A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (8 page)

Mother came out from the blue parlor leaning heavily on Pearl’s arm.

“Darling,” she said, putting her hand against Henry’s cheek, “I’m so excited for you. I’m sure you’ve made a wonderful choice.” With this display of relative vivacity, it was clear she was making a special effort to celebrate this day and Henry was touched.

“Mother, this is Martin.”

Martin made a deep bow. “It’s a pleasure to serve you, Ma’am,” he said.

“What a lovely boy. Good manners,” said Mother. “Of course, he’s Ganymede, isn’t he? Your father does swear by Ganymede!” She turned and smiled up at Pearl, patting her forearm. “A good slave makes life so much more bearable, Henry!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry agreed. Timothy began introducing Martin to the other slaves, starting with Pearl then down through the ranks, and Henry waited somewhat impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other. In the middle of Martin meeting the maids, Cora escaped from Nurse and introduced herself, which threw off the rhythm of the introductions. Martin shook her hand and bent low to speak with her, and Henry could not hear what they said but envied his sister her relative boldness and level of comfort with this handsome young stranger.

Father, seeing Henry’s impatience, gave him leave to show Martin to their rooms. “This way,” said Henry, with a jerk of his chin. Martin followed close at his heels up the staircase and Henry was very conscious of him at his back.

The second floor of the house was nearly all bedrooms, each with its own slave room and bath. Father had planned for a very large family when the house was built, but Mother had proven incapable of providing him with one, so most of the house sat empty. Henry’s suite was one of the larger ones, with windows facing south and east, an elaborate mantel over the hearth, and a generously-sized slave’s chamber connected via a short corridor, with a black-and-white-tiled bath in between, as well as a linen closet and trunk room. The walls throughout were papered in a gilded damask, the floors carpeted in a blue-and-burgundy feather pattern, and heavy blue velvet curtains flanked the windows. Henry looked around his bedroom at the imposing furniture, the high bed and throne-like chair before the desk, as if seeing them for the first time, and said, “My father…he likes grand things,” with a sort of helpless gesture toward the looming headboard. He ushered Martin into the little connecting hall. “You’ll be just through here.”

The slave’s room was furnished in good style, in keeping with the grandeur of the house. Father—and thus Henry—believed in outfitting slaves such that they might do their best work.

Martin smiled and stroked the heavy plush of the bedspread. “It’s all so nice, Sir.”

Besides the bed, the room held a wardrobe and a desk with a chair. The brown paper packages from the haberdasher were piled on the desk and the new jackets hung in the open wardrobe.

“You can sit, if you want,” Henry said.

Martin sat on the bed, still stroking the coverlet. “Thank you, Sir.” He cleared his throat. “You know, Sir, I’m very grateful to have joined your house.” In an almost conspiratorial tone, he added, “I had hoped that you’d be the one to take me at auction.”

“There were others interested,” Henry pointed out. “Loads of them. You’d have gone to a good family no matter what.”

“But, I wanted to go with
you
, Sir,” Martin said. He looked up at Henry from beneath lowered lids, long lashes. He drew little circles on the coverlet with the tip of his finger.

Although this admission pleased Henry a great deal, it also made him uncomfortable. What was Martin’s purpose in saying such a thing? Henry shouldn’t let himself read too much into it.

Martin continued. “Your family is a good one, but it’s
you
I liked better than the others, Sir.”

His face very hot, Henry dared ask, “Why is that?”

“You’re very handsome,” Martin said, unselfconscious in offering the compliment, “and I think you’ll be a kind master.” He thought for a moment, then added, “You didn’t handle me roughly, not like some of the others.”

“What did they do to you?” asked Henry, trying not to sound too interested.

“Oh, so many of them bent me over and…touched me intimately, Sir. Poking and prodding. I’m quite sore.” Martin wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Not
too
sore, though, Sir!” he hurried to add.

Henry remembered seeing the boy probing the slave’s ass in the showroom—and remembered his jealousy, his wish that he had been bold enough to do it himself.

Martin mistook Henry’s silence for disapproval. “Forgive me, Sir, for speaking ill of my betters.” Martin bowed his head, contrite. “They had every right, of course, Sir.”

