by Cooper Davis
Marcus kept a palm on Alistair’s midriff, leaning into him. “You are the only gentleman to ever kiss me in a garden. We must be clear about that.”
Alistair covered Marcus’s hand at his waist. “We marked a heady first together, then.” He maintained a tender grasp on Marcus’s arm, guiding his beau toward the ballroom doors. “Shall we, my Marcus?”
Marcus’s eyes went wide at the easy words. They’d felt right and natural on Alistair’s lips.
My Marcus.
After several drawn-out moments, Marcus smiled shyly. He took a step toward the manor’s doors. And precisely when Alistair believed he’d escaped commentary on that easy endearment, Marcus lifted on tiptoe to position his lips against Alistair’s ear. “You’ve been my Alistair for quite some time,” the man said. “It didn’t require potpies or luncheons or garden kisses. It simply was.”
You’ve been my Alistair for quite some time.
Mine.
“Thank God tomorrow is Thursday,” Marcus said under his breath, as they ducked and darted through a sweaty, overstuffed mass of ball guests. “You are still planning to luncheon with me?”
“Oh, yes. But shall you kiss me again on the morrow? Close me into my private office and have your long, slow way with me, my lord?”
“Naughty notion, with your minions all about.” Marcus’s voice was loud enough to be heard above the orchestra within the home, but only just so.
A thrill shot straight to Alistair’s groin, and he tilted his head to whisper back into Marcus’s ear. “I can be excruciatingly quiet when necessary, Marcus.”
“Please tell me,” Marcus purred sensually, squeezing his forearm, “that you didn’t learn to be quiet during bed play at your office.”
Alistair chuckled low. “There is no bed in my office, only a colossal desk. Also, considering you’re my first paramour, you know better than that, anyway.”
Marcus eyed him curiously. “Then whatever have you learned to be quiet about?”
“Are you a true innocent, Lord Marcus?” Alistair extended a gloved hand, making a light squeezing motion with his fingers, back and forth, mimicking the act of stroking himself off. But subtly enough that none of the ladies or gents about them would comprehend.
Marcus gaped at his outstretched, flexing fingers and flushed to the very roots of his auburn hair—then burst into uproarious peals of laughter. “You hedonist. At the royal offices?”
He shrugged, a smile teasing the edges of his lips. “I get lonely on occasion. Especially the morning after certain social functions, ones where young redheaded lords eye me across crowded floors. Especially when said redheaded lords never make a move.”
“I made the first move, don’t forget.” Marcus beamed up at him.
“Yes, but prior to that night, two years of, urm, frustration led me to inventive morning-after explorations.”
“Explorations, Mr. Finley?” Marcus seized Alistair’s hand within his own, examining it as he might a fantastic discovery. “I hope you at least remove your gloves for such personal . . . liaisons. Then again, this kidskin is silky soft.” The ocean-blue-green eyes lifted to his, and Marcus squeezed his hand. But he did not release it.
“Marcus,” he cautioned. “You’ll announce this . . . well, us. Prematurely. If you don’t take care.”
Marcus only moved closer, his hold on Alistair downright possessive. “Aren’t you proud of our attachment?”
“Yes—no.” Finley wriggled his hand, but Marcus remained steadfast.
“Oh, so you’re not proud of our suit?” Marcus didn’t even bother concealing his playful smile.
“I am exultant.”
Marcus’s freckled face lit with blissful adoration. “Then I shall handle you freely. Eagerly. For one and all to see.”
He tugged Marcus away from the throng, near to a set of large palms that graced the wall. “You and your palm plants.” Marcus shook his head, still beaming. And still determinedly holding Alistair’s hand. After a moment of tussling, Alistair finally managed to dislodge himself from the other man’s grasp. And that joyous, effervescent light that had been in Marcus’s eyes instantly dimmed. The lord chewed his lip, confusion flitting over his features.
Apparently declaring how exultant Alistair was hadn’t been enough. What was a gentleman to do, how was he to reassure his beloved of his ardor—if a kiss and a declaration of affection weren’t enough?
Bollocks, but Alistair was in unfamiliar waters, and floundering and capsizing, not remaining aloft. He couldn’t seem to find adequate words to explain his myriad concerns about the public hand-holding.
