Issue 15 - April 2008

Regency Relations, Part 2 by Damerel

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

Part 2

The next morning, the Earl of Royston rose later than usual.  He had not gained his bed until the night sky over the city was beginning to lighten.  He woke to the accusing silence of his valet, who was moving around his dressing room gathering up the crumpled clothes which the Earl had let fall to the floor the night before.  Unwilling to face his reproach, the Earl decided to keep his bed until the fellow finished and left him in peace.  Then he lay there, thinking about the previous night.

The Duke had taken him at his word and shown him more.  Iphicles swallowed slightly as he remembered.  His desire to surprise the Duke had led him into a declaration that was foolhardy, to say the very least.  As soon as the next performers entered the room, Iphicles had known it.  His instinct had prompted him to get up and leave.  He was scarcely a puritan, but this was quite outside the bounds of acceptable behaviour, even among a party of bloods such as this.  But this was in direct response to his request; he could hardly walk away from it.  So instead he sought refuge in his wine glass, waiting for it to be over.  It was inappropriate, to say the least.  Improper, certainly.  And exciting…

The Earl threw back his bedclothes and swung his legs round to sit on the side of his bed.  Damnation.  He had been forced to sit in company and watch a man and a woman having sexual relations, and had found to his horror that it had aroused him. As he had watched the man's cock sliding into the woman, as he had heard the sounds of their passion, his own cock had been sore with need.  For a moment he'd thought of Bella; for an even briefer instant, of Caroline.  Their relations had always been pleasurable, but the sounds of unbelievable delight and sheer abandonment from the couple before him had been new to him.  After what had seemed an interminable time during which the two figures on the makeshift stage continued their pleasuring of one another, the man had stood while the woman knelt before him and took his cock into her mouth, all the time playing to the audience, showing them every step of what was occurring for their pleasure.  As he'd watched her moist mouth closing around the hard flesh pushing into her mouth, Iphicles' hand had moved very casually from the arm of his chair to his lap, brushing against where his cock was thrusting against his breeches.  He'd swallowed hard and concentrated on his peripheral vision to see whether anybody had noticed.  What he'd seen had stopped him dead.

Young Farraday, Lord Linton's youngest son, had been leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed as he watched the act unfolding before him, while Sir Richard Hazell, seated beside him, had a hand reached out to stroke his erection.  Farraday's cock had been clearly visible, pushing against his breeches, and even as Iphicles watched from the corner of his eyes, he had seen Hazell beginning to unbutton the breeches.  His cheeks suddenly flushed, Iphicles had jerked his attention back to the scene before him.  It hadn't helped him.  The man had been beginning to thrust faster into the woman's mouth, and the sight, together with the soft moans from Farraday's direction, and the sounds of flesh against flesh, had proved too much for the Earl.  His hand in his lap had moved, so that his wrist rubbed against the hardness through the soft material.  He'd had to bite his lip to prevent a sound escaping him, and that was when the Duke had leaned across to him, his mouth close to Iphicles' ear so his low voice wouldn't disturb anyone.

"They're quite good, don't you think?"

The Earl had jumped, guiltily.  Firmly keeping his hand still, determinedly away from him, he'd tried to match the Duke's tone.  "Not bad," he'd admitted.

"With a little more practice, I might even invite them to entertain us formally."

The Earl had turned to face the Duke, his brow furrowed.  The Duke had smiled slowly, and indicated with his eyes past Iphicles, a direction away from the makeshift stage.  Iphicles had turned.  Aresborough's meaning had been made suddenly clear.  Farraday's erection was protruding from his open breeches, proud and dark, while Hazell was now kneeling beside Farraday's seat, a hand reaching and closing around the straining cock with an expertise that had Farraday crying out, his head back and his eyes closed as the hand moved along his shaft.  He'd raised his hips to thrust into the hand, and as he'd done so, Hazell had taken the opportunity to begin to work his breeches down.  As soon as he'd realised what he was seeing, Iphicles had turned abruptly back to the front.

"What do you think, Iphicles?" The Duke had spoken again.  "Are they good enough?"

The Earl had paused for an instant, his attention on not flaring up at the smoothly spoken man beside him, mocking him.  Or so he had thought.  As he'd glanced at the Duke, Aresborough's eyes had shown no mockery, but a keen interest in his answer.

"I suppose they make up in enthusiasm what they lack in technique," he had commented.

The Duke had smiled, as though truly satisfied about something.  "Good," he'd murmured.

And with that remark, he'd turned his attention back to the show before them.  Iphicles sat mechanically watching, but it was now the murmured sounds from his left which had held his attention, the soft groans and pleadings.  He'd flicked one more glance sideways, and seen Farraday alternately thrusting up into Hazell's hand and then pushing down on his other hand, sounds of need and desire escaping him as he thrust down hard.  Iphicles had quickly looked away again, only to find the couple on the stage reaching the climax of their show in parallel with the others.  As Farraday's moans became sobbing sounds, he'd found himself incapable of not looking again, and watched as the man writhed on the fingers inside him and finally came in Hazell's practiced hand, his seed spurting over his clothing.

