by Ava March
He meant nothing to Vincent.
Oliver bolted up from the bed, stumbling a few steps before his legs started functioning properly. His eyes had adjusted to the near darkness, and he was able to locate the small table by the door. Glass rattled against glass, his hands shaking as he poured the brandy into a snifter. He doesn’t even know who you are. Nor does he care. Avoiding Vincent’s gaze he crossed the room, acutely aware of his limp cock dangling between his thighs.
“For you, milord,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice from wavering.
Vincent pushed up onto his elbow. His fingers brushed Oliver’s as he took the proffered glass. Sensation rushed up Oliver’s arm. His breath hitched.
He turned on his heel. Where had he left his breeches? He needed to get out of this room. Now.
The chest of drawers. He’d been standing near it when Vincent told him to remove his breeches. He found them underneath Vincent’s rumpled white shirt. As he grabbed his breeches, a splash of green at the base of the chest of drawers caught his attention. He reached out, his other hand closing over the jade cravat pin.
“Wait.”
Two paces from the narrow door, Oliver froze. His heart slammed high and hard against his ribs. He clenched his fist, the hard oval stone on the pin pressing into his palm
Vincent sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Bring me my coat. I need to pay you.”
A wave of nausea filled Oliver’s stomach. He swallowed hard, fighting it down. “Just leave it on the console table.”
“But…?”
Oliver was through the door and shut it before Vincent could finish his question. He sagged against the door, sliding down to his haunches. Uncontrollable shivers wracked his body. He dropped his head and covered his face with his breeches, trying to stifle the sobs that lodged in his throat.
How the hell was he to face Vincent again? To flash an easy smile and casually inquire about his day the next time he passed Vincent on the street? The man had branded himself on Oliver’s soul and broken his heart in the process. But how could he not be with Vincent again? How was he to go the rest of his days without him?
He couldn’t. He could never be with another man, not after tonight. Vincent had shown Oliver a side of himself he hadn’t known existed. He had stripped him bare, exposed his soul, demanded complete submission, and Oliver had willing turned himself over. Dark and wicked, yet so right, so perfect. And so potently addictive. Even now when Vincent thought of him as nothing more than an anonymous man to bugger, Oliver still craved his touch, his attention, his praise.
How the hell had he believed he would be able to walk away from Vincent tonight unscathed? Christ, his chest ached so badly it hurt to breathe. He couldn’t recall exactly when the longing first gripped hold. When adolescent urges had focused on Lord Vincent Prescot to the exclusion of all others. When friendship had turned into a need for so much more. Yet it had, and now, after tonight…
Clenching his jaw, he fought back a fresh surge of utter despair. He dragged his breeches down his face and tipped his head back against the door, blinking into the pitch darkness. He needed to pull himself together. In any case, he couldn’t stay in this small room all night.
His mind traveled down a path it should not go. It was an open invitation for more pain, more heartache. It would be foolhardy to even contemplate, and the risk—oh—if Vincent ever discovered Jake was Oliver…
It had taken too long to win at the gambling tables. He needed something that required no skill, only blind luck.
The betting book at White’s.
Oliver was one of those men others tended not to notice. As such, he overheard far more conversations than he should. Perhaps his ability to blend into the woodwork would help him win a few bets.
Floorboards creaked in the other room. Light flared from underneath the door. Vincent had lit a candle. He was likely getting dressed, and very soon, he’d notice what had gone missing.
Oliver scrambled up, shoved his legs into his breeches and slipped Vincent’s cravat pin into his pocket. He grabbed his clothes that were heaped on the small table, his spectacles clattering to the floor. His head snapped to the door, fearing Vincent would walk through to investigate the noise. Pulse clamoring in his veins, he tugged on his shirt, waistcoat and coat. Shoved his cravat into his pocket. Pulled on his boots. Put on his spectacles. And was out of the room with only one thought in his mind.
The first Thursday of every month. And next month, Oliver would ensure only one man was available when Vincent visited the brothel.
