All In with the Duke

by Ava March

  Max’s brow furrowed. He looked down to his clenched hand, coat sleeve bunched above his wrist. Tristan could almost see the dilemma, and the struggle to solve it, tumbling about in Max’s head.

  Letting out a sigh, Tristan waited.

  Shifting slightly, Max shoved the crumpled paper into his trouser pocket.

  Tristan finally tugged the coat free. “Lie down.” He pushed on Max’s chest, guiding him in the direction he wanted him to go. “You need some rest.” After nudging Max onto his side, Tristan draped the coat over him, grabbed the rubbish bin from the corner and set it beside the couch. “If you feel ill, just...” He waved to the bin.

  Looking up at Tristan, Max scowled again. The man’s large frame dwarfed the old couch, long legs hanging off the side. “Want to sleep with you.”

  “You are sleeping on the couch.”

  Physical distance was a necessity. It had not even been forty-eight hours since Max had let him leave. The wound was still very fresh. Much too fresh. He couldn’t risk being so close to Max. The intimacy of sharing a bed. Of having Max’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

  His heart begged, pleaded with him.

  Max’s unprompted appearance, however, couldn’t change why Tristan had left in the first place. All those reasons were still very valid.

  And so Tristan stepped away from the couch, away from Max, and grabbed the candle from the console table. Before he shut his bedchamber door, he paused.

  “Good night, Max.”

  The soft sound of Max’s snores was the only response he received.

  “I missed you, too,” Tristan whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Closing his eyes, Max rested his elbows on his thighs and dropped his head into his hands. It felt like his brain was trying to escape his skull. To call it an aching head would not do the pain justice.

  A man shouted out in the corridor.

  The sound cut through Max’s skull. He winced.

  What the hell had he been thinking last night?

  He hadn’t been thinking. Therein lay the problem.

  Just the knowledge Tristan had been a somewhat easy distance from him had made the idea of another night in an empty, lonely bed excruciatingly unbearable. Three glasses of gin, in rather quick succession, and he hadn’t been able to keep himself from paying Tristan a call. From seeing him again. From being near him once more.

  And he really should have left the bottle at home. Three glasses he could endure with no ill effects. An entire bottle?

  He cringed.

  You’re damned pathetic.

  What the hell must Tristan think of him? The worst of it though? He couldn’t entirely remember what had happened once he’d left the town house. He could recall the hackney, the stale scent of the interior and the way the driver had seemed determined to hit every rut in the road. He could remember shouting at the driver after he’d splashed gin on himself while trying to take another long swallow. He could recall standing outside the building, squinting at Morgan’s hastily scrawled note, struggling to get his eyes to focus on Tristan’s address. And Tristan’s displeasure at finding him on his doorstep? That he most certainly could recall.

  What Tristan had said to him, what Max had said to Tristan...

  Apprehension gripped his gut.

  He could only hope he hadn’t made a complete arse of himself.

  Couldn’t have been too bad, though. Tristan had allowed him to stay. On the couch. In the parlor. A room away from Tristan’s bed.

  Couldn’t have gone all too well, either.

  He rubbed at his temples, but it didn’t do any good to ease the pounding behind his eyes.

  When the footman had arrived bearing Morgan’s note yesterday, Max had acted. The only thought in his head had been to get to London. To breach the distance separating him from Tristan. Being apart from Tristan hurt, so he needed to get back to him. What he had planned to do once he reached Tristan, what he would say...

  He hadn’t known then, and he hadn’t found the answer at the bottom of a bottle, either.

  All he knew was that he wanted Tristan back. Needed him back.

  Floorboards creaked. Lifting his head, Max looked to the closed door that led to Tristan’s bedchamber. He heard the snap of a drawer being closed, more footsteps. The sounds of someone moving about. Tristan must have awoken.

  The sunlight peeking through the breaks in the brown-patterned drapes didn’t seem strong enough for midmorning. Max pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Five minutes after eight. Why was Tristan up so early?

