I may look the part, but I am not, technically, a valet.
My name is Christopher Thornbury, Earl of Wycliffe, and I am hiding in a merchant’s townhouse in Bloomsbury because the alternative involves pistols at dawn and a viscount with considerably better aim than I have.
So my valet came up with a plan. My cover story is watertight. My references are impeccable. My knowledge of fashion is encyclopedic, and my boot-polishing is, admittedly, a work in progress.
Everything is going according to plan.
Or it would be, if not for one singular complication: my employer. Callum Hayes is broad-shouldered, infuriatingly handsome, and built his fortune entirely by his own hand. He doesn’t even particularly want a valet. What he apparently does want is me — which is startling, as I have never felt this kind of stirring for anyone, let alone a man. And yet here I am, letting him call me kitten and finding, to my bewilderment, that I don’t want him to stop.
I came to Callum Hayes’s household to hide from my problems.
I didn’t expect to find something worth staying for.
Whether he’ll protect me from the viscount once he learns the full truth of who I am — well. That remains to be seen.
