by Megan Derr
He looked up at the sound of several pairs of feet stomping noisily toward him, and coolly regarded the men who approached.
"St. Rose," Mathews greeted, sitting down without so much as a by your leave, close enough their thighs brushed.
Silver jerked irritably away.
Except suddenly he was pinned from the other side too, sandwiched between two lumbering oxen on the bench he'd taken, with two more occupying the chairs on the other side of the table.
A heavy arm fell across his shoulders and he picked up his pen knife. "Winthrop, unhand me at once or I shall be forced to take extreme measures."
The arm vanished. "Alright, St. Rose, alright," Winthrop said lightly. "You always were a tetchy fellow."
He was not tetchy. Silver tried not to let the words sting, and set the pen knife down with a frown. "What do you lot want? Can you not see I was attempting to get some work done? Go bother someone else."
"Ah, but St. Rose," said one from the other side of the table—Van Moore—with a teasing pout. "We need to speak with you. Is it true Fairfax has finally fallen for your sister? A lovely thing, your sister, but of course—"
"But of course you would not speak so crassly about my sister, so I'm certain I did not just hear you speak," Silver said coldly, glaring at all of them. "If you have come here to be rude, then I suggest you take yourselves off again."
The fourth man, Islington, gave an aggrieved sigh. "Come off it, St. Rose, you know we mean no harm. Must you always be so uptight? We mean no offense, of course. I think we all have been madly in love with your sister at one point or another. It is hard to take that we never stood a chance, if she has finally managed to rope Fairfax into making a long overdue offer."
Silver's glare did not ease. "My sister is not getting married to Pierce, and I will thank you not to continue spreading such lies. She is marrying an old childhood friend of ours, and they are quiet besotted with each other."
"Now lay off," Winthrop said, once more settling a hand on his shoulder, ignoring Silver's look. "We've been hearing everywhere that Pierce has taken up with St. Rose, and what the devil else is that supposed to mean?"
He tried not to be hurt, because after all, hadn't he always kept his distance? Never had he given any indication as to his feelings for the man who seemed never to spare him a second look because Silver had been confounded as to how to attract him.
Oh, the times he had envied his sister for her ability to talk and charm…
"I'm certain I couldn't imagine," Silver said bitterly. "Now—"
"Last I checked, gentlemen," Pierce said, and Silver jerked around to see him standing behind them. "There were two St. Rose children, and while the sister is lovely…" He smiled, and Silver's ire faded away beneath the knowledge that warm smile was solely for him. "She is my friend. It's the other St. Rose I'm quite enamored with."
"Pierce," Silver said, wishing he could say more, but as ever his tongue hated him.
Before Pierce could reply, the entire table erupted into laughter and a few suggestive comments that turned Silver's face red.
Rough hands clapped his shoulders and back.
"Well, why didn't you simply say, St. Rose! Speak up next time! Pierce, stop taking all the pretty ones for yourself! First you charm the sister and now you have taken the brother. Leave a St. Rose for the rest of us."
Pierce grinned and moved close enough Silver could smell him, touch him. "Now, now, Cress and I are friends. And what Silver and I do is none of your business, miscreants."
The laughter erupted again, and Silver's cheeks burned hotter. "Pierce!"
He merely got another grin, and warm fingers sliding across his cheek. "Ready to go, Silver?"
"Yes," Silver said fervently, scribbling a note for the clerk who always assisted him to have his things packed up and sent back to his room. He glared his way free of the men crowding him and finally reached Pierce—his heart still tripping over itself at the way Pierce held out a hand, and drew him just the slightest bit closer than propriety dictated.
He barely noticed the way the ruckus around them had faded, eyes only for the man he'd always loved, and who was now somehow his.
"Get any work done?" Pierce asked softly.
Silver shook his head, mouth quirking. "No. Someone planted distracting ideas in my head. I'm horribly behind in my work now, Pierce."
Pierce grinned. "Then I guess I'd better make it up to you. Come along, my star, our yacht awaits."
