Pleasures of Somerville Park
A short story sequel to Object of
His Desire
AVA MARCH
Arsen Grey, Marquis of
Somerville, knows very well he is not
needed in London. A visit from his
youngest brother does nothing to
change his mind. All he wants is to
remain at his country estate with Henry
Shaw.
After days of going over
documents, Arsen is more than ready
for his brother to depart for London in
the morning. He's missed having Henry
in his bed. Now if he can just convince
his frustratingly cautious lover to join
him in his bed for the night...
Pleasures of Somerville Park
Copyright September 2010 by Ava
March
Published by Ava March
Cover Art: Harper by Design
All rights are reserved. No part of
this work may be sold, manipulated, or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission from the
author.
This is a work of fiction. The
names, characters, places and incidents
are products of the writer’s imagination
or have been used fictitiously and are
not construed to be real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead,
actual events, locale or organizations is
entirely incidental.
Warning
This work contains sexually
explicit scenes and graphic language and
may be considered offensive to some
readers. Intended for adult audiences
only. Not intended for anyone under the
age of 18. Please store your files wisely,
where they cannot be accessed by under-
aged readers.
Table of Contents
April 1822
Durham, England
Arsen Grey set the report from his
Norfolk property manager down on his
desk. “Request approved. Three new
teams of horses for the fields and if Mr.
Baker believes two of the tenant houses
are in need of new roofs, then by all
means, they should be replaced.”
His youngest brother tipped his
dark blond head then made a notation in
his ledger.
Arsen rubbed his eyes. Not quite
nine in the evening and he was more than
tired. There was a time when he would
have considered nine closer to afternoon
than evening, but those days were far
behind him. Though the fact he hadn’t
had a decent night’s rest since Emmet
had shown up on his doorstep likely had
more to do with the exhaustion pulling at
his eyes than the time of day. Something
he could lay firmly at his lover’s feet.
“Anything else?”
Emmet flipped to the front of the
ledger and scanned the page. With a soft
scratch of his pen, he crossed out an
entry at the bottom. “No. We’ve covered
everything.”
Trust Emmet to have made a list.
“Are you certain?” At Emmet’s nod,
Arsen tucked the report into the
appropriate file in his desk drawer.
“Good. Wouldn’t want Newland to
accuse you of being negligent,” he said,
referring to their staid brother and the
current next in line to the Somerville
marquisate. The brother who Arsen was
certain had been the loudest voice
behind Emmet’s visit to Somerville
Park.
When their letters had failed to
produce the desired result, his brothers
had sent the youngest. Cowards. Yet
wise cowards. If Newland, Jonathon or
Vaughn had shown up on his doorstep,
he would have promptly sent them on
their way. And the excuse they had made
Emmet use to justify the visit—days of
going over documents and reports that
could have easily been sent via the post.
Arsen knew very well he was not
“needed” in London. The mammoth stack
of paperwork he and Emmet had
reviewed did not offer one bit of proof
to the contrary. One did not need to be
physically in London to effectively run a
marquisate. Many other men tended to
their estates from their family seats, so it
wasn’t as if it wasn’t done. And what
did he care if the Season was to start in
less than a week? Clearly, he had thrown
his brothers completely off balance
when he’d informed them of his decision
to remain in Durham.
How unfortunate for them.
Arsen pushed back from the desk
and stood, giving his black coat a tug to
straighten it. “I am going to retire for the
evening. As should you, if you still plan
to get an early start on the morrow.”
Emmet grabbed his leather bag
from the chair beside him and slipped
his ledger inside it. “I’ve already alerted
my driver to have the carriage ready by
seven.”
A ridiculously early hour. “You’ll
excuse me if I don’t see you off.”
“Of course.” Bag in hand, Emmet
got to his feet.
They left the study and went down
the corridor and through the entrance
hall, their footsteps echoing off the
marble floor.
“You truly do plan to remain in
Durham indefinitely, don’t you?” Emmet
asked, as they began to make their way
up the grand staircase.
“Yes,” Arsen replied, not caring to
elaborate. His reasons were none of
Emmet’s concern.
“You certainly seem happy. Never
seen you more at your ease.”
A smile teased the edges of Arsen’s
lips. He was happy because he had
Henry. “Country life agrees with me.”
They reached the second floor.
Emmet turned toward him and paused.
His deep green eyes, an exact match to
Arsen’s own, swept over his face. “Mr.
Shaw’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is,” Arsen said, a bit taken
aback by the sincerity in Emmet’s tone.
Did he suspect? No, Emmet couldn’t
possibly. Arsen had been quite careful,
and Henry even more so, going so far as
to refuse to share his bed while they had
a guest under their roof.
Likely Emmet was simply relieved
Arsen didn’t have a bevy of various
hangers-on at the house.
“Thank you for the hospitality,
Somerville.”
