Issue 16 - August 2008

Regency Relations, Part 3 by Damerel

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

Part 3

Part 1

The busy streets of London gave way to open country and the Earl, his attention no longer on threading his match bays through the traffic-filled thoroughfares, found his mind drifting back to his departure from Half Moon Street. He had needed to employ unusually firm measures with his mother to prevent an embarrassing scene as his portmanteaux were loaded.

He had gone into the drawing room to say his farewells, only to find his parent labouring under a strong sense of righteous indignation. She could not understand, indeed she refused to see, any possible reason for Iphicles wishing to leave town at the height of the Season, and as for her feelings upon learning -from Another, moreover, not from the lips of her eldest son - that he would be a guest of that Dreadful man…

Iphicles had eyed her narrowly. "My brother, I take it."

"There is no call to decry your brother for his sense of duty towards his Mama." Her bosom swelled indignantly. "Precisely when did you intend to inform me of your destination, Iphicles? Do you have no consideration for the blow to my sensibilities it has been to find that you know That Man? That you willingly will spend time as his guest?" Her eyes beseeched his tragically. "Have you no proper feeling?"

Here her emotion overcame her and she uncorked the vinaigrette which had been her constant companion since the dire news had been broken to her. Caught between annoyance and concern, the Earl hesitated. At that moment, Harry entered the room, checking on becoming aware of the atmosphere, before advancing to seat himself and watch the show with every appearance of complacence.

"Tell him, Harry," the Dowager appealed with a pitiful flutter of her hand towards her younger son. "Tell him he must not do such a thing."

Captain Fairfax eyed his brother with disenchantment and supposed that the Earl would do as he wished, regardless of his mother's need for her eldest son's support at this time, the anniversary of her husband's death. Gasping at Harry's temerity, Iphicles was wrong-footed for an instant, long enough for his mama to launch into another lament.

"I don't understand what has got into you, Iphicles, that you intend to do this. What shall I tell people? I refuse to repeat that you will be That Man's guest. What in heaven's name possessed you to accept his invitation? You must know his shocking reputation. What will people think?"

Iphicles had finally been pushed into declaring that as the head of the household, what he did was nobody's business save his own. He was leaving now; he would return to his house - a very slight emphasis on the possessive - when he chose, and only then. Harry's furlough was long enough to enable him to keep his Mama company for some time yet, so the Earl need have no fears as to her safety. He wished them farewell, and left.

By the time the Earl reached his destination, many hours later, his unpleasant leave-taking was almost forgotten, and as he swung the curricle neatly between two Cotswold stone pillars and past the gatehouse, a sudden sense of release and freedom ran through him. He looked with interest for his first sight of the Duke's country seat, and as he rounded the last bend in the drive, he was not disappointed. Built of the same mellow Cotswold stone as the gatehouse, it glowed gently and welcomingly in the afternoon sun. It was an impressive sight, more grandiose by far than the original house which the first Duke had caused to be built. This had been razed almost to the ground as the result of an unfortunate incident involving the third Duke, a chicken and a burning cigarillo. By way of expiation, the third Duke - who had escaped from the blaze only slightly singed, which was more than could be said for the unlucky chicken - had built the present imposing edifice which greeted Iphicles.

He was shown into the great hall, where he was relieved of his many-caped driving coat and gloves, and asked if he wished to be shown to his room before joining the other guests. Impatient suddenly for congenial company, knowing they were not precisely high sticklers and would forgive the travel-worn nature of his garments, and knowing that there was still plenty of time to change for dinner even allowing for the possibility that the Duke kept country hours here, the Earl desired to be taken to the other guests. He entered the room somewhat diffidently as he saw faces he recognised but nobody he knew, and then he relaxed and smiled as the Duke's unmistakable figure crossed the room towards him. Suddenly almost giddy with relief at the removal of any duty except to enjoy himself, the Earl accepted the glass of wine the Duke pressed upon him and joined enthusiastically in the lively debate raging over the finer points of some of the leading actresses.

By the time he came to change for dinner, Iphicles had imbibed generously enough to allow his valet unaccustomed liberties. When finally that worthy allowed the Earl out of his clutches, it was for Iphicles to encounter the Duke in the passageway outside his room.

The Duke's eyebrows raised. "Such splendour in my honour, Iphicles. I'm overwhelmed."

Suddenly self-conscious, Iphicles glanced down at himself, seeing with repugnance at the fob with which his valet had triumphantly finished off his outfit. "Oh my God, I look like a damned dandy," he uttered with loathing.

The Duke laughed, then moved forward. "Let me help you," he offered, and bending his head, concentrated on unfastening the fob at Iphicles' waist. The Earl stood watching the dark head bent before him, breathing in a strangely heady scent as he did so. By the time the Duke looked up, with the offending object safely in his hand, Iphicles' colour was high and his breathing had quickened.

