by Cooper Davis
Alistair tried to avoid Julian and his inquisitive gaze. The prince had begun his relationship with the king not as Arend’s husband, but as his royal concubine. Arend had found the man at an exclusive establishment that catered to the nobility in such matters. Temple Sapphor was renowned for discreetly servicing aristocrats with concubines, kept lovers, and—occasionally—even spouses. As had been the case with Julian and Arend: what had begun as a legally binding agreement, with Jules serving as royal bed servant, had ended in true marital bliss.
Neither Julian’s background at Temple Sapphor nor his own happy marriage had taught the prince to proceed circumspectly in these matters. Naturally, Julian persisted in the unsubtle prying. “But who is he, really?”
Alistair couldn’t help releasing a plaintive sound, thrusting both hands through his hair, disheveling it.
“He’s a duke’s son, as I say. He is handsome and unbelievably talented,” Alistair explained, “and quite a bit younger than I.”
Julian gave him an endearing smile. “Alistair, you were among the first to remark on the significant age difference between Arend and myself. Twelve years, it is. Have you noticed it hindering our love or happiness?” Beautiful Julian stared up at him, his golden cheeks pinked from the fire, and Alistair recalled how envious he’d once felt over the happiness the royal couple had found together.
“You are quite happy, indeed. And, yes, yours is a love I once opposed.”
“Only for the briefest of moments,” Julian added, smiling at him with patient sweetness. But then the prince’s gaze turned shrewd. Alistair could practically see plots forming in his determined friend’s mind.
He wished to stop Julian at the pass, so he feinted with distraction. “Of course, Prince Julian, I’d not yet known the pleasure of becoming your friend then.”
Oh, bollocks. Those golden cat eyes narrowed upon him. “And now you doubt that a duke’s son might possess true intentions toward you?”
“I didn’t mean, well . . . I didn’t precisely say—“
Julian just laughed until he ceased objecting. “You admitted quite a bit, actually. That you’d overestimated your ‘thing’ with the duke’s son, the handsome and talented—“ Julian sat up tall in his seat. “You did say talented, hmm. . . .” Julian rubbed his lightly bearded face. “Musically inclined?”
Arend burst out laughing, then rose and faced Alistair. He planted his hands upon Alistair’s shoulders, looking him square in the eye. “I would imagine your mysterious duke’s son to be none other than Lord Marcus Avenleigh.”
Alistair’s jaw slackened. “However could you possibly name him? So . . . so swiftly, no less?”
Arend gave him a wicked, self-satisfied grin. “Your fondness for redheads. I’ve also witnessed you ogling him on several occasions. Besides, Sam mentioned that Lord Marcus sought your dance card at our wedding reception.”
Alistair’s eyes slid shut. “I’m not certain we suit. In fact, we do not.”
“Because you don’t want anyone to suit you,” Arend muttered. “I am aware—very aware—that gentlemen have expressed interest in you. And several of them have even sought to court you. But you, Fin, prefer your solitude. You always have.”
Alistair disengaged himself and strode to the far side of the room. With a trembling hand, he reached for the decanter of red wine and poured himself a generous refill. Keeping his back to his brother, he thought of all the ways in which he’d enforced his own solitude—perhaps with Arend most of all. He’d had to keep the walls up, for his king must never learn the secrets that he harbored.
Arend could never discover what Alistair himself had learned upon their sire’s death. That Alistair, in fact, was not Arend’s foster brother, but his half brother—a by-blow, the bastard son of their late father. Even if Alistair wished to reveal that truth—if he dared, after so many years of keeping the secret—doing so would violate the stipulations of the late king’s will. Alistair would be stripped of reputation, inheritance, and all that he held dear in this world.
And probably, despite it all, even his own brother’s kind and loving favor.
Arend called out to him, unaware of Alistair’s mounting distress, nor the true cause. “Fin, you may remain with your back to us, but the truth is, if Avenleigh is expressing interest, he’s a fine gentleman with whom to associate.”
