by Cooper Davis
Ethan, who had accompanied him to the ball, had been swept up with some university friends, leaving Marcus to search for Alistair on his own. He hadn’t the first notion where to locate the man, given the density of the crowd tonight. Why hadn’t Alistair done as his brothers suggested, and offered to escort him here? Or suggested something akin to, “Shall we meet in the portico at half-eight?”
However, the man’s missive alone had been a downright intrepid move for shy Alistair Finley.
Marcus moved farther down the grand hall, ducking his head into a card room filled with relaxed gentlemen, laughter, and dense smoke creating a curtain about the space. He didn’t find Alistair in that room, but was hardly surprised. Although the man did favor cards, Marcus had only ever witnessed him gracing such rooms once or twice over the past two years. Alistair always hung to the edges of the crowds and comported himself with singular grace at all societal events.
Marcus was just beginning to feel like a lonely wallflower himself, when Ethan came up behind him. His brother clapped a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “So, I’m finally to meet the elusive Mr. Finley?” Ethan laughed suggestively, waggling his brows. “That is, if you don’t pull him off to some dark garden path.”
Marcus shot his brother a disbelieving look. “My history with darkened gardens has not, thus far, met with Mr. Finley’s approval.”
“Introduce him to the wonders of a hidden box hedge, and I wager he’ll not complain about your penchant for midnight assignations. The fellow shouldn’t be so missish.”
“One. One assignation and you know the truth of what happened.”
Ethan’s hand went to his hair, an unexpectedly unsettled expression upon his face. He always knew when his brother was hiding a secret, or attempting—and failing at—concealment of something. “Do you wish to say anything further regarding the incident with Lord Harcourt?”
Ethan gave him a strangely unreadable smile. “No . . . I was thinking about how you might overcome Finley and said missish behavior.”
“Mr. Finley’s not so very missish, as it turns out.”
Ethan prowled near, eyes wide with salacious interest. Turning wolfish, he purred, “Oh, brother, do tell.”
“Absolutely not.” Marcus shook his head resolutely. “I refuse to encourage you.”
Ethan’s outright disappointment showed on his freckled face. He loathed being excluded from any choice gossip, particularly as pertained to this suit of Marcus’s.
Ethan made his gaze distant, forcing an expression of pouty disinterest.
“Deuces, do you have to look so bloody crestfallen?” When Ethan pointedly ignored him, Marcus groaned in exasperation. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “I’ll confess.”
Ethan swung his gaze back upon him, alight with interest. Marcus cuffed the back of his neck. Sotto voce, he said, “Finley kissed my hand in the carriage after luncheon last week.”
“With your glove on?” Ethan obviously expected greater detail.
“He unfastened it, removed it, and savaged my hand.” There, that should suffice, and his brother would stop prodding.
But no. “Were the shades raised or down?”
“Bollocks, brother. Stop it!” he insisted firmly.
But just the memory of that scalding kiss to Marcus’s knuckles set his pulse skittering. Which caused a new image to form in his mind: one of leading Alistair away from this crowded manor home, down into the darkness beyond the torch lights. Hands clasped, intimate contact, scent of sandalwood on freshly shaved skin.
Ethan thwapped him on the crown of his head. “Back to this moment, brother mine.”
“I am in this moment. I’m merely searching for Mr. Finley.”
“Aye, but your eyes glazed over and your pupils went wide—your head undoubtedly filled with merrily dancing thoughts of hying Mr. Finley away to that garden. I’ve seen that dreamy-eyed look many times before. For two years now.”
Ethan had been playfully thwapping Marcus on the head since they were lads, but tonight when Ethan lifted his hand—presumably to knock him on the head yet again—Marcus caught his brother’s gloved hand. “Please don’t treat me like your baby brother tonight.”
Ethan rolled his eyes, then pressed Marcus forward down the hallway and into the grand ballroom. They surged deep into the throng; the event was highly attended, and although a very different affair than Lady Elsevier’s, it was one of the most revered events of the season. Every direction Marcus moved, he was jostled by society denizens. The scent of candlewax and cigar smoke overlaid a faint aroma of perspiration, with so many stuffed into the rooms together. Bloody hundreds of them.
