Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Regency, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Bottom Shane Hollander, Power Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Angst with a Happy Ending, A little soft dom/sub

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Affairs of the Heart (and Other Complications)

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-24 Completed: 2026-03-07 Words: 41,739 Chapters: 9/9

A most improper affair

Summary

When Count Ilya Rozanov arrives in London for the Season, he becomes an immediate fascination of the Ton and an immediate rival for Lord Shane Hollander.

What begins as public antagonism gives way to a secret affair conducted in gardens, clubs, and borrowed rooms, even as expectation, duty, and the marriage mart press ever closer. As reputations rise and alliances shift, Shane attempts to do what is expected of him, only to discover that some attachments cannot be set aside so easily.

A Bridgerton/Regency AU of rivalry, scandal, and love that refuses to remain hidden.

E rating for later chapters.

Chapter 1: Of appearances most proper

Dearest Gentle Reader,

A new Season is upon us, and with it comes the return of certain familiar faces—some beloved, some baffling, and a select few who persist in being both.

Chief among them is Lord Hollander, whose manners remain impeccable, whose fortune remains unimpeachable, and whose continued failure to secure a bride remains a subject of increasing fascination. One might be forgiven for wondering whether such restraint is the mark of discernment, or simply stubbornness in the face of maternal vigilance. 

Adding further intrigue is the reappearance of Count Rozanov, our continental curiosity, whose title is as impressive as his disregard for English decorum. That London has not yet decided whether to admire or fear him is perhaps unsurprising. That it cannot seem to look away is quite another matter entirely. This author has heard that our Russian Count scandalized half the continent since last season, yet remains entirely unmoved by London’s most eligible offerings. 

That these two gentlemen should find themselves so frequently at odds, on the dance floor, in the drawing room, and wherever else polite society gathers, is, of course, only natural. Competition, after all, thrives where admiration dares not speak its name. One might almost suspect that rivalry, like all great passions, is capable of disguising itself as something more dangerous. 

One hopes the Season will prove enlightening.

Lady Whistledown

*** 

The Hollander carriage arrived precisely when it was expected to, that is to say, a full five minutes earlier than necessary. The young earl descended its steps with the same quiet composure that had earned him a reputation for steadiness bordering on dullness, though no one who looked closely at him could reasonably make such a charge. He was impeccably turned out, his dark coat cut to perfection, his cravat tied with just enough panache to suggest taste rather than vanity. 

His mother and father, also dressed to impress for the first ball of the Season, followed their son to resplendent gates of Haverinton House, festooned with garlands and silver baubles. As they made their way towards the doors, flanked by silver gilt statues of Greek and Roman goddesses on either side, Lady Hollander reached out to straighten her son’s cravat and fluff his hair. 

“Smile, darling, you look as if you are going to a funeral,” she said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder.

Shane allowed himself to be fussed over, sighing internally at her ministrations. 

“I am attending a ball,” he replied mildly. “Which, in my experience, differs only in the music.”

Lady Hollander shot him a look. “This is the first ball of the Season. Your second Season. Whistledown has already had more than enough to say about your reluctance to settle.”

“I am not reluctant,” he said. “Merely… discerning.”

“Discerning young men do not enter a second Season unengaged,” she returned crisply. “You are our only child, Shane. I will not be fobbed off with patience.”

Shane inclined his head in dutiful submission as they climbed the steps, and, as his mother turned away to hand off her coat and hat to a footman, tugged at the collar of his shirt to stave off the familiar tightening in his chest. Not dread, precisely, but the weight of expectation pressing down like a hand between his shoulder blades.

“At least your new suit from Stultz arrived on time. You would think they might prioritize your order for the first ball of the Season considering your eligibility,” his mother said, taking his father’s arm on the way to the ballroom. 

“Leave him be, my lady, the Season has barely begun,” Lord Hollander said lightly. He turned to glance back at his son. “What was that book that had you so engrossed this afternoon, Shane?” 

Indeed, Shane had spent a pleasant afternoon in the solarium reading about unusual animal pairings on farms that resulted in both increased crop yields and often resulted in unexpected friendships, such as sheep dogs becoming friends with baby chickens. He had been so interested in his reading, he had quite forgotten about the looming ball and had to rush to get ready in time. 

As they entered the luxuriously decorated ballroom, Shane explained the book and his ideas for how to leverage the animals at Ottowan Cottage, his ironically named estate in Derbyshire, which boasted large grounds and provided land for several local farmers. He was so wrapped up in discussing his reading, he barely noticed the appreciative glances cast his way. However, every mother and daughter was aware that the Ton's “golden boy” had arrived, with high hopes for snagging his eye. 

“I cannot imagine a sheep dog being so gentle with such small creatures,” mused Lord Hollander as they moved to the far end of the ballroom to greet their hosts. “I would need to see it with my own eyes to believe such a thing.” 

“You might turn your thoughts to finding a lady to share your estate, darling,” his mother chided, in a low voice after they exchanged welcome words with Lord and Lady Haverinton. “Lady Rose will be in attendance tonight. It is no surprise that she was named the Season’s diamond. She is absolutely stunning. You would do well to secure at least one dance with her. Lady Trafford’s daughter was also presented to the queen, and you know her father left her a sizable dowry…” 

Shane finally turned to face the guests already in attendance, not meeting anyone’s eye directly. He tried to pick Lady Rose Landry out of the crowd, remembering that he had seen her when she was presented to the queen and proclaimed the season’s diamond. The room of faces, both familiar and new, started to swirl. 

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, a head of blonde curls towering above all others in attendance, and blue eyes wrinkled at the corners from a crooked smile caught his eye. It was Count Rozanov, the second son of the Russian ambassador back from the continent. He was leaning over slightly to listen to a woman whispering in his ear, but when his eyes met Lord Hollander’s, his smile widened in obvious delight. 

“Oh and there is Lord Rozanov from last Season,” Lady Hollander commented. “Back in London with his father, no doubt. I do hope there will be no more scandals this Season.” Indeed, last year the young Count had been caught alone with a young lady alone in Vauxhall Gardens. His father’s status and an assumed lack of courtly manners in Britain as opposed to the continent had prevented any demands for satisfaction or a special marriage license, but the Russian’s reputation as a shameless flirt who flouted the rules of polite society had been cemented. That certainly did not stop ladies from approaching him. He had a certain charm that the Ton enjoyed.

Shane broke eye contact with Rozanov, feeling a slight flush rising in his cheeks. To distract both himself and his mother, he asked “May I fetch you a refreshment, Mother, while I circulate?” She nodded and he headed off in search of the lemonade table. 

He had barely completed one circuit of polite greetings when Lord Hayden Pike appeared at his elbow, grinning only as a man who had already won the game and now enjoyed spectating could smile. 

“Still unclaimed, I see,” Lord Pike said cheerfully. “Extraordinary. My wife was certain you’d be gone before the ink dried on last Season’s announcements.”

“I was occupied,” Shane replied.

“Occupied avoiding women?”

“Occupied existing,” Shane said dryly, and took a welcome glass of lemonade from a passing tray. 

“Surely there is more to life than maintaining Ottowan Cottage and boxing.” 

“I am content for now.” 

“You would be more content with a wife. Trust me.” Lord Pike’s eyes immediately found Lady Pike in the crowd and his eyes softened. “And another little one on the way.” 

“Again?” Shane was shocked. They had only been married a year and had already had twin girls who were a year old.  

“It is not so difficult”, Lord Pike teased. “And I want a son.” 

“Of course.” 

Shane could not imagine being a parent at such a young age, much less to three children. But the Pikes were known for their large families, with no fewer than three sets of twins among the siblings. 

“You might congratulate me.” 

“Oh of course. Congratulations, Pike!” Shane held out his hand and gave his friend a hearty handshake. “I apologize for being caught off guard. You must be thrilled.” 

“I am,” Lord Pike sighed. “A happy wife and a house full of children is a thing of joy. One which I assume you will no doubt be experiencing soon. Perhaps with Lady Rose?” He gestured meaningfully across the room. 

Shane’s eyes tracked the crowd and at last alighted on Lady Rose Landry, already surrounded by a gaggle of suitors.  With her delicate features, expressive eyes, friendly disposition, and sizable dowry from her Viscount father, it was no wonder she had been named the diamond of the season. Shane gulped down a fortifying amount of lemonade, set the glass down on a nearby table, and bid Lord Pike farewell as he waded into the fray. 

He had barely taken two steps towards Lady Landry before he himself was approached by several eager mothers, vying to introduce their daughters. Sighing internally, he bowed solicitously and allowed the mothers to extoll their daughters’ virtues, repeating their names and trying to commit their faces to memory. 

“And yourself, Lord Hollander? How do you most enjoy spending your spare time?” Lady Clarissa Curle asked. 

“He boxes, poorly,” interrupted a deep accented voice. Shane and the ladies all turned to see Count Rozanov, dangling a lemonade glass between two fingers. “Has a weak left hook.” 

Shane’s mouth snapped shut as the ladies tittered. “You are quite a boxer yourself, Lord Rozanov?” one asked boldly. 

“I once knocked out a bear back in Russia.”

“Lord Rozanov exaggerates, of course. Unless perhaps it was a stuffed bear,” Shane heard himself say. 

Rozanov smiled as more giggles erupted. “Lord Hollander,” he said, bowing. A bit late for a formal greeting after he interrupted the conversation. “I see London has not tired of you yet.” 

Shane offered a bow of his own. “Lord Rozanov, I see London has forgiven you for your scandals last year.” 

Rozanov’s smile widened, slow and deliberate, as though Shane had offered him something rather than struck a blow. “Ah,” he said lightly, “Forgiveness is such a charming English concept. We prefer endurance.”

Lady Clarissa laughed, fanning herself. “You are quite dreadful, Lord Rozanov.”

“So I am told,” Ilya replied. His gaze flicked back to Shane, not lingering, but unmistakably intent. “But dreadfulness is matter of… what is the word? Ah, perspective.”

Shane felt the familiar, unwelcome heat creep up his neck. He cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I promised Lady Emma the next dance.”

“Did you?” Rozanov asked pleasantly. “How fortunate for her.”

Shane met his eyes, just for a moment too long. “Fortune,” he said evenly, “is rarely improved by excessive competition.”

“And yet,” Rozanov murmured, stepping just close enough that only Shane could hear him, “you have always risen to it.”

The orchestra struck up the opening notes of a waltz. Lady Curle and her daughters drifted away, still whispering and laughing, leaving them standing together at the edge of the dance floor.

“Seven months,” Ilya said quietly, as though remarking upon the weather.

Shane stiffened. “You have been counting?”

“I have been remembering,” Ilya corrected. His eyes softened, just barely. “You look well, Lord Hollander.”

Shane inclined his head. “You look unchanged.”

Rozanov’s eyes darkened, amused. “How disappointing.”

Before Shane could reply, Lady Emma appeared at his side, bright-eyed and expectant. “Lord Hollander?”

“Of course,” Shane said quickly, offering his arm.

As he led her toward the floor, he felt Rozanov’s gaze at his back, heavy and unyielding. It followed him through the first turn of the dance, through the polite smiles and measured steps, until the weight of it became almost unbearable. Shane steered Lady Emma to another part of the dance floor and breathed an internal sigh of relief. 

By the time the song had ended, the crowd around Lady Rose had relented and he was able to make his way over to where she was seated, enjoying a sweet in between the dances. He bowed low and introduced himself. 

“Oh of course, Lord Hollander. We met at the palace.” Lady Landry wiped her fingers delicately on a silk napkin. “Please, take a seat and help me eat these meringues. My brother fetched far too many of them.” 

While Shane did not have a taste for sweets, he did enjoy the airy texture and how the dessert melted away in his mouth. “Lady Rose, if you’re not already otherwise occupied, perhaps I could escort you to the dance floor for the next song?” he asked. 

“I would be delighted, Lord Hollander. Are you fond of dancing?” she asked, learning forward with a gleam in her eye “I have heard that you are quite the boxer so you must be coordinated?” 

Shane forced himself to chuckle. “I admit, I am more fond of the ring than of the dance floor. But I promise no harm will come to you while we are out there.” 

Lady Rose smiled genuinely. “I am familiar with boxing. Of course I do not participate myself, but my three brothers are all quite talented at it. One even wanted to make a career out of it before my father talked him into taking over the family business.” Her gaze drew upward to someone behind Shane. “Oh Lord Rozanov, hello again.” 

“Lady Rose, may I interest you in a dance?” 

Shane turned and found himself at eye level with the Russian lord’s hips. Surely, his pants were far too tight for polite society. How did the man even sit? Shane forced himself to look up and meet Rozanov’s eyes. “I believe Lady Rose promised me the next dance.” 

Rozanov’s smile was more a smirk, as if he could see the flush rising on Shane’s cheeks. “Did she? How… prudent of her,” he said in a teasing tone. 

“Prudence is not a flaw.”

“No, but it is rarely a temptation.” Rozanov turned his attention to Lady Rose “You see, my lady, Lord Hollander dances as though he fears offending the air.” 

“And Lord Rozanov dances as though he has already offended everyone else,” snapped Shane. 

Lady Rose laughed, breaking the tension between the two men. “This I shall have to experience. Lord Hollander?” She rose and Shane offered her his arm. Again, Rozanov’s gaze followed him through the dance. He was careful not to tread on her dress or worse, her toes. They made polite conversation about boxing and her brothers’ involvement, although he was more focused on remembering the dance steps and not bumping into any other couples to fully realize that he had agreed to accompany her to a boxing match. 

They applauded politely after the song finished and, as they made their way back to Lady Rose’s table, Rozanov was waiting. After Shane bowed to Lady Rose and thanked her for the dance, Rozanov leaned in and whispered, low enough for just Shane’s ears, “Tell me, Lord Hollander, are you always this careful, or only when you are being watched?”

Shane did not answer. He inclined his head towards both of them, excused himself, and left. He had already decided to go into the gardens. He needed air. 

Thankfully, the gardens were sparsely populated as the ball was in full swing. Shane dug his fingers into his collar, loosening the cravat and breathing deep lungfuls of the night air. He walked a ways until he found a secluded corner with a small bench. He sat down heavily, pressing his hands to his cheeks as if that would make the blush recede. 

“Running away?” 

“Good Christ.” He glared up at Rozanov. “No. Cooling my head.” 

“You English have so many words for retreat.” Rozanov dug into his pocket, flipped open an embossed silver case, and lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke in Shane’s direction, making him set his jaw and glare even harder. 

Shane shook his head, thoroughly annoyed now. “You should not have followed me.”

Rozanov took another slow drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving Shane’s face. “And yet,” he said mildly, “Here I am.”

“This is precisely the sort of behavior that gives rise to comment.”

“Ah.” Rozanov exhaled smoke into the night air, away from Shane this time. “So that is trouble. You are concerned with comment.”

“I am concerned with discretion,” Shane snapped. “Which you seem constitutionally incapable of having.”

Rozanov laughed softly. “You did not complain of my discretion or my constitution last Season.”

The words struck like a physical blow. Shane surged to his feet. “That,” he said tightly, “was a mistake.”

Rozanov’s expression shifted. Not offended, not amused, but sharpened. He stepped closer, close enough that Shane could smell the smoke on his breath, the faint trace of something spiced beneath it.

“Was it?” he asked. “You seem remarkably upset for a man reflecting on a mistake.”

Shane’s pulse thudded painfully in his throat. “You enjoy this,” he said. “Pushing until I lose my temper.”

“I enjoy,” Rozanov said, voice low now, “that you pretend you do not know exactly what you are doing.”

Shane laughed once, humorless. “And what am I doing?”

“Standing alone in a dark garden,” Rozanov said, “After leaving a ballroom full of eligible women. With me.”

Silence fell between them, thick and charged. Somewhere in the distance, music drifted through open windows, bright and oblivious.

“You should go back inside,” Shane said, though he did not move.

“And leave you like this?” Rozanov tilted his head, studying him. “Flushed, distracted, breathing as though you have run a mile.” He dropped that damnable cigarette and ground the stub beneath the heel of his fashionable shoes. 

Shane’s hands curled at his sides. “You are impossible.”

“Yes,” Rozanov agreed easily. “And yet you are not leaving.”

Before Shane could marshal another retort, Rozanov reached out, not touching, not quite, bracing one hand against the stone balustrade beside Shane’s shoulder. He leaned in, just enough to steal the space between them. 

“Tell me,” he murmured, “did you miss me?”

Shane’s breath hitched traitorously. “That is not a fair question.”

Rozanov smiled, slow and knowing. “You never minded before.”

The last of Shane’s restraint gave way, not in anger, but in something far worse. He closed the distance himself, catching Rozanov’s lapel and dragging him close, their mouths colliding with a force that startled them both.

For a heartbeat, there was only the kiss, familiar and shocking all at once, months of absence collapsing into heat and recognition. Rozanov made a sound low in his throat, one hand coming up to Shane’s jaw, thumb pressing just beneath it as if to anchor him there. His tongue immediately invaded Shane’s mouth, tasting of those Russian cigarettes and something else familiar. Shane found that he could not get enough of it. 

Rozanov’s other hand made its way down Shane’s back, trailing gently in contrast to the heated kiss, then becoming more confident as he reached his goal. That large hand curved around Shane’s backside, gripping it firmly and pulling Shane’s hips directly against Rozanov’s. Shane whimpered, lost for a moment in the heady kiss and the mirrored hardness he felt against his own. But then he suddenly remembered where they were, who they were, and broke away, breathless and furious with himself. 

“This,” he said hoarsely, “cannot happen here.” But Rozanov’s hands did not move from his jaw or his backside. 

Rozanov’s eyes were dark, unreadable. “Then stop looking at me as though you wish it would.”

Shane pushed Rozanov’s hands off him and stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. “You are infuriating.”

“And you,” Rozanov said softly, with a hint of a smirk, “are a liar.”

Chapter 2: When rivals first take notice

My Dear Reader, 

Every Season begins with the same pleasant fiction: that the marriage mart is a place of choice rather than choreography. Young ladies are presented, young gentlemen are appraised, and the Ton congratulates itself on the belief that affection will follow as a matter of course. 

It is all, of course, nonsense. 

Desire, as this author has often observed, is a most unruly thing. It has little regard for rank, reputation, or the carefully constructed expectations of polite society. Indeed, it has the unfortunate habit of fastening itself precisely where it ought not to: unsuitable prospects, improper attachments, and on occasion, ill-advised fascinations.  

Last Season offered no shortage of eligible gentlemen, yet two in particular drew more attention than either could reasonably desire. One was English to his core: accomplished, admired, and already the subject of maternal ambition. The other arrived from abroad, trailing whispers, wealth, and a reputation that crossed borders with ease. 

These two first encountered each other beneath the chandeliers of the palace. At the very moment the Ton congratulated itself on order and decorum, which is either a remarkable coincidence or an early warning. 

This author was, as ever, watching. 

***

Count Ilya Rozanov’s eyes opened slowly to an unfamiliar ceiling with his head pounding from drink the previous night. He took a moment to assess his surroundings, not recognizing the bed nor the woman still asleep beside him. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, looking around for his clothes, which had been tossed haphazardly around the room, his shirt on the end of the bed and his trousers crumpled in the corner. His companion did not awaken as he dressed, forgoing his cravat as he was not entirely sure where it was. He dug into his pocket and counted out a few coins, peering at the little numbers to reach the right amount, and dropped the pile on the bedside table before collecting his coat and departing. 

His father’s butler was less than pleased when the disheveled Count appeared back at Belgrave House in Grosvenor Square, the ambassadorial townhouse leased for the Season from the Crown. He reminded Ilya sternly that he and his father needed to depart shortly for the palace. Ilya acknowledged the rebuke and reminder, and hastened to bathe and change. He understood the importance of their presence at the palace, but simply could not bring himself to care. He raked his hand through his curly hair as he hurried down the stairs to rendezvous with his father.

Lord Grigori Rozanov was an imposing man, although Ilya was taller. His eyes raked over his son and his lip curled in disapproval. “You cannot go to court looking like this,” he snapped in Russian, reaching out to straighten the crooked cravat and smoothing Ilya’s hair. “Who tied this for you, your mother?” 

Ilya frowned. “Father… Mother is dead,” he corrected, concerned. 

The elder Lord Rozanov appeared confused for a moment, then his face contorted in anger. “I meant your stepmother, of course,” he said, tightening Ilya’s cravat so much that he could feel it constricting his throat uncomfortably. “And we are going…” 

“To the palace. For the presentation to the queen,” Ilya filled in carefully. “For the beginning of the marriage Season.” 

“I know!” his father snapped. He clapped Ilya on the shoulder. “Let us go.” He bustled towards the door, stopping to gather his hat and gloves. Ilya followed, a sinking feeling in his heart. 

The Ton was gathering for the customary presentation of the young ladies to the queen. Flowing dresses and elaborate feathered headpieces adorned all the young women and their mothers as they anxiously awaited the queen’s appraisal and judgement. For all its pomp, tradition, and polite manners, it was at its heart the first opportunity for eligible ladies and gentlemen of the Ton to assess each other. 

Ilya stood next to his father and their attaché, Whittaker, smiling politely as members of the Ton milled about. The young ladies being presented and their mothers had been shepherded off to an antechamber to await their turns, so most people waiting in the queen’s presentation chamber were young gentlemen, couples who were already wed, or family members of the ladies being presented. As various people entered the room or greeted the ambassador, Whittaker spoke softly and quickly in Russian, reminding them of the peoples’ names, ranks, and pertinent facts. Ilya tried to pay attention. After all, he needed to familiarize himself with these people, but English names were so strange, and often their faces blended together. 

“The man who just nodded to you, that is the Marquess of Tavistock. His wife is recently deceased so he is likely seeking a new bride this Season as she only had daughters. She was French so he may be open to a foreign wife.” 

“The woman in the corner in the cream gown with the gold circlet on her head is a great friend of the queen, Lady Stirling. We should say hello at the reception after the presentation.” 

“Ah the young man who just entered with his mother and father. Lord Hollander, Earl of Ashworth. Their only son. Every bit the English gentleman, very accomplished at boxing, horse racing, and cricket. Perhaps your son could make his acquaintance.” 

Ilya looked and then looked again at the young Lord Hollander from across the room. Impeccably dressed, dark hair, dark eyes, a smattering of– were those freckles across his cheeks? Lord Hollander seemed oblivious to the effect his presence was having in the room, reluctant to make eye contact with too many people in the room. But the explosion of titters and whispers behind waving fans made it clear that the Ton knew about this young man. 

“Why are they so obsessed with him?” Ilya asked Whittaker, in Russian. 

“He has an impeccable reputation, is the model of gentlemanly behavior, and recently took possession of Ottowan Cottage in Derbyshire, so all signs point to him being on the marriage market this Season. Whistledown, that gossip columnist that everyone is so fond of, called him, ‘An effortlessly desirable suitor for any young lady’ in a recent pamphlet, so he has the Ton at their wits' end,” Whittaker replied.  

Ilya watched as the young Lord Hollander greeted several other guests, noting that his smile did not seem to reach his eyes. It was puzzling that such restraint and decorum was what cemented a reputation in London. 

Whittaker moved on to point out other members of the Ton and Ilya tried to pay attention, But his thoughts and gaze kept straying back to Lord Hollander and the freckles on his cheeks. 

The presentation of the young ladies seemed interminable. Did the English really do this every year? Every lady and her mother dressed in similar gowns with feathered headpieces announced in the same fashion. They curtsied the same way to the queen who looked positively bored. She even yawned during one lady’s presentation announcement. Ilya had to suppress a laugh at the look on the young lady’s face. He might yawn too, if he was expected to judge the same performance over and over again. 

“The Lady Emma Cotton, presented by her mother, Duchess Marguerite Cotton.” A beautiful young woman stepped forward into the room. Unlike the ones who had come before her, she seemed relaxed and at ease despite the attention. She moved gracefully and her smile seemed genuine as she sank into a curtsy before the queen.

The crowd gasped as the queen stood and moved to stand in front of Lady Emma. She gestured for Lady Emma to meet her gaze and, as she did, both women smiled. The queen said one word “Lovely,” and returned to her seat. All eyes were on Lady Emma, who seemed surprised and delighted as she rose and made her way back out of the room. 

“Could you imagine if she and Lord Hollander were to make a match this season?” someone whispered excitedly near Ilya.

The rest of the presentations went by in a blur. Ilya’s gaze kept finding the younger Lord Hollander in the crowd. The young lord was dutifully attentive, applauding each young lady with measured politeness, though Ilya noticed that when Lady Emma reappeared briefly at the edge of the chamber, Lord Hollander’s attention sharpened in a way it had not for the others. His hands stilled. His expression shifted to something alert and almost wary before the mask returned.

“Smile,” Whittaker murmured under his breath as the crowd began to make their way out of the presentation room to the celebration area. “You are being observed.” 

Ilya complied automatically as his father was drawn into conversation with a pair of titled gentlemen. He answered where required, bowed when prompted, but his attention drifted again, inexorably, toward Lord Hollander, only to find him gone.

Ilya scanned the room. The space near the windows was clearer now, several gentlemen having excused themselves toward the balcony to escape the crush. Ilya followed the line of sight instinctively and spotted him there at last.
Lord Hollander stood with his back half-turned to the room, one gloved hand resting against the stone balustrade, the other loose at his side. His posture was still impeccable, but there was something about the angle of his shoulders that suggested fatigue, or perhaps irritation. He was not smiling now.

Without quite deciding to, Ilya moved.

He murmured a brief excuse to Whittaker, waited for his father to be sufficiently distracted, and crossed the chamber. The noise dulled as he stepped through the tall doors and onto the balcony, the cool spring air a sharp contrast to the warmth inside.

Lord Hollander did not turn at once. Ilya took a moment to observe him properly. The clean lines of his coat, the careful knot of his cravat, the faint dusting of freckles across his cheekbones that were even more apparent up close. He looked every inch what the Ton adored.

Ilya smiled.

“England does enjoy its ceremonies,” he said lightly. “One would think Her Majesty was selecting horses rather than wives.”

