A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  This was it; the moment when Arend would trail kisses down Julian’s jaw, and capitulate. Well, darling, funny thing but the Lords Council invalidated their edict. It is no more.

  “Quite right!” Arend announced, pecking a kiss to Julian’s nose. He pushed up and immediately swung his feet to the floor. “Thank you for keeping me on task, darling.”

  “B-but—” Julian sputtered at the infuriating man, but Arend was already at the door, opening it to the hallway.

  “Oh!” The king cried approvingly. “Good staff, Samuel has. All the luggage has already been taken down to the carriage. We must move sharply, then.”

  Arend turned back to where Julian sat, watching him in disbelief. He’d not imagined his king such a devilish tease, nor so fierce when it came to a game like this one.

  “But . . . what?” Arend prompted, smiling with feigned innocence. “You’d begun asking me something, hadn’t you?” Then, when Julian narrowed his eyes at him, Arend laughed. “You did want something, after all.”

  “I want to know where the devil we are going!” Julian cried, not caring if he’d just lost the game. But in a more gracious, patient tone, he added, “Sire, if you please.”

  Arend gave him a slow smile. “We spent all the time when I might’ve informed you—doing other things.”

  “Y-you can’t possibly mean not to tell me,” Julian said irritably. “Where we are going?” Julian lowered his voice. “If there’s something happening, some news, or breakthrough. You seem so very happy.” The last came out more desperate and plaintive than Jules meant.

  This time Arend gave him a more sympathetic smile, the teasing gone. He strolled back to where Julian sat, “Love, for now I can only say that we return to the palace.” The words were quiet. “I have told none where we go, not even Sam. Only you. And only at this moment, when we have the advantage of a swift departure before news travels ahead of us somehow.”

  Julian wanted to ask dozens of questions: why the palace, why the secrecy. Why, why, why. But he was learning much about royal politics and maneuvers—and how to be the type of concubine a king needed. It cost him nearly every shred of his sanity, but Julian nodded dutifully. “I trust I shall learn more once we have embarked.”

  Arend smiled at him and stood. “Hope, my love,” he whispered. “Keep hope close.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Arend paced the length of his study, grateful to be home. They’d only returned yestereve, but he already felt so much more settled—more capable of standing down his foes. And here, too, he knew which staff members he could most rely upon: some for discretion, others for scheming. Under the watchful eyes at Ferndale, he’d never been able to relax, nor help Julian do so, not really. But back here at the palace, all the threats that had loomed so large at Samuel’s—if not neutralized—certainly seemed more manageable.

  Arend was in the seat of his power here, in the heart of the Royal Province, surrounded by devoted attendants and his family’s storied history. It had been the perfect setting for gathering their key supporters. The meeting earlier in the day had gone splendidly well, with nine powerful; lords in attendance, including three dukes and one blind marquess who couldn’t be any older than Arend’s own son.

  The only absentee had been a northern duke, one he’d been counting on because of his sway at Council—Lord Alsderry. He’d hesitated to mention the man’s absence to Alistair, not wanting to appear ungrateful for the support Fin had rallied on his behalf—and so quickly.

  Arend paced the carpet in front of his hearth. The room was masculine and intimate, infused with the scent of expensive cigars and aged brandy, overlaid with hints of lemon oil. This room had been his sire’s study before him, and his grandsire’s before that, on back up the line for God knew how many generations.

  But for this era, the King’s Private Study was Arend’s to enjoy, and Arend’s to defend, right along with the rest of his family’s birthright, from throne to holdings.

  Arend halted in front of the fireplace, bracing palms against the ornate mantle. His gaze fell upon the crest carved into it, that of the Tollemach family. Their history was everywhere in this palace—carved in, inked in, painted in. For so many centuries, they’d marked the place as their own. He wasn’t about to give any of his legacy up without a fight—no more than he’d relinquish Julian without a teeth-and-blood battle to the very end.

  Arend sensed Alistair’s behind him, felt a flicker of the man’s impatience—he’d been waiting Arend out. As close as they were, Arend remained king, and Alistair his royal secretary—and Fin, above all else, was a stickler for protocol. He knew Arend was thinking, and gathering his thoughts, about the meeting that had only ended an hour earlier.