Well, thank God for footmen, the sort bearing champagne flutes aloft. He signaled that servant near, and as the man bent slightly, offering the tray, Alistair nearly knocked the blasted thing over. His search for relief was desperate, but somehow, he managed to procure a pair of flutes for Marcus and himself without spilling overmuch from either.
He took a fortifying sip, then turned to Marcus. He hadn’t the first notion of how a gentleman should comport himself in such a romantic predicament as theirs, but he’d damned well better learn and fast. He could only kick at the waters and pray to remain buoyant.
“I didn’t think holding my hand such an outrageous proposition. ’Twas only for a moment, after all.” Marcus shifted his gaze away, surveying the crowd. Alistair might not have known Marcus for long, but he could already recognize hurt in that fleeting gaze.
Alistair managed another swift draw from his glass. “I never imagined such an outcome with you . . . as tonight,” he began falteringly. “As, well, the . . . urm, togetherness.”
Marcus’s lips began to turn upward into a smile again, and slowly he moved his gaze squarely back upon Alistair. “I thought our earlier discussion was about you and your sumptuous altogether.”
“That? Not . . . yet.”
“Then as we are on that path, I can’t fathom why you’d not simply hold my hand and announce us to one and all. This storied atmosphere is the perfect stage for society to see the truth of us.”
“You surely grasp that, with all that this is new to me, I don’t know . . .” Dear God, but his face burned. “Well, I told you just how inexperienced I am.”
“What’s that to do with your hiding me behind one of your infamous shivering palms?” Marcus gazed at him, eyes filled with confusion.
Alistair swiped at an unruly lock of hair; since their kiss, it had proved incorrigible. “Because I’ve not spoken with your papa yet, nor sought his approval of this suit.”
“I may be younger, but I am not some fainting maiden whose papa must be entreated before you waltz with me.”
“You’re made of tempered steel, my Marcus. I’ve no doubt about that.” Alistair snorted, the image of Marcus as a weak-lilied anything proving absurd.
Marcus reached for his hand, and tugged him away from the shadows. “Then let’s waltz. You’ve no need to beseech my papa or anyone else before having a set with me.” Another tug on his hand, and Alistair was just foxed enough that he acquiesced, flowing with Marcus back into the thick crowd.
The other man’s elegant hand encased his, and Alistair experienced a surge of pride that—had he not been feeling the effects of that champagne—he’d have battled away. Revealing their courtship this early on? Still a very bad idea. A more capital one, however, presented itself with a passing tray of champagne flutes.
Alistair’s hand shot out, and a new glass materialized within his gloved grasp. Another gulp of the effervescent liquid slid down his throat, all arguments against Marcus’s intimacy dissolving as Marcus’s hand slid through the crook of his arm.
Alistair found his sense of caution dissolving from his mind. Whyever should they not boldly tout this attachment to society, just as Marcus suggested?
Because doing so without first speaking to the duke would, despite Marcus
’s arguments, be very poorly done.
He took another fortifying draw from the flute. “I . . . You must release me, Marcus. Truly.” Alistair wriggled his fingers sharply, but Marcus held steady—for a moment—then flourished a bow over Alistair’s hand, relinquishing it with a tender squeeze. Courtly. Romantic.
Alistair swung a searching glance about the vicinity, certain they’d been observed. And, bloody hell! One eager mama was already talking to another, whispering behind her fan and staring in their direction. Alistair knew those women to have eligible sons, both on the marriage mart this season.
Alistair groaned, turning pointedly to Marcus. “Oh, dear God. They’ve apprehended us. The scheming mamas across the room know.”
Marcus laughed riotously, pleased with himself. “By morning, a bevy of society dames will be furiously burning your effigy on coal fires,” Marcus said knowingly. “You’ll be known as the gentleman who stole the eligible duke’s son. Prepare for the dagger-eyed stares.”
“So, I’m right, they’ve recognized that we’re . . .”
