Fur and Honor (Steel Bonds)

Chapter 4

Miles was pretty sure his boss hated him.

After a week of work, Miles felt much more like Mrs. Grant’s personal assistant than Lord Delacour’s. The work he did, and errands he ran, were on Delacour’s behalf but always at Mrs. Grant’s instruction. At most, Delacour offered Miles stilted greetings whenever he passed, but he directed all conversation to his executive assistant. He limited any other communication to notes left atop Miles’s desk.

No matter what Mrs. Grant assured Miles about his job security, he recognized buyer’s remorse. But he needed this job. A steady paycheck that paid more than he’d ever made in his life meant not choosing between heat and groceries this winter…and even pitching in on his mom’s bills.

Didn’t mean the job was easy. Not with his new physical limitations. He wasn’t sure which he hated more—the pitying looks from neighbors and strangers alike or how the changing weather meant even greater aches and pains than usual.

Which was how he found himself sitting on the plush sofa in Lord Delacour’s sitting room, a space that could have fit his entire apartment, eyeing the cane that represented his only hope of walking out of here. And giving himself a mental lecture that he wouldn’t use said cane to beat the hell out of the next person who rushed to help him with a set of steps. Or a door, as if his perfectly good arms were as disabled as his stupid legs.

“Are you okay?”

The unexpected question sent Miles lurching to his feet. This swanky penthouse didn’t have a front door, and he’d missed the quiet whoosh of the doors opening on the private lift. Fuck. He’d meant to be in and out, only here this morning to drop off dry cleaning before heading into the office and renewing his battle with a mountain of overdue social correspondence. And Lord Delacour wasn’t meant to be in either place, since his schedule put him across town for a full day of meetings with investors.

“Sorry. Just needed a moment. Your lordship.” He remembered to tack on the title at the end, still as unused to dealing with a member of the nobility as he was to his slower gait. He hated the noticeable hitch in his steps even more than usual as he edged around Lord Delacour in the foyer. The sneaky bastard.

Sneaky and too damned handsome for his own good.

“No, wait. I’m sorry for startling you.”

Miles froze at Delacour’s gentle touch. Warmth spread from his upper arm, which he’d blame on embarrassment at being caught in a moment of unprofessional weakness, not on the way the man’s proximity always threatened a different sort of heat. “I’m fine. I’ll be back in the office within the hour.”

“It’s pouring outside. I’m sure any other errands can wait for later.”

This close—too close, despite the size of the foyer—Miles noted the drops of water across the shoulders of Lord Delacour’s thick coat. “I don’t have any other errands.”

Eyes narrowing, Delacour asked, “The office is ten minutes away, if that. Maybe fifteen, in this weather.”

Miles swallowed back a scoff. “Not using the subway.” Not with one transfer on a regular day, and assuming the weather meant none of the stations had flooded, requiring a detour. “Sir.”

Delacour finally dropped his hand, likely from the reminder that Miles’s status as one of the common folk meant he wasn’t worthy of his touch. “Why would you—? Never mind.” He also stepped away, but to Miles’s surprise, he lifted his other arm, which clutched a white paper bag. The movement wafted the aroma of fresh pastry through the foyer. “The weather delayed the train from Trimountaine, so my meetings got moved to tomorrow. I had time to pick up my favorite canelé before the day’s batch sold out. Join me? I’ll eat this whole bag, otherwise.”

The delicious scents of vanilla and rum tempted Miles. He wanted to take the invitation at face value, especially since he had no desire to leave the warmth of this swanky apartment and battle the damp, frustrated masses aboard public transit. But— “What’s canelé?”

“Oh, now you have to stay.” Delacour thrust the paper bakery bag at Miles as he shed his coat, then curled a hand around Miles’s elbow and led him toward the penthouse’s kitchen.

The touch warmed Miles the same way as before, and Delacour acted more like he escorted an equal, not assisted an invalid. Turned out that made all the difference. Miles allowed himself to be swept along and offered a stool at the long kitchen island, then watched in bemusement as Delacour darted around the space. Gone was his stiff reticence of the office, replaced with a stream of chatter explaining why these were the best canelé in New Angouleme, reminiscing on how he’d stumbled across the bakery years ago, and asking how Miles took his tea.

Delacour may have inherited his position, but he clearly possessed a knack for connecting with those around him, which explained how far and fast the company had expanded since he assumed leadership in New Angouleme. And how he slowly drew Miles into a real conversation. But they discussed no business here, no topic that reinforced their positions as employer and assistant. To Miles’s pleasant surprise, once he lost the last of his unease, Lord Delacour proved he had the same interests and opinions as any other resident of New Angouleme.

Though not always the correct opinions. “I’m not sure,” Miles said. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Grant to check the employee handbook. Asking me to attend a Red Claws game might qualify as creating an unsafe workplace environment.”

Delacour froze. “Don’t tell me you’re a Ramblers fan.”

“Born and raised. Like every respectable resident of the lower side.” Rugby was serious business in Miles’s end of New Angouleme, even if he hadn’t played past leaving school. Wearing Claws gear in his neighborhood might not get you jumped on a blind corner, but it would definitely get you kicked out of the pub.

“Then I won’t invite you to any games, as long as you don’t rub it in when the Ramblers end the season with a better ranking.”

