Page 105 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“Okay, stop.”
Léon’s hand paused like a ballet dancer on the final note. Exquisite. He was exquisite.
Henry, through gritted teeth, “You’ll lie on your back, hands on the pillow.”
There was a huff, a bite of his lip, but he did it. He did it with an arch in his spine that begged Henry. “I want you.”
Henry held the edge of the bathtub with two hands to control himself. “I’m saving you for later.”
Léon’s legs pushed into the bedspread as he tried to ease his frustration. “What will you do with me later?”
“If this revolution goes to plan?” Henry said. “I’ll marry you.”
A soft laugh from Léon. Henry was an incurable romantic in every sense of the word. “I would love to be your husband.”
It was the closest he’d come to telling him the truth of his feelings, the very depth of them. The idea though, the fantasy, wrapped Léon in as warm and comforting an air as the fire did, crackling away in the background as his eyelids grew heavier, as he sank deeper into the bed, as Henry kept a quiet and protective watch over him, letting him drift off into the most indulgent sleep he’d ever had.
Henry would have loved to do more. He would have taken Léon over and over all day long. But Léon was exhausted. He’d been through too much, and now, above everything else, Henry needed to wrap him up safe, to give him time to find his feet.
Plus, he had plans. Filthy plans. And he wanted Léon close to bursting with desire when he put them into play.
He relaxed in the warmth of the bath, sipped brandy, and waited. And it was only when Henry heard Léon’s even breathing, when he was sure he was in a very deep sleep, that he finally dared to look down at his arm. He untied the bind of the handkerchief, his shoulder flinching away from him as he did it. Closing his eyes, he peeled the material back. The bullet wound was red and swollen, deep purple at the edges, the ache of it working itself right up into his chest.
It was bad. It was very bad. Salt and vinegar hadn’t done a thing for it.
But they’d made it to Paris.
Henry breathed hard as he sank his arm beneath the water, a thousand knives slicing into him anew.
They’d made it. And he’d be damned if he’d let one more worry touch Léon.
He glanced over at him, so peaceful, a soft smile about his lips, laid out on Henry’s rich quilt. Exactly as he always should have been.
Henry was making the right decision. He would see to the arm. But first, he had to convince Léon to stay.
When he climbed out, some time later, Henry washed and dried and salted his wound. Then he wrapped it tight, all the way down his biceps, determined to hide any sign of the infection from Léon’s precious eyes.
46
HENRY BREAKS THE NEWS
Léon was like sleeping beauty emerging from a one-hundred-year slumber, his prince waiting adoringly for the first glimpse of those serene eyes, for the first kiss of the new night. He woke softly, he was dressed silkily, and Léon handed every care and concern he’d ever had across to Henry, who threw the lot straight out the window.
Henry pulled Léon’s hair half up, and he strongly considered powdering it, but Léon drew the line there. He found all the preparations too ridiculous to be true, but he went along with the rest of them, because why on earth not? It made Henry happy. And what other week would he ever spend playing dress up with a beautiful man in a rich person’s house?
When they finally descended from their room, it was to the smell of coffee and the razor-sharp glares of both Souveraine and Catherine.
Émile said, “You look stupid, Léon.”
Léon racked out a laugh in hearty agreement. “This is what Henri says rich people wear to parties in Paris. Have you ever seen anything more ludicrous?”
Henry had chosen blue for Léon. Head to toe teal blue with pearlescent thread glowing in swoops and bunching aroundbeads and buttons like Léon had never once seen before. His waistcoat was short, the tail long, the pants high, and he felt a complete fool. But Henry, by his side in the same cut of coat, only maroon, assured him he was the very pinnacle of fashion. Silk laces were irreproachable, he said, and those yellow stockings? What could be better?
Catherine eased Léon with, “You’re very handsome. Very, very handsome. But I was thinking, perhaps you could help with dinner rather than dress up?—”
“Oh, but we’re going out for dinner,” Henry interrupted.
“You’re what?” She looked around the dark and sparse room, as though Henry must have missed the barricades. “No, you’re not.”
