A Gentleman Revealed

by Cooper Davis

  Ethan coughed beside him, and then slightly shook his head at Marcus. An almost imperceptible gesture, but unmissable nonetheless.

  “What is it?” he asked Ethan, then swept his gaze back to their papa.

  Ian suddenly guffawed. “Baby brother, come, now. Ye can’t go staying overnight at an unmarried fellow’s home. Isn’t done. Ye should know that. And what of Mr. Finley? We all thought he was stuffy in the drawers.”

  “He is whenever Marcus is around,” piped in Daniel as he strode into the dining room, and then the pair of them laughed together. “No wonder he wants Marcus to stay the night in town.”

  “Oh, bloody hell.” Marcus sighed, crossing arms over his chest. “Papa, tell them they’re ridiculous.”

  “Son, ye know yerself that they are right. Ye’re unmarried, as is Mr. Finley.”

  Marcus dropped his fork with a clatter. “Are ye bloody well joking?” he demanded hotly. The color must have drained completely from his face. “Papa, I canna believe ye are treating me like . . . like s-some untried lad. I’m a grown man, ye ken.”

  He was so livid, he had no control whatsoever over his brogue, stammering in utter disbelief. “An’ I am no virgin.” At that, he looked all around the table, let his anger lash at each of his family members.

  His father’s reply was firm, bordering on stern. “I doona think it proper for ye to stay overnight at Mr. Finley’s home without a chaperone. Ethan could accompany you—“

  “Ethan?” Marcus exclaimed, wide-eyed and horrified. “I’m not tugging Ethan along in my own damned courtship. ’Tis between Finley and me.”

  Marcus’s father slowly buttered his toast, expression solemn. “Ye’ve yer reputation to consider, lad. I’m a bit shocked Mr. Finley’s not more concerned himself.”

  “Mr. Finley,” Marcus announced with barely managed calm, “is the very essence of propriety. He would never compromise me, or place me in jeopardy of any sort, including among society. He wishes to marry me. Ye ken that, Papa!”

  “But yer not yet betrothed. And at this event, ye’d be unchaperoned,” his father countered again, his voice gaining an iron edge. “That’s risqué to many. Untoward to most.”

  “There’s nothing remotely untoward about this invitation. Gentlemen stay overnight at other gentlemen’s homes with great regularity and without any scandal whatsoever!” Marcus made a sound of frustration. “Dear heavens, do you even have a notion what Mr. Finley is like? I could hardly get him to show me his dance card the first night we met, much less place my name on it.”

  “That’s true, Papa,” Daniel interjected. “Finley’s stiff in the drawers. Puffy as a pontiff, uptight as a vicar. You know him. He probably won’t even tup Marcus on their wedding night.”

  “Daniel,” Marcus chastised sharply. “Not ye, too, please?”

  “I’m attempting to help yer cause, brother.” Daniel gave him a sideways grin.

  His father nodded. “Aye, Marcus, Mr. Finley’s a very circumspect gentleman. But perhaps as he’s new to courtship, he’s not fully considered this particular invitation.”

  Marcus tossed his napkin on the table, furious. “Naturally, he’s considered all the ramifications. And there are none, or Finley never would have invited me to the opera at all. Dear God. Are we truly having this conversation? I am nearly nine and twenty. In a month, I shall be. I’ve not needed a chaperone since I was two and twenty.”

  “Ye know your situation is quite particular. Different.”

  Different. Marcus understood the coded meaning in that statement. His father meant that Marcus’s situation was different because he preferred gentlemen. Because he was being courted by another gentleman. Therefore, Marcus himself was different. An island in his own beloved family.

  Until this moment, he’d lived in the abiding belief that he was fully accepted within this cozy family of brawling men. “And why, Papa,” he finally managed to ask, “should it be different for me exactly? Does my being courted by another male truly make such a great deal of difference in this situation? Ethan goes as he—“

  His father interrupted with a barking laugh. “Ethan hardly bothers about how many ink pots he dips his quill in, but I have higher aspirations for ye.”

