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Chapter Text

A newly-minted lord who has until recently been in the army must be in want of a new wardrobe, Stede supposes.

Still, that does not mean that Stede should offer his services, despite the urgings of his valet.

“This could make your career,” Lucius tells Stede. “The poor man wears nothing but black frock coats.”

Stede winces and clutches at his heart every time he hears that fact. The mere idea of a wardrobe of unrelieved blacks gives him the vapors. To imagine seeing it in person, as he would have to if he offered his services… the idea is simply not to be borne.

Besides, Stede has not built his reputation as the chief cravat influencer and men’s wardrobe consultant to the ton by offering his aid indiscriminately. Quite the reverse! If he offered his aid to all and sundry, then the refined touches he offers each man’s wardrobe would become all too commonplace.

“The man is quite handsome,” Lucius continues as he helps Stede into his green wool riding coat. It’s cut quite smartly, with a trim waist and some fullness about the shoulders—one of Stede’s best features. “Making over his wardrobe would cement your reputation for life,” Lucius continues.

Stede adjusts the drape of his lapels minutely as he looks into the mirror. If the man is truly handsome, that makes the notion of offering his services more tempting. It may be an unfair fact of life that handsome people look well in clothes, but a fact of life it is.

“Perhaps,” Stede allows. “I will have to see him before deciding whether to offer my services, of course.”

Stede is forced to earn his crust. Another unfair fact of life, but needs must. He is obliged to always keep a careful equilibrium between the perception of exclusivity he takes on and his need to earn money. Though his father had been a well-off member of the haute bourgeoisie, he left Stede with only a nominal amount of his vast wealth, preferring to bestow the bulk of it on a distant cousin.

Naturally, Stede’s wardrobe costs an excessive amount, not to mention the money needed to merely exist within the upper echelons of the ton. The money required for gambling alone… Though Stede detests playing cards, the connections he’s made over the card table have proven invaluable for his “career,” as Lucius put it.

Stede wouldn’t quite call it that. Perhaps calling is more apt a description. He sighs as Lucius hands him a cravat. He is quite fortunate, he supposes, that he has found a way to make money doing something he loves.

Stede takes extra care with his cravat today. Most men of his station would allow their valets to tie their cravats. Lucius has a deft enough hand with knots, but only Stede’s are universally acknowledged to be flawless, tied with elaborate, almost mathematical precision.

Looking well today is of crucial importance. Today, Stede and his latest client, Mr. Hornberry, will go riding in Rotten Row. It will mark the debut of Hornberry’s new wardrobe, and serve as an advertisement to potential future clients. Stede’s ensemble today needs to be flawless yet understated so as not to draw attention from Hornberry. The dear, sweet man had needed all the help he could get.

Stede inspects himself in the mirror. After adjusting his hair, he decides that he will do quite well.

As Stede leaves his modest, rented townhome and walks over to the stables, he puzzles once more over Hornberry. Most men seek Stede’s services because they wish to marry or to gain more influence in society. When Stede inquired as to Hornberry’s goals, he demurred, saying he was a “confirmed bachelor” and had all the influence he wished. He merely desired some novelty and had grown quite tired of his current clothing.

Stede, too, never wished to marry. His one engagement to The Honourable Mary Allamby was a disaster. He used his savings to purchase a commission to escape it, deciding that fighting Bonaparte was preferable, despite being an only son who was not expected to fight. These were the two sins Stede’s father never forgave. The marriage was meant to ally the Bonnets with the nobility, but Stede thwarted his father’s plans. He preferred to be free, even if that meant he was trading his father’s shackles for the army’s. Hornberry, too, had eschewed marriage for the military—the navy, in his case.

“Hornberry likes you,” Lucius observed once. “But I wonder if you like him.”

“Of course, I like him,” Stede replied. “He’s a very nice man!” It was an odd remark. As a matter of fact, Stede likes all of his clients to some degree. Since he must spend many hours with each one, it is imperative for his comfort and enjoyment of his work. He has spent more than enough hours with people he detests. Hornberry is perfectly pleasant, if a bit boring, but so are most people in society, when they are not downright cruel.

Quite honestly, Lucius could be obtuse at times. If he weren’t so meticulous with Stede’s clothes, he’d let the lad go.

The new lord is said to be quite morose and fearsome, which is one reason Stede is wary of following Lucius’s suggestion to offer his services. He was whispered about on the Peninsula, where he admittedly acquitted himself with honor. Stede never saw him—he was in a different regiment—but the lads whispered about his daring deeds, nicknaming him “Blackbeard,” presumably due to his unusual choice of facial hair.

Stede, despite an unfortunate injury, had an undistinguished career as one of the Prince’s Royal Hussars.

His Highness Prince George, better known as Prinny, found Stede to be witty and admired the sharpness with which he wore his uniform. He kept Stede close and even promoted him to lieutenant for reasons that had nothing to do with military merit. This suited Stede well until the Hussars sailed to Spain and saw real action.

He was quite unsuited to violence, as it happened.

Stede resigned his commission soon after their return to England, having never been truly comfortable in the military and proving inept at fighting. He’d gone through much of his inheritance by then, as the Hussars were an expensive regiment. His relationship with Prinny stood him in good stead in London society, where he became noted for his beautifully tailored clothing, as well as his excellent hygiene.

When men of rank started quietly coming to him asking for wardrobe advice, Stede’s “career” was born. It is all conducted in whispers since working for a living is frowned upon in society, though it is quite expensive to maintain one’s place there. A cruel double bind. Stede suspects that most of the ton knows that he is paid for his advice, and since he is close to Prinny and has worked closely with peers of the realm, most pretend to turn a blind eye.

A few sneer at him, but he ignores them as much as he can. Stede has some savings, but keeping up his reputation enough to gain the next client is costly. He cuts corners where he can, living frugally as possible in the private-facing side of his life. He eats plain food at home alone, reuses tea leaves, and asks Lucius to darn the toes of his stockings. Fortunately, his tailor gives him a discount in exchange for all the new clientele he brings in, or else his lifestyle would be completely insupportable.

The more Stede considers the matter, the more he believes that making over the wardrobe of the famous Blackbeard could be quite a coup. He will keep an open mind about the man, he decides, and try to determine whether he’d welcome advice.

It’s a beautiful day for a ride in Rotten Row. After a few days of foul weather, Arthur, Stede’s horse, is more than happy to get the exercise. As they ride along, Stede is pleased to see how the ton is taking note of Hornberry’s handsome new blue riding coat. The cravat, which Hornberry tied himself, having had the benefit of hours of painstaking lessons, is flawless.

People are whispering to each other as Stede and Hornberry ride by.

Yes, this has been yet another successful endeavor.

Stede is about to turn to offer Hornberry his congratulations when there’s a commotion somewhere behind him. Arthur and Hornberry’s horses both rear up as another set of hoof beats approaches rapidly. Someone is in quite the devil of a hurry, and on Rotten Row, of all places!

Stede tries to persuade Arthur to move aside, but he seems frozen in place. He has always been a slightly skittish horse, though Stede is excessively fond of his kind eyes. He continues to absorb the expense of his upkeep when he’d be wiser to give him up. Despite his love of the beast, Stede himself is only a barely adequate horseman, as his stint in the Hussars had proven.

The next thing he knows, Arthur bolts, and Stede finds himself knocked out of the saddle and onto the ground as a large black shape gallops past him.

Dazed, Stede looks up from the ground to find a great dark stallion looming over him. On top of the beast is a dark-haired man dressed in a black frock coat.

A man with a long, silvering beard.

His dark eyes are wide as he stares down at Stede.

A crowd is gathering, and people are rushing over to assist Stede to his feet. Hornberry dismounts and is the first to help Stede up.

Before Stede can say a word to the dark-haired man, to ask what he means by riding hell for leather through Rotten Row, he wheels his horse around and gallops off.

“Well, that was quite rude!” Stede says as he grips Hornberry’s hand to leverage himself up off the ground. His riding coat is quite mussed, and it’s his favorite, too. Drat.

If that’s the famous Blackbeard, then Stede wants no part in helping him.

“Tell me all about him!”

“There is not much to tell, Lucius,” Stede huffs. “He galloped past, spooked my horse, then rode away when I was thrown.” He sits down gingerly on an armchair in his bedroom. “I would appreciate some concern, actually.”

Lucius brings over a tin of salve. “Here. I brought this for your sore arse. Was he as handsome as everyone says? Pete was in his regiment.” Pete works in the stable and is Lucius’s paramour. “He says Blackbeard is splendid-looking.”

“I am going to fire you one of these days, you know,” Stede mutters as he takes the tin.

“No, you won’t. You don’t trust anyone else to iron your linens.”

Stede sighs. “No, I won’t.” The very thought of letting anyone near his wardrobe makes him rather ill.

Still, Stede knows Lucius won’t leave him be unless he answers the question. Stede closes his eyes and brings to mind the image of Blackbeard. “The man was rather handsome, yes, I suppose. Long, wild, hair. Rather fine eyes. The beard is dreadfully out of fashion, however. Perhaps it hides a weak chin.”

“What about his clothes?” Lucius persists.

“Too dark, though he looks well enough in black, I suppose. I couldn’t fully judge the quality of the tailoring from my position on the ground.” Stede shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His backside is already sore and will hurt like the devil in the morning.

“I met his valet today at the Junior Ganymede,” Lucius continues, ignoring Stede’s sarcasm. “Odd, angry little man. I gather they fought on the Peninsula together. Of course, his clothing…” Lucius’s nose wrinkles.

“All black?”

“Every stitch of it. Who ever heard of all-black livery? Without even any gold brain. I can speak to the valet, though, and try to assess whether Blackbeard might want your services.”

“What?” Stede sits up straighter in shock. “No, absolutely not. Do not say anything to him.”

Lucius tilts his head. “Why ever not?”

“The man knocked me from my horse, Lucius! He then rode away! I’ll have nothing to do with him.” Stede gets up from his chair and strides over to his en suite. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “Now leave me to rest before the ball tonight. Please.”

“Fine.” Lucius picks up Stede’s poor abused riding clothes and leaves.

Stede isn’t sure why Lucius is so keen for him to take Blackbeard on as a client. Perhaps it would be a feather in his cap, but the man is boorish. Stede has sufficient potential clientele to choose from. He needn’t lower himself.

Blackbeard can, as the boys in Stede’s regiment used to so colorfully say, go suck eggs in hell.

Even if the man would look very well indeed in the proper clothing.

Lady Hawthorne’s ball is one of the highlights of the early Season. Only the crème de la crème attends. It is the perfect setting in which to launch the new and sartorially improved Mr. Connor Hornberry into society.

Sticking to a color theme today, Stede is wearing a drake’s neck green frock coat with his signature elaborately knotted linen cravat, silk breeches, stockings, and slippers. Hornberry looks well in an equally perfectly tailored carmelite brown coat.

Stede is quite perturbed, therefore, that Hornberry is sticking to his side like a burr rather than dancing or playing cards. He knows that Hornberry doesn’t wish to marry, but surely he undertook to improve his wardrobe so that he might socialize more.

By this time of the evening, Stede would usually be in the card room, making witty remarks and trying to make the connections that would lead him to his next client. His backside is decidedly too sore to sit for prolonged periods, however. Instead, he is standing among the dowagers, drinking ratafia—nasty stuff—and gossiping.

At least, he’s attempting to gossip, but Hornberry is laughing uproariously at everything he says. These are cutting remarks, not mere jokes! There is an art to them.

“What do you think of her frock?” Lady Higgins, an imposingly tall woman with an eyepatch-wearing a handsome gown of burgundy sarcenet trimmed with black satin, asks Stede. She jerks her chin at Anne, Lady Rackham, née Bonny, whose décolletage in a frock of forest green gauze is scandalous; she has only recently left off mourning clothes.

“A rather loud advertisement for her next husband,” Stede replies dryly.

Hornberry giggles loudly as Lady Higgins snorts elegantly.

“Time will tell if it is persuasive enough,” Stede continues. “I think her dear friend Miss Read would prefer she not remarry.” Her husband, Lord Rackham, passed away in a horrible accident that, according to rumor, had to do with an irate bird of some kind. Lady Rackham is close to Miss Read, whom she employs as a companion.

“What of Lord Bellamy?” Lady Higgins uses her fan to discreetly point at the gentleman in question.

“Lovely enough,” Stede says. “Regretfully for him, he’s wearing his entire fortune on his back. He’ll wear that coat to half the balls this season. He’s out for a rich wife, mark my words. Lord Montague told me—”

Lady Higgins interrupts Stede’s words with a dramatic gasp. “La, I never thought I’d see him at a ball.”

Stede follows her gaze to the door of the ballroom, where a figure in a black coat and breeches stands.

A very familiar figure.

“Damnation,” Stede murmurs into his cup.

“Bonnet, isn’t he the man we saw on Rotten Row earlier today? The one galloping at a reckless pace, who knocked you on your—”

“Yes,” Stede grits out. His cheeks are burning.

“Don’t you know? That is Blackbeard,” Lady Higgins whispers to Hornberry.

“I don’t know that name.”

“Edward Teach, Earl of Blackthorn,” Lady Higgins supplies. “Known as Blackbeard when he fought on the Peninsula.”

Hornberry raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Ah! I recall the name now. He’s said to be quite the hero.”

“He is a boor,” Stede hisses.

“Boor or no, he’s coming this way,” Lady Higgins says with an arch of the brow above her good eye.

Damn. Lord Blackthorn is walking straight towards them. Stede longs to flee, but he is not going to cause a scandal at Lady Hawthorne’s ball by offering the cut direct to one of her guests. Stede cannot afford to alienate his potential clientele or to have people whispering about him. Society is too bloody expensive.

Sometimes, Stede is quite tired of it all, though he plays the game well. He invented many of its rules, in fact. Still, the polite masks, the cutting remarks, and the false friends do grow wearisome.

As he does every evening at every event when confronted with someone he’d prefer not to speak to, Stede pastes a smile on his face as Blackbeard gets closer.

When Blackbeard reaches Stede’s little group, he offers a deep and, it must be said, elegant bow. His clothing, now that Stede sees it close up, is of indifferent quality in terms of fabric and tailoring though nothing is incorrect. The black frock coat suits him, Stede admits, but not perhaps as much as a nice jewel tone would.

His eyes… Those take Stede’s breath away, though why that might be, he cannot say.

“The Cravat Influencer, I presume?” Blackbeard possesses a low and rumbling voice that sends a frisson throughout Stede’s body.

Stede should protest that he has not been introduced. He should be just as direct, asking Lord Blackthorn what exactly he meant by riding through Hyde Park so fast that Stede was thrown from his horse. He should turn away, offering the cut direct, after all, damn the consequences.

Instead, Stede finds himself strangely transfixed by the man’s face, voice, and manner. “You’ve heard of me?” he asks.

Idiot. All of society has heard of you.

Stede clears his throat. Since there’s no one here who knows Blackthorn to perform the introduction, needs must. “At your service, sir.” He offers the earl a bow.

“Forgive me for seeking you out thus, but I fear I’m in dire need of your counsel.”

Did he seek Stede out on purpose? Stede swallows. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” Why should this man fluster him so? Stede never feels he is on the back foot in social situations. Not anymore.

Lady Hawthorne appears next to Lord Blackthorn, slightly breathless, to perform the proper introductions. Lord Blackthorn looks impatient rather than abashed as she performs the necessary ritual. He is aware of social rules, then, but not necessarily interested in them. His eyes remain on Stede except when he must speak to Lady Higgins and Mr. Hornberry as politeness dictates.

When the introductions are complete, Blackthorn leans closer to Stede. “May we speak privately? I know it’s an unusual request.”

An unusual request indeed! This man’s manners are abominable. Stede hardly knows how to cope with such a direct request for a meeting with someone he hasn’t been properly introduced to, especially in the midst of a ballroom full of the cream of the ton. Acquiescing to such a request could damage Stede’s reputation which, along with his faultless taste, is the only attribute he can use to make his way in the world. What will people think of him if he agrees?

Yes, Stede should refuse, politely of course.

Yet curiosity has always been one of his besetting sins, and there is something endearingly earnest in Lord Blackthorn’s countenance. Stede’s face grows hot—damn this blush that often gives away his thoughts and feelings—as he agrees. In any event, if Lucius heard that he refused to find out what Blackthorn wanted, Stede would never hear the end of it. For the sake of his domestic peace, he will speak to the earl.

The ball is not suitable for this purpose, so he suggests that Blackthorn join him at his club later in the evening. Blackthorn assents, and Lady Hawthorne whisks him away to meet some of her other guests. Getting the mysterious new lord to her ball was quite a coup, Stede supposes.

“What do you think he wants to speak with you about?” Hornberry asks.

“Seeking advice on his wardrobe, I expect,” Stede says. Quite a commonplace discussion for Stede to have when he is between clients–though often the delicate task of locating a new potential client and negotiating with him discreetly can take weeks. Still, something about the prospect of meeting Lord Blackthorn later makes his heart beat faster. It must be due to the unusual nature of their first encounters with one another. He is still angry about Blackthorn’s behavior in the park, but he can admit to himself that this is the most interesting day he’s had in quite a while, as much as his backside might sting.

Stede shakes those melancholy-tending thoughts off. He is doing well, after all! His life is quite satisfactory. He affects his usual sangfroid. “I’ll start by telling him to shave. He looks rather like a Russian.”

As Lady Higgins and Hornberry laugh, Stede feels uneasy. The beard suits Blackthorn, he thinks, even if it is dreadfully out of fashion. Some people have sufficient elan to set their own fashions. Blackthorn, with his striking features and lean figure, may be just such a person, provided his manners can be ameliorated somewhat. Though of course, there are always lords who somehow ignore social dictates with impunity, and perhaps Blackthorn will be such a one.

Despite himself, Stede finds he is looking forward to their private discussion.

As a member of London’s premier club, Jenkins’s, Stede is able to bring Lord Blackthorn along as a guest. “Have you joined a club?” Stede asks as the attendant takes their cloaks and hats. They had ridden the short distance in their separate carriages but arrived at almost the same moment.

“No, not as yet,” Blackthorn replies, “though I suppose it is expected of me.” He sounds wary, or perhaps weary.

“People are interested in you, if I may be so bold,” Stede says as they are shown to a private table. “I suspect you will have no trouble finding those who would be willing to nominate you.” Stede leaves off commenting on the earl’s manners being a detriment, but that is hardly insurmountable provided he wishes to learn.

“Perhaps.” Blackthorn takes his seat and Stede follows suit. “Please allow me to apologize for my behavior in the park today. I am quite sorry I didn’t stop to check on you. Jeff was spooked, and I thought it best to get him away.”

“Jeff?” Stede asks.

“My horse,” Blackthorn explains. “He is of a rather nervous disposition. I had him on the Peninsula, you see, and he has been skittish ever since. He is unused to city life. A twig snapped, and he bolted.” He grimaces. “I should purchase another horse for town and leave Jeff at my estate, but it is difficult to part with him.”

Stede exhales. “I understand. I feel similarly about my horse, Arthur. We were together on the Peninsula too, you see. I am fond of him. Although—” Stede closes his mouth quickly.

“Although?” Blackthorn prompts, leaning forward. He looks intensely interested in whatever Stede is about to say.

“Although he kicked me on our first day in Corunna.” Stede laughs ruefully. “The silly creature broke my nose.”

Blackthorn’s eyes widen, to quite an impossible degree. “That was you?”

Stede groans. “You heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about that, mate.” Blackthorn’s eyes are now sparkling with mischief. “The Hussar who couldn’t control his horse.”

The unexpected familiarity sets Stede off balance. Military manners, he supposes, though the Prince’s regiment had been more formal. Stede looks down at his hands. “Yes, well, I never quite lived that down.”

“You did live, though,” Blackthorn says. “It could have gone much worse for you. I’ve seen men felled by a kick from a horse.”

That is true enough, Stede supposes. Still, he wishes to change the subject. “I have heard of your exploits in Spain. And at Waterloo! Quite a hero! A career soldier, were you not?”

Blackthorn waves a hand, dismissing his accomplishments. “I enlisted in the army as a boy, as I never expected to inherit. The previous lord was my second cousin. It was all I knew till now.”

Stede remembers hearing the story. The previous Lord Blackthorn had perished with his young son and heir in a carriage accident. The current lord’s parents are said to have met in the colonies, where the elder Teach, the current earl’s father, went to try to make his fortune. One gathers that he was the black sheep of the family, and married without their approval.

“Well, I accept your apology,” Stede says. “It sounds like you did well to remove Jeff from the park. I had been wondering why you thought galloping along Rotten Row was a good idea.”

Blackthorn throws his head back and laughs. He is quite charming. The beard does suit him. Stede is sorry for what he said before about telling him to shave. He could make this man fashionable, he thinks. Even if the beard remains, covering his cravats. As a war hero and an unexpected lord, his eccentricity could be considered charming.

“No, though I’m new to society, even I know that one doesn’t ride like hell down Rotten Row,” Blackthorn says. “I was merely hoping to take the air and see what’s what.” He sighs. “I have had a few invitations, but I hardly know where to start. I understand society, more or less. I’m not wholly ignorant, but I am not practiced in the finer points. It all seems rather tedious.” Stede cannot argue with that. “As for my wardrobe…” Blackthorn gestures at his suit. “I am used to being in uniform most of the time.”

“You’re asking for my help,” Stede says, certain now. Blackthorn nods his assent. “May I ask, why all the black?”

“Have you ever felt that you were treading water, ready to drown?”

Though the question is a non sequitur, Stede replies, “I very much have felt that way.”

“Blackbeard, the war hero, isn’t real.” Stede is surprised at the man’s candor, but he listens with rapt attention. “The black helps maintain the illusion and keeps people at a distance. Now I have this new start in life. I’d like to put Blackbeard aside and see who Edward Teach, the Earl of Blackthorn, might be.” He laughs. “The similarity of the moniker to the title I was not meant to inherit is a mere coincidence, by the by.”

Stede understands how Blackthorn feels. He, too, has his role to play as the Cravat Influencer, the dandy, and it gets tiresome. He wonders if he’s lost the real Stede somewhere along the way.

“Besides,” Blackthorn continues, “it seems I must join society, so I should like to make a proper go of it.” He looks at Stede with wide, pleading eyes. “I know you have no reason to help me, especially after what happened earlier today, yet I must ask—”

“I will,” Stede interrupts him. “Help you. Yes, I believe you could cut a quite striking figure if you wished. I can advise you on those ‘finer points’ of society as well.”

Lucius will crow—he’d been quite right. Lord Blackthorn’s make-over (as Stede calls each client’s transformation) will be quite a triumph. At least, unlike some of his clients, Stede wouldn’t have to speak to Blackthorn about hygiene. He seems quite fastidious in that regard. He’ll look well in new clothes, and he’s certain to pick up society’s rules with Stede’s tutelage.

They discuss price, which Stede always finds distasteful though it is sadly necessary. Stede outlines his pricing, along with his methods and conditions, such as using only tailors he recommends. In return, Stede turns his entire attention to his client during the tenure of their agreement. Blackthorn readily agrees to all of it, which is a relief. Stede does so hate to negotiate.

When they are agreed, they shake on it. The touch of Blackthorn’s hand sends that frisson down Stede’s spine once more.

Stede is excited to work with this man.

Surely, it must be because Blackthorn will help cement Stede’s reputation as the foremost arbiter of men’s clothing and good taste.

Blackthorn wanted to start right away. Since Hornberry was well settled, Stede called upon him on the morrow to break off their professional relationship. He seemed oddly disappointed but agreed that Stede had fulfilled his end of their agreement.

Another successful make-over

Last night, Stede invited Blackthorn over to his home for tea. It is perhaps unusual, as is all of Stede’s profession, but for some clients, Stede likes to ascertain their tastes to start with. Of course, Stede’s taste will take precedence, but his clients wear their clothes more confidently if they feel they’ve had some choice in the matter. Stede’s wardrobe is wide and varied, so Blackthorn can start by looking through it and getting a sense of what sorts of cuts and colors he might prefer.

Blackthorn could perhaps even try some of Stede’s clothes on, as their builds are quite similar. This is a first for Stede. He is quite surprised the idea occurred to him, as it would have made him faint with horror before today. Yet Stede thinks there’s something trustworthy about Lord Blackthorn.

He would wear Stede’s clothes quite well indeed…

Stede dresses with special care today, choosing a chestnut brown frock coat, a striped waistcoat in cream and fawn, and nankin trousers.

Stede closes the book he has been trying and failing to read and rings for Lucius. Blackthorn is due soon, and Stede is restless.

Lucius enters the drawing room. “Lord Blackthorn has not arrived yet.”

“I know,” Stede says, standing up and pacing the room. “We should have tea.”

Lucius frowns. “I had anticipated that, you know.” He is too impertinent by half. “I have never seen you this anxious about a client,” he observes.

“I’m not anxious!” Stede shouts, belying his words. He sighs heavily. He has been aflutter all day long. “I am merely very slightly agitated,” he allows.

Lucius raises his eyebrows. “Why might that be?”

Stede is struggling to frame an answer to the question when the bell rings. He’s here!

As Lucius goes to admit him, Stede smoothes his already flawless hair and cravat once more in the mirror. “I am adequate,” he tells his reflection.

Once Blackthorn has been admitted and Lucius has disappeared to fetch their tea, he and Stede gaze upon each other for a long moment. The silence ought to be awkward. Stede would usually be rushing to mention the weather by now. Yet despite his anxiety over this meeting, Stede finds himself disinclined to the social panacea of small talk.

This is Stede’s first time seeing Blackthorn up close and in the light of day. He is perhaps even more striking. His dark hair, shot through already with silver though he’s of a similar age to Stede, is tied in a queue. His brown eyes are almost amber in the late spring afternoon light. His beard, though perhaps an eccentricity, is neatly trimmed. It reminds Stede of what Blackthorn said last night about holding people at a distance.

Stede is well acquainted with facades.

The man is wearing his customary black. Stede longs to see him in colors. He’s also in riding clothes, but Stede would like to get him into trousers and shoes, which should look well with his height and slim figure.

Though Stede must admit that riding boots suit the man admirably well.

Blackthorn smiles at Stede, a little half quirk of his lips. “So we are to begin today?”

“Yes, today,” Stede agrees as Lucius returns with the tea tray.

Once he has set it down, he shoots Stede an inscrutable look and asks, “Will that be all, sir?”

Thankfully, Lucius, for all his familiarity in private, knows how to behave in public. “Yes, for now, thank you, Spriggs.”

Once he is gone, Stede pours the tea, noting that Blackthorn takes a rather absurd number of sugar cubes for his cup. More of that charming eccentricity, Stede supposes. Stede recalls there had been little enough of the stuff in the army. Perhaps the earl has developed a sweet tooth now that he has the funds to indulge it.

The earl hums happily as he takes a sip of the tea. Stede himself will now have to forego sugar in his tea for the next fortnight, but no matter. His guest’s enjoyment takes precedence.

“I’ve asked you here today because I thought you might like to review my wardrobe,” Stede begins. “It’s varied enough that we can take note of your preferences when we go to the tailor.” He needn’t add that this is an unusual request on his part. The earl seems to be no stranger to unusual requests, after all.

Blackthorn raises an eyebrow. “Do you not merely dictate what I should wear?”

“A common misconception, but no, indeed, I prefer to have the client’s input. I do of course have the final say on any items, as we agreed.”

Blackthorn takes a sip of his tea. “And what if you find that I have no taste?” he asks softly. “I wasn’t bred to fine things, Bonnet. Including fine clothes.” Worry creases his brow.

“I doubt very much that you lack taste,” Stede tells him truthfully. “You merely had no chance to indulge it in the army. Whereas I indulged mine in the army to a fault, which is one reason I sold my commission soon after my return from Spain. That, and the regiment was being sent to Manchester, of all places.” Stede shudders at the thought.

That earns a chuckle from Blackthorn.

“In any event, taste is not an inherent quality. It can be taught, and if I may say so, you’ve hired the best teacher.” Stede laughs. “Though I suppose you ought to be the teacher, given your surname!”

Looking more relaxed now, Blackthorn sits back in his chair. “I could teach you something. If you like. Up to you, of course.” He looks directly into Stede’s eyes. “Riding, for example.”

Stede feels a flush creep up his face. “Riding?”

“I could teach you how to have a better seat. To help you avoid being thrown again.”

Stede looks down into his cup of tea. “Perhaps I need only learn to avoid those who cannot control their horses.”

Blackthorn throws his head back and laughs. “A fair point.”

It is true that Stede is merely adequate at riding and would like to be better at it. His father, having been born in a lower station in life than he eventually achieved, never put much stock in it, despite it being an important gentlemanly pastime. It is one of the many reasons Stede did not last long with the Hussars. Of course, he’d foolishly expected he wouldn’t be sent into battle, an expectation foiled shortly afterward months before the onset of the Peninsular War.

Blackthorn’s voice grows serious in tone once more. “This offer is of course separate from our agreed-upon financial arrangement,” he adds.

Stede looks down into his teacup, abashed. “If it’s no trouble, I should like that very much,” he replies softly.

“Fantastic!” Blackthorn seems sincerely pleased with their new arrangement. Imagine someone being pleased at the prospect of spending more time with Stede. Oh, he is tolerated, and respected as an arbiter of taste, but he knows full well that he is not widely liked for himself.

Blackthorn will likely tire of Stede by the time their arrangement has run its course. To Stede’s surprise, the thought makes him sad, but he sets that aside to consider more deeply later.

While Stede is a great lover of tea, drinking it with others can often be a tiresome social ritual in his experience. It is generally full of either inane discussion of the weather or gossip. The gossip is at least useful to Stede—the more he knows, the better he’s able to make his way through society. It is often mean-spirited, though. An ironic observation given that Prinny values Stede precisely for his way with cutting remarks.

There is no gossip today, since Lord Blackthorn is new to society, and his discussion is far more interesting and far-ranging than the weather. He notices Stede’s book, Persuasion, from the author of Pride and Prejudice, and asks how Stede enjoys it.

Stede must have been agitated indeed to have forgotten to put the book out of sight. He is not ashamed of reading a popular novel, but he generally prefers to keep his reading life separate from his real life. That is a place of soft dreams, not the dreary reality of making his way in the world.

When Stede hesitates, Blackthorn says, gently, “I found Pride and Prejudice to be quite enjoyable. Elizabeth and Darcy are a love for the ages.” He smiles shyly. “One cannot always predict with whom one will fall in love.”

“Persuasion is superior even to Pride and Prejudice,” Stede says passionately. “I am on my third reading of it. Oh, it’s wonderful. The protagonist and her beloved lost each other when they were young. They reconnect when they’re older and…” Stede sighs. “Well, I won’t spoil the plot, but suffice it to say, I find it deeply romantic.”

“It’s about finding love when they’re older? What age?”

“In their thirties, I believe.” A similar age to Stede, as a matter of fact. Anne Elliot’s story gives him hope. Of course, unlike Anne, he doesn’t love his former betrothed. He and Mary are better off as friends. Yet Stede longs for love, but the picture in his mind of who that might be is rather clouded. He has never met anyone who seems to fit into that shadowy space in his heart, it seems. Perhaps he is simply unfortunate.

