by Cooper Davis
Ian brought him back to the moment with a lewd bark of laughter. “I daresay, Daniel, we’ve lost our brother to thoughts of secretarial drawers.”
“Not the sort found in the man’s royal desk, either,” Daniel guffawed.
Marcus slanted his eyes at them, knowing he’d have the very last laugh if today’s venture to the city went as well as he now hoped.
Chapter Four
Marcus was shown into an ornate parlor just off the entry hall of the king’s city office. The intimate room was filled with near-priceless antiques, pieces that had undoubtedly migrated from the palace itself. Mahogany credenzas on two walls were lavishly appointed with silver serving pieces, china figurines, and weighty candelabras.
Marcus gaped as he stepped into the room, fragrant with candlewax and furniture oil and fresh-cut flowers. He’d known that Mr. Finley was royal secretary, of course, but somehow in the presence of such opulence, the reality of that fact unsettled him. He had thrust himself upon the king’s very own man yestereve without any compunction or restraint. Now as he gazed at elegant chrysanthemums—nearly impossible to find in winter, unless perhaps one was a king—he began to doubt himself. A duke’s son he might be, but he was a fourth son, one whose name had been tarnished by gossip.
Had Marcus been too audacious, too indecorous in his approach at Lady Elsevier’s, considering the gentleman’s position at court? Finley’s words from the ball echoed through him suddenly.
I serve His Majesty, our king, and my behavior must be above and beyond reproach.
Marcus fretted in silence, pacing about the parlor, fearful that Finley wouldn’t even accept this social call. But after a few moments, Finley swept into the room, as stunning and remarkable as the intrepid prow of a ship. The footman withdrew, closing the double doors in his wake, leaving them to face each other stiffly.
Marcus bowed to Finley, who returned the gesture with more flourishing elegance than at the ball. If he had to wager, Marcus imagined that Alistair Finley was far more confident in his professional life than his societal one.
“Good day, Lord Marcus. How may I assist you this morning?”
“Assist me?” Marcus blinked. How could the secretary have any doubt as to the purpose of this social call?
“You have, it seems, arrived at my offices without advance notice.” Finley pushed silver-framed spectacles up his long nose.
Marcus’s cheeks blazed hot. “I gave notice yestereve. You must surely realize my purpose in calling upon you today, good sir.”
Finley harrumphed at that, blinking down at Marcus from behind those elegant spectacles. The entire impression—from the examination Finley delivered him to the somber attire the man wore—was austere. Quite as if Marcus were being served up to a schoolmaster like some misbehaving lad.
However, Alistair Finley didn’t resemble any schoolmaster Marcus had ever known—not in his navy frock coat, nor his slate-gray waistcoat, nor even his snow-white dress shirt. If any of his tutors had looked like this man, Marcus would never have remained a virgin until the ripe age of two and twenty.
“You look handsome this morning, Mr. Finley.” Marcus inclined his head in appreciation. “So it seems you are equally fetching at both balls and the royal offices.”
Finley gave him a quizzical look, neatening the front of his waistcoat, although he needn’t have done.
The secretary’s elegant apparel accentuated all the best facets of his impressive figure, augmenting what it should—and likewise refusing to emphasize what it should not. Whoever tailored Finley’s garments was a bloody genius, as the man’s body was wondrous and worthy of showcasing in such gorgeous fashion. Today, his silken waistcoat was cut low across the front, concealing part of his trousers’ flap and buttons. Yet the skirt of his morning coat fell just high enough to highlight the man’s ampleness of buttock—such a sensual asset, it was a wonder Finley hadn’t been married a decade past. That tailor was indeed a sneaky fellow, as surely Finley had no idea just how revealing the fall of his morning coat proved upon his person. Nor how tantalizing.
Finley’s throat-clearing brought Marcus back to the present. “You’ve selected a blustery, chill day to pay a social call, my lord.” He indicated a small settee by the fire with a sweep of his hand. “Here, warm yourself by our hearth.”