“Think nothing of it. My door is
always open to you. But you shouldn’t
allow those three to push you into acting
as their pawn. If they try it again, remind
those cowards that they do possess their
own traveling carriages.”
Emmet’s
lips
twitched
with
amusement. Arsen could tell the lad was
doing his best to suppress a chuckle. At
eleven years younger than Arsen, Emmet
and he had been too far apart in age to
have had common interests growing up.
Yet Arsen had always been fond of him,
especially since their other brothers
tended to treat him like a nuisance.
Though…perhaps
he
shouldn’t
classify Emmet as a lad anymore. At
three-and-twenty, Emmet was the same
age as Henry.
Not a comforting thought. Made
Arsen feel like an old man.
He clasped Emmet on the shoulder.
“Best get some rest. It was good to see
you again.”
After bidding his brother good
night, he made his way down the
corridor. Reviewing reports had been
tedious in the extreme, yet it had been
nice to spend time with Emmet. Though
Arsen had to admit he was looking
forward to his brother’s departure
tomorrow. What with being ensconced
in the study for days, he’d barely seen
Henry except at meals. Since Henry had
agreed to stay with him at Somerville
Park eight months ago, he had grown
accustomed to the man’s continual
presence. Seemed odd to miss someone
he lived with, but he missed Henry.
Arsen pushed open the door at the
end of the corridor and passed through
his sitting room, unbuttoning his coat as
he went. He didn’t bother to suppress a
sigh at finding his bedchamber empty.
He’d known the room would be empty.
Still…
His gaze settled on the massive
four-poster bed. There wasn’t a single
wrinkle in the navy coverlet. Neat and
tidy and…distinctly lonely.
His shoulders slumped. Hell, he
needed a decent night’s rest.
Enough.
He flung his coat toward the
wingback chair near the fireplace and
turned on his heel. But he found the
bedchamber next to his empty. The fire
in the hearth warming the room, the
drapes closed tight, the candles on the
chest of drawers lit, though no sign
Henry had even been to the room since
the servants had readied it for the
evening.
Perhaps the green morning room?
He checked across the corridor in the
room Henry favored. Not only empty,
but cool and dark.
He frowned. The sound of footsteps
approached. Not Henry’s. The rhythm
too measured, the steps just a hair too
quick. He turned from the morning room.
Clad in black and gold livery, a
footman stopped a pace from Arsen and
clasped his hands behind his back.
“Shall I have the fire lit, my lord?”
“Not tonight, Timothy. Would you
happen
to
know
Mr.
Shaw’s
whereabouts? I am in no humor to search
the house.” One of the drawbacks of a
sprawling estate. Too many damned
rooms.
“Mr. Shaw was last seen walking
toward the stables after supper.”
Arsen tipped his head in thanks. A
couple of moments later his butler was
closing the front door behind him. A
blanket of darkness had descended over
the grounds. The tiniest hint of warmth
from the day’s sun rode behind the
strong bite of night’s chill. Following the
gravel drive that wound its way to the
stables, he quickened his pace, and not
because he should have grabbed his coat
before leaving the house. But because of
the thread of worry weaving its way into
his gut.
Henry had been rather quiet at
supper. Granted, a good portion of the
conversation had revolved around the
latest findings of the Select Committee
on
Printing
and
Stationery.
Not
something that would spark Henry’s
interest. Nor did it spark Arsen’s, but it
wouldn’t do to be uninformed when it
came to the various issues before
Parliament. He racked his brain. He
could not recall even hearing Henry’s
voice during the meal.
He went inside the stable, shutting
the door behind him. The air was
considerably warmer than outside and
held the distinct scents of horses, hay,
and leather. Only a single lantern
hanging from a hook outside a stall lit
the red brick aisle. Given it was now
well into the evening, the grooms would
have retired hours ago.
Closing his eyes, he focused on
listening. Beneath the occasional soft
swoosh of hooves through straw as
horses moved about their stalls, he heard
the faint sound of a brush and then the
pat of a hand on a sleek neck.
He followed the sounds and found
Henry brushing one of the horses in its
stall, his back to Arsen. The animal’s
coal black coat shone like fine satin
under the soft golden glow of the lantern.
Arsen did not doubt his grooms’ skill,
and he certainly paid them well for their
efforts, but the horses had flourished
under Henry’s gentle, loyal hand.
The man had abandoned his coat
and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his
elbows exposing his strong forearms.
Arsen would not have believed it
possible, but Henry had filled out even
more since last summer. The country
definitely agreed with him. The broad
shoulders now beyond broad. The
powerful muscles of his back bunched
and flexed beneath his cream waistcoat.
Over six feet two inches of rugged,
blatant masculinity.
Henry dropped to his haunches to
sweep the brush down one of the horse’s
front legs. His tan breeches stretched
across his firm, round arse.
A grunt rumbled Arsen’s throat.
Damn, he had missed that delectable
gorgeous arse.
