by Ava March
He snagged Rawling’s gaze, held it and lowered his voice. “Speaking of which, I owe you my thanks for the nudge. Or rather, the nudges.”
That got Rawling’s attention. “Do you now?” he asked, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Yes.” He braced for the gloating to begin.
The smile spread across Rawling’s lips. “I’m very glad to hear it. Truly, I am. And I must say, you’re missing that air of a grumpy old man. Good to see that as well. Rather feared the country would have you descending back into glowering territory.” He paused, considered Max. “Interesting how that isn’t the case.”
A servant arrived with the requested meal. Why was Max not surprised that Rawling suspected he wasn’t alone at the Park?
There was no use denying it. If he tried, Rawling would persist until Max’s adamant refusal became a confirmation of the truth.
Picking up his knife and fork, Max resisted the urge to let out a sigh. “If you must know, I have a houseguest. A friend agreed to come down and stay at the Park.”
“And who might this friend be?”
“A friend.” That was all he was going to say on the matter.
“You do know you have piqued my curiosity.”
“Yes, I am well aware of that. And if you would keep the information to yourself, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Of course, Pelham. No need to even ask.” Rawling leaned back in his chair, the smug smile replaced with one of genuine happiness. “I am quite happy for you.”
In a strange sort of way, it felt good to talk to Rawling about Tristan. Not that Max had said much. But his friend knew he wasn’t alone, that he had someone to go home to, someone who made him happy, and that felt good.
Still, Max was eager to get Rawling off the topic of Tristan. “Have you been keeping yourself out of trouble in my absence?”
Rawling shrugged. “I’m making an effort, at least.”
Something in the tone of Rawling’s voice made Max ask, “Do you need assistance with any business matters? Because if you do, you need only ask. Not that I consider myself an expert in all things.” Definitely not. Tristan had helped him see just how much needless effort he’d been expending. “But I’m a willing ear and will lend whatever assistance or advice I can.”
Rawling shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not in need of that sort of assistance at the moment.” He looked over Max’s shoulder, in the direction of the door to the dining hall. A frown flickered across his brow.
When Max initially sat at Rawling’s small table, he’d asked if Rawling was expecting anyone. He had received neither a yes nor a no. He’d hoped to find Rawling at White’s, and quite frankly, he had been a bit surprised to find him dining alone. But he hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Figured luck had simply been on his side.
“Were you or are you expecting someone?”
“Expecting? No.”
Max leaned forward. “Waiting for someone then?”
Rawling dragged his attention from the door. He opened his mouth, closed it and then finally spoke. “Have you seen Tilden about Town of late?”
“Tilden?” The family name felt familiar, but Max couldn’t quite place it. He didn’t run in the same social circles as Rawling and didn’t keep up on the goings-on of the ton.
“Gabriel Tilden. Of the Cheshire Tildens, though until recently he was residing in Derbyshire. I was good friends with his younger brother at Eton, spent a summer at their estate when I was sixteen. Gabriel Tilden married shortly after, though his wife passed away earlier this year. Anyway, he’s in London now, though he’s been proving a bit elusive of late, and I wondered if you’d seen him.”
“I don’t believe so, but I also don’t believe I’ve ever met the fellow. He has a brother in the Commons, an older brother, if I recall correctly. A bit of a condescending, pompous bore.”
“You are correct, on both counts, though Stephen doesn’t resemble Gabriel in person or manner. Gabriel Tilden’s about our height, no overfed belly, chestnut-brown hair instead of dark, quite handsome and unassuming in manner.”
Gaze expectant, Rawling paused as if waiting for his description to spark a recollection in Max.
Max shook his head. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him. Then again, I haven’t been gallivanting about. I’ve been to my solicitors’ office then here.”
Rawling’s shoulders fell.
