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Mr. Wooster is gentleman with practically every desirable quality except one. I do not mean brains, for his intelligence is more than impressive despite his attempts (successful attempts, I may add) to avert such suspicions. The quality to which I allude to is his lenient attitude toward feudality. In my presence, Mr. Wooster seems for forget certain boundaries between gentleman and gentleman's gentleman – I say 'forget' and not 'openly flaunt' only for the benefit of the doubt, little though there remains. 

That is not to suggest he is anything less than a preux-chevalier; Mr. Wooster is many things, but volatile in the manner of some other gentry he is not. He merely has a tendency to spill his every thought to me with no regard for whether it is proper or not for a servant to hear such derogatory sentiments about a particular grey-haired lady of the upper-class, let alone to agree. He turns looks of teary-eyed despair to me the moment desperation strikes, and I may suggest he knows the effect they shall have, for he always relies on me to pull him from 'the soup'. I never want for anything, not even luxuries; every time I let him out of my sight while on Oxford Street, he indubitably returns with a box of cigars, an armful of books he has no intentions of reading, and a captivating grin.

The case was infuriating, as a man proud to serve Mr. Wooster. It was impossible as a man attempting not to love him. After half a decade a solution had yet to present itself, and I feared it never would. But now I am rambling as Mr. Wooster despises in his own writings, so I shall return to the point d'appui.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when I began to suspect Mr. Wooster was planning something. Or hiding something. Potentially both, much to my dismay.

There was very little he could do to surprise me, of course. I flattered myself that I could predict his every desire, from dinner menus to which Drone is pestering him for emotional rescue each week.

Coming home and overhearing a woman's voice, however, is a part of the very little.

I paused at the front door; I deprecate as undignified and often unnecessary the practice of listening at keyholes, but outside the door I can listen to Mr. Wooster's delightful baritone and piano through the air, standing and allowing myself the comfort of knowing he is ensconced in there, awaiting me, content. On this occasion I could pick up the distinct sound of a woman talking, along with Mr. Wooster – I would know his voice anywhere.

Without lowering myself to the genuine act of sneaking, I amplified my so-called 'floating' abilities that Mr. Wooster comments on, and entered the flat. By stationing myself against the corridor which adjoined the room, I was enabled to listen to the exchange happening inside the kitchen (my kitchen, if I may; Mr. Wooster could not pour tea from a boot if I engraved the instructions on the heel, but that is decidedly not a desirable quality. I shall be the master of the domestic sphere as long as I live).

"Oh, dash it! Are they meant to be that colour? They look a little... poisonous. Like they've got a rather nasty rash."

"No no, certainly not–"

"Please, my dear girl, we have nearly burned this kitchen to ashes thrice now, don't do me the disservice of fibbing."

"...They may be on the underdone side of things."

"Then I'm sunk! I'm positively and absolutely sunk! I'll never impress–"

"Get a grip, would you? We haven't done all this work for you to give it all up like a bad-tempered baby!"

What 'this work' was eluded me, since I am a human, not an oracle, despite what Mr. Wooster suggests in his work, but the owner of the voice was evident to me. Examining the contingencies of this situation was futile, as I had hardly any information to work with, so further steps were required. In the very literal sense: I made my way into the kitchen.

"Mabel?"

Mr. Wooster leaped with a clatter and a cry, spinning around to me, hands clasped behind his back. Mabel shoved a racket of utensils under a large ceramic bowl, smiling at me while that hereditary glint stared at me from her sharp eyes.

"Jeeves!" Mr. Wooster exclaimed, "You're home early! How is your lovely lovely mother? Lovely woman, she is. You didn't stay for a spot of lunch? Not the time, what? I do hope she liked that teapot, I thought it just the ticket, with all those matching plates she served on last time."

The words spilled out at a rate admirable for even him, but I refused to be lured in by his nervousness. I would not relent. "Yes, sir, she sends her thanks for your kind gift. May I ask what is... happening?"

