Chapter Four
Rolling onto his side, Oliver reached for the top drawer of the bedside table and slid it open. The early morning sunlight seeping through the slits in the threadbare brown velvet drapes provided enough illumination for Oliver to see. But he didn’t need the light. His fingertips skimmed over the objects in the drawer, stopping when he encountered the distinctive ridges marking the veins on the shaft of the black marble dildo.
He set the dildo on the table beside the bottle of oil he hadn’t bothered to put away last night. Flicking the blanket aside, he lay back on the bed. The fire in the grate had burned out sometime during the night, but the chill April morning air did little to cool his already heated skin. He licked his palm then reached for his hard cock. It was the way he had started and ended every day for the past week, since he had last laid eyes on Vincent at White’s. His hand on his prick, stroking himself to orgasm. And after the dream he had last night…there was no way he could begin this day any differently than all the others.
That dream had been so vivid and crisp, so authentic, that when it woke him a few minutes ago, he had actually been shocked to find himself in his own bed, alone, without Vincent.
Closing his eyes, he fondled his cock as he sifted through the memories, those snippets of scenes from the dream, trying to decide where to start.
The brothel. That masculine, tidy bedchamber. Vincent, fully dressed and standing beside the large bed, arms crossed over his impressively broad chest as he appraised a naked Oliver.
Are you good at following orders? The deep cultured rumble of Vincent’s voice sounded in Oliver’s head.
“Yes, milord,” he muttered.
I don’t recall giving you permission to touch your cock.
Oliver snatched his hand to his side, left his prick resting on his lower belly. His breathing quickened. One time with Vincent and he was already addicted to the heady sense of anticipation. The added thrill of waiting, of being at another’s mercy, being forced to proceed at their pace.
Good boy. Then the hard command seeped back into his voice. Do you want me?
“Yes.”
What do you want?
“You. Your cock in my arse. Please, milord.”
Ah, you must be very, very good to earn that reward. First, you must show me how much you want me. Touch yourself, Oliver.
Reaching down, Oliver cupped his ballocks, dragged his palm roughly over his sac then up to his shaft. His grip firm, he picked up the familiar rhythm. He stroked the length, flicking a finger over the needy head, spreading the leaking fluid.
He ran his other hand up and down his abdomen, sweeping over the quivering muscles, pausing every now and then to deliver a hard pinch to his nipples. Lost in the decadent sensations, his head tipped back, his lips parting. He lifted his hips, rocking into each stroke. Faster and faster, his hand flew along his cock, chasing the climax teasing the edge of his mind. The muscles in his thighs trembled. His entire body drew tight. The orgasm coiled down his spine, gripped his bollocks.
Stop.
Gritting his teeth, Oliver heeded the command. It hurt, in the most intense pleasurable way, to be left poised on the verge, teetering on the brink. Impatient and needy, his cock throbbed, sending heavy, quick pulses throughout his body in time to the rapid beat of his heart. He bit his lower lip, forced himself to remain still, to resist the almost unstoppable urge to touch his prick. Just one stroke. That was all it would take for him to climax.
Are you ready for my cock?
“Yes, yes, please, milord.” The whispered words rushed out of Oliver’s mouth.
Then prepare yourself.
He snatched the glass bottle from the bedside table and poured a generous amount on his palm. Bending his knees, he spread his legs, feet planted on the mattress. He reached down under his thigh and oiled his entrance. He swirled his fingertips over the puckered skin then eased two of them inside. Scissoring his fingers, he stretched himself, prepared himself. His movements quick and efficient, to hold off the eminent orgasm strumming his senses. Then he coated the dildo, his hand slipping over the cool black marble. The width was so substantial his fingers barely enclosed it. He had more than a few such toys in the bedside table drawer and this one most closely matched the dimensions of the real man’s cock. The crown wasn’t quite as broad and the length nearly an inch short of Vincent’s, but the shaft matched in thickness.
His arse tingled, eager and ready for that first amazing thrust. Holding the dildo by the flat circular base, he closed his eyes and waited for a moment. Let the anticipation build, let his nerves coil tighter and tighter. Sweat pricked his brow. A drop of fluid leaked from his cock, dripping onto his skin. His ballocks clenched, drawing up so tightly it felt as though his testicles were trying to get inside his body.
