Author's note: 14/01/2021

For a long time now, I've been unsatisfied with how The Prince's Boyfriend (available on my profile) turned out. Given that I wrote it when I was quite young- I think I started it about ten years ago- I think its shortcomings can be forgiven. Still, it's bothered me for a long time.

So, ten years on, I decided to take another crack at it, with a slightly different premise.

Enter: A Royal Deception.

Enjoy! And if you are so inclined, please leave a review!

-NifflersAndBooks136


CHAPTER ONE

The bass thrummed loudly throughout the misty, dim-lit club. Arthur, Prince of Wales took a long sip of his dirty martini and tipped his head back, holding the liquid in his mouth for a moment, savouring it. His other hand, the one that wasn't holding the martini glass, slowly rubbed circles on the thigh of the man sat next to him. His hair brushed against the back of the faux-leather couch, and in that moment The Prince of Wales became no more than Arthur Pendragon, the twenty-five-year-old who was more than a little drunk. Regal titles, and the conversation he had had with his father the afternoon before, slid from his mind, becoming fainter and fainter as he added more and more gin to them.

The paparazzi were expecting him to be in Mayfair, or perhaps in Soho, but no one would think to look for the heir to the throne south of the river, in a misty late-night club in Vauxhall. And no one would think to look for him south of the river, in a misty late-night club whose sole patrons were known to be gay men. At least, no one would think to look for him here yet. Arthur opened his eyes as the King's words from that afternoon threatened to bob to the surface of his alcohol-induced haze…

"Arthur, while your particular tastes are known in our family, and you leave us no choice but to tolerate them, the public are beginning to notice. You're twenty-six and have never been spotted more than once with the same woman. However, the press—" King Uther picked up a magazine from a stack of them that littered the polished oak table, "—are beginning to speculate about you." He glanced at the title of the magazine. "For example, Heat Magazine has noted that last year you took several excursions with Percival Goodricke, and that this year Lord Gwaine Beufort accompanied you to Wimbledon and that he was spotted boarding a private jet with you in Aberdeen only last month! I relent that I cannot stop you from enjoying your personal tastes in your private life, but this is the succession! You must put your forays aside and find a suitable wife, because speculation like this cannot be allowed to fester."

Find a wife. Produce an heir. Be the King. Of the three children King Uther had produced, Arthur was the only legitimate one. If Arthur predeceased Uther now, the heir to the throne would be none other than Prince Fredrick, Duke of York and his son, Prince Elyan-Victor of York. With such a responsibility resting on his shoulders, it simply would not do for Arthur to live out his personal tastes, as his father called them, in the public eye. It would, King Uther was sure, be the end of the monarchy if it dared produce a member who was so liberal in their lifestyle.

Arthur's chest suddenly hurt. He knew well enough that The King and Queen couldn't stand each other—the mere existence of his half-sisters Lady Morgause Lithgow and Lady Morgana Finwald were proof of that—but he also knew that that argument wouldn't have stood with his father. Yes, the King would say, But I did my duty. I married a suitable woman. I produced you. Now it's your turn.

Such bollocks.

Arthur's companion leaned over and whispered something Arthur couldn't quite understand in his ear. Arthur didn't care. He set his drink down and turned his head and kissed the man deeply. Arthur wasn't quite sure what his name was—Dan, or Drew, or perhaps Dave—but that didn't matter. He was young, with a lithe frame and platinum blond hair. He was Arthur's type, and Arthur would have him.

Still kissing Dean, or Drake, or Dex—Arthur drew him up so that the other man clung to him, absorbing him completely with those deep, long kisses. Arthur reached around and put his hand on the small of the other man's back, making small circles on the soft skin with his thumb. His companion gasped and sighed, and Arthur felt the man's hardness press against his thigh, hot and wanting. Cupping his hand softly around the back of the other man's neck, Arthur tipped his head up so that he could look into icy blue eyes.

Those eyes, when they looked at him, blazed with want.

"Come home with me?" Arthur whispered huskily.

