~ * ~
Francis woke with a start as someone nudged his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find himself lying face down against the duke’s thigh and the duke caressing his hair. The situation was so unexpected that he simply stared at the duke instead of moving away from the caress. That
Staines
was finally awake after a week of uncertainty possibly accounted for his stupor. He’d been in and out of consciousness since the first day after the duel and it was a relief to see his gaze had cleared somewhat. He no longer thrashed in pain, and his skin glowed with greater health.
A slow grin twisted his employer’s lips. “You are a very heavy sleeper, Red. I did not know that about you.”
“Forgive me.” Francis jumped up and checked the duke’s wound and temperature.
Staines
did not appear feverish anymore and he let out a heavy sigh as he tucked the blankets higher around him where they had slipped down to expose the wide expanse of his chest.
The duke moved his hand up and down Francis’ thigh. “I’m thirsty again.”
Staines
licked his lips and, cursing his foolishness for sleeping when he should have been watchful, Francis rushed around the chamber to get water and open the drapes for more light. When he came back to the duke’s side, his master was squinting.
Staines
gulped down the liquid and wiped a hand over his mouth. “Thank you.”
An urgent tapping sounded on the door and Francis scowled at the noise.
“Someone has been doing that for a while. Do we have to answer them?”
Francis groaned. “It is probably Lord Bracknell or Lord Fairmont come to check on you. They have been here every day demanding to see you.”
Staines
gestured to his partially covered chest and grimaced. “Well, whoever it is can wait a little longer. I’m hardly presentable.”
“You want to dress? Now?” Francis set his hands to his hips. “For Gods sake, Ambrose, you almost died. Appearances can go to the devil.”
The grin that twisted the duke’s face was at complete odds to his precarious health. “Now Red, don’t be losing your temper with me. I cannot look as if I was at deaths door. Think of the gossip.”
Francis threw his hands up in the air and stormed across the room to the duke’s closet. Foolishness. More utter bloody foolishness. He ran his hands over the racks of clothing and selected what the duke would require: silk waistcoat, fine linen shirt, and a handful of cravat’s with an expensive pin to stick into the final one.
When he emerged, the duke raised a brow. “We could have called for my valet to attend to my dressing.”
Francis scowled. He did not want to be alone with the duke and Smith and witness the valet ogling their employer. The sight always put him in a very bad mood, and he was still annoyed at the duke over the duel. He dropped a waistcoat on the bed, but took the shirt toward a side table. Then, to improve his mood, he took the scissors to it.
When he was finished, the duke chuckled. “So you’re not keen on that shirt I take it?”
Francis scowled. “If you are going to dress to meet with a bunch of fools then I am not about to destroy my work in the process. This will cause you less pain.”
He held the shirt out to the duke so he could see what he meant. He’d cut down the center back of the shirt so the garment would not jostle him when fitted.
“Imminently practical, Red.”
Gingerly, Francis slid the sleeve over the duke’s right arm, then over his left and tucked the edges beneath the duke’s body snugly. He buttoned the shirt at the neck and then reached for a cravat. He had little practice with dressing the duke, or tying the intricate knots he favored, but the duke would have to accept his efforts or forget about this absurdity altogether.
Staines
raised his head without argument so Francis could loop the long length around his neck. But he gasped as his shoulder was jostled and gripped Francis’ leg as he tied the first knot securely.
“Sorry,” Francis muttered.
“It’s nothing. You are very gentle with me.”
“I take pride in doing my best, Your Grace.”
Staines
rubbed Francis’ leg with more pressure. “Your Grace, again. Can we not be simply Ambrose and Francis when we are alone together?”
“You usually call me Red.” He frowned. “Besides, that would not be proper, Your Grace. I should not like to overstep.”
The duke’s hand traveled up his arm and gripped his bicep, preventing him from completing the knot. “You may overstep with me at any time, Red. I would welcome you with open arms.”
Francis drew back. “Did you hit your head hard on the ground after you were shot?”
“Not that I remember.”
Concerned, Francis ran his hands over the duke’s skull softly, feeling for additional lumps he’d missed to explain this odd conversation. When he found nothing, he peered into the duke’s face. But
Staines
had closed his eyes, his breathing had turned rough.
“Are you unwell?”
The duke’s eyes snapped open. “If this is unwell then you may treat me at any time. Do you have no idea of what your touch does to me?”
Chapter Six
Staines
swallowed hard as the intimate proximity to his footman stirred his lust to dangerous levels. Every time was the same. He wanted more from their association than he should and by God, he was heartily sick of fighting the feeling. He pulled Francis closer until his breath brushed over his lips.
Francis’ eyes widened. “Your Grace?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He pulled Francis to him and kissed him full on the mouth. “That is for saving my sorry hide from my own idiocy.” He kissed him again. “That was for all the past times you have done the very same and I never thanked you properly.” He brushed his lips across Francis’ softly, tempted to try for a deeper kiss. “And that is my promise to never do anything so foolish again. I am sorry to have worried you.”
