by Cooper Davis
Swallowing hard, Marcus managed, “That sounds most lovely.” And cozy and intimate, and oh-so-very-dangerous. Sharing a private carriage, sipping spirits together on this cold winter’s day. For even rusticating northern lads knew that sharing whiskey and warm blankets and intimate proximity with another fellow—in a romantic carriage, with snowflakes drifting lazily earthward—easily led not just to a kiss or two. But quite often to yanking carriage shades down, and tupping each other senseless while the driver kept you trundling along.
“Excellent,” Finley announced, oblivious to how far Marcus’s fantasies had galloped ahead of them both. “Let’s carry on, then, shall we? I’ll lead the way.”
Chapter Five
Much to Marcus’s breathless satisfaction, Alistair guided him down the marble steps and toward the awaiting coach. “Here we are, Lord Marcus.” Finley pressed a gentle hand to the small of Marcus’s back—such a deferential, almost tender gesture, the sort usually reserved for a person one wanted to protect.
Marcus shivered beneath the feel of Finley’s large palm, electrified by physical awareness—if the man were to slip that hand just a bit lower, he’d be touching Marcus’s buttocks. And that thought set Marcus’s groin on fire, hardening him instantly.
Deuces, but Marcus had to rein himself in. Although it was hardly his fault that Finley smelled so damned delicious, and was beautifully dressed, and kept touching Marcus.
Still, giving the starchy gentleman an eyeful of bulging trouser wasn’t likely the best launch to this courtship, nor the best way to redeem his “tarnished” reputation in the fellow’s eyes.
Alistair allowed a footman to see Marcus settled within the carriage first, then mounted the block. With a heavy whoosh of breath, he dropped onto the bench across from Marcus, setting a leather satchel on the floor between them. In the compact space, their legs tangled together, knees bumped inelegantly, yet neither moved to accommodate the other. Finley adjusted his greatcoat, securing it discreetly over his lap; a pity as the garment had fallen open across his thighs in a revealing manner.
It took some control, but Marcus abstained from leaning forward and yanking that pesky greatcoat open from hip to hip. Especially as he wished to ogle the man’s groin, his pearl buttons on that front flap, and—oh, yes—a sensual bulge betwixt those lovely thighs. Marcus had to swallow, hard, to steady his racy imaginings.
He caught Mr. Finley’s glance on him as he finally raised his gaze from the fellow’s lap. An elegant black brow raised ever so slightly.
“Lord Marcus?” The prompt carried a hint of sardonic awareness, a charming smile pulling at the edge of those full lips.
Marcus leaned back, dramatically securing his own greatcoat about his hips and lap. “Yes. Well, I suppose we’ve covered that with nary a word.”
Finley laughed, a raspy, low sound that burned like fire in Marcus’s belly. “And yet”—Finley rumbled with mirth—“I heard your objection, and your interest, even as naught passed your lips.”
“My objection? I assure you that I’d never object to a better view, dear sir.”
“You disdained—if that’s a better word—both my greatcoat and its buttons, or perhaps you merely resent the garment’s presence at large. You voiced a similar objection only yestereve.”
Marcus smiled. “The garment’s handsome, as is the man it presently conceals. I so need to congratulate your tailor and his skill in accenting all the grandest parts of you.”
“The grandest parts of me?” Finley sputtered, leaning back into his seat and locking fingers across his midsection. Almost as if in rebuttal to Marcus’s words.
“You are both handsome and magnificent, my dear Mr. Finley.”
In reaction, Finley’s ears turned scarlet in the most endearing way. “I knew your momentary silence was a passing whimsy.”
“Don’t count on my being quiet too often.”
“No. I wouldn’t wager it’s a standard occurrence, gauging by my experience thus far.”
Marcus leaned forward confidingly. “If it’s any comfort, my brothers are far worse yammerers than I.”
“It certainly makes me grateful that they’ve not set their cap for me,” Finley returned, smoothing a gloved hand over his lap, much to Marcus’s distinct disappointment. He wasn’t quite off that fantasy of yanking the wool open, but there the darling man was, busily securing his modesty.
