by Ava March
The game continued on. Tristan missing on occasion, sometimes, Max suspected, deliberately, sometimes not. Max’s brain and his arm finally remembered how to play billiards again, and he managed to score a few points. The half hour was long behind them, but Max was in no hurry to return to his desk.
Eventually the game ended. Tristan won. No surprise there. And he was extremely gracious in his victory. Gave Max a tip of the head and a “Thank you for indulging me.”
They returned their sticks to the rack on the wall and rolled the three balls on the table into a corner pocket.
Rather than make a move toward the door, Tristan leaned a hip against the table. “I don’t intend to be so presumptuous as to assume I know how to handle the dukedom better than you, but maybe you don’t need to work so hard. I mean, there are lords in London who seem to have all the time in the world to gallivant about Town. I’ve seen them on the streets and in shops. Certainly some are neglecting their responsibilities, but surely not all of them. And your father didn’t spend every waking hour behind his desk, either.”
“Maybe he was better at it than I am.” Max tried to speak with a casual tone, to not let the guilt and the doubts that kept him firmly in his chair when he’d rather be anywhere else seep into his voice.
“Nonsense, and you know it, Max.” Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “You work yourself to the bone. You can’t get more than a handful of hours of sleep each night. Aren’t you ever tired?”
“I don’t know anymore.” And that was the truth.
Tristan’s brow furrowed. “How could you not know?”
“I guess I’ve grown accustomed to it. I worked later into the night before you came to stay. Now though, I have a good reason to leave my desk and retire for the night.” Before, all he’d had was an empty, lonely bed. His desk had been preferable.
“All you do is work all day. Barely give yourself a break for supper then you’re back at your desk again. You’ll drive yourself to an early grave if you continue at this pace. You need to stop punishing yourself, Max.”
“I’m not punishing myself!” He briefly closed his eyes, took a moment. “I don’t have a choice. I can’t neglect my responsibilities.” There were times when it was so tempting to do just that. To turn his back on everything. But he couldn’t do it. Would never be able to live with himself if he did.
“I’m not suggesting you neglect anything, Max,” Tristan said, full of that calm patience. “Just...reevaluate how you spend your time. With all the reports and ledgers and letters, it sounds to me like your managers are more secretaries. Sounds as if you do all the managing. As if you either don’t trust them to manage for you or that you believe you need to do it all yourself.”
That took Max aback.
And Tristan wasn’t done yet. “Were those reports and ledgers and letters coming across your father’s desk on a monthly basis, too, or were you the one to ask for them?”
“I don’t know why you are even asking me that.” Max fought back the cringe. He sounded defensive as all hell, even to his own ears.
Tristan looked down then met Max’s gaze. “You tend to throw yourself into things. Completely. We’d been together twice, and on the third night I laid eyes on you, I ended up at your town house. By the next night, I was here.” He lowered his voice. “In the bedchamber, you are fully committed to my pleasure. Nothing short of...well...” He glanced to the placket of his own trousers then speared Max with a you-know-what-I-mean look. “...can deter you from your goal. By your own admission, you thoroughly took advantage of your freedom during those three months in London. Fully committed yourself to it. I have a strong suspicion you’ve committed yourself to a penance by ledgers. That you’re holding yourself to a ridiculous standard that no man, not even your father, could ever achieve. You are responsible for a very large dukedom. You cannot possibly expect yourself to be able to personally handle everything.”
“I don’t personally handle everything. I have a damn herd of managers.”
“Yet you check every account, ask for a near-constant stream of reports? Require they obtain your approval and input on everything? That’s why all those ledgers and reports are on your desk, isn’t it? And that’s why I asked if you were the one to ask for them. If your herd hadn’t been sending them to your father at that frequency, then your father hadn’t needed all those ledgers to be the astute businessman that he was. And therefore you don’t need all those ledgers at that frequency either. You don’t need to keep punishing yourself. You don’t need to be behind your desk all day and into the evening to be a brilliant duke, Max. You’re a young man. Allow yourself to enjoy life a bit in the daylight.” He gave his head a shake then shrugged. “In any case, I’m supposed to be your friend from London. Doesn’t your household think it odd you have a houseguest you only see at supper? If for no other reason than to keep up appearances, push some of your work onto your herd of managers so you have time to spend the occasional afternoon with your friend.”
Max pursed his lips, clamped his jaw shut. Tristan didn’t understand. He had absolutely no experience with business matters. Hadn’t a notion what was involved.
And neither had Max before he’d inherited.
He’d never asked for help. Bluntly refused all offers of assistance. Rarely saw his uncles as a result. Had even dismissed his father’s long-term secretary. He’d virtually locked himself in his father’s study, had gone through every document in the room, requested all records from all the holdings that had become his, read through everything until he’d understood how it all worked, and then devised a plan for how he would handle it all. The dukedom was his. His responsibility. He’d been determined to see it to the best of his abilities. To not let his father down.
The notion perhaps he hadn’t been doing it all quite right was not a pleasant one.
“Max?”