As far as I knew, Mr. Wooster and Mabel (my niece, who married one of Mr. Wooster's friends for reasons decipherable only by her) were not in the habit of kitchen-meetings. They sometimes lunch together, as he does with many of his friend's wives, and he remains staunchly deaf to any class-related difficulties that I may refer to. Yet here they glanced at each other in a distinctly conspiratory manner, and some sort of signal was uttered.

It was strange, and extremely disconcerting, to be stuck on the outside of what is usually an occurrence between Mr. Wooster and I; an uniformed point of view only amplified my appreciation of the way his eyebrow flicks up in a question, or the shy dimple that appears when he is sending amusement my way.

Mabel struck out towards me, arms open with a cheery disposition that cornered me before I could question anything. "Uncle Reg! How overjoyed I am so see you! We must go to lunch this minute!"

"Forgive me, I have only arrived home, I must attend to Mr. Wooster–"

"Nonsense, my dear Jeeves," his smile did not reach his eyes, "go and enjoy lunch with your niece; I can fend for myself. Consider it a mid-week holiday!"

Abruptly, Mabel yanked my sleeve and dragged me out to the hall with no chance to say goodbye to Mr. Wooster, let alone argue the matter. Lunch was as pleasant as it always is with my niece, though the point of her being present in our kitchen continued to plague me and she dismissed every attempt of mine to unveil it. She is too much of a Jeeves herself; I found myself deeply sympathetic to my uncle, Charles Silversmith, in dealing with me in my youth.

Once I returned to the flat, hearing only a record playing from the door, Mr. Wooster similarly refused to reveal anything.

"Mabel?" he said, laying on the chesterfield. "Mabel! Oh, she only popped over hoping to have some lunch with you, Jeeves. That's all, you know, that's all."

I gave him a look, and he huffed in dismissal. "Don't give me the soupy face, old thing. I mean, what the devil would Mabel want with my company?"

That was indeed the question. When I glanced inside, the kitchen was cleaned, if by an amateur hand, and no trace of the odd visit lingered. Mr. Wooster, for the rest of the day, stuck to his denials staunchly, and while he seemed almost feverish by nightfall, I was by no means sanguine that this would result in his spilling of the truth.

I let the question lodge in the back of my mind, resigned to waiting for the answer for however long I needed to, and poured Mr. Wooster a brandy.

[]

My bewilderment only reached a crescendo in the following week, with zero solutions in sight.

Only a few short days after the Mabel-incident as I call it, I left Mr. Wooster alone in the flat to embark on a lengthy shopping trip. Often he wishes to accompany me and it takes twice as long (he enjoys dallying in every shop and examining the items in every window. I enjoy watching him), but that morning he excused himself by claiming exhaustion.

"No, you be off, Jeeves. Don't fret that overly large head of yours about dishing me up grub, I can dander down to the Drones Club, can't I?"

And, helping me into my coat with one hand and sipping his tea with the other, Mr. Wooster all but shoved me out the door. It took the entire elevator ride downstairs for me to steady myself again; quite a confounding exit.

The shopping process was much quicker, and much duller, without my gentleman at my side. I once again returned home earlier than intended, and once again I was struck frozen at the door. Two muffled voices poured out from inside, that of Mr. Wooster and a friend of the fairer sex.

I confess that this moment filled me with a certain, potent apprehension: the voice was plainly identifiable as an omen of great threat. If the bell-like tone was not enough, a sharp giggle echoed.

Miss Madeline Bassett was in the flat.

I do not dislike Miss Bassett, of course; she is a deeply compassionate and genial person. Her passions toward pitiful creatures like woodland fauna and Fink-Nottles are moving. She is, however, much too fond of my young master, and therefore a considerable force in causing me undue problems.

With all that at the forefront of my mind, I opened the door with my questions ample but appropriately bottled down.

