It was some weeks before Justin thought to wonder at the lack of a response to his gesture. First, because the delivery took a few days, and then because he was always behindhand on responding to his own personal correspondence so hardly expected a prompt reply from anyone else. But eventually, he wondered if something had gone wrong: delivered to the wrong hands, perhaps, which would be an unfortunate waste. Or perhaps he had the etiquette wrong, if there could be said to be etiquette in this situation at all. How did one thank one’s illicit lover for a gift? If it was a mere transactional arrangement, were thanks even appropriate? Cursed if he knew. It would have been far less strange for Striker to write him than the converse, since Striker could use the pretext of seeking work or a recommendation. Dwelling on the subject accomplished nothing, so Justin put the detail out of his mind and carried on with his life. Justin couldn’t forget Striker, but he steeled himself against taking any further action to contact the man. Nothing was more undignified or inappropriate than a one-sided obsession. Justin had had enough idiots make false assumptions about his continuing interest that he was not about to subject another to like treatment.

Weeks turned to months; Justin went to Gracehaven for business in mid-fall, intending to spend about half his year in the capital and the other half in the viscountcy, as his father had before him. The business season peaked and faded as the social season of Ascension began. Though Justin was not at all a spiritual man, he did enjoy the season – it made a pleasant break, going from businessmen and assembly members who took themselves far too seriously, to hosts and hostesses who took matters of even less import even more seriously. The wrath of an assemblyman denied a tariff on his competitors was as nothing to that of a society matron with an uninvited guest.

Three days before the Ascension Ball, Justin was at Dalsterly Manor, where Lord Dalsterly was playing host to three or four hundred guests. Various forms of entertainment abounded: dancing and music in the ballroom, cards and billiards in the game room, and groups making conversation spilling across library, parlor, drawing room, and one study. Justin had been on his way to the card room when a trio of youthful sisters circled about and waylaid him in the library, asking questions about this or that championship match from his years in competition. This was a novel gambit – Justin rather wondered who’d briefed them on it – and he spent a quarter of an hour before grand glass-fronted bookcases, entertaining his admirers with a preposterous and only somewhat exaggerated account of a disastrous backball match held during a thunderstorm. “But who was the winner, Lord Comfrey?” one of the girls cried after he relayed the part where a two-hundred year old oak, struck by lightning, fell onto the field and nearly crushed one of his competitors.

“Oh, Nature, by general acclaim. Certainly all of us felt we’d lost.” Justin glimpsed a middle-aged gentleman in Anverlee blue at the far side of the room, and decided to make his escape. “Do excuse me, young ladies, the Count of Anverlee awaits.”

The count stood in profile, a small group ranged about him, including a tall, trim young man also in blue and silver. The young man had his back to Justin, but his long queue of wavy golden hair reminded Justin with a pang of his angel. I wonder how he’s spending his Ascension season?

Lord Striker smiled as he caught Justin’s eye (ah, to see my Striker smile again) and turned to greet him with an outstretched hand. “Good evening, Lord Comfrey. How do you find the party?”

“Very well, my lord, if a trifle cramped. And you?” Justin nodded hello to the two gentlemen he knew in the conversational group, and was turning to face the last as Lord Striker made his answer.

“Splendid,” Lord Striker was saying. “I don’t believe you’ve met my son – he’s just reached his majority and so I’m showing him off to everyone now. Lord Comfrey, allow me to present Nikola Striker, Lord-Heir of Anverlee.”

The whole room seemed to recede as Justin stared into the face of his angel. “Striker. Nik Striker,” the youth had said, and he’d wondered why that name sounded familiar. No, he wanted to protest, you cannot possibly be Lord Striker’s heir, you were a valet and Lady Striker calls her only son Nikki and he can’t be more than twelve and this cannot – possibly – be happening.

“Nikola, this is Lord Justin Comfrey, Viscount of Comfrey,” Lord Striker continued.

