by Ava March
The press of a warm body behind him roused Tristan from sleep. He blinked open his eyes. The fire had burned down to mere embers, a faint golden glow in the hearth amongst the darkness of the room. Hours must have passed since he’d left Max in the study, but dawn had not yet arrived.
A hand coasted over his hip, lips pressed against his shoulder. Tristan turned within Max’s arms, seeking his mouth. Warm breath puffed across his cheek then Max’s lips found his. Max tasted not of gin or any other variety of spirits. With each brush of Max’s tongue against his, Tristan detected the slight bitterness of tea. The kiss was soft, slow, all gliding lips and gently tangling tongues.
Tristan leaned into Max. Instead of encountering a hard wall of immovable muscle, he felt Max yield to the pressure, roll onto his back, taking Tristan with him.
Their kiss still unbroken, Tristan settled between Max’s spread thighs, as if Max’s strong body had been made to be beneath his. The hot length of Max’s erection pressed against Tristan’s lower belly, the damp crown slicking Tristan’s skin. Max’s arms were looped over Tristan’s back, claiming nothing. There were no guiding hands pushing Tristan up onto his knees to straddle Max’s lap. No nudge for Tristan to scoot down and put his mouth to another use. There was only Max and his soft, gentle kisses.
The change in Max would not have been any clearer if the man had shouted. The demand was gone, and in its place was willing vulnerability.
Max might confuse him at times outside of the bedchamber, but within it, Tristan could read Max’s body, Max’s needs, as if they were his own.
His Max needed him in a different way that night.
A small shift more fully aligned their bodies. Tristan slowly thrust his hips, rubbing his erection along Max’s. Large hands clutched his back. A low groan, backed by a note of encouragement, reverberated from Max’s chest.
That was all the confirmation Tristan needed.
The kiss continued on, Tristan rubbing slowly against Max, his cock sliding along Max’s length, ramping up the need in both of them. Until the decadent friction had blood pounding fast and hard through Tristan’s veins. Until Max was tugging at Tristan, quickening the pace. Until the promise of what was to come, the promise of being buried hilt-deep inside Max, threatened to bring Tristan’s climax rushing upon him far too soon. Until Tristan was forced to break the kiss to reach into the bedside table drawer. And came up empty.
The reminder smacked him in the face. They weren’t in Max’s bedchamber, but in Tristan’s. He’d not had need to purchase oil of his own in years. Oh hell. He’d have to run over to Max’s bedchamber and—
“Next to the candlestick,” Max murmured.
Tristan’s hand closed around a familiar glass bottle. Had Max known what he wanted from Tristan when he stepped into this room? Had he been that deliberate? Or had it simply been a form of habit—whenever they were together in bed, oil was usually needed. Whatever had prompted Max to arrive prepared, Tristan was grateful for it.
After quickly slicking his fingers, he settled back between Max’s spread thighs, as if they had done this countless times before, and captured Max’s mouth again. Slipped his hand between them. Found the entrance to Max’s body. Swept his fingertips over the sensitive flesh in a tease of a request. A tremor shook Max. That low, encouraging groan once again reverberated from his broad chest.
Tristan pressed onward, pushed a digit inside. Careful and slow, he prepared Max for his cock. Gently stretched the tight muscle, coaxed Max to relax, to open for him. All the while, Tristan fought to keep the lust from completely yanking hold of him, forced his attention to remain wholly on Max. Followed the cues Max’s body gave him, ears attuned to the slightest variations in Max’s low moans. He detected not a trace of hesitation from Max, only desire and trust.
A trust that threatened to send Tristan’s mind reeling with the strength of it.
When those low moans began to turn desperate, when sheer want began pouring off Max, Tristan pulled his fingers free and finally pushed his cock inside Max.
Exquisitely tight heat clamped around his crown.
Max’s breaths hitched.
Tristan went still. Breaking the kiss, he dropped his forehead to Max’s shoulder, gathered his self-control, shoved back the need to slam his hips forward.