The pair huddled around a vase of flowers, beautifully arranged, with stems and discarded blossoms littering the carpet at their feet. Miss Bassett appeared to be in the midst of a lecture on the matter of colour in flora, holding Mr. Wooster as an engrossed student, his hand resting on his chin. It was fascinating to witness him so concentrated on her words, as I have sometimes caught him watching me; his gaze can be very piercing, and very distracting, when he tries.

Standing there, watching this strange tableau, suddenly became too much, and I cleared my throat in the hopes of disrupting things. This time, Mr. Wooster hit the ceiling.

"Jeeves! You're home!" His voice was as wobbly as the vase he knocked into. "You keep floating up behind me early nowadays, I suppose that's my fault for being so easily startled."

Miss Bassett's reaction perturbed me deeply. She grinned, nearly blinding me, and the following giggle did not aid in that regard. "Hello Jeeves, it's lovely to see you again!"

"Good afternoon, miss. Will you be staying for dinner?" I retreated into the old lines of my role, avoiding the irritating questions that festered. I felt a burning pang in my chest, ridiculous as it was – I have always prided myself on being a rational man, with tact being such a sine qua non in my profession, but love takes up where knowledge leaves off.

To my pleasure, Mr. Wooster replied on her behalf. "Madeline's only stopping by, we just happened to bump into each other, didn't we? We met– we met–"

"On a walk!"

"Yes, indeed! You know how forgetful this Wooster is at the best of times. We met on a walk through the park, quite a day for it, you see, with the sun and such, and Madeline here needed to borrow a vase."

My eyebrow twitched. Mr. Wooster noticed, of course, and frowned, but I spoke before he could defend himself further. "A vase, sir?"

He held up the cut-glass behind them with a vibrant display of flowers. "This vase! You needed a vase something awful, didn't you, Madeline? Tell Jeeves why you needed a vase."

"Oh, I did. The florists were simply too tempting, Jeeves, and I bought more bouquets than I could carry! Such beautiful smiling flowers, all wet with the morning dew, how could I resist? Bertie swooped in like a dashing knight and offered to let me borrow a vase– isn't he just the sweetest?"

"...Indeed, miss."

"I'll leave you two, shall I?" Taking the vase from Mr. Wooster, Miss Bassett wandered to the front door. She laughed to herself, light and frustratingly, composed herself, then looked at me once more and giggled again. "Remember Bertie: simple words rejoice. Have a blessed day, Jeeves!"

The door shut. I was left facing Mr. Wooster, his cheeks blooming with a faint crimson, his eyes fixated on the carpet. Only when I began to pick up the discarded stems did he spring back into animation.

"Terribly sorry about the mess, old thing, let me help you."

I noticed, as we went, that the flowers were all those that I particularly liked. It was a refreshing pleasantry to keep some in a glass in the kitchen, on the table where Mr. Wooster might appreciate them too. By the time I finished sweeping, the gentleman had collapsed onto the chesterfield with his eyes scrunched closed.

A certain modicum of finesse was required in this situation. I liked to believe I was up to date on the psychology of the individual, but sometimes a person can roam free. I could not blunder by upsetting Mr. Wooster, for he appeared already on edge and would curl up entirely if pressed too far.

"Will Miss Bassett become a more regular visitor, sir?"

"Madeline?" he prised open his eyes and furrowed his brow. "No, she's still– well, she's still The Bassett, if you follow. Chats on about daisy-chains in the clouds and how swans have soulmates, that sort of thing."

Despite my focus on treading lightly, I could not resist fixing his tie, which had twisted in a wayward fashion along his collar. I had chosen the article very particularly that morning, for the blue always brightened with his eyes. My sang-froid was already being tested to the limit. I reached down to his neck, resting against the back of the chesterfield, and ran my finger under the collar to loosen the tie.

"No," he continued, closing his eyes again and letting out a contented sigh against my ministrations. "Madeline was quite a... coincidental meeting. Although, she's not half as rummy to converse with after she's not deluded with the idea that you're in love with her."