Lord Nikola’s expression of icy reserve was so unlike anything Justin had previously seen on his angel’s face that for a moment he tried to convince himself they were different people. Identical in appearance and with the same name, but – “Lord Comfrey. How do you do.” Lord Nikola’s voice was coldly polite as he offered his hand.

Justin took the offered hand automatically, as far off balance as he’d ever been. Striker’s – Lord Nikola’s – handshake was hard and brief. Justin was aware that he needed to say something but everything that came to mind was wildly inappropriate. Why didn’t you tell me you were a lord? What in all Paradise were you doing working as a servant? I am going to kill Dremmond the next time I see him. Wait, you just reached your majority?  After a too-long pause, Justin managed, “Not properly introduced, no. A pleasure, Lord Nikola.”

“How’s that?” Lord Striker asked.

“Lord Comfrey attended Ambrellan this year at the academy,” Lord Nikola answered. “We saw one another there.” He held Justin’s gaze defiantly, as if daring the viscount to contradict him.

“Ah, scarcely the setting for an introduction, eh?” Lord Striker said, sympathetic.

“Indeed not. I am very glad to have the oversight rectified now.” Justin could not stop staring, as if answers to all his questions might be found in the depths of those beautiful deep blue eyes, as unforgiving as the arctic ocean.

“Are you,” Lord Nikola said, voice flat.

“Of course.” Justin tried a smile, wondering what had happened in the last several months to make the man so hostile. As the shock of the initial realization faded, he found it increasingly painful to see his angel’s face holding no trace of affection. He turned away, glancing to Lord Striker instead.

The count did not appear aware of the undercurrents between the two younger men, but Lord Striker nonetheless covered the following awkward pause with an anecdote from his own school days. Justin responded to the diversion automatically, hardly knowing what he said as the conversation continued. He did not do more than glance at Striker – Lord Nikola – again, but was highly conscious of the man’s presence. Lord Nikola was taller than he remembered, of a height with Justin instead of a couple of inches shorter. ‘Just reached his majority,’ Lord Striker had said. Did I seduce a half-grown boy and not even notice? Is that why he resents me now, for taking advantage of him? Saints, but I am such a fool. It was hard to stand in Dalsterly’s crowded library, making polite small talk and pretending nothing was wrong. After what Justin hoped was a decent interval, he excused himself from the group and slipped away ‘to get some air’.

As overwarm as it had felt in the full mansion, the night outside was cold and desolate. Frost rimed the wrought-iron railing surrounding the rear patio. Saplings grew in well-spaced intervals through open circles left in the brickwork. Planters held Ascension bushes, violet and lavender blooms with sweet petals that flowered in wintertime. Only a few other guests were desperate enough for privacy to linger outside. Justin hunched his shoulders in his formal jacket and walked further into the grounds, wanting to escape everyone. He turned off the gaslit path and onto the lawn, crossing it to walk to a stand of trees. He was very near the edge of control, grim thoughts circling in his head, torn between irrational urges: to weep, scream, break something. How could I be so blind? How could I not have known? Why didn’t he just tell me? Was this all some sick joke planned by Dremmond? Saints, was Dremmond setting me up for some blackmail scheme?  He was in the grove now, one hand out to bend a tree branch away from his face. Justin clenched his fingers into a fist around the wood and shoved on the thick branch until it snapped with a satisfying crack. I’ll kill him. He let his arm drop, leaves from the branch rustling as he still held it, drew a deep breath to try to calm himself. Don’t be ridiculous. If anyone was going to try blackmailing me on this, they would have already. And no one would involve a count’s heir in such a scheme, it would hurt the boy as much as me, and what motivation would he have for doing so?  Dim recollection stirred at the back of his mind. Savior, the boy’s Blessed, isn’t he? He’d have to be mad to do all that from spite.

“Lord Comfrey.”

