“I’m fine,” he said. “Just… not very hungry. I need to lie down till this headache eases.”
“Come on, then,” George said, rounding the table. “I’ll help you to your room.”
“Thank you,” Martin replied tiredly. He was moving clumsily, and, as he turned away, he knocked into the table, sending George’s discarded letter to the floor.
“Damn, I’m sorry,” he said immediately, “Let me?—”
“Leave it. It’s fine,” George said calmly. “I’ll get it later, after I’ve taken you to your room.”
“Can I help?” Theo asked, getting to his own feet, hovering uselessly.
George shook his head, not meeting Theo’s eyes. “No need,” he said mildly. “Finish your breakfast.”
And without another word, he steered Martin out of the dining room.
Once they were gone, Theo dropped back into his chair and stared at his plate. He wasn’t sure what to do with this version of George, polite and dismissive.
After a while, Tom put his head round the door.
“Do you want me to clear the table, sir?” he asked tentatively.
Theo shook his head. “No, thank you. Mr. Asquith may not yet be finished. Give it a few more minutes.”
Tom nodded. He stepped forward to retrieve the dropped correspondence from the floor, but Theo forestalled him.
“I’ll get that,” Theo said, getting out of his chair and leaning down to pluck George’s dropped letter up from the floor.
He heard the polite click of the door closing as he straightened.
Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to the closing compliments and signature on the letter.
“Your devoted and affectionate friend,
Ollie.”
The letter was from Fletch.
He knew he should not—must not—read it, but somehow his gaze flicked up, taking in some of the hastily scrawled words.
I miss our friendship, George…
I must see you…
I will come to Wiltshire…
My marriage to Cecily changes nothing…
Heart thudding, Theo folded the letter up before he could absorb another word and set it down next to George’s place with the other, still-sealed letters.
Quite suddenly, he felt distinctly odd. Unsettled and unsure what to do with himself. He pictured how George had looked just a few minutes earlier as he read Fletch’s letter, his expression inscrutable. What had George been thinking as he read those words? He would not be human if that letter did not affect him in some way. Theo wanted to go and find George and ask him directly. Look him in the eye as he answered.
Squeezing his eyes closed, Theo ran his hands over his face. What the hell was wrong with him? He was all tied up in knots over George Asquith—George who would be going back to Wiltshire soon. Hell, he’d probably be making plans to leave imminently after the argument they’d had last night. Why would he want to stay here any longer?
Theo’s chest hurt at that thought, a painful, empty aching. Why did he feel so distraught? Because they’d had a disagreement? Theo had disagreements with people all the time, and he didn’t mope after. George would get over it, and if he didn’t, well, so what? It wasn’t as though he and George had plans beyond this brief stay at Blackfriars. A few weeks of bed sport before they parted ways. That was all either of them had expected.
“It’s just meeting physical needs—like scratching an itch.”
That was what Theo had told George, and at the time he'd meant it, so why did he feel so oddly hollow at the memory of his own careless words?
