by Cooper Davis
“I’m sure Julian would love that. Truly.” And then more confidently, his mind still swimming with their first official social invitation as a couple, he added, “Of course I’d be overjoyed, as well.”
The lord smiled, gaze unfocused. “Splendid. I can’t wait to tell Lord Ryder. He’ll be so ecstatic, he’ll likely set about penning a love sonnet for the very occasion. But not without me, of course.” The fellow’s grin turned impish.
“I didn’t realize you composed poetry, my lord.”
“Ryder and I keep it rather hushed. So, please, let it be our special secret, Your Majesty? If it’s not too forward of me to seek such a favor?”
“No, certainly not. But you’ve got me curious now. Perhaps my secretary would’ve read your work—he’s the avid aficionado of poetry between us. A particular fan of that bohemian poet, Lendriss Codex.”
The Marquess of Bournewood only smiled. “It’s been so lovely today, sire. Congratulations, and I do hope we shall receive a wedding invitation?”
“You must count on it,” Arend said, bidding his goodbyes to Bournewood.
And with that, Arend saw his clear path to the door. He nearly sprinted forward, as he couldn’t dart out of that rotunda—and to Julian’s side—fast enough.
Eyes on the royal carriage, he jostled down the steps and toward his carriage . . . and his future.
Of all the damned gentlemen whom Alistair had imagined himself face-to-face with today, he’d worked his damnedest not to picture this one. The Duke of Alsderry grinned at him and in a quietly-spoken brogue said, “Ye handled yerself quite well today, Mr. Finley. Ye serve His Majesty with much aplomb, I can see.” The duke gave a nod of unmitigated approval.
“Your Grace, thank you. So very much. Your support today was pivotal for His Highness.” Alistair bent into a quick bow, the second in these past few seconds. “We are all indebted, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Finley, addressing me simply as ‘Duke’ suits me perfectly well.” Alsderry clasped Alistair’s hand with the same quiet strength he used when he spoke. “It’s a pleasure to meet one about whom I’ve heard so verra much,” the duke said, his accent whiskey-rich and rasping. Nothing charmed Alistair quite like a rolling northern brogue.
That thought only got him blushing harder and thinking about this very duke’s fourth son. For bollocks’ sake. What had the duke meant when he said he’d heard a great deal about Alistair?
Alistair adjusted his spectacles, averting his gaze. “Your Grace, I daresay whatever you’ve likely heard of me,” he said primly, “pertains to my affinity for palace correspondence and ledger balances.”
The older man’s face spread into a warm, merry grin. “Och, ye’d be wrong on that count, sir.” And then the devil left it there! Right fucking there. With Alistair practically leaning forward and cupping his ear—desperate for the scantest hope about Lord Marcus.
Alistair couldn’t possibly fiddle with his spectacles another moment, so he carefully resettled them upon his long nose. “Uh, I appreciate—that is, to say, His Majesty appreciates—how boldly you came to his aid, during this recent Lords’ Council crisis.”
The duke nodded somberly, sliding his hands behind his back. “Aye, shabby business, that. I canna stand for that sort of thing, not where His Majesty is concerned. In that regard, he can rest assured of the Avenleigh clan’s fidelity and respect. Of the Alsderry dukedom’s allegiance, as well.”
The duke clasped Alistair by the shoulder and, leaning closer, whispered, “I’ve sons, Mr. Finley. Four unmarried sons. All of them bonny as the day is long, all of them eligible. Ye ken?” The fellow tilted his chin upward and made a great show of examining Alistair. Which only made the blossoming heat in his face spread down beneath his cravat. “But I’ve one lad who I think ye’d best meet. One son of mine, in particular.”
Alistair began stuttering and couldn’t even find his voice for a few moments, as all that came out was an amalgam of pointless sound.
Finally, he stammered, “Oh, I-I-I’m sure, no, Your Grace. No, No . . . I’m not, per se, in the uh . . . Not . . . I’m not—”
“Don’t ye favor gentlemen yerself, sir?” the duke asked, smile still broad enough, that the question was mere formality. Alsderry clearly already knew of Alistair’s inclinations. “Ye strike me as the sort who’d make the right gentleman a fine husband.”
