A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  Arend gave him a delicious smile. “And how well-suited my new prince and I are. That, too, my beautiful husband.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Julian’s nape. The word ‘husband’ on Arend’s lip, uttered so easily, stirred Jules. “I daresay you’re . . . proud of me.”

  “I’ve never been prouder of any person—more humbled to call them my very own—than I am of you, at this moment, my love.”

  Julian leaned in closer, and whispered, “I do have plans for you on the marital bed.”

  Arend always became titillated whenever Jules flexed his sensual control, and now was no exception. He watched his husband swallow hard, several times, as his grasp on the champagne flute tightened. “Once I’m free from this prison of spectators? I will submit to whatever seduction you intend for me. For us.” And then, rumbling and low. “Quite loudly, I’m sure of it.”

  Alistair simply could not endure anymore wedding merriment. He’d been too on edge, knowing that the Duke of Alsderry was in attendance, along with his son Lord Marcus. He’d spent the day studiously avoiding both gentlemen. But, after decorating the wings of the ballroom, anxiously searching for Lord Marcus—to avoid him, naturally—Alistair had fled for the library.

  He’d only seen that auburn head once, from the far side of the grand ballroom. Even then, Alistair had moved behind a large fern, doing his level best to vanish. Arend’s wedding fete this might be, but it didn’t alleviate Alistair’s natural reserve. Especially with that gentleman in attendance.

  Thus, Alistair had withdrawn to the library, retreating to the upper gallery. Here, ensconced amid leather and vellum, afield from dalliance and courtly intrigue, he was always most himself. For literature was the bastard’s paramour—both common and noble alike. Here, acceptance was writ large upon the dusty pages, the fairytales. Dear Julian’s fairytales, the ones that took Alistair to fanciful places where even a portly by-blow could find his happily-ever-after.

  Settling in a damask chair, he pressed palms against his temples, against the throbbing, relentless tempo of his pulse, one that matched the waltzes and fine music down the hallway. He stared at the book he’d opened upon his lap, but no matter how he adjusted his spectacles, the words were a blur.

  He slammed the volume shut and was drunkenly considering hurling it across the room when a husky, arrogant voice interrupted his dark musings. “You devil.” Samuel Tollemach gaped down at him, swiping a raven lock off his brow. “This is the best you can manage, Finley, when lads aplenty—society fellows, no less—teem mere rooms away? Hmm?”

  Sam’s gaze moved to the volume, crushed in Alistair’s hand. Gently, Sam pried it out of his grasp, examining the spine. With a sniff, he dismissively tossed it on the nearest map table. “Come now, Finley. You don’t need that, not today. Nothing says ‘dance with me’ quite like someone else’s wedding day. Let’s get those rear admiral boots of yours marching back downstairs to the ballroom.” Sam whistled lightly, extending a hand. “There are blokes for you to spin in heady waltzes. Fellows who, even now, adorn the ballroom wings, hoping for sight of you.”

  Alistair’s eyes slid shut. “Please find some other pastime than badgering me. On this day, of all days, I plead with you.” He was too near some invisible breaking point he’d not known existed hitherto. But watching his brother marry—to such a fine gentleman—Alistair had finally resigned himself to true spinsterhood. “Not this day, Samuel, please.”

  His cousin made an impatient sound. “You do realize there are at least half a dozen fellows of good breeding inquiring after your dance card?” Sam waggled his eyebrows, looking as dashing as he ever did, in his embroidered royal-blue frock coat and tall, shiny boots. His cousin’s handsomeness only worsened Alistair’s present misery.

  “No gentlemen could possibly be hoping for a dance with me,” he managed, touching his too-ample midriff significantly.

  “What the devil makes you so certain, hmm?” Sam flicked his gaze up and down Alistair, frowning. “I’m the one who’s actually been down there, in the ballroom, circulating. While you’ve been reading”—Sam seized the book anew, reading from the spine—“Princely Thieves and Dashing Brigands. When you could be down there, chasing genuine coattail.” Sam gestured downstairs, toward the open library doors. “Or more to the point, bloody well allowing your own coattail to be chased!”

  Alistair kicked back several tastes of his brandy. “Any comers seeking my dance card mean only to have a laugh at my expense.”

