Lucas went to sleep not knowing what to do—and woke having decided. The post-chaise left Woodhuish House at nine o’clock. He spent the first forty miles examining his decision, laying it out in his mind like a clockmaker laying out the components of a clock—all the tiny cogs and springs and screws and shafts—all the possible consequences, the hazards and the risks. Then he reassembled his decision, putting the pieces back together until it formed a whole again.
It was a good decision. But not without its dangers.
He waited for the panic to come. It didn’t. Instead, there was a feeling of calmness. Not a fatalistic calmness, but a deep and profound calmness that was almost serenity, and he knew—knew—that he’d made the right decision.
Lucas turned his attention to the question of when and where and how to tell Tom. Now? Once they reached Pendarve? Tonight over brandy? And should he mention the bank draft or not?
After ten miles, he was no closer to knowing, so he abandoned that line of thought.
He spent the next few miles thinking about Smollet—who quite likely knew, but didn’t appear to mind—and about Robert—who possibly suspected, but also seemed not to mind—and about Tish and Reid—who definitely knew, and yet didn’t mind at all.
And then he thought about Julia. Julia, who’d known him inside and out, who must have been aware of his feelings for Tom and had never said a word, who’d kept his secret for him.
He didn’t need to wonder whether Julia would have approved of his decision; he knew it.
He looked across at Tom, sitting and staring out the window. The bruises under his eyes, on the bridge of his nose, were hardly discernible. By tomorrow they’d be gone. Should I tell him now? And then he looked past Tom and realized with a sense of shock that they had passed through Looe and were almost at Pendarve.
“Only a couple more miles,” Lucas said. “You’ll see it soon. It’s built of stone and it’s right on the water.”
He sat anxiously, watching Tom’s face. He wanted Tom to like Pendarve as much as he did.
The post-chaise slowed. To the left was a low stone wall, and beyond the wall was a tumble of rocks, and beyond that was the sea, gentle this afternoon, not pounding and sending up spray; to the right, the ground sloped up in a sheltering hill.
The post-chaise slowed still further, and rattled to a halt in front of Pendarve.
They climbed out. The salt tang of the ocean filled Lucas’s mouth and nose, invigorating and fresh. God, he’d missed this smell. He inhaled deeply and watched Tom stretch his legs and examine their surroundings. Did he like the sea-smell? The gentle slap-slap-slap of the waves? What did he think of the house?
He tried to see the manor through Tom’s eyes: the red and gray stone, the slate roof. Pendarve didn’t have Whiteoaks’ size, or its symmetry and crisp lines. He thought it looked rugged and comfortable, peaceful in its solitude—but perhaps Tom thought it looked bleak and isolated and small?
“What do you think?” Had Tom been expecting a mansion? “It’s about a hundred times smaller than Whiteoaks.”
“And I like it a hundred times more than Whiteoaks.” Tom turned on his heel and looked out at the glinting silver-blue sea, the curve of coast with its pale shingle beaches and rocky reefs and windswept trees. “Look at that view.”
“You like it?” Lucas said eagerly.
Tom gave him a look that said Of course, I like it. I’d have to be insane not to.
“Come inside,” Lucas said. He turned and found Smollet standing at his elbow, and behind Smollet, the Teagues. “Oh, hello, Smollet. Good to see you.”
“Good afternoon, Master Lucas, Master Tom.” Smollet was as close to beaming as Lucas had ever seen him, his eyes crinkling, his mouth tucked up at the corners.
“Uh, this is Mrs. Teague, my housekeeper-cook,” Lucas told Tom. “And Mr. Teague, who has charge of the stables and grounds. Smollet, can you pay off the postilions, please?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Come inside,” Lucas said again, taking Tom’s arm.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Smollet?”
“I know you asked me to make the Green Room ready for Master Tom, but I took the liberty of preparing the Rose Room instead. It gets more sun.”
Lucas glanced sharply at his manservant.
Smollet returned his gaze with utmost blandness.
“Er . . . thank you,” Lucas said, and revised his assessment of Smollet, putting the man in the same category as Tish and Reid: He definitely knew—and he wasn’t disturbed by it. Or maybe Smollet deserved a category of his own. If he’d prepared the Rose Room, with its adjoining door to Lucas’s bedchamber, Smollet was actively encouraging them to spend their nights together.
