Issue 15 - April 2008

Regency Relations, Part 1 by Damerel

This is a story in eight parts; it will be published in two parts per issue.

Part 1

"It must be a crushing disappointment to you, Alicia," Lady Maria Kempe sympathised with her bosom pal and confidante, the Dowager Countess of Royston. "True, he may not cut such a heroic figure as his brother, but he is nonetheless a personable young man, with a sizeable fortune, and yet there's been no tempting him since the death of his wife."

The Dowager nodded sadly as she followed Lady Kempe's gaze across the ballroom to see her eldest son standing conversing politely with one of the Season's most acclaimed Beauties, with nothing in his attitude save calm good manners.

"I hope that the return of his brother Harry will encourage him," she disclosed all too audibly. "They were never particularly close as children, you know, but now that dear Harry is coming home at long last…" Here her voice became suspended and she had to break off to wipe away a tear.

Lady Kempe patted her hand comfortingly; however little understanding she might have in general, she was sincerely fond of the Dowager and knew of the lady's deep love for her younger son. She, and all her cronies, knew what his buying his colours in the -th Foot had done to his mother, how she grew to dread the newspapers in case she learned that her son had yet again been in the thick of the action.

"Thank you," Alicia whispered after a moment, before continuing in a reasonable approximation of her earlier manner. "I just hope that he is able to make dear Iphicles realise his duty to his family, that he must marry again. He must be brought to an awareness of how much he has, how little he has to mope over. It's almost a year since dear Isabella passed on. He's safe here in England, not like dear Harry who never knows when he'll be facing those dreadful French, he's one of the greatest prizes on the matrimonial market, yet he takes no interest in anything save sitting in that dull Parliament and looking after his estate." She sighed briefly. "He's so like his dear Papa."

Lady Kempe knew that for the terrible condemnation it was. The match between Alicia Ramsbottom and the Earl of Royston had hardly been one of the most successful; the Earl had been a quiet fellow, preferring to spend his time at the family's extensive estate, overseeing its management, and spending the rest of his time in his country house's library with his beloved Greek and Latin texts. The new Countess, on the other hand, had discovered how it felt to have London at her feet; an accredited Beauty, allied to one of the oldest families in the land, the ton was hers. To spend her time immured in the country had not been much to her liking and she had let her husband know of her unhappiness in no uncertain terms. Iphicles' father had passed away in the present Earl's sixth year, a sudden death precipitated, so the rumours went, by the discovery of the true paternity of the younger boy. Malicious gossip had it that Harry had been sired by one of the Royal Dukes - some even said the King himself. Nothing was ever proven, and the Countess remained welcome in society by even the very highest sticklers. If nothing else, she was in a position of influence and who would risk offending one who apparently held the ear - as well as other appendages - of Royalty?

The gentleman whom they were both surveying seemed to become aware of the concentrated gazes upon him, and after turning briefly to meet his mother's eyes, took his leave of the young Miss Westcourt. The Beauty still had her mama's strictures ringing in her ears, and so did nothing to encourage him to stay, save hold his gaze with a trifle more warmth than was seemly as he made his farewell. Who could blame her if she then allowed her eyes to follow the Earl's muscular yet graceful figure as he moved away from her to make his way around the crowded ballroom to his mama's side. Even with her decided partiality for her younger son's blond good looks, so like her own, the Dowager had to admit to herself that her older son was a personable man of some address. His red-gold hair was an eye-catching colour, arranged in one of the casual styles affected by so many of the young people these days. The breadth of his shoulders meant that no padding was needed in the shoulders of his close-fitting coat and, though he was no Corinthian, the active life he led looking after his estate was betrayed by the fact that his skin-tight breeches showed muscular thighs, while his boots gleamed in a way that drew envious speculation from others on the precise blacking used by his valet. In his usual way, the Earl was attired soberly. He wore no fob, and no rings save one with which the dead Countess had presented him, an amber stone that reflected the unusual colour of his eyes.

"You look fagged, Mama," he bent to murmur quietly in her ear, after exchanging greetings with Lady Kempe. "Do you wish to leave?"

The Dowager took his offered hand and stood, smoothing her sadly crushed gown of rose silk which had not stood up to the rigours of the evening as well as she had hoped. It took them a further twenty minutes to leave the ballroom, as she took her leave of various cronies, promising to receive them should they care to call on her the following morning. Iphicles handed her up into the carriage and carefully bestowed a rug around her knees before seating himself.