Iphicles had looked away again, to find the couple on open display had also finished.  He'd sat there, unwilling to move at first, uncomfortably aware of the fact that his breeches were closely outlining his excitement.  When the Duke had risen to his feet however, he'd had to follow suit.  He'd found to his relief that, as the chairs were rearranged and casual conversations resumed, his plight began to ease.

Aresborough had again appropriated him; although the Earl was aware that the Duke was neglecting his duty towards his other guests, it did not appear to cause offence.  Neither did Farraday and Hazell's sudden disappearance.  And Iphicles was enjoying Aresborough's company too much to voluntarily surrender it.  The Duke intrigued the Earl; though he had spent several hours in conversation with him, he would not claim to have any idea of the man's true character.  Yet there was something about his intelligence and dry sense of humour which the Earl found stimulating.

When the time had come for the Earl to depart, the Duke had wished to have the pleasure of his company again soon.  Social niceties were of course being observed, but there was a look in those dark eyes which had convinced Iphicles that he had meant it.

Iphicles rasped a hand irritably over his unshaven chin and decided to get up properly for the day.  His mother had requested he accompany her to yet another social gathering this evening; Iphicles just hoped that his mother's friend Lady Linton would not be present.  He wasn't sure he could face her, with the memory of her beloved son's shameless public display so fresh in his mind.

An evening of unrelieved boredom was lightened slightly by the appearance of Harry and Iorweth.  Iphicles realised he must be mad to think such a thing, but at least they brought some life to the party, some physical masculinity amidst all the talk of fashion and the latest on-dits.  The three were very much in demand as suitable partners for the dancing and for once, the scarlet coats failed to carry the day with the ladies.  All the young ladies present knew that Sophia Westcourt, the Season's most notable Beauty, cast covetous eyes on the Earl of Royston, and that knowledge made his title and fortune even more desirable.  When finally Iphicles managed to break away from the determined attempts of matchmaking mamas and a hostess who was insistent that no young lady should go home from her ball without having danced with at least one handsome young man, he assured his retreat by making his way from the ballroom to the terrace, which though cooler than the stifling ballroom was almost its equal in brightness, lit as it was by a string of colourful lanterns.

There he stood, leaning against the balustrade and staring into the darkness of the gardens.  Last night had served only to throw into even sharper relief the emptiness of this life he was forced to lead; there he had been able to speak his mind, and, almost paradoxically, at the same time take delight in the verbal fencing which the Duke enjoyed.  Here, there was nothing save being charming and drawing out yet another dull miss who could scarcely bring herself to raise her eyes from his waistcoat, or, if she were a different type of miss, to stop staring into his face.  His one consolation was to see that Harry and Iorweth had been booked for almost as many dances as he himself had had to suffer.

"Iphicles."

He barely stifled an undutiful groan.  "Mama."  He turned to see her approaching him along the terrace, her gown of primrose sarcenet shining in the light spilling from the large windows and the lanterns, her fair hair partially covered by a Dowager's cap that still managed to make her look fetching.  His smile held genuine warmth by the time she reached him.

"Iphicles," she remonstrated with him, "Sophia is in a fit of the sullens because you have only danced with her once.  And I understand, from something she let drop, that it is Ravenscourt's corsage she wears tonight, not yours.  What is your intention, to let her slip through your fingers to that upstart?"

The Earl with difficulty suppressed a laugh at this unlikely description of a member of a family equal in age, if not distinction, to the Fairfaxes.  He also neglected to inform his parent that Sophia Westcourt did not wear his corsage primarily because he had not sent her one.  He did however attempt to put the good lady's indignation at rest.  "Do you wish me to cause talk about Miss Westcourt by engaging her to dance with me again?  I have danced with no other lady more than once; to so single her out would cause comment."

"It would please her," his mother returned sharply.

"Mama, the sooner you accept the fact that I have no interest in Sophia Westcourt, the happier you will be."

His parent changed tack with bewildering rapidity.  Standing close to him, she raised her face to his.  "You do understand Iphicles, that I'm speaking as your mother.  I want only the best for you, for you to be happy again."

He sighed as he looked down into her upturned face.  "I know."

"And Sophia is a lovely girl.  Oh, she has the Westcourt name of course, and her fortune - did I mention that? - but she's a delightful child.  I feel sure you two will deal extremely together, if only you will rid your head of this foolish notion that you are not interested in her."

Goaded, the Earl replied with impatient honesty.  "Don't you see, Mama, you've said it yourself.  She's a child; she'll be looking for excitement, romance, true love."  Iphicles held his mother's gaze for an instant before adding softly, "I can offer her nothing save my name."

Tears shone briefly in Alicia's eyes at the expression on her son's face.  "Oh Iphicles, don't you realise?  If you allow yourself to be moped forever over dear Bella, you'll never remarry.  Do you think that's what she would want for you?"

He turned sharply from her to hide the anger in his face.  As if she had really known 'dear Bella' and what she had wanted.

"I'll think about it, Mama," he told her abruptly. "But it won't be Sophia."  He had already seen the look in the girl's eyes which told him she was more than halfway to being in love with him, the tragic Earl, widowed so young.  To encourage her would be to court disaster.

