Page 2 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

“Please, darling,” Barbara whispered, squeezing his hand. “Not for your father, or any of the Whitmores who came before him. Think of the here and now. The future. Your tenants consider you an excellent landlord, your servants are fiercely loyal because you are generous and fair. They deserve the stability of a continued line. But also for you. I know you would be a wonderful papa. How could you not be? You learned how from Uffy. And yes, also for me. It was my great sadness that I couldn’t have any more babies after you. But a grandchild…that would be a blessing beyond words.”

Michael gritted his teeth. There was a good reason he was thirty-five and unwed, and it had nothing to do with finances, attachment to bachelorhood or an aversion to children. He’d found his forever love, the person who made him feel safe and adored. Someone who’d taught him indescribable pleasure, offered wise counsel, and made every day better than the last.

Mr. Gerard Hunter. His valet for the past five years.

“Could you not just get a kitten?” he asked, the jest weak even to his own ears. But how could his mother and stepfather ask this of him when they’d only recently accepted his lover? That had taken years of difficult and rather emotional discussions, but Michael had stood firm. They knew how he felt.

“Michael,” said his mother reproachfully. “A kitten cannot take a seat in the House, even if it would be smarter than most present. Do not let the title pass to your ghastly cousin. He’s an even worse character than your father was.”

An unfortunate truth. If the previous earl was a cold man, the current heir presumptive was a Siberian winter.

“I’m well aware that Cousin Nero is as much a scoundrel as his namesake, Mama. But you know why I cannot give you what you want. I wouldn’t do that to Gerry.”

Lord Uffingdon cleared his throat. “Hold on now. We’re not asking you to set Hunter aside. There are many aristocratic women who would gladly wed an earl and provide an heir, just for the position and associated fripperies. They certainly don’t hold expectations of love.”

“That all sounds rather empty, Uffy,” said Michael softly.

“Forgive me, I phrased that poorly. I simply meant there are older, sensible ladies who would welcome a marriage of convenience. You could strike up a great and lasting friendship.”

Michael looked away, his jaw actually hurting from clenching so hard. Every part of him rebelled at the thought of someone other than Gerry in his bed. From the moment they’d met, when the domestic agency sent over a range of candidates for the position of valet, there had been an instant spark. Intense heat. He’d known deep in his bones that the brawny, auburn-haired, impeccably dressed Scot would be significant in his life. Of course, he’d pretended for weeks that he didn’t melt every time Gerry dressed him or shaved him or rubbed oil into his shoulders. It was an exceedingly tricky business, two men circling each other with lust and need in their hearts, nervous to say anything when the law and church declared it wrong.

But one night he’d imbibed far too much brandy and blurted out all his feelings and desires. Gerry had stroked his hair and tucked him into bed…and the following morning woke him with the sweetest of kisses before teaching him how to properly suck cock. That had progressed to backside training and discipline, being owned and pleasured in ways that changed him forever. The fierce need had soon blossomed into true love, and now he couldn’t imagine a world without Gerry at the center of it.

But to add a bride to the mix? His lover would surely hate it. While Gerry had bedded both men and women in the past, he was very protective and possessive of his earl. Quite content to be an exclusive duo.

Michael sighed and adjusted his spectacles, a critical aid for his imperfect vision. Compared to Gerry, he was practically a virgin in regard to women, having only bedded two courtesans. Those short-lived liaisons had been nice enough, but certainly nothing like the raw, explosive passion he shared with his man. The love and trust between him and Gerry made it even more intense. More pleasurable. It would be impossible to endure a cold bed with a wife, even if they were friends.

“Michael? Darling?”

He glanced over at his mother. Damn it, she looked so pale and fragile lying there against the pillows. A grandchild would make her so happy, and it was within his power to give her that.

“I’ll discuss the matter with Gerry,” he said abruptly. “If it’s a no, that is that. But if he agrees…I will consider a marriage of convenience.”

“Fair enough,” said Uffy, nodding slowly.

His mother beamed. “Oh, Michael, thank you. You are the best of sons.”

Michael smiled faintly as he bowed then turned and departed the chamber, but in truth the thought of broaching this particular topic with Gerry made his everyday anxiety flare into a raging inferno. Yes, most ton men had a wife and a mistress, but were any of them actually in love with their mistress? And how many were married with a male lover? Well, apart from the notorious Townsend-Grant household, and they were an actual trio.

Sighing heavily, he made his way downstairs, nodded to the butler, then stepped outside into the damp, cool weather. Not even a hint of sunshine, much like all the previous months of this most wretched summer.

Was there a flask of brandy in his carriage? To gather the courage for this particular conversation, it was probably best to start drinking now.

* * *

As a cocky and pugnacious tailor’s apprentice who stole food without qualm to survive the worst streets of Glasgow, young Gerard Hunter had held fast to one dream: living in a fancy London townhouse as a well-paid, well-respected valet to a lofty Sassenach lord. Everyone had laughed; he might have an eye for fashion and collecting favors, but he was too poor, too rough, and certainly too Scottish to succeed.

Through sheer force of will, he’d proved them all wrong. For here he was, aged thirty, in Grosvenor Square. And while he ruthlessly concealed most details of his bleak and lowly origins, the truly astonishing part of the story was the happy ending: him falling head over arse for the lofty Sassenach lord…and that love being returned in full and glorious measure.

Gerard smiled as he tucked a pile of freshly laundered cravats into a chest of drawers, then sauntered back into the earl’s bedchamber to ensure it was neat as a pin and properly aired and warmed for his lover’s return. Their romance had commenced five years, three months, two days, and oh, about four hours ago, when he’d strode into the library downstairs to be interviewed as a possible employee. From the second tall, lean and brown-haired Michael had looked at him, those wide cerulean eyes framed by spectacles, a faint blush pinkening his cheeks, the kindest smile in England turning up his lips, three things were immediately certain. One, the haphazardly attired lord required immediate assistance with his wardrobe. Two, such a gentle spirit must be protected at all costs. And three…not a night would go by that Gerard wouldn’t dream of owning this aristocrat body and soul. That had taken time. But the wait had been worth it, for now they were perhaps the happiest secret couple in England.

Of course, there were difficult days, when hiding their love from the world was supremely bloody frustrating and Gerard wished English law and those holier-than-thou politicians, who preached morality and behaved like alley cats, straight to purgatory. There were even times he walked past the empty nursery and imagined the shrieks and giggles of cherished bairns at play rather than silence. Or most shameful of all: the moments he truly missed the delicious taste of wet cunt.

But any mild dissatisfaction was his own demon to quell. Michael was more than enough. Michael was everything. The sweetest, most loving submissive a master could hope for, someone he could be his true self with.

“That’s a look of fondness. What are you thinking about?”

Turning, Gerard saw his earl propped against the bedchamber doorframe, a small silver flask clutched in one hand. Shit. His beloved only drank brandy when attempting to quell a particularly bad bout of anxiety. Had something happened at his mother’s house?