I do not suppose Mr. Wooster noticed, but my pulse may have halted momentarily. My fingers certainly paused along his tie, half-way to unknotting it. Dramatics are never helpful, so I speak the truth when I admit that I was beyond aghast. Never did the concept occur to me that Mr. Wooster would tell Miss Bassett that he did not love her as she believed. It did not align with his knightly code nor temperance. Something drastic was happening before my eyes, yet I had been utterly blind to it.

Giving him an "Indeed, sir?" in reply and letting the rest of his chatter wash over me, I took a moment to reassess the situation. If I spent far too long on his tie, Mr. Wooster did not object.

I have spoken at length in the past of the resource and tact that plays in the life of a gentleman's personal gentleman. It is a quality peculiarly necessary if one is to share in the scenes of life that go on behind closed doors, if one does not wish to fall hopelessly behind. Putting the pieces together, with my intimate knowledge of Mr. Wooster's psychology and the irregular instances that had occurred in the past week, one conclusion seemed likely:

Mr. Wooster had fallen in love.

Not with Miss Bassett, obviously. Someone different. Someone new. Someone I was likely not even aware of.

His informing Miss Bassett of the truth regarding his affections (which would have been useful several years ago) could only be justified in a complete overhaul of heart. Something, or rather someone, he considered more important than protecting another woman's feelings.

Perhaps he was seeking aid from Mabel in this matter of love; I would not be surprised if the object of Mr. Wooster's admiration were below him in class, considering his secrecy and past support for the relationships of his peers. Perhaps he sought out Miss Bassett to directly confront her misunderstandings in case his beloved ever heard. I would never know. I could only begin to mourn the connection we once had, for I cannot continue in the employment of a married man.

I finished fixing his tie, brushing my knuckle against his chin in some fit of indulgence, and forced myself to back away. Mr. Wooster opened his eyes, meeting my own with a certain glimmer that I could now recognise as the joy of newfound love, and smiled. His faint dimple appeared. My heart gave up. It just gave up, and nothing remained of me but the desire to care for and please him despite the futility of it all.

Mr. Wooster struck me with a look, possibly sensing my disturbance if I may take the liberty of suggesting so, as a silence settled over us. I recovered myself swiftly, forcing my body to operate without the triviality of emotion, before Mr. Wooster could make any mention of whatever he had seen across my features. But my safety was not guaranteed.

He clambered upright and sat back down at his piano, watching me all the while.

"Any requests, old thing?"

"I could hardly say, sir."

He tilted his head and smiled; the dying amber of the evening sky poured from the window and transformed his hair into a halo of light. I had never felt such reverence for a man before, nor for a faith. Mr. Wooster is both.

"Nothing at all?" he said, his cheeks lightly pink. "You don't have a favourite you'd like?"

He may as well have asked if I could prove the existence of God, for all the sense that my mind provided. I could barely think of a single composer, nevermind a favourite; I do not know if I even remembered what a piano sounded like.

"No, sir. Nothing at all."

Playing a few chords, testing whether or not the air would shatter with the sound, Mr. Wooster began a concerto seemingly from memory. I will always be in awe of his skill and his natural grace, the way the music seeps out like blood from a wound.

As I listened, rooted to the spot and transfixed, I realised that my favourite piece was in fact this one, played by Mr. Wooster, resonating in our sitting room. I do not know the name of it, but it sounds like the existence of God.

[]

The next few days passed slowly. I savoured what I considered my last days with Mr. Wooster, before the impending engagement. My only consolation was that Mr. Wooster would be happy, settled down with a wife whom I trust is pleasant if he loves her so. It had sound conclusions for all involved: Mr. Wooster's aunt will stop hounding him and he will no longer fall head-first into engagements or rivers, the woman will have the most agreeable, enviable husband in England, and I shall take an extended holiday. Somewhere. For some time.

It was a warm morning when Mr. Wooster appeared out of bed and in the kitchen, while I was in the midst of cooking his breakfast.

"Good morning, good morning! Got the paper?"

