Cyril Kamelot was always a spoiled child, and it was only natural that he grew into a spoiled young man.
His father and mother were a beautiful couple, dignitaries from the not-so-distant land of Portugal sent to England for political purposes. Though he remembered the warm, lush landscape of his homeland in childhood memories, he grew up in the well-manicured streets of London. The flowers of his teenage years were women in brightly colored gowns; the tempting fruits were attractive men.
They would catch him taking in their forms, in the midst of those late-night ballroom crowds. The women would titter about with their friends, snapping their fans a few times before finally opening them-- Beckoning him to come and pursue them. The young men would bide their time, of course, until they were in a place away from prying eyes.
His parents kept a lovely garden. Even in his adulthood, he would reminisce over those sumptuous evenings in summer, when he would press his chosen companion against the tall hedges, gracefully finding his way beneath crinolines or trousers, savoring their soft noises of desire. He could play their lust as easily as a master of the harp, finding just the right strings to manipulate in just the right way until they were quivering messes of passion, pleading for the mercy of a climax.
Really, it was shocking how much he got away with. He likely learned his skill at lying from his father-- But that was a different matter entirely, something he hadn't learned about until later in his life.
Patricia had never been the sort of girl to flirt like that. He had been aware of her existence for quite a while before his father arranged their engagement; she was a quiet girl, standing in corners in pale dresses, keeping her fan tightly closed and keeping her eyes low to avoid eye contact with the male guests at her parties. Cyril had attempted to flirt with her several times, only to find her cripplingly shy and shockingly frail. Her constitution had always been poor, as everyone knew, but her esteemed father was an earl, which more than compensated for her flaws.
The engagement had not been a shock to Cyril. He knew his father was likely to aim high for his son, and the dear Patricia was one step short of getting into the royal family. They both knew their duty to their families, and their courtship was a genial affair. At the very least, she was pleasant company, and a decent conversationalist, though she didn't hold many opinions of her own and had the morals of a saint.
Cyril fancied he could enjoy sullying her, on occasion. She would blush when she noticed that coy smile on his face, imagining he was thinking of less than decent things.
If she had the slightest inkling, she would have done far more than blush.
The most pleasant surprise of all was their wedding night. Cyril had been anticipating nothing short of the tamest of consummations, full of apologies and uncomfortable moments. God paid well for patience, however: once they had overcome the initial awkwardness of the evening, Cyril discovered that his fragile new bride was far from breakable in the bed.
It was a blessing in itself, in the end, that it was an enjoyable experience, because they would never get anything but enjoyment from their efforts. Years of trying yielded not a single child, and eventually they stopped hoping she would conceive.
His father died several years after his marriage, and with typically superb timing, left a succinct little note about a mistress he had been keeping for years, and a son he had been keeping nearly as long. Cyril first met his half-brother over their father's casket, and was nothing short of unimpressed by how such an attractive young man could dress himself so poorly.
Shortly after that inspiring revelation, Cyril woke up one morning with a dangerous fever and the flesh on his brow split and bleeding. When he awoke from his delusional dreams, the first thing he saw was a little girl, sitting on the edge of his bed.
He had never quite forgotten her face, when she realized his eyes were open; beautiful blue eyes, strangely sad despite the angelic smile on her face, looking down at him lovingly. It was a startling experience, certainly, but the discovery that his half-brother had gone missing during his sickness was sobering news. The next time he saw Tyki Mikk, the Kamelot bastard, he had the same blood on his brow and fever in his flesh.
Cyril hadn't cared much for Tyki, in those days. Odd how things like that could change, with time and circumstance.
When the Queen granted favors to her prized court members, Cyril charmed his way into a position he was well-suited for: The Minister of Foreign Affairs. With the new title came a new urgency for his wife, and his mother's desire for a grandchild. After extensive debate on the matter, Patricia forced his mother's hand in the matter. On the twentieth of June, they adopted a beautiful, blue-eyed angel from an orphanage in the countryside.
Rhode was a little monster, to put it mildly. She was just as bratty as her adoptive father, and he had no intention of disciplining her for it. Poor Tricia spent weeks trying to be a gentle parent, trying to convince their precious little guttersnipe that good behavior would be in her best interests. At last, she resorted to hiring a governess.
The tenth one finally stuck around, refusing to be frightened off by her ward.