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Authors: Heidi Cullinan

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nothing s-s-so g-g-grim.” Lord help him, but he felt a fool beside her. Who had

troubles such as hers?

“I should say,” she went on, “that not every stammerer has a tale of woe. I

don’t want you to assume so. Something in your eyes, however, insists that you

do. And I want you to feel comfortable telling me, which is why I tell you mine.

Do you know, everyone who tells me their tale begins as you did: ‘it isn’t so bad.’

As if they should be ashamed for letting it affect them, as if everyone in the

world has better right to sorrow than they.” She shrugged. “Life is pain, Lord

George. We all deal with it as we can. Some of us feel safer swallowing our

voices. Some of us hide in our anger. I prefer not to judge the method of coping

but to do what I can to help others let go of the pain.”

She let him digest this, taking his teacup from his hands and reaching for the

pot to refill it.

“I think,” she said, her tone light once again, “we should touch only on

pleasant subjects from here on today, sir, but I do hope you will come visit me

tomorrow? Or would another time be better?”

She added milk and a sugar to his tea and passed it over. Wes sipped

absently, still reeling. But after a few moments he said, “F-F-Friday. At t-t-ten. W-

W-Would it s-s-suit you?”

Her smile split to show pretty, even teeth. “It suits me very well, Your

Lordship.” She took up her own cup of tea and sat back. “Now you tell
me
, sir, about your plants. Because from what I have learned, you are famous for them.”

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Wes laughed. After another sip of tea he was still smiling. And as he

launched into an explanation of the Royal Society and the gardens at Regent’s

Park, he realized he was scarcely stammering at all.

By the third week of seeing Albert, Michael began to feel impatient. With

himself, with Albert—he wasn’t sure of the source, but he couldn’t seem to shake

the sense that more should be happening. His nightmares had stopped. He had,

twice, napped in his own bed, alone. He felt ready for something more. For

congress, possibly. Their last few carriage rides had left them both breathless and

flushed and rock hard. Kisses had become only the opening act. They soon gave

way to fondling beneath waistcoats and groping trousers. Their hair knew no

mercy. Their necks were banquets. Any second now Michael suspected he would

undo Albert’s trousers and reacquaint himself with his lover’s cock with the

same sort of passion. He simply hadn’t quite done so yet.

Albert hadn’t ever pushed him to do so, nor to let him have the same

pleasure, the pleasure he was, in fact, paying for. In fact, he made no moves of a

sexual nature without Michael’s express permission, and sometimes even then he

had to give him a second encouragement. Though once that was settled, he

clearly had no reservations of any kind.

It wasn’t just sexual encounters Michael was starting to want. He longed to

do
things with Albert and not tour another bloody garden. He’d managed to get Albert into a bookstore, once. That hadn’t been so bad, but Albert had merely

waited near the door looking uncomfortable, not browsing with Michael as he’d

hoped he would. Forget coffeehouses, and never speak of pubs. Albert simply

went white and shook his head when Michael mentioned them.

The thought of taking him to Covent Garden was laughable.

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Actual gardens, however, or parks, were fine, and any day the weather was

good enough, they toured them. And they were lovely, true. It was only that

Michael wanted something more. Something… Something…

Something normal.

He let this revelation rattle around in his head as he stared at his own

reflection in a mirror, getting ready for yet another day with Albert. Yes, normal.

That was what he wanted. A foolish yen, most likely, and yet no amount of

chastising himself kept the desire away. Perhaps
that
was what he was in love with, what Rodger saw.

Normal had evaporated so long ago, and the joke was that even then Michael

had struggled for it. He hadn’t thought about his school days in years, but every

time he was with Albert he couldn’t help but remember what it had been like to

stride about London as a normal boy, wondering how he could swindle his

mother out of more sweets or a new book. He’d closed his heart to that boy so

long ago, not letting him out, for the world Michael lived in now was too grim

for him. But with Albert, the boy, now a man, always wanted to come out to

play. With Albert, Michael wanted to explore London. To share books. To delight

in things. And yes, sometimes they did. But all too often just as Michael felt that

boy inside him rising from his sleepy corner, ready to play again, Albert was

coming up against his own terror of public places and shutting down.

Michael stroked his reflection in the glass. He had a pretty face, he knew. A

boyish, pretty face. Many, many men had told him so, had traced the outline of

his lips, praising the beauty of their line before nibbling on them as if they were a rare delicacy. When he worked, he made sure to rouge them slightly, and he

powdered his face, smoothing and whitening it. His hair was always loose and

down, as pampered as a girl’s.

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But not with Albert. When he prepared himself to spend the day with Albert,

he applied no rouge and no powder. His hair went back into a queue, leaving

bits on top to style with pomade, and each time he prepared himself he wished

he could cut it and give himself a modern style.

Normal. A normal style for normal outings.

He finished his toilet, tugged on his jacket and shoes, and headed downstairs

to wait for Albert. He had been coming later and later, explaining that a project

was keeping him through most of the mornings. More and more lately he

seemed to welcome their naps as much as Michael. Except today Michael didn’t

want to collapse in Rodger’s office, nor did he want to doze as they drove around

town. Today Michael had a plan.

When Albert finally arrived, Michael drew a deep breath, steeled himself,

and asked, “Could we go to the Athenaeum today?”