The Dowager found herself studying the features of her eldest son as he looked out of the carriage window. He was a good looking boy, there could be no doubt of that, and she was sincerely fond of him, yet there was something in his manner she didn't understand, and had never been able to understand. His was a reserved character; he was not one who made friends easily, but those few he made were for life. He had withdrawn completely from society on the death of the Countess and their hoped-for son in childbirth. It had only been the forceful representations of his mother's closest friends that by doing so he was condemning his mama to a life of unrelieved boredom which must surely force her into a decline resulting inevitably in death that had forced him back into the social whirl which, his mother was coming to suspect, he enjoyed not at all. He seemed if anything to gain more enjoyment from overseeing the management of his estate.

"In fact," the Dowager had more than once commented to her closest friends, "If it weren't for me, I fear he would turn into one of those dreadful red-faced country squires, always talking about hunting and the estate."

The friends nodded sagely, telling the Dowager how selfless she had been to allow herself to be escorted to assemblies and balls by her son, with the sole purpose of seeing him married again.

"How did you find Sophia?" she asked him.

"Who?" He frowned briefly as he looked at her. "Oh yes, the Beauty."

"She's of good family, the Westcourts you know. Her fortune is not inconsiderable, and she is well thought of."

His jaw seemed to tighten as he returned his gaze to the view through the window. "I am not looking for a new wife, Mama."

"For goodness sake, Iphicles," Alicia felt her control begin to slip. "It's your duty to sire an heir. What will happen to the title should you die without one?"

The Earl shrugged, seemingly unmoved, before returning his mother's gaze. "It will pass to Harry."

"Should your brother survive the dangers he faces each day." The Countess suddenly turned her face away, but not before he had seen the tears on her cheeks. Cursing silently, he leaned forward and wiped them from her. Clumsy idiot, to remind her of her worst fear.

"You know Harry," he encouraged her gently. "He'll be alright."

She caught his wrist. "Oh I do hope so," a sob broke from her. "You don't know what it's like, Iphicles, to spend each day wondering…"

"He'll be with us soon enough," he comforted her.

Indeed it was not long before his younger brother joined them at the house in Half Moon Street. Captain the Honourable Harry Fairfax had brought with him an old friend, Captain Iorweth Burnage; the two had been inseparable ever since meeting at Eton, and had since bought their commissions together. Despite the dubious foreign origins of his given name, awarded to him by his fond mama in the hope that it would further him in the graces of his rich and single Welsh second cousin whose name it was, Burnage was of good family. Notwithstanding this, it was the younger Fairfax who continually made the headlines in the daily papers. He was always unnamed of course, but all knew the true identity of the young daredevil who outwitted the sly French time and again.

The Earl of Royston paused on entering his own house. The air of excitement which pervaded it was unmistakable. "I take it my brother's arrived, Brownlow?" he queried.

The butler inclined his head. "Indeed, my lord, not ten minutes since. Captain Burnage accompanies him."

Schooling his features into a welcoming expression, the Earl climbed the stairs to the drawing-room, to find the Dowager still flitting between the two new arrivals, laughing and talking, exclaiming again and again her relief at seeing them both unhurt, how wonderful it was to see them, and how their time in the sun had made them even more handsome.

Iphicles stood in the doorway, watching. They were both in uniform, which made Harry's already large figure appear to dwarf the well-appointed room. He was taller than Iphicles, and broader, with dark blond hair, a firm jaw, and clear blue eyes, at present all the more startling a colour against his tan. Iorweth, on the other hand, was shorter and more slender than Iphicles; his blond curls merrily refused to be brushed into any of the accepted styles, instead forming an undeserved halo around his head. His was a restless character; rarely still, he spent any spare time seeking new excitements and diversions. Iphicles watched for a moment longer as his mother smiled up at Harry, her face animated in a way he had not seen for a long time, her delicate features lit with excitement and pleasure. Harry smiled back down at her in full good humour, until he became aware of the Earl's presence.

"Iph!" They clasped hands, warmly, Iphicles then repeating the ritual with Iorweth. The Earl wanted to question the two returned soldiers on the state of things in the Peninsula, but his mother's continued questions about their daily lives, what they were given to eat, were there any beautiful young ladies over there, and weren't those handsome uniforms horribly scratchy, carried the day. It wasn't until after supper, when the Countess had eventually been persuaded to retire for the evening, that the three were able to concentrate on more traditional masculine pursuits.

