"The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again."

― Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby

Four years earlier Louis stood at the stable door at Somerset watching Harry comfort his mare. Now Harry was at Warwick watching Louis do the same.

Louis didn't see him come in. His eyes were closed, his cheek resting on Bertie's snowy muzzle as he stroked her crest. He was dressed casually in his riding breeches and a billowy white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

A piece of straw snapped beneath Harry's boot. Louis startled and lifted his head.

Bertie's ears were down in a relaxed pose and she nosed Louis' chest, urging him to continue petting her. Harry realized that she had now belonged to Louis longer than she had belonged to him. She trusted him and he adored her. Why would a Duke who owned some of the finest horses in the world be so attached to Harry's small carthorse? It perplexed him.

"I came to say goodbye," Harry said, stepping closer.

Louis did not respond.

"Actually, I came to ask for your forgiveness."

Still, no response.

Harry approached them and scratched Bertie behind the ear.

Louis' expression became sly. "You've forgotten how she likes it." Roughly, he removed Harry's glove and rested his hand on the tender spot behind the mare's ear just as Harry had done with him four years earlier.

Emboldened by the Duke's touch, Harry said, "I know that you didn't bed your footman."

Louis was surprised for a moment that Harry had found out, then shrugged.

"Why didn't you?" Harry asked.

"You know why."

An awkward silence fell between them.

The mare's large black eyes blinked at one Duke and then the other.

"You're good for her," Harry said. "Better than I was. I made her weak, you make her strong, a champion, just like you said you would."

Louis resisted the compliment at first, fussing over her bridle, and then said, "She is the gentlest and sweetest mare I have ever had the pleasure of training. You nurtured these qualities in her because they exist within you."

Harry's chest swelled.

Suddenly his valet's fretful cries rang outside the stable. He had to go.

Louis extended his hand and called a truce. "Friends?"

Harry took it keenly. "Friends."

As he turned to leave he said, "Duke, it's rather lonely at Somerset. I should like to have something to look forward to. Will you promise to write me?"

Louis hid a smile. "I'll write you," he agreed.

"I shall check the post every day for your letter!"

Outside, Charles collected him the way he did when Harry was a small boy and late for tea. He threw a cloak over his shoulders and they shuffled along the grass back to the carriage as his valet scolded him for delaying their journey.

Harry wasn't paying attention, he was thinking of his future letter from Louis. He was already desperate to read it and it hadn't even been written! Perhaps the post would reach Somerset before he did and a letter would be waiting for him when he arrived.

They were halfway to the carriage before Harry realized that Louis was walking some distance behind them.

"Stay for the hunt!" he called. "You came all this way. What's one more day?"

♞

To say Charles was furious about Harry's decision to stay another day at Warwick was putting it mildly.

Peevishly, his valet crashed through the manor with Harry's trunk apologizing to Warwick's servants for the abrupt change of plans and the terrible inconvenience it would cause, saying it loudly enough for Harry to hear and grow a tad peevish himself.

Since the hunt was the following day, the whole club convened in the drawing room that evening with their pipes and brandies to discuss strategy.

Louis was the club's Huntsman, keeper of the hounds who controlled them with the sound of his horn, and Oscar his whipper-in, tasked with collecting straggling hounds and sighting the fox.

The rest of the men, known collectively as "the field," were led by the Field Master, Lord Beardsley. The field were to be kept well in the background while the hounds were drawing the fox out of its covert. It was not until the hounds were well on the scent that the field were permitted to follow on.

As a member of the field, Harry was relieved that his role in this sport was ceremonial, though he still had to ride Achilles, which presented its own unique challenge.

The hounds were louder than usual that day. He could hear them from their kennel, as clearly as if they were standing in the next room.

"They're starving." Lady Silcox sidled up to him. "They are given no food the day before the hunt. It heightens their senses."

She was the only woman in the drawing room, and the only woman allowed to participate in the hunt because of her skill at handling and reading dogs. She wore a fitted green dinner jacket over her dress, presumably to blend in. It must have taken a lot of courage for her to stand in that room. Though the men conceded that she understood the sport, none of them took her seriously enough to ask her opinion. She was purely ornamental, her intellect nothing more than a parlor trick.

