A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (33 page)

When Martin came to dress him, Henry asked, “How would you have felt about it if I’d had a small cock?”

“Henry?” Martin smoothed his shirt front and began buttoning in the studs.

“I know it’s not small—”

Martin snorted. “Not at all.”

“But if it
was
, would you have been disappointed?”

Martin thought on this a moment. “Well, I suppose it would matter how much smaller it was. What you have feels so perfect to me, Henry. It’s very…
satisfying
. I’m glad it’s the size that it is.”

“How does it compare, then?”

“Oh, please—”

“Compared to Charlie, say? Or Stuart?”

Martin sighed. “Well, Stuart was bigger than Charlie, and you’re bigger than Stuart.”

Henry was happy to hear this. He lifted his chin so that Martin could button on his collar.

“Do I not appreciate your cock enough?” Martin asked, half-joking. “I do really love it, you know.”

Henry kissed him quickly, his heart full of affection. “Maybe we can show some mutual appreciation later,” he suggested. “We haven’t done that in awhile.” He loved having Martin’s prick in his mouth while his own was being sucked.

Martin smiled, clearly amenable, as he tied Henry’s tie. “I’ll be thinking about it all during your meal, then. You be thinking about it, too.”

After dinner, after family hour, lying naked together on the bedcover, Henry encouraged Martin to come down his throat and then held Martin’s softening cock in his mouth as he came, too.

Martin turned around and put his head next to Henry’s on the pillows. He touched Henry’s face, rubbed his thumb across Henry’s lower lip. “I don’t know which I love more, Henry, your cock or your mouth.”

“You don’t have to choose,” Henry said bashfully, very pleased. “You can have both.”

Martin kissed him and turned in his arms, pressing his spine back against Henry’s chest. “Spoon me.” He pulled Henry’s arm tight around his torso and wriggled closer still.

Henry freed his arm so that he could lift Martin’s hair up from the nape of his neck and kiss him there. Nothing could be better than Martin’s satisfaction, than feeling like he was truly giving Martin everything he wanted. He fell asleep thankful for his cock, that it was exactly to Martin’s liking, and wishing fervently that he would always be what Martin wanted.

For Thanksgiving, Henry got everything he’d asked for. Mother had said she would be at the table but changed her mind at the last minute, which meant that Martin sat down dressed in his everyday uniform rather than his evening suit. Henry would have liked to see him in formal clothes, but he was just grateful that he got to have Martin at his side for the meal.

Because it was just the three of them, Henry sat in his father’s place at the head of the table, Cora at his left and Martin to his right. Cora was excited to be with them, having never taken a meal in the dining room before. Nurse stood behind her chair and helped her cut her food. Cora sat up self-consciously straight in a black velvet dress with a broad white collar, her hair arranged in bouncing ringlets, and was obviously at pains to seem grown-up and deserving of this privilege.

“Henry, does Martin eat with you every day?”

“No. Only on days when neither Mother nor Father are sitting down. If Mother had come down today, Martin wouldn’t have been able to sit at the table with us.”

“I’m glad she didn’t come,” Cora said simply.

Henry certainly agreed with her, but all he said was, “She has a headache. It’s too bad.”

“Nurse eats with me every day,” Cora remarked. “I like eating with my slave.”

Henry gave Martin a quick smile. “I do, too.”

By Father’s decree, the boys were allowed a generous glass of champagne apiece and Henry convinced Randolph to allow Cora a thimbleful in a cordial glass. They all three raised their glasses to toast. There was only so much Henry could say in front of the other slaves, Nurse and the footmen and Randolph all listening.

“I just want to say how grateful I am for everything I’ve been given,” Henry said, hoping Martin would realize this meant him. He sipped from his glass.

Martin smiled at him and drank, then lifted his glass again. “I’d like to make a toast as well, Sir. I’d like to say how very thankful I am that you brought me here, Sir. I live in gratitude.” He gave Henry such a fevered look, his eyes so full of promise, that Henry gulped his champagne hurriedly in an effort to mask his body’s response, the heat rising in his cheeks. He hoped the other slaves had not seen Martin’s expression, as he did not think it could have been mistaken for anything other than one of erotic passion.

Cora had been quietly sipping along and now rendered her verdict on champagne. “It tickles my nose,” she said, screwing her face up. “I don’t know if I like it or not.”

They had a filling and delicious meal, the menu catering more to the palates of young people than it would have if Father had been home. Tomato soup with toasted cheese points, roasted turkey with bread stuffing and cranberry relish, macaroni and cheese, chicken croquettes, mashed potatoes with gravy, green peas, and sweet potatoes, along with bowls of olives and salted almonds. For dessert, they had pumpkin and mince pies, as well as a charlotte russe, as this was a favorite of Cora’s.

During the meal, Martin asked Cora questions about doings in the nursery, about Baby Ann and her convalescence, and he seemed genuinely interested in the answers. Henry tried to chime in from time to time, but he didn’t know the names of any of Cora’s dolls, nor did he understand their complex relationships, and Martin seemed to have memorized it all at their last visit upstairs.

