by Ava March
Oliver’s response was a sleepy grumble.
Likely the man would sleep a bit longer. Vincent coasted his hand down the sleek lines of Oliver’s back and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” Oliver’s mouth barely moved, the words a mere thin, raspy whisper, but Vincent heard them nonetheless.
A smile on his lips, he snagged the rumpled coverlet from the other side of Oliver and draped it over his back, and then crossed to the narrow door next to the washstand. As he passed through the small dressing room, he dropped the clothes into another bin so his housekeeper, Mrs. Hollister, would see to them. He selected a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers from a shelf, grabbed a waistcoat and coat from the hooks on the wall, and went through the other door and into his bedchamber.
He tugged open the draperies, letting the full force of the morning sun stream into the room. A beautiful day, but judging by the chill seeping through the windowpanes, a decidedly cold one. Fortunately he had no plans to leave the house. The stack of paperwork on his desk needed his attention.
The water in the basin on the washstand proved just as cold as in Oliver’s room, but he used it nonetheless to wash up and shave and did not bother Mrs. Hollister with a request for warm water. As he dressed, he paused to pull back the navy coverlet and rumple the white pillows on his bed. A simple enough task, and all it took to keep his housekeeper unaware of the fact ages had passed since he’d laid his head on one of those pillows. Leaving his valet behind when he traveled helped as well. Vincent found keeping the full extent of his relationship with Oliver hidden surprisingly easy while at the country estate. They rarely went into the nearby village and did not mix with the local society, preferring to keep to the house. The last thing he needed was for any marriage-minded young misses in the area to brand him an eligible bachelor. London posed a bit more of a challenge, so much so the worry of discovery still resided, lurking in the back of his mind. Still, he had to admit Oliver had been correct. He was “goddamn Lord Vincent Prescot.” A man no one would ever suspect would bugger another man.
A self-deprecating chuckle rumbled his chest as he lifted his chin to form the long length of white linen into a neat Mathematical knot. God forbid if anyone knew just how…unique his preferences ran.
The cravat seen to, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his bottle green coat. A few nights had passed since he and Oliver had indulged in more exotic play, and Oliver needed to return to London soon. Though the companion they had hired for his grandmother would not protest if they remained in Rotherham for an additional week, as a business owner, Oliver should not be absent from his bookshop for much longer than a fortnight. And in Rotherham, under the cover of darkness and surrounded by acres of grassy fields, he needn’t worry Oliver’s shouts of pleasure would rouse the suspicions of any neighbors.
With that tantalizing thought fresh in his head, he made his way downstairs. First breakfast and a hot cup of coffee, followed by the post and the stack of paperwork on his desk, and then perhaps later he’d have the pleasure of hearing the full force of Oliver’s need.
Chapter Two
Eyes closed, Lord Oliver Marsden reached out a hand, palm coasting over rumpled sheets. Cool, without a trace of warmth from Vincent’s body. It seemed like just a second ago when he heard the faint creaks of the floorboards as Vincent left the room, but he must have fallen back to sleep.
He should get up. Not laze away any more of the morning. But his bed at Vincent’s country house felt so much more comfortable than his old bed at his bachelor apartments in Town. Even the sheets were softer, and though no longer as warm, they still carried Vincent’s scent.
He took a deep, full breath, letting the air slowly fill his lungs. The distinct scents of Vincent’s skin and male sweat and…sex. He let out a low grunt. By God, Vincent excelled at sucking cock. Not a surprise—Vincent excelled at everything he put his mind to. And he had clearly put his mind to mastering all the options he could have at his disposal to render Oliver senseless. Unbelievable to think a time had existed when Vincent refused to even consider touching his lips to Oliver’s prick. The once hard, remote man, the one who insisted on keeping Oliver at arm’s length the moment they stepped into the bedchamber, was long gone. Vincent still held the reins of control—never let them slip completely through his fingers—though Oliver had yet to attempt to tug them free. Even when he was sucking Oliver off, the man held him in the palm of his hand. But now, even when they played their more extreme games, an undeniable current of true intimacy rode behind every touch, every command, every kiss from Vincent’s whip. An intimacy that said louder than words that Vincent loved him.
