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sirona_ficsTitle: A Secret Love
Word count: ~12,900
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Knowledge about Regency period gained from Regency romances and Jane Austen, which may result in Regency fail;Bodice ripper Regency romance tropes and language. Other than that -- nothing that isn't implied by the rating.
Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine. A Secret Love belongs to Ms Stephanie Laurens, and Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.
Summary: A reworking of Ms Laurens' A Secret Love. Lord Arthur Morwellan is desperate -- otherwise he would never have approached such a dangerous gentleman as Mr Gabriel Eames. While they grew up together, a misguided fight in their youth resulted in their estrangement from each other. But Arthur knows that Eames is the only person who can help him now, and he must find a way to gain his assistance -- even if it means deceiving him as to the true identity of the person in need. But what happens when Eames discovers his shocking secret?
Notes: This is a slight AU -- in this version of reality, gentlemen can marry other gentlemen, in which cases titles are passed to the eldest child of the nearest relative, much like they would if a peer were to die without producing an heir. Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
harlequincepted Harlequin Challenge. Betaed by the wonderful ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
altri_uccelli without whose invaluable help this story would not be nearly as coherent as it is. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
A Secret Love
Lord Arthur Morwellan, sixth Earl of Meredith, did not know what to do. His agent’s latest missive crackled and wrinkled where his fingers clutched at it desperately. Oh, Nash, you foolish, foolish man, he thought weakly, closing his eyes. Arthur had been too young to know when his mother married Nash that he was a well-meaning idiot; but they loved each other, and he was kind and attentive to her, and loved Arthur like his own children, Arthur’s step-brother and step-sister; and at the end of the day, his step-father could have been much worse. But Nash trusted far too quickly, and it was almost embarrassingly easy to take him in at the best of times, let alone when he thought he was doing the right thing for his family.
Arthur would wager that Nash had only wanted to secure a little extra funding for Ariadne’s come-out in London, and to leave Arthur with more means to run the estate when he came into his maturity and took over from Nash and his mother. He always wanted the best for them, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to tell him that the best thing he could have done was to leave Arthur to handle the financial side of their lives, as he had done for eleven years now. He might have only been nine-and-twenty, but he was well on his way to pulling the Meredith estate out of the mire his hapless father had sunk it in for years, even before Nash came along.
This was not the first time he had stared financial and social ruin in the face. He had only just turned eighteen when his world had first come to a staggering stop that had forced him to drastically reconsider his future. The change of direction had been blindsiding, but they were only there today because of Arthur’s quick thinking. He had scrimped and saved so that his sister and brother would have the best possible upbringing -- Eton for Robert, and then Oxford; and the best gowns their limited means could afford for Ariadne, always the very finest fabrics they could buy. And now that Ariadne’s come-out was upon them, the entire household could barely contain their excitement -- they were to leave for London on Friday. Arthur had anticipated savouring a subtle victory over fate, even with what it had meant for himself, but now...
“Brother?” Ariadne’s sweet voice called through the open door of the study, as if summoned by his musings. He composed his face quickly, for there was no fooling her when she was in the sort of mood she had been for the last week.
“Come in, dearest,” he answered, whisking the missive, along with the cursed promissory note, quickly away and securing it into the middle drawer of his grandfather’s mahogany desk.
Ariadne walked through the door, and Arthur’s heart warmed all over again. She was a tiny creature, no more than five feet tall, with beautiful, subtly curling chocolate-brown hair and large, doe-like hazel eyes. Her face was heart-shaped, her mouth rosy and curved in a loving smile. Arthur knew he would feel pain like no other when she met and fell in love with the right man, and left Arthur behind; but he loved her fiercely, just as much as he loved his brother, and their mother, and even Nash, and so he would consent gracefully when she asked him, and would not make an embarrassing fuss. He had to remind himself of that yet again when she came to his side and bent slightly to kiss his cheek.
“Will you not take tea with me and Robert? He’s leaving to-morrow, you remember, and we shall not see him until Christmas at the earliest!” she implored, looking at him pleadingly.
Arthur smiled. “Of course I will, my love. Let me just finish here quickly. Shall we say in forty-five minutes?” he replied.
Ariadne’s face lit up even more. “Certainly! I shall go fetch mama and instruct Mrs Chilton to lay the tea out for us in the blue drawing room!” She smiled at him again and hurried out of the room, her pale green muslin gown trailing in her wake. It took so little to make their Ariadne happy. It would be a lucky man who managed to capture her loving heart.
His smile faded when he turned his attention back to the damnable note. Miles, their agent, concurred -- the note was legitimate, and fully legal. Upon being claimed, it would require the Earl of Meredith to pay out a sum of money exceeding the present worth of the entire earldom, including Morwellan Park and Morwellan House in London, as well as the minor properties. They would be left on the street, to fend for themselves, for not one of their friends from the haut ton would help them if they were ruined -- one never knew how far the rot spread through a family, and if they were stupid enough to bring it on themselves, well, they could handle the consequences, too--that was what the ton would say.
The fact that Arthur was now Earl of Meredith was irrelevant -- his father had died young, when Arthur had been only six years of age; he had been the heir apparent, and so he had succeeded his father as holder of the title and the Earldom. Miles and his mother had handled the estate on his behalf until his maturity -- and later, when his mother had re-married, Nash had taken over for the remaining nine years until Arthur had turned eighteen. Nash had signed the note when Arthur had been seventeen, acting on behalf of the Earl of Meredith; therefore Arthur would be forced to honour it, even though it was not his signature on the parchment.
He and Miles agreed on one more thing, however -- the note was obviously a swindle. The executors, the Central East Africa Gold Company, were registered in the trading office -- but the address the Company gave was one for an office of solicitors, and the Company’s headquarters were in Africa, where they were virtually untraceable. If only Arthur could prove that the scheme was a swindle, the note would be declared invalid, and they would be in the clear.
So, really, there was nothing else to be done. He would have to contact the one man that could help him, a man who had a reputation for unmasking just such schemes as this one, and saw it not only as a challenge, but as his calling.
It was unfortunate that Mr Gabriel Eames hated the very sight of Lord Arthur Morwellan.
Eames was an honourable man, fair and decent and loyal. Arthur should know -- they had grown up together. Nevertheless, the old ingrained animosity between the two would rear its ugly head immediately upon them seeing each other, and it would not do Arthur any favours -- Eames would refuse to help him.
If only he could send Ariadne -- Eames adored her as he did his own sisters; indeed, Mary, Anne, and Ariadne were extremely close, having grown up together much in the same manner as Arthur and Eames had, though with no friction to darken their friendships. But that would mean telling Ariadne the whole of it, and Arthur knew her too well -- if she was made aware of the circumstances, she would refuse to have her come-out and be a burden to her family; and that would make everyone upset and miserable, not to mention ruin her chances of making a good match. It was insupportable. Arthur would just have to think of something himself.
A knock sounded on the door; Mrs Chilton pushed it open, bestowing a kindly smile on him. “Tea is set, Lord Arthur,” she said, lively despite her advancing years.
“Thank you, Mrs Chilton,” Arthur replied warmly. “I’ll be right there.”
His old nurse gave him a fond smile and closed the door behind her. Arthur stood from his desk and wandered over to the French windows, breathing in the fresh evening air deeply. It was then that the solution struck him, fully formed -- it was so simple. All he had to do was bring the countess back in play. The thought made something in him tighten in aversion -- he hated lying to his family, and if Eames found out just who had come to ask him for help, the fall-out would be disastrous. If there was one thing Gabriel Eames could not abide, it was deceit. He would come to hate Arthur even more for that, Arthur knew it.
