Page 4 of Measure of a Man

Exeter scrubbed his gloved hand over his face, placed one placating hand on Virtue’s knee, then recoiled it again as if he’d been scalded. “The man talked of little else other than horses, prize fighters, and his admiration for you,” he eventually complained.

In Virtue’s mind, there was nothing inherently wrong with those subjects of conversation. “And that made him a bore? Well, you could have joined in on at least two of those topics.”

The tips of Exeter’s ears turned crimson. “Not all of us think it’s the pinnacle of manhood to watch a stranger have his face bashed in by a clodpole,” he sputtered.

“Well, I shan’t ask you to come watch me spar anymore now that I know you think it makes me a bore.”

“Ah!” Exeter tipped his brow sardonically. “Note that I said stranger. I’m perfectly capable of watching a friend have his face bashed in by a clodpole.”

Unable to help himself, Virtue laughed. A crescendo of applause startled him into looking towards the stage. The curtain had descended. Damn. They’d missed the ending.

Deciding that having an argument in public in front of society’s finest at the Theatre Royal with half of London gawking at their box was in fact not a good idea, he joined the crowd in their applause, then bumped his shoulder against Exeter’s in a show of conciliation and kept bumping him till Exeter rolled his eyes and bumped his arm back.

“Pinnacle of manhood,” he repeated in sotto voce.

They both snickered. Sometimes the best jokes were unfortunately the most juvenile. Exeter relaxed back against the seat, his indignation fading. Despite those in the surrounding boxes starting to move, neither man made any effort to leave.

Virtue studied his friend’s profile from out the side of his eyes. Exeter’s attention appeared hooked on the Douglases to the point he stared through them rather than at them.

After a while he spoke again, squinting down at him beneath the glare of the gas lamps, “But really, you misunderstood me. You’re probably quite handsome, if you like stocky, dark-haired gentlemen.”

Exeter gave him that small smile where only the left side of his lip quirked up, the one that did strange things to Virtue and made him want his friend to keep smiling at him. There was nothing like a dash of praise, especially from someone whose opinion mattered, even if mostly in jest to send him squirming.

“And your eyes do a lot of things for you. They’re very…” Exeter assessed his face so intently that Virtue’s heart began to race in a peculiar galloping manner from the scrutiny.

“…green.”

The gallop turned back into a slow trot.

“Stop taking the piss.”

“I’m not! I’d rather stare at your face than most others—if I were a woman, that is. I mean, just look at it.” Exeter caught Virtue’s chin in his large hand and tipped his face towards him, cooing at him as if he were a newborn instead of a grown man.

“People are looking, for goodness’ sake, man!” Virtue grunted, dipping his chin out of reach, but a laugh threatened to break through his hauteur.

“No, you’ll listen to me when I praise you. Forget about Helen of Troy being the face that launched a thousand ships. This one’s going to launch one thousand hideous yellow high perches on high society.”

Virtue affected displeasure. “I’m not sure I want to remain friends with you,” he grumped. “And didn’t you say earlier that only someone with a tiny cock would drive a yellow high perch? So, are you taking that statement back, then, my lord?”

“Oh no. I stand by that resolutely.” The shit grinned.

“Oh hush, now,” Virtue said. “I wager mine's bigger than yours.”

“Been looking?”

“Not much to see.” He dropped a dubious look at the fall of Exeter’s trousers to rile him up. “Didn’t old Toby le Stedman tell everyone that you were…” Virtue cocked his brow and silently held up his pinkie finger.

“Not true! And put your finger down, you nit! He only said that as I refused to put his name up for White’s and put yours up instead. Drunk as a rat’s arse and insufferable with it. That oaf Sir Vincent should never have vouched for him.” Exeter regarded him with suspicion from beneath his lowered brow. “Who told you about that?”

“Fun rumours stick around, my dear fellow.” He laughed. Exeter didn’t.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t think that he’d ever seen Exeter’s prick. Certainly, Exeter had never seen his. That seemed like a normal state of affairs for two gentlemen, didn’t it? No one could doubt that Exeter possessed a fine figure, but Exeter existed in only three states: morning wear and evening wear, and on the rarest of occasions when Virtue woke up early enough to be the one to drop by his friend’s lodgings, in an envy-inducing blue silk dressing gown.

Strangely enough, he had seen Toby le Stedman’s prick. The man thought nothing of urinating in the dark against a carriage wheel at the end of a ball. Perhaps Exeter did have a small prick? But that was hard to imagine. Exeter was so big all over. Under his gloves were large, thick-knuckled hands that would look brutish if it weren’t for the gold rings he wore, and the care that his valet took in buffing his nails. No, he’d wager there had to be something substantial in his trousers. You could tell from the way a man walked, the way silk breeches would shift and cling. If he pictured Exeter’s large hands and the corded muscles of his forearm stroking his prick, the slick crown glancing through his fist at a pace would be thick⁠—

Exeter nudged him sharply in the ribs. “I said, what’s that look for?”

Virtue assumed an air of exaggerated innocence.