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company.
    That thought settled him to the ground and he hung his head, ashamed of what he’d done this morning. He’d taken a man’s prick deep into his throat. He’d greedily sucked in the ridged flesh, tasted the salty musk and brought Stackpool pleasure.
    What made it worse was that Nathan had enjoyed it far more than was reasonable. And he wanted to do it again. Now. He wanted to taste all of his servant. But Stackpool was not himself and it was wrong to think like those brutes at Lewes’ house. He wasn’t like them—he wasn’t depraved, and Stackpool’s head was turned by a girl in a pretty dress, not the cut of a man’s waistcoat.
    The sun stood high when Nathan returned to the house, but he was no closer to purging his soul of the unnatural desire to pleasure his servant again. He hurried upstairs but Stackpool slept deeply, not even stirring when Nathan placed his hand upon his hot skin. Afraid of what he wanted to do, Nathan backed away and descended to the small sitting room. His book lay where he’d left it on his last stay so he tucked it under his arm and headed outside to read.
    Several times he checked on Stackpool. His servant moved a bit, but stayed deeply asleep, hair tossed across his cheek until Nathan swept it back with his thumb. As the sun set he entered the kitchen. A stew bubbled on the hearth, and Nathan lifted the lid, assailed by the most delicious smell. But he was starved for more than food. He wanted Stackpool awake.
    He had an alarming need to hear his steward speak of his ordeal and confirm he was well. Nathan awkwardly scooped out two generous bowls of stew, tucked a loaf of bread under his arm, and hurried upstairs.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    Henry could smell stew burning. The scent wafted under the sheet he’d pulled up over his face and teased him. His stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t determine if it was in anticipation or some other malady.
    Silver clinked against porcelain and he turned his head to the sound. Still deep in fantasy, the Duke of Byworth watched from the dark edge of the room. But there was no hint of welcome, only silent contemplation. Henry couldn’t keep his eyes on a delusion so he glanced around the dim chamber. Plain, square, window sealed tight against the outside world. Henry didn’t recognize the dwelling and he turned back to the apparition. His Grace stood beside the bed, hands empty of spoon or bowl. Perhaps Henry merely dreamed.
    “Mr. Stackpool.”
    Henry gulped. Familiar voice—familiar greeting. “Your Grace.”
    So, this wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.
    “How are you feeling?”
    Henry had to think about it for quite a while. His brain didn’t want to catalogue anything but fatigue. He thought about his toes, legs, his ass hurt, his stomach cramped, his head ached. “I am well.”
    The duke snorted and laid a hand across Henry’s forehead. Now that the duke brought it to his attention, Henry was fever hot and drenched in sweat. He couldn’t understand why.
    “Ah, you’ve developed a tricksters tongue have you?” The aristocratic quirk of one eyebrow confirmed he was speaking to the duke and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he blushed. He hoped the fever would disguise his reaction to his master’s caress.
    “Can you sit up?”
    It was an interesting question. Henry didn’t want to, but his habit of obeying the duke made the request impossible to ignore. As he struggled upright, Byworth hooked his hands under Henry’s arms and sped his movement. When he let go, the weight of his body pressed his backside into the bedding. A hiss of pain escaped his lips.
    He rolled sideways and didn’t dare look at his employer. The pain brought back memories of his time with the Duke of Lewes. Humiliation washed over him. His Grace, the Duke of Byworth, would have a fair idea of why he was in pain and Henry waited to hear his condemnation.
    “As I expected.” His master sounded pleased.
    He supposed he was revolted with him, yet why was he