* * *
“Would you care for another whiskey, Lord Vincent?”
Vincent looked up from the newspaper to the footman standing at his shoulder. I kissed a man last night. “Yes, and be quick about it.”
The footman tipped his head and left, weaving around the other patrons.
Vincent turned his attention back to the Times. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what he’d been reading. Shaking his head in disgust, he reached for his glass then stopped. That footman better be quick.
The drone of male voices, the clink of glasses, and the swoosh of paper as newspapers were read surrounded him. They were the sounds of a man’s haven. He’d come to White’s this afternoon seeking a distraction. Yet when he’d walked through the door, he had avoided the clusters of men seated in comfortable leather armchairs and taken up a spot at an out of the way table by himself.
I kissed a man.
Yes, you bloody well did, didn’t you?
He gnashed his teeth. The worst of it, though? He actually looked at the calendar in his study this morning and been glad there were only thirty days in April. Then he had promptly left his townhouse and gone to White’s.
Why the hell had he kissed that man? He never had the desire to do that before. He gave them what they begged for, what they needed. Yet Jake hadn’t asked for a kiss, and still, Vincent had pressed his lips to Jake’s full lips, slipped his tongue into Jake’s hot, willing mouth, and kissed a man.
The absolute worst was he had enjoyed it. It had felt good. Beyond good. It felt right, as if kissing Jake was the most natural thing to do.
He stiffened, his spine going ramrod straight. From the corner of his eye, he quickly scanned the room. Did any of them suspect? Could they tell? It damn well felt as though it was branded on his forehead for all to see. His gaze stopped on an older man with neatly cropped silver hair seated by the fireplace in conversation with Vincent’s brother, the cherished heir. The distinguished Marquess of Saye and Sele paid Vincent little notice, but if the man found out his second son was a fucking sod…any hope Vincent held of earning even a bit of his father’s respect would be destroyed. Gone.
Wincing, he forced his attention back to the Times. He was not a sod. He swived women and never let another man bugger him, but the distinctions didn’t matter. The threat of being hung for sodomy aside, London society was unforgiving to those who did not meet their exacting standards. They frowned upon any deviation, no matter how slight. And one couldn’t get more deviant than a desire to kiss another man.
It was all that madam’s fault. She had sent him Jake—a man who had put his trust in him without question. A man who had gazed at him with such intense longing, as if he needed his touch to draw breath. And Jake had not been acting. That had not been an attempt to please a client. His every response, every desperate plea for more, every threadbare whimper from his full kissable lips had been genuine.
Vincent let out a frustrated grunt and shifted in the chair. Hell and damnation. It would not do to sport an erection at White’s. He needed to stop thinking about Jake. What was wrong with him? He never had this much trouble controlling himself. Those urges were kept neatly locked away and only let out on a rigid schedule. Every appointment the same, the events carefully orchestrated so all control rested firmly in his hands.
Last night had not been the same, now had it? Scowling, he turned the page of the newspaper. It had been
different from the moment he walked through the bedchamber door, never mind how it ended. But surely there was nothing wrong with lingering for a bit. It was the man’s first appointment. His initial awkwardness, the nervousness confirmed that fact. Only a heartless bastard would have left Jake crumpled on the floor, used and wrung dry. Basic human compassion drove his behavior, and definitely not a desire to feel Jake’s sleek, honed body pressed against his. Yet the absolute trust in the young man’s undisturbed sleeping breaths had produced such a rush of fierce protectiveness he couldn’t leave until he felt Jake would be all right.
On top of it all, he lost his cravat pin. That’s what he got for not having a care with his cravat and ripping the thing from his neck. Eager to get out of the brothel, to escape the shock over that damn kiss, he hadn’t stayed long looking for it. The only thing his grandfather left him was now lost forever. Some servant would probably find it when she cleaned the room and sell it for a bottle of gin. Brilliant.
