Archive of Our Own

January, 1821
London

“You know it won't go any quicker if you stare at it, right?” 

Mike drops his pocket watch back into the front of his jacket and pulls a face at Nancy over the table. “Funny.”

“Do you have somewhere important to be?” She says dryly as she turns a page in her book. 

Mike’s tempted to point out that he knows full-well Nancy has no interest in The Vicar of Wakefield that sits in her hands. He’s tempted to say, would you like me to fetch one of your gothic novels that lies hidden in the back of your wardrobe? He’s sure that would go down well in front of mother and father. But instead, he simply huffs. “What business is it of yours?” 

From further up the table, his mother makes a sharp sound of disapproval. “Michael, do not be rude to your sister.”

Nancy smiles at him, smug. “Yes, Michael, don't be rude.”

“And Nancy–I wish you wouldn't read that at the breakfast table,” his mother adds, a disapproving crease forming between her brows.

“So father can read his newspaper but I cannot read my novel?” 

The Duke of Richmond’s newspaper shuffles in his hands at the head of the table but doesn’t lower. Holly leans forward. “Miss Hayes said that ladies shouldn’t read books.”

“Well Miss Hayes is a fool.”

“Nancy Wheeler!”

Whilst an argument breaks out at the other end of the table, Mike pulls out his pocket watch again. Nearly 9 o’clock. He slips it away and tries to focus back on the breakfast spread before him. China plates filled with buttered breads, cold meats and eggs, alongside small dishes of preserves line the centre of the table. Mike pulls a crumpet onto his plate, but doesn’t take a bite; his mind’s elsewhere.

The dining room is one of the larger rooms in Richmond House - the Wheeler’s townhouse in the city - and Mike stares blankly at the intricate blue hummingbirds painted onto the walls. At the far end, a crackling fire roars in the grate, yet it is not quite enough to dismiss the winter chill that lingers in the air.

Mike's attention is suddenly drawn to the white double doors on the opposite side of the room as they swing open.

One of the footmen approaches the end of the table and turns to face Mike, though his eyes are averted downwards. He gives a shallow bow. “Lord Wheeler, Mr Byers has called upon you. He is waiting in the front entryway.”

“Thank you,” Mike says quickly. “Tell him I’ll be right out.” 

The footman nods and swiftly leaves the room, leaving one of the double doors open behind him.

The newspaper formerly covering his father’s face drops in half, revealing narrowed eyes behind thinly-wired spectacles. “Mr Byers? The painter?”

“Yes,” Mike says. He takes a bite of his crumpet and chews as quickly and gracefully as he can, before dropping the rest of it back on the plate, wiping his fingers against the ivory napkin beside him.

“Why would he be calling at our home?” His mother says with a frown. She turns to her husband. “We did settle our accounts, did we not?”

“Of course,” his father says firmly, as if offended by the very question. “Promptly, may I add.”

“Mike and Mr Byers have been spending a rather large amount of time together,” Nancy says, eyes not leaving her book, though her lips twitch as if trying to conceal a smile.

“He is teaching me how to paint,” Mike says, indignant as he stands up. He tugs down his navy jacket, smoothing the fabric, before re-fastening the silver buttons.

His mother hums thoughtfully, finger tapping against her teacup. “I suppose he is a rather fine painter. I was thoroughly impressed with his work on Holly’s portrait. I regret that I did not see him personally to convey my gratitude.”

Nancy catches Mike's gaze across the table as she picks up her tea cup. “Goodness, he must have taught you every painting technique in the world for the amount of his time you steal. You'll be a real Picasso in no time.”

Mike narrows his gaze, but his mother speaks again before he can.

“So you have hired him to tutor you?”

“Yes,” Mike says, “And I shall be late if I delay any longer.” 

“How old is this Mr Byers?” His father says, eyes still narrowed.

“The very same age as me, in fact.”

“Hmm. Do you really think that is a wise use of your funds?” His father's giving him his usual frown, which normally means: I disapprove, but I will do nothing about it. 

“I thought you would be pleased that I am using my allowance to further my education.”

“Yes, if I thought you really were learning something.” He leans forward now, paper forgotten, and levels Mike a piercing look. “You must consider me a fool if you think I don't know what you're up to.”

Mike freezes, gaze locked on his father, and from the corner of his eye he can see Nancy has stilled too, only Holly seemingly none the wiser to their father's change in tone.

A beat, and then– “Drinking. Gambling. If I find out that you two have been attending any… unmentionable establishments–”

Mike can't help the huff of laughter that slips out of him, partly in amusement, partly in relief. His father thinks he is wasting away his evenings in brothels? “And with that I must go, can’t keep him waiting, how poorly that would reflect on us as a family.” He tucks in his chair and makes for the door.

“I expect you back tonight!”

“See you tomorrow!” Mike calls back with a wave and then he’s out the door, heading down the main staircase.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as the entryway comes into view. Standing just beside the door is Will, fingers tapping against his thigh. Mike pauses for a moment at the top of the stairs, observing how Will can’t seem to keep his hands still. They flit from his sides to the hem of his waistcoat to his trouser pockets, before he seems to realise that this is impolite and pulls them quickly free. 

After realising that he is trying to engage the footman in small talk, Mike decides to put him out of his misery. When Mike’s halfway down the staircase, Will catches his eye and his smile is small, secretive. 

“Lord Wheeler,” he says, giving him a curt nod.

“Mr Byers, it is good to see you.”

“The carriage is ready, my lord,” the footman says as he opens the main door, bringing with it a gust of cold, winter air.

“We’re leaving?” Will says, following behind closely.

Mike leans in conspiratorily. “I have a surprise.”

“Uh oh,” Will murmurs as they approach the carriage.

As the footman opens the door and steps back, Mike steps back too, gesturing for Will to enter first. Will hesitates, pulling awkwardly on the hem of his jacket before stepping inside and taking a seat as Mike follows him up. Once they’re seated, Mike raps his knuckles against the back wall of the carriage and they jostle into movement, the muffled sound of the horse's hooves audible from outside. 

Mike taps Will’s foot with his own. “I hate hearing you call me Lord Wheeler. You needn't do that.”

“We were not alone, your footman was scarcely two feet away,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “What would you rather have me say?”

Alone in the carriage, Mike lets his gaze fall to the pressed collar of Will's shirt, to the emerald silk of his waistcoat, round golden buttons leading down to fawn-coloured trousers that sit tight around his thighs. He exhales slowly. “I can think of a great many things I’d rather have you say.”

Pink stains Will's cheeks. “Not here,” he says quietly, before looking determinedly out of the carriage window. 

The street is bustling with life as they step out and Will narrowly avoids being knocked over by a rag tag group of children running past, shoes clacking on the cobblestones.

The Albany looms over them, large white pillars lining the stone steps to the entrance, and the doorman stands to attention as they approach.

“Lord Wheeler,” he says with a nod as he opens the front door. The staircase leading up to the third floor apartments is lined with plush embroidered carpet, muffling the sounds of their footsteps as they ascend. Mike’s reminded of the first time he brought Will here, to how they’d had to pause every few steps as he admired the paintings lining the walls. This time he breezes past, overly familiar with the art on display and only pausing once to admire his favourite, an oil painting of a lake dotted with lily pads.

“So, what is the surprise?” Will says as they enter the apartment, peeking around the entryway. 

“Come,” Mike says, wrapping his finger and thumb loosely around Will’s wrist. He leads him through the apartment to the far end door that leads into the drawing room. Mike nudges him inside with a hand to his lower back, and then waits for his reaction.

“Wow,” Will says after a moment, taking in the space. The cushioned sofas and armchairs have been moved to the far end of the room, leaving an open space now mostly taken up by a large easel. The previously empty sideboard is now covered with all manner of art materials: paints, brushes, charcoal, pencils, sketch paper, and to one side lies a stack of canvases of various sizes. 

“This… this is incredible,” Will says, moving immediately over to the brushes. He picks one up and runs the soft end carefully across his thumb. “This is–”

“Windsor and Newton,” Mike says, coming over to stand beside him. “Sable hair. I was told they were the best for fine detail. But there are others, more suited to watercolour and oil painting. I forget which is which, but… I’m sure you will know simply by looking at them.”

Will is quiet, fingers ghosting over the collection, and Mike finds himself fidgeting with the button of his jacket.

“Do you like them?” He finally asks, watching Will's expression intently.

Will looks up, catching his eye, a grin brightening his face. “They are amazing. Will you let me use them?”

“Let you–” Mike pauses, shaking his head. “You needn’t ask permission to use what is already yours.”

Will takes a step back, mouth going slack, as he looks once again over the room. “What? But–I cannot repay you for this.”

Mike steps forward, letting his hand trace over Will’s waist. “If you wish, you can paint something for the apartment. Then we will be considered even.” He moves in closer and lets his cheek rest against Will’s, presses his nose into Will’s hair, letting his voice lower. “I missed you.”

“It has only been a week,” Will says, sounding amused.

“And that is seven days too many.”

Will pulls back and looks at him, hazel eyes soft, before they drop, and then he’s leaning in, pressing his mouth to Mike’s. 

He grips Will’s waist more firmly, maneuvering him back against the sideboard as he kisses him. Will grips Mike’s arm with one hand as he sighs into his mouth, the other reaching up to cup the back of his head. Nimble fingers wind their way into his hair and Mike feels something settle in his chest at the comforting familiarity that comes with being with Will. 

He splays a hand across his lower back and pulls him in firmly, aligning their bodies and Will moans, the sound muffled by their mouths. 

Mike would be lying if he said he didn’t do these things on purpose just to pull those sounds out of him, and so he grinds forward again, then slips a hand between them and presses over Will’s breeches with the heel of his palm.

“Mike,” Will pants, arms raising to wrap around his neck. “God. I missed you too.”

Mike takes the opportunity to press kisses along his jaw, and then downwards, following the curve of his throat. Will squirms against the furniture, breath quickening as Mike strokes him through the fabric. 

“I’ve been thinking of you non-stop since we last met,” Mike says, pressing a kiss underneath Will’s ear before he pulls his lobe into his mouth. He sucks and feels Will shiver as he allows a hint of teeth to graze against his skin. Will is fully hard under his hand now and so Mike moves, fingers slipping under the fabric of his waistcoat and pulling at the fastenings of Will’s breeches.

They come undone with practiced ease and he roughly pulls them down, low enough to expose him. Mike catches Will’s gaze and licks a stripe up his hand before wrapping it around Will’s cock. It’s hard and heavy and Will keens at the touch, tightening his grip around Mike’s shoulders as he kisses him, mumbling Mike’s name into his mouth. He works his hand until he can feel Will lean his weight against the sideboard, until his kisses become desperate.

The oak floor is hard against his knees as he drops down, and out of all the things they do in private, this is what thrills Mike the most. If anyone knew the Duke of Richmond’s only son and heir would willingly get down on his knees for another man, he’d be disinherited and his reputation ruined before dusk. His own breeches feel tight as he stares up at flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes looking back down at him.

Reaching for Will’s cock, he licks up the length before sucking the head into his mouth. He’d normally prefer to take this slow, to lay Will beneath him on the bed and drag it out until Will begs for him to let him come, but whether it's due to how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other or the lustful dreams Mike’s been having lately, he finds himself feeling impatient. Will jolts as Mike quickly takes him all the way into his mouth, letting out a quiet ‘oh’, as his hands scramble for purchase on the sideboard behind him. There’s a loud thunk, then the sound of paintbrushes and something Mike can’t quite work out hitting the wooden floor, but Mike ignores it and focuses on doing everything he knows Will likes best.

