by Cooper Davis
“You are saying I’m to be prince?”
“Perhaps if—if you mind, then we could simply allow you to be Lord Marcus Avenleigh-Finley-Tollemach? Or Lord Marcus Finley-Tollemach? Or I could insist that Arend simply refuse to acknowledge me, if your hand in marriage depends upon my doing so. I could make my brother see the sense of it.”
Marcus pressed his face close against his beloved’s own and began to laugh. “Alistair! Alistair, you already are my prince. Yes, I’d adore being your prince, too. Please, I’d be ecstatic to take your name, to be at your side as you stand as prince of our realm. I hardly . . . How could you imagine any gentleman not be elated? Humbled? Nor feel anything other than incredibly loved by such a gesture?”
“I’d hoped you’d know that was my intention.” Alistair stared down at his polished boots then lifted a dear smile. “Whatever shall the people say? The thought of exposure gives me enormous pause. And trepidation.”
“But I will be at your side. You won’t be alone.” Marcus dipped his head until he forced Alistair to meet his gaze. Marcus slowly stroked the front of his betrothed’s waistcoat, loving how strong the man felt, adoring the warmth of his supple body. “But there’s only one thing I really want, Alistair. And that’s you.”
Marcus cupped Alistair’s face within his palms, angling it so he could resoundingly kiss the only man he had ever truly loved. As that kiss deepened, Marcus was vaguely aware of the card room door opening again. He opened his eyes, never ceasing the kiss, and staring over Alistair’s broad shoulder, glimpsed Lady Elsevier, twittering feverishly behind her fan. She gave Marcus a triumphant smile, which Marcus answered with but one thing.
He raised his hand, and displayed his engagement ring. Then resumed kissing the love of his life.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alistair had never been fond of the throne room in his youth, as it was the only place his sire ever summoned him for a private audience. King Norman would sit upon his dais, staring down at Alistair over the rims of spectacles, and Alistair had rarely felt more timid. Now Alistair wondered why his sire hadn’t simply told Alistair the truth during one of those painful, terse visits. As he’d learned in reading Dryden’s correspondence with his sire, the solicitor had not only blackmailed the late king emotionally, but also threatened to reveal their secret affair. It would have been scandalous had the realm learned that King Norman’s decades-long lover hadn’t been his late queen, but rather the monarch’s male solicitor. It was a tricky, tangled web of manipulation, but it had worked with Alistair’s father to stupendous effect.
Still, it soothed some to realize his father had loved him, had wanted him—just not enough to shake loose from Dryden. Even that, he’d likely forgive in time; after all, he himself had been a victim of that solicitor’s manipulation. So, he understood his sire’s silence better than most others would.
Still, glancing about this grand throne room, he was deafened by the memories of so much silence. It had, after all, been the singular hallmark of so many of his interactions with his late father. He’d not be surprised if his shyness hadn’t been born in this room where—today—he would be crowned prince. He glanced about, seeing the ornate moldings and statuary as if through new eyes. This throne room, the palace, all of it was now part of his birthright, his heritage.
For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a shadow, a wraith of a prince ghosting through the halls, praying not to be seen for who he truly was. He’d taken this moment to be alone, even in the midst of the gathered family and dignitaries, stepping away from Marcus and Arend and everyone else to stand here off in the wings. There always seemed to be a giant palm when one needed one. For a fleeting moment, he thought to flag down a passing footman for a flute of champagne, not because he yearned for liquor today, but simply out of anxious habit.
He stared down at his gloved hands, allowing the sensation to pass—a skill he’d learned in the past months and which helped whenever a craving crept upon him.
When he glanced up, he found his fiancé approaching, amused. “Still obscuring yourself behind palm fronds after all this time?” Marcus embraced him as he reached his side. “Although you really shouldn’t be hiding yourself away anywhere without me.”
Alistair nuzzled his neck, not giving a fig whether they were concealed or not. They’d been reunited for ten days, and he still wanted to touch, hold, caress, and otherwise keep his hands all over Marcus, whenever they were near each other. He didn’t expect that likely to change anytime in the next decade or any thereafter, either.
