Page 32 of Restored
He said aloud, “Henry. To what do I owe this pleasure.”
He groaned. His voice was thin and tense, and “Henry”? “Pleasure”? No!
He took a deep breath, then another.
“Your grace. How may I help you?”
Christ, no.
“Your grace. This is unexpected.”
Yes.
He took another breath, in and out, and said it again, his voice a little deeper this time.
“Your grace. Well, thisisunexpected.”
No, he sounded arch now. He went back to first version.
“Your grace. This is unexpected.”
Now he sounded defensive.
“Your grace—” He broke off, groaning.
Perhaps he should have told Tom to send Henry away.
Henry.
“Henry,” he said. “This is unexpected.”
The lump in his throat was unexpected.
He used to think that “Henry” was the dearest name in all the world. The most perfect two syllables created.
Strange, how one’s reaction to a mere word could change so fundamentally.
He turned away from the looking glass and strode to the door, trying to take big, even breaths, to consciously manage his own racing nerves.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Tom. “Come on,” he said. "You can announce me. It’ll be good practice.”
Tom grinned and straightened his coat. “Right-o!” he said, and started down the corridor at a clip, Kit following in his wake.
Kit’s heart thundered in his chest as he followed Tom, an odd mix of nerves and long-suppressed, slowly-building anger filling him. And something else too, mortifyingly. A touch of the old excitement he used to feel, on the nights he knew Henry was coming. He was honest enough to admit that, and had enough pride to hate himself for it.
When Tom reached the drawing room, he opened the door with sweeping formality, as if Kit was the duke in this tableau.
Just before he stepped inside, Kit wondered what Henry would make of this grand entrance. Perhaps he’d think Kit was putting on airs? That he’d got above himself over these last eighteen years?
Well, what if he did think that?
Fuck him.
Fuck Henry Asquith, Duke of Avesbury.
Kit lifted his chin and stepped inside.
10
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