He undoes his own breeches with one hand and then strokes himself as he hollows out his cheeks, sucking as he works up and down Will’s length.

Will’s fingers find their way back to Mike’s hair, a little less gentle than before as he tugs on the strands. Mike feels a jolt of pleasure run through him at the sensation and he looks back up. Will’s gaze is on the ceiling, murmuring incoherent noises under his breath.

“God, Mike - you’re so good,” Will pants. One hand is still snug in his hair as the other moves down, resting a thumb against his face, and Mike knows he will be able to feel himself through his cheek. “You feel so good.”

Mike groans around his cock and strokes himself a little quicker. 

“I haven’t touched myself since the last time we met,” Will breathes, and from just the tone of his voice, Mike can tell he’s close. 

“Look at me,” Mike says, breathless as he pulls off.

Will makes a vague sound of disapproval and Mike frowns. “Please,” he says, mouthing along his cock, still stroking his own. “I want to see you when you come.”

“I do not want this to be over so embarrassingly fast,” Will says, but then he does drop his gaze and Mike can’t help but smile a little as he takes him back in his mouth, tongue circling the head. 

He takes him as deep as he can, until Will’s fingers tighten just so in his hair and he can feel his thighs tremble where they’re pushed back against the cabinet. Mike can hear him mumbling under his breath again, a string of incoherent words that turn into quiet whimpers, before a low groan escapes him. His release is warm as it fills Mike’s mouth and he swallows it down, quickening his pace on himself.

“Mike,” Will pants, lightly tugging on his hair, but Mike continues to suck gently as his strokes on himself become more focused. He grips Will’s thigh with one hand to steady himself, closing his eyes as he focuses on the familiar build up. 

“Too much,” Will moans suddenly, trying to shift his hips away, and Mike finally relents, pulling off at the same time as he comes, spilling over his own hand.

“God,” Mike says as he rests his head against Will’s thigh, taking a second to catch his breath.

“I could have done that for you,” Will says after a moment, and Mike finally leans back onto his heels. 

“I was impatient,” Mike says apologetically, re-fastening his own breeches. He presses a kiss to the skin of Will’s upper thigh before he pulls himself upright. Will’s hand on his cheek pulls him in and this kiss is slower now, less hurried, less charged with a week of wanting. Mike lets himself indulge in the slow drag of Will’s tongue against his own as he tucks Will back into his trousers.

The sun sits low on the horizon, a warm amber glow filling the apartment as they lie on the chaise lounge, jacket and waistcoats long since removed. Will’s linen shirt lies half open as Mike kisses along his collarbone. He sucks on a patch of skin, letting his teeth graze it gently before letting go, running a thumb over the bruise. He can feel himself half-hard again but he ignores it, continuing along his path.

“Move in,” Mike says, words muffled against Will’s skin.

“What?” Will replies, hand threaded through Mike’s hair. He twitches underneath Mike as he sucks another mark a little lower than the last. 

“Move in. Here. With me.”

Will’s quiet for a moment, until he replies, “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Mike says, and he knows he sounds petulant, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Will’s shirt open further and kisses down his chest, then lays the flat of his tongue over his nipple, then sucks gently. Will shifts again underneath him. He can never keep still when Mike does this. 

“What would I tell my mother?”

“That you wish to live the life of a bachelor before you settle down, and oh–how convenient, your very respectable friend just happens to have an apartment in the city that you might share.”

Will lets out an amused huff underneath him. “Respectable?”

“Are you questioning my honour?”

Will laughs, but it quickly turns into a breathy exhale as Mike scrapes his teeth against his skin. 

“So?” Mike prompts. “Your thoughts?” 

When Will doesn’t reply, Mike lifts his head up. Hazel eyes are already watching him carefully. He looks unconvinced.

“I am being serious, Will.”

“Mike. I have commissions I need to work on. Some of us actually need to earn money, you know.”

“And now you have a whole studio here,” Mike says, gesturing to the room around them.

“And what of your mother? And father?”

Mike groans and pushes himself up, nuzzling his face into Will’s neck. “I told my father you are teaching me the art of painting.”

Will makes a sound that sounds like he's biting back a laugh. 

Mike pauses, head still against his skin. “What?”

“No, nothing. I am just curious what you will do if they ask you to show them an example of what you've learnt? With your non-existent painting lessons?”

Mike shrugs, kissing his neck again softly. “My father doesn't believe me anyway. Thinks we're drinking at some gambling house or something, because that's all he can imagine two young men getting up to. As I hear that is all he did in his youth.”

“But truly, would they not question my permanent presence here?”

“Who cares what they think. This is my apartment, is it not? I am free to spend as much time here as I like.”

“Hmm,” Will says, trailing a hand down Mike’s back, then up again. “I have another idea.”

“Oh?” Mike says, keeping his head in the crook of Will’s neck. But when a minute goes by and he doesn’t speak further, Mike pulls back, resting his chin on Will’s chest. “Go on.”

Will’s gaze is fixed firmly somewhere above Mike’s shoulder. “I’d ask you to hear me out.”

“Why would I not? Do I not always ask for your opinion?”

Will goes quiet again, and so Mike gently pulls one of Will's hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to his palm, then a little higher, then pushes up his sleeve, pressing his lips to his wrist. Will watches him, eyes lidded, before he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“You could marry Jane.”

Mike pauses, lips still pressed to his skin, and he studies Will’s expression, looking for any sign that he is joking. He finds none. “And why would I marry Jane?”

“Because. She is my sister. We would have reasonable explanation for living together.”

“And you think Jane would be happy with such an arrangement?” Mike says, resuming his trailing kisses, softer now, hoping to appear nonchalant. 

“Jane is… not so different than you and I.” Mike stares at him, lost, until Will finally looks down and catches his gaze. “She is… that is to say, she… has a particular friend. As do you and I.” He raises a brow pointedly.

“Oh,” Mike says, realisation dawning on him. 

“So, really, it would benefit you both. You would both have married but would be free to…” Will’s voice trails off. He shrugs one shoulder, then pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth.

Mike turns his head where it rests on Will’s chest to look out at the drawing room. A half-finished sketch looks up at him from the floor, Will’s work from earlier until Mike had distracted him. Even unfinished, it’s still excellent. He always finds himself surprised at Will’s portrayals of him. He makes him look… handsome, in a different way than the official portraits at home. And he makes him look like Mike, not Lord Wheeler, the son of a duke. He swallows carefully so that Will might not feel it.

“Maybe I should rather like to marry you.”

Will laughs, gently, and it jostles Mike’s head a little where it lies. “You can’t say that.”

“Who’s here to stop me?” Mike says, looking back up again now, resting his chin on Will’s chest. 

A small smile is pulling at Will’s lips. “Don’t be absurd. What, you would have me be your wife?”

“A man cannot be a wife.”

“And yet a man cannot have a husband.” Will is looking at him like the subject is a joke, an amusement that Mike has said. 

Something uncomfortable curls low in Mike’s stomach and he forces himself to smile. He shrugs a shoulder.

Will's fingers raise to trail in Mike's hair, pushing black curls back from his forehead. “You have the strangest ideas, sometimes. Is this something you have heard from your writer friends?”

Mike pauses for a moment, before he pushes upwards, capturing Will’s mouth. He gives in easily, kissing him back, hands coming to steady him. “It is just a fantasy,” Mike murmurs into his mouth. “Let me be.”

Will’s smile fades and his eyes take on a desperate sheen. “Please tell me you will consider it. I know Jane is not of peerage but she has a not-so-modest dowry and my step-father is wealthy enough, even if he has no formal titles. Your father may say no, but… is it not worth trying?”

Mike exhales slowly, before he pushes to his feet, picking up the discarded paper from the floor. “Would you finish your sketch?” He asks softly, holding it out to Will.

Will eyes him, expression carefully blank, before he nods. Mike sits himself back on the opposite lounge and picks up his glass of wine, taking a sip.

After a moment, Will picks up his pencil and the apartment is once again filled with the sound of soft scratches against paper.

March, 1821

Spring arrives early, the weather unusually warm for the time of year, and Mike pulls on his stiff collar in a futile bid to get a little air.

The Sinclair family’s estate is impressive, with great sprawling lawns and gardens that back onto the countryside just outside the city. It is their first garden party of the season and Mike only just about made it on time, if only because his mother had sent a carriage to The Albany with a note demanding that he attend promptly.

As he walks up the stone steps to the large sandstone patio, he spots Nancy sitting alone at a small white bistro, a half-drunk lemonade and a plate of small cakes sat beside her. Mike sets his mallet to one side and drops into the empty chair opposite her.

“Don’t fancy joining us?” He asks, swiping her glass and downing the rest of the drink before she can protest. 

Nancy frowns at him, then shakes her head. “Pall Mall isn’t my favourite.”

“Let me guess, you’d rather be shooting with father.”

She rolls her eyes as she lifts the plate, raising it to Mike. “Only because I’d be better than him. Lemon cake?”

Mike takes one and as they eat, he looks out over the gardens where the rest of the family convene. A series of colourful hoops have been staked into the ground and he can see Lucas boasting about something, garnering a laugh. Holly swings her mallet and a smooth ball skims across the grass, shooting directly though a blue hoop. A cheer breaks out and then Holly is jumping up and down, waving her mallet in the air in victory. 

“I was starting to forget what you looked like,” Nancy suddenly says, bluntly, brushing a stray cake crumb from her dress.

“I’m sure there’s enough portraits of me in the house for that to be impossible.”

She’s quiet for a moment but Mike can feel the weight of her gaze on him. She's been quiet all day, even when Mike had deployed all his usual tactics to get a rise out of her. 

“You have nothing to say on the fact that you’re hardly at the house anymore?”

“What is there to say?”

She scoffs quietly, and for a second Mike thinks she’s going to drop it, but then she speaks again, quieter than before. “So Mr Byers has moved into your apartment at The Albany.”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“If you do not deny it then I can only assume it is true.”

Mike hums, hoping it sounds unbothered. “And what of it?”

Nancy shrugs. “What you do is none of my business. But.” She taps her finger against the table. “You’re still my brother.”

There’s heavy footsteps on the patio and a short, balding man approaches them, offering glasses of lemonade from a silver tray. Mike takes a glass but Nancy shakes her head, gaze focused somewhere in the distance.

Once the man has rounded the corner, Mike says, “It’s not like you to dance around a topic. If you have something you wish to say, then say it.”

She exhales slowly, then stands up rather abruptly. “Come. Walk with me in the gardens.”

“I’d rather go back to playing Pall Mall–”

“Mike.” Her voice is stern as she holds her arm out to him. 

The lemonade is sour on his tongue as he slowly sips from his glass and internally debates whether this will be a good idea. After a moment he carefully places the glass back on the table and stands, linking his arm with Nancy’s. 

“Thank you,” she says tersely as she directs them towards the lawn. Mike follows her lead, but then she takes a left and he realises that she’s taking him to one of the private gardens. 

Nancy knows. She must do. Why else lead him here?

He’s tempted to leave, pick back up his mallet and rejoin the others, but if they’re going to have this conversation, he supposes he’d rather it be away from the others.

Surrounded by a high brick wall, the garden was a sort of maze of intricately-woven hedgerow, leading various paths into the middle where a large stone horse shoots water into a shallow pool. For a few minutes as they walk, the only sounds are the birds singing from the trees above and the occasional shout from the game happening across the lawn. Mike would hardly be surprised if Nancy could hear the speed at which his heart was beating.

