A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  The posturing only made Marcus laugh, for the gentleman’s physical reaction betrayed him—the pulse at his temple had begun to beat wildly. His dusky face was turning ruddier.

  “If you disdain Lady Elsevier’s annual gala, then whyever did you also attend last year, Mr. Finley?”

  Finley’s black eyebrows quirked together. “You . . . you recall my attendance?”

  “I was keenly aware of you that night. I simply lacked the courage I’ve summoned this evening.” Marcus lifted his flute of champagne. “I’ve noted that you appreciate fine spirits on occasion, and I confess this champagne allowed me to finally gather my courage.”

  That earned him a very odd look from the other man, who swiftly brought his own champagne to his lips. Finley drained half the glass without pause, then murmured, “Yes, ’tis very fine champagne this evening.” But that disconcerted expression remained in his eyes, and Marcus worried that he’d misspoken in mentioning the man’s fondness for liquor.

  Eager to change the topic, Marcus pressed ahead. “I also sought you at His Majesty’s recent wedding fete. Much to my dismay, however, you departed early. Although I did speak with the Duke of Mardford then, who suggested this ball as a more ideal moment for our introduction.”

  Finley’s fevered gaze jumped back to that clenched couple, then traveled to several more similarly paired dancers, all gentlemen. “I can’t recommend my foster cousin’s tutelage,” Finley admonished. “The duke’s a libertine and scandalmonger. No wonder he suggested you seek me out tonight, when this is the worst possible venue for your audacious approach. I’m a man of stalwart reputation, who must likewise uphold the reputation of His Majesty.”

  “And yet,” Marcus said carefully, “you never miss this ball. Not once in the past six years, I’m told. That speaks of a gentleman who longs to find something here, something he’s never had, yet forever desired.”

  Finley’s face flamed. “A ball such as this one was designed for other gentlemen. Not the king’s private secretary.” The words, rather than dripping with disdain, held a pronounced note of melancholy. “A ball such as this one,” he continued, “holds no place for a man like me.”

  A ball such as this one. Where males waltzed with other males and did so more freely than at almost any other party of the season. And where Finley hid himself behind palm fronds, and fell into his cups.

  Marcus reached for the gentleman’s gloved hand, brushing fingertips over his knuckles. “Why should this ball not hold a place for a man like you? Even king’s secretaries deserve pleasure. Waltzes.” Marcus drew in a shuttered breath, whispering, “And courtship. Certainly, king’s secretaries deserve that.”

  “My lord, I am. . . .” Finley withdrew his hand, pressing it behind his back, out of Marcus’s reach. “You simply persist in being—”

  “I am forward, yes.” Marcus thrust his shoulders back, summoning bravery he barely felt. “But tonight, Mr. Alistair Finley, I would like to suggest we change things up a bit. That we dare to do”—Marcus lowered his voice, made it suggestive and tempestuous as he stepped much closer—“the unthinkable.”

  The secretary stood taller then, even more impressively large than Marcus had gauged previously, perhaps some six feet and four inches. He was broad through the shoulders, and towered over Marcus, almost like a blacksmith disguised in society garb, with his powerful shoulders and titanic build.

  Mr. Finley yielded Marcus a polite bow. “I must excuse myself. Good evening, my lord,” he told Marcus primly, then turned away with a neat click of his boots.

  Marcus swept right after those swiftly retreating heels, falling in sync with the man’s long-legged strides. “You daren’t contemplate what I might deem the unthinkable?”

  The older man offered Marcus a flat look. “Given your reputation among polite society, I’d shudder to even hear your suggestion, much less contemplate it.”

  Marcus fumbled briefly for a reply. He did not want Finley dwelling overmuch on his reputation. “I fear you’ve confused me—or rather my so-called reputation—with that of my brothers.”

  “Your behavior is likewise well known about our set. You’re widely regarded as a rakehell. And I cannot abide such dissipation, nor encourage it, even in the grand social sphere spreading before us here.” At that precise moment, the set ended, yet two gentlemen couples did not cease their embrace. Finley nodded at them, aghast. “That,” he growled, “is simply not done. It seems everyone at this ball shares your inclination toward decadence.”

  “Decadence?” Marcus sputtered, still taken aback by Finley’s dismissive insult. He feigned a laugh of disbelief, even as he knew that—given his besmirched reputation—it wasn’t far off the mark. “Mr. Finley, the only decadent thing about me is my penchant for sleeping through church services, and my joy in cheating my brothers at cards. But to be fair, if you knew my brothers—especially the twins—you’d not blame me on that count.”