Good boy, Oliver. Vincent’s voice was soaked in sin, low and luxurious. You want me, don’t you? Tell me.
“Yes, fuck me, Vincent, please,” Oliver said, the words hitching in his throat.
He positioned the dildo at his entrance then pushed. One long thrust, just as Vincent had done. Determined, persistent, demanding complete submission.
A wince tightened his brow, his mouth opening on a soundless cry of pleasure. He gasped for breath. Grabbed the blanket by his hip and gripped it tight. The intense stretch as his muscles worked to accommodate the intrusion caused a flush of raw heat to sweep over his skin. He shoved it deep, bottoming out, the base pressing hard against his flesh. It wasn’t quite as long as Vincent, and he craved that extra inch, the one only Vincent could provide.
Releasing the blanket, he pinched one nipple, twisting hard. Sharp sensation radiated across his chest. He arched his back and grabbed his cock, stroking furiously as he picked up a matching rhythm of hard, relentless thrusts. With each stroke, the veins along the marble shaft teased his hole, just as Vincent’s cock had done. His ballocks ached with a need to be touched. His nipples smarted, reminding him of the sweet luscious pain that was only a twist away. Damn it, he didn’t have enough hands.
Beg for my cock. You want it, don’t you? Tell me.
He could almost feel Vincent’s broad chest pressed against his, the heavy weight of his body, the heat from his skin, the warmth of his breath as he spoke those words into Oliver’s ear. He turned his head, searching for those firm lips, wanting to feel them against his own.
“Yes, I want you, Vincent. More…please,” he begged in broken tones.
If the real Vincent saw him now, like this—knees drawn up to his chest and ramming a big dildo in his arse…
An orgasm rushed down his cock.
“Vincent,” he bellowed, throwing back his head, hips lifting from the bed, as his release splattered across his chest.
It was several long moments before Oliver could catch his breath. He gave his head a shake to clear it, then carefully withdrew the dildo. A little jolt shot through him, shaking his limbs as the head slipped from his body.
With effort, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and bent to pick up the drawers he had discarded last night. After wiping his hands, he wrapped the linen around the dildo then dropped it to the floor. He’d clean it later. Right now, he needed to clean himself up.
He set a hand on the bedside table and made to push to his feet, then stopped. A shaft of morning sunlight streamed into the room, cutting across the table and glinting off Vincent’s jade cravat pin.
The betting book at White’s had proved futile. He hadn’t been able to gather the courage to enter the club again after he had shared a drink with Vincent last week. The cravat pin tucked in his waistcoat pocket, directly over his aching heart. His nerves on edge, waiting for Vincent to recognize him. But he hadn’t. Oliver had thought himself relieved, yet now with the prospect of having to gamble to raise the necessary funds to be with Vincent again, the real man and not the dream…
Months of being alone. Months of avoiding Vincent.
Raw pain lanced into Oliver’s chest, slicing deep. He let out a low grunt and rubbed his chest, trying to sooth the ache.
But he couldn’t avoid Vincent tonight. The man had proved true to his word, as always. The invitation to the ball had arrived seven days ago, delivered by one of her ladyship’s footman.
Oliver picked up the stolen pin from the dented little silver tray beside the candlestick and touched the jade stone with a reverent fingertip.
Lord Vincent is an astute man. The madam’s confident words echoed in his head.
No one else would notice, but Vincent would.
Swallowing hard, he put the pin back on the tray, stood, and crossed to the washstand. He poured water in the chipped stoneware basin, wet a washcloth, swiped the sticky semen from his chest, quickly cleaned the oil from his backside, and tossed the cloth onto the floor. Then he splashed water onto his face. Dragging a short length of towel across his dripping wet jaw, he looked in the mirror. His dark hair stood at odd ends. Short yet long, but not long enough to pull back in a queue. It would need to be fixed today. He certainly didn’t want to give Vincent an additional reason to scowl at him.
Vincent’s valet was out of the question. He wasn’t about to present himself at Vincent’s door and inquire about an offer the man made a week ago.
He studied his reflection. Perhaps he could fix it himself.
* * *
“I’ll be but a moment,” Vincent said to his driver as he exited the carriage. He went up the stone steps, through the crimson door, and passed a footman stationed in the entrance hall, ignoring the man’s offer to take his hat and gloves.
