by Cooper Davis
“Ah, yes. I can easily answer that question,” Alistair told him with a very dear smile. “But first”—he turned to the gawk-eyed Lord Preston, whose face had gone pure scarlet—“my lord, I require a moment with Lord Marcus. Shall he find you later this evening to renew the conversation?”
“By all means.” Poor Preston. He all but bowed and retreated—and bowed and retreated more—until the crowd engulfed the fellow obligingly.
Alistair watched that withdrawal then returned his keen attention to Marcus. However, he wasn’t about to give Alistair Finley quarter, not after all this man had put him through, the months of suffering and anguish without a single word.
“You were going to explain why you felt it proper—this being you, after all—to address my brother, the Viscount Dunshire, by his given name.”
Alistair shrugged, smiling at him sideways. “It became rather a habit during our six months away at your family’s estate. Quickly, it proved absurd to stand on much formality, with our daily hiking, and his shoring up my broken heart, and instructing me in the ways of your clan. And . . .”
Marcus’s vision swam. Literally, the brightly adorned chandelier—with its dozens of blazing tapers—seemed to darken, then grow overbright.
“P-pardon?”
Alistair caught his elbow. “Lord Marcus, are you all right?” Loving concern lent the inquiry urgency. “Shall I see you to a chair?”
“I do not,” Marcus bit out, “understand.”
“Well, it’s fairly complicated. And yet very simple. Ethan and I struck a bargain of sorts.”
“A . . . what? What did you just say?” The floor undulated beneath Marcus’s booted feet, as if a great wave somehow rose up. Alistair immediately secured a stronger hold on his arm.
“Here, Marcus. Here . . .”
Marcus shook himself loose from Alistair’s hold, spinning to address the man. “Damn you, Finley. You do not march into this ball”—Marcus waved a hand wildly about them, eyes wide—“this ball, in particular, after six months vanished, and announce that you spent that entire time with my own bloody brother!”
Marcus turned on his boot heels, unsteadily marching fast as he could away from the infuriating, impossible gentleman.
Here he was, fleeing his ardent pursuer, making haste fast as possible away from Alistair Finley. The only man he had ever wanted, truly—the same whose heart and hand he’d determined to win exactly a year previous. And the same who had destroyed him, savaged his heart, rending it to fragile, irreparable pieces. Only now, months after their broken betrothal, had the chin-wags let the quiet gossip go. Somehow Marcus hadn’t been too scandalized, although he suspected that had much to do with Alistair’s stalwart reputation and King Arend’s substantial power. It seemed even the most vicious gossips grew more circumspect when it came to the king’s foster brother.
Marcus’s unsteady legs catapulted him across the ballroom as he staggered toward the portico. He needed air, and posthaste.
But Finley swept right up at his side, shadowing his every step. “Go away, Finley,” he growled at the other man.
Alistair’s hand was suddenly on Marcus’s forearm, capturing him lightly. “Don’t you wish to hear what I dare to deem the unthinkable?”
Marcus’s heartbeat grew frantic. Warm breath grazed his cheek, a large hand coming to rest at the small of Marcus’s back. “Daren’t you hear it?”
Marcus’s eyes slid shut and he halted where he stood. “You never mentioned the unthinkable.”
“No, you did. One year ago tonight, at this very ball,” Alistair said, his hand lightly pressing into Marcus’s back. “And I’ve spent a twelve-month trying to deal with the shot you fired across my bow that night.”
Marcus slowly opened his eyes, a dizzying throng surging past them on both sides. He’d ceased moving, become lodged between shock and pried-open heartache. “Why here?” he whispered, struggling to find his voice. “Anywhere else but here.”
Alistair gracefully guided Marcus to the edge of the ballroom. “There could have been nowhere else but here. Everything betwixt us has led to this night, my beloved.”
Marcus shook his head, determined not to be overtaken nor weakened. “I must find my brother and demand an explanation for whatever madness he’s been behind. Whatever plot he masterminded up north.”
