Beyond Reckless

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…The door opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, revealing a corridor lit by gleaming brass sconces stationed at regular intervals along the walls. Should he go right or left? His attention stopped on the partially open door across the corridor and down a bit, the room beyond it dark. A bit of suspicion furrowed his brow. Would Martin have made it that easy? No way to know unless Rys checked that room. Plush rugs silenced his footsteps as he crossed the corridor, his blood pounding with an invigorating mixture of excitement and danger and the possibility of victory. His senses on full alert, he hesitated just the barest bit as he crossed the threshold, then stopped a couple of paces inside the room and gave his eyes a moment to adjust. A pool of golden light spilled from the corridor, but otherwise the room was dark. He could just make out the outline of a settee and a spindle-legged chair. Likely a sitting room, and it felt distinctly empty. Obviously Martin had not made it that easy. His lips quirked. He would have it no other way. He left the sitting room and proceeded down the corridor. Should he check the doors on the left or right first? A systematic search or a more random one and hope luck would be on his side? Usually was. If not, he likely wouldn’t still be standing at the ripe old age of—he quickly checked his pocket watch—now five and twenty. A large hand closed around his forearm and yanked sharply. The next thing he knew, he was pressed face-first against a wall, wrists held at the small of his back. A body even harder and stronger than his own covered him from behind…

BEYOND RECKLESS BY AVA MARCH

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

BEYOND R ECKLESS AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2010 by Ava March ISBN 978-1-61124-024-5 Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To Shawn Lane, my awesome critique partner. For the push, for the encouragement, and for always being there.

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CHAPTER 1 May 1822 London England Fifteen minutes until midnight. Exactly on time. Quite the feat, considering the number of carriages that had packed the streets of Mayfair. He should give his driver the day off tomorrow as a reward. Mr. Rys Palmer slipped his pocket watch back into his waistcoat pocket and stopped between the marble columns just inside the double doors of Lady Edgecomb’s ballroom. The din of many voices pressed against his ears, to the point where he could barely hear the quartet in the corner. Using his height to his full advantage, he passed his gaze over the crowd. Surprising there had 1

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been any carriages on the streets, as most of London appeared to be at the ball. A frown flickered across his brow. He was going to have to wade into the masses. Giving his black coat a tug to straighten it, he set off along the perimeter of the room, scanning the surrounding crowd while being careful not to make eye contact. Hopefully if he kept close to the wall, it would lessen the chances of being pulled into some inane conversation. Or worse yet, set upon by a bevy of matchmaking mommas. The Season’s latest crop of marriage minded misses were in full bloom. The last thing he wanted was to be coerced into partnering one for a dance. He gave the elderly matrons chatting near the potted palm a wide berth. Once clear of them, he slowed his step a bit to give the dance floor a thorough check. But there wasn’t a distinct sandy blond head amongst the couples engaging in a waltz. Where could— “Mr. Palmer!” He resisted the urge to pretend he had not heard her and instead stopped and forced his lips to curve in a welcoming smile. “It is so good to see you.” Mrs. Balfour, an old friend of his late mother’s, beamed at him, as if nothing made her happier than to happen upon him. Her gray curls were piled on top of her head and adorned with a couple of white feathers that swayed as she came to a stop before him. He gave her an abbreviated bow. “The pleasure is all mine.” “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?” Her brown eyes twinkled with more than a hint of mischief. “Have you just arrived?” At his nod, she continued. “Well then, we must remedy your solitary state immediately. Oh, and tomorrow is your 2

