An Unusual Courtship (10 page)

Mr. Everett was similarly reserved, restraining himself merely to polite commentary on such topics as Mr. Bolton suggested, which were mostly lengthy discourses on hounds, horses, and hunting, topics of which Mr. Bolton never tired.

It was Miss Bolton’s habit to curtail some of these discourses in her brother, at least to the degree that he would not be allowed to overwhelm the dinner conversation, but tonight both Percival and Mr. Everett were grateful for Mr. Bolton’s effusiveness, and Miss Bolton herself also made few forays at conversation.

In fact, Miss Bolton herself seemed distracted. While Percival felt and Mr. Everett looked subdued, Miss Bolton appeared near to bursting with some topic of conversation which she was only with great effort keeping trapped behind her lips.

Percival’s curiosity about this topic grew apace as the dinner proceeded, and by the time the port wine was served, nearly his full attention was on Miss Bolton in the hopes that she might burst forth with whatever it was that had her fidgeting in her seat and stabbing irritably at her pudding.

“Lud, I am at my wit’s end!” she cried at last, casting down her spoon and interrupting her brother’s recounting of a spill he had taken while hunting a year ago.

Halting at once in his story, Mr. Bolton blinked at her, being unaccustomed to such outcries from his normally staid sister. Percival and Mr. Everett were less surprised by it due to how Miss Bolton’s discomfited state had become obvious over the course of the dinner, and only Mr. Bolton had failed to take note of it.

“Why, Hermione,” said Mr. Bolton. “Whatever has put you in such a dudgeon?”

“It is Mr. Humphrey!” she exclaimed, and then sighed with dismal exasperation.

“Mr. Humphrey the rector?” Percival asked, very concerned that a member—no less, a leader!—within his parish should have put Miss Bolton so out of sorts. “Whatever has he done?”

“It is what he has
not
done which is the trouble,” Miss Bolton said. “Some days I think—or, dare to hope—that he intends to make me an offer. But the moment I have contrived any opportunity for him to do so, where we might converse privately for a minute, he is reduced to helpless blushing and loses any capability to even converse!”

Mr. Everett laughed, and then endeavoured to cover it with a cough. “Forgive me, Hermione. I do not mean to laugh. Surely the gentleman has some reason for his nerves.”

“He may be intimidated,” Mr. Bolton suggested teasingly, “or even terrified! You cannot deny that you are possessed of a headstrong nature, Hermione.”

“Nor do I deny it,” she said. “It does not seem to dissuade him when we are in the company of others. He has been entirely attentive—”

“Are we to understand, Hermione,” Mr. Everett asked, “that you do live in hope of such an offer?”

Miss Bolton coloured and lifted her chin. “I certainly would have no objection to it! Mr. Humphrey is a
very
honourable man, and I am so very interested in his work with the church and the school! Oh, Horatio! I want to
stay
.”

“Stay?” her brother repeated in surprise.

“Stay here. In Linston. For longer than just the summer. There is ever so much to be done, particularly with the school, and—oh, Mr. Valentine!
Pray
tell me that you have not yet engaged a teacher for the school?”

Taken aback by these outpourings, Percival stared at her in bafflement before he managed to reply. “A teacher? No—no, certainly. I did not even think of it while I was in London.”

“Mr. Valentine,” said Miss Bolton, clasping her hands in picturesque appeal. “Will you have me?”

“You?” Percival repeated, having a moment of panic that she was referring to his offer for courtship.

“As the teacher for the school. I assure you, I am very learned on all topics relevant to a schoolroom.”

“Why, Hermione!” Mr. Bolton said. “From whence has all this come?”

“You know perfectly well!” she huffed, and rounded upon him, half scolding and half pleading. In any other person it might have been pettish, but in Miss Bolton this display was a showing of intellectual and heartfelt passion. “How many years have I expressed
exhaustion
with the Society in London and the offers of marriage I’ve received from the small-minded, stuffed-up aristocrats each Season?”

All at once she deflated. The three men could only stare at her in the wake of that sudden hurricane of emotion.

“I would be glad to have you as the teacher for the school, Miss Bolton,” Percival said at last. “If you are very sure it is what you want. And I am sure that, once he hears that, Mr. Humphrey will not be long about making you an offer. It is most likely that he is intimidated by such a grand and beautiful lady who might certainly expect offers of marriage from Dukes!”

Miss Bolton shook her head and smiled to herself. “I do not think I want a duke, but it is kind of you to say so, Mr. Valentine. I think, just maybe, that I would instead prefer a rector.”

A
fter dinner
, the group of them retired to play at cards and chess. Miss Bolton had begun to express thoughts that she might hold another party, but had not yet resolved to begin preparations for it.

