A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (17 page)

Inside Henry’s room, Martin asked, “Would you like to change, Sir? Or perhaps you need a shower after your exercise?”

A shower required being naked, which was problematic, but it
did
take up time, which Henry had far too much of. “A shower would be nice,” Henry told him.

Henry was able to be undressed with no undue difficulty and only a little blushing, careful to keep as covered as possible during the process. Martin was good about averting his gaze when necessary and Henry was grateful for his understanding though he could not of course say so without further embarrassment.

Alone in the shower, bathroom door shut with Martin on the other side, Henry could relax a little. He thought again of Martin undressing, how free and at ease Martin seemed with his beautiful body, and let himself think for a moment—just a moment—how it might feel to touch Martin’s skin at leisure. He remembered Martin pressing Henry’s palm to his flat belly at the auction hall and how shockingly warm and vital he’d felt, how thrilling.

He stood under the water with a hard cock and felt guilty for lusting after his slave. He wasn’t normal. He didn’t just want physical release, brute sensation. He wanted something mutual with another boy. He wanted love, or close to it. He brought his hand to his cock, not even looking at it, as if seeing what he was doing would make it more shameful. He thought of Martin’s violin-playing fingers, how they had felt wrapped around his prick, and let loose a little whimper that, hopefully, was subsumed into the sound of the water swirling down the drain. He imagined his own hand—the very one that was currently on his cock—touching Martin’s, and wondered how that would feel, how different it might be. He thought of kissing, something he longed to try, and he wanted so badly to step out of the shower, bang out of the bathroom, and force himself on Martin that he felt snarled and congested just standing still. He hit the shower wall softly with the side of his fist then leaned forward to rest his forehead on the tile. He jerked off joylessly, frustrated and unhappy, and it hurt a little when he came.

Martin brought him a towel, being careful not to look at his naked body in the doing, and Henry dried himself. Dressing went all right. He felt confident it was going to get easier, if these few days were anything to go by.

“You need a shower, too, right?” Martin probably did, after all, and it would take up more time.

“I’m sure I do, Sir. May I?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Martin bobbed his head and turned, heading into the bathroom.

Henry flopped down on his bed and let out all the air in his lungs with a whoosh. What was he going to do? He listened to the water run and stared at the ceiling. A few minutes later, the water stopped and he heard Martin leave the bath. He could hear the sounds of Martin dressing, sibilant sounds of fabric slipping over skin. He heard Martin’s footsteps on the carpet.

“Sir? Is there anything I might do for you?” Martin was back in his own clothes and hanging Henry’s in the wardrobe.

“You could practice your violin,” Henry suggested. “If you want to, I mean. I’d like to hear it.”

“I’d like that, Sir. That’s very kind of you.” He lingered at Henry’s bedside.

Henry turned to look at him and felt the familiar ache in his chest. Would he never get used to Martin’s face, Martin’s presence? “You can do it now,” he said. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“If you’re sure, Sir.”

“I’m sure.” Henry turned his head to stare at the ceiling again.

Martin retreated to his own room and Henry heard him work the latches on his violin case. A minute later, the first scratchy notes emitted from the short hall connecting their rooms. Martin began playing, a piece that was lilting yet also mournful. The music was achingly sweet to Henry’s ears, so resonant with his tender heart. The longer Martin played, the more Henry felt like he was drowning, pleasantly, in mouthfuls of honey and pure white light.

The music stopped abruptly, shaking Henry out of his reverie. He sat up blinking and swung his legs off the side of the bed. He stood up and walked the few steps so he might look down the short hall. Martin stood in his room in his shirtsleeves, the violin tucked beneath his chin, bow held ready. He saw Henry looking at him and lowered the violin.

“Sir? Is there something you need?”

“Can I watch you play?”

Martin looked flustered. “Oh! I—certainly, Sir. Of course you may.” He reached for his jacket but Henry stopped him.

“You don’t need to put that on,” Henry told him. “It’s just you and me, and you’re in your own room, after all.”

