Story copyright August 2014 by Hollis Shiloh: all rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover design by Victoria Davies using images licensed through Shutterstock.com. Copy-editing and proofreading by Martin O'Hearn.

  About the story:

  Hired to redecorate the Skeffield country home, Louie is both attracted to Robert Skeffield and abashed by him in equal measures. Louie, who favors bright clothing and has never been called butch in his life, has little in common with gorgeous, masculine, and closeted army officer Robert. But not everything is as it appears, at Skeffield Manor or in their hearts…

  Takes place after "Wes and Kit"

  This story contains some minor steampunk elements, magical elements, mysterious elements, flirting, a dog, and a strawberry-colored waistcoat.

  Sensual rating: very low

  Length: 30,500 words

  Robert and Louie

  by Hollis Shiloh

  A man stood on the front steps as I arrived. He crossed his arms over his chest, an amused look on his handsome face. He raised an eyebrow, looking as if he was trying not to laugh. "How many bags does one man need?"

  I straightened up from helping Mr. Jenkins carry my things in from the car, tossing my hair back a little. "I'm sure I don't know. But as a designer, I must be prepared!" I waved a hand in the air.

  His brows rose dramatically, and he looked even more like he was going to start laughing. He followed me in, not, I noticed, offering to carry any of the bags. Well, fair enough. I was hired help, after all, even if I wasn't the man driving the cars.

  "Must you?" he asked. I cast him a sharp look. Was the man laughing with me or flirting with me?

  Perhaps a bit of both? Was that too much to hope for?

  I gave him a smile that was pleasant but not too pleasant—pleasant and dull as a brick. "Of course! You might need to look at paint samples, or wallpaper samples, or furniture samples."

  This time a little guffaw did escape him. "You have furniture with you."

  "Not precisely." I tried to look mysterious. He just arched that eyebrow, and I found myself going on and explaining instead. "I have all the latest design books and catalogues, in case you—"

  "My father."

  "Oh. In case your father should decide to update any furniture."

  "He won't. It's served in the family for decades; I should think it will hold for a few more. In fact, I'm not certain that your presence is absolutely require—"

  "Robert!" called an older man's voice, sounding a bit annoyed. "Are you going to help me with this or not?"

  My new friend inclined his head slightly, cynically, and walked away. "I'm right here, Father," he said in a mild voice. I had the feeling he was still laughing at everything underneath.

  Robert, huh? I couldn't help watching him walk away. His clothing fitted him perfectly, and he had a military bearing. And a decidedly handsome way of looking as though absolutely nothing about him was out of place or ever could be—except for that one unexpected whorl of hair on his dark mane, going the wrong way quite charmingly.

  I repressed a sigh and didn't lick my lips.

  Really, all the best men were out of my league, if they didn't hate me on sight. And Robert just might fit into both categories, it appeared.

  Perhaps.

  Never lose hope, I told myself. Besides, you're here to do a job!

  It was a huge place, though I had worked on a few bigger homes in the past, so I wasn't overly intimidated. The owner, apparently Robert's father, wanted its décor updated.

  Skeffield Manor hadn't been used regularly in years. Though the staff had kept it from falling into disrepair, all the styling was extremely outdated. I was looking forward to tackling it.

  All around, the big country estate was busy. People appeared to be in the stages of both spring cleaning and grounds renovations. Some sort of diggers tore up parts of the grounds—large gear-operated machines that puffed steam, growling in concerted effort. Workmen hurried around with shovels and pipes and wheelbarrows, scowls on their faces, muddy boots tearing up the lawn. It was all very masculine.

  The large estate house where Mr. Skeffield's employee, Mr. Jenkins, had brought me, appeared to be the domain of women. One of them frowned after the muddy workmen as she shook out a small rug with surprising vigor. "Men!" she muttered with utter loathing.

  She ignored me and Jenkins in favor of glaring past us at the workers.

  Another woman moved past her, smiling a little, looking just slightly breathless. She had graying hair and a gentle face. "He's here?" She eyed me hopefully. "You're the designer?"

