Page 9

“I’ll need you to press a fresh shirt,” the lout was saying.

“And then I’ll need you to get to work on these stains with haste.

Can’t have them setting and ruining the garment.

” Lord Bentley began undoing the buttons and glanced at Sam from beneath his lashes.

“How unfortunate there’s now more work for you to do. ”

Ah. He thought he’d won, did he? Because Sam now had to treat a few measly stains? Sam sent the man a wicked smile of his own. “Not unfortunate at all, my lord. As I pressed multiple shirts. I find it is best to always be prepared.”

The man’s smile faltered slightly. “How surprisingly…competent of you.”

Sam’s grin widened. Was that disappointment in the swell’s voice?

The man didn’t know who he was dealing with.

“Careful with your glowing praise, my lord.” He took a step back toward the wardrobe, raising his brows.

“I may get a big head.” And he may have thrown a bit of innuendo into that tone.

‘ You can take the man out of the flirt, but you can’t take the flirt out of the man, ’ as they say. Or something like that.

He started to turn when Lord Bentley’s gaze dropped to the front of Sam’s trousers—and Sam nearly ate the Aubusson for the second time that morning.

Sam hurried to gather a new lawn shirt. There was absolutely no way.

He was imagining things purely because of his own unfortunate attraction to the man. It was surely a coincidence.

He retrieved the fresh garment and spun back around.

And froze. And watched while, in horrifyingly slow fashion, the hem of Lord Bentley’s shirt exposed hard ridge after hard ridge of well-honed flesh.

Dips and valleys, muscles flexing and relaxing as the man pulled the shirt over his head.

Complete with a dusting of amber chest hair—Sam swallowed—and freckles.

Sam had noticed a few dotting the swell’s face, but to now know of the spattering on his chest?

Sam feared he might have just developed a fascination with freckles.

He wanted to trace their path…with his tongue—

“Well, don’t just stand there like a buffoon,” Lord Bentley huffed out. “Or I’ll take back what I said about your competence.”

Right. Bad man. Bad, bad, arse of a man. It was infuriating how easily Sam forgot that. Being in the attractive man’s presence turned Sam stupid.

He forced a tight-lipped smile, not sure who he was more annoyed with, himself or the cad.

He strode over with the new shirt. His cock clearly didn’t care that the man was a vainglorious, patronizing, and condescending prick.

It just wanted said prick’s prick. And Sam couldn’t deny he wouldn’t mind bending said prick over and teaching him a lesson.

Letting out multiple decades of pent-up resentment toward the aristocracy on that pretty lord’s body.

And those pretty lips would be moaning the correct name by the time Sam was done with him.

No Brambles or Thistles. When Sam was done with him, he’d be begging Sam for more.

Sam would revel in it. Owning that man.

Sam stopped before Lord Bentley and purposely drew himself to his full height. A reminder, stripped of titles, of who the bigger man truly was. He stood there, shirt proffered.

And waited.

But the swell just stared dumbly up at Sam.

“Is there a problem, my lord?”

Lord Bentley’s brow puckered, and he shook his head slowly.

“If you’d lift your arms then, please,” Sam said.

“P-pardon?”

Sam lifted the shirt and wiggled it in front of the man’s face. “I need your arms up so I can assist you into your shirt.” Who’s the buffoon now? “You know…as a competent valet would do. Unless you require I lift them for you?” Had that come out a tad impertinent? Most definitely.

Lord Bentley’s brows crashed together, his familiar glare firmly back in place. “Such insolence,” he grumbled as he lifted his arms.

Why did Sam have the distinct feeling Ash would be relaying a certain lord’s grievances about his ill-tempered manservant before the day was out?

But what were best mates for if not to be a thorn in each other’s arses?

There was a reason Sam had decided to go with the surname Thorne when he’d changed his name, after all.

Sam bit back a chuckle as he slid the shirt over Lord Bentley’s arms and then up and over the man’s head.

He reached for the sides and tugged at the soft linen, his knuckles grazing over Lord Bentley’s ribs.

His pulse stuttered. Bare, hot skin seared his fingers through his gloves, a shock—quick as a lightning strike—streaked through his body.

His gaze shot to a pair of turbulent amber eyes, ones that swirled with the storm clouds responsible for that lightning.

And even though it was a terrible, horrible, completely dim-witted idea, Sam let his fingers continue their path.

Unhurried. Trailing against the man’s sides as he brought the shirt all the way down.

Completely innocent in any other manservant-lord situation.

But the visions flashing in Sam’s mind were anything but innocent.

Each sharp, vivid thought came interrupted by a blinding white flash, just like lightning against a night sky.

Tracing each hard ridge. Flash. Following that trail of amber hair just below the man’s navel.

Flash. Revealing what he knew would be a defined V that led straight to—

Lord Bentley abruptly stepped back, grabbing his coat off the chair and tucking it to his front. “That will be all,” he said gruffly, a light pink tinging his high cheekbones. “You are dismissed.”

Sam blinked back his discomposure and eyed the flushing man curiously. “Don’t you need assistance with your cravat? Considering the Gordian knot I had the pleasure of disentangling yesterday, I’m not sure you should be trusted tying your own.”

The man’s jaw tightened, and his eyes glinted dangerously. “You. Are. Dismissed.”

Well, then. Someone was prickly. Sam left, gnawing on his lip, and found himself wondering if Lord Bentley’s reaction just now wasn’t born from animosity at all…

But something much more intriguing.