Page 13 of Enemies with an Earl
He covered the sickly feeling that spurred with a mockingly sweet smile and made his way around the bed. He busied himself securing the curtain with the tieback ropes, too aware of the rustling of bed linens. Of the deep groan that came from the man who Sam knew, at the very least, was naked from the waist up. He shouldn’t look.
But didn’t he deserve a nice view for enduring the man’s presence?
Most definitely.
He looked.
And nearly let the rumbled groan rising in his chest escape. Lord Bentley sat, curled over, elbows resting on his lap, hands rubbing his face—which gave Sam a glorious view of the man’s back, muscles rippling from the small movement of his hands.
Then the man extended his elbows, lacing his hands together, and straightening them in a deep stretch. Sam’s mouth went dry. Every muscle in the man’s back, neck, and arms drew taut. Every. Single. Muscle. And there weremany. That kind of muscular definition only came from physical exertion. Consistent, strenuous, physical exertion. Sam’s blood heated. If he were to wager, Lord Bentley’s choice of exercise was swimming. Because Sam had seen very similar definition in one other nobleman—Ash, who spent nearly half his time in the English Channel.
Sam’s eyes traversed Lord Bentley’s back, tracing each divot of his spine until—Sam abruptly looked away and strode to the man’s wardrobe. There was his answer. Lord Bentley slept in the nude. Because that was most definitely the top of the man’s muscled arse Sam just laid eyes on. He let out a slow breath as he collected the riding attire he’d readied last night. Perhaps sneaking a glance hadn’t been the wisest decision.
“And is it actually seven? Or should I assume it’s closer to eight?” came Lord Bentley’s voice, still thick and gravelly with sleep.
A subtle shiver stole down Sam. That voice—it was amorning after shaggingvoice. He shoved that away, burying it under the giddiness rising from the news he was about to impart. “Oh no, my lord. I learned my lesson. It’s five past six.”
“Bloody fucking Christ,” the man muttered along with something else Sam didn’t catch.
Sam dug his teeth into his bottom lip, fighting desperately against the gleeful grin threatening to break free.
“Fetch a pair of smalls as well.”
Sam tripped. Over nothing. All mirth evaporated at that one statement, that one reminder. The man was naked. Sam added a pair of smalls to the garments strung over his arm. Dear fucking lord. He had thought dealing with the man’s attitude was torment enough, but this?
Avoiding looking at Lord Bentley, he laid out the items over the edge of the bed. He swore if the man needed assistance into his breeches—and Sam was well aware many lords couldn’t figure out how to stick their legs through the god-damned holes in their trousers—Sam was going to flee. He was wound as tight as a cooped-up stallion, and it was taking everything in his power to keep his breaths regular, even, under control. Something his heart rate was most definitely not. Along with another part of Sam’s anatomy that hereallyneeded to get back under control. Because Sam knew exactly what would happen if this lord saw the effect he had on Sam.
Sam strode back to the wardrobe—for absolutely no reason except for self-preservation. As long as Lord Bentley had breeches on, and preferably a shirt, he’d be fine. He braced himself and turned. And let out awhooshof relief when his gaze fell on a dressed Lord Bentley, sitting at his dressing table, and pulling on his stockings.
“Will you require a shave, my lord?”
The man shook his head. “Not today.” He pulled on his second stocking. “Bring my coffee here.”
Ah, the moment Sam was waiting for. He swiftly retrieved the tray and deposited it on the man’s dressing table. He picked up the cream. “Cream?” Lord Bentley stared at Sam’s hand clutching the silver pitcher of cream. And continued to stare in silence. Sam frowned. “My lord?”
Lord Bentley blinked, his gaze clearing, and he shook his head. “No,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take it black today. Fetch my boots.”
“Of course.” Sam went to the door where he’d deposited the boots last night after cleaning them. And that’s when he heard it. The sound of spraying liquid followed by sputtering. Music to Sam’s ears. Delight danced inside Sam’s chest, even as he schooled his expression and turned to Lord Bentley.
“Is something amiss, my lord?”
Lord Bentley glared at him, coffee dripping down his chin, droplets covering his white linen shirt. “What on earth is this disgusting stuff?”
Sam blinked innocently. “Coffee, my lord. With cream on the side. And a heap of sugar. As you requested.”
The swell’s eyes went wide. “A hintof sugar. I had saida hint.”
Sam affected a repentant look. “My apologies, my lord. I must have misheard.”
Lord Bentley’s eyes narrowed. All shock evaporated, and in its place something that looked very much like suspicion. It took everything in Sam’s power to keep his lips from curling upward. Served the coxcomb right. Perhaps if the man drank a bit of sugar in his coffee, he’d be a little less bitter himself.
But then a smile split the man’s face. And Sam found it hard to draw in air again. Why was he smiling? Oh, God. A man that pretty shouldn’t be allowed to smile. Outlawed. It should be against the rules. Because those full lips parted to flash perfect white teeth, and—Sam clenched his fists—of course the bastard had a dimple. There was something wicked in the smile he was sending Sam’s way, something wicked in the glimmer in his dark honey eyes. And Sam’s cock was thinking a number of wicked things now. Like what he could do with honey and that pretty lord.
Doomed. You. Are. Doomed.
If there was anything Sam hated more than the man before him, it was how god-damned attractive he was.
“I’ll need you to press a fresh shirt,” the lout was saying. “And then I’ll need you to get to work on these stains with haste. Can’t have them setting and ruining the garment.” Lord Bentley began undoing the buttons and glanced at Sam from beneath his lashes. “How unfortunate there’s now more work for you to do.”
