Free A Gentleman's Position (Society of Gentlemen) by KJ Charles Page A

this to us. I don’t care what else it means, I don’t care what you want of me, but I cannot do this when you will not even look at me—”
    “Stop it.” Richard grabbed his hands. “Cyprian, stop it.”
    “I will not.” Cyprian’s eyes were fever bright. “I will speak. And you have to hear me, Richard. You
must.
”
    “Control yourself!” The first name was a drenching shock.
This is how badly wrong this has gone. Your fault.
“You go too far.”
    “I am not pretending any longer. This is not something you can ignore and order me to be silent about.” Cyprian swallowed. “I love you.”
    Richard balled his fists against his surging panic. This could not be happening; his valet could not be wrenching the world out of alignment. He had no idea what to say. “No. I told you no.”
    “I don’t believe you,” Cyprian said, and grabbed for Richard’s face.
    It was an attempted kiss, no more, and Richard was far the taller and stronger. But it was an attempt on his person when he had made himself very clear indeed, and birth, manhood, and thirty-seven years of giving the orders all cried out at once in outrage.
    Richard pushed him away.
    He didn’t intend to do it hard. He simply put both hands to Cyprian’s shoulders and shoved, and perhaps Cyprian had already been moving away, because the smaller, slimmer man went stumbling backward just as though Richard had intended to send him crashing to the floor. His back hit the marble top of the dressing table so hard that its bottles and brushes rattled and fell.
    Cyprian flailed for balance, grabbed the tabletop to catch himself, and stared at Richard, face almost as white as his powdered hair. Richard stared back, appalled and furious and sickened at himself, the blood thundering in his ears.
    “Go,” he rasped. “Leave.”
    “R—my lord…”
    “Just
go.
You are dismissed,” he added, as though formal words would somehow restore the order of things.
    Cyprian hauled himself upright. His mouth moved in the shape of
Yes, my lord,
and he left the room.
    Richard waited until the door was shut, until he heard the footsteps hurry away, and then he slid to the floor, put his fist to his mouth, and bit down hard to stop himself crying out.
    —
    David grabbed for his clothes, hands shaking. Shirt—he should fold that, but his fingers seemed to have forgotten the movements that ought to have been second nature. A coat, black. Not the green. Never again Lord Richard’s green.
    What had he done, what had he done…
    He wasn’t even sure what to take. He could pack Lord Richard’s extensive wardrobe for all occasions by instinct; his own few possessions now seemed to be a sprawling mess. He couldn’t take everything. He’d need to send for it all, need a trunk, and time, and will to act.
    He wasn’t sure where he was going, even. This was his home, had been for four and a half years, until he’d burned his life down with one stupid, uncontrolled, unplanned,
stupid
act.
    The outrage in Lord Richard’s eyes. The anger. David curled over himself, shirt crumpled in his hands, chest airless with despair.
    There was a repetitive tapping noise. It had been going on for some time. David hadn’t cared, and he didn’t care when he heard the door open behind him.
    “Foxy—” Silas began, and then, “David? What’s wrong?”
    “Get me out.” David needed, urgently, to be away from the catastrophe he’d created and the self-inflicted humiliation. “Get me out of here.”
    “Right. You sit down, I’ll pack your bag. Saying goodbye to anyone? Want anyone to know where you’ve gone? Doing a flit, fair enough.” Silas stuffed clothes into the bag in a way that should have made David wince. “Got somewhere to go?”
    He didn’t. He lived here, in Lord Richard’s house and in Lord Richard’s light. His acquaintances were fellow valets, who would have just one response to the news his position was now free, and the men and women he used to order Lord