Stepping into his stately manor through the large front doors, Lord James Byron Wickford handed his coat to his butler and confidant, Gilroy, with a sigh.  “It's good to be home,” Wickford commented, visibly relaxing as the door shut behind him.

“Long day, milord?”

Wickford nodded.  “Tell me again why I go on these tedious visits to see my terribly provincial neighbors?”

Gilroy stifled a chuckle.  The older man had served James' father for years before the man's untimely passing, and viewed James much like a son.  With an indulgent smile, the servant replied, “Because if you didn't they would all gossip about you behind your back.”

“They do that anyway.”

“But rather than discussing your eccentricities or,” Gilroy grinned, “proclivities, they'll talk of your winning smile or your sharp wit.”

Wickford smirked.  “Perhaps.  I suppose something must be done to keep up appearances.”

“If it helps your mood, milord, you have a guest waiting for you in the solarium.  One I think you will find much more palatable than your other audiences today.”

“Oh?” Wickford raised an eyebrow.  “Who might that be?”

“A Mr. Monaghan from Arilton.  I don't believe you've met before.”

Frowning, Wickford asked, “What does he want?”

Gilroy shrugged.  “He wouldn't tell me, milord.  He said he was directed here by Lady Galdmore, and told that you would be able to help him.”

Interest now sparked in Wickford's eyes, making the normally green orbs glimmer with a faint yellow sheen.  Maggie Galdmore was an old, crafty herbwife and spellweaver from one of the nearby villages.  Wickford had known her for years.  They often exchanged information or offered each other assistance, but mostly they kept one another from being completely bored with mundane life by throwing trouble one another's way.  Wickford wondered what sort of trouble was awaiting him in the solarium.

Wickford stretched out his awareness and sniffed the air.  “Shape-shifter?” he inquired aloud after a moment.

“I don't have your gift milord, so I can't say, but I think when you meet the young man you will see why he is so intriguing.”

“Indeed?” Looking far more pleased than when he arrived, Wickford headed for the solarium, giving Gilroy instructions to bring tea in ten minutes.

As Wickford drew closer to the room where his unexpected guest was waiting, the stranger's scent grew stronger, until Wickford had little doubt as to the nature of the young man's dilemma.  He grinned.  The day was taking a turn for the better.  Actually, all week Wickford had been rather restless.  Perhaps he'd finally have a more exciting diversion to occupy his time.

Stepping into the solarium, Wickford stopped short at the sight that greeted him.  In the window seat his guest—a young man of perhaps twenty—had fallen asleep in the sunlight.  Wickford was not given to outbursts of spontaneous poetic verse, but the image before him almost made him wish he were.  The young man would have been stunning even in the most unforgiving lighting, but sitting there, his golden skin and warm chestnut hair kissed by the setting sun, he was a vision.

Wickford smirked as he thought of Gilroy's words.  Intriguing, indeed.  The man knew him too well.  Gilroy must've taken one look at the young man's pretty face and known that Wickford would be immediately captivated.  He wondered if Maggie had thought the same when she sent him here.

Slowly, Wickford made his way over to the young man and took a seat nearby.  He stretched out comfortably and watched as his guest stirred from his slumber.  With sleepy eyes, the young man sat up and glanced about—and startled when he caught sight of Wickford so near.

“M-milord Wickford?” he sputtered, jumping to his feet and giving a hasty bow.  “I am so sorry to have arrived unannounced and then to not notice your arrival...” The flustered young man let his words trail off as his cheeks flushed pink.

Wickford grinned and stood to offer his hand.  “It is of no account,” he said, noting that his guest had the most dazzling pair of ice blue eyes he had ever seen.  They were ringed about the outer edge of the iris with a darker, more intense shade of blue, making them all the more exceptional.  “You are very welcome here, Mr. Monaghan.”

“Brin, milord.  My father is Mr. Monaghan.  It sounds strange to be addressed so.”

Wickford nodded.  “And as you know, I am the master of the house, James Byron Wickford.” They shook hands and Brin looked about awkwardly.  “Please, sit,” Wickford told him, as he took his own seat once more.  “You looked quite comfortable.”

Brin's cheeks bloomed red once more and Wickford suppressed a smile.  What a delightful young man—and so demure, considering what he was.

“I-I apologize for that, milord.  It was quite rude of me...”

“Nonsense!  Now sit down or I will be offended,” Wickford insisted with a disarming grin.  Brin relented then with a shy smile of his own.

“Now, Mr. Monaghan—”

“Brin, please,” he interrupted.

“Ah, yes.  My apologies, Brin.  I was told you came from Arilton.  That's a good half-day's journey on horseback.  May I ask what brings you here?”

Brin opened his mouth, then hesitated, looking distraught.  “Well...” he tried once more, again unsuccessfully.

Fortunately, Gilroy arrived just then with the tea, and salvaged the awkward moment.

“Thank you, Gilroy.  Oh, and see to it that a room is made up in the East Wing for our guest, would you?”

“No, no, milord!” Brin protested.  “That won't be necessary, I assure you.”