Arthur wouldn't bring him home, not really. Dylan, or Declan, or Darnell—oh, whatever—would never see the inside of Kensington Palace, where Arthur's apartments were. He would never really know who Arthur was, either, because Arthur's security would make sure that his bedfellow left long before the sun rose, and he could really get a look at Arthur and realise who he was. It wasn't always like that, though. Arthur had brought Gwaine back to Kensington Palace, had woken up next to Gwaine and had lounged with him eating breakfast. The thought of Gwaine sent a painful ache through Arthur's chest, and he kissed his new companion with more fervour, determined to erase Gwaine for the night.

Arthur's security drove them back to his privately-owned flat in Chelsea. It was a small affair, consisting of two bedrooms in a Victorian conversion off Redcliffe Square. Arthur did use the space occasionally when the fishbowl that was Kensington Palace became too much for him, but the last time he had been there had been before Wimbledon in June, and before Gwaine. Still, Arthur's staff kept the place dust-free, and so it wasn't covered in dust when Arthur and his companion stumbled through the door.

The other man paused, and looked around, "Do you even have a personality?" He quipped, looking around at the bare shelves—the beige couch, with no accent pillows, or knitted throw to give it any sense of use. Even in the dim light (Arthur was always sure to keep the light dim in these kinds of situation), Arthur could see that the place looked rather unloved.

But he shrugged. "I just moved in; the rest of the stuff is on its way from Warwickshire."

"Your own flat? Your parents must be loaded."

Arthur shrugged. "Something like that." He grinned and his eyes sparkled. "Do you want to see the bedroom?"

Usually this sort of thing was enough to drive whatever was bothering Arthur away, at least for a few hours. But even as shirts came off, belts were fumbled with, and bodies intertwined, a thudding remained at the back of Arthur mind. Duty. Marriage. Wife.

He had known it was coming, of course. You couldn't be the heir to the throne and not know that eventually your days in the sun would end. Eventually he would have to settle down and produce an heir. But he had never really expected that eventually would be now. Sure, he could sidestep it for now, but Uther's eyes were glued to him, and eventually Arthur would have to do as his father demanded.

Simply, Arthur's time was running out. But thankfully, it hadn't run out just yet.

Arthur left Redcliffe Square at a little past five in the morning, when dawn was just painting pale pink streaks across the sky. It was March, and the air was still chilly, but the sunshine promised a deceptively warm day. He was still drunk, although the buzz had faded into a dizzying grogginess, and bleary-eyed. He thought longingly of his bed at Kensington Palace, or even of his bedfellow who was still upstairs and asleep and wished that he had a normal life that did not involve sneaking out of your secret flat.

Arthur had left a note—Sorry to leave you behind, I had an early morning meeting! A. Welsh—and knew that in all likelihood when the young man woke up he would be relieved that Arthur was not there, find some instant coffee in the cupboard, and use the old kettle that certainly by now needed descaling. Some of Arthur's security detail remained behind at Redcliffe Square, and would be watching from a car across the road to ensure that the young man left the flat before the afternoon, none the wiser to who he had spent the night with. Arthur felt only a little guilty about leaving—after all, who hadn't found some excuse to slip away from their one-night stand at one time or another? But a part of Arthur wondered what it would be like to wake up with the stranger, hungover and a little embarrassed, and to stumble into the nearest pub, ordering the largest and greasiest breakfast they had. What would it be like, Arthur wondered, to leave and then hear from the other man later in the day? To meet again, and to perhaps let it grow into something more, something they could both be open about.

Gwaine had been something more, and so had Percival. But both Gwaine and Percival had land and titles they would inherit, and like Arthur, both had hoped to keep their relationship discrete. It hadn't been the way that Arthur imagined it could be if he were free of his titles, and of the life he led as a British aristocrat. It never would be, either. Perhaps he could have those things with a wife—but even that would lack the sparkle he imagined; the zing that would saturate everything else. Arthur lived an incredibly privileged life, but there were still some things that he would never get to have. His duty, he knew, would always come first.

oOo

Arthur woke up in his large bed at Kensington Palace around eleven in the morning to the shrill sound of the palace phone that he had to keep by his bedside. He groaned, and tried to ignore it, but when it continued ringing Arthur sighed, and reached over to answer it.