  “No, it’s that Ethan is more masculine in your eyes because he seduces any female who flits past him.” Marcus searched the faces of those he loved. “You slap his back and congratulate him precisely because he is a rake. But because I’m ‘different,’ you try and shelter me. Regard me as less a man than the rest of ye.”

  His papa shook his head fiercely. “Marcus, this has naught to do with Ethan. Nor how I view ye.”

  Ian chuckled. “I rather admire Ethan’s rakishness. In fact, I aspire to be just like him.”

  “You’re not helping, Ian,” their papa chided sharply, then returned his attention to Marcus.

  “He’s being truthful! Honest! Ethan, Ian, all of my brothers may dandy about however they wish, and are toasted and revered for it. I cannot help but wonder at this very great disparity.”

  “Ye’ve a verra tender temperament; yer a musician and artist. I am sorry if that is not the answer ye wish to hear from me. But ye are special. The lot of us here, Marcus, all must look after ye.” His father regarded him over the rim of his coffee cup. “And yes, the verra fact that ye are the only of my sons who prefers males—the only one seeking a husband—means I intend to protect ye even more.”

  Marcus’s face only grew hotter, and he grasped at an even more despairing thought. “Or is it that you fear I’ll tarnish the reputation of the dukedom? That must be it.”

  This time it was Ethan who barked loudly. “Marcus! You know that’s not what Papa is saying, nor what any of us here would say.”

  Ian laughed, a low rumble. “I should think ye wanting to tumble that podgy, stodgy old fella ought to make them more secure about your goings about town. That is, if that spinster can even get his rod up enough that any of us should be worried.”

  Marcus was instantly over the table, reaching for Ian’s lapels, yanking him forward. He would be damned if Alistair’s manhood was so rudely challenged.

  He seized Ian’s jacket so roughly that his brother tumbled forward onto the table, knocking over a candelabra and several glasses. Water and juice and even eggs went flying everywhere, as Marcus pushed Ian down by the nape.

  “Ye think I’m a sissy, brother?” Marcus demanded. “Ye think I can’t find a husband who knows how to poke his rod in the right direction, whenever and however we engage in erotic acts together? Do ye think,” Marcus asked, shoving his face right into his brother’s reddening one, “that I’m less masculine than ye just because I bugger other men? Or maybe ye simply wish you had enough guts to do the very same!”

  “Fuck off, ye arse,” Ian growled, struggling against Marcus’s grip. But he only tightened his hold, leveraging his position to keep his brother in place. “Finley’s barely older than any of ye,” Marcus growled. “Unless ye’re worried ye canna get yer own rod up!”

  Marcus was tightening his grip on Ian’s throat when Ethan finally managed to haul him off their brother. He shoved Marcus back into his chair. Ethan snarled at him, “Down and shut it now, Marcus.”

  Marcus strained against Ethan’s grip. “Let me loose, Ethan.”

  “Lad, ye’d best be reining in this temper of yers.” Their father rose, coming around to Marcus’s side of the table. He took hold of Marcus’s other shoulder while Ethan kept him pinioned in the seat.

  Marcus blew out a breath. “Papa, I am no longer a boy. I’m a man.” He cut his gaze toward Ian, whose face was mottled red from the chokehold. “Nor am I some back-alley ponce. I am a gentleman who wishes to see himself married.”

  “Marcus, Marcus.” His father clucked his tongue, then gently touched his cheek. “I may be older now, son, but I’m no fool. I’m aware you’re a man; you reached marria
geable age some time ago.”

  “Then why would you even balk about my night at the opera? Unless you see me as . . . less than my brothers. What else could it be?”

  Marcus’s father caught him by the chin, forcing Marcus to meet his steady gaze.

  “Surely ye know your papa better than that.”

  “But yer saying it’s different for my brothers than me.” Marcus stared up at his father. “That the rules are different.”

  Ethan laughed roughly. “Last I checked, I wasn’t planning to spend the night with an unmarried lady in town.”

  “Shut it, ye bampot,” came Ian’s surprising retort. Marcus’s throat tightened, that his brother would defend him even though Marcus had jumped him moments earlier.

