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Shane Hollander thinks it's high time he finds a wife.
No one is pressuring him – Lord knows, his mother only wants him to be happy, and his father has been gone now for eleven years. Yuna has made it clear from the start that she doesn’t care much about his Viscountly duties and would rather he finds a love match, but Shane swore, ten years ago, after his father’s death and his mother’s grief, that he would never let heartbreak touch him. And the best way to avoid heartbreak?
Well… don’t fall in love, of course.
It was proving to be rather easy, too. Women never really caught Shane’s eye. While his friends back at Cambridge were busy bedding any woman they could lure into their lairs, Shane was hard at work studying. When his friends at the gentlemen’s club discussed which woman had the best breasts, Shane’s head was lost in accounts and numbers, thinking always about what needed to be done, worrying daily about his affairs. It’s not that he didn’t look at women – he did. Often. And he tried to inspire those feelings of lustfulness and passion, but they just wouldn’t come to him.
So really, maybe, this is all for the best. He will find a woman, the one best suited to be Viscountess, the one most likely to bear him beautiful offspring to inherit his seat one day, the one who is intelligent and kind, who checks every box of what a lady should be, and that will be enough for him. He doesn’t need love to get by, after all. Love doesn’t put food on the table, nor run the household, or pay the bills.
He thinks he will be just fine.
He’s twenty and eight years old when he announces his eligibility. Well, not announces so much as shows interest in one young lady, whose mother chatters to another mother, who shares at afternoon tea that she’s heard the Viscount Hollander is indeed looking for a wife this season and… and suddenly he finds himself the center of attention at all the balls and dinner parties for the season.
The ball at Mrs. Worthington’s has been in full swing for quite a while now. Shane feels as if he’s danced with hundreds of ladies, though in reality it’s been about eight, though he’s chatted with far more. He’s spent most of the night close to a one Miss Rose Landry, the youngest daughter of an earl, the young lady who he feels best fulfills his desires for a wife – intelligent, kind, and beautiful. She ticks all of his boxes, and he’s not been subtle about his interest in her. He thinks maybe he can love her, though he doesn’t think he will ever fall in love with her.
Shane and Rose finish up a waltz and laugh as they exit the dance floor, both giddy and rosy-cheeked, both content to spend time in each other’s company. Shane feels light with it all, and he’s so wrapped up in Rose’s good humor that he nearly runs right into the tall, broad Russian man who has appeared in front of him.
Ilya Rozanov.
Shane’s eyes snag on Ilya’s, that hazel gaze piercing through him, those plush lips curving into a perfect smile, his perfect curls gilded in the dim light of the ballroom. He’s breathtaking, and Shane’s heart skips at the mere understanding that Ilya’s eyes are on him. Rose’s laughter retreats as she sees Ilya, and her wide, uninhibited grin is replaced with something more subdued.
“Ahh, Mr. Rozanov, I believe you have my next dance.” Rose’s hand finds Shane’s forearm and squeezes, and Shane nods as he steps back and away, though Ilya’s eyes track him despite the fact that he’s addressing Rose.
“I believe I do,” he agrees, his vowels rounded by his thick Russian accent. Ilya’s eyes finally flicker to Rose, and as the band starts up a Quadrille, Ilya takes Rose’s hand and leads her out onto the floor.
Shane hasn’t been subtle with his intentions towards Rose, and despite that, despite his rank and despite his obviousness, Ilya hasn’t backed down.
Everything surrounding Ilya’s past is shrouded in mystery. It’s known that he comes from old Russian money, and that he’s moved to London in search of a wife, but he doesn’t let many details slip. As far as anyone is concerned, all they need to know is he is a distant relative of Svetlana Vetrova, whose family he is now staying with, and who he seems close enough with.
With a slight sting of jealousy tightening his chest, Shane watches as Ilya and Rose dance, and he loathes that Rose’s grin is so genuine, that she seems just as happy to entertain Ilya as she was to entertain Shane. He should want her to find happiness and love, but selfishly, he adores the bond of friendship they’ve built up these past few weeks of courting, and he isn’t ready to give that up yet.