Lord Hollander stiffened, then turned slowly to face him. Up close, his eyes were darker than Ilya had expected. Sharper, too.

“I beg your pardon?” Hollander said coolly.

Ilya bowed, just enough to be polite. “Count Ilya Rozanov,” he said. “You appear to be contemplating escape. I wondered if it was permitted.”

Hollander’s gaze flicked over him, taking in the loosened ease of his posture, the foreign cut of his coat, the faintly amused curve of his mouth.

“Some of us,” Hollander replied, “manage our duties without commentary.”

Ilya’s smile widened, just a fraction.

“Well then,” he said, “I shall endeavor to learn from an expert.”

Lord Hollander’s mouth twitched despite himself. He caught it quickly, smoothing his expression back into something polite and remote.

“You will forgive me if I doubt your sincerity,” he said. “From what I have heard, you do not often endeavor to learn from anyone.”

Ilya laughed softly. “Ah, then London wastes no time in gossip.”

“It does not,” Hollander replied. “Nor does it invent reputations without assistance.”

“True.” Ilya stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, resting his forearms against the stone in an imitation of Hollander’s earlier stance. He was close enough now that Shane was keenly aware of him, of the faint scent of citrus and smoke, of the ease with which the Count occupied space. “I have been accused of many things. Indiscretion. Excess. A regrettable fondness for pleasure.”

“And you deny them?” Hollander asked, before he could stop himself.

Ilya’s brows lifted, pleased. “Not particularly.”

Hollander huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “How refreshingly honest.”

“Is that not valued here?” Ilya tilted his head. “I had assumed English gentlemen preferred their vices carefully concealed.”

“Some of us prefer them managed,” Hollander said coolly. “And not paraded before the Queen.”

Ilya’s gaze lingered on him, curious. “You speak as though restraint were a virtue in itself.”

“It is,” Hollander said. “Particularly when one’s actions are observed.”

“And yet,” Ilya murmured, his voice lowering just enough to feel intentional, “you fled the room the moment you thought no one was watching.”

Hollander bristled. “I stepped outside for air.”

“Of course.” Ilya smiled, slow and knowing. “Forgive me. I forget that in England even escape must be done properly.”

There was a pause. The night air filled the space between them, cool and charged.

“You take an unreasonable interest in other peoples' habits,” Hollander said finally.

“Perhaps,” Ilya replied simply. “But dare I say, you are also intrigued.”

Hollander met his gaze then, really met it, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes. “You mistake curiosity for indulgence, Lord Rozanov.”

“Do I?” Ilya asked lightly. “In my experience, the difference is largely one of timing.”

A footman’s voice sounded faintly from inside, announcing the next interval of the presentation.

Hollander straightened, reclaiming distance as though it had been lent to him temporarily. “If you will excuse me,” he said, inclining his head. “I suspect I am expected elsewhere.”

“Of course,” Ilya said. “Duty calls.”

As Hollander turned back toward the doors, Ilya added, almost as an afterthought, “I look forward to observing how well you bear it.”

Hollander paused just for a fraction of a second, before he was gone. 

Ilya watched him go, his smile lingering.

***

Hyde Park was at its most performative in the afternoon later in that week, already crowded by the time Shane arrived. The sun had coaxed out what seemed like half the Ton in a riot of parasols, pale gowns, and carefully curated chance encounters. Ladies promenaded on the arms of mothers or chaperones and clusters of gentlemen loitered with studied casualness, all of them keenly aware of who was observing whom. Shane walked beside his mother, answering politely where required, his attention divided between the circuit of the path and the ever-present awareness of being observed.

It was therefore intensely irritating that he noticed Rozanov almost immediately.

The Russian noble was leaning against the rail near the Serpentine, coat unbuttoned, hat askew, and posture infuriatingly relaxed for a man very much on display, with an animated expression on his face as he conversed to two young ladies and their chaperone. He laughed at something one of them said, dipping his head closer in a way that made both girls blush.

Their eyes met and Rozanov smiled. Shane felt his jaw tighten.

“Shane,” his mother murmured pleasantly, “do try not to scowl. People will think you are displeased with the company.”

“I am not scowling,” Shane said tightly.

She smiled. “Then you may wish to soften your expression. You look as though you are preparing to argue with someone.”

Moments later, as if summoned by the thought alone, Rozanov appeared at his side.

“Lord Hollander,” he said, inclining his head. “Fancy meeting you here. One might think you enjoy public exhibitions.”

Shane stopped walking. His mother continued on, giving him a look that suggested she would pretend not to notice what followed.

“I could say the same of you,” Shane replied coolly. “Though I imagine exhibition is rather the point.”

Rozanov’s brows lifted. “You wound me. I was merely conversing.”

“With half the unmarried women in London,” Shane said before he could stop himself.

There it was again, that spark of amusement, sharp and pleased.

“Is that concern?” Rozanov asked softly. “Or judgment?”

“Observation,” Shane snapped. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“And yours,” Rozanov countered easily, falling into step beside him. “Pristine enough to blind a man.”

Shane shot him a look. “You seem to delight in provocation.”

“I delight in honesty,” Rozanov said. “And you, Lord Hollander, are far more interesting when you are irritated.”

Several heads turned and Shane suddenly remembered where they were and schooled his expression into a pleasant neutrality as he saw Lady Emma approaching, accompanied by her mother and sisters. Shane pasted a smile on his face and both he and Rozanov bowed to the Cotton family. 

He was halfway through a polite greeting when Rozanov interrupted him. 

“How fortunate, to encounter London’s diamond of the first water on such a lovely day.” 

Lady Emma curtseyed in response and smiled at both men. “Gentlemen, such a pleasure to see you again. I am so honored the queen has shown me favor and will endeavor to be worthy of it.” 

“Modesty becomes you, Lady Emma,” Shane said, recovering smoothly. “Though I doubt there is much danger of you failing to meet the queen’s expectations.”

“On the contrary,” Rozanov said easily, turning his attention fully to her, “Expectations are far too small a thing to confine you. London adores spectacle.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. “Not everyone values being adored.”

Rozanov glanced at him, amused. “Some of us value being… What is word? … Remembered.”

Lady Emma’s smile flickered between them, bright but curious. “Is that so? I had not realized there was such disagreement on the matter.”

Shane cleared his throat. “London can be… overwhelming. A quieter appreciation has its merits.”

“Quiet,” Rozanov echoed. “Yes. I imagine it does.” His gaze lingered pointedly on Shane before returning to her. “Though I also imagine the Season improves when one embraces it fully.”

“And exhausts oneself in the process,” Shane said. “Excess rarely ends well.”

Rozanov laughed. “You speak as though restraint were accomplishment rather than preference.”

Lady Emma let out a soft, surprised laugh, lifting her fan as she studied them both. “Goodness. One would think I had asked a far more provocative question.”

Shane blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She tilted her head, eyes dancing. “You did not notice? You appear to be having an argument.”

Rozanov smiled. “A friendly exchange.”

“About me,” she said lightly. “Yet neither of you has asked my opinion on the matter.”

That gave Shane pause.

Lady Emma continued, gentler now, “Do you always compete so earnestly, gentlemen, or is this rivalry a special indulgence?”

Rozanov’s brows lifted. Shane felt heat rise uncomfortably in his face.

“I assure you—” Shane began.

“I find it quite entertaining,” she added quickly, rescuing him with a laugh. “Though I confess, I am not accustomed to inspiring such… spirited debate.”

Her gaze lingered on them both, perceptive and amused.

“I shall leave you to resolve it,” she said sweetly. “Try not to come to blows. It would be terribly unfashionable.”

With that, she curtseyed and moved on with her family, leaving behind a charged silence.

Rozanov exhaled softly. “She is observant..”

Shane shot him a look. “You enjoyed that too much.” He turned to walk in the opposite direction from which Lady Emma had departed. 

“Yes,” Rozanov said, falling into step beside him. “And you did not enjoy it nearly enough.”

Shane veered off the main path toward a stand of trees bordering the park, fully intending to put distance between them. To his trepidation, Rozanov followed. 

“Must you always run?” Rozanov asked mildly, once the noise of the promenade dulled behind them. 

Shane rounded on him. “Must you always pursue?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said again, simply. “When something captures my attention.”

“That is precisely the problem,” Shane said. “You treat everything as a game.”

Rozanov stepped closer, his expression shifting to be less amused now, more intent. “No. I treat most things as games. You, however—”

He stopped himself, eyes flicking briefly toward the distant path before returning to Shane’s face.

Shane’s breath came a little faster. “I am not something to be trifled with.”

Rozanov smiled, slow and dangerous. “I know.”

The space between them felt suddenly too small. Shane was acutely aware of the rustle of leaves overhead, of the fact that anyone could wander past if they strayed too far—but the knowledge only sharpened the moment.

“You should return,” Shane said, though he did not move. “Before someone sees.”

“And if they do?” Rozanov murmured. “They will see two gentlemen in animated discussion. Hardly scandalous.”

His hand brushed Shane’s sleeve, not quite a touch, but close enough to send a jolt through him.

“This is unwise,” Shane said.

“Yes,” Rozanov agreed.

And then he kissed him.

It was quick at first. Brief, and stolen. Rozanov made to pull away when Shane’s hands rose to his shoulders, but then Shane made a sound, low and startled, and that was all the encouragement Rozanov seemed to need. He kissed him again, firmer this time, one hand braced against the tree behind Shane as if to block his retreat.

Shane should have pushed him away. Instead, he fisted a hand in Rozanov’s coat and pulled him closer, instinctively parting his lips as Rozanov’s tongue invaded his mouth. He moaned in spite of himself at the taste of tobacco and something fruity and spicy. 

They broke apart only when footsteps sounded faintly nearby. Shane pressed his forehead briefly to Rozanov’s shoulder, heart pounding.

“This cannot happen,” he whispered.

Rozanov smiled against his temple. “And yet.”

They separated quickly, smoothing coats, restoring distance just as voices drifted closer. Rozanov stepped back, his expression once again infuriatingly composed. He ran his hand through the riot of curls on his head, replaced his hat, and buttoned his jacket. “Until our next disagreement, Lord Hollander,” he said lightly, smiling as he sauntered away confidently. 

Shane watched him disappear back toward the promenade, pulse still racing. His head was spinning from what had just happened. He brought his fingers up to touch his own mouth briefly, his hand trembling slightly, hardly believing it. He was not sure what surprised him more: the kiss itself or the fact that he already wanted to taste that fruit and spice again. 

***

The race had drawn members of the Ton to the outskirts of the city, where a temporary course had been laid out and wagers had already been exchanged with great enthusiasm. Gentlemen clustered near the rails, calling out bets and boasting of favored horses, while ladies observed from carriages or shaded blankets, fans fluttering in the afternoon sun. 
Shane had been looking forward to this event. It was a chance to show off his riding skills, and he always felt that he excelled at physical competition rather than a battle of wits and trying to think of topics of conversation with young ladies. 

Shane mounted his horse with practiced ease, securing his boot in the stirrup and settling into the saddle. It was comforting and familiar being on horseback and a race was always invigorating. He leaned down to straighten the buckle on his ankle and had scarcely straightened when a familiar voice drifted over.

“I wondered how long it would take you to appear.”

He turned to find Rozanov beside him on a dark bay stallion, his coat already discarded, sleeves rolled up as though the day had been designed for him alone. His tight riding pants stretched almost obscenely over his thighs; he was surely the talk of the Ton. 

“I have been here since nine, you are the one who is late,” Shane said coolly.

“I prefer to arrive when it matters.” Rozanov’s gaze flicked to Shane’s horse. “A solid choice. Sensible.”

“Fast,” Shane corrected. “Which is the point.”

Rozanov smiled. “Fast is not the same as fearless.”

“I ride to win,” Shane said. “Not to impress.”

Rozanov leaned closer, voice pitched low. “Are you certain?”

A nearby gentleman laughed, slapping Rozanov on the shoulder. “Careful, Lord Rozanov. Lord Hollander is known for his riding.”

“Yes,” Rozanov said, eyes never leaving Shane. “So I have heard.”

The race itself was chaos: The thunder of hooves, shouted encouragement from the stands, and the smell of churned earth. But Shane was in his element, able to read the other riders’ moves easily, looking carefully for his opportunity to edge forward little by little. He let instinct take over, urging his horse forward with words rather than a crop. He was distantly aware of Rozanov riding dangerously close, pushing his horse harder than was strictly wise. Shane found himself grinning. Normally these races were easy for him, but Rozanov kept up, not giving an inch the entire race. 

At the final stretch, they surged nearly neck and neck.

Rozanov crossed the line first, barely.

Applause erupted, shoults for bets to be collected could be heard from the stands. Shane slowed his horse, breath coming quick, a sharp satisfaction blooming in his chest. 

“Congratulations,” Shane said as they slowed their mounts. His smile was tight. “You ride well. Although you take unnecessary risks.”

Rozanov’s eyes gleamed. “Life is risk.”

“Some of us intend to survive it,” Shane replied, and Rozanov laughed, patting his horse’s neck and saying something to it in Russian. 

A groom approached, requesting they move their horses. Shane nodded and led his toward the stable, expecting Rozanov to veer away, but he did not, instead following him to the dim, cool shade, the sound outside muffled by thick wooden walls. Another race was starting, so they were alone for the moment. 

“You took pleasure in that,” Rozanov observed.

“The race?” Shane asked. “Of course.”

“But you wanted to win.” 

“Obviously.” 

Rozanov stepped closer, close enough that Shane could feel the heat still radiating from him. “I would very much like to compete with you again.”

Shane’s pulse jumped. “You already won.”

Rozanov smiled. “Not everything is decided on the track.”

He reached out, fingers brushing Shane’s wrist. 

Shane pulled his hand back. Then he gathered his courage to say, “We should forget what happened at the park.” 

“Is what you want?” Rozanov asked, taking a step closer, pressing Shane closer to the walls of the stable. Shane glanced down at those tight riding pants, then dragged his gaze up the broad chest, barely decent without a jacket on, to Rozanov’s handsome face, one side of his mouth curled upwards. 

“Yes, of course,” Shane tried to say confidently. But even to his own ears, the rejection was not believable. He could not even meet Rozanov’s eyes. 

Rozanov looked down at him, he really was too tall. “You are very bad liar,” he said, as he leaned in close. 

“Not here.” The words were out of Shane’s mouth before he realized what he had said. Rozanov paused and Shane suddenly felt very small, with this man standing over him in the low ceilinged building. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” Rozanov let his own eyes slide down Shane’s body, clearly appreciating what he was seeing. Shane flushed and tried to remember the name of the hotel they were staying at. 

“G-Grillon’s. It will be too late to make the journey home after the races.” 

“What room?” 

“1410, the Partridge Suite.”

“I will knock on your door at nine this evening.” Rozanov gave him a little wink before stepping back and exiting the stable. Shane breathed in the smell of hay and leather and gazed up at the ceiling, knowing in his heart that he was about to do something very, very foolish. 

Chapter 3: Competition becomes intimate

Chapter Notes

This chapter is where we start to earn the E rating.

Shane had passed an enjoyable evening with the Cotton family, a dinner arranged by his mother after the race. Lady Emma was charming and affable and their conversation flowed easily. He almost forgot about his planned rendezvous with Rozanov but as they bid farewell to the Cottons and he parted ways with his parents, his thoughts began to race. 

As he closed the door to his suite, Shane glanced down at the suit he had been wearing. What did one wear for a… whatever he and Rozanov were about to do. Actually, what were they about to do? Shane was not ready for a conversation. He barely understood his own thoughts on what was happening between them. He untied his cravat and unbuttoned the tight collar of his shirt as he sank into a chair by the door. He understood now why some men indulged in alcohol to blunt the anxiety of social encounters. 

He stood and went to the armoire. Perhaps a silk jacket? But that seemed too formal. A red cravat seemed wholly inappropriate. His riding clothes were out of the question as they were stained and dirty from the day. Shane chewed on his bottom lip as he mused. There was no etiquette to guide him on what was appropriate in this situation. In the end, he stood in front of the armoire staring at his clothes until the knock on his door startled him out of his stupor. 

Rozanov smiled as Shane allowed him into the room. “I was afraid you would, what is the term, show the white feather?” he said as Shane closed the door behind him, glancing out in the hall to confirm that no one else was there. 

“No, I just… wanted to talk about… did you want to sit?” Rozanov was immediately in his space. Shane pressed himself up against the door, feeling the heat of his body. 

“Not really.” Rozanov pressed even closer and his hand came up under Shane’s chin, tilting his head up. 

“This is unwise.” 

“Ah, your favorite word. You said that before. We are alone now.” Rozanov leaned in, hesitating for a moment before Shane gave in and kissed him. It was probably not a very good kiss as Shane had not had a lot of practice. But Rozanov took control quickly, his tongue immediately seeking entrance as his hand kept Shane’s mouth exactly where he wanted it. There was that sweet and spicy taste again, which Shane had been thinking about since their last encounter. Shane could not help himself, he moaned softly. 

Rozanov broke the kiss for a moment, then reached up to remove his suit coat, dropping it on the floor carelessly. His hands were immediately back on Shane, pressing into his chest as their mouths met again. Shane was already breathing heavily. He was not completely inexperienced, but he had never felt such attraction and need before. He could not explain it. It was as if Rozanov had bewitched him. He heard Rozanov moan too, and suddenly, he wanted more. 

Shane’s hands found Rozanov’s belt and trouser buttons at the same time as Rozanov began unbuttoning his shirt. But Shane was single-minded, focused on his goal. He practically ripped open the other man’s trousers and only then let Rozanov divest him of his shirt. Nervously he reached between them to grip Rozanov over his underclothes. “Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov groaned softly. A big hand came up to cup the side of his face and on instinct, Shane opened his mouth and sucked the thumb in, feeling it slide across his tongue as Rozanov stood agape, watching him. Shane could feel Rozanov’s cock grow harder in his hand and suddenly, he knew what he wanted to do. He wondered if Rozanov would allow it.  

Shane kissed his way down Rozanov’s chest, past those firm pectorals, and flexing abdominals. Traced his tongue along the Adonis lines that disappeared into Rozanov’s open trousers as he settled onto his knees. He had never felt this wanton before. This… out of control. He made quick work of Rozanov’s underclothes and trousers, pulling them down around his knees. The man was intimidatingly large. Shane was not entirely sure how to approach his goal, but he was a problem solver. He fit his hand around the thick, rigid flesh and very carefully, wrapped his lips around the tip and pressed his tongue into the slit. 

“Yes, Hollander,” Rozanov murmured, hands coming to cup Shane’s head but not gripping. 

Shane was not entirely sure what to do, but he knew what he himself enjoyed, so he traced his tongue slowly around the head and licked the sides of Rozanov’s cock, savoring the taste and the sounds that Rozanov was making. Feeling bold, engulfed the head in his mouth entirely and tentatively took some of the length into his mouth. His tongue flattened out the thick girth invaded his mouth, Rozanov’s hips thrusting forward instinctively. Rozanov was saying something in Russian, looking down at him with one arm bracing himself on the door behind Shane. Shane knew he must look ridiculous, but the look on Rozanov’s face suggested otherwise.

Shane began to move his head, finding that he rather enjoyed the sensation of his mouth being gradually filled more and more. He pushed himself until Rozanov’s cock hit the back of his throat and he almost gagged and pulled back. But he wanted more. Did not want to let Rozanov go and surprised himself with the thought of taking Rozanov’s length entirely down his throat. He moaned involuntarily. 

Above him, Rozanov suddenly cried, “Stop, stop, stop!” and pulled himself back. He breathed heavily, face flushed and eyes squeezed shut. 

“Apologies,” Shane said, hoarsely. “I have never– ” He scrambled to his feet. “Was that… unacceptable?” 

Rozanov chuckled. “Is all right. Was… too much.” He gripped himself and sighed, then opened his eyes and met Shane’s gaze. He leaned in for a kiss. Shane smiled. He did like to excel at things, especially the first time. 

Rozanov’s arms came down to bracket Shane’s hips and he leaned in to kiss down Shane’s neck. “This is your first time with a man?” he asked as he dragged his lips across Shane’s chest. 

“Yes,” Shane admitted, admiring Rozanov’s broad shoulders and strong arms. “You?” 

“Ah, no.” Rozanov raised his head and looked into Shane’s eyes. “With my boxing coach’s son back in Russia.” 

“Were you not worried about being discovered?” 

Rozanov shook his head and brought one hand to Shane’s face, tracing the freckles Shane hated so much beneath his eyes. “No. It was a secret we shared and of course it was not serious. It was just…” Rozanov waved his hand, clearly looking for the right English word. 

“Curiosity?” Shane supplied. 

“Curiosity.” Rozanov affirmed. He smiled and leaned in. “Now I am curiosity about you,” he murmured against Shane’s mouth. 

Shane giggled. “Curious,” he corrected. “You are curious about me.” 

“Da. I am curious.” Rozanov moved his mouth down to Shane’s chest and sealed his mouth over a nipple. A delicious sensation zinged through Shane directly to his cock and he gasped. “Do I make you curious?” he asked in a low voice, reaching between Shane’s legs. 

“Obviously,” Shane moaned. 

“Did you like sucking my cock?” Shane’s eyes flew open at the crude words. 

“Oh, so you are familiar with that English word?” he demanded. 

“I know only useful English words.” Rozanov smirked. “Did you like it?” He shifted his grip and Shane tilted his head back against the door and closed his eyes. 

“Yes.” 

“Shall I lay down and let you try it again?” Rozanov began to shuffle backwards towards the bed, his steps hampered by his trousers around his knees. 

“Let me?” Shane shoved him and Rozanov fell backwards onto the soft surface, both of them laughing now. Rozanov immediately kicked off his boots and pulled his trousers and underclothes off hastily, tossing them to the ground like his suit jacket. Shane’s breath caught in his throat as more skin was revealed. He had thought Rozanov might be the most handsome man he had ever seen, and now, upon seeing bunched muscles under smooth skin as he slid backwards on the bed, Shane was sure of it. If only the ladies of the Ton knew what was hiding beneath Rozanov’s starched shirts and high collars. 

“I would see all of you.” Rozanov growled as Shane approached the bed. 

“You have already gazed upon me enough,” Shane protested, already self conscious and wanting to fold his arms across his bare chest. 

“I desire more.” 

Slowly, Shane’s hands moved to his own trousers and slowly unbuttoned them. They slid down, down and he carefully stepped out of them and folded them carefully out of habit. As he made to remove his underclothes, he saw a flash of something in Rozanov’s eyes and the man started breathing heavily, his hand moving towards his own erection. Shane ducked his head and shucked his underclothes and suddenly he was naked. Those too, were carefully folded and draped over a chair. He was trembling, but did not want Rozanov to see it. 

“Come here,” Rozanov gestured and Shane clambered awkwardly onto the bed, laying down next to Rozanov, unsure of what to do. “What do you want?” Rozanov rolled over, his eyes tracing down Shane’s body, pausing when he saw how hard Shane was. 

“I do not… know.” Shane admitted. 

“At all?” Shane shook his head. Rozanov smiled and raised a hand. “What about…?” and wrapped his palm gently around Shane’s cock. Shane arched off the bed and groaned loudly, forgetting for a moment that they were in a hotel. Rozanov caught his mouth in a deep kiss and his hand began to move. 

When Rozanov moved to kiss down his chest and latch into his nipple again. Shane bit his lip to keep from making too much noise. 

“Is all right?” Rozanov mumbled into his skin, looking up at him. 

Shane nodded and let himself lay back and appreciate how wonderful Rozanov’s touches and kisses felt. He felt almost dizzy. The warmth of his hand around Shane’s hard cock, the cool air touching where his mouth left wet marks on Shane’s skin. It was almost too much. He desperately wanted to make Rozanov feel good, too. 

With that thought in his mind, Shane gently pushed Rozanov back to lay down with Shane over him. He went willingly, pulling Shane in for a kiss. Shane kissed down his chest, ran a tongue between his abdominal muscles, and raised his eyes to meet Rozanov’s as he neared his goal. A gentle hand cupped the back of his head. “Do not try to take it all,” Rozanov murmured. 

“Is that a challenge?” Shane bristled. 

“I do not wish to harm you. Is obvious this is a new experience for you.” Rozanov was looking at him more softly than Shane expected. He was not sure what that look meant, so he decided to focus on the task at hand. 

He engulfed the hard length slowly in his mouth, savoring the taste and the sensation of increasing fullness, then pulled back slowly. On a whim, he swirled his tongue around the head of Rozanov’s cock, causing him to groan and say, “Yes, Hollander.” This emboldened him to begin to bob his head, loving the sensation of Rozanov’s cock moving in and out of his mouth. Rozanov began to move his hips, almost involuntarily, matching Shane’s rhythm, gasping in Russian. Shane wanted to devour him. Take his cock completely down his throat and stay there. He tried to go deeper on each thrust, but then the head of Rozanov’s cock reached the back of his throat and he could not help but gag and pull off, coughing, his eyes tearing up. 

“No no, I told you not to try.” Rozanov’s hand rubbed along his back. “Is too much.” 

Shane shook his head. How could he explain that that was the best part of it? He ducked his head again, but Rozanov pulled him upwards instead, bringing their mouths together in a filthy kiss. He guided Shane’s hand down to his cock still wet from Shane’s mouth, and directed it to move. Shane whimpered into the kiss and concentrated on cataloguing each and every hand movement that made Rozanov react, wanting to see him undone. Rozanov’s hand joined his and began to move both of them faster, moaning as his eyes slid shut and then, suddenly, release coated both their hands and shot up to cover Rozanov’s heaving torso. He grabbed Shane tightly and kissed him hard, moaning as their joined hands slowed. 

Shane pulled away slowly and moved to lay on his back as Rozanov recovered himself. He was harder than he had ever been before in his life. Rozanov was absolutely stunning when he came. It made Shane feel incredible to see him like that. He had made this man achieve the pinnacle of pleasure. 