Giving his black evening coat a tug to straighten it, Vincent paused inside the open door of the brothel’s elegant receiving room. His gaze skipped past the other patrons, stopping on a petite blonde who, along with a brunette, stood rather closely to a young gentleman. Two pairs of small pale hands slid over the navy coat, toying with the buttons and caressing the man’s chest in a clear attempt to entice him to part with enough blunt for not one, but two girls. Judging by the young man’s flushed cheeks and eager grin, the girls were succeeding.
Vincent crossed the room and tapped the blonde on the shoulder. Certainly he was violating some unwritten rule by pulling the girl away from a potential client, but he didn’t much care. Marsden’s invitation had come with a price, namely his word to arrive at his aunt’s ball early enough to partner his entirely unpleasant cousin for the first dance. He was due there within the half hour.
“Holly,” he said, when his polite tap yielded no results.
She looked over her shoulder. The reprimanding scowl shifted to a welcoming smile at the sight of him. “Ah, Lord Vincent. What a pleasure to see you. An unexpected pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless.”
After whispering in the young man’s ear, she took Vincent’s hand. Familiar with the routine, she didn’t say a word, didn’t inquire into his preferences for the evening, as she led him up to the second floor. Her hips swayed, her violet silk skirts swooshing softly with each step. Voluptuous and petite, the epitome of femininity. Holly was quite popular with the other patrons and her popularity was what initially drew him to her. No one would question what he did behind closed doors when he went upstairs with a woman like her.
She opened a door midway along the hall. Vincent went into the empty bedchamber and declined her offer of a drink.
“We are unprepared for your visit, my lord,” she said, hands clasped before her, playing the part of a gracious hostess. “If you would wait here, I will alert the staff to ready a room for you.”
“Unnecessary. This room will suffice. Send Jake in.”
Brow furrowing, she tilted her head to one side. “Jake?”
“Yes. The young man I” —fucked—“saw last week.”
Comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh.” She pressed her lips tight together, her hazel eyes crinkling at the edges.
What about his request did she find humorous? Nerves already rubbed raw, he speared her with a hard stare for daring to make sport of him.
She quickly turned her back to him and reached for the doorknob. “Yes, of course, Lord Vincent,” she said as she disappeared out the door, her voice strained, as if she held back a laugh.
Jaw clenched, Vincent let out a short, frustrated growl. He tugged off his white gloves, dropped them inside his black top hat, and set it on a chest of drawers. Then he pulled out his pocket watch. That damn whore better be quick. If she would have deposited him in his usual room, he could have used this time to look for his lost cravat pin. Instead, she’d left him in this garish, overdone crimson bedchamber which had recently been occupied. The nauseatingly sweet scent of cheap perfume and the distinct note of female arousal lingered in the room.
Brilliant. He’d arrive at his aunt’s smelling like a brothel. No one would be rude enough to mention it to him directly, but they would assume he’d stopped for a quick poke on his way to the ball.
Better they assumed that than the truth. The worry had eaten away at his stomach until he could no longer tolerate it. All he needed was a few minutes with Jake to ease the anxiety. A simple conversation—a few questions, a few answers—then he would leave. The visit purposefully structured to prevent himself from acting on his baser urges. The first Thursday of the month was weeks away, and until then, he would continue to keep those desires locked up tight, no matter how difficult it was becoming.
His evening shoes sounded against the polished floorboards as he paced the length of the room. For the past week, worries had plagued him. One concern over whether desperation had pushed Jake into the brothel’s employ had spawned another concern, then another, until they were all he could think about. Keeping him up until the wee hours of the morning and pulling his mind from his work in the afternoons. While Jake had taken to it exceedingly well, he clearly had not been accustomed to the exotic play Vincent preferred. Yet Vincent’s preferences were mild compared to some of the depraved acts that were allowed in the decadent brothel. Would Jake’s need for funds push him to engage in acts in which he’d be uncomfortable? Would Jake even be allowed to refuse a client? It took skill and control to wield a bullwhip without breaking the skin. What if Jake trusted the wrong man? What if some depraved bastard strung him up and abused him? Vincent’s strides faltered, ice-cold dread leeching into his anxiety, at the thought of Jake left crumpled on the floor, bleeding and in pain. Who would take care of him if the brothel tossed him aside like a broken toy? What if—
The doorknob clicked. Vincent spun around.
