One Night in London: Robert and Anthony

London, April 1818

In his brother’s study, gazing blankly at the window and the bustle of city street below, Robert Thorne decided that he did not want to get married.

He said it aloud: “I don’t want to get married.” The serene greyness of London shrugged back at him from the other side of thick glass; he winced from implacability and turned away. “I know I have to. I know. Don’t say it.”

Over at the side of the room, Anthony stopped examining book-spines to swing that discerning gaze Robert’s direction. “I said nothing. Perhaps you’re feeling guilty.” As usual, his eyes raked across Robert’s outpouring of emotion with no discernible reaction, too dark to easily read; also as usual, his posture remained flawless, thick black hair neatly brushed back, every tidy inch of him a reproof to Robert’s flailing.

“I could fire you,” Robert said, not seriously; he’d made the threat before. He wouldn’t carry it out, which he assumed Anthony knew.

Anthony Price had been his secretary for over a year now, and they were friends, of a sort. For a certain definition of friends. Anthony hadn’t been his choice, but his brother’s; James tended to believe that the viscount’s title gave him the right to manage not only the estate but everyone else’s lives as well. Robert, on the other hand, tended to believe that James had no right to interfere with the pursuit of pleasure.

The thought, as usual, made him feel guilty. James might be stern and officious and prone to ordering the world around; but James was also his brother. And had been through enough, a widower with two small children and an estate that never had recovered from generations of overspending and hapless mismanagement before that. James tried to control the world because anything else meant chaos; Robert understood as much.

He simply wished James hadn’t extended that philosophy to him.

A problem, he thought. Something else to be solved. To be managed. With an advantageous marriage, a requirement for family dinners, and a secretary to organize daily life. James had hired Anthony Price and Anthony’s miracle-worker reputation; James approved of Anthony’s tidiness. James did not approve of Robert.

Here, in his brother’s small but well-appointed study, in the once-fashionable but aging family townhouse, Robert considered scotch, longingly; he considered Anthony, also longingly. Pleasures, and forbidden. Not an option. Not now, and not ever; Anthony worked for the family, and that was that. Despite luscious lips and stern features and competent hands that caught every single one of Robert’s interests.

He’d meant the comment about firing Anthony as a joke. Unserious. Like himself. He’d never recall appointments or find his left boot without those dark eyes directing him. He knew.

Anthony kept Robert’s correspondence with everyone from boot-makers to booksellers to lovers in flawless order, handled their finances without comment, and always seemed to know where Robert had set down a flamboyantly entertaining Gothic novel or how to hire a new footman or when to quietly pour a glass of the good whiskey. Anthony had come with excellent recommendations and the ever-present ache of a cautionary tale; everyone knew the Price family had once had a fortune.

And now Anthony stood here. In Robert’s brother’s study, preparing to attend Robert’s own engagement ball, because Robert had asked. Because Robert needed at least one person on his side.

Because he wanted that person to be Anthony. He’d wanted that ever since the first day they’d met. Since Anthony Price had shaken his hand, firm as the core of the earth, and looked at him as if seeing right through him, and Robert’s pulse had jumped and danced under the press of those fingers.

Anthony’s expression had now gone even more immobile than usual. Not a good sign. “You could indeed request my dismissal. Technically I am employed by your brother, not you. But if you were unhappy with my work—”

“Oh, for—” He waved an arm in exasperation. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” Anthony touched the books again, evidently just because: gaze and fingertips trailing over leather, calfskin, gilt etching. “You could be rid of me tonight. If you desired.”

“I wouldn’t.” Robert took a step over his direction. “I was making a joke.”

Anthony just looked at him. Robert wanted to reach out, wanted to touch him; wanted to stick a hand down his own throat and pull out the boot that was so plainly lodged there; wanted to lurch back in time and take back his own words. He knew Anthony’s income depended on him. He did know.

And he felt about two feet tall. Emotions before words, as always. Not thinking. Unaware of consequence. Everything his brother thought he was, and worse.