A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  “Wait until I know if Jules is to be my husband, you mean?” Arend shook his head. “I’m not sure. It makes me anxious enough to discuss children with my son, and what that might entail for his marriage. To also introduce Darius to my lover on the same day? To my secret concubine who also just so happens to be only eight years older than Darius? I prefer to postpone that inevitability, if you please.”

  “You make it sound so fraught. It needn’t be an ordeal.”

  Arend shook his head. “I fear Darius will find it scandalous. That I’ve fallen in love with a man barely older than his own husband. You do know that, yes? That Julian’s but two years older than my son-in-law? It’s all a bit . . . unseemly.”

  “Arend.” The tone was sharp enough to silence objection; gentle enough to be spoken in love. Alistair squatted down beside his chair. “You sired Darius when you were but twenty years of age. Quite youngish—younger than Lord Marcus, even.”

  “You made a joke. How lovely.” Arend shook his head, yet the anxiety didn’t abate. “But that does not change how much older I am than Julian. Nearly twelve years—did you know that?”

  “Your own sire was quite a bit older than your mother. Some two decades, as I recall.”

  “Well? You see how that worked out, don’t you? They’re both dead,” Arend shot back and Alistair chuckled that raspy laugh of his.

  Alistair put one knee on the floor, so that he half-knelt beside Arend. He recognized what his foster brother was doing—he’d always been so good about it. He was allowing Arend to feel his physical proximity, crowding into his space a bit, so that Arend would know that he—a king who was so often solitary—was not alone. At least not in this one thing, he was not alone at all.

  Alistair tapped his open palm on the arm of Arend’s chair. Something would be said: this was Alistair gearing up for one of his talks. “Prince Darius will adore Jules. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Ah, see, I knew something was coming from your quarter, just not what. It’s to be a discourse on how very smashingly my son and my lover shall get on.”

  Alistair didn’t even bother acknowledging that. “Everyone loves Julian,” he continued, “much as everyone loves Darius. They are two of a kind, each possessing such sweetness and humor. Both equally talented, in their own rights. They’ll likely become fastest friends within the space of a tea serving.”

  And there was the actual issue, at its very quick. “Which is why, perhaps,” Arend said, “the thought of introducing those two scares the bloody shite out of me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Marriage agrees with my handsome son,” Arend said, kissing the prince on each cheek. “I’ve not seen you since you returned from the honeymoon.”

  “We’ve stuck rather close to home, Papa.”

  Alistair rose and embraced his foster nephew. “That’s what honeymoons are about, Arend. They don’t just end with the grand tour.”

  Darius shyly brushed a hand through his shoulder-length hair. Although he’d inherited Arend’s raven black hair, he was ivory where Arend was olive-skinned, and pixie-like and reedy where Arend was rangy. The beautiful prince had drawn such an endless stream of would-be suitors to the palace gates, Arend had nearly expired from parental courtship fatigue.

  And then Mr. Garrick Spencer-Helms had scratched at those same gates. And he was different. And Darius’s reaction to the maverick industrialist had been different, too. Their courtship had been a whirlwind about Town at the opera and balls, evolving into one of the truest love matches Arend had ever witnessed.

  “And how’s Prince Garrick?” Alistair asked, depositing a glass of sherry on the table beside where Darius had settled in front of the fire.

  “Oh! Thank you, Uncle!” Darius craned up at Alistair, beaming affectionately. “You look so handsome—are those new spectacles? Or, no—no!” The prince sat upright in his chair. “It’s the style of your hair. Longer, by just enough to make you even more piratical and dashing.”

  Alistair chuckled, cutting his eyes at Arend. “And what did I say about fastest friends. Does he not remind you of someone, Arend?”

  “Oh, Papa’s new beau? Is that whom?” Darius glanced between them excitedly. At the same moment, Arend and Alistair’s respective jaws went wholly slack.

  Arend began a sputtering cacophony not unlike when Mrs. Teague had her winter ague. Alistair looked in every direction but at his foster nephew.