“At least you’re a realistic Red Claws fan,” Miles said.

“Never let it be said that I set my expectations too high.” As Delacour relaxed, hints of an accent slipped into his words, reminding Miles that Delacour had grown up traveling back and forth between New Angouleme and his family estate in Calaitum. Even though he’d spent years loading and unloading ships bound for such far-off destinations, the main lands of the British empire were as out of Miles’s reach as the moon.

With warm tea between his hands, a plate of delicate pastry before him, and Delacour’s velvet voice wrapped around him like a second jacket, Miles found himself relaxing as well. He almost missed his boss’s next words. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Speaking of rambling, I’ll make sure your name is added to my account for the car service I use. There’s no reason you should be taking the trains when I’m the one running you all over town.”

In the past week, aside from this morning’s detour to the dry cleaners, Miles had mailed a package and picked up lunch twice. He might be slower these days, but he’d been using the New Angouleme subway system—alone—since his mother deemed him old enough to be trusted with the tokens. “That’s not necessary, your lordship.”

“I know it’s not necessary.” Delacour touched Miles’s hand. Another wave of heat flared through Miles at this brush of bare skin. Delacour pulled back fast, reaching for his tea as if that had been his original intention. He sloshed a bit of the liquid onto the pristine white granite countertop. Maybe Miles wasn’t the only one affected by the spark of physical connection. “But I hope you’ll allow me. Please.”

This bashful man, who looked up at Miles through long, colorless lashes, was a far cry from the professional, impersonal distance Lord Delacour maintained at his office. That man might have fired Miles on the spot for his audacity to rest his aching legs on a couch that probably cost more than his annual rent. This man, on the other hand, expressed concern for Miles’s wellbeing, then bribed him with gourmet pastry to keep him from going back out into the wet cold. “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

“And you’ll arrange to use the car service for your daily commute, as well. I’m sure standing in a packed carriage during the morning and evening rush hasn’t done your legs any favors.”

The too generous offer, combined with the reminder that Delacour knew exactly how Miles’s legs had gotten to this state, curdled the tea in his stomach and shifted his perspective. This wasn’t a caring boss who’d opened up in the privacy of his own home. Who may have sensed potential in the sparks between them. This was a man who felt guilty over his role in Miles’s injury and had the money to buy his way out of the inconvenient emotion.

Miles’s work ethic meant he’d dedicated himself to being the best personal assistant Lord Delacour hadn’t thought he’d needed, but the reality was that that Miles needed Lord Delacour, not the other way around. He should know better. How many times growing up had he acted as the voice of reason when his mother came home excited by all the opportunities and privileges offered by this or that employer or manager, only to turn into the shoulder she cried on when she lost the asshole taking advantage of her, followed inevitably by the job? He’d never understood how she kept repeating the same pattern.

Next to him, Delacour swallowed his final bite of pastry with a pleased moan.

Okay, maybe Miles understood a little bit. Especially as his mind formed the scenario, unbidden, of Delacour making that same noise as he swallowed something else.

His boss might be nothing more than a rich asshole, but he still ticked all of Miles’s boxes. He hastily ate the remainder of his canelé before he could offer the final one to Delacour in hopes of prompting another of those sinful sounds.

“Good, right?” Delacour collected their plates and moved them to the sink. “I missed breakfast this morning. So, while I don’t mind that I shared the canelé with you, I definitely need more food. Damn.” He’d cursed into a nearly empty refrigerator. The freezer proved to be in a similar state.

“I can put in a grocery order for you, sir.”

“I don’t really get groceries, since I’m the last person you want cooking a meal. My regular delivery of prepped meals from the building’s concierge service is due tomorrow. I thought I had quiche left from last week, but I must have eaten more than I thought after my workout yesterday. I’ll order out. Are you still hungry? What do you like for brunch?” Delacour drifted toward the telephone on the wall.

The bold reminder of such privilege, that Delacour could afford the expense of every meal separately prepared, balanced the too-tempting image of the man bare-chested and sweaty after exercise. Miles grasped his cane and eased off the stool. “Thank you, sir, but I’m sure Mrs. Grant is wondering where I am.”

Delacour glanced out the window. Gray clouds and drizzle continued to coat the city, though the view was sure to be amazing on a clear day. “Yes, I understand. I’ll call you a car.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t even wait for Miles to accept. He just did, picking up the phone as Miles exited the kitchen. In the foyer, he jabbed the elevator call button. The doors slid open at once, allowing him to slip inside and select the button for the lobby.

The lift doors closed on Delacour as he came around the corner from the kitchen. As the carriage descended, Miles told himself the flash of disappointment that marred the nobleman’s handsome face was all in his head.

Miles didn’t need this man to be nice to him. To share fancy pastry, and insist on a car service, and extend invitations to rich-people meals like brunch. The only thing Miles needed was a paycheck for doing his job.

Downstairs, his uneven gait carried him at a brisk pace that he’d pay for later. He escaped the lobby fast enough he could pretend to miss the doorman who called after him. He didn’t care that the car Lord Delacour called was still five minutes out. Even if one had waited at the curb, he’d have walked straight toward the nearest subway station.

This time of day, past the swell of commuter traffic, the next available train offered plenty of empty benches.