His Valet (Victorian Decadence Book 2), page 19
Well, that answered that.
“You can go.” Stephen put the rest of the money in his hand and closed his wallet.
When the other man didn’t move Stephen glared at him. “Just go.”
“I’d rather stay.”
Stephen frowned. “You don’t understand—I’m not paying you to stay.”
“You’ve already paid.” His full lips curved into a smile that meant only one thing and he lowered himself to his knees as gracefully as only somebody twenty years old could do. He stared up at Stephen his full lips parted. “Please.”
Stephen snorted. Had anyone ever begged to suck his cock before? Not that he could recall. “I won’t be gentle.”
Julian’s chest began to move faster. “I don’t want you to be.”
Stephen felt himself becoming hard; apparently he would fuck anyone. Wasn’t that what he’d accused Gideon of? Fucking a knothole in the fence?
So what? Who cared what he did except him? Nobody. And who cared that Josephine had buggered off with little more than a by-your-leave? Not him, apparently: he was as hard as iron, primed, and ready. He didn’t need her. Hell, he didn’t even need a woman.
He’d come all this way; he might as well get some pleasure out of this miserable fucking night.
Stephen began unbuttoning his trousers, his cock straining at the eager lust on Julian’s face. “I’m going to fuck your mouth hard,” he said in a conversational tone as he took out his prick and slowly pumped it.
“Irrumare,” Julian murmured, his eyelids heavy, his pink tongue moistening his full lower lip.
“What?” Stephen asked.
“It’s Latin and it means to force to fellate.”
Stephen’s lips twisted but he knew it wasn’t a smile. “Where I come from, we just called it face fucking,” he said, aiming the slick crown of his cock toward Julian’s mouth. “Open wide.”
Julian opened all the way, taking him deep into his throat, his pupils huge as he kept taking more, even after Stephen stopped pushing, until his lips rested in the nest of hair at the base of Stephen’s cock, his eyes straining to look up at him.
Well, that was certainly impressive; he didn’t recall anyone taking all of him, before.
Stephen slid both hands under his wide-open jaws and thumbed his stretched lips, the light stroking causing Julian’s entire body to shiver with pleasure. Stephen smiled and held him firm while he tilted his pelvis and then flexed his hips, rubbing his throat with his sensitive head.
Julian’s eyes widened and his body tightened in terror for one exquisite instant before he became pliant.
“Good boy, now suck,” Stephen growled.
And Julian began to work his magic, his tight, wet throat massaging his shaft and head as he swallowed.
He slid his hands around Julian’s skull and proceeded to give him every bit of what he’d asked for.
Stephen closed his eyes as he began to thrust, not surprised when Josephine’s image materialized behind his eyelids. He didn’t care; he’d take whatever little part of her he could get, even if it wasn’t real.
Chapter Sixteen
Jo was pacing and had been for some time. It was just after one when she’d finished the bloody telegrams and returned to the Cameron. For a mad moment she’d considered dashing to the Royal Scotsman Hotel, changing, and then charging over to Frau Meisen’s. After all, even an hour was better than none.
What had stopped her?
Fear. Fear that he wouldn’t be there—or fear that he was with somebody else. She was such an idiot. She should have gone—even thirty minutes of him would have been better than none.
As it turned out, she was lucky that she’d resisted the impulse because Mr. Chatham returned to the hotel at a quarter to two.
“Good evening, sir.” Jo went to assist him when he entered.
“I’ll see to myself.” He paused in the act of removing his coat. “How did everything go?”
“Everything went as planned. We received a confirmation after the last of the telegrams.” Jo took it out of her breast pocket and handed it to him.
Mr. Chatham scanned it briefly and then nodded. “Any other messages?”
“No, sir.”
“Go to bed and get a few hours’ sleep. I’ll want you at five-thirty.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jo went back to her room but was too anxious to sleep. Instead she sat on her bed and wondered where he’d been until then. Had he stayed at the brothel even after learning she wasn’t coming? What had he done for so long? The thought shook her to her marrow.
Or, what if he’d not received her letter? He must have—she’d sent it a good two hours before he’d returned. But what if he’d not stayed at the brothel but had gone somewhere else?
The cab driver had brought Jo a card with Frau Meisen’s name scrawled on it. But what if somebody else had signed her name? Perhaps the message was still sitting on a salver somewhere? Never to be delivered?
Her mind raced around and around and around. She tried to close her eyes, but they’d just pop open again.
When she heard movement next door, she looked at the clock: it was five thirty. She’d spent almost four hours in a stupor.
“Good morning, sir,” she said when she entered his chambers.
“I’ll bathe before you shave me,” he said, already up and seated at his desk, sorting through his papers. He didn’t even look up at her.
He hardly said a word to her over the next two hours, staring at nothing while she shaved him, staring at more nothing as she dressed him, and then eating his breakfast while staring at the same page of the paper.
“Shall you be home at six, sir?” she asked as she helped him into his overcoat.
“I don’t know.” He pulled on his gloves and then took up his hat, cane, and satchel, leaving without another word.