Nancy clears her throat. “Do you remember that summer at Goodwood? When father stayed in the city and you, Holly, mother and I spent the entire season out there?”

Mike does remember, sort of. Goodwood House, their family’s seat out in Sussex, was one of his favourite places growing up. Most summers were spent at Richmond House in the city, but occasionally they had stayed in the country. Mike loved those summers, but as he gets older, the memories start to blur.

“You must have only been 11, 12 years of age. You were late for supper and so mother made me go out to look for you because I apparently should have been keeping an eye on you.” Even now Nancy sounds a little annoyed. “I looked all over the courtyard until I heard voices coming from the stables.” 

She looks up at him and Mike’s step falters.

“I saw you, Mike. I saw you with that boy and I was… confused, and surprised, and so I ran back to the house.” She stops walking and turns to him, tugging his arm so that he is forced to face her. “Do you remember?”

Of course he remembers.

Jacob. He was a cousin of one of the lady’s maids, only a year older than Mike, and he’d been given a position in the stables that year. Mike remembers seeing him for the first time as he’d gone to check on the horses, remembers his surprise at seeing a boy of his age. With only his sisters at the house to play with, he’d been drawn to him, his green eyes and brown hair that had lightened in the sun. Mike had spent nearly a fortnight following him around until Jacob had agreed to play with him, and then they were nearly inseparable all summer. 

He’d kissed Jacob that night in the stable. He had no idea Nancy had seen them. The idea of her knowing, of someone knowing all these years makes panic flare underneath his ribs.

“I told mother that I couldn’t find you, she was so cross with me. And then not ten minutes later you returned, covered in dirt, and she sent us both to bed with no supper.” She laughs a little now, but it sounds weak, and Mike’s heart is beating painfully in his chest.

“I’m telling you this because I have suspected since that day but I have never told anyone. I want you to know that you can trust me.” 

Mike’s mouth is dry as he stares down at her, voice strained when he manages to speak. “Men share lodgings all the time. It is not—it’s not as scandalous as you are implying.”

“Yes,” Nancy says tersely. “Temporarily. But I’m not quite sure that’s your intention.”

“And what do you think my intention is?”

“That’s what I’m trying to understand,” she says, her voice softer now. “I know I teased you before, but it didn't occur to me until recently that you may actually…” she clasps her hands together tightly. “Do you love him?”

“Nancy–” Mike can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “We can’t discuss this.” His words come out in a rush and he drops her arm, turning to sit at the stone edge of the fountain. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he covers his face with his hands. Something shameful sits low in his stomach for the idea that he cannot look at Nancy and admit his feelings. 

Nancy’s feet shuffle in the gravel and for a moment Mike wonders if she is going to leave, but then she quietly settles down beside him.

“Mike, I'm not–I'm not going to tell anyone, or judge you. You know better than anyone that I hardly ascribe to traditional values.”

Mike thinks of Nancy's books - the ones their mother doesn’t know she owns - along with her writings hidden in the back of her wardrobe. He’d found them once during a game of hide and seek and she had sworn him to secrecy. Ironic that she has been keeping a secret of his all this time, too.

“So it is true?”

Mike sighs into his hands. “Yes, it is true.”

“And he returns your affections?"

Mike's sure his face is going to burst into flames. He grits out a quiet, “Yes.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “In that case, you need a plan.”

“Nancy–”

“You need to think about the long term. Some people–” she pauses, then lowers her voice, even though there is no one around to overhear them. “Some people whisper about you two, and the longer he stays at The Albany the louder those whispers will become.”

“I don’t care about gossip.”

“Maybe you should. How long are you intending to have him stay with you? Months? Years?” She’s shaking her head. “You will need to marry one day, or have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten?” He sits up straight, frustration prickling beneath his skin. “You really think I’ve forgotten the expectations on me? That it doesn’t weigh on my mind every day?”

“Then what is your plan?”

“I don’t have a plan!” Gravel crunches underfoot as he pushes to his feet. “That was my plan, to have him move in with me.” He turns to look at her now and shrugs his shoulders, exasperated. “I don’t know what to do, Nance.”

She just looks at him, sadness in her expression, and he runs a clammy hand over his face so that he does not have to see it. “We should probably return.”

A beat, and then she pushes up. “There is time yet, I did not mean to pressure you.” She links her arm with his and pulls him along, leading back down the lined path. “At least it is easier for a man to delay marriage. You’re only two-and-twenty, you could go galavanting across the continent for years if you wished to.” 

Mike simply hums in response.

“You will work something out, I’m sure,” she says after a moment. “And, if you need any help or anything goes amiss… I’m here, okay?”

Mike clears his throat. “Thank you.”

She squeezes his arm in hers.

“Mike!” 

They both turn to see Lucas watching them, hand over his eyes to block out the sun. He gestures to the game continuing on behind him. 

“You have missed, what, five turns! Come on! You too, Nancy!” 

Mike tries to put their conversation behind him as he collects his mallet and joins back in with the game, tries to distract himself with Holly’s excitement and Lucas’s jokes. But something pulls at his thoughts, an idea.

As Mike returns to the house, arms full with collected coloured hoops, he catches Nancy back at the bistro table, a book open in her lap.

“There was something I wanted to tell you, by the way,” Mike says, dropping the hoops on the table. “I spoke to Will’s brother, Jonathan. He’s an illustrator at The Times. Writes a little, too.”

Nancy’s fingers pause halfway through flipping a page. “Oh?”

“I showed him your piece about the overcrowding in the rookeries. He liked it, said he would be willing to submit your work under a pseudonym.”

The book falls flat in her lap. “What?”

“He makes no promises, of course. Says that he can submit it with a letter of recommendation but, obviously, it will be up to the editor.”

Nancy’s whole body seems to be frozen, and then she’s jumping up and pulling him into a hug. 

“Nance–” Mike says, air restricted by how hard she is squeezing him. 

“Sorry,” she says, breathless as she pulls away. “Won’t do that again. But–thank you, Mike. Sincerely.”

Mike shrugs. “It is nothing.”

“You should invite Will to the house one day so I should meet him properly,” Nancy says a few minutes later as they walk through Sinclair house to meet the others. “And perhaps he can bring his brother so that I may thank him in person.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” 

Nancy lets out a quiet huff of amusement, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Do you think father realises that he has two misfit children?”

Mike laughs, the sound echoing off the high ceilings, and shakes his head. “I fear Holly is their only hope.”

April, 1821

“Stand,” Will murmurs, eyes not leaving his cards.

Dustin taps two fingers on the round table between them. “Hit.” 

Mike deals him another card, but when Dustin picks it up he sighs, sitting back in his chair. He drops his cards to the table. “Bust.”

Lucas eyes them both over his cards, before smirking. “Stand.”

“Stand,” Mike says. “Let’s see, then.” 

They all reveal their cards, Dustin leaning over curiously, and Mike can’t help his smile when he glances at Will’s. The King of Hearts and the Ace of Clubs sits in front of him, a perfect twenty-one. 

“Ha!” Dustin grins, pointing at Will. “You’re good at this.”

Will shrugs, his smile shy. “I play with my brother sometimes.”

A gentle breeze blows through the sash window sitting half-open in the corner, bringing with it the smell of freshly cut grass outside. Though small, the room is by far the most private at the club, and Mike’s favourite. The dark green wallpaper may be peeling a little at the edges, but it has become a sort of second home for him, Lucas and Dustin, away from the prying eyes of the city.

Lucas reaches across, slowly collecting the cards strewn across the table. “Mr Jonathan Byers, yes? I’ve seen his illustrations in the paper. He has talent.”

“And you have a sister, don’t you?” Dustin asks, picking up his glass from a small mahogany side table. Upon it sits a half half-drunk bottle of port and a relatively untouched bowl of fruit.

Mike tries to keep his expression neutral as he takes the outstretched cards from Lucas.  

“Um, yes. Jane.” 

“As there are now four of us, I think we should teach you Whist next time,” Mike says quickly, shuffling the cards back into the deck. “You need two teams, you see.”

“By all means,” Will says. 

Mike continues to shuffle the cards, but he lets his gaze flit to Will where he sits to his left. Mike had used the excuse of complying with the gentleman’s club’s dress code to take him out last week, fitting him with a few new items of clothing. They fit him well - tailored, obviously - and though he tried to dig his heels in at Mike purchasing it for him, he knows Will likes it.

Not that Will dresses poorly otherwise. His clothes are neat, well-kept, well-made - but there are certain tailors in town that would not serve someone like Will, someone who does not possess a title. It irks Mike, but seeing Will now in such a fine fabric and cut kindles something inside him. 

He puts the cards down in a neat pile. “Say, Dustin, why don't you tell Will about your travels on the continent? Didn't you spend quite a while in Italy?”

Dustin swallows his port and sits up, face bright. “Oh, it was brilliant. The Italians know how to party, I'll say that much. I had gone out one night with my friend Mr Harrington, just to sample the local beer, you know. But then before you know it, I feel like I was swaying, and I woke up on a gondola halfway across the city! Another chap on board had slapped me awake, but don’t recall how we met him. Next thing I know, Mr Harrington is in the river and, with the help of our gondolier, I had to drag him out as he clung to an oar.”

Will’s brows are in his hairline. “Wow. That sounds… um.”

Mike clears his throat. “Yes, fun, but I was thinking more about the culture. I’m sure I recall you saying there were a great many painters in Italy?”

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose there were,” Dustin says. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small box of cigars, taking one out for himself before dropping the box onto the middle of the table. “There were a few art academies in Florence if I remember correctly.”

Will leans forward a little in his chair, interest piqued. “I’ve read that you can come across people painting on the streets and they allow you to watch as they work.”

Dusin hums thoughtfully as he lights his cigar, then stands up, stretching his legs. “Hmm. Yes, might have seen a few. To be honest with you, I was more interested in the sciences. Do you know there is a lot of groundbreaking research being conducted in Italy in regards to electromagnetism?”

“Electro-what?” Lucas says.

“What about galleries?” Mike prompts flippantly. “I imagine there are lots that you can visit, yes?”

Dustin turns to him, brow furrowed, as Lucas offers Mike the open box of cigars.

Mike waves him off dismissively before turning his attention back to Dustin. “So?”

He hears Will murmur a quiet, ‘No, thank you’ and then hears the cigar box land back on the table.

Laurel leaves trail down the fireplace surround, engraved neatly in marble where Dustin rests his elbow. “Since when did you care about art?”

Lucas scoffs and Mike puts his glass down. “I care about art! It's… art is…” he tries to think of something profound to say, but comes up short. “Very important to society.”

Lucas laughs, his head tilting back. “All right. Name a single artist.” 

“I know about artists,” he says, trying to give himself thinking time. He can feel Will watching him. “There’s… Michelangelo. Rembrandt.”

Lucas is still grinning. “Anything in the last century?”

“There’s that man you always talk about,” he says, gesturing at Will. “Sir Thomas…

“Lawrence,” Will finishes.

“Yes. There you go.” Mike sips his drink, eyes flicking to Will. “And of course, we have to consider our current companion.”

“I don’t think you can include me in the same league as Sir Thomas Lawrence and Rembrandt," Will says, amused.

And maybe Mike is overstating the truth, but Will is still young, and his work impresses Mike every time he sees it. When asked about his art education, Will always cites his talent on his mother teaching him the basics when he was young, but he just seems to have this innate ability to skillfully represent what he sees on the canvas. Mike can only imagine what he could do under the tutelage of artists abroad.