And then inch by inch, he pressed forward, joining them together, until he was finally buried hilt-deep, Max’s body gripping Tristan’s length like a damned fist.
He gave Max a moment. Gave himself a moment. Then he dragged his mouth up Max’s neck, over hot, sweat-dampened skin, and over his strong jaw.
“All right?” he whispered against Max’s lips.
“Yes.”
And those where the last words needed that night. With sure, slow thrusts, Tristan reassured Max he was there for him, whatever Max needed.
* * *
Max looked up from the ledger. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady pattern. What did Tristan do with himself when it rained? He didn’t seem the type to enjoy a walk or ride about the countryside in the rain.
The clock on his desk indicated it was just after noon. Too early for one of Tristan’s afternoon visits. Max had slipped out of Tristan’s bed right before dawn had broken across the sky. Had decided he should let Tristan sleep and not disturb him, but if he was honest with himself...
Max let out a sigh.
Likely he should have given Tristan a nudge, at the very least, to let him know he was going back to his own room. And he’d yet to apologize for being an arse yesterday.
Dropping his pencil to his desk, Max got to his feet. He’d asked Tristan to trust him, even if the topic was uncomfortable, and therefore Max needed to give that level of trust in return. While he preferred to forget last night in his study had happened, he couldn’t and he shouldn’t try to push it from his mind. And he’d have to admit that blanket of guilt didn’t feel quite so heavy today. He owed Tristan more than an apology. He owed him his thanks.
Rather than search the house, he inquired with a footman as to Tristan’s whereabouts. He paused outside the partially open door to the billiard room. There was the clank of ivory against ivory followed by a soft chuckle. Tristan sounded pleased with himself. Max could imagine the little smile flittering across his mouth. A mouth that had felt so perfect against his last night.
He pushed the door fully open. “Good afternoon.”
Cue stick in hand, Tristan bolted upright from the table. The blatant surprise on his exquisite features bit into Max. But Max knew he deserved it. The only other time he’d sought out Tristan during the day had included a demand for Tristan to get into the house.
“Afternoon, Max,” Tristan said, when he’d regained his bearings. “Is something amiss?”
That hurt as well.
“No.” Max closed the door behind him. He lifted his chin. “I wanted to apologize for being an arse yesterday. You’re now aware of the why, still, it was not well done of me to be so rude as to leave the table in the middle of supper.” He swallowed hard. “Or to leave without a word this morning.”
Tristan blinked. The surprise vanished, to be replaced with that same calm, almost gentle understanding he’d given Max last night. He shrugged, one of those shrugs used to fill the silence. “There’s no need for an apology, Max. Though thank you.”
At a loss for how to respond, Max nodded.
Silence hung between them. Max was an instant from turning and returning to his study when Tristan spoke.
“Care to share a game with me?”
“All right.” A half an hour away from his desk wouldn’t cause any lasting harm. He selected a stick from the rack hanging on the wall. “But it’s been ages since I’ve played.”
“Whereas I have had a lot of opportunities to hone my skills of late. Consider yourself warned.”
&
nbsp; “So I’m in for a trouncing, am I?”
Tristan smiled, his eyes sparkling with a sort of devilish playfulness. “That is my hope.”
Max chuckled and motioned to the table. “Then let the trouncing commence.”
Tristan gathered the ivory balls and positioned them to start a new game. “You can have the honors of going first, if you’d like.”
“You are so gracious.”
“I try,” Tristan said, with a tip of his head, all mock seriousness.
Max leaned over the table. He slid the cue stick back and forth between his fingers, readying his shot. It truly had been ages since he’d played, let alone played against another person. White’s had a billiard room, and Rawling used to invite him to play, but Max had never taken him up on the offer. Likely why the offers had stopped. The felt-covered end of the stick smacked against the ivory ball. His shot went well wide.
Pathetic. But oddly enough, the failure didn’t grate across his nerves.
