All In with the Duke
By Ava March
London, 1822
Max Arrington, the Duke of Pelham, vows to never again let a handsome face blind him to a man’s
true intentions. But ten months of celibacy and lonely nights drive him to a decadent brothel, where a
beautiful young man arouses his illicit passions as never before.
Tristan Walsh has grown tired of being used for men’s pleasure. But his latest client is different:
commanding yet generous, Max makes him feel cared for as well as wanted. Yet Tristan knows he’ll
never have the choice to leave the brothel and submit only to Max.
So when Max invites him to be his guest at his country estate, Tristan eagerly agrees to his terms—
days to do as he pleases while Max tends to the dukedom, and nights spent together in wicked play.
But when the “business arrangement” begins to deepen into something more, Tristan must face the
fact that he has no true place in Max’s life—or in Max’s guarded heart...
81,000 words
Dear Reader,
I’m on vacation, camping in the semi-wilderness. No, not when you’re reading this (well, maybe, who
knows?) but when this letter is due to our production team. So I’ve chosen to hand off my Dear Reader
letter responsibilities to the team for the month of November and let them tell you all about the
fantastic lineup in store for you. We’re a team who really enjoys the books we acquire, and I know
they’ll be glad for a chance to convince you to give one a try. In the meantime, I’ll be back next
month. Happy reading!
Angela James, Editorial Director
Dear Reader,
Editorial assistant Stephanie here. Since Angela is “camping” (all I’m saying is that camping seems to
involve a lot of tweeting), I’ve compiled a few fun facts about this month’s new releases. What kinds
of great books do we have in store for you this time? Will I get in trouble for making fun of my boss’s
camping skills? These are the questions I will strive to answer for you today.
Redemption by Stephanie Tyler, new adult, post-apocalyptic
Stephanie Tyler returns with book two in her post-apocalyptic new-adult motorcycle club series.
Redemption continues the story of the Defiance MC with Mathias and Jessa’s story. If you missed
book one, Defiance—Cas and Tru’s story—you’re missing out on a fantastic world and some swoon-
worthy romance.
—Angela James, Editorial Director, Carina Press
Snowbound with the CEO by Shannon Stacey, contemporary romance
Shannon’s books are must-reads if you love contemporary romance.
Shannon Stacey’s holiday novellas are becoming something of a delightful tradition at Carina Press,
and we’re happy to have the latest in our hands!
—Stephanie Doig, Editorial Assistant, Harlequin and Carina Press
Chance of Rain by Amber Lin, contemporary romance
We’re happy to welcome Amber to the Carina Press family!
This small-town reunion romance gripped me from the first chapter and wouldn’t let go. The tortured
alpha hero, who just happens to be a Navy SEAL, also didn’t hurt!
—Tara Stevens, Assistant Product Manager, Digital Products
Take Me Home by Inez Kelley, contemporary romance
Inez writes contemporary and fantasy romance for Carina Press. Her new lumberjack series had the
(admittedly largely Canadian) team intrigued from the start!
Maple-syrup maker Kayla falls for a sexy lumberjack with a bitter past and a wary heart in the first of
her new Country Roads series featuring loggers in the Allegheny Mountains.
—Deborah Nemeth, Freelance Editor, Carina Press
Slow Ride Home by Leah Braemel, contemporary Western romance
Leah writes wonderfully sexy, emotional romances for Carina Press, including Texas Tangle and
Tangled Past.
Leah’s lovely writing drew me right along into a sensual story of love, heat and scandal. With
cowboys. Look for more of the Grady family to come. Did I mention there are cowboys?
—Brendan Flattery, Digital Production Coordinator
Love a Little Sideways by Shannon Stacey, contemporary romance
Shannon’s bestselling Kowalski family miniseries is a must-read for contemporary romance fans.
What begins as the annual Kowalski Camping Trip of Doom turns into a brand-new start for an
unlikely couple—charming, funny proof that what we think we want and what the heart wants isn’t
always the same thing.
—Kerri Buckley, Editor, Carina Press
Sing for the Dead by PJ Schnyder, paranormal shifter romance
PJ writes futuristic science fiction romance and paranormal romance for Carina Press.
The exciting second book in the London Undead trilogy brings readers back into a world where
zombies have taken over London. Now the werewolves who’ve stepped up to fight the creatures have a
new ally—a member of the Fae who jumps right into the middle of the fray!
—Mallory Braus, Freelance Editor, Carina Press
Through the Black Veil by Steve Vera, urban fantasy
You may remember us gushing about Drynn, Steve’s first book in this series.
In book 2 of the Last of the Shardyn series, our fearless heroes have returned to their magical
homeland to warn everyone about the danger threatening to destroy their world.
—Rhonda Helms, Freelance Editor, Carina Press
Improper Arrangements by Juliana Ross, erotic historical romance
Juliana writes sizzling historical romances set in Victorian times for Carina Press.
The follow-up to Improper Relations features a mountain-climber hero, Eli. He is my favorite type of
hero: rugged, handsome, rough around the edges, mysterious. Love him!
—Carly Chow, Assistant Manager, Digital Commerce
Finessing the Contessa by Wendy Soliman, historical romance
Wendy Soliman writes wonderful, exciting historical romances. The first two Forsters books are
currently available from Carina Press.
In Wendy Soliman’s Regency romance Finessing the Contessa, Lord Robert Forster is drawn to the
brilliant Sicilian he meets at a chess match, but is she a spy or an innocent pawn in a game of
international espionage?
—Deborah Nemeth, Freelance Editor, Carina Press
All In with the Duke by Ava March, male/male historical romance
Ava March writes can’t-miss historical male/male stories for Carina Press.
Max Arrington, the Duke of Pelham, has vowed to never again let a handsome face blind him to a
man’s true intentions. But the beautiful Tristan Walsh is too intriguing for Max to resist, and it’s not
long before their wicked nights together turn into something more.
—Stephanie Doig, Editorial Assistant, Harlequin and Carina Press
For Her Eyes Only by Shannon Curtis, romantic suspense
This is the third book in Shannon’s exciting McCormack Security Agency series.
For Her Eyes Only features an admin assistant pairing up with the MSA’s undercover expert to
investigate a murder. I loved the sexual tension between the hero and heroine!
—Stephanie Doig, Editorial Assistant, Harlequin and Carina Press
Getting Rich by Monique Domovitch, cozy mystery
Monique’s first novel with Carina Press, Getting Skinny, had us all eager for the follow-up.
Just when she thinks she’s on the verge of getting rich, Nicky Landry finds out somebody is out to get
her—and whoever it is has murder on the menu—in Monique Domovitch’s second Chef Landry
Mystery.
—Deborah Nemeth, Freelance Editor, Carina Press
No Place Like Rome by Julie Moffett, action-adventure, mystery
In addition to writing the Lexi Carmichael mysteries, Julie also writes Scottish historical romances!
Our favorite geek girl is off to Rome with the sexy and mysterious Slash to solve a case involving the
Vatican, a dead body, some steamy kisses from her partner, and a top-secret encrypted file that even
she can’t hack.
—Alissa Davis, Freelance Editor, Carina Press
Season of Seduction, erotic holiday anthology
Five Golden Rings by Jeffe Kennedy, erotic romance
Jeffe writes steamy erotic BDSM romance for Carina Press, as well as (also steamy!) fantasy
romance.
Jeffe Kennedy heats up the season with this sultry, adventurous Facets of Passion novella set against
the balmy days—and scorching nights—of a high-powered woman’s holiday-vacation-turned-sexual
epiphany.
—Kerri Buckley, Editor, Carina Press
Naughty Nicks by Christine d’Abo, erotic romance
Christine’s Long Shots series, about a BDSM club and its patrons, includes a choose-your-path erotic
romance!
This sexy and emotional novella features an interesting holiday business—stripper Santas! There was
so much great tension between the heroine and her hero, who also happens to be her boss.
—Stephanie Doig, Editorial Assistant, Harlequin and Carina Press
Ménage on 34th Street by Elise Logan and Emily Ryan-Davis, erotic ménage romance
We are proud to welcome Elise and Emily to the Carina Press family! This is their first book with us.
Katrina and Liam have a happy marriage, but they’ve always felt there’s room for more. When their
friend Hunter returns from active duty, they know exactly what that “more” is. Now if only they can
convince Hunter...
—Stephanie Doig, Editorial Assistant, Harlequin and Carina Press
Matzoh and Mistletoe by Jodie Griffin, erotic BDSM romance
Jodie writes about true-to-life characters exploring their sexy sides in her Bondage & Breakfast
series.
This BDSM novella has a lot of things going for it—it’s sexy, emotional, and there’s a really hot cop.
Jodie is known for writing wonderfully realistic characters, and she doesn’t disappoint here.
—Stephanie Doig, Editorial Assistant, Harlequin and Carina Press
Gifts of Honor, military holiday collection
Starting from Scratch by Stacy Gail, contemporary military romance
Stacy writes both paranormal and contemporary romance for Carina Press.
Stacy Gail gifts us with the sweetest of holiday reunions for a wounded Army Ranger and his one true
love. Patience and forgiveness meet sharp wit and sizzling attraction!
—Kerri Buckley, Editor, Carina Press
Hero’s Homecoming by Rebecca Crowley, contemporary military romance
Rebecca’s debut book with Carina Press, a fantastic sports romance called The Striker’s Chance¸
came out in September.
Three days before Christmas, a surprising phone call from an old love changes absolutely everything
in this compelling novella.
—Kerri Buckley, Editor, Carina Press
Dedication
To Shawn Lane—for sticking with me for six years
and counting, for giving me those nudges when
I needed them most, and for being the best critique
partner and friend a girl could have.
Contents
Prologue
November 1821
London, England
The carriage slowed to a stop. Ducking to fit through the door, Max Arrington exited the carriage and
stepped out into a light mist of cool autumn rain.
“Number forty-one. Third floor, second door on the right,” Jack Morgan said from his place on the
driver’s bench, voice pitched low, a rumble of sound.
Max nodded once. A bit of rain or not, he didn’t need to instruct Morgan to wait. His driver had a
team of two hitched to the older town carriage, the one that did not scream wealth too loudly. The man
well knew tonight’s errand was not an ordinary one. After all, Morgan had been the one who’d
obtained the address.
The street was void of any other carriages or individuals strolling the walkways, as it should be at
half-past one on a dreary November morning. Max did up the buttons on his greatcoat and glanced to
the darkened shop front behind him, noted the number above the door, then set off up Wood Street.
With each door he passed, the fury and betrayal that had been simmering like hot coals in his gut
ratcheted up a notch.
Bloody bastard. Bloody fucking bastard.
And a damn ignorant one, too, if the man believed he could hide under the cover of anonymity.
Max pulled open the door of number forty-one and entered the plain brick building which appeared
to be the type that housed bachelor apartments or let rooms to boarders. The sounds of his footsteps
echoed about him, heavy and ominous, as he took the narrow stairs up to the third floor. Stopping
before the second door on the right, he took a moment to check his anger. Wouldn’t do to tear into the
wrong individual. Morgan had yet to fail him, but there was the possibility, however remote, that the
man’s intelligence would prove incorrect.
A deep breath, and Max knocked on the door.
Silence.
He raised his arm, knuckles poised to knock again, to rouse the bastard from his bed if need be,
when he heard the faint creak of footsteps on floorboards, the sound coming nearer. Golden light
seeped from beneath the door, as if someone had just lit a candle.
There was the metallic click of a lock turning. The door swung partially open.
Max caught a glimpse of a very familiar face, dark hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep.
The just-checked anger flared to full force, rushing through his veins. He shoved the door fully
open, stepped inside a shabby parlor and flicked the door shut behind him.
“Good evening, Jonathan,” he said, voice like ice, hard and deathly cold.
The words hung between them. Max kept his gaze pinned on the other man. The wrinkled white
shirt hanging loose over his trousers and the bare feet indicated he had indeed roused Jonathan from
his bed. Not that he cared one whit. All that mattered was that after spending all of yesterday traveling
from Hampshire and all of today waiting for word from Morgan on Jonathan’s current whereabouts,
Max finally had the bloody fucking bastard before him.
Jonathan blinked. A ghost of a polite smile curved his lips. “Ah, good to see you. What brings you
to this end of Town?”
Highly doubtful Jonathan thought it good to see him. Yet another example of his lying, deceitful
nature.
Max reached into his greatcoat pocket, pulled out the note. “I received your letter.”
Jonathan’s eyes flared for the briefest of seconds, guilt and shock flashing across his handsome
features, before he summoned the false veil of confusion. His dark brows drew together. “My letter?”
“Yes. Your letter. The one I received in yesterday’s post.”
“But, Max, I didn’t send you—”
“You will address me as Your Grace.” All intimacy between them was long gone. Destroyed by
Jonathan’s own hand.
Jonathan’s upper lip twitched, as if he dared to consider sneering at him. The guise of confusion
vanished. “I did not send you a letter, Your Grace. So if you would please take yourself back to
Hampshire, I would like to get some rest. Lest you have forgotten, it was I who left you. Therefore you
have no right to come calling in the middle of the night.”
Bastard. As if Max needed the reminder. Through sheer force of will, he pushed aside the hurt,
refused to allow Jonathan to see even a hint of the pain the man had left in his wake. “Did you truly
believe I would bend to your demands?”
“I don’t know what you speak of.”
“The letter. The one you wrote. Did you believe I’d think it a mere coincidence four weeks after you
walked out my door in a snit that I received an unsigned note attempting to extort a ridiculously large
sum in exchange for silence on my preferences?”
“You have no proof I wrote that letter,” Jonathan shot back, shoulders squaring, meeting Max’s
unwavering gaze. “You’re annoyed someone actually left your condescending arse and therefore you
want to blame me. My apologies to your bruised pride, but I did not write you a damn letter.”
How had he never before noticed the mercenary glint in Jonathan’s eyes? Had he been that blind?
That eager to believe every word from the man’s lying lips? “This note is proof,” he said, lifting his
arm, the paper now a crumpled mass in his fist.
“Has the thought occurred to you that it could have been written by one of your other lovers?”
Jonathan crossed to a nearby side table, grabbed a glass from its surface and downed the last splash of
remaining liquid. “Surely there are others who have had to endure your...charm. I wasn’t your first,
and given how you barely let a night pass without wanting my arse, I’d find it hard to believe I was
your last lover.”
True, not his first lover, but Jonathan Peterson had been his last. Not that Max would admit he’d
been with no other since Jonathan had left him. “‘...and if the sum is not received by the thirtieth of
November, the gossips will have it on their tongues that the Duke of Pelham has not only an unnatural
preference for men, but a fondness for tying his lovers to the bed,’” Max recited from memory, from
the words in the letter that had been burned into his brain. “Tie me, Max.” The memory of those
whispered words sounded in his head. He could well recall the shiver of excitement that had passed
through his own body at the prospect. “You are the only man I have ever tied to a bed. Only you would
know that detail.”
Jonathan went still. Max swore even his chest went still. There had been no doubt in his mind that
Jonathan had been behind the letter. But if he’d had even a smidge of a doubt, it was now gone.
He’d once fantasized about binding a man with ropes, with leather. Dark lines crossing pale skin.
But only with Jonathan had he indulged that fantasy, and many more. He had trusted Jonathan with his
most wicked desires, and in return, the man had betrayed him in the worse possible manner. Used his
trust against him, as a weapon to gain access to his fortune.
To think he had once thought himself in love with this man. Had drunk himself into a stupor the
night Jonathan had walked out his door. Yet all Jonathan cared about was his bank account. He hadn’t
truly wanted Max at all. It had taken a good year together, but Jonathan had finally revealed himself
for the greedy bastard he was.
“If word ever gets out about my preferences, you will find yourself at the bottom of the Thames.”
With determined, measured strides, Max closed the distance separating them. Jonathan backed up a
step. Then two, stopping when his arse bumped into an armchair. Using his greater height and broader
frame to his full advantage, Max glared at him. “Do not think to send another to spread the gossip for
you. Do not think you can hide. I will have you found, just as I had you found tonight, and the fish will
make a feast of your body. Lest you have forgotten,” he said, throwing Jonathan’s words back at him,
“I am the Duke of Pelham. I have enough power and wealth to make you disappear, and no one would
be the wiser.”
Jonathan’s pale throat worked as he swallowed. Then he lifted his chin. “What if word gets out and
it’s not due to me?”
“It matters not who does the deed. You will pay for it with your life. So you best pray to the good
Lord above that my reputation remains untouched by such a scandal.”
Satisfied Jonathan understood the ramifications if he ever dared to speak one ill word against him,
Max turned on his heel, left his ex-lover ashen-faced and hands trembling at his sides.
Within a short handful of minutes, Max was pulling the carriage door shut. A snap of leather lines,
and the carriage moved forward.
By God, but Jonathan had had him wrapped around his finger. To a humiliating, embarrassing
degree. Thank heaven Max had never been so blinded as to open his bank account to him. If he’d had,
then Jonathan would no doubt still be living at Arrington Park, tolerating Max’s attentions by night so
he could spend Max’s money by daylight. As it was, they’d been together for a good year.
Fool. He had been a goddamn fool.
A tumult of rage and anger and hurt roiled up within him, clogging his throat, building stronger and
stronger. Until he couldn’t contain it a moment longer.
“Bloody fucking bastard!” He slammed his fist into the leather bench at his hip.
The heavy impact jolted the carriage, throwing the horses briefly off stride.
Dropping his head into his hands, he forced a long breath. Then another. Focused on keeping his
breaths deep and even, until his pulse began to settle. Until the riotous mass gave way to a blanket of
numb exhaustion.
Letting out another long exhale, he leaned back against the bench. Droplets of rain slid down the
window, blurring the darkened buildings that slipped by as the team of two took him swiftly back to
his Mayfair town house. The errand that had brought him to London was now taken care of.
Tomorrow, he’d return to Hampshire, to his country estate, and turn his mind back to the business of
running the dukedom. Long days and lonely nights, an exact replica of the past four weeks.
Pain began to wrap around his chest, squeezing tight. With a forcible mental shove, he pushed it
back down. Jonathan had been such an excellent lover. Discreet outside of the bedchamber and from a
decent family, albeit not a wealthy one...though that had actually been to their advantage. Their
friendship, and Jonathan’s status as his houseguest, had raised no eyebrows, at least none Max had
been aware of. Yet behind closed doors, the man had been the very image of submission. Compliant
and willing to bend to Max’s every desire. Always eager for more, always ready to drop to his knees.
Pledging his devotion with his every hoarse, whispered plea for more. Hell, the lying bastard had even
told Max he loved him.
Jonathan had been everything he had ever wanted. Had ever dreamed of. Had ever yearned for. And
therein had been Max’s downfall.
No. Not his downfall. The situation was now resolved. The threat obliterated. The lesson learned.
And never again would he allow a handsome face and a prettily bowed head to blind him to a man’s
true intentions.
Chapter One
August 1822
London, England
Max gave his coat a tug to straighten it and made his way across the yard. The stench of the Thames
hung in the warm, August night air. Almost as distasteful as having to sit through Matherson’s speech.
Six hours. By God, the man could drone on like no other. But Max need only endure a few more days
of sitting through his peers and their droning, and he could return to Hampshire. Well, he hoped only a
few more days, but if the session didn’t close for the summer by mid next week, he’d depart for the
country anyway. He had responsibilities to tend to at his estate, responsibilities that would not tend to
themselves.
The click of footsteps approached on the stone walkway. He sensed someone fall into step beside
him a moment before an elbow nudged his arm.
“Do the fine members of our esteemed House of Lords a favor and find a nice bit to swive tonight.”
Max didn’t need to glance to his left to know who walked beside him. Anthony Hawkins, Viscount
Rawling, the only man who had the ballocks to say such a thing to him. “I’m not in need of a nice bit.”
“You may not need one, but it would do your disposition a world of good. You gave new meaning to
the term glowering today.”
“I was not glowering.” He’d been frustrated at having to sit through six hours of nonsense when he
could have been tending to business. There was a distinct difference.
“Must have escaped your notice that not one man spoke directly to you. That wasn’t reverence
toward the mighty Duke of Pelham. That was self-preservation.”
“Of which you have none?”
Rawling tipped his head. “Correct.”
The arrogance of youth. Well, Rawling wasn’t all that young—three-and-twenty, the same age as
Max—but Rawling’s uncertainty when it came to business affairs, in addition to a clear lack of any
sense of self-preservation, made him seem much younger than himself. Hell, most everyone seemed
much younger than himself.
“And I know just the place to remedy that glower.”
A glance over his shoulder confirmed they were relatively alone, their other peers likely still where
Max had left them—posturing and debating the merits of the day’s speeches in Westminster’s
corridors. “I am not visiting a brothel.” The last thing he needed was another man who was only
interested in pilfering his bank account. He’d learned that lesson once, and a painful and disappointing
one it had been, and he would not tolerate a repeat. In any case, he highly doubted any house of ill
repute recommended by Rawling would have something that would interest him.
Dragging a hand through his sandy-blond hair, Rawling moved a bit closer, his broad shoulder
brushing Max’s. “Have you ever?”
The conversation had turned much too personal. While he considered Rawling a friend, one of the
few men he could label as such—well, the only—the man was not that close of a friend. Just because
they had received their Writ of Summons and taken their seats in the House of Lords the same year,
and occasionally met at White’s for dinner when Max was in Town, did not entitle Rawling to ask
such questions. “It is none of your concern.”
“I’ll take that as a no. You should consider it, though. A night of debauchery puts a smile on a
man’s face like nothing else. Rubicon’s. The house with the twin red doors on Curzon Street. It has
something for everyone. Everyone,” he reiterated, “no matter your tastes. Trust me. All you need to do
is ask.”
“Which I most certainly am not going to do.” How could Rawling be so certain the house could
cater to any client’s tastes? And why had he felt the need to emphasize that particular point? Max
paused when he reached St. Margaret Street and looked up and down the lamp-lit street. Where the
hell was his carriage?
“It’s been that long, has it?” Rawling asked, lowering his voice and slanting Max a glance, one that
was far too perceptive.
He refused to justify that question with an answer.
Rawling must have realized he’d crossed the line of their friendship, for he merely shrugged. “Care
to stop by White’s for a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Of course. Why did I even ask?”
“Because you are fond of the word no.”
He spotted his carriage down a bit along the street, tucked behind another team of four, and took a
step then stopped at the hand on his forearm. He looked over his shoulder to Rawling. The teasing
levity was gone from the man’s expression.
“Just consider it, all right?”
He knew his friend wasn’t referring to the drink at White’s. Max shook his head. “But thank you for
the concern,” he added, without a trace of sarcasm.
Rawling tipped his head, his hand slipping from Max’s forearm. Max bid him good evening and
made his way down the street.
But before the carriage reached Whitehall, he rapped on the ceiling and gave his driver a change in
direction.
* * *
“Good evening, sir.” The petite blonde took a step closer, close enough so he could make out the faint
freckles sprinkled across her checks. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The emphasis she placed on the word help indicated she wasn’t offering up her services to polish
the candlesticks in his silver cabinet. Rather, her services likely involved polishing something on his
person.
Rawling had said all he needed to do was ask, but he sure as hell was not going to ask for what he
wanted here. A quick glance when he’d entered the elegant room confirmed there was no one present
he was acquainted with. Still, a good half dozen gentlemen occupied the space, a few playing cards at
a table in the corner, others seated on scarlet velvet settees scattered along the walls. In addition, there
were a handful of what he assumed were the house’s female employees, all clad in fine silk gowns that
emphasized the lush curves of their bodies. Bodies deliberately positioned quite close to the
gentlemen. Small hands brushing male chests, rouged lips whispering in ears. Negotiations in process.
He was not taken aback at the lack of male employees—if the house indeed had such a thing—
lounging about the receiving room, waiting for their next client. Sodomy was against the law, after all.
Hence the need to ask.
“Perhaps there is something you can help me with. Is there someplace more private where we can
have a discussion?”
A smile spread across her face, her eyes alighting with triumph. “Right this way, sir.”
He followed her up a staircase to the second floor of the house. She might believe she had found
herself her next client, but he’d soon prove her wrong. Perhaps he should instead inquire with the
madam of the house? But the girl worked there. Surely she was accustomed to fielding requests, even
requests that necessitated a different employee. And Rawling hadn’t told him to ask Madame Rubicon.
Merely to ask.
She pushed open the third door along the corridor, a door that had been a nudge from being fully
closed. With a muted click, she closed the door behind him. Hands clasped before her and with that
smile still on her lips, she turned to face him. “What can I help you with this evening?”
“I would like the services of a man. Can the house fulfill my request?”
Her coy smile shifted to one with a shade of disappointment. She tipped her head, ever gracious in
her defeat. “But of course. Rubicon’s prides itself on being able to fulfill clients’ wishes, whatever
they may be. If you would but give me a moment, I will see to your request. There is brandy and
whisky if you care to partake while you wait.” She indicated the crystal decanters on a console table
along the wall. A half curtsy and she slipped out of the room, leaving him alone.
He poured himself a healthy splash of whisky and took a long swallow. The room was well
appointed. Plush rugs covering the floorboards, a brown leather couch before the marble hearth, a
large bed with a navy silk coverlet and pillows neatly arranged against the walnut headboard, and a
tall chest of drawers that he doubted contained such mundane articles as smallclothes and woolen
socks.
His shoulders slumped.
He had stooped to the level of a whorehouse.
No. He shouldn’t consider it thus. Here, he would find complete honesty, at least on one point. And
that point was what mattered most. Hence he would not allow himself to feel the slightest bit stooped
for utilizing the services the house offered.
Bringing his glass to his lips, he took another long swallow. Rawling had been correct, not that he
would ever admit it to the man. It had indeed been that long. Ten months. Yet it hadn’t felt like ten
months until he had settled on the bench of his carriage, Rawling’s not-so-subtle nudge fresh in his
mind. The snap as the footman had shut the door had sounded hollow and empty, just like the past ten
months.
Odd how time had slipped by. His days spent at his desk, his mind exactly where it should be—
firmly focused on the myriad responsibilities that came part and parcel with managing a complex
dukedom. His nights... Hell, truth be told, he was damned tired of his hand for companionship.
After draining the last of the whisky, he set the glass on the spindle-legged table beside the couch
and removed his coat. Might as well make himself comfortable while he waited. He folded his coat
over the back of a wooden chair along the wall then sat on the couch. He’d been a bit hasty to dismiss
Rawling’s nudge so quickly. In fact, his reason for dismissing the notion was actually what made it the
ideal solution. Well, perhaps not ideal, but a solution nonetheless. Tonight, he wanted a man and he
would pay for one. Simple and neat. The concern gone, the risk wiped away. No subterfuge, no ulterior
motives. No threat his own desires would be used against him. And most importantly, no need to
worry the man was only after his bank account because it would indeed be an open fact acknowledged
and accepted by both of them.
Frankly, he was disappointed in himself for not having thought of the solution months ago.
There was the metallic click of a knob turning. Max looked to the door.
A man entered the room. He was clad in a pale pink silk embroidered waistcoat, expertly tailored
navy coat, matching dark trousers, and with an intricately knotted cravat beneath his jaw. It wasn’t the
elegant evening attire that took Max aback. Given the gowns on the girls in the receiving room, it
made sense the house’s male employees would be similarly attired. He’d also expected the man who
walked into this room to be on par with those girls—designed for pleasure and willing to bend to a
client’s every desire. In essence, he’d expected a very accommodating, very handsome man.
What he hadn’t expected was for the man to be beautiful.
And not just simply beautiful. But exquisitely beautiful. Enticingly beautiful. Large green-gold eyes
and lush yet fine features framed by shoulder-length ginger-blond hair that had just enough wave to
keep it from perfectly straight. High, prominent cheekbones, a full mouth that begged for a kiss, that
begged to be wrapped around Max’s cock. He appeared to be of average height for a man, around five
feet seven inches, yet that was the only similarity between his frame and the average fellow. Lithe,
graceful and lean, with enough substance to his shoulders to keep him from approaching frail.
Until that moment, Max would have never believed he would find such a man appealing. His tastes
ran toward solid muscles and strong bodies, not toward those who nudged against feminine. And the
shock over his immediate and very visceral reaction to the man clashed with the arousal pooling in his
groin.
Reaching behind him, the man shut the door. “Good evening, sir. I am Tristan.”
His voice didn’t match what Max would have expected either. There was no waifish lisp, like one of
those macaronis with their affected airs and velvet frock coats. Instead, his voice held the distinct note
of the country. Of great expanses of green grass and practical farm fields.
“Would you care for another glass of brandy? Or do you prefer whisky?” he asked, with a wave of
his hand toward Max’s empty glass.
Max shook his head. He swept his gaze over the man again, searching for the source of the lust
drumming through his veins, heating his skin. He wanted to bend Tristan over the arm of the couch,
hear him beg for Max’s cock. Tease and torment him until he pleaded with Max to be allowed his
release. Strip every piece of clothing from that lean, lithe body... His brow furrowed. “What is your
age?”
“What age would you like me to be?” The reply flowed off his tongue, like one he had given
countless times before.
“Don’t play games with me. I asked you a question. I expect an honest answer.”
Unruffled by the harsh tone, Tristan said, in that same easy way, “One-and-twenty.”
A growl rumbled Max’s throat. “Do not lie to me.”
Tristan bristled, his gorgeous mouth thinning, his eyes narrowing. “I am not lying. I was born on
September twenty-third, 1800. I may not appear to be one-and-twenty, but it is the truth.”
Max kept his gaze pinned on Tristan, waiting for the young man to shift his weight, to break eye
contact, to fidget in some manner, to reveal his words as false. As merely an attempt to say what a
potential client wanted to hear.
After a long moment, Tristan nodded once, a perfunctory, businesslike bob of his head. “I
understand. I don’t suit. Charles should be available soon. He’s the only other man in the house
willing to take male clients, but he’s presently occupied. I can have a supper tray sent up if you’d
prefer to wait.”
“What are you going on about? I never said you didn’t suit.” If anything, Tristan suited much too
well. “I merely wanted to be certain I wasn’t buggering a boy.”
“I am not a boy.” Fire flashed in Tristan’s eyes, briefly darkening the green-gold depths.
“And you have convinced me of such.” With a nudge of his chin, he beckoned Tristan.
In the blink of an eye, all traces of irritation vanished from Tristan’s beautiful features. He crossed
the room, his strides long and limber, full of natural grace. He settled next to Max on the couch, and as
he turned his shoulders toward him, his knee pressed against Max’s thigh. Just that bit of contact was
enough to make the lust spike. The jolt landed squarely in Max’s ballocks. His cock hardened,
pressing against the placket of his trousers, eager for attention.
With an absent flick of his fingers, Tristan tucked the long strands of his hair behind one ear. He
reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a calling card.
Max took the proffered card. Written in neat black type was an amount. That was it. Nothing more.
So he’d assumed wrong—it wasn’t a calling card. Rather, the man’s rate for the night. “We haven’t
discussed specifics yet.”
Tristan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It matters not what we do. That’s the price for my time.”
“And how long do I have you?”
“No more than three hours.” Tristan arched a dark blond brow. “Do the terms meet with your
satisfaction?”
The answer required no thought at all. “Yes.” Shifting on the couch, he withdrew a fold of pound
notes from his trouser pocket. When he made to give the required amount to Tristan, the man shook
his head.
“Just put it on the side table.”
Max did as requested, setting the notes next to his empty glass.
“Do you have a name?” Tristan asked.
“Yes. Max.” He didn’t elaborate beyond that. Though he highly doubted Tristan moved about in
Society, Max was a duke and there weren’t a plethora of his kind in England. It was possible Tristan
would recognize his family name, and Max much preferred the veil of anonymity while at this house.
“What would you like tonight, Max?”
Blunt and to the point. One of the many reasons why he preferred men. Various options filled his
head. The two of them locked together on the plush rug, Max driving into Tristan, the man’s head
thrown back in ecstasy, fingers digging into Max’s forearms. Tristan bent over the side of the bed,
arse tilted up, showing off the plug lodged deep within. Tristan on his knees, hands bound, cock
bound, desperate want pouring off him. He could do anything he wanted with this man. Could give
every one of his desires complete and absolute free rein.
Perhaps not. “What will you do?”
“Most anything.”
“Most?” He wanted to know Tristan’s limits up front. Straying across one in the heat of the moment
could rather spoil the evening.
Tristan gave him another one of those casual half shrugs. “I’d prefer if you didn’t hit me with a
closed fist or treat me like a dog.”
“No concerns there. I’ve never been one to beat my lovers black and blue. Redden their arse
perhaps, but not beat. And I don’t much care for dogs.” And Max didn’t much care for the fact Tristan
had felt the need to state such limits. No man who cared a wit about his bed partner would ever do
either of those things.
A hand settled on Max’s knee, then skimmed up to his upper thigh. A shiver of need racked Max’s
spine. Tristan leaned closer, his lashes at half-mast, a sinful smile toying with the edges of his mouth.
The business portion of their evening was clearly over.
“Do you want to fuck my arse?” Tristan asked, voice low, temptation turned to sound. “Restrain
me? Shall I don a dress and play the damsel in distress?” Elegant fingers drifted up to play over the
placket of Max’s trousers, tracing the length, the width of him. With effort, Max held back the groan,
held back the urge to lift his hips, to demand more, to betray how desperately he needed more. “Or do
you just want me to suck your cock? I’m quite good at it.”
His attention was drawn to Tristan’s gorgeous mouth. Plump and full and tinged pale pink. He knew
those lips would feel goddamn amazing sliding up and down his prick. An invitation he could not
refuse. Did not want to refuse. Max spread his legs, granting Tristan greater access. “Why don’t you
show me?”
That sinful smile kicked up a notch. “It would be my pleasure.” Efficient and deft, Tristan undid the
buttons on the placket and tucked Max’s shirttail beneath his waistcoat. A tug on the string of Max’s
drawers, and he pushed aside the white linen, revealing the hard arch of his erection. All it took was a
shift of Max’s hips, and his cock sprang free of the confines of his clothing.
A pink tongue darted out to swipe across Tristan’s bottom lip. In one graceful movement, he bowed
over Max’s lap, the length of his ginger-blond hair falling over his shoulders, hiding his face. He
braced a hand on the other side of Max’s hip, and then those elegant fingers wrapped around the base
of Max’s prick.
Warm breaths fanned the crown. Anticipation rushed through him. Max couldn’t stop his hips from
lifting up, toward the source of those warm, moist breaths.
Slowly, ever so damn slowly, a teasing tongue dragged across the tip of his cock. Then just as
slowly, swirled across the crown, wetting every inch of the needy surface.
Max’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his body thrumming from just that tease of sensation. A
part of him wanted to revel in the anticipation, let it ratchet the lust higher and higher. Yet ten months
of only his own hand for company pushed the demand from his lips. “Suck my cock.” The words came
out on a growl, heavy with impatience.
Tristan let out a little moan of agreement. The next instant, wet heat engulfed the crown. What felt
like the softest silk slid down Max’s length.
Max couldn’t stifle the groan. Did not want to stifle the groan as Tristan lavished his cock with
attention. Bobbing up and down, his fist tight around the base, his lips caressing his skin, his mouth
applying the perfect amount of suction.
He pushed his fingers into the soft strands of Tristan’s hair, pulled it back, wanting to see his prick
sliding in and out of the man’s mouth. See those plump, lush lips stretched around the thick length.
The sight did not disappoint.
“That’s it. Suck me,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse, like carriage wheels crunching over gravel.
The line of Tristan’s shoulders went loose as he increased his efforts. Quickening the pace,
increasing that blissful suction. Max flexed his hand against the man’s skull, resisting the almost
unstoppable urge to push down, to force Tristan to take every inch of his erection.
As if able to sense Max’s thoughts, on the next down stroke, Tristan shifted his grip and sank lower.
The head of Max’s prick bumped the back of Tristan’s throat then he felt the muscles relax just
enough for Tristan to take him deep, trapping his cock in snug heat.
Max’s mouth fell open on a heavy gasp. Pleasure saturated his senses. His thighs trembled under the
force of the climax barreling upon him. That snug heat clenched, like a little ripple. Once, twice, three
times, as Tristan swallowed around his prick.
The orgasm burst across his senses. A sudden, intense slam of pleasure, too quick, too fierce, to
even make an attempt to hold back. His shout echoed in his ears as Tristan sucked hard, pumped the
length, prolonging Max’s climax. Amplifying it to almost unbearable levels. Until Max could have
sworn Tristan had sucked every drop of seed from his ballocks.
His spent cock slipped from that gorgeous mouth as Tristan pulled back. Max released his hold on
the man’s hair, allowing him to sit upright. With a swipe of his fingertips, Tristan wiped the trickle of
pearly white seed from the corner of his reddened lips.
Max could do nothing more than gasp for breath, his muscles lax, senses thrumming in the
aftermath of that powerful climax.
Hell and damnation, it had truly been much too long since he’d been with another man.
A pleased smile tipped the edges of Tristan’s mouth. “Would you care for a glass of brandy?”
The question, with its distinct note of finality, jolted him from the thick haze of sensation. Did
Tristan believe once he’d brought Max to climax they were done for the evening?
Bloody hell no. There were two of them on this couch, after all.
“Remove your clothes.”
Puzzlement flickered across Tristan’s face. He glanced down to Max’s just-spent cock. The
puzzlement faded, replaced with what Max could only define as polite acceptance. “That’s not
necessary.”
“What’s not necessary?”
“It is perfectly fine. While the sentiment is appreciated, you needn’t bother.”
Sentiment? He needn’t bother? What the hell was the man going on—
Understanding dawned. The insult hit him square in the chest. His eyes narrowed. “Stand up.”
With a complacent little shrug, Tristan unfolded his frame from the couch and stood. An erection
tented the placket of his trousers. He may pretend to be unaffected, but a man’s body did not lie.
“Right here.” Max pointed to the spot between his own spread knees. Once Tristan did as bid, Max
repeated his initial demand. “Remove your clothes.”
Without hesitation, Tristan reached up to his neck and undid the elaborate knot of his cravat. The
white linen fell to the plush rug beneath his feet. This time, his fingers weren’t quite so deft and
efficient as he undid the buttons on first his coat then his waistcoat, his gaze locked with Max’s all the
while. A shrug of his shoulders, and the garments slipped from his arms.
The fire in the hearth crackled. Tristan took hold of the bottom of his shirt and whisked the fabric
over his head, baring a perfect expanse of flawless pale skin. He shifted his weight, toeing off his
evening shoes. One tug had the placket of his trousers undone. A moment’s hesitation, and Tristan
pushed the trousers down his legs and stepped free of them.
A blush tinged the crests of his high cheekbones. A blush Max suspected was from more than mere
arousal.
The last traces of annoyance faded away. Max gave Tristan a hint of a smile as he leaned forward
and palmed Tristan’s hips. One light tug was all that was needed. Tristan moved onto the couch, knees
straddling Max’s hips.
Max wrapped one hand around Tristan’s erection, the other still on Tristan’s hip. He’d expected the
man to be lithe and lean everywhere, but the not-insubstantial length in his hand defied that
assumption. Tristan’s body had definitely been designed for pleasure, every hard inch of it.
He tightened his grip just a bit around Tristan’s cock. “Our evening is not over until we take care of
this.”
A nod from Tristan. “All right.”
“Just all right?”
He swept his gaze over Max’s face. “Thank you?”
The beginnings of a chuckle shook Max’s chest. “Thank you is always appreciated, though I much
prefer enthusiasm.”
“Oh, I’m definitely enthusiastic about taking care of—” he glanced down to his cock then met
Max’s eyes again, “—that.”
“Very good to hear.”
He released Tristan’s cock to spit into his palm. The man’s breaths stuttered as he grabbed hold of
him once again. He picked up a leisurely rhythm, stroking up and down the slicked length, his grip
firm but not tight, giving Tristan a moment to grow accustomed to his touch.
Tristan’s hands flexed at his sides. Then he reached up, rested them on Max’s shoulders. His lashes
fluttered then swept down. At the first nudge forward of his hips, asking for more, Max increased his
pace, tightened his grip.
He wanted Tristan writhing on his lap. Wanted to hear his desperation. Feel it, taste it. Wanted to
shove aside all traces of the calm, professional facade as if it had never been there.
His hold on Tristan’s hip shifted back to palm the firm curve of his arse cheek, fingers delving into
the crease. With one fingertip, he pressed against the tight hole.
Letting out a whimper, Tristan pushed back, asking for more, wanting more. Well aware of the lack
of anything slick to ease his way, Max ignored Tristan’s request and focused on teasing the man to
distraction. Pressed and played yet didn’t breach his entrance. All the while, he worked the man’s
cock. Flicking a finger over the tip with each pull forward, paying due attention to that sensitive spot
just under the crown.
The flush on Tristan’s cheeks crept down his neck to stain the smooth skin over his delicate yet
strong collarbone and the top of his chest. With each rock of his hips, Tristan’s ballocks dragged over
Max’s cock in a decadent caress. Lust built in Max’s veins once again, his cock hardening,
lengthening, as if it had been weeks, months, and not mere minutes since he’d shot his seed down
Tristan’s throat.
Without warning, Tristan fell forward to rest his forehead on Max’s shoulder. The soft stands of his
hair brushed Max’s ear. The heat from Tristan’s body, the sounds of his panting breaths, the scents of
male skin and of arousal, filled Max’s senses. He greedily soaked it up, every sound, every sensation,
like a parched man stranded in the desert.
Those panting breaths turned into faint grunts. Tristan shifted on Max’s lap, the movement
drenched in desperation. “Fuck me. Please,” he whispered.
Max shook his head. “Not tonight.” He had no idea where the refusal came from. It was just there,
on his tongue. And once out, once given, he didn’t question it. “Tonight, I want you to climax. Right
here, between my hands.” He pressed on Tristan’s entrance and squeezed his cock harder, driving his
point home.
Tristan shuttered. Groaned. Then Tristan’s lips were on his. Mouth crushed over his, tongue pushing
inside. Max’s instincts screamed to the forefront, demanding he take control of the kiss. He fought
back the urge, let Tristan take what he needed. Max felt every muscle in the man’s body draw taut and
within the next moment he was rewarded by a guttural moan. Liquid heat splashed Max’s fingers as he
milked the crown, drawing Tristan’s pleasure out as much as possible.
Releasing Tristan, he grabbed his own prick. Wrapped his hand, fingers coated with Tristan’s seed,
around his length. Three strokes and the orgasm gripped hold of him. The second lacked the sharp,
blinding intensity of the first of the night. Still, the strength of that climax made those he’d given
himself in his lonely bed pale in comparison.
The tenor of the kiss shifted, the urgency replaced by utter contentment. Soft lips dragged across his
own, a light nip of teeth. Pulling back, Tristan broke the kiss. Tousled hair framed a most satisfied
face, his eyes heavy-lidded and darkened from sated pleasure.
Those eyes dropped to Max’s chest. A furrow marred his brow. “Oh, your waistcoat.” Tristan
dragged a fingertip over the silk fabric, smearing the seed that had splattered there.
“My coat will cover it.”
And when Max returned home, he’d throw it into the basket in his dressing room for his valet to see
to. For all the valet would know, it could be the remnants of a dally with some chit. Nothing at all
labeled the mess as a mark from an encounter with the most beautiful man Max had ever laid eyes on.
“Can you even grow a beard?” The question popped out of his mouth before he could give it any
consideration. Tristan’s jaw looked as smooth as a baby’s skin, without one hair marring the surface
or even the hint of a shadow of an evening beard. He wanted to cup the man’s jaw, verify the
smoothness of his skin, yet the sticky-cool sensation of drying seed on his palm kept his arm at his
side.
A smile curved Tristan’s mouth. “Yes, though it’s sparse.”
With that, Tristan moved off his lap. It took all of the effort within himself to release his hold on
Tristan’s hip, to let the man get to his feet. Cold, empty air brushed against him, seeping through his
clothing.
As Tristan reached down to grab his trousers, Max mentally shook himself to his senses and righted
his own, tucking his length inside his drawers and doing up the placket.
“Would you care for a glass of brandy?”
He had done what he had told Tristan he would do. He’d seen to the man’s pleasure. Their evening
was now over.
So this time when Tristan asked the question, Max nodded his assent to the glass of brandy.
Chapter Two
With a soft swoosh of muslin, Mary turned on the low dais before the gilt-framed mirror. “What do
you think?” she asked, blue eyes alight with expectation.
Legs stretched out before him, Tristan Walsh set his tea cup on the table beside his chair and
contemplated the gown. Ice-blue muslin with a pale ivory net overlay and intricate lace detail around
the hem. The matching blue ribbon underscoring the bodice drew the eye exactly where the wearer
intended it to go. The modiste had done an excellent job, somehow finding the balance between
demure and blatantly sensual.
“It’s perfect.”
She looked to the bodice and tugged on the fabric. “Not sure it’s quite low enough.”
“Any lower, and it wouldn’t be able to do its duty. Honestly, the gown is perfect the way it is. He’ll
adore it.” And the man would likely adore it more when it was off of her.
Her lips pursed. “Perhaps just a bit lower.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. The girl had yet to accept that sometimes it was better to hint, to tease, than
to lay out all of one’s assets on a silver platter.
“I want him to like it.” The plea clung to her words, making him feel horrid for mocking her.
“He will. Truly, Mary. You needn’t fret over it. He adores you, ergo he’ll adore the gown.”
The prospect of finally achieving her goal, of landing a wealthy gentleman protector, had thrown
her into a fit of worries, to the point where she’d convinced herself a new gown would be just the thing
to bring Mr. Harold Carter up to scratch. To show the man that she could be more than a mere
employee at Rubicon’s. That she could be someone he would be proud to have on his arm. Over the
past three months, Carter, a younger son of a baron, had been a faithful client of hers, never once
asking for another girl. And according to Mary, during his last visit, he had inquired if there was any
reason she could not leave the brothel, hinting he was considering asking her to be his mistress.
A twinge of jealousy tugged on Tristan’s heart. How wonderful it would be to have one man want
him enough to only wish to be with him. Yet he steadfastly ignored that twinge of jealousy. He
absolutely refused to feel anything but happiness for his friend’s prospects.
Turning, she surveyed her reflection in the mirror again. One didn’t need to look closely to detect
the flaking gilt on the oval mirror’s frame or the threadbare sections of the rug covering the
floorboards. The shop’s efforts to attempt to fool its clients, to make them feel as if they frequented a
far more respectable establishment, were efforts clearly made years ago.
“Do you truly believe the gown is all right as it is?”
“Yes, I do. Have it boxed and we’ll take it back to the house.”
A considering pause, and then finally a nod of agreement. A moment after she called for the
modiste, the older woman stepped through the velvet curtain, which served as a door of sorts to the
dressing room, and helped her change back into her cambric day dress.
Tristan took another sip of his tea and settled in to wait. The shop was situated off Cheapside, which
was sufficiently far from Bond Street to quell the frowns the modiste might have directed Mary’s way.
While he could step into any tailor’s shop on St. James Street with nary a worry, the overt sensuality
that made the girls at Rubicon’s so successful acted as a hindrance outside the house’s scarlet double
doors, limiting the shops they could frequent and requiring an escort to keep vulgar comments at bay.
One glance was all it took for polite society to guess their trade. To label them whores, whereas he
was quickly labeled a dandy.
His freedom about Town had a price though. He let out a little snort under his breath. Oh, it
definitely had a price and he was still repaying it. Would be repaying it for quite a while yet. If he
wouldn’t have had the freedom to go about wherever he pleased, he never would have incurred those
particular debts and therefore would not have had cause to beg Madame Rubicon for assistance.