“If you’d like, I can ask my driver to try to locate him. Morgan’s a useful sort and knows his way about Town. He can track him down then let you know what he finds without Tilden being the wiser.” Morgan had been able to locate Jonathan in a day. Should be able to do similarly with Tilden with no risk of extending Max’s stay in London.
“I wouldn’t want to put you out of a driver.”
“It’s not a bother. I’ve got grooms enough to take his place for a couple days and ferry me back and forth from the solicitors’ office.”
“Well, if it’s not a bother. It’s just...” Concern pulled his mouth then Rawling shook his head. “Thank you, Pelham. I’ll definitely take you up on your offer. Much appreciated.”
“Think nothing of it. I owe you for those rather persistent nudges.”
Rawling gave him a superior little nod, a hint of a smile coming back to his mouth. “Yes, you do. You have a tendency to be a stubborn, grumpy bastard. Took a lot of effort to nudge your arse.”
Max couldn’t help but agree with his friend.
* * *
One day without Max—hell, one afternoon without Max—had been all it had taken. The ache in his chest was too large to even contemplate ignoring. How Tristan could not have seen this coming, he had no idea. But there was no use in bemoaning his lack of foresight.
He had fallen in love with Max.
Certainly it had started at some point over the past couple of months. Perhaps even before they’d left London. But it had snuck up on him so slowly, he hadn’t been able to recognize it for what it was until he’d been left to wander the house alone. The sounds of his footsteps on the marble floors echoing about him, the loneliness growing with each passing minute, feeling distinctly out of sorts and without a means to rectify it. Even a visit to the village, a chat with Max’s friendly neighbors, hadn’t done a thing to lift his spirits. It wasn’t as if he and Max spent every waking moment together. A handful of hours in the afternoon, supper separated by acres of mahogany, and a nightcap before retiring. Yet just knowing Max wasn’t ensconced in his study made the entire house feel so empty.
Ridiculous notion. There were dozens of servants laboring under Arrington Park’s roof. But even seeing the footmen in the corridors or the maids traversing the stairs did not do one bit to quell that feeling of emptiness.
He felt separated, markedly alone. His gaze finding the clock in every room he entered and damning the hands for not moving quicker, for not bringing Max back to him sooner. Pushing up from the chair in the library, Tristan looked once again to the clock on the mantel. Barely even nine in the evening. He let out a sigh. What constituted a few days? Max had left two mornings ago. Would he be back in one or two or three days?
And when had the prospect of three days turned into forever?
Tristan entered his bedchamber and shut the door behind him. That deceptively barren stretch of wall taunted him. Mocked him. There was no reason to open the narrow door. It couldn’t lead him to Max tonight.
Tugging on the knot of his cravat, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
God in hell, he was in love with Max. The absolute worst part of it all? Knowing it would only end in heartache for him.
Max wouldn’t give him more than his body and his friendship, and there was no use at all in asking for more than Max was willing to give. Max was young. In a decade or so, perh
aps he’d decide to give love another go. But now, less than a year after his ex-lover had betrayed him? No. Definitely not. Max had been very up front about what he did and did not want from Tristan, and what he was willing and not willing to give, to the point where Max had explicitly stated he did not want finer sentiments from him. Tristan was at the Park because Max wanted a man to warm his bed at night. Nothing more. It hurt like hell, but Tristan could understand why. And he couldn’t blame Max for his reasons. If he had been betrayed as thoroughly as Max had, he certainly would not yet be willing to entrust another with his heart again.
Still, that didn’t stop him from wanting to pummel Max’s ex-lover, curse the man for breaking Max’s heart. For not only hurting Max but for making Max so unwilling to love again.
In a way though, it was fortunate Max wasn’t willing to love Tristan, because if he was willing nothing good could come of it. Tristan couldn’t remain Max’s houseguest indefinitely. The issue of his wages and their arrangement aside, it simply wasn’t practical. They were two men and had to be cautious about perceptions. And without the veil of the Duke of Pelham’s country houseguest to give him respectability, he was left with nothing but the cold, ugly facts.