“Together? Attached?” Marcus supplied demurely. “But of course. Whyever else do you think I seized your hand like that? Maybe Lady Blythemore will finally stop pushing her son my way. Terribly sweet fellow, but a bit homely. He’ll make someone a fine husband.” Marcus lifted a significant gaze. “Just not me.”
Alistair’s heart began to pound. He might find the duke resistant to his plans now, after openly dallying with his son. “Your father may well reject my suit now.” Alistair’s panic mounted. “You’re young and eligible, and I should not have allowed anything to happen . . . before paying a call to your father.”
“Alistair, shh.” Marcus leaned squarely into him, a hand sliding to the crook of Alistair’s arm. “I want the world to know I’m with you, and my papa wants the world to make me happy. You have my father’s approval, sweetheart. How can you not see that you’ve had it from the start?”
The warm tinge in Marcus’s cheeks intensified right as Ethan Avenleigh clapped his younger brother on the back. “Consorting in public, are we now, gentlemen? Well done!”
The viscount turned to Alistair, grinning broadly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the privilege, Mr. Finley.” He owned more freckles than Marcus, which hardly seemed possible, and his face was alight with humor and intelligence.
The viscount rendered a quick bow. “There’s been nothing but talk of the fine Mr. Finley at our dining table for quite some time now.”
Alistair returned the bow. “Lord Dunshire, it is an honor.”
Ethan Avenleigh gave him an approving smile, and stupidly, Alistair blushed harder. Marcus’s claim that Alistair had his family’s approval was one thing. Experiencing that endorsement firsthand—and from Marcus’s eldest, titled brother—was quite another reality. He wanted to be worthy; he longed to make Marcus proud.
The three of them murmured pleasantries and, if Alistair wasn’t mistaken, Ethan was studying him shrewdly. Protectively. It was clear that Lord Dunshire doted upon his youngest brother. The viscount smiled between them, clearly eager to charm Alistair. “We shared a maths professor at Corrals, I believe,” Ethan drawled. “Although you were a few years ahead of me. Only a few.”
“I’d not thought you would remember that.” Alistair was genuinely touched; with his quiet nature and constant desire to go unnoticed during those years, it was striking that a nobleman like Ethan Avenleigh would even recall him.
“Of course! You were frustratingly brilliant at maths. I always wished to surpass your marks and never managed.”
“Thank you,” Alistair said, bowing his head.
Marcus glanced between them. “How did I not know this? How did neither of you ever mention it?”
Alistair didn’t have an answer, for any possible response would have been blunderingly inane, along the lines of, “I never imagined a peer would recall me, so I chose not to remark upon it.”
Ethan cuffed his brother’s neck. “I have to keep a few secrets up my sleeve, brother mine.”
The brothers laughed and prodded each other playfully and it was easy to picture them as lads, thick as thieves. The image put a lump in Alistair’s throat that he didn’t want to examine, as he considered his lonely childhood, so often separated even from Arend by tutors and nannies.
Ethan turned back to Alistair and they talked about their curmudgeonly dons and the worst possible dumplings—always served on Fridays in the dining hall. Alistair’s chest tightened as he pictured Ethan Avenleigh as a future brother-in-law. And then the picture filled in further, with a quiver-full of new redheaded brothers, all equally as interested in what Alistair had to say.
As a waltz kicked up, the viscount turned to Alistair. “I do hope you’ll take my brother for a turn upon the floor at last, sir.”
Alistair felt a stab of anxiety right in his gut. He didn’t dance, ever, and certainly not in public. “I . . .”
Ethan nodded encouragingly toward the ballroom floor. “Oh, good blazes, man, why hesitate? There are other homogeneously inclined males out there. I spy Lord Waldridge, and isn’t that Lord Ryder and his husband?”
Alistair began to sweat within his kidskin gloves and beneath his tall boots. He felt a trickle form at the small of his back beneath his breeches. Marcus waved his brother off jovially. “Be gone with ye! Finley and I are carrying on perfectly well without your meddling, thank you.”
Ethan gave a quick bow, then began to step away. “Play well together, lads,” he said. “And do aim for better subtlety with your garden rendezvous next time.” Alistair’s eyes went wide as Ethan sailed away, a merry grin on his face.
