by Cooper Davis
With a trembling hand, he mopped his brow, caught sight of his neatly folded clothes on the sideboard, and barreled toward them. “If I leave now—if—then perhaps I can avert disaster by breaking this news to Papa first. And only just perhaps.”
He was at such sixes and sevens that he failed to note the utter stillness that had overtaken the room’s other male occupant.
“I would think you happy.” Oh, the words sounded so soft, so small . . . Marcus glanced in the direction of that wingback and discovered Alistair watching him, wariness in his features. “It is the result you’ve . . .” Finley gave his head a quick, clearing shake, then reached for his coffee cup without ever finishing the sentence.
“Of course the reality of a betrothal would delight me no end. But you have not,” he cried, “yet proposed marriage to me, Finley! My family is going to assume we circumvented tradition, propriety—you do know what northern clans and lairds are about, do you not? That they expect everything to be done in a highly traditional way, most especially when one of their sons becomes betrothed?”
“And you are a duke’s son, suddenly in public with me, and believed affianced, whilst your papa was none the wiser. Well, except the duke was aware of my hopes, Marcus. I was quite clear in my intentions to press this suit.”
“But you’d not asked for my hand, had you? No, you’d not done. And you the king’s secretary, no less! Oh, oh, oh. Badly done. Somehow. By whom? I don’t know, don’t know,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his eyes. “But badly, badly done . . .”
“Will you marry me?”
“Pardon?” Marcus let his hand fall to his bare hip, and gave his lover a stunned glance.
Alistair met his flustered gaze with a steady, calm one of his own. “Sod the office, sod my duties. Let’s ride to your home together, in my carriage, and I shall formally ask for your papa’s approval. By late morning today, we can make this purported betrothal solid fact. What do you say, my love?”
“I . . . I . . .”
Alistair rose, folded the paper twice, then sailed across the floor to him. Clasping Marcus’s face between both big palms, he tipped it upward until they stared eye-to-eye. “I do know they mentioned a summer wedding. Or . . .” Alistair gazed past Marcus’s shoulder, a darling smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Or was it spring, they said?”
Before Marcus could sputter over the fact that Finley had indeed read the whole of the column, he was silenced with a full-mouthed, ravenous kiss.
Oh, bloody hell.
Marcus was desperately, irretrievably in love. And all but betrothed to this man who, despite making love to Marcus more sweetly last night than any fellow had ever done, refused to admit his love. Yet. And who had, only just yesterday, been foxed to the point of belligerent meanness.
There was so much still to be worked out between them; so much that needed addressing. Marcus gave an apprehensive shiver as that lovely kiss grew hungrier and completely reassuring.
He was to be married, or at least engaged, and soonest. Surely the other troubling aspects of this courtship, and their affair, would render themselves void over time. Surely Marcus loved Alistair so very much that all the imbibing, as well as the trepidation and darkness he sensed in the other man, would be swept away. Love could be enough. It bloody well had to be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Before Marcus had even disembarked from the carriage, Ethan barged out upon the great stone steps of their manor home. Both hands were planted on his hips, and he glared first at Marcus, then cast a scalding look in Finley’s direction.
Alistair stepped down and pressed a steady, reassuring hand against the small of Marcus’s back. The gesture was just protective enough that it warmed him through and through. Although, thank heavens not all the way through, even as that subtle touch created a quiver in Marcus, an awareness of his lover that sang through him.
“Apparently quite the opera, that was,” Ethan declared coolly, protective gaze fixed on Alistair.
“Good day, Lord Dunshire.” Alistair politely bowed to Ethan, playing the part of king’s secretary to the very hilt. He even carried a dapper cane, which lent him an air of mature sophistication, as he tapped it lightly on the gravel drive.
Ethan just muttered at the gentleman, as if muddled by such niceties—at least in his present rage—then directed a long, accusatory finger in Marcus’s direction. “I cannot believe ye circumvented Papa after the brouhaha ye created by staying overnight with this man in the first place. Marcus, brother. Have ye any notion the bloody fuss I’ve had to mitigate this morn?”
