As ever, I owe a great deal to my agent, Deidre Knight, and everything to my family. (Except the cat. He’s useless.)
BY K. J. CHARLES
Society of Gentlemen
A Fashionable Indulgence
The Ruin of Gabriel Ashleigh (short story)
A Seditious Affair
A Gentleman’s Position (coming soon)
About the Author
K. J. CHARLES is a writer and freelance editor living in London. She has two kids, one cat, a shed to write in, and a big mug for tea—she’s not sure what else you need in life. Find K. J. all too often on Twitter or on Facebook.
Want more from K. J. Charles?
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The Editor’s Corner
Happy Holidays from our hearth to yours! This month we’re sending you some hot Loveswept romances to keep the fire burning:
USA Today bestselling author Bronwen Evans’s new Disgraced Lords novel is about a marriage of convenience and its delightful pleasures—and mortal danger in A Whisper of Desire. K. J. Charles turns up the heat in her new Society of Gentlemen novel, A Seditious Affair, as two lovers face off in a sensual duel that challenges their deepest beliefs. Samantha Kane’s Birmingham Rebels series proves that three’s never a crowd…at least not for the hard-bodied football all-stars who give teamwork a sexy twist in Calling the Play. Welcome to Forever, new from author Annie Rains, introduces a small coastal town where America’s best and brightest risk everything for love. Jackie Ashenden ups the ante in the seductive Deacons of Bourbon Street series, co-written with Megan Crane, Rachael Johns, and Maisey Yates, with Hold Me Down, a story about what happens when the biker who broke Alice’s heart rides into town and she must choose between passion and duty. Another story for MC fans is Violetta Rand’s irresistible novel about a sexy-as-sin biker who tempts a good girl to go bad, Persuasion.
In USA Today bestselling author Tina Wainscott’s gritty, emotional small-town romance Falling Hard, passions run high as a reformed bad boy reconnects with an old enemy…and gets her engine revving. In Laura Marie Altom’s tale of forbidden love, Stepping Over the Line, meet two tortured souls with an unbreakable bond. Then comes a tender military romance from Serena Bell, USA Today bestselling author of Hold On Tight, in which a war-shattered veteran gets a second chance at love with the one that got away in Can’t Hold Back.
Writing duo MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron release another sizzling-hot Caldwell Brothers story—Morrison, which hits the Vegas strip as a bad-boy gambler from Detroit Rock City shows a single mom what it means to play for keeps. Then it’s off to Los Angeles, where Hollywood’s hottest young actor hits the road to chase his big break—and discovers a leading lady where he least expects in Cassie Mae’s No Interest in Love.
I can’t believe 2016 is upon us, can you? Thank you for spending your reading time with Loveswept, and we hope to entertain you all over again in the new year.
Happy Romance!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
Read on for an excerpt from
A Gentleman’s Position
by K. J. Charles
Available from Loveswept
Prologue
FEBRUARY 24, 1820
Lord Richard Vane and his valet stood in the book room, waiting. The clock on the mantel ticked.
“What the devil is keeping Julius?” Lord Richard demanded of David or of the empty air. “He should surely have the man here by now.”
“Conspiracy to murder and high treason.” David made a face. “It may not be that easy to secure his bail. Mr. Norreys has an authoritative manner”—Lord Richard gave a short laugh—“and your name has a great deal of power. Nevertheless…”
“Indeed. Oh, damn Dominic and his accursed democrat. What will we do if Julius can’t get him out?”
Silas Mason, a radical bookseller and writer of sedition, had been arrested that morning as part of what was already being called the Cato Street Conspiracy. A group of gutter revolutionaries had plotted to murder the entire British cabinet the previous night, and although they had been thwarted, an officer had been killed in the melee. Everyone involved would doubtless hang.