Finley caught his eye and held the gaze significantly. Merriment danced in the man’s eyes, and he admonished, “No more looking, my lord.” Those wine-colored lips lifted, revealing a mischievous smile, the man’s cheeks turning rosy anew. Yet shy Alistair Finley was flirting, there was no mistaking it.
And that made Marcus blush, too.
Marcus quickly averted his gaze and glanced admiringly about the luxurious coach interior. It was impressive, with all that black leather, polished to a sheen, and matching leather handholds. There were fine brass lanterns expressly for nighttime travel. The conveyance was, beyond any doubt, the most elegant one Marcus had ever known the pleasure of riding in.
As they jostled into a rolling movement, entering the city streets, Finley glanced out the window once, then returned his intelligent gaze to Marcus. And did not move it. No glancing away, not as he’d done repeatedly in the parlor.
“So, Lord Marcus, tell me something.” His gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Why have you decided to pursue me? Honesty, please. Your generous compliments of last evening and today were . . . kindly indulgent. Yet you have offered more than compliments—you’ve ferried yourself all the way to town today, despite the imminent blizzard.” Finley delved into his satchel, producing a flask, and as soon as he uncapped it, took a swig.
“Overstated, that. Horribly.” Marcus glanced out the window at the gunmetal gray sky. “I doubt we shall see more than a mere inch or two of snow.”
“My lord.” The tone was playfully censorious, with Finley glancing at him over the rims of his spectacles—he’d again turned schoolmaster-stern, yet with a hint of something quite naughty. “It shall likely snow for hours, so you must actually mean to pursue me. Otherwise, you’d have stayed home by the family hearth, playing chess and petting hounds upon the head. Or whatever it is a duke’s fourth son does on a day when a foot of snow is bound to fall upon his father’s holdings.” Alistair extended the flask to Marcus. “Hmm?”
Marcus sighed, taking the container from the man, and downed a swig of his own. “You’ve a way with irony and stern distraction. Is that a palace maneuver, something they teach in kingly secretarial school?”
Finley made a harrumphing sound. “I attended university, not a correspondence course specializing in royal comportment.”
“I am aware that you are quite finely educated, sir.”
That remark earned him a sudden glance of surprise. Marcus pursed his lips, then recited methodically what he’d long ago learned of the man: “Mr. Alistair Finley studied at the king’s very best university—Corrals—obtaining a secondary in history and a primary in maths. You likewise pursued a third in literature, but duties at home necessitated your return to the palace—and our king—before you could complete that degree.”
Finley gave him a slack-jawed, somewhat admiring look. “You sound like a bloody reporter for one of the city financials.” The gentleman shook his head, disbelieving. “A sleuth, you are.”
“No. I have simply begun my ardent, dedicated pursuit of you, my handsome sir. I stated my intentions at Lady Elsevier’s and again at the royal offices. Shall I make bold a third time?”
“It matters not that I rebuffed you and your suit?” Finley blinked at him, shifting a bit so that their knees suddenly pressed together with greater solidity.
A thrill shot up Marcus’s spine, spearing him in the bollocks like a lightning bolt. “You haven’t rebuffed it today.”
Finley extended a gloved hand for their shared flask. “S
imply because you haven’t ceased chattering long enough for me to register general objections,” he said, taking a much longer draw from the flask.
“Come now, Mr. Finley. We struggled through several moments of awkward silence in your parlor but moments ago.”
Finley smiled, staring at his lap. “You’ve a way with spinning my head about, I fear.”
“I suspect you know exactly what you want with me. From me.” Marcus paused, letting the brave statement hit its mark. Finley stared out the window, but said nothing, so Marcus continued. “You, sir, long for my pursuit, despite all the fevered objections to the contrary. You are at odds with yourself—one minute, opening to me, ever so slightly—and the next buttoning yourself back up. You crave what I offer, but it frightens you.”
Finley swung a stare in his direction. “I am not frightened.” At that moment, they hit a rough patch in the road, and were knocked toward each other, their thighs brushing together. Finley stiffened at the intimacy, then sighed, relaxing into his seat. But he did not move his thigh.
