There Will Be Phlogiston (3 page)

“No. You need to learn. I will . . . I will take the
part of the lady. On this occasion.”

“It’s just a dance, Arcadius.”

“I am well aware of that.”

Lord Mercury went to restart the music. Came back
slowly, almost reluctantly, fearful of what it might have meant had
he been otherwise.

Jones stepped close to him. Vulgarly close. It had
to be vulgarly close because why else would Lord Mercury be so . .
. so conscious of him? The shape of his body, the heat. Except,
when he opened his eyes (oh, when, why, had he closed them?), he
realised Jones was standing entirely properly and upright as
directed. “I’ll try not to barbarically paw at you,” he
promised.

A dreadful breathy sound issued from between Lord
Mercury’s lips.

And then Jones tried to take his hand, and Lord
Mercury jumped away like a startled rabbit. “We . . . You . . .
would most properly be wearing gloves. I should fetch some.”

Jones gave him a look, exasperated but softened by
affection. “I washed my face and hands before I came. I don’t have
the skypox.”

The man was right. He was being a fool, and his
foolishness was more revealing than indifference could ever have
been. He grabbed for Jones’s hand—ignoring the rough kisses of all
those calluses against his tender palms—and yanked him back into
position. Then he realised he was going to have to put his other
hand somewhere. Tentatively he rested it on Jones’s shoulder. He
didn’t want to be so physically dependent on him, but at the same
time it felt so vulnerable to be led, and it was all he could do
not to
cling
.

“You look good when you’re dancing.” Lord Mercury’s
head jerked up at that, and God, Jones was far too close. He could
see the patterns of lines in his lips, the radials in his irises .
. . “Happy.”

“Start on the left foot,” he said.

“I remember.” Jones stepped, and Lord Mercury stood
on his foot. “Ow.”

He felt the blush burning on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,
I’m not accustomed to doing it this way.”

Jones grinned. “Starting on the left . . . one, two,
three . . . step.”

They managed six beats, not entirely disastrously,
but then Lord Mercury forgot he was meant to be transitioning into
travelling step rather than pivot step, and they collided. For a
moment they were flush, carnally interlocked, thigh-to-thigh,
chest-to-chest, and Lord Mercury startled so violently that he
tripped over Jones’s leg. Thus the most graceful man in Gaslight
ended up on his arse on the ballroom floor, Jones staring down at
him with astonishment, and incipient hilarity.

Lord Mercury put his head in his hands. “Don’t laugh
at me. Please don’t laugh.”

“Never.” A pause. Perhaps Jones was willing himself
to sobriety. “Are you hurt, pet?”

“Just my pride,” he mumbled, too stricken even to
chafe against what was surely an inappropriate endearment.

“Only one cure for that.”

“I didn’t think there were any.”

“Stand up, head up, try again. Besides, I think I
was just starting to get the hang of it.”

Lord Mercury had rather been hoping for spontaneous
demise, but Jones was right. He peeled himself off the floor, reset
the cylinder, and stepped once again into the man’s arms.

Just a dance. Just a dance. Just a dance.

The light brush of fingers under his chin made him
look up.

“I’m not expert,” said Jones. “But I think it might
be easier if you stopped trying to lead.”

Lord Mercury could not quite repress his shiver of
response. It felt so strange to be touched in that fashion,
romantic in bewildering, impossible ways. Gentling him. “It . . .
It . . . It’s difficult when you . . . can’t see where you’re
going.”

“I realise I’m new at this, but I’m not going to
walk you into a wall.”

“I know but—”

“Can you trust me?”

“Yes.” Oh God. Was there anything more terrifying
than the truth, uttered without thought?

Jones smiled. Such a smile, his eyes all sky. “One,
two, three, and . . .”

And they danced.

For about thirty seconds, Lord Mercury let another
man hold him. Protect him. Whirl him round the room where his
mother had once danced and dazzled.