“Thank you.” Marcus sat as he was bidden, surprised when Finley joined him on the dainty, compact piece of furniture. Their positioning placed them hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder—enticingly close. The man’s scent was heady, an elixir of sandalwood with an unnamable musk that was thoroughly masculine.
Finley’s deep, rasping voice interrupted his racing thoughts. “You’ve come for a purpose, Lord Marcus?”
“I wished to make good on . . . I promised—you know . . . that—“ How could he possibly repeat the seductive intentions that he’d murmured so freely last night, here in his own sovereign’s offices, with a man this unbearably handsome and intimidating?
“Yes, my lord?” Finley prompted. A sideways glance, all long lashes and smoldering eyes, caught Marcus’s own. He’d have sworn Finley barely managed to hide a grin of amusement. But that glance, and the accompanying lift of Finley’s brow, did nothing whatsoever to help Marcus compose himself.
“I promised you, sir,” Marcus attempted again softly, “that I was now in earnest pursuit of you. That I meant to press my suit. That I had formed clear and resolute intentions regarding you.”
A faint rosy hue colored the man’s cheeks as he studied Marcus over the rims of his spectacles. “You did not precisely promise that.”
“Aye, in as many words, I did.”
“I slammed my carriage door in your face. And that was my reply to your gambit. In as many words.” The fellow cut those dark brown, almost black eyes at him, and Marcus was shocked to find playfulness in the glance.
Emboldened by the unexpected warmth between them, Marcus teased the other man in turn. “And yet you opened your parlor doors to me now. Without hesitation.”
“I believe you waited some”—Alistair withdrew his pocket watch, popping it open—“seven minutes for my arrival.” He snapped it shut again, as if dismissing the argument altogether.
“Ah,” Marcus purred flirtatiously, “the measured, intentional pace of courtship? Of a gentleman who wishes to play coy?”
“If I wished to be coy, Lord Marcus, I’d not have bothered owning up to those seven minutes.” Alistair pressed his spectacles up his nose once more. Clearly a nervous habit, but such an endearing one. “I was merely embroiled in a set of legal documents, and could not break away immediately.”
“Yet you did break away. You accepted this call, despite those pressing matters of the crown.” Marcus clasped his hands together in mock victory. “I am finding a bit of progress, I think.”
Finley harrumphed at that, and began rearranging himself on that snug settee. He methodically crossed one long leg over a knee, pushing his thigh and hip solidly into Marcus’s own. Just that quickly, whatever extra room had previously existed between them vanished. There was only the pair of them, intimately close. Only the titillating heat of the other man’s body, seeping into Marcus’s own, rendering fabric and trousers utterly meaningless.
Marcus couldn’t breathe, daren’t move. He swallowed several times, searching for his voice, but one thought chased all others away: whether Finley had cozied closer intentionally, or if it was simply a consequence of his hearty size.
Marcus needed to know, had to test the situation. And so he moved subtly away, nearer to the arm of the settee, searching out whatever space remained. Finley matched that shift, following in kind—as if they were in a dance together. The movement pressed them even closer; firmly shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh against thigh. Marcus imagined how it would be if all that wool and linen and silk weren’t betwixt their bodies. Silence enfolded them, only the sound of slightly breathless inh
alations, until Finley softly observed, “Lord Marcus, I rather suppose the point of a social call is discourse. Is it not?”
Marcus swallowed a groan. “Splendid day, this,” he managed, voice nearly as tight as his trousers had become.
“Not precisely, Lord Marcus. It is bitterly cold, appears likely to sleet or perhaps just rain in a long and dreary fashion,” the secretary replied, his accent elegantly upper-crust. “Thankfully, they had just stoked the fire before your arrival.”
“Nice, quite.” Marcus anxiously rubbed his gloved hands along his thighs.
“It becomes drafty in these royal offices,” Alistair added, voice a bit rough.
Bloody hell. If Marcus didn’t manage to summon some nerve, this social call would be the last moment he’d share in Finley’s presence, as the man would surely doubt the earnestness of his intentions.