A slow smile curved the Duke's lips. "I should turn the fellow off, if I were you, Iphicles," he said. "He's obviously dressed you too warmly."

It was true. The Earl was aware that his cheeks were flushed, his clothes seemed to cling tightly to him, and perspiration was beginning to gather beneath his shirt, a drop of sweat sliding down his spine as the Duke looked at him.

"Perhaps I should," he agreed automatically, uncomfortably aware that the wine he had drunk appeared to have robbed him of the ability to hold a sensible conversation. He stood staring back into the Duke's dark eyes until they were interrupted by Farraday's eruption from his bedchamber, the one next to Iphicles'.

"Damnation, Aresborough," he demanded indignantly on seeing the Duke, "What the devil do you mean by giving me a room full of paintings of some damned female type wringing her hands and crying over her dead child?"

Aresborough's eyes gleamed with sudden amusement as he turned slightly to look at the indignant peer. "Come now, Rupert, that's one of my esteemed ancestors you're objecting to."

"Well I'm sorry for you Aresborough, that's all I can say." Farraday shuddered artistically. "Can't you do something about it?"

The Duke sighed. "I'm sure I can have it removed, if you find yourself unable to support its presence," he agreed.

"I don't care what the devil you do with it, as long as you get rid of that damned depressing woman!" Farraday informed him, in a manner which suddenly reminded Iphicles irresistibly of Harry. The Duke's gaze let Iphicles know that he shared his amusement even while he assured Farraday that the offending picture would be removed before he had to brave his bedchamber again, and the three of them continued downstairs to where supper would be served.

By the time Iphicles returned to his bedchamber, he was decidedly the worse for wear. In his cups, in fact. He heard a thump from the next door bedchamber announcing Farraday's arrival in his own bed as Iphicles blew his candle out, and deduced that the painting which had so offended Farraday must have been removed. Either that, or he was no longer in a fit condition to notice it. Smiling as he thought of the evening he had spent, the conversation he had enjoyed with the Duke, and the Duke's flattering attention, the Earl slipped into a sound sleep.

He was jerked suddenly awake. He lay there, wondering what had woken him. Then he heard it again. A muffled moan. His brows drawing together, Iphicles sat up, wondering where it was coming from. There it was again, and then a gasping pleading "Yes, now!" His cheeks grew hot as he realised what the sound was which was coming from the bedchamber adjoining his, and he slid back beneath the covers, punching the pillows into shape with enough force to temporarily drown the sounds. Only temporarily though. A low constant groaning became audible, punctuated with another's rhythmic grunts, then Farraday's unmistakable voice, begging, pleading to be taken harder and faster, to be fucked until he couldn't stand. Iphicles turned over in his bed, pulling one of the pillows over his head, trying to block out the sounds. To no avail. The bed next door creaked rhythmically, the groans continued, and to his horror Iphicles found his body responding to the sounds of pleasure.

He tried desperately to ignore it, but as the sounds became wilder, as the grunts turned into gasping cries, close together now as the man's thrusts into Farraday quickened, he was powerless to stop himself shaking free of the muffling pillow or to prevent his hand drifting to his aching cock. He almost groaned as his hand closed around the hot shaft, and he began to work it in time with the groans and gasps from next door, trying to keep silent as his other hand trailed across his lips and his tongue flicked out to wet a finger. His throat dry, he swallowed hard as he drew that one finger very lightly down his throat, across his collar bone, tracing an undeniable path to his nipple. The already tight flesh contracted further at the touch of his finger and raised beneath his touch. Closing his eyes, he took the nipple between his fingers and rolled it as his other hand moved faster, finally pinching his nipple hard as his hand tightened convulsively around his cock. His cry as his warm cum spilled over his stomach was drowned by the abandoned sounds of ecstasy from next door.

Iphicles lay there for a while in the dark, panting, before his hand moved to his mouth and he began to lick it, lovingly tasting his cum in slow comforting swipes of his tongue. The noises from next door had now become the low murmur of conversation, a sudden characteristic laugh informing the Earl that Farraday's visitor was none other than Sir Richard Hazell. An inexplicable wave of melancholy hit Iphicles as he heard the sounds of conversation from next door, and imagined the two of them lying there holding one another. He turned over in his bed and willed sleep to return. Eventually, it did.

Iphicles drifted slowly awake, taking a moment to remember where he was. Dull daylight from between imperfectly drawn curtains lit the room, the sound of rain lashing against the window panes persuading the Earl to turn over in his bed and stay there a while longer. It could not yet be midday as his valet had made no appearance. It was unlikely any of the other guests, or their host, would arise so early following the night they had spent. And the sound of relentless rain which, now he was fully awake, he realised had been going on for some time, did nothing to tempt him from the warm haven of his bed.