"I've heard there are some good hells opened up," Iorweth started, his eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement.

Iphicles remained neutral. "Some new hells have opened, certainly," he agreed. "But unless you wish to lose your entire fortune at one sitting, I suggest you avoid them."

"Oh Iph," Harry punched his brother's arm affectionately. "You were never this stuffy before. What's the problem? Don't tell me you've gamed away the family fortune."

Iphicles laughed briefly, a rather forced sound. Nothing like that; it was just that he seemed to have forgotten how to enjoy himself. He couldn’t in fact see how to enjoy himself with Bella gone. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you," he compromised. "Full of Greeks and ivory turners, the lot of them."

"Well," Harry linked his arm through his brother's, "In that case you had best come and keep an eye on us, hadn't you?"

For the first time in a very long time, Iphicles felt a smile start naturally. "That sounds like a good idea," he agreed.

On declaring their credentials, the three were admitted to the discreet residence in St James's Street. Iorweth and Harry immediately made themselves at home at the nearest table, but the Earl chose to wander the rooms instead, partaking of the particularly good wine which the establishment provided and discovering acquaintances, all of whom expressed themselves astonished to see the Earl here. His lips twisted as he recognised that he had begun to earn a reputation as a sober upright pillar of society. Not that he particularly wished to be associated with some of these rakes, but he realised that he had started to behave like a staid family man twice his age.

He sighed slightly as he sat down in an armchair, his long and superbly booted legs sprawled casually before him. He had immersed himself in work and duty since his wife's death, but it was only now he realised how out of touch he had become with his contemporaries. There were several faces here unfamiliar to him. Take the character in the corner, for example - a dark complexion, his dress rich but careless in a way that proclaimed he cared little for the opinion of society. Iphicles was certain he had never before set eyes on him, despite the fact that the deference with which his circle of friends was treating him indicated that he was a man of some standing.

He took the opportunity to ask the servant who was refilling his glass.

"His Grace the Duke of Aresborough, my lord," the servant informed him.

The name was one with which the Earl was familiar. It was a name with which all of London and some of the more enlightened provinces were familiar. The Duke represented all that was decadent in the ton, his philandering ways extending far beyond opera dancers and actresses to ladies of quality. And it was not just widows, nor discreet liaisons with married ladies; it was said of him that he had ruined more than one young maiden. The number of duels which he had fought, always killing his man, the drunken orgies at which he presided, and his losses and gains at the gaming table had all assumed the proportions of legend, and there were still darker things whispered about him. Only the coterie of wild young blades who formed his retinue knew the truth of these, but the tales were there, and the Duke remained unrecognised by all save those wishing to court notoriety.

The Earl suddenly became aware that the Duke was returning his gaze, his heavy-lidded eyes holding a gleam of amusement. As Iphicles watched, the Duke raised his glass in mocking salute before raising it to full lips and tossing back the contents.

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the exhilaration of throwing off shackles the existence of which he had only just become aware, but some inner devil prompted the Earl to his feet.

He crossed the room to the Duke and bowed. "Royston, your grace."

Those dark eyebrows raised briefly, a noble head was inclined, and suddenly one of the young men was moving from his seat, offering it to Iphicles.

"So." Aristocratic fingers curved elegantly around the slender stem of his glass, dark eyes surveyed the Earl as he sat. "You're Royston. I didn't think this was your sort of place. I'd thought you more of a White's man."

The provocation was there; it was common knowledge that the Duke had been blackballed by the respectable club.

"Indeed?" Iphicles returned. "And I thought you a legend, your grace, a cautionary tale used by protective parents to keep young cubs in line."

The reaction rippled through the assembled ranks, but Iphicles' eyes were on the Duke's face. A smile touched his lips as he looked at Iphicles. "Touché, Royston," he murmured.

"Iph." Harry's voice broke in. He was not precisely castaway, but polluted enough to blithely ignore all dictates of manners as he tugged at his brother's arm. As he insisted, the Earl allowed himself to be raised to his feet and directed a small bow towards the Duke, before following his brother's urgent strictures to leave, now.

"What is it Harry?" He had been the same ever since nursery days; when he wanted something, he wanted it now, and it was usually attention.

