by Ava March
“There isn’t one, Max. I’ve told you that before.” Oh, how he wished there could be a solution, but neither his wish nor Max’s unbending resolve could make the impossible possible.
“If you believe that, then why the hell did you agree to give me a chance?”
“Because you begged for it. Because you wanted me. Because you love me. Because I couldn’t refuse you.” Pain, heartache leached into the disappointment and anger. The faintest of trembles began to seep into his voice, and try as he might, he couldn’t mask those trembles. “Because I’m selfish and I wanted to be with you a little bit longer even though I knew it could not last. That’s why.”
Max let out a sigh. Not of exasperation, but of understanding. “But it can last, Tristan.”
“No. It can’t.” He took a step back, needing to put more distance between them. “I can’t accept money from you again, Max.” He would not accept another farthing from Max. Could not allow money to come between them again, to stain their relationship. It would ruin everything, slowly kill the happiness he felt just being near Max. And the possibility one day in the future, Max would look on him once again as his whore. As a convenient lover he’d bought and purchased...
It wasn’t dread that washed over Tristan, but pain, heavy and sharp, slicing into his soul.
“I love you, Tristan. I refuse to accept that I must give you up merely because you are a man and I am a duke. You may be willing to give up on us, to allow pride to come between us, but I am not.”
“It’s not pride, Max,” he shot back, defensive and desperate. “I love you, too. I don’t want to give up on us. I want to be with you more than you could possibly understand. But I can’t go back to how we once were. I can’t.”
“What I am proposing is not even remotely the same situation. Yes, money is involved, but it’s not at all about trying to buy your affections. I do not—” he emphasized the word, as if doing so could convince Tristan of his sincerity, “—want us to go back to how we once were. I won’t allow it. This is about trying to find a way so we can be together forever. That’s all. Nothing more. I trust you. I believe you love me. That you won’t say yes because you are more interested in my gift than being with me. Why can’t you see that, Tristan? Why don’t you believe me?”
Arms wrapped tightly around himself, Tristan jerked his head toward the pond, toward its clear blue surface, broke eye contact, unable to bear the pain in Max’s gaze. Afraid to face the truth he’d glimpsed in those dark depths.
“I thought you trusted me.” The hurt in Max’s voice cut straight to Tristan’s heart.
“I do.” Tristan’s lips barely moved, the words not even a whisper. “I do,” he repeated, louder, needing Max to hear him. “I believe—I know—you love me.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, but he couldn’t stop a tear from tracing a path down his cheek.
There was the soft sound of footsteps swooshing through grass. Tristan kept his eyes closed, yet he could feel Max’s presence now standing before him. Could almost feel the warmth of his strong body. Could feel the comfort Max’s presence offered.
A part of Tristan shouted a warning to hold firm. To hold his ground, continue to refuse. No one gave someone like him a gift without expecting something in return.
But Max didn’t see him as an object, as a toy he could purchase for the evening. Max looked on him as a person. As a man. As the man he loved.
And Tristan was worthy of that love.
A sense of peace settled over him.
What he had once done for a living mattered not. The fact he was the son of a poor farmer held no stock with Max either. No one else had ever wanted him for him. But Max did, and he’d more than proved it over these past two weeks.
Max loved him and wanted to be with him. Loved him so much he was willing to do whatever it took to be with Tristan.
The man who had once been convinced others only cared about his title and fortune, who had done his damnedest to protect himself from being duped by another money-hungry lover, was now offering to give Tristan a small fortune so they could be together.
And Max was willing to make that offer because he believed, he trusted, that Tristan loved him for him.
Tristan’s breath caught in his throat.
A hand settled on his shoulder, Max’s grip strong yet gentle. “I need you in my life, Tristan. You make me a better man,” he said, speaking very clearly. His conviction, his unwavering belief, more solid than iron. “You see me and not the duke. You want me, not my fortune. It’s what I’ve always wanted, but I’ve never had that before you. Hell, I’d given up hope it was even possible. Believed I needed to accept there were some things I could not have. But I can have it. I do have it with you. Take pity on me. I beg you. Don’t make me live without you.”