“Yes you’re right, because you’re better. And anyway,” Mike continues before Will can object, “there are many different types of artists. As an author myself, does that not make me an artist?”

Dustin taps the end of his cigar on the silver tray, picking up a handful of almonds from the fruit bowl. “Does one not have to publish work to be considered an author?”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “A writer, then.”

“Ah, but a shame we will never know if you are a good writer or not as you never let us read anything you produce,” Lucas sighs.

And Mike cannot refute that. There’s something uniquely embarrassing about allowing people to read your work, allowing them to read something you have wholeheartedly poured yourself into. And sometimes, when you have secrets, it feels like they can’t help but spill out; perhaps there’s too much of him on the page, and it is sometimes too honest.

And so his writings stay mostly bundled up in his apartment. He will finish one someday, he is sure.

“I’ve heard some of his work,” Will says, smiling. “He’s a fine poet.”

Mike wants to sink into his chair.

Lucas chokes on his cigar, coughing out a white plume of smoke. He barks a sudden laugh. “A poet? Michael Wheeler, since when have you started writing poetry?”

He tries to ignore the growing warmth in his face. “I… dabble.”

“I thought you liked writing your speculative fiction. Your horror,” Dustin says. 

“Horror?” Will blurts, frowning. “No, these are very–um,” he pauses then, catching Mike’s eye. “I mean. I’ve only heard a few. Read, I mean. I…” Will clears his throat.

A particular silence settles over the table, quiet enough that a cheer and sudden laugher is faintly audible from the next room over. Will stands up suddenly, smoothing his hands over his trousers. “Will you excuse me, gentlemen, while I visit the cloakroom.” 

As the door closes behind him, Mike puts a hand over his face in an attempt to avoid the weight of Lucas and Dustin’s stares.

“Wow,” Lucas says bluntly and Mike shakes his head.

And herein lies the embarrassment of having people know of your work. Lucas and Dustin do not even have to read it to be able to read into it. “Shut up.”

“So when are we going to get live readings of your poetry, Mike?” Dustin says, coming to lean on the back of his chair. “Or is that only reserved for certain members of the group?” 

Lucas leans over the table and presses a hand to his heart, face full of mock sincerity. “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?”

“I have half a mind to leave so I do not have to endure your insufferable conversation any longer,” Mike mumbles, staring into his glass.

“Come on, we only jest,” Dustin says.

“I have half a mind to call the constable.”

Mike looks up at Lucas. “What? Why?”

Lucas’s finger traces the rim of his glass as he gives Mike a knowing look. “I fear you’re planning to kidnap poor Will. Painters and galleries in Italy? I’m not dense. I know what you’re planning.”

Mike stills, staring at Lucas warily. He opens his mouth to reply but then changes his mind, pulling his glass up to his lips and draining it. He thinks about denying it, but this is Lucas and Dustin. They’ve known each other since infancy. 

So instead, he shrugs casually, avoiding his eyes. “It’s hardly kidnapping if he agrees to go.”

Lucas leans back into his chair and crosses his arms, letting out a long exhale. “What are we going to do with you, Mike.”

“Just–hear me out,” Mike says, sitting forward now. He glances at the door to make sure it’s still closed and leans in. “I have not yet been on a tour of the continent. I’m sure my father will approve of it.” He lowers his voice. “I have already told him that Will is tutoring me. It makes logical sense that I would invite him to accompany me.”

Lucas merely hums into his drink. There’s the sound of a cigar being stubbed out and then Dustin drops back into his chair. 

“Don’t you think this is all rather soon?” He says as he adjusts his jacket. “It has only been a month or so, has it not?”

Mike clears his throat. “Actually… it has been six.”

“Six months?” Dustin says and his chair legs squeak against the floor as he turns to stare at him. “Six months and you’ve only bought him here a handful of times?”

A sigh escapes Mike as he stands up, taking his empty glass to the decanter on the sideboard. The glass stopper already lies removed beside it and so he picks up the bottle, pouring his drink slightly slower than necessary. A crow squawks from outside the window but by the time Mike looks up, it’s already taken flight.

If it was up to Mike, he’d have brought Will here many months ago. But Will had been more hesitant, more reluctant, and it’s not like Mike cannot understand why. Gentleman’s clubs aren’t usually welcoming to those not of nobility, but the owner of this club - Mr Murray Bauman, an eccentric American man - did not seem to mind when Mike asked if he could bring along a friend. As long as he is not a spy, he’d said, and Mike wasn’t sure if it was a jest or not.

“We have to be discreet,” he says, gaze still fixed out the window.

“One of your greatest virtues,” he hears Lucas mutter, sounding amused, and then a hastily whispered, “what?”

“I think it's rather romantic,” Dustin says lightly. “Running away together.”

“That’s not–”

The door opens with a click and Will slips back inside, closing it quietly behind him. 

“Apologies, I was held up,” he says, and if Mike’s not mistaken, he looks a little flushed.

“Are you well?” Mike asks as Will makes his way back to his chair. He drops down a little heavier than usual and grabs his glass, downing it in one. 

“Yes, fine. Would you mind topping me up?”

Mike takes his glass from him but doesn’t move towards the decanter. “You saw someone you know?”

Will purses his lips and links his hands in his lap. “Just an old acquaintance.”

Mike wants to push, but not with Dustin and Lucas here, and so he takes Will’s glass.

“So, Will. Have you had much opportunity to travel?”

Mike feels himself zone out of the conversation behind him as he wracks his brain as to who in the club Will might have known previously. A thought occurs to him then, and sits in the forefront of his brain; is there someone here that Will has had relations with before? 

Will may not have been tutoring him in the art of painting but he had taught him rather a lot about… well, other things. So Mike's not an idiot. He knows Will has been with others, but–for some reason, he did not consider the possibility that this could have been with another gentleman, another member of nobility. Perhaps that was rather foolish of Mike, an ignorant assumption, but regardless, something sits heavy in his stomach at the idea that someone here has made Will feel uncomfortable.

The carriage trundles on in silence as they head back to the apartment. Barely a word has passed between them and Will’s gaze is fixed on the small window inlaid in the carriage door.

Leaning over, Mike pulls the small curtain across, blocking out the light. It’s dim inside the carriage, but not enough that he can’t see Will’s sudden frown.

“I was looking out of there.”

Mike sits on the bench next to Will, flopping down with more force than he’d intended as the carriage sways around a bend. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Wanted some privacy.”

Eyes glance at him warily. “I’m fine.” Mike’s expression must reflect his doubt because a beat later Will sighs, resting a hand on Mike’s thigh and giving it a squeeze. “Truthfully. I am fine.”

“Who did you see?”

Will bites his lip and stares at him for a moment, before his gaze tilts to the ceiling, shifting slightly on the bench. “You won’t like it.”

The cotton from Will's jacket is soft under Mike's fingertips as he wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in slightly towards him. “What happened?”

A horse whinnies loudly outside and the carriage stumbles to a stop, Mike's grip tightening as he nearly slips from the bench. A muffled ‘sorry!’ comes from out the front and then they're moving again, cobblestones making the ride bumpy.

“Okay, so,” Will starts. He then leans forward and kisses Mike quickly, before pulling back. 

Will has never initiated any sort of contact in the carriage before. Huh, Mike thinks. He is either becoming bolder or he is trying to distract him.

“A year or so ago I was hired for a portrait of Lord Spencer. He was rather, um, forward. And, well, he made an advance and I… accepted.”

“Okay,” Mike says. It comes out steadier than he feels as he tries to ignore the flicker of jealousy in his chest. This was before him, and he knows this feeling is irrational, but still. If Will notices him gripping him a little tighter then he doesn’t say anything.

Will clears his throat. “At some point I told him I did not wish to continue. He was rather rude about it, but. Anyway,” he says, running his hand along Mike's thigh gently. “He was there today as I left the cloakroom and he made a rather… crass remark. But no-one else heard, I assure you.”

“What did he say to you?” Mike says quietly. He had never liked Lord Spencer. Even his mother no longer invited him to events hosted at the house as he had a rather unsavoury habit of propositioning the maids.

Will grits his teeth. “He… inquired as to how much you were paying me.”

Mike stares at him a moment, before realisation settles in. “Paying you?” Something hot flares in his chest. 

“Just,” Will says, turning and resting a hand on Mike’s cheek. “It is fine. I don’t care what he thinks. He just wanted to rile me, that is all.”

Or me, Mike thinks. He shakes his head. “I should ensure his membership for the club is revoked.”

“No, don’t. I do not wish to risk angering him lest he decide to tell anyone.”

Mike’s gaze flickers over his face. 

“Please?”

His shoulders slump a little, relaxing at Will’s earnest expression. “Okay,” he says, and he leans in, pressing against soft lips. “But if you change your mind, I am sure we can find out what skeletons are in his closet.”

“We’re in the carriage, Mike,” Will says, words muffled against his lips, breath warm against Mike’s skin.

“You kissed me first.”

Through the open window, the night-time air feels cool against Mike's exposed skin where he lies in their bed. Will's lips are soft, unhurried as they move against his and soft hands trail their way along Mike's chest, running up over his shoulders and slowly down his arm. Mike catches his hand as it crosses the back of his palm and links their fingers together, resting it down on the pillow beside Will's head. 

He pulls back and looks down, the flickering glow of the candle on the bedside table throwing shadows over Will’s features. The smooth skin of his cheek, the curve of his nose, his eyes that look almost brown in the dim light. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is pink from Mike’s attentions. His lips are soft where Mike runs his thumb across them and he tries to school his features into something collected, despite the rush of emotion that surges like a pressure behind his ribs. 

“Mike.” Will's voice is quiet, only accompanied by the faint clack of hooves and carriage wheels over cobblestones outside.

“Hmm?” Mike replies, sliding half on top of him, pining him to the bed. Despite the breeze from the window, the room is still warm, holding on to the spring warmth from earlier in the day. Will’s skin is hot where it meets Mike’s, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Have you thought any more of my idea?”

Mike feels suddenly cold, like ice-cold water has trickled down his spine. Though he knows it's futile, he wonders briefly whether he can distract from this topic of conversation. So he doesn't say anything, just tucks his face into Will's neck and takes a slow inhale, breathing him in. He presses a kiss to his skin and slides his body over Will’s fully, slipping one thigh in between his legs.

Will runs a hand lazily up Mike’s back and, for a second, Mike thinks it might have worked. But then Will shifts beneath him and speaks again.

“It would legitimise us living together.”

“We already live together.”

He feels more than hears Will sigh. Mike knows he’s frustrated, knows that he’s not helping by being obtuse, but he really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He feels a hand gently push on his shoulder, nudging him to get up, but Mike only tucks his face in closer to the crook of Will’s neck. 

“Yes, for now,” Will eventually says. “But it is only a matter of time before you will need to marry.”

Will’s skin smells clean, a hint of lavender still lingering from the soap he’d used on him earlier. Thoughts of the large brass bathtub at Goodwood House come to him now, how it would be big enough for the both of them to share. He’s imagined it a thousand times; a whole summer, just the two of them, alone with merely a skeleton staff, free to spend every day lazing by the lake, walking the gardens. No bustling city full of eyes watching their every move. No Lord Spencer to give his unwanted opinions.

“Mike.” And this time Will puts more force into his push and Mike reluctantly props himself up, hovering over him. He leans his weight on one elbow and watches as a small frown forms between Will's brows. “Say something.”

“I–I can’t. Marry Jane.”

