by Cooper Davis
“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 consideration, 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.
That expression morphed a bit, the tips of the gentleman’s ears turning deepest scarlet. He blotted at his forehead, and finally managed a reply. “I am . . . I am eager, indeed.”
Marcus’s hopes sailed upward.
But then Finley continued. “Eager to end this conversation, that is. Most unseemly of you.”
Marcus’s hopes crashed downward.
Finley sniffed, staring down his nose at Marcus. “This moment and the intimate direction of your approach is wildly unfitting.” He stared across the throngs of dancers, spinning gaily upon the ballroom floor. “Perhaps,” he hissed, his jaw ticking tensely, “it would be best if you did not approach me again in the future, Lord Marcus.”
Marcus summoned his courage, for he might never have such a moment again with the other man. “I wouldn’t wager upon that outcome.” He quirked a suggestive eyebrow upward flirtatiously. “Not if you arrive in that burgundy color. Or any color, truth be told. It simply isn’t a wager you should make, full stop.”
“Good evening, sir.” Then, Mr. Alistair Finley, not-so-retiring royal secretary, flung out the skirt of his frock coat and marched his way across the ballroom, toward the exterior portico.
Damnation, but Marcus had driven the gentleman away from the very ball where he’d hoped to waltz with him. Still, the flirtation had been an opening gambit, and he had no doubt that, beneath that flattering frock coat, a thick erection was pushing against the man’s hidden trouser buttons. Heaven knew that Marcus’s own front placket had tightened like a fist during their brief exchange.
Marcus tracked Finley’s urgent, near-frantic trudge toward the ballroom exterior and grinned like the devil. Good God! That man would be a hellion once roused. Undoubtedly Finley would fight the need to submit until he was reduced to giving as well as he received. Marcus’s cock began to stiffen further, and in defense—lest he shame himself publicly—he attempted to divert his thoughts from their carnal direction. It proved impossible because something in the way Finley practically vibrated with furious dismay over Marcus’s flirtation proved deeply arousing.
The secretary kept wending through throngs of other guests, lords and ladies who parted to allow him passage. He stood a head taller than most gentlemen he encountered, and even at this distance, was the most handsome fellow at the entire ball. Most handsome and yet clearly hadn’t the first notion of his merits, all because he believed himself too heavyset. Marcus decided then and there that Finley would, indeed, prove to be a wild lion of a lover. He merely needed someone to help him let go. He merely needed Marcus—to court him, wine him, dine him, and then tup him wildly.
But, watching Alistair Finley shrug into his greatcoat, Marcus wasn’t sure how patient he could be with the whole of such a process, not when he wished to bed the fine gentleman this very night. With a last gulp of champagne, he handed the glass off and made toward the portico himself.
Chapter Two
The queue for Alistair’s carriage was several gentlemen deep. Bloody hell. A swift escape had been his plan, but that was obviously thwarted.
He moved impatiently down the stone walkway that fronted the manor home, ablaze with torches and merriment and—God help him—romance. Good blazes! That was Viscount Bainsdale carrying on so boldly, gloved hands all over his male paramour with downright proprietary intent.
Alistair rumbled his frustration aloud, trudging down the carriage line, and away from the bustle and blazing lights. It wasn’t as if he were opposed to discreetly carrying on in a similar fashion. He was simply too painfully shy. Lord Marcus Avenleigh had been patently clear in his intentions for the evening, and Alistair had been patently oafish in reaction—all fluster and missish disdain. The young lord had been overwhelming, with his charming flirtation and dogged persistence.
Aren’t you eager?
Eager enough that he’d turned hard as a plank within his smallclothes at that question. His frock coat, cut long to conceal some of Alistair’s heft, had been his blessed salvation.
Alistair did not want to want Lord Marcus. He wanted to hie himself far away from the gentleman, escape the hunger that always enveloped him whenever Avenleigh orbited near. Lord Marcus was a cad and a rake. Rumors circled his name like buzzards, picking at ripe gossip. And Lord Marcus was certainly ripe for the picking, with all those whispers about the so-called Earl in the Garden—and the subsequent broken betrothal. Not to mention his past association with the disreputable Lord Everett Farnsworth.
