Leaving Christopher and going back to Wiltshire with Caroline had been a turning point for Henry. His self-denial had become complete as he devoted himself to his family, ignoring his desires entirely and lashing himself with guilt whenever he so much as thought about them—because how could he be so selfish when his family needed him?
As for Christopher, when it became apparent that Henry was never going to receive a reply to his letter, he tried not to think of him at all if he could possibly help it.
But he could not control his dreams, or the idle thoughts that would sometimes catch him unawares.
The year after Caroline’s death had passed in a kind of blur—Henry couldn’t remember feeling much of anything at all except a grinding sort of grief—but as time wore on, his desires gradually came bubbling back to the surface, refusing to be suppressed.
Henry tried everything he could to distract himself—the children took up much of his time during the day, and he filled the rest with busy work he could have handed off to his steward. He began drinking late into the night after the children had gone to bed to avoid his dreams and numb his pain. Whatever he did, though, it made no difference. Despite being surrounded by people, he felt very alone. There was no one who knew him—the real, whole man.
After Alice died, his melancholy grew much worse. And on one long and sleepless night, he’d left the house and walked into the middle of the woods at the edge of the grounds. There was a deep pool there, where he and his brothers used to bathe when he was a boy.
He’d stood at the edge of that pool for God only knew how long, staring at the still, black water and thinking how peaceful it would be to slip under that glassy surface and simply… cease to be.
The one thing that had kept him standing on the bank was the thought of the three children back at the house who still badly needed him.
He could not leave them alone in the world.
At last, dawn had broken, and with it the worst of the dark spell that had held him there. He’d turned on his heel and begun a slow trudge back to the house. As he’d emerged from the edge of the woods, he’d looked up to see the sun rising over the turrets and belvederes of Avesbury House, flushing the sky delicately pink. And in that moment, he’d had a revelation: if he was to go on, he had to accept this was his nature and reconcile himself to it.
After that terrible night, somehow, slowly, Henry had managed to crawl out of the pit he had fallen into. It had not happened in one night or one week or one month. It had been a much slower and more painful journey, one that lasted years. But the revelation he’d had that morning had been the first step on a path to some sort of acceptance.
Much later, he’d begun to seek out other men who shared his nature, and who understood the need to be discreet and careful. But there was no one like Christopher. No one who was dear to him in that way. Henry made sure of that.
His encounters were infrequent and forgettable. That was all he wanted. Perhaps, it was all he could bear. There was a very big difference between the temporary physical companionship those encounters offered and what he’d had with Christopher.
Henry’s body may have finally accepted that it needed physical companionship, but his heart remained wary of love.
Even now, Henry's heart urged him to caution, whispering that perhaps he should resist the temptation to return to Redford’s tonight.
But there was another part of him—a long-dormant part—that had been wakened to tentative life a week ago.
Wakened by Christopher Redford.
Kit.
And God help him, but Henry wanted more.
Henry decided to while away the hours till evening by calling on Corbett. The man welcomed him warmly, and they spent a companionable day together. After an early dinner at his club, Corbett invited Henry to join him for a few hands of Faro.
“I can’t, I’m afraid,” Henry said, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “I’ve a previous engagement.”
“Oh? What’s this?” Corbett murmured, clearly sensing there was something more to the story. He arched one expressive brow. “Never say you met someone interesting at Redford’s last week?”
“Perhaps,” Henry said evasively. Part of him wanted to confide in his old friend about his breathtaking encounter with Christopher, but the more sensible side of him warned him to say nothing.
One thing occurred to him, though, that he wanted to talk to Corbett about. And somehow he found himself blurting it out before he could think better of it.
“Corbett, do you—that is, do you ever take the passive role?”
Corbett stared at him, wide-eyed, and Henry flushed hard.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s all right,” Corbett said with a short laugh. “It’s just—I’m surprised. Especially coming from you.”
“What do you mean, ‘coming from me’?”
Corbett frowned, looking as if he was searching for the right words. At last he said, “You were never—” He broke off. Started again. “You were not one to speak frankly of such things. Oh, we’d go to the Lily together and pick up lads”—he gave Henry a half-grin—“you even let your boy suck you in front of me once or twice, but… mostly you were quite private. You never spoke of what you liked, or what you’d tried.”
Henry smiled. “You thought me very dull, did you not?”
Corbett rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean that,” he replied. “Only that the rest of us would joke, and boast and—I suppose it was our way of finding out from one another what we preferred. But you never did that. And then you left town—I don’t suppose it’s as easy to find fellows like us when you’re living in the depths of the country?”
“No,” Henry agreed drily.
“That must have been difficult.”
Henry nodded. “And not just for the reasons you’re thinking about. I missed this.” He gestured between them. “The company of others like us.”
Corbett nodded. “Hence your question,” he said, “regarding my views on the ‘passive role.’”
Henry flushed and nodded.
Corbett chuckled, though not unkindly. “Do you know, Avesbury, you still blush like a schoolboy sometimes, and you’re forty if you’re a day!”
“Seven-and-forty,” Henry corrected.
Corbett made a rueful chuff at that. “Handsome devil,” he complained. Then he leaned forward in his seat and said quietly, “As it happens, the ‘passive role’ as you call it—though I would refute the accuracy of that particular description—is my preference.”
Henry stared at him. Corbett was, like Henry himself, a large man. Well-built with wide shoulders and a deep voice. To learn that he preferred to receive was surprising. And intriguing.
Henry realised that Corbett was also watching him closely.
“Have you never…?” Corbett began slowly, his eyes widening a little when Henry shook his head.
“No,” Henry said, a little defensively. “It’s not so unusual, is it?”
Corbett gave a short laugh. “Who is to say? No one has written an etiquette guide on the matter that I’m aware of.”