A Seditious Affair(100)

David had no more interest in philosophy than politics, and the greatest number could go hang themselves for all he cared. There were perhaps five people in the world for whose happiness he gave a damn, and the chief of those was smiling at him now in a way that hurt his heart.

He moved to unbutton the waistcoat. It was just on the cusp between perfectly fitted and a little tight; Lord Richard had put on a couple of pounds over the winter. David eased a gilt button smoothly through its slit. “Merely a practical thinker, my lord. If it is right for the people involved, then I cannot see why it should be wrong for anyone else.”

“There we differ,” Lord Richard said. “One cannot disregard worldly concerns, or moral ones. Nevertheless, I wish I had been more practical with Dominic a long time ago, and I wish you had been with me then. I feel quite sure you could have advised me better.”

“My lord, you did what you could. Mr. Frey is responsible for himself.” Another button slipped free under his fingers. It was such a temptation to take longer over this, each undoing a little blissful torture. “And whatever has passed between you, things are better now. There is no need for regrets.”

“I disagree there. 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 chest.

He might as well have grabbed David by the balls.

David looked up, into Lord Richard’s face, his deep blue 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 own, engulfing it, and either his fingers were trembling or David’s were, or perhaps both. David flattened his fingers against Lord Richard’s chest and felt Lord Richard’s fingers tense over them.

Please. Please.

There was an endless second, and then Lord Richard lifted his hand away. “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. He had the rest of the evening’s duties. He didn’t want to go, not now, with his master’s touch hot on his hand. “My lord—”

“Good night.”

It was 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 about his duties. Nobody ever did.

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

It was weeks since that touch in the book room, the 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 in his own house, to acknowledge that the lost love of his life was happy elsewhere. Weeks of morning and night together in a bedchamber, of feeling Lord Richard trying not to respond to his touch, of knowing that he was right.

Weeks in an increasing conviction that David 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, holding his place with pride and 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 club. Lord Richard protected his own. It was no wonder his servants adored him.