He crossed into Martin’s room and sat on the end of the bed. There was sheet music on the bedcover, more sheet music on the desk.

“Shouldn’t you have a stand?” Henry asked. “Something to hold your music?”

“Oh, Sir, your house has given me so much already…”

Henry scoffed at this. “You need a stand to play it properly, don’t you?”

“It would be helpful, Sir, I admit.”

“We’ll get one then,” Henry said firmly. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Very good, Sir.” Martin looked pleased. “Should I play now?”

“Do it just as if I wasn’t here,” Henry urged. “Just practice however you need to in order to improve. That’s what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin lifted the violin and began to play. Henry wondered if he was used to being watched as he performed, as he seemed quite unselfconscious. He actually rarely looked at the sheet music, but played in large part with his eyes closed, attentive to the notes. He frequently shifted his weight from one foot to the other in rhythm with the music, his upper body bending forward or arcing back subtly with the movements of the bow. Henry found him unbearably enchanting, and here, in the same room with the instrument, the resonant ache of the music in his chest was stronger still. He felt as though his entire being was throbbing with an ineffable longing, thought that Martin surely would see this when he opened his eyes, and was suffused with a sort of erotic dread.

Again, Martin stopped playing abruptly. “I keep making the same mistakes, Sir, so I need to play these sections over and over. It must be boring to listen to.”

If Martin had made mistakes, they had not been audible to Henry. “It’s not boring,” Henry assured him. “You play so well. I’ll have to have you play for my family.” He thought about it a moment, then added, “But I do like this being just mine for now.” He feared his parents would not appreciate it properly and would dull the luster of Martin’s playing with their indifference.

Martin smiled at him with fond understanding. “Might I suggest, Sir, that you could wait until I’ve sufficiently mastered this piece?” He frowned at the instrument in his hand and added, “Though that could take a very long time.”

Henry liked this solution. He wasn’t being selfish, he was simply waiting for the performer to be fully prepared. He had a thought: “Do you need lessons? To help you improve?”

Martin shook his head. “I’ve already had ten years of lessons at Ganymede, Sir. It’s an unnecessary expenditure, and it would take me away from you for hours at a time.”

This sounded ideal! “But it would help you get better, wouldn’t it?”

Martin looked a little exasperated. “Sir, in my position, it’s not necessary—”

“I’ll ask my father,” Henry decided. “He can afford it.”

Martin didn’t look happy, but he said only, “As you wish, Sir. Should I play or should I stop?”

“Play.”

Martin began the piece again. It was becoming a little familiar to Henry now, but its effect was in no way diminished by that familiarity.

Henry’s experience with music was limited. He would occasionally put a coin in a player piano, and he’d hummed catchy tunes after the theater, but his father had not expected him to learn an instrument. He did have a good sense of music and rhythm, though. He loved dancing, and he’d been good at it, but his dancing lessons had ended years before. As upper-class children reached puberty, their mixed classes stopped, and in order to continue he and his friends would have had to attend single-sex classes where the boys would take turns following and leading. Louis had objected to dancing with another free boy, so Henry had also refused to go. As always, Henry looked to the Briggs boys to understand how a normal boy should act.

This music Martin was playing, it was dance music of a sort, Henry thought. He could imagine people in powdered wigs and knee breeches bowing and scraping in a quadrille. But it was sad, too, or perhaps that was just the sound of the violin. It was like a sobbing human voice, but lovely, transporting, lyrical. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes; by the time he realized what he was doing, he’d already done it, so he let himself lie there in some confidence that Martin’s eyes were also closed in any case.

This was Martin’s bed. He shouldn’t be on it. It wasn’t something a gentleman should do, lie on his slave’s bed while the slave stood over him. With that thought, he had an image, sudden and shocking, come over him: Martin standing above him, naked and hard, while he knelt, supplicant, his lips parted in readiness. A wave of heat washed through him, blood rushing to his groin and the surface of his skin. He sat up abruptly and the hard soles of his boots hit the floor with a loud clap. At the sound, Martin played an off note, a braying screech, and the music came to a halt.

“Sir?”