Henry paused. Then the soft swoosh
of the brush resumed. When the foreleg
met with his satisfaction, he straightened
and continued down the horse’s back.
Pushing
aside
the
flare
of
annoyance, he passed his gaze over
Henry’s shoulders again. If he wasn’t
mistaken, the broad line had become
more than tight.
“Evening, Henry.”
He received a single tip of Henry’s
light brown head. No glance behind him.
No pause. As he suspected, the man had
known Arsen stood outside the stall.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be
tending to the horses?”
His lover shrugged his massive
shoulders.
“Emmet is leaving on the morrow.
Departing at an ungodly early hour.”
Henry nodded once and passed a
hand over the horse’s hip, smoothing
hair that was already beyond smooth.
A country gentleman to his core, his
lover had a quiet soul and was the more
grounded of the two of them. Wealth and
titles meant little, if anything, to him.
Finding him here would not normally
worry Arsen. But at nine in the
evening…
When Arsen thought about it, he
realized it wasn’t just at supper. Henry
had been getting progressively more
distant over the past couple of days. Not
that he’d spent much time with him, what
with Emmet in residence. Well, he could
have spent nights with Henry, if the man
wasn’t so damn cautious.
He tamped down the irritation and
instead focused on his disturbingly quiet
lover. Was Henry upset with him? Was
this his way of voicing his displeasure?
No. Henry spoke his mind. Arsen’s
title didn’t intimidate him in the
slightest. It was one of the many
characteristics he loved about Henry.
Loyal,
dependable,
considerate,
devoted, and with the ballocks to stand
up to him and put him in his place.
Then why wouldn’t the man speak
to him? And Arsen had the distinct
impression Henry had chosen the stable
tonight as a means to avoid him. Not like
Henry at all.
True worry invaded his gut.
“Henry—”
Before Arsen could voice the
request Henry feared would follow, he
said, pitching his voice low, “Please
don’t ask me to accompany you to
London.”
His heart hurt. A heavy, leaden
force that weighted down his chest. He
loved Arsen. The last eight months had
been…bliss. Pure happiness. More than
he could have ever hoped for. Yet he
would never return to London. A year
there had been more than enough to last
him a lifetime.
And if Arsen went to Town, as
Henry strongly suspected he would, then
it would mean the end of them.
White-hot pain lanced into his
chest. His breaths hitched. His back to
Arsen, he didn’t fight to keep the wince
from his features.
Better now than later. Quick and
agonizing was much preferred to having
to bear witness to the slow death of their
relationship. For he truly feared if Arsen
went to London, that city would suck him
in and never let him go again.
“All right then,” Arsen said. “I
wasn’t planning to ask you to accompany
me anyway.”
That hurt.
Unable to look at Arsen, he kept his
attention on the horse, moving around the
animal’s haunches to run the brush
through the mare’s long tail. “I
understand you have responsibilities and
that you take them seriously. I do not
begrudge you for them. And I understand
that your family needs you.”
A pause. “And? Why is it I sense
there is more?”
Henry didn’t need to look at Arsen
to see the arrogantly arched brow. “If
you go to London, I should have you
know…” He took a deep breath, pushed
onward, pushed past the constriction
nearly clogging his throat. “I plan to
return to Devon.” He wouldn’t feel
comfortable staying at Somerville Park
without Arsen. His staff was nothing but
hospitable, still he’d feel like an
unwelcome guest who refused to leave.
“I need to settle on a means of
employment anyway. Can’t continue to
live off your generosity forever.”
Arsen scoffed, all aristocratic
condescension. “Don’t be ridiculous. I
have more than enough for ten lifetimes.”
“It doesn’t make it right for me to
live off you like some sort of poor
relation.”
“You don’t live off me. My horses
have never looked better, you thin the
forest of game to keep the wildlife from
knocking on the backdoor, and at last
count, you refitted two carriages and the
gig. It would cost me more to pay you
for your work than your board.”
“It’s not work.” Henry scowled. “I
do it because I enjoy it, and I’m not one
of your servants.”
“I did not mean to imply otherwise.
But the estate is still the bearer of the
benefits. Henry, you don’t live off me.
Please cease with that ridiculous line of
thought. You live with me.”
Not for much longer.
He kept his head tipped down,
averting his face from Arsen. Tucking
the brush under his arm, he willed the
tremor from his hands and focused on
picking apart a stubborn knot at the end
of the mare’s tail.
The barest of squeaks reached
Henry’s ears. The stall door’s hinges
needed some oil. He’d see to it
tomorrow.
There was a soft swoosh of
footsteps through the straw, but he didn’t
need to hear Arsen approach. He could
feel his presence, smell the faint, light
scent of his cologne. Sandalwood and
citrus. It tugged at his heart, threatening
to weaken his resolve.
“Henry, why haven’t you asked me
if I intend to return to London?” Every
trace of the bored drawl was gone,
leaving only the man.
