Convincing Arthur

by Ava March

  A holiday in the country to indulge his wildest fantasies…

  London Legal, Book 1

  Arthur Barrington knows exactly what he wants. A practical man. Someone who values discretion. Commitment. In other words, someone like himself. His old friend, Leopold Thornton, an overindulged son of a wealthy viscount with a reputation for vice and debauchery, couldn’t be less of a good candidate.

  Yet when Leopold extends an invitation to his country estate, Arthur agrees. Perhaps a holiday with the sinfully beautiful man will help him get over a recent breakup. Then he can return to his thriving London law practice and resume his quiet life.

  Ten years ago, Leopold learned the hard way that patience doesn’t always have its rewards. Now that he has Arthur all to himself, he isn’t going to let a second opportunity pass him by. And he certainly isn’t above using pleasure to tempt Arthur into his bed.

  Leopold has only a few days to open Arthur’s eyes to the possibility that he’s the man Arthur is looking for. That his love is genuine—and he’s worthy of Arthur’s heart.

  Warning: Includes a gorgeous bad boy who’s been in love with a conservative solicitor for a decade. Indecent acts in a forest between two hot men. Angst. More explicit sex. And expectations turned upside down.

  Convincing Arthur

  Ava March

  Dedication

  To my family and friends, who make my world a better place.

  Chapter One

  November 1821

  Yorkshire, England

  The deep amber rays of the setting sun gently receded, cloaking the study in twilight shadows. Sprawled in a comfortable leather armchair, Leopold Thornton glanced over his shoulder. The lit candle on the fireplace mantel illuminated the white porcelain clock.

  Damn.

  He yanked his pocket watch from his waistcoat and scowled at the small black hands. Apparently the clock on the mantel wasn’t broken. In any case, clocks in need of repair tended to slow down, not speed up.

  He slipped his watch back into his pocket and scrubbed both hands over his face. “Where the hell are you?”

  Arthur Barrington should have arrived hours ago. And not just a couple of hours, but many hours ago. The autumn weather had been remarkably cooperative of late, with barely a sprinkle of a rain shower. Leopold had even taken out Vice, his iron-gray stallion, yesterday afternoon to verify the excellent condition of the roads surrounding his Yorkshire country home.

  Ignoring the untouched glass of whisky and the nearly full bottle on the small table beside his chair, he stood and crossed to the window. He pressed his cheek to the glass, trying to get a glimpse of the gravel drive leading to the front door, but the large oak trees blocked his view. Why did the architect have to put the study on the side of the house? Bloody idiot.

  Maybe he should move to the drawing room. The two windows afforded an unobstructed view of the front lawn. But…no. Cold seeped through the glass, chilling his cheek, reminding him in no uncertain terms that it was November. The fire a maid had lit hours ago in the study’s hearth warmed the room. But as he rarely used the drawing room, its hearth would be dark, leaving the room damn cold.

  Scowling at the oak trees, he let out a frustrated sigh, his breath fogging the glass. Then he turned from the window and began pacing. Past the marble fireplace flanked by tall bookshelves to his rarely used desk, which dominated the end of the room, and then back, passing the unread books, the armchairs and the leather couch, and to the door and back again. The silvery violet shadows grew darker as night descended, until only the candle on the mantel lit the room. Possible excuses for Arthur’s tardiness tumbled about in his head. Perhaps a client had needed his assistance, delaying his departure from London. A busy, successful solicitor like Arthur must surely have demanding clients. Leopold’s own father, Viscount Granville, being one of them. But Arthur defined punctual. Leopold couldn’t recall the man ever being late for anything.

  Perhaps Arthur had mistaken the date? No, no. He had checked his schedule. Even pulled the little leather-bound book from his coat pocket and written a note to block out the days.

  There was no family to keep Arthur in Town with unexpected demands on his time. He was an only child, and his parents had passed away long before Leopold had first laid eyes on him. The uncle who raised him had gone to his grave years ago. And there were no other obligations beside his office that Leopold knew of.

