Page 11

Sam

One of their housemaids, Molly, came rushing into the butler’s pantry and flopped onto the bench opposite Sam with a heavy thump. She immediately dropped her head to the table with a thud.

Sam glanced up from Ash’s boot, which he was polishing. “Everything all right, Molls?”

“Mm egguhted.”

“Was I supposed to understand that?”

She lifted her head, wisps of brown hair falling loose around her face, her white cap tilted at a precarious angle. “I’m exhausted. I swear nothing has happened as it should since the guests arrived yesterday.”

Sam’s gaze dropped to the pair of boots against the wall next up for cleaning. The ones caked with mud and manure. So much manure that he was sure a certain lord with a giant stick up his arse had stepped in the filth on purpose.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Even all the strenuous labor of unloading the grain delivery yesterday morn hadn’t been enough to work off the tension that had gripped Sam since a particular lord had arrived at the castle.

Sam always assisted when the grain came in, helping with the larger sacks that contained two to three bushels, each one weighing as much as a full-grown man.

He had plenty of experience tossing around grown men, so those larger sacks were left for him.

He’d jumped on the opportunity to work off his irritation. But not even the strain of muscles pushed to their limit, heaving around ten-stone sacks of grain, could bury the loathing—nor the lust.

The scent of fresh buttery dough and the sweet aroma of cooked sugar wafted into the room before Cook’s short, stout form bustled into the small space. “Jam tarts for my favorite boy.” Her cheeks split into a wide, crinkled smile.

“Ah, have I told you how much I love you, Cook? Both for the tarts and for making me feel young.” He winked at her while she settled a small plate of tarts on the table.

He was far from a boy at one-and-forty, but Cook had taken him under her wing when he’d first arrived at Devonford Castle all those years ago.

When he truly had been a lost lad of eighteen.

How else was a lad to feel when he learned his family would sooner see him swinging from the end of a rope than prefer men?

He’d foolishly thought his family’s first reaction would be to protect him.

Cover up the mess. Help him flee to the continent.

Sodomy might be illegal, but Sam had never thought his family would turn him over to the authorities like he was nothing better than a criminal.

No, they swept it under the rug so no one could find out the ugly truth.

Exterminate the filth. Not one person in his family had cared to see him live.

But Ash had. Even at one-and-twenty, recently inherited, he had been every inch the Duke he’d been groomed to be.

With title, wealth, and reputation came power, and Ash had flexed that power to covertly save Sam—his best mate since their days at Eton—from right underneath the Trenton family’s noses.

Sampson Trenton ceased to exist, believed to have escaped and fled the country.

Samuel Thorne, the Duke of Devonford’s valet, was born.

Ash and Sam had saved each other in a way back then—Ash trapped in an empty marriage he’d been forced into much too young.

Neither had anyone who wanted them. But they had always, always had each other.

They’d spent many a night in this very kitchen, filling the void inside themselves with the abundance of tarts Cook would bake.

She’d always clucked around them like a mother hen, the only difference between then and now being the grey that had replaced her once brunette hair.

Sam didn’t think she’d ever stop seeing him and Ash as lost boys in need of love—and dessert—and it filled him with a thrumming warmth—the warmth of home .

“I’ll need your muscles later, Samuel,” Cook said, blessedly bringing him back from thoughts he had no wish to revisit. “I have some bags of flour that need storing. And these old bones of mine can’t heave them around any longer.” She ambled back to the door that led to the kitchens.

“Ah, I see,” he called after her. “This was bribery!”

“I may have put extra jam in those tarts,” she called confidently over her shoulder.

“Evil, evil bribery!”

Molly chuckled. “She dotes on you.”

Sam threw a roguish smile Molly’s way. “Oh, they all do. Would you be a dear and pop one of those tarts in my mouth? My hands are covered in polish.”

“Absolutely not. One, I am not feeding you, you lolpoop. And two, if someone saw they would assume the worst.”

Sam gasped dramatically. “The worst is having it assumed you and I are lovers? You wound me.”

She stared at him, her brows lifted with an are you done being dramatic yet expression.

He grinned. He loved Molls. A rare, genuine person. One who supported her brother, who kept with the company of men. That had earned Sam’s full bloody respect. “Pretty please, Molls. Just shove it in my mouth quickly.” He winked, and she snorted.

“You’re incorrigible.” She snatched up a tart and forcefully shoved it in his mouth.

He scowled at her but couldn’t manage a retort with a mouth full of tart.

While he chewed away, the bell on the wall rang again, signaling someone calling for assistance.

He blew out a heavy breath through his nose.

He knew who it’d be. A quick glance at the wall.

And yes, it was Lord Bentley. That was the second time he’d rang.

Sam had…urm…accidentally ignored the first one.

After he finally managed to swallow the tart, he wiped the back of his mouth on his sleeve and moved back to polishing Ash’s boot.

Molls’s stare bore into him, and his muscles twitched with the effort to ignore her. “Are you not going to answer that?”

“Hmmm? Eventually.”

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”

“First, the Duke will always choose me over any high-handed nob. And two, it would be worth it. A little lesson in humility for that prick to have to sit and wait around for a bit.”

He caught Molly’s smirk from the corner of his eye. “I know how you feel about the aristocracy, but he actually seems like one of the decent ones.”

Sam snorted and nearly choked on his own spit. Now that was a jest if he’d ever heard one.

Molly frowned at him. “I’m serious. You should hear the way Robbie talks about him.

If I didn’t know how in love he was with Neville, I’d think he held a tendre for the lord.

I swear, any time he’s in the same room as Lord Bentley, his eyes are glued on the man.

” She paused and hummed thoughtfully. “Not that I blame him. The Earl is awfully beautiful.”

Sam frowned. “Best you tell Robbie to be careful. One, if Neville finds out he’s making calf-eyes at someone else, he’s sure to get all prickly.

You know how tough the long distance is for them.

Two, if Lord Bentley gets an inkling of Robbie’s preferences, it could be very dangerous for him.

I’ve seen firsthand how much of an arse that man is. Him discovering something like that…”

Molly reached out and squeezed Sam’s wrist. “I’ll be sure to remind Robbie to be careful.” She let him go and fiddled with the edge of her apron. “Speaking of calf-eyes and lovers…”

“No, Molls.”

She let out a huff that shook her entire petite, curvy frame.

“Sam, you aren’t getting any younger. Why don’t you find yourself someone to settle down with?

You’re safe here. To be happy. This place is a haven—for horses and people alike.

Yet time and time again, you head to that village for nothing but an empty transaction. ”

Sam gritted his teeth. This was a conversation he and Molly had had many times. For some reason, she was determined to change his mind on settling down. But Molly didn’t understand it wasn’t Sam’s choice. That choice had been taken away from him when he’d been eighteen.

Sam wouldn’t put anyone in that position, risk subjecting someone to the pain of losing the one they loved. Because in the end, Sam appeared safe for the time being. But one never knew when their past would catch up with them. When Sam’s did, all he’d see was the end of a rope.

But even above all that?

Sam would never—under any circumstances—trust someone who was supposed to love him again. His family had made sure of that. Ash was the sole person Sam trusted, and that was all he needed.

Being betrayed once was enough.

The bell rang again. He glanced at the wall. Another summons by Lord Bentley.

Sam placed the finished pair of boots on the table and started wiping his hands off with a fresh rag.

Never again.