by Cooper Davis
“Why should you be so surprised?” The strong-yet-gentle hand remained on his forearm. “I’m surely not the only one to have expressed interest.”
“I am a spinster,” Finley hissed. “You see precisely what I am and—“
“And that you are gorgeous. I can’t ever stop looking, so yes, I do see.” Lord Marcus’s large, blue-green eyes held steady and revealed a shocking portion of sincerity. And longing—a heated longing so intense that Alistair was compelled to swiftly shift his astounded gaze to his booted feet.
“My coach is . . .” Alistair waved vaguely in the direction of his carriage, gaze still averted, face aflame. “There. Must . . . I must—“
“You must listen to me, fine sir.” Marcus moved closer, his hand brushing across Alistair’s lower back. “Mr. Finley, you’re no spinster. You’re a bachelor, which carries quite a different connotation. Besides, no prudish spinster—the virginal sort who intends to forever remain on the shelf—would ever become as breathless and flushed as you just did. You, sir, positively bloomed beneath my compliments.”
Bloomed. Flushed. Bloody euphemisms, but Alistair intuited the lord’s illicit implication. The undisguised seduction stripped him of any sense of self-protection that remained. Angry at feeling overrun and utterly aroused, Alistair jabbed the lord in his chest. “You bastard!”
Avenleigh only laughed, a rolling, kind sound. “That’s a wee bit harsh, don’t ye think?” That damned brogue, suddenly thicker, only caused Alistair to bloom and flush all the more.
“I don’t care.” Finley jabbed Lord Marcus’s shockingly muscular chest again. “Nor do I care that you’re a lord. You’re still a bastard.”
“And I don’t care that you aren’t one. A lord, I mean, but nor do I care that you’re no bastard, either.”
Finley flinched, his breath leaving him with a painful, seizing gasp. But Lord Marcus was oblivious to the dreadful truth he’d just brushed against. He couldn’t know Alistair’s secret: that he was the unacknowledged by-blow of their late king. None knew the truth except the solicitor who’d administered his sire’s estate. And thus it would always remain—if Alistair wished to retain his good name, his wealth, and his position at court.
Avenleigh knew none of this, Alistair reminded himself, willing his heart to slow its thunderous tempo. Lord Marcus smiled up at him, one eyebrow rising with heart-melting charm. In the torchlight of the portico, a smattering of freckles across the man’s cheeks and forehead became more obvious than in the ballroom. Alistair was nearly as fond of freckles as he was auburn hair and northern brogues. He was in trouble. Terrible, blasted trouble.
“My lack of title bears no significance here,” Alistair finally said, shaken.
“Oh, but it was certain to be the very next complaint registered by that pouty, lush mouth of yours, so consider it dispatched forthwith.”
“No, I meant to complain about your speculations regarding the doings under my frock coat.”
Marcus’s eyes went a bit wide, then he grinned devilishly. “Is that to imply you’re dissatisfied with my impact in that region thus far?”
And just like that, the ache in the center of Alistair’s groin intensified, his cock giving a frantic lift against the pearl buttons. Thank God his greatcoat concealed his ardent, yearning reaction.
Even so, the lord’s auburn brows shot up to his hairline, that youthful expression becoming victorious and exuberant. “So I thought. I’m honored but hardly surprised to have my suspicions confirmed about what you’re up to, as they say.”
“You don’t know that . . . you can’t . . .” Alistair sputtered, glancing desperately for his carriage.
“Oh, but I do know. One look at you now assures me I spoke true.” Lord Marcus searched his face and those alert, kind eyes revealed no mockery. “And you’re hardly alone in your reaction, Mr. Finley.”
At last his coach pulled forward and a footman swung open the door. Alistair moved toward the mounting block, but Lord Marcus caught his arm again, murmuring, “You should feel the change rendered beneath my own frock coat these past moments. And it’s all you, Alistair. All you. In truth”—the voice grew huskier, purring across Finley’s cheek—“I wish to have you as my own.” Then withdrawing and releasing his hold on Alistair’s arm, the lord smiled at him radiantly. “Would you consider that possibility, sir?”
Alistair gaped back at him, then tightened his greatcoat across the middle, neatening up a button that had popped open as he stepped upon the block.
