Duke of Camellias

TEN

How irresponsible, thought the Duke. It was an impossible dream—for Blair, and for him.

He wondered when exactly it was, when leaving the house made him so scared. His chest would tighten, his brow would sweat, and his hands would shake. He would ball up his hands, dig his fingernails into his palm, but despite the tension, the pain, he shook nevertheless.

Once, when he was at a market, buying something, he dropped his coins, and then, scrambling down, he tried to pick them up, but his fingers had no strength. He had felt his face flush before he simply stood up, the shillings forgotten, and walked away with clumsy steps, feeling the eyes of the world looking at him, taunting him.

It had started years ago, now that remembered. When his family, his parents and younger siblings, looked at him during dinner. Their eyes were always so awfully cold, so depreciating, so horrible!

November was ending, and December was coming. He woke up to the chilly air and Fleming's knock at his door. He stood up from his bed, shivering in his nightgown, and Flemings laid out his daywear and began to dress him.

Flemings was nearing his sixties, a quiet and considerate man who never pried into the duke's matter, but he was growing more feeble by the day. Soon, he'd have to look for a new valet, and head butler, but he didn't like the old ones. What was his name—Morgan, yes, had a haughty attitude, and Peter had a reputation for seeking out prostitutes in the back alley on his days off. Maybe one of the younger footman, Ethan, the one Blair mentioned, or even Douglas.

As much as he wanted to avoid it, he would have to face upcoming changes. He had to start leaving the house.

He went downstairs, and saw Blair sitting there. Some days had passed since he showed him his painting room and they made the wager. Emmanuel had been thinking about it for some time. He peered at Blair, who was obviously comfortable under his gaze.

"I thought of what you said last time," he started. Blair looked up, surprised.

"I've also thought over what I said last time, and—and I still won't take it back." A flush spread over his face, and the Duke almost reach out, but stopped himself in time. He thought he was so awfully innocent, so awfully kind.

He didn't deserve him.

"Suit yourself."

He seated himself down across him at the dining table, and Blair followed. The two ate breakfast in silence, then after they finished, the Duke spoke.

"Today we won't continue with the story."

"Why?" Blair frowned. "Is it because of me?"

"No." The Duke sipped at his tea, then stared at his reflection. He looked old, he thought to himself. His hair was shaggy, messy, and always falling before his face. He had a youthful face, but there was a solemnness, a tiredness, that showed. He bit his lips.

"Blair, would you want to go outside?"

"I don't understand," Blair responded. "If I want to, I will ask for your permission."

"No, it's not that." Emmanuel went over the dialogue before finally saying it. "How do you feel about going somewhere outside—together?"

Silence greeted him. He couldn't tear his eyes from the teacup. He waited, then suddenly started blabbering on by himself.

"We could go watch a play at the Royal Opera, or take a train to London and shop, or visit the Crystal Palace at Hyde Park, or the Albert and Victoria Museum." He took a deep breath. "So, what do you say?"

"What do I say?" Blair thought about the costs, and frowned. "But why?"

"Why? You can buy new shoes, your current ones are quite worn out."