“I insist,” Wickford said kindly but firmly.  “Did you plan on riding back in the dark of night or holing up at one of the inns in town?  What would people think of my hospitality?” he added with a wink.  “You are my guest.”

“I'll see to it, milord,” Gilroy said.  The servant's face was expressionless, but Wickford could sense the man's amusement beneath as he left.

“You really should consider letting me stay elsewhere, milord,” Brin said once the door was shut.

“And why is that?”

The young man took a breath and looked as if he was trying to gather his courage.  “Because I may pose a danger to you and your household.”

“I doubt that.”

“But, milord!” Bring retorted in a pained voice, “You don't understand!  You see, I...  I am a...”

“A werewolf,” Wickford finished for him, unable to bear watching the poor thing squirm any longer.

Brin's pale eyes went wide as saucers and his jaw dropped.  It was so comical an expression Wickford was tempted to laugh, though his good breeding kept him from being so boorish.  Anyone could see Brin was a sensitive young man.

“Maggie said you would know...but I only half believed her,” Brin finally said.  “She's the only person outside my family that I have ever told.  How did you know?” Brin's voice held a cautious suspicion that Wickford felt was probably wise given the young man's situation.

“I have a certain...talent for these things.  I can go into further detail if you wish, but first I would like to know why exactly Maggie sent you to me.”

Brin's expression drew together in annoyance.  “For a cure. What else?”

Wickford frowned.  “Surely Maggie didn't tell you to come to me for a cure?”

“She did,” Brin retorted, his pretty brow wrinkling.  “She said that if anyone could help me, it would be you.”

“Help you, probably, yes.  'Cure' you, no.  Lycanthropy is something you are.  It's not something you rid yourself of.”

Now Brin's blue eyes grew stormy.  “It's a curse! One I will free myself of.” Abruptly, the young man stood.  “And if you cannot or will not help me, then I will be on my way.” With that, Brin stalked towards the door.

Without turning to face him, Wickford called in a low, authoritative voice, “Brin.”

“Yes?”

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“Yes, milord.”

Finally glancing over his shoulder, Wickford saw Brin standing by the door.  The young man looked determined and mulish, but spoiled his otherwise stern demeanor by unconsciously jutting out his lower lip in a slight pout.  Wickford had a sudden urge to suck that tempting lip between his teeth.  He tried to focus.

“If you try to seek a cure, you will never find one.  However, I can help you.”

“How?”

“By helping you take control of the animal inside you.  It will always be a part of you, but that doesn't mean it has to overrule you—not if you can learn to accept it and balance it within you.”

Brin was quiet as he slowly took in the other man's words.

“Is there truly no cure?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Wickford sighed.  “I won't lie to you, there are those who will claim to have found ways to 'cure' lycanthropy.” He caught and held Brin's eyes.  “But nothing comes without a price.

“If you're determined to pursue this 'cure', I cannot stop you.  All I can do is warn you that going down that road will not simplify things for you.  Whatever you may believe of your condition, it is a natural occurrence.  Altering it means attempting to alter the natural order of things.  I've known those involved in such pursuits, and it is a dark, tangled path they tread.”

Brin nodded, looking sober and disheartened.  It made Wickford feel nearly as wretched just looking at him.  Standing, Wickford walked over to the young man.

“Perhaps you would like to take some time to think it over.  You must be tired from your travels.  Why don't I show you to your room?  No doubt a bath has already been prepared.  You can wash up and join me later for dinner.”

Brin nodded again, numbly.  Unable to help himself, Wickford reached out to brush one wavy lock of hair from the young man's face.  To his dismay, he saw a large bruise just above Brin's temple.  Swallowing his questions, he allowed Brin to move away, but he kept the information filed away.

“You are welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Wickford assured him.

Cool blue eyes looked up at him and Wickford was more affected than he wanted to admit by that mournful gaze.

“Thank you, milord.”

 

                                                  *            *            *

 

After emerging from his bath, Brin dressed and then stood before the mirror, gazing on his reflection with a critical eye.  He fussed about and lamented that he only had one proper suit in his possession, and it was not in the best condition.  There were more important issues to think about, of course.  Such as whether or not he was going to take Wickford up on his offer to help him.  However, Brin couldn't help but feel nervous at the prospect of dinner with the handsome Lord.  It was difficult to focus when he knew he would be sitting across from those startling emerald eyes.

All the other aristocrats Brin had happened to meet were older or balding or overweight.  Lord Wickford was nothing like Brin had envisioned.  Maggie had given him a bare-bones description at his request.  'Black hair, green eyes, tall, pale...and arrogant!' Maggie had said offhandedly.

The reality was somewhat different.

Maggie had said nothing about the midnight blackness of the man's hair, or the yellow flecks in his eyes, or the elegant figure Wickford cut in his fine clothes.  The Lord had a natural beauty and Wickford knew just how to accentuate it with his charcoal great coat, crisp white shirt, and cream waistcoat.  With his dark hair and pale skin, the effect was striking in its contrasts.  Brin, sadly, felt he could hardly compete.  Not that he could hope to catch a Lord's eye anyway—especially not after he'd stumbled over his words so badly and shown just what a country simpleton he was.  As if that wasn't bad enough, he'd also lost his temper when Wickford was doing nothing but trying to help him.

