Convincing Arthur

CONVINCING ARTHUR

Ava March

www.loose-id.com

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Convincing Arthur

Ava March

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical

events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely

coincidental.

Published by

Loose Id LLC

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Copyright © July 2009 by Ava March

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No

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ISBN 978-1-59632-979-9

Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: G. G. Royale

Cover Artist: April Martinez

Dedication

To Sharon

Chapter One

November 1821

Yorkshire, England

The deep amber rays of the setting sun gently receded, cloaking the study in

twilight shadows. Sprawled in a comfortable leather armchair, Leopold Thornton

glanced over his shoulder. The lit candle on the fireplace mantel illuminated the white

porcelain clock.

Damn.

He yanked his pocket watch from his waistcoat and scowled at the small black

hands. Apparently the clock on the mantel wasn't broken. In any case, clocks in need of

repair tended to slow down, not speed up.

He slipped his watch back into his pocket and scrubbed both hands over his face.

“Where the hell are you?”

Arthur Barrington should have arrived hours ago. And not just a couple of hours,

but many hours ago. The autumn weather had been remarkably cooperative of late,

with barely a sprinkle of a rain shower. Leopold had even taken out Vice, his iron gray

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Ava March

stallion, yesterday afternoon to verify the excellent condition of the roads surrounding

his Yorkshire country home.

Ignoring the untouched glass of whisky and the nearly full bottle on the small

table beside his chair, he stood and crossed to the window. He pressed his cheek to the

glass, trying to get a glimpse of the gravel drive leading to the front door, but the large

oak trees blocked his view. Why did the architect have to put the study on the side of

the house? Bloody idiot.

Maybe he should move to the drawing room. The two windows afforded an

unobstructed view of the front lawn. But…no. Cold seeped through the glass, chilling

his cheek, reminding him in no uncertain terms that it was November. The fire a maid

had lit hours ago in the study's hearth warmed the room. But as he rarely used the

drawing room, its hearth would be dark, leaving the room damn cold.

Scowling at the oak trees, he let out a frustrated sigh, his breath fogging the glass.

Then he turned from the window and began pacing. Past the marble fireplace flanked

by tall bookshelves to his rarely used desk, which dominated the end of the room, and

then back, passing the unread books, the armchairs, and the leather couch, and to the

door and back again. The silvery violet shadows grew darker as night descended, until

only the candle on the mantel lit the room. Possible excuses for Arthur's tardiness

tumbled about in his head. Perhaps a client had needed his assistance, delaying his

departure from London. A busy, successful solicitor like Arthur must surely have

demanding clients. Leopold's own father, Viscount Granville, being one of them. But

Arthur defined punctual. Leopold couldn't recall the man ever being late for anything.

Perhaps Arthur had mistaken the date? No, no. He had checked his schedule.

Even pulled the little leather-bound book from his coat pocket and written a note to

block out the days.

There was no family to keep Arthur in Town with unexpected demands on his

time. He was an only child, and his parents had passed away long before Leopold had

Convincing Arthur

3

first laid eyes on him. The uncle who raised him had gone to his grave years ago. And

there were no other obligations beside his office that Leopold knew of.

But perhaps—

The
click
of a knob turning interrupted his pacing. He whirled around as the door

opened, revealing Jones, his middle-aged footman. The man had an unattractive

receding hairline and a well-fed belly, but his competence in his duties and his ability to

hold his tongue more than made up for his appearance.

“Mr. Thornton, shall I instruct the kitchen to continue to hold supper?”

“No.” Leopold shook his head. “Give it to the staff. They'll appreciate it more than

I.” His knotted stomach could not tolerate a piece of bread right now, much less roasted

chicken with carrots and potatoes, Arthur's favorite.

“Thank you, sir.” With a tip of his head, the footman left the room. The door

clicked shut.

Fucking hell.

Leopold stalked to the armchair, snatched the glass from the side table, and

downed the contents in one swallow. The whisky burned a searing path to his stomach,

leaving his throat numb, but did nothing to dull the pain in his chest.

