Archive of Our Own

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.

---

Of course, he had to deal with the countess first. There was something about that woman that was so familiar, it was like driving a splinter under his skin; he would not rest until he had unveiled her. It was as if he’d seen her before, in some half-remembered dream, and she was not what she seemed.

He kept the mystery of her in the back of his mind as he approached the solicitors’ offices that night, in Lincoln’s Inn. His Grace, the Duke of _________ -- or Saito, as Eames knew him -- had known where to point him the moment he’d asked; he’d wondered vaguely about the reason Eames needed to know, but was content to wait until Eames felt comfortable enough to tell him. They had worked together before, extremely successfully, and Eames knew he could trust Saito with his life -- but not until the countess had given him the go-ahead. This was not Eames’ secret to tell.

Three days after last meeting the countess, he crept quietly up to the empty offices and reached for his set of lockpicks, testing the door as he prepared to unlock it. To his surprise, the door swung open a crack, a shaft of light from inside illuminating the heavy lock. He could hear the shuffling of papers from the room beyond, the click of metal boxes being opened and closed. Cautiously, he closed the door behind him and slid the deadbolt home; then he hugged the wall and peeked around the corner of the room.

The countess stood in front of the large desk, again garbed in her long cloak -- but her veil was lifted up over her broad hat. Eames cursed his luck -- her back was turned to the door, and all he could see was a dark shape lit by the flickering flame of the lantern on her left.

“We should have had a conversation about the proper way of proceeding with this endeavour,” he said easily, leaning on the door frame. She almost jumped out of her skin; but the first thing she did was not whirl around in a panic -- it was to reach up and flick her veil down, so once more it shrouded her face.

“Mr Eames,” she greeted him calmly, even though there was a breathless note in her voice that made Eames grin. “I did not expect to see you this evening.”

“That much is evident,” Eames remarked with amusement. He uncrossed his arms and took a step into the room. The countess took a careful step back as he moved forward, putting the heavy walnut desk between them. Interesting, Eames thought. For the entirety of their last meeting, even though it had been much tenser than this one, she had been unruffled; yet now, she sought to put distance between them. Something must have happened in the meantime; he did not think that their one kiss would discomfit her so. He decided to allow the tension to dissipate, for now.

“Tell me, how far into the records have you progressed?” he said, turning his attention to the papers spread over the desk.

She seemed to calm, then; some of the stiffness flowed out of her frame. “I have reached as far as the ‘R’-s; it appears the paperwork is divided alphabetically between the two partners.”

“How did you find the offices, anyway? I was under the impression that you had secured my services because you could not make advances on your own.”

“My step-son, Rupert, came across the name plaque when he visited the family solicitors. Their offices are not far from here.” She turned back to the metal box, replacing the sheath of papers she was clutching inside before closing it and re-locking the catch with a hairpin. Ah, Eames thought. The mystery begins to unravel -- whoever she is, she is familiar with the method of picking locks.

He made his way to the wall at the back of the office, where shelves full of similar client boxes lined the space. He took down a row of five and set them on the other side of the desk, patting his pockets again for his set of lockpicks. A familiar hairpin was waved in his line of sight -- he looked up and took it from her long fingers, smiling at her approvingly before he got to work.

They searched in silence for twenty minutes or so, going through all the boxes in the office. Patience had never been Eames’ strong suit, but he knew when to bite his tongue and keep silent -- the tension had started to take her shoulders again as the pile of unsearched boxes dwindled. She shut the last one with a little more force than necessary; he heard clearly the unhappy huff of air she expelled with the motion.

“There’s still the other office,” Eames reminded her gently. She hummed and nodded in recognition.

They made their way through the other door down the hall, relocating to the second office of the practice. The already familiar row of boxes stood waiting at the back; the two looked at each other and set to.

Not five minutes later, a quick intake of breath preceded her “This is it.” Eames dropped the papers he was perusing and strode to her side. He plucked the sheet from her hand, squinting down at it. Here was the Central East Africa Gold Company’s title and address in Africa, their registration with the authorities, and an elaborately carved stamp of the name and date the company was established -- but the documents were few, and did not suggest a way to contact it here in London -- except through an agent. A Mr Jonathan Cobol.

Eames swore, forgetting himself. Cobol again! Was there no illicit scam that he had not dabbled in?

“I take it you are familiar with this person?” the countess asked. Not much escaped her, Eames reminded himself.

