Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin took one look at the window display of Guinevere’s and declared, “There is no way I can afford any of this.”

The modiste’s fashions looked absolutely splendid, using cuts and fabrics the likes of which a country lad like Merlin had never seen. Guinevere’s seemed to offer everything even the most fastidious members of the Camelot ton could wish for: snug-fitting breeches, waistcoats and double-breasted tailcoats for the gentlemen, lace-trimmed frocks, ball gowns and decorative shawls for the ladies. Bonnets, to keep a lady’s features from freckling unattractively, cravats to protect a gentleman’s neck from the cold winds.

In short, Guinevere’s looked to be the peerage’s first choice for a reason, and Merlin was absolutely certain he did not have enough money to buy even a single scrap of fabric in this tailor shop. He made to turn on the spot, but an arched eyebrow from his uncle was enough to stop Merlin in his tracks.

“Nonsense,” Gaius said. “The funds your mother has provided you with will cover all necessary clothes and accoutrements for the upcoming season.”

“Not at this place,” Merlin hissed. “Have you looked at this display? I wouldn’t be surprised if the King himself shopped here!”

“The King’s clothes are made by the royal dressmaker,” Gaius replied matter-of-factly. “Now stop making a scene! I think I spotted Lady Catrina Tregor down the road and she is the worst kind of gossip. In you go, my boy!”

When Merlin still hesitated, the arch of Gaius’s eyebrow turned truly frightening, and so—though not without a great sigh—Merlin braced himself and entered the tailor shop to the ring of a doorbell.

Only a couple of customers were inside this morning. Two giggling girls were browsing ribbons, while an older lady—their mother or some other chaperone—was looking at rolls of lace. She was being helped by a young woman with a pincushion strapped to her wrist, who looked up at the chime of the bell.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she greeted them with a hint of a curtsy. “The ten o’clock? Madame DuLac will be right with you.”

Gaius had taken off his hat and politely inclined his head, then led Merlin to the backroom, where he promptly settled down in one of the comfortable-looking armchairs.

Merlin, however, was too agitated to sit down and relax. They were surrounded by rolls of heavy silk and intricately stitched cotton, and mannequins dressed in ornate gowns and frocks were looming in all corners. No matter what his uncle claimed, Merlin knew for a fact he could never manage to pay for a suit at this modiste, let alone a whole season’s worth of new outfits.

Gaius, meanwhile, looked like he had settled in for good. He had placed his hat on a side table and laced his hands on top of his vest.

“Pacing is not becoming of a young gentleman,” he commented after watching Merlin fret for a minute. “A member of the Camelot ton is expected to keep a level head at all times.”

As usual when he felt out of his depth, Merlin resorted to snarking, “As you might recall, Uncle, I am not yet a member of the Camelot ton, but a nobody from the countryside with but a few hundred pounds to my name and very poor prospects. Therefore, I shall pace about as I very well please.”

Gaius appeared unfazed by his bite. “Hogwash! You’re a debutant from a good family who will be introduced to the King and the peerage shortly.”

“Did I hear someone say debutant?” Merlin turned around to see a woman had appeared in the backroom. She was wearing a delicate pink gown that was stitched to perfection and suited her darker complexion. “I’m Guinevere DuLac, the modiste.”

Gaius stood from the armchair and inclined his head. “Madame DuLac, it’s a pleasure. I am Sir Gaius Draughtbrew and this is Mr Merlin Emrys.”

Madame DuLac smiled warmly as she gave a polite little curtsy. “The pleasure is all mine, Sir Gaius. I assume young Mr Emrys here is about to be introduced to polite society?”

“You assume correctly, madame,” Gaius agreed. “We need a full wardrobe, but most urgently an ensemble he can wear before His Majesty.”

The modiste looked Merlin over, and Merlin wondered if she was taking note of the threadbare fabric and old-fashioned cut of his suit. But all she said was, “Well, I’m sure we’ll find something fetching for a handsome young gentleman such as Mr Emrys.” Suddenly, she chuckled, an endearingly awkward sound. “Not that I—I am married, you see… Naturally, I don’t…” She blushed, fumbling for the right words.

Merlin decided he liked Guinevere DuLac, even if he could never afford her en vogue fashions. “I thank you kindly for the compliment, madame,” he said, and smiled at her.

Still appearing a little flustered, Madame DuLac gestured at the little podium at the centre of the room. “Just up there, please. And don’t forget to undress.”

“You want me to undress for you, madame?” Merlin repeated, daring to tease her a little, though he immediately stopped smiling when Gaius sent him a warning look.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—just the coat and the cravat,” Madame DuLac said, with another endearing chuckle. “So I can take your measurements. Then, we can discuss cuts and fabrics. How many outfits are we thinking for the season?”

As it turned out, they were thinking a lot. Gaius ordered ten pairs of breeches and pantaloons, four tailcoats, two shortcoats, eight waistcoats, a variety of linen shirts and cravats, as well as other accessories.

“Uncle,” Merlin hissed when Madame DuLac had disappeared to fetch a display of buttons. “I cannot pay for any of this!”

Gaius, who had settled back into his armchair, smiled a small smile. “Don’t you worry, it is all being taken care of.”

Merlin stared at him for a long moment, then flushed. “Please,” he said indignantly. “Surely you’re not thinking of—”

“I have no children of my own, my boy, as you very well know,” Gaius intercepted calmly, though he avoided Merlin’s eyes as he spoke and plucked at his cuff.

Merlin shifted uncomfortably where he was still standing on the little podium. “Really, you cannot—”

But in that moment, Madame DuLac had returned and Merlin had to swallow his refusals, quietly listening to Madame DuLac talk about the differences between horn, shell and wooden buttons, all the while wondering how on earth he could ever repay Gaius for his generosity.

Despite the fact that Merlin called Gaius his uncle, Sir Gaius Draughtbrew was not actually a blood relative, but a friend of his father’s, Lord Balinor Emrys. Gaius should not be spending a single ha’penny on Merlin, especially after he had already taken on the daunting task of introducing the impoverished son of an acquaintance to Camelot’s fine society.

Finally, Madame DuLac was finished and let Merlin go, announcing that she would have two outfits ready by the end of the week and would deliver the rest the next month.

Merlin hopped off the podium and approached Gaius, who had long stopped paying attention to the proceedings in favour of perusing what looked to be a newspaper. On closer look, though, it was of a different format than most newspapers Merlin was familiar with, more the size of a pamphlet, and elegantly designed.

“Lord Dragonwise,” Merlin read out loud. “I wouldn’t have picked you as the type to read society papers!”

Gaius glanced at him over the top of the paper. “Everyone reads what Lord Dragonwise has to say, my boy. He has the ability to alter fates and ruin livelihoods with a single word.”

Merlin let out a sceptical hum. “Really? Because of a gossip rag?”

Gaius shook his head and held out the paper. “Here. Take a look. You will see.”

Merlin accepted the leaflet and looked it over. His eyes widened when he realised what he was reading. “But—but he’s using people’s actual names!”

“Indeed,” Gaius replied. “Which makes all the difference. There is, after all, still some plausible deniability when the papers write about the disgrace of a Lady A or an Earl B. Lord Dragonwise, however, seems to have no qualms about revealing people’s identities when writing of a scandal.”

Merlin skimmed over a particular juicy piece of gossip and felt his ears grow hot at the lewd implications. “Lords. Is this not forbidden?”

Gaius reached for his hat and picked off a bit of lint off the top. “It isn’t exactly forbidden, no. Though most definitely frowned upon. This particular paper hasn’t been around for long, either. It only started being distributed at the beginning of last year’s season. Free of charge, at first, though now that everyone is reading it, it costs four shillings.”

“Four shillings a paper? This Lord Dragonwise must be making a fortune then!” Merlin shook his head. “Who is he? Does anyone know?”

“No. Though I’m sure the Crown is already looking into it. Lord Dragonwise seems to have a particular preference for making jibes at King Uther, who is not known for his sense of humour.”

Merlin cleared his throat. It had gone a little tight at the mention of the King. Merlin would soon come face to face with the monarch, when he would be presented at the palace next week. He had heard that the King could make or break a lady’s or gentleman’s debut with one look. If he approved, even someone with poor prospects—such as Merlin—could hope for a good match. If he disapproved… well. Merlin could only hope the King would not find fault with him, or his first season would be over before it had even started properly.

He looked over the paper again, starting to read at the beginning this time, and frowned. “Is this true?” he asked. “The Crown Prince is to be married this year? To a member of the ton?”

“Lord Dragonwise is seldom wrong.” Gaius placed his hat on his head and, after checking his pocket watch, made a beckoning motion, prompting Merlin to give back the pamphlet. “Enough gossip for now. We must still make for the cobbler and the hatter, and it has already gone twelve o’clock!”

Merlin reluctantly relinquished the paper, obediently trotting after Gaius as they left Guinevere’s and Madame DuLac’s imposing fashions behind.

But as they made down the road for the other shops, Merlin’s thoughts were still circling around what he had read in Lord Dragonwise. The Crown Prince, looking for a partner? That would make for an interesting season indeed!

Not that Merlin had any chance of landing that particular match. If the Prince was indeed to pick someone from the ton, it would be someone high-ranking—a Duke, a Marchioness, or their heir. If not that, then at least someone exceedingly rich or stunningly beautiful.

Merlin was hardly the latter and most definitely not the former. He would need to marry well, though. Very well indeed. A prince, he contemplated with a wry smile, would surely do the trick, but he would have to be content with anyone who would take him for his looks and personality, and who had more than a penny to their name.

He couldn’t help but sigh at the thought. He so should have liked to marry for love.

“The audacity of this man!”

With a huff, King Uther slammed the leaflet he had been reading onto the table, almost causing the footman serving the tea to spill all over the royal breakfast.

Arthur, who was sitting across from the King, tried to keep a neutral expression as he cut up his sausage. “If this gossip rag upsets you so much, I don’t understand why you insist on reading it, Father,” he remarked.

“Don’t be daft, Arthur!” Uther snapped. “Of course I must read it, if only to keep apprised of this scandalmonger’s latest slander!”

Arthur only just suppressed a sigh. He felt like they had had this very same conversation a dozen times already. Ever since Lord Dragonwise had started publishing his paper, it had been a source of much discontent for the King. “What has he written now, then, if I may ask?”

“Apart from insinuating yet again that I’m unfit to rule?” Uther sneered. “That you, the Crown Prince, would disobey your King and choose a consort I did not approve of.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Really? May I see?”

Uther waved at the footman, who promptly picked up the abandoned leaflet and brought it over, presenting it to Arthur with a bow. Arthur smoothed out a crease in the paper, then started reading, though he soon put the leaflet down again and snorted dismissively, “Yours is a rather bold interpretation of what Lord Dragonwise has written, don’t you think, Father?”

“The only interpretation,” the King replied sharply. “How dare he imply such a thing! Of course you will not agree to marry anyone without my explicit permission! Anything else would be unthinkable!”

Arthur glanced down at his plate and found that his appetite was quickly vanishing. As it was, he didn’t much care for the topic. “If it is indeed unthinkable, then there is no reason to get upset about it,” he said pointedly.

“Don’t play smart with me, son!” Uther reprimanded him at once and sent him a glare across the table.

Arthur bristled at his tone—he was no longer a child—but dutifully inclined his head. “I apologise, sire.”

Uther let out another huff. “Well, for what it’s worth, Lord Dragonwise is correct about one thing—I will be watching this year’s debut very carefully indeed. And you shall, too. I want you to pay close attention to those presented. There will only be a few ladies among them who are suitable to become Princess Consort and, one day, Queen of Camelot.”

Arthur picked up his serviette and dabbed at his mouth. “Ladies,” he finally repeated. “Am I to wed a woman, then?”

“I would prefer it,” Uther replied with a wave of his fork. “There is always the matter of issue to consider.”

“Mordred is a perfectly healthy boy,” Arthur riposted. “And there is no reason to believe Morgana won’t have a second child soon. The Pendragon line looks to be quite safe as it is. And if all else fails, I could always adopt.”

“You know as well as I do that the people prefer the heir to the kingdom to be a natural-born child,” Uther retorted, though, to Arthur’s complete surprise, he relented just a moment later: “However, if it is a gentleman who catches your eye and you can convince me of his merits, I will not stand in your way, as long as he is an appropriate choice.”

“Thank you, Father.” Arthur tried not to let his astonishment show, though it was difficult. His father so rarely gave in, after all.

But then, the King had been trying to get Arthur to marry ever since he had officially been made Crown Prince four years ago. Perhaps he hoped that Arthur would be more likely to make good on his promise to be wedded if he were given more freedom in his choice of partner.

Arthur didn’t know what he had been thinking when he had made that promise to his father. He felt no inclination whatsoever to settle down with somebody. If he wanted to spend time with a child, he could always visit Morgana and Leon to see his nephew. And if he wanted to let off some steam—well, nature had made it that an unmarried man did not need to be very careful. As long as he could escape his chaperone and dallied only with discreet partners, nobody would know if he had dabbled a little before the marriage bed. And even the ladies, Arthur knew, could find safe outlets before the wedding if they were so inclined. These weren’t the Middle Ages, after all.

As it was, though, he had made a vow to his father, and so, just a couple of days later, Arthur found himself in his chambers, enduring his valet’s fussing as he was dressed for court. He was already in his white pantaloons and red coat, ceremonial sword at his hip, and watched in the mirror as George carefully arranged the golden braids and sash across his uniform. Finally, after a final polish for his medals and ornaments, Arthur could escape his valet’s clutches, though not his company, as prim George also acted as his chaperone.

As Arthur made his way towards the throne room, George dogging his heels, Arthur couldn’t help but feel on edge. After all, if his father got his will, he would lay eyes on his future wife or husband in just a few minutes.

He entered the antechamber to the throne room, where Morgana was already waiting with Leon. She was dressed in a shimmering emerald gown that was just shy of scandalous, and bedecked with enough jewellery to make her silver coronet fade into the background. Clearly, she had gone all out for this year’s presentation.

But then, unlike Arthur, she actually enjoyed this sort of spectacle.

“Arthur, there you are!” Morgana exclaimed as soon as she spotted him. On approach, she presented her cheek and Arthur dutifully kissed it before greeting his brother-in-law with a quick forearm grasp. “I was starting to wonder if you had fled the castle before the parents could start flinging their eligible daughters at you,” she added with a sardonic eyebrow.

“How so, if I’m constantly supervised?” Arthur muttered under his breath and pointed his eyebrows at George, who had settled in a protocol-abiding stance at the door, like the good watchdog he was.

“So it is true, then?” Leon spoke up. “You’ll pick a bride this season?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied with all the enthusiasm he felt, which was none. “Though Father has at least given me the illusion of choice by graciously granting me permission to wed a man as well, if I find myself so inclined.”

“My, my, he must be quite desperate to see you married, then,” Morgana said, and smirked. “Though I have to say, I rather like the idea of a future King and King Consort of Camelot. I don’t think we’ve had that arrangement in over two centuries. It would make for a nice change.”

“Please, I can already see you plotting,” Arthur replied. “You’d love nothing more than to see Mordred on the throne, and that’s much more likely to happen if I marry a man.”

“You can’t blame a mother for wanting the best for her child,” Morgana retorted, entirely unashamed her scheme had so quickly been uncovered. “Besides, I’m also thinking of your happiness, brother dear. You’re much better suited to marrying a man. Who knows, perhaps the lucky gentleman is waiting just outside those doors?” She gestured at the entrance to the throne room.

“Ah, yes, and it will be love at first sight, too,” Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“You never know,” Leon spoke up and smiled at his wife. “It worked for us.” He leaned in for a chaste peck on Morgana’s lips, looking completely besotted.

Arthur only just supressed the urge to make a childish retching noise, which was lucky, as in that moment, the King himself stepped into the antechamber. He was all dressed up in his uniform, an even gaudier version of Arthur’s outfit, and accepted their bows with a gracious nod before making directly for the throne room.

As the guards swung open the double doors, the sound of a hundred excited voices floated into the antechamber, though the crowd quickly hushed and bowed as the King entered, followed by Arthur, then Morgana and Leon. They all stepped onto the dais, with Uther settling down on his throne, while the rest of them took their positions at his side.

Arthur was not looking forward to standing about for an hour to be gawped at while watching one noble after another fumble their way through their debut. Already, he could feel all eyes on him. Undoubtedly, every last member of the ton who was attending the ceremony had read the latest society papers and would keep a careful eye on his reaction. If he so much as smirked at one of the ladies or gentlemen presented today, they would think he had fallen madly in love and Lord Dragonwise would most certainly be writing about it the next day.

Not for the first time, Arthur found himself wondering who the mysterious author might be. All of the King’s investigations into the matter had proven fruitless so far. It had to be someone with access to polite society. Most likely, Lord Dragonwise was a nobleman himself—or a noblewoman, hiding behind a male alias. Perhaps he or she was even here right now, watching the debuts and taking notes.

“Commence,” Uther ordered at that moment and gave a regal wave.

Schooling his expression into vague indifference, Arthur set his eyes on the end of the throne room, where the debuting young ladies and gentlemen would soon make their appearance. Already, Arthur could see a glimpse of them through the opened doors. A small crowd had gathered just outside the throne room, waiting to be called by order of rank.

The steward, who had taken his position at the other end of the throne room, raised the stack of cards in his hand and called out the first name, “Lady Mithian Rodor. Presented by her father, His Grace the Duke of Nemeth.”

And so, the debuts began.

Lady Mithian, Arthur had to admit, made for a stunning first presentation. As was custom, she was dressed in a crème-coloured gown, which suited her milk-and-honey complexion. Her dark hair had been artfully arranged and was decorated with pearls. Naturally, she moved down the aisle with all the grace befitting a Duke’s daughter. The Duke himself was guiding her on his arm towards the dais, where they stopped. Lady Mithian then presented the King with a picture-perfect curtsy.

Arthur glanced at his father. Sure enough, he was smiling widely in approval as he nodded his acknowledgement. Lady Mithian and the Duke saw it, too, and looked more than pleased when they moved on and came to stand at the side with the rest of the ton, resting assured in the knowledge that the King had granted Lady Mithian his favour.

From the look the Duke of Nemeth was throwing at Arthur, he sure seemed to be setting his hopes high. Arthur quickly glanced away before the Duke and his daughter could get the wrong impression. Undoubtedly, someone like Lady Mithian was just the sort of match his father would want him to seek out. But while she was a beautiful woman, Arthur was not ready to make any sort of decision.

With no more Dukes or Duchesses waiting to present their children, they moved on to the Marquesses and Marchionesses, then the Earls and Countesses. The majority received nothing more than a faint smirk from the King, which was still better than the frown of disapproval bestowed upon the clumsy and uncomely. A couple more Ladies so-and-so and even a Miss something-or-the-other received a rare smile and Arthur made reluctant note of all of them, knowing his father would want him to choose among them.

It did not pass him by that none of the gentlemen presented received the King’s explicit favour, though Arthur could not exactly blame him. None of them had particularly stood out to Arthur, either. As it was, Arthur was growing more than tired of the presentation, though as they were now even past the Viscounts and had at last come to the Barons, he knew this tedious affair would soon be over.

“The Honourable Mr Merlin Emrys. Presented by Sir Gaius Draughtbrew.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Yes, they were definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel now, watching some minor Baronet introduce a distant relation, undoubtedly some country bumpkin from an irrelevant estate in the backwaters of Camelot, possessing all the grace and charm of a turnip farmer.

Well, at least Arthur could be content in the knowledge that this Mr Emrys had to be one of the final debutants—which meant that Arthur could soon get out of this uniform and do something worthwhile, like fencing with Leon.

Trying not to appear too bored, Arthur looked at the door.

It was only thanks to years of courtly training that Arthur’s mouth did not go slack. Mr Merlin Emrys looked nothing like a turnip farmer. He was a tall man of slim stature, impeccably dressed, with pale skin and a head of dark hair. Somehow, his locks managed to look fetchingly windswept, even though someone had clearly tried to tame the mop with pomade. As the man moved closer, Arthur took in the handsome face with defined cheekbones and a pair of lips that, frankly, looked like they should belong to a cherub rather than a gentleman.

Lords, but this man was attractive! Arthur’s mouth went dry as he watched him stride down the aisle.

At that moment, Mr Emrys stumbled over his own two feet. He did not fall, but it was an obvious enough blunder that everyone took notice. The crowd promptly hissed and murmured at his misfortune. Arthur winced, though couldn’t help but be taken by the flush promptly blooming in the man’s face.

With some difficulty, Arthur tore away his eyes and apprehensively glanced at his father. A stumble, surely, would be rewarded with nothing but a disapproving frown and then poor Mr Emrys, in spite of his rare beauty, would be damned to sit at the sidelines at all of the upcoming balls, doomed to the company of the spinsters and perpetual bachelors.

But Mr Emrys was ever so lucky. The King had missed his stumble, for his eyes were on Sir Gaius, the man presenting him. And what was more, King Uther was smiling! Clearly, his approval was for the Baronet rather than the debutant, though that mattered little to the crowd. Seeing the King’s smile, they immediately stopped smirking and murmuring over Mr Emrys’s clumsiness, and stared as King Uther did something he so very rarely did—address someone.

“Sir Gaius!” he exclaimed after the men had given their bows. “I certainly did not expect to see you here. How long has it been?”

Sir Gaius bowed his head. “Many years, Your Majesty.”

Arthur threw the Baronet a curious look. He had not been aware the man was anyone special to the Crown, but the King seemed to know him well enough and still, he was smiling.

“Quite so. You are in good health?”

“I am, sire. You are most gracious for asking.”

Uther inclined his head. “And you are presenting…?” His eyes moved to Mr Emrys, who was still looking a little flushed and was doing a very poor job hiding his surprise at what was happening. His eyes had gone wide, which gave Arthur the opportunity to note that they were a rather stunning shade of blue.

“The son of a close friend, sire,” Gaius replied with another bow of the head.

The King’s smile dampened considerably as he looked Mr Emrys over, though he did not look disapproving, either. He gave another regal nod before dismissing the both of them with a wave.

Arthur could not stop himself from looking after them, watching as they found a place in the crowd. As soon as they were out of earshot, Mr Emrys leaned in to say something to Sir Gaius, who promptly shut him up with a quick retort. Mr Emrys looked chastised, biting his lower lip, before he turned his head to look up at the dais.

Their eyes met, and Arthur was caught staring. Mr Emrys brazenly stared back. For a moment, time seemed to slow down, as if halted by magic. Then, Mr Emrys tilted his head in question and smiled. There was something bold about it, as if the man had just issued a challenge.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, his chest growing tight.

“Someone caught your eye?”

Startled, Arthur finally tore his gaze away and glanced to the side. Morgana had leaned in, and she was smirking.

“Don’t be daft,” Arthur whispered back.

But as the last of the young nobles were presented, Arthur was no longer paying any attention. And though he didn’t dare let his eyes stray again, he found his thoughts remained rather occupied with one Mr Merlin Emrys.

Chapter Text

“It’s over!” Merlin exclaimed in dismay and lowered the leaflet. “Lord Dragonwise has just proclaimed me a bumbling fool. I might as well pack my bags and return to Ealdor now.”

“He proclaimed you no such thing,” Gaius replied calmly and took a sip of tea. They were sitting in the drawing room of Surgeon House, Gaius’s small but perfectly respectable home in Camelot, and the latest society papers had just been delivered.

“A not particularly graceful addition,” Merlin quoted, waving the pamphlet so much he almost upended his own cup of tea. “He might as well have called me a clumsy oaf!”

“Well, you did stumble over your own feet, my boy,” Gaius pointed out matter-of-factly, then picked over the platter before him, choosing an almond tartlet.

Merlin’s cheeks instantly grew hot and he hurriedly hid his face behind the paper. He was still mortified, remembering his blunder before the King. Admittedly, Merlin had always had a bit of a knack for tripping all over himself, and the new shoes he had been wearing certainly hadn’t helped matters. Still, he had hoped that the endless dancing lessons Gaius had foisted on him ever since he arrived in Camelot would have taken care of that.

Apparently not.

“You don’t think people will read this and think me an idiot?” he asked when he had read over the passage again.

“No,” Gaius replied. “Lord Dragonwise was rather kind to you, I should say. Believe me, he could have blown up your blunder beyond reasonable proportion if he was so inclined. Instead, he merely alluded to what happened and then swiftly changed the topic. You got lucky, my boy. Best not to dwell on it.”

Merlin sent him a dubious look over the edge of the paper, but he supposed Gaius would know better than him. After all, he had been living in Camelot for years and was a respectable member of the ton, albeit not the most high-ranking or well-connected one.

“Is it true, what he writes about you saving the King’s life?” he asked.

Gaius only inclined his head, busy finishing his tartlet.

“How long ago was this?”

“Decades,” Gaius replied and wiped his hand on a serviette. “I’m surprised His Majesty recognised me at all.”

“Well, he did. And I thought it was rather nice of him, acknowledging you like that,” Merlin replied.

Not that King Uther had struck Merlin as a particularly kind person. Between the steely eyes and the scar across his forehead, he had made for an unnerving sight. Perhaps that had been part of the reason why Merlin had stumbled. It probably hadn’t helped that, right next to the throne, Princess Morgana had been eyeing him rather intensely. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman, dressed to make an impression, and Merlin had immediately felt intimidated by her keen gaze.

Her half-brother, Crown Prince Arthur, had been of an entirely different type. Where she was dark, he was fair, though he had looked every bit as impressive as his sister in his princely attire. He had also looked every bit as attractive. With his proud nose and regal jawline, Arthur Pendragon had been the very picture of a prince. Undoubtedly, had he smiled even once, he would have made all of the debuting young nobles swoon.

But the Prince hadn’t smiled. Rather, he had struck Merlin as a stuck-up prat. Why else had he sent Merlin that condescending look after his presentation was over? Unlike his father, Prince Arthur must have noticed Merlin’s undignified stumble and undoubtedly had taken it upon himself to let Merlin know that the Crown disapproved of wayward limbs.

The Prince’s lips hadn’t even twitched when Merlin had tried to elicit a smile from him. Rather, he had looked like someone had slapped him before abruptly looking away. No doubt, he had taken offence at being smiled at by a lowly Mr so-and-so. The Prince of Camelot probably did not converse with anyone below the rank of Viscount.

“Are you done with your tea, then?” Gaius asked, interrupting Merlin’s musings. “The last of your clothes have arrived from the modiste, and it would be best if you tried everything on now to see if anything needs to be adjusted by Madame DuLac.”

“Yes, Uncle,” said Merlin and got up from his chair.

“Try on the evening attire first,” Gaius added. “The Marquess’s ball is but three days away and you should look your best. First impressions are important.”

“I think I already made quite a first impression,” Merlin muttered under his breath, but obeyed.

Three days later, Merlin found himself at the entrance of Orkney House, the illustrious home of Lord Gwaine, Marquess of Gwyar. According to Gaius, the Marquess used to be the worst sort of rake, making no secret of his premarital conquests, secure in the knowledge that a man of his rank could get away with anything, including ditching his chaperones for a tryst or two. Or three. Then, last season, he shocked everyone by settling down and marrying.

His husband, Lord Percival, immediately stood out from the crowd as Gaius and Merlin made their way into the entrance hall. He was an exceedingly tall and well-muscled man. Merlin allowed himself a moment to ogle the handsome giant before his eyes landed on the Marquess himself. Lord Gwaine, naturally, was even more ridiculously attractive, especially while flashing every new arrival a stunning smile.

Merlin might have swooned a little when Gaius introduced him to their hosts.

“How did you get us invited to this? Do you know the Marquess well?” Merlin asked when they had moved on and into the depths of Orkney House.

“Not well, no,” Gaius replied. “But all it takes to know a man in Camelot is one well-timed introduction. And as for the invitation, well—look around. The Marquess loves a big party.”

Merlin could well believe that. The entire ground floor of Orkney House had been opened to the guests, with the giant parlour serving as the ballroom. Everything was splendidly decorated. Silk garlands hung from the ceiling and fragrant flower arrangements enhanced every corner.

“Now, I know this is your first such event, so let me remind you of the rules again before you disgrace us both,” Gaius said after he had procured a glass of punch for himself. “At your wrist is your dance card. Anyone else who is willing to dance has one as well, primarily those young nobles who wish to marry. The person of higher rank always approaches the one of lower rank to write their name into the card, never the other way around. That is very important! And unless you have been introduced to them by me or a third party, you are not to speak to anyone, especially not to those above your own rank. Understood?”

“That would be everyone, then, in my case,” Merlin replied drily.

“Hardly,” Gaius retorted. “You’re the child of a Baron, which still ranks you above most Baronets, all Knights, and whatever landed gentry managed to sneak in.”

Merlin glanced around, taking in the many strange faces around him. Absolutely everyone was impeccably dressed and styled, with the ladies bedecked in jewels and the gentlemen clad in their best brocade waistcoats. “And how am I to know if someone has the rank of Baronet or Duchess?” Merlin asked. “They all look the same to me.”

“That’s why I am here,” Gaius replied and took a sip of his punch.

Merlin dared to flash him a mischievous grin. “And here I was, thinking you had come as my chaperone, Uncle! To protect my virtue from the rakes and seductresses of Camelot.”

“That too, you silly boy.” Gaius raised an eyebrow at him, then jerked his head at a rather prim-looking woman in a black dress standing in the corner. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun and she looked a little pinch-faced. “But there are also the hired chaperones. They will be circling the rooms and the gardens to make sure nothing untoward happens. You may move freely about the house and the grounds nearby, if you so wish, though I’d rather you stayed within my sight.”

Merlin did not mind Gaius’s protectiveness. While taking a turn about the rooms or gardens sounded tempting, if only to get a better look at his splendid surroundings, Merlin did feel rather out of place. So he and Gaius stuck to the edges of the crowd, watching more and more guests arrive, with a select few nodding at Gaius as they moved past them.

If the ton had read Lord Dragonwise’s gossip on the matter of Gaius saving the King’s life, they did not suddenly flock to Gaius’s side to court his favour in the hopes he had the ear of the monarch. And if anyone recognised Merlin as the not particularly graceful addition to this year’s marriage mart, it seemed of little consequence to them, too, as nobody was pointing and laughing. Neither, however, did anyone approach Merlin to be introduced and add their name to his dance card.

As it was, the dancing had yet to begin. All there was to do was drink punch, eat canapés, and wait for the music to start. Eventually, Merlin abandoned Gaius’s side after all to snatch a miniature pastry from the buffet. That was when his hand collided with another person’s gloved fingers, reaching for the strawberries across.

“Oh, please excuse me!” Merlin said and turned to see a young woman about his age looking at him.

“No, it was my fault,” she replied with a shy smile.

Merlin took an immediate liking to her. Unsure of the protocol, now that they had spoken without being introduced, Merlin gave her a quick once-over, trying to gauge whether or not he outranked her. She was a petite woman, dressed in a pretty pink gown. Her dark hair had been twisted into a fancy updo and a pair of simple pearl earrings framed her delicate face.

She did not look particularly rich, nor fancy, so Merlin decided he might as well just take his chance.

“Mr Merlin Emrys,” he said and bowed his head.

“Miss Freya Lake,” she replied with a quick curtsy.

Not Lady Freya, Merlin noted, which meant that, if she outranked him, it wasn’t by much. They both fell silent, looking at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin finally blurted. “This is my first time attending this sort of ball and I have no idea if we’re even allowed to talk!”

To Merlin’s delight, Miss Lake laughed, looking relieved. “Oh, nor I,” she admitted. “How is anyone supposed to know how any of this works? I’m from the country! Everything is so much less formal there!”

“I’m from the country, too,” Merlin said, happily latching on to the topic as they stepped away from the buffet to make space for the other guests. “And what’s more, I haven’t ever been to any sort of ball. The country dances at home are nothing like this. I feel entirely out of place!”

“As do I,” Miss Lake confessed. “I’ve never even been to the city of Camelot until three weeks ago. At home, I know everyone. Here, I must be introduced, and be so careful about rank and title. How am I supposed to know if someone holds the title of Baroness or Duke?”

“That’s exactly what I said to my uncle!” Merlin replied.

They happily chatted for a few more minutes until Miss Lake—now Freya—excused herself, citing a need to return to her aunt’s side.

“I do not recall introducing you to Miss Lake,” Gaius said pointedly, when Merlin came to stand next to him. Clearly, he had been watching.

“Apologies,” Merlin replied sheepishly. “We bumped into each other and conversation could not be avoided.”

Gaius presented him with another one of his sceptical eyebrows. “Well, lucky for you, her aunt, Lady Alice, is a friend of mine. Everybody watching will have assumed that you already knew each other, so your reputations are quite safe.” He paused. “Lovely girl, Miss Lake.”

“Yes, quite lovely,” Merlin replied with a smile.

“The daughter of Baronets,” Gaius continued. “Very kind and respectable people, her parents.” He paused again. “Not very wealthy, though.”

Merlin sent him an exasperated look. “Oh, very subtle, Uncle. Don’t worry, I won’t be proposing to her any time soon. There is such a thing as making a friend, you know?”

“A friend?” Gaius repeated and meaningfully looked at Merlin’s dance card.

“Yes, I put my name on her card,” Merlin said and rolled his eyes. “We were both without a partner and didn’t want to end up at the sidelines, lonely and forgotten about.”

“I see,” replied Gaius, though before he could continue on the topic, the volume of the murmurs around them swelled out of nowhere. Everyone started craning their necks, with a group of young ladies giggling nearby as they went to stand on the tips of their toes.

“What’s happening?” asked Merlin and stretched his neck, too, trying to use his height to his advantage in order to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s likely the Prince,” said Gaius.

Merlin gaped at him. “The Prince? Prince Arthur? He’s coming here?”

“How else is he supposed to go about courting someone if not by attending a ball and dancing with those who caught his eye?” Gaius replied, shaking his head at him. “Besides, he and the Marquess are good friends. It was to be expected that he would make an appearance here, marriage-minded or not.”

At that point, Merlin was only half-listening, for he, too, had spotted the Prince. He was wearing red again, though he had lost most of the golden tassels and medals that had adorned him at the palace, in favour of a more toned-down ensemble.

Prince Arthur seemed to have arrived without a party, trailed by a single man who looked to be his personal valet, serving as his chaperone.

True to Gaius’s words, the Prince greeted the Marquess and his husband like old friends, going for a forearm clasp after accepting their bows. He did not move on, either, but stayed with the hosts, engaging them in conversation, completely ignoring the bows and curtsies of the bystanders, not even deigning to grace them with a royal smile.

Merlin couldn’t help but frown. What an arrogant man the Prince must be!

Just then, the music started up and people began to move towards the dancefloor. Having looked his share, Merlin turned away from the Prince and followed.

When Gaius and he arrived in the parlour, the first couples had already taken to the floor, dancing the quadrille. Merlin looked around for Freya and spotted her across the room. She was standing next to an older woman who was likely her aunt. Merlin nodded at Freya, signalling they were on for the next dance, and she smiled in agreement.

Satisfied that he would not spend the entirety of the ball watching, Merlin looked at the pairs circling about the floor. They all looked to be dancing rather skilfully and Merlin dearly hoped that the lessons Gaius had insisted on had been enough to keep him from embarrassing himself. He could dance a country jig well enough, but the figures and poses preferred in the city were still unfamiliar to him.

Lucky for him, the next dance was a reel, which was not only easier to dance, but a lot more fun than the quadrille, and soon, he was thoroughly enjoying himself skipping across the floor, walking in circles around Freya every other turn or bouncing alongside their neighbouring couple.

“I think we’re doing splendidly for our first dance,” Freya told him when the next figure brought them close again.

“And it’s fun!” Merlin exclaimed and flashed her a grin that was, perhaps, a bit brighter than was proper for a Camelot ballroom.

They skipped about another round and when they met again, Freya looked to have brought with her some gossip. She leaned in as they danced on the spot for a moment, murmuring, “The Prince is filling in dance cards.”

She pointed her chin to her left and Merlin followed her gaze, spotting a familiar flash of Pendragon red. Indeed, there was the Prince, standing next to a lady. He was not, however, filling in her dance card. He was facing the dancefloor and appeared to be staring right back at Merlin.

Startled, Merlin missed a step and broke out of the formation. Fortunately, Freya saved him from further embarrassing himself by gently pushing him in the right direction and in no time, he was skipping in rhythm again. When he next got the chance to look at the Prince, he had his back turned towards the dancers and was conversing with the lady.

Merlin silently declared himself a fool. Most likely, Prince Arthur had not looked at Merlin at all, but some acquaintance who was dancing near him.

He forced himself to focus on the reel, lest he trip again, though the dance had suddenly lost much of its vim and Merlin was glad when the music finally came to an end and all the couples bowed.

He led Freya off the dancefloor, where Gaius was waiting with Freya’s aunt, waiting to introduce them all properly.

“Looks like someone has indeed caught the Prince’s eye,” Freya said to Merlin after everyone had exchanged some pleasantries and more punch had been fetched.

Merlin looked at the dancefloor. Prince Arthur was dancing the quadrille with a dark-haired lady, who moved across the floor so gracefully she might as well be floating.

“Do you know who she is?” Merlin asked, leaning in.

“Lady Mithian. A Duke’s daughter,” Freya replied. “That’s what the couple behind us said just now, anyway.” She looked on for a moment, then sighed, “She’s very beautiful. They make a lovely pair.”

Merlin watched the Prince’s face. He did not look overly enthusiastic as he clasped his partner’s hand and led her in a circle before parting again. His lips were set in a straight line and there seemed to be little conversation between him and Lady Mithian. “His Highness doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself.”

“He wouldn’t want to appear too eager, though, would he?” Freya replied thoughtfully. “He’s just started to look for a partner, as far as I’ve understood it. Too early to make any sort of decision.”

Merlin nodded, conceding the point. “Who knows, maybe he’ll dance with you next,” he dared to tease.

“Oh! I should be so lucky!” They watched the Prince in silence for a few more moments before Freya added, “He really is very handsome. Charming and kind-hearted, too, I’ve heard. Just the sort of man the Crown Prince ought to be, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin replied with a little shrug. “He seems a bit stuck-up.”

“Merlin! He’s the Crown Prince!” Freya hissed, scandalised, though it was clear she was also fighting a laugh.

“What?” Merlin said and grinned. “Princes can be stuck-up, no?”

Freya only shook her head at him.

They moved away from the topic of the Prince and spent some more time conversing and drinking punch, realising they had much in common from growing up in the countryside, until Freya was finally approached by another lady willing to dance. With his own dance card still depressingly empty, Merlin decided he might as well get some fresh air before he could succumb to gloomy thoughts about ending up a penniless bachelor.

“I’ll take a turn about the gardens,” Merlin said to his uncle, who was still speaking to Lady Alice.

“Stay in sight of the chaperones,” Gaius replied absent-mindedly and waved him off.

“It’s not like anyone’s going to ravish me,” Merlin muttered to himself as he moved towards the terrace doors.

For that, he mused, he actually would have to be noticed.

“I hate this,” Arthur said and downed the glass of brandy Gwaine had procured for him in one go.

“Ah, cheer up, Princess,” Gwaine replied and slapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Surely there’s worse things in life than attending a ball.”

Arthur glared at him, then at his empty glass, dearly wishing it would magically refill itself. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re already married.”

Gwaine grinned at his husband, who was standing right next to him. “And lucky me!”

Arthur watched him curl a possessive arm around Percival and touch his husband in an entirely inappropriate fashion, given the fact they were in the middle of the terrace of Orkney House, where absolutely anyone could see. But then, Gwaine had never possessed much shame, nor a sense of decorum.

Behind him, Arthur could hear George shift and clear his throat uncomfortably. Undoubtedly, he was wrinkling his nose at Gwaine’s antics, worried his behaviour might rub off on the Crown Prince. Percival, for his part, only smiled indulgently.

“I take it no one you have danced with so far has caught your fancy, then?” Gwaine asked when he was done with his groping.

“They have caught my father’s fancy, which is all that really matters,” Arthur muttered.

“Surely, they can’t all have been so awful, Your Highness,” Percival spoke up.

“It’s Arthur,” Arthur reminded him yet again. A year into their marriage, and Gwaine’s husband had yet to relax completely around him. “And no, they were not awful. All of them were perfectly respectable and accomplished young ladies.”

“Ah,” said Gwaine with a knowing smile. “Is that the problem then? You’d prefer a gentleman?” His smile became a smirk as he wiggled his eyebrows. “Or someone less respectable and otherwise accomplished?”

“I’d prefer not having to endure this madness at all!” Arthur retorted, ignoring Gwaine’s lewd remark. “The minute I entered this ball, all those zealous Mamas and Papas were staring at me like bloodhounds scenting prey. I’m surprised I managed to escape as many introductions as I did.”

As it was, Arthur had only danced with exactly those four ladies his father had so generously pointed out to him during their debut, and not a single more: Lady Mithian, Lady Elena, Lady Vivian, and, though his father had surprised him there, Miss Sophia Sidhe. With his duty thus fulfilled, Arthur had fled outside, citing a need for fresh air, and had not returned to the ballroom since.

“Why did you agree to marry, if the prospect is so distasteful to you?” Gwaine asked.

Arthur sent him a look. “Have you met my father?”

“Fair point,” Gwaine conceded.

“Perhaps it really is just a matter of the wrong partner,” said Percival thoughtfully. “Maybe dancing with someone the King has not explicitly chosen would make the evening more agreeable to you?”

“I doubt it,” Arthur muttered. “It’s the whole process that is distasteful.” He gestured towards the windows, behind which the guests were mingling merrily. “Just look at them! All of them want one thing, and one thing only: a good match. Preferably an advantageous one, one that leaves them richer or elevates them to superior rank. If not that, the partner must at least be exceedingly handsome, so they can be shown off like prized cattle. Love, or even sympathy, matters little. It’s no more than a meat market.”

“But you don’t have that particular problem, do you?” Gwaine pointed out. “You outrank everybody at this ball and will one day inherit the entire country! Surely, that leaves you more freedom than most.”

“Hardly,” scoffed Arthur, waving his empty glass in emphasis. “I’m the Prince! My partner will be the future Queen or King Consort of Camelot. You don’t actually believe my father would allow me to marry just anyone?” He shook his head. “No, His Majesty has made his criteria quite clear: I am to wed a woman, preferably, and one of excellent breeding, from the upper ranks of the peerage, though exquisite beauty may constitute a mitigating factor in that regard. Preferably, she should also be wealthy enough to add to the royal coffers rather than detract from them.”

“Oh my,” said Gwaine and grimaced.

“As if my father would let me pick anyone else!” Arthur continued, no longer able to stop himself from falling into a proper tirade. “He is giving me the illusion of a choice, by presenting me with a handful of ladies from which I am to take my pick. What one lacks in rank she might make up in money or beauty. But at the end of the day, they differ little from each other. There is no freedom to be found here, Gwaine. The King would never let me truly choose my consort. He would never let me court somebody he considers inappropriate.” Arthur let out a humourless laugh, then exclaimed, perhaps a little too loudly, “Can you even imagine? Me, the Crown Prince, dancing with the son or daughter of some impoverished country-dweller? Completely ridiculous!”

A strange, choked sound had all three of them turn their heads. A young gentleman was standing nearby and seemed to have overheard Arthur’s last remark. Arthur’s throat went a little tight when he saw it was Mr Merlin Emrys. Arthur had recognised him earlier, in the ballroom, merrily dancing with a young lady. Unlike Arthur, he had clearly been enjoying himself, smiling handsomely at his partner as he skipped about the dancefloor with more enthusiasm than grace.

Now, though, Mr Emrys wasn’t smiling. Rather, he was frowning, throwing Arthur such an openly disapproving look that it rattled him.

As soon as Mr Emrys realised he had been spotted, though, his eyes widened. Wincing visibly, he quickly turned on the spot and made directly for the door to disappear inside.

“Someone like him, you mean,” Gwaine said, clearly amused. “Judging from his face, you must have hit a nerve with your talk of impoverished country-dwellers. He looked rather insulted.”

“Like I care,” Arthur scoffed, and tightened his grip on his empty glass, ignoring the quickly forming knot in his stomach.

“Here’s what I think,” said Gwaine, and now, there was a strange glint in his eyes that usually preceded some sort of mischief. “You must marry someone respectable, that much you have made clear. But that doesn’t mean you can’t at least have a little fun while you’re courting those very accomplished ladies.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. “What are you on about, Gwaine?”

Gwaine leaned in, lowering his voice as he suggested, “Why not dance with someone ‘inappropriate’? Spice up the season a little? Entertain the masses?” He smirked. “Give Lord Dragonwise something to write about?”