Blackthorn’s shy smile has reappeared, making something tighten in Stede’s chest.

They discuss the authoress’s works further. Stede goes into rhapsodies about Persuasion, though Lord Blackthorn is incredulous at the notion that any other work could surpass Pride and Prejudice. Stede offers to let Blackthorn borrow his copy, suggesting they might discuss it once he’s read it. He accepts gladly.

The tea hour flies by as their discussion widens into literature more generally. Blackthorn finds Wordsworth pretentious, preferring Coleridge, but Stede mounts a stout defense of him. Their debate is lively. Their reading tastes are quite similar but not completely, so their discussion is stimulating without being rancorous.

Stede eventually notes that it’s growing late. “I’d better show you my wardrobe before I must dress for dinner,” he says.

“Lead the way.

“All this is yours?” Blackthorn asks as he turns in a slow circle inside Stede’s wardrobe. “A whole room for your clothing? You cannot possibly have the time to wear all this.”

Stede had open racks and shelves built for his clothing in his dressing room. Most people keep their clothes hidden away in armoires, but he hated being unable to see at a glance what clothes he had available. He keeps a meticulous written record of all of them, with Lucius’s help, of course, but keeping the clothes out in the open is simpler.

Stede chuckles. “You would be surprised, what with all the clothing required for different times of day and activities.”

Blackthorn drops his head and groans. “I’ll never learn it all. I should go back into the army.”

“I believe that is not recommended for men of your standing,” Stede says, amused. “Surely looking after your holdings demands all your time now.”

“Indeed,” Blackthorn murmurs as he steps close to the rows of folded cravats along one wall. His fingers reach out to gingerly touch a purple silk cravat. “So soft,” he says wonderingly. “I thought they were meant to be white?”

“Ah.” Stede looks down at his feet, his cheeks flooding with warmth. He had not anticipated this question as he ought to have. He looks up into Blackthorn’s bright, curious eyes. “Can you keep a secret?”

Blackthorn’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but he nods. “Of course.”

“I mean to introduce cravats in all colors of the rainbow,” Stede says. He pauses, but Blackthorn does not interject. “They will need to be carefully coordinated with the rest of the ensemble, of course. To be quite honest with you, however, I have not yet worked up the nerve to step out in anything but the white, though I am grown quite tired of it.”

“But did you not invent this method of tying them?” Blackthorn gestures to Stede’s cravat.

“‘Invent’ is a strong word. ‘Popularize’ might be more accurate. I tied it as I pleased, and Prinny begged me to show him the way to do it.” Stede sighs. “I fear he will not be so open to cravats of different colors. I could lose favor with him.” He does not add that he cannot afford that.

“A shame,” Blackthorn says, “as this purple silk is lovely.” He holds it up to his cheek.

Stede suppresses a gasp. The color makes Blackthorn’s skin glow. It does not suit Stede’s coloring nearly so well. He stifles an impulse to offer it to the man, as the gift would be far too intimate.

Blackthorn hands Stede the cravat and clears his throat. “Will you attend the opera this evening? I’ve recently taken a box.” He shrugs one shoulder elegantly. “I was told it was the thing to do.”

“Yes, I’ll be in the Prince’s box, though he’s in Brighton at the moment.”

Blackthorn’s eyes twinkle. “May I receive advance intelligence of what the famous Stede Bonnet will be wearing this evening?”

“Oh!” Stede thinks for a moment. “I have a new bronze-colored frock coat.” He gestures towards it on the racks; it’s got a lovely, subtle metallic sheen.

“Hmm.” Blackthorn looks thoughtful for a moment before leaning towards Stede with a mischievous grin. “Say, d’you want to do something weird?”

Stede has not made a habit of doing anything weird. Though he favors colorful clothing, he is known for immaculate tailoring and an almost austere style. The only touch of exuberance in each ensemble is his elaborately tied cravat. He may lead fashion, but he’s ever walking a tightrope, promoting innovation but never too far, too fast.

He should say no to anything weird.

“What do you have in mind?” Stede asks.

Chapter Text

Stede should never have agreed to this, despite the mirthful sparkle in Lord Blackthorn’s eyes when he proposed that they trade clothing for the evening. Stede found himself unable to refuse the man when his eyes looked like that.

Yet now, as he walks through the lobby to the stairs to the parterre, Lord Blackthorn by his side, Stede can feel pairs of eyes land on him and then slide away. Can see ladies talking behind their fans. Can hear the suppressed, dismissive laughter of bored young gentlemen.

Yes, he should have known better. Stede knows very well that he does not look well in black. He is much too pale—it washes him right out! What is more, Blackthorn’s clothes, though they fit Stede, are not as exquisitely tailored to him as his own garments. Nor is the quality of these clothes quite up to Stede’s standard.

He had, of course, insisted on using one of his exquisite linen cravats, tied with his usual elegant touch.

Stede steals a glance at Blackthorn, who is walking alongside. Since Stede took the Lord’s clothing for his own this evening, Blackthorn is wearing Stede’s ensemble in turn. The bronze looks quite well on him, better than it does on Stede. As he suspected, Blackthorn does look quite handsome in color and beautiful tailoring. Once items are chosen especially for Blackthorn, from Stede’s preferred tailor… Well, Stede has a feeling the man will have his pick of the young ladies of good standing.

“How are you feeling?” Blackthorn asks, perhaps sensing Stede’s unease.

“Quite well!” Stede replies. He is about to suggest they make haste when he hears a most unwelcome voice.

“Baby Bonnet!”

Stede stifles a groan, spending a moment calculating whether there is enough of a crowd that he can plausibly pretend not to have heard.

“I say, Baby Bonnet! Whatever are you wearing?”

Stede mutters a curse. Blackthorn turns toward him, puzzled. Stede shakes his head at him before turning around.

Oh, dear, it’s both of them. Lord Nigel Badminton and Admiral Chauncey Badminton, the odorous twin sons of the Earl of Cockburn. The banes of Stede’s existence during their childhood—when Stede was eight, his father bought the estate next to their father’s. They had tortured Stede until, thankfully, they were sent off to Harrow at age thirteen.

“My lord. Admiral.” Reluctantly, Stede performs introductions between the Badmintons and Lord Blackthorn.

The Admiral’s eyebrows shoot up as far as they can towards his high hairline. “I’ll be damned. It’s Blackbeard, isn’t it?” He barks a laugh. “Whatever is Baby Bonnet doing with the hero of the Peninsula?”

Before Stede can reply, a storm cloud descends over Blackthorn’s face. “Bonnet is my friend.” Stede raises his eyebrows at the very kind reply; most of his clients refer to him as an acquaintance. Most of the entire ton considers him a mere acquaintance, if an amusing one.“What is this ‘Baby Bonnet,’ business, pray tell?”

“It is just a little nickname we call him,” Lord Nigel replies. “Old chums and all that, you know.”

“Never chums,” Stede says under his breath.

“Or perhaps you don’t know how boys get on with each other here, as you grew up in the colonies,” Lord Nigel adds—rather nastily, Stede thinks.

Ed is unruffled by the comment. “No, indeed, I do not know.”

“We played all sorts of silly pranks to pass the time, didn’t we, Bonnet?” the Admiral asks. “I say, do you remember the horse? Or the rowboat?” He and Nigel laugh in unison—an awful, braying sort of noise.

For a moment, the crowded opera house lobby falls away. Stede is eleven years old again, humiliated, his hands tied to a pair of oars as he tries desperately to row to shore, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Stede shakes his head to clear the image, swallowing down the bile that’s rising into his throat. “Yes, well. Quite,” he says. He is always unable to think of a witty retort when faced with the Badmintons.

Blackthorn is watching Stede with an inscrutable expression. His eyes narrow as he turns to regard the twins silently for a long moment. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and there is a dangerous gleam in his eye. Is he perhaps angry on Stede’s behalf? No one has ever been angry on his account before. The thought makes Stede’s heart race, and he feels blood rush to his cheeks. Damn, and he has not yet had any spirits this evening; his tendency to blush always gives away his innermost thoughts otherwise.

“As amusing as I’m sure your childhood pranks were, I’m afraid that Bonnet and I must take our leave. The Prince attends Bonnet’s arrival in his box. He is anxious to consult Bonnet about this Season’s fashionable colors.”

Nigel and Chauncey pout somewhat, being rather put out at missing the opportunity to tease Stede further but take their leave readily enough. As they ascend to the Prince’s box, Stede leans toward Blackthorn. “You were magnificent!”

“Chaps like them are quite common in the army,” Blackthorn replies. “Pompous arseholes who think they’re God’s gift to the world. They do have some respect for their betters, at least.”

“What shall we do when they realize Prinny isn’t here this evening?” Stede asks.

Blackthorn shrugs. “He was called away. There are a lot of demands on his time. He has Prince Regent business to see to. It is quite a time-consuming business, Regenting, or so I hear.”

Stede smiles at the jest as they reach the top of the stairs and approach the box. “Yes, he is rather Regenting all the day and night long.” He leans closer to Blackthorn. “I believe the current ‘business’ is better known as Lady Hertford,” he whispers.

Unless Stede is mistaken, Blackthorn snorts as they enter the box.

Stede would never admit it, but he tends to doze off at the opera. The Barber of Seville is delightful, however, with sprightly music and charming comedic performances. His companion is delighted with it, and Stede finds his delight to be infectious. He could hardly doze while Blackthorn giggles and nudges Stede during Figaro’s scenes.

During the quieter moments, the romantic arias, Stede watches intently, a strange feeling filling his chest, like a bright light expanding. At those times, he feels Blackthorn’s eyes on his face, though he does not dare glance at him. He feels feverish, though he is quite well. His breathing speeds up, though he’s sitting in place. He sweats, though it’s quite cool inside the theater.

His body, it seems, has some message for him that he cannot quite decipher. His mind spins. Blackthorn is quite the most pleasant, congenial person Stede has ever met. Stede is wary of most people, especially those in society. Aside from Lucius, arguably, he has no close friends. Perhaps this is what true friendship—a meeting of the minds!—feels like.

A few times, their hands brush due to the proximity of their seats—Lord Blackthorn does tend to fidget and change position. Each time, lightning shoots through Stede’s veins.

Distantly, Stede is aware of people in the other boxes whispering due to their switched clothing. Before tonight, Stede had never been seen in a black suit before, and Blackthorn had never appeared in color.

Stede was apprehensive before they arrived, but he now finds that he does not mind the increased attention. Let people talk! It will create interest, which can only aid Stede in gaining future clients, especially given how splendid Blackthorn looks. Lucius was correct to recommend that Stede take the man on as a client. Perhaps Stede has been too cautious about appearances until now. Society can be straitlaced, in truth, but it does also gravitate towards the novel.

They will go to Stede’s tailor tomorrow to start ordering clothing—a heady prospect! Time spent in Stede’s favorite place with someone who could be a new friend. Provided he meant it when he called Stede a friend.

It occurs to Stede that the bright, unfamiliar feeling in his chest may well be hope.

Blackthorn meets Stede at his tailor’s shop early the following afternoon. Feeney, a large Irishman with deft fingers and an unerring eye for cut and fabric quality, is the chief reason that Stede cuts as fine a figure as he does. Stede has just enough vanity to know that he looks well in clothes, with a trim, strong figure, long legs, and an unobjectionable face.

Feeney is the true secret of Stede’s success. Stede spent his early years in London after the war trying and rejecting a few tailors. He stumbled on Feeney’s shop just off Savile Row when it was brand new, drawn inside by the more colorful than usual array of fabric on display, along with the fine samples on display. Unusual for a tailor’s shop, but Stede quickly discovered that this shop was a sort of hybrid linen drapers and tailors, a novel concept.

Stede was transported. Finally, colors other than black, navy, or gray! Intrigued, Stede commissioned a new set of riding clothes and was quickly impressed by Feeney’s precise tailoring. Now, John Feeney is the one and only tailor to Stede Bonnet, Cravat Influencer.

Stede does not bring all of his clients to Feeney, who has gotten so busy that he does not have the capacity to take on much new business. These days, Stede brings in only the clients who have the panache to carry off Feeney’s exquisite designs, but Lord Blackthorn certainly fits the bill. Feeney would have been willing to go to the Earl’s home, but Blackthorn insisted on coming to the shop in person in order to more easily choose fabrics. Stede suspects that he is not yet accustomed to people going to any trouble over him, though he has observed that the man has an easy air of command, undoubtedly from his long years in the military.

When Stede arrives at Feeney’s shop, his pocket watch tells him he is a few minutes early. He browses the new fabric on display as he waits for Blackthorn, mentally picking out what he thinks would suit the man. There are some lovely, rich jewel tones that would flatter his complexion; they are lovely to see after many years of more muted pastel hues. There is more drama to them, which will suit Lord Blackthorn, given his captivating presence.

As he browses, Stede finds he is anxious, unaccountably so, as he has begun the process of building a new wardrobe for clients dozens of times before now. Lucius accused Stede of being “jittery” when they were dressing him for the day. Stede can hardly deny the charge when the blush staining his cheeks confirmed Lucius’s words as true, visible as it is to both of them in the looking glass.

“I heard you and Lord Blackthorn made quite a stir at the opera with your switched clothing,” Lucius told him. “I predict that black suits will be the latest fad.”

“Black can hardly be a fad,” replied Stede with some asperity. “It’s too common and too dull.”

Yet when Stede took his constitutional this morning in Hyde Park, much of Society looked as if it had gone into mourning. He almost asked an acquaintance if someone in the royal family had passed away before he remembered Lucius’s words.

What has Stede done? It appears he has brought about the very thing he despises!

The visit to Feeney’s shop confirms Stede’s fears. When Feeney emerges from the back room, he shakes his head balefully at Stede. “Why’d it have to be black, Mr. Bonnet? I have twenty new orders for black suits, and I can’t keep any bolts of black fabric on the shelves—you’d think old George finally carked it. If a member of the royal family does pop off soon, I’ll be in trouble.”

Stede closes his eyes and groans. “It was merely a whim, Feeney. My deepest apologies. Rest assured that we will not order any black suits for Lord Blackthorn today.” While most people do have some black garments in their wardrobe, Stede would like to move Blackthorn away from his association with wearing it, at least for the moment. Navy will do if he requires more solemn clothing.

“You’d best not,” Feeney observes. “He’d be put on a waiting list until I get a new shipment of fabric in. Earls don’t tend to like to be kept waiting, in my experience.”

“Oh, Feeney, the Earl is not like that—”

The bell over the shop’s door tinkles, and the man himself strides in. It is undeniable that the man, even in his slightly shabby black clothes, cuts an impressive figure, more so than anyone else in the ton. Once his new wardrobe is complete, he will be truly magnificent.

“Bonnet!” Blackthorn smiles brightly when he catches sight of Stede. Stede’s breath catches at the sight of it. He has seen all sorts of smiles daily in social situations: they are merely polite most of the time, but sometimes they are calculating or perhaps even false. Rarely has Stede seen a smile as genuine as the one on the Earl of Blackthorn’s face.

A smile that’s just for Stede. A true rarity that throws Stede’s mind into a tumult. Though perhaps Blackthorn is simply less jaded than the rest of the ton, at least as yet.

To hide his confusion, Stede greets Blackthorn and presents Feeney to him. That done, they quickly get down to the business of choosing fabrics and colors that will suit the Earl. It quickly becomes apparent that Blackthorn is willing to defer to Stede’s judgment on every decision and that money is no object.

“A jewel tone, perhaps, for one of his evening suits,” Stede says to Feeney. “But which one?” Stede gestures at two bolts of fabric, one a peacock blue kerseymere and the other an emerald merino. “My lord, which do you prefer?” Stede would like him to express his opinions. Blackthorn, he senses, cares more deeply about sartorial matters than he would like to let on; he likely feels out of his depth after years of wearing military uniforms. Stede feels that he will know instinctively what to choose once he learns he can trust his own judgment in such matters.

“Hmm?” Blackthorn, who had been looking elsewhere, turns his eyes to the fabric. “The green would suit you better,” he says, to Stede’s surprise. “So perhaps the blue for me.” Blackthorn’s eyes move away again, and Stede follows them to see that he is looking at a bolt of deep plum superfine.

“Do you like the aubergine?” Stede asks him.

“Oh, I...” The man’s eyes grow wide, making him look like a lost baby deer. “Yes, I think so,” he whispers, stepping closer to the bolt in question and running a hand gently over the plum-colored fabric.

“Quite right,” Stede tells him. “Your instincts are spot on. That shade will look absolutely lovely on you.”

Blackthorn’s head snaps up. He looks straight into Stede’s eyes for a long moment, during which he forgets what it is to breathe.

Feeney clears his throat delicately a few seconds later.

Stede looks down at the two bolts of fabric directly in front of him. “Shall we have both the peacock and the aubergine?” he asks. “As for the emerald, a waistcoat, perhaps?” It would look well on Blackthorn, even if he thinks it looks better on Stede. A preposterous notion, indeed!

Once they have settled on an array of clothing to start with, Feeney promises delivery of the first sets in two weeks—a privilege Blackthorn is more than willing to pay handsomely for.

“Add the usual amount of linen for cravats,” Stede tells Feeney.

He nods. “I have some on hand that his lordship can have directly. I’ll go fetch it.” Feeney heads to the back of the shop, towards the storage room.

Blackthorn raises his eyebrows. “I already have sufficient linen for cravats.”

“You don’t have this linen,” Stede assures him. “It’s the finest Irish linen. It holds folds and knots better than anything else I’ve found.”

Blackthorn rolls his eyes, but it appears to be out of fondness. “You’re the cravat expert, I suppose. You will have to teach me to do your elaborate knots.” His current cravat is a simple barrel knot, which is just as well since it’s rather obscured by his beard.

Despite his beard, if Blackthorn would like to learn the art of cravat tying, Stede will happily show him. Still, he wants to caution Blackthorn, as many of his clients have found it to be too vexing and have given up. “It can be difficult to do and might take some time to learn,” Stede warns him. “Would you prefer that I teach your valet?” Most are happy to let their valets learn in their stead.

Blackthorn looks amused. “No, Hands hates learning anything new.” Stede wonders for a moment if Lucius has a long-lost brother or cousin who is also a valet. “I don’t mind if it takes time,” Blackthorn steps close to Stede and adds in a quiet voice, soft as velvet, “I will look forward to it.”

Stede can only nod, finding himself unable to speak. He wants to wrap himself in that voice. A thought he has never had before about anyone.

Feeney emerges from the back room. He glances at Stede and Blackthorn with a look of surprise on his face before looking away quickly.

What on earth has gotten into Stede? He is becoming much too fond of Blackthorn’s company. Last night, during the opera, charmed by the music and the proximity of Blackthorn, Stede allowed his fancies to drift, imagining they could be friends. In the light of day, Stede realizes that this notion frightens him.

Lord Blackthorn is but a temporary fixture of Stede’s life. Eventually, they will be no more than mere acquaintances, bowing and exchanging a few polite words at social gatherings. He had best focus on the work to be done instead, Stede tells himself as Blackthorn goes with Feeney to get measured.

By this time next year, Blackthorn will more than likely be married, busy fathering an heir.

As for Stede, he will be alone, as he has always been.

While Stede and Blackthorn are awaiting the new wardrobe, they spend much of their days together. Blackthorn insists on starting Stede’s riding lessons the day after their visit to Feeney’s shop.

They spend the first morning riding together in the park, with Blackthorn carefully observing Stede’s seat.

“You have all the makings of a fine rider,” Blackthorn tells him when they have returned to his stables. “Strong legs, gentle hands.” Stede feels his face grow hot at the unexpected praise. “Yet you aren’t fully relaxed,” Blackthorn continues, “and your hips are rather stiff.” Blackthorn alights from Jeff with his usual grace. “Tomorrow, I shall ride ahead of you. Observe my hips.”

Startled by Blackthorn’s words, Stede nearly falls on his face as he attempts to get down from Arthur. As it is, he stumbles as his feet hit the ground. Blackthorn is there in a flash, his strong hands wrapping around Stede’s waist to steady him. By instinct, Stede’s hands go around Blackthorn’s neck. He looks up into soft brown eyes.

“Be careful,” Blackthorn says in that velvety voice. “It wouldn’t do for you to get hurt.”

“I—”

Someone clears his throat, interrupting Stede. “My lord, your accountant is here to go over your books.” The voice is oddly scratchy, and his tone is borderline insouciant. (Perhaps he is related to Lucius!) Stede and Blackthorn step apart. “He has been waiting over half an hour.”

The speaker is a short man with graying hair, and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing Blackthorn’s livery. He sends a glance full of disdain Stede’s way before looking straight ahead once more. It is quite rude for someone whom Stede presumes is Blackthorn’s valet!

Blackthorn sighs. “The man works for me, does he not, Izzy? He will be well compensated for his time. Tell him I’ll be there directly once I’ve changed.” He looks at Stede. “I must take my leave. Same time tomorrow?” He smiles, soft and a little shy.

“Yes, Arthur and I will meet you and Jeff here.”

Stede goes about the rest of his day full of thoughts of the morrow and watching Blackthorn’s hips. The notion makes him feel hot and achy inside. Naturally, he tries his best to ignore it. Whatever this feeling is, it simply will not do. Stede has his life in order, and he manages quite well, all things considered.

Feelings are not to be trusted, especially feelings Stede does not understand. Feelings have the potential to destroy everything he has worked to achieve. His father always said that feelings were a woman’s purview and that men act rather than feel. The man was an arsehole, but in this instance, he merely reflected how the world views men. Stede bought a commission, ready to prove himself as a man in battle, and still, his father was dissatisfied since Stede had not fallen in line with his plans. Now, Stede must make his way in the world alone, and that requires nothing but action.

It does not require this new feeling burning brightly in his chest.

I will treat Blackthorn as I do every other client, Stede vows. He will remain friendly, of course, as they will spend many hours together, but he will endeavor to be somewhat more aloof, as befits a business relationship. Stede should probably have refused the riding lessons, but he already agreed, and it would be strange, not to mention rude, to back out now that they have started.

Aloof. Stede can be that. He has learned, painstakingly, to be aloof, bit by bit, year by year, each fold of a cravat adding another layer to his carapace. Society punishes visible enthusiasm, and Stede cannot afford to be ostracized. If he were rich enough to be regarded as eccentric, Stede could carry his own oddities off. As it is, his enthusiasm for clothing is considered useful, and Prinny likes him, so it is allowed. His interest in books is acceptable to the more intellectual members of Society. Yet even among them, Stede keeps some of his interests to himself, such as his interests in botany and entomology. Gardening is a woman’s pursuit among the ton, and gentlemen certainly do not study bugs.

Stede keeps those books hidden from visitors in a cabinet in his bedchamber. He would love nothing more than to make a garden of his own and to study nature, but he has neither the means nor the leisure. He hopes, over time, to save enough money to retire to a small cottage with a garden someday and to devote himself to his naturalistic studies, but that will take ten years, likely more.

No, Stede cannot afford any distractions from his path.

Unfortunately for Stede, Lord Blackthorn remains inherently distracting.

The next morning, Stede watches his hips, as instructed. He is glad that Blackthorn can’t see him, as Stede is sure that his face has turned quite puce. Stede was in the army, in the cavalry. He has seen countless men ride and thought nothing of their hips! Yet he finds the sight of Blackthorn’s slim hips, rolling with the gait of the horse, mesmerizing. Well, Stede supposes this is the only time he has been told to watch someone’s hips—an intimate request by its nature. It is quite unsurprising that he can think of nothing else now!

As they trot along, Stede tries to think about what he is meant to be learning, but it is difficult to concentrate. Blackthorn and Jeff are beautiful together, moving as one… Oh, that’s it! Stede notes that Blackthorn is relaxing into the horse’s gait, moving with it rather than bracing against it as Stede does, rather unconsciously. It would be a simple adjustment, though Stede will have to fight years of bad habits to make it.

He wishes someone in the cavalry had offered his help, but instead, most of them sneered at his lack of skill, as much as they enjoyed his company over brandy and whist. Stede had earned the reputation of being bad with horses when Arthur kicked him in the face, and he had never been able to shake it. Stede worked hard to build more trust with Arthur over time, but without proper riding lessons, he was never fully comfortable on horseback.

(It was mad of him to have used his life savings to join the cavalry, of course, but Stede thought joining the Prince’s regiment would impress his father. Stede was finally showing some gumption, standing up to him. Stede also thought he’d pick up the riding with more practice. More fool he.)

Blackthorn is the only person who has ever cared enough to try to help.

Stede pushes that thought aside and thinks about his own hips, making a conscious effort to loosen them, allowing them to roll with the horse’s gait. That feels better already! By the end of the ride, Stede and Arthur are cantering past Blackthorn and Jeff—it’s the freest Stede has ever felt.

“Bravo!” Blackthorn shouts.

Stede slows down and allows Jeff to catch up with Arthur. Blackthorn’s color is high, and he’s grinning widely. His fine eyes are sparkling.

Stede feels warm all over, likely from the exertion of riding. He also feels better than he has felt in a long time. Better than he has ever felt before, perhaps.

They ride out together every morning for six days before the weather turns foul. It is the best week of Stede’s life. The Earl is both incredibly kind and surprisingly fun to be around, more so than anyone’s ever met, in addition to being a good teacher. Stede’s riding skills are improving by the day as he grows more and more relaxed on Arthur’s back.

Stede also notes that day by day, more and more of the men riding in the park appear in black riding coats. Stede needs to be more careful of the fashions he starts, it seems!

“Are you sure I should start wearing more colorful clothes, mate?” Blackthorn teases. “It seems I’ll be behind the times, now.”

“Well, you’ve paid Feeney a small fortune for them, so you may as well!” Stede replies. “I for one shan’t be seen in black again.”

It’s hard to hear over the horses’ hoofbeats, yet Stede thinks Blackthorn says, “Yet you looked well.”

On one occasion, Hornberry appears and greets Stede just as Blackthorn rides ahead to greet an acquaintance from the army.

“I hear you wore black to the opera,” Hornberry observes, “and that Lord Blackthorn was seen in what appeared to be your clothes. It was quite a sensation.” He frowns in concern.

Stede waves a hand dismissively. “It was a mere prank, of sorts. My lord is a fun-loving soul.”

“People are talking,” Hornberry tells him. “Please be careful, Bonnet. I don’t know if you are aware, but he was a close friend of Lord Rackham.”

Stede understands what Hornberry is leaving unsaid. Rackham was a notorious rake, even a degenerate. There were whispers over card tables that he took both women and men as lovers, sometimes at the same time. “Even if he was, many of us have questionable friendships and past deeds from the days of our youth. I hope you would not tar Lord Blackthorn with the same brush. As far as I have heard, his conduct and his service to his country have both been exemplary.” Blackthorn’s past is his own business, as far as Stede is concerned.

“No, of course, not,” Hornberry says quickly. “But people may put a certain complexion on your relationship with him.” After a few more banal pleasantries, he rides away.

People might think Stede and Blackthorn are lovers? Preposterous! There has never been a rumor of Blackthorn taking any lovers–the man must see to his needs discreetly. As for Stede, he has never had a lover and does not plan to start now. Besides, even busybodies should be able to surmise that Blackthorn is Stede’s news client; he always spends time with his clients!

Though perhaps, between the opera and the daily rides, he is spending an unusual amount of time in the Earl’s company. He thinks this is because they are both lonely, even if this is only a temporary state for Blackthorn, as he adjusts to Society and starts to look for a bride.

The daily rides invigorate Stede physically; he feels more alive than he has in years. To his shock, he finds himself waking in the morning, having taken himself in hand after dreams he can’t remember. This has not happened to him regularly since he was a teenager. Stede has never truly understood the physical aspects of attraction, having never seen a woman he wanted to bed. Or a man, for that matter. Yet he knows the pleasure his own body can provide in the privacy of his bed, though he had not sought it out for some time.

After another such morning, Stede feels particularly glum when he sees that the weather won’t allow for a ride. It would be just the thing to soothe the buzzing he feels under his skin—satiated, perhaps after his personal exertions this morning in bed, but not truly satisfied.

“I should cancel with the Earl,” Stede tells Lucius over their morning tea and toast. Others would account it a terrible piece of familiarity, but Stede has always preferred breaking his fast in the boy’s company when it’s only the two of them. “I rather hate trotting through the mud. It does splatter one’s coat so.” Stede sighs dejectedly.

Lucius raises an eyebrow. “You sound regretful.”

“Well, the riding lessons have been successful. My seat is already much improved.”

“Hmm, I’ll wager it is.” Lucius smiles into his teacup.

“Lucius!” There is some innuendo there, given his tone of voice, though Stede cannot quite grasp it. He was in the army long enough to know when something salacious is being said, though he lacks the practical experience to discern what anyone means by any of it.

“You seem happier these past few days,” Lucius continues. “It makes me wonder what exactly is happening during these riding lessons.”

“Nothing!” Stede huffs. “The Earl is merely extremely pleasant company as well as a good instructor.” He sighs once more. “I will miss today’s lesson. I enjoy riding, I find, now I can do it properly.”

“Invite him here instead,” Lucius says as if Stede said he would miss Blackthorn, not the lesson. “There must be some finer point of dressing well you have yet to teach him.”

“The cravats!” Stede shouts, putting his teacup down with a clatter. “He asked me to teach him how to tie them like I do. Oh, but perhaps it would be forward of me to ask...” After all, Stede is supposed to be aloof.

“Send him a note. I have a feeling he’d accept.”

Stede did promise to teach Blackthorn to tie cravats, and this certainly fits the parameters of their client relationship. In fact, it is Stede’s duty to teach the Earl about the proper tying of a cravat.

He sends a messenger with a note asking Blackthorn, who replies by the same messenger promising to appear within the hour.

“Do you see? He likes you,” Lucius says after Stede reads the note.

Lucius said that about Hornberry, too. Stede is starting to wonder just what he means by it.

For now, though, he must get ready for Blackthorn’s arrival. He is dressed, but he hasn’t yet put on his coat and cravat or styled his hair. He repairs to the dressing room, his hands shaking as he goes through the remainder of his toilette at unusual speed.

The knock on the door comes just as Stede is arranging his hair so that one golden curl will fall over his forehead just so. He usually doesn’t take such care with his hair for his daytime looks, but he is all nervous energy and needs something to do with his hands while he waits.

Stede rushes to the drawing room to receive Blackthorn, whom Lucius ushers in a moment later.

For a moment, Stede is too stunned to speak. Blackthorn is wearing a burgundy superfine cutaway tailcoat with a silk waistcoat in brown and bronze paisley. His long legs are clad in nankin trousers—a style Stede had not yet seen him in. They suit him admirably. His long hair is pulled into a neat queue at the nape of his neck, and his beard is freshly trimmed and oiled.

Blackthorn smirks and bows. “Mr. Bonnet. Will I do?”

Stede bows in return. “My lord. How did Feeney get these garments to you so quickly?”

“As it happens, someone of a similar size to me canceled an order in progress after a disastrous evening at the card table. It took but a few alterations.” Blackthorn frowns. “D’you not like it then? I know it is not what you chose for me—”

“Oh, I like it quite well, indeed!” Stede hastens to assure him. “Rest assured, if I trust anyone’s opinion in these matters aside from my own, it’s John Feeney’s.” Stede was quite correct in his prediction, as he always is in these matters: the rich color makes Lord Blackthorn’s skin glow.

