Chapter Five

The door snapped shut. The rapid thumps of Marsden’s footsteps faded until Vincent couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his heart beating, a quick harsh staccato against his ears.

He lurched forward, grabbed the brass knob, and then glanced down at himself.

“Bloody hell!”

He couldn’t leave the apartments in only his trousers. But even if he were dressed, what the hell was he thinking? That he’d chase Marsden down? And then what? They’d continue their argument on the street, for all of London to see?

Letting out a growl of pure frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall. Why couldn’t Marsden be content with the way things were? Why did he have to demand so much of him?

“Goddamn it, Marsden! And why tonight?” He slammed his fist into the wall again, but all he got for his effort was smarting knuckles.

Gritting his teeth, he speared his fingers into his hair, gripped his skull tight. All the words Marsden had slung at him blended together to form a brutal riot in his head, until he couldn’t distinguish one word from another. Until his knees threatened to buckle under the sheer force of it.

Then Marsden’s parting words rose above the tangled, noxious mass.

“Good-bye, Prescot.”

And all the fury and rage and frustration drained out of him, slumping his shoulders, leaving him beyond weary. His arms dropped limply to his sides.

He stood there—for how long, he didn’t know—his breaths coming in great pulling gasps, the rain beating on the windows.

Then he numbly turned from the door and trudged across the small parlor. He pulled the bottle of mediocre Bordeaux from the wicker basket and poured a glass. After downing the contents in two long swallows, he refilled the glass and went to the couch.

He flicked aside the newspapers on the cushions and sat down heavily. Resting his elbows on his knees, he cradled the glass in his hands and hung his head. Never in his life had he felt so powerless. So at a complete loss for how to right a situation. In the space of a couple hours, his neat, orderly life had spun completely out of control.

First his father and now this. And here he had thought everything was perfect between himself and Marsden. That they understood each other. That Marsden was happy with him.

Apparently not.

“I will do whatever you ask of me, without question, because I want to be with you.”

Had Marsden only submitted to please him? Because he had been trying to mold himself into what Vincent desired and not because he wanted to?

No, no. Vincent pushed aside the anxiety and forced himself to think rationally. Over the years, he had been with enough men at that brothel to know the difference. Marsden had not been acting these past six months. No one could respond the way he did and not genuinely crave the give and take of their erotic games.

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension there. Had it been a mistake to allow their friendship to move into the bedroom? He winced, dreading the thought of visiting a brothel again. No. Not that. Never again. The situation with Marsden had been ideal. Had being the operative word. Now, though… He doubted they could even go back to just being friends.

Raw pain lanced into his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. The thought of not having Marsden in his life hurt as nothing else ever had. Not having him to turn to. Not simply being there whenever Vincent needed him. To never again hear Marsden’s softly murmured “Love you.” He most certainly did not want to lose him, but did he even have a choice? It seemed the man had made the decision for him. But if he even had the chance, could he do what Marsden demanded?

He could not deny that there was still a small part of him that resisted his attraction to other men, that same part that strove to be an upstanding, respectable gentleman, for perfection in all things. Marsden bent himself so neatly to Vincent’s whims that he had made it easy to ignore…until tonight. But that inner resistance was still there, in the pit of his stomach. And tomorrow…

Fuck. He had to pay a call on Lady Juliana. He didn’t know what he should do. He only knew that Marsden had chosen the absolutely worst night to start a fight between them.

Christ, given their “conversation,” he highly doubted Marsden would have taken kindly to his father’s request anyway. Every inhabitant of the building had likely heard them shouting at each other. Brilliant. Just what he needed. For word to get out about his relationship with Marsden. Panic tightened his shoulders. Then he shook his head at himself. Judging by the state of the building, he highly doubted any of Marsden’s neighbors moved about the ton.

He knew one thing for certain. One way or another, the night had been destined not to end well.

And here he had been looking forward to spending a nice evening with his friend. So much for that. His stomach grumbled. He eyed the wicker basket on the dining table, but food, cold or not, didn’t hold any appeal.

