A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

“Lord Vincent, enough.” Oddly, those words did not issue forth from Arend’s own lips, but Sam’s. “It’s one thing for me to needle Finley, as it’s well-trod ground betwixt us. But I must take serious exception when any fellow’s drinking comes under critique.”

  Lord Vincent’s smarmy expression never faltered. “Mr. Finley, I meant no disrespect, merely to congratulate.” The lordling made an awed sound, nodding approvingly in Alistair’s direction. “Why the devil wouldn’t the pair of you want the courtship known? Here I was droning on to His Majesty about those pesky rumors, when—”

  “It was I,” Jules blurted, hand flying to the base of his throat as if to lower the pitch of his voice, which had turned unexpectedly delicate. “I—I didn’t wish to wind up in the scandal sheets, at least not yet.”

  Viscount Colchester nodded sympathetically, his freckled face breaking into a genuine smile. “Been a victim of them myself, a time or two,” he put in. “I can hardly blame you.”

  “But it’s always so delicious to find yourself in the sheets.” Emphasizing the last three words, Vincent trailed fingertips around the rim of his glass before looking up significantly. “It’s a badge of honor in my book. I suppose, however, that a tight-lipped fellow like Finley wouldn’t be so keen.”

  “No, his gallantry was truly all for me.” Julian smiled at Alistair anew, with utter beatific worship. “Thank you for being so chivalrous, but it seems our secret is out now, darling.”

  Darling. Darling? Bloody hell. Arend’s hands clenched possessively against his thighs.

  It was fine? Devil take it, but it was not fine for Alistair and Julian to feign an attachment when Julian belonged to Arend. Theirs was a formal concubinage, practically a marriage in some eyes.

  And it was alarming that Julian could prove such a formidable actor. In the past moments, Arend’s heart had done a desperate, fumbling two-step toward a terrible suspicion. If Julian was this skilled at feigning amorous interest, perhaps that’s exactly what he’d been doing with Arend from the first. As concubine, it was Julian’s task to make Arend feel cherished and handsome and pleased, to play the part of devoted lover as he was now doing with Alistair.

  Lord Vincent raised a glass to Alistair and then Julian. “Felicitations to you both. Shall we be hearing news of a more, urm, permanent attachment as we enter the late summer months? Perhaps a wedding on Winter’s Night? Wouldn’t that be glorious, the palace ablaze with holiday and matrimonial merriment?”

  Relief and gratitude rapidly giving way to darker emotions, Arend gave Alistair a mulish stare. “Yes, Finley, shall we hear of a more abiding attachment?”

  And damn his foster brother, but Fin only muttered something unintelligible and reached for his wine. Again. Never said another bloody word, the big sod.

  Julian made a sound of dismay, glancing at Arend sharply. “Your Majesty,” he endeavored, voice breathy and strained. “Quite premature, any such talk at this juncture.”

  “Good that,” Arend said, the words a strangled, vehement protest. “Because I’ve always believed it best to proceed cautiously when it comes to any lasting attachments. There’s much you never know of a fellow until he’s in your bed.” Arend harrumphed, satisfied with himself.

  Lord Vincent chuckled. “Interesting observation. Have you come by it experientially?”

  It was only then that Arend realized he’d all but designed a trap for himself and sprung it eagerly.

  Vincent studied him, face revealing little.

  Arend cleared his throat, taking a long, slow sip of wine to mask his panic. “I relate only what I’ve been told by gentlemen who prefer other males.”

  “But that wouldn’t be you,” Blaine said. “No, you claimed a queen in your youth, when even young princes experience the early flush of awakening male lust.”

  That was nearly verbatim what his own sire had said, when he’d forced Arend to break his betrothal to Prince Darien.

  The words hung so heavily over the table, they might as well have been a threat, a promise that Lord Vincent knew of Arend’s private inclinations. “I . . . saw my duty through as befit my station, as all kings are bred to do.”

  “Yet this is where I must admit some confusion, sire,” Vincent replied, “Now that you have been widowed some ten years past, rumors circulate about a beautiful man beneath your roof. One to whom you are thoroughly attached. Surely that can’t be . . . ” The lord’s gaze drifted to Julian, lingering overlong. “No, our beautiful Lord Julian is quite spoken for by your private secretary. Your own foster brother. I keep forgetting.”

