by Cooper Davis
They hit another rut in the road, and were jostled forward, closer across that space betwixt them. Instinctively, Marcus reached a steadying hand to Finley’s arm, and was instantly electrified by that simplest of contact. It was as if the man’s body, concealed and bound by so much wool and fabric, was naked to him. There was the flexing of strong forearm, the subtle shift of muscle as Finley braced his body, and with that bracing, Marcus swore he felt a growing heat.
With a slow caress along the man’s arm, Marcus drew in a steadying breath. “So you see, sir, ever since the night of that violin solo, I’ve been keenly aware of you,” Marcus confessed before he could stop himself. “And that awareness has been madness to me, a fever of constant awakening. Watching you from afar has all but driven me to the brink, Mr. Finley. Or if I may dare . . . Alistair?”
Finley reached and touched Marcus’s hand where it still rested upon his forearm. “You dared last night. The sound of my name on your lips . . .” Alistair gave his head a slight, disbelieving shake. “Yes, you may dare that intimacy . . . as oft as you like.” He gave Marcus’s hand a small squeeze of encouragement, before withdrawing that brief touch.
“I shall dare far greater intimacies now that I have made my move at long last. And I shan’t relent, not till I capture you.”
* * *
* * *
Captured him? Captured as if he were a butterfly, with Lord Marcus possessing the net. Or perhaps with Alistair some wild prey that the younger man pursued upon horseback.
Alistair could barely breathe. His trousers were damnably tight, pulling across his hips, but he daren’t readjust himself, lest he lose this scorching, intimate contact with the young lord. He glanced out the window, his natural reticence swamping him whole.
He’d never before been alone with any suitor in a carriage, much less one who seemed determined to seduce him. Bloody hell, he’d never been alone with any suitor, save rare occasions where he’d taken turns about drawing rooms, footmen watching and smirking over the awkward spectacle. This closed space, so private, might as well be Alistair’s bedchamber. And there sat Lord Marcus, studying him and waiting for some response to his declaration.
I shan’t relent, not till I capture you.
Alistair had to bite back a groan, his cock giving a wicked kick within his trousers.
Where shall you capture me? he ached to murmur, with equal seduction in his tone.
He opened his mouth, began to say something, and then clamped it shut. Lord Marcus smiled at him, downright serenely, obviously determined to wait out Alistair’s turmoil and hesitation.
That bright-eyed young lord couldn’t know how very close he was to having all that he wanted from Alistair—and then some. Conservative secretary Alistair might be, but his hands burned to pull that lovely fellow right upon his own expansive lap and kiss him positively senseless. Gallantry, polite society, and his role at the palace be damned.
Alistair yearned to kiss Lord Marcus until those rosebud lips—nothing masculine about them—were swollen and damp. Until the carriage rolled to a stop and they drew down the blinds and wrenched clothing off each other, and dared much, much greater intimacies than addressing each other by their given names.
Would the eager, handsome gentleman be scandalized? Avenleigh certainly had a tarnished reputation, yet there was something untried and innocent in the way he regarded Alistair, a way that already had him feeling protective of the young lord.
It would be horribly easy to ruin Lord Marcus, and not with a risqué ravaging in the carriage. Nor in the fashion of that rumored kiss with the earl. No, it would be about the lord’s pure, open, exuberant heart, that ruination. Alistair traced a gloved finger along the carriage window, gaze fixed on the rolling streets beyond, and admitted softly, “I should have attempted a waltz with you last night. I was an imbecile.” He kept his fingertips against the window, but chanced a quick look at Marcus. “I could not honestly believe you fancied me.”
“There will be other balls.” The loveliest green eyes Alistair had ever seen sparkled with mischief. Full of light and life, so vitally beautiful that Alistair’s breath caught.
Alistair shook his head, filled with somber regret. “Ah, but that is likely the only gala where either of us would feel free, truly free enough, to dance together so publicly. Especially as now the height of the season awaits and I remain a man with royal duties. I have missed the moment, I fear.”