  “Oh, please, gentlemen”—Darius began unfastening his boots—“you don’t mind if I go stocking-footed here in front of the hearth?” It was Julian’s favorite thing to do, even when not quite appropriate. Alistair shot him another smug, all-knowing glance.

  “What are you two henpecks talking about with all those silent glances?” Darius demanded, wiggling his unshod feet in front of the fire. “Gads, but it was chilly on the carriage ride over. That spring breeze off the ocean is bitter today.” He wiggled the toes again, and then kicked his boots toward the fire, ostensibly to warm them.

  “Now, then. We were discussing Papa’s beau—or is the fellow a courtesan? There’s conflicting speculation on that count, below stairs at home.”

  “It’s being spoken of downstairs at Larkham House,” Arend repeated numbly.

  Darius nodded. “I’ve done my best to subtly dig. My valet has been moderately useful, but all he yielded was that ‘His Majesty is rumored to have a fancy gentleman in his bed.’” Darius made his voice sound snobbish and wheezing. “That’s where the confusion struck Garrick and myself. Did ‘fancy gentleman’ mean . . . what it might be? Or was the object of my sire’s affection simply fancy. As in, well-heeled and given to fancy clothing?”

  “Confusing, indeed,” Arend replied.

  “But Garrick—well, he’s got a better way below stairs than I do. I don’t understand it, either. I’m forever levying bribes and complimenting biscuits or cakes or a well-dusted harpsichord—because, no, Papa, I still don’t play often, no matter how much you’ve lamented those wasted lessons of mine.”

  When Alistair cast him a curious glance, Arend shrugged. “I had to find one arena for predictable parental disapproval.”

  Darius ignored this, too, still chattering eagerly. “Yes, it’s not fair, is it? That darling Garrick should be quite that beloved below stairs when the staff persist in being—how can they be intimidated by me?” He flicked a glance between Alistair and Arend, but apparently wasn’t placated. “Something to do with Garrick being in trade and not raised a prince. Bah!”

  Darius waved his hands about, appearing put-upon. “Everyone talks to Garrick so easily—although that’s hardly a complaint. It’s why I fell so desperately in love with him, from the first.” The shy heat returned to Darius’s cheeks anew, and he fell quiet suddenly. He stared into the fire, then asked, “Papa, who is he? Are the rumors even partially true? I’ve so wanted to believe you found someone to love, as I love Garrick.”

  Alistair made to leave and Arend gawped back at him, panicked at how ill-prepared he was for this conversation. Alistair never met his gaze, stepping toward the door. “I fear I must excuse myself, Your Highnesses. I’ve preparations to make for tomorrow’s Council meeting,” Alistair said and whisked out into the hallway, leaving Arend and Darius alone.

  And leaving Arend with the difficult request he needed to make of his only son.

  “So, now that Uncle Alistair is gone, shall you tell me more of this new beau?” Darius resumed, patting the chair beside him.

  “Uh, Darius?” Arend began, drawing the chair up next to the prince. “Much as I intend for you to learn all about the gentleman in question, first we must discuss another matter. Quite an urgent one, I’m afraid.” He took a strengthening breath and blurted, “You see, son, the Lords’ Council has issued an edict against me. I am in dire need of your assistance—or at very least, your consideration.”

  “Your own Lords Council?” Darius’s expression grew concerned, his black brows winging together. “I would do anything fo
r you, Papa. You accepted my marriage to Garrick, when so many other fathers would not have done. You’ve allowed me true happiness. Tell me only how I can help?”

  Arend stared across the room, stealing his nerve. He’d given all in his power to ensure that Darius could live a life on his own terms, free of royal obligation. Was it fair to broach such a topic, even if it meant continuing the lineage—and securing Arend’s throne? Even as it further meant Arend having a husband of his own?

  He thought of Alistair’s words. That Darius owed his marriage to Garrick, and their shared happiness, to Arend, and his approval of the union.

  “Darius,” he began, leaning nearer his son. “What are your thoughts on the matter of, uh, children? The sort . . . the sort you’d sire. Not, urm, adopt.”

  “With a princess consort, you mean?” Darius asked him easily. “Is that what you’re hoping I’ll consider?”

