by Cooper Davis
And this time, oh, Alistair Finley did manage to rouse himself. He rolled back over in bed, gave Marcus a red-eyed, mean glance, and barked, “You’re a damned idiot, Avenleigh. Who else would even be standing in this room right now? Who else would have forgiven me, or could have, for the night of that bloody opera?”
“How can ye talk to me like this? Do ye not . . .” Marcus’s eyes swam, everything growing blurry. “Do ye not love me?”
“That’s beside the much larger”—Alistair made a grim laugh, as he struggled to sit up—“point.”
“No.” Marcus planted both hands on his hips, shaking so hard he could barely speak. “’Tis not beside the point at all! You do love me, and I know that you do, and I also know how much pain you’re presently in. How much you’ve been in, for a very long time.”
“Doubt it,” Alistair muttered. He rubbed his forehead in squinting pain. Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, he began working at the remaining boot with one stockinged foot. “I should have gone to Sapphor long ago. It obviously worked out splendidly for our king.”
“Yes, I’m sure Prince Julian relished the near-decade he spent behind those walls,” Marcus replied bitterly.
“He’s in a plumb arrangement now. Certainly tupped his way right into a lavish life for himself. Title, husband, palace, and all.”
“That’s the ugliest you’ve been all night. I adore the prince. He is my friend, gracious and kind and, unlike you, is never in his cups. And also unlike you, his behavior remains far beyond reproach.”
“And there you have it. I may indeed go find myself a Julian of my own, one who will bugger me and part his own thighs, but leave my personal affairs alone.”
“You made them public tonight at the dining table.”
Alistair mumbled to himself, the words lost as he scraped a paw over his eyes and sagged there on the bedside. Marcus did hear something that vaguely sounded like, “Whores are easier.”
“Pardon me?” Marcus’s words came out near shrill. He wanted to believe his beloved had not just asserted such a ludicrous, hurtful thing. But he knew, deep down, what he’d heard.
Alistair sat up taller, eyed Marcus with those red-rimmed, puffy eyes. “I said,” he repeated, voice sharp, “that my whores were much easier than you, Lord Marcus. I’ll return to them once I divest myself of this bloody burdensome relationship.”
Marcus’s jaw ticked and he stared at the guttering tapers along the wall. Light, then dark, wavering along that line of near extinguishment. Like he and Alistair and their crumbling affair. “Of course you will return to the whores,” he managed at last. “For you must always pay.”
“I must always pay.”
“Except for me. With me, you dared risk more of yourself.”
“Oh, I’ve paid exhaustively for you, my dear.” Alistair laughed darkly. “I’m bankrupted from these few months.”
Marcus blinked back in horror, barely recognizing the stranger. “Wh-what does that mean? I’ve a fortune of my own. When did I—“
“Expectations. Demands. Hopes. God, but your naïve belief that I will ever be a better man! I paid the strumpets because it was uncomplicated.”
“You paid them because you felt yourself too undesirable otherwise.”
Alistair gave him a withering look. “You misunderstood my confession on that count.”
“I did not. For throughout the course of our courtship, it has remained the specter between us, your inability to realize your worth, Alistair!”
“There it is, right there. Naïve, dreamy-eyed hopes. Overestimation of my merits.”
“I believe I am beginning to reassess, if that alleviates your concern.”
“Yes.” Alistair made a harrumphing sound of approval, although he scowled and glanced about the room in wide-eyed despair. If Marcus weren’t so shredded to bits, he might have believed that Alistair was panicked to realize he was about to lose him.
But no, Alistair was searching for a bottle. Marcus realized that truth when his lover staggered to his feet, lumbering toward the desk across the room. But he’d forgotten about the boot that remained partially on his foot, and went crashing forward, slowly, inelegantly, but with that breath-held silence of a falling oak.
Marcus couldn’t make himself move, even as he watched the mammoth man tumbling toward the floor. Even as he knew the room’s furnishings would shake from the crash.
