A Gentleman's Position (Society of Gentlemen) (5 page)

“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.

He had never quite been able to let go of that as a boy. When he returned from Harrow for the holidays, he had always felt that pulse of excitement as the chaise drew up at Tarlton March, and he had run in to see his parents. His father had been old, grim, and stately, but he had ruffled Richard’s hair and listened to his news. His mother had not, and every time it had been a little blow, because he had always believed
this
time she might smile at him.

Philip had let go of that belief long before the terrible day. Richard, it seemed, had still not.

Arncliffe House was an uninviting foursquare building in the drab tones of the local stone. The gate was open. Doone brought the carriage up to the house; Cyprian rang the bell. The heavy oak door was opened, several minutes later, by a white-capped woman of some forty years. Her eyes widened as she took in the man on the doorstep.

“Lord Richard Vane. I am here to see Lady Cirencester.”

“Aye, my lord? Well.” She stepped back, opening the door, with a look of grim satisfaction. “I’m to tell ye ye’re too late.”

She was laid out in her bedchamber. It was a room that could have been made pretty very easily. Richard remembered his mother liking pretty things. Instead, it was austere, the furniture sharp edged and heavy without being particularly practical, as though it had been chosen for its discomfort.

The body was not pretty either, a day after death. It was skeletally thin from the ravages of the cancer that had killed her, the skin yellowed, lips drawn back. Richard had wondered what he would feel on seeing his mother again, but this frail corpse of an old woman was not his mother. He sat by the bed anyway, holding her hand, because it was the right thing to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud. “I’m sorry I was not in time. I’m sorry I did not know you.” There seemed very little else to say, but he went on anyway, speaking into the silence. “I’m sorry that you did not like me, or Philip. He is an excellent man. You were a grandmother seven times over. Did you know that? Did you never want to see them? I’m sorry that you did not want my letters. I dare say it was an inconvenience for you to receive them, but we were always terribly inconvenient to you, Philip and I. I’m sorry that you disliked us so.” His throat was hurting, but now the words had started coming, he couldn’t stop them. “I’m sorry I could not tell you when I fell in love or seek your comfort when it ended. But then, I couldn’t have done that anyway, and at least I never had to worry about gaining your ill opinion, since I already had that. I’m sorry I never mattered to you in the slightest, because it seems you did matter to me. Why did I not matter?” He stared at the body, wishing for an answer. “Why didn’t you write back?”

Her thin fingers were cold and too light. He let them go. “Well, you rid yourself of Philip very effectually indeed, and now you are rid of it all. I suppose I too should have taken the hint. But I am here now, and I would have come before if you had wanted me.”

That seemed all there was to say. He stood, since the chair was hard and built for slimmer hips than his own, and walked over to the little bureau, looking for duty to do. The housekeeper had said that his mother had been a long time dying and had put her affairs in order well in advance. He was glad of that. He would be glad to leave this loveless, lifeless place.

He opened the bureau.

Lord Richard had decreed they would stay the night, a single sharp sentence uttered through a half-closed door. It made sense, with the funeral the next day, but it was not a welcoming prospect for all that.

Mrs. Briggs, the housekeeper, had a relish for gloom that David found trying. She offered some reflections on the failings of the Vane family, which he silenced with a few sharp words, and was prevailed on to cook a meal for his lordship at something approaching a decent hour, despite the country habit of dining at six o’clock.

Lord Richard ate alone in the dining room. David served him in silence, since that was clearly required, then had a quick supper with Doone in the kitchen.

“Bloody miserable, this is,” Doone muttered. “How long are we here for?”

As long as Lord Richard wishes
was the obvious answer, but David and Doone knew each other too well for that. “I’ll make sure we’re able to leave after the funeral. Can you have the horses ready? I held a room at that last inn, so even if we start late, we can be sure of a bed.”

Doone raised a brow. “All under control, is it?”

“I try to anticipate his lordship’s wishes.”

“Aye, well, I’ll be glad if you anticipate him out of here as quick as you can.” Doone drained his ale. “I’ll go see to the tits. Don’t think much of the stables here, I can tell you.”

David went upstairs with a candlestick through the empty, echoing house rather than sitting alone in the kitchen. Really, he should have waited until he was summoned, but he knew he would feel better for doing something.

Lord Richard was in the bedroom David had made ready, on a spindly chair that was quite inadequate for his large frame, staring at the wall.

“My lord?”

No answer. David moved around tweaking things, finding excuses to stay, because something was wrong, badly wrong, well beyond their too-late arrival and a forgotten woman’s death. He could feel it, and it was making him nervous.

“My lord,” he said again and was not answered. “My lord, what’s wrong? May I help?”

“Just leave me, Cyprian. Please go.”

“No,” David said.

That got Lord Richard’s attention. “What did you say?”

“My lord, please. What is it? What’s
happened
?”

Lord Richard stared at him, poised for an endless second between anger and misery, and then his face convulsed. “She had my letters,” he said thickly. “All of them. The ink was worn away on some of them where she had held them. The paper was rubbed almost through. She must have read them again and again. Every one.”