“My father would have a heart attack,” Arthur replied, instantly recoiling at the idea.

Percival, too, seemed to dislike the direction the conversation had taken, for he placed a hand on his husband’s arm. “Gwaine,” he murmured, clearly aiming to rein him in, though with no success.

“The King can hardly object, as long as you put a ring on the right finger at the end,” Gwaine continued brazenly. “Think about it! This is your last season as a bachelor, your last season before being tied down. You are always so concerned with duty and what is right. At least have a taste of freedom while you still can.” He made a grand gesture with his hand. “Live a little, Arthur! I dare you.”

“You dare me?” Arthur repeated and raised an eyebrow.

“I do,” Gwaine replied. “I dare you. I dare you to pick a dance partner so outrageous that even Lord Dragonwise will be shocked.” He gestured at the door through which Mr Emrys had disappeared. “Go ahead.”

Despite himself, Arthur paused to consider.

He knew Gwaine was goading him. He knew this was just one of the many little games the infamous Marquess of Gwyar loved to play. Probably, married life was getting boring and this was an attempt to live vicariously through Arthur, or some such nonsense.

And yet, Arthur found himself intrigued. Yes, why shouldn’t he have a little fun before settling down with one of those appropriate ladies his father had picked? Why shouldn’t he dance with somebody like, say, Mr Emrys?

Certainly, it would be worth seeing the King’s face at the breakfast table when he read Lord Dragonwise’s snarky report on the matter.

“Fine,” Arthur said. “I’ll do it.” He glanced at his still-empty glass. “But first, I’ll need another round of brandy.”

“That can easily be arranged,” Gwaine replied and grinned.

After topping up on some liquid courage under Percival’s cautious and George’s disapproving eyes, Arthur returned to the ballroom, the other men in tow.

“You’ll need to introduce me,” Arthur told Gwaine as they came to stand at the edge of the crowd with Percival, while George blended into the background to keep watch. “This is your ball. As the host, you must know all of those attending, yes?”

“Vaguely, perhaps,” Gwaine replied. “I admit, I let my butler handle the invitations and simply smile and wave when they all arrive.” He looked around. “Anyone in particular who stands out to you?”

Arthur looked about and, just as fate would have it, spotted Mr Emrys again. He was standing only a couple of paces away, conversing with his chaperone. Arthur had to admit that Mr Emrys looked rather fetching tonight. He was wearing an expertly fitted midnight-blue evening coat and had a matching blue cravat around his pale neck. If he was indeed an impoverished country-dweller, he knew how to hide it well. His dark hair, again, had that windswept look about it, and when he smiled at his chaperone, he showed off a perfect row of teeth.

“Him,” Arthur said, feeling his heart speed up.

Gwaine followed his gaze. His eyes widened before a wicked smile settled on his features. “Interesting choice,” he said. “Trying to make up for your earlier faux-pas?”

“Nonsense,” replied Arthur. “Did you not read the latest Lord Dragonwise? That is Mr Merlin Emrys, and his chaperone is Sir Gaius Draughtbrew.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. The King’s mighty saviour,” Gwaine replied. “What’s your point?”

“If I am to pick a scandalous dance partner, I should at least not make it look like I have gone completely unhinged, don’t you think?” Arthur replied. “This way, I can pass it off as a reward of sorts. Sir Gaius saved my father once a very long time ago, and so, I will graciously grant his charge the honour of a dance with me, the Crown Prince.”

“It would do wonders for his prospects,” Percival commented.

“See?” said Arthur. “It’s not even a cruel game I’m playing. One dance with me, and Mr Emrys will have the entirety of the ton to choose from.” He looked at Gwaine expectantly. “Well? Will you introduce us?”

Gwaine grinned. “As you wish, sire,” he replied and led Arthur over.

Already, Arthur could feel the eyes of the crowd on him. Undoubtedly, they had seen him move and were trying to figure out in which direction he was going and which potential partners were standing there.

In contrast, Sir Gaius was fairly late to notice Arthur’s approach. When he finally looked up, his face went through a myriad of emotions before settling on an impressively neutral expression.

“Sir Gaius,” said Gwaine, speaking to the man as if they were old friends. “May I formally introduce you to His Royal Highness, Arthur Pendragon, the Crown Prince of Camelot?”

Sir Gaius bowed low. “Your Highness,” he said. In spite of his calm demeanour, there was no mistaking the surprise in his voice. “It is an honour.”

“Sir Gaius,” Arthur said smoothly. “The honour is all mine. After all, the Crown owes much to you.”

Sir Gaius did not seem to know how to answer, so he respectfully inclined his head. Arthur’s eyes moved towards Mr Emrys.

Unlike his chaperone, Mr Emrys was an open book. His mouth had gone slack, his eyes wide. Like this, he looked rather less handsome and rather more like a fool, and Arthur couldn’t help but smirk at his undignified gaping. It tickled something in him, having elicited this reaction from the man.

Perhaps Gwaine was right. This would be fun indeed!

Sir Gaius, finally, seemed to have caught on that it was now his turn to make an introduction. “Your Highness, may I present Mr Merlin Emrys?”

“Enchanted,” said Arthur, still smirking, and gave a faint dip of the head.

Mr Emrys stared. What he should have done, of course, was to bow, and belatedly he did, after Sir Gaius rather pointedly elbowed him in the side.

“Your Highness.” Mr Emrys’s voice was low, much lower than Arthur would have expected from a man of his slim build.

“Mr Emrys, I was wondering if you were still free to dance the next quadrille?”

“You want to dance?” Mr Emrys exclaimed, and there he was, gaping again. “With me?”

Arthur had to bite his lip, trying not to laugh at the blatant breach of protocol. Oh, Gwaine was right: he was finally enjoying himself!

“You are free, yes?” Arthur said and glanced at Mr Emrys’s wrist, where a very empty dance card was hanging off a red piece of string.

“I—yes,” stammered Mr Emrys. After he was elbowed again by Sir Gaius, he finally seemed to remember his manners, country-bred though they were. He cleared his throat, straightened on the spot and inclined his head. “I’m free to dance, Your Highness.”

“Wonderful,” Arthur returned, trying to ignore Gwaine’s barely contained chuckling.

Just then, the music changed and the couples left the dancefloor, making room for the next round. Arthur held out his hand. “Our cue,” he said.

Mr Emrys visibly swallowed, but bravely took his hand and let himself be led away.

The spectators made no secret of their shock at seeing the Prince getting ready to dance with an absolute nobody. Everyone was staring, including the couples who had stepped onto the dancefloor with them, with a fair few in the crowd outright pointing at them.

Arthur had never minded the attention less. In fact, he hardly paid his audience any notice, too filled was he with the sudden rush of excitement born of doing something scandalous, something prohibited. The feeling, somehow, was only intensified by the knowledge that he had caught Mr Emrys off guard.

Mr Emrys, for his part, seemed to have finally regained his composure. By the time they had all lined up and the quadrille had commenced, his face had lost any remnants of wide-eyed surprise and his expression had instead turned calculating.

As for his dancing, it was clear he had not much experience with the quadrille, but he was crossing over and moving in circles at the right times and so, he was not making a complete fool of himself, or Arthur. Clearly, he had received some lessons.

Unlike the reel, the quadrille allowed for ample conversation, albeit interrupted by the various figures they had to dance. Still, they spent the first minutes merely looking at each other, not exchanging a single word.

Finally, Mr Emrys spoke up, “Is it not customary to converse when one dances?”

“Quite so,” replied Arthur and smirked. “One ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Because it is the person of lower rank who is expected to start the conversation, after the person of higher rank has already initiated the dance.”

“I see,” said Mr Emrys, though he sounded neither apologetic nor contrite when he added, “In that case, I hope you can excuse my ignorance, sire. I am, after all, just a country-dweller at heart.”

There was no mistaking the jibe for what it was and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat at the man’s cheek. “You are forgiven, Mr Emrys,” he replied, glad when the response came out smoothly. “Are you enjoying the city, then?”

“I am,” Mr Emrys replied.

“For a country-dweller, Camelot must be quite intimidating,” Arthur added with another smirk.

Mr Emrys’s eyes narrowed at that, though he took the taunt in stride. “Intimidating? No. Strange, certainly. The customs, especially, make very little sense to me.”

Arthur had to wait a moment or two to reply as they danced away from each other, giving him some time to centre himself. Somehow, the banter he and Mr Emrys had fallen into was making him feel just a tad light-headed.

“Are they so different from the customs at home?” he asked when they met again.

“Well, I don’t know about the city,” Mr Emrys replied and now, it was he who was smirking. “But where I am from, one does not go around calling a certain conduct ridiculous, only to turn around and engage in that very behaviour.”

“Perhaps some people enjoy behaving a little ridiculously at times,” Arthur replied.

“You would know, I suppose,” said Mr Emrys and danced away, leaving Arthur to stare, then grin.

Gods, but this was refreshing! Except for Gwaine, nobody of lower rank than him had ever dared to outright tease him. And yet, here Mr Emrys was, a complete nobody from the countryside, all but insulting the Prince!

“I’m not the one who keeps tripping over his own two feet,” Arthur retorted when they met again, joining hands for the next figure.

It was a treat to see Mr Emrys flush up close. It accentuated his cheekbones in a way that Arthur couldn’t help but find utterly arresting.

But in spite of his embarrassment, Mr Emrys lost none of his brazenness. “That’s just another part of my charm,” he retorted.

“I see.”

Mr Emrys cocked an eyebrow at him as he hopped up and down on the spot to the rhythm of the music. “Do you not find me charming, Your Highness?”

Something fluttered in the pit of Arthur’s stomach and before he could help it, a laugh escaped him. The couple they had paired with promptly stared at him and Arthur hurriedly pressed his lips together to clamp down on it.

“What an entirely inappropriate thing to ask the Crown Prince!” he replied when he and Mr Emrys were close again.

Mr Emrys leaned in. “Oh, come now, sire. You must be aware of what is said about country lads,” he murmured. “We know a thing or two about inappropriate.”

Arthur choked.

That was when the music stopped. Everyone bowed and curtsied, Arthur along with them, knowing he must have flushed even worse than Mr Emrys had before, and hoping people would think it was the exercise that had his face so reddened.

Mr Emrys, at least, had the decency to look a little appalled at himself for his last remark and pointedly avoided Arthur’s gaze as he was led back to his chaperone. But Arthur could not stop looking at him. There was an unfamiliar sort of heat at the centre of his chest, a prickling warmth that seemed to spread throughout the entirety of his body.

Suddenly, he was filled with a kind of want he had never felt in his life before. He had never met anyone like Mr Emrys, but he knew, at that moment, that he wanted to keep meeting him.

On a whim—a whim he would most likely regret the next morning—he did not let go of Mr Emrys’s hand when he had safely led him back to his chaperone. Instead, he lifted it to brush a kiss on its back, eliciting a gasp from nearby gawkers.

Loud enough to be overheard, Arthur said, “I’m looking forward to our next dance, Mr Emrys.”

Then he turned and left, absolutely brimming with exhilaration, inebriated by the knowledge that he had just done something so scandalous that it would be the talk of the rest of the season.

He could hardly believe his own recklessness, but it was too late now for regrets.

The deed was done.

He had given Lord Dragonwise something to write about.

Chapter Text

“And to think you were teasing me about dancing with the Prince that night!” Freya exclaimed after Merlin was finished reading the latest Lord Dragonwise to her.

“Well, how was I supposed to know he was going to do something like this?” Merlin replied and gestured at the pamphlet now resting on the side table.

It was shortly after noon, and Freya and her aunt had come for a morning call. With Gaius and Lady Alice deep in conversation on the sofa across, they had dared to huddle closely together on the chaise longue to read what Lord Dragonwise had to say about the ball at Orkney House.

“You really had no idea he would approach you?” Freya asked.

“How could I?” Merlin replied. “I had never even talked to the Prince until then! It’s true what Lord Dragonwise writes, he had to be explicitly introduced to Gaius first before he could even ask me to dance.”

“And how was it?” Freya pushed. “You haven’t said a word about it!”

Merlin fiddled with his cravat. He couldn’t very well tell Freya that the whole affair had gone from painfully uncomfortable to painfully lewd in the matter of a few sentences. Gods, had he really alluded to his own experience with all things physical to the Crown Prince of Camelot? It was true, he had done his share of experimenting with Will back home. But what had he been thinking, hinting at as much to the heir to the throne?

“You’re flushing!” Freya pointed out, and with much delight. “Oh, he has swept you right off your feet, hasn’t he?”

“Hardly,” Merlin replied, his voice a bit hoarse. “He’s actually a supercilious prat!”

“Merlin!” Freya gasped. “You can’t say that about His Highness!”

“Well, it’s true,” Merlin insisted after clearing his throat. “He must be that, or why would he have danced with me at all?”

“Because you caught his eye,” Freya retorted and gestured at the latest issue of Lord Dragonwise, as if it proved her point. “You’re his Ygraine!”

Merlin rolled his eyes at her. “Oh, please, spare me! The Prince is not in love with me. He was playing some sort of game with the Marquess, I’m quite sure of it.”

Freya frowned. “A game?”

“The Prince was talking to Lord Gwaine on the terrace, shortly before he danced with me,” Merlin explained. “I happened to walk by and overheard them converse about what would happen if the Prince danced with someone unsuitable. Clearly, this was all a game to them! They thought it would be fun to toy with some nobody from the countryside.”

“I can hardly believe the Prince would be so cruel,” Freya replied doubtfully.

“What else would it be?” Merlin went on. “Believe me, Freya, I’m as much of a romantic as anyone else, but there’s not a chance that Prince Arthur danced with me because he actually considers me a suitable conquest. I have scarcely a pound to my name and my prospects are quite poor.”

Freya smiled at that. “Well, not anymore. I saw the tray of visiting cards at the door when I came in. Just how many people have called since the ball?”

Merlin averted his eyes. “Some,” he said evasively.

“Some,” Freya repeated, amused. “I looked the cards over, too. It is not just a bunch of Misses and Misters. It’s Barons and Viscountesses—and Earls!”

“One Earl,” Merlin corrected her. “And they’re all just curious, nothing more.”

Freya leaned in. “Oh, which Earl called, then?”

“Ah, I, um, don’t seem to be able to remember his name,” Merlin lied, suddenly feeling widely uncomfortable.

“It was Lord Cenred,” said a stern voice from across.

They both looked up to see Gaius had finished his conversation with Lady Alice and was now raising an eyebrow at them from across the drawing room. Promptly, Merlin and Freya moved apart on the chaise.

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of him,” Freya said quickly. “The Earl of Escetir?”

“The very same,” Gaius confirmed, then fixed Merlin with a look. “And you would do well to remember his name, my boy. Lord Cenred is wealthy and well-respected, and what’s more, he seemed genuinely interested in pursuing a courtship when he called. Unlike the other gawkers, I might add. The Earl would make for a formidable match.”

Merlin ducked his head to hide his grimace. Of course, Gaius was right. A rich Earl vying for his hand was truly the best thing that could have happened to him. But Lord Cenred had been so—so smarmy! Merlin’s skin crept with the very idea of going anywhere near the man again.

“Not more formidable a match than the Prince, certainly?” Freya asked.

“Oh, Freya,” Lady Alice admonished. “You can hardly think Prince Arthur will seriously court young Mr Emrys here.”

“Why not?” Freya demanded. “He danced with him, did he not? And he said he would do so again!”

“The Prince has done my charge a great kindness, Miss Lake, and that is all,” Gaius told her. “He meant to honour me, entirely unnecessarily I might add, for the service I once did his father. Prince Arthur knows very well the effect the royal favour can have on a person’s chances on the marriage mart. Clearly, His Highness found it appropriate to give something back to me by enhancing my charge’s desirability. We should be grateful for His Highness’s consideration and leave it at that.”

Soon, Lady Alice and Freya were on their way to their next visit, leaving Merlin to think over Gaius’s words.

Privately, Merlin thought that his uncle was giving the Prince far more credit than he was due. Surely, if the intent of the dance had been to honour Gaius and to do Merlin a favour, Prince Arthur would have been less of an ass about it. From the minute he had approached, the Prince had clearly been biting back a laugh. Most likely, he had been hoping Merlin would trip all over his own two feet again, so he and the Marquess would have something to joke about.

Gods, but the Prince had irked him! How he had kept smirking at Merlin throughout the entirety of the dance and had met all of Merlin’s little comments in stride. Merlin had wanted to take the man down a peg or two, ruffle him until he lost his smug countenance!

Still, Merlin shouldn’t have said what he had about knowing a thing or two about inappropriate. Insinuations of such kind were entirely out of line, he wasn’t enough of an ignorant country bumpkin not to know that! And he should know better than to be provoked into being careless, too. Gaius had made it very clear in his lessons over the past weeks that one’s reputation was everything on the marriage mart. Only a person of good standing could hope for a good match.

And that was why he was here. That was why his mother had scraped together the last of their money and sent him off to the city. Merlin needed to marry, and he needed to marry well. He had to make an advantageous match, so that the Emrys estate might be saved from complete ruin. For that to happen, Merlin’s future partner had to be someone of wealth and good standing.

Someone like Lord Cenred.

Again, Merlin couldn’t help but grimace at the very idea of being courted by the man. Everything about the Earl had been so very disagreeable! The way he talked, the way he held himself, the way he smiled. Hells, even the Prince’s infuriating smirk would be preferable over that slimy expression!

But unfortunately, Gaius was right: Merlin would do well to remind himself that Lord Cenred was a formidable match. He literally could not afford to turn down the Earl simply because he found him unappealing.

And so, when Lord Cenred called again the next day with a pair of hired chaperones in tow and asking to walk the river promenade with Merlin, he did not refuse. Instead, he donned his hat and gloves, accepted the Earl’s arm and forced himself to seem interested in what he had to say.

As it turned out, Lord Cenred loved talking—about himself.

“… and so I bested Lady Morgause with the foil as well as the colichemarde and it was only due to sheer luck that we tied with the rapier,” he was saying as they walked along the river, their sharp-eyed chaperones one step behind them. “Are you much of a fencer, Mr Emrys?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord,” Merlin replied.

“Other accomplishments, then, I’m sure,” said Lord Cenred, sounding just patronising enough about it to make Merlin bristle. “I quite prefer a woman or man whose pursuits are in the house, at any rate. Needlework, music and such. I’m sure you find those sorts of activities stimulating, yes?”

Merlin would rather throw himself into one of Lord Cenred’s fencing swords than do any sort of needlework, but he could not very well tell the Earl that. “I enjoy horse riding,” he said instead, lest Lord Cenred get the idea Merlin would love nothing more than to sit at home all day to mind their adopted children. “And walks in nature.”

“Nature, you say?” Lord Cenred returned and smiled another one of his smarmy smiles. “Why, then I shall one day soon pick you up in my barouche and we shall make for the countryside. A whiff of fresh air, a picnic…”

“What a delightful idea,” Merlin replied, though the thought of spending even a minute squeezed into a barouche with Lord Cenred was enough to make him want to flee from the promenade there and then.

But instead, they kept walking, talking and tipping their hats at people they recognised. Merlin knew they were being watched carefully. He had the Prince to thank for that. Him, and Lord Dragonwise.

Merlin supposed he was lucky that the gossip paper had not revealed all there was to say about his family. Lord Dragonwise had made no mention of the fact that Merlin and his mother did not, in fact, live in Ealdor House, and nor had he mentioned that Lord Balinor had disappeared many years ago. Merlin doubted any of those titbits would be hard to uncover if one put a valiant effort into it. At home, it was hardly a secret that Lady Hunith had raised her son at the edge of the estate, in Crystal Cottage rather than the big mansion, nor that Ealdor House had long been occupied by another family, their tenants.

“… the ball?”

Merlin blinked, realising he had forgotten to pay attention to what Lord Cenred was telling him. “Pardon me, my lord?”

Lord Cenred frowned. “I was wondering,” he repeated, just a little impatiently, “if you would be attending the ball at Tregor Hall.”

“Ah, yes,” Merlin replied, forcing on another smile. “We received the invitation from Lady Catrina only this morning. I should certainly like to attend the ball, if Sir Gaius permits me.”

“Very good. Then I shall reserve the first two dances,” Lord Cenred said. It wasn’t a request.

“I’d be delighted,” sighed Merlin nonetheless, knowing what was expected of him.

As much as he hated it, he had better get used to the Earl’s… unique charms.

When he had returned to Surgeon House, he immediately excused himself to his room to write to his mother. She had been sending letters regularly and Merlin was usually quick to respond, eager to stay in touch. He and his mother had never been apart for more than a few days before now, and he missed her.

In his last letters, he had told her all about his new wardrobe, the presentation at the palace and his fast friendship with Freya. He had not, however, told her about the Prince, nor about being written about in Lord Dragonwise. He did not want to upset her, after all. Nonetheless, he should not keep good news from her, he supposed.

And so, with a sigh, he dipped his quill into the inkpot and wrote:

Lady Elena Godwyn was a perfectly nice girl with excellent horsemanship.

She was perhaps not the most elegant woman, and her laugh was a bit too snorty for Arthur’s taste, but Arthur supposed that of all the ladies his father had picked from the debutantes, Lady Elena was the one he was likely to have the most fun with. Her manners were refreshingly unaffected and she was the sort of woman who had no problem with her hair going wild as she galloped through the woods on the palace grounds at an entirely reckless speed.

Of course, that was not remotely enough to tempt Arthur into marrying her. Lady Elena, he mused, would make for an excellent friend, but the idea of sharing a life with her was entirely absurd. He was not attracted to her in the slightest.

Not that attraction was important in his choice in partner. In fact, Arthur virtually had no choice. His father had made that quite clear after reading the latest issue of Lord Dragonwise.

Arthur could not remember the King’s face ever turning that particular shade of puce. He could not remember having heard him shout so loudly, either. Uther was usually more reserved than that, easily commanding authority with a steely look or disapproving frown. Lord Dragonwise’s report about Arthur dancing with Mr Emrys, however, had been enough to make him lose his composure.

Luckily, the King’s anger had been directed at the author of the pamphlet first, and at Arthur second. Uther had assumed that Lord Dragonwise had greatly exaggerated the whole affair and Arthur had not been stupid enough to cure his father of that assumption.

And so, after the shouting had passed, Uther had easily accepted Arthur’s excuse of wanting to honour Sir Gaius for his services to the Crown, though he had made it quite clear that Arthur was not to dance with anyone so unsuitable again, and was to focus on the women of whom Uther approved.

Arthur had assured him that he would, of course, refrain from any more scandalous behaviour in the future, and with that, the King had seemed to consider the matter settled.

In retrospect, Arthur did not know what he had been thinking, taking Gwaine’s dare and dancing with a nobody. He hadn’t had that much brandy at the time and he was not usually one to defy his father so openly, either, unless it was something he felt very strongly about—like the welfare of their people.

“You seem a little preoccupied, Your Highness.”

Arthur glanced over to see Lady Elena was watching him carefully. They were riding back towards the castle, having slowed down from their competitive canter to a leisurely trot to let their chaperones catch up with them.

“I apologise, my lady,” Arthur replied with a strained smile. “A good ride is usually enough to clear my head, but I seem to be in a thinking mood today.”

“I quite understand,” she said and did not appear to be offended. “I myself always feel freest on horseback. Most at home, too. Supposedly, I got that from my mother.”

“She’s a great horsewoman?” Arthur asked, forcing himself to focus on the conversation.

“As far as I have heard.” Lady Elena gave Arthur a sad smile. “She died when I was born. I never knew her.”

A pang of a familiar pain pierced Arthur’s chest. “We have that in common, then.”

Lady Elena observed him for a moment. “But not much else, I would say.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up at her directness. “My lady?”

“I think we both know this match is not to be,” replied Lady Elena, refreshingly bold. “There is not a spark of attraction between us, and what’s more, I do not wish to be Princess Consort, much less Queen. Ruling a country is a daunting task, one that I do not feel up to.”

Arthur stared at her, dumbfounded. “I see,” was all he managed to reply.

Lady Elena laughed at his expression, snorting like a horse as she did. “Is the thought so surprising to you, sire?”

“No,” Arthur replied when he had caught himself. “No, not surprising at all. Sometimes, I’m not so sure I am up to one day ruling the country myself.”

“It is a great responsibility, to be sure.”

“Very much so,” Arthur replied. Suddenly freed of the weight of this particular courtship, he found himself relaxing into the saddle, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Thank you for being straightforward with me.”

“Who am I to lead the Prince of Camelot on?” Lady Elena said with a rather unladylike grin. “Though I’d be glad to ride out with you whenever you wish, sire, if only so I can beat the Crown Prince in a horserace again.”

Arthur laughed, his first genuine laugh since he had ridden out with Lady Elena. “I will keep that in mind, my lady.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon companionably, both of them secure in the knowledge that nothing further was expected, and when Arthur told his father over dinner that he would not be seeing Lady Elena again, the King did not seem particularly worried either. After all, three more ladies remained on the list.

Still, after George had helped him out of his courtly clothes and disappeared into the antechamber for the night, Arthur felt too restless to find any sleep. He might be free of Lady Elena, but that still left the other three candidates. Lady Mithian, he supposed, had seemed agreeable enough at the ball. Lady Vivian had appeared a little vain, though it was hard to judge a person’s character from a single dance. Miss Sophia Sidhe, he had to admit, had been exceedingly pretty, and Arthur had understood why she had stuck out to his father even though the Crown Prince would not usually consider marrying anyone below the rank of Earl or Countess.

And yet, he feared that he would not find happiness with any of them. Dancing with them had been a bland, boring affair.

Nothing like dancing with Mr Emrys.

Arthur knew it was unwise, but ever since the ball, he could not help but think back to their encounter—especially when lying in bed at night. There had just been something about Mr Emrys, something that seemed to have taken a hold of Arthur, as if the man had put a spell on him.

Perhaps it had been the alcohol, or the thrill of the forbidden, but the short dance with Mr Emrys had been one of the most exhilarating and invigorating experiences of Arthur’s life. He seemed to be able to remember everything about it, down to Mr Emrys’s challenging gaze and every word of their utterly inappropriate conversation.

Do you not find me charming, Your Highness? he had asked.

In the privacy of his own chambers Arthur could freely admit that yes, he had found Mr Emrys very charming indeed. And it was not only because of the man’s looks. Yes, Mr Emrys was handsome, anyone could see that, but it had been his insubordinate demeanour, his particular brand of disrespect that had managed to get under Arthur’s skin.

Even Lady Elena, for all her boldness, had been perfectly respectful with Arthur for the entirety of their meeting. In contrast, Mr Emrys had made it clear that his respect needed to be earned and that his good opinion was not easily bestowed, not even on the Prince.

And then, of course, there had been that final sentence, the words that sent sparks of arousal down Arthur’s spine whenever he repeated them in his mind: You must be aware of what is said about country lads. We know a thing or two about inappropriate.

Arthur had heard plenty of lewd comments from Gwaine, and he was no virgin, and yet just the memory of those words was enough to have warmth pool in his groin.

What sort of inappropriate things had Mr Emrys alluded to? What was it that country lads got up to in the woods and fields far away from the city?

Arthur shifted on the bed as his hand slipped underneath the blanket and began the journey south. He closed his eyes, drawing up a picture of Mr Emrys’s slim body, wondering what it would look like in a state of undress.

He would be slim, but not too thin, with a fair bit of lean muscle. Arthur could easily imagine him clad in nothing but a pair of snug-fitting riding breeches as he was stretched out on the soft grass of a secluded meadow, his shirt and coat abandoned on the ground as he lazed about in the sun, right by a little stream. There would be golden dapples of sunlight painting alluring patterns on his pale skin, which would be covered in just the right amount of dark, curly hair…

Mr Emrys’s eyes were closed. Arthur smiled, approaching him on quiet feet, trying to take him by surprise. But Arthur’s body cast a harsh shadow and Mr Emrys’s eyes sprang open, two spots of cool blue in the bright heat of summer. His lips stretched into a wicked smile.

“There you are, sire,” he purred and managed to make the title sound shockingly indecent. “In the mood for something inappropriate?” He held out his arms.

“Maybe,” Arthur responded and let himself be pulled down until their bodies were on top of each other.

They kissed, slowly, languidly, and Arthur felt himself grow hard so fast that he went a little light-headed. Eagerly, he moved his hips, seeking friction as he deepened their kiss, only to be flipped onto his back a moment later, his wrists now pinned on either side of his head in the grass.

“How typical of you, to think you’re in charge here,” said Mr Emrys—no, said Merlin. “Though we both know that’s not what you truly crave. You would like nothing more than to let someone else give the orders for a change. To let me take the lead.”

Arthur’s breath hitched. “Is that so?” he replied, though the thickness in his voice easily gave him away.

“Yes, Your Highness, I believe that is so,” Merlin replied and boldly reached for Arthur’s fly, easily popping open the first button.

Arthur tensed, suddenly hit by a rush of nerves. Were they really about to do this? What if anyone saw?

Merlin’s lewd smirk instantly softened into something warm and affectionate. “You can let go with me,” he said softly. “There are no expectations here. It’s just you and me.”

With a sigh, Arthur relaxed against the grass and allowed himself to be undressed.

Soon, he was lying naked in the meadow, spread out like a feast, and Merlin was devouring him, kissing and licking him in places that perhaps only a country lad like him would dare to dip his tongue into.

He prepared Arthur in this way, until he was writhing on the grass and keening with need. Only then did Merlin remove his own breeches, revealing what until then had remained hidden underneath the supple leather.

“Beg me for it, Your Highness,” he demanded — and Arthur, desperate with want, did just that.

Arthur came to the image of being taken roughly by Mr Emrys, right in the middle of the meadow, and knew he was in trouble.

Very big trouble.

Chapter Text

“Wonderful,” Merlin concluded as he put down the pamphlet. “Just wonderful. Apparently, I’m a trophy now.”

Freya gave him an exasperated sort of look over her tea cup. They were sitting in Lady Alice’s drawing room at Manticore Manor, where Merlin was reciprocating Freya’s recent morning call to Surgeon House.

“There are worse things in life than being desired by both the wealthy Earl and the handsome Prince, you know?” Freya pointed out.

Merlin sent her a pained look. “One would think so, yes.”

Freya sighed and put down her tea. “You understand that, at this point, your prospects are mind-boggling, yes? You can take your pick from the ton, if you play it right.”

Merlin snatched up a sugar cake and started nibbling at it. “I wouldn’t know whom to pick,” he admitted.

“Nobody has caught your eye?” Freya asked. “Apart from the Prince, of course.”

Merlin shot her a glare. “Who says the Prince caught my eye?”

Freya only raised an eyebrow at him and took another sip of tea.

“Either way,” Merlin went on, getting crumbs all over his waistcoat as he waved his biscuit about. “Is it really so far-fetched that I take issue with this circus? I came here to marry, not to be written about like I’m some sort of prized poodle one can win in a bout of fencing!”

“And here I was, thinking you liked seeing a man sharpen his sabre for you,” Freya replied innocently.

Merlin nearly choked on his biscuit, sending a quick glance at Lady Alice, who was sitting at the far end of the room, reading a book as she supervised the visit.

“What?” Freya added, though there was no mistaking the slight sheen of pink on her cheeks. “All I’m saying is that you should consider yourself lucky. There are many of us lesser nobles who would be more than happy to be even half as popular as you. By the end of the month, you will be swimming in proposals, whereas we mere mortals are still chained to the ballrooms of Camelot, simpering at anyone who might make a half-decent match.”

Her voice had gone a little strained there in the end, and she promptly hid her face behind her tea cup again.

“You’re a beautiful girl, Freya,” Merlin said gently. “I’m sure you’ll find someone soon enough.”

Freya sent him a forced smile. “You’re very kind. But I know my prospects. The daughter of a pair of unimportant Baronets, with but a few pounds to her name? Unless the Prince starts dancing with me, too, I’ll be lucky to make a match at all.” She grimaced and lowered her voice. “My aunt has already started pointing out widows and widowers to me.”

Merlin made a face. “Please,” he replied. “The situation surely can’t be as dire as all that.”

Freya pointedly took another sip of tea and Merlin decided to steer the conversation into safer directions.

But when he returned to Surgeon House, a hired chaperone in tow, his thoughts lingered with the latest issue of Lord Dragonwise. Lord Cenred had not made a single mention of the Prince so far, and they had spent rather a lot of time together. Was it true what the society papers said? Was Merlin simply a prize the Earl wanted to snatch from the Crown Prince?

It was a rather discouraging idea.

Why was it that Merlin had become a token one could quarrel over? Should he really have no control or say over his own life merely because he was impoverished, and be fated to be the gaming piece of those wealthier and more important than him?

Gaius, for his part, had little more pity for him than Freya. “It’s simply the way of things, my boy,” he said, when Merlin brought up the matter over dinner. “The marriage mart has its own rules and we must all play by them. You should count yourself lucky you have attracted the right sort of attention. Believe me, there is also the wrong sort, the sort that will ruin your prospects forever. And then where would you be?”

“Unmarried,” Merlin replied with a sigh. He took a bite from his roast, then ventured, “Uncle, may I ask you a personal question?”

Gaius raised an eyebrow at him. “If you must.”

“Why is it you have never married?”

“Ah,” said Gaius and looked at his plate. “I very nearly did, once upon a time. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

Merlin studied him, saw the deepened lines on his face, and felt bad for asking. “I’m sorry for prying.”

Gaius waved his fork at him. “It doesn’t matter. Remaining a permanent bachelor has its advantages, too. As you well know, I’ve much of an interest in the sciences, and a spouse might not have been so indulgent of me spending hours on end in my laboratory.”

“Sounds nice, actually,” Merlin replied. “Following one’s passion rather than being tied down by matrimony.”

Gaius shot him a look. “If one has the means, yes.” He pointed with his fork. “You, however, require a good match! How that match is procured is secondary, as long as your reputation remains intact. The Earl’s interest appears genuine to me, be it born from affection or rivalry. You would do well to cast aside romantic notions and focus on securing a proposal, before Lord Dragonwise finds himself inclined to ruin you.”

“Ruin me?” Merlin repeated with some alarm. “Why would he want to ruin me?”

“Lord Dragonwise is capricious. He’s been exceedingly positive so far while reporting on you, but you can never know when the winds might change. For all we know, he might have learned more of your background, and call you a deceiving gold digger or impoverished coat chaser in next week’s issue.”

“Gods,” Merlin said and put down his cutlery.

“So, if Lord Cenred calls, you had better not make any mention of gossip, and focus on the matter at hand: making him propose!”

Merlin promptly lost any remaining appetite for his roast. “Perhaps I should simply propose to him instead,” he replied with some bite. “That would certainly shorten the process.”

“The higher-ranking party must propose. I told you as much,” Gaius replied, apparently immune to Merlin’s sarcasm. “Now eat. You look pale. Some meat will do you good.”

But Merlin excused himself from dinner with a headache and went to his room. There, he threw himself onto the bed and sulked.

If only the Prince had never danced with him!

He did not want to marry Lord Cenred. The man was horrible! Smarmy and slimy and conceited and overall terrible. Surely, Merlin should at least wait and see if any of the other callers showed a genuine interest before tying himself to the odious Earl! There had to be one person among them who was more agreeable but no less wealthy.

But if Gaius was to be believed, public opinion could be fickle. And Merlin could not afford to go back to obscurity or, worse, to be tainted by scandal and risk his reputation. His mother and he were just shy of destitution and a single word about that in the next Lord Dragonwise might be enough to scare any respectable suitors away.

With a groan, Merlin turned over and hid his face in his pillow, dearly wishing he was in the gardens of Crystal Cottage, lazing about the sun with Will, with not a care in the world.

Gods, but he missed home.

“So?” asked Morgana. “Will there be a fierce duel for Mr Emrys’s affections tonight?”

“Stop quoting Lord Dragonwise at me,” Arthur grumbled and looked out of the carriage window so he did not have to face her smirk.

“I’m only wondering,” Morgana replied. “Lord Dragonwise seems very convinced of this rivalry and there is every reason to believe Mr Emrys and the Earl will be at the ball tonight.”

“Why would I care?” Arthur retorted.

“I don’t know,” Morgana replied. “Why did you dance with Mr Emrys in the first place?”

Arthur only shrugged and resolutely kept his eyes on the window, watching the castle disappear into the distance as they made their way towards Gedref Park. It was the residence of the Duke of Nemeth, situated just outside the city of Camelot. Lady Mithian’s father was hosting the ball and had, lacking any sort of subtlety, invited the Prince to attend. The King, of course, had decreed that Arthur should go, so he might pursue the Duke’s daughter.

At the time, asking Morgana and Leon to accompany him had seemed like a good idea. Now, though, he was starting to regret asking them along. Even more did he regret sharing a carriage with them, where he could not escape his sister’s clutches.

Arthur did not want to discuss Mr Emrys with her. Or anyone else, for that matter. Especially not after indulging in obscene fantasies about the man. Surely, his depravity had to show somehow, and his sister, especially, was usually observant enough to see right through him.

Fortunately, Morgana spoke of other matters for the rest of the ride. As it turned out, though, she had merely put the topic on hold.

“You’re sulking,” Morgana spoke up not an hour later.

They were now at Gedref Park, where the massive entrance hall had been turned into a ballroom. From the gallery on the first floor, they had a perfect view of the dancers below. Naturally, everyone was staring at them. The Crown Prince, the Princess Royal and the Prince Consort, all in attendance? The Duke’s guests could hardly believe their luck!

“I’m not sulking,” Arthur replied evenly.

Morgana turned towards Leon. “You agree with me, yes?”

Leon, at least, had the decency to offer Arthur an apologetic look as he replied, “You do seem a little annoyed, Arthur.”

“Why would I be annoyed?” Arthur asked, trying to school his features into something more akin to indifference.

“Because your rival, Lord Cenred, is dancing with the prized Mr Emrys,” Morgana said and waved her hand at the twirling couples below. “Again, I might add.”

Arthur glanced down at the crowd and made a show of pretending like he didn’t know exactly where Mr Emrys and the Earl were currently dancing. “I hadn’t even noticed,” he said and looked away again.

Mr Emrys was wearing another perfectly fitted evening suit, a blue cravat wrapped around his pale neck, and looked entirely too fetching for Arthur’s liking as he moved about the dancefloor with Lord Cenred.

Morgana smirked at him. “Oh, come now. You wouldn’t be the first royal to become a little infatuated with someone unsuitable, you know.”

“I’m not infatuated,” Arthur replied curtly. “And I would ask you to refrain from this topic in the future. Most especially in public, where anyone might overhear.”

His tone seemed to give Morgana pause. “You know I’m only teasing,” she said more quietly, almost sounding apologetic.

Arthur turned away. “If you’ll excuse me, I promised to dance with Lady Mithian,” he said stiffly and descended the stairs alone.

It wasn’t a lie. He had promised two dances to Lady Mithian, which was only proper, given that she was the host’s daughter and Arthur a guest of honour. But there was still one more dance in between, at least, before Arthur had to make good on that promise.

As it was, he was looking for some punch as well as some privacy—as much as the latter was possible, given the fact that George was trailing him again. Really, if there was one thing that he would be looking forward to in matrimony, it was being rid of his chaperone.

He did procure the punch, at least, and drank it with a dismissive enough expression so that nobody dared to approach him. Soon, he found himself at the edge of the dancefloor again, just as the music stopped and the couples parted.

Naturally, Lord Cenred and Mr Emrys walked right in his direction, providing Arthur with a perfect view of the Earl’s possessive hand on Mr Emrys’s back. He guided his partner to Sir Gaius, who was standing but a few paces away from Arthur.

Arthur knew he was being scrutinised. He knew he should look away or, better yet, return to Morgana and Leon up above the dancefloor before people started to talk.

But he could not tear his eyes away. Instead of reining himself in, he watched Lord Cenred lean in and say something right into Mr Emrys’s ear, as if sharing an intimate secret with the man. Then he straightened, dipped his head at Sir Gaius and Mr Emrys, and left.

Before Arthur could think better of it, his feet had moved on their own accord.

If at all possible, Sir Gaius seemed even more surprised to see the Prince approach than last time. But he refrained from any sort of comment and merely bowed respectfully as he greeted Arthur.

Mr Emrys’s bow looked rather more perfunctory and his voice almost sounded incredulous when he said, “Your Highness.”

“Mr Emrys,” replied Arthur, trying to ignore the way his heart was thumping in his chest again. “I think I was promised another dance?”

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. His father had been very clear about the matter and Arthur was very close to making a very real scandal out of something that had could have been otherwise passed off as a brief princely indulgence.

Yet here he was.

A thrill of excitement seized Arthur when Mr Emrys jutted out his chin in response. With more than a little attitude, he replied, “If I remember correctly, Your Highness, it was less of a promise on my part and more of a demand on yours.”

Next to them, Sir Gaius let out a faint, choked noise, but Arthur only had eyes for Mr Emrys. Snarky, wonderfully disrespectful Mr Emrys, who had never looked more handsome than with challenge written all over his features.

Gods, but this man would be absolutely wasted on the likes of Lord Cenred!

“So you shall not dance with me, then?” Arthur asked him, his voice impossibly even, given the way his heart was now threatening to jump right out of his chest.

Mr Emrys looked him over. For one moment, it seemed, he actually appeared to consider turning down the Crown Prince of Camelot. Arthur didn’t know what he would have done if he had.

“I’d be delighted to dance, of course,” Mr Emrys said, though he didn’t exactly sound it.

The music had only just started. “You are free now?” Arthur asked and held out his hand.

Mr Emrys took it. “I am,” he confirmed.

A little late, they joined the dancefloor, which was when Arthur recognised the distinct rhythm of the music: a waltz! Arthur almost pulled back in shock. He should have paid more attention to the programme. Dancing with Mr Emrys a second time was bad enough, but a waltz? The King would have a fit!

“I assume you’ll want to lead, sire?” Mr Emrys asked him, disrupting Arthur’s moment of panic.

Arthur answered the question by holding out his left arm—and Mr Emrys, for all of his earlier hesitation, immediately stepped closer and took his hand. Suddenly acutely aware of how much proximity was involved in this dance, Arthur was sure to place his other hand no lower than Mr Emrys’s shoulder blade, keeping it as chaste as possible, whereas Mr Emrys curled his hand over Arthur’s right epaulette.

Lords, but they were close! Arthur could see every detail of Mr Emrys’s face: the bow shape of his lips, the long lashes, the candlelight reflected in his blue eyes. Arthur had never been so glad that he was wearing gloves, as he was suddenly seized with a rush of nerves, his fingers growing clammy inside the white fabric.

He had fantasised about this man. Intimately. And now he was practically in Arthur’s arms!

“Be prepared for me to step on your toes,” Mr Emrys said, sounding unaffected as he looked at him to start the dance. “I have yet to master the waltz.”

“Not to worry, Mr Emrys,” Arthur replied, surprised how even the words came out, given his state of mind. “Just follow my lead.”

And they moved, spinning around the dance floor along with the other couples.

Contrary to what Mr Emrys had said, he did not step on Arthur’s feet. He moved smoothly with the music, surprisingly pliant in Arthur’s arms after his challenging attitude, clearly trusting Arthur to make the calls for him. Arthur wondered faintly what it would feel like to let Mr Emrys take charge instead.

“I take it is my turn to start the conversation again?” asked Mr Emrys after they had taken a couple of silent spins about the room.

“As our ranks have yet to reverse,” Arthur replied. His heart had not slowed one bit since the beginning of this ill-advised dance, and he sounded a little breathless.

Mr Emrys’s eyes crinkled fetchingly. “I think I would have noticed had I acquired a crown since our last dance.”

“I should think so,” Arthur agreed. “They are heavy, bothersome things, crowns.”

“Mhm,” replied Mr Emrys, eyes sharpening. “Was that a complaint about the great burden of princely responsibilities?”

Arthur did his best not to grimace in response. The last thing he wanted to talk about as he waltzed with Mr Emrys was to be reminded of his duties. “I will not deny they weigh heavy on occasions, but no—I should not complain about them.”

“And why is that, Your Highness?” Mr Emrys returned. “Surely, we are all entitled to a little discontent?”

“I understand I’m fortunate in regard to my station, Mr Emrys. You will hear no complaints from me. I see my duties as the Prince of Camelot as a privilege rather than a burden.” The words came out more sharply than Arthur had intended.

What followed was a pause, filled with nothing but music and the sounds of shoes tapping against the dancefloor as Mr Emrys performed an awkward underarm turn, clearly unfamiliar with the required figure. When he spoke again, he sounded genuinely surprised. “I see. May I be blunt with you, then, sire?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “I do not remember you requiring permission to be blunt with me before.”