He stretched, luxuriating in the sensation of waking muscles, wondering what the day had in store. Last night he had eagerly accepted the Duke's invitation to ride out with him, but there would be little pleasure even in the Duke's company in hacking in this weather. Out of season, there was no hunting or shooting to tempt any of the party outside and no other reason for them to venture out in such persistent rain. Some of the company last night had gamed, although no money appeared to have changed hands, only promissory notes; others, like him and the Duke, had simply talked. Perhaps today would simply be a repeat of last night, only a little less well-lubricated. However the day was spent, Iphicles reflected with a smile, it bore no comparison to the tedium and claustrophobia of tonnish life. He spared a brief thought for his Mama and Harry, wondering idly which of them he felt most sorry for being left with the other, before a noise from next door took the smile from his face.

He glanced at the wall between the two rooms, unwillingly reminded of the activity that had disturbed his sleep last night, and also wondering how it was that noise travelled so clearly through solid stone. In the grey daylight, his question was answered. A door in the wall announced that these two rooms had, at some time, been used as bedchamber and dressing room. Although solidly built, the door was ill-fitting, and the sounds were unavoidably filling the Earl's silent bedchamber. Unmistakable sounds which would not stop, and which could not be ignored. The sounds of hand meeting softer flesh in a series of hard slaps. Each slap was followed immediately by a gasp, a plea, a begging, "Harder, please Richard, harder." But the slaps kept their own slow rhythm, causing Farraday to beg more loudly, more desperately. Then there was sudden silence. Iphicles strained his ears to find out why.

His mouth opened in shock as the silence was broken by the brutal smack of leather against skin. There was a cry of pain, then one of outrage. "Don't stop, for God's sake Richard, do it. Please." Again, leather meeting flesh, the cry, followed by a groan. "More, God, more." Quicker now, groans almost constant, the slap of leather punctuated by Hazell's growled commands. "Beg for it, whore. Tell me you want it." And Farraday's gasping "Yes, please Richard, I want it, please don't stop. Harder. Make me come. Please."

Iphicles lay rigid in his bed, trying to deny what he was hearing, and encouraging the sense of revulsion he knew that he should be feeling. The sounds continued unabated. In desperation, Iphicles threw back his covers and, heroically ignoring the hardened state of his cock, walked across the room to the china bowl. Pouring some water into it, he reached for the washcloth and began to sponge himself. The slight noises he made did little to drown out what was happening. Farraday was whimpering now - pain or pleasure, Iphicles couldn't tell, as the leather continued its inexorable assault. Iphicles looked down, to see the cloth in his hand slowly circling his left nipple, again and again, long after it was necessary. He abruptly threw the cloth into the bowl and snatched up a towel. Drying himself roughly he looked around for a shirt. What in hell had his damned man done with them? He finally located one and pulled it on over his head with clumsy hands, realising his mistake as the shirt slipped lightly down his body, its tails trailing over his aching cock with a soft caress which made his cock jerk and his teeth bite hard into his lip to prevent a whimper escaping him.

His eyes closing, the Earl gave up the unequal fight. Drawing the ends of the shirt aside, he wrapped a comforting hand around himself. Nothing more than that, certainly not to stroke the straining flesh in time with the groans from next door, the sound of leather on flesh, the wild urging for Hazell to continue, harder, to make him come. Iphicles' hand stilled and his cock began to leak as, in a wild string of explosive sounds, Farraday finally came.

Iphicles stood, head down, eyes closed, breathing fast, torn between relief and overwhelming disappointment. He could finish himself off in a business-like manner without being troubled by the inappropriate sounds from next door. That had to be a good thing. He simply felt disappointed because he would now have to be silent, that was all. Just as his hand began to move again, a raw voice came from next door. "Suck me."

Iphicles' eyelids screwed more tightly together as he tried not to think of the scene playing out only yards from him; of Farraday, spattered with his own cum, sore and bruised from Hazell's attentions, kneeling before him, taking the sensitive tip in his mouth before pushing down fully on it. Of Hazell wrapping his hands in Farraday's hair, thrusting into the welcoming mouth, fucking it hard until he was groaning with each thrust. Iphicles' thrusts into his hand were in time, soft moans escaping him as Hazell groaned, and then as the pace quickened both thrust faster, deeper, feeling it build, needing release, desperate to come, desperate…oh God. Iphicles' knees buckled and he made a wild grab at the side of the bed as the world tipped around him.

He opened his eyes to find himself on his knees, the covers pulled half off the bed beside him, and his seed strung across the Axminster carpet beneath him, his lawn shirt damp with sweat. He buried his face in the bed covers where he was clutching them, smelling the lonely scent of his seed on his hand. He knelt there in the silence from next door, waiting for his heart-rate to slow, for his breathing to steady. Waiting for… something.