Beaten within an inch of his life and left for dead or tie himself to his employer. The choice had been
an easy one. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already been working at Rubicon’s. The main disadvantage,
however, was that if a client ever posed the same question to him that Carter had posed to Mary, he
would need to answer in the affirmative. He wasn’t free to leave Rubicon’s whenever he chose.
But it really wasn’t something to bemoan or waste even an ounce of self-pity upon. A client would
never pose such a question to him. Men of his kind weren’t presented with such opportunities. Men
weren’t installed in a tidy little home of their own, weren’t cherished by someone who adored them.
He wasn’t burdened with the label of whore by passersby on the street, but at the same time, he was
limited to his current circumstances. Night after night of serving whatever man requested his
presence. Of being used and nothing more.
A melancholy cloud began to form over his head, but he pushed it aside with a firm reminder that it
was best to look on the practical side than to lament something that could not be. As far as
employment options went, it was the best the City had to offer someone like him. Rubicon’s was
considered one of the finest brothels in London, the house was situated in prestigious Mayfair, and he
earned far more there than he’d had anywhere else. Earned enough that even with the burden of his
debt, he could enjoy somewhat frequent visits to his tailor...which was a safer place to spend his
afternoons than in gambling hells. And his clients at the house generally had better manners than to
throw a few halfpennies at his feet when they were done with him.
Like last night’s client, for example. In fact, he hadn’t felt used and discarded at all. He’d felt... In
an odd sort of way, he’d felt as if Max had actually cared about him.
Foolish to believe. He knew that. Max’s demand to see to his pleasure had been borne from male
pride and nothing more. The man was clearly unaccustomed to the way of things at a brothel.
“Not tonight.”
The deep baritone of Max’s voice echoed in Tristan’s head, sending a warm shiver down his spine.
He squashed the hope before it could spark within. Clients were the most unreliable of men. They
forgot all about him, all promises gone from their lips, the moment they walked out the front double
doors. As it should be.
Mary took her shawl from the modiste and draped it about her slim shoulders. He stood from the
chair and tugged on his pristine white shirt cuffs, adjusting them beneath his bottle green coat. Once
the gown had been boxed, they left the shop and hailed a hackney to take them back to Rubicon’s.
“I believe I’ll wear it tonight.” Mary passed a loving hand over the box at her hip that was situated
between them on the leather bench.
“Shouldn’t you wait until he comes by? Why waste it on another?”
“It’s been a few days since last I saw Mr. Carter, and I have a feeling he’ll visit me tonight.” Chin
tipping down, a smile spread across her mouth. A smile full of hope and joy and eagerness for the
coming night.
An eagerness he did not feel in the slightest. He felt nothing about the coming evening. Night would
fall and if someone requested him, he would work. Yet he smiled nonetheless, for her sake.
The peddler carts and overused horses from liveries gave way to black town carriages and sleek
curricles as they neared Curzon Street. The hackney turned down the alleyway then pulled to a stop at
the back courtyard of the brothel. After paying the driver, Tristan carried Mary’s gown to the kitchen
door. A knock summoned one of the kitchen maids to unlock the door.
“Aren’t you coming inside?” she asked, taking the proffered box from him.
He shook his head. “The afternoon’s still early. Going to stop in at my tailor. The new waistcoat
should be ready.”
He waited until Mary was safely inside the house then turned from the door. A little tingle of happy
anticipation began to build in his stomach as he set off up the alley. He might not have anything to
look forward to tonight, but he did have something for today.
* * *
“Expecting anyone?” Rawling didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled out the chair opposite Max’s at the
dining table and sat.
Max set down his fork and swallowed his bite of beefsteak. “No, not expecting anyone. Please, have
a seat.” The trace of sarcasm was lost on Rawling; either that, or the man chose to ignore it.
“Very kind of you,” Rawling said, with a tip of his head. “Thought I’d be condemned to dining
alone.”
And Max had thought he’d have the pleasure of a quiet meal at White’s, surrounded by others but
still left to his own thoughts, before setting off to Westminster for the day. Apparently he’d made that
assumption too soon.
Rawling motioned to a footman and placed his order for his meal. Once the footman had stepped
from the table, Rawling leaned back, elbows resting on the chair’s arms and completely at his ease.
“You did it.”
Max went stiff. He didn’t need to ask to know exactly to what Rawling referred. And what made
Rawling so certain he had done far more than consider his suggestion last night? It wasn’t as if the
brothel marked all their clients with a splash of scarlet paint across their foreheads. He cast a glance to
the surrounding tables to verify Rawling’s comment had not attracted any undue attention. He lowered
his voice. “I did not find a nice bit to swive last night.”
Not an outright lie. He had purchased a nice bit to bugger, not swive, and he hadn’t actually engaged
in either activity last night.
Gray eyes swept over his face as Rawling contemplated him. Max picked up his fork and knife and
cut another piece of meat, doing his best to appear as if he wasn’t bracing for the next words from his
friend’s mouth. He didn’t even bother to hope Rawling would let the subject go. No use whatsoever in
hoping for that outcome.
Rawling leaned forward, a curious smirk on his lips. A chunk of his sandy-blond forelock fell over
his brow. “So what exactly did you do?”
The man was far too perceptive. Why the hell couldn’t he apply that to the viscounty?
Max glared at him.
Letting out a sigh, Rawling leaned back. “Yes, yes. None of my concern. Still, one can’t help but
wonder.”
“Stop wondering.”
Rawling chuckled. The man actually laughed at him. “All right. I’ll make an attempt. But I’ll have
you know I’m quite...happy for you. Can’t help but want to slap a friend on the back when he’s had a
good evening.”
A footman set a plate of beefsteak before Rawling along with a glass of wine, pulling Rawling’s
attention off Max, as least for the moment.
But the meal couldn’t pull Max’s thoughts off Rawling’s question. Exactly what he had done last
night, and with whom, filled his head. Had filled his head since the moment he’d awoken from the
most restful sleep he’d had in months. By God, he’d had a damned good evening.
“Fuck me, please.” Tristan’s sweetly whispered plea sounded in his head.
“I hope the day doesn’t run over long.” Rawling’s words jolted Max harshly to the present. “I have
plans for the evening that do not include being stuck in a hall full of old men. How about you,
Pelham? Any plans for the evening?” he asked, the curious smirk now replaced with one that held a
distinct note of self-congratulations.
“Would you try not to appear so damned pleased with yourself?”
Rawling let out a bark of laughter.
“You’re an arse. Why do I tolerate you?”
“Because I tolerate you. And it’s amusing to get you flustered. Not a sight I get to see much.”
Not a sight anyone got to see much.
Max shook his head. He should be more annoyed with Rawling, but he couldn’t summon the effort
at the moment. “Regardless, the day will likely run well into the night. After Matherson’s speech
yesterday, the Whigs will want to have their say. So you might as well resign yourself now to a long
evening in a hall full of old men with nothing better to do with their time but hear themselves talk.” It
shouldn’t take but a few hours to lay out both sides of an issue. That his peers would willingly drag
out such a process over countless days was a source of endless frustration for him. And whoever had
decided a piece of legislation needed to be read three times should have been sent to Bedlam.
“What a shame.” Rawling popped a bite of steak into his mouth. “For both of us. But at least it is
Friday. No worries we’ll be so occupied tomorrow evening.”
“Perhaps you will be so fortunate, but I won’t. Farnsworth’s hosting a supper party tomorrow. I
agreed to attend.” A dining room instead of the House of Lords and the addition of a meal. Otherwise,
tomorrow wouldn’t prove to be any different from the coming evening. Endless discussions on politics
without any resolutions.
Rawling pulled a face that clearly said he doubted Max’s mental capacities. “Why ever did you
agree to that?”
“Because I’m in Town. Can’t very well refuse all invitations, and I’ll be spared the obligation of
dancing at Farnsworth’s.” He loathed supper parties, but at least he would not have to contend with
matchmaking mamas or their silly daughters who envisioned themselves as the next Duchess of
Pelham. If they wanted the title, they’d be better served trying to ingratiate themselves with one of his
cousins and hoping for Max’s early demise.
It wasn’t just supper parties he loathed, but all social functions. The way the ton sought his favor,
toadying up to him simply because of his title. The false smiles, the thick veil of pretense. Yet with
the dukedom came responsibilities. Yes, he could choose how he saw to those responsibilities, but like
with Parliament, completely forgoing all functions was not an option. And unlike his seat in the Lords,
he could not see to any of his social responsibilities from the comfort of his study at his country
estate, Arrington Park. He needed to attend a minimum number of affairs, and since he was in London,
he had figured he might as well get one such affair out of the way by agreeing to attend Farnsworth’s
supper party.
Though if he had received the invitation this morning and not three days ago, he would have been
tempted to decline. Tempted to leave his Saturday evening free of all obligations. Leaving him free to
return to Curzon Street, to use every minute of his allotted three hours to give Tristan precisely what
he’d asked for last night.
“Be sure to not give Farnsworth my regards,” Rawling said. “I am quite content to stay off his guest
list. The man’s a conceited old bore.”
“You’ll receive no arguments from me on that subject.”
“I guess that leaves Sunday.”
“For what?”
Rawling arched a knowing brow.
Good Lord. “Would you please stop going on about it? I told you I didn’t—”
“Yes, yes. I recall exactly what you said.” Rawling took a sip of his wine. “Just giving you a nudge,
that’s all. Well, perhaps a hard shove, but...” He set down his glass and met Max’s eyes. “It’s been
almost a year now,” he said, voice low and gaze somber. “Past time you put him behind you and
moved on.”
Max blinked. It was as if his brain had stopped functioning.
“Not to worry,” Rawling added, in that same low voice. “I keep such knowledge to myself.” With
that, he stood from the table. “Must be on my way. Need to see to an errand before heading to
Westminster.”
He could do nothing but stare at Rawling’s broad-shouldered back as the man weaved around the
surrounding tables and exited the dining room.
“Past time you put him behind you.”
How in the name of all that was holy did Rawling know Max’s relationship with Jonathan had gone
significantly beyond friendship? Rawling could have been referring to no other. It had been ten
months since Jonathan had left him. Almost a year. Couple that with Rawling’s persistent nudges and
how he had told Max that Rubicon’s had something for everyone “no matter your tastes...”
Rawling knew he preferred men; either that or he strongly suspected. Though the revelation did not
cause panic to grip Max’s gut. Rawling was his friend, and he trusted the man to hold true to his word
and keep such knowledge to himself. In any case, if Rawling had wanted to ruin him or to attempt to
extort money from him, he likely would have done it months ago. But...Rawling knew, and he’d
chosen not to say anything to him about it until now?
Bastard.
Much to Max’s shock, a laugh shook his chest. Bloody Rawling. Only him. Shaking his head, he
turned his attention back to finishing his meal.
A good eight hours later, Max exited Westminster through one of its many side doors. His long
strides ate up the distance as he made his way across the darkened yard and straight to his carriage.
The hell with waiting until Sunday.
Chapter Three
Tristan pushed open the fourth door on the third floor and stopped in his tracks at the sight of the man
sitting on the couch before the fireplace. Excitement surged through him, filling the void of
nothingness in his chest.
Max was back.
A new client returning so soon meant he’d done a bang-up job on the initial visit. And it wasn’t
often Tristan had a client he’d actually choose to be with outside of the house. A typical client was an
average man pushing against average older man. Max was neither of those things. Around thirty years
of age, and a sight to behold. Though it wasn’t just his height or his powerful build that drew the eye.
Nor was it that Max was classically handsome. His dark eyes were too piercing, his gaze too
determined. His features too harsh, too strong, and made even more so by the way his short dark hair
was slicked back from his forehead. But the sheer confidence, the strength of character that radiated
from him...
Just being in the man’s presence made Tristan want to drop to his knees and suck Max’s cock, to
have a taste of that confidence.
Max had abandoned his coat, leaving him clad in his shirtsleeves, the knot of his white cravat
secured by a diamond pin beneath the defined line of his jaw. Tonight’s waistcoat was iron-gray, the
color stern and serious, rather like the man himself. Tristan flexed his hands at his sides. He could
well recall the feel of those broad shoulders, the muscles hard and unyielding, as he’d held on to Max
last night.
To give himself something to do with his hands more than anything, he reached behind him and
closed the door. “You returned.”
Max tipped his head. “Yes. I wanted to see you again.”
You. Not just any man. But him.
“And you made a request last we were together,” Max added. “I am here to fulfill it.”
As if he could forget the request he’d made last night. Roused to such a fever pitch, he hadn’t been
able to stop himself from begging. Fuck me, please. A heavy bolt of lust rushed through him. There
was no guessing required when it came to Max. The man was forthright about his desires to the point
of bluntness, but from him for some reason such behavior didn’t feel offensive or cold at all. Rather
the opposite.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his pulse that pounded through his veins at the promise of
what was to come. “All right.”
Max arched a brow.
“There’s definite enthusiasm. Have no doubt about that.”
Max gave him a little shake of his head, the firm line of his mouth curving up just the slightest at
the corners. He stood from the couch. “Remove your clothes and get on the bed.”
Tristan’s first instinct was to rip the clothes from his body, the buttons on his new violet silk
waistcoat be damned. But the pound notes on the small chest of drawers beside the couch recalled him
to his senses, and to his surroundings. Max wasn’t his lover. Max was his client, and he mustn’t forget
he had a job to do.
With that reminder clear in his mind, he untied his cravat. His coat, waistcoat and shirt soon found
their way to the floorboards without a single button lost in the process. Yet as with last night, when he
made to push down his trousers, he had to push past the urge to hesitate and will his fingers to release
the waistband, to let the fabric fall down his legs.
Ridiculous. He’d undressed countless times for countless other men. No reason at all to feel the
least bit self-conscious.
Stepping over his discarded clothing, he went to the bedside table. Pulled open the top drawer,
removed a bottle of oil and set it on the surface next to the small brass clock. Then he positioned
himself on his back, midway along the width of the forest-green coverlet, legs casually spread, knees
slightly bent and head resting on one of the pillows at the headboard.
He didn’t need to ask to know Max wanted him to wait. With his arms at his sides, he lay still and
waited for Max’s next command.
Dark gaze locked with Tristan’s, Max reached up to remove the pin on his cravat. After slipping the
diamond pin into his pocket, he tugged on the knot. The floorboards creaked ever so faintly as he
crossed the distance separating them. The man stopped at the foot of the bed and let the cravat fall
from his fingers. He didn’t say a word as he undressed. Silence filled the room, yet rather than
unnerve Tristan, it prodded the lust even higher. It was all he could do to keep the plea inside for the
man to hurry. He wanted Max’s bare skin beneath his hands. Wanted to have all that power and
strength crouched above him, driving into him, driving him to the edge and shoving him over it.
Most clients didn’t care in the slightest if he had an orgasm, nor did they need to care. They paid for
their own pleasure, and his did not figure in to the bargain in any fashion whatsoever. The fact he
rarely got fully erect while being buggered mattered not to them. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for the
act. Rather it was the knowledge that whatever man paid for his time did not care whether it was
Tristan or another. All that mattered was that he’d allow them to do whatever they wanted with him.
Yet with Max...
Tristan was about as certain as could be that before their three hours was up, Max would bring him
to climax. Based on their encounter last night, he highly doubted it would be an experience he’d want
to forget anytime soon.
The mattress dipped slightly as Max got onto the bed. His hard cock bobbing with every movement,
Max crawled to him yet stopped midway along his body.
“What do you want?” Max asked.
It had become so very easy to ask a client for what he wanted, to present options in all of their
accompanying explicit details. But to give voice to his own desires? “I want you to fuck me,” he
replied, hoping the tremble in his voice didn’t betray how difficult it had been to get those words out.
There was that hint of a smile again. “That outcome’s a given.” Max broke eye contact, his gaze
flickering to Tristan’s cock. The hard length arched over his lower abdomen, a drop of fluid clinging
to the tip. “Very nice.”
“Thank you.” Had he just thanked Max for complimenting his prick?
Max dropped his head.
Tristan’s breath caught as Max dragged his tongue up the underside of his erection. Crouched
between Tristan’s spread legs, the muscles of Max’s strong shoulders bunched and flexed as he
tormented Tristan. Long, slow licks designed to tease, to torture, to rouse the lust but never quite
satisfy it.
Before he was aware of it, his arm lifted from his side and his hand was cupping Max’s head,
fingers pressing against his skull, trying to guide Max to the needy crown. To get Max to take him
inside his mouth. To satisfy the all-encompassing urge for more than those teasing drags of his
tongue.
“Arms above your head.” Max didn’t snap the words. He didn’t speak with the harsh bite of a
reprimand. He didn’t even spear Tristan with a scolding stare.
Yet still, Tristan snatched his hand back as if burned. The moment his knuckles brushed the
headboard, Max went back to tormenting him. Heart slamming against his ribs, it was all Tristan
could do not to lift his hips in an appeal for more. On the next downward glide, Max dropped lower.
Turned his attention to Tristan’s ballocks. His tongue glided across the surface in a decadent caress,
then he pulled one testicle into the hot heat of his mouth, gently sucked on it before turning his
attention to the other.
Every muscle in Tristan’s body drew tight. His hands clutched the top rail spanning the length of
the headboard. His breaths turned sharp, hitching in his throat. “Fuck me, Max. Please.” Christ, he was
begging again.
Max drew back, Tristan’s ballocks slipping from his mouth. “All in due time.”
Ah hell. A hedonist. The rarest of beasts.
A few more glides of his tongue across Tristan’s ballocks, and Max planted a palm on the underside
of one of Tristan’s thighs. Tristan eagerly heeded the pressure, drawing his knees back toward his
chest and fully exposing his entrance. With his other arm bracing his weight, Max bowed low. The
sound of him spitting on Tristan’s hole was the very definition of obscene and the most erotic thing he
had ever heard.
That large hand coasted down his thigh. A tremor of anticipation racked Tristan’s body. A fingertip
skimmed over his entrance, spreading the moisture there. Just when Tristan was certain Max was
going to tease him into madness, the fingertip pushed inside. But before a sigh of gratitude could
expand his chest, Max licked a path from his ballocks, up the length of his cock, and captured the head
between his lips.
A groan of purest lust scraped Tristan’s throat.
Mouth working his prick and finger thrusting, Max pushed him right to the edge and held him there.
One digit became two and then three. Tristan lost track of how many times he pleaded with Max to
bugger him. The words fuck me and please tumbled out of his mouth unchecked, blurring together.
The climax coiled down his spine, settled in his ballocks. One flick of Max’s tongue across the crown,
one hard suck along his length, would trigger the climax, send Tristan spiraling into oblivion. Yet Max
did nothing of the sort. Even the digits thrusting into his arse stubbornly refused to find that sweet
spot inside of him.
Max was doing it deliberately. Tristan had no doubt whatsoever. It left him torn between the need to
throw every vile curse he knew at him, and thank him. The experience of having so much sensation
poured across his nerves, saturating his senses... Hell, he’d never been so absolutely consumed with
desire, with need, so potent he physically ached with it.
Those fingers and that wet mouth left him.
“Max, please.” The plea came out drenched in desperation, bordering on a whine.
The man swiped a forearm across his wet lips. “Please what?”
“Fuck me. Goddamn it, please, Max.”
The hot weight of Max’s gaze traced the length of Tristan’s body. Tristan held his breath. Silence
pressed against his ears, leaving him acutely aware that he was completely at Max’s mercy.
“All right.”
It took a couple of seconds for the significance of the phrase to penetrate the fog of lust clogging
Tristan’s mind. A short chuckle dared to shake his chest. He tried to tamp it down, but it was no use.
The smile tipping the edges of Max’s mouth told him the man had been quite deliberate in how he’d
phrased his response.
Pushing up full onto his knees, Max scooted the necessary bit closer, his strong thighs pressing
against the exposed curve of Tristan’s arse. His erection jutted from his body, the crown flushed with
need. Rather than allow another plea to fall past his lips, Tristan clung to the last shred of patience he
possessed and waited for Max to grant his request.
Leaning right, Max snatched the bottle of oil from the bedside table. Tristan’s gaze tracked Max’s
every move as he poured a generous amount of oil onto his palm. With a soft thump, he dropped the
bottle onto the coverlet. Seemingly without a care in the world, Max stroked his own prick, his large
hand spreading the oil along the length.
Taking hold of Tristan’s hip with his other hand, Max leaned back just enough to drag the crown
across Tristan’s entrance.
“What do you want?”
The way Max asked, without demand, as if he were merely putting a question to him, caused Tristan
to pause. “I want you.” And it was the truth. The very core of it. He didn’t just want Max to bugger
him. He wanted the man himself.
A small, satisfied smile briefly curved Max’s mouth. Then pressure pushed against Tristan’s
entrance. The crown made the breach, stretching him, forcing him open. Teased beyond the point of
utter desperation, Tristan reveled in the sting as his muscles were forced to accommodate Max’s thick
cock. He well knew Max was not an average fellow. Hell, he had taken him into his throat not twenty-
four hours ago. But having that prick fill his arse...
Tristan let out a moan, low and guttural, as pure pleasure swamped his senses.
Buried hilt-deep, Max went still. His dark lashes lowered. A sound, one very close to the purr of a
cat, rumbled his chest. Taking hold of Tristan’s hips with both hands, Max drew back, slow and
deliberate. With just the head of his cock inside him, Max went still once again.
Somehow Tristan knew what was coming next. He tightened his grip on the headboard’s rail, locked
his elbows.
Max’s lashes lifted. The force of his gaze, soaked with lust, was like a physical blow, knocking the
wind from Tristan’s lungs.
Before Tristan could catch his breath, Max slammed into him. All traces of control vanished, as if
they had never been there. Jaw set and biceps bulging, he pounded his cock into Tristan. Hard, rough,
unyielding. Pulling Tristan back to meet each thrust.
The heavy impacts radiated across his senses. Shook the bed. And he wanted more. Yet his mouth
couldn’t form the words to beg for more. Grunts and groans filled his throat, mixed with Max’s.
Max shifted, changing the angle of his strokes, tilting Tristan’s hips up. On the next downward
thrust, the head of his cock slid over that sweet spot inside of him. Again and again and again. Shoving
more sensation into him. Winding the pleasure ever tighter and tighter. Until it shoved him over the
edge.
A feral groan ripped from Tristan’s throat. Seed shot from his cock, painting his chest. Max’s
thrusts turned savage, almost brutal. An instant before the rough pounding would have turned the
pleasure into pain, Max threw back his head and let out a shout. Warmth filled Tristan’s passage. Then
Max collapsed on top of him.
The sharp pants of Max’s breaths puffed against Tristan’s neck. “Damnation.”
If the aftereffects of that explosive climax weren’t completely addling his mind, he’d say there was
more than just exhaustion in Max’s low curse. There was a fair share of awe as well. And it expressed
Tristan’s own sentiments exactly. Max had wrung the orgasm out of him without touching his prick.
Damnation, indeed.
Tristan uncurled his fingers from the headboard’s rail, let his hands drop to the pillow. The heavy
weight of Max’s body pressed against his ribs to the point where he couldn’t draw a full breath, but
Tristan was loath to nudge him to move.
He let his eyes drift shut. The quick thumps of Max’s heartbeat reverberated through Tristan’s
chest, matched his own. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Max shifted slightly. The heavy press against Tristan’s ribs eased a bit, allowing him to finally
draw a full breath. The man must be bracing some of his weight on his elbows. Soft lips brushed
Tristan’s neck, skimmed over his jaw, found his own.
Their tongues twined together, lazy and slow. A perfect complement to the haze of satiated lust that
enveloped his senses. Tristan lost track of all sense of time and place as their lips glided across each
other’s, tongues stroking, tasting, playing.
Max’s hips nudged forward, reminding Tristan the man’s cock still filled his arse. A thick, hard
cock.
“This all right?” Max murmured against his lips, with another nudge of his hips.
The man was actually asking if he could bugger Tristan again? Or continue buggering him, however
one wanted to view it.
“Yes.” Then he added, “Please.” Even if it didn’t occur to Max, Tristan wanted him to know it was
what he wanted and had nothing at all to do with anything beyond the two of them in this bed.
A nip to Tristan’s lower lip, and Max captured his mouth again. Those nudges turned into languid
thrusts. Each one backed by a barely audible grunt from Max, one Tristan more felt than heard. Unable
and unwilling to resist, Tristan wrapped his arms around Max’s back and held on to him. Hard
muscles worked beneath his hands, the skin cool and damp from sweat yet warm from the heat of
Max’s body.
There was absolutely nothing hurried about it as Max ramped the passion back up. Their kiss still
unbroken, Max’s thrusts pushing them onward toward another climax.
And Tristan gave himself completely over to Max. There was only Max, his kiss, his strong body
moving against him, the scent of his skin, the feel of his cock invading him, possessing him. When the
climax gripped him again, it felt just as unhurried as Max’s thrusts, washing over his senses in a
languorous wave. And with a deep grunt, Max followed him over the edge.
* * *
The muffled laugh of a woman roused him from sleep. Tristan blinked open his eyelids, which felt
damned heavy. Max was sprawled half on top of him, head resting on Tristan’s chest, one leg tangled
with his and an arm draped across his waist. He couldn’t quite remember falling asleep. After the
orgasm, Max’s kisses had drifted down to his throat, and that was the last thing he could recall.
Mighty rude of Tristan to fall asleep, but judging by the faint rumble behind each of Max’s deep,
rhythmic exhales, the man wasn’t taking issue with the unplanned nap. If he wasn’t mistaken, the little
puddle on his chest, directly beneath the corner of Max’s mouth, was drool. Suppressing a chuckle,
Tristan wrapped his arms around Max and gave in to the urge to let sleep overtake him once again.
His eyes snapped open. Turning his head, Tristan glanced to the bedside table, to the clock
deliberately angled toward the bed. Focusing on the small numbers on the clock’s face, he forced his
mind to do the maths.
Oh, hell.
He nudged Max’s shoulder.
Rubicon would have his hide if he allowed an appointment to exceed the allotted three-hour limit.
Overstepping even one rule could lose him his position and leave him without any means to repay his
debt to her.
Another nudge, this one harder. “Max, you need to wake up.”
“Why?” he asked, voice a mere rumble, dark lashes still resting against his cheekbones.
“It’s been almost three hours. You need to leave soon.”
Max lifted his head. The mussed hair and bit of moisture at the corner of his mouth countered the
stern frown. Just when Tristan was certain Max would refuse to leave, he said, “All right. But give me
a moment.”
Tristan nodded.
Max settled against his side. His back lifted on a deep breath, the exhale whooshing across Tristan’s
chest. “You’re from the country, correct?”
“Yes. Yorkshire. And how did you know?”
“You sound like you were raised in the country.” Well, yes, there was that. “When did you come to
London?”
“A few years ago.” He had been so eager to leave Yorkshire, leave his father’s farm, his older
brothers and their cast-off clothes behind, to find someplace where he belonged. Unfortunately, it
hadn’t taken him long to realize London did not at all resemble the glittering city of his boyhood
dreams.
Something in his tone must have given him away, for Max asked, “Not what you expected?”
“No.” That was putting it mildly.
“I spend a great deal of time in the country myself. Only come to Town when business demands it.”
Max lifted up onto his elbows. “You need to wash up. Dried seed can’t be comfortable.” He swung his
legs over the side of the bed and padded to the washstand.
Tristan looked down and tilted his head to one side in an effort to mimic Max’s viewpoint. The
candlelight caught the dried remnants of his climax splattered across his skin.
Wonderful.
“Here,” Max said, holding out a wet cloth.
“Thank you.” Tristan sat up and pushed the tangled mess that was his god-awful hair over his
shoulder. After cleaning up, he set the cloth in Max’s outstretched hand.
Max dropped the cloth on the nearby chest of drawers. Rather than turn back to the bed, he pulled
open the top drawer. The man had a gorgeous back, all hard muscle and smooth skin. Tristan remained
on the bed, resisting the impulse to reach out, to trace the strong line of Max’s spine.
“Interesting,” Max murmured, reaching into the drawer. “I had expected these chests not to contain
such mundane things as smallclothes. Appears my expectations were correct.”
Even after two years at the house, Tristan didn’t know every room well enough to know exactly
what that particular top drawer contained. Some variety of toys or leather goods, no doubt. Was Max
in the mood to play again? After two rounds with Max, his arse begged for a no, but the prospect of
being bound for Max’s pleasure...
His breaths stuttered as lust made a valiant attempt to spark anew. And the man had wanted
Tristan’s arms over his head while he’d buggered him, during the first time anyway. The hard tone,
the commanding presence... He could well imagine Max to be the sort who’d relished in such play.
Max would be damned good at it, too. He wouldn’t leave welts on Tristan’s skin, wouldn’t shove him
roughly to his knees, wouldn’t make him feel like the lowest of dogs.
As Max turned from the chest, Tristan briefly closed his eyes. Every toy and leather good he’d ever
been acquainted with flashed before his mind. Which one would Max select? He opened his eyes.
Max held a massive black marble dildo. It was so thick his large hand couldn’t contain its width.
The thing had to be a good twelve inches in length.
“Can you take this?”
Tristan swallowed hard, the muscles in his sore arse clenching. “Yes,” he whispered. It had hurt like
hell when shoved inside him. But in Max’s hands...
The echo of a whimper registered through the haze of lust suddenly swamping him.
Had that sound come from him?
What could only be classified as a satisfied smile with a distinct note of anticipation tipped the
edges of Max’s lips.
Yes, indeed. That whimper had come from Tristan.
Max’s gaze strayed to the bedside table. The smile left his lips. And with the loss of that smile, it
was as if all the warmth, all the intimacy, left the room.
Marble clacked against marble as Max put the dildo back in the drawer. “I should be on my way.”
He grabbed his trousers from where he’d discarded them at the foot of the bed and dressed. It wasn’t
but a handful of minutes later and he was slipping out the door.
All he left in his wake was a fold of pound notes on the side table and Tristan, still sitting alone on
the bed.
Chapter Four
Max let out a sigh of relief as he stepped out of the doors of Westminster. The good Lord above must
have been smiling upon him, for the session had finally closed for the summer.
He hadn’t made it halfway across the yard when a hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Heading back to Hampshire tomorrow?” Rawling asked.
“Yes. First thing in the morning.” He’d been tempted to extend his stay in London, but
responsibilities did not disappear simply because his prick wanted attention from a particular
individual. He had been in London long enough. Past time for him to turn his focus fully back to
Arrington Park and the countless other responsibilities, besides the House of Lords, that encompassed
the dukedom.
“Then I take it this will be the last I will see of you for some weeks to come.”
“If you are fortunate you won’t see me for a good couple of months or so.”
“However will I get along?”
Max chuckled. “I have no doubt you will find something to occupy you.”
“Or someone, if I am fortunate.”
“There is that hope.” Did Rawling prefer men as well? Was that how he had known Rubicon’s had
male employees? Max couldn’t recall him ever mentioning any specific woman who had caught his
attention. Then again, their conversations did not tend to run toward those topics. At least not until
lately. And it was a topic he did not want Rawling to nudge him about yet again. While he appreciated
Rawling’s concern, he did not want to put Jonathan completely behind him. That experience had
taught him a valuable lesson, one he was determined to never forget or repeat. “Or you could occupy
yourself with your estate.”
A frown briefly tightened the edges of Rawling’s mouth. “Don’t stay away too long, Pelham. Your
disposition has improved over the last week, and I would hate to see you turn back into a glowering
old man.”
It would have been a neat turn of the conversation, if it wasn’t glaringly obvious Rawling did not
want to discuss his estate.
“That glower was due to the Lords. Since that hell is over until well after the New Year, you have
no immediate cause for further concern.”
Rawling cast him a glance from the corner of his eye, one that said Max was fooling no one, least of
all himself.
A glance Max ignored.
Stopping at the street, he turned toward Rawling. “Try to ensure London stays in one piece while I
am gone.”
Rawling tipped his head. “I shall do my best.”
A parting shake of the hand, and he left Rawling on the walkway and crossed to where his carriage
was waiting on the opposite side of the street.
A footman hopped off the boot to see to the door. “The town house,” Max said as he stepped inside.
He gazed out the window as his carriage took him back to Mayfair, his driver deftly guiding the
team of four around the hackneys and other carriages. The streets were much busier than when the
Lords usually adjourned for the night. The sun must have recently set for the sky still held an echo of
its light. It could not be much past nine. Still early yet. Max pulled out his pocket watch, confirmed
the time.
The dreaded supper party Saturday evening had not concluded until the wee hours of the morning,
and a visit from one of his solicitors yesterday had brought business concerns that required his
immediate attention, keeping him ensconced in his study well into the night. As he had told Rawling,
he did not plan to be back in Town for months to come. And he had a long journey ahead of him
tomorrow to reach Arrington Park. Plenty of hours to finish going through the pile of paperwork he
had left on his desk last night when he’d finally taken himself to bed.
The decision made, he rapped on the ceiling. A narrow slot in the wall above the opposite bench slid
open. A gust of warm evening air swept into the carriage.
“Curzon Street,” he called out to his driver.
“Yes, Your Grace,” came Morgan’s deep voice over the pound of hooves and the rattle of harness.
His driver slid the small panel closed, muffling the sounds of the street.
Anticipation began to wind its way through his veins, settling in his groin. He definitely had
enjoyed his time with Tristan. The man was near perfect. So responsive and eager. The way his spine
had gone lax, the whimper slipping past his lips at the prospect of indulging in more exotic play. The
leather cuffs and the coiled length of rope, the dildos and anal plugs, the flogger and the riding crop he
had seen in that drawer flashed before his mind’s eye. He wanted to try every one of them with
Tristan. Wanted to see those dark leather cuffs against his pale skin. Wanted to know what sound
would slip out of his beautiful mouth when Max slapped that flogger against his arse. Wanted Tristan
sagging in his arms, his lithe, lean body replete and sated, lungs gasping for breath and eyes gazing at
Max with the most profound...
He gave his head a firm shake, throwing off the old hurt with well-practiced effort before it could
rise anew.
If he was brutally honest with himself, being with Tristan had made him miss those nights he used
to have. Miss having a warm body beneath him, above him, beside him. Miss the comfort that came
from an arm holding him tight, the rhythmic beat of a heart lulling him to sleep.
Visiting a brothel was not the preferred solution to a lonely bed, but he’d come to accept even dukes
could not have everything they wanted. Especially a duke who preferred men. The very thing that put
any material possession easily within his grasp made trust impossible. At least with Tristan the man’s
motivations were in plain sight. Yes, Max had given himself a jolt the other night when he’d briefly
forgotten that fact, but he was confident he would not make the same mistake again.
On a more positive note, he now had a reason to look forward to returning to London. He could pay
Tristan a call whenever he came to Town. It was a compromise he would need to learn to live with. It
was either occasional visits to the brothel or nothing. Nothing was damn lonely, and Rubicon’s held an
exquisitely beautiful man who fit beneath Max like he had been made for him.
A grunt filled Max’s throat. Damned yes, Tristan fit perfectly beneath him.
The carriage slowed to a stop before a now-familiar building with scarlet double doors. Wiping the
smile from his lips, Max exited the carriage.
* * *
“You’ve got a client waiting for ye, Tristan. Fourth floor, last room on the right.”
Keeping his features schooled in a neutral mask, Tristan glanced up from the worn baize covering
the billiard table and nodded to the maid. “I’ll be right there.” Then he looked to Charles, who stood
on the opposite side of the old table, cue stick in hand. “Your victory by default or do you want to pick
up the game later?”
Charles shrugged. “If your appointment doesn’t run overlong, find me if I’m available and we can
finish the game later.”
The if was a rather big if. At a good four inches taller than Tristan’s own five feet seven and with
broad shoulders, Charles was the handsome option for the house’s clients who sought another man. As
such, he tended to be requested more than Tristan. Not that Tristan begrudged him his busier schedule,
and especially not of late.
After propping his cue stick against the wall, Tristan donned the coat he’d left on a nearby chair,
and then he left the back room that Rubicon kept for employees. He well knew the weight pressing
down on his shoulders had nothing to do with Mary’s departure yesterday. The new gown must have
done its duty, for her gentleman had offered her a position as mistress. He would most assuredly miss
her, but friends came and went from the house. It was the way of things at Rubicon’s. Some stayed for
a handful of years while others for mere months or weeks. Everyone would eventually leave, move on.
Even he would someday leave. When and where he would go, he hadn’t a notion. Nor did he spend any
effort contemplating either question, for he would not be able to leave anytime soon.
As he pulled open the door to the servant’s stairs, he fought back the sigh of resignation. It had
definitely not been the wisest of decisions to completely give himself over to Max the last time they
had been together. Work had once just been work. A requirement and nothing more. He had not
dreaded it nor looked forward to it. Yet after being with Max, all the others now felt like unwanted
chores.
Hell, significantly more than unwanted chores.
The cold lust in their eyes, the lack of warmth in their touch. They didn’t care one bit for him. He
knew that. Had known that. It wasn’t as if he’d ever tried to fool himself into believing otherwise. Yet
now...
A heavy ache radiated across his chest.
But if nothing else, his time with Max had taught him that he should never ever forget the pound
notes on the side table.
He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, and as he made his way along the corridor, he
tugged the string free that held his hair in a queue at his nape. When he had first come to Rubicon’s,
he had been awestruck by the grandeur of the public areas of the house. Thick rugs on the floorboards,
crystal sconces along the walls covered with silk paper, the gilt-framed landscapes and the fine
furnishings. Now though, he saw it for what it was—trappings designed to lure the wealthy gentlemen
and occasional lady of London to more easily part with their pound notes.
His feet stopped at the last room on the right. For a long moment, he simply stared at the brass
knob. With a shake of his head, he snapped himself to his senses. There was no use stalling.
It took more effort than it should have to lift his arm and turn the knob.
“Finally. Took you long enough,” a man said as he stood from the couch. Tall and thick of build
with light brown hair, he looked vaguely familiar. Likely a repeat visitor to the house.
A quick glance about the room proved Tristan’s assumption correct. A number of gold sovereigns
had been tossed onto the console table, beside an open bottle of whisky.
The ugly pull of the man’s lips warned the fellow was not of the amiable sort. Refusing a client
wasn’t an option, but if he got truly out of hand, Tristan could tug the bellpull by the bed and summon
a guard to deal with him. Rubicon did hate when the merchandise was damaged by an unruly client.
There were no locks on the doors for that very reason—to make it easier for a guard to intercede, if
necessary.
The quicker he got the appointment over with, the better. And then there would be another after, and
another and another. It was all he could do to keep the cringe from marring his brow.
Tristan closed the door behind him and forced his lips to curve in an inviting smile. “My apologies
for the delay. Is there something in particular you have in mind for our evening?”
* * *
The click of a knob cut through the silence in the room. His pulse picked up, as if it had become an
ingrained reaction to that sound. Seated on the couch, Max set his barely touched glass of whisky on
the side table and looked to the door.
He did not bother to hide the frown at the girl’s reappearance.
She clasped her hands before her. “Unfortunately, sir, Tristan is otherwise occupied. If you are
amenable, I can send in Charles. He’s blond, tall and very handsome. Certain to please you. Or...” She
stepped forward, a coy smile, the same one she’d tried on him the first time he had visited the house,
spread across her mouth. “I can stand in Tristan’s place. I would be more than happy to suck your
cock, if that’s what you like.”
Getting to his feet, Max shook his head. He didn’t want a woman and he didn’t want the Charles
fellow either. He wanted Tristan. And the man was with another, at that very moment?
He hands balled into fists at his sides. Jealousy rushed through him. Heavy and thick yet startlingly
sharp.
Sharp enough to jolt him to his senses.
What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t feel a drop of jealousy. Tristan’s very occupation
necessitated others. Max was not the only man Tristan begged for. Was not the only one who had
heard those pleas for more. Who had had Tristan look at him as if he was the only man in his world.
“I want to watch him.” The words were out of his mouth before Max could give them any thought.
But just as with his business dealings, he knew in his bones his instinct in this was correct.
He gave the girl credit. She didn’t give a start or appear shocked by his request. “Watching others is
allowed for a price, though only if all parties involved agree. I will need to have Madame Rubicon
check with Tristan’s client to determine if he is open to the notion, and if the room they are in allows
such play. If you would give me a moment—”
“No. I do not want Tristan to know of my presence.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a good number of the pound notes. He always kept a
decent amount in his pocket—one never knew when one would need it. Yet after his first visit to the
house, when he grabbed a fold from his safe, he made certain it contained more than enough for a
repeat visit, in the event he found himself with three hours free during an evening. That alone should
have been a clue.
Fool. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at himself, he held out the money to the girl. “You can have
this, if you can arrange it so that I can watch Tristan without anyone in this house being the wiser.”
The girl did not hesitate. She snatched the pound notes from Max’s hand. Her eyes briefly widened
as she flipped through them, obviously checking to ensure the sum was worth infringing on the
house’s rules. “I’ll still need to find out what room he’s in. Not all of them can accommodate your
request. Depends on where they are situated. But I can ask one of the maids. Do it so she won’t
suspect.”
Max gave a wave of his hand. “Then be quick about it.”
The money clutched in one fist, the girl bobbed a short curtsy and left the room.
Turning, Max reached for his glass on the side table and took a long swallow. He did not want to
watch Tristan with another. But he needed to watch Tristan tonight. He needed the reminder Tristan
was just a whore. He knew it as fact, but needed to see the proof Tristan would never be faithful to
him. Hadn’t been faithful in the slightest since their first evening together, nor did Tristan have any
reason to be. That there was no cause at all for him to ever feel even a brush of jealousy where it
concerned Tristan.
It was all simply a transaction. An orgasm in exchange for money. Visiting Rubicon’s was his only
acceptable option, if he did not want to achieve that orgasm alone. He had told himself he understood
exactly what he would be purchasing at Rubicon’s and what the purchase would and would not entail.
But that harsh sting of jealousy was a warning he should not ignore, especially since he’d felt so
confident not an hour ago that he would not forget where Tristan’s motivations laid. Clearly,
somewhere along the way, some part of him had refused to listen to logic. Therefore, it was best if the
realities of the house were made crystal clear in his head. For the absolute last thing he wanted was to
find himself seated behind his desk, thoroughly in his cups, a bottle of gin in his hand to help dull the
ache in his chest. To find he’d somehow allowed himself to be played the fool, yet again.
The girl did as instructed and returned within a few minutes to usher Max up to the fourth floor. She
stopped at the very end of the corridor before a narrow door, the type that usually marked an entrance
to servants’ areas. She cast a quick glance around Max to the empty corridor behind them, and then
opened the door.
“In here,” she whispered, as she disappeared inside. “Quickly, and shut the door quietly.”
The light from behind him seeped into the space, illuminating a barren corridor that was just as
narrow as the door and barely wide enough to accommodate Max’s shoulders. He stepped inside and
shut the door. Standing very still, he blinked against the darkness.
A hand touched his forearm, slid down to his wrist and took hold of it. He allowed her to lift his
arm. She put his hand against cool wood. He felt the outline of a small knob beneath his palm.
“Slide this open and you can watch through there,” she said so softly he had to focus to hear her.
“Be very quiet, else they’ll suspect. Wait until I leave to open it though. Can you find your way out of
the house?”
At the concern in her voice, he said in a low tone that matched hers, “Yes. And not to worry, if
anyone asks, I discovered this space all on my own.”
He had to flatten himself against the wall to allow her to pass. And then he was alone in the
corridor.
Curling his fingers around the small knob, he slowly slid open the panel. A narrow band of light
shined from the opening.
“Yes, sir.”
The words floated to his ears. Tristan’s voice.
Max’s stomach knotted into a tight fist. Yet still, he stepped forward and looked through the thin
slot in the wall.
Chapter Five
Max’s gaze fell immediately onto Tristan who stood a couple of paces inside a bedchamber similar to
the others Max had been in at the house. Given Max’s position in the corridor and his vantage point of
the room, the slot in the wall must be near the corner. He could make out a portion of Tristan’s profile,
just enough to know a placid smile curved his lips. Whereas he had almost a full-frontal view of the
large man standing before Tristan and the erection tenting the placket of his trousers. The man’s arms
were crossed over his broad chest, his attention pinned on Tristan.
A sour sensation invaded the tight knot of Max’s stomach. His fingers curled around the small knob
as he resisted the urge to slide the panel closed, to block out the view before him.
A shrug of Tristan’s shoulders, and his dark brown coat slid to the floor. He reached up to unravel
the knot of his cravat. He pulled the length of fabric from his neck then set to work on the buttons of
his turquoise silk waistcoat.
Was it simply a by-product of the unsavory situation of watching another, or was it truly taking
Tristan an unusually long amount of time to slip those buttons free? Or perhaps it was merely Max’s
wishful thinking, hoping to see something, anything, to mark his time with Tristan as different from
Tristan’s time with that other man. Some sort of proof Tristan had honestly wanted to be with Max.
The smile on Tristan’s lips did not waver, though. And finally, the waistcoat joined the coat and
cravat at Tristan’s feet.
Tristan tugged his white shirt from the waistband of his trousers, pulled it over his head. Passed a
hand over his hair, smoothing the ginger-blond length. Toed off his shoes. He made to unbutton the
placket of his trousers. Before his fingertips could touch the fabric, the man reached out, jerked on the
waistband. Buttons skidded across the floorboards. The trousers fell down Tristan’s legs.
“Stop dawdling. All of it. Off.” The man’s voice cut through the room.
Max swore he detected the barest of flinches grip Tristan’s bare shoulders.
Max’s jaw tightened, his throat tightened. Every muscle in his body went taut.
A pause, and Tristan lifted one foot then the other, stepping free of the ruined garment.
Gaze tracing Tristan’s bare body, the man walked around him, inspecting him like a horse at
Tattersalls. Stopping behind Tristan, he leaned close to Tristan’s ear. Max couldn’t make out his
words, just the indistinct sound of a deep voice.
Tristan looked over his shoulder, a familiar sinful smile curving his lips, eyes full of blatant
invitation. “Are you certain you don’t want me to suck your cock? I’m quite good at it.”
That moment from their first evening together replayed in Max’s head. The smile, the half-lidded
gaze, those words—I’m quite good at it.
Straightening, the man tugged at his own trousers. Erection jutting from the open placket, he moved
to stand before Tristan. With a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, he pushed him to his knees. “Then do it.”
Those full lips, the ones that had kissed Max senseless, opened wide as Tristan leaned forward.
A wince squeezed Max’s eyes shut. He did not want to watch Tristan doing to another what Tristan
had done with him. He had seen enough, heard enough, goddamn it. He did not need to watch another
moment.
Opening his eyes, he made to take a step back but froze.
Hands plated on the man’s thighs, Tristan jerked back, trying to break free of the man’s hold on his
hair and the cock in his mouth.
On a nasty growl, he released Tristan’s hair. Tristan coughed, gasped for breath. Fist clenched, the
man raised his arm.
An unholy riot of rage roiled up from Max’s gut.
He turned from the wall. As he reached for the narrow door’s knob in the darkness, he heard the
unmistakable sound of a fist impacting with flesh followed by a faint whimper of pain.
The next thing he knew, he was turning the knob of the bedchamber door. Clenching his hand in a
mirror image of the goddamn bastard’s, Max raised his arm and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw.
“Keep your bloody hands off him,” Max growled.
Head snapping to the side, the man staggered back. “What the bleedin’ hell?”
“Max? No!”
A hand latched on to his right arm just as he raised it to slam into the man’s jaw again, to give him
another lesson in what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a closed fist.
“Let go, Tristan,” Max got out through clenched teeth. “And stay back.”