  Alistair apparently shifted in his leather chair, as the thing creaked and complained as Fin shuffled his substantial weight. Then his foster brother-cum-secretary cleared his throat.

  “Oh, bollocks and hellfire, Fin. Just speak your mind,” he snapped, and propped a forearm on the mantle and faced Alistair. “Of all the people in my life, I can actually hear your silences. They weigh on me and nudge me in the ribs.”

  “Oh, how droll of you, Your Majesty.” Alistair gave him a vague smile. “Affirming my stoutness in so offhand a manner.”

  “Oh, how droll of you, Your Mightiness,” Arend countered. “Mocking your very own foster brother when he sits on such a fulcrum point.” Arend laughed, but it didn’t reach his heart, nor likely his eyes.

  Alistair rolled his eyes behind his tidy spectacles. “You could not have more ardent support than that cadre of peers today.”

  Alistair was right. It had been a glorious meeting earlier today. “So, you truly believe we’re ready for tomorrow, then? And that our supporters are equally ready? Do you honestly, Fin?”

  The questions came out breathless, but the thing of it was, if Alistair believed they were leading into tomorrow from a position of strength? Then Arend could bloody well bank on that opinion.

  Alistair nodded enthusiastically. “You saw them today—heard them. They’re scrapping for this fight.” His brother gave him a half-cocked grin. “I bet the lot of them won’t sleep tonight.”

  “You’re soused,” Arend observed, surprised the man had found the time in the past hour. Then again, this was Alistair—and Arend had long known his foster brother began imbibing on the sly by late morning. Sometimes, he suspected, even as early as breakfast. “Aren’t you soused, you devil?”

  “Join me! You’ve much to celebrate after today.” His foster brother’s lopsided grin grew broad enough to reveal his dimples, which almost never happened. “That meeting today was a resounding victory for you, Arend.” Fin rubbed his jaw, stubbled with late afternoon beard. “And not just politically, either.”

  “They did warm to the idea of Julian, didn’t they?” Arend beamed. It had been true, the gentlemen, from oldest to youngest, had declared it a grand idea for Arend to marry anew—even if it meant his claiming a husband. And when he’d spoken of Julian, they’d vowed unreserved support for the match, to a man.

  Alistair rumbled a warm laugh. “I half-expected the Marquess of Bournewood to swoon when you described Julian—and your marital aspirations.”

  “Well, he’s quite young.” Arend joined Alistair’s laughter. “And a newlywed himself. He even quoted a bit of love poetry to me. I . . . I hardly knew why.”

  Alistair’s midnight gaze lifted, sparkling with unmitigated joy. “You might consider him as your Councilor witness, when the edict goes forward for ratification in Council. Have Lord Bournewood, you know, be the first to affix his seal.” Alistair nodded to himself happily at the thought. Either the fellow was even more foxed than Arend had initially realized, or—

  “Are you a closet romantic, Fin?” he demanded of his ordinarily temperate, reserved advisor. “Was it all those waistcoat rippers, the ones Mrs. Teague used to steal for you? Did they . . . but no. This is a new aspect to my practical brother.”

  Arend retrieved a
quizzing glass from his desk and made a great show of examining Alistair. “And you are indeed he. Who makes my foster brother’s heart beat so?” Arend teased, even as Fin batted him away. “Who, pray tell, has stolen the stern secretary’s private affections?”

  Arend had pushed too far, he realized, when Alistair lunged out of the chair, snatching the quizzing glass out of his grasp. “You don’t need that bloody thing. You barely need the spectacles you wear, unlike me.” Alistair’s expression turned unreadable. “’Tis true; I’ve likely overindulged my enjoyment of your romance,” he said with a sniff, “but it hardly results from any dalliance of my own.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. I was simply remarking,” Arend said in an exaggerated tone of innocence. He flopped into the chair beside his brother. “Doona fash yerself, laddie,” he added, in his very best imitation of a northern brogue.

  Alistair jolted. “Wh-why’d you say it that way?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Arend asked, confused. “It’s obvious why, when the Duke of Alsderry—”

  Alistair made a strangled sound, then began coughing.