While he knows he should move on, find his own dance partner and join in the Quadrille, Shane simply watches the pair, enraptured with the way Ilya’s shoulders bunch and work beneath his jacket, how easily his feet follow the movements of the dance, the way his eyes sparkle as he whispers soft words into Rose’s ear, making her head fall back in laughter as they spin. But Shane also doesn’t miss the way Ilya’s eyes come back to him when he’s facing Shane’s side of the room. He’s unable to ignore the whoosh in his chest, the way Ilya’s gaze makes him feel more alive than touching a woman ever has.
Shane knows his affections towards the opposite gender aren’t ideal, but it’s impossible to ignore a man as beautiful as Ilya Rozanov. Which is infuriating, considering how impossible of a man he is. Always ready with quick wit and sardonic charm, Ilya has carved out his place in society easily. Women swoon over his pretty words and easily won affections, and men are charmed by his athleticism and masculinity. He’s become something of the talk of the town, and while Shane has tried to get to know him, he’s found that at every encounter, Ilya has discovered his shortcomings and poked holes through his carefully built wall. The man is an expert at riling Shane up, and he’s so quick to smile and laugh when Shane’s cheeks pink with anger and his temper goes out the door.
Shane loathes how much he wants Ilya. He loathes that they’re competing for the same woman when all Shane wants to compete for is Ilya’s heart. He absolutely hates how badly he wants, how his fingers itch to touch those curls, to capture Ilya’s lips with his own, to feel him broad and hot underneath him and –
Enough of this, Hollander, he thinks as he walks out of the ballroom and into the gardens. The night is muggy, and clouds cover the stars and moon, leaving London in a hazy fog. Mrs. Worthington’s garden is exquisite, with flowers blooming brightly, their delicate petals soft in the hazy glow of the evening, and there’s even a hedge maze, which is cast in shadow and is mildly intimidating in the odd lighting of this gloomy night. Shane regards it coolly, wonders who is hidden within its depths, getting up to reputation-wrecking fun, not that he’d know anything about that. Shane’s life has been notably rather… dull. It’s not that he doesn’t want to have fun, it’s just that he doesn’t have time for fun.
Perhaps he should be bold. Maybe he should learn to let go, to embrace something that makes him happy for once. Maybe he should take, and never cast a glance behind.
He thinks of Ilya, in that moment, of what he would want if Shane could want him. And as if the man materialized straight from his thoughts, Shane is startled by footsteps, then the soft lilt of a Russian accent.
“Is terrible weather tonight,” Ilya says mildly as his arms cross behind his back, pulling his jacket taut across his chest. He stares out at the garden with Shane, and for a moment, there is silence. For a moment, there is only the zip of tension between them, invisible but alive.
“You really came out here to talk with me about the weather?” Shane asks, and one of his eyebrows cocks as he turns to look at Ilya. Ilya’s curls fall onto his forehead, and his temples are damp from dancing. Yet somehow, he still looks so put together. Somehow, he’s more glorious than any of the women here, in their resplendent jewels and gorgeous gowns of the finest silk. Shane would take Ilya in a heartbeat, over any of those women.
“No,” Ilya agrees, and his hands fall to his side. “Rose is nice. Very pretty.”
Another topic Shane doesn’t want to broach with Ilya. “She is. We’ve come to know each other very well, and she’s a wonderful woman,” Shane says with a small shrug.
“But she does not suit you.” It isn’t a question so much as a statement, and Shane startles at it, and turns to look at Ilya fully.
There Ilya goes again, vexing him easily, riling him up, and getting a rise out of him. “What do you mean?” Shane asks, hackles up and on guard. He has to tread carefully, or his deepest secret could be revealed.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Ilya starts walking. He enters the first few feet of the hedge maze, then looks back at Shane, giving him a look that asks Shane to follow. And who is Shane to say no? Gravel crunches beneath his feet as he follows after Ilya, tugging worriedly at his cravat, wondering who witnessed them walking together.