I needn't have uttered a word, for Mr. Wooster spotted it on the table anyway and sat down, oblivious to my consternation. He is not a gentleman to awaken before at least ten in the morning unless fiery or auntly dangers command so, and certainly not without a cup of tea served by my hand. I avoided the vulgar instinct of poking him with a fork to check if it really was my Mr. Wooster and not some sort of phantom, and instead I finally found my voice.

"Good morning, sir. You are up rather early, I apologise for the lack of breakfast– I thought you may appreciate fresh scones."

The grin was answer enough. "You truly are a marvel, Jeeves. Anyway, I have something rather paramount I need you to fetch... Is it paramount?"

"I believe so, sir. Something of great significance?"

"Exactly that. Great significance. Oh, please sit down, no point looming over me or you'll strain your neck."

Unable to not oblige him, I relaxed into the chair opposite him. "What am I to fetch, sir?"

"Just a gift for Aunt D, but a very paramount one. I said something overly thick at our last dinner and I don't wish to tarry too long in her bad books, lest we lose our access to Anatole's gastric gifts."

We spoke of other topics for long enough that the scones slipped my mind, and only after Mr. Wooster asked for a cup of tea did I recall. I felt his peculiar gaze on me throughout, fiddling with the vase of flowers still on the table, and I was concerned he would impart the engagement news on me prematurely, but I had the scones in the oven before long. 

After eating, he handed me an address for Mrs Travers's gift – quite a measurable distance away, but the effort did not bother me. It was the fact that I would not return until the afternoon; Mr. Wooster waved such trifles away.

"You're not yet dressed, sir," I said, in a final attempt to dissuade him from the idea that I needed to leave right at that moment. "At least allow me to help you with that."

"I do appreciate your concern, dear Jeeves, but I'm certain I can manage that one myself. I'm not entirely helpless, no matter what you hear in the tearooms."

My protest went in one ear and out the other, to employ a popular phrasing, so I gave myself up to the journey. It was simple, when I thought of how the outcome would please Mr. Wooster. The gift for his aunt turned out to be a dazzling silver candlestick reserved in an old antiques shop; I did the required sneering, as is expected, and the item seemed suitable for Mrs Travers to impress her husband with. Not Modern Dutch, of course. I was intrigued as to how Mr. Wooster had even discovered it, so far from home.

I distracted myself by perusing through the shelves, examining a great number of antiques that Mr. Wooster must have exhibited immense strength in not purchasing. Ceramic tigers with wonky eyes, tarnished-gold picture frames, a purple hat with a feather. Immense strength indeed. As I stood looking over a vase to replace the one 'borrowed' by Miss Bassett, knowing the exact spot between the books and the photograph of us Mr. Wooster had taken in New York where it would fit, it dawned on me that I was thinking of home.

How was I going to resign? I was physically, emotionally, maddeningly unable to belong anywhere else but his side. The vase would fit in the sitting room, and nowhere else. It would not be right against a different wallpaper, beside another employer's set of books. It would not be right.

I did not have a peaceful journey back to Berkeley Mansions.

Ordering my fears and melancholy to stay under the feudal mask, I found myself again standing at the front door, listening to the inside of the flat like the heartbeat inside a chest. A classical record flitted through the air. It sounded a little empty without Mr. Wooster singing along.

I confess that it was rather mortifying how long I remained there, eavesdropping on my own place of residence. When I finally opened the door and hung up my hat and coat, setting the gift carefully down, Mr. Wooster's voice was akin to a soothing balm.

"Is that you, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir," I raised my volume a little, because the gentleman was in the kitchen. Again. I only prayed he was not attempting to make lunch for himself.

"Wait there!" He was accompanied by a percussion of utensils; I admit my curiosity was piqued.