Alistair took several sips of the wine, then turned back to face the royal couple. “You do know his reputation is tarnished? He’s been branded a rake by the scandal sheets in the past.”
“You once told me never to read the bloody scandal sheets,” Arend replied. “That they were ‘a source of ill-gotten information and direly conceived plots.’ That, by the way, is a direct quote.”
“I advised against your reading them, as they often speculated about you, my king.” Alistair drained his glass, and reached for whiskey. Wine wasn’t nearly strong enough for this royal pile-on.
This time it was Julian who called out. “Stop fiddling with the wine or whiskey or whatever the devil you’re pouring, and come tell us all.” There was laughter in the prince’s tone. “It’s dead of winter, and I can warm myself around these possibilities.”
Alistair leaned against the sideboard, bracing an elbow as he nursed the whiskey. “It wasn’t only the scandal sheets that savaged Lord Marcus. The . . . incident happened at the height of the season a few years past.”
“Anything earlier than the current season has been mown under by fresher gossip. His father’s the very finest sort. A true sterling character. I shan’t ever forget how he fought for my throne in the Lords Council. Have you spoken with him yet about Lord Marcus?”
“I have not,” Alistair snapped, recalling Marcus’s enthusiasm for both his papa and his brothers, and the implications that he wished Alistair to be part of that family.
Alistair pushed off the sideboard, cursing as he trudged across the room.
“Fin,” Arend admonished. “I suspect you’ve no true objections to Lord Marcus, apart from the fact that he bloody well terrifies you on principle.”
“It wouldn’t be well done of me, your palace secretary, to cavort freely with a young rake. Even you—with as stubbornly careless as you were, seeking Julian from Temple Sapphor—must agree that I should be beyond reproach, for the sake of the crown.”
“You are looking for excuses, reasons to avoid your feelings.” Arend frowned at him sharply. “The Alsderry dukedom is one of the most powerful in the realm. Could anything reflect better upon my palace secretary than his marrying into that family?” Arend took a long sip of wine, eyeing him sharply. “Besides, you’re not simply my secretary, Alistair. You’re my foster brother, and I wish you happy and well married.”
Alistair dragged at his whiskey again, pacing the carpet in front of the seated couple. “It’s been daring enough for you to take a husband, Arend, especially in the wake of your son doing the same. Perhaps the palace is rife with enough of us who prefer males.”
Alistair spun and moved to the sideboard anew, plunking his empty highball down and refilling his glass. “My preferences are not plainly known, as I’ve never had suitors.” He cast a glance over his shoulder, to see if this line of reasoning was being met with bobbing heads of agreement.
Instead, his brother was staring at him in bemused frustration.” Good blazes, Alistair, it’s not two hundred years ago! You’re so thoroughly buttoned-up, you forget some of us are modernists. Most of us, truthfully.”
“And some of us are monarchists, compelled to protect our king from any potential murmuring or damaging innuendoes.”
Arend cursed, giving him an annoyed look. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” His king’s expression became a mix of sympathy and irritation.
Alistair had a notion as to what was coming next. Arend drew a breath and said, “You’re my foster brother, but you’re not from the royal ho
use of Tollemach. Therefore, you may court and marry as you choose, without reproach from the Lords Council or society at large.” Arend sighed heavily, shaking his head. “And you call me stubborn, you blasted dunderhead.”
Not from the royal house. The words burned a painful trail across Alistair’s emotions. He was not of any royal house, at least not officially. But his bloodline spoke a different truth—it just happened that neither Arend nor Prince Julian knew that fact.
He returned the conversation to its original course. “Of course I am not from the House of Tollemach—“
“You’re my brother in every way that signifies.”
Alistair inclined his head, regretting the pained remorse he glimpsed in Arend’s eyes. “I represent you and the crown—the realm—everywhere I go.”
“And your marrying a duke’s son would clearly tarnish my royal name,” Arend retorted sarcastically. He looked to Julian for swift agreement and both men nodded enthusiastically before Arend declared, “Quite right.”
