The first time his valet had attempted this maneuver, Donovan had objected vociferously.Somewhat vociferously.Very well: half-heartedly.He didn’t know if others had ever attempted to dissuade someone from massaging one’s sore muscles into such pure bliss that one very nearly purrs with pleasure, but it was not within the duke’s power to resist for long.
Wasthis extended caress a valet’s duty?Probably not.But then, when had Geoffrey ever cared about the limits of a valet’s duty?It was unfair, abominable really, all the tasks that Geoffrey assumed that by rights ought to go to someone else—or to no one at all.He was more than a valet.He was a maid, a footman, a masseur.Any task that took place within Donovan’s private chambers was performed by Geoffrey, or no one at all.
This one just happened to be one of the most pleasurable.
Donovan’s head lolled back against the side wing of his tall chair.A whimper escaped his throat.He tried to recall the sound, but it was too late.The soft little moan of pleasure was out there, reverberating through the room, bouncing and refracting off every surface like a thousand beams of light.
He opened his eyes to see Geoffrey’s hooded brown eyes watching him with an unreadable gaze.
Their relationship was not strictly master-and-servant, which only served to confuse matters even more.On nights that did not require foot massages before a low fire, Donovan and his valet might be found playing cards until the wee hours of the morning, or hunched over Donovan’s grandfather’s chess board, at which it was difficult to tell which of the men had less aptitude for the game.It was not unusual for them to notice eight moves later that a pawn could have taken the king at any time.
Perhaps their questionable acuity could be blamed on the bottles of wine that usually accompanied such lazy evenings together.Or perhaps it was due to their long, rambling conversations, that began one place and ended up detouring through five others.
They had spent hours of every day together for so long, Geoffrey’s presence was like the rising of the sun and moon, or the ebb and flow of the tides.Gentle.Dangerous.Captivating.The predictable rhythm potent and seductive, no matter how many times one stood on the shore and waded into the water.
“How does that feel?”Geoffrey murmured as he worked his thumbs into the duke’s muscles.
“Good.”The word rasped from Donovan’s throat as it always did, hoarse and breathy.Barely audible, even in the dark stillness of the middle of the night.
A tiny smile teased the corners of Geoffrey’s wide lips.He knew exactly how divine his massages felt, damn the man.He bloody well knew the duke was putty in his hands, unable to do more than melt into his chair bonelessly as Geoffrey worked the muscles of each foot in his strong grip.
A knock sounded at the door.Geoffrey set Donovan’s foot aside—to the duke’s bitter disappointment—and rose to his feet to answer the call.
It was a bath, of course.Donovan had not seen his valet tug a bell pull to summon the pails of steaming water, but Geoffrey was like that.He had probably sensed Donovan’s imminent arrival seconds before the duke’s hand touched the doorknob, and placed the order then.
“This way, if you please.”Geoffrey led the footmen to the dressing room, where a large clawfoot tub imported from the Netherlands rested behind a tall folding screen.
The footmen filled the basin with their pails of piping hot water, then took their leave.
Donovan and Geoffrey were alone again.
The valet hummed beneath his breath as he added salts and perfumed soap to the water, testing its temperature occasionally with the tip of his finger until he determined the bath was nearly ready.
He turned to Donovan with a lift of his eyebrows.“Now, then.Shall we?”
Technically, the duke could do this part himself.Unlike skin-tight buckskins, formal breeches were easy to peel off, and his cambric shirt was so loose it could fly away in a gust of wind.
The duke could also bathe himself, if need be.He might not know his knight from his bishop, but he certainly grasped the function of soap and water.
Thiswaspart of a valet’s duties, however, just as a lady’s maid undressed and bathed her mistress.It would be far stranger for Donovan to allow Geoffrey to take over every other possible role, then balk at his valet performing such an ordinary, quotidian task.
Then again, politely declining would be far easier than the mental calisthenics required to keep his naked body from responding visibly to his valet’s touch.
God help him, that was a line Donovan did not dare cross.Certain acts were prohibited.A duke might get away with murder, but his valet could face disastrous legal or social consequences.
Not that Donovan was thinking about the law when he looked at Geoffrey.Rather, his mind jumbled with memories of every other moment in which his valet had touched him, caressed him, smiled at him.Moments that would vanish like smoke if Donovan’s secret desires were neither welcomed nor reciprocated.
And so he kept the secret.Again.As he had for twenty years.Gritting his teeth against the exquisite sensation of the man he could not help but yearn for running his burly hands over Donovan’s bare skin, slippery with soap and water.
It was pleasure.It was pain.An unspeakable torment from which Donovan never wished to escape.Heaven and hell in a clawfoot tub.Exposed.Vulnerable.Terrified.
And painfully aroused.
Chapter3
The next morning, Donovan sat in the same chair before the same desk in the same study where he had spent the same post-breakfast hours every day for the past decade.Today, rather than concentrate on the chart of accounts before him, the duke’s eyes blurred.
Donovan allowed the ledger to tumble to the desk.He placed his elbows on either side of the fallen journal and cradled the top of his head in his hands.