Rozanov opened his eyes. “That was enjoyable, “ he murmured. “Shall I take my leave?” He rolled over as if was about to stand up.

“You cannot be serious!” Shane felt his heart drop. He glared over at Rozanov, who turned around, a smile on his face and his eyes gleaming. 

“Never fear. I would not leave you like this.” Rozanov rolled the other direction, between Shane’s legs. “I shall teach you how to properly suck cock.” He nudged Shane’s leg over his shoulder, squeezed his chest with the other hand, and took Shane immediately down his throat. No hesitation, no teasing. Shane almost screamed, first at the crude words and then at the sensation, grabbing the pillow beside him and pulling it over his face to muffle the entirely inappropriate sounds that were spilling from his mouth. Rozanov’s hot mouth was unlike any woman he had been with before. Shane was not sure why it was so different, but could not be bothered to worry about it just then. He peeked out from beneath the pillow to see Rozanov somehow smirking up at him with a cock in his mouth. That itself almost undid Shane. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” He put his hands on Rozanov’s shoulders, not knowing whether to push him away or pull him closer. The man continued to deep-throat Shane’s cock and the pleasure was too much. “You must move, I am–” Shane’s orgasm cut his words off. His back arched and he was coming, right into Rozanov’s mouth. He had never come like this before, from his own hand or with another person. “Fuck. Fuck,” he sobbed. The pleasure almost immediately turned to horror when he realized what he had done. “I am sorry, I-I did not think...”  

Rozanov sat up and smiled, slapping Shane lightly on the chest where he had been gripping Shane’s pectoral. “You did not think you would come so quickly?” he teased.

Shane glared at him, but there was no heat in it. Rozanov laughed and they lay together for a few moments, coming down from the heat of the moment. 

“You do not have any plans to… tell anyone of this, do you?” Shane asked tentatively. 

Rozanov fixed him with a sharp look. “Yes, Lord Hollander, I plan to tell the entire Ton. As if they would believe me,” he scoffed. “Remember my father is ambassador. It is as dangerous for me as for you to be doing this.” 

“All right.” Shane said, sitting up. 

Rozanov rose and began to gather his clothes. Shane watched him dress, hardly believing what had transpired between them. Finally, Rozanov stood before him, gaze raking over Shane’s body, which was still on display. 

“Good night,” he murmured. 

Shane bit his lip as Rozanov slipped into the hallway and the door latched behind him. He blew out a breath, feeling very foolish indeed, but also satisfied in a way he had not anticipated. 

***

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It has not escaped this author’s notice that certain gentlemen of distinction appear to have entered into a rivalry of uncommon intensity.

Lord Hollander, long admired for his restraint and impeccable conduct, has lately been observed engaging in a number of pointed exchanges with our ever-fascinating continental curiosity, Count Rozanov. Wherever one appears, the other is seldom far behind. Should a promenade take place, sharp words are sure to follow. Should a wager be laid, it is inevitably answered in kind.

One might be tempted to assume this competition is inspired by the usual prize: a lady’s favor. Yet this author finds it curious that, despite their attentions being ostensibly directed elsewhere, these two gentlemen seem far more attuned to each other’s movements than to the reactions of any young lady present. Indeed, it is said that during a recent sporting event, their determination to outdo one another grew so fervent that neither could be persuaded to moderate his pace, much to the delight of onlookers. That neither emerged the worse for wear is, perhaps, a testament to their shared stubbornness.

It is a well-known truth that foreign influence can prove invigorating, even liberating. It is also a truth, one London society has learned at great cost, that such influence rarely encourages caution. That a gentleman so carefully raised should be tempted into excess is a testament not only to Lord Rozanov’s audacity, but to the subtle power of provocation itself. Is this rivalry merely a clash of temperaments? Or does it suggest that even the most well-bred gentleman is not immune to the pleasures of provocation?

This author suspects we have not yet seen the end of it.

Lady Whistledown

*** 

Lord Hollander had bested Ilya in a game of cricket earlier in the day, a loss he accepted with grace and a large glass of gin, cursing the lack of decent Russian spirits in London. They had both been in fine form, but Hollander’s strong arms and shapely backside had proved distracting during the game. Of course, Ilya detested losing, but if he had to lose to someone, he was happy it was Hollander. The man seemed much more carefree when there was a physical component to the competition, be it horse racing, cricket or pall mall. 

The two had had only a few stolen moments together since their night in Hollander’s hotel the night after the race. Once they slipped away during an opera performance to kiss in the cloakroom, and another time they had found each other off the beaten path at Vauxhall Gardens, ending in a thoroughly pleasant, albeit quick encounter.

At his writing desk in the ambassador’s apartments, Ilya mused over the letter he had written, inviting Shane for a drink at the Kingfisher Club near Belgravia Square the following night. It was certainly not unheard of for men to exchange letters, but given their outward rivalry to the rest of the Ton he had chosen his words carefully. His staff were very discreet, but he was not sure about Lord Hollander’s, nor the nosiness of his parents. Before he could second-guess himself, Ilya sealed the letter and summoned his valet to post it, hoping it would make the morning mail. 

As he was passing the morning room, he paused at the sound of raised voices coming from inside. His father was more and more volatile these days, not ideal for an international ambassador. Luckily he would be taking a trip back to Russia soon, leaving Ilya to his own devices. One of their English aides exited the room quite suddenly, and Ilya averted his gaze. Best not to be caught eavesdropping. But when the man saw Ilya, his eyes lit up. “Lord Rozanov. Your father he…” he trailed off, seemingly unsure of what words to use. 

Ilya sighed. “What is it now?” he asked. “He forgot where he is? What appointments he has?” 

The man nodded. “He is very confused. And angry.” 

Ilya cursed under his breath in Russian. “I shall see to him,” he said, straightening up his appearance quickly. “Show me.” 

These episodes were becoming more and more frequent. And harder to conceal. Ilya steeled himself for the worst as he entered the room. Last time, the elder Lord Rozanov had not even remembered his own son’s face. 

***

Later in the day, Ilya was out for a ride, enjoying escaping the bustle of the city for a few short hours. His father had recovered from his episode but had been most upset with him and the aides for not reminding him of their appointments in the morning. Ilya was grateful to both their household staff and, for once, for British discretion. He was confident that no word of his father’s troubles would be made public. But he worried for the future and potentially having to return to Russia. The freedom he enjoyed being in London was something he would loathe to give up. 

Ilya slowed his horse to a walk near a small, secluded pond surrounded by trees. Quite beautiful in the late afternoon sun as he pondered what to do about his father. 

“For once you are alone.” 

Ilya turned to see Lord Hollander, smiling, astride his own horse, a few yards away, apparently also out for a ride alone. 

“I am allowed some solitude, on occasion,” Ilya said, smiling lightly in return. 

“Not often enough,” Hollander replied. “I received your letter this morning.” 

Ilya’s heart leapt in his chest and he schooled his face to avoid showing his excitement. “And?”

“If you believe you can handle it, we should stop by The New Admiralty first.”

“Ah, Scott Hunter’s ring. Does he not also own the Kingfisher itself?” Ilya clicked his tongue and moved his horse to stand closer to Hollander’s. 

“He does. I can hardly believe he has brought his expertise back to London.” Hollander’s voice was full of admiration. Ilya felt a twinge of jealousy. While Hunter was not a nobleman, his reputation for violence tempered by discipline in the ring was legendary amongst boxing enthusiasts. He had fought men larger than himself, quicker than himself, and never once lost his head. That was what set him apart.

Ilya arched his brow. “You speak as though you know him personally.”

“I watched him fight,” Hollander said. “More than once. Before he left England.”

“Ah, before America,” Ilya said. “I heard that he crossed the Atlantic and returned with scars no one could explain and winnings no one could account for.”

Hollander huffed a quiet laugh. “They say a great many things.”

“And,” Ilya continued, warming to it, “in New York he fought under no gentleman’s rules at all. No referee. No bell. Just fists and wagers until someone could not rise.”

“That is not…” Hollander paused, then admitted, “entirely untrue.”

Ilya smiled at him then, slow and intent. “You admire him.”

“I respect him,” Hollander corrected, though without much heat. “He could have lived off patronage forever. Instead, he walked away. Opened a club. Takes responsibility for the men who fight under his roof.”

“Mm,” Ilya murmured. “A king without a crown.”

Hollander glanced at him sharply. “That sort of comparison would offend him.”

“Then it is fortunate I shall not say it to his face.” Ilya leaned closer, voice dropping. “But tell me, does his reputation trouble you because he flouted society’s expectations? Or because he survived it?”

The question hung between them.

“At least,” Ilya added softly, “he chose his battles.”

Hollander’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but in thought.

“You will like him,” Hollander said finally. “But do not mistake him for a man easily impressed.”

Ilya’s smile turned wicked. “Oh, I never do. Speaking of which, you look pretty today.” 

Hollander flushed. “Do not insult me, Rozanov.” 

“Is compliment,” Ilya insisted. 

“A compliment you would pay a woman!” 

“But you are. With the sun in your hair and color in your cheeks from a good ride,” Ilya teased. He let his gaze move down Hollander’s form, strong thighs encased in tight riding pants, muscled arms gripping the reins of his horse confidently. “Come here,” he murmured. 

“No, you come here,” Hollander replied, stubbornly, even as he moved his horse closer. 

Ilya grinned. “No, you,” and nudged his own mount. 

“No–” Hollander was cut off by Ilya leaning over and kissing him. It was not the most coordinated kiss since they were both on horseback and smiling. Their teeth clacked together initially and Ilya reached out to grip Hollander’s upper arm to steady them. By this point, Hollander had grown more bold when they kissed like this, fighting Ilya for dominance. It made Ilya’s blood run hot. He sucked Hollander’s tongue in delight and leaned even further toward the other man, so much so that he nearly fell from his horse. Hollander reached out to steady him. 

“Save the falling for the boxing ring,” he teased. 

“Tomorrow?” Ilya asked, trying not to sound desperate. 

“Tomorrow.” Hollander confirmed. 

***

The New Admiralty Club was nothing like the drawing rooms of Mayfair.

It smelled of sweat and resin and something faintly metallic, the air thick with noise. Grunts, laughter, the dull thud of leather against flesh. Ilya paused just inside the entrance, momentarily struck by the contrast. This was a place of motion and heat, of men unencumbered by politeness or pretense.

Then he caught sight of Hollander. 

The man stood at the center of the ring, shirtless, with the sleeves of his linen trousers rolled up and his fists wrapped in clean white bindings. His dark hair was damp with exertion, curls darkened and escaping discipline, his chest rising and falling with measured breath. There was nothing careful about him here. 

Ilya felt a familiar, dangerous tightening low in his chest as he took in Hollander’s bunching muscles, sweaty skin, and cheeks flushed with exertion. A different kind than he had been privy to previously. 

Hollander moved with precision, not flash. Each strike was economical, controlled, devastating in its certainty. His opponent barely stood a chance. Around the ring, men watched with appreciation and no small amount of respect.

A giant of a man, handsome, broad, blonde-haired and blue-eyed cut easily through the din, sharp and approving as he called the bout. This must be Scott Hunter. He clapped Hollander on the back when the round ended. Ilya’s gaze lingered on the point of contact between the two unfairly attractive men and felt a twinge of jealousy. Hunter was practically a titan. Powerful, confident, and clearly someone Hollander admired. But of course he had no public claim to the man. 

“Well fought,” Hunter said. “You are holding back.”

Shane smiled, really smiled. “Habit,” he replied, and ducked his head. 

Ilya stepped closer, unnoticed at first, content to observe. There was something intoxicating about seeing Hollander so fully himself. Unburdened by his title, unobserved by mothers and matchmakers. This was not Lord Hollander, this was just the man himself. 

When Hollander finally turned and caught sight of him, the change was immediate. His posture stiffened, then eased. His eyes flicked, quick and assessing, before settling on Ilya with a look that made his pulse stutter.

“You came,” Hollander said, voice lower than usual.

“I was curious,” Ilya replied lightly, though his gaze traced the line of Hollander’s shoulders and down his bare chest without shame. “And I wished to see whether the rumors were true.”

Hollander huffed a quiet laugh. “And?”

Ilya tilted his head. “You are very good at this. But your left hook is still weak.” 

A flush crept up Hollander’s neck, part exertion, part something else. He opened his mouth to retort when someone interrupted. “Hollander, are you bringing me fresh meat?” Hunter was back, massive arms crossed in front of him. 

“Oh, yes, this is my… colleague, Lord Rozanov. The ambassador’s son.” Hunter inclined his head at Ilya.

“Are you a boxer yourself, my lord?” he asked. 

“A devoted amateur,” Rozanov replied. He did not want to oversell his skills in front of a clear expert. 

“Did you not fight a bear back in Russia?” teased Shane. Ilya glared at him. Hunter chuckled. 

“Well get changed and we will see what you can do,” he rumbled. “My assistant, Grady, will get you sorted.” He gestured to someone behind Ilya’s shoulder and another stunningly handsome and built man appeared. Apparently, all the most handsome men of the Ton were concentrated in this boxing gymnasium. 

It was not long before Ilya found himself in the ring next to Hollander. Grady had helped him wrap his hands with cloths and Ilya had changed into lighter weight linen clothes that allowed for easier movement. Hollander was toweling off his head when Ilya spoke. 

“You favor your right,” he observed. “Your left drops when you tire.”

Hollander stilled. He lowered the towel slowly and turned. “You’ve been watching closely.”

“I am an attentive man.”

Scott Hunter barked a laugh from the ropes. “Careful, Hollander. That’s how challenges start.”

Shane’s mouth twitched. “Hardly a challenge.”

Ilya stepped closer to him, shrugging out of his shirt with deliberate slowness. “Perhaps I simply enjoy proving English confidence misplaced.”

Hollander tossed the towel aside and tucked in the loose ends of the wraps, eyes never leaving Ilya’s. “If you are so certain,” he said evenly, “you are welcome to test the theory.”

A murmur rippled through the club. The two famed rivals of the Ton were about to face off in a true competition. Other bouts or exercises being conducted around them ceased. The space suddenly charged in a way that had nothing to do with sport.

Hunter looked around at the attention they were attracting, then shrugged his shoulders. “Light spar. No heroics,” he announced.  

Both men raised their fists and began to circle. 

“Do you really think you can beat me?” Shane asked quietly, a smile on his face that was more confident than Ilya remembered seeing before. 

“Perhaps I was training back in Russia” Ilya countered. “With or without a bear.”

Hollander struck first, not hard, but fast. Ilya blocked clumsily, laughing under his breath as he recovered.

“Is that all?” Ilya teased. “I expected more after another Season of training.”

“You are reckless,” Hollander said, advancing.

“And you like it,” Ilya replied, slipping inside Hollander’s guard, close enough that the bare skin grazed. He had to hold himself back from gasping at how good it felt. 

Their movements tightened, bodies learning each other in real time. Hollander was disciplined and precise while Ilya was unpredictable, all instinct and provocation. Each exchange pushed them closer, breaths growing heavier and fewer teasing words exchanged. 

“You are overstepping,” Hollander muttered as Ilya’s knuckles skimmed his ribs.

Ilya grinned. “I always like being underestimated.”

Hollander caught his wrist, twisting just enough to unbalance him. For a heartbeat, they were chest to chest, Hollander’s grip firm and Ilya’s breath warm against his jaw.

“Enough,” Scott Hunter cut in, sharply. They froze, then broke apart at his command. Hunter’s tone softened, just a fraction. “You both have talent. No need to break each other proving it.” 

As the tension bled out of the ring and some of the spectators applauded, Hollander grabbed his towel again. “Changing room,” he said shortly. “If you’re finished posturing.”

Ilya followed without hesitation.

They slipped through the narrow doorway at the back, the sounds of the club muffling behind them. The space was close, humid, lit by a single lamp. Hollander braced his hands on a bench, breathing hard. Ilya shut the door behind them, blocking out the rest of the world.

“Well,” he said lightly. “That was invigorating.”

Hollander turned slowly, eyes dark. “You did that on purpose.”

Ilya stepped closer, voice dropping. “You noticed.” He reached out, fingers brushing Hollander’s wrist, lingering over the warmth there and toying with the loose ends of the cloth wraps. “You are different here,” he said softly.

Hollander swallowed. “So are you.”

Ilya began stripping the wraps from Hollander’s hands slowly. “I would have won, though.”

Hollander huffed. “You truly cannot help yourself.” 

Ilya dropped the wraps and kissed Hollander’s palm, then guided his hand slowly down his chest and abdomen, then pressed it against his bulge. Hollander’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. Ilya loved how surprised and delighted Hollander looked every time they did this. It was as if it was new each time.

“Get on your knees, Hollander,” Rozanov murmured softly. He saw Hollander’s eyes flick to the door behind him. “Do not worry. We will be quick and quiet.” 

After only a moment’s hesitation, Shane obeyed. 

Chapter 4: The dangerous comfort of familiar sin

Chapter Summary

Back in the gardens at the Haverinton ball…

Chapter Notes

Rozanov watched Shane with an expression that was far too knowing to be anything but dangerous.

“You make such a show of pretending to dislike this,” he said lightly. “Yet you waited here alone.”

“I was not waiting for you,” Shane replied, refusing to make eye contact. He sat down heavily on the bench, frustrated with himself for having given in to his desires. 

“No,” Rozanov agreed, taking a step closer, his shoes crunching against the gravel. “You are waiting for quiet. I merely follow wherever you go.”

Shane let out a sharp breath through his nose. “You always speak to provoke.”

“I like when you lose patience,” Rozanov shrugged. “It is one of your few indulgences.”

Shane rose abruptly, closing the small distance between them before he could think better of it. “You have needled me all evening,” he said, low and furious. “You interrupted my conversations, undermined my manners, and very nearly drew far too much attention to us.”

Rozanov’s gaze dropped briefly to Shane’s mouth, then back to his eyes. “And yet you danced,” he said. “You smiled. You behaved precisely as expected.”

“Someone must,” Shane snapped.

“Must they?” Rozanov murmured. “Or is it simply easier to pretend you are still the same careful man you were last Season?”

“What do you even want from me?” Shane demanded. “You left after last Season, without a word I might add, and now you will only acknowledge me in public by teasing me and stealing Lady Rose’s attention– stealing everyone’s attention.” 

“I want you to suck my cock again,” Rozanov said, bluntly.

A frisson of lust shot through Shane, followed immediately by anger. He glared at Rozanov, eyes narrowed. “Truly?” he bit out. “Instead, you should suck mine.” 

Rozanov leaned in closer to him and Shane was taken aback when he reached out gently and stroked a finger down his jaw. “You should ask more politely. You are good at manners and etiquette,” he said. 

Rozanov’s hand gripped Shane’s jaw and forced his head up. His piercing eyes met Shane’s in a direct challenge and after only a few moments Shane felt his resolve crumble. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave in. “Please,” he heard himself say. A strange feeling flooded him when he spoke. It felt like… relief. Or perhaps it was the thrill of knowing that Rozanov wanted him in the same desperate way. He could not name it, but something inside of him relaxed. 

“Please do what?” Rozanov’s hand moved, shaking Shane’s head from side to side. His thumb moved to caress Shane’s lips, brushing along them and tugging his bottom lip down ever so slightly. 

“Please,” Shane said softly against Rozanov’s thumb. “Get on your knees and suck my cock.” 

Rozanov leaned in and nosed along Shane’s neck up to his ear, letting his other hand move slowly down between Shane’s legs, feeling how hard he was. Both of them let out a breath as he cupped Shane’s cock and squeezed gently. Shane could practically hear him smirk. He closed his eyes in anticipation, mentally preparing himself for the kiss he was sure was coming. Rozanov leaned in and–

“No,” he whispered as he removed his hands,

Shane’s eyes flew open. “Wha–” 

“No. I will not do anything to you here. We will go back to this tedious party, dance with all the tiresome ladies. And then we will leave separately, find a place to meet, and then, maybe, maybe, I will do more than suck your cock,” Rozanov intoned. 

Shane bit his lower lip. Rozanov’s English had improved since last Season. 

“You would leave me like this?” he asked incredulously. Rozanov had never been one to turn down a quick tryst. 

“For now.” Rozanov smiled. “Perhaps to pass the time, we shall have a wager? If you dance with more eligible women than I, then later tonight I shall do… whatever you desire.” 

“And if you do?” Shane asked breathlessly. 

Rozanov’s smile became more wicked, and then he leaned in and kissed Shane passionately, just this side of rough. It was sharp and unforgiving, but familiar. Shane almost hated how well his body remembered this. How easily anger gave way to heat. It was over too quickly. 

Rozanov pulled away and he brushed Shane’s hair back into place before turning to go back to the ball without a word. 

Shane took a deep breath in the darkness. Rozanov was still irresistible, even after all this time. 

*** 

Rozanov left the ball first, slipping out quietly so as not to arouse suspicion. Shane waited an appropriate amount of time and then a bit longer, just to make Rozanov squirm, before hiding his mother and father good night, with the excuse of meeting some friends at The Kingfisher. He exited the estate and made his way down a side street where he found Rozanov smoking in a doorway. 

“You should not smoke,” he reprimanded without thinking as they began walking side by side towards Rozanov’s carriage. 

“Does it offend your delicate senses?” teased Rozanov. “Or is it simply not proper?” 

Shane did not answer right away, waiting until they were safely ensconced in the carriage and it had lurched into movement. “When you kiss me, I can taste them,” he admitted. 

“You do not like the taste?” Rozanov asked, clearly curious. Shane shook his head. He did not elaborate on the fact that the cigarettes obscured the fruity, spicy taste of Rozanov’s mouth, which he had come to crave. Rozanov made a noncommittal sound. His foot on the floor of the carriage gently reached out and knocked against Shane’s. Their eyes met and both of them smiled. 

It was not far to the gentleman’s club near Shane’s apartment. When they arrived, Rozanov sent his carriage home but instead of entering the club, they made their way to a nondescript building two blocks away, a familiar path that they had each walked many times before. The living quarters here had been set aside for another Hollander son when he came of age, but as Shane had no siblings, they remained unused. He was not even sure his parents remembered the property’s existence, and he preferred to keep it that way. 

Shane unlocked the door with practiced ease, and went immediately to the table by the entry to light a candle. Rozanov entered behind him and shut the door, both of them breathing a bit easier in the now familiar space. As Shane reached up to light more candles in the hall, Rozanov crowded him against the wall from behind. “I remember when you first invited me here,” Rozanov said softly, nosing into the nape of Shane’s neck. “I thought you meant to murder me.” 

“Perhaps I still might,” Shane replied lightly. Rozanov moved to suck on his earlobe. He indulged in the pleasant sensation for a moment before remembering. “Oh, our wager. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Rozanov replied, proudly. Then, his voice deepening, “Now, take off your clothes.” 

“Here? In the hallway?” Shane breathed, already moving to unbutton his coat. “We are right beside the door.” 

Rozanov stepped back to watch him disrobe, folding his clothes neatly as always, and placing them on a chair, lining up his shoes neatly underneath it. He stood, uncomfortable being in the hallway clad only in his underclothes, but also clearly intrigued about what Rozanov had planned. 

“Come this way.” Rozanov led him down the familiar path to the bedroom. He directed Shane to lay on the bed while he fetched a chair and placed it right at the foot of the bed. Then he made his way over to a side table where several bottles and glasses were arranged. 

“Forgive me for the lack of vodka,” Shane offered from his place on the bed. “It has been difficult to procure as of late.” 

“I will bring you some next time,” Rozanov replied, pouring himself a brandy and returning to the chair. As he took a seat, Shane began to feel nervous. 

“What do you want?” he asked, feeling quite exposed while Rozanov remained fully clothed. 

Rozanov took a long sip of brandy. “Touch yourself,” he replied, simply. 

“What?” 

“It has been long time since I have seen your body. Show it to me. Show me how you touched yourself while we were apart.” 

Shane took a moment to process that. He knew that he looked pleasing. He had worked hard on his physical fitness since last Season. His limbs were stronger, more muscular, and his chest was broader, pectorals and abdominals more defined and he knew that his rear was more shapely. It was pleasing to think that Rozanov might have been thinking about him while they were apart, but intimidating to show off for the man. 

“May I fortify myself with a drink before we begin?” he asked. 

Rozanov shook his head. “No. You can have after. As reward. Get to work.”

Shane narrowed his eyes at this infuriating man, who spread his legs and leaned back in the chair haphazardly. Before he could stop himself, Shane lifted his hand, running it down his own neck and across his chest, grazing his nipples, which had hardened in the cool evening air. Rozanov watched every move hungrily and Shane smiled at the attention despite his embarrassment. 

He ran his hand down over his stomach and then lower, grazing over the ever-growing bulge in his small clothes. He placed his hand over it more firmly and squeezed, moaning a little at the pressure. Rozanov took another sip of brandy but Shane was pleased to see that it appeared to be more like a gulp. He arched his back and began to shimmy his small clothes down his hips. 

“Fuck Hollander. Yes, show me,” Rozanov commanded. 

Shane bunched the cloth up and tossed it at Rozanov’s head. He almost giggled at the look on the man’s face but then Rozanov was lifting the cloth up and pressing it to his nose, inhaling Shane’s scent deeply, eyes locked on Shane’s crotch. He tossed the cloth behind him and leaned forward as Shane took himself in hand. 

Shane stroked himself slowly, almost lazily, letting his senses light up as he became more and more uninhibited. He spread his legs wider and let his other hand drift down to play with his balls and then to the opening beneath them. Rozanov shifted in his chair and Shane was pleased to see that the man was not unaffected. Shane slowly slid his knees upward, showing off more of what was between his legs. At the same time, he ran his palm over the head of his own cock, gathering the wetness that was already spilling out and using it to ease the strokes on his cock. 

He dipped one finger cautiously into his entrance and saw Rozanov almost choke on his brandy. He moaned, somewhat performatively, and then heard himself say, “I need…” 

“What do you need?” Rozanov asked, his voice hoarse. 

