by Cooper Davis
Alistair braced himself against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Ethan skimmed the missive and then remarked, “He’s thinking of rejoining the royal orchestra; wonders when I’m to return home.” More skimming. “Next week, he’s to attend a musicale with Lord Harcourt.” Ethan cast him a tentative glance, as if to read his reaction.
And react Alistair did. His breath whooshed out of him, and without the solidity of the bookshelves behind him, he might well have slid to the floor. “The Earl from the Garden? The Earl from the fucking Garden?”
“Rob, yes,” Ethan replied casually, as if he and the earl were on very familiar terms.
“Rob? How much time has your family spent with that lord?”
Ethan’s reaction was wholly unexpected. He blushed. Not a mild pinking of his freckled cheeks, either, but deepest russet. A shade Alistair had witnessed on Marcus’s own face quite a few times when they were intimate or flirtatious together. “Precisely how well do you know Harcourt?”
“Rob . . . Robert is a friend of mine. And of Marcus’s. Ye’ve no threat in him, I can assure ye.”
Alistair began to realize then—that for all the rumors about Ethan Avenleigh, maybe it wasn’t only females who appealed to him. Perhaps, on the sly, Ethan likewise enjoyed the sensual comforts of other gentlemen. Mildly as he could, he asked, “So Harcourt will be gentlemanly with Marcus? Watch out for him as he steps back into society?”
The smile on Ethan’s face grew brighter. “Oh, aye indeed! For he knows if he doesn’t, he’ll lose my good favor and that’s not something he’d ever risk. Besides, ye must know that Marcus still loves ye.”
“How can I possibly know that?” Alistair snapped, suddenly cross. His moods oscillated wildly by the hour, but even with that awareness, he couldn’t tamp down his ill temper. “I’ve no evidence whatsoever that Marcus still loves me! No proof that my so-called reformation shall ever salvage things. How,” he repeated, “can I possibly know he still loves me?”
Ethan sighed exaggeratedly. “Fine. Because it says so right here.”
Alistair’s legs suddenly felt numb, and he braced his palms beside him against that bookshelf, using it to keep himself somewhat steady on his feet.
Ethan began to read, his head bent over the letter. For the life of me, I’m not sure I shall ever cease to love that man, Marcus had written. My heart is hollowed out by his absence. He’s written to me, confided that he is on the Continent, determined to remain sober. But for my part, all I know is that I am without the man I love.
Ethan gave him a knowing look, then said softly, “That, Finley, is how my brother feels. Ye can’t blame me for not telling ye right away, but . . . I couldn’t leave ye in such obvious misery.”
Alistair did sink slowly to the floor then, burying his face in both hands. His heart was full, expanding for the first time in a fortnight, with hope. And for the first time in just as many days, he finally wept.
* * *
* * *
The months passed in a blur, a long march of exhaustion and exertion, with Ethan hell-bent on seeing Alistair astride a horse. “This is an equestrian family, man,” he’d explained, dismissing Alistair’s “outrageous” arguments that his heft made riding near impossible. Ethan, as it turned out, was right. He found Alistair a hearty stallion who didn’t blanch at his size. In fact, the mount seemed particularly responsive to Alistair. Soon, Alistair’s harsh fatigue and endless headaches gradually subsided, replaced by a physical heartiness he’d not imagined possible.
Ethan, too, proved an increasingly beloved companion, with his subtle guiding of Alistair through the Avenleigh family history—with much focus lent to Marcus’s childhood. He instructed him leisurely through portrait galleries and family heirlooms, sharing beloved Avenleigh tales and history. Sometimes, Ethan would look up at him in those moments, and Alistair had the oddest sense that his new friend was imagining Alistair as part of their clan. Even after everything. “You’re progressing well, Finley,” he’d say, then resume the family tale. Or sometimes he’d say, “It’s as if you’ve always been here, at Alsderry. Odd, that.” Then Ethan would give him a riotous grin and prattle onward.
