by Cooper Davis
Alistair’s jaw went slack. He’d never known any nobleman so irreverent toward his own title. “But you are a duke, sir,” he said numbly. Alistair spent too much time, every day of his life, fussing over etiquette and propriety on behalf of Arend to disregard the man’s ducal responsibilities. “Your dukedom is one of the most important in the realm. You must concern yourself with its future and . . .”
“And who my sons keep company with? Aye. I have done that very thing, sir. If you believe I’ve not done my due diligence in learning of you and your upstanding name and reputation, Mr. Finley, you’re sorely mistaken. I am a duke. But more important I’m a papa, and that lad of mine loves you, sir. With his heart and soul and spirit, my boy adores you, Finley.”
“I am enormously fond of him. Enormously. He’s . . . in my heart.”
“Yes. I can see that. I can see it very clearly.” The duke reached for his tea, expression turning serious. “But I’m concerned that, in all my inquiries, I cannot trace a thorough history for ye, even as ye serve so proudly and nobly within our king’s palace. You’re an upright gentleman, but your history—the familial history—is shadowed. There’s naught I can learn about the Finley family name.”
Brawny arms folded across a broad barrel chest, and the duke leaned back in his chair and waited. He appeared ready to wait a great long while, in fact, until he received all pertinent answers from Alistair. Until all his concerns were resolved.
And so Alistair, desperately in love with the man’s son, plowed ahead numbly. “I was raised in the palace,” Alistair began, his words halting. “Almost as . . . another . . . of King Norman’s sons. A brother of sorts to our King Arend, who was then the prince . . . obviously.”
The duke smiled, a very patient, encouraging look on his rough-featured face. “Aye. And tell me more of that.”
“Much like . . . the king’s son,” he stressed anew, his tongue thick in his mouth. “King Arend has been ever so much like a brother to me. I was very fortunate that his father, our late king, chose to foster me as he did. I will never claim that the monarch treated me as a true son, to be clear. I was never granted that sort of . . . notice. I never saw him, barely had an acknowledgment. But he took me within the palace when I was but a babe and saw that I had the best tutors and later sent me to schools and university. And I never failed to have a fine roof over my head. I was educated at the highest levels, and my university credentials were excellent. But if, sir, you’re hoping for me to present the birth record that would establish a fine bloodline—I am unable to do so.”
And this time it was Alistair who leaned back in the seat, settling heavily and folding his big arms across his broad chest. It was a posture of resignation, but also of challenge. He did love Marcus, and he doubted any other man would truly adore that young lord as much as he; Alistair also doubted any more ignobly born male could hope to gain this serious consideration from His Grace. There was naught to do now but lean back and wait, and hope for a miracle of sorts. And pray that his illegitimacy would not cost him a future with Marcus.
The duke and he stared at each other for several long moments with only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking like a metronome between them. Something flashed in the man’s eyes, an edge of the lip worked beneath his beard, pulling upward and downward. A hint of a frown creased between his eyebrows and then vanished. Until at last he simply shook his head and looked aside at a large family portrait, one Alistair hadn’t noticed on his previous visit to this room. The duke waved toward it. “That is the portrait of my full family, including my late wife, Evelyn. Marcus’s beautiful, brave mother. I was very blessed to be happily married for so many years until her passing. I have my fine sons yet still . . . and I think I should be blessed to have a new fine son, also on that wall when next our portrait is made. You love my son, it’s clear to me. Treat him well, please, Mr. Finley.”
“Your Grace, thank you.” Alistair inclined his head, an overwhelming rush of emotion robbing him of his voice momentarily. “I hope you see how dearly I love him.”
“I don’t believe any papa could miss that fact, sir. And if I didn’t think it true, I’d never be granting my approval. Don’t mistake me, Mr. Finley. Marcus does not need my consent to marry anyone. He’s of an age to choose for himself, but in my love for him I did hope to approve his choice of husband. I can give my blessing on this union, and proudly. But if there is ever anything”—the man was all eyes on him again, a piercing intent gaze at odds with his gentle warmth—“anything that I need to know to prevent him from coming to any harm, or any public shame, or any stain upon his reputation, I’m trusting you, sir, to come to me. I must know that you would come to me. That we could protect him; you will promise me that?”
