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“Lord Smith.” A door cracks open, and one of the house waiting staff slides through to examine the young viscount. “My lord, it’s your father.”
The viscount looks over his broadsheet copy of The Times , freshly printed on the new printing presses, at the man in the doorway. His hair, freshly uncurled from the curling papers his father hates so desperately, falls onto his forehead as he finally folds the paper carefully.
“What is it, Mr. Trott? Has the old bastard finally dropped dead?” The viscount stands and straightens his waistcoat, a pale green with delicate gold filigree. He rearranges his collar and fixes the cravat hanging about his neck, holding the firm stare of his employee for the duration.
“I’m afraid so, my Lord,” Chris nods tersely. “This morning. I was sent to bring you word of his passing, and to inform you that it was peaceful.”
“A shame,” the viscount hums, tucking his newspaper under his arm. “Is his body in his rooms in the grounds?”
“It is, my Lord, but I have been told –you mustn’t, my Lord, the maids requested a moment–” Chris panics, gesturing tightly.
“At the risk of sounding like my dearly departed father, I am the Viscount, and if I wish to look upon my father’s corpse then I shall. Part of me rather thinks he’s pretending to have passed to amuse himself. Or purely to spite me.”
“My Lord, Viscount Smith, you mustn’t-”
“Nonsense,” Smith smiles minutely, waving his newspaper. “Fetch me my greatcoat.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“And I’ve told you before, you mustn’t constantly call me ‘my Lord this’ and ‘my Lord that’. It makes me sound like my father, and my dullard old grandfather before him. I don’t like it.”
“Yes, my-” Chris catches himself before he can finish his thought. “I apologise.”
The viscount actually smiles then, and raises an eyebrow.
“Better, Mr. Trott. You’ll get there soon enough. Now, my coat?”
“Of course.” Chris nods deeply and turns to leave through the door he entered.
“Alexander,” the viscount says, as he moves towards the large archway exit on the opposite wall. He turns, cocks his head at Chris and smiles again. “My name’s Alexander.”
Chris nods again, shaky and unsure, and leaves for the cloakroom.
For all his peacocking about how he hated his father, Chris finds that the newly titled Lord Smith, Viscount Somerset, does a wonderful job of publicly mourning.
“Anyone would think you loved your father dearly, what with the way you were sobbing this morning,” Chris laughs as he helps Smith out of his coat and waistcoat, dropping them in the basket by the door to take to the scullery that evening. “I think the Duke of Bath was rather moved.”
“Tears of joy, my good man, I assure you,” Smith grins broadly, loosening his cravat and settling himself on the chaise longue, low heeled boots propped up on the cushioning. “It would not do well to be composed at your father’s funeral. Even if he was a tyrant and a rogue, he was my father. Without him I would not have the pleasure of your company.”
Chris scoffs.
“Oh, do be quiet,” Smith chastises him, struggling to sit forward to hit him with the pamphlet he’d picked up from his cabinet. “It is the truth.”
Chris perches himself at Smith’s desk chair, perusing his stacks of letters and newfangled hair products and broken buttons from waistcoats he no longer fits into.
“I hate to tell you this, but your father saved my life,” Chris hums, reading through a letter from the Duke of Exeter that Smith had left open on the table.
“I’m aware,” Smith looks over the pamphlet at him, an eyebrow raised. “It’s perhaps the only good he ever did, and even then I think it was largely a gesture to make his poor impoverished public warm to him.”
“It worked, to his credit,” Chris turns awkwardly in the chair. “My family were thrilled. I couldn’t say if they still are, however.”
“You know we can seek them out, if you’d want that. I’d have arranged it sooner had you expressed an interest before now.” Smith sits forward, leaning on his knees and discarding his reading material.
“No, no,” Chris shakes his head. “I’m sure they’re all long, long passed on. Some twenty years have passed since, and we were sickly then and I am sure they remained so until their deaths."
He clenches his jaw, turns away from his employer and studies the myriad of combs in front of him, carved of delicate bone and burnished wood. He doesn’t notice Smith unclipping his shirt cuffs and rolling his sleeves back to his elbows, crossing the room and resting a comforting hand on Chris’s shoulder.
“Help me with my hair?” Smith says after minutes of silence, and Chris finally, finally looks up at him. “I can never get the back quite as well as you do.”
“I suspect that’s because you’re uncoordinated and lack the attention span necessary to do so,” Chris laughs. “I’ll go and draw some water from the kitchens.”
“Get Brindley to do it, I’m sure he’s no longer busy now my father no longer requires his services,” Smith waves a hand airily. “I wish to enjoy your company.”
Chris blushes, but hurries off to find his colleague as quickly as he can.
When he returns Smith is reclining in the chair Chris had recently vacated, pulling his day old curls until they fall loose and and open about his face. Chris watches him and quietly admires how the soft lighting from the oil lamp beside him highlights the aristocratic line of Smith’s nose, the scant hair along his soft jaw.
“Have you any curling papers?” Chris asks, pulling up the ottoman to sit beside him, carefully rummaging in the desk drawers.
“Just enough,” Smith waves a handful at him. “I shall have to get one of the ladies to prepare some more when they make their next batch.”