  "The missus," said Jenkins helpfully, looking rather proud. He was about her age, a big, solid man with a scar on his face and work-toughened hands.

  "Yes." I straightened up and smiled, trying to look competent but not peacock-proud or preening. "That's me—Louis Candless, but you can call me Louie. Everyone does!"

  Jenkins coughed.

  "Pleased to meet you," said Mrs. Jenkins, one brow rising. She shook my hand.

  Her soft grip was firmer than mine. I'm used to it by now. I've never been particularly "butch," although I like to think I can hold my own in a dinner party, if not a physical competition.

  "You've met Robert, then," said Mrs. Jenkins, nodding past us. The tall, soldierly Robert was striding away to join the epicenter of the mud mess.

  I glanced after him and tried not to let a sigh enter my voice. "Yes."

  The married couple exchanged a worried look that could only be interpreted by me as "We're in for some shit now."

  Seeming to reach a decision without exchanging a single word with her husband, Mrs. Jenkins looked at me and smiled. "Why don't you come into the kitchen? You must be tired after your journey. I'll fix you a cup of tea or coffee and we can have a little talk."

  "Oh dear. Something I said?" I followed cheerfully, though. Promise me coffee, I'll follow you anywhere. Well, nearly.

  "No, no. But there are things about this household you might not know, and perhaps it would be good if you did."

  Seated at the table while Jenkins ate his lunch—a sandwich made of thick-sliced bread and heavy with ham, cheese, and mustard—I wrapped my hands round a mug of coffee while she talked to me, all the while calmly making me lunch. It wasn't the workman's sandwich of her husband, but rather some thin-sliced toast, a bit of ham and cheese, and two tiny cupcakes, more hors d'oeuvres than lunch. How had she guessed I'd prefer that?

  "You see," she said quietly, "Mr. Skeffield is not exactly opposed to…" She hesitated, as if not sure which word to use. "Your type. In fact, he has two friends who are…not unlike you. Although they don't dress quiet so…loudly."

  I looked down at my strawberry-colored waistcoat. The fabric was paisley patterned and dashing. "This? But this is barely loud at all."

  Jenkins coughed on his sandwich. We waited for him to finish. His wife moved over to slap his back helpfully when he appeared to be having a bit of trouble.

  "Now, where was I?" She fluttered back to me when he was all right again. (She was a soft, round woman with a sweet face, in no way tiny—but flutter she did. I can't explain it.) "Ah yes. Mr. Skeffield won't send you away for being who you are, although I doubt he realized it when he hired… Nevertheless, he would not be pleased if you were to…show an interest in his son. If you wish to keep the job, and for everyone else's sake, please don't cause discord between them."

  "I certainly wouldn't try to," I said, a little hurt. Just because I was "a certain type" and found Robert attractive didn't mean I had come here to stir up trouble between father and son. "Are you saying he might…and his father wouldn't…?"

  Now they had me skipping words and implying things in silences as well.

  They exchanged another worried look. Jenkins' eyes were grave.

  "Perhaps we've said too much," said his wife. She'd been the only one to say anything, but they were clearly in it together.

  "No," I said, still feeling hurt. "I wasn't here to do anything but my job anyway. I certainly won't try to tempt Robert Skeffield down the path of temptation."

  I blinked, pausing to reach for another tiny cupcake. Tempt down the path of temptation? Now that hadn't been very smooth.

  Didn't matter. The relief was on their faces.

  "Thank you. It's just that his father isn't ready…" Again, silences and implied words.

  I felt that we'd communicated enough that way for one day. I rose, giving them a smile and tugging my bright waistcoat straighter. "I should get to work," I said. "Thank you for the meal and conversation."

  "Mr. Vinegar will show you your room," said Mrs. Jenkins.

