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The next day was excruciating.
It was his own fault. Toby wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking, except Miles had looked—not just unhappy, people could be unhappy if they wanted, but he’d looked like he needed to hold on to someone and weep.
Ridiculous. He was a soldier for God’s sake. He’d killed people and won medals and got promoted on the battlefield while Toby was skittering round the edges of society trying to make an intermittently honest living. Why would he need, still less want, Toby’s comfort?
All the more embarrassing that he hadn’t wanted anything more. Well, Toby hadn’t precisely offered anything more, and he made a half-hearted effort to be offended by the assumption that he’d been doing so. But the truth was, if Miles had asked for physical comfort, Toby would have been very happy to supply it. He’d already been on his knees.
Idiot. Why on earth would Miles trust him again, still less want him? Granted, they’d had one very successful encounter, but Toby had comprehensively ruined that and Miles had probably felt used and stupid afterwards, and Toby was a fool for not realising he might still feel that way. Only, he was a man who touched. He liked lovers who kissed and held: back in the Horse and Hound, he’d have done anything Miles wanted after that dizzying kiss. He’d always held Rob and Marnie, comforting them while his father and their mother fought or drank or cursed. If someone was upset, his instinct was to open his arms. He’d really thought Miles might need to be held, sitting alone in a house that radiated his father’s spite and hatred.
It had been stripped of everything valuable, and either the man had given away those valuables or he’d sold them and spent the proceeds, but either way he’d made damned sure Miles had come back to nothing but a decaying building and a lot of rubbish. The only thing Toby didn’t understand was why Miles didn’t simply put a torch to the place.
Well, that, and also he could not let go of the valet.
The old Lord Arvon, a miser who’d stripped his son’s future away, had spent money on ensuring that when his prodigal son returned from the wars, a captain by promotion with medals and a record to be proud of, he would have service befitting a gentleman. Toby could easily picture the long-festering anger that would lead a father to systematically destroy his son’s inheritance—it was exactly the sort of thing his own father would have done, except that he lacked the imagination, the application, and anything to destroy. He couldn’t fit a valet into that picture, no matter how he tried.
He thought about that all of the next day, when Miles left him alone in a room. Going through drawer after drawer after box, heaving bags and boxes of rubbish down the stairs, sluicing his throat, trudging back up, and all of it on his own. He’d have sung just for the sound of a voice, but he had no idea where Miles was and didn’t want to seem provocative. So he just worked in dismal, dusty silence, feeling Miles ignoring him as a physical thing.
If he’d kept a sensible distance yesterday, they’d be in here talking. He might not be able to reach out and touch, but at least they wouldn’t both be alone.
By evening he was achingly lonely, and also bored out of his mind, which had turned to thoughts of escape. He’d been here a week, which might not exactly count as working off the cost of a twenty-guinea watch and the few pounds in the pocketbook but was something, and he’d run mad if he had to spend all day silent in this house for the foreseeable future. And Miles clearly didn’t want him here—was avoiding him, in fact—and the sensible thing would be to go. It would unquestionably be the best choice, or at least the easiest one. Running away was always easiest.
The only difficulty was money, and his entire lack of it. He’d come here with two shillings and sixpence as the sum total of his worldly goods and that wouldn’t last him long. He’d be a fool to flee from a bed and three meals a day without something better to fall back on.
So he needed to find that something. Clothes, for example. Miles probably wouldn’t dream of selling his father’s old clothes, or know how to go about it or what would fetch a good price. He probably wouldn’t even realise any of them were missing. Toby wouldn’t steal anything really valuable, he assured himself in the absence of anything really valuable to tempt him. That wouldn’t be fair to Miles. But old clothes were a perquisite for staff, as Mr. Valet Whatever-his-name-was had said, and hardly counted as stealing at all. Toby could help himself to just a few unconsidered trifles and be on his way tomorrow and it would be better for everyone. No point them both sitting around miserably in a house of spoiled dreams.
With that in mind, he got up bright and early, waited for Miles to go down to his solitary breakfast, and nipped upstairs for a nose around.
Miles wasn’t using the master bedroom. He slept in a room down the hall, presumably the one he’d had as a boy before he’d done whatever he did, which Toby could make a fair guess at by now. Probably he didn’t want to intrude on his father’s room, and probably he’d be furious if he caught Toby doing that, but the good clothes would be in there, so needs must.
Miles generally took half an hour over his coffee and eggs, and then went out for fresh air. Toby had time.
He went to the wardrobe and pulled open the heavy door to a faint ghost of lavender and mothballs. That revealed a row of coats, most of which bore the stamp of the last century, and not even its most recent years. He took out the most modern garment he could see, noting the fine cloth, good workmanship, and terrible wear. Apparently Lord Arvon had been as pinch-fisted with his garments as everything else.