Max needed him, just as Tristan needed Max. Had needed Max’s strength, his determination, to help Tristan shove aside his own doubts in himself.
And now that those doubts were firmly shoved aside, he could truly see Max’s offer for what it was—simply a means, a way, for them to be together forever. Nothing more.
Neither of them wanted to risk repeating the past. Yet Max was opening himself up for that very risk. Was willing to take that chance, because he loved Tristan.
And so Tristan needed to take a chance on Max. To show Max the same level of trust that Max had in him. To give his heart over to Max’s safekeeping, just as Max had already done with him.
Max’s grip on his shoulder tightened, his long fingers shaking the tiniest bit.
And that faint possibility of the past repeating itself vanished. There was no risk at all in trusting Max.
* * *
Heart lodged firmly in his throat, Max felt the tension ease from Tristan’s body. He had stripped himself bare, thrown away his pride, laid himself at Tristan’s feet. He could only hope it had been enough.
But if it hadn’t been enough...
If Tristan persisted, stood firm, refused...
Max’s soul screamed in protest, railed in agony.
This could not be the end of them. It could not be.
As if hearing Max’s thoughts, Tristan looked up at Max. Slowly, he reached out. Reached for Max. A smile, full of peace and love, began to curve Tristan’s mouth.
Max could not have moved if his life depended on it.
Tristan’s arms wound around his neck. A tremble, of longing, of need, shook Max’s body.
“Yes.” The whispered word brushed Max’s lips.
“Yes what?” He had to be certain.
“Yes, I trust you. Yes, I believe you. Yes, I agree. Yes, I’ll accept your gift.”
For what felt like the longest moment, Max couldn’t move.
Tristan had said yes.
Tristan believed him.
Tristan had agreed to be with him.
It wasn’t the end of them. This was the beginning of forever with Tristan.
Max’s arms shot out, grabbed Tristan, hauled him closer. Crushing his mouth over Tristan’s, he kissed him with everything in his heart, in his soul. Poured his love, his very self, into that kiss.
Having Tristan in his arms, his lithe, strong body pressed against Max’s once again...
Max dropped to his knees. Their kiss still unbroken, Tristan moved with him. Together, they fell onto the blanket, Tristan beneath him.
He yanked at the placket of Tristan’s breeches. “Please?”
It wasn’t lust that pulled the plea from Max. He couldn’t put words to the feeling pounding through his veins, consuming him, but he needed Tristan right then. Right now. Needed to be inside him. Needed to experience that connection between them. That perfect bliss. Needed it to keep him from crumbling, from sobbing in thanks, in relief, that Tristan had agreed.
“Here?”
<
br /> “Yes. No one will come across us. It’s my property.” Hence why he’d chosen this particular pond for their luncheon.
That took Tristan aback, abet very briefly. “What isn’t yours in England?” he asked, lifting his hips so Max could pull his breeches down.
“Your new house in the country.” A firm tug dispensed with each of Tristan’s riding boots.
As Max shrugged his shoulders, flicked his greatcoat from his wrists, Tristan’s nimble fingers dealt with the buttons on Max’s breeches, freeing Max’s erection. Max reached into his pocket, pulled out the small vial of oil.
“Rather certain about yourself, weren’t you?” Tristan teased.
“Hopeful, yes,” Max said, pouring oil onto his fingers that shook the slightest bit. “Certain? Far from it. I know you too well.”
Tristan reached out, cupped Max’s jaw. A somber touch mixed with the passion burning in his gaze. “I’m sorry for being so stubborn. It wasn’t that I doubted you. It was more me, doubting you could love me for me.”
“But I do, Tristan. I love you. Just you,” he vowed, the hitch in his voice unmistakable.
“I know that now.”