‘Indeed. He is already under investigation for a similar fraudulent scheme that was uncovered only a short while ago, by myself and Saito. I’m afraid he is no uncommon villain.”

“Is he dangerous?” she asked; her voice shook not at all, and there was nothing but sheer determination in her tone. Eames found himself admiring her more and more. He discovered with some surprise that, while he no longer wanted to bed her, he was becoming rather fond of her -- she certainly held his attention, and had earned his respect. That was a tall order for any person, let alone a woman whose face he had yet to see; however, there was no denying the sharp spike of affection he felt at her resilience.

“He is,” Eames confirmed, confident that she could handle the unvarnished truth. “But that’s not the only reason why this situation has suddenly become so urgent. Saito and I are close to proving that Cobol’s most recent endeavour is a fraud, which will bring serious pressure on him to get what money he can together and run. Therefore I’m afraid that the promissory note that your husband signed will likely be called in presently. We have very little time in which to refute its validity -- but, hopefully, the earlier investigation on the man will help.”

“Do you mean that if you can prove that his previous scheme was illegal, it may call in question the validity of this investment, too?” she asked -- he was once again surprised by her astuteness.

“Precisely,” he confirmed, already making plans as to how to speed up the case against the blackguard. “We have found all we can here. Let’s put this place back in order and make ourselves scarce.”

“Agreed,” she said, reaching for the nearest box and her trusty hairpin.

Eames was in the process of putting away the last of his pile of boxes when a startled “Oh!” made him turn around swiftly. The countess was struggling with a pile of her own that belonged on the topmost shelf -- she was tall enough to reach, but not quite tall enough to push them back onto it properly. She had teased the boxes to the edge of the shelf, and they had started to tip-- Eames was there in a flash, stretching behind her and stabilising the downward slide of the pile. His chest was plastered to her back, his muscular legs pressed to her more slender, but no less strong ones. The long line of her spine shifted against his front enticingly; her bottom rubbed against the juncture of his thighs when she shifted again. The more she tried to put space between them, the more she succeeded in sweetly shifting their bodies together. Eames let out a strangled exhale when her firm curves teased at the growing ache in his groin. She stopped moving; there was no hiding the shuddering sigh of pleasure she released when she felt him harden against her, or the instinctive jerk of her hips into the pressure.

The fact that he had made the conscious decision to pursue Arthur’s affections did not make him any less than a flesh-and-blood male; besides, the countess was as tall as Arthur, almost to the last inch -- this must be why he felt so compelled to kiss the skin behind her ear, to trace the whorl with his lips. The back of her covered head rested by his jaw; he lowered his head slightly, sliding his nose along her hairline, stroking her hair with his cheek. She relaxed little by little, until her shoulders leaned into him, finding balance in his rigid strength. Her scent rose to weave around him, much more masculine than he had supposed she would wear, but still with a hint of the feminine. It was achingly familiar -- he had smelled it not long ago, but where--

His entire body snapped to attention. It was impossible; his mind must be playing tricks on him. The pliant woman in his arms, the creature whose back rested sweetly, trustingly against him, could not be the same person as Arthur Morwellan, stiff and prickly, always keeping himself one unreachable step away. Moreover, she was clearly a lady--wasn’t she?

Eames stopped thinking, stopped guessing, cleared his mind and gave free reign to his instincts. Tall, yet strong; shoulders curved yet broad; voice resonant yet rather lower than normal; the masculine nuances of her perfume; that indefinable way in which she felt oh-so-familiar to him...

She stiffened as soon as she felt the shift to rigidity in his stance, plastering herself against the shelves to avoid touching him. She bounced on her toes, finally managing to push the boxes onto the shelf (Eames gritted his teeth against the spike of sensation her shift in position sent through him), and made to duck under his outstretched arm.

She gasped when his hand locked on her forearm (far too muscular to be that of a lady, he realized now); a fine tremor took her when he pressed her back into the shelves and kept her there with the bulk of his body.

“What are you doing?” she asked, breathless with a barely restrained panic, trying to pry his hand off.

There was no mistaking it now. Her chest was flat, impossibly so -- even the most slender lady had easily perceptible curves in the usual places, and no lady had a hard bulge where Eames’ groin pressed her--him into the wall.

