A Gentleman’s Position(22)

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.”