That should have been the end of it. John had discovered the first owner of the angel and, along with him, a deep secret that belonged to the Duke of Claridge and Mr. Alec Allston. A secret, it could be argued, that had never been John’s to know. But he did know it, and....
And that was not the end of it.
John couldn’t stop thinking about Allston. About his fine hands and those soulful brown eyes. About his gentle demeanor, the melodic timbre of his voice. About his talent and all the lonely hours he must spend working on his creations. About the love he’d tried to give that sanctimonious popinjay, Claridge.
Thinking about that really made him angry.
John attempted to frame it in a logical context. Alec Allston was a handsome man. John was drawn to him—that was natural enough. Utterly predictable. And now John knew that Allston’s tastes were for his own sex, and that he was, furthermore, a man who appeared to be without attachments. Ergo, John was interested. Of course he bloody well was.
He was also intrigued by the impression he’d gotten from Claridge that his and Allston’s attachment had been “pure”. Had they never even kissed? If they had, he’d bet his eyeteeth it had been presses of closed mouths followed by fluttered eyelids and dramatic swoons of restraint. Such a damnable waste.
John had not spent a lot of time wondering about men of his ilk. There were the ones who were open about their desires, at least among a certain crowd, the ones who frequented establishments like The Iron Hart. One had to be careful. Very careful indeed. There was the risk of entrapment. But you knew people who knew people who could vouch for others. That’s where he found his partners, when the itch got too strong to bear—through friends at The Iron Hart. He knew that sort rather well.
Then there were men who might have been predisposed in that direction but who spent their life married and denying temptation. There were also the married men who didn’t deny or fight it but kept their male lovers secret. There were clubs in London were noblemen engaged in such acts with each other or with paid slaves. John had never had the least interest in men like that, men with wives. He had too much conscience for that.
Somehow, he didn’t think Allston was any of those things. He must have fallen in love with Claridge when he was quite young. And from the look on his face when John had presented the angel to him the first time, he was still wrapped up in that hopeless cause. Had Allston ever known a man’s touch? Outside his dreams?
John thought not. And the idea did strange things to him. He longed to show Allston how it could be between two willing men—without all the gimcrackery and handkerchief waving and mawkish subversion of nature. He wanted to press him against a wall and kiss him, make him tremble and melt, show him the heady rush and pure delight of a flesh-on-flesh encounter. He wanted that very much. So much, his prick plagued him with aching need, and he had dreams that left him spent.
Yet something about Allston gave John pause. He was no rough lad with mischief in his eyes, not the sort you dragged into a back room for a quick tug and tickle. No, Allston was quality, a gentleman, refined and good and probably still quite innocent. And he had loved Claridge with true devotion. To consider a mere rub and spurt with the man felt wrong, like spoiling something beautiful or stealing something sacred. Which was a damned strange thought for John to have. After all, Allston had to be nearing thirty, was a not-unknown artist and owner of a successful London shop. He was no blushing damsel. But John felt that way nonetheless. Allston’s heart was, he thought, given completely when given at all, and he had no interest in breaking it.
A day went by, and another, and another, and the thoughts plaguing him did not ease but only grew in intensity. John soon realized he was facing something entirely new. He did not just want Allston’s body. More than anything, he wished Allston could feel for him some part of what he’d felt for Claridge. And he wanted to be worthy of such affection, to not let Allston down in the long run, to make him happy.
It was, frankly, astonishing. And more than a little terrifying.
For the first time in his life, John was... not in love. Not yet. But in hope of love. He’d met someone he might love, if given half a chance.
But how could he convince Allston to give him that chance?