by Ava March
The sight of the leather bound volumes, packed not so neatly inside, produced a wonderful rush of pride and excitement. His first purchase for the shop. Each volume carefully selected based on his knowledge of the shop’s existing inventory. Inventory which was in sore need of replenishment. Mr. Wallace had run a decent albeit small shop, one Oliver had frequented many times over the years, but gout and old age kept him confined to Town, unable to travel the countryside to procure more stock. New books could be easily purchased in Town, but the best finds were in the country. Hence one of the reasons why the older man had been willing to sell the shop to Oliver.
A tinkling feminine laugh seeped through the office door leading to the shop. The sound of another pleased customer. Fortunately, Mr. Wallace had been willing to stay on and help with the customers and teach Oliver the business. A business his grandmother had not been pleased to hear about. Those of the aristocracy inherited their wealth or earned it from their lands. They did not—shudder to think it—engage in something as common as trade. But a promise of an unlimited supply of books had done wonders to quiet her tirade. She hadn’t uttered the words blasphemous, indecent, or garish since.
He settled on his knees and started pulling out the books one by one, checking for signs of damage during shipment and pausing to read a few pages every now and then.
A couple hours later, he finished with the last crate and extinguished the lamps, closing up for the night. After bidding “good evening” to Mr. Wallace as the man trudged up the street, he locked the front door and slipped the brass key into his pocket.
He glanced up and down the lamp-lit street, the cobblestones glistening from a recent light rain. The shops across from his had already closed for the night, their windows dark. Hooves thundered past him, a team of two pulling a sleek black town carriage, merry voices spilling from the open window.
He dreaded the thought of returning to his empty apartments. The constant press of matters that required his attention at the bookstore occupied his mind during the day, but the nights were an entirely different matter. Alone in his bed, missing Vincent. A lot. How many times over the past three weeks had he told himself he should have kept his damn mouth shut? Just accepted whatever Vincent had been willing to give, even though that path would have led to an even greater heartache than the one he currently carried with him.
Didn’t help that he did not have any other true friends beside Vincent. No one else to share a drink with at a tavern or meet at a gambling hell or discuss his new investment with. Acquaintances, but no one he deemed a friend.
And he was tired of going out of his way to avoid Vincent.
The hell with it.
He turned right, in the opposite direction of his apartments around the corner, and headed up the street. If Vincent was at White’s, then so be it. He refused to hide in the dark and lick his wounds anymore. They lived in the same city, would eventually cross paths again. No point purposefully prolonging the inevitable.
* * *
Lord Shelburne bets Mr. Frank Winters £15 that Lord V will steal a certain lady from his elder brother, Lord G, and ask for her hand before the month is out.
Oliver forced air into his lungs and read the line again. Three weeks had passed since that fateful night, and he had not heard a word from Vincent. Nothing. He had not seen him either—not much of a surprise given Oliver had been avoiding the man’s usual haunts.
Now he knew why.
Betrayal, thick and hot, filled his gut, pounded swiftly through his veins, erasing all traces of shock.
“Bloody fucking—” He clenched his teeth, cutting off the rest of the curse. The last thing he needed was to be ejected from White’s because of that…that…man.
Mouth twisted in a sneer, he turned from the betting book and left White’s, not sparing a second thought to the startled glances as he rushed down the main stairs and through the hall. As he walked out the front door, he shoved his hand in his pocket, fingers closing around the coins. Enough for cab fare.
“Number Twelve, Hill Street,” he said to the driver as he got into a waiting hackney. “And be quick about it.”
A whip cracked and the cab lurched forward.
“Bastard! Bloody fucking bastard!”
Oliver sat and stewed, the betrayal a physical force consuming every inch of his being.
Goddamn him. If that wager was the reason Vincent had kept him at arm’s length in public, all but forcing him from attending Society functions, just so he could—
The hackney jerked to a stop outside a stately white stucco townhome. Oliver jumped from the carriage and slapped a few coins into the driver’s hand. “Two more shillings if you wait here.”