Once the door closed she collapsed on the settee, exhausted. She knew she should get some rest, but she couldn’t. Somewhere during all her dithering this morning she’d decided to call on Meisen’s one last time to make sure he’d received the message.
She glanced at the clock and grimaced: it was only seven-thirty. Could she go now? Or should she wait? Would she be of any use if she waited? And what would she do if the message hadn’t reached him? Sent another to him? At this hotel? Or to London?
“Oh God, please, let him have received the message,” she whispered, knowing God was unlikely to go out of his way to aid a conscienceless fornicator.
Jo took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. And then did it again.
She’d finish her chores and then visit Meisen’s around noon. Lord knowns she’d paid the madam enough to get a few answers.
Heartened by this thought, she pulled on her polishing gloves and started on Mr. Chatham’s shoes.
***
Jo had never seen Mr. Chatham intoxicated before, but tonight he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow.
She’d known something was wrong the moment he’d blown into the hotel, heading straight for the decanter, his bag still in his hand.
Unlike most people who became drunk, Mr. Chatham didn’t act silly or uncoordinated. No, he just became increasingly morose, which was saying something.
He barely ate anything, pushing his dinner around until it got cold.
“Would you care for something else, sir?” she asked as she cleared away the nearly full plates. “I could—”
“No.” He stood up and poured another drink from the brandy decanter before going to sit down with a stack of documents.
Jo pretended to be busy in the bedchamber while spying on him. He did not turn a single sheet of paper. Either he was the world’s slowest reader, he’d fallen asleep, or his mind was in chaos.
Jo looked at his broad powerful shoulders—now slumped—and ached for him. It was like seeing a big, majestic animal brought low—like watching bear baiting or witnessing a tiger that was forced to beg for scraps.
He needed something to get his mind off things. Even though it would torture her, he should go back to Frau Meisen’s—or perhaps somewhere else—and at least indulge in some physical pleasure. Sitting here in his room and thinking about the past five days was almost killing her and she knew it would probably be worse for him. At least she was still with him; he was only with his valet: dry, boring, dependable old Leather.
Whatever he’d felt for her, it had hit him hard. He needed release. She would suffer agonies of jealousy, but it was better for him to get sexual satisfaction than to drink himself into a stupor.
When it reached ten o’clock and Jo had taken as much as she could stand, she steeled herself and marched up to his desk.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chatham?”
He looked up slowly, his mind a thousand miles away. It took a moment before his eyes focused on her. “What is it?”
“You don’t have an appointment tonight, sir?”
He hesitated at the question and for an infinitesimal moment she knew he was entertaining the idea. But then his gray eyes blazed and he sat up, looking once again like the proud, cold, arrogant Mr. Chatham she knew and loved. “No, I’m finished with that. Go run me a bath and then you can give me a massage.”
Jo bowed her head, torn by emotions. On the one hand, she worried about his mental state if he stayed here alone. It would be better for him to go engage in physical pleasure that would likely make him forget Josephine. After all, it was unlikely the care of his valet—no matter how sedulous—would be enough to get him through this period.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking, as she placed the bottle of oil on Mr. Chatham’s nightstand, that if he was going to be miserable anywhere, he might as well be miserable and naked under her hands.
Her face heated at the selfish feeling. How could she take any enjoyment in his company when she was the reason for his suffering?
No matter how much she chided herself, it did nothing to stop her body’s reaction.
Jo was, she knew, a bad, bad person.
***
Stephen stood beneath the stinging hot water long after it felt good, his skin bright red.
Poor Leather had no idea what was going on and had already checked on him twice while he turned into a prune. But Stephen didn’t want to come out of the shower-bath until he was sure he wouldn’t make a fool of himself and run like a frantic chicken to Frau Meisen’s.
He knew he could pay the greedy Madam enough to give him the information he wanted. He knew it. But he’d given his word to Josephine to respect her privacy. Already he’d broken that word by paying Julian and pumping him for information.
He sighed and turned off the water, standing in the swirling steam before finally getting up enough energy to shove back the curtain and step out. Leather was waiting.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“After eleven, sir.”
Stephen grunted. No wonder he was painfully sober, he’d been standing in the bloody bathtub, crouching under the shower head, for almost an hour.
He didn’t even bother to dry the front of his body, but just stood there like the pitiful lump he was.
Leather did his usual efficient job and then came around to the front of his body and began drying him without saying anything. It was such a kind, considerate gesture that Stephen wanted to weep. That was when he realized that he must still be drunk, but not drunk enough.
“I want another brandy,” he told Leather once he’d finished toweling him until his skin was warm and rosy.
“Of course, sir.”
Stephen didn’t bother to wrap a towel around himself as he made his way—yes, a trifle unsteadily—toward the bed, where he sat down, his mind lurching back onto the same track, like a train that had only one destination.
Stephen knew, although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, that he would go back to Frau Mesien’s before he left Glasgow. He had to. He would do anything to learn more about Josephine. It wasn’t as if he would stalk her or approach her, but he wanted to assure himself that she was all right—that she’d made the right decision for herself. That she hadn’t changed her mind and needed help.