He was the son of a mere farmer, a former prostitute and a current kept man. Dukes did not enter into real relationships with men like himself.
Dropping his head, Tristan speared his fingers into his hair. He winced as a heavy ache radiated across his chest. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He wanted to scream, shout with the injustice of it all. He’d always wanted somewhere to belong, someone to belong with. Yet he couldn’t deny the truth—he didn’t belong with Max.
“Bloody hell.” Damnation, did he hurt.
Summoning every ounce of effort, he fought back the tears. Letting out a sigh, Tristan lifted his head. A part of him wanted to sit there and bemoan his fate all night, but he refused to give in. He knew what he needed to do and why. Yet that knowledge did nothing to pacify the pain. If anything, it made it worse.
He forced himself to stand and willed his feet to take him across the room. Hopefully tomorrow it wouldn’t rain and he could go into the village, at least escape the empty house for a bit while he waited for Max to return.
After undoing the buttons on his coat, he shrugged it from his shoulders and tossed it into the basket. He looked about his dressing room, to the hooks upon hooks of coats and waistcoats, to the stacks of trousers and shirts on the shelves. There was no reason to hurry and start packing. There would be plenty of time to do that after he spoke with Max.
* * *
Max pressed the latch, pushed open the door and stepped inside Tristan’s bedchamber. A sense of relief, as if he’d been holding his breath for the past few days and could finally take a deep, long breath, washed over him.
The faint glow from the embers in the hearth was just enough for him to make out Tristan, curled up on his side, on the far side of the bed. On silent footsteps, Max crossed the room and lifted the coverlet. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked the faintest bit as he slipped beneath the sheet.
He was bone-tired from such a long day. Hours spent in discussions with his solicitors, finalizing the details of the purchase, and then many more hours spent on the road. From a practical perspective, he should have waited until dawn tomorrow instead of departing London at three in the afternoon and arriving at the Park well after midnight. It would have meant five days from home instead of four, and saved his driver and his horses from traveling into the night. But he felt the rightness of his decision the moment his bare skin pressed against Tristan’s. Another night without this, without Tristan, would have approached unbearable.
Wrapping an arm around Tristan, Max’s lips found the hollow behind his ear.
Tristan’s body tensed then relaxed back into his. “Max?”
“I’m home,” he murmured.
Tristan turned in his arms. In the darkness, their mouths found each other’s with unerring accuracy, as if that was where they belonged. The kiss was urgent yet slow and lingering. Max could feel in Tristan’s kiss just how much Tristan had missed him. And that last tiny bit of apprehension, of suspended anticipation, a bit he hadn’t even realized was still within him, slid away.
Damnation, it felt good to be home.
Chapter Sixteen
Closing his eyes, Tristan took a long breath. The exhale stuttered, catching in his throat. He tried again, but it didn’t do any good to settle his nerves or his stomach.
If he intended to make it back to London before nightfall, he needed to speak to Max now. In the morning. Before noon. Before Tristan could give in to the massive tug on his heart that begged, pleaded to delay just one more day. Just one more afternoon with Max, one more night together.
But he had all the reasons in the world not to delay. Sound, hard, very valid reasons. As he’d pulled on his clothes that morning, he had run them all through his head. Each and every one on its own should send him from the house. But combined together? There was absolutely no way Tristan should allow himself to give in to the urge, the need, to delay the inevitable even one more day.
He’d had last night. Already had his last night with Max. Had committed each touch, each kiss, each hoarse moan from Max to memory. There was no need for a repeat.
All that logic, however, did not make it any easier to knock on the study door.
He lifted his arm.
Do it. Now.
The sound of his knuckles rapping against wood smacked against his ears.
“Enter,” came Max’s voice through the thick walnut door.
Tristan turned the knob, stepped inside.