David dropped to his knees by the chair without thought, grabbing for Lord Richard’s hand. “Oh no. Oh, my lord.”

“If I had just come. If I had not stewed in my stupid offended pride…Oh God, all those years she was here alone, reading my letters, and I never came. If I had not waited for her to
ask.
And then, when she did, I was too late.”

“You tried,” David said, wanting it to be true. “You did your best.”

“No, I didn’t. I was hurt, and it never occurred to me that she was too. She left a letter—to Philip and me—I cannot speak of that. God almighty, Cyprian, how have I failed so badly?”

“Please, stop. You ask too much of yourself.”

“She didn’t get the last one, the note,” Lord Richard said. “That arrived only this morning. She died without knowing I was coming.”

“She knew.” David spoke with all the certainty at his command. “With all your letters? She will have known. Of course she knew.”

“Oh, Cyprian.” Lord Richard’s fingers tightened on his. “Don’t go.”

David managed to smile. “You couldn’t make me.”

“You—” Lord Richard’s free hand came up, skimming David’s face with a touch so light it was scarcely there. Impossible that such a big man could be so gentle. His fingers caught in the strands of David’s hair, and David, barely believing, lifted his hand to the face he’d shaved so often. He had Lord Richard’s skin under his fingers every day. But not like this.

Lord Richard was very still. Then he leaned in, just a fraction, and David did too, and they were kissing.

It was hesitant, absurdly so. Virginal, even with Lord Richard’s lips barely moving on David’s, his fingers still on David’s cheek. David moved in a fraction, terrified that his master might pull away altogether, and felt the quiet gasp in Lord Richard’s throat as much as heard it. There was a second when Lord Richard was quite still, and then he pulled David’s head forward, and his lips on David’s were still careful but no longer hesitant. There were hands in David’s hair, over his face, his master’s mouth increasingly urgent on his. Kissing his lord in a darkened room, feeling his hunger.

I’m here. I won’t ever go.

They both had hands in the other’s hair now, Lord Richard’s big hands working in David’s long straight locks as though he’d have liked to seize handfuls; David feeling the familiar loose curls as though he’d never touched them before. Lord Richard’s lips were open to his in wide, greedy kisses, tongues tangling, so pleasurable it hurt.

David made an urgent noise. Lord Richard came forward, sliding off the chair or pushing it backward so he was kneeling as well, bringing them face to face, one of his hands skimming David’s back. David dared run his own fingers over Lord Richard’s jawline, then took a firmer grip, and Lord Richard’s lips were hard on his, his hands commanding. Christ, he was strong, leaning over David now and pushing him back in his need, bodies pressed together—

There was a knock at the door.

Lord Richard recoiled from him, snatching his hands away so that David half-fell back on the rug. Their eyes locked for a single appalling, frozen second, and then David shoved both hands through his hair to smooth it, wiped the wet from his lips, and went to the door, making his face blank. He didn’t open the door fully. There was only so much of his body he could control.

It was the housekeeper with some domestic query of such triviality David could barely keep civil. It was a long time since he had worked in a house where every decision was brought to the master or mistress; taking care of domestic matters was what fucking housekeepers were supposed to
do.
He dealt with the question courteously because shouting would have taken longer, shut the door, and turned.

Lord Richard was sitting on the bed hunched over, face in his hands.

“Uh…my lord?”

Lord Richard looked up. The expression on his face was dreadful.

David’s stomach plunged. “My lord?” he asked again, and wanted to say,
Richard?
but did not dare.

“Cyprian. I…” Lord Richard shut his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Oh God, no.
David went to the bed, dropping to his knees to bring their faces to the same level. “No. Don’t say that.”

“I should not have—” Lord Richard lifted a hand toward David’s face, pulled it away before touching. “That was wrong of me. My fault. You are not to blame.”

“My lord…” David had no idea what he could say to be heard. What he wanted to say was
It wasn’t wrong,
but they both knew that legally, morally, socially, in the eyes of God and man and his master’s elevated world, it was wrong as hell. “There is nothing you could ask of me I would not give you willingly. Nothing.”

Lord Richard’s eyes widened. David stared into them, heart thudding with a dull, dead feeling, like a muffled drum.

“You should not say that,” Lord Richard said at last. “You should not think it. I cannot— You cannot—” He stopped himself. “Enough. Go to bed. I will see to myself tonight.”

“No. Not now.”

“Yes, now. My God, will you let me keep some decency in this house?” Lord Richard demanded. His eyes were needy, desperate. “Is it all not bad enough without—without—I am not going to tumble you to take my mind off my mother!”

“That was not what we were doing,” David said, voice rising in shock. “It was
not.
”

“It doesn’t matter. Stop, in God’s name, before this becomes irrevocable.”

“Stop and what?” David demanded. “Stop, and forget that you kissed me? Stop, and feign ignorance of what we both know, as we have since February?”

Lord Richard’s jaw hardened. “What you know, or think you know, is irrelevant. You have your place, and I mine, and we will both do well to remember that. I want you to go.”