“I was merely taking a moment to bolster myself for the, uh, unveiling? Shall we call it that? I’m not one for the public, as you well know. Much more a keep-to-the-wings-and-background gentleman.”
Marcus reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. “You’d best grow accustomed to becoming a much more visible persona, darling prince of mine.”
“There’s no other man with whom I’d undertake this journey,” Alistair murmured, nuzzling Marcus again. “I love you. And with you, I feel I can do almost anything.”
“Anything?” Marcus purred flirtatiously, nuzzling him back.
“Hmm.” Alistair slid a hand beneath Marcus’s jacket, contemplating how he might manage a discreet fondling of his lover’s arse, but a languid, aristocratic voice intruded. His cousin, ill timed and overloud as he often proved to be. But smiling warmly at them.
“Well, well! A lover’s tryst beneath leafy palm fronds,” Sam drawled. “Paint me utterly unsurprised that my shy cousin is avoiding the throng.” Sam extended Alistair a flute of what, for a moment, he anxiously mistook for champagne, then handed a matching glass to Marcus. “Here. Drink up, lads.”
Marcus took an easy sip, unconcerned, but Alistair eyed the drink suspiciously, lifting it eye-level, sniffing. He glanced uncertainly at Sam, who rolled his eyes as if highly put-upon. “Bloody hell, I’m not trying to poison you on your coronation day or whatever it is they’re calling this fete. And no need to appear so swillish; it’s some sparkling juice nonsense that teetotalers are meant to appreciate.”
Alistair sipped it, and was pleasantly surprised by the giddy little burn he experienced as the liquid slid down his throat. He lifted the flute to Sam. “Quite nice, actually.”
“Hard to believe anything can taste good once you’ve had my best port. Thank God my casks shall recover without your degenerate ways. Although, Fin”—Sam dipped his head, capturing Alistair’s gaze gently—“I do so hope you and Marcus shall come for a visit before long.”
He nodded, overcome. Family. He had true family now, and that family wanted him. “You never called me Fin until recently; not until I returned from the north.”
“Hmm, didn’t I? Well, I couldn’t precisely deem you the large-arsed spinster any longer, could I?” Sam swept his gaze up and down Alistair’s form, pointedly examining. “Not with that one or two stone you managed to cast off.”
“Five,” Alistair replied, laughing at the absurd jest. “I’m some five stone lighter now, Sam.”
“Interesting. Although you do still own quite the deliciously prime arse, cousin. Good on you, Lord Marcus, landing yourself a gentleman of such voluptuary charm,” Sam said confidingly, yet never lowered his voice even a whit.
“Samuel!” Alistair cried. “Someone shall hear you and we’ll all be scandalized.”
Sam waved off his objections. “Your being acknowledged as prince is scandal enough.” Then, astonishingly, Sam reached a gloved hand and gently patted his cheek. “Congratulations, Fin. Now, carry on. You’ve a beloved populace to greet.”
“Sam—“ Alistair began to thank him, for his many kindnesses of late, but his cousin swept away, jauntily stepping into the throng.
Marcus slid a hand onto Alistair’s forearm, slowly stroking through the fabric of his coat. The touch electrified him; after so many months apart, of course, Marcus need onl
y glance up at him with those lovely blue-green eyes, or offer even the faintest smile, and Alistair’s body turned to warm flames. Today, it was the man’s lush, long auburn lashes that were proving his undoing.
“Sam came to see me, you know. A few months ago,” Marcus said. “He admitted he goaded you into things at dinner that night. Badly. And apologized for causing me pain. If we’d not been so busy this past week”—Marcus leaned nearer, until the warmth of his body radiated against Alistair’s—“doing more important things, I might have thought to mention it.”
Alistair dipped his head, brushing his lips against Marcus’s ear. “I’ve no interest in discussing my cousin whilst betwixt your thighs, sweetheart. At those moments, there’s but one purpose I wish for our mouths, and mostly that’s naught to do with words.”
“Yet accompanied by heady sounds aplenty.”
“Oh, aye,” Alistair said, and Marcus gave him a look of adorable surprise.
“Was that a burr I just heard from ye, Mr. Finley?”