“Uncertain, then. In strange territory where you never thought to find yourself, not with any gentleman. Much less this upstart highlander.” Marcus tipped his head, hinting at a chivalrous bow. “We northern lads have a way with our hearts. And likewise, how we set about intimacy. Brashly. Loudly. Without reservation. You’ve heard, no doubt, how northern lads like myself . . . love.”
“L-love?” Finley sputtered, then took a long draw from his flagon. After an additional taste, he wiped his mouth with the back of one gloved hand. A small amber stain formed over the white-clad knuckles, and Marcus found himself gazing at the imperfection. It was easier than acknowledging the arousal stirring deep in his being, the hunger of it—the ravenous quality of his craving. He’d never known any need quite like this one.
Finley didn’t seem to notice. He was busily staring down into the throat of the uncapped container, as if seeking fathomless answers. “But why . . . whyever such interest in me? A gentleman without rank or title, possessing only modest fortune. I am not socially significant enough to warrant this avid interest from a duke’s son.” Finley held the flask to his lips, then paused, examining Marcus shrewdly, as if he were that schoolmaster. “And I am,” he pronounced, “quite a bit older than you, my lord. I must own at least a decade on you.”
Marcus snorted a laugh. “I am nearly nine and twenty, sir! I have a youthful look but am well and truly a man.” Marcus met the other man’s startled gaze squarely. “So there is but seven years betwixt us. That piddling span hardly signifies.”
“I’m soon to be seven and thirty,” the secretary balked, after a moment of seeming to gather his wits anew.
“Oh, bother! So there’s nearly eight years between us. That gap matters naught. Not to me, nor to my papa. And he couldn’t give a fig about hoarding greater fortune in the family coffers, incidentally. Although—to be fair, Mr. Finley—you’ve plenty of wealth all your own, demure denials and protests aside. All of good society knows it. Besides, your city townhouse is four stories tall, which is hardly a modest holding.”
“You spoke”—Finley swallowed hard, twice, his grip on the flask becoming punishing—“with the duke about me?” He chanced an upward look, his beautiful eyes bright with an emotion Marcus couldn’t decipher.
“Of course. My papa and I are extremely close, and I would never have pressed this suit without his approval. Had he objected, the venture would have only ended in heartache for both of us. I would never have left you prey to the unraveling of such an outcome.” Marcus leaned forward, intent, covering one of Finley’s gloved hands briefly with his own. “I would not . . . hurt you so callously, nor wish to hurt you at all, Mr. Finley. My father admires you, sir. He was keenly impressed by how you recently helped mount the counter-move against the Council on behalf of our king.”
“Admires me,” Alistair repeated almost wondrously. “The sentiment, Lord Marcus, you may be assured, is mutual. The duke is a very good man.”
“Even if he has a rakehell, reprobate, fallen fourth son?” Marcus jested, glancing playfully at Finley from behind half-lowered lashes. He meant the glance to scald, to provoke—and certainly to tease, as if Marcus were, indeed, the licentious fellow Finley had painted him to be yestereve.
“Even so.” Finley laughed, staring at their joined hands, then cautiously rotated his palm, allowing their fingers to thread together oh-so-tentatively. Then he dared an upward, unsteady glance at Marcus, meeting his gaze with onyx, emotion-filled eyes. “But why me?” This question was more fervent for its repeating, raw with that ragged, unidentified emotion. “Lord Marcus, whyever would you have set your cap on a gentleman like me in the first place?”
“Like you?”
He received a caustic glance from over the man’s spectacle rims, before Finley dislodged his hand from Marcus’s. “We needn’t traverse that territory again. You know the matter of man I am. Stout—“
“Stout. Spinster.” Marcus ticked the excuses off with his fingertips. “Aged. Prim.” He sighed. “I refuse to wallow about in such asinine justifications again.”
“The assessments are true, Lord Marcus.” Finley sniffed. “Although I never claimed to be prim.”
“Imagine, but I conjured that one up all on my own. And at least I was accurate. The rest are ridiculous and not worthy of my notice.”