David could feel the blood rushing to his face. He was abruptly aware that he was kneeling on the damned floor like a supplicant. He
was
a supplicant, and he had been refused. “You’re dismissing me.” His lips felt stiff. “After—”

“You told me I could ask anything of you,” Lord Richard said. “I am
asking
you to leave me now. Don’t make me order it.”

David wanted to make him order it.
Look me in the eyes, with my kiss on your mouth, and say that.
He wanted to push it, to force a response, to make his master face what had happened.

With Lord Richard’s mother lying dead in the next room.

David shut his eyes for a long moment, then stood. “Very well. Good night, my lord.”

He left the room without waiting for a response.

Lord Richard did not meet David’s eyes the next day as he dressed for the funeral service. David had packed blacks since it was his task to think of everything. His lordship took the coach to the little church, though it was less than a mile away, to add to the ceremony of Lady Cirencester’s farewell. It was still raining.

He hadn’t given orders as to what they would do after the funeral, so David anticipated, or decided, for him and packed the luggage as his master paid his respects to the mother who hadn’t wanted him.

David could still feel Lord Richard’s mouth on his.

It was, he knew, impossible. He was well aware of that, had told himself so often enough, had gone to some lengths to find other people to fuck instead. Lord Richard, who didn’t even bed whores for relief, would never violate his place and his principles so far as to tup a servant, and David had to make himself believe that, because the alternative was destruction.

He was proud of his place. He’d worked for it. He’d gone from the lowest possible birth to his own spacious room in an Albemarle Street townhouse and a position at Lord Richard Vane’s side. Silas’s claptrap about the rights of men be damned: David had clawed his way to prosperity, security, and respect through service to a lord. The prestige, the clothing, the luxury of Lord Richard’s station were all at just one remove, bathing David in reflected glory. He should have had nothing more to ask from life.

But he did want more. He wanted Lord Richard and could not have him, and for the first time since he’d entered service at ten years old, David felt himself ashamed. Ashamed of his standing, ashamed of taking orders he did not want, and aware of a bright flame of resentment beginning to flicker at the edges of his mind.

Lord Richard’s obligations took up the whole morning and much of the afternoon. A service, some awkward funeral meats, Lord Richard doubtless giving words of thanks to those who had been his mother’s friends or acquaintances over the last two decades, who probably knew all about her cruel treatment at the hands of the Vane family and her estrangement from her thankless sons.

When his lordship returned to Arncliffe House, past four, David took one look at his face and said, without so much as a greeting, “If we depart in the next half hour, there is a room kept for you at the inn at Thirsk.”

“I should—” Lord Richard began and then said, “Yes. Thank you.”

That meant a scramble for departure and a coach ride in the gathering twilight, but it was worth it to get Lord Richard away from this bloody place. There was no leisure at the inn either, where the innkeeper had taken a lackadaisical attitude to preparing a room and dinner for a guest who probably wouldn’t arrive. David clarified the innkeeper’s obligations for him in strong terms, and the work of making all acceptable for his lordship went some way toward filling up the gaping silence between them in the night.

He couldn’t avoid it the next day, sitting together with Lord Richard as the coach bowled south along the post road toward London.

David was good at silence. That was one of his greatest assets as a valet, since gentlemen wanted servants who were invisible and inaudible except when needed. He’d never felt less invisible than now. Lord Richard was staring out of the window, but David could feel his master’s awareness of him so that he was painfully conscious of every little shift or stretch, and crossing his ankles seemed like an act of aggression.

They had to talk about it, however dreadful that conversation might be. Anything would be better than this awful refusal to look at him. David thought that and said nothing, and endured a luncheon stop in more silence. They got back in the damned coach for another five hours’ jolting along the roads, and David couldn’t stand it any longer.

“My lord.”

Lord Richard had his head back, eyes shut. He seemed not to hear at first, then opened his eyes. “She left a letter. I think I told you that?” He held a hand up, as if to forestall a protest that David hoped his face hadn’t shown. “It was addressed to Philip and me. She said she owed us an explanation.”

“An explanation,” David repeated.

“She talked of her marriage. Called my father despotic, tyrannical. He beat her, you know.” He gave a tiny flinch, a twitch of shame. “He was a powerful man even in his seventies, and he had a temper. She said that the contempt was worse. That he belittled her when she spoke until she did not wish to speak at all. I remember the silence well. And she says her marital duties were…unwelcome attentions. It seems she had a number of miscarriages and two stillbirths between Philip’s birth and mine. I didn’t know that. The way she writes…” There was a muscle jumping in his neck. “My father was a stern man, a strict master, but he was my
father,
and I had to love him, because I was not allowed to love her—” He stopped, looking startled at his own words.

“Not allowed?” David repeated.

“That is nonsense. I meant— Naturally Father did not wish us to cling to her skirts, even if she had wished us to do so. He never forgave her for straying in the early days of their marriage, you see. He believed in duty, and I always had a sense that she was in disgrace. But my mother’s account—the revulsion— She hated being with child. She says, ‘He made me have children, but he could not make me love them. That I could refuse.’ ”