The following day, the Earl was frustrated to find that Caroline was not at home.  After the tedious evening he had been obliged to suffer he felt a need for relaxed conversation and agreeable company.  As he walked through the streets, disappointed in his quest, he acknowledged ruefully to himself that conversation and company were not all he felt the need for.  Unbidden images had visited his dreams last night; although he could not remember them, he knew they were centred around the scenes he'd witnessed in the Duke's drawing room.  Recently he had come to realise that his liaisons with Caroline, while undoubtedly pleasurable, were something of an automatic release for him; for her too, he felt.  Without the love he had felt for Bella, the act became simply that.  What he had witnessed under the Duke's aegis however had led him to wonder briefly; the performance had been many things, but was as far from just pleasant or a simple relief as he could imagine.  Lost in thought, the Earl managed to thoroughly snub the Ladies Emilia and Charlotte Foxcote by dint of not seeing them.

A voice close to his ear brought him with a jerk out of his reverie.  "I find you abominably rude, Royston."

He spun round to find the Duke beside him, that ever present half-smile on his lips.

"Your grace," Iphicles uttered, discomposed for an instant.

"Not only have you sent at least two of your most ardent female admirers away with despair in their hearts, determined to wear the willow for you as you no longer have any tender feelings for them," the Duke continued blandly, "but you blatantly ignore my attempt to catch your attention."  The Duke paused for an instant.  "It seems to me that such execrable manners demand a forfeit."

A slight smile touched Iphicles' lips.  "And what might that be?"

The Duke's head tipped thoughtfully to one side as he surveyed the Earl.  "I haven't yet decided," he concluded at last.  "But I think the first part of it will be to dine with me again tomorrow."

The Earl hesitated for an instant.

"Unless you are otherwise engaged, of course," Aresborough added.

"I should be delighted to join you," Iphicles said swiftly.  It was only another assembly tomorrow, another night of slow suffocation, stifling everything he was.  And Harry could as easily escort their mother; in fact, it would do him good.  The Earl smiled at the thought and met Aresborough's eyes.  There it was again, that sudden spurt of elation running through him which led him to the certain knowledge that even if Harry hadn't been at home and able to escort their Mama, Iphicles would still have cried off from the engagement.

The Duke inclined his head, his dark eyes holding Iphicles' as he did so.  "I shall see you tomorrow then, Royston," he promised, before turning to cross the street.

Iphicles strode home with renewed vigour.  At last he had something to look forward to.

"Iph."

Iphicles looked up from his desk where he had been working on instructions for his man of business.

"What is it, Harry?"  His brother looked unusually diffident as he entered the library.

"Are you busy?"  Harry indicated the papers strewn across the desk.

Iphicles laid down his pen, wondering what this was all about.  "Not really."

"Oh good."  Harry regained some of his normal cheery composure and flung himself down into one of the chairs.  Iphicles turned in his seat to look at him.  "Well?" he encouraged, when nothing further was forthcoming.

Harry grimaced apologetically.  "It's Mama, you know," he started.  "Wants me to have a talk to you about the succession and so on."

Iphicles snorted briefly.  "You talk about siring heirs?  Come on Harry, face reality before they cart you off to Bedlam."

There was a flash of resentment in Harry's face.  "I'm not the Earl," he muttered, "I don't have a duty to the name.  And anyway," he added ingenuously, "I don't like women - you do."

As Iphicles stared speechlessly at him, he shifted in his seat and met his brother's gaze with a dazzling smile.  "Come on Iph," he coaxed, "What's the harm in gaining a wife?  Means you don't have to go elsewhere to get it.  And with your title, you can have your pick - you don't have to settle for some antidote.  I don't see what the problem is."

"And I don't understand what your sudden interest is."  Iphicles' words were clipped.

"Oh yes you do," his brother informed him with devastating honesty.  "The longer you go without getting any offspring, the more pressure Mama puts on me to produce some myself, just to make sure.  This way, you get to roll around in bed with some female with Mama's blessing, and Iorweth and I get left in peace."

Iphicles was on his feet, his face pale.  "It may have escaped your notice, brother, but my wife has been dead no more than a year, and you're telling me to go and get another one, just like that?"  He broke off, breathing fast.

Harry stood up slowly, concern on his face.  "Iph?"  He reached out a hand and touched his brother's arm.  "Iph, I'm sorry.  I didn't realise you still missed Bella."

"Still?"  Iphicles laughed briefly, a sound that had little to do with humour.  "She was the only woman I've ever loved, Harry.  I know my duty, believe me, but I need more time."  He looked into his brother's face.  "I know she's dead, I don't mourn her any longer, but can you imagine what it will be like to have somebody else take her title, to have somebody else order the house as they choose, to have somebody else's portrait hanging in the hall?  To have Bella relegated to a dusty memory, yet one which is always scorned, or diminished, because they know I loved her?"

"Iph."  Harry's face was unwontedly sober.  "I'm sorry.  I suppose… if I lost Iorweth…"  his voice trailed off and his cerulean eyes were suddenly bleak, then he shook his head.  "I'll deal with Mama," he said firmly.