“You do know you can tell them to prepare some for you, don’t you? You’re the lord of the manor, they work for you. I’m sure they’d be only too happy to help should you tell them to do so. It’s more than their job is worth.”
“I am less the lord of the manor and more the dandy layabout my father insisted I wasn’t. I haven’t the heart to work the staff to the bone nor the stomach to excuse them. It is a failing my father never managed to beat out of me.” Smith looks pensive and finally removes his cravat, draping it over the arm of his chair.
“I wasn’t aware your father ever raised a hand to you,” Chris says, reaching for Smith’s shoulder as he had comforted him earlier. “Though it doesn’t shock me, I must admit.”
“It is typical in families with stature such as mine,” Smith frowns. “I suppose I got off lightly. My governess never used to stand for it when he would get violent towards me, but she was a stronger woman than he ever gave her credit for.”
“I remember her, I think,” Chris thinks, remembering the friendly but firm blonde woman who had lived in the staff quarters until he and Smith had reached eighteen. “She was pleasant.”
“She was,” Smith picks a comb from the desk and starts to comb through his already weak curls. “I often wonder what happened to her after father dismissed her. Did my father ever hit you, or any of the other staff?”
“Never me, no,” Chris replies immediately. “The maids, though, they’ve mentioned it.”
Smith looks distraught, and opens his mouth to reply, to inevitably spit some bile about his hideous, hideous father and how he doesn’t want the title and the house and the staff, but Brindley knocks on the door before he has a moment’s chance.
Chris smiles at him and takes the pail of water towards the desk, where Smith has yet to move, silently fuming, though he’s not sure whether at himself or his father.
“Come, let us set your curls; they’re quite a shambles. The Duke of Gloucester and his son are visiting tomorrow to bring their condolences,” Chris says, reaching for the soft rag in the water and separating small sections of Smith’s hair to dampen.
“Must they?” Smith sighs, handing Chris a curling paper when he reaches out for it. “I am sick to the back teeth of pretending to mourn the welcome loss of my father.”
“I know, my friend, I do,” Chris curls the paper expertly, nipping it tight and beginning to dampen and smooth the next section. “But it shouldn’t last much longer. The requisite period is a week, then you may resume your duty as Viscount Somerset.”
“I hardly want that either,” Smith scoffs, pulling at the curls on his forehead and beginning to dampen them back into shape. “I will be expected to marry, some dull noblewoman at that, and produce lots of male heirs to inherit my grandfather’s fortune, made from stealing land from those who need it most and selling it back for profit, and I hardly desire-”
“Alexander,” Chris cuts in at last, feeling more than a little rude. “You needn’t marry for many years –you’re not even thirty. You have many years left before you consign yourself to husbandry.”
Smith doesn’t seem as placated as Chris would like, but he falls silent and continues curling his hair. They finish their work quicker than usual, and Chris leaves Smith to ready himself for bed with the promise of dining together come the morning.
Chris sits awake that night, considering their conversation. He’s not one for prayer, hasn’t been for many years, but he hopes that Smith finds his peace and takes to his title with more warmth as the days go by.
“I loathe black,” Smith tells him that morning over breakfast. “It is so unbecoming on me.”
“It hardly is,” Chris laughs, sliding a plate of tea and toast over the table towards him. “Look at you, with your ludicrous upper class body. Any colour looks fine on you.”
Smith raises an eyebrow at him over a piece of toast. His hair is beautifully curled this morning, evidence of their fine work the previous evening, soft dark blonde waves bouncing across his forehead, which makes Chris smile inwardly.
“You and I both know that green is better suited to my tastes.” He takes a long sip of his tea and peruses his newspaper. “I much desire to expand my wardrobe back to its usual fare.”
“Soon, my Lord, soon.”
“I have told you about calling me ‘my Lord’,” Smith frowns, studying a caricature in the paper in front of him. “I still do not like it. I know we have only recently become friends in such a way but I am not fond of the authority it implies.”
“You are aware you have authority over me, yes?” Chris replies. “Until this week passed we had barely exchanged more than pleasantries.”
“You have been my valet for the better part of ten years,” Smith corrects him. “While we may have never been particularly close, you were about the only friend I ever had.”
“And you mine,” Chris admits with a solemn nod.
“Forgive me if this is forward, but now my decrepit father and his equally decrepit views are gone, I should like to pursue some sort of friendship with you. It seems somehow wrong to me that I have known you since we were young boys but I know so little about you.”
“You know more than most,” Chris replies, thinking back to the other household staff, many of whom keep to themselves. “I do not have a great deal of people to share things with, be that experiences or information.”
“Will you accompany me this morning?” Smith asks, folding his newspaper and pushing it away from him as he takes a measured drink from his teacup. “I should not like to meet the Duke and his son alone.”
“Of course,” Chris nods. “I shall have to change beforehand, I fear they would not take kindly to my choice in clothing.”
“Your clothing is perfectly lovely,” Smith replies with an alarming level of sincerity. “It is very much becoming on you.”
Chris fails to understand quite how his motheaten coat and yellowed shirt warrant such high praise, but he concedes to only change his greatcoat before they ride towards the town hall and the Dukes of Gloucester.
The Duke is an elderly man, of the same generation of Smith’s father, though is warm and friendly where he was sharp and cold. The family had made their money barely a generation ago, in machinery and automations that the Smith family has always frowned upon until very recently.
