Bound Forever (3 page)

With a shake of his head, he pushed the mix of bruised pride and impotent frustration aside and grabbed the brown coat. The day had started wonderfully. No need to ruin it for himself.

The coat buttoned, he picked up the jade pin from the bedside table and went back over to the washstand. Lifting his chin, he affixed the pin to the simple knot on his cravat. Then he studied his reflection in the oval mirror above the washstand.
Not straight
. He removed the pin, tugged the knot, and reaffixed the pin. Not perfect, but better.

On his way out of the room, he grabbed his wire-rimmed spectacles from the top of the dresser and slipped them on.

The runner in the short corridor muffled his footsteps as he made his way downstairs. It wasn’t a plush Aubusson rug like those in Vincent’s stately white stucco town house. Rather it was simple and functional, fitting the quaint country house. Oliver spent a fair amount of time at both of Vincent’s homes, and he felt much more at his ease in Rotherham, where a footman didn’t lurk about every corner.

And he knew for certain Vincent felt more comfortable being with him here. Vincent even shared a bed with him in the country. In London, that only happened at Oliver’s bachelor apartments. But at least more often than not he stayed until dawn.

“Good morning, Lord Oliver.” Mrs. Hollister turned from the sideboard, an ivory coffeepot in hand, as Oliver entered the dining room. Short and plump, with a ready smile crinkling the edges of her hazel eyes, the housekeeper was the most pleasant servant Oliver had ever encountered. The cleaning, the laundry, the cooking… She saw to it all and never appeared the least put out by even the most mundane of requests. A stark contrast to the formal versions at the town house or the surly ones that had inhabited his childhood home.

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Hollister. And a wonderfully fine morning it is.” He indicated the windows lining one wall, the drapes open, revealing the expanse of sun-warmed grass on the side of the house.

“Mighty fine indeed.” She lifted the ivory pot. “The coffee’s gone cold. If you’d like, I will deliver your cup to the study.”

“Thank you.” He picked up a small plate from the sideboard, ignored the two silver covered dishes, and selected a tart from the neat pile of pastries on the oval platter.

She bobbed a short curtsy before turning on her heel and disappearing through the narrow door that led to the kitchen, her dark brown skirts swooshing about her ankles.

Oliver found Vincent tucked behind his large desk in the study, dark head tipped down and silver pen in hand. The simple yet elegantly tailored bottle green coat accentuated the broad width of his shoulders; the stark white cravat framed his strong jaw. Vincent fit perfectly in the room with its heavy, masculine furniture and rich, mahogany wood, as if it had been made for him.

“Good morning, Oliver.” Vincent made a notation on the paper before him, then looked up. A trace of disapproval flickered across his face. “You are aware Mrs. Hollister is quite adept at cooking a proper breakfast?”

Oliver took an unabashed bite of the raspberry tart. “Indeed, but her skill with pastries knows no rival.”

Ignoring Vincent’s arched brow, he set the plate on the small table beside the leather couch and, taking another bite of the tart, crossed to the mahogany shelves flanking the gray marble fireplace. Though not a large room, every inch of available space along the walls of the study was given over to books. All lined up like neat little soldiers, as if they knew their master would not tolerate otherwise.

Oliver finished the tart, wiped his hands on his trousers, and, unable to resist the lure, reached out. “Are you certain you don’t want to part with any of your books?” He pulled a volume from a shelf, traced a finger lovingly over the embossed leather-bound cover. It would make a perfect addition to his bookshop.

“Yes, I’m certain.” Another scratch of pen on paper.

Oliver frowned. “I’ll pay you a fair price.”

“I don’t need the money.”

He carefully opened the cover. An attempt to flip the first page revealed the pages had not been cut. Physical proof no one, least of all Vincent, had yet to read this particular book. A shame, really, to allow it to linger on the shelf for no other purpose than appearance’s sake. “But you don’t read them.”

“You do.”

His fingertip paused on the edges of the uncut pages. The man kept all those books for
him
. It shouldn’t mean so much. Vincent certainly did not need the funds a sale could bring; still… He slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and looked to Vincent. As if sensing his stare, Vincent glanced up.

“Thank you, Vincent.”