The frown line slowly fades, expression turning into quiet resignation and Will sighs, tipping his head to the side, looking away. “Okay. So you avoid the issue until it's too late, until your family decides for you.”

“No–”

“And where does that leave me?”

“Will. You know I’d do anything you ask of me.” He pulls Will’s face back to him, stroking his thumb gently across his cheek, trying to quell the uneasy feeling of panic inside him. “Anything. So please don’t ask me to do that. Don’t ask me to marry her.”

Will just looks at him, a little sad. Mike sometimes wishes he could know what he was thinking. “So what do we do?”

“I…” Mike feels his chest clench. “I have an idea. An alternative.”

Will looks at him cautiously. 

“We could leave.”

It takes Will a second to reply. “Leave? Leave London?”

“Leave England. I haven’t been on a Grand Tour yet and my father would hardly refuse if I asked.” Will’s expression is unreadable. “You could accompany me. We would travel to Calais, down to Paris, then the world is our oyster. Zurich, Venice, Constantinople. Wherever we wanted.”

“Is this why Lucas and Dustin spoke to me of Florentine painters for a half hour?”

Mike winces. “Erm, perhaps…”

Will smiles a little, and Mike feels the swell of hope in his chest, but then Will is shaking his head. “Mike. This would just be delaying the inevitable. This all sounds… wonderful, truly, but what of when we return? These tours last, what, six months? A year?”

Mike can feel the hope leaching away, leaving behind an empty chasm behind his ribs. “And what if we didn't?"

Will’s voice is soft. “Didn't what?”

“Return.”

Mike slinks down a bit, and Will's eyes follow him. He presses a kiss to his chest, then one a little further down, then far enough that he can't see Will's expression anymore.

“Oh, Mike.” And Will's tone makes something inside Mike want to break, because he sounds sad, like Mike has just suggested something profoundly pitiful.

He’s not sure he can cope if Will rejects him right now and so he pushes up, crowding him into the bed with his hands on his face, hips sliding in between Will’s thighs that open for him seemingly instinctively. He kisses him, maybe a little harder than usual, and he feels Will shudder underneath him from the first stroke of his tongue.

Will suddenly pulls back. “Maybe we should talk–”

“Not now. Later. Please?” Mike mumbles into his lips.

Will stares at him and for a moment, Mike is worried that Will is going to say no, to insist they talk about it further, but then he pushes up and kisses him. Will wraps a leg around Mike’s hip and pulls him in closer. He can already feel Will hard against his stomach and so he grinds his hips down, swallowing Will’s whine.

He’s probably being a little intense right now but he can feel the anxious energy settling under his skin. His hand drops from Will's face and moves down to slide between them, to stroke them together while his kisses trail down the column of his throat. 

“Tell me what you want,” Mike murmurs, focusing on the way Will moans softly, on the way fingers slide their way into Mike’s hair. “What you need.”

Will brings his other leg to wrap around Mike’s hips and wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him in. “I need you.”

And Mike’s not going to examine why that makes him even harder. “Yeah? What do you need from me?”

“Mike…” 

Mike smiles a little as he pulls away, sitting back on his heels. Will’s thigh is smooth and soft under Mike’s fingertips as he strokes along it. “Anything you want.” His gaze trails over Will spread out on the bed in front of him and he wonders how he would look sunkissed after a summer's day spent at the lake at Goodwood. Or perhaps from lazy days out exploring somewhere warmer; Spain, Greece.

Instead of answering, Will reaches out to the nightstand and Mike leans back a little, letting him move enough to reach into the top draw. He passes Mike a small glass bottle and goes to roll on his stomach, but Mike stops him with a hand to his hip. 

“Tell me?”

“Mike,” Will says, sounding frustrated. But something about this turns Mike on, making Will verbalise what he wants from him, what he needs from him, even if it makes Will squirm.

“Tell me what you need.” He repeats, pulling him a little lower on the bed by his thighs.

“Maybe I’ll just do it myself if you’re going to be difficult,” Will says, biting back a smile as his fingers rest on the cork stopper.

Mike tugs the bottle from Will’s grip. “All right, all right. You win.” Dropping it to one side, he grabs Will’s hip and rolls him onto his stomach. Will huffs out a small noise of surprise and then moves his head to the side, watching Mike carefully.

Mike’s exhale comes out a little shaky and his dick throbs from the sight of Will like this, laid bare before him. He lets his hand squeeze Will’s ass as he leans down to kiss the dip of his back. Pushing the stopper out of the bottle with one hand, he pours some of the oil onto his fingers, spreading it with his thumb.

Will sighs as Mike spreads him and traces a finger over his entrance. He feels Will twitch underneath him and glances up to check. Will’s head is still resting on the pillow facing him, but his eyes are closed. 

“This is what you want?” Mike murmurs, rubbing his thumb back and forth where it's sensitive.

Will doesn’t say anything, simply nudges him slightly with his foot, so Mike relents and continues to kiss along his back as he slips a finger inside. It’s practiced ease now with how they do this, but Mike always marvels at how tight he grips his finger, amazed that his body stretches to accommodate him. Precum wets the tip of his own cock but he tries to ignore it, tries to keep his focus on the breathy sounds coming from Will, how he shifts when he pushes in deeper. 

After a moment he slips in a second finger and Will draws in a sharp breath. Presses a last kiss to his lower back and then Mike moves back up his body, half laying over him. While he continues to work Will open with one hand, he wraps the other around Will’s chest, pulling him close, kissing along the top of his back, the bottom of his neck. 

“Please, Mike,” Will whines, hands gripping the pillow. 

“Shhh,” Mike soothes. “Let me take care of you.” He pushes his fingers in deeper, then sucks on the skin at his neck, low enough that he knows his collar will hide it.

Will always seems to want to rush this part, but Mike enjoys taking his time. Enjoys doing this for Will, making sure he’s overly ready. Enjoys the act of making Will feel good whatever form it takes, anything that makes him come apart beneath him like this. 

Will’s panting into the pillow now and Mike shifts his angle, shifts his focus to massage the area a few inches in, moving his fingers in a circular motion. Will scrambles his hands to grip the arm tucked around his chest. 

“Mike, ah. God, that’s–”

Will breaks off with a moan and Mike can feel him tensing up a little, can feel him shift slightly as if trying to move away from the stimulation, but Mike knows what Will likes. So he uses his foot to push Will’s legs further apart, draping his leg over one of Will’s thighs to keep him in place, and carries on. Will groans, muffled into the pillow, and it sounds like a sob.

“I’m ready, please, just…”

“Just a little bit more,” Mike whispers, trying to keep his rhythm and pressure steady as he feels Will start to shake a little in his grip.

But he knows when Will gets too close and he doesn’t want to end it here, so Mike just leans in and kisses him, and then gently pulls his fingers free. Will sighs at the loss and his body goes almost boneless under Mike, pliant as he grabs more oil to coat himself.

“Are you okay?”

Will makes a frustrated sound into the pillow that Mike knows means get on with it.

Despite the attention, he’s still tight when Mike pushes in and a moan spills out of him. He can feel Will tense a little underneath him and so Mike stills, waiting until his muscles start to relax before he pulls back out, then pushes further in. Will’s heavy breaths are still muffled by the pillow as Mike fucks into him slowly, easing in a little further every time until his balls press up against Will’s ass.

Mike rests a hand on his lower back, pushing him firmly into the mattress, the other coming to grab his hip as he moves more intently. He grips his hip tighter as he watches himself disappear inside, how Will spreads around him, trying to stave off any build up. Not yet.

He tries to listen to Will’s body language, his noises, the way his muscles tense and relax to know what to do, whether to go slower, harder, deeper. It’s a practiced rhythm by now, learning Will’s body, learning what he likes, what he doesn’t like, mapping every inch of his skin. 

A thought suddenly comes to the forefront of Mike’s mind that he can’t seem to shake - what if Will says no? What if he doesn’t want to come with him? What if he decides that being with Mike is too much trouble, too much effort?

He realises then how much he’s asking from Will. How crazy it is to ask to whisk him away to the continent and then suggest they never return. How has he not scared Will off yet?

How is Mike not scared that he would do it without a second thought if Will asked?

Lowering down his body he slips his arms around Will’s chest again. He tries to focus on the hot feeling of Will’s skin against his, of the smell of lavender soap, of Will’s soft hair against his cheek. Tries to lose himself in the sensation of fucking Will, of being inside him, of doing everything he can to keep those noises coming out of him. Maybe he’s a bit hurried tonight, maybe he’s going quicker than he normally would. Maybe he’s holding Will tighter than he normally would. He wonders if Will’s noticed. He can feel sweat slick where his chest is stuck to Will’s back but he doesn’t want to let go.

A hand reaches for one of Mike’s, still tucked tightly around Will’s chest, and tugs. Mike slips it down and grasps Will’s cock. The candle burns low enough now that Mike’s half having to rely on touch alone.

Will goes taught beneath him and then comes with a sob, his fingers desperately reaching for anchor in the bedsheets. The feel of his body clenching around Mike makes his rhythm stutter. Knowing he did this, that he’s the reason his hand is coated in warm release, that Will trusts him enough to let Mike have him like this, pushes him past the point of no return. He pushes in as deep as he can, letting his orgasm wash over him, and Will’s breath hitches.

He lies there for a moment, resting his weight on top of Will. It’s quiet apart from their breathing and, despite wanting to stay where he is, Mike pulls out gently. There’s a strange emptiness in his chest and he wishes then that he’d not rushed it, that he’d dragged it out longer, if only to stay so close to him. 

“Stay there,” Mike murmurs softly. He presses a quick kiss to Will’s back and returns a few moments later with a shallow bowl of water and a washcloth. He cleans him up the best he can in the dim light, then cleans himself, before settling back alongside him.

Will’s turned onto his back now and as Mike’s head drops on his chest, the flame from the candle finally stutters and then dies. He listens to Will’s heart beat as it slows and he wonders briefly if Will’s fallen asleep, but then he feels fingers gently push his hair back from his forehead, slightly damp.

“I’ll think about it.”

Mike turns slightly, his lips brushing against Will’s skin as he speaks. “Okay.” He shuffles a little closer, tucking his head into Will’s neck, before succumbing to sleep.

May, 1821

As the clay disc arcs across the cloudless sky, Lucas pulls the trigger, the sound echoing off the stone walls of Sinclair House. Shattered pieces of clay fall from above, dusting the manicured lawns outstretched in front of them.

“Lucas is a good shot,” Mike says, leaning in slightly. “Don’t worry if you don’t hit it on your first time.”

Will just smiles, small and soft, and Mike has to pull his gaze up from his lips. The four of them are alone out here in the gardens, but Mike knows better than to think that you are ever truly alone on a country estate. Every window or open doorway could have a pair of curious eyes behind it, and so Mike crosses his arms to keep his hands from reaching out.

“So are you a good shot as well?”

Mike bites his lip around a smile and shrugs, letting his shoulder gently push against Will’s. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Another shot rings out but this time it's followed by a loud “shit” as Lucas misses. The clay disc arcs over the gardens before falling from view deep in a copse of trees.

Dustin laughs, patting Lucas on the back, before he turns his attention to where Will and Mike are sitting. “Will! Ready to come and have a go?”

“Come, I’ll show you,” Mike says, tugging on his elbow. He takes the gun from Dustin and turns to Will, tugging him in a little closer. 

“It’s a double-barrelled shotgun, so you’ll have two shots before you need to reload. Here, put your arms out like this.”