The rain continued with the particular enthusiasm reserved for an English summer's day, and the party broke down into small groups to pursue their own pleasures in such inclement weather. Iphicles found the Duke at his side after luncheon, offering to show him around the house. He accepted the invitation with alacrity and spent a pleasant hour being shown the picture-gallery, containing paintings from the third Duke onwards, the earlier portraits having been lost when the house was burned. There was a strong family resemblance in the male line of the family, and Iphicles found his gaze flickering between the paintings and the man at his side to verify this. The same dark eyes and hair, the same full lips; even the faintly ridiculous fashions of yesteryear could not hide the muscular build common to each Duke through the years.

The portraits ended with the previous Duke. Iphicles expressed his surprise that there was as yet no portrait of the present Duke.

Aresborough emitted a dry crack of mocking laughter. "Do you really think I have nothing better to do than sit for hours before some damned painter simply to satisfy the vanity of a family of which I am the only surviving member, Iphicles?"

The question seemed rhetorical, so the Earl allowed his attention to be drawn to the series of engravings which followed the portraits. After an instant of shock, he felt his colour rise. They were engravings the like of which he had not previously encountered. Their artistic merit might be questionable, but that was not their purpose. He flicked a sideways glance at the Duke, wondering at the man shamelessly displaying these alongside his family portraits. The Duke was watching him, an amused smile playing across his lips.

"An interesting collection," Iphicles managed. "Is the accumulation of such pieces your work, or a family tradition?"

"I feel it incumbent upon me to patronise struggling artists, Iphicles," the Duke informed him. He looked over the pictures before him before adding, "I believe this one to show particular talent."

His hand gestured towards a painting a little further along the gallery. Iphicles obediently moved along and looked, only to be further discomposed. The others he had glanced over had been of men and women; the one before him was of a man thrusting into a man from behind, the artist capturing in exquisite detail the moment when all control was gone and both were lost in ecstasy.

"It has some merit," Iphicles agreed, his voice oddly tight. Was that what Farraday and Hazell had looked like last night?

"This is one of his also," Aresborough continued.

Iphicles withdrew his gaze from the picture before him and joined the Duke further along the gallery, where he was standing full-square surveying a picture with an expression of satisfaction. The Earl turned to look, wishing above all for this to end. There were not many pictures left before the gallery finished; please God may the Duke not want him to examine every piece of art between where they now stood and the far doorway. He turned his attention to the picture before him. The central figure was a naked man, his arms outstretched, chained between two columns, with figures crouching at his feet, working their way up his legs, tongues snaking over flesh, teeth biting, while he was taken brutally from behind, the pain on his face belied by the way his erect cock strained for attention. Iphicles stared at the painting for a moment before seeing the dark figure at the back of the room watching the action, sprawled on his seat in an oddly familiar manner.

He looked away abruptly, discomposed. "He's good," he agreed again, hardly knowing what he said, his eyes falling on yet another picture as he did so, with yet more naked men in the throes of passionate copulation.

Before the Duke could call his attention to any more pieces, Iphicles made his way towards the doorway at the end of the gallery. To his infinite relief, the Duke didn't call him back to witness any further examples of his particular taste in art. Iphicles stood in the doorway to the next room, relieved beyond words to find it harboured no exotic art or sculpture. It was merely a small room with an escritoire against the window, a few mundane paintings on the walls, and as deadly-looking a pair of gold-mounted pistols as ever he had seen on the wall above the fireplace.

Swiftly crossing the room to them, Iphicles lifted one down, enjoying its weight and balance. It was quite evidently a weapon meant for business, but there would also be pleasure in its employ.

He sighted experimentally along the barrel at a miniature hung on the far wall.

"It throws a trifle left," the Duke informed him. "Allow me…" Moving behind Iphicles, his right arm followed the path of Iphicles' and his hand closed around the Earl's wrist, moving it the appropriate amount to counter the action of the weapon. Iphicles stood very still, the Duke's arm against his, his back against him, and his warm breath stirring the Earl's hair. When the Duke moved back, Iphicles found the room oddly cold. He held the gun a moment longer, for form's sake, before relinquishing it to the Duke. While Aresborough returned it to its original position on the wall, Iphicles moved jerkily across the room to look out of the window and watch the relentless rain over the manicured gardens,

"Do you fence?"

He turned to see an almost feral smile on the Duke's face.

"It has been known," he agreed, a sudden excitement rippling through him at the thought of some activity on this day of unforeseen incarceration.

Calling for a footman, the Duke commanded the man to fetch his foils. He then proceeded to strip off his coat and turn back the sleeves of his shirt. Iphicles followed suit, and when both were ready, the Duke took the foils from the man, dismissing him as he did so.