Driven by an unholy need to discover the truth, to look Vincent in the face and hear it from his lips, he stalked up to the black door and slammed his fist against it.
The door opened, revealing a tall, slim, older man in black attire, his spine ramrod straight and his face devoid of all expression.
Oliver took a breath, trying to settle his pulse enough so he could speak in a tone that approached calm. Such a haughty butler would never allow a raving lunatic into the house. “I am here to call on Lord Vincent.”
“Lord Vincent is not at home.”
Not at White’s. Not at home. Where then? The brothel?
No, no, no. Not that. Not with another man.
“Where is he?”
The butler sniffed. “Lord Vincent is not at home.”
The man made to shut the door, but Oliver flattened a hand against it, holding it open. “I am Lord Oliver Marsden, an old friend of Lord Vincent’s. It is imperative I speak with him tonight.”
He stared hard at the butler as the man looked him up and down. He knew he must look a sight in his favorite but well-worn plain brown coat, the front dusty from unloading books from their crates, and his hair a disheveled mess from running his fingers repeatedly through it as he had struggled with the account ledger earlier that day. The last time he had been to Vincent’s home was ages ago. Likely the butler didn’t remember him or believe his claim that he was in fact a lord.
The butler’s lips thinned. “Drury Lane.” The man shut the door with a smart click, a surprising show of strength considering Oliver still leaned against it.
The theatre? Vincent didn’t care for the theatre, so why…? Unless…she did.
Twenty minutes later, Oliver slapped the remaining coins from his pocket into the driver’s hand. The doors to the theatre were closed; the space under its wide stone portico with its four sets of twin columns was vacant. A few orange sellers loitered nearby, waiting to press their wares on the patrons as they exited the building. Voices spilled from the open windows, indicating the performance had not finished for the night.
He took up a spot along the building a good ten paces from the area in front of the theatre, leaned a shoulder against the stucco wall, and crossed his arms over his chest, settling in for the wait. Absolutely foolish to be here, lying in wait for Vincent like some sort of spurned lover, but he could not have moved if his life depended on it.
The streetlamps lining Catherine Street illuminated the light mist suspended in the cool night air. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the cold from the theatre’s wall seeping through his coat, chilling his back.
Carriages began to line up outside the theatre. The drivers called to one another, fighting with the hackneys for the spots closest to the entrance. All the while, Oliver’s eyes were glued to those front doors.
They swung open and people began to stream out of the building. Breath held, he searched the crowd.
Then his heart lurched in his chest.
Dressed in strict black evening attire complete with a black top hat, his white cravat an elaborate knot beneath his strong jaw, Vincent walked out of the theatre. Taller than the other gentlemen and ladies surrounding him, he was fairly easy to spot. But Oliver could have picked him out in a crowd of thousands.
Oliver shifted
his right hand up from his crossed arms and briefly pressed his palm over the cravat pin hidden in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, directly over his heart. Wearing it was out of the question. But neither could he leave it all alone in its dented little silver tray whenever he left his apartments.
Then he noticed the young lady at Vincent’s side, her hand on his arm. Oliver scowled, jealousy churning in his belly. She didn’t suit Vincent one bit. Her nose in the air, her light brown hair pulled back in a priggish knot, a demure pale blue gown draping her thin form. Cold, remote, a typical lady of Quality.
Then again, perhaps she did suit Vincent perfectly.
Vincent stopped at the street, his head turning left and right, obviously looking for his carriage. Others paused near him, mingling and discussing the performance.
Leave. Now. Before he sees you.
Vincent looked over his shoulder. Brilliant blue eyes met Oliver’s. His brow furrowed, and then he snapped his attention back to his acquaintances.
Bitter, rancid pain stabbed into him.
He didn’t even acknowledge me.
