Page 46 of The Labours of Lord Perry Cavendish

That memory filled Jonny with an urge—no, aneed—to paint.

He turned on his heel and strode towards the Shepherd's Hut. By the time he got there, he was practically vibrating out of his own skin. He wrenched off his coat and threw it over a chair, then yanked off his neckcloth, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and tore that off too, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and quickly sketched the basic outline of a reclined male nude, his big body loose and relaxed. Even as a mere outline, without a single feature, it was unmistakably Perry.

Perry in Jonny’s bed, replete and content.

He began to work, almost feverishly, getting out paints and brushes and setting up his work area. He used a cool purple wash to prepare the skin, then began edging in warmer tones, only to stop abruptly when his memory failed him. When he closed his eyes, he could see how Perry had looked that night, but no mental picture was ever as clear as what you saw before you in real life. It was the details you missed—the play of light and shadow on the body which depended on the source of illumination in the room and where it was located. The picture in his memory was too vague. It could not supply what he needed.

Frustrated, Jonny threw down his brush and strode to the table, where he began sheafing through the scores of studies he’d done of Perry, searching for something that would help him, but it was no good. The studies had all been done here, in this place, and in daylight, instead of at night in his bedchamber, with the soft gleam of the candlelight on Perry's skin.

Undeterred, Jonny went back to the painting and worked on, but the harder he tried, the more his memory seemed to elude him, and the more the figure on the page lost its early magic and became flat and static and not at all what he wanted.

NotPerry.

At last he groaned and tossed his paintbrush down, bowing his head and rubbing at his temples.

He needed Perry in front of him, in the flesh.

He needed Perry lying on his bed, waiting for him.

He just… needed Perry.

Perry was like an anchor, Jonny thought suddenly, or the steady left hand part in a piece of music, grounding the melody.

“You don’t need to feel alone or anxious.”

He remembered Perry’s earnest gaze of the night before as he spoke those words.

“You don’t need to be vigilant.”

Remembered too how struck he’d been by how precisely Perry had understood him. That he’d known without being told that Jonny found it exhausting to be always vigilant and careful.

“I’m good at taking care of people.”

Jonny closed his eyes, and for a moment, he let himself think about what it would be like to surrender to Perry’s willingness to take care of him. To lean on him, as Perry had invited him to do. To be himself—fully himself—and trust Perry to accept Jonny’s quirks.

Trust Perry not to grow tired of him.

It was a terrifying thought.

“I’m good at taking care of people.”

Hewasgood at that—Jonny was able to admit that much at least.

The question was, did Jonny dare to trust him?

15

Perry

Perry set down the letter from his mother that he’d been poring over for the last half hour.

His mother’s handwriting was tight and small, and it always took him an age to decipher her words, but he had the gist of this one finally. He hadn’t got round to responding to her last letter—which she clearly hadn’t been best pleased about—but that had not, it seemed, deterred her from taking steps to seek to secure his future. She had accepted an invitation to attend a small house party being hosted by Sir Peter Kirchin and now wanted Perry to drop everything to attend.

Sir Peter’s title was a very new one. It had been conferred upon his late father only a few years before the old man’s death. Along with the title, Sir Peter had inherited a large, unentailed fortune, and he had only one child to pass it to: his unmarried daughter, Penelope. Perry’s mother evidently saw the girl as a potential match for Perry, though Perry suspected that Miss Kirchin could probably do a bit better than the younger son of a not-too-plump-in-the-pocket marquess. After all, Kirchin was as rich as Croesus and could well afford to purchase an heir to a marquisate for his daughter, rather than settling for a younger son with a courtesy title.

Perry stared morosely at the letter. The party would be boring, and he’d probably end up spending the whole week avoiding being left alone with Miss Kirchin, who never smiled and constantly picked fault with those around her in the most tactless way imaginable. But it would, at least, give him an excuse to leave Edgeley Park early.