Will’s quiet as Mike manoeuvres his hands, showing him where to grip, how much powder to pour into the barrel, how to load the pellets. When it’s loaded, Mike let’s go, resting a hand on his elbow. “Just make sure you grip it tight, and prepare for the recoil. But I’ll stay behind you, just in case.”

Will looks like he’s trying to hide a smile as he looks down the barrel.

“Any questions?" Mike prompts, trying to catch his gaze.

“No, I’m ready.”

Mike was kind of hoping he would need more instruction than this, but Will holds the gun steady. He shrugs slightly at Lucas and Dustin who stand to one side, watching intently. 

“Okay. Remember you have two shots.” Mike leans down and pulls the lever on the machine, feeling the click as the disc loads. He lets go and clay arcs into the sky. 

A single shot echoes through the garden. Mike’s jaw goes slack as the clay shatters. 

There's a low whistle behind him and then Lucas is behind Will, grasping his shoulders with a grin. “That was nice.”

Will looks like he's trying to suppress a smile as he hands the gun over to Dustin.

“Either you’re a very good teacher,” Lucas says mutedly, “or Will didn’t need that lesson.”

“You have shot before?” Mike says, eyes still glued to Will.

“Yes.” 

“Why did you not tell me?”

He comes up beside him now, amusement in his eyes. “You did not ask. Maybe don't make assumptions next time.” Mike can only watch as Will walks away over to the drinks table.

“Made a fool of yourself there, Wheeler.”

“Shut up,” Mike says, frowning at Lucas. But he can’t really focus on Lucas’s jibes, because he feels the stir of arousal low in his stomach. He tries to focus back on the conversation and not on the way his blood warms under his skin.

“Jesus.”

“What?” Mike says, tearing his eyes away from Will and turning to Lucas.

“You. It’s sort of endearing, in a weird way. How obsessed you are.” Before Mike can refute it, Lucas continues. “You’ve quit smoking.”

Mike opens his mouth to reply, then pauses, thinking. “Who said I’ve quit?”

“I’ve not seen you smoke anything the last few months.” He eyes him carefully, hand waiting to pull the lever as Dustin sets up his shot, then a small grin tugs at his lips. “Will doesn’t like it, does he.”

Mike crosses his arms but doesn't say anything.

“Ready,” Dustin says.

“Like I said.” Lucas pulls the lever; Dustin shoots twice and hits on the second. “Weirdly endearing. Any luck on the whole, convince-him-to-run-away-with-you thing?”

“It’s not–” Mike suddenly cuts himself off, lacking the energy to correct him. “Perhaps. He said he will think on it.”

Lucas hums thoughtfully. “Give him time. I’m sure he will come around.”

“How would you know?”

“I don’t,” Lucas says with a shrug. “But it is clear that he cares a great deal about you.”

Mike feels a little embarrassed at that, and so he walks over to Will, accepting a glass of lemonade as it’s held out to him. They sit on the low brick wall and he takes a sip, enjoying the coolness on his tongue. A breeze ruffles Will's hair into his eyes and he refrains from tucking it out of the way.

“Come on, then. When did you learn to shoot?”

Will's lips tug into a sort of wistful smile. “It was one of the only things my father taught me before he left.”

Mike runs his tongue along his teeth while he thinks of what to say. Will has never mentioned his father before, other than stating that they did not know whether he was dead or alive and they did not really care to find out.

“He hated that my mother encouraged my interest in the arts,” Will offers, gaze fixed on Lucas and Dustin as they continue to shoot. “Thought it would, I don't know. Encourage me to be more assertive. More stoic.”

“Sounds like an ass,” Mike says. That earns him a grin.

They sit in silence for a while, bird song carrying over occasionally when the wind blows in the right direction. Mike's nibbling on an elderflower biscuit when he knocks Will's knee with his own.

“I love your interest in the arts, by the way. You're very creative. It is inspiring." He slides a rogue stone on the stone slab under his shoe as he takes in a slow breath. “You don't know this, but, I kind of spied on you a little before we met. Not like–in the streets,” he adds quickly, a crumb sticking dry in his throat. “I mean when you were working on Holly's portrait.”

Warmth rises to his face but he tries to ignore it; this is hardly the most embarrassing thing he's admitted to Will before, but as soon as it leaves his lips he questions whether he should have said it.

He hears Will chew his own biscuit beside him and then swallow. “Oh, I know.”

“What?”

“Holly told me she saw you once. Asked if you were needing to sit for reference next.”

Mike stares at him a moment before a laugh bubbles out of him. “Oh my God. I am sorry. I was just–intrigued, I don't know.”

“I was sort of intrigued too,” Will murmurs, biting into another biscuit. 

“I had glimpsed the painting one night, once you had gone for the day, and assumed you had to be a much older man. When I first saw you I thought you to perhaps be his apprentice. But then I saw you paint, and, well.” Mike shrugs a shoulder. “I was very impressed.”

“Thank you,” Will murmurs slowly. “So, that was all that intrigued you about me? My work?”

“Well.” Mike sips on his lemonade. “Not just that.” He turns suddenly, facing Will. “You said you were also intrigued by me, but I showed no talent. I was simply some rich son hovering about the house, therefore I can only assume it was my good looks that intrigued you.”

Will rolls his eyes, shifting where he sits on the low brick wall. “Perhaps. But Holly also spoke of you rather a lot. Told me that you helped her come up with these stories of magical beings, dragons and monsters from other lands. An unusual thing to hear about a lord.”

“You have never told me that,” Mike says, watching him fondly.

“She told me about your characters, too. Holly the Heroic and Mike the–”

“No no,” Mike says, putting a hand over Will's mouth. “No, do not say it, I will die of embarrassment.”

“–the–brave–” Will manages to get out, laughing as he pulls Mike's hand from his face. “Is that what your other writings are about? You, defending the lands of England as a chivalrous knight?”

“God, let the ground swallow me up.”

“I thought it sweet!” Will says, patting him on the shoulder. “I liked it.”

Mike shakes his head, but as they rejoin the others and eventually move to the parlour for lunch, he can't ignore the warmth in his chest.

June, 1821

Pale blue muslin slips through Mike’s fingers, the knot he has been trying to tie falling loose. He exhales through his nose in frustration before picking up the fabric again, trying to recall the steps of the intricate knot that had been tied on his own only a few months ago. 

After a minute he drops his hands. It’s not perfect, but it is serviceable, and he reaches now for the embroidered buttons lining the white waistcoat. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see what looks like the ghost of a smirk on Will’s face.

“What is so amusing?” He murmurs as he works his way up, carefully fastening the buttons.

“Oh, nothing. I was simply wondering if you enjoyed acting as my personal valet.”

“Maybe. For only that I know I will be allowed to undress you the same way later,” Mike says quietly. He fastens the last button and then lets his fingers smooth up over the cotton, before trailing down his sides. 

“And what else will you do for me?”

Mike looks up, catching his gaze. Will is looking at him with a sort of… shy expression on his face. “Whatever you wish.” He nudges Will to turn to face the long mirror beside them, anticipating what he will think of the clothing. “Is that some sort of secret fantasy of yours? For me to play at being your servant?”

Will laughs, and whether his cheeks go pink because it is warm in here or that he is embarrassed, Mike cannot tell. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“It could be fun though. You want to order me around?”

“Be quiet,” Will says, attention directed to his waistcoat buttons instead. They're the same white as the waistcoat, but adorned with tiny blue embroidered flowers. It's far nicer than Mike’s own, but it is worth being slightly outdressed when it is by Will.

“As you wish… my lord.”

A hand slaps gently against his thigh and so Mike tugs him back a little by his hips, so that his back is against Mike’s chest. “Oh, my lord is not good enough for you? You wish me to address you as your grace?”

Will’s laughing now, “No—”

“Your highness?” Mike asks, raising his eyebrows in mock astonishment.

Will lets out an amused huff and turns around in his grip, arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses him. Mike lets himself be drawn in, Will’s mouth soft and warm against his own, hands finding their way back to his hips and holding him close.

“I fear that is the only way to stop you from talking.”

“Hmm. It is effective,” Mike says in between kisses. He pulls back, looking over Will, and sighs. “But your cravat is off-centre. Let me try to fix it,” he says, pulling gently at the starched fabric.

Once Mike is content, he steps back, moving to pick up a navy blue jacket hanging neatly to one side. Will turns so that he is facing the mirror once again, moving slightly to view himself from different angles. 

“Truthfully though, I am none of those things. I hold no titles, I am no gentleman.” He sighs, fingers restless where they hang at his sides. “Are you sure it is a good idea for me to attend tonight?”

Mike groans, holding the jacket open behind him. “Not this again.”

“Mike, I am serious. It is not… proper for you to associate with me in public outside of business matters.” Will slips his arms into the jacket and lets Mike tug it into place, brushing off a piece of lint from the shoulder.

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the side of Will’s head, before moving his lips down to brush the shell of his ear. “It is not proper for me to suck your cock and yet you have let me do that.”

Will pulls away a little. “Take me seriously, please.”

“I have taken you seriously and we have already been over this,” Mike whines. “I spoke to both my mother and father and they are fine to have you there. I think they assume you have sort of become my–assistant, or something. Which I don't really like, but. Needs must?”

Will looks at him blankly through the mirror. “Your assistant.”

“It just means you can attend, don't think on it, please. I will have to formally introduce you and then we can enjoy the evening. Besides,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, “my mother really admired your painting of Holly. I think she will like you.”

“I worry people will judge you for allowing me to attend as a guest.” Will tugs on his jacket sleeves, shifting his shoulders under the fabric.

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“No,” Will sighs. “It fits perfectly. I am simply not used to this much…” he waves a hand vaguely across his person.

“Will. It is fine. If they have issue they can take it up with my father.” He hugs him from behind, resting his head on Will’s shoulder, meeting his eye in the mirror. “I just wish to drink a little, eat a little, and enjoy seeing you in this outfit.” He runs a hand over Will’s ass and squeezes. 

Will rolls his eyes and pulls away. “Okay, fine. If you insist.”

“I do insist. Though, am I allowed to insist upon anything if I am merely your servant?” 

Will reaches out to give him another playful smack but Mike's expecting it this time. He slips out of the way with a grin.

“Come, let us go.”

A cascade of white flowers flows over the entrance to Richmond House, trailing around pastel blue ribbons. Mike ushers Will forwards, following a group of guests stepping under the display as they enter. Inside is similarly decorated giving the house a sweet, floral scent. 

“This is… extravagant,” Will murmurs under his breath, eyes flitting from one display to the next. “I cannot imagine how much this all cost.”

“It’s not prudent to discuss finances at a ball,” Mike says, hiding back a smile, but when he looks at Will he’s biting his lip, hands clenched at his side. “I will stay with you tonight, okay? You do not need to worry.”

There’s a high-pitched laugh and then a group of ladies walks past them, colourful fans held in their hands. Mike thinks he hears a whisper of his name and so he smiles at them politely. One of them giggles but they’re tucked so close together, he cannot tell which one.

“You mean you will not dance this evening? It looks like you'd have many takers,” Will says tightly, eyes following the group as they move into the main hall.

There’s a small crease in between Will’s brows. They’re alone now in the hall and so Mike leans in close. “The only taker I'd say yes to is not someone I can dance with, so no.”

He doesn’t wait to see Will’s reaction, simply steps forward into the main hall, and from there is where he spots his mother and father, standing to one side as guests enter.

“Best get this over with,” Mike says apologetically as Will comes up beside him.

Will follows his gaze and then nods. He runs a hand over his jacket and stands a little straighter. “Okay.”