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birthday, is it not?” She barely paused for his nod. “Then we shall have no trouble at all finding you a partner.” And if any young lady was not already aware, he was certain Mrs. Balfour would find some way to subtly remind them of the fortune that would come under his full control on the morrow when he reached his majority. Not that he needed it. He had more than enough already. When she made to step forward to hook her arm around his, he quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. “My thanks for the offer of assistance, Mrs. Balfour, but I must cry off. I already have a previous engagement this evening. Now if you will excuse me, I need to locate the…individual,” he added with a deliberate pause, knowing she’d assume he was protecting a lady’s reputation when he was, in actuality, protecting his own. Her eyes flared. She practically quivered with excitement. “I will not keep you then.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Though if you need assistance locating your lady, I am more than happy to help.” “Many thanks.” He bowed. “Please extend my regards to Mr. Balfour.” He turned and weaved his way into the crowd, eager to put as much distance between himself and the ever-curious Mrs. Balfour, and picked up his search where he’d left off. Damn hot in the ballroom. And the heat carried the scent of the press of many bodies. Rosewater and lavender and sweat. Sticky sweet and pungent. Not the most pleasant of combinations. A quick check of the refreshment table proved in vain. He set his empty glass on the tray of another passing footman. Perhaps in the supper room? 3

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A few moments later he stopped at the open double doors and scanned the people seated at the small dining tables scattered throughout the room. The sideboards were filled with various dishes to tempt the guests. The aromas of veal cutlets, broiled fish, and roasted chicken hung in the air. He frowned. Not here. Then where? “You may need to look for me.” The words echoed in his head. Martin had spoken so casually, but Rys should have guessed his lover had not been strictly referring to the crush of people who attended such functions. A smile teased the edges of his mouth. An honest to goodness search. Definitely interesting. He turned on his heel. The back garden and the balcony were out of the question. A light rain had just started to fall when his carriage had pulled up to the tidy mansion on the outskirts of Mayfair. Just to be certain, he paused as he passed the card room, but he knew the room would hold no one of interest. No, not the general areas of the house. He would need to look someplace more…private. The trace of frustration that had seeped into his veins when he’d entered the ballroom was now gone. In its place was the distinct spark of excitement. Of anticipation. Of the added thrill of the hunt. And to think he had thought staid, old Lady Edgecomb’s ball would be a thoroughly dull affair. Deciding it best to avoid any diligent footmen, he slipped through a narrow door along the corridor. While he’d been to the house a time or two in the past, he had never before strayed beyond the ballroom. But all homes in Mayfair had similar qualities, including his own. A narrow door was akin to a sign that read 4

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Servants, and this one—he caught himself from stumbling on the first step in the dark passageway—led upstairs. One hand before him bracing for the door, he went up the stairs. When his fingers encountered cool wood, he paused and pressed his ear to the door. Silence. The door opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, revealing a corridor lit by gleaming brass sconces stationed at regular intervals along the walls. Should he go right or left? His attention stopped on the partially open door across the corridor and down a bit, the room beyond it dark. A bit of suspicion furrowed his brow. Would Martin have made it that easy? No way to know unless Rys checked that room. Plush rugs silenced his footsteps as he crossed the corridor, his blood pounding with an invigorating mixture of excitement and danger and the possibility of victory. His senses on full alert, he hesitated just the barest bit as he crossed the threshold, then stopped a couple of paces inside the room and gave his eyes a moment to adjust. A pool of golden light spilled from the corridor, but otherwise the room was dark. He could just make out the outline of a settee and a spindle-legged chair. Likely a sitting room, and it felt distinctly empty. Obviously Martin had not made it that easy. His lips quirked. He would have it no other way. He left the sitting room and proceeded down the corridor. Should he check the doors on the left or right first? A systematic search or a more random one and hope luck would be on his side? Usually was. If not, he likely wouldn’t still be standing at the ripe old age of—he quickly checked his pocket watch—now five and twenty. 5

