Rejar Part 6

She looked surprised for a moment, then gracefully dipped into a curtsy. "Your Highness."

"If you will excuse me, I seem to have misplaced my clothes."

The man might have been discussing the weather, so bland was his voice. He turned and climbed up the stairs without a backward glance.

Misplaced his clothes, indeed.

His words left a searing picture in Leona Harcorte's mind. An image of golden muscular thighs and firmly rounded b.u.t.tocks. An image of his powerful body with that wildly sensuous pagan hair. An image of his erotically beautiful face contorted with pa.s.sion as he took her again and again ...

She must have him.

And in the meantime, what a juicy little tidbit for her to spread about the ton! Like her, no one would have a moment's doubt as to how the handsome prince had lost his clothes. One only had to look at him to figure it out.

From that moment on, his place and his reputation in society was set.

Rejar found Lord Byron in the upstairs hallway. The man was slightly swaying from excesses of every kind. This pleased Rejar, for it would probably make Byron more susceptible to his suggestive ability.

"Good lord, man, what happened to you?" Byron peered at him in the dimly lit hallway. "Do I know you, sir?"

{Yes. We met up again late last evening. We went carousing together.} Rejar waited to see if the suggestion would take.

"Wait! I remember now ... we went chasing a bit of muslin!"

"Yes, we had quite a time with those three women you procured for the night." {I am Prince Nickolai Azov, a Russian n.o.bleman.} "We did, didn't we, your Highness."

"You are most inventive; for a baron, that is." {We are good friends. You often call me Nickolai.} Byron winked at him. "In case I didn't say it last night, it's good to see you again, Nickolai. I say-that robe you're wearing looks rather familiar."

"It should since it is your own."

"Ah, yes! I purchased it last year during my trip to the continent. It is in the Chinese style. But where are your clothes, Nickolai?"

Rejar grinned. "I cannot seem to find them, Byron."

Lord Byron rubbed his chin while he swayed in the hallway. "An amusing fix, to be sure. I'll have my man send my tailor to you at once. After all, we can't have you wandering about the place unclothed." Byron grinned at him in a strange way. "But then again ..."

Rejar paled. It appeared he had misjudged the man in one way at least.

He began backing down the hall.

"A tailor would be fine. I will await him in this suite." Rejar opened the first door he came to, ducked inside, and slammed the door shut.

Rejar stared morosely into his gla.s.s.

His long legs, now encased in tight, thigh-hugging black trousers and Hessian boots, stretched out before him.

Hock, he remembered, the spirits are called hock. He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. Everything is so strange here.

But it was his home now, so he must make do.

He sighed nonetheless. At least he had won the battle with that odd little man who called himself a tailor. He would not wear that ridiculously stiff collar on his shirt known as a cravat! Familiars could not abide tight restrictions about the neck.

Unless it was a woman's arms. Or legs. That was different.

Stranger still, all the odd man had to hear was his name and he almost tripped over his own feet to supply Rejar with a wardrobe. He had not given the man any payment whatsoever for his efforts. It seemed his name was enough to satisfy the man-at least temporarily.

This valuable knowledge regarding the power of his name, Rejar could use to his advantage. It appeared this t.i.tle of "prince" held much magic.

He shifted in his chair.

The restlessness was back. Leaning farther back in the seat, he crossed his legs at the ankles, trying to find a comfortable position. It was useless.

"Why the long face, Nickolai?"

Byron was sitting across from him. The small table between them held several bottles of spirits. And several empties. It was very late in the night.

Since his first evening here, Byron had not made any remarks of a disturbing nature to him, and Rejar, having conveyed his shock at the man's dual inclinations, decided to let the incident go. It was not for Rejar to judge him and, although such inclinations were extremely alien to the Familiar, perhaps this behavior was a common one here. Some of the young men he had met seemed most peculiar with their rouged faces and frilly clothes.

A smile curved through his cheeks as he thought of what the Aviaran warriors would make of that. It would be most amusing.

In any event, he discovered that he genuinely liked the young baron.

"I need a woman." Rejar made the statement with all the honesty inherent between men after imbibing spirits for several days straight.

"Ah. None here to suit your palate?"

That was just it. Rejar could not understand why, for the past two nights, he had not prevailed upon several of the females who had been in attendance here. Especially in his current state of urgency.

All of the women had seemed most receptive to him. In fact. Lady Harcorte had pursued him relentlessly-once even coming uninvited into his chamber just as he was preparing to bathe. He had firmly shown her the door.

His continued refusals were a mystery to him.

Oh, he had tried.

One woman was very alluring, yet her hair somehow seemed the wrong shade. Another was enticingly sensual, but the shape of her mouth left him cold. It happened again and again. Just when he thought he had found a good choice something would put him off.

It was most frustrating.

"No. None suits me," he responded truthfully. A flash of forest green crossed his dulled mind. He squelched the image immediately.

"Pity." Byron took a long swallow of his drink. "You don't seem like a man who likes to waste much time between his pleasures."

"I am not." Rejar emptied the bottle into his gla.s.s, then started another. The drink was not helping alleviate his restlessness, but, then again, it did not seem to concern him so much anymore.

Rejar did not overindulge in spirits often; Familiars generally disliked having their senses dulled. He wondered why he welcomed such a state at this moment.

"Didn't think so." Byron snapped his fingers. "You've given me an idea! 'His manner was perhaps the more seductive, because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce.' I believe I shall write about a most interesting fellow; I shall base him on the two of us. Let's see ... I'll call him Don ... Don ... well, it'll come to me."