He shrugged, grabbed the bucket of
brushes
from
the
corner,
and
purposefully avoiding Arsen’s gaze,
stepped past him.
Arsen’s footsteps followed him
into the tack room. The click of the knob
announced Arsen had shut the door.
Henry set the bucket in its place under
the shelf of liniments.
“Henry? Why haven’t you asked
me?”
“The opportunity did not present
itself. You have been occupied with
your brother.” He did his best to keep
the frustration from his tone, but he was
so used to having Arsen to himself that it
had been hard to share the man for the
past few days. And the time alone, with
nothing but his own company, never
mind having to sit through meals and
listen to Emmet’s not-so-subtle hints that
the Marquis of Somerville’s place was
in London, had allowed those little
worries to build.
Arsen was a lord. An obscenely
wealthy and deliciously handsome one at
that. A respected member of the ton and
holder of a seat in the House of Lords.
Whereas Henry had nothing to his name.
How could he possibly expect to keep
Arsen’s affection indefinitely? The man
would surely bore of him soon enough.
It had only been the faintest of
worries, so easily dismissed when he
could simply look across the dining
table and receive one of Arsen’s content
smiles, filled with love. But with Emmet
there,
discretion
needed
to
take
precedence. The lack of Arsen’s
continual subtle attention had hit harder
than he would have ever anticipated,
chipping away at his self-confidence and
leaving him certain Arsen would choose
his responsibilities and his family over
him. As well Arsen should.
Arsen let out a sigh. “I count on you
to keep me in line.”
A hand settled on his biceps. At the
gentle tug, he turned to face Arsen and
met deep, emerald green eyes heavy
with concern. The light from the small
lamp suspended from a hook in the
ceiling picked up the rich golden tones
of his antique blond hair. Even without
his usual perfectly tailored black coat,
the man was so elegantly handsome it
hurt to look at him. The sight alone was
a firm reminder he belonged in London
whereas Henry belonged exactly where
they stood—in a stable in the country.
“I am not returning to London,”
Arsen said, grave and somber, his gaze
boring into Henry’s.
“But Emmet said—”
“I don’t give a damn what my
brothers want. They can very well do
without me. Not as if I saw them much
when I lived in town anyway.”
“The Season will start soon and
there are your responsibilities in the
House of Lords and—”
“And?” There was that arched
brow again. “I’ve told you before. Proxy
votes travel quite nicely via the post,
and they’ve been doing so these past few
months.”
Arsen took a step closer. So close
Henry could feel the heat from his body.
A tremble of longing shot through him.
His senses deprived of even the most
basic comforting touch, it felt like years
and not the few days since he’d been this
close to Arsen.
“I have no intentions whatsoever of
returning to London. All of my business
affairs are in order, my solicitor and
man of affairs travel to Durham
whenever I have need of them, and all
the properties are thriving. I could not
care in the slightest that the Season is to
start. I am beyond tired of that city. It’s
full of greed and pretense and it’s damn
lonely.” His gaze searched Henry’s face.
“It can’t even begin to compete with
you,” he added in a low, determined
tone that begged Henry to believe him.
Arsen reached up and cupped the
back of his neck, pulling him down.
Their lips met. Henry moaned, the sound
lost in the kiss. His arms shot out,
wrapped around Arsen. Like a starving
man, he greedily soaked up the taste of
Arsen’s perfect mouth and feel of his
hard body against his.
Arsen dragged his mouth along
Henry’s jaw. Hot breaths fanned his ear.
“Please don’t ever speak of leaving me
again.”
Henry’s heart clenched at the
fragile vulnerability in the barely
audible words. “I won’t,” he whispered
fiercely, holding Arsen close. He never
wanted to be parted from this man. Ever.
“And don’t ever avoid me again.
Understood?”
He nodded. Beyond foolish to have
acted the part of a coward. He knew that
now. Still, the very real possibility of
losing the man he loved had turned him
into
someone
he
almost
hadn’t
recognized.
Arsen nipped at his ear, grabbed
his arse. “Good. Now fuck me.”
Lust shot to his groin so quickly his
head went light. Still, he regained
enough of his senses to glance about the
room. “Here?”
“The grooms have retired for the
night and the door is locked.” Arsen’s
hands moved between their bodies. “It’s
been days since I’ve felt you inside me. I
want you. Now.”
The demanding aristocrat was
back, but Henry didn’t mind in the
slightest. He was more than happy to
oblige the mighty Marquis of Somerville
and bend him over the nearest saddle
rack.
He stole a quick kiss then swatted
Arsen’s hands from the placket of the
man’s trousers. One tug released the
remaining buttons. He turned Arsen
around and pushed him toward the
nearby saddle rack.
“Bend over,” he said, dropping to
his haunches and pulling Arsen’s
trousers down to his ankles. He much
preferred to bare every inch of Arsen’s
gorgeous
body,
but
the
location
demanded baring only the essentials.