Jones’s arms were strong, his steps certain. He
smelled of the cold morning, fresh and clean. And Lord Mercury—

Pulled away, just managing to avoid another
humiliating stumble. Tried to steady his breath, his heart, his
voice. Ignore the hollow ache that rose up like some unspeakable
leviathan from deep inside and . . . and . . . wanted. “I think you
have mastered at least the basics. If you need more practice, I
suggest you engage a dancing master. Good day.”

He turned on his heel and left the ballroom. He
considered it to his credit that he did not run.

He did not see Jones again for the best part of a
week. Business had called him to London, and Lord Mercury had time
to half-convince himself that his responses had been exaggerated,
his feelings imagined. A fevered moment born of simple physical
proximity.

But then Jones came back, and Lord Mercury knew he
had only been lying to himself.

Tucked under Jones’s arm was a neatly wrapped parcel
from Henry Poole & Co of Number Fifteen Savile Row, London, the
tailor to whom Lord Mercury had introduced him. “For you,” he said.
“They already had your measurements.”

“I . . . What is it?”

Jones stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You’ll
see if you open it.”

It was a waistcoat. Lilac silk, so fine that holding
it made his hands feel rough. The most opulently beautiful thing
Lord Mercury thought he had ever seen. Also the most
inappropriate.

Perhaps in London. For the pre-Raphaelite set.

But in Gaslight? For him?

How did Jones know? Could one tell? Had he heard
something?

God, that dockhand . . . but how did
he
know?
How did he know Lord Mercury was Lord Mercury? He had offered the
man nothing more than coins and his body, all other traces of
identity carefully removed before he left his house, fittingly
enough by the back passage. Unlike others of his acquaintance, Lord
Mercury was discreet, so very discreet, and he rarely surrendered
to his inclinations. Only when the hollowness of his flesh and
spirit became too much to bear.

“Is this a jest?” he asked, with what he thought was
admirable calm.

Jones shrugged. “It’s a present.”

“I’m not . . .” That sentence was absolutely
impossible to finish. “Not your mistress.”

There was a look on Jones’s face that Lord Mercury
couldn’t read. “Just thought I’d like to thank you.”

“I am not what you think I am.”

Lord Mercury turned away in what he thought was
obvious dismissal. But while he was fairly sure Jones could
recognise a hint, he had never been able to persuade him to
actually take one.

Jones’s arms came round him from behind, pulling him
against that tall body, all heat and strength and work-made muscle.
The man’s breath was hot against his ear. “What are we,
Arcadius?”

“Using my given name without permission again.” It
wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be an exchange,
a necessity, an imposition, a sacrifice for his family name.

“I came to you because I needed you. I stayed
because I liked you.” Soft words from a hard man. Lord Mercury had
prepared no defence against such things. A blunt-fingered hand
pressed against his erection. Nearly made him groan with the
longing to be touched. For the terrifying vulnerability of skin.
“Say no, and I’ll stop.”

Lord Mercury twisted helplessly like a heretic on
the rack. Unable to utter the word that would end his torment.
No
, and he would be a gentleman again, and Anstruther Jones
would be nothing but an upstart. His unshapeable Galatea. A sordid
fantasy for endless solitary nights.

Jones gripped him. Even through fabric, he could
feel the warmth of the man’s hand, and it was beautiful,
horrifying, blissful. Then he stilled. “Say yes, and I’ll
continue.”

He shook his head frantically. He couldn’t say that
either. One thing to have this happen, in darkness and in shame, an
act perpetrated between unaccountable strangers. Another entirely
to ask for it. Be part of it.

“I don’t bed the unwilling.”

Lord Mercury couldn’t quite restrain the pleading
tilt of his hips. He wasn’t unwilling. He wished he was.

“Or people who don’t know what they want.”

Jones was going to let him go. Let him go and walk
away. Leave him like this.

And it didn’t matter . . . It didn’t matter . . .
because he would go out tonight. Find a Jack tar or a soldier or
airman. Acts, they were nothing but acts, the things he craved. It
would be the same.

It wouldn’t be the same.

