David Lord of Honor (The Lonely Lords) by Grace Burrowes Page B

sit here, the heavier my eyes get.”
    David gathered up their empty glasses a few moments later and used the bellpull, but didn’t immediately sit back down on the hearth. Instead, he paused to shed his cuff links and turn up his cuffs. The room was cozy, and Letty ought not to have an apoplexy at the sight of his forearms.
    “I’m taking your shoes off, Letty Banks, and you will permit this, seeing as you did, after all, wrest mine from me.”
    “I asked, your lordship, I didn’t order,” she said peevishly, but she made no protest as David eased her half boots off. Emboldened by her passivity, he slid his hands up her calf to untie the garter of each stocking.
    “You are taking liberties.” She sounded unsure, and not pleased.
    “Your feet are safe with me, Letty. You can hiss and arch your back all you want, but you were on your feet for hours. Those boots of yours are an abomination against nature and fashion both, and I am going to ease your discomfort.”
    While increasing his own. He took her foot in his hands, and as the medical part of his brain noted a high arch and a second toe longer than her great toe—there was a name for this condition—the masculine part of him rejoiced to hold even this most humble part of her.
    “Oh, my,” she breathed, trying to sit up.
    “None of that. You relax, and don’t give me any trouble, or I’ll peek at your ankles, or do something equally dreadful.”
    “Peek at my ankles, will you?” Letty eyed him dubiously then subsided on a sigh. “Where did you learn to do this, and what is it exactly you are doing?”
    “I am simply rubbing your feet, as I like to have my feet rubbed at certain times.”
    Another tired, peevish glower. “Is this one of those times?”
    “No. And don’t you ask, Letty Banks, lest I shock you with the details. You did well tonight, by the way.”
    “You are changing the subject, but thank you. I was nervous, especially when I realized how many of those fellows scampering up your stairs are titled or in expectation of a title. You have an exclusive clientele.”
    She flinched as David dug his thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot of muscle in her arch.
    “I don’t think the titles matter much.” He held her foot, using his thumbs to apply gentle, relentless pressure to the knot of muscle. How was it he’d never realized a woman’s foot could be pretty? “What matters to me is that the patrons treat the girls— ladies —well, and certain standards of behavior are observed by all.”
    “What standards?” And then, as the knot in her foot relaxed, “Moses in the bulrushes…”
    Moses in the bulrushes? An Old Testament oath, accompanied by the vision of Letty Banks sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, head back against the pillows, had David temporarily losing the thread of the conversation.
    “I expect… I expect of the men simple decency,” David said. “Manners, civility, discretion, the English virtues available to anyone who passes through the doors. I expect the men to hold their liquor and their tempers when they’re under my roof, and those who don’t aren’t welcome back.”
    “And the women?” Letty asked, opening her eyes to regard him levelly.
    “The women.” What women? “They must act like ladies when they’re downstairs, albeit particularly friendly ladies. Give me your other foot.”
    Another knock signaled the next round of hot chocolate. David added a dollop of liqueur to Letty’s and a portion of the entire bottle to his.
    “Now where was I?” He frowned at Letty, whose pink tongue was delicately swiping chocolate off her upper lip. “Ah, I was taking off your clothes.”
    “You most assuredly were not. You were going to tend to my other foot.”
    “That I was,” David said, resuming his post so he could grasp her foot and ease the stocking off. “We are going to dress you from the inside out, you know. These sausage casings that you use for stockings are a thing of the past,