As many stars, p.1
As Many Stars, page 1
As Many Stars
By K.L. Noone
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2024 K.L. Noone
ISBN 9781685507596
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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This one’s for all my readers, who cheer on all the stories—thank you!
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As Many Stars
By K.L. Noone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
March 1816
Blake Thornton, Earl of Wildborough, took two steps into his former best friend’s study, in the fashionable Mayfair residence of the Duke of Auburndale, and came to a halt in shock. “You look dreadful.”
“Thank you, and it’s good to see you, as well.” Ash had risen upon Blake’s entrance, but left one hand touching his desk, perhaps for support. In some ways he looked the same, even two years since their last meeting—sunlight-fair hair, long-lashed starlit grey eyes, stubborn chin, the long-legged willowy height of a heron who’d learned to be a classical scholar—and in some ways he did not.
Some obvious ways. Significant ways. Ways which made Blake’s heart, pathetic pining beast that it was, slam against his chest.
He crossed the room. Put a hand on Ash’s shoulder. Then panicked internally, because his friend felt too thin, and Blake’s own hand was too large, heavy and tanned and powerful. Should he move the hand? Offer more assistance? “Sit down before you fall down.”
“Such a grasp of social niceties. I have missed you.” Ash pulled him in for an embrace; Blake panicked more—what if his muscles caused harm to fragile bones, what if Ash were truly as ill as he looked, what if it’d been too long and they no longer knew each other the same way?—and ended up awkwardly stiff, but hugged him back.
Two years. He should’ve come sooner. He’d skipped replying to a letter or five. Some of them genuinely by accident. Some of them because he hadn’t known how to write back, what words he could ever say. He could not write the truth, so he hadn’t.
He’d been friends with Ashley Linden since they’d been boys at Eton and then Oxford, since before anyone had known that Ash, only a nephew, would acquire the title. Long before: the illness and inheritance had only happened sixteen months previously. It had claimed Ash’s uncle and aunt, who had been childless; because his own parents had been long gone, he’d been next in line. Blake had been in Italy then.
He’d been in Italy in part because he’d always liked exploring. And in part because he’d needed to get away from England and Ash’s smile and everything he’d known he could never have.
Ash had begun lecturing at Oxford by then, because of course he had, because Oxford wanted to keep him, teaching undergraduates about Greek poetry in ancient book-lined rooms with endless unbound airy delight, glorious and innocent and brilliant as pure diamond. Blake, who got to be the wicked friend—the disreputable rakish Earl of Thorns, according to Society’s nickname—swept in and told him scandalous stories and teased him about propriety, and loved him, with desperation, without confession, in inadequate silence.
He steered Ash over to a chair. The chair was new, in the light and delicate contemporary style. The whole townhouse interior was new: Ashley’s aunt and uncle had had renovations finished only a few weeks before their passing. They had expected to live in Auburndale House for decades to come.
“I’m all right.” But Ash’s face was pale, and he paused to cough. Coatless, sleeves rolled up, as usual not caring much about fashion; that couldn’t be warm enough. “It’s only this cold, I’ve had it since February…”
“And you’re still ill? Are your lungs in danger? Have you seen a physician?” Blake attempted to test his forehead, his cheek, for fever; tried to check his pulse.
Ash swatted his hand away. “I’ve not seen you in two years, the last time you wrote you said you were about to scale a glacier in the Alps, and I’ve spent three months terrified that you’d fallen down a crevasse or been eaten by ravenous wolves. Tell me you’re here and alive and I’m not delirious.”
“Is that a concern?”
“Yes! I thought you were dead!”
“I meant you. Delirium.” He was sitting on the low footstool in front of Ash’s chair. This made him shorter than Ash, but he was used to that. Felt right: the way the world worked. Himself looking up to Ashley. A petitioner. A supplicant, except he could never ever ask for what he wanted most, so instead he tried to fuss over Ash and listen to Ash ramble about long-dead poets and astonish Ash with hedonistic stories about his own exploits, so he could watch those starlight eyes go huge with dismay and fascination.
He found one of those scholar’s hands to hold onto. It was chilly. He tried to provide heat with his own big paws. “I did write from Geneva. It didn’t reach you?”
“Obviously not.”
“Then I apologize for that. I should’ve written again. You said you wished I was here with you for the Season. I told you I’d come.”
Ash’s lips parted, soundless. After a second he tried again. “You came home because I made a joke about not wanting to face the perils of London alone?”
Yes. Always yes. A thousand times yes. “And it was about time I got back to England. Checking in on the funds. Dropping into one of Brazen’s gambling hells. Exploring this year’s selection of wealthy widows. Do you know, I haven’t spent an evening with any charming companion for at least half a year? Horrifying.”
Ash yanked the hand away. “You’ve come back to drink and gamble and seduce lonely women. Never mind, go back to the Alps or the Scottish Highlands or the Aegean Sea or wherever it is you’re headed next.”
