by Cooper Davis
The streets were quite dark, more so than usual due to the drizzly conditions and lack of moonlight. Alistair listened sharply, but heard only the churning sound of carriages on a muddy nearby lane, and the clomping of horse hooves on cobblestone. He called out for Marcus—thrice. But the sizzling sound of gas lamps, and of pitter-pattering rain, was all that lingered in the wake of his cry.
Alistair shivered as he continued down the street, gaze sweeping for a silhouette of one beloved lord. As he rounded a bend in the road, he nearly passed by a private garden that he shared with his neighbors. Something made Alistair double back, and he stood, gripping an iron section between two finials punishingly.
He could see naught but darkness, with the odd swaying of branches beneath the cold rain. Marcus, with his intent doggedness, did not much seem the sort for hiding out in private gardens. On the other hand, Alistair had been blisteringly cruel.
He reached for the gate latch, and stepped into the cloistered garden, softened grass sinking beneath his heavy steps. “Marcus?” he almost whispered, afraid to hope. Afraid his beau had already headed back to his home in the provinces.
“I’m o’er here,” came Marcus’s rasping brogue from the darkness. The man’s accent only ever thickened thusly when he was overwrought with emotion. Alistair’s eyes slid shut, and he shuddered at what he’d done to his beloved.
“I came searching for you,” Alistair said. “I was worried.”
“Ye needna’ bothered for I doona wish to see ye.”
Alistair had never, not even in the throes of their shared passion, heard Marcus’s brogue quite so dense. And Alistair wanted to be sick; he considered falling prostrate on the mud before the young man. “It’s dark enough that you won’t have to,” he managed, but only just barely.
Marcus didn’t answer, so Alistair picked his way across sodden grass, his boots squelching in new mud. Finally, he made out Marcus’s silhouette; he was seated on a lone bench, his drooped shoulders backlit by a gas lamp on the park’s distant border.
Alistair cautiously took the place beside Marcus. “I am incredibly sorry that I hurt you,” he said and all but held his breath while he awaited a response.
Marcus leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Know what truly hurts me? Not how ye can wound me when you’re drunk. Not the way ye thrash at me emotionally, hoping to shove me away.” Marcus buried his face in both hands. “No, Alistair, that’s not the worst of it. It’s how badly ye hurt yerself at those times. And it hurts me even more that I’m not reason enough for ye to quit.”
“The bottle was my lover long before you.”
“Then it seems I’m something of a mistress. A woman, after all.”
Alistair dared place a tentative hand along Marcus’s spine, rubbing lightly. “You’re more man than I’ve ever been. You’re gentle, yes, but that gentleness is part of what I find so dear about you.”
Marcus turned to face him. “When did you know you preferred gentlemen?”
Alistair frowned, not having expected this conversational shift. “I’m not sure. Probably about the time I figured out what my prick was for, and how to properly milk the thing once in bed at night.”
Marcus sat up much taller. “When I was eight, I turned to my papa and told him that when I grew up, I’d marry the stableboy. I’ve never forgotten the look upon his face, nor what he said to me that day.”
Marcus’s breathing came in heavy pants, as he clearly measured his next words. “My papa squatted down, right in front of me, so he could stare me in the eye, and said, ‘Son, we live in an evolved world, yet life won’t ever be easy for ye. But I’ll always love ye, no matter how God built ye. Ye and the fine man you’ll marry one day.’”
Alistair wondered what it might have been like to have a father—a true one—who would have granted such loving, easy acceptance of his son. “You’re enormously blessed.”
Marcus reached for his hand, taking it in his own. “That same man thinks you are worthy of me. And so do I. Now prove us both right, Alistair. Won’t you please?”
Alistair bowed his head. Humbled. Overwhelmed. Marcus wasn’t asking him to cease imbibing, not precisely. What he was asking, expecting in his gentle way, was for Alistair to rise to his very best nature. To be worthy.
“Yes,” he breathed at last. “I believe I can honor a father’s wishes for his beloved son. If I can’t, then I’m not worthy of anything much in life myself.”