Flushing, hideously embarrassed as always when any reference to his idiotic letters came up, Silver allowed Pierce to drag him away, the men who'd been harassing him forgotten entirely.
The Problem with Love Letters
FROM AFAR
"Darling, you have become positively unromantic," Cressida declared, snapping open her fan and fluttering it just so in front of her face, eyes sparking mischief.
Never a good thing. Silver repressed a groan as he wondered what, precisely, his sister was up to now.
Seymour quirked a brow from where he was playing a casual game of chess with Pierce—who was losing, but charmingly, or at least Silver thought so. "I'm fairly certain I was quite romantic last night, sweet."
"Pish-posh" Cress declared, waving her pink and gold lace fan dismissively in the air. "You do not write me letters anymore. I miss them. What of your sonnets?"
It was gratifying, the way Seymour suddenly looked embarrassed. Silver had begun to think he was the only one who ever felt that way amongst them. Certainly Pierce and Cress did not seem to know what embarrassment was.
"Sonnets?" Pierce asked, barely stifling a laugh as he placed a rook poorly, not caring in the slightest when Seymour promptly took it.
Seymour glared at his betrothed. "Pet."
"I don't get letters anymore, either," Pierce continued, and Silver wanted to flee the room—or kill the both of them, because he could see all too clearly that Pierce had picked up on and joined in Cress's confounded mischief.
He should have known the prat would not sit still and read quietly for very long. Oh, he longed for the days when he could shove her into a mud puddle…it was awfully tempting to do it anyway. Little sisters were nothing but a pain, honestly.
"Silver, why don't you write me letters anymore?"
Oh, the minute they were alone that confounding smirk was coming right off that handsome face. Silver silently cursed his cheeks, which he could feel growing warm. "There is no need, you nitwit. Why are we dredging this up?"
He'd written those letters with the assumption he'd never be found out. If he could just find the damnable things, he would quite cheerfully burn them. Pierce knew it, though, and kept them hidden.
Seymour looked at him, snickering in amusement. "I say, Silver—what did you write? Please tell me I'm not the only one here about to be hideously embarrassed by his beloved."
His cheeks burned all the hotter to hear someone more or less state that Pierce was his beloved. Stubbornly ignoring the look Pierce was giving him, he dropped his eyes resolutely back to the book he'd been reading. "I did not write sonnets if that is what you mean."
Pierce laughed softly, fondly. "My letters were far more…bold than that."
Silver's head shot up. "Pierce!" he snapped, face burning. "That is quite enough."
Cress laughed, trying and failing to hide her mirth behind her fan. "Darling, you never wrote me amorous letters."
"Sweet pea," Seymour said, and Silver was going to knock one or the other upside the head with a bookend if they did not stop trying to drive everyone crazy with the ridiculous endearments. "If I had written you amorous letters and your father or brother had found them, I would either be dead or minus a rather important part of my anatomy."
"That's for bloody sure," Silver muttered.
Cress laughed. "Dearest, you're being indelicate."
"Blossom, you started it," Seymour replied, and briskly checkmated Pierce. "So you got to write all the fun letters, eh Silver?"
Pierce
grinned. "Quite. I remember December 18th with much fondness."
Silver choked, book tumbling to the floor. He glared at Pierce, who only smiled teasingly back, and hissed, "If you do not shut up, there will be no December 18th for you for a very long time. Stop siding with my sister!"
"We cannot help but choose the same side," Pierce said, still smiling in that way that made Silver want to simultaneously smack him and kiss him senseless. "Now that we are firmly caught, we have lost the fine letters which…"
"Set our hearts to pounding fiercely," Cress said, giggling at the scathing looks the three men cast her. She raised her fan again. "Set something to pounding, anyway."
"Cress!" All three men bellowed.
Cress dropped her fan and held her sides as she doubled over with laughter.
"This is why I don't write you anymore letters," Seymour groused. "The ones I did write are causing enough trouble as is."
"Agreed," Silver muttered, bending to retrieve his book.
Pierce chuckled and started setting the chess pieces back in place. "Well, so long as you love me, I suppose I can live without the letters."
