by Ava March
Jonathan went still. Max swore even his chest went still. There had been no doubt in his mind that Jonathan had been behind the letter. But if he’d had even a smidge of a doubt, it was now gone.
He’d once fantasized about binding a man with ropes, with leather. Dark lines crossing pale skin. But only with Jonathan had he indulged that fantasy, and many more. He had trusted Jonathan with his most wicked desires, and in return, the man had betrayed him in the worse possible manner. Used his trust against him, as a weapon to gain access to his fortune.
To think he had once thought himself in love with this man. Had drunk himself into a stupor the night Jonathan had walked out his door. Yet all Jonathan cared about was his bank account. He hadn’t truly wanted Max at all. It had taken a good year together, but Jonathan had finally revealed himself for the greedy bastard he was.
“If word ever gets out about my preferences, you will find yourself at the bottom of the Thames.” With determined, measured strides, Max closed the distance separating them. Jonathan backed up a step. Then two, stopping when his arse bumped into an armchair. Using his greater height and broader frame to his full advantage, Max glared at him. “Do not think to send another to spread the gossip for you. Do not think you can hide. I will have you found, just as I had you found tonight, and the fish will make a feast of your body. Lest you have forgotten,” he said, throwing Jonathan’s words back at him, “I am the Duke of Pelham. I have enough power and wealth to make you disappear, and no one would be the wiser.”
Jonathan’s pale throat worked as he swallowed. Then he lifted his chin. “What if word gets out and it’s not due to me?”
“It matters not who does the deed. You will pay for it with your life. So you best pray to the good Lord above that my reputation remains untouched by such a scandal.”
Satisfied Jonathan understood the ramifications if he ever dared to speak one ill word against him, Max turned on his heel, left his ex-lover ashen-faced and hands trembling at his sides.
Within a short handful of minutes, Max was pulling the carriage door shut. A snap of leather lines, and the carriage moved forward.
By God, but Jonathan had had him wrapped around his finger. To a humiliating, embarrassing degree. Thank heaven Max had never been so blinded as to open his bank account to him. If he’d had, then Jonathan would no doubt still be living at Arrington Park, tolerating Max’s attentions by night so he could spend Max’s money by daylight. As it was, they’d been together for a good year.
Fool. He had been a goddamn fool.
A tumult of rage and anger and hurt roiled up within him, clogging his throat, building stronger and stronger. Until he couldn’t contain it a moment longer.
“Bloody fucking bastard!” He slammed his fist into the leather bench at his hip.
The heavy impact jolted the carriage, throwing the horses briefly off stride.
Dropping his head into his hands, he forced a long breath. Then another. Focused on keeping his breaths deep and even, until his pulse began to settle. Until the riotous mass gave way to a blanket of numb exhaustion.
Letting out another long exhale, he leaned back against the bench. Droplets of rain slid down the window, blurring the darkened buildings that slipped by as the team of two took him swiftly back to his Mayfair town house. The errand that had brought him to London was now taken care of. Tomorrow, he’d return to Hampshire, to his country estate, and turn his mind back to the business of running the dukedom. Long days and lonely nights, an exact replica of the past four weeks.
Pain began to wrap around his chest, squeezing tight. With a forcible mental shove, he pushed it back down. Jonathan had been such an excellent lover. Discreet outside of the bedchamber and from a decent family, albeit not a wealthy one...though that had actually been to their advantage. Their friendship, and Jonathan’s status as his houseguest, had raised no eyebrows, at least none Max had been aware of. Yet behind closed doors, the man had been the very image of submission. Compliant and willing to bend to Max’s every desire. Always eager for more, always ready to drop to his knees. Pledging his devotion with his every hoarse, whispered plea for more. Hell, the lying bastard had even told Max he loved him.
Jonathan had been everything he had ever wanted. Had ever dreamed of. Had ever yearned for. And therein had been Max’s downfall.
No. Not his downfall. The situation was now resolved. The threat obliterated. The lesson learned. And never again would he allow a handsome face and a prettily bowed head to blind him to a man’s true intentions.
Chapter One
August 1822
London, England
Max gave his coat a tug to straighten it and made his way across the yard. The stench of the Thames hung in the warm, August night air. Almost as distasteful as having to sit through Matherson’s speech. Six hours. By God, the man could drone on like no other. But Max need only endure a few more days of sitting through his peers and their droning, and he could return to Hampshire. Well, he hoped only a few more days, but if the session didn’t close for the summer by mid next week, he’d depart for the country anyway. He had responsibilities to tend to at his estate, responsibilities that would not tend to themselves.
The click of footsteps approached on the stone walkway. He sensed someone fall into step beside him a moment before an elbow nudged his arm.
“Do the fine members of our esteemed House of Lords a favor and find a nice bit to swive tonight.”
Max didn’t need to glance to his left to know who walked beside him. Anthony Hawkins, Viscount Rawling, the only man who had the ballocks to say such a thing to him. “I’m not in need of a nice bit.”
