“I am not mistaken,” David said. “I know you, my lord. I know your touch.”
Lord Richard twitched. “That is not an answer. Damn it, Cyprian, think. Would you say, ‘That didn’t please me, we will not do this again’? What would you say if I asked why not or suggested you reconsider? What would either of us do then?”
“I think that I would tell you the truth if that happened. I believe that you would respond with grace.”
“I should like to believe those things too,” Lord Richard said. “But I did not respond to Dominic with grace. And you have not told me the truth of this before.”
The patent unfairness of that took David’s breath away. “Are you saying I should have suggested a fu—liaison, my lord?”
Lord Richard’s eyes widened in shock. “No, of course I am not. Because it is not your place to make advances on your employer any more than it is your habit to refuse my commands. Can you not see how that would make your position intolerable?”
“I see it could be made so,” David said. “But it is not very tolerable now. You asked me for the truth? The truth is that the cat is out of the bag. We both know what we both want. How can we go on pretending we don’t?”
Lord Richard massaged the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. We must both stop wanting it, I suppose.”
“I have not been very successful at that,” David said. “Have you?”
Lord Richard exhaled hard. “Enough. No more. And I am sorry to say this, but that is an order, Cyprian. I will not enter into a connection that is unjust in its very nature. It is hard enough for men like us to find our way among equals. You are my valet, you are obliged to obey my orders, and if you don’t want to obey this one, then that merely proves my point. We will not discuss this again.”
He spoke with finality, in the voice that demanded instant obedience and sent his entire household scurrying. David opened his mouth anyway. Then he closed it because there wasn’t a damned thing to say.
Must you think so much? he wanted to ask. Can we not just fuck? Can we not shut the world out and let the future take its course? Can we not be as we were, but in bed as well as out?
But of course Lord Richard didn’t just fuck. Of course he didn’t act without thinking or without responsibility. Of course he took charge and decreed how things would be, because he was the master, and David felt the flame of resentment catch and leap a little higher.
Lord Richard was staring out of the window. David turned his head to the other side. The carriage rolled on in silence.
Chapter 5
“My dear fellow,” Julius said. “You look like a cat in the rain but rather less cheerful. What’s wrong?”
Richard didn’t bother to smile. He didn’t feel like smiling. He had come to Quex’s because he had to be somewhere other than his own home but had retreated to the upstairs room hoping it would be unoccupied. Julius, accompanied by Richard’s cousin Harry, was not welcome.
“You do look worried.” Harry pulled up a third chair as Julius sat without invitation. “Richard, I have not had a chance to say: I’m very sorry to hear of your mother’s death.”
“Thank you. I was not well acquainted with her,” Richard added, to forestall further sympathy.
“No. Um, ought I send my condolences to Cirencester? Would that be appreciated?”
Richard made a face. He had given the letter to Eustacia because he had not been able to convince himself he had the right to keep it secret, and Philip had reacted with predictable fury. Neither brother had wanted to think of their father exercising his conjugal rights on an unwilling girl; neither had wanted to consider his own conception in that light; and Philip had gone white as his wife, mother of their seven beloved babes, had read aloud the dowager’s words of horror at the business of child-making.
“Send a card, and don’t speak of it,” Richard said, knowing that Philip had ordered no such condolences be shown to him.
“Is that all?” Julius asked. “You look absolutely wretched.”
“It has not been a pleasant few days.”
“No, well, that has been the case all round, I believe.” Julius sounded sour. “Harry, have you told him?”
“No,” Harry said with a guilty look that made Richard’s heart sink. “You only came back yesterday and, with your mother…”
Harry attracted disaster like few other men. Richard took a mouthful of brandy to sustain himself. “What have you done?”
“Do you remember the night of Ash’s birthday? Well—I would have told you the next day, but you’d had the letter—well, when you left, we carried on for some time, and it was rather noisy, and, uh—”
“They bumped into Lord Maltravers in the Royal Saloon at some unlikely hour,” Julius interrupted. “Ash and Harry chose to be exuberant at his expense.”
“You got drunk and abused Lord Maltravers,” Richard said. “Good God.”
“I wouldn’t say abused.” Harry was scarlet. “Well, we were probably…He’s foul to Ash, you know that. He’s foul to Ash and awful to Francis, and he tried to have Silas arrested—”
“I am well aware of Maltravers’s unpleasantness,” Richard said, riding over him. “That is a reason to avoid him, not poke him with a stick.”
“Wise, but too late,” Julius said. “He is offended and resentful, I am informed by my cousin Martindale.”
Lord Maltravers was a bullying lout, all belligerent pride and consequence. Since he was a duke’s son, he was respected; if he had been born in the streets, he would have been a gutter bravo of the worst kind. He despised his youngest brother Ash, of whom all the Ricardians were fond; he had persecuted Harry for his radical youth; he would doubtless be an appalling husband to Laura Martindale if she were fool enough to marry him.
He had tried to poach Cyprian.
“I did try to make my apology. I went up to him in White’s, but he gave me the cut direct,” Harry was saying.
“Well, then, the devil with him,” Richard said.
“I beg your pardon?” Julius asked.