“You. I need you.” Shane admitted. Rozanov inhaled sharply and stood, setting his brandy aside, then divesting himself of his shirt and unbuttoning his pants far too slowly. Impatient, Shane moved, crawling to the end of the bed as Rozanov drew closer. He buried his face in the bulge in Rozanov’s pants, nuzzling the hardness he felt there and mouthing at the fabric. Rozanov brought one hand to the back of his head and pressed Shane’s face more firmly against him, saying something in Russian. Shane felt almost wild with need. They had been apart for seven months but it had felt like seven years. He almost hated himself for this unfettered desire, something he had never felt for another person before, but not enough to stop. 

He boldly pushed the remainder of Rozanov’s clothing off and eagerly returned to his hands and knees to suck Rozanov in earnest. Savoring the taste after so long apart. He knew what Rozanov liked. How he liked to hold Shane’s head between his big, warm hands and move his cock in and out of his mouth. How he liked it when Shane took as much of the length as he could down his throat and held him there, swallowing around his girth until tears formed on Shane’s eyelashes. The taste, the sensation, and now, the humiliation all seemed to ignite an unquenchable fire in him. 

Rozanov let Shane suck him for a blissful but short few moments before he pulled back. “Turn over,” he murmured softly, and Shane hurried to obey, raising his hips in the air. “You have been hard at work since last Season, Hollander,” Rozanov teased, and delivered a stinging slap to his right cheek. “The view is much improved.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane breathed, watching as Rozanov pulled the drawer out of the bedside table and produced a small bottle of oil. 

“Is the other way around, sweetheart.” 

Before Shane could marshal any sort of retort, his ass was slapped again, this time the other cheek. He gasped into the bed and arched his back. It felt… good. He could feel blood rushing to the site and he began to feel almost dizzy. 

A well-oiled finger slid between his cheeks. Shane gasped. The feeling was welcome and familiar, but not one he had felt in quite some time. He had occasionally touched himself in that way when he was alone, but the feeling was quite incomparable to Rozanov’s large hands. 

“Did you miss this?” Rozanov whispered, kissing along Shane’s back as he pressed his finger in inexorably.

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, trying to cant his hips back and increase the pace at which he was filled. Rozanov held him still with a hand on the back of his neck. 

“You are very tight,” Rozanov commented, moving his finger in and out at a maddeningly slow pace. 

Shane did not answer, for he did not want to admit that he had been effectively celibate in the time they were apart. There had been a few dalliances with women at The Kingfisher but nothing like this. And no other men. The risk of discovery was too great. 

Rozanov added more oil and another finger, making Shane curse again. He felt Rozanov’s tongue against his shoulderblade, mapping the bone and musculature there. Shane savored the feeling of fullness, noting that even though Rozanov’s grip was firm, Shane could easily break out of it if he wished. He heard Rozanov sigh, “Fuck, Hollander, you feel so good. Are you ready for more?” and could do nothing but whimper and nod his assent. He feared that if he opened his mouth to speak, he would beg, and he refused to do so. 

Rozanov prepared him thoroughly and then took him roughly from behind, one hand pushing between his shoulderblades into the bed and the other hooking two fingers in the side of his mouth. They were both uninhibited and loud, moans overlapping with the sound of skin slapping against skin. Before he realized it, Shane found himself begging for it harder and deeper, savoring the feeling of Rozanov filling him up. He wanted Rozanov to carve out a place for himself inside Shane after all this time. Wanted to feel the other man for days, be reminded of him every time he took a step or sat down. And Rozanov obliged, putting seven months of effort into every thrust as Shane bit into the bedding beneath him to keep from screaming. 

He came untouched all over the sheets and Rozanov was not far behind, pushing in so deep that Shane believed could feel it in his throat, then emptying himself inside with a loud groan. He gripped Shane’s hips tightly as he came down from his high, then pressed his forehead against Shane’s back and gently pulled out. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly, moving to lay on the other side of the bed. 

“No, that was… amazing,” Shane replied, turning over slowly. 

Rozanov smirked and pushed himself up to sit against the headboard, one knee bent, the other leg extended languidly across the rumpled sheets. They sat in silence for a few moments more. Shane could feel Rozanov’s gaze on him as if measuring and appraising, but the man did not speak, nor did he reach for him as he once would have done without hesitation.

The absence of touch felt louder than words.

“Will you be at the New Admiralty tomorrow?” Shane asked at last, unable to bear it any longer. “Lord Marleau and Lord Pike will be there, and I was able to secure a few private sessions with Hunter over the summer to improve my technique– he is truly gifted at boxing and teaching. Tomorrow should be an entertaining time.”

Rozanov’s expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. His mouth flattened slightly as he rose from the bed, gathering his discarded brandy glass from the table. He took a long drink, his back half-turned, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window rather than on Shane.

“I am not certain,” he said. “I have early appointment with the ambassador.”

The words were polite and his tone was not unkind, but Shane felt suddenly like an intruder. “Oh,” he said, feeling foolish. “Of course.”

Rozanov set the glass aside with care. “You have been… industrious, it seems,” he added lightly. “Private lessons. New pursuits.”

Shane frowned, uncertain. “I merely wished to improve. You know I dislike being shown up.”

“Yes,” Rozanov replied. “I remember.”

He did not look at him.

Something unspoken hovered between them, the seven months of separation pressing down into the space they now shared. Shane searched for the easy familiarity they had once slipped into so effortlessly and found only restraint in its place.

“If you must go,” Shane said at last, “I shall not keep you.”

Rozanov turned then, his expression carefully composed, his eyes unreadable. “You need not,” he said. “I would not wish to interrupt your evening.”

“My evening?” Shane echoed.

Rozanov’s mouth curved, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “You seem quite well occupied these days.” He stood up and went to fetch his clothes, which were scattered all over the room. He dressed slowly and methodically. Shane wanted to ask if everything was all right, or to somehow close the distance that had appeared between them, but did not have the courage. The words caught in his throat. He watched Rozanov walk out of the bedroom and heard him put his shoes on by the door. 

“Goodbye, Hollander,” Rozanov said without emotion from the hall. 

“Goodbye, Rozanov,” Shane replied, trying to match the tone. He knew something was wrong, but he could not put his finger on what. He heard the door open and close and then he was alone. He sighed and laid back against the pillows. The apartment suddenly felt very empty. 

Shane ran his fingertips along his lips lightly and then the realization hit him. They had not even kissed. Not a single time since they had entered the apartment. He was not sure how to feel about that. Perhaps it was for the best. This arrangement was strictly physical and kissing was far too intimate. And yet, he missed it, even the taste of Rozanov’s cigarettes. 

His thoughts drifted back to their first Season. The various encounters they had managed to engineer despite their very public rivalry. Careful notes inviting each other for a drink at the Kingfisher Club, or to spar at The New Admiralty, which eventually became a regular activity. Even though Rozanov confounded him, Shane enjoyed their sparring, both verbal and in the ring. But he enjoyed their physical couplings even more. Rozanov had shown him things that Shane had never even imagined that two people could do to each other. His face flushed and he shifted uncomfortably at the memories that were flooding back to him. He had tried to compartmentalize the last Season, explain it to himself as an aberration, an outlier in his behavior and composure and decision making that he could remedy. But his immediate reaction to Rozanov after seven months apart was forcing him to realize that this was likely something else entirely. He could not name it, or perhaps he did not want to. 

Shane rose and rifled through the bottles on the table, and smiled when he found his favorite ginger beer. He had never favored liquor or ale, but there was something about the effervescent, slightly tart, and mildly alcoholic drink that he relished and often settled something in him. Sadly, it was not often served at balls, but he had procured a steady supplier for his own home. 

He lounged on the bed, naked, and his thoughts, unbidden, drifted to Rozanov again, and his sudden change in manner before his abrupt departure. Shane knew that he himself often behaved in a contradictory way around Rozanov. The push and pull between them, with the added public tension and illicit nature of two men being together, was part of what made their affair so compelling. But this time had seemed different. More often when they were finished, Rozanov would provoke Shane into a seductive wrestling match that often turned into a second round. 

Shane let his mind return to their first time in the apartment. They had had several rushed encounters in various locations but had not had any private meetings since the room at Grillons. Rozanov had alluded to wanting to “be inside” Shane and one time had run his hand between Shane’s cheeks when they had slipped away from the group during a hunt (Shane had been the one to bring down the buck that day, much to Rozanov’s chagrin). Shane had conceived of the idea of using the forgotten Bloomsbury Square apartment as a private, safe place for them to meet. He had tentatively suggested it when they were changing after a sparring match at the New Admiralty and Rozanov had insisted that they depart straightaway. 

Shane had not known what to expect, but Rozanov had been surprisingly patient, confirming in that deep accented voice whether Shane still desired to try, “You still want?” and then teasing him, “Do not worry, it will fit, not like the first time you sucked me,” making Shane both irritated and giddy. He had kissed Shane all over and sucked his cock until he was so turned on he had forgotten to be scared. He had asked, over and over “May I?” or “Is that comfortable?” and not proceeding until Shane had confirmed. And he did not stop until Shane had spilled on the bedcovers, dirtying them. Shane felt like he was addicted. It was as if his body knew what Rozanov was capable of making him feel, so any time the man was near him, he would react.

Their encounters had continued, the apartment becoming a refuge for them. Sometimes they were rough and almost angry with each other, other times were slower and more gentle, like the first time. One memorable encounter had Shane admitting that he had purchased an ivory dildo from a mail order catalogue under a false name and Rozanov insisting on using it on him. Another had involved using their respective cravats to fasten Shane’s wrists to the headboard while Rozanov mapped his entire body with his tongue. Shane had come with Rozanov’s fingers inside and then again when the man was fully sheathed in him. 

Rozanov had not sent a note or said farewell before he departed for Russia after the Season had concluded. It had been an abrupt end to the affair and Shane had not been sure that they would see each other again. He did not know where to send a letter in Russia and Rozanov had never written to him. So he had shelved those memories and experiences and focused on his purchase of Ottawan Cottage and hoped that his second Season would yield a better match. 

When Shane had heard through the gossip mill that the ambassador and his handsome son were returning from the continent for the Season, he had not expected the affair to continue. In fact, he had hoped it would not. After all, he needed to find a wife, and could not afford the distraction. And yet, on the night of the very first ball, he had found himself unable to resist. He had forgotten his duty to his parents, the requirements as a member of the Ton, and flouted the rules of society. Not to mention the scandal if they were discovered. With Rozanov acting so strangely, perhaps he too was realizing that they could not simply pick up where they had left off at the end of last Season. 

Resolutely, Shane drained his ginger beer and set it on the table. He stripped the bed of its sheets and threw them in the corner. He did not make it up with new sheets because it would not be required. As he dressed, his plan began to form with greater clarity. He would shutter the apartment, it was too much of a temptation. He would engage politely with Rozanov in public, not give Whistledown more fodder for her “rivalry” storyline, and if the man suggested another meeting or approached him in private, he resolved to stand his ground. Rozanov would not care, his reputation as a rake was well-earned and Shane had discovered that most of the rumors were true. Rozanov had never asked for or indicated that he wanted anything more. They were each free to make their own decisions about how to proceed. 

With a clear plan, Shane dressed quickly, extinguished the candles, and left the apartment. He locked the door firmly and set off down the street, not once looking back.

Chapter End Notes

Fun fact, ginger beer was a common drink in the regency era.

Chapter 5: Courtship, real and otherwise

It appears that the winds of the season have shifted, dear reader, and with them the attentions of one Lord Hollander. Once observed as a gentleman of interests more in boxing, hunting, and horse racing than in courtship, his lordship has lately confined himself to a far narrower orbit, one with Miss Rose Landry at its center.

The pair have been seen promenading with admirable regularity, their heads inclined in conversation at the opera, the theater, and even (most daringly) during daylight hours, when intentions are hardest to disguise. Miss Landry, our reigning Diamond, seems not merely tolerant of this devotion, but entirely pleased by it, a circumstance which has done nothing to quiet speculation, and much to encourage it.

Equally notable is what has not been seen. The once-sparked rivalry between Lord Hollander and the enigmatic Count Rozanov has cooled to a civility so marked that one might almost suspect intent. Where there were once sharp glances and sharper tongues, there is now little more than polite indifference, although society would be naïve to assume indifference is ever so simple.

Whether Lord Hollander has set his sights upon securing the Diamond, or whether the Diamond has already secured him, remains to be seen. Yet if constancy is the true measure of worth this season, one wonders if it is not his lordship, rather than any debutante, who has become the most ardently pursued prize of them all.

Lady Whistledown

***

Rotten Row was at its most obliging that afternoon, all soft sun and well-kept paths, the air alive with the murmur of conversation and the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath passing boots. It was precisely the sort of place meant for being seen.

Shane adjusted his pace without thinking, matching Lady Rose’s stride as she navigated the promenade at his side. She wore pale blue today, a color that drew the eye without demanding it, much like herself. Her gloved hand rested lightly on his arm, easy and unpossessive. Her mother trailed a few paces behind them, an ever-watchful chaperone. 

“You look as though you are taking notes,” she said, glancing up at him with a smile.

“Am I so obvious?”

“A little,” Lady Rose replied. “You have the expression of a man determined to do everything correctly.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Then I hope I am succeeding.”

“You are,” she said readily. “Most gentlemen overdo it. They attempt to charm like it is a siege.” She tilted her head, thoughtful. “You simply… show up.”

The words settled somewhere unexpected. Shane found himself oddly grateful for her plainness.

They passed two matrons who slowed, their scrutiny as delicate as it was relentless. Rose inclined her head just enough to be polite. Shane felt the familiar prickle of being assessed, measured, and approved of.

“It must be strange,” Lady Rose said after a moment, “to discover that one’s life has become a topic of general discussion.”

“I cannot say I recommend it,” Shane replied dryly.

She laughed, genuinely, the sound light and unguarded. “For what it is worth, I enjoy our outings. I hope that does not sound unromantic.”

“On the contrary,” he replied. “I find enjoyment underrated.”

They reached a bench shaded by an old elm, and Shane gestured. Lady Rose accepted without hesitation, settling beside him with a practiced ease that suggested long familiarity with public spaces and private conversations that were not, strictly speaking, private at all.

“I saw you at the opera last week,” she said. “You vanished before the final applause.”

“I had a headache.” In fact, he had slipped out early to avoid the plethora of ladies that always seemed to surround him whenever he appeared publicly. Somehow, his determined focus on Lady Rose had made him even more attractive to the entire Ton. 

“Ah.” She studied him with an expression too shrewd to be idle. “A persistent one, or a sudden affliction?”

He smiled, careful. “You are very observant, Lady Rose.”

“So my brothers tell me,” she said lightly. Then, after a pause, “You seem… resolved lately.”

Resolved. The word sat uncomfortably close to the truth.

“I am trying to be,” Shane said.

She nodded, accepting that as an answer, though her gaze lingered a moment longer than politeness required. Around them, the promenade flowed on with laughter, flirtation, and a sea of pale dresses swaying in the breeze.

Somewhere across the path, a familiar accent cut through the noise, warm and careless. Shane did not look. He did not need to. Instead, he smiled at Lady Rose. “Did you appreciate the opera that evening? It was Don Giovani, was it not?” 

“I do love Mozart, but I find his pieces so tedious on the pianoforte,” Lady Rose replied. “It feels so restrained, as if he is holding back real emotions.” 

“Perfect for our British sensibilities,” Shane joked. Lady Rose laughed, He liked seeing her laugh. Her eyes crinkled at the edges, so much more uninhibited than the practiced giggles from most ladies. 

“If I may be so bold, Lord Hollander, I wonder if you might accompany me to the exhibition and the New Admiralty next week,” Lady Rose said, in a low voice, so her mother could not overhear. “If we were to say that you invited me, I do not think my parents would object.” 

“I would be delighted,” Shane replied, and he found that he actually was. “It will be so exciting to see Boiziau take on Hunter. Although I fear he will have made the trip all the way from France to lose.” 

“If you care to make a wager on the match…” Lady Rose leaned toward him, her eyes twinkling. 

“Why, Lady Rose. That is most improper,” Shane paused dramatically. “How large of a wager?” 

Lady Rose laughed even louder, then caught her mother’s frown and quieted, bringing her fan up to hide the bottom half of her face, then cleared her throat. “Shall we continue promenading?” she asked.

“Yes,” Shane said at once, standing and offering his arm again. “Of course.”

She took it, and they rejoined the stream of London society, perfectly aligned, entirely proper. Shane was amazed at how comfortable he felt in Lady Rose’s presence, and he was genuinely looking forward to accompanying her to the boxing match the following week. 

***

Shane was out with Lord Pike at The Kingfisher, nursing a brandy and listening to Pike tell a story of how one of his twin daughters had managed to chase the other one up a tree, when Rozanov entered. By now, his body did not react so viscerally to the man’s presence, but he was immediately aware. 

Rozanov did not immediately seek Shane out, instead greeting other gentlemen and placing an order for “Vodka, Russian if you have it, otherwise scotch,” with Grady, who seemed to constantly be working, either at the club or at the New Admiralty. Rozanov caught Shane’s gaze from across the room but Shane did not acknowledge him. 

Rozanov lingered where he was, one elbow resting casually against the bar as Grady poured his drink. He laughed at something said by a gentleman beside him, the sound a little too loud. Shane kept his attention fixed on Pike, nodding at the appropriate moments, though he could not for the life of him recall how the story had begun.

“And there she was,” Pike was saying, loudly, “shoes ruined, dress torn, insisting she had won—”

“—by tactical retreat,” Shane supplied absently.

Pike chuckled. “Exactly!”

From the corner of his eye, Shane saw Rozanov finally turn, glass in hand, and begin to drift closer, although not directly. He stopped at a nearby table, exchanged pleasantries, and accepted a light clap on the shoulder. All the while, his gaze returned to Shane with infuriating patience.

When at last he approached and Pike looked up to acknowledge him, he spoke to the room at large. 

“England produces remarkable daughters,” Rozanov commented mildly. “And remarkably devoted suitors.”

The pause was deliberate.

“I hear Lady Rose Landry has been much admired of late,” he continued, eyes sliding unmistakably to Shane. “Walks in park. Box seats at opera. A man might think she has secured the Season’s most constant attention.”

A ripple of interest stirred nearby. Pike raised his brows.

“Is that so?” Pike said. “Well done you, Hollander.”

Shane felt the weight of Rozanov’s gaze and refused it.

“She is excellent company,” Shane said evenly, lifting his brandy. “And deserving of it.”

Rozanov smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “How reassuring. One always hopes devotion is… sincere.”

Pike laughed, oblivious. “If Lord Hollander has finally been caught, then God bless the lady.” He rose from the table to greet Lord Dagenais, who had just entered. 

Rozanov remained, studying Shane, who met his gaze but did not continue the conversation. Something sharp and unreadable passed over Rozanov’s face. 

“You are well?” he asked, softly. 

“Very,” Shane replied, also rising to his feet and leaving his unfinished brandy on the table. “And expected elsewhere.” He reached for his coat. “Lady Rose dislikes being kept waiting.”

That, at least, landed. Rozanov’s fingers tightened briefly around his glass. “Of course,” he said softly. “One must honor one’s intentions.”

“Good night, Lord Rozanov,” Shane said, evenly. 

He turned away before anything else could be said and made his way to the door. 

***

For a time, Shane allowed himself the luxury of believing he had done the sensible thing.

His continued courtship of Lady Rose was received with warmth and ease. She was clever without being sharp, observant without being unkind, and possessed of a dry humor that surprised him more than once. Their conversations flowed effortlessly as they strolled along the river, debated the merits of the Italian opera versus the French, or danced together at balls. 

With Rose, there was no tension to manage, no vigilance required. He did not have to measure the distance between them, nor weigh each glance for danger. He could take her arm openly. He could laugh and be seen with her. And they were seen everywhere. 

Whistledown remarked upon it, of course. So did his mother, whose satisfaction manifested in brighter smiles and more frequent mentions of grandchildren spoken as if they were already inevitable. Shane accepted it all with practiced grace, telling himself this was what relief felt like.

Yet there were small, inconvenient moments when something in him felt strangely sad.

Lady Rose’s hand rested easily in the crook of her arm. They shared genuine laughter and teased each other lightly. But the quickened pulse he had come to expect never arrived. The sharp edge of anticipation, the thrill of being challenged and undone in the space of a breath, was absent. When he thought about kissing her, the idea was not wholly repugnant, but it did not make his heart beat faster nor did it excite him the way it ought to. He told himself this was maturity. Stability. What came after folly.

Infuriatingly, Rozanov did not vanish. 

They encountered one another everywhere. At assemblies, at poetry readings, at Lady Pike’s card tables and Lord Worthing’s suppers. Each time, Shane was scrupulously polite and nothing more. He allowed a bow or a nod. A few measured words if civility demanded it. 

Rozanov, for his part, seemed to delight in testing the boundaries.

A murmured “Lord Hollander,” spoken with too much familiarity as they passed in a crowded corridor or a lingering glance across a ballroom floor, all designed to draw Shane out. 

Once, at Kensington Gardens, Rozanov had brushed past him deliberately, close enough that Shane caught the scent of citrus and spice and felt, to his quiet fury, the immediate, treacherous response of his body, but he did not rise to it, nor did he follow Rozanov down the side path as he would have before. 

At The Kingfisher, Shane took to sitting with his back to the door. At the New Admiralty, he declined Rozanov’s offers to spar, stating that he was focused on his training under Hunter. Rozanov’s letters went unanswered. His friends teased him for his constancy, for his sudden preference for early nights and respectable engagements. He laughed along, accepted the jests and wore devotion like armor.

From a distance, he could see Rozanov’s reputation continue to expand, growing louder and more reckless by the week. New women. New stories. New provocations whispered just loudly enough to be overheard.

Shane told himself it meant nothing.

If anything, it confirmed the wisdom of his choice.

And yet, each time he walked away untouched, unprovoked, and unclaimed, he did not feel victorious, but instead unfinished. 

***

There was to be a grand fireworks display in honor of the Queen’s birthday in Ranelagh Gardens. Lady Rose had already agreed to attend with her family, but promised that they would see each other there. His parents were attending but had encouraged Shane to seek out his friends and of course Lady Rose at the event, so Shane promised himself he would find a way to make the evening enjoyable without giving in to distractions. 

The gardens were already alive with color: lanterns hanging from every arbor, the scent of summer flowers mingling with roasted chestnuts and sweetmeats, and the gentle hum of conversation weaving through the crowd. Shane meandered along the walking paths, marveling at the reflections of the lamps dancing on the Thames, the sparklers that the children were playing piercing through the darkness, and enjoyed his rare moment of solitude. 

A familiar figure caught his eye as he approached a balcony overlooking the river down a secluded path. Rozanov was standing at the edge, leaning casually against a railing and surveyed the throng with a cigarette casually dangling from his lips. For once he was not surrounded by a gaggle of women. 

Rozanov’s lips curved into a faint smile when their eyes met. Shane gave a polite nod in return intending to continue on his walk as he passed the balcony. 

“Lord Hollander,” Rozanov called, just loud enough for him to hear, “I had hoped you would not vanish completely into the care of Lady Rose. I grow lonely in your absence.”

Shane’s jaw stiffened. He turned back and met Rozanov’s eyes. “Surely you have been too lonely,” he said. “I have read about you and many young ladies.” 

“Ah, yes, your Lady Whistledown,” Rozanov stubbed out his cigarette on the balcony railing. “Has no one uncovered her identity? She is quite… observant.” 

“She delights in drama,” Shane said mildly. “And keeps the Ton entertained.” 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Rozanov asked bluntly, his gaze piercing. 

Shane sighed. He had hoped to avoid this conversation. “I cannot discuss this here,” he said, turning to walk away. 

Undeterred, Rozanov followed him. “Then let us go somewhere more private,” he suggested. 

“No, I–” 

“Please.” His tone stopped Shane in his tracks. He turned to look at Rozanov, whose casual posture and attitude had vanished. Shane hesitated, knowing this could not end well. Then again, Rozanov was not asking Shane to abscond to the apartment, which had been locked for weeks now, but merely to have a conversation. “Just for a moment,” Rozanov insisted. He gestured toward a side path unlit by the lanterns and began to walk towards it, looking back to see if Shane was following. 

Shane sighed and followed. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all. To face one’s opponent with one’s head held high and plainly state your intention. He squared his shoulders and surreptitiously looked around to ensure that no one had seen them stray down the darkened path together. 

Once they were a few yards down the path, Rozanov halted and turned. Shane had never seen him nervous before, but he did seem agitated. “Well?” Shane asked. 

“Well?” Rozanov repeated. “Are you courting Lady Rose that seriously?” 

“I have been spending time with her,” Shane said carefully. 

“You will propose?” 

“I will share that information with you at the same time as the rest of the Ton,” Shane snapped. “I do not owe you any special regard.” 

Rozanov glared at him. “Then why have you been avoiding me?” he demanded. 

“My time has been otherwise occupied, as you just noted.” 

“And Lady Rose, she is…” Rozanov was clearly searching for the right English word. “Enough?” 

Shane arranged his face into a bland look, betraying nothing. “She is entirely appropriate.” 

Rozanov chuckled. “That is not what I am asking,” he said. “Do you miss me fucking you?” 

Shane flushed at the crude phrase spoken outside of a truly private location. “We are finished with those encounters.” 

Rozanov shook his head. “We did not agree to finish.” 

Shane exploded. “There is no ‘we’! There is nothing for us to agree upon. I have decided. I am, in fact, capable of making decisions.” 

Rozanov’s lips pursed together. “Is not what I want.” 

One side of Shane’s mouth curved up. “I delight in denying you,” he snapped. 

Rozanov’s hand shot out and grabbed Shane’s waist, pulling them close to each other. Shane gasped in surprise and his hands came up to his shoulders ostensibly to push him away, but instead they traitorously curled into Rozanov’s lapels, gripping them tightly. Rozanov leaned in but stopped right before their mouths met. 

“Tell me you do not want this,” he growled. Shane could feel the ghost of a touch between their lips. “Tell me and I let you go.” 

