A Gentleman Revealed

by Cooper Davis

  Then Mr. Alistair Finley, the previously reserved and starchy gentleman, swept Marcus into his arms and kissed him utterly senseless.

  Chapter Fifteen

  No sooner than their butler had ushered Marcus out of the whirling snow and into the chilly entryway of their home, Ethan was glowering at him.

  “What happened to your necktie?” his brother demanded, thick eyebrows narrowing shrewdly.

  Oh, dear God. Ethan never missed a bloody thing, and today clearly would mark no exception.

  “And why the devil did you depart this morning before I’d even made my way to breakfast?”

  “That,” Marcus said, “had everything to do with your overindulgence last night, not my early rising.”

  “And nothing to do with Mr. Finley’s own overindulgence and subsequent disappearance from the ball?” Ethan returned, glancing at their butler, Vickers. “What time did Lord Marcus depart this morning?”

  “I believe the carriage was brought round at half-seven.” Vickers’s aged eyes sparkled slightly. While largely silent for great spans of time, the man had been a member of their family since Marcus was a babe. He could also be the worst of their proverbial rooster house, in terms of subtly urging Marcus toward finding himself a husband.

  “Half-seven?” Ethan fairly roared. “You, our perennial lay-abed? Ah, but it was Thursday.”

  “Is,” Marcus corrected, hoping to distract. “It is Thursday, at least until the stroke of midnight.” Marcus tossed his hat onto the hallway table, shivering as Vickers divested Marcus of his greatcoat.

  Ethan bobbed his auburn head. “And Thursday is Royal Offices Day. I can’t believe you packed yourself off to see that sop after last night.” Ethan turned to Vickers. “Mr. Finley departed the ball without a word to my brother. Poorly done, wasn’t that?”

  Vickers said nothing, but the dour look that overcame his countenance conveyed disapproval.

  Ethan nodded as if the fellow had replied aloud. “I’m sure Marcus did not explain the situation when he had you summon the carriage at half-seven.”

  Marcus laughed despite himself. “Vickers would hardly have refused to comply. Would you, Vickers?”

  The butler gave him a gentle smile. “My lord, I might have had a word, but I would have complied.”

  Marcus planted a hand on his hip. “A word?”

  “As to how polite gentlemen of society should treat young men like you.”

  “Like me.” Marcus’s cheeks burned, as they always did when the family turned discussion toward his inclinations.

  “Yes, young men for whom I care a great deal,” Vickers explained, brushing off Marcus’s jacket lapels.

  “So, did Finley have something to say for himself? About what happened?” Ethan continued.

  Marcus gave his brother a flat look that all but demanded that he let the topic go. He refused to endure an interrogation at the hands of one stubborn viscount. “Say, Vickers, I believe we may see quite the snowfall tonight. It was already beginning to swirl madly before I reached home,” he drawled. As if his venture to town had been nothing at all extraordinary.

  As if his cock weren’t still aching a bit, and he didn’t feel his dried seed inside his drawers.

  “It’s been snowing on and off all day,” Ethan observed, still studying him suspiciously. “Odd time to take the carriage into the city.”

  “Was it? I hadn’t noticed.” Marcus ran a neatening hand across his waistcoat. “Good thing I made it home when I did.”

  Vickers left them in the entry and Ethan prowled closer, his gaze roving. Marcus quickly ensured the top button of his linen shirt was fastened.

  “It’s frigid and snowing, an evening when any polite gentleman should be fully clothed.” Ethan paused and stared at Marcus devilishly. “And yet somehow you lost one of your finest ties whilst gallivanting about the city. The very same silk tie I happened to give you last Winter’s Night.”

  “And I shall replace it in due course, as it was quite important to me. My loss of it was simply because . . .”

  Because why? Because how? Marcus felt his face flame, so he busied himself with neatening up his wiry auburn hair, raking his fingers through it now that he’d shed his hat.

  Ethan made a slight noise of impatience, which Marcus pretended not to hear. Ethan shoved his shoulder. “Och, man! Because you . . . yes, yes?”

  Some days his eldest brother acted as if he were already duke, so overbearing and meddlesome was he.