Hearing the words felt quite nice as well.
Smiling, he tugged the coverlet higher to cover his shoulders, seeking its warmth. Perhaps if he drifted back to sleep, he’d awaken again with Vincent’s mouth on his prick. Lovely thought, though highly improbable. Unless he remained in bed until nightfall, after the housekeeper left.
Still, a very nice thought. Sleep began to tug heavily at his mind. Vincent would be tucked behind his desk until at least midafternoon. And today was… He scrunched his brow, trying to orient his sleep-fogged brain to the correct day of the week…Wednesday. Nowhere he needed to be—
Hell.
He flung off the covers and forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Hanging his head, he scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
The Widow Middleton. He was due at her home that afternoon. He should get up now to avoid running the risk of falling back to sleep and missing the appointment altogether.
Shielding his eyes as he passed through the rays of sunlight cutting through the breaks in the drapes, he padded over to the washstand. He splashed water on his face and grabbed his straight razor. Chin tilted up, razor poised over his jaw, he paused. Leaned closer to the mirror. Brushed a fingertip over the bruise on his throat, over Vincent’s mark.
Chuckling to himself, he set the razor to his jaw. After seeing to the shave, he dragged his fingers though his hair, doing his best to tame the unruly waves.
He pulled trousers, drawers, cravat, and a white shirt from the chest of drawers, tugged them on, and then went into the small dressing room. He snagged a cream waistcoat from a hook along the wall and slipped it on. The brown coat? Definitely his favorite but, well, a bit worn about the edges. His gaze fell on the black coat hanging on a peg beside the brown one. For an appointment, the black would be the better choice. Better fit and never worn, so no chance of frayed cuffs. It would make him appear more creditable. Like he actually had cause to own a bookshop.
He reached out, then paused, hand hovering an inch from the fine black wool. A frown pulled his lips. Vincent had purchased the coat for him two months ago. What was to have been a simple outing on St. James Street to pick up Vincent’s repaired pocket watch had ended at a tailor’s shop. Caught unaware, he had allowed Vincent to herd him into that shop, and once there, he could only silently relent to Vincent’s whims lest he give the tailor reason to wonder about the source of his protests.
But however much Oliver did not agree with it, the deed was done. Past time he got over his reluctance to wear the thing. He had brought the coat with him, hadn’t he? Yet he could not forget that uncomfortable feeling as he had stood for Vincent’s tailor, never mind the fact that Vincent had never once asked if he even wanted a new coat. The man had simply taken the matter into his own hands and expected Oliver to bow his head and do as he bid. Expectations Oliver relished behind closed doors. Outside of a bedchamber though…
With a shake of his head, he pushed the mix of bruised pride and impotent frustration aside and grabbed the brown coat. The day had started wonderfully. No need to ruin it for himself.
The coat buttoned, he picked up the jade pin from the bedside table and went back over to the washstand. Lifting his chin, he affixed the pin to the simple knot on his cravat. Then he studied his refl
ection in the oval mirror above the washstand. Not straight. He removed the pin, tugged the knot, and reaffixed the pin. Not perfect, but better.
On his way out of the room, he grabbed his wire-rimmed spectacles from the top of the chest of drawers and slipped them on.
The runner in the short corridor muffled his footsteps as he made his way downstairs. It wasn’t a plush Aubusson rug like those in Vincent’s stately white stucco town house. Rather it was simple and functional, fitting the quaint country house. Oliver spent a fair amount of time at both of Vincent’s homes, and he felt much more at his ease in Rotherham, where a footman didn’t lurk about every corner.
And he knew for certain Vincent felt more comfortable being with him here. Vincent even shared a bed with him in the country. In London, that only happened at Oliver’s bachelor apartments. But at least more often than not he stayed until dawn.