“Ethan,” he scolded his brother, forcing his voice into a calm timbre. “We did not set about causing this distress! Surely you realize that I wasn’t born into this family only yesterday.”
“No, but apparently, this fellow here”—Ethan nodded in Alistair’s remarkably placid direction—“became engaged into our family yesterday.”
Alistair removed his hat, and inclined his head in Ethan’s direction. “Viscount Dunshire, as I intend to explain to the duke, there’s been a great misunderstanding and—“
Ethan wasn’t going to make things easy on poor Alistair and cut him off. “No, you, good sir,” he said with a didactic shake of his auburn head, “are old enough, and savvy enough, to realize precisely what a northern laird expects in the way of a proper betrothal.”
“Things proceeded beyond our control, my lord. I assure you that—“
“I don’t give a fig what happened or didn’t, nor how they proceeded. I’ve advocated for ye, Finley—for two solid years—and now ye have shown my naïve younger brother a heap of disrespect.”
“Ethan!” Marcus stepped in front of Alistair. “You’re out of turn and being an arse! There’s none more gentlemanly than Mr. Finley, and he’s treated me with the politest of regard in this whole fiasco today.”
“It’s a fiasco, is it?” Ethan narrowed his eyes, glanced back at the closed front doors, and then in a low voice said, “Brother mine, Papa’s going to thrash yer Finley if yer not careful ‘bout it.” His brother’s brogue had grown thick as a briar bush, signaling just how lathered up he’d become over current events; which meant their father truly was in a snit.
“Oh, dear me.” Marcus removed his own hat, and kicked at the pea gravel. “It’s that bad, is it?”
“Quite prickly, all I’m sayin’,” Ethan returned, then with a deep breath, turned to Finley anew. “Look, sir, I don’t care what ye and my brother are doing together behind bedroom doors, but again—our papa is quite the traditionalist.”
The double oak doors to their home opened with an irreverent, graceless thud, and Ian came barreling out onto the step. The minute he saw Marcus, he gasped and with a conspiratorial and overly dramatic motion, closed the doors shut before the butler made any further noise. Ian even had the nerve to shush their butler, shooing the man back inside.
“Och, so it’s the both of you, here to face the grand inquisitor, then?” Ian turned bug-eyed and ridiculous as he strode down the steps, whistling in wonder.
Marcus gave a weary glance at the sky, then said patiently, “Ian, you have met Mr. Finley.” Thankfully his husband-to-be behaved most gallantly—at least as much as he’d done with Ethan—and inclined a bow.
Very jovially, Alistair said, “Good day to you, Lord Ian. ’Tis most pleasant to reacquaint myself with you anew. And, yes, we have had a bit of a fuss in the paper,” Finley demurred, with a sly glance in Marcus’s direction.
“Oh, yes! Bit of a fuss in the rag sheet is one way of stating it,” Ian said. “But don’t claim you two devils didn’t invite it.” Ian folded strong arms over his chest, glancing at Ethan, who had, in fairness, ceased to look so perturbed, his face relaxing. “Just when precisely was this proposal made last evening?” Ian asked.
“Yes,” Ethan drawled, a smile finally on his face. “Did you propose to my brot
her during the opera or before or—“
“Or was it after in the carriage queue, and that’s what started up the rumpus?” Ian finished, big blue eyes curious and merry.
Alistair stepped forward, closer to both the brothers, shaking his big head firmly. “Lord Dunshire, Lord Ian, make no mistake. I had not yet sought your brother’s hand when the society column appeared this morning. I believe someone meant to create a bit of . . .”
Alistair shot him a quick glance. That shy, semi-helpless glance filled Marcus with surprising desire—something about its naked honesty.
“I believe the columnist or whoever started the chin-wagging wanted to make a bit of trouble for us,” Marcus finished. “Would you not agree, Mr. Finley?”
“Yes, quite. ’Twas obvious a stab at sabotage.” Alistair thrust his shoulders back, squaring himself in front of Ethan. “However, that does not change the fact that I wish to marry your brother.”
