Lady Mary had proved useless.
Philip had to cut his loses and leave, and the final thread was Thomas.
There had always been plenty of footmen around—even ones who preferred women—who would do anything for a night in a nobleman's bed and the chance to be considered "special" for once in their typically miserable lives.
But Thomas was different. Philip admired his ruthlessness, his willingness to get dirty. They would lie in bed together after fucking for hours and smoke, laughing about Philip's peers and their sheer stupidity and utter dullness. But it was those same qualities that Philip knew could possibly burn him in the end.
The nobleman had missed Thomas terribly, and was secretly thrilled when he got the telegram to be with him more rather than finally finding an heiress to save his family fortune. When the footman sat beside him on the bed and touched his cheek, he wanted to melt into his hands. It took every fiber of his being to push Thomas away and stop their kiss. And those soft red lips, like a woman's. Philip wanted to force his tongue between them, or feel them around his cock once more but Thomas had become a liability. He hadn't meant to string Thomas along; it just happened. The love he had felt for the footman was real, or at least as real as both of them chose to believe it to be. That "love" was a very dangerous thing. It had clouded his ability to find a wife, made him lose sight of what mattered … the money, the title.
Too familiar, too entwined … Thomas simply knew too much and was too pushy, expecting promises to actually be fulfilled. That wasn't the way the world worked—especially for anyone of a lower class—and Philip had tried to let him down gently.
But threating him? His very soul that he had put on paper and used against him as a weapon to potentially destroy his family?
No. That was crossing a line.
"You bastard."
The words stung Philip, but he knew he deserved them, and released his grip on Thomas.
I'm going to hurt you before you can hurt me.
Thomas straightened out his vest and went to grab his jacket.
Philip spat the words before he had completely thought them out, "You're not going anywhere. I'm not … I'm not finished with you."
"Fuck off!" Thomas yelled over his shoulder.
"If you don't get back here now, I'm going to tell Lord Grantham that you've made a rather unwise and—dare I say violent—advance on me."
Thomas stopped mid-button and froze.
"That someone he has the good grace to employ had the gall to take advantage of one of his guests during his time of mourning. Imagine what he'd say."
Philip could see Thomas' shoulders sag as he quietly replied without turning around, "You wouldn't dare."
"Are you willing to find out? All I've got to do is start screaming and it's curtains for you here or anywhere else."
Thomas stood still, then spun around and approached Philip, standing virtually nose-to-nose and stared at him with a silent, burning rage, hands balled into fists. Philip tried not to inhale deeply but Thomas' scent was too much. The tobacco, the musk, the alcohol. He wanted nothing more than to kiss him, devour him but that needed to all be left in the past, like the ashes in the fireplace.
"How dare you use my words—our words—against me," Philip whispered, feeling as if Thomas' icy blue eyes were burning right through him. "Unbutton your trousers."
Thomas' nostrils flared as he complied, never breaking Philip's gaze.
"Pull them down. And your pants, too."
Thomas opened his mouth to spew an insult but Philip cut him off.
"Do not say one word."
Thomas stood, naked from the waist down. Philip refused to break his gaze, lest he look down and take in the sight of Thomas' powerful thighs and thick cock.
"Get on the bed. On your belly."
Thomas slowly climbed onto the bed and lay down amongst the many pillows. Philip briefly had a flash of sadness as the thought that this was the last time Thomas would ever be in his bed, then quickly shook the image away.
Philip took the belt off of his dressing gown and ordered Thomas to put his hands behind his back. He wrapped the fabric tightly around Thomas' wrists and then tied it in a knot while the footman stayed soundless and motionless.
He went over to the dresser and picked up a silver hairbrush. It was heavy and reflected the soft candlelight as he examined it in his hand. He briefly toyed with using the bristled side to inflict as much pain as possible, then thought again and ran his fingers over the cool engraving on the other side. The Crowborough coat of arms. It's all for the damned title, Philip thought, tracing the angry eagle with its claws wrapped around the crest. Preserve the name, preserve the bloody name.
He opened a dresser drawer and pulled out the pair of pants he had worn earlier and shoved them into Thomas' mouth without comment. He did itquickly before he could feel Thomas' soft wet tongue on his fingers. The footman coughed a bit but Philip ignored him as he straddled the back of his knees on the bed. Philip immediately regretted being naked underneath his robe because the sight of Thomas' perfect, pale arse was enough to make him very hard very quickly.
They both knew the routine because they had practiced it over and over that summer they were together, except it had always been Philip who was left trussed up and helpless on the bed, groaning against the pants Thomas had shoved into his mouth to silence his cries. Thomas had never refused Philip anything, but he had drawn the line at having his arse cheeks brutalized despite the nobleman's pleas.
Without a word, Philip brought the brush down fiercely on Thomas' left cheek. The footman flinched and quickly stopped a moan in his throat. Philip knew that he'd do all he could to keep quiet, to save face. An angry pink mark appeared on Thomas' cheek. It was all Philip could do to resist reaching down to soothe it, to feel and squeeze the firm flesh. He began breathing faster but closed his eyes and attempted to calm himself; he didn't want Thomas to have any clue how aroused he was. This was punishment, pure and simple. No subtle context, no eventual comforting. Just pain.
Whack!
Philip tried to focus on the hurt he'd felt … the sheer nerve that Thomas had to attempt to blackmail him. He tried to be truly enraged but he knew that Thomas' heart wasn't fully in it, that he hadn't walked in with the intention of making threats.
Whack!
He thought about his words now reduced to embers in the fireplace. Words like "love", "passion", "darling", "sweetheart", and "forever". Even less flowery prose like "fuck" and "cock", used over and over again.
Whack!
Words that could have ruined him but instead led to the heartbreak of the man beneath him.
Whack!
The man he wanted to hurt. Physically and emotionally.
Whack!
To be reminded for the next few days of his betrayal, his audacity.
Whack!
To stand with a straight face in the Crawleys' dining room, aching and wanting to cry.
Whack!
It's so much easier to hurt you than it is to let you hurt me.
Whack!
Philip noticed that Thomas began to shift his hips slightly, and felt him rise underneath him. Philip knew that movement, knew the soft groan that followed. Thomas hadn't been able to resist. The punishment, the weight of Philip on top of him had made him come all over himself. His humiliation was complete.
Philip climbed off of Thomas and threw the brush down beside him. He had made the knot loose on Thomas' wrists, and quickly freed him with a few tugs. He picked up a towel off of the dresser and flung it at the footman's head.
"Clean yourself up for God's sake," Philip tried to bark but his voice broke instead. "And then get the hell out."
He didn't wait for Thomas' reaction; he walked into the bathroom, closed the door and leaned against it, briefly considering pouring cold water on his erection but had second thoughts.
I might as well enjoy myself.
He quietly began stroking his cock, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He hated himself for what he had done and even more by the fact that he was so aroused. He tried to picture a woman's full breasts and wetness but Thomas with his sneer and his magic tongue and soft skin kept invading his thoughts. He bit the back of his hand to stifle his desperate moans as he came.
But it's better this way, Philip thought. It's the only way.
It wasn't until he heard the bedroom door slam shut that he allowed himself to cry.