“Good morning, Lord Oliver.” Mrs. Hollister turned from the sideboard, an ivory coffeepot in hand, as Oliver entered the dining room. Short and plump, with a ready smile crinkling the edges of her hazel eyes, the housekeeper was the most pleasant servant Oliver had ever encountered. The cleaning, the laundry, the cooking… She saw to it all and never appeared the least put out by even the most mundane of requests. A stark contrast to the formal versions at the town house or the surly ones that had inhabited his childhood home.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Hollister. And a wonderfully fine morning it is.” He indicated the windows lining one wall, the drapes open, revealing the expanse of sun-warmed grass on the side of the house.
“Mighty fine indeed.” She lifted the ivory pot. “The coffee’s gone cold. If you’d like, I will deliver your cup to the study.”
“Thank you.” He picked up a small plate from the sideboard, ignored the two silver covered dishes, and selected a tart from the neat pile of pastries on the oval platter.
She bobbed a short curtsy before turning on her heel and disappearing through the narrow door that led to the kitchen, her dark brown skirts swooshing about her ankles.
Oliver found Vincent tucked behind his large desk in the study, dark head tipped down and silver pen in hand. The simple yet elegantly tailored bottle green coat accentuated the broad width of his shoulders; the stark white cravat framed his strong jaw. Vincent fit perfectly in the room with its heavy, masculine furniture and rich, mahogany wood, as if it had been made for him.
“Good morning, Oliver.” Vincent made a notation on the paper before him, then looked up. A trace of disapproval flickered across his face. “You are aware Mrs. Hollister is quite adept at cooking a proper breakfast?”
Oliver took an unabashed bite of the raspberry tart. “Indeed, but her skill with pastries knows no rival.”
Ignoring Vincent’s arched brow, he set the plate on the small table beside the leather couch and, taking another bite of the tart, crossed to the mahogany shelves flanking the gray marble fireplace. Though not a large room, every inch of available space along the walls of the study was given over to books. All lined up like neat little soldiers, as if they knew their master would not tolerate otherwise.
Oliver finished the tart, wiped his hands on his trousers, and, unable to resist the lure, reached out. “Are you certain you don’t want to part with any of your books?” He pulled a volume from a shelf, traced a finger lovingly over the embossed leather-bound cover. It would make a perfect addition to his bookshop.
“Yes, I’m certain.” Another scratch of pen on paper.
Oliver frowned. “I’ll pay you a fair price.”
“I don’t need the money.”
He carefully opened the cover. An attempt to flip the first page revealed the pages had not been cut. Physical proof no one, least of all Vincent, had yet to read this particular book. A shame, really, to allow it to linger on the shelf for no other purpose than appearance’s sake. “But you don’t read them.”
“You do.”
His fingertip paused on the edges of the uncut pages. The man kept all those books for him. It shouldn’t mean so much. Vincent certainly did not need the funds a sale could bring; still… He slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and looked to Vincent. As if sensing his stare, Vincent glanced up.
“Thank you, Vincent.”
A crisp tip of his head and Vincent turned his attention back to his work, but he couldn’t hide the faint hint of a blush tingeing his cheeks.
Aware he had left the study door open, Oliver kept from voicing the love you on the tip of his tongue and instead grabbed Shakespeare’s Othello from the mantle and settled on the couch to pick up where he had left off yesterday evening.
The patter of slippers on floorboards announced the housekeeper’s arrival. “The post has arrived, Lord Vincent.” She handed Oliver his cup of coffee, then placed the small silver tray on the corner of Vincent’s desk. She received the same crisp tip of the head for her efforts. “Is there anything I can get for you, my lord?”
“No, thank you.” Vincent took a letter from the top of the stack and, using the silver letter opener he had pulled from a desk drawer, broke the wax seal.
At her questioning glance, Oliver shook his head. He had everything he needed at the moment in the study with him—coffee, a book, and Vincent. After taking his empty plate, she left the room.