Oliver watched, feeling as insignificant as a speck of lint on Vincent’s expertly tailored black evening coat, as Vincent led the young lady and an older woman, likely the lady’s chaperone, to his town carriage that waited up the street a bit. Ever the gentleman, he held out his white-gloved hand, helping first the lady and then the chaperone into the carriage.
He shut the door, turned on his heel and strode through the crowd…directly toward Oliver.
That intense blue gaze struck Oliver to the spot. Unable to take a step forward and unable to turn away.
Vincent stopped before him and clasped his hands behind his back. “Good to see you, Marsden.”
Jolted from his daze, Oliver called upon the betrayal, making it pound thick and hot once more in his veins. “So it’s true?” Still slouched against the wall, he flicked a glance around Vincent’s broad shoulder to the man’s carriage waiting exactly where he’d left it, a footman standing guard at the door.
Vincent briefly closed his eyes, his face a stoic, expressionless mask.
His silence was as good as a yes.
Cruel anger built within Oliver, his breaths coming harsh and ragged. How long had Vincent been courting the girl? Had there been others? Oliver rarely attended Society functions, but Vincent did. How the hell long had he been planning to find himself a wife? Oliver flicked a glance to the carriage again. “Is she the reason punctuality eluded you?”
Vincent stiffened, quickly looking about them, but there wasn’t anyone else within a few paces of them. In any case, the noise of the crowd and the carriages on the street probably drowned out their conversation.
“Marsden,” Vincent admonished in a low hiss, concerned as always about appearances. “Keep your voice down. Please.” He let out a heavy sigh, his lips pressed in a grim line. “It is my father’s idea. The Duke of Halstead wishes to form an alliance with my family. But before Grafton can wed his grace’s daughter, he must be freed of any obligation toward Lady Juliana. Therefore, my father asked me to marry her.”
“When did this happen?”
“The evening you slammed the door on me.”
Stunned, Oliver gave his head a sharp shake. That ambiguous errand, and the cause for his late arrival at Oliver’s apartments, had been a visit to see his father? “Why didn’t you mention it?”
Vincent lifted one shoulder in a mockery of a shrug.
“Your father’s simply using you for his own gain. He’ll forget about you again as soon as you are wed to that girl.”
“Perhaps not.”
Oliver snorted in derision. The Marquess of Saye and Sele cared nothing for his second son. Oliver had long accepted that he meant nothing to his own father—the man hadn’t even bothered to notify him when he left Town to flee his debts—yet despite all of Vincent’s successes and despite the cool, controlled facade he showed the rest of the world, he had never let go of the need for his father’s respect and admiration. Never accepted that nothing he could do would ever change his father’s opinion, or rather lack of opinion, of him. Now Vincent was allowing that need to lead him to the altar, tied to some woman for the rest of his life.
And hell, Oliver knew the expectations Society placed on men like himself and Vincent. As he had told his grandmother, he would never marry. But Vincent strove to be the perfect gentleman, and proper gentlemen married. Why hadn’t it ever occurred to him before that Vincent would eventually choose a wife?
Fool. He rolled his eyes in self-disgust.
“You’ve made the betting book at White’s. A wager that you will wed before the month is out. Should I bet on you or not?”
Vincent’s silence hung heavy in the air between them.
Oliver nodded. “I understand. It’s difficult to say no to someone when you desperately want their attention.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. Tense lines bracketed his firm mouth and creased the space between his eyebrows. Dark shadows underscored his eyes. He looked so tired, so worn out. So very grim. Not even a hint of happiness on his handsome face.
The need rose up within him, so strong he almost gave in to it. To reach out, to help soothe Vincent’s worries, to simply be there for him. To lend a willing ear and let the man unburden himself.
Instead, Oliver pushed from the wall and turned.
Long fingers curled around his upper arm, holding him back.
“Wait.”
Staring at the cracks in the cement walkway, Oliver tugged his arm.
