A Gentleman Revealed

by Cooper Davis

  “My brother came at you with a gun? Obviously I must apologize.”

  “I came at you with my fist. And you didn’t hear of the pistol incident because Ethan and I made a pact. One designed to protect you from me in earnest, until I was deemed less dangerous to your well-being. It was a gentleman’s agreement between your brother and myself.”

  Marcus swallowed. “What sort of agreement?”

  “Ethan poured out all my liquor and bid me stay clear of you for six months. Solid. Until this ball. It was the only way he’d advocate for me with you, if I reformed under his tutelage.”

  Marcus gave his head a slight clearing shake. The sounds of the ball swelled beyond the closed door. Although he realized Alistair was still speaking, Marcus couldn’t hear the words over the rush of his blood and heart.

  Alistair smiled at him, more handsome than he’d ever been before that moment. “Ethan’s plan always led to tonight. This ball.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.” Marcus glanced about, heart stuttering in his chest. “Is tonight merely a wager of sorts?”

  “No, darling. He challenged me to reform myself. And said that should I endeavor it, he would help, so long as I approached you no sooner than tonight. And given my”—Alistair pressed his mouth against Marcus’s ear—“troubled pedigree, I feared saddling you with that. If I could not reform.”

  “Ah, yes, the son of a king. Dastardly bloodline, that.”

  Alistair’s hands slid to encase Marcus by the upper arms. As if intending to separate them and then simply losing the will to do so. They were frozen like beautiful marble statuary, neither moving nor breathing. But then, gradually Alistair pressed inward, closer, the heat of his body bearing down upon Marcus, tantalizing him. If Alistair had been gorgeous before, there was hardly a word for how beautiful he’d become in these months. Marcus touched his face, sliding a fingertip against one dimple, which only deepened as he did so. Alistair bent his head, brushing his mouth against Marcus’s cheek.

  Alistair’s lips grazed his ear, became a featherlight kiss. “I did not arrive tonight intent upon ruining your name, nor behaving in any fashion except the most upright.”

  Marcus turned into that almost kiss, his own lips brushing against Alistair’s shaven cheek, the smell of sandalwood and cigar smoke infusing his senses. Rousingly heady and familiar to an achingly painful, welcome degree.

  Marcus drew a shaky breath, aware that his lips were grazing Alistair’s warm cheek. “So many months later, and we are still arguing as to whom has greater ability to compromise whom?” Marcus was utterly unable to make himself pull away or abandon the intimate closeness. “Yet I do not feel compromised,” he added, laughing absurdly.

  No, I feel like I’ve come home. How he yearned to let those words spill forth, even as he knew he should temper his reaction. This man had destroyed him; yet this same man had set about transforming for Marcus. It was impossible not to forgive, not to savor this unexpected moment of tender closeness.

  Alistair brushed a glancing touch against Marcus’s cheek. “We both know I’d be proud, so proud, should you be discovered with your arms about me.”

  Marcus shivered, allowing his own hands to move tentatively about Alistair’s waist, outlining his new shape. “How your hips have narrowed, how trim you’ve become.” Then, second-guessing himself, Marcus quickly withdrew his hands, awkwardly folding them in his lap.

  Alistair smoothly allowed the separation, settling back into the settee. He laughed, touching his midriff without any self-consciousness. “Now, my Lord Marcus, I doubt anyone else would dare call me trim. I’m large-boned and broad, including through the hips you just deemed narrowed.” Alistair gave him a confessional smile, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “I fear I shall always be a bit unfashionably stout.”

  Marcus smiled, beginning to flush. “But I favor men of such proportions. And well you know that.”

  Alistair caught him under the chin with his fingers and slowly lifted, until Marcus stared him right in the eyes. Only then did Finley ask, “Are you still pleased? Even though there is now quite less of me?”

  “Alistair. You could weigh a great deal more—or less. You could be grander than when we were first suitors. I would always, always find myself compelled by you. No male ever roused me as you did. Nor I suspect”—Marcus dared to touch Alistair’s cheek—“shall any male ever do so again.”