Justin started, so lost in thought that he had not heard Striker following him. He dropped the branch and turned, willing himself to be calm. A little part of his heart leapt with hope: tell me that indifference in the library was an act, a mask you wore for your father, and now that we are alone let us be as we were before. “Striker?”

“This isn’t the academy, Lord Comfrey.” Hope withered at the tone of Lord Nikola’s voice. “I am due my title here.” The distant gaslights of the garden path rendered his erstwhile angel a dark silhouette among the trees, standing ten or fifteen feet away.

“Lord Nikola—” Justin moved closer, trying to see his face, trying to sort the confusion in his mind enough to ask a coherent question.

Before he’d framed words, Lord Nikola spoke again. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, Lord Comfrey. I only came to return something of yours.” Striker tossed a palm-sized object to him. What—?  Justin caught it by reflex despite the darkness, felt supple embossed leather beneath his fingers. Oh. The blond lord was already turning, walking back out of the trees.

“Wait.” Justin fumbled the wallet into a pocket and strode after Striker, who only lengthened his stride. Justin sprinted forward and seized the man’s wrist as he stepped out of the shadow of the trees. “Curse you, wait.” Striker half-turned to him then, blue eyes betrayed, glittering with unshed tears before dark lashes swept down to hide them. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? For all love, why pretend to be a servant?”

Striker’s eyes flicked up, blinking in confusion before turning wary again. “What do you mean? I did tell you!”

“You told me your name. Not your title, or – saints, you’ve a Blessing, what were you doing playing at valet for five days?” Justin released Striker’s arm, suddenly recalling what the man’s Blessing was for. Blood and death, he knows everything about me.

“Someone had to do it. Why not me?”

Justin waved his arms at the fatuousness of this statement. “Because you’re a count’s heir and one of the Blessed? Dremmond has a legion of servants who are – I am reasonably assured! – not peers!”

The young lord gave a bitter laugh. “Dremmond’s got a legion of pupils, you mean. And he doesn’t care what rank they are. No titles at the academy, and we all get ‘volunteered’ whenever there’s a big event. ‘Builds character’, no doubt.” He paused a moment. “Surely your school did the same?”

“Certainly not!” Justin retorted. “Not with peers, in any case. That’s insane.”

“No it isn’t,” Striker said, automatically. “Professor Gilsmaine says that it’s important for the gentility especially to learn humility at a young age, because we’re certainly not going to learn it later.” Justin blinked at him a few times; there was a kind of logic to that. The youth stood on the lawn outside the grove, face half-lit by moonlight, light hair silvery in the glow. He licked his lips. “You didn’t know?”

Justin pressed his palms to his eyes. “Of course not! Abandoned world, would I have offered you a position if I had?”

“I thought you were making sport of it.” The youth’s voice was soft.

Justin laughed at the absurdity of it all, bending over to rest his hands on his knees. “No. I was entirely earnest. I wondered why you were so sure your parents would not care about salary.”

“Dremmond didn’t pay us. That’s why doubling it was so funny…I…I truly thought you knew, my lord.”

Justin shook his head. “I imagine I should have. Saints but I am such a fool.” He straightened and leaned back against a tree, pushed locks of long dark hair over his shoulders, and looked at his angel. The faint glow of stars and moon highlighted his angular features, eyes darkened by shadows. Nikola looked haunted and wary, a man wounded and afraid of being hurt again. Sixteen. The boy was sixteen when I took his innocence. “No wonder you hate me.”

“I…” Nik did not know what to say to that. He’d been nursing his anger at Lord Comfrey for months, rehearsing in his head how this encounter would go, steeling himself not to betray any unreasonable emotion in public. In private—

In private he’d wanted to hurt the man. Make Comfrey pay for that insult, for making him feel like a disposable object, purchased and then thrown away. Nik could not imagine how to – Comfrey was the perfect lord, armed by wit, armored by self-confidence, impervious to insult, physically invincible. And now – Comfrey hadn’t even recognized his name, had not realized he was no servant? Should I have told him? Does it make a difference? If I were not a gentleman, how would I feel now?

