The First Bloom of Winter, page 11
“No,” Sebastian answered, not unkindly. “I’m to take you to Mr. Leslie’s quarters.” With that, he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, leaving Holden to follow as he would.
As he enjoyed his last breath of freedom, Holden allowed his fraught mind to wander down irrational paths. Maybe, just maybe, he could dash beyond Sebastian’s reach and gain the stairs before the butler could muster a pursuit. If the others were already in their beds, as the general quiet would suggest, there would be no one to stop him before he could reach the alley. Shoes or not, he had faith that terror would render him sufficiently fleet of foot. He could be miles away in an instant. And then….
And then he would be even worse off than he was now. Homeless, penniless, without even proper clothes on his back. Wasn’t it that very prospect that had thrown so many unfortunates into the tragic life he now faced? Even if he were able to land on his feet eventually, it would not be easy, especially not in as harsh and unforgiving a place as London. Without his father’s connections, he would face a hard time of it, make no mistake. Nor had he forgotten the debt he owed Leslie on his father’s behalf. Could he countenance saving himself to the detriment of his sire? No matter the bad blood that existed between them, he could never live with himself if he sentenced his parent to such an ignoble end. Holden suddenly remembered the pitiable woman he’d seen on the street near the end of his journey to The Garden. How readily he’d dismissed her misfortune, so certain was he that such a fate could never be his. Yet here he stood, preparing to earn his keep in that most ancient of ways.
Holden moved slowly toward the open door, his feet sharing his unwillingness to be led like a lamb to the slaughter. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall. The stillness unnerved him. He had grown used to the comings and goings of his fellow inmates, and the present quiet seemed unnatural in contrast. Sebastian hadn’t waited for him, apparently confident of his obedience. Instead the butler was already at the far end of the hall, standing before the last door on the left side of the corridor. He glanced back at Holden, who could sense his exasperation even though only a few of the sconces were lit, concealing his expression in the resulting shadows. Holden would have hurried, but his feet refused to move any faster than the pace of a snail. Eventually he reached the end of that tortuous road. The road on which his sins had set him. He kept his gaze on his feet, as much to avoid the butler’s impatient regard as to keep from tripping on the trailing edge of the kimono.
Sebastian had already opened the door to Leslie’s room, so all Holden had to do was step inside. Doing so took every speck of fortitude he possessed, yet he somehow accomplished it, crossing the threshold of no return of his own volition. An enticing scent wafted immediately toward his nose, though he didn’t seek out its source. His acute trepidation overwhelmed any curiosity he might have normally felt concerning his employer’s dwelling.
“Thank you, Sebastian. That will be all.”
“Very good, young sir.”
Holden’s head jerked up and he blinked at the sound of the unexpectedly familiar voice and found himself staring into the smiling blue eyes of the lad who stood immediately before him.
“Gardenia?” he breathed.
Gardenia grinned and lifted a hand to softly caress Holden’s cheek. “I told you, my dear Aster, you wouldn’t be alone. See? We all came to be with you.”
Holden blinked in astonishment as he finally glanced about the room. The fire danced merrily in the hearth, providing light and warmth to drive back the winter’s chill. The décor was the epitome of masculine taste. Cherry-paneled walls free of any treatment lined the room, and the floorboards beneath his feet were covered by a large rug of deep burgundy, which appeared nearly black in the firelight. The furnishings were simple with pieces similar to those in all of the bedrooms, though the pewter tea service resting atop the small table was more functional than decorative, lacking any of the whimsy of the sets in his or Gardenia’s rooms.
Leslie’s chamber sported no knickknacks or trinkets that might hint at the personality of its occupant, but there were flowers. Baskets and baskets of lotuses in every imaginable shade—pink mingled among blue, white intertwined with red, and purple arranged in solitary magnificence. They peered from pots set along the wall and spilled dramatically from planters dangling from the ceiling. Their delicious fragrance seeped into every crevasse of the room until Holden imagined he was truly in a garden of incomparable beauty.