  “You damned fucking sod. Do you honestly not know?” Sam laughed then, a sharp staccato of surprise that snagged Alistair’s gaze. He was shocked to discover a genuinely disbelieving smile upon Samuel’s face.

  “Know,” Alistair asked quizzically, “what?”

  Sam reached for a straight-backed chair, spinning it about before he straddled it. He plopped down, facing Alistair. “You don’t like me very much.”

  “I am fairly sure that my sentiments are reciprocated.” Alistair laughed despite himself, feeling suddenly muzzy-headed.

  “No. I dare to disagree. I actually do like you. That I’ve sought you out at a bacchanal—one more extravagant than even our set normally enjoys—should tell you much about my esteem.”

  “You’re here to ridicule me. They always, always are, as well.” That was the libations talking, the endless number of them since half-eleven.

  “They?” Sam leaned closer over that straight chair back, at once attentive and displaying his usual insouciant grace. “Who’s always doing what?”

  “Never mind about who they are.” Oh, fuck. He was quite foxed. His words were even slurring. “And you, Samuel? You’re the worst of the lot.” Alistair jabbed a thick finger in the direction of his cousin. “Very worst of the lot.”.

  Sam’s brown eyes widened, and a vaguely affronted expression overcame his face. “Me? What the devil did I ever do?” Then Sam shrugged, clearly seeing the truth of things. “There were the remarks upon your tonnage, I’ll grant you.”

  “Yes,” Alistair agreed, “And that awful title you gave me, ‘large-arsed spinster.’”

  “Well, even you’ll admit that said tonnage is hard to overlook. As for your fine, shapely arse, surely you’ll forgive me just a bit of flirtation now and then, no?”

  “Fl-flirtation?” Alistair’s face flushed sharply. Flirtation? How in blazes could Sam’s digs and jabs be . . . that. Impossible. Alistair slid a gloved hand to his nape, rubbing to soothe his discomfort.

  “It’s sometimes a bit hard not to flirt with you, Finley,” Sam drawled on, ignoring Alistair’s shy agitation. “Especially when you have no idea whatsoever just how striking you are. Even so, how can I be the worst of the lot? There’s Lord Vincent, for one thing.”

  Alistair leaned forward and swiped his book out of Sam’s grasp. “You’re having a go at me, ’tis all.” Alistair harrumphed drunkenly. “Dance card, my bollocks. I don’t even carry one, as there’s never been a point.”

  “But there would be a point, Finley, if you’d ever actually learned to dance.” Sam’s gaze fell on him with surprising tenderness. “You should’ve done, you know.”

  Alistair’s jaw went slack. Only Arend had known that their late sire had striven—and failed—to impress Alistair into dance instruction. It had been perhaps his only successful rebellion against his uncaring late father. “I-I . . . simply do not like to dance.”

  “Arend does love you, you know. And not a little bit. You’re the brother he never had. Or, more aptly, the only brother he ever did have.”

  For once, rather than jealousy or spiteful envy, Alistair glimpsed true affection in Samuel’s gaze, as he continued, “So, yes, I know all about your rebellion against King Norman on that count. Pity you succeeded, though, as you’re most graceful. I’m certain you’d make impressive use of the waltz.” Sam laughed throatily, settling his chin on the chairback as he studied Alistair. “And the lads would surely make most impressive use of you after the waltzes.”

  The devilish g
leam in Sam’s eyes made a trifle of Alistair’s previous blush. His ears burned hot; he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing Sam would stop looking at him like that. Like he knew all of Alistair’s secrets.

  “You’ve only come up here to humiliate me,” he complained. “It’s becoming patently obvious.”

  “Oh, stop with the asinine whingeing. For bollocks sake, Finley, I’m not here to humiliate you!” Samuel smiled at him with sudden, surprising gentleness. “I’ve come to inform you that a certain red-headed duke’s son was asking after you—and your non-existent dance card.”

  Alistair became, much to his shock, quite startling sober. “I . . . I know not who you mean.”

  “Oh, blather and damnation! I saw how you reacted when that rumor about the Earl from the Garden came up at Ferndale. I thought you might wallop ole Blaine in the eye.”

  “He was being unkind, was all.”