In the moment it took Max to pry Tristan off of him, the man recovered his bearings. His eyes
narrowed, his stance shifting, his weight rocking forward. “He’s a damn whore. I’ll do with him as I
please.” The man lunged at Max.
They were of similar heights, though his opponent had more bulk on his frame. But Max had rage,
fury, unadulterated anger coursing through him, noxious and vicious, adding power behind each punch
and making him completely oblivious to the man’s blows.
Bastard. Bastard. The words repeated in Max’s head as he let loose with his fists. As he directed all
the furious rage onto a single target. He was vaguely aware of Tristan shouting at him to stop, but he
wouldn’t stop. That bastard had goddamn raised a fist to Tristan.
Strong, large hands grabbed at Max’s upper arms, jerked him back, breaking Max’s hold on the man
as he was about to slam him into a wall.
“Stop this nonsense.” A woman’s voice. Firm and strong.
Max’s muscles vibrated with the need to spring back into action. With a harsh tug, he tried to break
the hold of the man behind him, but those strong hands held tight, fingers digging into his biceps.
“You will stop. Now.” This time there was command, authority, in that firm voice.
Max gave his head a shake, tried to pull together the pieces of his self-control. Lungs laboring for
air, he glanced about the room. Eyes wide with shock and chest working under the force of his short,
panting breaths, Tristan stood a few paces away, near a chair that must have been overturned during
the fight. Max kept his feet rooted to the floor, stopped himself from going over to check on him—
Tristan was standing, after all, and didn’t appear to be bleeding—and instead he assessed the situation.
Including the one holding him, there were three burly guards, each well over Max’s own height, and
one of which he recognized as the doorman who had admitted him to the house not a half hour ago. He
could only surmise the woman in the scarlet silk gown, her blonde hair artfully arranged in a knot on
her head, her necked draped with jewels, was Madame Rubicon. She appeared to be somewhere
between forty and fifty years of age, and the irate glint in her kohl-rimmed eyes said she did not look
kindly on gentlemen engaging in fisticuffs in her establishment.
“That man,” Max declared, pointing a finger at the bastard who was sporting a satisfyingly bloody
nose, “hit Tristan. With a closed fist.”
“And how would you know that?” she asked.
“It is none of your concern. What is of concern is that one of your clients mistreated Tristan.”
“I did no such thing.” The man finished doing up the buttons on his trousers. A drop of blood fell
from his chin, dropped to the floor. “That boy needs to learn some manners. He’s not worth the money
I paid for him.”
A growl filled Max’s chest, scraped his throat.
She passed a dismissive eye over Tristan. “He appears unharmed.” Then she leveled Max with a
hard stare. “I will be the judge of what falls under my concern in my house.” Her gaze darted to the
corner of the bedchamber, the very corner Max had stood behind.
He couldn’t recall if he had slid the panel shut. Even if he hadn’t, it mattered not to him.
But she did not question him further on that particular subject. “Tristan is an employee of this
house. He was merely doing his job. A job he agreed to do, and clearly was not doing to the best of his
abilities. I do not know what you believe you saw—” she emphasized the word, “—but it is not well
done of you to interfere.”
“That man hit—”
“If Tristan believed himself in danger, he would have summoned a guard. Which he did not.” She
flicked a glance to one of the guards. “Smith, please see the gentleman to my office and have a maid
tend to his nose. I will be down shortly. My deepest apologies, sir,” she said, her expression softening
as she directed her goddamned apologies to the last man in the room who deserved one. “Please be
assured such an incident is not tolerated at this establishment, nor will it be repeated.”
That unholy riot of fury threatened to rise anew, and with it a heavy measure of frustration.
Rubicon’s callous disregard for Tristan’s well-being was beyond appalling. Absolutely
unconscionable. Max took a long breath, determined to remain in control of himself. Ranting like a
fool fit for Bedlam would not rectify the situation. Only one thing would rectify the situation, ensure it
was never repeated again.
As soon as the man left the room, a guard following on his heels, Max gave his shoulders another
hard shrug. “Release me.”
A nod from Rubicon, and the guard behind him did as told.
Tristan might appear unharmed but that did not mean he was not hurt. Max had seen that man draw
back his fist, heard the impact, felt the strength of those blows himself. Hell, he would not be
surprised if he woke up tomorrow to find his ribs marked by a few ugly bruises.
He gave his waistcoat a tug to straighten it, centered the knot of his cravat and then crossed to
where Tristan still stood by the overturned chair, arms crossed defensively over his chest and naked as
the day he was born. Tristan’s attention was fixed on the floor, on a spot a few paces away. The
faintest of trembles had seized his muscles, his skin far paler than usual.
Max unbuttoned his coat and took it off. “Here. Put this on,” he said, soft and low, like one would
use to quiet a frightened horse.
A shake of Tristan’s head. “Just leave.” He had spoken quietly, for Max’s ears only, yet there was
no mistake about it. That wasn’t fear in his voice, but humiliation, and the sound tore at Max’s chest.
“Sir—”
Max shot Rubicon a glance over his shoulder, one that had quelled many a man in the Lords. Then
he turned the full force of his attention back to Tristan. “Put it on. Please.”
A frown tightened Tristan’s mouth. “I have my own clothes,” he mumbled under his breath. He
snatched the coat from Max’s hand and did as asked.
“Did he hurt you?”
Chin tipping down, Tristan wrapped his arms back around himself. “No.”
A lie if ever Max heard one.
His coat looked huge on Tristan, dwarfing his lean frame, the sleeves a good few inches too long
and covering his hands. Yet the sight of it on him eased the knot in Max’s gut just enough so it did not
take all of his self-control to keep from wringing Rubicon’s neck with his bare hands.
Max dropped his head, putting him on eye level with Tristan, and lowered his voice even further.
“Do you want to stay here?”
Tristan went still—even his breaths went still—except for those awful trembles. His gaze remained
pinned to the floor. Just when Max began to fear Tristan wouldn’t respond, the man shook his head.
Once. A single shake.
That was all Max needed.
He turned back to Rubicon. “Tristan does not wish to work for you anymore. He is coming with
me.”
Her spine went ramrod-straight. If he had thought her eyes hard before, it was nothing compared to
now. “You cannot simply take one of my employees.”
“You said he’d agreed to work for you. He no longer agrees. I will not allow you to hold him here
against his will.” Burly guards be damned. If the madam attempted to force Tristan to continuing
working at the house...
“I do not need to hold him against his will. Mr. Walsh and I have an agreement.” Max hadn’t a clue
as to Tristan’s family name, but since they were discussing Tristan, Max could only assume she was
referring to him. “He asked if I would be so kind as to settle his gambling debts, and I agreed on the
condition he would remain an employee of this house. He still owes me a great deal of money, and
therefore he will not be leaving with you tonight.”
Max did not bother to inquire after the sum before he made the decision. The amount mattered not.
What mattered was getting Tristan the hell out of this house. “I will settle his debt to you. How much
does he owe?”
Rubicon’s eyes briefly narrowed with a distinct note of greed. She lifted her chin, her demeanor
changing from indignant resistance to that of a shrewd businessman. “If you take him tonight you will
leave me with only one man who will accept gentlemen clients until a replacement can be found. Mr.
Walsh is an exceptional individual, as I am sure you are well aware. It will be a difficult endeavor to
find someone who can stand in his place. He has also already cost me one client tonight. A client who
will likely never return. And you, sir, have threatened the good reputation of my establishment. It will
cost me a great deal to placate the gentleman currently waiting in my office, ensure word does not get
out about tonight’s incident.”
Max understood at once. “Tristan is leaving tonight. He will not return to this establishment. I will
have a bank draft to the sum of twenty-five hundred pounds sent to you by tomorrow morning. I trust
it will compensate you for the inconvenience and repay his debt. You will understand that I do not
have the sum with me at the moment.”
He removed his gold pocket watch and diamond cravat pin, pulled out the remaining pound notes
from his pocket, and held out every valuable on his person to Rubicon as proof of his ability to make
good on his word.
“I will have your full name, sir.”
The veil of anonymity would be lost by the morning, as soon as she received the bank draft. If
giving her his name now would help serve as collateral and save him the effort of trying to pummel
past two burly guards with Tristan in tow, then so be it.
“Max Arrington.”
The edges of her lips tipped up the tiniest bit. She recognized his family name, knew exactly who he
was. He could only trust she was a shrewd enough businesswoman to know abusing such knowledge
would not be in her best interest.
A moment’s consideration, and Rubicon nodded.
Max did not give her the courtesy of a tip of the head. After dropping the valuables onto a side
table, he grabbed Tristan’s clothes from the floor. With a protective hand on Tristan’s lower back,
Max ushered him past the two remaining guards.
Once they were a few paces from the bedchamber, he asked Tristan, “What is the quickest way out
of this house, preferably not through the front door?”
“Servants’ stairs to the back door. That way.” Tristan jerked his head toward a plain door marked
with a steel knob versus the highly polished brass ones decorating the others in the corridor.
Neither Tristan nor Max said a word as they made their way down the stairs. As they neared the last
step, Tristan stopped, his head turning toward an open door to the right, toward the sounds of a busy
kitchen. The clank of a pot, the chatter of female voices, the rhythmic tap of a knife against wood.
“Here. Put these on.” Max held out Tristan’s clothes.
As Tristan stood on the last step and tugged on his trousers, Max glanced about. The stairs ended in
a small space lit by a serviceable lantern hanging from the ceiling, a closed door directly before them,
the open one to the kitchen off to the right. The closed door likely led to an alley behind the house.
He much preferred to have his carriage brought round for Tristan. His driver would be up a few
buildings beyond Rubicon’s, exactly where he had waited the last two instances when Max had visited
the house. It wouldn’t take but a handful of minutes for Max to walk around to Curzon Street, but he
was reluctant to leave Tristan alone for even a moment. He’d struck his bargain with the madam. She
had let him leave the bedchamber with Tristan. Still, he couldn’t ignore the fear Tristan would be
snatched away the instant Max turned his back on him.
“Your coat,” Tristan murmured.
Max took the proffered garment. In the time it took him to slip it on and do up the buttons, Tristan
had his own shirt, waistcoat and coat on, displaying an efficiency he completely lacked back in that
bedchamber. Then the man turned, as if to go back up the stairs.
“No.” Max’s arm shot out, blocking Tristan’s progress as he made to slip past him.
“My shoes, cravat. You left them in the room.”
“You can make do without them for the night.” The bare feet peeking from the hems of Tristan’s
trousers and the shirt collar laying open, exposing his pale throat—not to mention the hand at
Tristan’s waist, holding the placket of his button-free trousers in place—were the least of Max’s
concerns.
“But—”
“You are not going back to that room. My carriage isn’t far. If the lack of shoes is a concern, I can
carry you.”
An indignant scowl marred Tristan’s beautiful features. “I can manage on my own.”
“Good.” Max indicated the closed door. “Shall we?”
As they walked out of the house, Max’s senses went on full alert. The moon’s faint light, peeking
from behind the night clouds, was enough to see by, but heavy darkness shrouded the backs of the
buildings lining the alleyway. Mayfair wasn’t known for an overabundance of pickpockets and
thieves. Still, Max placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, kept him close, his gaze sweeping their
surroundings, guiding Tristan around shallow puddles and on the lookout for any sign of others in the
alley.
As expected, he found his team of four waiting around the corner on Curzon Street. The footman
held open the door as if it was any other night and his master did not have a disheveled young man in
tow.
“The town house.” Max followed Tristan inside the carriage and took a seat on the black leather
bench.
Tristan settled on the opposite bench, one hand at his waist, keeping his trousers in place. The door
snapped shut. Faint golden light from a nearby streetlamp seeped through the windows beside each
bench, keeping the interior from pitch darkness.
“Is that all right?”
Tristan pulled his attention from the window. “Pardon?”
“That we are going to my town house. Is that all right?”
Max received a nod of agreement. Tristan turned his attention back out the window.
The carriage moved forward. The streetlamp’s light slipped away, leaving the dark outline of
Tristan across from him.
“They weren’t all like that,” Tristan said into the silence, as the carriage wound its way through
Mayfair.
“One is more than enough.” Max highly doubted it had been an isolated incident. Tristan had told
him during their first night together that he preferred not to be hit with a closed fist. Clearly there had
been a reason for that particular request.
How many other bastards had Tristan had to endure? How many had treated him like a toy to be
purchased and used, with no thought at all to if they broke him in the process?
Max’s hands began to curl into fists. With effort, he flexed his hands, tamped down the rising fury.
Took comfort in the knowledge Tristan would never have to face such bastards again.
“You have my thanks, Max, but I will have you know you did not need to do that. I’m well able to
look after myself.”
Max kept his thoughts to himself. The steel behind Tristan’s voice indicated now would not be a
good time to debate the point. They had both been through enough that evening. No use adding an
argument.
“You were watching me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
And there was no use at all in attempting to deny it. “You were occupied. I didn’t want another. It
wasn’t... I wasn’t... It was not for titillation.” Max wanted that to be clear. “I wanted—” He shook his
head, unwilling to admit why exactly he’d requested to watch Tristan. “Did your gambling debts drive
you to work there?”
He had not given it any thought when he had decided to give in to Rawling’s nudge. How did
someone come to work at a brothel? What drove them to make that choice? It could not be an
occupation anyone in their right mind would aspire to.
“No. I was already employed at the house when I struck my deal with Rubicon.”
“How much did you owe her?” Just because Max hadn’t asked Rubicon did not mean he wasn’t
curious.
“Initially, over a thousand pounds. Used to visit the hells to fill my afternoons. My luck eventually
ran out, and then some. Rubicon agreed to pay my debts for me.”
And likely for an exorbitant rate. “What percent did she charge you?”
“Percent?”
Max resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. “Interest on the loan,” he replied patiently.
“When one takes out a loan, the other party, typically a bank, charges a percent of the total, or interest,
to allow the debtor use of the funds. She did not strike me as the sort to lend money out of the
goodness of her heart.” Given her callous disregard for Tristan, that woman cared only for the profits
that would fill her pockets.
“Oh.” That sound said quite clearly Tristan had not given the notion of interest any prior
consideration. “I don’t know. She did not mention a percent. A quarter of the money I brought in went
toward the debt. Half went to the house, and a quarter I was able to keep.”
“For how long?” That, coupled with the knowledge of how much Tristan charged for his time,
would give Max an idea if the rate had approached usury levels, not that there was anything he could
do about it now. Wasn’t as if he could go back and negotiate better terms for him.
Tristan shrugged. “She said she would let me know when the debt was paid.”
Max’s jaw dropped. “She could have kept you there for years. All the while holding your debt over
your head.” The business-minded part of Max recognized it had been a brilliant plan on Rubicon’s
part. A way to ensure an employee never left and would never complain about the clientele. But
another part of him, a larger part of him, bristled with outrange and indignation at the way Rubicon
had so neatly used Tristan’s ignorance and need against him. “Why would you ever agree to such a
thing?”
Even in the darkness, Max could see the line of Tristan’s shoulders go stiff. “I did not have any
other option. Well, I did, but I would rather not be left for dead along a street somewhere.”
Max winced. He could only surmise Tristan’s gambling debts had been held by unsavory money
lenders. The sort who would have had no compunction whatsoever seeing their threats through to
completion. Men won and lost fortunes at gambling tables, and with those losses Max knew there were
some who paid with their lives.
He still despised the madam with every fiber of his being, but he also could not help but be grateful
the woman had been willing to come to Tristan’s aid. The loan had been on horrendous terms, but it
had kept Tristan alive.
The carriage slowed to a stop. Max looked out the window to his front door.
The full impact of the evening slammed into him. He had engaged in a fistfight with another man at
a brothel, had actually purchased Tristan’s freedom from said brothel, and had brought him, with bare
feet and ruined trousers, to the front door of his Mayfair town house. Even though it had to be pushing
up against eleven in the evening, his neighbors kept Town hours. Bright windows interspersed with
dark ones dotted the homes across from and next to his own.
“Stay in the carriage. I’ll return in a moment.” Ducking to fit through the narrow door, Max stepped
out onto the walkway. “Morgan,” he said, calling up to his driver, “bring the carriage around to the
kitchen door.”
Best to have a room readied and bring Tristan in through the kitchen. It was late enough so that the
day staff would be abed. He’d put him up in a guest bedchamber. Of that he was certain. Even though
he wanted to keep Tristan close by his side, safe in his arms, the tension that had radiated from Tristan
held him back. After he deposited Tristan in the bedchamber though...
He hadn’t a clue what would come next, and he had made enough rash decisions for one night.
Tomorrow, after they had both had some rest, he would decide how they would best go on from here.
Well...that was assuming Tristan wanted to go on with him.
Oh, and he mustn’t forget. He needed to have a bank draft delivered to Rubicon in the morning.
With a shake of his head, Max went up the stone steps. The door opened as he approached.
His night butler shut the door behind him. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Please have the green bedchamber readied and alert the staff we have a guest.”
Chapter Six
The carriage rolled to a stop behind the massive town house Max had disappeared inside of. Tristan
had assumed Max was somewhat wealthy—poor men could not afford to visit Rubicon’s—but hell
and damnation, Max must be far beyond wealthy if he lived in such a home. Even the back was
impressive. Four rows of tall windows stretching up toward the night sky, a flagstone courtyard, a lit
brass lantern next to a tidy black door. The twenty-five hundred pounds Max had agreed to part with
tonight must have been nothing at all to him. Whereas they hung over Tristan’s head.
Max had watched him, had seen him with that man. Had witnessed him choking on the man’s sour
prick. A shiver of revulsion gripped his spine. He had never been more mortified, more humiliated in
all his life, than when Max had handed him the coat from his own back.
Nor had he ever been more grateful than when Max took him from that bedchamber. He could still
feel the lingering warmth from Max’s hand splayed over his lower back. That undeniable sense of
comfort, of security.
The tidy black door opened and Max emerged. There wasn’t even a faint creak of springs, just a
slight shift in the well-sprung town carriage, as the footman hopped off the boot. The servant reached
for the door, but before he could open it Max beckoned him with a flick of his fingers.
Max bent his head, obviously giving the footman an order. Tristan tilted his ear toward the window,
but couldn’t make out Max’s words, just the low rumble of his voice. He couldn’t ignore the feeling
whatever they were discussing concerned himself. Still, he resisted the urge to slide down the window.
That would have been rude. Instead, he made do with watching as the footman nodded and went into
the house.
A few long strides had Max at the carriage. He opened the door. “Come along. Let’s get you settled
in.”
Holding his trousers in place with one hand, Tristan exited the carriage.
“That will be all, Morgan,” Max said as he shut the door. “This way.” He indicated the town house.
“I hope you don’t mind entering through the kitchen,” he added in an undertone.
“No. Not at all.” As if he would insist on being shown through the front door, as if he was some sort
of guest of honor.
Tristan did not spot a single servant as Max led him up to the second floor of the house. A situation
clearly of Max’s doing. He wasn’t dim enough to believe Max did not have any household servants. A
town house of this size would require an army’s worth.
And hell if the corridors of Max’s home didn’t put Rubicon’s to shame. There the grandeur had
been mere trappings. Here, he could feel the wealth in the soft rugs beneath his bare feet, sense in the
understated yet finely crafted console tables interspersed along the wall all of the generations of men
who had come before Max, built up the fortune necessary to afford such a home.
Max paused before a door at the end of the corridor to open it. “You can consider the room yours
for the duration of your stay.”
Yes indeed, Max employed an army of servants. Very efficient ones at that. A freshly stoked fire in
the hearth, lit silver candlesticks on the mantel, bedside tables and chest of drawers, the damask
drapes drawn closed over the two windows, and the dark green coverlet on the large bed had been
pulled back, exposing the white sheets.
“Thank you.” He hadn’t known what to expect, though he would not have been surprised if Max had
shown him to the servants’ quarters in the garret.
And he couldn’t help wondering what exactly Max had meant by the duration of your stay. How
long did Max intend for him to stay? One night, or longer?
“The washroom is over there.” Max waved a hand to the partially open door next to a writing desk.
“Water is being heated for a bath. Should be ready shortly.”
As if on command, there was a tap at the door.
“Enter,” Max said.
The same footman from the carriage entered lugging two large buckets of water. Tendrils of steam
rose from the surface of each.
Tristan instinctively took a step to the gray marble hearth and turned toward it, showing the
footman his back. His hand tightened around the wad of fabric that was the placket of his trousers.
The servant did not spare him a glance though. He could have been invisible for all the notice the
man took of him.
A splash of water against porcelain cut through the room. Tristan started. Hell, his nerves were still
on edge. He closed his eyes, willed a deep breath. Focused on the way the heat from the fire seeped
through his clothes, warmed his skin.
Another splash of water, and then there was the faint snick of a knob.
The footman must have left to fetch more hot water.
He sensed more than heard Max approach.
“Where did he hit you?”
The sound of Max’s voice, deep and low with concern, enveloped him like a comforting blanket.
Tristan unwrapped the arm crossed over his stomach and slowly motioned toward the spot.
Large hands settled on his shoulders, gently turned him. Fingertips parted his hair near his left
temple. The area was still sore but not sore enough to cause him to flinch as Max carefully probed
around the spot.
Max made a distinctly displeased sound. “Bastard,” he said under his breath, more a grunt than a
word. “Does it hurt?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“The truth, Tristan.” The soft tone had vanished. “Else I will summon my physician for his
opinion.”
Taking a quick step back, he swatted Max’s hand away and opened his eyes, glared at Max. “I don’t
need a damned doctor to bleed me.”
Max raised one eyebrow.
The man wouldn’t stop until he had the answer he sought. Tristan knew it without a doubt. “It aches
a bit but it’s a dull ache. Will be gone by morning.” He would need to sleep on his other side, that was
all.
Dark brows lowered, Max’s gaze swept over his face. Tristan’s answer must have satisfied him for
he gave a crisp nod. “If you have need of anything, my bedchamber is at the other end of the corridor.”
With that, Max turned on his heel.
The smart snap of the door closing echoed throughout the room.
A long exhale deflated his chest, slumped his shoulders.
The clock on the mantel indicated it was just past eleven. Not late at all, but it felt like he had been
awake for days. He went to a nearby armchair and let himself collapse into it.
There was another tap at the door.
“Enter,” Tristan said, mimicking Max’s command.
The footman came and went a couple more times. When he did not return, Tristan pushed himself
up from the chair and stripped off his clothes. He kept the bath short, not allowing himself to luxuriate
in the water that was on the perfect side of hot. No use growing accustomed to it.
He wasn’t quite certain what to make of Max. He’d made his acquaintance less than a week ago, had
only spent two evenings with him, less than six hours total, and the man had purchased his freedom,
and then some, from Rubicon tonight.
Should he seek him out? He had told Tristan the location of his bedchamber. Had that been a thinly
veiled command to warm his bed? Max had certainly paid a handsome sum for him. Or promised to
pay a handsome sum.
Tristan grabbed a towel from one of the hooks in a neat row along the wall and did his best to
squeeze as much of the water from his god-awful hair as possible. A bone-deep lethargy had settled
over him. It took effort to actually lift his arm to comb the knots from the length. He would just have
to go to bed with it damp. There was no way he could keep his eyes open long enough for it to dry. At
least it wasn’t winter, and he would not run the risk of catching a chill.
He padded out of the washroom, the large bed beckoning him. Max hadn’t outright told him to visit
him, and based on Tristan’s prior experiences with him, Max was the sort of man who was up front
about his desires. Taking the lack of a demand as no demand, Tristan moved about the room,
extinguishing the candles. His gaze fell onto the heap of his clothes on the floorboards. In the
morning, he would fold them and ask a maid for a needle and thread. And buttons—he would need
those as well to repair his trousers.
With only the golden glow from the fire in the hearth lighting the room, he crawled into bed and
pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders. As he lay there in the large bed, the sheets soft against his
bare skin, his eyes drifting shut, he could not help but ache for a pair of strong arms to hold him close.
* * *
Tristan stared at the folded clothes on the polished mahogany chest of drawers. A maid must have
been in the room at some point before he had awoken. The fire in the hearth had been his first clue. It
should have gone out during the night, yet flames flickered up toward the flue, chasing away the
summer morning’s chill.
He set the freshly pressed white cravat and shirt aside, and held up the trousers. The maid had not
only laundered his clothes and left him a cravat, but also replaced the buttons on his trousers. And
tucked beneath the chest of drawers, the heels just visible, were a pair of shoes. Had the maid chosen
dark brown leather to go with his dark brown coat, or had that been a coincidence?
Since Max had installed him in a guest bedchamber, the servants were treating him as a guest of the
house. Still, servants did not make purchases without their master’s consent. Max had either given the
order or nodded his agreement to purchase the shoes, which would have gone onto Max’s account at
the cobbler.
There was nothing to be done for it now except be grateful. He pulled on the clothes, intent on
seeking out Max. While he had offered his thanks during the ride to the town house, it had been a
rather...petulant thank-you.
Truth be told, he’d been petulant toward Max the entire evening. Snapping at him, sulking in the
carriage, swatting his hands away. All-around behaving like an ungrateful, surly child.
He had not been in his right mind last night. It had been the shock of seeing Max there, in that
bedchamber at Rubicon’s. The way he had rushed into the room, fists at the ready, a downright
terrifying scowl on his face. The way he had unleashed the power of those hard, strong muscles onto
Tristan’s client. The way Max had stood up to Rubicon, been concerned for him, the worry and
indignation pouring off Max in great heaping waves. Tristan had not been able to stop himself from
reaching out and grabbing Max’s offer to escape that house, to escape the never-ending queue of men
who would come the next night and the night after. Had not been able to refuse Max’s aid.
In the harsh light of day, a calmer, more practical head prevailed. It wasn’t as if he had never had a
cruel client before. Unpleasant, but they did not leave permanent marks. He should have told Max he
did not need his protection, even if the notion of someone wanting him desperately enough to want to
protect him from Rubicon and unruly clients had tugged at his very soul. But he had shook his head
when Max had asked if he wanted to stay at the house. Had allowed Max to bring him to the man’s
own home. And now, he was without a position, without a place to call home, and indebted to Max for
twenty-five hundred pounds, an even larger sum than he had owed Rubicon.
After doing up the buttons on his coat, he slipped on the shoes. A bit large, but they would do until
he could fetch his own.
How he would repay Max, what he would do with himself next...he hadn’t a notion. If he begged
and pleaded, threw himself at her feet, Rubicon would take him back. He was damned good at his job,
never complained and had proven himself to be a reliable employee. But now that he knew what life
was like there, he wasn’t of a mind to willingly subject himself to that again. It might be the best
position the City had to offer him, but it wasn’t a position he had any desire to return to. And he
certainly did not want to go back to collecting rubbish at Vauxhall Gardens or sucking off strange men
along the Gardens’ darkened walks. Decent, well-paying positions required skills and letters of
recommendation and connections he did not possess.
He could return to Yorkshire, to his childhood home.
No. Definitely not Yorkshire.
That he would even consider the notion screamed desperation. His father and elder brothers had
been glad to be rid of him. He wasn’t suited to life on the farm. They knew that. He knew that. He did
not belong there. If his father had not once admitted Tristan resembled his fraternal grandmother, he
would not have believed he held a blood tie to the man. And the thought of having to endure more of
his brothers’ spite and ridicule...
He could still taste the dry dirt in his mouth, feel the burn from the scrapes on his palms, the
impotent frustration mixed with acute humiliation. Could still hear the memory of Daniel’s mocking
laughter. You like being on your knees, don’t you, Tris?
A cringe squeezed his eyes closed.
And his father had stood silently by, allowed his two strapping sons to torment and tease, to shove
and bully, his youngest.
With a shake of his head, Tristan shoved those memories aside. He wasn’t an adolescent anymore,
and he would never go back to Yorkshire.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the short length of string and then tied his hair back in a
queue at his nape. Maybe Max expected him to work off his debt in bed. There was that possibility,
and he honestly liked being with him. Max was controlling yet infinitely generous in the bedchamber,
a combination Tristan would not have believed possible. Staying on with Max would not be a hardship
in the slightest. Maybe that was what Max had meant by the duration of your stay. But once the debt
was settled, what would he do with himself?
He let out a sigh.
First though, he needed to locate Max, extend his sincere thanks for last night. Max did not strike
him as the sort of fellow to laze about in bed. Given it was midmorning, he doubted he would find him
in his bedchamber. Even if Max did enjoy a good lie-in, Tristan couldn’t very well knock on his door
at this time of day. The need for discretion and all.
He found a footman clad in navy livery stationed near the top of the stairs. “Good morning.”
Before he could ask after Max’s whereabouts, the footman spoke. “Good morning, Mr. Walsh. His
Grace requested you be informed he is in the study.”
Somehow he kept the shock from showing itself.
Max was a duke?
If the notion of them being together in any real fashion had brushed against his mind, it was now
gone.
No wonder the man had bristled with furious indignation when Rubicon had refused his initial
declaration of taking Tristan away. A duke would be accustomed to having his wishes heeded and
never contradicted. The commanding presence, the rock-solid confidence that seeped from Max’s very
pores, the massive town house and the sleek black carriage with the perfectly matched team of four...it
all made perfect sense now.
Tristan glanced about him, to the spacious corridor and the broad staircase, its banisters gleaming
from diligent care. The study would be on the first floor in such a house. Or would it?
As if sensing Tristan’s thoughts, the footman added, ever helpful, “Down the stairs, the door to the
right of the entrance hall.”
Chapter Seven
A knock sounded on the study door. A shade hesitant and definitely not the light tap of a servant.
Max set aside the letter to one of his estate managers and put his pen back into its silver holder
beside the inkwell. “Enter.” He flexed his hand, trying to work out the lingering stiffness in his
knuckles from last night. The bastard had had a hard head.
The door opened and Tristan slipped inside.
“Close it. Please.”
A nod from Tristan. The elegantly dressed young gentleman was back, the disheveled and tense one
gone. He had pulled his hair back, the long length no longer framing his face, the line between
masculine and feminine not quite as blurred. He would appear perfectly at home in the finest drawing
rooms in London.
“Have a seat.”
Tristan sat in one of the chairs opposite Max’s desk and clasped his hands on his lap. “You have my
sincere thanks, Your Grace, and my apologies for my petulant behavior last night.”
So Tristan had discovered he was a duke. It was bound to happen once he brought him to the town
house. Yet hearing the address from Tristan felt...off. Not because his title did not feel like his own—
it had been years since he’d had to fight the impulse to look over his shoulder for his father whenever
he was addressed as Your Grace—but more because he’d been Max to Tristan up until now, and he
preferred it to stay that way.
“When it is just the two of us, there is no need for the address. Max will do just fine. And there is no
need to apologize. It was an...unusual evening, for both of us.” And Max had a lovely bruise on his rib
cage to show for it.
Tristan shifted, a small little wriggle. “That is one way of putting it.”
“I will have you know you should not consider yourself at all responsible for the bargain I made
with Rubicon. I made the decision, I decided on the sum. Therefore, the debt is mine and mine alone.”
Tristan blinked. “But—”
Max shook his head, unwilling to debate the point. “The bank draft has already been delivered. The
deal has been completed. And this is the last we will discuss it.” He wanted Tristan free to make his
own choices, and not feel a sense of obligation from a debt Max knew Tristan had no ready means of
repaying.
Tristan lifted his chin. “They were my gambling debts. I incurred them.”
“They no longer exist.”
A wrinkle marred Tristan’s brow. He looked down, to his clasped hands. A sigh expanded his chest.
“All right.” Green-gold eyes met Max’s again. “Thank you, Max. Truly.”
Max tipped his head, accepting the thanks. While the bank draft would not make a dent in his
fortune, he was not one to spend frivolously. Then again, last night’s expense had been far from
frivolous. The expense he was about to propose... Some might deem it frivolous. It wasn’t something
he needed, like a roof over his head or clothes on his back. More something he wanted. Very much.
The idea had come to him as he was reviewing the household accounts, making certain everything
was in order before he departed for Hampshire. Visiting Rubicon’s had been far from an ideal solution
to his solitary orgasms. It would be months before he planned to be in Town again. Months before he
could have seen Tristan again. Months of sleeping alone. And last night he had discovered he really
did not care for the notion of sharing Tristan with anyone. Brothels were simply not for him. In any
case, Tristan would no longer be at Rubicon’s. Max had ensured that himself. Even if he still wanted
to visit Tristan there, it was not an option anymore. When he returned from Hampshire, would he be
able to locate Tristan again? London was a large city, and for all he knew, Tristan could decide to
leave Town as well. Would today be the last day he would ever see Tristan?
That question had not sat well at all.
He had rolled the idea about in his head while he’d waited for Tristan to awaken. Had pinpointed the
risks, devised a means to counter them. The reminder he had given himself last night had not been
pleasant, but it had been necessary and he could accept it. He felt confident he fully understood the
entirety of the proposition he planned to propose.
All in all, a perfect solution.
He could only hope Tristan would be amenable to the idea.
“I have enjoyed spending time with you, and I think we rub along well together.”
Tristan’s lips twitched. “Yes, we rub together quite well.”
A chuckle reluctantly tickled Max’s throat. Not the best phrase for him to have used. He needed to
remain focused on the discussion at hand, keep his mind uncluttered by thoughts of Tristan pliant
beneath him, clutching him tightly, those whispered pleas for more. Pleas he wanted to hear again and
again.
He tapped the edge of the letter to one of his estate managers, straightening it on his desk. “I spend
the majority of my time at Arrington Park, the family seat in Hampshire. Only come to London when
business demands it, or for Parliament. Even then, I only attend when a piece of legislation is of
particular importance, or for the opening and closing of a session.” Everything else related to his
responsibilities in the Lords was easily manageable via the post, including proxy votes. “The session
closed yesterday. I am departing for Hampshire this morning.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment on Tristan’s face quelled the tiny tingle of—had that been nervousness? No,
certainly not.
“I have a proposition for you, one you are free to decline, if you so choose.”
That got Tristan’s attention.
“I would like for you to come to the country with me. You would have a bedchamber of your own,
all your expenses would come to me to settle. I will put it about that you are merely a friend from
London. Gentlemen pay each other visits in the country, after all. I had a friend stay at the Park for an
extended period, and it raised no eyebrows. Your stay would be of similar unimportance to the
neighborhood. I spend a great deal of time tending to business, therefore the days would be yours to do
with as you please. In return, I would expect your company at night, your discretion and your loyalty. I
would compensate you for your time, of course. Meals, lodging, expenses paid and two hundred
pounds a month. If and when the arrangement proves unsatisfactory, either of us can end it at any
time. There is one last thing.” One point that would ensure he’d never again find himself clutching an
empty bottle of gin. “I am a very busy man. A dukedom does not run itself. I do not have time for
finer sentiments nor do I want them. What I am proposing is an arrangement that can be mutually
advantageous, and mutually pleasurable, for both of us.”
“So...you are offering to keep me?” Tristan asked, and not without an obvious measure of disbelief.
“Keep?”
“Similar to a mistress, but I would live with you.”
Max nodded. That about summed it up. All the benefits of a lover without the associated risks.
“Yes.”
Head tilted slightly to one side, Tristan pursed his lips. He was giving the proposition some thought.
That was a good thing, Max reassured himself. He did not want Tristan to agree until he had fully
considered the offer.
“May I cut my hair?”
Of all the questions Tristan could have asked, Max had not expected that one. “Of course.”
A bit of the tension broke from Tristan’s shoulders.
“But if you don’t care for it, why did you grow it so long?” Max could not help but ask.
“That was Rubicon’s choice.” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “Everyone in the house had an
expertise of some sort. Shortly after I accepted her offer to work there, I discovered mine was to play
the damsel in distress.” He flicked his fingers toward his head. “Made the guise more complete.”
The first night they had been together, Tristan had asked if Max wanted him to don a dress, play the
damsel in distress. He hadn’t honestly believed Tristan had been serious. But apparently he had been.
Tristan’s gaze skittered toward one of the windows. He gave another little wriggle in his chair.
And Max’s hatred for that damn madam grew even stronger.
“My valet can cut it for you today, if you’d like.”
“Thank you.” Tristan’s mouth barely moved. His gaze met Max’s again, and he gave him a shrug.
“It wasn’t my favorite...activity.”
“Understandable.”
“It wasn’t horrid or anything. It was just a game. Some found it titillating, but others struggled with
their desires. When I donned a dress, they could almost fool themselves into believing I wasn’t a man.
I felt bad for them, but... It was just...I prefer not to have to pretend to be something I’m not.”
“You don’t have to explain, Tristan. We all have our own likes and dislikes, our own preferences.
I...” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I have a fondness for leather.”
His pulse suddenly raced through his veins. His heart beat a rapid tattoo against his ribs. Every
sense focused on Tristan, he waited for his reaction.
Tristan’s tongue darted out, swiped across his bottom lip. Max swore he detected Tristan’s breaths
quicken, his chest working quicker beneath his turquoise waistcoat. Hell and damnation, he could
almost scent the man’s arousal.
“I surmised as such.”
Max couldn’t stop the smile from curving his mouth.
A little whimper, so faint Max barely heard it, rattled Tristan’s throat.
Then Tristan lifted his chin. “You said you required my loyalty. Would I have yours as well?”
“Yes.” If he had Tristan in his bed, he would have absolutely no reason or need at all to seek out
another.
“Your proposition. Yes, I accept.”
Max was certain his smile turned into a damned grin, but he did not care in the slightest. “Brilliant.”
He wanted to take Tristan upstairs, christen their agreement properly. Have the man beneath him once
again. But the clock on his desk wouldn’t slow down simply to please him. They needed to be on their
way shortly if they had any hope of arriving at Arrington Park before nightfall. “I’ll have my valet
meet you in your room. He can see to your hair.”
“Thank you.” Tristan braced his hands on the arms of his chair as if to stand, but stopped. “I forgot
to ask. I know you are a duke—figured it out when the footman told me His Grace is in the study—but
I don’t know what you are the duke of. What is your full name?”
“Maxwell Robert Michael Arrington, Viscount Shelburne, the Earl of Hertford, and the ninth Duke
of Pelham.”
Tristan’s eyebrows raised. “Impressive.”
He shrugged. “It’s a long name. I prefer Max, though I don’t get to hear it often.” Before Tristan,
the last person to call him Max had been Jonathan. He cleared his throat then reached behind him to
tug on the bellpull. Within a moment, a servant entered the study. “Alert Morgan to have the traveling
carriage readied.” A nod, and the servant left to do his bidding. Max looked to Tristan. “We will
depart for Hampshire within the half hour. And...”
Opening his desk drawer, Max took out the fold of pound notes he’d earlier taken from his safe in
the hopes Tristan would agree. He paid his employees at the end of every period, whether it was
monthly or quarterly depending on their terms. But at Rubicon’s, money matters had been handled up
front, before services were rendered. A practice Tristan was likely accustomed to.
“For you,” Max said, holding out the notes.
A short pause then Tristan stood and shoved the money into his pocket. “I need to go to Rubicon’s
to fetch my things before we leave.”
Like hell Tristan was returning to that house. “Unnecessary. Tell me what you left behind.”
“My clothes, a bit of money.”
“How much?”
Tristan’s mouth thinned then he rolled his eyes, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the argument. “Eight
pounds, three pence. Not much but...”
“I will replace it.”
“No, Max, you’ve done enough as it is.”
“Nonsense. I am the one who would prefer you not to return to that house, therefore, I will replace
what is now lost. I will have a tailor see to a new wardrobe once we reach Hampshire.”
“No. Those are my clothes, and I want them back. I will not leave London without them.” Tristan
didn’t shout, he did not raise his voice. But the message came through as if he had.
Frustration rumbled Max’s throat. Of all the things to be a stubborn pain in the arse about...
But if it would get Tristan into the traveling carriage, then so be it.
“All right. But you are not going anywhere near that house. I will fetch them.” Before he could
think twice on the decision, and before Tristan could argue further, he tugged the bellpull. The servant
reappeared. “Tell Morgan I need to see him. Now.” He looked back to Tristan. “Satisfied?”
Tristan considered him for a moment then nodded. “Do you have a sheet of paper? I’ll need to write
a note. Go to the back door, tell the maid to give it to Charles immediately. You’ll need to give her a
few coins, but she’ll do it. Charles will take you up to my room.”
Max pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. He slid it and a pencil toward Tristan. “Have you
eaten breakfast yet?”
“No,” Tristan said, as he reached for the pencil. One hand braced on the desk, holding the paper
steady, and bent at the waist, he began writing.
“What would you like?”
“I’m not hungry at the moment.”
“What would you like?” Max repeated.
Tristan’s pencil paused midword. “Some eggs with toast would be appreciated.” The soft scratch of
pencil on paper once again filled the study.
The click of the knob signaled the opening of the door. Max dragged his gaze from Tristan’s prone
form, the sight of which was putting wicked thoughts into his head, and looked to his driver. Morgan
did not say a word. He merely shut the door behind him and waited for instruction from Max. With
slightly overlong midnight-black hair and a few years older than Max, the man was on a similar scale
to the guards at Rubicon’s—well over six feet tall and broad with a frame that screamed the ability to
dispense with a good half dozen men with no effort at all. An ability that had once helped Max out of
an unfortunate situation, and it had led to Morgan’s employment with the dukedom. That had been a
good six years ago, and Max still credited it as one of the best decisions he had ever made.
“Have the grooms finish readying the traveling carriage,” Max said. “I need you to hitch a team of
two to the older town carriage. We have an errand to see to and I do not wish to be conspicuous.”
It was yet another errand he needed Morgan’s assistance with. Earlier that morning, he’d had
Morgan deliver the bank draft to Rubicon. While he paid his servants very well and had their loyalty
in return, his ever-useful driver was the only servant he trusted to ensure such tasks would not spread
throughout his home.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And have the kitchen deliver a plate of eggs with toast to Mr. Walsh’s bedchamber.”
Morgan nodded then left.
Tristan folded the paper twice and held it out to Max. “Hopefully it’s early enough so word of my
departure hasn’t got round the entire house and no one has pilfered my room yet. You’ll need to take a
few bags to hold everything, and you’ll find my money wrapped in a pair of smallclothes tucked under
the mattress.”
Under the mattress? Somehow that did not surprise him. Getting to his feet, Max took the note and
slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll have my valet meet you in your bedchamber.”
“Thank you, Max.”
“You can thank me later tonight.” With a shake of his head, he rounded his desk. “Be prepared to
depart within the hour. We are leaving as soon as I return from that house.”
* * *
Max dropped the two valises he’d brought with him onto the narrow bed.
You’ll need to take a few bags to hold everything.
Few had been a severe understatement.
“Tristan likes to visit his tailor,” Charles, the man who had shown Max up to the tiny room in the
garret, said from the open doorway.
“Obviously.” The room did not have a closet. Instead, there were hooks along the two walls that
were not taken up with the bed and the door. On every hook but one hung a coat. From black to light
brown to deep navy to olive-green. Every shade a man could possibly want for a coat. Beneath those
hooks were neat rows of shoes and boots and tidy piles of folded trousers and breeches and waistcoats
which spanned most every color.
The only furniture in addition to the bed was a washstand and a chest of drawers, small and old, the
three drawer fronts scratched from years of use. The surface was likely scratched as well, though Max
could not verify that as there were piles of folded white shirts on the top.
It was a wonder Tristan even had eight pounds to his name.
“I’m going to need your assistance getting all of—” Max waved a hand to the wardrobe that
surpassed his own, “—this down to the carriage.”
Getting it to Arrington Park would be another feat in and of itself. He kept a wardrobe at both of his
main residences, and therefore did not need to travel with more than a small trunk. Tristan’s, however,
would take far more than a small one. Hopefully, he had enough trunks stored in the garret of the town
house to hold it all. And hell, if those trunks didn’t fit on the boot of the traveling carriage, he’d have
to have another carriage follow them to the country.
There was nothing to be done for it, though. He’d given Tristan his word he would fetch his clothes.
Oh, and his eight pounds, three pence stashed under the mattress.
Fortunately, the bedchamber he would install Tristan in at Arrington Park had a large dressing
room.
Letting out a sigh, Max opened one of the valises and began packing.
A good half hour later and his pocket three pounds lighter found Max squeezing into the only
available space left on the leather bench of his carriage.
As Morgan guided the team of two out of the back alley, Max ran his fingers over a waistcoat on the
top of the pile next to his hip. The cream-colored silk was of the finest quality, as was the stitching.
Tristan had spared no expense on his wardrobe. His tailor had to have been one of the best in London.
It made Max wonder if his gambling debts had been somehow related. If Tristan had gambled in an
effort to win enough money to provide such a wardrobe. Yet Tristan did not move about in Society. He
wouldn’t have need for such an extensive wardrobe.
The carriage rounded a corner. Max shot out a hand to stop the pile of trousers on the opposite
bench from tumbling over.
At least none of the servants at the Park or his neighbors there would find need to question Tristan’s
status as his houseguest. He would certainly appear as if he was merely a young gentleman from
London, the type who a man of Max’s social status would call friend.
Max looked out the window. The sun was high in the sky. Had to be after eleven. No way would
they make it to Arrington Park before nightfall. Ah well. So they would arrive late. A stop at an inn
along the way was not an option. He wanted Tristan in his bed tonight, not a rented one.
As the carriage made its way back to the town house, thoughts of the coming night swirled in his
head. Not just one night, though. But nights, plural. Nights filled with lust and pleasure and Tristan.
He checked the shops they passed, noted their exact position along Bond Street. Good. They hadn’t
passed it yet.
Max rapped once on the ceiling and instructed Morgan to take a left on the next side street.
He had disposed of all physical reminders of Jonathan when the man had betrayed him. Had
suppressed those desires, those needs. Yet now that he would have Tristan in his bed, and now he knew
Tristan was open to such play, he would no longer need to suppress those particular desires. If he
wanted to indulge in them, he could. Though if he was bluntly honest with himself, he’d admit there
was a tinge of...nervousness, perhaps, that bumped the back of his mind. It was one thing to mention
the possibility to Tristan, quite another to open that side of himself, to trust another again with those
desires. But...he and Tristan would be at the Park for months. Far be it for Max not to arrive prepared.
As the carriage came upon a shop with the words For the Discriminating Gentleman painted above
the door, Max rapped once more on the ceiling. “Stop here.”
Chapter Eight
It took considerable effort for Tristan to hold back the sigh as he turned his attention from the view of
the sun setting over a grassy hill. All through the afternoon and into the evening, farm fields, pastures
scattered with livestock, groupings of trees and the occasional village passed outside the carriage
window. All the while Max had continued to work—a traveling writing desk on his lap, head bowed
and his pencil scratching across paper.
Tristan picked up the day’s Times from beside his hip, flipped through the newspaper then put it
back down. He’d already read it once. Had read it very slowly, savoring the distraction every article
and advertisement had provided. If he ever traveled with Max again, he would bring a stack of books
with him. The man made for a poor traveling companion.
Not that Tristan would or should complain. Max had said he was a very busy man, and he had not
been exaggerating. Tristan had agreed to Max’s terms, and it would not be well done at all of him to
start taking issue with one of those terms when the sun had yet to fully set on the first day of their
arrangement.
He was now a kept man. The girls at Rubicon’s always had that prospect dangling as a possibility.
But in the two years he had been at Rubicon’s, no male employee had ever left the house under such
an offer. It simply wasn’t done.
It wasn’t done to engage in fisticuffs with another client and purchase the release of an employee
either, but it hadn’t stopped Max from doing exactly that. So in a way, Tristan shouldn’t have been so
shocked when Max had presented him with the opportunity to work exclusively for him.
