by Ava March
He should have left when she had given him the opportunity. This morning he had awoken with his patience well in hand. The doubts gone, replaced with anticipation at the prospect of seeing Vincent tonight. But now—
“Oliver.”
The unexpected note of compassion in her usual whip-sharp voice brought his gaze up to hers.
Her sparse gray brows were lowered, the deep lines on her forehead in stark relief. “While I still mourn your mother’s death, there was a bit of relief in it for her. Your father made her miserable. I do not want that for you.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes, Grandmother. I understand.” In her own odd way, she was concerned for him. But he was afraid her warning had come much too late. “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave. I have an appointment, and I don’t wish to be late.” He had five hours until Vincent showed up at his apartments, and it wouldn’t take a fifth of that time for him to walk home. But he had no other excuse to leave at the ready. No other place he needed to be. No other responsibilities that required his attention. “Is there anything you need?” He had already checked in with her housekeeper, seen to her posts, and made arrangements to have a bank draft sent from her account to the butcher to settle the latest bill.
“No, no. Be on your way.” That imperious tone was back, all traces of compassion gone.
He set the book on the tea table, stood, and took hold of her proffered hand, her skin icy cold. He pressed a kiss to her weathered cheek.
Delicate, boney fingers wrapped around his, surprising in their grip, keeping him from turning from the bed. “Old age is lonely, Oliver. Find a nice lady, if for no other reason than to eventually have a grandson who will pay you calls.”
He met her solemn gaze. The cloudy dark depths held far more than mere concern. She didn’t explicitly say the words, but he didn’t need her to. He understood, and he could not deny that it felt good to know someone loved him.
* * *
Vincent lifted his freshly shaven chin. His slim, middle-aged valet barely reached his shoulder, and the man had to lift up onto his toes to loop the cravat about his neck. Quick and efficient, Barton molded the long length of starched white linen into crisp folds and a neat knot.
The first day back in Town after a long visit to the country was always a busy one. Yet even the continual press of appointments, calls, and correspondences had not been able to keep him from pulling out his pocket watch at least a dozen times, willing the small black hands to move faster.
“The fawn waistcoat, my lord?” His valet motioned to the garment laid out on the navy coverlet of the bed.
Vincent flicked his fingers. “Yes, yes, Barton. That will do.”
At half past six and not a moment later, he had stepped away from his desk. After Barton finished with him, he could go on to White’s to pick up the supper he’d sent a footman ahead to order. Marsden preferred the steak there. Oh, and the Bordeaux. Couldn’t forget that. He’d grab a nice bottle from his wine cellar before he left the house.
The routine so familiar, Barton’s nimble fingers were doing up the buttons on his waistcoat before Vincent realized the man had put it on him. A quick glance at the brass clock on the fireplace mantel confirmed it was not yet seven. Still plenty of time. He didn’t want to risk ruffling Marsden’s feathers again. Vincent slipped his arms into the sleeves when his valet held out his coat. Or had there been more to it than that? Tardiness never bothered Marsden before. Yet a little nudge prodded the back of his mind, one he couldn’t quite define other than to label it disconcerting.
“Perhaps the black coat tonight, my lord?”
He blinked and focused on Barton’s questioning face. “Pardon?”
“Would you prefer the black instead of the bottle green?”
“No. The green will do.”
There was a soft scratch on his bedchamber door. With a tip of his head, Barton went to the door. Vincent took his pocket watch from the mahogany chest of drawers and attached it to his waistcoat. He was buttoning his coat when Barton stopped beside him, tray in hand.
“For you, my lord.”
With a quick snap, he tugged his shirt cuffs out from under the sleeves of his coat. Then he took the missive from the silver tray. His hand shook just the tiniest bit when he used the silver letter opener that had also been on the tray to break the distinctive red wax seal of the Marquess of Saye and Sele.
Prescot—An audience is requested immediately.
—Saye and Sele
“My greatcoat. Now, man.”
Barton dropped the discarded clothing he had been gathering. Vincent’s sharp tone sent him scurrying into his master’s dressing room, reappearing just as quickly with the requested garment.
Vincent put on the greatcoat, tucking the letter into his pocket. His father wished to see him. Had he heard about the success he had made of the Rotherham property? After his repeated requests for the property had been met with refusals, Vincent had purchased it outright. Did his father wish to congratulate him on turning what had once been a blight on the Saye and Sele marquessate into a lucrative investment?
In less than a minute, he was down the stairs, out the front door of his townhouse, and in his waiting carriage.
By the time a footman clad in scarlet and gray livery was showing him to his father’s study, reason had descended, replacing the surge of excitement with mere curiosity. Over six months ago, he had found that vein of coal on the property. If his father cared to acknowledge the success, he would have mentioned it well before now. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why his father wished to see him. It had been years…years since he had received such a missive.
The footman opened the oak door and Vincent stepped inside. With its high ceiling, dark paneled walls, somber gilt-framed portraits, and black leather wingback chairs, the room was a near duplicate of the study at the family’s country estate, reminding him vividly of the times he had walked into its twin as a youth. That need for attention so strong it had clogged his throat and sent his heart pounding in his chest. He stopped before his father’s massive desk and clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself firmly that he was a man now and not a needy eleven-year-old boy.