Alistair nodded enthusiastically and barely restrained himself from declaring, “Aye!” in a brogue that mimicked the other man’s. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, I will always seek to protect him. I see that he has a tender heart, even as he is so strong and passionate—the farthest thing from a wilting flower. But I have discovered how very gentle he can be, and I will devote myself to offering my protection as husband . . . and maybe one day as father to the children we may be blessed to have together.”
The duke clapped his hands joyously, springing to his feet. Alistair moved quickly, rising upward, as it would not do to remain seated once His Grace stood.
The other man cuffed Alistair about the neck. “And now, good lad,” he said, pulling Alistair into something of a bearish embrace, “you have just spoken the best words of this entire visit! I want a veritable quiver-full of grand babes. And I would imagine that given your position in the palace, adoption should not be difficult for you and my son. Not as it might otherwise be for other married gentlemen. Ah, indeed, this is a blessed union.”
With that, the duke walked him toward the study door, one big hand still about the brawn of Alistair’s own neck, and squeezed it gently. “I’m so proud to know you’ll be my son, as well,” he said warmly. And this time Alistair’s eyes truly did blur with unshed tears. No man had ever dared claim him as son; just as no man had ever dared endeavor to become his husband or lover.
Somehow, Alistair Finley was no longer alone, nor an orphan. In some chamber of his heart, he almost believed he was no longer the by-blow of a man who would never acknowledge him.
* * *
* * *
When the duke and Alistair exited the study and entered the wide hallway of that regal, stunning manor home, Alistair had expected the warm humming silence that generally such grand homes entertained. But from his brief stints in this place before, he should have known otherwise; he should not have been surprised that Ethan rushed forward, eagerness in his bright green eyes. Nor that the twins all but tackled him, with one of them—Ian, perhaps?—cuffing Alistair’s neck.
“Well?” Ethan demanded impatiently. “Well? Come, now, Papa!” The viscount’s gaze roved back and forth between the duke and Alistair, then with an impatient huff, his gaze tracked toward the long hallway’s far end. Apparently to wherever Marcus had been waiting all this time. “Out with it, then! The both of you, tell us!”
The duke nudged both brothers out of the way. “Lads, where’s your brother? Marcus is about, isn’t he?” The older man cast Alistair a jovial smile. “Mr. Finley, I believe you would like to go see your fiancé, would you not?”
It seemed then that the whole of the house exploded in a whooping hurrah, joyous whelps of laughter, a dog barked, and from the very end of the hall, his darling Marcus very slowly walked out from the library—or perhaps it was another study.
His only thought at that particular moment was how dashingly handsome, how utterly happy that sweet dear redhead of his looked. Everything else in that hallway—the dogs, the brothers, the family servants—all of it somehow hushed and faded and disappeared. Until it was only Marcus, staring down the hallway. Marcus gave him a very quiet smile, and said simply,
“So our betrothal is now a fact?”
Alistair gave one nod. And then murmured, not caring who overheard, “Yes, sweetheart. And I’ve never been happier in my entire life.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The heavy winter snows melted, with sloshy waters running off into rivers and tidal swells that swept all the way to the coastline. Stubby winter grasses, withered by the harsh clime, were replaced with verdant greens and carpets of violet and gold flowers that lined the long drive of the palace. And the view from Alistair’s apartments there, a corner suite with an advantageous overlook of both coastline and rising mountain, became a woven tapestry of color, from spring birds nesting in the eaves beyond his window, to the bright billows of royal tents down upon the beach whenever the sun shone with any lasting frequency.
And as the spring arrived, Alistair found himself having shed some two stone. Becoming a teetotaler had a way of vastly improving a portly man’s waistline—even without much further effort being expended in the matter. Falling in love and falling under the spell of remaking his life because of that love . . . saw him lighter in every way.