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A large hand closed around his forearm and yanked sharply. The next thing he knew, he was pressed face-first against a wall, wrists held at the small of his back. A body even harder and stronger than his own covered him from behind. A door snapped shut. He blinked against the sudden darkness and then his instincts screamed to the forefront. He bucked back, tugged his arms. His gold cufflinks bit into his skin under the force of the man’s hold and then that harsh grip shifted down. Bare skin slid against his wrists. In the back of his mind, it registered that the other man wasn’t wearing gloves. He let out a grunt as the body behind him shoved his harder against the wall, pressing him flat so that he had to turn his head else risk breaking his nose. The grip on his wrists tightened to the point of pain before easing back to a secure hold. Held tight, he shifted his weight, tested his bonds. He was certainly no slight slip of a man, but it definitely would involve a struggle to break free. His heart slammed sharp and fast against his ribs, echoing in his ears. The man behind him shifted. A hard arch that could only belong to an obvious erection pressed into the crease of his arse. Lust shot to his groin. So thick and so heavy, he briefly squeezed his eyes closed against the force of it. The scents of whisky, cheroot smoke and sandalwood drifted over his shoulder. The tendril of true fear, of uncertainty, vanished. Warm breaths fanned his ear. “What have we here?”

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CHAPTER 2 The voice was coarse, low, rough. Yet still, Rys recognized it. Rys knew there was a reason beside the obvious that he loved Martin. He made it so easy to slip into the moment. To forget that it was his lover behind him and not some strange man intent on having his way with Rys. A strange, strong man not afraid to use force if need be. A tremor shook him, made his breaths catch in his chest. He gave himself a moment to acclimate to his new surroundings. Weak moonlight seeped through the partially closed curtains on the window a good ten paces away, providing just enough light to keep the room from pitch darkness. He could detect the faint musty scent of books mixed with a hint of sweetness. Rosewater? Probably the lady of the house’s reading room. Dark, 7

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shadowy shapes of furniture were scattered about in a somewhat organized fashion. Likely a settee, a couple of chairs and a writing desk. He and Martin were definitely alone. Rys let that tendril of fear, of danger, blossom anew. Reveled in the heady sensation as it added an exhilarating edge to the lust and excitement pounding through his veins. A sensation he was thoroughly addicted to. “Unhand me,” Rys demanded, pitching his voice low, conscious of the fact they couldn’t be but a step inside the room, the corridor just beyond the door. That hard cock ground into the crease of his arse. He felt rather than heard the grunt reverberate from the other man’s chest and into his back. Sharp teeth nipped at his ear. “I think not.” Rys stayed still for the space of three heartbeats then bucked back sharply, twisting against his bonds, relishing the feel of the hard muscles struggling to subdue him. Arms grappled with his own, seized a wrist again, pulling it up his back. With his other arm drawn back and hooked under the man’s biceps coupled with the tight grip on his wrist, the man regained the upper hand. “Stay still if you know what’s good for ye.” The words were growled in his ear. “Bastard. I will do nothing of the sort.” With his free hand, the man grabbed a chunk of his hair and tugged hard, pulling Rys’s head back. “Stay still.” Rys grunted as the man jerked on his hair again. Tears threatened to sting his eyes. His cock jumped beneath the placket of his trousers, bumping against the wall before him. Then that hand turned gentle, massaging his smarting scalp. 8

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“And hold your tongue. I have no use for it tonight.” A fingertip traced the edge of his cravat, brushing the sensitive skin under his jaw. A shiver went down his spine. “Perhaps I should use this to keep you quiet?” He couldn’t stifle the groan. His ballocks lurched up. He could almost taste the linen stretched across his mouth, could almost feel it pulling at the corners of his lips. Hot and moist, a tongue licked a path up the side of his cheek. “But not tonight. I want to hear every groan and grunt from your lips as I fuck your arse with my big cock.” His arse tightened, tingled. He swore he could feel that cock pushing into him, demanding entry. Before he was even aware of it, he was arching up on his toes and pushing back, rubbing on the hard prick nestled against his arse. The fabric of his trousers dragged across his entrance. The friction delicious, but nothing close to what he sought. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Not quite the polished gentleman you appear to be. I wonder what your vaunted acquaintances would think if they knew you liked to bend over and take it up the arse.” Rys’s eyes rolled back on a moan. Hell and damnation. If Martin kept talking like that, Rys would soon be spilling in his trousers. A hand slid up his chest, fingers finding the delicate gold ring piercing beneath his coat, waistcoat and shirt with unerring accuracy. He groaned at the sharp twist to his nipple. A delicious combination of pleasure and pain radiated across his chest, pooling in his groin. Sinful and rich and full of confidence, a chuckle brushed his ear. Then that hand slid down. Tugged at the placket. Jerked his 9