A man clad only in a pair of breeches shut the bedchamber door. Cocksure and smug, he sauntered toward Vincent. “Good evening, Lord Vincent,” he said, a sinful smirk curving his sculpted lips, as he palmed the erection visible beneath his snug-fitting black breeches. “I missed you last week.”
How had Vincent ever thought this man appealing? Tall, muscular, and with deliberately tousled golden blond hair, Cameron’s every glance, every gesture, every word from his lips promised untold sensual pleasures. Yet he was too slick, too obvious, too much of his kind. This arrogant creature was incapable of Jake’s raw honesty and uninhibited responses. “Where’s Jake?”
Cameron stopped in front of Vincent and trailed his fingertips down Vincent’s arm. With heavy-lidded eyes, he gazed up at Vincent. At six feet in height, he stood a couple inches short of Vincent’s six-two.
“He’s unavailable, but I am available. You can do with me as you please,” Cameron said, his broad shoulders rounding, his chin tipping down, in a patent gesture of submission.
Unavailable? Hot, rabid jealously invaded Vincent’s stomach at the thought of Jake with another man. Harsh and swift, it mixed violently with the noxious tangle of near-paralyzing worries. His hands balled into fists. “Where is he?”
Cameron leaned closer, his bare chest brushing Vincent’s stark white waistcoat, his hand drifting toward the placket of Vincent’s black trousers. “It matters not,” he said, dismissing Vincent’s sharp question.
“The hell it doesn’t.” Vincent shoved Cameron roughly aside and yanked open the door, prepared to drag Jake out of whatever bed he currently occupied. The muscles in his arms shook with the need to rip the man who dared touch Jake limb from limb. The sounds of his heavy breaths echoed in the empty corridor as he looked left and right. Hell, there were too many doors in this goddamn brothel. “Where is he?”
A hand gripped his forearm. “Lord Vincent, come back inside.”
Vincent whipped his head around to look over his shoulder. Cameron went pale, true fear reflected in his wide deep blue eyes. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Taking a quick step back, he released Vincent.
“Where is he?” Vincent asked slowly through gritted teeth, as he turned to face Cameron.
“I-I don’t know, my lord.” Cameron’s voice wavered as he spoke.
“Where?” The curt demand snapped through the air.
Swallowing hard, Cameron took another step back and shook his head.
Eyeing Cameron’s neck, Vincent opened and closed his fists. His hands would fit nicely around the man’s neck and he’d tighten his hold until the whore told him what he needed to know. “Where. Is. He.”
“I don’t know, my lord. I swear it.” Cameron continued to back up as Vincent advanced. “He’s not here.”
The man’s panic-stricken words reverberated in his head, cutting through the thick red haze of jealousy. Jake wasn’t here? His mind blanked with shock for the briefest of moments then a thunderstorm of rage roiled up within him. “Then where the hell is he?” Vincent bellowed.
Cameron flinched, as though he’d been struck. He scrambled back, bumping into the bed and throwing out his arms to keep from landing on his arse. His gaze darted anxiously about the room, his bare golden chest working against his short, shallow pants. “I don’t know. He—he left, and he hasn’t been back.”
Vincent threw back his head and let out a teeth-baring roar. But it did little to ease the riot of frustration and fury pervading every inch of his being. And if Cameron said “I don’t know” one more time, Vincent would strangle the man.
The madam. Perhaps she could answer his question. But he’d appear a desperate pathetic fool if he stormed into her office and demanded to know the whereabouts of one of her whores. He’d already made a big enough spectacle out of himself tonight. Surely the entire brothel had heard him bellowing like an enraged bedlamite.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he yanked out a fold of pound notes and threw it at Cameron.
The next moment, he was descending the brothel’s front stone steps. His footman opened the carriage door. Vincent’s first impulse was to direct his driver to the East End, to search the narrow alleyways and rundown boarding houses for Jake.
“Lady Collarton’s. And be quick about it,” Vincent said curtly as he settled on the black leather bench.
The footman closed the door with a smart snap. A whip cracked and the carriage lurched forward.