  “But you’re the toast of high society. The bell has been rung and all the aristocracy clearly knows you’re on the mart. I fear I’ve waited overlong.” Alistair searched his face, entreating him with his eyes. “I beg at least for the chance to compete with the other eligible men for your attention this season.”

  The warring of hope and despair in Alistair’s expression caused Marcus’s chest to tighten. “Alistair, goodness.” Marcus laughed self-effacingly. “I am hardly the toast of anything. There have been a few pesky mamas who won’t relent, but . . . no.”

  “But surely those mamas have pesky sons to match?” Dark eyes lifted to his own, uncertain.

  “I wish to dance with no other, not tonight.” Marcus leaned into the space between them, and looped his arms about Alistair’s upper back, holding him close. He was still so dear. So precious. And so very missed, all these months.

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a heavy swallow before he whispered, “Then you shall allow the waltzes?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  One firm, strong hand slid about Marcus, skating down his spine, then pressured just against the small of his back. Almost as if mirroring the waltz itself. “Allow me to spin you and hold you, and forgive my clumsy missteps?”

  “For a price.”

  “The cost?” The slight strain in Alistair’s voice, the way it hitched, made Marcus wince. His Finley had always paid for sensual favors in the past, and Marcus didn’t want their conversation to remind him of those mournful memories.

  “A kiss in the garden. Perhaps some night this season,” Marcus replied gently. “Although it’s I who should pay, not you. After all, I know what it is to be kissed by you, Mr. Finley.”

  Alistair’s whole body rumbled. Another featherlight kiss to Marcus’s ear as he whispered, “I’ve been stealing kisses for several moments, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “I am keenly aware.”

  Alistair traced a fingertip along the tip of Marcus’s earlobe, then slid those fingers into his curls. “I want more. But now, many other young noblemen do as well.”

  Marcus stroked his hands down those broad, strong shoulders, then held Alistair at enough remove so he could meet his gaze. The adorable spectacles were poised there on Alistair’s nose. “Dearest Alistair,” he said softly, “I’ve never sought shadowy gardens with any other, not before you and certainly not since. Let’s start with a first waltz. You are, after all, a man of propriety. Well aware that when a young lord is on the mart, there’s a way to go about things.”

  Alistair took his hand. “I shall proceed,” Alistair told him softly, “in any fashion that allows me time in your presence, my lord. By all means, let’s take a turn upon the floor. I shall go as slow as you wish, in all things.”

  Marcus squeezed the man’s hand, knowing full well that he did not actually wish to proceed cautiously. Rather, he yearned to fling himself headlong back into Alistair’s life and heart. Madness such abandon might be, but at least he could trust Ethan’s judgment. His own was too unreliable when it came to the beautiful man presently holding his hand. After all these difficult months, Marcus remained in love with Alistair Finley, and that love was flaming more wildly to life with every passing moment Marcus spent in his presence.

  Marcus was about to announce that he wanted everything. The world and more, starting with a betrothal. But Lady Elsevier poked her head into the room, her broad hips bustling through the narrow door, one Marcus was certain he’d latched. Then ag
ain, this was Lady Elsevier after all, and a locked door spoke to her merely as invitation, not impediment.

  He and Alistair were still held firmly in each other’s arms, hands roving. That they were lovers, only separated for a brief period and now reunited, would have been obvious to the most dunderheaded simpleton. The lady tittered behind her fan. “Oh, goodness. Gentlemen.” She back-stepped, her dress rustling even more. “Pardons, indeed. I shall leave you to your pleasures.”

  They watched her go, then traded a shaky laugh. There was a reason this particular ball was renowned for launching betrothals and affairs between gentlemen. Lady Elsevier adored urging such matches along, and now the whole ball would be buzzing about their reunion. Were they ready? Was Alistair Finley, a man who had once demanded that Marcus leave him, now ready to completely commit?

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever fully forgive you for insisting that I leave. Commanding me to do so.”

  Alistair’s lean, handsome face blanched. “In the end, Marcus, you chose to leave. And that was the proper course.”