This wouldn’t fetch much. He went to put it back and try the next, but first, with the ingrained instinct of a lifetime helping himself, he checked the pockets.
***
TOBY TOOK THE STAIRS two at a time. He hurtled into the room Miles had been working in yesterday. “Miles? Miles!”
No sign of the man. He ran into the kitchen, then outside. “Miles? Where are you?”
Curse it. He sprinted back inside, towards the hall, still calling, and collided with Miles coming round a corner. Actually collided, hitting his solid body with a thump and reeling away, dizzied.
“Toby? Are you all right?”
“What? Yes, yes, fine. No. Ow. I think you broke my nose.”
“I didn’t, did I? Let me see.”
Toby pulled away, flexing his nose between two cautious fingers. “No, I think it’s all right, but that really hurt. Miles—”
“Wait. I was looking for you.”
“I was looking for you. Listen—”
“No.” A firm grip on his wrist, and Miles towed him into the nearest room and shut the door. It was one they’d cleared, with nothing but empty boxes. “Toby.”
“Look, could you please—”
“Will you, or can you, shut up a moment?” Miles demanded. “I need to apologise.”
That shook Toby out of his own urgent need to communicate. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I was damned offensive to you and I wish I had not been. You were kinder than I deserved, and I took out my own anger at myself on you. I apologise. I will not do that again, and if I do, you may freely consign me to the devil.”
Toby stared at him. Miles gave a rueful smile. “You were quite right. I did want comfort—companionship, something. You were damned decent to offer it and I’m sorry I threw it back in your face.”
Toby found his tongue. “Are you apologising to me?”
“Christ, have you not been listening?
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t making sense. Do earls apologise often? To thieves?” he felt compelled to add.
“This one needs to. And it was hardly fair of me to throw, uh, our meeting back at you like that. I’m sorry.”
Toby began to say it was no matter, and caught himself. “Um. If you’re apologising, could we negotiate an agreement?”
Miles’s eyebrow rose at a steep angle. “Meaning...?”
“Well, could we say that since you were unfairly angry at me earlier, you won’t be angry now about something which you might otherwise possibly find not entirely satisfactory in every respect?”
Both brows were up now. “What the bloody hell have you done?”
“It’s what I found. You might feel I shouldn’t have been looking and I quite agree, but would you look at this?”
He pulled the paper out of his pocket. Miles took it and his face changed. “This is my father’s hand.”
“I know. I didn’t realise it was a letter.”
Miles gave him an extremely old-fashioned look. “It starts ‘Dear Miles’. What did you think it was, a Gothic novel?”
“Just read it!”
Miles sighed. He read. He turned it over, read it again. Looked up, and his eyes were shining with tears.
“Toby,” he whispered.
Dear Miles
I dare say you may be back with me before this reaches you. Perhaps it is foolish to write while you are coming home, but I find I cannot wait to speak my mind.
You have served with honour, you have been made captain thanks to your courage and efforts, most of all, you have not gambled in four years. I cannot speak of my pride. I knew my boy would come home to me one day. Your mother would be so happy. I can scarcely wait to shake your hand. We will speak more on your return. My very dear son.
I regret there is a great deal to be done here. You will need to consult Mr. Greenford for me, and to speak to Sir Athelney Pugh. I dare say my son, Captain of the Fourth Regiment of Foot, will do what I cannot against that snake. When you return, you will
It ended there, as though the writer had been distracted. As though he’d forgotten about this, the most important letter in the world.
Miles’s hand was shaking. “Where was it?”
“In a coat pocket. He forgave you, Miles. He loved you. It wasn’t cruel, all this, it wasn’t on purpose. Whatever he did to the house, whyever he did it, he really, truly wanted you back.”
Miles nodded, almost vaguely. His mouth worked, and Toby didn’t think twice, or even once. He simply moved, opening his arms, and Miles surged into him, grabbing hold of him in a rib-snapping hug. Toby held on to him, and Miles buried his face in his shoulder, body shuddering.
He loved you. He forgave you. It’s all right.
They embraced silently for what felt a very long time, heaving sobs racking Miles’s body. Toby experienced a little difficulty breathing in that fierce grip, and tried not to suck in air too distractingly until at last Miles let go and stepped back.
“Thank you.” His voice shook. “Thank you. Jesus. This—”
“I’m so glad.” Toby might have been crying a tiny bit himself. Miles looked at him, his lips twisting in the way mouths did when people wanted to laugh as well as weep, and then he reached out and pulled Toby to him again.
Just holding each other. Just hanging on, because it was strange to discover the world was a better place that you’d believed. Because kindness was hard to bear, and sometimes you needed to hold on tight.
And also, perhaps, because Miles was good to hold on to. He had powerful shoulders and a firm body and his hair smelled good, and his face was warm against Toby’s neck.