  Whatever the reason, Max should at least make himself presentable. Surely he appeared exactly how he felt—as if he’d drank entirely too much gin, had a screaming aching head and had slept on an uncomfortable couch. Not exactly the image he wanted to present while pleading his case to Tristan.

  Max put on his shoes, got to his feet and let out a grunt.

  Damnation, did he need to use the necessary.

  There were only two doors leading from the parlor. The main door and the one to Tristan’s bedchamber.

  If he had to go out in the corridor to use a common privy or, worse, out back to some shed... He sighed. He really was in no mood to encounter any of Tristan’s neighbors, though he wouldn’t be surprised if the entire building made use of the same necessary. The boardinghouse, while not exactly in the stews, was not in a safe part of Town. Thank heaven he’d had the foresight to assign Morgan to watch over Tristan.

  After passing a hand over his hair to smooth it, he knocked on Tristan’s bedchamber door. “Tristan?”

  A pause. “Yes, Max.”

  “Where’s the washroom?”

  “In here.” The door swung open, revealing Tristan in his shirtsleeves and a maroon waistcoat, the long length of his cravat hanging from his neck. Not meeting Max’s gaze, Tristan pointed to a partially open door on the other side of his bedchamber.

  Pushed by the uncomfortably full state of his bladder, Max merely muttered a “Thank you” before heading straight for the washroom.

  After relieving himself, he checked his reflection in the small mirror above the washstand. A crack marred the glass, the mirror hanging by a wire affixed to a nail in the wall. At least Tristan’s apartments included a washroom, though the space was barely large enough for Max to turn around in.

  A day’s growth of stubble covered his jaw, dark smudges underscored his eyes and his collar was rumpled from sleeping in his clothes. Yes indeed, he looked like hell.

  Leaning down, he splashed cold water onto his face. He grabbed the towel from a hook on the wall and patted dry. He made to straighten his waistcoat then rolled his eyes. Bloody brilliant. Before he’d left the town house to hail a hackney, he had changed into the amber silk waistcoat. Arriving foxed and with misaligned buttons had surely killed any goodwill he’d hoped the garment would inspire in Tristan.

  He fixed the buttons. He needed to locate his cravat, as well. His hand hovered over the straight razor beside the water basin, the cake of shaving soap on the chipped saucer still damp. He didn’t want to borrow Tristan’s razor without asking, and asking would feel like an imposition.

  Tristan was not currently his. He didn’t even know if Tristan still considered Max a friend.

  A wince squeezed his eyes closed.

  I can get him back.

  He repeated the words in his head. After a few passes, the tightness in his chest eased a notch.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and surveyed his reflection in the mirror again. Given the circumstances, he was as presentable as he could make himself.

  He found Tristan in the small parlor, navy coat on and cravat done in a neat knot. “Good morning.”

  Tristan returned his greeting and held out Max’s coat a
nd cravat. “Do you need help with them?”

  “Though I’ve surely given you cause to doubt, I can manage dressing myself without a valet’s assistance.” He took the proffered coat and slipped it on, taking care to ensure he would not prove his words false. A couple flicks of his fingers, and he tied his cravat in a simple knot.

  “Is that a new waistcoat?”

  “Purchased it when I was last in Town. Someone whose opinion I greatly admire suggested I add a bit of color to my wardrobe.”

  His comment earned him not even a hint of a smile from Tristan. Max could detect nothing from his expression.

  Morning sun streamed through the two windows. Tristan must have opened the drapes while Max had been in the washroom. The parlor was small yet tidy, the few furnishings years old judging by their condition, the round dining table in the corner free of dust. Tristan, in his elegant attire and with his exquisitely beautiful features, should appear completely out of place in the room, yet somehow he didn’t.

  Silence stretched between them. Tristan opened his mouth, but before he could ask Max to leave, Max spoke.

