A Gentleman Revealed Read online

  A Gentleman Revealed

  Cooper Davis

  INTERMIX

  NEW YORK

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Cooper Davis

  Excerpt from A Nobleman Tempted copyright © 2018 by Cooper Davis

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN: 9780399585494

  First Edition: February 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For my incredible husband and creative partner, Judson Knight. Without you, I’d never have become the author that I am today. You inspire me every day, and I love you very much.

  For Tibby Armstrong. Thank you for championing this unconventional romance from the very start. Your love for Alistair showed me that readers will fall in love with him, too. You are the wind and the wings.

  And to Kerry Donovan, my incredible editor. It’s a joy to work with you again, and to find my story come even more alive thanks to your brilliant insights.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Excerpt from A Nobleman Tempted

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Alistair Finley spent a great deal of time staring into glasses of champagne. Lord Marcus Avenleigh was keenly aware of that fact, as he’d been given ample leave to study the gentleman throughout several social seasons—and ample motivation. For despite Finley’s stout size, there was something profoundly beautiful about the man. Perhaps it was his naturally dusky complexion, offset by obsidian, almond-shaped eyes; or the way that, despite his generous proportions, the gentleman’s fine clothes fit him damned near flawlessly.

  Finley cut a striking figure, one that was difficult for anyone—especially Marcus—to ignore, even as the shy fellow took great pains to conceal himself in the wings of every social gala he attended. At tonight’s ball, in fact, Finley had positioned himself vaguely behind the fronds of two giant palms.

  Oh, the absurdity of Alistair Finley attempting to vanish amidst hundreds of society denizens, looking like that. All tempting devil and dark eyes and stormy sensuality.

  How a positively gorgeous male of at least six foot three, and possessing such broad dimensions, imagined himself likely to become invisible, Marcus could not fathom. Nor how the man remained unmarried at almost seven and thirty, not happily settled with a husband of his own.

  Marcus might have inferred that Finley didn’t favor gentlemen, save one fact: the barely caged heat he’d glimpsed in the fellow’s eyes whenever he darted a fiery look in Marcus’s direction. Those rare, telling glances were all the proof Marcus needed of Finley’s inclinations—as well as his reciprocating interest. Yet so far this evening, Finley hadn’t even sniffed in Marcus’s direction, despite the expensive new frock coat he’d donned expressly for the occasion.

  Disheartening, yes, but Marcus wasn’t about to be deterred. As he would soon be nine and twenty, it was agreed by all his brothers—and most certainly his papa—that he must now earnestly seek for himself a husband. Only last week his father had cautioned, “Marcus, if ye canna soon press a suit with Mr. Finley then ’tis time we considered other prospects. Otherwise, next season we’ll be forced to look to the mart for yer husband.”

  The last bloody thing Marcus wanted was to wind up on the marriage mart next season, tossed about—yet again—by the tides of scandal sheets and scheming mamas galore. He’d already weathered two minor scandals . . . well, one had bordered on significant. He absolutely refused to find himself at the whims of the mart—nor to miss his chance to pursue Alistair Finley, after deciding on him nearly two years previous.

  Unfortunately, given his papa’s determination to see him married and soonest, Marcus was running out of time to make his move.

  And so it was that Marcus had arrived at Lady Elsevier’s ball tonight determined, indeed. The dowager countess was renowned for encouraging waltzes between gentlemen—which was ordinarily looked upon somewhat askance at such society events. Under her guiding hand, this annual gala had served up many a morning-after betrothal between peers, often some of the best matches of the season. Marcus had spent weeks imagining that he’d finally find similar success with the shy, sultry-eyed Alistair Finley.

  Tonight was his night; it was their night.

  At last, he would make bold and formally introduce himself. This very moment, in fact, he would see the deed done.

  Marcus had downed—not sipped—at least four glasses of champagne, hoping to ease his own reticence. Reaching for yet another flute as a footman passed, Marcus sailed through over-coiffed females and stodgy lords until he reached Finley’s side at the ballroom’s edge.

  The gentleman gave him a curt nod, then seemed to busy himself with examining a large fern. Marcus fought the urge to laugh ridiculously, and staring across the throng, realized he was more foxed than he’d intended. Thank God that wouldn’t prove an issue for the stalwart gentleman he hoped to woo, who had already drained several glasses before Marcus’s approach, and was presently pretending Marcus wasn’t positioned beside him. Marcus cleared his throat, turning toward Finley with a small smile.

  The gentleman tipped his head at Marcus, one brief nod of acknowledgement. “Good evening,” he said, voice even huskier than Marcus had dared imagine. Or chanced to overhear at previous social events.

