My Regelence Rake

by J. L. Langley

  Ardingley swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob.

  “Please, my lord, may I open your pants?” Hector mumbled against Seb’s neck.

  Yes. Say yes, Sebastian. Maybe it would help get Colton out of his system. No, it wouldn’t. He’d imagine it was Colton touching him. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. He had to get out of here.

  “Not now.” Smiling at Hector, Sebastian grabbed Hector’s hand, kissed it and brought it back up to his chest. He patted Hector’s leg. “I have to go.”

  With a pout, Hector scooted off his lap.

  As Sebastian stood, Peregrine opened the placket on his trousers, displaying his lovely prick, and Francis sank to his knees in front of Peregrine. Arching his back, Peregrine thrust his straining cock toward Francis. “Ooohhh…”

  Francis licked his lips, opened his mouth and leaned forward.

  Sebastian’s dick throbbed. Getting a piece of arse from some stranger wasn’t going to cure his infatuation, and he certainly couldn’t seduce Colton. But maybe if he concentrated on work… He adjusted his dick discreetly. He needed to go locate Rourke and keep himself busy with finding new guards.

  Burke House, the Earl of Hampton’s residence in Classige, Pruluce.

  “Then the bloke disappeared into the stable with Dame de Pique’s jockey.” Lord Francis Rycroft waggled his bushy brown eyebrows. “By the time I got there he had the jockey’s whirligigs in his trap.”

  For the second time today Colton was in way over his head. No way would he let on though. His future in horse racing depended on it. These men were some of the racing world’s elite. Dalton would just have to explain it all later. Colton glanced at his cousin.

  Dalton wasn’t even paying attention to the story. He stared off into space with a strange smirk on his face.

  Colton rolled his eyes. Perhaps he’d read one of Tarren’s silly romance novels. Better yet, he’d corner Aiden and question him about marital relations. Or were they even talking about marital relations? Wasn’t a whirligig a type of carriage? Trap meant mouth. No, it couldn’t be. A carriage wouldn’t fit in one’s mouth. Perhaps it was a trap like a snare, but that didn’t make much sense either.

  “Next thing I know he has his whole mitt inside the bloke’s Roby Douglass.” Lord Francis pushed his fist through his other hand.

  “Nooo…” One of the guys—Edmund something or other—gasped. “Really?”

  Lord Francis nodded. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Gareth Fareweather’s mouth formed an O and eased into a grin. “I would’ve loved to have seen that.”

  Who in the galaxy is this Roby Douglass fellow? Was that the name of the bloke Lord Francis met at the race? Colton wanted to ask, but something about how Lord Francis had worded his statement made him think better of it. Stars, he had to fit in with these guys. Copying the awed expressions of the men around him, he discreetly nudged Dalton with his elbow twice in quick succession.

  Dalton never glanced away from whatever had so thoroughly captured his attention. Lifting his chin, he dipped his head like he was silently communicating with someone. Didn’t he know how important this was?

  Colton followed his cousin’s gaze.

  Across the ballroom, several of the wallflowers and chaperones clustered together. All but Colton’s older brother Aiden conversed or stood around looking bored. Aiden lounged with his back propped against a pillar and his sketchscreen in hand. Apparently he’d given up all pretenses of socializing. I wonder if Nate or Cony have noticed him yet.

  “Who’re you looking at?” Colton whispered.

  “Pardon?” Dalton blinked at him.

  “What’s so interesting?” It wasn’t Aiden. He was too engrossed in his sketch to notice Dalton’s gestures. It couldn’t be the wallflowers. They were a boring lot.

  Raising his chin a little to indicate something across the room, Dalton grinned. “The admiral is taking champagne away from Trouble and his friend.”

  Trouble was pilfering drinks again? Colton spotted Trouble and Bannon about three yards from where Aiden stood. Still drawing, Aiden was oblivious to his stepson’s antics. On the other side of the marble column, Nate shook his head at Trouble and Bannon. Confiscating the champagne flutes from both of them, Nate dumped the contents into a potted plant situated in front of the column and stalked off.

  A few feet away from Nate, Viscount-Consort Girton dipped his head toward the hallway repeatedly. He was trying to get someone’s attention.