The thought hurt, just as every thought of Eames was another tiny shard of pain secreted away deep inside him. He did not understand why Eames had lashed out at him as he had when Arthur’s world had almost collapsed, when he’d had to alter his future whether he liked it or not. It had been torture at the beginning, when their friendship had deteriorated after one misguided, stupid fight -- Arthur was still deeply ashamed of the things he had said to Eames back then, things he did not believe, but that he knew would hurt Eames as much as Eames was hurting him. It had cost him his best friend, his most important confidant. After eleven years, however, time had dulled the ache into something smaller, hidden inside him, in a place where he could just let it exist without it killing him.
The fact was that Gabriel Eames would not willingly help Arthur Morwellan. But Eames had a notoriously soft spot for a lady in trouble, so perhaps he just might be persuaded to help a widowed countess in need.
---
Gabriel Eames turned and resumed pacing outside St George’s Church, just off Hanover Square. The early morning chill tried to worm its way inside his heavy cloak, and he lengthened his stride, trying to keep warm. The note had said three o’clock, and it was at present five minutes before the hour, but there was still no sign of the lady who had requested the meeting. He had been in half a mind to set it aside as some elaborate kind of joke, but his curiosity had been piqued, and so here he was -- waiting outside the church where his good friend Dominick Cobb had married his beloved, the lady Mallory, last week. It did not lighten his mood -- he had felt some sort of strange premonition, standing right on this spot seven days ago. Was it of this mysterious meeting?
Three o’clock chimed just as the strands of mist around him stirred; a shadow detached itself from the darkness around the church’s entrance and stepped forward to meet him. He tried his best not to start -- had she been there the entire time, watching him? He had not felt even the slightest tingle -- it was a worrying thought for one so accustomed to being on his guard at all times.
He walked over to the figure and stopped with scarcely a foot of distance between them. She was tall; he could not see over her head, which was astonishing as he was well over six feet tall himself. He took a careful look at her, but could discover little under the black cloak that hid her body and the heavy veil obscuring her face. She had moved fluidly, however -- like a dancer, like someone comfortable in her own skin. It was--intriguing.
“Good morning, Mr Eames. Thank you for coming,” she said; her voice was low and resonant, much lower than the average woman -- but it was very pleasant, and in fact rather soothing. It made something inside him loosen imperceptibly, and he inclined his head in answer.
“Good morning,” he said, then paused, expecting the lady to introduce herself.
“I regret that I am unable to make you free of my name,” she said, still in that rich cadence. “The matter that I wish to bring before you is of the utmost gravity to myself and my family, and you will see in a moment why I wish to preserve my anonymity.”
“Very well,” Eames conceded, intrigued. “Do go on.”
The lady took a deep breath, to steady herself, perhaps. “I find myself in need of your services, Mr Eames. My family does.”
“Your family?”
“My step-family, I should say. Last week, a servant found a promissory note secreted away in a vase, an old family heirloom. It was signed by my late husband.”
“Late husband? And this ‘family’ you speak of?”
She paused, hesitating, but then seemed to come to a decision. “They are my step-children, Ariana and Rupert, and an older cousin, Mary, who is also part of the family. Ariana and Rupert are my late husband’s children from a previous marriage. We had only been married a little over two years before he... passed away.” Her voice was steady, calm and focused. Eames found himself inexplicably drawn to her.
“I will need to see this note,” he said, considering her.
She reached into the recesses of her cloak and withdrew a folded piece of parchment, handing it to him. Eames unfolded it, angling it so that the light from the nearby lamp fell on its contents. The first thing he looked at -- the signature -- was disguised by a thick piece of paper affixed with sealing wax. His lips twitched appreciatively; he wondered if she played chess. Recalling her words, he turned his attention to the note’s contents. The sum of money specified was excessive, and given the nature of the venture, it was indubitably risky. However...
“I do not see the problem,” he said.
“The problem is that this sum considerably exceeds the total present worth of the earldom,” she replied calmly.
He looked down, swiftly recalculated the value of the investment, but he was not mistaken.
“But then--”
“Precisely,” she interrupted. “This has not been the first such problem we have faced. Perhaps I should have mentioned -- my husband was fond of speculating; unfortunately he was not particularly apt at it. The family has existed on the brink of financial ruin for over a decade, well before I married into it. Once I understood the issue, I took over the estate’s financial matters, but by then it was too late. I have only just managed to scrape our way out of the abyss; this note, however, will be the end.” This time, this time her voice shook. Eames perceived that she had faced her husband’s death with sorrow, but with her head held high; but now that her step-children were threatened, he saw a glimpse of her heart.
He took a longer look at the note. The Central East Africa Gold Company -- he’d never heard of such a thing.
“Neither has our agent,” she told him when he said so. “We are convinced it is a financial scam. You will now begin to understand why I contacted you.”
The name of the solicitors representing the Company was, however, included on the form. “I will see what I can find out from them,” Eames said, pointing it out, indicating that he intended to accept the case.
When she seemed entirely unsurprised, his smile slipped off his lips. “You knew I would agree to help you. How? Do I know you?”
She froze, holding herself as stiffly as a marble statue. “I knew you would take the case, because your reputation precedes you. This is exactly the sort of operation you tackle most often. As to the other,” she drew a breath and stood looking at him for a long moment. “I must ask you to give me your word that you will not try to find out who I am. You have the resources; I’ve no doubt that you can. We move in the same circles, and I must not-- no one must find out about this. My step-daughter is poised to have her come-out, and it will destroy her chances of making a good match if this were to become widely known. Please, promise me you will not.”
He stared at her. What she said was true enough; he knew the ton as well as she. What held his attention, however, was her passion. She was desperate, that was true enough; but she held her dignity like a shield around her, straight-backed, refusing to bow in the face of overwhelming odds. He admired her deeply for that.
“I give you my word that I will not try to discover your identity,” he said formally. He sensed her relief immediately, and smiled wryly -- did she imagine that the lure of a mystery pertained only to cases? She would discover otherwise momentarily -- Gabriel Eames was not one to pass such a perfect opportunity unexplored.
She waited for a moment, and then offered him her hand. It was covered by a fine leather glove, but it could not disguise the fine bones of her wrist, or her long, elegant fingers. He took it in his. Something strange tugged at him for a moment, some long forgotten memory--he brushed it aside; he had more immediate concerns. He pulled her closer.
With a gasp she landed against his front, bracing herself on his chest. “What--” she gasped, a rough edge to her voice, before he took her chin in his hand and she stilled immediately.
“Only gentlemen shake hands when reaching an agreement, my dear. When a man and a woman do, they seal it like this.” And he pressed his lips to hers through the veil.
She stilled, but did not freeze. Slowly, so slowly, he moved his lips against her full, pliant mouth--and she responded, hesitant but definitely with him. He let his hand slide over her taut back, felt her long muscles quiver under his touch. She sighed into his mouth, and for a minute he was overcome by the need to push her veil off, to take her mouth like he wanted to, deeply, passionately, until she was sobbing under his attentions.
She pushed gently at his chest, levering herself away; her breath rushed out on a gasp when their lips separated, and Eames felt the warm puff of it over his jaw even through the veil. He did not try to stop her, but was aware of his muscles’ rigidity as he locked them against the impulse. “How will I contact you?” he asked instead, releasing her -- for the time being.