“The devil fly away with Lord Maltravers,” Richard clarified. “If he is offended, let him stew in it. I have no interest in salving his pride.”
Julius exchanged a glance with Harry. “Richard, are you quite well?”
“Perfectly well,” Richard growled. “Merely unwilling to waste my time on trivia.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Harry said, ruffled. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought you should know. Would it be all right if I asked Cyprian—”
“No, it would not,” Richard snapped. “For God’s sake, let him be.”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Julius demanded. “Good Lord, Richard, I wish you would deal with whatever has been riding you for the last months. You are becoming intolerable.”
“What’s wrong is that I have no patience for foolishness, and I have had quite enough of everyone’s idiocies being dropped at my doorstep as though Cyprian has nothing better to do with his time. Solve your own problems, Harry, or stop creating them.”
Harry’s eyes widened, scarlet rushing to his cheeks. Julius said coldly, “Unjust, Richard, and discourteous. If you have not time for your cousin, then we will bid you good evening. And if this is still that mysterious thwarted love affair of yours, in God’s name find something to fuck and stop snarling at everyone.”
“Be damned to you.” Richard pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the door. He did not want something to fuck. He wanted Cyprian, so badly it hurt, so badly that his palms were nail marked from the effort of self-control, and to have that thrown in his face by Julius of all men was an insult.
“Oh, Richard, wait,” Harry called after him. “Will you not talk to us? May we not help?”
Richard slammed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs.
It was not tolerable. Nothing was tolerable. He felt as though his clothes were too tight or had some infestation, something that made him uncomfortable in his own skin.
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br /> For three long miserable nights, he had tried not to watch Cyprian moving around the rooms of the inns they’d stayed in, correct and unreadable. For three long days, they had sat in silence on that endless, hellish journey. He had hoped, then prayed, that they could resume their previous ease, because he had not been aware quite how much they used to speak to each other until that connection had been severed.
He had severed it when he had been so damned self-indulgent as to kiss his own valet.
He’d done the right thing after that, but he was very afraid it had already been too late. How could he say, I will not abuse my position when he already had? He had put Cyprian into precisely the situation he’d been trying to avoid, in which their wants clashed instead of mingling, and the valet was obliged to obey the master.
Though he knew damned well that their desires were in harmony as far as wanting each other went. The thought of that kiss made his breath catch still: Cyprian in his arms, the feel of his hair. His Mr. Fox, so warm, so willing.
He wished to God he could talk to someone about this. But there was nobody. Certainly not Dominic, whose unequal affair Richard had condemned in the strongest terms. None of the few friends who knew he preferred men would consider a liaison with a servant anything but ludicrous. It would be the greatest joke: Richard Vane, so high in the instep, bedding a servant. Word would spread like wildfire, and once it spread, David would be fair game for looks and gropes and approaches, because servants who made themselves available to one man were fair game for all.
Not that his closest friends would bother David, but there were others. Peter Arlett had commented more than once on your pretty henchman, and Richard knew his ways. He very much doubted he could make Peter, or Absalom, or the others who might not touch but would without doubt mock, understand his feelings went far deeper than lust.
Nobody would believe that Richard left evening pleasures promptly because it gave him longer in his valet’s company, that he took such care over his clothing because it made two hours’ dressing with Cyprian unexceptional. That he would rather talk to a liveried servant than to any of the gentlemen who were his closest friends.
He did not want his feelings to be the topic of jokes, or raised brows. He did not want coarse remarks at his valet’s expense any more than at his own. He did not want to bring any more misery to Cyprian.
Because Richard knew damned well that he’d hurt him. Cyprian didn’t show it, except for an unusually tight set to his mouth, but he had retreated into his valet’s manner, correct and obedient and larding every sentence with my lord. One kiss, one single shameless indulgence of desire instead of duty, and Richard had destroyed their friendship. He couldn’t imagine what damage he might have done if the housekeeper hadn’t interrupted them.
Or rather, he could. Cyprian on his back on the bed, gasping Richard’s name, and at his side forever after, with pleasure dancing in his brown eyes and no need to worry about freedom to choose because neither of them would ever change his mind. Kisses and caresses in the bedroom as he went about his duties. Richard’s beautiful, brilliant valet, making love to him all night—those skilled fingers, that clever mouth—and then getting up at five in the morning to black his boots.
Richard had to push that last thought away for the nausea that rose in his throat at it.
He stalked into his house and straight up to his room. He wasn’t tired, but nor did he want to stay up and read, or drink, or speak to anyone. He couldn’t imagine what he did want, except for what he couldn’t have: Cyprian’s body, Cyprian’s companionship, Cyprian.
Time would soothe things down to where they were before. Richard had told himself that over and over again. Eventually, it might become true.
Cyprian was, of course, waiting for him in the bedroom, his red hair caked in white powder, the visible sign of his position.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening.” Richard stood as he always did, felt Cyprian slide the coat off his shoulders, wished this were over.
Cyprian moved around Richard in silence and stood in front of him. Richard stared at the opposite wall, so aware of his valet’s movements, of the way the powder clogged his fine, fiery hair, hiding it in a plaster shell. Cyprian’s fingers reached for the button of Richard’s waistcoat with just a little tremble, a little too much pressure. Richard inhaled sharply.