Damnation, would he ever locate Alistair?
Ethan snagged his elbow. “He’s over there.” His brother nodded toward the distant side of the ballroom, giving Marcus a slight shove between his shoulder blades. “In his perennial ballroom position . . . by the giant ferns.”
In a heartbeat, Marcus’s gaze alighted on the gentleman, and the impact of seeing him robbed his breath. Dizzied him.
Then and there, he decided that it was one thing to glimpse Alistair in his staid professional attire, and another entirely to witness the man turned out with that much attention. He’d never encountered Alistair when it had been so evident that he’d taken enormous pains to prove himself utterly handsome.
And the obvious effort? Was for one reason only—he clearly wanted to woo Marcus.
“By God, he’s dressed . . . daringly. That’s the most fashionable I’ve ever seen your ordinarily somber fellow appear. This is your effect on him?”
Marcus’s eyes had gone wide. “I suppose so.”
Marcus could barely get the words out. Nothing could have prepared him for the transformation in Alistair, who had donned a deep violet brocade waistcoat and silver-colored breeches. His frock coat was black, cut long, and his silk necktie dove-gray. The flash of white at his cuffs and collar displayed the man’s rich skin tone to glorious effect.
From the tall, fashionable boots to that violet brocade, Alistair had arrived looking the true part of a dandy!
“He’s sodding gorgeous,” Marcus murmured, thankful that Finley hadn’t spotted him—or his ogling.
Marcus noticed that Ethan’s gaze was likewise clapped hard on Finley. A perplexing expression was on his brother’s face. Quietly, with an approving nod, Ethan observed, “I can see the appeal.”
“I apologize.” Marcus chuckled, not quite sure what to make of that remark. “Who are you and what did you do with my randy, rakehell of a brother—who hasn’t cast a scandalous look at a male in his entire life?”
“Oh, bugger off. Don’t pack me off to the molly house so swiftly.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed as he admired Alistair. “I’m simply smart enough to recognize a handsome fellow when I see one, ’tis all.” Ethan gave him another light shove between the shoulder blades. “He may look a rogue, but you’d best rescue him from societal misery. He owns a vaguely stalked expression. The mamas have likely set upon him already, showing up so well turned out.”
Marcus handed off his empty glass of champagne to his brother, and all but floated across the ballroom.
* * *
* * *
Marcus whispered a prayer of gratitude that he had Alistair alone. After enduring several hours of social niceties, Marcus was finally leading Alistair toward the vast gardens of the manor home.
“Was not one performance with some loathsome earl enough for you? Must you beset the untitled, as well?” Alistair inquired, just as a pert young lady spied him and actually batted her lashes. If only she knew what a wasted effort that flirtation was. Even so, Alistair still blushed. Blushed.
“She’s on the mart and I wouldn’t encourage her,” Marcus admonished.
Alistair gaped at Marcus, who kept tugging him toward the home’s broad glass doors. “I didn’t—“
“Oh, but you did. You blushed, and you’ll be fortunate if her mama doesn’t accost you before we reach those portico doors.”
Alistair rubbed his brow. “I blush if I breathe, Lord Marcus.”
“If you breathe in my vicinity, you certainly do.”
“Besides, it”—Alistair pressed closer, pausing to allow another pair of young misses to pass—“wasn’t the lady who heated me.” He chewed his lip, smiling mildly down at Marcus, but not quite meeting his gaze. “It was this garden tryst you’re luring me toward.”
Marcus dared touch Alistair on the arm, both bold and obvious. “Careful, or someone might suspect you’re fond of me.”
That flushed hue on Alistair’s cheeks grew deeper. “I fear I’m already obvious on that count. Are you certain that venturing to the garden alone is best? It’s nearly midnight, and you just placed your hand upon my person, and . . . and—you’re widely known for the habit.”
“The habit of handling your person—or simply adoring you?”
“The habit of leading gentlemen astray upon shadowed garden paths.” Alistair tugged him onto the patio, conspiratorially admonishing him. “Hasten along, if we’re to be about dastardly deeds.”
