by Ava March
Tristan rolled his eyes. The girl had yet to accept that sometimes it was better to hint, to tease, than to lay out all of one’s assets on a silver platter.
“I want him to like it.” The plea clung to her words, making him feel horrid for mocking her.
“He will. Truly, Mary. You needn’t fret over it. He adores you, ergo he’ll adore the gown.”
The prospect of finally achieving her goal, of landing a wealthy gentleman protector, had thrown her into a fit of worries, to the point where she’d convinced herself a new gown would be just the thing to bring Mr. Harold Carter up to scratch. To show the man that she could be more than a mere employee at Rubicon’s. That she could be someone he would be proud to have on his arm. Over the past three months, Carter, a younger son of a baron, had been a faithful client of hers, never once asking for another girl. And according to Mary, during his last visit, he had inquired if there was any reason she could not leave the brothel, hinting he was considering asking her to be his mistress.
A twinge of jealousy tugged on Tristan’s heart. How wonderful it would be to have one man want him enough to only wish to be with him. Yet he steadfastly ignored that twinge of jealousy. He absolutely refused to feel anything but happiness for his friend’s prospects.
Turning, she surveyed her reflection in the mirror again. One didn’t need to look closely to detect the flaking gilt on the oval mirror’s frame or the threadbare sections of the rug covering the floorboards. The shop’s efforts to attempt to fool its clients, to make them feel as if they frequented a far more respectable establishment, were efforts clearly made years ago.
“Do you truly believe the gown is all right as it is?”
“Yes, I do. Have it boxed and we’ll take it back to the house.”
A considering pause, and then finally a nod of agreement. A moment after she called for the modiste, the older woman stepped through the velvet curtain, which served as a door of sorts to the dressing room, and helped her change back into her cambric day dress.
Tristan took another sip of his tea and settled in to wait. The shop was situated off Cheapside, which was sufficiently far from Bond Street to quell the frowns the modiste might have directed Mary’s way. While he could step into any tailor’s shop on St. James Street with nary a worry, the overt sensuality that made the girls at Rubicon’s so successful acted as a hindrance outside the house’s scarlet double doors, limiting the shops they could frequent and requiring an escort to keep vulgar comments at bay. One glance was all it took for polite society to guess their trade. To label them whores, whereas he was quickly labeled a dandy.
His freedom about Town had a price though. He let out a little snort under his breath. Oh, it definitely had a price and he was still repaying it. Would be repaying it for quite a while yet. If he wouldn’t have had the freedom to go about wherever he pleased, he never would have incurred those particular debts and therefore would not have had cause to beg Madame Rubicon for assistance. Beaten within an inch of his life and left for dead or tie himself to his employer. The choice had been an easy one. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already been working at Rubicon’s. The main disadvantage, however, was that if a client ever posed the same question to him that Carter had posed to Mary, he would need to answer in the affirmative. He wasn’t free to leave Rubicon’s whenever he chose.
But it really wasn’t something to bemoan or waste even an ounce of self-pity upon. A client would never pose such a question to him. Men of his kind weren’t presented with such opportunities. Men weren’t installed in a tidy little home of their own, weren’t cherished by someone who adored them. He wasn’t burdened with the label of whore by passersby on the street, but at the same time, he was limited to his current circumstances. Night after night of serving whatever man requested his presence. Of being used and nothing more.
A melancholy cloud began to form over his head, but he pushed it aside with a firm reminder that it was best to look on the practical side than to lament something that could not be. As far as employment options went, it was the best the City had to offer someone like him. Rubicon’s was considered one of the finest brothels in London, the house was situated in prestigious Mayfair, and he earned far more there than he’d had anywhere else. Earned enough that even with the burden of his debt, he could enjoy somewhat frequent visits to his tailor...which was a safer place to spend his afternoons than in gambling hells. And his clients at the house generally had better manners than to throw a few halfpennies at his feet when they were done with him.
Like last night’s client, for example. In fact, he hadn’t felt used and discarded at all. He’d felt... In an odd sort of way, he’d felt as if Max had actually cared about him.
Foolish to believe. He knew that. Max’s demand to see to his pleasure had been borne from male pride and nothing more. The man was clearly unaccustomed to the way of things at a brothel.
“Not tonight.”
The deep baritone of Max’s voice echoed in Tristan’s head, sending a warm shiver down his spine.
He squashed the hope before it could spark within. Clients were the most unreliable of men. They forgot all about him, all promises gone from their lips, the moment they walked out the front double doors. As it should be.
Mary took her shawl from the modiste and draped it about her slim shoulders. He stood from the chair and tugged on his pristine white shirt cuffs, adjusting them beneath his bottle green coat. Once the gown had been boxed, they left the shop and hailed a hackney to take them back to Rubicon’s.
“I believe I’ll wear it tonight.” Mary passed a loving hand over the box at her hip that was situated between them on the leather bench.
“Shouldn’t you wait until he comes by? Why waste it on another?”
“It’s been a few days since last I saw Mr. Carter, and I have a feeling he’ll visit me tonight.” Chin tipping down, a smile spread across her mouth. A smile full of hope and joy and eagerness for the coming night.