Harry's blue eyes were fixed with deep concern on his brother's face as he tugged the Earl out of the house, their sincerity magnified by the amount of champagne he had put away. "That was Aresborough," he admonished his older sibling.

"And?" Iphicles prompted.

"Don't you know?" Harry's voice was scandalised. "He preys on innocents, men and women alike. It looks as though I got to you just in time."

Iphicles stopped dead, wrenching his arm out of his brother's tenacious hold.

"Is that what you think of me? An innocent at large, unable to look after myself?" he demanded.

Harry had the grace to look a little discomfited. "Not precisely," he averred. "It's just, well, you haven't seen what Iorweth and I have…"

"No, you're right Harry," Iphicles told him with deadly calm. "While you've been fighting to save this country from the threatened incursion of our enemies, I've been working to ensure there's been a country worth your coming back to. Now go and find your friend, do whatever it is the two of you do together, and leave me alone!"

He thrust his brother away from him and strode off, fuming. Hell and damnation but his brother was as blinded by tales of his exploits as was his mother. He truly believed those stories with which his mother had filled his head as a child, reading the translations from the Greek which Iphicles' father had made. He believed himself to be living the part of some hero, with a duty to save the lesser mortals around him. He had been just the same at Eton. He had followed his quieter brother to the school, his junior by two years. But within a short space of time, the masters were unfavourably comparing the two. "Why can't you be more like your brother?" was no longer a chorus he heard only at home. Harry turned in dazzling performances on the playing fields, and unbelievably had some of the older boys clamouring to join his prized circle of intimates. The naturally introspective Earl had been overshadowed in every way, and though he tried desperately not to care, his brother's easygoing contempt of his older sibling's quieter character had flicked him on the raw. It was not enough that he had to bear the name of some long-forgotten Greek hero; Harry had to remind everyone of this, and of the differences between the hero and his brother. That was just the cruelty of children of course; he had long outgrown that particular habit. Now he simply categorised Iphicles as a nonentity, but one of whom he was nonetheless fond in an abstract sort of a way.

That Harry chose to love a man, well that was just another example of the pernicious influence of the classics. Iphicles paused briefly in his step. That wasn't fair. It was just that Harry didn't pretend any longer, unlike the rest of society. For some it remained a phase whilst at school; for others it was a way of life, but most of the latter covered it with the decency of marriage, some even managing to sire an heir on the unfortunate woman who remained their blind to the ton's gossip. The problem was that Harry and Iorweth had never been discreet about their affair, and it had taken all of the Earl's inventiveness to prevent the scandalous rumours coming to the ears of their mama. Occasionally, a small part of him wondered why he did so, why he didn't allow the scales to be wrenched from her eyes. But then he upbraided himself; she had nothing else in her life, save a son whom she didn't understand, and who had signally failed to present her with the heirs to the title which she had every right to expect. He knew he had to marry again, but not yet. It was barely a year since he'd lost Bella. He would find a suitable well-bred woman in due course; no chit out of the schoolroom, with fancies and romance in her head, but a woman who would understand about a marriage of convenience. But not yet.

If Harry thought at all about what Iphicles had said to him, it was not evident. It was ever the way with Harry, Iphicles thought ruefully; if he didn't like what he heard, he ignored it. And truth to tell, while their mother's attentions to the guests drove the Earl out of the house even more often than was his wont, it was a relief at first to have some male company over the supper table, even if it was Harry's and Iorweth's. Of course his mother invited several guests, all families with hopeful daughters. But at least her object was now marriage to Harry; Iphicles was no doubt forgotten until Harry returned to Spain. He took the opportunity of his mother having her other son's company to go to his estate on a matter of business. The necessary arrangements made, Iphicles planned to leave early on Tuesday morning.

On Monday night, Harry and Iorweth again invited the Earl to accompany them on their nightly indulgence. Iphicles agreed, welcoming the opportunity for a more lively evening than those he usually suffered. It was not long after reaching their destination, Covent Garden, that he found himself wishing he had not accepted the invitation. The affair, billed harmlessly enough as a Masquerade, was little more than a wild romp. The company was low, to say the least, and the evening became still more raucous as it went on.

