by Ava March
The polite interest didn’t falter as she nodded, bidding him to continue.
“If the choice was yours, whom would you marry? Myself or Grafton?”
* * *
Vincent shut the study door behind him.
Seated in one of the black leather wingback chairs by the fireplace, his father was reading the newspaper. Nearly nine in the evening and he appeared as though his valet had just finished dressing him. The short layers of his silver hair neatly combed, not one unwanted wrinkle in his navy coat. Yet the glass of brandy on the table beside him indicated he would retire soon.
Ten more minutes and Vincent would’ve had to wait until tomorrow.
Unacceptable. One way or another, he would have ensured his father heard him out. He would not allow another night to pass and have all be right in the Marquess of Saye and Sele’s tidy little world where every inhabitant eagerly bent to his will.
Resolute, he crossed the room and stopped next to the other chair angled toward the fireplace. “Father. Might I have a word with you?”
His father’s attention didn’t stray from the Times. “Do you need my assistance obtaining the special license from the archbishop?”
“No. Lady Juliana and I will not be wed.”
“She rejected your offer?” Eyes still on that damn newspaper, he absently reached out, fingers closing around the glass and took a sip. “I’ll have a word with her father. The man assured me the girl would accept you.”
“I have not asked for her hand, nor will I.”
That got his father’s attention. “You must.”
Vincent shook his head. “Grafton cares for her, and more importantly, she is in love with him.” He knew what love looked like—Oliver had taught him that—and he had seen it reflected in Lady Juliana’s face when she had answered his question with a shyly whispered, “Grafton.”
His father waved his hand, dismissing the notion as insignificant. “It matters not. Grafton will wed the Duke’s daughter and do his duty. And so must you. Lady Juliana cannot be tossed aside.”
Vincent stared in detached horror at his father. The man truly did not care about his children’s well-being. And to think Vincent had so desperately craved his attention. Spent years trying to mold himself into the perfect son, all for nothing.
Even if Oliver refused to ever speak to him again, Vincent still owed him his gratitude. If not for his friend, he could have become…this. Cold. Detached. Focused only on his business interests and Society’s good opinion of him. He might physically look like his father’s son, but that’s where he wanted the resemblance to end.
“Lady Juliana will not be tossed aside. There will be no scandal. Nor will you create one in an effort to force my hand, for it would only reflect poorly on yourself and Grafton. As for my recent association with her, it will simply be put about that I was serving as her temporary escort in my brother’s absence. She so enjoys the theatre. It would have been a shame to deprive her while Grafton is in the country.”
A flush rose up from his father’s neck, tingeing his ears red and coloring his cheeks. An ugly scowl contorted his features. Vincent had never witnessed the sight, but apparently his father did not react well to having his wishes ignored. How unfortunate for his father.
The man shot to his feet, flicking the newspaper to the floor with a sharp snap of his wrist. “You must marry eventually, so you will marry her. Now. It is your duty. You must secure an heir.”
“Since I do not plan on being put in the ground any time in the near future, there is no reason for me to marry now. I am only four-and-twenty. Still plenty of years ahead of me to choose a wife.” A small portion of his brain marveled at his ability to remain so calm and composed, so unaffected in the face of his father’s anger. But he knew the encounter was a mere prelude, a warm-up exercise, so to speak, for what awaited him after he left this house. “If in ten years Grafton does not have an heir and a spare, then we can discuss marriage. Until that time, I am content to wait.” He highly doubted it would come to that. If his suspicions about him were correct, Grafton would have a small brood before the decade was up.
“Grafton must honor the agreement I made with his grace.”
“No. Grafton will honor his obligation to Lady Juliana.” And as soon as he returns to Town, I’ll have a word with him to ensure he does.
His father’s nostrils flared, his blue eyes nearly bulging from his head. “Marry her or I will cut you off.”
Vincent shrugged. As if it would be a change from his father’s usual indifference, not that he cared one whit about the man’s opinion of him anymore.