“My Lord,” Smith shakes the old Duke’s hand, and Chris bows to him, aware of his lowly status in the room. “It is a pleasure. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”
“As do I,” the Duke clasps his hand and shakes firmly. “I am deeply sorry about your father.”
Smith nods tightly, making a valiant attempt to look moved.
“I must introduce you to my son, Ross. He shall inherit the title upon my death,” the Duke gestures at his son, who steps forward beside him. He’s about Smith’s age, wearing a fine cut suit and trim blue waistcoat. An untamed, uncurled mop of dark hair sits atop his head, and Smith itches to curl it, style it into something more modern.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Viscount Somerset. I do not think we have been acquainted before,” he shakes Smith’s hand firmly, and the viscount studies him carefully, running his eyes over him.
“We have not, no,” Smith nods, admiring the man in front of him. “I should hope our next meeting is under happier terms.”
“I agree,” Ross nods, clasping Smith’s hand. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I could not bear the loss of my father.”
Smith bites back a comment, something rude about how he is less moved to tears by his father’s death and more moved to joy, and instead smiles politely, demurely.
Chris watches them from a distance, sympathetic but conscious of his obvious class, his workaday look. He leaves Smith to network and excuses himself to make tea.
“We should go for a ride,” Smith says later that day, when the Dukes of Gloucester have excused themselves and retired to their own land. “I am restless.”
“Are you? I hadn’t noticed,” Chris replies tersely, sarcastically. “We rode earlier. You’ve never wanted to do so twice in one day before.”
“Yes, because usually I am permitted to entertain guests or go about my business with the townsfolk without the higher classes suspecting me of murdering my father,” Smith all but pouts, and Chris tries to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
“No one suspects you of murdering your father, don't be ridiculous,” Chris laughs, handing him a cup of tea in an attempt to placate him. “He was old, and sickly too, at least for the last three years of his life. Your lands are cold and coastal, and if this winter didn’t kill him then the next almost certainly would have. Now, please be quiet and eat a sandwich. I can hear you thinking from here.”
Smith takes a sandwich, petulant, but eats it quietly anyway and watches Chris from across the room.
“What did you think of the Duke of Gloucester’s son?” he asks through a mouthful of lettuce and bread.
“He seems nice,” Chris replies, turning away from him and beginning to straighten Smith’s wardrobe. “Benevolent, like yourself. Perhaps lacking the will and the nerve to be a duke, however.”
“I felt the same, though I should still like to meet him again.”
“So you may devour him with your eyes once more?” Smith blushes hotly, and Chris laughs. “You were quite obvious.”
“Perhaps you should take your own advice, and be quiet and eat a sandwich.”
Chris only smiles, and turns back to his task at the wardrobe.
It is a week or so later that Smith is finally, finally permitted to insert some colour back into his wardrobe.
“Thank the Lord,” he says happily, as Chris helps him into his finest green waistcoat. “I have missed colours that are not black .”
“I know,” Chris rolls his eyes, moving to button the garment closed. “It’s not as if you have mentioned it at every available opportunity.”
Smith grins at him cheekily, arranging his collar and playing with his cravat.
“Will you be accompanying me on my errands about the town today?”
“If you should like me to.”
“I would,” Smith smiles at him, and Chris smiles back. “Go get your coat.”
It is peaceful in the county today, they find, though many are pleased to see the viscount out and about away from the manor. It is a long day, however, and they are both delighted to return to the manor after taking tea for the fifth time with one of the many local farmers.
“We should go dancing,” Smith announces when they’ve retired to the drawing room. Chris follows him, sets a tray of tea down on the table and takes a seat opposite. “I’ve not been dancing in quite some time.”
“You don’t mean today, surely?”
“No, of course not. Next week, perhaps. A lesser baron of Devon is throwing a ball, if you should like to come.”
“I’ve nothing to wear.”
“Nonsense,” Smith waves a hand, airily and dismissive. “We shall buy you something, then. I do not wish to go alone.”
Chris nods, acquiescing and admitting defeat. They fall into a comfortable silence, and Smith occupies himself reading a small quarto of poetry.
“Have you read Byron’s newest stanzas?” he says after a moment, gesturing at the paper.
“He has time for poetry?” Chris asks incredulously. “Isn’t he somewhat preoccupied with fucking his way through the upper classes?”
Smith laughs, barking loud and brash.
“I never said it was good, I only said it was poetry,” he smiles, offering him the paper. “Here.”
“The Duke of Gloucester’s son sent you a letter, if you missed it,” Chris says as he takes the papers and peruses them. “His father is taken ill.”
“A shame, though not unexpected,” Smith says, pouring another cup of tea. “That generation have become frail and brittle with age. He seemed unsteady at our own meeting.”
“He wrote to say he worries his father will pass soon, and seeks solace in our company over the course of the coming months. I left the letter on your nightstand.”
“We’ll arrange to visit after the dance next week -we’ll take the carriage up,” Smith plots idly, reaching for a book on the rights of woman from the shelf beside him. “I wonder why he asked us.”
“I daresay he has no other peers,” Chris replies, leafing further through the poem. “Likewise, we only have each other.”
