Off to Bed... (AFL, Round 4)

...fordshire

A surprise visit from a bishop sends Patience heading for the hills (or rather, fens) with Damien in hot and bothered pursuit. Will he succeed in convincing her not to seek an annulment and will their romp end in Bed(forshire)?

"My lady," Grimm intoned, holding before her a salver.

Patience shifted her embroidery frame aside. The Persian aux yeux violets would have to wait, although it really was coming along rather nicely. There would be a fine new addition to the litter of pillows now occupying Damien's much-abused library.

She lifted the calling card from the proffered tray and read the name engraved upon it. Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked to Grimm for confirmation; he nodded solemnly.

"Well, I suppose you'd better show him in," she trilled.

Standing, she smoothed the creases from her green dress, then glancing in the mirror over the chimneypiece, she checked the state of her hair. Everything appeared to be in order, but she pinched her cheeks for good measure.

At the same moment, she heard the click of the door and turned to greet her guest.

He wasn't at all what she expected, although in truth she hadn't much time in which to formulate a considered opinion.

She supposed she had thought that he'd be wearing at least a miter upon his head, if not the full gold-threaded robes he donned on the highest holidays. But then again, the miter would likely prove inconvenient when calling upon parishioners in their homes. He couldn't possibly hope that they would all have doorways tall enough to accommodate such a tall pointy hat, and by leaving it at Fulham Palace he really could avoid any unseemly ducking or crushing of felt.

No, he was not nearly as grand as she might have expected. Instead the Bishop of London could have been considered positively drab, entering her parlor with bared head and sporting a habit as humble as that of any rural vicar.

"Bishop," she greeted him, bobbing a curtsey. She wasn't sure if she was expected to kiss his ring, but prayed that if it were necessary he would at least have the courtesy to offer his hand.

"Lady Coulter," he replied, bowing. "I hope I am not interrupting anything of great import, but I was in the area and thought I might take this opportunity to visit you as I have heard so much about you from your husband."

His tone was clipped, precise, as though he had spent many hours perfecting his elocution.

"From my husband?" She indicated a seat. "Are you quite sure?"

"Why, yes," he replied as he sat. "I have known young Damien since he was a boy. I was at Cambridge with his father and he continues to consult with me on matters of importance."

"Oh, I see," she said, nodding.

Only she didn't see. She might not know her husband over well, but she was fairly certain spending time with clergymen was not high on his list of preferred pastimes. Patience was not sure where the present conversation might be headed, but she suspected she would require some fortification. She rang a small bell and Grimm arrived presently.

"I don't suppose you would care for some chocolate, Bishop?"

"Ooh, yes. I simply adore chocolate!" he cooed.

"Very well. Grimm?"

"Yes, my lady."

As Grimm shut the door she turned her attention back to the small man sitting across from her. He really was a rather odd specimen, pushing up the sleeves of his coat and fingering the tails of his cravat. Really, one would have thought the diocese might have sprung for a habit that fit the poor man.

"I'm sorry, Bishop, you were saying?"

"Yes. Yes. I was saying I have known Damien since he was a child and, oh yes, he still comes to me for advice from time to time."

"Indeed. And I take it he has come to you recently for guidance of some sort? Regarding me, perchance?"

"Why, yes. Yes. He mentioned that you had recently elected to come to London after some three years spent closeted at Coulter Park. And I must say, he is most remorseful, most remorseful for having allowed you to languish for so long, unattended, unappreciated, reviled, even..."

"Reviled?"

"Oh, well, perhaps not reviled. But to be sure, he has now determined to make amends! He is even looking forward to the day when you might have a family of your own. Indeed," he confided, "he has shared with me some of the names that have taken his fancy."

"Names? Really. He's naming our children?"

Grimm entered with the chocolate and set the tray before Patience.

"Pray tell," she simpered, as she poured two cups of chocolate from the pot. "What might some of those names be?"

"Well, I...You can be sure that they are all good Christian names."

"Such as?" She held a cup and saucer just beyond the man's reach.

"Such as...Such as Faith, Hope, er, Charity..."

"Penelope?" She smiled. "Was Penelope mentioned?"

"Why, yes. Penelope was certainly among the names he listed."

"I see." She handed him the chocolate. "Yes, I do see. Now, sir, I will allow you to have a sip of chocolate, and then you will tell me just who your master is and how much he paid you to engage in this afternoon's shabby little charade."

***

"Remind me to send a crate of champagne to your father's friend there, what's his...? Oh yes, the Bishop of London! Ha! Ha! It's only right, really, a fair trade for an afternoon's use of his good name. And it's wine, after all, so there couldn't be any objection based on his vocation, really, now could there, what? What?"

Damien slapped Snydley on the back, then grabbed hold of and shook his shoulder. He couldn't remember for the life of him when he'd enjoyed an evening at White's more. A bottle of France's finest smuggled brandy, a well-conceived plan, a tremendous thunderstorm raging outside - all that was lacking was young Crane, who had yet to show his face.