He could fool himself no longer. Arthur had given him a rather sharp cut. Not that

Leopold hadn't borne his fair share of them over the years with nary a flinch, but this

one had come from Arthur Barrington. It hurt more than he could have believed that

the man had given him hope only to snatch it away, without even speaking one word.

To think he had actually believed Arthur when he accepted Leopold's invitation

for a short holiday at his country estate. Knowing Arthur rarely had the opportunity to

indulge his fondness for hunting and shooting, Leopold had tempted him with the

prospect of early mornings trudging about the countryside with firearms searching for

pheasants.

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Ava March

“But even that wasn't enough of an incentive to put up with my presence,” he

muttered, as he stared into his empty glass.

His chance was gone. Yanked from his grasp by Arthur himself.

His hand shook, the
clink
of glass on glass harsh on his ears as he poured a healthy

splash of whisky into the cut-crystal tumbler. The second glass went down easier, the

first tendrils of blissful numbness spreading across his chest. Another large swallow,

and then another, until the pain was finally reduced to a tolerable ache. An ache he

knew well.

Well, at least Leopold had his answer now, and he didn't have to bear the

humiliation of looking into those gorgeous hazel eyes and hearing it from Arthur's lips.

What decent man wanted what was freely available to most of London anyway?

Leopold let out a defeated sigh and dropped into the armchair. He set the empty

tumbler on the table beside the half-full bottle and tipped his head back. “It's your own

doing,” he said to the coffered ceiling, its pattern of rich mahogany beams nearly

indistinguishable in the darkness from the white plasterwork. “Damn well will give

yourself over to anyone who will have you.”

Yet each and every one of them had been a very poor substitute for the man he

loved. A man whom Leopold now stood no chance in hell of convincing that he was

worthy of his heart.

Ten years of waiting, all for naught.

How many times had he cursed his patience over those long, lonely years? How

many times had he vowed never to make the same mistake again? If only he had acted

quicker, if only he had decided to visit Arthur's apartments one day sooner to make his

interest known, then perhaps Arthur could have been his all along. But how the hell

was he supposed to have known the man would take up with that prig, Randolph

Amherst?

A damn pompous, lying, cuckolding prig like Amherst. What had Arthur seen in

him anyway?

Convincing Arthur

5

Leopold certainly would have never propositioned someone like himself if Arthur

had been his. Hell, perhaps he should have sucked Amherst off when he had the

opportunity and then informed Arthur about the incident, revealing Amherst for the

man he was. Maybe Arthur would have left his lover sooner, cutting the ten years down

to a more manageable five. Still…it really would have only proved Leopold a whore.

“But that I am.” The low words held a mere hint of the regret that filled his heart.

He had known his reputation, and a well deserved one at that, would pose a formidable

obstacle. Not so easy to ignore a decade of vice and debauchery. He had hoped if he got

Arthur alone, away from London and away from the vicious and entirely true rumors,

he could convince the man his affections were genuine. Or at the very least, use

pleasure to bind Arthur to him. Ironic, yes, to regret his sordid past while at the same

time be willing to exploit his experience, but he was desperate for something, anything,

to make the man want him. He knew a declaration of love from Arthur at the end of

their holiday wasn't within the realm of possibilities, but he had dared to hope perhaps

their time together could put Arthur on that path. Yet apparently Arthur wasn't

interested in pursuing a relationship, even if only physical, with someone like himself.

He turned his head to the side and stared at the empty glass. The golden light

from the fire behind him reflected off the crystal facets. Clearly he hadn't had enough to

drink if his thoughts had turned in such a maudlin direction. He might have to switch

to gin. Enough of it, and tonight would be nothing but a blank void.

But that involved getting out of the chair and crossing the room to the squat

cabinet along the far wall. Not a task he particularly relished at the moment, especially

with whisky within arm's reach.

His hand was wrapped around the glass bottle when the faint sound of carriage