  Sam shook his head very slowly, side to side. “See, I’ve graced a ball or fifteen in the past two years, and every time that particular lord—sodding gorgeous, by the way—is in attendance, you hide behind the nearest fern or seek shelter in the smoking room.”

  “I,” said Alistair, trying to keep his voice even, “always do that in any case.”

  “Ah, in any case. So, you admit you’re hiding from said red-headed, duke’s fourth son?”

  Alistair shifted peevishly in his chair. “Blast, he does have a name.”

  “Quite right. Lord Marcus Avenleigh does indeed have a name, and he proudly inquired after you by yours. Apparently,” Sam told him confidingly, “he believes you and I to be boon companions, although I can’t fathom why. Oh, and here’s a revelation: Lord Marcus possesses a dance card of his own. He showed it to me, all those empty fans of ivory which he hoped to fill with your name, Finley. Your name. He’d kept every last set open for you.”

  “That fellow is a rake and a . . . a subject of untoward gossip.” Alistair’s face heated even more.

  “You don’t honestly believe all that trollop about his friend Lord Harcourt? One fetching glance at Lord Marcus says, ‘barely de-virginized.’ Although you’d have admired his self-possession when he inquired after your dance card.”

  Sam leaned even nearer, dangling a wrist over that chair back. “Finley, fellow. Some of us actually like large-arsed spinster types.” Sam rose languidly to his feet, and added, “And apparently Lord Marcus Avenleigh shares that opinion.”

  Then Sam, piratical grin spreading wide, bowed to Alistair in true courtly fashion, and turned on his heel.

  Alistair could only gape as Samuel strolled back the way he’d come, unable to believe the unexpected interchange, any more than he believed he’d find enough courage to return to the ballroom. To a beautiful, available young lord who had held Alistair’s unwavering fascination for nearly two years.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  FILL IN HONEYMOON

  Arend stared down the hallway, after the briskly departing form of Julian’s valet. Arend had lingered a while downstairs, with his guests, as Jules wanted the apartment to himself before Arend joined him. He’d climbed the grand staircase, his entire body thrumming with anticipation, assuming he’d find his new husband in their bedroom, wearing only a silk dressing gown and some risqué item from the modiste.

  And, yet, Julian stood before him, almost fully clothed, having shucked only his frockcoat. In blousy linen sleeves, and intricately embroidered waistcoat, Julian was, somehow, more beautiful than he’d ever been before this very moment.

  Arend nudged the hallway door shut with his boot, never taking his eyes off his husband. “I daresay Mallon didn’t get very far in his valet work.” Arend blinked, staring breathlessly at Julian, every particle of longing he’d ever felt, suddenly coalescing into this one thought. I have never known love until now. This moment. Not truly.

  “I mostly wanted a moment to myself, darling.” That’s all Jules said; nothing more, no further explanation.

  Arend’s curiosity sparked, he locked the apartment door with a click. Tonight called for utmost privacy. “Well the fellow flew out of these apartments as if he’d just stolen his way into your silky underthings. Blushing madly, too.” Arend walked across the entry’s parquet floor, toward where Julian stood by the open balustrade doors, the ocean wind riffling his long hair. That was one change, since half an hour ago.

  “He brushed out your hair,” Arend observed, knowing the niggling jealousy he felt over a servant was ludicrous. But that pique was also driven by a kind of mad curiosity about tonight, about everything that was to come, that Jules might have planned.

  “It was far more coiffed today than I generally prefer. All those curls and even the jeweled clasp, fastened at my nape.” Jules raked fingers through his shoulder-length hair, shaking it out. “Those boundless curls!” he laughed again. “I’d have happily done without them—”

  “I’m not sure I would—”

  “—but was told, in no uncertain terms that both my wedding fashion and hairstyle might well influence society for the next several seasons.,” Julian laughed at that, shaking out his long hair out as if he’d just emerged from the bath. “I informed Fin that I doubted any gentleman would wish to endure lengthy hair curling before stepping out. But he was undaunted and enlisted your cousin’s perspective. The duke, whose taste I do admire, concurred that I should make—as he put it—’a statement.’”