“Clearly one of my very accurate claims can’t evade your notice.” Finley adjusted his weight on the bench, as if to underscore his point. “’Tis a wonder there was room for you at all in this carriage.” Midnight brows drew sharply together, a wincing expression passing over the gentleman’s features before he quickly shuttered away his vulnerability.
“I am dearly grateful for such intimate, cozy contact with you. I dreamed of such an outcome and most frequently, to be honest. That you’re portly and grand is only a benefit, sir. A much desired one at that. Precisely as I explained yestereve.”
“Daft fellow,” Finley muttered, staring at his lap to avoid Marcus’s intent gaze. But Marcus refused to allow that retreat, either emotionally or physically. Finley’s palms were resting on his upper thighs, and Marcus leaned forward, seizing those big hands. Marcus’s fingertips grazed scandalously near the fellow’s manhood, jolting Finley visibly. The action unsettled the flask, which had been resting against the man’s hip, not quite tipping it over.
For the briefest moment, Finley’s gaze tracked to the flagon, as if he were torn between taking Marcus’s hands in earnest—or reaching for his liquor. There was a desperate neediness in that glance that Marcus tried hard to ignore, much as he wanted to pretend the man’s instinct had not been to grasp for his liquor rather than Marcus himself. Finley tore his gaze away from that flask and with painstaking slowness, clasped Marcus’s hands in return.
Only then did Marcus reply to the question that had hung in the air between them for several moments. “I am in pursuit of you, Mr. Finley, because I can no longer help myself. I’m beyond restraint, past the point of circumspect glances across crowded ballrooms.” Marcus’s words tumbled out in a determined rush, like a coursing northern river. “I am unable to cease thinking of you,” he continued breathlessly. “From the moment I glimpsed you, my course altered. No other male could ever suit, would ever suit. Not once I witnessed—not after I glimpsed what I did, when I first encountered you.”
Finley leaned forward on the bench, rapt, dark eyes fixed on Marcus with undisguised fascination. Large, sturdy hands tightened about Marcus’s own. “And what is it that you observed, my lord?” The inquiry was gentle, a near-whisper—proving a balm to Marcus’s burning face and unsteady emotions.
Marcus tried to settle himself, at least enough to provide a coherent answer about the moment Finley had set him to permanent flame.
When he sought for words, and found none, Finley leaned into him, his knees pressing intimately against Marcus’s own. The gentlema
n’s mouth parted, and after a moment, he breathed one word, the plea rumbling forth. “Please.”
Oh, dear God. The sound of Finley begging? The purring of that single word, the way it vibrated with need, and was backed by a hint of desperation? It nearly unmanned Marcus on the spot.
Marcus had to swallow, aware that he trembled slightly. “If you must know, I observed you listening to a chamber quartet, at a gala some two years previous.”
“A quartet? That has set such fire in you, Lord Marcus?”
Marcus stared at their joined hands—it would be impossible for Finley to truly fathom how that singular moment had stirred him. “I was . . . struck by the enraptured expression upon your face during the violin solo, the way you listened, so attuned, as if the music were playing through you, not simply for you or to you. I was enraptured myself. And it was as if . . . as if we shared some secret intimacy during that performance. As if it were our moment.”
Rather than acknowledge the intimate confession, the vulnerability of it, Finley dislodged his hands from Marcus’s anew. “I appreciate the violin most keenly.” The words were terse, surprisingly so, and the man’s face had grown impossible to read.
Marcus feared he’d misstepped somehow. “I am likewise a violinist,” he added swiftly, “Perhaps you are aware?”
Finley reared back, inexplicably. “No. No, I—I’m surprised to hear of your musicianship. I will admit to ignorance about that particular part of your appeal.”
“That particular part?” The man was finally owning his reciprocal interest. Marcus must have positively beamed in pleasure.
“I’m aware of many aspects of your appeal, Lord Marcus. I dissembled with you last night, claiming—most preposterously—that I had not been . . . was not fully aware of you. You knew even then that I could make no such claim.” Finley smiled down at his lap, shyly swiping at a lock of hair. “Not when you’ve felt my gaze upon you for these past seasons, ball after ball, garden party after garden party, musicale after musicale.”