Bound Forever (4 page)

A twinge of melancholy pulled at his heart. The book’s owner would never return.

Light streamed into the library as Mrs. Middleton tugged back the partially open curtains on one of the two windows. “My apologies for the state of the room, Lord Oliver. I had to let the maid go, and the study was Mr. Middleton’s…” The uncomfortable, restrained lift of her slim shoulders spoke volumes. With her light brown head bowed in concentration, she made a little project of tying back the heavy damask curtains.

Oliver waited patiently. He was not well acquainted with the young widow. Had only met her on one other occasion months ago when he and Vincent had stopped at the inn’s restaurant in Rotherham for a bite to eat. The Middletons had sat at the table next to theirs. But he had heard she recently lost her husband, and quite unexpectedly at that. A misfired gun while shooting in the surrounding woods. Clearly the loss still weighed heavily on her, a blanket of grief surrounding her like a cloak.

He had assumed she merely intended to thin the library. A common enough desire of a widow. Rather morbid of him to follow behind death so closely, but it was the primary means by which he procured new stock for his bookstore. Usually the widow’s request was not driven by an urgent need for funds, but more as a method to tidy a library. Given she had let her maid go, he had a strong suspicion the young widow needed more than a bit of extra pin money. Judging by the state of the room, Mr. Middleton had spent every shilling on his collection.

She moved to the other window and repeated the procedure, tugging open the curtains and tying them back. Her slight frame strongly lent the impression of youth. At first glance, one might easily mistake her for an adolescent. Yet her refined manners, the rich timbre of her voice, and that air about her that she had seen and experienced far more than a mere girl indicated she was many years older. Likely just below his own seven and twenty. Still, a young woman. If he recalled correctly, Mr. Middleton had been a young man as well. The thought of saving to provide for his wife had likely been far from his mind. With death came tragedy, but it was especially hard when it took someone so young, snatching a loved one well before his or her time.

It made him acutely aware of how fortunate he was. He could leave this house and return to Vincent. Hold the man close, feel the strong beats of his heart, the warmth of his breath. Sensations that were now mere treasured memories for Mrs. Middleton. Hopefully he and Vincent would have the long years together that had been denied the young widow. And now that the threat of marriage was gone, the hope was solidly within his grasp.

Another little tug on the ties and then she turned from the window. The polite hint of a smile could not hide the sadness lurking in the depths of her brown eyes. She flicked her wrist, the motion encompassing the entire room. “You needn’t stand by the door. Please, have a look around. There aren’t any I particularly wish to keep, so the entire lot is available if you so desire.”

If the bookshop’s account could manage it, and if the shop had the space, he would readily buy them all, if for no other reason than to help her. “Thank you.” He tipped his head. “The collection is quite impressive, to the point where the shop could not hold it all. A few crates will likely need to be the limit, though it will require some self-restraint to narrow the selection.”

She nodded in understanding. The skirts of her somber black day dress rustled softly as she crossed the room. When she made to drop down before the fireplace, he held up a hand and stepped from the door.

“You needn’t bother with that. I can see to it.”

Crouched before the dark hearth, she looked up at him askance, her eyes wide with uncertainty. He might be the son of a marquis, but that did not mean he’d ever had the opportunity to grow accustomed to others waiting on him.

“Truly. I’m well versed in starting a fire. Please, leave it to me.” He shifted his leather bag to his left hand and held out his right to help her to her feet.

A brief hesitation and then with a barely audible murmur of thanks, she laid her small, pale hand in his and stood. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you for the offer but no. I would not want to risk an accidental spill. Tea does not rub along well with Shakespeare.”

The edges of her lips lifted, this time in a hint of a genuine smile. She clasped her hands before her. “Well then, I shall leave you to it. If you have need of anything, please do not hesitate to ask.” With that, she left the room.

Shrugging out of his greatcoat, Oliver glanced about. Where to start? He could spend days perusing so many books. A part of him did not want to miss even one, for the one he missed could be the ultimate treasure. But he had been on such appointments enough times to know he needed to push aside the urge to set up a pallet in the corner and not leave until he’d laid his hands on every volume. In any case, he would much rather spend his nights with Vincent than alone on the floor.

