‘What is it?’ Cassian asked. ‘You look struck.’
‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ Daizell said. ‘Youneed to lie down and have a nap.Iam going to have a word with Martin about valeting, and then I am going to come back up here and find you as close to asleep as may be.’
Cassian’s lips parted and curved. ‘I am rather tired, now you mention it. All those cards.’
‘Good,’ Daizell said. ‘I will see you in an hour or so. Sleep well.’
Martin heard the proposition out with a very wary look indeed. It took him a little time to understand that this was an offer of a position without strings or dangers; that he might have safety and prosperity and a secure occupation – not just secure but stellar – within his grasp. He then accepted the post in a very proper manner, expressed his fervent hope that he would give satisfaction, and spent ten minutes weeping uncontrollably on Daizell’s shoulder.
Daizell didn’t begrudge his damp coat. He knew exactly how it felt for a drifting man to be granted safe harbour, all the more when it came unexpectedly, and he loved Cassian for the thought and kindness. Not to mention that he was quite right: Martin would keep their privacy, guard the ducal bedroom like a mastiff, and revel in obstructing anyone who attempted to overrule him. Daizell suspected he’d have the time of his life fending off butlers or uncles.
This was a stroke of genius on Cassian’s part. Daizell sent Martin off for a celebratory drink with his cronies in Leamington, and headed upstairs to show his appreciation.
He pushed open the bedroom door very gently, and locked it with the greatest of care. Cassian had pulled the curtains across and the only sound in the room was his quiet, steady breath. If he wasn’t asleep he was doing a fine job of seeming so. He was also lying on the covers naked, which Daizell took as the hint it was.
He stripped himself with excruciating caution, to be sure, easing his boots off and barely allowing a rustle ofcloth. Needing to be quiet, because he very much wanted Cassian to be asleep under his intruding hands. The sense of transgression tingled through his veins, and hardened his prick in a frankly disgraceful way. He ought to be ashamed, he thought with absolutely no sincerity, easing himself by inches onto the bed.
Cassian was sprawled half on his front, half his side, one leg bent. The curve of his neck was the most perfect thing Daizell had ever seen, except perhaps for his elegantly limp hand, adorned with its gnarled lump of gold.
He shifted closer, agonisingly slow, because if Cassian was asleep he needed to stay that way for now, and if he was awake he could enjoy the anticipation. Daizell intended to behave as if the former was the case, so he gave a moment’s consideration to what a villain might do to a helplessly sleeping naked man. Then he knelt up, moving so he was straddling his duke’s shoulders without touching, gripped the headboard, and gently rubbed the tip of his erection across Cassian’s lips.
No reaction. Nothing but warm, deep breath. Daizell did it again with a touch more pressure and felt Cassian’s lips part a fraction. Kneeling over him, gently pleasuring himself with Cassian’s slack mouth: he could thrust it in if he cared to, and Cassian would know it, and Daizell chose not to glance at his prick. They had discovered that if he knew for sure Cassian was awake, that knowledge showed itself in his demeanour, in a way Cassian could identify if not define. It was better if he believed his lover to be deep in unconsciousness, which was not a thought he’d ever imagined himself having.
He pushed a little harder. Cassian’s loose lips parted a little, perhaps by reflex or perhaps not, and Daizell workedthe head of his prick between them, and only just stifled a moan. All those years telling himself he was truly not the rogue the world thought, and it turned out he was a colossal degenerate after all.
Cassian’s lips were so soft, so yielding. Daizell indulged himself for a few moments that way, then got a hand to his prick, stroking himself in time with the gentle thrusts, feeling the momentum build, with Cassian quite untouched except for his mouth, but his breath unquestionably just a fraction faster.
God love him, Daizell’s ordinary, extraordinary duke. Daizell made his cautious way back down the bed and the limp body, considered his approach, and decided subtlety was overrated. He nestled against Cassian’s back, cupped the lightest hand over his groin, not quite touching but so close he could feel the heat and knew Cassian was painfully hard, and rubbed against his arse. Featherlight touches, and then a little firmer, a little faster, and then Cassian let out a strangled noise, and his prick was fully in Daizell’s hand, and Daizell pushed and pulled to plaster them together, skin to skin, rubbing and gasping and frotting and finally, too soon, both bucking with pleasure, biting back the cries.
Cassian subsided, chest heaving. Daizell flopped over him, but didn’t loosen his hand. He liked the fistful he had.
‘Lord,’ Cassian said. ‘Lord.’
‘I love you,’ Daizell remarked into his neck. ‘I love your kindness, and I love that you love me, and I particularly love that you want me to do that to you.’
Cassian considered before replying, in a way that might have seemed offputting if you didn’t know him. ‘I love how you sparkle. Sparkle and shine. And I love that you make itso easy for me to be me. And I particularly love that you’re happy to do those things to me.’
‘It’s highly convenient we found each other, really.’
‘Sometimes one can believe in a well-ordered universe,’ Cassian agreed, and snuggled back against him, sweaty, sticky, and entirely perfect.
Chapter Nineteen
They arrived in London a week later, the whole Severn party down to Eliza Beaumont, who had refused to be left in Leamington Spa even if she couldn’t show her face in London for reasons of her safety. They also had the officially renamed John Martin, temporarily as Daizell’s valet until Waters could be eased into the lavish retirement his age and devotion deserved. Martin had adopted the impossibly correct demeanour of a man determined to be the perfect valet. Cassian could only hope he calmed down a little before he turned into Waters the Second.
In any case, he could now be ticked off Cassian’s list of Things Needing To Be Dealt With. It was a long list, which he suspected would only get longer. He had put enquiries in motion as to the stagecoach crash, with an eye to offering assistance to the injured or bereaved and mounting a prosecution against Tom Acaster, and had also composed a letter about Sir Benjamin’s fitness to be a magistrate, for his lawyers to take up in the proper quarters.
Apparently the dutiful duke had always wanted to be a troublemaker. But he was still Severn, despite it all, so he was going to make trouble as only Severn could, for Daizell, and Martin, and Eliza Beaumont, and whoever else required it. It was what his position was for. The thought gave him a sense of steadiness, as if he’d settled into place.
He did not like the other thoughts that came with it,about Daizell’s seven purposeless, wasted years and how they had scraped his self-esteem to the bone. Sir James Vier was accordingly at the very top of Things Needing To Be Dealt With, and Cassian steeled himself to the task.
So, that evening, he went to speak to Sir James.
There were a number of things he would have liked to say to the man, about slander and cheating and abuse of young women and kidnapping, but all those subjects had to be avoided. He was there only as Severn, and only to talk about his greys.
Sir James was not a member of White’s; they found the fellow in the Cocoa-Tree instead. It was a hell frequented by the best people, Leo had assured him, which was to say it was a pit lit by wax candles instead of tallow, and where the dead-drunk men reeked of French brandy rather than London gin.
The Duke came to the door with Leo in tow, and was stopped by a smooth-faced maitre d’ with a sly look. ‘Ah, Mr Crosse. Is your friend a member?’