Mr Emrys looked a little flustered at the reminder, though what he said was, “If you take your princely duties so very seriously, why dance with me?”

In spite of the warning he had received, Arthur felt his mouth go slack for a moment at Mr Emrys’s directness. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr Emrys frowned. “The Crown Prince does not dance with a nobody, and certainly not twice. Yet here we are, waltzing about Gedref Park with everyone gawping at us. Would you say that is responsible behaviour for the future King, Your Highness?”

Arthur lowered his eyes. Of all the directions this conversation might have taken, he had not been prepared to be chastised by the man. “It is not,” he admitted, his voice inadvertently growing strained. “In fact, it is entirely irresponsible.”

“Then why do it?” Mr Emrys prodded, leaning in after Arthur had twirled him on the spot. “Surely, a childish rivalry is not worth a royal scandal.”

This time, Arthur could not quite contain his grimace. “You should not believe everything you read in the society papers, Mr Emrys.”

“From what I’ve heard, Lord Dragonwise usually gets it right,” Mr Emrys pushed. “Is this not you, refusing to yield to Lord Cenred and relinquish the trophy?”

Arthur was growing more uncomfortable by the second, and so, before he could help it, he lashed out. “I see you have learned the article by heart. Are you so infatuated with the idea of being reported on that you have memorised the words?”

Mr Emrys pursed his lips and Arthur could feel his grip tighten where he was holding Arthur’s hand. “No. I’d rather the papers would not report on me at all. But as you have clearly recognised the quote, I cannot help but wonder what that says about Your Highness.”

In spite of himself, Arthur let out a small chuckle. “Touché.”

“Really?” added Mr Emrys, voice sharp. “A fencing reference?”

Arthur took a deep breath through the nose. “I fear this conversation has gotten away from us,” he said.

“Is that so?” Mr Emrys replied, studying him as they twirled. “What would you rather talk about, if not the matter at hand?”

Arthur had to fight an urge to avert his eyes again. “As I told you last time, one usually remarks on something inconsequential, like the size of the room.”

“Oh, I can certainly make remarks about the room, if Your Highness so prefers.” Mr Emrys pointedly glanced around, then drawled, “These flower arrangements are just lovely, are they not, sire? Remarkable, one might say.”

“Quite,” Arthur replied curtly. He did not mind being teased, but he certainly minded being mocked.

“Seldom have I seen such beautiful blossoms,” Mr Emrys went on, still drawling. “Especially those lilies! They have captured my heart!”

Arthur knew the man was making fun of him, and yet he could not help but perk up at that. “You like lilies?” he asked.

“I do, actually,” Mr Emrys replied. He looked Arthur over and perhaps, he had seen something on Arthur’s face, for when he spoke again, his voice had lost most of its bite. “They are my favourites,” he added. “Is that surprising?”

“No, just… a curious coincidence,” Arthur replied.

Mr Emrys frowned. “Curious how?”

“They were my mother’s favourites as well.”

“Your mother,” Mr Emrys replied slowly. “Queen Ygraine.”

“The very same,” Arthur said and smiled, perhaps a little sadly.

For the first time this evening, Mr Emrys’s eyes softened. “I apologise if I awakened painful memories, sire. That was not my intention,” he said, and sounded genuinely regretful.

Warmth bloomed in Arthur’s chest. As it turned out, Mr Emrys’s face was even more handsome when his expression was kind. “There is no need to be sorry,” he replied. “I never knew her and her love for lilies is something I have merely been told of.”

“I’m sorry all the same,” said Mr Emrys and gently squeezed Arthur’s hand.

There was another pause as Mr Emrys performed one more underarm turn, which gave Arthur just enough time to find some of the composure he had momentarily lost.

When they danced closely again, Mr Emrys added, “One should not have to grow up without a mother.”

“Are you quite close to yours, then?” Arthur asked, knowing fully well this conversation was turning much too personal.

“Very,” Mr Emrys admitted easily, and those two syllables conveyed more affection than any lengthy speech about his mother’s many merits could have.

“And yet, she’s not come to Camelot with you,” Arthur observed.

He had not meant anything by the comment, but Mr Emrys’s face tightened. “She could not,” he said evasively.

Arthur immediately regretted his remark. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t be prying.”

Mr Emrys gave him a strained sort of smile. “It hardly matters. I’m sure Lord Dragonwise will write about her in his papers soon enough.”

Arthur frowned. “And why is that?”

Mr Emrys averted his eyes. “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Arthur looked him over as they turned and caught a glimpse of genuine worry in his expression. Clearly, Mr Emrys had every reason to believe that what he had said might come true.

For the first time, Arthur realised just how much scrutiny the man had to be under, all due to Arthur’s careless, selfish actions. The Prince had deigned to dance with him, and now all eyes were on him, including those of Lord Dragonwise.

“My attentions have caused trouble for you,” he said, made uneasy by his epiphany.

“Trouble?” Mr Emrys repeated, his voice tense. “I’ve been told by several parties that I should count myself lucky that the Prince himself has singled me out. Otherwise, I would not have caught the eye of Lord Cenred.”

A pang of entirely misplaced jealousy pierced Arthur’s chest. “And are you enjoying the attentions of the Earl?”

“I would be daft not to,” Mr Emrys evaded. “He’s a formidable match.”

“I see,” Arthur replied thickly and fell out of step, jostling the both of them as their knees bumped into each other. He did not know why Mr Emrys’s words had left him reeling. Yes, he had developed an obscene little obsession with the man, but surely, there could be no doubt in his mind that this dance, much like the first, had been nothing but an indulgence?

“Sire?” Mr Emrys asked, eyes growing concerned as Arthur fell out of step again, half-stepping on Mr Emrys’s toes this time. “Are you all right?”

Just then, the music came to an end. Relieved, Arthur stepped away to give the customary bow. He did not speak when he led Mr Emrys back to Sir Gaius.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said by way of farewell and turned without exchanging another word with Mr Emrys. Undoubtedly, Lord Cenred would soon return to ask for another dance.

For his part, Arthur should go and find Lady Mithian. Perhaps a dance with a more appropriate partner would be enough to clear his head and remind him of what was really important: his duty as Crown Prince, not his juvenile desires.

Chapter Text

“A second dance! Prince Arthur danced with you twice!” Freya all but squealed.

The very moment the Prince had left, she had pulled Merlin onto the terrace of Gedref Park, away from most of the prying eyes of the wildly gossiping ton, and was still clutching his hand. She seemed to be vibrating with excitement, though she finally let go of his hand when a chaperone nearby pointedly cleared his throat at them.

“Oh, Merlin, this is a fairy tale,” she sighed, clapping her hands together.

Merlin couldn’t find it in him to agree. How could anyone think this was a fairy tale? This was a nightmare!

“Will you please calm down?” he hissed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Whatever composure he might have held onto during the dance, he had lost it now. His fingers were trembling from a belated rush of nerves, his pulse throbbing in his ears and he was filled with a strange, nauseating sort of energy he didn’t have a name for. His skin seemed to be burning all over and his stomach was churning, as if he had drunk too much punch.

“Calm down?” Freya repeated. “How could anyone be calm after this? This has gone beyond singling you out to honour Gaius, and you know it! He’s smitten with you!”

Merlin looked away and hugged his middle, inhaling short gusts of cool evening air through his nose, hoping to calm his stomach. Gods, but it was fluttering about like a mad bird!

Finally, Freya seemed to catch on that something wasn’t right. With a mindful look for the chaperone nearby, she placed a light hand on Merlin’s shoulder and leaned in. “Merlin, are you all right?”

“No,” said Merlin. “No, I don’t think I am.”

On shaky legs, he moved a few steps to the right to seek purchase against the imposing granite walls of Gedref Park, bowing his head. The support helped and he finally felt his heart slow down. A couple breaths of cold air more, and he felt like he was no longer ready to lose the punch.

“Why?” he finally asked a hovering Freya. “Why would he dance with me again?” Freya opened her mouth and Merlin quickly held up a finger. “Don’t say because he’s smitten. He’s the Crown Prince of Camelot and I’m—I’m vulgar!”

“You’re not anything of the sort!” Freya argued at once. “You’re handsome and witty. Perhaps a little bit lacking in funds, but he’s the Prince! He’s got ample money for the both of you. One day, he’ll rule all of Camelot!”

Merlin stared at her. “Freya, apart from my little dowry, I haven’t got a sixpence to scratch with! My mother lives in a cottage, wearing decades-old dresses as she helps our housekeeper with the chores. I’ve been chopping my own firewood since I was seven. I’m not lacking in funds, I’m practically a pauper!”

“Shh!” Freya looked about. “Nobody needs to know that!”

Merlin waved a hand at her. “Oh, what’s the point in hiding it? Now that the Prince has danced with me again, Lord Dragonwise will be spilling all the juicy details in his next issue.”

“You don’t know that,” Freya insisted. “He might just as well write even more positively about you than ever, and then you’ll be swimming in proposals!”

“Ha!” said Merlin. “If I’m lucky, I will get proposed to by exactly one person, and that’s—” Merlin startled when the door to the terrace opened. “Speak of the devil…” he muttered when he saw who it was.

Lord Cenred strode out into the night, his eyes on Merlin. “Mr Emrys,” he said in that low, gravelly voice of his, ignoring Freya’s polite curtsey completely. “I was looking for you all over! You had promised the next quadrille to me, had you not?”

Merlin glanced at his dance card and realised with a wince that the Earl was correct.

He took a step away from Freya and tugged at his waistcoat, then forced on a smile. “I apologise, my lord,” he said. “I think I might have indulged a little too much and needed some fresh air.”

Lord Cenred smiled one of his smarmy smiles. “I see,” he drawled. “That would certainly be one explanation for the face you made whilst dancing with the Prince.”

Merlin awkwardly cleared his throat. “My face?”

“You did not seem to be enjoying yourself in His Highness’s arms,” said the Earl and stepped closer.

“Who wouldn’t enjoy dancing with the Prince of Camelot?” Merlin evaded.

Lord Cenred’s smile grew wider until he was showing just a hint of teeth. “It’s quite all right, Mr Emrys. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know Prince Arthur rather well and I know his character, too.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Unbearably arrogant, the Prince.”

You’re one to talk, Merlin thought, but replied with nothing but a non-committal noise.

“If you’re feeling a little unwell, one could always skip the dance and take a stroll about the park,” Lord Cenred went on and gestured at the gardens beyond, illuminated by the light of a near-full moon. “Gedref Park is famed for its beautiful grounds. Named after them, actually.”

Merlin glanced at Freya.

“Just you and I,” Lord Cenred immediately added.

“And a chaperone?” Merlin asked.

Lord Cenred sent him an amused look. “Why, of course. What do you take me for: a rake?” He offered his arm as he jerked his head at the nearby chaperone and Merlin reluctantly took his elbow, sending Freya an apologetic look.

“Would you inform my uncle?” he told her over his shoulder as Lord Cenred led him away.

Soon, the Earl was droning on about some nonsense or the other, expecting nothing more from Merlin than the occasional smile, nod or Is that so? Merlin was starting to see the merits of spending time with someone so self-absorbed, as he was mostly left in peace as he navigated his own inner crisis.

The Prince had danced with him—again!

At first, Merlin had been convinced Prince Arthur was having a lark. Because surely, the Prince couldn’t possibly dance with him a second time, and a waltz at that! But he had been entirely serious in his intentions. And he had almost seemed a little nervous, too, beneath all the princely bravado he had displayed. He had known that the dance was a mistake, had acknowledged as much to Merlin.

And yet, he had chosen to take to the dancefloor with Merlin one more time.

During that waltz, Merlin had got a glimpse of a completely different Prince Arthur. One who acknowledged his mistakes and apologised for them, too. Beneath the arrogant façade lay hidden a surprisingly sensitive man, who admitted to missing his mother, a woman he had never known. As someone who could not remember his own father, the pain in the Prince’s voice had resonated with Merlin, more than anything else.

Then, of course, the Prince had to bring up Lord Cenred, and it had all gone downhill from there. It was clear Prince Arthur disliked the Earl. Was Lord Dragonwise onto something regarding their supposed rivalry?

Merlin glanced at Lord Cenred, who was just now leading them into a second turn about the rose bed, the chaperone only a few steps behind. As much as Merlin disliked the Earl himself, he knew he could not afford to snub him.

Because for all the attention the Prince’s notice had given him, it had resulted in exactly one serious courtship. Everyone else had been curious, but clearly not curious enough to pursue a match with some nobody. Too little was known about Merlin, after all. And ironically, they were right to be cautious. While anybody could make an educated guess that Merlin was not exactly well-off, the wardrobe Gaius had purchased for him at least gave the illusion of basic funds and a respectable upbringing befitting a future Baron.

Lord Cenred was rich enough not to worry too much about making a match with an impoverished nobleman, though Merlin doubted even the Earl would be ready to wed a man who was practically destitute. If Lord Dragonwise ever revealed that at Crystal Cottage, Merlin emptied his own chamber pot more often than not, he, too, would be scared off. And according to Gaius, it was not unlikely that that exact sort of report would soon make it into the society papers.

The thought made Merlin’s stomach cramp, and he inadvertently tightened his hold on the Earl’s arm. Lord Cenred seemed to find the gesture encouraging, for he leaned in a little and raised an eyebrow at him.

Merlin plastered on a smile.

Let the Earl believe Merlin was falling for him. That was exactly what he needed to do—secure his affections, and a proposal, before it was too late. What he shouldn’t do was to channel Freya’s romantic notions. Whatever the Prince’s intention may have been, a courtship between them was entirely out of the question.

Merlin needed to be reasonable. He simply could not afford to be anything else.

Especially not to let himself dream of a soft, handsome smile on a regal face.

“How could you have been so foolish!” snarled the King as he paced up and down his study.

Arthur had braced himself for his father’s anger the minute he was summoned to the privy chambers. Still, it was hard to stand at perfect attention near the King’s desk while listening to his father’s ranting. He had thought the last rebuke he had received close to catastrophic, but nothing had prepared him for this.

“Have you no sense of responsibility? No sense of duty?” Uther raged, his voice ripe with censure. “Have I not instilled in you the importance of appearances from a young age? You are the Crown Prince of Camelot! You represent the monarchy with every step you take, every word you speak.”

Arthur’s fingers were laced tightly behind his back, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he endured the reprimand. His father had been at this for several minutes already, and he was now starting to repeat himself. Still, every word stung. Arthur had only ever sought his father’s approval and his disappointment hurt worse than any punishment.

“You cannot show weakness by indulging this way!” the King went on. “Everything you do is political. This waltz is political. Are you even aware of what you have done, dancing twice with this Mr Emrys?”

Somehow, hearing his father speak the name jolted Arthur out of his silent misery. Perhaps it was the disdain in his father’s voice, but it stoked something in him, a bright, hot flame deep in the pit of his stomach, that made him respond, “Mr Emrys is a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

“Respectable?” Uther came to an abrupt halt and swivelled on the spot to glare at Arthur. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Arthur’s shoulders tensed, but he stood his ground, “You make it sound like I’ve danced with some notorious philanderer. But Mr Emrys is nothing of the sort. His only shortcomings are that his family is obscure and of little wealth.”

Uther narrowed his eyes. “You are not seriously suggesting that Mr Emrys would make for a suitable partner for the Crown Prince of Camelot?”

Arthur tried to keep his voice even. “I’m suggesting nothing. I’m merely pointing out that Mr Emrys has done nothing that would stain his reputation.”

Uther huffed. “This is not about his reputation, it is about yours! You are the Prince! You cannot offer this sort of fodder to the gossip rags. It’s undignified.” He gestured at the latest issue of Lord Dragonwise on his desk. “You’ve made such a spectacle of yourself that the ladies you are actually courting are no longer even mentioned. Did you dance with the Duke’s daughter at the ball?”

“Of course I did,” Arthur defended himself. “Twice. And then, another dance with Miss Sophia Sidhe.” Before he could help himself, he added, “Who is, if I may point this out, only of slightly higher rank than Mr Emrys.”

“But a woman, and a rare beauty at that,” Uther retorted. “And her father a well-connected Viscount, not some backwater Baron, whom nobody has seen or heard from in well over a decade.”

Arthur frowned. “You made inquiries into Mr Emrys?”

Uther sent him an incredulous look. “Of course I made inquiries. There are rumours about you and him. It would be irresponsible not to.”

“And what have you found?” Arthur pushed at once.

Uther sent him another disapproving look, but readily revealed, “That the Baron Emrys, Lord Balinor, has long-since vanished, and left his wife and son even poorer than Lord Dragonwise let on. The Emrys estate lies in ruins. The family house has long been let to a general and his wife, and your respectable dance partner lives in a small cottage at the edge of the property, practically destitute.”

Arthur’s heart sank. He had had an inkling, of course, that Mr Emrys could not exactly be well-off, but this?

“In fact,” Uther went on, “now that the matter has been brought to my attention, it might very well be that the Barony will have to be revoked altogether. There is hardly any land left that is still tied to the Emrys name. Perhaps the title will become extinct.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “And leave Mr Emrys without an inheritance?” he exclaimed.

“What inheritance?” Uther shot back. “There is nothing left to inherit.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Enough of this man. I don’t want to hear the name again.” The King narrowed his eyes. “Nor read it, at least not in relation to you. You will stay away from him. No more dancing, is that understood?”

Arthur did not know why he felt like protesting. He had long decided, before ever talking to his father, that it had been a mistake to dance with Mr Emrys, and that he should stop this dangerous game he had been playing before he lost control of it. Still, it cost him much to say, “Understood, sire.”

Uther looked him over, then gave an imperious nod. “Good. And make sure to take your pick from the ladies soon. Nothing will nip these rumours in the bud like the official announcement of your engagement.” He pointed at the door. “You’re dismissed.”

Arthur bowed and stalked from the study, making directly for his chambers. “George,” he snapped at his valet, who had immediately started trailing him, as always. “Fetch my fencing clothes. I am to meet Prince Consort Leon.”

“At once, Your Highness,” came the diligent response.

An hour later, Arthur was crossing blades with Leon at Excalibur, Camelot’s top fencing academy. It was a busy day at the hall, with most pistes occupied by pairs of ladies and gentlemen in white fighting gear.

In dire need of blowing off some steam after the confrontation with his father, Arthur channelled all of his frustration into his attacks and ripostes, soon losing himself in the rhythm of the fight as his ears filled with the sound of metal on metal. Arthur had always excelled at this. He was a natural with the rapier, though Leon usually gave him a good challenge. Still, it took him a while to find that state of mind where everything faded into the background, and he was truly one with the blade.

An hour later, he and Leon were panting and soaked in sweat and Arthur had worked up a nice burn in his muscles. They stepped off the piste to refresh themselves, eagerly accepting the cups of water they were handed by George.

“From the way you nearly sliced open my throat just now, I take it the King had something to say about the ball at Gedref Park,” Leon commented drily as they came to lean against a pillar at the sidelines.

“You think?” Arthur replied and ran a sleeve over his sweaty brow, his fencing jacket now unbuttoned. He looked around to make sure there weren’t any listeners, then elaborated, “Gave me a whole speech about my duties as Crown Prince and how irresponsibly I’ve behaved. Told me to stop acting the fool. And to stay away from Mr Emrys, of course.”

Leon looked him over as he took a sip of water. After some hesitation, he asked, “And will you? Stay away?”

Arthur frowned at him. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Leon pursed his lips.

“What?” Arthur pushed.

“Morgana thinks you’ve got a genuine interest in this Mr Emrys.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, though his fingers tightened reflexively around his cup. “Of course she does.”

“Well, she’s certainly right about this being unlike you,” Leon pointed out. “You’ve always striven to meet your father’s expectations, rather than defy them.”

“I’m not defying him,” Arthur replied. “I let Gwaine tempt me into acting like a child, but I’ve learned my lesson. The second dance was a careless mistake, one I do not intend to repeat.”

“Only the second?” Leon prodded.

Arthur pointedly ignored the remark, emptying the remainder of his cup in one long swallow. When he handed it back to George, he spotted a familiar face on the piste just across and scowled.

Lord Cenred, his long hair drawn back into a tail, was fighting a blonde woman. She had excellent technique, Arthur saw, but nonetheless seemed to be having trouble holding her own against the Earl, her body language frustrated whenever her opponent scored a hit. When she turned, Arthur recognised the lady as Morgana’s cousin, Lady Morgause.

As Arthur watched, the fight came to an end. Lady Morgause gave the Earl the barest hint of a curtsy, then stalked off, fuming, leaving Cenred to grin triumphantly as he stepped off the piste. That was when he caught Arthur staring.

Arthur quickly looked away, but the Earl must have seen his gaze as an invitation, for he immediately walked over to them and bowed.

“Your Highness,” he said, though the title lacked much of the respect it should have inspired in the Earl. “I haven’t seen you at Excalibur for a while. I thought you might have given up on fencing altogether.”

“Hardly,” Arthur replied gruffly, hoping Lord Cenred would get the hint and leave.

But no such luck. “I saw you watched me defeat Lady Morgause just now,” the Earl went on, easily falling into his favourite pastime: bragging. “I always tell her to fix her stance and she never does. Some people just don’t want to improve, it seems.”

“She looked skilled enough to me,” Arthur brushed him off.

“Yes, she is somewhat talented, I will admit,” Lord Cenred drawled. “I don’t suppose you would be up to a match with me, sire?”

Arthur glanced at Leon, who was watching the conversation silently, but carefully. “I’m not in need of a partner, no.”

“Shame,” said Lord Cenred. “After all the talk about our supposed rivalry, I thought we could give the other academy members something to talk about.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Do you pay much attention to the gossip rags, then, Lord Cenred?”

The Earl gave a little shrug. “I will freely admit to reading them. They can be quite amusing, and Lord Dragonwise has certainly become a phenomenon of his own. Does not even your father, the King, read his society papers, Your Highness?”

“Why would the Crown be interested in gossip?” Arthur deflected.

“Why indeed,” the Earl replied and smirked. “I meant no disrespect to His Majesty, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur repeated, fighting a childish urge to make a face at the Earl. Gods, but what an odious man he was! How could Mr Emrys stand to be around him?

As if he had read his thoughts, Lord Cenred said, “It is only that you have so heavily featured in Lord Dragonwise as of late, sire. The two dances you have shared with Mr Emrys certainly seem to be a topic of much interest.”

“Is that so?” Arthur replied, trying not to grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was to discuss Mr Emrys with Lord Cenred.

“Indeed,” said the Earl. “And it certainly came as a surprise to all of us to see you dance with him a second time, including to Mr Emrys himself.”

Arthur knew he shouldn’t take the bait. He should end the conversation and return to the palace, or better yet, go to see Mordred with Leon and avoid his father a while longer. And yet he replied, “He said as much to you?”

Lord Cenred’s smirk promptly widened and Arthur wanted to slap himself. What was he doing, engaging in this conversation? He should have pulled rank two minutes ago and dismissed the man when it was still polite to do so.

“Oh, I’m afraid he did, Your Highness,” the Earl replied, sounding smug. “Though I do not blame you for seeking him out again. He is quite a charming young man, is he not?”

“As agreeable as any well-bred gentleman,” Arthur evaded.

“More than just agreeable, surely,” Lord Cenred went on and Arthur could tell he was watching carefully for a reaction, clearly keen on provoking. “As it so happens, I am due to pick him up in my barouche tomorrow morning. We are to have a picnic luncheon, Mr Emrys and I. There’s a beautiful spot right by the road to Willowdale that is sure to remind him of the countryside back at home.”

“How lovely,” Arthur said, suddenly wishing they still lived in times when the royal family could have an Earl thrown off the battlements of Camelot Castle without risking a rebellion in Parliament.

“We’ll have the most wonderful time together, I’m sure,” the Earl added and now, it was clear he was trying to get some sort of rise out of Arthur. “I must say I quite enjoy his company… for the moment.”

“Arthur,” Leon spoke up just then, clearly intent on rescuing him from the conversation. “I think it’s time we go. Don’t you have some important engagement at the palace?”

Arthur looked at him. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me, Leon.”

The Earl bowed. “I apologise for imposing on your time, Your Highness. Please don’t let me keep you.” And he walked off with a self-satisfied smirk.

As soon as he turned his back, Leon threw Arthur a pointed look.

“Not a word,” Arthur grumbled and they, too, took their leave, with Arthur deciding it was indeed time to visit his nephew.

It was only much later, when little Mordred was having the greatest of times trying to run Arthur through with his wooden sword, that Lord Cenred’s exact words came back to him, making him frown.

I quite enjoy his company… for the moment.

Chapter Text

Riding in a barouche, Merlin decided quickly, was not an enjoyable pastime.

The view from the carriage was nice enough, he supposed, but he would have much rather preferred to ride a horse and feel the wind on his face, than huddle underneath the foldable leather roof, his thighs pressed close to Lord Cenred’s. They were sitting on the passenger bench, with a pinch-faced chaperone eyeing them from across. The woman was sitting behind the coachman’s high box-seat, where there was no roof and thus little protection from the sun, and she was sweating profusely in her black dress.

Merlin would have gladly given her his seat.

Luckily, the Earl had not planned on riding out too far. Once they had made it out of the city, it was only half an hour until he had the driver pull to the side in a little stretch of forest, where there was a clearing right by the road. It was a beautiful spot, Merlin had to admit, as Lord Cenred helped him out of the barouche.

Along with the driver and the chaperone, the Earl had brought a servant, who immediately hopped off the box seat and started setting up the picnic in the glade, while Merlin and Lord Cenred stretched their legs a little by walking up and down the road.

Finally, they settled on the blanket in the clearing, with the chaperone supervising from a little stool nearby, and Merlin awkwardly munched on pastries and little pies while he half-listened to the Earl’s questionable opinions on poetry.

He knew he should be paying more attention. Smile more and make himself overall agreeable in the hopes of Lord Cenred soon springing the question. But the idea of spending every single day of his life with the Earl was distasteful enough that he held back, despite knowing that time might very well be of the essence. He could not afford to be hesitant and lose Lord Cenred’s interest.

Merlin was just enduring a recital of some horribly clichéd nature poem, when he caught sight of the riders. A fair-haired gentleman and his chaperone had slowed down their horses as they rode past the parked barouche, with the gentleman politely tipping his hat at them.

When Merlin recognised him, he straightened on the blanket so fast he nearly upended his cup of water. “My lord! It’s the Prince,” he hissed at Lord Cenred, who promptly stopped reciting mid-verse.

“So it is,” the Earl replied, sounding intrigued, then raised his voice. “Your Highness! What a surprise!”

They got up from the blanket, just in time to watch Prince Arthur dismount from his horse and hand the reins off to his chaperone. As he approached the blanket, the Earl and Merlin bowed, though Merlin couldn’t take his eyes off the Prince as he did. His cheeks were a little flushed from the sun and his hair windswept, despite the top hat he had now tucked under his arm. Merlin had to admit, the Prince had never looked more handsome, and he found himself swallowing nervously.

What on earth was Prince Arthur doing here?

“Lord Cenred,” said the Prince, smiling fetchingly. “And Mr Emrys! Enjoying a day in the beautiful woods?”

“Quite so, sire,” replied the Earl. Merlin glanced at him, but couldn’t decide whether or not he was annoyed by the interruption. “What brings you here, if I may ask?”

“Oh, I just felt like having a nice, long ride in nature,” the Prince replied, gesturing at his horse. “Llamrei here is in dire need of exercise, and the palace grounds do become boring after a while. I was craving the sight of the country.” For some reason, he threw Merlin a look just then, which Merlin didn’t know how to decipher.

The Earl’s responding smile was all teeth. “What a coincidence, then, that you just so happened to take the road towards Willowdale.”

The Prince only hummed non-committedly and turned his eyes on the blanket. “A picnic? What a splendid idea. You did choose the perfect weather for it.”

Finally finding his tongue, Merlin asked, “Would you care for a refreshment, Your Highness?”

“I would, actually, thank you. How thoughtful of you, Mr Emrys,” replied the Prince and flashed Merlin another smile, much brighter than Merlin had ever seen from him before. It sent an entirely unexpected spark of heat down Merlin’s spine.

Moments later, Merlin found himself back on the blanket, now with the Prince right by his side, who had sat down in between the Earl and Merlin, and shamelessly snatched up a mushroom pasty, clearly settling in for a longer stay. The Earl most definitely looked irritated now, though he couldn’t very well keep the Crown Prince of Camelot from inviting himself to their picnic if His Highness was so inclined.

Merlin, for his part, was caught between relief not to be alone with Lord Cenred any longer, and a rather intense sense of wariness, wondering if the Prince’s presence really was just a  coincidence. He nervously grasped for a topic other than the weather and the food, until his eyes came to rest on the Prince’s horse.

“A fine mare you have there, Your Highness,” he said, eyeing the beautiful white coat and shiny mane.

“Yes, Llamrei is a rare beauty,” the Prince replied, his voice fond. He leaned in a little, his eyes curious. “Do you have an affinity for horses, Mr Emrys?”

Merlin tried not to let their increasing proximity unnerve him. “I do love riding, sire. Though I fear my horsemanship leaves much to be desired, as I do not own a horse myself.” Crystal Cottage, after all, didn’t have any stables, nor could they have afforded the upkeep. It was just Merlin’s luck that their tenants at Ealdor House had allowed him the use of their horses from time to time.

“I’m sure your riding skills can’t be all that dire,” the Prince replied and smiled again, sending Merlin’s stomach aflutter.

Merlin hurriedly took a sip of water to have an excuse to avert his eyes. He had no idea what was going on inside the Prince’s head, crashing the picnic like this, but he was most definitely upping the charm now. If Merlin hadn’t known better, he would have said Prince Arthur was courting him.

He threw the still smiling Prince a careful look.

Perhaps this whole affair really wasn’t a coincidence at all. Perhaps this, too, was part of that wretched rivalry Lord Dragonwise kept going on about, and the Prince had come here simply to vex the Earl!

“Would you like to meet her?” Prince Arthur asked just then, and was already getting up from the blanket. “If Llamrei takes a liking to you, you may want to take the opportunity and ride her up and down the lane.”

Merlin shot the horse a look. “I would never presume—” he started, but the Prince was already holding out his hand to help him up.

“Come on, Mr Emrys,” he encouraged. “It’s not every day one has the chance to ride a horse from the royal stables.” He glanced at Lord Cenred. “You don’t mind me borrowing Mr Emrys for a moment, do you, Lord Cenred?”

“Not at all, sire,” replied the Earl, though he sounded like he very much did mind. He remained behind on the blanket as Merlin and the Prince walked over to Llamrei.

The Prince’s chaperone was still with the horses. From the apprehensive looks he was casting at his master, the valet was not happy the Prince had decided to make a stop and join the picnic, though he didn’t say a word as he watched Prince Arthur check over the saddle.

“I haven’t even got on the right clothes,” Merlin murmured as he hovered nearby. “These boots aren’t made for riding.”

“You’re not travelling cross-country,” the Prince replied as he fiddled with some straps. “You’ll be fine.” He gestured at the horse. “Come, don’t be shy. Llamrei can be quite affectionate.”

The Prince was proven right when Merlin held out his hand and the horse sniffed at it once, only to immediately butt her snout against it, letting out a content little huff when Merlin started stroking her neck.

“She’s lovely,” Merlin said and leaned in a little, resting his face against the horse’s side. He had missed this, he realised, being out in nature, with a horse’s smell filling his nose.

“She likes you,” the Prince observed, sounding satisfied with the fact, then waved at the saddle. “All set, Mr Emrys. Up you get.”

Perhaps it would have been polite to refuse once more. But Merlin found he didn’t want to. Whatever the Prince’s intention may be, Merlin might as well get something out of it.

As soon as he was on top of Llamrei, he felt himself relax, and, after accepting the riding crop, he happily set off down the lane at a quick trot, making sure to keep in sight and turn back right before the curve in the road. Llamrei was of sweet temperament and gave Merlin no trouble, and it was with a genuine sense of regret when he at last returned to the glade and dismounted.

“So?” asked Merlin when he got off, already bracing himself for some snarky comment or other. “Your opinion on my horsemanship?”

“Perfectly acceptable,” the Prince replied, though his voice had a strange, gruff quality to it.

Merlin narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you making fun of me, Your Highness?”

“Trust me, you would know if I was making fun of you, Mr Emrys,” the Prince returned, though his accompanying smirk looked a little off.

Still suspicious, Merlin decided they had danced around the elephant in the room long enough. “Sire, if I may be blunt: why exactly are you here?”

“I told you, I was riding out,” the Prince replied dismissively and started fiddling with the saddle again.

Merlin was not having it. “You came here on purpose, didn’t you?” When the Prince kept his face pointedly turned away, Merlin had his answer. “Why on earth would you interrupt our outing like this?” he went on, irritation rising quickly. “You can’t honestly be indulging in this childish rivalry? Didn’t we just have a conversation about duty and responsibility?”

The Prince huffed and turned, letting go of the saddle. “You must think rather highly of yourself, Mr Emrys, if you believe the Prince himself would come out here just for you.”

Merlin blinked, fighting an undignified flush, though he refused to back down. “This can’t be a coincidence,” he insisted stubbornly.

The Prince smirked again. “Oh? Is it so hard to believe I just happened to ride by?”

“Yes!” Merlin insisted. “Yes, it is! It is not believable at all!”

To his surprise, the Prince backed down at that, his smirk turning into a rather sheepish smile. “Well,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I suppose that might be because it’s not, in fact, a coincidence.”

“I knew it!” Merlin crossed his arms, his irritation stoked by the confirmation. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, then: I don’t appreciate this game you’ve been playing with me!”

“Game?” the Prince repeated, and he suddenly sounded offended. “I’m not playing games, Mr Emrys. I’ve come here to check on you. To warn you, too.”

“Warn me about what?” Merlin demanded.

“The Earl,” the Prince returned. He threw a cautious look towards the blanket, where Lord Cenred was still sitting and watching them carefully, then lowered his voice. “I fear his intentions might not be honourable.”

Merlin’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“I’m afraid it is the Earl who is playing games,” the Prince elaborated. “I happened to run into him at the fencing hall. From the way he was talking about you, he seemed to imply that he was not serious about this courtship, but rather out to have a little fun. You should be careful.”

Merlin stared at him. “You talked to the Earl? About me?”

The Prince turned away again, raising his hand to stroke his horse’s neck. “The topic came up,” he evaded.

Merlin scowled. “I cannot believe you,” he hissed. “You really are taking this rivalry seriously, aren’t you? You’re trying to sabotage this courtship so the Earl may not win the trophy!”

The Prince glared at him. “No. I’m trying to save you from setting your hopes on a match that might never come to be,” he retorted.

“I don’t need a knight in shining armour to rescue me,” Merlin snapped, well piqued. “And I certainly don’t need a royal prat meddling in my affairs. Haven’t you done enough damage, getting my name dragged into the papers?”

At that, the Prince seemed to recoil. He pressed his lips together into a tight line, almost appearing angry. But when he spoke again, he sounded honestly contrite. “I apologise,” he said quietly, meeting Merlin’s gaze. “I never meant to cause you any distress. I will freely admit, it was reckless and irresponsible of me to dance with you, especially the second time. I shouldn’t have done it, and if you’ve suffered because of my careless actions, I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive me for it.”

He sounded so earnest then, that Merlin’s anger was almost immediately snuffed, leaving plenty of space for regret of his own. “I apologise, too, sire, for being rude,” he replied and bowed his head as he added more quietly, “I fear I keep forgetting I’m talking to the actual Crown Prince.”

The Prince’s lips twitched upwards. “I must admit, I rather enjoy your free spirit, Mr Emrys. It is not often a man will address me as casually as you do. It is… refreshing.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow at him, intrigued. “Are you saying you enjoy being challenged by nobodies from the countryside, Your Highness?”

Prince Arthur looked him over, a strange glint to his eyes that Merlin could not begin to decipher. “You are hardly a nobody to me at this point.”

Frowning, Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, Lord Cenred materialised by his side. “Mr Emrys, I was wondering if you were quite done admiring the Prince’s horse?” he asked pointedly, no longer making an effort to hide his annoyance.

It was the Prince who responded, “Yes, and I was just about to take my leave.” He was handed his top hat by the Earl’s servant and then he mounted his horse, his chaperone following suit. “I apologise for intruding on your outing. Farewell!”

With that, he was off, leaving Merlin to stare after him.

“As I said,” said the Earl as soon as the Prince and his valet were out of sight. “Self-centred and arrogant.” Merlin startled when Lord Cenred’s hand appeared on his elbow. “Let us walk a little, Mr Emrys, and forget we were ever interrupted.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Merlin replied and let the Earl lead him down a path into the forest.

Soon, he was not-quite-listening to Lord Cenred’s rambling and boasting again, his mind drifting as it always did. Was the Prince right? Was the Earl just toying with Merlin? But what reason would he have for doing so? But then, what reason would the Prince have for lying to him? Going out of his way, as it appeared, to give Merlin a warning about the Earl’s intentions?

Was this all still part of the supposed rivalry?

“Is something on your mind?” the Earl asked techily when Merlin missed his cue to respond with some generic remark.

“No, my lord,” Merlin lied. “Nothing.”

Arthur spurred Llamrei on, uncaring that George had a hard time keeping pace on his gelding.

Arthur’s skin was prickling all over, and he was glad Llamrei was so well-trained, as he wasn’t precisely paying attention to the road as they galloped along. He was eager to put some distance between himself and that glade.

Between himself and Mr Emrys.

Arthur should never have ridden out to find him. Warning Mr Emrys of Lord Cenred’s ill intentions had been a poor excuse for this outing, and he knew it.

He had gone there so he could see Mr Emrys again, talk to him one more time, without his father hearing about it—though Arthur supposed there was every chance that the Earl’s servants or even Lord Cenred himself would tip off the gossip mill.

Really, what had he been thinking?

The truth was, of course, that he hadn’t been thinking, at least not with his head. Arthur was quickly coming to terms with the fact that he seemed to have become unhealthily obsessed with Mr Emrys. The man had taken hold of him like a possessive spirit, stirring his desire until his body was burning with need, making him forget all reason.

Lords, but seeing Mr Emrys ride on Llamrei had nearly been his undoing! Were he to think rationally about it, he would admit to himself that the man indeed lacked skill and grace in the saddle. But all Arthur had been able to think about when watching Mr Emrys ride off were those long, lean legs confidently digging into the horse’s side. Even worse was the blinding smile on Mr Emrys’s face when he had returned, clearly thrilled to be riding. What he lacked in horsemanship, he most certainly made up in enthusiasm.

And then, of course, there had been their argument, and Mr Emrys’s subsequent comment: Are you saying you enjoy being challenged?

By the gods, but he did! There was no sweeter thrill than seeing Mr Emrys’s stubborn expression, the fierce glare in his eyes when he gave Arthur a dressing-down, not caring one bit that he was talking to the Prince.

Arthur loosened his hold on the reins to tug at his collar, suddenly feeling unbearably hot, even under the light riding jacket.

How could one man have such an effect on him? Tempt him, again and again, to act against his father’s wishes and seek out his company?

He was bewitched! Oh, and what an exquisite curse it was!

By the time Arthur made it back to the royal stables, a pursed-lipped George in tow, he was sweating all over and brimming with need.

He ordered a bath, then sent his valet to wait outside as soon as the tub was filled, declaring he was perfectly capable of stripping the rest of his riding clothes by himself. Though truly, he was merely unwilling to let George see just how little he had cooled off on the ride back.

In fact, Arthur was absolutely straining in his breeches, and as soon as he had peeled out of them, his hand was on his throbbing length, the other curling around the edge of the bathtub for purchase. With a needy groan, he squeezed his cock and closed his eyes, and in the blink of a moment, he was back in that glade, except there was no one else there but Arthur and…

Merlin pushed him against a tree, riding crop still in hand.

“Criticising my horsemanship?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Whatever will I do with you, Your Highness?”

Arthur bit his lip to suppress a whimper, trying to hold onto the remnants of his control as his back collided with the trunk of the oak. “All I said was that you have a lot to learn about riding a horse,” he replied, though his voice was strained.

Merlin smirked and leaned in until his thigh was pressing against the bulging crotch of Arthur’s riding breeches. “Are you offering riding lessons, sire?” he asked, raising the crop and brushing the tip of it over Arthur’s cheek. “Because let me tell you, I already know all there is to know about breaking in a stubborn mount.”

This time, Arthur could not hold back the whimper, his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh, please…” he begged.

“Not so cocky now, are we, sire?”

“Arthur,” Arthur gasped. “Call me Arthur. Please.”

“Arthur,” Merlin purred and slipped a hand into Arthur’s breeches.

Arthur came all over his hand, collapsing onto his knees by the bathtub with a long, drawn-out moan. He allowed himself one moment to rest there, trembling all over, then swiftly climbed into the bath, ready to wash away the evidence of his depravity.

He was done for. Completely and utterly ruined by one Mr Merlin Emrys. A man whom he could never have. A man who might very well marry someone as loathsome as Lord Cenred, while Arthur was doomed to wed some boring, respectable woman who was fit to become Queen of Camelot.

With a desperate sigh, Arthur sank into the bathwater, until he was near to drowning in more than just his own misery.

This would have to stop. Now. He could not pursue this mad fancy any longer, no matter how enticing the pictures his treacherous mind painted.

He was Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot. He was better than this!

That night, he had dinner with the King. Morgana and Leon had been invited as well, sitting on either side of the dining table, with Uther and Arthur at the two ends. It was a dreadfully formal affair, though Leon’s presence usually made these things a little more bearable by allowing Arthur to start up a conversation about horseracing or fencing, rather than whatever tedious topic the King wanted to discuss.

Not tonight, however.

“How are your courtships coming along, Arthur?” Uther asked after the main course had been served. “Have you chosen yet?”

Arthur kept his eyes on his plate. “No. But I am due to meet Miss Sophia Sidhe and Lady Mithian for outings this week.”

“And Lady Vivian?” Uther prodded.

Arthur grimaced. “I do not think she would make for a good Queen, Father,” he replied diplomatically. Lady Vivian, Arthur had found during a walk around the castle gardens, was one of the vainest, most vapid women he had ever met, and perhaps the last person he could ever bring himself to marry.

“Shame,” said Uther. “I have spoken to her father, Lord Olaf, once or twice. A reasonable man, who has no qualms with the Crown.” He waved his fork. “Well, at least you have narrowed it down to two choices. When will you have decided, do you think? Within the fortnight?”

“It’s barely been three weeks since the start of the season, Father,” Morgana spoke up. “Are you honestly expecting Arthur to find a suitable wife in little more than a month?”

“He’s shirked his duty long enough,” Uther replied. “I’m not getting any younger and the people would like to see the heir to the throne settled. Besides, it will take considerable time and effort to bring the lady he weds up to royal standards. It is no easy feat, learning what it takes to be Queen.”

The King’s tone had been dismissive, but Morgana was nothing if not stubborn. “All the more reason not to rush the courting process, then,” she insisted. “Or Arthur might end up with someone who’s not made of the right stuff.”

“Good breeding is all the stuff we need,” Uther drawled, shooting Morgana a disapproving look. “The rest can be taught.”

“Good breeding,” Morgana repeated with a barely hidden roll of her eyes. “You’d think Arthur was choosing a horse, not a wife.”

Across from Morgana, Leon coughed around his wine, a poor attempt to rein his wife in.

“Thank you, Morgana,” Arthur spoke up quickly. “While I appreciate your concern, Father is right. I need to focus on what is best for the realm.” Which was to wed a suitable lady, not to lust after Mr Emrys.

“I’m glad to hear it, Arthur,” Uther approved and let the topic rest.

Morgana, however, was not so easily silenced. Once she, Arthur, and Leon had retired to the billiards room, she latched right back onto the topic: “Did you actually mean what you said to Father?”

Arthur pointedly focused his eyes on the cue. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she replied. “Will you really propose to one of these women within the next fortnight? You hardly know these ladies!”

“If I recall correctly, you and Leon got engaged after less than three weeks,” Arthur retorted and sent the ball rolling, scowling when it hit the cushion, missing the pocket.

“Because we fell in love, not because the King was pressuring me into the marriage!”

Arthur stepped away from the table and picked up his brandy, throwing back what remained in the glass with one swallow.

“Look, you're drowning your sorrows already!” Morgana commented drily.

The word drowning acutely reminded Arthur of moping in the bathtub and, in a sudden flare of temper, he slammed the glass down onto the billiards table. “Will you stop harping on about this?” he snapped.