  “Because I shan’t answer your nosy questions.” Marcus stomped his boots, showering the carpet with the thawing clumps of snow he’d tracked in, then made toward their library, searching out a whiskey to warm himself.

  The hallway—the manor at large—was as chilly as it ever got, even though the warm scent of fresh pine and fires roaring in all the hearths infused the hall.

  “Bloody hell!” Marcus declared brightly. “I need a whiskey or three to warm my insides.” He strolled to the far end of the hall, toward their library. That room, snug and leather-bound as it was, always proved warmest on severe winter nights.

  “Cold, are ye?” Ethan muttered. “Your face is flushed and you look fairly warm to me.”

  “I’m chilled to the bone.” Lie. Sodding, ridiculous lie. Marcus’s whole body was on fire, his heart warmer than perhaps at any other time in his entire life. He smiled blissfully, grateful that Ethan—tromping behind him—was unable to witness the swooning expression on Marcus’s face.

  “You took Papa’s best coach to town. Hours you were gone, even with this blustery and threatening weather. Whyever would you head to town on a day when you might catch your death?”

  “Errands to attend, things to do. Unlike you, Viscount Dunshire, I’ve tasks beyond the bloody stables and this estate to occupy me.”

  “You have a man beyond this estate who has wholly consumed you,” Ethan hissed in his ear, suddenly right behind him.

  “Ethan.” Marcus made a quick glance, deeply grateful that none of their footmen were nearby. Even more grateful that he didn’t spy more of their henpecking siblings, nor his papa lurking in the shadows of the candlelit hallway.

  Marcus reached the library at the hallway end before he was struck by sudden worry about his family, especially as nightfall was imminent. “Where’s Papa and—“

  “Down at the stables. This storm that’s coming, it promises to be a near-blizzard, so they’re making sure the horses are looked after. ’Tis only us, Marcus.” The last was spoken quite conspiratorially, as his big brother reached for the decanter and quickly splashed whiskey into glasses for them both. “Therefore, you’ve leave to share every detail of your day’s ‘errand.’”

  His brother took a sip of whiskey, studying Marcus intently over the rim of the glass. Ethan was nearly as tall as Alistair—in fact, all his brothers were rangy and strong. Marcus was the shortest of their brood.

  Presently, however, Ethan was discomfiting him, with his gossipy curiosity, his green eyes so very alert and demanding of details of what had transpired in town.

  “I needed to visit a music shop,” Marcus dissembled, making his voice light as he took a long draw of his drink. “I’ve been eyeing a new violin, not that I need another, but—“

  “What you need is a necktie, and soonest, for our family shan’t be away much longer.” Ethan nodded toward the open library door. “Confess all. Do tell how your fine necktie went wayward. And what the devil happened with Finley.”

  Marcus grinned slowly and stared down into his highball. Alistair Finley wasn’t the only male capable of using that diversionary tactic. “For all you know, I sought the bookshops on Charters Cross.”

  “Already forgetting your crafty tale about the violin?”

  “Oh. Well. True . . .” Marcus slid a tense hand to the back of his neck, desperate for an alibi.

  His brother bur
st out with a laugh, tossing his auburn head back. The buttons of his neat waistcoat pulled tight as he guffawed. “Sweet little brother, I’m hardly an imbecile. You’re so obviously happy, you’re practically vibrating with elation.”

  Marcus flopped into a wingback chair. “You’re not an imbecile; you’re a mind reader. A bloody spiritualist ye are, old boy.”

  Ethan gave him a leveling look. “I expect details.”

  Marcus was always transparent to his brother, and it was ridiculous to imagine he could hide today’s intimacy. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t at least attempt to feint and prove somewhat cagey in the face of this barrage. “Why should you support a gentleman who you perpetually insult, ridicule, and who infuriated you last night?”

  Ethan strolled to the mantel and braced his arms against the carved wood. Keeping his back to Marcus, he softly said, “Because he’s all you’ve ever truly wanted, and you deserve marital bliss. Because you’re my favorite. My dearest brother.” Ethan cast him a genuine, kind glance over his shoulder. “I wish to see you married and well, and he suits you. Quite well, from what I witnessed at the ball.”