Images collided in his head. Jake vulnerable and alone. Jake destitute and huddled in a dark alley. Jake being forcibly taken by a drunk brute. Jake—
“Stop,” he commanded himself. Through sheer force of will, he blocked out those god-awful images. There was no use assuming the worst, at least not yet.
As soon as his aunt’s ball was over, he’d scour the streets of London until he found Jake. But he didn’t know where to start looking nor did he know the man’s actual name. In fact, he knew next to nothing about him. Where did the man live? How did he spend his days? Did he prefer whiskey or gin? All Vincent had was the image of a sleek, yet strong young man with dark wavy hair that fell down to a scruffy jaw and framed full, kissable lips. It had been so dark in the room he hadn’t even gotten a good look at Jake’s face. Where his eyes blue or brown? Or perhaps green? They definitely hadn’t been gray, of that he was certain.
Resting his head against the back wall of the carriage, he took deep even breaths, trying to settle himself. Jake didn’t belong to him. There was no cause to feel this possessive need to keep the man close by his side, yet try as he might, he could not make it go away. He needed to see Jake. But did he truly believe one short meeting would be enough?
No. It wouldn’t be.
Oh fuck.
Wincing harshly, Vincent groaned, deep and low, the sound filled with gut-wrenching agony. No! The part of him that strived to be a respectable, upstanding gentleman, the type of man a father would be proud to call a son, rebelled against the realization. Yet…he wanted Jake.
Vincent let out a string of foul curses under his breath, ending with a beyond frustrated grunt. What was he to do now?
He scrubbed his bare hands over his face then scowled. Damn. He’d left his hat and gloves in that garish bedchamber. The brothel’s servants already had his cravat pin, so they might as well have something else of his. He pulled out his pocket watch and held it up to the window to catch the light from the streetlamps. Ten minutes until he had to be at his aunt’s. There wasn’t enough time to stop at his townhouse. The hat he could do without but he would need to borrow a pair of gloves from his uncle.
Marsden better appreciate what his invitation had cost Vincent. One black top hat, one pair of white gloves, one dance with an unpleasant cousin, and a delay in his search for one irresistible man.
Oliver yanked off the cravat and grabbed yet another. Lifting his freshly shaven chin, he placed the cravat on the back of his neck, positioning the linen so it lay flat against his shirt collar. Mouth pursed and brows lowered in concentration, he stared into the mirror above the washstand and willed his shaking fingers to cooperate.
The sun had set hours ago. Candles in pewter holders lit the bedchamber. The clean scent of shaving soap lingered in the air. And he had lingered in this room long enough. If he didn’t arrive at the ball soon, he would be sure to incur Vincent’s ire before the man even laid eyes on him.
After one last tug to center the knot, he studied his reflection. Not perfect, nothing close to what Vincent, or rather the man’s valet, would have accomplished, but at least it somewhat resembled a Gordian knot.
He picked up the black evening coat folded over the back of a nearby chair and slipped his arms into the sleeves. After buttoning it, he ran his hands over the wool, trying to flatten the creases. Should have had it pressed properly, but there was nothing to be done for it now.
Stepping over the ruined lengths of white linen on the floor, he crossed to the bedside table. He paused, his fingertips hovering a hair’s breadth above the jade stone.
He had grown quite fond of the pin. It was rarely not with him, even tucked securely in his waistcoat pocket whenever he left his apartments. Not that he’d left much this past week for fear of coming across Vincent; his only outings had been to visit his grandmother. He would miss the pin, this bit of Vincent, but he wasn’t a thief. He hadn’t given any thought to the ramifications when he snatched it from the brothel floor, but he couldn’t keep the pin forever. Its value to Vincent went far above monetary. Oliver clearly recalled the first time he had seen Vincent wear it, and the pride in his friend’s adolescent voice as he’d informed Oliver that his grandfather had chosen to leave the jade pin to him, and not his older brother.
There were other ways to return it to Vincent, but sending it anonymously via the post was a coward’s way out.
And he needed Vincent to know it had been him. That Vincent had gifted that slow, languid kiss to Oliver. It went beyond his own selfish desire to be with the man he loved. Oliver could deceive his friend no longer. Even if Vincent turned his back on him, refused to acknowledge him again, Oliver had to tell him the truth.