They moved back to the gallery where the long stretch of floor allowed unimpeded movement, brought their blades together in a swift salute, and began. It did not take long for Iphicles to recognise that he was outclassed; he had a quick eye and a supple wrist, but he was no natural at this. His preferred weapon was the pistol, and he was well-known at Manton's Gallery as a deadly accurate shot. The Duke on the other hand fought with a pace and enjoyment that conveyed his love of the art; his swift moves were disconcertingly unpredictable to his opponent, his teeth bared in a smile as he employed them, but his dark gaze spoke of the careful planning underlying each. He might look to be an undisciplined fighter, but every move and counter-move was thought out.

Iphicles found himself hard-pressed, and could feel himself beginning to sweat as he was forced onto the defensive. Aresborough was steadily moving him backwards along the gallery, his lips drawn back in that same smile even though he was breathing a little more quickly now, his eyes alight with enjoyment, and his body tireless. For an instant, Iphicles found himself fatally distracted by the unusual lightness of the Duke's moves, seeing the answer in the muscled thighs which absorbed the shock of the rapid foot movements. Aresborough took advantage of the instant's inattention to break through his guard. Moving swiftly, Iphicles managed to deflect the Duke's lunge, so the point of the Duke's foil caught his left arm instead of coming to rest above his heart.

With a slight laugh, but aggrieved at himself for giving away the match before it had reached its natural conclusion, the Earl allowed his foil to drop until the end touched the floor. "Touché," he admitted, breathing heavily still.

The Duke's foil clattered to the floor and he was at the Earl's side. "My dear Iphicles, are you hurt? The button must have come off my foil. I would not have such an unfortunate incident happen for the world."

Iphicles stared nonplussed for an instant, before following the Duke's gaze to the left sleeve of his white shirt. There was a fresh red stain on it, growing by the minute. The Earl, lost in the excitement of the challenge, had not felt it when the Duke's blade had caught him, but now he had seen the wound, he could feel the beginnings of a dull ache.

"I'm fine," he muttered, embarrassed.

"Let me see," the Duke commanded peremptorily. When Iphicles made no instant move he insisted, "Oh for God's sake, man, take off your shirt. Let me see."

Iphicles laid his blade to one side, reluctantly ruined his valet's careful work with his neckcloth, and then unfastened his shirt, slipping it off over his head. The injury was bleeding heavily but was quite clearly a clean and superficial cut. Nevertheless the Duke directed Iphicles to be seated whilst he took the Earl's discarded neckcloth and began to mop the flow of blood with it. After he had dealt with the blood which had spilled from the wound, he held the cloth firmly to the injury to arrest any further bleeding. Iphicles sat there in his breeches and began to feel oddly light-headed as he felt the Duke's breath against his bare skin. It was the loss of blood, he realised, but it was not an unpleasant feeling. As though dreaming, he slowly became aware that the Duke had removed the makeshift pad, and he felt another sensation. He looked down at his arm with shock, to see the Duke's tongue moving over the site of his wound. Startled, he pulled away with an oath.

The Duke raised mocking eyes to his. "My apologies, Iphicles, for taking you by surprise, but human saliva holds definite healing qualities," he explained. "It cleanses the wound - any leech worth his salt will tell you that."

Feeling a trifle self-conscious, Iphicles moved back to his previous position. "You took me by surprise," he apologised.

The Duke looked at him, dark eyes gleaming. "Yes, I can see I did." His head began to lower to the Earl's upper arm, before he looked up at the Earl again. "You don't mind, do you, Iphicles?"

"No, I don't mind." And it was the truth as soon as he felt that moist tongue against his flesh. Licking him, cleaning the oozing blood from the wound with slow, deliberate sweeps of his tongue, the damp warmth seeming to draw patterns on his flesh. Iphicles was floating, unwilling to come back to reality as the Duke's mouth closed over the wound. The injury ached, but that soft tongue slowly wiped the pain away. He sat there drifting, his eyes closing as the Duke's tongue worked its magic. It was only slowly that he became aware of the increasing constriction of his breeches, announcing his cock's reaction to the pleasurable sensation. In concert with that reaction, Iphicles was suddenly aware that his nipples were beginning to tighten. It had been too long since he had seen Caroline, that was the trouble; his body was ready to treat any touch from another as stimulation. He sat as still as he could, waiting for it to be over and hoping desperately that the Duke had not noticed his wholly inappropriate reaction to a simple piece of first aid.

Finally, the Duke straightened up from his work.

"I should think you'll live."

His eyes opened at the familiar mocking tone to find the Duke had regained his feet and was extending a hand. Taking it, he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and began to put his shirt on.