Max’s terms had been generous, and that was putting it lightly. Within a few months, Tristan would
have a small fortune saved. And he was determined to save it and not spend it as he had his earnings
from Rubicon’s. Being faced with no opportunities and only a few pounds to live upon had been a
harsh jolt to the need to think of his future. With his gambling debts now completely settled, he no
longer had that poor decision hanging over his head. He could start anew, and he was doing it thanks
to Max.
If the only drawback of their arrangement was to be an exceedingly boring carriage ride with his
new employer, then he’d eagerly accept it.
Though it would be nice if there wasn’t money between them. If they could just be together. Just
follow the scorching attraction and see where it would lead them. But that would never happen. In the
ordinary course of things, a man of Max’s station would not assume a friendship with someone like
Tristan. It wasn’t as if Tristan’s family was from the stews. His mother’s father had been a gentleman
from an old family, albeit a poor one. But his father and his father’s family were mere farmers, and
not of the gentleman-farmer variety. Above the differences in their families, Max was a duke and
Tristan a prostitute. All right, so he could now change his occupation from prostitute to kept man.
Still, it did not change the fact Max spent his days behind a desk whereas Tristan spent his nights
working on his knees.
But Max wanted him enough to only want to be with him. That was what mattered. And when Max
ended their arrangement, as he eventually would, Tristan would at least have enough money saved to
not fret about where he would next call home.
Tristan turned his attention back out the open window. Yet another wide expanse of green grass
dotted by the occasional tree. A warm evening breeze slid across his exposed nape, ruffling his hair.
Reaching up, he passed a hand over the back of his head.
“Does it feel odd to have it short again?”
Tristan gave a small start. He hadn’t heard Max speak since they’d stopped to last change horses at
a posting inn and grab a quick bite to eat. Had to have been almost two hours ago.
The deep amber rays of the setting sun played across Max’s profile. The man might appear stern,
bordering on displeased, but Tristan had decided it was simply a product of Max’s strong features.
When Max was truly displeased a V formed between his brows and the edges of his firm mouth went
tight. Like they had done last night, quite a few times. Now though, Max was merely asking a
question.
“Yes, but in a good way. I abhorred having long hair.” Unlike Max, his features were far from
strong. Feminine would be a more apt description, and the long hair had only served to make it worse.
“Your valet, and you, have my thanks.”
“There’s no need for the thanks, at least not extended to me. It’s your hair to do with as you please.”
Max rapped once on the ceiling. Tristan heard the soft glide of wood as the driver slid the small
panel open above Tristan’s spot on the bench.
“Morgan, please stop for a moment. I need the lamp lit.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Even the setting sun could not pull Max from his work. The carriage obediently slowed to a stop
along the country road so the footman could light the brass lamp hanging on a hook near Max’s spot
on the bench.
“Is there anything else you need, Your Grace?” the footman asked.
“Have Morgan stop at the next posting inn. Should be one in a mile or so. If the horses are changed
now we can reach the Park before eleven.”
A nod, and the footman closed the door. With a jangle of harness, the team of six slipped back into
a smart trot. Max bowed his head, pencil in hand and poised over the letter on his writing desk. But the
soft scratch of pencil on paper did not fill the carriage.
Max looked up, met Tristan’s gaze. “Have you ever had a client that went by the name Rawling?”
“I don’t recall the name.”
“How about Anthony? Tall, though not quite as tall as I. Sandy-blond hair. A young man with a
tendency to be a pain in the arse.”
Tristan shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s a friend. He’s the one who gave me the shove to visit the house,” Max said, proving Tristan’s
assumption correct. Max had not been familiar with the way of things at Rubicon’s because Tristan’s
first appointment with him had been Max’s first visit to the house.
“Oh. Well, I don’t recall meeting him.”
His dark eyebrows pulled together. “Are you lying to me?”
Tamping down the irritation, Tristan replied, “No. I honestly don’t recall the man. The house caters
to a variety of clients. I didn’t usually remember one over another.” They had all blended together,
their individuality blunted to nothingness. Their only distinguishing trait the one they all held in
common—their desire to use him for a handful of hours. “Except for you, of course.”
“Of course,” Max said, face blank.
“No, truthfully. You left a definite impression.” Tristan added a smile, hoping it would help
convince Max he spoke the truth. “You aren’t the sort of man one could easily forget.” Or want to
forget.
Max gave him a shake of the head, but it was of the bemused sort. He turned his attention back to
his letter and the scratch of pencil on paper once again blended with the rhythmic clomp of hooves and
the crunch of carriage wheels on dirt.
They changed horses at the next posting inn. Max didn’t make a move to exit the carriage so Tristan
followed his lead and stayed put as grooms bustled about them, unhitching the horses from the traces
and putting a fresh team in place. Then they were back on the road, darkness blanketing the mundane
countryside outside the window, the lanterns on the front of the carriage providing enough light for the
driver to guide the team.
Resting his head against the wall behind him, Tristan finally gave in to the boredom and the soft
sway of the carriage and let his eyes drift closed.
“Tristan.”
A hand clasped his knee, gave it a squeeze.
“Yes?”
“We’ve arrived. Up with you now.”
“All right,” Tristan replied, failing to hold back the yawn. He rubbed his eyes then gave his
shoulders a roll.
The carriage stopped. The footman hopped off the driver’s bench and opened the door. Tristan
followed Max out of the carriage and did his best not to gape in awe as they went up the broad stone
steps. The moonlight outlined a massive manor house, the roofline scattered with chimneys. Two large
brass lanterns flanked the open front door. Tristan glanced behind him. A handful of servants were
already congregated around the back of the carriage, pulling Tristan’s trunks from the boot.
He resisted the urge to check the knot of his cravat. Instead, he lifted his chin, as if he had every
right to be at such a house, and stayed close to Max’s heels as they crossed the threshold.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The slim, proper butler’s voice echoed off the high ceiling of the
immense entrance hall. White-and-black marble squares covered the floor, every surface cleaned to a
high polish. Even the crystal on the chandelier above twinkled from the candlelight within. “The east
guest bedchamber has been readied for Mr. Walsh, and your trunks will be in your rooms shortly.”
A tip of Max’s head, a handoff of his leather bag to his butler, and Max proceeded across the hall
toward the grand staircase.
“How did he know I was accompanying you?” Tristan asked, voice low, once they had rounded the
corner at the top of the stairs.
“Before we left London, I sent a footman ahead with a note.”
Passing closed door after closed door, they went down a corridor that was marked at the end by two
imposing double doors. Max’s rooms, perhaps?
Max stopped at the last door on the right and turned the knob. “These rooms are yours for the
duration of your stay.” He took but two steps into a tidy sitting room and motioned to an open door on
the left. “Bedchamber’s in there. I am hopeful the dressing room will be large enough to accommodate
your wardrobe. The Park keeps country hours though you needn’t feel compelled to rise early. The
kitchen will see to breakfast whenever you wish it.”
Tristan opened his mouth, about to ask Max how they would manage the logistics of the your
company at night portion of their arrangement, when a footman entered bearing a trunk.
He received only a terse good-evening from Max before the man turned on his heel. A quick
sidestep to avoid colliding with another footman entering the room, and Max was out the door.
Tristan blinked. Based on Max’s stiff demeanor, he wouldn’t be surprised if the servants wondered
if he and Max were even acquaintances.
Rather than stand in the sitting room all night like a dumbfounded fool, he followed the next
footman bearing a trunk into the bedchamber. As at the town house, the large bed had been turned
down for the night, a fire already started in the hearth, and the drapes drawn. The room fit with the
scale of the rest of the house—spacious and large with high ceilings and three windows which likely
looked out onto the back garden.
A maid materialized at his elbow. “Would you like me to see to your trunks tonight, Mr. Walsh? Or
shall I wait until morning?”
The clock on the mantel of the fireplace indicated it was pushing past ten-thirty. Quite late,
considering the house kept country hours. “Neither. I can take care of them myself, but thank you for
the offer.”
Puzzlement flickered across her face. “Would you care for a nightcap?”
“No, thank you.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy and out the door she went.
A friend of Max’s likely would not have refused the offer to unpack his trunks, but Tristan preferred
to see to it himself. The maid did not know it—and hopefully never would—but he was an employee
of the house, just as she was. Seeing to the fire and tidying up was one thing, unpacking his trunks
bordered on an imposition.
He crossed the bedchamber to where the footmen were disappearing with trunks and reappearing
relieved of their burdens. Larger than his tiny room at Rubicon’s, the dressing room was a sight to
behold. Empty hooks and shelves and two chests of drawers. A tall mirror and lit silver candelabras on
those two chests. The light scent of cedar in the air. And next to the dressing room was the washroom,
complete with a porcelain tub and a shower-bath.
As the footmen deposited his trunks in the dressing room, he took the opportunity to wash up from
the day’s travels. He hadn’t an idea how Max expected them to manage the night portion of their
arrangement, wasn’t even certain if the double doors at the end of the corridor led to Max’s rooms.
For all he knew, Max fully intended to retire for the evening, get some rest after the long day. Perhaps
tomorrow, when there weren’t servants passing through his rooms, Max would provide him with
instructions. The last thing he should do was go wandering about the house, peeking in rooms looking
for Max, and giving the servants any cause whatsoever to question the true purpose of his stay at the
Park.
His first night in the country appeared to be his to do with as he pleased. At Rubicon’s, a night
without a client had felt like a holiday. Here though...
He stared at the trunks on the dressing room floor. He was quite fond of his wardrobe. Honestly, he
was. After having nothing but his older brother’s castoffs all through his childhood and adolescence, a
proper wardrobe of his own, complete with more than two coats and trousers that were not almost
worn through at the knees, felt like a treasured luxury. Yet...
He let out a sigh. His plan for the night hadn’t involved unpacking, but it wasn’t his place to
complain.
* * *
Max rumpled the coverlet then checked the screen to ensure it was fully covering the fire in the
hearth. There was a metallic snick of a latch turning. After extinguishing the candles, he walked
toward the golden light spilling from the dressing room and found Tristan kneeling before an open
trunk, his back to Max. Five other trunks littered the space, one of them open and empty. A handful of
waistcoats hung on the hooks and one of the shelves had been filled with folded white shirts.
Tristan’s newly shortened hair appeared damp, the ends sticking to his nape. That, the lack of a
coat, waistcoat and cravat, and the bare feet indicated Tristan had recently familiarized himself with
the washroom. Max wanted to bury his nose in Tristan’s neck, take a deep breath of clean male skin
and Tristan.
He’d had a hell of a time staying focused on work during the ride to the country house. Just having
Tristan near, knowing the man would be in his bed that night...
Thoughts of sweat-slicked skin, tangled sheets and pleas for more had kept shoving his attention off
work and onto the man seated opposite him. His knee bumping Max’s whenever the carriage had hit a
particularly deep rut in the road, his hand passing across the back of his head whenever a strong breeze
blew in through the window, making Max long to discover how those short stands would feel between
his own fingers. If there was still enough length to get a good grasp on Tristan’s hair as he bobbed up
and down Max’s cock.
A question Max had no hope of discovering the answer to if he stood in the dressing room’s
doorway all night, watching Tristan unpack.
“Good evening.”
Tristan gave a start then his shoulders relaxed. He looked behind him, a smile on his lips, eyes
alight with welcome. A welcome that sparked a comforting warmth in Max’s chest. “Max.”
Max tipped his head. “My valet finally took himself off to bed.” It had been all he’d been able to do
to stand still as his valet had undressed him, to keep from pushing the servant out of his rooms.
Tristan’s gaze traveled down Max’s bare chest, stopping below the waistband of the trousers Max
had pulled back on after his valet had left. As if on command, Max’s semi-erect cock grew harder,
pressing against the fabric. Tristan’s smile turned absolutely sinful.
“You do know a maid can manage that for you?” Max nudged his chin toward the trunks.
“Yes, but I prefer to see to it myself.”
“Then you can see to it in the morning.” He held out a hand. “My rooms.”
In one graceful movement, Tristan got to his feet. Leaving the full trunk behind without hesitation,
he put his hand in Max’s and allowed himself to be tugged from the dressing room.
Their bare feet made nary a sound as they went to the narrow door Max had left open.
“This way,” Max said, leading Tristan into the passageway. “And shut the door behind you.”
They were plunged into pitch darkness. Tristan’s grip tightened around his hand.
“It’s not far,” Max murmured. “And this passageway’s straight. We won’t get lost.”
“I’m not frightened of the dark.” Tristan’s whispered voice, with a familiar steel behind it, floated
over Max’s shoulder.
Stopping in his tracks, Max pushed Tristan against the wall. His free hand found the smooth line of
Tristan’s jaw and then he crushed his lips over Tristan’s.
Tristan immediately opened for him, his body molding to Max’s, his tongue slipping out to tangle
with Max’s. The hard steel was gone, replaced by soft eagerness. Devouring his mouth, Max pressed
full up against him, pressing the arch of his erection into Tristan’s lower belly. Tristan moaned, and
Max drank up the sound. It felt like weeks and not a few days since he’d last had Tristan in his arms.
Lust roared through his veins, the scents of clean male skin and Tristan filled his senses.
A hand pushed between their bodies, tugged at the waistband of Max’s trousers.
And Max forced himself to take a step back. “Not here,” he gasped, his panting breaths echoing
about them, mingling with Tristan’s.
“But someplace nearby?”
The darkness hid the smile that curved Max’s mouth. “Quite near.” A few more paces took them to
the end of the passage. Max’s fingers found the metal latch, and he pushed open the door. He looked
over his shoulder and watched as Tristan closed it behind them, the door blending seamlessly with the
rich mahogany paneling on the walls.
“I’ll open it after my valet leaves for the night. That’s how you’ll know it’s safe to come to my
rooms.”
Tristan nodded.
That practicality dealt with, Max led Tristan across the bedchamber. Other than the fire in the
hearth, only a candle on the bedside table lit the room. His gaze went to the small trunk he’d
deliberately left beside a writing desk. Rather than make a step toward it, he took Tristan to the large
four-poster bed. They had many nights ahead of them to sample the items he’d purchased from the
shop that afternoon. Tonight he just wanted Tristan in his bed. Wanted the man beneath him. Wanted
to hear more of those hoarse moans.
But instead of dragging Tristan onto the bed, he stopped beside it. One tug, and Tristan moved to
stand before him then Max released his hand.
“Remove your clothes.”
Tristan whisked his shirt over his head, pushed his trousers down his lean hips. Then he waited, his
erection jutting from his bare body, his gaze locked with Max’s.
Max read the hunger, the need, in those green-gold depths. And he wanted more of it. Wanted
Tristan to feel the same desperation soaking his own nerves. Wanted Tristan frantic to feel Max’s
cock inside of him.
“Turn around. Bend over the bed.”
Tristan’s breaths hitched. Then he did exactly as bid. With his legs slightly spread, he even arched
his lower back, presenting his gorgeous arse to Max. His ballocks were drawn up, kissing the expanse
of skin beneath his tight hole.
He passed a hand down Tristan’s sleek back, traced the tantalizing crease of his arse with the tips of
his fingers. As Max brushed past his entrance, Tristan’s muscles tightened, a quick, all-too-tempting
constriction.
Yet Max resisted. They had all night. There was no reason at all to rush. He finally had Tristan
where he wanted him—in his bed. Well, over the side of it, but it qualified just the same.
So instead of teasing his entrance, Max let his fingertips trail down. Followed the smooth expanse
of skin to his ballocks. Lightly traced the surface, a mere whisper of a caress.
When Tristan shifted, a little wiggle steeped with impatience, Max pulled his hand away.
“I’ll stay still.” The words rushed from Tristan’s mouth.
“Will you now?” Max asked, as casually as he could.
“Yes. Yes, I promise.”
The better question would have been can you? How much would it take to push Tristan past the
point where need overpowered will?
“Look at me.”
Turning his head, Tristan looked to Max, shoulders lifting from the mattress. Max’s hands went to
the waistband of his trousers. As if he had all the time in the world, as if he didn’t want to pounce on
Tristan and take everything the man offered, Max undid the placket, slowly slipped each button
through its mooring. All the while, Tristan’s gaze followed Max’s hands.
The last button held in place with his fingers, he paused. Tristan’s back went still, breath held. Max
pushed the fabric down his hips and stepped free of his trousers.
Tristan’s tongue slipped out, swiped across his bottom lip.
Max swore he felt the echo of that pink tongue swipe across the head of his cock. A drop of fluid
beaded at the tip.
Instead of wrapping a hand around his prick, satisfying the urge for some sort of friction, he reached
out, splayed his hands over Tristan’s arse. “What do you want?”
Tristan didn’t hesitate. “You.”
The simple answer shouldn’t have pleased him so much—it was only one word, after all—yet it did.
Still, it wasn’t exactly the answer the situation demanded. Max rubbed the pad of a thumb across
Tristan’s tight hole. “Be specific.”
A blush warmed the crests of his cheekbones. “I want you to bugger me,” he said, just above a
whisper, voice hitching the slightest bit.
“That outcome’s a given. Anything else?” Perhaps cruel of him to push so hard, but he wanted
Tristan’s honesty, raw and uninhibited. Wanted to know precisely what would prod Tristan’s lust even
higher. And Max wanted to give him exactly that.
When Tristan didn’t answer, Max bent forward, spit on his hole. Straightening, he went back to
toying with Tristan, rubbing his thumb across the now-slick surface.
Tristan’s gaze locked on Max’s mouth. The muscles in his thighs went taut, yet he did not move an
inch. Nor did another word fall from his lips.
Interesting.
“Have you ever had a man lick your arse?”
A pause. A very long pause.
Tristan shook his head, a small, minuscule motion. “I’ve done it but... But never had...” The blush
tingeing his cheeks spread to the tips of his ears.
How was it possible for a man to look so innocent yet so eager to be debauched at the same time?
Refusing to examine the fierce rush of possessiveness sweeping through him, Max asked, “Would
you like me to?”
Now he was truly pushing into cruelty, but he needed the yes out of Tristan.
Tristan’s gaze skittered off toward the washstand before meeting Max’s again. Just when Max
thought Tristan wouldn’t answer, he nodded once. “Please,” he whispered, heavy with need, with
longing, and also...
No, that couldn’t be. Why would Tristan be uncertain? Max wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t
willing to indulge him. Yet that tentative note lingered in Max’s ears, and the way Tristan broke eye
contact again, his gaze now on the coverlet, confirmed it.
Max leaned over him, pressed a kiss on the exposed nape of his neck, took a moment to take in a
deep full breath of the man.
“You don’t have to.”
If Max hadn’t been so close to Tristan, he doubted he would have heard him. As it was, Tristan’s
words gave a fierce tug on Max’s chest.
“You are correct. I don’t have to.” He released his hold on one of Tristan’s arse cheeks to tap the
back of his thigh. “Up. Knee on the bed.”
Tristan’s grip tightened, the coverlet clutched between his fingers. He shifted enough to swing his
knee onto the mattress.
Following the line of Tristan’s spine, he dragged his mouth down Tristan’s back. Felt the sleek
muscles beneath the smooth skin seize in a brief tremble. Dropping to his haunches, Max let his breath
bathe Tristan’s crease. The position fully exposed Tristan to his gaze, and to his tongue.
Hands gripping Tristan’s cheeks, Max set to work taking him to the point where he couldn’t remain
still a second longer. He skipped past light and teasing and went straight to determined. Long drags of
his tongue over the puckered skin, his thumbs pulling at Tristan’s hole, forcing him open for short,
quick jabs. Within no time at all, Tristan’s panting breaths filled Max’s ears, each one backed by a
faint whimper.
And then the curses began.
“Max. Oh, hell, Max. Bloody fucking hell.” Tristan let out a groan that bordered on a whine. “Your
tongue... Damnation.” Max pushed both thumbs inside him, tongue flicking the perimeter. Another
groan, this one deep and low with frustration. “Holy Mother... Damned bastard.”
Max lifted his head. “Is that what you really think of me?” He couldn’t help but taunt him.
“No, no, no,” Tristan rushed to correct himself. “Just don’t stop. Please, please, don’t stop, Max.”
Far be it for Max to deny him when he asked so sweetly.
There was no warning at all before Tristan broke his promise. The body beneath Max’s palms went
from taut to the point of rigidity to nonstop motion. Tristan tried to wriggle closer, bumping back
against Max’s mouth, desperate for more, rendered helpless from need. Each frantic movement
feeding Max’s passion, amplifying it.
“Please, please, oh God please, Max, fuck me. Please, I’ll do anything if you’ll just... Please.”
That last please shoved Max to his feet. He grabbed the oil from the bedside table, quickly slicked
his length and pushed inside Tristan’s body.
Every rational thought flew from his head. He grabbed Tristan’s shoulder with one hand, hauled
him back to meet each stroke. Friction and heat caressed his cock, pushed him to thrust harder, faster.
Neck bowed in supplication, Tristan took everything Max gave him, trusting Max to give him
exactly what he needed. The curses and pleas gone. All that was left were guttural groans, drenched in
pleasure. Groans that matched Max’s.
Sweat dripped down Max’s temples. Skin slapped against skin, the climax barreling upon him. The
muscles in his belly tightened. A tingle tickled the base of his spine. He leaned fully over Tristan, over
his sweat-slicked back, and rammed harder, needing to get even deeper.
The snug heat around his prick clenched like a damned fist as Tristan let out a soul-deep grunt.
And the orgasm seized Max’s senses, Tristan’s body milking his cock as he spilled within him.
Max’s arms gave out. Slumping down onto Tristan, he struggled to catch his breath.
It was a few moments before he could coordinate his limbs enough to push off Tristan and get them
both properly on the bed. He blew out the candle then rolled into Tristan’s side, throwing an arm
across his waist.
The most content sigh expanded Max’s chest.
Sleep had almost completely claimed him when he felt Tristan move. A careful little shift...away
from him.
Max tightened his hold on Tristan’s waist.
“Max, I should head back to my bedchamber.”
“No. Stay. I’ll wake you before dawn.” He wanted Tristan in his bed at night, not just for an hour or
two or three. But all night.
The warm body beside him relaxed. “All right.”
And that was the last sound Max heard before sleep overtook him.
* * *
Tristan could not recall exactly what roused him from sleep. Nor did he have any notion as to the time.
All he was aware of was darkness and Max above him. Kissing him, touching him, thrusting into
him. Keeping him poised right on the brink of another climax. That perfect place where every sense
was heightened, focused, consumed by lust.
He couldn’t say what exactly pushed him over the edge. Nor did he know if he went over first or if
he followed Max. That blessedly perfect tight knot of sensation released, flooding his nerves in pure
bliss, Max’s groan of completion mingling with their kiss.
Though the second time he was roused from sleep, he most assuredly could identify the culprit.
Max’s amazing mouth. Sliding up and down Tristan’s cock. Suction and heat and decadent caresses
of his equally amazing tongue.
He tried to give Max a warning, but the man would have none of it. Or rather, he wanted all of it.
Everything Tristan had to give. The revelation clicked in his head a second before he climaxed down
Max’s throat.
Gasping and utterly replete, he could do nothing but lay there amongst the rumpled sheets as Max
quickly shifted up, knees straddling Tristan’s thighs. He could just make out Max looming above him,
head bowed. The sound of a hand working a cock slashed through the silence then liquid heat
splattered his belly.
Max dropped down onto a bent arm. Lips covered Tristan’s, the kiss slow and unhurried and full of
sated passion. Tristan looped his arms about Max’s neck and just let the man kiss him.
A nip to Tristan’s lower lip, and Max leaned his forehead against Tristan’s. “Missed having a man
in my bed.” The whispered words brushed across Tristan’s wet lips.
Then Max rolled onto his side, his arm draping across Tristan’s waist.
About the same moment when Tristan became aware of the faint gray quality of the darkness
surrounding them, Max spoke again. “Almost dawn.”
Tristan took the nudge for what it was. Summoning his muscles and his willpower, he shifted out of
Max’s loose embrace and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he reached down to grab his
trousers and shirt from the floor, he winced. Definitely a bit sore, but he’d be fine come morning.
Wasn’t as if he’d never had a vigorous night before, and a night in Max’s bed had most assuredly been
worth the temporary slight discomfort.
He had once thought Max infinitely generous in bed.
Hell, had that been a severe understatement.
In a haze created by multiple orgasms and not quite enough sleep, Tristan made his way back to his
bedchamber, just barely remembering to drop his clothes in the basket for a maid to see to before he
collapsed on his bed.
Chapter Nine
Tristan couldn’t quite understand how Max could do it. The first day he had chalked up to simply
being, well, the first day. The aftereffects of their night together just hadn’t caught up to Max yet. But
on Tristan’s third morning—late morning—at the Park, when he once again was informed by a
footman that His Grace was in his study, Tristan had to stop the disbelief from showing itself.
Max must be one of those men who operated exceedingly well on very little sleep for he could not
have managed more than a mere handful of hours each night since they’d been in the country. And
based on a comment here and there from the servants, and Max’s own comment that the Park kept
country hours, Tristan highly doubted Max grabbed a couple hours of sleep once Tristan stumbled out
of his bed.
Two days was all it had taken for Tristan to pinpoint the schedule of Max’s days. Rise at dawn and
go to his study. Unless Tristan dared to knock on the thick walnut door, he wouldn’t see Max again
until the man walked into the vast dining hall for supper. The meal was a formal affair, complete with
footmen in navy livery stationed along the wall, ready to jump into service. After supper, Max would
once again disappear into his study, only reemerging to retire for the night.
He dined with the Duke of Pelham, strict and stern, in his equally stern-colored waistcoats, broad
shoulders held in a hard line. A man of few words. Yet at night he went to Max’s bed. Passionate,
controlling Max who teased and taunted him, who gifted him with his generous mouth and turned
Tristan into an utter slave to the sensations Max lavished upon him. God help him if Max ever
indulged his fondness for leather. The man could take Tristan to astounding heights of pleasure with
only his body, his voice and his intent gaze. Add an erotic toy or restraints...
A hot burst of anticipation sizzled across Tristan’s nerves.
But Max had yet to even hint at the topic again.
His feet took him on the now-familiar path to the breakfast room. Informal and quaint, with a bow
window overlooking the side garden, he much preferred to sit at its round table than be perched by
himself at the end of the massive stretch of mahogany in the dining hall. Pulling out a straight-back
wooden chair, he sat down and suppressed a wince. Damn if his body wasn’t starting to protest twice-
nightly romps with Max. He hadn’t been some inexperienced virgin before coming to Hampshire, but
nor had he been the most requested man at Rubicon’s. Even when he’d had to bend over multiple
evenings in a row, he hadn’t had clients like Max. The man was near insatiable...which made their
nights very enjoyable.
He’d indulge in a long soak in the tub later. That should do the trick.
A maid set a cup of tea at his elbow, followed shortly by a plate of eggs and toast.
He’d spent his first full day in Hampshire acquainting himself with the sprawling house. Discovered
the location of the ballroom—seldom-used, judging by the faint stale scent in the air—the library with
its bookshelves spanning from floor to ceiling, the portrait gallery, the conservatory filled with lush
green plants and a stone fountain tucked in a corner, the billiard room, three sitting rooms, a formal
drawing room, a handful of rooms he had no idea as to their purpose, and too many guest bedchambers
to count.
Yesterday the sun had been out and he’d taken a horse from the stables to investigate the
surrounding countryside, which had very much resembled the view out the carriage window on the
way to Arrington Park. He’d even gone into the nearby village, had a bite to eat at the tavern and
checked out the shops—there weren’t many. A bakery, a butcher, a milliner and a haberdasher shop, a
small bookshop, and a few other similar shops though unfortunately no tailor. Servants’ gossip must
have already made its way to the village for no one seemed surprised to see him. Courteous smiles and
polite inquiries into London greeted him. Nor did anyone seem surprised to see him there on his own,
without Max. The man’s habit of ensconcing himself in his study must be common knowledge to
everyone within a good five-mile radius of the Park.
Tristan finished his cup of tea, pushed from the table and left the breakfast room. A book he pulled
from a shelf in the library did not hold his attention for long.
Rain tapped against the library’s tall windows. The thick gray clouds hanging low in the sky
indicated the rain would not let up anytime soon. Another ride to the village was out of the question.
He wasn’t fond of getting soaked through.
All Max seemed to do was work during daylight hours. How utterly monotonous. He’d thought most
aristocrats enjoyed some sort of outdoor sport, but it appeared that did not include Max. Tristan
tamped down the sigh. Getting to his feet, he perused a nearby shelf. Nothing of interest. He wasn’t of
a mind to head to the billiard room either. Not much fun to play against oneself. In London, he’d had a
house full of friends to help pass a rainy, dull afternoon. Here he had a massive house full of servants.
And he couldn’t strike up a conversation with one of them or invite a footman to share a game of
billiards. A friend of Max’s wouldn’t do such a thing.
All he had in Hampshire was Max.
As he made his way to Max’s daytime domain, he reasoned he would simply ask Max about the
hidden passageway between their rooms. The man had said this passageway’s straight, implying there
might be others in the house. Yesterday, when Tristan had stopped in the study to ask if he could
borrow a horse to take a ride about the countryside, Max hadn’t appeared displeased at the
interruption. The V absent between his brows. He’d appeared more...focused on the ledger before him.
And the man had spent two days doing nothing but work. Surely he could spare a few moments of his
time to appease Tristan’s curiosity. Then Tristan could fill the remaining hours before supper
exploring while Max went back to his beloved ledgers. He just hoped to God it wouldn’t rain again
tomorrow.
* * *
Max looked up at the light knock on the door. “Enter.”
The door swung partially open and Tristan peeked inside. “Am I disturbing you?”
Technically yes, but the reticence on Tristan’s face pulled the no out of Max. He set down his pen
and waved a hand to the chairs before his desk. “Come in.”
“I promise I won’t take up much of your time,” Tristan said, stepping into the study and closing the
door. “Just have a question for you.” Rather than sit, he lingered next to one of the chairs. “The
passageway between our rooms, are there more of them?”
Max nodded. “Mostly in the older areas. The main portion of the house has been expanded upon
over the years.” Apparently his ancestors hadn’t thought the manor house quite large enough. “The
newest areas are completely void of them, but years ago, servants used the passageways to travel
between rooms unnoticed. A custom that has since fallen out of favor.” He well knew he employed
maids and footmen who saw to every aspect of the house. No reason at all for them to scurry between
the walls.
“Where would I find one of them?”
“The drawing room, the library, the morning room. The yellow guest bedchamber on the second
floor,” he said, naming a few of the rooms in the older areas of the house.
“Is there a way to spot the doors?”
Max shook his head. “They were built into the paneling, or in the library’s case, into one of the
shelves. Designed to be hidden.”
Tristan’s face fell. “Oh. Well, then, I’ll leave you to your ledgers.”
He should stay exactly where he sat, continue reviewing the latest stack of paperwork from his
solicitors’ office. His father certainly hadn’t built the dukedom into the vast empire Max had inherited
by ignoring his responsibilities.
Tristan turned from the chair.
“I can show you, if you’d like.” The words popped out of Max’s mouth.
Pivoting on his heel, Tristan turned back to him. “You would?” Really, the man needn’t appear so
shocked.
“Rather show them to you myself than take the risk of you finding one and getting lost. One or two
pass by a small window, but most are dark.”
Tristan’s shoulders went stiff beneath his bottle green coat. “I am not frightened of the—”
“Yes, I know,” Max said, cutting him off before he went all bristly on him again. “Still, I don’t
relish the idea of sending out a search party in my own home.” He pushed to his feet. “In fact...” He
looked about the room, gaze stopping on a narrow expanse of barren paneling between two built-in
bookshelves. “There’s one in here.”
“Really?” Tristan glanced around. “Where?”
“I believe it’s over there.” He rounded the desk and crossed to the spot. “Just need to figure out how
to open it.” Up this close, he could just make out the seam between the panel and the bookshelf.
“You don’t know?” Tristan asked, standing at his elbow. The faint scents of shaving soap, starch
from his cravat, and man drifted to Max’s nose.
“Except for the one between our rooms, I haven’t used the passageways since I was a child. And I
didn’t use this door from this side. The room was my father’s study before it became mine, and it
wasn’t as if I was gallivanting about while he was working.” On a rare occasion, he’d crack open the
door and peek inside, and only when he’d been certain the room had been unoccupied. It wasn’t that
his father had forbidden him to enter the study. In fact, when Max had grown older, his father had
encouraged it. Yet as a child, the space held that reverent air of an adult sanctuary. “But I know
exactly where it leads.”
“Which is where?”
Max passed his palm next to the seam, pressed on the paneling. Nothing. He repeated the process on
the other side of the panel and was rewarded with a click as the latch released. “You’re about to find
out.”
Tristan threw him a scowl, yet his eyes held a distinctly playful spark.
“Anticipation has a way of making things more interesting.” Max stepped into the narrow
passageway.
Tristan followed and closed the door, plunging them into darkness. “Are you certain you know
where this leads?”
“Quite certain.” He’d spent many an afternoon as a boy playing with his toy soldiers by the light of
a single candle in the hidden passageways—his tutor had never been able to find him. “Quiet now.
Don’t want the servants to worry we’ve attracted some very large mice.”
Max reached out behind him. His fingertips brushed soft wool, coasted down until he encountered
smooth skin. Fingers sliding between Tristan’s, he grasped Tristan’s hand.
They’d only taken four steps when what could only be Tristan’s other hand slipped under the tails of
Max’s coat to grab his arse.
“Tristan?”
“Yes, Max.” He could hear the smile in Tristan’s whispered voice.
Tristan squeezed, naughty fingers pushing the fabric of Max’s trousers between his crease, almost
grazing his hole.
“Be careful with what you start,” Max murmured, part tease, part warning.
It wasn’t as if he’d never been on the other side of matters. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed it
in the past. But the thought of allowing Tristan to follow that particular path made a part of him jerk
back, not sure if—
Max collided with a wall, the heavy thud of limbs against wood echoing about them. “Bloody hell.”
Tristan stumbled into him, the sleek weight of his body pressing Max against the wall. “I thought
we were supposed to be quiet?”
“We are.” He’d forgotten the strides of a man of three-and-twenty would be significantly longer
than a boy of eight’s. “Lost track of the length of the corridor. It turns here.”
Though Max didn’t hear Tristan’s laugh, he could certainly feel it briefly shaking Tristan’s chest,
rumbling Max’s back. “Obviously.” Those naughty fingers shifted, came around Max’s hip to palm
his semi-erect cock. “And I would never start something I did not intend to finish.”
Max bit back the groan. He’d promised himself only a few minutes or so with Tristan, not an early
afternoon romp between the walls. Nightfall would come soon enough. He wasn’t without self-control.
He could wait until then to indulge with Tristan.
An image of Tristan on his knees, eager hands bound behind his back, lust-soaked gaze locked with
Max’s as he sucked his cock, slammed into Max’s mind.
“I thought you wanted to discover where this passageway led?” Max pushed back and turned right,
stepping away from that too-tempting hand, away from the heat of Tristan’s body.
“I do, though—”
“It’s just a few strides ahead of us.” This time, he reached out before him, stopping when his hand
encountered cool wood. “We’re here,” he murmured.
“What if there’s a servant in the room, tidying up or something?” Tristan’s voice drifted over his
shoulder.
Very valid question. When he’d pop out of one of the hidden passages as a child, he never worried
about such a thing. Now though...
While it was his home and he had every right to go wherever he pleased, he was an adult and he was
with Tristan, his new houseguest. And while he was doing his best to ignore his erection, that didn’t
change the fact it would be quite obvious to anyone who laid eyes on him.
He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. But his servants could move about very quietly.
“Likely best not to take the risk of startling a maid.” He turned from the door, turning into Tristan.
“Which room was it?”
“The drawing room.” Not very exciting, but the fun had been in making Tristan wonder. “Let’s go
back the way we came.”
Instead of stepping back and turning, Tristan stepped into him, breaching whatever distance had
been between them. A hand wrapped around Max’s erection as much as the placket of his trousers
would allow, gave the hard, needy length a squeeze.
“Do you think you could be quiet while I finished what I started?” Tristan asked, voice dropping to
a low, scratchy whisper, soaked in the promise of a spectacular orgasm.
The hell with it. His desk could wait a few more minutes.
“Of course,” he replied, as if Tristan had no cause at all to even ask the question.
There was the soft sound of fabric shifting as the press of Tristan’s body left him. The man must be
dropping to his knees. Anticipation spiked in Max’s veins. Hands deftly worked the buttons on his
trousers, reached inside to pull out his cock. Wet heat engulfed the crown.
As Max tipped his head back against the door and set his jaw to hold back the groan filling his
throat, he discovered Tristan’s hair was indeed still long enough to get a good grasp on it.
Chapter Ten
Max leaned back as a footman cleared the last course from the table. “We’ll take brandy in the
library.”
A nod, and the footman left the dining hall, arms laden with the remnants of Max and Tristan’s
meal.
He felt the force of Tristan’s questioning gaze from the opposite end of the dining table, yet Tristan
said not a word. Merely followed Max’s lead and pushed from the table.
He should go back to his study for another two or three hours, but he highly doubted he’d get
anything accomplished, his mind too focused on the man trailing a pace behind him. Knowing when to
negotiate, when to seek a compromise, was just as important a trait as knowing when to keep pushing,
when to refuse to concede. He’d call it a night and make up for the day’s lapses tomorrow.
He opened the door to the library. The drapes had not yet been closed for the night, but the thick
clouds outside the windows obscured the setting sun, heavy shadows clinging to the corners of the
room. They hadn’t been expected to make use of the library, therefore the hearth was dark, as were the
candles stationed about. Instead of waiting for a maid to see to the tasks, he lit the candles on the side
table between two of the leather armchairs. The hearth he left dark—no reason to bother with it. The
bit of dampness lingering in the air from the earlier summer rain certainly wouldn’t harm them.
Max sat and motioned Tristan to the other armchair.
“Did you finish with your ledgers early today?” Tristan asked, settling his lean frame into the chair.
“No.” Said ledgers and a fat pile of paperwork were exactly where he’d left them, in neat stacks
awaiting his attention. Tomorrow, he reassured himself. He’d deal with them tomorrow.
“Oh,” Tristan replied, slightly taken aback. He gave his shirt cuff a tug, straightening it beneath the
sleeve of his coat. The cuff arranged to his satisfaction, he looked to Max again. “Thank you for
serving as my guide this afternoon.” The edges of his mouth quirked up in a hint of a sinful smile.
“My pleasure.” And it had definitely been Max’s pleasure. It had taken all his self-control to keep
the groans inside as Tristan had sucked him dry.
The snick of a knob turning cut through the silence, tearing Max’s thoughts from those full lips, the
decadent feel of Tristan’s throat caressing the head of his cock. A maid entered the room bearing the
requested brandy.
Tristan pulled his gaze from Max, to the shelves upon shelves lining the walls. “You certainly have
a lot of books. Have you read many of them?”
With a light clink of crystal against silver, the maid set a tray with the brandy on the side table. A
short curtsy, and she left the room.
“Yes, years ago. My tutor used the library as a source for teaching materials.” He used to dread
when the man would walk into the schoolroom, arms full of new finds from this room’s shelves. Max
reached for the decanter, poured two glasses of brandy.
Tristan took the proffered glass with a murmured, “Thanks.” The candlelight picked up the pale
blond strands in his ginger hair. Max flexed his free hand, the memory of those silken strands still
fresh on his skin.
“But not recently?” Tristan asked.
“No.”
“Too busy in your study?”
Max tipped his head and took a long swallow of brandy.
“Do you spend every day behind your desk?”
“With the exception of this afternoon, yes. Unless I’m in London to attend Parliament or to deal
with business matters there.”
“Don’t you enjoy hunting or shooting or some other pastime? You have a stable full of prime
horseflesh. Do you ever take one out just to go for a ride, enjoy a sunny summer’s day?”
“A dukedom does not manage itself,” Max said, repeating the phrase he’d heard too many times to
count.
What would his father think if he knew Max had turned his back on the dukedom in favor of an
early afternoon orgasm?
His choice of a bed partner would most assuredly raise an eyebrow. Though his father wouldn’t be
surprised in the slightest to learn Max had neglected his responsibilities. Was continuing to neglect
them at that very moment.
Yet tonight... Tonight he wasn’t of a mind to dwell on it or let guilt weigh him down. The way
Tristan had dropped so eagerly to his knees in that narrow, dark corridor had turned his attention to the
locked trunk beside his writing desk. The one he had yet to open since arriving at Arrington Park.
He took another long swallow of brandy. “Shortly before we left London, and after I’d played
footman for you, I stopped at a shop off Bond Street.”
“What sort of shop?”
“One for discriminating gentlemen.”
Tristan’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t familiar with that particular shop, hadn’t a clue as to the variety
of merchandise sold there. Yet the way Tristan held his gaze indicated he suspected there was a
meaning to Max’s words that he didn’t quite catch.
He’d become familiar with a few of the shop’s goods soon enough.
Max set his glass on the side table and stood. “I believe I shall retire a bit early tonight.”
* * *
Tristan watched as Max’s broad-shouldered back disappeared into the corridor, the library door left
open behind him. He sat there, half-empty glass in hand, as the rhythmic sounds of Max’s footsteps on
the marble floor faded into nothingness.
With a quick shake of his head, he jolted himself to his senses. If Max was retiring early, then so
should he.
He made his way up to his bedchamber. As he turned at the top of the stairs, he caught sight of a
servant in a plain black coat opening one of the double doors leading to Max’s rooms. Likely the
man’s valet, which meant a good half an hour or so until Max opened the door at his end of the
passageway between their rooms.
Plenty of time for Tristan to get ready for the night and rumple the sheets on his own bed. He’d
spent one of the hours before supper soaking in the tub, which had worked wonders—his arse hadn’t
objected to the lengthy formal meal. As he went into his dressing room, he unbuttoned his coat.
Discriminating gentlemen...
A shop that sold objects of an erotic nature? Including, perhaps, leather goods?
He shook his arms free of the coat sleeves, tugged at his cravat. He’d never had need to look for
such a shop, hadn’t a notion where they were in London, yet he knew the drawers in the chests at
Rubicon’s hadn’t filled themselves. There had to be some places in the City that dealt with such
goods, and it appeared Max might know the location of at least one of those shops.
After stripping off the rest of his clothes and putting them in the basket for a maid to see to, he went
into the washroom, anticipation building in his veins. Max was a damned tease, but he was a very
good tease and one who always followed through, never disappointed.
Oh hell no, Max never disappointed when it came to activities in the bedchamber.
Clad in a fresh pair of trousers and a white shirt, he was surprised to find the door at the end of the
passageway open when he peeked inside. He’d expected it to still be shut, for Max to leave him in
suspense a while longer. Though Tristan certainly wasn’t going to object if Max wasn’t in the mood to
allow his valet to dally.
He found Max not in bed waiting for him, but in an armchair situated near the fireplace and wearing
a pair of trousers. Reaching behind him, Tristan shut the door to the passageway.
“Remove your clothes,” Max said, voice lusciously deep.
Shirt and trousers were soon on the floorboards. Arms at his sides, he waited for Max’s next
command.
“You were a very naughty man this afternoon.”
Tristan nodded. He couldn’t argue the statement. Sucking Max off when there could have been a
maid just paces away did indeed qualify as very naughty. It had also been a fun way to keep Max from
behind his desk and to spend some time with him before nightfall.
Standing just inside the bedchamber, he swept his gaze over Max. He was sprawled in the chair, one
leg casually stretched before him, the other bent. A man at his ease, yet an erection pushed against the
placket of his trousers. His dark eyes were intent, pinned on Tristan, chin tipped slightly down and...
Max’s hand tightened on the chair’s arm, fingers briefly gripping the brown leather.
Tristan sensed the change in Max. The undercurrent of heavy anticipation, the extra layer of
determination, and also a touch of nervousness. Whatever was about to come was important to Max in
a way their other nights hadn’t been.
“Stand at the foot of the bed,” Max said, breaking the silence between them.
With a nod, Tristan crossed to the foot of the bed. On the coverlet near one of the posters were two
leather cuffs, a bottle of oil and a wooden paddle, the type he’d image a headmaster would favor. And
tied to the top of that poster...a leather line, one end brushing the carved wooden post, just waiting to
be tied to the steel rings adorning those cuffs.
Tristan’s breaths stumbled as lust shot through him. Max had decided to indulge his fondness for
leather with him.
When he’d engaged in such play in the past, he had endured it more than anything else. Yet with
Max, he felt more than merely wanted for his submission. Max wanted Tristan’s pleasure just as much
as the man wanted his own. He wouldn’t be left tied to the headboard after the client had finished with
him. Wouldn’t have to hold back the plea to stop. With Max, he’d be begging the man for more, and
only receive as much as he could take and not one smack of the paddle more.
Bowing his head, he did his best to stand still. Max most assuredly liked it when he begged and
pleaded, but he knew Max wanted patience from him at that particular moment.
He heard the creak of leather, then the soft sounds of bare feet against floorboards. It took all his
willpower to keep from glancing to Max out of the corner of his eye as the man approached.
Everything went quiet. He could sense Max standing directly behind him, could almost feel the heat
pouring off his strong body.
A large hand coasted down his back. A shiver of delight raced over his skin. He wanted to push
back, push into Max’s touch, get more of it, yet he stayed still.
That hand skimmed over his hip. Instead of grasping his erection, Max reached around him for the
leather cuffs.
“Turn around.”
Another jolt of anticipation rocked through him. Keeping his gaze averted to the floor, he turned.
There was a light clink of metal against metal.
“Look at me.”
Tristan pulled his gaze up Max’s body, didn’t pause to admire the hard arch tenting the placket, the
thin line of dark hair that disappeared behind the waistband of his trousers or the broad expanse of his
bare chest.
“Any objections?” Max murmured, holding out the cuffs in one hand.
“None at all.”
Cupping the back of Tristan’s head with his free hand, Max brought their lips together. The kiss
fierce while at the same time gentle. And kept much too brief for Tristan’s liking.
Breaking the kiss, Max dragged his hand down Tristan’s arm, lifted his wrist. First one then the
other, Max buckled the cuffs in place, his dark brows lowered, expression focused and intent. The
leather was thick and substantial but soft enough to not leave marks if he tugged a bit while restrained.
As Max did up the buckle on the second cuff, a thought occurred to him. Tristan glanced up, to the
ceiling overhead. A paddling wasn’t a quiet endeavor, and they weren’t the only two individuals in the
house. “Will anyone overhear us?” He tipped his head to the paddle on the mattress.
“No.” A flick of Max’s fingers, and the leather was secured beneath its keeper.
“But aren’t servants’ quarters usually in the garret?”
“Yes. On the other side of the house. There’s only storage above our rooms. I doubt the trunks and
old furniture will much mind a bit of noise.” Max palmed Tristan’s hips, turned him slightly to the
side. “Back now.”
Following the pressure of Max’s hands, Tristan stepped back until his shoulder blade touched the
wooden post. He knew what the next command would be before Max spoke.
“Arms up.”
Crossing his wrists, Tristan lifted his arms above his head. Fingertips brushed his skin. Tristan
looked up and watched as Max threaded the leather line through one steel ring then the other.
The line tied in a simple loop knot, Max met his gaze.
“All right,” Tristan replied, in answer to the question in Max’s eyes. He’d never had an issue with
being restrained. He just hadn’t particularly cared for the men who had done the deed in the past. Max
though...
A need to please rose up within. He wanted to please Max, to give himself over to the man. To make
tonight the night Max wanted with him.
A growl rumbled from Max’s chest. And then Max’s lips were on his again. The kiss longer, deeper,
pulling a moan from Tristan. Max’s tongue swept inside his mouth. Tristan tugged at his restraints,
wanting to wrap his arms around Max, to pull him closer. But the simple knot held tight.
