A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  “Need I?” Colchester caught Arend’s gaze and held it, unblinking. “We both recognize the proverbial elephant at this house party: that edict from your Council. Sire, every member of the chamber was gathered for its reading, prior to your receiving that writ.” Colchester held his gaze, unblinking. “Thus, my brother knows of the Council’s precise demands—and he’s been baiting you since his arrival. Baiting both you and Lord Julian, whom he clearly desires.”

  “You don’t trust your own brother.”

  “I don’t like my own brother, to be truthful, and I certainly don’t trust him. He’s a schemer and—unlike me—not the loyal monarchist we’d hope for.” Colchester sipped his wine, frowning. “I didn’t want him here this weekend, but he shoehorned in on my invitation. And if I’d resisted? He’d have concluded there was something to hide.”

  Arend stared into his port, thoughts swimming. “I spoke at luncheon of taking a wife. Surely that will gain me more time with the Council. I’ve been unable to speak with my son and his husband, but I’ve no plan for Prince Garrick to be . . . gelded. Nor for Prince Darius to take a princess consort, not when he’s newly—and happily—married to a man.”

  Colchester tapped the baize between them, gaze cast downward. Voice lowered, he said, “It’s not just my brother who plots against you.” The words came out in a rush. “This rebellion is led by none other than our own father, the Marquess of Wycombe.”

  “I’ve understood Lord Fallingham to be leading the charge,” Arend replied, shaken. “Is that untrue? Is it your own sire the architect of the plot?”

  The viscount gave a single nod. “My father,” he said, “believes he might hold claim to your throne.”

  “On what basis?”

  “He believes he’s uncovered a centuries-old familial connection, and given your son’s recent marriage to Prince Garrick, as well as your cousin’s lack of male issue, he has gained Fallingham’s support in his bid for your own throne, sire. They are merely buying time with the Council’s circular demands—by insisting that you marry a female, when frankly, your true inclinations are broadly known.”

  “Broadly known,” Arend repeated, his stomach roiling.

  “And that,” Colchester said solemnly, “is why you must forestall any rumor about Lord Julian.” The viscount lowered his voice even more. “Any scandal involving another male right now could, in all honesty, bring your reign to an end.”

  “I see.” Sitting there in Sam’s drawing room, so utterly unmasked, it was all Arend could manage.

  The viscount’s tone grew even more dire. “We have entered a dangerous season,” he said. “You must make the Council see that you safeguard your own realm—and that it is indeed your realm. I will stand by you in chambers, as will many other loyalists. But be wise, sire, for these mutineers are highly committed.”

  A chill overcame Arend at the ominous pronouncement. How many of his kingly ancestors had received similar cautions, throughout the storied centuries? He stared into his port, wishing he could scry for the future. But everything was uncertain now.

  It was a dangerous season indeed.

  Chapter Ten

  Arend remained on edge for the remainder of the evening, too aware of Lord Vincent’s movements—when the traitor left to engage in billiards upstairs, when he orbited near Julian. And, worst of all, whenever the arse engaged Arend in conversation.

  All the while, Viscount Colchester’s warnings echoed in Arend’s ears. Be wise, for these mutineers are highly committed.

  It was a wonder Arend could breathe at all, with Lord Vincent about, but finally the arse decided to retire for the evening. On his way out, he paused at the library’s doors. “You’re not to bed, as well, Lord Julian?” The man settled a too-familiar glance upon Julian.

  But Jules’s composure never wavered. He politely indicated his intention to keep at the piano with Lucy. Which Vincent answered with derisive comments about Alistair, and his having left Jules alone in such a neglectful fashion. “Whatever is Mr. Finley thinking? Retiring so early, and leaving you unaccompanied?”

  “Mr. Finley is his own gentleman, a quality I admire,” Julian pronounced, returning his attention to the music selections he and Lucy were fanning through.

  Fin’s early departure had nothing to do with neglect. Quite the contrary: it was motivated by devotion to them all. Arend only prayed his secretary had been quick, with his clandestine rummaging of Blaine’s rooms.

  “If you say, Lord Julian. If you say.” Blaine gave Julian a dubious smile.

