“Thank you.”
The boy was such a chatterbox Lyndon assumed he’d say more, but nothing else was forthcoming.At least it appeared he’d taken Lyndon’s first-ever attempt at an apology in the spirit with which he offered it.But damned if Lyndon didn’t need to be certain.
“You may wish to dine with me tonight.In the…um…dining room.”He winced; a corpse would have sounded less stiff.“Jugged hare,” he added.“Followed by jam and custard.”
Duchamps-Avery seemed to consider.Lyndon half hoped his suggestion would be turned down.
“I thank you for the kind offer, my lord.But if I may, I think I will dine alone.Perhaps I have much soul-searching of my own to accomplish.”
Chapter Twelve
FOR THE NEXTcouple of days, Duchamps-Avery stewed in his own company.Lyndon told himself he was glad; the air had been cleared, and they could avoid any further awkward conversations.He also reassured himself he was glad not to have anyone barging into the study or the drawing room and cutting up his peace.Berridge had been informed by Greaves who had been assured by Cook and Lucy that his young guest had not again strayed close to the lake.
At this time of year, the morning light impregnated everything it touched with a white cleanness, as if yesterday, the land, a bloated and grubby drunkard, had today, rinsed sober.As Lyndon climbed the narrow back stairs to the old nursery and set about preparing his easel in front of the biggest window, his whimsical musings stayed with him.
By far the brightest room in the house, daylight poured through both the north and south aspects of it, elbowing its way into every corner.More capricious cogitations.Lyndon permitted himself a smile of acknowledgement and took up his brushes.Finally, he had the time and space to think in a straight line again.
He lost himself for at least an hour before light, echoing footsteps along the corridor signalled imminent company.Lyndon deemed them too sure of themselves to belong to Lucy, bearing refreshments, and far too bouncy for Berridge.More the approaching tread of someone who had never learned where the telltale creaks hid.Or simply didn’t care.
Testiness at the interruption accounted for the fluttering in Lyndon’s belly, or so he told himself at any rate.For the abrupt dryness of his mouth too.Furthermore, he comforted himself with the knowledge that his sense of relief on noting Duchamps-Avery had lost some of his paleness had nothing to do withcaring, but everything to do with not being obliged to report his sickliness to the boy’s sharp-witted father.
Be that as it may, even when slightly wan, Duchamps-Avery still walked like a poem, a ridiculous, overly long, dramatic Byronic one, all unnecessary flounces and trills.
“Oh!I say.What a rather splendid room.And isn’t it peaceful up here?”
“It was,” said Lyndon sourly.“Waspeaceful.”
“Yes, well, I…”
For possibly the first time in his short, secure existence, Duchamps-Avery appeared unsure of himself.“I have been doing some soul-searching, my lord.I would like to apologise for behaving in a cretinous fashion down by the lake, for being indiscreet and careless up on the ridge with that chap, and…um…being a self-centred and self-pitying prick pretty much everywhere else.
“And I’d also like to say that, whatever you are, my lord, whatever you believe regarding men such as myself and Ralph Hart, it is none of my business.And that, in fact, though your behaviour on occasion has suggested the contrary, I accept that you are nothing at all like me and Mr Hart, and I should not have insinuated as such.Indeed, my very flesh burns with the shame of it.I must stress that your inclinations—again, though none of my business—are as far from mine and Mr Hart’s as it is possible to be.That, for absolute clarity, you harbour no desires to insert your member anywhere near the vicinity of another man’s arse, and that to even begin to compose your desires and my desires and Mr Hart’s desires in the same sentence, let alone paragraph, would be foolish, inappropriate, untimely, libellous, scandalous, and unworthy of a member of my dear papa’s esteemed, distinguished bloodline and household.”
He paused and sucked in a much-needed breath.“Or, indeed, a foolish, temporary, and unwelcome member of the Goule household.”
Lyndon’s shoulders shook.A laugh made its way up his chest.An insane, gurgle of one.It took him a moment to recognise the peculiar sensation, though it became impossible to suppress, almost as if the sunlight streaming through the window streamed through Lyndon too.Or perhaps that was the boy, laughing with him, albeit with a discombobulated expression on his pretty, pretty features.As if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the odd noise emanating from his taciturn host.
“Apology accepted,” Lyndon managed at last.“If indeed that was one.To be honest, Duchamps-Avery, I lost interest halfway through.”
The boy laughed again with delight and relief.“Damned shame, I spent hours honing that masterpiece.Even pinched a line from one of Willoughby’s ghastly odes for emphasis.‘My very flesh burns with the shame of it’,in case you were wondering.”
“Really?”Lyndon found himself smiling at the pup.“If you’d asked me to guess, I would have taken a wild stab in the dark at ‘insert your member anywhere near the vicinity of another man’s arse’.Romantic flummery at its most divine.”
“‘A wild stab in the dark indeed’.”The boy laughed again, free and pure.
At risk of joining in, Lyndon turned back to his easel.Duchamps-Avery was too distracting by half, especially when referring to Lyndon’s member, which, at that point in time, was quite swollen and didn’t need attention drawn to it.
“And I will take this opportunity,” Lyndon replied, his gaze once more inexplicably drawn to the boy, “to acknowledge, again, that I have been a less than generous host.”He nodded, signalling the end of the matter.“Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Duchamps-Avery performed that wrinkle of his brow, the one he likely imagined to be a frown but, to Lyndon’s eyes, simply made him even more edible.“Excuse you to do what?”
Lyndon groaned.Unless he tossed the canvas through the open window, he had nowhere to hide the large, square oil painting he’d begun that morning.
The pup bounded over.“Gadzooks!You’re an artist, Lord Lyndon.”
“Hardly.”
Duchamps-Avery peered a little closer, and the stupidly smooth, insipid skin between his stupidly brilliant blue eyes wrinkled a tiny bit more.Even more appetising.“It’s…ah…my goodness.”His eyes darted from the painting up to meet Lyndon’s.“I say.It’s very…you, isn’t it?”