  “Good evening, fine sir.” Marcus made a crisp bow, then grinned up at Finley. He prayed that grin didn’t look half-cocked thanks to all the champagne, nor reveal the near-instantaneous arousal he experienced at the sensual vibration o
f that voice.

  The other man’s full mouth twitched slightly, as if he might smile in return, but wasn’t quite sure the effort was worth investing in. Then Finley’s grasp on his empty champagne flute visibly tightened, and he glanced about as if for a passing footman. Marcus brushed gloved fingers across Finley’s frock coat sleeve. “Allow me, by all means,” he murmured reassuringly.

  “Allow you . . . ?” The midnight gaze swung back to Marcus, flecks of warm brown in the irises surprising him. Finley peered down at him without blinking, and Marcus realized he wasn’t the only one who’d become a bit foxed. And further realized that his own six feet of height felt diminutive when staring up into Alistair Finley’s eyes.

  “Allow me the pleasure of procuring you another drink, Mr. Finley.” Marcus caught the eye of a footman and without missing a breath, grasped a flute and pressed it into Finley’s gloved hand. He saw relief in the man’s dark eyes as Finley took several sips, his gaze traveling distantly across the ballroom.

  Marcus sipped from his own glass. “That is a beautiful waistcoat, if I may be so bold as to remark upon it. Burgundy is a fine color on you. Makes your eyes smolder a bit more than they usually do. Although”—Marcus stared up into the selfsame eyes, bolstering his nerve—“they smolder quite beautifully without benefit of the burgundy. In truth, I daresay your natural merits require no enhancement whatsoever, sir.” Marcus groaned inwardly; it was difficult not to prattle in the presence of such a stunning gentleman.

  Finley took a slight step backward, one gloved hand moving self-consciously to his midriff. “That’s a bit of cheek. I do not even know you.”

  “Ah, but I am well acquainted with you, Mr. Finley, although unfortunately—most unfortunately for me—only from across the proverbial crowded ballroom. Surely you are familiar with me, as well? Surely you’ve likewise owned an . . . awareness?” Marcus lowered his voice to an intimate timbre. “Please don’t disappoint me too painfully, I pray.”

  The older man gave an aloof sniff, gaze drifting to the dance floor again. “I may have seen you before; I could not say for certain.” Then Finley resumed his examination of the fern, a flush heightening upon his cheeks.

  “Yes, well, that makes it quite fortuitous that I’ve resolved to rectify things between us.”

  “We have never met prior to this moment,” Finley returned, “so nothing can be awry between us.”

  Finley’s eyes had been downcast, but suddenly he met Marcus’s gaze without wavering. The moment those midnight eyes locked upon him, Marcus’s belly filled with an unfamiliar, fluttering sensation. As if he were on the game field in school, knocked flat upon his back, the other lads shoving him down into dewy grass.

  “Nothing’s been awry, true.” Marcus gave his head a clearing shake, after an eternal moment of nearly drowning in the darkest, moodiest eyes he’d ever seen. “And yet nothing has been right, either, which is why it was imperative that I do this very thing.”

  “What exactly are you doing?” Finley asked huskily.

  “I’m making myself known to you. Here, now, with less glancing and averting of eyes, and much more in the way of this.” Marcus waved between them, smiling openly. “The proper introduction we’ve been sorely lacking between ourselves.” Marcus extended a gloved hand, inclining his head politely, knowing that a royal secretary would place great value upon decorum. “I am Lord Marcus Avenleigh.”

  Finley accepted Marcus’s proffered hand, enveloping it in his own larger one. His grip was firm, confident as he inclined his dark head. “I know who you are, Lord Marcus.”

  “And yet a moment ago, you implied that you did not,” Marcus observed wryly, gazing up into the long-lashed eyes anew.

  Finley glanced toward the dance floor again, his gaze fixated on one particular pair of gentlemen who were clenched dangerously close. Marcus followed his gaze. He would wager that those peers were already lovers, brazenly parading their attachment tonight, when they had the social leeway to do so.

  “You can understand why I’d be guarded,” Finley said quietly, “given your reputation.”

  “But this ball is such a progressive one. No one looks askance at anything here. Lady Elsevier likes it that way.” Marcus waved a hand at the ballroom floor. “Surely my so-called reputation wouldn’t matter to you here, of all places.”

  “A risqué ball? An invitation I nearly declined?” Finley sniffed, his expression disdaining. “This is the last place I would engage with the likes of you, Lord Marcus.”

  The posturing only made Marcus laugh, for the gentleman’s physical reaction betrayed him—the pulse at his temple had begun to beat wildly. His dusky face was turning ruddier.

  “If you disdain Lady Elsevier’s annual gala, then whyever did you also attend last year, Mr. Finley?”

  Finley’s black eyebrows quirked together. “You . . . you recall my attendance?”

