by Cooper Davis
If Arend didn’t watch himself, he’d unmask them both; he was that blatantly and visibly jealous. His thin-lipped scowl only worsened, his gaze following the careening croquet ball of doom, as it landed afield, disappearing beyond the tall hedgerow. The ball’s vanishing was met with Lord Vincent Blaine’s gleeful handclapping.
Blaine had arrived at Ferndale by carriage several hours earlier, along with his brother, Viscount Colchester. When Jules realized that only those two gentlemen would round out their house party, he’d felt instant relief–yet it was immediately clear that Arend did not share that sentiment.
“The others send their regrets, Your Majesty,” Lord Vincent announced after the butler had shown them all into the drawing room. Arend gazed back silently, his face an unreadable mask of reserve. Jules glanced about the room, noting every reaction—including the way Viscount Colchester’s handsome face blanched, then reddened.
And then there was Alistair, who’d settled his ursine form into one of the enormous leather-backed chairs beside Arend. He gave Lord Vincent a sharp glance.
Viscount Colchester cleared his throat, saying, “Your Majesty, I, for one, am sincerely honored to be in your presence. And I—”
Lord Vincent cut his older brother off mid-sentence, rattling off a list of names, presumably would-be guests who could not join them. One of the men had urgent business back in the capital, though Blaine could not say exactly what, whilst another had been called home to deal with some vague concern there, and yet another complained of ill health. “So, you see,” Lord Vincent concluded, “it’s all perfectly understandable.” With an oily smile he added, “and perfectly regrettable, of course.”
Jules took the measure of the situation. He might be unfamiliar with all the intricacies of royal protocol, but surely it reflected poorly on Arend for his own lords to snub him socially, much less in such a cavalier fashion.
Alistair clearly didn’t like it, either. “Our guests,” the secretary pronounced sternly, “should have properly conveyed their regrets by letter, not word of mouth.” From the way the Finley regarded Lord Vincent, it was easy enough to imagine him adding, and such a smarmy mouth, at that.
At this, Lord Vincent fairly spluttered, “But Lord Bragnam did send his regrets. And Lord Welford?” The pique in his voice was unmistakable. “Well, he’s been quite busy with Council affairs recently.” Turning to Arend, he added significantly, “But he hopes to convene with you soon, sire.”
Convene with you soon. The remark sent a chill down Julian’s spine, as did the subtle implication that Arend might be forced to “convene” with his Council.
The tips of Arend’s ears turned scarlet. He glanced at Alistair, who bristled visibly. Before either could respond, however, all eyes turned to behold the splendid-looking figure who had just entered the room. None other than their host and Arend’s rapscallion of a cousin, Samuel Tollemach, Duke of Mardford.
Sam’s midnight hair brushed along his collar, his skin as richly olive-toned as Arend’s, with dark eyes to match. Even if Jules saw through the man’s ridiculous flirtations, he’d be a fool not to recognize just how striking the duke truly was.
Almost—but not quite—as striking as King Arend himself.
The duke’s gaze moved across the room, alighting briefly upon Viscount Colchester, eyes flaring the moment their gazes locked. “Lord Colchester,” he murmured, “pleasure.”
The viscount bowed genteelly to their host. “The pleasure is surely my own, Your Grace.” Colchester’s lightly freckled face turned ruddy as he stood to full height again.
Lord Vincent moved past his brother, to greet their host. “Your Grace, assuredly the pleasure—”
“Please, no.” Samuel Tollemach waved a gloved hand loosely in Lord Vincent’s direction. “I’m aghast,” he proclaimed, as though in mid-conversation, “on behalf of His Majesty and, quite frankly, myself, as well. Not to mention my lovely wife, the duchess, who shall be joining us posthaste.” The duke widened his eyes in exaggeration. “Your Majesty,” he said, addressing Arend, even as his gaze remained locked on Lord Vincent, “perhaps an aversion to our family name has taken hold recently. And among gentlemen who ought to know better.”
Arend nodded gravely, and despite the cheerful fire crackling in the drawing room’s immense hearth, his expression was like the unseasonably cool springtime air outside.
