by Ava March
“No,” Tristan said, as he reached for the pencil. One hand braced on the desk, holding the paper steady, and bent at the waist, he began writing.
“What would you like?”
“I’m not hungry at the moment.”
“What would you like?” Max repeated.
Tristan’s pencil paused midword. “Some eggs with toast would be appreciated.” The soft scratch of pencil on paper once again filled the study.
The click of the knob signaled the opening of the door. Max dragged his gaze from Tristan’s prone form, the sight of which was putting wicked thoughts into his head, and looked to his driver. Morgan did not say a word. He merely shut the door behind him and waited for instruction from Max. With slightly overlong midnight-black hair and a few years older than Max, the man was on a similar scale to the guards at Rubicon’s—well over six feet tall and broad with a frame that screamed the ability to dispense with a good half dozen men with no effort at all. An ability that had once helped Max out of an unfortunate situation, and it had led to Morgan’s employment with the dukedom. That had been a good six years ago, and Max still credited it as one of the best decisions he had ever made.
“Have the grooms finish readying the traveling carriage,” Max said. “I need you to hitch a team of two to the older town carriage. We have an errand to see to and I do not wish to be conspicuous.”
It was yet another errand he needed Morgan’s assistance with. Earlier that morning, he’d had Morgan deliver the bank draft to Rubicon. While he paid his servants very well and had their loyalty in return, his ever-useful driver was the only servant he trusted to ensure such tasks would not spread throughout his home.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And have the kitchen deliver a plate of eggs with toast to Mr. Walsh’s bedchamber.”
Morgan nodded then left.
Tristan folded the paper twice and held it out to Max. “Hopefully it’s early enough so word of my departure hasn’t got round the entire house and no one has pilfered my room yet. You’ll need to take a few bags to hold everything, and you’ll find my money wrapped in a pair of smallclothes tucked under the mattress.”
Under the mattress? Somehow that did not surprise him. Getting to his feet, Max took the note and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll have my valet meet you in your bedchamber.”
“Thank you, Max.”
“You can thank me later tonight.” With a shake of his head, he rounded his desk. “Be prepared to depart within the hour. We are leaving as soon as I return from that house.”
* * *
Max dropped the two valises he’d brought with him onto the narrow bed.
You’ll need to take a few bags to hold everything.
Few had been a severe understatement.
“Tristan likes to visit his tailor,” Charles, the man who had shown Max up to the tiny room in the garret, said from the open doorway.
“Obviously.” The room did not have a closet. Instead, there were hooks along the two walls that were not taken up with the bed and the door. On every hook but one hung a coat. From black to light brown to deep navy to olive-green. Every shade a man could possibly want for a coat. Beneath those hooks were neat rows of shoes and boots and tidy piles of folded trousers and breeches and waistcoats which spanned most every color.
The only furniture in addition to the bed was a washstand and a chest of drawers, small and old, the three drawer fronts scratched from years of use. The surface was likely scratched as well, though Max could not verify that as there were piles of folded white shirts on the top.
It was a wonder Tristan even had eight pounds to his name.
“I’m going to need your assistance getting all of—” Max waved a hand to the wardrobe that surpassed his own, “—this down to the carriage.”
Getting it to Arrington Park would be another feat in and of itself. He kept a wardrobe at both of his main residences, and therefore did not need to travel with more than a small trunk. Tristan’s, however, would take far more than a small one. Hopefully, he had enough trunks stored in the garret of the town house to hold it all. And hell, if those trunks didn’t fit on the boot of the traveling carriage, he’d have to have another carriage follow them to the country.
There was nothing to be done for it, though. He’d given Tristan his word he would fetch his clothes. Oh, and his eight pounds, three pence stashed under the mattress.
Fortunately, the bedchamber he would install Tristan in at Arrington Park had a large dressing room.
Letting out a sigh, Max opened one of the valises and began packing.
A good half hour later and his pocket three pounds lighter found Max squeezing into the only available space left on the leather bench of his carriage.
As Morgan guided the team of two out of the back alley, Max ran his fingers over a waistcoat on the top of the pile next to his hip. The cream-colored silk was of the finest quality, as was the stitching. Tristan had spared no expense on his wardrobe. His tailor had to have been one of the best in London. It made Max wonder if his gambling debts had been somehow related. If Tristan had gambled in an effort to win enough money to provide such a wardrobe. Yet Tristan did not move about in Society. He wouldn’t have need for such an extensive wardrobe.
The carriage rounded a corner. Max shot out a hand to stop the pile of trousers on the opposite bench from tumbling over.
At least none of the servants at the Park or his neighbors there would find need to question Tristan’s status as his houseguest. He would certainly appear as if he was merely a young gentleman from London, the type who a man of Max’s social status would call friend.
Max looked out the window. The sun was high in the sky. Had to be after eleven. No way would they make it to Arrington Park before nightfall. Ah well. So they would arrive late. A stop at an inn along the way was not an option. He wanted Tristan in his bed tonight, not a rented one.