  Arend stared for a moment, speechless. He’d expected revulsion, mild horror given his son’s profound inclinations toward men.

  “Not adopted, Papa?” Darius prompted after a moment of Arend’s stupefied silence. “But sired by me, legitimately?”

  “Yes, with a princess consort, one who would be attached to both you and Garrick by a special edict handed down from my Council. Not quite a marriage, but enough like one that any children you sire would be your legitimate heirs.”

  “Right-o,” Darius said, reaching to take Arend’s hand in his own. “Honestly, I’d been meaning to speak to you about the topic anyway.” He squeezed Arend’s hand. “Garrick and I do want children. And not just one heir. Several children.”

  “You—you’re not against taking a princess consort?”

  “Oh, not at all! We’ve planned on it.” Darius squeezed his hand once more, then released it. He took a slow sip of his drink, licking his upper lip when he finished. “Garrick has been somewhat adamant that we not wait overlong. He’s from that large family, of course. With just so many brothers and all those sisters. Too many, really, but that’s another topic.” Darius waved his delicate hand in a shooing motion. “Suffice it to say, those same sisters have it in mind to be aunts, can you fathom it? Aunts of mine and Garrick’s children.” Darius shook his head. And they’re madly impatient about it, no less.

  “Sounds lovely to me,” Arend said, shocked to find his eyes suddenly burning. “I would love to be a grandpapa.”

  Darius turned to face Arend full-on. “Well, it’s not fair to you, of course. You’re much too young to be a grandpapa. You’re barely older than Garrick!”

  At this, Arend finally burst out laughing. “Did Alistair warn you I was feeling touchy about my age?”

  Darius leaned much closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Is it true that your new lover is younger than me?” Only when the prince’s large smile spread, revealing his white, even teeth, did Arend realize Darius was teasing him.

  “You’re barely dodging the truth. You do realize that, yes?”

  Darius chuckled, and when Arend thought he might be in the clear, said, “Uncle Alistair did tell me he’s your concubine. And likely to be your husband.”

  “That bloody devil! He acted like you had no idea what was afoot.” Arend poked his son’s chest. “You pretended not to know. When did he even get the chance?”

  Darius leaned back and sipped his libation. “I arrived more than an hour ago. We had champagne in Uncle’s apartments. It’s why I was a bit late.”

  “And why Fin was more than a bit soused.” He stared at Darius’s castoff boots, warming by the fire. “Your feet were cold from travel.”

  “No, from Uncle Alistair’s chilly apartments. He keeps it so drafty in there. He’s so hearty and big, he prefers his balcony doors open.” Darius shivered dramatically to illustrate. “No matter how chilly the ocean breeze is.”

  “I hope you had a nice long chat about everything,” Arend said, piqued at Alistair for not mentioning the conversation. Although, he couldn’t fault his brother for seeking to protect him, nor for loving Darius as dearly as he did. “Fin’s always so merry when you visit, you know.”

  Darius beamed. “We must marry him off. But, I do want to make sure you understand. Uncle didn’t mention about the children and heirs—he left that part to you, Papa.” Then, smiling, he said, “I don’t think he meant to mention your Julian, either. He just couldn’t contain his joy about it all. About how happy you’ve become.”

  Groaning, Arend buried his face in both palms, torn between embarrassment and relief.

  “Shall you tell me about your concubine? How you fell in love with your Julian?” Darius pried at Arend’s fingertips, peeling them back from Arend’s eyes. “Or would you prefer me to list—in alphabetical order—all ten potential names Garrick and I have chosen for our children?”

  He seized his son’s hand in his own, kissing the palm. “You are such a good son. I love you, Darius. Thank you for loving me.”

  “But of course. How could I not? This whole realm loves you—and they will not turn their back on you. None of us will.”

  Arend’s heart took wing; it lifted high and higher, until it flew out over his vast holdings, across the provinces over which he ruled. And it spread in every direction, covering the royal provinces with but one thing—hope.

  “Rather than telling you about Julian,” Arend said, “I have a better idea.”