He sighed and brought the glass to his lips, downing the wine. He got to his feet, put the empty glass on the table, grabbed his evening coat and waistcoat, and went into the bedchamber. He needed to get dressed sooner or later. Might as well do it now.

Purposefully averting his gaze from the rumpled bed, the one he had so recently shared with Marsden, he grabbed his wrinkled shirt from the floor and put it on, tucking the hem into his waistband. His cravat. Where had he left it? He glanced about the floor. Fuck. The bed. Closing his eyes, he reached to his right, swiping his hand over the woolen blanket, fingers closing over the linen.

Marsden would eventually return, he told himself as he finished dressing. He had to. He lived there after all. And then…they could have a discussion like civilized gentlemen. Yes. That was what they would do. Discuss the situation in an organized, objective fashion and come to a satisfactory resolution. Shouting never accomplished anything productive.

The thought offered some semblance of reassurance, and the tremor left his hands as he tied his cravat. Their friendship was not necessarily destroyed beyond repair. Marsden had been quite angry tonight, and Vincent had not helped matters. He had been a bit of a condescending arse and said some things he should have held back. Still, he would have appreciated it if the man had voiced his concerns before they had built to this point. Clearly, for some time now, Marsden had not been as blissfully content with Vincent as he had assumed.

He finished buttoning his coat and glanced about the room, looking for his shoes. A glint of green and gold caught his attention. Strides slow and reluctant, he went to the bedside table.

He stared down at the jade cravat pin in the dented little silver tray. Marsden never went anywhere without that pin. Even when Vincent happened upon him on the street, when he did not expect to see him, that pin was affixed to Marsden’s cravat.

A band of sheer pain wrapped around his chest, searing a path up his throat and stinging his eyes. Jaw clenched, he looked up to the ceiling with its spiderweb of cracks in the plaster and blinked rapidly.

“Good-bye, Prescot.”

Oliver had meant it.

* * *

Oliver stumbled into his apartments. With a swat of his hand, he closed the door, cloaking the parlor in darkness.

He took a step to his left, and his thigh bumped hard into a wooden edge. He instinctively reached out, hands fumbling around the pewter candleholder and keeping it from tumbling off the small table. Swaying on his feet, he bent over the table, pulled open the drawer, and groped around until he found the tinderbox. It took more than a few tries, but he was finally able to get his hands to cooperate. The flare of golden light illuminated his empty parlor.

“Hell,” he cursed under his breath, dropping his chin to his chest.

Of course Vincent had not waited for him. He never waited for anything or anyone. Oliver had known he’d come home to an empty room—hence why he had remained at that tavern for so long. But then, why did it hurt so much?

Damn gin. Wasn’t doing its duty. He scrubbed his hands over his face and pushed his tangled, dripping wet hair out of his eyes. He was certainly foxed enough not to care that he was soaked through from the rain. But the copious amounts of gin hadn’t done a bit of good to deaden the pain.

Now he wasn’t just hurting like hell, but soaked to the bone, so foxed it surprised him a bit that he’d found his way home, and hurting like hell.

“You’re bloody pathetic, Marsden. No wonder Vincent doesn’t love you.”

What felt like a blazing hot poker jammed into his heart, twisting violently.

“Ouch,” he grumbled, rubbing his chest.

But he couldn’t deny the truth. He was pathetic. Barely had two shillings to rub together, lived in a hovel, and did nothing with himself except wait for Vincent and tend to his grandmother a few times a week. Damn poor excuse for a man.

A poor excuse who still stood by the door, water dripping from his coat and forming a puddle on the floor.

He grabbed the candle, not wanting to try his hand at lighting another, and concentrating on each step, made his way into his bedchamber. With deliberate purpose, he set the candle on the bedside table and then fumbled with the buttons on his coat. He would most certainly wake up tomorrow with a pounding head, but he’d rather not add a head cold to the mix.

“Damn buttons. Ah, the hell with them.” With a hard tug, he ripped open his coat, the buttons popping free and skidding across the floor. After peeling the garment off his shoulders and down his arms, he shook the sodden sleeves from his wrists and flung it to the floor. He didn’t even bother to make an attempt at the buttons on his waistcoat. With another hard tug and a bit of a struggle, the waistcoat joined the coat.