Vincent tightened his grip, fingers digging into his muscle. Then that strong hand slipped away.
“Miss you.”
The soft, rumbling words brushed the back of his neck. A gentle caress he wasn’t certain if he imagined or not. His heart threatened to shatter anew into a thousand tiny pieces. But he kept his chin up and walked away from Vincent for the last time.
Chapter Seven
Vincent set his hat on his folded greatcoat on the leather bench and stared blankly out the closed window on the carriage’s door. Given the heat of the theatre, he had left the coat in the carriage. Lady Juliana and her aunt, Mrs. Caldwell, sat across from him discussing the evening’s performance, their feminine voices an uninterrupted lyrical drone. He barely heard them.
Christ, he missed Oliver. It had felt so good to simply lay eyes on him, to be near him again, yet at the same time it hurt like hell. With Oliver’s arms crossed over his chest and a surly twist on his full lips, Vincent had known he would not receive a warm welcome. The untidy cravat with its agonizingly bare and lopsided knot had only served as another reminder that Oliver was no longer his. Still, Vincent had to speak to him, though it had been painful to have the truth thrown in his face.
Knowing he was his father’s pawn and hearing it from Oliver were two vastly different things. With only a few words from him, Oliver had understood every nuance and every detail of the situation, leaving Vincent feeling stripped bare. Vulnerable and exposed. And needing his friend more than ever.
Yet there had been no compassion in Oliver’s dark gaze. Only contempt and pity. Exactly what a willing pawn deserved.
Vincent passed a hand over the back of his neck. And he called himself a man. He caught the disdain-soaked harrumph before it left his throat. Men did not allow themselves to be so neatly manipulated.
Marriage. It had once been a vague notion, a concept he gave little consideration to. But he’d had ample opportunity to familiarize himself with it recently. Definitely not something he wanted or wished for.
He wanted Oliver in his bed and no one else.
Shoving those feelings deep down where they would never see the light of day again, trying his damnedest to deny a part of himself… Three weeks of that torture had been the very definition of hell. How would he survive a lifetime of it?
He couldn’t.
He needed Oliver. He was bound to him in a way he could not fully explain, yet would no longer quest
ion or deny.
The knowledge settled over him, infusing into his bones, bearing the calm, quiet weight of an undisputable fact. He belonged with Oliver, not with Lady Juliana.
He pulled his attention from the neat row of townhouses lining the street and looked to the young lady who was still discussing the evening with her aunt. Head tipped toward the older woman, she absently adjusted the ivory shawl about her slim shoulders. After numerous late morning calls and afternoon rides through Hyde Park, he still knew little about her. She preferred her tea without sugar, did not mind the rain, and had a decided fondness for Grafton. Anytime he mentioned his brother, her eyes sparkled, her lips tilted up at the edges, and her polite attention turned into rapt attention.
She did not belong with him, either. Nor did she deserve to be tied to him by forces beyond their control.
But what could he do about it? Everything was settled. The outcome predetermined before his father had even voiced his “request.”
His mouth thinned into a determined line.
He would do what he should have done in the first place. But first, he needed her permission. After all, it involved her future as well.
The carriage stopped outside Lady Juliana’s home, a neat white townhouse similar to many others that lined the streets of Mayfair. Metal clanked as the footman unfolded the step and then opened the carriage door. She and her aunt politely bade Vincent good night and thanked him for a pleasant evening.
Mrs. Caldwell departed from the carriage. Lady Juliana shifted along the bench, moving closer to the door, and made to follow her aunt, but Vincent leaned forward, his shoulders partially blocking the open door.
“Wait. Please, Lady Juliana,” he added at her startled glance. “Might I have a moment of your time?”
Unlike Oliver, she heeded his request. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her expression one of polite interest.
“I wish to ask you a question.” He pitched his voice low to avoid being overheard by her aunt, who lingered along the short walkway leading to the front door. “And I request nothing less than complete honesty.”