“I had suspected as much,” Smith replies with a sad, concerned look. “I’ll write him on the morrow, inform him of our plans. I had had some thought to visit him before he wrote to me.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad of it. Now come, you should be abed, you’ve had a busy day and doubtless more will follow. Up.”
Chris raps him playfully on the forehead with the poetry papers, and Smith pouts childishly back, but goes quietly anyway.
“How am I supposed to tie this infernal contraption?” Chris complains, frowning into the mirror and desperately attempting to neaten his cravat.
“Not at all like that,” Smith laughs. He himself has his shirt and cravat on and neatly pressed, with his waistcoat and jacket waiting for him. “Here. Let me help.”
Chris looks at him despairingly as Smith unties the mess of a knot and fixes it, leaving it sitting neatly but artistically dishevelled against his throat. Christopher helps him into his waistcoat, buttoning it neatly against him and smoothing it down.
“Now, do you remember how to dance?” Smith had taught him that morning, clunkily twirling around the entrance hall much to the despair of the majordomo. “Or shall we go over it again?”
“I think I know, but I’d like to check anyway,” Chris lifts his shoulders, holds out his arms for Smith to step forwards. “I’ll lead.”
Smith takes his hand, pulls him up to his breast and slides a hand to his hip. Chris takes his first tentative step forwards, and Smith responds, stepping backwards effortlessly. They dance a tight waltz –though Smith’s dressing room is large, it is filled with obnoxious soft furnishings and tables.
“Not bad,” Smith says after a few moments, following Chris’s movements. “You’re warming to it.”
“I had a good teacher,” Chris smiles, squeezing Smith’s hip involuntarily.
The kiss blindsides him, almost knocks the breath out of his lungs. Smith kisses how he talks, brash and eager, and refined all at once. Chris stops, takes it in and kisses him back for a moment, allowing himself to touch Smith at the hip, to run his hands up his sides against the coarse fabric of his waistcoat.
Chris pulls away first, finally, and stares up at him.
“You kissed me.”
“I kissed you, yes.”
“What for?”
“I’d hoped it was quite obvious what for,” Smith goes red up to his ears, tousling the once-perfect curls about his forehead. “I’m rather taken with you.”
“People like you don’t just kiss people like me. That’s absolutely, categorically not how it works,” Chris insists, breaking away from him and moving towards the door. “People like you certainly don’t kiss people like me like that .”
“How are you to know that? Do noblemen kiss you often?”
“That is not –I did not mean that, and you know that much,” Chris retorts. “You are the Viscount of a wealthy, desirable suburb and you are to marry the daughter of another wealthy Duke or Earl or Baron because that is how things work. You do not and will not have- have dalliances with the common men in your service.”
“Chris, please, I-”
“I have let myself get too close to you,” he shakes his head, clenching his fists at his side. “It is unprofessional, and will not happen again. I shall see you on the morrow for our journey to Gloucester. Enjoy your dance, my Lord.”
And with that he leaves, closing the heavy wooden door behind him as quietly as he can manage. Smith watches him go, and curses himself for ever thinking that would work.
They journey to Gloucester the following morning in silence, Chris busying himself with a long, thick agenda, and Smith with a hefty tome of pamphlets on the Luddite rebellions. It takes many hours to get there, and upon arrival Chris excuses himself to settle in the servant’s quarters, following one of the scullery maids down into the cellars. He misses Smith’s stricken expression as he goes.
Ross shakes his hand warmly when he exits the grand manor doors. He looks Smith up and down curiously, noting that he looks somewhat more dishevelled than usual.
“Come, I’ll show you to your rooms,” Ross beckons him inside with a hand on his waist. “Are you quite well?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll survive,” Smith takes his bag from the butler that had arrived to relieve him of it. “How goes your father?”
“He worsens by the day. I worry constantly that he will not last the night,” Ross admits, his expression open but concerned. “You must understand, what with your own father passing so recently.”
“I do,” Smith lies easily, feeling a little terrible for it as Ross opens the door to a palatial guest suite. “It is never easy to lose a parent –my mother, she died nearly a decade ago now, and it never gets easier with time, though everyone insists it will.”
“My mother was the same, and my younger sister with her,” Ross sympathises with a solemn nod, fixing his eyes on the floor. “Some days I worry I am forgetting how she looked.”
Smith drops a consoling hand on his shoulder, offering a light squeeze of support.
“It does not do well to dwell on such things,” he says, older than his years. “If there is one thing this life has taught me, it is that much.”
“You’re right,” Ross nods weakly, fingers worrying the cuffs of his coat sleeves. “I should let you get some rest. You’ve had a very long journey. Until tomorrow, Viscount.”
“Goodnight, my Lord,” Smith raises a hand in farewell as Ross excuse himself. He sinks into the chair opposite the vanity and sighs dejectedly, studying the mess his curls had become over the journey. He frowns, summoning a pail of water and setting about curling them alone.
“My Lord.”
He wakes the next morning to Chris’s voice, and a gentle nudge against his shoulder.
“My Lord,” Chris says again, and Smith opens his eyes to a concerned face. “My Lord the Duke of Gloucester requests your presence in the dining hall immediately.”
Smith rises and dresses hurriedly, uncurling and ruffling his hair quickly as he runs for the grand central stairway, following the scullery maid who gestures towards a large set of wooden doors that sit ajar.