  Just then a charmingly besotted pair of suitors, arms linked, temporarily blocked Alistair’s segue toward the ballroom’s distant doors. With barely concealed annoyance—presumably at Marcus—Finley spun back to address him. “Caught in the garden of Lady Duncan’s residence, embraced in the arms of a betrothed earl? Scandalous! Not well done of you at all, Lord Marcus.” Then, with the smitten beaux ambling out of their way, Finley resumed his broad progress, seeming to make a beeline for the exterior garden. Marcus scrambled to his side, not about to let false rumors stand, especially if they cost him the fine man’s regard.

  “And yet you make haste to the garden now,” he pointed out. “With me captured in your wake? Perhaps you’d like me to replicate my performance with the scandalized earl—but with you in my arms instead?”

  Marcus caught a heady whiff of sandalwood soap, as Finley spun to him. “Your nerve is astonishing.” He cast Marcus a sharpish sideways glance, then changed course altogether, marching as fast as his long legs would take him.

  Marcus mirrored the directional shift, practically trotting to keep up. “Huh,” he said, becoming increasingly amused and charmed by the fellow’s prim fluster. “But to be clear, Mr. Finley, that’s not precisely what transpired with the earl in the garden. He simply did not wish to marry his betrothed.”

  Finley shook his head, muttering, “Nor marry you, either, apparently.”

  Marcus shrugged, and they each silently shunted to the left, allowing a young marquess’s daughter to pass through a narrow knot of conversing lords. Once they resumed walking, Marcus continued. “That so-called ‘Earl from the Garden’ turned to me that night for succor, as we’d seen each other through such difficult times before.”

  Finley harrumphed. “You’re undoubtedly accustomed to leaving brokenhearted lads sobbing in gardens.”

  “You presume me the cad.”

  The gentleman gave him a leveling look. “I can’t begin to fathom why.” The sarcasm rang through his flat tone like a dinner gong. “It is, after all, widely known that you broke that earl’s betrothal.”

  Marcus’s spirits sank. Before tonight, he’d earnestly hoped that the gentleman hadn’t heard that particular tale about his friend, Lord Harcourt. But his hope plummeted even further at Alistair’s next words.

  “Likewise, there was the matter of Lord Everett Farnsworth—your erstwhile beau—and . . . well, I shan’t even speak of that among society.” Finley gave him a dark-eyed scowl and seemed ready to deliver a stern rebuke before a barrister recognized him, clapping him on the shoulder. After a brief exchange, Finley turned back to Marcus, his determined escape seemingly forgotten. “Apologies, Lord Marcus.”

  “Certainly.” He smiled, grateful that Finley’s pique had evaporated. And that he was spared discussing his former lover Lord Everett any further. “You were entertaining my as-yet unstated intention regarding you, Mr. Finley. Or may I be bold enough to address you as Alistair? It’s a very sensual name, that.”

  The secretary turned to him, and for one brief moment, his lips parted. The consid
eration, the desire to act upon Marcus’s flirtation, was undeniable in those dark eyes.

  “I serve His Majesty, our king, and my behavior must be above and beyond reproach,” Finley said. “So, no, I should not wish to be set upon my ear by whatever untoward comment you thought to make.”

  Marcus gave the big man a long, lingering glance, one that raked him from his polished boots all the way back up to his hooded eyes.

  “Oh, aye, I should think you’d tremble and shudder at my suggestion, but not from dismay. Nor from offense. From curiosity. Hunger. Are you not quivering to know what illicit thing I would suggest, good sir?” Marcus allowed his roaming gaze to settle squarely across the front of the man’s trousers, before slowly lifting it anew. He wasn’t nearly so bold, nor as confident as he wished to seem, but something told him that with Alistair Finley, he needed to feign a great deal of self-assurance. “If I am a rake by reputation, perhaps I should play one here with you.”

  It was a risk, a dangerous one, but Marcus could not fight the urge to unbutton this high-strung man. Everything about his starchy mien demanded it, begged for it, from his hungry glances, to his struggling determination to combat their forceful attraction. And even though Marcus was not a rake, it might be a role that would serve him well this one time.