His lips. Against Toby’s neck.
He might have made a slight hiccuppy sound. Miles stilled instantly, body going rigid, then raised his head. “Ah.”
“Um,” Toby said, equally intelligently. Miles was extremely close, and his hands were on Toby’s hips, and if he pulled away now Toby might cry in earnest. “Miles?”
“I. Uh.”
This wasn’t getting them anywhere. “Look. I realise that last time ended poorly, but if I absolutely promise not to steal your watch—”
“You already stole my watch. I don’t have another one.”
“Then you’ve nothing to lose, have you?”
Miles shut his eyes for a second, apparently struggling for self-control. “Just tell me, would you care to—bearing in mind you are absolutely free to say no and I won’t resent it—”
“Yes.”
“Thank Christ for that,” Miles said, and yanked him in.
It was a hell of a kiss. Miles’s mouth was open and greedy on his, and Toby kissed him back with gleeful wildness, rejoicing in this brief moment where the world was a joyous place. Miles’s hands slid down to Toby’s arse, and hoisted him up, and Toby hung onto his shoulders, laughing in his mouth, wrapped his legs around Miles’s waist and kissed him frantically. All tongues and teeth and wolfing one another down.
Miles, staggering slightly, carried him two steps to a chest of drawers and half-dropped him on it. “You weigh more than you look.”
“Blame Mrs. Whitworth.” His thighs were still locked around Miles’s hips, arms round his shoulders. He wanted to suggest that Miles might ravish him on the floor without loss of time, but he was also very much enjoying the kissing.
“Mph.” Miles was working at getting his hands under Toby’s shirt. “I want to touch you. Can you lie back?”
Toby could. The chest of drawers wasn’t the most comfortable thing he’d ever lain on, but it was an excellent height, just to Miles’s hips. They wrestled clothing out of the way, and Toby lay back with Miles standing between his legs, his feet braced on the backs of those strong thighs, Miles’s hand wrapped around both pricks.
“Oh God,” Miles whispered. “Christ.”
Toby dearly loved a bit of jousting. He strained up into Miles’s grip, and the perfect pressure of cock against cock, the slide and friction, the heat of skin and thumping blood. Miles leaned over him, eyes drugged, lips parted, and Toby moaned pleasure as Miles stroked them both together, and protest as he let go.
“What—”
“Just—let me—” Miles sounded a little unsure, but his hands were warm as they moved to Toby’s hips. He bent over, and took Toby’s prick in his mouth.
Toby made a frankly embarrassing noise. He hadn’t expected that. Miles was tentative, taking it slowly, mouthing Toby’s stand rather than gulping it down. Toby moved his hands to Miles’s cropped hair—not pushing, just touching, but he felt Miles stiffen, and slid them swiftly away, down to his shoulders, simply resting them there.
Miles started moving again, his mouth open, the touch very light. So light, you might think he didn’t want to do it.
“Do you actually enjoy that?” Toby asked.
There was a tiny silence, in which he realised that he might not have sounded very appreciative. “That wasn’t a complaint,” he added hastily. “Only, if it doesn’t happen to be your preference—”
Miles pulled his mouth away. “Sorry. I, uh.”
That sounded like a conversation for later, Toby felt; hopefully much later. “I liked your hand. I liked you holding me. I’d—could I tell you what I’d really like?”
“Please do,” Miles said, with what sounded like relief.
“It’s just, there’s this very convenient chest at the right height, and...” Toby wriggled off the furniture in question, turned, and bent—admittedly provocatively—over it. “Could you possibly use your hand now?”
“Like this?” Miles’s arm came round him, gripping his prick, moving gently. His other hand skimmed Toby’s arse, lightly, then more firmly. Toby moaned. “Like that. I see. Suppose—” He leaned in, his stand pressing hot and heavy against Toby’s flesh, then adjusted his angle, sliding between Toby’s thighs, his stand pressing up against Toby’s balls.
Not what he’d expected, perhaps, but an excellent idea in itself. “Oh Jesus.”
“Yes. Christ. You like being bent over the furniture?”
He was thrusting between Toby’s legs while stroking his cock with a well-judged grip, and this turned out to be exactly what Toby had wanted. He whimpered hopelessly. Miles gave a breathy laugh. “God. Can I make you spend like this?”
“Try and stop me.”
Miles’s hand tightened. It was very definitely a commanding grip, his powerful thighs pressed against Toby’s arse now, and Toby bucked, writhing in his hand, until he cried out, and came, gasping with pleasure and clamping his legs tight as Miles thrust between them. “Christ! You beautiful—God—”
Toby slumped forward. Miles leaned heavily over him. They were both panting. Miles’s breath was hot on the back of Toby’s neck, and then he kissed the skin, a light caress, and Toby’s treacherous heart thudded in his chest as though it might burst.