  “I apologize for last night. The late call. My...state. And I apologize for anything I might have said or done that did not meet with your satisfaction.”

  Tristan’s gaze swept over his face. It was all Max could do not to shift under the weight of his scrutiny. “You don’t remember last night, do you?”

  “I don’t recall much. I was rather intoxicated.”

  The way Tristan was looking at him, green-gold eyes considering him, assessing him, made Max wonder anew about what he had said to Tristan last night.

  “Why?”

  “Why was I foxed? Why am I here? I missed you. Do you...could you...” Hell, this was difficult. “Will you give me another chance?”

  “I won’t work for you again, Max. I can’t do that.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m asking.” He knew Tristan did not want to continue their arrangement. The man had made that point very clear. And that wasn’t what Max wanted anymore either. “I...I want us to be together. I miss you.”

  “Then why did you let me leave?” Tristan didn’t throw the question at Max. He spoke simply, as though he was only curious. As though the answer meant little to him.

  Max felt his hands begin to tremble. He shoved them into his pockets. “You said you needed to leave.”

  Tristan arched a brow. “That’s all? That’s why you let me leave?” He shook his head in patent disappointment. “I need to be on my way.” He motioned to the door. “I would appreciate it if you would not return.”

  “No!” The refusal burst from his mouth. Desperation clawed at his throat. “Please, give me a moment. Hear me out.”

  “I can’t, Max. I need to be on my way, and you need to leave now. I’m starting a new position. Apprenticing for a tailor. I need to be there by nine, and I cannot be late.”

  That explained why Tristan had risen so early, and knowing Tristan had already moved on with his life, without Max, hurt. A lot. “But it’s—” he pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, “—not even twenty past eight.”

  “And the shop is not next door. It’s a few streets away, and I refuse to be late.”

  “So give me a few minutes then hire a hackney to take you there.”

  “I can’t afford the fare, Max.”

  “I’ll cover the damned fare.”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want your money. You clearly were not listening when I told you why I needed to leave.”

  “Yes, I was!” As if he could ever forget that morning. “But it’s only cab fare, Tristan. I’m not offering to pay you to suck my cock. I just want a few minutes of your time.” He could not believe they were arguing over this. Cab fare. A few bloody coins.

  Closing his eyes, Max pressed his fingers to his temples. Hell, his head ached, but it would be nothing in comparison to the ache that would consume him if he did as Tristan demanded. If Max left now, Tristan would not allow him to return.

  He would never see Tristan again.

  “Please.” Max’s voice broke, caught in his throat. “Give me a few minutes.” Dropping his hands to his sides, he held Tristan’s gaze. “Please, Tristan.”

  Just when he was certain Tristan would refuse him, the man let out a sigh. “All right. But first answer me this—why did you let me leave? The truth this time, Max.”

  The urge to break eye contact, to turn away, nearly overpowered him. Yet he kept his feet rooted to the floor, kept his gaze locked with Tristan’s. If he gave Tristan the wrong answer, if he evaded the full truth, it would be the end of them. He knew it without a doubt.

  “I was scared.” Terrified had been more like it. “You told me what you wanted from me, and I...I was scared to give it to you.” Love couldn’t be trusted. Love blinded him to a man’s true intentions. Love led to pain. He’d learned those lessons only too well. Just the thought of opening himself to that sort of pain again had frightened him to his very core.

  He’d been so determined not to repeat the past. Had done everything in his power to avoid a repeat. He’d been a fool to love Jonathan. A fool to trust that bastard. Yet with Tristan...his error had been in trying to deny, to Tristan and most of all to himself, that Tristan held Max’s heart.

  “But I’m here now, Tristan. I know what you want from me, and it’s yours.” He was a coward. A coward for not giving those three words voice. Yet the terror that gripped him two days ago, the terror that had lodged into his very soul, held them back.

  “You hurt me.”

  “You have my deepest, most sincere apologies.”