Max looked up from his ledger. “Tristan.” He smiled, eyes alight with welcome. Tristan swore his heart broke a little bit more. “It’s not even nine. I was certain you didn’t roll out of bed until after eleven, but it appears I had assumed wrong.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Of course. Have a seat.”
Tristan shut the door. His pulse slammed through his veins. He didn’t sit in one of the chairs. Instead he stood behind one, rested his hands on the back. Willed his fingers not to clutch the upholstery.
Max’s smile dimmed. “Is something the matter?”
Yes. More than you could ever know.
Tristan opened his mouth. Forced the words out. “I need to end our arrangement.”
Max’s expression went utterly blank. “Why? Is it because I went to London for a few days?”
“No.” Tell him the truth. Max had once begged for his honesty. Tristan owed him nothing less. “I can no longer keep to the terms of our agreement. Therefore, it is best we part ways.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. The same viciousness he’d once directed onto one of Tristan’s clients was suddenly directed at himself. “I’m gone for four bloody days. Who the hell did you fuck in the village? Or was it one of the footmen?”
Tristan couldn’t stop the flinch. “No, no, Max. I didn’t... There isn’t anyone else. Honest. I—I...” He let out a slow breath, gathered the words. “I can’t accept another shilling from you. I don’t want to feel beholden to you. I don’t want to be your guest anymore. I don’t like feeling you could send me from the house at a moment’s notice. I want to be able to complain, to ask for more, but I cannot.” His fingers dug into the chair’s back. “I love you, Max. I can’t continue with our arrangement. With me in love with you, and you...as you are.”
“As I am? What the hell does that mean?” Max asked, bristling with affront.
“It’s not a slight against you. It’s just...”
Tristan shook his head. How to explain it to him? Max was...well, Max. A man who had a tendency to be rather closed off, and that was putting it lightly. Max claimed his ex-lover had not really loved him, that he’d been merely sayin
g what Max wanted to hear. Tristan would hazard a guess that wasn’t entirely the case.
But that point was moot. Tristan wasn’t Max’s lover, nor would Max ever allow him to become one. Max wanted an employee in his bed, not a lover to share his life with. Even if Max someday wanted that from him, it simply wasn’t feasible.
Tristan’s heart shouted its protests. Yet he forged on. “You want someone to warm your bed at night and nothing more. I should not have agreed to your proposal, but I did. Once I was gone from that house, I found I didn’t want to return. And I enjoyed being with you, so I agreed to your terms. I agreed to give you my loyalty, my discretion, my body at night in your bed. I agreed to not give you my heart. And I agreed not to ask for, to want, yours. But I can’t keep those terms anymore. I understand why you set those terms. Honestly I do, and I respect your reasons. But I want more from you, yet I can’t have more. Therefore, I need to leave.”
For a long moment, an exceedingly long moment, Max stared at him.
“Are your trunks packed?”
“No. Not yet.”
Please, don’t let me leave.
But Max just sat there, his face blank.
“Are you going back to Rubicon’s?”
“Aside from returning to London, I haven’t quite determined what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but I am not returning to that house.”
A crisp nod from Max. “I’ll have my carriage brought around to take you back to London.”
That tiny tendril of hope that had kept his coats and waistcoats on their hooks, that hope perhaps Max felt something more for him, that perhaps Max cared for him, had come to love him just a little bit, withered and died.
“Thank you, Max.”
Tristan turned on his heel and left the study.
* * *
The study door clicked shut. The sound slammed into Max, knocking the air from his lungs.
He struggled to take a breath, struggled to force his lungs to work properly. His hands trembled on the open ledger. Finally, he was able to suck in some air but it was short and shallow, left him breathless. A riot built within. He needed to go after Tristan. Do whatever it took to keep him from leaving. But Max was rooted to the spot, Tristan’s words filling his head. The man had told Max he needed to leave. Explained why. Max couldn’t betray him by forcing him to stay. Not when Max couldn’t give him what he needed.