Mr. Bolton began, with very little subtlety, to make inquiries to Percival about Mr. Humphrey’s character. Percival expressed his opinion that Mr. Humphrey’s character—in all other matters but the absent marriage proposal—to be above reproach. These inquiries went on until Miss Bolton lost her temper and remarked to Mr. Bolton that she was a grown woman who might perfectly competently choose her own husband, and if he were to make an offer it would be no business but her own.

This kept the siblings in high temper for the evening, and they both resolved to retire early in hopes that the morning would find them in better moods.

Left to their own devices in the drawing room, Mr. Everett and Percival took up a game of chess.

“You do approve of the match, Mr. Valentine?” asked Mr. Everett.

Startled, Percival blinked at him. “What?”

“Miss Bolton and Mr. Humphrey.”

“Oh! Yes. I do. I mean, she is
very
grand, and he is only a country rector, but if Mr. Humphrey is where she has chosen to lay her affections, I think she cannot possibly fare ill by it!”

“Are you not jealous?”

“Jealous?” Percival asked, briefly puzzled by the query until he remembered the source of it, regarding what Percival now thought of as his ill-conceived plan of courting Miss Bolton. “Oh! No, certainly not. I am not—I do not think Miss Bolton and I would be suited. I am certain that I much prefer her as a friend.”

“And what of me?” Mr. Everett asked, very softly.

“You?” Percival repeated. “I suppose—oh, I don’t know, I think you and Miss Bolton make for very dear friends but I am not sure that you would do well as a
match
.”

Mr. Everett started laughing. “I meant, rather, what of your feelings for me?”

Percival’s mouth fell open and stayed that way for several seconds.

Colouring deeply, he squeaked, shut his mouth, cleared his throat, and made an attempt at response in what came out at a breakneck rambling. “Oh! My—my feelings for you! Well, they are—they are—
very
warm, to be sure, I am ever so glad that we are friends, and—and I—of a certainty, Mr. Everett… I do find you to be
very
distracting, to be entirely honest, what with your—with your…
eyes
.”

Percival gestured helplessly, attempted to regroup, and found himself only continuing to babble. “You’re really—really—I mean, I do mean to say, that—you are ever so
handsome
, surely no one could fail to notice as much, I am sure, and I
do
think, that is I have
wanted
to say to you, that I—that I! I find you very distracting!”

He finished this speech with a grand huff of determination, and only in the stunned silence following it realised that his declaration could not in any way be taken to be a clear expression of feelings to anyone outside of himself, and might even be taken as an insult.

Indeed, Mr. Everett made no reply, and seemed to be struggling to make sense of what Percival had said.

“That is to say,” Percival resumed, “that it is not ill to be distracted by you, only that you are very likely to make a person fall out of his chair, and certainly no one
else
has ever so distracted me as to fall out of my chair and—and… Mr. Everett, I fear I am entirely lost in my own explanation. You are my friend. I am glad to have you as my friend, and most warmly so.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“I think,” Percival said, getting to his feet. “I think—I ought to return home. At least until I am better able to express myself. I hope… I hope you shall forgive me, Mr. Everett. It is late, and I think that all our tempers are on edge. It is the weather, I think! My mother always said, threat of a thunderstorm puts everyone on nettles! It will storm tonight, to be sure, and rain tomorrow, and after that everything will be sorted. So let me instead… I will hope to see you tomorrow. Will that do?”

“It will,” Mr. Everett said. He took Percival’s hand and lifted it to his lips, and then released it. “Tomorrow, then, Mr. Valentine.”

“Tomorrow,” Percival repeated, and took his leave.

A
ccording to Percival’s prediction
, it began to storm almost as soon as he had arrived home. It rained heavily through the night and continued the next morning in dismal sheets.

He had no formal invitation to the Grange that day, and would not be expected at any particular time. As much as he longed to see Mr. Everett, there was no immediate promise or emergency which would necessitate him arriving at the Grange muddy and wet—even if he were to take the carriage for the short trip through the village, the weather was dismal and it seemed unnecessary to risk his footman and coachman catching cold in addition to himself.

Seeing Mr. Everett again could wait. Sighing as he resolved himself to this sensible decision, Percival shut himself up in his study and balanced his accounts. It was slower going than usual, because of his near-constant distraction: no matter what he tried, his thoughts persisted in returning to Mr. Everett. Mr. Everett’s strong, appealing form; Mr. Everett’s warm, sweet kisses; Mr. Everett’s laughing eyes and clever wit.

At long last he settled the accounts to his satisfaction, but the rain would not let up and his restlessness was growing. He tried reading, to no avail, then paced along the corridors for an hour and fixed upon a leak in a lesser-used back hallway. That provided some distraction, since the butler and the footmen had to be called, and there was some debate as to the source of the leak and whether it was a flaw in the mortar or the roof.