No different. Nikola’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Was it meant as bribe or payment?”

“…what?”

“That – that package I returned to you. I just want to know which you took me for. Blackmailer or prostitute?”

Comfrey flinched. “Saints, neither, Striker – Lord Nikola – I intended no insult. It was meant as a gift, a token of appreciation—”

“You call five thousand marks a token?” Nik said, incredulous.

“Yes! I—” The dark-haired lord cut himself off and stepped forward, out of the shadow of the trees, shoes crunching on the frost-rimed grass. He took Nik’s gloved hand in his and dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “I apologize, Lord Nikola. I swear to you, I have never wished to hurt or offend you. But that does not change the wrong done nor the harm. I beg your forgiveness. If there is anything I might do to make amends, please, tell me.”

Nik gazed down on Comfrey’s broad, bowed shoulders, and knew suddenly how he could hurt him. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Comfrey repeated softly, like a promise, or a trust given.

The blond lord knelt to join Comfrey, taking the man’s tan chin in his hand and tilting it up to force their eyes to meet. Comfrey inhaled, waiting for an answer. Nik leaned forward to kiss him, hard and fierce. Startled, Lord Comfrey slid his arms around Nik’s waist, eyes closing to return the kiss. After a moment, Nik broke the contact, hands braced against Comfrey’s chest to shove him away.

Comfrey’s eyes flew open. “My lord?”

Nik wondered if that was how he’d looked the first time they’d kissed: breathing too fast, expression perplexed but hopeful. He’d meant to laugh in Comfrey’s face and make mock of all his sincerity, just as Comfrey had once laughed at him. But Nik couldn’t manage even a ‘hah!’; the whole idea sickened him. He stumbled to his feet and past Comfrey, into the darkness of the trees. He deserves to be punished, after what he did to me, Nik thought angrily, and then, And because he accidentally hurt me, I should be intentionally cruel to him? How is that justice?  He put an arm against an adjacent tree and leaned against it, nauseated.

“Lord Nikola?” Dead leaves crackled as Comfrey followed him into the grove. “I truly am sorry. Had I known – but I should have realized. Savior knows there were clues enough. Is there nothing I can do?”

Nik stood stiffly, his back to the viscount. “Curse it,” he said, voice hoarse. “Stop being so, so – real.”

“…my lord?”

“This was much easier in my imagination, where you were just the paper silhouette of a villain. How am I supposed to stay angry at you when you’re an actual person?” Nik turned about, blinking back tears, and did the one thing he truly wanted to do: stepped into Comfrey’s arms and embraced him. “Hold me,” he commanded, and Comfrey complied, one strong arm around his shoulders and the other his waist. Nik breathed in ragged gasps, like a drowning man brought at last to shore. He relaxed in the security of Comfrey’s presence, and let the weight of bitterness and resentment fall away. “All right,” he murmured at last. “I forgive you.”

Comfrey rumbled a chuckle against Nik’s neck, the tension in the dark-haired man’s body easing with relief at the words. “You may ask something more difficult of me than this. My lord.”

“I don’t want anything of you but this,” Nik said pointedly, before shifting to kiss him. “…well, and certain other things that I will not insist you do in Lord Dalsterly’s backyard.”

“It might be a trifle cold for that,” Comfrey agreed, though in the circle of his arms Nikola could not feel the chill at all. He lifted Nik off the ground, provoking a startled laugh, and walked him deeper into the trees to put his back against a tree trunk. Comfrey leaned close, cheek against cheek, embrace possessive and irresistible. Nik closed his eyes, a profound sense of well-being filling him. All his anger of the last several months seemed foolish and misdirected. Was it ever you I hated, or was it always the forces that separated us?  After a few moments, Comfrey pulled back, smoothing Nik’s hair from his cheek. Nik opened his eyes, seeing little more than the outline of the man’s face in the darkness, a glint of reflected starlight in his eyes. “Truly forgiven?” Comfrey asked softly.