Marcus cupped his face in gloved hands, turning it until their lips brushed each other. “I love you. Remember that. Carry it in your pocket like a talisman. Hold on to that, and I shall hold on to you and see you through this struggle. I promise.”
Alistair pressed his eyes shut, terrified, and nodded but once. And even as he did so, some dim part of his mind lusted for yet one more drink.
Chapter Nineteen
Marcus had hoped the evening’s drama over, once he and Alistair reconciled in the garden. His luck, however, proved uncooperative, for he now found himself facing the only gentlemen he’d wished to avoid tonight: his former lover, Lord Everett Farnsworth. To make matters worse, not only had Everett approached him, but was presently ogling Alistair’s backside with a lascivious grin.
“Good God, Marcus, but the fellow owns a bit of ripe arse,” Everett observed. “Then again, you always did prefer your men . . . robust.” Everett gave him a sly look, locking hands about his own thickset middle.
Everett raked a crude glance over Alistair, who was inopportunely inclined in conversation with a much shorter usher. The position canted his hips at the perfect angle for Everett to gawk suggestively. “Your Mr. Finley owns the perfect amount of embonpoint. He must be delightful to bugger. Well done, darling.”
Marcus’s cheeks flamed. “I’m not,” he bit off, “your darling. Not anymore, thank God.”
“Pity that.” Everett cast another crude glance at Alistair. “Although I note you didn’t claim you’re not buggering him. And he is thoroughly delicious.”
“Sod off.” Marcus growled, at once grateful and alarmed to see Alistair wending their way.
“Oh, fortune shines upon me. The gentleman trudges back to your side.” Everett’s tone dripped with rude implication.
Alistair reached them, and he glanced curiously to Everett, who made an obsequious bow. “Mr. Finley, felicitations.”
Marcus barely suppressed a disgusted moan. “Mr. Finley, this is Lord Everett Farnsworth. Are you acquainted?” His heart was tripping in his chest, filled with apprehension and shame. Even though Alistair knew about his spurious involvement with Everett, his lover would surely think less of him once he realized what a rude lout Everett was.
“I have not had the pleasure, no.” Dear Alistair’s dark gaze moved between them both, before fixing concernedly on Marcus.
Marcus announced with forced brightness, “Mr. Finley and I are to be sharing His Majesty’s private box this evening.”
Everett pressed a hand to his temple. “But of course! You’re that Mr. Finley. King Arend’s man.” He said the latter with just enough derision to imply that Alistair was merely a workingman. A servant in the palace, not a moneyed, highly regarded gentleman in his own right.
Alistair stiffened beside Marcus, and one extremely proprietary hand came down upon his shoulder. “My own man, thank you.” Then Alistair skated an endearing look toward Marcus, drawing him a bit closer against his side. Protectively. “But if I’m any aristocrat’s man, it would be this fine one upon my arm tonight.”
Marcus could barely refrain from seizing Alistair in a grateful embrace. Instead, he merely pressed as close to the man’s side as he could manage.
“Well,” Everett said in an overwrought tone, “congratulations, then, on your attachment. I’m sure all of society shall soon be set on its ear, seeing you in such a public venue and clearly cozy together. Congratulations. To you both.�
�� With that, Everett took two steps backward, a vaguely diabolical smile on his face, and was swept up within the crowd.
Once he was out of sight, Marcus blew out a tense breath and all but wilted against Alistair’s solid side. His lover pressed a reassuring hand to Marcus’s lower back, guiding him through the crowd. Behind them, from among the throngs of people, Marcus could have sworn he heard Everett call out, “Congratulations,” once more.
He could only pray that the cad would quickly find some other former lover with whom he could trifle and make trouble.
* * *
* * *
Alistair escorted Marcus toward the railing of the royal box, and the man’s beautiful eyes widened appreciatively. “I’ve never seen the view from here.” But then Marcus groaned aloud, his joy evaporating. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Marcus leaned down onto the balcony edge, studying something near the orchestra pit. Alistair tracked with Marcus’s gaze and quickly realized it wasn’t something, but rather, someone who had his lover’s attention.