Those beautiful green-blue eyes gazed at him hopefully. “We might waltz in private.”
“Without music?”
Marcus shrugged. “We would make our own.”
A bubbling sensation built inside Alistair until it demanded release. “You are the genuine article, Lord Marcus.” He laughed. “Can you see why I might have thought you mad? You are a romantic. And I am . . .” He laughed again, staring down at gloved hands, clasped in his lap. “This man finds it fortuitous that you favor husky fellows, as he himself is fond of redheads.”
“You fancy . . .”
“Redheads,” Finley repeated confidingly. “You’ve a fixation on men of significant size, Lord Marcus? Well I likewise have my own particular tastes.” Alistair’s eyes narrowed as he feigned a study of Marcus’s merits, even though he was well acquainted with them. “Although to be fair, that hue is far too exquisite to be deemed simply red. There’s too much copper and amber flirting with the brunet strands. Ah, but I digress.” Alistair uncapped his flask, then took a deep swig and added, “Of course, I would be remiss if I did not further note that I am exquisitely partial to eyes of green, hinting at blue.”
Marcus settled back into the seat, clearly dumbstruck.
Alistair grinned in kind, feeling proud that he’d taken the courtly young lord by surprise. “I only knew my own preferences,” he added with a gutsier grin, one full of swagger and barely won confidence. “But now, thankfully—perhaps for us both—I have apprehended your tastes, as well.” He offered Marcus the flask, and the lord seized it. He managed a few shaky sips, his whole body trembling visibly. Alistair watched the younger man’s unsettled reaction, and felt awakened, realizing the power he held over such a beautiful, charismatic male. Had his own compliments truly undone Avenleigh, and so swiftly?
Marcus stared down at the flask, seeming to consider another go at the thing.
“By all means, drink up, Lord Marcus,” he advised on a throaty purr. “I like young men with a bit of flush on their cheeks. Makes me think . . . of vigorous pleasantries.”
This time, God love him, Marcus was the one to gasp. And the one to stare in ribald shock at Finley. “Vigorous pleasantries?”
“With an equal emphasis on each word.” Alistair settled back and smiled seductively, aware that he’d become loosened by the hot toddies . . . and the two shots of whiskey he’d downed in his office earlier in the morning. And the quick dousing of rum he’d enjoyed in his coffee at roughly half-eleven. Had he known Avenleigh would be calling, he’d likely have been foxed by ten a.m. from the sheer terror such an event would induce. So, the present state of affairs could have been even worse.
Much worse indeed, had the duke’s son learned that Mr. Alistair Finley lived in his cups more often than not, and was quite the expert at ensuring the rest of the world never realized that fact. “Ah,” Alistair said, as the carriage began rolling to a stop. “We’ve arrived at the bastion of potpies and cigars and, undoubtedly, masculine intimacies, as well.”
Marcus only stared at him, likely shocked by how forward Alistair had become, as well as by the seductive words themselves.
Chapter Six
Marcus stood back, allowing the majordomo to escort them into a snug dining room, one with leather chairs and mahogany tabletops and walls covered in tooled leather. The low-ceilinged room was steeped in age and cigars and savored whiskey. It fairly shouted of illicitly whispered secrets. No wonder Marcus spied a particular pair of y
oung lords—heads bent near—hands brushing together as they conversed.
He caught Finley eyeing the couple, a strange expression passing over his features. When he swiveled that gaze back upon Marcus, there was unmistakable hunger in the man’s eyes. “There are naught but gentlemen in this intimate room.” Mr. Finley shifted in his leather chair, settling his weight as they were seated.
“It is, after all, a gentleman’s club.”
“Not entirely what I meant.” Finley’s voice had turned husky, his gaze wandering anew to those lords, who were now unabashedly holding hands. “There’s a freedom here not often experienced at other clubs about town.” His tone of voice was sumptuous, filled with fiery heat.
Marcus met that fire with flirtation of his own. “Certain you’re not fashioning your own desires, and painting them upon those other fellows?”