Blackthorn looks relieved. “Yet my ensemble would look even better with a cravat tied like yours, eh?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Stede laughs. “Naturally. Shall we adjourn to my dressing room?”

“Lead the way,” Blackthorn says. As they walk down the short hallway leading from the drawing room to Stede’s rooms, he asks, “How long does this usually take to learn?”

“An hour or two, but even after that, you may still need more practice,” Stede replies. “Do you have an appointment later in the day?”

“No, not at all,” Blackthorn says. “I can do anything. I expect I will be an excellent pupil, and we will finish up early enough to go to Gunters for ices.”

“It is a rather foul day,” Stede points out. “A bit cold for ices, I’d say.”

“How dare you, sir? It’s never too cold for ices.” Blackthorn’s tone is serious. Stede turns to see that the mischievous sparkle has appeared in his eyes once more.

“A wager, then? Let us see, then, if you can learn to tie a cravat quickly. If you can, I will buy you an ice. If not, then you will buy me an ice instead.” Stede realizes what he has said once the words have already escaped his lips. He was supposed to try to avoid increased familiarity with the Earl, but instead, he finds himself agreeing to spend more time with him outside the purview of their business relationship.

Even so, Stede cannot find it in his heart to take his words back.

“It’s a bet,” Blackthorn declares.

Blackthorn tosses the cravat onto the floor with a groan of frustration. “I ought to shave this damned beard,” he grumbles. “My fingers hurt.”

He has been trying, and failing, to follow Stede’s directions for an hour. Surely, his fingers must be tiring. “Let’s stop for a moment, please,” Stede begs. “If you’ll permit me to say so, my lord, you grow too frustrated. I often make many failed attempts each morning at getting the creases right. My washerwoman despairs of me.”

“No, I want to keep going. I want to get this right,” Blackthorn says stubbornly, regarding himself in the mirror with a frown. It had not occurred to either of them that his beard would be an obstacle, but it is. Stede thinks about offering to hold it for him—his valet must help him in this manner—but he cannot make himself say the words. The offer would be far too intimate.

Standing up, Stede takes off his coat and folds it neatly as Blackthorn looks over in surprise. Stede approaches behind him so that they are both visible in the mirror. “May I tie it for you? I know you wanted to try it yourself, but it may help you to watch my hands work.”

Blackthorn’s eyes widen. “Yes,” he replies quickly, his lips parting on the word.

Stede takes a fresh strip of linen and then steps close behind him so that their bodies are nearly touching. Warmth radiates from Blackthorn. Looking into the mirror, Stede’s eyes meet Blackthorn’s there. They are wide, almost pleading, but for what Stede does not know. His gaze drops to Blackthorn’s lips.

He smells of lavender. The scent fills Stede’s senses. He wonders…

No. Focus.

“Tilt your head up.” He does so, and as Stede puts the linen around Blackthorn’s neck, he can see that the man swallows. “There you go,” Stede says. Blackthorn exhales.

With slow, careful hands, so that Blackthorn can follow his movements, Stede tries the cravat, step by step. The beard is a bit of a bother, but Blackthorn holds it out of the way. Though Stede has made a jest about telling the man to shave, he cannot imagine it now. The idea vaguely horrifies him, in point of fact.

Stede can feel his breath hitch every time his fingers brush against a soft beard or even softer skin. He is unused to touching or being touched, of course—except by Lucius, but Stede, ever the perfectionist, always prefers to perform more intimate tasks such as shaving or tying his cravat. The lack of touch in his life must be why his heart is beating madly within the confines of his chest.

Stede finishes tying the cravat with a final knot. “There you are. Look at that.” He smiles at Blackthorn’s reflection in the mirror. He carries off the white very well. “Beautiful.”

His impossibly wide eyes go even wider.

Is it suddenly warm in here? Seeing the mirror that he has flushed bright red, Stede takes a step back.

Blackthorn lets his beard fall back into place. “Perhaps I should call you whenever I need a cravat tied in your manner.” He moves his head to the side so that the cravat can be better seen. “Damn, but the beard covers up your fine work. Perhaps I should shave. I can see why beards are not the current fashion.”

“No!” That was rather vehement. “I mean, you needn’t. You can set your own fashion. You have sufficient elan.” Stede smiles at him. “I would not say that of everyone, but I believe it to be true in your case, Blackthorn.”

He turns towards Stede. “Edward.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Please, call me Edward when it’s just the two of us,” Blackthorn entreats. “Ed.”

Stede is speechless. It is a truly shocking suggestion. Of course, as an Earl, Blackthorn can eschew social rules and maintain his standing. Stede must be much more careful. If anyone overheard their familiarity in a public setting, there would be questions, perhaps even insinuations.

Blackthorn smiles apologetically. “I understand if you refuse. I ask because I am not yet used to hearing the title. It doesn’t feel like me, at least not yet. I’d like to retain some part of myself, and not disappear into my title. I thought you might sympathize.”

Blackthorn seems not to understand that no one feels like their true selves in society. It is simply not a concern. Stede has never shown his full self to anyone in Society, and Blackthorn seems to have guessed it. It seems there is something heady, intoxicating even, in being truly seen by another.

Stede ought to refuse. Yet, once more, he finds himself powerless to resist this man’s pleading chocolate-hued eyes; the tide may just as well try to resist the pull of the moon.

His pulse is racing as he replies. “Only if you will do me the honor of calling me Stede. When it’s just the two of us. Now, I believe I was promised an ice?”

Blackthorn’s—no, Edward’s—grin in reply is bright enough to make Stede’s heartbeat stutter.

Perhaps it is reckless of him to agree, but Stede no longer finds it in himself to care.

Chapter Text

“I should like to retire to the country, one day,” Edward confides over an ice.

Stede feels a pang at the notion of going without Ed’s company here in town. “You would feel the lack of these delicious ices,” Stede replies, brandishing his cup of elderflower-flavored ice. “There is no Gunter’s in the country.”

“True enough.” Ed smiles before taking a bite of chocolate ice. “Though perhaps I could start a new business venture. Blackthorn’s Ices and Other Delicacies and Delights and Fishing Equipment.”

“Why fishing equipment?”

“There’s fantastic fishing down at my estate,” Ed replies. “One could buy bait from me, go fishing, and then repair to my shop for ices afterward.”

Stede chuckles. “Sounds like a very sensible business plan. I’d visit your shop. I’d even take up fishing if ice is the reward.” Stede has always found hunting and fishing not to his taste; one of his many failings, according to his father.

“I am known to be a tactical genius.” He winks, and Stede’s heart gives a little flutter.

Wardrobes take ever so long to create. It is a blessing and a curse.

Stede and Ed have spent a lot of time together preparing to launch Ed into society. He is a delightful companion. Stede’s work has never been so fun. He can hardly classify it as work at all, in fact. Ed is not as unprepared for Society as Stede might have thought. His manners are naturally excellent, but after having been in the military for so long, he needs coaching on some of the finer points only.

To be fair about it, Stede often forgets the purpose of certain pieces of less-used cutlery as well. According to Ed, they did not have much use for snail forks on the Peninsula, which aligns with Stede’s memories of the place. (There was not a single tureen to be found either, except within the Prince’s personal dinner service.)

In any event, most of Stede’s time with Ed is spent in horseback riding lessons and repairing to Gunter’s after. They laugh a lot, and they talk about their favorite books.

Ed longs for a quiet life, as much as he has joked with Stede about it. He takes up his position in Society because it is expected, but he’d rather live in the country quietly. After he has found a wife, presumably.

The thought of Ed marrying and leaving Town makes Stede feel unaccountably sad. He has never missed a client, particularly after finishing his tenure with them, and here he is missing Ed before he is even gone.

Ed’s wardrobe will be ready soon, and he will debut his new look at Lady Higgins’ ball. He will do brilliantly, of course, and will likely have his pick of eligible ladies. He will marry and visit Town from time to time during the Season, perhaps.

Stede tries to shake off his melancholy thoughts. “Are you looking forward to the ball?”

Ed frowns into his nearly empty cup. “Am I allowed to say that I’m not?” he asks after a long pause.

“Of course! You can tell me anything. I won’t think less of you.” Stede smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “Balls are rather tedious, quite honestly.”

“No event could be truly tedious with you in attendance,” Ed says, quietly enough that he cannot be overheard by nearby patrons.

Stede feels warmth flood his cheeks. “Well, that’s—” He finds he cannot finish the thought; there is no word for how Ed’s words make him feel, he thinks. Besides, he wants to help Ed. “I shall certainly be in attendance, so there must be some other aspect of the affair that you are dreading in particular.”

Ed looks up at Stede with wide, chocolate-brown eyes. “I fear I’m quite out of practice,” he murmurs. “I used to dance when I was a young officer before I was sent abroad, but it has been a long time. The dances differ somewhat now, surely. I daresay I can stumble through a country dance or a reel, but the quadrille was not popular then. I’ve never waltzed, either.” He looks down once more.

Stede is ashamed; he should have thought of this. Of course, Ed would need guidance in this regard. Fortunately, Stede is well-positioned to provide this guidance. “I know an excellent dancing master—”

“I’m a bit old for that, mate. It’s rather embarrassing.” Ed looks up through his eyelashes before Stede can protest that the man is very discreet. “I was hoping that perhaps you could teach me a thing or two.”

The suggestion is unorthodox, though Stede can find nothing untoward about it. Even so, his cheeks are burning. Stede is increasingly finding that he cannot refuse Ed anything. “We shall need the use of your ballroom.”

Ed’s eyes crinkle as he smiles in response.

Stede considers ordering a second ice. It does seem to be unusually warm inside Gunter’s today.

“I require my dancing shoes today, Lucius.” Stede inspects his cravat in the mirror. It took him unusually long to tie it. His fingers are clumsy this morning. The result is as flawless as ever, at least, but it took concentration on Stede’s part.

“Whatever for?” Lucius asks.

Finally satisfied, Stede turns from the mirror to look at his valet. “Lord Blackthorn has asked me to teach him to dance.”

Lucius’s mouth falls open. Stede stifles a laugh at the sight. He is quite difficult to shock, and Stede is secretly pleased to have managed it.

“Can Milord not afford a dancing instructor?” Lucius finally asks once he’s recovered.

“Of course he can, Lucius! The man is simply embarrassed to be in need of one at his age. He hasn’t danced since he went off to war, and of course, he doesn’t know the waltz.”

Lucius raises an eyebrow. “I recall you saying there was quite a lot of dancing during the war.”

“I was not in a position of authority! Ed didn’t have the time for idle frivolity!” Stede stalks over to his shoe rack to pick out his own damn dancing shoes, since Lucius is merely standing around.

“Ed?” Now Lucius is truly shocked. “You’re using each other’s Christian names? Next, you’ll tell me that he has asked for your hand in marriage.”

Stede plucks his shoes off the rack. “Don’t be absurd, Lucius. Besides, you and I use each other’s Christian names.”

“That is because I am incorrigible.” Lucius grins widely. “D’you realize that Blackthorn truly likes you, I wonder? Or are you as oblivious as usual?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Men like you, Stede.” Lucius pauses, as he must read the confusion written across Stede’s face. “Men who like men.”

“You’re speaking in riddles. I like a great many people!” Well, perhaps this is an overstatement. Stede merely tolerates most people, but he is making a point.

“Men who like men—like me and Pete.”

That stops Stede short. He knows that Lucius and Pete are sweethearts and that if it were allowed, they would marry. Stede himself has never wished to marry, but if it were possible, would he be interested?

“You’re saying that men have liked me in that way?” Stede asks slowly.

Lucius, to his credit, looks chastened. “Yes. Hornberry for one. Did you truly never realize? I thought you merely indifferent to his affections.”

Stede sits in the nearest armchair and shakes his head. “I did not. I never felt that way about anyone, you see, man or woman… I always assumed I was destined to be alone.” Stede makes a face. “I’d have made a good celibate if I were Catholic and religious.”

“And now?” Lucius asks quietly.

Now? Stede feels as if his world has shifted on its entire axis, thanks to a few simple words. “You think Blackthorn has these sorts of feelings for me?”

Lucius walks over and sits down in the chair opposite Stede’s. “I am quite certain that he does. Do you return those feelings? Because if you do not, then you should gently discourage him.”

Lucius leaves to prepare breakfast. Stede thinks about the visit to Gunter’s the previous day and his warm cheeks. He blushed like a maiden at the things Ed said to him, not a reaction he can recall having to anyone else of his acquaintance. Stede certainly likes Ed better than anyone else he’s ever known.

He tries to picture kissing Ed, losing himself for a moment to the vision of that. He feels warm once more.

It is preposterous to think that Ed would feel the same way, though, despite what Lucius says. He is an earl. Earls have but one purpose in life—to make more earls whilst maintaining their property. Ed may be fond of Stede as a friend, but that bond will naturally fade with time as other responsibilities arise.

It is the way of the world. Stede can perhaps admit, to himself alone, that he is growing attached, but after this brief time, he and Ed will go their separate ways. Stede will continue to be alone, as he always has been.

Being alone has always suited him quite well.

When Stede arrives in his drawing room after arranging his hair, his toast is waiting, along with today’s newspaper and scandal sheets. Sometimes, Lucius is adequate as a valet. He enters the room a moment later with Stede’s tea. “I suggest you start with The Tatler today,” he says.

This author has heard exclusively that Lord B———, newly of ————shire is in Town this Season on the hunt for a wife, yet he has attended just one ball thus far, that hosted by L— H————. He has been seen in the company of Mr. S—— B—— quite often, presumably learning the finer points of gentlemanly behavior. We fear that if Lord B——- waits much longer to make his entrance into Society, this Season’s debutants will be off the market.

Stede’s heart sinks like a stone as he reads, but he cannot profess any surprise at the item’s contents. He looks up to find Lucius watching him closely. “What of it? I knew all this.”

“He told you he seeks a wife?”

“Well, not in so many words, but it stands to reason that he does!” Stede picks up his knife and opens a jar of orange marmalade to spread on his toast. “Most bachelor peers are in want of a wife, Lucius. Why else attend the Season?”

“He does not seem eager to attend the Season.”

“His clothes are not ready!” Stede snaps. He takes a bite of his toast, but his favorite marmalade tastes like ash today. “They will be soon, however. He will attend the Higgins ball next week.”

Lucius raises an eyebrow. “Hence your dancing lessons?”

“Just so.” Stede takes a sip of his tea. “He is quite rich and should have no trouble finding someone to marry, despite what this rag says, and I shall be first in line to congratulate him when that happens,” he adds, trying to sound firm enough to close this line of conversation. “I will thank you to keep quiet about it from now on.” Stede picks up The Morning Post, feigning an interest in the Prime Minister’s recent political machinations until Lucius sighs and returns to the kitchen.

There, that should convince Lucius to drop the subject. If there is perhaps a very small wound in Stede’s heart at the thought of Blackthorn marrying—since Stede will lose his friend!—he would prefer that Lucius, who sees far too much, not prod at it.

Besides, there is no point in further discussion of what cannot be helped.

“You should lead,” Stede tells Ed later that day. They’re in Ed’s ballroom, which is of a moderate size but very elegant, much like his home. Ed takes no credit for the decor in this or any room of the former Earl’s house in town, saying it was all done to the late Countess’s taste.

Ed is wearing his handsome finished day suit again, the burgundy tailcoat with the brown and bronze paisley, paired with nankeen breeches. Stede almost feels dowdy by comparison, in his bottle green coat and York tan breeches.

His cravat, Stede notices, is tied well, if a bit more simply than Stede would do it. He has come a long way in that regard since their cravat-tying lesson, the memory of which, unaccountably, makes Stede’s heart race.

“Do you know how to follow?” Ed asks, smiling.

“I am not used to it, but since I have a great deal of experience, I believe I can adjust. First, let me show you the steps.”

Stede stands facing one wall. “Stand next to me, facing the same way.” Ed complies. “This is a box step. Once you’ve mastered it, you should be able to waltz creditably enough, though I can show you some flourishes as well. When you lead the dance, you will move in this direction; it will be reversed for your partner. Watch me.”

Stede demonstrates the box step a few times.

“Seems easy enough.” Ed’s eyebrows are drawn together. “Hardly scandalous at all.”

“Well, the patronesses at Almacks have allowed the young ladies to waltz for a few years now, since the Tsar visited London.” Stede nods at Ed. “Now let’s try it at the same time.”

Ed is a natural athlete, quite light on his feet, though he has confided to Stede that he injured his knee at the Battle of the Pyrenees. It takes him no time at all to learn the steps as Stede hums The Patriot’s Waltz. A dancing master would have played the pianoforte that resides under a dust cover in the corner of the ballroom or brought someone who could, but they will have to make do with Stede’s rather tuneless humming.

“Shall we try it together?” Ed asks after a little while, eyes sparkling.

Stede’s breath catches. “Why, yes, of course. You stay there.” Stede moves so he is facing Ed, then steps close. Ed has a couple of inches of height on Stede, which is just as well since his future dance partners will likely be shorter than he is. Stede looks up into his eyes. Who knew brown could hold so many shades? They look amber in the early afternoon light that is slanting into the room.

“Now what?” Ed asks.

“Place your right hand on my upper back. I will place mine on your arm, and we will clasp our hands.” Ed follows directions, and all at once, for the first time, they are touching.

Stede had not thought much about this aspect of their lesson. He’s danced with countless women and never felt anything in particular about it. By contrast, Ed’s touch and his proximity leave Stede feeling slightly feverish.

As for Ed, his brown eyes have grown darker. He looks rather breathless, perhaps from the exertion, or so Stede tells himself.

Stede is no longer sure how long he can go on telling himself things.

He swallows. “First, I will count the steps as we move—one two three, one two three—then we shall progress to my rather awful humming.”

Ed’s face leans a little closer to Stede’s. “I like your rather awful humming.”

Stede must have tied his cravat much too tightly this morning. It is rather warm in here.

The exertion. It’s the exertion.

“Yes, well—shall we?” Stede mumbles the question, which is unlike him—he prides himself on his crisp diction. “We will start slow. One—two—three. One—two—three.”

Their bodies start gliding across the floor together as if they were born to dance with one another. Unlike most beginners, Ed is so lithe and graceful that he need not keep his eyes on his feet; instead, his gaze meets Stede’s and holds it as they move within the little box circumscribed by the dance.

Stede never understood the scandal around waltzing, though, of course, he has never been a young woman concerned with her virtue. Moderate physical nearness in a room full of people does not seem very licentious to his mind.

Now he understands. His body feels warm where it is in contact with Ed’s, and Stede is forced to admit to himself that it’s the Earl’s gaze, not the movement of the dance, that has him feeling short of breath. There is something fond yet heated in that gaze, and Stede suspects that it mirrors the look in his own eyes.

Stede finds himself so distracted, in fact, that when Ed asks that they pause for a moment, he does not fully absorb the words. He is not ready when Ed stops moving, and it throws him off balance. He almost stumbles backward, but Ed’s hands shoot out to Stede’s waist to steady him.

“Oh, Ed, I—I’m dreadfully sorry.” Stede looks down at his feet and then up at Ed, whose eyes are soft. Stede could lose himself in them and never want to be found.

“We danced for quite a while.” Had they? Stede had no conception of time passing. “My knee requires a rest.”

Despite his words, Ed does not move to take a seat. His gaze drops from Stede’s eyes to his lips. Stede feels himself sway forward a bit, pulled in by Ed’s tide—

“My lord,” a voice interrupts from the door of the ballroom. It is Ed’s valet, the short, annoying man with the insouciant manner. (Not that Stede has any room to critique Ed for having an insouciant valet!)

Ed drops his hands and steps back from Stede. “What is it, Izzy?”

“Your solicitor is here, sir.”

“What the devil for?” Ed asks.

“You have an appointment, sir. It’s Tuesday.”

“Hell, I forgot about that.” Ed looks at Stede regretfully. “I fear I often lose track of time with you.” His voice is pitched low enough for only Stede to hear. “Shall we resume tomorrow? I felt as if we were getting somewhere. With the dancing, that is...”

“I shall have to check my diary.” Stede’s heart is pounding, and he is in desperate need of fresh air.

Ed’s face falls. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“I will send a note.”

Stede makes a hasty farewell—much more hasty than politeness would dictate—and flees the ballroom, moving quickly past the smirking face of Ed’s manservant, not waiting to be shown out.

The fresh air provides some relief to his racing heart, but no remedy whatsoever to his racing thoughts. It is not until Stede has walked all the way home that he recalls that he is still wearing his dancing slippers.

“You were right,” Stede tells Lucius, quite grudgingly, as he dresses that evening—there are no major events to attend, so Stede will be visiting his club.

Lucius grins smugly. “I knew it.” His grin turns into a frown. “Right about what?”

Stede bristles. As Lucius, of all people, would be correct about multiple matters. It is disturbing enough that he was right in this one instance.

When Stede arrived home earlier, he felt decidedly unwell, so much so that he took to his bed. A refreshing nap would be just the thing to stop him from remembering the last few moments of his dance with Ed, which he was unable to put from his mind the entire walk home.

Stede fell into a light sleep and woke up an hour later with a stiff prick and Ed’s name on his lips. He lay in bed, mortified, until his body calmed down. He has experienced a cockstand before, of course, but never coupled with the idea of anyone specific. It seemed more a mere physical need, never true desire.

Until now.

“I have… feelings for Lord Blackthorn. For Ed. I think he may have feelings for me as well.”

Lucius smiles cheekily. “Oh, yes, I did know that.”

“Well, since you’re so wise, tell me what I should do! I know nothing of courtship—or romance— between anyone, let alone between two men.” Stede sighs. “Besides, I’m sure he expects to find a wife this Season.” Stede is beginning to understand his sadness at that prospect.

“Then you should make the most of the time you have.” Lucius stands. “Luckily for you, I am something of an expert.”

“Expert? In what?” Stede scoffs.

Lucius cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Do you mean,” Stede drops his voice to a whisper, “amorous congress between men?”

Lucius rolls his eyes. “You can say sex, Stede. Yes, I am an expert on the subject, but not just that. Flirting as well. Courtship, as you call it.”

“Lucius! This is hardly appropriate—”

“Stede, I know what it is to be in your position,” Lucius interrupts. His tone of voice is quite serious of a sudden. It is so wholly unusual for Lucius that it gives Stede pause. “Knowing that I was attracted to a man—to men—and having no idea of what to do. Of course, I was much younger than you—”

“Yes, yes,” Stede snaps before sighing in defeat. “I have never felt this way about anyone before, man or woman. I haven’t the least idea how to proceed.”

“I’m sure Blackthorn will be more than happy to show you.”

“I am not sure how to get to that point, let alone what comes after. Though we did almost kiss, or so I think.”

“Stede, you hussy! I can leave you some reading material on what comes after kissing.” He winks and strides out of the wardrobe before Stede can protest.

Reading material? What comes after kissing? Oh, dear.

Is Stede at all interested in what comes after kissing? It is not something he has ever considered very deeply before, but then, kissing had not been either, and now the idea of kissing Ed consumes his thoughts. Perhaps this reading material of Lucius’s will help him decide.

“Oh, Nicholas,” Mark moans as the other man takes hold of his throbbing member and starts stroking it firmly. Mark feels as if his body will burst into flame, yet he needs more. He pushes his hips up into Nicholas’s hand, his prick feeling hard enough to burst as he reaches new, previously unreached heights of desire.

“Have you done this to yourself, gorgeous creature?” Nicholas’s palm drags across the sensitive, moist tip of Mark’s cock.

“Of course,” Mark gasps.

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself?” Nicholas’s eyes are wide, his pupils lust-darkened.

“Yes!” Mark cries. “Always you!”

“Then allow me to give you something else to think about.” Nicholas bends his dark head towards Mark’s stiff cockstand and licks at the tip…

Stede takes the book Lucius left for him, with the absurd title Whispers in the Dark, and tosses it across his bed. “What nonsense,” he mutters to himself. The erotic adventures of Nicholas and Mark are not very appealing, nor are they terribly well written. Trying to picture their exploits has Stede feeling a bit warm, perhaps.

He puts out his lamp and turns on his side to sleep. It had been a boring evening of cards at the club with Hornberry and his new friend, a genial man named Fettering, along with a few others. Stede hoped the evening would serve to distract him a little from thoughts of Ed, but he found his mind drifting to his friend constantly.

To his lips in particular.

Such pretty lips.

“Damnation!” Stede cries. He flips onto his other side, hitting the pillow flat before resting his head on it once more. He tries to think about mathematics, admittedly not his strongest subject, but a very boring one.

Stede’s mind betrays him. He imagines Ed licking his lips, his eyes dark. From there, it is all too easy to imagine him bending his head, like Nicholas, and wrapping his lips around Stede’s cock, which is now, he realizes with a start, fully hard.

Oh. Perhaps Mark and Nicholas, whoever they are, do not especially appeal to Stede, but Ed does.

Stede has never been much of one for the pleasures of the flesh. If he ignores this cockstand, surely it will go away.

One times one is one. One times two is two. One times three…

When Stede reaches five times twelve is sixty, he is forced to admit that he cannot banish Ed’s beautiful face from his mind. Consequently, his prick is still quite insistently hard. He must sleep, and surely it’s acceptable to fulfill a physical need so that he may do so.

He gives up on the times tables and lifts his hips off the bed so that he can pull his nightgown up around his waist. Though he does this occasionally, he lacks any lubricant, so he makes do with spitting into his palm. As soon as he wraps his hand around his cock, he takes in a shaky breath. Yes, this is what he needs. Typically, in these situations, he focuses on the feelings aroused by his hand, and the thrill of his impending release—those things feel quite good to him. He does not picture any persons or sexual acts in particular.

At least, he never had until tonight, but his relentless brain refuses to stop picturing Ed as Nicholas and himself as Mark. In Stede’s mind, it is Ed’s hand that is starting to stroke his cock, not his own.

Stede imagines moaning Ed’s name, or maybe he does so in reality. He cannot tell, so caught up is he in the fantasy of Ed—when did he shed his clothes—stroking his aching prick faster and faster as he tells Stede how gorgeous he is.

The spit soon dries up, but Stede does not need more because his cock is leaking quite insistently at the tip now. His hips are moving of their own volition, thrusting up into his hand as he chases his pleasure. He can’t remember when he’s been this hard, or when heat has built up so rapidly deep inside his groin.

The Ed in Stede’s mind licks his lips. Allow me. His dark head bends forward. His curls look temptingly soft, so Stede slides his hand into them. Ed makes a little noise of pleasure as he licks at the bead of moisture gathered at Stede’s cockhead. Those pretty lips wrap around him, and large brown eyes look up at his face.

The heat that has been building reaches a crisis point. Stede bites his fist to muffle the sound as he comes hard, spilling over his fist and belly.

Well. Stede has at least answered the question of whether he would like to—what? to make love—with Ed.

Unfortunately, he has no idea how to proceed, and Lucius’s book isn’t any help. Mark and Nicholas shared some heated glances until one of them–Stede forgets which–pinned the other to the wall and kissed him. That is fiction, and Stede is a deeply inexperienced man living a very real life.

The final few days until the debut of Ed’s wardrobe have flown by in a flurry of last-minute fittings to make sure the tailoring is exactly right for his first few sets of outfits. John Feeney is truly a miracle worker, and between the two of them, they have an immaculate eye. Each new suit of clothes Ed tried on was more stunning on him than the last.

Given their last-minute preparations for the ball tomorrow night, they only hold dance lessons a few more times, but Ed has taken to the waltz like a natural, and there are no more moments like the one they shared the first day. Ed’s valet always seems to be hovering nearby, ready to interrupt on the smallest pretext. Stede is coming to truly despise the unpleasant little man.

There has been no opportunity to be alone with Ed to attempt the smoldering look approach, not that Stede would have much hope of success with that. He has practiced in the mirror, but the results have been very poor, to his mind—he looks like he is suffering from sluggish bowels.

Still, today is an exciting occasion! Ed has received delivery of the first few suits that Feeney has made for him, and Stede is going to visit to help him choose an outfit for tomorrow evening. Of course, Stede has supervised the entire clothing ordering process, and he knows what he will recommend, but he likes to help his clients think through their options since they will not always have him on hand to give advice.

Stede has also brought Ed a gift, something to match the outfit he has in mind.

A painful thought, for the first time. Stede pushes it aside as he rings the bell of Ed’s townhouse, his small parcel for Ed in hand.

The unpleasant little man answers the door and ushers Stede inside.

Once the door is closed behind Stede, the valet steps close to him and speaks in a low voice. “He is to be married, you know.”

Stede is well used to schooling his features into blank impassivity in social situations, but it is a struggle in this case. Hands can only be speaking of Edward, and this is the first Stede is hearing of an engagement. “Is that so?” Stede hopes that his tone of voice has the appropriate sangfroid. “Then I shall congratulate him on his engagement.”

Hands sighs. “Nothing is formalized, but he has an understanding with Lady Anne Rackham.”

Stede did not realize that Ed knows Lady Anne. Some surprise must show on his face because Hands smirks.

“They knew each other when they were young, you see,” Hands explains. “Quite well. Ed, Lady Anne, and her late husband.”

Stede’s heart is racing, and his palms are growing damp. He will try to untangle the implications of this information later. “Why are you telling me this?” he demands.

Before Hands can reply, Ed strides into the front hall. “Stede, there you are! Izzy, why did you not escort him to the drawing room?”

Hands clears his throat. “Mr. Bonnet looks rather peaked today. I was merely inquiring after his health.” He takes Stede’s hat and cane.

Ed looks Stede over. “Quite right. You do look rather pale. May I offer you some tea?”

Stede pastes a smile onto his face. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Edward.”

“Izzy, please bring us tea in the drawing room.”

He bows and disappears.

As Ed escorts Stede into his drawing room, he speaks animatedly about the ball.

“You sound as if you’re looking forward to it,” Stede remarks as he takes his seat. When they first started working together, Ed seemed to dread taking his place in Society.

Ed smiles, eyes sparkling. “You will not be my only friend there.”

Stede’s heart sinks. “Oh?”

“Lady Anne Rackham will be in attendance.” Stede swallows and tries to affect an expression of polite interest. “She is an old friend of mine,” Ed continues. “From my early days in the army. She wrote to tell me she has returned from a brief sojourn in the country—estate business.”

“Does she have a large estate?”

“She does, purchased with her portion from her later father.” Ed chuckles. “Heaven knows Jack didn’t have a penny to his name.”

“You knew her late husband, did you not?” Stede asks, in spite of himself. He is rather desperate to know if there is any truth to what Hands told him.

Ed nods, his manner growing more sober. “We bought our commissions around the same time, and were posted to Colchester, near Lady Anne’s father’s estate.” Hands comes in with the tea set just then, but Ed continues. “We were wild young bucks, and quite close, the three of us.” His expression darkens. “Until they eloped to Gretna Green. Her father died of apoplexy before he could disown her.”

“I see.” It sounds as if Ed and his friend vied for Lady Anne’s hand. Stede cannot imagine choosing anyone over Ed, though perhaps he is rather biased.