Lord Everett again. Alistair wanted to groan himself, for he didn’t like the sloe-eyed look of that peer. Alistair scowled down at him, at the precise moment Lord Everett, in turn, glanced up at their box. With a wicked, slow smile, the lord tipped the brim of an imaginary hat with a flourish—then settled a lingering glance on Marcus from down below. A glance that bespoke inappropriate familiarity and stolen liberties. And insulted Marcus and his honor.
“The bastard,” Alistair muttered, beginning to sweat under his collar. “It’s entirely untoward for him to stand down there and—“
“Which is exactly why he’s doing it. To make you jealous and me feel scandalized. And embarrassed.” Marcus turned away from the rail. “Honestly, don’t bother, Alistair.”
Alistair continued to stare down at the theater beneath them. “But he’s not stopping.” His jaw began to tick furiously. “I should have a word.”
“And say what, exactly?” Marcus laughed nervously, putting his back to the railing. “No, my proper, upright gentleman, nothing to be done for it, I’m afraid. He’ll lose interest in a moment.” But the crease in Marcus’s brows—and a skittish glance back over his shoulder—said that he believed otherwise. Alistair didn’t like the power Lord Everett held over his lover, a tether seeming to tighten between the two men, despite the physical distance separating them at present.
Alistair despised that lord’s hungry, scheming look, and the heated way it lingered upon Marcus.
With a sigh, and a squeeze of Marcus’s hand, he finally forced his gaze off Lord Everett and onto Marcus. “You were lovers for . . . how long?” He aimed for a mild tone, but gauging by the way Marcus frowned back at him, he’d been unconvincing.
Marcus disheveled his auburn locks with an agitated hand. “We only spent about three months together. At least there’s that, the brevity of the horror. But . . . we were attached long enough that he still puffs up like a blowfish whenever he sees me near any other male. No matter how platonic our acquaintance. He once turned into a cretin around my brother Ian before realizing we were siblings. And so, seeing you earlier and noting my obvious attachment to you . . . and who you are, your role at the palace. Plus”—Marcus got a devilish gleam in his eye—“you are so very much my type. And he can’t compete on any of those fronts.”
“Well, he’s certainly large enough.” Alistair chuckled. “Still, I daresay he’s jealous.” Alistair nodded toward the milling crowd, where Lord Everett had thankfully moved off into a conversation with some newspapermen with whom Alistair was acquainted. “He does get around, does he not?”
“He’s hoping to find his way into tomorrow’s society column. He always is.” A little frown pleated between Marcus’s auburn brows. “He wasn’t particularly good to me.” The pleat furrowed deeper, as Marcus worried at his lower lip.
Alistair’s heart sped furiously. “Not”—he had to swallow—“good to you? What the devil do you mean?”
“He could be a bit rough.” Marcus pushed off the ledge of the balcony and walked into the more shadowed, velvet-draped section.
Alistair stormed after him “He could be rough how? Marcus, pray tell me, love.”
Alistair’s mind was rife with horrible ideas, swimming with images of that bastard being rough with his gentle, sweet-tempered Marcus. Alistair’s hands curled into fists at his sides, and it was all he could do to restrain himself. He glanced furiously toward the doorway to the box, and imagined marching down to those orchestra seats and issuing Everett a proper thrashing. But he would not shame or dishonor Marcus publicly. “Tell me, Marcus,” he growled. “Tell me what that bastard did.”
Marcus wrung his gloved hands briefly, then shrugged, turning to Alistair. “He mishandled me a time or two, and then that was that.” Marcus’s gaze became distant. “The final occasion severed our arrangement. He . . . he reached to strike me, much like before. But that time, I was ready and blocked him, but he managed to . . .” Marcus rubbed his wrist, his face twisting into a mask of suffering. “My hands, you know, are everything to me, as a violinist.”
He glanced up at Alistair quickly. “I was fine, but it took some weeks. To this day, sometimes my right hand cramps up when I play.”