  Marcus lifted his gaze to Ethan’s. “Ye can spend the night at the home of any unmarried lord without the tongue-wags savaging ye. All of ye. And you’re saying I can’t enjoy the same freedoms.” Marcus sighed, shaking his head. “And that I won’t ever know what it is to be ‘normal’ in society because I prefer gentlemen.”

  Marcus’s papa squatted down beside his chair. “Marcus, son, ye are different because of how God made ye . . . and social parameters are always going to be different, as well. But it does not mean I accept ye any less. Or love ye any less. Surely ye are assured of my love?”

  Marcus stared at his plate, aghast. Wishing that, like Alistair, he could enjoy falling into his cups as a way of escape. His papa rose, and moved back to his side of the table.

  “What I say to ye, it’s said in love, Marcus. Ye know I speak true.”

  “I’ve no real idea what I think anymore, not after this conversation.” Marcus rose and, brushing past his father, announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The late winter sun was already tracking well into the sky, and for a moment, Marcus wondered just how long the argument with his family had lasted. Far as he could recall, he’d not raised his voice to the man since he was a wee lad. And it had been more than a decade since he’d taken a swipe at one of his brothers. That had been poorly done of him; he knew what it was to be hit by a man in adulthood. By a man you loved, and who loved you. Everett had taught him that. And although it was different with their brawling band of brothers—and even though Ian had all but begged for a punch—Marcus owed him an apology.

  Once he was less overwrought. Once he’d sorted out his muddled thoughts.

  He trudged down into their pasture, following the trail as it narrowed, until high winter grass brushed his knees. He drew to a slow stroll as he neared the edge of the pond. A flock of geese glided across its still surface, the day so much warmer than all the previous of the past weeks had been. They were nudging up against spring, and Marcus couldn’t help but dream that it might be a very romantic season for him, for the first time in his life. But just as quickly, crashing despair overcame him, as he recalled his family’s opposition. His father’s statement that Marcus would always be different. Marcus wasn’t sure any single statement had ever wounded him as deeply as that one.

  “Marcus! Och, brother, would ye wait?”

  Only one of his brothers spoke with such a thick brogue and it was the very one with whom he’d nearly found himself in a brawl. Marcus turned his back to Ian, folding his arms across his chest with what he knew was a churlish display of ill temper. He still didn’t appreciate the poor way he’d spoken of the man Marcus loved.

  Marcus continued to stare at the pond and the gentle gliding of the pairs of geese, wondering if they would soon be coupling once spring arrived in earnest. But he did not turn to greet his infuriating brother; he was simply too livid with Ian and the lot of them.

  “Marcus, are ye going to stand there and keep your back to me? Or are ye going to turn and discourse, brother?” Marcus could only shake his head as he heard his brother’s heavy, crunching footfalls on the grasses. The very same ones he himself had stepped through so carefully, fearful of breaking any new spring growth. But that was Ian and to a tee.

  Of all his brothers, Ian was at once the least sensitive, the most blundering, yet the first to weep if something were genuinely moving. The one who’d grieved their mother’s death the longest. The one who, apart from Ethan, might well love him best; yet Marcus didn’t give a fig about any of that. Not today. For Ian Avenleigh had truly hurt him.

  One big hand clamped down upon his shoulder and a rumbling, husky voice vibrated against his cheek as his brother slung an arm about him. “Dearest brother mine, are ye still so sore that ye won’t even turn to face me?”

  “Not just you, Ian—the entire lot of you. I always thought my family understood. You might rib me and tease me, but I always believed you respected me. And that surely Papa did.”

  “Oh, ye addlepate! How can ye not see that yer the one we love most? And that yer Papa’s favorite and most beloved?”

  “Oh, I am not his favorite,” Marcus demurred, but his chest tightened at the loving approbation.

  Ian only laughed louder, the sound fast becoming an utterly inelegant guffaw. “And now, about to become betrothed is my baby brother—“

  Marcus poked a stick at the grass, joining in with a rumbling laugh of his own. “Ian Avenleigh. Eleven months’ difference does not make me your toddling little brother.”

  “The point is, Marcus, Papa adores ye. If ye canna see that he merely wishes ye married to that fine gentlemen of yers, then you’re more mentally podgy than I imagined.”