Alistair caught himself partway, softening the fall, as he landed with forearms braced, a knee catching some of his weight. But as Marcus had known, the force of the fall was enough to cause the room to give a thundering quake. On the sideboard, several candles extinguished, leaving only one wall sconce ablaze.
“Buggering hell,” Alistair cursed, rising onto his knees. Then, he plunked right down on his arse and ripped the remaining boot off. “Fucking fashion. Bollocks and damnation.”
Alistair flung the boot at Marcus and it glanced off his forearm, barely missing his face. “And despite being utterly foxed, your aim remains intact. You aim to wound, and so you do.”
“You once said you wouldn’t leave lest I asked. I’m asking now. I am begging you. Leave me. We are through.”
“I would not leave you, not in this state.”
Alistair rose unsteadily. “I once asked you to take a good look at me. Do it now. What do you see? A gentleman who is so dissolute he can’t remain properly clothed at the king’s table. Good Lord, Marcus. Get away.” Alistair made a dismissive, shooing gesture with his hand. “Be gone and soonest.”
“You are”—Marcus held his breath for a moment—“asking me to leave you? That’s what you’re asking I do?”
“I’m not asking. I’m demanding that you do so. On the morrow, when I wake late morning and feel like hell itself . . . I do not wish to see your fresh and freckled face.”
“You’re saying I should leave at first light?” Marcus asked, the words squeezed out breathlessly.
“Precisely that.”
Marcus had to blink back at the other man for several long seconds, before barely managing, “Then why should I even wait till morning?” Marcus swallowed and stared up into a face that seemed, remarkably enough, sobered a bit. As if Alistair’s clouded awareness had cleared long enough for him to truly state his wishes.
For the first time in their exchange, Alistair’s countenance grew uncertain. He sighed in exhaustion, and made to drop down upon the edge of the bed, but—Marcus realized, staring in abject horror—he was going to miss that mark. Would likely land on his arse. On instinct, Marcus moved in to prevent yet another graceless fall.
Lifting a hand to assist, Marcus cursed, “Damn you, Alistair, you’ll—“
And as fast as a harsh strike of lightning, one meaty fist lashed upward against Marcus’s cheekbone, grazing his eye harshly enough that he could see naught but flashes of light for a long moment. When his vision cleared, he stood rubbing the eye, staring down at a truly stricken Alistair.
Alistair gaped up at him in slack-jawed horror, sobering further. “Marcus! Oh, dear God, let me see if you are all right. Oh, dearest Marcus, let me see.”
Alistair attempted to stand, but stumbled. Grasping at Marcus’s sleeve, the fabric ripped in his grasp as he caught himself on the bed. “Marcus!” he cried, attempting to stand again. “I didn’t mean—“
“Don’t!” Marcus shoved the man back down onto the bed. “Do not dare approach me again. Not another word!” Keeping his hand balled against the throbbing eye, he managed to glance down at the other man. “I loved you. God, I will always love you, Alistair. But you did mean to hurt me. You meant to do so from the first, as you could not bear the thought of my loving you.”
Marcus neatened up the front of his waistcoat and the ripped sleeve. “Because you could not bear the thought of my ever leaving you. But you’ve bade me to do so, and now I shall. I won’t return y
our way again, either. We are done.”
As soon as the door shut behind Marcus and he stepped into the hallway, he stopped. He couldn’t even take another step; he was that utterly shaken, his eye hurting so badly—to say nothing of his heart in shreds, his ravaged pride, too. He braced himself against the far wall of that exquisite hallway, grateful that no footmen or servants were nearby, and slowly sank to the floor. He huddled there as if sheltering himself from a horrible storm, and sobbed.
He wondered how in hell he’d manage to explain this mess to his papa or Daniel and Ian, or worst of all, Ethan. More than that, what was he himself to do, stranded as he was at the palace presently? He loved Alistair; he’d likely always love him, but how could he give himself in marriage now, when the gentleman had bid him to leave? When he was battered and bruised like some fragile, ill-treated lilac? He buried his face in both hands and sobbed like a babe, praying that somehow, some way, he’d find help out of this maze.
