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He is smirking.
He well knows it too. He knows he's crossing a line, and violating every written and unwritten rule of etiquette and propriety.
From the look of him, he doesn't care. It's not a surprise given how he'd been at Savages, the kind of company he kept. They may have all been titled, but what mattered more was howentitledthey felt. To me, my body, to grab me, to make a ruckus and start a fight outside Savages.
"Does your mother approve of your pulling down a lady's dress on the red carpet?" I ask, because I want to hit back at him, injure his pride in some way. I need to gain some ground on him, and prove that I'm a worthy adversary and that he better be wary.
Or my tenure here will be hell. He'll make it that.
He goes silent, face expressionless, and I wonder if I've crossed a line I shouldn't have. There's a certain amount of protection a young woman in service has, a little tartness allowed, to protect herself and her reputation.
How much is allowed, is always up for debate.
He laughs, breaking the moment and sending a wave of relief through me, chased by irritation.
I shouldn't have to be relieved. He's the one in the wrong.
"You shouldn't read that garbage. In fact, Mrs. Harris forbids that trash under this roof," he says, and steps closer to me. Again, he makes my breath catch. He's so beautiful it's almost painful to look at him. And from the expression on his face, he knows it. He knows the kind of impact he has on someone like me, beyond the weight of his title.
He reaches for my hand, fingers dragging along the inside of my wrist, liberties that heshouldn'tbe taking. My cheeks feel like I've been out in the sun for eight hours without a hat on. In fact, my whole body feels like it's reddened and burnt. All I can do is look at him, into those crazy intense eyes of his as he smiles and kisses the back of my hand, almost bowing over it.
"Don't let my brother boss you around too badly, he's a King, but nottheking or anything," he murmurs just as the housekeeper walks back in. She makes a scandalized noise, and he pulls back from me, expression smug. He gives me one last look and then he's gone, disappearing before she can scold me.
She stares at me, her mouth parted in dismay and I don't know what to say to her about any of it.
Well. I'm starting my new job off with a bang, that's for sure.
5
Benedict
Shit. She's hot. It'd taken me a bit to recognize her, but I knew I was in trouble as soon as I did.
There's no way I'm getting through this without tasting those lips. Which set of them, I don't care. Even now, away from her since dour Mrs. Harris decided to shoo me from the room, IwantEvangeline Bell.
Miss Bell, as she would correct me if she could hear me. I'd let her. And then I'd bend her over a couch, a desk, any closest service, and fuck her until she begged me to call her Evangeline.
I'm watching her even now, over the CCTV feed on my phone, imaging doing just that as she sits there, still talking to Mrs. Harris.
I'm in trouble. The best kind of fucking trouble.
Some guys look for their women amongst the sash-fuckers and title-bunnies. The beautiful, if common, ladies who hang out at our clubs and entertainment venues, dying for an invite back to an estate for the night or the weekend. But most of those will disappear without so much as signing an NDA if you're toodrunk to make them do it in advance, and even if they do, you run the risk of them blabbing to the press or grabbing a dick pic of you while you're sleeping off the post-fucking haze.
Not worth it.
I pick my prey from two distinct camps.
The first is the few noble women who can be convinced to give it up fairly easily because they're insecure about their future position and want to convince you they'll make a good addition to your family tree. There's not a lot of them willing to do that, but I find one every so often.
The second group: the help. The servants are always willing to do a little extra in exchange for perks. Like protection, a reference for a raise, or extra days off. They're all signed and bound as well, and I've never had a single one go to the press or public. In my view, that's the safest way: to go hunting on your own land, where nobody can argue with you, and when you're done, if she gets a bit teary-eyed, you get Housekeeper to reassign her to one of the vacation homes you never ever frequent.
Tidy. Simple.
And there's always a fresh selection. Houses as big as ours have the staff to match, and there's always comings and goings of new young women.
Miss Bell is the newest addition, and I can't help but think that Mrs. Harris is doing this on purpose to taunt me.
Because Miss Bell is perfect. Exactly my type. Sturdy enough that I won't worry about breaking her, tall enough that I won't have to bend in two to kiss her, and that quiet kind of beauty thatdoesn't make another man look twice at her, so that nobody's going to ask questions or even assume that I'd ever have fucked her.