  Arend wanted to slap that conceited expression right off the blighter’s face, but thankfully Blaine departed the library, freeing them all from his miserable company.

  Sam appeared notably disappointed when Colchester followed in his brother’s wake. He slumped in his chair, wordlessly reaching for the cheroot he and Arend were sharing.

  Arend nudged Sam’s boot with his own, a habit of theirs since boyhood. “Too bad the viscount chose to retire, as well.”

  Sam shrugged, his expression turning guarded. “Thomas has a way of tottering off to bed right when I’m getting into my altitudes. Generally, that is.”

  “And do you generally follow closely after?” Arend tapped Sam’s boot again, but was answered with a swift, dark-eyed scowl.

  “I don’t head to Bedfordshire with the fellow. Good God, Arend! That ripe imagination of yours has been permanently compromised by Temple Sapphor. Forever filled with images of comely lads dancing about bonfires, hand-in-glorious-hand.”

  “You make the place sound like a drunken bacchanal,” Arend replied. “I signed a contract, Sam. It wasn’t about virgin sacrifices.”

  “Not even your own?” The remark was chortled low under Sam’s breath, but Arend’s face burned all the same.

  “I’ve a son,” Arend said, shifting in his chair. “I can’t be a virgin.”

  “True, but you didn’t sire Prince Darius on another fellow. Although I’ve no doubt you would have, had you been able. Which makes it hardly surprising there were no further heirs—not even a spare.” Sam studied Arend significantly, his lips curling upward in a devilish smile. “You waited years for this, Arend.”

  “This?” Arend cocked an eyebrow, dreading what his cousin would blurt next, even as he couldn’t help egging him on. “Waited for what, Samuel?”

  “A proper manly deflowering, that’s bloody what. Finally spreading for another fellow.” Sam drew on his cigar, hollowing out his cheeks in bawdy mimicry of a very particular carnal act. And then the man raised a suggestive eyebrow, before blowing out a ring of smoke.

  Arend’s face turned scalding—especially when he caught Sam gaping at him perceptively. “Hmm,” his cousin drawled, taking another draw on the cigar. “Wicked Queen Cordelia never reddened your face like that. Good on you, cousin mine, for finally fanning your male lusts.” Sam leaned near, one side of his mouth lifting into a wicked smile. “I lent you that particular bedchamber quite intentionally,” Sam said. “Because the headboard is ideal for, urm, certain activities.”

  For the life of him, Arend couldn’t think what his far more experienced cousin meant. His naivete must’ve shown on his face. Sam began to chortle, and without lowering his voice, announced, “There are velvet cords in the drawer beside the bed. They lace quite nicely between the headboard slats.”

  “Bloody hell, Sam.” Arend whipped a cautious glance about the room. “Have you no shame?” Thank heavens the footmen were posted outside the closed library doors.

  “No, not particularly. Especially not considering all the rumors that surround Temple Sapphor.” Sam craned his head toward the piano. “Say, Lord Julian,” he called out sotto voce, “are there bonfires and sacrifices at Sapphor—either rarely or in the main? Particularly with naked male flesh on display beneath bright, pregnant moons?”

  Julian snorted his laughter, the most charmingly inelegant thing Arend had yet witnessed him do. “Your Grace, we were abed by ten each night,” he said, still laug
hing. “A bell would chime, signaling all of us to extinguish our candles and lanterns.”

  “Candles and lanterns, you say?” Sam’s expression turned ribald. “In other words, you roped the pony together every night, the lot of you?”

  Julian’s laughter intensified. “No, Your Grace, we upheld a strictish lifestyle.”

  Sam flung himself back into his chair. “How drearily disappointing.”

  Lucy leaned her cheek against Julian’s shoulder where they sat together on the bench. “Oh, Julian, you must understand. Sam’s been spinning yarns ever since learning of you. Dreaming up prattling notions about the world you’ve come from.”

  Sam rolled his eyes, flicking away the censure as he might a dust speck. “You can’t fault me my curiosity.” Then he turned back to Arend and quietly said, “Cousin, please tell me you indulged in a ménage or even a quadripartite of deflowering.”

  “No. But interesting that you should offer up the idea of ménage,” Arend replied quietly.

  “Hmm?” Samuel immediately set his expression in a mask of practiced ennui.