Morgana’s eyes widened. “My, my, did I hit a nerve, brother dear?”

Already regretting his outburst, Arthur carelessly tossed the cue to the side and walked off with the glass, in search of more brandy.

Morgana, naturally, followed him directly to the bar, despite Leon’s attempt to keep her back. “Tell me honestly,” she said, as Arthur poured himself a rather outrageous amount of alcohol. “Do you really want to marry this Miss Sophia Sidhe? Or the Duke’s daughter?”

Arthur glared into his drink. “I have little choice in the matter,” he replied brusquely.

“Of course you have a choice,” Morgana replied. “Not even Father can force you in front of the altar if you refuse.”

“What do you want me to do? Put it off?” Arthur retorted. “Wait another year, watch another round of debuts and take my pick from the next lot?”

“If you absolutely hate the choices you’re presented with now? Yes!”

Arthur took another sip of brandy and sank down in the armchair by the bar, Morgana following suit by taking the other chair. Not a moment later, Leon had joined them, too, leaning on his cue as he gave Arthur a compassionate look.

Arthur glanced up at him and sagged in the chair. Before he could help it, he asked, “How did you know Morgana was the one?”

Leon looked at Morgana and smiled. “You think I had a choice in this?” he quipped, though his face was nothing but fond.

“I mean it,” Arthur pushed. “How did you know?”

Leon fiddled with the cue as he thought that over. “I didn’t so much know it as feel it. I was… consumed, if you will. There wasn’t a moment when I didn’t think about her. I kept replaying our dances and conversations in my head, over and over, all the while craving another moment in her presence.”

“You never told me this,” Morgana spoke up, sounding impossibly pleased. “How very sweet of you!”

Leon said something in response, but Arthur only half-listened to their ensuing banter, too busy mulling over Leon’s words: consumed, he had said. He was certainly familiar with the feeling, though it was neither Miss Sophia Sidhe, nor Lady Mithian who had caused it.

Consumed, yes, that was exactly what he was. Consumed by Mr Emrys’s handsome form, unpretentious charm, and brazen disrespect!

“Great, we’ve sent him brooding.” Morgana’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I’m not brooding,” Arthur replied, curling his fingers around his glass.

“Sulking, then,” Morgana insisted. “Didn’t you ride out today? The stablemaster said you went all the way out to the villages. That’s usually enough to clear your head, isn’t it?”

“The villages?” Leon said, perking up. “Towards Willowdale, by any chance?”

Arthur hurriedly took another sip of brandy, but Morgana had already smelled blood. “Oh, what’s in Willowdale, then?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said.

“A good spot for a picnic,” Leon—the traitor—informed her. “At least, that’s what Lord Cenred recently told your brother.”

Arthur didn’t need to look at his sister to know she had put two and two together as soon as the words had left Leon’s mouth. “I see. Enjoying a day in nature with a certain country lad, was he, the Earl?” She let out a tsk, then added, “Arthur. What have you done now?”

“Nothing,” Arthur repeated, though it came out as little more than a croak.

“The sort of nothing that will make it into the next issue of Lord Dragonwise?” Morgana asked.

Arthur shot her a glare, though he faltered when he saw that Morgana’s face was far from mocking. Quite the contrary: she looked entirely sympathetic.

“Maybe,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed.

Arthur looked away, bending over to prop his elbow on his thigh, burying his face in his free hand. “I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” he admitted quietly.

Morgana’s hand appeared on his thigh, patting it in a gesture of support. “He’s done a bit of a number on you, this Mr Emrys, hasn’t he?”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. “You don’t know even half of it.”

“Do you love him?” Morgana asked gently.

Arthur dropped his hand to throw her a look. “I hardly know the man,” he replied.

“But there are… feelings?” she prodded.

Arthur let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” he said and straightened on the armchair. “But it doesn’t matter. Whatever this is, I’ve decided it has gone too far already.”

Morgana dropped her hand from his thigh and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I have decided that from now on, I’m going to stay away from him,” Arthur said, though it hurt to even say the words. “I meant what I said over dinner. I know my duty as Crown Prince. By the end of this month, I will have chosen a wife.”

Morgana’s eyes were sceptical. “And forgotten all about Mr Emrys?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied and balled his hand into a fist. Because he must.

Chapter Text

Merlin had never thought that he would one day soon wish to be back in Lord Cenred’s barouche. That, however, was before he had to spend an afternoon crammed into a tiny rowing boat, with the Earl so close that Merlin was perpetually assaulted by the smell of his cologne.

Crinkling his nose, Merlin leaned back as far as he could on the skiff, which helped with the perfume, but did nothing to keep his legs from being much too intimately intertwined with Lord Cenred’s. Suppressing a sigh, he turned his head to the side and proceeded to try and look very engrossed by the view of Lake Avalon.

Lake Avalon wasn’t so much a lake as an artificial pond in Camelot’s public gardens, the water just deep enough to allow for a small handful of boats. As the weather was warm and sunny, all of the skiffs had been rented out by courting couples seeking romantic solitude as they drifted amongst the water lilies. The shore, meanwhile, was lined with hawk-eyed chaperones, though Merlin doubted anybody could attempt to do much of anything, let alone anything inappropriate, without causing the wonky little boats to capsize.

Still, Merlin supposed that boating could make for a rather pleasurable pastime—if one enjoyed the company of one’s boatmate. But as Lord Cenred’s personality had yet to magically improve, Merlin found himself fighting a grimace as they floated around the pond. The Earl, naturally, had insisted he be the captain of their vessel, though he was just now putting down the paddles and opening his mouth, undoubtedly preparing for another round of terrible conversation.

To Merlin’s surprise, however, the Earl did not immediately start talking about himself: “I can’t help but notice that you look a little gloomy today, Mr Emrys.”

Merlin forced a bright smile onto his face. “Oh, no, my lord, I’m quite enjoying myself,” he lied. “I fear it’s the glare of the sun. I’ve been squinting terribly. Perhaps I should have brought a larger hat.”

With an indulgent smile, Lord Cenred reached behind himself and presented Merlin with a folded parasol. “Fortunately, I’ve come prepared,” he said.

Merlin had to admit, it was a rather thoughtful gesture, and he managed a more genuine smile for the Earl as he opened the umbrella.

“However,” Lord Cenred continued. “I do not believe the sun to be the sole cause of your sombre expression. I do read the society papers, you understand.”

Merlin stiffened. “My lord?”

“I’m aware you have struck up a sort of… companionship with a young lady—well, ‘woman’ I should say, really, who was recently mentioned in Lord Dragonwise.”

“You mean Miss Freya Lake,” Merlin replied defensively, tightening his hold on the parasol.

“Miss Bastet, if the papers are to be believed,” the Earl retorted.

Merlin pressed his lips together to keep himself from giving a snappy response. He and Freya hadn’t spoken since Lord Dragonwise had published his latest issue two days ago. Gaius had forbidden him from visiting her, and she had yet to respond to Merlin’s hastily written letter.

“Quite scandalous, if you ask me,” Lord Cenred went on. “I wouldn’t have thought such a young, timid girl capable of such deceitful behaviour.”

“I’m sure it must all be a terrible misunderstanding,” Merlin replied, barely managing to hold onto a civil tone.

Lord Cenred raised an eyebrow at him. “Lord Dragonwise has yet to be proven wrong, I’m afraid. Though I will concede that the poor girl might not have known of her own status, and could herself have been deceived by the family who took her in.”

“I am absolutely positive a harmless explanation will be found,” Merlin insisted in a firm voice.

The Earl let out a condescending sigh. “Mr Emrys, while I admire your loyalty, surely you must realise that Miss Bastet—”

“Miss Lake.”

“—the girl will no longer be able to associate with our sort.”

“Our sort,” Merlin repeated, knowing he sounded openly offended now.

Lord Cenred looked him over, his eyes cool. “Her reputation is in shambles. And anyone who is still seen in her company—or even just thought to still be connected to her—will soon be equally tainted. That, of course, would be especially fatal for someone such as yourself, who lacks the protection of wealth and high status. I would hate to see you similarly ruined, cast aside by polite society.”

Something hard and heavy settled in Merlin’s stomach. “Are you telling me to stay away from her?”

“As I am neither your guardian, nor your husband, it is hardly my place to tell you what to do.” The Earl paused to lean in, placing a light hand on Merlin’s knee, his eyes flickering up and down Merlin’s form. “But as you must surely be aware by now, my dear Mr Emrys, I very much enjoy your company and do have a rather decided interest in your reputation.”

Merlin swallowed around his rapidly drying mouth. “I—I see.”

The Earl smirked and leaned back, retrieving his hand from Merlin’s leg. “How about another round about the pond, and then we can make for the shore?” he suggested and picked up the paddles.

Merlin only nodded, too occupied with keeping his heart from jumping up his throat. His skin was creeping all over, the Earl’s low, gravelly voice still echoing through his mind.

It took Merlin more than just a moment to overcome his initial repulsion. But once he had calmed himself, he could see past his instinctive reaction to look at the plain facts: Lord Cenred had just made it explicitly clear that he had more than a passing interest in Merlin. He hadn’t seemed like a man who was merely playing games, as Prince Arthur had recently insinuated. Rather, he had sounded like someone who might very well be thinking about proposing.

Merlin bit his lip, absent-mindedly twirling the parasol as he watched Lord Cenred row the boat.

The Earl was serious about this. He had to be. Why else would he be interested in Merlin staying away from Freya? If this was all just a game for him, why care about Merlin’s reputation? Lord Cenred could easily cast his plaything aside if he had to worry about his own good standing.

After the Prince had crashed their picnic in the glade, claiming the Earl was merely toying with Merlin, Merlin had been on edge, worrying about Lord Cenred’s true motives. But his own problems had quickly paled compared to Freya’s plight. Merlin had spent the past two days worrying so much about his friend that he hadn’t wasted a lot of time pondering the Earl’s courtship.

Now, with the man in question mere inches away from, he took the time to observe him, thinking the past weeks over.

It was true that Lord Cenred had only started showing an interest in Merlin after the Prince had danced with him. But that alone wasn’t proof that the Earl was playing games. Merlin had been an absolute nobody before the publicity, and someone like the Earl of Escetir had had no reason to cast him more than a fleeting glance.

From the moment he had first stepped into Surgeon House, however, Lord Cenred had been nothing but attentive. Undoubtedly, he was a narcissistic man with self-aggrandising manners, but he had never once given any indication that he was not seriously considering a match with Merlin.

Quite the contrary: he had taken Merlin on all sorts of walks and outings around Camelot, and never been anything but gentlemanly. The hand he had just now rested on Merlin’s knee was the most intimate touch the Earl had ever initiated, a gesture that was perhaps overly friendly, but hardly scandalous.

Still, the Prince had seemed genuinely concerned when he had given his warning, even if Merlin had first accused him of playing up the rivalry. He must have believed his accusations to have some merit. Why else would he have bothered to ride all the way out into the country and inform Merlin?

Yes, why indeed? Merlin mused and let his eyes wander away from Lord Cenred, who was now steering the boat back towards the shore. Why should the Crown Prince of Camelot be worried about Mr Merlin Emrys at all? Even if he thought Lord Cenred’s intentions were dishonourable, why care? Why would he—

“Watch out!”

Merlin yelped when their boat was violently shaken. It rocked from side to side, and he nearly lost hold of the parasol as he steadied himself against the edge. For a moment, it looked like they would flip over, but Lord Cenred managed to throw himself into the other direction just in time, rebalancing the boat.

Belatedly, Merlin realised they must have collided with something. Still clutching the edge of the boat, he turned his head, only to be presented with the sight of Prince Arthur, wildly flailing his arms as he tried not to fall off his own rocking skiff. But his efforts were in vain. Not a moment later, he had toppled off and, with a splash, disappeared into the waters of Lake Avalon.

“Your Highness!” someone squeaked. It was a young, sweet-faced lady, who was holding onto the sides of the Prince’s boat for dear life and had just barely kept herself from toppling out, too.

There was an ominous bubbling, then Prince Arthur reappeared, taking a big, gasping breath as he broke the surface, right by Merlin’s side of the boat.

“Lords!” Merlin exclaimed and carefully leaned over. “Sire, are you all right?”

Prince Arthur blinked, a look of complete confusion on his face as he stared up at Merlin, stirring the water energetically to keep himself afloat. “Mr Emrys?” he spluttered.

“Do you need help?” Merlin asked.

The Prince shook his head, still looking dazed, though he soon caught on that they were quite close to the shore, where the lake was shallow enough to stand. He righted himself until he stood with the water up to his chest, completely and utterly drenched. His blond hair had turned dark, now glued to his forehead, and the fine clothes he had been wearing were now nothing but a sagging mass of soaked fabric. With his mouth still agape, and his eyes wide from shock, he looked rather unfortunately like a fish.

Merlin only just managed to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his guffaw, though there was no denying that he had started laughing right into the Crown Prince’s face.

The Prince scowled. “It’s not funny,” he hissed, narrowing his eyes at Merlin.

Merlin shook his head, giggling helplessly. “Sorry,” he gasped around his hand. “Sorry!”

“No, no, I am sorry,” the woman in the boat spoke up, and Merlin thought he recognised her now: Miss Sophia Sidhe, one of the ladies the Prince was reportedly courting. She looked absolutely mortified. “Your Highness, please, I apologise. I should have been looking where I was steering…”

Prince Arthur turned his glare on her. For a moment, it looked like he would shout or curse at the poor girl, but clearly, he had better manners than that. With all the dignity he could muster—which wasn’t a lot, given he looked like a mostly-drowned dog—he said, “Don’t worry about it, Miss Sidhe. Just—” He waved towards the shore. “Just return the boat. I’ll make my own way back.”

Still riding out a final wave of poorly stifled giggles, Merlin watched Prince Arthur turn around and slowly slog towards the wooden jetty where the boats were rented out, fighting clusters of water lilies along his path.

“How very unfortunate for the Prince,” Lord Cenred spoke up just then. Unlike Merlin, he had not started laughing out loud, but his expression couldn’t have looked any more smug.

Somehow, seeing the man’s delight at Prince Arthur’s misfortune was enough to sober Merlin right up, and by the time the Earl had expertly steered the boat over to the jetty, he was feeling guilty for having laughed at all.

As soon as it was safe to do so, Merlin put down the parasol and jumped out of the boat, leaving Lord Cenred to tie it up. He urgently needed to make up for his uncalled-for laughter by helping the Prince, who had just arrived at the jetty. He seemed to have difficulty hoisting himself up onto the pier, dragged down by his soaked clothes. A large group of onlookers had already started to gather at the nearby shore, gasping and pointing, though none of them made any effort to assist.

“Here, let me help you,” Merlin said and bent down to offer Prince Arthur an arm.

“No,” replied the Prince, voice gruff. “I don’t want you to fall in, too.”

Scowling, he started fumbling about at his chest and it took Merlin more than a moment of watching to realise that the Prince had started to undress. Before he could think to avert his eyes, the Prince had already managed to rid himself of his red coat, revealing that his outfit did not come with a separate waistcoat. All he wore underneath was a white dress shirt.

Merlin stared, a hot shiver running down his spine.

He knew he should be turning away. He knew he was rather obviously ogling the Crown Prince of Camelot. But he simply couldn’t help himself. The sight of Prince Arthur’s muscled chest, perfectly visible through the drenched white fabric, was too enticing to look away. Gods, but he was fit! He must spend hours and hours at the fencing academy to build this sort of muscle!

Meanwhile, the Prince was unwrapping the sorry remnants of his cravat from around his neck. He carelessly flung the strip of cloth into the water where his jacket had already floated off, before making a second attempt at getting out of the lake.

When he finally found purchase against the jetty and hoisted himself up, Merlin had to bite his lip to suppress a rather indecent noise at seeing the wet fabric stretch even tighter across the Prince’s chest. He was still staring when the Prince came to stand right next to him, dripping all over, no longer looking like a fish, but rather like a literal wet dream.

“What?” the Prince asked as he ran a hand over his face, sweeping aside his damp fringe. “Done laughing?”

Merlin cleared his throat. “Would you—um…” He cleared his throat again. “Would you like my coat, Your Highness?”

Prince Arthur looked him over. “I fear you’re a little more slender than I,” he replied wryly.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Merlin replied and started unbuttoning his coat. “No, please,” he added, when the Prince made to protest again, already undoing the last button. “It’s the least I can do after laughing at you.” He shrugged off the jacket and held it out.

Their fingers touched as the Prince reached out, with both of them startling at the contact and exchanging a look that, somehow, sent a small shock through Merlin’s frame.

“Thank you,” said Prince Arthur, his voice thick, and pulled on the tailcoat. It did sit tightly on the Prince, but seemed vastly preferable to walking about the Camelot public gardens in a near-invisible shirt.

Just then, the Prince’s pale-faced chaperone materialised by his side, looking like he had had to fight his way through the crowd of spectators. “Your Highness! Are you well? Have you been injured?” The man sounded like he was but a second away from having a heart attack over his charge’s accident.

“No, George, I’m quite well,” the Prince replied, surprisingly calm in the face of ever more onlookers gathering at the shore. “But I think it would be wise to return to the castle right away.”

“Yes, sire,” said George and bowed. “I will have the carriage brought around immediately.” He hurried off towards the street, once more fighting the crowd, just as Miss Sidhe approached, flanked by a still-smirking Lord Cenred.

“Your Highness, I am so sorry,” she repeated, sounding close to tears. “So, so very sorry, I wasn’t paying attention and I—”

The Prince raised a soothing hand. “It’s quite all right. I’m unharmed.”

Miss Sidhe looked about ready to die from shame. “Please, sire, if there’s anything I can do…?”

“No, nothing,” the Prince replied. “Except return home with your chaperone. I fear this must bring a premature end to our outing.” He glanced towards the gate of the gardens, where the royal carriage had just arrived, then gave a stiff little bow of the head. “Farewell, Miss Sidhe.” He turned towards Merlin. “I shall have your coat returned to you as soon as may be, Mr Emrys.” With that, he swivelled on the spot and stalked off, his wet boots squelching against the wood.

Merlin looked after him, until he realised he was rather shamelessly staring at the way the Prince’s wet pantaloons were hugging his thighs and buttocks in the most indecent fashion, the latter only just visible between the split tails of Merlin’s ill-fitting coat. Hurriedly, he looked away, only to meet Lord Cenred’s amused eyes.

“Well, that was certainly exciting,” he drawled. “I wouldn’t be surprised to read all about the Prince’s embarrassing little mishap in the next Lord Dragonwise.”

“Right,” was all the response Merlin succeeded in giving. Somehow, his throat had gone a little tight—and his crotch, too.

Lord Cenred raised an eyebrow at him, sounding a tad miffed when he added, “How kind of you to lend His Highness your coat, little appreciation though he showed for it.” He offered Merlin his elbow. “Come, let me accompany you home so you can fetch a replacement.”

Reluctantly, Merlin took his arm. Though when they stepped off the jetty, weaving their way through the slowly dissolving crowd, Merlin couldn’t help but throw one last look towards the street, where the royal carriage was just pulling away.

“This man needs to be stopped!” King Uther barked, crumpling the latest issue of Lord Dragonwise into a ball and tossing it to the side, where it landed in a potted orange tree. “I want to know who he is, and I want him taken down!”

Arthur pursed his lips, carefully keeping his gaze on his cup of tea. Meanwhile, across from him, Morgana was doing a poor job concealing her snickers behind her strawberry tartlet. They had been summoned to the royal conservatory to take Sunday tea with the King, though their little family gathering had promptly been disrupted by the arrival of the new society papers.

Luckily, the King was too enraged by Lord Dragonwise’s latest report to notice that his daughter was quite obviously laughing at him. “Who does this man think he is, shaming the Crown Prince? I will not let this dirty little libeller sully the reputation of the royal family any longer!” he raged on. “I’ve had enough! Arthur!”

Arthur winced. Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to look at the King. “Yes, sire?”

“From now on, I want you to handle this matter,” Uther ordered, his eyes burning with angry determination. “Any previous investigation into this so-called Lord Dragonwise has proven fruitless. Perhaps the issue needs a more personal touch.”

“You want me to find the author behind Lord Dragonwise?” Arthur exclaimed incredulously.

“It is your name he keeps dragging through the mud,” Uther retorted with a sneer. “It is only fitting that you should be the one to take the man down. I want him arrested and punished for what he has done!”

“What makes you believe that I can find the man? He has succeeded in evading your royal agents for months!” Arthur dared to argue.

“You will simply have to find a way,” the King snapped. “Do not disappoint me in this, Arthur!” He narrowed his eyes. “And heed my final warning: stay away from that unsuitable gentleman! You cannot be seen with him, coincidental meeting or not. Next time you come across him, ignore him and walk the other way.” With that, he stood from his armchair, abandoning his lemon sponge cake. “I am no longer in the mood for tea. Morgana, I’m expecting you and your husband for dinner next Saturday.” He stalked off towards the glass doors, leaving Morgana and Arthur to take their tea alone.

“Well, his faith in your investigative skills certainly seems boundless,” Morgana said drily as soon as the King had left the conservatory.

Arthur scowled and set down his tea with such force that he ended up spilling some on the saucer. “I can’t believe he’s expecting me to unmask Lord Dragonwise!”

Morgana smirked. “Let’s focus on the positive. At least he didn’t badger you about choosing a wife again.” She gave Arthur a droll look. “I take it Miss Sidhe is off the list?”

“You think?” Arthur retorted. “She practically tried to drown me in the lake!”

“Which leaves you with only one choice, does it not? The Duke’s daughter, Lady Mithian,” Morgana pointed out. “Unless, of course…”

Arthur crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “Unless what?”

Morgana sent him a faux-innocent look. “Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s just that I, too, couldn’t help but notice the name of a certain gentleman coming up again…”

Arthur’s stomach gave a lurch. “I thought we had agreed to let that particular topic rest,” he snapped.

“That was before you started walking about in the man’s tailcoat for all the world to see,” Morgana replied, appearing entirely unfazed by Arthur’s tone. “Such a sweet gesture, to lend you his jacket. He sounds like a very kind man, your Mr Emrys.”

“He’s not my Mr Emrys!”

“He gave you his coat! He practically laid claim on you with his jacket!”

Arthur flushed at her phrasing, quickly suppressing any and all thoughts about what else Mr Emrys laying claim on him might entail. “You’re reading far too much into this,” he retorted, wondering what on earth he had done to deserve such a meddling harpy for a sister. “He felt guilty for laughing at me, that was all.”

Morgana let out a delighted chuckle. “Oh, he dared to laugh at the Crown Prince, did he? I must say, hearing that makes this Mr Emrys sound even more likeable to me!”

“Morgana,” Arthur growled in warning, seconds away from making like the King and storming out of the conservatory.

Fortunately, Morgana raised a placating hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, sobering. “I will stop teasing you now.”

There was a long moment of silence in which they both took a sip of tea, which Arthur used to collect himself, firmly brushing aside all memories of the incident at Lake Avalon, most especially those pertaining to Mr Emrys.

“I meant what I said before, though,” Morgana eventually spoke up again. “If Miss Sidhe is indeed out of the picture, Father will expect you to make matters serious with Lady Mithian, will he not?”

“Likely so, yes,” Arthur replied.

“Are you prepared to propose to her?”

Arthur tightened his grip on the tea cup. “I should like to get to know her a little better before that. But from what I have seen so far, Lady Mithian would make for a perfectly agreeable wife.”

“And you think you can be happy marrying someone who is merely perfectly agreeable?”

“Happy?” Arthur repeated bitterly. “Father doesn’t care about my happiness. I think he has made that quite clear.”

“Well, I do,” Morgana returned quietly. She reached out to put a hand on Arthur’s arm, seeking out Arthur’s gaze, her eyes serious. “Please, don’t rush this, brother. I would hate to see you caught in a loveless marriage. You know what it did to my mother. She could not compare to Ygraine.”

Arthur grimaced at the reminder. Uther’s second wife had taken to severe melancholia after Morgana’s birth. Unable to attend to her queenly duties, she had been banished to the countryside, where the loneliness had only worsened her condition. She had died when Morgana was still a young girl.

“I would never treat my wife like Father treated your mother,” he vowed.

“No. You’re not capable of such cruelty,” Morgana conceded. “Which is exactly why I worry about you. Could you really bear it? Being with someone you do not love? Someone you might come to resent, even, for not being the person you truly yearn for?”

“Morgana, please…”

Morgana’s face turned stubborn. “I know I said I would let the topic go, and I will, after you’ve heard me out. You cannot enter into a marriage with Lady Mithian while still harbouring feelings for Mr Emrys.” She raised her hand when Arthur made to protest. “Let me speak, I said. You’ve fallen for this man, clear as day. Perhaps it’s only a passing fancy, easily remedied by staying away from him. But as it so happens, your paths keep crossing. And as long as they do, you will never be able to give Lady Mithian a real chance to win your affections. And she deserves that. This is not only about you, but her, too.”

“What do you want me to do, then?” Arthur replied, and suddenly, his voice sounded small and helpless, even to his own ears. “Have him banished from Camelot by royal edict?”

Morgana shook her head at him. “You could start by being honest with yourself. What happened to the coat Mr Emrys lent you on Friday?”

Not for the first time in his life, Arthur wondered if Morgana could read minds. “I was planning to have it returned to him soon.”

“Ah,” said Morgana knowingly. “So you still have it.”

Arthur looked away. Of course he still had it. The tailcoat was resting on a chair in his chambers, right by his bed, and Arthur had been obsessing over it the entire weekend.

“Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know?” Morgana added gently. “You can’t marry someone else as long as Mr Emrys is so very clearly haunting you every waking moment.”

Haunting me, Arthur thought. Yes, that was exactly what it felt like, like Mr Emrys was a spirit who had taken possession of him, who followed him wherever he went. When he had emerged from Lake Avalon and suddenly been confronted with Mr Emrys’s handsome face, it had certainly felt like an apparition.

But if Mr Emrys was indeed a ghost, perhaps it was time that Arthur exorcised him, once and for all.

“You’re right,” he replied and stood from his chair. “I need to make serious. I will return the coat at once, and then I will focus my full attention on Lady Mithian. And if I do see Mr Emrys again, I shall do as Father says, and walk the other way.”

Morgana stared at him. “That’s not what I—”

“Thank you, Morgana,” Arthur cut her off, already making for the door. “You’ve given me much to think about.”

As soon as he had left the conservatory, George was right behind him, trailing him through the castle. “May I ask where we are going, Your Highness?” he asked.

“To my chambers,” Arthur informed him. “I need to catch up on some paperwork. Oh, and fetch me all past issues of Lord Dragonwise, as many as you can get your hands on. I am to investigate the matter.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

As soon as Arthur had entered his rooms, his eyes fell on Mr Emrys’s coat, still draped over the same chair. George had wanted to clear it away at once, but Arthur had not let him.

Foolish.

He stepped closer to the chair and ran a hand over the blue fabric. The seams had come apart around the back and shoulders, where Arthur’s broader frame had overstretched the coat. It would need to be mended. He chanced a glance at George, who was busying himself with some chore in the corner, then picked up the jacket.

Why had he kept this coat here for two days? Why not have it mended by the royal dressmaker, or returned to Mr Emrys at once?

The answer, of course, was simple. He was obsessed. Possessed by Mr Emrys. All his past pledges to forget the man had been in vain. For all the declarations he had made to Morgana, he still lay in bed every night, wishing Mr Emrys was there with him.

Arthur stared at the fabric and decided he would allow himself one, final moment of weakness. He picked up the jacket, held it close to his chest and shut his eyes, remembering how Mr Emrys had popped open the buttons until he was standing before Arthur in nothing but his shirt and waistcoat, his expression warm and conciliatory as he had held out his coat.

Arthur took his time with the memory, admiring Mr Emrys’s slim figure, his smile, the way his eyes shone a particularly bright shade of blue in the afternoon sun.

But as much as he wanted to linger eternally on the image, Arthur knew he could not.

He forced his eyes open.

“George,” he said.

The valet was at his side at once. “Yes, sire?”

Arthur held out the jacket to him. “Please have Mr Emrys’s coat delivered to his home. I believe he resides with Sir Gaius Draughtbrew.”

“Certainly, Your Highness,” George said and took the coat. “I will have it returned to him on Monday. Would you like to send along a message? A note, perhaps?”

Arthur turned away and walked towards his desk, somehow finding himself unable to watch George remove the coat from his chambers. He sat down, keeping his eyes averted. “No,” he said. “Just have it returned to him.”

“As you wish, sire.”

George was almost out of the door when Arthur’s eyes fell on the stack of calling cards on his desk. As the Prince, he had little use for them, as most of his visits were official rather than private in nature. On a whim, he picked one up, rubbing a thumb over the lily pattern at the bottom.

“Wait,” he said, just as George made to leave through the antechamber.

“Your Highness?”

Arthur held up one finger, then reached for his quill, dipping it into the inkpot as he turned the card over. On the empty back, he wrote:

Chapter Text

Merlin put down the letter, his lip quivering. Quickly, he ran a hand over his stinging eyes, mindful of Gaius sitting on the sofa right across from him. His uncle, however, looked to be too engrossed in the scientific journal he was reading to notice Merlin’s emotional hiccup.

Merlin took a deep breath through the nose, very consciously trying not to sniff. When he was sure he would not embarrass himself, he said, “My mother sends her regards.”

“She is well?” Gaius asked, not looking up from his journal.

“Yes. Perfectly well.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Gaius, and turned the page, clearly not in the mood for further conversation.

Not that Merlin was complaining. He was rattled by what his mother had written. When he had penned his last letter to Crystal Cottage, he thought he had done a good enough job hiding his true feelings from her as he had described the progress in his courtship with Lord Cenred. But it appeared his mother knew him too well, and had seen right through his carefully chosen words.

Of course, Hunith would tell him to marry for love. She was the sort of woman who would rather go cold and hungry herself than see her son, or even the staff, suffer. But Merlin knew very well how dire their situation was, and besides, he had kept from his mother a vital piece of information: his repeated appearances in Lord Dragonwise.

It was only a matter of time until the tides would turn, he was sure of it. He had just seen what a single, nasty article in the society papers had done to Freya. Lord Dragonwise had destroyed her entire future with one story, made her an outcast from polite society with nothing but a few, well-aimed words.

The same could easily happen to Merlin. All Lord Dragonwise had to do was to tell the whole truth about Merlin’s family and finances and he, too, would be shunned.

Love, or even affection, for his future husband were of little consequence. If Lord Cenred did indeed propose, Merlin would have no other choice but to accept his hand.

With a sigh, Merlin refolded the letter, and put it aside before getting up from the chaise longue.

Looking for something to distract himself, he briefly considered the pianoforte in the corner, but had an inkling Gaius would not appreciate being subjected to Merlin’s mediocre skill in music. Instead, Merlin moved towards the window to look at the street outside Surgeon House.

While Gaius’s home was not situated in the most expensive part of Camelot, it was still several streets away from the Lower Town, and the sidewalks were filled with well-dressed promenaders rather than tradespeople or other common folk. Nonetheless, when Merlin spotted the carriage, it immediately stuck out for its elegance, long before Merlin noticed the royal seal on its side. When he recognised the golden drake, Merlin momentarily retreated from the window in surprise, only to lean all the way in when curiosity got the better of him, just in time to see a man in a red uniform exit the carriage.

For one, heady moment, Merlin was sure it was Prince Arthur, coming to pay him a visit. But it was merely a palace worker, a footman or other servant, who had stepped out of the carriage. There was no mistaking that the man was making directly for the entrance of Surgeon House, however, and that he was carrying a large, flat box.

“Gaius?” Merlin spoke up. “I think we’re about to have a visitor.”

Gaius only gave a vague grunt in response, turning another page in his journal.

Not a minute later, Gaius’s butler stepped into the sitting room, carrying the same flat box the palace footman had delivered. “A package from the castle, for Mr Emrys,” he announced.

Finally, Gaius glanced up from his reading. “Ah. That would be your tailcoat, then. I was wondering when it would find its way back here.”

Merlin accepted the box from the butler with a grateful nod and carried it over to the end table, where he untied the cord. Within the box, on red-and-gold tissue paper, rested the jacket he had lent the Prince. Tucked into the collar, there was a card.

Merlin did not know why his heart started speeding up as he reached for it. It was a simple calling card, reading HRH Arthur Pendragon, adorned by a flower garland. Merlin smiled when he recognised the lilies, immediately reminded of their second dance.

He flipped the card, his smile widening when he saw the Prince had left a personal note in impeccable penmanship. His expression slipped, however, when he read the words: … endeavour not to give any more cause for such gossip in the future … will never be forgotten … if our paths shall not cross again.

Frowning, Merlin read over the card again, feeling his heart sink. He didn’t know what he had expected from the note, but it certainly wasn’t something that sounded very much like a final farewell. Feeling his eyes prickle again, he hurriedly blinked the sensation away, calling himself a fool.

What reason did he have to be surprised, let alone upset? The Prince had made it very clear that the dances had been a mistake, and he had given Merlin the warning he had thought necessary in regards to Lord Cenred’s intentions. He was the Crown Prince of Camelot. Why should he want to see or speak to Merlin again?

And yet, irrationally, stupidly, Merlin had hoped that perhaps—

“Anything the matter, my boy?” Merlin looked up to see that Gaius had, at last, abandoned his journal and was looking him over.

“No, no,” Merlin replied quickly, slipping the card into his coat pocket. “Though it seems the jacket has been damaged.”

“We will have it taken to Guinevere’s for mending, then,” Gaius replied.

Merlin reached out to run his hand over a broken seam, instantly reminded of the picture the Prince had made after his unfortunate fall in the lake. He shook his head a little, dismissing the vision. “Could I take it there myself?” he asked. “To the modiste, I mean?”

Gaius waved him off. “You don’t have to trouble yourself. A servant can deliver it for you.”

“But I want to do it,” Merlin insisted. “Honestly, Uncle, I’m terribly bored. Ever since Freya…” He trailed off, fighting a sudden lump in his throat. “Well, ever since that, all I do is meet Lord Cenred, or sit about this room and read. I should like a change of scenery.”

Gaius raised an eyebrow at him, but relented. “Suit yourself. You can go tomorrow afternoon, after the Earl’s visit. Just make sure to take a chaperone.”

Merlin tried not to grimace at the mentioning of Lord Cenred. Of course, the man was scheduled to call again. It seemed to be only a matter of time until he proposed. Ever since the picnic in the glade, the Earl and Merlin had seen each other almost every day.

I would hate to see you wed a man for whom your harbour no real affection.

Merlin shook his head. He should not linger on his mother’s words, well-meant though they were. He had already made his decision: he would marry the Earl, and save his family from complete ruin.

Merlin clung to that resolve when Lord Cenred called the next day. He made sure to smile as brightly as etiquette allowed and ask all the right questions about fencing and fox hunting, though he cared little for either. Soon, the Earl and he were sitting quite closely on the sofa, and Gaius seemed to have purposely removed himself as far away from them as possible, lurking in the far corner of the sitting room, looking very much engrossed in the painting above the fireplace.

Realising what this meant, Merlin broke into a cold sweat. Suddenly filled with a rush of nerves, he surreptitiously tried to move away on the sofa, but Lord Cenred chose that moment to lean in, hovering so closely that Merlin was engulfed in another cloud of his pungent cologne.

“My dearest Mr Emrys,” said the Earl. “May I just say how immensely I have enjoyed getting to know you these past weeks?”

Oh gods, thought Merlin, his hands growing clammy. Oh gods, oh lords.

“Our acquaintance has turned out to be most refreshing,” Lord Cenred went on, smiling his smarmy smile. “Spending time with you never fails to bring a certain lightness to my heart.”

It was an immense effort to give a response. “I can only return the sentiment, my lord.”

“I am sure it cannot have escaped your notice that I have been deliberately seeking more of your company,” the Earl added. “I must confess to feeling a certain sense of—well, connection between us.”

Merlin’s stomach lurched. “Your words are too kind, Lord Cenred,” he choked out.

If the Earl noticed his nerves, he didn’t seem to be fazed by them. On the contrary, he rather appeared to be enjoying the effect his words were having on Merlin, his smile widening into something that could almost be called predatory. “I hope to soon strengthen that connection into something more… permanent.”

Digging his fingers into his thighs, Merlin held onto his smile with all his might and braced himself for the Earl’s next words.

“I am planning a tea party in three days’ time, and I would invite you and Sir Gaius to join us at Fyrien Hall. It will be a rather intimate affair, you understand. Only the very closest of friends, as well as my family.”

“We’d be pleased to join you,” Merlin replied, barely suppressing the tremble in his voice.

“I had hoped you would say that.” Lord Cenred looked Merlin over, his eyes lingering in a way that made Merlin’s skin creep all over. Then, he reached out to grasp one of Merlin’s hands. “Perhaps, when you are at my home, we will find a moment of privacy? Just you and I. I should like to show you the library at Fyrien Hall. It’s quite impressive.”

There was no denying the implications of that statement, though Merlin couldn’t help but sag a little when he realised he had just been granted a three-day respite. “I am looking forward to it, my lord,” he lied bravely, resisting an urge to snatch back his hand. “Thank you.”

The Earl brushed a possessive thumb over Merlin’s palm, his kid gloves smooth against the skin, then lifted their joined fingers to brush a faint kiss over the back of Merlin’s hand. “You’re welcome.”

Merlin nearly let out a sigh of relief when the Earl let go. The kiss had almost made him break out into hives.

In one, smooth motion, Lord Cenred stood and bowed. “Until then, my dear Mr Emrys, I shall regretfully excuse myself from your delightful company. I have important business to attend to that will keep me away from Camelot for the coming days.”

As soon as Lord Cenred had taken his leave, Gaius materialised by Merlin’s side.

“So?” he prodded.

“We have been invited to a private gathering at Fyrien Hall on Friday,” Merlin told him, wiping his hand against his pantaloons. With the Earl gone, he had sagged fully on the sofa, though his heart was racing.

Gaius smiled. “That certainly sounds promising.”

Merlin nodded vaguely. “He wants to show me the library. Alone.”

Gaius’s eyebrows shot up, though he didn’t lose his smile. “Indeed? In that case, I think congratulations will soon be in order. Well done!”

Merlin tried for a smile of his own, but it must have turned out awful, as Gaius’s expression immediately shifted into a deep frown. “What troubles you, my boy?”

Merlin shook his head. His hand was shaking when he brushed it over his mouth. “Nothing,” he deflected.

Gaius let out a sigh and sank down next to Merlin on the sofa. “Merlin,” he said. “I know that you have your doubts about this match. But surely you must realise how very fortunate you are?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, though it came out as a croak. “Very fortunate.”

“The Earl of Escetir will be proposing to you!” Gaius said encouragingly. “Do you not understand what that means? Your rank will be elevated. You will want for nothing. Your mother will want for nothing. This is a good thing!”

“I know,” Merlin said, his voice quivering. Abruptly, he stood. “Would you please excuse me, Uncle? I was hoping to make it to the modiste before four o’clock and I have yet to change, or call for a carriage.”

Without waiting for a response, he fled upstairs. In his own room, he threw himself onto the bed. There, he stared at the ceiling and wallowed in misery.

Three days. In three days, the Earl would propose. In three days, Merlin would have to say yes and bind himself to a man he was coming to detest, a man who he knew could never make him happy, or even content. He would spend his whole life with somebody whose demeanour and touch repulsed him. It felt unspeakably unfair.

But then, many things in life were.

Finally, when the worst of his melancholy had passed, Merlin sat up on the bed, only for his eyes to fall on the little card resting on the nightstand: the Prince’s note. The card had slipped out of his coat pocket last night when he had changed, and Merlin had never bothered to put it away properly.

On a whim, Merlin reached out to pick it up. As he stared at the Prince’s name, he was suddenly seized by a longing of fierce and shocking intensity.

Hurriedly, Merlin flung the card away and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to rid himself of the  feeling.

But all that awaited him were memories of dancing with the Prince, the two of them falling into easy banter as they circled about the dancefloor. He recalled another kiss on his hand too, that, while entirely unexpected, had not been nearly as unwelcome as Lord Cenred’s. In fact, Merlin found that he yearned to return the Prince’s favour and let his lips stray upwards, just past the wrist, where the white gloves ended and a stripe of bare skin peeked out invitingly from underneath a red sleeve…

With a start, Merlin forced his eyes open, hoping to banish the visions, only to find his gaze irrevocably straying to the calling card on the floor, now flipped and showing Prince Arthur’s note: your generosity and kindness will never be forgotten, even if our paths shall not cross again.

Merlin’s resolve crumpled. This time, he let the tears come.

“Please, Your Highness,” Madame DuLac cried, her eyes wide and beseeching. “This must all be a terrible misunderstanding!”

But Arthur would not be fooled by the modiste’s sweet face and innocent demeanour. “I have spent the last two days reading every issue of Lord Dragonwise that was ever published,” he retorted, leaning threateningly over the sales counter at Guinevere’s. “Your name has been mentioned several times, and always highly favourably.” He raised a hand, waving the pamphlets he had brought in emphasis. “All of this reads suspiciously like advertisement to me. You cannot expect me to believe this is a coincidence, madame!”

Madame DuLac bit her lip and lowered her eyes, refusing to reply.

“Are you him?” Arthur demanded. “Are you Lord Dragonwise?”

Still, the modiste did not speak, though she frantically shook her head, her hands curling into the front of her gown.

“Madame DuLac,” Arthur pushed. “Whatever you know, you must divulge this information now, or I will find myself in a position where I need to have you arrested.”

The modiste threw a panicked look at the two royal guards Arthur had brought, and promptly burst into frightened tears.

That was when the doorbell announced the arrival of a customer. Arthur turned his head, getting ready to have them dismissed by the royal guards, only to freeze when he saw it was none other than Mr Emrys, who was just removing his hat and had a chaperone in tow. His unexpected appearance blindsided Arthur enough to send him swaying, until he found hold against the sales counter.

How was he here? How could he possibly enter Guinevere’s on the one day Arthur had reason to set foot into the shop? Fate was playing a cruel game indeed!

As for Mr Emrys, it took him a moment to get a hold of the situation. He eyed the royal guards with considerable surprise before he noticed Arthur. When their eyes met, he stilled, his mouth falling open, though he quickly redirected his gaze to Madame DuLac as she let out a loud, heart-wrenching sob.

“This shop is currently closed for business,” one of the guards spoke up. “Please leave.”

Mr Emrys glanced at the guard, then back at the crying modiste, but made no move to follow the orders. “Madame DuLac, are you unwell? Do you need help?” he asked, sounding alarmed, and took a step forward.

Arthur almost broke into a smile. How well it suited Mr Emrys’s character to ignore an armed man’s instructions in the face of a person he perceived to be in need! When the guard shifted, clearly set on removing Mr Emrys and his chaperone from Guinevere’s, Arthur found himself intervening before he could really think about it.

“No, let him stay,” he ordered, before adding a calmer, “Good day, Mr Emrys.”

Mr Emrys vaguely bowed his head at him. “Your Highness,” he said, his eyes still on the sobbing Madame DuLac. He came closer, passing the guards, and belatedly, Arthur noticed the coat draped over Mr Emrys’s arm.

Instantly, he felt hot all over. It was the coat Mr Emrys had lent to him. He must have come here to have it mended. How ironic that the very act Arthur had hoped would help him forget Mr Emrys once and for all, had brought them together once more!

“Madame, can I get you anything? A glass of water, perhaps?” Mr Emrys had stepped behind the counter, coming to stand next to the crying modiste.

Madame DuLac shook her head. She had calmed herself a little by then and offered Mr Emrys a watery smile, then retrieved a handkerchief from behind the counter and started wiping her blotchy face with it.

Mr Emrys frowned and turned towards Arthur. “May I ask what is the meaning of this?”

Arthur cleared his throat, inexplicably discomfited at hearing the note of disapproval in Mr Emrys’s voice. “I am investigating an important matter.”

“By threatening Madame DuLac?” Mr Emrys retorted and nodded his head at the guards.

“Nobody is threatening anybody,” Arthur replied quickly. “It was merely that Madame DuLac was not exactly cooperating, and so—”

“And so you thought it would be a good idea to intimidate her until she cried,” Mr Emrys cut him off, with a defiant lift of his chin.

Arthur flushed. It wasn’t like he was the least bit in the wrong here, but being chastised by Mr Emrys seemed to have an even worse effect on him than being rebuked by his father. Instead of taking offence at Mr Emrys’s audacious interference, Arthur found a guilty conscience pricking him. He glanced at the modiste, who was still wiping at her eyes, then at the guards.