She hesitated. “I will contact you,” she said at last, and with a swift turn she made her way down the steps. There was something familiar about that turn; Eames had an excellent memory for movement and mannerisms, and there was something about the countess that niggled at the back of his mind. He considered it for a moment as he listened to the heels of her boots clacking away from him towards the street; he heard a carriage pull up, and then pull away a moment later. His thoughts were still hazy; he let it go for now. He had a new case to unravel, and a beguiling lady to unveil. His week was looking up already.
---
Arthur slipped quietly through the house, carrying the long cloak and the petticoat he had donned over his trousers to complete the impression of the countess. He thanked his lucky stars once again that Ariadne and Robert had always been so very fond of the theatre, to the point that they had held weekly performances at Morwellan Manor to the delight of Nash and their mother. Arthur had always found it extremely easy to slip into character, be it man or woman. There was a time when Eames had joined them, too, with little Mary and Alice looking on from the wings with huge eyes and even bigger smiles -- but those times were long past, even if Arthur had not forgotten them and likely never would, much like every single memory he had of the man. He had hoped that Eames’ memory of the countess from those frivolous plays would be hazy enough to prevent him from making the connection, and so far, it was working beautifully.
It had gone extremely well tonight -- Eames had agreed to help him, and even divulged his starting point -- the solicitors’ offices. Arthur had considered visiting them, but he had been leery of attracting attention to himself, especially with so much at stake. If whoever was responsible for the scam found out that he was sniffing around, they could very well call in the notes.
He reached his room, closing the door quietly behind him and throwing the cloak and petticoat over the nearest chair. Mellows appeared as if from thin air, helping him out of his coat and taking his cravat from him. He hung them out carefully, brushing the dust of the day off them with practiced motions. He moved to do the same for the cloak and petticoat while Arthur unfastened his trousers and let them drop down his long legs, sitting on the bed and tugging his boots off. He sprawled over the bed in his soft cotton drawers that moulded to his front and arse, bone-tired but still energised from the success of his meeting with Eames.
“It went well, I take it?” Mellows asked as he picked up Arthur’s trousers to put them away.
“It did, thank God. He agreed to help,” Arthur sighed in renewed relief.
“Of course he would,” Mellows scoffed, brushing the clothes with unnecessary force. “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t just go to Master Gabriel and ask him yourself! It’s not like he could refuse you, being as it’s your family on the line!”
“I couldn’t do that, you know why. I’d have to tell him the whole story, even what happened eleven years ago, and I couldn’t bear to see him look at me with pity.” Arthur closed his eyes.
“Pride’s all very well, but this is serious, Lord Arthur,” Mellows said worriedly.
“I know, Mellows. That’s why I’m doing everything I can to get us out of it.” Arthur turned, burrowing his way under the sheets and into the pillow. Mellows came closer and straightened the covers with an ease born from long practice -- he’d been Arthur’s valet for almost fifteen years, ever since he’d needed one.
“Good night, my lord,” Mellows said, blowing out the candles.
“‘Night, Mellows,” said Arthur tiredly, already closing his eyes.
He was almost asleep when it hit him, and just like that he was wide awake all over again. Eames had kissed, kissed him earlier that night -- Arthur’s heart started beating way too fast as he remembered the shock of need and pleasure he had experienced from being pressed close to his hard body, feeling those gorgeous, plump lips on his, even through the veil -- but the old tension between them had never raised its ugly head. So it was only Arthur’s name that inspired such animosity in Eames, not his body -- the possibilities this discovery opened were dizzying. It was a long time before Arthur could fall asleep after that; the first licks of dawn were lighting the sky when he finally succumbed to his exhaustion.
---
He found it difficult to concentrate at the breakfast table the next morning, what with everything that was churning through his mind. Nash and his mother noticed, of course, but Ariadne was preoccupied with the coming excursion to Bond Street, and paid him no mind, for which he was extremely grateful. He wanted to keep her in the dark for as long as possible, and if they could come to a resolution without her working out something was wrong, he would be a happy man.
“Are you all right, my love?” his mother asked quietly while Ariadne was deep in conversation with her father.
“Yes, Mother. There’s been a development, is all. I’ve asked for some help, and it has been granted.”
“Oh, wonderful,” his mother said, her face lighting up. She smiled at him proudly and turned away to Ariadne again, leaving Arthur to brood.
He wished he could forgo this morning’s expedition, but the fact was that his mother, for all that he loved her dearly, had abominable taste in clothes. For Ariadne’s sake, Arthur would accompany them to make the choices on all the new picks for both her and their mother.
Nash smiled affectionately at them when they said their goodbyes, retreating into his office to read for a few hours. Arthur shepherded the ladies into the carriage and soon enough they were alighting in Bond Street. The street was teeming with crowds, it being the start of the season, and every mama with a daughter or a son of marriageable age was out in force. Arthur fielded speculative glances from many a person, as well as batted eyelashes from not a few ladies and gentlemen. He endeavoured to ignore them to the best of his ability. He had left the thought of marriage behind him long ago -- at first, he had not wanted to inconvenience a spouse with the problems of the earldom; and later, he had just accepted that it was unlikely that he would ever marry for love, and he did not need an heir -- his sister and brother would provide him with one.
He had only entertained the possibility once, long ago, before cruel fate drove a divide between him and the one person he would have married for love. He was an eligible party now, but twelve years ago he had been almost ungainly, too-long legs and arms, all elbows and knees, ears too big for his face and a thin frame that did him no favours. How could he have hoped to attract his attention, even before Eames stopped seeking him out altogether?
He thrust the thoughts from his mind. That his mind would be thus engaged was inevitable -- after all, Ariadne was expected to marry once the season was over -- provided she’d found someone she wanted to wed, of course -- and so Arthur’s whole being would resonate with thoughts of the past, and the future. He blinked quickly once or twice, face as inscrutable as always, and ignored the throng as best he could, maintaining his mask of blandness.
They finished quickly in the first few shops, Arthur selecting cloth after flawless cloth, agreeing on the designs of the various gowns and accessories, and admiring the look of bronze silk and teal muslin against Ariadne’s beautiful skin. They left the dress shop behind and dived into the next establishment in line, where they purchased two pairs of slippers and a pair of long, pretty gloves, as well as silk stockings. Arthur led the way further down the street, towards the milliner, when familiar voices hailed them from behind.
“Ho, Ariadne! Lady Meredith! Arthur!”
Arthur turned, spotting Mary and Alice’s honey blond hair bobbing up and down as they waved excitedly. Ariadne beamed at them and retraced her steps, closely followed by their mother. Arthur trailed after them happily enough -- he was very fond of the two girls, loved them almost as much as Ariadne -- when he noticed that Mrs Eames was not with them. Their brother was.
Eames walked a little behind them, gaze fixed unerringly on Arthur. Arthur felt the delighted smile slide right off his face, and struggled with himself to maintain a pleasant expression, lest Mary and Alice pick up on it and became upset.
The girls and his mother greeted each other eagerly while he and Eames looked on. Arthur was aware of every single movement of Eames’ body, even if it was not at all close to him -- Eames stood on the other side of the group, just like Arthur presenting his back to the carriageway, shielding the happy group with their bodies. He wore a beautiful navy blue jacket that brought out the specs of blue in his grey-green eyes, and a pristine cream waistcoat and cravat. A sapphire twinkled in its folds, catching the sunlight. He looked so beautiful that Arthur’s chest tightened with longing.