"I should never have agreed to this scheme, Coulter," Snydley muttered. "That wife of yours is sure to fashion her own lady guillotine and see that it's put to immediate and extensive use once she's found us out."

"Oh, my Lord Snydley, you mustn't distress yourself with such imaginings! Your fair cousin will be under my thumb and under my quilt ere long, and trust me, once there she will have neither time nor energy to devote to such trifles."

"I wish that I shared your sanguinity, old man; however, in my experience - and it extends back decades - the woman has never fallen for any such ruse, however well conceived. Her mind is like a steel trap and she possesses a memory to rival Homer. You can be assured that when she does come to know of our chicanery, she will make us pay, and dearly."

Damien was still shaking his head when Crane entered, his man Wilson at his elbow. The latter was still clad in ecclesiastical attire and seemed to have shrunken yet further into the ill-fitting garb.

"So?" Damien queried.

Crane looked to Wilson, then motioned for him to sit.

The three gentlemen drew close 'round the footman; Snydley handed the man a snifter full of brandy.

"Aaaaah," Wilson sighed, inhaling its fine scent. "Lovely."

"Yes, yes. Out with it, man," Damien urged. "We've been waiting here for hours!"

Wilson took a sip and began.

"There is little to tell, my lords. I discharged my duties as required. Her ladyship listened intently to my stories of you, Lord Coulter, and seemed duly impressed with your apparent change of heart."

"And?" Damien demanded. "And how did you leave it? Am I to go to her? I insist that you tell me at once!"

"To be truthful, my lord, I am not altogether certain what to make of the conclusion of our interview. You see, she chose to confide in me, as a man of God, you understand. She chose to tell me...Well..."

Damien turned to Crane.

"So help me if you don't compel the man to speak, I will!"

Crane looked at Wilson and shrugged his shoulders. At last Wilson complied.

"She said that she felt that your efforts simply amounted to too little too late, and the idea that she could undo three years of rejection through a simple ruse involving someone named Snaily was simply absurd." He leaned closer to Damien, lowering his voice dramatically. "She was crying as she told me this, I should add, my lord, truly distraught. I believe there might even have been some brief gnashing of teeth as well." He leaned back again. "And so, she said, she was going to return directly to her family's Bedfordshire estate and from thence seek an annulment."

"She what?" Damien blurted.

"She said she was going -"

Damien waved him off then set to pacing. This was not the plan. She was supposed to fall at his feet, welcome him into her bed, redecorate the nursery - well, perhaps not that last, but certainly the first two.

At last he turned to the three men.

"Well, if that's what it takes to get that woman in my bed, then I'm for Bedfordshire!" he declared. "At least it's not Scotland!"

How Do I Love Thee? (AFL, Round 4)

...I cannot count the ways

A perfect storm is brewing. While Patience has decided to put an end to her ruse, Damien's has yet to begin. A tempestuous trip to the park sees their machinations revealed, but as a lightning storm rages, both their love and lives could be at stake.

Patience heaved a great sigh and rested her head on a hand; with the other she resumed the muddling of her morning chocolate in its pot.

It was a lovely pot, she thought distractedly, silver with acanthus leaves applied at the feet and handle, restrained and refined, far more in keeping with her taste than the gaudy monstrosities cluttering up the rest of the house.

She poured a stream of the dark brew into a waiting cup, selected a slim triangle of toasted bread and leaned back against the chair. She dipped a corner of the toast in the chocolate and watched as it took the liquid like a sponge.

Damien had not returned last eve.

After that kiss and the affront that followed, she wasn't entirely sure she had wanted him to. What was more, she was no longer entirely sure she had the emotional wherewithal to maintain this game they now played, a game that she in all her naïveté had begun.

Dropping the toast onto the saucer, she sipped at her cup.

It was one thing to love from afar, to study a miniature and ascribe noble qualities to the gentleman depicted therein. It was quite another to be confronted with the reality of that gentleman, and all the flaws and foibles it necessarily entailed.

She returned her cup and saucer to their tray and rose, then wandered over to her dressing table and sat before the mirror.

There was far more to this love thing than she had anticipated, she mused as she took a brush to her hair. In the past few days alone she had identified much in his character that she did not especially admire, and while after a time such details might fade in importance, for the moment she had to admit that they gave her considerable pause.

But then again, she acceded, there was the distinct possibility that his behavior since her arrival was due expressly to the position in which her scheme had placed him.

Perhaps, in all fairness, he deserved the benefit of her doubt.

Patience stood and crossed to her escritoire. It was decided. She would send a note to his club suggesting a drive in the park. There she would tell him all and then, perchance, at long last learn the true measure of the man.


***

"Splendidly! It will all go splendidly!" Damien declared as he descended the steps of White's, Snydley and Crane at his heels. "I couldn't have asked for a better stroke of luck. We shall take a drive, I'll share with her the terrible news..."

Upon reaching his curricle, he turned to them.

