At least Cyprian still wore Richard’s dark green livery. The shade that screamed: Servant, do not touch.
He was sitting up in bed in his nightshirt, watching Cyprian arrange his own truckle bed. The usual arrangement for master and man on travels. He would not watch Cyprian undressing; he had not that right. It was none of Richard’s affair if his valet’s chest was sprinkled with golden-red hair, if it trailed down his belly, below his waistband…
Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
The words popped into his head, a line from some half-mad poet that Dominic had quoted during an argument. Richard had never felt more like landing his best friend a facer, because it was absolutely, insultingly wrong in every way.
Richard restrained his desire not because it was weak but because he was not. Weakness would be reaching out now, whispering Cyprian’s name, knowing that he would turn, a dark figure in the light of the single candle, and extend his slim, clever fingers to meet Richard’s. Weakness, contemptible weakness, would be indulging his desire when all the risk of it fell on Cyprian’s slender shoulders.
Or, not all. Richard risked losing a valet of superlative skill, a henchman so invaluable he could not remember how he had managed without him, a beloved companion. He might still have taken that risk if it had been his alone, to put an end to the gnawing hunger, but it was not.
It is not so, nor it was not so, and I wish to God it could be so.
“We will be there tomorrow,” he observed, to stop himself thinking.
“Another four hours on the road, perhaps.” The candlelight cast shadows on Cyprian’s face, made his eyes look deeper, his cheekbones more prominent.
“I shall be glad to be out of the coach for a while.” Not that Richard was confident they would be staying long. He had visions of a brief, cold exchange of greetings, or a blazing argument, and getting back in the coach to return to London after a half hour’s visit. “I suppose we will be expected,” he added. He had written to advise the dowager marchioness that he was setting forth at once; but given his purse, his well-sprung coach, and the teams of horses he could call on, he would not be surprised to arrive at Arncliffe House before his letter.
With the decision made, it had been crucial to leave as soon as possible. Cyprian had worked at full stretch to prepare in a couple of hours for a journey of indeterminate length and unpredictable weather. Richard had even waved away Harry, who had emerged from his room with the headache he deserved and something on his mind. Fond though he was of his cousin, Richard had not felt able to hear confessions of drunken misdeeds. And now he was almost there and still had no idea what to think, or feel, or do.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea.” The words startled him as he spoke them.
“It is.” Cyprian straightened, rolling his shoulders to stretch the kinks from his back. Richard wanted to run his thumbs up his valet’s spine, soothe the aches of travel. “Whatever the outcome, you were correct to come.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because you help people, my lord. You overstaff your houses and pension your veterans and assist your intimates. The dowager marchioness asked for you, and you have come. You have—if I may say so—no obligation to her. What matters is that you have your own standards.”
Richard couldn’t speak for a moment. “I have failed to meet those often enough,” he managed. “I failed Dominic. He needed me to understand, and I did not.”
“It was a very long time ago, and he asked a great deal. You cannot reproach yourself for that forever, my lord. You did your best.”
Richard attempted a smile. “You give me too much credit. I thought that no man was a hero to his valet.”
Cyprian smiled back, sudden and startling. “That depends on the man. And the valet.”
Richard couldn’t breathe for a second. He sat there, mouth open, heart thumping, and, to his dismayed awareness, prick thickening unstoppably at that foxy, irresistible, inviting smile.
Come to me. The words were on his lips. He had but to speak, and he would have Cyprian willingly in his arms; he knew it.
I would hold him, that’s all. Or, just one kiss…
He was a damned self-indulgent swine.
“Get some rest,” he said, forcing the words out, and turned in his bed so that he could not watch.
—
It was cold and miserable the next morning, with rain spattering the windows. Not a day to sit on the box no matter how little he wanted to be in the carriage with Cyprian, or how much.
Cyprian sat in silence, unreadable. Richard stared out of the window at the wide, bleak landscape around them, scrubby fields sliced up by stone walls, feeling the dread curdling within him and, worse, the anticipation that he could not make himself stem.