Once the matter was settled and repairs were underway, it was still only early afternoon and Percival felt out of his canister with boredom.

He busied himself as best he could with the matters of the household, inquiring about stock and projects in the kitchens and cellars until his housekeeper and butler were both bristling with impatience and Percival got the strong idea that they would prefer if he would find some entertainment other than getting in their way and keeping them from their duties.

It had been years since he had so chafed against being kept indoors and his usual entertainments. For years he had been satisfied on rainy days with his books, his accounts, and the latest newspapers from London. Now all of those entertainments paled in contrast with a foolish yearning to see Mr. Everett.

Half a dozen times he resolved to brave the weather, but each time he fetched coat and hat and opened the door, the storm’s force seemed to redouble and he returned to his study in a fit of dejection.

Hardly touching his supper, he moped about in his study by the window and reminded himself of how silly he would look if he turned up at the Grange unexpected and covered in mud. What explanation could he give for doing so, when his only reasoning was that he was driven to distraction by a longing to see Mr. Everett?

Restless and miserable, he was alerted at last to a knocking at the front door, and sat up in shock as he wondered what emergency would bring a caller to his door after dark.

Quickly straightening his clothing, Percival got to his feet just as his butler appeared and informed him that Mr. Everett was here and awaiting him in the front parlour.

“Mr. Everett!” Percival exclaimed in shock, swiftly darting downstairs to the parlour.

Mr. Everett was indeed worse for wear from the weather. Percival crossed to him at once, worrying over Mr. Everett’s damp clothing. “Oh, Mr. Everett! I did not expect you to brave the weather for me.”

“I promised that I would see you today,” Mr. Everett said, smiling at Percival and giving little thought to his own soggy condition.

“You shall catch your death of cold, Mr. Everett, you’re quite soaked through,” Percival fussed. “I would have forgiven you your promise. Oh, dear. What shall we do? I cannot lend you anything of mine, you are broader than I am in the shoulders and it would never fit. Come upstairs, at least. There’s a fire lit in my study and we may set you by it.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Valentine,” Mr. Everett protested. He insisted that he should not catch his death, but did at least consent to be led upstairs to Percival’s study which was much cosier with the lit fire.

“Perhaps if we have your coat off,” Percival suggested. “We may lay it out to dry by the fire.”

Mr. Everett smiled as if amused. “We may indeed. Will you help me with it?”

Percival did, drawing the coat from Mr. Everett’s strong shoulders and laying it open across the back of the chair nearest to the fire. Mr. Everett removed his own waistcoat and hung it likewise, so that he was left in only his damp shirt, which clung intimately to his broad chest, and the skin-fitted breeches that showed off the powerful muscle of his thighs.

“Mr. Valentine.”

Realising that he was staring, Percival snapped his attention up to Mr. Everett’s face. “Mr. Everett?”

Mr. Everett took a step closer to him, eyes intent but face otherwise unreadable. “Mr. Valentine, I… on the night of Miss Bolton’s card-party, when we were both somewhat in our cups, I seem to recall that we … kissed.”

Percival flushed. “I… yes. Yes, we did.”

“And it seemed to me,” Mr. Everett said, taking another step toward Percival, “that you did not make any particular objection to being kissed.”

“No,” Percival agreed, letting his hands settle onto Mr. Everett’s hips, for certainly he was very close and Percival did not think he could politely do anything else with his hands. “No objection.”

Mr. Everett lifted his hand and curled it around the back of Percival’s head, drawing him close and kissing him.

It was precisely what he wanted and needed. Percival didn’t hesitate in the slightest before returning the kiss, pressing his body against his friend and hugging his arms around Mr. Everett’s waist to keep him close.

The kiss did not last long, only a tentative exploration of each other’s lips before they broke away, hesitating an inch apart.

“Perhaps,” Percival suggested, “we might get you out of the rest of your wet clothing.”

Mr. Everett laughed, and kissed him again. This time the kiss was more heated, both of them clinging to each other as they surrendered to their pent-up need. Percival was breathless when it broke, and he gave Mr. Everett’s shirt a suggestive tug, drawing it from his waist band and letting his fingers roam boldly over the cool, wet skin beneath.

“I think,” Mr. Everett said, “it might be best if we retired to your bedchamber.”

“Yes.” Taking his hands away, Percival let go of him and blushed, surprised at himself for having been so bold with his hands. Taking Mr. Everett’s hand, Percival led him through the door that connected his study and his bedroom.

A fire had already been lit for them, warming the chill of the room. Percival drew Mr. Everett over near it and then untied Mr. Everett’s neckcloth. He laid it aside and slid his hands back under Mr. Everett’s shirt, drawing it up and over his head.