Iphicles never found out quite what 'dealing with Mama' entailed, but Harry was evidently successful; Iphicles' next encounter with his mother, as they passed on the stairs, was silent, but she took his hand and pressed it meaningfully, her large eyes fixed speakingly on his face, a tremulous smile tugging at her lips.  A trifle bemused, the Earl was enlightened at supper that evening when the subject of the ball to be held by the Davenports was raised, and on discussing the guest list, Alicia merely mentioned Lord and Lady Annesley and daughter, rather than enlarging enthusiastically about said daughter's attractions.  The brothers' eyes met across the table in a silent message.

Sadly, their amity was soon rudely shattered.  Harry objected strenuously when informed by his brother that he would have to accompany the Dowager to the Trents’ assembly.

"Why can't you do it, Iph?  You said you would."  Harry's face was resentful.  "I did my bit at that ball the other night, doing the dutiful to all the old tabbies for Mama's sake.  What's come up that's so important you can't miss it?"

"A dinner invitation which I wish to accept." The Earl responded calmly.  "And I thought, with you home, you might see your way to spending a little time with Mama."  He tried a smile at Harry.  "You know how much she would love you to escort her."

An answering smile lit Harry's face for an instant, before disappointment set in again.  "But it will be an entire evening," he protested.  "Even if you can procure an invitation for Iorweth -" the carrot with which the Earl was trying to tempt his brother - "we'll scarcely be able to spend any time together."

Iphicles shrugged.  "So?  You have all day every day together, I assume you have an arrangement unknown to the household for the nights.  What's the sacrifice in one evening to keep Mama happy?"

Eventually, with great reluctance, Harry agreed.  "But I won't do it again," he threatened the Earl.

"Nor should you have to," Iphicles agreed.  While discussing who should sacrifice their evening to escorting their parent to yet another mindless gathering, a thought had struck him.

"Harry," he said slowly.  His brother looked at him, suspicion large on his countenance.  "What if we tried to get Mama paired off?" Iphicles suggested.  "Then neither of us need go to those cursed things."

Harry's jaw dropped.  "Mama?" he echoed blankly.  "But she's…  No, damn it Iph, she's our mother.  She can't marry again."

Iphicles was far too taken with his sudden idea to pay much heed to his brother.  "Sir John Laxom has always been one of her admirers," he mused.  "He's a decent sort, reasonable fortune, and his wife died four years ago.  Think about it, Harry," he urged his brother, "What will she do with herself once you've returned to Spain and if she succeeds in leg-shackling me to some heiress?  Don't you think, as dutiful sons, we should encourage her to find happiness for herself?"

"You mean for me to encourage her, don't you?"  Harry was blunt.

"You know she don't listen to a thing I say," Iphicles shrugged.  "The alternative of course, is to spend your next leave abroad so you don’t have to face this dreary round of pleasure."

A look of horror crossed Harry's face.  "What, spend my leave among foreigners?  Damn it Iph, I won't do it!  Who is this fellow?  Will he be there tonight do you think?"

And so the Earl, well satisfied with his afternoon's activities, found himself wishing a pleasant evening to his Mama and a grimly-determined Harry before he left for his own evening's entertainment.

On being admitted to the drawing room, he was a trifle surprised to find he was the only guest present.  The Duke was reclining on a chaise longue - the chaise longue Iphicles realised with a shock - and merely gestured at the butler to provide his guest with a drink.

"I don't stand on ceremony with my friends," he informed Iphicles.  "Have a seat."

Iphicles did as he was bidden, settling himself comfortably in a chair close enough to the Duke to allow easy conversation.

"I'm surprised you're not engaged to the Trents’ tonight," the Duke observed idly.  "I have a suspicion they have you in their sights for that second daughter of theirs."

The Earl's lips twisted.  "If you know that, you shouldn't be surprised that I'm not there."

There was a gleam in the Duke's eyes as he acknowledged Iphicles' statement.  He remained silent for a while, watching his guest.  Iphicles sat at his ease in the chair, mentally contrasting this civilised atmosphere to the cattle market which the Trents’ assembly would no doubt become.

"Do you have any other guests tonight?" he asked the Duke.

Aresborough's lips curved. "Not unless you wish it, Iphicles." He shifted slightly on the chaise longue, in a way which brought back only too vividly the images of Iphicles' last visit. The Earl suddenly found himself watching the Duke's muscular legs, sprawled in casual possessive ownership of the furniture, and remembering the last pair of legs he'd seen spread wantonly over it. He had the suspicion that his colour was slightly raised as he looked back up at the Duke.

"I had meant, any of your friends," he explained.

The Duke shook his head slowly, holding Iphicles' eyes. "I hoped we might improve our acquaintance."

Iphicles was caught between that swift uprush of exhilaration which he was beginning to feel more and more often in the Duke's presence, and a sudden very peculiar feeling such as he imagined a fly might feel, caught upon a web. Shaking his head slightly, he rapidly dispelled the illusion. There was no conceivable reason for his sudden odd fancy, unless it was too much wine on an empty stomach. His host laughed suddenly and encouraged Iphicles to tell him more of the exceptional cattle he had heard the Earl kept in his stables. With relief Iphicles plunged into an enthusiastic and often heated discussion with his host about the finer points of horseflesh.

