by Ava March
Tristan jerked back. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Max didn’t sigh in frustration. He didn’t push. He didn’t cajole. He merely let his hand drop from Tristan’s jaw and straightened in his chair. “I understand.”
“Do you really?”
Max nodded. “I have a lot of ground to make up with you. I know that. I also have patience. Haven’t shown that to you much, but it’s a trait I do possess. Will you allow me to come for supper tomorrow night?”
“Yes.” He prayed he wouldn’t come to regret that yes. Hope, once indulged, would hurt so much more when taken away. “And I apologize for being so rude. For snapping at you. It was uncalled for.” Max’s offer to give him a recommendation had come from a good place, and Tristan had turned it ugly. “But doesn’t it bother you that I don’t agree with everything you want?”
“Not at all. Actually, I’m quite fond of your willingness to stand up to me. I admit, it’s a trait I usually appreciate more after the fact. No one particularly likes to be disagreed with. But, I’m His Grace to everyone else. I’m just Max to you. It’s one of the reasons why I love you.” Looking down, he adjusted the napkin on his lap. “Do...do you still love me?”
“Yes. It’s just...”
“I understand. Give me a chance, that’s all I ask.”
“All right.”
Max glanced back to him. “Any enthusiasm involved?”
Tristan’s lips kicked up. “A bit.”
* * *
Tristan bounded up the stairs, turned the knob and pushed open the door to his rooms. The delicious scent of pork cutlets caused his stomach to rumble. He shut the door behind him and turned the lock. “Have I told you yet that I adore your cook?”
“Yes. A few times.” Standing from the couch, Max chuckled. He folded the newspaper he’d been reading in half and dropped it onto the cushion. “Welcome home. How was the shop today?”
After finding Max waiting outside his building a week ago, Tristan had given him a key. No reason for the man to linger. And having Max there, waiting for him, was a definite improvement over coming home to empty rooms. “Good, though challenging. I learned how to construct a coat. Be certain to thank your tailor the next time he makes one for you. Getting a sleeve to hang properly is not an easy task, and the lining on a coat is much more difficult to get right than a waistcoat.” He crossed to Max and held out a note. “This is for you. From Mr. Morgan.”
Without glancing at the contents, Max tucked the note into his pocket. “Morgan saw to an errand for me,” he said by way of explanation.
Tristan couldn’t help but be curious about the nature of that errand. Morgan hadn’t alluded to it either when he’d given the note to Tristan to give to Max. Then again, Morgan wasn’t a talkative sort. Not that he needed to be in his capacity as Tristan’s bodyguard. A silent and large yet alert companion. Tristan was certain nothing escaped Morgan’s notice. He wasn’t about to admit it to Max, but he found Morgan a comforting presence on their walks to and from Mr. Foster’s, especially the from portion, which took place after the sun had set. “He’s quite a useful fellow.”
“Very much so. I consider him invaluable. I would pay him triple his wages if he’d allow it, but he won’t.”
Tristan shrugged out of his greatcoat and draped it over the back of the armchair, over Max’s greatcoat. “How was your day?”
“Went well. And no, I didn’t spend it completely behind my desk.” They took their seats at the small dining table, with Tristan seated to Max’s right. Max lifted the covers on the silver dishes, revealing the anticipated pork cutlets and peas. “I met Rawling at White’s for a game of billiards. Trounced him soundly, though I would have much rather been trounced by you.”
“You know, you could come right out and say that you miss our afternoon games.”
“I miss our afternoon games.”
The complete lack of hesitation on Max’s part brought a smile to Tristan’s lips. The stiff formality was long gone. He could trace its disappearance to almost a fortnight ago, during their second supper. He had sat through the meal and watched in amazement as Max had let those walls down he used to keep between them outside of the bedchamber. During their afternoons in Hampshire, he had caught glimpses of the man behind the duke. Yet now it was the exception rather than the norm to see a glimpse of the formal duke.