  “The viscount. Earlier, you referred to him as Thomas. That practically screams of fairy dust and midnight bacchanal, knowing what I do of you and your particular inclinations.”

  Sam’s gaze turned wistful, focused on the fire. “Thomas—Viscount Colchester, if you prefer—has been a very good friend to Luce and me. His wife is unwell, and I suppose he gets lonely here and there.”

  “You are, after all, the lonely man’s very best sort of friend.”

  “What a farrago of nonsense.” Samuel sputtered on his port, laughing. But after a moment, his expression turned melancholy again. “He’s not here that often, you know,” he said softly. “Not nearly enough.”

  That, Arend knew, was an outright admission.

  He would have quietly asked more, but Lucy called to them from across the room, ebullient. “Did you know that Julian has a beautiful operatic voice? Not just these fanciful pieces, but true opera.” She smiled up at Jules, eyes alight. “I coaxed the truth from him.”

  Samuel puffed on his cheroot, then flicked ashes into the porcelain tray between them. “Lucy is quite taken with your concubine. Bloody fabulous, isn’t it? My wife getting on so well with your almost-husband?”

  “He’s not my”—Arend huffed in his chair, resettling himself—“almost husband. Ours is a limited, short-term arrangement. I shan’t grasp for more.”

  “More the fool you, then.” Samuel craned his neck to look past Arend. Eyeing Julian, he made a little growling sound, a mixture of mischief and approval.

  Lucy called out exuberantly, “Jules is going to sing for us now, in earnest! An aria!”

  Jules looked inexplicably uncomfortable. “Your Grace, you’re being too kind. I’m not certain . . . ”

  But Lucy just clapped, bouncing a bit on the piano bench until the pearls in her coif bobbed daintily. “But, of course you must!” She turned, beaming at Arend. “Julian’s a tenor, which is always so very lovely.”

  Julian rose, and stood by the piano. For a moment, his eyes drifted shut, and then he began the aria—a downright holy experience of beauty and rarity. The words rushed over Arend like a love song. He drank in every note of the serenade, the sound crystalline, pure.

  Sam, who’d trained vocally in his youth, leaned near Arend. “Look at how well-placed his tongue is. How relaxed it is, there behind his teeth.”

  Arend nodded vaguely, unable to tear his gaze away from Julian, from the spell his lover was casting.

  Once finished, Jules stood by the piano, eyes shut—the room humming with the music he’d unfurled for them all. Nobody said a word, not for many long moments, as if even boisterous Sam feared breaking the enchantment.

  In that hushed moment, Arend knew one thing—knew it in his marrow. If Julian had ever sung for any potential patron whilst at Sapphor? Then he’d not be standing here today. His concubine would be snuggled beneath the downy comforter of some other king, in some other land. He’d certainly never have spent a decade on that bloody temple’s shelf.

  Because Julian’s voice vibrated with sensuality, even as it soared upon the wings of something wholly pure. And when he sang, his goodness—his beautiful heart and sumptuous sensuality—wrapped together into an aural caress.

  It was blatant.

  It was dangerous.

  And it had surely landed Julian in far, far more trouble than this moment, surrounded by those who meant him well.

  Arend clapped rousingly, as did Sam. Lucy grabbed his lover’s hands. “Jules! Oh, stars of heaven! Your voice is so beautiful! You must give us all a small concert at court.” She glanced quickly to Arend. “Surely, as His Majesty’s guest from abroad, there’s no reason not to—”

  “I don’t sing publicly.” Jules shook his head vigorously. “Not at this stage, uh, of my life.”

  “But you’ve sung publicly before? In Agadir?” Lucy asked, vibrant with enthusiasm.

  “It was very long ago, Your Grace.” Jules began sorting through Lucy’s music with shaky hands. What had happened in his lover’s past, something related to his singing?

  Jules could never perform at court, not for myriad reasons. Lucy, however, was sweetly oblivious, caught up in appreciating Julian’s talents. “Do you know any courtly tunes?” She played a few notes, beaming up at him.

  Julian grasped Lucy’s hand in his own, stilling her hand against the piano keys. “Your Grace, you are most kind,” he said. “But I’ve not sung, not with any dedication, for a long time. My vocal cords and ear are quite rusty after so long.”