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shirttail free from the waistband and tucked it under his waistcoat. Then pushed his trousers down his hips. In a rustle of soft wool, his trousers swooshed down his legs, pooling around his ankles. Hard and needy, his cock bobbed free, the crown brushing the wall. The man caressed his bare hip, fingers briefly gripping and flexing in a rhythm his body knew too well. “Going about a ball with no smallclothes? Tsk-tsk. Wicked indeed.” Not so very wicked. More practical. What was the use of wearing drawers when he knew he would see his lover? Just one more garment to remove. That hand shifted forward, closed around his length. Rys’s hips jerked, one tiny uncontrollable moment, at the contact. He wanted to push into the warm grip, feel the skin drag across his own, get some sort of friction on his aching cock. The man growled, his satisfaction evident in the low, rumbling sound. “Hard as an iron poker and I haven’t even worked my prick into you yet.” Rys called upon that tendril of fear, let it flare into scorching indignant anger. “Don’t touch me.” As if he hadn’t just rubbed against the man like a dog in heat, he gathered his muscles and tugged and twisted in a fresh attempt to break free. His arm was wrenched higher up his back. Pain burst across his shoulder, just as the grip tightened around his length. The words to put a stop to it all teased his tongue, yet he gritted his teeth and kept them back. The brief moment of pain would be worth it, and the vise-like grip on his prick served some good. At least the eminent orgasm was no longer tickling his ballocks. The instant he stopped struggling the man eased his hold, just as Rys had known he would. 10

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“I shall do far more than touch you, dear sir,” the man said, as he began stroking Rys’s length. “And by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me for more.” “Never.” Another chuckle. “Your body defies you. Never shall come far sooner than you believe.” It was all Rys could do not to moan as strong fingers milked his crown, spreading the fluid there, thumb caressing that highly sensitive spot underneath. Yet he did moan the loss when that hand left him to coast up his chest, pausing over the hard lump in his waistcoat pocket. The man practically purred, then reached inside and pulled out the small glass vial of oil. “Hum…I think you had plans to do more than dance tonight.” Rys bristled with false affront and opened his mouth, ready to sling back a retort, but he could think of no other reason beside the obvious for why a man would have oil stowed in a pocket. He snapped his jaw shut and instead made do with a glare over his shoulder. The tall, powerful shadowed figure behind him leaned closer. Warm lips met his own in a kiss too quick to even get a taste of his tongue. Much, much too brief. Rys’s lips tingled with the need for more. For a hot, long kiss with teeth and tongue that alone had the power to bring him to the cusp of a climax. A foot kicked his ankle. Trembling with need, he rested his forehead on the wall and spread his legs to the limits of his trousers. The waistband bit into his shins but he did not care in the slightest. He heard the sound of buttons being freed from their moorings and the rustle of fabric. The faint scent of almond oil reached his 11

