Page 12 of The Labours of Lord Perry Cavendish

Perry stared down at the paper. He’d only written, “Dear Mama, I do hope this letter finds you well. Can you beleive—” And he felt sure there was a spelling mistake in there somewhere.

“You’re going to have to go slower,” he said.

“Sorry?” Jonny said, turning towards him.

“You need to go slower,” Perry repeated, his face heating with mortification. “I’m not one of those clever fellows like you who can write quickly.” He forced a chuckle. “I was a bit of a dunce at school.”

For a moment, Jonny looked almost comically dismayed—so much so, that despite his own mortification, Perry might have laughed, had Jonny’s eyes not filled with tears—realtears.

Thankfully, Jonny didn’t actually cry, though he had to make a visible effort not to do so, blinking quickly and swallowing.

“Is that what they told you?” he whispered at last. “At school?”

Perry stared at him, reluctantly fascinated by this emotional display. “Of course,” he said. “Not that they needed to. It was bloody obvious. I still can’t spell at five-and-twenty.” He tried to laugh that off, but his laughter sounded hollow, and somehow, he felt sure that Jonny could see right through him. Past the laughter and the self-deprecation to the deep shame that lay beneath.

The sympathy in Jonny’s green gaze was suddenly unbearable.

Perry stood so suddenly, the spindly little chair almost toppled over behind him. “I think I’ll finish my letter another time,” he muttered as he steadied it. “Will you excuse me?”

He wanted to bolt, but Jonny got to his feet too and stood in front of Perry, blocking his escape. His expression was contrite. “I’m so sorry,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him. “It was horribly rude of me to interrupt your letter-writing in the first place, and now I’ve made you self-conscious. If you want to write in peace, I’ll leave you alone.”

“It’s all right,” Perry said, desperate to just leave now. “I’ll write it later when I’m more in the mood.”

“What are you going to do instead?” Jonny asked.

Perry cleared his throat. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll go for a ride.”

“Would you like to…” Jonny trailed off, not completing the thought. The tip of his tongue poked out, wetting his lips nervously, and Perry’s cock jerked inside his drawers.

“What?” he said hoarsely.

“Would you like to come with me to have a look at my new studio? I’ve not been yet.”

Perry dragged his gaze up from Jonny’s mouth. “Studio?”Christ, he sounded dazed. “You mean where you’re going to paint?”

“Yes. Only if you’d like, of course.” He shrugged, diffident now, and damn but he was comely with that shy expression on his face.

The sudden stab ofwantin Perry’s chest should have warned him off, then and there. But it didn’t. The last few minutes might have been excruciating, but the truth was, hedidwant more of Jonny Mainwairing’s company. He wanted to gaze at the man and fill his mind with pictures of him he could revisit later. Every movement of that slim, lithe body. Every word he uttered and expression he wore. And yes, more of those rare moments when he caught an answering gleam of admiration in Jonny’s eyes.

“All right,” Perry said. “If showing me your studio won’t be too boring for you, I’d be glad to join you.”

Jonny’s answering smile was bright. “Come on, then. Lysander said the Shepherd's Hut’s in the wild garden. Do you know where that is?”

“I do,” Perry confirmed.

“Good, because I haven’t a clue,” Jonny said, grinning. “Lead the way, my dear.”

4

Jonny

The Shepherd's Hut had clearly never been used as an actual Shepherd's Hut.

It had been built at the top of a gentle slope in the wild garden, a convincing enough little folly with daubed walls, a thatched roof, and tiny windows on either side of a stout wooden door. From its outside appearance, Jonny had expected to walk into a pokey, gloomy interior, but it was much larger and lighter inside than he had imagined, thanks in part to two large, south-facing windows at the back of the cottage which let in a good deal of light.

Inside, the rough walls were painted white, and the furniture was sparse. The largest item—a rather unlikely and somewhat shabby chaise longue—had been shoved up against one wall. Beside it stood a full-length looking glass in a wooden frame. Against the opposite wall, there was a long, narrow table, a deep chest with two brass hasps, and four wooden chairs without arms. A large leather folio lay on the table, along with several sketchbooks and a box of materials Jonny had left behind on his last visit. Jonny strolled over to the table and opened the lid of the box, smiling at the array of pencils—each one sharpened, or blunted, to the precisely right degree—the parallel tray of brushes, and the neat rows of dry paint tablets: cadmium yellow, Prussian blue, viridian green.

Watercolour was Jonny’s preferred medium. He’d tried oils many times—Felix, his old mentor, had insisted that all serious artists should use oils—but Jonny did not love them, and he always came back to his watercolours. The medium suited his light, precise technique. Unlike some of his artist friends, Jonny knew exactly what he wanted to achieve by the time he began what would be the finished painting. He prepared meticulously for every work, undertaking dozens—scores even—of preliminary sketches and studies so that, as soon as he started the final work, he had every aspect of the composition firmly fixed in his mind.