Nowhere. Only here. Because Ash was ill and exhausted, having planned for a scholar’s life rather than a sudden title, and Blake had left him once already. This time he’d do better. This time he would not leave Ashley’s side. “I’m not going anywhere. Or only to find you a doctor. Have you seen someone?”
“I’ve been busy.” Ash pressed fingertips against the spot between his eyebrows. “Uncle Francis wasn’t entirely reckless with money but he’d just spent so much, this place, the renovations to the country house, the new carriage…I’ve been sorting out which debts need repayment, and what work was actually completed, and whether we can not add that whole new wing, because it isn’t as if I’ve got the funds…I should be finishing that book of translations of Catullus. It’s overdue. And I miss my students.”
“Do you honestly miss students?”
“Well, some of them. I like teaching.”
“I know.” Blake scooted closer, on the spindly footstool. It wobbled under his weight, both the physical and the emotions. “I know you never asked for this. Does your head ache?”
“Constantly, these days. It’s fine, I’m used to it.” Ash exhaled, touched Blake’s arm. Even through coat and sleeve beneath, the touch sang. Shimmered. Left sparks under Blake’s skin. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I really did miss you.”
“You just miss stories about Venetian palaces and brothels in Paris. I can look at your accounts, if you’d like. Did I ever tell you about the countess I met in Naples? Her husband had gone to London on business, and she was in need of company, and she liked silk sheets. And blindfolds.”
“No,” Ash said, wide-eyed. “No, I—you haven’t—no, that’s not why I miss you. You know it isn’t. Did you really blindfold her? So she couldn’t see you, in bed? But you’re so—I mean, that was…good?”
“Other way round,” Blake said cheerfully, and got up to ring for tea. His reputation would suffer if anyone observed the so-called Earl of Thorns consuming anything other than opulent brandy or whiskey or champagne, but this was Ash’s house, and he wanted Ash to drink something warm and hearty, and to eat a sandwich or a scone, which would only happen if Blake put it into his hand. “She wanted me at her mercy. And yes, very good. I’ll tell you the rest after you eat something.”
“Blackmail,” Ash muttered, but that wasn’t an objection; so Blake agreed, “Absolutely, I’m wicked and sinister, haven’t you heard all the rumors?” and sat back down. “And I’m hungry. Do you
“We’re not throwing a dinner-party, it’s just tea—”
“And I have a large…appetite.” He made sure the line landed just the right side of flirtatious: exaggerated, over the top, plainly unserious.
Plainly. He even gave Ash his best smile. “Please?”
“Good Lord,” Ash said, laughing. “How does that ever work? I assume you’ve got much better seductive techniques when you’re honestly trying. Or all the countesses are incredibly desperate. Yes, fine, about the ham. I think we’ve got some.”
“See,” Blake said, “it does work.” And he smiled more, and the knife cut deeper, made of complete and utter honesty.
But that was all right; that was what he needed to do, because Ash knew he was a rake and a seducer and an adventurer, but Ash should never have to know the absolute depths of Blake’s most secret desire. Ashley Linden was a genius and a respectable person and a ray of sunlight who even managed to love undergraduate students, and Blake Thornton was made of sin and shadows, in love with not only a man but his best friend.
That was the way of the world. And he’d slice out his own heart with that knife rather than see Ash hurt.
They did indeed have ham, according to the maid who answered the ring. She beamed at Ashley, because everyone did. Likeable as spring, as kitten-fur and dew on roses and the dry sweet scent of aged parchment. A good man, inheriting this title. Kind to servants and small animals, presumably, though Blake had never in fact seen Ash around small animals. He was pretty sure about that stance, though.
He gazed at the freshly papered walls of the townhouse. He thought about Ashley, trying to learn how to be a duke, wearing black for those first three months, alone. He thought about grief, and mourning, and new lives.
He offered, “I really will look at the accounts if you want. You know I’m good at that.”
“Yes.” Ash’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You are. You should’ve had that first, in mathematics—you never do show anyone how good you are at that, you’ve even left it out of your memoirs—”
“You’ve been reading those? That sensationalized rubbish—”
“It isn’t and you know it. You’re a lovely writer. Those books are wildly popular. All your travels, your descriptions—even the scandalous bits are lovely really, you’re always so generous when you talk about someone you’ve—” Ash skidded to a halt. Blushed. Strawberry-pink against fair skin and white-blond hair. “I just mean. Er. You always sound like you truly fell in love. For a night. With that person—or two at once. Or, um, sometimes just with the place. A ruined castle in the moonlight. Descriptions, like I said. You really are very good.”
Blake had to look away. The carpet, the desk, the toe of his own boot. Anywhere but at Ash’s earnest face, at the compliments, so artless and so undeserved. “You should be working on your ancient Romans and Greeks, not indulging in my pointless misadventures.”