As the carriage made its way back to the town house, thoughts of the coming night swirled in his head. Not just one night, though. But nights, plural. Nights filled with lust and pleasure and Tristan. He checked the shops they passed, noted their exact position along Bond Street. Good. They hadn’t passed it yet.
Max rapped once on the ceiling and instructed Morgan to take a left on the next side street.
He had disposed of all physical reminders of Jonathan when the man had betrayed him. Had suppressed those desires, those needs. Yet now that he would have Tristan in his bed, and now he knew Tristan was open to such play, he would no longer need to suppress those particular desires. If he wanted to indulge in them, he could. Though if he was bluntly honest with himself, he’d admit there was a tinge of...nervousness, perhaps, that bumped the back of his mind. It was one thing to mention the possibility to Tristan, quite another to open that side of himself, to trust another again with those desires. But...he and Tristan would be at the Park for months. Far be it for Max not to arrive prepared.
As the carriage came upon a shop with the words For the Discriminating Gentleman painted above the door, Max rapped once more on the ceiling. “Stop here.”
Chapter Eight
It took considerable effort for Tristan to hold back the sigh as he turned his attention from the view of the sun setting over a grassy hill. All through the afternoon and into the evening, farm fields, pastures scattered with livestock, groupings of trees and the occasional village passed outside the carriage window. All the while Max had continued to work—a traveling writing desk on his lap, head bowed and his pencil scratching across paper.
Tristan picked up the day’s Times from beside his hip, flipped through the newspaper then put it back down. He’d already read it once. Had read it very slowly, savoring the distraction every article and advertisement had provided. If he ever traveled with Max again, he would bring a stack of books with him.
The man made for a poor traveling companion.
Not that Tristan would or should complain. Max had said he was a very busy man, and he had not been exaggerating. Tristan had agreed to Max’s terms, and it would not be well done at all of him to start taking issue with one of those terms when the sun had yet to fully set on the first day of their arrangement.
He was now a kept man. The girls at Rubicon’s always had that prospect dangling as a possibility. But in the two years he had been at Rubicon’s, no male employee had ever left the house under such an offer. It simply wasn’t done.
It wasn’t done to engage in fisticuffs with another client and purchase the release of an employee either, but it hadn’t stopped Max from doing exactly that. So in a way, Tristan shouldn’t have been so shocked when Max had presented him with the opportunity to work exclusively for him.
Max’s terms had been generous, and that was putting it lightly. Within a few months, Tristan would have a small fortune saved. And he was determined to save it and not spend it as he had his earnings from Rubicon’s. Being faced with no opportunities and only a few pounds to live upon had been a harsh jolt to the need to think of his future. With his gambling debts now completely settled, he no longer had that poor decision hanging over his head. He could start anew, and he was doing it thanks to Max.
If the only drawback of their arrangement was to be an exceedingly boring carriage ride with his new employer, then he’d eagerly accept it.
Though it would be nice if there wasn’t money between them. If they could just be together. Just follow the scorching attraction and see where it would lead them. But that would never happen. In the ordinary course of things, a man of Max’s station would not assume a friendship with someone like Tristan. It wasn’t as if Tristan’s family was from the stews. His mother’s father had been a gentleman from an old family, albeit a poor one. But his father and his father’s family were mere farmers, and not of the gentleman-farmer variety. Above the differences in their families, Max was a duke and Tristan a prostitute. All right, so he could now change his occupation from prostitute to kept man. Still, it did not change the fact Max spent his days behind a desk whereas Tristan spent his nights working on his knees.
But Max wanted him enough to only want to be with him. That was what mattered. And when Max ended their arrangement, as he eventually would, Tristan would at least have enough money saved to not fret about where he would next call home.
Tristan turned his attention back out the open window. Yet another wide expanse of green grass dotted by the occasional tree. A warm evening breeze slid across his exposed nape, ruffling his hair. Reaching up, he passed a hand over the back of his head.
“Does it feel odd to have it short again?”
Tristan gave a small start. He hadn’t heard Max speak since they’d stopped to last change horses at a posting inn and grab a quick bite to eat. Had to have been almost two hours ago.
The deep amber rays of the setting sun played across Max’s profile. The man might appear stern, bordering on displeased, but Tristan had decided it was simply a product of Max’s strong features. When Max was truly displeased a V formed between his brows and the edges of his firm mouth went tight. Like they had done last night, quite a few times. Now though, Max was merely asking a question.
“Yes, but in a good way. I abhorred having long hair.” Unlike Max, his features were far from strong. Feminine would be a more apt description, and the long hair had only served to make it worse. “Your valet, and you, have my thanks.”
“There’s no need for the thanks, at least not extended to me. It’s your hair to do with as you please.”
Max rapped once on the ceiling. Tristan heard the soft glide of wood as the driver slid the small panel open above Tristan’s spot on the bench.
“Morgan, please stop for a moment. I need the lamp lit.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Even the setting sun could not pull Max from his work. The carriage obediently slowed to a stop along the country road so the footman could light the brass lamp hanging on a hook near Max’s spot on the bench.