“Oh, no, Your Grace!” Lord Vincent bleated at Mardford. “I’m sure that’s not the case.” He dropped into a bow so exaggeratedly low that it seemed more a mockery than an obeisance. “And Your Majesty, I’m certain that the lords regret missing out, but I’ll greedily partake of more exclusive time in your royal presence.”
Alistair only harrumphed at that, seeming not the least bit mollified as he shifted his weight in his chair.
The duke nodded in agreement. “Quite so, Finley. That’s the last time I extend myself to those briar heads,” he drawled.
“Well, I suppose it does almost seem like a cut direct, doesn’t it?” Lord Vincent observed silkily. However, it was obvious that he wanted to emphasize the insult, not mediate it, especially given the wolfish smile on his face.
The lord continued, “Although I’m sure that wasn’t their intent.” His gaze alighted firmly on Julian. “In any case, I can’t imagine missing a moment of this party. What a loss for them.” This last he said with such emphasis, and a look so inappropriate in its scalding heat, that Jules could feel the warmth rushing to his own face hours later when he recalled it.
From that moment on, Lord Vincent had ceased all pretense of attending to his king, and directed his interest solely toward Julian. Which was why Jules now found himself chasing his errant croquet ball—intentionally knocked afield by that nuisance of a man, who now came chasing after him.
Blaine pulled abreast of him, and from his labored breathing and flushed face, Jules suspected that the man spent more time draped across drawing room furniture than engaged in sport. “Lord Julian.” Still breathing heavily, he pressed a palm to his chest. “You simply must allow me to be of assistance.”
“Thank you, my lord, but I’m perfectly capable of poking about the ivy and grass for a splash of bright red.”
“How could you be, when the whole garden is painted in nature’s own shades of red!” Blaine laughed as he took one more breath. “To be truthful,” he confessed, “it was my folly that sent your ball so far afield.”
Folly indeed, Julian thought, taking a slight sidestep. Anything to evade this pesky gentleman.
But Blaine only mirrored the footwork, edging closer to him. “Dear heavens, but I’ve practically bounded after you! You simply must allow me the honorable intention.”
Honorable intention was more than a bit debatable. Because, of course, Lord Vincent had turned out to be a preener. The fellow planted a hand upon his hip in such a way as to emphasize his slim figure and front trousers’ placket.
“My honor is intact, my lord.” Jules inclined his head, forcing himself not to steal a glance in the direction of King Arend back on the lawn, and began tromping off toward the hedge.
Lord Vincent kept pace with his strides. “Oh, dear Lord Julian,” Blaine argued with airy affectation, “you’ve forced me into the racing field quite early. I usually wait until the first night’s entertainments to make so bold a move.” Glancing sideways, he took in Jules’s figure with a wolfish glance. “But your merits are so . . . remarkable. It’s no wonder you’ve enticed me out of the gate so precipitously.”
Jules barely managed to suppress a guttural groan. The fellow would have benefited from instruction at flirtation, the sort Julian had endured during his tenure at Temple Sapphor.
“There’s no racecourse here, Lord Vincent. Only me, a small house party, and one errant croquet ball.”
As they rounded the corner of the hedgerow, nearly out of Arend’s sight, Vincent caught Julian’s arm. “I’ve heard about your stables back in Agadir.” Heat emanated from the man’s body. “You’d k
now all about stallions and how they bound from the gate, much as I’ve dashed after you!”
Julian tried to hide a look of distaste. The waifish man was far more filly than any stallion he might imagine himself to be. But before Julian could formulate a polite rebuff, Vincent added in a low voice, “No geldings in your stable, I’m sure.” The man’s cool gaze lifted, nailing Julian hard.
The remark, obviously a sidelong reference to Arend’s recent Council edict, made Julian’s stomach churn.
Vincent stepped scandalously nearer, tightening his grip on Julian’s forearm. “Being the equine fancier, I’m sure you’d know all about fillies and geldings and stallions.”
With a plastered-on smile, Julian took a backward step, shaking off the man’s grip. “Yes, but I’m equally quick at ferreting out lost balls.” He laughed nervously. “I’m such a paltry player that I’m afraid to say I’ve accumulated much experience.”