Especially tonight.

“
I’ll warm you plenty
…” Vincent’s voice sounded in his head. The low, intimate rumble pushed Oliver into action.

Another glance about the room. Best to start where he stood. Turning, he moved the book on the wingback chair to the end table and set his leather bag on the cushion. He pulled a pencil and a ledger from the bag and flipped to a blank page. Then he set to work going through the stack of books on the end table.

* * *

Oliver looked out the carriage window. The sun must have just dipped out of sight, for a last lingering wash of deep honey gold light warmed the edge of the horizon. Plenty of time remained for him to make it back to Vincent’s. No worries the man would be left to his own company for supper. Still, Oliver’s foot tapped against the floorboards in rhythm to the team of four’s brisk trot. It was all he could do not to push the driver for more speed. A handy gallop would cover the distance in no time, but since the team was not his own, he left the pace to the driver.

In any case, a few hours stretched ahead of him before he would have Vincent all to himself.

He curled his gloved hand into a fist at his side, his body fairly vibrating with eagerness, effectively keeping the chill in the air from seeping into his bones. He knew he should not allow himself to get overexcited. Not yet. He needed to judge Vincent’s mood first. Gauge his frame of mind. But if his lover did not appear as if he would shove aside the possibility…

A jolt of heady anticipation shot through him. His cock twitched, bumping against the placket of his trousers. The brief, wicked flare of desire in Vincent’s blue eyes had spoken loud and clear the man had his own plans for the evening ahead. Plans that would leave Oliver panting for breath and begging for more. Plans he certainly would thoroughly enjoy and wholeheartedly approve…on any other night. But at some point during the past few hours, as he cataloged selected titles into his ledger, a different idea for their evening seized hold.

Not that he had been perusing books of an erotic nature. Mr. Middleton’s library focused on philosophy, poetry, history, and animal husbandry. Perhaps he could lay the blame on the books piled on the floor. Every time he stooped to grab one had made him acutely aware of the faint lingering ache in his arse…and how he got that pleasurable ache.

Nor could he identify the moment when the image from that morning of Vincent looming above him had changed. The moment when he no longer looked up at Vincent but down into his face, absolute bliss pulling his rugged features, the gasping pleas tumbling from Vincent’s lips and not his own.

That image had stayed with him all afternoon. Hell, it had grabbed hold and refused to be pushed aside. And for the first time, he wanted it. Absolutely and completely, with every fiber of his being.

Briefly closing his eyes, he took a moment to savor that image. Of Vincent laid out on the bed and desperate with need for
him
. A grunt issued from his throat. Shifting on the bench, he reached down, moved aside the length of his greatcoat, and adjusted his hard cock, trying to find what room could be had in the confines of his trousers.

It wasn’t as if he had never entertained the notion. But it had been a fleeting thought. Erotic and wickedly tempting, but a fleeting one nonetheless. Yet now…

All the worries had gone and with them that last bit of restraint. Of course, Grafton had yet to produce the required spare to go with the heir. But the probability that the chore of producing the next Marquis of Saye and Sele would fall onto Vincent’s broad shoulders had diminished to almost nothingness. So insignificant Oliver would not even bother to worry about it.

He understood now why he had never attempted to tug the reins of control from Vincent. At first he had told himself Vincent was not ready. Regardless of the fact Vincent once gave him verbal leave to do with him as Oliver pleased, the man’s unease at the time had been more than obvious—breaths short and shallow and muscles drawn tight in trepidation, never mind the limp cock dangling between his legs. Neither had Oliver felt comfortable with such a sudden reversal of their usual roles. Sometimes one needed time to acclimate oneself to a new idea, and it had definitely been one of those circumstances. But many months had passed since Vincent even flinched in hesitation when Oliver trailed his fingertips along the crease of his arse. Hell, the man now had no qualms at all bending over and ordering Oliver to lick his arse.