Lord Marcus beamed and laughed. “I did not hear a ‘no,’ Mr. Finley.”
“This is my ‘no,’” Alistair told him briskly, then climbed up into the carriage, and didn’t even wait for his footman to close the door. He all but slammed it in Lord Marcus’s eager face.
As the carriage rolled into a jostling motion, he stole no glances outside the coach window nor back at the torch-lit manor home. He dared not look, as he knew he’d find determined Lord Marcus staring after him with the same predatory heat in his gaze as he’d exhibited for the past several minutes.
But Alistair did dare, alone in the privacy of his carriage, to slide his gloved hand—the same that Marcus had held—and part the folds of his greatcoat. With a tight inhale, he trailed that hand upward between his thighs, and began to stroke himself with slow, agonizing attention, aware that he would not allow himself release, not here, not until he was in his own apartments at the palace. Alone. As ever and always . . . alone.
Chapter Three
After a pathetic, miserably restless night, Marcus tidied himself up for family breakfast and made his way to their formal dining room. His father, informal as he might be for a duke, remained dedicated to traditional aspects of family life, especially since their mother’s death several years earlier. Whereas before his papa might have balked at having Thursday breakfast in their most resplendent dining room—now he held the line with both booted feet.
Marcus was first to the table, and dished up a hearty plate of coddled eggs and cream, with sausages and toast, before sliding into his seat. In the hallway just beyond, his eldest brother, Ethan, came trundling along loudly, bellowing something to one of their other brothers, Daniel. He and Ethan were on about a horse they had designs on acquiring for the stable, yammering louder than usual. If Marcus’s gaggle of brothers had any single hallmark it was their volume. That, and their near ceaseless talking, with each of them forever vying to be heard over the others, their fiery redhead tempers flaring.
Somehow, ever-so-secretly, Marcus believed that shy Mr. Finley would adore the noise and bluster. That he’d open like a day lily, thriving unexpectedly in the midst of Marcus’s loving, noisy family of men.
And his papa? Marcus’s father was only seventeen years older than Finley, so they would undoubtedly find common ground, especially as their father tended to be the quietest of them all, content to lean back in his chair and listen and observe.
Or maybe it was simply that Marcus, deep in his heart, wanted nothing so much as a husband. And he wanted Alistair Finley as that spouse. His eldest brother, Ethan, was nowhere near settling down, and had earned himself a horribly rakish reputation with the ladies, although there was always yet another willing female, eager to give herself over to an eligible viscount.
His other two brothers, Daniel and Ian—twins roughly two years older than Marcus—could hardly be bothered with anything beyond an endless fascination with horse breeding and racing.
Ethan came barreling into the breakfast room, booming on and on about some bloody racehorse. Daniel shook his head. “I’ll sell Sweet Pea to acquire him. It’s a smart venture. She’s past her prime.”
Yammer, yammer, yammer. On it went, one brother after another filing into the room, loud as a marching band whilst Marcus politely attempted to eat breakfast in peace.
Ethan settled in the chair beside him and crisply popped a linen napkin int
o his lap, and drawled, “I hear you finally approached the elusive Mr. Finley at Lady Elsevier’s ball yesterevening. Well done.”
And that would be Daniel’s doing. Marcus had stupidly confided in his brother upon arriving home last night.
“Henhouse,” Marcus muttered, after counting out several beats. “I live in a bloody henhouse.”
“Rooster house, more like,” Daniel corrected, straddling the seat opposite Marcus, and tucking his napkin into his shirtfront. Unlike Ethan, who stood to inherit the dukedom, Daniel was the most ruffian of them all. Their father, seating himself quietly at the table head, gave Daniel a reproving glance—and even at one and thirty, his brother quietly removed the napkin from his collar and placed it in his lap.
“No such thing as a rooster house,” Ethan said, then turned in his seat and studied Marcus. “Well, shall you be forthcoming about your approach to the infamous Mr. Finley? Or must I pepper Daniel for further details? You know the information won’t be accurate if I must rely on his account.”
Ethan lifted one eyebrow when Marcus held his silence stoically. “Come, now, brother mine. Spill the sordid particulars.”