“Should have kept Vincent’s money,” he grumbled, staring at the ruined garments and the buttons littering the floor. “Would have paid for the tailor.”

Oh well. Not much he could do about it now. Or anything, for that matter. He had allowed his impatience and frustration to get the better of him and in the process ruined everything he had with Vincent.

Who was he fooling? He had done it deliberately. Poked and prodded Vincent until his final question had been answered with absolute shock and horror. The shock he expected—he’d never outright asked Vincent if he loved him before. The horror—now that had hurt.

It still hurt.

Hurt more, in fact, than knowing he had destroyed his friendship with Vincent.

His gaze strayed back to the bedside table, to the jade cravat pin on the silver tray. Did Vincent expect him to return it?

Not on his life. Pathetic, yes, to keep a small token of the man he loved, but he wouldn’t part with the pin until Vincent showed up at his front door demanding its return.

“He told me to keep it, anyway.” So what that it had been six months ago and matters were vastly different between them now. He jutted out his chin. He was keeping it.

He whispered his fingertips over the stone. His heart clenched, begging, pleading. Squeezing his eyes closed tight, he pushed back the sting of tears, refusing to allow them to fall.

“Enough,” he murmured sharply. “It’s over.”

Then he let out a heavy sigh, his entire body slumping in resignation, and set to work removing the rest of his clothes.

He might not be able to change Vincent or replace his apartments with something more respectable, but he could change one thing. He yanked his shirt over his head. Contrary to Vincent’s opinion, he wasn’t a complete wastrel. He could “expend the effort” and make something of himself, or at least try. For he certainly did not want to spend his days alone in his apartments, beating himself up over how he had gone and lost Vincent. Then he might give into his broken heart and beg Vincent to take him back, even if he only wanted him as a convenient man to bugger.

No. Definitely not that. Vincent could not love him. Best he accepted it now, before he reached the point where it hurt to be with him.

He pulled back the woolen blanket and flopped down naked on his bed, the old wooden joints creaking in protest. But what to do with himself?

Not a secretary. Or a clerk. He didn’t want to actually work for anyone. Elitist, but the truth. He wasn’t much good at anything, either. Never attended university. Didn’t know the first thing about how to manage a property. The only thing he knew was…

Books.

How many had he read to his grandmother over the years? Hell, he could open his own bookstore from the piles littering her bedchamber alone.

It could classify as an investment. Shouldn’t require much of the principle from his inheritance. If he failed miserably, he wouldn’t be left destitute.

He levered up onto his elbows, blew out the candle, and flopped back down again. Darkness settled over the room, the rain now a light tap against the window.

No more wallowing in his sorrows. Tomorrow he’d take a step toward making something of himself.

* * *

Bright and crisp, early afternoon sunlight filled the drawing room. Last night’s heavy rain had temporarily vanquished the clouds that perpetually hung over the city. Whereas most of London’s inhabitants savored rare clear days, Vincent had greeted the sunny, cheerful sky with a scowl this morning.

If the rain had continued, he might have had a valid excuse to postpone the call. But the heavens hadn’t seen fit to cooperate, and therefore, he found himself in this drawing room with pale blue-and-white-striped paper covering the walls and tasteful, yet decidedly uncomfortable furniture.

He shifted in the spindly-legged armchair and resisted the impulse to rub his temple. The bright light only made his head ache more. Exhaustion pulled at his eyes, reminding him in no uncertain terms of the night he had spent tossing and turning in his bed, after that long walk home. Damn hackneys. Where had they been last night? The walk home had provided far too much time alone with his own thoughts, Oliver’s words repeating over and over in his head, each pass chipping away at that inner resistance until he had been left damning himself for a stubborn, self-centered fool.

“Would you care for another cup of tea, Lord Vincent?”

He glanced to the cup in his hand, half-filled with what was now, no doubt, lukewarm tea. “No, thank you.”

