Deceived

by Megan Derr

  He stared at the gallery below, glancing over the people milling about, but his attention mostly on Crispin, hoping to catch some clue as to who had captured his fancy. So far, he could not determine it. Crispin had spent the last quarter hour engaged in conversation with St. Rose. Jude had, for a moment, thought St. Rose the one—and he would hardly be able to fault Crispin's taste, for St. Rose was lovely indeed—but the ease with which they spoke to one another denoted a friendship, not a deeper infatuation. Anyway, St. Rose was hardly a man of experience and rumor had it that he'd taken up with that duelist.

  Jude didn't know why it nagged at him so much. Well, he wanted to know who would ultimately benefit from the thorough education he was giving Crispin; he would be very annoyed to learn some unworthy bastard would be reaping the benefits of his own hard labor.

  Irritated with himself and his uncharacteristic behavior, Jude forced a halt to his spying and made for the grand staircase, descending with his usual air of bored detachment. Crispin caught his eye, but then slowly turned away, returning his attention to St. Rose.

  Good boy. Jude had not initially thought to carry their lessons into a public setting, but the instructor in him insisted upon thoroughness. It would do Crispin a great deal of good to grow comfortable with flirting and playing in public.

  He took a flute of champagne from a passing footman, sipping it as he made a circuit of the gallery, nodding to a few and murmuring brief words to others. He caught Crispin's eye here and there, smirking occasionally and chuckling at the flushed cheeks, the brief smiles, the sweet and simple way Crispin was oh so obediently flirting with him. It made him want to take Crispin out to the garden and ravish him thoroughly.

  His lessons were working all too well.

  Stifling a sigh, utterly sick of his mood of late, Jude finished his champagne and snatched up a fresh flute. It was time, he decided after a few generous sips, to move to the next stage. He turned to make his way toward Crispin, only to find it abruptly and pointedly blocked.

  Bartholomew Ford glared at him, and although his coloring was fair to Crispin's dark, there was no mistaking that they were siblings. "Prescott."

  "Ford," Jude greeted. He did not know the Ford family well, although he and Bartholomew had attended school together. They had been too far apart in interests, however, to be more than passing acquaintances. But he recognized that look in Bartholomew's eyes; too many times had he come up against one outraged relative or another. He was surprised only that it had taken Bartholomew this long to lodge a protest.

  "My brother is not one of your playthings, Prescott."

  Jude shrugged. "He is a man full grown and capable of making his own decisions. If he chooses to dally with me, that is his affair. Not yours."

  "Crispin has no idea what he's gotten into."

  He almost laughed, but checked the impulse. Crispin was neither as gullible nor naïve as his brother—family—seemed inclined to believe. Innocent, yes, but not so innocent as that, even before the lessons had begun. Offered the chance of lessons, Crispin had accepted and was taking to them beautifully. Jude did not doubt that by the end of the three months, Crispin would have the object of his desire thoroughly enamored.

  That word hammered through him and Jude shoved it back, burying it, furiously ignoring it. "I assure you, Crispin knows precisely into what he's gotten himself."

  Bartholomew glared, all but vibrating with anger. "Do not speak of him with such familiarity."

  Jude nearly rolled his eyes. Bartholomew took issue with his calling Crispin by his given name? He fought a childish impulse to tell Bartholomew where precisely Crispin's mouth had been the previous night and how eagerly Crispin had put it there.

  He struggled to recall himself, unable to believe how easily distracted he had become. "He has given me leave to address him thus, Ford. It is not your name to dictate who may or may not use it."

  "Bart!" Crispin's voice broke in as he abruptly appeared at Jude's side. There was nothing shy or hesitant about him at the moment, eyes pure fire as they focused on Bartholomew. "You had better be discussing the weather, Bart."

  "What we are discussing is none of your business," Bartholomew snapped. "I told you—"

  "Bugger off," Crispin replied, cutting him off. "I'm not in the schoolroom any longer, Bart. I haven't been for a long time. You don't have to like my decisions, but they are my decisions. Cease interfering right this moment or I will march across the gallery and tell Miss Merrick the real reason you cancelled your outing in the park last Saturday. Do I make myself clear?"

