Fur and Honor (Steel Bonds)

Chapter 6

Last night had almost been a disaster. Miles should have known better than to act outside the constraints of Mrs. Grant’s detailed lists, but so much about how this high-powered business world operated left a sour taste in his mouth.

A sip of the amazing coffee from the executive lounge chased away the taste, but Miles still shot a glare at the Ramblers mug that had appeared on his desk the other day. It was the principle of the thing, damn it. At least the ceramic cup was much like the chipped one in his kitchen at home and not some gold-plated monstrosity. To be fair, he’d have been even more surprised if something like that had arrived as a “secret” gift from his boss. Lord Delacour had proven time and time again that he might seamlessly fit into the world he’d been born into, but he appreciated his wealth rather than took it for granted.

As a result, the more access Lord Delacour granted Miles to his financial resources only made Miles want to protect the man from those who’d take advantage of such excess. Two tailored suits were a long-term investment worth swallowing his pride. A meal for eight at those quoted prices had been highway robbery.

“Mr. Cavanaugh.”

He started at the unexpected voice, almost spilling coffee on the letters that littered the surface of his desk. “Mr. Seaver, good morning. I didn’t expect to see anyone else in today.” Miles used his desk to lever himself to his feet, since the boss’s cousin always seemed to expect all the pomp and circumstance Delacour had waved away by the second day of Miles’s employment.

He wasn’t even supposed to be at work today, but each morning this week, a downstairs aide had delivered Lord Delacour’s mail in a literal box. Everyone and their mother wanted to send his boss their best wishes for the new year, and his errands the previous day had put him behind. Besides, what was Miles going to do sitting around at home? Other than resist the urge to jerk off over the way his boss had swept his eyes down Miles’s body the evening before, while he imagined the heat of Delacour’s hand other places on his body than the back of his neck.

“A moment in my office, if you please.” Bradford Seaver’s strident request worked better than a cold shower, shoving Miles back into the present.

He walked away down the hall without waiting for a response. Seaver’s minions might jump to obey his orders, but Mrs. Grant had made it clear that Miles worked for Lord Delacour, no one else. Still, Miles had no good reason to ignore the request, so he gathered his cane and followed at his slower pace.

He did ignore the annoyance that had crept into Seaver’s face once he finally reached the VP’s office. “How can I help you, Mr. Seaver?”

Seaver did not invite him to sit. “I wanted to have a word with you about last night’s mishap.”

“Mishap, sir?”

“Over the catering.”

As if Seaver hadn’t inhaled as much of the food as Delacour once they started eating. Seaver hadn’t even been on the original attendee list. Reminding himself that this wasn’t the docks, and politeness carried more weight than attitude, Miles schooled his face. “I’m not sure I understand your concern.”

With a scoff, Seaver said, “That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? Your overall lack of professionalism means you don’t see such blatant issues. Though at least you are now dressing the part expected of your role.” Seaver’s flick of attention across Miles’s form did not hold any of the heat as the same act from Delacour. He continued, “Delacour Shipping has relationships and contracts in place with the highest-rated restaurants in New Angouleme. Not only that, we have a reputation to maintain. Standards to uphold. In the future, I hope you stick to tried-and-true service providers and refrain from bringing in food from…unknown sources.”

Each word forced Miles’s grip on his cane tighter. He might not have been anyone’s first pick for this position, but he’d do his best by Lord Delacour. What right did—

“You have no right, Bradford.”

For the second time that morning, an unexpected voice almost startled Miles out of his skin. Someone needed to put fucking bells on all the werewolves around here. His left knee, his persistent weaker side, threatened to buckle. Lord Delacour’s strong hand gripped his elbow before Miles swayed more than an inch. Even through two layers of fabric, heat surged through Miles’s body at his touch. What the hell was Delacour even doing here? He wasn’t supposed to be in the office today either.

Ignoring the surprise from both of them, Lord Delacour continued, “Mr. Cavanaugh’s initiative and ability to think outside the box have proven to be a boon to my working environment, and I appreciate that this has translated to improving our overall operations this season. The presentation of last night’s meal may have been unorthodox, but my only complaint is that the meeting attendees had no way of learning the meal’s source or sharing their appreciation with the chef.” After a short hum of consideration, he turned to Miles. “Next time, contact our in-house graphic design team and have them make up the same sort of table cards used by the other catering vendors.”

Seemed like Delacour had no plan to out Miles’s mother as the source of the meal. Nor to let go of his arm. “Noted,” Miles said. “Sir.”

Delacour’s brow did a funny little twitch every time Miles called him that, which wouldn’t get old any time soon. After nodding, he rounded on his cousin once again. “Mr. Cavanaugh’s tasks may intersect with the executive-level work I do for this company, but he is my personal assistant. In the future, I trust that you’ll bring any concerns about his professional decisions to me.”

This might not be the docks, but Miles would have figured out a way to shut down Seaver’s criticism without too much foul language. Or getting tossed out of the building for throttling the self-important ass. Miles should have balked at Delacour sweeping to his rescue, or at least at his territorialism. Instead, much like the touch at his arm, he wanted to indulge in it. Lean into the support, physical and metaphorical.

Unfortunately, after Seaver responded “Yes, Lord Delacour,” through gritted teeth, the touch disappeared.

Delacour stepped back and Miles half-turned, chasing the contact, before covering the impulse under the guise of re-balancing his stance and cane. With a brittle smile, at odds with the joviality in his tone, Delacour said, “I’ll be off then, gentlemen. Only stopped by the office to find a telephone number.” Apparently satisfied that he’d put Seaver firmly in his place, Delacour vanished as quickly and quietly from the office as he’d appeared.

Protocol dictated that Miles wait for Mr. Seaver to dismiss him, but he had better things to do this morning than give the man any more of his time. He made it to the office door on his much slower gait before hearing his name called once again. Suppressing a sigh, he paused and turned back. “Yes, Mr. Seaver?”

He knew better than to hope for any sort of apology, which meant he had no clue what else the man had to say to him. His mind was also spinning after the strength and speed of Lord Delacour’s defense, giving him all sorts of ridiculous notions that had no place in his world. Like the possibility that Delacour’s response was more than professional proprietary. Like maybe the chemistry that sizzled between them with every touch—every look—wasn’t all in his head.

“My cousin has made it quite clear that you have been performing admirably in his service, but I do know that this time of year brings extra demands.” Seaver had missed his calling for the stage with his sudden lack of condescension toward Miles in both voice and visage. “Please feel free to reach out to my staff or myself at any time if you require assistance or guidance. In the past, I know Mrs. Grant has taken advantage of my connections regarding the matter of Lord Delacour’s escort for the city’s New Year’s Eve gala.”

“Thank you, but I have everything well in hand.” For himself, Miles deserved a fucking award for his return professionalism.

“Oh? Who’s the lucky lady this year?”

A glint Miles didn’t like had appeared in Seaver’s eyes. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“Who did you arrange for Lord Delacour to escort to the gala? The family has learned that it’s best to have someone on Henry’s arm for these events, or the mothers in New Angouleme go feral at the reminder that he’s the city’s most eligible bachelor.”

“Like I said, I have all details accounted for.” Miles wouldn’t let this bastard throw him. Or have the last word. He made it all the way back to his desk before the panic set in as he dug through the week’s task sheets. How the hell had he missed this?

A scan down the list showed exactly what he remembered. The brief entry read only Arrange escort . Miles had assumed this referred to Lord Delacour’s increased transportation and security needs for the scale of such an event.

Not organizing a fucking date .