By dinner, Philip was considerably sobered and began to highly regret the fact as he watched the ladies leave the room; he didn't know how they managed it, but society men were always, somehow, so much worse than society ladies.
As though playing up to his thoughts, the surrounding men all pounced ravenously upon the subject of cricket. Philip focused his attention on his cigar and wondered at how much scotch would sit atop a full meal and a gallon of champagne before it all unbalanced.
When the conversation turned to politics, a subject upon which everyone seemed hideously ill-informed, his silence was suddenly no longer accepted. "As a duke of the realm," was how more than one entreaty began (though, once, with a spectacular amount of derision from one utterly blotto elderly fellow Philip didn't recognise - then, at least, the entreaty was to be remembered).
When pressed, Philip would merely restate or reprove the last statement that he recalled having heard. This would provoke an acceptable amount of humming in agreement or murmuring in dissent, each man apparently heedless to the fact that he needn't necessarily disagree with his own earlier statements when it suited the others.
Lingering near the door was the footman who had struck Philip's fancy, wearing a face now less blank than a hard mask of disdain. Philip tried to catch his eye without resorting to an unblinking stare, but only succeeded when Lord Grantham had fallen into violently arguing against his own opinion when prompted. The footman finally glanced over in time to catch Philip sliding his hand over his mouth, briefly unable to swallow a smile. For a blink, it looked as though the footman couldn't suppress his own glee; he looked down immediately and when he brought his head back up he wore his previous expression, though less finely wrought.
Philip wanted to go to his room immediately, but more than that he wanted to force everyone else into their rooms. He begged off cards to achieve part of his goal, but after that it was merely an issue of willing the others to sleep.
He dismissed his valet after being dressed for bed and sat for some time before the low fire, staring at a book that he wasn't reading. His eyes would sometimes linger at the door, but any time the house groaned or someone stirred in the hall, he would snap his eyes back to the words at his lap. He was unwilling to appear quite so desperate to be amused by a footman, even if said footman did side-line as a saint.
Eventually - finally - his door did open and he made a point, to himself, of focusing a little harder on the book. Very romantic and extraordinary and ridiculous and that was quite clearly enough of that. He shut the book without holding the page and sat it on the table beside him.
The footman leaned against the door, hands lingering behind his back on the knob, as though preparing to bolt. Philip smiled his most winning smile and found it returned with only little less reserve than earlier in the day.
Then - god Philip was glad to have invited him, just suddenly and overwhelmingly glad. He was like marble with veins of blood, soaked mostly at the curve of his mouth and, oh, men like this should be, by right, in museums; then, in bedrooms, lovers were gifted the ability to re-sculpt him again and again in sin.
"Come here," Philip said, beckoning him over. "What's your name?"
"Thomas, Your Grace."
"You can have a drink, if you'd like." He gestured towards the decanter. "It's only sub-par brandy, but it does the trick just the same."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"You needn't say that after everything. Not in here."
Thomas gave him a sharp nod and walked to the table where the decanter was positioned. Philip watched as he poured himself a rather hearty helping and proceeded to gulp about three fingers in a quick draught. He swallowed hard, collar scraping his Adam's apple, but his expression held.
"That was rather impressive," Philip said with a laugh. "Don't worry," he added quickly, upon seeing Thomas go red - whether from drink or embarrassment, he wasn't sure. "I really don't care how much you have; it's not mine. They may think I'm a drunk, but I think I'll survive the scandal. Would you believe that I've had worse things said about me?"
Thomas smirked behind the the last of his brandy. "I think I might."
"How unkind."
Philip walked over to where he stood and trailed his gaze over the man's body. "Let me undress you."
"You can't take much off; I can't stay long."
"I know." They never could.
Having prompted the other to turn around, Philip traced the smooth expanse of his back down to the curve from which the tails of the jacket fell. He smoothed out the shoulders before he finally drew the jacket away, letting Thomas take it and place it over the back of a chair. Thomas stepped closer to him, but Philip moved his hand between them and flicked his nail against the hard plastic at Thomas's chest.
"You're not keeping that on." He reached up to the tie and pulled at one of the ends until its shape faded and fell. Thomas shooed his hands away and began to undo his own collar while Philip drifted to the vest's buttons.
With the vest gone, neatly folded on the chair, and the other accoutrements piled on the table, there was an awkward moment of struggling with the tie at the back of the shirt front before Thomas was finally down to shirtsleeves.
"Better?" He asked.
Philip smiled. "Yes. But take off your shoes."
"You don't want for much, do you?"
"Nothing unreasonable," he responded, watching Thomas slip them off. Still sitting on the edge of the chair, he untied Philip's robe. As though finally realising what the aim of all of this was, Thomas's expression changed as they their eyes caught. He stood and pushed the robe off.
"Go on," he said quietly, pressing his fingers into Philip's sternum and leading him backward. When his legs bumped against the bed, Philip sat down without a word. He was enjoying being guided.
Thomas knelt down and removed Philip's shoes, keeping his eyes on what he was doing as though it took all of his effort. He slid his hands up Philip's legs, stopping when he reached his inner thighs. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the small strip of flesh between his navel and waistband.
Before Philip even had time to respond, Thomas was standing over him to catch him in a kiss. A hand skirted Philip's chest and stomach, sliding his fingertips just beneath the top of his pyjama trousers.
"Let's lie down," Philip said, reluctantly breaking from Thomas's mouth. Thomas pushed him onto his back with a startling force, provoking a laugh. Philip grabbed hold of Thomas's braces and pulled the man over him.
