Deceived

by Megan Derr

  Neither man replied.

  "If you do not get your acts together," he continued, barking the words, making them jump, back away, go wide-eyed with panic and dismay, "you will make mistakes you cannot repair. Dueling is not the answer. Fighting is not the way a gentleman faces his problems. If you continue down this path, you will do something you regret. Instead of fighting, try working on the real source of your problem."

  Their only reply was yet more silence.

  His temper had cooled, but not abated—the energy was still there, and the anger, and most of it was really only for himself.

  "Still you will not come to your senses?" He demanded, voice softer than it had been, sighing as he finished the question.

  They shook their heads, cowed but still capable of being mutinous.

  He would have smiled, if he were not so unsettled.

  "Fine," he barked, making them jump again. "Then I guess that as your seconds, we must continue to do everything for you."

  Gods, he hoped he would not come to regret this. There were already too many regrets in his past.

  He turned to Linwood, who had remained still and silent all the while, and now looked at him warily.

  "Lord Linwood, as Master Young's second, I convey to you his true sentiments for Master Bolton."

  Linwood frowned in confusion. "As Master Bolton's second, I will of course accept them…"

  "Good," Alexis said, then reached out and yanked him close, and covered Linwood's mouth with his own.

  His lips were warm and soft, and his mouth positively hot as Linwood opened to his kiss. He tasted like champagne and melon, and Alexis thought that even if this was a stupid thing to do, for the moment at least he was happy he had done it.

  When he finally could make himself break away from Linwood's entirely too delectable mouth, he glanced at Henry and Otis, capable now of being vastly amused by their twin expressions of shock. "Bugger off," he said cheerfully, "and next time convey your own sentiments."

  They were gone almost before he had finished speaking.

  Slowly Alexis released his hold on Linwood's jacket, smoothing the crumpled velvet as best he could. "I am sorry," he said quietly, slowly dragging his eyes up. "I was a bloody bastard to you before, and all because I was fighting the fact I am most drawn to you. I suppose I really am no better than those two."

  Linwood stared at him, eyes wide. Then he seemed to shake himself, and gave the same hesitant, sweet smile he had before. "I thought you were displeased I was presuming a friendship which was not there, in trying to get you to help me contend with that rather unpleasant fellow, whatever his name was. I…I assumed you did not care for me, and was dismayed, for I…" He shrugged and looked away. "I thought—hoped, I should say—we could be friends. More than that, I did not dare…think upon."

  "Well, I was conveying Henry's sentiments to Otis, but I was also conveying mine, if you will still consider them, despite my wretched behavior."

  This time, Linwood's smile was full and bright. "Forgiven and forgotten, if you like, my lord. I am more than willing to consider your sentiments, if you do not mind receiving like sentiments from an awkward night owl who spends more time with books than people."

  "I will take any sentiments you offer," Alexis said, lightly grasping Linwood's wrist and drawing him close again. "Shall we explore these sentiments further, somewhere else, Linwood?"

  "Haven, please," Haven said, cautiously resting his free hand on Alexis' shoulder, tilting his head, silently requesting another kiss, whiskey eyes hot and bright despite the lingering hesitation in them.

  "Everyone close to me calls me Lex," Alexis murmured, and bent his own head to give the requested kiss, determined to banish every last hesitation between them. "Haven," he said quietly when they finally broke apart, taking a ridiculous amount of pleasure in being allowed to use his given name, the intimacy between them it implied.

  The smile he received when he said it, made him want to say it a thousand times more. "Where shall we go?" Haven asked.

  "How rude of me would it be to ask that we go to your house? We do not want mine; my relatives would drive you mad. They drive me mad." Alexis said, forcing himself to behave, astonished at how badly he wanted to touch and taste now that he'd finally given in. It was far too easy to go along with, now that he'd broken his rule. Looking into those fathomless eyes, he could not seem to muster his hesitations and fears.

  He hoped they stayed out of the way indefinitely.

  "Not rude at all," Haven replied, his hand sliding down Alexis' arm until their hands met, tangled, and he smiled shyly again. "Though we shall have to discuss sleeping arrangements, since you wake when I go to sleep."