Lucas ushered Tom inside, more than a little disconcerted.
By the time he’d shown Tom around the ground floor—tiny compared to Whiteoaks, but with a good library—his disconcertment had fallen away and he felt hopeful. Anxiously, eagerly, nervously hopeful. “Come upstairs.”
He showed Tom the sewing room first. “My godfather’s wife used this for embroidery.” Wouldn’t it make a good studio? Look at all the light. He held his breath, and watched as Tom crossed to the windows and looked out.
“Nice.”
Lucas hugged that word to himself. He took Tom past the Green Room without opening the door, past his own bedchamber, and halted.
His nervousness grew even greater. “Um, this is your room.”
He opened the door and let Tom step inside.
The room had belonged to his godfather’s long-dead wife. It was decorated in rose-pink and cream.
“What do you think? There’s a view straight out to sea. I usually sleep with my windows open a bit—even in winter. You can hear each wave. Um, my bedroom’s through that door. This was my godfather’s wife’s room—Mrs. Warboys, her name was—that’s why the door’s there.” He forced himself to stop gabbling, to take a breath. “Do you like it?” It’s yours, if you want it. Forever.
Tom nodded.
“I’ll have it redecorated. Your choice of color.”
Tom looked at him, and lifted his eyebrows slightly. “My choice?”
Lucas nodded—and knew the moment had come. Now was the time to tell Tom and here was the place. And just as he’d known when and where, he knew how to tell him, too.
He’d show Tom. Show him in such a way that Tom could have no doubt he meant it.
Lucas stepped closer to Tom. His chest was tight. Deeds speak more strongly than words, he told himself.
Tom watched him. A little wary. Not saying anything.
“I want you to choose the color,” Lucas said, and his voice was low and nervous and not quite steady. He took a deep breath, and reached out and took Tom by his waistband and pulled him closer. “Because I want this to be your room.” Your room, next to mine. Forever.
He held Tom’s gaze while he fumbled with the buttons of Tom’s breeches, the buttons of his drawers. He held Tom’s gaze while he wrapped his fingers around Tom’s cock and stroked him. He held Tom’s gaze while he knelt—and then he stopped concentrating on Tom’s eyes and just concentrated on what it felt like to have the Corinthian in his mouth.
Intimate. It felt intimate. Each breath he took smelled of Tom. Tom’s saltiness filled his mouth—his tongue rang with it, each taste bud reverberating. It felt profound. Not dirty or shameful, but wondrous. How could Tom’s colonel have called this smoking a cheroot? This wasn’t smoking a cheroot or playing a pipe or any of those stupid names people called it. This was telling a man that you loved him. With my body I thee worship.
After a moment, Tom’s hands came to rest on his hair. Not gripping tightly, just a light touch, a second connection between them: Tom’s cock in his mouth, Tom’s hands gently cradling his skull.
Lucas caressed that helmet-like head with his tongue, learning its shape, its taste, its sleekness, and when he’d learned those things he started sucking in earnest, urging Tom towards ecstasy the way Tom had urged him so many times—and he knew exactly what it felt like to Tom—the wet heat of a mouth, the soft velvet tongue, the suction, the rhythm, the building pressure, the feeling that soon he’d burst with pleasure—and when Tom climaxed, Lucas swallowed his mettle without hesitation—tangy and hot—because it was Tom’s and he loved Tom. All of him. Every part of him.
And then he stood and refastened Tom’s clothing—tucking him into his drawers, buttoning his breeches—and put his arms around him and hugged him tightly. “I love you.”
Tom stood quite still for several long seconds—and then he let out a sigh, and a deep core of tension seemed to dissolve in him. He bowed his head. “I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he whispered into Lucas’s shoulder.
“I’ll say it every day from now on, if you wish.”
Tom gave a shaky half-laugh. “Every second day will suffice.”
Lucas tightened his embrace. “I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen.”
Tom was silent for a moment, and then he said, “It was sixteen, for me.”
They stood leaning into each other for several minutes, not talking, just enjoying the closeness, and then Lucas pulled back, and looked at Tom. “This is your bedroom. Forever. You choose the color.”
Tom gave a lopsided smile. There were tears in his eyes. “Blue,” he said.