By the end of supper, Iphicles found himself invited to be a member of a party the Duke would be hosting at his country seat the following week. Even in this he was flouting convention, by holding such a thing in the midst of the Season. It appealed to Iphicles, both the fact of the masculine retreat from the frills and furbelows of the ton, and the unusual timing. The Duke had added that he wished Iphicles to join him at his hunting lodge in Quorn country later in the year; he had admired the way the Earl sat his horse, and wished to have the opportunity to see him in action. The Earl had accepted both of these invitations, although he was fully sensible of the fact he was unable to reciprocate. To think of presenting a man of the Duke's reputation to his mother was inconceivable. All he could hope was that Harry might be making some headway with the Sir John Laxom plan, and that the Dowager would soon occupy her own place of residence. To be sure, he could insist that she move back to the Dower House, whereupon she had removed when he married, but he did not have the heart to make her do so. He also entertained the lively suspicion that she would spend all her time visiting him in any case.

"I'm sorry?" Iphicles came back to the present, aware his host was evidently awaiting an answer from him.

"I wondered, my dear Lord Royston, if we might adjourn?" The exaggerated politeness, in sharp contrast to their relaxed conversation throughout the meal, showed that he had obviously repeated the question at least once.

Iphicles grinned unrepentantly and stood up. "By all means, your grace," he bowed. "As your grace desires."

The room spun a little as he straightened up. Perhaps the number of different wines they had sampled with each course had not been such a good idea. Or perhaps it had not been the number of wines, but the amount of each which caused the problem. The Duke was a generous host, and there was no doubt but that under his encouragement his guest had been dipping deep. Fighting the urge to grin like a village idiot, a decidedly bosky Iphicles followed the Duke back to the drawing room where, comfortably ensconced in the armchairs, the pair continued their lazy conversation and their steady inroads on as smooth a wine as Iphicles had ever tasted.

Once again, it was at some point in the small hours of the morning that the Earl rose to take his leave of the Duke. Despite the revolutions of the room around him, he managed to make his way to the hall, where the butler returned his coat and hat to him before opening the front door. As the cool night air flooded in, Iphicles made a grab for the doorframe and stood breathing deeply, trying to bring the flight of steps before him back into full focus. His blurred vision informed him that his footman appeared to be starting up the steps towards him.

There was suddenly an amused voice in his ear. "Let me give you a hand, Royston," and his arm was being taken in a reassuringly firm grasp. He was vaguely aware of the Duke waving back the footman and then the steady arm around him was helping him to his carriage. He clutched at the doorway, blindly feeling for the steps, and strong hands were on his waist, steadying him as he swayed up them, before he collapsed into the seat. The carriage was suddenly full as the Duke followed him in, propping him in the corner and straightening his legs. "Just as well your coachman knows where you live, Iphicles."

The Earl's eyes blinked open again and he looked up into the Duke's teasing gaze. A semblance of manners presented themselves to him. "Pleasant evening. Thank you," he uttered thickly.

The hands paused on his legs as the Duke smiled at him. "Sleep well, Iphicles." Then the Duke was gone and the carriage was suddenly cold and empty without his company, his lazy drawl and his touch. Iphicles' eyes closed.

The Earl was somewhat delicate when he finally emerged late the following morning. He was relieved to find that his brother and Burnage were off somewhere, and that his Mama was still in bed, resting in preparation for the evening's exertions.  The Earl was left to roam a silent house. He had never before noticed how empty it was, how little he had to do now that his friends were overseas. His acquaintances at White's were simply that, acquaintances, and damned stuffy, most of them. If pushed, he could always visit the Rooms off St James' Street and enjoy a bout with the fencing master who ran the establishment, but his reactions today were dulled by his continuing headache. He would often take advantage of an empty few hours to pay a visit to Caroline, but the pounding in his head dissuaded him from following that course of action.  Instead he sent to the stables for one of his horses and decided to take some mild physical exercise, enough hopefully to clear his head without over-exerting himself.

By the time Iphicles had reached the park, he was beginning to relax, having purposely chosen a smooth actioned well-mannered beast for his mount today.  His headache was gradually dissipating in the gentle dampness of the overcast day, and he was able to greet acquaintances among the crowd which thronged the Park at this fashionable hour with an almost convincing display of good health.   The thumping in his skull disappeared completely when he saw a familiar figure ahead of him. His pleasure was quickly swamped as unmistakable tones claimed his attention in no uncertain terms.  He turned reluctantly to find Lady Foxcote, accompanied by her daughters, hailing him from her landaulet.

"Why, Lord Royston, I confess we have not seen you in what seems like an age - or so my daughters tell me," she declared playfully.

Lady Emilia hung her head, blushing in a not unbecoming manner and murmuring faintly "Mama!"  Lady Charlotte however was made of sterner stuff and merely held the Earl's gaze with a world of meaning in her deceptively innocent blue stare. The Earl withdrew his gaze quickly, to find Lady Charlotte's mama not at all discomposed by the forward behaviour of her second daughter.

"Delighted to see you Lady Foxcote, Ladies," Iphicles bowed slightly and would have urged his horse on had not the determined lady continued obliviously.

"Oh, but Lord Royston," she protested, "You have not yet told us if you will be attending the Lennoxes’ ball on Saturday."