Murderous fury awakened in Alistair. He cast a swift glance toward the private box’s door. “If this venue were not so public, I would call the bastard out right now.” He began shaking, needing another drink, needing to act until he was blind with it.
“Alistair. Don’t. Truly, he is not worth it. I have moved on.”
Alistair carefully took the hand that Marcus had indicated. “But your hands are your instrument. A violin is naught but an object, until taken in hands like these.” Alistair drew the hand to his lips to bestow a kiss. “I shan’t ever mistreat you. You’re a treasure, Marcus. You should be cherished, and if I ever do otherwise, then you must leave me, too.”
The lights dimmed just then, signaling the beginning of the opera. That subdued lighting was much like the shadows that chased at Alistair’s thoughts. But this night was theirs, just as Marcus had said, and he was determined to soldier on, especially after his own earlier misdeeds.
* * *
* * *
Alistair felt the whisper of Marcus’s hand along his nape, the caress of that touch gliding down his arm, and then his lover was upon his lap. They were secluded behind velvet drapes, colored as deep a red as Alistair’s face blazed at finding himself in His Majesty’s opera box with a lordling upon his lap.
Marcus splayed a hand on Alistair’s midriff, balancing himself as he leaned forward, rapt. “Ah, this is the part when Antonio professes his confusion over loving Giuseppe. It’s painful to hear, the emotion is so raw.” Marcus drew his other hand to his cheek, an expression of profound rapture on his handsome face. His eyes grew bright. “That tenor is a rare talent, isn’t he? He expresses rich emotion, not only with that voice, but with his body and grace. Stunning.” Marcus’s enthrallment evoked the same reaction in Alistair himself. He wanted Marcus to gaze upon him that same way, in the throes of deepest passion. “Isn’t this transporting?” Marcus murmured.
“Umm, yes, dear Marcus. Indeed,” Alistair agreed vaguely. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from Marcus to look down at the stage, fixated on watching his beloved, as he watched the poignant scene.
Marcus held a hand over his heart, entranced; it was a wonder he’d not chosen to study opera in addition to the violin, given how captivated he was by the performance on the stage. And yet . . . yet, with that hand he cradled about Alistair’s nape, Marcus began sensually fanning through the hair curling there. Loosening the waves, the rough pressure of Marcus’s fingertips massaging Alistair’s neck, with devoted, sweet attention.
Marcus leaned into him, his other hand splayed against Alistair’s chest and whispered, “This line . . . ‘I did not exist till existence included you.’” He sighed,
resting his cheek against the top of Alistair’s head. He sat there, just so, balanced upon Finley’s big thigh, nestling closer and closer still, as if they’d never had a disagreement at all. His heart—Marcus’s generous heart—was so capable of love, it caused Alistair’s throat to tighten.
He had to be careful. He could not crush or trample such kind, genuine beauty. He had captured for himself a fallen angel, one that still had purity coursing through his veins.
“I will be careful,” he whispered in Marcus’s ear as the music crescendoed, recognizing that he’d not clearly made out the words.
His young lover nodded absently, but Alistair cradled him closer, tightening his arms about him. Marcus rested his head on Alistair’s shoulder with dreamy satisfaction. “You were very thoughtful to bring me.”
“You were more thoughtful to forgive me. For my oafish, ill-tempered drunkenness.”
Marcus’s smile slipped a bit. “Things progressed very swiftly. Inebriation has a way of encouraging that. I know you did not mean to hurt me.”
“I hate that I did. I don’t think I can express quite how much.”
Marcus leaned back a bit, but Alistair snugged him closer, refusing to let him slide off his lap. Alistair pressed his mouth to Marcus’s ear. “I do not ever want to let you escape my arms. Pray tell that you won’t try again? Even if I’m an arse like I was earlier? You gave me a horrible fright when you set out on foot.”
“What did you imagine? That some danger would befall me?” Marcus frowned. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“No, Marcus.” Alistair had to glance away a moment, his chest growing tight. “I imagined that I’d lost you . . . for being such a bastard.”