“I will cut off your quarterly allowance,” his father snarled in a tone that brooked no threat of rebuttal. Hands fisted at his sides and jaw clamped tight, he was so beyond his usual stoic composure it was almost comical.
“I don’t need it. Do you remember the Rotherham property? That dismal little property you refused to give me? I purchased it a year ago. You should have asked more for it.” He paused and allowed the pride swelling his chest to curve his lips. “Best investment I ever made. Good evening, Father.”
With that, he tipped his head and turned on his heel, leaving his father scarlet-faced and slack-jawed.
* * *
Vincent didn’t recall there being so many stairs. Heart slamming against his ribs so hard and fast he was amazed it didn’t burst from his chest, he rounded the landing and went up the next flight. Surely they hadn’t added another floor to the building in his absence.
When the last step was finally behind him, he paused and closed his eyes, trying to will his pulse to slacken to something that approached normal levels.
Absolutely wasted effort.
Forcing his feet to move, he walked to the door on the right.
Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, a hot tickle under his stiff collar. He removed his gloves, stuffing them in his coat pocket, and tugged on his cravat. Should have left the greatcoat in the carriage, but he had not wanted to be without it in the event he had to walk home in the chill, damp late October night. After unbuttoning the coat, he held up his hands. By God, he was shaking.
He had never felt this way before. Never needed something so badly and, at the same time, been scared out of his wits. He knew what Oliver wanted from him. Had already damned himself for a fool countless times for not accepting himself for who he was ages ago. For even having brought them to this point. He knew the words he needed to speak if he stood a chance in hell of convincing the man to take him back. Yet still, opening his heart to Oliver, laying himself bare at his feet, giving up that need for control and exposing himself so completely…
A decidedly frightening prospect.
But he was determined to do it. He’d take a lesson from his friend and demand the man hear him out.
But what if he wouldn’t listen?
What if Oliver walked away from him again?
What if Oliver didn’t love him anymore?
His hand shot out, fingers gripping the door’s frame, to keep from crumpling to his knees.
Stop it!
It was pointless to allow the worries to consume him, to batter away at him until he couldn’t stay on his feet, much less form a coherent sentence. In any case, he would never know the truth unless he knocked on that door.
So do it.
He gave his evening coat a sharp tug to straighten it, reached up to check the knot on his cravat to assure it was still centered, and then knocked once on the door.
Chapter Eight
One cold hand on the wobbly rail, Oliver stopped at the top of the stairs and blinked. Yes, that really was Vincent with his back to the door of his apartments, hands clasped and legs slightly spread, as if he were standing guard. The long, dark greatcoat added width to his already broad shoulders, to the point where Oliver could barely make out the door behind him.
“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for twenty-five minutes.”
The accusatory tone obliterated
the shock, chasing away the chill that had seeped into Oliver’s bones on the walk home and making his hackles stand on end, stiff and bristly. So the man did not like to wait. Too bad. And why was Vincent there anyway? Hadn’t he been clear enough already? He no longer wanted anything to do with the man.
If Vincent labored under the assumption that he could bend Oliver over, use him for nothing more than a convenient fuck, an anonymous vessel to slake his desires, then he was vastly mistaken.
Goddamn arrogant bastard.
Pulling his key from his pocket, he stalked across the distance separating them and glared up at Vincent. The man moved aside enough so Oliver could fit the brass key into the lock and open the door without brushing against him.
“Where have you been?” Vincent asked. Again.
Oliver lit the candle on the small table. The feeble golden light illuminated a not-so-empty parlor as Vincent had followed him inside. He sure as hell wouldn’t answer Vincent’s question. It was none of his concern, nor did he need to know that Oliver had taken a very long route home to prolong the inevitable. Three weeks and it still hurt to come home to an empty room. To know he’d have a long, lonely night ahead of him.
The door clicked shut.
Oliver ground his teeth together. By God, the man had ballocks.
