Page 6 of Enemies with an Earl
Sam dropped to a knee before Lord Bentley, and the man flinched. Sam’s gaze flew up, but Lord Bentley’s attention was fixed somewhere over Sam’s head. Tension radiated from the man, his pulse ticking erratically against the pale skin of his neck. Sam hadn’t realized one could actually see another person’s pulse, but the gent was so tightly wound, so clearly on edge. Like he wanted to bolt from the room. And the only thing Sam could assume was causing that, was…Sam.
Barbarian. Brute. Heathen.
His stare dropped back to the man’s boot, and something inside of him fell with it. His fingers shook, nerves skittering through his veins, hardening his muscles as they passed. This wasn’t like all those years ago. No one was going to barge in on something they shouldn’t see. No one was going to cry rape to save their own skin. And no family remained who would so readily hand their own son over to the law.
Sam gripped the man’s boot, his other hand wrapping around Lord Bentley’s calf. The man’s thighs went rigid, the fabric of his fawn breeches stretching over muscles gone stiff as granite. Now, this was getting blasted ridiculous. Was the swellthatdisgusted by Sam he couldn’t even stand Sam’s touch? How else was Sam supposed to remove the man’s bloody boots?
Sam’s gaze lifted to meet Lord Bentley’s, and he saw it, plain as day. Fear glimmered back at him. His lungs stalled, and he had to force himself to draw in air, because seeing that fear had the memories rushing back. Sam’s eyes moved down to a pair of offended lips, pressed tight yet still annoyingly full. To high cheekbones, features that were almost feline. Those amber eyes could easily belong to a lion—one born to reign, a lion among men. And what did men like that do when they were threatened? A different visage flashed in his mind. Barely there and then gone. Sam knew firsthand what they did. They eliminated the threat.
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Lord Bentley gritted out, his voice high, strained. “You do know how to remove a boot, do you not? I was informed I would have access to the Duke’s valet. I assumed that implied a certain level of competence on your part.”
Prejudices be damned. This man was an arsehat. He was going to take one look at Sam and judge him? Well, Sam had been in this cove’s presence long enough to know exactly the kind of man he was. Sam would bloody judge him, too. Arrogant prick.
Sam held the man’s gaze and, with deliberate slowness, pulled the boot off. The man’s nostrils flared. And perhaps Sam should have left it at that small show of disrespect. But in that moment, it was all too much.
His past dredged up by news of his brother.
His present reality of serving one of those men he despised.
The cold, lonely future he was destined for because of what they had done to him.
Everything boiled over and came spilling out in a sharp, bitter retort. “Should I remove the other boot as well? I wasn’t certain, given mylow level of competence.”
Lord Bentley’s eyes flared wide, and his fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “Did your mother teach you nothing about respect? You dare speak to your betters with such insolence?”
The rage bred and multiplied in Sam’s chest. Hot and hideous and hostile. Oh, Sam’s mother had taught him all about respect—by turning her back as they dragged him away.
“No, my lord,” Sam said, his voice sickly-sweet. “I saved that just for you.”
They stared at each other, neither speaking. But they didn’t need to. The mutual antipathy hung heavy in the air, as cloying as the stench of piss and filth that filled the dank, dark cells of Newgate. A stench Sam would never, ever be able to forget.
Thank the bloody gods Sam only had to endure the bastard’s presence until tomorrow morning. Betrothal discussions would be over, wedding bells would ring, and then he’d never have to see Lord Bentley again.
Part Two
September 1816
2
Felix
Devonford Castle.
Two Years Later.
September 1816.
Felix Jennings, Earl of Bentley, let his head fall back and rock against the soft squabs of his carriage. A rare silence had fallen over the occupants of the conveyance—himself, his hellion of a sister, Felicity, and his lovely mother.
Normally he preferred the raucousness, the noise, the jests and impolite behavior his family hid behind closed doors. The way it drowned out his thoughts. But considering the purpose of this journey, he’d spent the majority of the ride arguing with Felicity. So, he was glad for the brief reprieve.
This never-ending betrothal was going to be the death of him. He wished his brother had joined them—another ally and set of eyes to watch over their sister—but Fitzy struggled in social situations, and Felix did his best to avoid putting his brother in uncomfortable positions whenever possible.
He glanced out the window. Another bleak, grey day. It’d been like this all summer—much colder than normal, frequent rain. Hell, it was like it’d been a year without a summer. Crop yields were horrifyingly low. The harvest for the Bentley estate would be a pitiful one this year. But they’d still hold their harvest supper. He needed to do something special this year to boost spirit. It’d been a bloody trying year.
Through a break in the cloud cover, the distant silhouette of Devonford Castle revealed itself, brooding atop a solitary butte. He tugged at his cravat and winced. The blasted thing seemed to be tightening by the minute. He wasn’t sure if it was caused by the poorly executed knot or the dread intensifying as the carriage rolled ever closer to the castle.
Dread because ofhim.