  Alexis laughed. "Details to be worked out later. For now, I will be content to reach the bed." He grasped Haven's chin and tugged him forward for another kiss. "Lead the way, my dragon."

  Haven flushed, ever so faintly, but kept hold of his hand as he led the way out.

  The Wager

  Lazare longed for his childhood, where he was a bratty child who'd thrown things across the room. He'd learned to stop being so, thankfully, but there were days he missed indulging in a good temper tantrum.

  Alas, adulthood required he behave.

  He just wished the others in the room might do the same.

  Forcing himself to use the manners no one else would, wondering what was wrong with this uncouth country he was to be stuck in for only the gods knew how long—until his mother saw fit to bring him home, which wasn't anytime soon while she smothered her third husband with attention—he drank his tea instead of throwing it.

  Stifling a sigh, he smiled politely at the chortling men around the table, wondering what impertinent question they would put to him next. He dared a surreptitious glance at the clock mounted on the wall at the opposite end of the room.

  Alas, at least an hour to go, and he doubted they would let him slip away before another half hour had passed beyond that.

  "We hear there was nearly an altercation this morning, Highness," a man said slyly. "Giving His Majesty a run for his money, eh?"

  A run for his money? Lazare frowned over that one, and made a note to ask Maitland about it later. He swore they did such things on purpose, and it was truly beginning to irritate him. He took a delicate sip of the fragrant tea. "I never discuss business over afternoon tea, gentlemen, but I assure you there was nothing so dramatic as an altercation."

  The men laughed and exchanged disbelieving looks and snorts, but obligingly moved on to other matters, discussing plays and duels and other things which they thought might he might like to see.

  Finally one man sat back and settled his hands on his massive belly. "So, Highness, how are you liking our Cat, hmm?"

  Lazare frowned. What joke was he missing this time? If they did not stop with such nonsense, he really would lose his temper, and let his mother do as she would. "Your cat? I beg pardon, but I do not take your meaning."

  The men smiled, chuckled. "Why, Lord Maitland, of course."

  "Ah," Lazare said. A pleasant, if frustrating, thought, that one.

  Kyler Maitland, the Marquis of Lovett. He had been appointed Lazare's guide while he was fulfilling his role as ambassador. He wished Maitland were here now, for he had already noticed that everyone tended to tread carefully and mark their every word when Maitland was around. Alas, he'd had some unavoidable private matter to attend, and Lazare had been forced to attend this tea alone.

  He frowned. "Why do you call him Cat?"

  More chuckles. "For all the obvious reasons, Highness, and some less obvious. I take it you have not met his pet?" The speaker, another condescending oaf, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Then again, I doubt Your Highness has had either reason or opportunity to visit the Lovett estate."

  Lazare's frown eased slightly. 'The obvious reasons' certainly made sense. It was far too easy to describe Maitland as cat-like. Tall and long and lean, rich gold hair and eyes, and he moved with a sinuous grace that had, in
deed, reminded Lazare of the mountain lions of his homeland right from the start. "His pet?"

  "Oh, yes," said another man, spindly and pale. "You will have to contrive to see his pet." He winked. It was not a pleasant gesture coming from him.

  "I see," Lazare said, making his disapproval plain. He did not want to gossip about his guide, and it was a poor showing indeed that these men saw fit to do so. Taking another sip of tea to make himself stay quiet, he then set it down and opened his mouth to begin a new topic of conversation.

  Alas, another started speaking first. "Speaking of Cat, are you going to join in the wager, Highness?"

  "Wager?" Lazare asked. He was so very tired of being confused.

  "Aye," said a man with a peculiar accent. Lazare was hopeless with accents in this confounded country. "Have you not heard of it yet, Highness? I'm astonished. The clubs have talked of little else since Cat was dragged out of his den to assist you."

  Lazare bit his tongue. It was difficult. He would not stoop to their level by abandoning his manners. "Lord Maitland has been my savior," he said quietly, but firmly. "He is patient and kind, and I would be quite lost without him."