Marcus leaned closer to the other man, dropping his voice to a sensual timbre. “’Tis warm now, however.” The teasing remark stoked that blaze growing between them, an answering vibration rippling through Finley’s body. “In fact, I am quite heated, Mr. Finley, thanks to this settee.”
Finley blotted his brow. “I daresay ’tis warmer than typical for this room, on such a cold day. Although, I am wearing a heavier morning coat. Perhaps that accounts for the temperature.”
Marcus laughed, locking gazes with the other man. “The scorching blaze building upon this settee has naught whatsoever to do with your attire. Unless you factor in how dashed handsome you are in that somber secretary’s costume.”
Finley pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Costume? Lord, Marcus, ’tis my profession I’m about today, not playtime in the nanny’s nook.”
“No, I don’t suppose any nannies are minding you. Although”—Marcus paused, ever so grateful that his confidence had returned—“seeing you play the part of schoolmarm leaves me wishing to strip you of all that gray and dark navy, and make you whisper naughty things in my ear.”
“Schoolmaster,” Finley corrected.
“No, I should think schoolmarm better suits the high-strung way you’re sitting beside me, all buttoned up and prim and gorgeous. If you wore petticoats, I’d be trying to lift those folds and sniff beneath them.”
Finley shook his head, sputtering and coughing. “You own greater nerve than any peer ought rightly to possess, my lord.”
“I wasn’t aware there were guidelines as to proper portions of nerve among the peerage.”
Finley gaped at him, and then very slowly that appalled look transformed into a sensual smile. The secretary dipped his head closer to Marcus’s own and whispered, “Is it the spectacles?”
“Pardon?”
“That lend me the—what was it? The ‘schoolmarm’ air you described?”
“Those spectacles leave me wishing you’d recite poetry to me, wearing little else besides them.” Marcus blinked, tried to draw a steadying breath. “They are madness-inducing. And you’ve never worn them to the balls.”
Finley’s gaze roved over Marcus’s face a moment, until he agreed huskily. “I have not worn them there, no.”
“We likely would have been in a very great deal of trouble, and much sooner, had you done so. I might have divested you of your honor on some garden path.”
Finley sniffed, nailing Marcus with a disbelieving gaze from over his spectacle rims. “I think your misdeeds upon garden paths need no reprising. You’ve sullied your own name badly enough; please leave mine out of box hedges and hidden benches and—“
“I’d lure you there simply to have you gaze at me precisely as you’re doing now. Stormy-eyed behind those spectacles. All lust and want and need. Flushed that lovely rosy hue, your lips parted as if you mean to be kissed.” Marcus smiled coquettishly at the other man.
Finley adjusted his spectacles again, staring at his lap. “I . . . I am in no such state.”
Marcus shook his head. “You wish to be undone, Mr. Finley, even as you keep yourself tightly fastened up. It’s a losing proposition, though. You might as well concede to the tide of this courtship.”
“Is that what this is? You’re leaping ahead many paces, my lord.” Finley glanced swiftly at the hearth, but a smile played at the edges of his mouth, and the rosy hue upon his cheeks turned downright scarlet. “Wastrel.”
“Mr. Finley. My dearest gentleman. You seem hell-bent on insulting me.”
An elegant black eyebrow cocked upward. “Whereas you seem hell-bent on seducing me.”
Marcus leaned in. “And if I am?”
The eyebrow lowered, and furrowed together with the other sternly. “Then you meet all standing criteria for a rake.”
Marcus placed a palm over his heart. “I am genuinely affronted. And, incidentally, you’ve yet to remove your hip from its seductive place beside my own, nor resituate your shoulder from its cozied position. So perhaps you are naught but a rake in secretarial waistcoat.”
Yet, still, Mr. Alistair Finley didn’t move so much as a hairsbreadth away from Marcus. Instead, those lovely dark eyes cut sideways, holding his own gaze like a fiery pinion. Dear God, but those lashes were even longer than Marcus had previously calculated them to be, like inky velvet against the man’s cheeks whenever he glanced downward. Finley leaned closer to murmur, in a voice coarse as cheap swill, “Apologies, Lord Marcus.”