“No need to apologize,” Henry reassured him, though his blush deepened, uncomfortable with his showroom memories.

“Should I change into my uniform, Sir?” Martin asked, standing and beginning to unbutton his shirt. “I should feel more at home here if I look the part.”

Henry backed toward the door. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said.

Martin smiled. “I don’t need privacy, Sir. Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

“No, it’s all right,” Henry said hurriedly. He turned and fled for the safety of his own room. He sat on the edge of his high bed and wrung his hands together nervously. When Martin appeared a few minutes later, fully dressed, Henry was both disappointed and relieved. Martin wore the narrow fawn trousers, collarless shirt, black waistcoat and black jacket that were also Timothy’s uniform. His hair was tied back with a narrow black ribbon. He tugged at his sleeves and smiled shyly at Henry.

“Does it suit me, Sir?”

The sleeves of the jacket were a little short, but the garment otherwise hung well on Martin’s slim frame. The blue of his tattoo stood out brightly against the white of shirt and skin.

“Did it hurt? Your tattoo, I mean.”

“Yes, Sir, but I didn’t mind,” Martin told him proudly. “I was among the first in my class to earn it.”

“May I see it?” Henry asked, beckoning Martin closer. Martin came to stand between his feet and then, without Henry asking, went down to his knees, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and lifting his chin so that Henry might better see the mark.

It was a circle a bit larger than a half-dollar, azure blue, a chalice wreathed in laurels. Delicate tendrils unfurled from the edge of the disk and there was a number beneath, which Henry read aloud.

“1-7-3-1-0-N-Y.” Henry lifted his hand to the mark, but stopped short of touching the knobs of Martin’s collarbones.

“My number, Sir,” Martin said. “Ganymede has a long history.” Once again, Henry could hear the pride in his voice. He paused, then added, “Touch it if you’d like, Sir,” and raised his chin higher still, exposing the length of his throat.

“No, no.” Henry shook his head and looked away. He could feel Martin’s eyes searching his face and wished that he would not blush. “Get up,” he said. He slid sideways along the bed, away from Martin, and stood.

Martin’s hands moved to his shirt buttons and for a wild moment Henry thought he might undress; however, all he did was refasten his top button. “Is there anything I might do for you, Sir?” Martin asked, getting more slowly to his feet. “Anything at all?” When Henry did not immediately answer, he added, “I should be very happy to serve you. That
is
what I’m here for,” in a low, intimate tone.

Henry knew this, of course, but now that Martin was his, he was overwhelmed and embarrassed by the possibilities.

“It will be time for your dinner soon,” Henry told him, although this wasn’t actually true. “Timothy will want to show you around first. We should go find him.”

“Of course, Sir. As you wish.”

They went down the back stairs, which were more convenient, although Martin, as a companion slave, could also use the front staircase as he wished. “Timothy already told you about the stairs, I imagine,” Henry said, talking so fast he was making himself out of breath. “Timothy knows everything.” Timothy was with Cook and Randolph in the kitchen and was not prepared to instruct Martin at all, sending them back to Henry’s rooms with obvious impatience, not wanting them underfoot.

“Perhaps I should put my things away, Sir?” Martin suggested. When Henry acquiesced to this suggestion with a shrug, he began unwrapping his packages. Henry watched from the doorway, leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest. Martin smiled as he worked, touching the items almost reverently. “It’s like Christmas, Sir,” he said. “Better, even.”

“Not really,” said Henry. “It’s only shirts.”

“Beautiful shirts, Sir,” Martin told him. “Like gentlemen’s shirts. They teach us about quality, you know. I had no expectation of ever having things so nice.” He put folded stockings into a drawer and gave them a little pat.

“What sort of man would dress his slave poorly?” Henry scoffed. This was something Father had said and Henry was, in fact, unsure of the answer, though obviously it wasn’t the sort of man he ought to emulate.

“I knew you’d be kind, Sir,” Martin said happily.

When he had put all of his new clothes away, Martin suggested that he might acquaint himself with the contents of Henry’s wardrobe and, grateful for Martin’s enterprise, Henry readily agreed. He sat on the side of his bed wishing frantically that he had something masterful or intelligent or even simply cordial to say, while Martin praised his taste in suits and neckties. They were thus engaged when Timothy knocked on the door and told them he was ready for Martin, if Henry didn’t mind. Henry did not mind; he was, in fact, relieved to be alone.

