A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (63 page)

Martin appeared at Henry’s side with his own plate of cake
and began to eat, his left elbow nudging Henry’s right as he raised his fork.
They could touch in this way in a room crammed full of people, and there was
nothing improper about it, not at all.

“Henry!” Louis was pushing through the crowd with his piece
of cake, Jesse right behind him, and Peter and Russ in their wake.

Louis pulled up short. “Oh. Hello, Miss DeWitt.”

“Hello, Mr. Briggs,” Abigail said, her tone ever-so-slightly
wintry. She smiled at Jesse, though. “And hello to you, Mr…?”

“This is my cousin, Jesse Wilton,” Henry hurried to say.

“How do you do?” asked Jesse, giving Abigail his very
winning smile.

“Oh, you’re cousins!” Abigail seemed delighted. “Well, I
definitely see the family resemblance!” She turned to Henry, her dimple
showing. “Your mother’s people certainly are handsome, aren’t they?”

Henry blushed crimson. “Uh, thank you?”

“We’re a ravishing group,” Jesse told her cheerfully. “You
were Henry’s partner at his ball, were you not, Miss DeWitt?”

“Indeed I was! Did you know, Mr. Wilton? Your cousin is the
most divine dancer!” She put her hand, decorated with its massive sapphire, on
Jesse’s sleeve for emphasis.

“As a matter of fact, I did know that. He charmed all the
girls at my birthday dance.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. He quite swept me
off my feet!”

Henry found this conversation most pointless and inane, but
Abigail and Jesse, both experts at the craft, settled into a light flirtation
and required no more of Henry’s attention.

Louis rolled his eyes. Out of the side of his mouth he said,
“You know, on further consideration, I don’t think she’s really my type.”

In a low voice, Henry admitted, “I do actually like her,
though. I think we could be friends.”

Louis screwed up his face, disbelieving. “A girl as a
friend?”

Henry laughed. “It’s not so preposterous, Louis.”

Louis sighed dramatically. “Oh, Henry. You do
everything
wrong.” But he punched Henry’s arm so that Henry knew he didn’t really mean
anything by it.

Martin put his hand on Henry’s wrist, a feathery touch.
“Sir? May I take your plate?”

“Oh, certainly. Thank you, Martin.” He let Martin take the
plate from him, and once again Martin disappeared into the crowd. Henry hadn’t
realized how busy Martin would be today, how little time they would spend
together, but he knew Martin would want him to be adult about it and not pout.
After all, Martin had put a great deal of work into this party, and he wanted
Henry to enjoy it.

Henry chatted with Louis and Jesse and Abigail, who was just
as interested in hearing about Elizabeth as Louis was. Eli, with Owen at his side,
found his way to their group and listened to Jesse’s stories with a
long-suffering expression. Charles approached with Simon and Henry watched them
together, watched as Charles whispered in Simon’s ear and sent him away with a
friendly pat, and wondered again if Charles might be someone who would be
sympathetic to Henry’s situation.

They were joined by Freddie Caldwell with Tom, and then
Jesse’s friends, Gene Vermeulen with his flirtatious Warren, and Perry Whitman
with his Chris. Henry was relieved to find that whatever magic Perry had
possessed at Jesse’s party seemed to have dissipated and Henry was no longer in
the grip of an unwanted attraction. Perry now seemed nothing more than an
amiable fellow who happened to have the sort of coloring Henry liked, but he
was no match for Martin.

With their reconciliation so recent, there had been no time
for Louis to procure alcohol for the party, for which he was very apologetic.
Honestly, Henry didn’t mind at all.
He
wasn’t going to want to slink off
to get drunk and swap slaves. However, a number of boys, Louis included, had
flasks, and Henry was offered surreptitious sips of gin and whiskey by many of
his guests, though not enough to make him seriously drunk.

A hand on his sleeve, a gentle squeeze. “Sir? It’s nearly
time for the dancing to start.”

“Oh! Thank you, Martin.” He put his hand over Martin’s
fingers and returned the pressure.

Martin smiled down at their joined hands but withdrew his
fingers. “Miss Pearl says your mother would like the first dance, Sir, if you
don’t mind.”

“My mother?” Henry was startled by this idea, but supposed
he had no objections.

“It would be very kind of you, Sir. She’s been resting up in
anticipation.”