His father didn’t acknowledge his presence, merely slipped his pen into the silver penholder. Looking at his father, with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and neatly cropped silver hair, was like looking into a mirror and seeing his sixty-year-old self reflected back at him. Vincent used to wonder if their similarity in appearance had somehow caused his father to dislike him. Silly notion. But there had been a time when his father’s complete lack of interest in him had left him so confused he’d been willing to grasp at any straw to explain it.
Using a silver stamp, Vincent’s father pressed his seal into the red wax, sealing the letter he had been writing. He placed the letter in the center of the tray at the edge of his desk then turned his blue eyes to Vincent. Eyes which never seemed to truly see him. “I am in need of a favor.”
From me? Somehow he kept his jaw from dropping.
“The Duke of Halstead paid me a call today. He wishes to form an alliance with our family.”
“What sort of alliance?”
“Marriage. His only daughter is set to make her come-out in the spring,” his father replied, as if Vincent were a simpleton for not deducing it himself.
Yet he couldn’t stop the baffled “To me?” from falling from his lips.
His father’s upper lip curled. “The duke intends to marry his daughter to the heir of the Saye and Sele marquessate. Not the spare.”
Vincent rolled one shoulder, trying to throw off the hurt, but to no avail. It stuck to his spine, stiffening his back. “Then what do you need of me?”
“To free your brother from Lady Juliana. He cannot toss her aside himself. You must dance attendance on her and wed her by the end of the year, before Grafton returns from the country. Don’t bother with the banns. Marry her by special license. It will be put about that it is a lov
e match, and therefore all will be forgiven, leaving Grafton free to wed his grace’s daughter at the start of the Season.”
Though he rarely spoke to his elder brother, the Earl of Grafton, he had the distinct impression the man was rather fond of the girl. Grafton, however, would do whatever their father wished without question. “But what about Lady Juliana? It’s been understood that Grafton would marry her.”
“She’s an earl’s daughter and will still do well to marry you." The man’s off-handed tone wiped away any shadow of a compliment.
Marriage? Vincent took a deep breath, that word bouncing about in his skull. Marriage? If a bit of tardiness had ruffled Marsden’s feathers last night, then how would he react to this?
Oh, God. Marsden. His stomach dropped to his feet, his knees threatening to buckle. He gripped his clasped hands tight and kept his expression free of all emotion. “But I am only four-and-twenty. I haven’t yet given much consideration to marriage.” Men of his station typically did not wed until they were much closer to the age of thirty, after they had established themselves and after they had their fill of all the sins London had to offer.
His father scoffed. “You must eventually marry. Lady Juliana is as good as any other chit you could find on the marriage mart.”
“What of Lady Juliana’s father? Will he not take this as a slight against him?” The earl was an old friend of his father’s. Hence the reason his father had originally entertained the notion of Grafton marrying the girl.
“He understands the situation. If his daughter were presented the opportunity to marry into a dukedom, he would take it.”
Vincent opened his mouth, but his mind refused to conjure more excuses. He snapped his jaw shut and stared blankly at the silver inkwell on the oak desk. He had no desire to change his life. None whatsoever. He didn’t need to marry now, nor did he want to.
Yet that old need to please rose up, threatening to clog his throat. His father actually needed him for something, even if it was only to use him to further his own greedy ambitions. Nor were Society’s expectations so easy to push aside. Men of his standing married young ladies with aristocratic blood flowing through their veins. They made alliances for the good of their families without thought to their own selfish desires. But still…
He felt as if he were being pulled apart by opposing forces. One part of him screaming no, while the other part, the part that strove to be an upstanding and well-respected gentleman, the type of man a father would be proud to call son, wanted to bow his head in agreement.
The rustle of papers broke through the riot in his head. His father was pulling a bundle of papers from a drawer. He flipped through the stack and selected a sheet. “You will pay Lady Juliana a call tomorrow. She will be expecting you. I want you married before the New Year.”
The man hadn’t even bothered to ask if he agreed. His father had made his wishes known and expected nothing less than strict adherence.
Vincent took the dismissal for what it was and left the study. His footsteps echoed in the spacious entrance hall, the sound smacking his ears, unnaturally loud, as he made his way out of the stately mansion.
His footman opened the door as he approached the carriage. He stepped inside and sat on the bench.
“My lord? Where to?”
“Ah.” Vincent gave his head a sharp shake. Supper. Yes, he needed to pick up supper. “White’s.”
The door snapped shut.
“Damn. The wine.” He cursed under his breath. He had forgotten to get it before he left the house. Oh well. A bottle from White’s would have to do.
The gentlemen’s club wasn’t that far from his father’s house, and soon the carriage was winding its way to Cheapside, a wicker basket on the floor between his feet containing the supper the chef had kept warm.
Marsden would understand, he told himself over and over as he stared out the window. They were both second sons to marquesses. Society and duty to one’s family held certain obligations. Marsden would grasp the complexity of the situation his father had placed him in. Christ, he had to understand because, by God, Vincent needed his friend’s advice on what the hell he should do.