“Eames,” he forced out, heart leaping in his throat as he watched Eames narrow his eyes at him. Surely Eames couldn’t suspect anything; he’d been so careful!
Eames watched Arthur’s stiff face miserably. Every time he saw Arthur, he couldn’t help the instinctive rush of hope that Arthur might look at him like he once had -- openly delighted to see him, happy to share his thoughts, his plans, himself with Eames. Every time he saw the customary blankness of Arthur’s expression, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. It had started too long ago to speak of; they had both been growing up, planning their removal to Oxford for years beforehand, Arthur only a year behind him -- so Eames had left Eton and gone for his first year at university, eager to get started. He had returned, almost frantic with excitement that he was desperate to share with his friend -- even though Arthur had been distant as of late, not answering Eames’ letters, being almost rudely concise when he did; and then he had seen Arthur for the first time since the previous summer. It was like looking at a completely different person. Gone were the easy smiles, gone was the boundless enthusiasm, gone was the carefree laugh. In their place, a certain tightness around Arthur’s eyes had made him look years older than eighteen.
And then Arthur had told him that he wasn’t coming to Oxford, and Eames had lost his mind a little. Arthur had tried to explain, tried to tell him something important; but he had not listened, had not heard a word from Arthur’s mouth. He had been livid, felt betrayed for no reason he could explain. He had lashed out at Arthur, called him a coward, a stupid, lazy country boy, and it had only gone downhill from there. Arthur had coldly told him he had responsibilities, that he had to start learning how to manage his estate, something Eames obviously didn’t have to bother with, if he was content to let his father continue to shoulder his son’s duties while he enjoyed all the entertainment Oxford had to offer. His harsh words had cut Eames to the quick; that Arthur thought he was a good-for-nothing that had no care for his own family’s wellbeing hurt beyond anything Eames could have imagined, and his temper had flared, vicious like only Arthur could prod him into. They had both bled that night, and nothing had ever been the same between them.
He hadn’t seen Arthur for years, hadn’t watched him become this tall, sleekly gorgeous man, hadn’t watched him grow into his own. He hated Arthur for what had happened, but he hated himself more for allowing it to remain a gaping chasm between them that both were too wary to close, afraid of what it might turn into if they tried.
Still, it did not stop him from being painfully aware of everything about Arthur, from his gorgeous charcoal grey coat and the perfect white shirt underneath it, to the beautifully folded light grey cravat that matched the creamy grey of his trousers. His hair was slicked back, making him look much older than his twenty-nine years, the impression strengthened by the calculated blankness of his features. Even when he wanted to hate him, Arthur drew him like a lodestone.
Letting the cheerful voices of his sisters, Ariadne, and Lady Meredith sink into the background, he deliberately turned to Arthur, intending to bait him -- anything to hear Arthur’s voice, even raised in disapproval -- when he saw the horse behind him. The reins had slipped through the driver’s fingers somehow, and the horse reared, only inches from Arthur’s back.
Eames didn’t even make a conscious decision to move -- in the blink of an eye he was there, hauling Arthur’s unresisting body against his and turning him swiftly, protecting him from the horse’s hoofs. The horse behind him reared again and Eames jerked as its knee hit him in the back, but he gritted his teeth and refused to release Arthur from his arms until the danger had passed.
Arthur stared at the horse’s wide, crazed eyes behind Eames’ head, and tried to breathe. All the air had whooshed out of his lungs when he had seen the horrifyingly intent look in Eames’ eyes as he’d started for him; by the barely leashed tension in his body, Arthur had been prepared for a swing to the face -- but instead here he was, pressed intimately to Eames’ chest, feeling the frantic force of his heartbeat against his own, smelling the masculine scent that he remembered Eames favouring, being held in the strong circle of his arms. He couldn’t stop the shudder that raced down his back, couldn’t stop his instantaneous arousal at the way their bodies shifted against one another, couldn’t stop the way his skin prickled as Eames exhaled against his ear. They were almost the same height; Eames only had three inches on him. Their groins pressed together; Arthur’s hips jerked helplessly forward into the sensation, and his face burned with embarrassment as his length rubbed against something that could only be Eames’ own hardening shaft--he pulled back with everything he had. Eames resisted for a moment, but then acquiesced and released him from his arms.
A hot blush stained Arthur’s cheeks at the thought that he had almost betrayed himself, almost let Eames feel his desire. He was about to turn his back on the man when he recalled the way Eames had jerked when the horse had kicked him. Mortification forgotten, Arthur took two quick steps back to where Eames stood, as if frozen to the spot, staring at Arthur.
“Are you hurt?” Arthur demanded, running a probing hand down Eames’ back, pulling away when Eames flinched as his fingers pressed at the small of his back.
“I’m fine,” Eames grated stiffly. He wasn’t fine; the warmth of Arthur’s body pressed against his had been torture, the smell of his skin unbearable, a vaguely feminine note mixed with his usual scent prodding at his mind and making him shake with the effort to restrain himself from wrapping his arms around Arthur and kissing him silly in the middle of the busy road. Moreover, he’d been sure... He threw a quick glance down, and -- Arthur was half-hard in his trousers, arousal pressing against the fabric lewdly for all to see. I gave him that, Eames thought vaguely, and the spike of desire that the thought sent through him almost succeeded where the horse had failed in bringing him to his knees.
Arthur noticed the direction of Eames’ gaze and jumped back as if scalded. A flash of humiliation broke through his inscrutable mask; it twisted something painful in Eames to see that Arthur thought he had to protect himself from him.
The sudden, unguarded concern Eames had seen in Arthur’s eyes was cut off by that damned shield falling over them, once again concealing Arthur’s thoughts from him. Eames was starting to vehemently dislike Arthur’s composure. He couldn’t forget what he’d seen; Arthur had responded intimately, undeniably, to being pressed against Eames’ body -- apparently Arthur was not at all as resistant to him as Eames had thought.
Arthur gulped nervously at Eames’ sudden smile; he looked like nothing more than a large predator that has sighted his prey. The thought terrified him; if he didn’t stop Eames from getting closer, not only would he threaten Arthur’s composure, but he could upset his carefully laid plans. Eames was no fool; he was better at observing and reading people than anyone Arthur had ever known. If they spent more time in each other’s company, Eames was bound to start suspecting something soon enough.
Arthur spared him a quick nod, nothing like the thanks he really wanted to give Eames -- kiss him, hold him down as he flicked open his trousers and took him into his mouth, until the only thing Eames would remember was Arthur’s name -- but he could not afford such thoughts. For one thing, Eames would never allow it--it might even be pistols at dawn, so bitter was his hostility--and for another, there was still a wave on Arthur’s horizon that threatened to crush everything he held dear in its wake. It was vital that his charade continue, for as long as it took to conquer it.
Eames willed his arousal away, narrowing his eyes at Arthur’s back as he cut their excursion short and herded his mother and sister towards the carriage waiting for them nearby, deftly calming Mary and Alice with his unruffled self-possession. Did Arthur imagine that a cold rebuff would be enough to make Eames forget what he had felt, what he had seen? For all his brilliance, Arthur could be so nearsighted sometimes, Eames thought fondly. Today had proved that there was so much more between them than Eames had even dared to imagine; and he would follow it to its conclusion, one way or another. Eames had never backed down in the face of a challenge, and he wasn’t about to start now, especially when the prize was bigger than he could have possibly hoped for -- Arthur’s trust, Arthur’s desire, Arthur’s heart.