Henry excused himself from his friends and made his way
through the crowd to the settee where his mother waited, Pearl perched at her
left hand and Cora sitting at her right. Cora was swinging her legs and
explaining something that seemed to vex Mother, whose dark brows were drawn
together over her nose.

“…so we buried her head in the garden yesterday. Pat was
very kind and dug a grave, and he promised he’d plant a special flower for her.
Don’t you think that was nice, Mother?” She looked up and smiled. “Hello,
Martin. Hello, Henry.”

Martin, Henry realized, would probably always come first for
Cora. That was all right; he felt the same.

Cora slid down from the settee and held her arms out to
Martin, who got down on one knee and allowed himself to be hugged. Observing
this, Mother seemed bemused, and Henry realized she’d likely had no idea how
close her daughter and her son’s slave had become.

“Hello, Mother,” Henry said. “I take it you were hearing the
saga of Baby Ann?”

Mother gave a little shudder. “I never heard of a girl
playing such morbid games! She’s certainly nothing like I was as a child!”

Even though Henry was uneasy about a great deal of Cora’s
play, he felt loyal to his sister. “She’s just imaginative,” he said. “She
might be the only one in this family, though.”

“Oh, goodness no!” Mother insisted. “Your father is a
very
imaginative man. He could have never gotten this far without an imagination!”
She laughed and shook her head. “And you’re such a dreamer, Henry. I think you
must imagine a great many wondrous things.”

“Oh, well,” Henry said, feeling his face grow hot. He thought
immediately of Theo and George and the erotic scenes he’d imagined in such
detail over the years. Martin had said they could write a story, hadn’t he?
Perhaps Henry would hold him to that.

Henry cleared his throat. “Mother? Would you do me the honor
of the first dance?”

Mother smiled up at him, so grateful and radiant, and she
was as beautiful as he’d ever seen her. “Oh, darling, nothing would make me
happier!”

The ballroom might be old-fashioned, but Henry still thought
it the most beautiful room in the house. The walls here, too, were swagged with
greenery and a profusion of flowers, a fairytale forest multiplied and
refracted in gilt-framed mirrors. Every surface was polished to a high sheen,
and the twin chandeliers spangled the partygoers in shimmering light. It was
perfect.

As he escorted his mother to the middle of the floor, he
recalled with a bittersweet pang the long-ago ball he’d witnessed, the
breathless whirl of color and light, and determined to revel in this party as
he’d have liked to then, to enjoy this palimpsest of memory and lived
experience and share it, as best he could, with the people he loved and these
countless friendly strangers. He felt generous, expansive, joyous.

As the music started, Henry looked to where Martin stood
with some of his friends and they shared a smile, warm and fleeting, that
surely no one could take issue with. He did wish he had Martin in his arms, but
he could have that another time—he
would
have it. For now, it was no
hardship to be a good son and make his mother happy.

They danced a few steps alone, and then the floor quickly
filled with whirling couples. Mother was a good partner, light and quick and
easy to lead. Henry recalled dancing with her once or twice before when he was
a boy, when she’d praised his skill and pronounced him a true Wilton.

“Oh, darling!” Mother said, a bit breathless. “You’re such a
wonderful
dancer! Of course,
all
our people can dance.”

“Not Bette,” Henry said, remembering an awkward turn around
the floor with his cousin at Jesse’s party.

Mother scoffed at this. “She’s just not trying. Wiltons are
graceful people.”

Henry would not argue with her about it. “Well, I do try, I
suppose.”

“I wish Reggie was here to see you in your element,” Mother
said wistfully. “We’ll have to have a dancing party after he comes home. Would
you like another party, darling?”

“Uh…” Henry was overwhelmed by the idea of parties upon
parties; he wanted to enjoy the one he was in the middle of without having to
consider future festivities, too.

“Well, never mind,” Mother said. “We can decide later.”
After a brief pause, she added, “I must admit, darling, I want to make up for
lost time, but you shouldn’t let me force you into anything you don’t want.”

Henry did not see any reason to tell her that this party,
the one he was enjoying so much, was a party he hadn’t wanted, because he was
certainly glad of it now. It seemed probable he’d enjoy any sort of party
she—and Martin—cared to arrange.