Then, making his best imitation of a Highlander, Alistair pressed his mouth to Marcus’s ear once more. “Aye, my gorgeous laddie, but ye must tup me again, to hear my new brogue at its broadest. And, my lord, if ye wear a kilt to our bedstead? Ye’ll hear me burr all the sweeter, as I sweep my hands beneath yer tartan. And up about yer bonnie arse.”
“I feel certain,” Marcus murmured, laughing giddily, “that can be arranged later, after thousands of royal subjects celebrate and greet you today, my prince. My beautiful, breathtaking prince. And after today? We’ve a wedding to plan.”
“I’ll ensure your wedding day is spectacular, the dreamiest any fellow has ever known. I’ve a veritable fleet of secretarial staff to muster, and your main task shall be feeling radiant and handsome and beloved. Allow me to pamper you in this?”
“Only if you allow me to pamper you in turn?” Marcus leaned in and brushed a swift kiss against his cheek. “And we do have some arrangements to sort out. Such as who shall be your best man.”
“Why, Ethan, of course. Who else could I possibly choose? Arend, as king, cannot stand by me. And Samuel?” He shook his head dubiously. “There’s no other choice for me than your brother.”
“Alistair.” Marcus laughed skittishly. “Ethan’s meant to be my best man. You must know that he is.”
“But he’s my dearest friend. He quite literally saved my life.”
Marcus sighed dramatically, but his eyes were merry. “All right, but then I’ve no other choice—I must ask Robert Barrington, as the twins would be too sour with me if I picked one of them. So you’d have to endure the earl.”
“The Earl of Harcourt! Brilliant, yes.”
Marcus studied him curiously, clearly caught between expecting Alistair to be jealous and wondering why he wasn’t. “You’d actually be comfortable with that? I’m recalling all the times I’ve had to convince you he’s just a friend.”
Alistair shook his head. “I know you value Harcourt’s friendship and it’s a capital choice.” And, of course, he didn’t add that their wedding would be the perfect moment to encourage Ethan toward the earl. “That’s the ideal choice, truly, as he and Ethan are such good friends. They shall surely enjoy socializing throughout the wedding celebrations.”
“Good friends?” Marcus reared back in surprise. “What are you on about? Robert and Ethan don’t even know each other. I’m fairly sure they’ve never even met.”
“But they were—Oh.” Alistair panicked, but determined to salvage his misstep. “P-perhaps, urm, I’m thinking of someone else. Must be, I’m sure of it.” Even though he’d identified the earl’s royal crest months earlier, from nearly the first bit of correspondence he’d seen land on Ethan’s desk. And the dozens that followed thereafter during their northern decampment.
“Alistair, I doubt you’d misremember anything pertaining to the Earl from the Garden. You are also remarkably unjealous. Did Ethan say something about Robert during your months together? Hmm?” Marcus’s eyes were alight with intrigue and profound curiosity. Ethan was going to string him up by his high princely boots.
“No, no.” Alistair waved a hand as if swatting a bee away. “You must remember, my mind was in a muddle much of that time.”
Marcus studied him shrewdly. “Perhaps that’s it.” He sounded wholly unconvinced, but they were approached by several lords, so thankfully the topic was forgotten.
* * *
* * *
Speak of the bloody devil, but Marcus’s brother strode up to them then, grinning like a giddy bampot, his pride in Alistair obvious as a crimson tartan.
“Your Highness.” Ethan bowed deeply to Alistair, who only managed to flush and look terribly shy. “And you, princely lad to be,” his brother declared, clapping Marcus on the shoulder.
Ethan then poked and examined the medallions on Alistair’s lapels and jacket. “Star of the Provinces? Lovely. I’ve never even seen one of these in person.” Ethan patted the ribbon back flat.
Alistair ducked away from his attentions. “Oh, do stop, please,” he complained. “What is it Sam always says? Stop fussing with all the hoity-toity nonsense?”
Ethan grinned lopsidedly at Alistair. “You worked incredibly hard for this day, Fin.”
“‘You’? Whatever happened to ye, or is that reserved only for Alsderry?” Alistair inquired jocularly, his deep affection for Ethan apparent.