Tristan pulled Max down for a kiss. The instant their lips touched, passion reignited between them. Crouched over him, Max worked a hand between their bodies, prepared his lover. And then he was pushing inside Tristan—slick, hot heat gripping Max’s length, shoving every thought from his head, leaving only true, pure need.
They moved together. Frantic. Reckless. Tristan tugged at Max, tugged him closer, as Max thrust harder, faster, chasing that perfect bliss. Needing to bring them both there. Desperate for the reassurance only Tristan’s climax could provide.
He could feel it barreling upon Tristan. Barreling upon himself. Tristan’s short, panting breaths singed Max’s cheek. His body tightened around Max’s cock, then a soul-deep grunt rumbled Tristan’s chest. Tristan’s climax sparked his own, and Max eagerly followed him into bliss.
He had not lost Tristan. They could share this over and over again. Tristan was his forever.
Pulling back, Max broke their kiss. Cheeks flushed, lips plumped and reddened, and eyes heavy-lidded, Tristan looked utterly debauched.
Then concern wrinkled Tristan’s brow. He wiped a thumb across Max’s cheek, smearing wetness across his skin. “Max?”
“I’m happy,” he said simply.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly happy. Content. At peace with himself and his life. And it was all because of Tristan.
The most beautiful smile curved Tristan’s lips. “So am I.”
Epilogue
November 1822
Hampshire, England
Tristan dropped to his knees and adjusted the fabric, trying to take up some of the slack. No, doing it that way would cause the inseam to pull. He shifted his fingers a bit, made some adjustments and appraised the results. Yes, that might do. He’d have to redo the entire placket, but the fabric appeared to be draping as it should.
Glancing up to Max, he asked, “Comfortable?”
“Yes, though if you keep tugging on the fabric, the trousers will feel uncomfortably snug very soon.”
Tristan smiled. Sure enough, a hard arch began to tent the placket. “Perhaps that’s my goal.” Using a piece of chalk, he made a mark on the dark wool right next to his fingertips.
“I thought your goal was to make me a pair of trousers, not get pushed to the floor and buggered senseless?”
“Both are very worthy goals, but the maid’s upstairs, dusting or other. The latter will have to wait until she leaves for the day.” The next time he did a fitting with Max though, he would be sure to schedule it when his maid was not in the house.
Max let out a sigh, all playful condescension. “I suppose I can endure a bit of a wait.”
It was much more enjoyable to play tailor for Max than to work in some shop. He could indulge his fondness for fine clothes and his fondness for Max’s strong body all in one activity. Though that strong body wasn’t the easiest to fit clothes to. The last pair of trousers he’d made for Max had been too tight, the wool stretching across his groin, leaving nothing to the imagination and completely unsuitable for Max to wear...at least outside of a bedchamber. As such, Tristan had overcompensated with this pair. Ah well. Eventually he’d get it right on the first try. In any case, it was much easier to take a garment in than to add more fabric.
“You’re all set.” Tristan pushed to his feet. “You can take them off now. I should have them finished in a couple of days.”
Max did as bid. Tristan dropped the caulk into the tin on his desk and handed Max the trousers the man had arrived in. He had converted his study into a tailor’s shop of sorts. Bolts of fabric in colors ranging from palest yellow to deepest blue were folded in neat piles on his desk. A large wooden table he used for cutting those bolts stood before the two windows. Instead of books, spindles of thread, little boxes of pins and various other accoutrements needed for sewing filled the bookshelf.
Tristan had lived at Dawson House—as he had dubbed it for lack of a better name—for only a month, and already it felt like home. Hampshire felt like home. The neighborhood had seemed pleased he had taken up permanent residency. He’d even had the vicar and his wife to dine last week. Max had begged off, claimed his title would intimidate Tristan’s guests and he did not want to make them uncomfortable. While the village seemed genuinely fond of Max, it was a fondness from afar. They welcomed Tristan, a respectable young gentleman, an amiable dandy with a fondness for color, into their midst, yet he could feel their awe of the Duke of Pelham.