Pulling back, Max dropped to his knees and glanced up at Tristan. The question was long gone from
those dark eyes and replaced with desire so potent it knocked the breath from Tristan’s lungs.
Wrapping a hand around Tristan’s cock, Max took him inside his mouth. Oh God, could Max suck
cock. Within no time at all, Max had him roused to a fever pitch. Arms stretched over his head,
Tristan arched his back, unable to stop his hips from thrusting, from seeking more, from fucking
Max’s mouth.
And Max allowed it.
Hell, Max even sucked harder, the suction intensifying around his length. Tristan’s ballocks lurched
up. Every muscle in his body drew taut.
Max’s biceps bulged as the hands on Tristan’s hips stilled him, and that generous mouth pulled free
of his prick.
“More, Max, please.” He was already begging, but at some point over the past few nights, he’d lost
whatever pride or self-consciousness he possessed when the situation involved Max and a bed.
Max shook his head. How could a man radiate so much control when he was on his knees? “Turn.”
Tristan eagerly did as bid. There was enough length to the line to allow him to pivot on the spot. His
erection, wet from Max’s attentions, bumped the wooden poster. Hands splayed over his arse cheeks,
pulled them apart. After the hard pulls of his mouth, Tristan expected quick stabs of Max’s tongue, the
press of fingers pushing inside him, forcing him open. Instead Max teased. Light, almost soft, his
tongue played over Tristan’s hole, danced over his skin. Then Max licked him. Long, slow licks from
his ballocks to just below his entrance.
Tristan gasped, groaned. Tugged at his bonds. Tried to push back but Max held him still. He wanted
more. He wanted so badly he ached with it. “Fucking hell. Goddamn you, Max. Please. More.”
To which Max reached between Tristan’s legs, pulled down his erection. Soft hair brushed his upper
thigh and a mouth covered the head of his cock.
A whine vibrated Tristan’s throat as Max sucked on the crown. He didn’t think he could get any
closer to climaxing without actually spilling his seed, but bloody hell, Max shoved him right to the
very edge, had him dangling over the precipice.
Max released him, his mouth and his hands leaving Tristan’s body.
Tristan rested his forehead against the poster, senses shimmering with an impending orgasm that
was so very, very close he could taste it. “Please, Max, fuck me. Please.”
“All in due time.” Max reached for the paddle on the coverlet. “First though, I’m going to turn this
naughty arse red.”
Like a total wanton, Tristan thrust out his hips, presented his arse to Max.
The first blow was a mere tap with barely a hint of a sting behind it. First one cheek then the other.
Back and forth. The pressure increasing with each pass. The sting building, shifting to fiery-hot
pleasure. Until the sharp sound of wood against skin cracked through the air. Until Tristan was
gasping for breath, hands clutched in tight fists, his cock jutting stiff and achingly hard between his
legs.
And then there was silence.
His smarting skin throbbed, but it felt ridiculously, wonderfully good. Oh hell, good didn’t come
close to describing it. He felt wicked, sinful, and utterly wanted by Max.
The heat from Max’s body warmed his back an instant before Max pressed up against him,
wrapping an arm around his waist. Hot panting breaths scorched across his nape.
“What do you want?” The words were whispered against his skin.
“You, Max. You.” Far beyond the point of desperation, he lifted up onto his toes and wiggled
against Max, rubbing against the arch of his erection. Satin-soft skin backed by iron pressed against
his crease. Fresh jolts of lust shot to his cock.
Tristan glanced under a raised arm, to Max’s bare leg, a pile of black wool near his foot. When had
Max divested himself of his trousers?
A nip to his shoulder followed by the soft press of lips. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Max released him to reach for the bottle of oil on the coverlet. And then slick fingers were probing
between his burning cheeks, finally pushing inside him.
Startled by the pinch of true pain, Tristan blinked. Quickly gathering his wits, he took a deep breath,
forced his muscles to relax.
But it did no good.
Oh hell.
A breathy moan slipped passed his lips before he could give it thought, the habit ingrained after two
years at that house.
Max grabbed his hip and then it wasn’t Max’s fingers but his cock pushing inside of him,
demanding entry, forcing still-sore muscles to accommodate the thick length.
Dread washed over him.
Contrary to his earlier assumption, the soak in the tub had not worked wonders.
Pulling back, Max picked up a familiar rhythm. All the while, Tristan’s mind raced.
It wasn’t so bad as to fall into the realm of solid pain. Uncomfortable but not intolerable. He’d
endured far worse. But Max wasn’t like all the others. And tonight wasn’t like his and Max’s other
nights. Tonight was important to Max. And Tristan wanted it to be perfect for him. For them. But no
way would he be able to climax with only Max’s cock in his arse. Not tonight. And he was restrained.
He couldn’t stroke his prick, couldn’t try to coax his orgasm on his own.
Once the worry gripped hold, it blanketed every thought, killing his erection. Even the little sizzle
of pleasure from Max bumping Tristan’s just-paddled skin with each thrust couldn’t keep the worry at
bay. Max would want Tristan’s climax, and Tristan wouldn’t be able to give it to him. Max would
wonder why and...
Mortification slid over him. What whore worth even a farthing admitted to being sore? Sex was
why Max wanted him. If he couldn’t give Max everything the man wanted of him...
His heart slammed against his ribs, quick and shallow. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on Max,
on the man’s large hands clutching his hips, the grunts scraping Max’s throat. Tried to will Max’s
desire for him to sweep him back into the moment where nothing but pleasure and lust and Max
saturated his senses. But...
Try as he might, he couldn’t turn his mind from the hard, very thick cock in his protesting arse.
Grasping Tristan’s shoulder with one hand, Max rammed deep.
Tristan couldn’t keep the wince from squeezing his eyes closed tighter. Bowing his head, he
bumped back, forced a moan of pleasure. “More, Max. Goddamn it, more.”
* * *
Releasing his hold on Tristan’s slim hip, Max made to reach up to grab Tristan’s other shoulder, to
give Tristan exactly what he begged for.
But...Tristan had never before begged while Max was buggering him.
The thought had almost flittered out of his head when he snatched it back.
An uncomfortable suspicion nudged him. Instead of grabbing Tristan’s shoulder, Max reached
around his hip.
Max’s mind seized with shock, every muscle in his body going still.
His hand was wrapped around a flaccid cock.
He took a quick step back, releasing Tristan and pulling free of the tight, slick heat of his body.
The sounds of his own panting breaths echoed in his ears, oddly loud. A droplet of sweat trickled
down Tristan’s back, following the line of his spine to his reddened arse.
Tristan had definitely been erect earlier. Max was certain of it. He’d had the man’s hard cock in his
damn mouth.
Had he hit Tristan too hard with the paddle? Did Tristan not enjoy more exotic play? Did he not like
being restrained? But he’d damned well asked Tristan if he’d had any objections, and Tristan had said
“none at all.”
But a man’s prick didn’t lie. His mouth could lie, the word more falling from his lips, mixing with
moans of deepest lust. His body pushing back as though desperate to get more. But all those obvious
signs of enjoyment suddenly felt like theatrics designed to distract him from the non-erection hanging
between Tristan’s legs.
“Max?”
Max shook his head, a sharp, quick movement.
Hell, it had all been a goddamn performance.
And he’d been the idiot to believe it as truth.
Head still bowed, Tristan shifted his weight. A small little motion, steeped with uncertainty.
Taking a step forward, Max tugged the end of the leather line, all the while careful not to touch
Tristan. The instant the knot released, Max stepped back, putting distance between them once again.
Tristan dropped his arms to his sides. Rolled his shoulders. Max resisted the urge to reach out, to
help soothe sleek muscles likely stiff from being held in one position for so long.
Once one was naked, one couldn’t get more so. Yet Max felt exceedingly naked. He’d exposed his
most wicked desires to Tristan, only to be pandered to. His desires had been merely tolerated.
Christ, Tristan had begged for more because he’d wanted it over quicker, not because he’d actually
wanted more of Max.
Tristan turned to face him, hesitation and trepidation in his gaze, the black leather on his wrists a
stark contrast to his pale skin. “Max?”
Those cuffs didn’t belong on his wrists. Tristan hadn’t wanted to wear them. “Take them off. The
leather cuffs. Now.”
A nod from Tristan. He was ever goddamn obedient. Tristan always replied all right. Never refused
Max anything. Agreed with Max’s every whim.
Because Max was paying him.
What the hell had he expected when he’d hired a prostitute? For Tristan to actually be honest with
him? He’d seen Tristan work with another, watched him act with another man, for Christ’s sake.
Max had never felt more the fool in his entire life.
“You can go back to your bedchamber.”
Tristan looked up, fingers poised over the buckle on the second cuff. “But, Max—”
Max held up a hand, staying him. He did not want to hear any more of Tristan’s lies. He’d had
enough for one night.
Tristan’s exquisitely beautiful features hardened. He pulled his spine straight. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Max couldn’t stop the flinch from seizing his muscles. “Don’t Your Grace me. I suck your cock.”
Tristan dropped the cuffs. The clatter of leather and metal hitting the floorboards echoed about the
bedchamber as Tristan turned his back on Max and left the room.
The narrow door slammed shut. Max clenched his hands at his sides as he held back the urge to
scream, to vent the frustration and anger and humiliation filling his entire being.
Chapter Eleven
Tristan set his fork beside the plate of barely touched eggs and pushed from the table. He hesitated as
he left the breakfast room. Finding the corridor empty, he turned right, in the direction of the
conservatory.
Arrington Park was massive. A sprawling house with too many rooms to count. But at the moment,
it felt even smaller than the quaint cottage Tristan had grown up in.
A part of him knew he was being completely irrational. As long as he avoided the study, chances
were exceedingly good he would not see Max until supper. Still...
Instead of reaching for the brass lever, Tristan turned from the conservatory door and the lush green
plants visible through its many panes of glass. Perhaps the countryside would do him better. A couple
of hours away from the house, and away from any threat of coming face-to-face with Max. Give
himself time to gather his composure after last night.
The butler opened the front door as he approached. He tipped his head in thanks and stepped out
into the sun. All traces of yesterday’s rain were gone from the sky. The air was quite warm even for
late morning on an August day. He made his way to the stables but the twinge as he’d sat for breakfast
kept him from going inside. Best to simply proceed on foot.
He glanced about and, recalling the map of the property done in watercolors hanging in an ornate
gilt frame on the wall in the library, proceeded toward the low hill off to the right.
Rubbing his eyes, he let out a sigh. His eyelids felt heavy yet his nerves buzzed with that
uncomfortable mixture of exhaustion and extreme wakefulness one felt after spending a night tossing
and turning.
Max had been angry. He hadn’t had to speak a word...not that he’d spoken many. Tristan had read
the anger in every hard line of his body, in the clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. And he had absolutely
no notion what Max would say, how the man would react, when he saw him next. Max could send him
from the house for all he knew. But he didn’t want to leave, at least not permanently. He really liked
being with Max...when they were together, that was.
He saw not another soul as he wandered across a field. Not another person to disturb the thoughts
tumbling about in his head.
On the other side of another low hill, he came upon a pond, its placid blue surface glinting in the
sunlight, beckoning him. Sweat tickled his skin beneath his cravat, the sun beating down on his
shoulders. The navy wool coat he’d selected that morning was one of his favorites, but it certainly
hadn’t been made for a hot summer day.
Dropping to his haunches at the pond’s edge, he swooshed his fingers in the water and found it to be
on the perfect side of cool. He swept his gaze around him. Nothing but the pond and green grass and
the occasional tree, leaves swaying in the light breeze. He hadn’t donned his pocket watch before he’d
left his bedchamber and therefore couldn’t verify how long he’d been out. An hour, maybe two. But he
couldn’t have walked far enough yet to have reached the limits of the vast estate.
Confident he was still on Max’s property, he stood and undid the knot on his cravat. Did Max ever
indulge in a swim in this pond?
Likely not. Max did nothing but work all day.
His shoulders slumped. He tossed the cravat to the grass then unbuttoned his coat. He’d completely
ruined last night for Max. And given his arrangement with Max—if they still had an arrangement—he
couldn’t just forget the night had happened. The ever-changing men who’d walked into the
bedchambers at Rubicon’s had never veered in the realm of something to be thankful about. Yet when
an evening had gone wrong in the past—not that any had ever gone wrong quite as last night, though
he had had to summon a guard a time or two—the sole positive of it happening at Rubicon’s was that
he’d been almost guaranteed not to have to endure the uncomfortable situation of facing the fellow
again.
Leaving his clothes and shoes on the bank, he waded into the pond. The cool water felt wonderful
against his overheated skin. Once he reached waist-depth, he pushed forward and dove under,
swimming out toward the center.
His sole purpose at Arrington Park was to make Max happy, and he’d made him angry. Max might
be Max when they were in bed, but the man was still a duke and accustomed to having the world
arranged to his satisfaction. He possessed a fortune and a title and didn’t need to tolerate someone
who disappointed him.
Tristan slowed and flipped onto his back, stretching out his arms and allowing the water to support
him. He blinked against the force of the sun blazing high in the sky, a bright orange-yellow circle in a
wash of pure blue. If he’d had just kept a level head, he could have managed the situation without
admitting the truth and without ruining everything. Not many men could climax without a touch to
their prick. Surely Max wouldn’t have thought it too odd if he’d had to lend Tristan a hand. Instead,
Tristan had worked himself into a right fine state.
But he couldn’t avoid Max forever. And he could no longer deny he was being a coward by trying to
avoid Max. When he returned to the house, he’d pay Max a visit in his study. And whatever would
happen would happen. Fretting about the possible outcome wouldn’t change it.
The decision made, he swam toward the edge and got out of the pond. He gave his head a quick
shake, sending water droplets spraying onto the surrounding grass. Best to wait until he dried before
pulling on his clothes. Shouldn’t take long.
With that thought in mind, he laid out on the bank and slung a forearm over his eyes. The grass was
soft beneath his skin. The warmth of the sun’s rays penetrated his muscles, coaxing them to relax. He
used to hate the country. Had spent his youth dreaming about going to London. He turned onto his
stomach, resting his head on his crossed arms, and closed his eyes. The soft buzz of a bee made its
way to his ears. The lightest of breezes brushed across his back.
He’d forgotten how good it felt to simply soak up the sun.
* * *
Max started back at the top and began again to read the latest draft of a contract for the purchase of a
new property. Hell and damnation, at this pace, he wouldn’t get anything accomplished. He’d
promised himself yesterday he’d make a significant dent in the stacks on his desk today. Make up for
the early afternoon tryst with Tristan and for not going back to his desk before retiring for the night.
It was barely noon, and he’d already set aside three letters and a report from his estate manager in
Norfolk, the documents returned to the piles of those needing his attention. And he hadn’t even
touched the morning post yet.
Last night kept intruding on his thoughts, pulling his mind back to his bedchamber and Tristan.
Setting aside the contract with a short grunt of frustration, Max pushed to his feet. Enough. He
needed to talk with Tristan. Resolve the situation. Then he would be able to focus on his
responsibilities once again.
He reached for the bellpull then stopped. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to have Tristan summoned.
He himself had never liked being summoned to this room, for various reasons that had shifted as the
years had gone by. Better to go locate Tristan.
But he stopped a couple paces outside the study. Where to look? He hadn’t an idea of what Tristan
did with himself during the day or how he preferred to pass the time.
Without any better place to start, he tried Tristan’s bedchamber and sitting room. When the knock
on the door and the peek inside were unsuccessful, he proceeded to the library. Then the billiard room,
the drawing room, the morning room and a couple of the sitting rooms scattered about.
Nothing.
Hell. He was going to have to inquire with a servant.
If anyone knew if Tristan left the house or was still within its walls, it would be his butler.
He found the servant in the entrance hall and made his inquiry as to Tristan’s whereabouts.
“Mr. Walsh left the house a couple of hours ago, Your Grace. He did not mention his intended
destination.”
Worry pinched Max’s stomach then he pacified it with the knowledge Tristan had asked to borrow a
horse the other day. Perhaps Tristan had merely gone into the village. He would not have needed to
ask to borrow a mount again. Max had waved the initial inquiry aside and granted him free use of the
stables.
Worry more than pinched Max’s gut.
Before Max walked out the front door, he went back upstairs, to his own bedchamber, through the
hidden passageway to Tristan’s bedchamber and into the dressing room.
Familiar coats and waistcoats hung neatly on the hooks, the shelves filled with folded trousers and
shirts.
That particular worry eased, Max made his way to the stables. But according to his driver, Tristan
had not taken one of the horses or a gig, nor had Tristan entered the stables to Morgan’s knowledge.
“Shall I inquire with the grooms? Perhaps one of them has seen Mr. Walsh today.”
“No, Morgan, that’s not necessary.” Max didn’t want the entire household to know he couldn’t
locate his houseguest.
He would just have to wait for Tristan to return from wherever he had gone.
And so Max returned to the house, to his study.
Maybe the monthly accounts from his shipping office in Plymouth would hold his attention.
He pulled the ledger from the bottom of one of the stacks and opened it. Tristan had been erect
while Max had restrained him. He could vividly recall being on his knees, looking up at Tristan,
marveling at the sight before him...which had included Tristan’s cock, standing stiff and hard mere
inches from Max’s mouth.
The restraints and paddle had been new; everything else they had done together or Max had done to
him previously with very positive, mutually pleasurable results. If Tristan had not really wanted to be
restrained, his feelings would have made themselves known. And they hadn’t. A man’s prick didn’t
lie.
Therefore, that left the paddle.
Max had asked Tristan if he objected to the leather cuffs before buckling them onto his wrists.
Tristan had reassured him it had been all right to tie him to the bed’s poster. But Max had not asked
for a similar assurance before he’d picked up that paddle. And he’d never told Tristan he could ask
Max to stop their play at any time.
Had Tristan not believed he’d had a choice?
A wave of nausea clutched Max’s stomach. Max had taken such delight in reddening his arse. The
smack of wood against gorgeous smooth skin. The moans and little gasps coming from Tristan. The
way he’d thrust out his hips, begging for more without saying a word. The way he’d given his pleasure
over to Max. Max had felt completely in tune with Tristan in a way he’d never felt with another. He’d
been brilliantly happy and intensely aroused, a potently addictive combination he’d wanted to
experience night after night with Tristan. All the while, Tristan hadn’t been merely indifferent. He had
not liked it. He had endured, just as he’d endured that bastard’s attention back at the room at that
brothel.
The noxious taste of bile rose in his throat. Max grabbed the tea cup on his desk, took a long
swallow of the lukewarm liquid.
Not once after he’d picked up that paddle had Max stepped around to the side of the bed or asked
Tristan to look over his shoulder at him. He’d been too focused on himself, too eager to believe
Tristan’s performance.
“Surely there are others who have had to endure your...charm.”
Jonathan’s words, from almost nine months ago, sounded in Max’s head.
Had there been instances when Max had been similarly inattentive to his ex-lover?
That question did not sit well.
Resting his elbows on the desk, he scrubbed his hands over his face.
But...but Tristan should have known Max would not have wanted him to just tolerate something
when they were together, let alone allow Max to continue if he was not enjoying himself. How many
times had Max asked Tristan for what he wanted? He’d told Tristan on more than one occasion not to
lie to him. Had demanded Tristan’s limits on their first appointment, had told him he much preferred
enthusiasm to a mere all right.
Yet obviously Max had not been clear enough.
You’re paying him. That’s why he agrees with everything you want.
Max winced.
But every other night together, Tristan had enjoyed himself. Of that he was certain. No one was that
talented of an actor. It had just been last night.
Their arrangement was an open one. Tristan could take his two hundred pounds and leave anytime
he chose.
Max’s heartbeat stumbled.
Tristan’s wardrobe was still in his dressing room, Max reminded himself. He hadn’t left. And even
if he was contemplating leaving, he’d return to the house first to fetch his massive wardrobe. An
errand that would include trunks and a carriage and footmen to carry the trunks to the carriage. Tristan
wouldn’t be able to slip in and out of the house without Max’s notice.
And there was nothing Max could do about the situation anyway until Tristan returned.
Reaching for a pencil, he forced his attention back to the ledger. But when he reached the end of the
page, all he could recall were columns of numbers. Couldn’t remember a single detail about one of
those numbers.
He pushed the ledger aside. The hell with the shipping office.
The sun slowly crept out of the study as Max reached for document after document only to return
each one to their respective stack, all the while, his ears were attuned to the sound of carriage wheels
on gravel. By the time a light tap sounded on the study door, he was far beyond the edges of his
patience with himself. An entire day almost gone and not one goddamn thing accomplished. If he kept
up this pace, he might as well hand the dukedom over to one of his uncles, let one of them manage it,
because he certainly wasn’t showing himself to be very fit for the task.
A footman opened the study door. “Your Grace, shall the kitchen hold supper? Or are you dining
without Mr. Walsh tonight?”
“He hasn’t returned?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Hold supper.”
Max shot to his feet and rounded the desk. He’d take his hunter, go look for Tristan. The stallion’s
long strides would have him at the village in no time. If Tristan wasn’t in the village, he’d scour the
countryside until he found him.
He was but a few paces from the open stable door when he glanced to his right. He couldn’t say
exactly what made him look to the hill—his thoughts were fully focused on pulling Rutger from his
stall—but look he did. And he recognized the man cresting the gently sloping hill. The graceful
rhythm of his stride, the lean, elegant figure, the ginger-blond hair.
The stable long forgotten, Max turned and crossed the distance separating them.
Coat slung over one shoulder and cheeks pinked from the sun, Tristan appeared as if he hadn’t a
care in the world...when Max had been near frantic with worry. Had been a bloody mess since
goddamn dawn.
“Get in the house. Now.”
Tristan’s mouth thinned. Without a word or another glance at Max, he headed toward the house.
“Upstairs. My sitting room,” Max growled as they approached the stone steps leading to the front
door, Max on his heels, gaze pinned to the back of Tristan’s neck, unwilling to let Tristan out of his
sight. The sitting room wasn’t quite the bedchamber. Servants were apt to pass outside the study. This
time of day, there was no reason for anyone to be in or around his rooms.
The moment Tristan crossed the threshold, was safely within the four walls of Max’s home, the
ugly mixture of worry and doubt and self-recrimination pounding through his veins eased just enough
so when Max closed the sitting room door, he was able to speak in a tone that approached calm.
“Where have you been?”
“I went for a walk.” Tristan draped his coat over the back of an armchair, turned to face him. “Took
a swim in your pond then fell asleep for a bit on the bank.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes,” Tristan replied, voice carefully neutral. “There is no one I associate with in Hampshire
except you, Max.”
“But you could have drowned.” Worry spiked anew in Max’s veins, clutched his throat. He only had
one pond on his property and it was quite deep in places. The possibility he could have found Tristan
floating facedown on that pond...
Tristan’s spine went stiff. “I grew up in the country. I know how to swim. I’m quite capable of
looking after myself.”
Now was not the time for that particular argument. Tristan was safe. That was what mattered. Max
took a moment. A long moment. Bound up the worry and anger and gathered his patience.
“I want to make a point very clear between us. If you do not like something I wish to indulge in, you
should not feel compelled to agree. In fact, I do not want you to agree.”
There. He could not have been any clearer.
“I know.”
Tristan knew? All right, perhaps Max had not been clear enough. He tried another approach. “Do
you enjoy being paddled?”
“Yes.” The response flowed from Tristan’s lips without hesitation.
“Don’t lie to me!” The words exploded from Max’s mouth.
“I’m not lying!” Tristan shot back, the calm facade vanishing in the blink of an eye.
How dare Tristan deny it? “So I imagined last night? I wasn’t holding your limp cock in my hand?”
Just like that, the bravado vanished as well. Crossing his white-shirted arms over his chest, Tristan
turned his head, mouth pressed in a hard line. Refused to answer Max’s question.
And his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the truth, to admit he had performed for Max, hit Max
with all the force of a physical blow.
Tristan had worked at the brothel for some time. Had it become ingrained in him to bow his head
and submit to another’s wishes? Was he incapable of responding with anything but a yes?
“I don’t relish the notion of being with a man who is only tolerating me. I need to be able to trust
you, Tristan. To trust that when you tell me all right, you mean it. To trust you’ll tell me to stop if I
cross a line you do not want crossed.”
There was the crux of the problem.
Even if they never indulged Max’s fondness for leather again—and at this point, Max wasn’t certain
if he should open up that side of himself to anyone again—they had to trust each other.
Max took a deep breath, the air trembling just the faintest bit on the exhale. “I can’t continue our
arrangement unless you give me your word you will be honest with me.”
Tristan’s gaze darted to Max’s, true worry in those green-gold depths.
He took a step toward Tristan, lowered his voice, put as much calm conviction as he could into his
words. “I need your honesty, Tristan. Don’t burden me with the fear you’re agreeing out of a sense of
obligation. I want our time together to be about what both of us want, not just my desires. A mutually
pleasurable arrangement, remember?”
“Yes.” Tristan nodded. “But I’m not lying, Max,” he said, coming damn near close to a plea. “I did
enjoy it when you paddled me.”
Max let out a sigh drenched in exasperation. “I would appreciate it if you did not think me that
much of an idiot.” How the hell could Tristan persist? They’d both been in Max’s bedchamber.
“No, no, Max.” Tristan rushed to correct him. “Not at all. You’re the most intelligent, hardest-
working man I’ve ever met. But I’m not lying. I’ll admit, it wasn’t always my favorite activity, but
with you... I knew you cared about my pleasure. That you wouldn’t push me too far. With you, it felt
really good.” Dropping his eyes to the floorboards, he lifted one shoulder. “I feel safe with you.”
It sounded suspiciously like Tristan trusted him. Perhaps there was hope for them after all.
Then Max flexed his right hand at his side, the memory of Tristan’s soft flesh imprinted on his skin.
“But you did not enjoy it.”
Tristan gave his head a shake, shifted his weight. “It was when you started buggering me that...”
Another distinctly uncomfortable shift of Tristan’s weight. “...that happened.” He blew out a breath.
“Hell, Max, you rival your damn stallion.” He motioned to Max’s groin, in the event Max did not
understand the association. “I challenge any man to take you twice a night for days on end and not feel
the effects.”
Max’s jaw dropped. For a moment or two or more, his mind went completely blank. “You were
sore?”
Tristan’s sun-pinked cheeks turned red. “Yes,” he said, lips barely moving.
Oh God in hell. He hadn’t hurt Tristan with the paddle. He’d hurt him with his own cock.
If he had felt nauseous before, it was nothing compared to now.
I’m a goddamn selfish brute.
How had that fact never occurred to him before? It should have. Hadn’t Jonathan complained about
Max wanting his arse most every night? At the time, Max had chalked up the complaint to Jonathan
using any means available to strike at him, to wound him. A jab at Max’s pride. But had his ex-lover
had similar issues and never told him? Or had Max simply not noticed?
But all Jonathan had been interested in was getting at his bank account, so of course he’d hold his
tongue. Do whatever necessary to stay in Max’s good graces...until he had realized Max wasn’t ever
going to give him free access to his fortune. Then he’d resorted to that letter.
But Max paid Tristan. That was why he was there.
It was for the best, though. Max’s only option if he didn’t want to go back to night after night in a
lonely bed. And after a handful of nights with a man in his bed again, with Tristan beside him, the
steady rhythm of his breaths lulling Max to sleep, he really did not want to lose him.
Therefore, they needed to figure out a way to manage their current predicament, ensure it was never
repeated again.
“You were in pain and you encouraged me to continue? Did you think I wouldn’t notice you weren’t
enjoying yourself?”
“I knew you’d eventually notice.”
“So why did you continue to beg for more? What the hell did you hope to accomplish?”
“I don’t know. That you would climax? And then... I don’t know.” Tristan shrugged. “Last night was
different. I knew it the moment I walked into your bedchamber. It was important to you. And when I
realized the soak in the tub had not worked the wonders I had hoped, I...” He dropped down into the
armchair behind him, bowed his head, scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I rather panicked. I didn’t
want to disappoint you but I knew I was going to and I didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have just told me to stop.” How had the obvious answer so eluded Tristan?
“And you would have asked why.”
The discomfort in his tone, in the hunch of his shoulders, said louder than words Tristan had been
too embarrassed to admit the truth. He’d chosen to lie to Max rather than expose a vulnerability. To
admit he was merely a flesh-and-bone man, that Max had pushed his beautiful body past its limits.
He wanted Tristan to feel comfortable just being honest with him. Wanted that closeness between
them, the level of trust that came with a willingness to admit a weakness to another. Of knowing
beyond a shadow of a doubt the trust would be held safe, never thrown out later to be used against
him.
Dropping to his haunches before Tristan, Max reached out, cupped his shoulder. “Of course I would
have asked why. I would have wanted to know. Sometimes a situation might not be the most
comfortable...” He rolled his eyes at himself. Poor choice of phrase. “...to discuss, but trust me with it,
please? I would never get upset with you for being honest with me.”
Head still bowed, Tristan looked up through his lashes, met Max’s intent gaze. “All right.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
“Really. All right.” The barest hint of a smile touched the edges of his mouth. “I wouldn’t say there
will always be definite enthusiasm involved, but yes, I’ll trust you. Completely.”
An immense wave of relief washed through Max. “Thank you. And I apologize for being so
demanding of late.” For being a selfish bastard. “Please trust I will not be so demanding in the future.
I was rather gorging myself with you. It’s been...a while since I’ve had a man in my bed.”
“How long?”
“Ten months.”
“Your extended houseguest?”
Max nodded. “He lived at the Park for a good year.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes,” Max admitted. “He claimed he loved me, but he was merely saying what I wanted to hear.”
The old pain rose up. Stabbed him square in the heart.
“Was he like me?”
Did you pay him? “No. Though he tried to force me to. Four weeks after he walked out my door, he
sent me an unsigned letter, tried to extort a ridiculous sum for silence on my preferences. Suffice it to
say, I made it clear to him that it was not in his best interest to pursue such action.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said, eyes weighted down with compassion, as if he suspected the toll that
entire situation had taken on Max. As if he knew Jonathan had broken his heart. Ripped it to shreds.
Max cleared his throat. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s in the past. Over and done
with.” He gave Tristan’s shoulder a squeeze and stood. “I’m more concerned about you. Do you need
to see a physician? I can have Mr. Jenkins at the house in a thrice.”
Tristan jerked upright, scarlet rushing to his cheeks, tingeing his ears. “No. No, I’m just a bit...sore.
The swim did me good. In any case, what would I tell him? That I fell on a fence post?”
Very valid point. “Still, if you need to see a doctor, I can ensure Mr. Jenkins’s silence.”
“Please, don’t, Max. I’ll be fine in a day, or two. Honest. It didn’t hurt. It was more me, worrying
and fretting that led to...” He glanced to his own lap. “...that issue.”
Max considered for a moment then nodded. “If you insist.” Tristan had offered him his trust. He
needed to believe the man was being honest with him. “But not two days. A week.”
“What? No. I don’t want to have to sleep in my own bed for a week. I really like being with you.”
“You won’t be sleeping anywhere but in my bed. So no worries there. But I won’t touch your arse
for a week.”
“But—”
“A week.” He would entertain no debate on his decision. “Rest assured, it’s not meant as a
punishment in any way.” If anything, he’d be punishing himself for being so thoughtless with Tristan.
Head tilted slightly to one side, Tristan pursed his lips. “But we can still do other things?”
“Of course.”
A smile spread across Tristan’s mouth. “Good.”
Chapter Twelve
Seven nights of Max’s mouth and his hands and his body rubbing against Tristan’s, teasing him,
taunting him with what he could not have was the very definition of exquisite torture. And when that
week was over, when Max finally—thank you, God above—buggered him again, Tristan had to stop
himself from begging Max for more. He’d read the determination on Max’s face the prior week. Read
the worry, the concern, as well. So he didn’t push for Max to take him a second time. He simply
followed Max’s lead, rested his head on one of the pillows, and with Max’s arm slung across his waist,
he let sleep overtake him.
Max proved himself once again a man of his word. Not one night passed without play of some sort,
but it became not uncommon for that play to exclude the sort of orgasm that came from being
thoroughly fucked. While Tristan would admit to the occasional twinge of disappointment when Max
did not reach into the bedside table drawer for the bottle of oil, a part of him reveled in Max’s
restraint. His consideration for him. Tristan had never had that before.
Even though their nights weren’t as vigorous as they once had been, Max’s desire for him was still a
potent force, perhaps even more so. It was as if Max was incapable of keeping his hands to himself
when they were in bed. Tristan fell asleep with his senses humming with the aftereffects of a climax,
and he was awakened each morning with decadent touches. Though Max did not mention his fondness
for leather again. Neither the cuffs nor the wooden paddle made a reappearance.
The pattern of their nights might have changed a bit, but the pattern of their days remained
unchanged. Max worked in his study, and Tristan was left to his own devices until supper was served.
He took to going into the village when the weather cooperated. Had luncheons at the tavern,
frequented the shops and became acquainted with Max’s neighbors who were a friendly lot. They
were, of course, curious about him, but thankfully not overly so. He mentioned his mother was of the
Campbells of Lincolnshire and he knew Max from London. That seemed to be enough. No questions at
all about what Tristan did with himself in London or if he had an occupation. It wasn’t uncommon for
young gentlemen of good families to be without a profession, and Max’s neighbors seemed content to
lump him into that group. He was a good friend of the Duke’s, and therefore he was welcomed into the
neighborhood’s small society. One of the older ladies even mentioned at the haberdasher shop how it
was so nice to see His Grace had a friend to keep him company again, as there had not been a visitor to
Arrington Park since Mr. Peterson returned to London almost a year ago.
Tristan could only assume Mr. Peterson was the ex-lover who left and betrayed Max ten months
ago. Even if Max had not admitted to keeping an empty bed before he’d given in to his friend’s shove
to visit Rubicon’s, Tristan would have known by the pain lingering in the depths of Max’s dark gaze
that the end of his relationship with Mr. Peterson had not been pleasant. Max had been very specific
when he’d laid out the terms of his offer to keep Tristan. Now Tristan knew the reason for some of
those terms.
When the weather chose not to cooperate, when rain fell upon the countryside keeping him from
riding into the village, Tristan filled the hours between breakfast and supper with books from the
library and games against himself in the billiard room. It was tremendously difficult to go an entire
day with only his own company, so he broke up the monotony with a visit to the study. Short and
limited to one per rain-filled afternoon.
Bent over the billiard table, Tristan pulled back the cue stick then took the shot. The sound of ivory
smacking against ivory cracked through the billiard room, briefly drowning out the early September
rain splattering the windows. He was getting quite good at cannoning. Perhaps one day he could entice
Max into a game, and then he could test his newly honed skills against someone other than himself.
The thought of Max pushed Tristan to glance to the clock on the fireplace mantel. Almost half-past
two. That fit with Tristan’s definition of afternoon. Supper wouldn’t be for a few more hours. He put
the cue stick back in the wooden rack hanging on the wall.
His light knock on the study door was answered with a “Yes?”
The shortness of Max’s reply caused Tristan to hesitate before turning the knob. Still, he entered the
room. It would have been rude to knock and leave, and Max might assume it had been a servant.
Tristan did not want any of the maids or footmen to get in trouble for something he had done.
He took a step into the study, closed the door and waited for Max to look up from the ledger.
Perhaps he should not have disturbed Max. The man had never appeared irritated at Tristan’s
interruptions before, but the deep V between Max’s dark eyebrows and the stiff set of his shoulders
shouted his displeasure with the midday visit.
Maybe Max had received unpleasant news in the morning’s post. Or maybe his ledgers were
proving troublesome. Or maybe the dreary sky and heavy rain had dampened his spirits. There could
be a lot of possible reasons for Max’s distinctly distant air that had nothing at all to do with Tristan’s
knock.
Yet that morning’s nudge to leave Max’s bed was suddenly fresh in his mind. There had been no
decadent touches to rouse him from sleep, no hard pulls of Max’s mouth on his cock. All he’d
received was a nudge to his shoulder accompanied with an “almost dawn” from Max.
He hadn’t given it any thought at the time. He’d been half-awake and merely swung his legs over
the side of the bed and padded to his own bed to get a few more hours of sleep. And if he were to put a
label on Max last night, he would have to call him subdued. Oh, they’d played but Max hadn’t been as
voracious as usual. He’d assumed Max had been showing Tristan his particular brand of consideration.
But when combined with that morning’s nudge and now this...
Tristan shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking ever so faintly.
Max looked up. For a moment, he appeared almost surprised to see Tristan, as if he’d not known he
was in the room. “Yes?” he asked, the V firmly affixed between his brows, pencil still in hand.
Tristan forced a pleasant smile. “I just stopped by to see how your day has been. My apologies for
disturbing you.”
“There is no need to apologize.”
Yes, there clearly was.
“I will leave you to your ledgers then. Good day.” He left the study, closing the door as quietly as
possible behind him.
The extremely short visit lingered over him like one of the clouds hanging heavy in the sky. Yet he
refused to allow himself to dally when time came to dress for supper.
He’d almost finished his glass of wine by the time Max entered the dining hall. Max tipped his head
as he passed Tristan’s place. Once he sat at the other end of the long table, the footmen jumped into
action, filling Max’s wineglass, refilling Tristan’s and serving the first course.
The only sounds that broke the silence were the clinks of cutlery against china. There wasn’t even
the tap of rain against the tall windows to provide a comforting lull, as the sky had finally seen fit to
begin to clear.
Tristan had taken only a few bites of the fish when the scrape of chair legs against the floor jerked
his gaze to Max.
Max stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “Business matters require my attention.”
And he left the dining hall without another word, without a tip of his head, without even a glance to
Tristan.
* * *
Max did not allow his strides to slacken as he passed through the back garden. Rain be damned. He
should have traversed this path hours ago, as soon as the sun had risen. Should not have waited until
the sun had almost finished its trek across the sky.
He had known without looking at a calendar that today was the day. He had felt it tap him on the
shoulder last night. The moment he’d opened his eyes that morning, he had felt it drape over his heart
like a thick, suffocating blanket, turning him into someone who was not at all fit for company.
Tristan likely thought him an arse and rightly so. But Max would make it up to him another time.
Better to keep Tristan at arm’s length now than to risk saying or doing something to push him away
forever.
Max made his way through the cluster of elm trees. A light breeze rustled the leaves, sending a few
fat raindrops to the sparse grass beneath the trees’ canopies. The elms let out at a small clearing, and
on the other side of the clearing was a low wooden fence with a gate Max only opened once a year.
The metal hinge creaked as he pushed the gate open. The blanket draping his heart grew heavier, a
leaden mass weighing down his soul. His feet took him to the second marble stone in the fourth row.
Eight dukes of Pelham had come before him, but it wasn’t until the fifth when Arrington Park was
built and the low fence constructed around this area on the property. Close enough to be within easy
walking distance from the house yet hidden by the woods, giving the family plot a distinct sense of
tranquility.
Dropping to his knees, he gathered the few leaves scattered before his father’s gravestone and
tucked them into his pocket. The groundskeepers kept the area in order—the grass trimmed and the
weeds at bay—but the earlier rains must have blown those leaves where they did not belong.
Rocking back to rest his arse on his heels, he clasped his hands on his thighs.
“I’m sorry.”
That was how he always started, with an apology. Empty, thin words that could never reverse the
past.
He was trying his best to be a good duke. It was his only recourse. The only form of atonement
available to him. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but worry if it was enough. Would
his father have been proud of him? One thing was certain though.
“You were the finest of fathers, and I was very...” He swallowed hard, swallowed down the thorns
that seemed to fill his throat. “...very fortunate to have you.”
What he wouldn’t give to change the past. To be the man he was today six years ago. To still have
his father in his life.
Bowing his head, Max took a deep breath, the air shuttering on the inhale. He closed his eyes,
fought back the prick of tears.
He had no notion of how much time passed, but he became gradually aware of the twilight darkness
surrounding him.
Another deep, long breath, and he got to his feet.
“I loved you.”
And that was how every visit ended. With those three words Max had never uttered when his father
had been alive.
* * *
Tristan opened the hidden door to a dark passageway. It was after eleven and Max still hadn’t left his
door open. He couldn’t even detect a faint line of light seeping under the door at the other end.
Either Max had already extinguished all the candles and had gone to bed alone, or he had yet to
retire for the night.
The possibility Max’s valet could be in the bedchamber, preparing the room for Max, kept Tristan
from peeking around the door. That left him with two options. Either continue to wait or check the
study.
He’d already waited over an hour beyond their usual time, each passing minute serving as fodder
for the worry. So Tristan chose action over continued inaction. He slipped on his shoes, put on a cravat
and waistcoat, and left his rooms.
Max worked a hell of a lot, but working so late would be excessive even for him. Could Max’s
determination to spend so much time behind his desk be a hint of something worse to come? Tristan
hadn’t even been at the Park a full month yet. If Max was already growing bored with him...
Stop.
Worrying would get him nowhere. There was no use whatsoever in fretting until he knew the reason
behind the closed door at the end of the passageway. As he had told himself earlier, perhaps Max’s
ledgers were proving troublesome today. Perhaps a business matter truly did require his attention.
Max was a duke after all. There had to be a lot of business concerns that continually begged for his
time.
The house had already been closed for the night. The corridors dark save for a lone sconce near the
top of the stairs. The servants abed save for the lone night butler stationed in the entrance hall, the
same slim, proper man who had greeted Max when they had arrived at the Park almost four weeks ago.
Rather than ask after Max’s whereabouts, Tristan tipped his head to the butler and made his way to
the study.
The barest line of light seeped from beneath the thick walnut door.
Tristan pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He lifted his arm, gathered his courage and then
knocked lightly.
Again, nothing.
Max had to be in there. Maybe he had fallen asleep at his desk.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to see you.
Tristan gave his head a quick shake, trying to throw off the thought.
The hell with it. Just open the damn door.
He reached out, wrapped his fingers around cool brass. The click of the knob echoed in the darkness
surrounding him.
He pushed open the door.
A single candle on the corner of Max’s desk created a pool of golden light around Max and the
desk. He had abandoned his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms.
The knot of his cravat was partially undone, and his usually tidy, slicked-back hair was tousled as if he
had been running his hands through it, though at the moment one of his hands was wrapped around an
almost-empty glass. And there was a half-empty bottle at his elbow.
“Max?” Tristan closed the door behind him and stepped into the room.
With a start and a slight sway, Max looked up. It took a couple of seconds for his eyes to focus on
him. Tristan knew the moment when Max recognized him for he pulled his spine straight, or at least
he attempted to. Then he seemed to give it up as a lost cause for his spine slumped and he downed the
last splash of liquid in his glass.
Oh dear Lord. Max was foxed.
There was no need to ask what Max was drinking. The scent of gin poured off him. Why he was
drinking gin...now that was the pressing question. Yet Tristan held his tongue. He merely sat in one of
the armchairs before the desk and waited.
Patience was the best course of action when dealing with a drunkard. Give them time, and they’d
unburden themselves or simply fall asleep. Hopefully Max would choose the former. He’d never seen
Max drink more than a glass of brandy or whisky. Never seen him even approach tipsy. What had
driven him to the bottle tonight of all nights? Whatever it was, Tristan would bet it had been behind
Max’s more than distant behavior that day.
With his attention pinned on the empty glass in his hand, Max finally spoke. “Likely happened right
about this time.”
“What happened?” Please, please don’t say Mr. Peterson left you. Tristan really did not want to
hear details of the night Max’s ex-lover had ended their relationship.
“He died.”
Tristan blinked. “Who?” he asked, doing his best to sound merely curious.
“My father. I was a bloody bastard. A bloody self-righteous, arrogant, stubborn pain in the arse
bastard. Had every right to call me out for it. And what did I do? Told him I despised him.” With a
shake of his head, Max let out a sigh full of self-recrimination. “Mr. Jenkins said he had been in poor
health of late. You’d think I would have been aware, but no. Not me, not his son. If I hadn’t been such
a bleeding bastard, maybe he’d have confided in me. If I wouldn’t have been so focused on myself,
maybe I would have seen the signs. But no. That night was the last night he went up to bed. And he
went to his grave believing his only son despised him.”
A harsh wince squeezed Max’s eyes shut, pulled his mouth into a thin, hard line. His pain, reflected
so clearly on his face, yanked at Tristan’s heart.
He wanted to get to his feet, round the desk, pull Max into his arms. But he didn’t dare.
It was some minutes before Max regained enough of his composure to speak again. “He was a good
man. A good father. He tried to turn me into an upstanding, responsible gentleman, and all I did was
argue with him.”
Tristan could well imagine Max would have butted heads with a man who had raised a son as
strong-willed as himself.
“That’s why you work yourself so hard.” The revelation was past Tristan’s lips before it fully
formed in his head.
The quick glance to Tristan, Max’s dark gaze there and then gone, indicated he had landed square
on the truth.
Max dragged a hand through his hair. He looked so disheveled, so tired, so worn down, so consumed
with misery. The usually straight shoulders now a distant memory. “He put all of himself into the
dukedom. I refuse to let him down.”
“You’ve been managing the dukedom since your father passed?”
“Of course,” Max scoffed, as though doing otherwise would have been beyond ridiculous. “He had
solicitors and estate managers and my uncles prepared to manage until I came of age. Believed his
scapegrace of a son would need them. But I refused their assistance. Didn’t need their bloody help,” he
spat, soaked in contempt. “Though the damn laws kept me from taking my seat in the Lords until I
was one-and-twenty.”
Which meant Max had inherited the dukedom before he was old enough to take his seat. “What age
were you when your father passed?”
“Seventeen.”
Max had been but an adolescent. An older adolescent but one just the same. And he’d been
shouldering the responsibilities of the dukedom for—
“And when did he pass?”
“1816.”
Six years ago.
The numbers caught in Tristan’s head. He did a quick mental calculation.
Max was only three-and-twenty?
Tristan had sworn Max was around thirty years of age. The stern, serious demeanor. The self-
confidence, the strength of character. He had the bearing, the appearance, the strong build and the
manners of a man far beyond the impetuousness of youth. Yet he was but two years older than Tristan.
A young man.
A young man aged by six years’ worth of grief and guilt and heavy responsibilities.
Max lifted his glass but paused. He let his hand drop back down, the empty glass clanking against
the desk. “He called me down from London. I didn’t want to go, but he threatened to cut off my
allowance. I can’t help but think maybe he wanted to see me because he wanted to tell me. Instead, I
barged into this room. The entire household had to have heard us shouting. I didn’t want to be here. I
was tired of this house. Tired of the tutors. Tired of being told I couldn’t go to university, that I
needed to remain here with him. I was tired of being his goddamn heir. He was so disappointed in me.
And I...” Max’s grip tightened around his glass, knuckles going white. Tristan braced for the crystal
tumbler to shatter. “I called him a bastard. Told him I despised him.”
Tristan’s own relationship with his father had not been the best. He was different from his brothers,
hadn’t been much use to the family farm. He hadn’t been the son his father had wanted. He’d sworn
the man had surmised he preferred men around the time Tristan had turned sixteen and had treated
him with distant disdain as a result. It was as if they’d had a silent agreement to not speak of it or even
speak to each other unless absolutely necessary. But his father had never lifted a hand to him, never
outright cut him off. Probably handled the realization his youngest son was a sod as best he could.
Made living in the house uncomfortable, and his older brothers certainly hadn’t made the situation any
better, but it could have been much worse. “Did your father know you preferred men?”
