Page 7

Sam

Lord Bentley was the most pompous, pig-headed arsehat Sam had ever had the displeasure of valeting for.

Sam strode back toward the prick’s chamber.

He would hand it to the man; Lord Bentley was above all other noblemen.

Ascended to his own level of arrogance and pretension.

Purposely using the wrong name? How hoggish could one get?

Sam had thought perhaps he’d over-inflated his memory of the man’s arseishness. He’d been having a bad bloody day when he’d met the man two years ago. Maybe he’d made the man out to be worse than he was.

Incorrect. The man was worse than he remembered.

He’d also hoped he’d built up the nob’s attractiveness—because Sam’d had many-a-fantasy about those full lips. Also, incorrect. The blasted man was sin. Wicked, wicked sin.

“Stupid wicked sin,” he grumbled to himself.

He shifted the garments in his arms and knocked on Lord Bentley’s chamber door.

He had been sorely tempted to over-starch the man’s cravat, but the man’s neck had stark red lines marring his pale skin when Sam had finally managed to get the cravat loose earlier.

It hadn’t just been the knot that was tight, the entire neckcloth had clearly been constricting.

Sam’s hand lifted to his own neck. Noose-like.

And as much as he disliked the bastard, he found he couldn’t further mark up the man’s skin.

It had taken everything in Sam’s power to not laugh in the man’s face when he’d admitted to being the one who had so terribly bungled his cravat knot.

What a surprise: another nob who thought he could rule the world but couldn’t even tie a simple knot.

Sam snorted. The man deserved to be knocked down a few pegs.

A slow smile spread across his face. Perhaps this week wouldn’t be as intolerable as Sam had initially thought.

Perhaps Sam would have a little fun at the prig’s expense.

Lord Bentley’s self-important tones drifted through the door, granting him entry. Sam stepped into the room and, as he always did despite himself, he lost the ability to think and function at the sight of the man who embodied everything Sam hated about this world.

Amber eyes as rich as aged oak whisky clashed with his, and he stopped in his tracks.

Lord Bentley’s lightly waved amber hair was mussed, slightly wet, and curling over his soft brow.

It was the perfect length for grabbing a fistful.

And fuck Sam, the man was in nothing but a billowing lawn shirt and smalls that stopped at the knee.

Sam’s gaze snapped back to lips so plush they shouldn’t be allowed on a man. At least not on this man. Pink and pouty and perfect for wrapping around Sam’s cock. But all enticement was snuffed out when they parted. And unfortunately, not around his cock.

“Don’t just stand there. Have you lost the ability to speak since you were last here? You’ve never been the most competent of manservants, but I thought you could at least communicate. Lay out the options on my bed.”

Sam was at a very real risk of cracking a tooth with how often this man had him grinding his teeth.

“My lord.” Sam’s lips tugged up in a smirk as he raked his gaze over the man, making it abundantly clear what he thought of the insufferably attractive toad.

And by the way Lord Bentley’s jaw ticked, he got the message.

The thrill of victory shot through Sam. One week of low-level warfare: snide remarks, mocking glances, and a few petty acts of rebellion. Yes, this week might actually be fun.

After Sam laid out the garments, the man stepped forward and studied them. Probably inspecting Sam’s competence . Lord Bentley ran a hand over a pair of fawn-colored trousers, his lips pursed as though the item was offensive. “I suppose this will do.”

Sam’s mouth flattened. He screwed up his face. I suppose this will do, he mouthed behind the man’s back. Did Sam still have the maturity level he had when he was a schoolboy back at Eton? Yes. Yes, he truly was that bloody juvenile. And he didn’t give a damn.

“I need my fob, pocket watch, and cuff links polished for dinner. On the dressing table. Do that now, and then you can assist me with my cravat and tailcoat.” He flicked his hand at Sam.

Sam’s chin jerked in. Was the man… Was Lord Bentley shooing him?

“Of course,” Sam said, proud of how polite the words came out. He set his jaw. Warfare was an apt word to describe how this week was going to go. God-damned aristocracy. Titled and en titled. The fucking lot of them.

He gathered up Lord Bentley’s intricately engraved gold pocket watch, diamond-studded cuff links, and ruby-adorned fob, then slipped out of the room.

The upper crust were bent on control and pushing others they believed beneath them down, eradicating the filth.

He stared down at the blood-red rubies. They’d slit their own kin’s throat if it meant protecting their image, their wealth, their name. Sam knew that better than anyone.

He fisted the fob, the detailed edges surrounding the jewel cutting into his hand. A strangling grip, just like the one around his heart. How easy it was for them to discard a life…to save their own.