Most importantly, Max seemed happy. Relaxed. He seemed like the young man of three-and-twenty that he was. And it made it so easy to be with him. Like they fit together. That wasn’t to say Max still wasn’t ornery on occasion. He did not like the fact Tristan didn’t earn any wages at the shop. But Tristan could see now that Max’s objection was rooted in concern. Concern that Mr. Foster was taking advantage of Tristan’s desperation to find a position, and not the position itself.
“I miss our afternoons, too. They were a hell of a lot more enjoyable than sewing dozens of little fabric-covered buttons onto waistcoats.” That had to be the task Mr. Foster loathed above all, because it was the one he always gave to Tristan. To call it tedious would be an understatement.
“Speaking of waistcoats, have you sent your family a note yet?”
Clad in a pale blue waistcoat, last night Max had reminded him of their deal from weeks ago. Not that Tristan had forgotten about it. “Yes, I sent it this morning. Well, I asked Mr. Morgan to deliver the note to the post office after he saw me to the shop.” It had taken him so long to write that three-line letter, he’d had to resort to taking a hackney to Mr. Foster’s in order to arrive by nine. “I told my father I was well and living in London, and wished him and my brothers well.”
“Thank you.”
“Far be it for me not to hold up my end of the deal, and you do wear color very well.” Tristan kept his tone light, but he hadn’t missed the way Max’s jaw had briefly tightened at the reminder Tristan now lived in London.
“I also paid one of my uncles a call this morning,” Max said, between bites. “Heard he was in Town. Decided to seek his advice on the copper mine in Cornwall. It’s turning a profit but I sense it could be doing better. He has a hunting lodge near there and plans to visit next week. He offered to take a look at the mine and send me a report with his recommendation. And I...” Letting out a sigh seeped in self-exasperation, he looked to Tristan. Didn’t glance away once as he said, “I apologized for being so rude to him these last few years. Invited him to come shooting at the Park and to bring my other uncle along, if he so desires.” He gave an uncomfortable shrug. “They are family.”
“Have you seen him at all since you inherited?”
“Just about Town and at the occasional supper party. Even then, I kept my distance from him. As if extending more than a polite greeting would mean I couldn’t handle the dukedom myself. Ridiculous of me.”
“Perhaps, but what matters is that you paid him a call today. I take it he accepted your apology?”
“Yes. It wasn’t a comfortable conversation, at least not on my end, but it was a necessary one.”
Tristan marveled at the change in Max. The man he had met almost three months ago would have never considered asking another for advice. Nor would he have shared a simple supper with Tristan, with barely a foot of scratched oak separating them.
Life was grand in Tristan’s small, shabby parlor. The rest of the world far beyond its walls. But Tristan feared their time together was but a brief taste of a happiness they could not possibly sustain. Max couldn’t continue to visit him there forever. Eventually, his responsibilities would push him to return to Arrington Park. And Tristan did not live in Hampshire. As he had written to his father, he lived in London.
When they had eaten their fill, Tristan helped Max pack the plates and serving pieces back into the basket.
“Doesn’t your kitchen staff wonder where you’re eating supper every night and with whom?”
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br /> “It’s not their place to wonder. But if they do, I’m not concerned.” He tucked the towel over the dirty plates and turned to Tristan. “I’ve given them no cause to suspect I’m spending my evenings with the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Desire arched between them, tugged at Tristan’s heart.
“I’ve missed you.” Max’s whisper was drenched in need, heavy with it.
He took a half step to Tristan, slowly closing the distance between them, his gaze fixed on Tristan’s mouth.
His intention could not have been clearer.
If Max kissed him, they would end up in Tristan’s bed. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. One kiss, and Tristan’s ability to resist would dissolve into nothingness.
Tristan took a step back, needing to keep a safe distance from Max. He shook his head.
“When then, Tristan?” Max asked, hurt and disappointed. “It’s been near two weeks. Haven’t I proven myself to you yet?”