Seated on the adjacent ivory silk settee, Lady Juliana tipped her head and reached for the squat, white porcelain teapot on the trolley beside her. Little spirals of steam rose from the liquid as she refilled her own cup.

Vincent had only spoken to her a handful of times before today, certainly nowhere near long enough to judge her true character, but he had the impression she was polite and biddable. Would cause him absolutely no grief. Not a striking beauty but pleasant to look upon with her light brown hair pulled back in a loose knot at her nape and her welcoming, heart-shaped face. The cut of her sage green morning dress hinted at a trim figure. At least it wouldn’t be a hardship to bed her.

What an absolutely maudlin thought—slipping into her bedchamber under the cover of darkness, having her lie still beneath him as he rutted between her legs. Aristocratic conjugal bliss.

He could see his future before him—married to a gently bred young lady, doing what his father and Society expected of a man of his station. They’d manage to produce a couple children—the required spares in the event his elder brother died without issue. But it would require locking away a part of himself forever. To never be with another man again. Never be with Oliver again.

Utter misery pressed heavily on his chest, threatening to tighten his brow and pull his lips into a wince. Through sheer force of will, he kept his expression schooled in a polite bland mask.

He didn’t have much of a choice. If Lady Juliana had to settle for him, then the least he could do was be faithful to her. And the only man he wanted had walked out on him last night.

“Is Lord Grafton expected in Town soon?” she asked, jolting him back to the present and away from the painful memory of that door slamming shut.

He hadn’t spoken to his elder brother in…months. Long before the man had returned to his estate in Devon. “I suspect he will remain in the country until after the New Year.” Until after we are wed.

The sparkle dimmed from her hazel eyes. She brought her cup to her lips and took a small sip.

A love match? Vincent resisted the urge to shake his head. Lady Juliana possessed impeccable manners, to the point of polite distance. The two of them were little more than passing acquaintances. No matter what his father wished, no one would believe they were in love.

With a little click, she set her cup on the saucer on the low table before them and then folded her hands. “Please forgive my boldness, but if you do not have news of Lord Grafton, then what brings you here today?”

Taken aback, Vincent’s spine went stiff. “Have you not spoken to your father?”

“I was told to expect your call today.”

Brilliant. They had left it to him to explain the situation to her. Bloody cowards.

He set his cup on the table and glanced to the open door of the drawing room. He wanted to get up and close it, but being behind closed doors with an unmarried, unrelated gentleman could ruin a woman’s reputation. Instead, he turned his attention to her and did his best to break the news as gently as possible. “The Duke of Halstead wishes to form an alliance with my family.” He kept his voice low to prevent being overhead by any passing servants. Gossip spread quickly, and he’d rather spare her its wrath for as long as possible. “His grace’s daughter is due out on the marriage mart next Season. Therefore, it is my fondest wish that you will come to accept me in Grafton’s stead.”

He held back the blunt details, but Lady Juliana proved herself an intelligent girl.

Desolation flashed across her face for the briefest of moments. Then she gathered her composure and nodded. “Of course. I understand, Lord Vincent.”

Out in Society for three years, she could have had other proposals given her social standing. Yet she had held out for Grafton, waiting for him to come up to scratch. Poor thing deserved better than his dolt of a brother. And certainly better than himself.

Damn his father for putting him in this situation, but there were more than his wishes at stake. He now held a young woman’s future in his hands.

“May I call on you again tomorrow? Perhaps, if the weather permits, you would like to take a drive in Hyde Park.”

She tipped her head. “Certainly, Lord Vincent. I would welcome that.”

He took his leave and made his way out to his waiting carriage.

“Where to next, my lord?” his footman asked, holding the door open.

Not his townhouse. A pile of work awaited him on his desk, but he wanted to avoid the day’s post for as long as possible. He’d rather not know if Oliver had returned the jade cravat pin just yet.

“White’s.” He stepped into the carriage and settled on the leather bench. A glass of whisky or two or more were just the thing to help ease the adjustment to his new life as a soon-to-be-married gentleman. A new life without the man who once loved him.