---
Part Two
Word count: ~12,900
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Knowledge about Regency period gained from Regency romances and Jane Austen, which may result in Regency fail;
Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine. A Secret Love belongs to Ms Stephanie Laurens, and Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.
Summary: A reworking of Ms Laurens' A Secret Love. Lord Arthur Morwellan is desperate -- otherwise he would never have approached such a dangerous gentleman as Mr Gabriel Eames. While they grew up together, a misguided fight in their youth resulted in their estrangement from each other. But Arthur knows that Eames is the only person who can help him now, and he must find a way to gain his assistance -- even if it means deceiving him as to the true identity of the person in need. But what happens when Eames discovers his shocking secret?
Notes: This is a slight AU -- in this version of reality, gentlemen can marry other gentlemen, in which cases titles are passed to the eldest child of the nearest relative, much like they would if a peer were to die without producing an heir. Written for the
harlequincepted Harlequin Challenge. Betaed by the wonderful altri_uccelli without whose invaluable help this story would not be nearly as coherent as it is. Any remaining mistakes are my own.A Secret Love
Lord Arthur Morwellan, sixth Earl of Meredith, did not know what to do. His agent’s latest missive crackled and wrinkled where his fingers clutched at it desperately. Oh, Nash, you foolish, foolish man, he thought weakly, closing his eyes. Arthur had been too young to know when his mother married Nash that he was a well-meaning idiot; but they loved each other, and he was kind and attentive to her, and loved Arthur like his own children, Arthur’s step-brother and step-sister; and at the end of the day, his step-father could have been much worse. But Nash trusted far too quickly, and it was almost embarrassingly easy to take him in at the best of times, let alone when he thought he was doing the right thing for his family.
Arthur would wager that Nash had only wanted to secure a little extra funding for Ariadne’s come-out in London, and to leave Arthur with more means to run the estate when he came into his maturity and took over from Nash and his mother. He always wanted the best for them, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to tell him that the best thing he could have done was to leave Arthur to handle the financial side of their lives, as he had done for eleven years now. He might have only been nine-and-twenty, but he was well on his way to pulling the Meredith estate out of the mire his hapless father had sunk it in for years, even before Nash came along.
This was not the first time he had stared financial and social ruin in the face. He had only just turned eighteen when his world had first come to a staggering stop that had forced him to drastically reconsider his future. The change of direction had been blindsiding, but they were only there today because of Arthur’s quick thinking. He had scrimped and saved so that his sister and brother would have the best possible upbringing -- Eton for Robert, and then Oxford; and the best gowns their limited means could afford for Ariadne, always the very finest fabrics they could buy. And now that Ariadne’s come-out was upon them, the entire household could barely contain their excitement -- they were to leave for London on Friday. Arthur had anticipated savouring a subtle victory over fate, even with what it had meant for himself, but now...
“Brother?” Ariadne’s sweet voice called through the open door of the study, as if summoned by his musings. He composed his face quickly, for there was no fooling her when she was in the sort of mood she had been for the last week.
“Come in, dearest,” he answered, whisking the missive, along with the cursed promissory note, quickly away and securing it into the middle drawer of his grandfather’s mahogany desk.
Ariadne walked through the door, and Arthur’s heart warmed all over again. She was a tiny creature, no more than five feet tall, with beautiful, subtly curling chocolate-brown hair and large, doe-like hazel eyes. Her face was heart-shaped, her mouth rosy and curved in a loving smile. Arthur knew he would feel pain like no other when she met and fell in love with the right man, and left Arthur behind; but he loved her fiercely, just as much as he loved his brother, and their mother, and even Nash, and so he would consent gracefully when she asked him, and would not make an embarrassing fuss. He had to remind himself of that yet again when she came to his side and bent slightly to kiss his cheek.
“Will you not take tea with me and Robert? He’s leaving to-morrow, you remember, and we shall not see him until Christmas at the earliest!” she implored, looking at him pleadingly.
Arthur smiled. “Of course I will, my love. Let me just finish here quickly. Shall we say in forty-five minutes?” he replied.
Ariadne’s face lit up even more. “Certainly! I shall go fetch mama and instruct Mrs Chilton to lay the tea out for us in the blue drawing room!” She smiled at him again and hurried out of the room, her pale green muslin gown trailing in her wake. It took so little to make their Ariadne happy. It would be a lucky man who managed to capture her loving heart.
His smile faded when he turned his attention back to the damnable note. Miles, their agent, concurred -- the note was legitimate, and fully legal. Upon being claimed, it would require the Earl of Meredith to pay out a sum of money exceeding the present worth of the entire earldom, including Morwellan Park and Morwellan House in London, as well as the minor properties. They would be left on the street, to fend for themselves, for not one of their friends from the haut ton would help them if they were ruined -- one never knew how far the rot spread through a family, and if they were stupid enough to bring it on themselves, well, they could handle the consequences, too--that was what the ton would say.
The fact that Arthur was now Earl of Meredith was irrelevant -- his father had died young, when Arthur had been only six years of age; he had been the heir apparent, and so he had succeeded his father as holder of the title and the Earldom. Miles and his mother had handled the estate on his behalf until his maturity -- and later, when his mother had re-married, Nash had taken over for the remaining nine years until Arthur had turned eighteen. Nash had signed the note when Arthur had been seventeen, acting on behalf of the Earl of Meredith; therefore Arthur would be forced to honour it, even though it was not his signature on the parchment.
He and Miles agreed on one more thing, however -- the note was obviously a swindle. The executors, the Central East Africa Gold Company, were registered in the trading office -- but the address the Company gave was one for an office of solicitors, and the Company’s headquarters were in Africa, where they were virtually untraceable. If only Arthur could prove that the scheme was a swindle, the note would be declared invalid, and they would be in the clear.
So, really, there was nothing else to be done. He would have to contact the one man that could help him, a man who had a reputation for unmasking just such schemes as this one, and saw it not only as a challenge, but as his calling.
It was unfortunate that Mr Gabriel Eames hated the very sight of Lord Arthur Morwellan.
Eames was an honourable man, fair and decent and loyal. Arthur should know -- they had grown up together. Nevertheless, the old ingrained animosity between the two would rear its ugly head immediately upon them seeing each other, and it would not do Arthur any favours -- Eames would refuse to help him.
If only he could send Ariadne -- Eames adored her as he did his own sisters; indeed, Mary, Anne, and Ariadne were extremely close, having grown up together much in the same manner as Arthur and Eames had, though with no friction to darken their friendships. But that would mean telling Ariadne the whole of it, and Arthur knew her too well -- if she was made aware of the circumstances, she would refuse to have her come-out and be a burden to her family; and that would make everyone upset and miserable, not to mention ruin her chances of making a good match. It was insupportable. Arthur would just have to think of something himself.
A knock sounded on the door; Mrs Chilton pushed it open, bestowing a kindly smile on him. “Tea is set, Lord Arthur,” she said, lively despite her advancing years.
“Thank you, Mrs Chilton,” Arthur replied warmly. “I’ll be right there.”
His old nurse gave him a fond smile and closed the door behind her. Arthur stood from his desk and wandered over to the French windows, breathing in the fresh evening air deeply. It was then that the solution struck him, fully formed -- it was so simple. All he had to do was bring the countess back in play. The thought made something in him tighten in aversion -- he hated lying to his family, and if Eames found out just who had come to ask him for help, the fall-out would be disastrous. If there was one thing Gabriel Eames could not abide, it was deceit. He would come to hate Arthur even more for that, Arthur knew it.