All of this Mr. Everett allowed with calm patience, and Percival blushed as he gazed upon Mr. Everett’s naked chest. Lifting his eyes with effort to Mr. Everett’s face, he found Mr. Everett watching him with a warm, affectionate smile which he could not help but return before tilting his head to take another kiss.

Mr. Everett returned his yearning and distraction, Percival was certain of it now. Their shared kisses were heated and eager, and soon Percival found Mr. Everett’s hands up his shirt and pulling it off and away, exposing his skin to the cool air of the room.

As Percival’s fingers pulled at the buttons of Mr. Everett’s breeches, he remembered that he had meant to speak to Mr. Everett of their kiss and on the nature of their mutual distraction, but conversation on the topic now seemed so insufficient to express his feelings, and certainly of far less priority than kissing Mr. Everett. He hesitated, meeting Mr. Everett’s blue eyes and wondering whether he might find words to clarify what he wanted, but then Mr. Everett kissed him again and it all slipped away from Percival’s mind.

They clasped possessively to each other, and Percival could feel Mr. Everett’s cool, damp skin starting to warm from the heat of the fire and their bodies.

Tugging at the laces of Mr. Everett’s smallclothes, Percival pushed him back into a chair and then knelt so that he could pull off Mr. Everett’s boots. Mr. Everett laughed with delight at Percival’s impatience, helping to shed his clothing and then herding Percival toward the bed as he stripped off Percival’s shoes, socks, and breeches, so that they were both naked as they reached the bed and tumbled onto it.

Percival’s lips parted, questions caught just behind his teeth about whether Mr. Everett had done this before and what exactly it was that they were doing, but the words didn’t come and instead he surged forward to pull Mr. Everett into another kiss. He felt starved for Mr. Everett’s lips and tongue, dizzied by how they moved against his own and then drew away to trail kisses down his throat and chest.

Mr. Everett’s tongue burned a path along his collarbone, leaving the skin tingling from heat and pleasure. Percival cried out and arched beneath him before pressing up to mimic the gesture. He tasted Mr. Everett’s skin with tongue and teeth, pushing his lover down on his back as he explored the broad expanse of his chest.

Each time Percival hesitated, uncertain as to his course from here, he had only to glance up at Mr. Everett’s blue eyes and nothing mattered but kissing him again. The same seemed to happen to Mr. Everett, pausing for a moment only to surge suddenly forward and kiss Percival with renewed heat. They tangled up in each other, skin to skin, and the heat of Mr. Everett’s prick pressed against Percival’s belly like a brand.

He couldn’t resist, couldn’t think of anything but pleasure, and let his hand snake down to clasp around Mr. Everett’s length. It was full and heavy in his hand, the skin silken and the blood beating beneath the skin. Percival stroked it slowly, the way he would stroke his own, and Mr. Everett’s hand mirrored him, clasping Percival’s prick as they lay together and exchanged heated kisses.

It felt strange, and overwhelmingly good. The prick in his hand was more curved than his own, and slightly thicker. Just as fascinating was Mr. Everett’s hand on his cock—the palm wider, the fingers not quite as long, the skin soft and uncallused. It felt far better than the company of his own hand when he lay alone in bed, and the kisses were exquisitely distracting. Percival kissed him again and again, laughing softly from sheer joy and pleasure in the kisses, and he spilled himself very suddenly into Mr. Everett’s warm hand.

Flushed with surprise, Percival stared at him. His hand paused for a moment on Mr. Everett’s length, watching wide-eyed as Mr. Everett lifted the hand to his lips and cleaned the droplets away with his tongue.

Unable to look away from Mr. Everett’s entrancing eyes and Mr. Everett’s soft lips, Percival resumed his stroking, listening to the way Mr. Everett’s breath hitched with pleasure. He couldn’t resist exploring and seeking out those reactions, finding out how Mr. Everett liked it best, and all at once Mr. Everett stifled a cry and came, spending himself over Percival’s palm and belly.

Percival laughed with delight and relaxed back into the covers, watching Mr. Everett as he mimicked his lover and cleaned his hand with his mouth. Mr. Everett watched him intently as he did so, drawing a fingertip through the glistening droplets on Percival’s belly until Percival caught his hand as well, leading it to his lips and hollowing his cheeks to suck the liquid away.

Mr. Everett kissed him for that, fierce and passionate. Percival hugged tight to him, not caring in the least about the stickiness of his skin. Nothing mattered but Mr. Everett, and they exchanged kiss after kiss. Eventually, the heat of their kisses slowed, both of them sleepy and warm. Percival tugged up the blankets over them both as Mr. Everett entwined their legs, hugging his arms around Percival’s waist.

All tangled up with his lover, Percival closed his eyes and drifted peacefully off to sleep.