While Sam had definitely spotted signs of fear when he’d first met the man, he hadn’t seen anything since. He’d thought they’d moved to pure dislike and what Sam was hoping was repressed mutual desire. He could have sworn he’d seen banked lust burning in the looks aimed his way since they’d started this process. He’d let extra innuendo slip into his tone. Let his fingers linger. Touch more than was respectable. And bloody hell, he still couldn’t tell what was going through the Earl’s mind.
“You can relax, my lord,” he murmured. “I know you believe I lack competence, but I haven’t once nicked His Grace while shaving him.” He rinsed the knife again, pulled the man’s cheek taut, and did another pass. “As intolerable as your personality is, your face is safe from any abuse at my hands.”
A honey amber gaze shot to his.
Sam grinned at those glaring eyes. Perhaps a bit of light antagonization would be just the thing. Sam had Bentley right where he wanted him. The man couldn’t speak while Sam was running a blade over his face. He tilted Lord Bentley’s head and carefully shaved over the curve of his jaw. “Though I see some cuts healing here. Interesting.” His gaze flicked back to Bentley’s. “Can’t tie a cravat. Can’t shave yourself. Tsk tsk. Perhaps you were projecting your own incompetence on me.”
Bentley’s soft mahogany brows drew together, and his jaw flexed in Sam’s hand.
“It’s all right, my lord. It can be intimidating. My immense charm. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? It can be hard, being in the presence of someone who is clearly so much more skilled than you.”
And Sam had no idea how the man did it, but even with his face captured in Sam’s grip, he threw Sam the drollest, most exasperated stare.
Sam chuckled softly as he placed the knife in the rinsing bowl and tilted Bentley’s face from side-to-side, examining his work. Sam gave an approving nod and grabbed the cold compress from the tray. Normally, he’d warn a man about the cold, but—
He pressed the ice-cold cloth to Lord Bentley’s jaw. A high-pitched squeal fled those pretty pouty lips, and the man jolted in his chair. Then a murderous glare as sharp as the shaving knife’s blade landed on Sam.And would you look at that. The man isn’t fearful any longer.Mission accomplished.
Sam blinked innocently, moving the cloth to the other side of Lord Bentley’s face. “Is something amiss, my lord?”
“No,” he gritted out. “The cold was actually surprisingly welcomed. Just a shock.”
Sam frowned. Welcomed? He turned to the dressing table, searching through the products he’d brought up. Sam had no idea what that meant. He found what he was looking for and shook a few drops into his palm. “This helps reduce irritation and redness after a shave,” he said, shifting back to Bentley. “And it will help with those nicks.” He dipped the pads of his fingers into the rosewater in his palm and feathered his fingers over where he’d just shaved.
Starting at the bottom of the man’s soft jaw, up and over those impossibly prominent cheekbones, a soft swipe just above his top lip, and then down his neck. Lord Bentley swallowed, his throat bobbing under Sam’s fingers. Sam’s gaze lifted to Bentley’s, no longer a glowing honey, but a dark, fiery amber. And there it was again, a look that Sam really thought was lust. But instead of the man melting with it, like it would anyone else, he was even more tense than when Sam had the knife at his neck.
“Do you typically use a face oil?”
Bentley nodded, his gaze sliding to the table. Sam followed his stare to a small vial. Sam added a few drops to his fingers, then rubbed them together, the sweet scent of almonds drifting over his senses. He cradled Lord Bentley’s jaw in his oil-free hand and began massaging the oil into the man’s skin.
He met Bentley’s gaze. “You can relax. I don’t have a knife anymore. No need to be so…tense.”
The man’s eyes searched Sam’s, and that’s when it finally clicked. Wariness. That’s what Sam kept seeing. Which made sense. Even despite what Sam considered over-the-top suggestive advances; the man didn’t trust Sam. Samhadaccused him of buggering one of their footmen. Sam knew, given the man’s involvement in the organization Ash informed Sam of, Sam had no reason to worry about hinting at his interest. But Lord Bentley wouldn’t have any idea Sam was someone safe.
He massaged down Bentley’s chin, down, down past where he’d stopped shaving. He kept his gaze locked on those transfixing amber irises, the sweet nutty aroma of the almond oil filling the air around them as it mixed with the heat of the man’s skin. Sam’s fingers reached Bentley’s shoulders, and he worked into the taut, bunched flesh. Bentley’s lips parted, just barely, the softest stuttered breath escaping. Sam’s thumbs worked just inside Bentley’s collarbone in slow circles.
“I ought to dress,” Bentley whispered, gaze flicking away. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be late to dinner, and I’m escorting my mother and sister down.”
Sam slowly stepped back and nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
He went to the wardrobe where he’d put the items he’d readied for Lord Bentley earlier that day. He laid the items on the foot of Lord Bentley’s bed. A hand darted in and snatched the linen shirt. Sam blinked twice, and by the time he turned, all he could see was Lord Bentley’s muscular back disappearing behind crisp linen as the man walked to his dressing table.
“Bring the other items here,” Lord Bentley ordered, running a bit of pomade through his amber waves. Polished. Put-together. Sam wouldn’t deny the man looked edible when he was perfectly attired, but Sam couldn’t help thinking he’d look even better…disheveled. Cheeks flushed, amber eyes flared, lips swollen.
Bentley turned and inhaled sharply, their bodies inches apart. Christ. Sam hadn’t even realized he’d walked over to the man. Sam swallowed hard. “Cravat,” he murmured, his tone deep, rough around the edges.
Lord Bentley let out a slow breath, as though bracing himself. Sam lifted the neckcloth over the man’s head, draping it around his neck. His fingers followed the silky fabric downward, his knuckles grazing along the warm skin of Bentley’s neck, down over the hard curve of the man’s chest as he adjusted the two ends to hang evenly.
Every nerve in Sam’s fingers was hypersensitive, each brush against Lord Bentley’s skin sending sparks arcing through his veins. And each shiver, each sharp inhale those touches elicited from Bentley, had Sam’s mind going fuzzy.
“You must be done by now,” Lord Bentley said. But there was no impatience or annoyance in that tone. No, it was hoarse and husky. It was the beautiful sound of fraying restraint.
Sam reached for the waistcoat, not letting his gaze leave Bentley’s. He helped Bentley shrug into the taupe silk vest and started working the buttons. He dragged his fingers down Bentley’s stomach between buttons, and Bentley swallowed audibly.
And when Sam finally got the last button done, he let his fingers trail to the bottom of the waistcoat. He grabbed onto the silk, his fingers curling underneath and meeting with the heat of Bentley’s skin through his thin lawn shirt, before giving the waistcoat a firm tug into place. Lord Bentley’s eyes flared. Lust.
There was no mistaking it now. The desire thick in the air between them. Tangible. Anticipatory.
So, now to ensure the man couldn’t doubt Sam’s interest. He picked up the man’s diamond-studded cuff links, and Bentley held out his arm. Sam aligned the cuff, his bare fingers drifting over the soft skin exposed just above Bentley’s glove. He slid the cuff link through and secured the clasp. Bentley held out his other arm, but this time he lifted his arm higher, his hand at chin level, which brought their gazes in line.