“I do not think you love Rose,” Ilya states, like he’s saying the sky is blue. They weave their way through the maze, and Shane mulls over the words, thinking about what’s the best thing to say now. He could admit to it, come clean to this man he hardly knows and definitely doesn’t trust, or he could fight tooth and nail for his reputation, like he’s been doing the last 28 years of his life.
“Well, it’s a little early for love, isn’t it?” Shane asks. His shoulders rise up around his ears with the half-lie.
Ilya’s head cocks to the side, and he stops to look at Shane. When he does, Shane feels his gaze fully, as if he can see right through that nonsense Shane just spewed. “No, I think…” Ilya stops and thinks about his words, hums as he contemplates. “I do not think women are for you,” he says, the words careful, like he knows what he’s accusing.
Once again, Shane bristles. “How dare –” Ilya holds up a finger and puts it to his lips. Then waggles it.
“I understand.” The two words stop Shane in his tracks. They’re alone, surrounded only by hedges and watery moonlight, and Shane feels a thrill shoot down his spine. Ilya’s eyes meet his head on, and Shane juts his chin out, proud and willing to go down with a fight.
“And I see the way you look at me,” Ilya says, his smirk growing as one of his hands comes up to brush the soft pads of his fingers across the ridge of Shane’s cheekbone. Shane’s heart flutters in his chest, and he feels like he might never recover from this moment. “You are not subtle, Hollander,” he teases.
Shane chokes on his breath. He gasps and sputters and tries not to ruin the moment, but he feels absolutely feral with want now. He’s tried his whole life to be subtle – it’s like Ilya was sent to utterly destroy him. “I don’t look at you,” Shane tries, his voice weak and his will to fight overpowered by his want to be touched again.
“You do.” Ilya takes a step closer to him, and this time his hand cups Shane’s cheek tenderly, like the whole world rests there.
“But I dislike you greatly,” Shane says, the words watered down. He hardly means them. That’s what he’s been telling himself these past few weeks, to avoid the truth – he burns for Ilya. In a way he’s never desired anyone before.
Ilya laughs, a throaty thing that lights on the soft evening breeze. “Two things can be true together,” Ilya points out, and his thumb strokes across Shane’s cheek again, reminding him that he hasn’t pulled away. Ilya leans in now, and Shane can smell the smoky musk of cigars and aftershave, so manly, so absolutely heady that Shane gets lost in it. He doesn’t mean to lean in and meet Ilya halfway, but his intuition takes over, and their lips meet as Shane tilts his face up.
For a moment, the world stops turning. For a fraction of a second, nothing exists but them. Shane’s breath is caught, and his hand fists in the lapel of Ilya’s jacket, and he wants. He desires to close the distance between them, to press into Ilya until they become like one. He wants to thread his fingers through those silky curls and know what Ilya feels like coming undone beneath him.
Ilya deepens the kiss, tracing his tongue along Shane’s lower lip, and Shane opens for him. The slide of Ilya’s tongue against his, the taste of Ilya, the overwhelming need pulsing through him, it’s all too much. Shane gasps and pulls away, eyes flying open, heart pounding as he looks around, expecting to find all eyes on them.
But no one is there.
They just stare at each other, and Shane touches two fingers to his bottom lip as a cocky grin spreads lazily over Ilya’s lips. Shane’s gaze is dark as he scoffs at Ilya, blaming him entirely for the kiss. But Shane’s composure is going, and all he can think about is what Ilya tasted like, how he felt on his lips, how much more Shane wants to take.
“You are the bane of my existence,” Shane hisses as he rakes a hand through his hair and points an accusatory finger at Ilya. “And the object of all of my desires,” he admits on the softest of breaths. He hates that Ilya has reduced him to this – nothing more than a schoolboy who is giddy for his next taste.