“Go and wait outside,” he commanded, knowing fully well it was imprudent.

The guards shared a look. “Your Highness,” one of them objected. “We really can’t—”

“Wait just outside the door,” Arthur cut him off, drawing himself up tall. “You can see me perfectly well through the window, and there’s a chaperone present.” He gestured at the man Mr Emrys had brought. When the guards still hesitated, he barked, “Obey your orders!”

The guards bowed and hurried out, leaving the shop to stand just outside the door as instructed. Mr Emrys’s chaperone—a servant or hired man who looked rather overwhelmed by the situation—hovered several steps away to supervise the proceedings.

When Arthur looked back at Mr Emrys, he thought he saw approval in his eyes. “Thank you,” Mr Emrys said, which, pathetically, was enough to have Arthur’s chest puff out a little.

Meanwhile, Madame DuLac had collected herself. With a sniff, she said, “I apologise, sire. I think I got a little overwhelmed.”

“And I am sorry if I made you feel… uncomfortable,” Arthur replied. He placed the issues of Lord Dragonwise he had brought on the counter, spreading them. “That being said, I cannot leave this issue alone. You know something about these papers and His Majesty the King is determined to find out who is behind them. Unless you yourself are the author, you have little to fear from me. Simply tell me what you know, and all will be well.”

“You’re investigating Lord Dragonwise?” Mr Emrys spoke up.

“I am,” Arthur replied, but his gaze remained firmly on Madame DuLac. He could not let himself get distracted again. It was clear the modiste was involved and he would get to the bottom of this, if only to get his father off his back. “Madame?” he prodded.

The modiste nervously plucked at her handkerchief. For a moment, it looked like she would remain steadfast, until she deflated visibly and sighed, “I told Elyan we shouldn’t do it. I told him it would get us into trouble. But does he ever listen?”

“Who’s Elyan?” Arthur asked.

“My brother, Elyan Lefeuvre. He owns a printers’ shop in the Lower Town.”

It wasn’t difficult to make the connection. Arthur gestured at the pamphlets on the counter. “He prints these?”

“Yes, sire,” Madame DuLac confirmed, still wringing her handkerchief. Hurriedly, she added, “Just prints them. He’s not involved in any of the writing, Your Highness, I swear! He merely takes the manuscripts and makes them into pamphlets.”

“And gets a cut of the profits?” Arthur surmised.

Madame DuLac frowned. “I don’t know the financial specifics, sire. But I do know Elyan refused the job when he was first approached. It was only when he was offered significant exposure for my shop that he gave in.” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, adding, “When I first opened two years ago, business was rather slow. Just a few months in, it looked like I would have to close down again.”

Arthur nodded, thinking along. “But that changed when Lord Dragonwise started advertising it.”

For the first time since Arthur had stepped foot in her shop, a look of confidence appeared on Madame DuLac’s face. “My designs are very good, sire,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “The best, really. But I needed people to come and actually see the quality for themselves. And the nobility—well. They’re traditional, aren’t they? Not a single member of the ton would even enter the shop, no matter that I had managed to rent a spot in a respectable location. I was a nobody. My brother knew I needed to make a name for myself amongst polite society, or I would go out of business before I had really started!”

Mr Emrys, who had stayed quiet until then, smiled at her. “For what it’s worth, madame, they were foolish not to recognise your talent on their own. Your work is impeccable. You even managed to make a country bumpkin like me look decent!”

Madame DuLac let out a surprised little giggle. “Oh, thank you kindly, Mr Emrys. But a fine-looking gentleman like you makes it very easy.”

Arthur tried to snuff the completely irrational spark of jealousy he felt just then, though his voice came out a tad too harsh when he asked, “How does your brother get the manuscripts?”

Madame DuLac sobered. “A messenger brings them, late at night, after sunset. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, I believe, unless there’s some last-minute scandal to report.”

“Does your brother know who sends the drafts?” Arthur pushed.

“No. It’s all anonymous. The boys and girls delivering the manuscripts change every week, too. They hand them over, take the earnings, and leave.”

Mr Emrys let out a thoughtful noise. “You should send someone after the messengers, then,” he suggested. “Have someone shadow them, to see where they go afterwards. See if they return to whoever it is that writes the papers.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t recall you being part of this investigation, Mr Emrys.”

Mr Emrys huffed. “I happen to have a vested interest in the matter, sire.”

“Oh.” Arthur paused. “You mean because of our…” He trailed off, awkwardly waving a hand between the two of them.

“No, actually,” Mr Emrys retorted, but then amended, “Well, not only because of that. A very dear friend of mine, Miss Freya Lake, was recently slandered in Lord Dragonwise and has been shunned by the ton ever since. I’m no longer allowed to go see her, even in private! Her whole future’s in shambles, simply because this gossipmonger thought he had the right to write ill of her. How is that fair? What right does this man have to decide the fate of another with his quill? A young woman’s whole life—ruined, for his own financial gain!” By the end of his little speech, Mr Emrys was clearly upset.

“Mr Emrys, rest assured that I will do everything in my power to stop him,” Arthur vowed at once, determined to see that look wiped off the man’s face.

“So you will have the messenger followed?” Mr Emrys demanded.

“It’s an idea with some merit,” Arthur admitted, then looked back at Madame DuLac. “How can I contact your brother? Where do I find his shop?” Madame DuLac gave him directions, which he memorised easily. “And you say the messengers come every Wednesday night?” he added.

The modiste nodded. “As far as I know, sire.”

“I will go to the Lower Town tomorrow, then. I’ll lie in wait, and follow the messenger.”

“What?” exclaimed Mr Emrys. “You’re actually investigating this personally? As in, doing the footwork yourself?”

“I am,” Arthur replied. Of course, that probably wasn’t exactly what his father had had in mind when he had given him the task, but Arthur suddenly found himself more determined than ever to have Lord Dragonwise stopped. He tried not to linger on why that might be.

“I will come, too,” Mr Emrys said, lowering his voice with a glance for his chaperone. “I want to help.”

Arthur let out a surprised guffaw. “Are you out of your mind?”

Mr Emrys crossed his arms. “I want to see this man pay for what he’s done to Freya!” he insisted quietly.

“Mr Emrys, I can’t just bring you on a royal investigation!” Arthur argued.

“Why not?” Mr Emrys demanded.

“Because—it is not—well, because you’re…” Arthur found he was lost for words in the face of the man’s recklessness. Shouldn’t the why be obvious?

“Ha!” said Mr Emrys triumphantly. “So it’s decided, then.” He looked at the chaperone again, who was still hovering several steps away, then announced in a hushed voice, “I have memorised the address and will come to Monsieur Lefeuvre’s shop tomorrow night.”

“Mr Emrys, really, you—” Arthur tried one more time.

“You can’t stop me,” Mr Emrys interceded, and Arthur couldn’t help but find the stubborn twist to his lips completely and utterly alluring. He really had a very kissable sort of mouth.

“I can’t?” he repeated faintly, eyes lingering on Mr Emrys’s lips.

“Exactly,” Mr Emrys confirmed, and his self-satisfied smirk was utterly disarming.

Arthur swallowed heavily, suppressing an urge to tug at his collar. He had fantasised so very often about Mr Emrys taking charge and speaking to Arthur with an air of authority, and here he was, doing just that. Arthur found he stood no chance.

“Fine,” he gave in, knowing he was perhaps making the most unwise decision of his life since accepting Gwaine’s dare and dancing with a certain nobody from the country. “Meet me there at 10 o’clock.”

Chapter Text

I’m out of my mind, Merlin thought as he snuck out of Surgeon House, clad in a set of his old clothes and a dark overcoat he had snatched from Gaius’s closet. I’ve completely lost it.

Somehow, he had made it through his uncle’s house completely undetected and was just now leaving through the back door, which served as the servants’ entrance and led into a dark alley just off the main street.

He knew what he was doing was unwise. More than that, it was dangerous. Not only was his reputation on the line, creeping about Camelot late at night entirely unsupervised, but once he made it to the Lower Town, he might very well be robbed or otherwise attacked. He could only hope the faded pantaloons, unfashionable waistcoat and worn out boots he was wearing would make him less of a target.

As he hurried along, head ducked as he passed under the street lamps, he couldn’t help but marvel at how well-lit the city was. Back at Crystal Cottage, the world went pitch black once the sun was down, though he supposed the citizens of Camelot City had traded the view of the stars in exchange for their oil lamps. Merlin could only make out a few of them as he glanced up at the sky, watching a pale half-moon rise quickly over the Upper Town.

Merlin would be arriving late at Monsieur Lefeuvre’s workshop. Already, it was close to 10 o’clock and he had yet to cross Citadel Bridge and make for the cheaper boroughs of Camelot. But Gaius had stayed up much later than Merlin had expected, which had kept him from leaving.

A sharp jab of guilt pierced Merlin’s chest at the thought of going behind his uncle’s back, after he had so graciously taken him in, and provided him not only with a place to stay and food to eat, but a new wardrobe as well. Was this really how he wanted to thank the man for his generosity—by sneaking out late at night for an ill-advised adventure?

He could tell himself that it was worth it because he was doing this for Freya, and he wouldn’t exactly be lying. Excepting one brief note in which she had asked Merlin not to contact her lest his reputation be ruined, too, he had not heard from her, and he missed her dearly. But he could have just as well let Prince Arthur handle the matter on his own.

No, the truth was that he wasn’t doing this just for Freya’s sake. He was doing this because he wanted a last moment of freedom. On Friday, Lord Cenred would propose. On Friday, Merlin would tie himself to a man he knew he would never care for and live a miserable life as the Earl’s husband. A privileged life, filled with every comfort a man could wish for, no doubt, but not a happy one.

So, when he had seen an opportunity to do something wild and daring, he had taken it.

And then, of course, there was the Prince. When Merlin had left for Guinevere’s, he had just convinced himself that he would never speak to Prince Arthur again—only to stumble right across him not an hour later. Merlin did not believe in fate or destiny, but could not help but notice how strange it was that their paths just kept on crossing, as if he and the Prince were pulled towards another by an invisible force.

Merlin abandoned his ruminations when he made it to Citadel Bridge. Bracing himself, he quickly crossed the river and stepped foot into the Lower Town on the other side. At first, there were readable street signs, which helped him find his way, but eventually, the streets and alleys turned narrow and crooked, with only a few street lights scattered about, and he ended up having to ask for directions from some tipsy patrons loitering outside The Rising Sun.

He hadn’t brought his pocket watch, too afraid to be robbed and lose one of the only items he had left of his father’s, which meant he didn’t know just how late he was when he finally spotted the sign reading Lefeuvre Printing.

He approached the entrance and raised his hand to knock, only for the door to open before his knuckles ever touched the wood. Fingers circled tightly around his wrist and he was pulled inside the shop.

“What took you so long?” a familiar voice hissed. “I was beginning to think something had happened to you!”

Merlin blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gloomy light of the print shop until he recognised Prince Arthur. “Sorry,” he replied. “I was held up.”

He gave the Prince a quick once-over, taking in his outfit, and only just suppressed a laugh. The only item that suited him was the rapier hanging off the belt. Other than that, Prince Arthur was wearing a snug leather vest and a faded tunic over ill-fitting linen pantaloons, an outfit entirely out of place on a future king. On his head rested a flat cap, which did a fair job of covering his distinctive blond hair.

“What?” asked the Prince when he saw Merlin’s face.

“Nothing, nothing,” Merlin choked out, trying to keep the giggles from escaping.

Prince Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Speak your mind, Mr Emrys. No need to grow shy now.”

“Fine,” said Merlin and this time, he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. “It’s just—well. You rather look like a village simpleton. Um, Your Highness.”

The Prince opened his mouth to respond, a flash of indignation passing his face, but a barking laugh from somewhere behind them cut him off. Merlin jumped and turned, suddenly realising they weren’t alone in the workshop. At the back of the room, gathered around a giant printing press, stood a whole group of men.

“Oh, I like him, Arthur!” said one of them, and belatedly, Merlin recognised him as Lord Gwaine, the Marquess of Gwyar, though he, too, had slipped into simpler clothes. “No wonder you can’t keep your hands off him.”

“Be quiet, Gwaine,” the Prince groused, though it was only then that he finally relinquished his hold on Merlin’s wrist.

Merlin hadn’t even realised they had effectively been holding hands that whole time, and flushed. Clearing his throat, he stepped away from the Prince and closer to the printing press, taking a more careful look at the group.

Next to Lord Gwaine was Lord Percival, easily recognisable by his large size. The other three men, he did not know, though he thought the tall one with the curly hair also seemed familiar, and one of the other two looked like he could be Guinevere DuLac’s brother.

“I didn’t know there would be so many people helping in the investigation,” Merlin murmured, suddenly feeling uneasy with the sheer number of men witnessing the outcome of his terrible decision-making.

“Well, most of them invited themselves, much like you did,” answered the Prince, then started pointing at the men. “Lord Gwaine and Lord Percival you are acquainted with, I believe. You must know Prince Consort Leon, too, my sister’s husband. And these are Elyan Lefeuvre and his brother-in-law, Lancelot DuLac.” Prince Arthur waved at Merlin. “This is Mr Merlin Emrys.”

Merlin vaguely bowed his head at them, feeling that they were past etiquette, and received some nods and curious looks in return.

“Your Highness, if I may,” Monsieur Lefeuvre spoke up, sounding cautious. “The messenger will be here any moment and might very well get suspicious at seeing so many people at my workshop. I’m usually alone or with Lancelot when I receive the manuscript.”

“Of course,” replied the Prince. “Is there a back room where we might conceal ourselves?”

“My office,” said Monsieur Lefeuvre and pointed at the door in question.

“Gwaine, Percival, you go and hide in there. Try to listen in and remember everything that is said, then follow the messenger with Monsieur Lefeuvre. Surreptitiously.” The Prince turned to the others. “Leon, I want you to take Monsieur DuLac and hide in the alley at the back to watch from which direction the messenger approaches.” All men nodded, accepting their orders without question, and immediately left for their posts.

Merlin found himself impressed with Prince Arthur’s easy authority, though he supposed it was only fitting for the Crown Prince of Camelot. “And me, sire?” he asked.

“You’re coming with me,” said the Prince. “We’re going to watch the other side of the shop.”

Soon, they had themselves positioned in a shadowy lane that offered them a perfect view of the front door of Lefeuvre Printing.

“What’s the plan, then?” Merlin murmured as he peered around the corner, trying to focus on keeping watch and not on the fact that the Prince was only inches away from him, practically breathing down his neck. Ridiculous as his outfit looked, it didn’t make him look any less attractive.

“We wait for the manuscript to be delivered, then follow the messenger. If we’re lucky, they will go right back to their employer and lead us straight to Lord Dragonwise.”

Merlin frowned as he squinted into the night, watching a pair of tradeswomen pass them by. “Won’t we draw attention with so many people?”

“Perhaps,” the Prince conceded. “But the Lower Town is like a maze around here. It’s easy to lose a person, and more people means more eyes looking when they try to vanish into some back alley.”

They settled in for a wait, but didn’t have to stand around for long until a young girl approached the printers’ shop, wrapped in a threadbare cloak and clutching a small bundle to her chest.

“That must be her!” hissed the Prince and leaned in to get a better look, which meant that his body was now pressed right up against Merlin’s.

Merlin’s breath hitched, though he forced himself to keep still, even as a strange shock of prickling sparks travelled up his back. Gods, this was all sorts of inappropriate, standing in a dark alley, somewhere in Camelot’s poorest boroughs, thigh-to-thigh with the Crown Prince!

Making a conscious effort to calm his suddenly racing heart, Merlin watched as the girl entered the printers’ shop and disappeared inside. Just a few minutes later, she exited, now without the package, and hurried back into the direction she had come from.

“Follow me closely,” the Prince whispered. “We can’t get separated.” With that, he walked off to hurry after the messenger, Merlin right behind him.

They kept about twenty paces behind the girl, sticking to the darker edges of the streets and alleys. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin could see some of the others follow them, walking parallel in other streets or several steps behind or across from them.

Merlin was sure that, had the girl been of a suspicious mind, she would have easily spotted them. But as it was, she didn’t look over her shoulder more than once or twice, seemingly unbothered. She moved swiftly through the Lower Town, clearly familiar with the surroundings, though to Merlin, it soon seemed like they were walking in circles.

They must have followed the girl for the better part of half an hour when she inexplicably quickened her steps, then took a sudden, sharp turn. When the Prince and Merlin had caught up to the corner, the girl had vanished.

“What in all hells?” the Prince cursed and looked about. It was a dead end, surrounded on all sides by walls and buildings.

Merlin glanced around, too, until he spotted a dark, narrow passage just across the alley, well-hidden in a nook in the wall. “She must have gone through there,” he said and pointed at it.

They approached the passage, only to see that it wasn’t a passage at all, but an entrance. Merlin narrowed his eyes as he peered into the dark tunnel beyond. A single oil lamp hung off the curved ceiling and several steps beyond, he could just make out the beginnings of a stairway, leading into unknown depths.

“Lords,” Prince Arthur muttered. “I think this is one of the entries into the caverns.”

“The caverns? What caverns?” Merlin asked. He really didn’t like the sound of this.

“The river isn’t Camelot’s only water supply,” the Prince explained, still eyeing the tunnel. “There’s an expansive cavern system underneath the city, which holds a large reservoir.” He threw a smirk at Merlin. “There are all sorts of legends about monsters lurking down there, ready to devour anyone foolish enough to set foot into their damp lair…”

“Trying to scare Mr Emrys, princess? I think he’s made of tougher stuff than that.”

Merlin turned to see Lord Gwaine had arrived with Lord Percival. Not a moment later, the other three men caught up to them, too, until they were all standing around the mouth of the tunnel.

“The girl went in there, sire?” Monsieur DuLac asked with a critical look at the entrance.

“She must have,” the Prince replied. “One moment she was walking right before us and then she disappeared.”

“There’s talk of criminals hiding down there, Your Highness,” Monsieur Lefeuvre cautioned. “Gin smugglers and the likes.”

“And aren’t the caverns supposed to stretch across the entire city, too?” Lord Percival interjected, sounding equally sceptical. “We could walk those tunnels for hours.”

“Good thing we’re seven people, then,” replied Prince Arthur. “The girl is long gone, but she might have left a trail, or some other clues. We’ll split up and search the caverns, or at least the tunnels nearby. Meet back here in about an hour.”

“Arthur, do you really think this is a good idea?” Prince Consort Leon spoke up, and Merlin couldn’t help but agree with the caution in his voice.

Bad enough that he was out in the Lower Town late at night, with people he was hardly acquainted with. Should he really be entering a mysterious cavern system beneath the city on top of that? A place that was crawling with criminals and, if not monsters, at least rats and other vermin?

“The tunnels must be leading somewhere, or the girl wouldn’t have gone inside,” the Prince replied. “But I wouldn’t blame any of you for not wanting to come.” He threw Merlin a significant look.

Merlin promptly bristled at being singled out and lifted his chin. “I’m in,” he said firmly, prompting the other men to nod or murmur their compliance, too.

“Suit yourself,” the Prince said, and made for the tunnel. “Let’s find Lord Dragonwise.”

Arthur entered the tunnel with guilt nibbling at his stomach.

He knew he should not be creeping about the caverns of Camelot. Certainly, he had no business dragging Mr Emrys, or any of the others, into this mess. He should have never told Gwaine and Percival about what he was about to do, let alone Leon, but at the time, it had felt like at least some people should know that the Crown Prince would be sneaking about the Lower Town, just in case something were to happen to him. Before he knew it, Madame DuLac’s husband and brother had joined the troops, too, and now here he was, a prince leading his knights into a cave to find a dragon, as if this were a fairy tale.

Once Arthur had made it to the edge of the stairs, he peered down. Another oil lamp hung from the ceiling several steps downwards. It seemed the printer and his brother-in-law were right, and people were regularly using these caverns for some illicit business. He should probably inform the King about this, have the tunnels cleared out.

But then he would have to tell Uther that he had snuck past prim George snoring in the antechamber, distracted the palace guards and left the castle wearing clothes he had stolen from the servants’ laundry to investigate Lord Dragonwise himself.

Arthur supposed that, at least, he himself had trained in the military along with Morgana, as any Prince or Princess was expected to do, and had brought a sword to defend himself. Percival’s parents had purchased him a commission when he was sixteen and he had spent several years as an officer in the Royal Army, and Gwaine was the best gentleman boxer in all of Camelot. Leon, he knew, owned a trusty flintlock pistol. Even Elyan Lefeuvre looked like he could throw a mad punch, and Lancelot DuLac had brought a dagger, if the bulge at the side of his pantaloons was anything to go by.

Mr Emrys, however, did not look like he could defend himself against a damp rag, let alone a seasoned thug. Arthur should have never allowed him to come. Certainly, he should not have brought him down into the caverns, but sent him back home to Sir Gaius, no matter how stubborn he was.

But rationality had long left him when it came to Mr Emrys, and so he vowed to protect him instead, keeping him close as they climbed down into the depths. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a large cavern, with several more tunnels branching off of it. A few more oil lamps, some of them unlit, hung off the walls, and judging from the broken bottles and other debris on the damp stone floor, people definitely used this den as a meeting place of sorts.

“As I thought,” Arthur declared. “We need to split up.”

They stuck to the same teams as before, skipping the tunnels that appeared less used, eventually deciding on three paths that looked the most promising. Arthur took one of the oil lamps off the wall, then gestured at Mr Emrys to follow him, and made for the tunnel on the far left.

The floor was damp and slightly muddy and Arthur could tell that people had recently walked this path, though there was no way to tell whether it was the girl or someone else. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, they made their way forwards for several minutes, carefully stepping around refuse and rat droppings.

“How are you holding up, Mr Emrys?” Arthur found himself saying, his low voice echoing against the curved walls of the caverns.

“Perfectly well,” Mr Emrys returned, though his voice sounded a little strained.

Arthur threw him a look and saw that his face looked equally tense. “Are you quite certain?”

Mr Emrys sent him a glare. “I’m not a child, sire. I don’t need coddling.”

Arthur had to clamp down on a smile. Somehow, Mr Emrys had started to make any sire or Your Highness he uttered sound delightfully disrespectful. Arthur turned his head back around, only to squint when something caught his eyes. “I think I see something,” he murmured, slowing his steps.

“More stairs, I think,” said Mr Emrys.

He was right. As they came closer, another staircase came into view.

“Another access point, do you think?” added Mr Emrys.

Arthur looked up the stairs and thought he could make out a door in the distance. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Looks like it might lead into a building.”

“Someone’s house?” Mr Emrys suggested.

“Possibly,” Arthur mused. “Some of the older mansions in Camelot have foundations that are centuries old. I suppose their cellars could be connected to the caverns.”

They took the steps until the door came into better view. Just like Arthur had thought, it looked like it might be leading into someone’s house. Abruptly, he stopped, causing Mr Emrys to bump into him. They had touched several times tonight, and still, the contact made the hairs on Arthur’s neck stand at attention.

Gods, but this man would be the death of him!

“What?” Mr Emrys whispered.

“You don’t have to come,” Arthur told him quietly. “If we’re indeed about to enter someone’s house, there’s every reason to believe we’ll be caught breaking in. I’m the Prince, which gives me protection against any sort of prosecution. You, however…”

Mr Emrys sent him a stubborn look. “I’ve followed you this far, haven’t I? I’m not backing out now.”

Arthur hesitated. “I would hate to see you hurt,” he said quietly, surprising himself with his honesty.

Mr Emrys looked surprised, too, though his eyes softened. “Thank you,” he replied. “But I can take care of myself.” He tilted his head a little, flashing Arthur a brazen smile. “I’m a country lad, remember? I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Arthur swallowed, fighting another one of those hot flushes he had quickly come to associate with his obsession for Mr Emrys. “Fine.”

As it was, they had need of Mr Emrys’s tricks sooner rather than later: the door turned out to be locked.

“Dead end,” Arthur muttered, frustrated.

“Let me have a look,” Mr Emrys murmured and pushed Arthur aside to peer through the slit at the edge of the door. “I think it’s just a chain on a hook,” he said and glanced up at Arthur. “Lend me your sword, will you?”

Arthur frowned. “My sword?”

Mr Emrys only made an impatient beckoning motion, still crouching at the door. Reluctantly, Arthur handed it over, only to watch, fascinated, as Mr Emrys slid the thin blade of the rapier into the slit and started moving and wiggling it up and down.

“Ha!” he said eventually and pulled the sword back out. He turned the handle and the door swung open, the now unhooked chain hanging off its side.

Arthur stared at Mr Emrys, impressed. It was a simple enough trick, but Arthur had not thought of it himself. “Colour me surprised. It looks like you’ve got some experience at housebreaking!”

“Oh, Will and I did all sorts of naughty things when we were boys,” Mr Emrys replied quietly, handing back the sword. “Breaking into the larder in search of biscuits, sneaking onto Old Man Simmons’s farm…”

“Who’s Will?”

“A friend,” Mr Emrys replied. “Well, my servant, technically, though that hardly matters.”

“I see,” said Arthur, chiding himself for that renewed spark of possessive jealousy, unable to keep himself from wondering what other sort of naughty things Mr Emrys and this Will might have indulged in.

“Well?” Mr Emrys murmured and jerked his head at the door.

“I’ll go first,” Arthur replied. “Stay quiet and stick to me. Flee without me, if you must. I won’t blame you.”

The door did indeed lead into a cellar. It didn’t look like it was used very much, filled with empty boxes, dusty barrels and a few musty bags. Arthur set the oil lamp down on a stack of crates, then made for the door at the end of the room. Very slowly, he opened it, finding a wooden staircase, this one illuminated by a lamp.

He jerked his head at Mr Emrys, beckoning him closer, then crept up the dark stairs, where another door was waiting for them. Arthur pressed his ear against the wood, listening for footfalls. But whatever house lay beyond the door, it sounded quiet. As it had to be close to midnight by now, Arthur wasn’t exactly surprised. Everyone should be fast asleep—unless, of course, they were up to something.

Very slowly, he inched open the door and peeked past its frame. Beyond lay a hallway like Arthur had seen a hundred times before, at any of the many mansions he had visited in his life. Judging from the curtains and rich tapestries, this was a noble’s house, no doubt about it.

Carefully, Arthur stepped into the dimly lit corridor, glancing around for a clue. But there was no painting or family crest around that could have given him a hint of whose house they had entered. Part of him wondered if they shouldn’t go back. They had no proof that the girl had gone into this mansion and there was every chance they could be caught by a servant attending to some late-night duty.

But something compelled Arthur to walk on. A gut feeling, perhaps. On quiet feet, he crept forwards, Mr Emrys right behind him, until he had made it to the end of the corridor. Carefully, he stuck his head out to peer around the corner.

He quickly pulled back when he saw a light.

“What?” Mr Emrys whispered at once, so quietly that Arthur could hardly hear him.

Arthur shook his head, and peered around the corner again. The light came from a door that stood ajar. Arthur strained his ears and thought he could make out voices, though there was no chance to hear what they were saying.

“What?” Mr Emrys asked again, just as the door was suddenly pulled open.

Arthur startled when he saw that it was the girl, the very same they had followed, stepping out of what looked to be an office.

“…your generosity, Lord Kilgharrah,” her high voice floated down the hallway as she left the room.

Arthur pulled back abruptly. “Hide!” he whispered. “Quick! The girl, she’s coming!”

Mr Emrys swivelled his head, panicked, then opened a nearby door that looked to Arthur like it could belong to a closet. Luckily, it was, and not three seconds later, they were both tucked into the narrow space.

After spending at least an hour in such close proximity to Mr Emrys, Arthur’s body had been continuously brimming with desire at the dozens of little brushes and touches they had shared. Still, the sudden, full-on proximity to the other man was overwhelming.

The space was pitch black, which made it far too easy to focus on the way Arthur and Mr Emrys were standing pressed chest-to-chest, legs tangling between them. Arthur could feel Mr Emrys’s quickened breath against his cheek, could smell a faint whiff of cologne or soap, something with a pleasant, earthen smell to it.

It would be so easy to turn his face and lean in, close that final distance, and take what he had been craving for weeks. He could use the darkness to his advantage, take Mr Emrys by surprise and kiss those plump lips, bring his arms around his neck and pull him close, embrace him and never let him go again.

His body was overflowing with want, every fibre of his being screaming at him to take what was right there, to throw caution to the wind and have Mr Emrys, right here, right now, consequences be damned.

“Do you think she’s gone?” Mr Emrys whispered after a long moment of silence. He shifted as he spoke, his thigh inadvertently brushing against Arthur’s groin.

Arthur’s hot, hard, bulging groin.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, praying to all the gods in the heavens that Mr Emrys hadn’t felt it, though he must have. In the thin, ill-fitting pantaloons he was wearing, there was no hiding his state, and he was not just a little aroused, but properly erect, almost to full size.

Sure enough, Mr Emrys let out a little gasp, then whispered, shocked, “Sire…? Are you…?”

Arthur made a strained sound, his whole face growing hot, shame and desire warring in his chest. Gods, how depraved Mr Emrys must think him, how disgusted he had to be! The lusty Prince, hard in mere moments, simply because he was standing close to another man.

He opened his mouth, perhaps to beg forgiveness, perhaps to deny Mr Emrys’s words, but just then, Mr Emrys shifted his leg again, purposely it seemed, pushing his thigh further into Arthur’s groin. Arthur only just stifled his moan, turning it into a faint sigh as his whole body flared up with want.

“You are!” Mr Emrys whispered. “Oh gods, you are—are you—oh, please, can I—?” Before Arthur could start to decipher what Mr Emrys’s stammering meant, his lips were on Arthur’s.

Oh, and what splendid lips they were! Soft and plush, though the kiss was firm and demanding. Mr Emrys moved so perfectly against Arthur’s mouth, too, nipping and sucking, making Arthur’s knees grow weak. Clearly, Mr Emrys was no stranger to this and, hysterically, in his delightful state of shock, Arthur wondered if this was part of the naughty things Mr Emrys and his servant-friend Will had been up to.

His mind blanked, however, when Mr Emrys shifted again, pushing Arthur against the shelves behind until they were digging into his back, persistently deepening the kiss. There was a brush of tongue and Arthur parted his lips willingly, another low moan muffled by Mr Emrys’s demanding mouth.

All the while, Mr Emrys kept rubbing his leg against Arthur’s groin, causing the most exquisite sparks of pleasure as he worked away at Arthur’s hard cock.

It was perfect. It was exactly what Arthur had wanted for days and days, what he had fantasised about every night when lying in bed, desperately getting himself off to the image of Mr Emrys looming above him and taking charge.

Oh, if only Mr Emrys would flip him around, pull down the flimsy trousers he was wearing, and take him. He could prepare Arthur with nothing but one or two fingers, made slick by his mouth, then shove his cock in. He could have all of Arthur, right here, in the darkness, where nobody could see, and nobody would ever be the wiser.

When Mr Emrys broke the kiss, it was to pant against Arthur’s lips, never ceasing the persistent movement of his leg. “Sire,” he gasped. “Arthur…”

Arthur nearly came in his smallclothes just from hearing Mr Emrys utter his name in that breathy, needy voice. His hips jerked and—

There was a loud clatter as Arthur’s rapier upended something on the shelf behind him. It sounded like a whole row of vases or pots crashing and clanging together and they both froze, ceasing any and all movement to listen.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, both of them holding their breaths.

But no footfalls were forthcoming. Nobody seemed to have heard them.

Arthur was still hard and throbbing in his pantaloons, but the rush of fear had been enough to cut through his haze of lust. Mr Emrys, too, seemed to have caught on that things had escalated too far, for he quickly retreated as far away as the closet allowed.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice small and incredibly contrite. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, Your Highness, I…”

Arthur had never heard that tone from him. He sounded upset enough to send Arthur’s erection flagging fast. “No, please,” he replied quickly. “It’s fine. Let’s just—” He reached out, fumbling for the doorknob. “We need to get back to the cellar.”

“Yes, sire,” Mr Emrys murmured, still sounding completely unlike himself.

Arthur carefully opened the door, blinking against the dim light in the hallway. The coast was clear and so, on quick, quiet feet, they returned to the door they had entered through, then made down the stairs into the cellar, where Arthur picked up the abandoned oil lamp.

It was only then that Arthur turned around to take a look at Mr Emrys. His face had turned pale and his lips were pressed into a thin, white line. When Arthur sought out his gaze, Mr Emrys immediately lowered his eyes. He looked upset; could he be ashamed of what they had done?

Arthur’s heart gave a painful lurch at the sight, his stomach cramping at the idea of Mr Emrys regretting what had happened. He wanted to say something, acknowledge what they had done in the closet, tell Mr Emrys how he truly felt about it, but found he was lost for words.

Finally, when the silence had stretched into something unbearably thick and loaded, Arthur murmured, “We should get back. The others will be waiting.”

Mr Emrys nodded, still not looking at Arthur.

“Let’s go,” Arthur said, and turned away.

They walked the tunnels in complete silence. When they stepped out of the entrance in the Lower Town, the others were already there, and all looked relieved to see them unharmed.

“What took you so long?” Leon demanded, stepping forward. “Did you find something?”

“We found the girl,” Arthur told them, acutely aware of Mr Emrys stepping away from him as soon as he had exited the tunnel, clearly intent on putting some distance between them. “The path we took connects to a nobleman’s house. A Lord Kilgharrah.”

“Kilgharrah?” repeated Leon. “Never heard the name.”

“Nor have I,” said Percival.

Arthur gave a vague nod, still watching Mr Emrys’s retreat out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll look him up, back at the palace. The name must show up in a peerage list somewhere. His house looked like old money.”

“Everything all right?” Gwaine asked, and his eyes were on Mr Emrys too, where he had gone to stand at the very edge of the group, head bowed and hands curled into fists. “Did something happen?”

Arthur looked away. “No. Nobody saw us, I don’t think.” He cleared his throat. “I thank all of you for coming and assisting in this investigation. Monsieur Lefeuvre, rest assured that you will not be persecuted for your part in publishing Lord Dragonwise, and neither will your wife, Monsieur DuLac. Your cooperation was exemplary.”

The men bowed their heads, murmuring their thanks.

“Gwaine, would you and Percival mind accompanying Mr Emrys home? He should not be walking the Lower Town alone past midnight.”

“Of course, sire,” Gwaine replied. He must have caught on that something was off, because Arthur could not remember him ever using Arthur’s title in such a serious voice.

“Thank you.” Arthur chanced another glance at Mr Emrys, but the man still refused to look at him. “Farewell, Mr Emrys,” he said, perhaps a little desperately, hoping for a reaction.

But Mr Emrys only gave him the vaguest of bows and then, he walked away, with Gwaine and Percival at his side.

Arthur looked after him, long after he was gone, wondering with a rapidly sinking heart if this, at last, had been the final time he would lay eyes on the man.

Chapter Text

Gaius was waiting for Merlin when he tried to sneak back into the house. He was standing in the hallway in his housecoat, a lit candle in his hand, looking nothing short of furious.

Without saying a word, he pointed at the sitting room. Merlin followed the silent order, hanging his head. Once in the room, he sank down on the nearest sofa, curling his shoulders in and making himself small as he braced himself for his uncle’s shouting.

Oh, what a fool he had been! He should have never gone to the Lower Town. He couldn’t have made a more stupid, a more terrible mistake. He deserved to be shouted at. Hells, he probably deserved to be thrown from Gaius’s house and sent home in disgrace!

But Gaius was not a loud man, nor a hot-headed one, and when he spoke, his words were quiet and firm, though no less remonstrative. “Have you any idea how worried I was?” he said, coming to stand before Merlin.

Merlin stared down at his knees, his throat too tight to speak.

“I could hardly believe my ears when the butler came to me, telling me he thought he saw you sneak out of the back door from his window. When I checked your room and saw you were gone, I actually thought I might faint!”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, curling himself up all the tighter, his stomach churning.

“I had no idea where you had gone, no way to know where to look for you. I didn’t know if you were running away for good, or simply meeting someone.” Gaius let out a sharp breath, then added, “I saw who you returned with. What were you doing with the Marquess?”

Merlin stayed silent, feeling like he might be sick any moment, his eyes stinging.

“Where were you?” Gaius pushed. “Why did you sneak out?”

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a faint croaking noise. Before he knew it, he was crying, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. With a sob, he hid his face in his hands.

Gods, how could he have been so foolish, so stupid? Risking his reputation for an adventure, chasing dubious figures through the Lower Town and sneaking through mysterious tunnels, like the reckless hero in some cheap novel. And worst, throwing himself at the Crown Prince like some wanton trollop!

He had risked everything—his good name, his entire future! And for what? For the thrill of it? For an illusion of freedom? For the naïve idea that he could have any control over his own life?

Merlin startled when a hand came to rest on his back and when he looked up, vision blurred, he saw that Gaius had sat down next to him on the sofa, now looking worried rather than angry.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he sighed, gently rubbing Merlin’s back. “Are you hurt? Injured in any way?”

Merlin shook his head, another sob escaping his lips before he could help it.

Gaius’s frown deepened. “Merlin, has anyone…?” He cleared his throat. “The Marquess, he does have a certain reputation for… Did he—?”

“No!” Merlin forced out, cutting Gaius off. “No, no, he just—” He sobbed again, then made an effort to rein himself in, fighting for breath around his hysterical hiccups. “He returned me home safe. That’s all.”

“I see,” Gaius replied, though of course he did not. How could he? He didn’t even know a tenth of the story!

“Sorry,” Merlin choked out around his still hitching breath. “I’m so sorry.”

Gaius’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it. “The most important thing is that you are home, and that you are safe,” he murmured. Belatedly, Merlin realised he was holding out a handkerchief.

Gratefully, he took it. He quickly wiped his face, then blew his nose for good measure, before crumpling up the cloth in his hands, studiously avoiding Gaius’s searching eyes.

“Now,” said Gaius, and he sounded very serious, “tell me everything.”

And Merlin did, at least the basics of it, about meeting the Prince at Guinevere’s and about the investigation, though naturally, he left out the most unsavoury bits. By the end of his tale, he chanced a look at his uncle, who had gone pale.

“I can hardly believe this,” Gaius muttered. “I would have never thought Prince Arthur this irresponsible. And the Prince Consort, too!” He shook his head. “But what is done is done. We can only hope that nothing of this makes it into Lord Dragonwise before the Crown has the author arrested.”

He stood from the sofa and started to pace. Merlin watched him warily, unsure what to expect—a lecture? A punishment?

“Well, let’s look at the facts,” Gaius spoke up at last and stopped in the middle of the sitting room. “As of now, we have no reason to believe the ton will have heard about this by tomorrow. As long as your reputation remains intact, we can still attend Lord Cenred’s tea party on Friday, and hope to see you engaged. Whatever happens after is out of our control.”

Merlin’s stomach plummeted.

“Until then, you are to remain in your rooms,” Gaius continued, his voice turning stern, eyes fixed on Merlin. “Food and drink will be brought up to you. You are not to set foot out of the door. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Merlin croaked and got up from the sofa.

Gaius intercepted him on his way to the door. He lifted his hand and Merlin winced, half-expecting a slap or clip around the ear, but Gaius only cupped his cheek, his wrinkled hand gentle against Merlin’s face. “Please, never do anything so foolish again,” he murmured. “Your mother has entrusted you to me. I could not bear to face her, knowing I had failed her so terribly. We may not be related by blood, but Hunith is like family to me, and so are you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s eyes filled with tears again. He gave Gaius the faintest of nods, then fled the room, stumbling up the stairs and throwing himself face-down onto his bed, where he wept again, clutching his pillows.

Oh, how disappointed his mother would have been in him! And rightly so!

He had behaved so very irresponsibly. Here he was, granted a real chance of bettering his life, of saving himself and his mother from destitution, and he had nearly ruined it all!

Once his second bout of crying had ceased, he rolled onto his side and blinked into the darkness. He had not lit a lamp or candle, and could hardly make out anything beyond the faintest silhouettes. Merlin bit his lip when, irrevocably, his thoughts were drawn to the memories of another dark room.

He had no doubt the Prince had enjoyed what they had done, Merlin was not naïve enough not to realise that. Prince Arthur had returned the kiss eagerly, had curled his fingers into Merlin’s back and invited his touch by parting his legs. He had wanted Merlin as much as Merlin had wanted him.

Merlin realised now that there had always been an attraction between them, a pull that had, perhaps, been the reason the Prince had chosen to dance with Merlin at that first, fateful ball weeks ago.

But whatever there was between them, nothing could ever come of it. Merlin was poor and of low rank, and what was more, the Prince had made it very clear to him, several times, that their dances had been a mistake. They were… princely indulgences, nothing more. Perhaps Prince Arthur had been seeking an adventure, too, craving freedom as much as Merlin had, trying to break out of the constraints of royal duty.

Merlin could not blame him for it in the slightest. He knew only too well what it felt like to be a slave to one’s circumstances, to feel powerless in the face of his responsibilities. It was only too understandable that even a prince would try and seek a thrill beyond what was right and proper.

No, Merlin did not blame the Prince. But he dearly wished Prince Arthur had chosen someone other than Merlin for his dallying. Because Merlin, like the giant fool he was, could tell that it was not only his body that had started longing for the Prince.

It was his heart as well.

Merlin hardly slept that night and in the morning, his eyes were dry and puffy.

He spent his day in confinement listlessly lying around, either fretting or bracing himself for what was to come tomorrow. He hardly touched the food brought up by the servant and when night came again, his sleep was fitful rather than replenishing.

When he stepped up to the washstand on Friday morning, blinking at his reflection in the mirror, he looked terrible.

He did not go down to meet his uncle for breakfast or lunch, opting instead to remain in his room a little longer. He wrote another letter to Freya, telling her all about what had happened, knowing he would never post it, then called for Gaius’s valet to help him into his formal clothes and tame his hair.

When he stepped into the sitting room after lunchtime, Gaius was already waiting for him, freshly shaven and clad in what looked to be his best tailcoat. He looked Merlin over and sighed.

“Well, let’s hope the Earl will take your pallor for nervosity,” he commented drily and gestured towards the door.

They took a hired carriage to Fyrien Hall, an imposing mansion that could almost pass as a castle. Before he knew it, Merlin was sitting in Lord Cenred’s luxurious drawing room. It was only there, between the exquisite furnishings and magnificent tapestries, that Merlin realised just how advantageous a match the Earl had to be.

No wonder Gaius had insisted he take this courtship seriously. Lord Cenred looked to be as wealthy as the King!

True to the Earl’s words, he had only invited those closest to him: his younger brother, Lord Lot, as well as some cousins and a handful of friends. They took tea and made polite conversation, though it was not long until Lord Cenred stood and asked Gaius whether he could take Merlin to the library for a private conversation.

Gaius threw Merlin an encouraging smile as he agreed, but Merlin’s hands were shaking when he followed the Earl out of the room, leaving behind all chaperones. Every step towards the library door felt like walking to the gallows, though he knew his duty.

He would smile and say yes.

Lord Cenred, at least, lost no time making his intentions clear. As soon as they were alone, he grasped Merlin’s hand and drawled, “You look tired, my dear Mr Emrys. Were you so excited for this moment that you lost sleep over it?”

Merlin lifted the corners of his mouth, best as he could. “My lord?”

The Earl smirked. “You need not keep up appearances with me. Surely, you have long come to realise why I invited you to my home and asked for a moment in private. I do not blame you for growing nervous. It is only to be expected, on such an occasion.”

“I would not want to presume,” Merlin evaded, but Lord Cenred had already stepped closer and taken up Merlin’s other hand as well.

“You may presume,” he said, sounding amused. “Mr Emrys—Merlin. May I call you Merlin?”

Merlin thought he might gag on his response, but he managed, “If you so wish, my lord.”

The Earl’s smirk widened into a toothy smile. “Merlin,” he repeated, “I must admit, over the last few weeks, I have found myself captivated by your presence. There is an undeniable charm about you that I simply cannot resist.”

“You flatter me, my lord,” Merlin replied. His voice sounded off, but then, Lord Cenred already thought him a nervous wreck, so it mattered little.

“I believe we have forged a link that surpasses a mere acquaintanceship,” the Earl went on. “I find myself desiring a deeper connection, a bond of a life-long nature.”

“Life-long?” Merlin croaked, as if he did not know what was about to happen.

Lord Cenred chuckled indulgently. “Come now, Merlin. Don’t play coy with me. I have seen the same desire in your own eyes, the yearning that matches my own. Let us embrace our shared passions and make a life together.” He paused, leaning in, “I propose that we join in matrimony. I want to make you my husband. Do you accept?”