Alistair nodded mutely.
Alsderry smiled, saying, “Ye’ve been shy long enough, Mr. Finley. So, the next time ye cross paths with my son? I hope ye’ll make yerself known to the lad.”
Alistair almost—nearly—found enough bravery to ask the duke, “And which son might that be?” but he was too afraid of the answer. Too afraid of revealing all the secrets, locked so tightly within his heart.
But what if it was one of the other Avenleighs? Perhaps Lord Ian?
Alistair had to be certain that he understood the duke properly. The gentleman bid his farewell, but Alistair caught his arm. “Your Grace,” he blurted, “I must ask . . . ”
“A papa will always keep his son’s secrets, Mr. Finley.” Pale blue eyes crinkled at the edges. “But ye’ve got a keen mind, that’s obvious. If ye doona ken the answer, ye will eventually.”
As the duke left, Alistair feared he might literally expire from the tight breath he’d been holding in his chest. It couldn’t be possible that Lord Marcus Avenleigh, of the beautiful auburn hair and the stunning smile had noticed him.
Could it? No, as fine a fellow as Alsderry was, surely it was only a political match he sought for his fourth son. No gentleman ever scratched at Alistair’s door, not unless they wanted access to Arend and the palace. He couldn’t fault the duke for spying an unmarried man like himself, attached to the king’s service.
But it did not mean that his breathtaking son had ever, possibly noticed Alistair. Unless perhaps he, like other handsome young gentlemen, had paused to gawk at Alistair’s unmissable size.
That was surely it. Thus, the next time Alistair glimpsed Lord Marcus across a crowded ballroom? He would do his level best, not to make himself known, but rather . . . to flee.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was late August, when they finally married. Julian’s summer days filled with giddy wedding plans, and parties, and cake tastings. And champagne tastings and fittings—so many fittings! “We’ll have three weeks on the continent,” Arend had reminded him, enjoying the tailor’s visit a bit too much. “It’s all the snug britches that old fellow keeps trussing you up in. I fear he may have designs upon my fiancé. Bravo, as I rather enjoy the unimpeded view of your fine arse.” Arend would then settle back in the chair, patiently sipping brandy and enjoying said view.
Arend could get all the eyeful of Jules’s arse that he wanted—whenever and however he wished. But it was clearly a game for the king, who had never seemed quite so youthful, nor carefree, as in these months leading up to the wedding. He loved playing the part of betrothed gentleman, whether doting on Julian with gifts, or lingering underfoot during fittings.
He even tagged along when Julian met with the modiste who was preparing his trousseau. Arend grinned wickedly as she measured Jules for special smallclothes. “Wedding night. Honeymoon,” Arend instructed that woman laconically, puffing on a cheroot. “Very sensual for my fiancé, please. Very.”
And even Jules had blushed at her Agadirian reply, as she’d snapped the measuring tape about his groin with a wink. Hopefully, Arend hadn’t translated her heavy dialect, as Jules wanted him surprised by what he found beneath Julian’s wedding britches tonight.
The long, hazy days heralded something else between Jules and Arend, something precious. A kind of quiet surety, where before, everything had been colored by uncertainty. And with that security, came something equally powerful.
The unleashing of Arend Tollemach’s true passion.
The man had become a wanton between the sheets, surrendering more of himself each time they made love. Arend relinquished hitherto hidden parts of h
imself, lost to anything but Julian’s love whenever they tumbled. But there remained just one thing that King Arend Tollemach had yet to surrender. One thing that would cement their bond more than any other. And it would happen tonight—their wedding night.
If Jules and his new husband could manage to survive the crush of the wedding ball. The entire celebration had been going on for eight hours now, with no end in sight. Julian had met so many people today, he was dizzied by it all. But just now, standing in the stuffy ballroom, he found an unexpected moment of solitude in the wedding crowd.
The ceremony had been a blur, and likewise the breakfast thereafter, all painted in an almost dreamlike quality that Julian still couldn’t quite believe real. He stared down now, at the proof, right upon his finger. The jewel-encrusted band that Arend had slid on his hand that morning sparkled, nested right about his simpler concubinary ring. Arend had given that to Jules the day after the Council session, having placed it inside a velvet box, along with the sealed betrothal edict. “I know that you’re to be my husband,” Arend promised, “but I wish you to wear a concubinary ring until August, when we marry.”