  The table erupted in laughter. "Well!" said the fat man. "I certainly have never heard him so described! Perhaps you will win the wager, Highness."

  "I—"

  "Yes, indeed," said a man bland of face and voice. "The world would erupt to finally know the answer to that damned puzzle. Patient and kind? Never have I heard those words applied to Lord Cat!"

  Lazare sighed and drank his tea. He wished Maitland were here.

  "Has he mentioned the affair to you, Highness?"

  "I do not inquire into the private affairs of another man," Lazare said sharply. "I was not aware such rudeness was considered acceptable in this country."

  The men laughed again. "We mean no harm, Highness. Lord Cat is one of our own. If you are to work closely with him, you will hear of the wager at some point. Indeed, I believe many of the betting books are placing new wagers on whether you will be the one to win the initial wager which has been on the books for the past five years."

  He was on the betting books? Lazare scowled into his tea. To the devil with manners.

  Once more, however, the men spoke up before him. "It was a duel, Highness. Lord Cat was embroiled in a dawn appointment five years ago. No one can prove it, of course, but everyone knows he was there and that he fired the fatal shot."

  Lazare's hold on his teacup faltered. Fatal shot? What nonsense was this? "I do not favor gossip," he said icily. "Especially such ridiculous statements as that. I would appreciate it, gentlemen, if you would find another topic about which we might converse."

  "Oh, and you know Cat so well?" A man asked sneeringly. "It was his lover, you know. He challenged his lover to a duel, and shot him dead."

  "I have heard quite enough," Lazare said coldly, slamming his teacup down and standing, then stalking to the door of the grand tearoom. A steward appeared almost immediately with his coat, hat, and walking stick.

  Ignoring the voices that chased after him, Lazare stalked out of the building and into the street. His carriage…no, he did not feel like being trapped in the infernal thing. Waving off the stewards who started to call for his carriage, he turned and strode briskly down the street.

  The sound of his voice, spoken in a gruff baritone, drew him up short. "Highness?"

  "Lord Maitland," he said, blinking. "Did you conclude your business?"

  "Yes…" Maitland replied slowly, confusion in his gold eyes. Such pretty eyes, for all they constantly seemed to hold something back. The very same shade of gold as his hair, which had been tousled by the brisk wind on the street, softening the strict lines of his handsome face. "If I may ask, Highness, why are you walking about? You were not due to leave the tearoom for an hour or so yet."

  "I am tired of the tearoom," Lazare said levelly. "Nor did I feel like being trapped in that wheeled box. I thought a walk might do me some good."

  "As you wish, Highness. May I escort you home?"

  Lazare smiled faintly, unable to stay angry with Maitland before him. He had only known Maitland three weeks, but there was something steadying about him. Ever since being sent off as ambassador, Lazare had felt lost at sea. Maitland, from the very first, had been an island. "By all means, please. Your business was well concluded?"

  "Yes. I apologize again for abandoning you. Was the tea so unpleasant, then?"

  "I do not care for malicious gossip," Lazare said with a shrug as they fell into step together. Even in the ripe smells clogging the streets, he did not miss the cinnamon and honey scent of Maitland. "Walking out was poor form, I know, but I will not be subjected to such unpleasantness."

  Maitland's mouth tightened. "I apologize again for not being present."

  "Do not worry upon it," Lazare said with a smile. "We have a free hour, shall we do something frivolous with it?"

  "Frivolous?" The tightness eased faintly. "Now, Highness, I do not believe that was on your schedule for the day."

  Lazare waved his hand airily. "Well, I shall have my man of affairs pencil it in."

  Maitland laughed softly, and the sound warmed Lazare through with happiness and satisfaction, a faint thrum of victory. He liked getting Maitland to laugh; it seemed something Maitland did not do enough.

  "Consider it penciled in, Highness. Where would you like to go?"

  Lazare hesitated, then shrugged. "I do not care, really. I did have a question for you, however, if I am permitted to ask."

  Maitland stiffened, but if he had not been watching Maitland closely then he would have missed it. "Of course, Highness. Ask any question you like."

