Chapter 7
"Delicious, Jeeves." I cleared my throat, hoping that my voice wasn't as low and hoarse as it sounded to me. From the way he slowly turned from the sink where he'd deposited the washing up, I suspected he may have noticed something.
I couldn't help it if the man insisted on standing before me at the sink, flouting his broad back and narrow hips.
"Thank you, Sir. I'm pleased you enjoyed it," he remarked, turning back to the dishes.
I'd chosen to dine with Jeeves in the kitchen, as had become my habit when I wasn't entertaining company for supper. He'd prepared a topping little meal, but I'm afraid my thoughts had been otherwise engaged. They had skipped and jumped between a nervous contemplation of my ingenious plan to ease into contemplations of a chummy carnality with my valet. I had to strictly remind myself to remain inscrutable (the crux of the aforementioned plan). Dashed difficult to do when you're secretly engaged in a subversive seduction of the most scrutinizing man in the continent.
I'd caught a few strange sort of looks from the man, when I'd attempted to eat a stalk of asparagus in a sensual manner. His face seemed to inquire whether I was having some sort of stroke.
Remaining blasé was a practiced art, it would seem, and I was sorely lacking in practice.
"Sir?"
With a blush, I tore my eyes upwards to his face.
"If you have no further need of my services, this evening, I will set out your nightclothes and retire."
"So early, Jeeves?"
"I'm finding myself unusually fatigued from the exertions of the day. I hope you will excuse me, Sir."
"Of course, Jeeves, of course. Bon nuit, and all that sort of thing."
He nodded, bid me a good evening, and glided from the kitchen.
It was time to begin the next movement in my clumsily-composed ballet.
Author's Note: This is a shortie. And no-one can eat asparagus sexily. Not even Bertie.
