Think of England by Kj Charles Read Free Book Online Page B

picture. That’s what I thought about this.” He glanced at the book in his hand and added, “I think I’d need to be a bit further away to grasp it, mind you. Manchester, perhaps.”
    Da Silva looked startled for a second, then his face lit with a smile. It was perhaps the first genuine, unstudied expression Curtis had seen from him, a combination of surprise, amusement and pleasure that made him look suddenly alive, and younger, too, without the world-weary pose. The thought came to Curtis, unbidden, that Miss Carruth had been right. Daniel da Silva was rather handsome.
    “That’s the most cogent analysis I’ve heard in a while,” da Silva said. “You should review for The New Age .”
    That was one of those modern, socialist, intellectual periodicals. Curtis had never picked it up in his life, as da Silva would doubtless have guessed. “Oh, above my touch,” he retorted. “Perhaps the Boy’s Own Paper needs a poetry critic.”
    Da Silva laughed out loud. “An excellent idea. ‘In this issue: How to tie reef knots; thrilling tales of war; and Writing the Sonnet with General Gordon.’”
    Curtis was laughing too. “‘Broken Down: A boy’s adventure among the Fragmentalists.’”
    Da Silva snorted inelegantly, shoulders shaking. Curtis felt rather pleased to be holding his own against the other man’s quicksilver wit. He hadn’t noticed anyone else at this party making da Silva laugh.
    He grinned, and da Silva smiled back, and then the smile faded, and tilted, and now it wasn’t boyish any more. It was…intimate. Inviting. And this was not Curtis’s line at all, but even he could see that the dark eyes on his were taking him in, the gaze sliding over him with clear appreciation.
    He was alone in a room with a chap who preferred men, and the fellow was looking at him.
    Curtis couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.
    Da Silva’s mouth curled in that secret smile of his, enjoying a joke that nobody else could hear. He began, “You know,” pushing himself forward from his lounging stance, then looked round quickly as the door opened.
    “There you are, Curtis.” Holt and Armstrong clattered in. “What say that game of billiards?”
    Neither man included da Silva in the invitation, but he was already drifting over to another set of bookshelves, light on his feet as ever, features blank, oblivious to everyone present.
    “What the devil’s that?” demanded Armstrong, prodding at the book on the arm of Curtis’s chair. “Poetry? Good God, you aren’t reading that tripe, are you? The Fish-pond? ” he read out with heavy contempt. “What rubbish. Oh, I say.” He’d clearly registered the author’s name. “Let’s have a look.”
    If Curtis wanted to see bullying, he’d go back to school. He pushed himself upright, swiped the book from Armstrong’s fingers before he could open it, and limped over to return it to the shelf, feeling the stiffness in his knee that came after sitting for too long. He flexed his leg with annoyance. “If you’re after a game, let’s play.”
     
     
    He didn’t know if he was anticipating one o’clock or dreading it. Both, perhaps. He went up to his room early with a plea of tiredness, needing to get away from the boisterous young men who proposed game after game of billiards, bridge or whist, and lay on his bed fully clothed. He was uncomfortably aware of the mirror that occupied so much of the wall opposite, its blankness gazing down on him.
    Was there someone watching him now? No, that would be absurd. But he couldn’t help thinking of the pretty maid who he had surprised in his room earlier that evening. Was that chance, or had she been waiting for him? Or if Mrs. Grayling’s smiling flirtatiousness had caught his interest? Would someone be watching then?
    The party broke up downstairs around half past eleven. By a quarter to one, the house was silent. Curtis waited a few minutes more, then had to go before his nerves got the better of him. Clad in