  “But you demanded I go, ended things even before you—“

  “Before I struck you,” Alistair finished, his gaze pained, apologetic as it remained upon him. “There are no possible words to ever atone for what I did that night.”

  “I can forgive you for all of it, except perhaps your insisting that I leave, especially when you needed me more than ever. Why would you have done?”

  “I was in the midst of quite the epic downfall at that moment. I didn’t want you to see me at my absolute worst. I knew I could tumble much farther still. I wished you not to wind up on the receiving end of my fist, as you did. Or even worse.”

  “You did not strike me intentionally.”

  “Neither did I protect you from myself swiftly enough.”

  “Why wouldn’t you have let me know that you’d left with Ethan, when you’d been cast in such a poor light? It had to be more than Ethan demanding that you wait.”

  “I seem to recall a certain duke’s son who allowed a damaging rumor about himself and an earl to stand. All because he wished to protect the friend with whom he’d supposedly been discovered, clenched close in a garden.”

  “This, Alistair, is an entirely different circumstance.”

  “Is it? You wished to protect your friend from those who might harm him. And I wished to protect you from one who could harm you most of all. Myself.”

  “But why wouldn’t you have righted my understanding of things?”

  “Because I loved you. I needed time to become a better man, the very best I could be, in order to assure myself you’d be safe around me.” Alistair laughed, crisping a cuff and casting him a shy glance. “And to become reacquainted with the saddle.”

  Marcus’s mind whirled, recalling what Alistair had once confessed about feeling too immense for equestrianism. “You’ve been riding?”

  “Every day, with Ethan.” They laughed knowingly, as both knew that possibly no other horseman could ever have gotten Alistair astride again.

  Alistair bobbed his head. “He’s a persistent bugger, that Ethan.” More laughter, their gazes moving all over each other, their bodies beginning to move even nearer.

  “You truly are slender,” Marcus allowed softly, stroking Alistair’s flank.

  Alistair flushed to the very roots of his hair. “I am some five stone less than when you last saw me. But not slender. I likely shan’t ever be, darling, which I hope suits.” Alistair searched his face uncertainly. “I am the man you know me to be, with inclinations toward overindulgence in all manner of things. But for you, I have determined to forever forego my libations. To transform. And . . . remain transformed. Even so, I shan’t ever be an easy man.”

  “Am I? Is any gentleman ever easy? We’re prickly and moody and egotistical. All the lot of us . . . and passionate. Dear God, as a gender, we are—“

  “I’m in love with you,” Alistair blurted, seizing both of Marcus’s hands. “I’ve been in love with you from the first night you approached me. But you’ll always have to manage me a bit, Marcus. And maintain an eye on me, keep me on the straight and narrow. I need that in a husband. A man to keep a guard about me and my troublesome nature.”

  “Husband,” Marcus repeated numbly, feeling suddenly dazed. A bit drunken despite having consumed little more than punch. “Husband.” The word sounded odd on his own lips, in this new context. The context he’d once dreamed and prayed for, and that he’d held, with painful brevity, in his hands once before.

  Alistair went down on both knees, just as he’d done earlier. This time he gathered Marcus’s hands within his own, searching his face. “I’m seeking your hand, Marcus. It’s what I’m asking, here. Now. You know that I am. You know that I came here, spent months leading to this moment, because it’s my most ardent hope. That you’ll once again betroth yourself to me.”

  Alistair delved within his coat pocket and produced a velvet box, in royal magenta. He held Marcus’s gaze, then, gently clasping his hand, placed the box within Marcus’s tremulous hold. “This is for you, if you’ll have me.”

  Marcus swallowed, barely able to see the box through a sudden well of unshed tears. He rubbed his gloved fingertips over the surface, then, catching his breath, popped the box open. Nestled within velvet and satin lay a stunning gold band, inset with diamonds and rubies. He blinked, the tears spilling now, and thumbed the ring. “It’s . . .” He lacked any form of description for the ring, or his emotions in that moment.

  “Our king bestowed that band upon Prince Darien, whilst engaged to him as a young man. Darien was his first love, and he said”—Alistair drew a shaky breath—“that ours is a young, innocent love, no matter my age. That he’d be honored for you to wear the ring he once gave his first love.”

