by Ava March
Horrified compassion filled Tristan’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Max. I should not have assumed.” Lifting one shoulder, he glanced down, and then met Max’s gaze again. “Thank you for trusting me, and I’m sorry I made such a mess of it the first time.”
Max could only nod. The anger, the memory of that ugly betrayal, still coursed through his veins, and with it was now a fair dose of vulnerability. Tristan knew. He understood.
Tristan crossed to the couch and sat down. Bowing his head, he dragged a hand across the back of his neck. “I believe that you care for me, Max. I do. It’s just... I lived at the Park for two months. Lived with you for two months. You have a tendency to be stubborn, arrogant, high-handed and rather closed off,” Tristan said, ticking off Max’s faults one by one. “I had to push and shove, damned near fight with you, to get you to spend a couple hours a day away from your desk. For Christ’s sake, we dined with an acre of mahogany between us. I want to be part of your life, but aside from the fact it’s not feasible, I’m—”
“What do you mean, it’s not feasible?”
Tristan peered up at him through the forelock hanging over his eyes. “You’re a duke, Max, and I’m far, far from that,” he said, as if he was explaining a common fact to a child.
Max slashed a hand through the air. “That does not make us not feasible.”
“Yes, it does. You spend most of your time in Hampshire. I can’t be your houseguest indefinitely, and I can’t obtain a position in the village to support myself—the Duke of Pelham being good friends with a shop worker would raise more than eyebrows among your neighbors. That’s what I mean by not feasible. You may argue against it now, but deep down you know it’s the truth. You wouldn’t even let me come with you to London. You left me behind at the Park.”
“What? You told me ending our arrangement had nothing to do with me going to London for a few days. You lied to me!”
Briefly closing his eyes, Tristan let out a breath, clearly gathering his patience. “Max, I ended our arrangement because I was in love with you. Being alone at the house made me realize that. If you hadn’t gone to London, I would have come to that realization on my own soon enough and the outcome would have been the same. Was your going to London the reason behind why I ended our arrangement when I did? Yes. But while it was not the reason why I needed to end matters between us, it did serve as a clear example of how it’s not feasible for me to be a part of your life. But even if that wasn’t an issue, I’m afraid what you really want is for me to be there when it’s convenient for you. And having to settle for being convenient...” He shook his head. “I used to envy the girls who left Rubicon’s to be a man’s mistress. They had someone who wanted them enough to only want to be with them. Someone who didn’t want to share them anymore. I thought I’d be happy if I had such a someone of my own. But that’s not enough for me anymore. I want to be more than someone’s convenient lover. And I’m afraid a year from now, I’ll find myself back in this very room. Alone. I don’t want to go through leaving you again, Max. That was really painful.” Leaning left, he looked around Max’s shoulder, to the dark fireplace behind him. He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Max.” And he sounded as if he really meant it. “I need to go, and so do you.”
Max lurched forward. “Just give me a chance. We can be feasible. I can find a way. I’ll do whatever you want, if you’ll give me the opportunity to prove I can be what you need. I don’t want convenient, Tristan. I want you. I should not have let you leave but I did. It was the worst mistake of my life. I freely admit it. But please, don’t let it cost me you.”
“But, Max...”
“Please, Tristan.” His nose began to sting, that prickly rush of impending tears. He had to swallow hard to get the next words out. “I love you.”
Max gasped for breath. His pulse pounded in his ears. He shot out a hand, needing the back of the nearby armchair for support, to keep him on his feet.
And he waited, his heart in his throat, completely at Tristan’s mercy. Hoping, praying Tristan would agree to see him again.
The line of Tristan’s shoulders broke, the resistance draining out of him in one fell swoosh. “I will consider the idea,” he said, as if he was considering it against his better judgment. “You can come back later. For supper only. You are not staying the night. And you need to bring the meal. I should be home by seven. And now I really need to leave.” Shaking his head, he crossed to the door. He reached for the knob, and then turned back to Max. “Oh, and you need to recall your driver. I know he has been following me, and doing so at your request. He is hard to miss.”
A pace from Tristan, Max stopped short. The grin at finally getting the yes out of Tristan fell from his lips. “I would rather not recall him. This part of Town is not safe.”
Tristan’s mouth thinned. “It is safe enough. I rented lodgings at this very boardinghouse the first year I came to London. I managed just fine then, and I can do so now. Just because I’m not as strong or as tall as you are does not mean I can’t look after myself.”
Well aware of the need to tread carefully around a bristly Tristan, Max took a moment to consider his words. “Your stature has nothing to do with my concern. You could be on eye level with me, and I’d still worry.” His gaze drifted out the window, to the view of the building beyond it, the gutter hanging from its roof. The truth—it was his only hope of getting Tristan to understand the fear that tore at his gut at the mere thought of Tristan walking out the door of this building alone. “Do you know how my driver came to work for the dukedom? I was in London, carousing about, thoroughly enjoying my brief taste of freedom. Went to a gambling hell one night not far from here, and as I was leaving, I was set upon by a good half dozen footpads. Mr. Morgan intervened. I tried to offer him money as a thanks, but he refused. As a show of my gratitude, I offered him a position in my father’s stables. If it had not been for Mr. Morgan’s assistance, I highly doubt I would be before you today.” He looked back to Tristan. “This part of Town is not safe. I would greatly appreciate it if you would spare me the worry and allow Mr. Morgan to continue in his current duties.”