“Your concern about potential servants’ gossip is perhaps a valid one.” He’d give Tristan that point. That was it for now. Jonathan had resided at the house for a good year. To Max’s knowledge, there’d been no gossip. Still, prudence and all. If there was a future risk he could avert, he should do it. “And since I’ve spent this afternoon with my friend from London, I believe it’s safe for me to return to my desk.”
Tristan nodded. The worry on his face was undeniable, yet Max was in no mood for company at the moment.
But with his hand on the doorknob, Max paused. Looked over his shoulder. “I’m not upset with you.”
Another nod from Tristan. Satisfied he’d eased some of Tristan’s worry, Max left the billiard room and returned to his desk.
Chapter Fourteen
As the days passed, Max showed he wasn’t quite as stubborn as Tristan had feared. Even though neither of them mentioned the discussion in the billiard room, it must have had some impact for Max did not persist in spending every waking hour behind his desk. On the next rainy afternoon, Max offered to show him more of the hidden passageways in the house. On that instance, it was Tristan who had to give his word to remain quiet, though he wasn’t able to stay completely quiet. A whispered curse or two might have slipped out as Max sucked him off.
Yet Tristan’s newfound fondness for rainy afternoons could not rival the sense of anticipation that tickled his senses when he awoke to a beautiful day. The sun now meant an afternoon ride about the countryside with Max or a swim in the pond together or a walk about the grounds. And he was actually able to witness Max smile outside of a bedchamber. Not a frequent occurrence; still, Max gifted him with one enough for Tristan to believe Max was allowing himself to enjoy time away from his desk in the daylight.
That wasn’t to say Max had abandoned his responsibilities. He continued to ensconce himself in his study all morning and into the early afternoon. And he still returned to his desk after supper, but for no more than an hour. Then he would join T
ristan in the library for a nightcap and conversation. Conversations that gave Tristan precious glimpses of the real man behind the stern, confident duke.
There was one hitch in the blur of passion-filled nights and anticipated afternoons, and it occurred on September seventh. Tristan wasn’t aware of the actual day of the month until Max pulled a fold of pound notes from his desk drawer. Two hundred pounds, to be exact. Once Tristan recognized those notes for what they were, he hadn’t been able to shove them into his pocket fast enough. To get that harsh reminder of his true purpose at the Park out of sight. He jumped on Max’s suggestion of a walk about the grounds, though he took a quick detour to his rooms to change his coat before they departed. Max merely gave him an indulgent shake of the head and agreed to wait in the entrance hall while Tristan changed out of the perfectly acceptable olive-green coat and donned a nut-brown one.
They traipsed about the back garden and wandered into the woods. Tristan had about given up on indulging in anything more than conversation when Max pushed him up against a tree trunk. Max’s kiss shoved those notes Tristan had stashed under a pile of smallclothes in his dressing room far from his mind. And when Max dropped to his knees and reached for the placket of Tristan’s trousers, Tristan gained a new appreciation for a forest’s ability to provide concealment from others.
The warmth of summer fell away to cooler but still comfortable autumn days. Tristan’s admiration for afternoons reached a new peak when Max suggested his break from his desk also include a break from the formal dining hall. Well, Max did not couch it in quite those terms, but an early supper along the bank of the pond most assuredly did not include a long stretch of mahogany separating him from Max.
“The kitchen should have the bag packed by now.” Max rounded his desk. “I thought we’d walk, unless you’d prefer to take the horses?”
“Walking is fine.” He preferred to walk. Much harder to talk with Max when they were cantering down a country lane.
Max gathered his leather bag, laden with the contents of their supper, from one of the servants, and they left the house. The midafternoon sun was high in the sky, the late-September breeze just warm enough to not need an overcoat.
Tristan looked to Max and frowned. “Gray again?”
“Pardon?”
“Your waistcoat.” Though today’s waistcoat appeared a half shade lighter than he remembered. Could be due to the sun, being outside versus in the house. More likely, Max had multiple gray waistcoats. “How many gray ones do you have in your wardrobe?”
“I haven’t the slightest notion.”
“Have you ever considered a color outside of gray or black or brown?” Stern. There was no other word for it. Max’s wardrobe felt stern and restrained. Made Tristan feel a bit sad for him.
Max shot him a glance from the corner of his eye. “Honestly? No. I don’t give my wardrobe much thought. It’s there. I put on whatever my valet lays out for me in the morning.”
Max had more money than Tristan could fathom and the man chose to not utilize his tailor to the fullest? Now that was a shame. “You should consider it. A colorful waistcoat can lift the spirits.”
“I take it then that your spirits have needed considerable lifting over the years?”
It took Tristan a second to realize where Max was going with his question. “Honestly?” he said, mimicking Max. “Yes.” His spirits had needed all the help they could get. “But in my defense, growing up I had nothing but my older brothers’ castoffs, and no amount of handiwork with a needle on my part could get them to fit right. My brothers aren’t that much taller than I, but they are much broader. Like you. They were built for life on the farm. I was not. That’s not to say you resemble a farm laborer,” he added. One could tell just by looking at Max that he had nothing but the bluest blood running through his veins. “Having a proper wardrobe of my own is...wonderful.” Tristan smiled. “And yes, it’s a large wardrobe. I can admit it.”