  Marcus brushed at his eyes with his coat sleeve, staring down at that glittering ring. Alistair nudged closer, still on his knees. “Please, Marcus, I’m not too proud to implore you, to beg. Please won’t you accept my hand? Tell me I’ve not lost the chance to show you the man I’ve become, nor the one I wish to be, with you at my side.”

  Alistair reached for the jewelry box, easing it out of Marcus’s grasp. There, on his knees, his midnight-handsome prince searched his face. “Pray tell me I may place this upon your hand tonight? That I may now unfasten your glove, as I did almost a year ago in my carriage, and ease the band upon your finger, my Marcus?”

  Marcus did then what he’d wanted to do for the past minutes; he reached and fanned loving hands through Alistair’s dark, silken waves. His beloved’s face heated, the tips of his ears flushing. Marcus reached and outlined the curling crest of the right ear. “I never stopped loving you,” he whispered, and the wide-eyed surprise and wonder in the other man’s eyes leveled him. He rushed onward, “I love you, Alistair. One simply doesn’t shut off the heart and cease caring, not with what you meant to me. Not with what you will always mean, and still mean, even tonight. I love you so very dearly. And I’m so proud of you, darling. So incredibly proud of all you’ve accomplished, the ways you’ve transformed. Of course I will marry you. Eagerly, gladly. Joyously. There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more in my life.”

  Alistair gasped and then burst into loud, inelegant sobs, burying his face against Marcus’s lap. His shoulders shook, the tremors spreading the length of his large body, and Marcus stroked and soothed him for he knew not how long. He bent and pressed sweet kisses against the man’s nape, the crown of his head, while rubbing his back. All the while, Marcus had to blink back his own tears.

  After all their struggles, so much heartache, they had found each other anew. Truly, almost for the first time, with as much as Alistair had changed, with all the weight and encumbrance that was now swept away.

  Once their rejoicing and tears had subsided, and Alistair was situated beside him on the settee—and the lovely band sparkled upon Marcus’s finger—
he told Alistair softly, “I must speak with my papa.”

  “I have already done so, sweetheart.” Alistair brushed a thumb across Marcus’s cheek. “I have assured him how well I intend to provide for you, and that I will always enable you to live near him and your brothers. I have pledged my devotion, laid out financial plans. I have endeavored all of it most—“

  “Properly.” They both laughed, bobbing their heads in unison.

  “Aye,” he said, sounding very much like he’d spent all those months in the north. “As decorously as you’d hope.”

  “I’d expect nothing less of you, although I must give you kudos for the benefit of surprise. They all knew? My entire family?” Marcus shook his head. “I’m viciously torn between admiration and annoyance.”

  Alistair cupped his cheek, stroking it tenderly. “They love you so very much, Marcus. You can’t fault them for being protective, and hopefully you can thank them for maintaining faith in me, even when I least deserved it.”

  “I love them all the more for that.”

  Alistair positioned his hands at Marcus’s waist, holding him at arm’s length. “There’s but one more thing you need know. And it’s”—Alistair chuckled bashfully—“not the easiest. I hope it shan’t sway your decision. But I shall understand if it does.”

  Marcus’s heartbeat sped, and he tensed. Here he’d believed that all was right between them, the path paved smooth. “All right,” he said tentatively.

  “Arend is determined, well . . .” Alistair rubbed at his brow in a gesture Marcus long ago learned signaled his self-consciousness. “He’s determined to, urm, acknowledge me. As prince. He intends for the realm to know that . . . well, damn it. I’m to be Prince Alistair Finley-Tollemach,” Alistair bit out, “and that means you’d be Prince Marcus Finley-Tollemach.”

  “Wh-what?” Marcus blurted, although dimly he realized he should have assumed such a thing. It was just this was Alistair: so retiring, so unlikely to ever allow any circumstance that cast him front and center. Alistair rushed onward. “Unless, of course, you’d wish us to be the Princes Avenleigh-Finley-Tollemach. I don’t want you to feel you lose part of yourself, your identity, just because we marry.”