And, as his friend had revealed, the lotuses were not the only flowers on display. Hibiscus, Peony, Amaryllis, and, of course, Gardenia, were all there, their loveliness competing not unfavorably with their botanical cousins. Each of the boys was dressed in his entertainment finery. Holden finally understood Leslie’s confidence that his charade would never be unmasked. What man in his right mind would ever risk being denied the chance to taste such delectable morsels as these? Holden allowed himself to appreciate the view, briefly forgetting he was destined to be on the menu forthwith.
“We thought maybe you’d gotten lost,” Hibiscus intoned, his husky voice matching the expectant atmosphere. He was a vision in deep crimson, his attire harking back to the land of his birth. The top fell only to his breastbone, leaving his midriff bare, and was embroidered with intricate motifs in shimmering black thread the exact color of his hair. The bottoms, starting low on his hips, were similarly decorated, but immediately past the tops of his thighs, the opaque silk was supplanted by gauzy muslin in the same dramatic shade of red, which flared before gathering tightly at his ankles. He stood at the foot of the large bed that dominated the space and proclaimed the room’s purpose. His hips were propped against the wooden frame, and his hands lightly grasped the closest of the four posters. He returned Holden’s stare boldly, his full lips curved in a mysterious smile.
To Hibiscus’s right, Peony sat primly at the edge of the mattress, his legs hidden by the fall of his gown, exposing only his pale feet. His toes wiggled in what might have been nervousness or anticipation, Holden couldn’t be sure. He smiled with his characteristic shyness, though his expression held an unmistakable note of friendly encouragement. His outfit was more prosaic than Hibiscus’s merely in the sense that it covered him to a greater extent, but it was beautiful nonetheless. The pink rose-colored silk was fashioned into a kimono similar in style to the one Holden wore. The light blue sash holding it closed revealed a delicate scene of butterflies flitting among the flowers with which Peony shared his name. The same flower was tucked into the soft, strawberry blond curls piled atop his head.
“We’re glad you’re here,” he whispered softly, the words nearly lost in the pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth.
“As though we have nothing better to do than baby a useless novitiate.”
Holden located the speaker sitting against the pile of pillows at the head of the bed with his legs tucked beneath him in a misleadingly demure pose. But though his tone was as acid as usual, Holden could find nothing else about Amaryllis objectionable. His gown of emerald green silk contrasted brilliantly with his long, auburn tresses, so the shining locks seemed to burn with an inner flame. Holden thought the style of Amaryllis’s outfit simple in comparison to his own, but it imminently suited its wearer. The high neck was edged with black lace, a motif echoed at the ends of the short sleeves that left his arms mostly bare. Black fastenings of an abstract design ran diagonally from the neckline, down across his chest, until ending at the underside of his right arm. The gown had no other decoration, but Amaryllis’s flashing violet eyes decried the need for further enhancement.
Holden caught the mild rebuke on Peony’s face as he turned to look at the lad sitting behind him. “Amaryllis, you promised to behave.”
Though Holden appreciated Peony’s attempt to soften Amaryllis’s protest, the redhead’s undisguised contempt raised a valid point and prompted him to voice his confusion.
“But I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you here truly? Surely I am not so important as to warrant such an intervention.”
“They came because I asked them to.”
Holden whirled around to face the speaker, his jaw dropping in astonishment. He had sensed the presence of the figure standing beside the fireplace from the moment he’d entered the room, but his assumption about the figure’s identity had urged him to bury his awareness in the deepest regions of his mind. Now he stared in utter disbelief at the tall man who gazed at him with warm eyes that had haunted his subconscious for days on end.
“I thought it might help you to have your friends around you—”
“R-Richard?” Holden spluttered, interrupting the added response to his query. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
Richard’s smile was serene, but he moved his shoulders in a manner that betrayed the nerves underlying his outward composure. He was dressed in what was undoubtedly his best suit, the brown wool of his jacket and trousers too warm for the heated indoors, but displaying the results of a vigorous brushing. Beneath the jacket, a matching waistcoat peeked through, as did the shirt of bleached white over which it lay. His black shoes had been polished to a high shine, and his hair, which was bare of any covering, likewise gleamed in the firelight.