Those times were Alistair’s most beloved moments of his entire reformation: the quiet, accepting exchanges with the man he prayed might yet become his brother-in-law. Thus, as the months passed—bolstered by Ethan’s increasing faith in him—Alistair began imagining a future with Marcus. A picture formed for him, one of familial life, with Alistair fitting seamlessly into Marcus’s clan. That blossoming vision had seen Alistair through the many months of struggle, to this near-end of his reformation period. Now it was mid-December and they’d be returning to The Royal Provinces in but a few more weeks, in time for Lady Elsevier’s ball.
He and Ethan, just finishing a ride, stopped along a hilltop crest, a stunning vantage point for the castle. The familiar moors were bleached hoary white, sun glinting off a fine layer of snow that had fallen overnight. As always, the vista caused Alistair’s breath to hitch. “Dear God, but Alsderry is beautiful in the snow.” Alistair’s breath came in quick puffs, his lungs tight from the frigid air.
Ethan’s horse circled for a moment. “It’s in yer blood now, isn’t it? This land, our home, all of it?” Ethan faced him, his horse jittery, still bucking for a longer ride.
Alistair patted his own mount’s flank. “All of you are in my blood, as well. I feel I’ve come to know the Avenleighs here. Your support—everyone’s—means the world to me. I’m humbled.”
“We protect our own, Fin.”
Their own? And just like that, Alistair was humbled even more. “I’ve not earned such approbation.”
“Of course ye have. Ye love Marcus, enough to challenge yerself.” Ethan gestured toward the castle buttresses. “To find yer own strength and reinforcements. Only a man who loves our Marcus would ever be so brave. And ye are quite courageous, Fin.”
Ethan’s brogue was decidedly thicker up here at Alsderry, but much like Marcus, the man’s accent became densest when he was most emotional.
Softly, Alistair said, “You’re so like your brother. You render me speechless when I least expect it.”
“Yes, well, Marcus is none too pleased with me just now.” Ethan’s horse ambled forward, and the man had to lift a small branch to avoid being poked in the eye. “He’s giving me hellfire for not coming home for Winter’s Night. Stirred up with me. Convinced I won’t come home because I’m tupping a lassie up this way.” Ethan gave him a bawdy grin.
The thought of passing Winter’s Night alone filled Alistair with a painful hollowness, even so, he said, “Ethan, if you leave me here, I shan’t turn berserk and sack the village, nor savage the port casks. Your family deserves to have you home for the holiday.”
Ethan gave him a kind grin. “Color me daft, Fin, but I’ve rather come to think of ye as family.” Ethan silenced any further argument by declaring they should go inspect a retaining wall that looked unsteady.
They dismounted their horses, and, before Alistair was firmly on the ground, his bloody trousers began to sag low on his hips. He snatched at the waistband, grateful that his braces had managed to keep the damned things aloft. It was as if he wore a pair of empty feed sacks about his loins. He adjusted the flowing fabric with a shy curse.
But Ethan was too quick for him. He began guffawing. “Good God, man! Yer verra clothes won’t even hang upon ye properly anymore. We’re returning to the provinces in but a few more weeks, and it shan’t do for Marcus to glimpse ye in yer smallclothes. Least not too soon upon reuniting. ’Tis time to call our talented Ewan back. Ye already need new trews again.”
Alistair blushed horribly. “Ewan has proved most interested in me.” He groaned. “I’ve not been able to dissuade his attentions whenever he’s tailored garments for me.”
“Ah, the appeal of strapping Alistair Finley. No wonder Ewan’s overwhelmed by yo
ur charms. He truly is a lovely little bumblebee, though, isn’t he?”
Alistair began coughing and sputtering, barely managing to choke out, “A lovely little bumblebee? Good blazes! Methinks, Viscount Dunshire, that you sniff both left and right. Seems that all the scandal sheets had it wrong in their gossip, always linking you with females.”
Ethan cast him a cross look as they walked toward the retaining wall. “They’ve had it precisely right, as females are my preference—as all society, and presumably ye, should know by now.”
“Intriguing. Especially as I’ve noted the frequent arrival of particular correspondence, always sealed with the same nobleman’s crest. And likewise noticed the way you rush out of the room, ripping into those missives whenever they arrive. Which is often, especially of late.”
Ethan huffed impatiently. “I do have friends other than ye. Doona make it what it’s not, Fin.”