“If you’d written to me more, I wouldn’t have to buy the books.”
“You paid for them? Don’t do that. I’ll get you copies if you insist.” He could more than afford it. Ash, annoyingly, wasn’t wrong about the mathematics. Blake was very good with accounts, figures, and investments. He’d needed to be, after his father had tried damned hard to ruin the earldom rather than pass it on to a boy he suspected was not his legitimate son.
He could sit down at a gaming table and win. He could calculate odds in his head. He was a decent writer and storyteller, at least as far as entertaining melodramatic prose went; he’d published poetry, first, and when he’d had a bit of money and managed to travel, he’d written about that too.
Telling stories, he thought. Pretending. Of course he was good at that. He did it every day. Every moment. Every time he looked at his best friend, or ran away to Italy and tried not to look. Or even every time he breathed, because whether or not he was looking, he could close his eyes and picture Ash.
He had not written—or had disguised, or carefully sketched the barest innuendo around—certain other encounters. The delightful Russian prince who’d had such a talented mouth. The handsome red-haired doctor in Edinburgh, a chance encounter in the street in the rain. They’d literally bumped into each other outside a bookshop, of all places. The eyes, green as emeralds, had lingered on Blake for a fraction too long. The gaze, speculative, had been an invitation. He’d been on his knees in the man’s spare and practical bedroom shortly thereafter.
“I don’t mind paying for them,” Ash said, because evidently they couldn’t leave the subject of Blake’s ridiculous books behind. “It’s your income, and—”
“I’m doing better than you think I am. I can certainly afford whatever copies you want.”
Tea arrived, including two heaping plates of sandwiches, hoisted in by two footmen. Blake looked at the trays; looked at Ashley.
Ash sighed. “You said you were hungry. Yes, I’ll eat one too. Happy?”
“Yes,” Blake said, because he was, in that moment: home, here, with Ash agreeing to eat, to let Blake help solve his problems, service like a vow. “I’ll tell you all about the countess after you eat two of the ones with the ham.”
Chapter 2
Blake did not stay terribly late at Ash’s—he did not want to impose, and he had to be careful, so careful, because if he stopped being careful he’d blurt out when I think of home I think of you—and he considered going out, after.
Drinking. Gambling. Certain houses with reputations for pleasure. Everything everyone would believe of the Earl of Thorns, on his first night back in London.
In the end he opted for none of those. Gaming-tables were too easy. He had no wish to drink himself senseless, nor to wake up with a pounding head; what if Ash needed him? And he could certainly find a discreet brothel, but that did not sound appealing, because even if the person had blond hair and rainfall eyes, they wouldn’t be Ash, and they wouldn’t be right.
He might be getting old. Or only tired. Tired of pretense, tired of trying to bandage up the tiny hole in his heart with poor substitutes.
So he just went home, after making sure Ash had actually got to bed, or at least securely into a bedroom. His own house, Wildborough House, wasn’t far away; his father had attempted to sell that off too. Blake had bought it through a solicitor. And had, once he’d had the funds, redecorated.
As lavishly and decadently as he could. Red velvet. Nude sculptures, classical goddesses and Muses in outrageous bare marble. Gaudy striped paper in crimson and gold.
He walked in the door, gazed at tasteless extravagance wearily, and wondered who he’d been, who he’d wanted to be, to make that statement. To shout so loudly.
He did not have a valet, because his valet had fallen in love with a French dressmaker and decided to remain in Paris. Blake hadn’t argued—who was he to argue with love?—and had given Thomas a decent amount of money and an excellent reference. He supposed he ought to see about hiring someone new, in the morning; he could manage to put on his own coat and tie his cravat in a passably stylish careless manner, but he would never have the polish of a professional. And Ash would probably like him polished. Neat and tidy. Showing that it mattered, that Blake could dress properly for his friend. Showing respect.
The little hole in his heart pulsed, unhappy; but he was used to that.
He tried to go to bed early, being virtuous. He couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning, unused to this bed and this house. The mattress was too soft, or too feathery, or something undefinable. The bedposts stood upright and stiff, wreathed with abstract carvings that looked simple until one got close, at which point they proved to be fabulously erotic, dancing over dark wood. The bed-hangings were a rich burgundy, the color of wine and spice.
Blake lay there staring at the posts and the curtains for a while, and then got up, because he wasn’t going to sleep, and he might as well be productive.
His publisher, Murray, would joyfully accept the new installation of the travel memoirs whenever he delivered it; there’d be a new play, or prints of his own silhouette, or decorative plates, or something of the sort. They’d like it if he actually finished the book in question, so he found paper and pen and his storm-and-sea-smudged journal, and lit a candle, and poked at some words: turning sketches into sentences, patiently chipping lapidary glints out of his dashed-off scribblings.