A quick swipe tucked Arsen’s
shirttail beneath his black silk waistcoat.
Hands splayed, Henry pulled those firm
muscular cheeks apart, exposing Arsen’s
entrance. Arsen’s moans of pleasure
filled his ears as he plied the man with
his mouth. Flicking and swirling his
tongue
over
the
puckered
skin,
thoroughly wetting the sensitive flesh.
When the tight ring of muscle began to
relax, he pushed two fingers inside.
Arsen shuddered, pushed back.
“Give me your cock.”
“Not yet.” He carefully worked a
third digit inside and slowly stroked.
“Damn you, I can take it.”
Definitely demanding. A smug
smile curved Henry’s mouth. “I know
you can.” His cock jumped, more than
eager to feel the tight sleek heat gripping
his fingers.
For a man who once never even
considered the notion of letting another
man bugger him, Arsen had sure grown
addicted to it. More often than not, he
wanted Henry to fuck him. Arsen’s body
had grown accustomed to taking him.
Still,
the
lack
of
available
oil
necessitated more than the usual
considerable care. Well aware of his
own size, the last thing Henry wanted
was to hurt his lover.
He spit onto Arsen’s hole. With his
thumb, he worked the moisture inside
then did it again. His cock pressed hard
enough to hurt against the placket of his
breeches, demanding to be set free. Yet
he forced himself to proceed slowly.
When he was assured Arsen’s body
was slick enough and more than ready,
he got to his feet. A quick tug, and his
breeches were shoved down to his hips.
Thick and heavy and aching with need,
his cock sprung free.
Bent over the wooden saddle rack,
Arsen adjusted his stance, arching his
back and spreading his legs as far as his
trousers would allow.
A fierce surge of possessiveness
rose within. He was the only man to
have ever taken Arsen, and no one
would ever follow him. He felt it down
to his bones. There would only be him
and Arsen, no others, until the end of
their days.
After slicking his erection with
spit, he grabbed Arsen’s lean hip. With
his other hand, he guided his prick to
Arsen’s entrance and pressed. When he
heard the exhale swoosh from Arsen’s
lungs, he steadily increased the pressure.
His lover’s breath hitched as the head
made the breach.
Henry’s
hand
flexed
against
Arsen’s hip, the need to snap his hips
forward, to bury his cock ballocks deep
in that tight clinging heat almost
overwhelming him. Yet he paused.
His gaze was locked on the erotic
sight of Arsen’s entrance, glistening with
moisture and stretched obscenely wide
around his thick prick. A groan rumbled
Henry’s throat. Need clawed at him.
Built to impossible levels. His thighs
shook under the strain of remaining still.
Henry almost sighed in gratitude
when Arsen shifted beneath him,
signaling he was ready for more. Jaw set
in an effort to ward off the climax
already building within, he pushed
forward. He couldn’t help but watch as
his length slowly disappeared inside
Arsen.
“Damnation, you have a big cock.”
Arsen rotated his hips, working that last
inch of Henry’s prick into his arse. A
grumbling moan reverberated through
Arsen’s back. “Feels so damned good.”
An understatement if ever there was
one.
Henry pulled back, savoring the
lush friction, and then gave in to that
primal urge to snap his hips forward.
The saddle rack creaked under the
onslaught, mixing with the sounds of skin
slapping against skin and their hoarse,
gravelly grunts. Arsen reached back,
tugged at Henry’s thigh. Thrusting hard,
Henry leaned down over Arsen’s back
and wrapped an arm around his lover’s
hips. His hand closed over hot silken
skin backed by iron.
“Yes,” Arsen growled, bucking
back. “Stroke my cock. So…ah…
close.”
Henry felt the thick vein beneath
pulse an instant before hot seed shot
from the tip, coating his fingers. Swift
and fierce, the orgasm rushed through
him. He set his mouth to Arsen’s
shoulder to stifle the shout as he poured
deep within him.
Panting, he pushed up, not wanting
to crush Arsen with his weight. He
tucked himself back into his breeches
and did up the placket with fingers that
didn’t quite yet want to fully cooperate.
Sprawled over the saddle rack, Arsen’s
back rose and fell as rapidly as his own.
Trousers around his ankles and with a
thin trickle of pearly white seed clinging
to his well-fucked arse, the man looked
positively debauched.
Damn tempting to admire the view.
Instead he tugged up his lover’s trousers.
Bracing one hand on the saddle rack, he
wrapped an arm around Arsen’s chest.
“I can very well stand on my own,”
Arsen grumbled.
“I’m certain you can.” Henry pulled
him upright. “In about five minutes,” he
added.
He received a noncommittal grunt
in response. His lips quirked, a chuckle
tickling his throat.
Body lax with pleasure and limbs
not yet steady, Arsen turned in his arms.
His mouth found Henry’s, lips gliding
over his in a slow wet kiss. Then he
rested his forehead on Henry’s shoulder.
