Chapter 2

His eyes paused for a moment on Viscount Charnley, who sat at the other end of the table, thankfully. A familiar sense of anger knotted his insides, and he dragged his eyes away lest he be caught staring as the utter disdain he felt for him wasn’t quite so easy to disguise.

His gaze travelled further and fell on the Earl of Standish and again, he looked away quickly. He didn’t have many rules in his life, but not paying return visits to a gentleman’s chamber was one of them. Standish had been uncomfortably persistent since an encounter during the previous year. He held onto the notion that Standish was now recovered from whatever maggot he had taken into his head, but in reality, he knew it to be a faint hope.

Footmen filed in soundlessly with soup tureens and proceeded to serve a fragrant consommé. He moved slightly to accommodate the arm that slid beside him holding a dish and glanced up. It was the violet-eyed young man. He was close enough for David to catch the faintest scent of him. Unadorned by the unguents and pomades favoured by the gentlemen of the Ton, it was the warm essence of man and David’s heart fluttered again, this time quite badly. When the footmen retired to stand behind the chairs of the guests, Violet Eyes stood behind his and David’s neck prickled. He ignored the sensation and concentrated on the soup and the conversation around the table.

The food which followed was plentiful, and of the highest calibre. Sir Granville was, he recalled, noted for the skill of his chef. He then recalled he was also noted for his handsome footmen. David cast a glance at the young men standing behind the guests opposite and had to conclude that the assertion was correct. The food was indeed delightful, and the footmen…delectable. He moved his head slightly to dispel the sensation of being watched.

When the meal was finished, and the last spoon of syllabub consumed, Violet Eyes reached around him to take his dessert bowl and he noted slender, bony wrists with long, elegant fingers and clean nails. David glanced up and unexpectedly met his gaze. Those violet eyes widened, and pale cheeks flushed pink again. David held the contact longer than he should and read a shy interest before he departed with his dessert dish. David took a sip of his wine and resumed his conversation with the dowager countess whilst firmly reminding himself of his other rule, which was, never bed the staff. He glanced about the table, weighing up the possibilities, and was uninspired. A fair haired military man, Kingston if he recalled correctly, resplendent in red, caught his eye momentarily and as David was surveying him he looked down the table at him. David smiled. The man stared at his mouth for a moment and nodded tersely. David took another sip of wine and looked away.

Once the meal was finished, the ladies repaired to the drawing room with their hostess, leaving the gentlemen to their cigars and port. His host, Sir Granville Fallows, was a bluff, genial man who enjoyed displaying his wealth, so he had no doubt they would both be of excellent quality. David raised his glass to his lips but didn’t drink. He hated the feeling of being in his cups. Hated feeling out of control. He watched and noted carefully those who had no such qualms.

* * * *

Jeremy Naylor hurried down the long corridor to the kitchens clutching a huge pile of serving platters. His heart was thumping and his ears burning. He tried not to think of the man with grey green eyes which seemed to see right through him and discern every one of his wicked thoughts. He’d met a lot of handsome men working for Sir Granville, and the man wasn’t the most striking, but he was certainly the most memorable. It felt as if he had, in one glance, discerned the very heart of him and not only that, understood. Which was utterly, utterly ridiculous.

He turned the corner and ran down the staircase on legs that felt oddly unsteady, balancing his load, and the household shifted from grandeur and formal elegance to stark functionality. The kitchens were immense at the Park, and as he drew closer the din became louder. He turned the corner and went past the scullery maids, elbow deep in steaming, greasy water, scrubbing at the dirty dishes whilst the chef yelled at everyone and clipped anybody who got too close or who answered back. The steam and heat were welcome given the chill in the corridors, but the smells of cooking food made Jeremy’s stomach groan uncomfortably. He sidestepped the kitchen maids, who were gathering all the pots up and scraping the leftovers for the pigs and plonked his pile of dirty dishes on the side with all the others.