  “I was keenly aware of you that night. I simply lacked the courage I’ve summoned this evening.” Marcus lifted his flute of champagne. “I’ve noted that you appreciate fine spirits on occasion, and I confess this champagne allowed me to finally gather my courage.”

  That earned him a very odd look from the other man, who swiftly brought his own champagne to his lips. Finley drained half the glass without pause, then murmured, “Yes, ’tis very fine champagne this evening.” But that disconcerted expression remained in his eyes, and Marcus worried that he’d misspoken in mentioning the man’s fondness for liquor.

  Eager to change the topic, Marcus pressed ahead. “I also sought you at His Majesty’s recent wedding fete. Much to my dismay, however, you departed early. Although I did speak with the Duke of Mardford then, who suggested this ball as a more ideal moment for our introduction.”

  Finley’s fevered gaze jumped back to that clenched couple, then traveled to several more similarly paired dancers, all gentlemen. “I can’t recommend my foster cousin’s tutelage,” Finley admonished. “The duke’s a libertine and scandalmonger. No wonder he suggested you seek me out tonight, when this is the worst possible venue for your audacious approach. I’m a man of stalwart reputation, who must likewise uphold the reputation of His Majesty.”

  “And yet,” Marcus said carefully, “you never miss this ball. Not once in the past six years, I’m told. That speaks of a gentleman who longs to find something here, something he’s never had, yet forever desired.”

  Finley’s face flamed. “A ball such as this one was designed for other gentlemen. Not the king’s private secretary.” The words, rather than dripping with disdain, held a pronounced note of melancholy. “A ball such as this one,” he continued, “holds no place for a man like me.”

  A ball such as this one. Where males waltzed with other males and did so more freely than at almost any other party of the season. And where Finley hid himself behind palm fronds, and fell into his cups.

  Marcus reached for the gentleman’s gloved hand, brushing fingertips over his knuckles. “Why should this ball not hold a place for a man like you? Even king’s secretaries deserve pleasure. Waltzes.” Marcus drew in a shuttered breath, whispering, “And courtship. Certainly, king’s secretaries deserve that.”

  “My lord, I am. . . .” Finley withdrew his hand, pressing it behind his back, out of Marcus’s reach. “You simply persist in being—”

  “I am forward, yes.” Marcus thrust his shoulders back, summoning bravery he barely felt. “But tonight, Mr. Alistair Finley, I would like to suggest we change things up a bit. That we dare to do”—Marcus lowered his voice, made it suggestive and tempestuous as he stepped much closer—“the unthinkable.”

  The secretary stood taller then, even more impressively large than Marcus had gauged previously, perhaps some six feet and four inches. He was broad through the shoulders, and towered over Marcus, almost like a blacksmith disguised in society garb, with his powerful shoulders and titanic build.

 
Mr. Finley yielded Marcus a polite bow. “I must excuse myself. Good evening, my lord,” he told Marcus primly, then turned away with a neat click of his boots.

  Marcus swept right after those swiftly retreating heels, falling in sync with the man’s long-legged strides. “You daren’t contemplate what I might deem the unthinkable?”

  The older man offered Marcus a flat look. “Given your reputation among polite society, I’d shudder to even hear your suggestion, much less contemplate it.”

  Marcus fumbled briefly for a reply. He did not want Finley dwelling overmuch on his reputation. “I fear you’ve confused me—or rather my so-called reputation—with that of my ‘brothers’.”

  “Your behavior is likewise well known about our set. You’re widely regarded as a rakehell. And I cannot abide such dissipation, nor encourage it, even in the grand social sphere spreading before us here.” At that precise moment, the set ended, yet two gentlemen couples did not cease their embrace. Finley nodded at them, aghast. “That,” he growled, “is simply not done. It seems everyone at this ball shares your inclination toward decadence.”

  “Decadence?” Marcus sputtered, still taken aback by Finley’s dismissive insult. He feigned a laugh of disbelief, even as he knew that—given his besmirched reputation—it wasn’t far off the mark. “Mr. Finley, the only decadent thing about me is my penchant for sleeping through church services, and my joy in cheating my brothers at cards. But to be fair, if you knew my brothers—especially the twins—you’d not blame me on that count.”

  Just then a charmingly besotted pair of suitors, arms linked, temporarily blocked Alistair’s segue toward the ballroom’s distant doors. With barely concealed annoyance—presumably at Marcus—Finley spun back to address him. “Caught in the garden of Lady Duncan’s residence, embraced in the arms of a betrothed earl? Scandalous! Not well done of you at all, Lord Marcus.” Then, with the smitten beaux ambling out of their way, Finley resumed his broad progress, seeming to make a beeline for the exterior garden. Marcus scrambled to his side, not about to let false rumors stand, especially if they cost him the fine man’s regard.