  But perhaps—

  The click of a knob turning interrupted his pacing. He whirled around as the door opened, revealing Jones, his middle-aged footman. The man had an unattractive receding hairline and a well-fed belly, but his competence in his duties and his ability to hold his tongue more than made up for his appearance.

  “Mr. Thornton, shall I instruct the kitchen to continue to hold supper?”

  “No.” Leopold shook his head. “Give it to the staff. They’ll appreciate it more than I.” His knotted stomach could not tolerate a piece of bread right now, much less roasted chicken with carrots and potatoes, Arthur’s favorite.

  “Thank you, sir.” With a tip of his head, the footman left the room. The door clicked shut.

  Fucking hell.

  Leopold stalked to the armchair, snatched the glass from the side table and downed the contents in one swallow. The whisky burned a searing path to his stomach, leaving his throat numb, but did nothing to dull the pain in his chest.

  He could fool himself no longer. Arthur had given him a rather sharp cut. Not that Leopold hadn’t borne his fair share of them over the years with nary a flinch, but this one had come from Arthur Barrington. It hurt more than he could have believed that the man had given him hope only to snatch it away, without even speaking one word.

  To think he had actually believed Arthur when he accepted Leopold’s invitation for a short holiday at his country estate. Knowing Arthur rarely had the opportunity to indulge his fondness for hunting and shooting, Leopold had tempted him with the prospect of early mornings trudging about the countryside with firearms searching for pheasants.

  “But even that wasn’t enough of an incentive to put up with my presence,” he muttered, as he stared into his empty glass.

  His chance was gone. Yanked from his grasp by Arthur himself.

  His hand shook, the clink of glass on glass harsh on his ears as he poured a healthy splash of whisky into the cut-crystal tumbler. The second glass went down easier, the first tendrils of blissful numbness spreading across his chest. Another large swallow, and then another, until the pain was finally reduced to a tolerable ache. An ache he knew well.

  Well, at least Leopold had his answer now, and he didn’t have to bear the humiliation of looking into those gorgeous hazel eyes and hearing it from Arthur’s lips.

  What decent man wanted what was freely available to most of London anyway?

  Leopold let out a defeated sigh and dropped into the armchair. He set the empty tumbler on the table beside the half-full bottle and tipped his head back. “It’s your own doing,” he said to the coffered ceiling, its pattern of rich mahogany beams nearly indistinguishable in the darkness from the white plasterwork. “Damn well will give yourself over to anyone who will have you.”

  Yet each and every one of them had been a very poor substitute for the man he loved. A man whom Leopold now stood no chance in hell of convincing that he was worthy of his heart.

  Ten years of waiting, all for naught.

  How many times had he cursed his patience over those long, lonely years? How many times had he vowed never to make the same mistake again? If only he had acted quicker, if only he had decided to visit Arthur’s apartments one day sooner to make his interest known, then perhaps Arthur could have been his all along. But how the hell was he supposed to have known the man
would take up with that prig, Randolph Amherst?

  A damn pompous, lying, cuckolding prig like Amherst. What had Arthur seen in him anyway?

  Leopold certainly would have never propositioned someone like himself if Arthur had been his. Hell, perhaps he should have sucked Amherst off when he had the opportunity and then informed Arthur about the incident, revealing Amherst for the man he was. Maybe Arthur would have left his lover sooner, cutting the ten years down to a more manageable five. Still…it really would have only proved Leopold a whore.

  “But that I am.” The low words held a mere hint of the regret that filled his heart. He had known his reputation, and a well-deserved one at that, would pose a formidable obstacle. Not so easy to ignore a decade of vice and debauchery. He had hoped if he got Arthur alone, away from London and away from the vicious and entirely true rumors, he could convince the man his affections were genuine. Or at the very least, use pleasure to bind Arthur to him. Ironic, yes, to regret his sordid past while at the same time be willing to exploit his experience, but he was desperate for something, anything, to make the man want him. He knew a declaration of love from Arthur at the end of their holiday wasn’t within the realm of possibilities, but he had dared to hope perhaps their time together could put Arthur on that path. Yet apparently Arthur wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship, even if only physical, with someone like himself.