  “Are you quite all right, Fin?” Arend slid a hand to the man’s upper back, patting his shoulders solidly. “I was just teasing about Lord Alsderry’s absence today. I was merely surprised he didn’t attend when he’s one of the best men in Council, and one of my most zealous supporters. He keeps the north behind me, even if certain motions prove unpopular.”

  Alistair coughed again, even redder in the face. “Uh, might it be—Arend could you please pour me a few fingers of whiskey?”

  “Are you all right, man?” Arend repeated, gaze on Fin as he rose to pour his drink.

  “Um, quite.” Alistair nodded, gesturing at his throat, still sounding strangled. “Just a bit of something, caught.”

  Arend wasn’t sure what to make of Alistair’s reaction, nor the high blush on his cheeks. He pressed a highball into Fin’s grasp and, studying the fellow curiously, reclaimed his seat.

  Alistair wiped his lip of whiskey, then harrumphed a bit. “All to rights now. All to rights,” he said, with atypical cheer. “Now what was your concern regarding Alsderry again?”

  Way damned too much atypical cheer; this was Alistair, after all.

  Arend gaped at his brother for a moment, trying to riddle out his odd behavior. “About his absence today. It prickled at me since this morning, his not being here. I suppose I was trying to convince myself it didn’t sting, hence my terrible stab at a northern brogue.”

  “It was—convincing.” The blush on his brother’s cheeks somehow intensified even more. “But you needn’t worry about the duke. He is en route back to the royal province, sire. He was visiting the ducal seat but makes way to your side even now.”

  “Good people, the Avenleighs,” Arend said appreciatively. In response to the offhanded remark, Alistair turned positively beet-red; Arend exploded in frustration. “What? Honestly, you’re red as a cherry tart, Fin, so what the devil is it?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” Alistair fiddled with a loosened button on his waistcoat.

  “Some stain upon the Avenleigh family name I should know about?” Arend persisted.

  Alistair shook his head, draining his highball with a shaky gulp. “No, no. The Avenleighs are very fine people—I mean, apart from that one rumor. That untoward one about, ahem, Lord Marcus. The duke’s youngest son is a rake, of course.”

  “Of course.” Arend asked, more than said. He’d never even heard that balderdash about Lord Marcus until luncheon the other day. “Is it though? A matter of course that the son is a rake simply because he—”

  “He was found in a garden with a betrothed earl,” Alistair admonished archly, “who was not, in fact, betrothed to Lord Marcus himself. Poorly done of that lordling, kissing another man’s fiancé.” Alistair tsk-tsked his disapprobation.

  “That’s what is bothering you? The reputation of the Duke’s youngest son?” Arend bellowed in disbelief. “When you’re the one who called Lord Vincent out for even referring to those same rumors at luncheon?”

  “It seemed unfair, without the lad himself there to—”

  “Lord Marcus is that young? A mere lad?” Arend asked, growing even more confused. “But he was kissing someone’s beau. That earl on the path.”

  “From the garden,” Alistair corrected, “And, uh, no. Not that young, Lord Marcus. I misled. Young . . . ish, though. Youngish, yes.”

  Arend was starting to enjoy watching his painfully shy brother squirm a bit. Especially as the reason for his fluster was becoming obvious. “So not too-too young—as in too young”—Arend held a hand to about four feet of height—“this Lord Marcus, then?”

  “Fucking hell, Arend! He’s not a child. I just said, the gentleman is youngish. Ish, for God’s sake.” Alistair drew a breath, recomposing himself and then much more calmly said, “Lord Marcus Avenleigh is old enough. Old enough, though to—well—not go lurking about in shadowed gardens, doing rakish things.” Alistair appeared to be torn between jealousy and disapproval.

  “Pshaw! Who gives three figs about some earl in some garden?”

  “But Lord Marcus,” Alistair countered primly, “corrupted the Earl of Harcourt.”

  That gave Arend a proper laugh. “I daresay Harcourt was corrupted long before young Avenleigh happened along. Have you ever actually met the earl?”