No, Merlin thought. No, I don’t want this.

“Yes,” he choked out.

Lord Cenred grinned. “That is what I thought. Be assured that you will benefit greatly from this union.” He looked Merlin over, eyes lingering in all the wrong places, sending Merlin’s skin crawling. “As will I.” With that, he leaned all the way in, clearly hoping to seal their engagement with a kiss.

Merlin’s eyes widened, his whole body stiffening as he tried to control his instinct to flee. He managed to stay in place, but before he could stop himself, he had turned his face away, and the Earl’s lips brushed against his left cheek rather than his mouth.

With a frown, Lord Cenred pulled back, his grip tightening on Merlin’s hands. He looked Merlin over again, though his frown was quickly replaced by another smug smile. “That nervous, are you? It cannot be a lack of experience, certainly. Surely, there is no way you are entirely innocent in this matter?”

Unsure what to reply, and still fighting the urge to remove himself from the Earl’s proximity, Merlin only threw him a desperate look.

“Oh!” The Earl looked impossibly pleased when he came to the wrong conclusion. “You are innocent in this!” His voice turned gleeful. “Oh, my dear Merlin, this is better than I could have hoped for.” He let go of Merlin’s hands, but the relief was short-lived, as he lifted his own to cup Merlin’s face, holding him in place as he leaned in again, this time succeeding in pressing his mouth to Merlin’s lips.

It was the most horrid kiss Merlin had ever received. Will’s had always been a little sloppy, but loving and tender nonetheless, and the kiss with the Prince—

No, he could not think of that! Not here, not now, when he had just accepted Lord Cenred’s proposal!

But it took every last ounce of self-control not to pull away from the Earl’s demanding lips, the stink of his cologne once more engulfing him, his fingers digging into Merlin’s face as he held him in place. Merlin was sure a proposal should be celebrated with nothing more than a chaste peck, possibly not even that, but clearly, Lord Cenred thought differently.

Before Merlin knew what was happening, the Earl was pushing against him and then, Merlin found himself with his back against a bookshelf and Lord Cenred’s tongue in his mouth.

It was the mirror image of what had occurred in the closet, and yet, the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to Merlin.

It was too much, far too much to endure.

Merlin brought up his hands and shoved at Lord Cenred’s chest.

The Earl broke the kiss, dropping his hands from Merlin’s face, though his eyes were wild. “What do you think you are doing?” he demanded. “I am claiming my prize!”

Fortunately, Merlin had found his voice. “Please, my lord,” he said. “I am not sure we should be doing this. We have only just become engaged!”

“We are only kissing, nothing more,” Lord Cenred replied impatiently. “It is not as though I’m bending you over the reading table to take your innocence.” As if to bely his words, he reached out and unceremoniously grabbed Merlin’s hips, pulling him closer.

Shocked, Merlin did not defend himself when the Earl leaned back in, bringing up one hand to tear at Merlin’s cravat and expose his neck.

“Oh, how I have struggled!” the Earl muttered as he nuzzled at the revealed skin. “I must admit, when I first started courting you, I did it solely to vex the Prince. But I soon came to understand what he sees in you. There’s something about you, Merlin, something so utterly alluring that it has been driving me mad with want. I simply must have you, I must!”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, trembling all over as he made another, futile attempt to push Lord Cenred off. “Please,” he begged. “We must wait.”

“Oh, we will wait,” Lord Cenred growled into Merlin’s neck. “But only until I have procured us a special licence. Within a fortnight, we will be married, and then—” Merlin yelped when the Earl bit his neck, then sucked at the spot before releasing the skin with a wet, filthy noise that made Merlin’s stomach churn. “—I will have you.”

Abruptly, the Earl let go, panting heavily as he stepped back and ran a hand over his glistening mouth, raking Merlin with a heated gaze.

Merlin felt caught by that look. He was shaking all over, clutching at the shelf behind him, trying to keep his knees from giving out. His stomach was churning, his skin crawling all over, and he was convinced that, any moment now, he would throw up the tea and biscuits he had consumed only minutes earlier.

Lord Cenred saw his state and grinned, entirely predatorily, looking far too satisfied with what he had done to Merlin. “Look at you. I can only imagine how beautiful you will be, lying in my bed.” He held out his hand. “Come, Merlin. Let us share the good news.” He threw a meaningful glance at Merlin’s neck. “And make sure to keep my little souvenir covered. We wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression, would we?”

Hot bile burned in Merlin’s throat, but he managed to fight it down. He was starting to feel numb all over, and just a little like he was standing beside his body.

“Well?” said the Earl, growing impatient. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, my lord,” Merlin replied. Slowly, he let go of the shelf, reaching up to tug his cravat back into place. Then, he stepped forward and took the proffered hand.

The Earl pulled him close again. “Please. Call me Cenred.”

“Felicitations indeed!” the King exclaimed joyfully and rustled with the Saturday issue of The Camelot Post.

Arthur had not heard his father sound so delighted in weeks. He was sure Uther had to look delighted, too, but was too focused on staring at his soup and clutching his spoon to check.

In fact, he was barely holding on—to the cutlery as much as to his neutral expression. A terrible pain had seized his chest. It felt like a hand of ice had taken a hold of his heart, squeezing it with all its might, until it was nothing but a hard, shrivelled lump.

He could not breathe, could not move, his eyes glossing over as his mind was reeling with the news he had just heard: Lord Cenred and Mr Emrys—engaged!

Arthur didn’t know why it came as such a shock to him. The courtship had been public knowledge. Arthur himself had met the Earl and Mr Emrys out together on two separate occasions. It had only been a matter of time until the two of them made matters official.

And yet, Arthur was reeling, mere seconds away from abandoning the formal dinner with the King and fleeing the room, if only to bring some distance between himself and his father’s gloating.

Perhaps he had still hoped that the Earl was only playing games, cruel though it would have been for Mr Emrys. But no, Lord Cenred had been serious in his intentions! And now, Mr Emrys would marry him, so very soon after he and Arthur had—

“Finally, that chapter is closed,” rejoiced Uther. “Now, everyone will know that Lord Dragonwise has been wrong all along, and there is nothing going on between the Crown Prince and this nobody.” He chuckled. “Not a nobody now, though, I suppose. He has done well for himself, this Mr Emrys, I must admit. Catching an Earl, with virtually nothing to recommend him? Lord Cenred must have been terribly blinded by affection to consider this gentleman a suitable…”

Arthur did not catch the rest of his father’s words. His ears suddenly felt like they had been stuffed with wool, a strange ringing sound drowning out all noise. Dark spots descended into Arthur’s vision and he belatedly understood that he must have been holding his breath for far too long. He inhaled abruptly, blinking rapidly to dispel the shadows creeping in, and only just managed to set down his spoon without clattering. A couple more breaths, and his ears cleared. At last, when he felt in control again, he looked up.

His father was watching him.

“Pardon me, sire?” Arthur said, realising he must have missed something. His voice, miraculously, came out firm and even. There was something to be said for years of diplomatic training.

“I said,” repeated the King impatiently. “Have you made any progress with your investigation?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Arthur lied and focused back on his soup.

“I expected better from you, Arthur,” Uther chastised him at once.

“Leave him alone!” Morgana spoke up, her voice sharp. “You’ve given him a practically impossible task, on top of finding a suitable wife. Give him more than a week, at least, before you start harping on about it!”

“Morgana!” the King reprimanded. “You will not take that tone with me!”

Arthur glanced at his sister, whose face had taken on that stubborn expression that never boded well.

“Someone needs to stand up to you!” she retorted. “Don’t you see that your son is trying his best?”

“Morgana,” Arthur spoke up, attempting to rein her in, but to no avail.

“For years, he has been bending over backwards on your every whim,” she went on. “Excelling in the military. Taking on diplomatic missions—”

“As the Crown Prince ought to do,” Uther cut her off. “Arthur will be King one day! How is he supposed to lead the country without preparation?”

“Some preparation,” Morgana snapped. “Don’t you see that he’s—”

“I have not invited you here to argue,” the King interjected, raising a hand. “You know I have always admired your passion, Morgana, but enough is enough!”

Morgana let out a huff, but a pleading look from Arthur, it seemed, was enough to have her back down after all.

The rest of the dinner passed in strained silence, interspersed only by a few words from Leon and the King.

As soon as was proper, Arthur excused himself from the table and fled into one of the nearby drawing rooms, followed by George, who was wise enough to hover near the entrance in complete silence instead of addressing his Prince. Arthur collapsed into an armchair, sagging until he sat bent forward, his elbows resting on his thighs.

This was how Morgana and Leon found him.

“There you are,” Morgana said. “I was starting to wonder if you had gone to hide in your chambers.”

“Would I have been safe from you there?” Arthur asked bitterly, not looking up.

Morgana sighed. “George, would you leave the room for a moment? The Prince Consort and I will watch the Prince for you.”

“Certainly, Your Highness,” said George and left, closing the door behind him. Undoubtedly, he was now standing just outside, like the watchdog he was.

“Are you all right?” Morgana asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Arthur retorted. He leaned back in the chair so he could glare at her, crossing his arms.

Morgana gave him an unimpressed look. “We both know why.”

Arthur averted his eyes.

“I won’t pretend that Leon hasn’t told me all about your little Lower Town adventure I wasn’t invited to,” Morgana went on. From the sounds of it, she and Leon had sunk down on the settee across. “So, I know you have spent at least an hour with Mr Emrys, completely unsupervised, investigating Lord Dragonwise. Are you telling me nothing happened between you and him in that time?”

Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” Morgana concluded drily.

Arthur would have dearly liked to gag her. He was barely coping as it was. He didn't need Morgana prying, didn't need her scratching at barely scabbed wounds.

Arthur had yet to recover from the moment of passion he and Mr Emrys had shared. He wasn’t sure there was a way to recover from that. Perhaps he had been ruined forever, doomed to remember that one, perfect moment of intimacy until his last, dying breath, forever longing for something he could never have again.

“It doesn’t matter if anything happened,” Arthur replied at last, though the words burned like acid in his mouth. “Mr Emrys is engaged to Lord Cenred. I am due for another outing with Lady Mithian. All is as it should be.”

“Isn’t it just,” drawled Morgana.

Arthur could not bear her sarcasm, not today. “Enough, Morgana! You are overstepping, and I will not discuss this with you anymore!” he snapped.

“And now you're starting to sound like Uther,” Morgana retorted, with more than a hint of venom.

Recoiling, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please,” he said at last, much more softly than before. “Let it go.”

Astonishingly, Morgana did. Perhaps she could tell that Arthur was seconds away from a breakdown.

After a long moment of silence, Leon ventured, “Was there a reason you didn’t mention Lord Kilgharrah to the King?”

Glad for the change in topic, Arthur latched right on. “I would like to confront the man before I present my findings,” he said. “I have just learned more about him. He is very old, it seems, and never leaves the house. Hasn’t attended a ball or even a tea party in years. He doesn’t seem to fit the profile for Lord Dragonwise. I want to make sure he’s the one.”

“When will you go?” Leon asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“With the guards?”

Arthur shook his head. “Just George. I would hate to give the old man a heart attack, especially if he turns out to be innocent, or merely a middleman.”

“I see,” said Leon. “If you want me to come…?”

“No. I will do it myself,” Arthur replied.

“I would tell you to be careful, but after your little stunt in the Lower Town, I fear my warning will fall on deaf ears,” Morgana said and stood, looking like she was getting ready to leave. “Will you be all right?”

Arthur waved her off. “He’s an old man, Morgana. I’ll be fine.”

Morgana sent him a look. “I wasn’t talking about your investigation.”

Arthur huffed and looked away, only to glance up when Morgana stepped up to him and leaned down to kiss his cheek.

When she pulled back, her hand lingered on Arthur’s shoulder. Her eyes were warm and soft when she added, “You deserve to be happy, brother, you know?”

It took every last ounce of Arthur’s self-control not to crumple at that.

Chapter Text

Wyvern Place, the home of Lord Kilgharrah, looked to be one of the oldest houses in Camelot, with some of the original, mediaeval architecture still in place. Arthur had George exit the unmarked carriage first to announce Arthur’s arrival, and make sure there weren’t any nosy bystanders around, then followed him, hopefully unseen, into the house.

As Arthur stepped inside the building, he was almost certain it was the same mansion he had entered through the caverns. The curtains looked identical, as did the carpets, even if he had last seen them in dim candlelight. In the entrance hall, he was met by a flustered butler, who fumbled his way through the greeting, clearly rattled by the Crown Prince making an unexpected appearance.

“I must speak with Lord Kilgharrah,” Arthur told him. “Concerning most urgent business with the Crown, which cannot be delayed.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Let me show you to the drawing room,” squeaked the butler, and led him down the hallway.

Arthur expected the drawing room to be empty. But there was a young girl there, her hair so blond it practically looked white, practising two-handed scales on the pianoforte under the watchful eyes of her governess, though from the dissonant sound of it, her tutoring had yet to yield much success.

Only on a second glance did he spot the man sitting in an armchair nearby, listening.

There was no doubt that this had to be Lord Kilgharrah. He looked to be ancient, with hardly any hair left, his dark skin wrinkled all over. His gnarled hands were resting on top of a walking stick and when Arthur squinted at it, he realised the knob on top was formed like a dragon’s head.

That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

The butler cleared his throat. “Your Lordship? A visitor.”

Lord Kilgharrah waved his hand dismissively, his attention on the girl at the piano. “Tell them I’m not in,” he ordered. His voice was low and raspy. He must smoke a pipe a lot.

“Oh, um, Your Lordship—”

“What?”

“It’s, ah, Arthur Pendragon? The Crown Prince of Camelot?”

The music stopped.

Lord Kilgharrah straightened on the armchair, swivelling his head, and Arthur was met with a pair of eyes so light brown they practically looked golden. The man was clearly astonished to see him, though he reined himself in quickly enough. “Your Highness!” he rasped and made to get up from his chair.

“Please, there’s no need,” Arthur replied and gestured at him to stay put. “I’m intruding as it is.”

Lord Kilgharrah sank back into the chair, knees cracking ominously. “How could a prince ever intrude when gracing one of his subjects with a royal visit?” he replied, clearly a wit in spite of his advanced age, and gestured at the sofa across from his own chair.

Arthur sank down, watching out of the corner of his eye as the governess ushered the girl past George and out of the room.

Lord Kilgharrah must have spotted his surreptitious look, though, as he supplied, “My ward and greatest joy in life, Miss Aithusa Dawn.”

“A very talented girl,” Arthur replied politely.

Lord Kilgharrah let out a rumbling laugh. “I see you’re well-versed in diplomacy, sire. She’s a diamond in the rough yet.” He smiled crookedly, revealing several gold teeth. “But we both know you haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries.”

“Indeed, I have not,” Arthur confirmed. “I’m leading an investigation.”

“Is that so?” Lord Kilgharrah’s face settled into an expression of mild curiosity.

Arthur studied him carefully as he elaborated, “I’m sure you must have heard of the society papers that have sprung up since last season? Published under the name of a Lord Dragonwise?”

“Mhm,” rumbled Lord Kilgharrah. “The name does seem to ring a bell, yes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this gossipmonger, would you?”

“Gossipmonger?” Lord Kilgharrah mused. “Not necessarily the term I would use, sire.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “And what term would you use?”

“Sage? Wise man?” Lord Kilgharrah smiled. “It’s in the name, isn’t it? Lord Dragonwise?”

“An old wise man such as you, by any chance?” Arthur said pointedly.

Lord Kilgharrah chuckled. “And there go the pleasantries,” he commented, amused. “Though I suppose there is no denying that I have, indeed, grown old. I have yet to get used to the idea, however. My mind is quick as ever. It’s only the bones that seem to be growing weary…”

Arthur cleared his throat impatiently. “Lord Kilgharrah, let us not beat about the bush. His Majesty the King has tasked me to find the man behind this gossip sheet and I have reason to believe that man is you.”

Lord Kilgharrah sent him an even look. “I see.”

“Do you deny it?”

“No.”

Arthur blinked. “So you admit you are Lord Dragonwise? The author behind the papers?”

“Yes.”

Arthur shook his head a little. The man’s bluntness had taken him by surprise and suddenly, he was unsure how to proceed. “Well—that is—” He cleared his throat again. “You must know that the King is not happy with you.”

At this, Lord Kilgharrah laughed, a rumbling sound coming from deep within his stomach. “When,” he said at last, “has Uther Pendragon ever been happy with anyone?”

“He wants me to arrest you,” Arthur added, trying not to linger on how true the man’s last statement felt.

“Be my guest, sire,” said Lord Kilgharrah and lifted one hand off the cane to gesture at himself. “It might take a while to get me out of this house, but I promise not to put up much of a fight.”

“Not much,” Arthur repeated faintly, taken aback by the man’s nonchalance.

Lord Kilgharrah smirked. “I should like to make my final exit at least a little bit exciting, sire. I assure you, I have successfully whacked a few heads with this walking stick.”

“You are not taking this seriously,” Arthur said, growing annoyed at the man’s insouciance.

“Oh, I take it very seriously, Your Highness,” Lord Kilgharrah replied. “But as you have so recently pointed out, I am old. And with age comes a certain, shall I say… apathy. What is, is. If the King wants to have me arrested and thrown into the castle dungeons for having a little fun with quill and parchment, so be it.”

“It’s hardly just having fun,” Arthur retorted sharply. “Your gossip has become gospel. You have ruined whole lives and reputations with your little pamphlet!”

Lord Kilgharrah studied him. “Anyone in particular you are referring to, sire?”

“A Miss Freya Lake, from what I hear.”

“Colour me surprised,” Lord Kilgharrah replied, raising his eyebrows. “I would have thought your first concern would have been for your own reputation.” He tilted his head a little. “What’s the girl to you, sire? Surely, she’s not of your acquaintance?”

Arthur found he could not quite meet those golden eyes when he replied, “I was only giving you an example.”

“But not just any random example, I should think,” Lord Kilgharrah returned. “I have it on good authority that the girl had become fast friends with one Mr Merlin Emrys.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Lord Kilgharrah chuckled. “Nothing which I haven’t written of before. Mr Emrys and you have formed a connection, have you not? He must have told you about his dear friend’s disgrace.”

Anger flared up in Arthur. “Do you care nothing for the consequences of your writings? Do you not understand how people are suffering because of the secrets and stories you reveal in your paper?”

“If they are suffering, it is because the Camelot ton is nothing but a bunch of hypocrites,” Lord Kilgharrah retorted. “Every last one of them has something to hide. Debts, lovers, bizarre proclivities… Some are merely better at hiding their secrets than others.”

“And what gives you the right to expose them?” Arthur snapped. “It’s not just hypocrites you’re after, is it? Not everyone you write about is at fault for their own downfall. Is Miss Freya Lake culpable for her parents’ negligence? Is Mr Emrys to blame for his father leaving his family destitute?”

Lord Kilgharrah smiled. “Destitute? I don’t remember writing anything of the sort in my papers.”

A cold shiver ran down Arthur’s back. “If you even think of using this information to slander Mr Emrys—” he started, making to get up from the sofa.

“Peace, Your Highness, peace!” Lord Kilgharrah interjected, raising a calming hand. “I would never do that to Balinor’s son.”

Arthur sank back down on the couch. “Lord Balinor? The Baron Emrys? You know him?”

“Knew him, yes,” Lord Kilgharrah replied and at last, his voice lost the calm, self-righteous tone, making space for sadness. “A good man, Balinor. He would have never abandoned his family.”

“Then where is he?”

“Dead, I should think. If he weren’t, he would have long returned home. He was a responsible man and he knew that he was needed at home, due to the special stipulations regarding the Emrys estate.”

Arthur leaned forward. “What stipulations?”

Lord Kilgharrah stroked a thumb over the top of his walking stick as he settled in for what looked to be a longer tale: “The Emrys family is ancient, and one of the few that still operates on early mediaeval hereditary rights. Title and land are passed on through the male line only. Women are forbidden from inheriting, or even maintaining the day-to-day affairs of the estate. When Balinor disappeared, his wife was not allowed to step in. And with little Merlin far too young for the responsibility, a distant male cousin was brought in to run the estate. A Mr Cedric Sigan, if I’m not mistaken, who promptly gambled away the Emrys fortune. By the time Balinor’s son was of age and ready to take over his father’s affairs, there was nothing left to save.”

Arthur stared at Lord Kilgharrah. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “This is outrageous!” he exclaimed. “Lord Balinor’s wife should have brought this before the King!”

“I’m sure she did,” Lord Kilgharrah replied. “But you know your father. A traditionalist if ever I knew one. He probably took one look at Lady Hunith’s request, saw the stipulations that were in place and cast the matter aside.”

Arthur balled his hands to fists, unable to deny the words. That was exactly the sort of reaction one could expect from Uther. “My father is thinking of revoking the Barony all together,” he blurted, too angry to remember he should perhaps be more discreet. “Too little land still tied to the Emrys name, he says.”

Lord Kilgharrah shook his head. “Yes, that sounds just like the King.”

Arthur shot him a look. “Why did you not help the Emrys family, if Lord Balinor was such a dear friend?”

Lord Kilgharrah sighed. “I was out of the country for many years. I rather preferred living far away from your father’s reign. I only learned of Balinor’s fate when the estate was already in ruins.” He smiled. “But I managed to help young Merlin in other ways, did I not? As soon as I had learned of his arrival in Camelot, I took steps to make sure he would marry well.” He paused and sent Arthur an intense look. “Though I must say, I had rather hoped his engagement would be to someone of even higher rank than the Earl of Escetir.”

Arthur huffed and looked away.

“You seem to have much of Ygraine in you, sire,” Lord Kilgharrah added more thoughtfully.

Arthur’s eyes snapped back. “You knew my mother?”

“Not terribly well,” Lord Kilgharrah admitted. “But well enough to know she was of sweet demeanour and kind character. I never understood how she could have fallen for someone like your father, but she loved him very much.”

“The feeling was mutual,” Arthur replied, voice growing a little hoarse. He knew very well how much pain Uther still felt over his first wife’s death. He had never let Arthur forget that Ygraine had died giving birth to him, and that he owed it to her sacrifice to be a good, obedient son.

“Yes, it was a love match,” Lord Kilgharrah agreed. “And a rather scandalous one at the time. Ygraine was not of very high rank, you understand. In her home country, she was what we would call a Baroness. Her brother, your uncle Agravaine, now holds that title.”

Arthur was stunned. “I did not know that.” He had known that the DuBois family was not of royal blood, but not that they had ranked this low.

Lord Kilgharrah studied him. “Of course, if the King would officially proclaim Lord Balinor dead and keep the title intact, Mr Emrys would be the new Baron Emrys.”

Arthur swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?” His voice was still strained.

“Oh, only to let you know that there is precedent for this sort of royal union.”

“What union?” Arthur snapped, instantly growing defensive. “I’m courting a Duke’s daughter, Lady Mithian Rodor, as you undoubtedly know. I plan to propose to her shortly.”

“Yes,” said Lord Kilgharrah. “And Mr Emrys is engaged to the Earl of Escetir.” He smiled. “But then, a proposal is only that, is it not? A suggestion, a statement of intent. Nothing that cannot be reversed…”

Arthur made a cutting gesture with his hand. “Enough of this talk! I have not come here to discuss Mr Emrys with you, but Lord Dragonwise.”

Lord Kilgharrah nodded indulgently. “Shall I ring for my coat and gloves before you take me in, sire? I hear the dungeons are rather cold.”

Arthur scowled. “You really think I would drag an old man like you to gaol? You cannot think me so cruel.” He got up from the sofa, drawing himself up tall. “I want you to stop publishing Lord Dragonwise, effective immediately. Keep to this order, and you have nothing to fear.”

Lord Kilgharrah grinned. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Arthur faltered. “You’d rather get arrested and die imprisoned?”

Lord Kilgharrah gave him an unimpressed look. “I have my affairs in order, Your Highness. Aithusa will inherit a sizable sum for her dowry, paid for by the revenue from the papers, and the rest of the estate will pass to the vultures that I’m unlucky enough to call my family.” He lifted his chin. “I’m not afraid of the King, nor of death. Arrest me, or not. It matters little to me.”

Arthur only just kept himself from gaping. “You would continue publishing Lord Dragonwise? Against my explicit orders?”

Lord Kilgharrah inclined his head. “I am willing to take into consideration what you said about sparing the innocent. From now on, I vow not to write ill of those who are not to blame for their secrets. If you’d like, I can save Miss Freya Lake’s reputation. From what I hear, her parents have finally scraped together the money to have her naturalised.” He grinned, gold teeth flashing. “But no, I will not stop publishing. It is simply too much fun, riling up the King!”

Arthur stared at him. “I really can’t stop you, can I?”

“Not unless you want to arrest me,” Lord Kilgharrah replied. “But I think we both know you are too noble for that.”

And as much as Arthur hated to admit it, he knew Lord Kilgharrah was right. He could not find it in him to arrest a frail old man, especially one who had just vowed to right his past wrongs. “How do you even do it?” he found himself asking. “You never leave the house. How do you know all this gossip?”

Lord Kilgharrah smiled, then jerked his head at the door. Arthur turned, only to see George, standing at attention, hands folded at the back, pretending very hard not to listen.

“Chaperones,” Arthur murmured. “Of course.”

“They are everywhere, shadowing the ladies and gentlemen of Camelot, with nobody paying them any attention. Their presence is all that is required to keep up appearances.” When Arthur narrowed his eyes at George, Lord Kilgharrah chuckled. “Oh, no, don’t worry, sire. Your man over there is as discreet as they get. But the hired chaperones? The women and men in black? All it takes is a coin or two, and they are happy to divulge all they have overheard at the balls and outings of the ton.” He smirked. “I won’t give you the details, of course. I wouldn’t want you to tamper with my network.”

Arthur shook his head. He knew a lost battle when he saw one. “See to it that Miss Freya Lake is reinstated, and I will leave you to your gossip,” he said roughly, and made to leave.

“Your Highness?”

Arthur glanced back.

“Don’t hesitate to call on me again if you ever find yourself in need of assistance.”

“Assistance?” Arthur asked. “What sort of assistance could you possibly provide to me?”

Lord Kilgharrah grinned, replying cryptically, “You will see.”

Arthur was still mulling over what he had learned when he and George had returned to the unmarked carriage and made their way back to the castle. “George,” he spoke up at last. “Have you ever been approached by someone? To spy on me? Give away my secrets?”

George gave him an affronted look. “I would never inform anyone of your private affairs, Your Highness.”

Arthur looked him over and was suddenly struck by an epiphany. “Not even the King?” he ventured.

For the first time, in all the years he had been shadowed by him, Arthur saw prim George crack a smile. “Sire,” he said, suddenly sounding nothing like his constipated self and every bit the conspiring friend. “Not even the King needs to know everything.” He winked. “Certainly not about riding after certain gentlemen in the woods, or nighttime excursions into the Lower Town.”

Arthur stared at him. Disbelieving, he rubbed a hand over his eyes. When he looked at George again, he looked as prudish as ever.

“Was there anything else you needed, Your Highness?” he drawled.

“No,” Arthur said, flabbergasted. “No, nothing. Just—” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, George.”

George nodded. “My pleasure, sire.”

Chapter Text

Merlin did not know what he hated more—Cenred’s possessive hand on the small of his back, or the idea that he would have to spend a complete night in the man’s company, pretending to be delighted as he accepted well-wishes and congratulations over their recent engagement.

But then, he had better get used to it. Soon, the Earl and he would be married, and then he would be forced to endure much more than a few hours at Cenred’s side while attending Lady Morgause’s rout.

The guests were still gathering in the entrance hall, mingling and chatting as they waited to be shown to the supper room. Cenred had handed Merlin a glass of champagne, which he had been nursing for the past quarter-hour as the Earl introduced him to his acquaintances, giving Merlin an inkling just how illustrious the circles he moved in were. There was not a single person amongst them below the rank of Viscount or Viscountess, and Merlin felt very much out of his depth.

Fortunately, the Earl did not expect much of Merlin in terms of conversation, as usual, and so, Merlin could get away with standing by his side and nodding along as his fiancé talked.

Every once in a while, he dared to let his eyes stray towards the entrance. As it was, there was one thing he was very much looking forward to that night: seeing Freya again. Just the day before, Merlin had received an overjoyed letter from her, telling him that Lord Dragonwise’s latest article had not only reinstated her good reputation, but also resulted in her receiving a number of invitations, including one to Lady Morgause’s rout. Lord Dragonwise had never printed a redaction before, and it seemed to have resulted in great curiosity regarding Freya.

Merlin did not know why Lord Dragonwise had decided to take back his article. He could only guess it had something to do with the Prince’s investigation, though he doubted he would ever find out the truth.

Regardless, he had immediately written back to Freya, telling her that Cenred was planning to bring Merlin to the rout. He hadn’t received another response, but was dearly hoping Lady Alice would let Freya attend the party, too. It was a much more intimate affair than a ball, with no more than forty people invited, which Merlin hoped would give them plenty of opportunity to catch up.

Just then, the doors to the manor opened again. Merlin craned his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Freya, only to still when the butler announced, “Their Royal Highnesses, the Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon, and The Princess Royal, Morgana Pendragon.”

Merlin stared at the pair, his throat constricting. He had not known that any royals would be attending the rout, but then, from the looks and whispers from the people around them, neither had the rest of the guests, who all hurried to bow and curtsy as the pair stepped into the hall, followed by the Prince’s ever-present valet.

In contrast, Lady Morgause walked up to the Princess with a casualness that spoke of an intimate friendship. The Countess offered her and the Prince a small curtsy, only to be drawn close by the Princess a moment later, both of them exchanging kisses on the cheek.

Merlin’s eyes, however, were immediately drawn to the Prince, clad in an evening tailcoat in Pendragon red, adorned with gold trim. The last time he had seen Prince Arthur, he had been wearing his ridiculous peasant costume, flat cap and all. Seeing him now, in all the splendour of a Crown Prince, made Merlin’s mouth go dry, and a flush crept up his neck when he remembered just what he and the Prince had done when they had last come face to face. Memories flashed past him, of a hot, eager body pressing against his, of the most indecent noises escaping the Prince’s lips. From the prickling on his cheeks, Merlin was sure at least some of his thoughts had to be showing on his face.

In contrast, the Prince’s face was entirely neutral as he exchanged what seemed to be the usual pleasantries with the Countess. It didn’t take long, however, for him to step away from the women and approach a group standing to his left.

Belatedly, Merlin recognised Lady Mithian amongst them. Sure enough, it was her the Prince had spotted, and they began a conversation at once.

Merlin hurriedly tore his eyes away and took a large sip of champagne, wondering why his heart was beating quite so painfully. Was it merely the shock of seeing the Prince again? Was it seeing him converse with a woman he was very clearly courting? But what right did he have to be upset? Prince Arthur and he had shared a passionate kiss in the heat of the moment, not declared undying love to each other. What was more, Merlin had made his decision and agreed to marry Cenred.

Merlin emptied his glass with another, long gulp, only to startle when Cenred’s grip tightened on his back. “Slow down, will you, Merlin?” he tutted, leaning in. “I can hardly return you to your uncle drunk.”

“My apologies,” Merlin murmured. Ever since their engagement, Cenred had become increasingly patronising, even if he had so far refrained from leaving any more souvenirs on Merlin. Though perhaps that was only due to the ever-present chaperones.

“You are, of course, free to indulge at our wedding, if you feel it will relax you for what is to come,” Cenred added with a meaningful smirk.

Merlin tried his very best not to grimace as he gave a vague nod in response. The reminder of their quickly approaching nuptials was enough to make his stomach churn.

His gloomy mood lifted momentarily, however, when the doors to the manor opened again to admit none other than Lady Alice, followed by Freya, who looked absolutely radiant in a peach-coloured evening gown. Merlin would have liked nothing more than to dash right over, propriety be damned.

“Oh, her,” Cenred muttered next to Merlin, sniffing. “I suppose her reputation has been restored. Though I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of Lady Morgause’s. The Countess tends to keep rather more refined company.”

“Would you mind me greeting her?” Merlin asked, trying not to bristle at the Earl’s condescending tone.

“Why don’t you play cards with her later?” Cenred replied. “I’m sure there’ll be an opening at her table.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Merlin turned, only to feel the Earl’s grip tighten uncomfortably.

“Later, I said.”

Merlin froze. The Earl’s commanding tone had sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine. The part of him that had never done well with encroaching displays of authority immediately told him to rebel, but he was too spooked by the dangerous glint in Cenred’s eyes to put up a fight. Something told Merlin that he would dearly regret going against the Earl’s wish just then, and he did not want to do anything that would risk their engagement.

So he nodded, and did not approach Freya, though he made sure to meet her gaze across the hall and smile, trying to convey from afar that he was very happy to see her. From the excited grin Freya flashed back at him, the feeling was more than mutual.

Finally, Lady Morgause announced that supper was to be served. The royals, naturally, entered the dining room first, with the hostess taking Princess Morgana by her arm, whereas the Prince led Lady Mithian on his. They settled down near the head of the long table, with the Countess taking the head.

Merlin and Cenred were seated further down, in a spot that gave Merlin no chance to catch more than a vague glimpse of Freya, but offered a perfect view of the Prince and Lady Mithian. They were still in conversation, with the Prince leaning all the way in to catch whatever it was Lady Mithian was saying. As he pulled back a little, smiling, his eyes flickered upwards and Merlin was caught staring.

The Prince’s smile slipped, instantly replaced by a look that could only be called shock. Merlin’s flush returned in full force, embarrassed to be caught, but unable to look away nonetheless. Prince Arthur seemed equally transfixed. However, unlike Merlin, he seemed to be rapidly losing colour, his cheeks paling as if he had seen a ghost. He must not have expected Merlin to be at this rout, and it showed.

Still, they stared, the chatter of voices and clinking of glasses fading away as they were irrevocably caught in each other’s gaze.

It was Cenred’s elbow brushing against Merlin’s own that finally broke the spell. Merlin looked away first, blinking rapidly as he did, and tried to focus on whatever conversation Cenred had tried to draw him into. He made a point not to glance at the Prince again as they ate, though it cost him such effort that he hardly tasted the many delicacies the Countess was having served, vaguely humming his agreement whenever Cenred or his acquaintances commented on the white soup, collared eel or pickled tongue.

Over an hour later, the food had been demolished and the party was ushered into the drawing room, where the card tables had already been set up. A piano at the centre of the room was waiting to be played, and one of the gentlemen immediately volunteered to play a lively tune as everyone settled in.

Merlin sought out Freya’s eyes again, turning to walk towards her table, but again, Cenred stopped him, this time with a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you play a round of commerce with us, Merlin?” he said, and nudged him towards a chair.

“But I thought—” Merlin started.

“Or would you prefer a game of whist?” Cenred interrupted. “If you don’t know the game, I’m sure Lord Jarl will be happy to explain the rules to you, while I fetch you some lemonade.”

Before Merlin knew it, he had been roped into a game of cards with the Earl’s friends, far away from Freya’s table and seated in such a way that he could not even look at her without quite obviously turning on his chair.

“I had hoped to play the next round with my friend,” Merlin spoke up when their game hand ended, once more trying to leave. But Cenred’s insistent hand on his arm kept him in place.

“Her table is quite occupied,” he said, without turning to look and check.

Merlin frowned. Mindful of their company, he leaned in before arguing quietly, “I would really like to speak to Freya again. I haven’t had the chance to see her for quite some time, as you well know.”

Cenred looked him over. “Perhaps it should stay that way.”

Merlin wasn’t sure he had heard that right. “Pardon me?”

“My dear Merlin.” Cenred’s voice oozed with condescension. “You will soon be an Earl’s husband, which elevates you to nearly the same rank. Surely, you must realise that a person of such status is not usually seen mingling with the likes of Freya Bastet.”

“Miss Lake,” Merlin corrected him.

“Apologies,” Cenred drawled, without a hint of remorse. “Be that as it may, the girl is obscure and, judging by the poor quality of the muslin she is wearing, lacking in funds as well. You would do well to pay attention to the pedigree of your company.”

Merlin was of half a mind to throw his lemonade into the Earl’s face. “I’m quite capable of deciding who is and isn’t good company,” he shot back.

“Keep your voice down, will you?” Cenred reprimanded him quietly, and belatedly, Merlin realised he must have slipped up, for Lord Jarl had raised his eyebrows at him as he dealt the next hand. “I might have refrained from making such demands of you when we were still courting, but as my betrothed, I expect you to heed my advice: stay away from her!”

“You understand, my lord, that my own pedigree is rather lacking as well?” Merlin couldn’t help but retort as he picked up his cards.

“Our marriage will make up for it,” Cenred replied haughtily, though his eyes had narrowed dangerously again. “Besides, apart from your mother, you find yourself in the fortunate position not to be weighed down by unseemly relations. Soon after the wedding, everyone will have forgotten you are but some minor Baron’s son and see you for the rare gem that you are. Now stop making a scene, and play!”

But Merlin had long lowered his cards, and was staring at Cenred in utter disbelief. “What do you mean, apart from my mother?”

Cenred flashed their company an apologetic smile, then leaned back in. “Play, I said!”

“No,” Merlin retorted, only just managing to keep his voice to a whisper. “Explain yourself. What about my mother do you find unseemly?”

“Do you actually believe I didn’t make enquiries before asking for your hand, Merlin?” Cenred retorted quietly, though no less sharply. “What business led me away from the city before my proposal, do you think? I know all about your family’s nonexistent finances and your undignified upbringing.” At Merlin’s shocked face, he sneered. “My lawyers advised me against this match, you understand. I am marrying you despite your situation, and against my better judgement. You would do well to remember how lucky you are, for a rational man would regard this alliance between us as highly reprehensible.” With that, he slapped down a card onto the centre of the table. “And now, for the last time: play!”

And Merlin did—though he was quite sure he was only barely following the rules and losing spectacularly. He was too dazed by what Cenred had just revealed to him! All this time, Merlin had thought he would have to make haste and secure an engagement before the Earl found out about his family. But Cenred already knew all about their dire straits and had proposed in spite of it.

Merlin supposed the fact might have been flattering, a sign of Cenred’s genuine affection for him even, had it not been for the way the matter had just been relayed to him. And worse, the Earl had just made it abundantly clear what he thought of Merlin’s mother!

Had Merlin been foolish to assume his future husband would welcome Hunith with open arms? Had it been irrational to think that Cenred would see it as his responsibility to take care of his mother-in-law?

Merlin had not entered into this engagement under the illusion that the Earl would shower his mother in riches or pay the upkeep for Ealdor House. But he had expected, naïvely perhaps, that Hunith would be taken care of. That she would be welcome to stay at Fyrien Hall, at least in the winter months, and that Cenred would not mind Merlin paying for another servant or a new dress, and whatever else she might need to live in good comfort.

His mind was still reeling when the round ended, which meant he almost missed his chance to escape the card game when the gentleman at the piano asked for a replacement.

“I’ll do it,” Merlin spoke up, getting up from the table with such force he nearly toppled over his chair. “I’ll play.”

Before Cenred could deny him this, too, Merlin strode over to the piano and settled down on the bench. He was a mediocre player at best, he knew, and detested playing in front of an audience, but anything was better than having to spend one more minute next to Cenred.

Fuming, Merlin fished for some sheet music from the provided stack, looked it over, and started fumbling his way through a sonata in what he hoped was D major, all the while silently cursing the Earl.

Was this really what his life was supposed to be now? Bowing to his husband’s every whim? Keeping to the company Cenred deemed appropriate, engaging only in those pastimes he approved of? Bad enough Merlin would be caught in a loveless marriage with a man who repelled him, but now, it looked like he would not even be able to carve out a few hours of happiness in a day by seeing his friends, or even his own mother!

Was escaping poverty truly worth this? Living removed from all those he held dear? Being controlled and belittled until the end of his days? Merlin had been willing to make every sacrifice imaginable for the sake of his mother, but the Earl did not seem inclined to take care of Hunith. Should he still marry Cenred under these circumstances?

“What has that unfortunate sonata ever done to you, Mr Emrys?”

Merlin’s fingers stilled against the keys as his head snapped up to see none other than the Princess Royal standing next to the instrument.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Princess Morgana added with an indulgent smirk. “I was only reminding you it was supposed to be a happy tune, not a funeral march.”

Caught completely off-guard, Merlin flashed her a nervous smile, though he quickly resumed the song, trying not to botch it completely this time. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “I know my skill at the pianoforte is average at best.”

“And yet you so enthusiastically volunteered to play for us,” the Princess pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

If it was a reprimand, it was given with clear amusement. Merlin relaxed and, knowing the Princess and he had already sailed right past protocol by conversing without a formal introduction, even dared to quip, “Perhaps I take some twisted form of pleasure in assaulting the ears of Camelot’s most illustrious circles with my terrible playing, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps,” Princess Morgana conceded with a chuckle. “Or perhaps, you were trying to escape your company?”

Merlin’s smile slipped and he hurriedly glanced down at the keys. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken, ma’am. Lord Cenred and I have only just become engaged.”

“And yet you’d rather go out of your way to play an instrument for which you very clearly harbour no love, than to spend more time with your betrothed.”

Merlin swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. He did not reply and kept his eyes on the sheet music, only to realise he had missed his cue to turn the page. Not a moment later, a hand appeared in his field of vision as the Princess did the job for him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured as he continued to struggle through the next section.

“If not the pianoforte, what are your preferred pastimes, if I may ask?” the Princess prodded.

Merlin was starting to get the distinct feeling he was being interrogated. “Horse riding,” he replied cautiously. “Though I fear I am rather lacking in skill there as well.”

“What a curious quirk of character, to indulge in pursuits you have little skill for.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “I suppose. Undoubtedly, I could improve in either by ample practice, but where it is a lack of enthusiasm that keeps me from improving my abilities at the pianoforte, my riding suffers mainly due to the want of a horse.”

“I see,” said Princess Morgana, turning the page again. “And does your betrothed keep horses?”

“Yes, ma’am. A couple, for his barouche and foxhunting,” Merlin replied, glad to see he had at last reached the final parts of the sonata. “I don’t know that the Earl is one for leisurely riding, however.”

“Shame.” The Princess leaned in. “My brother, of course, very much is.”

Startled by the direction this conversation was taking, Merlin promptly botched the final notes of the song, but before he could reply, a hand appeared on his shoulder. He looked up to see it was none other than Cenred.

“Merlin,” he drawled, looking distinctly unamused. “I think we’ve had quite enough of your talents for this evening. Why don’t you come back to the table? We are short one player.”

Merlin stiffened, but again, he was kept from replying, this time by the Princess stepping in.

“Oh, but I quite thoroughly enjoyed Mr Emrys’s performance,” she said, sounding for all the world like she actually did. She was clearly a trained diplomat.

The Earl offered her a small bow as well as a suave smile. “You are much too kind, Your Highness.” His grip tightened on Merlin’s shoulder. “Come, Merlin. Make room for the more accomplished players.”

“No, really,” the Princess insisted, her voice still perfectly pleasant. “I would love to hear more from him. How is your singing voice, Mr Emrys?”

“Not terribly good, I’m afraid,” Merlin told her, reluctantly getting up when Cenred kept tugging at his shoulder. He was beginning to truly despise the Earl’s proprietary touches.

“I can hardly believe that,” said Princess Morgana. “A natural baritone like you?”

“Your Highness, your enthusiasm is much appreciated, but I’m afraid I’m in dire need of my fiancé,” the Earl said, his hand moving downwards to pull at Merlin’s arm. “Come now, Merlin. With me.”

For some reason, those words were the final straw. They sounded too much like a master telling his dog to heel. Merlin had enough of being ordered about! “Actually,” he retorted, freeing his arm with force. “I’m in need of some freshening-up. If you’ll excuse me?”

With a hasty bow for Princess Morgana, and not a single look more for Cenred, Merlin turned and left the drawing room.

Lady Mithian would make a formidable Queen. Of this, Arthur was entirely convinced.

She was graceful, well-spoken and confident, could make engaging conversation no matter how bland the topic, smoothed over other people’s blunders with a charming smile and was all together a thoroughly likeable person. The people would adore her, Arthur was sure of it.

Now, if only Arthur could find it in him to adore her, too!

He could easily see himself ruling with Lady Mithian by his side, asking her for advice on legislation or diplomatic matters, watching her give a speech or rein in wayward lords in parliament, but he could not, for the life of him, imagine her in his bed. The thought was about as appealing to him as bedding his own sister—and wasn’t that a disturbing thought!