Alistair watched Ethan’s fair cheeks flush tellingly and wished the man felt safe to confide, especially with as dear as he’d become to Alistair. “Ethan, you’ve seen me at my worst, and saved me from it. Is the issue that your family doesn’t know of your . . . balanced inclinations?”
“Och! Don’t be a bampot!” Ethan began fussing with his horse, but he couldn’t hide the flush creeping down beneath his cravat. Alistair knew, then and there, that his suspicions about Ethan were correct.
Softly, Alistair asked, “Who is the gentleman? You can trust me, Ethan. Surely you know that.”
After an uncharacteristically quiet moment, Ethan blew out a shaky breath. “Enough, man. We’ve far greater problems at hand, namely your sartorial distress. I’d hate my brother not to recognize ye at that ball.”
Alistair blanched. Although Ethan was clearly jesting, and trying to deflect the conversation from his own life, he’d still provoked Alistair’s insecurity about meeting Marcus anew. He touched his trimmed waistline self-consciously. “Marcus prefers portly men,” he observed, fretful. “I’ve dropped some five stone. Whatever am I to do if . . . if I no longer suit?”
Ethan began to laugh, patting Alistair’s still pliable middle. “Fin, I was bloody well joking! Not to insult ye, but yer still thickish enough to suit my brother. Ye look quite”—Ethan grinned at him, blushing oddly—“stunning. Marcus shall be verra, verra pleased.”
Verra, verra delicious. Marcus had murmured that praise the first time they’d lain together, happy with Alistair’s robust form. His lover had been pleased by Alistair’s larger girth.
But he had to believe Marcus would be equally pleased by the trimmer man he had become.
He tilted his face toward the bright morning sky, watching his breath come in little puffing clouds. And Alistair’s heart swelled. All those insecurities about pleasing the man he loved vanished, overrun by the beauty of Marcus’s world.
“I want this.” Alistair swept a hand about them. “The children, the abundant family, the traditional life with Marcus. I was simply too fearful before, too much an orphan, perhaps. But I am ready now.” Alistair gazed out at the lake, at the geese in formation over the mirrored surface. “I can see us here.”
Ethan chortled, clapping him on the shoulder affectionately. “This estate, Finley, is to be my own. I’ll be duke, not Marcus.”
Alistair quietly said, “You’re not listening to the heart of it.”
“Ye love him. Ye’ve loved him all along, but yer starting to envision a life together.”
“All right, so you were listening. Amazing.” Alistair lifted a brow sardonically.
“Bollocks, man! I’ve listened from the start. Otherwise I’d have gone ahead and shot ye that first morning.” Ethan grew somber, fastidiously brushing off Alistair’s shoulders. “If ye wish to make a home here, Papa would be delighted and so would I. So would we all.”
Alistair’s horse nickered and nuzzled him in the belly, a welcome distraction for covering how deeply moved he was by the man’s words. “Thank you, but I shan’t leave Arend or the palace. That is, if our king allows my return to his side.”
“Ye know he’s bloody dying to have ye back. That stack of letters . . .”
Alistair waved him off. “I’m readier to face your brother than I am my own. And consider how uncertain it is that Marcus might forgive me.”
Ethan groaned, lifting an auburn brow. “Do ye not know my brother or his tender heart? Have ye forgotten how utterly besotted he’s always been with ye?” The brogue was thick, Ethan’s face a wreath of smiles. “Although . . . ye best pen some letters, telling him of yer hopes.”
He seized Ethan’s arm. “You’ll finally post my correspondence to him?”
His plea earned a lopsided grin. “Well, Lady Elsevier’s ball is but three weeks away.” Ethan rubbed his jaw, looking impish. “Although ye’ll have to tangle with Ewan again—he is, after all, the village postal officer. Might as well have him tailor that new wardrobe while yer at it.”
Oh, yes. Lady Elsevier’s was but three weeks away and all Alistair’s battles would reach their culmination that very night.
Chapter Thirty
The train trip back to the provinces proved long and uneventful, although the rolling miles had allowed Alistair plenty of time to become anxious about his return. Thus, as he and Ethan disembarked at the city station, he felt more unsteady than he’d anticipated.