That was not David’s problem, and certainly not Lord Richard’s, except for the matter of Dominic Frey. Lord Richard’s best friend was conducting an intense affair with Mason, and when the radical had been arrested he had been wearing Mr. Frey’s coat. If people started asking what linked a murderous seditionist to a gentleman of the Home Office, Mr. Frey could find himself in very deep trouble indeed.
Lord Richard had fallen out badly with Mr. Frey over his disgraceful affair, but they had been lovers once, and friends since boyhood. Lord Richard would not see him suffer if he could prevent it.
Or, rather, if David could prevent it. Lord Richard gave orders; it was David who carried them out.
To the world he was a valet, nothing more. A servant who wore Lord Richard’s livery and obeyed his commands; even his offensively red hair was powdered away to white on his master’s order. But when he had Lord Richard’s will to enforce, David Cyprian was silently and secretly one of the most powerful men in London. Unknown, unseen, and in charge. The pleasure of it tingled in his veins.
“It depends, my lord,” he said now. “We’ll have to play the hand as it’s dealt to us, but we can play it. Trust me.”
“Oh, I do,” Lord Richard said. “I depend entirely on you. Otherwise I suspect I should have run mad after the last few months, and as it is, I can feel Bedlam beckoning. Cyprian, what the devil do I do if Mason is not innocent?”
“Mr. Frey insists he is.”
“Dominic may not be the best judge at this time,” Lord Richard said grimly. “If the man is part of murder and treason— But he had Dominic’s coat, curse it. What if saving my friend requires saving a traitor?” His voice was strained. David knew how deeply he loved Mr. Frey, how heavily he bore his responsibilities, and his master’s dilemma was a stab to his own heart. “God rot it, how can I decide that? What can I do?”
“You can leave it to me,” David said.
Lord Richard’s eyes widened, as well they might. David went on before he could speak. “You should not have to make a choice between duty and friendship. Nobody should. If it happens—and it may not; Mr. Frey is no fool—but if it does, my lord, I beg you, walk away and let me deal with it.” He offered his master a smile. “That is what you pay me for.”
“I truly don’t,” Lord Richard said. “Golden Ball himself could not pay you so much. I can’t ask you to take on that responsibility for me.”
You can ask me for anything you like. The words hovered on David’s lips. He wanted to say them; God knew they were true. But this was his master and he couldn’t do it.
It was enraging. David balked at nothing, from burglary to blackmail, to achieve his ends; he had certainly never struggled with something as simple as approaching a possible bedmate. He just asked, because it was astonishing what he had won for himself by daring to reach for it. It had always astonished David how few people dared to reach.
And now he understood why they did not. Through four years of service, four years of alliance and trust and friendship underpinned by the persistent heartbeat of desire, David had never dared ask for the one thing he wanted most, because he was afraid to learn he could not have it.
He could not ask now, but at least he could give. Lord Richard needed him, and it was better than nothing. “You carry burdens for all your friends, my lord. Someone has to do it for you now and again.”
Lord Richard’s lips parted slightly. He was a big man, absurdly wealthy and infinitely privileged, bu
t at that moment his expression was so painfully vulnerable that David’s heart contracted in his chest with the urge to make all well.
He began to say “My lord,” raising his hand in a gesture. Lord Richard started to speak at the same time, turning toward him, and their hands collided in the air.
David froze.
He couldn’t move away, couldn’t beg his lord’s pardon for the clumsiness. Could do nothing but stand and feel the pressure of Lord Richard’s fingers against his, because his master wasn’t moving either. They should have pulled away, one or both, but neither did, and every tick of the clock as they stood and stared at each other, hand to hand, was a hammer blow that nailed the unspoken thing irrevocably into place between them.
The unspoken thing, the forbidden hope, the one point where David’s service felt like servitude because he could not even ask. But Lord Richard still wasn’t moving, his deep blue eyes locked on David’s and wide with shock, and now they knew, now they both knew and there was no pretending otherwise.
David could feel the blood thumping in Lord Richard’s fingertips, unless that was his own. He licked his lips, steeling himself. “My lord?” He cursed himself that it came out as a question.
