Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(16)

Lazarus grinned at the thought. Then he uncapped his inkwell and began work on his current translation project. Catullus was particularly scathing of Lesbia in this poem. He wanted to find the right word—the perfect word—that, when correctly set, would shine like a diamond in an exquisite ring. It was exacting, meticulous work, and it could consume him for hours at a time.

His valet, Small, entered sometime later, and Lazarus looked up to see that the room was bright with sunshine.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Small said. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“It’s of no consequence,” Lazarus replied, his gaze back on his translation. The words were calling him, but he hadn’t quite found the right arrangement yet.

“I’ll ring to have your breakfast sent up, shall I?”

“Mmm.”

“And if you’re ready for your toilet?”

Bah! The thing was lost now. Lazarus threw down his pen impatiently and leaned back in his chair. Small immediately laid a steaming cloth over the lower half of his face. The valet’s movements were quick and efficient, his hands delicate like a woman’s.

Lazarus closed his eyes, relaxing as the moist heat soaked into his skin. He remembered Mrs. Dews’s light brown eyes last night. The way they’d closed in bliss when he’d fed her the plum tart. The way they’d narrowed in anger when he questioned why she wouldn’t take it from him initially. For one such as he—a man who could not feel emotion—her moods were irresistibly alluring. The flare of her temper had created a heat he could almost feel. He’d been drawn to it as surely as a cat was to the warmth of a hearth. Her emotion was foreign, wild and exciting, and entirely fascinating—and she tried so very hard to hide it. Why? He wanted to spend time with the source of such powerful emotion. Wanted to experiment, poke and prod, see what else made her cheeks flush, her breath come fast. What would make her laugh? What frightened her? How would her eyes look at the point of orgasm? Would she try to hold back, or would the bodily sensation overwhelm her defenses?

The thought was oddly arousing this early in the morning. He’d never cared one way or the other about a woman’s response. She was but the vessel for his own lust. But with Mrs. Dews, it was the woman herself who was the interesting part.

Small removed the cloth and brushed warm lather over Lazarus’s jaw. Lazarus kept his eyes closed, refusing to flinch at the first scrape of the razor against his bare cheek. Surreptitiously he gripped the arms of the chair. To let another touch him was a ghastly physical trial, which was part of the reason he permitted this ordinary intimacy each morning. It gave him a kind of satisfaction to confront this most basic fear and overcome it daily.

The valet finished his left cheek, and Lazarus tilted his head to receive the razor on the right, repressing a shudder of revulsion. He’d had this loathing of another’s touch for as long as he could recall. No. That wasn’t correct. Lazarus couldn’t repress a wince as Small ran the razor over his upper lip. Once upon a time, when he’d been a very small child, there had been a touch that did not cause him fear and loathing and outright pain.

But that was long ago and that person long dead.

Small wiped the last of the soap foam from Lazarus’s face, and Lazarus opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

If the valet had any idea of the pain he’d caused his master, the knowledge did not show in his placid expression. “What shall you wear today, my lord?”

“The black silk breeches and coat with the silver worked waistcoat.”

Lazarus stood and dropped the banyan to the chair. Small handed him the clothing and he dressed himself—there was a fine point between endurance and self-torture.

“My stick as well,” Lazarus said as he allowed the valet to club back his hair with a black velvet ribbon.

“Of course, my lord.” Small looked doubtfully at the window. “You have an appointment so early?”

“I’m to visit my mother.” Lazarus smiled without humor. “And that is a task best done as early as possible.”

He took the stick that Small proffered and strode from the room without waiting for the valet’s reply.

The master bedroom led out into a wide upper hall paneled in dark, intricately carved wood. This town house had been in the Caire family since his grandfather’s time. It wasn’t in the most fashionable part of London anymore, but it was big and grand and fairly reeked of old money and power. Lazarus descended the stairs, trailing his hand down the pink banister. The stone was imported from Italy, carved and polished until it shone nearly like a mirror. He should feel something touching the cold, smooth stone, he knew. Pride perhaps? Or nostalgia? But instead he felt as he always did.

Nothing at all.

He reached the lower hall and took his cape and tricorne from the butler. Outside it was windy, the chairmen shivering a bit as they waited for him. His sedan chair was new, especially built for his height, the outside enameled in black and silver, the inside fitted with plush crimson cushions. One of the men held the top open as Lazarus stepped between the rails to enter. The front door was shut and latched and the top lowered. The men hefted the chair, and then they were jogging through the London streets.

Lazarus wondered idly what had caused his mother to summon him. Would she ask for more money? That seemed unlikely since she had a generous allowance from him as well as a few estates of her own. Perhaps she’d taken up gambling in her waning years. He snorted aloud at the thought.