Once Hands has set down the tea set, Ed dismisses him. He glances at Stede, his expression unreadable, before he leaves.

“Jack’s wild ways did not change after marriage,” Ed says. “Anne had quite a time of it, though she was willful and stubborn in her own way. It was not a peaceful union, or so I hear. Thanks to Bonaparte, I was sent abroad not long after they married.”

Ed pours the tea and hands Stede a cup. He knows just how Stede likes it, with a squeeze of lemon. Stede can’t help but chuckle when Ed, as always, puts an absurd number of sugar cubes into his own cup, along with a dollop of milk.

Stede tries to ignore his melancholy feelings about today’s revelations. Ed is not married yet; he may still enjoy his friend’s company if nothing else. There is time to be sad later. “I do not know how you can abide that sugary sludge,” Stede teases Ed.

Ed raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know how anyone can abide it without any sugar whatsoever.”

Stede raises his cup in a salute. “My refined palate, of course.”

Ed takes a little sip of tea and makes a happy little noise that tugs on something deep inside Stede. He shifts in his chair a little.

“You and your refined palate are missing out.”

Stede does feel he is missing out. He would give anything to draw such a noise from Ed in more intimate circumstances—especially now that he has finished Whispers in the Dark. Mark and Nicholas have given Stede so many more ideas, which torment him day and night. Ideas he should now try his best to put aside.

He clears his throat. “Since you will have another friend at the ball, perhaps you do not need my company there.” It would be unbearable to watch Ed waltz with his intended; Stede feels ill at the mere thought.

Ed sets his teacup down with a clatter. “Of course, I want your company! What makes you think I would not?” His brow wrinkles. “It is very lonely to be a peer, much more lonely than it was in the Army. I felt very isolated until we became friends.”

Stede’s eyes grow moist; he looks down at his teacup. “Indeed, I felt the same,” he says softly. “I am not a peer, but I both belong and do not belong to Society. I am on the fringes.”

“Everyone likes you.”

“They tolerate me since I am useful and Prinny is fond of me.” Stede has felt alone in many a ballroom. He cannot consign Ed to the same fate. “If you would like me to attend the ball, I will.”

Ed breathes an audible sigh of relief.

“Before I forget,” Stede says, “I brought you something to wear tomorrow night if you wish.” He takes the parcel from his lap and hands it across to Ed, who opens it eagerly.

He gasps softly as he pulls a piece of purple silk out of the parcel. “This is lovely.” He looks up at Stede with shining eyes. “You think I can pull this off? Truly?”

“Of course! You needn’t take my word for it.” Stede stands and holds a hand out to Ed. “I can show you.”

Eyes wide, Ed silently puts his hand in Stede's and stands up.

“May I remove your cravat?” Stede asks softly. His heart is thudding in his chest. He is playing a dangerous game here, perhaps, but he reminds himself that he’s merely acting in his capacity as Ed’s advisor on clothing. It is too late for his own heart, in any event.

Ed nods. Without being asked, he holds his beard to one side, his eyes never leaving Stede’s. Stede regrets the need to watch his own hands do their work. If given the choice, he would happily gaze into Ed’s eyes for as long as he was allowed to do so.

Stede quickly unknots Ed’s plain white cravat and puts it aside. He then begins to tie the purple one around Ed’s neck.

As Stede works, Ed clears his throat. “You said that you felt your colorful cravats were too bold to wear.”

“I think you are braver than I and will make quite a splash.” Stede does not add that Ed’s striking beauty will help him carry it off, but he tries to put his feelings into his eyes. Besides, Ed has a title, and Stede does not.

Stede finishes the knot and admires his handiwork. As he thought, the purple shade is most becoming; it sets off Ed’s skin and eyes in a way that makes them glow. He longs to tell Ed how beautiful he is. How he prefers Ed’s face to any other sight the world has to offer. Every nerve in his body is crying out for Ed’s touch. For his kiss.

Stede cannot say those things, nor can he kiss Ed. “Come look,” Stede says instead. He leads Ed to the large mirror on the wall near the fireplace. He gestures to Ed to take a look.

Ed spends a long moment staring at himself. “You are quite right about the cravat,” Ed finally says. “Now I know exactly which suit to wear tomorrow.” A smile slowly blooms on Ed’s face, his pretty eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that Stede loves.

Loves.

Stede supposes that hiding heartbreak from a ballroom full of people cannot be very much more difficult than hiding loneliness from them.

The ball is dreadful. Stede did not arrive particularly early, but he nevertheless managed to arrive before Edward, and the anticipation has his insides feeling as knotted up as his cravat.

What is even worse, as soon as he arrived, the hostess, Lady Higgins, told him that Prince Richard Banes wanted to make Stede’s acquaintance. Stede has heard that the man, a minor prince of some small place or other but raised and educated in Britain, is seeking entree to the Prince Regent’s inner circle in the hopes that he will invest in some scheme or other. Stede cannot remember the details, but he got the impression that the man is someone to be avoided.

As he makes a polite bow to the man, he decides his impressions align with what he has heard.

“Mr. Bonnet, I have heard so much about you.” The Prince’s manner is obsequious, oily even, and Stede dislikes the sandy-haired man on instinct. He is wearing a sober navy coat of middling quality, with a very limp cravat indeed.

“I cannot imagine why,” Stede murmurs.

“Your reputation precedes you as someone who has a certain sway with Prinny.”

Stede bristles at the man’s familiarity. He does not know the Prince Regent well at all.

“I believe that what you have heard is an overstatement, sir,” Stede says, a cold note in his voice. “I know His Royal Highness from my army days, and we are friendly at social occasions. I occasionally advise him on dress. Nothing more.”

Stede manages to find a pretext to walk away after that, claiming that he must greet an old friend. In reality, he wishes only to hover in view of the ballroom’s entrance to wait for Ed.

In the end, Stede did not stay with Ed past tea the day before. The ball suit had been chosen, and Ed thought he still looked unwell. Stede admitted, somewhat falsely, to a headache and took his leave. It was rather painful to remain in Ed’s company with his new knowledge. Much as he might long to do so, Stede now knows he cannot pursue Ed.

Oh, married men undoubtedly have affairs, especially if they prefer other men, but that idea does not sit well with Stede. Of course, he knows they could never marry and must always be discreet, but Stede does not think he could countenance sharing Ed with a publicly accepted spouse while he lives in the shadows. Yet he has always known that, as an Earl, Ed is expected to marry. Nothing has changed, but knowing he already has a specific woman in mind hurts. Stede is mildly surprised that Ed is not choosing someone younger, but if he has a longstanding attachment to Lady Anne, that will, of course, eclipse other considerations.

Still, knowing he would see Ed tonight, Stede took care with his appearance—though he always does, of course! He is wearing a coat in a new color Feeney has sourced, slightly greener than cerulean—he is threatening to call it Bonnet Blue. The color does suit Stede, he must admit. However, it is so bold that he has chosen a simple pair of pearl gray breeches and a relatively restrained cravat, in order to allow the color to shine. He knows he looks very well, indeed.

“The Earl of Blackthorn,” the footman at the door announces.

The rest of the ballroom falls away; indeed, a hush falls over the room, but Stede hardly notices. Stede may look good, but it is nothing compared to how lovely Ed looks in his purple velvet cutaway coat, which coordinates perfectly with the cravat Stede gave him. He has paired them with a gold waistcoat and fawn breeches.

Ed’s eyes meet Stede’s across the room, and Stede’s heart forgets how to beat for a long moment. Ed is especially beautiful tonight, with his hair up off his neck. Even at a distance of twenty feet, his eyes cut Stede to the quick. If they were alone, Stede would fall to his knees and beg to worship him as he deserves.

They are not alone, however, and Ed starts moving to the other side of the room from where Stede is standing. He stops in front of Lady Anne and bows. They begin to speak to each other animatedly. Others clearly wish to meet Blackthorn, hovering about him as he speaks to his old friend.

Stede should find one of his friends to speak to, or perhaps repair to the card room, rather than watching Ed and Lady Anne, but he cannot help himself. He is frozen in place until the next set begins, when Ed leads Lady Anne to the dance floor.

The musicians strike up a waltz.

Stede thought he could watch Ed’s official courtship of Lady Anne play out. Alas, he has always been something of a coward.

He flees to Lady Higgins’ garden.

Chapter Text

Over the following fortnight, Stede becomes well acquainted with the gardens of all the preeminent hostesses in London. If any of his circle notices Stede’s penchant for taking the air on his own during balls and musicales, they refrain from mentioning it to him.

Tonight, the dowager Lady Fettering’s ball is taking place. She has outdone herself this year, likely in an attempt to display her (dwindling, as rumor has it) wealth in the hopes of marrying off her son, Lord Fettering. Stede, now attuned to such matters, has noticed Fettering’s growing closeness with Hornberry with fresh eyes. He suspects Fettering himself has no interest in marrying.

As for Ed, as far as Stede can see, he spends as much time as is seemly at every ball with Lady Anne. Hence Stede’s frequent forays into various gardens.

Lady Fettering’s garden is quite one of the nicer ones Stede has seen. It’s a warm evening for the London spring, and the air is perfumed with the scent of roses. Stede bends to examine one rosebush in the ambient light coming from the ballroom of the well-appointed Fettering townhome. The roses are coming along nicely, already blooming. Stede must ask the Fetterings their secret.

He sits down on a bench, sighing. Stede doesn’t have a garden now in his rented home, but he hopes to keep one someday, so he continues his study of botany in what little spare time he has. Returning to a little cottage in the country had been his dearest wish until recently.

Now his dearest wish is for someone, a particular someone, to share the cottage with him. It is absurd, of course. An Earl has duties; he cannot simply retire to an obscure corner of the countryside with his paramour.

A married Earl, even less so.

The talk tonight has all been of Lord Blackthorn’s courtship of Lady Anne Rackham. The gossip rags are hinting that there will be a proposal before long. Stede usually dismisses the content of such publications—he has a better ear to the ground for gossip than The Tatler. In this situation, however, Stede fears they may be correct. To his eyes, it looks as if Ed is pursuing Lady Anne. They danced the socially-dictated two sets each evening, no more or less, but otherwise Ed’s attention to her has been marked. He spends much of his time talking and laughing with her, fetching her ratafia, and so on. While Ed dances with other women, none of them hold his attention like Lady Anne does. He does not laugh with the others.

Stede misses his laugh.

Ed has hardly spoken to Stede, but not for lack of trying. Stede leans forward and cradles his head in his hands. Whenever Ed approaches him, Stede beats a hasty retreat if he can, or speaks for only as long as politeness dictates. Ed no longer has any need of his tutelage. It is better this way.

That does not mean watching Ed court someone hurts Stede any less, though. His heart experienced a blow during Ed’s first dance with Lady Anne, and each subsequent dance adds to the fissures and cracks. Soon enough, his heart will be split in twain.

Stede is in need of a new client, so he cannot stop attending balls. His dress and demeanor are his best advertisement for his services. He can, of course, point to Ed’s newfound success moving among the Ton, albeit discreetly. The irony of that is not lost upon him: he has helped Ed find the bride who will take him out of Stede’s reach forever.

Just as Stede is about to tell himself to buck up and go back inside, the tall glass doors leading from the ballroom to the garden open. A flirting couple, as usual, Stede expects, until a tall, elegant figure emerges. Edward.

“There you are,” Ed says, moving forward, eyes bright. He looks resplendent in bottle green superfine tonight, his dark hair woven with strands of silver that shine in the moonlight. Stede longs to remove the hair from its neat queue and run his fingers through it. It would feel soft as the finest silk, Stede knows it.

Stede should run away, but he sits, pinned in place, unable to flee, as Ed approaches. “Here I am,” he says, inanely.

Ed stops in front of him, wearing a puzzled look. He gestures at the bench. “May I?”

Stede nods and moves aside to make room; the fragments of his heart start to pound in his chest as he sits down. Ed smells familiar—like lavender. His proximity fills Stede’s senses.

Stede folds his trembling hands into his lap and looks down.

“Will you forgive me if I ask a rather forthright question?” Ed’s voice is soft, like the most luxurious velvet.

“Of course,” Stede murmurs, keeping his eyes cast down. “You may ask me anything.”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“Oh.” Stede swallows as he tries to think of how to frame his reply. He should have anticipated that Ed would ask, given their closeness, before he was launched into Society with a new wardrobe. “Well, you don’t need my advice anymore. I do not wish to detract from your ro—y–your doings.” Stede glances up to see that Ed is frowning. It pains him, so he looks down again; his hands are clasped so tightly now that his knuckles are turning white.

“Was that all I was to you?” Ed asks. “A business transaction?”

“Not just that,” Stede says quickly. “Though, of course, we were conducting business, and now your wardrobe is splendid and your cravats immaculate. You don’t need me.”

“I see.” Ed’s tone of voice is calm, even cold, but to Stede’s ears, slightly tremulous. “In that case, I believe we still have a little business left to conduct. A matter of payment, which I have not yet remitted.”

“Ed, that is not—”

“I will send a messenger with the agreed-upon sum on the morrow.”

Stede feels very small. He had not thought to dun Ed for the funds he is owed, not when his company was the most precious commodity Stede could imagine, yet he is unable to refuse it. His rent will be due quite soon, and he has no prospective clients lined up; he would have to dip into his precious nest egg to pay otherwise. Before he can apologize or say anything more, Ed strides away without looking at him.

Stede tries to tell himself it is for the best, but his wounded heart cannot quite believe that, not when Ed is the first image in his mind when he wakes up in the morning and the last when he is falling asleep at night.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself to return to the ball. Before he can do so, the door opens again, and two figures slip out. He waits until they’ve retreated to a secluded corner of the garden to depart. He will pretend he did not see Hornberry and Fettering holding hands; it was too private a moment for him to have witnessed. Part of Stede is happy for them, but another part of him, that wounded heart, aches for what he will never have.

Stede decides to avoid the ballroom in favor of the card room. He cannot afford to gamble, but he can watch the others play. As soon as Stede arrives, Prince Richard accosts him before he can join any of his acquaintances.

“Do you like my coat?” the Prince asks when he notices Stede eyeing his ensemble. “My tailor says it is in the latest style.”

It is a crimson coat. The cutaway style is perfectly acceptable, but it is so poorly tailored as to be horrific, with crooked seams and a poor fit. John Feeney would throw it on the fire. The Prince has paired this monstrosity with a gold waistcoat and his customary limp cravat. The Prince is in desperate need of Stede’s services. His first task would be to buy the man some starch. He suspects that the Prince cannot afford him, however.

“The color is pleasing,” Stede says diplomatically.

Soon, the Prince begins to natter on about a spa he wishes to open somewhere along the British coast in a town Stede’s never heard of. To Stede’s mind, there are already plenty such towns to choose from for those wishing to visit the seaside, fashionable places with already-established accommodations and amenities, but he merely nods politely in the Prince’s direction as his eyes, of their own volition, search the crowd for a a tall, elegant figure and a pair of arresting chocolate brown eyes.

Stede’s inattention may explain why he does not notice that the Prince is encroaching upon his personal space until the man is close enough to whisper, “I can show you the town whenever you like. A private tour, if you will.” He places a hand on Stede’s lower back; they are close enough to the wood-paneled wall of the card room that no one would notice.

Stede feels his body go rigid. His instinct is to push the man away from him, but naturally, that would cause a dreadful commotion. He has never been able to afford to have even the merest breath of scandal attached to his name.

Before he can think of how to extricate himself gracefully, or by way of some cutting remark, Stede hears a most welcome voice: “Mr. Bonnet, you look as if you could use a turn in the fresh air.” It is Edward. He turns toward Prince Richard and offers a little bow, but Stede can see that his eyes are flashing. “Apologies, sir.”

“It is rather warm in here,” Stede says, grateful that Ed came to his rescue despite his previous harsh words. Quickly, Stede performs the proper introductions.

Prince Richard looks down his nose at the newcomer. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard of your exploits. Born in the colonies, were you not? I am surprised you were allowed to inherit.”

“The letters patent did not prohibit it, Your Highness.” Ed remains rigid and taciturn throughout the exchange, though he says and does all the correct things.

Stede is furious on his behalf. Ed is titled and moneyed, better dressed, and has immaculate manners after his early missteps. If anything, Ed has reason to look down his nose at the shabby, rude Prince!

There is a moment of charged silence among the three of them. Stede clears his throat delicately. “My thanks, Lord Blackthorn, you are correct. I do feel a little out of sorts. Perhaps I ought to just return home.” He looks the Prince up and down. “By the by, do you truly call this thing a coat? It looks more like a pile of rags.”

Prince Richard sputters for a moment. He bows, his manner turning glacial, and takes his leave. Stede is reminded of a garden snake retreating to its den. He has a feeling the Prince would have said more, but is too much in need of Stede’s connection to the Prince Regent to risk alienating him further.

Ed glowers at the man’s retreating back before turning to Stede. “Thank you.”

“Ed, I–”

Ed interrupts Stede’s attempted apology. “I’ll call my carriage for you.”

“I can hail a hack—”

“I insist,” Ed replies. “Shall we?”

It would be awkward to refuse, so they make their way through the crowded hallway outside the card room to the street outside. Ed asks the footman to call for his carriage, and they wait.

The night air is cooler than it was earlier, serving as a balm to Stede’s spirit. “Thank you, Ed, I—”

“Stay away from him,” Ed mutters.

“I assure you, I have no desire for further acquaintance with him,” Stede says. Yet he bristles at the command. He is not one of Ed’s officers to be ordered around! “Yet I do not see why you should tell me who I should and should not see.”

“I know him by reputation. The man is trouble.” Before Ed can explain further, his carriage pulls up. Ed steps forward to give his driver instructions before opening the door for Stede and gesturing for him to climb inside. “I will send you a bank draft on the morrow, as we discussed.”

Stede approaches the carriage but hesitates before climbing inside. “Ed, please, I—”

“Good evening.” Ed makes a half-bow before turning and walking back into the ball. Stede can see his military bearing in the set of his shoulders and the stiffness of his gait. He is used to seeing Ed much more relaxed; he misses the easy camaraderie of their early acquaintance.

He gets into the carriage and pulls out his handkerchief. It won’t do to let his tears splash all over the fine velvet interior.

The next morning, Lucius brings Stede an envelope on a silver tray, along with his breakfast.

“A messenger from Lord Blackthorn brought this,” Lucius says, smiling. “A love letter, perhaps?”

Stede shakes his head. “Hardly. It is a bank draft. Payment for services rendered.”

Lucius’s face softens. “Oh, Stede. What happened between you two?”

“He asked me why I was avoiding him. I could not tell him it was because he is to be married, so I said that he didn’t need me anymore. Our business was concluded.”

“You didn’t!” Lucius pulls out a chair from the dining table and sinks onto it. It is not proper behavior for a valet, but Lucius is more of a friend to Stede.

He is badly in need of a friend now. “I ruin everything I touch,” Stede says, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. His words echo his father’s lecture when Stede allowed Mary Allamby to jilt him and subsequently joined the army.

“I know that’s not true,” Lucius says gently.

Stede tells Lucius about the previous evening, including Prince Richard. “Now I have lost even Ed’s friendship, let alone the slim hope of anything more.”

Lucius shakes his head. “I do not believe that. However, you must not take this money. Send it back with an apology.”

“What if it is for the best? He will be married, Lucius. How can I watch as he happily takes a bride?”

Lucius looks thoughtful. “I am not so sure he intends to take a bride. It sounds to me as if he was jealous of this Prince Richard.”

The idea of Ed being jealous seems rather absurd. Stede shakes his head. “Ed just dislikes the man. The Prince was notoriously rude to him. Besides, you have not seen Ed and Lady Anne together.”

“No, but I have heard some rumors. Her companion would prefer that she not marry. They are… close.”

Stede feels hope blossom at his words. His valet is an incurable gossip and knows every other valet in London, it seems, through his club.

“I will keep my ear to the ground and try to find out more.” A look of mischief crosses his face. “Lord Blackthorn’s valet seems as if he is long overdue to be flirted with.”

Stede is aghast. “Lucius! What of Pete?”

He shrugs. “We don’t own each other.”

Stede does not feel brave enough at the moment to venture opening that particular Pandora’s box by asking Lucius to explain. In any case, if he and Pete are both happy, who is Stede to tell them to arrange their lives any differently? They are certainly better off than he is.

Later that morning, Stede settles down to his escritoire to pen a note to Ed. Lucius was quite correct. If Stede accepts the money, he will lose Ed’s friendship forever, which he cannot abide. He would rather suffer in silence, seeing Ed marry.

Yet perhaps Lucius has the right of things, and Ed does not intend to marry his old friend at all. He could simply find her companionship easier to bear than that of the rest of Society, due to their old connection.

It takes Stede about seven drafts to get the sentiments exactly right.

My dear Edward,

I cannot accept this bank draft. Your friendship was more than sufficient payment for working with you. It was my pleasure, and it is the greatest gift I have ever been honored to receive.

Though I am not worthy of that friendship, I miss it greatly. I sorely regret that my ineloquence led you to think otherwise.

Yours,

Stede

He debates addressing and signing the letter more formally, but decides that would undermine his intentions. Ed had disarmed Stede’s formality from the very start of their acquaintance. No one but he and, to some extent, Lucius has met the real Stede.

In a fit of daring, Stede adds a postscript. Ed’s response to this invitation could reveal something of his true feelings.

P.S. I will be attending the entertainments at Vauxhall Gardens this evening, as it opens for the season. I hope I may see you there.

There is always the chance that Ed plans to see Lady Anne there, if he attends, but Stede will cross that bridge if and when he comes to it. In the meantime, while waiting for Ed’s reply, Stede can focus on choosing an outfit for this evening. He walks from his study into his bedroom and through to his wardrobe.

One inside, Stede’s eye settles on the rainbow wall of cravats. The colorful cravat Ed wore to the Higgins ball sparked some interest among Stede’s acquaintances, some of whom had asked him privately over the next few days whether this would be the new fashion. Stede smiles at the inquiries and would not commit to proclaiming it as such, not quite yet, to give Ed some time to be seen as a leader of fashion.

To his dismay, Ed did not wear the purple or any other colorful cravat again, and Stede felt it was no longer his place to ask him about it.

Stede lets his fingers run over the cravats, the silk soft under his fingertips. His eyes and fingers linger on a crimson length of fabric. Perhaps…

Ed saw the part of Stede that longed to break out of the cage of sartorial conformity he’d built for himself. Stede understands better now why he did so. He has always felt a little different from other men, and he knows that his fondness for Ed makes him not unique, but a rarer creature. It is a truth about himself that he had not been fully able to see until he met Ed. For a long time, Stede hid himself under sober-colored, almost austere attire, and he’s grown more than tired of it. At first, he never dreamed others, let alone the Prince Regent, would seek to imitate his style.

Stede was chafing against his bars for years before Ed, all unwittingly, unlocked the cage and opened the door. Stede has only to walk through it. He can show the world a bit more of himself, at least.

Will the Prince follow if Stede leads a new fashion? Will Stede still be able to make his way in the world, or will he be ousted from polite society? He is neither as rich nor as charming as Ed, yet Stede holds some sway in these matters.

Stede sighs and leaves the room, indecisive. He goes back to his desk to have a look at his books, an even more distressing prospect, but one he has neglected too much for the past month or more. He is in the midst of figuring out just how much he needs to withdraw from his savings to pay his rent when he hears the doorbell.

Could Ed have replied already? It has only been an hour.. Agitated, Stede stands up and begins pacing the length of his cramped study until Lucius appears with an envelope on a tray. “From Lord Blackthorn.”

Stede dismisses a smirking Lucius before he opens the note, his fingers shaking. Inside, he finds Ed’s familiar bold, slanting hand. He feels a cold stab of fear when he sees that the note is quite short, but its contents make his spirits soar.

My dear Stede,

I will attend Vauxhall this evening. I will look for you there by the entrance to the Rotunda, soon after sunset.

Yours,

E.

P.S. You are more than worthy of my esteem.

Stede presses the note to his chest and breathes a sigh of relief. Ed is willing not just to see Stede at Vauxhall, but to wait so that they will be sure to find each other.

Esteem. Ed uses that word, where Stede had used friendship. Esteem implies a stronger feeling than mere friendship, does it not?

Perhaps Stede will wear something rather daring to Vauxhall after all.

Stede grips the side of the wherry, white-knuckled, as he and a handful of other pleasure-seekers float down the Thames towards Vauxhall. He does not recognize any of them, but a few of them whisper behind their hands to one another, casting surreptitious glances in Stede’s direction.

He is sometimes recognized from engravings of him that have appeared in the papers. Stede tells himself that this is the reason they are whispering, rather than his attire.

His suit of half-dress is immaculately cut, as always, and very tasteful. Navy cutaway coat, fawn breeches, and a gold silk embroidered waistcoat. All unremarkable, but for the fact that Stede is wearing his crimson silk cravat in place of the de rigueur white, starched neck covering. He wishes he could turn around and go home, but of course, that would be unfair to the other passengers, even should the wherryman agree.

Alas, Stede cannot afford to bribe wherrymen.

No, he will just have to carry on. He certainly looks well, as both his looking glass and Lucius assured him. Despite his anxiety, he feels more at ease with a softer, looser piece of fabric around his neck. He breathes more easily.

Stede holds his scented handkerchief up to his nose. Well, he breathes more easily when he’s not on the Thames, in any event. He reminds himself that the garden will smell more pleasant. It certainly promises to be a lovely evening. The heat of the day clings to the air, though not unpleasantly so, and tonight’s full moon has already risen.

Lambeth Palace is now in view. Soon, they will disembark at Vauxhall, and Stede will see Ed. Does he dare call it a rendezvous? Could Ed perhaps share Stede’s feelings? Lucius argued that tonight’s meeting with Ed constitutes a romantic assignation, but Stede cannot be so entirely sure. He will wait and see how Ed acts and will behave accordingly.

Either way, it will be delightful to be in Ed’s company for a prolonged period, away from the ballrooms of Society. They will be surrounded by members of the ton, of course, but also of other classes. Not everyone there will know them; they would even be able to find privacy, should they desire it for any reason.

Stede does not anticipate that they will want privacy, necessarily. Nevertheless, he is a tad breathless when he alights from the wherry.

Since it is the opening night of the season for Vauxhall, there is quite a crush queuing to enter. Restless, Stede hops from one foot to the other as he waits, but he finally enters the gardens about ten minutes after arriving.

Previously, Stede only appreciated the gardens on their horticultural merits. He had not seen the appeal of the place during his prior visits, likely because he was not seeking any sort of assignation. Now that such a thing is, perhaps, slightly possible, Stede can better appreciate its charm and romance. Lit by colored lamps glowing against the evening sky, the gardens are simply enchanting despite the large crowd. Music is floating across from where the orchestra is playing—it is a lovely, sweet air.

Stede would stop and admire the entire scene, but his sole focus is on finding Edward. Fortunately, the rotunda is very close to the entrance, though Stede must make his way through the milling crowd of pleasure-seekers to find it. He hopes that Ed is here already and is not delayed in the crowd.

He does not have to wonder about Ed’s whereabouts for very long. He is there, by the entrance to the pavilion, tall and regal. He is wearing less formal attire than he would for a ball, like Stede, but in his customary dark colors. Yet even in the dim light, Stede can make out that he’s wearing the purple cravat.

His heart is hammering by the time he makes his way to Ed’s side. Ed’s wide eyes catch Stede’s, and he smiles.

“Lord Blackthorn.”

“Mr. Bonnet.”

They are both still smiling when they complete their formal bows of greeting.

Ed clears his throat. “I thought we might repair to the Turkish Tent. It might be more amusing than a supper box.”

Stede nods, not trusting himself to speak.

The evening with Ed passes much too quickly. Ed is smiling and relaxed throughout supper, and as they stroll and enjoy the music and atmosphere afterward. After watching him during several balls during the past fortnight, the difference between that Ed—Lord Blackthorn—and the Ed in his company now is stark. Stede suspects it mirrors how he keeps his own true self carefully tucked out of sight when he’s among the ton.

Lord Blackthorn is magnificent, but Stede wants Ed.

They are standing close to one another as they watch the dancing. A waltz, which reminds Stede of their lessons. “It would be lovely to dance,” Stede says, imagining himself and Ed taking to the floor.

“I agree.” Ed gazes at Stede with wide, serious eyes. Stede’s breath catches.

Wordlessly, they decide to stroll towards the back of the gardens.

The talk between Stede and Ed is easy, just as it has ever been, though they keep to light topics, such as the quality of the food and wine and playful speculation about their fellow pleasure-seekers.

“The couple to your right,” Ed says in a low voice as they walk.

Stede glances over to see a young couple, a pretty strawberry blonde woman on the arm of a dark-haired army officer. “What of them?”

“The young officer hopes to ask for her hand, but she has not quite settled on him yet.”

“What makes you say so?” Stede asks.

“The way her gaze wanders about the crowd,” Ed replies. “She wants to know what else is out there.”

Stede observes them as unobtrusively as possible for a few moments. “I must disagree,” he says at length. “She gazes at him adoringly when his attention is elsewhere. She is merely shy.”

Ed hums thoughtfully. “Then why does she look about?”

Stede laughs. “Admiring the fashion of those around her, of course, and the pretty colored lights. She has an eye for beauty, but I believe she is devoted to her officer.”

Ed stops walking and turns to face Stede. “Stede, I—”

“Lord Blackthorn, is it not?” Stede curses inwardly when he hears the familiar voice of Lady Higgins. “Mr. Bonnet as well.” Stede turns to find the lady in question approaching on the arm of her son, who, as Stede recalls, is no older than one-and-twenty.

Lady Higgins introduces her son, Lord Higgins, who greets Ed with particular enthusiasm. “I am a great admirer of your exploits on the Peninsula, sir. When I saw your beard, I thought surely it must be Blackbeard, the hero of the Battle of the Pyrenees.”

Ed smiles wryly, and Stede can see the mask of Lord Blackthorn slip into place once more. “It is more Graybeard than Blackbeard these days, I’m afraid.”

“I am surprised you allowed Lord Blackthorn to keep his beard.” Lady Higgins is smirking. Though she affects disdain for Society, she is secretly overly fond of gossip, and never forgets anything she hears. She also adores causing trouble. Stede dreads what she might say next. “I recall you saying that you’d advise him to shave it off because he looked like a Russian,” she adds.

Stede feels rather than sees Ed stiffen by his side. “I did not know Lord Blackthorn when I said that,” Stede replies with some asperity. “I soon realized that he has more than sufficient innate elegance to flout convention.” In point of fact, Stede thinks Ed’s beard is quite splendid, but that is a private thought. It should be heard by no one’s ears but Ed’s.

Stede glances at him to see that he has relaxed a small fraction.

The young Lord Higgins quizzes Ed about the war—not seeming to see Ed’s discomfort with the topic, despite his curt responses—for a few more minutes before they manage to extricate themselves.

“Ed, I apologize about the beard. We had not yet met, and I do tend to be forthright on matters of fashion. I do not think—”

Ed waves a hand, dismissing Stede’s concerns. “You need not apologize,” he says as they step into the Lovers Walk. The path is dark, lit only by the moon, and though some people are walking ahead, it is much quieter and less crowded than the rest of the gardens. Stede wonders if Ed steered them in this direction on purpose. “Lady Anne has been teasing me about it as well. Unlike you, she rather despairs of my fashion sense, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should shave it off and put that epoch of my life behind me once and for all. I am no longer at war.”