“Yes. More than proved.” That’s what made him so determined to resist the temptation of falling into bed with Max again. “But you’re still a duke, Max, and I’m still not one.”
Max let out a noise of purest frustration. “I told you I would handle your feasible issue, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I can’t see how—”
“Tomorrow is Sunday. You do not have to work, correct?” He didn’t wait for Tristan’s confirmation. “Will you spend the day with me?”
“Yes, but—”
Max cut him off again. “Be ready at eleven.” Determination etched in his features, he grabbed the basket and his greatcoat and left the parlor.
Left Tristan wondering exactly what he was to be ready for at eleven tomorrow.
* * *
With the basket and his greatcoat slung over his left elbow, Max knocked on the door with a number seven painted above the knob. He hadn’t an idea of what Morgan did with his time when he wasn’t watching over Tristan, but light seeped from beneath the door, confirming the man was in his rented room.
A few moments’ wait, and he heard the snick of a lock. The door opened halfway, revealing Morgan in his shirtsleeves and without a waistcoat, his black hair mussed.
“I am in need of your assistance.” Max left off the again.
“Did you receive my note?” Per Max’s request days ago, Morgan left off the Your Grace. No need to be conspicuous.
“Yes, and I need you to take me to him.”
“Shall I fetch the team and the old town carriage?”
Morgan didn’t ask why Max needed his assistance when the note contained the necessary address. The man likely believed Max couldn’t manage anything on his own. To some degree though, that belief was true.
“No need. We can take a hackney.”
A nod from Morgan. “If you can give me a moment to grab my coat, we can be on our way.” He shut the door, leaving Max in the narrow corridor.
Shifting his weight, Max glanced behind him, to the closed door of the room opposite Morgan’s. The sound of a man and woman arguing made its way through the thin, old door. Why was it that as the cost of place decreased, the noise level went up? The amount of dust went up, too. Random cobwebs clung to the edges where the walls covered in yellowing paper met the ceiling. Surely a room there wasn’t even worth a couple of coins a night. He’d given Morgan twenty pounds to cover expenses incurred while keeping Tristan safe. No doubt the man would return most of it as unspent.
Likely should see to his own coat while he waited. After setting the basket on the bare floorboards, Max donned his greatcoat.
What was taking Morgan so long?
Clad in a greatcoat over a plain brown coat and matching waistcoat, with his hair combed so it no longer looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, Morgan finally emerged from the room. He shut the door behind him and made to walk away.
“Don’t you need to lock it?” Max asked as he reached down to grab the basket.
Face blank, Morgan blinked. “No. Nothing of value in there anyway.”
They made their way out onto the street. Max stopped a hackney and Morgan gave the driver the address. Before they got into the cab, Max glanced back to the hotel. The third window from the left on the second floor wasn’t dark. Morgan had left at least one candle lit. As Max made to turn his head, he caught the outline of a figure moving behind the threadbare curtain. A broad-shouldered figure.
Unlike himself, his driver wasn’t spending his nights alone.
Looking to Morgan, Max motioned for him to precede him into the cab.
Yet like himself, it appeared his driver preferred men.
He had never given it much thought before, but it made sense. Given the various errands Morgan had handled for him, it had to be obvious to Morgan by now that Max preferred men. Never once, though, had he detected even a hint of revulsion or disapproval from Morgan. And the gambling hell Max had visited over six years ago was one known to attract like-minded patrons. No more than twenty paces from its front door and right beyond the darkened alley where Max had discovered his fondness for sucking cock, Morgan had come to his aid. Morgan had to have seen Max leave that hell, yet he hadn’t stood aside and allowed a sod to be beaten to a bloody pulp.
Max could only hope whomever Morgan had left behind in his room made him happy in the same way Tristan made Max happy.