Max shook his head. “How could he when I was just figuring it out for myself?” Which likely
hadn’t helped Max’s temperament at the time. The internal struggle, the questions, the doubts—
Tristan could well remember those feelings. “If he was still alive, I’d think he’d be disappointed I’d
never give him a grandson. But... But even when I slung curses at him and was cruel to him, he was
never cruel in return. I’d like to believe...he wouldn’t have disowned me. That one day I could have
told him the truth behind why I would not marry, and he would have...would have still...” A wince
crossed his face, squeezing his eyes closed. “...loved me,” he whispered. Then he let out a noise of
self-disgust and shook his head again. “Hell, he must have believed I hated him.”
A twinge of jealousy gripped Tristan’s heart. Max had grown up with a father who loved him. He’d
had that rock-solid sense of security, of a parent’s unconditional love. Tristan had never felt loved in
his life. “I don’t believe adolescents are supposed to be easy beasts to have about the house. He was
your father. I can’t imagine how he could have taken your words spoken in anger as a reflection of
your true feelings.”
“You weren’t there,” Max countered, spearing Tristan with a hard stare. His anger, directed
squarely at himself, rang through the study. “I was a bastard. I wished him to hell that night.” As soon
as the words left his mouth, he went still. For a brief moment, Tristan witnessed the utter anguish fill
Max’s gaze. Then Max dropped his head, covered his face with his hands. “I wished my own father to
hell,” he whispered, voice cracking, unable to bear what his seventeen-year-old self had done.
Tristan leaned forward, needing to do something, anything, to ease Max’s pain. “Max, you cannot
keep punishing yourself. You were only an adolescent, and the doctor told you your father had been in
poor health. You weren’t responsible for his death.”
He would hazard a guess Max had never allowed himself to properly grieve the loss of his father.
Instead, he had blamed himself, thrown himself into the dukedom, pushed himself to work. To sit
behind his desk and focus all his energy into his responsibilities. He had turned his grief and his guilt
into a form of self-flagellation by ledgers. And he’d stoically endured six years of his penance. Far too
long for any man to bear, let alone bear alone.
Reaching out, Tristan rested a hand on the desk, got as close as he dared to get to Max and lowered
his voice, his tone gentle yet filled with conviction. “You’re a brilliant duke, Max. Your father would
have been very proud of you.”
Max flinched, as if Tristan’s praise had physically slammed into him. “I never... Never...not even
once told him I...” Head still bowed, he pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes. His shoulders
trembled. He was so brittle, on the verge of cracking. Of crumbling beneath the weight of his grief.
And Tristan knew Max wouldn’t want him to see him that way.
So even though he wanted to stay with Max, to simply be there for him, Tristan got to his feet and
grabbed the bottle of gin.
“He was your father, Max. He knew you loved him.” He offered Max what reassurance he could
give him. Then on quiet footsteps, he left the study. Closed the door and waited a moment to make
certain Max would be all right.
A hitching gasp cut through the solid walnut followed by the unmistakable sounds of Max’s sobs.
And Tristan waited, his heart breaking for Max, tears filling his own eyes, until those sounds
drenched in misery and anguish finally subsided. Then he turned from the study door and made his
way through the darkened corridors of the sprawling house and up to his bedchamber.
Chapter Thirteen
The press of a warm body behind him roused Tristan from sleep. He blinked open his eyes. The fire
had burned down to mere embers, a faint golden glow in the hearth amongst the darkness of the room.
Hours must have passed since he’d left Max in the study, but dawn had not yet arrived.
A hand coasted over his hip, lips pressed against his shoulder. Tristan turned within Max’s arms,
seeking his mouth. Warm breath puffed across his cheek then Max’s lips found his. Max tasted not of
gin or any other variety of spirits. With each brush of Max’s tongue against his, Tristan detected the
slight bitterness of tea. The kiss was soft, slow, all gliding lips and gently tangling tongues.
Tristan leaned into Max. Instead of encountering a hard wall of immovable muscle, he felt Max
yield to the pressure, roll onto his back, taking Tristan with him.
Their kiss still unbroken, Tristan settled between Max’s spread thighs, as if Max’s strong body had
been made to be beneath his. The hot length of Max’s erection pressed against Tristan’s lower belly,
the damp crown slicking Tristan’s skin. Max’s arms were looped over Tristan’s back, claiming
nothing. There were no guiding hands pushing Tristan up onto his knees to straddle Max’s lap. No
nudge for Tristan to scoot down and put his mouth to another use. There was only Max and his soft,
gentle kisses.
The change in Max would not have been any clearer if the man had shouted. The demand was gone,
and in its place was willing vulnerability.
Max might confuse him at times outside of the bedchamber, but within it, Tristan could read Max’s
body, Max’s needs, as if they were his own.
His Max needed him in a different way that night.
A small shift more fully aligned their bodies. Tristan slowly thrust his hips, rubbing his erection
along Max’s. Large hands clutched his back. A low groan, backed by a note of encouragement,
reverberated from Max’s chest.
That was all the confirmation Tristan needed.
The kiss continued on, Tristan rubbing slowly against Max, his cock sliding along Max’s length,
ramping up the need in both of them. Until the decadent friction had blood pounding fast and hard
through Tristan’s veins. Until Max was tugging at Tristan, quickening the pace. Until the promise of
what was to come, the promise of being buried hilt-deep inside Max, threatened to bring Tristan’s
climax rushing upon him far too soon. Until Tristan was forced to break the kiss to reach into the
bedside table drawer. And came up empty.
The reminder smacked him in the face. They weren’t in Max’s bedchamber, but in Tristan’s. He’d
not had need to purchase oil of his own in years. Oh hell. He’d have to run over to Max’s bedchamber
and—
“Next to the candlestick,” Max murmured.
Tristan’s hand closed around a familiar glass bottle. Had Max known what he wanted from Tristan
when he stepped into this room? Had he been that deliberate? Or had it simply been a form of habit—
whenever they were together in bed, oil was usually needed. Whatever had prompted Max to arrive
prepared, Tristan was grateful for it.
After quickly slicking his fingers, he settled back between Max’s spread thighs, as if they had done
this countless times before, and captured Max’s mouth again. Slipped his hand between them. Found
the entrance to Max’s body. Swept his fingertips over the sensitive flesh in a tease of a request. A
tremor shook Max. That low, encouraging groan once again reverberated from his broad chest.
Tristan pressed onward, pushed a digit inside. Careful and slow, he prepared Max for his cock.
Gently stretched the tight muscle, coaxed Max to relax, to open for him. All the while, Tristan fought
to keep the lust from completely yanking hold of him, forced his attention to remain wholly on Max.
Followed the cues Max’s body gave him, ears attuned to the slightest variations in Max’s low moans.
He detected not a trace of hesitation from Max, only desire and trust.
A trust that threatened to send Tristan’s mind reeling with the strength of it.
When those low moans began to turn desperate, when sheer want began pouring off Max, Tristan
pulled his fingers free and finally pushed his cock inside Max.
Exquisitely tight heat clamped around his crown.
Max’s breaths hitched.
Tristan went still. Breaking the kiss, he dropped his forehead to Max’s shoulder, gathered his self-
control, shoved back the need to slam his hips forward.
And then inch by inch, he pressed forward, joining them together, until he was finally buried hilt-
deep, Max’s body gripping Tristan’s length like a damned fist.
He gave Max a moment. Gave himself a moment. Then he dragged his mouth up Max’s neck, over
hot, sweat-dampened skin, and over his strong jaw.
“All right?” he whispered against Max’s lips.
“Yes.”
And those where the last words needed that night. With sure, slow thrusts, Tristan reassured Max he
was there for him, whatever Max needed.
* * *
Max looked up from the ledger. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady pattern. What did Tristan
do with himself when it rained? He didn’t seem the type to enjoy a walk or ride about the countryside
in the rain.
The clock on his desk indicated it was just after noon. Too early for one of Tristan’s afternoon
visits. Max had slipped out of Tristan’s bed right before dawn had broken across the sky. Had decided
he should let Tristan sleep and not disturb him, but if he was honest with himself...
Max let out a sigh.
Likely he should have given Tristan a nudge, at the very least, to let him know he was going back to
his own room. And he’d yet to apologize for being an arse yesterday.
Dropping his pencil to his desk, Max got to his feet. He’d asked Tristan to trust him, even if the
topic was uncomfortable, and therefore Max needed to give that level of trust in return. While he
preferred to forget last night in his study had happened, he couldn’t and he shouldn’t try to push it
from his mind. And he’d have to admit that blanket of guilt didn’t feel quite so heavy today. He owed
Tristan more than an apology. He owed him his thanks.
Rather than search the house, he inquired with a footman as to Tristan’s whereabouts. He paused
outside the partially open door to the billiard room. There was the clank of ivory against ivory
followed by a soft chuckle. Tristan sounded pleased with himself. Max could imagine the little smile
flittering across his mouth. A mouth that had felt so perfect against his last night.
He pushed the door fully open. “Good afternoon.”
Cue stick in hand, Tristan bolted upright from the table. The blatant surprise on his exquisite
features bit into Max. But Max knew he deserved it. The only other time he’d sought out Tristan
during the day had included a demand for Tristan to get into the house.
“Afternoon, Max,” Tristan said, when he’d regained his bearings. “Is something amiss?”
That hurt as well.
“No.” Max closed the door behind him. He lifted his chin. “I wanted to apologize for being an arse
yesterday. You’re now aware of the why, still, it was not well done of me to be so rude as to leave the
table in the middle of supper.” He swallowed hard. “Or to leave without a word this morning.”
Tristan blinked. The surprise vanished, to be replaced with that same calm, almost gentle
understanding he’d given Max last night. He shrugged, one of those shrugs used to fill the silence.
“There’s no need for an apology, Max. Though thank you.”
At a loss for how to respond, Max nodded.
Silence hung between them. Max was an instant from turning and returning to his study when
Tristan spoke.
“Care to share a game with me?”
“All right.” A half an hour away from his desk wouldn’t cause any lasting harm. He selected a stick
from the rack hanging on the wall. “But it’s been ages since I’ve played.”
“Whereas I have had a lot of opportunities to hone my skills of late. Consider yourself warned.”
“So I’m in for a trouncing, am I?”
Tristan smiled, his eyes sparkling with a sort of devilish playfulness. “That is my hope.”
Max chuckled and motioned to the table. “Then let the trouncing commence.”
Tristan gathered the ivory balls and positioned them to start a new game. “You can have the honors
of going first, if you’d like.”
“You are so gracious.”
“I try,” Tristan said, with a tip of his head, all mock seriousness.
Max leaned over the table. He slid the cue stick back and forth between his fingers, readying his
shot. It truly had been ages since he’d played, let alone played against another person. White’s had a
billiard room, and Rawling used to invite him to play, but Max had never taken him up on the offer.
Likely why the offers had stopped. The felt-covered end of the stick smacked against the ivory ball.
His shot went well wide.
Pathetic. But oddly enough, the failure didn’t grate across his nerves.
And Tristan didn’t mock him. Didn’t give him a condescending well done. He simply studied the
table then moved around to the other side.
“So what is it you do in your study all day?” Bent at the waist and stick readied, he glanced up to
Max. “What’s all involved in managing a dukedom, besides the House of Lords aspect?”
“The responsibilities vary depending on each family’s interests. One dukedom isn’t interchangeable
with another. My father was a very astute businessman and grew the family’s holdings considerably.
There are many properties around Great Britain to manage. Eighteen in total in addition to the Park.
Most are farming properties of various sizes and types but one’s a coal mine and another’s a copper
mine in Cornwall. There are business interests, like the shipping offices in Plymouth and London.
Investments to monitor in the Exchange. Potential new properties and investments to investigate and
consider. Then there’s Arrington Park itself, the family’s seat, the largest property in the dukedom.
Takes 137 people to keep up the house, the grounds, stables and farm fields, and keep the wildlife
from overflowing from the woods. And there’s the town house that I keep as a primary residence in
London, and a couple other town houses in the city. Those I lease out, so not much effort needed
there.”
About halfway through Max’s brief explanation of his holdings, Tristan’s eyebrows raised. By the
time Max finishing speaking, his jaw had dropped.
“That’s...that’s a lot.”
“Yes, it is.” Never over the past six years had he had a clear desk, free of letters or documents or
ledgers or other papers that required his attention. Just getting a grasp on it all had taken months after
he’d inherited.
Tristan drew back his stick. A quick snap of his elbow, and he neatly cannoned the balls. Yes
indeed, he was going to trounce Max soundly. “You don’t travel much though, do you?”
“Not often. The post does most of the traveling for me. If I regularly visited each property and
business, I’d be forever on the road.” Staying at the Park and having everything come to him was the
only way he could stay abreast of all the necessary details.
The game was still Tristan’s since he’d earned the last point. He moved around the corner of the
table, eyes pinned on the green baize, assessing his next shot. “So how do you manage it all?”
“I have estate managers, property managers, business managers, office managers and bankers. Each
and every one send me reports and account ledgers that I review and approve monthly, in addition to
letters seeking approval and input on various aspects and needs of each interest. And then there are the
solicitors who always have something or other that requires my attention.”
“And you don’t have a secretary? It’s just you?”
“It’s just me. My father had a secretary but I never much cared for the fellow. I believed the feeling
was mutual, and I pensioned him off as soon as I inherited.”
“You cannot possibly intend to step into His Grace’s shoes. Allow the estate managers and
solicitors and your uncles to handle it in your stead, and you can attend Oxford as you wished.”
It had been all Max had been able to do to not punch the shocked disbelief from the haughty
secretary’s face. “I can and I will manage it myself. Your services are no longer needed.”
Tristan lined up another shot. “So with the properties and businesses, every month you review at
least twenty different ledgers and at least twenty different reports from your managers. Plus they
consult you on everything?”
“How else am I to ensure I’m abreast of the goings-on of each and to ensure everything is done
properly?”
“Is that how all lords handle their estates?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion how others manage their interests, though I suspect some aren’t all
that adept at it.” Rawling, for example. Max had never attended the Lords and not seen Rawling there,
so his friend definitely kept up with his responsibilities when it came to Parliament. The viscounty...
Max had the distinct impression Rawling struggled with it. Why exactly he had that impression, Max
couldn’t quite say. Perhaps it was in the way Rawling was so quick to change the subject whenever the
topic was raised. There were vague rumblings at supper parties Max had attended, but one shouldn’t
put any stock into gossip and rumor. Rawling had inherited but three years ago. Maybe it was just
taking him a while to get a grasp on everything.
After neatly cannoning the balls again, Tristan straightened. Caught Max’s gaze and held it. “Do
you handle the dukedom the same way your father did?” he asked, as if he was only curious.
Max let out a breath and shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t know. When I was younger, he
would talk to me about the various aspects of the dukedom. Mention when he had acquired yet another
property or business. But he more stressed the responsibility that would eventually be mine than
provided details. I suspect...” His grip tightened on his cue stick. Unable to bear Tristan’s open,
understanding gaze, he looked out one of the windows, to the rain-soaked grounds on the side of the
house. “Looking back, I suspect he knew he would not be around much longer.” A fresh wave of guilt
threatened to blanket him anew. I didn’t send him to his grave. He’d been ill. He repeated the words in
his head once, twice, three times. The constriction in his throat eased. “That was why he refused to
allow me to go to university. He knew he did not have much time left. Wanted to teach me how to
actually manage it all. But I was...angry. I’d been looking forward to getting away from the tutors.”
Away from the solitary schoolroom. From the numbing isolation of living at the Park, surrounded by
servants but no one to call friend. “I hadn’t been allowed to go to Eton—tutors offer a superior
education,” he said, reciting the line he’d heard too many times to count. “But he’d planned for me to
go to Oxford, and then when he abruptly changed his mind, said I needed to remain here with him, I
stormed out of the house. Went to London. Ignored his letters. Had been there for three months when
he sent a solicitor to inform me my allowance would be cut off if I didn’t return to the Park. As you
learned last night, I did not take the news well.”
Raindrops ran down the window, chasing after each other, some combining together and forming
larger drops. He’d been so angry. Furious. Consumed with an unwavering belief his father had been
completely unreasonable. His older self was also wise enough to realize part of that anger had been
because his father had been the only person to say no to him, and the only one to have the power to
force him to do something he did not want to do.
“What did you get up to in London? During the three months you were there.”
He pulled his gaze from the window. “Caroused about in questionable parts of Town. Gambled.
Drank to excess. Thoroughly took advantage of my freedom.” He’d gorged himself on it, for God’s
sake. “Discovered there were places to go where I could find others who preferred men. Particular
gambling hells, out-of-the-way taverns. And I discovered I very much enjoyed sucking another fellow
off.”
“Well, you are quite good at it.”
The beginnings of a chuckle teased Max’s chest. “Glad to hear you think so.”
Tristan waved a hand to the table. “It’s your game. I missed my last shot.”
Max didn’t believe that was the case at all. He’d felt the force of Tristan’s gaze, felt the comfort of
it as he’d stared out the window. He highly doubted Tristan had continued on with the game. The room
had been quiet. Not one smack of felt against ivory.
But rather than call Tristan out for lying, Max played along and turned his attention back to the
table.
“Did your father spend all his time in his study?”
Bent over the table, Max paused, arm drawn back, poised to try to actually not miss his next shot.
“No, not all his time. He went to London on occasion to attend Parliament, though I believe he
attended more often than I do. It’s extremely tedious,” he added by way of explanation. “I could do it
all via proxy votes in the post, but I should attend on occasion. It’s expected and reminds my peers my
opinion is not without weight.” He was the mighty Duke of Pelham, after all. And his reputation as
such directly impacted his success when negotiating new ventures. “But when at the Park, my father
wasn’t always behind his desk. He enjoyed shooting in the autumn, taught me how to handle a gun,
took me out for horseback rides. His brothers—my uncles—visited on occasion, in addition to a
handful of acquaintances from Town.”
This time, he didn’t miss. Yet he neither succeeded in cannoning nor landing a ball in one of the
pockets. A step in the right direction, at least.
Max straightened. “You may resume trouncing me.”
“I shall try my best. Though perhaps I shouldn’t trounce you too soundly. Wouldn’t want you to
gain a dislike for playing against me.” Tristan leaned over the table. Instead of focusing on the balls,
he ducked his chin a bit. “It’s nice to spend some daylight hours with you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Their conversation might not be centered on the most comfortable of
topics, but even then, Max found it felt...good, to an odd degree, to talk with Tristan about his father.
He’d never spoken to anyone about the circumstances surrounding his death. He’d never volunteered
the information and no one had ever asked. Not that he had many friends. There was only Rawling.
And now he had Tristan as well.
The game continued on. Tristan missing on occasion, sometimes, Max suspected, deliberately,
sometimes not. Max’s brain and his arm finally remembered how to play billiards again, and he
managed to score a few points. The half hour was long behind them, but Max was in no hurry to return
to his desk.
Eventually the game ended. Tristan won. No surprise there. And he was extremely gracious in his
victory. Gave Max a tip of the head and a “Thank you for indulging me.”
They returned their sticks to the rack on the wall and rolled the three balls on the table into a corner
pocket.
Rather than make a move toward the door, Tristan leaned a hip against the table. “I don’t intend to
be so presumptuous as to assume I know how to handle the dukedom better than you, but maybe you
don’t need to work so hard. I mean, there are lords in London who seem to have all the time in the
world to gallivant about Town. I’ve seen them on the streets and in shops. Certainly some are
neglecting their responsibilities, but surely not all of them. And your father didn’t spend every waking
hour behind his desk, either.”
“Maybe he was better at it than I am.” Max tried to speak with a casual tone, to not let the guilt and
the doubts that kept him firmly in his chair when he’d rather be anywhere else seep into his voice.
“Nonsense, and you know it, Max.” Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “You work yourself to
the bone. You can’t get more than a handful of hours of sleep each night. Aren’t you ever tired?”
“I don’t know anymore.” And that was the truth.
Tristan’s brow furrowed. “How could you not know?”
“I guess I’ve grown accustomed to it. I worked later into the night before you came to stay. Now
though, I have a good reason to leave my desk and retire for the night.” Before, all he’d had was an
empty, lonely bed. His desk had been preferable.
“All you do is work all day. Barely give yourself a break for supper then you’re back at your desk
again. You’ll drive yourself to an early grave if you continue at this pace. You need to stop punishing
yourself, Max.”
“I’m not punishing myself!” He briefly closed his eyes, took a moment. “I don’t have a choice. I
can’t neglect my responsibilities.” There were times when it was so tempting to do just that. To turn
his back on everything. But he couldn’t do it. Would never be able to live with himself if he did.
“I’m not suggesting you neglect anything, Max,” Tristan said, full of that calm patience.
“Just...reevaluate how you spend your time. With all the reports and ledgers and letters, it sounds to
me like your managers are more secretaries. Sounds as if you do all the managing. As if you either
don’t trust them to manage for you or that you believe you need to do it all yourself.”
That took Max aback.
And Tristan wasn’t done yet. “Were those reports and ledgers and letters coming across your
father’s desk on a monthly basis, too, or were you the one to ask for them?”
“I don’t know why you are even asking me that.” Max fought back the cringe. He sounded defensive
as all hell, even to his own ears.
Tristan looked down then met Max’s gaze. “You tend to throw yourself into things. Completely.
We’d been together twice, and on the third night I laid eyes on you, I ended up at your town house. By
the next night, I was here.” He lowered his voice. “In the bedchamber, you are fully committed to my
pleasure. Nothing short of...well...” He glanced to the placket of his own trousers then speared Max
with a you-know-what-I-mean look. “...can deter you from your goal. By your own admission, you
thoroughly took advantage of your freedom during those three months in London. Fully committed
yourself to it. I have a strong suspicion you’ve committed yourself to a penance by ledgers. That
you’re holding yourself to a ridiculous standard that no man, not even your father, could ever achieve.
You are responsible for a very large dukedom. You cannot possibly expect yourself to be able to
personally handle everything.”
“I don’t personally handle everything. I have a damn herd of managers.”
“Yet you check every account, ask for a near-constant stream of reports? Require they obtain your
approval and input on everything? That’s why all those ledgers and reports are on your desk, isn’t it?
And that’s why I asked if you were the one to ask for them. If your herd hadn’t been sending them to
your father at that frequency, then your father hadn’t needed all those ledgers to be the astute
businessman that he was. And therefore you don’t need all those ledgers at that frequency either. You
don’t need to keep punishing yourself. You don’t need to be behind your desk all day and into the
evening to be a brilliant duke, Max. You’re a young man. Allow yourself to enjoy life a bit in the
daylight.” He gave his head a shake then shrugged. “In any case, I’m supposed to be your friend from
London. Doesn’t your household think it odd you have a houseguest you only see at supper? If for no
other reason than to keep up appearances, push some of your work onto your herd of managers so you
have time to spend the occasional afternoon with your friend.”
Max pursed his lips, clamped his jaw shut. Tristan didn’t understand. He had absolutely no
experience with business matters. Hadn’t a notion what was involved.
And neither had Max before he’d inherited.
He’d never asked for help. Bluntly refused all offers of assistance. Rarely saw his uncles as a result.
Had even dismissed his father’s long-term secretary. He’d virtually locked himself in his father’s
study, had gone through every document in the room, requested all records from all the holdings that
had become his, read through everything until he’d understood how it all worked, and then devised a
plan for how he would handle it all. The dukedom was his. His responsibility. He’d been determined to
see it to the best of his abilities. To not let his father down.
The notion perhaps he hadn’t been doing it all quite right was not a pleasant one.
“Max?”
“Your concern about potential servants’ gossip is perhaps a valid one.” He’d give Tristan that point.
That was it for now. Jonathan had resided at the house for a good year. To Max’s knowledge, there’d
been no gossip. Still, prudence and all. If there was a future risk he could avert, he should do it. “And
since I’ve spent this afternoon with my friend from London, I believe it’s safe for me to return to my
desk.”
Tristan nodded. The worry on his face was undeniable, yet Max was in no mood for company at the
moment.
But with his hand on the doorknob, Max paused. Looked over his shoulder. “I’m not upset with
you.”
Another nod from Tristan. Satisfied he’d eased some of Tristan’s worry, Max left the billiard room
and returned to his desk.
Chapter Fourteen
As the days passed, Max showed he wasn’t quite as stubborn as Tristan had feared. Even though
neither of them mentioned the discussion in the billiard room, it must have had some impact for Max
did not persist in spending every waking hour behind his desk. On the next rainy afternoon, Max
offered to show him more of the hidden passageways in the house. On that instance, it was Tristan
who had to give his word to remain quiet, though he wasn’t able to stay completely quiet. A whispered
curse or two might have slipped out as Max sucked him off.
Yet Tristan’s newfound fondness for rainy afternoons could not rival the sense of anticipation that
tickled his senses when he awoke to a beautiful day. The sun now meant an afternoon ride about the
countryside with Max or a swim in the pond together or a walk about the grounds. And he was actually
able to witness Max smile outside of a bedchamber. Not a frequent occurrence; still, Max gifted him
with one enough for Tristan to believe Max was allowing himself to enjoy time away from his desk in
the daylight.
That wasn’t to say Max had abandoned his responsibilities. He continued to ensconce himself in his
study all morning and into the early afternoon. And he still returned to his desk after supper, but for no
more than an hour. Then he would join Tristan in the library for a nightcap and conversation.
Conversations that gave Tristan precious glimpses of the real man behind the stern, confident duke.
There was one hitch in the blur of passion-filled nights and anticipated afternoons, and it occurred
on September seventh. Tristan wasn’t aware of the actual day of the month until Max pulled a fold of
pound notes from his desk drawer. Two hundred pounds, to be exact. Once Tristan recognized those
notes for what they were, he hadn’t been able to shove them into his pocket fast enough. To get that
harsh reminder of his true purpose at the Park out of sight. He jumped on Max’s suggestion of a walk
about the grounds, though he took a quick detour to his rooms to change his coat before they departed.
Max merely gave him an indulgent shake of the head and agreed to wait in the entrance hall while
Tristan changed out of the perfectly acceptable olive-green coat and donned a nut-brown one.
They traipsed about the back garden and wandered into the woods. Tristan had about given up on
indulging in anything more than conversation when Max pushed him up against a tree trunk. Max’s
kiss shoved those notes Tristan had stashed under a pile of smallclothes in his dressing room far from
his mind. And when Max dropped to his knees and reached for the placket of Tristan’s trousers,
Tristan gained a new appreciation for a forest’s ability to provide concealment from others.
The warmth of summer fell away to cooler but still comfortable autumn days. Tristan’s admiration
for afternoons reached a new peak when Max suggested his break from his desk also include a break
from the formal dining hall. Well, Max did not couch it in quite those terms, but an early supper along
the bank of the pond most assuredly did not include a long stretch of mahogany separating him from
Max.
“The kitchen should have the bag packed by now.” Max rounded his desk. “I thought we’d walk,
unless you’d prefer to take the horses?”
“Walking is fine.” He preferred to walk. Much harder to talk with Max when they were cantering
down a country lane.
Max gathered his leather bag, laden with the contents of their supper, from one of the servants, and
they left the house. The midafternoon sun was high in the sky, the late-September breeze just warm
enough to not need an overcoat.
Tristan looked to Max and frowned. “Gray again?”
“Pardon?”
“Your waistcoat.” Though today’s waistcoat appeared a half shade lighter than he remembered.
Could be due to the sun, being outside versus in the house. More likely, Max had multiple gray
waistcoats. “How many gray ones do you have in your wardrobe?”
“I haven’t the slightest notion.”
“Have you ever considered a color outside of gray or black or brown?” Stern. There was no other
word for it. Max’s wardrobe felt stern and restrained. Made Tristan feel a bit sad for him.
Max shot him a glance from the corner of his eye. “Honestly? No. I don’t give my wardrobe much
thought. It’s there. I put on whatever my valet lays out for me in the morning.”
Max had more money than Tristan could fathom and the man chose to not utilize his tailor to the
fullest? Now that was a shame. “You should consider it. A colorful waistcoat can lift the spirits.”
“I take it then that your spirits have needed considerable lifting over the years?”
It took Tristan a second to realize where Max was going with his question. “Honestly?” he said,
mimicking Max. “Yes.” His spirits had needed all the help they could get. “But in my defense,
growing up I had nothing but my older brothers’ castoffs, and no amount of handiwork with a needle
on my part could get them to fit right. My brothers aren’t that much taller than I, but they are much
broader. Like you. They were built for life on the farm. I was not. That’s not to say you resemble a
farm laborer,” he added. One could tell just by looking at Max that he had nothing but the bluest blood
running through his veins. “Having a proper wardrobe of my own is...wonderful.” Tristan smiled.
“And yes, it’s a large wardrobe. I can admit it.”
“One that hasn’t grown since you came to Hampshire,” Max pointed out.
“No, it hasn’t. But the village doesn’t hold a tailor.” And he hadn’t missed it, either. During the first
few days or so, he’d been absolutely bored during the day. If a tailor had been easily accessible, he’d
likely have paid the shop a visit, if for no other reason than to fill the hours. But the urge to have
something to provide that spark of anticipation, something to look forward to, a bright spot in his day,
hadn’t been there since he had come to the Park.
“Thank goodness for that. The dressing room in your bedchamber is large, but I believe you already
have it at maximum capacity.”
“Not quite. There are three empty hooks.”
Max chuckled, a smile teasing his mouth. “God forbid.”
“Indeed. But you, you should consider a few new waistcoats.” He appraised Max for a moment.
“Maybe amber silk or a nice pale smoky blue. You’d wear both well, and they’d help make you look
not quite so serious.”
Max raised a dubious eyebrow. “I look serious?”
“Yes. Serious, stern, restrained. You appear very...” He waved a hand, struggling for the right word.
“...intimidating.”
“And do I intimidate you?” Max asked, with a definite note of gravity.
“No.” At least not anymore. “I happen to know how good you are at sucking cock.”
A laugh, full and rich, burst from Max’s chest. The last bit of lingering stiffness in his shoulders
vanished. He looked to Tristan, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth, his broad smile transforming his
features so he actually resembled the young man of three-and-twenty that he was.
Their afternoons were clearly good for Max.
Tristan was very fond of them as well.
They eventually reached the pond, its clear blue surface glinting under the sun. The water was much
too cold for a swim, and they settled on the grassy bank. From his bag, Max pulled a small blanket,
two sandwiches of cold meats and cheeses, and a bottle of wine. No glasses. Not that Tristan minded
in the slightest. They sat on the blanket and partook of their supper, passing the bottle of wine between
them. Max asked him about his childhood on the family farm, and Tristan received a frown when he
mentioned one of the reasons why he’d been so eager to leave the farm—namely, his older brothers.
Rather than intimidate him, that harsh frown filled his chest with warmth.
“They didn’t blacken my eye or anything like that.” Pushes and shoves, merciless taunts, but
thankfully no beatings. “And they weren’t the only reason I wanted to leave.” Tristan brought the
bottle of wine to his lips, took a sip and then passed it to Max. “I didn’t belong there, on the farm. My
brothers knew it, I knew it, my father knew it. I was of entirely no help in the fields. I could mend
their clothes. That was the limit of my usefulness. When I informed them of my intent to move to
London, I do believe everyone in the house was pleased.”
“What about your mother? Was she as pleased as your father and brothers?”
“She died when I was around two. I don’t remember her at all. Has your mother passed away as
well?” Since Tristan had never known his own mother, he hadn’t realized until now that Max had
never mentioned his.
“Yes. I was about five years of age. I have vague recollections of her. Dark hair that shone under the
sun, the softness of her cheek when I gave her a kiss. That’s about the extent of it.”
“Did your father never seek another duchess?”
“Never. He loved my mother. I can recall him telling me so after she passed. In fact, I don’t
remember him ever mentioning another woman or there being any gossip or talk at all about any other
woman besides my mother. Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a mistress discreetly tucked away
somewhere, but I rather doubt it.” Max took a sip of wine. “So do you correspond with your father or
brothers at all?”
“No. Wouldn’t have much to say to them anyway.” He highly doubted any of them felt the loss of a
letter from him.
Max’s mouth thinned, his eyebrows lowering, yet his dark eyes softened. “You could let them know
you’re safe and well.”
Tristan shrugged. There was that. “I’ll make you a deal. Put some color in your wardrobe and I’ll
send them a short note.”
Max’s chuckle effectively vanquished the bit of melancholy that had threatened to touch his heart.
After they finished supper, Max pushed him back onto the blanket. As the sun began to make its
way down the sky, Max showed him once again that he had not been exaggerating in the slightest
when he’d told Tristan he very much enjoyed sucking cock. Senses fogged from a brilliant orgasm,
Tristan had not been able to do much more than watch as Max packed up the blanket and slung his bag
over his shoulder.
How could he have ever despised the country? Life in Hampshire was bloody fantastic.
When Tristan walked into Max’s bedchamber later that night, he had to resist the urge to pinch
himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, that he hadn’t fallen asleep at the pond. Two leather cuffs
and a tangle of leather lines on the bed, a bottle of oil beside a short, very fat black marble dildo on
the bedside table, and Max sprawled in a chair by the fireplace, his intent gaze pinned on Tristan.
He’d thought the day could not possibly get any better. How wrong he had been.
* * *
Max lifted his head and swiped his forearm across his wet mouth.
“No! Please, please don’t stop, Max.” Bent over the side of the bed, Tristan looked over his
shoulder. His cheeks were flushed, eyes banked with desire.
With the tip of one finger, Max traced Tristan’s spit-slicked entrance. Then getting to his feet, he
drew back his hand. The tiny trace of nervousness he’d felt before was long gone. That thought zipped
through his head as he brought his hand down and smacked Tristan’s upturned arse. The sound cracked
through the room. A jolt of ridiculous happiness rushed through him.
Tristan shuddered, groaned, his lashes fluttering, his upper body practically melting into the
mattress. There was no doubt about it. Tristan really did enjoy getting a swift smack on the arse. It
was tempting to grab the paddle from the trunk, but another night. Tonight, he had a specific plan in
mind for Tristan. A plan that should take Tristan far beyond the point of utter desperation.
Three more smacks, just enough to turn Tristan’s skin a becoming shade of pink, then Max reached
for the bundle of leather on the bed.
“Stand up and turn around.”
Tristan did as bid. His erection jutted from his body. The cuffs Max had placed on him when he’d
first walked into the room adorned his wrists. He glanced down to the bundle in Max’s hands. “What’s
that?”
Max pulled the long line from the mass of leather and buckles and tossed it toward the headboard.
“We don’t need the line just yet. This...” He held up the harness. “This we do need now. It’s a harness
of sorts. Buckles around your waist, then the two lines in the back come up and buckle to the front. It’s
going to keep that—” he tipped his head toward the black marble dildo on the bedside table, “—in
place.”
Tristan’s eyes widened. Not with trepidation, but with unadulterated lust. “Yes, please.”
The trust Tristan had given him, the trust Max had in Tristan...
The harness clutched in one hand, Max cupped the back of Tristan’s neck, slanted his mouth over
Tristan’s.
Before he could grow too fond of kissing Tristan, Max pulled back.
Head tipped down, Tristan watched as Max reached around him and settled the leather in place.
“Did you buy it at that shop?”
“Yes,” he said, as he buckled the belt portion around Tristan’s waist. When he’d seen it hanging on
a hook amidst a display of restraints and riding crops, his mind had spun with the possibilities. So
much so, he’d had to will down the erection those possibilities had sparked. “Perhaps we could make
use of it during a rainy afternoon, have you wear it beneath your clothes. With a plug strapped in
place, you might not be able to trounce me so soundly at billiards. But that’s for another time.
Tonight, I want you on the bed, on your back.”
Tristan turned and climbed onto the bed, the two thinner lines dangling over his still-pink arse.
“Arms up.”
Without a trace of hesitation, Tristan reached over his head, leather cuffs brushing the headboard.
Using the line he’d tossed onto the mattress, Max tied Tristan’s wrists to one of the spindles spanning
the width of the headboard.
Max passed an assessing eye over Tristan’s prone form. Tristan had some bend in his elbows. The
position didn’t look uncomfortable. “All right?”
Once he had the nod from Tristan, Max divested himself of his trousers and grabbed the bottle of oil
and the dildo from the bedside table. The dildo was nowhere near as long as the massive one he’d
found in the chest of drawers at Rubicon’s. In fact, he’d deliberately chosen one that was barely half
the length of his own cock. It was short and extremely thick, so much so his fingers couldn’t enclose
the width. Perfect for tonight.
He settled between Tristan’s spread thighs and dropped the dildo onto the mattress.
A wrinkle flickered across Tristan’s brow, his gaze on Max’s hand as Max slicked his own cock
with oil.
The dildo was much too thick to use on Tristan without substantial preparation. Not that the
preparation would be a hardship for Max. Definitely not. “I’m going fuck you first, then I’m going to
work that dildo into your arse.”
“Oh hell and damnation,” Tristan whispered, the curse soaked with lust. He speared Max with a hot
stare. “Yes, please, Max.” Drawing his knees up to bracket his chest, he offered his arse to Max.
Using first his fingers and then his cock, Max stretched Tristan’s hole, prepared him. Moans
interspersed with curses backed by frustration tumbled past Tristan’s lips. Max set his jaw, resisted
the urge to give in to the almost overwhelming demand to slam hard and fast into Tristan. The fuck
wasn’t meant to satisfy either of them. Hands clutching Tristan’s hips, Max kept his thrusts slow and
shallow, occasionally pulling all the way out then pushing back in. He savored every stroke, every lush
tug of Tristan’s body along his length. Because after tonight, it would be a good week before he’d
allow himself to bugger Tristan again.
When the tightness of the muscles gripping his cock began to ease a bit, when he could slide inside
Tristan without encountering much resistance, Max leaned back and reached for the dildo.
“Ready for this?”
“Yes, yes, please.” The words rushed from Tristan’s mouth. He added an eager nod.
Max coated the dildo liberally with oil. Holding the rectangular base, he splayed his other hand on
Tristan’s right arse cheek, spread him wider. Then he positioned the crown at Tristan’s entrance and
gently pushed.
Tristan’s hands clenched into fists. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding. On the exhale, his
hands relaxed, and the black marble crown made the breach.
A harsh wince seized Tristan’s eyes shut. Max pulled back, gave Tristan a moment and tried again.
It took some doing. A lot of gentle nudges and pauses, but eventually Tristan was able to take the
full length of the short toy. And when Max settled the rectangular base against his skin, Tristan’s
mouth fell open on a hoarse, guttural groan that was drenched in pleasure.
“All right?”
This time, Tristan gave him only a nod, and a slow one at that. His eyes were heavy-lidded, mere
slits. The flush staining his cheekbones now tinged his chest.
Max drew the two lines up from between Tristan’s legs, crossed them over the base of the dildo and
attached them to the small buckles on either side of the front of the leather belt. Like an erotic picture
frame, the dark leather V bracketed his ballocks and erection. An erection that appeared as though
Tristan was but one touch from climaxing.
“You are not to climax until I give you permission.”
That got Tristan’s attention. His eyes snapped open. Well, halfway open. Max could read the
indignation and frustration on his beautiful face.
“Trust me. The wait will be worth it.”
Tristan pursed his lips. Then he nodded.
Satisfied he’d received Tristan’s word, Max bent down. Licked a path up the underside of Tristan’s
very hard cock. Flicked his tongue over the crown, lapping up the bead of fluid. He didn’t take Tristan
into his mouth. Instead, he teased him. Prodded the need within Tristan. Pushed him to the point of
utter desperation, but didn’t push him beyond it. Yet.
“Holy Mother... Oh, hell, Max. Bloody fucking hell.”
God, how he adored the sound of Tristan cursing him.
He pressed a kiss to the crown. Let his mouth open, let his lips begin to slide over the silken skin.
Then he pulled back.
“Bastard! God and hell.” Feet planted on the mattress, Tristan lifted his hips, reaching toward
Max’s mouth. The movement must have jostled the dildo for he let out a gasp. A shudder racked his
body. Every muscle drew beyond tight.
Max quickly reached out, wrapped his thumb and forefinger around the base of Tristan’s cock and
squeezed tightly. Waited a moment, and then released him. “Better?”
Tristan nodded. His chest worked under the force of his panting breaths, but at least he appeared as
though he was no longer much too close to losing the fight to hold back a climax.
“Good.” Max grabbed the bottle again, poured oil onto his fingers. Reaching behind, he slicked his
entrance. Quickly pushed three fingers inside himself. A definite sting, but he’d be taking more than
that soon enough.
All the while, he watched as comprehension dawned on Tristan’s face. Tristan let out a threadbare
whimper, one that was absolutely soaked in eagerness.
Max straddled Tristan’s waist, tucking his calves under Tristan’s spread thighs. Careful to keep
from resting his weight on Tristan’s slim, dildo-stuffed body, he balanced on his knees. With one
hand, he reached behind and under himself and held Tristan’s cock steady.
“Deep breath now.” Max followed his own advice and then lowered.
He didn’t know if the low, rough groan came from himself or Tristan.
Sweet, luscious pleasure backed by a stinging stretch swamped Max’s senses as he sank lower and
lower onto Tristan’s not-insubstantial erection. Only when his arse touched his knuckles did he stop.
Another deep breath, and he released his hold on the base of Tristan’s cock and picked up a slow
rhythm. Up and down, his and Tristan’s moans blending together.
Leaning back slightly, he found the perfect angle, the one where the head of Tristan’s cock rubbed
against that fantastic spot inside him with each downward thrust of Max’s hips. He felt the orgasm
build within, gather at the base of his spine. And he did nothing to hold it back. On any other night,
he’d have wanted Tristan’s climax first. But that didn’t fit with the plan he’d devised while sitting at
his desk that morning. Tonight, he wanted Tristan to follow him.
Max grabbed his own cock. Two strokes and the orgasm slammed through him. Seed shot from the
crown, painting Tristan’s flawless chest.
He felt the tremble roll through Tristan’s body.
“Max, please. Please!”
“Permission granted.” Max tightened his muscles as he rode Tristan’s cock, doing everything in his
power to drive Tristan wild with pleasure.
His efforts did not go unrewarded.
Tristan threw back his head. Exquisite bliss seized his features. He let out an unholy shout that
rattled Max’s eardrums, as Max felt Tristan climax inside of him.
Max leaned forward, dropping onto his forearms. “Happy birthday,” he whispered.
A pause.
The rhythm of Tristan’s panting breaths faltered. A furrow wrinkled his brow. He hadn’t thought
Max had remembered.
Lifting off Tristan, Max tugged the line, releasing the knot around the headboard’s spindle and
releasing Tristan. Then he unbuckled the leather belt, gently removed the dildo, grabbed a wet cloth
and cleaned them both up, all the while doing his best to hide the smile.
Max settled on the edge of the bed and held out a hand. “The cuffs. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep
with them on.”
Tristan pushed up into a seated position and gave Max his wrist. His hair was a tousled mess,
sticking up at odd angles with portions stuck to his sweat-dampened temples. “How did you know?
Hell, I’d forgotten all about it myself.”
“‘I was born on September twenty-third, 1800. I may not appear to be one-and-twenty, but it is the
truth.’” Max recited the lines Tristan had thrown at him during their first night together. “Though
you’re now two-and-twenty.”
Tristan gaped at him. “You remembered?”
Max tipped his head and got to his feet to put everything back into the trunk. “Of course. You were
quite annoyed with me.” All flashing eyes and bristly spine. Magnificent. Not that Max had thought so
at the time. Now? He was rather fond of the way Tristan stood his ground with him, though it was a
trait he tended to appreciate more after the fact.
After blowing out the candle, Max stretched out on the bed, half-sprawled over Tristan.
“Thank you, Max.” Tristan’s arm tightened around Max’s back. “You made today a day I won’t
ever forget.”
And with a smile on his lips, Max let sleep overtake him.
Chapter Fifteen
Tristan tightened his fingers in Max’s hair, gave the soft strands a tug. Max never heeded his
warnings. Still, Tristan couldn’t stop himself from giving them. His ballocks hitched up tight to his
body. His heart slammed against his ribs, the climax coiling down his spine.
Cold, October predawn air hit his wet cock.
“Not yet,” Max said, more grunt than actual words.
The dark form of Max shifted up from between Tristan’s spread legs, loomed above him. There was
the soft sound of a drawer opening. Max worked a hand between their bodies. Oil-slicked fingers
swept across his hole. Pushed inside. Then it wasn’t Max’s fingers, but Max’s cock demanding
entrance. And Max’s mouth was on his, his strong body over Tristan, inside him, thrusting deep and
hard. Shoving them toward a climax, shoving them over the edge.
Max collapsed on top of him. Rather than shift off to the side, Max kissed a path up Tristan’s neck,
captured his mouth. Looping his arms over Max’s broad shoulders, Tristan soaked up the slow, lazy
kiss.
Waking up to Max’s mouth on his cock and then a fuck?
What a way to start the day.
...start the day?
Max didn’t bugger him in the mornings. And he’d just buggered Tristan last night. That had been
last night, correct? Yes, that had definitely been last night. Max had made him wait eight days after
his birthday before he’d agree to fuck him again. No way had Tristan mixed up the nights.
Max broke the kiss. He let out a sigh, one that sounded decidedly...reluctant.
A knot of worry wrapped around Tristan’s gut.
“I need to go to London for a short bit,” Max said.
“When?”
“Today. This morning. I won’t be gone long.”
“Oh.” It was the only thing Tristan could think to say.
I won’t be gone long.
Max did not intend for Tristan to travel with him.
He was going to leave Tristan at the Park.
“Really, I won’t be but a few days. It’s a pressing business matter, and I need to be in London. Need
to discuss it with my solicitors. Letters will not suffice.”
“I understand.”
And he did understand. Max was a very busy man with lots of responsibilities. While he didn’t
travel often, he couldn’t stay at the Park indefinitely. And it wasn’t like Tristan could tag after Max in
London. It was easy to pass himself off as a good friend from Town while in Hampshire. The society
in the village was very small, with no superior families but Max’s. There was no one who could cast
doubt on Tristan’s claims. But in London, there were surely plenty who could do so. And what if
someone recognized him from Rubicon’s?
Silence filled the air around them. Tristan tried to ignore the knot in his gut. “I should head back to
my own room, before your valet arrives.”
Another sigh from Max. Tristan wished he could see Max’s face, but as it was, the predawn
shadows hid all details.
He gave Max’s shoulder a pat. Max took the cue and shifted off to the side. Tristan pushed up and
swung his feet over the side of the bed.
“I’ll be back in a few days.”
Tristan nodded.
A hand cupped Tristan’s hip. The warmth of Max’s palm seeped into his skin.
“Tristan?” Max asked, with more than a touch of worry.
“It’s all right. I understand.” In any case, it wasn’t his place to complain. He did not have that right.
He’d agreed to give it up for 200 pounds per month. He looked back to Max’s shadowed form. He
didn’t bother with a reassuring smile, though he did make the effort to force a bit of lightness into his
voice. “Just tired, that’s all. The sun’s not even up yet.”
Max gave his hip a squeeze then his hand slipped away.
Tristan stood, grabbed his clothes from the floor and went back to his room.
* * *
“Expecting anyone?” Max pulled out a chair and sat down.
Rawling looked up from his dinner plate. “Ah, Pelham. Good to see you.”
Max signaled to a servant and placed his order for his meal. The dining room at White’s was not
even half-full. A good portion of his peers had departed for their country estates once Parliament had
let out, but Rawling hadn’t been one of them. Yet that evening, he was glad his friend spent most of
his time in London. He needed to give Rawling his thanks.
The man was sure to be a smug bastard about it, but Max found he didn’t much care if he had to
bear witness to Rawling’s gloating.
“Thank you for looking after London in my absence.” Max took a sip from the glass of wine that
had been set at his elbow. “I was pleased to find it still intact.”
