Page 112 of Their Master

Mr. Smith stood and came toward him.

Luke shot to his feet.

Smith reached up and cupped his face, and Luke heaved a sigh of contentment, nuzzling into his palm.

“I care for you, Luke. A great deal. I know I don’t always show it—”

Luke leaned down and claimed Smith’s mouth, cutting off his words.

Smith grunted with surprise but opened to him, his hand sliding behind Luke’s neck and pulling him closer.

The kiss was tender and deep, like the sort between lovers, not the type between client and whore.

Smith could give Luke a piece of paper to sign—because that was what he needed—but their kiss was Luke’s inarticulate way of sealing the deal they had just made.

Smith suddenly pulled away, his expression no longer civilized, his lips no longer smiling. “You know I don’t like to share.”

Luke couldn’t help smiling at the other man’s double standard. “I know that, sir.”

“I allowed it before—with David, but not anymore.”

“There is nobody else.”

Smith nodded. “Good. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” Luke agreed, happier than he’d ever been in his life.

Chapter 26

Smith’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of the biggest mansion on Berkeley Square.

As wealthy as Smith was, the houses that lined the square represented ancient money and power and were—as yet—beyond his reach.

Many of the aristocrats who owned houses on this square were beneath water when it came to their finances, but the massive Portland stone Palladian belonged to Lord Jeremy Winters, the Earl of Selkirk.

Selkirk was many things the average aristocrat was not, and one of those things was an investment genius—and he was not ashamed of his financial acuity, unlike many others of his ilk, who viewed commerce as beneath them, even while their fortunes crumbled.

The earl was also a gentleman painter of some repute, although his pictures were not the sort to find their way into public galleries.

Smith had never met the man, but he’d had the good fortune to purchase one of Selkirk’s paintings several years ago, a rather outrageous nude titled #6.27.

While Selkirk wasn’t on the level of Nora Fanshawe, he had his own distinctive style and his work pulsed with eroticism, not to mention a healthy—or unhealthy, depending on where one stood on the matter—dollop of sadism.

The front door opened and a dignified butler greeted him. He gave the man a card. “Smith here to see the earl.”

“Good evening, sir. His lordship is expecting you.” He took Smith’s hat and gloves before helping him out of his coat. “This way, sir.”

He led Smith up to the very top floor, which was typically reserved for servants.

But the corridor was no servant hallway. There was a luxurious carpet runner and gleaming wood, not to mention a great deal of art—some hanging, some displayed in glass-fronted cases or shadowboxes.

Smith paused in front of one of the larger cases, whose contents were Peruvian, produced by the Moche, an Andean tribe. He could have spent hours looking at that display, alone.

“Right in here, sir.”

He turned and saw the servant had stopped at a door at the end of the corridor.

“This is his lordship’s studio, sir,” the man said, and then opened the door.

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