"What?" His voice was equal parts groggy and sharp. His temples throbbed lightly.

It was the steward from the office downstairs. "Sir, I have Sir Guias Bell on the line for you from Buckingham Palace. He says it's urgent."

Arthur swore under his breath. It was always too early to speak to the wretched man who carried out his father's whims. But he knew that if he refused to speak to Guias, he would be refusing to speak to his father, and his father never dealt well with being totally ignored. He sat up and readjusted the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "Put him through."

"Sir." There was a click, and the line was silent for a moment. Then shuffling, and finally a voice—

"Good morning, Your Royal Highness."

"Good morning, Guias. What do you want?"

There was a pause. Arthur could imagine that the older man had closed his eyes in exasperation at Arthur's cool tone but knew better than to try and reprimand him. "Sir, have you seen the Daily Mail this morning?"

"I'm afraid I haven't had the chance, given that I've been sleeping since I arrived home early this morning."

Guias did not snatch at the bait. "Sir, I am aware that you had a—a delicate conversation with your father yesterday, but it seems that there is a bigger problem than we had originally perceived."

"Guias, the system has been in place for years now." Arthur raked a hand through his hair. "Donny, or Dustin, or Dominic—whoever he was has no idea who I am, and by now will have left Redcliffe Square. I didn't bring him back to Kensington Palace, I'm not stupid."

"Sir, I don't know who you're referring to."

Arthur was stumped. "Are you not calling to remonstrate with me about last night's adventures?"

"Not today, Sir. I was not aware that you had had any adventures last night beyond watching the new episode of Get The Celebrity Off Of Here."

"It's I'm A Celebrity—never mind. Guias, why are you calling me?"

"Well Sir, as I said, it is regarding the Daily Mail article that was published this morning. Do you know of a Mr. Simon Tomilton? I believe he was one of your school fellows at Eton."

"Whaa—yes, I know him. I don't think I've spoken to him since we left school, however. I haven't even really thought of him, to be honest."

"Well, Sir…" Guias paused, and rearranged his next words. "Sir, it appears that Mr. Tomilton has thought of you a great deal recently."

"What?"

"Sir, Mr. Tomilton has spoken to the Daily Mail about a certain relationship he claims that you and he had at Eton. At the moment no other papers are running the story, but His Majesty The King and I are concerned that it will fuel speculation and turn into a much larger story."

"What?! Hang on." Still holding the phone, Arthur stood and reached over to his desk for his iPad. Holding the phone securely between his shoulder he searched for Simon Tomilton and Daily Mail.

When the results loaded, it felt like his innards dropped out of his ass.

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER: SIMON TOMILTON CLAIMS TO HAVE HAD A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP WITH THE PRINCE OF WALES DURING SCHOOL DAYS.

Below the headline was an old photo of Arthur and Simon and a group of their friends at Eton, in tails and all of the rest. Simon was looking at Arthur as he always had—with adoration and surprise.

"I—oh no. I mean, I suppose I fancied him at school, and I knew he fancied me, but he never—we never—" Never what, Arthur? He chided himself. What about behind the kitchens after A-Level exams ended? Was that never doing anything? "—Shit." He breathed.

"Well, yes, that is one way to put it." For once, Arthur thought that he heard genuine pity in Guias' voice, rather than the exasperation he was so used to. "Sir, your father and I want to get the press team on this immediately, as well as the legal team—goodness knows that the Mail has no business printing stories about your personal life as a teenager, regardless of what they contain— but…" He trailed off.

"But what, Guias?"

"Well, Sir… your father and I worry that what we can do with our press and legal teams will not be enough to douse this story."

Arthur tried to ignore the growing sense of dread in his stomach. "What does that mean?"

"I—Sir, we would like to discuss this with you in person. Would you be able to join His Majesty and I at one o'clock today?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Excellent, Sir. We will speak more then. Goodbye."

"Guias—shit."

The phone was dead before Arthur had finished pronouncing the 'G.' Arthur couldn't imagine what sort of plan was being cooked up at Buckingham Palace, but he was certain that he wouldn't like it.

Arthur put the phone down and sank onto his bed. He looked up at the TV that sat across from him, staring at his reflection for a long time.