"I saw that you were going to leave this morning," she said. "What changed your mind?"

How wide her dark eyes were, how hopeful. Harry wished he could say that it was she who changed his mind but it wasn't.

She followed his gaze, which rested unwittingly on Louis. He was sitting on the wingchair by the fire, Roy sitting across from him, Frederick perched on the arm of his chair like an exotic pet.

Harry saw that she was crestfallen and quickly changed the subject. "Beth, will you be my guide during tomorrow's hunt?"

She brightened. "I'll teach you everything you need to know!"

Since none of the other men would converse with her, Harry kept Beth company the rest of the evening as she explained the sport: "The whipper-in isn't the only one who sights the fox. As members of the field we also keep a look out. If you see the fox, you have to cry 'gone away' and indicate the direction of the fox with your hand or a handkerchief."

Harry noted her instructions but knew that if he saw the fox he would never tell. He hoped the beautiful creature survived this ghastly game.

"Once the hounds are on a scent," she continued, "the Huntsman signals to the Master using the horn, and we gallop on after. Some hounds yelp when they find the scent, some hounds hunt silently. If the pack loses the scent, the Huntsman will cast them in a wide arc hoping to pick it up again. This may take several hours and go well into the night."

"Good god!"

"I haven't even told you the best part! The blood of the killed fox is smeared on the face of a newcomer witnessing their first kill. I've already told Lord Beardsley that this is your first hunt. You will get the honors!" she clapped excitedly.

Harry blanched. "Thank you, Beth."

Harry wasn't the only one gazing at Louis that evening. Clarence was smoking a pipe and watching him from across the room. Harry tried to read his expression but the air was thick with smoke around him. All he could make out was his mustache and the rim of his glasses, like a half-finished portrait. Had Louis already spoken to his cousin? Did he know that Harry had confessed about their secret meetings?

When Beth left the room to powder her nose, Louis approached to nibble the food on the tiered serving tray.

"Good evening, friend."

"Have you told your cousin the truth?"

Louis popped a grape into his mouth. "And miss an opportunity to torment him? Never."

"He's trying to find evidence to incriminate you!"

"Let him whittle away the hours reading through every tedious letter on estate tax. He won't find a thing."

Louis underestimated his cousin. Truth could be bent and twisted. Clarence wasn't the mousy chancery lawyer Louis and his friends made him out to be. He was obsessed and dangerous. If he was willing to break the law to steal those letters, what else might he be willing to do?

"I'm telling you this as your friend."

Louis softened. "And as your friend I'm telling you not to worry."

Harry wanted to say: I do worry! Not just as a friend, as much, much more! But they were pulled apart again, Louis to the fire with Lord Beardsley and Harry over by the divan with Lord Graves.

As Harry chatted with the aging Lord on the topic of equine lineage, he watched Louis. The Duke stood contrapposto by the breche violette fireplace gingerly lighting the cigarette that hung from his lips. He tucked the lighter into his breast pocket. Harry remembered rifling through those pockets the day they kissed on the riverbank. He remembered how the Duke's heart thudded wildly when Harry's hands touched his chest.

He could have sworn Louis glanced over at him briefly but perhaps he was imagining it. They were friends now and nothing more.

The conversation turned, the way conversations do, like a change in the wind. Lord Graves was now engaging two other members of the club in a conversation about the favorable scenting conditions and how they hoped to kill their quarry above ground, as it's more sporting.

Harry wandered over to the piano and began to play, tinkering really, a performance that lacked any sense of occasion. Some carried on with their conversations, others stopped to listen. He wondered if Louis noticed or cared. He was desperate to read his thoughts but Louis' back was to him. The Duke was staring into the fire.

Soon men began to retire for the night. One or two and first, and then groups of four or five.

Harry could hear Louis and Lord Beardsley's low voices behind him as he continued to play.

Between a sonata and a concerto he saw Lord Beardsley leave the drawing room out of the corner of his eye.