Nik smiled, caressing Comfrey’s cheek. “Really and truly, my lord.”

“You are a very generous man, Strike – Lord Nikola.” Comfrey rested his head against Nik’s hand; Nik could feel his smile against his gloved palm. “This is…going to take some getting used to. How long are you in town for? The season?”

The younger man nodded. “Another six weeks, my lord. And – I don’t mind if you call me Striker. In truth. All my friends do.”

He felt Lord Comfrey go still, then bring one hand to cover Nik’s and hold it fast to his face. “And may I count myself among your friends, Striker?”

Nik swallowed. “I would be honored if you did, Lord Comfrey.”

The strong body relaxed against Nik’s, head lifting to let narrow lips tease at Nik’s earlobe. “Then I will,” Comfrey whispered in his ear. Nik shivered, pulling him closer. “For now, I should stop putting my friend at risk of frostbite,” Comfrey added, misinterpreting Nik’s reaction and drawing back so that he was no longer pinned against the tree.

Nikola clutched at him, not ready to lose contact yet, reluctant to return to the warmth of the house and the attendant facade of cold indifference he’d be required to wear. Holding Comfrey’s head in his hands, Nik claimed another kiss, a promise that this was not just another daydream, before he yielded to the inevitable and released the man.

Comfrey straightened his own clothes and brushed at the knees of his breeches, then dusted off Nik’s back and pulled a stray twig from blond hair before they left the shelter of the grove. “I’m hosting a card party in three days, Striker. Would you care to attend? Or do you have a prior engagement?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Nik realized he was grinning like an impudent child, and schooled his features to a more respectable smile.

“Splendid. I’ll send a written invitation, make it official. Include your father.” Comfrey strode with nonchalant ease across the lawn.

“My father?”

“Why not? Does he like cards?”

Nik shrugged and nodded. “He plays occasionally.”

“Mm. Pity. Still, I’ll invite him anyway.”

Nik bit the inside of his cheek to stifle his smile. “Are you only inviting him in the hopes he won’t come?”

“Oh, not only in that hope. I promise it will be a perfectly respectable evening, Striker. Or at least have every appearance of one.” Comfrey flashed him a grin as they stepped into the circle of gaslight surrounding one of the lamps along the path.

“I have every confidence in you, Lord Comfrey.” Nik tried to adjust to this new role: not servant, lover or enemy, but cordial equal. It felt more natural than resenting the viscount, but oddly less so than serving him had. You’re not the only one who has to get used to this, he thought at Comfrey.

“Hah. No need to be so formal out here – if I’m permitted to call you Striker, you may as well drop my title too.”

Nik offered a slight bow in acknowledgement. “As you like, Comfrey.”

They returned indoors, the viscount speaking casually of various card games and inquiring as to which ones had been popular at East Hansleigh. The Dalsterly game room was two-thirds full, well-dressed gentlemen and ladies playing at billiards or seated at elegant cloth-draped card tables. Two middle-aged men welcomed Comfrey like an old friend and invited him to join in a game of Highway, where Nik sat opposite the viscount as his partner. Nik was embarrassingly poor at the game, which troubled Comfrey not at all, not even when Nik made the same mistake in play not a quarter-hour after his partner had explained the correct one. Comfrey proved an excellent partner, not merely skilled at the game but pleasant, content to offer advice if asked or keep his peace. Conversation flowed easily around the table, with Comfrey doing his part as attentive listener and throwing in the occasional quip to maintain the air of good-natured companionship. He made everything look effortless, as if he always knew which card to play, what question to ask, what remark to make. After an hour or so, Nik felt genuinely at ease instead of only making a pretense of being so. He followed Comfrey’s example in being circumspect, exchanging no private glances and offering no comments with hidden meanings. As if they were simply friends. As if they could be.

When his father reclaimed him to take him home, Nikola was still marveling at that.