That help came sooner than he’d imagined. Suddenly, kneeling beside him, was the prince, who kindly touched his shoulder. “Lord Marcus?”
He hung his head in horrid shame, his one eye swollen shut.
“My friend, please.” The prince rubbed his shoulder encouragingly. “Come downstairs with me.”
“He wants me gone.”
“Well I do not, nor does your king. You needn’t leave tonight. I shall see you home myself at first daylight. But come now, we must look after that eye.”
Marcus slowly dropped his hands and discovered kind Prince Julian’s own eyes were bright and his face flushed with intense emotions. Marcus said, “I still want him. I will always.”
“He hit you. That’s unacceptable, and I know it shall be truly unacceptable to Alistair when he sobers in the morning.”
Marcus swiped at his tears. “How did you know he struck me before you had a clear look at my face?”
“I spent almost a decade in a temple devoted to whoring, Lord Marcus. I sense the moment a male has been beaten or mistreated. I knew it from the way you huddled here on the floor.” The prince rose elegantly, and extended a gentle hand. “Let me see you to another wing of the palace so you may rest.”
“What shall I say to Alistair?” Marcus gazed up at the prince, his vision blurred. “Whatever shall be done with him?”
“It’s up to Fin to say and do a great deal. For now?” Julian clasped Marcus’s hand with a solid grip. “You leave, long before he wakes. After that, I believe you should make decisions slowly, no matter what you’ve promised each other.”
Marcus rose, facing his new friend. “I promised I would never see him again. That I would walk away, leave him be for good.”
“That promise,” Julian said softly, “may or may not be kept. Only you shall know the right of it once a bit of time has passed.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alistair woke slowly, a freight train roaring in his brain, a thousand bees buzzing beneath his skin. His stomach tightened, roiling with acid. He groaned and pressed his face into the pillow, trying to remember the day, or even where he was. Damn near fought to know who he was. What the devil had happened last night?
House party. They were in midst of a house party. For a delirious moment, he patted the mattress beside him, reaching for the warm comfort of Marcus’s body.
Marcus. His heart nearly stopped, as events from the night previous began tumbling through his mind. Dear God, Alistair had struck his beloved. Been a beast, a terror—had mishandled him just as Lord Everett had once done. Something Alistair had pledged never to do himself. He was drowning in self-hatred and bile when the unmistakable sound of a click echoed in the room. And Alistair had spent far too much time around shooting parties not to recognize that telltale sound: the disengaging of a pistol safety.
Very cautiously, he rotated his head on the pillow. And found himself staring down the bed at a pair of highly-polished riding boots, heels propped upon his bedrail. Furthermore, he also found himself staring down the barrel of one very old pistol—cocked and aimed right at him, held by one furious, auburn-headed viscount.
“Who,” Ethan Avenleigh demanded hotly, “are ye, Finley, to strike my brother? To beat on a gentleman upon whom you own quite a few stone? Hmm, you buggering sod of an arse?”
The memory of what he’d done, or a partial collage of images, shot thru Alistair’s mind as if fired by that pistol. His fist, flashing out at Marcus. That hand, connecting with his lover’s beautiful eye.
“Wh-what did he tell you?” Alistair prayed stupidly that Marcus had still felt enough loyalty not to blurt the revelations about his bloodline. And prayed even harder that he’d done no further harm than that one accidental punch.
“Marcus didn’t have to tell me anything! His eye is blackened and swollen shut. Ye harmed my beloved brother”—Ethan raised the pistol, squinting down the barrel—“and I only wish shooting were good enough punishment for ye.”
“Would you please,” Alistair said, evenly as possible, “for the love of God, lower that damned thing? We must talk and that’s difficult whilst facing a pistol barrel.”
Very grudgingly, Avenleigh lowered the blasted weapon, and Alistair sat up in bed. “I cannot possibly tell you, Dunshire, how gravely sorry I am for what happened. My misdeeds, all of it.” Alistair scrubbed at his brow, carefully inquiring, “Did . . . did he tell you of the dinner?”