His father stands stiffly, eyes narrowed as he looks out at the crowded room. Probably needs his glasses, Mike thinks, but he stubbornly refuses to wear them in public. Mike clears his throat as he approaches. 

“Father, Your Grace. May I present Mr William Byers?”

Will’s standing very still beside him as the Duke gives him a once over, then stares at him seemingly expectantly. Mike is about to nudge Will when he finally speaks.

“Your Grace, it is an honour to be invited tonight. Please accept my gratitude.” 

“It is good to meet you, Mr Byers,” his mother says, stepping forward. “I do often remark on how beautiful your portrait of our dear Holly is. We must arrange for you to complete one of Nancy next."

“May be difficult if he is in Europe, dear.” Mike’s father taps his glass, back to squinting out at the crowd. “I assume you are joining my son’s trip, are you not?”

Will’s gaze flicks to Mike. “Um–”

“There is no concrete plan as of yet, father.”

“No plan?” Ted snorts, then tips back his glass of champagne, swallowing loudly. “It is all you have talked of for weeks. I am tired of seeing maps strewn across the study.”

Mike tries to ignore the tinge of embarrassment as he feels Will’s gaze on him.

“Your step father is Mr James Hopper, correct?”

“Oh, um– yes, Your Grace.”

Mike’s surprised - he didn’t know his father knew of Will’s step father. He has a sudden clenching feeling in his gut. His father never shows an interest in anything, nevermind anything Mike does. Has he been asking around about Will?

His father hums, blindly holding out his empty glass to a passing servant as his gaze falls back to Will. The servant grabs the glass just in time, stumbling slightly, before shuffling away; his father doesn’t seem to notice. “I met him at the Magistrates Court a few years ago. Good man. I approve of anyone trying to clean up the city of criminals.”

Will opens his mouth as if to speak, but doesn’t seem to know what to say, but then his father’s gaze sharpens.

“Do excuse me, I must speak with Mr Bauman.” And with that he steps off into the crowd.

“I do hope you join Michael on his trip, I know he would like it very much if you could,” his mother says with a smile, before following her husband.

“Wow,” Mike says, watching them leave. He’s not certain his father could name Lucas and Dustin for the little attention he has paid them. A mixture of relief that his father does not seem to disapprove of Will and anxiety about how much he knows about him prickles under his skin. “I think that went well?”

“Truly?” Will murmurs. “I fear he barely looked at me.”

“If you knew my father then you’d know that is a good thing. He only seems to pay attention to things he disapproves of. Plus, mother seems to like you.” Despite that rather - in Mike’s opinion - positive encounter, Will still looks ill at ease, posture stiff as he glances around the party. “Come. Let’s get you a drink.” 

A pyramid of champagne glasses looms over them as they approach a cloth-covered table in the far back of the room.

“How on earth do you retrieve one,” Will mutters, staring up at the display with a look of concern.

“It’s just for show. Here,” Mike says as a servant approaches them with two glasses. Mike passes one to Will and takes a sip of his own, looking out across the room. Most of the faces here he recognises, though he cannot truthfully be bothered to speak to any of them. “Have a few and then we must mingle a little, unfortunately. Though I’ll try to keep it short.”

Will looks a little like Mike has told him they must jump from the roof, and Mike can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Relax. This is meant to be a party, remember? You are intended to enjoy yourself.”

A few drinks and a blur of faces later, Will seems to have finally relaxed a little, even joining in on some of their conversations. A small ensemble has since set up in the corner, a soft mix of piano and violin creating a dreamy atmosphere. As Mike's gaze falls on couples dancing in the centre of the room, he cannot help but want to reach out to Will.

“Michael.”

He turns to see Nancy standing behind them. Her hair has been neatly curled up into a bun and tiny silver butterflies have been tucked into her hair. 

 “Ah,” Mike says. “I thought you must be here somewhere.”

Nancy clears her throat and when Mike glances at her blankly, she pointedly raises a brow at Will.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Nancy, this is Will,” he says. “There. Introduction made. You can speak freely.”

“It is lovely to make your aquentice,” Will says politely, giving her a small smile.

“Yes, shame about the rather improper introduction,” she says, side-eyeing Mike. “I am glad my brother brought you along tonight. I’ve been most interested in seeing who has caught his attention so.”

“Nancy,” Mike whispers, frowning at her.

“What?” She says, shrugging, fiddling with her dance card tied around her wrist. “I’ve been telling Mike to bring you over to the house for an age now. Your brother, too, so that I may talk with him about future stories in The Times.”

“Um, yes, of course. I’m sure he would be amenable,” Will says. “He does speak highly of your work.”

Mike eyes Nancy wairily. Never before has he seen her this eager to meet someone, a man no less. “He’s of similar age to you, is he not?”

Nancy shrugs, looking away. “I believe so.”

Mike has only met Jonathan a handful of times. There seemed to be a rather tense atmosphere at first, but he seems to be making progress. At least, Mike thinks he is, after all Jonathan didn’t frown at him the last time they met.

“Let me get us all a drink,” Will says, before slipping off into the crowd.

“He’s a little nervous,” Mike says, just as Nancy leans in close to his ear and whispers, “He’s cute.”

“Nance,” Mike says, shaking his head. 

“I see why you like him, that's all I'm saying.”

As she pulls back, Mike’s gaze is caught by a particular face a little way into the crowd. The smug look he gives Mike makes his skin crawl and he puts his back to him.

“Why on earth is he here,” Mike whispers, annoyed. “I thought he was no longer invited.”

Nancy follows his gaze and then her eyes widen. “Lord Spencer? I didn’t think he was on the guest list,” she murmurs. “He's the one who upset Miss Buckley, isn't he?”

“Among others,” Mike says, unable to keep the derision out of his voice.

Nancy looks at him expectantly and Mike realises he probably shouldn't have said that, but Nancy already knows too much, so.

“He… may have reason to suspect.”

Nancy's face darkens in understanding. She takes another peek at him over Mike’s shoulder, before crossing her arms. “Well, you know he has four children out of wedlock.”

“What?” Mike says. “How on God’s green earth would you know that?”

Nancy pulls him to one side, her voice hushed as she leans in. “You may not care for gossip but it can tell you a great deal of information. How do you think I get leads for my stories?” She sips her drink as she waits for a couple to pass by them. “Three children from women in the rookeries, St Giles to be exact.”

Mike's eyebrows raise. “And the fourth?”

“From a married woman,” she says, then her eyes flick to the side, to Mrs Angela Carver. As Mike’s jaw drops, she adds, “Well, that’s what the rumours say. And, not to alarm you, but he’s headed this way.”

“Shit,” Mike murmurs, turning to see him weaving through the crowd in their direction.

“Also, hide this for me, would you?” Nancy says, pushing her dance card at him before she ducks away.

Slightly frazzled, Mike slips the card in his pocket and turns. Lord Spencer stands before him, a faint pinkness to his cheeks. There’s a slight sheen across his forehead and Mike wonders how much he’s already had to drink. 

“Michael,” he says as if greeting an old friend. Mike tries not to visibly bristle. The worst part about all of this is that Mike can understand why Will was attracted to him. He’s tall, taller than Mike, and his hair is thick and his jaw is strong. He’s got that air of confidence about him that some may read as charming. But behind his expression is a sense of entitlement that gets Mike’s back up.

“Lord Spencer,” Mike says, unwilling to drop to his level. “How… good to see you.”

“It has been a while, has it not? Last time I was here was, what, last year's autumn ball? How time flies.”

“Yes, well.” Mike sips his drink and tries to think of the quickest way to get out of this conversation.

“Did my eyes deceive me or did I see your sister Nancy just then? She does not seem to favour these events much, I did not expect her today.” His finger traces the edge of his glass and he wrinkles his nose. “Shame about her still being unwed. I’d have considered her myself if I had not met my wife.”

Any remaining goodwill still buried within Mike disappears as he continues to speak.

“Though you too are still unmarried. Why the delay?” He looks about them now, hands outstretched. “Do not tell me that there is not a single lady here that tickles your fancy?”

His smile is knowing and Mike wishes he was anywhere else right now. As Mike swallows the last of his champagne to delay replying, he looks over towards the drinks table. Will is talking to someone, seemingly completely oblivious to Mike’s predicament, and he feels a little relief. At least he can try to make sure that Will does not have to converse with this man.

“Ah, I have to say I was surprised to see Mr Byers here. He must be doing very well for himself. First he attends Mr Bauman’s club, now here he is as a guest at the Duke of Richmond’s home. Very interesting.”

Mike tries to relax his jaw. “Say, how is business?”

Spencer seems to be caught off guard. His eyes narrow slightly. “Um, it is well.”

“That's good,” Mike says, plastering on a smile. “Life must be expensive with all those mouths to feed.” 

Spencer stills. “Me and my wife have no children as of yet.”

Mike’s sure that this is a terrible idea, but he can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “Oh, my mistake. I thought you had a gaggle. Perhaps I am confusing you with Mr Carver. I think they have three, do they not?”

As the band moves on to the next song, Spencer opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes flit between Mike’s, as if he is contemplating his next move. Mike fears for a moment that he has made the wrong decision here, but then Spencer takes a step back. His eyes give Mike a slow once over.

“Have a good evening, Lord Wheeler,” he grits out, and with that he turns, moving back into the crowd. Mike can’t help the small laugh of incredulity that slips out of him.

“Your home is akin to a maze,” Will says quietly. The corridor stretches seemingly endlessly in front of them, all cream walls and high ceilings. The occasional picture hangs from the wall and Will stops to look at each one. They spend near ten minutes at one depicting Mike when he was a child which Will insists is exceedingly charming.

Finally they reach a white-painted door and Mike pushes it open, leading Will inside.

“Um, this is your room?” Will says, looking around. Mike’s not entirely sure if Will is impressed or not, and is rather secretly disappointed. He always thought his rooms were rather grand considering he was not the duke. 

To one side, an arrangement of plush armchairs surround a fireplace, the other a solid-wood desk fitted with writing supplies.

“Yes. Do you not like it?”

“Where is your bed?”

“In the bedroom,” Mike says, as if this is obvious. 

Will just looks at him, confused. “You have a bedroom within your bedroom?”

Mike smiles and pulls him by the wrist to a door at the far end of the room. “That is my living area, in here is my bedroom.” 

Will’s hand falls over Mike's as it grips the doorknob, stilling him. “Are your rooms lockable?”

“Um, yes. You want me to lock them?”

Will nods but doesn’t say anything else, and Mike feels a chill of anticipation run up his spine. He goes to a draw by the main door and pulls out a small brass key, turning it in the keyhole until the lock clicks.

“And your servants won’t come in tonight?”

“No, they won’t disturb. Especially not with the party still ongoing.”

Will simply stares at him and so Mike pushes open the bedroom door. A four poster bed sits in the middle of the room, far grander than what they have in the apartment. 

“The wood is from Spain,” Mike says, turning to see if Will might finally seem impressed. “The engraving is meant to portray the Greek tale–” 

Will grips his waist, walking him back until he hits one of the wooden posts of the bed. He lets out a huff of air as warm fingers pull at his cravat.

“Do you know how many times I have heard your name mentioned tonight?” Will says, voice low as he leans in. He presses his lips to his exposed throat, kissing down as low as Mike’s jacket will allow him. “Daughters and their mothers talking of the eligible bachelor Lord Michael Wheeler.”