  Colton jerked his gaze to Dalton.

  Nodding, Dalton held up a finger close to his chest to indicate just a moment.

  Across the room, Girton smiled.

  Colton sighed. Girton was nearly old enough to be Dalton’s father. Not to mention… “Dalton, he’s a married man.”

  “But I’m not.” Dalton strode forward a few steps. Turning, he motioned with his hand toward the group of men standing around Colton. “Are you okay here?”

  No. He had no idea what they were saying. It was like they were speaking a different language, but Colton nodded and waved his cousin away. Colton had more important things to do. Dalton had made the introductions, Colton could do the rest on his own. He’d never been an introvert like his brothers Payton and Aiden.

  The first notes of a country dance started up, and a crowd swarmed to the dance floor, swallowing Dalton from view.

  Edmund something or other raised his voice to be heard over the music. “I hear Viscount-Consort Leith is trying to acquire Heavenly Dream’s colt.”

  “The Heavenly Dream who won the Daremere Classic this past year?” Colton asked.

  Edmund nodded. “That’s the one. I heard Mr. Inglish doesn’t want to sell, but Viscount-Consort Leith won’t take no for an answer. Rumor has it he’s trying to acquire the horse for his son Barnaby Plume. Plume’s last horse, Weekday’s Delight, was a resounding failure. He’s trying to get back into the game, but no one will sell to him, so he has his sire doing his legwork.”

  “I heard Plume is overdrawn all over town, and the viscount has cut him off,” Fareweather added.

  “I heard that too,” Edmund said.

  “Can’t say I blame Leith. Plume is a wastrel. Come to that, so is Leith’s consort.” Gareth Fareweather shrugged and turned toward Colton. “So, Ashbourne says you own Beaumont’s Beauty’s colt?”

  Colton grinned. “I do, yes. Though he’s no longer a colt. He’s four summers. His name is Apollo.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing him. Are you breeding him?” Lord Francis patted his chest then glanced down searching for something in his coat pocket. Assured whatever he was looking for was there, he dropped his hands to his side. He was the third son of the Marquis of Vale, who owned the last Devonshire Derby winner, so his interest in Apollo sparked Colton’s excitement.

  “I plan to. I’ve made an appointment with the Jockey Club for next week. I’m trying to get him a license. He’s already in the Breeding Register. And I’m looking for an architect for my new stables.” Colton even knew where he wanted to build his stables if Father and Cony would agree.

  Fareweather snagged a glass of brandy from the tray of a passing footman. “The man who designed my father’s stables is retired, but his daughter designed Roth’s stables.”

  Bertram Nevil, the heir of the Earl of Wingate, otherwise known as Viscount Roth, nodded his agreement. “And did a damn fine job. I’ll send her information to you if you like.” Roth had gotten into racing only last season, but already one of his horses had won three of the minor races. Word had it that his stables were remarkable.

  “Yes, thank you, that would be wonderful.” Colton beamed. This was going rather splendidly. Thank you, Dalton.

  “If you like, I can take you on a tour of my stables. Are you attending Tattersalls on the morrow? Perhaps afterwards.”

  Colton smiled. “I am, yes. I’m going with Ashbourne. Maybe I can persuade him to make a detour after the auction.”

  “What say you all that we tak
e a small break from the festivities?” Fareweather said. “I could use a smoke, and we can discuss the horses up for auction tomorrow. I’ve heard several rumors.”

  Edmund pressed something into Colton’s hand. “Say you’ll come outside with us, Lord Colton.” He leaned closer, shielding his mouth with his hand. “I’m going to need help coaxing the list of horseflesh up for sale from Fareweather.”

  Glancing down at his hand, Colton bit back a groan when he saw the cheroot on his palm. Cony will kill me. Hiding the cheroot in his pocket, he noticed the others doing the same. “Do you think he knows something the rest of us don’t?”

  Edmund winked. “Probably. His father gets the best gossip where horses are concerned. Last year I was going to bid on Karmen, but Fareweather found out Mr. Harper was putting Summer’s Breeze up on the auction block the very next week. Saved me a lot of blunt. No way would I have been able to afford both horses.”

