A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2)
Read A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) Online
Authors: Darrah Glass
© 2014 Darrah Glass
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a critical review.
Digital ISBN: 978-1626227309
Cover art by Ulvar (
http://littleulvar.deviantart.com/
)
Cover design by D. Glass
Book design by D. Glass
Again, for Leta, my dearest friend and greatest champion.
It was Wednesday, exactly a week before Halloween, and a week and a day since their first ride, and the weather was good, crisp and clear. Martin had no homework and Henry lied and said he didn’t, either, and let Martin dress him for riding. Martin called ahead and the grooms, Jerry and Arthur, were standing ready with the horses when they arrived on foot.
“You needn’t walk over, Sir, if you don’t want,” Jerry said as he helped Henry to mount Marigold’s back. “If you’ll only have Martin call, Sir, we’ll send a carriage to the house for you.”
Henry frowned and scoffed at this. He wasn’t a spoiled baby. He wasn’t some maiden aunt. “It’s only a few blocks,” he pointed out. “Anyone can walk a few blocks.”
“Of course, Sir,” Jerry said, immediately deferential.
At Jerry’s back, Arthur boosted Martin into his saddle and they smiled at one another, exchanging remarks Henry couldn’t hear at this distance.
“Martin? Are you ready?”
Arthur slapped Partita on the withers, more than a hint of ownership in the gesture, and walked toward the stables. Martin turned to look at Henry, his expression open and warm, his smile genuine and happy.
“I’m ready, Sir,” he said. He patted Partita’s neck and she snorted and shook her head. “We’re both ready.”
As they rode to the park, Henry reveled in the day: it was beautiful weather and he had Martin all to himself.
Inside the park, the bridle path was strewn with fallen leaves that skittered under the horses’ hooves, driven along by a brisk breeze. The trees were half-bared, the naked branches letting through extravagant portions of light, and Henry let Martin ride a little ahead so he could admire how the sunlight brought out sparks of pink in the tawny tail that hung down the middle of his back.
Martin turned in the saddle. “Sir? Is everything all right?”
Henry felt his face grow hot. “I was just looking,” he explained. He gave Marigold a little squeeze with his knees and when they pulled abreast of Martin on Partita, he leaned in and said, “It’s just that your hair is very beautiful in the sun,” in a low, confessional tone.
Martin beamed at him. “Oh, Sir,” he said. “You’re so sweet!” He put a hand on his heart, touched.
Henry was gratified by Martin’s response. It was his plan that he should court Martin, in a way; that he should be, as Martin said, sweet. At the very beginning of this thing that was happening between them, Martin had called him a proper lover, and he wanted to act the part. Though Martin was appropriately grateful for everything he was given, he didn’t seem to want material things. What Martin seemed to value were actions and words, and it was going to be difficult to give Martin what he wanted when Henry was so bad with words, but he would try. For Martin, he thought he would try anything.
Just days ago, this past Sunday, impassioned and on the verge of argument, they had offered themselves up, claimed one another. Henry belonged to Martin, and Martin belonged to him—they’d
said
so. It was irrefutable. Still swooning at the memories, Henry fought the urge to constantly reassert this mutual ownership, afraid of being judged unattractively sentimental and possessive by his slave. Instead, he would try to adore Martin quietly, manfully. He would offer compliments and kindnesses, gentle gallantries.
They rode in a fulsome silence a few minutes, Martin giving off a sort of residual glow, a result of Henry’s sweetness. They rode close together, their knees nearly touching, but Partita protested, shaking her head, grumbling and sidestepping.
“She doesn’t like being so close, I don’t think, Sir,” Martin said regretfully. “Maybe if we get her used to it a little bit at a time?”
“If it bothers her, we shouldn’t do it,” Henry said, equally regretful. Partita probably had the right idea, though; they should not be riding close enough together to cause anyone to notice or remark anyway.
With the horses a comfortable distance apart, they moved along the bridle path at a brisk trot. Up ahead, two people on horseback were stopped on the trail. As they got closer, it became apparent that this was a young man roughly Henry’s age with his own slave. The slave had his head tilted back and was dabbing at his eye with a handkerchief and the boy was offering him advice.
“Maybe if you cry it will wash it out,” he said. “If you keep poking at it you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Yes, Sir,” the slave told him, though he continued to dab at his eye.
As Henry and Martin drew abreast of them, the strange boy said, “Hey, there. Excuse me. My slave here has got a bit of leaf or something in his eye. Do you know any good tricks to get rid of it? I think he just needs to cry it out. You know, let his eye water.”
Henry brought Marigold to a halt. He knew no good tricks, but he thought the boy was probably right. “I think you’re right,” he said. “What do you think, Martin?”
Martin looked a little flustered to be asked to advise a stranger. “I-I also think that’s the best idea, Sirs.” Addressing the stranger, he asked, “Would you like me to look at his eye for you, Sir? I could see if there’s anything obvious stuck in there, Sir, if that would help.”
The boy waved off Martin’s offer. “I looked. It’s nothing big enough to see.”
The slave still had his head tilted back, but now tears were rolling down from the corners of his eyes toward his ears. “I’m doing what you said, Sir.”