Eames felt like the Earth had tipped on its axis, as if gravity had shifted and left him drifting. A torrent of emotions battered him in their wake -- lust, fury, hope, wonder, a sharp stab of hurt at the deceit. He knew not what he looked like in that moment, but it must have been terrifying, because Arthur (for it was he; no one else could ever have such an effect on Eames’ mind, his soul, his entire being) shrank from his grip.

Eames’ free hand rose inexorably higher; in a fraction of a second he had whipped the veil up over the head of the shrouded figure, only to find his gaze locked with a pair of dark eyes wide with fear, dismay, and despair, a look that slayed him with its unutterable vulnerability.

“Why?” Eames choked through gritted teeth. “What was the purpose of this charade? What did you hope to achieve? Did you want to make a fool out of me? To trick me? To play with me for your own amusement? Tell me, did you laugh at me behind my back? Poor dense Eames, so stupid, so easily taken in, let’s give him a lesson in the way the world works! Let’s show him how deeply beneath us he is, how his best efforts will never be enough!”

Arthur trembled in his arms, eyes for once open and unguarded, unable to defend himself. He shook his head frantically, mouth opening--to say what, Eames did not care; he released him as if scalded, took several steps back, betrayal burning bitterly in the back of his throat. He had expected anything -- anything but this, this vicious pain that tore through his lungs and threatened to shred his heart to pieces.

Only the way Arthur’s eyes shone too brightly prevented him from pulling his arm back and hitting that too-beautiful face, bruising it like Arthur was pummelling him from the inside. The tentative hope that had been growing slowly inside him for the past few days withered and died, leaving behind a frozen wasteland more bleak and awful than anything that had gone before.

He turned away and started walking, expression fixed in its usual studied indifference, thoughts ruthlessly locked away behind that shield that sometimes formed in his mind, when anything else was unbearable. He ignored the heartbroken “Eames” he heard from behind, his swift strides carrying him to the door and out of it in the blink of an eye. He had nothing more to give Arthur tonight, nothing that he had not already taken and trampled under the heels of his stylish black boots.

---

Arthur felt utterly numb the next morning at breakfast. His buttered toast languished limply on his plate; he could barely sip at his weak tea without his stomach heaving. He had spent the remainder of last night trying not to surrender to the urge to sob his heart out as he replayed over and over the broken look on Eames’ face when he’d learned the truth. He’d known that Eames would be furious if he ever found out, but he’d had no idea that Eames’ feelings for him ran so deeply, that Arthur’s deception could hurt him like this. His heart stuck in his throat when he thought about the repercussions his actions could have -- Eames was obviously familiar with this Cobol character, and he could rip Arthur’s world apart with a single word. Arthur could only hope that the fact that his whole family was in danger would stop Eames from enacting a petty revenge against him.

“Lord Arthur, Mr Eames has called for you,” Mrs Chilton said warmly, unaware of the terror her simple words evoked.

“Oh! Do ask him if he’s had breakfast yet, Mrs Chilton!” Arthur’s mother said brightly; she looked puzzled when Arthur shook his head frantically.

“No, Mother, I’m sure Mr Eames has more urgent matters to attend to. This is just a business call,” he said, looking at her pointedly, willing her to understand.

“Indeed?” she said, throwing him a small, hopeful smile; immediately she turned to Ariadne and engaged her in conversation so that Arthur could slip unnoticed out of the door.

“He is waiting in the office,” Mrs Chilton said at Arthur’s questioning look.

Arthur resisted the urge to postpone the inevitable and made his way towards the room in question. It occurred to him that that was all Eames would want to discuss now -- their little business matter. The thought did not make the prospect of the coming interview easier to bear.

He stopped outside the doors a moment, steeling himself for the look he was sure to see on Eames’ face -- the disgust, the fury, the dismissal. His heart squeezed into a tiny shell, preparing itself for the awful altercation. Eames would not want to look at him again after this moment; he would exact his due and walk out of his life for good. Never again would he hold him in his arms; never again would he press kisses to his ear, or talk to him in that deep, affectionate tone he had fallen into with the countess, even when he’d had no idea it was really Arthur who had melted under his attentions. Never would he know that Arthur’s heart was breaking into a million tiny pieces at the thought of how deeply Eames must despise him now.

He closed his eyes in misery -- the die had been cast long before last night. Fate had spoken her decree, and Arthur could only endure. Perhaps this way would be better. If he never saw Eames again, Eames would never know the misery of Arthur’s empty existence, or the depth of his need for Eames’ approval, affection, even his love. Maybe, eventually, the pain of Eames’ rejection would go away. He could only hope.

He quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside the room, locking the door behind him -- they didn’t want any interruptions. Best to get this over with quickly. Eames was standing by the window, a forbidding figure garbed all in black; the harsh non-colour made his honey-blond hair all the brighter. Arthur waited by the door, as uncertain as he’d ever been.

Eames turned around to look at him. “Come here,” he said after a moment. His voice had that dark undertone that bode ill for Arthur’s control.

Arthur stepped out into the room, making his way over as calmly as he could; by the time he stood before Eames, however, his composure had all but vanished. Perhaps that had been Eames’ intention from the start?

Eames kept his peace, observing Arthur closely, no doubt cataloguing the dark circles under his eyes and the grey tinge to his skin with contempt. Arthur had never been particularly alluring, he knew that -- too tall, too plain, too slight to inspire desire in anyone’s heart, especially not someone as magnificent as Eames.

Eames looked at him for a while, denting Arthur’s composure even further, before finally speaking. “Now. What the hell is going on?” he bit out, and Arthur suddenly realised that Eames wasn’t calm at all; he was holding on to his temper with by barest of margins. Arthur pressed his lips together and took a calming breath.

“You know all of it. The details of the case I brought before you are all true. It was only the countess that was not real.”

“So Rupert is Robert, Ariana is Ariadne, and Mary is Maria, your mother. You painted Nash as your husband?” Eames’ voice was rigidly controlled, cold as the depths of Siberian winter.

“Yes.” It was all Arthur could say.

“I thought the countess felt familiar. You are quite the actor, my dear. I just never imagined that you’d bring her back in play after fifteen years of retirement.”

Arthur flushed, for it was true -- he had made use of Eames’ assumption.

“And what about the promissory note?”

“It is real. Nash signed it when I was seventeen. He was still the executor of the estate at that time. Miles and I researched it, but it is indeed legal.”

“And you found out about this... when?”

“The week before I contacted you.”

Eames stood looking down at Arthur’s head, almost level with his eyes. He had come here expecting -- he knew not what, but it wasn’t this calm, almost hopeless resignation. The wheels turned; his mind finally snapped around what had been teasing at it for weeks. Arthur’s perfectly tailored, but plain clothes. The skilfully mended, almost invisible patches on Ariadne’s gowns. Arthur’s serviceable but several-seasons-old boots. It all came into focus in a fraction of a second.

“This is not the first time something like this has happened, is it?”

Arthur stood silent before him, gaze fixed on the wall next to Eames’ shoulder. Eames narrowed his eyes.

“Was that what happened eleven years ago? Was that why you pulled out of Oxford? Tell me, damn you!” he snapped when Arthur merely slanted a glance at him. “Or would you rather I asked Nash?”

Arthur closed his eyes. If that humiliation was what was required of him by Eames’ pride, then so be it. He’d give him the satisfaction, and then Eames would finally leave, and Arthur could try to figure out his next step in peace.

“The week before I was set to leave for Oxford, I heard Miles come to the house. I wanted to see him, so I went to Nash’s office, was about to knock on the door when I heard the raised voices from inside. Miles was frantic with worry, begging Nash to reconsider. The family’s finances were stretched so thinly already that my going to Oxford would literally ruin us. Nash kept insisting that all would be fine; he was hoping that I would make a good enough match that it would fix our state of affairs. He did not seem to understand what Miles was saying.

“So I went into the room, and I sat down with the two of them, and made them tell me the whole of it. I looked at the papers, and Miles was right -- Oxford would bury us. Ariadne was only six at the time, Robert was nine -- I couldn’t let things slide further than they already had.”

Eames was silent for a long moment, so much so that Arthur raised eyes burning with emotion to his. “Don’t you dare pity me,” he said in a low, almost choked voice.

Eames blinked. “Pity?” he said, unthinking. “I see nothing to pity here. Only to admire.” It was the plain truth. “What was the earldom’s worth then?” he asked after a moment.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him, but grudgingly quoted a figure.

“And now?” Eames prompted again, and again Arthur spoke, albeit still reluctantly.

Eames calculated, and re-checked -- he was astute enough to realise that nothing he could have done, not even Saito’s help could have bailed out the Morwellan family as well as Arthur’s actions. I wish you’d told me the truth back then, his heart whispered, but he could understand why Arthur hadn’t. His pride must have been all he’d had left at the time. He felt the sharp burn of shame, of regret at the way he’d reacted eleven years ago -- Arthur had tried to tell him, Eames knew he had, but he’d been so unreasonably furious at Arthur that he’d completely overreacted. Now he knew why -- Arthur was the only one who could cause such turmoil inside him, the only person in the world whose opinion of Eames was vitally important to Eames’ sense of self.

