A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  “Yes, Your Majesty. The Earl of Harcourt,” his cousin repeated. “Viscount Colchester was just recalling that recent dust-up about the fellow. Dreadful scandal, that.”

  Across the table, Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “That gossip . . . about Harcourt,” he interjected, “was more than a year ago. Seems in poor form to revive it now.”

  “Except one must admire the gentleman’s rakish moniker!” Sam’s face lit up as he recollected the details. “The scandal sheets dubbed him The Earl from the Garden, purportedly to conceal the fellow’s identity, but of course everyone knew precisely who it was, and the name stuck from the very first.” Sam chuckled devilishly. “Harcourt’s all but lost his actual title, at least behind his back.”

  Alistair’s expression turned sternly disapproving. He pursed his full lips, adjusting his spectacles. “That was more than a year ago,” he repeated, voice whiskey-rough. “We should leave the earl’s reputation alone.”

  Lord Vincent shook his head. “But it wasn’t just Harcourt, was it? Otherwise, there’d be no gossip to bandy. He was purportedly caught with none other than Lord Marcus Avenleigh in that infamous garden.”

  That’s when Arend noticed the blush on his foster brother’s full face. And the way Fin continued to fiddle with his spectacles.

  “Not only that,” Lord Vincent added gleefully, “but Harcourt was otherwise engaged. Literally. Until Lord Marcus spelled the end of that betrothal.”

  Alistair suddenly went into a spasm of coughing, nearly sputtering out his wine. Arend wondered, just briefly, if his foster brother had some greater interest in Harcourt, that now-infamous Earl from the Garden. Sam frowned at Alistair’s strange outburst, clearly as puzzled as Arend. “The Duke of Alsderry is a capital fellow. I say, Finley, don’t you know the Avenleigh family?”

  “Only the duke,” Alistair replied, voice strained. “Not the sons. I met Alsderry but once and was pleased to find him an ardent monarchist—and a loyal one.”

  “Capital!” Sam rubbed his hands together. “As we quite like our monarchists in this family. Lord Vincent, are you a monarchist? You must be, if you’ve accepted this invitation and chosen to sup and gamble and lawn game with His Majesty.”

  Lord Vincent stroked the rim of his wine glass. “I’m an ardent monarchist myself.” He shot a look at Arend. “So long as the king in question is one, as well.”

  Sam stared incredulously at Lord Vincent. “Don’t be cork-brained. How could a monarch be other than a monarchist?”

  “You’d be surprised, Your Grace. Then again, perhaps not.” Gaze still on Arend, Lord Vincent spoke deliberately. “A king must always place throne and succession above all else. The realm,” he said emphatically, “must come first, in all things.” Gone was the flirtatious fop from the croquet lawn, replaced by a far more dangerous adversary.

  “I’ve a revelation for you, Lord Vincent,” Arend heard himself saying. “What’s difficult for kings—those few of us who actually know the role—is occasionally putting our own interests first. We live in service to the kingdom. To our own throne. It’s all we know, from before we can toddle.”

  Lord Vincent’s light gaze glinted, reptilian and predatory. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m sure it’s a grave temptation to indulge your own needs and personal interests after so many years in dutiful service.”

  “I have never once done so as king. I am wedded to the crown,” Arend replied. There. That would settle the question of marriage and future queens. But a quiet voice taunted him: You’ve claimed a concubine. You have put your own interests first, entered a risqué affair. Lord Vincent must never learn this truth. Arend struggled to find his breath for a moment, the reality of his predicament forcefully upon him, with Jules across the table, so beautiful and utterly his. Dear God, if Lord Vincent knew . . .

  As if in reaction to Arend’s panic, Lord Vincent turned in his seat, pale gaze suddenly fixing on Jules. “Ah, but forgive me, please, if I’ve made the party tedious with all this political talk. I’m far more interested in hearing about our Lord Julian here. Are there truly no gentlemen pressing suits back in Agadir?”

  Julian gave Blaine a smile—an undeservedly gracious one. “My attentions, sir, rest solely upon my equestrian enterprises. There is little time for other pursuits, romantic or otherwise.”

  Blaine placed a hand along the back of Julian’s chair. “But a gentleman like you, my lord? You needn’t be lonely! I’m appalled at the thought.” That hand wandered, almost imperceptibly lower, fingertips brushing against Julian’s golden hair.