The thought hurt, just as every thought of Eames was another tiny shard of pain secreted away deep inside him. He did not understand why Eames had lashed out at him as he had when Arthur’s world had almost collapsed, when he’d had to alter his future whether he liked it or not. It had been torture at the beginning, when their friendship had deteriorated after one misguided, stupid fight -- Arthur was still deeply ashamed of the things he had said to Eames back then, things he did not believe, but that he knew would hurt Eames as much as Eames was hurting him. It had cost him his best friend, his most important confidant. After eleven years, however, time had dulled the ache into something smaller, hidden inside him, in a place where he could just let it exist without it killing him.
The fact was that Gabriel Eames would not willingly help Arthur Morwellan. But Eames had a notoriously soft spot for a lady in trouble, so perhaps he just might be persuaded to help a widowed countess in need.
---
Gabriel Eames turned and resumed pacing outside St George’s Church, just off Hanover Square. The early morning chill tried to worm its way inside his heavy cloak, and he lengthened his stride, trying to keep warm. The note had said three o’clock, and it was at present five minutes before the hour, but there was still no sign of the lady who had requested the meeting. He had been in half a mind to set it aside as some elaborate kind of joke, but his curiosity had been piqued, and so here he was -- waiting outside the church where his good friend Dominick Cobb had married his beloved, the lady Mallory, last week. It did not lighten his mood -- he had felt some sort of strange premonition, standing right on this spot seven days ago. Was it of this mysterious meeting?
Three o’clock chimed just as the strands of mist around him stirred; a shadow detached itself from the darkness around the church’s entrance and stepped forward to meet him. He tried his best not to start -- had she been there the entire time, watching him? He had not felt even the slightest tingle -- it was a worrying thought for one so accustomed to being on his guard at all times.
He walked over to the figure and stopped with scarcely a foot of distance between them. She was tall; he could not see over her head, which was astonishing as he was well over six feet tall himself. He took a careful look at her, but could discover little under the black cloak that hid her body and the heavy veil obscuring her face. She had moved fluidly, however -- like a dancer, like someone comfortable in her own skin. It was--intriguing.
“Good morning, Mr Eames. Thank you for coming,” she said; her voice was low and resonant, much lower than the average woman -- but it was very pleasant, and in fact rather soothing. It made something inside him loosen imperceptibly, and he inclined his head in answer.
“Good morning,” he said, then paused, expecting the lady to introduce herself.
“I regret that I am unable to make you free of my name,” she said, still in that rich cadence. “The matter that I wish to bring before you is of the utmost gravity to myself and my family, and you will see in a moment why I wish to preserve my anonymity.”
“Very well,” Eames conceded, intrigued. “Do go on.”
The lady took a deep breath, to steady herself, perhaps. “I find myself in need of your services, Mr Eames. My family does.”
“Your family?”
“My step-family, I should say. Last week, a servant found a promissory note secreted away in a vase, an old family heirloom. It was signed by my late husband.”
“Late husband? And this ‘family’ you speak of?”
She paused, hesitating, but then seemed to come to a decision. “They are my step-children, Ariana and Rupert, and an older cousin, Mary, who is also part of the family. Ariana and Rupert are my late husband’s children from a previous marriage. We had only been married a little over two years before he... passed away.” Her voice was steady, calm and focused. Eames found himself inexplicably drawn to her.
“I will need to see this note,” he said, considering her.
She reached into the recesses of her cloak and withdrew a folded piece of parchment, handing it to him. Eames unfolded it, angling it so that the light from the nearby lamp fell on its contents. The first thing he looked at -- the signature -- was disguised by a thick piece of paper affixed with sealing wax. His lips twitched appreciatively; he wondered if she played chess. Recalling her words, he turned his attention to the note’s contents. The sum of money specified was excessive, and given the nature of the venture, it was indubitably risky. However...
“I do not see the problem,” he said.
“The problem is that this sum considerably exceeds the total present worth of the earldom,” she replied calmly.
He looked down, swiftly recalculated the value of the investment, but he was not mistaken.
“But then--”
“Precisely,” she interrupted. “This has not been the first such problem we have faced. Perhaps I should have mentioned -- my husband was fond of speculating; unfortunately he was not particularly apt at it. The family has existed on the brink of financial ruin for over a decade, well before I married into it. Once I understood the issue, I took over the estate’s financial matters, but by then it was too late. I have only just managed to scrape our way out of the abyss; this note, however, will be the end.” This time, this time her voice shook. Eames perceived that she had faced her husband’s death with sorrow, but with her head held high; but now that her step-children were threatened, he saw a glimpse of her heart.
He took a longer look at the note. The Central East Africa Gold Company -- he’d never heard of such a thing.
“Neither has our agent,” she told him when he said so. “We are convinced it is a financial scam. You will now begin to understand why I contacted you.”
The name of the solicitors representing the Company was, however, included on the form. “I will see what I can find out from them,” Eames said, pointing it out, indicating that he intended to accept the case.
When she seemed entirely unsurprised, his smile slipped off his lips. “You knew I would agree to help you. How? Do I know you?”
She froze, holding herself as stiffly as a marble statue. “I knew you would take the case, because your reputation precedes you. This is exactly the sort of operation you tackle most often. As to the other,” she drew a breath and stood looking at him for a long moment. “I must ask you to give me your word that you will not try to find out who I am. You have the resources; I’ve no doubt that you can. We move in the same circles, and I must not-- no one must find out about this. My step-daughter is poised to have her come-out, and it will destroy her chances of making a good match if this were to become widely known. Please, promise me you will not.”
He stared at her. What she said was true enough; he knew the ton as well as she. What held his attention, however, was her passion. She was desperate, that was true enough; but she held her dignity like a shield around her, straight-backed, refusing to bow in the face of overwhelming odds. He admired her deeply for that.
“I give you my word that I will not try to discover your identity,” he said formally. He sensed her relief immediately, and smiled wryly -- did she imagine that the lure of a mystery pertained only to cases? She would discover otherwise momentarily -- Gabriel Eames was not one to pass such a perfect opportunity unexplored.
She waited for a moment, and then offered him her hand. It was covered by a fine leather glove, but it could not disguise the fine bones of her wrist, or her long, elegant fingers. He took it in his. Something strange tugged at him for a moment, some long forgotten memory--he brushed it aside; he had more immediate concerns. He pulled her closer.
With a gasp she landed against his front, bracing herself on his chest. “What--” she gasped, a rough edge to her voice, before he took her chin in his hand and she stilled immediately.
“Only gentlemen shake hands when reaching an agreement, my dear. When a man and a woman do, they seal it like this.” And he pressed his lips to hers through the veil.
She stilled, but did not freeze. Slowly, so slowly, he moved his lips against her full, pliant mouth--and she responded, hesitant but definitely with him. He let his hand slide over her taut back, felt her long muscles quiver under his touch. She sighed into his mouth, and for a minute he was overcome by the need to push her veil off, to take her mouth like he wanted to, deeply, passionately, until she was sobbing under his attentions.
She pushed gently at his chest, levering herself away; her breath rushed out on a gasp when their lips separated, and Eames felt the warm puff of it over his jaw even through the veil. He did not try to stop her, but was aware of his muscles’ rigidity as he locked them against the impulse. “How will I contact you?” he asked instead, releasing her -- for the time being.
