A Gentleman’s Position(6)

“I disagree once more. Do you not have regrets?” Lord Richard asked.

“I can’t see the point. There’s nothing one can do about them, after all. My mother says the sole point of the past is to ensure you don’t fall into the same traps in the future.”

“That is certainly a tempting philosophy.” Lord Richard sighed. “And has some truth to it. You are ever a comfort, my Cyprian.”

David stared at the embroidery in front of him, giving himself a self-indulgent second to absorb the words. Your Cyprian. All yours if you just ask. “I hope to give you satisfaction, my lord.”

“You do.”

“Whatever you need,” David said on a breath, and felt Lord Richard jolt under his hands. He moved his fingers to the next button of the waistcoat, the top one, close to the opening of the fine lawn shirt, and Lord Richard’s hand came down over his, skin against skin, trapping David’s fingers against his master’s chest.

He might as well have grabbed David by the balls.

David looked up into Lord Richard’s face, his eyes indigo in the candlelight and a little wide, as if he was startled by his own act. They stood inches apart, in silence, Lord Richard’s heart beating under David’s hand, and David felt his hard-fought poise crumble like sand walls under the tide.

Lord Richard’s big hand was over his, engulfing it, and either Lord Richard’s fingers were trembling or David’s were, or perhaps it was both. David flattened his fingers against Lord Richard’s chest and felt his master’s fingers tense over them.

There was an endless second, and then Lord Richard lifted his hand. “Enough. I’ll do the rest myself. Go to bed.”

David’s mouth opened. Lord Richard stepped back, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s late. Go on.”

It was just one in the morning. David had the rest of the evening’s duties to perform. He didn’t want to go, not now with his master’s touch hot on his hand. “My lord—”

“Good night.”

It was a flat dismissal, not to be argued with. “Yes, my lord,” David said in his usual neutral tone, and turned away.

He had reached the door when Lord Richard spoke again. “You are—invaluable to me, Cyprian. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, my lord,” David managed, wondering how his own voice was so level. “Good night.”

He shut the door without a sound and padded down the hall, face blank, manner correct. Nobody who saw him would see anything but a valet going about his duties. Nobody ever did.

Silas had gone when David reached his own room. He sat on the bed and put his face in his hands, breathing hard.

It was weeks since that touch in the book room, that moment of connection that couldn’t be explained away as valeting duties or accident or anything else. Weeks since Lord Richard had been forced to accept Mason into his own house, to acknowledge that the lost love of his life was happy elsewhere. Weeks of mornings and nights together in a bedchamber, of feeling Lord Richard trying not to respond to his touch, of David knowing that he was right.

Weeks with an increasing conviction that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.

His lordship might embrace the future, but he wouldn’t embrace a servant. That was all there was to it. He was the marquess’s son, and he held his place with pride and with duty. He did not stoop, and he didn’t abuse his position either. David recalled him dressing down a cousin who’d been a nuisance to a housemaid, his deep voice carrying through two sets of walls with unrestrained anger. He’d forced the scarlet young gentleman to make his near-tearful apologies to the wide-eyed girl and then escorted him out of the house in a way that reminded David of his friend who threw drunks out of a gentlemen’s club. Lord Richard protected his own. It was no wonder his servants adored him.

His lordship carried his birth, responsibility, and principles very heavily indeed. Desire didn’t stand a chance against those serried ranks, particularly not desire for a servant with hair of such a repulsive shade that he’d been ordered to wear it powdered at all times.

He’d seen Lord Richard watching him. He’d felt his lord’s breathing coming harder sometimes as David’s fingers moved over him, felt his big body tense, maintaining control. Another master would have reached for him. David was no stranger to this game; he knew hungry eyes when he felt them on his skin. Lord Richard had wanted him a hundred times, and if he had extended a hand or spoken a word, David would have come willingly. But Lord Richard had not; he never would.

It only made it worse that they both knew. David had felt the crackle of attraction all those years back at his interview for the post, and it hadn’t gone away any more than the sensation of that accidental, long-held touch on his fingers, which had felt so much like a door opening.