He enters, and Ross sits at the head of the table, his hands steepled and a cold cup of tea sitting beside him. The maid meets Chris’s eyes and the two of them bow shallowly and excuse themselves.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Smith says, pulling out the chair nearest to Ross and sitting down as carefully as he can. “Is your father…”
“He has passed on, yes,” Ross replies shakily with a terse nod of his head. “I’ve sent for my sister the Duchess of Edinburgh and her husband, and they intend to travel here as soon as possible.”
“Would you like myself and Chris to stay here until they arrive? If not longer after that?” Smith offers, reaching over and carefully touching the back of the other man’s wrist.
“If you could, that would be appreciated, yes,” Ross looks at him with wet eyes. “I cannot stand the thought of rattling around this empty house alone.”
“It is a terrible thing, to be alone,” Smith says thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand and wringing his wrists. “I confess, I don’t much like the thought of you being alone at such a time.”
Ross smiles weakly at him, reaches out and touches his shoulder.
“Thank you, my friend,” he starts sincerely, giving Smith’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We should go riding, or walking, perhaps. I think it may help take the edge off.”
“Of course,” Smith concedes, getting to his feet. “Come, let us go walking then. I should like to see more of your county.”
They retire to one of the manor’s many drawing rooms upon their return, and take tea and bread around a small window table.
“Something eats at you,” Ross states matter of factly, fixing Smith with a firm stare. “I’m not going to ask you what, but should you desire to speak with someone about it, consider me an option. I am aware we are hardly yet bosom buddies, but I dislike the thought of your suffering immensely.”
“It is nothing, not compared to your experiences at any rate,” Smith shakes his head, looking away. “I simply made a romantic advance that I expected to be reciprocated and found myself spurned.”
“Is she pretty?”
“He is, very,” Smith corrects him, only minutely worried that he has disclosed too much. “We’ve known each other many years, but it is only very recently that I have -I have found myself wanting him.”
“Your valet, Christopher, is it?” Ross asks, cocking his head at him. “It wouldn’t happen to be him, would it?”
Smith flushes high on his cheeks and Ross smiles sheepishly, knowing he’s right before he even opens his mouth.
“He returned my kiss but denied my affections. He says that men like me are destined for tedious marriages with rich women.”
“Well, traditionally speaking, men like us are ,” Ross smiles at him in what he hopes is a friendly fashion. “It doesn’t mean you must consign yourself to it, though.”
“I know, and I have absolutely no desire to do so,” Smith grumbles. “I have no interest in marrying a woman to further my family’s already tenuous link to my titles. Women have a certain charm to them, of that I’m sure, but they hold none in my eyes and I shan’t marry one.”
“And no one will make you do so!” Ross laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Your parents are gone and you have no siblings, so if you wish to spend your time kissing pretty boys until you meet your end then you certainly can.”
Smith watches him, not with a stare but with a look of interest, and ducks his head in embarrassment, studying the cuffs of his jacket.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely, nodding to himself. “This has helped to quell my worries.”
Ross smiles at him, and Smith stares for a moment, considering, before he leans in to press a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth.
“I should go,” Smith shakes his head and moves to excuse himself, embarrassed and flushing to his ears. “Sleep calls.”
“We should have dinner. Tomorrow,” Ross says quickly, following behind as Smith makes his way to the door. “There is a new dining hall, in the city. If anyone asks, we could say we were toasting the memory of my father’s life and livelihood?”
“That -that sounds wonderful, actually,” Smith blushes softly again and looks at his feet. Absently, he notes that his shoes need shining.
“Good,” Ross smiles. “Until tomorrow?”
Smith nods, mumbles a goodnight, and is about to turn to leave when Ross ducks in to return his earlier kiss. Smith grins all the way back to his quarters.
Chris comes to his quarters to ready him for his evening out. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and Smith desperately tries to think of something to say to break the tension. He’s standing silently, half dressed in a ruffled shirt and fitted cream trousers.
“Will you be wearing the blue or the brown?” Chris gestures at the two coats in the wardrobe, and Smith looks up at him, playing absently with the ruffles at his throat.
“The blue,” Smith says. Chris had said before that blue was most suited to his complexion, something about it complementing the shade of his eyes.
Chris hands him a pale blue waistcoat, helping him shrug it onto his shoulders to fasten the buttons. He’s frowning, working as quickly as he can, and Smith itches to kiss him, to press his lips to his brow and melt his bad mood away. He refrains, narrowly, remembering the response last time, how he’s the reason Chris is barely talking to him as the situation currently stands.
“Your coat,” Chris is holding out the jacket to him, refusing to look at him. “You’ll find your boots at the foot of the bed. I had one of the other staff shine them yesterday. Enjoy your evening, my Lord.”
He exits with a quick, shallow bow, and Smith immediately sinks to sit on the edge of the bed. He wants to swear, wants to curse himself and every sick thing in his life that made him this way, but he stops. He pulls at his sleeves, largely to stop himself muddling his curls –Chris had finally agreed to start helping him with the papers last night and he’s loath to ruin it now– and breathes slowly to calm himself.