  Lucy gave Jules a determined smile. “You should not hide—nor cower, Julian.”

  It was quietly said, but even from where Arend sat, he caught her import.

  Julian’s face flushed, and he bowed his head. “We all know there are greater concerns than my past musical aspirations.”

  Sam gave a bawdy laugh. “Namely your present conjugal aspirations? His Majesty does have the look of a de-virginized pup about him.”

  Arend’s face burned as if a match had been set to it. He tried to summon a retort, but all he could do was make a mortified choking sound.

  “Samuel!” Lucy chastised, appearing horrified, fingers frozen over the piano keys.

  Jules left Lucy’s side and strode toward them both, head held high. When he reached Sam’s chair, he gave a light bow and then faced Arend. “Shall we to bed, darling? My well-placed, skillfully-relaxed tongue wishes to do wicked things.”

  Arend all but choked on his port and Samuel gasped. Then began laughing in uproarious disbelief, clearly impressed. “Oh, but I do like this one, Arend. Perhaps you should marry him, in the end—even if he brings the Tollemach reign crashing to the ground.”

  Samuel gestured toward the empty chair beside them. “By all means, don’t rush to bed on my account. But first I must go and kiss my lovely wife.” Samuel rose to his feet and went to Lucy’s side at the piano. They spoke in whispers, and Sam nuzzled her exposed neck in obvious apology.

  Instead of taking the third chair by the fire, Jules said, “I’m off to bed, sire. I trust you’ll . . . find your own way?”

  Find his own way. Arend knew exactly what that temptation meant—the hidden passageway connecting his and Julian’s rooms. Arend had made a point of showing them to Julian earlier. Smiling wickedly, he said, “You go up first.”

  And as Jules brushed past Arend’s chair, he’d have sworn he heard him say, “We shall see who goes up first.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Julian’s heart was full and empty at the same time. When he’d walked down this same gallery earlier—seeking out Finley’s counsel—he’d been much more bereft. But since then, there had been no further incidents, and it was easy to believe there wasn’t a threat to Arend at all. Merely the pesky annoyance of Lord Vincent’s ongoing attention, but Jules could handle himself with the man.

  He paused before the very same portrait he’d examined earlier in the
afternoon—Arend’s ancestor. And as Jules studied the familiar features, anxiety blossomed within him anew. How could he possibly find a place—a lasting one—among House Tollemach? Here he stood, admiring a long gallery of kings—his lover’s own ancestors. Whilst Julian himself was a bed slave, not a nobleman. His family had been aristocratic, in his youth, but those days were mere dust and memory.

  Arend was king of a powerful realm. Whether the monarch was forced to marry or not, there could be no future place for Julian along this portrait gallery. Nor a place in Arend’s life. Julian wasn’t so much a daydreamer as to believe a whore could spend a lifetime with a king. No matter how badly his heart ached and yearned to be the one Arend would marry. Their concubinary papers had been specific: one year. No more.

  And where would Jules go after that twelve-month? Back to the temple? He glanced down the exquisite hallway, adorned with lush Agadirian rugs and Old Master paintings and blazing sconces. He didn’t need such opulence, never had, but returning to his ascetic lifestyle would feel foreign after his time at court. Lonely. Especially as the young pups who entered temple service would have nothing in common with Jules—far less now, than even a month earlier.

  No, Jules could never return to the temple, even if they’d have him. He was used goods now, and for that reason, the temple rarely provided second placements. Noblemen were quite particular and wouldn’t abide some other aristocrat’s tarnished doxy.

  Jules supposed that, when their concubinage ended, Arend might be kind enough to settle a sum upon him. But what did Jules even know of the world, beyond gilded walls and temple courtyards? It was impossible not to feel trepidation on so many fronts. And yet, it also felt impossibly right, being here with Arend and his family, as if Julian had never belonged anywhere until now.

  Julian smiled, staring at the portrait’s subject, imagining it was Arend himself. That’s when he noticed the placard beside the portrait: the subject was none other than King Arend the First. Jules stepped closer, curious, but froze when he heard footsteps behind him, muffled against the hallway carpet.