Tristan’s mouth was still a thin line, but it now held more consideration than defensive anger. “It’s that important to you?”
“Yes.”
Another shake of Tristan’s head. “All right. But rest assured, there is absolutely no enthusiasm involved.”
* * *
A flick of Max’s fingers was all it took to get the hackney cab to obediently stop before the front steps of Tristan’s building. “For you. I’ll take the next one.”
Tristan wasn’t about to argue with Max. Less than fifteen minutes remained before nine. His plan to arrive early was completely blown to all hell, but as long as he wasn’t late, Mr. Foster should not object.
He glanced up and down the walkway then across the street. As if on command, Max’s driver emerged from an unimpressive, small hotel across the way. The clapboard exterior was in sore need of a new coat of paint, but the same could be said of most every building in the area. With a wave of his hand, Tristan motioned Morgan to him.
“Wouldn’t want you to have to run behind the hackney. Might as well get in.”
Morgan tipped his head. “Yes, Mr. Walsh.” No question, no hesitation.
Tristan followed Morgan into the cab. When Max made to shut the narrow door, Tristan held out a hand, staying him. “I will take care of the fare.”
Max wisely followed his employee’s example. He tipped his head. “As you wish.”
The door snapped shut. The hackney lurched forward.
He really should not have agreed to consider giving Max another chance. It could not work between them. Max was still a duke. Nothing could change that unfortunate fact. But...Tristan had simply been unable to refuse him.
“I love you.”
Max, the Duke of Pelham, loved h
im.
The edges of Tristan’s lips lifted.
Before hard practicalities could rear their head again, Tristan pushed them aside. He didn’t want to ruin the wonderful warmth that filled his chest, that feeling of being loved by Max, just yet.
Turning his shoulders to Morgan, he stuck out his hand. “Mr. Tristan Walsh.”
Morgan’s large hand engulfed Tristan’s, his grip firm yet gentle. “Mr. Jack Morgan.”
“Figured we should have a proper introduction, considering we’ll be spending a bit of time together. Your employer is a very stubborn man.”
What could almost classify as a smile curved Morgan’s mouth. “I prefer to think of him as determined.”
Tristan couldn’t help but agree with Morgan.
Chapter Nineteen
“I hope roasted chicken meets with your approval.” Max set the wicker basket on the small dining table. “Wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I had my kitchen pack up what was on the menu for this evening.”
The man’s perfectly tailored black coat couldn’t hide the stiffness in his shoulders. Head tipped down, Max pulled a bottle of Bordeaux from the basket.
Max was uncertain, and nervous. The self-confidence he usually wore like a second skin gone. And the fact he had knocked on Tristan’s door at precisely seven had not been lost on Tristan. Mayfair was across Town, and this time of day, the streets tended to be quite busy. Even a very skilled driver would find it impossible to time an arrival so accurately. Tristan would not be surprised in the slightest to learn Max had arrived early and lingered outside the building until the appointed time had arrived.
Unable to keep the smile from his lips, Tristan dropped down before the hearth and prodded the fire. “Chicken sounds wonderful, though I do hope there happen to be plates in that basket.” The previous occupant had left not but a glass.
“Had the kitchen pack everything we’d need, including plates and cutlery.” And wineglasses, as Max proved as he unwrapped one from a stark white linen napkin.
Tristan rested the iron poker against the brick fireplace surround and pushed to his feet. “Can I lend you a hand with that?”
“No. Sit. Relax. I can manage setting a table.”
Tristan didn’t argue. He took a seat on the couch, though it was difficult to keep from grinning as he watched Max ready the table for their supper.
He loves me.
Max set out the plates, poured the wine and then removed the silver covers from the serving dishes. The scents of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread filled the parlor. Tristan’s stomach rumbled.
After fiddling with the placement of the knives and forks beside the two plates, Max finally turned to Tristan. “Supper is served,” he said with a bow worthy of one of his diligent footmen.
“Thank you, Max.” Tristan pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “It looks delicious. I’m famished.” His stomach rumbled once again, this time louder.
A furrow pulled Max’s brow as he sat in the chair next to Tristan’s. “Did you not have breakfast this morning?”
“No time. Was just able to make it to the shop without being late.”
“My apologies. I kept you, and—”
“Think nothing of it.” Tristan brushed aside Max’s concern. “Mr. Foster allowed me a break around noon, and I grabbed a bite from one of the street vendors.”
If anything, the explanation made Max’s frown heavier. Tristan wasn’t certain which part didn’t meet with Max’s satisfaction—Max’s role in Tristan’s lack of a breakfast, the fact Tristan had purchased luncheon from a street vendor or the mention of his new job. But Max kept his thoughts to himself.
The chicken proved to be indeed delicious, but he had come to expect no less from Max’s kitchens. The man employed excellent chefs.