  Vincent slid back his chair, crossing a leg over his knee. “Although, surely my lapsing memory is understandable,” he said, “given the disparity in their relative . . . physical virtues.”

  “You do indeed forget yourself, Lord Vincent,” the king growled, at the same time observing the mortified expression on Alistair’s face.

  It was there, fleeting, and then vanished, but Arend witnessed it all the same. He adjusted his spectacles deliberately, quietly addressing Sam. “Your Grace, I’m most grateful for a fine meal, but I fear I must excuse myself. I’m behind on palace correspondence, and with it mid-afternoon already, my royal duties beckon.”

  “By all means,” Sam said kindly. “But beware the towering ledgers, Finley fellow. We do wish to see you again after the dinner gong.”

  Alistair nodded, rising heavily to his feet, albeit a bit unsteadily thanks to the many glasses of port he’d imbibed, one after another. He gave Lucy a genteel bow. “Your Grace, many thank you for your eminent kindness and hospitality. You are the very embodiment of what nobility should be. It’s unfortunate “that not every peer comports themselves with such measure.”

  With that, Alistair turned on his boot heels and left the dining room. Julian followed him with his gaze, clearly unsure whether their supposed arrangement dictated that he literally follow the man.

  “So, Lord Julian,” Vincent trilled the moment Alistair had exited the room, “please tell me what a comely fellow like you is doing with . . . Finley.” He gave an expression of distaste.

  Sam cast Blaine a withering glance. “Mr. Finley has broad appeal, clearly.”

  “Broad indeed.” Lord Vincent tittered, waggling blond brows.

  “I speak sincerely, Blaine,” Sam corrected with surprising sharpness. “Over the years, he’s dispatched a long array of suitors from the palace gates.”

  Julian spoke up: “Mr. Finley is a beautiful, brilliant man,” he said. “Any gentleman would be fortunate to call him suitor and lover.”

  Lovaaair. That silky Agadirian accent made it worse for Arend. And it was alarming that Julian should prove such a formidable actor. If he was this skilled at feigning amorous interest, perhaps that was exactly what he’d been doing with Arend himself from the first.

  And that, in the end, was what finally sent Arend over the edge. He lifted his glass in a toast. “Lord Vincent is correct,” he said, the false cheer biting in his voice. “A Winter’s Night wedding is a capital idea.”

  “Here, here!” Vincent proclaimed in an oily tone, and lifted his glass, too. He inclined his head to Arend as if in actual honor and respect. “Shall we likewise hope for a new queen, then? A true palace wedding celebration?”

  Arend let his gaze fall on Julian, jealousy gripping him in its jaws. “Yes, Lord Vincent,” he heard himself saying, “I believe we might well find a new queen in my royal bedstead by summer’s end.”

  From the corner of Arend’s eye, he saw Lord Vincent clasp his hands together, murmuring, “Oh, this will prove delightful.”

  This, Arend knew, was going to be the furthest thing from delightful that he’d ever known.

  God help the lot of them.

  Chapter Six

  Jules hurried down the gallery hallway, heart in throat as he neared Mr. Finley’s rooms. The secretary was going to be aghast, no doubt, much like Jules himself. For surely Arend could not have meant to declare—in front of two lords and the Duke of
Mardford—his intention to remarry a female. To claim a new queen.

  Blinking back tears, he paused just beyond Finley’s door, and found himself facing what had to be a family portrait. The painting, quite old to judge by the frame and the style, depicted a man possessed of blue-grey eyes. Together with that widow’s peak and waving, black hair, it all seemed too utterly familiar to Julian. As did the man’s arrogance, which the gentleman’s portly grandeur only served to emphasize.

  Arend himself required no bolstering; he was apparently arrogant enough for three kings. And reckless enough for none. In the space of a single luncheon, he’d auctioned off his own happiness to the lowest bidder, and Julian’s right along with it.

  I believe we might well find a new queen in my royal bedstead by summer’s end.

  Julian winced. If only he could take back that moment, somehow head off Arend’s indefensible jealousy and prevent it from clouding the man’s judgment.

  . . . a new queen in my royal bedstead by summer’s end.