And then, quite suddenly, Cyprian’s hands were on him, clasping his waist with desperation, and the valet was talking far too fast.
“I can’t do this. I can’t, I won’t, it is not fair to ask it. For Christ’s sake, stop doing this to us. I don’t care what else it means, I don’t care what you want of me, but I cannot do this when you will not even look at me—”
“Stop it.” Richard grabbed his hands. “Cyprian, stop it.”
“I will not.” Cyprian’s eyes were fever bright. “I will speak. And you have to hear me, Richard. You must.”
“Control yourself!” The first name was a drenching shock. This is how badly wrong this has gone. Your fault. “You go too far.”
“I am not pretending any longer. This is not something you can ignore and order me to be silent about.” Cyprian swallowed. “I love you.”
Richard balled his fists against his surging panic. This could not be happening; his valet could not be wrenching the world out of alignment. He had no idea what to say. “No. I told you no.”
“I don’t believe you,” Cyprian said, and grabbed for Richard’s face.
It was an attempted kiss, no more, and Richard was far the taller and stronger. But it was an attempt on his person when he had made himself very clear indeed, and birth, manhood, and thirty-seven years of giving the orders all cried out at once in outrage.
Richard pushed him away.
He didn’t intend to do it hard. He simply put both hands to Cyprian’s shoulders and shoved, and perhaps Cyprian had already been moving away, because the smaller, slimmer man went stumbling backward just as though Richard had intended to send him crashing to the floor. His back hit the marble top of the dressing table so hard that its bottles and brushes rattled and fell.
Cyprian flailed for balance, grabbed the tabletop to catch himself, and stared at Richard, face almost as white as his powdered hair. Richard stared back, appalled and furious and sickened at himself, the blood thundering in his ears.
“Go,” he rasped. “Leave.”
“R—my lord…”
“Just go. You are dismissed,” he added, as though formal words would somehow restore the order of things.
Cyprian hauled himself upright. His mouth moved in the shape of Yes, my lord, and he left the room.
Richard waited until the door was shut, until he heard the footsteps hurry away, and then he slid to the floor, put his fist to his mouth, and bit down hard to stop himself crying out.
—
David grabbed for his clothes, hands shaking. Shirt—he should fold that, but his fingers seemed to have forgotten the movements that ought to have been second nature. A coat, black. Not the green. Never again Lord Richard’s green.
What had he done, what had he done…
He wasn’t even sure what to take. He could pack Lord Richard’s extensive wardrobe for all occasions by instinct; his own few possessions now seemed to be a sprawling mess. He couldn’t take everything. He’d need to send for it all, need a trunk, and time, and will to act.
He wasn’t sure where he was going, even. This was his home, had been for four and a half years, until he’d burned his life down with one stupid, uncontrolled, unplanned, stupid act.
The outrage in Lord Richard’s eyes. The anger. David curled over himself, shirt crumpled in his hands, chest airless with despair.
There was a repetitive tapping noise. It had been going on for some time. David hadn’t cared, and he didn’t care when he heard the door open behind him.
“Foxy—” Silas began, and then, “David? What’s wrong?”
“Get me out.” David needed,
urgently, to be away from the catastrophe he’d created and the self-inflicted humiliation. “Get me out of here.”
“Right. You sit down, I’ll pack your bag. Saying goodbye to anyone? Want anyone to know where you’ve gone? Doing a flit, fair enough.” Silas stuffed clothes into the bag in a way that should have made David wince. “Got somewhere to go?”
He didn’t. He lived here, in Lord Richard’s house and in Lord Richard’s light. His acquaintances were fellow valets, who would have just one response to the news his position was now free, and the men and women he used to order Lord Richard’s life, which he wouldn’t be doing any longer because he couldn’t go back.
His entire existence had been woven around Lord Richard, and with him ripped away, it was a mess of torn and dangling threads.
“Jesus wept,” Silas muttered. “Right, you, up. I’ll get you somewhere and we’ll sort the rest of it out tomorrow.”
He hauled David up with a powerful hand on his arm and set him moving with a push between the shoulder blades. David walked, automaton-like, through the corridors of the house he’d ruled by proxy, and Silas followed at his shoulder. They had to pass through the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, heads turning as they went. A footman began, “Mr. Cyprian—?” and recoiled at Silas’s snarl.
Then they were outside, into the mews behind Lord Richard’s house, past a footman in his shirtsleeves giggling with a housemaid in the dark. They both stiffened with guilt as David passed. Silas shoved him again, hand in the small of his back where he’d hit the table, and he gave a gasp of pain.
Across Piccadilly, and right, and through the dark service ways behind the big houses, a route David had walked a thousand times, but still he took in where they were heading only when they were at the back door of the gambling hell and club where the Ricardians met. Quex’s.
“I—no,” David began, not sure what his objection was except that this was Lord Richard’s domain. Silas ignored him, rapping on the door. A kitchen maid pulled it open, began a cheeky remark, and jolted as she set eyes on David. “Yessir.”
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