Chapter Four
Head tipped down and black coat soaked through, his footman opened the carriage door. Rain dripped from the tip of the man’s narrow nose, his white cravat a sodden mess around his neck.
A hackney would have to suffice for the ride home later tonight. Vincent couldn’t leave his carriage waiting for him in this weather. The rain had started about ten minutes earlier, and based on the steady drum against the roof, it wasn’t letting up anytime soon.
He buttoned his greatcoat, grabbed the wicker basket, and stooping to fit through the door, exited the carriage. “That will be all for the night.”
The driver snapped the leather lines. Harness jangled as the team of four lurched forward, their hooves splashing in the puddles on the dirt road.
Vincent hurried inside and went up the three flights of dimly lit stairs to the top floor. Stopping at the door on the right, he let out a sigh, the tension easing from his shoulders, the knot unraveling in his stomach. Just the thought of Marsden on the other side of the door settled him like nothing else could.
He couldn’t define when exactly, but at some point during the past thirteen years, ever since they had become friends on his first day at boarding school, he had come to associate Marsden with comfort. And right now, he was in sore need of that precious commodity.
“Evening, Marsden,” he said, closing the door behind him. After the austere, frigid atmosphere of his father’s house, with its priceless antiquities on display and everything in its proper place down to that silver inkwell perfectly centered on his father’s desk, Marsden’s quaint, untidy parlor was a welcome sight.
Seated on the brown leather couch, Marsden didn’t lift his head from the open book in his hands. A couple of newspapers were strewn on the lumpy cushions beside him, an empty glass on the floor next to his feet. “Where have you been?”
His strides faltered as he crossed the room to set the basket on the small dining table in the corner. “I had an errand to see to.”
Did Marsden just grunt?
Brilliant. He did not need this. Not now. Not tonight. He needed the easy, unassuming version of Marsden. The one who was always there for him. Not this prickly version whose feathers were ruffled. Again.
Passing a hand over the back of his neck, Vincent glanced to the clock on the mantel. For God’s sake. Only thirty minutes late. It wasn’t as if he’d left the man waiting for him for two hours.
He took off his greatcoat and folded it over the back of one of the two chairs at the table. “My apologies. I had not intended to keep you waiting.”
That condescending snort made his stomach tightened anew. He held back a full explanation for his tardiness. There was no way he could tell Marsden about the meeting with his father, not when the man was behaving like this. Such an attitude did not encourage a confidence.
He took two glasses from the cupboard by the table. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked, forcing a friendly tone.
Say yes, Marsden.
“No.”
At least he got an answer that involved a word, though the man hadn’t looked in his direction yet. Marsden pulled one foot up, bracing his heel on the cushion and his elbow on his knee, clearly settling in. He hadn’t bothered with a coat, and Vincent could just make out his golden skin beneath the sleeves of his white shirt. His fingers itched to tuck the wavy chunk of hair hanging over one eye behind his ear.
“Marsden, come here.” Perhaps a kiss would loosen those lips held in a hard, compressed line.
His friend’s response was to turn a page.
Vincent gritted his teeth, suddenly frustrated beyond bearing. How dare he so blatantly ignore him?
“Now, boy.” The words snapped across the distance separating them.
Marsden’s fingers tightened around the book, a visible shudder racking
his body. Vincent waited for what felt like an endless moment. Then Marsden finally put down that damn book.
Gaze downcast, he crossed the room and stopped before Vincent, his hands fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the gray brocade waistcoat. The scent of his arousal poured off him, pervading Vincent’s senses, until all he could think about was getting Marsden under him. Pounding him into the bed. Fucking him senseless. Dominating him completely.
“Get on your knees and suck my cock.”
Without even a nudge on his shoulder, the man dropped to the wooden floor and removed his spectacles then put them in Vincent’s outstretched hand. The buttons on the placket of Vincent’s trousers were undone in a blink of an eye, and Marsden was pushing aside his shirttail, reaching through the opening in his drawers to pull out his semierect cock.
Those full, soft lips wrapped around the crown. Vincent had to fight to hold back the moan. Blood rushed to his groin, his cock hardening further as Marsden sank down. There was no lingering over the details. No light kisses feathered along the length, no long, luxurious sweeps of his tongue. The man sucked him with distinct purpose. One hand flat around the base, holding the placket out of the way, he bobbed up and down, his lips a hot silken drag along the length, the slightly rough texture of his tongue a delicious caress on the underside.
Reaching blindly to his left, Vincent set the spectacles on the fireplace mantel, then grabbed the edge of the table behind him and held on tight, needing something to keep from swaying on his feet against the decadent pleasure of Marsden’s mouth. With his other hand, Vincent speared his fingers into those dark waves and cupped the back of his skull, urging him to take more.
Marsden didn’t disappoint. He sank all the way down, until his lips touched the dark hair on Vincent’s groin.
Wet heat surrounded every inch of his prick. “Oh God, Marsden,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “You’re damn good at sucking cock.”
