Page 133 of Their Master

Smith had just stared, biding his time until the other man left. And then he would never allow him back into his house. Ever.

Perhaps Charles saw his decision on his face.

“I’m not the only one who finds it pitiful, you know.” Charles had shrugged into his vest, not bothering to button it before struggling into his coat. “I was in bed with one of my most loyal clients—the Marquess of Sale, perhaps you’ve heard of him? Although I doubt you move in similar circles.” He’d shrugged, his smile petty. “In any event, I was telling him about yourarrangementwith your last valet. Who wasn’t even—”

One moment Smith was waiting for the other man to finish and leave, the next, he had Charles pinned to the wall by the throat.

Smith thought he might have been more surprised than Charles, although nowhere near as scared.

“You have made several mistakes in the time we’ve been acquainted, Charles,” he’d said quietly, slackening his hold on the other man’s neck to allow him to breathe. Smith hadn’t wanted to hurt him—or at least not much—he’d merely wanted to be sure he had his complete attention. “The biggest mistake you’ve made, by far, is your belief that whatever affection I once bore you still exempts you from my displeasure. You know my thoughts on being a subject for your pillow talk, so I won’t belabor the point. I’m going to leave you to dress in private, so I’ll bid you goodbye right now. And thisisgoodbye, Charles.” He’d held Charles’s bright blue gaze a moment longer, wanting to be sure the other man understood.

Charles had nodded shakily, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Smith’s hand, his throat as fragile as a cornstalk in October.

Smith had not seen Charles since.

While he was relieved, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret that things had ended so badly. He could never love the younger man, but he’d enjoyed his company greatly at one time.

Unfortunately, Charles had become even more callous during his year away and Smith suspected there were darker reasons for his slender physique than merely a picky diet. He knew the look of a person’s pupils on opiates, and he feared Charles had developed habits that would lead him to sorrow.

He suspected that his addiction had already led him to poverty as he’d somehow managed to piss away the money Smith had paid him—more than he’d make working for a decade—in addition to whatever his Russian prince had likely given him.

Charles, Jojo, Moira—all three gone.

If Smith ever needed evidence that he was meant to live alone, he needed to look no further than those three.

One embittered.

One with another man.

And one reluctantly carrying his child and seeking another lover.

Which brought him back to Felson and his visit.

Smith sighed and glared out his study window.

Moira wanted to fuck someone else. What was he going to do about it?

Smith noticed a familiar figure approaching the house and frowned; it was Luke.

But today wasn’t Monday.

He was walking with the same dignified, almost stately, stride he always employed. But Smith knew Luke’s body intimately. He could see his shoulders were tense even from this distance.

He looked like a man who had steeled himself to face an unpleasant task.

Smith’s stomach, which had already been roiling, tightened with dread.

What now?

Chapter 31

This is a terrible, terrible idea, Luke.

It was. It was the sort of idea from which a person might not recover.

But he’d already taken the longest route to Mr. Smith’s house, and then looped back around and taken another route. He could either wander the streets for the rest of the gloomy day, or he could be a coward and go back home, or he could do what he’d set out to do.

Mr. Smith doesn’t want her. Why should it matter what you do?A quiet, greedy voice in his head muttered.

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