After dinner, they went to the upstairs parlor and Martin played his violin. He didn’t play the partita, but instead played a ball’s worth of dance music. Henry and Cora attempted to waltz together, but the discrepancy in their sizes made it difficult, as she only came up to his lower ribs and her legs were so much shorter. At Martin’s suggestion, Henry bade her to stand on his feet and he danced her around the room that way, laughing gleefully with her head thrown back.

Nurse and the footmen watched with happy expressions. Henry realized that the slaves must never have heard Martin play before, though surely they all knew that he could. He should let Martin have an evening to give them a party; Martin would like that, he knew. Randolph came up to the parlor to listen, and sent Billy down to man the door in his place.

It was Nurse who at last called a reluctant end to the proceedings.

“Little Miss needs her rest, Sir,” Nurse said firmly, her hand resting on Cora’s shoulder. “It’s been such an exciting evening.”

“Thank you so much, Henry!” Cora said happily. She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms about his midsection, taking him by surprise.

Because he was trying to be a good brother, and it was what he imagined a good brother would do, Henry bent and embraced her and lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, which was not in the least ladylike or proper, but Nurse said nothing and Henry certainly wasn’t going to admonish her. “I’m glad you came down,” Henry said in her ear. “I’m glad you had dinner with us.” He kissed the side of her face and put her back on the floor.

She launched herself at Martin, who knelt down to meet her. She hugged him fiercely and then let go, pulling back to look seriously at his face. “You have such pretty hair, Martin.”

Martin laughed. “So do you, Miss.” He kissed her forehead.

Nurse smiled at Henry so warmly, with such affection. “Thank you, Sir, for inviting Little Miss to your party. She does so love her big brother.”

All the thanks ought to go to Martin, Henry thought, but he didn’t want to say so in front of Cora. It was better for her to think that her big brother kept her in mind than to know the truth about their whole terrible family. The truth was, the only thoughtful, loving, unselfish people in the house were slaves.

Henry’s grades for fall term were about as he’d expected. He got an A in math from Mr. McLachlan and Cs from the rest, except for Dr. Foster, who gave him a boldly-inked F. Henry had expected no better, and certainly had
deserved
no better.

He sat through the same lecture he sat through every term, parked in an uncomfortable chair in front of Father’s desk, with both Father and Timothy frowning at him and Father exhorting him to apply himself. He
had
applied himself, and this was the result. Henry thought it very unfair that Father was so adamant he do well in Latin when Father himself had no languages at all and hadn’t even finished school. In any case, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone that Henry would fail Latin—the prior two years’ worth of Latin grades showed a very clear pattern.

“Aim for a C, son,” Father said wearily. “I’ll be content with a C.”

Martin had also received a report card, which he initially did not want to show to Henry. “My grades don’t really matter, do they, Sir? Besides, our classes are easier.”

“No, they aren’t. They’re just as hard or harder.”

Martin had received all As, though he pointed out that he’d received an A-minus in math, a lesser grade than Henry’s.

Henry’s thoughts were elsewhere while Father lectured him about all of his opportunities, opportunities that Father had not had, opportunities that Father wanted him to take advantage of. Father was very pleased with Martin’s academic performance and pronounced him a good investment, if only Henry would utilize his skills, especially in Latin. Father pointed out that one of Martin’s functions was to help with schoolwork and insisted that Henry enlist his aid. Henry was reluctant to do this because he didn’t want Martin thinking he was an idiot, and surely that would be Martin’s opinion once he understood how Henry’s mind worked. He lied, however, and told his father he would rely more on Martin during winter term.

Unfortunately, Father called Martin into his study and told Martin what was expected of him, that Henry was to rely on him for help with homework, and Martin was eager to do as Father asked.

Henry sat at his desk staring uncomprehending at his open Latin text. He’d actually managed to forget about Latin for a moment, and was instead imagining a Theo-and-George scenario which gradually transformed into a fantasy about Martin and himself as pirates. Pirate Martin wore breeches that laced up the front and Pirate Henry undid those laces with his teeth.

“Do you need any help, Henry?”

Henry jerked alert, startled out of his shipboard reverie. “What?”

Martin leaned on the edge of the desk at Henry’s elbow. “If you’d like, I could try to help you understand the Latin a little better.”

“I doubt that,” Henry said. “This is the third year I’ve been taking it, and I haven’t improved any since the first day.” This was only a slight exaggeration.

“Surely that’s not true,” Martin said gently.

“I failed, remember,” Henry pointed out. “I fail every term, Martin.” Henry could tell by the look on Martin’s face that he hadn’t known this, that he’d thought this was a one-time occurrence. “I didn’t fail just because I’m lazy—though I
am
lazy—but because I really don’t understand how Latin works.”

“Well that’s all right,” Martin said. “I’ll do it for you, then, and you can learn from my answers.”