by Ava March
In the harsh light of day, a calmer, more practical head prevailed. It wasn’t as if he had never had a cruel client before. Unpleasant, but they did not leave permanent marks. He should have told Max he did not need his protection, even if the notion of someone wanting him desperately enough to want to protect him from Rubicon and unruly clients had tugged at his very soul. But he had shook his head when Max had asked if he wanted to stay at the house. Had allowed Max to bring him to the man’s own home. And now, he was without a position, without a place to call home, and indebted to Max for twenty-five hundred pounds, an even larger sum than he had owed Rubicon.
After doing up the buttons on his coat, he slipped on the shoes. A bit large, but they would do until he could fetch his own.
How he would repay Max, what he would do with himself next...he hadn’t a notion. If he begged and pleaded, threw himself at her feet, Rubicon would take him back. He was damned good at his job, never complained and had proven himself to be a reliable employee. But now that he knew what life was like there, he wasn’t of a mind to willingly subject himself to that again. It might be the best position the City had to offer him, but it wasn’t a position he had any desire to return to. And he certainly did not want to go back to collecting rubbish at Vauxhall Gardens or sucking off strange men along the Gardens’ darkened walks. Decent, well-paying positions required skills and letters of recommendation and connections he did not possess.
He could return to Yorkshire, to his childhood home.
No. Definitely not Yorkshire.
That he would even consider the notion screamed desperation. His father and elder brothers had been glad to be rid of him. He wasn’t suited to life on the farm. They knew that. He knew that. He did not belong there. If his father had not once admitted Tristan resembled his fraternal grandmother, he would not have believed he held a blood tie to the man. And the thought of having to endure more of his brothers’ spite and ridicule...
He could still taste the dry dirt in his mouth, feel the burn from the scrapes on his palms, the impotent frustration mixed with acute humiliation. Could still hear the memory of Daniel’s mocking laughter. You like being on your knees, don’t you, Tris?
A cringe squeezed his eyes closed.
And his father had stood silently by, allowed his two strapping sons to torment and tease, to shove and bully, his youngest.
With a shake of his head, Tristan shoved those memories aside. He wasn’t an adolescent anymore, and he would never go back to Yorkshire.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the short length of string and then tied his hair back in a queue at his nape. Maybe Max expected him to work off his debt in bed. There was that possibility, and he honestly liked being with him. Max was controlling yet infinitely generous in the bedchamber, a combination Tristan would not have believed possible. Staying on with Max would not be a hardship in the slightest. Maybe that was what Max had meant by the duration of your stay. But once the debt was settled, what would he do with himself?
He let out a sigh.
First though, he needed to locate Max, extend his sincere thanks for last night. Max did not strike him as the sort of fellow to laze about in bed. Given it was midmorning, he doubted he would find him in his bedchamber. Even if Max did enjoy a good lie-in, Tristan couldn’t very well knock on his door at this time of day. The need for discretion and all.
He found a footman clad in navy livery stationed near the top of the stairs. “Good morning.”
Before he could ask after Max’s whereabouts, the footman spoke. “Good morning, Mr. Walsh. His Grace requested you be informed he is in the study.”
Somehow he kept the shock from showing itself.
Max was a duke?
If the notion of them being together in any real fashion had brushed against his mind, it was now gone.
No wonder the man had bristled with furious indignation when Rubicon had refused his initial declaration of taking Tristan away. A duke would be accustomed to having his wishes heeded and never contradicted. The commanding presence, the rock-solid confidence that seeped from Max’s very pores, the massive town house and the sleek black carriage with the perfectly matched team of four...it all made perfect sense now.
Tristan glanced about him, to the spacious corridor and the broad staircase, its banisters gleaming from diligent care. The study would be on the first floor in such a house. Or would it?
As if sensing Tristan’s thoughts, the footman added, ever helpful, “Down the stairs, the door to the right of the entrance hall.”
Chapter Seven
A knock sounded on the study door. A shade hesitant and definitely not the light tap of a servant.
Max set aside the letter to one of his estate managers and put his pen back into its silver holder beside the inkwell. “Enter.” He flexed his hand, trying to work out the lingering stiffness in his knuckles from last night. The bastard had had a hard head.
The door opened and Tristan slipped inside.
“Close it. Please.”
A nod from Tristan. The elegantly dressed young gentleman was back, the disheveled and tense one gone. He had pulled his hair back, the long length no longer framing his face, the line between masculine and feminine not quite as blurred. He would appear perfectly at home in the finest drawing rooms in London.
“Have a seat.”
Tristan sat in one of the chairs opposite Max’s desk and clasped his hands on his lap. “You have my sincere thanks, Your Grace, and my apologies for my petulant behavior last night.”
So Tristan had discovered he was a duke. It was bound to happen once he brought him to the town house. Yet hearing the address from Tristan felt...off. Not because his title did not feel like his own—it had been years since he’d had to fight the impulse to look over his shoulder for his father whenever he was addressed as Your Grace—but more because he’d been Max to Tristan up until now, and he preferred it to stay that way.