Shane took a breath in. Rozanov held completely still, eyes boring into his. Shane could smell the unique citrus and spice smell that provoked that visceral, stomach swooping feeling in him. He could see how piercing Rozanov’s eyes were, even in the dim lighting of the side path. And he could feel the strong arms wrapped around him, full of memory and promise. He could not resist. He lunged forward and captured Rozanov’s mouth. Both of them groaned upon tasting each other again, having been denied this too long. Like puzzle pieces slotting into place, Shane felt a bone-deep satisfaction. He had missed Rozanov, he could not deny it any longer. Kissing him felt achingly familiar. 

Shane pulled back. “When we are in private, I trust you will remember your manners and not leave my lips unkissed.” he said. 

“Never again,” Rozanov replied, and dove back in to make up for lost time, only breaking the connection between their mouths to begin kissing down Shane’s neck. Shane smiled and let his head loll back, luxuriating in the sensation. 

They both jumped when the first fireworks exploded, having forgotten the original purpose for their presence in the garden. They laughed and kissed again, then Rozanov’s smile turned wicked, and he began to move his hand from Shane’s waist to the front of his pants. 

“We cannot!” Shane exclaimed in a whisper, grabbing Rozanov’s wrist to stop him. 

“No one will hear. They are all occupied,” Rozanov replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. Shane tried to think of a counterargument, but it was too late. Rozanov flicked his trousers open and slid down to his knees, taking Shane into his mouth enthusiastically. Shane covered his mouth with his own hand to stop from crying out, but Rozanov was right, the fireworks had started in earnest, and it was loud enough to cover any noises they might make.

He lost himself in the familiar pleasure of Rozanov’s mouth, somehow feeling even more lustful due to the illicit location. Rozanov ran his hand up the inside of Shane’s leg and then snaked between them to grab at his rear end, encouraging Shane’s hips to thrust and move his member in and out of Ilya’s mouth. Shane groaned and let Rozanov set the pace but it was not long before he was spilling down the other man’s throat, keeping his hand over his mouth out of an abundance of caution. 

Rozanov clambered to his feet and smiled. “Was fast.” He ran his hand over his lips and sucked his own fingers into his mouth delicately.

“It has been some time,” Shane replied, breathing hard. He reached between them to palm Rozanov’s cock. “Do you want me to–” 

“Da, please.”

Shane slid to his knees and nuzzled his face into Rozanov’s trousers. As he set to work, he could not help but notice how quickly Rozanov had overcome his defenses. Again. But he found he did not particularly care at this moment, and instead focused on making Rozanov shout so loudly he might be heard over the din of the fireworks. 

*** 

For all Shane had restrained himself for the last months, his lust for Rozanov returned double, no, triple fold. Moments he was not with Rozanov, he was thinking about the man, wondering what he was doing. He knew the ambassador had taken a trip abroad, leaving his son to his own devices. This made their clandestine meetings even easier, since Rozanov did not have official functions to attend. They returned to sparring, and drinking together at The Kingfisher. There was another horse race, which Rozanov had won by a nose and then held it over Shane’s head for days. Shane continued to court Lady Rose but the Ton was well aware that something had shifted yet again in their rivalry. It had, perhaps, softened into a competitive friendship. 

Shane was visiting Landry House for tea, sitting with Lady Rose in a more private corner of the drawing room while her mother corralled her three brothers, who were arguing over which slice of cake each would have with their tea. He found that he enjoyed the bustle of their household, so different from the quiet of his own when he was growing up. 

“Lord Hollander,” Lady Rose said, with a look on her face that he knew now meant she had some secret to share. 

He leaned in as close as was appropriate. “You have spent a great deal of time in my company this Season, and I daresay the Ton has taken notice of our frequent promenades, dances, and outings,” she said.

Shane smiled. “Yes, I enjoy your company very much,” he said. 

“Therefore, there may be an expectation of a proposal soon,” she continued.

“You speak directly as always, Lady Rose,” he said, hiding his internal shock at her raising the issue so soon and so plainly. 

“I find it curious,” she continued, voice softening, “that you appear so attentive, and yet, for all the glances and whispers, I detect a certain restraint. As though you are here in one manner, yet elsewhere in another.” She paused, letting the words settle, her lips curved in a faint smile.

Shane stammered, wondering how she had seen through him so easily. “I do enjoy spending time with you, Lady Rose, I am sorry if I have seemed distracted.” 

She shook her head “I believe I am going about this the wrong way,” she said gently. She paused and then spoke again. “Surely, it would benefit us both to acknowledge the nature of appearances. The season is long, the Ton is unforgiving, and discretion, I think, could be… advantageous for us both.”

Shane could not speak, so he simply nodded. 

Her eyes shone. “If we were to maintain the pretense of courtship, while each attending to our… separate concerns, perhaps no one needs to suffer scandal, and all may go quietly about their own affairs.”

He did not miss that she seemed to be referring to more than just the two of them. He swallowed.  “Is there … another gentleman you are–” 

“No, no,” she waved off the implication. “I am simply not interested in marriage. At least for this Season. But I think there may be one for you.” 

Shane shook his head but suddenly his heart was in his throat as he realized that she must know. She was so intelligent and observant, how could she not have noticed? 

Lady Rose looked across the room to see her mother fully engaged with her brothers, then reached out and touched Shane’s hand gently, which he realized was clenched tightly on his knee. He could not meet her eyes. 

“All is well,” she reassured him. “It must be… different with him.” 

Shane could not speak, but he nodded. 

“Better?” she asked. 

He nodded again, reluctantly. 

She smiled, a bit sadly, and squeezed his hand gently before releasing it. “This arrangement could protect us. All of us,” she said. “Please do consider it. You will remain my friend no matter the outcome.” 

Shane nodded again and met her gaze, tears forming in his eyes. “Of course,” he managed to say. He found himself both distressed that she had seen through him so easily, but also a tremendous amount of relief that someone knew and wanted to help. He could not bring himself to say anything further, overwhelmed by emotion. Lady Rose smiled and suggested a game of whist in a louder voice. Her brothers hurried to find the cards, giving Shane a moment to compose himself.

He told Rozanov about Lady Rose’s proposed arrangement at the New Admiralty the next day, in a hushed voice while they wrapped their hands. Rozanov looked triumphant for a moment before teasing “Trust you to stumble into another unusual arrangement with the Season’s Diamond, Hollander.” 

Shane shoved him in response and took extra delight in forcing Ilya into submission during their sparring match.  

The ploy with Lady Rose did indeed make Shane feel more secure. His parents allowed him out of some social engagements and his mother stopped asking him which ladies he had danced with at every ball. He and Lady Rose passed pleasant hours together with no pretense and simply enjoyed each others’ company. He learned that she knew how to throw a punch but was forbidden from showing him during a promenade and she won their wager on the match between Boiziau and Hunter. But the biggest advantage was, of course, that he could meet Rozanov more easily. He still felt sick about lying to his parents and sneaking out late at night, but he forgot those feelings as soon as Rozanov’s mouth was on his. This was something he was doing just for himself. He knew that it was wrong, hedonistic, and bound to end badly, but he wanted Rozanov so badly, he knew that he could not and would not stop.

Chapter 6: What is spoken and what is fled

Shane’s ankles were somewhere near his ears, held up there firmly by two big hands, Rozanov’s head was between his legs, and his tongue– 

“Good Christ, Roz–” Shane yelped at the first press of Rozanov’s tongue right over his entrance. Rozanov lifted his head, grinning 

“Did you just call me ‘Rozy’?” he demanded. 

Shane gaped at him. “Is now the best time for such a question?” he replied.

“Do not lower your legs,” Rozanov commanded, then ducked his head and licked up one cheek of Shane’s backside, then the other, perilously close to his entrance. Shane panted and looked down, waiting anxiously, He could not move in this position, effectively pinned under Rozanov’s body. He felt the long licks getting closer and closer and squirmed a bit in anticipation. Rozanov gripped his legs harder as if in warning, and then that tongue was right in the center. Shane gasped, then moaned at the sensation. It was strange at first but then it began to feel pleasurable almost at once. 

Rozanov released one of Shane’s legs and he bent it at the knee, not lowering his thigh. He was suddenly grateful for the flexibility exercises Hunter had been pushing on him at the boxing ring. A finger joined Rozanov’s tongue and Shane thought he might pass out from how good it felt. Perhaps it was the idea of Rozanov putting his mouth in such a place, making it wet and slippery, that multiplied the pleasure tenfold. It did not take much longer for Shane to come, spurting over his own chest. Rozanov sat up and took himself in hand, his come adding to the mess on Shane’s front. 

“How many times can you release in an hour?” Rozanov asked, reaching for a nearby cloth to clean the mess from Shane’s chest. 

Shane had an arm thrown over his face, flushed and more than a little embarrassed at what had just transpired. He was not sure if Rozanov was teasing him or if it was a genuine question. “I am not sure,” he said, finally. “Perhaps twice?” 

“I shall test it,” Rozanov’s grin was wicked. 

***

“You wear spectacles?” 

Hollander was propped up against some pillow in the bed of the apartment, reading some correspondences, and on his nose were perched a small pair of spectacles, rimmed in gold, and very delicate. He looked up as Ilya entered, and Ilya thought he looked delectable. He was very happy for the distraction of seeing Hollander as he had received a letter from Russia earlier in the day stating that his father’s health was declining. 

“Only for reading,” Hollander said, hastily taking them off, folding them, and tucking them in a little case. He paused at the look on Ilya’s face. “Are you well?”

Ilya smiled. “I will be when you put those back on,” he said, joining Hollander on the bed. He straddled Hollander’s lap and pried the case from his hands. He pulled the spectacles out carefully and perched them on Hollander’s nose. It was a shame that the frames obscured the freckles on Hollander’s cheeks but the color enhanced the warmth of his eyes. 

Hollander was bashful, of course. He always was when Ilya complimented his looks. Ilya raised both hands and cupped the sides of his face, thumbs tracing the gold frames. He leaned in and kissed Hollander, gently, who responded enthusiastically, arms wrapping naturally around Ilya’s waist and sliding down to his thighs. 

He slid off of Hollander’s lap and rose off the bed. “Get on your hands and knees,” he commanded. Hollander pushed his correspondences to the side and obeyed, looking curious and excited. This man inflamed him so much more than anyone else he had ever been with. The difference between his public and private personas sometimes made Ilya’s head spin. 

Ilya unbuttoned his trousers and took himself in hand. “I want to come all over your face and those ridiculous things,” he murmured, already halfway to full hardness. Hollander’s surprise and then wicked delight at the statement made his stomach swoop. He let Hollander suck him for a bit before taking over with his own hand and proceeding to do exactly what he said he would, tossing his head back and groaning loudly as he painted Hollander’s face. 

Afterwards, he used his fingers to clean the come off Hollander’s adorable shocked face and the lenses covering his eyes, and fed it to him between kisses, watching the shape of Hollander’s mouth as he sucked the come off his fingers. Then he commanded Hollander to bring himself off while Ilya gazed down at him and moved his thumb in and out of Hollander’s mouth. 

Hollander complained about having to clean them afterwards, but he also brought the spectacles to the apartment the next time they met. 

***

Shane was pressed up against the wall of the carriage carrying them to The Kingfisher with Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth. They had to be quiet, but had drawn the curtains tightly and endeavored to stifle their giggles and gasps with kisses. 

Rozanov pushed Shane’s legs apart and settled between them, running his hands down Shane’s chest as they sprawled together over the bench of the carriage. They kissed fervently, tongues moving aggressively against each other as they both tried to keep quiet. 

“You cannot!” Shane whispered, as Rozanov sank to his knees onto the floor of the carriage. 

“You may watch then,” came the whispered reply, and Shane’s eyes rolled back in his head as his trousers were pulled down and Ilya’s mouth descended upon him. 

***

Coming back from getting a breath of air during the Musgrave ball, Shane was suddenly grabbed and hustled into the dark library, the sound of the door locking behind him echoing in the room. 

“Rozanov!” he scolded in a low voice. “You startled me.” 

“You look delicious tonight,” Rozanov replied, taking Shane into his arms. “Is that a new suit? I should like to take it off you with my teeth.” 

“Not here!” Shane protested, but he let Rozanov kiss him senseless as his hands came up to toy with Shane’s nipples through his silk shirt. 

“If you do not stop, this suit will have to be burned.” Shane moaned. 

“What a pity, you would simply have to be naked,” Rozanov bit the spot right under his ear that always made Shane shiver. 

“I cannot make a mess,” Shane insisted.

“Never fear sweetheart, I would not allow it,” Rozanov said. “Let us make our excuses and leave. I cannot wait to be inside you any longer.” 

***

Rozanov’s father had departed again for the Continent two days prior, leaving behind an oppressive silence and a house that suddenly felt too large. Rozanov claimed that he would relish the peace, but instead had failed to appear for both a cricket game and a sparring match, prompting Shane to dispatch a footman to inquire about his health. Rozanov had sent the man away with a command that Shane had been assured was “entirely unrepeatable” in the presence of a gentleman. 

So Shane went himself to Belgrave House, knocking several times before tentatively pushing the door open. No butler or footmen appeared and no one responded to Shane’s polite greeting. He climbed the stairs cautiously, peeking into rooms as he passed. 

He found Rozanov sitting rigidly on the edge of a bed, coat haphazardly thrown on and his boots unlaced. He looked as though he might yet will himself upright through stubbornness alone.

“Hollander,” he greeted. “I heard the knocking but…”

“You look dreadful,” Shane said pleasantly. “No wonder you missed the cricket match.” 

“I am tired,” Rozanov insisted. 

Shane stepped closer and inspected Rozanov’s face. “You are sweating.”

“Is warm outside.” 

“You are shivering.” Shane stepped forward and pressed the back of his hand to Rozanov’s forehead. The heat startled him. Rozanov was burning. “You have a fever,” he declared. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Russians do not do this,” Rozanov said, batting Shane’s hand away without much force. 

“You are incandescent,” Shane said. “And too weak to stand.” 

Rozanov scowled at him. “And why are you here?” he demanded. 

“Lie down,” Shane said, pushing gently at Rozanov’s shoulders. 

“I will not–” Shane increased the force of his push only a little and Rozanov flopped down, the fight leaving him with alarming speed, as though his body had been waiting for permission to give up. 

Ever efficient, Shane went in search of fresh linens and a basin of cool water. He found his way down to the kitchens, where he found a cook and a valet, the latter of which had been under strict orders not to fetch a doctor, let anyone know about Lord Rozanov’s illness, or even to enter the bedroom. Shane asked for some broth to be prepared and assured the young valet that he would handle Rozanov.

Once back in the bedroom, Shane cracked the window to let in some fresh air, pried Rozanov’s boots off of him, and peeled him out of his coat. He soaked a piece of cloth in cool water and was dabbing the sweat off of Rozanov’s forehead gently when the other man cracked one eye open with bleary suspicion. 

“You should leave,” he muttered. “I am fine.” 

“You will not let your valet tend you or fetch a doctor,” Shane chided. 

“I have obligations. As do you.” 

“They have been cancelled.” 

Rozanov frowned. “That seems excessive.” 

“So is a fever. Besides, it would not be at all satisfying to beat you at a game when you are like this.” That earned Shane a glare that lacked its usual menace. 

There was a knock on the door and Shane went to thank the valet for bringing up the broth and brought it over to Rozanov’s bedside, balancing it on the mattress and lifting the cup to Rozanov’s mouth. 

“This is terrible.” Rozanov made a face. 

“You need nutrients when you are ill,” Shane held the cup to his lips again. Rozanov rolled his eyes, but drank another few swallows of the warm liquid. He leaned back, his eyes halfway closed.

“You are quite the nursemaid, Hollander,” he murmured.

“Sleep,” Shane replied, not rising to Rozanov’s bait, instead stroking his hand across Rozanov’s forehead and then moving to cup the side of his face gently. Rozanov’s breath almost immediately deepened and slowed as he drifted off. 

Later in the evening, Rozanov reached out, catching Shane’s sleeve with clumsy fingers. “You stayed,” he murmured, eyes still closed. 

“Yes,” Shane said softly, lowering the book he had procured from the library downstairs. 

There was a pause and then Rozanov said, even softer, almost a whisper, “I thought you would not.” 

Shane’s breath caught. “Why not?”

Rozanov frowned, clearly struggling to articulate something he did not usually allow himself to examine. “You do not stay where it is… inconvenient.” 

Shane leaned closer. “You are ill. You are allowed to be inconvenient.” He kissed Rozanov’s cheek gently. 

Rozanov huffed a weak laugh. “I dislike it.” 

“I know.” Shane kissed his other cheek. 

“You make it terribly difficult…” Rozanov murmured, eyes fluttering. 

“Of course I do. Sleep.” Shane squeezed Rozanov’s hand and watched him drift off again. 

The fever broke sometime before dawn. Shane had fallen asleep in the chair by the bed and awoke, stiff and uncomfortable, to see Rozanov awake and watching him with unnerving clarity. 

“You snore,” Rozanov said. 

“I do not,” Shane retorted, stretching to relieve his back and stiff arms and legs. 

“You do.” Rozanov fixed him with that piercing stare and stubborn jaw. 

“I do not, I barely slept.” 

“Yes, I noticed.” 

Shane stood and went to the wash basin, busying himself with soaking another piece of cloth and bringing it back to Rozanov’s bedside. 

“Thank you,” Rozanov said at last, accepting the cloth and holding it in his lap. 

Shane shrugged, suddenly shy. “Of course.” 

Rozanov studied him, as if committing the sight to memory. “You are not as heartless towards me as you pretend.” 

“Careful,” Shane said lightly. “That sort of talk will ruin my reputation.” 

Rozanov smiled, small, gentle, and unguarded. And though neither of them said it aloud, something had shifted all the same. 

***

It was very late and they were at The Kingfisher, playing three-card brag with Lord Pike, Lord Vaughn as well as Hunter and Grady, the only men left after a raucous night celebrating Lord Connors’ engagement. Ilya licked his lips, looking across the table at Hollander, who gazed back with narrowed eyes while tapping his cards lightly against the table. 

“Fifty,” Hollander said, finally. 

“Sixty,” Ilya responded immediately. 

“You must be bluffing,” Hollander insisted. “One-hundred.”

“It seems like they shall be at this for a while. Shall we drown our sorrows instead?” Grady asked, gesturing to the bar as Ilya laughed and offered an even higher bet, this time tossing his pocket watch down confidently in addition. The other three men grumbled good-naturedly and rose to leave the table. Lord Pike patted Hollander’s shoulder good naturedly, but Hollander barely glanced at him, his dark eyes fixed on Ilya. 

“I’m sure we have ample time,” Lord Vaughn commented. “Those two truly loathe losing to one another.” 

Hollander glared down at the gold watch, diamonds inlaid in a fleur-de-lis pattern on the faceplate cover. “That is too much.” 

“Then show your cards,” Ilya said, taking a sip of his scotch and smiling at Shane from over the rim of the glass. 

“I do not have a commensurate bet,” Hollander said stiffly. His own watch was much less flamboyant and he was not in the habit of carrying large amounts of cash with him. 

Ilya leaned forward, his smile more wolfish now. “You may pay your debt with your body then,” he said softly, enjoying the immediate blush that rose on Hollander’s face. He glanced over to the bar where no one was paying them any mind, listening to Hunter tell a story about boxing in New York. 

“W-what do you– never mind,” Hollander’s jaw tightened in resolve. “It is irrelevant since you are going to lose. We are agreed.” 

They showed their hands simultaneously and Ilya grinned down at his straight, handily beating Hollander’s flush. Hollander cursed softly and pressed his palms over his eyes in frustration. “You are too skilled at telling falsehoods,” he complained. 

Ilya laughed and pulled the pile of money and his watch back towards him, then drained his drink. “I am ready to accept the rest of my payment,” he said, watching Hollander bite his lower lip as he stared down at the cards. 

“Fine,” Hollander said, shortly, but Ilya could tell that there was no real venom behind it. He stood and made his way to the bar to settle his bill, accepting back slaps and words of condolences on Ilya’s victory. They bid the other men farewell and made their way out of the club, into the dark, empty streets. 

Hollander kissed him fervently as soon as they were safely ensconced in the apartment, pushing Ilya up against the wall. Ilya smiled into his mouth and let himself be crowded. He opened his mouth, caressing Shane’s tongue with his own and pulling a moan from the other man. Ilya raised his hand to Hollander’s neck, wrapping it gently around his throat in front and cupping his chin, pushing him back slightly. 

“You have a substantial debt to repay,” he teased, then leaned forward and bit Hollander’s chin gently. 

“Are you certain you did not cheat?’ Hollander asked, reaching between them to unbutton Ilya’s coat. 

“Certainly not, I do not need to cheat to beat you, Hollander,” Ilya replied, sighing as Hollander started to untie his cravat next, kissing his neck as he pulled at the knot.

Ilya pushed him back a step. “Shall I give you a chance to take back your winnings?” he asked. 

“You want to play more cards at this moment?” Hollander asked. 

“Not that kind of game,” Ilya replied, leaning his back against the wall and smiling. “But it is one you will enjoy, I think. Probably.” 

“What manner of game?” 

“Is very simple,” Ilya reached out and brushed his fingertips down the side of Hollander’s face, then brought two fingers to his lips. Hollander opened his mouth immediately and Ilya felt a jolt of arousal shoot through him at how easily he sucked them in. “You hold me, deep in your throat, and I count.” He thrust his fingers gently, feeling Hollander’s tongue trace the ridges of his skin and dart between the digits in response. “If you can hold me for the right amount of time, I will make you come.” 

Hollander made a curious noise as he closed his lips more firmly around Ilya’s fingers and sucked on them more fervently. Ilya reached down with his other hand cupped Hollander over his pants. “But I will not count out loud,” he clarified. “It is up to you to guess the number to which I am counting.” He gently removed his fingers from Hollander’s mouth. “How does that sound?” 

“Rozanov, if you try to choke me to death with your cock, I swear–”

“No, no is game, not duel,” Ilya said, leaning in to kiss him. “Is fun.” 

Hollander considered for a moment. “If I do not like it, can we stop?” he asked, clearly nervous. 

“Of course,” Ilya assured him, taking his hand. “I will not hurt you.” 

Hollander nodded. “Very well,” he said, and led them down the hall to the bedroom. He pushed Ilya down to sit on the bed and began to remove his own clothes, folding them carefully as usual. Ilya watched him fondly, unbuttoning his own shirt and removing his coat. 

Hollander came to kneel between Ilya’s legs. The hungry look in his eyes made Ilya breathe in sharply. “Had I known that you were so eager to settle your debts after losing a card game I would have hidden an ace up my sleeve,” Ilya teased. 

“I dislike being in debt,” Hollander replied. And before Ilya could respond, he leaned down and slid his mouth down Ilya’s length. Ilya gasped and leaned back on his hands, closing his eyes for a moment before gazing down at Hollander’s head in his lap. He almost forgot to start counting and the number he was holding in his mind. 

Hollander pulled off after a few seconds, breathing heavily. He looked up to meet Ilya’s gaze immediately and asked, “So?” 

Ilya smiled and ran his own hand over his cock, smearing the wetness from Hollander’s mouth onto his palm before reaching down, delighted to find that Hollander was hard and weeping. He pumped Hollander’s cock several times, making him moan. Ilya moved his hand faster, leaning in to kiss the other man, muffling his noises. His other hand rose to pinch Hollander’s nipple. He felt Hollander tense in his arms and immediately pulled back, leaving him bereft of touch. The surprised look on Hollander’s face made Ilya want to consume him. 

“I was… wrong?” Hollander panted, gazing up at him, his eyes a bit glassy.  

“Yes,” Ilya said, dreamily. “But you may try again.” 

This time, Hollander held on for longer, so long that Ilya felt his throat constrict several times as he gagged lightly, and when he pulled off, a thin string of saliva connected his mouth to Ilya’s wet member. He leaned forward and kissed the tip, sending a shiver down Ilya’s spine. Ilya reached down again and this time, snuck a finger between Hollander’s cheeks. He stopped again, right as Hollander tensed up, and the other man made a noise of frustration. 

The third time, Hollander only took him down his throat for a few seconds before pulling off and looking up curiously. Ilya laughed and pulled him up to stand before taking Hollander’s cock into his own mouth, savoring the taste of him, but again, stopping before Hollander could reach completion. 

Hollander cursed. “This is impossible,” he hissed. 

“That is the point,” Ilya laughed. 

“That is not fair!” Hollander exclaimed, pushing Ilya back onto the bed and clambering on top of him, kissing him and pinning Ilya’s arms next to his head. 

“You agreed to the rules of engagement!” Ilya insisted, continuing to laugh through their kisses. 

“I do not know why I thought you would be fair,” Hollander said, grinding down against him and making them both gasp. He moved back, pulling Ilya’s trousers and underclothes further down his legs, eventually stripping them completely off. “I shall decide how long to hold you now,” he declared, laying down on his front and swallowing down Ilya’s cock once more. 

It turned out that Hollander could not only hold his breath for an inordinate amount of time, but that he also enjoyed the choking sensation so much, he came as soon as Ilya tried to return the favor. Ilya filed this observation away as they lay together afterwards. He noted the way Hollander’s eyes remained a bit unfocused and he seemed much more relaxed than he normally did after their encounters, cuddling close to Ilya and letting him run his fingers through his hair. 

***

With the ambassador back in Russia, Belgrave House was much quieter without all of the attachés and aides milling about. A few servants were present to keep the house running, but Ilya tended to manage things himself, so several of them had seized the opportunity to take a leave. The ones that remained were discreet and unobtrusive. Ilya enjoyed the quiet and the privacy. Previously, he would have brought a different woman to the house every night but now, he had only one visitor in mind. 

Hollander knocked on the door of Belgrave House after sundown. They had agreed that he should not be seen entering Belgrave House if possible. Ilya answered the door himself, dressed more casually than he would normally to meet a guest, just in his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat. He caught sight of himself in the mirror in the entry hall and tried to tame the riot of curls upon his head before opening the door. 