Harry turned a page of sheet music on the rack and casually glanced at the Duke. He was sitting on the wingchair listening to him play.

Harry feigned surprise. "You're still here."

"I live here."

Harry smiled at the quip. His hands slid over the keys and he began to play Bach's Mass in B minor, Agnus Dei, their song. A harmless flirtation, he thought, for old times' sake.

When his fingers struck the final key, the note hung in the air between them like a whiff of perfume or the promise of something just as sweet.

Harry's pulse skipped waiting for a response of some sort, applause, a kind word, but Louis stood and walked over to the globe by the door.

The spherical, scale model of Earth stood suspended in a mahogany frame with a polished bronze orbit, lacquered continents and oceans, islands and streams. Louis spun it backward.

How Harry wished the real world worked this way. He would spin back time to the day on the riverbank and make love to him in the grass.

"I should retire. It's getting late," Louis said.

"Yes," Harry said, rising from the piano bench and bowing his head to bid him adieu. "Sleep well, friend."

"You too, friend."

Mischievously, the Duke gave the globe another spin, faster this time, then stopped it with the tip of his finger.

"You know, Harry, in some countries, France for example, friends kiss on the cheek."

Harry paused. "I'm a quarter French."

"Are you?"

Harry, trying to appear impartial, walked over to him and said, "I suppose we could be friends who kiss on the cheek."

"I don't see why not," Louis agreed.

He leaned over and kissed Harry's cheek, which was now blushing so brightly the Duke probably thought he had scarlet fever.

Harry reciprocated, lingering on his cheek to savor every last moment of Louis' soft skin on his lips.

He thought Louis would turn and head through the door, when the Duke's finger trailed the globe again.

"Of course, in some parts of the Mediterranean, friends kiss on the mouth."

"I hear Cyprus is lovely this time of year," Harry added breathlessly.

Once again, Louis leaned in. Harry shut his eyes. Out of habit, or perhaps madness, he parted his lips.

Louis seized him.

The Duke wrapped his arms tightly around Harry's waist and filled his mouth with the heat of his kiss.

Before he even knew what was happening, they had kissed their way across the room, over to the wingchair where Louis drew Harry onto his lap.

"Come."

Harry had never been to the Mediterranean but he was fairly certain that this was not how friends kiss, not there, not anywhere.

The Duke's cradled him against his chest and mussed his curls. "You minx, teasing me with that piano playing of yours," Louis scolded, his lips to Harry's temple. "Why must you vex me so?"

"I only wanted you to notice me."

"As if I could notice anyone else! You drive me completely mad! I have a club to run!"

Harry straddled the Duke's lap and pinned his shoulders against the back of the chair. "I thought you would never kiss me again! I wanted to die!"

"So did I."

"Really?" he said, fidgeting with Louis' cravat.

"You know what you are to me, don't be coy."

Harry knew but he liked hearing him say it.

He wound his arms around Louis' neck and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, with childlike affection. Louis leaned back and sighed blissfully, the corners of his eyes crinkled with happiness, letting the young Duke do as he pleased.

"Dearest one," he breathed.

"Golden boy," Harry answered. Louis gave him a curious look and Harry said, "That's what I call you in my dreams. You're precious as gold."

Louis cupped Harry's face and smothered him with a kiss so deep it touched every part of him. A strangled cry escaped the back of Harry's throat and he rocked back and forth on the Duke's lap. He felt Louis' excitement mounting beneath his own, tender and sore with longing.

Louis eyes darted to the gold gilt mantel clock, its clawed feet perched menacingly atop the marble fireplace.

"The hunt is in eight hours."

"I don't want to stop."

"Neither do I."

Harry reached down and touched him pointedly between his legs. He could no longer distinguish the heat from the fire and that from their bodies.

The Duke suddenly lifted him up off his lap and took his hand. No words were spoken. They didn't need to speak. Harry knew what was about to happen. It was just as Frederick said, the body had a language that the mind could not conceive of.

They took the servant's stairwell so they wouldn't risk running into any club members in the rotunda, stopping every second or so seized by the urge to kiss. Louis pinned him up against the bannister.