“I love you, Henry Shaw.”
Henry’s heart swelled. Brushing his
nose against the soft strands of Arsen’s
hair, he took a deep full breath of him.
To think less than an hour ago he
believed Arsen would leave him… He
should have known better. He should
have trusted in Arsen’s love. “I love
you, too, Lord Somerville.”
Arsen’s arms tightened around
Henry’s waist then Arsen pulled his
spine straight, speared him with a
haughty stare. “Now get your arse back
in the house so I can fuck you.”
An excellent notion, but… He
shook his head. “Your brother’s there.”
Arsen rolled his eyes on a huff of
annoyance. Cheeks flushed and trousers
hanging on his lean hips, he still
managed to embody every inch the top-
lofty lord. “He is in the guest wing and
fast asleep by now. You could scream
and he would not hear you.”
Henry shook his head again. “We
can’t. I won’t. We shouldn’t take the
risk…”
“That what? He’ll decide at
midnight he needs to pay me a call in my
bedchamber? Henry, you’re being—”
“I am not being ridiculous. I am
being prudent.” He absolutely refused to
put Arsen’s reputation at risk. The
remote estate coupled with Arsen’s
loyal staff afforded them the luxury of
lowering their guard just the tiniest bit.
But a guest took away every trace of that
luxury.
Arsen dragged a hand through his
hair, disheveling the neat layers. His
deep sigh echoed in the small room. “If
you insist, I won’t bugger you and we
won’t share my bed. But…can we share
yours? I’m damned tired and haven’t had
a decent night’s rest since Emmet’s been
here.”
“You shouldn’t have allowed him
to work you so hard.” Emmet seemed a
nice enough fellow, yet Henry suddenly
did not care for him much. While Arsen
usually spent afternoons in the study
tending to business, pushing him to work
from dawn until past dusk was beyond
inconsiderate.
Arsen’s gaze darted to the floor. “It
has nothing to do with work,” he
grumbled. “And everything to do with an
empty bed.”
The man had made a comment or
two in the past about how well he slept
since Henry started sharing his bed.
He’d always assumed Arsen had been
referring to the sort of deep restful sleep
that followed a mind-blowing orgasm.
Suspicion began to tug at the back
of his mind. He studied Arsen. His lover
shifted his weight. The uncharacteristic
and distinctly uncomfortable gesture
wiped away his previous assumptions.
“Have you always had problems
sleeping?”
Arsen rolled one shoulder. A heavy
furrow marred his brow. He kept his
attention fixed on the ground. “Not when
I’m with you.” The words were spoken
so low Henry had to strain to hear them.
“You should have said something.”
Arsen gave his head a short,
dismissive shake, as if revealing such a
vulnerability had been unthinkable.
Emmet had no cause whatsoever to
ever enter Henry’s bedchamber, he
reasoned. The man was already abed
and would be gone by dawn. Assured
the risk had dropped close enough to
zero for his comfort, Henry said, “Of
course you can share my bed.”
“Thank you.” On an exhale, the
tension slid out of Arsen’s frame. He
lifted his chin, met Henry’s gaze. “You
do realize my cock will be in your arse
the moment Emmet’s carriage departs
from the front door?”
Henry
couldn’t
help
it.
He
chuckled. “I would have it no other
way.” Grabbing Arsen by the back of the
neck, he drew him in for a hot kiss.
“Now get in my bed.”
A few minutes later, Henry leaned
over and blew out the candle on the
bedside table, plunging the room into
near darkness. He rolled over and
snuggled up to Arsen’s side. With a
mumbled “Good night” Arsen slung his
arm over Henry’s back. Within moments,
the very faint sounds of snores mixed
with the soft pop and crackle of the fire
in the hearth. He smiled against Arsen’s
chest as sleep began to tug heavily on his
mind. There was no place else he would
rather be, than right here with the man he
loved.
* * *
About the Author
Ava March is a multi-published
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.
Ava loves to hear from readers.
You can find her at:
Website:
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Also by Ava March
Beyond Reckless
Bound by Deception
Bound Forever
Bound to Him
The Bound Series
Brook Street: Thief
Brook Street: Fortune Hunter
Brook Street: Rogues
Convincing Arthur
Convincing Leopold
From Afar
His Client
My True Love Gave to Me
Object of His Desire
‘Twas the Night, in the O Come All
Ye Kinky anthology
He thinks he’s just a wallflower.
Little does he know he’s the guest of
honor…
Object of His Desire
Copyright 2009 Ava March
It’s the last night of a week-long
house party in remote northern England.
Every sensual delight imaginable is right
at Henry Shaw’s fingertips. Yet all he
wants is to be with his host, the
deliciously handsome and enigmatic
Arsen Grey. Henry’s certain it’s love,
not mere infatuation. He’s also sure it’s
hopeless. After all, the party’s purpose
is to find Arsen a new mistress.