  “I have not done.” Alistair all but growled the words. “Nor am I ever interested in doing so.”

  “Whyever should you disdain the fellow; he’s the poor victim in this scurrilous scheme of Lord Marcus’s.” Arend lowered his voice, muttering, “If one listens to your account.”

  “Arend, don’t bother trying to keep abreast of society gossip. You’ve never had the skill for it.”

  They both began laughing, leaning back in their chairs, and into the easy camaraderie of family. After a moment, Alistair asked, “But you’ve not told Julian the plan yet? About tomorrow and what we intend?”

  Arend shook his head and stared into his highball. “No. Because if our plan doesn’t succeed? Its failure would destroy him.” Arend shrugged bittersweetly. “I mean, even if he is able to . . . stay on. Here.” Arend made a circle with his fingertip, indicating the whole palace. “Our Julian is a dreamer, Fin. He believes he’s worth the best, and so he is. I wish to give him the very best of myself, and all that is mine. But we both live in the real world. It may not prove possible, and I cannot hurt Julian. Not if I can help it.”

  Alistair nodded thoughtfully. “No, of course not. He is so very dear.”

  Arend’s hands tightened, his need to protect his beloved that profound. “I’d rather wait until we know for sure—even if it means I’m only ever able to place a concubinary ring on his finger. That’s far better than promising a wedding band today that I can’t guarantee after tomorrow. I must be certain I can offer my hand in marriage to him, not merely my devotion to our concubinage. To him.”

  “I understand, Arend. I do. But are you certain it’s fair to keep him quite this uninformed? Julian didn’t look well at breakfast and talked overmuch—always a sign of his nervousness.” Alistair’s expression saddened. “He endeavored to speak to me of it, but I deflected and crisped my newspaper. He barely spoke a word after.”

  “What am I to tell the fellow? Hmm?” Arend asked. “Don’t you see how heartbroken he will be, if Council approves him as concubine, but not as my husband? Such an outcome will always feel second best, I’m sure of it.”

  Alistair nodded, considering. “But at least he’d always know you fought for him. He’d never doubt or wonder on that count, later, if things don’t go as you wish tomorrow.”

  The man had a fair point there; Julian would be happy just to be in his life, but it would surely take some sting out of remaining concubine if he knew that Arend had done his best to make him prince and husband.

  Arend stared over at the papers on his desk, thought of the important Council meeting, how much hung in the balance. “
Perhaps you’re correct, Alistair. I do have something special planned for him tonight anyway. Perhaps I shall mention the situation then.”

  “And now for my next dutiful question.” Alistair rose, blowing out a heavy breath as he stretched his big body. Strolling to the fire, he asked, “And are you ready for Prince Darius’s arrival.” Alistair studied him over his spectacle rims. “I know you’re nervous.”

  “My son shouldn’t feel pressure from me. The entire reason I approved his marriage to Garrick was to ensure his happiness—not apply unfair pressure about his marriage and life.”

  “But, Arend, you are in your present position because of Darius’s recent marriage,” Alistair said plainly. “Had he taken a wife, then . . . the Council hounds would not be on your scent now. They’d have no reason to be concerned about House Tollemach and the lineage, not if Darius had married a woman.”

  “I allowed Darius and Garrick’s union because I couldn’t deny my son the greatest wish of his heart,” Arend said, his chest tightening with memories of his own years of anger and sadness. “Not as I myself was denied at a similar age. And I shan’t force his hand in this matter, either. How Darius chooses to answer me about possible children—that shall be just that. His choice.”

  Alistair strode toward him, the floor creaking under his weighty steps. He clapped Arend’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Darius is your son. He loves you dearly, Arend. He would do anything for—”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  Alistair squeezed his shoulder again before letting go. “It shouldn’t. For all you know, the princes already plan on taking this step. At their own discretion.” Alistair smiled unexpectedly. “They are mere newlyweds yet, but I could see Darius as a father. He may find the suggestion not unwelcome at all.” And then, clearing his throat, Fin added, “Will you make an introduction, between Darius and Julian? This afternoon or . . . shall you wait? To another day, when things might be more, urm, leisurely.”