He stands after what feels like hours, shrugs on his boots and coat sluggishly, and makes his way to the entrance hall. Ross is waiting for him, talking quietly with the scullery maid who seems to have taken a shine to Chris.
Ross smiles when he sees him, dismissing the maid with a warm smile and a hand on her shoulder. He steps forward, holding a hand out as Smith descends the final few steps.
“You look lovely,” Ross says, taking his hand and linking their arms together companionably. “Blue is a good colour on you.”
“Thank you,” Smith smiles, letting Ross lead him through the heavy manor doors and out towards the waiting carriage. “You look quite handsome yourself.”
Ross blushes up to his ears, opening the carriage door and ushering Smith inside. Smith studies him in the half-light, admiring the sharp edge of his jaw and the stubble gathering there, the shape of his nose in the last light of the evening sun. He’s wearing all black, excepting his shirt, as is customary for a son mourning his father, but it suits him, elongating his already tall and lithe shape.
The dinner is a lovely affair, the hall quiet as though the staff had known of the occasion. Smith laughs at all of Ross’s bad jokes and clever words, how his smile glows in the lamplight. Ross walks him back to his quarters, and Smith props himself against the doorframe, shrugging his coat off his shoulders and hooking it over his arm.
“Thank you for tonight,” he smiles at Ross, not quite to his eyes but more than he has in recent days. “It was lovely.”
“You don’t look happy,” Ross comments, reaching forward and bracketing Smith’s shoulder with an arm.
“It is one thing to fall for a member of your staff,” Smith sighs heavily, folding his arms over his chest defensively. “But another entirely to fall for a noble beyond your status at the same time.”
Ross kisses him quiet, crowds Smith back against the wall with a hand at his waist. It’s not as delicate nor as tentative as Smith had imagined in his most private moments, rather more eager and almost frantic. Smith kisses him back, all hard angles and a hand pushing at his coat until it drops with a heavy thud to the floor.
Smith licks into his mouth, takes in the pressure of Ross pressing his lower back hard into the detailing on the wall and smiles, fingers fumbling for the buttons on his waistcoat. Ross laughs softly, warmly against his lips and reaches behind him to struggle against the heavy door.
They stumble through with a crash and a companionable laugh, and slam the door behind them, missing the figure at the end of the hall. Chris swallows thickly, sets down the pail of water he’d intended to use to help Smith curl his hair, and turns with a miserable sniff to return to his quarters.
“My Lords?” A female voice wakes them in the morning, her gentle tones filtering through the door. “There is something urgent I must speak with you about. May I come in?”
“A moment, Kim,” Ross says groggily, shuffling around under the covers until he finds Smith’s shoulder to squeeze him awake. Smith grumbles at him, but sits upright nonetheless, fingers carding through impossibly messy hair.
“What’s the matter?” Smith asks unhappily, foraging around the room for his smallclothes. “It’s still very early, I’d hoped-”
“As kissable as you are, I do not wish to drive myself to distraction while my poor housekeeper waits outside to speak with us,” Ross smiles fondly at him, leaning into him to kiss him regardless. Smith mumbles an accession and dresses, lending Ross a clean outfit so as not to cause more embarrassment in front of his staff.
Ross finally opens the door, and Kim stands there in her uniform, long black gown hiding her form. She toys with her apron and avoids looking at either of them for longer than she must.
“I’m sorry to disturb you on what I’m sure promised to be a lovely morning, but I’m afraid, Viscount Somerset, something’s happened. I don’t know when, but when I awoke this morning and called the staff, Chris didn’t respond. I asked Mr. Jones to check his quarters for me, to make sure nothing untoward had happened, and, well –I’m afraid, my Lord, that Chris has left. There’s no sign of him, and when Mr. Jones checked the stables, one of the horses had gone. I’m sorry, Lord Smith. He didn’t leave a note.”
Ross seeks Smith’s hand, desperately hoping to comfort him. Smith’s breathing is heavy and hitched, and he turns to hide his face from both of them and busies himself with gathering his clothes into a hurried pile.
“Thank you, Kim,” Ross nods at her, effectively dismissing her. She smiles weakly, offers a shallow curtsey and excuses herself.
“What are you doing?” Ross asks as he turns to Smith, who is messily throwing all of his worldly possessions into the trunk at the foot of his bed.
“I must return to Somerset immediately,” he says, all but launching a pair of boots into his trunk. “Chris hates riding, more so alone. The thought of him riding alone for all those hours, going home to an empty manor with no company but his thoughts –I don’t like it.”
“You could write, tell your other staff to be ready for his return?” Ross suggests, but this does nothing to help Smith’s frantic packing. “Smith, please calm down. Alex.”
Smith whips his head up to look at him, eyes worried.
“If I take only a horse, will you be able to join me in Somerset soon? Bringing my things with you, of course, and Kim if you so wish, but I must-”
Ross takes hold of his upper arm, squeezes in a way he hopes is comforting.
“Please be calm. If you ride today, you will only hurt yourself and perhaps kill the horse. Wait, at least until tomorrow, then we can take the carriage and I’ll know you’re safe. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Respect you though I do, Ross, I cannot wait,” Smith sighs heavily, scrunching up a shirt or two and forcing them into a gap in his trunk. “The longer I wait, the longer Chris goes thinking I do not care for him, or that he is somehow worth less than you or I –and though I’m quite sure that’s what he already believes, I refuse to prolong it any longer. I must tell him otherwise.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a touch ridiculous?” Ross presses, and Smith levels him with a tempestuous stare. “I do not mean to imply that our relationship is somehow more important than yours with Chris, but for the sake of your own safety you must reconsider. A storm is coming.”