“You need not shave simply because of fashion,” Stede insists. Nor Lady Anne, he thinks, though he does not voice that notion.

Ed chuckles. “Shocking words from the Cravat Influencer himself. Next, you tell me to wear a colored cravat.” He pauses and looks pointedly at his own cravat, and at Stede’s red one as they both laugh. Stede pauses, too, and turns toward him. “You suit the red cravat quite well, by the way.”

Stede feels himself blush, hoping the light is too dim for Ed to notice. “Thank you.”

“I never would have dared wear this if not for you,” Ed says, gesturing at his neck. “Nor any of the clothes filling my wardrobe. I came from nothing, you know. Though I was legitimate, my father essentially abandoned us. I never dreamt that such fine things were for the likes of me.”

“Of course, they are. You wear fine things well,” Stede says softly, admiring how the bright moonlight kisses Ed’s skin, hair, and eyes. He reflects the light, yet looks as if he has been lit from within.

Ed gasps softly and sways towards Stede. Stede feels himself sway, too—

There is a burst of raucous laughter from some people nearby, and the moment is lost. If there was indeed a moment. Perhaps Stede was imagining that Ed wanted to kiss him. What does Stede know of how people begin to kiss each other for the first time?

They turn and continue to walk, this time in silence, their pinky fingers brushing together at moments; each touch sends a crackle of electricity throughout Stede’s body.

When they reach the end of the walk, Ed suddenly takes Stede’s hand and pulls him behind a large tree. “Stede, mate. If I am wrong, I will beg you to forget I spoke, but I must know—I am not alone in feeling there is something between us, am I?” His voice is rough, urgent; he sounds more like himself than he does when they are surrounded by other people. He has dropped the mask of Lord Blackthorn once more. They are no one but Ed and Stede, alone here together in the darkness of the garden.

“You are not alone,” Stede agrees. “However, I have never—this is all new to me. I know not how to proceed.”

Ed captures Stede’s hands in his own and brings them to his lips, kissing the knuckles one by one while watching Stede through his eyelashes. Stede is shaking like a leaf at the first touch of Ed’s soft lips to his body. His mind loses its moorings, so much so that he almost takes Ed by the shoulders to haul him in for a kiss before remembering himself. “What of Lady Anne?”

Ed lifts his bent head but keeps a hold of Stede’s hands. “Lady Anne is my old friend. We had an old understanding of sorts, but we entered it before I ever met you.”

Stede pulls his hands away. “You cannot break an understanding.” His heart has shattered into pieces, but he simply cannot be the cause of Ed jilting Lady Anne. Right or wrong, Society assumes there is something reprehensible about a jilted woman.

Nor can Stede stand by and love a married man.

“Please, allow me to explain. It is not what you think.” Ed holds his hands palms up, imploringly. “There is no formal engagement. Anne and I have a long history. She and her late husband and I were… quite close when we were young.” Is Ed implying that he had an affair with both of them? Stede feels a stab of jealousy. “It was merely a scheme we concocted between us before I joined society.” Ed continues, “to keep us from joining the marriage mart. Her reasons are her own, and not mine to tell, but as for me, I simply do not wish to marry. Especially not now..”

Stede swallows. “It would be a facade, then. A marriage of convenience.”

“Precisely, but I have since changed my mind. I do not wish to live a lie, if there is any chance that you and I–”

“Does Lady Anne know you have changed your mind?”

Ed’s shoulders slump. “Anne can be rather temperamental.”

He has not told her, then. Stede uses the last vestige of strength in his body to pull away, stepping out of Ed’s orbit. He schools his face into impassivity. “What is between us will pass,” Stede says, absurdly pleased at the icy tone of voice he manages. “I wish you good fortune in your marriage. Good evening, my lord.” He turns and steps away.

“Wait,” Ed cries, louder than he ought to in this setting. “I don’t want it to pass. Stede, please, I will tell her,” he says in a lower tone of voice. “Tomorrow. I wished to know something of your feelings before I told her. If there was no hope…”

If there was no hope, then Ed would have no reason to alter his arrangement with Lady Anne. Stede pauses and turns his head. “Will you attend the Earl and Countess of Auckland’s ball tomorrow evening?”

“Yes,” Ed replies.

“Find me there, provided you have spoken to Lady Anne.” Stede must be sure Ed will not marry before he risks the life he’s built for himself. If he and Ed were together officially, albeit discreetly, Stede could weather gossip about them with a veneer of plausible deniability. He and Ed can present themselves as confirmed bachelors and close friends, as many have done before them. However, if Ed were married, he could abandon Stede at any time; any breath of scandal attached to Stede’s name could ruin his livelihood.

“Until tomorrow, love,” Ed whispers.

Stede hesitates, crushing the impulse to turn and fling himself into Ed’s arms at his soft words. Love. I am his love.

“Until tomorrow,” Stede replies. His heart already belongs to Ed, but Stede will not admit that to him quite yet.

Stede squares his shoulders and starts the long journey home.

He goes to bed alone as always, but with the memory of Ed kissing his hand now keeping him company. It is all too easy now to imagine Ed’s soft voice and kisses in a more intimate setting. Stede tries to fight it; he tosses and turns until he gives in. He supposes he need not feel so guilty imagining Ed, given that he appears to crave Stede’s touch just as Stede craves his.

Stede rucks his nightshirt up and takes his hard prick in hand, imagining Ed pressing sweet kisses into the skin of his neck, chest, and thighs—even his cock—until he spills over his belly.

Soon, Stede thinks, after he cleans up and starts to drift into a deep slumber.

“It is wrinkled!” Stede cries, pointing at the back of the waistcoat Lucius is holding up for his inspection. “It needs ironing.” He groans. “I am already late, Lucius!”

Lucius turns the back of the waistcoat around to inspect it. “Hardly wrinkled at all. No one will see it with your coat on, and you will not remove your coat in the Auckland ballroom.”

Stede falls silent at that.

Lucius catches the scent before Stede can change the subject. He is like a bloodhound for gossip. “You are not planning to remove your coat, are you?”

Stede snatches the waistcoat from Lucius’s hands. “Fine. I will wear it.”

“You hussy!”

“Lucius!”

Lucius smirks but refrains from further remarks.

Stede tries not to sulk about the wrinkles. He does not have the time for ironing, nor to reconsider his outfit for the tenth time, though he must look his best this evening. The waistcoat in question is made of silk in the hue that Feeney calls “Bonnet Blue,” with gold embroidery. It is one of Stede’s favorites, and very becoming. It looks well with his navy superfine cutaway coat and white breeches and hose. His white cravat is as elaborate as he can make it. Tonight is too formal an occasion for one of his colored silk cravats.

Stede’s hair is artfully arranged so that one curl falls across his forehead as if by happenstance. His cheeks are flushed due to the anticipation of seeing Ed once more, and he hopes, perhaps sharing a kiss, or even something more. It would be rather forward of Stede to suggest such a thing, of course, but he is keenly aware that a relationship with Ed will transgress the boundaries of propriety by its very nature.

Stede sees no reason, therefore, that he and Ed ought to feel beholden to propriety at all, at least not when they are alone together. Besides, he has waited far too long for his life to truly begin.

“Be sure to eat,” Lucius says as Stede looks in the mirror one last time. “You have had only tea and toast today. That is, unless your plan is to swoon into Blackthorn’s arms in the middle of the ball.”

“I will eat,” Stede promises. Once he has spoken to Ed, perhaps his stomach will settle, allowing him to enjoy Lord and Lady Auckland’s lavish supper.

The bumpy hack ride over to the Aucklands’ massive, impressive townhouse on St. James’s Square does not soothe Stede’s nerves, nor does the long wait behind other conveyances to alight. Due to its size and the sumptuousness of the entertainment offered, the Auckland ball is one of the most important events of the Season.

When Stede enters the ballroom, he catches sight of Ed right away over by the fat wall, but his back is turned to the door. He is wearing the cherry superfine coat today, one of Stede’s favorites from what they ordered from Feeney for Ed.

Ed is talking to Lady Anne and her companion, Mary Read. Lady Anne laughs, throwing her head back before tapping Ed on the arm with her fan. She is wearing a gold duchesse satin dress with lace trim, with quite a low décolletage—lower than propriety would dictate, to Stede’s eye. Rather shameless of her.

Whatever she and Ed discussed that day, she does not seem put out with him. Everyone around Ed and Lady Anne is whispering and casting glances at them, likely speculating about a potential union..

Stede longs to march over and drag Ed away from her (though not without first telling her to cover herself up), but he must first make his obeisance to Lord and Lady Auckland. The elderly hostess is a notorious chatterbox, and it takes Stede at least five minutes of inane discussion of the shocking amount of décolletage to be seen on gowns this season (Lady Anne being a foremost example, though lady Auckland does not say it) before he can extricate himself and make his way through the crush to Ed.

Once Stede is within five feet of him, Ed turns his head, as if sensing Stede’s approach. Stede stops, rooted in place.

Ed’s beard is gone.

Before Stede can speak, Ed catches sight of him, his pretty lips curling upwards into a smile.

Lady Anne notices Stede as well. “La, Mr. Bonnet! Lord Blackthorn has finally shaved!” She smiles, and Stede notes that she looks triumphant. “It took months of my tears and pleas, but I have finally broken him. His face looks just as I remember it. Is he not handsome?”

Miss Read leans toward Lady Anne and whispers in her ear, but she brushes her companion off.

Stede makes his bow to the assembled group. “Why yes, quite handsome,” Stede manages to say. “Please excuse me.”

Stede turns, but the crush is such that he cannot flee. He cannot breathe properly, however, and desperately needs fresh air, so he pushes his way through the crowd as gracefully as possible towards the nearest exit, which he recalls leads to the garden.

Ed has shaved, apparently at Lady Anne’s behest. It can mean only that Ed must have confirmed rather than broken their understanding.

Stede nods at some acquaintances as he hurries while trying to appear sedate. The crowd is closing in on Stede, as if he were being squeezed in a vice. The orchestra is playing a quadrille, which Stede usually finds pleasant. Tonight, it sounds unusually loud, so much so that Stede wants to put his fingers in his ears.

Once he is outside and feels a cooling breeze on his flushed cheeks, Stede makes his way to the back of the large garden, where there is a small bench by a fountain and several fragrant rose bushes. It is early in the evening yet, and no one else is taking the air. Most guests are still arriving and greeting one another.

He is alone. Stede takes a few deep breaths before bursting into tears.

He must face facts. Ed will never be his, nor he Ed’s. Ed will marry, and Stede will remain alone, as he is now and has always been.

Stede attempts to draw his handkerchief out of the pocket inside his coat, but his hands are shaking. He is so distracted by the effort that he does not notice Ed’s approach until he is a few feet away.

“Stede!” Ed passes the fountain and sits down next to Stede. “You’re crying. Who hurt you, sweetheart?”

“Edward.” Stede can feel his lip tremble. “You shaved.”

“Surely you’re not mourning my beard?” Ed looks dismayed. “You wanted me to shave. Do you not like it? Does my naked chin disgust you so?”

“Did you not shave at Lady Anne’s request?”

“No, because I thought you might prefer it. I thought I looked Russian.” He reaches for Stede’s hand. “Anne was teasing you, sweet. She has a fondness for mischief and thrives on this discomfiture of others.”

“You are not marrying her, then?”

Ed shakes his head. “We spoke today. She had already guessed that we would not marry, and the reason for it. Her companion was not in favor of the match, in any event.” Ed pulls out his handkerchief. “May I dry your eyes, love?”

“Oh.” Stede can hardly believe what Ed is saying. “Yes, thank you.”

Ed gently dabs at the tears still flowing down Stede’s cheeks. “There. No more of these tears.”

“They are tears of joy, now.” Stede smiles through his tears. He reaches up to cradle Ed’s bare cheek. “Your chin is quite handsome, but you need not have shaved on my account. You were handsome with the beard, just as you are now.” The beard had been splendid, but Stede cannot deny the pleasure he feels at seeing Ed’s strong chin, delicate jawline, and shapely lips.

Ed gasps softly as their eyes meet. At the same moment, they both lean forward until their lips touch. The kiss is chaste, but Ed’s lips are the sweetest thing Stede has ever tasted. The kiss gradually deepens as their arms go round one another. Kissing Ed makes Stede’s heart race and sends bolts of pure heat through his entire body. For the first time in his life, Stede is dizzy with physical need.

When they break apart, Stede tells Ed, “I know very little of how to proceed, but I want more, Ed.”

Ed looks around. “Blasted ball,” he growls. He leans forward to claim Stede’s lips once more in a fast but searing kiss before standing and holding out his hand. “Come with me.”

Stede stands and puts his hand in Ed’s. He finds himself being led behind a mulberry tree that stands in the far corner of the garden and gently pushed against the trunk.

Before Stede can speak, Ed is kissing him again, quite thoroughly. Startled, Stede moans and wraps his arms around Ed’s neck as their chests press together. He longs to run his hands through Ed’s hair, but it has been carefully arranged into a neat queue, so he dares not. Instead, Stede clutches him as tightly as he can, sighing and parting his lips so that their tongues can meet. Ed holds Stede around the waist just as tightly, squeezing him.

Minutes pass as they kiss, or perhaps even an hour, for all Stede knows. He is already fully hard, embarrassingly, just from kissing. Ed seems to intuit Stede’s state. He allows Stede to shamelessly press his prick against his hip, moaning at the contact between their bodies.

Ed groans and breaks the kiss, burying his face in Stede’s shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is muffled, but Stede understands him perfectly. “Damnation. You deserve better than a quick fuck behind a tree, love.”

Stede gasps at Ed’s filthy language but cannot help but rut against his leg. “Edward,” he gasps, hardly knowing how to respond to that, so swept away is he. He inhales, reveling in Ed’s intoxicating lavender scent.

“Yet I cannot leave you in this state, can I? Poor love.” Ed pulls back and then drops to his knees.

“Ed! Your knee!” Stede exclaims under his breath. “Your breeches!”

Ed looks up at him, dark eyes wide and pleading, as he runs his hands up Stede’s thighs. “The grass is soft enough. May I? Please?” His voice is low and dark, like molten sugar. “I will make it so good for you, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” Stede has only the vaguest notion of what he’s agreeing to. He trusts Ed with his life, however.

“You will have to remain quiet.”

Stede nods, and Ed makes quick work of undoing the buttons of Stede’s breeches. Since he eschews the newfangled drawers—they ruin the line of his clothes—Stede’s hard prick falls free once his breeches are unbuttoned.

“Fuck me, Stede,” Ed breathes. “You’re beautiful.”

Stede is rather fond of Ed’s saltier language, he’s discovering, but he cannot quite bring himself to speak the same way. Not yet. “You’re the beautiful one,” Stede tells him instead.

Ed looks up, his expression is a mixture of hope, awe, and desire. He is so very expressive; Stede does not miss the beard so much now that the initial shock and worry about what it meant have worn off. Stede can see why he may have grown the beard. Surely a military commander needs to keep his feelings close to his chest.

Ed whispers Stede’s name as he wraps a hand around his prick. Stede yelps and bites down on his fist to muffle any further sounds as Ed starts to stroke him. That alone, so similar yet so different from taking himself in hand, sets Stede’s entire body aflame.

Keeping his hand around the base of Stede’s cock, Ed leans forward and takes the tip of it into his mouth. It feels extraordinary—so wet, so warm—that Stede knows he will not have to keep himself quiet for very long. Ed takes him deeper, slowly, stretching his mouth around him, keeping his eyes up on Stede’s face, and it is the most arresting sight Stede has ever seen. “I won’t last long,” he groans.

Ed pulls his mouth off and winks. “Perfect. I don’t want you to,” he says, before leaning forward and taking Stede into his mouth again. He uses it to do things to Stede that he could have never imagined—swirling his tongue around, using suction, all while timing it in perfect harmony with the rhythm of stroking with his hand.

There is a rumble of thunder in the distance, which is appropriate as Stede’s body feels as if it is full of lightning. He wraps his hand around the back of Ed’s neck, accidentally tugging on his hair in the process. “Oh, Ed, I’m sorry—” Ed moans around Stede’s cock and takes it deeper, faster. Stede's legs are trembling now—the air is crackling around them as a storm is about to break. Stede bites his fist again just in time to muffle his screams as he spills inside Ed’s mouth.

“Ed, I am sorry,” Stede whispers once he can make his mouth work once more. “I didn’t warn you.”

Ed quickly tucks Stede’s softening cock away and buttons his pants. He stands up. “Don’t be sorry. I wanted it,” he whispers. “I wanted you.”

“Can I kiss you?” Stede blurts. Perhaps that is strange, considering. He is about to retract the question when Ed surges forward and kisses him deeply enough that Stede tastes himself on Ed’s tongue. Satisfied though he is, Stede finds himself wanting yet more, though he is not quite up to the task as yet.

Ed pulls away all too soon. “We must not be caught in the storm.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, quite.” Stede frowns. “What about you?” He gestures at Ed’s cock, visibly hard in his breeches.

“Later. Shall we have supper and then meet at midnight by my carriage? I suppose I must dance a few sets.” Ed’s shoulders slump.

“I wish we could dance,” Stede whispers.

Ed cups his face and kisses him once more. “We will dance again soon. I will find a way, I promise you. In the meantime, please allow me to accompany you home later.”

“Yes,” Stede says. “Darling,” he adds, trying the word out.

Ed lights up at the endearment; he shines almost as brightly as the moon had done the previous evening. He leans forward once more as the sound of thunder rumbles through the air, closer and louder now than before. He pulls back. “Damn, we must hurry. You go first, and I will follow.”

Stede nods and turns to move quickly across the garden. As he walks towards the glass doors to the ballroom, he hears the sound of leaves rustling. He pauses and looks around, but he doesn’t see anyone.

Perhaps the Aucklands have a garden mouser. Stede hopes it has a dry place to wait out the storm.

Stede pauses by the door to smooth out his hair and clothes. He takes a deep breath, allows an impassive look to settle over his features–he hopes no one will be able to discern what he has been up to—and reenters the ballroom.

Chapter Text

The remainder of the Auckland ball is interminable. Stede would have suggested making an early exit, but it was sensible to wait out the storm.

He smiles and nods, performing all the social duties expected of him by rote, but his thoughts are consumed by what happened between him and Ed in the garden. He may never think of anything else, in fact.

Stede does not come to life again until he and Ed are closed inside his carriage.

Ed is upon him in an instant, placing his hands on Stede’s waist and pulling him close into a fiery kiss. Stede whines as he clutches at Ed’s shoulders, pressing himself as close as possible as their lips and tongues move together in one cadence like a heartbeat. Need tears through Stede’s body once more, the mere touch of Ed’s lips setting the glowing coals of his desire aflame. Now that he knows the feel of Ed’s hands and the feel of his mouth, his desires are intensified rather than cooled. Stede wants to be closer, ever closer, to Ed, shedding any barriers between them until they’re nothing but skin and heat.

Well, perhaps not in this carriage.

Ed puts his hand on Stede’s lap, feeling for a bulge there and finding it. He breaks the kiss. “Fuck, you’re hard for me again already,” he whispers against Stede’s lips before claiming them again briefly. “Touch me. Please, sweetheart?”

Stede has never touched another man’s prick before, but given the similarity of their bodies in that regard, he has at least a sense of what might feel good. Stede places a hand on Ed’s upper thigh as they continue to kiss, and slowly moves it closer until he is touching Ed’s bulge. Ed groans into Stede’s mouth at the contact. Emboldened, Stede squeezes Ed lightly through his breeches, and is delighted when, in response, he makes a strangled noise and tries to push himself up against Stede’s hand.

“More,” Ed demands.

Stede starts kissing along Ed’s jawline, suddenly grateful that he shaved. “Now now, darling, I wouldn’t want you to soil your breeches,” Stede whispers, lips close to his ear. “After I went to so much trouble to pick them out, too. Besides, I’d much rather see you out of them.”

Ed gasps. “Oh, you will be the death of me, won’t you?”

“Mmm.” Stede lets his lips slide down to Ed’s neck, just below his ear—yes, the lack of beard has distinct advantages. If he could chart every inch of Ed, to learn which spots make him draw in breath or moan, then Stede would consider himself a fortunate man, indeed.

Happily for the sake of Ed’s breeches, they arrive at Stede’s home after only a few more minutes of kissing and touching.

Also happily, they have the house to themselves. “Spriggs is not here,” Stede tells Ed as he closes the front door behind them. “He is spending the evening with his beau.”

“So we are alone?” Stede nods, and Ed takes his hand. “Take me to your bed, sweetheart.”

Stede fights back his anxiety as he leads Ed down the short hallway to his room. He has some idea of what to expect, thanks to Nicholas and Mark, but he is also cognizant of the fact that fiction is not real life. Yet Stede holds one truth close to his heart: He trusts Ed implicitly. Whatever happens here, they will both enjoy it.

Nevertheless, Stede’s fingers are shaking as he reaches up to loosen his own cravat. Ed steps close to him and kisses him on the lips. “Allow me. I’ve dreamed of this.”

Stede looks up into Ed’s face as he bends to his task. “You have?”

Ed looks up through his eyelashes, sending a bolt of molten heat through Stede’s body. “I have. I have dreamed many times of unwrapping you from your fancy clothes, little by little, like a present just for me.”

Stede shivers as the cravat unwinds and Ed’s fingers brush against the tender skin of his neck—like most of Stede’s body, but for his hands, it is a part of him that does not often know the touch of another. He wonders if Ed can feel the erratic beat of his pulse; knowing that Ed has dreamed of him makes Stede feel rather wild.

Stede feels warm all over as well. He would prefer to take his clothes off immediately. Because removing them is Ed’s dream, Stede holds still as his coat, waistcoat, and shirt come off, leaving him in just his breeches, trousers, and shoes.

Ed stops, his eyes roving over Stede’s chest as he visibly sucks in a breath. “Your shoulders, mate…”

Stede almost steps back inadvertently. “Brutish, I know.” He knows that his physique has been sneered at as betraying his family’s working-class origins, as much as the definition of calves looks very well in stockings. He has always encouraged Feeney to tailor his coats to de-emphasize his broadness.

Ed’s eyes snap up to his. “Nonsense. Who told you that?”

“Well,” Stede sputters, “all of Society, I suppose.”

Ed runs his hands up Stede’s arms and squeezes his shoulders. “Fucking Society. Pearls before swine,” he murmurs. “The more reason to keep your pearls to myself.” He smiles, cheeky and pleased with himself at his very filthy joke.

“My pearls, such as they are, are all for you,” Stede tells him.

“Delicious,” Ed growls before pulling Stede into a crushing embrace and kissing him deeply. Stede sighs into it, winding his arms around Ed’s waist and shamelessly pressing his hardness into Ed’s hip. The superfine of Ed’s coat—an exquisite aubergine color this evening—feels smooth against Stede’s bare skin, but it’s not enough. Ed’s skin, he would wager, is even softer to the touch than the finest merino wool.

Stede tries to reach up to remove Ed’s cravat without breaking the kiss, but it is rather awkward, with how closely together they are pressed. Ed breaks the kiss with a laugh. “Let me undress. I’m rather warm. But first…”

He gets down on his knees once more and directs Stede to lift each foot, so he can remove Stede’s shoes. That done, Ed begins to undo the fall front of Stede’s breeches, button by button, until his partially erect prick comes free. He licks his lips and looks up with a smile and a wicked glint in his eyes, undoubtedly remembering their encounter a few hours ago. Instead of bending his head, Ed pulls the breeches down Stede’s legs, and then steadies him as he steps out of them.

Stede is now wearing nothing but his stockings—no one has ever seen him in this state since he was a child, not even Lucius. He fights the urge to cover himself with his hands so that Ed can look his fill and run reverent fingers over his exposed skin. “Gorgeous,” he breathes. “Keep the stockings. D’you mind?”

An image of Ed wearing nothing but stockings comes to Stede’s mind. Oh, he can indeed see the appeal. “I don’t mind.”

After that, Ed removes all of his clothing very quickly, until the floor is heaped with superfine, satin, and linen. Stede finds that he cannot care, though surely he will regret that in the morning. He is too entranced by the inches of Ed’s skin, finer even than silk, that are bared to his gaze as each item of clothing comes off.

“Tattoos,” Stede whispers when Ed’s shirt has come off over his head.

Ed stops, wide-eyed. “I suppose I ought to have warned you. I know they are not de rigueur among the ton, but they are the tradition among my mother’s people.”

Worry creases Ed’s brow, so Stede steps closer, seeking to allay his fear. “They are lovely,” he says, tracing his fingers over a snake that curls its way enchantingly down the steel of Ed’s bicep and forearm. “They are part of you, so they could not be anything but beautiful to me. I would love to hear more about your mother’s people—your people.” He has the sense that Ed feels more affinity with his mother’s kinfolk than his father’s, for all that the patrilineal line brought him a title and wealth.

Ed smiles, bashful. “Thank you.” His smile grows wicked. “Some other time. I have other plans for you tonight.”

Stede continues to watch as Ed undresses further, his eyes tracing over the exquisite planes and muscles of his body. Along with his beautifully sculpted arms, Ed has a trim waist and strong thighs from riding. His cock, already quite hard and nestled in a thatch of dark hair, is enticing. Stede now understands why Ed sought to use his mouth; he is most eager to learn to bring Ed to the same heights of pleasure.

When Ed bends down to untie the ribbon of his stocking, Stede reaches for his hand. “No, please. I like the stockings, too.”

“As you wish, dove.” The next thing Stede knows, he is being whirled around and gently pushed down onto his bed. Before he can sit up, Ed’s weight is pressing him into the mattress, and he is being kissed soundly for long, luxurious moments.

Ed lifts his lips from Stede’s and looks down at him, a soft light in his eyes. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe you’ve not done this before.”

Stede swallows. “You are correct. I—I know a little, from some, er, reading material. I have only the vaguest notion of my preferences, I suppose.” He feels his face grow hot.

“There are many ways for us to feel good together,” Ed says. “We can find out what you like, together. If anything sounds unpleasant to you, we will not do it. If anything feels unpleasant, we will stop and do something else as soon as you tell me to stop.”

“Surely that goes for you, too?” Stede asks.

Ed strokes Stede’s cheek. “Of course, but I know what I like. In any case, I believe I would like most anything with you.”

Stede is burning with desire, now that Ed’s skin is next to his, as well as curiosity. “You had dreams of me?” Stede asks. “Perhaps we can start there.” Ed has already fulfilled Stede’s best fantasy with his clever mouth.

Ed smiles wickedly. “We already achieved one of those.”

“Mine, too.”

“Fuck,” Ed groans. “You are perfect.” He draws in a breath. “After our horseback lessons, I was consumed with imagining you riding me in these stockings of yours.” Ed bends his head to Stede once more, as if he cannot resist the magnetic pull of his lips.

“Mmmmph.” Stede is so distracted by the kiss that it takes him a moment to understand what Ed means. Dizzy with need as he pictures what Ed has in mind, Stede presses his hands into Ed’s shoulder blades. Ed licks into Stede’s mouth. Stede moans into the kiss and, by some instinct, wraps his legs around Ed’s waist. That must please Ed, as he moans in turn.

Only when Ed moves his lips to kiss along his jaw is Stede able to answer, “Yes.” Ed does not stop his ministrations, but rather increases his efforts, kissing Stede’s neck and making his way down to his chest. Ed licks gently at a nipple, producing a sensation so novel and intense that, were it not for Ed’s weight, Stede would leap off the bed. “Ed, please,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

Ed looks up. “Stop?” he asks.

“No, don’t stop.” As overwhelming as the feeling is, Stede would not have him cease for all the world. “It is–Rather, I have never—” Stede does not know how to explain that each physical sensation is new to him, nearly overwhelming him with pleasure.

“Shh, dove. Let me take care of you. If you need me to stop, say so, or else tap me on the back three times if speaking is too much.” Ed bends his dark head and once more begins to gently tease Stede’s nipple with his tongue.

Stede feels as if his insides are made of bright, hot liquid. Stede winds his hands up into Ed’s hair, by instinct searching for yet another anchor point, sending the pins that secured his artfully arranged updo scattering about. It is even softer than the silk of Stede’s favorite cravats.

Ed moans but does not pause, flicking his tongue against Stede’s nipple and sucking on it. The edges of Stede’s senses become blurred as each touch of Ed’s tongue to one nipple, followed by the other, goes straight to Stede’s prick. Stede’s hips buck upwards, looking for friction, and he whines.

Lifting his head, Ed chuckles and shifts down a bit to kiss Stede’s stomach. Ed ignores Stede’s cock for the moment; he stifles another whine at having Ed’s mouth so close to where he wants it, pressing kisses soft as butterfly wings into his skin. He trusts Ed to make this good for him, and should perhaps not betray any impatience.

His cock likely speaks for him on that account. Stede does not think it has ever been harder, and Ed must feel that, too–it is pressed between his own stomach and Ed’s chest.

When Ed has kissed down over Stede’s hip bone and across his upper thigh, and his lips reach the tender skin of Stede’s inner thighs, he can no longer hold back his impatience. Ed’s breath is tickling the skin covering Stede’s balls. Stede jolts once more and cries out.

“So sensitive,” Ed whispers. He worries at the skin of Stede’s thigh with his teeth.

“Edward—”

Ed looks up, his eyes heated. “Do you have oil? It will make things easier on you than saliva.”

Stede’s brain is mired in quicksand. “Oil—what—why—Oh!” Of course, he remembers now how Nicholas had needed oil to smooth the way when he fucked Mark in Whispers in the Dark. As Stede has been taking himself in hand regularly of late, he has taken to keeping oil near the bed, inspired by the book. Ed is correct that it is more pleasant than spit. “Bedside table, top drawer.”

Ed raises an eyebrow. “Were you thinking of me, then? Alone here in your bed, wrapping a hand around your pick?”

There is something undeniably stirring about hearing Ed speak plainly of these things. Breathless, Stede nods.

“Did you bring yourself off while thinking of me?”

“Yes,” Stede replies quickly before he loses his nerve.

The answer pleases Ed. He hums and kisses Stede’s inner thigh once more and then rubs the pad of his thumb lightly over Stede’s entrance. “What of here? Did you touch yourself here?”

Stede flushes crimson; he can see the blush spread over his own chest. He has experimented in this vein, wondering what about anal pleasure made Mark see stars. Lucius had left him an enlightening pamphlet on preparation for anal play, which Stede had followed to the letter. Even so, it was difficult for him to relax enough to receive more than his own fingertip. “I tried to, but… It was so tight.”

Ed groans and buries his face against Stede’s inner thigh. When he picks his head up again, he says, “You are ruining me for anyone else, Stede Bonnet.”

Stede is not sure exactly what he said to elicit such a response, but he preens at Ed’s words nonetheless. He knows for certain that he has been ruined for anyone else as well.

“I can help you relax.” Ed hauls himself up to all fours and crawls over toward the bedside table. He retrieves the vial of oil. “It will make things easier later.”