“One that hasn’t grown since you came to Hampshire,” Max pointed out.
“No, it hasn’t. But the village doesn’t hold a tailor.” And he hadn’t missed it, either. During the first few days or so, he’d been absolutely bored during the day. If a tailor had been easily accessible, he’d likely have paid the shop a visit, if for no other reason than to fill the hours. But the urge to have something to provide that spark of anticipation, something to look forward to, a bright spot in his day, hadn’t been there since he had come to the Park.
“Thank goodness for that. The dressing room in your bedchamber is large, but I believe you already have it at maximum capacity.”
“Not quite. There are three empty hooks.”
Max chuckled, a smile teasing his mouth. “God forbid.”
“Indeed. But you, you should consider a few new waistcoats.” He appraised Max for a moment. “Maybe amber silk or a nice pale smoky blue. You’d wear both well, and they’d help make you look not quite so serious.”
Max raised a dubious eyebrow. “I look serious?”
“Yes. Serious, stern, restrained. You appear very...” He waved a hand, struggling for the right word. “...intimidating.”
“And do I intimidate you?” Max asked, with a definite note of gravity.
“No.” At least not anymore. “I happen to know how good you are at sucking cock.”
A laugh, full and rich, burst from Max’s chest. The last bit of lingering stiffness in his shoulders vanished. He looked to Tristan, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth, his broad smile transforming his features so he actually resembled the young man of three-and-twenty that he was.
Their afternoons were clearly good for Max.
Tristan was very fond of them as well.
They eventually reached the pond, its clear blue surface glinting under the sun. The water was much too cold for a swim, and they settled on the grassy bank. From his bag, Max pulled a small blanket, two sandwiches of cold meats and cheeses, and a bottle of wine. No glasses. Not that Tristan minded in the slightest. They sat on the blanket and partook of their supper, passing the bottle of wine between them. Max asked him about his childhood on the family farm, and Tristan received a frown when he mentioned one of the reasons why he’d been so eager to leave the farm—namely, his older brothers. Rather than intimidate him, that harsh frown filled his chest with warmth.
“They didn’t blacken my eye or anything like that.” Pushes and shoves, merciless taunts, but thankfully no beatings. “And they weren’t the only reason I wanted to leave.” Tristan brought the bottle of wine to his lips, took a sip and then passed it to Max. “I didn’t belong there, on the farm. My brothers knew it, I knew it, my father knew it. I was of entirely no help in the fields. I could mend their clothes. That was the limit of my usefulness. When I informed them of my intent to move to London, I do believe everyone in the house was pleased.”
“What about your mother? Was she as pleased as your father and brothers?”
“She died when I was around two. I don’t remember her at all. Has your mother passed away as well?” Since Tristan had never known his own mother, he hadn’t realized until now that Max had never mentioned his.
“Yes. I was about five years of age. I have vague recollections of her. Dark hair that shone under the sun, the softness of her cheek when I gave her a kiss. That’s about the extent of it.”
“Did your father never seek another duchess?”
“Never. He loved my mother. I can recall him telling me so after she passed. In fact, I don’t remember him ever mentioning another woman or there being any gossip or talk at all about any other woman besides my mother. Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a mistress discreetly tucked away somewhere, but I rather doubt it.” Max took a sip of wine. “So do you correspond with your father or brothers at all?”
“No. Wouldn’t have much to say to them anyway.” He highly doubted any of the
m felt the loss of a letter from him.
Max’s mouth thinned, his eyebrows lowering, yet his dark eyes softened. “You could let them know you’re safe and well.”
Tristan shrugged. There was that. “I’ll make you a deal. Put some color in your wardrobe and I’ll send them a short note.”
Max’s chuckle effectively vanquished the bit of melancholy that had threatened to touch his heart.
After they finished supper, Max pushed him back onto the blanket. As the sun began to make its way down the sky, Max showed him once again that he had not been exaggerating in the slightest when he’d told Tristan he very much enjoyed sucking cock. Senses fogged from a brilliant orgasm, Tristan had not been able to do much more than watch as Max packed up the blanket and slung his bag over his shoulder.
How could he have ever despised the country? Life in Hampshire was bloody fantastic.
When Tristan walked into Max’s bedchamber later that night, he had to resist the urge to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, that he hadn’t fallen asleep at the pond. Two leather cuffs and a tangle of leather lines on the bed, a bottle of oil beside a short, very fat black marble dildo on the bedside table, and Max sprawled in a chair by the fireplace, his intent gaze pinned on Tristan.
He’d thought the day could not possibly get any better. How wrong he had been.
* * *
Max lifted his head and swiped his forearm across his wet mouth.
“No! Please, please don’t stop, Max.” Bent over the side of the bed, Tristan looked over his shoulder. His cheeks were flushed, eyes banked with desire.
With the tip of one finger, Max traced Tristan’s spit-slicked entrance. Then getting to his feet, he drew back his hand. The tiny trace of nervousness he’d felt before was long gone. That thought zipped through his head as he brought his hand down and smacked Tristan’s upturned arse. The sound cracked through the room. A jolt of ridiculous happiness rushed through him.