“When it is just the two of us, there is no need for the address. Max will do just fine. And there is no need to apologize. It was an...unusual evening, for both of us.” And Max had a lovely bruise on his rib cage to show for it.
Tristan shifted, a small little wriggle. “That is one way of putting it.”
“I will have you know you should not consider yourself at all responsible for the bargain I made with Rubicon. I made the decision, I decided on the sum. Therefore, the debt is mine and mine alone.”
Tristan blinked. “But—”
Max shook his head, unwilling to debate the point. “The bank draft has already been delivered. The deal has been completed. And this is the last we will discuss it.” He wanted Tristan free to make his own choices, and not feel a sense of obligation from a debt Max knew Tristan had no ready means of repaying.
Tristan lifted his chin. “They were my gambling debts. I incurred them.”
“They no longer exist.”
A wrinkle marred Tristan’s brow. He looked down, to his clasped hands. A sigh expanded his chest. “All right.” Green-gold eyes met Max’s again. “Thank you, Max. Truly.”
Max tipped his head, accepting the thanks. While the bank draft would not make a dent in his fortune, he was not one to spend frivolously. Then again, last night’s expense had been far from frivolous. The expense he was about to propose... Some might deem it frivolous. It wasn’t something he needed, like a roof over his head or clothes on his back. More something he wanted. Very much.
The idea had come to him as he was reviewing the household accounts, making certain everything was in order before he departed for Hampshire. Visiting Rubicon’s had been far from an ideal solution to his solitary orgasms. It would be months before he planned to be in Town again. Months before he could have seen Tristan again. Months of sleeping alone. And last night he had discovered he really did not care for the n
otion of sharing Tristan with anyone. Brothels were simply not for him. In any case, Tristan would no longer be at Rubicon’s. Max had ensured that himself. Even if he still wanted to visit Tristan there, it was not an option anymore. When he returned from Hampshire, would he be able to locate Tristan again? London was a large city, and for all he knew, Tristan could decide to leave Town as well. Would today be the last day he would ever see Tristan?
That question had not sat well at all.
He had rolled the idea about in his head while he’d waited for Tristan to awaken. Had pinpointed the risks, devised a means to counter them. The reminder he had given himself last night had not been pleasant, but it had been necessary and he could accept it. He felt confident he fully understood the entirety of the proposition he planned to propose.
All in all, a perfect solution.
He could only hope Tristan would be amenable to the idea.
“I have enjoyed spending time with you, and I think we rub along well together.”
Tristan’s lips twitched. “Yes, we rub together quite well.”
A chuckle reluctantly tickled Max’s throat. Not the best phrase for him to have used. He needed to remain focused on the discussion at hand, keep his mind uncluttered by thoughts of Tristan pliant beneath him, clutching him tightly, those whispered pleas for more. Pleas he wanted to hear again and again.
He tapped the edge of the letter to one of his estate managers, straightening it on his desk. “I spend the majority of my time at Arrington Park, the family seat in Hampshire. Only come to London when business demands it, or for Parliament. Even then, I only attend when a piece of legislation is of particular importance, or for the opening and closing of a session.” Everything else related to his responsibilities in the Lords was easily manageable via the post, including proxy votes. “The session closed yesterday. I am departing for Hampshire this morning.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment on Tristan’s face quelled the tiny tingle of—had that been nervousness? No, certainly not.
“I have a proposition for you, one you are free to decline, if you so choose.”
That got Tristan’s attention.
“I would like for you to come to the country with me. You would have a bedchamber of your own, all your expenses would come to me to settle. I will put it about that you are merely a friend from London. Gentlemen pay each other visits in the country, after all. I had a friend stay at the Park for an extended period, and it raised no eyebrows. Your stay would be of similar unimportance to the neighborhood. I spend a great deal of time tending to business, therefore the days would be yours to do with as you please. In return, I would expect your company at night, your discretion and your loyalty. I would compensate you for your time, of course. Meals, lodging, expenses paid and two hundred pounds a month. If and when the arrangement proves unsatisfactory, either of us can end it at any time. There is one last thing.” One point that would ensure he’d never again find himself clutching an empty bottle of gin. “I am a very busy man. A dukedom does not run itself. I do not have time for finer sentiments nor do I want them. What I am proposing is an arrangement that can be mutually advantageous, and mutually pleasurable, for both of us.”
“So...you are offering to keep me?” Tristan asked, and not without an obvious measure of disbelief.
“Keep?”
“Similar to a mistress, but I would live with you.”
Max nodded. That about summed it up. All the benefits of a lover without the associated risks. “Yes.”
Head tilted slightly to one side, Tristan pursed his lips. He was giving the proposition some thought. That was a good thing, Max reassured himself. He did not want Tristan to agree until he had fully considered the offer.
“May I cut my hair?”
Of all the questions Tristan could have asked, Max had not expected that one. “Of course.”
A bit of the tension broke from Tristan’s shoulders.