Stede watches Ed as keenly as possible through the haze of desire that’s dulling his more cerebral functions, likely due to the volume of blood that has migrated southwards. He wants to know what to do in the future, in the event that Ed would perhaps ask him to do the same.

Ed sits back on his heels, his pretty cock erect and curving upwards a little. He coats his index finger generously with the oil. He makes soothing noises, as if Stede were a nervous filly, as he slowly eases it inside. “You are doing so well,” he coos, “being so good for me.”

Perhaps it is due to desire or Ed’s mere unclothed proximity, but Stede finds himself more able to relax under Ed’s gentle touch. He proceeds so slowly, in fact, that Stede is whining with impatience once more as his finger circles ever so slowly around the rim of his entrance. His body knows he craves something more, and he knows Ed can give it to him.

The eventual intrusion of Ed’s finger, first to one knuckle and then the next, feels a little strange. Ed pauses frequently, allowing Stede to get used to the stretch. “You are so tight,” he says.

“Is that… a good thing?” Stede asks between panting breaths.

“It’s wonderful,” Ed replies. “You will feel perfect around my pick, sweetheart.”

Stede cannot form a coherent reply to that. He thinks about his own experience in bringing himself off, and he knows that the increasing pressure of his hand on his cock increases his pleasure accordingly. The idea of Ed experiencing that pleasure with Stede’s body… Of their two bodies being joined together, intertwined, finding release in one another…

Stede needs to relieve some of the pressure that’s building up inside him at these new feelings and thoughts. He scrambles for the abandoned vial of oil and applies some to his hand, then reaches for his aching pick again. He hisses at the contact of his hand—it feels good, but he needs more, so he starts to stroke, but at an even pace, since he does not want to finish too soon.

Ed’s breath hitches. “That’s it, dove, make yourself feel good. You are gorgeous, so good for me…”

His soft words spur Stede on, and he can feel his hole relaxing further as Ed makes circles with his finger. The pleasure Stede’s feeling seems to ease Ed’s way, yet the touch of his own hand might bring him off too soon. He would rather find his release with Ed inside him, if such a thing is possible. “Edward, darling, surely I’m ready—”

Ed shakes his head. “Patience. You are growing greedy.”

“Greedy only for you, I think.” Stede’s hand is flying over his cock, his orgasm distant yet on the horizon.

“Do you feel good?”

“Yes!” Stede cannot help allowing more impatience to seep into his tone.

“Yet you have not yet experienced the most profound pleasure.” Ed winks.

Stede is about to argue that he knows what an orgasm feels like, but Ed does something with his finger that causes his entire world to burst into flame. It takes a moment for him to come back to himself, wondering if it’s possible for a human body to spontaneously combust from pleasure. His eyes fly open. “Ed! What on earth…?” He would willingly allow Ed to burn him down to ash right here in this bed if it meant he could feel that again.

Ed smiles warmly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I found your spot.”

“Can I—do you—?” Stede read about this, but he had not fully understood how different it would feel from any pleasure he had ever experienced before.

Ed laughs, but it is fond, not mocking. “Yes, I have it as well. Anyone born with a pick does.”

There is only one thing Stede can say in response to that: “Again!”

“You are greedy.” Ed’s tone is complacent rather than accusatory.

Ed rubs at the spot with his finger a few more times, until Stede is seeing stars and twisting on the bed. At one point, the sensation is so intense that he comes, just a little, from his cock. When he recovers enough to be capable of speech, he asks Ed if that means they cannot proceed further.

Ed withdraws his finger carefully and seeks out one of the handkerchiefs kept in Stede’s bedside drawer. “We can proceed, but you need a respite first.” Ed sits back on his heels and wraps a hand around his flushed cock.

That will not do. Stede surges up onto his knees to pull Ed into a kiss. As their lips meet, he reaches for Ed’s cock, eager to bring him even a small portion of the pleasure Ed has shown him this evening. Stede wraps a hand around him, pleased to find that he’s already wet enough without the oil. He begins to stroke, enjoying the weight and heat of Ed against his palm.

The noise Ed makes against Stede’s mouth is gratifying, to say the least. Not knowing how else to go on, Stede uses the speed and pressure he prefers for himself at first, using Ed’s sighs between kisses to guide him. Ed likes it slightly faster than he does—his kisses grow messier and more frantic as Stede’s hand goes faster. Stede twists his palm over the head, and Ed whines and breaks the kiss.

He cups Stede’s chin. “If you continue, I’ll be spilling over your palm instead of inside of you.” He rests his forehead against Stede’s for a moment.

Stede’s cockstand has flagged somewhat in his focus on Ed, but it revives at his words. “Please, darling.”

Ed kisses him for a long moment. “Keep calling me that,” he whispers.

Stede would happily call Ed darling for the rest of his life. Now is not the right time for such a confession—though they are both men, surely Ed deserves to be wooed? Stede will consider that further at a later time.

Ed lies down. “It might be easier if you were on all fours, but I would like to kiss you.”

Stede wants that as well, more than anything. He straddles Ed, who runs his hands over Stede’s stockings, and directs Stede to use plenty of oil on his cock as well as to add more to his hole. “Use more than you think you need.”

Stede will have to think about the state of his bedding later—he coats them both until the oil is dripping.

“Go slowly,” Ed tells him. His eyes are molten chocolate as he looks up at Stede. “I won’t move until you’re comfortable.”

Stede attempts to tamp down his impatience, knowing that Ed will refuse to proceed if he displays the least discomfort. Ed holds himself while Stede lines their bodies up, biting his lip as his rim stretches to accommodate Ed’s prick.

“Take it slow… That’s it, sweetheart, you’re doing so well…” Ed reaches around and squeezes Stede’s arse cheeks for encouragement as he takes Ed in by slow inch..

“Oh, Ed, that feels…” Stede trails off, not having the vocabulary for this. The stretch feels overwhelming, though not exactly uncomfortable. He is growing accustomed to it as he slowly takes more and more of Ed inside of him. He takes deep breaths and focuses on Ed, spread out under him, instead.

He’s strong, but less broad than Stede. His skin is beautiful, tawny and dewy with a fine sheen of sweat. Stede traces his fingers lightly over the ship tattoo on his chest and then up through the smattering of dark hair up by his sternum. Eyes heavy-lidded, Ed draws in a breath. Stede continues the explorations of his fingers as he allows his body to grow accustomed to Ed’s prick. His fingers graze lightly across Ed’s nipples.

“More,” Ed hisses. “You will be the death of me.”

Stede smiles in a manner that he hopes is rather saucy. “What a way to go, then, eh?” He pinches Ed’s nipples, lightly at first and then rather harder, enjoying how Ed’s breathing visibly quickens.

I make him feel this way, Stede thinks. His own body responds to the thought, his hole clenching somewhat around Ed’s cock. He groans and squeezes Stede’s arse once more, but he manages to keep himself quite still, which must be difficult.

But Stede is ready to move now. He leans forward to kiss Ed lightly; the scent of lavender and the touch of soft lips fill Stede’s senses. “How shall I proceed?” he asks Ed as he sits up.

“Up and down.” Ed’s whisper is ragged. “Back and forth. Discover what feels good for you, dove.”

“Will it be good for you?” Stede wants that more than his own pleasure.

“It will. It is already–you feel wonderful.”

Stede has to agree. Being this close to Ed, their bodies joined, already feels better than anything he has ever experienced. Tentatively, he uses his thigh muscles to start to move himself up and down on Ed’s cock. He feels so full, but in a way he has never experienced before—it makes him feel wanton, so he moves faster, enjoying how Ed’s eyes roam all over his body as he moves.

“Better than how I dreamed it,” Ed pants, “the first time I saw you ride.” He runs his hands up and down Stede’s legs, running his fingers along the place where the stockings, which have slipped down a little, meet his skin, the ribbons having loosened a little.

Stede moves his hips backwards and forwards a bit, enjoying the new but just as fulfilling sensations. “Despite my atrocious seat?” Ed had advised him to allow his body to become one with the horse—he feels that advice even more keenly now, and it is easier to accomplish, too. The movement of his hips gains speed. “Is it much improved, d’you think?”

Ed laughs and pulls him down into a messy kiss. Ed’s teeth graze Stede’s lip, but he finds he doesn’t mind—that it makes his body move even faster, even. “Your seat is astounding,” Ed says against his lips as they pull out of the kiss.

Stede can hardly believe that his body can bring them so much pleasure. He is proud to know it. The notion spurs him on.

His skin feels feverish all over--not just from the effort of riding, but the heat is as well, it seems, radiating from deep within his core. His cock is hard and aching for touch, as well as bouncing rather awkwardly, so he reaches for it.

Ed’s eyes follow the movement of his hand; the pupils are wide with hunger as he watches Stede stroke himself. He begins to move his hips, pushing them up off the mattress, leveraging his body into Stede’s. Along with Stede’s stroking himself, it increases the sensations a great deal, such that he feels that a storm is brewing inside of him. He can but chase his release now, and so the movement of his hips and legs falters a bit.

Hardly knowing what he’s saying, Stede demands, “More. Harder.”

Ed obeys, picking up Stede’s slack, moving his own body more now, pushing his heels into the mattress so that he can fuck up into Stede harder, though not much faster—Stede expects it could go faster once he’s more accustomed to sex. “That’s it, let go. Let me see you.”

Stede, who has by now thrown his head back and allowed his eyes to close, opens them to look at Ed. Indeed, he is still watching the movement of Stede’s hand very closely. Being watched so closely makes Stede feel flushed all over. Ed looks at him as if he is desirable, even beautiful.

[Digital art of Ed and Stede (age mid-thirties) on a bed with a dreamy pink background around them. The bed has a gold frame and a blue blanket. Ed and Stede are situated at an angle. Ed is on his back, feet on the bed and knees pointed up, and Stede is riding him, with one hand back on Ed's thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his own cock, which is dripping. Ed's hands are on his waist. They are both naked except for white stockings with bows, and they're both flushed. Stede's head is thrown back, eyes closed.Ed's hair is fanned out on the bed.]

He is close now, so he tightens his grip and starts to fuck his hand harder to match the pace of Ed fucking up into him. When the storm finally breaks over him, Stede comes with a ragged sob as his vision goes white and he spends, harder than he ever has in his life, all over Ed’s belly and chest.

“Holy—” Ed’s words are cut off as his body stutters and stills beneath Stede’s, his grip tightening around Stede’s waist. The skin may bruise, but Stede knows he will look on those marks on the morrow and sigh happily over them.

Ed cares for Stede after that, cleaning him off with a rag, wet from the washbasin, and kissing him all over.

Yet as Ed cleans himself off, Stede starts to worry about what will come next—will Ed leave? Stede would not wish it. As if anticipating his thoughts, once Ed has put aside the rags, he smiles, rather adorably sheepish. “May I stay? What time will Spriggs try to rouse you?”

Stede chuckles. “Have no fear on that score. I will not see that boy before noon.” He douses the lamp. With only moonlight to illuminate the room, he reclines on the bed and opens his arms. Ed comes into them a moment later, resting his head on Stede’s chest. Their skin sticks together a bit after their exertions, but Stede finds he does not mind.

Something Ed said earlier tickles his brain, however. “Ed, you said you dreamed of this since the day we met. The day your horse knocked me off my horse. Is that true?”

“Blasted horse.” Ed groans. “Yes, I could not help but admire you from the moment I saw you. I wanted to know you better.”

“Oh, well, that’s—” Stede now wonders if this is the reason Ed later sought him out. He seems to imply that this is the case. He is astonished that someone as beautiful and accomplished as Ed could find Stede, of all people, attractive enough to seek out. “I am glad you got to know me better, darling,” he settles for saying.

“Me, too,” Ed says, voice already quite heavy with sleep.

Stede kisses the top of his head and allows slumber to overtake him.

As the early morning sun slants through Stede’s windows and warms his face, he awakens to Ed kissing him and rolling on top of him. He takes both of their pricks in hand and brings them off together at a leisurely pace, until they spill at almost the same moment all over Stede’s stomach.

Stede could certainly get used to such a start to his days.

When Ed is dressing for the day, pulling on his breeches and shirt, Stede watches him. His fingers are deft with all the small buttons on his waistcoat. “Do you dress yourself typically, or does Iggy do it for you?”

Ed sighs. “I dress myself mainly. The duties of a valet do not sit easily with him. I’m thinking of sending him to the country to oversee my affairs there. He is quite sharp, and his father managed an estate. His mind is wasted looking after my clothing, but he is fiercely loyal. He hates the city—he merely abides it, or tries to, for my sake.”

Stede snorts. “I would not have thought he was so loyal. He is the one who told me you were to marry.”

Ed, who is crouching to pick up his cravat, stands up straight. “He did? Perhaps I should send him to the country soon.” He sighs. “He has been hoping that I would marry and retire. He says I have become distracted from that goal.”

“By me,” Stede concludes. That would explain the man’s disdain for him.

“Just so,” Ed muses as he attempts to tie his cravat. Without the benefit of a mirror, he is making a hash of it.

Stede throws the covers off and stands up, naked. “Allow me.”

Ed looks at Stede through his eyelashes as he steps close and picks up the ends of the cravat. “I will allow you anything you wish, as long as you are unclothed when you ask for it.” Ed reaches for Stede’s behind. Stede drops one end of the cravat and swats his hand away.

“Behave,” Stede says, returning to his task. “It is still early enough for you to leave here without anyone marking you.”

“You may mark me, if you like. We should both remain unclothed for that—”

“Hush,” Stede says, laughing.

Ed’s face grows more serious. He looks rather anxious, in fact. “I have been meaning to ask you if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to the Duchess of Dover’s ball in a fortnight.”

Stede is so shocked that he nearly drops the ends of the cravat. “The Dover Ball! You secured an invitation?” The dowager Duchess of Dover does not move in proper society much–only as much as she chooses, and no one dares cross her, though she was a tavern owner known as “Spanish Jackie” when the late Duke, a true maverick and something of a roué, met and married her. (Stede has heard a rumor that she has threatened to cut off a nose or two. He has also heard that she had twenty husbands by the time she met the Duke, and that she did not necessarily turn any of them away from her bed after her official marriage. This has always struck Stede as an outlandish exaggeration.)

Her balls, co-hosted previously with her late husband, are very exclusive occasions. Scandalous ones, if gossip is correct, but there is very little detailed information about what goes on.

Ed grins. “I have known Jackie for a long time. Keep this to yourself, but she ran the largest spy network on the Peninsula before her marriage.” Stede gasps–he had certainly never heard any rumors about the Duchess having served as a spymaster. Ed chuckles at Stede’s astonishment and kisses the corner of his open mouth. “I have attended but once. The guest list is eclectic and not limited to members of Society. It is a masked ball, and there is an agreement that all guests keep to themselves what and whom they see there. Jackie would eviscerate anyone who broke that silence. We would be able to dance with one another there. Even kiss.”

This is even more scandalous than Stede could have imagined. “Do people… You know…”

“Not out in the open. Well, mostly not out in the open.” Ed winks. “The Duchess’s home has many bedchambers.”

The heat in Ed’s gaze makes Stede’s knees go a little weak, and his cheeks are burning. No wonder he has never heard details. He hesitates to respond–rumors of his attendance could destroy his reputation–but curiosity and the desire to dance openly with Ed win out. “I would love to attend with you.”

Stede’s deft fingers finish tying a passable cravat knot. Not too elaborate, but Ed will pass muster if anyone catches sight of him, and will assume that he is merely returning from a ball that lasted until dawn, or perhaps a night of gambling at his club.

Ed retires to the dressing room to tidy his hair as Stede retrieves his dressing gown. Before Ed leaves for the morning, Stede finds himself kissed, soundly and repeatedly. Stede nearly pushes him out the door, in the end, with a promise to find him at the Sutton musicale this evening.

He dislikes that they must sneak around in such a manner, but such is the way of the world. At least, as men, they have a degree of freedom in their movements that women lack.

Once Ed has left, Stede collapses onto his bed, hand pressed to his chest. He fancies that he can feel his heart fluttering. He should try to sleep a little more, perhaps, but his mind is too full of Ed, especially as his scent lingers, reminding Stede of everything they did here together last night and this morning.

Stede has never known such happiness before in his life, nor had he even known it was possible. Ed has captivated him, body and soul. For the first, and very likely the only, time in his life, Stede is in love.

Chapter Text

Lucius comes from his evening out to find Stede still in bed, in a state of disarray. Rather smugly, he guesses the cause of it. Stede merely smiles in response.

“I’m happy for you,” Lucius tells him. “You deserve someone kind and handsome.”

Stede cannot help but grin widely. “He is quite handsome, is he not?”

“He is, and you have the devil’s own luck,” Lucius says. “Pete is quite beside himself with jealousy. He thinks Blackthorn is the handsomest man in London.”

Stede puffs his chest a little. The handsomest man in London—possibly in the world—is his lover. Why should he not feel proud?

He lingers in bed late, not sleeping but instead reliving the entire night with Ed, moment by moment. He can hardly believe all of it happened—he wants to ensure that each touch, each kiss, and each sensation lives on in his memory for the rest of his life. Of course, Stede hopes to make many new memories with Ed, but these first moments are especially precious and thus worth keeping close to his heart forever.

The pillow Ed had slept on still smells of him. Stede hugs it close to his chest as his mind wanders from memories to dreams of future moments.

By ten of the clock, there is no more time to linger abed. Stede must dress and break his fast. To his chagrin, today is Wednesday, the day when he is in the habit of receiving callers. He is quite sure he cannot focus on social banalities when his mind and heart are full of Ed.

Today’s gossip, relayed by Hornberry and Lady Higgins, is more insipid than usual. It is the time in the Season when the debutantes are starting to pair off with the young bucks, and Stede is not especially interested in hearing that the daughter of Duke Thus-and-Such might be betrothed to the Marquess of Whichever-shire. He would admit interest in more salacious gossip, being merely a flawed human being, but there seems to be none of that on offer today, so he pours cups of tea while smiling and nodding, only half marking what is being said.

Towards the end of calling hours, Lucius announces the last name Stede would have hoped to hear: Prince Richard Banes. Stede, being his social inferior, will be obliged not only to sit through this call, but to repay the call within short order.

Stede greets Banes with all the politesse he can muster, bowing to the correct depth, no deeper, and inquiring as to how he likes his tea. It is rotten luck that Banes is the last caller, and the others leave soon after, having stayed for their allotted quarter hours. Stede finds himself alone with him.

There is an awkward silence as they both sip their tea.

When in doubt… “Lovely weather we’re having, Your Highness, quite unseasonably—”

“I saw you,” Banes says, cutting off Stede’s remark.

Stede sets his teacup down on its saucer. “Whatever do you mean, sir?” he asks, quite calmly, he thinks, though alarm bells are sounding throughout his mind. He remembers hearing a noise the previous evening in the Aucklands’ garden. He assumed it was a cat, but perhaps it was Banes. Stede attempts to school his face into impassivity, though he knows that, as always, his flushed skin may give him away.

“I saw you returning from your little tryst with the Earl of Blackthorn in the Auckland garden.” Banes smirks, and Stede longs to slap the impertinent look off his face.

“We merely conversed,” Stede says, injecting as much hauteur as possible into his tone.

“Mere conversation does not lead to mussed hair and clothing.” Banes takes a calm sip of his tea. “Besides, I saw you kissing. It does not shock me, of course. Heaven knows we have our own way of looking past such… foibles… on the Continent. London Society, however, will not stand for it. Nor will the Prince Regent, I expect.”

Stede’s blood freezes in his veins. It is a gross misjudgment–the Prince Regent lives for scandal, but Banes is correct that he would not condone Stede’s actions. “What do you want of me?” Stede reluctantly inquires.

“Your position in Society is somewhat precarious, is it not?” Banes asks. “You rely on income from working with gentlemen, and your career would not survive any breath of scandal of this nature attached to it.” He takes another sip. “The ton may assume that you are supplying services of an entirely different nature. They would not tolerate such a shocking scandal.”

Stede jumps to his feet. “How dare you cast such aspersions on my good name? Leave my house this instant. No one will believe this.” Stede is bluffing. He is not too sure of that, knowing how fond Society is of shocking gossip, as conservative as it hews outwardly.

Banes remains in place. “I think not, Mr. Bonnet. Perhaps you may not care for your own sake, but surely you wouldn’t want to damage the good name of your dear Blackthorn.”

Stede scrubs a hand over his face and takes his seat once more. Banes is more clever than he appears, Stede must admit. He has identified Stede’s weakness and is exploiting it. As always, Stede ruins everything he touches. “I admit nothing,” Stede tells him, “though I acknowledge that Society loves gossip, whether it is true or not. Let us cut to the chase. What do you want of me in exchange for your silence?”

Banes smiles, much like a chess player who has just placed his opponent’s king in check. “Access to the Prince Regent, of course, so that he will invest in my seaside scheme.”

Stede does not have as much sway with the Regent as Banes thinks he does. “The Prince Regent does not turn to me for investment advice,” he observes with some asperity.

Banes waves a hand airily. “Oh, I merely need the entrée you provide to his circle. Once I can explain my scheme to His Royal Highness, he will certainly agree to invest. After all, he is a man of knowledge and taste.”

The Prince is neither of those things, but Stede does believe he is wise enough to steer clear of Banes’s undoubtedly foolish scheme. Banes will inevitably blame Stede for the failure of this plan and will then tell the world what he knows out of sheer pettiness. If he is disgraced in such a manner, Stede will no longer be able to make his way in Society. He has no other skills–he is, in fact, useless, just as his father always said.

Even worse, Ed, too, will be exposed to ridicule.

Still, without a better option for the moment, and because he needs time to think, Stede promises to introduce Banes to the Prince Regent at the opera in two weeks’ time, when the Regent has returned from Brighton.

An icy cold panic grips Stede once Banes leaves. His instinct is to flee, but there is nowhere for him to go except to Edward, and that, Stede can never do. Banes has already threatened to ruin Ed’s life as well as his own, and Stede cannot allow that to happen. Banes will continue to hold what he knows over Stede’s head. Ed, as a peer, might be able to brazen out the rumors if he and Stede break ties now.

As Banes pointed out, Stede will suffer, but there is no help for that. He has been alone most of his life. He can find a way to grow accustomed to it again. It is for the best–Stede ruins everything he touches, and would have eventually ruined Ed one way or another.

Lucius enters the drawing room. “What did that odious little man want?”

“Blackmail.” Stede swallows. “He saw me and Edward together.” He looks up into Lucius’s shocked face. “I must write to Edward and break things off.”

“Stede, no, you should speak to him. He’s a bloody Earl—he can help you fight this.”

Stede shakes his head sadly. “Do you not see? Our affair is a danger to both of us. I don’t mind for my own sake, but Ed deserves peace after a lifetime of fighting for his country. He has his own difficulties fitting into Society." He chokes back a sob. “He deserves happiness.”

“He will not be happy without you.”

As fond as Ed is of Stede, Stede simply cannot imagine that being the case. Ed is beautiful and brilliant–he could find someone else, someone more fitting of his company. He could resume his scheme by marrying Lady Anne Rackham. Stede’s only charm and talent relate to matters sartorial. He has naught else to offer Ed—not money or position.

Stede stands up. “I am writing, and that is that.”

Lucius wrings his hands. “What will you tell him?”

Stede thinks for a moment. He is not sure he can disavow sufficient affection truthfully. He may be able to imply that their affair is too dangerous. “That I thought better of a connection that places us both in some peril.” It was foolish of them to indulge in a dalliance at the ball, and Stede does not trust himself or Ed to be more circumspect. All thoughts of propriety fly right out of his head in Ed’s presence, and he suspects Ed feels the same.

Not knowing what else to do, Stede takes up pen and paper at his escritoire.

Dear Ed,

I cannot meet you tonight at the musicale, nor privately at any other time in the future. The danger to both of us is simply too great.

I will always hold you in the highest regard and wish you every happiness.

Yours,

SB

Stede is proud of himself for getting through the letter without blotting any of the ink with his tears. He holds them back until he has handed the letter to Lucius and retreated to his bedchamber to bury his face in the pillow that still smells of Ed.

He sobs for hours, or so he thinks, until his eyes are wrung dry. He is only just starting to consider whether he should get out of bed to eat–he had been too elated to consume more than toast and tea today–when he hears a commotion coming from the direction of his front door. It sounds as if someone is shouting his name.

It sounds as if Edward is shouting his name.

As Stede sits up, the door to his bedroom flies open. Ed strides in, hair flying behind him, looking for all the world like an avenging angel.

Lucius rushes in after him. “I could not stop him from accompanying me back here, sir.”

Knowing Lucius, he did not try very hard; he likely encouraged Ed to come. Yet Stede supposes Ed would not have been deterred in this temper. “It is alright. Leave us,” Stede tells Lucius.

Once the door closes, Ed strides over to the bed and waves Stede’s note in his face. Stede braces himself for a recrimination for breaking things off by a note—Stede has always been a coward— but Ed takes a deep breath and kneels to look into Stede’s eyes. His voice is low, even gentle. “Tell me who threatened you, dove.”

“What makes you think anyone threatened me?”

Ed cups his chin. “You are not a skilled liar, my love. Now, tell me, please.”

Stede’s shoulders slump, but the words my love fortify him. “Prince Richard Banes. He saw us together and is threatening to tell the world unless I introduce him to the Prince Regent.”

Edward’s face darkens. He drops Stede’s chin and stands up. “Then Banes dies. I will issue the challenge as soon as I can find the little bastard.”

“Edward, no!” Stede scrambles to his feet, but his vision swims, and after a moment, all is darkness.

Stede awakens with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed.

Ed is sitting facing him on the bed, holding a vial of smelling salts. Lucius is standing a few feet away, wringing his hands.

“Stede!” Ed crushes him into a hug. “You had me worried, mate.”

Stede breathes in Ed’s comforting scent as his racing pulse starts to slow. “What happened?”

Ed does not let go. “You swooned,” he replies. He kisses Stede’s hair.

“I will leave the two of you alone,” Lucius says. He withdraws, closing the door behind him.

“I suppose I did not eat enough today.” Stede hugs Ed in return, putting his arms around his back and squeezing.

Ed pulls back and places a hand on Stede’s cheek. “You must care for yourself,” he says, frowning.

Stede’s head is muzzy from crying and swooning, but all of a sudden, he remembers the last thing that occurred before he lost consciousness. He grasps Ed’s upper arms. “Edward! You must not challenge Banes to a duel.”

“You would protect that bastard?” Ed growls.

“What? No! He is an arsehole. I worried for your safety.”

“You needn’t worry, dove. When I aim, I don’t miss.” Ed’s tone of voice is steely and, Stede must admit, damned attractive.

Still, this is no time for Stede to get distracted by his prick. “Even so. Mishaps can occur. Edward, you must promise me you won’t challenge Banes.”

Ed frowns.

“Promise me,” Stede repeats, trying to inject as much steel as possible into his own voice.

Ed’s shoulders relax. “I promise,” he says reluctantly. Stede detects a gleam in his eye.

Ed is crafty. Stede must extract a more specific promise. “Promise me you will not provoke him into challenging you, either.”

Ed’s face breaks into a smile that takes Stede’s breath away. “You know me too well. I promise. There will be no duel with Banes.”

Satisfied, Stede nods.

“He cannot be allowed to intimidate you, nevertheless.” Ed stands up and starts pacing the short length of Stede’s bedchamber. “He is a bastard, and make no mistake. Blackmailer, war criminal—”

“War criminal!” Stede leaps off the bed and takes Ed by the shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“By Waterloo, everyone in the army knew of it. Though his country was officially allied with our cause, Banes sold secrets to Napoleon in exchange for being kept in French brandy. He had a crony in the British Navy who let some things slip when he was in his cups. Never too much, but Banes leaked key strategic information more than once.”

“Can this be proven?”

Ed thinks for a moment. “Perhaps. I know evidence against him was being gathered, but I believe the case against him was dropped after Waterloo. There were more pressing priorities than indicting a foreign spy on the losing side.”

For the first time in hours, Stede feels hope. “If this information were to come to light, the Regent would never speak to Banes. He might well even banish the man. Prinny detests Bonaparte!”

Ed surges forward, cups Stede’s face, and kisses him.

Stede kisses back, quite naturally. He cannot help it. Kissing Ed is as easy as breathing. However, after a few moments, he pulls back, full of regret. “Edward, we have put ourselves in danger. We have risked our reputations, even our lives, through carelessness. I could not live with myself if something happened to you.”

“Stede, my love, I do not care one whit for my reputation. We can leave for my estate. Hell, we can leave England—”

Stede thinks of how hard Ed has fought to take his place in Society. He cannot allow Ed to give that up for his sake. Furthermore, Stede has but a small nest egg. He would be entirely dependent on Ed’s fortune if they left London. “I cannot leave. My livelihood is here.” Ed opens his mouth, so Stede lays a finger to his lips. “I know what you will say, but I prefer to make my own way in the world. I cannot do so with my reputation in shambles.”

“We can be more careful—” Ed begins.

“I very much doubt we can.”

“Are you saying we must end things?”

“Yes!” Stede shouts. Ed’s face falls. “No! I do not know. Perhaps not forever. While Banes is a threat, we should keep apart.”

Ed takes a step back. His expression has grown stony, even cold. “You will not fight for us.”

“I never said so!”

Ignoring that, Ed straightens the lapels of his coat. “The Duchess of Dover may be able to provide some proof of his crimes. Otherwise—damnation, I wish I had a contact in the Home Office. If we could get them the proof, they would perhaps see him banished for his crimes.”

“I may have such a contact,” Stede says slowly. “I am loath to use it.”

“Oh?”

“Do you recall the Badminton twins?”

Ed’s face betrays his distaste. “Unfortunately, I do.”

“Lord Nigel works for the Home Office.”

“Will he listen to you?” Ed asks with a frown.

“I will find a way,” Stede vows. “I despise them, but I grew up with them. I know how they think.” Stede takes a step closer to Ed. “I promise, I will fight for us. Get me that information, and I will see that the Badmintons receive it.”

“And until then?” Ed asks.

“We must keep apart.” Stede is resolved in this. “Once Banes is gone…” He cannot finish the thought. What if another Banes comes along? How will Ed ever be safe if they make themselves vulnerable to blackmail?

Ed does not speak. Stede knows he has deeply hurt the man he loves, but he would give up anything, even their happiness, to ensure Ed’s safety. If Ed cannot forgive Stede, then he must find a way to bear his broken heart.

“I will get you the proof,” he says. “Wait for me to contact you.”

He turns around and leaves Stede’s chamber.

Stede had been quite wrong earlier: He had plenty more tears to shed this day.

Stede spends the next few days in torment, fretting about whether Ed can get the information they need before he has to introduce Banes to the Prince Regent. The Prince’s debts are notorious, and Stede does not think that introducing someone who is looking for an investment would be looked upon kindly. Perhaps Banes mainly wants the Prince’s imprimatur on the project more so than cash, but Stede suspects he is hoping for both. The plan is ill-conceived, from start to finish, yet Stede is well and truly caught in Banes’ net.

