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Edwin merely shook his head. Still smiling like a fool, he lifted his snifter and had another sip. Andrew had yet to look away. Despite the music and chatter and laughter that filled the room, it felt, for that fleeting moment, as though Edwin and Andrew were the only people in the world.

But then, as Edwin ought to have expected, William pulled them back to reality.

“So, how was the photography session?” he asked. “Aside from the falling.”

Andrew and Edwin shared a look, and both of their faces flushed.

“Good,” Andrew said. “Really, really, good.”

Chapter Fourteen

Edwin

Edwin swayed a bit in his seat as the room slowly turned, the portraits lining the walls of the ballroom moving around and around like metal horses on a carousel. Shaking his head once—vigorously—he tried to rid himself of the dizzying sensation. It worked. Slightly.

Dear God, he needed to eat something.

According to William, the main meal at these sorts of parties was typically served late in the evening, sometimes even as late as midnight, but because this particular party had started early in order to provide guests with the opportunity to have their photographs taken in the late afternoon sunlight, they’d be eating earlier, closer to nine. Edwin had initially thought he could wait that long. But not anymore.

Just then, Andrew returned with two glasses of water. Edwin immediately chugged some of his down.

Andrew said, “I found this as well.”

He placed a folded-up cloth napkin on the table. It unfurled on its own, revealing a large pastry. Edwin reached for it, not even having the wherewithal to thank his companion before taking a bite. As Edwin’s teeth sank into the flaky dough, he let out an appreciative hum, the pastry’s sweet coating of honey a symphony of flavor to his taste buds.

“I really hope the pastry helps. I’m sorry you’re feeling wobbly. I hate it when that happens,” Andrew said. “I found William out there. He says we ought to be served a proper meal soon.”

“Thank Jesus,” Edwin said through his half-chewed food.

After two more incredible bites, Edwin realized he ought to offer some to Andrew. Leaning forward, Edwin propped his elbow up on the table, inadvertently slamming it onto the surface with enough force to cause the glassware to clink and clatter, and then extended his pastry-filled hand toward his companion.

“Try some,” he said, his words sounding more like a command than an offer, which wasn’t exactly what he’d intended.

“Oh. Uhm.”

Andrew’s eyes flitted back and forth between Edwin’s face and the half-finished pastry. By the time Edwin realized Andrew was probably hesitating because he must have thought that Edwin was ordering him to take a bite right out of his outstretched hand, Andrew leaned in. His eyes stayed locked with Edwin’s as he bit into the baked good, and Edwin’s stomach immediately somersaulted as a result. Andrew straightened back up in his chair while he chewed.

“Delicious,” he said, shielding his mouth with his hand. “Thank you.”

Edwin was much too stunned to reply, his stomach still topsy-turvy in a wonderful and terrifying way. He took another bite to provide himself with a few more seconds to settle his emotions. Hoping to push the conversation forward, even though he would have preferred to stay quiet and replay that scene in his head five or even thirty more times—especially because Andrew’s beautiful brown eyes had been so intense, filled with what had looked like more than one type of hunger when he bit into the flaky crust—Edwin lifted his chin and gestured to Andrew’s injured knee.

“How’s your leg?” he asked.

“I think I’ve had too much wine to answer that properly,” Andrew said through a chuckle.

Edwin snorted a laugh, too. He shouldn’t have been surprised by that remark. He’d have felt the same way in Andrew’s position. Truthfully, he could barely even feel his own body right then, too, thanks to the whiskey. Well, he could feel it, but he felt sort of separate from it as well, which was . . . pleasant. Surprisingly so.

Despite the room being a bit too warm, he wasn’t thinking about his binding cloth being uncomfortable for once. Or the fact that the fabric was causing him to perspire more than he might have otherwise. He wasn’t secretly lamenting the particular pitch of his voice, either, which, even with so much practice, still wasn’t as low or resonant as he often wished. Instead, he felt practically serene. It was such an unfamiliar sensation, feeling as relaxed as he did in the company of so many people, especially while being completely himself.

And, oh, it was wonderful.

Living as Edwin was miles and miles better than living as the person people once thought him to be—someone whose very existence had felt like a forced lie. Being Edwin—being himself—was, in many ways, nothing short of sublime.

Still, though, sometimes, or maybe even oftentimes, he continued to feel stifled by his lingering insecurities.

“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked, perhaps noticing Edwin’s change in facial expression.

“Nothing,” Edwin said reflexively.