry stretched out long atop the coverlet.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes and then we’ll play,” he promised.

When he returned, Henry was erect, cheeks flushed, and Martin suspected he’d been touching his cock in anticipation of seeing Martin in a collar and tie.

He shed his pajamas and went naked to Henry’s wardrobe. Blue plaid suit, blue paisley waistcoat, white shirt, foulard tie. Crisp white collar and cuffs.

Henry watched him gather the garments. “Are you going to put them on here?” He sounded hopeful.

“Not unless you insist,” Martin said firmly. “I think you should wait to see it all at once, at least this time.”

“All right. Next time I’ll watch you dress.” Henry seemed happy that there could be a next time. He smiled broadly, excited and bashful.

Martin went to the bedside and bent to kiss him, light and quick. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He closed the connecting door and went into his own room. He dropped the clothes in a heap on the bed and stood in front of his own wardrobe mirror. Should he put on undergarments? Should he wear boots? He considered this a minute, casting a critical eye on his reflection. Too thin. Pretty, but too thin. Henry didn’t seem to mind at all, but Martin would work to rectify the situation anyway. Perhaps he would eat more cake.

He decided in favor of underwear and boots, the full costume, just as he would wear if he really was Mr. Durant, a free man in search of a romantic partner. He got out drawers, vest, and socks, and dressed efficiently. Henry’s collar was a bit loose, perhaps a quarter inch larger than would fit perfectly, but Henry wouldn’t complain. Martin
was
handsome like this, mark covered. He raised his chin a little and tied the tie, watching his hands in the mirror.

Henry didn’t want a free man. He wanted Martin. He wanted to pretend Martin was free, and that Martin chose him. Martin had known all of this when they were at the Calamus, but somehow he understood it better here, in the Blackwell house. It wasn’t meant to be an insult. More than anything, Henry wanted true love, nothing coerced, and despite Martin’s certainty that there was no way he could possibly love Henry more, he had to admit his subordinate position put this assertion in question.

He tied his boots, looked himself over one last time in the mirror, and went out to meet Henry.

Henry sat propped against the headboard with a corner of the coverlet over his hard cock. As Martin came through the connecting door, he sat up, staring intently.

“Oh…”

Martin grinned. “I’m a good-looking fellow, aren’t I?” He struck exaggerated poses: pensive, strongman, checking his pocket watch.

“Oh god, yes, you definitely are.” Henry was babbling, his hands moving restlessly on the coverlet. “Can I kiss you?”

“Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” Martin stepped forward to the bedside and put out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Martin Durant.”

Henry laughed, liking the sound of this. He took Martin’s hand, his grip firm but friendly. “Well, hello, Mr. Durant. I’m Henry Blackwell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh!” Martin opened his eyes wide, surprised O of a mouth. “Are you
that
Blackwell?”

Henry snickered, keeping hold of Martin’s hand. “As a matter of fact, I
am
. I am that Blackwell.”

“The man himself?” Martin cocked an eyebrow, carefully extricating his hand from Henry’s grip and lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What?” Henry feigned offense. “Do you doubt that I’m an industrial tycoon?” He drew the corner of the coverlet back. “
This
is the cock of a very successful man.”

Martin laughed. “Put that away.” He flipped the coverlet back over Henry’s lap. “Let’s get to know each other first.” He eased himself down to lie at Henry’s side, relaxed against the headboard, for once not caring about boots on the bedding.

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s have a drink first,” Martin proposed.

Henry looked confused. “Do you have liquor?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Pretend, Henry. Which was your favorite? I rather liked the Martinez.”

“Oh, me, too. Say, let me get it for you.”

Martin shrugged. “All right. I’ll get the next round.”

Martin remembered the dim Venetian barroom, the mirror behind the bar, glassware glittering like jewels, and he thought Henry might be remembering the same. They grinned at each other, toasting with illusory drinks, eyeing one another over the rims of imaginary glasses.

In a low, sultry tone, Martin said, “Are you single, Mr. Blackwell?”

Henry smiled and then looked away, blushing. “I…I guess I am. What about you, Mr. Durant?”

“I’m very single,” Martin said. “But I’m also very particular about my men.”

Henry shifted beside him, tilting to lounge on his side, face to face. “In what way are you particular, Mr. Durant? What are your criteria?”

Martin gave a haughty sniff. “It’s shallow, I know, but I’ll only ever fall for a beauty.”

“What’s your type?” Henry asked in a hoarse whisper. He picked up Martin’s hand and began to trace the sensitive sides of his fingers. “Do you like tall, dark and…handsome?”

“Do you know anyone like that?” Martin asked.

“I know it’s a bit dim in here, but did you get a good look at me, Mr. Durant? I don’t want to brag, but I’ve been told I’m actually something of a beauty.”

Martin ran a hand through Henry’s hair, tilting his head back so that the light hit his face. Henry met his gaze, his regard calm. “Like a young god,” Martin decided.