“You may not need one, but it would do your disposition a world of good. You gave new meaning to the term glowering today.”
“I was not glowering.” He’d been frustrated at having to sit through six hours of nonsense when he could have been tending to business. There was a distinct difference.
“Must have escaped your notice that not one man spoke directly to you. That wasn’t reverence toward the mighty Duke of Pelham. That was self-preservation.”
“Of which you have none?”
Rawling tipped his head. “Correct.”
The arrogance of youth. Well, Rawling wasn’t all that young—three-and-twenty, the same age as Max—but Rawling’s uncertainty when it came to business affairs, in addition to a clear lack of any sense of self-preservation, made him seem much younger than himself. Hell, most everyone seemed much younger than himself.
“And I know just the place to remedy that glower.”
A glance over his shoulder confirmed they were relatively alone, their other peers likely still where Max had left them—posturing and debating the merits of the day’s speeches in Westminster’s corridors. “I am not visiting a brothel.” The last thing he needed was another man who was only interested in pilfering his bank account. He’d learned that lesson once, and a painful and disappointing one it had been, and he would not tolerate a repeat. In any case, he highly doubted any house of ill repute recommended by Rawling would have something that would interest him.
Dragging a hand through his sandy-blond hair, Rawling moved a bit closer, his broad shoulder brushing Max’s. “Have you ever?”
The conversation had turned much too personal. While he considered Rawling a friend, one of the few men he could label as such—well, the only—the man was not that close of a friend. Just because they had received their Writ of Summons and taken their seats in the House of Lords the same year, and occasionally met at White’s for dinner when Max was in Town, did not entitle Rawling to ask such questions. “It is none of your concern.”
“I’ll take that as a no. You should consider it, though. A night of debauchery puts a smile on a man’s face like nothing else. Rubicon’s. The house with the twin red doors on Curzon Street. It has something f
or everyone. Everyone,” he reiterated, “no matter your tastes. Trust me. All you need to do is ask.”
“Which I most certainly am not going to do.” How could Rawling be so certain the house could cater to any client’s tastes? And why had he felt the need to emphasize that particular point? Max paused when he reached St. Margaret Street and looked up and down the lamp-lit street. Where the hell was his carriage?
“It’s been that long, has it?” Rawling asked, lowering his voice and slanting Max a glance, one that was far too perceptive.
He refused to justify that question with an answer.
Rawling must have realized he’d crossed the line of their friendship, for he merely shrugged. “Care to stop by White’s for a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Of course. Why did I even ask?”
“Because you are fond of the word no.”
He spotted his carriage down a bit along the street, tucked behind another team of four, and took a step then stopped at the hand on his forearm. He looked over his shoulder to Rawling. The teasing levity was gone from the man’s expression.
“Just consider it, all right?”
He knew his friend wasn’t referring to the drink at White’s. Max shook his head. “But thank you for the concern,” he added, without a trace of sarcasm.
Rawling tipped his head, his hand slipping from Max’s forearm. Max bid him good evening and made his way down the street.
But before the carriage reached Whitehall, he rapped on the ceiling and gave his driver a change in direction.
* * *
“Good evening, sir.” The petite blonde took a step closer, close enough so he could make out the faint freckles sprinkled across her checks. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The emphasis she placed on the word help indicated she wasn’t offering up her services to polish the candlesticks in his silver cabinet. Rather, her services likely involved polishing something on his person.
Rawling had said all he needed to do was ask, but he sure as hell was not going to ask for what he wanted here. A quick glance when he’d entered the elegant room confirmed there was no one present he was acquainted with. Still, a good half dozen gentlemen occupied the space, a few playing cards at a table in the corner, others seated on scarlet velvet settees scattered along the walls. In addition, there were a handful of what he assumed were the house’s female employees, all clad in fine silk gowns that emphasized the lush curves of their bodies. Bodies deliberately positioned quite close to the gentlemen. Small hands brushing male chests, rouged lips whispering in ears. Negotiations in process. He was not taken aback at the lack of male employees—if the house indeed had such a thing—lounging about the receiving room, waiting for their next client. Sodomy was against the law, after all. Hence the need to ask.
“Perhaps there is something you can help me with. Is there someplace more private where we can have a discussion?”
A smile spread across her face, her eyes alighting with triumph. “Right this way, sir.”
He followed her up a staircase to the second floor of the house. She might believe she had found herself her next client, but he’d soon prove her wrong. Perhaps he should instead inquire with the madam of the house? But the girl worked there. Surely she was accustomed to fielding requests, even requests that necessitated a different employee. And Rawling hadn’t told him to ask Madame Rubicon. Merely to ask.
She pushed open the third door along the corridor, a door that had been a nudge from being fully closed. With a muted click, she closed the door behind him. Hands clasped before her and with that smile still on her lips, she turned to face him. “What can I help you with this evening?”
“I would like the services of a man. Can the house fulfill my request?”