Mike’s breath hitches as Will leans against him, pushing him further into the post. It’s uncomfortably hard against his back but all his brain can focus on are the hands undoing his jacket buttons, then pushing it over and off his shoulders.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Will murmurs into his skin. “And I had to pretend the whole night that you are not mine.”

Mike balks. He’s not sure he’s seen this side of Will before. A hand slips down and cups Mike’s ass, pulling him more firmly against him. A thrill runs through Mike at being handled like this; he’s painfully hard already.

“How much champagne did you drink,” Mike says, slightly breathless as Will moves Mike’s jaw to kiss back along his throat. 

“I heard one tell their daughter that you were surely to appear on the marriage mart this season.” 

“And what, that made you jealous?” Mike can hear the smile in his own voice.

Will pulls back and his expression makes Mike’s smile falter. It is honest, eyes wide as they look up at him. “Yes. Because I am not sure I could stand it.” 

Their breath mingles between them, warm and betraying the drinks they've had all night.

“Is this… is this you saying you have changed your mind? About Jane?”

Will's voice is quiet when he speaks. “I am sorry I ever suggested it.” 

“It’s fine. We’re fine,” Mike says softly, running his hands up Will’s arms. He tries to conceal the utter relief he feels at hearing Will say that. He wants to ask if this means he will come with him, but then Will is leaning in and kissing him again, fingers rougher than normal as he threads them into Mike’s hair.

It feels demanding, messy, desperate as Mike tries to grip him back equally as tight. The sound of their breathing fills the room as they undress, heavy and broken by Mike’s groan as Will takes his lower lip in between his and bites down.

Will pushes him to the bed and Mike lets himself fall back against the mattress, shuffling further up as Will crawls over him.

“What do you need?” Mike asks, already slightly breathless.

Will straddles his hips, before leaning down and licking back into Mike’s mouth. Mike is so hard that he can't help but moan from even the smallest friction he gets as his cock brushes against Will’s. He’s desperate to touch, to do something, but he kind of wants to lie back and see what Will will do. 

“Do you have any?” Will asks, panting as he pulls back a fraction.   

Instead of answering, Mike slides him off his lap. He scrambles off the bed and once he returns he shuffles up so that he’s leaning slightly against the headboard. He’s not sure he’s ever been so hard as he is now at the sight of Will flushed, naked, pupils dark as he kneels on the bed.

He grabs Will’s thighs, pulling him back on top of him, then goes to undo the bottle but Will takes it from him before he can. He opens it and pours some on his fingers, then reaches back and Mike can't help the way his jaw goes slack. He can’t look away from Will’s gaze but he desperately wants to watch what he's doing.

They don’t speak as Will preps himself. It’s only been a few minutes but then Will removes his fingers, slicks up Mike’s cock and then he’s lining it up and all Mike can do is lie there and watch.

Will winces slightly as the tip slips in and Mike tries to still his hips. 

“I can prepare you some more if you– oh,” Mike exhales sharply as Will slips further down. “Will, God–” His breathing is too heavy for someone who’s simply lying there, but he can’t help it. 

“Don’t move,” Will says as he slowly eases down, and before long he is building a rhythm, one that has Mike panting and pawing at him, running his hands over every inch of skin that he can reach. 

“I love when you take what you want,” Mike says, and Will’s fingers clutch tighter where they rest on his shoulders.

Just as Mike thinks that this is going to be over quickly, Will slows, letting himself ease down to sit in Mike’s lap, taking him in all the way. Mike groans and goes to push up his hips, but Will puts a hand on his chest. 

“I said, don’t move.”

Mike’s not sure how he has the willpower to keep still, but he finds it from somewhere. Will leans down, kissing him deep and slow as he grinds on him and God, Mike wants nothing more than to lose himself in this, lose himself in Will.

Mike's fingers leave pale marks on Will's thighs and he grits his teeth. “God, you feel so good.”

Will leans his cheek against Mike's temple and rocks forward again. 

“Is this intended to torture me?” 

“Perhaps,” Will murmurs, and Mike thinks he sounds amused. His fingers run up to the short hairs at the back of Mike's neck and he scratches gently with his nails. Mike leans his head forward a little to kiss Will's shoulder.

For the next while he seems to keep Mike just on the cusp of orgasm, never letting him cross. Every time he gets anywhere close, Will seems to know and slows his pace. A sheen of sweat is beading at his brow and Mike runs a hand across it, wiping it away.

“Getting tired?”

“No,” Will mutters. Mike knows it's a lie. Then Will pulls back a little, hands going to steady himself on Mike's shoulders. “Would you really leave with me? For the continent?”

Mike leans forward and kisses him, chaste, then says into his lips, “If you asked me to leave tonight, I would.”

Will shudders a little and Mike resists the urge to press up into him, despite his thighs itching to do so. Will pulls up most of the way and then slides back down. It's enough to make Mike's toes curl.

“How… how long could we go for, do you think? Realistically.”

“Hmm,” Mike says, bringing his arms up around Will and pulling him in so they're chest to chest. “If you keep going this slow then maybe forever. Can I move now? Please?”

He feels Will's amused huff hot against his ear. “No. And I meant the trip.”

Mike groans in frustration but keeps his hips still. “Well, there's all of Europe. That could easily take a year. But it's not unheard of to go… ah, God. Um–further afield. There's India. China. Egypt. A whole world out there to see. Who knows how long it would take us.” He runs his hands up Will's thighs and round to his ass, squeezing it as Will resumes his movements. 

“You said we could start in France?” Will says, voice a little breathless.

“Of course. I hope you do not suffer from sea sickness, though. The channel can be a little rough.”

“But I don't speak any French,” Will pants. His movements are quicker now, encouraged by Mike's hands on his hips, and Mike’s not sure he’s going to be able to last much longer.

“I can be your translator, mi amor.” 

Will laughs, breathless. “Did that sound suave in your head?”

“Maybe,” Mike murmurs, before he leans in and latches his mouth to Will’s neck, sucking and biting until Will's legs are trembling, until he knows that Will is so close that he might be able to get away with moving. His hips jerk up before he can really register what he's doing, hard, and Will moans.

“I would fuck you in Paris,” he mumbles into his skin, voice low, as he thrusts up into tight heat. “I would fuck you in Milan. I would fuck you in Rome.”

“Mike–”

“Where else would you want to be fucked?” He reaches in between them and takes Will in hand, stroking him until he feels nails dig into the skin of his back and his thighs clench around Mike’s waist.

“Oh, God. Anywhere. Everywhere.”

Will grabs Mike’s face roughly and pulls him to his mouth, then groans low into their kiss as he comes, warm and wet across Mike’s stomach. He slumps forward and Mike wraps his arms around him, holding him close as he fucks up into him, only needing a few thrusts before he’s coming himself. Will stirs a little in his arms as he empties inside him, and Mike holds him there for a beat, enjoying the way Will still clenches around him. 

“God, you're insane,” Mike mutters into his skin.

Will presses a kiss to Mike’s shoulder before he sits back a little. “What if you got sick of me. Bored of me.”

Mike slides down the headboard a little so that he’s more lying than sitting, and runs his fingers up Will’s side. “Since we first met that time in the parlour, I’ve never felt bored for a single moment I’ve spent with you. I’d have you for as long as you’ll let me.”

For a moment, all Mike hears is Will’s slowly calming breaths, huffed close to his ear, and then Will pulls back, just enough to cup Mike’s face with his hands, nose resting against his own. “You mean it?”

Mike just nods, eyes dropping to Will’s lips.

Will leans in and kisses him, and mumbles something into his lips. 

“What did you say?” Mike says softly.

Will leans back only enough that his lips still brush against Mike’s, his voice barely audible. “I have never loved as I have loved you.”

Mike stills, hand stopping where it rests on Will’s back. “You love me?”

Will groans, pushing Mike’s shoulder. “Stop.”

“No, no. Say it again,” Mike says with a smile he can’t help. 

Will rolls his eyes and Mike leans forward, grabbing him so that he can roll them over. He’s still inside and the movement makes Will squeak.

Mike clutches his face, keeping him still as he peppers kisses over his cheeks, nose, forehead. “Say it again.”

“No,” Will laughs, breathless as he tries to squirm out of Mike’s grip. “Stop it you animal.”

“No, I won’t, because you love me,” Mike says as his fingers go to Will’s side, digging in just under his ribs where he knows he is most ticklish.

“Mike!” 

And Mike does relent now, grinning down at him. He runs his fingers through Will’s hair, pushing it back from his face. “I love you too, but you already knew that.”

“Did I?” Will says, still breathless from laughing.

“Well, yes, I sure hope so. I never leave you alone. Come on,” he says, pressing a final kiss to his forehead. “Let’s clean up.”

The servants' passage is narrow and dimly lit. “Be careful on the steps,” Mike murmurs. “They can be uneven.” He hears Will’s footsteps slow behind him, turning more purposeful.

The staircase leads to a side exit of the house, mainly used by the servants to come and go, but also occasionally Mike when he wants to be discreet. After checking that the path outside is clear, he leads Will out around the side of the house, along a hedgerow that leads towards the back of the garden.

“I used to sneak out here when I wanted some privacy,” Mike murmurs, eyes still adjusting to the darkness outside. The sounds of the party - music, laughter, glasses clinking - carry out from the main backdoors of the house, but Mike keeps walking them down until they reach a small archway cut into the hedge. 

Linking his fingers around Will’s wrist, he pulls him through. A few stone slabs make a circle in the middle of the small clearing, tall hedgerows blocking the view from the main garden. The grass is too long, tall dandelions growing even between the slabs. The gardeners never bother to attend back here which makes Mike like it even more so.

He turns to Will, pulling him onto the small stone circle, letting his hands rest against his waist. The music from the house is slower now, a sort of melancholy tune being played on the piano. 

“Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

Will laughs quietly, then seems to realise Mike is being serious. “I cannot dance, Mike.”

“Of course you can,” he says. “If I can do it, anyone can.”

Will’s eyes trail over to the direction of the house.

“No one can see us here,” Mike sighs. “Come on. Indulge me. And also–” he pulls out a dance card from his pocket where he has scribbled his own name. “See? This has yours and my name on it, so really, you are kind of obliged to.”

The card slips from his fingers as Will takes it, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reads. “You’re ridiculous. Did you steal this from some poor lady?”

“No,” Mike says as he takes it back, slipping it into his pocket. Will’s body heat is warm through the linen shirt as Mike pulls him back in. “Put your hand on my shoulder like this.”

“Why are you leading?”

“Because you admitted that you don’t know how to dance,” Mike says, clasping one of Will’s hands in his and resting the other one on Will’s waist. 

For a minute or so, the only sounds are the delicate notes from the band and the soft sound of their feet on the stone below them. Will’s nose twitches.

“I feel daft,” he murmurs, but he leans in a little closer, until he can rest his head against Mike’s shoulder.

The sky is cloudless above them, the stars bright tonight. Mike doesn’t really remember much from his lessons on Astronomy, but he wonders now how different the stars would look from another part of the world.

“I want to go with you.”

Mike stills, pulling back so he can look at Will properly. “What?”

“To Europe. I want to go.”

Mike feels an overwhelming urge to lean down and kiss him, so he does. 

Will laughs a little, pushing him off. “Mike, not here,” he says, but he stays close, eyes dropping to Mike’s lips. 

“You’ll really come with me?” 

Will nods, and then Mike kisses him again, and this time Will doesn’t protest, just moves his hands to clutch at Mike’s shirt. They stay out there well past the final notes of the piano, until much after even the last guest has left Richmond House, until the late night chill in the air draws them back inside.

1822