  He turned his head to the side and stared at the empty glass. The golden light from the fire behind him reflected off the crystal facets. Clearly he hadn’t had enough to drink if his thoughts had turned in such a maudlin direction. He might have to switch to gin. Enough of it, and tonight would be nothing but a blank void.

  But that involved getting out of the chair and crossing the room to the squat cabinet along the far wall. Not a task he particularly relished at the moment, especially with whisky within arm’s reach.

  His hand was wrapped around the glass bottle when the faint sound of carriage wheels on gravel reached his ears.

  He froze, every sense focused on the crunch of gravel and the rhythmic pattern of horses’ hooves, the sounds coming ever nearer.

  This wasn’t London where visitors came calling to his town house at all hours of the night. He was in Yorkshire and only expecting one person.

  Heart thumping, he bolted up from the chair and rushed to the door. Hand on the knob, he paused to gather his bearings, his head spinning from the abrupt movement. Well, more likely the liquor he’d poured down his throat.

  A deep breath righted his head but did nothing to slow his pulse. The prospect of having Arthur all to himself for four days…and nights…

  Six feet of solid muscle to wrap his arms around. Finally being able to touch what lay behind those bland, neatly tailored clothes. Discovering if Arthur tasted as good as he looked…

  A giddy thrill zipped along his nerves, chased with a heavy dose of lust. A tremor shook his body, his cock stirring to life behind the placket of his trousers. A grin that had to appear foolish curved his lips.

  Arthur hadn’t given him a cut after all.

  He gave his coat a sharp tug, smoothed a hand over his hair and checked the knot on his cravat. Then he gave his coat another sharp tug to straighten it.

  “Oh, do stop,” he chastised himself, forcing his arms to his sides and the grin off his mouth. It wouldn’t do to appear overeager. But…Arthur had come. The man knew why he was here; subtlety was not one of Leopold’s strengths, after all. Both of them knew the purpose behind his invitation, and it involved indulging in something far more pleasurable than a shooting expedition. And that knowledge would prove difficult to temper.

  Still, he did not want to risk scaring the conservative man away before he even spent one night under his roof.

  With that thought, Leopold opened the door and went to the entrance hall to greet his guest.

  Arthur leaned toward the window to get a view of the house as the carriage approached it. Neat and understated, the two-story country home didn’t look like a den of iniquity. Even the front door was plain and utilitarian, without even a portico over the small stone landing. But the many chimneys jutting from the roofline marked it as far more than a mere cottage. The lanterns stationed on either side of the door illuminated the rich, honey-gold stone on the exterior of the house. The size and elegant, clean lines brought to mind a typical residence of a country gentleman, and it was not at all what he expected from someone like Leopold Thornton. Then again, appearances could be deceiving. He shrugged. Soon enough he’d discover if the inside of the house resembled a cross between a gambling hell and decadent brothel.

  He tucked the papers he had been reading back into his leather bag and doused the small brass lantern, cloaking the interior in darkness. A part of him still could not believe he had accepted Thornton’s invitation. Nor did he believe Thornton only intended for them to go shooting together. Yet here Arthur was.

  Casual liaisons went against his nature, but perhaps four days with Thornton could be just the thing to take his mind off Randolph Amherst. He could not deny it still hurt that Randolph had not put up even a show of resistance when Arthur refused to continue their relationship. Apparently he meant far less to Randolph than Randolph had meant to him. Granted, he had never fancied Randolph in love with him, but he’d believed the man cared for him, and he had loved Randolph. How could he not? They had been together for a decade, and Randolph had been his first and only lover. Such intimacies were not treated lightly, at least not by Arthur.

  Other men, however, did treat them lightly.

  Leopold Thornton, for example. Handsome as sin and wicked as all hell. A temptation evidently even Arthur could not resist.

