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The mornings after nights spent with Henry were often better than the night itself. You were not a morning person, at least, not to the capacity he was, but you savoured the golden light that filtered through the arched windows on the second floor of the county house.
He had been awake for a while before you woke up. The side he had slept on was as cold as he pretended his heart was. You blinked awake, rubbing sleep from your eyes, rooting around in the plush carpet for the skimpy nightgown that had been just a little too tempting for him last night and slipped it on.
The room still smelt of sex, of something so purely human it almost disgusted you, of sweat and something too close to love for comfort.
You padded to the small balcony that was through a pair of beautiful glass doors in the middle of the wall, flinching as your bare feet came into contact with the freezing stone of the outside area.
“Did you sleep well?” Henry asked with a cold bureaucracy, far too formal for whatever your relationship was.
“I did. You?” He exhaled a wisp of smoke, watching it float prettily into the crisp winter air.
“Well enough.” A closed book rested on the table beside him, glaring in its uselessness.
You sat down on the chair across from his, a small wrought iron thing that belonged to victorian pleasure gardens with glistening fountains and bleached limestone, not the gothic monstrosity that was the country house.
“The others won’t be awake for a while.” You told him, he nodded calmly. The silence wasn’t awkward, anything but that, really. It was a gentle reprieve from the previous night.
“Do you ever think,” he said suddenly, “that maybe everything we do is fraudulent?”
“What do you mean?” You frowned, watching as his fingers, far too large to be as graceful as they were, tapped the ash off of his cigarette.
“We act, not just for others, but for ourselves. We play around in costumes and dead languages, searching for a meaning we’ll never find.” He stubbed the cigarette out with more anger than what showed in his words.
“Maybe that’s the beauty of it, trying to find meaning in this meaningless existence.” You told him, flipping through the book he had tried, and failed, to occupy himself with.
He was in one of his philosophical moods, which usually meant talking him away from the brink of an existential crisis.
“You are far too kind for this cruel world, love.” He told you, gazing into the icy grey sky. It wasn’t quite winter, not quite autumn, some sort of limbo in between where the dew solidified into frost in the mornings but the sun came and melted it off a few hours later.
“Is that a good or a bad thing?” You carried along with his musings.
“I haven’t a clue.” His face fell into that familiar frown, eyes deepest under his glasses. The bathrobe he constantly wore was falling open at the chest, revealing the hard, milky planes you had all but worshipped mere hours ago.
You hummed thoughtfully, not needing to fill the silence with useless words neither of you cared for.
“Do you want coffee?” He asked, breaking the silence. You shook your head, content to stare into the trees with him.
The sun managed to crest the evergreens that surrounded the house, and continued its struggle into the sky, yearning for midday.
A loud clang from downstairs shook you out of your thoughts.
“That’ll be Francis attempting to make breakfast.”
“I don’t understand why he doesn’t just let Charles, Camilla or me do it. We’re much better cooks than he is.” Henry sighed, lumbering to his feet.
He exited the room with a glance back out at you that spoke volumes ‘Wait. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’ Several minutes later, you slipped from his room, checking the corridor for any sign of Bunny, and followed the well trodden path downstairs, where Francis was serving up bowls of lumpy oatmeal.
“How did you sleep?” Camilla asked you as you sat down next to her, poking your spoon at the unappetising mess before you.
“Pretty well.” You replied, hoping that a mountain of brown sugar would save the greying sludge in your bowl.
She coughed and you looked up at her. Her eyebrow was raised and she made a pointed glance at Henry. You followed her gaze to a small bruise purpling on his collar bone. A flush as hot as hell crept up your neck and onto your ears.
“I won’t tell anyone.” She said to you. “Just make sure Bun doesn’t see.”
You nodded your thanks and tapped the table, trying to get Henry’s attention. He frowned up at you and you drew your own bathrobe tighter, giving him a meaningful look.
He glanced down and, upon seeing the blossoming mark, quickly moved to copy your action. His cheeks tinged pink, nearly undetectable as he busied himself with the oatmeal.
After a breakfast filled with Bunny’s loud, and your silent, complaining about the oatmeal, you met back up with Henry in his room.
“Thank you, darling.” He kissed your forehead, more affectionate than you had ever seen him. “But I will have to do something about that mouth of yours.”
“Such as?” You smirked as he drew you into a slow kiss, controlled and gentle. You paused for breath shortly in and he smiled down at you.
“You’re too kind for this world.”