  "Some of the men wanted to know if I'd seen your 'pet'," Lazare said. "What did they mean?"

  "My pet?" Maitland asked, steps faltering. "That's what you want to know?"

  Lazare ducked his head. "I apologize if I am completely out of line. It was such an odd thing to ask, it stuck in my head."

  "No, I do not mind." Maitland smiled faintly. "I am only surprised they mentioned it. None of them have actually seen my pet for themselves. I suppose they were hoping you were not one ahead of them in bragging rights."

  "I should have known," Lazare said, amused—and relieved, for he realized he had been stupidly hurt Maitland had not mentioned it. "So what is this marvelous pet?"

  Maitland's mouth curved, something decidedly mischievous and almost boyish about it.

  Lazare found it hard to look away—indeed, he was so busy starting at Maitland's far too appealing mouth to notice where he was going, and walked straight into a vendor bellowing out the quality of his apple tarts.

  The bellowing quickly turned to a litany of what Lazare thought were curses, but were spoken too quickly in a dialect he stood no chance of comprehending, the entire situation making him feel every inch a foreigner—and an especially stupid one at that.

  Before he could gather himself and begin to offer apologies, Maitland was bellowing right back in the same strange accent.

  A moment later they were away, Maitland's hand wrapped firmly around his arm.

  His cheeks flushed hot, and he tried to form an apology, but his tongue seemed stuck fast.

  It wasn't until they were back on much calmer, less crowded streets, that he finally felt he'd regained enough of his wits. "My apologies," he said slowly, wincing that his accent was more pronounced that usual, surely given away his unsteadiness. And over such a simple, clumsy moment. Stupid.

  Maitland merely gave one of those small, barely-there smiles. "No apologies necessary, Highness. Rather, I should extend my own. We both were too lost in conversation to pay proper attention—and the vendor hardly did our country proud."

  Lazare smiled weakly. "I did almost knock him over."

  "Well, I gave him coin enough he can take the whole day off and go spend it on gin," Maitland said, rolling his eyes. "He will survive the encounter. Now," he continued briskly, the boyishness returning. "I believe yo
u wanted to see my pet. I'm afraid he's some hours away, at my family estate. We would be gone a few days at the very least."

  "I see," Lazare said, disappointed. He doubted anyone would let him slip away for a few days. Why was it the more titles and affluence one had, the less often one was able to do as they pleased?

  Lazare sighed. "It sounds a lovely lark, but I think my fellows and your king would all have kittens were I to caper off to the countryside for a few days."

  Maitland smiled—and winked at him. "Now, Highness, I would be a poor man of affairs indeed if I could not arrange your schedule to both please my king and suit Your Highness. I am not good for much, but I am competent enough to manage that."

  "You are always perfectly competent in everything you do," Lazare murmured, hoping that did not sound as flirtatious as he wished it could sound.

  He got one brief, sharp, inquisitive—dare he think hopeful—look. It lasted only the span of a heartbeat, but Lazare liked to believe he saw it. Tucking the moment away to overanalyze later, he focused on the conversation. "So I can see this notorious pet of yours?"

  "Would Your Highness prefer to leave at once, or in the morning?"

  "At once," Lazare said promptly, thinking of the dinner he was supposed to be attending in a few hours. Long and tedious, and his toes were still recovering from the last party.

  Maitland gave an elegant half-bow as they reached the townhouse where Lazare made his home while in the city. "Then we shall depart before the sixteenth hour, Highness."

  Lazare returned the bow with one of his own, wondering if he stood a chance of ever persuading Maitland to call him by his given name. Perhaps he was only suffering a silly infatuation, but he would like to know how his name sounded on Maitland's lips.

  Thinking of Maitland's lips was a bad idea. He forced himself to think of dinner parties and speeches and the poetry everyone seemed determined to inflict upon him.

  As promised, less than three hours later they were on their way.

  Lazare laughed in sheer delight. "However did you manage it?" he asked, not even the roughness of the carriage ride enough to dislodge his good mood.