“This is impressive construction,” Hollander commented as he entered. “Do you know the architect? I would like to hire them at Ottowan Cottage.” 

“You are Lord Real Estate now?” teased Ilya, closing the door behind him. 

Hollander blushed as he removed his coat. “The last time I was here I was rather preoccupied with your illness,” he said. “Forgive me for not assessing the quality of ambassadorial suites.” 

Ilya showed him around the house, skipping the formal parlors and ballroom in favor of the library, the informal sitting room, and the billiards room. Hollander lit up when he saw the table. They had played a few times at the Kingfisher and Ilya knew that Hollander was quite a good shot. He was good at everything, it seemed. 

“Shall we play a round?” Hollander asked. 

“Mm, later,” Rozanov said, crowding him against the billiards table. He kissed Hollander as if it had been longer than two days since they had seen each other. Hollander’s arms came up to wrap around his neck and Rozanov leaned down and easily picked him up by his thighs, depositing him onto the soft felt covering the table. 

“You distract me because you are scared to lose,” accused Hollander, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist.

“Actually, I am at war with myself between whether I prefer to beat you at billiards or fuck you,” Ilya responded. Hollander laughed, but the delighted smile was not the expression Ilya wanted to see on his face. He wanted Hollander breathless and begging. 

Ilya thrust his hips, rubbing his erection against Hollander’s and they both groaned at the sensation. He reached up to tug off Hollander’s cravat and shirt and was attacking his pants when Hollander stopped him. “I do not wish to ruin your table.” 

Ilya growled in mock frustration and pulled Hollander up, picking him up again by his thighs and walking over to the couch in the room, kissing him deeply as he did so. He tossed Hollander onto the plush surface and quickly removed his own clothes. This man might drive him mad, but he was enjoying every moment. 

He guided Hollander to sit astride him and, with hands on his hips, showed him how to mount him, swivel his hips, and give them both pleasure. “Like horse,” he murmured in Hollander’s ear. “Ride me like horse.” Hollander flushed and mimicked the stated movement, groaning as the change in position made Ilya’s cock brush that deep spot inside him. Ilya loved how expressive Hollander was in the throes of passion. The same blush rose on his cheeks that Ilya was treated to whenever they competed in a race, a game of cricket, or during a boxing match, but when he was naked, the flush spread down his chest. Ilya traced the edge of that blush with his tongue, pressed a sucking kiss against his nipple, and then lay back, letting Hollander take his pleasure. The man was so beautiful, Ilya could not help but kiss him, and then kiss him again. 

Hollander tossed his head back and leaned back so that his hands were resting on Ilya’s thighs as he raised and lowered his hips. The view was spectacular, but Ilya needed to be deeper inside of him. He placed his hands on Hollander’s hips and began to thrust upwards as Shane lowered himself, matching his pace perfectly. Hollander moaned, breathing heavily, and gazing down at Ilya through half-lidded eyes. Ilya bit into his own lower lip at the wave of pleasure as their gazes met. “R-Rozanov,” Hollander whimpered. “Please…” Ilya understood at once and began to thrust harder, the sound of skin slapping on skin stark adding to their groans. Hollander almost screamed as he leaned back again, and he stopped moving, content to let Ilya hammer into him. It did not take long for both of them to reach completion.  

“I suppose I should take my leave,” Hollander said, later, as they were lounging on the couch together naked. Ilya leaned over and kissed the side of his head. 

“Or you could stay,” he said simply. 

“I told Lord Pike–” 

“Surely he is not your mother, Hollander,” Ilya teased. “He does not need to know your whereabouts at every hour of the day. It is late. Stay.” He kissed Hollander’s shoulder. “I have not even taken you in my bed yet.” He stood and offered Hollander his hand. After a moment of  hesitation, Hollander took it and Ilya led them slowly through the house to his room, with its splendid four poster bed and mountains of pillows. 

***

Ilya awoke a few hours later. It was the middle of the night, but his stomach was protesting since he had not had supper. He was curled around Hollander, and under the pillow, his arm was numb from where Hollander’s head was resting on it. He had stayed. Ilya smiled at the sight. When Hollander stirred, he moved his arm slowly, not wanting to wake him. But Hollander’s eyes blinked open slowly. He smiled gently upon catching sight of Ilya. 

“I am hungry,” Ilya said, pulling Hollander more tightly against him. 

“For what?” Hollander teased, feeling Ilya’s cock against him. 

“For sustenance, you degenerate.” 

“Where did you learn that word?” Hollander asked as Ilya rose and searched for some clothing for them to wear. 

“I like to know how people refer to me,” Ilya responded. He tossed Hollander a pair of loose linen pants and a shirt. They would be too large on him, but it sent a shiver down Ilya’s spine seeing Hollander in his clothes. 

They made their way down to the kitchens where Ilya opened cabinets in search of food and Hollander sat down at a scrubbed wooden table. “Where is your cook and your valet?” he asked, yawning. 

“No one cares unless the ambassador is here,” Ilya replied, retrieving a jar of something from the small ice box and a loaf of bread, placing them on the table. 

“You call him that?” Hollander asked. “Not ‘my father’ but ‘the ambassador’.” 

Ilya hummed in response, then turned to Hollander. “Are you hungry?” he asked and when Hollander nodded, he went to light the stove and sliced two thick pieces of bread from the loaf he had procured.

“How do you know how to do all of these things?” Hollander asked as Ilya poked a fork through the bread slices and held them over the flame of the stove, rotating them slowly to toast them evenly. 

“I had to care for myself in Russia,” Ilya explained. “There was no one to do these things for me.” He did not elaborate and Hollander did not push for more explanation. 

Ilya opened the jar to reveal salmon, which had been pounded with butter and spices, and spread it over his crisped bread. It was not elaborate fare, but it smelled delicious. He did the same with the other slice of bread and set each one gently on a plate. 

“Oh–” Ilya walked over to a dark corner of the kitchen and bent over to pick something up, then came back and deposited a bottle of Hollander’s favorite ginger beer in front of him. 

“Bon appetit,” he said, and began eating without fanfare. Hollander stared at the bottle for a moment, then shook his head and took a bite, a small smile on his face. 

They made their way up to the library after eating, where Ilya lit a fire and they sat together on the couch in easy silence, not quite touching but not far from each other. 

“You have traveled a lot with your father, right?” Hollander asked. “Where are your favorite places to visit?” 

Ilya thought for a moment. “Paris,” he said, “because it is Paris. And New York although the people there did not seem to care for me. What about your travels?” 

Hollander nodded. “I enjoyed Paris as well,” he said. “But I prefer the English countryside, especially where Ottowan Cottage is located.” 

Ilya chuckled. “You call it a cottage but I have heard it is not.” 

“It is the historical name,” Hollander insisted. “I could not change it simply because of the size of the house or the grounds. It is my favorite place.” His eyes were shining. “A truly private oasis out in nature.”  

“The women in Paris were beautiful. And accommodating,” Ilya commented lightly. Hollander’s eyes slide away from him to the books lining the room. 

“There are beautiful women in many places,” Hollander bit out. 

“Do you like them?” Ilya asked. Shane nodded but did not seem to want to elaborate, still not meeting Ilya’s gaze. “You liked Lady Cotton well enough in our first Season, and of course Lady Rose.”

“They are… appropriate,” Hollander replied. “Unlike some Russian nobles.” 

“I like them.” Ilya said, enjoying the flash of jealousy in Hollander’s eyes. “I also like you. Not, of course as person. You are too tedious.” 

“Of course,” Shane sighed.  

“But I like your mouth, and your body,” Ilya intoned. 

“This mouth, body, and person managed to win during our last two sparring matches,” Hollander snapped. Ilya did love provoking him. He laughed and Hollander realized that he had been teasing him and relaxed a bit. 

“Yes, it was your mouth, very distracting.” Ilya smiled and reached out, encouraging Hollander to rest his head on his chest. He stroked through the silky dark hair and breathed in his warm, clean scent. 

Hollander breathed for a moment, then Ilya felt light kisses being pressed along his pectoral, then a sucking kiss on his nipple. He signed and dug his hand into Hollander’s hair a bit more firmly. It was nice to see Hollander taking the initiative. Too often, Ilya felt like he jumped and Hollander had no choice but to follow. 

Hollander kissed his way down to where Ilya’s pants were starting to tent and pressed his face up against the fabric there. He inhaled deeply through his nose and pressed open-mouthed kisses through the linen. Ilya threw his head back and moaned. Hollander had become so much more sensual since their first times together. Maybe it was because they knew each others’ bodies so well at this point, but it always filled him with heat when Hollander knew exactly what he wanted and went after it. 

As if reading his mind, Hollander sat up and swung one leg over Ilya’s lap, grinding down on his erection. He kissed Ilya deeply, their moans muffled against each others’ mouths. Hollander sat back and removed his shirt, then palmed himself through the linen trousers Ilya had lent him. He looked at Ilya through half-closed eyes and then lowered them to show off his beautiful cock. If Ilya had been a poet, he would have composed an ode about Hollander’s cock. Perfectly proportioned and as pretty as the man himself. 

Hollander’s hands shoved Ilya’s trousers down as well, then pushed at his shirt until Ilya removed it. They rutted against each other for a moment, moaning, as Hollander planted kisses all over Ilya’s face, making him smile. Then Hollander reached down and took both of their erections in his hand and Ilya was lost. The slide of their cocks against each other, encased in a warm hand was sensational. The only thing that could make it better was– 

Hollander released them for a moment and raised his hand to Ilya’s mouth. Ilya spit in it without even thinking, and that slick hand returned to move over their cocks, making Ilya moan loudly. “Fuck, fuck,” he exclaimed, overwhelmed. 

“Are you going to come for me, Rozanov?” Hollander murmured in his ear, then dragged the side of his face over Ilya’s to kiss him, his hand still moving. 

“Make me, Hollander.” 

Hollander’s hand must be magic. Ilya did not think he had ever been so hard in his life, and just from this man holding them against each other. Hollander rose eagerly to the challenge of making them come, twisting his wrist and rubbing the two of them together in a slick, warm mess of spit and wetness that was now dripping from both of them. 

Ilya thought he might die from pleasure. He had never felt this way before. As he approached the crest he cried out squeezing his eyes shut, “Fuck, Shane.” And then they were both spilling all over Ilya’s abdomen. 

Hollander’s hips were still moving, spreading the mess even further around as they both gasped and breathed heavily. His eyes were closed and he pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “Ilya.” So softly, almost like a prayer. 

Ilya opened his eyes blissfully, a real smile on his lips. This beautiful man, with his beautiful freckles and beautiful soul, had called him by his given name after Ilya had used his. Shane opened his eyes and their eyes locked but instead of matching joy, Ilya saw panic. 

“I-I…” Shane pulled back. He seemed to realize that he was mostly naked. He yanked the trousers up and cast about for his shirt. “I should… take my leave. I forgot, I…” he trailed off. 

Ilya’s heart sank. “Hollander,” he said. “Please–” 

“I cannot do this,” Hollander clambered off of Ilya’s lap, his face unreadable. “I– Forgive me.” He stumbled to his feet and pulled a shirt over his head. “Thank you for the meal. I am… Apologies.”

Ilya could not find any English words at that moment. “Hollander,” he said, even more softly, holding out his hand. 

Hollander hurried from the room. Ilya heard him descend the stairs, the thump of him putting on his boots, and then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. 

Ilya exhaled deeply, not moving from where he sat. He was not entirely sure why he had used Hollander’s given name. It had just felt… right. And Hollander had responded in kind, which had made his heart leap. But then just as quickly, it had come crashing down. 

Ilya pressed his hands lightly against his eyes and refused to let any tears fall. He should not have said that. He knew the rules, even though they were enjoying each others’ company, it was clear that for Hollander, this was purely physical, so Ilya would not make the mistake of believing it was more than that again.

Chapter 7: The ending the ton did not anticipate

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is a truth universally acknowledged that each Season, like a well-timed waltz, must at last come to its close. Proposals have been tendered, banns read, fortunes secured, and mamas everywhere may at last rest their aching feet and sharper ambitions.

Among the more notable conclusions is the amicable parting of Lord Shane Hollander and Lady Rose Landry, whose mutual admiration, though much admired by the Ton, has resolved itself into something decidedly unromantic. Those who had wagered upon a dramatic eleventh-hour proposal may now collect their losses, for no such spectacle is forthcoming. One hears only praise on both sides. An affection unspoiled by disappointment, and a separation marked by the utmost civility, the explanation given that the pair found each other lovely but they are not compatible.  

As for Lord Rozanov, that most dazzling of foreign ornaments, society appears resigned to his imminent departure. With the Season concluding and no English bride upon his arm, it is assumed that Russia will soon reclaim her errant son. Indeed, his once-frequent appearances alongside Lord Hollander have notably cooled, giving rise to the belief that whatever rivalry, or friendship, which once entertained the Ton has likewise run its course.

And so London exhales, satisfied that every story has found its proper ending.

***

Shane stood at the window of the Landry House parlor, overlooking the square, watching as footmen loaded trunks and suitcases into the waiting carriage below. The family were to depart for their country estate later that morning. He had not missed the hard stares nor the less friendly remarks from her parents in the wake of his failure to propose, but he had committed himself to bid her farewell. Thankfully, they had left Lady Rose’s maid to chaperone them instead of remaining themselves, saving some awkwardness. 

Behind him, Lady Rose poured tea with steady hands, the clink of porcelain the only sound in the room. She had remained composed throughout the entire ordeal.

“You may come away from the window, Lord Hollander,” Lady Rose said mildly. “They will not leave without us noticing.” He turned and she handed him a cup and saucer with a biscuit nestled on the side. He sat down beside her and they smiled as they sipped their tea. 

“Will you write to me?” Lady Rose asked. 

“If it is something you would appreciate, of course,” he replied. 

“I do not want to lose our friendship,” she said. “Even if things did not end in a match for us.” 

“Then you may expect a letter waiting for you upon reaching Ashcombe Park,” he said, feeling warmth in his heart for her kindness. 

“I do hope you are able to enjoy your time in the country,” Lady Rose said, setting down her cup. “I know you much prefer it to London, although perhaps now you will find the company lacking.” 

Shane smiled. “There is plenty to occupy my time at Ottowan Cottage.” 

“But no one to share it with,” she countered gently. “You do understand that you deserve happiness?” 

Shane swallowed, glancing over to her maid, who was pointedly not looking at the pair of them perched on the sofa. “I do,” he said quietly. “But that ship may have sailed.”

Lady Rose smiled a bit sadly at him. “Perhaps next Season then,” she said, “Now, tell me of your plans for your cottage.” 

*** 

Shane’s own parents were also preparing to shutter their London lodgings, but instead of following the dispersal of the Ton to the countryside, they were traveling to France to visit his aunt and uncle in Brittany. Normally, Shane would have accompanied them, but he was anxious to return to Ottowan Cottage and it had taken only a few statements about needing space to recover from a tumultuous Season for them to infer that he needed to nurse his heart after Lady Rose. He did not bother to correct them. Of course, they had been disappointed that he had not secured a match this year, his mother especially. She was probably already scheming for the next Season. 

Rozanov was still in London, and of course they had not been able to avoid each other after the debacle at his home, but they had not spoken directly about it. They still saw each other and were courteous in public, even sparring at the New Admiralty, but had not sought each other out in private the way they had been for the majority of the Season. 

Shane had embarked on a solitary ride to soak in the last rays of sunshine and enjoy the temporary respite from the oppressive social pressures that pervaded the beginning of each Season. He had found a bench near the river that had a fine view of the sun setting, sending its pinks, oranges, and gold rays into the sky. It was beautiful and calm, his horse calmly snuffling in the grass nearby. He felt almost at peace. 

“I thought I might find you here,” a deep voice cut through his peaceful thoughts. Of course, Rozanov. The man had dismounted from his own horse and approached the bench, tentatively. He sat down, further away than he might normally. 

“You were seeking me out?” 

“No, of course not,” Rozanov teased. 

They sat in silence for a moment. Rozanov leaned back on his hands, mirroring Shane’s pose and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing his riding boots at the ankles. “I had to look up the word from the Whistledown paper,” he said lightly. “Compatible.”

Shane nodded. “Lady Rose and I were not… that,” he said. “At least, not in the way the Ton desires.” 

There was another pause. Then Shane spoke again. “When do you depart?” 

“Soon,” Rozanov replied. “It is a long voyage and I do not relish the rocking of the ship for days on end.” He moved his hand over until it was right next to Shane’s and gently hooked their thumbs together without looking over at him. Shane sighed and took a deep breath. 

“I would like to talk,” he said, heart hammering in his chest. “Somewhere private.” 

Rozanov stood and offered his hand, “Come with me then.” 

***

They were in Rozanov’s suite again, his father still absent. Shane could feel his heart hammering in his chest as they entered the library. He could not look at the couch where their last encounter had ended. Instead, he crossed the room and sat down heavily on a nearby chair. 

Rozanov remained near the door, unsure of what to do next. Shane leaned forward and ran his hands up and down the tops of his thighs. “You are very serious,” Rozanov said in that blunt manner that always disarmed Shane. 

“I– It cannot be me alone that is feeling this.” Shane stammered. 

“Feeling what?”

“Do not play the fool, you are far too intelligent for that,” Shane snapped. “Last time, here in this room. It was different between us.” 

Rozanov shrugged nonchalantly and looked away, hiding whatever his true reaction was. 

“Do not pretend that you do not know what I am saying,” Shane pushed. “This conversation is difficult enough without your ill manners.” 

“You talk of manners, but last time you retreated quite hastily,” Ilya said. 

Shane sighed. “Forgive me for that,” he said, more gently. “I was… confused.” 

Ilya turned back to him, his face impassive, clearly hiding what he was feeling. “Then what is it you desire?”

Shane did not know what to say. 

“What we have is simple, yes?” Rozanov said. “We compete in public and then we fuck in private.” 

“It is far from simple,” Shane insisted. He forced himself to look at Rozanov but the other man refused to meet his gaze. 

“It is simple for me.” Rozanov shrugged, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust from his trousers. 

“I think I am attracted to men,” Shane blurted out. 

Rozanov laughed. “Was it all the fucking we did that alerted you to that idea? Or your fascination with having my cock in your mouth?” Shane’s glare only made him laugh more. 

“You like women,” Shane said, almost accusatory. 

“Of course I do,” Rozanov replied mildly. 

“I do not think I am attracted to them at all,” Shane clarified, staring at the wall instead of Rozanov. 

“And what of it?” 

“It is a paradigm shift of who I am as a person! Apologies if I am being tedious again, but I cannot speak about this with anyone else,” Shane gritted out. 

“Yes, keeping it secret maintains our safety,” Ilya said quietly. 

“I am aware,” Shane said, raising his gaze. “But the last time. When we were together, it was different. We were closer, and it felt like we were something… more.” 

Ilya shook his head. “We cannot be more, Hollander,” he sighed, pushing off the wall and coming to sit on the couch. 

“If we could,” Shane said tentatively. “Would you want to be more?” 

“We cannot.”

“That is not what I am asking,” Shane’s voice was softer now. He took a deep breath and then said, slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I do not believe that I can continue to pretend that I do not like you anymore,” he admitted. 

“You do not like me.” 

“I do,” Shane said, his voice shaking. “In fact, I believe I may like you too much.” 

Rozanov waved his hands between them, as if trying to bat the feelings and sweet words away physically. “It does not matter. I cannot–” he cut himself off. “The scandal among the Ton would be one thing, but more importantly, I… would never be able to go home again.”

Shane suddenly felt horrible for not considering Rozanov’s unique position. “What would… happen?” he asked. 

“I do not wish to find out,” Rozanov said, sadly. 

“Is it because of your family’s position?” Shane asked. 

“Because of Russia, Hollander!” Rozanov was back to being angry. “My father is an ambassador, my brother is a politician.” 

“What about your mother?” Shane asked. Rozanov had rarely spoken of her. 

“Dead,” Rozanov bit out. 

“Oh,” Shane breathed. “Forgive me, I….” 

Rozanov waved the apology away. “I was young,” he said. “But my father was not an easy man to grow up with and now he is… sick. He forgets and is angry most of the time.” He breathed out deeply. He had never spoken about his family before and in only a few words he had given Shane a plethora of information. “I hated growing up in Russia, but it was my home,” Rozanov said softly. “I could never return there if we…” Suddenly, he seemed more exposed than Shane had ever seen him, even when they had been naked and embracing each other. There were tears in his eyes. 

Shane rose and moved to stand in front of him. “Ilya,” he whispered, and embraced him. Ilya clung to him, murmuring an apology, and Shane clambered into his lab, straddling Ilya’s thighs to hold him as close as he physically could.  He cradled Ilya’s head in his hands and gently pushed his face upward, peppering light kisses around his face, eventually reaching his mouth. This kiss was different, soft, gentle, and caring. Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane and pulled him close, kissing him as if it could convey everything that he was unable to say out loud. 

Their lovemaking this time was slow and gentle. Ilya lay Shane out on the bed against a pile of pillows in his bed and kissed every inch of his body that he could reach before preparing him and entering him carefully. Shane had wrapped his arms tightly around Ilya’s shoulders and clung to him, feeling tears forming in his eyes that he refused to let fall. And when they were finished, Ilya fetched a damp cloth to clean them, but instead of departing shortly thereafter, Shane stayed. He lay with his head on Ilya’s chest and they spoke of lighter things. 

Later, when they parted ways, Ilya accompanied Shane to the front entryway. “Good night, Shane,” he said softly, smiling as he opened the door. 

Shane paused at the threshold, then turned and returned the smile. “Good night, Ilya.” 

***

Shane had been training hard under Scott Hunter’s tutelage and was eagerly anticipating his final exhibition of the season against Lord Marleau. It was to be a final send off for the gentlemen of the Ton, more for entertainment than true violence, and the day had finally arrived. The New Admiralty was packed with gentlemen, an air of excitement permeating the space. 

He stood in his corner of the ring, rolling his shoulders to keep them loose and eyeing Marleau, who outweighed him by probably two stone, broad-chested and solid, but Shane was feeling confident. With Hunter’s coaching, he was feeling stronger and faster than ever. He caught sight of Ilya, in the front row with his arms crossed, as he turned for Grady to begin carefully wrapping his hands. Their eyes met and Ilya winked with a smile on his face. Shane ducked his head and blushed. 

Hunter approached and thanked Grady for helping with a clap on his shoulder. “Prepared?” he asked Shane. 

“Quite,” Shane replied lightly. 

“Recall that he is slower than you, and use that to your advantage. He has not seen the work you have been doing on your left uppercut, so save that,” Hunter advised. 

The two men met in the center of the ring and shared a handshake and bowed to each other. “Best of luck,” Shane said, courteously. 

“And you,” Marleau returned. 

They circled. Shane kept his guard high, testing Marleau with a quick jab, then another. Marleau answered with a heavy swing that Shane slipped easily, countering with a sharp right to the ribs. The impact that jolted up Shane’s arm was solid and satisfying. The crowd murmured approval.

This was his element. Here, everything made sense.

He moved on instinct, breath steady, feet sure. A feint. A dodge. Another clean hit. Marleau grunted but did not slow, pressing forward, forcing Shane back a step. Shane smiled grimly and reset his stance.

Then he caught a scent of citrus and spice on the air. Shane’s eyes flicked, just for a moment, past Marleau’s shoulder.

Ilya had stood from his seat in the front row. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves and his curls were damp from the heat of so many people in the space. He was not simply watching the match with polite interest. He was watching Shane openly and intently. One corner of his mouth tilted upward and he looked… proud. 

Their eyes met.

It was only a heartbeat. An instant.

But it was enough.

The punch came from the side, much harder than Shane expected. It clipped his jaw and rattled his teeth. The crowd roared. Shane staggered, recovered, raised his guard, but his timing was off now, his balance just slightly wrong.

Marleau did not give him any space.

Another blow landed, glancing but forceful, driving Shane backwards toward the ropes. He ducked the next swing, felt it rush past his ear, and tried to counter, but his foot slipped. The room seemed to tilt, the sounds blurring into a dull roar.

Across the ring, Ilya’s smile vanished.

Shane shook his head, furious with himself. He had faced worse. He could still—

The next punch was a hammer.

It caught him square, white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes. For a suspended moment, there was nothing at all. No sound, no light, just a strange, floating quiet.

Then the floor rushed up to meet him.

He hit hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The lamps above swam and fractured, Hunter’s voice cutting through the haze, sharp with alarm. Someone shouted for water. Someone else cursed.

Shane tried to move. His body could not obey.

He was dimly aware of strong, urgent hands hauling him away from the ring, voices arguing, the crowd’s excitement had turned uneasy. A familiar presence hovered over him. 

“Hollander.” Hunter’s voice, low and tight. “Lord Hollander, look at me.” Strong fingers pried his eyelids open. Shane managed a groan. Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision, heavy and inevitable. “Stay awake,” Hunter commanded. 

“Of course,” Shane murmured. “Please, tell him that I am all right.” 

“Who?” 

“Ilya…” The last thing he felt before slipping under was a hand gripping his shoulder. 

***

“Lord Rozanov!” Hunter barked at him, and Ilya snapped out of his frozen position. “Help me!” Ilya scrambled into the ring, ignoring the gasps and yells around him. 

Marleau had gone as white as a sheet. “I did not think I hit him so hard,” he said, as Ilya brushed past him. 

Ilya crouched down next to Hunter, who was repeatedly commanding Shane to keep his eyes open, but Shane was well and truly unconscious. “Bring him to the back area,” Hunter directed. And Ilya lifted Shane’s body into his arms and awkwardly climbed down from the ring, following Hunter and Grady through a door. His heart was beating out of his chest and he did not like how pale Shane looked. 

“Lay him down here,” Grady directed as they entered a room with a bed, stove, and small kitchen crowded in the space. Ilya gently lay Shane down on the bed, smoothing his hair without being too obvious about it. Shane looked small and pale, but there was very little blood, just a split lip from Marleau’s first punch. 