Richard was even more striking in his fine clothes, though Holden would have thought it impossible. His heart beat faster within his chest at the sight, his excitement rising dangerously close to the surface and threatening to betray his budding regard for his minder. Holden freely admitted, though only to himself, that as handsome as he’d been, not even the nearly forgotten Tommy Innisbrooke had ever stirred him to such a fervent degree.
“You look lovely, Aster,” Richard commented. His deep voice was pitched low, as though to give their exchange the semblance of privacy. “Say what you will, but Amaryllis is a clever hand with a needle and thread.” He regarded Holden with a hooded gaze, his examination of Holden’s appearance thorough and seemingly missing not a single mortifying detail.
Holden pushed aside his embarrassment at being seen like this by Richard of all people and repeated his demand. “Why are you here? I thought—” He swallowed and took a deep, girding breath. “—I thought it was Mr. Leslie who would be, er, seeing to my… situation,” he finished on a mumble.
“Hmmm. Well, yes. That was his intention. But, you see, I heard you.”
Holden blinked at the confusing jumble of words. “Beg pardon? What did you hear?”
Abandoning his air of tranquility, Richard glanced away, looking rather uncomfortable. “Earlier today, after our meeting when you went to the kitchen for tea. I followed shortly thereafter to go to my room. The stairs down to the servants’ quarters are located nearby, as you might suppose. Anyway,” he continued when Holden responded only with a look of even deeper confusion, “I heard what you asked Gardenia and Peony, and I heard how you reacted when they told you what was expected of you.”
Holden blanched, his humiliation reaching its zenith in that very moment. No matter that Richard was destined to see him undone on many occasions in the future, the thought of him bearing witness to the hysterics he’d exhibited that afternoon was too much to bear. “Oh, um, well, I—”
“I do understand,” Richard interjected, saving Holden the effort of having to form a coherent response to learning of his utter loss of dignity.
“U-understand what?” Holden asked tremulously.
Richard’s expression radiated sympathy as he gazed down at Holden’s bare feet. “Your feelings toward Mr. Leslie. I may not share them, but I do not begrudge you for them. After all, the manners of our association with him are vastly different. I can see why you appear to hate him so vehemently.” He looked back up to meet Holden’s rapt gaze. “And so, I went directly to Mr. Leslie and asked that he allow me to be the one to… tend to your initiation.”
Holden was stunned. “What? Why on earth would you do that?” The question filled his thoughts, driving out any other. Why, indeed, would Richard, who had known him only a few days, undertake such a momentous charge on his behalf?
“That day in his office when Mr. Leslie mentioned your deflowering, I could tell how greatly the notion distressed you. If I’m to be responsible for your safety, then I figured I should strive to ensure every aspect of your well-being. Besides, I thought this might make you feel less strange about me watching you while you’re, um, entertaining guests.”
He couldn’t have possibly guessed more wrongly on that score, Holden mused. Knowing Richard was observing him out of view was one thing, but having him as an active participant was something else altogether. Still, Holden couldn’t help tittering at Richard’s use of the word “deflowering.” The term might be in common usage, but something about such a rough personage applying the delicately missish expression struck him as humorous. As if I were some virginal bride on her wedding night. His amusement served to calm him even as the imagery concurrently rendered him even more nervous. And, he had to admit, more than a little envious of whoever would someday win Richard’s heart. For a brief moment, Holden’s imagination entertained the whimsical impossibility that he was indeed a bride—anxious and keen in equal measure—while Richard was his dashing groom.
“Also,” Richard continued, unaware of the role into which Holden had secretly cast him, “I have some idea how it must feel having to be with someone against your will. My sister… well, let’s just say I don’t take kindly to such things.” Richard’s gaze was fervent as Holden stared at him, his lips parted on a startled gasp. He reached out and took Holden’s hands in his own. “I hope you find me acceptable, but if you wish it, I will tell Leslie that I’ve taken care of your problem even if we do nothing. This lot won’t expose the truth,” he added, tossing a glare over Holden’s shoulder to promise retribution should any of the other lads go against him.