So it was that, as the palace buzzed in preparations for his engagement house party—a lavish affair that Arend had insisted take place—his tailor paid a visit to Alistair’s apartments. The fellow saw fit to take in his trousers, his waistcoats, and even his linen shirts, but not without a bit of his valet Oliver’s tsk-tsking disapproval from the proverbial wings.
“You don’t believe me capable of ongoing abstinence?” Alistair laughed darkly, as a measuring tape came about his midriff.
“I believe you a man I’ve known some three decades.” Oliver gave him a stern glance in the looking glass. “’Tis a house party we are preparing for here, sir. And with you fond of drink and food . . . we do not want to find ourselves without proper apparel.”
“I shan’t imagine you’ll find yourself without anything. I’ll be the one who’s trussed up and overstuffed from the festivities. But I shall prevail.” Alistair turned, admiring his newly trimmed-down figure. “It’s been at least two years since I was my present size. I shan’t be an idiot and gamble it all away for a few extra coddled eggs.”
“’Tis not the eggs that concern me.” Oliver shook his head and sighed. “There will be a great deal of hullabaloo and merrymaking, and with your love of spirits—“
Alistair spun and gaped at his long-term valet. “Have you so little faith in me, Oliver?”
“I don’t recommend altering that morning coat so shrewdly,” Oliver prognosticated dourly. “Nor the trousers to be brought in so sharply.” The fellow gave the royal tailor a speaking glance, but was soundly ignored in favor of more measuring tapes and pins and markings.
Alistair lost himself in the moment, proud to imagine Marcus’s reaction to his newly tailored clothing, his improved figure. Out of respect for betrothal propriety, and the duke’s wishes that they behave circumspectly after the sudden betrothal, they’d been apart for more than a month. The days and weeks had worn on Alistair, even as he’d imagined surprising Marcus with his mild transformation. “I shall be fine, Oliver. You’ll see. The house party will go smashingly well.”
If only, a quiet part of Alistair’s heart whispered, he could fully trust himself when he imagined all that drink. He knew he should appeal to Arend, ask him to reduce the overflowing wine and champagne on his and Marcus’s account—for Marcus would not be content with Alistair indulging in liquor. He knew he should ask, nearly moved toward the door to seek his brother out without delay.
Yet something stopped him. That whispered promise of a party made more ebullient for enjoying those very spirits. Marcus would understand. ’Twas their engagement party, a special event, not his everyday life.
And Alistair could limit himself, keep the parched, nagging serpent of his addiction at bay this time.
* * *
* * *
The ducal carriage kicked up dust clouds from the farthest entry of the palace gates to the main doors of the palace. Alistair had positioned himself in the music room library, at the very front of the palace. If he stood just so, by the harp and front windows, he had an unimpeded view, his hungry gaze tracing the carriage’s progress. Who the devil had thought a month apart a grand idea? His fiancé’s father, that’s who.
“Propriety dictates that you be apart more often than not, Mr. Finley.” The duke’s warm eyes had crinkled into well-worn smile lines. “Sorry to be high-handed, but as I’m to be your father, you’ll have to abide by my limitations. You’ve been all the talk of the scandal sheet already. You must lay low for now.”
And they’d lain so low as to not have lain together again. Not since the night of the opera. Which explained, in no small measure, why Alistair was practically pressing the tip of his nose to the wavering glass panes of the library. Pulse fluttering madly beneath his silk tie, he devoured that approaching coach and dust cloud, imagining how very soon he would be devouring Marcus Avenleigh. He had very particular plans of what he intended once the night fell.
Marcus was ushered into the grand hall, with several footmen shouldering his trunks. Alistair sucked in a breath, adjusted his cuffs. He gave his kidskin gloves one last inspection—then, with one shallow breath followed by a next, Alistair moved into the hall himself to greet his fiancé.
And his breath staggered and caught, then staggered again. Marcus. Dear God, a month apart and Alistair’s memory of his lover had faded to a thin mist. The reality of the gorgeous male? Robbed him of coherence. Marcus’s dazzling smile grew wider the moment he spied Alistair there in the library doorway.