Still, he supposed that, if he had to marry someone he did not love or desire, he’d much rather it were someone like Lady Mithian, who was actually capable and worthy of the responsibility that came with the Crown.

“If I may say so, Your Highness, your luck at commerce leaves much to be desired,” Lady Mithian teased him, after Arthur had managed to lose all his counters in the matter of a few rounds and was now confined to watching the other players trade and knock.

“I must confess, I’m not much of a card player, my lady,” Arthur told her. “I prefer dice.”

“Which is, of course, even more dependent on good luck,” Lady Mithian retorted with a twinkle in her eye.

“Well, you know what they say, Your Highness,” Lady Morgause spoke up, who was sitting across from them. “Unlucky at cards, lucky in…” She gave them both a meaningful look over her hand.

Arthur awkwardly cleared his throat. Morgause and Morgana had always got on splendidly, and not only because they were cousins through Morgana’s mother, but because they were both terrible meddlers—and not always subtle ones.

Arthur was half-convinced Morgana had insisted he come to this rout not to meet Lady Mithian, but another person altogether. Still, sensing that, he couldn’t quite keep his eyes from straying to the pianoforte again, where a certain gentleman was currently playing. Mr Emrys was clearly not a very accomplished musician, and still, Arthur could not help but listen to him cheating his way through the trills and downbeats of the song he had chosen and be utterly charmed by it.

He must have stared just a little too long, though, for when he looked back at Lady Mithian, she had followed his gaze. “Are you enjoying the performance, sire?” she asked in a low voice, sounding perfectly pleasant as she leaned in.

“I suppose,” Arthur evaded.

“That is Mr Merlin Emrys, isn’t it?” she added.

“I believe it is.”

Lady Mithian’s polite little smile never wavered. “I was under the impression that you and Mr Emrys were acquainted, Your Highness.”

“We have talked once or twice, yes,” Arthur replied. He tried to focus on the conversation, but just then, he saw Morgana making her way over to the piano. His eyes narrowed when he saw her engage Mr Emrys in conversation, though Arthur knew for a fact they had yet to be formally introduced. What on earth was she doing?

“Once or twice,” Lady Mithian repeated and now, she sounded amused. “Just like you have looked at the gentleman once or twice this evening?”

Arthur blinked, feeling caught, though it still took considerable effort to tear his eyes away, as Morgana had now leaned in and looked to be bantering with Mr Emrys. He had thought he had done a good enough job hiding his perpetual awareness of Mr Emrys in the room, but Lady Mithian was clearly nothing if not observant. “You must be mistaken,” he replied nonetheless. “I have no special interest in Mr Emrys.”

For the first time tonight, a frown appeared on Lady Mithian’s face. She raised her hand to signal she was tapping out of the game, her eyes on Arthur. “Your Highness,” she said and suddenly, she sounded entirely serious. “I’d like you to know that while I appreciate your recent attentions, you do not need to feel yourself beholden to some unspoken promise. I expect absolutely nothing of you, no matter how many dances we have danced or promenades we have walked.”

Arthur was taken aback. “My lady?”

Lady Mithian shook her head. “Let me speak more plainly, then,” she murmured,  throwing a cautious look at the other players. “My father has high hopes for this courtship, and I would lie if I said I am not very flattered that you seem to be thinking along the same lines. In fact, if you really were to pursue this path, I could see myself rather deeply… affected by such a connection.”

Arthur looked at her. “You speak of love,” he said, stunned into bluntness.

Lady Mithian averted her eyes and started fiddling with her remaining counters. “You’re a very likeable person, sire,” she said, perhaps with a note of embarrassment. “And if you were a free man, I think there might be something to be found here, between the two of us. Something mutual and long-lasting.”

Arthur stared at her. “If I were a free man?”

Lady Mithian threw a meaningful look at the pianoforte, where just now, Lord Cenred had materialised by Mr Emrys’s side, trying to urge him away from the instrument. Not a moment later, Mr Emrys shook off the Earl’s hand and made to leave the room, looking genuinely upset.

“See?” Lady Mithian sighed. “It’s in the way you look at him. I would give almost anything for someone to look at me like that.”

Arthur glanced back at her and found nothing but compassion in her eyes. “My lady—I…” he stammered.

“He looked quite distressed, your Mr Emrys. You should go after him,” Lady Mithian encouraged as she picked up her new cards. “I will ask Miss Lake over there to fill your spot at the table. I’ve been of a mind to get to know her better.” With that, she straightened on her chair and focused back on the game.

Arthur needed a moment to come to terms with their conversation. When he had, he stood, excused himself from the other players and made directly for the door through which Mr Emrys had disappeared, seeing George follow him out of the corner of his eye.

He found Mr Emrys in the entrance hall, leaning against a pillar. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. A black-clad chaperone lingered nearby, watching him carefully, perhaps afraid Mr Emrys was about to be sick.

Arthur approached. “Mr Emrys. Are you well?”

Mr Emrys’s eyes snapped open. He immediately straightened and took a step away from the pillar. “Oh, yes. Quite well. Thank you, sire,” he said, though his voice was quite obviously strained and he didn’t meet Arthur’s eyes when he spoke.

Arthur looked about, incredibly mindful of big-eared chaperones ever since speaking to Lord Kilgharrah. “Why don’t we step into the supper room?” he suggested, giving George a meaningful nod. “We can open the windows there. You look a little pale.”

Mr Emrys did not reply, but allowed Arthur to usher him through the nearby door, which was enough to tell Arthur that something had to be quite terribly wrong, for Mr Emrys had never struck him as someone easily commanded.

George left the door of the supper room ajar, ever mindful of appearances, positioning himself in such a way that anybody passing by could see that they were being supervised, while giving Mr Emrys and Arthur privacy. Arthur wondered faintly if he should give the valet a raise, though his thoughts were instantly redirected when Mr Emrys suddenly let out a noise that was much too close to a sob for Arthur’s liking.

Alarmed, he stepped closer, only to see that Mr Emrys wasn’t crying at all, but shaking his head and chuckling self-depreciatively.

“Mr Emrys…?” Arthur ventured.

Mr Emrys was still shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding defeated. “It’s just—I’m so angry at myself.”

“For what?”

Mr Emrys made a vague gesture. “I’ve no right to be upset,” he said cryptically. “I’ve put myself in this situation, really. Walked into it with my eyes wide open.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur asked, growing ever more alarmed.

“My engagement with Lord Cenred,” Mr Emrys said bitterly and finally, he looked up.

Arthur’s heart constricted when he saw the look on his face. There was pain in his eyes, painting them a stormy blue, and sorrow was written all over his handsome features. “You’re unhappy?” he hazarded.

“Unhappy is not even close to what I am,” Mr Emrys stated, sounding utterly helpless as he said it.

Arthur knew it was wrong of him to feel relief at the words, but still, the idea that Mr Emrys had not entered into an engagement with Lord Cenred out of some deeper affection was balm for his soul. “Why did you agree to the engagement, if the idea upsets you so?”

Mr Emrys let out a humourless laugh. “Why does anyone get engaged?” he retorted. “Because it is expected. Because the match is an advantageous one. Because without a wealthy spouse, your family is left with nothing.”

“You are marrying him for his money.” Arthur realised the truth only as he spoke it aloud.

Mr Emrys threw him another pained look. “Please do not think any less of me for it,” he implored.

“How could I ever?” Arthur answered, hoping to convey all of the compassion he felt instead. “I know better than anyone else the pressure to marry the right person.”

Mr Emrys looked him over. “You do not like Lady Mithian?” he surmised with a sad smile.

Arthur couldn’t bear his tone. Mr Emrys should not be wasting his pity on him. “I like her well enough,” he admitted. “She has all the qualities of a good wife and a great Queen. But…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. He couldn’t very well tell Mr Emrys that he was already in love with somebody else, and that person stood right before him.

“I see,” Mr Emrys replied. “But she is agreeable? Kind-hearted?”

“Most certainly,” Arthur replied, without hesitation. “I’m sure she would make every effort to see me happy.”

Mr Emrys nodded. “I fear I cannot say the same thing for the Earl,” he admitted and tugged at his cravat, as if terribly constricted by it.

Arthur did not know why, but the movement made him shudder. There was something about Mr Emrys’s demeanour just then, something cowed and defeated that was so unlike the man he had come to know, the brazen, cheeky country lad that had managed to take possession of his very soul. “I must admit, he never struck me as a kind person,” he said cautiously.

Mr Emrys pressed his lips together, wrapping his arms around his chest as he shook his head.

A terrible suspicion snuck up on Arthur just then, a suspicion that made something hot and molten climb up his throat. “The Earl,” he said, hearing his voice grow urgent. “Has he been unkind to you?”

Mr Emrys looked away, his arms still wrapped around his torso. “What do you mean, sire?”

Arthur took a step closer. “Has he done something? Hurt you?” he demanded. “Has he…” Arthur faltered, taking a deep breath as he took another step closer, now only inches away from a faintly trembling Mr Emrys. “Has he overstepped?”

Mr Emrys drew in a hitching breath. It was answer enough.

“I’ll challenge him,” Arthur vowed, knowing fully well it was irrational. But he had been seized by a terrible wave of anger, an ire so scorching it set every last fibre of his body on fire, engulfed by an urge to make the Earl pay. “I will go right now, and I will challenge him to a duel!”

He turned, determined to see his threat through, only to find Mr Emrys’s hand on his arm a moment later. “What? No!” he exclaimed. “Your Highness, no, that’s not—he hasn’t done anything!”

Arthur stared at him. “But you—”

“He has done nothing that would warrant a duel!” Mr Emrys told him, still holding onto Arthur’s arm. “Nothing I haven’t done myself, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

Mr Emrys’s eyes shone with emotion. “You know perfectly well what I mean,” he replied faintly. “I am no innocent. You know this better than anyone else. What Lord Cenred did was harmless in comparison to what I—what we—” He broke off, abruptly letting go of Arthur’s arm.

Realisation hit Arthur like a wave, the shock cold enough to douse at least some of the red anger he had felt over Lord Cenred’s implied transgression. Mr Emrys was comparing what had happened between the Earl and him to their own moment of passion. The thought was sickening enough that it took Arthur some time to centre himself, and by the time he had found his footing again, Mr Emrys had stepped away, shoulders curled in and face once more averted.

“So you see, I have no right to complain,” he said miserably. “No right at all.”

Arthur shook his head, his heart bleeding at the thought of seeing Mr Emrys enter into a marriage that would bring him nothing but grief. “You cannot see this through,” he pleaded with him. “If he makes you this unhappy, you must break off the engagement.”

“I’m not sure if I’m strong enough for that,” Mr Emrys replied. “I’m not sure I can afford to, either.”

“But you want to?” Arthur pushed. “If you could, if you had the means to, you would end the engagement?”

Mr Emrys hesitated, but then, slowly, nodded.

“And if you did end it, what would you do?”

Mr Emrys looked at him, then, soft eyes lingering, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I should hope, perhaps… marry the person I love?” And it was clear, from the way he said it, from the emotion wrapped around every syllable, that he was not speaking of hypotheticals. There was indeed such a person for him.

Arthur swallowed, his heart suddenly beating incredibly fast. He opened his mouth to ask a question, the most important question of all, perhaps, but his throat was tight with nerves and he faltered, just a little too long.

“I must thank you, by the way,” Mr Emrys added. “I take it you are behind Freya’s good fortune?”

Arthur took a step back, reeling from the blow, nonphysical though it was. Miss Freya Lake—of course. The girl Mr Emrys had been ready to risk his own reputation for by stealing away from his uncle’s home in the middle of the night and chasing messengers through the Lower Town. It must be her he meant! No wonder he had regretted their kiss in the closet. No wonder he found himself comparing their passionate moment to whatever happened between Lord Cenred and him. He loved someone else!

“Yes,” Arthur croaked.

Mr Emrys broke into a smile, the kind of smile that made his whole face crinkle and dimple. “I’m eternally grateful to you, then,” he said. “I don’t know what deal you struck with Lord Dragonwise, but his retraction saved her.” He dipped his head. “Thank you, sire. From both of us.”

“You are welcome,” Arthur replied stiffly, and somehow did not crumble into a million pieces while he said it. “We should return to the drawing room,” he added. “Even with a chaperone, it would be odd to find us in here all alone.”

Mr Emrys nodded. “Thank you for listening,” he said and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Of course.” Arthur led them back to the card tables in silence, a quiet George in tow.

In the drawing room, Mr Emrys excused himself. He did not return to an impatient-looking Lord Cenred, but made a beeline for Miss Lake instead, who had settled down next to Lady Mithian in Arthur’s former spot. She looked overjoyed to see Mr Emrys join them in their game and moments later, they sat with their heads inclined close together, laughing and playing cards.

Swallowing heavily, Arthur turned away—only to walk right into Morgana’s arms.

“There you are,” she said, smirking as she gave him a meaningful look. “Am I mistaken or did you just enjoy a private moment with Mr Emrys?”

Arthur ignored her question. “I am returning to the castle,” he brushed her off. “Urgent business, I’m afraid.”

Morgana frowned. “Urgent business? What sort of urgent business?”

But Arthur did not elaborate. He went to make his excuses with the hostess, then waved at George to call for the carriage.

“Arthur! Did something happen?” Morgana tried again as he left, following him into the entrance hall, but he paid her no mind. His thoughts were otherwise occupied.

It had just become crystal clear to him what he needed to do to save Mr Emrys from his terrible engagement with Lord Cenred.

Perhaps he could never have the man himself, but he most certainly could free him from a life lived with someone he detested. Mr Emrys deserved to be happy with Miss Lake, now that they were reunited. Arthur would make it possible for him to live a life with the person he loved.

He would speak to the King and make this right.

Chapter Text

Merlin stared at the card he had just been handed by the red-clad messenger. It was stamped with the royal seal, the golden drake gleaming in the candlelight. It took Merlin three tries to make sense of the words in the missive.

“The King?” he said at last, voice high-pitched. “Whatever does he want with me?”

“We are to leave at once, Mr Emrys,” said the messenger. He was standing in the dim entrance hall of Surgeon House, flanked by royal guards, two tall, grim-faced women who looked like they knew their way around the sword. “The carriage awaits.”

Merlin looked at him helplessly. “But it’s already gone dark out—”

“Merlin.” This was Gaius, clad in his housecoat and ready to retire for the night. His face was guarded. “Go and get changed. We cannot make the King wait.”

Not even a quarter of an hour later, Merlin and Gaius were sitting in the carriage, the messenger seated on the bench across from them, with the two guards riding along on the running boards outside. It was utterly surreal.

“Can you give us any further information why Mr Emrys has been summoned to the palace?” Gaius asked the messenger.

“The King requires his presence at the castle posthaste,” the man replied sternly, and nothing more.

Merlin and Gaius exchanged a look and Merlin’s stomach did a wild somersault when he took in the grave expression on his uncle’s face. Whatever this was about, Gaius seemed to believe it wasn’t good.

Merlin pressed his lips together to keep them from quivering. Unable to face the worry on Gaius’s face any longer, he looked outside, watching the dark, deserted streets of Camelot pass them by.

What on earth could the King want from him, at this time of night no less? Was he being arrested? For what? Sneaking about the Lower Town with the Prince, perhaps? It was the only reasonable explanation he could come up with, though he hadn’t known that what he had done was a crime.

His stomach cramped when another thought occurred to him. Perhaps it wasn’t the sneaking about that the King was concerned with, but another matter entirely. Had His Majesty found out about what he and the Prince had done in the closet? But how could he, unless the Prince himself had told him?

The queasy feeling in Merlin’s stomach only worsened when he thought of the Prince. Ever since their conversation in Lady Morgause’s supper room, Merlin had been relentlessly plagued by thoughts of him. He was pining, plain and simple, longing for someone whom he knew he could not have.

He should have never fallen for Prince Arthur, but how could he have not? Despite his unfavourable first impression, Prince Arthur had turned out to be more than just a handsome prat. He was kind and noble of character. He had recently gone out of his way to help Freya. What was more, he had followed Merlin from the drawing room at the rout after seeing him upset, and spoken to him so intimately of matters of the heart! For a moment, Merlin had even been convinced that there had been something there, something—

But if there had been, it had remained unsaid, and the Prince’s hurried departure from Lady Morgause’s party soon after had sent a clear enough message. Still, Prince Arthur would have never told his father of their indiscretion, Merlin was sure of it.

But then, why had he been summoned by the King? What on earth had he done wrong?

By the time the white turrets of Camelot Castle came into view, Merlin was about ready to throw up, his hands clammy and trembling. The last time he had entered the palace, he had been nervous, too, though his anxiety about his debut seemed laughable now in comparison to the fright that had taken hold of him.

They passed the palace gates without delay and the carriage stopped in the courtyard, where a footman immediately stepped forward to open the door for them. The fresh air helped with the nausea, but that was about the only positive thing that could be said. Merlin left the carriage on shaky legs and came face-to-face with another grim-faced palace official. “Sir Gaius, Mr Emrys,” she said with a curt nod. “Follow me.”

They took the grand stairs up to the main entrance, then were led down several long hallways, past rich tapestries and suits of armour, until they came upon a double doorway. The woman gestured at the guards flanking the entrance, who promptly opened the doors for them.

Merlin came to an abrupt halt, suddenly seized by a terrible, if perhaps irrational fear. What if he never left these walls again? What if he was dragged to the dungeons and never returned to see the day of light?

“His Majesty is waiting,” said the official with an impatient wave, when Merlin didn’t make a move to go inside.

It needed Gaius’s hand at his back, firmly pushing him forwards, to unstick Merlin’s frozen feet. They entered what looked to be a small throne room, not the large one the debuts had been held at, though the throne was empty. King Uther had chosen to stand by the window. There was no doubt it was him, given the red uniform and grey hair, though his back was turned towards them as he looked on into the night.

“Sir Gaius Draughtbrew, and Mr Merlin Emrys,” the palace official announced before she stepped back out of the room. The doors closed with an ominous thud, and then they were alone with the King of Camelot.

Merlin stared at the King’s back, his heart thumping so loudly in his ears he was sure it had to be echoing off the walls of the room. It was so distracting that he almost missed his cue to bow when the King turned, and he ended up catching a glimpse of his steely gaze as he lowered his head too late.

He followed Gaius’s example and bowed for much longer than the last time he had faced the King. When they finally straightened again and Merlin dared to glance up, he was met with an expression so hard and disapproving, it made him break out into a cold sweat. Whatever it was that he had done, the King looked about ready to have his head for it.

“Mr Emrys,” he said, and his voice was sharp enough to cut through stone.

Merlin gulped. “Your Majesty?” he forced out, though the words were little more than a whisper. Next to him, he could hear Gaius shift nervously.

The King took a step forward, his eyes narrowed. “I am starting to grow tired of hearing your name.”

Merlin shrank back. “Sire?”

King Uther made a gesture with his hand as if he were swatting at an annoying fly. “Bad enough I have to keep reading one preposterous article after another about you in the gossip papers,” he groused. “Bad enough you have, somehow, managed to get your name connected to that of my son. Now, I must deal with you again! You, and your family!”

Merlin felt his knees grow weak. His family? Was the King talking about his mother? “What about my family, sire?” he asked shakily.

The King sneered. “Your father,” he spat and started to move. Belatedly, Merlin realised he was approaching a table to the side of the room. “He has been missing for nearly two decades, I understand.”

Merlin blinked, caught completely by surprise. The King wanted to talk about his father? “I—yes, Your Majesty,” he stammered. “I was but three years old when he last left Ealdor House.”

“And he has not been seen or heard of since,” King Uther added. “No letters, no messengers?”

“Nothing, sire,” Merlin confirmed, growing more confused by the moment.

The King nodded as he came to a halt at the table, where he picked up a scroll of paper with a thick wax seal. He looked at it, weighing it in his hand for a long moment, then turned sharply on his heels and came closer again. “I have spoken to Geoffrey of Monmouth, the Lord Archivist. He looked over the special stipulations regarding the Emrys Barony. They are old, but not fixed in stone. I’m willing to have them changed, if you show yourself cooperative.”

Cooperative? Stipulations? Uncomprehending, Merlin shook his head. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Do not play dumb with me, Mr Emrys!” barked the King, and Merlin flinched back. “I know you have asked this of my son. Of course, only the King can grant what you seek, something you must have either been unaware of, or presumptuous enough to disregard when making your impertinent request.”

Merlin was still trying to wrap his mind around the King’s earlier words. “Sire,” he tried again. “I'm very sorry, but—”

“Do not try my patience!” the King cut him off, glowering. “I am graciously considering granting your appeal to have your father declared dead and his title passed on to you, as well as to break the special stipulations that have kept your mother from managing your family’s affairs. From now on, any heir, regardless of gender, shall be granted full rights in regards to the Emrys estate. The Barony will remain intact, and at least some of its original lands be returned to you. Your cousin, Mr Sigan, will be ordered to pay redress for his actions.”

Merlin stared at the King in complete disbelief, though a small spark of hope lit up in his chest. “You’re rebuilding the Emrys estate and making me Baron?” He could hardly believe it! That would change everything!

King Uther was still glaring at him. “Under one condition.”

Merlin stilled at his tone. “What condition, sire?”

“From now on, you will stay away from my son. Your relationship ends, here and now.”

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat, his chest constricting with shock. “Our relationship?” he repeated. “What relationship?”

The King looked at Merlin as if he were a particularly disgusting worm. “I do not know exactly what it is you have done to make the Prince forget his duty, though I have an inkling it must have been unsavoury in nature. But whatever there was between you, it is finished, once and for all, as soon as I hand you this.” He lifted the scroll. “My son is to be married, and from what I’ve read, so are you. You will forget all about him. If I hear you have approached him again, I will have you arrested for indecency.”

Merlin gaped at the King, momentarily lost for words as the implications came crashing down on him.

“Your Majesty,” Gaius spoke up for him, clearly aiming for a placating tone. “Please, I assure you—”

The King immediately rounded on Gaius. “You!” he accused. “I expected better from you! I thought you were an honourable man, but instead, you have exploited my good will!”

Gaius raised a calming hand, respectfully bowing his head. “Sire, please, I beg forgiveness for any offence Merlin or I might have caused to the Crown, but I truly believe there must be some misunderstanding here.”

“I have misunderstood nothing,” the King snapped. “I do not care whether you planned to have your licentious ward lead my son astray, or simply neglected to stop him, but either way, you have disgraced yourself!”

“Lead your son astray?” Merlin repeated faintly.

“You dare deny it?” the King demanded. “I might not have actual proof of your dalliance, but I know something must have happened between the two of you. Why else would my son extort me over this?” Again, he waved the scroll.

Merlin was starting to feel like this was all a terrible dream. “Extort?” he cried, reduced to mindless echoes.

“It is either I fix the mess that is your family’s estate, or Arthur refuses to marry Lady Mithian,” King Uther sneered. “Believe me, I was of a mind to have him thrown in the dungeons until he saw reason, but I’ve decided I want this to go away quickly and quietly. There has been enough gossip and unrest. I need Arthur married and prepared for kingship, not mooning after some country floozy.” He held out the scroll. “By accepting your father’s title, the restitutions made to the Emrys estate as well as the change of the hereditary stipulations, you agree to distance yourself from the Crown Prince, once and for all. Your future husband, the Earl of Escetir, will equally refrain from approaching him. You will both retire to Lord Cenred’s country house and not return to the city, except for urgent business. Do you accept these conditions?”

Merlin stared at the scroll. Finally, he was starting to get a grasp on the situation, though he still could find little sense in it. Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up tall, aiming for some sense of dignity in the face of the King’s accusations. “Your Majesty,” he said, knowing the words lacked any of the respect they should have been infused with. “Let me make several things clear. First of all, I will not be marrying the Earl of Escetir.”

The King stared at him. “You will not?”

“No. I have broken off the engagement this morning.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “My son—”

“Your son played no part in my decision,” Merlin interrupted him brazenly, though the words weren’t entirely the truth. “I ended the engagement because I have found Lord Cenred to be an unsuitable partner.”

“Unsuitable? An Earl? Hardly,” scoffed the King. “You were counting on this!” He waved the scroll again. “But suit yourself. Take what my son has procured for you and leave Camelot without the Earl. If you set foot into the city again for anything other than matters of Parliament, I will have you arrested.”

“I never asked the Prince for anything,” Merlin retorted. “If Prince Arthur has indeed spoken to you on my behalf, it was not due to my request.” He took a deep breath, then added with a look at the scroll, “And in fact, I refuse your offer.”

The King’s eyes widened. “You refuse?”

“I refuse,” Merlin confirmed, ignoring Gaius’s shocked gasp. “I did not ask for any of this, nor do I wish to play part in any bargain the Prince might have struck with you.” He dipped his head, though he doubted it was enough to make up for any of the disrespect he had displayed. “If that is all, Your Majesty?”

For a long moment, the King looked to be lost for words. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and dangerous. “You understand,” he hissed, “what your refusal means? I might very well decide to break up the Emrys Barony instead. You will stand to inherit nothing, not even a courtesy title. You will well and truly be a nobody.”

The threat settled heavily on Merlin’s chest. Break up the Barony? He would be stripped of his rank, lose his place amongst the peerage and forfeit any remaining chance to save the Emrys estate.

But what chance was there, anyway? None, without a good marriage, which he had just given up by breaking the engagement with Cenred. And a title meant little when there was no land or money to back it up.

Besides, he could not ask the Prince to enter into a marriage he had told Merlin he did not desire so his family could be saved. He did not know why Prince Arthur had asked his father for any of this—did not dare to think of the implications—but he refused to be part of whatever game the King was playing with his son.

“Then so be it, sire,” he said and lifted his chin. “I still refuse.”

“Merlin!” Gaius spoke up, sounding horrified. “Think of what you’re doing! You cannot—!”

“No, Uncle,” Merlin interrupted, his eyes still on the King. “If His Majesty wants to revoke the Barony, so be it. I cannot stop him. But I will not be coerced into anything, nor force the Prince’s hand by accepting this offer.” He stared the King down a moment longer, then threw Gaius a shaky smile. “I have just claimed my freedom by rejecting the Earl’s hand. I will not bind myself by different chains.” He looked at the King. “Your Majesty.”

Without bothering to bow again, Merlin turned and marched straight out of the room, fully expecting to be stopped by the guards at the door.

But nobody stepped into his way or came after him, except an out-of-breath Gaius, who caught up with him just as he approached the carriage.

“You foolish boy!” he gasped, clasping Merlin’s shoulder and holding him back. “What on earth are you doing? You have just thrown away your entire future!”

Merlin gave him a bitter smile. “You said the same thing when I broke off the engagement with the Earl this morning.”

Gaius shook his head at him, his face ashen, even in the dim light of the oil lamps illuminating the courtyard. “Whatever will we tell your mother when she arrives tomorrow?”

“The truth,” Merlin replied and turned towards the carriage.

“Are you secretly engaged to Mr Emrys?”

Arthur stared at his father, unsure if he was dreaming. The whole situation was simply too absurd, with a red-faced King Uther pacing through his bedchamber, asking senseless questions, while Arthur sat in his bed half-dressed. “Am I what?” he asked incredulously.

“It is the only explanation I can come up with,” the King said as he stomped across Arthur’s room. “You must have made some sort of promise to him. Something he considers binding. Something he can prove to the public, too.” Uther’s head snapped up and his eyes widened as he exclaimed, “Please don’t tell me you were foolish enough to put it in writing!”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his face, then pinched his leg for good measure. When the situation turned out to be real, he swung his legs out of bed and stood. “Father,” he said. “I have no idea what you are speaking of. Why should I be engaged to Mr Emrys?”

“Because he just refused my offer to salvage his family’s estate and pass on his father’s title!”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. “He—what?” He shook his head, disbelieving. Why on earth would Mr Emrys do that?

“Refused!” the King repeated. “He would not accept my conditions!” He stepped closer, face thunderous. “I will ask you one more time: Are you engaged to Mr Emrys? Has a promise been made?”

“I—no, of course not,” Arthur stammered, shaking his head again, which was reeling. What was happening? Why had Mr Emrys refused? Had he not realised Arthur had made it so he would be free to marry Miss Lake? “How could there be an engagement?” he added after a moment. “He’s not—I haven’t—he’s engaged to Lord Cenred!”

“Apparently, he is not!” the King retorted with a sneer. “He claims he has broken off the engagement with the Earl. He must have been convinced he would be marrying you instead.”

Arthur ran a frantic hand through his hair as he digested the news. “He broke off the engagement, but refused his father’s title? The reimbursements from his cousin, the restitution of the lands, all of it?”

“All of it,” the King confirmed.

“But I don’t understand!” Arthur cried.

“He said he did not want to be part of any bargain,” the King spat, then approached abruptly to grab Arthur’s shoulder in a punishing grip. “Now, for the last time, Arthur, tell me: have you, or have you not, made a binding promise to Mr Emrys? Something that you could be beholden to in the eye of the public? Something that would make for a scandal?”

Arthur looked his father in the eye. This, he could deny with certainty: “I have not.”

Uther searched his face for a moment, then let go and straightened his back. “Good,” he said curtly. “I had to ask, you understand. Mr Emrys was quite stubborn, but it seems he is merely a fool. Perhaps he thought… but it is no matter.” The King let out a triumphant laugh, then made for the door, only to stop and turn again. “Our deal still stands,” he said. “I offered Mr Emrys restitution. It is not my fault he refused. I expect you to propose to Lady Mithian forthwith.”

With that, he exited Arthur’s chambers, leaving Arthur to sink back down onto the bed. His whole body seemed to be brimming, confusion warring with something that felt like a mad sort of hope.

Mr Emrys had broken off the engagement with Lord Cenred! That in itself was not surprising, given how upset he had been, but his refusal of his father’s title certainly was. Mr Emrys must have realised the weight of his decision. With some of the lands and money returned, and his mother free to assist, he would have had a real chance to rebuild the estate and marry Miss Lake.

Why would he not accept such a gift? Mr Emrys did not strike Arthur as someone clinging to false pride, though perhaps as noble enough to refuse an offer he felt would harm Arthur.

Was that all there was to it? Had he tried to do right by Arthur and free him from the deal he had struck with his father?

Suddenly, he was seized by an urgent need to know. He had to speak to Mr Emrys—now! Determined, he jumped up from the bed and went directly for his wardrobe to get at his coats and pantaloons.

“Sire?”

Arthur flinched and turned around to see George stand in the doorway to the antechamber, fingers laced behind his back. “Go to bed, George,” Arthur ordered curtly and turned back to his clothes.

But the valet approached instead, coming to stand next to him. “Sire,” he repeated, now sounding stern. It seemed he knew exactly what Arthur was about to do.

Arthur scowled at him. “You can’t stop me,” he said, blindly rummaging through the wardrobe. “And it would be hypocritical for you to do so, given the fact you have let me get away with so many other indiscretions these past weeks.”

George frowned. “I only ask that you think rationally about this, Your Highness,” he responded. “It is the middle of the night, and what is more, the King is awake and his personal staff still roam the castle. You will not be able to slip out quietly under these circumstances.”

Arthur threw him another, more desperate look. “I don’t care! I need to speak to him!” He started to shove his arm into the random coat he had chosen. “You must have overheard, surely? Mr Emrys—I simply cannot—what if he—”

He fell silent when George’s hand curled gently around his wrist, stopping his clumsy attempts to get dressed. “Mr Emrys will not be making a sudden escape from Camelot tonight, sire,” he said quietly. “He will still be there tomorrow, at his uncle’s home, which you can easily reach with an unmarked carriage, without drawing nearly as much attention to yourself as you would by sneaking there now.” He smiled faintly. “And you could be dressed for the occasion, too, not for a bout of fencing.”

Arthur glanced down at the jacket he had retrieved and saw that it was indeed a white one. A hysterical sort of laugh bubbled up his throat. He shook his head at himself, but allowed George to pull the coat off and gently push him back towards the bed.

“For now, you must rest, Your Highness,” George told him with a hint of scolding. “I will make arrangements for tomorrow.”

Arthur looked up at him from the bed, suddenly feeling not only incredibly tired, but humbled beyond belief. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your loyalty,” he said quietly. “But thank you.”

George only gave him a prim nod, then slipped away, leaving Arthur to lie down.

But no matter that he knew George was going to help him tomorrow morning, he hardly found any sleep, between the wondering and the fretting. He tossed and turned the whole night and was up at the first light of dawn, pacing his chambers until George finally made a reappearance.

The valet tutted over Arthur’s bleary eyes and wild hair, but somehow managed to make him look presentable while he informed Arthur he had already made excuses for breakfast with the King. Still, it was past 8 o’clock when they finally left the castle and made for Sir Gaius’s residence. The whole ride there, Arthur plucked nervously at the golden seams of his red tailcoat, resulting in a thoroughly disapproving look and pursed lips from George.

Eventually, they arrived at Surgeon House, where Arthur had to wait in the carriage for torturous minutes while George cleared the coast for him. Finally, Arthur entered the house, once more shocking an unexpecting butler. “I need to see Mr Emrys,” he demanded. “Urgently.”

“He’s not yet dressed, sire,” stammered the butler. “And Sir Gaius isn’t even awake yet, I’m afraid. Shall I—?”

“I will wait,” Arthur cut him off impatiently and was shown to the drawing room, where he paced up and down, up and down, with George watching him warily from the corner.

At last, hurried footfalls announced someone’s arrival, and not a moment later, Mr Emrys burst through the door, practically falling into the room, his waistcoat half-buttoned, his hair in a wild state of disarray and his cravat so sloppily tied, it was practically slipping off his neck.

Arthur thought he had never looked more beautiful.

“Your Highness,” Mr Emrys gasped as he righted himself, eyes wide and impossibly blue in the soft morning light. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur could not hold back a moment longer. “Why have you refused my father’s offer?” he demanded.

Mr Emrys blinked at him. “Why have I…?” He shook his head, then returned, “Why have you asked the King to make the offer?”

“To free you, of course,” Arthur replied, his eyes searching Mr Emrys’s face as he took a step forward. “So you could break off the engagement with Lord Cenred and ask for Miss Lake’s hand instead!”

“Miss Lake?” Mr Emrys exclaimed, his voice turning incredulous. “What makes you think I want to marry Freya?”

His words struck Arthur to the core, though the shock was soon replaced by a different sensation. Hope bloomed, warm and glowing. Arthur tried to clamp down on it, knowing he might not survive it being crushed. “Did you not tell me that she had your affections?” he asked shakily. “At the rout? You said you wanted to marry someone you truly loved.”

Mr Emrys stared at him. Then he laughed, shrill and just a little mad. “I wasn’t talking about Freya,” he replied, his eyes wide and wild.

Arthur took another step forward, his chest suddenly threatening to burst with a whole storm of emotions. “Then who were you talking about?”

Mr Emrys smiled shakily, suddenly looking like he might be moments away from crying. “You,” he said. “I was talking about you.”

Arthur surged forward before the last words had been spoken and then they were embracing, their lips crashing together. It was terribly awkward, and Arthur drew back with a wince, both of them bursting into chuckles over the horrible kiss. Still smiling, Mr Emrys cradled Arthur’s face in his hands and leaned in once more.

This time, their mouths slotted together flawlessly. Arthur melted into the most exquisite, most tender kiss he had ever tasted. His eyes closed on their own accord, even though he wanted nothing more than to retain this memory forever, catalogue every last detail of this perfect moment of complete ecstasy.

They parted only because there was a need for air, and an even bigger need for Arthur to say, “I love you. I love you, too,” as they pressed their foreheads together.

“Oh, Arthur!”

“Merlin,” Arthur replied, awe-struck by the intimacy of the name and rapidly falling in love with the shape of those syllables. “Merlin,” he repeated, because he could. “Merlin.”

“Congratulations,” Merlin replied drily, though his eyes were shining with emotion. “You’ve learned my name by heart.”

“And in my heart, it shall remain,” Arthur vowed, uncaring how sappy and sentimental it sounded.

They stayed close for long moments, breathing each other in, their hands entangling between them, until at last, Merlin took a step back, his eyes roaming over Arthur, his smile turning a little desperate.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, breaking the illusion of perfect happiness. He tried to slip his hands from Arthur’s hold, but Arthur would not let him, wanting him close.

“We are going to get married,” he said and reassuringly squeezed Merlin’s fingers.

“How?” Merlin asked, shaking his head. “You’re the Prince, Arthur, and I’m—I’m—”

“The Baron Emrys,” Arthur told him firmly.

“But I’m not,” Merlin replied, frowning. “I refused. And even if I were, that’s not enough. The Crown Prince must marry someone high-ranking, someone worthy, and—”

“You are worthy,” Arthur assured him, unable to stand even a second of Merlin putting himself down. “I could not think of anyone more suitable.”

Merlin smiled sadly. “You are incredibly sweet,” he said. “But we must be realistic…”

“My mother was a Baroness before she became Queen,” Arthur told him. “There is precedent. There is no reason why our union should not be accepted.”

Merlin remained sceptical. “Except that the King hates me,” he argued. “He will never grant me my father’s title now. He made it very clear what he thought of me. He will destroy the Barony before he sees us married!”

“I will not let him,” Arthur vowed.

Merlin tugged at his hand again and Arthur let him slip away this time, sensing Merlin needed the space. “Your father would never accept me,” he insisted and rubbed a hand over his face. “He thinks I’m a floozy, that I’ve turned your head.”

“Well, you have,” Arthur said, unabashed. “You have turned my head, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Everyone is free to know I am madly in love with you, and I will give you the crown to prove it!”

Merlin shook his head again, taking a step back. “Arthur, please…”

“Do you not want to marry me?” Arthur demanded, a pang of hurt piercing his chest. “Do you not wish to spend your life by my side?”

A stricken look crossed Merlin’s face. “Of course I should like nothing more than to marry you,” he replied. “But how? It’s not possible!”

“We will make it possible,” Arthur promised.

“How?” Merlin repeated. “The King expects you to marry Lady Mithian.”

“I won’t. I refuse. I will marry you, or no one.”

“And you think that is enough to force his hand?” Merlin asked.

Arthur bit his lip. No, he did not think it was enough. Merlin was right to assume that Uther would rather go out of his way to destroy Merlin than give in. Unless…

A thought struck him. “Force his hand!” he exclaimed. “That’s it!”

Merlin frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Arthur grinned and stepped forward, once more reaching out to clasp Merlin’s hands. “We will force his hand. Or rather, someone else will.”

Merlin looked at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand,” he admitted.

Arthur lifted their hands and gently kissed Merlin’s knuckles. “I have an idea, my love.”

Just at that moment, the door to the drawing room swung open.

Arthur looked up, expecting Sir Gaius to enter, but it was a woman in an old-fashioned bonnet, wrapped in a faded travelling cloak, who stared at them with wide eyes.

“Mama!” Merlin exclaimed. “You’re here!”

The woman—Merlin’s mother, apparently—looked them both over, taking in their joined hands. “Merlin,” she said carefully. “Is that…?”

Merlin and Arthur exchanged a look, then turned, though they kept holding hands. “Mother.” Merlin suddenly sounded nervous. “May I introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur Pendragon? Arthur, this is my mother, Lady Hunith.”

“It is an honour, my lady,” said Arthur, watching Lady Hunith drop into a hasty curtsy.

“Your Highness,” she replied, clearly confused. She blinked at him, then looked back at their joined hands before addressing her son. “Merlin, I—” She shook her head. “What is happening?”

“Oh, Mama… I don’t even know where to begin!” Merlin glanced at Arthur, then added, “But I, um, might have just become engaged? To the Crown Prince of Camelot?”

Lady Hunith, bless her soul, sank down on the nearest couch and began to laugh.

Chapter Text

Freya had hardly set one foot into the drawing room of Surgeon House before exclaiming, “Merlin! Is it true? You’re engaged to the Prince?”

Merlin, who had been sitting on the sofa next to his mother, stood to greet her, offering her a strained smile and a, “Yes.”

Quickly, introductions were made between the women, and then Freya settled down on the settee across from them. “When I told you to follow your heart and reconsider your engagement with Lord Cenred, I didn’t think it would result in this!” she said with an astonished expression, though there was also an air of giddiness about her. “You didn’t even let on you and the Prince might have an understanding! Though I suppose I should have known, after you told me I had him to thank for Lord Dragonwise’s retraction.”

“Yes, well,” Merlin replied, unsure how to break the whole truth to her.

“This explains so much,” Freya went on, oblivious. “When I asked Lady Mithian about the Prince, she was quite guarded.” She smiled at Merlin, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “We walked the river promenade yesterday, you see.” She shook her head, then clapped her hands together. “But the Prince, Merlin? The Crown Prince! This means you’ll be King one day!”

“King Consort,” Merlin replied weakly, his stomach squeezing. “If we end up marrying.”

His mother reached out to reassuringly pat his knee. “Don’t fret, my dear,” she murmured.

Freya looked them both over, her smile fading. “What do you mean, if? Lord Dragonwise made it sound like the wedding is already being planned!”

Merlin glanced around, but luckily, with Hunith in the room, Freya had left her chaperone in the hallway and it was only the three of them taking tea. “Ah, well,” he fumbled. “You see, that’s not quite—”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room swung open again. Merlin fell silent as he glanced up, only to break into a smile and stand when he saw who it was.

“His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Camelot,” the butler announced needlessly as Arthur strode into the room, clad in one of his uniforms and followed, as always, by his valet George.

Arthur gave a polite bow as the women sprung to their feet and curtsied, but his eyes were on Merlin. He immediately stepped forward to grasp one of Merlin’s hands. “Merlin,” he greeted him, his eyes soft.

Merlin’s heart fluttered. He had yet to get used to hearing that tone of affection from the Prince. He brought up their joined fingers to chastely kiss Arthur’s hand, though he would have dearly liked to draw him into an embrace instead.

The gesture elicited a faint squeaking noise from Freya and when Merlin looked over, she was staring at them in what could only be called complete delight.

“Arthur, may I present Miss Freya Lake?” Merlin said with a chuckle, gesturing at her.

Freya gave another picture-perfect curtsy, which was completely at odds with the protocol-breaking grin on her face. “Your Highness,” she said. “It is an honour.”

“A pleasure, Miss Lake,” replied Arthur, with the sort of disarming princely charm that had the potential to make whole ballrooms swoon.

Naturally, Freya was not immune, letting out a little sigh before throwing Merlin a look that seemed to say, I can’t believe this is actually happening!

Somehow—probably due to the fact that Arthur absolutely refused to let go of Merlin’s hand—Merlin and Arthur ended up on one settee, with Hunith coming to sit by Freya’s side on the sofa opposite them.

“So? Has the King seen the latest Lord Dragonwise?” Merlin asked, with some trepidation.

Arthur grimaced and looked at his lap. “Yes. Just this morning.”

Merlin’s stomach went right back to churning. Arthur’s tone did not bode well. “He was not happy, I assume.”

Arthur chuckled drily, then used his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t attend breakfast,” he admitted quietly. “But from what I heard, it was very bad. I didn’t stay to wait for his summons, but came right here, in case he tries to go after you.” He looked up, fervour in his eyes. “I won’t let that happen.”

Merlin squeezed his hand, to reassure himself as much as Arthur.

“I’m sorry,” Freya spoke up from across, frowning at them. “But… may I ask…?”

Merlin offered her a weak smile. “As I was just about to tell you,” he replied, “it’s not all quite as it seems.” He exchanged a look with his mother, whose face was nothing but compassionate, then elaborated, “The King doesn’t approve of our engagement. Arthur asked Lord Dragonwise to publish the article to get his father to agree.”

Freya looked shocked. “The King is against this?”

“The King wishes for me to marry Lady Mithian Rodor,” Arthur told her. “Until this morning, my father was under the illusion that I would be proposing to her within the week.”

“But you won’t,” Freya replied, eyes still flitting between Merlin and Arthur.

“I love Merlin,” Arthur said bluntly, making warmth burst in Merlin’s chest. “I won’t marry Lady Mithian, or anyone else besides him.”

“But you haven’t actually spoken to the King, sire?” Hunith asked gently.

“It’s Arthur, my lady,” Arthur replied, and Merlin could have kissed him for it. “And no.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Though I must, and soon, once the worst of his ire has passed.”

“And you really believe he will give in?” Merlin asked warily. “Simply because Lord Dragonwise has claimed he approves?”

“He knows the importance of the public’s opinion, and Lord Dragonwise influences that more than anyone else. The very reason he is so insistent I marry is to strengthen approval for the Crown.” Arthur shook his head. “But no, I don’t think he will give in easily. The King is a very stubborn man.”

