"Lunch is about to be served. Shall we, gentlemen?" She asked with a smile. Margery was just coming down the hall from her sewing room. Trent grinned and bowed low.

"Why thank you, your grace. I believe I am absolutely famished." He crowed and offered an arm. She took it gracefully and they proceeded to the dining room.

"We have an appointment this afternoon to take tea with the Yorks. Don't forget." She admonished to the three of them as they gathered food on their plates again. There was some delightful roasted mutton pies and Low took three of them onto his plate.

"Is Gretchen going to be there? I hope not. Last time she tried to drag me in the library to kiss me." He complained. The three others laughed at his annoyed face. His thoughts turned to another kiss on his mind and he blushed, which of course made them laugh harder.

"How cute. Little Low is afraid of a forward miss. Don't you think you can keep her at bay?" His stepmother teased with a grin.

"I was thinking of rather avoiding her altogether quite frankly." He mumbled into his plate. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his crotch began to ache rather bad. His face scrunched up and he sat back, rubbing his stomach. It really hurt down there suddenly. He felt sick and tried to get up, but staggered and fell on the floor.

"Low! Oh my god, Low. What is the matter?" Derry got up and crouched over him as he panted on the ground. Low shook his head, refusing to answer. His brother scooped him up into his arms and Margery directed him to take the boy up to his room. Low's breath came in gasps as he was pressed against the firm muscles of Derry's chest.

His breathing quickened as he felt those strong thighs bounce under him as they went up the stairs. The rock like arms that held him tightly seemed to squeeze all the air out of his lungs. Margery ran ahead to open doors and Derry placed him onto his bed over the coverlet. He clenched his teeth and gritted them as a wave of pain had him curled on himself.

"Call forth the physician. Quickly Marge." He heard the low voice of Derry say as a warm hand stroked his sweaty forehead. He moaned and felt tears squeeze out through his eyelashes onto the fabric beneath. "It's okay, Low. It's going to be okay. Hang in there."

"What's wrong with him?" He heard the muttered words from the door.

"I don't know. The Duchess has sent for a physician." Derry replied calmly. He felt a cool cloth wiping his hot skin, but still felt like hell. It was like his parts were being squished in a vice, for lack of better description. He panted and tried to just breathe. It was difficult, and he felt faint from the pain of it. It was with a sense of relief that he felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness.

When he really awoke, it was to feel the warmth of someone on his back holding him. The whispered words that were spoken to him were comforting. He heard the commotion as the physician came into the room and shooed everyone out. He sighed in relief as the older man looked down at him in concern.

He waited until everyone had left and the door was closed, a fact that didn't escape the physician. Then he whispered to the man what was wrong. The man, to give him credit, did not so much as smile at the boy's distress. He asked a few questions that had Lowell blushing so badly he thought he might have developed a fever.

Then he told Lowell what was wrong, and what he must do to fix it. Lowell looked at him like he was a mad man. What he did not know was that not many physicians would have had such a simple and pain-free solutions as these ones. The older man patted the boy's head, put a sachet of something into some water for him to drink, and then told his patient in no uncertain terms... to wank off immediately.

Then he left the room, reassuring the people outside the door that the patient was going to be fine. Then he told them all to leave the child alone for a few hours, at the minimum, and not to disturb him for anything. Lowell was crying to himself. As much as he was glad to be missing tea, he was not pleased for the reason why.

He undressed himself slowly, trying not to jostle himself more than absolutely necessary. The curtains had already been shut by a rather thoughtful Trent, and the sounds of the others had long since seemed to disappear into the distance. He felt a little dizzy from the pain, and whatever was in that drink he had been given must have been what was making him feel lightheaded.

He relaxed back on the bed as his thoughts drifted about. It did not take much to turn them to the sensual scenes that had been plaguing him for the past fortnight. He felt his rod awaken with a slight moan. It did not seem to even need his attention at first, and Lowell was loath to actually touch it. It felt... awkward.

That he had created this whole situation by dwelling on that scene in his brother's room, seemed strange. The physician had thought perhaps it was sexual frustration caused by some teasing maiden in the house, and Lowell had made sure that was how it would stay. He told the man that he had seen something and been dreaming about it, but not what or who.

That was too embarrassing by far. How could he admit it to the physician when he could not even admit it to himself? His body was what was doing all the admitting, even as his mind railed against him. He tried bending his thoughts to the scenes he had seen in the barn, but they fell flat. It was the sensual night in Trent's room that replayed and heated his blood again, and again.

Strangely enough, even that did not seem quite so remarkable now. His breath panted desperately as he grasped his shaft and closed his eyes. He tilted his head back and tried to focus his dancing thoughts. His mind's eyes wanted to trace those handsome, tanned muscles crossed with thin white lines. It wanted to remember that thick column of throat.

It wanted to hear the deep words that spilled from Lord Darian Hart's mouth. You are the only man I love. Lowell gasped as he remembered every single smile that flitted in his direction. I swear you do this on purpose. The feeling of his arms around his slightly smaller body as he had been clasped against him in their hugs. Low, I love you so much.

Tears poured from his eyes as he felt himself tighten, he rolled over and arched as he spilled onto the linen. The pressure down below eased, the pain subsiding even as his body wracked in sobs. He felt so horrible. It was like he had dirtied his brother by using his memories for his own relief. Why couldn't he have used some other thought, some other person?

Even Trent would have been preferable to his own brother, surely. He lay there in his own filth and hiccupped as he tried to soothe his tired mind. The ache down below reminding him that he couldn't ignore it as he had been doing. This kind of overwhelming passion would bring him to this point again if he tried.

The problem was... how was he supposed to face everybody if he did this? How on earth could he even face himself?

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