  Julian sat with his sketching pad and charcoals, staring out over the terraced gardens that overlooked the ocean. Fog had begun crawling in, off the water and up the rocky hillside cliff. He wouldn’t have too long left for drawing. Somewhat irritably, Mallon—the footman who liked him least—had warned Jules that he wouldn’t be able to see ten feet ahead of him in another quarter hour. Thus, Jules had worked quickly, determined to render as much of the gardens as possible. It was important that he have that drawing, a memory to keep.

  Jules wasn’t naive; now that Arend had returned to the palace, events would move rapidly with his Council. No matter how confident and hopeful Arend seemed—such a sparkle in his grey eyes, so much bounce in his steps—anything could spell the end for Julian.

  At Sapphor, Jules had learned about the harsh realities of life as a companion. Including, what to expect when a placement ended. “Do not expect a drawn-out departure,” his handler had taught him. “Often, a bed servant is simply packed up and sent on their way without a final visit from their master.”

  Jules couldn’t imagine Arend being so callous, nor unfeeling, but Jules did realize that his fate would soon be decided. Within days, surely, if not even hours. He could barely breathe through the anxiety of not knowing when he so desperately wished to remain in Arend’s life.

  You must temper your expectations. You know that this is real life, not a fairy tale.

  But Arend had urged him to believe, to hope, and he’d not have encouraged such faith without cause. He must surely believe he could win in Council Chambers. But that same Council had the power to send Julian away forever.

  He frowned, vexed as he watched roses and statuary melting into the fog, vanishing as if swallowed.

  What if the Council swallows me? I will vanish, like the beauty before me, and become equally unreal to Arend. A mist, a memory.

  He had to swipe tears away from his eyes. Resigned at the deteriorating weather conditions, he closed his sketch book. Reaching down to gather his artist’s box, he caught the distant notes of laughter and then, “Ah! There he is!”

  Julian turned on the bench and found Arend and a younger man, emerging out of the dense fog. Swiftly, he rose to his feet, smoothing out his frock coat.

  The young man beside Arend wore a dramatic cape, in fine red wool, trimmed in fur. He was like a piece of fine-boned china, with his black hair and ivory skin. But that wasn’t what struck Julian the most. It was how proud Arend looked, as he glanced at him, his eyes alight with love.

  “Prince Darius!” Julian exclaimed, rushing forward. He had both hands out, ready to clasp the prince�
��s hands when it occurred to him—rather belatedly—that this was a prince of the realm! He dropped into a swift bow.

  “Julian, no need,” Arend said softly, touching his shoulder. “My son is eager to meet you. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bow to you.”

  “And I shall,” Darius said giddily, “lest you allow me to embrace you, sir.”

  Julian laughed, unprepared for the young prince’s warmth and exuberance. He rushed at Jules, then pecked him first on one cheek, then the other. “Thank you,” Prince Darius said, low enough that Arend wouldn’t hear. “Papa’s so happy.” And then, much louder: “He wouldn’t tell me even a bit about you, you must know. Was determined, instead, that we meet. But”—the prince shivered, tucking his cape closer about him—“surely we can find our way to someplace warmer.”

  No wonder the prince was chilled, given his slight, waifish build. He was willowy, and quite shorter than Arend, and had a fey aspect to him, with those huge eyes and a wide smile that never seemed to vanish. He was the kind of beautiful man who would’ve been top shelf at Sapphor, but he was a true diamond of the first water, not a manufactured one.

  Julian noticed how Arend kept watching his son, with his gaze occasionally darting back to Jules. And it was obvious, in those glances, that Arend wasn’t just proud of Darius; he was equally proud of Julian.

  Jules blinked, realizing he’d not kept apace with Darius’s rapid, excited chatter. “ . . . my husband, Prince Garrick, thinks me daft because I’m always so cold,” Darius said lightly. “But he’s from the northern provinces—the moors and such—and what would he know about being from the south?” Darius gestured at a row of palms, nestled within a hedgerow. “Where our climate is so uncertain, it’s like a lad dizzied by courtship, forever changing its mind.”