Oliver brought his cup to his lips and took a sip, savoring the hot, rich liquid as it flowed down his throat. With a little clink, he set down the cup and flipped to the appropriate page in Othello. Within no time at all, the book pulled him in. Even the crinkle of paper as Vincent went through the pile of letters seemed to fade to nothingness.
“Oliver.”
The hint of a reprimand behind Vincent’s voice had Oliver’s head snapping up. “Yes?” Vincent’s stare indicated he expected a response other than a yes. Clearly Oliver had missed something. “My apologies. I was not”—he lifted the book from his lap, showing Vincent his excuse—“listening.”
Fortunately Vincent didn’t appear at all put out. Rather than an imperiously raised eyebrow, Oliver found a smile lurking on his mouth.
“Congratulations are in order. I am now an uncle.”
“Lady Grafton already had the baby?” Oliver asked, referring to Vincent’s older brother’s wife. To his knowledge, the doctor had not anticipated the arrival for another fortnight.
“Yes. Four days ago, and Grafton reports the child is in good health.”
His pulse sped up. His grip tightened on the book. It was Grafton’s first child, he told himself in an effort to prepare for the very real possibility of disappointment. The man had married less than a year ago—it had not taken Vincent long at all to convince his elder brother to honor his unspoken commitment to Lady Juliana and to follow Vincent’s lead. However, unlike Vincent, the treasured heir had not been cut off for refusing to serve as a pawn to further their father’s greedy ambitions by marrying a duke’s daughter. Fortunately Vincent’s bank account was large enough so the loss of his quarterly allowance had not proved a hardship. The loss of his father’s notice…rather hard to miss something one never had to begin with.
It was much too early to worry overmuch about the gender of the baby. Juliana, Lady Grafton, was a young woman, and with Grafton only a few years older than Vincent’s twenty-six, plenty of years lay ahead of them. But if the baby was a boy…
Oliver briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and asked as casually as he could, “Do you have a new niece or nephew?”
A smile that held a distinct note of relief spread across Vincent’s mouth. “A nephew. The honorable Christopher David Prescot, the new second in line to the Saye and Sele marquessate.”
A tremor of excitement racked his body. It was all he could do not to jump to his feet and let out a shout of pure joy. He did, however, grin like a damn fool. “Congratulations, Vincent.”
“Thank you for the congratulations, Oliver. Though in this instance, I believe Grafton deserves them more than I.” Vincent reached across his desk
to grab the silver pen in the holder beside the inkwell. “In fact, I should pen him a note this moment.”
As Vincent took out a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and began writing, Oliver tried to turn his attention back to his book, but Othello no longer held his interest.
His attention was drawn back to Vincent. The end of his pen caught the sunlight streaming through the windows as he wrote the note. His dark head was tipped down, a hint of a smile still tugging at the edges of his mouth. His broad shoulders square and straight, as always.
He’s now truly mine.
Warmth filled Oliver’s chest. Hell, it filled his entire being as a sense of—he could only describe it as calm—settled over him. It wasn’t as if he had worried about losing Vincent on a daily basis. But that lingering threat, the one that hung in the distance with more menace than the most ominous of thunderclouds, had vanished.
Grafton had produced the next heir to secure the future of the marquessate. No more worries his lover would feel compelled to do his duty and take a wife, or that Oliver would be forced to someday walk away from the man he loved.
Vincent was his.
Forever.
“Love you,” he said, barely a whisper, unable to keep it inside.
The pen stilled. Vincent didn’t lift his head, didn’t pull his gaze from the letter. His lashes still kissed his cheekbones, but his mouth moved. Oliver couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He’d watched Vincent’s lips form those words enough times to know exactly what he had said.
Smiling, he adjusted the book on his lap and gave Shakespeare another chance to draw him in. The familiar sounds of Vincent working drifted around him. The faint creak of leather as he shifted his weight in his chair. The scratch of a pen on paper. The shuffle of paper. The little noises did not annoy him, did not scrub across his nerves. Rather they kept his focus firmly on the man he loved.
He closed the book, giving it up as a lost cause, at least for today. “Do you mind if I borrow your carriage this afternoon?”