And Tristan didn’t mock him. Didn’t give him a condescending well done. He simply studied the table then moved around to the other side.
“So what is it you do in your study all day?” Bent at the waist and stick readied, he glanced up to Max. “What’s all involved in managing a dukedom, besides the House of Lords aspect?”
“The responsibilities vary depending on each family’s interests. One dukedom isn’t interchangeable with another. My father was a very astute businessman and grew the family’s holdings considerably. There are many properties around Great Britain to manage. Eighteen in total in addition to the Park. Most are farming properties of various sizes and types but one’s a coal mine and another’s a copper mine in Cornwall. There are business interests, like the shipping offices in Plymouth and London. Investments to monitor in the Exchange. Potential new properties and investments to investigate and consider. Then there’s Arrington Park itself, the family’s seat, the largest property in the dukedom. Takes 137 people to keep up the house, the grounds, stables and farm fields, and keep the wildlife from overflowing from the woods. And there’s the town house that I keep as a primary residence in London, and a couple other town houses in the city. Those I lease out, so not much effort needed there.”
About halfway through Max’s brief explanation of his holdings, Tristan’s eyebrows raised. By the time Max finishing speaking, his jaw had dropped.
“That’s...that’s a lot.”
“Yes, it is.” Never over the past six years had he had a clear desk, free of letters or documents or ledgers or other papers that required his attention. Just getting a grasp on it all had taken months after he’d inherited.
Tristan drew back his stick. A quick snap of his elbow, and he neatly cannoned the balls. Yes indeed, he was going to trounce Max soundly. “You don’t travel much though, do you?”
“Not often. The post does most of the traveling for me. If I regularly visited each property and business, I’d be forever on the road.” Staying at the Park and having everything come to him was the only way he could stay abreast of all the necessary details.
The game was still Tristan’s since he’d earned the last point. He moved around the corner of the table, eyes pinned on the green baize, assessing his next shot. “So how do you manage it all?”
“I have estate managers, property managers, business managers, office managers and bankers. Each and every one send me reports and account ledgers that I review and approve monthly, in addition to letters seeking approval and input on various aspects and needs of each interest. And then there are the solicitors who always have something or other that requires my attention.”
“And you don’t have a secretary? It’s just you?”
“It’s just me. My father had a secretary but I never much cared for the fellow. I believed the feeling was mutual, and I pensioned him off as soon as I inherited.”
“You cannot possibly intend to step into His Grace’s shoes. Allow the estate managers and solicitors and your uncles to handle it in your stead, and you can attend Oxford as you wished.”
It had been all Max had been able to do to not punch the shocked disbelief from the haughty secretary’s face. “I can and I will manage it myself. Your services are no longer needed.”
Tristan lined up another shot. “So with the properties and businesses, every month you review at least twenty different ledgers and at least twenty different reports from your managers. Plus they consult you on everything?”
“How else am I to ensure I’m abreast of the goings-on of each and to ensure everything is done properly?”
“Is that how all lords handle their estates?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion how others manage their interests, though I suspect some aren’t all that adept at it.” Rawling, for example. Max had never attended the Lords and not seen Rawling there, so his friend definitely kept up with his responsibilities when it came to Parliament. The viscounty... Max had the distinct impression Rawling struggled with it. Why exactly he had that impression, Max couldn’t quite say. Perhaps it was in the way Rawling was so quick to change the subject whenever the topic was raised. There were vague rumblings at supper parties Max had attended, but one shouldn’t put any stock into gossip and rumor. Rawling had inherited but three years ago. Maybe it was just taking him a while to get a grasp on everything.
After neatly cannoning the balls again, Tristan straightened. Caught Max’s gaze and held it. “Do you handle the dukedom the same way your father did?” he asked, as if he was only curious.