The room was companionably silent for several minutes as the men continued to drink.

Byron abruptly asked in drunken stupor, "Nickolai, have you ever 'tooled' in a gondola? I have, you know."

Rejar turned bleary eyes to him. "What is a gondola?" He needed no translation for the other term.

Byron waved his gla.s.s through the air. "It's Italian-a long narrow boat."

Rejar reviewed his numerous past conquests in his mind. At least those he could presently remember.

"Yes," he said, thinking aloud. "A boat, a sailing vessel, a ship, a raft, a paddle boat, and a supply transport-twice."

Byron seemed surprised. "And here I thought I was the only one to do that." He looked challengingly at Rejar out of the corner of his eye. "How about on a table?"

The corners of Rejar's mouth twitched as he got into the game of one-upmanship. Familiars loved games. "A chair, once on a council seat-when my father was not there-a ledge, a shelf, a bench, and ... a table."

Byron expelled a breath. The Prince was a challenge. "What about under a table?" Byron thought he had him now.

Rejar laced his hands behind his head, affecting a bored mien. "Of course."

Byron narrowed his eyes. "Against a wall?"

Rejar waved his hand, not even deigning to answer.

"Hmm ..." Byron tapped his fingers against his gla.s.s, trying to come up with an even more unusual place where he had succ.u.mbed to his pa.s.sionate nature. "On the stairs?"

Rejar's eyes widened. "The stairs?"

"Yes, the stairs." Byron gave him a comically sinister smile, thinking he had the Prince now.

Rejar grinned slowly back at him. "Which particular stair do you speak of?"

The smile died on Byron's face. "You can't be serious?"

Rejar raised one black eyebrow, saying nothing.

"By d.a.m.n!" Byron slapped his knee. Both men started laughing.

"Will you be taking up Scrope's invitation to stay in his town house?"

Scrope Davies was one of Byron's closest friends. The congenial man had graciously offered the "prince" use of his home when he found out Rejar intended to seek lodging. Of course, the lodging part was only a guise for his persona. Rejar still fully intended to remain with Lilac.

Especially during the nights.

"I think not. This Clarendon Hotel you spoke of will better suit my purposes." It was vital he maintain his freedom to come and go as he pleased. In the form he pleased.

"Probably wise. Scrope has a bit of a problem with the tables. If he asks you to lend him some blunt, you needn't be concerned-he's a man of honor."

"So I saw." By Aiyah, what was blunt? All sorts of alarming possibilities ran through the Familiar's head. From what he had seen so far on this world, it could be anything. Anything at all.

After a while, Byron seemed to become more somber of mood.

"Forgive me for remarking on this, Nickolai, but you are a stunning man; quite the most dashing I've seen. You're intelligent, witty, and as Brummell would say, 'impeccably groomed.' Beau will adore you. I'll wager he'll forgive you for your lack of a cravat. By next week you'll be the toast of the ton."

Byron stared moodily at his gla.s.s as if it were portending the future. "Listen well; they'll erect a statue and canonize your name-then they'll flay you alive."

Rejar watched him speculatively. "Why would they do this?" he asked quietly.

"Because, my dear beautiful Nickolai, it is such jolly good fun." Byron let his gla.s.s slip through his fingers to the floor, a reflective expression crossing his features. Rejar briefly wondered if the man was not seeing a vision of his own future.

From the upstairs landing, Madeline Fensley called Byron to bed. The baron stood up, swaying from the amount of drink he had imbibed. Flicking his wrist in the air, he proclaimed, "The adoring ma.s.ses await!"

Rejar smiled faintly.

Bowing at the waist a bit unsteadily, Byron exited the room, calling out to Rejar, "Goodnight, sweet prince."

While Byron's wit, in this instance, was completely lost on Rejar, he recognized the man had the soul of an artist whose excesses were born out of a deeper kind of hunger.

A strange world, this. The society that fostered such gifts in a man would ultimately destroy him. Like the Lenark, the famous star cloud of Zynth, Byron would burn bright, but not for long.

However, like that cloud, Rejar knew that once this "star" was gone, his essence would still glow.

It would not be the first time Rejar would regret his inability to read the language of these people. He wished to know the work of such a man.

"Where in the world have you been these past three days?"

Lilac stood in the middle of her bedroom floor, hands on hips, furious with him. He had never been so pleased.

"Do you know how worried I was?" She shook her finger at him. "I thought something terrible happened to you-don't you ever do anything like that again! Bad cat!"

Instead of being properly chastened as he should have been, the cat began purring.

"Oh, all right, you're forgiven-come here."

Rejar padded over to her. He was shocked when she suddenly sank to the carpet and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her.

"I was so worried about you, Rejar. I thought you were never coming home." She sniffed as she buried her face in his thick fur, making him feel a little guilty for upsetting her so. He hadn't thought about that aspect of it.

Rejar was bone weary from the weekend's over-indulgences with rich food and drink; so tired from having to be constantly on guard in this alien world. And exhausted, too, from the sleepless nights of missing her comforting presence next to him.

That evening, he fell into a deep sleep with Lilac tangled to him. He did not awaken until just before she did the following morning.

Some of his strange restlessness seemed to have abated.

For the next several days, Rejar chose not to wake Lilac during the night. Nor did he attempt to seek out other female company when he joined his new "friends" in the evenings.