  “Good for Sam.” Arend distinctly remembered plucking one curl and bouncing it, repeatedly, against his beloved’s cheek during the wedding breakfast. “I was a bit fond of ‘those curls’ as you deem them. And see? Now you’ve had Mal brush them all away, or nearly so.”

  Julian closed the distance between them. “He did give me a fresh shave, as well.” He brought Arend’s palm to his cheek. “See? All smooth for you, love.”

  “Ever since you made Mal your valet, he’s been like a puppy dog where you’re concerned.” Arend kissed the cleanshaven cheek, inhaling the alluring scent of sandalwood. “Why was his face so tomato-red when he fled our apartment?”

  “He did not flee.” Jules made his face into a bland mask, asking, “Would you care for some champagne? I had some brought up.” And then, indicating Arend’s favorite hearthside chair, said, “I’ll serve you, darling. Have a seat over there.”

  A thrill of arousal shot right to Arend’s bollocks. Because what Julian had really said, was: I’ll serve you, but I’ll command you, as well.

  Arend might be new to this marriage, but not to Julian nor his seductions.

  Julian brought him a flute overflowing with champagne, bearing one of his own. Arend clinked his glass against Julian’s. “Here’s to whatever Mallon saw, right before he fled these apartments—and to my seeing it next.”

  “There was nothing, Arend.” Jules settled on the arm of Arend’s chair, sliding a hand to his nape. “You are such a possessive male.”

  “I’m curious. Not threatened.” Arend palmed Julian’s abdomen, sliding a stroke up and down. Up and down, and farther down. “Might he have glimpsed some naughty bit of silk? Or perhaps refilled your silver flask with buggering oils?”

  “I ensured that was done days ago.” Julian stilled Arend’s hand as it skated downward, nearing his groin. “Although he did bring me something special. Something I’d specifically requested, true.”

  “Whatever it was, I gather he practically creamed his britches.”

  “He was discreet, and then, once I’d given him something in exchange, very grateful.”

  “Grateful? I thought whatever this thing was, it was bloody well meant for me. Your king. Your husband.”

  “I had something for him, too. A special present, a thank you for dressing me so well, and attending me all these weeks with true devotion.” Julian smiled to himself. “He really has become something of a friend and I couldn’t have survived all the engagement parties without him,” Jules explained. “So, I gave him an engraved pocket watch, and then—I kissed him. Chastely and only
on the cheek. But it was why he blushed.”

  “I should be jealous, considering he’s the fellow who dressed you today. And yesterday. And who has repeatedly undressed you most recent nights.”

  “No, sire, that would be you.” Jules glanced at him through partially lowered, velvet-blond lashes.

  Arend gave his beloved a rueful smile. “Every damn male in this palace, unless he’s wholly unsusceptible to male lusts, seems to swoon when you glance his way.”

  “I’m a novelty.”

  “You’ve charmed us all,” Arend said, feeling a swell of love for the man beside him. “I’d be jealous, you know, except I’m the man who will make you cream in your wedding trousseau. Ah, cream and silk, quite my favorite combination.”

  Jules gave him a genuinely approving look. “I’m so pleased. You’ve already become much more forward in our first twelve hours of matrimony.”

  Arend reached and began sliding Jules down onto his lap, dragging him onto his thighs. “Imagine me on the morrow,” he said, thrusting his hands into Julian’s loosened hair. “And then after a week of wedding bliss with you. Imagine me then, my prince.”

  Jules slid down atop Arend’s lap with a light bounce, sloshing his champagne. “I won’t ever tire of hearing you call me that.”

  “My prince, I shall cry the words out when you find your way between my thighs.” Arend unfastened the top button of Julian’s waistcoat. “I’ll murmur it in your ear, too, but only if you fill my own ear with your husky-sweet voice, as you finally part my tight, eager—”

  “Oh, help me.” Jules slid a hand to his front placket, to the unmissable erection he was sporting. “I have, in fact, already creamed my underthings, if only just a bit.”

  The tiny stain that spread thinly across the front pleat of those silk britches tantalized Arend. He slid a fingertip, touching the dampness, and the hard heat beneath the fabric. “Silk and cream,” he murmured, seeking out Jules’s mouth, “as I said, my most favorite look for you, my rosy-cheeked groom.”