Max let out a breath and shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t know. When I was younger, he would talk to me about the various aspects of the dukedom. Mention when he had acquired yet another property or business. But he more stressed the responsibility that would eventually be mine than provided details. I suspect...” His grip tightened on his cue stick. Unable to bear Tristan’s open, understanding gaze, he looked out one of the windows, to the rain-soaked grounds on the side of the house. “Looking back, I suspect he knew he would not be around much longer.” A fresh wave of guilt threatened to blanket him anew. I didn’t send him to his grave. He’d been ill. He repeated the words in his head once, twice, three times. The constriction in his throat eased. “That was why he refused to allow me to go to university. He knew he did not have much time left. Wanted to teach me how to actually manage it all. But I was...angry. I’d been looking forward to getting away from the tutors.” Away from the solitary schoolroom. From the numbing isolation of living at the Park, surrounded by servants but no one to call friend. “I hadn’t been allowed to go to Eton—tutors offer a superior education,” he said, reciting the line he’d heard too many times to count. “But he’d planned for me to go to Oxford, and then when he abruptly changed his mind, said I needed to remain here with him, I stormed out of the house. Went to London. Ignored his letters. Had been there for three months when he sent a solicitor to inform me my allowance would be cut off if I didn’t return to the Park. As you learned last night, I did not take the news well.”
Raindrops ran down the window, chasing after each other, some combining together and forming larger drops. He’d been so angry. Furious. Consumed with an unwavering belief his father had been completely unreasonable. His older self was also wise enough to realize part of that anger had been because his father had been the only person to say no to him, and the only one to have the power to force him to do something he did not want to do.
“What did you get up to in London? During the three months you were there.”
He pulled his gaze from the window. “Caroused about in questionable parts of Town. Gambled. Drank to excess. Thoroughly took advantage of my freedom.” He’d gorged himself on it, for God’s sake. “Discovered there were places to go where I could find others who preferred men. Particular gambling hells, out-of-the-way taverns. And I discovered I very much enjoyed suckin
g another fellow off.”
“Well, you are quite good at it.”
The beginnings of a chuckle teased Max’s chest. “Glad to hear you think so.”
Tristan waved a hand to the table. “It’s your game. I missed my last shot.”
Max didn’t believe that was the case at all. He’d felt the force of Tristan’s gaze, felt the comfort of it as he’d stared out the window. He highly doubted Tristan had continued on with the game. The room had been quiet. Not one smack of felt against ivory.
But rather than call Tristan out for lying, Max played along and turned his attention back to the table.
“Did your father spend all his time in his study?”
Bent over the table, Max paused, arm drawn back, poised to try to actually not miss his next shot. “No, not all his time. He went to London on occasion to attend Parliament, though I believe he attended more often than I do. It’s extremely tedious,” he added by way of explanation. “I could do it all via proxy votes in the post, but I should attend on occasion. It’s expected and reminds my peers my opinion is not without weight.” He was the mighty Duke of Pelham, after all. And his reputation as such directly impacted his success when negotiating new ventures. “But when at the Park, my father wasn’t always behind his desk. He enjoyed shooting in the autumn, taught me how to handle a gun, took me out for horseback rides. His brothers—my uncles—visited on occasion, in addition to a handful of acquaintances from Town.”
This time, he didn’t miss. Yet he neither succeeded in cannoning nor landing a ball in one of the pockets. A step in the right direction, at least.
Max straightened. “You may resume trouncing me.”
“I shall try my best. Though perhaps I shouldn’t trounce you too soundly. Wouldn’t want you to gain a dislike for playing against me.” Tristan leaned over the table. Instead of focusing on the balls, he ducked his chin a bit. “It’s nice to spend some daylight hours with you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Their conversation might not be centered on the most comfortable of topics, but even then, Max found it felt...good, to an odd degree, to talk with Tristan about his father. He’d never spoken to anyone about the circumstances surrounding his death. He’d never volunteered the information and no one had ever asked. Not that he had many friends. There was only Rawling. And now he had Tristan as well.