He had worked out the phrasing of this carefully, but even now he had to

bite his tongue almost literally to keep from tacking on softeners. He wanted to

brush this off as a casual, almost random request, but it was not. He’d been

waiting for Albert to suggest this himself since they’d first discussed it weeks

ago, but he had not once so much as brought it up again. This was another case

where that boy inside him had come out again, desperate and eager, determined

to let no one and nothing take away his pleasure.

The hardened, world-weary Michael who had spent a decade whoring

braced himself for a rejection. He tried not to look it. He tried to project easiness, as if he didn’t really care, it was just a whim, but he suspected he failed.

Albert blinked at him. “M-My club? You w-w-want to g-go?”

Michael did his best to steady himself. “Yes. Please?”

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He waited for the excuse, for the dismissal, for the awkwardness. Though

Albert did look slightly uncomfortable, he only nodded and said, “Sh-Shall we g-

g-go now?”

And they went. After all his preparation and fear, Michael found it hard to

believe it had been this easy, but it was, and they were in the carriage and

headed for Pall Mall.

Michael had only been to this part of town with Albert a few times when

traffic routed them so. He had done his gawking then, trying to be casual until

he’d realized the heavy traffic made Albert so uncomfortable he wouldn’t notice.

Michael was able to temper himself somewhat this time, though he still had to

press his face to the glass like an eager child as they passed Trafalgar Square, St.

Martin-in-the-Fields and the line of gentlemen’s clubs until at last they arrived at

the Athenaeum.

It took every ounce of Michael’s control to contain his giddiness. When he’d

been a boy in school he’d boasted to the boys in his dormitory that he’d be a

member of the Athenaeum one day. He’d wanted to be a scholar of books then,

until his mother had pointed out a more practical career would be better. He’d

decided to be a lawyer, but he would be the most
literary
lawyer London had

ever seen. And he would belong to the Athenaeum, he’d bragged, and he’d take

all his meals there, spending evenings he wasn’t working on cases discussing the

arts and sciences with the most brilliant minds in Britain.

He’d become a whore instead. Yet here he was, at the Athenaeum at last.

It was so
white.
So gleaming clean and classical and
white
, not even a pigeon dropping staining its marble stairs. He longed to crane his head and gape like a

country bumpkin at the decorative frieze, but he managed to resist, looking as

collected as he could as he followed Albert up the steps. When he felt his queue

brush the back of his neck, he touched it self-consciously and tucked it into his

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collar. He would not play Albert’s whore today. He would be a literary man, as

he had wanted to be long ago. Just for today.

“Good afternoon, Your Lordship.” The doorman welcomed them inside—

and Michael gave up and gaped as he saw the foyer.

Grand didn’t even begin to describe it. It wasn’t ostentatious, either. It was

simply…perfect. Elegant, aristocratic, clean and spare. Great classical arches and

curved ceilings with geometric relief contrasted marble statuary and grand

tropical plants. Gas lamps burned everywhere, their soft hiss contrasting against

the hushed sound of men’s footsteps on the parquet. It smelled elegant as well:

the gas, to start, but also the mixture of tobacco, sandalwood and the distant

whiff of scrubbed floors. Only a few men lingered in the main entrance, but in

the distance he heard muted voices in conversation and laughter. Educated

voices, trained in elocution.

Michael faltered, falling back.

Albert turned toward him immediately, looking concerned. “Everything all

r-r-right?”

No, it wasn’t. Michael tried not to glance around like a nervous cow in the

slaughterhouse, but he couldn’t help it. What had he been thinking? What on

earth had possessed him to think he belonged here, even for a visit? And what if,

God help him, he met a client? Rodger kept the
ton
well away from him, but not everyone here was upper class, were they? He ran a nervous hand over his hair.

A firm clasp stopped his arm from falling back down. He’d been so lost in

his paranoia he was almost surprised to see it was Albert’s grip that had caught

him.

Albert smiled at him, a patient, kind, Albert sort of smile. The smile widened

and reached his eyes as he nodded at the hall before them. He lowered Michael’s

arm and held on to his elbow a moment, squeezing it. The touch lingered once he

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let go, as if he were still holding Michael there as he walked them forward,

remaining as close at Michael’s side so that, indeed, he could have kept holding

him.

Which, Michael realized, he likely would have were others not around to

witness them. The thought warmed him deeply and propelled him forward, on

into the hall.

It was without question the sort of place one went only if one belonged. The

halls were a maze of doors, opening and closing to reveal men in various

displays of fine dress. Upon peering discreetly inside one of the rooms, Michael

saw men in their shirtsleeves—shirtsleeves rolled up—smoking cigars and

drinking brandy and guffawing over something one of their peers had said. In

others it appeared the men were conducting some sort of meeting, around a table

and all. Other salons saw men grouped around fireplaces, chatting with one

another in one and sitting silently together in another. Old men leaned back in

chairs and napped with their mouths hanging wide open. Younger men read by

windows or sat reviewing papers. Men, men everywhere, existing in pods and

groups, united in station, divided by individual and unspoken selection.

In short, just like school had been.

Occasionally Albert offered quiet explanation of where they were, or what a

portrait on the wall depicted. At one point they ended back up in the main foyer

and headed up the stairs, where on the landing Michael saw a strange clock.

“Why does it have two sevens and no eight on the face?” he whispered to

Albert as they finished ascending.

Albert’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “N-No one knows. Has always b-been

that way.”

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They toured some more, up and down different sets of stairs. Michael was

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