Ethan gave a conciliatory nod, then started up the steps. “Who knows,” he observed, “it might well have been Lady Elsevier spreading that rumor; she’s always after such things.”
Marcus shook his head, thinking back on the opera and their night out. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “she wasn’t there, that we saw.”
“Someone had their fun, then,” Ethan allowed, then opened the doors for Finley. “Here, sir, come inside. I’ll endeavor to save your hide, should my father become too growly.”
Ian laughed, and extended a hand to Alistair as he ascended the stone steps. “Welcome to our home, my . . . hmm, what the devil are you, then, Mr. Finley?” Ian and Ethan exchanged an embarrassing glance, laughter in their eyes.
“He’s my betrothed,” Marcus told them, widening his eyes while Alistair had his back to him and couldn’t see. Stuff it, he mouthed, eyes widening even more.
Ian stared back a heartbeat, then shrugged. “I suppose you’re my brother-to-be? Excellent! I love having brothers.” Ian clapped Finley on the back as if he were another country-born fellow, not the formal, refined man he was by nature.
Keeping that hand cuffed about Alistair’s neck, Ian saw him through the door. “Come, then, Finley, and face the Grand Inquisitor. Don’t worry too bloody much about our papa setting a torch to your short hairs. Nor his forcing you into a kilt.” Ian paused, turning to Alistair. “Yet. But the Avenleigh tartan will be expected on the wedding day, so you know.”
Marcus brought up the rear, with Alistair now sandwiched between his two yammering brothers, and felt immense pride in his fiancé. For that big man, trapped in a tide of brotherly curiosity and protection and blathering, appeared calm. Collected as he ever seemed in the midst of the royal offices, instructing servants and under-secretaries. Marcus knew that placid exterior was an offering to Marcus himself, a testimony to the incredible affection Alistair felt for him.
The man would make a fine husband, oh, yes. A fine husband, indeed.
Surely his sensible, introspective papa would recognize that fact, once the shouting and mayhem and pistol-cocking settled down.
* * *
* * *
“What I would like to know, Mr. Finley, is your true intention with my fine son.” The duke eyed him keenly, and for a moment, Alistair would’ve sworn that some secret knowledge flared in the older man’s green eyes. Eyes so very much like his beloved’s. It was just the two of them in the duke’s study, and that made the significance of the man’s perceptive gaze all the heavier.
Alistair cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. “My intentions, Your Grace, are that I love your son.” There. He had said it. Now he needed only say as much to said son. “Marcus and I suit, quite well.”
“Yes, I believe I have noticed that.” The auburn-haired man laughed merrily. “From the moment that lad saw you, sir, he’d have no other. Just as I told you the first time you came and sat with me.” The man’s demeanor grew more somber. “Mr. Finley, not to pry, or seem inappropriate, or to show you disrespect, but I’ve endeavored to learn a bit about you, as this is my son. I love him so very dearly. And yes, before you accuse me of it, I know I’m overly protective. Marcus has already taken me down a notch or two over that very issue.”
The duke paused. “Marcus, as you’ve no doubt learned, is capable of standing up for himself whenever necessary.”
Alistair tried to force a smile, but his stomach had begun to roil, and his heart was pounding so fiercely, it felt as if he might be ill. “I . . . have noticed,” he managed to choke out, afraid the duke would apprehend how anxious he had become, or see the fine sheen of sweat upon his brow.
But the older man stared at his hands, wringing them thoughtfully. After an eternal moment, those green eyes lifted and fixed Alistair in a gentle but perceptive way. “But, Mr. Finley, even with my regard for you, and my son’s, I have nevertheless made circumspect inquiries into your background. Frankly, as to how you arrived at the palace and why you lived there as a lad and such. But you’re quite the mystery. No one seems to know much of your background at all. I could only learn vagaries, something about your father having been friends with the late king. But I need to understand your background, Mr. Finley.”
“My background,” Alistair repeated blindly. In all his imaginings of having Marcus as his husband, and all his dreams of making the betrothal a reality—this was the moment he’d dreaded from nearly the first. It was as if all the air left the room; his brain seemed unable to clearly function. He simply could not summon an answer beyond, “My . . .”