When the tune came to an end, they applauded the musicians
along with everyone else, and then Mother held onto Henry’s arm, letting him
take her slight weight.

“Darling, thank you so much, that was lovely, but I’m quite
tired out. Do you see my Pearl…?”

Henry delivered her to Pearl, who led her out of the
ballroom, presumably back to her settee. He would have to remember to check on
her later, but for now he wanted to find a partner and dance.

Lily Sinclair, the girl he’d danced with at Jesse’s party,
stood at the edge of the crowd with some young ladies who were unfamiliar to him.

“Hello, ladies. Miss Sinclair, how nice to see you.”

She smiled very genuinely. “Happy Birthday, Mr. Blackwell.
Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“Would you care to dance?”

“I’d be delighted.”

He danced just one tune with Miss Sinclair before Jesse wrested
her away. He looked for Martin again and saw him standing slouched with his
friends, Tom and some of the others, but Martin was not looking at him.

“Mr. Blackwell, I do hope you’re looking for me.”

“What?” Henry blinked, startled.

Abigail DeWitt smiled up at him. “Dance with me,” she
suggested. “We make good partners, don’t you think?”

He did think that, actually. “Very well,” he said, holding
out his hand. “Let’s show everyone how it’s done.”

He danced two tunes with her, and then she suggested they get
some punch. He led her toward the reception room, aware of Martin moving
through the crowd toward him. They met up with Martin and Helena near the punch
bowl and Martin got cups of punch for all of them.

It was crowded and warm, and the heat made the scent of
vetiver rise off Martin’s skin, and Henry breathed him in as discreetly as he
could manage. He could practically feel the texture of Martin’s skin,
satin-soft under fingertips and tongue, and it made his cock twitch.

He did not wish to become hard here in front of all these
people. He tried to concentrate on what Abigail was saying.

“…think we know each other well enough now that we might go
by first names. I’d like us to be friends, Henry, real friends.”

“What?” Her words registered and he blinked. “Oh. Well.” For
a moment he thought he should ask someone’s permission, but then realized it
was entirely up to him. “Uh, certainly…Abigail. I’d like that.”

“Good!” She squeezed his arm and showed her dimple. “That’s
settled, then! I do so enjoy your company. You’re not like these other boys,
all leering and crude. Most of Albert’s friends are just
beasts
, Henry,
though I’m sure you know that already.”

Henry blushed a little. “Well, I wouldn’t judge them
quite
so harshly…” he offered tentatively.

“Oh, yes, they’re your friends, too, aren’t they?” she said,
airily dismissive. “You’d be a good example to them, Henry, if they’d only pay
attention.”

“Hello again, Miss DeWitt.” Jesse appeared at Abigail’s
side. “I wonder if you’re aware that
all
the Wiltons are good dancers.”

“Is that a fact? I suppose I should have you prove it to
me.” Abigail handed off her punch glass and took Jesse’s offered arm.

As Jesse led her into the crowd, Martin leaned close, his
hot breath sending shivers down Henry’s spine. “Sir? Shall we find you another
dance partner?”

“What if I want to stay here with you?” Henry asked in a low
voice.

Martin scoffed at this, albeit fondly. “But I want to watch
you dance, Sir.” He leaned closer still, his lips brushing Henry’s ear. “I want
to watch and remember dancing with you downtown.” His smile was full of wicked
promise.

Henry instantly recalled the tawdry ballroom on 14
th
Street in glorious detail, dancing in the open with
Martin in his arms, and then leading him into the dark, humid back room to go
to his knees, and this memory was arousing to an inappropriate degree.

“Do you mean that? Do you really want to remember?” Henry
wanted badly to know. His own feelings about their evening at the men’s ball
were complicated. He’d been so happy in the moment, and so unhappy in the
aftermath, but the idea that Martin had really had fun, too, that it hadn’t
been a sham, made his heart light.

Martin laughed and touched his hand, just briefly. “Of
course I mean it, Sir. I definitely do. Parts of that night were lovely.”

Henry felt suddenly emotional, his throat tight, and it took
effort not to grab Martin’s hand and hold on. On that night, he’d been utterly
free, completely comfortable in his skin, and it had felt as though the world
had fallen into place around him, accommodating him. Perhaps Martin hadn’t felt
exactly the same, but that Martin treasured the memories meant everything.