Page 14 of Their Master

“Thank you, sir,” he said when Smith handed him his refilled glass.

Smith sat on the settee across from him, his ivory silk dressing gown baring a mouth-watering expanse of bronzed chest. They’d already made love once—before dinner—but Luke could not get enough of the other man. He’d hoped Smith might drag him back to bed, but he could see the other man was in the mood to talk.

“Tell me about your family—you grew up in London, did you not?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. My father is a tailor, although not the sort you’d find on the Row.”

“Do you have a large family?”

“Two brothers who work for my father, too. And they’ve each got three children.”

Smith cocked his head. “Do you want a family?”

Luke snorted softly. “I do, but it’s not—well, it wouldn’t work for me, sir.”

Smith merely nodded, well aware of what life was like for men like them.

“What about you, sir?” Luke blurted, suddenly so tired of holding all his curiosity inside himself that he had to let some out or risk exploding.

Smith blinked. “Me?”

“Are you from London?”

“No, but I’ve lived here a long time, most of my life.”

Luke thought that was all he’d say, but then he went on, his dark eyes suddenly distant.

“I come from somewhere so far away from London it might as well be a different world.” His gaze sharpened again and focused on Luke. “But I will never go back there. I will live in London until I die.” He smiled. “What about you? Where would you live if you could live anywhere?”

Luke gave a startled chuckle. “Lord, sir, that’s not anything I’ve ever thought about. I wouldn’t know where to go. I’ve not been anywhere—except Brighton one summer—so I suppose I’ll stay here until I die, as well.”

“Why did you go to work at the Birch Palace instead of at your father’s?”

Luke shifted in his chair; not sure how honest he should be.

“You needn’t censor yourself with me,” Smith said, yet again reading his mind. “Nothing you say will anger or offend me.”

Luke cleared his throat. And then cleared it again, not really believing he was about to share this part of himself until the words began to tumble out. “I worked for my father for years, and from the age of seventeen to nineteen I was betrothed to a girl from our street,” he said, suddenly desperate for this man he loved so very much to know about him. “I cared for her a great deal—I l-loved her, even. But I was always restless.” He cut a glance at Mr. Smith.

The other man nodded for him to continue, the knowing glint in his dark eyes telling Luke that he would not be shocked or disgusted.

“I’d had”—he swallowed hard—“a number of, er, encounters with other men—and women—mostly just furtive meetings in dark alleys in the dead of night.”

Luke wasn’t vain, but neither was he unobservant. He’d seen that women and some men found him desirable and several had made their interest clear to him.

And he had been far too curious to resist.

“None of those encounters were especially rewarding,” Luke confessed. “I always felt dirty and ashamed after. And yet…”

“You’d do the same thing again?” Smith guessed.

Luke nodded. “I might have gone on for years working in my father’s shop, marrying Katie, and snatching a few hours with strangers once or twice a month.” He inhaled deeply. “But then I met a man who taught me… things.”

“Things about yourself and how you weren’t alone?”

Luke sighed, relieved the other man knew where he was leading. “Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

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