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nose. Fluid seeped from the tip of his cock, dripped down his length, tickling his skin. Oiled fingers probed between his arse cheeks, slid over his entrance in a decadent taunt, then pressed inside. “Damn tight arse. Going to feel so good wrapped around my cock. You’re going to beg for it, too.” Rys arched his back, wanting more than those two digits. He clamped his jaw shut to keep the pleas from tumbling past his lips as those fingers began to stroke. Just those two fingers sliding in and out, pausing every now and then to tease the rim. Desire and need coiled tightly inside him. His body craved more. Needed more. Needed the sweet, blissful stretch. He bumped his hips back. The man laughed. He goddamn laughed. Rys growled, the impulse to snap his teeth at him, catch him off guard and twist free, pinning him against the wall, almost too much to suppress. “You must say the words if you want this.” Oil-slicked and hard as iron, an erection nudged his crease directly above the maddeningly unhurried fingers. “Come along now,” the man said, though the tension in the body behind Rys belied the mocking taunt. “Just one word will give you what you need.” No. He would not do it. He wouldn’t beg a strange man to bugger him. The man had him forced against the wall, for Christ’s sake. Was intent on taking him against his will. Of their own volition, his hips jerked back, but he kept his jaw locked tight. Those fingers pulled back, toyed with the rim. Traced the puckered skin. Every sense focused on that teasing touch that could be so much more. His legs shook. His harsh panting breaths filled his ears. 12

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He squeezed his eyes closed. “Please.” Thin and desperate, the word trembled on the air. “Thank you,” he murmured against Rys’s shoulder, so softly Rys wasn’t certain if he heard the man correctly or not. The light teasing touch left him. Anticipation roared through him, had his ballocks drawing up so tightly they hurt. A blunt pressure pressed against his entrance. “Ah yes.” It was all he could do not to shout the words as he was stretched wonderfully wide. The thick familiar length filled him in one determined stroke. The man began to pull back and then stopped. He went still. Impatient and needy, Rys shimmied. “Don’t stop—” “Quiet.” The coarse, rough quality in his voice vanished. In its place, tense urgency. Then Rys heard it. Footsteps in the corridor coming from the end opposite the servants’ stairs Rys had used. Judging by the sound, they belonged to only one person. Still, one person too many. His pulse skittered through his veins. He fought to stay still, to keep his breaths slow and quiet yet they sounded unnaturally loud. Hell, whoever was in the corridor would surely hear his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. And damnation, he could not drag his mind from the thick cock in his arse, from the luscious stretch that still held the initial sting of pleasure/pain. A shiver racked his body. A hand settled on his hip. He felt the tension, the silent plea for silence, in the touch. Rys bit his lip, biting back the groan, and held his breath as the footsteps passed outside the door. The footsteps faded, then a door snapped shut. A heavy breath whooshed out, blowing across the back of his neck. 13

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“Damnation, please move,” Rys whispered, beyond desperate, lust and need honed to a razor sharp edge by the threat of detection. The man’s hand splayed to grab Rys’s hip, fingers biting into his skin. Finally, he moved, finishing that initial backstroke, the flared head teasing Rys’s rim and pulling a moan of utmost gratitude from Rys’s throat. The man hissed through his teeth, then rough and hard, pounded into him. His fierce grip on Rys’s wrist approached the point of pain but thankfully didn’t tread over the line. Forehead resting against the wall, Rys let the man take him, use him, savoring each thick burst of pleasure as the head rubbed his gland. Heavy pants fanned the back of his neck. The deep primal grunts had Rys’s climax hovering so very near. A hand closed around his cock, fingers milked his crown. The orgasm crashed through him. He bit the inside of his cheek but couldn’t stifle the soul-deep groan as he came, coating Martin’s fingers with his seed. Martin rammed hilt deep. On a strangled gasp, Rys’s head jerked up, his overly sensitive nerves jolting against the abrupt onslaught. Ballocks pressed against Rys, his thick cock filling him, Martin stayed still. Wet fingertips traced his bottom lip. “Lick them clean.” He didn’t need to be told twice. Turning his head as far as his position would allow, he lapped at the digits. Pulled two into his mouth and sucked, reveling in the taste of his own release mixed with the distinct flavor of Martin’s skin. He dragged his tongue down to the strong palm and licked it clean of every trace of his seed. He felt the tremor shake Martin. Heard the harsh hitch in his 14