“Cyprian.” Lord Richard’s arm shook a little, but his fingers didn’t move. “Cyprian— I—”
Footsteps echoed in the hall outside. They both snatched their hands away at the firm knock at the door, and were standing in separate silence as Mr. Norreys entered with the radical gaolbird Mason.
David listened to the subsequent argument with about a third of his mind, sorting the detail into advantageous, usable, disastrous, while the important thoughts pounded through him. You want me. You know I know it. What will we do? What did that change?
Mason was, it seemed, rather more involved in the conspiracy than Mr. Frey had let on. David cursed the pair of them mentally as he watched his master’s control slip. He could feel Lord Richard’s fear for his friend, though it was well hidden behind his anger at Mason and the whole damned stupid business.
“Get him out of the country,” Lord Richard ordered, gesturing at the radical. His decision was made. Of course he would not put the guilt of saving a traitor from the noose on David’s shoulders; he bore his own responsibility, even if it would cost him endless self-reproach, and probably Mr. Frey’s friendship.
David wasn’t having that if he could help it.
“This man is guilty of treason,” Lord Richard went on. “Dominic will accept an end to this insanity, all of it, or I will make him.”
“You won’t,” Mason said flatly.
“I beg your pardon?”
The radical took a step forward rather than back, glaring up into Lord Richard’s face. He was unshaven, gaol stained, and utterly unintimidated. David was mildly impressed. “I said, you won’t. You’ve hagridden Dom for fifteen fucking years, and I won’t have you giving him another dose of what’s wrong with him.”
Oh, you fucker. That would have hit Lord Richard right in the guilt. His bitterly ended relationship with Mr. Frey had been a running sore for most of their adult lives—
And David could use Mason to cauterize it. He could use this calamity, twist it to his advantage. The idea exploded in his head as Mason went on, his tone savage. Lord Richard stood apparently unmoved under the tirade, but David knew that stony expression and what it hid, and he was quite ready when Lord Richard threw a single desperate glance at him.
David met his eyes, conveying a message. Let me do it. Let me work. Trust me.
Lord Richard looked away as he spoke, back at Mason. “Cyprian.” Brisk and brief, and only David would have heard the plea in his voice. “Deal with this for me. Whatever seems necessary.” He turned on his heel.
Mr. Norreys’s lips parted in silent astonishment as Lord Richard stalked out, back very straight. David had no time to deal with that. He murmured an excuse and followed.
The hall was empty. Lord Richard stood alone, rigid with anger, and as David closed the door behind him, he slapped a palm with brutal force against the expensively papered wall. “God damn it. Damn him.”
“I’ll need free rein,” David said with urgency. Nothing else mattered for the moment, not even that touch. He had to do this. “I will make it go away, my lord, I will make Mr. Frey happy, I will deal with it all. Just let me.”
“Do it,” Lord Richard rasped. “That accursed, bloody— Do whatever you need.” He turned jerkily and strode off.
David took a single deep breath before letting himself back into the book room. I will do exactly that. What we need. I will save Mason’s neck, and get Mr. Frey out of your way for good. And then, my lord…we’ll see.
Chapter 1
MARCH 8, 1820
“Bear off,” Silas said smugly. “And that’s you gammoned.”
David sat back with a sigh. It had not been one of his better performances, and Silas, a bludgeoning, brutal opponent at the backgammon board, was developing a knack for strategy too. “Blast you.” He totted up the points, wincing. In their ongoing contest, Silas’s score was definitely creeping upward.
“Another round?” Silas suggested.
David glanced at the clock. It was only half past midnight but he shook his head. “I think not.”
“Thought they were on a spree. You can’t be expecting his lordship back before two at the earliest.”
“No. Well.”
Silas shrugged, and topped up his glass as David began to pack away the counters. He tilted the bottle to David’s tumbler in invitation; David shook his head again. “No? It’s probably best. With you on a losing streak, and all.”