  The moment Arend glimpsed that stolen intimacy, his blood ran scalding hot. Despite his better sense, he sat up taller in his chair, stiffening. “Lord Julian seems to embrace a variety of passionate interests,” he declared. “I wager he’s not lonely at all.” Arend’s hand, trembling, balled into a tight fist, and he pressed it into his thigh.

  Trapped between fear of discovery and unfettered possessiveness, his composure began unraveling into shreds. “You’re not,” Arend asked, voice thick, “lonely, are you, Lord Julian?”

  Jules nodded deferentially. “Your Majesty, I’m content precisely as I am—independent and well-kept by . . . my occupations.”

  Blaine’s blue eyes went wide, and he clutched his chest dramatically. “Lord Julian, now you’re playing coy with me! Any time a man of your beauty considers himself well-kept, one must wonder about those so-called passionate interests, you mention, King Arend.”

  Julian shifted away from the gentleman’s seductively draped arm. “W-wonder” Jules repeated, voice strained.

  “You tell me.” Vincent stroked two fingers along Julian’s upper back for the briefest moment. Was this what Julian’s existence had been like, before joining Arend? A series of men who felt entitled to touch him without permission, to pursue him? To flirt and insult?

  Arend set his glass down, too firmly, port sloshing onto the table linen. “Clearly Lord Julian’s industriousness provides its own satisfaction. Would that we all could find such fulfilment”—he glanced significantly at Lord Vincent—“rather than simply languish in the state of ennui that attends a life of leisure.”

  “Your Majesty,” Viscount Colchester broke in, giving Arend a warm smile. “I can’t imagine your duties leave much room for any sort of idleness. Might you indulge us, even in the most sparing fashion, by sharing how you pass your royal days?” Colchester’s expression was guileless and kind, his manner nothing like that of his brother. No wonder Sam had vouched for the man.

  Sam cut in. “His Majesty owns many passions, including the endlessly tedious motions that arise from our equally tedious Lords’ Council. And don’t forget Finley here”—Sam indicated Alistair with waggling fingers—“and his ledger-stacks tall as the palace crenellations.”

  “I do attempt to limit His Majesty’s toil to a minimum, Your Grace.” Alistair smiled vaguely, and—as often happened whenever he found himself unexpectedly thrust center-stage—the tips of his ears turned scarlet. Alistair was profoundly shy and always had been.

  “I’m all in favor of travailing as little as possible, snug here in my dukedom, with my beautiful duchess.” Sam traced a pattern on the back of Lucy’s hand, his gaze flirtatious and suggestive. “Of course, certain marital labors are welcome.”

  “Your Grace!” Lucy swatted her husband’s hand away as if it were a pesky bee. “Not everyone is familiar with your audacious tongue.”

  “No, just you, darling,” Sam murmured low in her ear—but not so low that the whisper didn’t carry across the table.

  Sam looked up as if caught, although it was obvious he’d meant everyone to hear his innuendo. “Mr. Finley’s ears are mottling tomato-red,” he narrated, gesturing toward poor Alistair. “Deuces, fellow. Unmarried you may be, but surely even you know how heirs are sired and accumulated.”

  Spying a subtly wounded expression on Alistair’s face, Arend was about to speak up when Lord Vincent cut in. “So, are you about the business
of siring heirs now, Your Grace?” The question, dropped like a deadweight cannon ball, fell betwixt them all, silencing the room. Only the clattering of dropped silverware, and the subsequent clearing of Finley’s throat, filled that void.

  Only in the past few days had Sam confided in Arend that Lucy had been pregnant recently but lost the babe. And it hadn’t been the first time, either, apparently.

  Sam leaned back in his chair, languorously considering his reply. “Dashed forward, aren’t you, Blaine?” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Allow me to be equally blunt. Her Grace and I are hurriedly about shoring up the family lineage. Thus, expect House Tollemach to expand, and soonest. Much as Her Grace’s waistline will do, once I’ve sired a babe upon my beautiful bride.”

  “Even though she’s yet to produce an heir for you?” Lord Vincent asked, gaze turning even more predatory.