He stopped at the door of another chamber and knocked.

The familiar, comforting baritone of his best friend filtered through the thick oak.

Sam inhaled, cracked his neck, and shook off the dark cloud hovering over him.

He was not going to let that arse get to him, ruin his peace here.

Devonford was his. His safe space. His happy space. No one would ruin that.

He strode into the room. “Do you need anything polished before dinner?” he asked breezily.

“I’m on my way to the butler’s pantry to clean a few items for Lord Bentley.

Thought it prudent to see if you needed anything.

Since I’m such an amazingly competent valet.

The best valet to ever valet.” So, maybe the tosspot was still getting to him. A smidgen.

Ash paused in his buttoning of his waistcoat, his blue gaze meeting Sam’s. He cocked his head. “Are you soused?”

If only. But, alas, no. Sam was just bitter, resentful, and at risk of losing his sanity. He flopped into an armchair and stared blindly at the ostentatious jewelry he turned over in his palm. “I wish. This house party is going to be more difficult than I thought it’d be.”

“You’re telling me,” Ash muttered under his breath.

Sam frowned. “Colborn being…Colborn?”

Ash’s son was a man-child. He was constantly getting himself into trouble, very public, very scandalous trouble, that Ash then had to cover up with his wealth and title.

It seemed to be getting worse instead of better with every passing year.

Normally that sort of behavior would repulse Sam—entitled aristocrats being entitled.

But Sam had known Colborn since he’d been in nappies.

And even though he wasn’t family by blood, Sam still held a sense of protective loyalty toward the lad.

So, he understood why his friend was always saving the petulant idiot’s arse.

Because family stuck by family. No matter what.

At least in real families.

“Yes, that,” Ash said, in a tone that wasn’t believable in the least. Before Sam could call his friend out on that, Ash beat him to it. “So, what’s going on with you? What has you in a tizzy?”

“I wouldn’t call it a tizzy per se. More…a mild agitation.” Sam glared at the offending jewelry. “As mild as a bout of the flux after dining at a questionable tavern,” he muttered, and Ash barked out a laugh.

“Let me guess, your love and admiration for the aristocracy?” Ash wrapped the length of his neckcloth around his shoulders and started on a simple barrel knot.

A rush of glee coursed through Sam. He knew of one such aristocrat who could barely manage a simple knot without strangling himself.

Ah, the satisfaction. “Don’t make me get sick all over your expensive rugs.

Love and”—he pretended to gag—“admiration do not belong in the same sentence as the aristocracy.”

Ash winged a brow. “You wound me.”

“You don’t count. You know that.”

“The Duke of Devonford doesn’t count as an aristocrat? Perhaps I should be offended.” Ash picked up his tailcoat, and Sam hurried to stand and assist his best mate.

“Stop fishing for compliments, old man.”

Ash growled. “Now I demand a compliment. We are only a few years apart. Just because your hair decided to never turn grey for some godforsaken reason doesn’t mean you have to point it out all the time.”

Sam grinned as he pulled on the lapels of Ash’s coat, tugging it tightly into place.

Ash was three-and-forty to Sam’s one-and forty, but Ash seemed extra sensitive about his age, and Sam had no idea why.

The man had a bit of grey peppering his dark-brown hair, especially around the sideburns, true, but it only made him look more distinguished.

“You’re a looovely aristocrat. My favorite one,” Sam said in sing-song voice. “And you’re handsome, oh-so-handsome. All the women want to bed you, and all the men want to be you. Maybe bed you too.” Sam winked.

Ash’s countenance was as dry as his tone. “That was the most insincere compliment I have ever received.”

Sam gave Ash a soft double pat on his cheek. “That’s the best you’re getting out of me, mate.”

Ash let out a dramatic sigh. “Remind me why I put up with you again?”

“Because you loooove me.” Sam blinked innocently, and Ash’s eyes rolled heavenward.

“Sometimes I seriously question why.” But there was nothing but affection shining in his blue eyes as his lips curved lightly.

Best mates for life. Sam wasn’t about to get all emotional and start spouting poetry, but Ash was the only person in Sam’s life he could count on.

And Sam didn’t think he’d ever be able to express how much that meant to him.

Ash was the best kind of person. Best friend.

Brother . Family. That was what Ash was to Sam.

“Weren’t you supposed to polish those items?” Ash tipped his head in the direction of the hearth.

Sam glanced over at the items he’d tossed on the side table by the armchair he’d been sitting in. Opeee, shite . He walked over and scooped up the jewelry. Looked like Lord Bentley would be late for dinner. Sam’s lips curled.

What a shame.