“Your background,” the duke repeated, very gently and kindly. There was an awareness in those eyes. Alistair instantly lowered his own gaze in response. He stared down at his hands and tried to invent a decent answer, one that would satisfy a loving father who wished only the very best for his son. Whose approval would most certainly be required if Alistair had a hope in hell of making that son his own husband.
He could think of no explanations that would fill in the blank canvas of his life, or his past, or of facts that would render him a suitable spouse for Lord Marcus Avenleigh. In fact, there was but one truth he could tell, and he wagered it, his final chip. And prayed a bit as he spoke the truest definition of the man he was, the by-blow who sat before the duke this day.
With a vulnerable lift of his eyes, he squared his shoulders and met the other man’s perceptive study. “I cannot tell you more of my provenance, sir, than you’ve already learned on your own. I would, sir, if I could. But there is one thing I can assure you about myself.”
The duke nodded, waiting. His expression was kind and patient. Alistair swallowed, leaned forward in his seat. “I love your son, Your Grace. I have yet to profess my feelings, not in so many words, but allow me to assure you. I love him dearly. Passionately. And that sentiment will not waver, only grow, as our attachment deepens. Can my love for Marcus satisfy your concerns? Can my fondness for him be enough . . . for now, sir?
The duke leaned back in his seat and regarded Finley for a very long moment, green eyes searching his face—bushy eyebrows a vision of what Marcus might look like at a similar age, well into his fifties. At last, the man very quietly spoke, his brogue thicker than usual, “I cannot allow anything to happen to my lad again. Ye know of Lord Everett and Marcus’s relationship with him, do ye not?”
Alistair could only blink, then gave a small shake of his head. “I have met him, but . . . he’s not told me much.” Alistair kept his answer vague, not wanting to inadvertently reveal Marcus’s confidences.
The duke groaned and he gazed heavenward. “Och! Then you’ve no idea why we are so protective.”
“I understood you to be a traditional family . . . and Marcus is still young.” Alistair felt his hands begin to quiver in his lap as he recalled how Lord Everett had scraped his gaze over Marcus last night, the wicked gleam in those eyes.
The duke simply shook his head. “Ye must think us a highly traditional l
ot, if ye don’t know why we’ve been so concerned with all that Marcus does with you.”
Alistair all but lurched forward in his seat, barely managing to leash the strange jealousy that instantly coursed hot in his veins, nor the way his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Perhaps you . . . may enlighten me?” What if Lord Everett had done more than Marcus admitted last night?
“It is an old affair, and only relevant beyond this discussion should Marcus choose to share that past with you. Suffice it to say that when we were still in the north, and he moved to the city to play for the symphony . . . he became a bit ruined.”
“He’s finely regarded, however, Your Grace. There have been rumors, true. But he’s borne them well enough.”
The duke’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. The pride he felt in Marcus shone in his sparkling eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Finley. Mighty young, our Marcus was when that affair happened, and as passionate then as he is now.”
This time it was Alistair who couldn’t help smiling. “Oh, he’s definitely . . . enthusiastic.”
The duke nodded, but his expression turned thoughtful. “Lord Everett is not a decent man and did not treat my son well. It was why we moved to the provinces after my wife’s passing. I vowed to myself that—given Marcus’s inclinations—I’d never allow anyone I couldn’t full trust to court him. Nor allow him in the company of any gentleman who might hurt him or humiliate him or . . . disgrace him. Or bring shame upon his name.”
“Or shame upon your dukedom?” Alistair was still shaking and there was a bit of anger in his voice—and he was shaking even more for the question that lurked out on the horizon, one that he could not answer. The truth about his provenance, about who his parents were.
Shockingly, the duke laughed, the whiskey-warm sound rumbling forth from his chest—the same joyous mirth Alistair had witnessed so many times in his lover. “Och, Finley, I don’t give a sheep’s burr, nor a bloody damn about the dukedom. Not where my sons are concerned.”