He wouldn’t be held like this. Or touched like this.
It wouldn’t be Jones. With his grey-sky eyes and his smile-hiding
mouth, his certainties and convictions, his heedless kindness.

Jones’s other hand came round him, brushed the edge
of his jaw. Found the piece of skin above his collar. Stroked him
there.

Where it shouldn’t have meant anything.

“Tell me,” he whispered. Not command, not demand,
not plea.

And Lord Mercury was undone. “Yes. If you must know.
Yes.”

To his bewilderment and his quick-flaring horror,
Jones let him go. It had been a trick, nothing but a trick, some
further mortification, blackmail perhaps, or—

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“That’s . . . that’s not necessary.”

Jones laughed. Leaned down and—of all things—pressed
their brows together. “I’ve spent most of my life on airships,
making do. You can be damn sure it’s necessary.”

Lord Mercury was never quite sure why he allowed
it.

But, somehow . . .

In his own bed. With Anstruther Jones.

It was not like it had ever been before.

He thought of pleasure as something to be snatched
from whatever was done to him, but Jones lavished him with it. Made
him wanton.

And, afterwards, Lord Mercury hid his face in the
crook of his elbow and cried with shame.

“You’ve done that before? I didn’t hurt you?”
Jones’s fingertips skated lightly down his sweat-slick spine, the
sweetness of his touch spreading a kind of sickness in their
wake.

Lord Mercury shook his head.

The bed shifted as Jones settled on the coverlet.
“That good, eh?”

“No . . . I mean . . . It’s just now I am truly your
whore.”

There was a long silence. Even muffled by his arm,
Lord Mercury could hear his own breaths, too loud and ragged.
“Well,” said Jones, “this is awkward because I don’t remember
agreeing to pay you.”

Lord Mercury sat up, feeling more naked than his
nakedness warranted, and tugged a pillow over himself. “You already
bought me.”

“I didn’t buy this. You asked me for it.”

Heat gathered horribly under his skin—it burned in
his cheeks, spilling down his throat, over his chest, a spreading
scarlet brand. “I . . . I know.”

“And I didn’t buy you either.” Jones stretched out,
unabashed and magnificently naked, sweat glinting on the dark hair
that curled across his chest and thighs. “Trade is trade. I don’t
see the rush to make it something filthy.”

“But I’m a gentleman.”

“And my mothers were whores. I don’t think any less
of either of you.” He reached out and pulled the pillow away from
Lord Mercury’s body.

He thought about resisting, but it would have been
undignified. Covered himself with his hands instead.

Jones grinned at him. “You’d think you’d never been
naked with a man before.”

It was hard to manage hauteur when he could smell
sex on his own skin, but he tried. “As it happens, I am not in the
habit.”

“You’d better make the most of it, then.” Jones held
out his arms, and Lord Mercury, without entirely realising what he
was doing, tumbled into them.

The shock of intimacy hit him like cold water, and
made him gasp. After the sins they had just committed, a simple
embrace should have been nothing. He stared helplessly at Jones’s
still-smiling mouth, so close to his own that he could almost taste
his breath.

If he . . .

If Jones . . .

He jerked his head away, and Jones’s lips grazed his
cheek. When he turned back, any trace of softness in the man’s
expression was gone.

Lord Mercury had intended his coupling with Jones to
be a one-time aberration—a moment of weakness they could both
pretend had never happened—but his will proved unequal to the task.
Unlike his furtive, back-alley encounters, Jones could not be boxed
away and ignored. He was there, present and inescapable, his
clothed body a constant reminder of his naked one, even the most
innocent movement of those big hands sufficient to reduce Lord
Mercury to a quivering ruin of lust and need.

He always had to instigate.

Every single time, he told himself it would be the
last.

But he came to pleasure like an opium addict to his
pipe, and Jones broke him with ecstasy. Made him sob and scream and
beg, utter the most unthinkable obscenities, disport himself with
unspeakable wantonness. But he never held him again. Or tried to
kiss him.

And it was never quite the same as that first
afternoon.