“Please, Marcus. Grant me but a few moments of time, in private. I promise I shall make things clear.” Alistair craned for a glimpse down the long hall. “Despite this very public location, despite its pivotal role between us . . . this conversation need happen behind closed doors.”
Alistair waited, gaze sweeping Marcus’s face, his expression desperate and entreating. “Please,” he finally whispered, and the note of yearning in the word nearly proved Marcus’s undoing.
“I shall follow your lead,” Marcus conceded. But he vowed that Alistair wouldn’t weaken his resolve, no matter what explanations he might offer.
No, he would give Alistair a hearing, then resume his plan to find a respectable, uncomplicated, and sober husband on the mart this season.
And they both knew that Alistair Finley could never be such a man.
* * *
* * *
Alistair led them into an empty card room, and Marcus practically shoved him out of the way so he could latch the door. He spun to face Alistair, determined to gain answers. “First, once I’m done here, I plan to seek out Ethan and savage him for having deceived me, having made common cause with you! You, the man who . . . who . . .” Destroyed me. Broke my heart. Left me.
Alistair stepped forward, and those midnight eyes fixed on Marcus, filled with earnest emotion. “Please do not blame Ethan. He . . . he saved me, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that. You forfeited the right.” Marcus shrugged out of Alistair’s grasp, his stomach roiling so badly he worried he might cast up his accounts. “And Ethan, the pair of you are . . .” His thoughts finally caught up with his riotous emotions. “My brother saved you?”
“I doubt very seriously I’d have lived but another few months, the state I was in.”
Marcus scoffed at that. “Whatever can you mean . . . ?”
Alistair’s face became a mask of pain. “I was killing myself, don’t you see? It was suicide by gradual installment, night after bloody night, with the liquor. I was drowning in my shame. And then losing you—because of my weakness? I’d not have survived, I am certain, had Ethan not intervened.”
Marcus flattened himself against that door. “Stop. I can’t hear this.” He refused to believe this man again, daren’t hope that his words rang with truth.
“Ethan took me to your family’s estate to recover, to become well again.”
“I said stop!” Marcus shoved past Alistair, reeling toward a settee, needing to halt the room’s spinning. He sank onto the welcome cushions, blotting at his forehead. Beside him, a fire roared, but its warmth did nothing to calm his upset. Ethan had hied his erstwhile lover away, kept him at their own family’s estate for half a year without revealing anything. When Ethan had known how heartsick Marcus was—realized what even the barest explanation would have done to ease his pain. He pressed a palm to his belly, hating how undone he’d become, and that Alistair was the one witnessing his unsteady reaction.
Alistair swiftly came to his side, pressing a linen kerchief into his hand. “Here, Marcus.” He closed the cloth within Marcus’s fingers. The tender gesture conveyed love clearly, almost more than any of the man’s words ever could. Marcus lifted the kerchief to his forehead, turning to face the fire, avoiding Alistair’s concerned gaze.
“Shall I find you some punch?” Alistair asked quietly, settling beside him. “You’re very pale.”
Marcus jerked back to face him. “Of course I’m pale! I’ve encountered a ghost. A living, breathing phantom”—he thwapped Alistair’s broad chest for emphasis—�
��from my heart’s past. And that ghost is telling me all manner of tales.”
“They’re not fabrications, Marcus. All of my words are true.”
Marcus shook his head, making a sound of disgust. “How can you expect me to believe anything you say at this juncture?”
“Listen to me. If you hear nothing else tonight, hear this.” Alistair grasped his elbow firmly, forcing Marcus to face him on that settee. “Will you hear me out?”
The look of heartfelt desperation in the man’s eyes moved Marcus. Deeply. Alistair had never lied, never prevaricated . . . apart from hiding the truth of his bloodline. But none had known of that; it had been his terrible secret to bear.
“I’m listening,” Marcus said softly.
“Don’t you realize I was killing myself? Can’t you recognize how self-destructive I was?” Alistair asked, voice breaking. “Pushing you away, cleaving to the bottle. You know I speak true.”