  That was a matter of mere months. It was June already. Mid-June. Pressing a gloved hand to his belly, Julian pretended that the Tollemach in the portrait before him was Arend himself. “Whyever must you be so jealous and stubborn? And so reckless?” he hissed brokenly. “You’ve cuckolded your future with that announcement . . . and been a careless fool with both our hearts.”

  Wiping his eyes, Julian turned on his heels, praying that Finley might somehow save them all.

  Because it was now painfully obvious that Arend held no intention of saving himself.

  Alistair stared at Julian, agog. Had the fellow taken leave of his senses? When he had heard the knock on his door, he’d assumed it to be the scullery maid. He’d certainly not expected Julian to dash into the room, swiftly shutting the door behind his back.

  “I wouldn’t be here,” Julian announced breathlessly, “were it not of utmost importance.”

  “But you can’t be here, not like this. Not unchaperoned. Not near my boudoir.” Alistair clasped Julian’s neck and began shuttling him toward the door.

  Which worked for all of a moment, until Julian dug in his heels and met Alistair’s flustered stare. “I had no other choice, sir.”

  Alistair re-finagled his grasp on Julian. “On the contrary,” he said, towing him along, “you might’ve sent a message by a footman. Arranged to meet in the library, with open doors aplenty. Or found me in the garden.” He pushed Julian by the nape. “Swiftly now, swiftly.” Just a few more feet to that door, and scandal would be averted.

  But Jules slipped from Alistair’s frantic grasp, dodging sideways. “Please, sir,” he demanded, “do cease hauling me about by the scruff as if I’m some naughty housecat.”

  Alistair paused. He supposed he’d been doing that very thing. Lifting palms in momentary surrender, he eyed the door, only too eager to see it close with Julian on the other side of it. Wordlessly he extended a hand, indicating that blessed portal as if by way of introduction.

  Julian disregarded the gesture wholly. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured, adjusting his morning coat and collar.

  If Julian could feign unawareness, so could Alistair, who chose to ignore the implication that he’d been too rough. He’d not been rough at all, merely purposed. He also ignored the somewhat wounded look in his new friend’s eyes. Scandal was scandal, and he’d be damned if he’d be forced to marry any man, much less his own foster brother’s beloved.

  Alistair plowed toward his desk, eagerly placing distance between them. “I presume you don’t actually intend to become my husband?” he asked starchily. “For if we’re discovered, Julian . . . bloody hell. There won’t be any choice to it.”

  He could hardly breathe. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. He’d over-imbibed at lunch and stayed at the bottle ever since, a decision he now rued as he sank weightily into his desk chair.

  Julian interpreted this as an invitation to approach. “But, Mr. Finley, it’s very—”

  Alistair held both palms out again. “Stop right there. We shall resume discussion downstairs, at an appropriate time and place.” He made a shooing motion, urging Julian to pivot.

  Naturally, the only thing the man did was stride closer—right up to the desk, where he stood gazing down resolutely into Alistair’s eyes. They stared at each other for several long moments, neither speaking, but arguing all the same. Finally, Alistair lifted an eyebrow, which ended the stand-off.

  “I shall leave, Mr. Finley, once we’ve discussed what transpired at luncheon.” Jules poked a gloved finger onto the top of Alistair’s ledger stack. Jabbed it, more like. “Only then.” Julian poked the stack again.

  When he did so a third time, Alistair glared up at him, and—without breaking eye contact—pushed the ledger-stack sideways. “To discuss what happened at luncheon?” he asked, incredulous. “That’s what this bumble-broth of yours is about?”

  Julian spread his hands. “Whyever else would I intrude upon you in this admittedly inappropriate fashion?” He shook his head, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. “Things escalated very swiftly. Disconcertingly so, Mr. Finley.”

  Suddenly Alistair understood. “Ah, that. Our dashing, whirlwind courtship.” He waved a hand. “Please, concern yourself about that no further. I’ll end our absurd ruse later today.” Feeling strangely overheated, he began blotting his forehead with a kerchief. “I’ll say you broke things off, after I prematurely revealed our suit,” he explained as Julian stood there listening. “Oh, I’ll mope a bit, and play the part of jilted suitor. But that will be that.” Alistair pushed his kerchief back into his jacket pocket, avoiding Julian’s gaze. “And, urm, Julian? My apologies. You never invited such an unflattering fabrication.”