She hesitated. “I will contact you,” she said at last, and with a swift turn she made her way down the steps. There was something familiar about that turn; Eames had an excellent memory for movement and mannerisms, and there was something about the countess that niggled at the back of his mind. He considered it for a moment as he listened to the heels of her boots clacking away from him towards the street; he heard a carriage pull up, and then pull away a moment later. His thoughts were still hazy; he let it go for now. He had a new case to unravel, and a beguiling lady to unveil. His week was looking up already.
---
Arthur slipped quietly through the house, carrying the long cloak and the petticoat he had donned over his trousers to complete the impression of the countess. He thanked his lucky stars once again that Ariadne and Robert had always been so very fond of the theatre, to the point that they had held weekly performances at Morwellan Manor to the delight of Nash and their mother. Arthur had always found it extremely easy to slip into character, be it man or woman. There was a time when Eames had joined them, too, with little Mary and Alice looking on from the wings with huge eyes and even bigger smiles -- but those times were long past, even if Arthur had not forgotten them and likely never would, much like every single memory he had of the man. He had hoped that Eames’ memory of the countess from those frivolous plays would be hazy enough to prevent him from making the connection, and so far, it was working beautifully.
It had gone extremely well tonight -- Eames had agreed to help him, and even divulged his starting point -- the solicitors’ offices. Arthur had considered visiting them, but he had been leery of attracting attention to himself, especially with so much at stake. If whoever was responsible for the scam found out that he was sniffing around, they could very well call in the notes.
He reached his room, closing the door quietly behind him and throwing the cloak and petticoat over the nearest chair. Mellows appeared as if from thin air, helping him out of his coat and taking his cravat from him. He hung them out carefully, brushing the dust of the day off them with practiced motions. He moved to do the same for the cloak and petticoat while Arthur unfastened his trousers and let them drop down his long legs, sitting on the bed and tugging his boots off. He sprawled over the bed in his soft cotton drawers that moulded to his front and arse, bone-tired but still energised from the success of his meeting with Eames.
“It went well, I take it?” Mellows asked as he picked up Arthur’s trousers to put them away.
“It did, thank God. He agreed to help,” Arthur sighed in renewed relief.
“Of course he would,” Mellows scoffed, brushing the clothes with unnecessary force. “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t just go to Master Gabriel and ask him yourself! It’s not like he could refuse you, being as it’s your family on the line!”
“I couldn’t do that, you know why. I’d have to tell him the whole story, even what happened eleven years ago, and I couldn’t bear to see him look at me with pity.” Arthur closed his eyes.
“Pride’s all very well, but this is serious, Lord Arthur,” Mellows said worriedly.
“I know, Mellows. That’s why I’m doing everything I can to get us out of it.” Arthur turned, burrowing his way under the sheets and into the pillow. Mellows came closer and straightened the covers with an ease born from long practice -- he’d been Arthur’s valet for almost fifteen years, ever since he’d needed one.
“Good night, my lord,” Mellows said, blowing out the candles.
“‘Night, Mellows,” said Arthur tiredly, already closing his eyes.
He was almost asleep when it hit him, and just like that he was wide awake all over again. Eames had kissed, kissed him earlier that night -- Arthur’s heart started beating way too fast as he remembered the shock of need and pleasure he had experienced from being pressed close to his hard body, feeling those gorgeous, plump lips on his, even through the veil -- but the old tension between them had never raised its ugly head. So it was only Arthur’s name that inspired such animosity in Eames, not his body -- the possibilities this discovery opened were dizzying. It was a long time before Arthur could fall asleep after that; the first licks of dawn were lighting the sky when he finally succumbed to his exhaustion.
---
He found it difficult to concentrate at the breakfast table the next morning, what with everything that was churning through his mind. Nash and his mother noticed, of course, but Ariadne was preoccupied with the coming excursion to Bond Street, and paid him no mind, for which he was extremely grateful. He wanted to keep her in the dark for as long as possible, and if they could come to a resolution without her working out something was wrong, he would be a happy man.
“Are you all right, my love?” his mother asked quietly while Ariadne was deep in conversation with her father.
“Yes, Mother. There’s been a development, is all. I’ve asked for some help, and it has been granted.”
“Oh, wonderful,” his mother said, her face lighting up. She smiled at him proudly and turned away to Ariadne again, leaving Arthur to brood.
He wished he could forgo this morning’s expedition, but the fact was that his mother, for all that he loved her dearly, had abominable taste in clothes. For Ariadne’s sake, Arthur would accompany them to make the choices on all the new picks for both her and their mother.
Nash smiled affectionately at them when they said their goodbyes, retreating into his office to read for a few hours. Arthur shepherded the ladies into the carriage and soon enough they were alighting in Bond Street. The street was teeming with crowds, it being the start of the season, and every mama with a daughter or a son of marriageable age was out in force. Arthur fielded speculative glances from many a person, as well as batted eyelashes from not a few ladies and gentlemen. He endeavoured to ignore them to the best of his ability. He had left the thought of marriage behind him long ago -- at first, he had not wanted to inconvenience a spouse with the problems of the earldom; and later, he had just accepted that it was unlikely that he would ever marry for love, and he did not need an heir -- his sister and brother would provide him with one.
He had only entertained the possibility once, long ago, before cruel fate drove a divide between him and the one person he would have married for love. He was an eligible party now, but twelve years ago he had been almost ungainly, too-long legs and arms, all elbows and knees, ears too big for his face and a thin frame that did him no favours. How could he have hoped to attract his attention, even before Eames stopped seeking him out altogether?
He thrust the thoughts from his mind. That his mind would be thus engaged was inevitable -- after all, Ariadne was expected to marry once the season was over -- provided she’d found someone she wanted to wed, of course -- and so Arthur’s whole being would resonate with thoughts of the past, and the future. He blinked quickly once or twice, face as inscrutable as always, and ignored the throng as best he could, maintaining his mask of blandness.
They finished quickly in the first few shops, Arthur selecting cloth after flawless cloth, agreeing on the designs of the various gowns and accessories, and admiring the look of bronze silk and teal muslin against Ariadne’s beautiful skin. They left the dress shop behind and dived into the next establishment in line, where they purchased two pairs of slippers and a pair of long, pretty gloves, as well as silk stockings. Arthur led the way further down the street, towards the milliner, when familiar voices hailed them from behind.
“Ho, Ariadne! Lady Meredith! Arthur!”
Arthur turned, spotting Mary and Alice’s honey blond hair bobbing up and down as they waved excitedly. Ariadne beamed at them and retraced her steps, closely followed by their mother. Arthur trailed after them happily enough -- he was very fond of the two girls, loved them almost as much as Ariadne -- when he noticed that Mrs Eames was not with them. Their brother was.
Eames walked a little behind them, gaze fixed unerringly on Arthur. Arthur felt the delighted smile slide right off his face, and struggled with himself to maintain a pleasant expression, lest Mary and Alice pick up on it and became upset.
The girls and his mother greeted each other eagerly while he and Eames looked on. Arthur was aware of every single movement of Eames’ body, even if it was not at all close to him -- Eames stood on the other side of the group, just like Arthur presenting his back to the carriageway, shielding the happy group with their bodies. He wore a beautiful navy blue jacket that brought out the specs of blue in his grey-green eyes, and a pristine cream waistcoat and cravat. A sapphire twinkled in its folds, catching the sunlight. He looked so beautiful that Arthur’s chest tightened with longing.