“I’m just going back in my room,” Henry told him. “Keep playing, please, if you want.”

Martin obeyed, playing somewhat falteringly at first, and surely confused by Henry’s behavior. Henry didn’t care. His terrible, betraying body; his terrible thoughts. He sat hunched at his desk with his Latin textbook and tried to concentrate on a chart of the common inflected endings for the indicative mood in the active voice for all six tenses while the beautiful music battered against his back. He wasn’t going to be able to do this, wasn’t going to be able to stand having Martin so close. He should have chosen a different slave, a worse one, not this bonny fey prince. He should have gone for one darker, with fewer talents and a less-charming manner—someone more like himself. With a slave like that, he’d have been in control. He sat concentrating on his own flaws while his heart slowed. He set the Latin book aside and made himself read the correspondence page in the most recent
Pals
over and over until he was calm.

Then Henry went to lie on his bed, eyes closed, listening. Martin played his piece several times more, stopping in different places each time, and then started again, this time playing something simpler, bouncy and joyful. He ran through it with seeming ease, then played it again a little faster. This was dance music, too, Henry realized, but something more modern and sprightly, a polka, maybe. After the second playing, the music stopped, and Henry heard the clicks of the latches fastening on the violin case.

“Sir?”

Henry opened his eyes. Martin had his jacket on. He looked at Henry on the bed and seemed a little concerned.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?”

Henry shook his head. “I’m fine. What was that second thing you played?”

“It was a polka, Sir. I used to play it at dances.”

Henry sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “At Ganymede?”

“Yes, Sir. We had an orchestra.”

“All slaves?”

“Yes, Sir.” He paused, and when Henry said nothing more, he said, “If you don’t need anything, Sir, might I go down for my dinner?”

Henry felt a surge of relief. He would be alone! “Yes, of course!” He sounded too eager, he knew.

“I’ll be back soon to dress you, Sir.”

“No need to hurry,” Henry assured him.

When Martin had left the room, Henry exhaled with a great sigh, the tension leaving his body. He lay back on the bed again and just enjoyed breathing, unworried. He reminded himself that he had made it through the bulk of the day, and for most of the rest of it, dinner and family hour, there’d be no need for him to keep Martin busy and entertained.

He picked up the adventure novel he’d been reading from his nightstand. He’d been enjoying it quite a lot, but he couldn’t help wondering now how Martin would read it, what voices he would use. Even just in Martin’s regular voice, the story would be better. Henry tried to imagine it that way, and by the time Martin returned, he was engrossed in the book.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, Sir. There’s still time before you need to dress.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Maybe he would just let Martin entertain himself for a bit.

Martin disappeared into his room and was quiet. Henry kept reading, determined not to think on what Martin might be doing, for perhaps another twenty minutes, until Martin reappeared, saying softly, “Sir, it’s time.”

Martin dressed him and it went well. No blushing, no panic.

They went downstairs to the dining room. It was just Henry and Father.

“Where’s Mother?” Henry asked.

“Your mother is unwell,” Father informed him. “One of her headaches.”

“Should I go see her, sir? After dinner?”

Father’s mustache twitched. “I don’t see why you should. She has Pearl looking after her.” Father disapproved of Mother’s headaches and was not inclined to indulge her in them.

Father dictated a letter to Timothy while cutting his fish. Henry kept quiet, as he knew he was supposed to do, careful not to make any sounds with his knife and fork against his plate as he ate. Cook had seasoned the salmon very nicely, and Henry asked for a second helping. There was a charlotte russe for dessert and it was quite delicious, but Henry would have preferred more of the strawberry cake from earlier in the day.

After he’d finished eating, Henry had to sit patiently, waiting for Father to excuse him. He became more aware of Martin again then, had a sense of him behind the chair. He wondered what Martin had had for dinner; maybe he’d had more of the pink cake. Father had finished eating, as well, but he was reading a sheaf of letters. Mother disapproved of Father working at the table, but that had never altered Father’s habits. At last, Father handed the stack of papers to Timothy and rose from his seat.