“Is there anything else you need, Your Grace?” the footman asked.
“Have Morgan stop at the next posting inn. Should be one in a mile or so. If the horses are changed now we can reach the Park before eleven.”
A nod, and the footman closed the door. With a jangle of harness, the team of six slipped back into a smart trot. Max bowed his head, pencil in hand and poised over the letter on his writing desk. But the soft scratch of pencil on paper did not fill the carriage.
Max looked up, met Tristan’s gaze. “Have you ever had a client that went by the name Rawling?”
“I don’t recall the name.”
“How about Anthony? Tall, though not quite as tall as I. Sandy-blond hair. A young man with a tendency to be a pain in the arse.”
Tristan shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s a friend. He’s the one who gave me the shove to visit the house,” Max said, proving Tristan’s assumption correct. Max had not been familiar with the way of things at Rubicon’s because Tristan’s first appointment with him had been Max’s first visit to the house.
“Oh. Well, I don’t recall meeting him.”
His dark eyebrows pulled together. “Are you lying to me?”
Tamping down the irritation, Tristan replied, “No. I honestly don’t recall the man. The house caters to a variety of clients. I didn’t usually remember one over another.” They had all blended together, their individuality blunted to nothingness. Their only distinguishing trait the one they all held in common—their desire to use him for a handful of hours. “Except for you, of course.”
“Of course,” Max said, face blank.
“No, truthfully. You left a definite impression.” Tristan added a smile, hoping it would help convince Max he spoke the truth. “You aren’t the sort of man one could easily forget.” Or want to forget.
Max gave him a shake of the head, but it was of the bemused sort. He turned his attention back to his letter and the scratch of pencil on paper once again blended with the rhythmic clomp of hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels on dirt.
They changed horses at the next posting inn. Max didn’t make a move to exit the carriage so Tristan followed his lead and stayed put as grooms bustled about them, unhitching the horses from the traces and putting a fresh team in place. Then they were back on the road, darkness blanketing the mundane countryside outside the window, the lanterns on the front of the carriage providing enough light for the driver to guide the team.
Resting his head against the wall behind him, Tristan finally gave in to the boredom and the soft sway of the carriage and let his eyes drift closed.
“Tristan.”
A hand clasped his knee, gave it a squeeze.
“Yes?”
“We’ve arrived. Up with you now.”
“All right,” Tristan replied, failing to hold back the yawn. He rubbed his eyes then gave his shoulders a roll.
The carriage stopped. The footman hopped off the driver’s bench and opened the door. Tristan followed Max out of the carriage and did his best not to gape in awe as they went up the broad stone steps. The moonlight outlined a massive manor house, the roofline scattered with chimneys. Two large brass lanterns flanked the open front door. Tristan glanced behind him. A handful of servants were already congregated around the back of the carriage, pulling Tristan’s trunks from the boot.
He resisted the urge to check the knot of his cravat. Instead, he lifted his chin, as if he had every right to be at such a house, and stayed close to Max’s heels as they crossed the threshold.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The slim, proper butler’s voice echoed off the high ceiling of the immense entrance hall. White-and-black marble squares covered the floor, every surface clea
ned to a high polish. Even the crystal on the chandelier above twinkled from the candlelight within. “The east guest bedchamber has been readied for Mr. Walsh, and your trunks will be in your rooms shortly.”
A tip of Max’s head, a handoff of his leather bag to his butler, and Max proceeded across the hall toward the grand staircase.
“How did he know I was accompanying you?” Tristan asked, voice low, once they had rounded the corner at the top of the stairs.
“Before we left London, I sent a footman ahead with a note.”
Passing closed door after closed door, they went down a corridor that was marked at the end by two imposing double doors. Max’s rooms, perhaps?
Max stopped at the last door on the right and turned the knob. “These rooms are yours for the duration of your stay.” He took but two steps into a tidy sitting room and motioned to an open door on the left. “Bedchamber’s in there. I am hopeful the dressing room will be large enough to accommodate your wardrobe. The Park keeps country hours though you needn’t feel compelled to rise early. The kitchen will see to breakfast whenever you wish it.”
Tristan opened his mouth, about to ask Max how they would manage the logistics of the your company at night portion of their arrangement, when a footman entered bearing a trunk.
He received only a terse good-evening from Max before the man turned on his heel. A quick sidestep to avoid colliding with another footman entering the room, and Max was out the door.
Tristan blinked. Based on Max’s stiff demeanor, he wouldn’t be surprised if the servants wondered if he and Max were even acquaintances.
Rather than stand in the sitting room all night like a dumbfounded fool, he followed the next footman bearing a trunk into the bedchamber. As at the town house, the large bed had been turned down for the night, a fire already started in the hearth, and the drapes drawn. The room fit with the scale of the rest of the house—spacious and large with high ceilings and three windows which likely looked out onto the back garden.
A maid materialized at his elbow. “Would you like me to see to your trunks tonight, Mr. Walsh? Or shall I wait until morning?”