“Arend, I’d like to—well, always wear it. Along with my wedding ring. We fought to be seen, to be allowed even our concubinage. I think it should be honored.”
“And we fought hard enough for it, my love. Of course, you shall wear both rings.”
Those same rings glinted together now, at his own wedding celebration, gleaming beneath the chandeliers and tall candelabra that stood in every direction. It was dumbfounding that Julian, a man who’d once been sold into elevated whoredom, stood here today as prince consort to the King of the Western Provinces. He turned his hand, smiling ebulliently at the ring set.
It was real. Somehow Julian had found his fairytale, and with no less than the king he loved.
“Our marriage can’t be undone now,” Arend said, having stolen beside Jules while he studied the ring set. He pressed his lips to Julian’s cheek. “Although there is that pesky matter of consummation.” Arend laughed, the sound rumbling evocatively against Julian’s neck. “Perhaps this time we should keep the linens as proof,” he murmured, nibbling Julian’s ear, and pulling him deeper into the ballroom’s wings.
“If we aren’t cautious tonight,” Julian countered, “the proof will be in our overheard cries of pleasure. Just remember, sire: Not too loud,” he chided playfully, lowering his lashes in the way Arend found most alluring. “Not too loud.”
Arend’s own gaze became hooded. “I’ll be as loud as I bloody well please.”
“Tetchy, for a newlywed,” Julian countered, loving the high color on Arend’s cheeks. He always blushed when stirred, sometimes he even reddened down to his chest when they lay together.
“I’m tetchy for my lover. That the fellow likewise happens to be my new husband? That’s rather secondary to the urgency I presently feel.” Arend cleared his throat pointedly, widening his eyes. “It’s proving most hard to, ah, wait.”
It took every ounce of Julian’s willpower not to drop his gaze to Arend’s groin, to ogle the bulge he knew he’d find. His well-endowed husband could fill out a pair of trousers, even loose-fitting ones, with impressive speed.
“Come here, Jules.” Arend wrapped a loosened tendril of Julian’s hair about his fingertip, pulling just slightly enough to urge Julian nearer. “It’s my wedding night and I will scream my pleasure, if I wish.” And then, “And beg for yours, as well—very bloody loudly.”
Arend’s breath came in tight, hot puffs against Julian’s jaw. “I am impatient for the whole of it, from the moaning to the claiming. And especially for”—Arend drew a tight breath—“the surrendering.”
The last was added on a gasp, the word vibrating against Julian’s cheek. Arend unraveled the lock of Julian’s hair, letting it bounce against his cheek. He tugged it, watching it bounce anew. “Surrendering,” he murmured, “is what you’ve spent all these months tutoring me for. Is it not?”
“You little wanton,” Julian murmured approvingly, letting the words simmer in the narrow space between them. “I know how to handle you, Arend Tollemach. I’ll bring you into submission.” That? That cheeky flirtation was a risk, but Julian wagered it would prove lust-maddening for Arend.
And he’d gambled well: Arend nuzzled his cheek, a small shiver chasing down his spine. “I am fucking tired of waiting,” he practically moaned in Julian’s ear. “Whyever did Fin invite so many bloody people?” The sultry impatience sent a frisson of desire down Julian’s spine. Because he knew what Arend was tired of waiting for—and it wasn’t just making love.
It was how they were going to do so. It was the only wedding gift Arend had asked Julian for. That request had not been easy for the man, either. He’d taken a good hour to work up the nerve, Julian’s cherished fiancé. There’d been a private dinner in Arend’s apartment, a subsequent stroll out on the precipice that overlooked the ocean cliffs. Some hedging, some mumbling.
Finally, once they’d climbed down the brambly path to the beach, Arend turned to Jules, long hair whipping in the ocean breeze. “I’m ready.” It was all he said, his voice cracking over the words. He stood there, boots sinking a bit into soft sand and repeated, “I am ready. Do you understand?”