The Earl suffered it for a while; the memory of the other evening and his shocking discovery that he had become a stuffy model of probity would not let him show his disapproval and leave. But after a couple of hours' unmitigated boredom, the loud and extremely shrill shrieking of one female as her masked pursuer clutched her in his arms, his hand squeezing down the front of her dress to grope at her breasts while his tongue probed her ear, was too much for the Earl. He despised vulgarity; it was nothing to do with righteous attitudes but all to do with taste, he realised. There was a time and a place for the pleasures of the flesh, and with anonymous masked figures in public was neither the appropriate time nor place. He glanced around for his companions, ready to make his excuses and leave.

Iorweth and Harry were ensconced in a dimly lit corner only yards away from him, both maskless, their hands moving urgently under one another's clothes before Iorweth began to drop to his knees in front of Harry, tugging at the fastenings of his breeches. Unwilling to believe that his younger brother was ready to make such a spectacle of himself, he watched for a moment longer, time enough to see Iorweth freeing Harry's cock, and guiding its already wet tip towards his open mouth, before his tongue flicked out and along the shaft. Harry's head went back and he groaned, arching his hips forward to encourage Iorweth's attentions. Iorweth's clever fingers worked their way around his balls and squeezed very gently, before he swallowed Harry's cock, and Harry gaspingly cried out, his hands wrapping tightly in disordered blond curls, his hips beginning a rhythmic fucking of his lover's mouth.

Iphicles looked quickly away, and turned to leave, shaking off the various harpies who had been trying for this obviously richly-dressed stranger's attention. He would go and visit Caroline, the widow whose company he enjoyed on a regular basis. She would never be party to such a mockery of pleasure. She combined both breeding and beauty with intelligence and taste. He had sometimes thought he might marry her if it were not for the fact that she declared she could not stand the stuffiness of being a Countess.

"Leaving already, Royston?"

The figure before him was unmistakable, although the mask hid his features. The broad chest and shoulders, athletic build, and the long dark hair, carelessly tied back in a cue in open contempt for fashion, could belong to no other than the Duke of Aresborough.

"Your grace," the Earl bowed stiffly. He was not surprised to see him here. It confirmed him in his reading of the man's character.

"Aresborough," the Duke corrected him. Then that tone mocked again, "You disapprove. A little too indecorous for you, perhaps?"

Iphicles refused to be made to feel like a prig. "A little too blatant is all."

He could have sworn those eyebrows rose again. "You prefer subtlety, do you, Royston?"

"Yes," he said. "So if you will excuse me…"

"Off to visit your ladybird in Hertford Street?

Iphicles swung round on his heel, his eyes quartering what could be seen of the Duke's face. "What do you know of that?" he snapped.

A lazy mocking smile twisted full lips. "I like to do my research, Iphicles." That inclination of the head again before he began to move away. "I trust you have a most… enjoyable evening."

Iphicles was left staring after him.

The Earl left for his estate the following morning, as planned. But as he rode over his land, as he worked with his bailiff on papers, the memory of the Duke's mocking smile kept returning to him. He had asked Caroline whether she knew of the Duke. Her response had been in the negative, other than general gossip, and he had no reason to doubt her. Theirs was an honest relationship, founded on mutual need and acceptance that romantic attachment between them was neither expected nor possible.

The Duke's knowledge worried him. Research, the man had said. For what purpose? Iphicles was no gamester; he gambled a little, as did all men, but no large sums. He drank to excess at times, in the company of his friends, but no more than other men. He might have little patience for his brother, but that was scarcely a novelty in the world. His life was open to inspection; none knew of his attachment to Caroline, as he would not open her to idle gossip, but that apart, there was nothing with which he might be reproached and held to blackmail. His life was a model of propriety - boredom, some might say. Iphicles would not have disagreed with that summation, but he was not one for mindless pleasure. He had tried once, shortly after Bella's death; he had plunged into a short-lived whirl of drinking hard, spending his time with like-minded bloods with fair game in their, admittedly blurred, sights, but it had brought him no relief. All that had served to do was to make him feel guilty.

As he thought of Aresborough, his brother's words came back to him, that the Duke seduced innocents, yet he knew himself to be no innocent. He had known the company of several ladies of doubtful repute before he married Bella, and theirs had been a marriage which fully celebrated the pleasures of the flesh. And now Caroline and he enjoyed their regular liaisons. No, he was no innocent for the plucking.

