Page 42 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“A deathbed vow? Is that what you tell the ladies?”
“The ladies, Mr Blake, are too polite to ask. But it’s what I tell those persons who think it acceptable to ask me personal questions.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Thornby. No personal questions? A pity. Then I’d better not ask how you’d like me to fuck you later.”
Thornby’s eyes widened and his lips parted. He made a noise in his throat, part gasp, part horrified laughter, and glanced over his shoulder.
“No one can hear,” John said.
“Christ, I hope not.” Thornby closed his eyes for a moment. “If you give me a cockstand in public I’ll never forgive you. These breeches are awfully tight.”
“Yes, thank you, I noticed. So perhaps now you’ll tell me why you wear them?”
Thornby smiled—a genuine smile that lit up his eyes. “You’re a very determined fellow, aren’t you?”
“I’m patient too. You know, I enjoyed hearing you say ‘please’ yesterday. Perhaps I might give you another lesson in manners, by being very, very patient with you, later on tonight.”
Thornby stared at him, a faint flush colouring his face. “Play fair, John. Miss Grey could step over any moment. Come then, I’ll give you the truth. It’s all down to my doctor.”
“Your doctor?”
“Yes. We have very singular miasmas here in the north. Trousers allow more bad air to circulate upon the limbs, and to well-bred gentlemen this can be very detrimental. Of course, common persons, such as yourself, aren’t affected, but my blood is more puissant, and is therefore more sensitive to such things.”
John regarded him as sternly as he could, trying not to laugh. “Later, you will genuinely regret this.”
“I won’t.”
“What if there is no ‘later’, until you tell me?”
“I don’t believe you’d do that.”
“Let me remind you how patient I am.”
Thornby smiled again. “I look forward, Mr Blake, to testing the limits of your patience. But for now, I think I’d better just tell you that I wear these clothes because I haven’t any others.”
“That’s true?”
“Gospel. Well, mostly.”
John frowned. “Why not visit the tailor?”
“Because I can’t.”
“Ask him to visit you.”
“Father told him not to.”
“Yes, but—”
“Really, it’s true. When I got here, I had the clothes I was wearing when Father hustled me away from London. One pair of trousers and a silk smoking jacket. Nothing else. Not even a hat. When I complained, Father said he’d be happy to buy me a suit to get married in, or I could find plenty of old clothes in the attics. Obviously, he thought I’d fold when I saw what was there, but I called his bluff and put them on. It annoys him no end that I walk about as though I like them. I must say I felt a little eccentric the first time I went out, but it’s not as though I go anywhere, so it hardly matters.”
“So, your father makes you dress like that?” John said, still struggling with the idea.
“Not as such, today. In fact, he provides a very decent range of contemporary tailoring when there are ladies present who may want to marry me, but I stick to my breeches just to show him.”
“That’s the most bloody-minded thing I ever heard.”
“Who? Father? Or me?”