An eagerness he did not feel in the slightest. He felt nothing about the coming evening. Night would fall and if someone requested him, he would work. Yet he smiled nonetheless, for her sake.
The peddler carts and overused horses from liveries gave way to black town carriages and sleek curricles as they neared Curzon Street. The hackney turned down the alleyway then pulled to a stop at the back courtyard of the brothel. After paying the driver, Tristan carried Mary’s gown to the kitchen door. A knock summoned one of the kitchen maids to unlock the door.
“Aren’t you coming inside?” she asked, taking the proffered box from him.
He shook his head. “The afternoon’s still early. Going to stop in at my tailor. The new waistcoat should be ready.”
He waited until Mary was safely inside the house then turned from the door. A little tingle of happy anticipation began to build in his stomach as he set off up the alley. He might not have anything to look forward to tonight, but he did have something for today.
* * *
“Expecting anyone?” Rawling didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled out the chair opposite Max’s at the dining table and sat.
Max set down his fork and swallowed his bite of beefsteak. “No, not expecting anyone. Please, have a seat.” The trace of sarcasm was lost on Rawling; either that, or the man chose to ignore it.
“Very kind of you,” Rawling said, with a tip of his head. “Thought I’d be condemned to dining alone.”
And Max had thought he’d have the pleasure of a quiet meal at White’s, surrounded by others but still left to his own thoughts, before setting off to Westminster for the day. Apparently he’d made that assumption too soon.
Rawling motioned to a footman and placed his order for his meal. Once the footman had stepped from the table, Rawling leaned back, elbows resting on the chair’s arms and completely at his ease. “You did it.”
Max went stiff. He didn’t
need to ask to know exactly to what Rawling referred. And what made Rawling so certain he had done far more than consider his suggestion last night? It wasn’t as if the brothel marked all their clients with a splash of scarlet paint across their foreheads. He cast a glance to the surrounding tables to verify Rawling’s comment had not attracted any undue attention. He lowered his voice. “I did not find a nice bit to swive last night.”
Not an outright lie. He had purchased a nice bit to bugger, not swive, and he hadn’t actually engaged in either activity last night.
Gray eyes swept over his face as Rawling contemplated him. Max picked up his fork and knife and cut another piece of meat, doing his best to appear as if he wasn’t bracing for the next words from his friend’s mouth. He didn’t even bother to hope Rawling would let the subject go. No use whatsoever in hoping for that outcome.
Rawling leaned forward, a curious smirk on his lips. A chunk of his sandy-blond forelock fell over his brow. “So what exactly did you do?”
The man was far too perceptive. Why the hell couldn’t he apply that to the viscounty?
Max glared at him.
Letting out a sigh, Rawling leaned back. “Yes, yes. None of my concern. Still, one can’t help but wonder.”
“Stop wondering.”
Rawling chuckled. The man actually laughed at him. “All right. I’ll make an attempt. But I’ll have you know I’m quite...happy for you. Can’t help but want to slap a friend on the back when he’s had a good evening.”
A footman set a plate of beefsteak before Rawling along with a glass of wine, pulling Rawling’s attention off Max, as least for the moment.
But the meal couldn’t pull Max’s thoughts off Rawling’s question. Exactly what he had done last night, and with whom, filled his head. Had filled his head since the moment he’d awoken from the most restful sleep he’d had in months. By God, he’d had a damned good evening.
“Fuck me, please.” Tristan’s sweetly whispered plea sounded in his head.
“I hope the day doesn’t run over long.” Rawling’s words jolted Max harshly to the present. “I have plans for the evening that do not include being stuck in a hall full of old men. How about you, Pelham? Any plans for the evening?” he asked, the curious smirk now replaced with one that held a distinct note of self-congratulations.
“Would you try not to appear so damned pleased with yourself?”
Rawling let out a bark of laughter.
“You’re an arse. Why do I tolerate you?”
“Because I tolerate you. And it’s amusing to get you flustered. Not a sight I get to see much.”
Not a sight anyone got to see much.
Max shook his head. He should be more annoyed with Rawling, but he couldn’t summon the effort at the moment. “Regardless, the day will likely run well into the night. After Matherson’s speech yesterday, the Whigs will want to have their say. So you might as well resign yourself now to a long evening in a hall full of old men with nothing better to do with their time but hear themselves talk.” It shouldn’t take but a few hours to lay out both sides of an issue. That his peers would willingly drag out such a process over countless days was a source of endless frustration for him. And whoever had decided a piece of legislation needed to be read three times should have been sent to Bedlam.
“What a shame.” Rawling popped a bite of steak into his mouth. “For both of us. But at least it is Friday. No worries we’ll be so occupied tomorrow evening.”
“Perhaps you will be so fortunate, but I won’t. Farnsworth’s hosting a supper party tomorrow. I agreed to attend.” A dining room instead of the House of Lords and the addition of a meal. Otherwise, tomorrow wouldn’t prove to be any different from the coming evening. Endless discussions on politics without any resolutions.
Rawling pulled a face that clearly said he doubted Max’s mental capacities. “Why ever did you agree to that?”