He didn't stand a chance... So why did Wickford have to be so damn charismatic?  It simply wasn't fair.  And why had Wickford looked at him with those lovely emerald eyes full of compassion?  Wickford had even briefly touched him.  And what had Brin done?  Pulled away.

Then again, what else could he have done?  Brin was loath to explain his fading bruises.  Even if he yearned to share his pain with another, he didn't want to burden anyone else with his problems—not more than he had already done anyway.  He'd imposed too much on Wickford as it was.  What had he been thinking, to come in and start making demands on a stranger?  Yet Wickford had been reasonable through it all.  Hopefully, Brin thought, he could take that as a good sign.

Either way, Brin was determined to make a better impression this time around—and to be more well-behaved.  Straightening his jacket, the young man headed down to dinner, and soon found himself joining Lord Wickford in a small but formal dining hall.  Several servants bustled in and out with food and Gilroy stood silently at the sidebar waiting to attend them, but otherwise Wickford and Brin dined alone.  It was an odd feeling for Brin, who was used to there always being farmhands about, coming and going through the kitchen to grab food.  There was constant chatter and joking at all hours of the day.  The quiet, reserved atmosphere of the dining room, though elegant, lacked warmth.  It also didn't seem to reflect Lord Wickford's personality.  Brin couldn't imagine how the man ate here on a regular basis.

“You live here...alone?” Brin found himself asking.

Wickford smiled over his wine glass and Brin felt his stomach quiver.

“Yes, but my family's estate is only about a day's ride from here.  My sister resides there, with our mother and father.  I visit occasionally, when I feel the need.”

“I think I would find it rather lonesome with such a large home to myself, if you'll pardon me for saying so, milord.”

“Not at all.  I enjoy my privacy, though I admit that the more formal rooms such as this get little use for the very reason that they are so large and somehow...hollow.” As Wickford spoke, he gave Gilroy a sidelong glance.  “In fact, if it had been my choice, Brin, we would be eating in my personal lounge rather than the dining hall.”

At this Gilroy frowned.  “But you have a guest tonight, milord.  It is only proper.”

Turning to his servant now, Wickford replied, “A guest that is obviously as uncomfortable in such a stiff, formal setting as I am, Gil.”

“I didn't say—” Brin began, but the other men paid him no heed.

“A little propriety every so often wouldn't hurt, milord.”

“It's a bit late to start teaching that lesson now, is it not?” Wickford mused with a grin.

Gilroy gave a long-suffering sigh.  “Very well, if you insist, I will have the food moved to the lounge.”

“Marvelous!” Wickford said with a triumphant grin.  “Never mind moving everything though,” he said.  “We'll manage.” With a wink at Brin, he stood and, after piling food high on his plate, he grabbed it and his wineglass and headed for the door, nodding for Brin to follow.

A bit unsure of protocol, Brin gave Gilroy a sheepish grin before quickly refilling his own plate and then hurriedly following Wickford out the door.

They were soon settled into a warm room lined with carpets along the floor and books along the walls.  The two men sank into Wickford's leather couches and picked at their plates from a low table before them as they fell into easy conversation.  Wickford spoke fondly of the many and various scrapes he had gotten into when he was young, and the grief he had caused Gilroy at the time.  The anecdotes made Brin chuckle and put him at ease, which Brin guessed was Wickford's purpose in telling them.  When they were full from eating, Wickford called for their plates to be taken away and a bottle of wine brought to them.

For a long time they sat in companionable silence before the large fire in the hearth, sipping their wine.  Brin was surprised at how comfortable it was to sit in so intimate a setting with the nobleman, though maybe that had a lot to do with the wine.  He glanced at the elegant man so near to him and wondered what it would feel like to have those long arms wrapped around him, those graceful fingers tangled in his hair.  Brin sighed inwardly.  He probably would never know, although inside his heart a small spark of hope had kindled that this nobleman really could help him overcome the beast inside him, and just maybe they would become more than student and master.  If he decided to stay, that was.

Across from Brin, Wickford watched his guest over the rim of his glass and smiled at the lovely picture Brin made.  Sitting in the glow of the fire, the young man's cheeks had grown rosy from the wine and the warmth.  For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Wickford was struck with a strong impulse to capture Brin's lips with his own.  All evening they'd been taunting him as Brin sipped his wine or plucked a piece of duck from his fork.  Wickford wanted nothing more than to bed the pretty young man that very evening, but he knew other matters had to be dealt with.

Brin needed him, whether he wanted to believe it or not.  Wickford wouldn't see him fall into the wrong hands out of sheer stubbornness or ignorance.  At the very least, Brin needed to be more informed about his alternatives.  Once he was, Wickford was certain he could convince Brin to stay and train with him—and then Wickford could take his time seducing him.  It was a win all around, the Lord thought with a grin.