Paper rustled across the table where Evander Ravenwood sat drinking his tea and perusing the morning mail. He looked up and studied the man opposite him.
The breakfast room of his Mayfair townhouse was bright with gaslight and the glow of a fire crackling in the grate. A pale December sun filtered through the windows from the grey sky above Hanover Square, the muted beams landing softly on Viggo Stonewall as he frowned at the newspaper.
The Brute was inspecting The Pall Mall Gazette like it intended to do him harm.
“Anything I should know?” Evander asked lightly.
“A man got murdered in Whitechapel yesterday,” his lover responded moodily. “And there was a clash between a noble and some thralls near Limehouse Basin.” He snapped the paper and turned the page over, his expression distracted.
Anyone else would have found the Brute's demeanour abrupt. Especially after the passion he had exhibited in Evander's bed last night. But the mage knew better.
The events that had taken place during their recent trip across Europe still weighed heavily on both their minds and their days since their return had seen them manically busy as they dealt with the fallout of what they'd uncovered. So much so that the late evenings they spent together were the only moments of peace and solace afforded by the challenges that awaited them most mornings.
Today was different. They'd come down early by mutual accord to enjoy the quiet, Viggo rousing Evander with soft kisses down his spine before dragging him out of bed and into the bathroom, ostensibly to get washed and ready for the day ahead. As usual, they'd ended up making love in the shower.
The Brute's stamina when it came to morning sex never ceased to amaze and privately delight Evander, despite his occasional protest. It wasn't just the carnal aspect of their relationship that continued to thrill the mage to the core. Their compatibility in the bedroom was undeniable after all.
It was much more than that.
Viggo's kisses. His incandescent, yet reverent touch. The words he whispered to Evander as he worshipped his body. The way he looked at Evander when he entered him and claimed him with a mastery that left the mage gasping and trembling with pleasure in his arms. All of it spoke of the Brute's love and undying devotion for him. And those feelings formed a precious balm Evander carried close to his heart throughout the day.
Just like watching the Brute at this very moment eased his troubled mind.
The sight of his lover sitting across the table from him, shirtsleeves rolled up and tanned skin exposed, his handsome face locked in fierce focus while the city outside wrote its grey morning against the windowpanes, grounded the mage in a way little could these days.
“You're staring,” Viggo said without looking up.
Evander's lips quirked. “Am I, now?”
“You are.” Viggo turned another page of the paper. “I must admit that I find it rather flattering.” The Brute's gaze flicked up. “Unfortunately, it is also giving me ideas about how fast I can convince you to go back upstairs and get out of that delectable outfit.” His expression grew smouldering.
Evander ignored the flicker of desire that tightened his gut, put his cup down, and arched an eyebrow. “That's the first time I've heard a Met uniform being described as delectable.”
“It is highly delectable,” Viggo grunted. “Especially the way it fits over your deliciously firm butto—”
Someone cleared their throat discreetly.
Mrs. Sinclair had just entered the breakfast room with the toast rack and a pot of preserve. To her credit, Evander's former nanny and current housekeeper didn't so much bat an eyelid as she set them down and went to the sideboard to attend to the empty silver pot there.
Viggo flashed a smile at the housekeeper, unabashed.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. I was just thinking it was time for a fresh cup.”
Evander swallowed a sigh. It was a good thing his household staff was discreet. He and Viggo had already been caught in several compromising situations that had caused much flutter among the housemaids. The fact that half of them were liable to swoon at the sight of the Brute in shirtsleeves had resulted in Mrs. Sinclair assigning only a few married ones above stairs when Viggo was around.
Evander realised that his house felt more like a home now, instead of just a place where he ate and slept and pored over his work papers. And the one responsible for that change was his lover.
“My Lord.” Hargrove appeared in the doorway with a salver containing a fresh batch of correspondence and a gleam in his eyes that said he meant business. “If I may.”
Evander observed his manservant cautiously. “Carry on.”
“First things first, you have received an invitation to a royal gala that will take place in a week and a half.”
Evander's heart sank as Hargrove produced the letter bearing the palace seal and deposited it next to his plate. He studied it as if it were a snake while Viggo watched with interest from across the way.
Hargrove narrowed his eyes.
“I suggest you do not ignore this one. The palace messengers will have my hide if you do.”
Evander privately translated this as his manservant would make his life a living hell if he skipped the social event.
“Next, there is an urgent question about the boiler at the Ravenwood family estate,” Hargrove reported. “Mr. Pendleton would appreciate it if you could respond to his messages at some point this week, ideally before frostbite sets in. Apparently, it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey up there.”
Mrs. Sinclair narrowed her eyes fractionally at the former Navy man.
Hargrove shrugged. “What? It's the truth, Mrs. S. Ask Mr. Pendleton.”
Evander sighed, out loud this time.
Silas Pendleton was the head steward of the main Ravenwood family estate and was in charge of the land agents who managed Evander's other holdings in England and Scotland. He had taken over the position after his father's retirement, the occupation having passed from father to son dating back as far as the very first Duke Ravenwood and Pendleton steward.
“Write Silas a note and tell him he can go ahead with all the necessary repairs.” Evander paused. “In fact, tell him he can decide such matters at his own discretion in the future. He doesn't have to wait for my permission.”
A short hush followed. Hargrove exchanged a loaded look with Mrs. Sinclair.
“I assume this means you have little interest in visiting the estate any time soon, my Lord?” the manservant said innocently.
“You assume correctly,” Evander replied coolly.
He could tell Viggo was following the conversation even though he was pretending to read the paper. As the leader of the best information guild in England, the Brute knew of his vast fortune, including the various properties and land holdings he owned. To Evander's surprise, he had yet to ask the mage about them.
“It has been many years since the master's death, your Grace,” Mrs. Sinclair said softly. “I know the place still holds painful memories for you, but the staff would very much appreciate your visit one of these days.”
Evander pursed his lips.
Mrs. Sinclair took this as a sign to go fetch a fresh pot of tea.
“Anything else?” Evander asked Hargrove briskly.
“Yes, my Lord. Another request has arrived from your tailor at Blackthorne & Sons regarding that fitting,” the manservant replied in a tone that suggested the tailor in question was at his wits' end. “Also, I have taken the liberty of declining a number of social invitations on the grounds that you are still recovering from an… alpine indisposition.”
Evander blinked, nonplussed. “An alpine indisposition?”
Viggo wrinkled his brow across the way.
“It is code for all shagged out, my Lord,” Hargrove explained, deadpan. He indicated Viggo with a vague wave of his hand. “After all, you must be exhausted from all the… strenuous activities Mr. Stonewall has put you through since your return from the Continent fifteen days past. It is a tragedy, but the hostesses have been informed.” He sniffed. “Not about the copious fornication, of course. I would not be so crude.”
Heat warmed Evander's cheeks. He scowled. “You're being crude right now, Jasper.”
Viggo made a small noise that might have been a laugh into his teacup.
Hargrove deposited the salver beside Evander's plate with the satisfaction of a man who had accomplished his life's work and withdrew to perform some other dignified offence elsewhere.