“Eames,” he forced out, heart leaping in his throat as he watched Eames narrow his eyes at him. Surely Eames couldn’t suspect anything; he’d been so careful!
Eames watched Arthur’s stiff face miserably. Every time he saw Arthur, he couldn’t help the instinctive rush of hope that Arthur might look at him like he once had -- openly delighted to see him, happy to share his thoughts, his plans, himself with Eames. Every time he saw the customary blankness of Arthur’s expression, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. It had started too long ago to speak of; they had both been growing up, planning their removal to Oxford for years beforehand, Arthur only a year behind him -- so Eames had left Eton and gone for his first year at university, eager to get started. He had returned, almost frantic with excitement that he was desperate to share with his friend -- even though Arthur had been distant as of late, not answering Eames’ letters, being almost rudely concise when he did; and then he had seen Arthur for the first time since the previous summer. It was like looking at a completely different person. Gone were the easy smiles, gone was the boundless enthusiasm, gone was the carefree laugh. In their place, a certain tightness around Arthur’s eyes had made him look years older than eighteen.
And then Arthur had told him that he wasn’t coming to Oxford, and Eames had lost his mind a little. Arthur had tried to explain, tried to tell him something important; but he had not listened, had not heard a word from Arthur’s mouth. He had been livid, felt betrayed for no reason he could explain. He had lashed out at Arthur, called him a coward, a stupid, lazy country boy, and it had only gone downhill from there. Arthur had coldly told him he had responsibilities, that he had to start learning how to manage his estate, something Eames obviously didn’t have to bother with, if he was content to let his father continue to shoulder his son’s duties while he enjoyed all the entertainment Oxford had to offer. His harsh words had cut Eames to the quick; that Arthur thought he was a good-for-nothing that had no care for his own family’s wellbeing hurt beyond anything Eames could have imagined, and his temper had flared, vicious like only Arthur could prod him into. They had both bled that night, and nothing had ever been the same between them.
He hadn’t seen Arthur for years, hadn’t watched him become this tall, sleekly gorgeous man, hadn’t watched him grow into his own. He hated Arthur for what had happened, but he hated himself more for allowing it to remain a gaping chasm between them that both were too wary to close, afraid of what it might turn into if they tried.
Still, it did not stop him from being painfully aware of everything about Arthur, from his gorgeous charcoal grey coat and the perfect white shirt underneath it, to the beautifully folded light grey cravat that matched the creamy grey of his trousers. His hair was slicked back, making him look much older than his twenty-nine years, the impression strengthened by the calculated blankness of his features. Even when he wanted to hate him, Arthur drew him like a lodestone.
Letting the cheerful voices of his sisters, Ariadne, and Lady Meredith sink into the background, he deliberately turned to Arthur, intending to bait him -- anything to hear Arthur’s voice, even raised in disapproval -- when he saw the horse behind him. The reins had slipped through the driver’s fingers somehow, and the horse reared, only inches from Arthur’s back.
Eames didn’t even make a conscious decision to move -- in the blink of an eye he was there, hauling Arthur’s unresisting body against his and turning him swiftly, protecting him from the horse’s hoofs. The horse behind him reared again and Eames jerked as its knee hit him in the back, but he gritted his teeth and refused to release Arthur from his arms until the danger had passed.
Arthur stared at the horse’s wide, crazed eyes behind Eames’ head, and tried to breathe. All the air had whooshed out of his lungs when he had seen the horrifyingly intent look in Eames’ eyes as he’d started for him; by the barely leashed tension in his body, Arthur had been prepared for a swing to the face -- but instead here he was, pressed intimately to Eames’ chest, feeling the frantic force of his heartbeat against his own, smelling the masculine scent that he remembered Eames favouring, being held in the strong circle of his arms. He couldn’t stop the shudder that raced down his back, couldn’t stop his instantaneous arousal at the way their bodies shifted against one another, couldn’t stop the way his skin prickled as Eames exhaled against his ear. They were almost the same height; Eames only had three inches on him. Their groins pressed together; Arthur’s hips jerked helplessly forward into the sensation, and his face burned with embarrassment as his length rubbed against something that could only be Eames’ own hardening shaft--he pulled back with everything he had. Eames resisted for a moment, but then acquiesced and released him from his arms.
A hot blush stained Arthur’s cheeks at the thought that he had almost betrayed himself, almost let Eames feel his desire. He was about to turn his back on the man when he recalled the way Eames had jerked when the horse had kicked him. Mortification forgotten, Arthur took two quick steps back to where Eames stood, as if frozen to the spot, staring at Arthur.
“Are you hurt?” Arthur demanded, running a probing hand down Eames’ back, pulling away when Eames flinched as his fingers pressed at the small of his back.
“I’m fine,” Eames grated stiffly. He wasn’t fine; the warmth of Arthur’s body pressed against his had been torture, the smell of his skin unbearable, a vaguely feminine note mixed with his usual scent prodding at his mind and making him shake with the effort to restrain himself from wrapping his arms around Arthur and kissing him silly in the middle of the busy road. Moreover, he’d been sure... He threw a quick glance down, and -- Arthur was half-hard in his trousers, arousal pressing against the fabric lewdly for all to see. I gave him that, Eames thought vaguely, and the spike of desire that the thought sent through him almost succeeded where the horse had failed in bringing him to his knees.
Arthur noticed the direction of Eames’ gaze and jumped back as if scalded. A flash of humiliation broke through his inscrutable mask; it twisted something painful in Eames to see that Arthur thought he had to protect himself from him.
The sudden, unguarded concern Eames had seen in Arthur’s eyes was cut off by that damned shield falling over them, once again concealing Arthur’s thoughts from him. Eames was starting to vehemently dislike Arthur’s composure. He couldn’t forget what he’d seen; Arthur had responded intimately, undeniably, to being pressed against Eames’ body -- apparently Arthur was not at all as resistant to him as Eames had thought.
Arthur gulped nervously at Eames’ sudden smile; he looked like nothing more than a large predator that has sighted his prey. The thought terrified him; if he didn’t stop Eames from getting closer, not only would he threaten Arthur’s composure, but he could upset his carefully laid plans. Eames was no fool; he was better at observing and reading people than anyone Arthur had ever known. If they spent more time in each other’s company, Eames was bound to start suspecting something soon enough.
Arthur spared him a quick nod, nothing like the thanks he really wanted to give Eames -- kiss him, hold him down as he flicked open his trousers and took him into his mouth, until the only thing Eames would remember was Arthur’s name -- but he could not afford such thoughts. For one thing, Eames would never allow it--it might even be pistols at dawn, so bitter was his hostility--and for another, there was still a wave on Arthur’s horizon that threatened to crush everything he held dear in its wake. It was vital that his charade continue, for as long as it took to conquer it.
Eames willed his arousal away, narrowing his eyes at Arthur’s back as he cut their excursion short and herded his mother and sister towards the carriage waiting for them nearby, deftly calming Mary and Alice with his unruffled self-possession. Did Arthur imagine that a cold rebuff would be enough to make Eames forget what he had felt, what he had seen? For all his brilliance, Arthur could be so nearsighted sometimes, Eames thought fondly. Today had proved that there was so much more between them than Eames had even dared to imagine; and he would follow it to its conclusion, one way or another. Eames had never backed down in the face of a challenge, and he wasn’t about to start now, especially when the prize was bigger than he could have possibly hoped for -- Arthur’s trust, Arthur’s desire, Arthur’s heart.
---
Part Two