It was all proving to be so much more difficult than he’d anticipated! Martin was too much of what Henry had dreamed of for Henry to feel comfortable with him—or to feel superior to him, which he was quite sure he was supposed to do.

With Martin gone, Henry was suddenly at a loss as to how he might entertain himself, or at least pass the time. He flipped through
Pals
again but could not concentrate. He recalled Martin offering to read to him and wondered what sort of books Martin enjoyed, if boys in the Houses read adventure stories as avidly as free boys did.

He considered whether he might take advantage of this time alone to release a little tension, but he wasn’t sure when Martin might return, and he definitely didn’t want to be caught with his prick in his hand. Just having Martin under the same roof was arousing and confusing both, and Henry wouldn’t even allow himself to think about what could happen later on, after dinner and the family hour, when he would be alone with Martin for the entire night.

Overwrought at the prospect of some intimacy with his new slave, Henry went to look into Martin’s room, trying to ignore how his stiffening prick was pinched by his trousers. Martin’s room showed little more sign of habitation than it had before Martin’s arrival. Henry opened the wardrobe and surveyed all the unworn clothes. They were
for
Martin, but bore no trace of him as yet. Henry wondered what had happened to the tight breeches Martin had worn all day long, but saw no sign of them.

In the bathroom, Martin had placed his few toiletries on a shelf, everything still in wrappers. Henry picked up a bar of soap and breathed in vetiver, the same scent he’d smelled on Martin’s hair in the carriage, and his cock jerked alert. His hands shook as he put the soap back where he’d found it. Maybe, if he hurried… He locked the door and unbuttoned his trousers.

With a deep breath, Henry took himself in hand and thought of Martin taking hold of his wrist, pressing his hand to his belly, so warm and taut and silky and alive. He thought of Martin naked before the mirror in the haberdasher’s shop. He thought of all the things he could do to Martin if he dared. He was ready to come, had been all day since he’d first seen Martin on the dais, and it took only a few strokes to finish. He caught his mess in his handkerchief and wadded it up in his hand, prepared to shove it in his pocket if Martin had returned while he was behind the locked door.

Martin had not returned. Henry went to put his handkerchief in the laundry basket and discovered it had been moved from a corner of his own room into Martin’s room, as collecting Henry’s laundry would be Martin’s responsibility from now on and not Billy’s. Henry hid the crumpled cloth beneath the pajamas he’d shed that morning and hoped that Martin would not investigate the contents of the basket too closely.

Henry lay down on the bed and he must have fallen asleep, because he awakened to Martin’s voice saying, “Sir? Sir?”

Henry blinked and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, hello.” He was embarrassed to be caught napping like a child.

Martin stood before Henry with his hands behind his back. He was somehow more handsome than Henry had remembered, and it made Henry distinctly uneasy to find him so attractive.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long, Sir. I was given my dinner, and then Mr. Tim had a great many things to tell me.”

“That’s all right,” Henry reassured him. He pushed himself up to sitting and then scooted back to lean against the headboard, his legs out in front of him. He looked at his hands in his lap, wracking his brain for something more to say. He wasn’t going to survive this, this constant companionship. He dared a glance up and found Martin looking back at him, his expression receptive and friendly.

“It must be odd, Sir,” Martin offered, “to have me here with you.”

“A little,” Henry admitted. Acknowledging this made him feel a tiny bit better.

“What do you usually like to do, Sir? When you’re alone, I mean.”

Thinking of his most recent solitary pursuit brought bashful color to his cheek. “I…I like to read,” Henry offered shyly. “There’s a series I’ve been following in
Pals
, and a new chapter came yesterday.”

“You could tell me about it, Sir. I love stories.”

Henry hesitated to reply, wondering if he had it in him to relate the plot without devolving into a stammering, red-faced wreck.

“Or I could read it to you, Sir, if you’d like.” Martin seemed eager, genuinely enthusiastic.

He thought of Martin first making the offer back at the Ganymede showroom, bare-chested in tight pants. “You could read it to me,” Henry agreed, liking the idea. “Did you have
Pals
at Ganymede?”