Alistair dropped his gaze to his menu, clearing his throat. “What I desire at present,” he said, “are some of those infamous potpies.”
“You’re certain that’s what you wish to consume just now, Mr. Finley?”
A laugh rumbled from deep within Alistair’s chest. “You can’t blame me for eagerness, not when you’ve hawked the bloody pies at me like a three-pence whore.”
Dear God, there was something affecting about Finley mentioning whores so offhandedly. Marcus released an unsettled laugh. “I’m a lad from the moors, not the city, even though I lived in town for years. I fear my tastes run to the . . . earthier side.”
“Lord Marcus, I relish bangers, mash, and a good meat pie like the commonest of men. And don’t forget: I’m hardly titled. I’m a gentleman without rank.”
“Yes, I have heard a perpetual earful on that count since yestereve.”
“Because it’s relevant”—Finley’s expression grew darker—“to this whimsical pursuit of yours. You are the son of a duke, and I but a professional gentleman.”
“Ooh, that sounds naughty, what with you mentioning whores only a moment previous. What shall I pay you to do, Finley?”
“We can negotiate a settlement—one that involves you leaving me be,” Alistair volunteered, although his tone was mirthful.
“But then who would you bitch and bark at? His Majesty?”
Finley rumbled that whiskey laugh of his. “No, King Arend only ignores me when I take that tack. So tell me—why aren’t you concerned with my lack of title?”
“Sir, I’m but a duke’s fourth son. You, by contrast, were raised as foster brother to our king, in the grandest palace here or abroad. It should be evident who trumps whom in this particular power tussle.”
Finley chuckled and began neatly removing his gloves. “A power tussle between a palace foundling and a duke’s son.” His laugh grew huskier. “That has a certain . . . allure to it. The tussling, not my barely having sidestepped the orphanage.”
Marcus burst out laughing. “And said tussle is won by the palace foundling and dastardly potpie aficionado.”
Finley studied him from beneath half-lowered lashes. “Roué.” The tone was perfect; unflappable and cool.
“That is your best?” Marcus leaned forward in his seat. “To call me an unsporting name?”
Finley shrugged. “I already won, you said so yourself.”
“Damn it. You’re right.”
Finley smiled, dimples appearing. “I most often am. And I’m right in this, as well.” Finley leaned closer to the table, midnight eyes fixed on Marcus, and lowered his voice. “Roué you may be, Lord Marcus, but you are quite, quite beautiful.”
Marcus opened his mouth to object, or deflect the compliment, but Finley lifted a regal hand, waving him off. “Or handsome, if you prefer, but that doesn’t seem quite strong enough for the point.” Finley studied him, then pronounced with obvious satisfaction, “Beautiful. Yes, that’s the word . . . since we’re trading barbs.”
Marcus chewed his lip, staring down at the cutlery. “Beautiful is a barb?” he asked, voice rough with arousal.
Finley laughed. “It is when the lad across from me is as dangerous as you are. I must counteract your threat somehow. A disarming compliment seems as suitable a form of self-protection as any.”
Marcus looked up swiftly. “Mr. Finley, I wouldn’t . . .”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Yet the longer we sit and gaze at each other, and the longer you blush like that . . . the more incendiary you become to my well-being.”
“I would not hurt you,” Marcus told him earnestly.
After a moment, Finley gave him an inscrutable smile. “Just say thank you, Lord Marcus.”
The hearth beside their table crackled when a log shifted in the grate. All around them, the quiet sound of conversation hummed, and the room was redolent with the aroma of expensive brandy and cigars. Yet it might as well have been but the pair of them, at that table.
Marcus was so caught off guard, he barely managed to serve up a quiet, “Thank you, Mr. Finley. Most kind.”
“Honest. Not kind.” Finley’s face warmed, just as Marcus’s had, although perhaps it was from the roaring fire. The small, intimate room only made the familiarity growing between them distinctly palpable. Or perhaps it was the dark, stormy sensuality that Marcus glimpsed in the other man’s eyes as he leaned slightly forward in the chair again, and placed one hand on the table, so near to Marcus’s own. As that fine hand was no longer gloved, for the first time Marcus could see its strength.
