Theron
Rain lashed the tall gothic windows and the wind howled in the chimneys. Theron was in the library, a half full decanter of brandy on the table next to him.
The fire hissed and spat. He stared into the flames, seeing nothing but the glint of a pair of hazel-green eyes.
The memory of Vale's hand in his was a brand on his skin. He could still feel it.
He'd spent the rest of the day barking orders at the staff, avoiding Julian and most of all, avoiding him.
The door clicked open.
He looked up and his breath caught. It was him. Peregrine Vale.
He stood in the doorway, a book held in one hand. His hair was a mess from the damp air. His shirt was open at the throat.
He looked like sin wrapped in tweed.
Theron groaned inwardly.
"Your Grace," Vale said, his voice quiet, respectful. "I apologize. I did not mean to disturb you."
He turned to leave. Theron did not want him to.
"Stay!" He commanded, rougher than he intended. "Please. Don't leave on my account."
Vale hesitated for a moment, his gaze uncertain, before giving a slight nod and entering the room. "If you are certain, Your Grace."
He took the seat opposite Theron. The air between them crackled, charged with the memory of their hands touching, with the weight of everything Theron wanted and could never have.
They sat in silence for a long time, the only sounds the storm and the fire.
Theron drank, the brandy a welcome fire in his throat, burning away the edges of his control.
"In Scythia," he heard himself say, his voice a low rasp. "The cold was the worst part. Before the fighting. Just… the waiting. We would sit in the trenches for days, in the frozen mud. You forget what it feels like to be warm. You forget everything but the cold."
He stopped. What the hell are you doing? He never talked about the war. Never.
He expected a pitying response.
But Vale said nothing. He just turned his head and looked at him. Really looked at him. There was no pity in his eyes, no judgement.
He felt as if Vale's gaze was peeling back the layers and staring directly at his soul. It was both terrifying and addictive.
It was more intimate than a kiss.
He had to look away. He stared back into the fire, his heart hammering.
His eyes drifted to Vale. To his mouth.
He wanted to cross the space between them in two strides, grab the front of his shirt, slam him up against the bookshelves and crush that beautiful mouth with his.
The violence of the thought brought a wave of self-loathing.
He gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white, his entire body rigid with the effort of not moving, of not lunging across the space between them and taking what he wanted.
It would mean the utter and complete destruction of his world.
The great Duke of Blackwood, the hero of the Scythian campaign, was brought to his knees by a tutor's quiet gaze and soft lips.
* * *
Finn
The second the library door clicked shut behind him, Finn felt a desperate need to be clean.
He didn't walk from the library. He fled.
Theron Ashworth had tried to build a bridge between their souls and Finn wanted to douse that bridge in petrol and set it ablaze.
He strode down the dark, empty corridor, his hands fisted at his sides, fighting the urge to punch a wall.
He didn't go to his room. He went to the small washroom at the end of the servants' hall. He pumped the handle of the cistern frantically, plunging his hands into the cold water. He splashed it on his face trying to wash away the feeling of the Duke's hungry eyes on his skin.
He had played his part perfectly.
The gentle, sympathetic listener. The beautiful, understanding soul.
And it had worked. Too well.
You forget what it feels like to be warm.
Finn let out a harsh laugh. My brother fuckin' died in that mud, you bastard. You think you know cold?
He leaned his hands on the basin, hanging his head, water dripping from his hair onto the floor.
He hated this. He hated being Peregrine Vale. But most of all, he hated the man who was making him do it.
He found Elsie in the dark passage behind the scullery, polishing a silver tray.
"He's crackin'," Finn said without preamble. He leaned against the wall.
Elsie didn't look up from her work. "I heard him come back to his study. Sounded like he was tryin' to kick the door off its hinges."
"He told me about the war."
That made her stop. She looked up. "What'd he say?"
"A load of self-pityin' shite. 'Oh, the waiting was so cold'," Finn mocked in a drawl. "Like he was the only one there. Like my brother and yours weren't lyin' in the same frozen piss with their guts churnin' with fear."
He thought of the lie he'd told on their walk. The noble, impoverished scholar, honoring his dead father. The Duke had eaten it up, looking sympathetic and protective.
His mind flashed back to his real father.
The inheritance his da left him wasn't a library. It was the memory of a fist and the reek of cheap gin. Finn could still feel the phantom ache of a split lip from when he'd been caught reading a stolen book.
"Got notions, have we?" his da had slurred, throwing the book into the fire. "Readin' won't fill your belly, lad. Best learn to use your fists."
Daniel had been the one who took the fists. He would always shield Finn from the worst of it. Daniel had been the one who believed in things like honor and Queen and country. He had believed in heroes.
And the Duke of Blackwood, the man who had sent Daniel to his grave, thought he understood loss? He thought his cold, empty manor was a hardship? The man had never known a moment of real suffering in his life.
Later, back in his room, he pulled Daniel's last letter from its hiding place. He unfolded it carefully.
…He's a hard man, aye, but the lads all say he's fair. He looks right through you, like he can see what you're made of…
Finn's hand clenched, crumpling the letter. See what you're made of? He saw a pawn. He saw a poor, hopeful bastard who was stupid enough to believe in men like him.
He smoothed the letter out again, his gaze falling on the last lines.
Don't you worry about me. I'll make you proud. I'll make us all proud.
A single tear slid down Finn's cheek. He wiped it away angrily.