Arsen longs to leave the glittering,
jaded world of the ton behind and find
someone who will value him for
himself, not his wealth and his title. He
suspects that someone could be the
strapping country gentleman he’s caught
staring at him. Henry is loyal and
dependable, nothing like his other
acquaintances. Arsen sets a plan into
motion, one designed to get Henry into
his bed. One that includes a test of
devotion.
Arsen never expected that in
winning Henry, he risks losing his heart.
Warning: This title contains a m/m
romance between an obscenely wealthy
marquis and a strong, silent country
gentleman.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Object
of His Desire:
One week. One torturous week of
being surrounded by sex. Of being
offered every sensual delight known to
man but the one he wanted.
This infatuation with Arsen needed
to end.
Who was he fooling? He was in
love with Arsen. In love with Lord
Somerville. Even if he had tried, there
was no way he could have chosen
someone more unsuitable.
It was absolutely hopeless.
Feeling strangely hollow and
beyond weary, he scrubbed a hand over
his face.
“Evening, Shaw.”
Henry nearly jumped out of his
skin. His champagne glass slipped from
his fingers. A crash rent the air. He
fought the urge to cringe. One would
think with hands as large as his, he
would be able to hold on to a damn
glass.
Slowly looking to his left, he found
the object of his infatuation standing at
his shoulder. The man had to spend a
fortune at his tailor. Only an expert
could cut a coat so it simultaneously
draped and hugged a form.
Arsen raised one dark blond
eyebrow. “If you didn’t care for the
champagne, a simple request for
something else would have been
sufficient.”
He couldn’t tell from Arsen’s bland
expression if the man was irritated or
not. Hell, he had never been able to read
Arsen. “Somerville, I-I—”
Arsen let out a sardonic snort. “No
need to stutter, Shaw.”
The light scent of Arsen’s cologne
made its way to Henry’s nose.
Sandalwood with a hint of citrus. An
intense wave of arousal mixed with the
acute embarrassment, restricting his
breath, heating his skin.
Desperate for a distraction, he
glanced over Arsen’s broad shoulder.
Armed with brooms and dustpans, a
veritable army of servants stood a few
paces behind their employer. All right,
so it wasn’t actually the size of an army.
But there were more servants in Henry’s
end of the ballroom than he had seen all
evening. Where the hell had they come
from? Where had Arsen come from?
Hadn’t he just left with his new
mistress?
“Shaw.”
Henry’s gaze snapped to Arsen.
And why did the man have to have green
eyes?
Deliciously
handsome
and
obscenely wealthy weren’t enough. God
just had to gift Lord Somerville with
rich, deep emerald green eyes lined with
lashes long enough to make a woman
howl with jealousy.
The edges of Arsen’s lips quirked.
The moment so quick and so out of
character Henry had to have imagined it.
Arsen turned and strode toward the
double doors. “Come along.”
Object of His Desire is available at
Brook Street: Thief
Copyright 2012 Ava March
It was only supposed to be one
night. One night to determine once and
for all if he truly preferred men. But the
last thing
Lord
Benjamin
Parker
expected to find in a questionable
gambling hell is a gorgeous young man
who steals his heart.
It was only supposed to be a job.
Cavin Fox has done it many times—
select a prime mark, distract him with
lust, and leave his pockets empty. Yet
when Cavin slips away under the cover
of darkness, the only part of Benjamin he
leaves untouched is his pockets.
With a taste of his most wicked
fantasies fulfilled, Benjamin wants more
than one night with Cavin. But
convincing the elusive young man to give
them a chance proves difficult. Living
with a band of thieves in the worst area
of London, Cavin knows there’s no
place for him in a gentleman’s life. As
circumstances pull him to Benjamin’s
Mayfair town house, Cavin keeps
pulling away from the best man he’s
ever known. Yet Benjamin isn’t about to
let Cavin—and love—continue to slip
away from him.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Brook
Street: Thief:
With a distinct clank that marked an
empty cup, the man set his tankard on the
table. “I’ve had enough of the table.
What about you?”
Benjamin hesitated, unwilling to
lose his vingt-et-un companion. But his
instincts told him the man had no
intention of walking away from him. He
nodded. “Always best to leave while
ahead.” And best to leave before he had
to concern himself with concealing a
full-blown erection. Pushing from the
table, Benjamin scooped up his little
stack of chips.
“A very good policy. I try to
subscribe to it myself.” The man
grabbed his own larger stack. He stood,
revealing himself to be a hair under
Benjamin’s own height. “Shall we head
on over to the cashier?” He tipped his
head toward a spot midway along the far
wall. “If luck is with us, the wait won’t
be too long.”
Benjamin followed close on the
man’s heels, gazed pinned on compact
yet at the same time strong shoulders.