  Lucy inhaled sharply, fingers gathering over her breastbone. Surely Lord Vincent could surmise the reason they remained childless, even if he did not specifically know of Lucy’s miscarriages. It couldn’t be hard to guess that Sam needed and wanted heirs, despite his marital indiscretions with other men.

  Rather than appear incensed, Sam took a gulp of port, laughing into the glass as he drained it. “Blaine, I do know how to dab my arbor vitae with a woman. Unlike you, I suspect.”

  Lord Vincent laughed, the sound trapped somewhere between a wheeze and a girlish giggle. “Ah, but the fate of our realm doesn’t hang on my mighty arbor vitae, does it?” Lord Vincent cast Arend a sly glance, making his royal blood boil.

  Arend leaned forward in his chair, his royal fury only barely contained. “More than seven hundred years of an unbroken Tollemach dynasty are not about to see their end,” he pronounced. “I am solidly upon my throne, with my son the prince next in line, and the duke here”—he gestured toward Sam emphatically—“next thereafter.”

  “But sire,” Vincent reasoned in his oily way, “your son is newly married to another male. And while His Grace may yet successfully produce an heir—what if he does not? Then House Tollemach shall indeed prove imperiled.” The bastard inclined his head toward Lucy. “No disrespect intended, Your Grace.”

  “Of course,” Lucy said, her tone gracious even though anyone who knew her could see her true thoughts in her eyes.

  Arend let out a heavy breath. “My son, Prince Darius—”

  “Arend, you’re under no obligation to explain—” Sam butted in, but Arend held up a hand to silence him.

  “My son, Prince Darius,” he repeated, steely gaze fixed on Lord Vincent, “shall take a princess consort when he and Prince Garrick are ready.”

  “Of course, sire,” Lord Vincent said, feigning respect. “But that’s yet to be seen, and surely some distance in the future.” Before Arend could set the fellow down further, Blaine announced, “All this talk of succession is tiresome. Not suitable luncheon fodder at all. My apologies.”

  It was clear, however, that Blaine wasn’t remotely sorry. He never even glanced at Arend, instead turning to face Julian anew. “My lord, I remain aghast that a gentleman like you is unmarried. No plans for courtship here in the provinces, hmm?” The fribble smiled suggestively, a slow hot thing that speared Arend to the core. He gave a slight lunge toward Blaine—a move Alistair deftly thwarted with a gentle hand on Arend’s sleeve.

  After taking a settling breath, Arend spoke deliberately. “We must respect Lord Julian’s solitude and independence, Lord Vincent. Therefore, I suggest that you exercise care in this matter.”

  Blaine reared back in his seat as if slapped. “Your Highness, have you had a care with Lord Julian? I must make bold and say what we’re all surely thinking—that the gentleman’s interest is already thoroughly owned.”

  Owned. The word rang like a gong across the table. For a moment, not one of them spoke.

  Owned. Like a bed slave; like a sensual servant.

  Blaine must’ve seen the scandalized expression on Arend’s face, for he struck harder. “I daredn’t have imagined the rumors true, Your Majesty . . . but your reaction now does give one cause to believe so.” The man placed a hand over his mouth, feigning outraged shock.

  “Rumors?” Arend hated how choked his voice sounded, the betrayal of it. “Don’t leave it there. Speak plainly.”

  Colchester made a subtle gesture at his sibling, then nearly bowed in his seat. “Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness for my brother and his impolite speculations. There’ve been no rumors to speak of. None that I’ve—”

  “I heard you’d formed an attachment with a much younger man,” Lord Vincent interjected, ignoring his brother and everyone else at the table. “An unusually beautiful man,” he continued, voice simmering with velvet enthusiasm. “Exotic in appearance, delicate and masculine in equal measure.” Blaine turned to examine Julian.

  “Lord Vincent, you forget yourself,” Arend cautioned Blaine, his tone threatening.

  “Oh, pardons, Your Majesty,” Blaine replied, as though he hadn’t intended to say exactly what he’d said. “I meant nothing by it.” He smiled once more at Julian. “But one would hardly blame you for making such an attachment. Nor when Lord Julian shines like a diamond of the first water. No,”—Lord Vincent turned to Julian once more, flicking his gaze over those beautiful, dear features—“I daresay I’d not blame you at all.”

  “We are not attached,” Arend responded coldly. “I’m a decade on with my widowhood. That’s not changed.”