Iphicles still felt oddly light-headed when he joined the party in the drawing-room before dinner that evening. The Duke had left him to change his shirt after the incident in the gallery, and Iphicles had not seen him since. A quick glance around the assembled company informed him that the Duke was not yet present, so the Earl joined the group closest to him, consisting of Farraday, Sir George Ogborne and Viscount Roslyn.

The Earl attempted to concentrate his mind on their discussion, but each time he glanced at Farraday he found himself reminded of the sounds from the previous night, somehow accompanied by visions of the painting he had seen. Was that really what Farraday and Hazell had looked like together?

Lost in his involuntary reflections, Iphicles was taken by surprise when the company began to move into the dining room. He had not noticed the Duke's arrival, and by the time his group reached the table Iphicles was disappointed to find that the seats beside the Duke had already been taken. He had swiftly discovered the previous evening that no formalities such as planned seating arrangements were in force here. The Earl pulled himself together with an effort and began to take a more active part in the conversation around him. He had after all enjoyed the Duke's company for most of the day, as well as last night. It was damned unreasonable of him to expect any more. He was seated with Farraday on his left hand side, Roslyn beside Farraday, and Ogborne opposite him, with Appleton at Ogborne's side. They were pleasant enough company, Iphicles supposed, then had to suppress a grin as he mentally compared this to what he would be subjected to were he still in London. They were wonderful company, he amended determinedly, and joined in their light-hearted banter with renewed vigour.

As had been the case the previous night, the wine flowed freely and the party grew steadily louder and less inhibited as the meal progressed. Iphicles' enjoyment was dimmed slightly by the fact that each time he looked the Duke appeared to be deep in conversation with Asbury, who was seated to his right, but he thrust that aside and allowed himself to be entertained by Appleton's seemingly endless fund of scandalous stories about Wellington, one of whose Staff happened to be Appleton's younger brother. He idly committed some of these to memory, enjoyably anticipating passing these on to Harry and Iorweth who would, the Earl was sure, relish them as much as did the assembled company.

It was as the port did the rounds and some of the assembled company took snuff that, through his haze of well-being, Iphicles was brought to a realisation that shocked him. As the Earl reached yet again for his glass, a laugh breaking from him at the latest outrageous claim from Appleton, his attention was caught by a movement to his left. A glance was sufficient to inform him that Roslyn's hand was on Farraday's leg. Not just resting there as he made a conversational point, but stroking, moving to his inner thigh as Farraday's legs parted to facilitate this, and then slowly moving upwards towards his cock which was becoming increasingly evident, swelling against his breeches. Iphicles jerked his eyes away. He had thought that Hazell was Farraday's lover, but Hazell was seated further down the table, either unconcerned or unaware of what was taking place; in fact, as Iphicles looked more closely, he could not be sure that a similar scene was not taking place between Hazell and his neighbour.

Disconcerted, Iphicles took a deep draught from his glass. He was not shocked, precisely; he knew of Farraday's and Hazell's preferences, and had not forgotten their previous public uninhibited expression of these, but to indulge these with partners other than each other, and to do so at the dining table, moreover when seated close beside him, disturbed Iphicles greatly. In his determination to look anywhere but at what was taking place next to him, Iphicles' gaze found Ogborne's blond good looks across the table. Ogborne met his eyes with a smile so suggestive, before dipping a finger in his port and lifting it to his mouth to slowly suck the dripping liquid from it as he held the Earl's gaze, that Iphicles thrust his chair back and left the room with no more than a muttered excuse.

The door swung closed behind him as he made for the sanctuary of the empty drawing room. He stood at the window, resting his overheated forehead against the cool glass and waiting for his breathing to calm. Gradually it did so as he stared out into the grey evening outside, noting with the part of his mind that was attempting to distract him from recent events that it had at last stopped raining. His cheeks heated anew as he realised what he had done, rushing from the room like some schoolroom miss. It was not as though he were precisely a stranger to the habits of the Duke's friends, after all. No, it had been the proximity to him of what had been going on which had so disturbed him. That, and the unmistakable invitation from Ogborne. Iphicles was prepared to ignore the proclivities of those around him in order to enjoy the Duke's company, but to find out that he was now considered as a possible player in their games… His eyes closed and he breathed deeply again, trying to calm the sudden quivering inside him at the thought.

Eventually he turned from the window and wondered what to do. He preferred not to run the gauntlet of returning to the dining room; in any case, he strongly suspected that Farraday and Roslyn would still be indulging themselves and he emphatically did not wish to be seated beside them whilst they did so. No, it would not be long before the company adjourned, no doubt breaking up into smaller groups as they had done yesterday evening. The Duke had made his way to the drawing room when that had happened yesterday, and Iphicles hoped that this would be the case again tonight. He settled himself in a chair and, contemplating the polish on his boots, waited.