Rawling tipped his head. “I am glad my efforts did not go unnoticed. What brings you back in
Town?”
“Business. Negotiating the purchase of a new property that’s proving troublesome. Arrived
yesterday evening and spent most of today at my solicitors’ office. I am hopeful the details can be
finalized in a couple of days.” If the seller persisted in being an inflexible arse and refusing the
clauses Max deemed necessary to the contract, then Max would just walk away from the deal. He
wanted the property, but not desperately enough to keep him from Arrington Park longer than a few
days.
And if he could get back earlier than planned, all the better. One night, and he already missed
having Tristan in his bed.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have left. Contrary to Tristan’s assurance, he hadn’t seemed all that pleased,
and Max certainly hadn’t wanted to leave. It had been tempting to tell his solicitors not to bother once
they encountered resistance, but the property adjourned the one he already had in Somerset. Prime
farmland with acres upon acres of woods. The previous owner had refused to sell to Max’s father, and
now that the fellow’s son had inherited, the timing was right to make another bid. He owed it to his
father to make a full effort to obtain the property.
That full effort involved coming to London. For a few days. But no more. And he’d make up his
absence to Tristan when he returned.
“Hopefully you don’t devote all your time to business while in our illustrious city.” Rawling
speared a potato and popped it into his mouth.
He snagged Rawling’s gaze, held it and lowered his voice. “Speaking of which, I owe you my
thanks for the nudge. Or rather, the nudges.”
That got Rawling’s attention. “Do you now?” he asked, a smug smile playing at the corners of his
mouth.
“Yes.” He braced for the gloating to begin.
The smile spread across Rawling’s lips. “I’m very glad to hear it. Truly, I am. And I must say,
you’re missing that air of a grumpy old man. Good to see that as well. Rather feared the country would
have you descending back into glowering territory.” He paused, considered Max. “Interesting how that
isn’t the case.”
A servant arrived with the requested meal. Why was Max not surprised that Rawling suspected he
wasn’t alone at the Park?
There was no use denying it. If he tried, Rawling would persist until Max’s adamant refusal became
a confirmation of the truth.
Picking up his knife and fork, Max resisted the urge to let out a sigh. “If you must know, I have a
houseguest. A friend agreed to come down and stay at the Park.”
“And who might this friend be?”
“A friend.” That was all he was going to say on the matter.
“You do know you have piqued my curiosity.”
“Yes, I am well aware of that. And if you would keep the information to yourself, I would greatly
appreciate it.”
“Of course, Pelham. No need to even ask.” Rawling leaned back in his chair, the smug smile
replaced with one of genuine happiness. “I am quite happy for you.”
In a strange sort of way, it felt good to talk to Rawling about Tristan. Not that Max had said much.
But his friend knew he wasn’t alone, that he had someone to go home to, someone who made him
happy, and that felt good.
Still, Max was eager to get Rawling off the topic of Tristan. “Have you been keeping yourself out of
trouble in my absence?”
Rawling shrugged. “I’m making an effort, at least.”
Something in the tone of Rawling’s voice made Max ask, “Do you need assistance with any
business matters? Because if you do, you need only ask. Not that I consider myself an expert in all
things.” Definitely not. Tristan had helped him see just how much needless effort he’d been
expending. “But I’m a willing ear and will lend whatever assistance or advice I can.”
Rawling shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not in need of that sort of assistance at
the moment.” He looked over Max’s shoulder, in the direction of the door to the dining hall. A frown
flickered across his brow.
When Max initially sat at Rawling’s small table, he’d asked if Rawling was expecting anyone. He
had received neither a yes nor a no. He’d hoped to find Rawling at White’s, and quite frankly, he had
been a bit surprised to find him dining alone. But he hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Figured
luck had simply been on his side.
“Were you or are you expecting someone?”
“Expecting? No.”
Max leaned forward. “Waiting for someone then?”
Rawling dragged his attention from the door. He opened his mouth, closed it and then finally spoke.
“Have you seen Tilden about Town of late?”
“Tilden?” The family name felt familiar, but Max couldn’t quite place it. He didn’t run in the same
social circles as Rawling and didn’t keep up on the goings-on of the ton.
“Gabriel Tilden. Of the Cheshire Tildens, though until recently he was residing in Derbyshire. I was
good friends with his younger brother at Eton, spent a summer at their estate when I was sixteen.
Gabriel Tilden married shortly after, though his wife passed away earlier this year. Anyway, he’s in
London now, though he’s been proving a bit elusive of late, and I wondered if you’d seen him.”
“I don’t believe so, but I also don’t believe I’ve ever met the fellow. He has a brother in the
Commons, an older brother, if I recall correctly. A bit of a condescending, pompous bore.”
“You are correct, on both counts, though Stephen doesn’t resemble Gabriel in person or manner.
Gabriel Tilden’s about our height, no overfed belly, chestnut-brown hair instead of dark, quite
handsome and unassuming in manner.”
Gaze expectant, Rawling paused as if waiting for his description to spark a recollection in Max.
Max shook his head. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him. Then again, I haven’t been gallivanting about.
I’ve been to my solicitors’ office then here.”
Rawling’s shoulders fell.
“If you’d like, I can ask my driver to try to locate him. Morgan’s a useful sort and knows his way
about Town. He can track him down then let you know what he finds without Tilden being the wiser.”
Morgan had been able to locate Jonathan in a day. Should be able to do similarly with Tilden with no
risk of extending Max’s stay in London.
“I wouldn’t want to put you out of a driver.”
“It’s not a bother. I’ve got grooms enough to take his place for a couple days and ferry me back and
forth from the solicitors’ office.”
“Well, if it’s not a bother. It’s just...” Concern pulled his mouth then Rawling shook his head.
“Thank you, Pelham. I’ll definitely take you up on your offer. Much appreciated.”
“Think nothing of it. I owe you for those rather persistent nudges.”
Rawling gave him a superior little nod, a hint of a smile coming back to his mouth. “Yes, you do.
You have a tendency to be a stubborn, grumpy bastard. Took a lot of effort to nudge your arse.”
Max couldn’t help but agree with his friend.
* * *
One day without Max—hell, one afternoon without Max—had been all it had taken. The ache in his
chest was too large to even contemplate ignoring. How Tristan could not have seen this coming, he
had no idea. But there was no use in bemoaning his lack of foresight.
He had fallen in love with Max.
Certainly it had started at some point over the past couple of months. Perhaps even before they’d
left London. But it had snuck up on him so slowly, he hadn’t been able to recognize it for what it was
until he’d been left to wander the house alone. The sounds of his footsteps on the marble floors
echoing about him, the loneliness growing with each passing minute, feeling distinctly out of sorts and
without a means to rectify it. Even a visit to the village, a chat with Max’s friendly neighbors, hadn’t
done a thing to lift his spirits. It wasn’t as if he and Max spent every waking moment together. A
handful of hours in the afternoon, supper separated by acres of mahogany, and a nightcap before
retiring. Yet just knowing Max wasn’t ensconced in his study made the entire house feel so empty.
Ridiculous notion. There were dozens of servants laboring under Arrington Park’s roof. But even
seeing the footmen in the corridors or the maids traversing the stairs did not do one bit to quell that
feeling of emptiness.
He felt separated, markedly alone. His gaze finding the clock in every room he entered and damning
the hands for not moving quicker, for not bringing Max back to him sooner. Pushing up from the chair
in the library, Tristan looked once again to the clock on the mantel. Barely even nine in the evening.
He let out a sigh. What constituted a few days? Max had left two mornings ago. Would he be back in
one or two or three days?
And when had the prospect of three days turned into forever?
Tristan entered his bedchamber and shut the door behind him. That deceptively barren stretch of
wall taunted him. Mocked him. There was no reason to open the narrow door. It couldn’t lead him to
Max tonight.
Tugging on the knot of his cravat, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
God in hell, he was in love with Max. The absolute worst part of it all? Knowing it would only end
in heartache for him.
Max wouldn’t give him more than his body and his friendship, and there was no use at all in asking
for more than Max was willing to give. Max was young. In a decade or so, perhaps he’d decide to give
love another go. But now, less than a year after his ex-lover had betrayed him? No. Definitely not.
Max had been very up front about what he did and did not want from Tristan, and what he was willing
and not willing to give, to the point where Max had explicitly stated he did not want finer sentiments
from him. Tristan was at the Park because Max wanted a man to warm his bed at night. Nothing more.
It hurt like hell, but Tristan could understand why. And he couldn’t blame Max for his reasons. If he
had been betrayed as thoroughly as Max had, he certainly would not yet be willing to entrust another
with his heart again.
Still, that didn’t stop him from wanting to pummel Max’s ex-lover, curse the man for breaking
Max’s heart. For not only hurting Max but for making Max so unwilling to love again.
In a way though, it was fortunate Max wasn’t willing to love Tristan, because if he was willing
nothing good could come of it. Tristan couldn’t remain Max’s houseguest indefinitely. The issue of
his wages and their arrangement aside, it simply wasn’t practical. They were two men and had to be
cautious about perceptions. And without the veil of the Duke of Pelham’s country houseguest to give
him respectability, he was left with nothing but the cold, ugly facts.
He was the son of a mere farmer, a former prostitute and a current kept man. Dukes did not enter
into real relationships with men like himself.
Dropping his head, Tristan speared his fingers into his hair. He winced as a heavy ache radiated
across his chest. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He wanted to scream, shout with
the injustice of it all. He’d always wanted somewhere to belong, someone to belong with. Yet he
couldn’t deny the truth—he didn’t belong with Max.
“Bloody hell.” Damnation, did he hurt.
Summoning every ounce of effort, he fought back the tears. Letting out a sigh, Tristan lifted his
head. A part of him wanted to sit there and bemoan his fate all night, but he refused to give in. He
knew what he needed to do and why. Yet that knowledge did nothing to pacify the pain. If anything, it
made it worse.
He forced himself to stand and willed his feet to take him across the room. Hopefully tomorrow it
wouldn’t rain and he could go into the village, at least escape the empty house for a bit while he
waited for Max to return.
After undoing the buttons on his coat, he shrugged it from his shoulders and tossed it into the
basket. He looked about his dressing room, to the hooks upon hooks of coats and waistcoats, to the
stacks of trousers and shirts on the shelves. There was no reason to hurry and start packing. There
would be plenty of time to do that after he spoke with Max.
* * *
Max pressed the latch, pushed open the door and stepped inside Tristan’s bedchamber. A sense of
relief, as if he’d been holding his breath for the past few days and could finally take a deep, long
breath, washed over him.
The faint glow from the embers in the hearth was just enough for him to make out Tristan, curled up
on his side, on the far side of the bed. On silent footsteps, Max crossed the room and lifted the
coverlet. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked the faintest bit as he slipped beneath the sheet.
He was bone-tired from such a long day. Hours spent in discussions with his solicitors, finalizing
the details of the purchase, and then many more hours spent on the road. From a practical perspective,
he should have waited until dawn tomorrow instead of departing London at three in the afternoon and
arriving at the Park well after midnight. It would have meant five days from home instead of four, and
saved his driver and his horses from traveling into the night. But he felt the rightness of his decision
the moment his bare skin pressed against Tristan’s. Another night without this, without Tristan, would
have approached unbearable.
Wrapping an arm around Tristan, Max’s lips found the hollow behind his ear.
Tristan’s body tensed then relaxed back into his. “Max?”
“I’m home,” he murmured.
Tristan turned in his arms. In the darkness, their mouths found each other’s with unerring accuracy,
as if that was where they belonged. The kiss was urgent yet slow and lingering. Max could feel in
Tristan’s kiss just how much Tristan had missed him. And that last tiny bit of apprehension, of
suspended anticipation, a bit he hadn’t even realized was still within him, slid away.
Damnation, it felt good to be home.
Chapter Sixteen
Closing his eyes, Tristan took a long breath. The exhale stuttered, catching in his throat. He tried
again, but it didn’t do any good to settle his nerves or his stomach.
If he intended to make it back to London before nightfall, he needed to speak to Max now. In the
morning. Before noon. Before Tristan could give in to the massive tug on his heart that begged,
pleaded to delay just one more day. Just one more afternoon with Max, one more night together.
But he had all the reasons in the world not to delay. Sound, hard, very valid reasons. As he’d pulled
on his clothes that morning, he had run them all through his head. Each and every one on its own
should send him from the house. But combined together? There was absolutely no way Tristan should
allow himself to give in to the urge, the need, to delay the inevitable even one more day.
He’d had last night. Already had his last night with Max. Had committed each touch, each kiss, each
hoarse moan from Max to memory. There was no need for a repeat.
All that logic, however, did not make it any easier to knock on the study door.
He lifted his arm.
Do it. Now.
The sound of his knuckles rapping against wood smacked against his ears.
“Enter,” came Max’s voice through the thick walnut door.
Tristan turned the knob, stepped inside.
Max looked up from his ledger. “Tristan.” He smiled, eyes alight with welcome. Tristan swore his
heart broke a little bit more. “It’s not even nine. I was certain you didn’t roll out of bed until after
eleven, but it appears I had assumed wrong.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Of course. Have a seat.”
Tristan shut the door. His pulse slammed through his veins. He didn’t sit in one of the chairs.
Instead he stood behind one, rested his hands on the back. Willed his fingers not to clutch the
upholstery.
Max’s smile dimmed. “Is something the matter?”
Yes. More than you could ever know.
Tristan opened his mouth. Forced the words out. “I need to end our arrangement.”
Max’s expression went utterly blank. “Why? Is it because I went to London for a few days?”
“No.” Tell him the truth. Max had once begged for his honesty. Tristan owed him nothing less. “I
can no longer keep to the terms of our agreement. Therefore, it is best we part ways.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. The same viciousness he’d once directed onto one of Tristan’s clients was
suddenly directed at himself. “I’m gone for four bloody days. Who the hell did you fuck in the
village? Or was it one of the footmen?”
Tristan couldn’t stop the flinch. “No, no, Max. I didn’t... There isn’t anyone else. Honest. I—I...” He
let out a slow breath, gathered the words. “I can’t accept another shilling from you. I don’t want to
feel beholden to you. I don’t want to be your guest anymore. I don’t like feeling you could send me
from the house at a moment’s notice. I want to be able to complain, to ask for more, but I cannot.” His
fingers dug into the chair’s back. “I love you, Max. I can’t continue with our arrangement. With me in
love with you, and you...as you are.”
“As I am? What the hell does that mean?” Max asked, bristling with affront.
“It’s not a slight against you. It’s just...”
Tristan shook his head. How to explain it to him? Max was...well, Max. A man who had a tendency
to be rather closed off, and that was putting it lightly. Max claimed his ex-lover had not really loved
him, that he’d been merely saying what Max wanted to hear. Tristan would hazard a guess that wasn’t
entirely the case.
But that point was moot. Tristan wasn’t Max’s lover, nor would Max ever allow him to become one.
Max wanted an employee in his bed, not a lover to share his life with. Even if Max someday wanted
that from him, it simply wasn’t feasible.
Tristan’s heart shouted its protests. Yet he forged on. “You want someone to warm your bed at night
and nothing more. I should not have agreed to your proposal, but I did. Once I was gone from that
house, I found I didn’t want to return. And I enjoyed being with you, so I agreed to your terms. I
agreed to give you my loyalty, my discretion, my body at night in your bed. I agreed to not give you
my heart. And I agreed not to ask for, to want, yours. But I can’t keep those terms anymore. I
understand why you set those terms. Honestly I do, and I respect your reasons. But I want more from
you, yet I can’t have more. Therefore, I need to leave.”
For a long moment, an exceedingly long moment, Max stared at him.
“Are your trunks packed?”
“No. Not yet.”
Please, don’t let me leave.
But Max just sat there, his face blank.
“Are you going back to Rubicon’s?”
“Aside from returning to London, I haven’t quite determined what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but I am
not returning to that house.”
A crisp nod from Max. “I’ll have my carriage brought around to take you back to London.”
That tiny tendril of hope that had kept his coats and waistcoats on their hooks, that hope perhaps
Max felt something more for him, that perhaps Max cared for him, had come to love him just a little
bit, withered and died.
“Thank you, Max.”
Tristan turned on his heel and left the study.
* * *
The study door clicked shut. The sound slammed into Max, knocking the air from his lungs.
He struggled to take a breath, struggled to force his lungs to work properly. His hands trembled on
the open ledger. Finally, he was able to suck in some air but it was short and shallow, left him
breathless. A riot built within. He needed to go after Tristan. Do whatever it took to keep him from
leaving. But Max was rooted to the spot, Tristan’s words filling his head. The man had told Max he
needed to leave. Explained why. Max couldn’t betray him by forcing him to stay. Not when Max
couldn’t give him what he needed.
The sounds of his short, pulling breaths filled his ears. His nose stung, his throat was damned near
clogged. His hands curled into fists.
A noise broke from his throat. Max shoved at the papers and ledgers covering his desk.
It was as if the outburst drained all the energy from him. Shoulders slumped, he hung his head.
Those once short, pulling breaths now long and slow.
Eventually, he marshaled his muscles, willed his limbs to cooperate enough for him to stand. He’d
told Tristan he would summon the carriage. Ensuring his safe return to London was the least Max
could do for him.
He snagged the first servant he came across in the corridor. “Tell Morgan to have the traveling
carriage readied. And I need to see him.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He returned to the study, shut the door behind him. Letters and documents and ledgers and reports
and contracts were scattered near everywhere. The floor around his desk was covered by papers. An
open ledger was balanced precariously on the edge of one of the chair’s cushions. The silver pen
holder by the desk’s leg, the accompanying glass bottle on its side, midnight-black ink ruining the
ledger beneath it. Shards of cream-colored porcelain from his teacup littered the area around the right
side of his desk, the surrounding papers stained from the contents of that cup.
But the mess paled in comparison to the mess he had made of his relationship with Tristan. And just
like with Tristan, it was all his own doing.
Dropping to his knees, he began to gather the papers, to put them to rights, to hide the blatant show
of his tangled emotions.
He picked up the nearest piece of paper, passed his eyes over it. Page two of his Plymouth shipping
office manager’s short and concise September report containing just enough details to keep Max
appraised of any major issues. Pages one and three should be nearby. He shifted through the mess,
located the pages, put them in order and then, leaning forward, set them on the edge of the desk. And
he continued on. Page by page, he focused on putting his desk back to rights, tried to keep his mind on
the task to keep himself from the utter embarrassment of being reduced to tears.
“Your Grace?”
Max looked up from his prone position. When had Morgan entered the study?
“Shall I call for a maid?”
Max shook his head. As if he hadn’t made a complete mess of his study, he got to his feet and
turned his attention to his driver. “Mr. Walsh has need of the traveling carriage. He is returning to
London.”
Clad in a long dark greatcoat that made him appear even taller and broader than he was, Morgan
nodded. “The grooms are readying it at the moment.”
Desperation grabbed hold of Max. “They needn’t expend the effort to hurry with the task.”
A pause, and he received another nod from Morgan.
“You are to make yourself available to Mr. Walsh. He will provide direction as to his exact
destination. When you arrive there, send me a note with a footman posthaste and then remain at Mr.
Walsh’s disposal, ensure his safety, until you hear otherwise from me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” If the request seemed odd to Morgan, the man did not show it. He remained, as
always, calm and composed. Completely unflappable. “Will that be all?”
Don’t take him away from me.
“Yes, Morgan, that will be all.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tristan pushed open the plain wooden door. A bell tinkled lightly overhead, announcing his arrival.
Resist. You don’t need another waistcoat.
The urge to give in, to have a spark to light up his day—and oh, how he desperately needed that
spark—nearly overpowered practicality.
After paying for his new lodgings, and the bit here and there he’d spent visiting the village in
Hampshire, he had 401 pounds to his name. If he was frugal, the money could last a decent long while.
Years, even, if he was extremely frugal. But the stark, bare truth was that it would not last forever.
Thus, he needed to resist.
Tristan pointedly turned his attention from the lemon-yellow silk waistcoat in the display window
and made his way toward the counter.
He’d been halfway to London yesterday when the idea that brought him to this shop popped into his
head. And he had immediately latched on to it, if for no other reason than to distract him from the
knowledge that each rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves was taking him farther from Max. The
distraction proved fruitless once the sun had set though, and it did not help in the slightest to make his
bed feel less empty, but acting on the idea would at least fill his morning. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his
coming days as well.
Tristan stopped at the counter and waited. He had deliberately chosen a time of day when most
shops were not bustling with activity, and therefore was not put off at finding the place void of
customers. Certainly the proprietor had heard the bell and would be out shortly.
As if on command, a stout older man pushed through the navy curtain hanging behind the counter.
If Tristan’s memory served correctly, the man was the Mr. Foster of the Gentleman’s Attire by Mr.
Gregory Foster on the sign outside the shop.
“Good morning, sir. What can I help you with today?”
Short, rather rounder than he was tall, and with his curly gray hair in disarray, Mr. Foster did not
resemble any tailor Tristan had visited on St. James Street. Likely why the man’s shop was situated
off Cheapside but a street from the modiste the girls at Rubicon’s had favored. Mr. Foster knew his
way around fabric though, and Tristan hoped a shop in this part of Town would be more agreeable to
his suggestion.
Pulling his spine straight, Tristan gave the man a smile he hoped hid the nerves gripping his
stomach. “Good morning, Mr. Foster. I am Tristan Walsh. A few years back, I purchased a coat and a
few waistcoats and trousers from you. Was very impressed with the workmanship. I’m newly returned
to Town and am looking for a position.”
Mr. Foster shook his head. “I’ve already got a boy to run to the warehouses for me.”
“Actually, I am hoping to one day become a tailor myself. And I was wondering if...” Mr. Foster’s
shaggy gray brows had drawn together. But Tristan could not allow the heavy threat of a refusal to
deter him. “I was wondering if you would be willing to take on an apprentice. I’m not without skill—I
am handy with a needle. I can mend and resize garments. And I’m willing to work hard. But I’ve never
constructed a coat before. I have never worked for a tailor, so I understand if you have doubts. But I
would just really like the opportunity to learn from someone who is a master of their trade.” A bit of
flattery never hurt, and it wasn’t a lie. “I’ll work for free, for a short bit, if you’d like. In a couple of
months, if I can earn my keep, we can reevaluate my position. If you don’t wish me to stay on, I
won’t. Until then, you could have someone to lend you a hand about the shop and to do whatever tasks
you’d prefer to give to another.”
Breath held, Tristan waited for Mr. Foster’s response.
The older man passed his gaze over Tristan. Hopefully the man recognized his own hand in the coat
Tristan had chosen to wear today. A single-breasted olive-green superfine. One of Tristan’s favorites,
as it had been the first new coat he had ever owned, purchased with the money he’d earned along those
darkened walks in Vauxhall Gardens.
“I believe I remember you. Patterned maroon waistcoat. Though if you really wanted the yes out of
me, you should have worn it with the coat.”
Thank heaven Mr. Foster remembered him. “Just arrived back in Town yesterday. It’s still buried in
one of my trunks, else I would have.”
The man let out a harrumph, but his lips quirked, indicating he wasn’t entirely put off by the idea of
taking Tristan on as an apprentice.
“Please, I would be indebted to you if you would take me on.” He did his best to keep the
desperation from leaching into his voice. “If you could just give me a day, I believe you’ll see I would
not be any trouble at all. I’ll stay in the back, if you’d like. Spend the day cutting fabric, whatever
tasks you set to me. I’m diligent, reliable, a hard worker.”
It took a bit of doing. Some pleading and cajoling with subtle flattery thrown in for good measure,
but eventually he earned a grudging acceptance from Mr. Foster to allow him to come to work,
without pay, at the shop tomorrow. If all went well, the old man would consider an apprenticeship.
A weight lifted from Tristan’s shoulders as he stepped out of the shop. An honest position was
potentially in his grasp. Something he could look upon and feel a sense of self-respect. Something that
could become his profession. And once he arrived back at his rooms, he’d search through his trunks,
find that maroon waistcoat to wear on the morrow.
As he made his way down the street, the hairs on the back of his nape pricked. A growl rumbled his
throat. He didn’t bother glancing behind him nor did he quicken his pace. He merely continued on his
way.
Yet when he reached the stone steps that led to the boardinghouse where he’d taken lodgings, he
stopped, turned around. Swept his gaze along the walkway.
He knew exactly what, or who, he would find.
Hell, the man was massive. If Tristan didn’t know his identity, he would have been more than
intimidated. As it was, all he felt was annoyance. A lot of it.
As Tristan approached, Max’s driver pushed from a shop front and clasped his hands behind his
back. Ever the diligent servant.
Tristan lowered his voice. “My refusal of His Grace’s carriage when I departed this morning was
not a thinly veiled request for an escort about Town.”
Morgan at least had the good grace not to appear shocked Tristan had figured him out. A man that
large couldn’t go about unnoticed, after all. “His Grace requested I put myself at your disposal.”
“And you believe you are accomplishing that by following me about?”
“He also requested I ensure your safety.”
What felt like jagged steel wire scraped down Tristan’s spine. “I am quite capable of looking after
myself.”
Morgan tipped his head. “Yes, Mr. Walsh.”
“You aren’t going to stop, are you?”
“No, Mr. Walsh.”
Tristan gritted his teeth. “How long do you plan to be my shadow?”
“Until His Grace instructs me otherwise.”
There was no use at all in railing at Morgan. He was only following his employer’s instructions. An
employer who had allowed Tristan to walk out his front door without the barest of efforts to get
Tristan to stay. A man who had offered his own traveling carriage to aid Tristan in leaving him.
A fresh lance of pain pierced his heart.
Goddamn you, Max!
What did Max care about his safety anyway? He’d let Tristan leave. They were over. Done. Their
arrangement ended.
He didn’t want Morgan following him. Didn’t want that reminder of Max every time he walked out
his door. Yet there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Yes, there was.
Tristan turned on his heel. The arrogant, top-lofty Duke of Pelham would be hearing from him.
* * *
The heavy thud of a fist against wood jolted Tristan awake. Rolling onto his side, he put his pillow
over his ear. Bloody neighbors. He didn’t remember them being so noisy last time he’d rented rooms
there. If whoever was causing the racket didn’t stop soon, he would have to tell them to stop. He was
due at Mr. Foster’s at nine and was planning to arrive early. He couldn’t risk oversleeping because his
neighbors had kept him up all night.
Another heavy thud echoed through his bedchamber.
“Tristan!”
He bolted upright, the pillow falling to the mattress.
There could be others in the building with the same name, yet he highly doubted it. And that bellow
sounded like it came from a very familiar voice.
Damnation, the post was quick.
He snagged his trousers from the floor. Tugged them on. Did up the buttons as he left the small
bedchamber and crossed through the equally small parlor. He paused long enough to light the candle
on the console table and glance to the clock on the mantel. Half-past three? He turned the lock.
And opened the door to Max, a bottle in one hand and the other raised, poised to pound on the door
again, a crumpled note peeking out of his fist.
Max blinked. Then blinked again. He snapped his jaw shut. Lowered his arm. Swayed slightly on his
feet. “Good evening, Tristan,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been pounding and bellowing.
Oh dear Lord in heaven. Max was foxed.
“It’s officially morning, Max.”
Max let out a grunt. He swayed forward again, and then with a slow, purposeful blink, righted
himself. His dark hair was a complete mess, his cravat askew. The scent of gin poured off him. Tristan
studied his waistcoat. It wasn’t the amber silk that drew his attention, but the misaligned buttons. Max
had clearly dressed himself and done a very poor job of it.
Likely because the man was extremely foxed. As drunk as a goddamn wheelbarrow. He’d seen Max
intoxicated once before, but nothing that approached this.
He’d expected his blunt letter to get some sort of response from Max. In all honestly, he had
anticipated the response to come through Morgan. A declaration His Grace was holding firm in his
stance or some other condescending nonsense. But this? He definitely had not predicted a drunken
Max on his doorstep.
Max’s brow furrowed. “I need to speak to you.”
Hell, he couldn’t leave Max in the corridor. The man would surely make a spectacle of himself, and
wake all the neighbors...if he hadn’t already.
Tristan opened the door fully and motioned inside. “Please, do come in.” He didn’t even try to hide
the sarcasm.
With a mumbled “Thank you,” Max staggered into the parlor.
After closing the door, Tristan crossed his arms over his bare chest and waited for him to speak.
If Max objected to the contents of Tristan’s letter, so be it. Tristan would not back down. He could
look after himself, had done it for years—
Max was already in London? Tristan hadn’t dropped off the letter at the post office until after noon.
Arrington Park was a good ten hours away by carriage. Less by horseback, but still, hours away. And
the post did not arrive until mornings.
No possible way Max could have received the letter yet, let alone made it to London already. His
note could not have brought Max to his front door.
So why was he there?
With extreme effort, Tristan fought back the surge of hope.
Max shifted his weight. Swayed yet again. Finally, he spoke. Or rather, grumbled, “I hate sleeping
alone. I want you back.”
Tristan’s heart clenched. Yet he lifted his chin. “You might be a duke, but you can’t always have
everything you want.”
He scowled, coming very close to resembling a petulant child. “I know that.” Max glanced about the
shabby little parlor. But it was Tristan’s shabby little parlor, and he would not apologize for it. “I also
know I have no right to come calling at your door in the middle of the night.”
“You are correct. You don’t have that right.” It hadn’t stopped Max, though. “You’re foxed.”
A splash of liquid sloshed at the bottom of the bottle as Max lifted it and studied the contents.
“Yes.”
“Was that bottle full when you started drinking tonight?”
“Believe so. Was going to wait. Send a note ’round in the morning. Ask if you’d see me. But...” His
shoulders slumped. “I miss you.” He shifted his weight again. Swayed. Turned his attention to the
scratched floorboards beneath his feet. Then his dark eyes briefly met Tristan’s before darting back to
the floorboards. “Do...do you miss me?”
That brief instant when his gaze met Tristan’s had been more than enough for Tristan to see the
misery, the stark vulnerability, the cutting pain.
But Tristan didn’t push Max for answers, didn’t ask him why he let Tristan leave the country. Max
was beyond foxed, and it would be cruel to take advantage of him by pressing him with questions now.
“We can discuss it in the morning.”
Utter confusion twisted Max’s features. “Thought you said it was already morning?”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “We will discuss it after the sun rises.” Stepping forward, he took the near-
empty gin bottle from Max. “Is your carriage waiting for you?”
“Took a hackney.”
Of course. Max had put himself out of a driver. “How did you get to London?”
“Rutger brought me,” Max said, referring to his massive black stallion.
“Come along.” With a hand on Max’s lower back, he guided him to the drab brown couch. “Sit.”
The wooden frame creaked as Max dropped heavily onto the couch.
“Let’s get you comfortable.” Tristan dropped to his haunches. Max wasn’t a bit of help, but at least
he didn’t resist when Tristan pulled off his shoes and removed his cravat. Getting his coat off him...
Should have thought to see to the garment while Max had been standing. “Could you at least lean
forward?”
With a grunt, Max complied. One hand braced on Max’s chest to keep him from toppling over,
Tristan tugged and pulled on the coat until he was able to work a sleeve free of Max’s wrist. The other
sleeve...
“Max, you need to let go of that note.”
Max jerked back, hand tightening around the crumpled paper. “No. I need it.”
Had his letter actually made it to Max already? No, no. Could not have possibly. Enough hours had
not passed. So why was that paper so important to Max? “But I can’t get your coat off. The cuff won’t
fit over your fist.”
Max’s brow furrowed. He looked down to his clenched hand, coat sleeve bunched above his wrist.
Tristan could almost see the dilemma, and the struggle to solve it, tumbling about in Max’s head.
Letting out a sigh, Tristan waited.
Shifting slightly, Max shoved the crumpled paper into his trouser pocket.
Tristan finally tugged the coat free. “Lie down.” He pushed on Max’s chest, guiding him in the
direction he wanted him to go. “You need some rest.” After nudging Max onto his side, Tristan draped
the coat over him, grabbed the rubbish bin from the corner and set it beside the couch. “If you feel ill,
just...” He waved to the bin.
Looking up at Tristan, Max scowled again. The man’s large frame dwarfed the old couch, long legs
hanging off the side. “Want to sleep with you.”
“You are sleeping on the couch.”
Physical distance was a necessity. It had not even been forty-eight hours since Max had let him
leave. The wound was still very fresh. Much too fresh. He couldn’t risk being so close to Max. The
intimacy of sharing a bed. Of having Max’s arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.
His heart begged, pleaded with him.
Max’s unprompted appearance, however, couldn’t change why Tristan had left in the first place. All
those reasons were still very valid.
And so Tristan stepped away from the couch, away from Max, and grabbed the candle from the
console table. Before he shut his bedchamber door, he paused.
“Good night, Max.”
The soft sound of Max’s snores was the only response he received.
“I missed you, too,” Tristan whispered.
Chapter Eighteen
Closing his eyes, Max rested his elbows on his thighs and dropped his head into his hands. It felt like
his brain was trying to escape his skull. To call it an aching head would not do the pain justice.
A man shouted out in the corridor.
The sound cut through Max’s skull. He winced.
What the hell had he been thinking last night?
He hadn’t been thinking. Therein lay the problem.
Just the knowledge Tristan had been a somewhat easy distance from him had made the idea of
another night in an empty, lonely bed excruciatingly unbearable. Three glasses of gin, in rather quick
succession, and he hadn’t been able to keep himself from paying Tristan a call. From seeing him
again. From being near him once more.
And he really should have left the bottle at home. Three glasses he could endure with no ill effects.
An entire bottle?
He cringed.
You’re damned pathetic.
What the hell must Tristan think of him? The worst of it though? He couldn’t entirely remember
what had happened once he’d left the town house. He could recall the hackney, the stale scent of the
interior and the way the driver had seemed determined to hit every rut in the road. He could remember
shouting at the driver after he’d splashed gin on himself while trying to take another long swallow. He
could recall standing outside the building, squinting at Morgan’s hastily scrawled note, struggling to
get his eyes to focus on Tristan’s address. And Tristan’s displeasure at finding him on his doorstep?
That he most certainly could recall.
What Tristan had said to him, what Max had said to Tristan...
Apprehension gripped his gut.
He could only hope he hadn’t made a complete arse of himself.
Couldn’t have been too bad, though. Tristan had allowed him to stay. On the couch. In the parlor. A
room away from Tristan’s bed.
Couldn’t have gone all too well, either.
He rubbed at his temples, but it didn’t do any good to ease the pounding behind his eyes.
When the footman had arrived bearing Morgan’s note yesterday, Max had acted. The only thought
in his head had been to get to London. To breach the distance separating him from Tristan. Being apart
from Tristan hurt, so he needed to get back to him. What he had planned to do once he reached
Tristan, what he would say...
He hadn’t known then, and he hadn’t found the answer at the bottom of a bottle, either.
All he knew was that he wanted Tristan back. Needed him back.
Floorboards creaked. Lifting his head, Max looked to the closed door that led to Tristan’s
bedchamber. He heard the snap of a drawer being closed, more footsteps. The sounds of someone
moving about. Tristan must have awoken.
The sunlight peeking through the breaks in the brown-patterned drapes didn’t seem strong enough
for midmorning. Max pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Five minutes after eight. Why was
Tristan up so early?
Whatever the reason, Max should at least make himself presentable. Surely he appeared exactly
how he felt—as if he’d drank entirely too much gin, had a screaming aching head and had slept on an
uncomfortable couch. Not exactly the image he wanted to present while pleading his case to Tristan.
Max put on his shoes, got to his feet and let out a grunt.
Damnation, did he need to use the necessary.
There were only two doors leading from the parlor. The main door and the one to Tristan’s
bedchamber.
If he had to go out in the corridor to use a common privy or, worse, out back to some shed... He
sighed. He really was in no mood to encounter any of Tristan’s neighbors, though he wouldn’t be
surprised if the entire building made use of the same necessary. The boardinghouse, while not exactly
in the stews, was not in a safe part of Town. Thank heaven he’d had the foresight to assign Morgan to
watch over Tristan.
After passing a hand over his hair to smooth it, he knocked on Tristan’s bedchamber door.
“Tristan?”
A pause. “Yes, Max.”
“Where’s the washroom?”
“In here.” The door swung open, revealing Tristan in his shirtsleeves and a maroon waistcoat, the
long length of his cravat hanging from his neck. Not meeting Max’s gaze, Tristan pointed to a
partially open door on the other side of his bedchamber.
Pushed by the uncomfortably full state of his bladder, Max merely muttered a “Thank you” before
heading straight for the washroom.
After relieving himself, he checked his reflection in the small mirror above the washstand. A crack
marred the glass, the mirror hanging by a wire affixed to a nail in the wall. At least Tristan’s
apartments included a washroom, though the space was barely large enough for Max to turn around in.
A day’s growth of stubble covered his jaw, dark smudges underscored his eyes and his collar was
rumpled from sleeping in his clothes. Yes indeed, he looked like hell.
Leaning down, he splashed cold water onto his face. He grabbed the towel from a hook on the wall
and patted dry. He made to straighten his waistcoat then rolled his eyes. Bloody brilliant. Before he’d
left the town house to hail a hackney, he had changed into the amber silk waistcoat. Arriving foxed
and with misaligned buttons had surely killed any goodwill he’d hoped the garment would inspire in
Tristan.
He fixed the buttons. He needed to locate his cravat, as well. His hand hovered over the straight
razor beside the water basin, the cake of shaving soap on the chipped saucer still damp. He didn’t want
to borrow Tristan’s razor without asking, and asking would feel like an imposition.
Tristan was not currently his. He didn’t even know if Tristan still considered Max a friend.
A wince squeezed his eyes closed.
I can get him back.
He repeated the words in his head. After a few passes, the tightness in his chest eased a notch.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and surveyed his reflection in the mirror again. Given the
circumstances, he was as presentable as he could make himself.
He found Tristan in the small parlor, navy coat on and cravat done in a neat knot. “Good morning.”
Tristan returned his greeting and held out Max’s coat and cravat. “Do you need help with them?”
“Though I’ve surely given you cause to doubt, I can manage dressing myself without a valet’s
assistance.” He took the proffered coat and slipped it on, taking care to ensure he would not prove his
words false. A couple flicks of his fingers, and he tied his cravat in a simple knot.
“Is that a new waistcoat?”
“Purchased it when I was last in Town. Someone whose opinion I greatly admire suggested I add a
bit of color to my wardrobe.”
His comment earned him not even a hint of a smile from Tristan. Max could detect nothing from his
expression.
Morning sun streamed through the two windows. Tristan must have opened the drapes while Max
had been in the washroom. The parlor was small yet tidy, the few furnishings years old judging by
their condition, the round dining table in the corner free of dust. Tristan, in his elegant attire and with
his exquisitely beautiful features, should appear completely out of place in the room, yet somehow he
didn’t.
Silence stretched between them. Tristan opened his mouth, but before he could ask Max to leave,
Max spoke.
“I apologize for last night. The late call. My...state. And I apologize for anything I might have said
or done that did not meet with your satisfaction.”
Tristan’s gaze swept over his face. It was all Max could do not to shift under the weight of his
scrutiny. “You don’t remember last night, do you?”
“I don’t recall much. I was rather intoxicated.”
The way Tristan was looking at him, green-gold eyes considering him, assessing him, made Max
wonder anew about what he had said to Tristan last night.
“Why?”
“Why was I foxed? Why am I here? I missed you. Do you...could you...” Hell, this was difficult.
“Will you give me another chance?”
“I won’t work for you again, Max. I can’t do that.”
“No, that’s not what I’m asking.” He knew Tristan did not want to continue their arrangement. The
man had made that point very clear. And that wasn’t what Max wanted anymore either. “I...I want us
to be together. I miss you.”
“Then why did you let me leave?” Tristan didn’t throw the question at Max. He spoke simply, as
though he was only curious. As though the answer meant little to him.
Max felt his hands begin to tremble. He shoved them into his pockets. “You said you needed to
leave.”
Tristan arched a brow. “That’s all? That’s why you let me leave?” He shook his head in patent
disappointment. “I need to be on my way.” He motioned to the door. “I would appreciate it if you
would not return.”
“No!” The refusal burst from his mouth. Desperation clawed at his throat. “Please, give me a
moment. Hear me out.”
“I can’t, Max. I need to be on my way, and you need to leave now. I’m starting a new position.
Apprenticing for a tailor. I need to be there by nine, and I cannot be late.”
That explained why Tristan had risen so early, and knowing Tristan had already moved on with his
life, without Max, hurt. A lot. “But it’s—” he pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, “—not even
twenty past eight.”
“And the shop is not next door. It’s a few streets away, and I refuse to be late.”
“So give me a few minutes then hire a hackney to take you there.”
“I can’t afford the fare, Max.”
“I’ll cover the damned fare.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want your money. You clearly were not listening when I told you
why I needed to leave.”
“Yes, I was!” As if he could ever forget that morning. “But it’s only cab fare, Tristan. I’m not
offering to pay you to suck my cock. I just want a few minutes of your time.” He could not believe
they were arguing over this. Cab fare. A few bloody coins.
Closing his eyes, Max pressed his fingers to his temples. Hell, his head ached, but it would be
nothing in comparison to the ache that would consume him if he did as Tristan demanded. If Max left
now, Tristan would not allow him to return.
He would never see Tristan again.
“Please.” Max’s voice broke, caught in his throat. “Give me a few minutes.” Dropping his hands to
his sides, he held Tristan’s gaze. “Please, Tristan.”
Just when he was certain Tristan would refuse him, the man let out a sigh. “All right. But first
answer me this—why did you let me leave? The truth this time, Max.”
The urge to break eye contact, to turn away, nearly overpowered him. Yet he kept his feet rooted to
the floor, kept his gaze locked with Tristan’s. If he gave Tristan the wrong answer, if he evaded the
full truth, it would be the end of them. He knew it without a doubt.
“I was scared.” Terrified had been more like it. “You told me what you wanted from me, and I...I
was scared to give it to you.” Love couldn’t be trusted. Love blinded him to a man’s true intentions.
Love led to pain. He’d learned those lessons only too well. Just the thought of opening himself to that
sort of pain again had frightened him to his very core.
He’d been so determined not to repeat the past. Had done everything in his power to avoid a repeat.
He’d been a fool to love Jonathan. A fool to trust that bastard. Yet with Tristan...his error had been in
trying to deny, to Tristan and most of all to himself, that Tristan held Max’s heart.
“But I’m here now, Tristan. I know what you want from me, and it’s yours.” He was a coward. A
coward for not giving those three words voice. Yet the terror that gripped him two days ago, the terror
that had lodged into his very soul, held them back.
“You hurt me.”
“You have my deepest, most sincere apologies.”
Tristan shook his head. “That’s not enough, Max. How do I know you won’t do it again? I needed
you to stop me, and you just sat there behind your desk. You not only let me walk out the door, you
lent me your carriage to take me away from you.” The calm, detached facade vanished. His hands
balled into fists, every muscle in his body went taut. “I needed you to care enough to try to make me
stay. If nothing else, to at least pretend you wanted me to stay.” Soaked with disdain, he flung the
words at Max. “To make some sort of effort. To say something. Anything. Yet you did nothing. It took
me an hour to pack my trunks. A goddamn hour!” he shouted, face flushed, chest heaving, eyes
narrowed in unadulterated fury.
It was more raw, honest emotion than Max had ever seen from him. And the reason for that fury
sliced like a jagged blade across Max’s chest.
“God, I’m sorry, Tristan.” He took a step toward him yet stopped when Tristan jerked back. “I
wanted to come after you. I wanted you to stay. But I already told you. I was scared. And I’ve been a
horrid mess these past two days without you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t know what else to say. I’m
here now. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Tristan stared at him, an implacable wall of well-earned resistance.
“Please, Tristan. I beg you. Just give me a chance to make it up to you. I give you my word. I won’t
hurt you again.”
Footsteps passed in the corridor outside Tristan’s door. He heard someone shout on the street.
Tristan’s heavy sigh filled the room. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you, Max. I do.” He let
out a little sound, a mockery of a huff of laughter. “I love you. But...you’re you. I can’t see how we
could have a relationship that lasts any length of time. I despise Mr. Peterson for instilling that fear in
you, Max. Truly I do. But I can also guess why he left, and I don’t want the same thing to happen to
us.”
“Pardon?” Max gaped at him. “You said you didn’t want my money. That bastard left me because I
wouldn’t give him free access to my bank accounts.”
“I suspect that’s not the real reason he left.”
Max drew his spine straight. “You know nothing of that situation,” he spat through clenched teeth.
“You weren’t there. You’ve never even laid eyes on him. Or have you? How the hell do you know his
name?” He had never referred to Jonathan by name to Tristan. He was certain of it.
Tristan rolled his eyes, completely unruffled by Max’s indignation. “Your neighbors. They
mentioned him. Not to worry, no one seemed to suspect the real nature of your relationship with him,
or with me. It had been months since Mr. Peterson returned to London, and they were merely pleased
you had a friend at the Park again to keep you company.”
Perfectly logical explanation, but it didn’t excuse Tristan’s false assumption. “He never cared about
me, Tristan. That is a fact. He lied to me, he deceived me, and he betrayed me. Unless you are lying to
me as well, I cannot see how our relationship could possibly end like that one.”
“He was with you for a good year, correct?”
“Yes. And he has nothing to do with us.”
“I beg to differ. He’s why you let me leave, Max. He’s the reason behind the terms you laid out for
our arrangement. But that’s beside the point. If Mr. Peterson was only after your money, why did he
stay with you for so long? I’d hazard a guess he was not lying when he told you he loved you. That he
left because you are not an easy man to love.”
How dare Tristan imply the end of that relationship was Max’s doing? It was not his fault. Tristan
had no idea what he was talking about. “Do you know what he threatened to do?” Max didn’t wait for
a response. An ugly, noxious mass churned in his gut, demanded to be let loose. “If I did not turn over
a ridiculous sum, he would not only put it about that I prefer men, but that the Duke of Pelham has a
fondness for tying his lovers to the bed.” Almost a year later, and he could still vividly recall that
phrase, still see it in his mind’s eye, written in Jonathan’s hand. “He was the first man I loved, the first
I—” Max shook his head, hard and sharp, unable to lay himself that bare before Tristan. “I trusted him
completely, and he not only left me without explanation, he goddamn betrayed me in the worst
possible manner. If he had loved me, he would have never done such a thing. You are wrong, Tristan.
Whatever reason you’ve concocted as to why he left is wrong.” He stabbed a finger at his own chest.
“I was there. I know the truth.”
Horrified compassion filled Tristan’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Max. I should not have assumed.” Lifting
one shoulder, he glanced down, and then met Max’s gaze again. “Thank you for trusting me, and I’m
sorry I made such a mess of it the first time.”
Max could only nod. The anger, the memory of that ugly betrayal, still coursed through his veins,
and with it was now a fair dose of vulnerability. Tristan knew. He understood.
Tristan crossed to the couch and sat down. Bowing his head, he dragged a hand across the back of
his neck. “I believe that you care for me, Max. I do. It’s just... I lived at the Park for two months.
Lived with you for two months. You have a tendency to be stubborn, arrogant, high-handed and rather
closed off,” Tristan said, ticking off Max’s faults one by one. “I had to push and shove, damned near
fight with you, to get you to spend a couple hours a day away from your desk. For Christ’s sake, we
dined with an acre of mahogany between us. I want to be part of your life, but aside from the fact it’s
not feasible, I’m—”
“What do you mean, it’s not feasible?”
Tristan peered up at him through the forelock hanging over his eyes. “You’re a duke, Max, and I’m
far, far from that,” he said, as if he was explaining a common fact to a child.