Francis drew back suddenly, gaze flying to the doorway where someone was knocking with annoying rapidity. He wiped his hand over his lips.
Ambrose winced at the gesture and looked away. It had been a foolish wish that Francis would want him in return and, mortified, he buried his lust as quickly as he could.
His footman left the bed, and then he heard the snipping of scissors destroying another fine garment. He sighed. He was quite alone in his admiration, it seemed. He should have guessed this attraction to Francis would come to naught. Except that he truly admired Francis Redding and not just lusted after him.
He had for the longest time.
Perhaps it was cowardly, but he closed his eyes, and kept them closed as Francis returned to the bed. He could not stand to see the disgust that might linger in the man’s eyes and lay unresisting as his footman finished dressing him in his altered waistcoat without a word. The pin was carefully inserted into his cravat without causing the slightest tug on his shoulder. The tapping on the door grew to a steady pounding.
“I’ll see who it is now,” Francis murmured, smoothing the blankets over Ambrose one last time and stirring up his lust again.
Ambrose opened his eyes as Francis strode across the room, admiring the strength hidden behind proper clothing and lamenting that he’d never learn the contours of his skin.
Francis spoke quietly to his son, Rupert, and then set the door wide. His second from the duel, Lord Fairmont, weaved across the chamber with Lord Silas hot on his heels.
“Had to see for myself.”
Fairmont
squinted at him. “Was sure you were done for.
Bracknell
here assures me you are on the mend.”
Fairmont
was quite drunk, by the look of his bloodshot eyes and sound of his slurred speech. Ambrose pasted a smile on his lips. “Takes more than one duel to rid society of me. Come back tomorrow for luncheon with your wife.” When Francis’ brow rose in disbelief, Ambrose could feel a blush building. Perhaps it was too soon to entertain, even on a modest scale, but he needed to ensure that
Fairmont
would hold his tongue about the duel. “Let us make it the day after. I’ve forgotten a prior engagement.”
Lord Silas edged closer, his fingers grazing Ambrose’s thigh out of sight of Lord Fairmont and his son. “I’m sure you’ll be back to your old tricks in no time and back among society where you belong. Everyone is talking about you.”
Unfortunately, Francis saw the caress from Lord Silas. His eyes widened unnaturally then his expression turned cold and flat. He turned his attention to his instruments on a far table.
“Yes, in no time at all.” What the devil was Francis doing? He was placing everything into his little bag in a rush. “You may assure our mutual acquaintance that he did not kill a duke this week and he holds no grudge for the misunderstanding. Be sure to set him straight, won’t you?”
“He’s fled
London
. I tried to explain gently, but he would not listen,” Lord Silas said as he sank onto the bed beside Ambrose with a heavy thump.
Ambrose winced as the bed was jostled enough to effect his shoulder.
Lord Fairmont laughed, quite missing Lord Silas’ morose expression and Ambrose’s wince of pain. “I’d be running too. What a fool to call a man out over a spilled glass of punch and to fire early. I’m surprised you accepted the duel in the first place.”
Beyond
Fairmont
, Francis shook his head.
“A man must defend his honor.” Ambrose met and held Lord Silas’ gaze until the young lord’s skin pinked with discomfort. “I’ll take his retreat as his resignation from the Hunt Club, and yours too, for that matter. You had the power to stop him and didn’t. I do not spill punch indiscriminately.”
Fairmont
’s bloodshot eyes widened, his gaze flickering to Lord Silas in shock as he fathomed out the events that led up to the duel. His lip curled in distaste as he looked between Ambrose and Silas.
Lord Silas jumped from the bed. “I’m sure there is no need for such decisions to be made now. You should rest. Another time, Your Grace.”
Ambrose would not forgive Lord Silas for making a fool out of him. He would be punished by exclusion from the Hunt Club as, of course, would Fletcherly. He’d never stand the conniving pair in his presence again. He glanced beyond them as Francis pulled on his coat. Damn it, Francis was going to leave him alone. Ambrose needed him to stay. He turned to his unwanted guests. “Good day to you both.
Fairmont
, don’t forget to come Friday for luncheon.”
Fairmont
looked to the floor. “My wife may be busy Friday. I’ll let you know,” he said softly.
Ambrose goggled. Did
Fairmont
really think he’d wanted to duel over a man like Lord Silas? Had his friend become that big a fool? “Send word when you can.”
Fairmont
and Silas left and Rupert closed the door after them.
Reluctantly, Ambrose looked over at his footman. But he could not tell what the man was thinking or feeling. He was lost in his own thoughts, one hand stroking over the bag’s metal clasp. Never a good sign, that kind of thing.