“Because I’m in Town. Can’t very well refuse all invitations, and I’ll be spared the obligation of dancing at Farnsworth’s.” He loathed supper parties, but at least he would not have to contend with matchmaking mamas or their silly daughters who envisioned themselves as the next Duchess of Pelham. If they wanted the title, they’d be better served trying to ingratiate themselves with one of his cousins and hoping for Max’s early demise.
It wasn’t just supper parties he loathed, but all social functions. The way the ton sought his favor, toadying up to him simply because of his title. The false smiles, the thick veil of pretense. Yet with the dukedom came responsibilities. Yes, he could choose how he saw to those responsibilities, but like with Parliament, completely forgoing all functions was not an option. And unlike his seat in the Lords, he could not see to any of his social responsibilities from the comfort of his study at his country estate, Arrington Park. He needed to attend a minimum number of affairs, and since he was in London, he had figured he might as well get one such affair out of the way by agreeing to attend Farnsworth’s supper party.
Though if he had received the invitation this morning and not three days ago, he would have been tempted to decline. Tempted to leave his Saturday evening free of all obligations. Leaving him free to return to Curzon Street, to use every minute of his allotted three hours to give Tristan precisely what he’d asked for last night.
“Be sure to not give Farnsworth my regards,” Rawling said. “I am quite content to stay off his guest list. The man’s a conceited old bore.”
“You’ll receive no arguments from me on that subject.”
“I guess that leaves Sunday.”
“For what?”
Rawling arched a knowing brow.
Good Lord. “Would you please stop going on about it? I told you I didn’t—”
“Yes, yes. I recall exactly what you said.” Rawling took a sip of his wine. “Just giving you a nudge, that’s all. Well, perhaps a hard shove, but...” He set down his glass and met Max’s eyes. “It’s been almost a year now,” he said, voice low and gaze somber. “Past time you put him behind you and moved on.”
Max blinked. It was as if his brain had stopped functioning.
“Not to worry,” Rawling added, in that same low voice. “I keep such knowledge to myself.” With that, he stood from the table. “Must be on my way. Need to see to an errand before heading to Westminster.”
He could do nothing but stare at Rawling’s broad-shouldered back as the man weaved around the surrounding tables and exited the dining room.
“Past time you put him behind you.”
How in the name of all that was holy did Rawling know Max’s relationship with Jonathan had gone significantly beyond friendship? Rawling could have been referring to no other. It had been ten months since Jonathan had left him. Almost a year. Couple that with Rawling’s persistent nudges and how he had told Max that Rubicon’s had something for everyone “no matter your tastes...”
Rawling knew he preferred men; either that or he strongly suspected. Though the revelation did not cause panic to grip Max’s gut. Rawling was his friend, and he trusted the man to hold true to his word and keep such knowledge to himself. In any case, if Rawling had wanted to ruin him or to attempt to extort money from him, he likely would have done it months ago. But...Rawling knew, and he’d chosen not to say anything to him about it until now?
Bastard.
Much to Max’s shock, a laugh shook his chest. Bloody Rawling. Only him. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to finishing his meal.
A good eight hours later, Max exited Westminster through one of its many side doors. His long strides ate up the distance as he made his way across the darkened yard and straight to his carriage. The hell with waiting until Sunday.
Chapter Three
Tristan pushed open the fourth door on the third floor and stopped in his tracks at the sight of the man sitti
ng on the couch before the fireplace. Excitement surged through him, filling the void of nothingness in his chest.
Max was back.
A new client returning so soon meant he’d done a bang-up job on the initial visit. And it wasn’t often Tristan had a client he’d actually choose to be with outside of the house. A typical client was an average man pushing against average older man. Max was neither of those things. Around thirty years of age, and a sight to behold. Though it wasn’t just his height or his powerful build that drew the eye. Nor was it that Max was classically handsome. His dark eyes were too piercing, his gaze too determined. His features too harsh, too strong, and made even more so by the way his short dark hair was slicked back from his forehead. But the sheer confidence, the strength of character that radiated from him...
Just being in the man’s presence made Tristan want to drop to his knees and suck Max’s cock, to have a taste of that confidence.
Max had abandoned his coat, leaving him clad in his shirtsleeves, the knot of his white cravat secured by a diamond pin beneath the defined line of his jaw. Tonight’s waistcoat was iron-gray, the color stern and serious, rather like the man himself. Tristan flexed his hands at his sides. He could well recall the feel of those broad shoulders, the muscles hard and unyielding, as he’d held on to Max last night.
To give himself something to do with his hands more than anything, he reached behind him and closed the door. “You returned.”
Max tipped his head. “Yes. I wanted to see you again.”
You. Not just any man. But him.
“And you made a request last we were together,” Max added. “I am here to fulfill it.”
As if he could forget the request he’d made last night. Roused to such a fever pitch, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from begging. Fuck me, please. A heavy bolt of lust rushed through him. There was no guessing required when it came to Max. The man was forthright about his desires to the point of bluntness, but from him for some reason such behavior didn’t feel offensive or cold at all. Rather the opposite.