  Bartholomew bristled, and then pointed a finger at Jude. "You can do far better than this cold rake."

  "I thank you for your concern, Bart," Crispin said softly but firmly, "but it is my decision, good or bad."

  "Fine." Bartholomew turned and stalked away.

  Jude frowned and finally noticed the hand that had wrapped around his upper arm and remained there even after Bartholomew vanished from sight. "I confess I knew it would please no one that I have apparently taken you as my latest paramour, but I did not intend to cause you such strife."

  Crispin rolled his eyes, hand falling away from Jude's arm. "If they were not taking issue with my dalliance with you, it would be something else. I am the youngest and will always be the youngest. They have trouble understanding that I am no longer a boy." He rolled his eyes again, and then smiled in rueful amusement. "You should have seen them when I was packing for my journey abroad. I half-expected Bart to decide to accompany me after all, as I was wholly incapable of caring for myself. My mother is the only one who saw fit to give me a chance, and she finally had to drive them all from the house to give me a moment's peace." He held Jude's gaze a moment longer, then the pretty eyes skittered away. "They are none of them pleased that I have succumbed to your wiles, but it is none of their business."

  "Wiles?" Jude asked, surprised laughter overtaking him. It was not the first time Crispin had so managed to coax laughter from him and the ease with which he managed it was in no small way distressing. Jude reached out to ever so lightly touch Crispin's hip with his fingers. "You were doing beautifully, pet. I was not the only one admiring you and I think were it not I, you would have counter offers aplenty to show you to the gardens." He meant to keep speaking, but the words unexpectedly stuck in his throat. Furious, he forced them out. "If you want to call off the lessons at any time, you have only to say."

  Something flickered across Crispin's face, too quickly for Jude to puzzle out. "Of course, my lord, if that is what you wish. Am I keeping you from some other dalliance?"

  "Not at all," Jude replied. "Our lessons are vastly more interesting than a simple dalliance would be, at least so far." He motioned. "Speaking of lessons, we have thoroughly fallen out of today's. Let us resume it, for it will be this public method you first employ the night of the Summer Gala. Now, does your beau favor dancing?"

  Crispin shook his head. "No, he does not. I rarely see him anywhere but watching the festivities from a distance."

  Well, that was some relief; Jude detested dancing. There were infinitely better ways to spend one's time than gallivanting across a crowded floor, getting one's toes smashed and enduring tepid conversation. "All the easier, then," he replied. In the back of his mind, he shuffled through names and faces, drawing out a dozen or so likely candidates. However, he found none of them pleasing or worthy of the effort he was putting forth with Crispin. Not that his opinion mattered.

  Mentally giving himself a stern shake, Jude focused. "Let us start where we left off before your brother interrupted."

  Crispin brushed back a strand of hair which had fallen forward, then let his hand drop. He took a slow breath, gathering himself, and then looked up again with one of his soft smiles. "Is my lord enjoying the gallery this evening?"

  It was truly fascinating, how Crispin shifted from his quiet self to…being a good student, Jude supposed. He took to his lessons beautifully, even when it was obvious they discomfited him—alwa
ys obvious by the flush of his cheeks, although right now they were merely pink.

  "Quite," Jude murmured, falling easily into his role. "Many of the pieces are not worth a glance, but one or two are most pleasing to look upon." He let his eyes wander slowly up and down Crispin's body, his own going tight and hot as flashes of their every intimate encounter chose that moment to invade his mind.

  Because as much as he enjoyed teaching Crispin to flirt and play, gods save him from their more intimate lessons. He could not remember the last time he'd been so enthralled with someone, and he'd had lovers who could—and some who did—charge small fortunes for a single night in their bed.

  But there was something about Crispin's earnestness, his eagerness, the honesty and shy intensity with which he did everything. Not to mention the sweetness of his mouth, the way he started out so frustratingly, marvelously shy before his buried boldness came out. There was also the noises he made when Jude tasted and touched every bit of him, the way he tried to muffle his scream as he spilled down Jude's throat.