Alistair gave his king a peevish look, then shared the dour glance with Prince Julian. “I wish the both of you to simply forget this conversation.”
Arend laughed. “If you believe my husband likely to overlook this exchange, then you obviously don’t know him very well.” He turned a loving gaze toward Jules, his tone becoming tender. “All that time at Sapphor left a lasting mark on my beloved, I’m afraid.”
Julian rose, strode right toward him, and clasped Alistair’s shoulder affectionately. “I was practically brought up in a haven of matchmakers. Thus, when the time is right, you’ll find me eager to help this suit along. But only when you are ready.” Jules tapped his chin thoughtfully, a smile forming on his lips. “Although, I like the sound of a spring house party . . . perhaps early summer. Either sounds grand for announcing your pending nuptials, dearest Alistair.”
Julian bent down and brushed a kiss over Alistair’s brow, patted his cheek, then whispered, low enough so that Arend wouldn’t overhear, “I realized Lord Marcus interested you on my wedding night. I saw you watching him, Fin. And he’s so beautiful. Do be quick about things?” The prince patted Alistair’s cheek again, as if he were just done shaving him, and then stood upright. “I wonder if dukes’ sons are keen on lawn games.”
“Generally,” Arend declared, reaching for his newspaper, “dukes’ sons seem fond of anything that involves libations, copulations, and generous bank accounts.”
“Splendid,” Alistair returned sarcastically. “I should be all set in that case.”
“So you shall.” Arend gave the morning newspaper a snap, turning the page. “Although I can settle a dowry upon you, if it would further your suit. Just be a good man, and let me know?”
“Why the hell would I ask you for a dowry? I’m far older than Lord Marcus and . . . Wait a bloody minute. Are you two goading me on? Is that what you’re about, you pair of royal arses?” Alistair moved his gaze back and forth between the couple.
Julian laughed, inelegantly.
Arend merely sighed, then lifted his newspaper until his face vanished behind it. “Stop fussing. I want to see my foster brother married, and if a handsome bridal bowery helps that match along . . .”
Jules batted at Arend’s newspaper with a scowl. “Dowry, not bowery,” Jules gently scolded. “Arend, please, darling. Pay attention to our Alistair, and stop mucking about. Really. Has marriage made you dotty? Fin’s likely to come away worried that Lord Marcus has designs on his accounts when we both know he must adore Alistair. How could he not?”
“Quite right, my darling.” Arend obediently folded his newspaper across his lap and grew serious. “Fin, I never meant to imply that Lord Marcus was only interested in a weighty dowry. The Avenleighs are quality and your Lord Marcus, from all I’ve seen, is noble and true—and quite a violinist, no less. Have you told him of your skills?”
Alistair immediately recalled the experience of Marcus making love to him with that violin, whilst none in that gentleman’s club was the wiser. He daren’t ever admit to his clumsy attempts at the violin, not to a true artist like Marcus.
“No,” he answered quietly. “I no longer play, as you know.”
“Criminal, that,” Arend remarked. He turned to Jules. “You’ve no notion just how talented Alistair is, but given your impulse to nag, would you set upon him, my love? Natter and needle until he takes up his instrument anew?”
“Stop it. Both of you.” He growled the words out. “This is not about my paltry talents, nor about . . . the past. I mean nothing to Lord Marcus Avenleigh. Have nothing with or for him. No future, no dowry, no designs, and—“
“I’ll levy whatever dowry you wish. To win the lad and the duke’s favor. Not that you need it,” Arend pronounced slowly, gaze on his own husband. “I mean only that I’ll give you whatever ammunition you feel might help your cause.”
“I need naught, sire. Lord Marcus is a handsome young pup who will soon find an equally handsome young pup for a husband. Young pups are frequently distracted by whatever gold has flashed most recently.”
Julian settled back down in a chair. “A shiny engagement bobble would do well on that count. For all of us. The golden wedding band sort would do best of all. And if you wanted to offer Lord Marcus a matching pair soon, I could begin plans for that house party and then . . .”