It was just the way it was. He’d discussed it with Max, of course. Tristan spent some of his time in the village, amongst the neighborhood, just as Max would spend a bit of time in London on occasion, attending dinner parties and all-around being the Duke. They did not need to be together every waking moment, because they had the rest of their lives together.
“The sun’s out this afternoon.” A rare occurrence for late autumn in Hampshire. “Care to go for a ride before supper?” A supper that no longer included an acre of mahogany between them. They still dined mostly in Max’s dining hall, but Tristan’s place was now at Max’s right, just as it had been at his rooms in London.
Max didn’t hesitate. “All right.”
Tristan folded the trousers he needed to finish and set them on his worktable. “I met Mr. Jenkins outside the haberdasher shop this morning and he invited me to join their weekly whist games.” The gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the neighborhood spent an evening a week in the dining room of the local posting inn, indulging in cards and conversation. “So tomorrow I won’t be available for supper.”
“You agreed to attend?”
“Well, yes. I was rather pleased he asked.”
“But do you think that wise?” Max finished buttoning his trousers and dropped down into one of the two armchairs near the hearth, the fire within warming the room. Elbows resting on his knees, he looked up at Tristan. “I don’t have any issue with you socializing with the neighborhood. I’m actually glad you do. It’s more...gambling has been an issue for you in the past. I’m concerned, that’s all.”
“There’s no cause for concern, Max. I’m not going to drain my bank account dry.” His bank account, and a hefty one it was thanks to Max’s generosity and the trust he held in Tristan. “They play with sixpences and pennies. Their aim is not to win a fortune from each other. From what I gather, it’s more an excuse to drink brandy together.”
“You are likely correct. But there are some men...once they begin to gamble, they can’t stop themselves. I’ve seen them in the card room at White’s, seen them at the gambling hells I once frequented. Doesn’t matter how deeply in debt they are—it’s a sorry sight but they’ll keep throwing down another wager. You once had significa
nt gambling debts, so I hope you can understand my concern. And I do hope you know if ever you felt yourself slipping into a similar situation again, I would always be there for you.”
Max was so serious, his worry pouring off him. Rather than irritate him, it made Tristan love Max all the more.
“I didn’t visit the hells because of some compulsion. I was able to stop and I didn’t miss the tables. Being threatened by some rather unpleasant individuals was all the jolt I needed to come to my senses. I started gambling because working at Rubicon’s was so...bleak. I needed something to...” Something to fill the void of nothingness that had been his life.
“To lift your spirits?”
“Yes. It’s the same thing that drove me to visit my tailor so frequently.” He’d admitted as much to Max on his birthday. Sitting on the pond’s bank with Max sharing a meal, the night that had followed...Tristan had deemed it the most perfect day. And now they got to share those sorts of perfect days every day. “A win or a waistcoat, they served the same function. Gave me something to look forward to. Something to distract me from where my life had ended up. I tried to hide it, tried not to think about it, but I was so terribly unhappy. Yet you, being with you, makes me happy. I give you my word, Max, you have nothing to worry about.”
Max considered him for a moment. “You’re truly happy here with me?”
“Yes, I am very happy. There was a time when all I wanted was to escape the countryside. I thought I didn’t belong there, thought I’d find that place in London. But here, in Hampshire, with you...I feel like I belong here.”
“Because you do,” Max said, with such certainty that if Tristan did not already believe it himself, Max would have easily turned him into a believer. He nodded. “I understand now. Your absence will be felt at my table tomorrow, but I am not above sharing your company on occasion.” He got to his feet. “Shall we depart before the sun sets?”
Instead of answering Max’s question, Tristan asked one of his own. “Are you truly happy here with me?” He had seen the answer in Max’s easy smiles, felt it in his kisses. Yet still, Tristan’s own happiness would mean nothing if Max didn’t feel the same way.