“Can you fetch the doctor?” Hunter murmured to Grady behind Ilya. “Doctor Astley, just around the corner.”

“Yes, of course.” Grady rushed to the door. 

Hunter came to stand beside Ilya, who backed away from Shane and tried to school his concerned expression into something more calm. Hunter leaned over and used a damp cloth to wipe the blood from Shane’s lip and blotted the sweat from his brow. “I am sure he will be all right.” He paused, then said, in a low voice, “You care for him a great deal.”

“He is a friend,” Ilya responded, evenly. He knew that it would be best for him to move further away, but he could not make his body move. 

“Clearly a very dear one,” Hunter said in an even tone. “I feel much the same about Grady… Christopher.” Ilya was struck by how Hunter said the other man’s name with such softness, “I do not know how I could survive if anything were to happen to him.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. Hunter stepped back saying “Will you watch him for a moment? I will go out and clear the crowd.” 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ilya leaned over Shane again. “Shane,” he whispered. “My Shane, sweetheart, please wake up.”

Shane did not stir. Ilya leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “If something happens to you… I will have no one,” he whispered, in Russian now because English words were too difficult. “My father and brother despise me, my mother is long dead. All I want is you. It is always you. I am so in love with you, I do not know what to do about it.” He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears roll down his cheeks, finally saying out loud the feelings that he had been denying for so long. 

It seemed like only a moment before door burst open and Ilya leaped back and kept his face turned away as he brushed the tears away. Doctor Astley hurried in with Hunter and Grady close behind him. Ilya retreated further, not wanting to be in the way. The doctor meticulously felt around Shane’s head and neck, then down each arm and both of his legs. He had Hunter and Grady flip Shane over gently and performed a similar inspection of his back. They repositioned him face up and the doctor nodded definitively. “Nothing broken,” he confirmed, and all three other men in the room breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor rummaged in his bag and pulled out a vial of something, cracking it under Shane’s nose. Whatever it was caused him to lurch awake, and the doctor had to hold him down. 

“Lord Hollander, you were knocked out while boxing,” he said calmly. “If you please. What is the date today?” 

Shane looked confused, “The twenty-first of May?” 

“And your mother’s name?” 

“Lady Yuna Hollander,” his voice was stronger now. 

“Do you recognize that man?” he pointed to Hunter.  

Shane paused. Hunter’s mouth dropped open. “I know his face…” Shane trailed off. 

The doctor rummaged in his bag again and set a few bottles on the table. “I have some medicine here for you, Lord Hollander,” he said. “Please take a sip of this, it will help you rest.” 

Shane obeyed and drifted off again. The doctor stood and turned to the three men. “He has been concussed,” he stated, plainly.  “But not badly. He knew your face, Mr. Hunter, and the other facts were correct. When he wakes, he can be moved to his home, but the best thing for him now is rest. I will see him again tomorrow. In the meantime, please be sure he drinks that draught every six hours. It will help to keep him calm.” Doctor Astley gathered his bag and coat and headed for the door. 

“Efficient as ever, Astley. You have our gratitude,” said Hunter. “I will see you out,” 

Grady came to stand by Ilya, looking down at Shane. “Mr. Hunter has been concussed many times, and Astley is very experienced in boxing injuries,” he said, comfortingly. “I am sure he will recover.” 

Ilya nodded, grateful for how quickly Astley had come and the confidence with which he had made the diagnosis. He bit the inside of his cheek, wondering if they had seen him leaning over Shane when they burst in. 

“He is welcome to stay here as long as is required,” Grady said. “I rarely have need of this space anymore. We can look after him tonight if you must take your leave.” 

“Thank you for your quick actions,” Ilya said.

Grady smiled. “The two of you seem very close,” he said. “Despite outward appearances.” Ilya glanced at him, but saw no malice in his eyes. “You must care for him deeply, I saw how quickly you rose to help him.” 

Ilya did not answer. He could not think of any response that would not be incriminating. Instead he finally tore his gaze from Shane’s face and said, “I shall inform Lord Pike of what happened. I am sure he would want to know.”

“Please come back at any time,” Grady said. “We will watch over him.” 

Ilya took his leave, although he wanted nothing more than to stay and lay down beside Shane and hold him close. He resolved to return the following day, regardless of what others would think. 

***

Shane opened his eyes, frowning at the strange ceiling and bed that he found himself in. The room was dim, just a single lamp had been placed on the table. Even that amount of light made his head hurt, but the two men sitting at the table made him forget the pain. 

Scott Hunter was leaning over Grady, kissing him deeply on the mouth. Shane blinked a few times, certain that what he was seeing could not be real. But they were kissing, the same way that he and Ilya kissed. 

The darkness was overwhelming him again. As he drifted off, Shane felt a little warmth spread through his chest. Perhaps what he and Ilya had been doing was not so unusual after all. 

***

Shane was awake when Ilya returned the next day, propped up in the bed with a somewhat dopey smile on his face that widened into a genuine grin that crinkled his eyes when he determined the identity of his visitor. “Ilya!” he exclaimed. 

“Well your memory seems better,” Hunter commented from where he had been sitting at the table. “I will step out, the doctor suggested that too many visitors might overwhelm him.” 

As he passed by Ilya he whispered, “Astley changed the medications this morning and gave him something that is making him… effusive.” He patted Ilya on the shoulder and exited the room, leaving them alone. Shane smiled broadly at him from the bed. 

“Are you quite well?” Ilya asked, keeping his distance.

“It is not my first time being hit like that,” Shane admitted. “It happens often enough in the ring. And it could have been worse.” He shrugged, then looked up and his eyes softened as he took Ilya in. He raised his hand making a grabbing motion in Ilya’s direction. “Come here,” he murmured. When Ilya did not immediately move, he pouted adorably. “Please?” he said, elongating the second vowel of the word and gazing at Ilya with soft eyes. When Ilya still hesitated, Shane attempted to push the sheets down in the bed and rise. 

Ilya moved quickly to his side and forced him gently back down. Shane grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly. “Yes,” he whispered, his eyes slipping closed. “Better.” 

Ilya gazed down at the long dark lashes fanning out over those damnable freckles. He reached out with his free hand and ran his thumb gently over the freckles across Shane’s cheek, then caressed the side of his face with the back of his fingers. Shane was safe. He was awake and talking and smiling and more carefree than Ilya had seen him in months. 

“You scared me,” Ilya murmured. 

“My apologies,” Shane said. He cracked one eye open slowly and then the other. “I was going to invite you to the apartment after the match. I am vexed that Marleau made that impossible.” 

“He deeply regrets what transpired. I do not think he meant to hurt you so badly.” 

Shane squinted up at him and smiled again, the kind of smile that made Ilya want to do terrible things to him. “I was going to ask you something else last night,” he said softly. 

Ilya squeezed his hand. “You do not need to do anything now, just rest,” he said. 

“Will you come to the country with me? To Ottowan Cottage?” Shane blurted out. It was clear he had been holding in the request and was nervous about asking. “Do not return to Russia immediately. Come to my home, it would be so enjoyable. It is so… private. We can be together, really together for a time.” 

“Hollander, you know I cannot do that.” 

“No one else would be there, it would be most entertaining. We could ride and walk and fish and hunt and... kiss.” Shane blushed endearingly at the last word. It was clear that he had spent time concocting this plan. He looked up at Ilya with big, hopeful eyes, and Ilya was helpless to resist. 

“Maybe,” he whispered. “Maybe.” 

Shane smiled and let his head drop back against the pillows, clearly drifting off again. Ilya sat down, keeping their hands entwined. He yearned desperately to be every bit the man that Shane deserved, but he was not sure he could rise to the occasion. 

Chapter 8: A country interlude, with consequences

As the last carriages depart Grosvenor Square and London’s ballrooms fall blessedly quiet, this author finds herself reflecting on a Season that refused, most inconveniently, to proceed as expected.

There were engagements, of course. Weddings hastily arranged, fortunes sensibly aligned, and more than one elopement whispered of behind gloved hands. Yet there were also absences that proved far more interesting than proposals ever are.

Lord Hollander, whose constitution caused such alarm at the end of last month, is said to have recovered fully and retreated to the country for rest and recovery. Sensible, one supposes, although it has not gone unnoticed that his convalescence coincided rather neatly with the end of his much-discussed courtship. 

Elsewhere, even the most inviolable of masculine institutions has shown signs of… evolution. Several reputable witnesses insist that at the New Admiralty Boxing Club, two gentlemen of considerable renown, Mr. Scott Hunter and his assistant, were observed in a moment of affection so unmistakable that even the most determined skeptic could not dismiss it as enthusiasm for sport. Remarkably, the ceiling did not fall, society did not collapse, and the Ton, after a brief pause for astonishment, carried on.

One might almost think London is learning that happiness comes in more varieties than the marriage mart ever advertised.

As for our continental curiosity, Lord Rozanov, speculation abounds. Has he returned to his homeland now that the Season has concluded? His sudden departure shook the Ton to its core. 

And so, dear reader, I shall take my leave, confident that while London may slumber, hearts most certainly will not. Change, after all, has a way of arriving quietly, often long before society admits it was invited at all.

Yours, faithfully observant,
Lady Whistledown

***

Shane had always valued solitude. The peace and quiet of the countryside after the whirlwind and pressures of London soothed his nerves and had aided his recovery immensely. Ottowan Cottage was Shane’s refuge: a place without expectation, watchful eyes, or the constant performance of society. Now, though, the silence had taken on a weight these past weeks, pressing in at the edges of his thoughts. 

He sat by the window in the small front parlor, his leg stretched out on a stool, a cup of tea forgotten at his elbow. The worst of his injuries had healed. The bruising had faded from livid purples to pale yellow, and he could walk the grounds again in the sunlight without the sharp reminder of Marleau’s blows. His father would be relieved to know how well he mended while his mother would pretend not to have worried at all. He had written to them not to return immediately from their travels, reminding them that a peaceful retreat was, in fact, exactly the remedy he required. 

Shane held a letter in his hands that he had already read twice that morning: 

My Dear Lord Hollander,

I hope the country air is doing as much for your spirits as I trust it is for your health. I find myself quite content to let the Season fade without regret. I wished only to tell you that I remain grateful for your friendship and honesty. I do hope, sincerely, that you will find precisely the happiness that eluded us both this spring.

Yours, in affection and esteem,
Rose

Shane folded the letter carefully and set it aside on the table. Lady Rose’s handwriting was as composed as ever and her kindness was undiminished. The ache he felt at her words was not regret, only the familiar weight of gratitude, and the strange relief of having been understood.

It was not Lady Rose’s letter that troubled him, but the absence of any other.

He had written, of course. Once, and then again. Polite notes at first, then something closer to confession, sent to Belgrave House. Each had gone unanswered. No word, explanation, or farewell. 

The Count had left London abruptly. Summoned home, perhaps, or merely, as the rumor mill surmised, grown bored with England at last. Shane had heard the speculation with a carefully neutral expression, even as unease had coiled tighter in his chest. Surely, Ilya would not go back to Russia without a word after their last conversation. 

The thought sat ill with him. Not because he believed Rozanov incapable of leaving, far from it, but because silence did not suit him. Ilya was many things: reckless, infuriating, dazzlingly improper. But he was not needlessly cruel. 

Shane rose and walked gingerly toward the window, gazing out at the sweep of green beyond the garden gate. The hedgerows stirred faintly in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, he could see the faint outline of one of the tenant farms.

He told himself there were explanations. Circumstances beyond his knowing.

He did not, however, tell himself that he was not afraid.

***

Several weeks later, on a sunny afternoon, Shane was feeling much improved, and was even contemplating a short ride that evening when sitting out on the veranda when he heard a noise. 

It was not the distant rhythm of a farmhand passing along the road or a carriage rumbling by, but something measured, unhurried, and unmistakably approaching the cottage. He stilled, listening. The sound grew clearer, then slowed, then stopped altogether. It was hoofbeats. 

His breath caught and he hurried inside and down the stairs to the front door. 

He reminded himself not to be foolish, even as his heart began to pound.

He moved toward the door, telling himself it was only habit, only curiosity. When he stepped out onto the small stone stoop, the late afternoon sun momentarily dazzled him. 

And then he saw him.

Ilya Rozanov sat astride a dark horse just beyond the garden gate, one boot already hooked free of the stirrup as though he had dismounted a hundred times in his mind and delayed at the last moment. He looked thinner, Shane thought distantly, his coat travel-worn, his curls less carefully tamed than London had ever required of him. Dust clung to the hem of his trousers. His expression was wary, uncertain, and unmistakably real.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Shane felt as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. Weeks of unanswered letters, of imagined endings, collapsed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

“You left,” Shane said at last. His voice was steady. He was proud of that. “Without sending word.”

Ilya slid down from his horse, the movement stiff with fatigue. He did not smile. That, more than anything, told Shane something was wrong. He walked up the garden path and stopped just a few feet from where Shane stood. 

“I did not know how,” Ilya said quietly. His English, always careful, was roughened at the edges. “And then I did not know if I was permitted to.”

Shane descended the steps, and stopped a careful distance away. “Permitted by whom?”

Ilya hesitated. Then, very deliberately, he removed his gloves and folded them together in his hands, as if bracing himself.

“My father is dead,” he said.

The words fell into the space between them, heavy and irrevocable.

Shane felt the air leave his lungs. “Ilya…”

“He died in Vienna,” Ilya continued, his gaze fixed somewhere over Shane’s shoulder. “It was sudden. There was no farewell.” His mouth twisted faintly. “I suppose he and I were well matched in that regard.”

Shane closed the remaining distance without thinking. He stopped only when he was close enough to see the faint redness at the edges of Ilya’s eyes and the exhaustion he had mistaken for indifference.

“I am sorry,” he said simply.

Ilya looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in his face finally broke.

“I am free,” he said, as if the words surprised him even as he spoke them. “And I am grieving for a man who despised me. I did not know which of those things would matter more to you.”

Shane swallowed. “Did you come all this way to inquire?”

Ilya shook his head. “No.” He exhaled slowly. “I came because this, ” he gestured vaguely, to the house, the fields, and the trees, “was the only place I could think of where the truth might be allowed.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Shane reached out and took Ilya’s hand.

“You should have written,” he said, not unkindly.

“I know,” Ilya replied. “I was afraid you would tell me not to come.”

Shane’s thumb brushed over Ilya’s knuckles, grounding both of them. “I would never have done that.”

Ilya let out a breath that sounded very much like relief. “Then,” he said softly, “I should like to stay. If you will have me.”

Shane could do nothing but smile. He took Ilya by the hand and led him up the stairs to the house, pointing out the dedicated well for fresh water, the specially designed boxing area, and, through the windows, acres and acres of land, full of trees and ponds, exquisitely private and beautiful. 

They reached the parlor and Shane turned. “Do you require any refreshment after your journey?” 

Ilya shook his head and walked slowly towards him, pinning him in place with his attention. Shane was more than happy to be in his sights. Ilya’s hand came up to wind around the back of Shane’s neck as he leaned in with clear intention. Their mouths met gently at first but the kiss quickly became passionate. Shane immediately moved to push Ilya’s coat off and shed his own. 

Ilya walked them slowly towards the large couch positioned behind Shane, who grinned into their kiss and pulled Ilya on top of him as they fell into the cushions. Ilya gazed down at him, cupping Shane’s face with his big hand and running it slowly down his chest. “You are recovered?” he asked. 

“I am much improved,” Shane replied. “Every day seems better. And I expect that with you here, my healing shall accelerate.” 

“I think I need to inspect you,” Ilya said with mock seriousness. “Every inch, to ensure that you are in working order.” His hands moved to unbutton Shane’s shirt and open his trousers. 

Shane laughed freely and let Ilya push his shirt open. “It has been some time, so I may not last very long,” he warned. 

“I am of a similar disposition,” Ilya murmured, kissing him. “Thank goodness we have plenty of time.” 

Shane pushed him back. “Truly?” he asked, incredulous. He had never known Ilya to go for more than a day or two without some sort of pleasurable company. 

“Truly,” Ilya confirmed, pretending to be annoyed. “Now, allow me to–” He shoved Shane’s shirt down his arms and practically tore open his trousers. By this point, all of the bruises from the fight had faded, but Shane had been avoiding being outside for long stretches of time and had been forbidden from his normal exercise routine, so he was paler than he had been back in London, but no less beautiful. There was a healthy flush on his cheeks that intensified the longer Ilya spent looking at him. 

“There, now you have inspected me,” he said, shifting a bit so Ilya could feel his erection pressing into his thigh. “Do you find everything up to your standards?”

“You are perfect,” Ilya murmured. “But I need a more detailed assessment.” He leaned in and kissed Shane deeply, then kissed down his chest, stopping to pay some attention to each nipple, then dragging his tongue down Shane’s abdomen, nipping his flanks to make Shane giggle and squirm. He pulled Shane’s trousers down and kissed down one leg and then up the other one, then directed all of his focus to his prize. 

“This is also perfect,” he murmured, before sliding his mouth down Shane’s length. 

No matter how many times he had done this, he always delighted in Shane’s reaction, which was one part surprised and another effortlessly sensual. He arched his back and cried out, hands flying to Ilya’s head. It was as if he had forgotten how good it felt to have his cock in Ilya’s mouth. No matter, Ilya was happy to remind him as many times as required. 

Shane thought he might explode with desire. Of course he had pleasured himself during their weeks apart, but nothing could replicate the sensation of Ilya’s warm mouth, something he had grown quite accustomed to in London. Ilya began to bob his head and hummed in his throat as if Shane was the most delicious treat. “Ilya, I–” Shane lost his words as he came in Ilya’s mouth. 

Instead of clambering back up his body and asking for him to reciprocate, Ilya stayed where he was. Shane looked down to see an impish gleam in his eyes. Before he could say anything, Ilya spit into his own hand and dipped his hand between Shane’s legs. Shane’s eyes widened as a strong finger breached him, wet with his own release. It was so filthy he did not know how to react. 

Ilya rested his head on the junction between Shane’s abdomen and his thigh, kissing along the defined Adonis lines and dipping his tongue into the ridges between his abdominal muscles. He pressed a light kiss to Shane’s softening cock, drawing a gasp. Shane was always sensitive, but he was especially so after he had released. However, Ilya knew after all of their encounters that it would not take much for him to become aroused again. He added another finger between Shane’s legs and groaned at vice-like pressure. He changed the angle of his hand, searching for the hidden bundle of nerves that made Shane cry out so loudly, it had almost caused them to be discovered previously.

Shane bit his lip and then covered his own mouth with his hand, used to needing to keep quiet. When Ilya saw that, he reached up and grabbed Shane’s hand, prying it away from Shane’s mouth. “We are alone here, yes?” he asked, thrusting his fingers in and causing Shane to gasp as he nodded. “Then I want to hear you. I want to hear everything.” Then he ducked his head back down and began to lick around the area where his fingers were now plunging in and out of Shane’s body in earnest. 

It turned out that when properly motivated and unrestrained, Shane made the most delicious noises. He moaned, gasped, cried, begged, and cursed Ilya at various points. He tried to convince Ilya to go faster, then attempted to goad him into forgoing a third finger, but Ilya would not be deterred. He catalogued every noise and reaction as if it were the first time he was hearing them. 

“Ilya,” Shane sighed, falling back onto the loveseat. “I am ready. Please, do not make me wait any longer.” He felt like he was in a dream. 

Ilya positioned himself between Shane’s legs and gazed down at him. “You are mine,” he whispered, as he began to push in. 

“Yours,” Shane confirmed with a whimper. He threw his head back and reveled in the familiar fullness, always right on the edge of too much. He opened his eyes to see Ilya above him, mouth dropped open, looking starstruck. Shane hitched his legs further up Ilya’s back and tried to push himself down onto Ilya’s cock. “You must move or I will perish,” he whined. 

A more familiar smile spread across Ilya’s face. “I would never allow that,” he promised. And pulled out and thrust back with such force that Shane could not help but cry out. He braced his hands on the armrest of the loveseat above him as Ilya continued to move within him, rearranging his insides just as he had rearranged everything else in Shane’s life. 

“Please, harder,” Shane begged. 

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Ilya said, even as he began to thrust even harder and faster. 

“I will tell you if it hurts,” Shane promised, and kissed him, all tongue and teeth. 

Ilya claimed him in a fashion that might have been brutal if Shane had not desired it exactly so. At one point, the loveseat’s legs came up off the floor and banged back down upon it, making them both laugh breathlessly but it did not deter them. 

Shane came again, nearly out of his mind with pleasure and Ilya followed him over the crest not long after, stilling deep inside him and letting out a long, satisfied groan. He did not pull out as they both came down from their highs, instead leaning over to kiss Shane thoroughly once again before collapsing with his head on Shane’s chest. 

“May I make a request?” Shane asked, breathing into the curls on Ilya’s head.

“If it is for me to fuck you again you must give me few minutes,” Ilya replied. 

Shane laughed. “No. Well, maybe in a few hours,” he conceded. “I meant… While we are here, can we agree to be honest with each other? Share how we truly feel?” 

Ilya propped his chin up on Shane’s pectoral, considered for a moment, and then nodded with a small smile. “I will try,” he said. “For you.” Shane’s heart leapt and he leaned in for a kiss. 

“You have ruined this loveseat,” Shane commented. 

“Of course, is only me, not the master of this house who was begging for me to ruin it only moments ago,” Ilya retorted with fond exasperation.  

Shane smiled and kissed him.

***

Shane had only minimal household staff at Ottowan House, partially because he had only just returned and partially because he preferred the solitude. Perhaps inspired by Ilya’s toasted bread back in London, he had been learning to cook for himself so as not to be quite so dependent on others. 

He was standing in the kitchen, stirring a sauce, checking the vegetables, and peering at the meat sizzling in the pan. He was not sure how to determine when it was finished cooking. The outside had browned but he did not want the inside to remain raw. 

Arms wrapped around him from behind. “This is a feast,” Ilya commented. 

“I am following a recipe,” Shane gestured to the scribbled notes he had received from their chef in London. 

“You need not cook it all at once,” Ilya scolded. “You reduce the amount by half. I thought you English learned mathematics at Oxford.” 

“Leave me be,” Shane pushed him away. 

Ilya’s arms tightened around him. “No,” came the quiet reply. And Shane felt him plant a light kiss right behind his ear. 

Later, when they were eating on the veranda, Shane surveyed the food, a veritable vat of vegetables, multiple servings of roasted meat, and enough sliced fruit for an entire family. “Perhaps I was overzealous,” he admitted. 

“Is delicious,” Ilya remarked, through a mouthful. In London, his lack of table manners had irritated Shane at times. Now, it made his heart warm to see Ilya enjoying the meal he had made regardless of whether he was using the correct fork or taking delicate bites to ensure there was no gap in conversation. 

“Did you see the final Whistledown of the Season before your departure?” Shane asked.

“I suppose she remarked upon us, as usual,” Ilya remarked dryly. 

“Yes, but Hunter and Grady were mentioned as well. They were showing affection. In public.”

Ilya frowned. “And did the Ton fall to pieces?” he asked. 

“That is what was so surprising,” Shane replied. “They were… accepted. I was shocked. I wrote to Hunter after I had departed London, letting him know that I supported him and Grady. In his reply he said that his club is more popular than ever, and that my note was one of many he had received.”

Ilya took a sip of his ginger beer. “Perhaps London is more accepting than we believed,” he remarked, mildly. “Certainly more so than Moscow.”

“Ilya,” Shane looked at him, remembering that he had asked for honesty during this time. “Would you ever…” Ilya gave him an encouraging look. “Consider staying in England?” 

Ilya thought for a moment. “Now that my father is dead there is not the same requirement to return to Russia. I would miss my nieces and nephew, but if there were… something to keep me occupied here it would make the move more plausible for the late ambassador’s son.” 

Shane considered the statement, but Ilya reached out and touched his face gently. “Do not worry about that now,” he said. “Will you show me the grounds tomorrow afternoon? I do not think I will let you out of bed before noon.” 

Shane blushed and went back to eating. 

***

Ilya made good on his promise to keep Shane in bed the following day. When Shane had awoken at his customary early morning hour, he had made to rise from the bed and found himself pulled back down and held closely to Ilya’s chest while the man murmured something in Russian. 

“What did you say?” he asked, curiously, poking at Ilya’s unfairly large pectorals. 

“I said that it is too early for anyone to be awake and listed some things I will do to you if you wake me up again,” Ilya said without opening his eyes. 

Shane let Ilya wrap him in his arms and pressed a kiss to his chest before asking, “Could you teach me Russian?”

“Only useful phrases. ‘Yes, sir, harder please,’, ‘I am about to come’,” Ilya said sleepily, cracking one eye open. 

Shane shoved him playfully. “And what about, ‘I am happy you are here with me’?” 

Ilya said something in Russian and Shane tried to mimic the sounds but Ilya only laughed at him. By then, they were fully awake, much to Ilya’s chagrin. 

“You must be punished for waking me so early,” he growled, kissing down Shane’s chest. 

“And what punishment will you mete out?” Ilya looked thoughtful for a moment before bodily flipping Shane onto his stomach and hauling him over his legs before bringing his hand down and smacking Shane’s rear loudly.

“I have done nothing to deserve such treatment!” Shane gasped and then giggled. Ilya spanked him again. “All I did was to rise at my usual hour and–”

“Indeed you made something rise,” Ilya retorted, and began smacking him harder and faster. Shane’s giggles dissolved into moans. “You were most improper, Hollander, tempting with this body, not even wearing a nightshirt to sleep.” 

“You would not allow it!” Shane was fully hard now, turning to and fro to try and escape the blows. He made to rise to his hands and knees but Ilya grabbed his arms and trapped them at the small of his back. Shane’s rear had begun to turn a delightful red, inflaming Ilya even further. 

“Take your punishment like a man, sweetheart,” Ilya growled, biting the nape of Shane’s neck. He slid his hand between Shane’s cheeks and drew a gasp from the man below him, who had turned his face to the side. 