Mouth twisted in a sneer, Oliver put the tinderbox back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “Have you come by to invite me to your wedding? If so, you needn’t bother.” Vincent was truly fit for Bedlam if he thought Oliver would happily sit in one of the benches at St. George’s Church and watch as he wed that girl. And of course, Vincent would marry at St. George’s, the most fashionable church in London.
Vincent slipped his greatcoat off his shoulders and draped it over his arm, fussing with it until it hung in neat folds. When the garment met with his satisfaction, he looked up and speared Oliver with a solemn stare. “No. I wanted to advise you to have a care with gambling.”
Uncertain how to interrupt that statement, Oliver went to the fireplace, dropped to his haunches, and busied himself piling logs onto the grate and starting the fire. He had asked Vincent if he should bet on his impending marriage or not. Was Vincent trying to tell him that he was not going to wed the girl?
Only one way to find out.
“Are you going to marry her?” Oliver asked, using the iron poker to nudge at the burning logs. The flames flickered up, reaching toward the flue, the logs popping and cracking, offering a welcome bit of warmth. He kept the threadbare brown velvet drapes closed tight in the autumn and winter months, but they did little to keep out the chill.
The floorboards creaked once, twice, three times. Then the room went quiet.
“No.”
His hand shook ever so slightly as he carefully leaned the poker against the sooty bricks of the fireplace surround. He stood and turned to find Vincent one pace from him. The dark greatcoat covered the back of the nearby armchair. “Why not? Your father wishes it.” He threw the words out there, as if doing anything other than what the marquess wished was inconceivable.
Vincent shrugged, discomfort etched in every line of his powerful body. A heavy furrow marred his brow. His hands were clasped so tightly before him that his knuckles had turned white. “She prefers my brother over me. Apparently she’s in love with him.”
“Silly chit.”
“Well, yes, but I don’t blame her. I’m not the easiest man to be with, and I would have made a very poor husband.” Shifting his weight, he glanced to his polished evening shoes and then back to Oliver. “And I, well…I prefer you.”
Oliver’s heart leapt into his throat but somehow he managed to speak with a bored drawl. “Do you now?”
“I must. I love you.”
Oliver’s jaw dropped. Had he heard Vincent correctly? Or were his ears playing tricks on him, letting him hear the words he had ached to hear for so long?
“I apologize for being such a condescending arse. It’s rude of me to keep you waiting. To be so presumptuous. Please forgive me for behaving so abysmally toward you when we were out and about. But whenever I’m near you, I want you, and I can’t help but worry it’s obvious to all.” Vincent dragged a hand through his hair, disheveling the neat layers. “I remember everything you said that night. Christ, I can’t forget it. And I won’t. I give you my word that I will never again be such a damn stubborn fool. And if you’ll but give me another chance, Oliver, I’ll—”
Oliver launched himself at Vincent, cutting off his words and shoving him roughly against the wall. He tangled his fingers in Vincent’s dark hair, hauled the man’s mouth down to meet his, and crushed his lips over Vincent’s. Absolutely devoured his mouth. Teeth nipping, tongue delving deep, tangling with Vincent’s.
Unable to get enough, he pressed himself against the hard length of Vincent’s body. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, holding him so tightly he couldn’t draw a full breath. But he didn’t care. Vincent was kissing him back with an urgency that surpassed his own.
He gave himself over to it, his fingers unwinding from Vincent’s hair, hands falling to those broad shoulders, surrendering completely to the passion in Vincent’s kiss. To the love so strong he could taste it.
Then the kiss softened, a slow melding of lips gliding across each other. Vincent nipped his bottom lip and broke the kiss. Warm, panting breaths brushed across his face.
“Is that a yes? Will you give me another chance?” Vincent asked, so low and reluctant Oliver more felt the words rumbling his chest than heard them.
He blinked his eyes open. “Of course. You called me Oliver,” he whispered. He had been able to keep the excitement under wraps, keep it contained as it built within him as Vincent said the most unbelievable things to him, until he had heard his name. Never in their thirteen years of friendship had Vincent called him Oliver. Yet tonight, it had fallen unbidden from his lips. The clearest sign of all that Vincent had opened his heart to him.