Alistair blushed like the devil when he saw his beloved’s gaze slowly skate down his newly transformed figure. “Mr. Finley, sir. Such . . .” The blue-green gaze moved upward across Alistair’s body anew. “Such a pleasure to reunite with you.”
“The pleasure, I can assure you, my lord,” Alistair murmured in a voice so husky, he hardly recognized it himself, “is all mine.”
Marcus immediately crisped a bow that Alistair returned. They swept into each other, pressed together as if on the crest of a powerful wave, the thrill of reunion sucking all other air from the room, save that which they shared betwixt them. Alistair took hold of Marcus’s gloved hand, and with a subtle motion, pressed the hem of the glove back—drawing the exposed skin deftly to his lips. He grazed a heated, discreet kiss there, feeling the mad fluttering of Marcus’s pulse against his lips.
The lusty expression in Marcus’s pale eyes, the way his lips half-parted, told Alistair that Marcus was imagining far greater liberties than a chaste kiss upon the man’s pulse point.
Offering his arm, he drew Marcus into the crook of it, and under his breath, in a voice low enough that no one else should overhear, murmured, “Just you wait till after dinner this evening. I’ve laid a banquet for us that has naught to do with food.”
* * *
* * *
Dinner passed in a candlelit, quiet blur, Marcus battling a bout of nerves over dining with the king of their realm. Alistair jested and laughed, and quickly put him at ease. The man was so happy. Happier than Marcus had ever seen him—and he’d shed some two stone, it appeared, during their time apart. As they’d answered the dinner gong, Alistair had quietly admitted that foregoing liquor had liberated him from those pounds. “I shan’t promise to stay off the alcohol all the time, but you were right. I do feel much better.”
Marcus had thrown his arms about his fiancé, not caring that Prince Julian strolled just behind them. Not caring if anyone saw. His heart was weightless, soaring with pride over his beloved’s accomplished change.
That transformation also made Marcus eager to learn what, precisely, Alistair had planned in the way of the promised “sensual banquet.” It was difficult not to imagine stripping this new, somewhat trimmer version of Alistair of every article of his clothing. Even so, he determined to reflect well upon h
is fiancé, and focused on the meal at hand. At the table head sat their king, and it was difficult not to feel anxious in the monarch’s presence. Yet the king was so very personable, asking Marcus about his family and his courtship with Alistair, that it proved impossible to remain nervous. Besides, King Arend’s genuine love for Alistair shone brightly. That, more than anything else, truly endeared their king to Marcus. Transformed him from intimidating monarch to potential . . . friend.
“It was quite the whirlwind,” the king observed with a tender smile in Alistair’s direction. “I must say of my foster brother: once he embarks on something, he embraces it with total passion. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Fin more overwrought, Lord Marcus, than the morning he realized he’d fallen desperately in love with you.”
Alistair choked on a bit of food, then started sputtering. “Sire, you may be king, but I must insist you—“
King Arend cut him off, with a jovial grin. “Lord Marcus must realize you’re in love with him, Fin. He’s consented to marry you.”
Marcus fought the impulse to laugh hysterically. His heart soared, hearing the truth from Alistair’s own foster brother. Alistair loved him. Marcus had known it, felt it in countless shared moments, during their lovemaking. But Alistair had never, quite specifically, told him the words. He’d been too afraid, too restrained by insecurity, reserve.
“Many a peer marries without love,” the king’s cousin, the Duke of Mardford, observed languidly from across the table. “Not me, of course.” The duke turned a beguiling smile on his wife, a young duchess of stunning beauty.
“Of course not, Samuel,” she said, and he pulled her gloved hand to his lips. The duke was clearly in love with his wife, there could be no doubt about that.
Beside Arend, his new husband, Prince Julian, beamed. “We are so delighted by your engagement, Lord Marcus. I’m sure none of us need tell you how very much Fin adores you.”