“The last time I had this discussion, a rich American was attempting to hurl her daughters at me,” said Jack. “You’re welcome to try to sell me your sister, if you wish.” He made an open, mocking gesture. “So far all I know is that she’s not a virgin and she probably detests me, but we’ve already established that I’m quite keen on angry, dark-eyed Italians who fit those criteria. And I expect she’s far better at housekeeping than you are.”
“Sod off,” said Alan. “You’d be lucky to have her.”
He was trying not to laugh. Past that, an appalling surge of jealousy was making itself known at the very thought of Jack getting married, but he firmly dismissed it as absurd. He would never ask anyone to throw away responsibility to family. Not for anything. Certainly not for him.
“No doubt,” said Jack. Some of the mocking glitter left him. “No. Even removing finer romantic feelings from the equation, I’ve never encountered anyone where I felt we could stand each other, even for duty’s sake, well enough to live together. Let alone have a sensible partnership.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Alan. “What with your warm and accommodating personality.”
Jack’s thumb slid across the nape of Alan’s neck with just enough fingernail to make it a threat. Alan shivered, distracted.
“Then who will inherit?” he asked. “The place is magical. Different rules. Could you choose someone? Like Lady Enid did with Violet?”
“If this were Sutton or Spinet, yes. But rules can’t be dodged when it comes to earldoms. Without an heir…” He gave an amused huff. “Ironically, Freddy Oliver might do after all, but for the pesky matter of his being illegitimate.”
“Oliver?” Alan was missing something. “Your valet?”
Silence. Jack had a peculiar expression on his face.
Finally he said, “He’s my father’s son.”
“Oh.” Alan couldn’t help the expression on his face.
“Not through … unwanted attention,” said Jack, reading his mind. “Well. To be frank, I don’t know that for certain.” It sounded effortful to admit. “I’ve always assumed Margaret Oliver was willing.”
The spectre of Bella was in the conversation again. Perhaps Margaret Oliver had said yes because she’d known how much it would cost her to say no.
“Give the lord a prize, he’s learning,” said Alan. This still felt odd. Jack wasn’t acting as though he’d shared a great and emotional secret. More as though it had simply slipped his mind.
“What?” Jack asked, in response to Alan’s look.
Alan considered Nothing, but discarded it. If it was a fight, it was a fight. They knew what to do with those.
“I thought you’d have stronger feelings about having a half brother, given you’ve lost a sister.”
No fight at all. Jack shrugged. “I thought I would too. But I don’t need to know him like a brother. It’s certainly not what he needs from me. The fact of blood doesn’t matter much without the fact of growing up together.”
Alan tried to imagine a boy showing up on the Clerkenwell doorstep and announcing himself a long-lost child of the dead Marco Rossi. Alan might have some feelings about it, but he couldn’t imagine they’d be straightforward.
He steered back to the topic at hand. Freddy Oliver. Who’d been genuinely gleeful and proud of making disguises to fit, and who had strong opinions about shoes and neckties and which tailors his lordship should deign to frequent.
“You think Oliver would make a good Earl of Cheetham?” Alan said, not particularly tactfully.
“Perhaps not. But he learns fast,” Jack said. “And he loves this place. And the presence of my former valet in the House of Lords would certainly throw a cat amongst the political pigeons.”
Damn him, he was right. What an appealing image that was.
“So cheat,” Alan said.
Jack looked a silent question at him.
“Not the magic. That’s the part you care about, right? Picking the right caretaker for the land. Cheat the aristocracy part. Make Oliver legitimate.”
“His mother…” Jack said. And then, somewhat strangled, “My mother…”
“Don’t pretend he’s your father’s legitimate son. Pretend he’s yours.”
“Alan,” said Jack. “I have no intention of marrying Margaret Oliver.”
“Forge a document saying you did, and a birth record saying he’s your son. Lodge it sealed it to be opened with your will. It won’t matter until you’re dead, will it?”
Jack looked at him unblinking for a few moments. “It’s alarming that forgery is your first instinct,” he said, “but I admire it.”
“If the rules are stupid, sod the rules.”
“It is helpful to have the option,” said Jack, and finally laughed. “You are far too clever for your own good, Master Cesare.” His hand lifted to Alan’s face. Halfway to bending down, he stopped and raised his eyebrows. “Ah. Is this still a rule?”
“Yes,” said Alan. “You have too much given to you without asking, your lordship. It’s good for you to have something withheld that you want, and—fucking hell”—the shivers from earlier began a campaign to conquer every inch of his skin, starting at his cheeks and heading downwards—“I love how you look when you’re wanting it.”
Jack hovered exactly where he was.
“Though I suppose,” Alan said, managing graciousness despite the drum of need trying to explode in his ribs, “you could ask.”
A slow smile, absolutely ruthless, set up camp on Jack’s face. I’ve made a dreadful mistake, Alan thought, as Jack’s palm firmed on his cheek and Jack’s mouth descended to within an inch of his own. Jack spoke like he was reading one of the most depraved scenes from Alan’s darkest and dirtiest stories.
“I want to kiss you until your mouth forgets it exists for any reason but to let me taste it. I want to kiss you so well, and so long, that every narrator in your books will crawl off their pages and die from sheer jealousy.” His lips almost, almost made contact. But didn’t. He sounded like rough gravel and black tea full of sugar. “Will you let me?”
It was as bad as being made to repeat Behave. No: it was worse, which was genuinely fucking impressive. Alan’s cock had a real go at showing interest all over again.
He nodded.
Jack had said that the Roman wrote kisses that were obliterating. And Alan had thought he wanted that: wanted acts he could dissolve into, to forget himself and the hard realities of the world.
He could not dissolve into this. Every part of him cried out to be more present, to feel more, to drag Jack against him harder, to take breaths and more gulping breaths of Jack’s mouth and Jack’s skin until that unnameable, expensive scent was part of his lungs. Until the path of Jack’s lips and tongue from his mouth, across his jaw, briefly and hotly on his earlobe, was seared there for anyone to see. He was almost tempted to make good on his earlier threat: to get down on that soft grass and suck Jack to hardness again, and then bait him into shoving Alan against the solid trunk of the tree to be roughly fucked.