Something Fabulous (Something Fabulous, #1)

by Alexis Hall

The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. —Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

“If,” he began, “we must speak so vulgarly of trade, consider this. I will acquire no dowry, some convenient acres for whatever son you bear me, a wife who despises me and talks like the heroine of an inordinately bad novel. And you will be a duchess, one of the most powerful women in the land. Is yours not the better bargain? Surely the prospect must hold some appeal for you.”

“She’s what?” asked Valentine carefully. Tarleton shrugged. “Flown the coop. Done a runner. Buggered off. Absconded. Exit, pursued by a bear.” He paused. “She’s gone.”

“As it happens I do. I’m relieved that one of you at least is blessed with some modicum of sense.” “I mean, she could be captured by pirates or highwaymen or . . . or vampires or anything.” “Forgive me, I spoke prematurely.”

Tarleton made a noise like an elephant with a knot in its trunk. “I would never have taken you for a dandy, Malvern.” The censuring tone seemed slightly hypocritical for a man wearing seven rings—all set with different stones.

“You just lie there helplessly, looking all sweet and peaceful, and making little snuffling noises. Whereas when you’re awake, it’s nothing but sneering and mean comments.” “I do not sneer,” Valentine insisted. Yet again. “And I am not mean. I’m . . . perhaps a little sardonic.”

“Yes, I can see that. Were you very close?” “Of course not. He was my father. Who is close to their father?” “Umm . . .” Tarleton scrunched up his nose in a way that certainly wasn’t endearing. “Elizabeth Bennet?” “Nonimaginary people.”

“Putting aside, for the moment, your absurd obsession with love, you’d be surprised at the ardour an available fortune can inspire in the breast of the penniless.”

“I see.” Valentine did not see. “So you’re saying that if I’d read more silly novels at an impressionable age, I, too, would have grown up with the understanding that . . . that there are choices?” “It’s not a choice to me, flower. It’s who I am.”

“You complete . . . arse. Wait, I like arses. You . . . you complete something I don’t like. Mustard. You complete jar of mustard.”

“Well, cover me in butter and call me asparagus.

Valentine put his head in his hands. “I apologise. I apologise with all my heart.” “Well, since your heart is about the size of a walnut, that isn’t much consolation.”

“Whoever taught you two to read has much to answer for. But as it happens, I have no intention of murdering either of you, despite the fact no jury in the land would convict me.”

Bonny rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, because you’re a duke.” “No, because you’re very annoying.”

“Without me, you could lose your estate. You will both be consigned to poverty.” Bonny’s chin lifted stubbornly. “I would rather be poor—I would rather be just about anything—than permit you any say in Belle’s life. You’ve made it very clear you care nothing for her comfort or her happiness. The way you talk to her—the way you talk about her, Malvern—I would not treat a dog like that.”

Valentine, my friend. Unless you have a degradation kink (which is fine! I don’t kink shame) please leave these overdramatic monsters alone. If they want to starve, LET THIM. PROTECT YOUR PEACE.

“Oh, flower”—and here Bonny smiled up at him, dimples glimmering irrepressibly—“if you think a man only goes to his knees to beg, then—”

“Come on, man. You’re among friends here.” “I am not among friends. I am with you and Tarleton.”

“What exactly,” demanded Valentine, “were you trying to prove here?” “I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was trying to get my arse licked.”

Before he could finish or, indeed, had barely managed to start, Bonny had set a hand over his mouth. “No. Don’t say anything. At least, don’t say anything yet.” “You have to understand,” Valentine explained. Or rather, “Oohfftoonnersfff.”

“Sweets for the sweet.” And, once again, Valentine felt like the damsel or the knight. Honoured. Tended. Helplessly and heart-meltingly romanced. “I . . . I’m not very sweet.” “To me you are.”

“I am by no means an expert, but should you really be thinking of your sister on the occasion of my kissing you?”

“I’m your first kiss.” “I’ve just said that.” “I’m your first kiss.” “Are you suffering from some kind of head injury?” “Valentine”—Bonny’s expression had grown no less absurd—“that’s such . . . such a beautiful thing.”

This was super cute.

By way of reply, Bonny kissed him. And Valentine wondered when he was going to get used to kissing. If it would ever feel like an ordinary thing, as it seemingly did, or could, to others. But he wasn’t sure he wanted that either. There was too much magic here, and he had never allowed his life to admit the possibility of magic before. Had never felt its lack. Or, if he had, convinced himself he was not made for magic.