Marcus burst into a fit of laughter. “He was watching for us to steal away, Alistair.” Then Marcus positioned himself next to him again, close as a husband might stand. “But please do waltz with me?”
And then Marcus was slipping something into Alistair’s hand. An ivory dance card. Alistair squinted, and reached for his spectacles so he could read what it said. As he slid the wire-rims upon his nose, Marcus’s expression turned ravenous, his lips parting on a soft sound of desire. “Oh, dear heavens,” Marcus murmured. “I shan’t make it till the morrow if you don your spectacles.”
“And I can’t read this card any other way, my lord.” Alistair chuckled and studied the ivory. Marcus had scribbled Alistair’s name into each and every dance slot. Finley pressed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat. Then finally he glanced down at Marcus. “Your card is entirely full with . . .”
“They’re all yours, sir.” Marcus pressed his mouth to Alistair’s ear. “I’m all yours. I have been from the first moment I saw you.”
Alistair stared, speechless, at the delicate ivory card, ruing the disappointment he would give the gorgeous man at his side. “Marcus. I don’t actually dance. It’s not you . . . I simply never dance.”
“Nonsense. Come with me; I’ll lead, if that’s the trouble.”
Alistair slowly removed his spectacles, making a great show of sliding them into his pocket. “I have never once, ever, danced in public. Or in private. I refused lessons as a lad, my one major rebellion against the king who fostered me. He didn’t object, either, as he found me a source of constant . . . Well, he never exactly trotted me out proudly.”
“Alistair.” Marcus blinked up at him with a profoundly pitying expression on his face. That look shamed Alistair to the core, rooting out all his dark feelings about a father who’d been too ashamed to claim him as son. “I’m sorry King Norman treated you thusly. But I can teach you to waltz.”
“I know that you would. But not tonight.”
Marcus touched his sleeve, a look of heartfelt sympathy in his light eyes. Alistair snapped his gaze sharply away.
He was overwhelmed with the urge to flee. To make haste away from Marcus, the ball. From fucking all of it. It was one thing to embar
k upon this affair, quite another for Marcus to discover all of Alistair’s grim secrets. Things he’d packed away into the dark, closing lids shut, fastening locks tight.
Alistair glanced anxiously for another glass of champagne, needing to dull his riotous emotions. No footmen were about, which meant he’d need to seek liquid reinforcements by his own steam.
“I shall procure new refreshments for us,” he informed Marcus, aware that the words were slightly slurred. He all but fled his new beau, driven by his own dark demons. Marcus had to be observing his flight in confusion.
Beautiful, innocent Lord Marcus—with his four brothers and loving papa and noble life—couldn’t possibly fathom the memories that had just driven Alistair away from him.
Chapter Twelve
Unfortunately, as Alistair wended his way into a vestibule, hopeful for a moment to recompose himself, he came head-on with a much stronger reminder of his past—his late sire’s solicitor, Mr. Wilfred Dryden. The steel-haired gentleman had never been fond of Alistair, the motive for his harsh rancor unclear to Alistair, even after years of the man administering Alistair’s inheritance. It was Dryden, too, who had triumphantly declared that Alistair’s inheritance was hamstrung by one ironclad limitation: permanent silence regarding his royal bloodline, lest he be stripped of his inheritance.
“You are a bastard, no better,” Dryden had told Alistair cruelly that day almost two decades past. Alistair had stood at his university desk, aghast, only the two of them in his lodging room.
Dryden had continued, his expression repugnant. “Your inheritance from King Norman can’t change your illegitimacy. Shan’t ever alter it. The king didn’t even wish you to know the truth so long as he breathed. Like all true bastards, you were never wanted, merely tolerated.”
Those words formed life inside of Alistair that day, molding his character, his aspirations. They’d haunted his dreams and hunted him all the way to the bottle. Over and over again.
And here, on the night of his first kiss, stood that same man. Eyeing Alistair beneath the glittering sconces and elegance of this ball, his very gaze an accusation. For an arrested moment, the two of them exchanged a discomfited glance, but then Dryden’s expression morphed into contempt. He offered Alistair neither a bow nor inclination of his head. “Finley. How unsurprising to find you cavorting with a glass of champagne in hand.”