And it wasn’t that Oliver did not believe himself capable of taking Vincent to the necessary point. He held no illusions Vincent would ever walk into the bedchamber and surprise him with another offer to put himself in Oliver’s hands—the notion was too foreign, too new for him to feel comfortable voicing on his own with no prompt at all. But if Oliver sufficiently applied himself, he felt confident he could strip away every one of Vincent’s inhibitions and pull those four words from his lips. The words he had once promised himself he would wait for.

The opportunity had presented itself many times. He adored lavishing Vincent with pleasure, trailing his lips over every inch of his body, feeling those powerful muscles tighten to the point of trembling with need, hearing those deep, low groans of pure lust. Yet he always held back, just enough, and had long ago stopped questioning his reasons. But now he knew the true cause. He could not ask it of Vincent, could not accept that gift from him when the possibility of being forced to part still hung over them.

But with the direct threat now gone…

A broad smile curved his lips, one he knew had to appear downright wicked. Anticipation nipped at every nerve in his body. Tonight, if Vincent was amenable, the man would be well and truly his, in every sense of the word.

The carriage turned right, onto the road that led to Vincent’s estate. A few large oak trees lined the long dirt road. All hints of the day’s sun were gone from the sky. The light from the full moon cast the trees’ bare branches in spidery shadows across the sparse winter grass. Oliver settled back against the black leather bench and turned his mind to how best to get Vincent to abandon his own plan for the evening and put himself in Oliver’s hands.

An outright request was out of the question. A shrewd businessman, Vincent tended to analyze a situation. Best if he did not have time to think on it, else his nerves would seize hold and destroy any hope for an enjoyable evening, regardless of the man’s willingness. He would need a strategic assault. Slow and careful yet deliberate. Building the tension, the want. Nurturing the need he knew lay buried deep within Vincent. Until his lover could not stop those words from tumbling past his lips.

Please, Oliver. Fuck me.

Chapter Four

Vincent reached for the silver bowl of carrots and spooned more onto his plate. “Was the appointment a success?” Oliver had returned to the house before Vincent even started to worry he had been left to his own company for supper, prompting Vincent to wonder if the appointment had been worth the effort. Present Oliver with a stack of books and the man tended to lose track of all sense of time.

“Oh yes.” Oliver took another bite of the pork. “Middleton’s library…” He let out a blissful little sigh that Vincent knew had nothing to do with the quality of the pork tenderloin. “Books everywhere and most were in pristine condition. Well, at least those I was able to sort through. Mr. Wallace will certainly be pleased when the books I selected arrive,” he said, referring to the shop’s prior owner who had remained on to assist Oliver with the day-to-day running of the small bookshop. Oliver paused, his fork suspended a couple of inches from his open mouth. He looked to Vincent, who sat at his left at the head of the table. “I need to arrange for someone to crate them and deliver them to the shop.”

Likely that detail had just occurred to him. Oliver was not the most organized of individuals. Vincent reached for his glass of wine and took a sip. “Inquire with the blacksmith, Mr. Young. You can find him at the inn’s livery, and his son should be able to transport the crates to London.”

The line of Oliver’s shoulders went lax with relief. He popped the piece of pork into his mouth. His jaw worked as he chewed, and then he swallowed the food down with a sip of wine. A sheen of Bordeaux clung to his full lips, reminding Vincent of how those lips looked slicked with spit after sucking him off. A memory he could verify just as soon as they finished supper and Mrs. Hollister left the house. And after Oliver put his beautiful mouth to good use, then Vincent would strip him of his clothes, restrain him, and redden his arse with the flogger. Or perhaps the bullwhip? It had been some time since he’d heard the erotic snap of leather cracking through the air, followed by Oliver’s shuddered moan of pleasure. An entirely different moan than when he applied the flogger. One breathy and broken, thin and delicate, like the sleek, long length of a bullwhip. The other low and guttural, thicker and more substantial, like the smack of a flogger.

His hand curled around his fork. He could almost feel the leather handle warming in his palm, could almost hear those thin, breathy moans slipping past Oliver’s lips.