“Quite honestly, I could not care less,” Smith huffs, finally stopping to straighten himself out and tug his riding boots on to his feet. “The man that I find myself wanting to spend each day and each night with runs from me and the longer I stand here the further he flees.”
Ross swallows, more hurt by Smith’s words than he at first dares to let on.
“ The man?”
“Do not think I do not care deeply for you,” Smith insists, stepping into Ross’s personal space and kissing him firmly, trying to say with his actions what he cannot with words. “I do, and I wish you to know that. I feel the same for Chris as I do you, and I must go to him in his time of need, lest I lose him completely.”
Ross nods; he thinks he begins to understand now, how Smith’s ability to love both himself and Chris does not diminish his meaning, and kisses him back.
“Follow me, to Somerset,” Smith insists, his hands at Ross’s jaw. “As soon as you can. I want -there are few things I want more than for you and Chris to meet and understand each other, and my affections for you both.”
Ross nods again, rather at a loss for words. He reaches out, fastens Smith’s coat for him and smooths down the rich blue fabric.
“Please be careful,” Ross finally says, pressing his hands down along Smith’s chest. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I know, darling, I know,” Smith is suddenly sincere, pulling Ross into his arms and dropping idle kisses into his hairline. “I promise I’ll be as safe as I am able.”
Ross kisses him again, softer this time, laced with affection he cannot voice.
“Go,” he insists, ushering Smith towards the door. “I’ll join you in a few days. Think of me.”
“Every moment,” Smith replies fondly, pressing a last farewell kiss on the corner of Ross’s mouth as he hurries out towards the hall. Ross watches him go, lingering back on the stairs as Smith all but runs to the stables and his horse. He swallows, studies the intricate carpeting on the floor and turns to return upstairs. He supposes he should prepare for his trip, but he finds he hasn’t the heart.
Smith charges home, arriving in the early hours of the next morning as the sun starts to rise over the fields nearby. Lewis is waiting for him in the entrance hall, looking exhausted from his perch in an armchair by the door to the kitchens.
“Where is he?” Smith asks, dripping rainwater onto the carpet; Ross had been right about the storm. “Lewis, is Chris here?”
“He was in the stables,” Lewis tells him, dragging himself to his feet and approaching Smith warily. “Sir, you must dry off and warm up. You’ll catch a chill.”
“In a moment,” Smith shakes his head, turning and marching back through the large front doors. He passes the stablemaster on his way, who is busying himself with tying up the viscount’s tired horse, and making sure he’s fed and watered. Smith ignores him, walking through the stables when he doesn’t see Chris hiding amongst the hay.
It’s still raining heavily, and he spots Chris a mile away, soothing his horse and standing soaked to the skin near the external boxes.
“Chris!”
Chris turns to him, his face somewhere between appalled and confused as Smith comes running to him, squinting through the weak, early sun, and the sleet bouncing down around them.
“I’m sorry,” Smith says once he’s at arms length. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. Ross and I-”
“I know, I should’ve always known,” Chris shakes his head, ignoring the rain in his eyes. “I understand. He is a more acceptable suitor than I will ever be, and that’s fine. You must do what is best for you.”
“I intend to,” Smith surges forward, cupping his jaw and pulling him into a searing, hot kiss. Chris mumbles against his mouth, hesitant for longer than he’d ever admit, before his hands go to grab the sodden lapels of Smith’s coat. Smith fumbles for Chris’s waist, hands gripping at the thick chino fabric of his breeches, pulling him even further in.
Chris pulls away after a moment, but keeps him close, hands sliding to Smith’s neck and teeth worrying his lip.
“What about Ross?” he asks, almost regretting it; he knows he needs to know for his own sake as much as Smith’s, so as not to waste any time.
“I desire you both, together,” Smith tells him, pulling him tight to his chest in a desperate attempt to keep them both warm. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Chris opens and closes his mouth, wants to tell him that actually, yes it is, when Ross is a much more obvious, sensible choice for a man of his status and prestige, how falling for a servant was so, monumentally unwise–
Smith kisses him again, soft and at the corner of his mouth.
“I can hear you thinking,” he mumbles quietly, pressing a kiss into Chris’s wet hair. “Come, let’s get inside before you catch your death.”
Lewis has apparently taken the initiative to start a fire in the enormous fireplace in the sitting room, and stands looking exhausted at the foot of the stairs with the two largest towels he’d been able to find in the house.
He hands them to Smith silently, looking the young viscount up and down carefully but saying nothing. Smith nods at him to dismiss him, and quickly wraps Chris in a towel and ushers him to the floor in front of the fire. He removes his soaking jacket, draping it over a chair for his staff to deal with later, wraps himself in his own towel, and drops himself to the floor beside Chris.
“Let me sort your boots,” Smith offers, holding out his hands. Chris shifts so Smith can reach his shoes, unlacing them and leaving them by the fire to dry. “Here.”