He sighed in defeat. When he had set off that morning for Morwellan House, he had done so with the need to collect the reparations due to him, to make Arthur admit to the reasons for his charade, and to punish him for it as harshly as he knew how. Now, however, that he knew everything, knew of the sacrifices Arthur had made for the sake of his family’s happiness and prosperity, all he wanted was to help, to protect Arthur, to ensure his safety and well-being. The Morwellan family, much as he loved them, would always take second place to the way he felt about Arthur. He knew not when his feelings for Arthur had grown, matured, settled into this deep and abiding need to make him happy; but the fact was that they had, and Eames would do anything in his power to secure it.

First, he would make sure that the threat hanging over the Morwellans’ heads was gone once and for all. And then... then he’d have to see about winning one tempestuous man’s guarded heart.

“All right. What does the earldom’s income amount to in a year?”

Bit by bit, he drew the facts out of Arthur, who answered dutifully, but with an underlying tension that Eames attributed to his reluctance to let anyone know the true state of affairs of the family, and how very dire it was.

“I am impressed,” Eames admitted sometime later; it made Arthur smile weakly, and so he counted it as a victory. “You have done more than anyone could have, to render your family’s affairs in good order.”

Arthur nodded a ‘thank you’, but his tension did not abate.

“What does your agent think of all of this?” Eames asked him when the silence had stretched uncomfortably, and he was starting to consider other ways of dispersing Arthur’s tension -- like kissing him breathless.

Arthur frowned. “He was relieved when I told him I had contacted you. But I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”

“So he knows that we are working together. That’s good.” At Arthur’s questioning look, Eames went on, “I’m bound to encounter the man sometime before we make our case in court.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, and he blinked, arrested. Eames caught the look and started to frown himself. It was as if Arthur had expected...

He grit his teeth and stamped down his urge to throttle the infuriating man. “I am not leaving you to deal with this on your own,” he snarled.

Arthur’s relief was obvious, though he tried to hide it. It made Eames furious beyond all reason. It was one thing to trick him into helping, but not trusting that Eames felt strongly enough about his family to want to help in the first place... It was insupportable.

He grabbed Arthur’s arms, turning him swiftly so that his back was pressed into the wall behind them. Arthur didn’t struggle -- Eames’ grip was like iron manacles shackling his wrists as he held them above Arthur’s head. To his horror, Arthur felt himself responding; he hardened in his trousers, pressing insistently against Eames’ groin when Eames stepped close enough that their bodies were touching from hip to shoulder. Arthur could see the heat flaring in Eames’ green-grey eyes, see his pupils dilating with want, so that only a thin circle of the iris remained. Eames lowered his head and ran his nose along Arthur’s hairline, just as he had with the countess last night in the solicitors’ office, inhaling deeply.

“Get this into that thick, stubborn skull of yours,” Eames rumbled in Arthur’s ear; Arthur felt faint -- every vibration of Eames’ voice travelled through his body and lodged deep in the pit of his stomach. “We are going to resolve this matter. Cobol is going to rot in jail, and your family will be free to live out their lives in peace and security. You will be free to live your own life, the one you gave up so that your family could prosper. And then, you and I will announce our engagement for the world to see.” Eames’ possessive tone wreathed around Arthur’s mind, weaving a sensuous web around the two of them, making Arthur drop his head in the crook of Eames’ neck and breathe in the strong, masculine, arousing, unforgettable smell of him.

And then his words registered. “En-engagement?! Have you gone out of your mind?” Arthur gasped in shock. “You do not want to marry me!”

Eames smiled, that dangerous, predatory smile that Arthur had seen directed at too many ladies and gentlemen that had not been him over the years. “Oh, but I do, my love. You have no idea of the things I want to do to you.”

“None of which necessarily bring about our marriage!” Arthur gasped, knees weak with desire as Eames, now fully erect, rolled his hips provocatively against his.

“Why not? You are the respectable Earl of Meredith, and I am an Eames; we have known each other since birth; our match would be expected -- nay, encouraged,” Eames purred in his ear, tightening his hold on Arthur’s wrists as he dipped his head to kiss and lick at the skin below Arthur’s ear. Arthur felt his bones turn to liquid honey from Eames’ assault on his senses.

