Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER XVII

"Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are!" 

–Charles Dickens

The gilded face of the grandfather clock struck seven. It was a mere twenty-nine hours before his night with Louis.

Harry was beside himself with fright. When people spoke to him he jumped, when food was placed before him he had no appetite.

The Duke's blue eyes, like still waters, betrayed no emotion. He carried on as host to the members of Bilsdale, smoking, playing cards, laughing as though he wasn't about to change Harry's life and the very essence of his being forever and ever.

Harry was bitterly disappointed that they couldn't find any time alone together if for no other reason than to reassure him that Louis really did care for him.

But just as Harry doubted the Duke's affection and felt like all hope in the world was lost, Louis would place a hand on his knee beneath the table and every doubt in his mind was completely obliterated by lust.

Twenty-eight hours.

Louis, Oscar and Lord Beardsley were in the drawing room discussing the club's restructuring. Lord Graves was stepping down in the spring and they needed to appoint a new treasurer. It seemed as though Beardsley was making a play on behalf of Oscar who, fidgeting with his pipe, was not nearly as articulate.

On the divan there was no opportunity for them to touch and being in the same room as Louis with no way to touch him was misery, so Harry went to his room to sulk and count the hours alone.

Once in his bedchamber he heard a sharp knock at the door. His heart soared. Was it the Duke here to save him from his loneliness?

It was Frederick.

He extended his arm to Harry. "Walk with me."

They linked arms and wandered through the house's empty east wing. Harry couldn't resist touching the sleeve of Frederick's fine velvet jacket. It was violet, with silver stitching and gemstone buttons. No matter the occasion the Viscount always looked like the inside of a jewelry box. It made Harry self-conscious of his own black clothing and he wondered if it was finally time to come out of mourning.

They said nothing for a while. Frederick broke the silence. "So, you've kissed him."

"He told you!"

"No, you did."

Curses.

"More than a kiss?" he purred.

The Viscount was the last person on Earth Harry wanted to confide in, but Louis was busy playing host, Clarence thought Louis was a murderer, and Charles was convinced he was the devil incarnate. Harry was desperate to talk to someone so he turned to Frederick.

"Tomorrow night there will be more than a kiss. Much more."

Frederick grinned. "You've scheduled it? Will the Queen be in attendance?"

"It's an important occasion!" Harry said defensively.

They stood and examined an oil painting of The Battle of Thermopylae. The Spartans fought valiantly but were no match for the Persian forces. The Viscount's half-lidded gaze fell over the blood and blades with resignation.

He must have felt the tension in Harry's arm because he said, "Don't fret, Virgin. Louis will be gentle."

Harry blinked at the gashes on the soldiers' ivory flesh. "Will it hurt?"