The lord’s eyes flared. “Then I daresay you’ve been followed into many a shadowy shrub. I can’t be the first fellow to seek a risqué trysting with one so”—his eyes took in Julian’s form greedily—“pleasurable to behold. Why deny me equal pleasure?”
Julian flushed at the untoward suggestion, which clearly misled Blaine. The gentleman’s eyes gleamed, his aroused expression barely concealed beneath veils of blond lash and practiced wit.
Lord Vincent trailed a finger down the length of Julian’s arm, making him bristle. “It may prove a devil of a time locating that ball.” One fingertip stroked the edge of Julian’s glove as though to peel it away. “And besides,” he suggested, his voice low and seductive, “it would be a shame to waste such a prime moment with searching out . . . balls.”
The word fine vibrated, lingering on the fellow’s lips in a way that made Julian want to punch him in the chest. Or better yet, cudgel him with his croquet mallet. Too bad it was back on the lawn—where Arend was waiting, his jealous irritation no doubt growing by the second.
Panicked at the thought, Julian allowed himself a quick glance through the bushes toward Arend, who sat on a garden bench observing the game. Arms folded sulkily across his chest, he was looking in their direction, gaze touched with more than a hint of possessiveness. That is, if one could deem such stern, regal fury a hint of possessiveness.
Jules became aware of something that felt like a caterpillar crawling on his forearm and looked down to see Lord Vincent’s fingertips moving slyly upward. The touch, subtly promiscuous, jolted him, and he tore his gaze from his lover. “I’ll carry on now, find my ball,” Jules told him, as lightly as he could manage.
“Are you denying me?” the other man insisted, his fingertips still pressed against Julian’s forearm. The words held an almost threatening note of seduction.
“I-I’m denying you nothing, my lord.” Julian inclined his head with forced politeness. “But it’s a rare honor to enjoy lawn games with His Majesty. We should be making our way back now. He’ll be concerned.” As soon as he had spoken this last, he winced, all too aware of the secrets those words barely concealed. Vincent gave him a coy smile. “The king need not be concerned, not when I am here to act as your valiant. Surely that’s what His Majesty would wish for a special friend like you.”
Special friend like you. Just what did Lord Vincent suspect? Julian’s pulse began to race, his earlier fear spiking even harder in his gut. He needed to play along with this man’s flirtation but doing so meant agitating Arend even further—and surely it would do just that. Then, all in a rush, he knew what he must do: at the first opportunity for a moment alone together, he would tell Arend how he truly felt and confess his rapidly growing feelings; otherwise, his king’s possessiveness would almost certainly get the best of him, unmasking their affair and placing his throne in even greater peril.
“What shall you give me for this item’s return?” Vincent was saying, and Julian realized that he had located the errant ball. The lord held the thing aloft over both their heads like a prize dearly to be sought.
Julian frowned up at it. “Lord Vincent, I thought you wished to serve me valiantly.”
The man lifted the ball even higher, and tut-tutted, “My lord Julian, none can observe us. Might I at least dare to kiss your hand?”
“No,” Julian snapped, “you may neither hope nor try, sir.”
Lord Vincent slowly lowered the ball but didn’t relinquish it. “Are you promised to another?”
Julian’s eyes went wide with livid frustration. “I am my own man,” he said, attempting to step around Lord Vincent.
Lord Vincent shadowed the move. “That’s far from a definitive answer. Perchance there’s hope for my suit after all.”
Julian’s mind darkened. Memories of the opera patron who, years before, had forced himself upon him. Their subsequent discovery had led Jules’s brother to sell him into sensual service at Temple Sapphor immediately thereafter.
“Please, my lord. I do not wish to offend.” Julian’s. Julian’s voice lilted upward too effeminately, and he struggled to regain mastery over it. “But now, hand me my ball, and let’s be on with it.” Julian held out his palm with thinly-veiled impatience.
“On with it?” Lord Vincent fluttered his lashes. “How coy you are. But I’ve met resistance from men like you before.”