“But if you don’t care for it, why did you grow it so long?” Max could not help but ask.
“That was Rubicon’s choice.” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “Everyone in the house had an expertise of some sort. Shortly after I accepted her offer to work there, I discovered mine was to play the damsel in distress.” He flicked his fingers toward his head. “Made the guise more complete.”
The first night they had been together, Tristan had asked if Max wanted him to don a dress, play the damsel in distress. He hadn’t honestly believed Tristan had been serious. But apparently he had been.
Tristan’s gaze skittered toward one of the windows. He gave another little wriggle in his chair.
And Max’s hatred for that damn madam grew even stronger.
“My valet can cut it for you today, if you’d like.”
“Thank you.” Tristan’s mouth barely moved. His gaze met Max’s again, and he gave him a shrug. “It wasn’t my favorite...activity.”
“Understandable.”
“It wasn’t horrid or anything. It was just a game. Some found it titillating, but others struggled with their desires. When I donned a dress, they could almost fool themselves into believing I wasn’t a man. I felt bad for them, but... It was just...I prefer not to have to pretend to be something I’m not.”
“You don’t have to explain, Tristan. We all have our own likes and dislikes, our own preferences. I...” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I have a fondness for leather.”
His pulse suddenly raced through his veins. His heart beat a rapid tattoo against his ribs. Every sense focused on Tristan, he waited for his reaction.
Tristan’s tongue darted out, swiped across his bottom lip. Max swore he detected Tristan’s breaths quicken, his chest working quicker beneath his turquoise waistcoat. Hell and damnation, he could almost scent the man’s arousal.
“I surmised as such.”
Max couldn’t stop the smile from curving his mouth.
A little whimper, so faint Max barely heard it, rattled Tristan’s throat.
Then Tristan lifted his chin. “You said you required my loyalty. Would I have yours as well?”
“Yes.” If he had Tristan in his bed, he would have absolutely no reason or need at all to seek out another.
“Your proposition. Yes, I accept.”
Max was certain his smile turned into a damned grin, but he did not care in the slightest. “Brilliant.” He wanted to take Tristan upstairs, christen their agreement properly. Have the man beneath him once again. But the clock on his desk wouldn’t slow down simply to please him. They needed to be on their way shortly if they had any hope of arriving at Arrington Park before nightfall. “I’ll have my valet meet you in your room. He can see to your hair.”
“Thank you.” Tristan braced his hands on the arms of his chair as if to stand, but stopped. “I forgot to ask. I know you are a duke—figured it out when the footman told me His Grace is in the study—but I don’t know what you are the duke of. What is your full name?”
“Maxwell Robert Michael Arrington, Viscount Shelburne, the Earl of Hertford, and the ninth Duke of Pelham.”
Tristan’s eyebrows raised. “Impressive.”
He shrugged. “It’s a long name. I prefer Max, though I don’t get to hear it often.” Before Tristan, the last person to call him Max had been Jonathan. He cleared his throat then reached behind him to tug on the bellpull. Within a moment, a servant entered the study. “Alert Morgan to have the traveling carriage readied.” A nod, and the servant left to do his bidding. Max looked to Tristan. “We will depart for Hampshire within the half hour. And...”
Opening his desk drawer, Max took out the fold of pound notes he’d earlier taken from his safe in the hopes Tristan would agree. He paid his employees at the end of every period, whether it was monthly or quarterly depending on their terms. But at Rubicon’s, mon
ey matters had been handled up front, before services were rendered. A practice Tristan was likely accustomed to.
“For you,” Max said, holding out the notes.
A short pause then Tristan stood and shoved the money into his pocket. “I need to go to Rubicon’s to fetch my things before we leave.”
Like hell Tristan was returning to that house. “Unnecessary. Tell me what you left behind.”
“My clothes, a bit of money.”
“How much?”
Tristan’s mouth thinned then he rolled his eyes, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the argument. “Eight pounds, three pence. Not much but...”
“I will replace it.”
“No, Max, you’ve done enough as it is.”
“Nonsense. I am the one who would prefer you not to return to that house, therefore, I will replace what is now lost. I will have a tailor see to a new wardrobe once we reach Hampshire.”
“No. Those are my clothes, and I want them back. I will not leave London without them.” Tristan didn’t shout, he did not raise his voice. But the message came through as if he had.
Frustration rumbled Max’s throat. Of all the things to be a stubborn pain in the arse about...
But if it would get Tristan into the traveling carriage, then so be it.
“All right. But you are not going anywhere near that house. I will fetch them.” Before he could think twice on the decision, and before Tristan could argue further, he tugged the bellpull. The servant reappeared. “Tell Morgan I need to see him. Now.” He looked back to Tristan. “Satisfied?”
Tristan considered him for a moment then nodded. “Do you have a sheet of paper? I’ll need to write a note. Go to the back door, tell the maid to give it to Charles immediately. You’ll need to give her a few coins, but she’ll do it. Charles will take you up to my room.”
Max pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. He slid it and a pencil toward Tristan. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