  That was a bang-up tip. Summer’s Breeze was hands down the better piece of horseflesh.

  “Well then. Let’s all find ourselves a drink and meet outside. How about the lawn near the stables? In say…” Roth pulled out his pocket watch, studied it for a moment and closed it. “Ten minutes?”

  The men expressed their agreement and dispersed, leaving Colton standing on the side of the ballroom.

  Drats. He could not go outside. On the other hand, he couldn’t not go. He needed more than just Apollo if he was going to make it in the world of racing. He had a large allowance, but it wasn’t infinite. Like with Edmund, a good tip could make a huge difference in his choices.

  He needed a chaperone. Studying the room, he searched for someone suitable. His first choice, Dalton, was nowhere to been seen. He was probably in a dark corner with Girton.

  Aiden waltzed with his consort. His arm was nearly looped around Nate’s neck rather than resting on his shoulder. A piece of paper wouldn’t fit between them.

  Rexley—no, not Rexley. He’d never agree to them going outside. Nor would Cony or Father.

  Where was Tarren? He was normally easy to spot. Socializing was his forte. He loved to talk. There he was, tucking something into the inside pocket of his evening coat. Probably his dance card. Slipping into a group of his friends, he began talking in his usual animated style, hands and all. Dragging him away would be no easy feat. That left…

  Frowning, Trouble stood next to Rexley.

  Colton sighed. How could he get Trouble’s attention without Rexley seeing?

  Rexley’s lips moved and Trouble laughed. A big belly laugh causing several people to turn his way. Without glancing at Trouble, Rexley smirked. When Trouble’s mirth subsided, Rexley offered his arm. Taking it, Trouble allowed Rexley to sweep him away into the crowd of dancing couples.

  Forget Trouble. He wasn’t exactly a proper chaperone anyway. Colton needed a blood relation or more than one friend to accompany him. Oh well, there was nothing for it.

  Colton glanced over his shoulder to make certain neither of his parents were watching. They weren’t. Strolling over to the end of the ballroom, he put his back toward the wall as though he were watching the dancing. He took one sidestep toward the veranda and then another. The breeze from outside made the hair on the back of his head flutter. So close…

  He gave one more cursory look at the crowd—still no Father or Cony—and backed out the open ballroom doors.

  Chapter Five

  Unobserved, Sebastian leaned against the outside wall of Lord Hampton’s study. Not only had he finally gotten his body under control and distracted himself from fantasies of a certain untouchable prince, he’d located his friend. Sebastian peered through the gauzy curtains and open French doors, trying not to laugh.

  The Duke of Knighton was in the midst of a seduction. Sitting on the desk, Rourke leaned close to his prey’s neck and removed the tumbler from his grasp. The move was so slick it was captivating to watch. “Come now, Bernard, do you really want to spend the evening talking about the opera?” He set the glass on the desk next to an empty one.

  Bernard? Sebastian squinted to get a closer look at Rourke’s companion. Dark brown hair, pale skin, about five foot seven… Lord Bernard Kearsey.

  Bernard turned away from the fireplace as Rourke’s lips landed on his jaw. Bernard’s eyes fluttered closed, and a look of pure bliss crossed his face. “Your Grace.” He asked breathlessly, “W-what else would we do?”

  “I can think of several more interesting things to do.” The duke began loosening Bernard’s neckcloth.

  Opening his eyes, Bernard clutched his cravat but didn’t move away. “Your Grace?” His face turned a lovely shade of crimson. “Don’t you want to talk about I puritani?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Sebastian bit his lip. Everyone knew the duke kept a box at the theater, but Sebastian couldn’t remember his friend ever actually watching an opera. The box was merely another trysting place.

  With a chuckle, Rourke reeled him in and nuzzled his Vandyke beard against Bernard’s bare cheek. Wicked bastard.

  “But, but…what if someone comes in?” Bernard shot a glance toward the closed study door. “I shouldn’t be alone with you.”

  “Come now, Bernard. No one will know.” The white neckcloth came free, and the duke kissed Bernard’s neck.

  “Your Grace, should you be doing that?”