Men like you.
Julian felt his ire rushing over him, a long-dammed river stemmed by too many unsolicited overtures. Too many previews at the temple, unveiled in the nude and observed by potential lovers. Examined. Even, occasionally touched and prodded when—and where—he least desired it.
“Men like me,” he repeated curtly, “know precisely how to dispatch men like you.” He seized the lord’s arm and forced the ball out of his hand, and spun on his heels.
“Your unwillingness only charms me further,” Lord Vincent called in his wake, but not loudly enough that others would hear. That Arend would hear.
Julian stormed out of the hedge, desperate to reach Arend’s side. To find refuge there; for his master to place a protective arm about him. None could touch Arend Tollemach, much less defy him—at least so long as he sat upon the throne. Which was precisely why Julian could not seek such comfort, nor let the façade of their casual acquaintanceship falter.
And thus, Jules did as he’d learned at Sapphor: he pasted a smile on his face, one that did not match the despair clawing at his insides.
Chapter Four
The next time Julian’s ball went flying back into the same bloody shrub it was Arend who followed—having all but batted Lord Vincent away with the royal walking stick. The randy lord had likely envisioned it as a scepter, as he stepped back in deference to His Majesty. Even so, it was no more advisable for Arend to traipse after Jules than it had been for Lord Vincent to do so, not if they didn’t wish to set tongues wagging.
Julian darted into that hedgerow, desperate to locate the croquet ball before Arend could catch up with him. If Arend wasn’t going to give greater care to his own imperiled predicament with the Council, then it was Jules’s job as concubine to protect his lover.
He entered the dense brush, moving too swiftly, and at once his britches became caught on a nettlesome vine. He bent, trying to dislodge the thorns, and promptly snagged another wayward stalk upon his silk waistcoat. Cursing, he realized he was becoming quite bound up, not only between briars and greenery, but in nightmarish flirtation run amok.
What in blazes was Arend even thinking, daring to follow Jules into this shrubbery when all society knew that to chase an unmarried male into concealment signaled open courtship and interest. He cursed under his breath as he struggled to dislodge himself.
Reaching with his glove, he managed to prick his wrist, and blood bloomed immediately. He pressed the wrist to his lips, hoping that—truly—Arend had desisted in following him, as his doing so would only rouse gossip. But all at once strong arms encircled his torso, looping him hard and near. “Shh,” the husky voice murmured against his nape, as a large palm moved to Julian’s hi
p and canted his pelvis backward.
“Arend, stop—”
“Shh,” again, and the other gloved hand moved from Julian’s waist, traveling to his inner thigh, fondling and pressing. His king had lost his reason! They could not be discovered in flagrante, enraptured; nor even with Arend seizing him like the possessive, domineering lover he was presently making a good show of imitating. Although, if it was King Arend Tollemach who—like some passionate god—did the seizing, well, there were worse things by far.
Julian’s cock hardened beneath the erotic caressing. Arend nuzzled at his neck, just enough taller that his position behind Jules lent ideal physical access. Despite caution and his better sense, Julian tilted his hips back against the man’s body. Instantly, a thick, erect cock nudged Julian’s arse, and his breath left him. The intimacy was a reminder of what they’d done only last night—made love for the first time.
When Arend rolled his hips against Jules’s buttocks, his breath left him. He was dizzied, forced to grasp at the hedge beside him and finding only a gloveful of thorny leaves.
When he cried out, Arend moved to free Julian’s glove, shushing him even more. “There, see? You are free.”
“It’s not the thorns,” he explained. “Arend, this is dangerous. Beyond careless.”
“You don’t want me?” Arend murmured, nuzzling his ear.
“You know how badly I do.” Jules swept Arend’s gloved hand downward, bringing it to rest atop the bulge in Jules’s trousers. “You feel that I do.”
“No one shall see. None shall know,” Arend assured him. “Who would dare intrude upon their king in such a manner?”
“Lord Vincent,” Jules gasped, right as Arend’s strong, bold hips pushed behind his own.
“Then he would know that you’re mine.” Mine. The word vibrated against Julian’s ear.