“Och, man, I can’t unfurl my brogue here. We’re consorting with royalty just now, such as you. And before you bitch at me, yes, you are my prince.”
Alistair outright groaned. “I am not your prince, Ethan. Only the fellow you found at the bottom and helped climb back up. The man of headaches, and shaking hands, and midnight tortures. And heartache. Dear God, that you can even meet my eye after all my blubbering, ’tis a true wonder, Ethan.”
“Blubbering?” Marcus inquired, pain stabbing him in the chest. He knew, instinctively, how badly Alistair had suffered during their time apart. It was impossible to imagine that Alistair hadn’t mourned and ached nearly as much as he whilst sobering. Living with their last night, and what he’d done. Drowning in more self-recrimination than any blame Marcus himself might have laid at his feet.
Ethan slung an arm about Alistair’s shoulder. “Marcus, this fellow here”—he tugged Alistair closer, jiggling him affectionately—“he strove hard to win you back.” The pair shared a knowing look, and Marcus felt his chest tighten. To see the man he loved, so close with the brother he adored, warmed him more than he’d have ever imagined.
“I’m grateful to you both,” Marcus said softly. “Enough so that I’m willing to tolerate this best-man situation.”
Ethan tilted his head quizzically. “Whatever does that mean?”
“I’ve agreed that the Earl of Harcourt shall stand at my side in your stead.” Marcus studied his brother keenly, waiting for a revealing reaction. And a reaction he did receive, indeed.
“Rob-Robert?” Ethan all but sputtered. “The Earl of Harcourt, of . . . of course. Of course. I know he’s a close friend of . . . yours, Marcus. Of course.” Ethan was practically bleating, he was so flustered. Marcus managed—just barely—to refrain from sweetly inquiring, “And isn’t he likewise a close friend of yours?” But he took mercy, even though his suspicions were fully confirmed by the scarlet flush that infused his brother’s freckled face.
Ethan’s gaze darted wildly about, a vaguely hurt expression coming over him. “I’m just . . . surprised, shocked really, not to be your best man, Marcus.”
“Well, it seems Alistair is hell-bent on having you as his own. So, I had to relent.”
The hurt expression transformed into downright glorious joy. Ethan glanced at Alistair, grinning broadly. “I’d be honored, if ye’d have me.”
“Honored? Make no mistake, Dunshire, I properly insisted upon having you at my side.”
Ali
stair glanced at Ethan, whose arm was still slung affectionately across his shoulder. “I explained that you are my closest friend—apart from Marcus and my brother—and that I’d very much like you to stand with me on our wedding day.”
“I’m . . . I can think of nothing that would make me happier. Truly.”
Marcus clapped his hands. “Perfect! But, Ethan? You’d best take your arm off my fiancé, lest you render me jealous.”
Besides, Marcus now knew there was another man whom Ethan would far prefer to hold within his arms, a particular earl who quite likely held far greater appeal than Alistair. He’d have to press Alistair later, discover how the devil his brother—who was ever skirt-chasing—had suddenly begun tailcoat-chasing.
“Alistair? ’Tis time.” King Arend appeared at their side, dressed to regal perfection. “Good day, Lord Marcus, Lord Ethan.”
Marcus and Ethan dropped instantly into matching deep bows. Arend was, almost-family or not, the king of their entire realm, a fact that still dizzied Marcus’s mind whenever he contemplated it too closely. As he rose, taking in the monarch’s kingly attire—he’d outfitted himself with every possible medallion and regimental adornment for the occasion—he found himself somewhat speechless.
“Here,” Arend told Alistair softly, reaching to pin a medallion on the front of his tailcoat. “It’s the emblem of the realm, worn only by kings and princes for the past eight hundred years.”
Alistair smiled, dropping his gaze diffidently to the floor. “Your Majesty, I am—even now—your secretary. I’ve some idea what this medallion connotes.”
“Well, we’ll soon be addressing that whole secretary business. But, yes, you know what it means. That you’re an acknowledged Tollemach, prince of this mighty realm.”
Alistair nodded, swallowing, but said nothing more to his brother. Arend swept him into a hearty embrace, and although Marcus couldn’t make out their shared words, he knew they were about love and kinship and the future.