The Lady and the Newt (AFL, Round 2)

Or how Damien nearly disgraced himself twice in one day.

An impromptu dip in the Serpentine ends on a soggy note – from Penelope. It seems her mistress has devised a pair of projects to enliven her time in town, at least one of which involves posing for a gentleman au naturel. But will it be her husband?

Damien rose from the Serpentine and shook the water from his hair. A stray lily pad stuck stubbornly to his cheek, but that was the least of his worries.

Something small and wriggly and slimy had found its way into his breeches and was struggling mightily to find its way out again. It was torture, the friction it caused.

The sound of Alexis' undignified hooting did not help matters either. It was her fault, after all, that he had fallen in, and for her now to sit there idly in the skiff while he struggled with a recalcitrant amphibian, why it was the worst sort of betrayal.

He reached for the buttons at his waist, but then thought better of it. It would only make matters worse were he to terrify the crowd of children and nannies that had found their way to the banks with the sight or even mere hint of his rather prodigious member. Besides, he was in no mood to be arrested, not after the night he'd had.

"Alright, dear sister. You've had your fun."

He turned and trudged toward her, each soggy step sending the poor trapped creature into ever greater paroxysms of panic. By the time he reached the dinghy, he was in agony and Alexis was herself in danger of joining him in the drink. She was now prone, rolling from side to side and hiccupping uncontrollably.

Damien glanced over his shoulder and with a little wave to the spectators, dropped to his knees. After wrestling his buttons free from their holes, he reached into his breeches, taking no chances that the mite would escape on its own.

And when at last he brought his quarry to the surface, he found that the monster of this loch was naught but a lowly newt.

"My lord? I say, Lord Coulter, that is you, is it not?"

Over the edge of the boat he saw a liveried footman hailing him.

Having released the instrument of his torture and made himself relatively presentable again, he pushed the craft and his still-incapacitated sister before him to the bank.

"Yes. It is I," he stated grandly, removing the lily pad from his cheek with as much dignity as he could muster.

"My lord, I was just crossing the park to deliver a message to your home..."

Damien held out his hand.

He unfolded the proffered note and swiftly read its contents. Heaving a sigh, he screwed up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Tell her ladyship I shall meet her...cat as requested. But before you leave the park, find my tiger and have him send 'round the curricle. My sister simply cannot be seen in public in such an undignified state."


Just shy of tea time, neatly coiffed and clad in dry, rather stylish coat and breeches, Damien arrived at the door of an impossibly elegant residence on Grosvenor Square.

It felt absurd to be ringing the bell of a house that had doubtless been secured through an allowance he paid; however, he determined that - particularly after his adventures in the Serpentine - forcing his way in, scaling the garden walls or otherwise making an arse of himself could reasonably be considered grounds for confinement to Bedlam.

So on the step he waited, and waited, until a footman more expensively attired than he deigned to bid him enter.

She was waiting for him in the parlor, perched on a settee before a bow window, haloed in golden light. She was, in a word, breathtaking.

"My lady," he bowed.

She rose and bobbed a curtsey.

"My lord. Please," she said, indicating a pair of chairs by the fire. A tray laden with a tea set and cakes rested on a table before them.

"At last," he sighed once seated. "I have often wondered how where all of my money goes. It seems you are able to make more than do with the stipend you cajoled my agent into granting you."

"That pittance, my lord?" she trilled as she poured his tea. "Why 'tis barely enough to cover my account at the modiste."

"Indeed. And you have need of such finery while rusticating in the wilds of Wiltshire?"

"Wiltshire is, indeed, wild," she quipped, a smile playing about her lips.

"And all this?" he waved his hand. "I suppose what remains once you've augmented what must be a rather considerable wardrobe of gem-strewn ball gowns is used to take prime Mayfair real estate and adorn it with," he waved his hand ever more wildly, "beastly golden horn-blowing cherubs?"

Patience smiled serenely.

"Now my, lord, there is no need to indulge in hysterics," she offered him a scone. "I can assure you, not a penny of yours was used to procure this property. It came, along with the title and a large Scottish estate, from my late mother's brother. As his son was killed at Vitoria, the earldom passed to me."

"Ah. I see. And, I suppose, you've asked me here to demand an annulment as you have no need any longer, I would surmise, for my measly title."

"Actually, no," she drawled, eyes sparkling. "I have no such wish. In fact, I need you for one of my little...projects."

"Then why enter society as the Countess of Fraser if you have no desire to be rid of me? I demand that you correct this misapprehension at once. Indeed, as your husband, I forbid you to carry on in such a...a..."

"Independent manner? Come now. You couldn't even compel me to remain in our marriage bed. Nor the cat, come to think of it. Here," she held out a plate. "Have a slice of cake. We will discuss my reinstatement as your wife anon. For now I need to be known as Lady Fraser. It's for another of my projects."

"You and your projects. I have no doubt you've pursued many 'projects' in my absence. In my bed, no doubt."

"My lord, do the words pot and kettle have any meaning for you?" She smiled impishly. "Actually, I will inform you of the nature of said project, if only to buy your silence for the time necessary to see it through to completion."

She took a sip of tea.

"I should warn you, however, that certain elements of what I have to relate to you are rather...indelicate."

Damien marveled at her. Not yet twenty and warning him - him! - to gird himself against the offense of his sensibilities.

"I appreciate your concern, my lady. Pray enlighten me."

"Very well," she began. "I shall try to relate it to you exactly as it was related to me. A fortnight ago I received a letter from Lady Alderman concerning the nefarious activities of a certain gentleman. It seems that several of her friends had taken her into their confidence regarding certain...affaires du coeur, all involving the same...séducteur."

Damien's mouth twitched. He had no doubt her recall of his aunt's chosen vocabulary was flawless.

"Said séducteur was none other than the Baron of Snydley. It seems he had convinced each of them that theirs was an...amour passionnel and as such it would be as nothing for them to pose for him...au naturel as, after all, he is something of an established artiste. As you might imagine," she continued, "he has used said portraits to blackmail these ladies, among them some of the most well-regarded of the ton."

"And?"

"And? And as he has no knowledge of me beyond my title, I shall endeavor to stop him."

"Pardon?" he clattered his teacup into its saucer. "And just how do you intend to do that?"

"By stealing his sketchbook, of course!" She regarded him quizzically. "How else did you suppose...Ah. I see," she smiled seductively. "Well, of course, it may come to that..."

She rose and crossed to him, draped herself onto his lap. He was too stunned to speak.

"Which leads me rather conveniently to the other project to which I alluded earlier." She regarded him coyly. "As you may know, I have virtually no remaining relations save a single vile cousin on my father's side, Rufus Sawston." She raised a hand to his face and traced the line of his jaw. "He's a beast," she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. "When we were children he would put horrid creatures in my bed."

She wriggled her bottom against him. For the second time that day he was in danger of disgracing himself.

"Newts usually."

Damien suppressed a groan.

"Naturally, I simply could not bear for such a nasty little piece of work to inherit the earldom from me..."

A rap came at the door followed by the sound of it opening.

"My lady, I am sorry to intrude, but you had asked me to tell you when Lord Snydley arrived. Shall I show him into the library?"

"No, Smith," she called, her eyes intent on Damien's face. "Show him to my upstairs sitting room."

The door closed and Damien looked hard at her.

"So you see, I require an heir. And as a courtesy, given that you are my husband, what I am offering you is first refusal. Damien," she looked him deep in the eyes, "will you be the father of my child?"