Close proximity to Robert had only served to amplify his roguish charms in Algy’s eyes, and Algy had been struck with an attack of wholly unwonted—and heartily unwanted—nerves. Whilst the man had proved himself an able student in the matter of pressing shirts, there had been absolutely no progress towards the matter closest to Algy’s heart.
(In metaphorical terms, of course. In purely physical terms it was a good eighteen inches away. Lessening to ten, obviously, when aroused.)
In early twentieth century England, a good valet can be damned hard to come by—at least, when one’s requirements are quite so specific as Lord Algernon Huffingham’s. Algy likes a man with a firm hand. Preferably work-calloused, and applied with vigour to Algy’s aristocratic buttocks. He’s beginning to despair of ever finding a man who can give him what he needs and still respect him in the morning.
Disgraced footman Robert likes a roll in the hay as much as the next man. Preferably with the next man. But he’s more accustomed to following orders than issuing them—and some of his lordship’s requirements are a bit more extreme than he’s used to! Robert may be easy on the eye and flexible in his morals, but will he be able to rise to Algy’s challenge?