The Earl cast a despairing glance past her at the Duke's steadily retreating figure, and his eyes suddenly narrowed. Sir Richard Hazell, mounted on one of his infamously ill-broken youngsters, had joined the Duke, and they were now walking their horses side by side, talking.

With difficulty, Iphicles pulled his attention back to the gushing female before him.

"…. his wonderful deeds in Spain?" She was looking expectantly at him.

"Harry?" He made a shrewd guess, then a sudden thought struck him. He smiled at all three ladies as he warmly invited them to wait upon his Mama tomorrow morning, when he knew for a fact that Captain Fairfax and his good friend Captain Burnage would be present and delighted to entertain them with suitably dashing tales of derring do.

"And may I ask, will you be present, Lord Royston?" The coy glance might have worked from one of her daughters, but from this redoubtable matron the effect was remarkably akin to having a tooth pulled.

"I regret that I have another appointment." He inclined his head courteously, "Ladies," and left before any further entanglements could be attempted.

His immediate impulse was to ride after the Duke and Hazell and join them, but as he saw their figures ahead of him, he hesitated. The Duke was leaning towards the other man, eyes on his face. Hazell was chatting animatedly, his body inclined towards the Duke in a way which suddenly irritated Iphicles.

He abruptly swung his horse around and decided to return home. The morning ride had somehow lost all pleasure for him.

He had not long returned to the house when he decided to call upon Caroline. He had called on her twice since the first time he had dined with the Duke, and on neither occasion had he been fortunate. His luck was none the better on this occasion; if anything, the news he received sank his spirits further.

"Mrs Howarth is gone out of town, my lord," he was informed by her butler.

Iphicles concealed his surprise at the news. It was unlike Caroline to do such a thing without letting him know.

"When do you expect Mrs Howarth's return?"

"I really couldn't say, my lord."

And that was as far as the butler would be drawn. Dissastified, the Earl had to admit defeat and retire.

He was out of sorts that evening, unsettled by the day he had spent, which meant that when Harry cornered him he was in no mood to listen to his younger brother, responding ungraciously when the gallant Captain intruded unceremoniously into the sanctuary of the library.

"I'm busy," Iphicles snapped, indicating the papers before him on the desk.

"I need to talk to you, Iph," his brother insisted regardless.

Jabbing his pen into the standish with unnecessary force, the Earl swung round to face him.  "What?" he demanded.

"Are you going to offer for the Westcourt chit or not?"

Iphicles was torn between anger and incomprehension.  "We’ve already spoken of my marriage plans, Harry," he managed reasonably, at last.  "I have none for the near future."

Harry chewed his lip for a moment, looking distinctly unhappy.  "The thing is, Iph," he confided at last, "Mama's started on me again.  About seeing me happily settled, with brats to inherit in case you get notice to quit."

"Your concern over my demise is touching, brother," Iphicles spat.

"It's not like that," Harry protested.  "We both know that you'll marry again, so why not simply bring your plans forward a little?  It's the Lennoxes’ ball on Saturday - a nice romantic setting to make your play.  Send her your flowers to wear, compliment her looks, you know how it goes.  I wager with your title and fortune the girl would be willing to marry you if you would just play the pretty a little."

"It grieves me to cast a rub in the way of your plans for my future, Harry, but I shall not be at the Lennoxes’ ball."  The Earl's precise clipped tone betrayed his fury.  "I am going into the country for a time."

Harry's brows drew down.  "At this season?  Not the estate again, Iph?  Devil take it, you're becoming a damned bucolic!"

"Not the estate this time," Iphicles controlled his voice.  "With friends."

"Who?"  Harry was pugnacious.

"Not that it is any of your concern, but if you must know I am visiting Aresborough."

"Aresborough?  But -" Iphicles could almost see the wheels turning behind Harry's blue eyes.  "Iph - you're not!  You never..  devil take it, you were married!  You can't do it - you have to marry again and get an heir!  It's your duty, Iph, damn it.  You can't shirk it.  I won't - "

"You won't be forced into an unpleasant duty, is that it, Harry?  Not when you can force me into one instead?"  Iphicles' voice was edged with fury.  "Your conjectures about my friendship with Aresborough are sheer lunacy, but it makes no difference - I will not be forced into a marriage of convenience by you, Mama, or anybody else.  Do you understand me?"

Harry stared for an instant at the furious Earl.  "But it's your duty -" he began stubbornly.

"Get out."  Iphicles strode to the library door, wrenched it open and held it so until the disconcerted Captain Fairfax, unused to seeing his normally quiet brother so forceful, admitted defeat and retreated, no doubt to seek Iorweth's advice on how best to handle this perplexing situation.

The Earl closed the door and leant his hot forehead against the heavy oak, one hand still holding onto the handle as he breathed heavily, trying to control his anger.  Harry's assumptions about his brother's reasons for spending time with Aresborough had been wildly off the mark - were he not so angered by his brother, the Earl might have found them embarrassingly so - but the result was the same: Iphicles would not be browbeaten into a line of action he did not wish to take.