  “What?”

  “Kissing my neck like that? It’s not at all proper.” Bernard slid away and plastered his back against the fireplace, bending forward awkwardly where the mantel touched his neck.

  Oh dear, the debutant was either playing hard to get—which wasn’t likely with the prospect of becoming a Duke-Consort if they were caught—or very naive. Sebastian decided to help the poor lad out. The young man was out of his league with a rake like Rourke.

  Pushing gauzy curtains aside, Sebastian stepped inside. “I say, Rourke, how about sharing?”

  “Sharing?” Bernard squeaked. “Sharing what?”

  Rourke groaned. “Seb, your timing is deplorable.”

  Sebastian chuckled and propped his behind against the oak desk. “For you maybe, but for Bernard I’d say my timing is just about right.”

  Sighing, Rourke shook his head and stepped away from Bernard. He mumbled something that sounded like, “Too much work anyway,” and crossed to the sideboard. “I need a drink. Seb?”

  “I’d love one. If I remember correctly, Hampton keeps some fine cognac in the cabinet under the scotch decanter.” Sebastian tossed Bernard his cravat.

  “Umm…” Bernard looked from one of them to the other. Almost belatedly, he bowed at Sebastian. “My lord.”

  Smiling, Sebastian bowed back. “Lord Bernard, if I were you, I’d escape before your absence from the ballroom is noted.”

  The young lord’s mouth dropped open, and he glanced at the study door. “Um, please excuse me, Your Grace? My lord?” He darted to the door, threw it open and ran out.

  Rourke brought Sebastian a snifter of brandy and closed the door before seating himself in the chair across from the desk. He propped his feet up on the ottoman. “Bloody hell, old man. I don’t know whether to call you out or thank you.” Sipping from his glass, he closed his eyes, seeming to savor it for a moment. “When did nineteen become so bloody young? I don’t remember ever being that…that…” He waved his hand dismissively.

  Tasting his own cognac, Sebastian shrugged. Colton was nineteen, and he didn’t seem nearly as immature as Bernard. Sebastian took a sip. “Innocent?”

  “Naive.” Rourke stared down into his glass for several moments. “Where were you earlier? I gave up on you meeting me at the Silver Swan.”

  “Work. I didn’t leave the castle until ten o’clock.”

  Looking up from his drink, Rourke grinned. “Don’t you know we aristocrats are supposed to be living a life of leisure.”

  “I’m no aristocrat, and you know it.” Sebastian set his glass down. “What was that all about anyway? I thought you p
referred your lovers with a little more experience.”

  “I did. I do. Oh hell, I don’t know. I’m bored out of my bloody mind. Do you ever get tired of the same old routine?”

  Sebastian smiled. His life was anything but routine, but he understood what Rourke meant. Gambling, getting foxed and chasing trousers was beginning to lose its appeal for Sebastian too. “At times.”

  “I miss the RSR.”

  Sebastian had only intended to ask Rourke if he knew if any of their old teammates were looking for work. Rourke certainly didn’t need the money, but perhaps… “Really?”

  “Yes, really. To tell the truth, I’d sign back up if I had an heir other than my imbecile cousin. If I were killed in action, he’d run Knighton into the ground.” Rourke had left the RSR when both his parents and his older brother died in a boating accident while on vacation off planet, to take over the responsibility of the dukedom.

  “Perhaps I have something to alleviate your boredom that isn’t quite as dangerous as the RSR.”

  One obsidian brow shot up as Rourke took a drink and waited for an answer to his unasked question.

  “I need more guards. I need men I can trust. Men with skills like ours, and I don’t have time to train my guards that intensively.”

  “Doing what? Standing around the castle looking bored?”

  “No, guarding the royal family, specifically the princes, on their daily outings. It would be a part-time job. Only during the day. And not every day. I intend to have the royal family make up a schedule and give me advance notice when they intend to leave the castle.” Actually, he’d already made that demand, and so far only Raleigh, Steven, Rexley and Aiden complied consistently.

  Rourke tossed back the rest of his cognac and dangled the tumbler from his fingers. “Isn’t that rather like hiring a fox to watch a henhouse?”