more persuasive would be to . . . yes, that. Oh, yes.”
And for a time Rafe was unable to speak, and then it was William’s breath that had grown ragged. “But I am discomfiting you,” said Rafe, his eyes wide and innocent. “Forgive me, good my lord. I don’t know what could possibly have possessed me.”
William’s fingers moved to unbutton Rafe’s robe and allow it to fall, to untie and toss his shirt to the floor, forgotten, to run smooth hands up and down his skin, caressing peaks of muscle and valleys of sinew.
Rafe leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and smiled the small smile of the cat who has come upon a dish it thought empty and found it full of milk. His pulse slowed and he breathed more easily, now that he was back on familiar ground; this was a pose that he knew well. Joshua would be scandalized and delighted in equal parts. To say nothing, of course, of how Rafe might make use of what was happening to influence the choice of faculty on his committee. This man could probably exclude de Bertel with a flutter of his little finger. Smiling, Rafe extended his arms above his head, his eyes half closed, as William’s mouth found chest, collarbone, neck, throat, earlobe—
And then stopped. Rafe opened his eyes. William had pulled away from him.
“Where are you?” asked William.
“What do you mean?” Rafe, languid, pulled William’s hand lazily to his mouth, tasting on his fingertips the slight, faint bitterness of the chocolate they had so recently grated. Rafe’s eyes were heavy, his lids half closed, his face relaxed in an expression that frequent and effective use had made second nature. “I’m right in front of you.”
William withdrew his hand and Rafe’s brow creased. “No, you’re not. This is somebody different. Where’s the man who ran to my bookshelves two minutes ago to show me how putrescent my books were?” Rafe’s skin felt warm and his breath began to quicken. “He’s the one I want to be with.” William was looking at him with disapproval. “Not you.”
Rafe jerked as if he’d been punched, his stomach tightening, his hands clenching. “Gods!” he said, and stood up, his lips twitching. “Tell me how in the Seven Hells you voted!”
“This,” said William, “is much more to my taste,” and enfolded him again, and this time the feeling was one with which Rafe was entirely unfamiliar. All thought of de Bertel and Joshua and the movement of the heavenly bodies left his thoughts, to be replaced by the greedy hands on his shoulders, on his back, lower, the wet breath quick between the two of them, the delicious sting of teeth on his lips.
And then he leapt back at William, devouring everything he could touch, as if he were starving, fast, quick, careless, lingering nowhere, taking in as much as possible, with an abandon that frightened him, fingers splayed, now standing, now lush carpet, soft as a kitten, on his back, skin hot as fever.
“This?” William’s voice was quiet but steady.
“Yes.”
“And here?”
Rafe stiffened. “I only—I’m always the one who—”
“Shh.” William stroked his face. “Allow this.”
And Rafe could only melt, and they moved together, and over the heat in his belly he started making sounds he’d never heard before, and William’s arms tight around him always, keeping him safe and releasing him at the same time, and oh, the pain, so sweet in surrender, and finally he gave a small cry and shuddered and William stiffened and there was paradise and then again the room was silent except for the sound of the fire and of the breath of the two men as it gradually slowed.
After some minutes, William rolled over onto his side and caressed Rafe’s face with the feathery touch of two fingers. “This school. How are you going to go about starting it?”
“Once I’ve figured out where to get the money to do it, I’ll rent rooms somewhere.”
“Who else will teach there? And how will people find out about it?”
“I don’t know, they’ll just . . .” When no answer came to him he brought William’s fingers to his lips instead.
“It’s a compelling idea, but you seem to be somewhat vague on the specifics.” Rafe said nothing. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
“Oh?”
“Well. I can’t fund the whole thing myself, but I can certainly help. And the Tremontaine estates are not a school, but I do have some little experience managing things. For example, you—”
Rafe tried to focus on the school, but the odors of apricot and cinnamon and sweat in his nose made it impossible. “Time enough for that later.”
“To be sure.”
“In the meantime, is it possible now to tell me how you voted?” Flirtation rather than a real question; it was obvious the man with him had stood against the measure.
“Well,” said William. A pause. Longer. Finally: “I voted for the measure.” A sudden dizziness came upon Rafe even though he was lying down. He tried to sit up, failed. “I thought we couldn’t trust the doctors produced by the University if they could manipulate their teachers like so many pieces in a game of shesh.” The words kept coming, tripping over themselves. “But after listening to you I see I was wrong. I’ll start working immediately to reverse the decision.” William swallowed. “If I can.” Silence. “The Board of Governors doesn’t meet again until the fall, though.” More silence. “So nothing will happen until at least next year.”
Rafe finally stood, rigid. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment until he was able to speak. “My lord.” He reached for cold rage, fumbled for it in the whirling tumult of his emotions. Found anger of a sort, but only mixed with agitation, confusion, doubt. “I fear I must take my leave. I’m late for . . . I have a . . .” And without finishing the sentence, he put on his clothes and left the room.
He staggered down the grand stairs, the paintings on the wall of Tremontaines past in their gilded frames mocking him, the odor of salmon wafting up from the ducal kitchens, the smooth grain of the wood balustrade under his hand, the creaks and sighs of the ancient house settling mocking him. Oh, how great a fool he had been played for! His face tightened, his chest constricted, his skin hot, his breath unsteady, and he all but collided with a woman in silk and lace ascending the stairs.
“Pardon me,” she said, and even he could hear the frost in her voice.
Rafe found the rage he’d been searching for. “I don’t think I shall!” he cried, “Why should I? You’re all the same, toying with our lives and then discarding us when you grow bored and going back to your damned chocolate! The world is changing, you know, and soon none of this”—he gestured wildly at the grandeur around them—“is going to matter at all! If it even lasts.”
She paled, which only spurred him on.
“That would just serve you right, wouldn’t it?” he said. “I hope you lose every last stick of furniture you have, I hope you have to wander the streets, begging for scraps of food like the rest of us, while the people with power turn you into their playthings, your hopes and dreams and desires nothing but cards in a tiresome game played for minnows!”
She swayed slightly on the stairs, her face completely white. A meaningless victory, but a victory nonetheless. Rafe grinned viciously, ran down the rest of the stairs and out the door into the street, where servants and coachmen looked curiously at him as he passed.
• • •
Her meeting with the awful student was not, to the sorrow of the Duchess Tremontaine, the most difficult moment she was to face this day. She was already on edge about what would happen to her resources, even to her marriage, should her efforts with the Kinwiinik fail to bear fruit: for to lose Highcombe, the great Tremontaine property she had staked as surety against her secret but substantial interests in the ill-fated trading ship Everfair would be a humiliation too great to contemplate.