“But you do not love me!” Arthur whimpered, quietly, desperately, helplessly as Eames stripped his defences away until only the raw, yearning core of him remained. “Do not pretend; I have seen you with too many other conquests to believe that you have loved me all this time, carried a torch for me like some pining schoolboy.”

Eames stopped sucking on Arthur’s neck, pulling his head back to look at the mask of misery etched on Arthur’s face. He had not seen Arthur exhibit emotion for so long, he had forgotten how expressive his striking features could be. Arthur truly believed that Eames did not love him. Eames resisted the urge to roll his eyes; Arthur would invariably take it the wrong way. He tenderly kissed the skin at the corner of Arthur’s sensitive lips, felt his breath catch at the caress.

“Arthur,” Eames whispered, letting Arthur see the truth of what he was about to confess in his eyes. “Do you remember how angry, how furious I was when you told me you were not going to Oxford?”

Arthur nodded uncertainly; the flash of pain in his eyes nearly killed Eames.

“I am so, so sorry for what I put you through back then, darling. I wish I hadn’t been such a young hot-head; I wish I had listened to you as you tried to tell me the truth. But my point is, I was not just furious because I wanted my best friend to share this new experience with me, although I did.” Eames took a deep breath, bracing himself. “You said that I had sampled all of Oxford’s entertainment–” he stopped when he saw the flinch on Arthur’s face.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Arthur said quietly, meeting Eames’ eye, chagrin written clearly on his face. “I should never have said it; I knew you better than that -- you would never have eschewed your duty to your family, and I know you didn’t do any of the things I accused you of -- you could never be one of those wastrels that abound within the ton. I know you’re a decent man, Eames,” he finished, pleading with Eames to believe him.

Eames’ expression softened and his shoulders lost some of their stiffness, as if Arthur’s words had lifted a weight he had been carrying with him for years. “The truth is, I did spend a fair share of my time discovering what Oxford had to offer, but with only one reason in mind. You see, I dreamed for months of what I would do once I had you to myself. I would take you out to dine at all the best clubs, we would go to plays and museums and libraries and do everything your heart desired. I would bring you breakfast in the mornings so that you could sleep in. I would leave class early so that I could take you to the park and feed you grapes from my fingers. I would take you to a field near the university where they perform experiments with hot air balloons, and we would go up in one, see the world as we’d never seen it before. I would woo you, Arthur, I would make your every desire come true, in the hope that you would choose me as your own.

“When you told me you were not coming, all my dreams collapsed at once, into tiny pieces. I saw you slipping through my fingers. Do you understand now why I lost my mind a little?”

Eames bowed his head, as if his confession had taken everything in him -- and perhaps it had. Arthur’s wide eyes found his a moment later when he looked up, to try and gauge Arthur’s reaction.

“I just want a chance,” Eames whispered. “A chance to prove to you that you and I, what we have, it’s not something you encounter every day. A chance to prove that I meant every word, every syllable I said. We could make a life together, Arthur; we could be happy. Just give us a chance.”

Arthur felt like his heart was breaking--but not with sadness; it was bursting forth with life, light, hope, every bright, shining emotion centred on the way the tentative look in Eames’ eyes transformed to pure joy at the sight of Arthur’s smile. Eames smiled back triumphantly before he lowered his head ever so slightly and took Arthur’s lips at last, in a kiss that scorched his remaining doubts to ashes and made him believe that finally, finally, fate was smiling down on him again.

He could not contain his happy laughter when it flowed into Eames’ mouth; he felt Eames’ lips curve against his with delight, felt it to his toes when Eames turned his head a little and deepened the kiss, when his tongue slipped past Arthur’s lips to tangle with his own and made his whole body come alive.

“Is that a yes?” Eames rasped against his lips, rubbing the light stubble on his jaw against Arthur’s cheek, not letting him move in the slightest.

Arthur tugged one wrist away from Eames’ hold and curled his hand around Eames’ nape, tugging him closer again. “Yes,” he murmured against the generous mouth that had fuelled so many late night fantasies, before taking it again.

It was as if the word galvanised Eames; he kissed Arthur like a man starved, trailed big, reassuring hands over Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur’s chest, his stomach, before curving their way around his body and squeezing his backside tightly, pressing Arthur into him all the more. Arthur whimpered into his mouth and slanted his hips to better rub their needy lengths together, raising one long leg high and curling it around Eames’ thigh.