“You need to talk to him,” Hunith stressed with a gentle smile. “He may be the King, but he is also your father. I understand things can be complicated between parents and children, but surely, at the end of the day, he loves you and wants to see you happy.”

Arthur’s expression seemed to say he wasn’t so sure about that, which had Merlin squeeze his hand again. “I’ll come with you to the castle,” he told him.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Arthur cautioned. “He’ll be very angry. He might try and have you arrested on the spot. I came here to bring you to Morgana’s, or Gwaine’s. To hide you away, until he has calmed down.”

Merlin bristled at that. “Most certainly not! I won’t hide.” Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but a firm look was enough to keep him quiet. “I will come with you,” Merlin insisted. “I’m not afraid of the King. I’ve faced him down once before, and I will do it again. If we do this, we do it together.”

Arthur stared at him with something like wonder in his eyes. “I fell in love with that look, you know?” he said.

Merlin frowned. “What look?”

“The look that says you don’t care that you’re talking to royalty. The look that says you will gladly take me down a peg if you feel I deserve it.”

“Well, you do deserve it, sometimes,” Merlin replied, some cheek creeping in. “You were a bit of a prat when we first met.”

“I don’t deny it,” Arthur replied and looked at Merlin with such fondness, Merlin was of half a mind to kiss him after all, propriety be damned. But already, Arthur had stood, pulling Merlin up with him. “Well, no point in delaying the inevitable,” he added. “Let us go.”

Hunith got up as well, approaching the two of them. She looked them over for a moment, and Merlin could feel Arthur fidget under her gaze.

“The moment I saw you two together I could tell how much you love each other,” she said warmly. “The King must see it, too.” She reached out to caress Merlin’s cheek. “All will be well, my dear.” She hesitated, then reached out to cup Arthur’s cheek as well. “As far as I’m concerned, Arthur, you’re already part of this family.”

Arthur dropped his gaze, appearing properly flustered as he murmured something that sounded like thank you kindly, my lady. Studying him, Merlin realised that Arthur couldn’t know what it meant to have a mother, or perhaps even an affectionate parent. The thought filled him with sadness as much as with determination.

They accepted Freya’s good luck and made their way to the carriage, while Merlin made a silent vow. Once they had seen this through, Arthur would know all the love and affection he could ever need.

Merlin would make sure of it.

“I will not be made a fool,” the King growled, pacing his study. “Not by a gossip sheet, and especially not by my own son!”

Arthur was glad for Merlin’s presence by his side. As much as he had wanted to safely hide him away, he now found he was leaning on his quiet support as he once more faced his father’s ire. “Nobody thinks you a fool, Father,” he replied, as calmly as he could.

“You certainly must, if you believe this article changes anything.” The King narrowed his eyes as he stopped in his tracks. “I do not know how you got this rumour spread, Arthur, but I will not let you, or this wretched Lord Dragonwise, dictate my actions.” He sent Merlin a withering glare. “You will not marry this man, and that is my final say on the matter!”

Arthur stood his ground. “But I love him.”

“You do not,” the King scoffed.

Arthur drew himself up tall, anger flaring. “I do,” he insisted, more harshly than before. “I love Merlin, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“What you’re feeling isn’t love,” the King retorted with a sneer. “You have been seduced, nothing more. Blinded by this—this promiscuous rake!”

“You will not speak of my fiancé this way,” Arthur snapped, voice rising in volume.

“He is not your fiancé!” the King bellowed and took a menacing step forward, prompting Arthur to step in between them. Merlin’s face was fiercely defiant, but that didn’t mean Arthur didn’t want to protect him. “He is a nobody, throwing himself at the Crown Prince in an attempt to better his station. But I will not let him!” He pointed at Merlin. “I will send you back to obscurity. I will break up your father’s title and strip you of your rank, and when I am done with you, you won’t even be able to crawl back to that decrepit hovel you call a home, you vulgar, conniving little—!”

“Do not dare to finish that sentence!” Arthur shouted, and made to surge forward, but Merlin’s hand on his arm held him back.

“I do not care about money or a title,” Merlin said, impossibly calm in the face of the King’s words.

“Please! I know exactly what you’re after!” the King spat. “But your little game ends here! Someone like you will never be fit to marry the Crown Prince.”

“How is this any different from you marrying Mother?” Arthur demanded.

Uther immediately rounded on him. “You will not sully your mother’s memory by comparing her to him!” he snarled, face reddening. “Ygraine was everything that was pure and good in this world, and—”

“Ygraine would be ashamed of you!” They all turned to see Morgana had stepped into the King’s study. She looked as if she had run here straight from her carriage, her face fierce under the hat still pinned to her hair. With a bang, the door to the King’s study fell shut behind her.

“Do not speak of matters of which you know nothing, child,” the King brushed her off.

“Oh, I know enough,” Morgana replied and took a step forward. “I know your grief has blinded you to everyone else’s suffering. You drove my mother into an early grave without even blinking an eye, and now you’re set on ruining your son’s life as well!”

“Stay out of this!” the King snapped.

“No,” Morgana replied and defiantly crossed her arms. “I won’t let you do this. You will not take away Arthur’s chance at happiness.”

“Morgana,” Arthur tried to rein her in, knowing his sister’s penchant for pushing an argument with Uther beyond salvation.

“You’re a bitter, miserable old man,” Morgana went on, completely ignoring Arthur as she faced down the King. “If your first wife’s memory really was important to you, you would welcome Mr Emrys with open arms. Do you really believe Ygraine would want this? That she would forbid her own son from being with the man he loves? That she would force him into a marriage of convenience with a woman he feels nothing for?”

Uther sneered and turned away. “What would you know of Ygraine’s wishes, Morgana,” he replied harshly, balling his hands to fists. “You’re not even of her blood.”

“No,” Morgana conceded, with just a hint of bitterness. “But Arthur is, and I know that everything that is noble and good and lovable about him must come from her.” She shook her head. “I do not doubt you still love your wife. If only you would love her son as well.”

“Of course I love Arthur,” Uther retorted, still not looking at them, shocking Arthur with his bluntness. He wasn’t quite sure he had ever heard those words from his father’s lips.

“Then let him marry Mr Emrys,” Morgana pushed. “He is a nobleman of good standing and character, and what is more, he will make your son happy. That is what Ygraine would have wanted. As a mother myself, I know this: She would have moved heaven and earth to ensure her son’s happiness. You’re simply too pig-headed to admit it!”

Arthur fully expected Uther to turn around and shout at her again, but instead, he kept quiet, his shoulders heaving. “Out,” the King ordered at last. “Everyone out, except for Arthur.”

Merlin immediately sought out Arthur’s gaze. Arthur nodded at him, then at Morgana, who glared at the King’s back before complying, swiftly leading Merlin out of the privy chambers.

Arthur was left staring at his father’s back.

When Uther spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Your mother was special. She would step into a room and light it up like the sun. She was radiant. Utterly beautiful, inside and out. Kind and compassionate, and much too forgiving, especially of my many flaws.” He shook his head. “I didn’t deserve her.”

It was the most Uther had ever spoken of his wife, and Arthur was stunned into silence.

But his father didn’t seem to expect a response. He moved, stepping up to his desk to pick up a silver frame which Arthur knew held a small portrait of Ygraine. When he was young, he had often snuck in here to get a look at it, trying to memorise the sight of her. Uther had had all other paintings of the late Queen removed from the castle.

The King looked at the frame for a long moment. Arthur could just make out his thumb, stroking over the lily pattern etched into the silver. Then, abruptly, he put it down and turned. His face was unreadable as he looked Arthur over.

Arthur met his eyes evenly, trying to convey that he would not back down. Not over this.

Something softened in Uther’s face. Arthur doubted it would have been noticeable to anyone but himself or Morgana, but it made Arthur’s heart sing with hope.

“Morgana is right,” Uther murmured. “You inherited all her best qualities.” His expression hardened. “Your Mr Emrys—is he aware of what a royal engagement would entail?”

Arthur blinked, hardly daring to think of the implications behind the question. “Yes, of course.”

“He understands the responsibilities?” Uther pushed. “The duties?”

“We haven’t spoken of it in detail,” Arthur admitted, his heart picking up speed. “But I’m positive he’s willing to step up to the task, and learn anything he needs to know.”

Uther grimaced. “You’re positive,” he repeated sceptically. He glanced at the door, glaring at it for good measure, as if the ornate wood had personally offended him, then asked, “You really love him?”

“I do,” Arthur replied firmly. “With all my heart.”

Uther pursed his lips. Then, he gave a single, curt nod. “Make sure he understands what is expected of him,” he stated. “The wedding will take place in three months. He will receive tutoring, and a chaperone trained to royal standards.” The King let out a derisive snort. “The gods know he’s in desperate need of etiquette lessons…”

Arthur bit down on the ecstatic laugh bubbling up his throat. “Yes, sire,” he said, trying to control his face as he dipped his head. “As you wish.”

Uther was making a face like he had eaten something sour. “I suppose I will have to make him Baron, too, for now, to avoid a squabble with Parliament.” He wrinkled his nose, then added, “Go. You’re dismissed.”

Arthur gave a low bow, then turned on the spot and did his very best not to look like he was running from the room.

“You will adhere to the rules of propriety!” Uther called after him, but Arthur had already turned the corner, his mouth stretched into a face-splitting grin.

He found Merlin and Morgana in the nearby parlour, with Merlin huddled miserably on a sofa, Morgana’s comforting hand on his shoulder. They both looked up when they heard him come in.

“My my,” Morgana said drily and took a step back. “He caved faster than I expected.”

Arthur rushed right past her and dropped to the floor before Merlin, grasping his knees. “It’s done, my love,” he said. “We’re getting married.”

“We are?” Merlin replied, his whole face lighting up.

Arthur leaned in, lifting one hand to reach for his face and pulled him into a soft kiss. “We are,” he said when they parted again, his voice brimming with joy. “We’re getting married!”

“We’re getting married,” Merlin repeated and caught Arthur’s lips for another kiss.

“Lords,” said Morgana, sounding just a bit disgusted. “We will all be sick of you lovebirds soon enough, won’t we?”

But Merlin’s lips were still on Arthur’s, insistent and soft and perfect, and Arthur knew, without a doubt, that he could never be sick of this.

Not of being with the man he loved.

Chapter Text

“So, this is the palace, huh?” said Will, sounding unimpressed as he stuck his head out of the carriage door. “Eh. I’ve seen fancier.”

Merlin knew for a fact that Will, who had never stepped beyond the borders of the Emrys estate before, had not seen fancier. But he kept quiet, only exchanging an exasperated look with Morris, Merlin’s palace-appointed valet.

“The modiste should already be waiting for you, my lord,” he said from behind, as they exited the carriage and went up the stairs to the palace.

“My lord,” Will repeated under his breath, his tone mocking. “I can’t believe they’re calling you that! Bunch of brownnosers…” He shook his head as he carelessly fell into step right next to Merlin, like an equal—much to Morris’s dismay, if his look was anything to go by. The valet had not only been tasked with chaperoning the Crown Prince’s betrothed, but had also been teaching Merlin royal etiquette. Needless to say, Morris did not approve of Will’s terrible manners.

Privately, Merlin had to admit he had enjoyed the refreshing lack of stuffiness that had come with Will’s recent arrival in Camelot. But if the last three months of being engaged to the Crown Prince of Camelot had taught Merlin anything, it was the importance of appearances. “Keep it down a little, will you?” he murmured at Will as they passed through the hallways of Camelot Castle.

“Keep it down?” Will repeated, much too loudly. “Why?”

Two servants passing them by promptly raised their eyebrows at Will.

“Will, please,” Merlin sighed, starting to wonder if he shouldn’t have left him at Surgeon House.

Will flashed him an insolent grin, but he did shut up for the rest of the way and even removed his cap, too, remembering some of the manners Finna had taught him.

They arrived at a dressing room in the east wing. Morris opened the door for Merlin, something Merlin had slowly started to get used to, though he flushed a little when Will sent him an incredulous look.

“What’s wrong with your hands, eh?” he piped up as they stepped inside the room. “Too fine to turn a door handle now, Your Lordship?”

Merlin decided not to dignify that with a response, focusing on the person waiting inside the room instead. “Gwen!” he greeted the modiste, who was fussing over a mannequin.

Gwen turned from her work and smiled warmly at him. “Merlin! There you are!” she said with only a hint of a curtsy. Over the past months, she and Merlin had become fast friends.

“How is Lancelot?” Merlin asked.

“Over the moon,” Gwen sighed and smiled. “I still can’t believe Prince Arthur put in a good word for him. Do you know how long he’s dreamt of becoming a royal guard? If he keeps strutting around with his sword and uniform for much longer, Elyan will want in, too.” She shook her head, looking fond.

Merlin introduced Will to Gwen as a childhood friend, which Gwen took in stride, despite the fact that Will was quite obviously a servant from the countryside, even in his best clothes.

“Glad to see you’re still friends with normal people,” Will muttered into Merlin’s ear, causing Merlin to roll his eyes.

Oblivious to Will’s cheek, Gwen went on, “I’ve just been putting the finishing touches on the sleeves. What do you think?” She stepped aside to reveal the mannequin, draped with Merlin’s wedding suit.

Merlin stared. It was a beautiful crème-coloured suit with gold embroidery. The waistcoat alone looked like she had spent hours and hours hand stitching it, and the intricate pattern shimmered in the light of the room’s chandelier. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” he sighed and stepped closer to trace the seams with a reverent finger.

Behind him, Will let out a derisive snort. “You’re wearing that?” he said dubiously, though he wisely shut up when Gwen sent him a dark look.

“You’re going to look very handsome, Merlin,” she stressed, then gestured at the dressing screen nearby. “Why don’t you have Morris help you slip in, and I’ll see about any alterations? The shoes have arrived, too.”

When Merlin stepped out from behind the screen a few minutes later, Will immediately started chortling, coughing something that sounded suspiciously like toff.  Merlin glared at him as he walked over to the mirror, where Gwen started looking him over at once, tugging at the sleeves and rearranging the ruffles of the shirt so they peaked out of the waistcoat.

“There we go,” she said with a smile. “I don’t believe I need to make any more changes. What do you think?”

Merlin looked at the mirror and swallowed. It was, undeniably, the most elegant ensemble he had ever worn. The fabric was incredibly soft and smooth against his skin, the lines followed his body perfectly and though he was quite pale, the colour complimented his skin rather than washing him out. The tails of the coat trailed gracefully down his legs and the cut of the pantaloons made him look even taller than he was.

Although there wasn’t a scrap of royal red or consort blue in sight, Merlin looked very like a prince.

It hit him, then, all of a sudden, that he would marry Arthur in two days. In two days, he would walk down the aisle of the castle chapel and marry the Crown Prince of Camelot. He, Merlin Emrys, would be crowned Prince Consort. There would be a circlet—he had seen it, worn it even, to see if it fit properly. People would call him Your Highness and bow to him, even lower than now. And one day, in the not too very distant future, they would call him Your Majesty.

Suddenly, the cravat wrapped around his throat felt terribly constricting. Merlin tugged at it, wondering if Morris had tied the bow too tight as he cleared his throat.

“Merlin? Are you all right?” Gwen asked, settling a hand on his shoulder, and Merlin realised he had never answered her question.

“I’m fine,” he replied, though it came out as a croak. He cleared his throat again. “And the suit is perfect. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Gwen prodded. “You look a little peaky.”

“She’s right, mate,” Will spoke up from behind, and Merlin could see him frown through the mirror. “You look like you’ll keel right over.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin repeated. “Just… Let’s get me out of this, yes? Morris?”

Unfortunately, relieving himself of the wedding suit did nothing to stop the unnerving sensation of slowly being choked. Quite the contrary, by the time Morris had finished with him, Merlin felt like he could hardly breathe.

The feeling only got worse when he stepped out from behind the screen to see Will with Gwen. She had draped a nice, dark green jacket over Will’s shoulders and was sticking in some pins, reminding Merlin that he had ordered a new suit for Will, too, so he could attend the wedding and still get a use out of it after.

Will turned when he saw Merlin emerge, flashing him a grin. “Now I look like a toff, too,” he said. “Can I have a fancy title as well? Prince William of Ealdor has a nice ring to it, innit?”

Merlin forced out a laugh. It sounded grating, even to his own ears, and Will’s grin faded. “Seriously, mate,” he said. “You look like you might be sick.”

Merlin realised he very well might. He had broken out into a cold sweat and seemingly out of nowhere, his heart was racing madly. “Excuse me,” he choked out and all but ran for the door, a hand pressed to his mouth.

He hurried down the hallway, ignoring the maids curtsying to him, though he usually had a smile for them, and made it to a small, inlying garden. There, he gulped in the fresh air, which was enough to calm his stomach, but not his nerves.

He looked about, spotting a stone bench in the centre of the garden, and walked over on shaky legs, fingers curling around the edge of the granite when he sank down. It was a mild late summer day, but Merlin could not enjoy the weather, too occupied with trying to stop his heart from jumping out of his chest.

That was how Arthur found him. Merlin looked up when he heard his crunching footfalls on the gravelled path. Arthur looked worried, frowning as he approached. At the entrance to the little courtyard, Merlin could see George and Morris, hovering and sticking their heads together. In the last three months, they had become thick as thieves.

“Did Morris go and fetch you?” Merlin said, offering Arthur a tired smile.

“Don’t blame him. He’s under strict orders to notify me if anything out of the ordinary happens,” Arthur replied and sat down on the bench, immediately reaching out to grasp Merlin’s left hand and kiss it. His frown deepened when he pulled his lips away. “Your fingers are like ice,” he murmured, leaning in. “Are you ill?”

Merlin looked at the ground, toeing at the gravel with the tip of his boots. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Arthur said drily. He didn’t let go of Merlin’s hand. “We need to work on that.”

“Oh?” Merlin replied, eyes still on the gravel.

“Haven’t you learned that in your lessons by now? Dealing with the peerage and foreign envoys is all about diplomacy, which means half-truths and misdirection more often than not.”

Merlin’s stomach did another somersault. “I see…” He tried to pull his hand away but Arthur wouldn’t let him, catching it between both of his own.

“Look at me, my love? Please?”

Merlin couldn’t resist the endearment and did, though his nausea didn’t fade in the face of Arthur’s anxious expression.

“What is it?” Arthur asked quietly, gentle in the way he only ever was with Merlin. “You’re worrying me.”

Merlin sucked in a shaky breath. “I think it’s the nerves?” he admitted. “The wedding is just two days away…”

Arthur’s face fell. “You’re having second thoughts,” he surmised.

“No!” Merlin yelped. “No, gods no! I want to marry you. Please, never doubt that!”

Arthur didn’t look convinced. “But you’re worried?”

Merlin bit his lip and looked away again. “Worried?” he said at last. “No. I’m terrified.” He shook his head and when he tugged at his hand again, Arthur finally let go. “I’ve got no idea how to rule a country,” he went on, curling his hands in his lap. “How could I? I grew up in a cottage, not a palace! I know a nobleman’s idea of poverty is laughable in the face of what the common man suffers, but compared to this?” He waved at the castle walls surrounding them. “I was practically a pauper! I wore my father’s old clothes, adjusted by my mother’s own hands. I cleaned my own room more often than not.  I even went to bed hungry once or twice.”

“So you know what it is to work, and struggle,” Arthur replied seriously. “That will only make you a more compassionate ruler. And there’s ample time until we ascend to the throne, to learn and to grow into the responsibility. Nobody expects you to excel at everything after a couple of weeks of tutoring.”

Merlin chuckled darkly. “Nobody. Except for the King.”

“Ah,” Arthur replied, with a hint of bitterness. “Yes, Father does have an unfailing ability to make one feel terribly inadequate.”

Merlin glanced over at Arthur to see that he, too, was now staring at the gravel. Instantly, he was seized by a wave of compassion. “You’ve dealt with this all your life, haven’t you? Feeling like you’re not up to the task?” he asked quietly.

Arthur offered him a crooked smile. “It never goes away, unfortunately. That feeling of not being enough, of not being worthy of the throne, or not strong enough for the responsibility. It comes with the job, I think, though my father has a knack for driving home the point.”

“He hates me,” Merlin muttered and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

“He doesn’t,” Arthur was quick to reply. “You’d know if he did, believe me. He’s civil, at least, and warming up to you every day. And he admires Hunith.”

“Admires?” Merlin repeated dubiously. “They’ve hardly exchanged more than ten sentences.”

“Trust me. I know my father,” Arthur replied and smiled encouragingly. “And he’s right to be taken in by her. She’s a formidable woman, your mother. She should have never been kept from taking charge of the Emrys estate. She’ll take good care of it, once you’re Prince Consort.”

Merlin couldn’t help but smile back at that. “She loves you, you know? From the minute she met you, probably. She’s like that. She practically adopted Will, too.”

Arthur straightened on the bench, looking a little flustered. Merlin knew he had yet to get used to the idea that he now had a mother. Arthur hummed non-committedly, then added, “Has the infamous William finally arrived, then?”

“William? Only my mother calls me that.” They both looked up to see Will had stepped into the garden. He was hovering a few steps away, arms crossed, his face sceptical as he looked Arthur over. “So, you’re the Prince, huh?”

Merlin instantly tensed at Will’s attitude, but Arthur seemed to take it in stride. He got up from the bench and smiled a diplomatic smile. “Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you.”

Merlin didn’t know where Will found the brazenness not to bow or even so much as nod at the Crown Prince of Camelot. Instead, he gave Arthur another pointed once-over, then ignored him in favour of looking at Merlin. “Him? Really?”

Merlin got up from the bench, too, not liking Will’s confrontational manner. “Will. Be nice,” he warned.

“I’m nice to the people who I think deserve it,” Will replied, then looked at Arthur again. “He’s special, Merlin, you see? Not a lot of noblemen around who’ll make friends with a commoner.”

Arthur’s expression grew defensive. “Of course he’s special,” he replied, his voice cooling off. “Why else would I be marrying him?”

“Dunno,” Will replied. “But you hardly know him, do you?”

“I believe I know him well enough,” countered Arthur, visibly bristling.

“Not like I do.” Will smirked, in that particular way Merlin knew spelled trouble. “We grew up together. I know all sorts of things about him, like that he’s very skilled with—”

“Will!” Merlin hissed, alarmed, and felt his ears grow hot.

“What?” Will said, unfazed. “I was going to say with horses.” He was provoking Arthur, plain and simple—and it was working.

“I know that about him, too,” Arthur replied testily and drew himself up tall. “Which is why I gifted him a stallion, Hengroen.”

Will didn’t look impressed. “Ah, yes, that’s how the toffs do it, innit? I reckon your lot thinks anyone can be bought for the right price.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes and Merlin had a sudden, alarming vision of Will getting tossed into the dungeons for speaking disrespectfully to the Crown Prince.

“Will, stop it!” he intervened. “You’re being incredibly rude.”

“Can’t I take measure of the man who’s marrying you?” Will demanded, stubborn as ever.

“You’re not my mother,” Merlin told him off, irritation sharpening his voice.

“No, but I am your best friend,” Will replied, sticking out his chin. He paused, and something flashed over his face. “Right?”

Hearing that, Merlin saw the exchange in a new light. It seemed more than one person was getting spooked by change today. “Of course you are,” he replied more calmly. “And as your friend, I would ask you to remember your manners when speaking to the man I love. The same man, I might add, who has very generously made it possible for you to attend a royal wedding.” He gave Will a pointed look.

Fortunately, Will seemed to still be in possession of enough sense to be chastised by that. Reluctantly, he uncrossed his arms. Another pointed look, and he even fumbled his way through a passable bow. “I’m sorry, Y’Highness,” he mumbled, rather more subdued than before.

Seeing his awkward manners, Merlin was suddenly, acutely reminded that beneath Will’s bravado, here was a country peasant who was most likely terribly intimidated by all he had heard and seen today. He glanced at Arthur to gauge his reaction.

Arthur had gone back to his diplomatic smile. “No offence taken,” he replied smoothly, ever the Crown Prince. “I appreciate your passion, but please, rest assured that I strive for nothing more than to make Merlin happy.”

Merlin smiled at him, only to flush again when Will piped up, “Ah, well, if you need some directions how to make Merlin particularly happy—”

“Will!” Merlin exclaimed, cutting him off, not liking the sound of that one bit.

“What?” Will replied innocently. “I’m trying to be nice!”

Arthur, apparently in sudden possession of saintly patience, did not appear to get offended. “I’m beginning to see where you got your country manners from,” he commented drily. “Or is it something in the water around your family estate, do you think?”

“Prat!” Merlin replied, with feeling, then laughed, realising that any tension he had felt about the wedding had finally bled away.

“So,” said Will, looking about. “Do I get the grand tour of the place, or what?”

The wedding passed in a blur. Arthur was sure it was a very beautiful ceremony, with all the royal pomp and circumstance it entailed, but he only had eyes for Merlin.

He looked breathtaking. Every time he smiled and his cheeks dimpled, Arthur’s chest seemed to light up with affection. Every time he gave Arthur a bright look, half-nervous, half-delighted, Arthur melted a little on the spot. And every time Arthur found a moment to appreciate Merlin in his wedding suit, which Guinevere DuLac had sewn to perfection and which accentuated all of Merlin’s best features, he was about ready to drag him away from the festivities and peel away the layers, and to the hells with protocol!

But this was a royal wedding, which meant that after the vows, and the oaths, and the coronation, there were hundreds of congratulatory bows and curtsies as well as gifts to accept, endless rounds to make, and several dances to dance, though the latter, at least, was not much of a chore when the dance was with your husband.

“How are you holding up?” Arthur murmured as they twirled about the dancefloor. Somehow, Morgana had convinced the King of the merits of the waltz and was now happily dancing with Leon nearby. Unsurprisingly, she had taken the lead.

“Quite well, I think,” Merlin replied, though he sounded a little weary after hours of ceremony and celebration. He gave Arthur a soft look. “I can’t believe we’re actually married.”

“And yet we are,” Arthur replied, heart fluttering a little as he tagged on, “my dear husband.”

Merlin’s eyes crinkled happily at that. “My dear husband,” he repeated. “I like it.”

“I would like it even more if I could finally have my dear husband to myself,” Arthur added, his voice dropping as he said it.

Merlin’s smile turned mischievous, an utterly irresistible expression. “Oh? Is that so?” he replied, in the same low voice.

“That is so,” Arthur confirmed. “In fact, I would like nothing more than to sweep you off your feet, throw you over my shoulder like a sack of wheat, and leave this wedding this instant.”

“Oh my,” replied Merlin, amused. “That sounds rather inappropriate, I’m afraid.”

A flash of heat travelled down Arthur’s spine. “Well, you see,” he said, voice growing a little hoarse. “Not too long ago, during a dance not unlike this one, I was told that someone knew quite a lot about inappropriate.”

Merlin’s eyes widened, then he grinned, a rakish and very handsome sort of grin that made Arthur shiver all over. He tightened his hold on Merlin’s hand as he led them into another twirl.

“I see,” said Merlin. “Is that something you’ve been looking forward to, then? The inappropriate?”

Arthur let out a low groan. “You don’t know how much,” he admitted.

“Oh, I think I’ve got an idea,” Merlin murmured and his gaze turned heated.

Arthur bit his lip. Gods, how desperately he wanted this man!

Unfortunately, George and Morris, trained hawks that they were, had been absolutely diligent not to give Merlin and him an opportunity for any sort of dalliance. Arthur had tried, to no avail, to dodge the valets, but somehow, they had always managed to track them down before anything more than a kiss had been exchanged. For all that George had indulged Arthur in the past, it seemed he was determined to adhere to propriety during the engagement.

Which meant that Arthur had been teased, for months, by promising glances and surreptitious touches and, gods, even dancing this waltz was enough to slowly drive him mad!

“We really need to leave soon,” Arthur insisted when the dance had ended, leading Merlin off the dancefloor. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure all of this without ravishing Merlin on the spot—and wouldn’t that make for a nice scandal for the gossip rags!

“Getting impatient, brother dear?”

Arthur closed his eyes, then turned, realising Morgana and Leon had followed right behind them from the dancefloor. “Morgana,” he said with a strained smile. “Enjoying the festivities?”

“Of course! I do so love a good party,” she replied. “And I can’t wait to read what Lord Dragonwise has to say about all of this, either.” She nodded at the dancefloor. “That certainly looks promising.”

Arthur followed her gaze and saw Lady Mithian leading Freya Lake in the next waltz, dancing so closely their chests were practically touching, though they still looked infinitely more chaste than Gwaine, who was shamelessly groping Percival as they twirled.

“Oh, yes! Freya has been hinting at a proposal,” Merlin said excitedly, leaning closer to Morgana. “It’s only a matter of time until Lady Mithian will pop the question, I think. They’re quite smitten.”

“How marvellous,” Morgana said and clapped her hands together. “You must make sure I’m invited to their wedding, Merlin!”

As usual, Merlin and Morgana got on splendidly. Arthur tried not to look too obviously like he was growing very tired of their wedding gossip, or the wedding, but Leon knew him too well.

“You know, Arthur,” he spoke up. “Morgana and I didn’t stay much longer than this at our own wedding.”

Arthur threw him a grateful look. “Oh?”

Leon nodded meaningfully, then took a sip from a drink he had procured from a footman.

“True,” Morgana mused, taking pity on Arthur by relinquishing Merlin. “And really, who’s going to keep you? Besides, I can hardly stand to look at you two anymore. You could cut the tension with a knife.” She made a shooing motion. “Go. We can celebrate just as well without you.”

Arthur smiled broadly and took a hold of Merlin’s hand. “We shall take our leave, then.”

Merlin smiled back, eyes twinkling excitedly.

“Don’t forget to make your excuses to the King!” Morgana called after them, her voice faux-sweet, and Arthur grimaced.

Right. They needed to make one final detour before they could leave. He threw Merlin an apologetic look, then led him towards the dais at the head of the ballroom, where the King was overseeing the proceedings. To Arthur’s surprise, he saw Hunith was with Uther, standing by the throne and conversing with him. They both looked up when they saw Arthur and Merlin approach.

“Ah,” said Uther drily as they bowed. “The newlyweds are ready to retire?”

“It’s been a tiring day,” Arthur said diplomatically, trying not to flush. Hunith throwing him an amused look certainly didn’t help.

“Of course,” Uther replied, then turned his eyes on Merlin, who promptly stiffened. The King looked at him for a long moment, then conceded, “You did well today. I believe it is fair to say you’re a credit to your tutors.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Merlin said, wise enough to hide his flabbergasted expression with a dip of his head.

Uther gave them both an impatient wave. “Yes, well. Off you go. You’re dismissed.”

Arthur pointedly avoided Hunith’s eyes when he dragged Merlin away.

“Someone’s impatient,” Merlin said to him, when Arthur sped up his steps, conveniently side-stepping anyone who looked to be out to congratulate them again, until at last, he could signal to the steward that they were taking their leave.

Fortunately, the man was prompt and announced their departure forthwith, causing everyone nearby to bow and curtsy, which Arthur acknowledged with a royal smile and a wave, before once more dragging Merlin off, trying to look as dignified as possible as he did.

“Lords, could you be any more eager?” Merlin said as they hurried down the hallway.

“No,” Arthur replied honestly.

Merlin laughed, though not three steps down the hallway, he quieted and looked over his shoulder. “We’re being followed,” he sighed. “Still?”

Arthur glanced back to see Morris and George were trailing them. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. They’ll be manning the door.”

Merlin stared at him. “Manning the…?” He slowed down. “They’ll be standing outside the door while we…?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said apologetically. “It’s traditional, for the consummation of the marriage.”

Merlin glanced over his shoulder again. “Oh.”

“It used to be worse,” Arthur told him. “In the Middle Ages, someone actually watched.”

“Lords,” Merlin murmured and gave Arthur a horrified look as they walked on.

At last, they had made it to their adjoining bedchambers. While Morgana had moved to a smaller royal house after the wedding, the Crown Prince and his Consort traditionally resided at the castle, though their new apartments, fortunately, were one whole wing away from the King’s.

“If I may, sire?” George said, appearing before them to open the door to Arthur’s bedchamber. “I’ll assume you’ll not be disrobing separately tonight.”

“No,” Arthur confirmed and, seeing Merlin’s flustered look, gently pushed him through the door. “We won’t be requiring your services, either.”

Morris nodded, po-faced, taking up his post at the other side, and then Arthur and Merlin were inside, with the door closed.

“Finally,” said Arthur, leaning against the wood, and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he looked up again, he saw Merlin had stepped up to a side table. Someone had put a bouquet of wedding flowers there. They had chosen lilies, naturally, which Merlin was smelling with an expression of radiant joy.

“Beautiful.” He glanced up to smile at Arthur.

“Just like you,” Arthur returned and stepped away from the door.

“Charmer,” Merlin quipped, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Merely speaking the truth.” When Arthur approached, Merlin readily opened his arms and then, after a whole day of proper, chaste kisses and keeping up appearances, they were embracing like lovers.

Their lips met, tenderly at first, though the kiss soon grew more heated, with Arthur burying his fingers in Merlin’s hair, pulling him closer, while Merlin’s hands wandered lower and lower until they came to rest on Arthur’s buttocks, squeezing them.

“Gods,” Merlin said, breaking the kiss to speak, his breath hot against Arthur’s lips. “I’ve been craving to do this again ever since that night in the closet.”

Arthur groaned, heat travelling towards his groin at the memory, and moved his hands to start tugging at Merlin’s tailcoat. “Off,” he said. “All of it, off.”

Merlin laughed, but obediently took a step back to shrug off the jacket and undo his cravat, then let Arthur unbutton the waistcoat and shirt underneath. Arthur’s heart picked up speed as he revealed inch after inch of pale skin and dark, curly hair. At last, he would get to see all of Merlin! Every last bit of him, all that had been hidden underneath coats and cravats.

Once the shirt had slipped onto the floor, Arthur let his hands roam over Merlin’s bare chest, wanting to explore, but Merlin soon batted them away. “Your turn now,” he said and impatiently pulled at the red uniform, medals and ornaments clinking as he did.

Eventually, they were both down to their pantaloons, and kissing again. Slowly, they made their way across the chamber and towards the bed, toeing off their dancing shoes in the process. Somehow, they ended up on the mattress, with Merlin stretched out on his back and Arthur on top of him.

Merlin grinned up at him, his hair a delightful mess, his lips red and glistening, looking just shy of debauched. “So,” he purred. “Time for the inappropriate.” He looked Arthur over, his confidence faltering a little. “How much—I mean, I suppose you must have—with a man?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirmed, flushing. “And you? I know you probably have… with Will?”

“Yes,” Merlin admitted, chuckling, and Arthur felt a completely misplaced pang of jealousy. Here he was, with his husband, on their wedding night, and still, he was suddenly assaulted by a vision of Will’s insolent face, dropping hints about how well he knew Merlin.

Apparently one for self-torment, he prodded, “And did you—with Will, I mean, did he—or did you…?”

“Oh, well, both,” Merlin replied, a little awkwardly, though he seemed to understand well enough. He gave Arthur a careful look and Arthur could feel him tense up underneath. “Either is fine with me, I mean—I had assumed that you would want to, well… lead, I suppose.” He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, perhaps because he was nervous.

Arthur swallowed, realising Merlin could not know what sorts of fantasies had consumed him almost from the very minute they had met. Of course, he would assume that Arthur, born and raised to be a leader, would want to be the more active part. “I see,” he forced out.

Merlin looked him over again, very carefully, until a spark lit up in his eyes. “Unless you… want me to…?”

“… take charge,” Arthur finished and felt his cheeks grow hot.

Something in Merlin’s face shifted. “Ah,” he said, his voice dropping, and moved. Before Arthur knew it, he had been flipped, now lying on his back, with Merlin straddling him. “That can most certainly be arranged,” he said, grinning down at Arthur, excitement written all over his face, and then, his lips were on Arthur’s again, his hands firmly cupping Arthur’s cheek as he staked his claim.

Arthur melted into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut, readily opening his mouth to let Merlin explore. Soon, he was happily moaning into the kiss, which only seemed to make Merlin all the more enthusiastic.

Gods, this was it, this was exactly it, what he had longed after for so long! Merlin, a firm weight on top of him, taking the lead, taking charge. Arthur felt his cock grow and harden as a wave of fervent want overcame him, setting his skin on fire. Instinctively, he bucked his hips, seeking friction, jostling Merlin on top of him, who promptly broke the kiss.

“Impatient,” he commented, sounding pleased, and moved until he was kneeling between Arthur’s spread legs. His eyes widened appreciatively as he took in Arthur’s state. He gestured at the bulging crotch. “May I…?”

“Anything,” Arthur told him, his voice a little hoarse. “Anything you want.”

Merlin let out a groan at that and reached for Arthur’s fly. He popped open the buttons with swift fingers and Arthur readily lifted his hips to assist him as he pulled the fabric down, taking the smallclothes off right with the trousers. Arthur’s cock bounced upwards, flushed red.

There was a loaded pause, with Merlin staring at Arthur’s cock, until he grinned and continued pulling Arthur’s pantaloons all the way down, slipping off the bed in the process. Standing, he dropped the trousers to the ground, then went for his own fly, quickly opening the buttons.

Arthur propped himself up on his elbows, watching as Merlin shimmied out of his pantaloons with seemingly no inhibition, presenting his own cock. He was every bit as aroused as Arthur was, his hardening length tipping a little to the left where it curved upwards.

He was beautiful, more so than any of Arthur’s fantasies had ever made him out to be, an enticing vision of unmarred skin and lean muscle. Arthur wanted to touch him, all over.

Merlin seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he climbed back onto the bed without further ado. Skin brushed against skin as he stretched out on top of Arthur until, at last, their cocks met, sliding smoothly against each other, eliciting a groan from the both of them.

“Gods,” Arthur said.

“Quite,” Merlin agreed and started moving his hips.

Arthur moaned, closing his eyes as the friction sent shivers of pleasure up his spine. Not a moment later, Merlin was kissing him again, never stopping the maddening rhythm of his hips as he did. His lips slotted perfectly against Arthur’s, soft and warm, though their kiss turned messier, just as the slide of their cocks turned slicker and more urgent. When they parted again, both panting, Arthur was desperate with want.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, voice low with arousal, and the sound of his own name, spoken in that tone, was almost enough to undo Arthur. “Is there… oil or…?”

Beyond words, Arthur tipped his head at the nightstand by the bed.

Merlin looked over and let out a small laugh when he spotted the assortment of little bottles and washcloths. “Gods, did George and Morris…?” He shook his head, leaning over to fetch the oil. “I will never be able to look them in the eye again.”

Like a true country lad, he uncorked the bottle with his teeth, then let some of the oil drip onto his right hand. As he slicked up his fingers, he looked down at Arthur, lust written all over his face. Arthur stared back, helplessly caught in that look. In just a few moments, Merlin would touch him most intimately. Prepare him, stretch him, and then, he would take Arthur, claim all of him, just as he had been craving for months.

Merlin seemed to see something in his face. He recorked the bottle and murmured, “We’ll take it nice and slow. I want to savour this.” He moved downwards, settling between Arthur’s readily spreading thighs.

Arthur drew them in a little, too, giving Merlin better access. He sighed when Merlin’s slick fingers slipped between his buttocks. Slowly, tenderly, Merlin explored the muscle, massaging rather than breaching for long, maddening moments.

“Please,” Arthur moaned at last, feeling like he was burning up, and rocked his hips to push into the touch. “Merlin, please.”

“Shh,” Merlin soothed him. “I’m taking my time with you.” But he didn’t tease Arthur any longer and slowly, steadily, pushed in one finger.

Arthur groaned at the feeling, eyes falling closed for a moment at the realisation that Merlin was now inside him, stretching him slowly and tenderly.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” Merlin murmured when he carefully added a second finger.

“More,” Arthur replied at once, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Please. Merlin, you don’t need to—please.”

“Shh,” Merlin hushed him again. “Let me take care of you.”

And though Arthur had been dreaming so long of Merlin flipping him over and taking him rough, for Merlin to order him about and make him beg, he found that here, in the intimacy of their wedding bed, the gentle stretch of Merlin’s third finger and the tenderness in his gaze was just as appealing as any of his cruder fantasies.

“Now,” Merlin said, his tongue flicking out as he curled his fingers. “Let’s see if I can find—”

Arthur cut him off with a startled moan, instantly pushing into Merlin’s hand when a jolt of pleasure shot through his body.

“Excellent,” Merlin chuckled and repeated the motion.

Arthur’s mind went blissfully blank. All he could focus on was the sensation of Merlin’s fingers driving into him, brushing against that spot that could make a man’s whole world tilt sideways, only stopping to add more oil. Arthur’s cock was hot and heavy against his stomach and when Arthur glanced at it, he could see the tip was wet and sticky.

“Please,” he panted. “Merlin, I need…”

“Yes, I think you’re ready,” Merlin replied, taking mercy on him. He removed his fingers, eliciting a little whimper from Arthur. With an apologetic smile, he went for the oil again. “A pillow, perhaps?” he suggested.

Arthur was so entranced by the image of Merlin’s hand oiling his cock that he almost missed his cue. Blindly, he reached out, fingers searching until he found what he was looking for, then lifted his hips. By the time he was settled on the pillow, Merlin’s was ready for him. Arthur, slick and terribly empty, spread his legs wide before drawing them up, signalling what he craved.

Merlin bit his lip as he moved forward, eyes roaming as he leaned in. “Gods, you look so…” He shook his head. “Words cannot do you justice, my love.” He settled into position and then, Arthur could feel his cock, blunt and slick against his entrance.

Slowly, carefully, Merlin pushed in and Arthur made a raw, desperate noise as he was breached. Between Merlin’s thorough preparation and the generous amount of oil, there was hardly any burn and Arthur’s body was more than ready for Merlin, eagerly pulling him in. With a strangled gasp, Merlin leaned forward, one hand curling around Arthur’s thigh, the other around his hip, seeking purchase.

“Lords,” he said, looking awed. “You feel—gods!”

Arthur let out a hoarse chuckle, agreeing whole-heartedly with the sentiment.

They gazed at each other, getting used to the sensation, and Arthur lost himself in Merlin’s eyes. The lights of the candles painted flecks of gold across the familiar blue and for one, ephemeral moment, it felt as if there was magic in the air.

Smiling, Merlin moved his hips.

With a moan, Arthur closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost in sensation. Merlin’s fingers were digging firmly into Arthur’s flesh, holding on as he took Arthur deep and slow. Seeking more pleasure, Arthur curled a hand around his cock, trying to match the rhythm to Merlin’s, who was driving into him steadily, again and again and again.

Soon, Arthur stripped his cock with abandon, his movements growing quicker, his thumb flicking out at random intervals. The familiar pressure built quickly, prickling heat pooling somewhere deep within him, and he let it rise freely, having no interest in prolonging the inevitable.

“Merlin…” he moaned over the sounds of slick flesh and sticky skin, giving his cock a last, firm stroke, and he came with his husband’s name still ringing in the air.

It took Merlin four, maybe five more thrusts to follow after, gasping Arthur’s name as he did. Arthur could feel him finish inside of him, his muscle tightening around Merlin’s cock as he did, and when he looked at him, he thought that he had never seen anything so gorgeous in his life as his husband’s expression of complete ecstasy.

After they had both caught their breath, and Merlin had carefully pulled out, they curled up under the blanket, sticky and satisfied, not bothering to take care of the evidence of their coupling just yet. Seeking closeness, their lips met again, sealing what had happened with sweet, soft kisses between vows of unending love.

Later, when Arthur’s racing heart had calmed, and Merlin’s head was resting on his shoulder, his hair tickling Arthur’s cheek, he stared up at the canopy and grinned, seized by a feeling of happiness so intense he thought he might combust at any moment. “We need to do this again,” he said. “A thousand times.”

“I should hope so,” Merlin murmured, ruffling the hairs on Arthur’s chest with lazy fingers.

“There are so many things I want to do with you,” Arthur went on, feeling bold, and unburdened in a way he seldom was. “I’ve had dreams, you see. Thoughts and fantasies. About you and me.”

Merlin chuckled. “Sounds enticing.”

Arthur tightened his hold on him, suddenly filled with an urge to make him see the depths of his devotion, his desire. “I need you to understand, Merlin, that you can have me. All of me. Anywhere, any way you want. I’m yours. Use your country tricks on me, every last one of them. Take me apart, and put me back together, as you please. Because I want—I want you. I want everything—no, I need everything, I—”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupted him gently, lifting his head to seek out his eyes. “Arthur, you have me.” He smiled, the most beautiful smile Arthur had ever seen, and promised, “All of me. Forever.”