“I believe,” Julian whispered—and it was the hardest thing he’d ever said in his life—“that you must articulate your full intention. Tell me what you’re ready for, Arend.”
Arend had slowly shaken his head, pressing his eyes closed. “I can’t,” he’d said, the words nearly sobbed.
“Then you’re not ready.”
“Do not say that!” Arend rushed him then, seizing him by the shoulders and squeezing. “It took fucking everything for me to just . . . j-just bloody well ask.”
“You didn’t ask. You told me.” Julian smiled. Because that confidence had been the true signal that his fiancé was indeed ready. But it was crucial for Arend to take this final step of preparation and surrender.
“I wish you to . . . to claim me.” Arend pressed his eyes tightly closed and murmured, “Cordelia was right about me. About what I most longed for, all these years. But you were right, too, when you told me it didn’t matter if she had it right about me. About what I crave. Because, Julian”—grey eyes opened, fixing on him—“I desperately long to be buggered by you.”
That erotic agreement had been struck some three weeks ago, in wet sand and seafoam and joyous tears. The wait ever since? Through the long, sultry days of August leading up to this wedding? Downright interminable. So, it wasn’t hardly as if Julian could fault Arend for his desperation now.
“Perhaps I could abscond with you from here,” Arend suggested, sipping slyly from his champagne. “That waltz could obscure our escape: all those dancers are too busy sweeping about.”
“You must be patient.” Jules slid a hand to the small of Arend’s back. “Even though you don’t feel like it.”
Arend swept a hand about the room. “I’ve hardly been given five seconds with you all day.”
“You had longer than that at the bridal bower.”
“Barely. And I am ready,” he repeated, sounding every bit the entitled monarch that he was. Julian couldn’t stifle his laugh.
Arend’s expression tightened. “What is it?” Jules asked, alarmed. “If it’s turned out you’re not—”
“I’m a bit anxious,” Arend whispered in his ear. “But desperately ready. That has never changed.”
Julian reached for his husband’s hand, surprised to find it trembling. “I will be gentle,” Julian promised, as he’d done from the first.
“Maybe that’s not all I want. Gentle at first . . . yes.” Arend smiled slowly, staring out at the ballroom. He looked devilish handsome, surveying the gathered wedding guests, majestic in his finery.
Julian sidled closer to Arend, draping himself on his arm. “I will be everything you desire tonight, husband. Gentle, aggressive, slow. Hard.” He said this in low tones, ones only Arend could
possibly hear. Even so, he pressed lips to Arend’s ear when he added, “I’m going to bugger you senseless.”
Arend shivered, his pupils blowing wide with lust. “Bugger,” he whispered back, practically moaning as he did so. “That word. So dangerous on your tongue. I’m undone by it, always, that word.”
That word, that coarse one that had been so cheapening to Arend in his past, now titillated him like none other. To the point that, in these weeks leading up to the wedding night, he’d stop Jules in the hallway, beckoning him closer with a crooked finger.
“Say it,” Arend would growl. “Now.”
And Jules would always comply, pressing lips to Arend’s cheek. Letting the word flicker over his skin, hot and slow, like an incantation. “Buggerbuggerbugger.”
“Oh, God, yes,” Arend would grit out, muffling the aching words against Julian’s hair and cheek. “Why did we both insist upon the wedding night? I cannot bear this wait, Julian.”
“Anticipation,” Julian always reminded him, twirling out of his king’s grasp, whistling his way down the hall. After all, Jules’s first lesson at Sapphor had been, “To make a gentleman wait, is to fan a gentleman’s lust.”
“I think I despise you!” Arend called after him, one morning, laughing joyfully.
“Six days until the wedding!” Julian had sung back, hurrying off to meet with Alistair about last minute wedding considerations.
And now it was the awaited day, and Arend was eyeing him with royal petulance. “I still don’t see why we must tarry for hours.” With a sigh, Arend gestured about the ballroom. “They know what we’re meant to be about, every one of these guests.”
“We must wait until the appropriate hour, not only because you are king, and these are our guests, even if you’re pretending that doesn’t matter just now. And, Arend, because this moment is one to celebrate—not only is it our moment, but it’s for your people to celebrate you, their king, and your happiness.”