  Jude shoved all those memories aside and tried to focus. Honestly, who was the jaded rake here?

  Crispin flushed, and struggled to remain as cool as Jude. "Indeed, my lord. What pieces do you favor?"

  A tidy reply. Jude could answer it at face value and talk about the artwork, or he could be bold and make his feelings even plainer. The seducer was forcing his prey to make his wants clear. It was a bolder, simpler way to play the game, but for Crispin that was best. That Crispin obviously understood this was commendable—nothing was more tedious than a man who played a game to which he was not suited.

  However, Jude was not inclined to make it too easy; lessons learned too easily did not truly take. "Perhaps you would care to make a guess?"

  Crispin blinked, clearly startled by the response, but he rallied quickly. "Oh, now that is entirely unfair, my lord. There are one hundred and seven pieces on display this evening. Won't you at least be kind enough to narrow down the choices? It is hard to guess a man's mind when it comes to art." He paused ever so briefly before that last word, a beautiful execution.

  Jude barely kept back the proud smile that fought to overtake his face. Truly, he'd not had this much fun in longer than he cared to recall. Crispin was a fine student. "I would hate to make it too easy."

  "Yet if you make it too difficult, I shall spend the night guessing and never land upon the answer. I would hate for the night to end in disappointment."

  Jude stepped a bit closer. "I would hate for you to guess too quickly and the night end early. There too lies disappointment."

  Crispin chuckled. "An impasse, then, my lord?"

  "I fear most discussions of art usually end thus," Jude replied. "Art is engaging only for those who do the creating, I feel. The role of observer is rather lacking."

  "My lord would prefer to be an artist? You did not seem the type to take up such an active role."

  Jude's mouth curved in a smile of unmistakable intent. "I prefer action to observation in all things."

  "Indeed, my lord," Crispin replied, cheeks hot, but meeting his eyes all the same. He pushed on, flirting back. "Yet I seldom see you take part in anything. Indeed, you have been inactive this entire night."

  "All action requires motivation…perhaps inspiration would be the better word." He gave Crispin a long thorough look.

  "I see. Where does my lord most frequently find his inspiration?"

  Jude motioned. "The outdoors, naturally. Gardens, I find, are particularly inspiring."

  Instead of the expected reply of some request or demand to be shown the gardens, essentially the goal of their playacting, Crispin remarked, "I cannot see what there is to inspire in a summer shower, my lord."

  "What?" Jude said, surprise jolting him from his role. He looked toward the balcony and realized abruptly that he was far more distracted than he had realized—horribly, distressingly distracted if he had failed to notice that it had begun to rain. Bugger it, he was heartily sick of these summer showers.

  He finally laughed. "I suppose inspiration has abandoned me this night and gone to drier places."

  "Myself," Crispin began, "I have always found inspiration comes best when there are no distractions about. The outdoors offer far too many."

  Jude quirked one brow. "There is distraction no matter where one goes."

  "Not if one knows of a room with a lock that would forbid entrance to all distractions and keep inspiration firmly within."

  Well played indeed. Crispin would never be a rake, but Jude could not comprehend why Crispin had been so hopeless that first day. He could seduce away the heart of whomever he wanted, truly.

  "I find myself in doubt," he finally replied.

  "Come, my lord," Crispin replied. "I shall prove it to you."

  Jude sketched a playful bow and held out his arm, allowing Crispin to guide him from the gallery. At his back, he could all but feel a burning, angry glare, but he paid it no mind.

  When they reached a small office, he waited just long enough for Crispin to lock the door, then shoved him up against it and took his mouth. He was dismayed to realize the groan he heard was his own, but then Crispin's blended with it and he kissed harder, deeper, thrusting a leg between Crispin's thighs and feeling the hard heat of him. Crispin's fingers dug into his shoulders, and then slid up to tangle in his hair, clinging for dear life as he whimpered and rubbed against Jude like a cat in heat. Jude slid his hands down Crispin's sides, circling around to his back, then down to his ass. He grabbed it firmly and tugged hard, making Crispin buck and gasp at the increased contact.