He had just stepped onto the platform when a familiar voice called out, “And there is my cousin.” Samuel Tollemach stood, mid-platform, imperious and handsome as ever. “Dear God, let me have a look at you.”
Sam closed the distance between them and seized Alistair’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. His cousin whistled approvingly, that piratical gaze sweeping up and down Alistair’s form. “Who the devil are you and what have you done with my erstwhile podgy relation? You look grand, Fin.”
Alistair laughed, finding a witty retort impossible in the face of such unabashed approval.
Sam released him, turning to Ethan. “Bloody fine to see you, Viscount Dunshire, quite capital. But do you mind if I kidnap my cousin for a bit? Make imitation of your success in hying him off? Although”—Sam eyed Alistair curiously—“I’m not certain you quite managed to hoist all of Finley back to the provinces.”
“And where do you propose to take me?” Alistair drawled. Surely Sam wasn’t intending to deliver him straight to Arend. “I’ve already been kidnapped at pistol-point once in the past year.”
Sam made a great production of sighing, and appearing put-upon, then turned to Ethan again. “Dunshire, have you that pistol upon your person, even now? Fin clearly plans to resist my advances.”
Unaccustomed to Sam’s irreverent humor, Ethan actually sputtered. “Ad-advances?”
“Our shared consanguinity shouldn’t impede such things.” Sam gave Ethan a ridiculous smile, then addressed Alistair more somberly. “Finley, fellow, we’ve an appointment to keep, so stop standing there looking all be-dimpled and sodding gorgeous, and bid Dunshire farewell.”
In all Alistair’s months away, he’d had but one missive from Sam. Short and to the point, it had simply read: It will shock your stuffy drawers into a muddle, but I believe you shall triumph.
Yet Alistair had never quite realized how glimpsing unabashed approval in Sam’s eyes might matter to him.
Sam slid a hand through the crook of Alistair’s arm, beginning to walk him along the platform. “If you must know, we are calling upon your nemesis, Solicitor Dryden. Together we are going to storm the doors of his city office, and there we—“
Alistair’s face must have visibly blanched, because Sam halted mid-sentence. Alistair gulped, swamped by those old visions of himself, shadowed and lit by the hallway tapers. Grossly rotund. Corpulent. He neatened the front of his greatcoat protectively, almost forgetting that he was no longer obese.
It would be impossible to explain the stranglehold Dryden had main
tained over Alistair for all his adult life. Nor why Alistair still feared the cruel man—even without the constant threat of exposure he’d once represented. “He threatened Marcus and . . .” Alistair scowled at the platform floor, unable to lift his gaze, but a gloved fingertip came beneath his chin, tilting it upward.
“And he threatened you. Yes, I’ve some notion what he did to you,” Sam told him kindly. “And now your cousin is going to sail in at your side, ensuring that you reclaim all that is rightfully yours. And perhaps yet more still.”
“What more could there possibly be?”
Sam leaned closer. “Unlike you, Fin, I’m a master at discerning what more might possibly exist in any given scenario, from the conjugal to the epicurean to the sybaritic.” Sam, dapper cane clasped in hand, rapped it on the platform. “But in this case? I shall allow you the virtue of surprise.”
* * *
* * *
Once inside Dryden’s offices, and seen into a parlor, Alistair’s agitation mounted. Sam sat studying the newspaper, flipping through pages as if this were the most tedious of social calls. Alistair, however, wanted to cast up his accounts. A small trickle of sweat had begun along his nape by the time Dryden arrived, appearing smug and aloof. The solicitor did not even close the parlor doors behind him, indication of his assumed power.
“Your Grace.” The solicitor bowed to Samuel, never glancing at Alistair or acknowledging him.
But Sam, sweeping to his feet, was no longer relaxed. He struck like a cobra, his body tensed and powerful. “Don’t you dare give that gentleman the cut direct,” he snarled at Dryden. “Mr. Finley and I are here to address a matter of gravest royal concern. A situation that likewise concerns His Highness.”
Alistair rose, taking his place beside Sam. The elderly man gave him a sloe-eyed look. “Mr. Finley, consider yourself noted.”