When Mr. Wooster poked his upper-half out from the kitchen, I started. In hindsight, it was perhaps the least shocking thing to happen in the last few weeks, but I was a man on edge. He stood, one hand on the doorway and the other wrapped around a fish-slice, in a freshly stained apron – one which was not familiar to me. The floral pattern gave me the suspicion that Mr. Wooster had bought it himself, for his own amusement. I could not despise the apron too much because, despite the garish colours, it protected Mr. Wooster's clothing; he had chosen a favourite shirt, vest, and tie of mine, and even without the jacket, he looked perfectly picturesque.

Forgive me when I say I stared at him for an extended period of time, trying to burn the image behind my eyes so I might close them and see it forever.

"Pop yourself down, won't you?" Mr. Wooster snapped me back into reality. "On the chesterfield. No, I won't hear it. Sit!"

He vanished into the kitchen, and his lack of casual chatter uneased me more than placing myself on the chesterfield. This must be it. He would emerge with a serious expression – the one where he furrows his brow and the corner of his mouth turns down – and tell me how well he regarded me as a valet but moreso how wonderful she was, and grant me leave. I was unable to not oblige him.

Of course, as I have elucidated on before, Mr. Wooster defies those feudal expectations I maintain.

He emerged carrying a silver tray.

He smiled, carefully keeping the tray balanced as he set it down in front of me. He smiled when he met my widened eyes. He smiled even as I was too busy blinking at the tray to smile back.

Half a dozen slightly lopsided muffins sat on our nicest plate, each finely decorated with a drizzle of icing. Two cups and a teapot steamed. A vase I had once complimented on a trip to the country completed the display, holding a wonderful bouquet of my favourite flowers.

I believe part of my body rotted into uselessness. The rest was entirely lost for words.

"Happy anniversary, Jeeves!"

Mr. Wooster stood over the tray, hands clasped behind his back and grin proud across his face.

I looked up at him, confused but basking in his radiance. "Anniversary?"

He wiped his hands on the stained apron and bounced onto the chesterfield, shuffling closer on the edge of the cushion. "Of when we first met! Or, rather, when you showed up to my door like a gallant saviour and entered my employment. Six years ago, isn't that a lark? I know you have your feudal spirit and all that, but I didn't want to just sweep this under the rug for another year. I consider you the greatest pearl in this Wooster's silly life, so I baked– or I tried to bake you muffins."

A long quiet reigned as I watched the steam float out of the teapot, shining against a ray of sunlight. I could feel the dip of the sofa where his leg rested too close to mine. I felt like sliding into it.

"I do not have anything for you, sir." I tried to keep from sounding how I felt. The date of our anniversary had escaped me, it was shameful.

He scoffed, because of course he would. "Please, old thing, you give me things everyday. I'd be long gone without you, probably brutalised by a rather nasty swan or squished under the wheel of a taxi, you know."

Lapsing into a discussion of each gift, Mr Wooster poured the tea and I could only listen with growing awe.

"The muffins contain raspberries, which I know are your favourite –  do you remember when we walked past the wild bush at Brinkley? Rummy, pricking my fingers like that when I tried to fetch some, and you had to sacrifice that rather dandy handkerchief of mine to bandage them up. Well, I thought it was dandy, I won't fool myself into believing you had any affection for it."

I did remember. Not as vibrantly as Mr. Wooster seemed to, for I simply recall enjoying a summer's walk with him. I can still picture him, the sunshine turning his hair to gold when he laughed, the breeze carrying his voice across the fields, his graceful pianist fingers sitting gently in my palm as I wrapped them. I never realised that he pictured me too.

"The flowers, I spent so long on them! The daffodils you enjoyed at the Biffen's wedding, and you once stuck a pink camellia in my button hole and noted how nice they looked–"

It was not the buttonhole I was complimenting.

"– and the daisies, lord, you should've heard Madeline go on about them. But you told me once on an outing that you considered them the prettiest of all the wildflowers, so I prevailed. The heliotropes are my favourites, I admit, but a little indulgence now and then isn't terrible, is it?"

His voice was warm, burrowing inside me. I felt like I was untethering. To know that I lived under his gaze as he did mine. Did he memorise me as I memorised him, like a whole, like a piece of myself? I am not as wise as everyone believes; I would have quit a long time ago if I was.