Max slashed a hand through the air. “That does not make us not feasible.”
“Yes, it does. You spend most of your time in Hampshire. I can’t be your houseguest indefinitely,
and I can’t obtain a position in the village to support myself—the Duke of Pelham being good friends
with a shop worker would raise more than eyebrows among your neighbors. That’s what I mean by not
feasible. You may argue against it now, but deep down you know it’s the truth. You wouldn’t even let
me come with you to London. You left me behind at the Park.”
“What? You told me ending our arrangement had nothing to do with me going to London for a few
days. You lied to me!”
Briefly closing his eyes, Tristan let out a breath, clearly gathering his patience. “Max, I ended our
arrangement because I was in love with you. Being alone at the house made me realize that. If you
hadn’t gone to London, I would have come to that realization on my own soon enough and the
outcome would have been the same. Was your going to London the reason behind why I ended our
arrangement when I did? Yes. But while it was not the reason why I needed to end matters between us,
it did serve as a clear example of how it’s not feasible for me to be a part of your life. But even if that
wasn’t an issue, I’m afraid what you really want is for me to be there when it’s convenient for you.
And having to settle for being convenient...” He shook his head. “I used to envy the girls who left
Rubicon’s to be a man’s mistress. They had someone who wanted them enough to only want to be with
them. Someone who didn’t want to share them anymore. I thought I’d be happy if I had such a
someone of my own. But that’s not enough for me anymore. I want to be more than someone’s
convenient lover. And I’m afraid a year from now, I’ll find myself back in this very room. Alone. I
don’t want to go through leaving you again, Max. That was really painful.” Leaning left, he looked
around Max’s shoulder, to the dark fireplace behind him. He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Max.” And he
sounded as if he really meant it. “I need to go, and so do you.”
Max lurched forward. “Just give me a chance. We can be feasible. I can find a way. I’ll do whatever
you want, if you’ll give me the opportunity to prove I can be what you need. I don’t want convenient,
Tristan. I want you. I should not have let you leave but I did. It was the worst mistake of my life. I
freely admit it. But please, don’t let it cost me you.”
“But, Max...”
“Please, Tristan.” His nose began to sting, that prickly rush of impending tears. He had to swallow
hard to get the next words out. “I love you.”
Max gasped for breath. His pulse pounded in his ears. He shot out a hand, needing the back of the
nearby armchair for support, to keep him on his feet.
And he waited, his heart in his throat, completely at Tristan’s mercy. Hoping, praying Tristan would
agree to see him again.
The line of Tristan’s shoulders broke, the resistance draining out of him in one fell swoosh. “I will
consider the idea,” he said, as if he was considering it against his better judgment. “You can come
back later. For supper only. You are not staying the night. And you need to bring the meal. I should be
home by seven. And now I really need to leave.” Shaking his head, he crossed to the door. He reached
for the knob, and then turned back to Max. “Oh, and you need to recall your driver. I know he has been
following me, and doing so at your request. He is hard to miss.”
A pace from Tristan, Max stopped short. The grin at finally getting the yes out of Tristan fell from
his lips. “I would rather not recall him. This part of Town is not safe.”
Tristan’s mouth thinned. “It is safe enough. I rented lodgings at this very boardinghouse the first
year I came to London. I managed just fine then, and I can do so now. Just because I’m not as strong
or as tall as you are does not mean I can’t look after myself.”
Well aware of the need to tread carefully around a bristly Tristan, Max took a moment to consider
his words. “Your stature has nothing to do with my concern. You could be on eye level with me, and
I’d still worry.” His gaze drifted out the window, to the view of the building beyond it, the gutter
hanging from its roof. The truth—it was his only hope of getting Tristan to understand the fear that
tore at his gut at the mere thought of Tristan walking out the door of this building alone. “Do you
know how my driver came to work for the dukedom? I was in London, carousing about, thoroughly
enjoying my brief taste of freedom. Went to a gambling hell one night not far from here, and as I was
leaving, I was set upon by a good half dozen footpads. Mr. Morgan intervened. I tried to offer him
money as a thanks, but he refused. As a show of my gratitude, I offered him a position in my father’s
stables. If it had not been for Mr. Morgan’s assistance, I highly doubt I would be before you today.”
He looked back to Tristan. “This part of Town is not safe. I would greatly appreciate it if you would
spare me the worry and allow Mr. Morgan to continue in his current duties.”
Tristan’s mouth was still a thin line, but it now held more consideration than defensive anger. “It’s
that important to you?”
“Yes.”
Another shake of Tristan’s head. “All right. But rest assured, there is absolutely no enthusiasm
involved.”
* * *
A flick of Max’s fingers was all it took to get the hackney cab to obediently stop before the front steps
of Tristan’s building. “For you. I’ll take the next one.”
Tristan wasn’t about to argue with Max. Less than fifteen minutes remained before nine. His plan to
arrive early was completely blown to all hell, but as long as he wasn’t late, Mr. Foster should not
object.
He glanced up and down the walkway then across the street. As if on command, Max’s driver
emerged from an unimpressive, small hotel across the way. The clapboard exterior was in sore need of
a new coat of paint, but the same could be said of most every building in the area. With a wave of his
hand, Tristan motioned Morgan to him.
“Wouldn’t want you to have to run behind the hackney. Might as well get in.”
Morgan tipped his head. “Yes, Mr. Walsh.” No question, no hesitation.
Tristan followed Morgan into the cab. When Max made to shut the narrow door, Tristan held out a
hand, staying him. “I will take care of the fare.”
Max wisely followed his employee’s example. He tipped his head. “As you wish.”
The door snapped shut. The hackney lurched forward.
He really should not have agreed to consider giving Max another chance. It could not work between
them. Max was still a duke. Nothing could change that unfortunate fact. But...Tristan had simply been
unable to refuse him.
“I love you.”
Max, the Duke of Pelham, loved him.
The edges of Tristan’s lips lifted.
Before hard practicalities could rear their head again, Tristan pushed them aside. He didn’t want to
ruin the wonderful warmth that filled his chest, that feeling of being loved by Max, just yet.
Turning his shoulders to Morgan, he stuck out his hand. “Mr. Tristan Walsh.”
Morgan’s large hand engulfed Tristan’s, his grip firm yet gentle. “Mr. Jack Morgan.”
“Figured we should have a proper introduction, considering we’ll be spending a bit of time together.
Your employer is a very stubborn man.”
What could almost classify as a smile curved Morgan’s mouth. “I prefer to think of him as
determined.”
Tristan couldn’t help but agree with Morgan.
Chapter Nineteen
“I hope roasted chicken meets with your approval.” Max set the wicker basket on the small dining
table. “Wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I had my kitchen pack up what was on the menu for this
evening.”
The man’s perfectly tailored black coat couldn’t hide the stiffness in his shoulders. Head tipped
down, Max pulled a bottle of Bordeaux from the basket.
Max was uncertain, and nervous. The self-confidence he usually wore like a second skin gone. And
the fact he had knocked on Tristan’s door at precisely seven had not been lost on Tristan. Mayfair was
across Town, and this time of day, the streets tended to be quite busy. Even a very skilled driver would
find it impossible to time an arrival so accurately. Tristan would not be surprised in the slightest to
learn Max had arrived early and lingered outside the building until the appointed time had arrived.
Unable to keep the smile from his lips, Tristan dropped down before the hearth and prodded the fire.
“Chicken sounds wonderful, though I do hope there happen to be plates in that basket.” The previous
occupant had left not but a glass.
“Had the kitchen pack everything we’d need, including plates and cutlery.” And wineglasses, as
Max proved as he unwrapped one from a stark white linen napkin.
Tristan rested the iron poker against the brick fireplace surround and pushed to his feet. “Can I lend
you a hand with that?”
“No. Sit. Relax. I can manage setting a table.”
Tristan didn’t argue. He took a seat on the couch, though it was difficult to keep from grinning as he
watched Max ready the table for their supper.
He loves me.
Max set out the plates, poured the wine and then removed the silver covers from the serving dishes.
The scents of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread filled the parlor. Tristan’s stomach rumbled.
After fiddling with the placement of the knives and forks beside the two plates, Max finally turned
to Tristan. “Supper is served,” he said with a bow worthy of one of his diligent footmen.
“Thank you, Max.” Tristan pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “It looks delicious. I’m
famished.” His stomach rumbled once again, this time louder.
A furrow pulled Max’s brow as he sat in the chair next to Tristan’s. “Did you not have breakfast this
morning?”
“No time. Was just able to make it to the shop without being late.”
“My apologies. I kept you, and—”
“Think nothing of it.” Tristan brushed aside Max’s concern. “Mr. Foster allowed me a break around
noon, and I grabbed a bite from one of the street vendors.”
If anything, the explanation made Max’s frown heavier. Tristan wasn’t certain which part didn’t
meet with Max’s satisfaction—Max’s role in Tristan’s lack of a breakfast, the fact Tristan had
purchased luncheon from a street vendor or the mention of his new job. But Max kept his thoughts to
himself.
The chicken proved to be indeed delicious, but he had come to expect no less from Max’s kitchens.
The man employed excellent chefs.
“What do you prefer?” Max asked, between bites.
“My favorite meal? Pork cutlets with peas. We had mainly chickens and cows on the farm, but there
were a few hogs. Most went to market, but every now and then, my father would send one to the
butcher and we could have pork for a few suppers.”
Max nodded once. Tristan had the feeling if Max dined with him again, that basket would include
pork cutlets with peas.
He smiled. It was nice to have Max so determined to please him...outside of a bedchamber.
He just wants you in his bed again.
Tristan’s smile dimmed.
“I hate sleeping alone.” Those had been the first words out of Max’s mouth when Tristan had let
him into his rooms last night.
“I missed having a man in my bed.” Max’s whispered confession during their first night in
Hampshire sounded in Tristan’s head.
Drunk as a wheelbarrow and seconds after a climax—both occasions when stark, untainted honesty
tended to fall from a man’s lips.
“How was your first day?”
Max’s question jolted Tristan’s thoughts to the present. “It went very well. I think Mr. Foster was
pleased with me.” The gruff old man wasn’t the easiest to read, but he hadn’t outright complained
about anything Tristan had done, so he took that as a good sign. “Today was a test of sorts. I passed,
and I can return again tomorrow.”
“Of course he’d allow you to return. He’s fortunate to have you.”
“I would like to agree with you, but it’s actually more the other way around.” Tristan took a sip of
wine. “To say it’s difficult to secure a position without experience or a letter of recommendation
would be an understatement. Even offering to work for free, I had to beg him to take me on, and I
count myself very fortunate he agreed to give me a day to prove myself.”
Max paused, fork suspended midway to his mouth. “He’s not paying you?”
“Correct. I’m his apprentice. If anything, I should be paying him. He’s teaching me how to be a
tailor.”
For that, he earned a scowl. “Is that really what you want to do? Become a tailor?”
Tristan shrugged. “It isn’t something I’ve aspired to all my life.” There wasn’t anything he had ever
particularly aspired to. “But I have a fondness for fine clothes. It is work I think I’ll enjoy, and it’s a
respectable position.”
“If you need a letter of recommendation to secure a paying position, I am more than willing to
provide you with one.”
“And what would that letter contain? A shop owner would not be interested in how well I can suck
your cock, Max.”
“As if I would put such a thing in a letter, Tristan.”
“Don’t get all indignant with me.” He could hear the snap in his tone, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“I think my assumption is a very valid one. Not as if I scrubbed your floors or tended to your garden. I
earned my wages on my back. That’s the only sort of recommendation you can give—how good of a
fuck I am.”
Max’s hand tightened around his fork. Hell, his whole body tightened. As did Tristan’s. For a reason
he couldn’t explain, he was suddenly very up for an argument with Max. Hackles raised and a retort
just waiting to form on his tongue.
Max let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping. “This isn’t going how I’d hoped.”
“Supper will not end in my bed, Max.”
Tristan pointedly turned his attention back to his plate and focused on cutting a piece of chicken.
Max would leave now. It couldn’t work between them anyway. Max didn’t want Tristan for himself.
Max wanted someone who would warm his bed without complaint, and that man wasn’t Tristan
anymore.
Still, that didn’t mean he wanted to actually watch Max walk away from him.
He brought his fork to his mouth but the chicken tasted like ash, dry yet thick on his tongue. He had
to force himself to swallow it down.
A hand rested on his forearm, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Tristan, tonight isn’t about me trying to get
back into your bed.”
“Then what is it about, Max?” There was that snap in his voice again, harsh and defensive.
Yet Max didn’t rise to the challenge. “What I begged for this morning. A chance to prove to you
that I can be what you need.”
“I need someone who won’t...” Catching the words before they could leave his mouth, Tristan shook
his head and turned his attention back to his plate.
“Won’t what?”
He set down his fork. Met Max’s intent gaze. Those dark brown eyes that begged Tristan to confide
in him. “Someone who won’t look on me as a whore.” There. He’d said it. It was at the root, the very
core, of all his worries, of all his concerns about a real relationship with Max.
“I don’t, Tristan.” A vow, a pledge, spoken in that same quiet tone.
“But that’s what I’ve always been to you.”
Max shook his head. “No. You’ve been a man I greatly enjoy being with who enjoyed being with
me. I went to Rubicon’s because I refused to risk repeating the past and being alone...well, it’s damned
lonely. I didn’t want to be so alone anymore. Yes, I tried to convince myself if I paid you then it
would keep everything in perspective for me. But truthfully? One night with you was all it took. I just
wanted to be with you again.”
Tristan’s breaths turned shallow. He was caught in Max’s dark gaze. Caught by the sincerity, the
stark, bare honesty.
Slowly breaching the distance between them, Max leaned forward. His hand coasted up Tristan’s
arm to cup his jaw. Tristan felt himself leaning toward Max. Their breaths mingled.
“I’ve missed you,” Max whispered against his lips. Tempting him, begging him to give in to the
intrinsic pull between them.
The memory of Max’s kiss, the taste of him, the weight of his body pressing Tristan’s into the
mattress, the strong comforting arm slung across his waist, holding him... Tristan wanted it again.
Needed it. Needed Max.
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?”
“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 noise.
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.
“Yes.” Max passed a sandwich to him. “And you were correct. I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“Him. The reason why he left me, or at least one of the reasons. After he came to live at the Park, I
rarely saw him outside of the bedchamber. I came to love him, and even though he gave me those
three words countless times, I never once returned them. I thought he knew. I’d never invited another
to live with me at the Park. Figured it was obvious—” With a shake of his head, Max cut himself off.
“I don’t know how he tolerated me for so long. In any case, I apologized for being such a selfish
bore.”
“How did he react to that?”
“When he opened the door, he thought I was there to do him in.” Max took a bite of his sandwich. “I
might have thrown a few threats at him the last time we spoke.”
“Might have?” He had seen Max livid with anger before. Add heartbroken and hurt to the mix, and
Max had surely been terror brought to life.
“All right. I did. I was very upset with him at the time,” he added by way of explanation. “I will
never forgive him for sending me that letter, but I can now at least somewhat understand what drove
him to do such a thing. And...it is reassuring to know I was not played the fool.”
“He wasn’t lying to you.” The realization hit Tristan. The pieces connected in his head. The source
of Max’s extreme vigilance for anything that remotely resembled a lie.
“He wasn’t lying to me,” Max repeated, with a shade of something that looked suspiciously like
regret in the depths of his eyes.
“Do you regret that your relationship with him ended? Not how it ended, but that it did?” He had to
ask. Had to know.
“I regret being too absorbed in myself and my responsibilities to notice I was making him unhappy.
I do regret hurting him. But I do not regret the fact that relationship ended. It worked out for the best.
Led me to you. You suit me. Balance me. He didn’t have the ballocks to disagree with me. Instead of
demanding I treat him better, he left and took a coward’s road to strike back at me.”
“He might have been intimidated by the Duke of Pelham.”
“You aren’t, though.”
Tristan smiled. “No, I’m not. Well, not anymore. You can be quite intimidating to someone who
doesn’t know you.” He tipped his head toward Max’s chest. “The lavender helps though.”
A chuckle shook Max’s chest. “I’m glad you approve.”
A companionable silence fell over them as they finished their meal. The lightest of breezes, the sun
warming his cheeks, and Max beside him. If only forever could be like this.
Though the sky remained purest blue, it was as if a cloud formed over his head, blocking out the
sun, casting a shadow on the lightness, the joy, in his heart.
The longer he indulged himself with Max, the more it would hurt later. Perhaps he should have
stood firm, refused to give Max another chance. That would have been the wise thing to do. But he
couldn’t regret this fortnight he’d shared with Max. Would never regret even a minute he’d been able
to spend with Max.
As if sensing his thoughts, Max turned his shoulders toward Tristan and pushed the saddlebags,
which contained the remnants of their luncheon, off the blanket. “I love you,” he said, solemn and
grave.
“I love you, too, Max.”
“I did not invite you here to discuss Jonathan. That wasn’t the reason why I wanted to spend the day
with you.” His shoulders went stiff, his attention focused solely on Tristan. “A fortnight ago, you had
a plethora of concerns about a relationship with me. I believe I have addressed all of them but one—
your not feasible concern.”
Tristan nodded.
“I gave you my word I would handle that as well. I have given the matter considerable thought and
have devised a solution. If you would hear me out and give my solution due consideration, I would
appreciate it.”
“All right.” It was the least he could do. He owed it to Max to hear him out.
Yet Tristan now knew how Max’s business associates must feel. To be on the receiving end of
Max’s intense gaze, his strong features practically cast in stone. The force of his unwavering resolve
poured off him.
Morgan had had it right. Max wasn’t stubborn, per se. He embodied determined.
Tristan had given Max a challenge, and Max was hell-bent to overcome it. Unfortunately, it was one
challenge against which neither of them could come out the victor.
A crisp, single nod, and Max got to his feet. Tristan remained seated on the blanket as Max began
pacing, hands clasped behind his back, the length of his long, dark greatcoat slapping against his
leather riding boots with each step he took.
“The obvious solution is for you to live at Arrington Park again.” Without looking to Tristan, he
held up a hand to stay him. “While I believe it would not raise any suspicions from the neighborhood,
you would not deem it acceptable. ‘I do not want to be your guest anymore,’” he said, proving once
again he possessed an excellent memory. “I could argue you would not be my guest. That the house
would be as much yours as mine. That we would be living together. But I doubt such an argument
would be successful with you.”
“Correct.”
“I could rearrange my schedule, spend most of my time in Town with only occasional visits to
Hampshire. Manage the dukedom from the town house versus the country house and continue to visit
you at your rooms. It is an option, but one I am not fond of because I don’t believe it would satisfy
your requirement of being a part of my life. Or mine of yours.” He paused midstride, caught Tristan’s
eyes. “I do want that, Tristan. To be a part of your life.”
Tristan had not thought of it that way before. He’d wanted Max to include him in his life, but he
hadn’t considered Max would truly want to be a part of Tristan’s. He had demanded Max do so much
to prove he could be a good partner, yet he was suddenly aware Max had not demanded anything of
him in return except to give him a chance. A fortnight of chaste suppers, of compromises on Max’s
part. The Duke of Pelham had willingly bowed to an ex-prostitute’s will, and he hadn’t required even a
kiss in return.
It was almost too much to believe. But Max’s actions over the past two weeks held all the necessary
proof to turn inconceivable into fact.
Max really did love him. Max had told him so enough times for Tristan to believe it. And it wasn’t
as if he’d doubted Max loved him. Max wasn’t the sort to give those three words easily. Hell, Tristan
was as certain as could be that he was the only man who had received those words from Max. Yet still,
he couldn’t help but marvel at the knowledge Max wanted to be a part of his life.
“Thank you.” The words popped out of his mouth.
“For what?” Max asked, taken aback.
“For everything you’ve done of late. For wanting to be a part of my life. It means a lot to me.”
Max gave him another crisp, single nod, yet this one held a shade of self-consciousness. He
resumed his pacing. “After much deliberation, I’d landed on what I believe is the best solution for our
circumstances. Your primary concern is how others, not you or I, would look upon a lasting friendship
between us given I am a duke and you are the son of a farmer, and therefore others would question the
true nature of our relationship.”
“Well, my mother was a gentleman’s daughter, though the daughter of a poor gentleman. She was
of the Campbells of Lincolnshire.” He did not know why he had to inform Max about that. Wouldn’t
make a bit of difference, but it did make him feel a little farther away from the stews than Max might
believe him to be. “But yes, a duke and a common farmer’s son would rouse suspicion. Under normal
circumstances, a man of your standing would not associate with someone like me. I...” There was no
point in not saying it, so Tristan plowed onward. “I also worked at Rubicon’s for two years. While I
never asked, I’m certain some of the house’s patrons move about in Society. It would be an
uncomfortable situation which could prove disastrous if one of your acquaintances recognized me.
Your title protects you, insulates you. You can do as you please. I don’t have that liberty.”
“I cannot do as I please. If that were indeed the case, we would not be having this conversation.”
Tristan rolled his eyes skyward. “You can do almost as you please. Your title and your wealth
permit you much more freedom than I have ever had or will ever have.”
“My title has placed us in this situation. But in general, it does give me more options. Agreed. In
fact, my solution to our dilemma relies on my bank account and the weight of my title. Two things
you do not seem to much care for, but two things for which I am thankful, for they can allow us to be
together in a matter which will hopefully please both of us.” He stopped and faced Tristan. A deep V
had formed between his dark brows, his mouth set in a grim line.
Suspicion formed in the pit of Tristan’s stomach.
Please, no. Please don’t let Max’s solution include that.
Yet he kept his mouth shut, held back the protests. He’d given Max his word he would hear him out.
Max passed his gaze over Tristan’s face. “Aside from our arrangement, aside from me, did you
enjoy living in Hampshire?”
That wasn’t the question Tristan had expected. “Yes, I do believe I did.”
“Did you feel welcome by the neighborhood? Did you feel welcome when you went into the
village?”
“Yes. Your neighbors are quite a friendly bunch.”
“You don’t care to live on a farm again, do you?”
Where was Max going with these questions? Perhaps that ugly feeling in the pit of Tristan’s
stomach was for naught. Perhaps Max’s solution did not include the one thing Tristan dreaded above
all. “Correct. Tilling the fields is not my preferred way to spend a day.”
“Do you really want to be a tailor? Do you wish to one day own your own shop?”
“It’s not my lifelong ambition. But as I’ve told you before, it is respectable work and work I
somewhat enjoy.”
“Somewhat?”
“Mr. Foster gives me the work he dreads. Understandable. I’d prefer to construct the garments I
want to versus being relegated to monotonous tasks, but I’m learning the trade and it is called work
for a reason.”
“When you lived with me in Hampshire, the neighborhood accepted you because you were my
friend. The neighborhood is small. The village is small. There aren’t even enough respectable families
for a proper assembly. Something I bemoaned as an adolescent, but something that works to our
advantage. The residents also don’t move about in Society. In Hampshire, our friendship is not
questioned. It does not rouse suspicion. You are not questioned. We are not questioned. Do you
agree?”
“Yes. And yes, Max,” Tristan added, answering the next question before Max could ask it, “I agree
your title and my friendship with you granted me a standing in the local society I would not have had
without you.”
“Thank you...for not arguing that point.”
“It is the truth.” Would be more than churlish of him to attempt to argue against it.
Clasping his hands behind him, Max lifted his chin a tad. If Tristan wasn’t mistaken, Max was
nervous. The man was trying to hide it but... The stiffness of his stance, the hint of worry in his
determined gaze.
Dread fell into Tristan’s gut like an iron weight.
“The Dawsons used to reside a little ways outside the village. A nice-sized house. Not too large, not
too small. Ideal for a gentleman but not enough for a family of five, complete with a bit of property
though no farmland,” Max said, voice carefully neutral, as if he were merely discussing the particulars
of a business proposal. Tristan fought back the cringe. “It’s perhaps a mile and a half from the Park.
It’s currently for sale. I’ve already inquired, and they will accept a lease or an outright purchase.”
He could see where Max was headed. Could now see why Max had asked all those questions, how
they had led them to this point.
Max hadn’t been manipulating him exactly. The man had been trying to take away potential
arguments. Had been giving Tristan a brilliant show of his negotiation skills.
But Tristan was not a business deal that needed to be negotiated.
And the fact Max was treating him as such, treating their future as such...
It wasn’t anger that washed over him, but disappointment. Acute and sharp.
Disappointment that must have been reflected on his face, for Max said, “Now remember, Tristan,
you promised to give my solution due consideration.”
Tristan could only nod.
“What I am proposing is to gift you enough money for you to purchase the Dawsons’ property and
live comfortably for the rest of your life. To the neighborhood, you would simply have decided to
purchase a property of your own in the country. We are already established friends in their eyes, so
our continued friendship would raise no concern or suspicion. You could spend your days as you
please. With me, making clothes, tending to your garden, visiting the village. However you please.
You would not need to work again. You would be free to be with me, and we would be as free as
practicality would allow to be together.”
“You want me to continue to lie to your neighbors?”
Max opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “In what way would you be lying to them?” he
asked, sounding more than a bit off balance. “Aside from hiding the fact we share a bed.”
“I’m not your friend from London. I’m not from the ton.”
“You are my friend from London. You currently live there. And I never told anyone you moved
about in Society. Is that what you told them?”
“No. I was sufficiently vague. Just mentioned my mother’s family.”
“So why does it bother you to have the neighborhood assume there is no reason to wonder why you
and I are friends? When you secured your position at Mr. Foster’s, did you tell him you once worked
at Rubicon’s? That your father is a poor farmer in Yorkshire?”
“No, of course not.”
“So why are you fighting me on this? Everyone has their secrets, Tristan. Hampshire allows you to
start over, to not be defined by your past. How is that so bad?”
“It’s not,” Tristan grudgingly agreed. He disliked the idea of pretending to be something he wasn’t,
but as Max had pointed out, that was exactly what he’d done when he’d secured his position with Mr.
Foster. Hiding his past was simply the price of starting anew. “But what would happen when you need
to go to Town on business? Would you leave me behind again? I couldn’t go with you. London is not
Hampshire. What would your friends think? They’ll know I’m not an acquaintance from Town. Or
would I be one of your secrets?”
Max’s jaw tightened. “You would have your own home in Hampshire. You could stay there or you
could come with me when I go to London, which I don’t do with any frequency. It would be your
choice. You would simply be my neighbor from the country who decided to spend a bit of time in
London—which would be the truth—and be my guest while you are there. You cannot claim it is
uncommon for friends to travel together or be each others’ guests. Quite honestly, I’m a horrid bore
when I’m in London. I only leave the Park when necessity demands it, and I return as soon as possible.
And I have one friend in the ton. He already knows I had a guest at the Park. Already knows about you,
and he’s simply happy I’m not alone anymore.”
“Max, don’t exaggerate. You have more than one friend. Dukes move about in Society.”
“I’m not exaggerating. I have acquaintances, and if anything, it’s exaggerating to call them
acquaintances. I do attend a handful of social events when I’m in Town. And yes, it would likely not
be wise for you to attend with me. But they are more often than not dinner parties given by other
members of the Lords. I attend for business reasons, not for social reasons. If I go to White’s for
dinner, I typically dine alone. On occasion, Rawling, my sole friend in Society, will make himself at
home at my table. I’ve never been one to have a plethora of acquaintances I’d deem friend. I was
educated at home, and after I inherited, I spent most of my waking hours behind a desk. Your concern
about my friends questioning my friendship with you is nothing at all to be concerned about, and
definitely not a reason to keep us apart.”
No siblings to keep Max company. An extended family he’d kept at arm’s length. A massive house
full of only servants. Nothing but his ledgers and the guilt that had once driven him to remain behind
his desk. Tristan’s heart ached for Max, for how absolutely alone he had been in the world. “You must
have been very lonely.”
“Yes.” Max didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. The short answer spoke volumes.
Tristan pushed to his feet. “I’m sorry about that, Max. Truly I am.” And he was. “I admit your
solution holds merit, but I can’t agree. I’m not taking your money. I can’t be your whore again.”
Max didn’t stagger back a step, but he definitely flinched. “I never said anything about paying you.
I don’t want you to be...that to me again. That’s not what this is about. A gift is freely given with no
expectation of anything in return. You could take the money and leave the next day, choose never to
see me again, and there would be nothing I could do about it.”
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “I will not accept your gift.” Max could wrap it up in a neat
package, give it a polite name, but nothing could make Tristan agree to accept money from Max again.
He wouldn’t do it. Could not do it. Absolutely refused. The risk was much too great.
Max threw up his hands, and with that gesture, all the patience he’d been displaying went out the
window. The determined businessman long gone. “Then what do you propose? All you’ve had are
complaints and obstacles. Problems I—” he stabbed a finger at his own chest, “—needed to solve. I
have solved them all. If my solution isn’t acceptable, then provide one of your own.”
“There isn’t one, Max. I’ve told you that before.” Oh, how he wished there could be a solution, but
neither his wish nor Max’s unbending resolve could make the impossible possible.
“If you believe that, then why the hell did you agree to give me a chance?”
“Because you begged for it. Because you wanted me. Because you love me. Because I couldn’t
refuse you.” Pain, heartache leached into the disappointment and anger. The faintest of trembles began
to seep into his voice, and try as he might, he couldn’t mask those trembles. “Because I’m selfish and
I wanted to be with you a little bit longer even though I knew it could not last. That’s why.”
Max let out a sigh. Not of exasperation, but of understanding. “But it can last, Tristan.”
“No. It can’t.” He took a step back, needing to put more distance between them. “I can’t accept
money from you again, Max.” He would not accept another farthing from Max. Could not allow
money to come between them again, to stain their relationship. It would ruin everything, slowly kill
the happiness he felt just being near Max. And the possibility one day in the future, Max would look
on him once again as his whore. As a convenient lover he’d bought and purchased...
It wasn’t dread that washed over Tristan, but pain, heavy and sharp, slicing into his soul.
“I love you, Tristan. I refuse to accept that I must give you up merely because you are a man and I
am a duke. You may be willing to give up on us, to allow pride to come between us, but I am not.”
“It’s not pride, Max,” he shot back, defensive and desperate. “I love you, too. I don’t want to give
up on us. I want to be with you more than you could possibly understand. But I can’t go back to how
we once were. I can’t.”
“What I am proposing is not even remotely the same situation. Yes, money is involved, but it’s not
at all about trying to buy your affections. I do not—” he emphasized the word, as if doing so could
convince Tristan of his sincerity, “—want us to go back to how we once were. I won’t allow it. This is
about trying to find a way so we can be together forever. That’s all. Nothing more. I trust you. I
believe you love me. That you won’t say yes because you are more interested in my gift than being
with me. Why can’t you see that, Tristan? Why don’t you believe me?”
Arms wrapped tightly around himself, Tristan jerked his head toward the pond, toward its clear blue
surface, broke eye contact, unable to bear the pain in Max’s gaze. Afraid to face the truth he’d
glimpsed in those dark depths.
“I thought you trusted me.” The hurt in Max’s voice cut straight to Tristan’s heart.
“I do.” Tristan’s lips barely moved, the words not even a whisper. “I do,” he repeated, louder,
needing Max to hear him. “I believe—I know—you love me.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, but he couldn’t stop a tear from tracing a path down his cheek.
There was the soft sound of footsteps swooshing through grass. Tristan kept his eyes closed, yet he
could feel Max’s presence now standing before him. Could almost feel the warmth of his strong body.
Could feel the comfort Max’s presence offered.
A part of Tristan shouted a warning to hold firm. To hold his ground, continue to refuse. No one
gave someone like him a gift without expecting something in return.
But Max didn’t see him as an object, as a toy he could purchase for the evening. Max looked on him
as a person. As a man. As the man he loved.
And Tristan was worthy of that love.
A sense of peace settled over him.
What he had once done for a living mattered not. The fact he was the son of a poor farmer held no
stock with Max either. No one else had ever wanted him for him. But Max did, and he’d more than
proved it over these past two weeks.
Max loved him and wanted to be with him. Loved him so much he was willing to do whatever it
took to be with Tristan.
The man who had once been convinced others only cared about his title and fortune, who had done
his damnedest to protect himself from being duped by another money-hungry lover, was now offering
to give Tristan a small fortune so they could be together.
And Max was willing to make that offer because he believed, he trusted, that Tristan loved him for
him.
Tristan’s breath caught in his throat.
A hand settled on his shoulder, Max’s grip strong yet gentle. “I need you in my life, Tristan. You
make me a better man,” he said, speaking very clearly. His conviction, his unwavering belief, more
solid than iron. “You see me and not the duke. You want me, not my fortune. It’s what I’ve always
wanted, but I’ve never had that before you. Hell, I’d given up hope it was even possible. Believed I
needed to accept there were some things I could not have. But I can have it. I do have it with you. Take
pity on me. I beg you. Don’t make me live without you.”
Max needed him, just as Tristan needed Max. Had needed Max’s strength, his determination, to
help Tristan shove aside his own doubts in himself.
And now that those doubts were firmly shoved aside, he could truly see Max’s offer for what it was
—simply a means, a way, for them to be together forever. Nothing more.
Neither of them wanted to risk repeating the past. Yet Max was opening himself up for that very
risk. Was willing to take that chance, because he loved Tristan.
And so Tristan needed to take a chance on Max. To show Max the same level of trust that Max had
in him. To give his heart over to Max’s safekeeping, just as Max had already done with him.
Max’s grip on his shoulder tightened, his long fingers shaking the tiniest bit.
And that faint possibility of the past repeating itself vanished. There was no risk at all in trusting
Max.
* * *
Heart lodged firmly in his throat, Max felt the tension ease from Tristan’s body. He had stripped
himself bare, thrown away his pride, laid himself at Tristan’s feet. He could only hope it had been
enough.
But if it hadn’t been enough...
If Tristan persisted, stood firm, refused...
Max’s soul screamed in protest, railed in agony.
This could not be the end of them. It could not be.
As if hearing Max’s thoughts, Tristan looked up at Max. Slowly, he reached out. Reached for Max.
A smile, full of peace and love, began to curve Tristan’s mouth.
Max could not have moved if his life depended on it.
Tristan’s arms wound around his neck. A tremble, of longing, of need, shook Max’s body.
“Yes.” The whispered word brushed Max’s lips.
“Yes what?” He had to be certain.
“Yes, I trust you. Yes, I believe you. Yes, I agree. Yes, I’ll accept your gift.”
For what felt like the longest moment, Max couldn’t move.
Tristan had said yes.
Tristan believed him.
Tristan had agreed to be with him.
It wasn’t the end of them. This was the beginning of forever with Tristan.
Max’s arms shot out, grabbed Tristan, hauled him closer. Crushing his mouth over Tristan’s, he
kissed him with everything in his heart, in his soul. Poured his love, his very self, into that kiss.
Having Tristan in his arms, his lithe, strong body pressed against Max’s once again...
Max dropped to his knees. Their kiss still unbroken, Tristan moved with him. Together, they fell
onto the blanket, Tristan beneath him.
He yanked at the placket of Tristan’s breeches. “Please?”
It wasn’t lust that pulled the plea from Max. He couldn’t put words to the feeling pounding through
his veins, consuming him, but he needed Tristan right then. Right now. Needed to be inside him.
Needed to experience that connection between them. That perfect bliss. Needed it to keep him from
crumbling, from sobbing in thanks, in relief, that Tristan had agreed.
“Here?”
“Yes. No one will come across us. It’s my property.” Hence why he’d chosen this particular pond
for their luncheon.
That took Tristan aback, abet very briefly. “What isn’t yours in England?” he asked, lifting his hips
so Max could pull his breeches down.
“Your new house in the country.” A firm tug dispensed with each of Tristan’s riding boots.
As Max shrugged his shoulders, flicked his greatcoat from his wrists, Tristan’s nimble fingers dealt
with the buttons on Max’s breeches, freeing Max’s erection. Max reached into his pocket, pulled out
the small vial of oil.
“Rather certain about yourself, weren’t you?” Tristan teased.
“Hopeful, yes,” Max said, pouring oil onto his fingers that shook the slightest bit. “Certain? Far
from it. I know you too well.”
Tristan reached out, cupped Max’s jaw. A somber touch mixed with the passion burning in his gaze.
“I’m sorry for being so stubborn. It wasn’t that I doubted you. It was more me, doubting you could
love me for me.”
“But I do, Tristan. I love you. Just you,” he vowed, the hitch in his voice unmistakable.
“I know that now.”
Tristan pulled Max down for a kiss. The instant their lips touched, passion reignited between them.
Crouched over him, Max worked a hand between their bodies, prepared his lover. And then he was
pushing inside Tristan—slick, hot heat gripping Max’s length, shoving every thought from his head,
leaving only true, pure need.
They moved together. Frantic. Reckless. Tristan tugged at Max, tugged him closer, as Max thrust
harder, faster, chasing that perfect bliss. Needing to bring them both there. Desperate for the
reassurance only Tristan’s climax could provide.
He could feel it barreling upon Tristan. Barreling upon himself. Tristan’s short, panting breaths
singed Max’s cheek. His body tightened around Max’s cock, then a soul-deep grunt rumbled Tristan’s
chest. Tristan’s climax sparked his own, and Max eagerly followed him into bliss.
He had not lost Tristan. They could share this over and over again. Tristan was his forever.
Pulling back, Max broke their kiss. Cheeks flushed, lips plumped and reddened, and eyes heavy-
lidded, Tristan looked utterly debauched.
Then concern wrinkled Tristan’s brow. He wiped a thumb across Max’s cheek, smearing wetness
across his skin. “Max?”
“I’m happy,” he said simply.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly happy. Content. At peace with himself and his life. And it
was all because of Tristan.
The most beautiful smile curved Tristan’s lips. “So am I.”
Epilogue
November 1822
Hampshire, England
Tristan dropped to his knees and adjusted the fabric, trying to take up some of the slack. No, doing it
that way would cause the inseam to pull. He shifted his fingers a bit, made some adjustments and
appraised the results. Yes, that might do. He’d have to redo the entire placket, but the fabric appeared
to be draping as it should.
Glancing up to Max, he asked, “Comfortable?”
“Yes, though if you keep tugging on the fabric, the trousers will feel uncomfortably snug very
soon.”
Tristan smiled. Sure enough, a hard arch began to tent the placket. “Perhaps that’s my goal.” Using
a piece of chalk, he made a mark on the dark wool right next to his fingertips.
“I thought your goal was to make me a pair of trousers, not get pushed to the floor and buggered
senseless?”
“Both are very worthy goals, but the maid’s upstairs, dusting or other. The latter will have to wait
until she leaves for the day.” The next time he did a fitting with Max though, he would be sure to
schedule it when his maid was not in the house.
Max let out a sigh, all playful condescension. “I suppose I can endure a bit of a wait.”
It was much more enjoyable to play tailor for Max than to work in some shop. He could indulge his
fondness for fine clothes and his fondness for Max’s strong body all in one activity. Though that
strong body wasn’t the easiest to fit clothes to. The last pair of trousers he’d made for Max had been
too tight, the wool stretching across his groin, leaving nothing to the imagination and completely
unsuitable for Max to wear...at least outside of a bedchamber. As such, Tristan had overcompensated
with this pair. Ah well. Eventually he’d get it right on the first try. In any case, it was much easier to
take a garment in than to add more fabric.
“You’re all set.” Tristan pushed to his feet. “You can take them off now. I should have them
finished in a couple of days.”
Max did as bid. Tristan dropped the caulk into the tin on his desk and handed Max the trousers the
man had arrived in. He had converted his study into a tailor’s shop of sorts. Bolts of fabric in colors
ranging from palest yellow to deepest blue were folded in neat piles on his desk. A large wooden table
he used for cutting those bolts stood before the two windows. Instead of books, spindles of thread,
little boxes of pins and various other accoutrements needed for sewing filled the bookshelf.
Tristan had lived at Dawson House—as he had dubbed it for lack of a better name—for only a
month, and already it felt like home. Hampshire felt like home. The neighborhood had seemed pleased
he had taken up permanent residency. He’d even had the vicar and his wife to dine last week. Max had
begged off, claimed his title would intimidate Tristan’s guests and he did not want to make them
uncomfortable. While the village seemed genuinely fond of Max, it was a fondness from afar. They
welcomed Tristan, a respectable young gentleman, an amiable dandy with a fondness for color, into
their midst, yet he could feel their awe of the Duke of Pelham.
It was just the way it was. He’d discussed it with Max, of course. Tristan spent some of his time in
the village, amongst the neighborhood, just as Max would spend a bit of time in London on occasion,
attending dinner parties and all-around being the Duke. They did not need to be together every waking
moment, because they had the rest of their lives together.
“The sun’s out this afternoon.” A rare occurrence for late autumn in Hampshire. “Care to go for a
ride before supper?” A supper that no longer included an acre of mahogany between them. They still
dined mostly in Max’s dining hall, but Tristan’s place was now at Max’s right, just as it had been at
his rooms in London.
Max didn’t hesitate. “All right.”
Tristan folded the trousers he needed to finish and set them on his worktable. “I met Mr. Jenkins
outside the haberdasher shop this morning and he invited me to join their weekly whist games.” The
gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the neighborhood spent an evening a week in the dining room of the
local posting inn, indulging in cards and conversation. “So tomorrow I won’t be available for supper.”
“You agreed to attend?”
“Well, yes. I was rather pleased he asked.”
“But do you think that wise?” Max finished buttoning his trousers and dropped down into one of the
two armchairs near the hearth, the fire within warming the room. Elbows resting on his knees, he
looked up at Tristan. “I don’t have any issue with you socializing with the neighborhood. I’m actually
glad you do. It’s more...gambling has been an issue for you in the past. I’m concerned, that’s all.”
“There’s no cause for concern, Max. I’m not going to drain my bank account dry.” His bank
account, and a hefty one it was thanks to Max’s generosity and the trust he held in Tristan. “They play
with sixpences and pennies. Their aim is not to win a fortune from each other. From what I gather, it’s
more an excuse to drink brandy together.”
“You are likely correct. But there are some men...once they begin to gamble, they can’t stop
themselves. I’ve seen them in the card room at White’s, seen them at the gambling hells I once
frequented. Doesn’t matter how deeply in debt they are—it’s a sorry sight but they’ll keep throwing
down another wager. You once had significant gambling debts, so I hope you can understand my
concern. And I do hope you know if ever you felt yourself slipping into a similar situation again, I
would always be there for you.”
Max was so serious, his worry pouring off him. Rather than irritate him, it made Tristan love Max
all the more.
“I didn’t visit the hells because of some compulsion. I was able to stop and I didn’t miss the tables.
Being threatened by some rather unpleasant individuals was all the jolt I needed to come to my senses.
I started gambling because working at Rubicon’s was so...bleak. I needed something to...” Something
to fill the void of nothingness that had been his life.
“To lift your spirits?”
“Yes. It’s the same thing that drove me to visit my tailor so frequently.” He’d admitted as much to
Max on his birthday. Sitting on the pond’s bank with Max sharing a meal, the night that had
followed...Tristan had deemed it the most perfect day. And now they got to share those sorts of perfect
days every day. “A win or a waistcoat, they served the same function. Gave me something to look
forward to. Something to distract me from where my life had ended up. I tried to hide it, tried not to
think about it, but I was so terribly unhappy. Yet you, being with you, makes me happy. I give you my
word, Max, you have nothing to worry about.”
Max considered him for a moment. “You’re truly happy here with me?”
“Yes, I am very happy. There was a time when all I wanted was to escape the countryside. I thought
I didn’t belong there, thought I’d find that place in London. But here, in Hampshire, with you...I feel
like I belong here.”
“Because you do,” Max said, with such certainty that if Tristan did not already believe it himself,
Max would have easily turned him into a believer. He nodded. “I understand now. Your absence will
be felt at my table tomorrow, but I am not above sharing your company on occasion.” He got to his
feet. “Shall we depart before the sun sets?”
Instead of answering Max’s question, Tristan asked one of his own. “Are you truly happy here with
me?” He had seen the answer in Max’s easy smiles, felt it in his kisses. Yet still, Tristan’s own
happiness would mean nothing if Max didn’t feel the same way.
“Of course. How could you doubt?” Max asked, as if the answer was so obvious Tristan was a
simpleton for even asking.
“It’s not that I doubt. It’s more...I want to make certain. I want to hear it from you.” Max hadn’t
returned to his old habits when they’d returned to Hampshire. He did not spend all day behind his
desk. He no longer wore that...cloak of heavy responsibility that had once weighed him down. He
devoted his mornings to the dukedom, seemed to fully enjoy spending time outside of his study with
Tristan, was as voracious yet as considerate as always inside the bedchamber, and if Tristan wasn’t
mistaken, Max had had a jolly good time when his uncles had come down for a spot of hunting
recently. Uncles who had turned out to be very nice gentlemen and who hadn’t batted an eye at Tristan
accompanying the group on their hunting excursion, even though he’d proved himself to be a very
poor shot. “You asked me, so that means I can ask you.”
Max let out another sigh, a shade playful, a shade self-conscious. “Yes, I am happy. Very much so.
Ridiculously so. I don’t believe my life could get more perfect.” He arched a brow. “Satisfied?”
Tristan chuckled, his heart light, not only with his own happiness, but with Max’s as well. “Very
much so.”
They gathered their greatcoats from the rack near the study door. Max made to reach for the knob,
but before his hand could close around it, Tristan grabbed his arm. Pulled Max to him, and slanted his
mouth over a startled Max’s.
How he loved kissing this man.
But before lust could grab hold of him, Tristan took a step back, releasing Max.
“What was that for?”
Tristan shrugged. “Because I love you.”
Max smiled. “And I love you, too, with all my heart.”
* * * * *
The men take over in this steamy collection of male/male historical erotic romance from Ava March,
available now!
The Brook Street Collection
Regency London—where polite manners and spotless reputations reign supreme. Yet behind the
closed doors of three elegant town houses along Brook Street, passion and lust rule as gentlemen dare
to risk scandal by falling in love...
In Thief, a lord intent on his first decadent night with a man finds love when he picks up a thief in a
gambling hall. In Fortune Hunter, a man determined to marry an heiress instead falls in love with a
wealthy young gentleman. And in Rogues, two of London’s most notorious rakes find out if their
friendship can turn into something so much more...
Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers and much more!
Visit
About the Author
Ava March is an author of smoking-hot M/M historical erotic romances. She loves writing in the
Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can
happen behind closed doors.
Where no great story goes untold.
The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.
With new releases every week,
your next great read is just a download away!
Keep in touch with Carina Press:
Follow us on Twitter:
Become a fan on Facebook:
ISBN-13: 9781426897375
ALL IN WITH THE DUKE
Copyright © 2013 by Ava March
Edited by Angela James
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-
transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be
reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into
any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher,
Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no
relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United
States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Document Outline
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Dear Reader
- Dedication
- Contents
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Epilogue
- About The Brook Street Collection
- About the Author
- Carina Press BPA
- Copyright
Wyszukiwarka
Podobne podstrony:
It All Starts With The Blues
all in love is fair
ALL IN LOVE IS FAIR WONDER
Effect of Kinesio taping on muscle strength in athletes
Changes in passive ankle stiffness and its effects on gait function in
anyway on with the show
all in 1
Chirurgia ALL in ONE
All In The Groove (intro) TAB
Impact of resuscitation system errors on survival from in hospital cardiac arrest
Kartridże atramentowe Dell All in one 922
O&O Services Single Sign On on Linux using LDAP with Active Directory (2002)
all in one
łożyska sliz kolos, AGH, Semestr V, PKM [Łukasik], chomik all in one
all in 1
odpady ściagi all in one
więcej podobnych podstron