The man wound through the crowd,
moving with a fluid grace that Benjamin
found highly erotic. There wasn’t even a
hitch in his loose stride as he deftly
avoided a ruddy-faced fellow stumbling
away from a roulette table. Did he move
that effortlessly when crouched over
another?
Benjamin’s breaths stumbled. He
clenched his hands at his sides in an
effort to rein in the sudden surge of need.
The man came to a stop behind the
lone individual at the cashier’s cage.
“Luck is with us tonight,” Benjamin
said,
stopping
to
stand
at
his
companion’s shoulder.
“Yes, it is.” The man gave him a
wink then stepped up to the cage.
Making it a point to look anywhere
but at the man’s arse, Benjamin held
back and waited for him to exchange his
chips. Pocketing his coins, the man
moved aside. Benjamin stepped forward
and pushed his chips beneath the brass
bars. The short, wiry cashier quickly
counted them and then pushed back a
small pile of coins. Benjamin made to
turn from the cage, but stopped as an
elbow nudged his own.
“Wait. Count them,” the man
murmured. “That cashier’s mathematical
skills aren’t always the best.”
A check proved the cashier’s skills
weren’t wanting that evening. Benjamin
slipped the coins into a pocket and
turned from the cage. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” The man fell into step
beside him. “Care to share cab fare with
me?”
It appeared he was going to solve
Benjamin’s logistical question for him.
“Anytime,” he replied, wanting to do far
more than share a fare with him.
The guard opened the front door as
they approached. Cool night air wrapped
around Benjamin, but it did nothing to
cool the blood rushing through his veins,
heating his skin. With a little motion of
his wrist, the man hailed a hackney
coming up the street. The carriage
slowed to a stop a few paces ahead of
them.
He didn’t think twice as he stepped
inside. He heard the rumble of that
gorgeous voice as the man told the
driver, “Wood and Lad.”
Their destination was only a couple
of streets south, if Benjamin’s memory
served correctly. Close enough to walk,
though tonight he much preferred the
privacy of a hackney.
The springs creaked as the man got
inside the carriage, sitting on the bench
beside him, so close his thigh pressed
against Benjamin’s, one long line from
his hip to his knee. The stale air of the
interior was suddenly filled with the
potent scent of man. Musky and heady.
He fought against the urge to shift his
weight. To move even closer to the
strong body beside him. To press full up
against the muscles he was certain he’d
find beneath the black coat and trousers.
The hackney pulled away from the
hell, leaving the golden glow of the
streetlamp outside Clements in their
wake and cloaking them in shadows. If
they both turned their heads, it would
take but the slightest of leans for their
lips to touch.
Benjamin’s lips tingled, begging for
that brush of skin against skin. No, for
far more than a mere brush. He wanted
those full lips beneath his own. Wanted
to sweep his tongue inside that gorgeous
mouth. To finally discover what another
man tasted like. To discover what—
He racked his brain but came up
empty. The man had never told him his
name, nor had Benjamin introduced
himself.
Where the hell had his manners
gone?
Straight to your damn cock.
The beginnings of a chuckle shook
his chest. “Benjamin Parker,” he said,
breaking the silence and extending a
hand.
Long fingers wrapped around his
palm, grip firm and secure. “Cavin Fox.”
He must have sensed the furrow of
Benjamin’s brow at the unusual name,
for he added, “Me mum’s Irish.” Every
trace of England briefly left his voice,
leaving only a thick, lyrical lilt.
“Ah, that explains the accent.”
A shoulder rubbed against his as
Cavin shrugged. “I’ve tried to get rid of
it, but it insists on lurking about.”
“I quite like it.” He could pick the
man out in a crowd of hundreds by his
voice alone.
A hand settled on his thigh, a hand
that held the weight of a man’s touch.
The heat of Cavin’s palm seeped through
his trousers, warming his skin. A
sensation he was certain he would never
forget. His cock hardened even further,
pressing against the placket, desperate
for that hand to slide up his leg.
Desperate for a touch, even if masked by
clothing. But Cavin didn’t move his
hand. It stayed right there, midway along
Benjamin’s thigh, holding the promise
that soon there would be so much more.
Silence settled between them as the
carriage made its way down Wood
Street. Cavin did not offer any
information as to where he was taking
him, other than the bit Benjamin had
overhead. Rather than unnerve him, the
silence only served to ratchet the
anticipation hanging so heavy in the air
he could taste it.
The wicked thoughts that fueled his
nights filled his head, the nameless,
faceless man now replaced with the man
beside him. Cavin’s bare skin beneath
his hands. Cavin’s body pressed tight
against his. Cavin moving behind him,
above him, under him.
The carriage slowed to a stop.
Cavin glanced out the window to a
rather dismal three-story brick building.
“Actually, how about you see to the cab
and I’ll see to the room?”
He nodded. “All right.”
“It won’t take but a moment. I’ll
wait by the stairs and you follow me
up.” With that, Cavin exited the hackney.
Brook Street: Thief is available at
* * *