Desperate to work off his frantic energy, but not eager to attend social occasions, Stede takes to riding out to Greenwich most mornings. He misses Ed’s company, but the exercise does him well, although sometimes, he wishes he could continue riding until he reaches the horizon. To ride so far that he leaves his troubles behind.

Yet Stede returns to London every time. Ed is in London, even if Stede cannot touch or even speak to him.

He has seen Ed a few times, at social events he felt he could not back out of. Stede tried to catch his eye once or twice, but Ed refused to look in his direction. Stede cannot blame him for that. Cowardly as he is, Stede deserves to be ignored. He is quite sure Ed no longer intends to bring him to the Dover Ball.

Stede avoids as many social events as he can—in part to avoid Banes—though he is in desperate need of a new client; his current financial obligations are eating into his precious savings. What is more, Lucius continually chastises Stede for moping around the house.

“I am sorry my presence is so aggravating to you,” Stede snaps one day. “You are, of course, always free to find an employer who will put up with your impertinence!”

The complaints ease up after that, but Lucius continues to entreat Stede to talk to Ed.

Lonely and miserable as he is, Stede is, to his annoyance, beginning to think that Lucius is correct. For comfort’s sake, Stede has taken to rereading Persuasion at night when he cannot sleep, now with a fresh perspective on love lost. Captain Wentworth’s letter to Anne in particular strikes Stede to the very core:

Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.

Like Anne Elliot, Stede should not have pushed his love away out of fear of the world’s judgment. He spends a sleepless night turning the author’s words over and over in his mind, arising in the morning with fresh determination. He will not let eight and a half years go by before trying to mend what he has damaged.

Stede tells Lucius as much the next morning. “I cannot make any promises, as he may be unwilling to speak to me privately at social events.”

Lucius looks skeptical. “You will try to speak to him, though?”

Stede dashes a tear from his eye. “Yes, I will try my best, but I fear I have lost him forever, Lucius.”

Lucius’s face softens. “He loves you, Stede. I saw how frantic he was when you fainted, and how relieved he was when you woke up. You are that man’s entire world.”

A tear trickles down Stede’s cheek. “I am?”

“I would not lie to you about this. Blackthorn is hurt at the moment. You may need to give him some time, but if you apologize, I think you will find that he will start to thaw. Perhaps a romantic gesture?”

Stede thinks for a moment. Perhaps a letter, in the manner of Captain Wentworth? Alas, Stede does not believe he could hope to achieve such eloquence. Something more subtle, that only Ed will understand, is perhaps called for—something to show that Stede is brave enough to fight for him.

He needs only to find an occasion where they both will be present. Stede smiles for the first time in days. “I know just the thing!”

Stede’s first chance to practice his bravery comes the very next day. Edward sends his valet, Hands, over with a note from Ed. Stede is disappointed but not surprised that Ed did not come himself.

Stede takes the envelope from the man.

Hands gives it over, but he hesitates before adding, “I offer my apologies for telling you Lord Blackthorn was to be married. I understood it to be true at the time, but it was not my place to say it.”

Stede is caught off guard. Hands had not seemed like the type to apologize. “Oh, I-well, thank you for the apology.”

“You are good for him, you know. I could not see it at first. He misses you.” Hands clears his throat. “He is sending me to the country to oversee his estate. It is for the best, really. Frencherson will take over my duties. He is a good man.” Hands gestures towards the envelope. “I am meant to await your reply, sir.”

Stede steps away and turns, unwilling to allow the man to see his reaction to whatever the note contains.

My home, eleven o’clock this evening. We will speak to someone who may have what we are looking for.

I will send an unmarked carriage for you a quarter hour prior to the arranged time.

B

The lack of salutation and Ed using his title’s initial, along with the note’s overall terseness, but Stede supposes he understands. He hurt Ed deeply, but Hands' words have given him hope that things can be amended.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Stede turns back toward Hands. “Tell him I will be there.”

Hands bows and takes his leave.

Stede wonders how he will pass his time until the appointed hour. He is anxious about seeing Ed once more, especially since it seems clear there will be a cool reception, indeed, and, with at least one other person in attendance, it may not be the best opportunity to try to mend things.

Stede arrives at Ed’s home as the clock strikes eleven. Hands shows him in and ushers him to the drawing room, where Ed is pacing by his desk.

By instinct, Stede starts to move towards him, but Ed holds up a hand. “Please, let us focus on business tonight,” he says, voice rough. Stede cannot help but notice the dark circles under his eyes and his now no longer customary black clothing

He misses you.

“I understand.” Stede sits on the chaise, folding his hands in his lap, and there is an awkward silence that is broken by the doorbell a moment later.

After another minute, Hands shows in a tall woman in a red satin dress and a distinctly regal air. “The Duchess of Dover,” he announces before withdrawing.

Stede gasps as he stands. He has only heard tell of her but never met her. Stede is mildly shocked at her lack of mourning attire, since, as he recalls, the Duke died within the year.

Ed greets her warmly, striding up to her and kissing both her cheeks. He turns toward Stede. “Your Grace, may I present Stede Bonnet? Mr. Bonnet, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Dover.”

“None of this ‘Your Grace’ nonsense,” the Duchess says, pointing a finger at him. “You have been in London too long. I am still Jackie to you, Teach.” She turns to Stede with an assessing gaze. “Bonnet. I hear we have a common enemy in Richard Banes.”

“Yes, Your Grace, Banes has certainly caused some trouble for me.”

The Duchess nods, thoughtful. She glances at Ed. “I have invited Zheng and Jim, too.” She sweeps over to the chaise Stede had abandoned and sits, arranging her skirts around her.

“Would you like some sherry?” Ed asks.

“You know me too well,” the Duchess says. Stede also agrees to the sherry and takes an armchair adjacent to the chaise as they wait. “I developed a taste for the accursed stuff in Spain,” she says.

Not long after they receive their glasses of sherry, two other people are shown in by Hands. There is a woman with dark hair and a regal bearing not unlike the Duchess, but much shorter and wearing a severely cut dark gown. She is accompanied by a person of indeterminate gender wearing a coat, breeches, and riding boots.

They are introduced as Zheng Yi Sao and “Jim, just Jim,” respectively.

Once everyone has a drink of their choice and a seat, Ed provides a summary of Banes’s blackmail of Stede, but he hesitates to provide the reason for it. Uncertain, he glances at Stede for the first time all evening.

Stede clears his throat. “Banes saw me and a companion in a compromising situation.”

“I suppose you do not wish for the world to know about this?” Zheng asks.

Stede looks into Ed’s eyes and says, “I would tell the whole world if I could. Alas, it would be inadvisable, for their sake.”

An unidentifiable emotion passes over Ed’s face, but it is gone just as quickly as it came on.

“This is how Banes operates,” Jim says in a voice laced with bitterness. “He blackmails people or sells information when it suits him.”

“If I may ask, how did you get mixed up in all this?” Stede asks them.

“My brother and I were already orphans when Napoleon’s troops came through in the year eleven. He was shot trying to protect me, even though he was younger than me. He was just a boy.” Their face darkens. “I found out later that Banes, qué cabrón, was responsible for passing on the information on the Allies’ position.”

“Jim found out after they came to work for me,” the Duchess explains. “They eventually went to work for Banes, posing as a servant, and managed to steal some coded letters.”

Stede looks over at Zheng. “And you? If I may inquire, what is your stake in this?”

“My stake is none of your business,” she says coolly. “All you need to know is that I lost people and money. I do not tolerate people who interfere in my business. Jim and I have been keeping an eye on him. We followed him to London a few weeks ago.”

Stede thinks for a moment, and a picture forms in his mind. At a guess, she is referring to smuggling, which had long been rampant due to Napoleon’s trade policies. He imagines that Jackie’s tavern may have maintained a steady supply of French brandy and wine thanks to Zheng’s efforts. He decides not to inquire further, instead asking, “Did you also work for Her Grace?”

“I do not work for anyone but myself.” Zheng frowns. “Jackie and I have… collaborated, as occasion arose and our aims aligned. Before she retired in order to marry.” The last words are pointed.

The Duchess narrows her eyes. “As if I would pass up a Duke’s suit. I continued the work in my own way.”

Jim sends Zheng an admiring glance. “Zheng and I and a few others kept Jackie’s work going after that. Zheng is an expert codebreaker, among other talents.”

The two of them share a glance, and Stede, who is more attuned to such things now, wonders if there is something more than their work between them.

“Zheng’s information saved my regiment more than once,” Ed adds in a quiet voice.

“The war ended after we got the letters but before I broke the code,” Zheng says. “It was no longer a priority after Waterloo. The British were too focused on banishing Bonaparte and prosecuting confirmed spies. We were thanked for our service and cut loose.”

Jim narrows their eyes at Stede. “What makes you think they will care now?”

“They may not,” Stede admits, “but if the Prince Regent hears of this, he will refuse to give Banes a hearing at the very least. Blackmailing me to get him an audience will not help in that case. The Regent will not look kindly on a British resident who spied for the French.” He hesitates to ask his next question, but he may be asked to account for this. “Why did you not report him before now?”

Jim snorts. “Do you think the Home Office would believe us?”

“Surely Her Grace would be believed?” If she ran spies, then she should be a known quantity.

The Duchess shrugs. “‘Her Grace’ has been out of the game too long. There has been a regime change since I retired. In any event, though I would like to see Banes suffer, I do not want any official part in this.” She sips her sherry. “Lars and I are returning to the Peninsula once I wrap up Percival’s estate. My step-son, the Duke, is a lazy idiot, but once I take care of everything, I wish to be free to leave. London is far too stuffy and dreary.” She looks Stede in the eye. “This is no place to live as your true self. It is time for a new chapter.”

Stede is starting to agree with that assessment of London. He does not ask who Lars is, but given how recently the Duke died, the Duchess taking up with anyone would be a scandal.

Yet he is not so sure she would not be believed. The Duchess projects an air of absolute confidence and authority. Then again, when he thinks of his own contact at the Home Office… That little weasel would probably feel threatened by such a clever, high-ranking woman. “I have an acquaintance in the Home Office,” Stede says. “I can bring the proof to him if you provide it to me.”

The Duchess looks at Ed. “Is Bonnet trustworthy?”

Ed looks at Stede, his eyes softening slightly. “Yes. I trust him.”

Stede is shocked to hear it, considering how he wounded Ed.

“Yet I worry for Bonnet’s safety, especially if Banes should hear who gave the evidence,” Ed continues.

Stede squares his shoulders. He can be brave. For Ed. For the future he still hopes they can have. “No, please allow me to do this. I wish to be free of Banes, so that I may live as my true self. I must fight for that.” Stede glances at Ed in time to see his eyes widen. “I will convince my contact to keep my name out of it,” Stede continues.

The Duchess raises an eyebrow and leans forward. “How do you plan to do that?”

Stede smiles, on firmer footing now. If there is one thing he knows about Lord Nigel Badminton, it is that he is vain. “I will allow him to take the credit for catching a spy.”

An odious prospect, but it will be a worthwhile sacrifice if it can free Stede and Ed from Banes’ machinations.

The five of them strike an accord, and Jim promises to bring Stede the evidence on the morrow. Stede will not tarry, but will bring it straight to Badminton.

The others take their leave. Stede lingers, hoping for a chance to speak to Ed, but he accompanies Stede to his front door.

Stede gathers his hat and cane, but as he reaches for the doorknob, Ed asks, “Are you still planning to accompany me to Jackie’s ball?”

Stede stops and turns. Ed’s eyes are wide, but he flicks them away quickly towards his feet, as if not particularly interested in Stede’s response.

“Yes, I will attend, provided I am still welcome.” Stede hopes Banes will be out of the way by then, but in any event, Stede would go anywhere to spend more time with Ed.

Ed says something too softly for Stede to make it out. “Pardon me?”

“That might be nice,” Ed says, still looking at his feet. “I will send you the details.”

“Capital!” Stede exclaims, his voice echoing through the empty foyer.

Ed looks up and steps a little closer. “Allow me to send Hands to you tomorrow, so he can accompany you when you visit Badminton.”

“That is not—”

“I would accompany you myself, but I know it is not prudent for us to be seen together. I will feel better knowing he is standing watch over you. I know he will protect you with his life, for my sake.” Ed turns the full force of his large brown eyes onto Stede, who is helpless to resist him. “Please? I care for your safety as much as you did mine, in entreating me not to duel.”

Stede is touched that Ed cares so deeply for his safety, even now. “Yes, you may send him. Ed, I—” Stede reaches for Ed, but he pulls back and shakes his head.

“Until the ball,” he says.

Stede understands that Ed is willing to give Stede a chance to claim him, at least somewhat publicly—a chance that Stede will be sure to seize. In any event, Stede supposes nothing can be mended until the Banes threat is neutralized. He can wait patiently until then, knowing that there is some hope. “Until the ball.”

Though he feels as if his heart will break to do it, Stede takes his leave.

During the carriage ride home, and all through his nightly ablutions, Stede thinks about the trio of impressive people he met this evening. They are all far braver than he has ever been in his entire life—he who failed out of the war effort and has spent his time since playing with fine fabrics. Stede can see now that loving Ed, who is so accomplished, has made him feel inadequate. He was loath to let Ed give anything up for him, because surely he, Stede Bonnet, could not be worth any sacrifice?

He thinks of Captain Wentworth, still in love despite all logic after eight and a half years. Perhaps love does not need to make sense. The heart has its own wishes that defy reason.

If Ed can still love Stede, then he will be brave enough to meet and return that love. The first step will be to honor The Duchess, Jim, and Zheng’s work by bringing it to Lord Nigel, something Stede would have balked at doing even a week ago. It is worth doing, not just for his own sake, but for the sake of their hard work and for his country.

After that, he will find a way to win Ed back at the Dover Ball. Ed’s manner at the close of the evening hinted at some softening towards Stede, so there is a good chance he might succeed.

After washing his face in his basin, Stede looks up into the mirror on his dresser. “I am adequate,” he tells himself.

He prays it will be enough.

Chapter Text

Stede’s hands are trembling as he walks into Lord Nigel Badminton’s office, clutching the packet of letters Jim had delivered that morning. Hands trails behind him, a silent but surprisingly comforting presence, though he does not relish letting the man see how Badminton reduces him to an awkward child.

I am adequate. I am adequate. I am adequate.

He tells Hands to wait outside—Badminton will not speak freely in front of him. Badminton’s secretary shows him into the inner office.

“Baby Bonnet!” A chorus of two voices exclaims.

Fuck. Both of them are here.

Stede performs the proper bows and turns to Admiral Chauncey Badminton. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“I was having lunch with my dear Brother today, and when he mentioned that Baby Bonnet requested an appointment to discuss information of a sensitive nature, I was curious.” He glances at his brother, who guffaws. “What could you have to share of any relevance? Dropped out of the army—”

“Yes, ” Stede says impatiently, “I am well aware of my shortcomings.” He looks at Lord Nigel. “This information is rather sensitive. Should the Admiral be here? Surely it is not his concern as he does not work for the Home Office.”

The Admiral draws himself up. “Sir, I am an Admiral in His Majesty’s Navy. Any state secrets are naturally my concern.”

Stede does not believe that, but he recognizes that no power on earth will drag the Admiral out of this office. Lord Nigel likely shares everything with his twin, in any event. For a moment, Stede wonders if they should be trusted with this information, but he reminds himself that the goal is for the information to circulate, and the more widely, the better, too—secrecy is not required.

Lord Nigel directs him to take a seat, and, fighting down a roiling wave of nausea, Stede does so. The Admiral rings his own seat around to Lord Nigel’s side of the desk.

There is an awkward silence as four skeptical blue eyes regard him across the desk.

Stede wants nothing more than to turn around and flee, but no, he must hold his ground. For the sake of Ed and their future. He clears his throat. “It has come to my attention that a person currently attempting to gain entree to the Prince Regent’s circle was a spy for Napoleon during the Peninsular War.”

Another silence stretches on as the brothers look at each other before they burst into laughter.

“What nonsense!”

“Oh, Baby Bonnet, you do tickle me!”

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Stede waits until they are finished laughing at him. It is nothing worse than what he has suffered at their hands previously.

Finally, Lord Nigel wipes the tears from his eyes as his laughter subsides. “Bonnet, as amusing as this has been, I am a busy man, and you are wasting my time—”

“I have brought the evidence.” Stede places the packet of envelopes on the desk. “Letters intercepted by a spy placed in the culprit’s home, the codes broken by a master codebreaker.”

“Nonsense.” Lord Nigel frowns but leans forward slightly. “I suppose I will at least ask who this purported spy is meant to be.”

“Prince Richard Banes.”

The twins share another look, this time more grave in aspect. The Admiral leans closer to Lord Nigel. “There have been rumors for years.”

Lord Nigel turns to Stede. “How did you happen upon this information?”

Stede has already decided to be honest without revealing his sources. “Banes has been something of a problem for me, demanding that I introduce him to the Prince Regent. A friend connected me with some people who were working to bring him down, but had not cracked the code used in his letters by the end of the war. By then, the Crown no longer required their services.” Stede holds himself up as straight in his seat as possible. “I do not wish to expose the Regent to a traitor to his country.”

“Quite right,” the Admiral mutters. “Why did these people not bring the evidence themselves?”

“They want to keep their names out of it. The war is over, and they have no wish to continue working for the Crown, though they would like to see Banes’ crimes exposed.” Stede closes his eyes. This gambit requires delicacy, but Stede believes it will work. It must work. “In fact, I would also like to keep my name out of it. Doing my duty to my country is its own sufficient reward. The Home Office should receive the credit for examining the evidence and taking the appropriate action.”

Stede is quite sure he is not mistaken about the eager glimmer in Lord Nigel’s eyes. He endeavors to look unaffected, but Stede can see that he is swimming towards the baited hook.

“So I do not misunderstand, you seek no credit for this?” Lord Nigel asks.

“None whatsoever,” Stede replies truthfully. “In truth, I have done nothing but pass on the evidence. I did not gather it. His Majesty’s government will undoubtedly take action and receive all rightful credit.”

Lord Nigel bites. He reaches forward and brings the packet of papers closer. “You may leave this with me, Bonnet. We will examine the evidence and see that justice is done, should we deem it warranted.”

Stede bows his head. “I defer, as always, to your wisdom, Lord Nigel.”

The Admiral leans forward. “If this should prove to be hogwash, Bonnet, you will pay for wasting my dear brother’s time.”

“I assure you, I have no reason to waste his time.”

Lord Nigel raises an eyebrow. “What does Banes have on you, Baby Bonnet?”

He is sharper than Stede gave him credit for; he had always thought the Admiral the more clever of the two. “Banes has threatened the well-being of someone I care for,” Stede says. The statement is accurate enough.

Lord Nigel grunts in disbelief, most likely because he cannot imagine caring for another to that degree, but he seems to accept Stede’s answer.

Stede makes a hasty retreat as soon as he can. His heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty, but he has done it. Provided Lord Nigel does not botch things, he will be rid of Banes.

He nods slightly at Hands as they take their leave of Lord Nigel’s offices. Once they get outside onto the street, Stede tells him, “He took the bait. He’s going to have the evidence examined and appears poised to take all the credit himself.”

Hands nods, satisfied.

“Will you go and tell Blackthorn?” Stede asks him as they climb into the unmarked carriage Ed has provided.

“No, he asked me to keep an eye on you until Banes is no longer a threat.” Stede’s horror must show on his face, but Hands hastens to add, “Never fear, Mr. Bonnet. I will keep watch outside your home.”

Stede breathes a sigh of relief. He now knows that Hands is not hostile to him, but he is not exactly a comfortable person to be around. “Spriggs will see that you are fed and watered,” he promises the man. “He will also bring Blackthorn a note describing what transpired today.”

Stede wishes he could order the carriage to drive him to Ed’s place, but that would be reckless, and besides, Ed does not seem quite prepared to embrace Stede fully.

Stede settles into the cushions as the carriage begins to drive them back to his own home, reminding himself that he will see Ed again in a few days’ time at the Dover Ball.

Not for the first time, he wonders what one ought to wear to a scandalous ball.

The days between the Badminton meeting and the ball pass without Stede hearing any news from the Home Office, making him grow increasingly uneasy and restless. He supposes it may take some time to review the evidence properly, but he is eager to have Banes out of his life.

Banes has not visited again, though he has written twice, reminding Stede that he is “looking forward” to an introduction to the Prince Regent at the opera next week. If Banes has not been exposed by then, Stede will be obliged to find a way to delay introducing them. His career will be over if he introduces the Prince Regent to someone who is shortly after exposed as a traitor, though perhaps that would be a blessing in disguise.

Stede may want his career to be over. Still, introducing the Prince Regent to a traitor would be deuced inconvenient. It is better to keep the man’s good opinion rather than earn his enmity, as he is effectively the sovereign. Perhaps Stede can feign breaking his leg or some such thing to avoid the opera.

At least Stede will see Ed this evening. He is half agony, half hope regarding his prospects with the man he loves.

Despite the scandalous nature of the event, Stede has opted for one of his burgundy blue cutaway coats, done in a severely tailored superfine and paired with buff breeches. The one outstanding element is his silken cravat in a bold red–the one he wore to Vauxhall.

It is only his second appearance with a bright silk cravat, though Feeney has reported that customers are starting to request them after he and Ed were both seen in them. Stede has not worn one since Vauxhall, but he is ready to show the world, and Ed, that he no longer cares for Society’s opinion of him. Society’s good opinion does him no good if it means he cannot be with the man he loves dearly. Stede is ready to show the world his true self.

There are still aspects of being Ed’s lover that Stede is not sure of—earning his own keep, for one thing—but he had been foolish to think the two of them could not work through those things together.

“You look very handsome,” Lucius tells him as he enters his foyer, a rare compliment. He hands Stede his cane and hat. “Your cravat will cause a sensation.”

“Lucius! I should hope not,” Stede chides him, taking the proffered items. “I am told that whatever happens at the Dover Ball is not spoken of elsewhere. As I hope to kiss Ed for all to see, I must trust in this veil of secrecy.” Stede dons his hat and takes one last look in the mirror in the foyer to adjust the angle. “That is, I will kiss Ed if he wishes it.”

“He wishes it.” Lucius sounds quite certain. Stede turns toward him in surprise. “I have been speaking to Hands when I bring him his meals. He is not such a bad sort, rather beguilingly grumpy, as a matter of fact.” Stede makes an impatient noise; he does not care to hear about the boy’s flirtations at this precise moment. “Yes, fine, he says the Earl is mad for you, even still.”

Stede’s pulse races to hear it. “I hope he has the right of it.”

Bidding Lucius a good evening, Stede sets off for the waiting carriage.

I am adequate. More than adequate.

Stede leaves his house and gets into the waiting unmarked carriage. The driver is not one he recognizes, but then, Ed employs several men he knew from his Regiment, wanting to surround himself with people he deems trustworthy. As a result, he has a rather superfluous number of servants, but he cannot be faulted for his good heart.

Stede nods to the man and steps into the carriage.

A hand comes over his mouth, and strong hands grip him. Stede struggles, but two men are holding him; they are too strong for him to break free.

“You have disappointed me, Mr. Bonnet,” a voice says from the shadows obscuring the seat across from him, as the carriage begins to move. Banes leans forward so that his face catches the light. “I thought we had an accord, but now I hear you have gone visiting the Home Office?” He tuts. “That is quite ungentlemanly of you.”

“Wh–what?” Stede sputters.

Banes chuckles. "I have more contacts than you may imagine. Yes, even within the Home Office! When I found out you visited Badminton, it was a mere trifle to arrange to blackmail him as well. Did you know he has several children by his mistress?”

Damnation. Of course, he does, the awful pick.

Stede fights back the urge to struggle against his captors or kick out at Banes. A plan. He needs to try to keep calm and make a plan. He must stay alive to see Edward again. Edward. Stede’s racing heartbeat stutters. He will think I abandoned him.

Stede looks into Banes’s eyes, trying to pour all the derision he feels for the man into his gaze.

Banes nods to the henchman who has a hand over Stede’s mouth.

“Where are you taking me?” Stede asks, not really expecting an answer. It seems the thing to ask in this circumstance, however.

Banes smiles. At least, his mouth curves upwards, but the smile does not reach his eyes, which are cold. Snakelike, even. “Not to worry. You will be quite safe. I still have need of you, for the moment.”

A sickening dread descends over Stede at his words. He will never see Ed again, will never get to tell him that he loves him.

“Gag and blindfold him,” Banes says. “Tie his hands behind his back.”

Stede’s world goes dark, and he is gagged and bound. He loses all sense of time. Minutes or perhaps even an hour pass.

Eventually, the carriage stops, and he is carried out by the henchmen, struggling as much as he can since there is nothing to lose now, he feels.

Though he can’t see, his other senses are sharpened, especially smell. They have brought him to a less savoury part of town, by the docks, judging by the odor. He also hears hoofbeats.

“We were followed,” the man holding Stede’s legs says.

“Inside, then, quickly,” Banes snaps. “Jones, you stay out here and intercept them.” Jones must be the driver.

For a moment, Stede feels hope revive. Could Ed have followed them? After a moment’s relief, he dismisses the notion as impossible. Ed is at the ball, likely wondering where Stede is, and has no way of knowing his plight.

The men bring him into a cellar, judging by the smell and the dampness of the air. They toss him onto the hard stone floor. He cries out when his body makes contact with the ground, though the sound is muffled by his gag.

The gag is removed, and Banes says, “If you cooperate with me now, I will keep your dirty little secret and let you go. The evidence against me is being retrieved from the Home Office as we speak. The Prince need not hear of it. We can proceed with the original plan.”

“I would rather die than help you!” Stede shouts. “You have no more power over me. Tell the world what you know—or I will tell them myself that I love Edward!”

Banes rolls his eyes. “In that case, we shall proceed to my contingency plan. If your precious Edward loves you in return, then he can pay to have you back. Blackthorn is as rich as Croesus—”

Before Stede can reply, there is a commotion—he cannot see, but it sounds like the door is thrown open. There is a gunshot, and Stede is pushed to the ground, and his cheekbone knocks against a wall. As the sounds of struggle go on around him, he struggles against the ropes binding his hands, but they are too tight. He is deciding whether to try to rub the ropes against the rough stone wall when he hears footsteps recede.

“Stede!” It cannot be… Stede must be overset. Yet a moment later, the blindfold is lifted, and Stede blinks at the dim lamplight of the cellar. Edward is crouching by him, his fingers gently prowling the tender spot on Stede’s cheek. “Did they hurt you?” His eyes are large and wild-looking.

“That is my only wound.” The rope has chafed his wrist, but it is not worth mentioning.

“I got one of them, but I’ll kill the rest of them,” Ed growls. “I promise you that.”

Stede’s eyes fill with tears. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did, dove. I was coming to bring you to the ball as a surprise. I was hoping we could speak.” Ed pulls out a pocket knife. “Turn around, let’s get these ropes off you.” He starts sawing at the ropes. “I saw you get into another carriage and followed with Hands. He has gone to fetch the Runners, but Banes and two of his henchmen got away. He will likely be on a packet across the Channel by the time the Runners find him.”

Stede’s heart squeezes. Ed risked grave danger for his sake.

Stede is free of the ropes a moment later. Ed stands and pulls him to his feet.

Stede launches himself at Ed, throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. “I love you!” He cries when they break apart. “I love you.”

Ed smiles, and Stede tries not to think about how he was in danger of never seeing his dear face again. “I know. I know that,” Ed says.

Stede takes a proper look at him for the first time and notices that he is wearing the purple silk cravat. At the same moment, Ed notices Stede’s cravat.

“You wore it,” they say at the same moment.

“I wanted to prove that I'm brave enough for you. Ed, I promise you that I will always fight for us,” Stede says.

“I am sorry I doubted it, even for a moment. I heard what you told Banes—is it true that you would tell the world about us?”

“I would. I shall pass the news on to The Tatler myself. Hell, I'll write to the Prince Regent to tell him. ”

Ed chuckles. “You need not go so far as to confess to the head of state. It is a crime.”

“It does not feel like a crime,” Stede whispers. “I love you so very dearly.”

“I love you, too, dove,” Ed replies. He leans close for another kiss, but there is yet another commotion outside.

“Lord Blackthorn?” That is Hands’ voice, coming from the stairs up to the ground floor. Stede can see now that they are in a storage room full of casks of brandy. Smuggling, he thinks.

“Here!” Ed looks at Stede. “The Runners have arrived. We will have to take up our kissing again later, I’m afraid.”

“I am holding you to that, darling.”

“Edward, you are quite mad!”

Ed frowns. “If you are too tired after your ordeal, we need not, but I thought it might be fun.”

It took an hour or so to speak to the Runners. They are on the hunt for Banes now, for the crime of kidnapping, but Ed suspects he will try to run away to the continent before his larger crimes are revealed. As long as he is gone and remains so, Stede does not care what happens to him.

Ed is suggesting they attend the ball.

Stede is not tired. He thinks he will be unable to sleep any time before dawn. The state of his clothing is another matter. “I cannot attend the most exclusive event of the Season in dirty breeches and torn hose, Edward!”

“We can stop at your home so you can change.” Ed’s eyes sparkle even in the low light of his carriage. “The ball will go on for hours yet, and I would like to show you off.”

When Ed puts it like that, how can Stede refuse? He reaches for Ed’s hand and brings it up to his lips for a kiss. “I would like to show you off, I think.”

“We shall show each other off, then,” Ed agrees with a smile.

The rest of the carriage ride is lost to Ed’s lips and hands.

When they arrive at Stede’s home, he alights from the carriage, but Ed does not follow. “If I come inside with you, we may never leave,” he says, laughing.

“I would not mind it.”

Ed shakes his head. “Go on. We can come home soon if you are fatigued, but Jackie will be put out if we do not make at least a brief appearance.”

Home. Does Ed mean that Stede’s house is home?

Stede thinks about the chance of dancing openly with Ed. Even if he were tired, it would still be worth going to the ball for that reason alone. He turns and makes haste to change, glad of the fact that Lucius has gone out so that he need not stop to explain what happened.

By the time they arrive at the ball, a half an hour later, Stede is having second thoughts because he had spent the entirety of the carriage ride between his home and the Duchess of Dover’s in Ed’s lap, being thoroughly kissed.

“Are you sure you want to attend the ball?” Stede asks when the carriage has stopped and Ed has finally relinquished his lips.

“Yes.” Ed kisses him once more, a chaste peck, but even that sends Stede’s pulse racing. “Yet it is hard to control my ardor. I thought I lost you.”

“Being kidnapped earns me kisses, then?” Stede asks.

“Do not make a habit of it,” Ed growls. He traces his fingers over Stede’s cheek, the one that is not wounded. “I will kiss you in any circumstances whatsoever. On the whole, I prefer you remain safe.” He sighs. “We should go inside.” He knocks against the side of the carriage, a signal to the footman to open the door.

Stede scrambles off his lap in time before the door is opened. He alights after Ed, gasping at the size of the light stone edifice on St. James’s Square.

They are ushered inside and provided with a mask—Stede’s having been lost when he was taken, though Ed retained his own. The dark masks cover the upper halves of their faces, for what that is worth. Stede is quite certain that most people in the room could recognize his own blond curls as well as Ed’s magnificent long hair, but perhaps the mere veneer of anonymity is all that is required.