But you’ve heard naught else to impugn the gorgeous man’s character. The basis for such evaluation is mostly slim.
Alistair, however, was not slim. He was overstuffed as a bear, big boned as a peasant. He touched his midriff self-consciously and sucked in a breath, a longstanding habit borne of trying to conceal his size. Pointless trick, as ever; he released that same breath with a heavy, winded sigh.
Why the devil had he even come to Lady Elsevier’s tonight, knowing the reputation it held for serving up betrothals between gentlemen? He might well have stayed home, if only for this one night of the season, plumped up with a bottle of port, dozing fireside in one of his favorite leather chairs. He could’ve sailed gradually into the arms of loving inebriation and not known the humiliation—and irrational hope—he still felt from Lord Marcus’s flirtation.
He cast his gaze toward the manor’s grand entry, feeling much like an untried virgin. Ridiculous that he was avoiding a flirtatious lord. But he just couldn’t bear another moment in that gentleman’s cocksure presence. He glanced again toward the brightly lit doorway, his heart pounding. But surely his anxiety was unfounded—surely Lord Marcus wouldn’t follow him outside. Alistair daren’t see him again, not in his present state, for he was shaking like a palm in a summer storm, his body quaking and trembling. And his cock? The blasted thing remained hard as stone whenever he recalled those seductive murmurs from one risqué young lord.
Too young. Good heavens, Lord Marcus couldn’t be thirty years old, perhaps even several years younger. What was he about, pursuing Alistair with such resolute confidence, a man who owned nearly a decade on him? And a good seven or eight stone, at that. Only paid companions found Alistair’s thickset form worth buggering. He’d not lain with another fellow on equal terms since . . . Well, it had never been an option, not since he’d come of age and simultaneously discovered three realities about himself. First, that he was the unacknowledged bastard of a dead king. Second, that he preferred men. And third, that his only true solace for both fates came in the form of champagne, whiskey, wine, and any other libation he might toss back.
With the latter comfort had come the excess pounds, an ever-increasing abundance of them year after bloody year. Said pounds were accompanied by repeated visits from the tailor, who routinely increased the breadth of his waistcoats, the expansiveness of his trousers—both the backside and the middle. And of course, greatcoats were required in greater and greater sizes. He drew the folds of the present greatcoat about his body self-consciously, stepping back toward the queue.
As handsome as Lord Marcus Avenleigh was—always remarkable at every social event they attended—he couldn’t genuinely reciprocate Alistair’s interest. Thus, Alistair had fled both Marcus and that glittering ballr
oom so as not to find his heart pounding any harder, nor his cock straining against the buttons of his front flap any worse. In truth, he was astounded that the heat in his britches hadn’t become obscenely obvious to one and all.
Lord Marcus Avenleigh preferred portly men, did he? Well, Alistair preferred redheads, particularly of the dark auburn variety, especially when they came offering compliments wrapped in softly burring northern brogues. Alistair barely managed to suppress a wince. If only the handsome lord had meant all those lovely words and hadn’t simply been hoping to curry favor with the crown.
Except Alistair had observed Avenleigh during several balls and galas, watching him with open interest for some time. With hunger.
Thankful to see his carriage coming forward in the queue, Alistair smartly buttoned the front of his greatcoat and stepped toward the home’s brightly lit front doorway.
“I’m glad you’ve not yet departed, sir,” came that familiar husky voice from behind him.
Alistair closed his eyes and groaned. So the lion wasn’t done toying with him. Not quite yet.
Lord Marcus was suddenly beside him, one gloved hand sliding onto the sleeve of Alistair’s thick greatcoat. “You wear such heavy material on a night that’s barely chilled.”
Alistair always did that very thing, hoping to conceal as much of his thickset form as possible. “It is my finest coat.”
“But it does not reveal enough of your striking figure,” Marcus replied, looking up at his face with a warm smile that seemed utterly sincere. Truly guileless. And his masculine hand did not move from its station upon Alistair’s arm.
“How can you . . .” Alistair lowered his voice and stared at the gloved hand upon his sleeve. “How can you possibly mean such a compliment?” He’d had suitors come calling before, and rebuffed every one of them. Any suitor on the chase with Alistair Finley was after but one thing: access to King Arend Tollemach.