Well, he didn’t plan to actually tell him. Oliver was certainly no coward, but he couldn’t fathom looking into Vincent’s gorgeous, sky blue eyes and telling him, “By the way, Prescot, you buggered me last week.”
Wincing, he sucked in a breath. No, no. That he could not do. But there was another way to reveal himself to Vincent. A way that did not require words.
His hand closed over the pin. A tremor shook his body. His pulse pounded in his veins with a mixture of stomach-turning nervousness and sweet resilient hope. There was no reason to be hopeful. None at all. Yet he couldn’t stifle the hope; his poor heart clung to the possibility, needing it desperately.
Perhaps, just maybe, that kiss had meant something. Perhaps Vincent would allow their friendship to turn into so much more.
* * *
The statuesque brunette batted her eyelashes, moving a half step closer, deliberately positioning her bosom under Vincent’s nose. “The weather has been quite mild of late, don’t you agree, Lord Vincent?”
“Yes, of course.” Smoothly backing up half a step to maintain the proper distance with an unmarried lady, Vincent kept the bland smile on his lips and resisted the impulse to roll his eyes in irritation. He had been at the ball for what seemed like an eternity, the impatience building with each passing minute. Forced to politely endure one dull conversation after another. And now this silly chit wanted to discuss the weather when Jake could be out on the cold, unforgiving streets alone with no one to protect him.
Gripping his champagne glass tightly, he brought it up to his lips and downed the remaining contents. He dropped the glass on a passing footman’s silver tray, snatched another, and took a long swallow. The sweetly bitter, effervescent spirits did little to take the edge off the worry occupying his mind.
Apparently the young lady—he couldn’t recall her name—didn’t mind in the slightest if a gentleman drank to excess, for she launched into a detailed accounting of the “quite mild” weather. Nodding absently, his gaze strayed over her shoulder. Something akin to relief washed over him.
Chin tipped down and shoulders hunched, Lord Oliver Marsden lingered by himself near one of the marble columns at the foot of the grand staircase, fiddling with the buttons on his black evening coat.
“…and it’s April, and it hasn’t rained for—”
“Pardon, miss,” Vincent said, interrupting the silly chit in midsentence. “I beg your forgiveness, but please excuse me.”
The distinct look of feminine affront flashed across her face.
Not bothering to offer an excuse for his ungentlemanly behavior, he sketched a short bow and headed toward Marsden.
It certainly took him damn long enough to arrive. Vincent planned to rib Marsden for his tardiness, but not too much to annoy the man. After the evening Vincent had, Marsden’s company was exactly what he needed about now.
With a determined stride, he wove around the clusters of guests, deftly avoiding any who might try to pull him into another inane conversation. Taller than most every other man in the room, Vincent had no trouble keeping his sights pinned on Marsden, lest he try to duck out the door after making a very brief appearance. He was well aware of Marsden’s reluctance to attend society functions, a reluctance not purely due to having been frequently omitted from the ton’s invitation lists. Vincent wasn’t all that fond of them either, especially when his father was in attendance. But it wouldn’t do Marsden permanent harm to humor him, and endure his aunt’s birthday ball for an hour or so.
A genuine smile curved Vincent’s mouth, the tension in his gut easing for the first time in days. Yes indeed, dancing with his unpleasant cousin had been worth the price of Marsden’s invitation.
And apparently the man’s tailor wasn’t a complete hack. The strict black evening coat actually fit him, and highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and the sleek lines of his hard waist. He was turned out quite smartly. The state of his bank account notwithstanding, Marsden would be a good catch for a nice young lady. Perhaps tonight Vincent could introduce him to a girl with a decent dowry.
Hmm. Why was that thought so unpleasant?
Vincent put the smile back on his lips. “Marsden,” he said as neared him. “How good of you to grace us with your presence.”
Marsden’s head snapped up. “Evening, Prescot.”
“Ah, I see you didn’t need my valet after all. You were able to manage it, though it took you two attempts,” Vincent said, referring to the dark waves that fell in somewhat neat layers about Marsden’s unusually pale face.
A strained smile pulled Marsden’s mouth. He shifted, rolling one shoulder, the gesture distinctly uncomfortable. “Y-yes. Didn’t take much to fix it properly.”
