Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

seeking interest for later in the evening.
    "DeLancey, old boy!" a senior minister of the Exchequer called out. At the Phoenix there were no titles, all were equals. "It has been aeons since we last saw you— and you missed my dinner party!"
    "Philberry, you exaggerate grossly!" Ashe gripped the fleshy palm; exaggeration was not the only gross aspect of Lord Philberry. "It has been hardly a month. I do apologize, though— I had business in Constantinople."
    "Another time then, my boy!" The minister puffed copiously on a cigar. He glanced left, then right, and spoke to Ashe in an overstated stage whisper. "Have you heard tonight's news?"
    "I cannot say that I have." Ashe could just imagine what petty drama or intrigue had infatuated the old pederast.
    "Xander has returned." The old man nodded knowingly.
    "Who?"
    "Xander… you know…" Philberry scowled at Ashe. "Atherton's little pain slut."
    Ashe knew of Percy Atherton, a cruel little man more sadist than Dom, but this Xander was unknown to him. Although someone who endured Atherton— repeatedly, according to the minister— certainly piqued Ashe's interest. Young William had taken a commission in the Royal Navy and left London— and Ashe— behind.
    "Perhaps you should introduce us."
    "If you promise to share." Philberry smirked and licked his flabby lips; the old lech was a notorious voyeur. "Come along— he has challenged Staunton to a chess match."
    The pair walked to the club's game room where a small group had gathered to observe the players. As they neared the table, gooseflesh rose on Ashe's arms; a sense of danger prickled along his spine, like a chill wind. There was magic— powerful thaumaturgy— in the room; although it felt strangely vague and unfocused.
    Ashe nudged forward to better view the chessmen. Staunton's immaculate figure hunched forward over the board as he considered what appeared as a weak position for his king. His opponent was strikingly handsome: lengthy dark hair, pulled into an unconventional queue, swept back from a long, pale face with strong cheekbones and a neat goatee. The young man's brow beetled as he watched Staunton interpose a pawn. Steepling his fingers, Xander tapped his chin and whistled softly through his teeth before deftly moving a bishop to capture Staunton's lone, remaining knight. "Check… and mate."
    Staunton briefly contemplated the pieces then tipped his king in resignation. "Well played, my friend."
    "You are gracious, sir. It was more luck than skill."
    Philberry barged forward, pulling the young man from the table. "Nonsense, my boy, you are very skilled! But come, here is someone you must meet— I would like to acquaint you with Asher deLancey."
    The darkly attractive man gripped Ashe's extended hand, sending a shock along his arm. He was the source of the magic! Refusing to show any weakness, Ashe shook hands and met the man's brooding gaze.
    "A pleasure, Mister DeLancey." A wide charming smile brightened the man's face. "I am Xander Tristekedes."
    ****
    Melizander's breath caught in his chest and he stood entranced: Asher deLancey had the face of an angel. No , he thought, his was the rich, heavy-lidded beauty of Caravaggio's Saint John— chaste, yet sensual. However, Melizander could tell this man was no saint— and certainly not chaste. DeLancey's eyes had taken his measure, undressing him, as Minister Philberry introduced them. In truth I would not mind his taking my clothes off!
    "The pleasure is entirely mine." DeLancey's voice was a rich tenor with dark undertones. "Join me for a drink."
    Melizander nodded his assent and followed Asher to the lounge. There, each armed with a brandy, they had engaged in small talk, bandying anecdotes and quips, appraising one another. The artificer found the lord charming and articulate, not nearly as shallow or vain as his stylish appearance would have suggested.
    DeLancey questioned him relentlessly, almost to the bounds of the Phoenix' quite relaxed sense of propriety, wanting to know about his parents, his education, his profession. All but the last Melizander answered honestly. Abashed by his inability to make sense of Fourier's text and disconcerted somewhat by Asher's intense interest, he lied, saying he was at leisure thanks to his grandfather's bequest.
    As best he could, Melizander interjected his own questions. DeLancey, however, seemed immune to discussing himself, giving short, almost terse, answers. This quirk of humility appealed to Melizander;