  “Aye, he suits me,” was all Marcus managed, but his tone must have betrayed him.

  “You’re wreathed in smiles. Did he kiss you? Endeavor other intimacies?”

  Marcus had to glance swiftly at the floor. “Oh, there were intimacies.”

  Ethan turned, pressing his back against the mantel. He knew. He already knew. His brother had realized from the moment he’d walked in the door. Thus, trying to conceal the truth from his best friend and brother was pointless.

  “I’ll say it again,” Ethan whispered gently. “I wish you happy and married to the man your heart fancies.”

  “We are lovers,” Marcus admitted. “We became so today.”

  Ethan’s square jaw went slack; his bright green eyes went even wider and a long moment passed before he spoke. “You flanged the bloody fellow?”

  Marcus chortled, nodding. “Aye, the king’s secretary has been quite thoroughly and winningly flanged.”

  With a hale roar, his big brother declared, “Now, that, brother mine, changes absolutely everything!”

  “How so?” he asked softly, unsure.

  Ethan rubbed his hands together, walked straight to the library door, and neatly latched it shut. “It means that now we must strategize,” Ethan said. “We must determine how you’ll set about offering for Finley’s hand.”

  “I’m not sure—“

  Ethan tapped his chin. “True, true. He’s older and lives at court, and is so proper. It’s best to manage him into offering for your hand, isn’t it? Quite right, quite right.”

  “Ethan, you’re rushing many steps ahead of me. We only became lovers today.”

  “And many gentlemen wait until their wedding night. I’m shocked the spinster didn’t expect the same of you.”

  “He’s not that old-fashioned. Honestly.” If Ethan had witnessed Alistair, spread out like a feast for Marcus, all his brother’s superficial impressions would shatter.

  Ethan made a grumbly sound of disagreement, but he was smiling wide. “I would wager heavy coin that he’ll call upon Papa within the next few days,” his brother asserted. “He’ll arrive determined to proceed in the most upright fashion imaginable. Desperate to press a suit in whatever way a duke would deem respectable. Mark my words.”

  Marcus blanched at the thought, his hands beginning to tremble. He wasn’t sure if his heart was pounding from anticipation or anxious dread over that meeting. Because Ethan was undoubtedly right.

  Ethan made a waving motion at him. “Oh, do stop bleating without actually speaking, Marcus. Papa will be fine. He’ll simply ensure that Finley becomes what we’ve hoped for all along—your husband.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marcus dreamt of bells. Dozens of them, even a hundred perhaps, tinkling all through their village church. It was evening and tapers were lit, casting twinkling lights about the chapel. And Marcus stood facing Alistair, dressed in beautiful finery and a velvet waistcoat, trimmer than he normally appeared. The bells kept ringing.

  Wedding bells.

  Marcus woke with a start, his toes so cold he could barely feel them. He did, in truth, hear bells. Outside, in the drive? And several deep voices along with a few shouts. What the devil? He threw back the bed curtains to investigate but didn’t make it past his bed before Ethan bolted into his room, latched the door behind him and grinned like an idiot.

  “We’ve at least a foot of snow out there.”

  “And what? Are you ten and wishing me to have a snow brawl with you and the twins?”

  “Your Mr. Finley is here. Downstairs. He rode over in His Majesty’s sleigh. To pay a call in this weather. He inquired—and I quote—as to whether you made your way home safely yestereve. Good blazes, Marcus, but that man is thoroughly besotted with you. To come here in this weather? God, but hurry before Daniel begins a go at the poor man.”

  Ethan opened his bureau and began hurling garments at him: a dress shirt, an emerald-green waistcoat, a tie. “Hurry, you sodding devil.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The Duke of Alsderry settled in by the fire, drumming long fingers on the well-worn arm of his leather chair. A chair, Alistair suspected, that had belonged to several generations of this dukedom, judging by its faded, crackling texture. Alistair fixed his eyes on the duke’s fingers, likewise worn—those of a country duke, not a society one. Fingers that continued drumming. And drumming.