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panting breaths. He tightened his muscles around the man’s prick lodged deep in his arse. “Need to feel you come,” he whispered against Martin’s palm. Martin jerked his hand from Rys’s mouth. Grabbed his shoulders with both hands, pulled back and slammed into him like a man possessed, hips working hard and furious. Rys’s freed arm dropped to his side, his muscles shouting their protests after being forced into one position for so long. Yet he didn’t care. He focused on the man behind, wanting to experience the exact moment when the orgasm overtook him. Those thrusts sped up, turned ragged and savage, almost punishing. Rys reached behind. His fingertips located the slick silk of a waistcoat. He grabbed Martin’s waist, needing to touch him. With a growl, Martin came, filling him with hot seed. His hips sputtered to a halt. Then he sagged against Rys. At the strong arms wrapping around him, a thoroughly sated smile curved Rys’s lips.

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CHAPTER 3 Martin struggled to catch his breath. “Happy Birthday,” he whispered in Rys’s ear. Rys chuckled, the sound low and lax. “Best damn gift I ever received.” He turned his head, seeking Martin’s mouth. “Thank you,” he whispered against Martin’s lips before giving him a long, slow kiss that tempted Martin’s sated cock to rise to the occasion once again. Reluctantly, Martin broke the kiss. He stepped back from Rys, stepped back from temptation, and pulled up his own trousers. Rys rolled his shoulders on a low grunt. “Stiff?” Martin asked, as he reached for those broad shoulders. Suddenly conscious of the amount of time he had held Rys’s arms behind him, he began to massage the hard muscles and taut 16

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tendons. Rys bowed his head. “A bit stiff.” “You should have told me that it hurt. I would have stopped immediately.” Given the exotic nature of the games Rys liked to indulge in, stop didn’t always mean stop. But Rys knew exactly how to get Martin to immediately cease. They had decided on it long ago. If either called the other by their family name, the game was dropped. A simple stop, Trent was all that was needed. “It hurt a bit. But not in a bad way.” Martin could hear the grin in Rys’s voice. He gave his head an indulgent shake. What was he going to do with the man? Satisfied he’d worked the stiffness out of Rys’s shoulders, he ran his fingers over the back of Rys’s head, smoothing the short, dark hair. Rys glanced over his shoulder. “You were a bit disheveled,” Martin murmured, running his fingers through the soft strands again. “Wouldn’t want you to look like someone recently grabbed you by the hair.” “Indeed.” Rys turned and bent down to tug his trousers up from his ankles. “Could raise a few eyebrows.” Though tidying his hair might not be enough. The darkness cloaked the details, yet Martin well knew what Rys looked like after a rough fuck. Cheeks flushed, eyes heavily lidded, movements languid and lazy. If the man went downstairs right now, the proof of their ever-so recent activities might as well be stamped on his forehead. Highly doubtful anyone at the ball would come close to guessing the full truth, still… Even though they really should vacate the room post-haste, Martin grabbed the vial of oil from the floor and took his time donning his coat and tugging on the gloves he’d left on the nearby writing desk. Best to give Rys a few moments to recover his 17

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bearings. Definitely beyond reckless to bugger Rys in Lady Edgecomb’s reading room. Before he met Rys, the thought would have never entered his head to do something so risky. But he had no doubt it would have entered Rys’s head. The man had a distinct partiality for excitement. Galloping at break-neck speeds along Rotten Row, going to the absolute worst areas of St. Giles to gamble, racing his curricle at midnight, challenging anyone who’d have him to sparring matches at the fencing academy. Hell, the man had even engaged in a prizefight once. If it was inherently dangerous or involved fast speeds, then all the better in Rys’s opinion. Frankly, Rys was damn lucky he had never caused himself serious harm. Well, it was more than luck. Martin gave himself some of the credit. It hadn’t taken him long after he met Rys to realize what got Rys’s blood pumping. Over the past four years, Martin had done his best to find ways to give Rys what he needed, without risking either of their necks or their reputations. Forcing the man to his knees down a dark alley, stripping him naked and making him serve Martin like a whore in some molly house, blindfolding him and strapping him to Rys’s four-poster bed… A grunt rumbled his chest. That last one had quickly turned into a favorite evening activity. Not that simply buggering had ever even approached dull. Never with Rys. He was far too gorgeous, all sleek muscles and strong bones. His mouth too eager, his kisses too decadent to ever tire of. But add an element of risk or the forbidden, and he fairly shivered at the prospect, his light blue eyes alighting with a wicked and far-too-tempting spark. But at a ball? Clearly somewhere over the years, Rys’s tastes had rubbed off on him, for he could not deny he’d thoroughly 18

