“I will. I will say that, and I hope he will consider it. Thank you, Nico.” He leaned back a little, settling both hands on Nico’s hips. “You are marvellously helpful, you know. I daresay I should find it easier to assert myself but… well, I have had a lot of practice at being unimportant.”
“You are anything but unimportant,” Nico said, aching. “You are important tome.”
“And your opinion overrules the rest?” Titus suggested. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever felt unimportant.”
Nico rocked a hand. “The world has often failed to acknowledge my importance. I find that most tiresome.”
“Outrageous,” Titus agreed. “Well, I am tired of being a poor second in my own life, and I am not going to let people make me that any more.”
He looked so determined, so serious. Nico leaned in and kissed him, and Titus kissed him back, and moved his hands down onto Nico’s arse.
“I quite agree you are not second,” Nico said, muffled against Titus’s lips. “In fact, I think you should come first. First and also quickly, because we have a mere twenty minutes before dinner, but I have faith in myself to achieve that.”
“I believe in you,” Titus said, and let Nico push him onto the bed.
Chapter Twenty
Something was troubling Nico.
Titus was sure of it. He tried hard to hide it, but he often seemed oddly serious, or unsettled, orsomething, eyes frequently bright but not always with laughter. Titus wondered again whether to bring up the subject of money, but it felt horribly awkward with Augustus in the house. He had complained bitterly to Nico about Augustus having his hand out for money, not realising until too late that Nico might well now feel too ashamed to accept help himself. He did not like to borrow from his friends; he’d like it even less with Augustus’s example in front of their faces.
Nico wasn’t hiding his opinion of Augustus. Titus wished he would; it made it very hard for him to remember why he wanted to be on good terms with his brother. He didn’t have any fond fraternal memories; he didn’t know the children that might have created a bond of affection; he certainly wasn’t seeing any effort on his brother’s part. It was a sad contrast to the instant affection that had sprung up, or been revived, between him and Vespasian. He rather thought hemight be asked to stand godfather to the coming child, and was already planning what he might do in that role; he was deeply pleased that Vespasian had met Nico and been impressed, even if his brother would never know what that meant to Titus.
He was not remotely pleased that Augustus had met Nico, and the feeling was mutual in every direction.
Nico had replaced his cravat before they came down and looked perfect. Augustus’s country coat made him look sadly bumpkin-like by comparison, a fact of which he was clearly aware. He made some remarks about dandyism, which Nico ignored like a cat, which was to say, feigned obliviousness with a distinct possibility of claws.
They discussed what Augustus might care to do the next day, a discussion in which the man himself took little part. His sulkiness put Titus on edge, it was so reminiscent of their father’s moods. He had always needed to be asked flattering questions until he talked himself into a good humour again, and doubtless Augustus was used to Mrs. Augustus coaxing him out of his sulks.
Titus sighed inwardly. “Augustus, you were telling me about some land you had bought. Quite a significant enlargement of your holding, I think?”
Augustus agreed to that, though not very graciously, and talked about his lands while they sat down for dinner. That led him to mention, not for the first time, how he had been invited to dinner by the Earl of Pakenham, the foremost local dignitary of his area, and how the Earl’s daughter Lady Cecilia had graciously displayed her talents on the pianoforte.
“If you would like to hear music, that can be very easily arranged,” Titus suggested. He was at a dead loss what to do with his brother: the man had expressed no interest in the crowd-pleasing exhibitions, or Greenwich, or art, orTattersall’s, or anything else Titus could think to offer. “I could take you to… where does one hear music, Nico?”
“It is not an interest of mine,” Augustus said.
“I’m sure the good Monsieur Augustus will enjoy the promenade,” Nico said. “Perhaps you might take a stroll in Hyde Park tomorrow. Titus, have you an art lesson?”
“Lesson?” Augustus repeated.
“I am learning the techniques of oil painting,” Titus said stiffly. He’d intended to cancel the appointment quietly rather than admit his hobby to his brother.
“You are learning to paint?” Augustus echoed incredulously. “What nonsense. That is the occupation of schoolgirls, not grown men.”
“You think art is not for men? Monsieur, you must express that view to Sir Thomas Lawrence, or Sir Joshua Reynolds, or Michelangelo,” Nico said swiftly. “Or perhaps to Mr. John Angerstein, who greatly values your brother’s opinions.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“That, monsieur, is evident.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Titus said.
“It does matter.” Nico sounded sharp, almost angry. “You strive to improve your knowledge and understanding, and you elevate others by supporting their work. It is better than thinking of nothing but one’s own enrichment, adornment, or entertainment.”
That was so inarguable that Augustus didn’t try to argue it. He changed the subject instead, always a favourite tactic when on the losing side. “Talking of paintings, what is that painting in my room? Of the French Queen?”
Titus blinked. Nico said, “Ah, that is mine.”