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incredible breach of decorum for a valet to hold his master’s hair like that, and Lord Loxley’s lips curved with pleasure at Mr. Rochester’s confidence and control.
    “Keep still,” Mr. Rochester warned, his voice very soft.
    Breathing carefully, Lord Loxley kept his eyes shut, careful not to swallow as Mr. Rochester drew the blade up the length of his throat. His eyelashes fluttered at the sensation, feeling dizzy as he sank into the deep sense of trust necessary for this. Miles had done this for him before, in university, and Fitz had reciprocated the care. Since then, he’d gotten into the habit of shaving himself, except for his monthly trips to the village barber for a haircut and shave.
    Of course, the barber’s hand had never fastened possessively into his hair like this. Lord Loxley thought Mr. Rochester might quite object to anyone else handling Lord Loxley in such a fashion, and hoped that were true. He knew that Mr. Rochester felt lust for him, but he had no evidence at all that Mr. Rochester’s feelings were—or ever had been—anything deeper. All he’d seen since Mr. Rochester’s arrival had been the bitterness and resentment hidden behind Mr. Rochester’s cold facade. It had cracked for lust. Perhaps nothing more.
    The razor skimmed across his cheeks and jaw, shaving him in smooth, efficient strokes. Mr. Rochester turned his head gently in order to get the best angle, being exactingly careful with his employer—or lover, perhaps.
    Lord Loxley’s breath hitched as the blade traced up over the edge of his jaw, cresting over the pulse point. And then he heard the clatter of the razor on the tray and felt the heat of Mr. Rochester’s mouth against his own.
    Parting his lips willingly to the kiss, Lord Loxley reached wet hands up to curl around Mr. Rochester’s neck, holding him close as his tongue quested out. The kiss was greedy and heated, again, full of pent-up passion which Mr. Rochester had not yet released, and it ended very suddenly as Mr. Rochester let go and turned away.
    Flushed and erect in the bath, Lord Loxley stared at Mr. Rochester’s back, quite overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotions, and how quickly they’d gone from the trust of the shaving to the heat of the kiss to… this. This empty aftermath, whatever it might be.
    After a moment, Mr. Rochester collected himself and began to tidy away the shaving implements. Lord Loxley felt once again vulnerable and exposed, and no longer as in control of the situation as he had been when he’d begun to strip.
    “Will there be anything else, my lord?” Mr. Rochester asked.
    Fitzhenry’s heart ached. Feeling utterly lost, he gazed at Mr. Rochester, but Mr. Rochester did not return the glance.
    “No,” Lord Loxley said at last. “You may go.”

    L ady Mathilda Loxley was the one person in the world that Lord Loxley feared, not least because she had near total control over his fortune, and therefore his life.
    He balked in the hallway, containing the urge to pace, and tried to persuade himself that he was no longer a thirteen-year-old recent orphan, but in fact a grown man fully capable of holding a conversation with an elderly woman. Mr. Rochester had followed him as far as the hallway and had stopped when Lord Loxley had stopped: outside the parlor where Lady Loxley would be growing increasingly impatient with every moment. Lord Loxley looked to him for help or rescue, and received only a raised eyebrow in response.
    Resigning himself to his fate, Lord Loxley entered the parlor.
    Lady Mathilda Loxley looked up from her tea with a stern expression that stated very clearly that she was Not Pleased to have been kept waiting.
    “Aunt Mathilda,” Lord Loxley said, with a dutiful little bow.
    “Fitzhenry,” she greeted him, frowning disapprovingly at her great-nephew. She was about to continue when she caught sight of Mr. Rochester over his shoulder, and Lord Fitzhenry Loxley had the pleasure of seeing his great-aunt Mathilda