Alistair didn’t really hear the rest of whatever Jules was cheerily bleating about, as his own thoughts were already wandering broadly. He only wished that as his mind traveled, it would do so half as merrily as Prince Julian’s own apparently did—with his fluttering smiles and bright eyes. On the man chattered about how they might pass a goodly week in June, should Alistair get off his duff and onto a knee to propose to Lord Marcus Avenleigh.
Alistair endeavored to focus on Julian’s joyous countenance, using that—and his king’s matching look of merriment—as a compass in the storm of his own doubt. He turned to the desk and, glimpsing a neat pile of social invitations and correspondence, he noted one seal in particular. He froze where he stood. “There is a ball next week, on Wednesday eve, at Lord and Lady Ashgrove’s.”
Julian’s eyes grew wide, his expression excited. “Oh, yes. A widely attended ball, no less.”
“Perhaps . . . perhaps I should send Lord Marcus a missive. Express my intent to attend, and my hope to . . .” Damnation, he couldn’t blurt his insane hopes, those fragile fantasies.
“Meet the lord there, yes, yes.” Arend waved the paper in his direction. He feigned disinterest, but Alistair saw the gleam in the man’s eyes. Both Jules and Arend hoped Alistair would make a successful match with Marcus.
Therefore, if they hoped—and Marcus hoped—and Alistair himself dreamed, then perhaps those dreams were not so dangerous after all.
“I’ll write to him posthaste,” he said, blindly leaving the apartment and heading for his office on the next floor down.
Chapter Nine
Lord Marcus,
Thank you for luncheon and sharing your rich violin talents with me. Next week, I shall attend Lord and Lady Ashgrove’s ball. Might you attend as well? I should welcome seeing you there.
Yours,
Mr. Alistair Finley
Marcus had received the missive but one day after their luncheon at Abersall’s. He’d immediately penned a reply, expressing his eagerness to see Alistair at the Ashgroves’ ball.
The five intervening days since had passed with crawling efficiency, hours spreading into yet more hours, as Marcus excitedly awaited this night.
After two years of watching Alistair from afar, Marcus would finally attend a fete with the gentleman he desired. Although perhaps to deem them as attending together was not entirely accurate, for Alistair had not suggested that they share a carriage, nor offered to escort him to the ball. In fact, the vagueness of the “invitation” had caused quite the ruckus among his brothers who—to the man�
�believed Alistair should have pressed a genuine suit. The lot of them argued that Finley should have invited Marcus to attend the ball with him. Ethan had even suggested that Marcus make bold and simply ask Alistair to accompany him.
“Would ye bloody goons sod off, and allow me to decide what’s best?” Marcus had demanded. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
His papa quietly interjected, “Mr. Finley is an upright, conservative man. We know he’s a reticent sort, so his invitation suits him. And me.”
And thus that, in the Avenleigh household, was that.
* * *
* * *
After days of breathless anticipation, Marcus had alighted from his coach tonight filled with blossoming hopes. For if Alistair hadn’t wished to continue their courtship, he’d not have written Marcus at all.
Marcus pressed through a heavily crowded portico, his gaze already searching for Alistair’s proud form. The man’s head of glossy black hair always stood out above all the rest. Marcus’s mind rioted, eager thought after eager thought spinning him mad.
What would Alistair be wearing this evening?
Would he have taken special care, striving to appear especially winning for their rendezvous?
Rendezvous. That word alone was enough to fill Marcus’s head with thoughts of shadowed corners, stolen liberties.
Marcus moved down a long, columned hallway, nudged along by the many gentlemen and ladies crowding all about. Tapers flickered and guttered in wall sconces, creating a lacy play of romantic darkness and light. The sweet scent of flowers perfumed the air of the marble-floored hallway. A footman pressed past him, pausing to dip and offer a tray of champagne. Marcus claimed one, and moved to the far end of the long hall, beckoned by the sound of husky laughter and the pleasing scent of cigar smoke.