Page 53 of The Labours of Lord Perry Cavendish
Perry smiled. “I didn’t mind you being silent when you were drawing and painting me—not that you have to only paintme, I just mean I don’t mind you being busy with that. I can entertain myself very well, you know. I don’t need to be kept constantly amused. What else should I worry about?”
Jonny stared at him, nonplussed. “I’m… fussy. Difficult.”
“Erm… no,” Perry said decisively. “No, you’re not.” He shook his head, as though to emphasise the point.
“Yes, I am, I—”
“No,” Perry said again, his smile widening. “You’re really not.”
“No?” Jonny repeated, almost annoyed by the blatant contradiction. “Perry, you’ve not seen me in full flow. When I’m being difficult, I fuss about everything—you’ve no idea how—”
Perry laughed. “Jonny, when it comes to fussiness, you’re a rankamateur.”
“Awhat?”
“An amateur.” Perry chuckled. “If that. One day—if you are very unfortunate—you may meet my mother. When that happens, we can discuss this again. Until then, take it from me. You have nothing to worry about.”
Jonny blinked.
Perry said, “My mother refuses to travel in any carriage that proceeds at a speed above four miles per hour, or to get in a bath unless the water meets the exact required temperature, or to eat anything orange-coloured. When she stays in other people’s homes, she insists on changing all the bed linens to ones that she has taken with her. She refuses to hire any female servants taller than she is, and she is only five foot one.” He smiled. “These are only a few of the things she insists upon every day.”
“Well,” Jonny said wonderingly, “That does explain a great deal. Your patience for one thing.”
Perry quirked a smile. “I inherited that from my father, thankfully.”
Jonny stared at him, then gave an astonished bark of laughter. “Your poor Papa’s misfortune is my gain,” he said. “I seem to have found myself the only man in London who might possibly consider me easy to please!”
“From what I can see, you’re not so very difficult to please,” Perry replied. “My mother pitches full-blown fits when she’s not happy. You just get a bit distracted when you’re painting—which, given you’re an artist, is understandable. I suppose you also talk a lot when you’re nervous—but I find that endearing—and you become anxious when you face your fears.” Perry lifted a hand and stroked Jonny’s cheek. “Which I am only too happy to help you overcome.”
Jonny’s throat was suddenly thick with tears, and his vision blurred as he stared up at Perry’s dear face.
“Oh, Perry,” he whispered.
Perry stepped closer, curling one arm about Jonny’s waist and pulling their bodies flush together.
“And you’re very easy to please in certain respects,” he murmured, grazing his lips over Jonny’s. “If I remember rightly.”
Jonny made a noise that he was distantly aware was probably one he should be embarrassed about. Part shuddering breath, part whimper. But he was too caught up in Perry’s adoring gaze to worry about it, or even to articulate some kind of answer. Instead, he lifted his chin a fraction higher and caught Perry’s lips with his own.
And ah, but everything was right with that kiss.
Perry pulled him in tighter, giving a contented rumble that made Jonny smile into the kiss and press closer, winding his arms about Perry’s neck.
“Do you want to try out my bed?” Perry murmured against his lips, and Jonny nodded eagerly, yelping when Perry lifted him bodily, strode over to the four-poster, and unceremoniously dropped him in the middle of it.
“That’s where you belong from now on,” he said firmly. “With me. Forever.”
Jonny grinned up at him, suddenly very happy—and very hopeful. “Yes,” he said blinking away tears. “With you. Forever. Now come here and dounspeakablethings to me, Lord Peregrine Cavendish.”
And Perry did.
Epilogue
Florence
17th March, 1825
Dearest Adam,