  I wondered if she'd ever tell me her first name so I could call her by it. Judging by my reception so far, I doubted it. But a boy can dream. In fact, that's about all he can do these days, I reminded myself sternly, refusing to look wistfully in the direction of the heated shouts and swearing from the workmen's—and Robert's—direction. I suppose forbidden meat can seem all the sweeter when you know you're not going to get any.

  Mr. Vinegar appeared, eying me sourly; he heaved a put-upon sigh and helped me carry some of my bags "to my room."

  It was a small room, but faced the gardens with a good view. I would have enjoyed it if the décor wasn't so ghastly.

  "Did they use anything other than dark blue?" I muttered, eying the walls with dislike.

  Vinegar let out

a snort. "You ain't seen the rest of the house, has you?" he said, eyes crinkling with his first sign of enjoyment at my discomfort. "Ho ho! I can show you if you want."

  And laugh all the while, no doubt. "No thank you. I'll be fine."

  "Show you the stables too, if you want." He gave me a quick, lascivious wink.

  I stared at him, affronted. Was I wearing a sign over my head that said "whore?" Everyone seemed to think I was here for the one thing I almost certainly wasn't going to get any of during this stay.

  "I'm sure I don't know what you could mean," I said frostily, showing him to the door.

  "Suit yourself." He shrugged. "But if you can't keep it in your pants after all, at least keep it away from young Robert!"

  My goodness, the man had many champions.

  "I am even more certain that I don't know what you mean now. Good day!" I shut the door firmly and leaned back against it, heaving a sigh and rolling my eyes. Then I closed them quickly to block out that dreadful view.

  #

  After a short rest, I cleaned up and changed from the journey here. The train ride had been crowded and slightly sooty, the rest of the way in the Skeffield's motorcar bumpy and muddy.

  I put on a dove-colored suit, quite casual because it lacked a tie. It brought out the almost violet-gray in my eyes, and I thought made me look quite nice. But to be honest, I chose it because it was the least "loud" of my clothing that I'd brought with me.

  I supposed I was used to presenting a certain image, and they'd already put me off by judging me so harshly on it. Surely one could expect a bit of peacock brightness from an interior designer! But, nonetheless, I wore my dove suit when I went down to dine with the family.

  It was only Skeffield and his son. Mr. Skeffield hadn't met me yet, being too busy with whatever muddy mess the workmen were creating.

  He rose to greet me with a firm handshake before sitting back down at the table. It appeared we'd be eating in courses, even though there were only three of us. I felt lucky to join the family, but also a bit shy. I hoped I wasn't meant to be the entertainment.

  "You're Candless," said the elder Skeffield, eying me. "I thought Candless was that big guy with the moustache."

  I grimaced at the mention, unable to hide my irritation. "I believe you are thinking of my nemesis, Mr. Greene."

  Robert smirked, openly enjoying this.

  I sat down, fluttering the napkin out on my lap, lips pursed. "If you wish to contact him instead, although he does have a decided favoring for purple…" I let the words trail off. Purple would not go with this house, its architecture and design requiring a much lighter touch. It was heavy and dark enough already.

  Skeffield winced, apparently seeing the right of that.

  "Well, I suppose you'll do." He eyed me again, as if not quite certain what to think.

  Apparently I was objectionable even in dove gray.

  Robert leaned an elbow on the table, watching me, his mouth twitching. "So do you know why you're here?"

  "Oh yes, to update the estate!" I smiled, growing animated for the first time. "Your agent specified clearly that you want a more modern feel to several of the rooms, so it can be used again for functions and parties."

  They both nodded, and I saw the resemblance now both in stance and face where I hadn't earlier between the elderly man and his handsome, military son. They were alike in some ways: perhaps many.

  "Yes, but not the clock room," said Skeffield, reaching for his glass. "I hope that was made clear to you. I won't have it messed about with."

  "Oh yes." I blinked, a little startled at the firm tone. "I certainly wouldn't change anything without your permission! I was hoping to start looking around tonight and begin drawing up some plans for you to look over."