A bracing waft of air filled Marcus’s lungs, but that wasn’t what stole his breath. It was what awaited the pair of them down those long stone steps and once inside the depths of the torchlit, shadowy hedgerow. The anticipation sent a thrill down Marcus’s spine.
Alistair took the first step, then turned, gallantly reaching for Marcus’s hand. The solicitous gesture caused Marcus’s chest to tighten. Whereas other men had given little thought to his care, Alistair never ceased to defer to his well-being.
“I’ve never actually lured any gentleman onto a garden path. Until now.” Marcus clasped Alistair’s sturdy hand, and lowered his voice. “You, Mr. Finley, are my very first.”
Alistair raised a low twig out of Marcus’s path and stopped, staring at him for several long seconds. Incredulity was etched across his features. “But the rumors . . .”
“I told you that I was merely comforting Lord Harcourt that night. He’s a friend, naught more.”
Alistair continued staring at him dubiously, until Marcus released an unsteady laugh. “Is it so very hard to believe? That the rumors could be wrong as to my exploits? You saw how unmanned I was when you kissed my hand last week.”
“Unmanned? Hardly.” Alistair let the low-lying branch go, falling into stride beside Marcus. “I would describe your state that day as . . . fully manned.”
Marcus’s britches tightened, as he recalled how his cock had strained when Alistair’s lips had met his palm. “You and your innuendo, Finley. You handily disguise yourself as a buttoned-up wallflower sort, when you’re actually eager to turn my drawers inside out.”
Alistair laughed throatily. “That,” he said, “was your kidskin glove, not your smallclothes.”
“Only because we ran out of time.” Marcus paused at the entrance to the box hedge, lifting a sweet smile. “Otherwise I’m confident that my drawers would have likewise yielded easily to your determined grasp.”
“It was the broadest daylight!” Finley stopped in his tracks, pressing a hand to his midriff, his shock obvious. “I never would have . . . I didn’t even remotely contemplate—“
“I daresay you more than contemplated.” Marcus gave him a cocksure grin. “I certainly did. There were always the carriage blinds, if you’d merely asked the driver to carry on farther and longer.”
Alistair sputtered, then coughed, gesturing toward the hedge entrance. “As you’re hell-bent on dizzying me, lead onward, Lord Marcus.”
“That willing, are you?” Marcus slid a gloved palm through the crook of Alistair’s arm.
“Selflessly compliant. Let’s leave it at that.”
Chapter Ten
The evening was so frigid, there were none else about the garden paths. The cold made the perfect excuse for Marcus, cuddling closer to Alistair. Warmth, after all, was something the other man owned in surfeit. And as the marble of their secluded bench was icy cold, Marcus snuggled into that massive, bearlike comfort. Silently, they sat that way, knit together, shivering and yet overheated to the core, the both of them.
The merriment from the ball rose and fell like a tide from the hill behind them—as one set finished, voices grew louder on a crescendo of chattering and laughter. In the distance, the smell of cigar smoke and burning coals infused the chill air, wafting near on the breeze. But after several dreamy moments of nestling, Alistair suddenly disentangled himself, sliding a few inches away from Marcus.
“Why did you—“
“I should have brought a cheroot for us,” Alistair cut him off, neatly folding gloved hands in his lap. “Do you enjoy a fine cigar now and again?”
Marcus frowned, dizzied with confusion. Hadn’t they been cozied like true gentlemen suitors? Snug and aroused and eager?
“Or perhaps . . . perhaps you’ve no taste for tobacco.”
Marcus sighed in mild frustration, but he’d be damned if Alistair squelched his determination about tonight. “I think,” Marcus said languidly, “I’d enjoy anything that involves you and that sultry mouth of yours, Mr. Finley.”
Alistair stiffened and, even bathed in moonlight, Marcus could see his face deepen with color. The man was such an enigma—capable of flirtation one moment, then taken aback the next. Perhaps his present hesitation was because the whole of having an affair was startlingly new to him.
Alistair made a grand production of squinting up at the full moon. “Ah, an ice ring. ’Tis a sign of snow to come.”