  Gods in heaven, Jude wanted him. So far they had done much, but for that which he most wanted…he held back. He did not know why—or perhaps did not want to address why. Normally Jude did not shy away from matters in his own head, but with Crispin, he was hiding from things more and more.

  And Jude didn't intend to stop hiding now. No, at the moment, he had matters more interesting than the contents of his own head.

  Releasing his hold on Crispin, Jude shifted enough to get his hands on the front of Crispin's breeches, swiftly undoing them. Shoving away bothersome fabric, tugging the breeches and smallclothes down just enough to be out of his way, he took Crispin's cock firmly in hand and stroked it briefly, teasing and tormenting. The needy moans fed into Jude's mouth were untutored and all the more heady for it. In this, of all things, he should be teaching Crispin how to play the jade—yet he could not bring himself to do it. He liked far too much the noises and responses so freely offered, given up simply because it would never occur to Crispin not to surrender them.

  Heady. Intoxicating. Jude dropped to his knees and replacied hand with mouth. Crispin let out a hoarse shout, muffling it too late with the sleeve of his jacket. Jude would have laughed, were he not otherwise engaged. He licked and sucked, wrapping one hand around Crispin's hip, using the other to tease his balls, to slip just behind them, drawing out every last response he could, until with another cry, Crispin found his release.

  Swallowing all evidence of pleasure, Jude once more stood and took Crispin's mouth, and the deep moan that earned him was the sweetest sound on earth. He allowed one hand to stray, caressing the flesh now bared, pressing ever so slightly.

  Fingers dug into his jacket, Crispin clinging for dear life. "Jude…"

  "You are the finest of students, pet," Jude replied, pressing his fingers into hidden places, drunk on the expression that overcame Crispin's face.

  Crispin shivered and kissed him, and the unexpected initiative was nearly Jude's undoing.

  Then a hand ran lightly over his prick and he gasped. "Crispin—"

  "You never—" Crispin broke off, and even in the dim light, Jude could see he was flushing.

  "I never what?"

  "Finish these lessons," Crispin said, staring hard at Jude's jacket. "I-I'm not wholly ignorant, you know. I have books my parents and brothers don't know about it." He shifted, pressing against Jude's fingers still teasing
ever so slightly at his entrance. "I've seen—I know—you never—"

  Jude groaned and kissed Crispin hard. The most experienced men and women in the world had never so deeply affected him as this single, inexperienced young man. "Is that what you want, pet?"

  Crispin nodded, hiding his face against Jude's shoulder.

  Kissing the small bit of exposed neck, Jude forced himself to withdraw his hands, pushing Crispin up to right his clothes and give them both some semblance of respectability. "Come, then, and we will continue tonight's lesson at my home. Not here." As fine an idea as it was to take him hard and fast against the door, it was not even remotely appropriate for a first time.

  Holding tightly to Crispin's hand, unable to make himself let go, Jude avoided the main gallery in taking them to the entrance, and when he called for his carriage, it did not come nearly as fast as he would have liked.

  The ride home was interminable, although Jude was at least compensated with stolen kisses and fevered caresses. When they finally arrived, he barely waited for the carriage to come to a halt before throwing the door open and dragging Crispin out. Inside, he attempted to regain some of his control, taken aback by how easy it had been to lose. He drew Crispin close for a deep kiss, wrapping an arm around his waist and sinking the other into his hair, drunk on the taste and feel, the open, needy sounds.

  Shivering, Jude broke the kiss and turned away to lead Crispin up the stairs, trying to recall the last time he'd actually bothered to take anyone to his room. Although he often brought lovers home, they most often wound up in one of the other bedrooms. For this, however, that somehow struck him as poor form. He was a good teacher and would not do things by half.

  Jude's valet had lit the lamps, casting a rich, warm glow across the deep crimsons and rich browns of his room. Turning, he drew Crispin close for another kiss, undone the hundredth time as easily as the first by the simple open eagerness with which Crispin responded.