  “Unflattering?” Julian repeated, expression becoming puzzled. “Unflattering how?”

  Folding his fingers into a temple, Alistair studied Julian. “There’s a reason I’m a confirmed spinster, as Samuel Tollemach likes to deem me,” he said plainly. “And a reason why Lord Vincent was skeptical about our attachment.” Alistair touched his thick midriff, emphasizing the point. “At least he shan’t doubt your eagerness to end our ‘courtship’.” He laughed darkly, adjusting his spectacles. “So, you see, my portliness does have its benefits.”

  Julian studied his face. “You’re wrong. About a great many things.”

  “Perhaps, but not so in this. Lord Vincent was fully skeptical about our purported attachment. And with good reason.” Alistair began straightening papers and those pesky, teetering ledger stacks. “Now please, face-about and leave, Julian. All right, then? Thank you.” Alistair refused to glance up again; he kept at those stacks and papers. Only after a moment did he realize that Julian had not moved. He raised a frustrated glance. “You’re still here.”

  Julian stared back at him, his jaw set. “I shan’t do as bidden, nor fall into line like an obedient hunting hound. Nor shall I allow you to . . . to dismiss yourself this way!” He thought for a moment. “Although we’ll have to debate your many merits later. Right now, Alistair, you are going to hear me out.” Julian drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d forgotten to inhale.

  “I believe we’ve already discussed the indecorous use of my given name,” Alistair cautioned, his very tone a reprimand.

  “Until I have your attention, I’ll continue with your given name . . . Alistair.”

  “Bollocks and hell.” With that, Alistair reached for a highball he’d kept concealed on the desk, amid his pens and seals and inkwells. Tilting it back, he drained the thing dry. “I might as well call you Jules, while we’re at it.” He said the name as if he’d just bitten into a too-tart lemon pastry.

  Julian planted a triumphant hand on his hip. “I dearly wish that you would.”

  Alistair harrumphed. “You’re clearly unacquainted with sarcasm.” He reached for the decanter behind him, pouring himself three fingers. “Nor desperation.”

  “Well, ours is a desperate situation of—”

  Al
istair was just enough in his altitudes that he didn’t allow Julian to finish. “Desperate situation, you say? You alone with me, one room away from my boudoir?” He waved dramatically toward the open door. Julian’s gaze tracked to the prominent bedstead, covered in ornate silks and damask pillows that seemed designed for seduction.

  Julian slowly pivoted his gaze back to Alistair. “It’s not as if I mean to lure you upon that mattress.”

  “No, I’d imagine not, spinster that I am.” A hot flush of mortification began beneath Alistair’s starched collar. He rose, stepping around his desk.

  Julian made an exasperated sound. “You are not a . . . a spinster,” he said scornfully. “Why, just look at you! You’re only six and thirty, still quite eligible.”

  Perhaps it was all the imbibing, but Alistair suddenly felt heady, muddled. “I don’t intend to marry, Julian. Ever. And were you discovered here, I’d be forced to do that very thing. I can’t imagine tying you to me, not when you love another.”

  Julian’s mouth fell open for just a moment. “I don’t . . .”

  “Oh, of course you do. And I’ve no wish to find us scandalized into an unwanted marriage when your heart belongs to our king.” Then, hoping Julian would finally cooperate, announced, “Please do be circumspect as you step into the hall. I’ll just have a glance first.”

  “You’ve not been listening to me, sir.” Julian caught Alistair’s hand and glanced up beseechingly. His golden-green eyes—such a rare color—swam with unshed tears. “You do not grasp just how much more has transpired. If you’ll not converse with me here, then we must meet elsewhere. There’s a garden with a box hedge maze.”

  More had transpired? Throughout this interaction, Alistair had assumed that Julian was upset about their counterfeit courtship. Now it seemed that he’d been more foxed than he thought, if he’d overlooked a potentially greater concern.

  Withdrawing his pocket watch, he popped it open. It was half two. “The maze at three p.m., then.” He searched Julian’s face, now fretful that something truly dire was afoot. “Julian,” he asked, “Just how concerned should I be?”