A Gentleman’s Position(21)

“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.

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.