Resting his elbows on the table, he rubbed his temples. Even better. Now he had a headache. Where the hell was that footman? He glanced up.
Head bowed and shoulders hunched, Lord Oliver Marsden was walking in the direction of Vincent’s table. The sight of his old friend in the predictably rumpled coat complete with a poorly tied cravat eased the throbbing in his temples.
“Marsden,” Vincent called.
Stopping in his tracks, Marsden’s head snapped up. “Ah…Prescot. Afternoon.”
“Yes, it is afternoon.” A glass of whiskey was placed on the table. Vincent glared at the footman standing at his shoulder. “Another glass for Lord Oliver—and this time, quickly.” Then he looked to Marsden and gestured to the chair across from his. “Have a seat.”
Marsden hesitated then sat, a wince tightening his lips.
“Am I keeping you from something?”
“No, no. I was just,” Marsden shrugged, “going to check the betting book.”
“You’ve turned into quite the gambler of late, haven’t you? I heard about your run at the tables last month. Impressive. But have a care about it. Gambling can become an addictive vice.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Marsden said, spearing Vincent with a knowing look from behind his slightly crooked spectacles.
Vincent fought back a cringe. “My apologies. I did not intend to infer a similarity between yourself and your father’s situation.”
Marsden let out a sigh. “But you’re right, of course. I certainly don’t want to turn into a degenerate gambler. He at least has the weight of a title to keep him out of debtor’s prison.” Shaking his head, he ran a hand through his dark hair. Hair that looked as though he’d recently taken a machete to it.
“Did you cut it yourself?” Vincent asked, aghast. How had the man managed to hack it to bits while leaving it too long?
“Cut…? Oh, my hair. Yes.”
Vincent rolled his eyes. “Marsden, my dear fellow, are you aware there are people trained to do that for you? They’re called valets. The same individuals who press one’s coats and tie one’s cravats.”
Marsden scowled, indignation tingeing his cheekbones pink, his full lips compressing. “I don’t have a valet, Prescot.”
“I do. Stop by my townhouse and he’ll see to it for you.”
“Thank you, but I can see to it myself.” He tucked an errant wavy strand behind his ear and snatched the whiskey from the footman before the man could place the glass on the table.
Downing half a glass of whiskey settled Marsden. He leaned back in the chair, once again the easy, unassuming man Vincent had known since his youth. Vincent’s acquaintances might look down on his association with him, but it mattered not to him that Marsden’s reprobate father was considered bad ton, nor that he rarely had more than two shillings to rub together. Lord Oliver Marsden was his friend, and though weeks, even months could pass without them sitting down for a drink, Marsden had a way about him that made it feel as though no time had passed.
“How was your visit to the country?” Marsden asked.
“Productive.” A smile curved Vincent’s lips as a sense of accomplishment flowed over him. “The Rotherham property will turn a tidy profit this year and for many years to come.”
“Your father finally turned it over to you?”
“No. I purchased it last fall.” He had always wanted it. Always knew it could be so much more than a blight on the otherwise illustrious Saye and Sele marquessate. “Found a vein of coal, and a rather large one at that.”
“Well done, Prescot. Your father should be most impressed.”
The warmth spreading across his chest at Marsden’s praise turned ice-cold. “He doesn’t know.”
“Why not?”
Vincent let out a derisive snort.
“You should tell him. He’s right over there.” Marsden motioned to the group of men seated by the fireplace.
“He hasn’t acknowledged me since I arrived.” It wasn’t out of malice. His father simply forgot he had more than one son, his attention so focused on the one that mattered.
“Go pay him a call then.”
“I have nothing else to discuss with him. I can’t walk into his study, deliver my news, and leave. That would be absurd.”
Marsden took another sip of whiskey. He was silent for a moment as he contemplated Vincent. “Is he even aware you purchased the property?”
“I don’t know. My solicitor managed it, and I doubt his lordship connected the Lord Vincent Prescot who signed the bank draft with the same man who happens to be his son.”