So it was that when, shortly after his return to town, Iphicles again met the Duke of Aresborough he had little hesitation in accepting the man's invitation to ride together.  In fact, he welcomed the diversion.  He had been hailed during his morning ride by Lady Annesley who, comfortably established in her barouche, appeared set to continue talking all morning of her daughter Sophia's accomplishments.  The Earl was just calculating to himself when his new riding boots would be ready - following the enthusiastic recommendation of a friend, he had tried a different man for the pair he wore this morning and he was not completely satisfied with them - when he suddenly became aware that the good lady had stopped talking.  That she was in fact stiffening in outrage.

"My lady?"  The Earl questioned, when it became borne in upon him that the formidable matron had apparently run dry.

When there was no immediate answer, Iphicles turned to follow her indignant gaze and saw the Duke approaching, mounted on a mettlesome black horse.  The Earl's eyes flickered over the Duke as he drew his mount to a halt before them, his head inclined to Lady Annesley in a way which managed to insult rather than compliment.  Aresborough sat his horse with an easy grace, his reins gathered lazily in his right hand.  His coat was dark and simple, although the exquisite fit pronounced it to be the handiwork of a master, the white of his buckskins was displayed to advantage against the dark leather saddle, and the polish of his top boots matched that of Iphicles' own.

Aresborough tapped his whip slowly against his left boot as he considered the Earl in return.

"Iphicles?" he invited.

A moment of madness assailed Iphicles.  It was this or be condemned to yet another morning of tedious company; most of his friends were men of action and, being on the whole younger sons who didn't suffer the encumbrances of duty to estate, had bought commissions to fight the war against France, so that he had been forced of late to endure almost unrelieved female company.  Unless he counted the company of Harry and Iorweth, which he found scarcely more bearable.

Taking his leave of the still speechless Lady Annesley, he turned his horse and accompanied the Duke down the ride.

"Sure you can afford to be seen with me?"  That lazy mocking drawl again, a sideways glance from brilliant dark eyes with something that might just have been amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Iphicles kept his eyes between his horse's ears, though he was aware of the scandalised glances his companion was attracting.  "Oh, I think my credit can bear it," he agreed blandly.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of their horses' hooves on the soft turf.  Iphicles glanced at his companion.  "I don't recall seeing you ride in the Park before," he volunteered after a while.

The smile grew and the Duke turned to face him.  "You thought my physical activities to be mostly conducted after dark?" he interpreted.

Iphicles flushed slightly.  It was what he had imagined, but he had not meant to imply that.  "The inference is yours," he replied, uneasily aware of the colour over his cheekbones.

The Duke laughed softly.  "Oh come, Iphicles," he cajoled, then stopped and frowned slightly.  "An unusual name," he owned.  "Surely not a family tradition?"

The Earl had to bite his tongue to prevent the jibe that the Duke's research had not after all been very thorough.  "No," he agreed calmly instead.  "My father was something of a classicist and decided to name his first-born according to his interests."

The Duke's eyebrows raised.  "Not after his half-brother Hercules?"

"I think I had cross enough to bear with this name," Iphicles informed his companion.  "Can you imagine had I been saddled with that?"  But he was somewhat nonplussed by the Duke's evident familiarity with the classics; it did not fit with the mental image he had of the man.  Not just a sybarite then, but a learned one.

"I admit myself surprised that your brother has not adopted it," the Duke murmured provocatively.

Iphicles shot him an extremely sharp look then concentrated on making his horse step out.  "I'm sure he would, had it occurred to him."  He knew his tone was bitter and his face gave away more than it should.  The heel on the side away from the Duke dug into his mount with sudden force, causing his animal to curvet protestingly, giving the Earl the excuse to turn his attention to soothing him.

The Duke watched in silence, but those heavy-lidded eyes missed nothing.  Once Iphicles had brought his horse back under control, the Duke simply remarked, "You have a good seat, Royston."

Without knowing why, the compliment sent colour racing again to Iphicles' face.  When he looked back at the Duke, he saw the man was watching him with a curiously intent expression in his gaze.

"Do you feel your credit sufficient to allow you to dine with me tonight?" he asked the Earl.

Iphicles hesitated slightly; he had no intention of forming a close friendship with somebody who had as unsavoury a reputation as did the Duke.  On the other hand, there was something about the man's shameless flouting of convention which he, who had been brought up as a dutiful first-born son, found oddly alluring.

"Or would your brother disapprove?"

It was murmured, and blatantly manipulative, but it was enough for Iphicles to meet the Duke's eyes and accept his invitation.