Marcus choked down a sip of his coffee. “Sordid?” he managed after a moment of Ethan slapping him heartily on the back. As if that would help. “I merely introduced myself to the gentleman.”
“Finally!” Ian whooped, raising a fist and straddling into his own place beside Daniel, both twins exhibiting identical expressions of wonder and naked curiosity.
“Certainly well past time you made a move,” Ethan concurred. “Although he’s far too old for you.”
“Too stodgy,” Ian added with an agreeing bob of his auburn head.
“Too podgy!” Daniel bellowed, laughing and walloping his belly significantly. “That fellow’s big as a house.”
Not to be outdone by his twin, Ian tacked on, “Big as our house and that’s truly saying something!” The pair of them cocked back in their chairs, thrusting their bellies out and patting them with uproarious laughter.
“You do know what Daniel calls him behind your back, right?” Ethan leaned closer to Marcus, whispering, “Thunder loins.”
Their papa scowled at the twins. “You shouldna be so unkind. Every man is built his own way.”
Ian snorted, buttering his bread. “Apparently Mr. Alistair Finley is built precisely to Marcus’s specifications.”
Marcus blushed horribly. “I prefer larger men.”
“He’s definitely that,” Daniel chortled, finally dropping all four of his chair legs to the floor.
“What he is,” Marcus said with a soft smile, recalling the feel of Alistair Finley’s gloved hand in his own, “is utterly perfect.” For one long moment not one of them uttered a word, and then like a rifle shot, all of his brothers exploded into laughter.
“Good God, you’re genuinely besotted with the fellow.” Ethan snorted, taking a bite of his breakfast. “He truly is too old for you, however. Papa, would you not concur? Hasn’t this infatuation gone far enough? If Marcus wishes to see himself married, he should spend the rest of the season in town, where he might actually meet some suitably eligible lad.”
Marcus’s father shook his head. “I found Mr. Finley quite suitable during our recent interactions at the Lords Council. Impressive fellow, he.” Their papa slowly sipped his coffee, but not one of them dared interrupt before he continued, “Verra upright, extremely intelligent. Highly loyal to His Majesty. His insights into council law proved invaluable to our confrontation on behalf of the Tollemachs.” His papa dabbed at his mouth with his napkin corner, then quietly asked, “But, Marcus lad, are we verra certain he prefers gentlemen?” His father had broached this question periodically ever since Finley had captured Marcus’s attention.
Ethan layered in his own opinion, saying smugly, “We know Finley mustn’t prefer females, for he’s a confirmed bachelor of at least five and forty. Or is he nudging up against fifty or so?” Ethan’s inquiry was so grossly inaccurate—intentionally so—as to motivate Marcus to hurl a breakfast roll at his eldest brother’s forehead.
“Holy hell!” Ethan cursed when the hard bread pinged off the edge of his eyebrow. “That smarted.”
Marcus lifted his other roll threateningly and Ethan raised a protective forearm.
“It was meant to hurt. Mr. Finley is six and thirty,” Marcus said evenly, “a fact of which you are well aware.”
“Yes, we are all quite cognizant of the gentleman’s age—because you are. As well as the date he shall turn seven and thirty, no doubt. It’s a wonder you don’t maintain a spymaster’s dossier on the poor bloke.”
Daniel snorted, a conspiratorial gleam in his green eyes. “Are we sure Marcus doesn’t? I wouldn’t put that one past him. He’s certainly ever aware of the gentleman’s comings and goings.”
“He wishes to be much more aware of the man’s comings, I’d wager,” Ethan muttered low. Ian and Daniel snickered, as each feigned an identical swoon by fanning themselves and collapsing backward into their chairs.
Ian lilted in a high-pitched voice, “Dear Mr. Finley, I’m overwrought at the thought of you.” And on went the fanning and lash fluttering.
“For the love of all that is holy!” Marcus blustered and made a great show of pushing his coddled eggs about the plate. “You are the worst, most meddlesome lot a man could be saddled with.”
Ian sulked in his seat, mumbling, “Nothing holy about your interest in that fellow.”
Ethan rose and popped the back of Marcus’s head. “We love you. And you love us. In fact, I’m going to give you something marvelous to prove that. Advice.” Marcus glanced up curiously, and his eldest brother leaned down, arm about his shoulders. “Pursue your Mr. Finley. Not later; not next week. Today. He’s maintained your steady, unwavering interest for two years, so don’t hesitate another moment. Pay the gentleman a visit this very day.”
