Page 1 of As Many Stars
Chapter 1
March 1816
Blake Thornton, Earl of Wildborough, took two steps into his former best friend’s study, in the fashionable Mayfair residence of the Duke of Auburndale, and came to a halt in shock. “You look dreadful.”
“Thank you, and it’s good to see you, as well.” Ash had risen upon Blake’s entrance, but left one hand touching his desk, perhaps for support. In some ways he looked the same, even two years since their last meeting—sunlight-fair hair, long-lashed starlit grey eyes, stubborn chin, the long-legged willowy height of a heron who’d learned to be a classical scholar—and in some ways he did not.
Some obvious ways. Significant ways. Ways which made Blake’s heart, pathetic pining beast that it was, slam against his chest.
He crossed the room. Put a hand on Ash’s shoulder. Then panicked internally, because his friend felt too thin, and Blake’s own hand was too large, heavy and tanned and powerful. Should he move the hand? Offer more assistance? “Sit down before you fall down.”
“Such a grasp of social niceties. Ihavemissed you.” Ash pulled him in for an embrace; Blake panicked more—what if his muscles caused harm to fragile bones, what if Ash were truly as ill as he looked, what if it’d been too long and they no longer knew each other the same way?—and ended up awkwardly stiff, but hugged him back.
Two years. He should’ve come sooner. He’d skipped replying to a letter or five. Some of them genuinely by accident. Some of them because he hadn’t known how to write back, what words he could ever say. He could not write the truth, so he hadn’t.
He’d been friends with Ashley Linden since they’d been boys at Eton and then Oxford, since before anyone had known that Ash, only a nephew, would acquire the title.Longbefore: the illness and inheritance had only happened sixteen months previously. It had claimed Ash’s uncle and aunt, who had been childless; because his own parents had been long gone, he’d been next in line. Blake had been in Italy then.
He’d been in Italy in part because he’d always liked exploring. And in part because he’d needed to get away from England and Ash’s smile and everything he’d known he could never have.
Ash had begun lecturing at Oxford by then, because of course he had, because Oxford wanted to keep him, teaching undergraduates about Greek poetry in ancient book-lined rooms with endless unbound airy delight, glorious and innocent and brilliant as pure diamond. Blake, who got to be the wicked friend—the disreputable rakish Earl of Thorns, according to Society’s nickname—swept in and told him scandalous stories and teased him about propriety, and loved him, with desperation, without confession, in inadequate silence.
He steered Ash over to a chair. The chair was new, in the light and delicate contemporary style. The whole townhouse interior was new: Ashley’s aunt and uncle had had renovations finished only a few weeks before their passing. They had expected to live in Auburndale House for decades to come.
“I’m all right.” But Ash’s face was pale, and he paused to cough. Coatless, sleeves rolled up, as usual not caring much about fashion; that couldn’t be warm enough. “It’s only this cold, I’ve had it since February…”
“And you’re still ill? Are your lungs in danger? Have you seen a physician?” Blake attempted to test his forehead, his cheek, for fever; tried to check his pulse.
Ash swatted his hand away. “I’ve not seen you in twoyears, the last time you wrote you said you were about to scale a glacier in the Alps, and I’ve spent three months terrified that you’d fallen down a crevasse or been eaten by ravenous wolves. Tell me you’re here and alive and I’m not delirious.”
“Is that a concern?”
“Yes! I thought you were dead!”
“I meant you. Delirium.” He was sitting on the low footstool in front of Ash’s chair. This made him shorter than Ash, but he was used to that. Felt right: the way the world worked. Himself looking up to Ashley. A petitioner. A supplicant, except he could never ever ask for what he wanted most, so instead he tried to fuss over Ash and listen to Ash ramble about long-dead poets and astonish Ash with hedonistic stories about his own exploits, so he could watch those starlight eyes go huge with dismay and fascination.
He found one of those scholar’s hands to hold onto. It was chilly. He tried to provide heat with his own big paws. “I did write from Geneva. It didn’t reach you?”
“Obviously not.”
“Then I apologize for that. I should’ve written again. You said you wished I was here with you for the Season. I told you I’d come.”
Ash’s lips parted, soundless. After a second he tried again. “You came home because I made a joke about not wanting to face the perils of London alone?”
Yes. Always yes. A thousand times yes. “And it was about time I got back to England. Checking in on the funds. Dropping into one of Brazen’s gambling hells. Exploring this year’s selection of wealthy widows. Do you know, I haven’t spent an evening with any charming companion for at least half a year? Horrifying.”
Ash yanked the hand away. “You’ve come back to drink and gamble and seduce lonely women. Never mind, go backto the Alps or the Scottish Highlands or the Aegean Sea or wherever it is you’re headed next.”
Nowhere. Only here. Because Ash was ill and exhausted, having planned for a scholar’s life rather than a sudden title, and Blake had left him once already. This time he’d do better. This time he would not leave Ashley’s side. “I’m not going anywhere. Or only to find you a doctor. Have you seen someone?”
“I’ve been busy.” Ash pressed fingertips against the spot between his eyebrows. “Uncle Francis wasn’t entirely reckless with money but he’d just spent so much, this place, the renovations to the country house, the new carriage…I’ve been sorting out which debts need repayment, and what work was actually completed, and whether we cannotadd that whole new wing, because it isn’t as if I’ve got the funds…I should be finishing that book of translations of Catullus. It’s overdue. And I miss my students.”
“Do you honestly miss students?”
“Well, some of them. I like teaching.”
“I know.” Blake scooted closer, on the spindly footstool. It wobbled under his weight, both the physical and the emotions. “I know you never asked for this. Does your head ache?”
“Constantly, these days. It’s fine, I’m used to it.” Ash exhaled, touched Blake’s arm. Even through coat and sleeve beneath, the touch sang. Shimmered. Left sparks under Blake’s skin. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I really did miss you.”