“Marsden, my dear fellow” —Vincent clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder—“no reason to look as though you’re facing the hangman’s noose. Lady Collarton’s on the far side of the room. You don’t have to face the old dragon if you don’t want to. I can relay your heartfelt good wishes on the event of her seventy-fifth birthday for you.”
“Thank you, but I’m not a coward. I can manage it myself,” Marsden said, lifting his chin, steel underscoring the tension in his voice.
Vincent tipped his head and took a sip of his champagne. The stress of attending a society function had unsettled Marsden, turning him into a pale, prickly version of his usual easy self. The poor man was in need of a stiff drink. “I wasn’t implying you couldn’t. Merely offering to lend a hand. Very nice Gordian, by the way. Shall we go to the card room? I’ve had enough of this,” he said, lifting his glass. “Should be able to find some whisk—”
His gaze snapped back to Marsden’s cravat. Directly below the knot, affixed to the white linen of Marsden’s shirt, was a green jade cravat pin. It looked just like the one he’d lost at the brothel. Brow furrowed, he studied the distinctive oval stone. “That pin. Where did you get it?”
“Off the floor, milord.”
That voice. Low, rough, and with a hint of an East End accent.
Jake’s voice.
The confusion vanished, replaced by mind-numbing shock. He speared Marsden with a hard stare.
There it was—that need, that longing, reflected in Jake’s eyes.
Swift and ruthless, desire gripped hold of him. Startled, Vincent took a quick step back, putting distance between himself and Jake, no, Marsden.
Christ! They were the same goddamn man.
Why hadn’t he noticed before? Same height, same build, same dark wavy hair. Except Jake’s had been longer, long enough to hide behind, until Marsden cut it. And Jake’s scruffy beard—Marsden had shaved it clean the following day when he had seen him at White’s. The darkened room, the absence of his usual spectacles—Marsden had deliberately set out to deceive him.
He felt the flush rise up his neck, burning his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he tried to tamp down the overwhelming fury, keep it hidden from view. You are in your aunt’s ballroom. Breathing hard, his nostrils flaring, he repeated the words in his head.
You are in your aunt’s ballroom.
You buggered your friend, Marsden.
Glass shattered. Cool liquid seeped through his borrowed white gloves, wetting his skin.
“Prescot?” came Marsden’s worried voice, as if from a great distance. “I—”
“Don’t speak,” he said, grinding his teeth together, eyes still closed, unable to look at Marsden.
Oh God. Marsden knew. He knew what Vincent did at that brothel.
Panic wrapped around his chest, tightening ever tighter, threatening to suffocate him.
“Have you told anyone?” Vincent asked in a low voice, fearing Marsden’s answer, afraid he was merely the brunt of a joke, the Season’s latest object of ridicule. But what sort of man played such a cruel joke on a friend?
“No, Prescot. No one else knows. Well, the madam’s aware, and—and the whore, Holly, but…no one else”
Vincent could barely hear Marsden’s voice through the furious rushing in his ears. No wonder that whore had laughed at him tonight. She’d known about Marsden’s trick. Why had he done it? How had he known to take Cameron’s place? Vincent wasn’t even aware Marsden had an interest in men!
The hairs on his nape pricked. It felt as though every eye in the ballroom was fixed on him. As if they could see right through him and had already passed judgment.
His father was at his aunt’s ball tonight.
Somehow he managed to keep the agonized, soul-wrenching groan inside.
Why the hell had Marsden done this to him? What had Vincent ever done to him to deserve this?
“We need to talk. But not here.” But where? He had servants. Servants who knew more about what went on in his own home than he did. Any discussion with Marsden could be overheard. Then the gossip would spread to every house in Mayfair.
A ragged shudder skipped down his spine. Definitely not his townhouse.
“Your apartments. One hour.” Perhaps by then Vincent could look at Marsden without wanting to pummel the very life out of him. It would be a sure way to ensure his silence on the whole affair, but he’d rather not resort to violence.
He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling out his mouth. Forcing his fists to unclench, he opened his eyes.
Biting his bottom lip, the same full lip Vincent had nipped one week ago, Marsden nodded. If he had looked pale before, it was nothing compared to now.
Good, Vincent thought with perverse satisfaction. He should be scared.
“You know the address?” Marsden asked.
Vincent turned on his heel, dismissing the man he once called friend.