That evening Iphicles spent longer than usual over his toilet.  His valet, used to his master's simple tastes, was overjoyed at last to have an opportunity to put into practice some of his skills.  The Earl's hair was brushed a la Brutus, his cravat was arranged in the intricate folds of the Waterfall, his waistcoat of watered silk and his black swallow-tailed coat of superfine were chosen only after due consideration, and his biscuit-coloured breeches fitted to perfection, with no hint of a crease to mar them.  By the time the Earl was ready, he was -

"Magnificent!"  So proclaimed the Dowager on seeing him descend the stairs.  She added hopefully, "Are you engaged with Sophia this evening, Iphicles?"

The Earl was puzzled for an instant, until he recalled who Sophia was.

"With friends," he said shortly.

The Dowager's beautiful face fell.  "Oh, Iphicles!" she wailed. "Unless you make a push, somebody else will be before you.  I understand that Lord Ravenscourt is an assiduous suitor, and his fortune is quite respectable you know, though not as handsome as your own.  He is of course only a Viscount, and he has that horrid growth on his nose, but you cannot rely on young girls being constant in their affections if you will not throw her a crumb to show her your intentions.  And how I will face dear Lady Annesley - "

The Earl silenced her by raising her hand to his mouth.  "Good night, Mama," he said firmly, and left.

On being admitted to the Duke's residence in Berkeley Square, Iphicles was shown to the drawing room where he found a selection of perhaps six or seven young men already present.  The Duke came to meet him as soon as he was announced, a half-smile on his lips.  "Iphicles."

Once the Duke had ensured he was furnished with a glass of excellent burgundy, apparently laid down by the previous Duke, the Earl was introduced to the others present. He recognised the names, although he had only previously made the acquaintance of two of them.  They greeted him politely but were in the throes of a lively debate over the comparative abilities of the latest prizefighters to emerge on the circuit.  The Duke smiled slightly in recognition of that fact, and drew Iphicles to one side.  He sat - or rather, sprawled - on a chaise longue, indicating for Iphicles to take the chair next to him.

"What news of the war?" he opened.

Iphicles was startled.  He was hardly in a better position than anyone else to have knowledge.  He had of course heard Harry's and Iorweth's first hand accounts, such as they were, trotted out time and again over the dining table, but as the finer points of strategy were lost on the Dowager, it was the domestic details of their life fighting the French which interested her.  Iphicles had seen little of the two returned heroes other than at the family table, and consequently had not learned a great deal.

"I know nothing more than may be gleaned from the papers," he demurred.

"But you have friends recently returned from the fighting," Aresborough pointed out.

Iphicles' rare smile lit his face.  "And I can tell you in absorbing detail of the inexplicable delays in paying the officers, of the many challenges posed by bivouacking in peasants' abandoned huts, and of the revolting nature of the food served at Headquarters, but other than that, I am none the wiser."

The Duke laughed briefly.  "Fair enough.  What then of your horses?  I hear you cleaned up at Newmarket."

And so the tone for the evening was set.  Relaxed, sensible, masculine conversation, immoderate language (the Duke being a bachelor, the company was of course all male), free-flowing alcohol, and congenial company.  Iphicles was seated beside the Duke at the dining table, and found himself enjoying their conversation so much that he was taken by surprise when, the meal ended, the port was finally laid to one side.  The man had a breadth of knowledge that surprised the Earl.  His views on the ton's double standards were refreshingly frank, and all was couched in the lazy mockery which so intrigued Iphicles.  He could not be sure whether he was being laughed at, or with, and the uncertainty lent a particular interest to their exchanges.

At length, the Duke appeared to recall his duty to his other guests, and the party adjourned to the drawing room.  A transformation had taken place during their absence; branches of candles had been moved to the front of the room, and chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing this brightly-lit area.  It looked like any after-dinner entertainment which Iphicles was used to, were it not for the fact that there was no harpsichord, and no inevitably ill-favoured daughter of the house ready to impress the assembly with her imperfect interpretation of an unfortunate composer.  And were it not also for the fact that such a performance would scarcely be proper to a group of young men such as this was.  The Earl was a little uncertain about this new development, but as his host took the seat in the middle of the semi-circle, and looked at him with invitation in his gaze, indicating the seat beside him, there was little Iphicles could do but join him.

The Duke leaned towards Iphicles, but not far enough.  The Earl had to bend close to catch what he said over the noise of the somewhat inebriated conversations taking place around them.