Eames made a wild sound into his mouth, pulling back and tugging frantically at Arthur’s cravat, the buttons on his jacket, opening his shirt with swift, efficient motions. Arthur returned the favour, sliding hot palms over the tight muscles in Eames’ abdomen, groaning in his throat when Eames finally opened the placket of his trousers, his clever fingers grasping Arthur’s hardness. Arthur’s knees nearly gave out; only Eames’ bulk kept him pressed into the wall. Arthur tore at the fastening of Eames’ trousers with desperate, clumsy hands, hissing in victory when he managed to undo it.

“Jump up,” Eames said breathlessly, pulling at the backs of Arthur’s thighs. Arthur got the idea, boosting himself up and wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist, pressing their naked lengths intimately together, dragging a long moan from both their throats. Arthur was longer, but Eames was thicker, and together the two of them rubbed against each other, as fast as their position would let them.

“Hold on,” Eames said, jostling Arthur so he could get one hand free.

“Eames, what--” Arthur protested, clutching at Eames’ shoulders to stop himself overbalancing and falling over. “Oh my god,” he grunted a second later when Eames spat into his palm and wrapped it around the two of them together, setting a fast, deliciously arousing pace. The sight of Eames being so freely sensual should embarrass him; instead, Arthur felt incredibly alive, like every cell of his body was on fire, desperate to reach the peak together with the man pressed against him. Eames was making small, desperate, delicious sounds in his throat that Arthur wanted to hear again and again, for the rest of his life.

Eames added a twist to his tugs, setting off sparks of light behind Arthur’s eyelids. “Now… now, Eames, please, are you with me? I need you, oh my god, yes, there… again, yes,” Arthur babbled, pulling them back into the wall as much as he could -- he could feel himself starting to overbalance, so he tightened his legs around Eames’ hips and pushed himself up -- and incidentally into Eames’ fist. It was the last tiny spike that he needed -- he flew apart, keening as his eyes rolled back into his head. He was barely aware of Eames kissing him deeply so that his shouts didn’t rouse the house to his assistance, biting into his lower lip as he shuddered in Arthur’s arms, hips jerking once, twice, joining the mess that Arthur’s climax had made over their stomachs.

Arthur felt Eames’ body list and yelped in alarm, quickly untangling his legs to the floor and guiding the two of them along the wall until they sat in the corner, with Eames curled over Arthur’s chest, absentmindedly stroking Arthur’s stomach as the last flutters of orgasm left his body.

“Bloody hell,” Eames breathed, dropping his head on Arthur’s shoulder and trailing kisses along his collar bone. “If only I’d known about this side of you, I would never have let you get away all those years ago,” he hummed into his skin.

Arthur’s lips twitched wickedly. “Now you know what you’ll be missing if you ever decide to even look in another person’s direction,” he threatened.

“Never again,” Eames swore vehemently. “You are more than enough for me, darling; now that I have you, why would I possibly want to look at anyone else?”

Arthur smiled contentedly into Eames’ hair, feeling what could only be happiness unfurl and bloom into his chest. He had bargained with fate and won, the dearest prize he could ever wish for.

“I’ve spoken to Saito,” Eames said a little while later, when they’d relocated to the small chaise longue by the wall. It was too short for both of them, but it would do until they caught their breaths. “We go to court tomorrow with our findings. If all goes well, there should be a warrant for Cobol’s arrest issued before lunch, and a permission to search his solicitors’ premises shortly after. All promissory notes will be confiscated and declared invalid and void. You’ll be in the clear.”

Arthur stiffened a little, but he was too languid to really work himself up. “How likely is it that this plan will succeed?” he asked, dread curling heavily into his gut.

“If Saito has anything to say about it? It’s already a done deal,” Eames averred, soothing him back down. “I’ll be with you all the way, love. I’m not going to let you deal with this by yourself, ever again. Once this case is done with, we can talk about other, much more pleasant plans. How do you feel about a May wedding?”

Arthur smiled happily down into Eames’ eyes. “With you by my side, I’ll get married any day of the year,” he said softly, letting Eames see the truth of it in his gaze.

Eames looked up at him, grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck, that this was really happening to him, that Arthur was for real. “May it is, then,” he said, half-smug and half-wondrous, and drew Arthur’s face down to kiss him again.