“What do you prefer?” Max asked, between bites.
“My favorite meal? Pork cutlets with peas. We had mainly chickens and cows on the farm, but there were a few hogs. Most went to market, but every now and then, my father would send one to the butcher and we could have pork for a few suppers.”
Max nodded once. Tristan had the feeling if Max dined with him again, that basket would include pork cutlets with peas.
He smiled. It was nice to have Max so determined to please him...outside of a bedchamber.
He just wants you in his bed again.
Tristan’s smile dimmed.
“I hate sleeping alone.” Those had been the first words out of Max’s mouth when Tristan had let him into his rooms last night.
“I missed having a man in my bed.” Max’s whispered confession during their first night in Hampshire sounded in Tristan’s head.
Drunk as a wheelbarrow and seconds after a climax—both occasions when stark, untainted honesty tended to fall from a man’s lips.
“How was your first day?”
Max’s question jolted Tristan’s thoughts to the present. “It went very well. I think Mr. Foster was pleased with me.” The gruff old man wasn’t the easiest to read, but he hadn’t outright complained about anything Tristan had done, so he took that as a good sign. “Today was a test of sorts. I passed, and I can return again tomorrow.”
“Of course he’d allow you to return. He’s fortunate to have you.”
“I would like to agree with you, but it’s actually more the other way around.” Tristan took a sip of wine. “To say it’s difficult to secure a position without experience or a letter of recommendation would be an understatement. Even offering to work for free, I had to beg him to take me on, and I count myself very fortunate he agreed to give me a day to prove myself.”
Max paused, fork suspended midway to his mouth. “He’s not paying you?”
“Correct. I’m his apprentice. If anything, I should be paying him. He’s teaching me how to be a tailor.”
For that, he earned a scowl. “Is that really what you want to do? Become a tailor?”
Tristan shrugged. “It isn’t something I’ve aspired to all my life.” There wasn’t anything he had ever particularly aspired to. “But I have a fondness for fine clothes. It is work I think I’ll enjoy, and it’s a respectable position.”
“If you need a letter of recommendation to secure a paying position, I am more than willing to provide you with one.”
“And what would that letter contain? A shop owner would not be interested in how well I can suck your cock, Max.”
“As if I would put such a thing in a letter, Tristan.”
“Don’t get all indignant with me.” He could hear the snap in his tone, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I think my assumption is a very valid one. Not as if I scrubbed your floors or tended to your garden. I earned my wages on my back. That’s the only sort of recommendation you can give—how good of a fuck I am.”
Max’s hand tightened around his fork. Hell, his whole body tightened. As did Tristan’s. For a reason he couldn’t explain, he was suddenly very up for an argument with Max. Hackles raised and a retort just waiting to form on his tongue.
Max let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping. “This isn’t going how I’d hoped.”
“Supper will not end in my bed, Max.”
Tristan pointedly turned his attention back to his plate and focused on cutting a piece of chicken.
Max would leave now. It couldn’t work between them anyway. Max didn’t want Tristan for himself. Max wanted someone who would warm his bed without complaint, and that man wasn’t Tristan anymore.
Still, that didn’t mean he wanted to actually watch Max walk away from him.
He brought his fork to his mouth but the chicken tasted like ash, dry yet thick on his tongue. He had to force himself to swallow it down.
A hand rested on his forearm, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Tristan, tonight isn’t about me t
rying to get back into your bed.”
“Then what is it about, Max?” There was that snap in his voice again, harsh and defensive.
Yet Max didn’t rise to the challenge. “What I begged for this morning. A chance to prove to you that I can be what you need.”
“I need someone who won’t...” Catching the words before they could leave his mouth, Tristan shook his head and turned his attention back to his plate.
“Won’t what?”
He set down his fork. Met Max’s intent gaze. Those dark brown eyes that begged Tristan to confide in him. “Someone who won’t look on me as a whore.” There. He’d said it. It was at the root, the very core, of all his worries, of all his concerns about a real relationship with Max.
“I don’t, Tristan.” A vow, a pledge, spoken in that same quiet tone.
“But that’s what I’ve always been to you.”
Max shook his head. “No. You’ve been a man I greatly enjoy being with who enjoyed being with me. I went to Rubicon’s because I refused to risk repeating the past and being alone...well, it’s damned lonely. I didn’t want to be so alone anymore. Yes, I tried to convince myself if I paid you then it would keep everything in perspective for me. But truthfully? One night with you was all it took. I just wanted to be with you again.”
Tristan’s breaths turned shallow. He was caught in Max’s dark gaze. Caught by the sincerity, the stark, bare honesty.
Slowly breaching the distance between them, Max leaned forward. His hand coasted up Tristan’s arm to cup his jaw. Tristan felt himself leaning toward Max. Their breaths mingled.
“I’ve missed you,” Max whispered against his lips. Tempting him, begging him to give in to the intrinsic pull between them.
The memory of Max’s kiss, the taste of him, the weight of his body pressing Tristan’s into the mattress, the strong comforting arm slung across his waist, holding him... Tristan wanted it again. Needed it. Needed Max.