  “Mentally podgy?” But Marcus was laughing in earnest now.

  Ian cuffed him about the neck. “Personally, I think ye ought to go to the opera with the gentleman. After ye left, Papa did relent. Said yer a grown man, as ye say. And he agreed with me.”

  “How so?”

  “I told him we all ken yer buggering the gentleman anyway.”

  “Ethan!” Marcus barely managed his name on a strangled gasp. “The traitor, for telling ye that!”

  Ian planted a big kiss on his forehead and patted his cheek once more before wandering toward the pond. “Ye honestly think Ethan would tattle or betray your secrets? Our eldest brother is a vault. He won’t ever share a bloody thing ye don’t want him to, and well ye know it.”

  Ian dropped to his haunches, picking up a stick and stirring the water. “How do I know yer buggering Finley? Because of the bloody besotted smile yer constantly sporting. I’ve never seen ye so happy. So, ye’d better believe that I love yer Mr. Finley, too, because my gentle—and extraordinarily strong—baby brother is happier than I’ve ever known him to be.”

  “Ian . . . “ Marcus struggled to find his voice, but his loquacious brother didn’t wait for any response.

  “And, Marcus? After ye left, Papa said he knew he was wrong and yer a grown fellow, and should come and go as ye please. Society and rumors be damned.”

  This time it was Marcus who reached for his brother and gave him a kiss right in the center of his forehead. Then he whooped his way back to the house, Ian barely keeping up with Marcus’s exultant pace.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The day of the opera arrived, and despite the earlier hullabaloo with his family, Marcus was seen off with much back-slapping by all. His heart had soared like a bird all the way here to Alistair’s town house, and it was a wonder he hadn’t taken flight himself whilst being shown to a lavishly appointed guest bedroom. The room was filled with fragrant flowers and with double hearths that blazed with roaring fires. Clearly, every courtly detail had been considered—even upon the bed, a small bouquet of lilacs lay, tied together with a silk ribbon.

  Marcus stepped closer, beginning to laugh joyously. He fingered the bouquet, and the ribbon—pale blue silk. It was the silk tie from Alistair’s drawers, the ones he’d worn the first time they’d made love! He pressed the bouquet to his nose, inhaling the delicate scent and drinking in the seductive gesture wrapped up
by one silk ribbon.

  A rap sounded on the closed door, and Marcus spun, still clutching the bouquet to his chest as he moved to open the door. The man who greeted him on the other side was handsome, dressed in a crisp black tailcoat, and stole Marcus’s breath. Finley lingered in the entry, and for a solid moment or two it almost seemed like the gentleman was stunned as speechless as he.

  With a dazed shake of his head, Alistair finally murmured, “You look so very handsome, my lord.” He inclined a genteel bow. “I daresay you’ll outshine all the performers on stage, so stunning are you tonight.”

  “Well, that would be poorly done of me.”

  Alistair smiled. “I will hide you away in King Arend’s box, where I alone may bask in your glow. That should meet the standards of operatic propriety.”

  “But what of you? Good God, Finley, you’re striking tonight, as well. You should wear a tailcoat more often.”

  Alistair smiled shyly and straightened one cuff, so that the perfect measure of linen peeked from beneath the inky black coat sleeve. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment, glancing circumspectly into the hall behind him, “our weeks apart allowed your imagination to reach epic heights of fantasy.”

  “I don’t think so, no.” Marcus narrowed his eyes. The gentleman before him had never appeared quite so stunning, perfectly outfitted in his formal finery. Even if that rosy hue on Alistair’s cheeks betrayed what Marcus suspected, that he’d begun imbibing before Marcus’s arrival at half-four. “In fact, I fear my memory of you was not quite generous enough.”

  “Ah, then I may not be the only one in need of spectacles.” Alistair laughed huskily, leaning against Marcus’s doorjamb with luxuriant grace.

  Posed there so confidently, Finley had the mien of a prince. A subtle air of extreme nobility, in his look, his grace. The realization all but robbed Marcus of his very breath; it caused his cock to harden and pulse.

  He inclined a quick bow in a desperate bid to compose himself. “I see you perfectly fine, thank you, Mr. Finley.”