But he’s so tired of fighting. He’s tired of repressing what feels right and giving in to the wrongness that society tells him is correct. So he lets himself grab Ilya by his lapels again. He hauls him in and lets his lips capture Ilya’s again. When Ilya’s fingers trail through his hair Shane moans, and he delights when Ilya’s knee spreads Shane’s knees apart to press his thigh against Shane’s hardness. They shouldn’t be doing this here, but Shane can’t bring himself to care as much as he should. Instead, he kisses Ilya with everything he has, kisses him like he’s never been kissed, how he’s always dreamt of being kissed.
Ilya slows things down, and his hand is hot on Shane’s hip. Shane wants to rip himself apart and release all of these repressed feelings, but he settles for nipping at Ilya’s lower lip and delighting in the soft noise he draws from Ilya. After another moment of closeness, Ilya pulls back this time, and Shane hauls in a breath, then smooths a hand through his hair and attempts to regain his composure.
“This means nothing,” Shane says, but his voice is wrecked, and his hands shake with the adrenaline of the moment.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, sweetheart,” Ilya drawls.
The words make Shane huff out a soft sigh, and he harumphs as he starts back towards the house and the soft sound of the orchestra. “We need to get back,” Shane points out, and Ilya catches his hand.
Pulling him back, Ilya presses soft kisses to Shane’s knuckles, and meets his gaze head-on. “I want you,” Ilya says meaningfully, his words full and round and burning bright and hot as a star.
For a moment, Shane considers him, head shaking. It’s too risky. Finally, Shane clears his throat and pulls a small, cream card from his breast pocket. It bears his name and address, and he hands it to Ilya. He wants to take something for himself, wants to create moments that are just for him. He might as well start now.
“Meet me here, tonight. After one in the morning,” he instructs softly, then goes back to join the party.
Shane hadn’t expected him to come. He doesn’t know why, but he half thought Ilya would call his bluff and not show up. Shane is up going over accounts after the ball when the butler knocks. Shane looks up and calls him in, and when Charles announces Shane has a visitor, Shane only flinches slightly.
“Let him in, then be done for the night, Charles,” Shane says easily as he shuffles some papers and then stands. “I’ll be in the… drawing room,” he decides. Charles nods, and Shane moves to his drawing room, loosening his cravat as he goes and sighing.
This is a terrible idea. He knows how bad of an idea this is, but he can’t stop himself. He desires Ilya so fully, he’s consumed with it now that he’s had a taste.
When Ilya walks through the door Shane stands. And it isn’t longer than the beat of a heart before they’re kissing again, intertwined and lost in each other thoroughly. Shane tugs at Ilya’s cravat and pushes his jacket from his shoulders, and all pretense is lost, not that there ever was any. “Come to my bedroom?” Shane asks, his voice shaky with a fear of rejection.
But it doesn’t come. Ilya only nods and presses hot kisses down Shane’s jaw, stopping at the juncture of his neck and sucking there. “Of course.”
Ilya ravishes him in his bed, in ways Shane never would have thought to find pleasure. The way Ilya’s big, strong hands caress him and care for him, how Ilya absolutely worships his body with tongue and teeth and lips and the soft pads of his fingertips, is enough to leave Shane knowing he will never have enough of this man. Ilya is gentle with him, showing him all the different ways his body can experience pleasure, pushing him to the edge and then sending hims spiraling over with only Ilya’s name on his lips and only his face pictured in Shane’s mind.
It’s early morning when they finally break apart, breathless and thoroughly enamoured with each other. Still naked and entwined together, Shane rests his head on Ilya’s chest, just listening to the soft sounds of his breathing. It’s so late that the first rays of the morning sun are starting to break upon the horizon, but Shane can’t bring himself to worry about any of it. He just presses lazy kisses to Ilya’s clavicle as Ilya runs his fingers through Shane’s hair.
“I am so glad I came for a call,” Ilya teases as he tilts Shane’s chin up and captures his lips in a deep kiss once more.
Shane laughs, a real, soft thing, and nods. “You should come calling more often.”
They curl around each other in the early morning light and doze softly, and for once, Shane doesn’t feel burdened with worry, but rather feels light with a new freedom he’s found in Ilya’s arms.