Her coy smile shifted to one with a shade of disappointment. She tipped her head, ever gracious in her defeat. “But of course. Rubicon’s prides itself on being able to fulfill clients’ wishes, whatever they may be. If you would but give me a moment, I will see to your request. There is brandy and whisky if you care to partake while you wait.” She indicated the crystal decanters on a console table along the wall. A half curtsy and she slipped out of the room, leaving him alone.
He poured himself a healthy splash of whisky and took a long swallow. The room was well appointed. Plush rugs covering the floorboards, a brown leather couch before the marble hearth, a large bed with a navy silk coverlet and pillows neatly arranged against the walnut headboard, and a tall chest of drawers that he doubted contained such mundane articles as smallclothes and woolen socks.
His shoulders slumped.
He had stooped to the level of a whorehouse.
No. He shouldn’t consider it thus. Here, he would find complete honesty, at least on one point. And that point was what mattered most. Hence he would not allow himself to feel the slightest bit stooped for utilizing the services the house offered.
Bringing his glass to his lips, he took another long swallow. Rawling had been correct, not that he would ever admit it to the man. It had indeed been that long. Ten months. Yet it hadn’t felt like ten months until he had settled on the bench of his carriage, Rawling’s not-so-subtle nudge fresh in his mind. The snap as the footman had shut the door had sounded hollow and empty, just like the past ten months.
Odd how time had slipped by. His days spent at his desk, his mind exactly where it should be—firmly focused on the myriad responsibilities that came part and parcel with managing a complex dukedom. His nights... Hell, truth be told, he was damned tired of his hand for companionship.
After draining the last of the whisky, he set the glass on the spindle-legged table beside the couch and removed his coat. Might as well make himself comfortable while he waited. He folded his coat over the back of a wooden chair along the wall then sat on the couch. He’d been a bit hasty to dismiss Rawling’s nudge so quickly. In fact, his reason for dismissing the notion was actually what made it the ideal solution. Well, perhaps not ideal, but a solution nonetheless. Tonight, he wanted a man and he would pay for one. Simple and neat. The concern gone, the risk wiped away. No subterfuge, no ulterior motives. No threat his own desires would be used against him. And most importantly, no need to worry the man was only after his bank account because it would indeed be an open fact acknowledged and accepted by both of them.
Frankly, he was disappointed in himself for not having thought of the solution months ago.
There was the metallic click of a knob turning. Max looked to the door.
A man entered the room. He was clad in a pale pink silk embroidered waistcoat, expertly tailored navy coat, matching dark trousers, and with an intricately knotted cravat beneath his jaw. It wasn’t the elegant evening attire that took Max aback. Given the gowns on the girls in the receiving room, it made sense the house’s male employees would be similarly attired. He’d also expected the man who walked into this room to be on par with those girls—designed for pleasure and willing to bend to a client’s every desire. In essence, he’d expected a very accommodating, very handsome man.
What he hadn’t expected was for the man to be beautiful.
And not just simply beautiful. But exquisitely beautiful. Enticingly beautiful. Large green-gold eyes and lush yet fine features framed by shoulder-length ginger-blond hair that had just enough wave to keep it from perfectly straight. High, prominent cheekbones, a full mouth that begged for a kiss, that begged to be wrapped around Max’s cock. He appeared to be of average height for a man, around five feet seven inches, yet that was the only similarity between his frame and the average fellow. Lithe, graceful and lean, with enough substance to his shoulders to keep him from approaching frail.
Until that moment, Max would have never believed he would find such a man appealing. His tastes ran toward solid muscles and strong bodies, not toward those who nudged against feminin
e. And the shock over his immediate and very visceral reaction to the man clashed with the arousal pooling in his groin.
Reaching behind him, the man shut the door. “Good evening, sir. I am Tristan.”
His voice didn’t match what Max would have expected either. There was no waifish lisp, like one of those macaronis with their affected airs and velvet frock coats. Instead, his voice held the distinct note of the country. Of great expanses of green grass and practical farm fields.
“Would you care for another glass of brandy? Or do you prefer whisky?” he asked, with a wave of his hand toward Max’s empty glass.
Max shook his head. He swept his gaze over the man again, searching for the source of the lust drumming through his veins, heating his skin. He wanted to bend Tristan over the arm of the couch, hear him beg for Max’s cock. Tease and torment him until he pleaded with Max to be allowed his release. Strip every piece of clothing from that lean, lithe body... His brow furrowed. “What is your age?”
“What age would you like me to be?” The reply flowed off his tongue, like one he had given countless times before.
“Don’t play games with me. I asked you a question. I expect an honest answer.”
Unruffled by the harsh tone, Tristan said, in that same easy way, “One-and-twenty.”
A growl rumbled Max’s throat. “Do not lie to me.”
Tristan bristled, his gorgeous mouth thinning, his eyes narrowing. “I am not lying. I was born on September twenty-third, 1800. I may not appear to be one-and-twenty, but it is the truth.”