It was a full twenty minutes according to the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf when a sudden increase in noise announced that the dining room door had opened and closed. Iphicles waited hopefully, but whoever it was had left had taken themselves elsewhere.

He sat there, watching the hands of the clock, waiting. There were occasional bursts of uproarious laughter from the dining room, but no more movement in or out of the room. He remained undisturbed even by servants in his solitude. Growing ever more uncomfortable, Iphicles finally got to his feet and went looking for company. He knew that there was at least one other no longer at the table. As he walked past the door to the dining room he could still hear voices; although he strained his ears, he could not tell whether or not the Duke was still part of the collected gathering. He made his way along the west corridor of the house, opening doors at random, hoping for company or, at the very least, some sort of diversion. He stood in the doorway to the Yellow Parlour for an instant too long, before he stepped sharply backwards and let the door swing to.

Blindly he sought for the doorway to the gardens and escaped into the warmly damp evening air, desperately seeking sanctuary. He finally made it to the shelter of the line of elm trees and leaned against the wide trunk of one of these for support, lifting his overheated face to the grey skies in denial. Yet still all he could see was the tableau which had greeted him in the Yellow Parlour: Hazell bent over a chair, his breeches around his knees, while the Duke slid his cock into him. Iphicles' hand wrenched at his damnably tight neckcloth as he denied the moment when he had watched, when he had seen the Duke's hard cock pushing into Hazell's ass, the moment when the Duke had looked up and seen Iphicles standing there watching in shock, and smiled. Oh God.

Stumbling slightly as he moved, Iphicles ran. Over the soaking grass, then along the path, gravel spurting beneath his boots, away from the house, away from the sight of the Duke fucking Hazell, away from the laughter and the wine and the confusion.

He finally came to a panting halt where the short lawn beside the lake began to give way to carefully chosen shrubs, bending over as he fought for breath, hands braced on his thighs, trying desperately to restore some sort of order to his thoughts. So what if he had been unwilling witness to embarrassing sights this evening? He ripped off his constricting neckcloth and threw it to one side. He knew Aresborough's reputation; had he really expected the man to be a monk?

He swallowed convulsively, breathing hard still as he slowly straightened up, railing at himself for his extraordinary reaction. And then he stopped breathing altogether when he became aware of a familiar presence behind him, and heard that well-known mocking voice.

"A little damp for a walk, don't you think, Iphicles?"

His eyes closed, Iphicles tried desperately to return his breathing pattern to normal. He wouldn't - couldn't - turn and face the Duke. Not yet. Not until he could look at him without seeing the intent look on his face as he watched his cock moving in and out of Hazell. Iphicles remained facing the lake in the dusk, unable to speak.

The Duke moved close behind him. Iphicles kept his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. The warmth of the Duke's body close to his, the heat of the Duke's breath on his neck, the caress of the Duke's voice in his ear. "Iphicles…"

"What?" His voice was nothing more than a breathless croak.

"I think - no, I am certain - it is going to rain again. Which leads me to wonder why you decided to take a walk in such weather."

Iphicles swallowed and swivelled on his heel to face the Duke. "It was warm," he managed. "Too much wine…" His eyes met Aresborough's dark gaze and his mouth dried. His heart beat faster.

"Why did you leave, Iphicles?" The Duke's smooth voice made him shiver suddenly.

Why had he left? What had there been to shock him so, to overset him so in what he had seen. It was nothing that he didn't know to be true about the Duke. His breath came fast and he couldn't tear his eyes from Aresborough's. The Duke's broad figure was only inches from his, close enough to feel the hot breath against his cheek, to imagine he felt the warmth emanating from that powerful body even through the dark waistcoat over white shirt, the waistcoat cut away to display the top of tight breeches which Iphicles had just seen opened, and the Duke's cock protruding from them…

"I want you."

Iphicles stared at Aresborough, unwilling to believe that the words hanging in the evening air had really come from his own mouth.

The Duke moved a step closer until they were touching, the length of his body against Iphicles', leaving Iphicles breathless in disbelief as the Duke's lips moved closer to his own. His mouth opened, to say no, to tell him this was a mistake, this wasn't what he had meant, this wasn't what he wanted, and then full lips were on his and a hot tongue slid into his mouth. Iphicles whimpered as the Duke's tongue stroked against his. The Duke's arms came around Iphicles to support him, bringing their bodies still closer as he did so, and Iphicles froze in shock as he felt an unmistakable hardness pressing against him through the soft material of their breeches. His eyes closed in denial as his own cock filled instantly in response.

He felt the Duke's hands pulling his waistcoat and then his shirt open and he was suddenly shivering in the warm evening air, waiting for the touch he knew would follow. He knew this had to stop, but his nipples were tight, aching with need, waiting for the Duke's hand. Instead the dizzying warmth moved from his mouth and a moist tongue swiped across one nipple. He cried out and opened his eyes, looking down to see the dark head bent to his chest, watching the Duke move to his other nipple while his hands pulled the shirt from Iphicles' breeches and began to unbutton them. Iphicles' cock jerked at the realisation and he whimpered again, even while he knew he had to stop this before it went any further. Before it went too far.