  He waved a hand irritably. "Goodness, man, I'm busy enough draining the pond and digging up the spring house! I don't want to approve every last detail. Just make it tasteful and modern, without being too loud."

  Mr. Skeffield regarded my clothing again, mouth tightening, as if he wondered whether I was the person to avoid loud.

  Robert Skeffield turned away, tightening his mouth, gnawing on the insides of his cheeks. Then he turned back quite calmly. But his eyes danced. "I could look over the designs," he offered casually.

  "Yes, good idea!" Skeffield looked relieved.

  I stared at the man, affronted. "But you don't want me here at all. Why not just send me away?" I couldn't believe I was trying to talk myself out of a job. But the man was laughing at me, and with no cause.

  Robert bit his lip, shaking his head a little. "I promise I won't be overly exacting."

  I scowled at him. "I can assure you I am most professional. I can be accommodating to many styles, if you are reasonable and let me know what is required." Shit, now I sounded like I was speaking in double entendres, too.

  I flushed and looked down at my plate. I wouldn't usually mind if my words came out a bit flirtatious and teasing—it is one of my better qualities, if I do say so myself—but I'd become dreadfully self-conscious after my talking-to from the Jenkinses.

  "Now now," said Mr. Skeffield, but not as though he was paying attention. "Just show good taste and I'm sure it will be fine. Robert has as little notion of design as I do and won't be picky. We just don't want anything overdone, or so 'in the mode' that it must be replaced in six months." He wiped his mouth and reached for his wine glass. "And nothing too bright, please," he said wearily.

  I pursed my lips, but nodded my agreement.

  "I'll show you around after we eat," offered Robert quickly.

  "Will you?" I asked wearily.

  Skeffield didn't notice, but Robert looked away again, twisting his mouth to hide his grin.

  #

  I ate my meal in a foul temper—even though some of it was actual fowl, my favorite. All the while, I hoped Robert would forget about his offer.

  Instead, he proved eager enough to finish. He scraped his chair back, rising, smiling at me. "Come on, you're done, aren't you?"

  I rose as well, muttering that some people were rather highhanded.

  "What was that?" asked Robert innocently.

  I frowned at him. I didn't want to do this, not with him. Not after the way everyone was acting—including him.

  Nevertheless, I had to see the house with him. I had no excuse not to.

  I felt self-conscious as we toured various rooms, but that soon faded away as I got a good look at them. "My goodness, no wonder you don't want anything loud. This drawing room could put an eye out!"

  "Blinding with color, you mean?" he asked. "I should think you were familiar with that, those clothes of yours."

  I turned a quick scowl on him, then looked away, determining not to be so easily vexed. "Oh, no one would trust a designer who didn't wear clothing that stands out from the crowd," I said carelessly, letting my gaze rove over the walls and furniture. It desperately needed help.

  "You have that quite covered," he said in equally bland tones.

  "Isn't this quiet enough for you?" I asked, touching the sleeve of my dove gray suit. "I don't see how I could be any less flashy at the moment."

  "The yellow socks, perhaps?" he asked.

  I looked down at my feet, shuffling them enough to show a hint of my socks. My trouser cuffs covered them pretty well; he'd have to have looked quite closely to catch a glimpse of the bright, canary-yellow socks I wore.

  "I like yellow," I said. It sounded rather sullen.

  "I can't wait to see what you wear tomorrow," Robert assured me.

  I looked at him again quickly. He sounded almost indulgent now, not mocking at all. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the staff were all concerned about his virtue, and he might want to show a bit more concern as well. But I didn't want to get anyone in trouble, and so said nothing.

  He was looking at me with a slightly pursed-mouth expression, almost in a reverie, and his dark blue gaze had grown softer, friendlier, rather thoughtful and warm. It made him very handsome indeed. I had the feeling he enjoyed the cat-and-mouse aspect of this far more than he would if I actually laid out what he wanted in plain English, and either gave in or let him know my ass wasn't for sale along with my design services.

  Well, as long as he didn't get too pushy, I could enjoy a game of cat and mouse, too.

 

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