Thomas kissed his neck to his collarbone, fingers slipping lower but still only teasing the idea of touching his cock. Philip tugged Thomas's shirt and undershirt from his trousers and touched as much bare skin as he could. He rolled his hips to no avail, Thomas moving his hand up just enough to evade him.
"Christ," Philip muttered into Thomas's hair. He reached down and undid the buttons of the other's trousers, reaching beneath and giving a single rough squeeze to his erection and balls.
Thomas moved into the touch, thigh meeting Philip's cock as he did so. He reached between them and pushed the pyjama bottoms down enough to grant freedom of movement, and wrapped his fingers around Philip. He stroked his length slowly, despite the increasing pace of the hips beneath him, and ran his thumb beneath the foreskin. Philip put an arm around his back and moved so that their cocks met through fabric.
"Don't," Thomas laughed. He sat back and Philip sighed in disappointment as the hand disappeared from around him. Thomas shoved his braces over his shoulders, trousers and underwear to his thighs before resuming his earlier position. Neither of them could think but for the bolt of elation which ran through them as an entity at the feeling of flesh on flesh.
They moved in rhythm, cocks bumping hands and bellies and one another. Thomas's mouth was open against the crook of Philip's neck and he scratched light lines beneath the hair at his chest. Philip pulled Thomas by the hair into a kiss, meeting too roughly. They gasped and panted against one another as the pace and force of their movements increased.
Philip came first, loudly enough that a brief panic cut through Thomas's expression. Thomas shushed him dazedly, continuing to fist his prick until it softened. After Thomas's hand moved to himself, Philip ran his thumb through the ejaculate at his stomach and, in a way he thought rather daring, brought it Thomas's slackened mouth. In what must have been the most erotic thing he'd seen, Thomas sucked the proferred digit into his mouth without hesitation, running his teeth over the pad and kissing it as he pulled back.
Philip rocked the two of them together, grabbing at Thomas's arse with one hand and using the other to massage his balls and the skin beneath. Thomas took Philip's hand in his own and wrapped the both of them tightly around his cock as he came, quick staccato sighs burning against Philip's skin.
Thomas collapsed to the side and Philip lingered his fingers against his hip, reluctant to break contact. Thomas looked over himself and frowned, running his hand down the front of his shirt. "I should have let you undress me a bit more," he said, a strain of humour wound through his voice.
"I did try," Philip said, shrugging. With a falsely sweet smile, he turned over onto the other's body and kissed him. Thomas pulled away and shook his head.
"You're a bastard."
"You were already a mess," Philip countered, trailing his lips along the strong lines of Thomas's face.
"You didn't need to make it worse." Despite his protestations, he traced Philip's sides with his palms and held him in place.
"You'll forgive me," came the reply, buried in Thomas's neck. "I'll make it up to you."
"How?"
They locked eyes for a moment before Philip said, "I won't be here tomorrow night." He watched Thomas's face occlude and his gaze fade inward. He wrapped his hand around Thomas's jaw and ran a thumb over his lips, which was allowed for but not responded to. "When are you going back to Grantham House?"
Thomas's brows drew together. "What?"
"Isn't that where you work?"
"Yes. The day after tomorrow."
"I'll write you," he said, ceasing his ministrations against Thomas's mouth and replacing his thumb with his lips. This provoked reaction after only a moment's hesitation. "I'd like to see you again."
"Really?" The guile dropped into confusion and left him with a startlingly open expression. It remained only for a blink, but it had made Philip feel a curious tension work its way through his insides.
"Surely you've had men after you before."
"They don't invite me 'round."
"You've gone to bed with fools."
"You sound very sure that I've stopped," Thomas said with a smirk. He shifted enough to move Philip off of him so that he could begin to dress.
Philip moved up the bed and watched him button and tie himself into his livery, with hurried but sharp motions. When he was finished, his clothing was as precise as it had been beforehand, though when Philip thought of the traces of their fuck hidden behind the shirt front he felt a stirring at his prick.
"You really need to go now," he said, laughing at himself. "If you stay any longer I'll keep you the night."
Thomas nodded, but walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. He smiled softly at Philip, who watched with interest as he reached once more below the pyjamas and slowly ran his fist up and down the length of his cock until it was achingly hard.
"Something else to remember me by," Thomas murmured, voice rough to distraction.
"I didn't," he began, losing the words as Thomas gave an almost too-rough squeeze. "Didn't think I'd forget you." Philip was torn between shutting his eyes at the feeling of Thomas's hand and watching the flush overwhelm his face. As Philip's eyes flickered to a close, the hand disappeared from him.
A nervous laugh escaped him as he tried to take in the recent progression of events. Thomas was staring at him, in an almost disconcertingly intense manner, and brought his wet fingers to his own mouth and drew them in, one by one. Philip found himself entirely unable to react, an increasing fog casting itself over his eyes as he watched Thomas stand and begin to cross the room.
"I look forward to serving Your Grace again," he said, sounding far more steady than he looked, as he exited the room without a backward glance
Philip lay for a moment, swaddled in a daze. He had spent most of his free time since having first seeing the footman imagining the two of them entwined, but no where in his catalogue of fantasies had been found anything nearing their final scene. His cock gave an impertinent twitch at the thought of it.
As he brought himself off, he mimicked the steadiness of Thomas's hand, trying to not lose himself in a frantic pace. He wanted this measured, deliberate - he wanted to slowly draw his orgasm out as his mind relished images of his secret idol. This strange saint whose hands and mouth would do such absolutely wicked things, the only saint likely to be so damned, the only saint he was likely to worship.