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enjoyed giving Rys his birthday gift. And in the pretentious old hag’s reading room, no less. “What am I going to do with you?” Martin asked, as he buttoned his coat. “Love me.” The two words were spoken with limitless confidence. A chuckle tickled his throat. “I already do, and you damn well know it.” With a quick tug, he adjusted the cuff of his coat. “I’m going down to the ball. Wait a few minutes before following.” “Do you plan on staying long?” Martin could well image the annoyance flickering across Rys’s handsome features. “Not long. Perhaps a half hour or so. I avoided the ballroom when I first arrived. Didn’t want anyone realizing we had both disappeared for a length of time. So at the very least I need to pay our hostess my respects. It’s only polite, especially considering we made use of her room.” Before Rys could protest further, he opened the door just enough to check the corridor. Finding it empty, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and made his way down to the ballroom using the same servants’ stairs he’d traveled less than an hour ago. After paying his respects to her ladyship, he chatted with a few acquaintances then went in search of Rys. He found the man near the refreshment table, engaged in conversation with a few young ladies. His gaze traced Rys’s profile. Thankfully the flush was fully gone from his cheeks and he didn’t look as though he’d just been tumbled. He could tell Rys was doing his best to appear interested, though his best wasn’t all that good. Judging by the ladies’ rapt attention, they did not mind in the slightest. Martin took a sip of his champagne. Not a bit of jealously 19

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sparked within. He knew in which direction Rys’s interests lay. No matter how pretty their faces or how lush their figure or how large their dowry, it wouldn’t sway his lover. More importantly, he was secure in Rys’s love. But hell, the man drew females like a moth to a flame. Tall, handsome, and outfitted by the best tailor in London, he cut a striking figure. No, it was more than that. It was the wicked twinkle in his light blue eyes and the faint confident curve of the corners of his lips. Women just could not resist him. He drained the last of his glass and frowned. Now Rys had yet another attraction to add to his long list. Where before it had been a promise, now it was fact. Rys’s reputation for vice and danger was well enough known. Anyone who doubted his ability to reach his majority and gain full control of the vast fortune left to him by his grandfather need not doubt anymore. And at five-and-twenty, he would be considered old enough to make a decent husband. The matchmaking mommas would set upon him soon enough. Though from the looks of it, their daughters had beaten them to the coveted prize. A few ladies fawning over his lover Martin could tolerate with no ill effects. But a hoard of them? Probably best if tonight was their last ball for the rest of the Season. No use tempting fate. Marriage-minded misses could be damned determined. Wouldn’t put it past some of the more desperate ones to concoct a scheme of some sort in an effort to make Rys their own. And they wouldn’t care about his quick mind or the generosity of his heart when it came to those he loved. They would only see a handsome face and a more than sizable bank account. Martin scowled, his protective instincts surging within. 20