“Two games don’t constitute a losing streak,” David objected. “Unlike the seven in a row you lost last week. That was a streak.”
He had taken a strong and unexpected liking to Silas, rough-tongued lout that he was. David’s position as valet isolated him from the rest of the household. He was outside the hierarchy: Lord Richard’s man. He would have tolerated more than solitude for that, but over four years it had become tiresome that nobody would even give him a game for fear of winning.
Silas spoke as he liked, and not only tried his best to beat David at backgammon but crowed about it when he did. David was slightly startled at how much he enjoyed having a friend in the house.
Silas took a swallow of gin. “Here, I was reading something the other day; this’ll interest you. Philosopher fellow, writing on whether animals have souls.”
“You think animals have souls?” David said incredulously.
“Me? I don’t think people have souls.”
David winced. “Keep that to yourself. No atheism on Lord Richard’s time, thank you.”
“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know. Anyway, he had a story about dogs who know when their owner’s on his way. They’ll jump to the window or the front door, for no reason, couldn’t have heard anything, and five minutes later he arrives. Animal instinct or some such, I don’t know. Point is, they can sense when their master’s coming home.”
It sounded plausible enough, but Lord Richard did not own dogs, and therefore David didn’t care. “Well, and?”
“And what?”
“You said it would interest me. I’m waiting to find out why.”
Silas gave him an evil grin. “No reason.”
David returned a suspicious look, then shut the backgammon box and put it on the shelf. They were playing in his bedroom, since it was more comfortable for everyone if they both avoided the servants’ hall. As Lord Richard’s valet, David had a room big enough to accommodate a table with two chairs, more space than he’d ever had in his life, but he’d spent too long arranging gentlemen’s existences to tolerate anything in less than perfect order.
“If you’re going to bore me with pointless tales—” he began, and then his head snapped up as the bell rang.
“That’ll be Lord Richard coming home,” Silas observed with immense satisfaction. “Lucky you were ready for him, eh?”
/> David was momentarily lost for words. “Go shove your mother,” he managed at last. “You blasted gutter-blood.”
Silas lifted his glass in a toast, grinning, as David scooped up his coat. “Off you go, give his lordship my love. I’ll just finish your gin.”
“I hope it chokes you.” David checked his hair in the little mirror. Impeccably powdered, none of the telltale red visible.
“Cheers to you too. ’Night.”
“Good night.” David hurried out. Behind him, Silas coughed stagily. It sounded very like a bark.
The bell was not Lord Richard, of course. That would never do. It was his warning from the footman when Lord Richard came home, so that David could be in the bedroom before he was needed. Lord Richard might have brought home a parcel of friends and intend to stay up talking for hours more, and if he did, David would simply wait rather than let Lord Richard come up to an unattended bedroom. One did not earn the reputation of the best valet in London by thinking of one’s own comfort.
The best valet in London, occupying one of the best positions. When Lord Richard’s previous valet had left his service to marry, the vacant post had been fought over with startling viciousness by men who were prepared to abandon their masters and sabotage their friends to secure it. David had made damned sure he won that silently waged war. He had wanted Lord Richard, and—professionally—he’d got him.
Of course every valet in London had wanted him. Lord Richard was a generous employer, of immense social standing, and most of all, a superb man to dress. Too big for the kickshaws of fashion, granted, but his broad shoulders and deep chest carried off a plain style to perfection, and that was where a valet’s skill was best shown. Nothing hidden, everything impeccable.
“The most desirable gentleman in Town,” John Frampling had remarked enviously. He was valet to Julius Norreys, exquisite, who served as a very satisfactory shop window for Frampling’s skills, but there was no love lost between man and master. “Of course, my Mr. Norreys has the better eye, and more range, if I may put it that way, but he’s a right coldhearted prick, if you want the truth. Whereas Lord Richard is a credit to you, Mr. Cyprian, and everyone says he’s a dream to serve.”
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