"A little divertissement for my friends."  His voice was smooth and soft, disconcertingly close to Iphicles' ear.  "I do find that the digestion is aided by an increased flow of blood, don't you?"

There was that look again, the one which informed Iphicles that he was being mocked by a reference he did not understand.  He murmured a platitude, then sat back in his seat to watch as a figure entered the room from the doorway in the far corner.  It was immediately apparent what type of divertissement the Duke had in mind for his friends.  The lady was blonde, with a figure that Iphicles thought the result of judicious padding of feminine undergarments, until she removed these.

When he was a very young man, Iphicles had gone with friends to the brothels where out of work ladies of the stage earned their keep, and paid for a show which pretended to emulate the one he now witnessed.  But their comparison to this was as lemonade to champagne.  Iphicles took a deep draught from the glass in his hand, which appeared to refill itself with monotonous regularity, and settled deeper into his seat to watch.

As the lady in question stripped off her final layer of clothing (though it could scarce be described as such, being designed to highlight rather than conceal), and her hands moved over her full breasts, fingers teasing at her already erect nipples, Iphicles' cock announced its discomfort within the skin-tight breeches he wore.  The Earl attempted to ignore its message, instead watching speechlessly as the lady laid herself down on her back on the chaise longue, allowing her legs to fall open and what was revealed as a result facing her rapt audience, running her hands slowly and wantonly all over her body, before they finally drifted up her inner thighs, caressing tantalisingly.  She then spread them even wider apart, and slid her fingers around the lips of her obviously wet entrance.  Iphicles was vaguely aware of the men around him, of their concentration on the picture before them, but his main attention was focused on that hand, stroking herself, before moving her fingers began to move deeply in and out of her, while her other hand continued to caress her breasts and she bit her lip and moaned, tossing her head as she did so.  Her pace started to increase, her cries became louder, and Iphicles shifted surreptitiously in his chair.  The actresses on whom he had spent his money all those years ago had been a mockery; this woman, with her pliant limbs, her abandoned search for pleasure, right there in front of him, was unbelievably erotic.  And the fact that she was doing all this on the same piece of furniture that he seen the Duke seated on only hours before somehow gave an added thrill to what he was seeing.

Iphicles was aware of the Duke sitting still beside him, demonstrating no reaction to the show before him.  His muscular legs were open, to be sure, but that was how he had sat down, a provocative sprawl.  Everything he did contrived to provoke.  Iphicles sat still, trying to ignore the increasing pressure against his breeches, trying to subdue the excitement he felt as he watched her fingers stroking herself to orgasm only yards from him.  She finally, gaspingly, came, and the Duke leaned over to him again as she stood and - swiftly left the room.

"So, Iphicles, how does that compare to your usual after-dinner entertainments?"

A choke of laughter escaped the Earl as he thought of last evening's performance turned in by an earnest bespectacled young lady in blue dimity.  This parody was very deliberate, he suddenly realised.

"She had more talent than most after-dinner performers I've witnessed," he allowed.

A smile hovered around the corners of the Duke's mouth.  "Really?" he drawled.  "Perhaps I should introduce you to a wider spread of talent."

That unaccustomed rush of wild exhilaration again.  Iphicles held his eyes very deliberately.  "Perhaps you should."

An aristocratic eyebrow raised.  Iphicles realised that he had taken the Duke by surprise, and enjoyed the knowledge.  In a deliberate echo of the Duke's first gesture to him, he raised his glass to the Duke before drinking deeply.  The look in Aresborough's eyes showed that he remembered the reference.  He leaned closer still to Iphicles.

"So you'd like to see more, would you Iphicles?" he offered, his voice low and caressing.

One corner of Iphicles' mouth lifted.  "Why not?"

The Duke signalled to one of his servants and murmured something into his ear.  The man disappeared through the same door as the star of the show had used.  For an instant, Iphicles wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.  But as the Duke turned back to him, and dark eyes held his, he regretted nothing.

                                                        Go to Part 2

Damerel is happily ensconced in a small market town in the English countryside where she spends her time reading and writing slash fiction, gardening, and dreaming up names for the next guinea pigs with whom she will share her life.  Sadly, that pesky working for a living thing intrudes occasionally into this idyll.  She also has an inordinate love of Georgette Heyer’s Regency novels and what might politely be called cult television shows.

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