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Rys was damn well his. He loved him, and he wasn’t about to let some scheming female who wouldn’t appreciate his lover make Rys miserable. His grip tightened on his glass then he took a deep breath, tamped down the heavy possessive surge. Definitely would be their last ball for a good many months. In any case, Rys wouldn’t mind. A ton ball was the very definition of tedium to him. Sheer luck had even gained Rys’s agreement to meet Martin there tonight. He set his empty glass on a footman’s tray and went to rescue his lover. He didn’t miss the relief in Rys’s gaze when the man laid eyes on him. Nor did it take much to extricate him from his admirers. A hard, cold glare did the trick. “Took you long enough,” Rys said for Martin’s ears only, as they left the pack of ladies behind them. “It doesn’t do you any harm to be social.” Not bothering to slacken his stride or veer from his path, he tipped his head toward one of his father’s friends. “I would beg to differ. Inane conversations about the weather could drive one to bedlam.” They had almost reached the double doors when an elderly woman hurried up to Rys. He was tempted to swat the woman aside, but twenty-seven years of good manners won out. Judging by the poorly suppressed sigh, Rys was having a similar struggle. If Martin remembered correctly, the woman had been a friend of Rys’s mother. “Mr. Palmer, there you are.” She tipped her head toward Martin with a “Good evening, Mr. Trent,” then turned the full force of her attention back to Rys. “Leaving already?” “Alas, I am.” 21

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“Did you happen to find who you were looking for?” Rys’s lips quirked. “Indeed I did.” Her eyes widened, then her brow furrowed. “I do not recall seeing you on the dance floor.” “You must know by now that I avoid dancing whenever possible.” She leaned closer to Rys. “May I ask who caught your eye?” Wicked and sinful, a smile curved his lips. Martin was tempted to smack the man on the back of the head. Could he be more obvious? And the cuffs of his coat were wrinkled, too, Martin noticed. Rys should have thought to smooth them before returning to the ball. “You may ask, but you will need to excuse my silence on the subject.” “Oh, you are a sly one, Mr. Palmer,” she said, tapping him on the forearm with her closed fan. The bastard actually tipped his head in acknowledgement. It took considerable willpower for Martin to suppress the groan. “If you will excuse us, we must be on our way,” Rys said with an abbreviated bow. They bid the lady good evening and finally escaped the ballroom. “You do realize she will be all atwitter trying to guess who you came to the ball to meet,” Martin said. Rys nodded. “It will give her something to occupy her time. Did you walk or ride?” “Walked.” Their footsteps, perfectly in sync, echoed on the marble floor of the entrance hall. “I stopped to see my sister and new nephew on the way here. She just arrived in town.” “We’ll take my carriage then.” Rys called for his carriage. As 22

BEYOND RECKLESS

they lingered in the entrance hall, waiting for the equipage to be brought round, Rys looked to him, one dark eyebrow slightly raised. “Your townhouse,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “Lady Edgecomb’s cook, while generous with her kitchen, leaves much to be desired and cannot even begin to compete with yours. I could do with a quick bite to eat.” “Is that all you could do with?” Rys asked in an undertone. Desire flared anew at the thoroughly wicked glint in Rys’s light blue eyes. “Perhaps…or perhaps not.” Standing shoulder to shoulder, he felt the shiver rack Rys’s body, but he didn’t elaborate. He’d leave the man guessing. Leave him in suspense. And when Rys least expected it… It was all he could do not to grin as the idea gripped hold. He should be well and truly sated after their tryst in the reading room, yet… He never could resist indulging Rys. Hours later, he removed the leather cuffs from Rys’s ankles and massaged the sweat-slicked skin. Then he crawled up his lover’s body, blew out the candle on the bedside table, and lay down next to him, throwing an arm over the man’s bare chest that rose and fell as rapidly as his own. Rys’s hand settled on his forearm and gave it a squeeze. “Damnation, I love you.” “Love you, too. Now do you think you can behave yourself for the next few days?” Hopefully twice in one night had been enough to quench Rys’s appetite for the sharp bite of excitement, for a little while at least. Rys’s chuckle shook his chest. “Perhaps…or perhaps not.” 23

AVA M ARCH

Ava March is an author of smoking hot M/M Regency Erotic Romances. She loves writing in the Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can happen behind closed doors. To learn more about Ava, please visit AvaMarch.com.

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