Until that moment, Holden had quite forgotten he and Richard weren’t alone. He turned to look at the motley assembly who had come to offer him support during his trial before glancing back at the man who had selflessly offered to go against the express wishes of his patron. Richard obviously held Leslie in high regard, and Holden was staggered by the knowledge that he was willing to frustrate Leslie’s intentions merely to assuage the revulsion Holden had expressed for what he’d expected to endure that night.
For a moment, he considered accepting Richard’s proposal for a deceitful escape, but he abandoned the notion in the next breath. He would have to endure this trial eventually, whether with some unknown patron or, perhaps worse, with Leslie. Better to face it surrounded by comrades in arms who appreciated his fears. And it would surely be a far more pleasant experience with Richard, for whom he couldn’t deny a profound attraction and, whom on a closer acquaintance, he found rather sweet, if a bit gruff in manners.
“I thank you, dear sir, from the bottom of my heart.” Now the decision had been made, Holden felt almost relieved though he still fair shook with nerves. “I am humbled by your selfless willingness to ease my ordeal.”
Richard’s face briefly darkened with visible regret before clearing in the next instant. He regarded Holden with a resigned smile. “I understand. It’s best we tarry here for a while. Mr. Leslie likely won’t believe our ruse if we depart too quickly.”
Holden shook his head. Reversing their grips, he took hold of Richard’s hands and tugged. Though his brow wrinkled in confusion, Richard obliged and bent lower only to freeze when Holden pressed a soft kiss against his lips.
“You mistake me, sir,” Holden whispered after moving back just enough to permit a sliver of space between them. He stared up at Richard for a long moment, a smile spreading across his face when Richard’s expression finally cleared with comprehension. Holden’s regard turned to fascination when a hint of color surfaced from beneath the obstruction of Richard’s ruddy complexion. His heart fluttered when he received a smile in return that was part shy, part rakish, and utterly captivating.
“Now that’s settled,” Gardenia chirped from behind them, “it’s time you stopped ignoring us. Richard promised we could play with you first.”
“Gardenia,” Richard breathed in fond exasperation. He dropped Holden’s hands, much to Holden’s regret, as he turned toward Gardenia. “I did no such thing.”
“No, I distinctly remember it. ‘Gardenia,’ you said”—he lowered his voice in a ridiculous imitation of Richard’s deep baritone—“‘you lads may tease him until he is a trembling leaf on Aphrodite’s succulent vine—’”
“Gardenia,” Peony said over the sound of Richard’s bark of laughter, “that doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
Holden felt his lingering tenseness begin to melt away at his friend’s unapologetic absurdity. It might be blasphemy, but he voiced a silent prayer of thanks for Gardenia. He could almost forget the state he’d been in as he’d walked down the hall to this room, certain he was condemned to spend the night experiencing his worst nightmares come to life. Instead he had to struggle to repress the giggle that threatened to escape his lips, the sound genuine even though he couldn’t quite hide the quaver in his voice.
“It does too,” Gardenia protested. He grabbed Holden’s hands, the soothing caress of his thumbs over their backs his only acknowledgment of Holden’s persistent apprehension. “I’ve been reading, and I know that the Goddess of Love and the God of the Vine are bosom pals.”
“You mean Dionysus?” Hibiscus asked, ignoring the obvious fact that Gardenia’s skills were not yet equal to enjoying classic literature.
“Indeed,” Gardenia replied with a confident nod, his gaze never straying from Holden’s. “They help each other, you see. Dionysus plies young virgins with his potent brew until they are prepared for the many blessings of the radiant goddess. Tonight, Aster is our lovely innocent. But since we neglected to provide any bivvy to get our beauty right buffy”—Gardenia’s grin swiftly altered in character from silly to sultry—“we’ll need to employ some other means by which to intoxicate him.”