  So Marcus rolled the dice of seduction—and pretended far, far more experience than he legitimately owned. The now-infamous “Earl in the Garden”? Had been crying on Marcus’s shoulder as he’d just been jilted unceremoniously by his fiancé only one hour earlier. There had been no kisses, no scandalous embrace. And with Lord Everett, Marcus had been beyond his depths before realizing that man’s scurrilous nature.

  “Not even the faintest interest in what I deign to suggest happen between the pair of us?” Marcus murmured, moving much closer. “It would be unlike anything you’ve known before, and surely a man of your intellect and sophistication is enticed, no?”

  Finley tugged sharply on his waistcoat, gave him one last glance—and nearly spoke—but then shook his head and strode away at an ever-quickening clip, heading toward the expansive doors that led to the garden. Marcus flanked him, staying apace with Finley’s heavy footfalls. “I should wish to waltz with you,” he informed the secretary. “Tonight. May I have a place on your dance card, handsome sir?”

  “I carry no dance card.”

  Marcus had to laugh. “No. You wouldn’t.”

  Finley spun back toward him, that immense body nudging right into Marcus’s own trimmer one. “What makes you so certain? I am a gentleman of high social standing.”

  The crowd surged suddenly, jostling them closer. A wash of heat scorched Marcus on impact, but he wasn’t about to lose the intimacy.

  Finley sputtered, then stepped backward with one agile step. Marcus—not to be daunted—shadowed the movement, pushing closer anew. “You, sir, are afraid to let any of the eager lads about this ballroom know which way your inclinations go,” Marcus told him gently. He understood the depth of the fellow’s shyness, had witnessed it far too many times not to grasp how much it weighed upon the lovely man.

  Finley’s hand trembled visibly as he swiped at a glossy lock of black hair. “You know nothing of the sort about me.” The words were husky and low. Touched with a surprising note of melancholy longing.

  “Ah, but I’ve watched you a long time now, sir.” Marcus caught and held the gentleman’s gaze until a moment of subtle acknowledgement passed betwixt them. “I, on the other hand, fear but one thing: never holding you near as we waltz and take turns about that dance floor. That thought does strike quite a note of terror in me. The never-ever possibility to it, when for two years now I’ve longed for one thing. To know the pleasure of feeling you in my arms.”

  Marcus drew a breath, and added, “Bold as that statement makes me, sir, it is everything to me. This night and every night onward.”

  Finley laughed sardonically. “The feel of me in your arms? You must be bloody daft. Or have you not taken an eyeful of my girth? What male—or female for that matter—could find me elegant upon the dance floor?” The secretary placed a heavy hand upon Marcus’s shoulder, already dwarfing him with that one grasp. “What dance partner could even manage to settle their arms about me, much less gracefully make such turns and steps?”

  The man nodded toward the waltz that had just hit high swing, at the numerous gentlemen couples dancing together. “You’re a fool to even contemplate the challenge of me, my lord.”

  Marcus gave him a gentle, warm smile. “It’s a challenge I would heartily welcome.”

  “A challenge,” Finley repeated in a numb tone, backing away. “Quite. And then some, or have you not had a good look at me? Of course you bloody well have; I am never to be missed, not in any social sphere where I venture. No wonder you’ve gaped at me for these past seasons.”

  Marcus caught the gentleman by the coat sleeve, preventing him from leaving. “I watched you because you’re beautiful, Alistair,” he said in a low tone no one else would hear. “The simplest reason known to mankind was what motivated me . . . enthrallment. Naught else, and I never meant you to feel anything less than what you are—a remarkable, captivating man.”

  The naked admission stopped the secretary cold. For one long moment, he held his entire body poised, not even seeming to draw the barest breath. Marcus stole that moment to move even closer.

  “I like large men, ones I can truly hold on to, and who envelop me,” he explained. “You are precisely the sort of male who most beguiles me. That you are portly and grand? Only a benefit, dear sir. Certainly no detraction.”

  To his credit, Finley’s gasp didn’t happen immediately. It began slowly, as his full, lush lips parted in surprise—as he studied Marcus’s face, which surely revealed all the eagerness he felt.

  “I am quite, quite eager,” Marcus whispered, wanting to make his intentions most clear. And that was the precise moment the king’s secretary drew in a sharp breath. God, but the beautiful fellow looked positively undone, his expression a mix of astonishment and fluster. “Aren’t you, sir?” Marcus added, searching Finley’s patrician face.

  A GENTLEMAN REVEALED publishes from Intermix on April 17, 2018.