Silver flushed, but dragged his gaze up from his retrieved book to meet the warm eyes looking back at him. "You know very well I do, idiot."
"Yes, my star, and I you."
Cress giggled, but at the warning look from her brother settled for blowing Seymour a kiss before at last returning to her book.
Silver looked at the clock and gave it half an hour before she thought up something else to do.
The Pretty Scholars
FROM AFAR
Silver adjusted his monocle as he opened the book Crispin handed to him, humming softly in pleasure and approval. "Exquisite. If you ever manage to convince your father to part with this, do tell me."
Crispin grinned. "I am afraid the only way he will part with it is in death, but given my brothers seldom remember the purpose of books, it likely will be mine to inherit."
"Then I suppose I shall have to begin convincing you to give it to me," Silver said with a smile.
"Not if I convince him first," said a new voice, and both men looked up to smile in welcome at the newcomer—Elias, who was an expert on goblin lore. Crispin had met him while pursuing his own history degree, when they had met over a painting pertinent to both their studies.
Silver had never been terribly good at focusing on one branch of study; he admired that they could. All three of them had met while seeking a rare volume of Hollow Wars etchings.
Currently they sat in their mutual club, meeting to examine the book Crispin had managed to liberate from his father's library for the day.
A debate quickly launched as they paged slowly and meticulously through the book, a work purported to be based on firsthand accounts of the infamous Hollow Wars, a rare find when the government preferred anything to do with those wars went missing. Interspersed amongst the so-called firsthand accounts were drawings even more controversial, depicting 'goblins' and their notorious 'magic' that the scientific and historical communities argued about incessantly and bitterly.
They were so locked in friendly, scholarly argument Silver did not really notice when the steward appeared with tea and accompanying snacks.
Soft, familiar laughter finally broke through the arguing. "Pierce. What are you doing here?" Pierce was not even a member of this club; he would go mad with boredom.
Beside him, however, was Jude, who was indeed a member. They both wore fond, amused looks. Pure mischief sparked in Pierce's eyes as he replied, "Jude and I have a bet going against Bartholomew. We are meeting to ensure he loses."
"What are you doing to my brother now?" Crispin demanded, voice full of fond, tolerant amusement as he looked at Jude.
"Nothing he didn't ask for," Jude replied, as full of mischief as Pierce.
Silver rolled his eyes. "If Bart comes after you, do not expect assistance from me."
Pierce merely laughed. "No fears, but he will not come after us. Are you three having fun? We only meant to retrieve something Jude forgot here, but when the steward mentioned the Pretty Scholars were present, we had to stop in and say hello."
"The what?" Silver demanded, wondering just who in blazes Pierce was calling pretty. "Who are you talking about?"
Jude laughed, catching Crispin's hand when Crispin attempted to swat him.
"The Pretty Scholars," Pierce repeated, eyes bright with mirth. "Three brilliant scholars, arguing over a book in the middle of their club, and looking entirely too pretty doing it." He winked. "Though of course, you are the loveliest of the three. No offense to the other gentlemen present."
Silver glared, cheeks going hot. "Go away."
Laughing, Pierce blew him a kiss and turned away, Jude snickering quietly beside him. "Yes, my star. I'll see you for dinner tonight."
"Maybe," Silver muttered, glaring at his departing back for that 'my star'. He was going to make Pierce stop saying that, one of these days.
Elias snickered. "Shall we return to finding fault with your theories, Silver?"
"Oh, I'm not the one at fault," Silver declared, and the debate began anew.
Translation Work
SECONDS
Alexis was almost hurt, to learn Haven was keeping secrets…but Haven seldom said anything about himself, inordinately modest for a man with so much skill, and he was probably embarrassed. His ordinary translations, and the attention they received, overwhelmed him enough.
Alexis glanced up at the clock on the far wall, which said it was going on half past the thirteenth hour. So Haven should be up at any moment, half asleep and perfect for teasing.
