Duke of Camellias

SEVENTEEN

Blair was downstairs when he saw Christopher, who stood up and waved at him.

"Mister Millais! You finally came down! How are you feeling?"

Blair paused, and realized what a sight he was in. Thankfully, his nightgown was plain and he had tucked it into his trousers and they could be mistaken for a rather old shirt, but he scrambled to button the top buttons, then stepped into the parlor room.

"I'm sorry I worried you, I wasn't feeling well."

"No, no, don't apologize, please. In fact, I'm sorry if I didn't seem particularly friendly the past few days and scared you off," Christopher said, and Blair softened. Maybe he hadn't done anything with the Duke—no, he was sure he hadn't.

"Oh, no. I simply didn't want to get in the way."

"You aren't getting in the way. I want to know you better, too. Come, sit."

Blair hesitated before lowering himself at the couch across from his. Somehow, he had sat in this room dozens of times, but it felt different with Christopher. He was so graceful, and even the way he picked up the teacup and saucer was so elegant that Blair couldn't help but be mesmerized. As much as he hated admitting it, he was evidently aristocratic and matched Emmanuel better than he ever could.

Then Christopher put down the cup and faced Blair again.

"I'm sorry for what I said about your story that day. Ever since then, I've read more of your writings, and talked to Emmanuel about it. They are more than just sad stories."

Blair was surprised they had talked about him. He thought they must have been enjoying their own lives, their unimaginable as different as his like night and day.

"I feel honored."

"No, I'm the one honored to be talking to an author of such wonderful stories. I found them clever, very profound." He seemed nervous, Blair thought, but it must be impossible. After all, why would he, a blue-blood, be nervous in front of him? He clasped his hands together and then gave a small laugh before continuing. "I don't read much, you see. I've always been rather bad at reading, especially literature. I was tutored at home, and never had the chance to socialize with peers, so I'm sure I seem rather awkward to you."

"Really? Not at all," Blair said quickly. "I didn't think that at all. In fact, I never went to school."

"You never did?" Christopher seemed as surprised as he did. "I could never have known through your writing. I never read anything so, well, sensitive. So detailed and interesting. I loved your most recent piece, 'The Lady of White Roses'." Blair gave a small smile.

"Thank you, that was the story that Emmanuel read and found me through."

"I'm glad you came," he said. Blair wondered why everyone was telling him this, from Flemings to Christopher.

"I don't know," Blair finally said, finding it hard to keep it within himself. "When you came Emmanuel seemed to forget me completely." He felt silly for saying it, but he couldn't help it: the loneliness had hurt, and he wanted consolation, even if it was from the mouth of his rival.

"He's only afraid of becoming too close to you," Christopher answered, and looked down at his shoes, shined so perfectly they almost reflected his face. "He always pushes people away when they become too close. Trust me, he does like you. He tells me about your stories, and when he does, his eyes shine like a child's."

"Liking my stories is different from liking me as a person."

"Do you truly think that, Blair?" Christopher's eyes were different—they seemed envious. Blair find it hard to answer. "Anyways, I hope you forgive him. He's not good at expressing his feelings, you see. Come and eat with us, I will be leaving after Christmas, during now, I'd like to become your friend." He held out a hand.