Bloody hell. Marcus had spent the past hour cajoling and urging Finley out onto this path, and now that he had him here, ready to embrace him, he couldn’t get the dashed fellow to cooperate. They were poised formally side by side on a lover’s bench as if on a church pew.
“I say, Finley,” he endeavored, wiggling a little closer, “you’ve a notion why I persuaded you out to the garden, yes? It wasn’t to stare at the moon nor speculate upon the weather, I can assure you.”
Finley rumbled that whiskey-rough laugh of his, causing Marcus to instantly thicken inside his trousers. That laughter was an aphrodisiac. However did such a prim gentleman go about town letting it rumble forth all willy-nilly?
“Dear heavens, man. When you laugh like that?” Marcus observed. “You render my thoughts wholly impure, and then I feel . . . Well, I shan’t say, as doing so would disadvantage my hand in this courtship.”
Alistair turned to him and blinked, lips parted in stunned surprise. “C-courtship?”
“What else would you deem this?” Marcus waved a hand between them.
“I’m not sure.” Alistair pressed a gloved hand to his brow. “I’ve been wholly unsure for the past week.”
“Oh, Finley, cease with the prevarication. You do know. You know entirely too well what we’re about.” Marcus stroked a slow caress down the gentleman’s forearm. “I made my intentions clear at Lady Elsevier’s ball and have remained unerring in purpose ever since.”
Alistair rumbled another laugh, this one edgier, lustier than the last. “Please, I implore you, allow no other gents privy to the erotic experience of that laugh.”
“You’re half-mad, aren’t you?” Finley swiped at an errant lock of glossy black hair that hung heavy over his brow. “My laugh arouses you?”
“It’s husky and damning and laced with wicked intonations.”
The man had the gall to laugh in precisely his most provocative manner. “My lord, I’m hardly some hero from an old-fashioned waistcoat ripper.”
Marcus slid all the way against Alistair’s side, and clasped his forearm. Very softly he murmured, “My upright Mr. Finley, whatever do you know of such lurid novels?”
“You’re the profligate, Lord Marcus, practically lifted from the pages of those indece
nt books.” Alistair shook his head, leaning in just a smidgen closer to Marcus. “’Tis a wonder the scandal sheets aren’t already setting midnight type, wetting ink for reportage on our disreputable garden liaison.”
“I wager that you’re praying they do that very thing. Or perhaps merely praying for a disreputable outcome.” Alistair’s gaze immediately lowered as Marcus leaned into the heat of the gentleman’s body. “And as you have found yourself alone with me, Finley, do be a good fellow and get on with kissing me, won’t you?”
After a suspended, breathless moment, Alistair bent toward him, inclining his head until Marcus felt the man’s warm breath fan over his cheek. Marcus parted his lips invitingly and tilted his face upward, only to discover that Alistair’s eyes were pressed shut. His expression had become strained, flushed.
Finley blew out a hot breath before his eyes flew open. “This is madness. Anyone can see us if they but look.”
Marcus tugged at Alistair’s sleeve, forcing him an inch or two nearer. “Finley, come, now. We’re perfectly concealed. Besides, it’s too frigid for even the most amorous to venture out—“
“But we clearly did.” Hooded eyes, filled with arousal, lifted to Marcus’s.
“Well, even if other like-lusted couples may dare, they won’t spy us before we glimpse them. We have an unimpeded view of the box hedge lanes in all directions.”
Finley glanced back at Marcus, fretful, then down at his lap, where his gloved hands were folded primly. He worked them in agitation, head bowed. “But if we’re . . . occupied,” he softly objected. “If we are not on watch, and . . . and are—“
“Discovered clenched? In flagrante?” Marcus supplied, barely suppressing a smile.
Alistair snapped a glance in his direction, bobbing his head wordlessly.
“Darling Finley, kissing you could never be misconstrued as any form of ill conduct.” Marcus stroked the other man’s chest languidly, daring to loosen the greatcoat’s top button. “Besides,” he added, unfastening the next button down, “even if someone observed us in each other’s arms, what then?”