He eventually returned to his seat at the desk and stared blindly down at his papers before cursing and thrusting his chair back.  He would give anything to hear the Duke's lazy drawl consigning all paperwork to perdition.  The thought that in two day’s time he would have that opportunity steadied him slightly.  Summoning a footman to bring him some wine, he stood staring into the fireplace, contemplating his escape.

Harry cornered him again the following day. "I can't believe you're going to abandon Mama and ruin your chances with the Westcourt girl to spend time with Aresborough," he challenged. "What's wrong with you, Iphicles?"

Iphicles held his accusing blue eyes. "For once Harry," he informed his brother, "I think that there's nothing wrong with me. I am doing something to please myself, and nobody else. It's an attitude to which I believe you are already accustomed."

It was enough to send Captain Fairfax packing in high dudgeon, no doubt to compare unfavourable notes with his friend Iorweth who had no disagreeable elder brother to concern him, leaving the Earl to his thoughts.  The house party would be a change, a much-needed distraction.  He was still concerned, when he thought of it, that Caroline had sent him no word, but he had begun to become accustomed to the familiarity of his own hand comfortingly stroking his cock, inevitably bringing him to lonely release each night. And morning. And whenever else he could be sure of privacy. He could not remember, since the days of courting Bella, such desire as now seemed to consume him. Perhaps all he needed was a week or so in the country with like-minded company ready to engage in physical pursuits that would leave him exhausted and ready for sleep each night. It was the boredom, the tedium, which currently led all his excess energy to be focussed in his cock, that was all.

That night, Iphicles unbent enough to accompany his Mama to an evening at the Trents’.  He hoped that Sir John Laxom would be present, so that he might observe the two of them together.  Following his contretemps with Harry, his younger brother had volunteered no information on how the campaign had progressed the previous evening.

 The Trents were hosting yet another glittering party in their determination to marry off both daughters this Season. So determined were they, in fact, that they had produced a guest list that included every bachelor of the ton, regardless of eligibility. The result was a sad crush, the very sort which Alicia decried as being the most tedious of evenings, yet one which she would not miss for the world.  Iphicles mentally gritted his teeth and settled himself in for a long evening.  The one redeeming feature was his knowledge that once this evening was passed, only one day remained before he became Aresborough's guest.

It was still early when the young lady to whom he was listening earned the opprobrium of all those young ladies who had dextrously manoeuvred themselves into the Earl's line of sight. One moment he stood beside her, head bent in flattering attentiveness to catch her pearls of wisdom; the next, a smile of genuine delight curved his lips and warmed his eyes. Female breasts heaved with envy as jealous eyes watched the undeserving sallow-faced chit who was the sudden recipient of such attention. The young lady, as taken aback as any of those watching, instantly tried to press her advantage, but was disconcerted to find the Earl after a few moments adroitly excusing himself from her company. A glance around her led her to toss her head and smile mysteriously, indicating unmistakably to every other young lady present that she had arranged an assignation with the handsome Earl, and that their parting like this was merely a blind to the old tabbies who acted as chaperones.  Gentlemen flocked around her, attempting to find out what had so captivated the Earl.  The lady's social success for the rest of the Season was now assured, even though she had to confess herself puzzled by the Earl's inexplicable behaviour.

Iphicles was purposefully making his way through the crowded room when his mama suddenly seized upon his arm.

"Iphicles," she hissed, "This is your chance. That dreadful man, Aresborough, is here and forcing his attentions upon Sophia. Rescue the poor child, and she and her family will be forever grateful to you. Lord Ravenscourt has already made an attempt, but Aresborough is so shameless, he would not yield. Do something!"

It was a challenge to which the Earl rose nobly. He continued to make his way across the room to where he could see the Duke, dressed in dark, understated yet exquisitely cut clothes, talking to Sophia Westcourt. He saw the sparkle in Sophia's deep blue eyes as she gazed up at the Duke's dark face, and knew that Aresborough was exerting himself to be as charming as only he knew how. She did look particularly fetching tonight, Iphicles conceded; her three-quarter dress of sarsnet worn over an underdress of ivory satin was breathtaking on her elegant young figure, the modest pearl drops from her ears speaking further of her youth and innocence. No wonder her parents were worried; she appeared captivated by the Duke.

"Aresborough."

The Duke's smile reached his eyes as he turned to the Earl. "Iphicles. I had thought you would be present tonight."

Iphicles bowed slightly, then again to Sophia. "Miss Westcourt, delighted," he acknowledged.

She smiled warmly at him, a becoming colour staining her cheeks. "Lord Royston," she welcomed, her eyes conveying her delight at seeing him.

"May I request the pleasure of your hand later?" he enquired.

"A little forward in public, don't you think Royston," the  Duke murmured very quietly.

Iphicles ignored him and engaged himself to a waltz later in the evening with the fair Sophia. "I believe Lady Annesley is anxious to introduce you to an old friend who has just arrived," he concluded.

Since the Duke's flattering attention seeming to have wavered, Miss Westcourt reluctantly obeyed Iphicles' unspoken injunction and rejoined her mama, reassured at least by the unusual readiness of the Earl's smile and the warmth in his eyes.

"I thought St George ended up with the fair maiden, not the dragon," Aresborough jibed as Iphicles remained with him rather than accompanying Miss Westcourt.