A crisp tip of his head and Vincent turned his attention back to his work, but he couldn’t hide the faint hint of a blush tingeing his cheeks.

Aware he had left the study door open, Oliver kept from voicing the
love you
on the tip of his tongue and instead grabbed Shakespeare’s
Othello
from the mantle and settled on the couch to pick up where he had left off yesterday evening.

The patter of slippers on floorboards announced the housekeeper’s arrival. “The post has arrived, Lord Vincent.” She handed Oliver his cup of coffee, then placed the small silver tray on the corner of Vincent’s desk. She received the same crisp tip of the head for her efforts. “Is there anything I can get for you, my lord?”

“No, thank you.” Vincent took a letter from the top of the stack and, using the silver letter opener he had pulled from a desk drawer, broke the wax seal.

At her questioning glance, Oliver shook his head. He had everything he needed at the moment in the study with him—coffee, a book, and Vincent. After taking his empty plate, she left the room.

Oliver brought his cup to his lips and took a sip, savoring the hot, rich liquid as it flowed down his throat. With a little
clink
, he set down the cup and flipped to the appropriate page in
Othello
. Within no time at all, the book pulled him in. Even the crinkle of paper as Vincent went through the pile of letters seemed to fade to nothingness.

“Oliver.”

The hint of a reprimand behind Vincent’s voice had Oliver’s head snapping up. “Yes?” Vincent’s stare indicated he expected a response other than a yes. Clearly Oliver had missed something. “My apologies. I was not”—he lifted the book from his lap, showing Vincent his excuse—“listening.”

Fortunately Vincent didn’t appear at all put out. Rather than an imperiously raised eyebrow, Oliver found a smile lurking on his mouth.

“Congratulations are in order. I am now an uncle.”

“Lady Grafton already had the baby?” Oliver asked, referring to Vincent’s older brother’s wife. To his knowledge, the doctor had not anticipated the arrival for another fortnight.

“Yes. Four days ago, and Grafton reports the child is in good health.”

His pulse sped up. His grip tightened on the book. It was Grafton’s first child, he told himself in an effort to prepare for the very real possibility of disappointment. The man had married less than a year ago—it had not taken Vincent long at all to convince his elder brother to honor his unspoken commitment to Lady Juliana and to follow Vincent’s lead. However, unlike Vincent, the treasured heir had not been cut off for refusing to serve as a pawn to further their father’s greedy ambitions by marrying a duke’s daughter. Fortunately Vincent’s bank account was large enough so the loss of his quarterly allowance had not proved a hardship. The loss of his father’s notice…rather hard to miss something one never had to begin with.

It was much too early to worry overmuch about the gender of the baby. Juliana, Lady Grafton, was a young woman, and with Grafton only a few years older than Vincent’s twenty-six, plenty of years lay ahead of them. But if the baby was a boy…

Oliver briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and asked as casually as he could, “Do you have a new niece or nephew?”

A smile that held a distinct note of relief spread across Vincent’s mouth. “A nephew. The honorable Christopher David Prescot, the new second in line to the Saye and Sele marquisate.”

A tremor of excitement racked his body. It was all he could do not to jump to his feet and let out a shout of pure joy. He did, however, grin like a damn fool. “Congratulations, Vincent.”

“Thank you for the congratulations, Oliver. Though in this instance, I believe Grafton deserves them more than I.” Vincent reached across his desk to grab the silver pen in the holder beside the inkwell. “In fact, I should pen him a note this moment.”

As Vincent took out a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and began writing, Oliver tried to turn his attention back to his book, but
Othello
no longer held his interest.

His attention was drawn back to Vincent. The end of his pen caught the sunlight streaming through the windows as he wrote the note. His dark head was tipped down, a hint of a smile still tugging at the edges of his mouth. His broad shoulders square and straight, as always.

He’s now truly mine.

Warmth filled Oliver’s chest. Hell, it filled his entire being as a sense of—he could only describe it as
calm
—settled over him. It wasn’t as if he had worried about losing Vincent on a daily basis. But that lingering threat, the one that hung in the distance with more menace than the most ominous of thunderclouds, had vanished.

Grafton had produced the next heir to secure the future of the marquisate. No more worries his lover would feel compelled to do his duty and take a wife, or that Oliver would be forced to someday walk away from the man he loved.