  Shaking his head at himself, he let out an exasperated sigh. Thornton’s reputation spoke for itself, and if one listened carefully, one discovered Thornton did not limit his dalliances to those of the female gender. Something Arthur suspected years ago when the two men had been better acquainted. Even though Arthur did his best to keep his private life behind closed doors, judging by how Thornton asked after Randolph whenever Arthur happened upon him, Thornton had been aware of Arthur’s own preferences for some time. But Thornton had not once made an overt or even not-so-subtle advance until two weeks ago. Mere coincidence? Unlikely. Though he did wonder how the hardened rake had learned exactly when he said good-bye to Randolph, never mind that the relationship existed in the first place.

  The carriage slowed to a stop before the house. The front door opened, and a footman emerged to see to the door of the carriage. Arthur grabbed his bag and, stooping to fit through the narrow opening, got out.

  He stood tall, squaring his shoulders and relishing the opportunity to stretch his legs. Three days in that rented coach had taken their toll on his joints. While he spent a fair portion of time seated behind his desk at his office, at least there he had the freedom to move about whenever he pleased.

  His gaze swept over the house again, lingering on the front door. Trepidation began to settle low in his stomach. Pushing it aside, he lifted his chin and marched up the few stone steps. No point turning back now.

  Four days with Thornton and all memory of Randolph would be wiped from his senses. Then Arthur could return to London and quietly search for an amiable man who understood the meaning of the word “discreet” and who recognized the value of commitment. Without any family to call his own, he truly wanted to find someone he could share his life with, for the prospect of growing old alone held absolutely no appeal. He had hoped that someone was Randolph, but…no.

  The door opened as he approached, jarring him from his melancholy thoughts.

  “May I take your coat, Mr. Barrington?” the butler asked the moment he stepped over the threshold.

  Arthur handed his leather bag to the elderly man. After unbuttoning his greatcoat, he slipped it from his shoulders and exchanged it for his bag. The coat he could survive without if the servant misplaced it, his clients’ documents he could not.

  “
Evening, Barrington. Welcome to Ramsey House.”

  The drawled words wrapped around Arthur like hot velvet, prickling the hairs on his forearms. A shiver raced up his spine. How could Thornton make a simple welcome sound sinful?

  Clutching the handle of his bag tightly, he turned to find Thornton, who slouched against the corner of a wall next to a corridor that led to the back of the house. A wavy chunk of his black hair hung over his brow, skimming his lashes. Arms crossed over his chest, his stance was all casual nonchalance, but the wicked glint in his gray eyes said otherwise. The man was, quite simply, beautiful. Indulgent vice personified.

  Arthur swallowed hard and found his voice. His mind vaguely registered the echo of the butler’s footsteps as the man left the marble-floored entrance hall. “Good evening, Thornton. My apologies for the lateness of the hour. One of the carriage wheels cracked, stranding us on the road this morning, and”—he gestured to fill in the mundane details—“took an unheard of amount of time to fetch a replacement.”

  “No apologies are necessary. I’m relieved you made the journey to Yorkshire safely, if not without a bit of inconvenience.” Thornton paused, holding his gaze for what felt like an endless moment. Those gray eyes swept down Arthur’s body and then back up to his face.

  Arthur clenched his fist, fighting the urge to pass a hand over the front of his coat to verify he was still fully dressed. After Thornton’s thorough perusal, he certainly felt like he stood naked in the small entrance hall.

  A hint of a satisfied smile tipped the edges of Thornton’s full lips. Then he pushed from the wall. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Arthur mentally shook off the discomposure and nodded, then followed him up the stairs to the second floor. They were of the same age, both nine and twenty, and of the same height, but their similarities ended there. Thornton was all lean, graceful lines where Arthur had more bulk to his frame. The cut of his black coat and trousers announced he frequented the best tailors in London, whereas Arthur did not see the need to waste his money in such a fashion. His clients cared not about the cut of his coat, only that he appeared competent and trustworthy. Something any decent tailor could accomplish.