You are your own adventure and you are . . . beautiful.” Abruptly aware of his volume, Valentine lowered his voice. “So beautiful that my throat clenches and my stomach flips when I as much as glance at you, and I wonder how the world turns when such wanting exists within it.”

“So,” Bonny went on cheerfully, “you’re just going to have to accept it: you’re mine, Valentine. Entirely mine. And we will build a world of kissing. Which is world enough for me.”

“Are you sure you are comfortable?” “My arse is in the air, Valentine. There’s a limit to my comfort.”

“What are you doing?” “I am describing what I see.” “You are not. You’re . . . you’re waxing poetic about my arsehole.”

No, this was something else entirely. A bright piece of wonder that danced from Bonny to him and back again as though they together completed some greater pattern that Valentine could never have understood alone.

“Bathing,” explained Valentine. “As gentlemen do. With their gentlemen friends.” Bonny offered a decisive nod. “That is exactly what is going on here. Gentlemanly bathing. Between gentlemen friends.”

And, to his surprise, Bonny did indeed follow without protest. Had he only known that this was the secret to the man’s obedience, he would have offered to lick his arse days ago.

LMAO

Don’t you dare leave me, don’t you dare. And If you think a bullet is keeping you away from me, you are sorely mistaken. And You are going to give me my happy ever after, Valentinian Gervase Lorimer Layton, or I’ll shoot you myself.

“What if a bullet splinter travels through my bloodstream and stabs me in the heart?”

He's just like me

So he looked instead. And glut himself on looking. Remembered the sycamore tree, and the stars, and thought Bonny more beautiful than either.

Bonny had made himself: from books and stories, and hopes and dreams. As Valentine had made himself from duty and fear and mistrust and ignorance.

But don’t you see, Valentine. I wanted to kiss you when you were fifteen years old, with feet the size of sledges and hands the size of dinner plates, and wearing a withered flower crown my sister had made, frankly, terribly. I wanted to kiss you when you ran away from an entirely harmless bee. I wanted to kiss you when you were covered in frog spawn. I always want to kiss you. Soup isn’t going to change that.”

“She owes you at least a couple herself.” Bonny gave a rueful shrug. “Not that I imagine you’ll get them. Belle isn’t the best at apologising, even when she knows she should.”

SHE'S A HORRIBLE PERSON.

“He wants,” said Valentine, pouting, “to lick your arse.” “Flower, everyone wants to lick my arse. My arse is absolutely divine.”

Beholding him in return caused his valet to drop the valise he was carrying and clasp both hands to his heart. “Oh, Your Grace, what have they done to you?” He whirled to Bonny. “He’s not even wearing a cravat.”

Stan Periwinkle

Periwinkle nearly dropped the waistcoat, but professionalism proved stronger than his dismay. “A man’s relationship with his valet is the most important in his life.”

“You should never be jealous of another gentleman’s valet. You may on occasion, however, be envious.”

“Fine fine fine fine fine.” Valentine broke. “I love my books. The more romantic, the more sentimental, the better; there are pages that probably still bear the marks of privately shed tears. Now for the love of God, get the fuck away from the window, you monster.”

As far as Valentine was concerned, the way he kept being likeable was starting to feel pointed. And probably meant they were friends. Dammit.

“As when Periwinkle . . .” “Flower.” Bonny’s hand briefly covered his mouth. “I know a duke and his valet have a very special relationship. But I need you not to talk about Periwinkle when you’re making love with me.”

“But I cherish every bad feeling I’ve ever had, every regret, every moment of boredom and sorrow and uncertainty. They brought me to you, after all.” Bonny made a sound like ack and bit Valentine’s leg.

Completely, beautifully naked. In all the strength and frailty of his skin.

“Bonny. You’re . . . you’re glistening.” “Um. You know you don’t have to describe me to me every time? You are aware of that?”

😂

Bonny pressed his hand over Valentine’s, twining their fingers together upon the bed, and, all at once, Valentine found himself pinned, held, protected, helpless, his heart flying on the freedom of it.

“See.” Bonny straightened, drawing Valentine’s legs more firmly about his waist. “See who you are. That beautiful, passionate, generous man who’s all mine.”

Taking his hand, Bonny raised it to his lips and kissed it. He had done this once before in play. Now it was farewell. “I will not live in your margins, Valentine, when all I’ve ever wanted is to be your hero.”

“N-not,” Valentine managed, “with Arabella Tarleton.” “Phew.” His mother gave a relieved little laugh. “You had me worried for a moment there.”

His mom is like "LET'S CELEBRATE THAT"