“I shall show you how to accept defeat like a gentleman,” Shane growled, and suddenly, he had twisted his hands from Ilya’s grasp and had managed to wrestle Ilya onto his back and was kissing him. 

“I shall never surrender!” Ilya exclaimed between kisses. Shane managed to pin his arms down above his head and licked a stripe up from his chest up the side of his face. 

“Then I shall conquer you fully,” Shane murmured against his skin. He sat back, not releasing Ilya’s wrists, and ground down against him, making Ilya groan at the slide of bare skin on bare skin. 

“You should never wear clothing,” Ilya said, looking up at him. “Especially to bed.” 

Shane smiled. “That would be quite the scandal.” He sat up and released Ilya’s hands. “Keep them there,” he commanded, then reached back to grip Ilya’s cock firmly. Ilya gasped as Shane maneuvered himself up and then impaled himself slowly on that hard length, biting his lip as he adjusted to the intrusion. He sank down bit by bit, still somewhat warm, wet, and open from the previous night. “I am not sure I shall ever get used to this feeling,” he sighed. “It is… overwhelming.” 

Ilya groaned. “I would be pleased to help you practice,” he teased, holding himself back from thrusting upwards. 

“I have never been inside you,” Shane observed, as he began to lift himself up and down, swiveling his hips a bit each time he bottomed out.

“I do not prefer it,” Ilya ground out, trying to hold onto his sanity as his gaze locked on where they were joined. “But for you, I would try.” 

After that, they did not exchange words, just gasps and moans and long kisses. Ilya slapped Shane’s rear several more times, reveling in the pleasured gasp Shane made in response each time. He gripped Shane tightly as they both came and then held him closely as they drifted back to sleep. 

***

“I could marry an English woman.”

Shane paused in his letter writing and looked up from his desk. Ilya was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the grounds. Shane set down his pen and leaned back in the chair, feeling a surge of envy. He did not say anything. 

“It would make sense. I could return to England without any problems.” Ilya turned to look at him and Shane met his gaze steadily. 

“Is there an English woman whom you would want to marry?” 

“It would be for convenience. The exact woman makes no difference. Perhaps your friend Lady Rose would be willing,” Ilya shrugged. 

“Except,” Shane did not quite know how to say it. “You enjoy the company of women.” 

“I do, and what of it?” 

“You could find a woman that you truly cared for,” Shane said softly, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “And it would not be so complicated as our situation.” 

Ilya turned fully from the window and walked over to where Shane was sitting. “True, except for one problem.”

“Tell me about this problem.” Shane’s bit out through his clenched jaw. 

“It is truly vexing,” Ilya sighed. “I am always surrounded by beautiful, accommodating, marriage-minded women.”

“A terrible problem indeed,” Shane turned to continue with his letter. 

“Yes, listen. Because no matter how many lovely women are around me, I cannot stop thinking about this short, tedious earl,” Ilya said softly. “With the most beautiful freckles. And a weak left hook.” 

“It is not weak!” Shane threw down the pen, but he was smiling now. 

“I am always wishing these women were him. Is terrible problem.” Ilya ran his hand through his hair and pouted a bit. There was a dusting of pink on his cheeks. 

“And this problem, would you like it to disappear?” Shane asked, heart in his chest. 

Ilya smiled and shook his head. “No,” he murmured, “I do not ever want this problem to ever disappear.” He raised his hand and trailed the back of his knuckles down Shane’s cheek. 

“Please, do not marry a woman,” Shane blurted out. “We can think of an alternate plan. Together.” 

“Very well.” Ilya turned back to the window and Shane returned to his letter. 

***

Over the next few lazy days, Ilya enjoyed seeing Shane at his most relaxed. While Shane was in his element in the boxing ring and intensely focused when racing or playing cricket, here he was more unabashedly himself. They went on a tour of the grounds, Shane boasting about the early crop yields that his tenant farms were producing and excitedly telling Ilya about his plans to expand his ideas to other properties. It was wonderful to see him passionate and excited about the future. 

They had stopped by the small lake near the main house as they circled back from the tour to enjoy the sun and let the horses roll around in the grass nearby. They walked down the small dock that jutted into the lake, hands intertwined. 

“This is a beautiful place,” Ilya said. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Shane smiled at him. “About that,” he said. “I have been thinking more about your predicament and had a thought.”

Ilya nodded, encouraging him to continue. “I thought perhaps you might help me manage the new properties I have purchased. It will be quite an undertaking as it would more than double the number of tenant farmers. With the added income, we could start a charitable organization of some kind and there would be not only a reason for you to stay but also for us to be seen together publicly.” 

Ilya considered it. It was a good plan. Running a business was a respectable position and it would be clear that he could not do so from Russia. “Do you always plan quite so far in advance?” he asked.

“When I care deeply about something, yes,” Shane replied. 

“And you care deeply about this? The two of us?”

“I do,” Shane said confidently. “I would… like to find a way for us to be together,” he said more hesitantly. 

“Is a good plan,” Ilya said. “It could work. But make the crops potatoes so we can finally have good vodka in England.”

That evening, they were lounging by the fire in the library, Ilya’s head in Shane’s lap as Shane paged through a book about Parisian farming techniques. Ilya had declared it tedious upon seeing the title and Shane had procured a romance novel for him instead. 

Shane closed his book with a soft thump and set it down, then gently began running his fingers through Ilya’s curls. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. Ilya was gazing into the fire, an inscrutable look on his face. The novel lay open on his chest, and he was toying with the cross around his neck. 

“My mother,” Ilya admitted.

“You must miss her,” Shane commented, giving Ilya’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Do you mind if I ask, how did she die?” 

“She took her own life.” Shane’s hand froze in its movements. 

“I-I am sorry.” 

“I was twelve. I found her and… they told me it was an accident but I knew it was not. My father was so horrible to her because she was always protecting me from him. I believe her death made him hate me even more.” The words spilled out as Ilya realized had never told anyone this before. 

Shane’s arms tightened around him. “You were a child, an innocent,” he said quietly.

“It is too late to change that now,” Ilya sighed. “But she was wonderful. She would have enjoyed being here. She loved the countryside…” He trailed off for a moment before he cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Can you read me some of your book out loud?” 

Shane smiled sadly, allowing the distraction and plucked the romance novel from where it lay on Ilya’s stomach instead. “Perhaps something less tedious,” he said. 

***

They were laying in bed together a few nights later, almost ready to drift off to sleep, when Shane suddenly turned to Ilya in the dark and said, “The charitable organization. What if it was a foundling hospital?” 

“A what?” 

“A home for abandoned, vulnerable children. It would feed them, house them, help secure vocations when they are old enough to work. We could help their mothers, too.  Ensure that they are safe before and after they give birth.” 

Ilya smiled, his heart warming. “Is a good idea,” he said. “What would you call it?” 

“What was your mother’s name?” 

“Irina,” Ilya said, wistfully. 

“We could name it for her,” Shane said. “And try to help women like her who feel like they have no other choice.”

Ilya felt tears well up in his eyes. He hooked his finger under Shane’s chin and kissed him deeply. He rolled over, settling between Shane’s legs, and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, and down his neck, murmuring something in Russian, and then, in English, softly, “I love you.” 

Shane’s mouth fell open, words utterly failing him, completely taken aback. Ilya looked terrified, tears were threatening to spill down his cheeks. “That is…” he stammered. 

“I love you, too.” The words were out of Shane’s mouth without needing to consider them at all. It was so obvious that he was surprised that he had not realized those feelings until Ilya had vocalized them. He kissed Ilya, then hugged him close, tears beginning to form in his own eyes. “I love you so very much,” he whispered, lips against Ilya’s forehead. They embraced, holding each other close. 

 “Can you teach me to say it in Russian?” Shane murmured. 

Through his tears, Ilya said, slowly, enunciating clearly, “Ya tebya lyublyu.” 

Shane repeated the words carefully. He would need to practice, but he resolved at that moment that he would learn Ilya’s mother tongue. “Does it… feel like agony for you as well?” he asked tentatively. Ilya initially nodded, but then stopped himself and pondered for a moment, then a smile broke over his face. 

“Not anymore.” 

*** 

It was the middle of the day and they had just returned from a long ride around the grounds. Ilya had goaded Shane into a race and both of them had been covered in dirt from a few jumps along the path. Shane had insisted that they bathe before Ilya had convinced him that there was no need for them to don clothes again immediately. 

Ilya was deep inside him, running his hand up and down Shane’s thigh and admiring the twist in his torso, grateful for Shane’s flexibility. Shane had one arm covering his face and the other tossed around Ilya’s neck. He pressed a sucking kiss to Shane’s pectoral, then laved his tongue over his nipple, making Shane gasp with pleasure. He moved his arm down to meet Ilya’s gaze. 

“H-How did we let this happen?” he asked as Ilya kissed his flank again. 

“I do not know,” Ilya whispered into his skin. “We were very foolish and irresponsible.” 

“It is… real, though.” It was almost a question. 

“It is,” Ilya confirmed. 

“Please, remind me that I am yours,” Shane whimpered, reaching over to hold Ilya’s face in his hand. Ilya began to thrust and thought he might pass out from the pleasure. Shane had always been beautiful, but now, with Ilya’s marks on him from the previous nights and so in love, he was breathtaking. 

Shane moved his hand to Ilya’s neck and pressed his thumb against Ilya’s lips. He opened his mouth without thinking and sucked the digit in, gazes locked together as they tried to somehow be closer, deeper than they already were. 

***

They had gone for a swim in the lake near the house on a particularly warm afternoon, racing each other, wrestling, splashing, and kissing while floating in the water. It had been a carefree, youthful day and all Ilya wanted to do was make love to Shane in the grass near the lake. He was just winding Shane’s thighs around his waist, when the sound of hooves made them both freeze. 

They hastened out of the water, pulling on their clothing haphazardly and, in their haste, donned each others’ shirts without realizing it. Shane hopped on one foot, yanking his boots back onto his feet and then tried to no avail to brush off his jacket. They hurried up the hill and back into the house, trying their best to look presentable. 

It was Lord and Lady Hollander. Shane cursed as he saw them disembarking from the carriage. “You should go up,” he said, pushing Ilya towards the staircase. 

“They will discover me eventually,” Ilya hissed. 

“I cannot–” Shane did not know what to do. This was his nightmare made real. Of all the members of the Ton, he was not ready to explain this debacle to his parents. How he had lied for two Seasons nor why Lord Ilya Rozanov was in an entirely improper state of undress in the entry hall of their son’s home, and, of course, how he would not be able to provide them with an heir. 

It was too late. They had reached the door and the bell ringing echoed through the entrance hall. Shane steeled himself, squared his shoulders, and sucked in a deep breath before striding to the door. 

“Shane, what on earth are you wearing?” were the first words out of his mother’s mouth. “I know you dislike the stuffiness of the London fashions but this is simply unbecoming.” She brushed past him into the foyer, his father not far behind. “We decided to come back early to help with your recovery, but it was so difficult to secure travel.” 

“You gave us quite a scare, my boy,” Lord Hollander removed his hat as he entered. 

Lady Hollander turned to embrace him but stopped at the sight of Ilya standing stiffly at the foot of the steps up to the main hallway, clad in soaking linen pants that were dripping on the marble floors and a hastily donned, ill-fitting shirt with his jacket haphazardly hanging from his arm. 

Lady Hollander rounded on her son, mouth agape. “Mother, Father, this is… not how I wanted you to discover…” Shane trailed off. 

“Discover what, precisely?” Lord Hollander said, gruffly. 

“That I have tried, in every way I know how, to be what is expected of me. But I cannot offer my heart where it does not reside,” Shane breathed, gaze fixed on the wall behind his parents. “There is… someone for whom my affections have been engaged. You have met Lord Rozanov.” 

“Good afternoon, Lord and Lady Hollander.” Ilya bowed awkwardly. 

“Lord Rozanov has been visiting for a few days. To help me recover from my fall.” Shane left it at that. 

“But… you dislike each other,” Lady Hollander said, quietly. 

Shane shook his head. “Far from it. In fact it is… quite the opposite,” he said. His father did not speak, only looked between him and Ilya incredulously. 

“Could we… sit?” Shane offered. “Ilya– Lord Rozanov and I can go and change, and then we can discuss further.” 

They hurried up to change in tense silence after his parents had gone into the front parlor. Shane’s hands were shaking as he attempted to shuck off his wet clothes. “I do not know what to say to them,” he said softly. “There are not words to explain this… how I have lied and… ” He tossed his shirt into the corner and stood with one hand over his mouth. “I am terrified,” he whispered. 

Ilya stepped towards him and embraced him gently. “Yes,” he said simply. “But you are also brave.” 

“Stop.” 

“You are. And I will be beside you.” Ilya kissed his forehead and embraced him, and Shane wished he felt as brave as Ilya imagined him to be. 

His father had poured himself a large scotch and his mother was sipping a gin when they appeared in the parlor. Shane forced himself to go in and sit down. They were sitting, not standing, and waiting, not yelling, which was a good start. Ilya followed him and sat down on the far end of the couch, putting enough distance between them to be respectable. Instead of his usual relaxed pose, he said with his feet together and his hands clasped in his lap, almost like a child waiting to be disciplined. 

“Apologies that you had to find out in this manner,” Shane began, awkwardly. 

“For how long has this been happening?” his mother asked, hand gripping her glass tightly. “Was it… after Lady Rose spurned you?” 

“No, it started before that. Since last Season,” Shane admitted. 

“You have been in love since–” 

“No,” Shane interrupted at the same time as Ilya. “It was just…” Shane trailed off, unsure of how to explain without being crude. Ilya waved his hand, hoping they would understand. “Just…” 

“I see,” his father said evenly. “We did notice that you became friendlier this Season, but thought it was just the two of you maturing.” 

“You have been keeping it secret this entire time?” his mother asked. “Shane, did you… ever let him beat you at racing or cricket or…?” 

“I would rather die,” Shane replied immediately. Ilya chuckled. 

“Lord Rozanov, I am particularly surprised at this revelation given your… reputation with women,” Lord Hollander commented.  

“It is true that I have courted many women,” Ilya said slowly. “But I have only ever been in love with one person.” He looked at Shane and smiled.  

Shane’s vision became blurry and he had to duck his head. His mother’s face had softened and his father looked… proud? “The same is true for me,” Shane murmured. “Only one person.” 

His mother leaned back in her chair, taking in all of this new information. “What is your plan for the future?” she asked at last. 

Shane carefully explained their planned joint business venture and the foundling hospital idea and how this would allow them to be seen together publicly and allow Ilya to stay in England. 

“And you will just… hide the rest of the time?” his father asked. 

“We are hoping to fade into obscurity once the Ton have had their fill of us,” Shane explained. “Then it will not matter so much if someone discovers us.” 

“But that is not just,” Lady Hollander exclaimed. “Take Mr. Hunter and Mr. Grady. They have not been cast out or maligned.” 

“What about an heir?” his father asked, softly. 

Shane bowed his head. “I have no ideas on that front.” He glanced over at Ilya, who was also sober. 

His mother let out a breath, then said “You could adopt a ward from your hospital.” She met Shane’s disbelieving eyes with a smile and then said “I have been thinking of possible options since last Season, Shane.” 

Shane let out a relieved laugh. He could not believe his parents’ reactions. Whenever he had imagined this conversation, it had involved much more anger and bitterness. 

His parents took their leave shortly thereafter, promising to come by later the following day. “We shall send a letter ahead with the exact time,” his father promised. 

As Shane closed the door and went to embrace Ilya, he thought his heart would burst. He had never felt so much happiness and contentment before in his life. While he knew that the road ahead would not be smooth, he was confident that they would face it together. 

Chapter 9: Epilogue: Respectable, ridiculous, and in love

Chapter Notes

“You stopped smoking cigarettes.” 

Ilya marked the spot in his book and looked up at Shane, who had appeared at his side on the veranda with a cup of tea. 

“And what of it?” he replied nonchalantly. 

“I have not seen you smoke one since you arrived. Have you stopped entirely?” Shane’s brow furrowed. 

“You did not like the taste,” Ilya shrugged, flipped open his book again and reached for the tea, not noticing the besotted look that Shane was giving him. 

***

Ilya had secured land near Ottowan Cottage and an official invitation from Their Majesties to reside in England at his leisure, as a recognition of his father’s service and his thriving business with Lord Hollander. The Ton were delighted to officially welcome their newest member. 

There was an official ceremony at the palace as an excuse for the Ton to gather and celebrate. Ilya had to have a suit made especially for the occasion and Shane surprised him with a jeweled pocket watch especially designed for the day. Shane attended, of course, with his parents, and when Ilya entered and approached the king and queen, he found himself smiling. Restrained, of course, since they were in public, but with his heart full of tight, aching pride. Ilya was doing this for him, integrating himself into Shane’s public world as much as his private one. 

At the reception afterwards, Shane approached Ilya and offered his hand, as was expected, congratulating him and welcoming him officially into the Ton. 

Later, after all the receptions and well-wishes and celebratory drinks with friends, they lay in bed, nestled front to back like two spoons in a drawer. “Thank you,” Shane whispered. “For caring enough for me to stay.” 

Ilya kissed the back of his neck and snuggled closer. “I love you,” he replied. “I did it for us.” 

***

“How do you say, ‘Yes, sir, harder please’ in Russian?” Shane asked apropos of nothing one day when they were taking a morning stroll around the grounds.

Ilya placed his hand over his heart. “Why, Lord Hollander,” he gasped, in mock shock. “Such crude language unbecoming of a gentleman.” 

Shane shoved him playfully. “I am serious about wanting to learn your language,” he said. Then, in a smaller voice. “I am also serious about calling you ‘sir’.”

Ilya could not help the grin that spread across his face. “Truly?” he asked. And Shane nodded, blushing furiously. “What has brought this on?”

Shane did not answer at first, and he did not want to meet Ilya’s gaze. But Ilya was patient, giving Shane space to think about how exactly he wanted to phrase his answer. He knew Shane well enough to realize that his silence was not due to reticence, but because he wanted to be clear in his own mind before voicing any thoughts. 

Eventually, Shane spoke. “When we are together and you are… authoritative, it calms me. And when you give me rules to follow and reward me for it, I am reminded that I am good.” 

“I was referring to learning Russian,” Ilya teased.

Shane’s face flushed. “You ass,” he retorted. “Here I am trying to admit something deeply personal to you and…” he trailed off, looking away.  

Ilya did not respond right away, taking a few careful steps to bring himself closer before saying in a low, commanding voice, “Tell me what you want me to do to you.” 

“I will not,” Shane stomped away, half angry, half aroused. 

Ilya snagged his coat tail and hurried after him, a sly smile on his face. “You will tell me,” he promised. “One way or another.” 

Later that night, Ilya pinned Shane beneath him, lay between his legs, and held his cock in his mouth without moving until Shane told him every fantasy he had ever had about the two of them, already planning which one they would enact first. 

***

One of the tenant farmers, Mr. Webb, was enjoying a tremendous strawberry harvest this year and had sent word to Shane that he should come and help himself whenever he pleased. After a late breakfast one morning, they took a leisurely ride over to the farm where Webb provided them with a basket and turned them loose in the fields. 

Ilya had been the first to smash a berry against Shane’s lips instead of putting it in the basket, which began a quiet but intense scuffle. They had been quite disheveled upon returning to Ottowan Cottage and Shane had licked the sweet juices from Ilya’s neck, chin, and lips instead of wiping them with a cloth. Later, they enjoyed cake with fresh berries and whipped cream that Ilya insisted on licking off of Shane’s stomach when they retired to bed that night. 

***

Having Scott Hunter and Christopher Grady visit Ottowan Cottage had caused a bit of an impactful stir amongst members of the Ton. When the news of their partnership being more than professional had broken, the Ton had been surprisingly accepting but hesitant to draw more attention to them. While Hunter was not a noble, his respectable reputation and status allowed him to socialize freely with the Ton and many gentlemen had sparred with Grady and encountered him at The Kingfisher. Hunter had shared that they had received many more letters of support than of disdain, but few invitations for the country or to social events. When he learned of this, Ilya had insisted that they invited both Hunter and Grady to stay and Shane had hastened to pen a letter. Now, seeing the man he had looked up to for years sitting in his dining room beside his partner, Shane was pleased beyond belief. 

“How does it feel,” Shane asked, boldly. “Blazing a new trail in London society?” 

Hunter and Grady turned to look at each other, both smiling. Hunter reached out and Grady took his hand. “It feels… terrifying but also wonderful,” Hunter said. “It is freeing to be able to acknowledge the person you love without fear.”

“We do not flaunt it, though,” Grady added. “We understand that it will take time for society to familiarize themselves with the concept.” 

Shane felt Ilya’s foot gently tap against his underneath the table. “Of course,” Ilya said softly. “They are probably weeping at the lack of eligible gentlemen on the marriage market being even further constrained.” 

“And what of the two of you?” Hunter said, archly. “Will you finally seek out brides or simply let Whistledown’s tongue wag until you are discovered?” 

“Discovered?” Shane stuttered. “What could you possibly–”

“You are terrible at lying. Best to stop trying,” Hunter said with a gentle smile. 

“I have always said this,” Ilya said, slapping Shane on the shoulder. “Terrible liar.” 

“H-How long have you suspected?” Shane asked. 

“You said his name when Marleau knocked you out,” Hunter admitted. “That is why I asked Rozanov to help me carry you.” 

Shane’s cheeks went red. Of course he had no memory of that. “Thank you, for not announcing it publicly.”

“Of course not, you must protect what is dear to you,” Grady gave him a soft smile. “Now, tell us more of your plan for the foundling hospital and how we may help.” 

***

They were lounging in bed after an indulgent morning of making love, Ilya having convinced Shane that before sunrise was far too early for them to arise and face the day. Shane lay with his head pillowed on Ilya’s chest, listening to his heart beat while Ilya’s hand combed through his hair and gazed out the window and listened to the birds singing. 

“Will you tell me more about this?” Shane asked, his hand coming up to gently trace the shape of the gold cross on a chain around Ilya’s neck. “I know it must be important to you as you never remove it.” 

Ilya reached up and grasped Shane’s hand gently, wrapping their fingers around the cross together. “It belonged to my mother,” he explained, softly. “She wore it every day and it was the only thing that remained after she died. They removed everything else. It was as if she had never existed.”

Shane leaned down and kissed the back of Ilya’s hand. “I am so sorry for what happened to her,” he said quietly. “I am so grateful to her for raising you and protecting you and contributing to the man that you are now. The man whom I love.” 

Ilya smiled only a little sadly and embraced Shane gently. “She would have loved you,” he whispered. “Like I love you.” 

***

Ilya was searching through Shane’s desk, looking for a specific letter they had received from Lord Connors regarding contributions to the foundling hospital. He was sure he had seen it there just yesterday, but it must have been put away. He pulled open a few drawers but could not locate it. 

In a bottom drawer, pushed to the back behind some spare ink bottles, was a stack of letters, tied together with a gold cloth ribbon. Curious, Ilya extracted them and examined the first few. His heartbeat began to pick up as he recognized his own handwriting. Shane had saved every letter that Ilya had sent. Even the ones that were merely an address and a time with no name signed, neatly organized in chronological order. Ilya read back his own words, remembering how carefully he wrote to be flirtatious without being obvious lest someone else intercept the letters. 

As he flipped through them, he came across one he did not recognize, in Shane’s handwriting, dated just after their disastrous first encounter at the beginning of their second Season. He scanned the letter hungrily. There were words scratched out and sentences that began but did not end. But one phrase jumped out at him: We did not even kiss.

Ilya gripped the unsent letter tightly, thinking back to that evening and how delighted he had been to see Shane after so long. How excited he had been when Shane had invited him to the apartment, but apprehensive about how things had changed between them during their time apart. He had wanted to ravish Shane at once but the anticipation had been even sweeter. When Shane had mentioned Hunter with such admiration, Ilya had realized that perhaps Shane had moved on during their time apart. That he viewed their arrangement as just that, an arrangement, with no emotional ties. And Ilya had resolved to keep it that way. His suspicions had been confirmed when Shane had begun to court Lady Rose and he had tried to keep his distance, but something kept drawing him back. Like a string tied behind his heart that tugged each time he saw Shane. He was very glad that he had not ignored that feeling. 

Slowly, Ilya replaced all of the letters exactly as they had been, retying the ribbon around them and replacing them in their hiding spot. He exited the room and hurried to find Shane, who was outside in the stables brushing his horse with his back to the door. Ilya pounced and took advantage of Shane’s lips parting in surprise to kiss him deeply. 

“Not that I am complaining,” Shane panted as Ilya broke the kiss to lick down his neck, “But what has brought this on?”

“I should kiss you at every opportunity,” Ilya declared. “At minimum, once per day.” 

If Shane was puzzled by this sudden amorous behavior, the question soon fled his mind as Ilya proceeded to make love to him against the stable wall. 

*** 

They were walking in the streets of Derbyshire together when Shane realized that Ilya always walked on the street side, to shield him from the noise and the splashes from the passing carriages. He also kept stock of their ginger beer supply and procured more without being asked. He had charmed so many members of the Ton into donating to their foundling hospital that they were going to be able to construct three new buildings and hire twice as many staff members. He remembered that Shane preferred his tea with milk and only a little sugar. 

Meanwhile, Shane knew that Ilya was terribly grumpy in the morning prior to his first cup of coffee and would sleep as late as possible if given the opportunity. He knew exactly which suppliers stocked the Russian vodka that Ilya preferred and would place orders months in advance to ensure that their supply never ran out. He recalled that Ilya enjoyed romance novels and would rotate the selection in the library at Ottowan Cottage regularly in secret. And he knew that when Ilya reached out and tapped their feet together under the table at a dinner party, that was his discreet, non-verbal way of reminding him that I love you. 

Shane desperately wanted to reach out and take Ilya’s hand. Perhaps now was not the time, but he hoped that soon they could be as honest and open with Ton as they now were with each other. 

Chapter End Notes

This has been so much fun to write! If anyone has any suggestions for additional stories you'd like to see in this universe let me know.