Page 2 of As Many Stars
“You just miss stories about Venetian palaces and brothels in Paris. I can look at your accounts, if you’d like. Did I ever tell you about the countess I met in Naples? Her husband had gone to London on business, and she was in need of company, and she liked silk sheets. And blindfolds.”
“No,” Ash said, wide-eyed. “No, I—you haven’t—no, that’s not why I miss you. You know it isn’t. Did you really blindfold her? So she couldn’t see you, in bed? But you’re so—I mean, thatwas…good?”
“Other way round,” Blake said cheerfully, and got up to ring for tea. His reputation would suffer if anyone observed the so-called Earl of Thorns consuming anything other than opulent brandy or whiskey or champagne, but this was Ash’s house, and he wanted Ash to drink something warm and hearty, and to eat a sandwich or a scone, which would only happen if Blake put it into his hand. “She wanted me at her mercy. And yes, very good. I’ll tell you the rest after you eat something.”
“Blackmail,” Ash muttered, but that wasn’t an objection; so Blake agreed, “Absolutely, I’m wicked and sinister, haven’t you heard all the rumors?” and sat back down. “And I’m hungry. Do you have deviled ham? Or sliced salmon?”
“We’re not throwing a dinner-party, it’s just tea—”
“And I have a large…appetite.” He made sure the line landed just the right side of flirtatious: exaggerated, over the top, plainly unserious.
Plainly. He even gave Ash his best smile. “Please?”
“Good Lord,” Ash said, laughing. “How does that ever work? I assume you’ve got much better seductive techniques when you’re honestly trying. Or all the countesses are incredibly desperate. Yes, fine, about the ham. I think we’ve got some.”
“See,” Blake said, “it does work.” And he smiled more, and the knife cut deeper, made of complete and utter honesty.
But that was all right; that was what he needed to do, because Ash knew he was a rake and a seducer and an adventurer, but Ash should never have to know the absolute depths of Blake’s most secret desire. Ashley Linden was a genius and a respectable person and a ray of sunlight who even managed to love undergraduate students, and Blake Thornton was made of sin and shadows, in love with not only a man but his best friend.
That was the way of the world. And he’d slice out his ownheart with that knife rather than see Ash hurt.
They did indeed have ham, according to the maid who answered the ring. She beamed at Ashley, because everyone did. Likeable as spring, as kitten-fur and dew on roses and the dry sweet scent of aged parchment. A good man, inheriting this title. Kind to servants and small animals, presumably, though Blake had never in fact seen Ash around small animals. He was pretty sure about that stance, though.
He gazed at the freshly papered walls of the townhouse. He thought about Ashley, trying to learn how to be a duke, wearing black for those first three months, alone. He thought about grief, and mourning, and new lives.
He offered, “I really will look at the accounts if you want. You know I’m good at that.”
“Yes.” Ash’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You are. You should’ve had that first, in mathematics—you never do show anyone how good you are at that, you’ve even left it out of your memoirs—”
“You’ve been reading those? That sensationalized rubbish—”
“It isn’t and you know it. You’re a lovely writer. Those books are wildly popular. All your travels, your descriptions—even the scandalous bits are lovely really, you’re always so generous when you talk about someone you’ve—” Ash skidded to a halt. Blushed. Strawberry-pink against fair skin and white-blond hair. “I just mean. Er. You always sound like you truly fell in love. For a night. With that person—or two at once. Or, um, sometimes just with the place. A ruined castle in the moonlight. Descriptions, like I said. You really are very good.”
Blake had to look away. The carpet, the desk, the toe of his own boot. Anywhere but at Ash’s earnest face, at the compliments, so artless and so undeserved. “You should be working on your ancient Romans and Greeks, not indulging inmy pointless misadventures.”
“If you’d written to me more, I wouldn’t have to buy the books.”
“You paid for them? Don’t do that. I’ll get you copies if you insist.” He could more than afford it. Ash, annoyingly, wasn’t wrong about the mathematics. Blakewasvery good with accounts, figures, and investments. He’d needed to be, after his father had tried damned hard to ruin the earldom rather than pass it on to a boy he suspected was not his legitimate son.
He could sit down at a gaming table and win. He could calculate odds in his head. He was a decent writer and storyteller, at least as far as entertaining melodramatic prose went; he’d published poetry, first, and when he’d had a bit of money and managed to travel, he’d written about that too.
Telling stories, he thought. Pretending. Of course he was good at that. He did it every day. Every moment. Every time he looked at his best friend, or ran away to Italy and tried not to look. Or even every time he breathed, because whether or not he was looking, he could close his eyes and picture Ash.
He had not written—or had disguised, or carefully sketched the barest innuendo around—certain other encounters. The delightful Russian prince who’d had such a talented mouth. The handsome red-haired doctor in Edinburgh, a chance encounter in the street in the rain. They’d literally bumped into each other outside a bookshop, of all places. The eyes, green as emeralds, had lingered on Blake for a fraction too long. The gaze, speculative, had been an invitation. He’d been on his knees in the man’s spare and practical bedroom shortly thereafter.
“I don’t mind paying for them,” Ash said, because evidently they couldn’t leave the subject of Blake’s ridiculous books behind. “It’s your income, and—”
“I’m doing better than you think I am. I can certainly afford whatever copies you want.”
Tea arrived, including two heaping plates of sandwiches, hoisted in by two footmen. Blake looked at the trays; looked at Ashley.
Ash sighed. “You said you were hungry. Yes, I’ll eat one too. Happy?”
“Yes,” Blake said, because he was, in that moment: home, here, with Ash agreeing to eat, to let Blake help solve his problems, service like a vow. “I’ll tell you all about the countess after you eat two of the ones with the ham.”
Chapter 2
Blake did not stay terribly late at Ash’s—he did not want to impose, and he had to be careful, so careful, because if he stopped being careful he’d blurt outwhenI think of home I think of you—and he considered going out, after.