“You fool,” he accused himself out loud. She knew his name—it would be simple to find him, if she wanted to. He lifted his arm to shove his wet hair off his forehead a sharp pain shot out from his shoulder. “Blast and damn,”
“Ready, sir?”
He looked up and found Leather rubbing oil on his hands. “I’m beyond ready,” he muttered, flopping face down on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how badly he’d been struck by all this.
Leather’s magic fingers helped to forget, sending him into a pleasurable fog. It wasn’t until Leather was half-way down his back that Stephen realized the man hadn’t brought him another drink.
He thought about that for a moment, wondering if he was pleased or displeased by his disobedience? He finally decided it was just as well. No, it wasn’t just as well—it was yet another example of the way the man took care of him. He felt an unexpected wave of gratitude toward his loyal valet. Leather was kind—beyond kind. Why did Stephen insist on holding him at arm’s length? Why did he hold everyone at arm’s length?
Louise.
“Oh bugger off.”
Leather’s hands paused. “I’m sorry, sir?”
God, he needed to think about something else. Anything else.
“I know you said your father died, Leather, do you have any other family?”
Even in Stephen’s tipsy state he could tell the difference in Leather’s hands on his body. He’d shocked the man. Well, of course he had. He opened his mouth to tell him to forget it, but Leather spoke.
“I have one brother, two years older than me.”
Stephen thought the other man sounded not at all like his usual self. Of course that was more likely to be Stephen’s intoxicated hearing rather than Leather’s voice. And perhaps he’d been mortified by Stephen’s personal question? He’d crossed the line between them, hadn’t he?
Well, now that he was across, he might as well keep going.
You’re a lonely, pathetic lump who has nobody to talk to except your servant. All the people who spend any time with you are paid to do so.
So what? Stephen snapped—thankfully inside his head. So. Bloody. What. He’d do anything to stop thinking of Josephine, even for just a few moments.
“Does he live in London? Your brother?”
Again, a slight hesitation and then, “He did until six months ago. He is a valet with a member of the diplomatic corps and went with his master to a post on the Continent.”
“Another valet?” Stephen said, his mouth taking over and dismissing his brain or good sense. “Is everyone in your family a valet?”
He heard something he’d never heard before: Leather laugh. And it reminded him of somebody? Some other laughter. The room shifted oddly, his head spinning. He closed his eyes tightly—he was drunker than he’d thought and now he was paying the price. This was why he always, well usually, avoided drink.
“My mother was not a valet,” Leather said, traces of his laughter still in his voice. “But, yes, my brother, father, and I all followed the same path.”
Leather’s hands kneaded a muscle in the back of his leg that was exceedingly sore and he groaned.
The hands froze. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, did I—”
“Do that again,” Stephen ordered, even though the pressure had almost brought tears to his eyes.
“Right here?”
“Ahhhh, yes. There. God, it hurts, but it feels bloody good.” The odd pleasure-pain from his leg robbed him off all thoughts and words, even Josephine and his current misery.
He must have drifted into sleep because he next felt Leather’s strong thumbs rubbing the soles of his feet. He had no sense of the time.
“What time is it?” Stephen asked, his voice groggy and slurred.
Leather’s hands froze. “It is a quarter to midnight, sir.”
Stephen blinked. A quarter to midnight? Hadn’t he laid down here at eleven? No, that was not possible. Or had Leather really spent three-quarters of an hour working on him?
“Do you wish to continue, sir? Or would you rather have some tea? Or perhaps go to sleep?”
The last thing he needed was to go to bed and toss and turn.
“I’ll have a cup of tea after you finish,” he said, rolling onto his back. “Oh, and Leather, thank you for forgetting to bring me my drink.” Because Stephen had his eyes open and Leather was working his shoulders he caught the miniscule smile.
“I’d hoped you’d not noticed, sir.”
“I did. While I’m not entirely appreciative of your efforts now, I know I will be in the morning.” He hesitated and then said what he’d only be able to say when he’d had a few drinks in him. “I also appreciate you tolerating my personal questions.” Leather’s hands stuttered slightly.
“It’s my pleasure, sir.”
“What else is your pleasure?” Stephen asked, unable to believe the words came out of his mouth but recognizing his voice.
His valet paused and met Stephen’s eyes. As ever, he was cool and unreadable. “It is my pleasure to serve you in any way you desire, sir.”
Stephen inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring and stomach tightening at this undeniable invitation. Part of his mind, the sober, analytical part, knew he would most heartily regret his actions later.
Why not? his evil imp demanded. You’re no stranger to a man’s touch—you used Julian yesterday and suffered no qualms.
Stephen grimaced; that wasn’t quite true.
You certainly didn’t let any such qualms hold you back …
Fine, so that was true. I enjoyed every second of fucking his face. There, are you happy?
The imp laughed.
But this was his servant. His valet.
Your valet who lives to serve you.
