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Harley’s heart rattled. What was Asher insinuating? He took a step back and swallowed. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what Asher was trying to ask him. Just because Harley felt comfortable with himself did not necessarily mean he was all for discussing such a personal issue out in the open, and definitely not with a stranger. Especially not with Asher van Dijk.
He spun around, but now Asher’s hand was on his bicep and holding him in place. The gentleman had a rogue grasp.
“It’s all right, I meant no offence.” Asher was close, so much so that Harley could smell the man’s perfume — rich in spices, with notes of frankincense, ginger and cinnamon. The aroma of sunset if there ever was one.
Harley was taken aback by how close Asher’s face was to his. “I don’t know what you mean, Mister van Dijk,” he said, baring his teeth as the muscles in his arms tensed against the man’s grip. “And, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less.”
An emotion flickered in Asher’s yellow pine eyes, but it had vanished before Harley could decipher whether it was hurt or resentment. Maybe it was both. Regardless, the gentleman’s grip thawed on his arm finger by finger and he took a step back. There was a burn broiling in Harley’s chest and he exhaled, unaware he had been holding breath in his lungs the entire time.
“One day,” Asher said, the casual friendliness sapped from his tone as he smoothed his hair over with the back of his left hand. “Someone will knock you cold for speaking to them the way you’ve spoken to me.”
“Will that someone be you, Mister van Dijk?” Harley provoked.
His mother’s light giggle rang out to them from where she stood with her society friends. She seemed completely unaware of the tension building between her son and the Dutch immigrant, even though Harley swore he could taste it in the air like electricity.
Asher’s jaw clenched and he curled his left hand. His eyes blazed, but his voice was as steady as a stream. “You’re hardly worth the exertion. Even attempting to befriend you has been an exercise in patience. I find you to be sour, Mister Devonshire. And judging by your friend’s reaction upon seeing you a few moments ago, I think it’s safe to say I’m not the only one who does.”
With that, Asher nodded once and stormed away, pausing to collect his cane and top hat from a young coat clerk. He didn’t look back as he placed his top hat on his head and marched into the afternoon sunlight.
Harley could feel an uncomfortable heat rise from the back of his neck to his cheeks. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that before. No one.
Unsure of his current situation and how to work through it, he returned to the illustration of a fynbos behind him and did his utmost to evaluate the artist’s technique.
Chapter Twelve
When Lightfoot entered the library of the Devonshire residence on the morning of the tenth, he stumbled upon Harley sitting with his mother on the cushioned windowsill perch. The two were reading in silence — Harley’s mother with The Argus newspaper in her hands and the young heir with a thick volume on his lap.
Missus Devonshire glanced his way as Lightfoot cleared his throat at the door. Vera had insisted on announcing his arrival, but Lightfoot declined. Considering how things developed between him and Harley, it was probably best if the heir didn’t have time to hide.
The library was cast in morning gold, blades of light from the window thrown over the carpet like enormous piano keys. The glow brought out the colours of the hundreds of tomes stacked next to one another on bookcases. With Missus Devonshire looking at him and Harley’s eyes shyly finding the floor, both their heads were illuminated by sunshine. It reminded Lightfoot of a High Renaissance art piece, one painted by Raphael.
“Mister van Dijk!” Missus Devonshire chortled. “Thank you for agreeing to our invitation for a luncheon.” She sounded happier to see him at that present moment than she had at the museum. She was clearly smitten — Lightfoot knew that she would have gladly offered him the opportunity to accompany her to the party on the fifteenth. But there would be no challenge in that, and Lightfoot had his eye on Missus Devonshire’s arrogant son, despite how Harley annoyed him so.
The invitation had come as Lightfoot fled the South African Museum two days prior. Missus Devonshire may have been middle-aged, but she had caught up to Lightfoot quite speedily on his way out of the building and asked him to a luncheon.
Harley met Lightfoot’s stare and nodded his head politely. He looked downright angelic. It infuriated Lightfoot how someone so irritating could be so beautiful. Though he regretted his outburst at the South African Museum, he was adamant to discover at least one redeemable quality in Harley before the assignment was complete.
“Mister van Dijk,” he said coolly. “This is a most sincere surprise indeed. We assumed one of the chambermaids would announce your arrival.”
Lightfoot shrugged, maintaining his icy composure. He wanted Harley to know he was put-off by him. The boy had to work for his attention now. It was a twisted game, but Lightfoot was taking pleasure from every single move he made.
Harley closed the large volume on his lap and rose to his feet. He placed the book on one of the nearest varnished desks and clasped his hands behind his back. “Mother, may I speak with Mister van Dijk in the conservatory? Privately, please.”
Lightfoot was frozen to the spot. He imagined what being alone with Harley would be like when it was on the young heir’s terms. It made his fingers twitch. In a good way.
“Absolutely,” Missus Devonshire said, a hint of displeasure in her voice.
Harley pursed his lips and looked to Lightfoot as though he was searching for approval.
“It could be interesting,” Lightfoot agreed. “I suppose.”
The two left the library and Missus Devonshire behind, not saying a word to one another as Harley led the way to the back garden.
The heir opened the conservatory door and ushered Lightfoot inside. The conservatory was small and burst with African flora to the extent that it gave Lightfoot the impression he was deep in the wilderness and not a garden in Rondebosch. Leaves and branches grew thick and knitted, hiding the two of them from any potential prying eyes. Lightfoot was enthused by the display, more so than he had been at the boring exhibition at the South African Museum. He didn’t know anything about plant life, so making up information for Missus Devonshire at the museum the other day had proven to be a wearisome task. She had seemed to believe him though.
“I wanted to apologise for how I’ve treated you, Mister van Dijk. I have been cruel, unnecessarily so.”
Lightfoot had to hide the satisfaction he felt hearing the heir apologise for his words and actions. It meant he was human after all and Lightfoot almost felt grateful for it. A man so beautiful cannot be cruel. It wasn’t fair on anyone. “That’s quite all right,” he said.