"I rather think we are supposed to believe that, as a Knight of the Church, he was chaste and ended up with neither," Iphicles commented wryly.

"Poor St. George," Aresborough mused. "Still, I suppose virtue brings its own reward. Damned if I can see it though."

Iphicles laughed.  "Aren't you damned anyway?" he flicked back.

"True enough," the Duke owned.  "Speaking of which, I was thinking of trying my luck at this new hell off Pall Mall tonight," he continued.  "Join me?"

Iphicles hesitated, torn.

The Duke leaned in close to Iphicles so none would overhear him, his breath caressing the Earl's cheek.  "Then maybe you'll just have to dream of your reward, Iphicles.  Have a virtuous evening."

With that, he turned and made his way from the crowded room, people in his way moving swiftly to allow him unimpeded egress.  Iphicles stood staring after him, damning his conscience, his mother, his brother for not being here to take over responsibility for her, and most of all his odd reaction to the Duke's statement.  After a moment he recollected himself, biting back his disappointment, and moved towards his partner for the next dance.

Before he reached her, Lady Annesley descended upon him, declaring herself forever in his debt for rescuing her poor dear lamb from that man, and for then seeing him off.

"Dear Lord Royston, I don't care what the rest of the world thinks - your brother's heroism doesn't hold a candle to you in my estimation."

"Thank you," Iphicles murmured dryly, freeing his sadly crushed sleeve from her eager grasp with a little difficulty, before continuing towards his object.

Somehow he got through the evening, which rapidly descended into a particular form of torture, becoming a whirl of objectionable people claiming his notice, young girls employing the arts of the coquette as they attempted to capture his obviously wandering attention, and capped off by a waltz with Sophia that ended with that young lady almost in tears at the Earl's heartless abstraction.  Her crushing disappointment at the change in him from earlier led her into unbecoming frankness.  She told him bluntly that she wore Ravenscourt's flowers, again.  He nodded.  She told him that Ravenscourt had proposed to her.  He wished her happy.  She asked him in a voice which trembled if he did not care for her.  He asked her to repeat what she had said; he had not quite heard it.

She continued the moves of the dance, too well-bred to risk social disapprobation by slapping the Earl across his undeniably handsome but cruel face and storming off, but no sooner had the dance finished than she retreated to her mama and begged to be taken home, pleading a headache.

It was not long before the Earl found his own mother and encouraged her home.  Reluctantly she allowed herself to be persuaded from Sir John Laxom's flattering attentions, and agreed.  Once she had taken herself to bed, the Earl found himself with one arm leaning on the overmantel, a highly polished boot resting on the fireguard as he stared down into the empty grate in the drawing room, wondering if he might find his way to the new hell of which the Duke had spoken.  He angrily conceded that he did not know enough to find it, and was no longer sure how pleased the Duke would be to see him there.  With that option denied him, he was not in the mood to find other company tonight.  He wanted Caroline with an intensity which took him by surprise; her continued absence had brought him to a new level of frustration.  He could always find a lightskirt to release his desires, but the Earl had seen the results of the pox.  So he took himself off to bed.

Once his valet had left the room, leaving the Earl in bed, Iphicles' hand went straight to his cock.  He thought back to that scene in the Duke's drawing room as his hand moved slowly over his hardening cock, needing release but wanting to prolong the pleasure as long as possible.  One finger stroked over the smooth head, and he remembered Caroline's tongue doing the same thing to him.  He imagined how it would feel if she were to kneel before him, as the woman at the Duke's had knelt before her partner, so that he could thrust his cock deep into her mouth.  As he thought back to that night, he remembered the sounds from Hazell and Farraday.  Without volition, he found himself remembering the way Farraday had pushed desperately into Hazell's hand.  Iphicles' hand moved faster, his hips lifting as he thrust into his own hand, feeling the sudden wetness of the tip of his cock.  Eyes closed, teeth biting into his lip to keep quiet, he thrust faster, thinking of the woman on her knees, taking his cock, taking all of it into her moist mouth as Farraday's moans grew louder, and then the Duke's voice in his ear asked him what he thought.  He exploded into his hand, gasping and sweating at the release.

He lay for a moment before turning over, wiping the cum from his hand onto the sheet and closing his eyes.  But sleep eluded him still; that same scene, the sound of the Duke's voice in his ear, kept haunting him.  It wasn't long before his hand was slowly stroking his cock again, gradually bringing it back to hardness while his other hand began to move across his nipples, touching, then rolling them between his fingers as he worked his full cock.  He heard again Farraday's wild sounds of delight as he impaled himself on Hazell's fingers, and tried to discipline his mind, to bring back the mental picture of the man and woman in front of him, but all he could see were bodies, naked and entwined, pleasuring one another, and he could no longer tell who they were.

He groaned as he found himself imagining what it would have been like if the audience had taken off their clothes and joined in, imagining thrusting into the woman until she was writhing under him, begging him for more, and then suddenly he saw the Duke, smiling lazily at him as he brought the woman to orgasm, watching him as he spent his seed deep inside her.  Iphicles cried out as he came, his eyes tightly closed, desperately trying to summon a vision of Caroline to him.  He failed.

(To be continued)

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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