Finley studied him, tilting his face to the side. “I should think a man of your merit and title would have received many suits—with all manner of accompanying praise, murmured from honeyed, wealthy lips.”
Marcus smiled. “You are not the only gentleman to rebuff suitors, sir. But once my eye found you . . . well, my father would tell you that none other could capture my regard.”
“But shouldn’t the Duke of Alsderry wish even a fourth son settled into a plum arrangement?” Alistair shifted in his chair, tugging his waistcoat downward.
Marcus shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “He’s not the duke to me, only my loving papa who wishes me married well.”
“Married well. Well.” Finley rapped knuckles on the table’s burnished wood as if he were a croupier. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
Marcus rapped his own knuckles in kind. “Really. Do you think you can manage not to appear so self-satisfied?”
“I’ll do my best.” Finley waved a magnanimous hand. “Carry on, Lord Marcus.”
Marcus cleared his throat. “Well here’s the thing of it, the missing angle of this equation—as I’ve noted your appreciation for complex maths. My papa’s theorem for a good marriage is this: a union bound by love at every angle and on every side.”
Finley rumbled a laugh, shaking his head. “Love calculated by my university don would likely leave my eyes crossing.”
“That’s doubtful, with you the schoolmarm, possessing both ruler and sextant,” Marcus said. “Well, and there’s the matter of the spectacles. There is that, of course.”
“Which equals three, my lord,” Finley said. “You obviously did not progress far in your own study of simplest arithmetic.”
“I had to leave something for my would-be husband to lord over me. Seems intricate algebraic equations are as good an item as any.”
“Not if you wish to look beyond the schoolroom.” Finley quirked an eyebrow. “But if you do look beyond, there are quite a few knowledge bases with which a would-be husband could . . . overcome you.”
“Hellfire, Finley. Just say it: you long to truss me up and overpower me. Don’t worry, either should suit me perfectly as wedding night entertainment.”
“In but the span of a carriage ride and luncheon, you’ve cast us quite far from this gentleman’s club. But I don’t suppose many people attempt to rein in dukes’ sons, fourth or otherwise, instead allowing them to run pell-mell
over any who might impede fulfillment of desires.”
“No, Finley, I’m not that spoilt—at least, not like that.”
“Then how precisely are you?” Finley leaned back in his chair, linking hands across his midriff. “We’ve nowhere to be, save here. Enlighten me, by all means.”
Marcus lifted a finger, wagging it subtly. “Your palace tone won’t work on me.”
Finley’s jaw went slack for a moment before he finally managed, “That is not my ‘palace tone.’”
“Actually, I’m sure it must be. Useful, no doubt, when misbehaving lads and pups and parlor maids are brought to you by the scruff of the neck—and you inspect them over the rims of those arousing spectacles.”
“You may be the only gentleman to ever describe spectacles as arousing.”
“I’d wager oculists make a stab at it near daily.”
Finley gave him a downright sweet smile, full of genuine warmth and enthrallment. It was unguarded, open, and quite endearing. The man steepled his fingertips. “Do carry on as to how you’re spoilt, Lord Marcus.”
“Because of the life I want,” Marcus finally answered. Then he leaned over the table, in order to be heard, now that Finley had relaxed into his own seat. “My family and I are from a rugged land of moors and sheep and rolling hills, a place of large hearths and snow aplenty. Unlike most of the nobility, we—my brothers, my papa, myself—are unimpressed by titles and wealth. We have enough. I have enough on my own that I may consider a husband and a life with any fellow of my choosing.”
Marcus paused, searching Finley’s face, but the man had quite the poker countenance, and his expression revealed naught. Marcus soldiered onward, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety in his belly. “I crave a simple life, really. One of joy and comfort with another man, a husband, with whom I build a life. Of course, I wish for other things,” he said roughly. “That the fine male warming my bed is one with whom I share passion and genuine love. And children, family. When the time is right, of course.”