“Yet you say you stopped. Ethan helped you stop. I wasn’t enough—my own brother had to . . . to save you, as you put it.” Marcus’s eyes slid shut. He’d wanted nothing so much as to help Alistair get well, to see him sober, whole. And he’d failed where his own brother had succeeded. “Ethan did what I never could.”
“But you were the one, Marcus. I did it all for you, sweetheart.”
This time Marcus didn’t dismiss the endearment; hearing it soothed in a way that nothing else could have. His reaction must have shone on his face, for Alistair slowly moved off the settee, and dropped upon his knees.
Kneeling in front of Marcus, utterly vulnerable, Alistair searched his face. “Marcus, I was willing to do this thing, the very one I deemed impossible, for you,” he said. “I continue to remain sober, every day—and particularly every night. I refuse drink because I love you. I love you.”
“Yes, yes.” Marcus had to look away, pressing his face against his shoulder. He was too overcome, the tears stinging and threatening to fall. He held a hand out, begging Alistair to keep his silence for a moment.
But Alistair didn’t concede. Marcus’s hands were gathered into Alistair’s own larger ones. “I love you.” The words this time were whispered.
“I heard you.” Marcus would not meet the man’s gaze, although he lacked the will to disengage his hands from Alistair’s grasp. Large thumbs stroked the backs of Marcus’s gloved knuckles.
“But did you hear the truth in my words, Marcus? I love you. So very much. More than you likely ever imagined I could or would. More than I ever admitted. Or could admit. But I’m saying it now—I love you.”
“I said I heard you!” Marcus wrested his hands free from the other man’s grasp, finally swiveling his gaze upon Alistair.
“Then dare I hope that I’m not too late? That somehow you might still love me. Might once again dream of the life and family you once envisioned for us—despite all I’ve done?”
Marcus set his jaw. “You broke me. Something not even Lord Everett managed. If you’d penned even one letter—after that first—in all this purported time away, things might be different.”
“But I did write you. Within the past fortnight.”
Marcus simply shook his head. “I received nothing in all these months, and I had to move on. You gave me no other choice.”
Alistair dropped his head, clearly not wanting Marcus to register his disappointment. Softly he continued, “I poured out my heart to you, Marcus. I gave the missive to . . .” Alistair blanched, looking up sharply, as if something significant was coming clear. “The tailor. He’s also the postal officer, there in your town.”
“Ewan. Yes, he’s the—“ Marcus clamped his mouth shut. If Alistair knew Ewan—for what other village could possibly boast of a tailor–postal officer?—he’d clearly spent time in Marcus’s own village.
“I wrote you,” Alistair repeated, his tone imploring. “I asked you to attend tonight, to meet me here. I thought it was perhaps why you . . . But clearly not.”
“I’m here because, as you plainly saw, I’m on the marriage mart.” Marcus tilted his chin upward. “My choice—not my father’s, nor my family’s. Mine. I intend to see myself betrothed by season’s end.”
“I understand,” Alistair answered softly, then glanced about, seemingly realizing the absurdity of his present position upon his knees. But there he remained, as if doing so would help Marcus see how utterly earnest he was.
“And not betrothed to you, Mr. Finley. I seek a reliable, steady gentleman of good name. By season’s end. That is my objective.”
Alistair nodded but once, and in a thick voice he repeated, “I understand.”
Marcus shook his head, still livid, but less and less sure why he should be the longer he clung to his fury. “One additional letter?” he asked, voice less sure than before. “That’s meant to atone for your disappearance, for leaving me on tenterhooks, heartbroken over your mistreatment? Your cruelty?”
“Ethan forbade me from corresponding with you during our . . . work. Until he was sure enough of me. And so I saved all my words for that letter, poured out my heart therein. Described my dreams, my aspirations for us. For our family. And . . .” Alistair’s head dropped. “I did my best to amend for my many, many shortcomings and failures.”
Marcus stared at that bowed head. His gaze memorizing the fall of sleek black hair; his fingers aching to reach and fan his fingertips freely through the glossy locks.