Vincent was his.

Forever.

“Love you,” he said, barely a whisper, unable to keep it inside.

The pen stilled. Vincent didn’t lift his head, didn’t pull his gaze from the letter. His lashes still kissed his cheekbones, but his mouth moved. Oliver couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He’d watched Vincent’s lips form those words enough times to know exactly what he had said.

Smiling, he adjusted the book on his lap and gave Shakespeare another chance to draw him in. The familiar sounds of Vincent working drifted around him. The faint creak of leather as he shifted his weight in his chair. The scratch of a pen on paper. The shuffle of paper. The little noises did not annoy him, did not scrub across his nerves. Rather they kept his focus firmly on the man he loved.

He closed the book, giving it up as a lost cause, at least for today. “Do you mind if I borrow your carriage this afternoon?”

“Not at all. It’s at your disposal. Any particular reason?”

“I have an early afternoon appointment with the Widow Middleton. Going to have a look at her library. Unlike you, she is willing to part with her books.”

Vincent looked up from his desk. His gaze traced Oliver’s chest. “Are you going to wear that coat to a business appointment?”

“Yes.”

Vincent’s lips briefly thinned. Oliver’s grip tightened on the book as he waited for Vincent to question his response, but the man instead asked, “Will you be back for supper?”

“Of course. The widow resides outside of Maltby, not even an hour’s ride east.” An easy enough distance. Hence why he had scheduled the appointment during one of his Rotherham visits.

Vincent set down his pen and pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Then you need to ring for the carriage now.”

“But it’s only ten. I needn’t leave until noon.”

Vincent arched a brow. “You will be in that library for hours, Oliver, and you are well aware of it.”

All right, the man had a point. Oliver lifted a shoulder in a half shrug of agreement. In any case, he couldn’t work up the effort to take issue with Vincent’s attitude, which bordered much too close to domineering. Not today. Not when Vincent was finally his forever.

“I’d rather not dine alone tonight. The earlier you leave, the greater the probability I will not be the only individual seated at the table.”

“You will miss me if I dally overlong at the widow’s?” He didn’t know why, but he wanted Vincent to admit it. Vincent would miss him, even if only for a handful of hours.

His face a stoic mask, Vincent tipped his head.

With effort, Oliver kept the smile from curving his mouth. “But she’s not expecting me until early this afternoon.”

“If she’s a widow, then she likely lives alone. She will welcome your charming company, no matter the hour.”

Oliver let out a snort. As if his company could truly be classified as charming. “All right then. I’ll find Mrs. Hollister, ask her to alert the stables that I have need of the carriage.”

“And have her warm a couple of bricks for the carriage. It’s downright chilly today.”

Setting the book on the couch cushion, Oliver got to his feet and crossed to stand before Vincent’s desk. “
You
could always keep me warm.” He spoke for Vincent’s ears only.

His lover’s gaze darted around his shoulder, likely to the open study door, then met his. For a brief moment, desire banked the brilliant blue depths. “I’ll warm you plenty…later tonight, after you return home.”

The low, intimate rumble wrapped around him, a potent temptation to send the widow his regrets and stay right here, with Vincent.

Knowing Vincent would resist any efforts to indulge now, much less in the study, Oliver tamped down the lust that had started to wind its way into his veins. He grabbed the letter on the silver tray. “If you’d like, I can drop this at the post office as I pass through the village.”

A nod of thanks from Vincent and Oliver turned on his heel. Mrs. Hollister would likely be in the kitchen about now. The sooner the groom readied the carriage, the sooner he could leave, and the sooner he could return so Vincent could make good on his promise.

Chapter Three

A slightly stale, musty scent hit Oliver’s nose as he walked through the door. He stopped in his tracks. A few books? Good Lord, they were everywhere. Not just the random discarded book, but stacks upon stacks of them. The end table next to the wingback chair before the hearth, the large oak desk, and the short cabinet by the windows. The bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling were crammed full near to bursting. Books turned on their sides and nestled in the small spaces between the tops of rows and the shelves above, with stacks on the floor blocking the bottommost shelves. An open volume lay on the cushion of the chair, as though someone had merely set down the book to return any moment.