Ed is introduced first, and then Stede, and they enter the enormous ballroom, lined with tall, arched windows and glowing with the light of countless candles.

The scene before Stede’s eyes is both shocking and not shocking at all, at the same time. It looks like any ball at first glance, with couples dancing and groups of people chatting. It is quite moderate in size, as the Duchess likely thoroughly vets all the invited parties. There are distinct differences, however. Some of the clothing is more daring than what is seen in the typical London ballroom: men are wearing bolder colors, and the women are showing off more skin.

Even more striking, some of the dancing couples are of the same sex, or else one or more partners are of indeterminate gender. Some are in corners, kissing or groping one or more partners, and oh dear God, was that a nipple?

What strikes Stede the most is that the revelers seem to be having a marvelous time.

Noting Stede’s wonder, Ed leans close. “There is no marriage mart here. People are free to be themselves.”

“It is truly marvelous,” Stede replies, taking Ed’s hand.

Before he can ask Ed to dance, the Duchess appears with two people on her arm. She is resplendent in cherry red silk organza, her décolletage lined with pearls sewn into the dress; she is wearing a pearl choker to match, and Stede estimates that one pearl from that set would equal his own annual income.

One of her companions is a tall, blond man, and the other is a shorter person with dark hair, of indeterminate gender, much like Jim.

“I heard about your ordeal with Banes,” she says without preamble.

“You have?” Stede is surprised—he had been taken hardly three hours ago!

The Duchess bristles. “Jackie still has her sources. Zheng and Jim took some of my men and went after him.”

Stede can feel Ed relax next to him. “I am glad to hear it,” he says. “I trust their abilities more so than those of the Runners.” Stede agrees. Stede agrees—the pair seemed very capable, and they know their target well. Jim and Zheng can turn him over for arrest on the charge of kidnapping once they have apprehended him.

Ed leans closer to Stede and kisses his cheek.

“Ah, I thought that might be how things stand. Have a nice time, boys,” the Duchess says. She and her companions move away to greet other guests.

Stede turns to Ed to find him smiling. “I imagine there are no dance cards here. Will you dance the next set with me, darling?”

Ed’s smile grows wider. “I thought you’d never ask.” He looks slightly relieved as well, as if he had not been sure Stede would ask, though they had already agreed to dance.

Stede never wishes to give Ed cause to doubt him again. “I am sorry I ever suggested we remain apart,” Stede tells Ed. “It was a grave error in judgment. I love you, and I hope never to be apart from you again.”

Tears form in the corners of Ed’s eyes. “You were not entirely wrong. We should remain at least somewhat circumspect,” he admits. “Though there exist spaces for people like us, there are certain dangers to loving as we do.”

Stede looks around the room at the couples, and despite the masks, he recognizes many who are accepted at any Society event. “I see now that we can manage to be true to ourselves without risking censure,” he admits. “I would be careful of the world’s opinion for your sake. For my own part, you are worth any risk, my love.”

Ed kisses him, right there in the ballroom, for all to see. No one appears to be scandalized, especially as there are some couples in the corners of the room engaging enthusiastically in the same activity. Stede is invigorated. He feels free, finally, to be his true self without the world’s censure, knowing that Ed loves him for who he is.

They move to the side of the room to watch the completion of the current set, a quadrille.

Fortuitously, the next set begins with a lively waltz. Stede holds out his hand for Ed, who takes it. He leads Ed to the floor. “Shall I lead?”

“Please. You are more proficient than I am.”

Stede pulls him close. “You took the lead quite proficiently during the last evening we spent together.” The music begins, and they begin the dance. “That being said, perhaps it is my turn.”

Ed flushes, and Stede does not think it is due to the exertions of the waltz. “I would enjoy that.” He licks his lips, which makes Stede want to kiss them, but the waltz does not allow for that. Even so, having Ed in his arms in front of a room full of people is intoxicating in its own special way. Stede is proud to be seen with the handsomest man in London. He is mine, and I am his.

Along with the pride, there is desire, too, humming beneath Stede’s skin. To be this close to Ed after days spent apart is bliss, and Stede’s blood is up after the events of the evening. He wants Ed, naked and trembling in his arms, as soon as it can be arranged.

He puts those thoughts aside for now, lest he embarrass himself, and focuses on the current moment. There are a few people Stede recognizes who have also joined the set. Lady Anne dances by in the arms of her companion, Mary Read. Hornberry and Fettering are there, too, dancing separately but quite close to Lady Anne and Miss Read. Stede begins to think that Lady Anne will make her sham marriage after all, with Hornberry.

He says as much to Ed, who throws back his head and laughs. “I believe Hornberry prefers men only. Yes, I suspect Miss Read is much less jealous of Hornberry than she was of me.”

“Because of your past?” Stede asks.

Ed nods. “Yes. I have been with women, including Anne.” He chews his lip as Stede whirls them into the next set, a reel. “With Anne, it was many years ago, but Ms. Read has always been jealous of me for that reason. Do you mind terribly?”

“I should not like to think of you with anyone else, man or woman, now,” Stede says, “but your past is your own.”

“My future is yours.”

Stede’s heart soars along with the music.

They dance several more sets until Ed hears Stede’s growling stomach and escorts him to a sumptuous supper. They find themselves seated by Lady Anne and Miss Read, whom Stede has no trouble recognizing.

“I see you two worked things out,” Lady Anne, who is seated next to Ed, says. She looks over at Stede, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and leans closer to whisper something in Ed’s ear.

Ed shakes his head. “I think not.”

Lady Anne shrugs and turns to speak to Miss Read.

Ed whispers, “She asked us both to join her for a nightcap. I hope you don’t mind that I said no on your behalf.”

A nightcap? Stede sees nothing wrong with that, though it would be unorthodox to visit a lady’s home after a ball…

Understanding dawns. Cheeks burning, Stede turns his attention to his plate. He had not considered the possibility of multiple lovers at once before. He hopes Ed does not mind too much, but Stede thinks he is destined for one man only.

Given how Ed chuckles and kisses Stede’s cheek, he does not seem put out.

Lady Anne is not the only one to notice how fine Ed looks this evening in his purple cravat. Hornberry looks both of them over with a heated gaze, though he seems perfectly happy with Fettering. There is also a tall, strawberry-haired man Stede does not recognize who speaks to Ed when he is fetching Stede a refreshment. The man’s hand lingers on Ed’s upper arm.

Stede has never wanted to punch anyone quite as much as he does the strawberry-haired man, not even the Badmintons or Banes. He finds himself moving towards Ed and the (really quite forward!) man before he is quite aware of his own intentions.

He does not punch the man, of course. He merely slips his arm through Ed’s and kisses him, perhaps a tad ostentatiously, and then pulls Ed away from the crowd, refreshment be damned. Stede simply must get Ed alone without delay.

Ed comes willingly, giggling. Stede does not know this vast house at all, however—when they find themselves in a hallway, he goes in a direction away from the ball and supper rooms, not really knowing what he will find.

There are two men kissing, one pressing the other against the wall and groping the other, his hand moving to open his fall front.

The man against the wall hears Stede and Ed coming and breaks the kiss, turning his head towards them. He looks them up and down. “Are you here to watch? You can join in, if you like.”

Stede nearly chokes on air, but Ed merely chuckles. “No, thank you, gents. We are after a more private moment.” He squeezes Stede’s hand, and they hurry down the rest of the hallway.

There is a large set of double doors at the far end. Stede pushes them open and finds a large, wood-paneled library, full of tall bookshelves and overstuffed furniture. The library of his dreams, as it happens, but he is too dizzy with need to appreciate it further. Its most striking feature at the moment is that it is deserted.

He pulls Ed in behind him and closes the doors. There is a lock, too, which he engages.

After that, Stede wastes no time in taking off their masks, tossing them aside, and pushing Ed up against the door to kiss him until they are both heated and gasping for breath.

They break apart, allowing their foreheads to rest together. “What on earth has gotten into you?” Ed asks, laughing.

“He was touching you.” The mere thought of it causes Stede to capture Ed’s lips with his own once more. “Ed, I need you,” he whispers against Ed’s lips. “Now.”

“Fuck,” Ed mutters when they break apart to catch their breath. “Dove, there are rooms set aside for this purpose…Remember the last time we had an assignation at a ball??”

It will take too long to find a room. He cannot wait, not when he had almost lost this due to Banes’ machinations and his own cowardice. Ed is his very own once more, and Stede is burning with the need to claim him. “Since it’s safe here and the door locks… Even if they didn’t, I don’t care if someone sees us.” Still, Ed’s comfort is paramount. “Naturally, we will stop if you wish it.” Stede had no interest in watching those other two men together, but if someone happens upon him and Ed, Stede is not sure he would want to stop.

“Don’t stop,” Ed says. “I love you, madman. Do with me as you will, though there may be some challenges in this setting.” His eyes twinkle as he reaches into his breeches pocket and pulls out a small vial of oil. “I did, however, come prepared for anything, as a soldier should.”

Stede barks a laugh. “A tactical genius, as always.”

“I defer to your command, Mr. Bonnet. What are your orders, sir?” Ed’s tone is dark, honeyed, betraying his own need.

Ed’s willingness to give himself over turns the fire already burning in Stede’s belly into a conflagration. “Allow me to taste you,” Stede says.

A look of surprise tinged with uncertainty passes over Ed’s face. “Taste me—are you quite certain—?”

Pleased to have flustered Ed for once, Stede shrugs out of his coat and says, “I have dreamed of taking your prick into my mouth. Once I’ve tasted you, since you so obligingly brought the oil, I should like to fuck you, darling.”

Ed swallows and follows Stede’s example, taking his coat off and tossing it onto a nearby armchair. His chest is visibly heaving as Stede kneels at his feet and reaches for the fall front of his breeches. Ed hisses as his cock springs free, flushed a dark reddish purple and nearly fully hard. Stede’s mouth waters at the sight of it, to see how eager Ed is for his mouth.

Stede has nothing but instinct, his prior experience with Ed, and one very filthy novel to guide him. He looks up at Ed. “Tell me if I am not pleasing you.”

Ed places his thumb on Stede’s bottom lip and presses a little. Stede, on instinct, sucks it into his mouth. “You will please me, sweetheart,” Ed tells him in a roughened voice, “provided you keep your teeth to yourself.”

Stede nods as he sucks on Ed’s thumb a little, looking up into his large, dark eyes. He sees his own desire mirrored there, and the sight of his makes his prick throb where it’s tucked away into his breeches.

Ed lets his thumb fall from Stede’s mouth. Stede licks his right palm and wraps it around Ed’s prick, starting in at last somewhat familiar territory, though he thrills at the weight of it in his palm. He strokes Ed a few times, bringing him to full hardness, before bending down to lick the tip of it into his mouth.

It is not smooth going at first—Stede tries to take him in deeply enough that his mouth will meet his hand, but his cock is long and he chokes a little. He pulls back, frustrated. Ed was able to do this without gagging.

“Do not try to take me too deeply at once,” Ed says gently, stroking Stede’s cheek. “That comes with time and practice.”

Stede thinks back to how Ed had sucked him in the Aucklands’ garden. Most of the details are lost in a haze of pleasurable memory, but he does recall that Ed used his tongue and also created suction, both to great effect, and those things can be done without risk of gagging.

Stede bends his head and licks again, swirling his tongue around the head of Ed’s prick. He notes how Ed moans and puts a hand in Stede’s hair when he licks the underside—that place is sensitive on his own cock, too—so he puts his attention there, laving at it until he can feel Ed’s body trembling beneath him.

Stede’s mind does not often go quiet, often buzzing with thoughts and anxieties, even as he tries to sleep. Now, as he lets his mouth envelop Ed’s prick, tasting the salty bitterness of it, his mind empties as his entire being focuses on one sole aim: worship of the man he loves. He alternates licking around the head of it with taking it a bit deeper and using suction, letting his hand stroke the base at a similar rhythm.

Ed moans as he grips Stede’s hair more tightly. Startled, Stede moans in turn around him. Ed immediately drops his hand, but Stede reaches around to put it back in his hair. Ed receives that silent request, and he tugs at the end of Stede’s hair again. Something about that slight edge of pain sends shivers of pleasure down Stede’s spine.

Stede looks up to find that Ed’s head is tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. As if sensing Stede’s gaze, Ed’s eyes open—they’re unfocused, clouded with lust as he looks down at Stede. “So pretty with my prick in your mouth, dove,” Ed slurs.

Ed’s words go to Stede's head faster than the champagne Her Grace served this evening. As he pulls back a little to lick the underside of Ed’s cock, Stede presses the heel of his hand against himself to relieve the pressure of his own straining prick somewhat. His tongue is starting to tire somewhat, and his jaw now aches, so he continues to lick Ed all over, making a show of it for his benefit.

Stede removes his hand from the base of Ed’s cock to lightly rub his ballocks, something that he has enjoyed exploring on his own. Ed makes a startled noise, so Stede stops immediately and looks up. “Too much?” They have tightened and moved closer to Ed’s body—he is close to his release.

“Too sensitive,” Ed replies.

Stede makes note of that, fascinated to learn how Ed’s body, so similar to his own in some respects, also differs from his.

“Shall I continue?” Stede eyes Ed’s cock, slick with his own saliva mixed with Ed’s fluids. His own cock twitches. His breeches will be stained with wetness soon, though he has not yet been touched.

Ed shakes his head. “Another time, I want to finish with your prick inside me.” He reaches for Stede’s hand and pulls him up and into a kiss. Stede feels a surge of pleasure, knowing that Ed is tasting himself on his tongue.

As they kiss, Ed reaches between them and rubs Stede’s cock through the silk of his breeches. He is so pent up that he could finish just like this—ruining his second pair of breeches in one evening, and they’re damned expensive. Ed’s clever fingers unfasten the fall front before Stede can direct him to do so, though. They wrap around his shaft, and Stede is lost, groaning and falling forward so that he is pressing Ed into the wall.

Ed breaks their frantic kisses. “So close, merely from sucking me?” he whispers in Stede’s ear as he begins to stroke.

A harsh cry breaks from Stede’s mouth and echoes throughout the library. Stede claps a hand over his mouth.

Ed chuckles. “No one will hear you over the music, but I can help with that.” He kisses Stede as he strokes him, with a firm grip but at a measured pace, until Stede is trembling in his arms.

“We should—mmmph—if you would like me to—” Stede says between kisses.

Ed’s eyelashes flutter. “How do you want me, sir?”

He is handing Stede the reins once more. He recalls a scene from Whispers in the Dark and makes a quick decision, stepping back from the wall and pulling Ed after him. He spins Ed around and guides him toward the bookshelf nearest the door.

Ed understands without being told. He pulls the oil out of his pocket once more and hands it to Stede. He pulls down his breeches, baring his ares, and bends over a little, bracing himself on the end of the bookshelf. He looks over his shoulder, his dark eyes somehow aglow even in the dimly lit room.

Stede had not yet had the opportunity to consider Ed from this angle. He is stunning from every angle, of course, but the lush curve of his arse, covered in dark hair, is begging for Stede’s hand. Stede steps forward and rests his hand on one perfect cheek and squeezes. He could kiss it, he thinks, and oh, perhaps that means he could also kiss—

He will ask Ed about that another time. That ought to be saved for exploration when they have the luxury of more time. At the moment, his prick is aching to be inside Ed.

Stede uncorks the oil and applies it liberally to his fingers. A little of it gets on the floor—fortunately, wood, not covered with a priceless rug just here. The Duchess will be angry if they defile her library, and Stede is almost, but not quite, past caring.

Ed, who is pushing his arse back in Stede’s direction, is certainly past caring.

Stede will simply have to improvise. First, he brings his oiled index finger to Ed’s entrance, making sure to coat it as much as possible.

“Hurry with the oil,” Ed whispers, clearly growing impatient. “I need no preparation. I saw to it earlier.”

Stede is left with that stirring image as he applies more oil from the vial to his prick. Something else to ask Ed about later. Perhaps he can request a practical demonstration…

With that image filling his mind, Stede can wait no more. His hands shake as he closes the vial and puts it in his waistcoat pocket.

He tucks the fingers of his clean hand under the folds of his cravat and pulls it away from his neck. Stepping close to Ed, he bends over his back. “I have something for you, for the mess.”

Ed’s chest is heaving. “Yes, please, anything, but fuck me.” He pushes his hips backwards so that Stede’s cock comes to rest between his arse cheeks.

Stede hurriedly takes the red silken fabric and wraps it around Ed’s cock. His handkerchief is too small, and even the finest lawn is not fine enough to touch his lover’s prick.

“Your silk!” Ed cries. “It will be ruined!”

“I have many more,” Stede says. “A worthy sacrifice.”

Stede lines up his cock with Ed’s entrance and presses in, slowly, mindful of how overwhelming the stretch felt for him when they were last together. Given how Ed whines and pushes his hips backwards onto Stede’s prick, though, perhaps Stede need not hold back—which is fortunate because he may be unable to do so. Ed’s hole is tight and hot around him, and it is quite the most astonishing feeling. Stede could lose himself to this and never want to be found. It is quite different but just as exquisite as the feeling of being filled. The memory of that feeling gives Stede a notion of how good this feels for Ed, emboldening him.

He holds Ed’s hip with one hand and starts stroking him through the silk with the other as his hips begin to move. Trying to hold back somewhat, Stede pulls back slowly until his cock almost slips free between each thrust.

“Fuck, the silk feels so good.” Ed looks back at him. “Harder, faster,” he says through gritted teeth.

Stede’s body obeys with hardly any input from his conscious mind; he seems to know what to do by instinct. He quickly finds the pace that makes Ed lose his breath. Stede notes how his arms are shaking, from bracing his weight on the bookshelf—pushing himself back onto Stede’s cock and letting the thrusts fuck him into Stede’s fist. The more Stede gives him, the greedier and more desperate Ed seems for it, the volume of his whines and moans increasing as they go on.

He is mine. I alone make him feel this way. Those are the only thoughts in Stede’s head, the rest crowded out by heat and pleasure. He focuses on Ed’s noises and the sound of skin slapping together, drawing shaky breaths as he fucks into his lover. Mine mine mine.

The word must slip out of Stede’s mouth, as Ed replies with a gasp, “Yours, all yours.”

Ed’s enjoyment brings Stede close to the edge of losing himself in his own oblivion. He fucks Ed even harder and increases the pressure of the hand around Ed’s prick to match the pressure building up deep inside Stede; he will not be able to hold back much longer, but he tries to keep pace until Ed is satisfied.

“Go on, ruin the silk,” Stede says roughly, slowing his hips but stroking Ed faster. His legs are shaking, and he cries out as he starts to come, his hole tightening in spasms around Stede’s cock.

The pressure releases all at once, and heat surges through Stede’s prick as he comes—it seems to go on in waves as he fills Ed with his spend. He loses all sense of time and place for long moments, able to sense nothing but the white hot heat of their place where their bodies are joined.

Stede collapses over Ed’s back and kisses the back of his neck, revealed by his now disheveled updo. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants.

Ed seems beyond words. Stede remembers that feeling, too, and takes it upon himself to clean up as best he can. There is only a little oil on the floor, easily wiped up with his handkerchief.

The silk is most certainly ruined. Ed, who by now is pulling his breeches up, chuckles ruefully. “I suppose I do fancy a bit of fine fabric.”

“It served a noble purpose.” Stede smiles at him. “I have no regrets.” He would happily sacrifice every scrap of silk in his possession for the sake of Ed’s pleasure.

It is not until they have snuck out of the library and back into the ballroom, hair mussed and masks and clothing askew, that Stede feels any qualms whatsoever about what they have done. He is disheveled and lacking a cravat, the soiled one now stuffed into a pocket. No one in Society has ever seen him in such a disgracefully bedraggled state.

Stede finds, to his surprise, that he does not mind it until Duchess descends on them, anger in her looks. “There were any number of bedrooms available to you, yet you felt the need to use my library.”

Stede feels like a boy whose hand has been caught in the sweet jar. He looks down at his feet. How had she known?

Ed merely laughs. “I should have known you have eyes everywhere. We left it as we found it, I promise.”

“For that reason, and because Bonnet endured an ordeal tonight, you are forgiven,” she says haughtily. “Do not let it happen again.”

“We will not, Your Grace,” Stede promises.

“You may call me Jackie.” She leans forward, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. “That library is a nice place for a fuck, I must admit. The bookshelves are rather sturdy.”

Stede feels his jaw drop open. Before he can reply, she turns and walks away.

Ed takes his arm. “Let us go home, dove.”

Home. Ed said that before, too. “Do you mean my house?” Ed nods. “It feels like home to you? Truly?”

Ed grimaces. “More so than that huge monstrosity of a townhouse I live in.” His face softens. “My home is where you are, sweetheart.”

With that, all of Stede’s worries about the future vanish. He and Ed will decide between themselves how to live together, as openly as possible. It could be in London, the country, or on the Continent. No matter the place, their home will be made in one another.

Chapter Text

Three years later

Stede awakens to hot breath on his neck and a hand wrapped around his already achingly hard prick. He leans into the warm body pressed against his back, groaning as he feels Ed’s cock push between the cheeks of his arse. “Mmm, good morning, darling. You could not wait for me to wake up?”

“No,” Ed growls in his ear. “You are much too enticing. Do you mind?”

“Don’t stop.” Even three years on, his body remains as eager for Ed’s touch as ever, and, thankfully, Ed appears to feel the same.

After a few minutes more of kissing and having his cock stroked, Stede finds himself being turned onto his stomach, allowing himself to be pliant in Ed’s hands. “Yes, dove, like that, so good for me. I love you, I love you…”

Ed pins him down fucks him, slowly but thoroughly, until Stede comes, rutting against the mattress.

Ed follows a moment later, with a guttural cry.

Stede remains pleasantly drowsy as Ed cleans them up. The sheets will need changing, but that is a common enough occurrence. They have learned to keep a number of extra sets on hand.

Ed pulls Stede into his arms so that his head is pillowed on his chest. “Was that good for you?” he asks.

“Always.” Stede stifles a yawn. As they both grow older, one or both of them like to nap after their amorous pursuits. Stede should really get up soon to tend the garden, but Ed’s body is so warm and comfortable.

The garden of Ed’s estate—their estate—is Stede’s pride and joy. When they both moved here some two years ago, Ed presented Stede with the sole key to the garden. “It is yours to do with as you will,” Ed told him. That was one of the happiest days of Stede’s life.

After a few more minutes, Ed gets up. “I am visiting some tenants today with Hands, to see about fixing some roofs,” he says, stretching. “Would you care to join me?”

The tenants think Stede is Ed’s gardener. Some of them may have further suspicions, but given how kind and generous a landlord Ed is, they keep quiet about those if so.

“Not today, darling,” Stede replies. “The roses need pruning.”

Stede gets out of bed and dresses in his simple gardening attire of a shirt, trousers, and boots, all very sturdy. Naturally, Stede still has some very fine clothing, but there is not much call to wear it these days, and he finds he does not miss it. After the Season of ’17, Stede and Ed left London, only to return once a year when the Duchess of Dover returns to hold her annual ball. They traveled on the Continent for a time, doing a Grand Tour from Paris to Venice, the people they encountered accepting Stede’s presence as Ed’s “secretary” without too much comment. Most do not look beyond the surface of things unless invited to do so, Stede has found.

Stede supposes he is something of a kept man, but he finds, despite his initial worries, that he does not mind it. Ed has more than enough money for both of them. Hands has a knack for management. The estate is profitable enough to keep them both in comfort for the rest of their days while leaving more than sufficient funds for future generations. Stede finds he does not miss London, either–their annual visits suffice for him. As Ed told him, the night of the Dover Ball, their home is where the other is.

During their time abroad, he and Ed spent long hours discussing the future, with Ed eventually persuading Stede to accept a trust. “So that you can always retain your independence, my love,” Ed explained. It was a practical consideration, given that the bulk of Ed’s property is entailed to a second cousin along with his title.

“Breakfast?” Ed asks, interrupting Stede’s reverie. He is dressed well today in a burgundy wool riding coat, but of course, he must play the part of lord of the manor.

“Yes,” Stede says. He finishes fastening his boots and follows Ed.

As they take their tea and toast, Ed remarks, “I had a letter from Jim yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“They may come for a visit with Zheng and their other partners, next month or so,” Ed says. He is careful not to meet Stede’s eyes, but his lips are quirking up a little with the effort of suppressing a smile, which means he is planning something.

Stede decides to let him keep his secret for now. He has his ways of obtaining that information—quite stimulating ones—if he so wishes.

Though Zheng and Jim are finally retired from spycraft, running a tavern in Kent, they do not seem the visiting types. Perhaps their life has been more relaxed since they caught Banes and arranged for him to be brought back to England to face trial for kidnapping. Lord Nigel Badminton, free of the threat of blackmail once Banes was in custody, was heralded for exposing Banes as a spy in addition to the kidnapping charge. Stede grimaces to think of Lord Nigel being seen as a hero, but it was a small price to pay to ensure that Banes could never bother them again.

Last Stede heard, Banes paid his fortune to escape worse punishment and slunk off back to his home country, one of those dreadful little principalities. He is permanently barred from returning to British territories.

“Good morning.” Lucius bustles into the breakfast room.

Lucius holds an undefined role in the household these days, more of a friend and amanuensis than a servant. It suits him quite well to have a light roster of duties, Stede knows. One night, after a few brandies, Lucius confessed that he is the anonymous author of Forbidden Desires as well as a few subsequent works that are well known in certain circles. “I knew I could do better than Whispers in the Dark,” he told Stede.

Stede would never reveal this to Lucius, but he and Ed have spent a few stimulating evenings reading to each other from those books.

Stede is glad to have retained Lucius’ friendship, even if the arrangement is unorthodox—so, too, is most of their household. Once they moved to Blackthorn Hall in Yorkshire, Stede and Ed were careful to surround themselves with like-minded or sympathetic staff. Israel Hands had already been installed as the estate manager. Lucius came with Pete Black, who now runs the stables.

Ed’s valet, Frencherson, who had traveled with them, is well-paid and very discreet. He has said he finds Ed very easy to work for, as he is neither demanding nor cruel. Frenchie’s work is mostly as a butler, more so than a valet these days, as both Stede and Lucius have no interest in managing the household. Ed dresses himself, or else Stede helps him, most of the time, and cares for their clothes.

The rest of the staff is made up of men who fought with Ed in the war and would remain loyal to him to their dying day.

Life is nearly perfect, Stede thinks as Ed kisses him and heads to the stables. If he and Ed could marry, it would be perfect, but Stede knows it is a foolish waste of time to long for something they can never have. They live as a married couple. Lady Anne and Hornberry, now married, also reside nearby along with their paramours, Ms Mary Read and Fettering, so they do not lack for society with whom Stede and Ed can be open about their love.

Most people do not find nearly as much happiness in their lifetimes as Stede has, and he is grateful for it.

Sighing, he finishes his toast so he can start the pruning.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

That afternoon, once he is finished in the garden, Stede finds time to catch up on his correspondence. Today, he writes to the Prince Regent, who still seeks wardrobe advice, though he has been peevish about the fact that Stede refuses to return to London permanently. Stede keeps up with a few others from London as well, such as John Feeney, who keeps Stede apprised of developments in the world of fashion. Silken cravats have been all the rage since Stede and Ed introduced them, which is gratifying to hear. (The Regent and his immediate circle, however, stubbornly stick to white linen, as Stede predicted.)

Letter written, Stede spends some time reading Ivanhoe, losing a few hours to the gripping tale.

That occupies Stede until it is time to dress for dinner, when he wonders what is keeping Ed so long. Once he is finished dressing in a blue cutaway coat in a modest navy color, albeit paired with a gold silk cravat, Stede leaves the bedchamber to find Frenchie waiting in the hall, which is strange.

“Where is Ed?” Stede asks him, worried that the man has come with some kind of bad news.

“He asks that you join him in the rose garden,” Frenchie says. The man is grinning, so Stede breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, I shall repair to the garden immediately.”

Stede smiles to himself as he goes. There is some mystery afoot, just as he suspected earlier today. What could it be, on an ordinary June day?

June! It is June the twelfth, Stede suddenly recalls, having written it in his letters earlier. That was the date of the Auckland Ball, three years back—the night he and Ed first became lovers. Now suspecting that Ed has something romantic in mind, Stede hurries along until he is out of the house and approaching the trellis at the edge of the rose garden.

Ed is as beautiful as ever in the golden early evening light. His tresses are kissed by silver now, as is his short, unfashionable beard, which Stede has forbidden him from shaving. Dressed for dinner in a peacock blue coat and matching cravat, Ed is pacing by the fountain until he sees Stede approach.

His countenance betrays anxiety, so Stede steps close to him and kisses his cheek. “Why not ask me yourself if you wanted a walk before dinner, darling?”

“I am nervous,” Ed says. “Do you know that it has been three years to the day since the Auckland ball?”

Stede smiles. “I do know. Were you looking to recreate that evening? We seem to be lacking any trees in the immediate vicinity.” There is a large oak around the corner that they have made use of on occasion, however.

Ed giggles nervously. “What? No—though perhaps later—”

Stede places a hand on his upper arm, squeezes, and waits.

“I summoned you here because it seemed appropriate,” Ed says, a touch formally for him. “The garden was in disarray when you arrived, having lacked anyone to care for it for quite a few years. Now it is thriving, thanks to you, much as I am thriving under your care.”

To Stede’s shock, Ed gets down on one knee and pulls out a velvet box. “Stede, I love you, and I am so happy you have decided to make your life with me. I had no eagerness to live here permanently until you decided to join me. My home is where you are, sweetheart. Will you marry me?”

Stede gasps when he opens the box. It contains a gold man’s ring set with a large oval-shaped sapphire.

“Ed—how—” he sputters.

Ed takes his hand. “I know we cannot marry in the eyes of the church, nor in any legal sense. There is no reason we cannot hold a ceremony and promise ourselves to one another. Lucius informed me that it is sometimes done in London. I asked some of our friends to attend next month, that is, unless you prefer not to—”

Stede takes Ed’s face in his hand and bends down to kiss him, stopping the flow of his words. “Of course, I will marry you, you nut, whatever that looks like. I had not thought such a thing possible, or else I would have asked you.”

Ed picks up Stede’s hand and kisses it tenderly. “May I?”

“Yes.”

Ed slips the ring onto his finger, and Stede experiences the pinnacle of human joy.

Stede immediately starts trying to determine how soon he can get to the jeweler in Leeds. Ed should have his own ring.

Ed has remained on his knee, looking up at Stede with a certain glow in his large brown eyes. By now, Stede knows that look well—it is hunger, but not for food. Stede’s body stirs in response.

Stede takes his chin in hand. “You have always looked remarkably pretty from this angle.”

Ed flushes. “The old oak is not so very far away, I believe,” he says, voice low and rough.

“An excellent observation.” Stede pulls Ed to his feet and into his arms. “I am not so very hungry yet, at least, not for dinner.”

“Nor am I.”

“Perhaps some exertion prior to dinner would stir our appetites.”

“You stir my appetite,” Ed growls.

Laughing, Stede finds himself being pulled in the direction of the oak.

They do not make it inside to dinner for another hour yet.