Before any of this processed, before I could say thank you, Mr. Wooster help up a muffin with a wide grin. I resisted the urge to lean forward and press my lips to the hand that fed me, and instead took the treat myself, like a singular person.

"What do you think of them?" he asked. "Are they nice? They better be nice."

Without thinking for once, I smiled at him, a layer of crumbs on my fingers. "They are delightful, sir."

He let out a long sigh, visibly relieved. "Thank heavens. Really, it was all Mabel– you know, she gave me the recipe and taught me the whole works. I wouldn't know flour from sugar without a Jeeves at my side, but I was determined not to be a hapless worm this time."

My lagging brain finally caught onto the crux of the matter. He had done all this for me. Not simply choosing a gift, not visiting a bakery or picking a bouquet on his way home. This was a thing weeks in the undertaking. Mabel, Madeline, and all that secrecy was for me. For me to come home to handbaked muffins and daffodils.

Mr. Wooster bit into a muffin himself, giving a pleased hum as he did. "You're quite right, Jeeves, these are just the ticket. If I do say so myself, and I do. Though I'm not too keen on raspberries on the whole."

"I could bake you a lemon cake, sir."

We met eyes. A certain something glimmered in the blue of Mr. Wooster's.

"I like lemon cake," he muttered.

"I know, sir."

"What about dinner?"

"Perhaps we might break tradition today, sir."

"...Indeed?"

"Indeed, sir. It is our anniversary, after all."

Looking at Mr. Wooster, I saw what love is: stains on an apron and a tray in your hands of things that someone else prefers. The sight was familiar, in the way that Mr. Wooster is familiar.

He held up another piece of the muffin, hand floating temptingly close to my mouth, and this time I did not resist. I leaned forward, my lips brushing his fingers as I took the sugary fragment on my tongue, beaming at his look of rapt surprise. Of course, I should have known Mr. Wooster would forget those pesky feudal boundaries, especially when I delighted in stepping over them– there was hardly an inch between us before Mr. Wooster leaped forward and wrapped his arms around my neck, pressing his lips to mine.

I gave out a startled gasp, but one of my finest skills is the gift of dealing with an Unusual Situation. The way Mr. Wooster crawled half-onto my lap, fingers running through my hair, certainly fell under that umbrella. I followed suit, licking the taste of raspberry on his lips with such savoir-faire that I felt him smile into the kiss. 

We broke apart, not merely for the act of breathing but allowing me to see his features lightened with the kiss: cheeks flushed, lips bright red, hair ruffled. I brushed my hand through the curls, revelling in their softness and stubbornness, for they refused to adhere to my manipulations. Mr. Wooster kept his fingers at the back of my neck, alighting goosebumps along my skin as he traced the line of muscle to my jaw.

"Well," he sighed, "I suppose simple words aren't even needed sometimes."

Perhaps it was the distracting presence of his weight as he sat upon me, or the stain that had transferred from his apron to my shirt in our eagerness to be entirely one, but I failed to comprehend him. "What words, sir?"

"Just something Madeline said, you know, simple words rejoice." Mr. Wooster planted another kiss on my lips, and my nose, and my brow, and my neck; pressing his mouth to every inch of available skin so that I became momentarily mute. "Now, I believe someone really rather charming and handsome and skilled in the domestic sphere promised me a lemon cake."

I turned the corner of my lip up just a fraction, but my usual reaction of vague amusement brought out the unusual reaction of Mr. Wooster laughing heartily and kissing me once more. "As you wish, sir."

As I say, Bertram has a rather carefree attitude regarding what is feudal and what is not. Spending the day baking homemade muffins on the anniversary of your valet's employment is not feudal. Spending the evening in bed with said valet, eating lemon cake from each other's hands and tasting it along the other's tongue is, also, decidedly not feudal. In spite of all this, or dare I say because, I confess that I believe Bertram is a very desirable gentleman indeed.