"My bedchamber."

Harry's memories of that place were tainted by visions of William. "No, mine."

They chased each other up the creaking steps. Louis peeked around the corner of the east wing. Harry pulled him toward his bedchamber but Louis pulled him the other way.

"I have to fetch the oil."

"Is that really necessary?"

"You will thank me for this later."

Louis ran into his room and nearly knocked over his sideboard and broke a lamp trying to retrieve the vial.

They heard footsteps.

"Hurry!" Harry whispered.

He tucked the vial into his pocket and they kissed in the doorframe. Louis rubbed himself against Harry's thigh and moaned. It felt good. Too good. Harry was worried they wouldn't make it to his bed, that Louis would mount him in the hallway.

Harry dragged him by the lapel, like a dog by the collar. They were moving again, carefully since neither had thought to bring a candle.

Then the glow of someone else's candle appeared around the corner. No, no, no! Harry thought. Could nothing in this godforsaken house ever go as planned!

Lady Finnes. She couldn't sleep and was going for another one of her late night strolls, her floor-length nightgown trailing behind her as though she were a ghost floating through the house and haunting them.

She lifted her candle and examined both boys with disapproval. They squinted. Harry's curls were tousled and Louis' cravat undone.

Louis was quick to take her ladyship's hand and kiss it.

"Why, Lady Finnes, you look ravishing tonight. If I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to seduce us—"

"Enough, Duke." She drew her silver braid over her shoulder and huffed, "What are you gentlemen doing together at this late hour?"

"Us?" Harry squeaked. "Why, I'm fetching a book for the Duke from my bedchamber."

She narrowed her eyes. "What book?"

"The Miser's Daughter."

Louis put a hand over his heart. "Literature is my life. I adore Dickens."

She shook her head and tsked.

They shuffled past her awkwardly. Once in his bedchamber, Harry locked the door behind him and burst out laughing.

"'Literature is my life'? The Miser's Daughter is not by Dickens! It's by William Harrison Ainsworth."

Louis tore off his tailcoat and tossed it over the chair by the vanity, hopping on one foot as he pulled off his boot.

"Pick something easier next time instead of showing off!"

"Then it wouldn't be believable!"

They both laughed.

Alone now, with nothing and no one to disturb them, they stared at each other in the darkness. The moon out the window was snug behind a blanket of clouds. The minute hand on the clock's porcelain dial inched them ever deeper into the stillness of the night.

Louis began to prepare. He lit a candle, fetched a small towel from the linen trunk, turned down the blankets on the bed, and placed the vial of oil beside the pillow.

Lovemaking was theoretical just a few moments ago but now the reality of the act was upon him. Harry flushed and hugged the bedpost. He was lightheaded. Was it possible to faint from shyness he wondered?

Harry was still clinging to the bedpost when he felt Louis come up behind him and kiss the back of his neck.

"Wait," Harry said.

"What is it?"

"I have to put on the nightshirt Frederick gave me."

"Why?" Louis asked.

"To arouse you."

Louis bit his bottom lip. "It would arouse me to see you in nothing at all."

He slipped Harry's tailcoat off his shoulders and it fell to the floor.

"Oh, I see."

He trembled.

Sensing his fear, the Duke pressed his chest against Harry's back. His heartbeat was steady and reassuring. It said everything Harry needed to hear without saying anything at all. Harry belonged to this body and this body belonged to him. You're mine, you're mine, you're mine, it sang.

Harry could hear the rushing water of the river in his ears the first time they kissed, touch the grass. They had spun the Earth backward. That morning they were enemies, then friends, and now they would become lovers.

A/N: It is HAPPENING. Fetch me my rosary, send me your prayers, I'm writing Victorian smut. I've waited so long. It's been 800 years.

Will Louis be gentle?

Will Harry faint from shyness? (Will I?)

Do you think Louis is justified in letting Clarence continue to think he's guilty or is Harry right to want to clear the air between them?

Now that Harry and Louis have forgiven each other, do you forgive Louis for stealing Bertie?

Will the fox survive the hunt??? May the odds be ever in his favor.