Page 7 of Daring with a Duke (The Jennings Family #2)

7

Ash

A sh rushed down the hall, the panic coursing through him threatening to close off his airways. She couldn’t leave. For days . And if that little display in the breakfast room was any indication…

He was fucked.

And not in the good way. Though he was definitely at risk of it being in the good way. Shite, shite, shitesack.

Find your bloody restraint, Ash. You are a duke. You have discipline. You do not crumble beneath a woman’s wily ways.

But he really wanted to be beneath her.

A groan rumbled from his chest. Sodding hell. He’d used an excuse to act as a servant to escape a woman. He could have run himself over with a carriage for how much of a cake he was. How green was he? He could only hope it made him look so foolish that it helped spurn her advances.

He almost missed a step. That was an intriguing idea. He’d have to revisit that.

The tightness of his trousers was absurd. He was three-and-forty, he wasn’t supposed to sport this many cockstands in such a short span of time. He was old. His cock disagreed. The disloyal bastard.

If his hands weren’t full of dirty dishes, he would have attempted to smack some sense into himself.

That was when he walked into a wall.

The dishes careened out of his hands, and he rebounded backwards, arms scrambling in a wild effort to regain his balance. Plates and cutlery flew—crashed—thuds, bangs, and breaking China ringing through the hall.

He landed heavily on his arse.

Oomph.

Well, that was a bit more literal than he had planned with the whole smacking of sense. Hopefully it worked.

He looked up at the offending wall, which wasn’t a wall at all, but his wide-eyed valet, Samuel Thorne. Well, his best-mate-turned-valet was somewhat of a wall. Where Ash was tall and lean, Sam was tall, but twice as broad with the muscles of an ox—or blacksmith or Viking. Ash’s mind was blabbering. The point was the man was large .

Where Ash seemed to cause women to swoon and go flutter-eyed, Sam’s rugged, dark appearance had women begging for him rip their bodices down the middle and take them back to his cave.

Unfortunately for them, Sam wasn’t interested in ripping bodices. He preferred ripping waistcoats and lawn shirts—though the valet in him probably died a little inside at that thought.

Sam’s large hand hauled Ash up without any effort, dragged Ash to the ducal chambers a little farther down the hall, and promptly threw Ash inside.

After Sam shut the door behind them, he turned on Ash. “What in the bloody hell are you doing running like the devil’s trying to steal your cock? And carrying dishes ? I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t crashed into me with them.”

Ash closed his eyes. How did he explain this away without arousing suspicion. If Sam found out about Ash’s improper obsession with Lady Felicity, he’d do something stupid like encourage it. Because that’s what best friends did. They helped you do stupid things.

“Nothing. I was just being helpful.”

His friend crossed his giant forearms and shot him a that was an utterly pathetic attempt look.

“I am invoking my Ducal Privilege.”

Sam’s dark eyebrows shot up. “You’re what? No, you’re bloody not invoking that rule.” He eyed Ash up and down. “Also, you do realize that only makes me more curious.”

Ash winced. Shite. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Too much blood was in his cock and not in his brain. He glanced down. Fuck, he was still hard. How was that possible?

But him glancing down only made Sam glance down. His friend’s eyebrows fled across the Atlantic and then Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“Lady Felicity arrived last night, did she not?” Sam asked slowly.

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not answering that. Ducal. Privilege.

“I am a duke, and you are a valet, which means you cannot ask me any questions, and your giant, hairy arse needs to leave me alone. Now, I must make my way to the arena.”

Ash spun and strode to his dressing room.

“Why the fuck did we ever come up with these bloody privilege rules?” Sam grumbled. “And my arse isn’t hairy. It’s actually quite smooth.”

Sam complained, but they had come up with Ducal Privilege—and in Sam’s case Valet Privilege—for some semblance of privacy. They had been best mates since Eton, Sam having once been the third son of a viscount. In the days before he became Samuel Thorne…

But at eighteen he had become Samuel Thorne, the Duke of Devonford’s valet. Sam was the one constant in Ash’s life, and the only way someone would take that away from him is if they pried Sam from Ash’s cold, dead hands. And even then… well, he wished them well—because he wouldn’t allow it. Ever. Ash didn’t know how he would have gotten through his marriage, through the death of his wife, through the darkness that still threatened to suffocate him, without his best friend.

But it also meant they were always around each other. Sam helped dress and shave him for God’s sake. Sam assisting him into his riding attire right now, case in point.

They had been best friends for far too long to have a professional relationship. Hence why Sam could speak to Ash the way he did, throw him around the way he did—something most valets would get the sack for.

Privacy? Boundaries? What were those?

So, if one of them invoked privilege, it ensured freedom from interrogation. It was juvenile, but they had come up with it when they were in their early twenties. It had stuck.

Sam opened his mouth as he shoved a boot on Ash’s foot, but Ash glared at him, and he snapped it shut. Ash could not discuss this. Could not voice his forbidden attraction to his son’s betrothed, nor the reasons for her presence here.

He fled his room to the stables and, though his friend didn’t say anything, Ash could still hear the unsaid words: I will wear you down.

But Sam wouldn’t wear Ash down. Because then Sam might meddle. And Ash couldn’t risk giving Lady Felicity an ally.

She had enough power as it was.