  Was Alsderry waiting for him to speak? Alistair lifted his eyes, a fretful fluttering in his belly, but disguised his reticence by adjusting his spectacles upon his nose.

  “We weathered quite the storm yestereve.” Alistair cursed himself for such a banal comment, but he’d faced this morning sober, and therefore his natural shyness was worse than ever. “How did your property fare, Your Grace? I noticed but one large branch down near the stone wall abutting the road.”

  The duke laughed, his eyes merry. “Ye’re no’ here to prattle about my manor home nor fallen twigs, now, are ye, Mr. Finley?” Those fingers stopped their drumming, but Alistair’s heart stepped in to complete that dance.

  “Ah, no, Your Grace.” Alistair inclined his head, adjusting himself uncomfortably upon the settee. “I was concerned about your family and . . . Lord Marcus. It was quite the storm.” His cheeks burned, the warmth of the fire in the hearth suddenly unbearably intense.

  “So, ye’ve set yer eye upon my Marcus. Ye must know the lad’s my favorite. A papa’s not to have favorites, but the thing is—he’s all our favorite. Dear and sweet-natured. He holds a rare place, not just in my own heart, but in his brothers’ as well.” The duke’s northern burr was much more pronounced than Marcus’s, or even Ethan’s more noticeable one. “Good lad, Marcus. Good heart. Best of our bunch, I’m saying.” The man’s gaze narrowed on Alistair significantly. Do not mistreat my son, the look conveyed.

  Alistair smiled, touched by the duke’s protectiveness. “I am enormously fond of Lord Marcus myself.”

  “That proves quite convenient, Mr. Finley. As I was hoping ye would say that verra thing.”

  Alistair frowned, unsure of the duke’s implication—and not sure he favored the conversational direction at present. Dryden’s threats and cautions had faded for now—especially after becoming Marcus’s lover. But the solicitor had been right in one thing: a duke’s son didn’t marry a by-blow, royal bastard or not. Such a union simply wasn’t done.

  “Your Grace? I’m unsure what . . . What precisely do you mean, sir?”

  He held his breath, tensed for whatever the duke would say, but nothing could have prepared him for what the man did next. Alsderry began shaking with mirth, then shook his head as well. “Oh, only that for two years, we’ve heard naught but of ye. That lad glimpsed ye, Mr. Finley, and would cast his cap no f
arther.”

  “Well.” Alistair hardly knew what to say.

  The duke, not surprisingly, proved every bit as forthcoming as his dear son. “Sir, we are both older men. Surely I didn’t overstate anything by sharing the truth of the situation.”

  Alistair stared down at his hands, folded in his lap. “No, Marcus confessed as much the moment he made himself known to me. About setting his cap for me and the two years, I mean.”

  “And that is Marcus to the marrow. Transparent and genuine. Ye may always trust any word that lad gives ye.”

  “It took me some time to believe he was in earnest about me. To understand why he wouldn’t pursue someone younger and titled.”

  “Och, that lad would consider none else once he glimpsed ye, Mr. Finley.”

  Alistair sipped his tea, and they sat in silence for several moments. “He was so very forward. Most stubborn, truly,” he observed with a tender laugh. “Is your son always that way?”

  “When he knows what he wants? Aye. ’Tis why he is such a fine musician. The hours and hours he invested in playing the violin. Mastering it, devoting himself to the entire pursuit just as he’s pursued ye. I daresay he’s been as ardent about ye as the violin.”

  The duke leaned forward, bright green eyes dancing. “But his brothers, Mr. Finley, are as overprotective as herd hounds. Marcus is much gentler than he lets on, and although they’ve worked to toughen him, they’ll encircle him at first threat.”

  Like the warning His Grace was delivering now, over the rim of his delicate coffee cup. “Ye may court my lad, Mr. Finley. Even take him on a sleigh ride today, without a chaperone, so long as ye know this papa’s pistol always remains loaded.” The duke set his cup on the side table. “But first,” he pronounced, “we’ve a courtship to discuss. And the ultimate intentions that your suit is to be based upon.”

  * * *