Vincent nodded, grim and determined, not one hint of Oliver’s smile echoed on his face. With gentle hands on his shoulders, he moved Oliver a step back, putting distance between them. He worked the knot on his cravat and then tugged the linen from his neck. “I do remember everything you said that night. Everything.” Oliver watched his Adam’s apple bob beneath the taut skin of his neck as he swallowed. “You can do with me as you please.”
Oliver stared in utter disbelief at the long length of white linen in Vincent’s outstretched hand.
“You can tie me up, take me, and do whatever you please with me. I am yours, Oliver. Forever.”
It was almost too much to believe that Vincent was willing to put himself in Oliver’s hands. To relinquish all control. “You really do love me.”
“Yes.”
His heart swelled near to bursting. Oliver held back the grin, but it was mighty difficult—the poor man looked absolutely terrified. Determined, but terrified at the prospect of submission. Now was not the time to grin like a damn fool and let out the bark of joyous laughter building within him.
“Don’t look so frightened, Vincent. I don’t want to tie you up.” He took the cravat and let it flutter to the floor. “But there is something I’ve wanted to do since I saw you take your trousers off at Delacroix’s brothel.”
“And what would that be?”
Suppressing a smile, Oliver raised one eyebrow and removed his coat, taking the time to undo the buttons properly. It had taken a box of scones to convince his grandmother’s housekeeper to sew the buttons back onto his coat and waistcoat. He had managed to avoid her questions the first time, but didn’t want to press his luck by having to ask her to repeat the chore. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the coat onto the armchair.
His spectacles. He should remove them, too. He wouldn’t need them for what he had planned; Vincent would be plenty close enough to see him clearly.
He left Vincent standing against the wall by the open bedchamber door and placed his spectacles on the fireplace mantel. Perhaps they s
hould move to the bedchamber? No. That terror had dissipated when the cravat fell to the floor, but the man was still clearly very nervous. If he asked Vincent to move, he might bolt for the wrong door.
Not that Oliver was all that comfortable playing the dominant, either. He could count on one hand the number of times he had taken another man, and it had been years ago. He much preferred to submit, to put his pleasure in the hands of another, but he could not deny the heady thrill that sang through his veins at having Vincent at his disposal.
His to touch. His to kiss. His to do with as he pleased.
His back to Vincent, he allowed the grin to spread across his face as he lit a candle on the mantel.
“What should I do?” Vincent asked.
“Nothing. Just stand still.”
He wiped the smile from his lips and went back to Vincent. Willing the tremor of anticipation from his hands, he unbuttoned Vincent’s coat and then his waistcoat, working each fabric-covered button free. Vincent could see to the task much quicker, but Oliver wanted to do it. To slowly reveal all that powerful male muscle. Vincent’s body was a sublime gift, one the man had never before allowed him to thoroughly explore.
He remembered to remove Vincent’s pocket watch from his waistcoat before tossing the garments behind him. After slipping the watch into his own trouser pocket, he pushed the black suspenders from Vincent’s shoulders and tugged the white shirt free from his trousers.
“You’ll have to remove it yourself. You’re much too tall.”
Vincent tipped his head. “As you wish, milord.”
“No, no. Please don’t call me that.” The address belonged to Vincent, not to him. Then he peered up at Vincent through the chunk of unruly hair that had fallen over one eye. “Well…not unless you really want to.”
Vincent furrowed his brow. “Lord Oliver?”
“How about just Oliver? I haven’t heard it enough yet.”
Vincent tipped his head again, the barest of smiles tugging his lips. “As you wish, Oliver.” He whisked the shirt over his head, revealing the hard contours of his abdomen and his broad chest. Seizing the moment when Vincent had his arms over his head, Oliver trailed a fingertip down the underside of those powerful biceps, the skin so soft and smooth, then down his side.