Then his aching cock was freed, the movement of damp air over it making him shiver, and the Duke was moving lower, coming to rest on his knees before Iphicles. He watched in dry-mouthed disbelief as the Duke reached for him, moaning as Aresborough's finger moved across the smooth head before his hand wrapped around the hot flesh and guided it towards his mouth. Iphicles' head went back and he groaned helplessly at the pressure as the Duke's mouth swallowed him. The only things keeping Iphicles upright were the Duke's hands on his thighs, refusing to let his knees buckle under the unbelievable sensations as Aresborough's tongue moved over him, and teeth gently grazed his length. He started jerkily to push into the warmth around him, closing his mind to what he was doing, aware only of his cock.

Just as he realised that the warmth around him had gone, Aresborough's hands wrapped behind his knees, gently pulling him down to kneel opposite him in the wet grass. The Earl apprehensively met the Duke's intense eyes. His shirt was ripped open, his breeches were unbuttoned and his wet cock was revealed, but Iphicles lost all awareness of this as he was pulled into the Duke's gaze. This time it was he who reached towards the Duke, and his was the tongue which thrust frantically into the other's mouth, almost losing control as he tasted himself on the Duke's tongue. They were pressed tightly together, the buttons of Aresborough's waistcoat hard against the Earl's naked chest as Iphicles' hand eagerly stroked the Duke's length through his breeches. The Duke groaned slightly, pushing against Iphicles' seeking hand, then he was moving Iphicles backwards till he was lying on the soaking grass. The Earl's momentary revulsion at the cold wetness soaking through his clothes was lost when Aresborough lowered his mouth to Iphicles' and his tongue pushed inside while his hands began to move over the Earl's body, exploring and touching Iphicles in a way that left him writhing on the grass and making incoherent sounds of pleasure.

The Duke pulled back after a while and moved further down Iphicles' body, his tongue flicking out to Iphicles' cock, before his hands lifted the Earl's hips and he began to work Iphicles' breeches down fully. Iphicles hips had bucked upwards at the touch on his cock, and he was now lying still, dazed as he felt his boots being removed, then his breeches pulled right off. By the time the Duke returned to kneel astride Iphicles' prone body, the Earl's breathing was fast and uncontrolled. He stared up at the Duke's dark face, then his eyes lowered to where the Duke's cock was thrusting against his breeches. Swallowing slightly, he reached out an uncertain hand and touched it again. The Duke's sound of pleasure encouraged him, and he began to stroke it, feeling the movement through the breeches, aware that the Duke's eyes were steady on his face. Emboldened, Iphicles' hands moved to unfasten the Duke's breeches, staring at what was thus revealed. The Duke's cock was big, dark and hard, the tip gleaming wetly. Iphicles reached out to touch the shaft, encouraged again by the noise the Duke made. Then the Duke was moving further up his body and offering his cock to Iphicles' mouth.

Iphicles hesitated; he had never… he didn't know how… he shouldn't… but the leaking tip was inches from his lips, the scent of the Duke filling his senses, and Iphicles' tongue flicked out and he caught the clear drop of liquid on the swollen tip. The salty taste barely had time to register before the Duke was feeding his cock into Iphicles' suddenly willing mouth. He relaxed his muscles to allow the length in as far as it could go, and then he didn't know what to do. His dilemma was solved as the Duke pulled almost completely out before pushing himself back into Iphicles' mouth. He caught at the cock with his mouth as it came back in, determined not to let it go again, sucking desperately to keep the cock there, to keep the Duke inside him. A gasp then a low laugh from the Duke as he pulled back slightly before sliding in again between willing lips.

"You like it, Iphicles, don't you?" he asked as he repeated the action. He was beginning to thrust faster, making a noise of satisfaction each time he slid home, and Iphicles sucked harder, breathless sounds escaping him as he moved his wet mouth around the hard flesh.

Suddenly the Duke was pulling away from him, leaving him. Iphicles' chagrined eyes sought the Duke's face; he hadn't done it right, he hadn't been good enough for Aresborough. His fears began to ease as he watched the Duke stand up and pull off his neckcloth and then begin to strip himself of his waistcoat and shirt, his gaze on Iphicles' face as he did so. He set the toe of one boot behind the heel of the other and rid himself of it in a way that would strike horror to the heart of any self-respecting valet. A similar move and the other boot was gone, before the Duke peeled off his breeches and stood naked in the twilight, still looking down at Iphicles.

Part 4 follows in this issue.

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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