Marcus frowned. “I cannot simply make a social call to the palace.”
Ethan stood tall and dropped his napkin onto the table. “But today is Thursday, Marcus. Now, is it not true—as per your inquiries—that Mr. Finley spends each Thursday at the king’s city office?”
Slowly Marcus smiled. “It is indeed true.”
“And,” Ethan continued, “I would wager that said city office maintains a slim regular staff, and that you might chance a private moment with your good gentleman, one in which you could invite him to, oh, say . . . tea? A gentleman’s club? Or, if you care to be a bit common, a tavern, even. Finley certainly loves his drink, we’ve all observed that.”
Marcus quickly withdrew his pocket watch, a family heirloom that Ethan—even though he was eldest—had pressed into Marcus’s hands last Winter’s Night. Ethan had a very tender spot for Marcus, and well he knew it. Marcus smiled as he stared at the watch face. “It’s not even half-eight.”
Ethan slapped him on the back. “See? You can be to the city before midday. You must do. Must.”
Marcus glanced at his father. “Papa?” He needed to know that his father would approve of such a bold move. The suit was, of course, in the family’s best interest—a chance for Marcus to rehabilitate his tarnished reputation by becoming attached to such a decent gentleman. Deep down, he couldn’t help believing that Papa would approve of the suit if for no other reason than that one.
His father scratched a bushy auburn eyebrow, then raked a hand through his graying hair. Finally, a slow smile spread over his face. “Ye know I pursued your mama most ardently. Ye can’t hesitate when you believe you’ve found the one. If the retiring Mr. Finley should, indeed, be your true match, ye mustn’t falter. Especially not now that ye’ve finally summoned your nerve, lad. Your brother advises true.” Then his father gave him a twinkling-eyed smile. “No shillyshallying, or I truly shall be forced to put you on the marriage mart next season.”
“Oh, dear God!” Ethan bello
wed, lacking any of a viscount’s grace. “Not the dreaded mart for Marcus! Bollocks, there’s a horror, picturing this house bursting to the gills with one eager bachelor after another, stalking our fortunes.”
“Yes, of course,” Marcus drawled. “For the parlor is even now overflowing with fine gents who’ve eyed me all social season.”
Daniel shook his head. “You’ve rebuffed all comers, brother, from the moment you happened to notice Finley’s most remarkable form. Course I’d remark on the breadth of said form, but we’re in the company of a lady.” Daniel flourished a hand in Marcus’s direction, then traded a wicked glance with his twin.
Marcus didn’t care if they were simply goading him into action. He managed to kick first one, then the other brother sharply in the shins. “I’m more man than you’ll ever be, you bloody bampots. And more talented.” Marcus tossed his napkin onto the table and rose, resolved as the duo had intended him to be. They knew Marcus could abide most any insult but one that impugned his masculinity as that spot remained tender due to his inclinations within such a manly brood.
Suddenly serious, Daniel watched him rise from the table. “So you’ll go, then? To the city?”
“Why should ye seem so bloody hopeful?” Marcus’s northern brogue had thickened up, as it did when he grew angry or overwrought. It didn’t matter that he’d not even visited their family castle in two years; his accent was as much a part of him as the northern moors where he’d been raised.
He stood, smoothing the front of his waistcoat, and neatened his tie. “That eager, are ye, to divest yerself of me and have me gone from here?”
Ian’s eyes assumed a mischievous, truthful gleam. “Och, Marcus! Daniel’s bucking to see the inside of the royal stables, don’t ye know? That and he’s got twenty quid riding on your having the bollocks to actually get within Finley’s starchy drawers!”
Marcus shook his head, a thrill shooting down his spine at both the realization that he would indeed pay a visit to Alistair Finley’s city office today—and that he might hold a prayer of ever laying a hand upon that gentleman’s expensive smallclothes. Much less within them. Something told him said smallclothes wouldn’t be starchy at all, but lush to behold. Surely once that moment came, the gentleman would be panting and begging and coming apart at his seams just as Marcus had imagined last night at the ball.