Alistair slowly lifted his gaze, raw hopefulness in his dark eyes. “Might you at least waltz with me, Marcus? For old times’ sake, we could call it? I would so . . . welcome the pleasure of you in my arms.” Alistair smiled significantly as he made the reference to the first night Marcus had approached him at this very same ball. Used those very words about Alistair himself.
“As my meddlesome brother already helped you fill my dance card, I can’t see that I’ve much choice. Not without being rude.”
Alistair’s dimpled, lovely smile faded. A furrow appeared between his black eyebrows. “You needn’t honor the slots. You may remove my name and offer the sets to another . . . or others.”
“No, I’ll honor my card, since you sought to dance with me.” Marcus removed the ivory card from his pocket, examining it. “Thrice, it appears.”
“Only the waltzes,” Alistair corrected quietly, climbing up off his knees and settling beside Marcus. Alistair was studying him, waiting, and so much hope shone in that beloved gaze it caused Marcus’s heart to soften.
Finley had arrived tonight so handsome, so fit . . . transformed. And with fresh optimism and faith in his eyes, as if he no longer believed the world a tormenting place, but one where he deserved to be happy.
“Why?” Marcus asked quietly.
“Hmmm?” Alistair asked, seeming quite preoccupied, his moody gaze fixed on Marcus’s mouth. Which irritated Marcus, if for no other reason than it set Marcus to imagining the other man’s very full mouth, recalling the feel of it, the way his tongue could provoke him to the highest arousal.
Marcus snapped his fingers and they both came back to the moment. “Why only waltzes?” he demanded irritably. “And stop staring at my damned mouth.”
“’Tis the only dance I’m remotely capable with. I . . .” Alistair’s handsome face turned warm, heat high on his cheekbones. “I have never danced at a ball before, as you know. Not with anyone. I am a bit . . . uncertain about the whole of it. But I learned the waltz because I wanted to dance with you.” Alistair took a deep breath. “But I no longer have liquor to make me feel less awkward. Less—as you once put it—‘buttoned-up.’ I might well make a hash of it.”
“You shall dance all the smoother for not having the liquor.” Unthinkingly, Marcus touched Alistair’s fingertips, and instantly found his hand swept into the man’s bearlike grasp.
“Shall you waltz with me, then?” Alistair asked, threading their fingers together. Marcus knew he shou
ld tug himself free, but the warm, sure feel of that touch proved more than he could withstand.
With his other hand, he unfanned his dance card, studying it. No other male had claimed a place, although he saw scratch marks as if two names had been rubbed out. Squinting, he saw the lords who had attempted to take a turn with him. He knew he should be angry, but for some reason he laughed. “Did you shove these poor gentlemen aside?”
Alistair frowned, and withdrew his spectacles so he could study the dance card. Dear God, if Marcus had been crumbling before that moment? The blasted spectacles began to prove his undoing. With Alistair’s face so lean and striking, the spectacles only highlighted his patrician beauty even more.
“This is not my handwriting, as you can see.” Alistair returned the card, pressing the spectacles up his long nose. “Ethan must have written my name in.”
“Yes, ’tis obvious you quite won over my eldest brother.”
“He’s become one of my dearest friends. Truly like a brother.”
Like a brother. Marcus’s breath left him, and the room became suddenly airless. If Alistair regarded Ethan like a brother, did that not mean he envisioned himself as part of Marcus’s family?
Marcus forced himself back to the moment. “I’m glad he was there for you, then. No—I’m simply glad, full stop. And grateful that he was a friend when you needed one.”
Alistair chuckled. “It didn’t start out that way. He nearly shot me, you know. Perhaps we’re lucky that I didn’t finish the job for him, given the circumstances.”
“Bloody hell!” Marcus exclaimed. “Whatever happened?”
Alistair gave him a desperately apologetic look. “That next morning after . . . after I hurt you. I woke to find him at the foot of my bed, boots on the rail, cocked pistol in hand, aimed at me.”
“Oh, dear God. I am sorry.”
“Don’t even think of apologizing to me.” Alistair winced painfully. “I can’t blame him a whit.”