  Across the table, Alistair cleared his throat. Setting down his glass of wine, he addressed Lord Vincent. “You’re simply full of inquiries, my lord,” he observed sternly.

  Lord Vincent gave Alistair a smug look. “Ah, Mr. Finley, so you do speak. You’ve been such a web of silence throughout this luncheon.”

  “I could barely interject when you’ve kept the conversational flow under such command.” Alistair’s full face grew ruddy at once.

  Viscount Colchester shook his head ruefully. “My brother has a way with domination, sadly.”

  Samuel had been taking a sip of wine and sputtered. “Bloody hell, how can the words domination and sadly be employed in the same sentence?” His gaze raked the lordling. “Although, as it’s Lord Vincent Blaine we’re discussing, perhaps such a juxtaposition is warranted in this case.”

  Lord Vincent blanched, his expression souring. “As I recall, it wasn’t me we were discussing, but rather how such a fetching gentleman—compliments to you, Lord Julian—managed to land as particular favored guest of our king. I’m sure such a story would bear retelling.”

  Arend turned in his seat and faced that bastard. “And I seem to recall that you were told precisely why Lord Julian is my guest. Now let’s have no more of it.” Arend’s hard tone left no doubt as to his fury. But it also dangerously betrayed how close Blaine was to the truth.

  Vincent smiled. A slow, vile expression of knowing victory; Arend had explained too much, when—as king—he needn’t explain at all.

  Alistair apparently saw it, too, that gloating expression on Vincent’s face. “Arend. Don’t,” Fin cautioned. He gave Arend a sincere, pleading look. It wasn’t like Alistair to give a hand away like that, not be so obvious. And certainly not about Arend’s own secret affair.

  But then Alistair sighed, and all eyes turned to him.

  “Right,” he said as though to himself, looking down at the table. He made a great production of setting down his wine glass and smoothing his napkin alongside it. Only then did he look up and address the table. “Lord Julian does indeed have a suitor beneath the palace roof,” Alistair announced, “but it is not His Majesty.”

  Alistair tilted his chin upward, blushing furiously. “Lord Julian and I are . . . attached. I’d asked His Highness not to say anything on the matter, but”—he glanced at Jules—“there you have it. The courtship we wished to keep concealed, now known.”

  Arend could only gape at Alistair, but Sam broke off into peals of uproarious laughter. Pointing to the liquid in his glass,
he inquired, “Do tell me this is not absinthe I’m drinking in the middle of the day.” He grinned at Alistair. “Spinster Finley? Enthralled in a swoony courtship?” He emphasized the word swoony, making comical wavy motions with both hands.

  If it were possible, Alistair’s cheeks now turned even redder than they already were—positively crimson indeed. “Your Grace,” he murmured. “I’ve registered before, and on more than one occasion, my dislike for that particular appellation.”

  Sam cocked back in his chair. “Spinster Finley?”

  “That very one.” Alistair took a hungry draw from his wine glass, then added, “I am yet of a marrying age.”

  “Some might say.” Sam flashed a piratical grin. “What are you now, anyway? Nine and thirty robust years?” He thrust out his belly, patting it in mimicry of Alistair’s stout form.

  “Six and thirty, Your Grace,” Alistair corrected softly. Straightening, he reached for his wine anew, but his hand trembled about the glass, betraying his true distress. Why did Sam always have to take everything too far? Even in this, while he and Alistair were striving so hard to protect him?

  Julian touched Alistair’s arm, patting it with a doe-eyed look of adoration. “I’ve always been fond of a mature, well-built man. Plenty of gentlemen are.”

  Lord Vincent practically vibrated in his seat, his expression a mix of wonder and revulsion as he gawked at Alistair. “And here I imagined myself leaving all the best gossip back in Town. Mr. Finley, how very clever of you, striking such a . . . surprisingly good match. After years of observing you decorate ballroom shadows, I’d always assumed that port and champagne were the extent of your passions.” He surveyed the man’s generous frame. “Those, perhaps, along with your . . . epicurean pursuits, shall we call them?”

  The high flush on Alistair’s face deepened even more. Arend’s foster brother was at least twenty-one stone if not twenty-two. Although remarkably striking, Alistair was, nevertheless, unfashionably large.