“He’s aware,” Marsden muttered, disgust clear in his tone. His gaze strayed to Vincent’s father and older brother. His brow furrowed then he looked back to Vincent. “Your brother is not even half the man you are.”
On a shaky breath, Vincent closed his eyes, avoiding Marsden’s intent, deep-brown gaze. This was why Vincent sought his company. Marsden understood. Without question. The man knew what it felt like to be a spare, to be overlooked, ignored in favor of another. All his life Vincent had strived for some sort of recognition from his father, and Marsden was the only person who gave him a “Well done, Prescot.”
Vincent grabbed his glass and took a long swallow. The well-aged whiskey eased the constriction in his throat. I’m pathetic. Yes, indeed. No doubt about it. Yet he also knew Marsden didn’t mind propping up his confidence every now and then. He understood, and the man was always simply there whenever Vincent needed him.
“Will you be returning to Rotherham soon?” Marsden asked, skimming a fingertip along the rim of his glass.
“I’ll travel back next month. Lady Collarton is hosting a ball next Friday. Can’t miss my aunt’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration and there’s other business I need to see to in Town before I leave again.” Namely an appointment on the first Thursday in May. He’d request Jake, if the man still worked there. Unease leeched into his gut. Other men hadn’t lasted long at the brothel. The madam was known to hire handsome young men desperate to earn a few pounds. Could Jake be one of those desperate men? Perhaps he should stop by the brothel and—
Stop!
He shoved thoughts of Jake aside and focused back on Marsden. “Are you planning to attend her ladyship’s ball?”
Marsden shifted, slouching further into the chair. The man’s tailor should be run out of town. The ill-fitting brown coat rode up, making Marsden’s shoulders appear broader, boxier than usual. “No.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to let the old dragon scare you off? She might have a wickedly sharp tongue, but she’s harmless. Certainly not any more frightening than your grandmother. By the way, how is your grandmother? Are you still visiting her regularly, reading her Shakespeare’s works?” About five years ago, when Marsden’s maternal Italian grandmother had been in a serious carriage accident that left her bedridden, the man had started acting as her companion of sorts. Paying her calls, handling errands, and reading aloud to her. According to Marsden, no one else in his family could
tolerate her, and he hadn’t wanted her to be left only with the company of a couple doddering servants. An act of kindness if ever there was one, as Vincent had met the cantankerous elderly woman years ago and could well understand why she had no acquaintances of whom to speak.
“She’s doing quite well considering the circumstances. Still unpleasant and demanding, but I visit her a few times a week. Still her only visitor and still reading her Shakespeare.” Marsden ducked his chin and dragged a self-conscious hand through his hair. “I didn’t receive an invitation to the ball,” he mumbled.
Vincent clenched his jaw. That haughty, pretentious old hag. He would have a word with his aunt. “My apologies, Marsden. I’m certain it was simply an oversight.”
“There’s no reason to be affronted on my behalf. I’m accustomed to being overlooked. Truly, it’s not a bother. I don’t care much for balls, in any case.”
“I’ll see to the invitation. Will you attend?”
Marsden hesitated. “Well, yes, if you wish it.”
“I do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to make this afternoon.” All thoughts of Jake were gone, replaced with burning need to put his aunt in her place. How dare she deliver such a cut to his friend? He’d wrestle the invitation out of her gnarled old hands, if that was what it took to erase the humiliation Marsden had not been able to hide from him.
He stood, tipped his head to Marsden, and left White’s, not sparing a glance to the old marquess still seated by the fireplace.
Chapter Four
Rolling onto his side, Oliver reached for the top drawer of the bedside table and slid it open. The early morning sunlight seeping through the slits in the threadbare brown velvet drapes provided enough illumination for Oliver to see. But he didn’t need the light. His fingertips skimmed over the objects in the drawer, stopping when he encountered the distinctive ridges marking the veins on the shaft of the black marble dildo.