Marcus gave a polite bob of his head. “Well, I shan’t apologize for my remarks upon your handsome person.”
Finley’s expression grew subdued anew, and he tugged his waistcoat downward self-consciously. “You are kind to call upon me today, Lord Marcus. Whatever brings you to the city?”
“I should think my purpose obvious by now, Mr. Finley.”
“To interrupt my work on behalf of His Majesty?” The helpful tone was accompanied by a sardonic smile. That smile proved Marcus’s undoing; it was so subtle, and unexpectedly charming, coming as it did from one so capable of austerity.
Marcus laid out his plan in a rush of tumbling words. “I wish to invite you to my club for luncheon today. They have the most brilliant potpies, and I swear they are doubly delicious on a frigid day like this one.”
“Potpies?” The question came out gruffly, almost a gentle laugh. Marcus forced himself to look steadily up into Finley’s eyes, and was shocked to see mirth there. Finley added, “I wager you perceive me as a man who can be wooed by his appetites?” The smile remained intact, playfully dear.
“Oh, it’s just that the potpies are so capital, so hearty. My brother Ethan and I often come to town just to indulge in them.”
Finley shook his head, laughing in a rumble. “Potpies,” he repeated in that husky voice.
Marcus leaned closer to him. “If they’re not to your liking, the club has . . . duck, as well. Roast duckling that’s an epicurean’s dream. I’ve no idea why I even made the absurd potpie suggestion. Pardons, sir, you’re far too refined for such simple country fare.” Finley wasn’t a northern lad like Marcus and his brothers—he lived at the bloody palace, didn’t dine like a peasant. “I’m sure there’s steak and—“
“Lord Marcus, you’ve surprised me, ’tis all. That you’d be bold enough to tempt me with what so clearly delights me . . . cuisine of all sorts. Most wouldn’t have dared. And I’m equally impressed at your clever plan for ingratiating yourself with me.” Finley inclined his head toward Marcus’s, warm breath grazing over Marcus’s cheek, the sensation intimate. Arousing. “It’s not hard to guess that I adore pies of all sorts.”
“Aye, I do, as well!” Marcus bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Meat pies, especially.”
Finley coughed, his forearm brushing against Marcus’s. “Meat pies. Yes.” Another cough as the secretary straightened and stared at the fire with renewed composure.
“I . . . really do, Mr. Finley. Love meat pies, that is. It wasn’t meant as tawdry wordplay.” Marcus gave a boy
ish shrug. “Ye’ve no exclusive on enjoying fine food. In fact, I doona mind that ye do. I like that ye do, for I’m a wee bit of an epicurean myself.” Dear God, why had his accent chosen this exact moment to thicken up? It was a betrayer, and surely the other gentleman would recognize that Marcus was frothed up and disconcerted.
But Finley simply turned and graced Marcus with a downright sweet smile. “Then I believe I’d very much like to dine with you at this club. Which one is it, by the way?”
“Abersall’s.” Marcus couldn’t help a flash of pride when he saw the name register with Finley. It wasn’t the finest club among society gentlemen, but it ranked well toward the highest tier, and it was his own membership, not his papa’s. Marcus patted his knees, and prepared to rise. “We will need my carriage. It’s too inclement to walk there, especially in this bracing cold.”
Before Marcus could say another word, Finley’s large hand was on his forearm, shocking in its gentleness. “I won’t hear of it. You’re my guest, even if we are visiting your club. Besides, I wouldn’t mind bringing along a flask of hot toddy for us to share in the privacy of the royal carriage.” Finley rubbed his hands together in obvious anticipation. “I’ll even have my manservant include a flannel throw or two for us, as the weather truly is doomed to worsen.”
Marcus’s heart hammered, running away from him like one of Daniel and Ian’s prized racing horses. The proposition of a royal carriage ride, inclusive of sharing toddies and woolen blankets, was the most singularly romantic thing any gentleman had ever suggested to him. Mr. Alistair Finley, once he became engaged in a courtship of sorts, clearly placed both boots forward.