  Tristan shook his head. “That’s not enough, Max. How do I know you won’t do it again? I needed you to stop me, and you just sat there behind your desk. You not only let me walk out the door, you lent me your carriage to take me away from you.” The calm, detached facade vanished. His hands balled into fists, every muscle in his body went taut. “I needed you to care enough to try to make me stay. If nothing else, to at least pretend you wanted me to stay.” Soaked with disdain, he flung the words at Max. “To make some sort of effort. To say something. Anything. Yet you did nothing. It took me an hour to pack my trunks. A goddamn hour!” he shouted, face flushed, chest heaving, eyes narrowed in unadulterated fury.

  It was more raw, honest emotion than Max had ever seen from him. And the reason for that fury sliced like a jagged blade across Max’s chest.

  “God, I’m sorry, Tristan.” He took a step toward him yet stopped when Tristan jerked back. “I wanted to come after you. I wanted you to stay. But I already told you. I was scared. And I’ve been a horrid mess these past two days without you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t know what else to say. I’m here now. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  Tristan stared at him, an implacable wall of well-earned resistance.

  “Please, Tristan. I beg you. Just give me a chance to make it up to you. I give you my word. I won’t hurt you again.”

  Footsteps passed in the corridor outside Tristan’s door. He heard someone shout on the street.

  Tristan’s heavy sigh filled the room. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you, Max. I do.” He let out a little sound, a mockery of a huff of laughter. “I love you. But...you’re you. I can’t see how we could have a relationship that lasts any length of time. I despise Mr. Peterson for instilling that fear in you, Max. Truly I do. But I can also guess why he left, and I don’t want the same thing to happen to us.”

  “Pardon?” Max gaped at him. “You said you didn’t want my money. That bastard left me because I wouldn’t give him free access to my bank accounts.”

  “I suspect that’s not the real reason he left.”

  Max drew his spine straight. “You know nothing of that situation,” he spat through clenched teeth. “You w
eren’t there. You’ve never even laid eyes on him. Or have you? How the hell do you know his name?” He had never referred to Jonathan by name to Tristan. He was certain of it.

  Tristan rolled his eyes, completely unruffled by Max’s indignation. “Your neighbors. They mentioned him. Not to worry, no one seemed to suspect the real nature of your relationship with him, or with me. It had been months since Mr. Peterson returned to London, and they were merely pleased you had a friend at the Park again to keep you company.”

  Perfectly logical explanation, but it didn’t excuse Tristan’s false assumption. “He never cared about me, Tristan. That is a fact. He lied to me, he deceived me, and he betrayed me. Unless you are lying to me as well, I cannot see how our relationship could possibly end like that one.”

  “He was with you for a good year, correct?”

  “Yes. And he has nothing to do with us.”

  “I beg to differ. He’s why you let me leave, Max. He’s the reason behind the terms you laid out for our arrangement. But that’s beside the point. If Mr. Peterson was only after your money, why did he stay with you for so long? I’d hazard a guess he was not lying when he told you he loved you. That he left because you are not an easy man to love.”

  How dare Tristan imply the end of that relationship was Max’s doing? It was not his fault. Tristan had no idea what he was talking about. “Do you know what he threatened to do?” Max didn’t wait for a response. An ugly, noxious mass churned in his gut, demanded to be let loose. “If I did not turn over a ridiculous sum, he would not only put it about that I prefer men, but that the Duke of Pelham has a fondness for tying his lovers to the bed.” Almost a year later, and he could still vividly recall that phrase, still see it in his mind’s eye, written in Jonathan’s hand. “He was the first man I loved, the first I—” Max shook his head, hard and sharp, unable to lay himself that bare before Tristan. “I trusted him completely, and he not only left me without explanation, he goddamn betrayed me in the worst possible manner. If he had loved me, he would have never done such a thing. You are wrong, Tristan. Whatever reason you’ve concocted as to why he left is wrong.” He stabbed a finger at his own chest. “I was there. I know the truth.”