Indeed, Alexis had barely glanced back down at the deliciously indecent novel he was reading when the door opened and a sleepy, rumbled Haven wandered in. He yawned, then gave one of the adorable sleepy smiles that Alexis loved, and said, "What are you reading today, Lexi?"
"One of your more interesting translation works," Alexi said, smirking, and held up the book for Haven to see.
Haven stumbled to a halt, then his brown cheeks went a deep rose. "Those were buried on the bottom shelf!"
Alexis snickered and set the book aside, then swung his legs down off the desk and rose, moving around the heaps and piles of carefully arranged disorder to take a frozen with mortification Haven into his arms. He kissed Haven softly, tasting tea, which meant Haven must have wandered into the kitchen first before ambling this way. "Good morning, my dear. I can't believe you never told me you translate erotic novels."
"Only for another old friend," Haven muttered, whiskey eyes not quite meeting Alexis'. "I haven't done one of those in at least a year. He doesn't write them very often."
"A pity," Alexis replied. "They're very good."
The flush on Haven's cheeks darkened, and he looked up briefly to scowl. "Of all the books in my library, you had to find those?"
Laughing, Alexis dropped another kiss on his mouth, then said, "Of course I did." He loosened his arms around Haven's waist, smoothing them up his back, then very slowly back down—and down, until he had a firm grip on Haven's utterly perfect ass. "They really are quite good."
"I can certainly tell that you like them," Haven muttered against his mouth, "you incorrigible wretch."
Alexis nibbled at his lips, his jaw, down his throat until he managed to extract the shivers he so enjoyed, the soft, barely audible moan that meant Haven was his for the taking. And he so very much wanted to take. With excruciating slowness, he traced his way back up the warm skin, loving the softness of it, the faint scent of them which still clung to it, a hint of Haven's spicy cologne.
Haven's mouth, when he reclaimed it, was warm and pliant and the finest thing in existence. More moans spilled into the kiss, headier than the finest brandy. He pulled them closer together, hands still on Haven's ass, groaning at the heat and the contact.
To think he had so very stupidly tried to walk away from this man.
Reluctantly letting go of his delightful grip, he put j
ust enough space between them to begin fumbling with clothes. Luckily, neither of them was wearing much more than was necessary to avoid scarring the servants—of which Haven had remarkably few, though those few were the most fiercely loyal servants Alexis had ever met.
A hasty examination of Haven's perpetually messy study revealed the desk chair and the floor as the only viable options, and given the ominous sounds the chair had made last time…
Discarding the last of their clothes, gleefully returning to touching and kissing and teasing, he pushed them to the floor before the small fireplace, where a healthy fire kept back the worst of the winter chill. The rug was one of the thick, soft ones from Haven's homeland, all rich, dark jewel tones woven into an intricate, abstract pattern. Spread out upon it, Haven was the finest of treasures.
And all his.
Bending, he put his mouth to Haven's chest, breathing in more of his scent, reveling in the taste of his skin, how sinuously Haven writhed and shivered beneath him. How in the world had this man been free for Alexis to claim?
"I wish I had thought to bring the oil with me," he murmured against Haven's stomach, then worked his way further down, moving with the sort of slowness that drove Haven crazy, tasting every bit of skin he was able, hands touching what his mouth could not.
He glanced up at a hastily cut off laugh, and saw that Haven's cheeks were once more flushed. Alexis smirked. "What?" he asked, and finally wrapped a hand around Haven's cock, causing him to jerk and cry out, twist and angle for more.
"The desk," Haven finally gasped out. "There is some in the desk."
Chuckling, Alexis released his hold on Haven's cock, and replaced hand with mouth, teasing at first, but when Haven slipped into his native language, speaking in rapid, clumsy sentences, he finally relented and took Haven's cock deep, sucking hard, using his hands to stroke and tease and drive Haven to the point of madness.
When Haven finally broke with a cry, still lost in words that Alexis could understand, he focused only on swallowing, on relishing every shudder, every noise. At last Haven seemed well and truly spent, and Alexis slowly withdrew, then reached up to kiss Haven deeply, sharing the taste, the pleasure.