After tonight, there would only be one obstacle or complaint or however one wanted to classify it standing between him and lifelong happiness. Tristan had thrown a number of issues at Max’s feet, each a reason that should keep them apart. One by one, Max had dealt with them. He’d even purchased a half a dozen waistcoats from his tailor in a variety of colors. If that was what it took to make Tristan happy, so be it.
The hollow rattle of wheels over a bridge filled the cab as they made their way across the Thames. He wasn’t looking forward to tonight’s errand, but it was a necessity. A Chapter of his life he needed to put closure on. While a part of him had believed Tristan had been wrong, another part had come to suspect over the past fortnight that perhaps Tristan had had it right. The prospect did not sit well, but he would deal with it and see it through to a satisfactory resolution.
Tomorrow... Well, tomorrow was another matter entirely. He’d devised a solution, done the necessary research. Identified the risks, weighed them and decided there weren’t any to cause concern. The trick would be in gaining Tristan’s agreement.
If Tristan refused...
Cold fear gripped his gut.
The hackney slowed to a stop before a plain brick building three floors in height. Situated a couple of streets beyond Vauxhall Gardens, it was at least an improvement over Jonathan’s last apartments.
Reaching for the metal lever on the door, Max did his best to pull his mind from the fear in his gut and turn his attention to the errand at hand. “I won’t be but a few minutes,” he told Morgan. Then he exited the hackney and went up the stone steps to the building’s front door.
Chapter Twenty
Tristan gave his horse a nudge of his heels. The mare obediently lengthened her stride to keep up with Max’s burly black hunter. The late-October sun had chosen to make an appearance, its rays providing enough warmth to keep the snap in the air from approaching uncomfortably chill.
Max hadn’t said much since he had shown up at Tristan’s at ten minutes to eleven with the mare in tow. All Tristan knew was they were having a luncheon in the country. Judging by their path out of London, the location of said luncheon was somewhere north of the city.
Harvested farm fields and wide swaths of pastures, the grass no longer the pure green of summer, slipped by on either side of them as they continued to make their way north. He took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, crisp scent one associated with autumn. He was acutely aware of the lack of noi
se. Ever-busy London was never fully quiet. Be it his neighbors in the building or the sounds from the street drifting through his closed windows. Since he and Max had left London behind, only the rhythmic sounds of their horses’ hooves against the dirt road broke the peaceful silence of the countryside.
He smiled as he glanced around him, the leaves on a maple they passed a beautiful deep red.
“Almost there,” Max called over his shoulder. Reins in one hand, he pointed with the other to a splash of blue in the distance.
Following Max, Tristan guided his horse off the road. They cut across a field then pulled to a stop beside a tree near a decent-sized pond.
Tristan swung his leg over the mare’s back and dropped to his feet. He winced, his thigh muscles protesting. The journey had taken no more than a couple of hours, but it had been a few weeks since he’d ridden a horse for any length of time.
“Just tie the reins to a limb. She’ll be fine here.” After tying his own horse, Max unbuckled the two leather saddlebags from the sides of his saddle. Rutger tossed his black head, eager to be off again. Max gave the horse a gentle pat on the neck, murmured something under his breath, and the massive stallion quieted.
Max took a red plaid blanket from a bag and laid it out on the pond’s grassy bank. “I hope sandwiches of cold meats and cheeses are acceptable.” With a little motion, he flicked the length of his greatcoat behind him and sat down, one leg stretched out before him, the other casually bent.
“If it came from your kitchen, I’m certain it will be delicious,” Tristan said, settling on the other side of the blanket, the saddlebags between them.
“After I left your parlor, I saw to an errand last night.” Max’s attention was on the bag as he pulled out two sandwiches, each wrapped in a white linen napkin, and a bottle of wine. “Paid Jonathan—Mr. Peterson—a short visit.”
“You did?” Was that jealousy that pushed him to sit up straighter? Yes, Tristan was pretty sure that’s what it was, and he did not much care for the feeling. And he really did not care for the thought of Max visiting his ex-lover.