“Aye, and ye promised Papa that ye’d make a suitable husband! That naught about ye could damage my brother’s reputation or our family’s.” Ethan sneered at him. “Yet somehow ye overlooked revealing that yer a bastard.”
Alistair kept that hand at his brow, shielding his gaze from the other man’s. “How could I tell the duke, or Marcus, what I could not even tell my own brother? Not when I yearned to marry the man I love.” He dropped his hand away, meeting Ethan’s steely-eyed gaze. “I have fumbled at every turn in my life. But my love for Marcus is the only true thing I’ve ever known.”
Ethan clicked the pistol’s safety, setting the weapon on the table beside him. “That,” he said, sighing, “is the only reason I’m here. My papa, kind, forgiving man that he is, understands how deeply ye love Marcus, and for some reason the old fellow has a soft spot for ye.” Ethan sighed again, with greater exaggeration. “Although I’ll always maintain that shooting ye was as good an idea as any.”
Alistair sat upright, leaning forward on the bed. “Are you . . . You can’t possibly mean that I might yet have your father’s forgiveness? Or Marcus’s?”
“Ye don’t have Marcus’s forgiveness. And what ye have from my papa and myself is a plan.” Ethan swung first one boot, then the other down off the bedrail. “Ye are going to be held separate from Marcus till we deem ye safe enough to keep his company. Yer going to dry out, with my supervision, and reform yerself.”
Alistair shrank back against the headboard, hopeless. “Don’t you think I would have sobered for Marcus before now? I’m not sure I’m capable of it, even under this much duress.”
He closed his eyes, the world swimming about him. From somewhere in that maelstrom of thought and anguish, he heard Ethan say, in a tight voice, “Think hard on this one, Finley. For any future ye might have with my brother rides on yer verra answer.”
He nodded, wordless, eyes still closed. And then, with all the force of a gale wind suddenly growing eerily silent, he knew. Alistair knew, beyond any doubt, that he contained the strength within him. Hidden it might always have been, but he stood on a precipice now and the only way down was freefalling to certain death. The only way back was to turn and embrace what he’d always feared the most. Himself.
For Marcus, he would do this thing. For Marcus, he would do what he’d always deemed the impossible. For his brother, he would master his nature. For himself, he would choose to live.
He opened his eyes and met Ethan’s studied gaze. “How would we go about such an en
deavor? Marcus and I will inevitably encounter each other about society over the next month or two.”
“No, ye shan’t. And the reformation is to last six months, not two. But ye needn’t worry about being allowed anywhere near my brother’s sphere. Ye and I are heading far away, if ye agree to our plan.”
“Far away to . . .” Understanding dawned, and Alistair’s heartbeat sped. If Ethan was suggesting . . .
“Our family estate in the north.”
“Alsderry Castle,” Alistair said, picturing this proposed arrangement. Retreating to the Avenleigh ancestral home would provide an ongoing connection with Marcus, a way to maintain a tether-hold on his beloved, but from a safe distance.
Ethan cocked the pistol at him again. “And in the north, ye can’t harm my brother again. I’ll have my eye on ye until ye are no longer dangerous to him.”
“Whyever would you extend such an offer to me? When it’s just as you’ve said—I hurt Marcus. And while I never lifted a hand against him before last night, I’ve been quite adept at hurting him previously. Without ever moving a finger.”
Ethan gave a shrug. “Aye, but I weigh that truth against another. Ye’ve also made my brother happier than I’ve ever seen him. And only a good man could have managed that—and only a truly fine man would entertain this invitation to reform, as ye are now. It proves to me that yer worth what my papa still thinks.”
“Surely the duke can’t—“
“He’s the one who bid me come.” Ethan gave him a reluctant smile.
Alistair had to avert his gaze. He picked at the edge of the coverlet, wishing he could vanish beneath the folds of fabric. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt more humbled, or shamed, than by the support the Avenleighs were extending to him, after all that he’d done. “But . . . I’m a by-blow. Nothing I do can change my lack of provenance.”