He opens his arms out towards Chris, who frowns at him for a moment before conceding and squashing close next to him. Smith’s hair is still wet, loose blonde curls darkened by the water sitting limply and frizzing as they dry; Chris privately dreads trying to curl it again.
“I suppose this is only to last until the Duke of Gloucester arrives?” Chris asks with a heavy, defeated sigh. “I assume he’s following you in a more sensible mode of transport.”
“He is, but that is not the case,” Smith says, biting at his lip in concern. “I said before, I desire you both. At once. I hold each of you dear. Besides which, he wouldn’t like it if you called him by his title. He likes you.”
“And you expect the Duke –Ross, beg pardon– to be alright with this? While I believe you are perfectly capable of sharing your affections, is he so sure?”
“We entered into our affair with him well aware of my feelings for you, so I would hope he’s quite sure,” Smith smiles softly, pulls Chris in tighter to press his face into his hair. “Privately I believe he harbours some affection for you himself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chris scoffs, tucking himself comfortably under Smith’s arm. “It is ludicrous enough that one nobleman should profess any interest in me, let alone two at once.”
“Why is it so unlikely to you that Ross and I should find you attractive?” Smith presses, watching the fire lick at the stones of the hearth. “You are pleasant, funny, learned, and frankly I can’t think of anything more enjoyable than spending time in your presence. And if you believe that from me, then believe it from Ross.”
“I hardly know Ross, and he has seen me for all of perhaps half an hour,” Chris rebuffs him grumpily. “He wouldn’t know me from the next passing man on the street.”
“Perhaps not,” Smith agrees with a soft shrug and a sigh. “But he has heard me speak of you, and if the strength of my speech is enough to convince him you are worth kissing then perhaps you should consider listening.”
Chris makes a quiet noise, apparently too tired to argue further, and leans his head into Smith’s neck, seeking out his heat. Smith lets him sit quiet, and eventually the two fall asleep in a pile of damp towels and body heat.
Ross arrives a few days later, looking tired from the trip and bogged down with several trunks. Chris is nervous, hanging back away from Smith when he leaves to greet him. He kisses him, fondly and on the cheek, and it makes Ross blush –Chris wonders when he started to find that attractive.
Objectively, he thinks, Ross is handsome; he has all the lines of an aristocrat, the strength in his shoulders and the long, firm shape of his legs. His hair is greying around the temples, and his hair that patently refuses to curl sits in a loose shape across his forehead. Chris swallows hard, well aware that he’s not much particularly to look at, but steeling himself nonetheless and finally making his way to join the others in the doorway.
Ross spots him before Smith does, releasing him with a quick kiss to his forehead before he turns to address Chris.
“It is good to see you’re okay, Chris. Alex was worried,” he looks him up and down, and Chris worries he’s paying too much attention to his worn boots and old breeches. “As was I, come to think of it.”
Chris smiles weakly at him, looking over his shoulder at Smith, who is tugging the heavy doors closed and approaching them both, worrying at the sleeves of his jacket. He slips a hand around Chris’s waist, fingers soothing at the line where his shirt tucks into his breeches.
“You needn’t have been,” Chris laughs softly, leaning into Smith more than he means to, hoping Ross doesn’t notice. Ross only smiles at him, reaching to offer a comforting hand to his shoulder.
Chris expects him to kiss him then, but Ross doesn’t, only squeezes his shoulder and offers him a small, almost fond smile.
Their first kiss actually comes a few days later, when Smith has gotten them closer acquainted, and is watching the two of them bicker over a game of backgammon from the other side of the drawing room. Ross is losing, though he insists he isn’t, and Chris had been laughing in such an infectious, happy way that he’d felt compelled to lean over the table and kiss him.
Smith watches them from his chair, eyebrows raised as he peers over a thin, worn copy of a Voltaire novel. Ross kisses differently to Smith, Chris thinks idly, as Ross’s fingers wander across his neck.
“I had wondered when that would happen,” Smith pipes up with a smirk, closing his novel and getting to his feet.
“Always ruining the mood, Alex,” Ross looks at him with affection, his voice fond.
“Be quiet,” Chris shakes his head at the both of them, silently despairing. “I was enjoying that.”
“Good,” Ross kisses him again, and Smith looks between the two of them, wondering which god he had pleased to deserve them. He pulls up a chair, rests a hand on Chris’s knee and sets about peppering Ross’s cheek with kisses, trailing down towards the low collar of his casual shirt.
He wakes up, some hours later, unsure of the time but aware he’s in the huge, plush bed of the master suite. Ross is asleep behind him, an arm lazily around his waist and his nose pressed to the back of his neck, breathing soft. Smith smiles, shuffling back into his warmth and squeezing at Chris’s hip. Chris rolls over and looks at him, bleary eyed, and Smith presses a quiet, quick kiss to his forehead. Chris smiles, still barely awake, searches for his hand to squeeze and promptly falls back asleep with his head against his collarbone.
“Love you,” Smith says, louder than he means to, and the men either side of him shift. Ross mumbles something like an ‘and I, you’ and Chris makes a quiet, sleepy noise that sounds pleased nonetheless, and continues to bury his face into Smith’s neck.
Smith grins, beaming stupidly to himself, and wonders how on earth he got this lucky.