"Do not forget," he told the baron as he pulled on his driving gloves. "You are to notify me as soon as she shares with you my announcement. You've helped her thus far, so I have no doubt she will turn to you for guidance as to her next steps in this matter."

Snydley nodded, but his mien betrayed little enthusiasm.

"And, Crane." He fixed his friend with a serious eye. "The removers are to be at the house no later than noon. I will time our arrival accordingly." He mounted the vehicle, and as he gathered the reins in his hands, curled his mouth into a mischievous grin. "Why the long face, old man? 'Tis but a small test of the depths of my dear wife's affections. If they be as deep and enduring as Snydley claims, my little ruse will prove but a minor obstacle to the course of our true love."

And with a flick of the reins and an exaggerated nod he set off to seek his bride.

***

"There is a matter of some import that I must share with you," Patience announced.

She had at finally reached the end of her tether. As they had meandered through the considerable expanse of Hyde Park, she and Damien had engaged in what seemed to be an interminable round of pleasantries regarding the profusion of narcissi now abounding. The search for intelligent comments on what she regarded as a highly overrated flower alone had become insupportable, not to mention the energy required to maintain the farce that governed their interaction. She therefore determined the time had come at last to offer her full confession.

"Might we stop? I should like to walk a bit if it would not be too great an inconvenience. Walking always helps me think, I find. And," she added, "I do very much need to think."

"Of course, but the heavens seem to be about to open. Are you sure --"

"Look - just beyond the trees - a folly. We can shelter there if necessary."

Damien stopped the curricle, signaled to his tiger and descended. He took her hand to help her to the ground, then slipped it into the crook of his arm. They started along the path.

"I am glad you suggested this walk, madam, as there is something of great consequence I wish to discuss with you as well. Of course, it can wait until after --"

"Oh, no, my lord," she interjected, finding herself unexpectedly quailing. "You must speak first. I-I insist."

"Very well. I am afraid what I have to say may come as some shock, but I have determined I must tell you directly, without equivocation."

They had reached the folly just as the rain began to fall. With the first clap of thunder and flash of lightning he turned to face her, solemnly placing a hand on either of her shoulders.

"I have," he started, "for lack of a better term, squandered my family's fortune. An investment I had been given every reason to believe was sound has, it seems, revealed itself a swindle. It is gone. All of it. The notes have come due, and, I fear, both the house here in Town as well as Coulter Park and all of their contents are on the verge of being seized." He shook his head. "You are married to a fool. My shame is, by extension, my lady wife's shame, and after having left you to languish in the country lo these three years I cannot hope to be able to atone for my actions in any other fashion but to propose an annulment. Virtually no one knows we are married. You could carry on using your Scottish title, marry Snydley..."

Patience was shocked to the core. And while her first impulse had been to reach for him, wrap her arms about him, there was something in his tone as he pronounced her cousin's name that stilled her. A smile. Snydley's name made him smile, though he fought to suppress it.

And then, in a rush, all became clear. He knew. He had discovered her ruse and was playing her for a fool. Under any other circumstances she might have been able, willing even, to admire the symmetry of his scheme. But now that she was here and emotionally spent, she found that the only reaction she could muster was a curious form of detachment.

And so, as though in direct counterpoint to the intensity of the storm that now raged, when Patience finally spoke, her voice was all but devoid of emotion.

"Do you know why my father agreed to our marriage?" she asked, cocking her head and looking deep into his grey eyes. "Because he so loved my mother and mourned her passing with such intensity that he could not bear for me to endure the same. He could not bear for me to love and to lose, to have my world drained of color with the loss of my heart's twin. And so he contracted to have me married to a stranger, someone who might provide a comfortable life for me, one full of distractions and free from cares."

Damien's brows furrowed in confusion. When he seemed about to speak, she continued.

"But he did not consider what I wanted, whether I was willing to risk loving and then losing. And I was. Heaven help me, I was, even then. I wanted so desperately to love and be loved that despite the nature of our marriage and against all evidence to the contrary, I convinced myself that one day you would come to look at me the way my father looked at my mother, that you would one day come to choose my company above all others." She shook her head, slowly, mournfully, detachment, at last, replaced by desolation.

Understanding dawned behind Damien's eyes, but it was already too late.

Patience turned from him and left the shelter of the folly, striking out across the lawn into the full force of the storm.

"But now I know," she declared, still advancing, never pausing. "Now I know."

He caught up with her, and seizing her by the arms, pulled her around to face him. She was drenched, the drops streaking her face so numerous it was impossible to tell where the rain ended and her tears began.

"Know what?" he choked. "Know what?"

With a voice, low and resolute, she answered.

"Now I know I could never love you."

He looked at her in despair, cognizant at once of what fools they had both been.

And it was then, at that same moment, with a roar of thunder worthy of Zeus himself, that a bolt of lightening found its way to the ground.

Good Godwin! (AFL, Round 3)

In which Damien proposes a rather radical arrangement...

A lesson in seduction goes dramatically awry, leaving Patience to wonder if she might never lay claim to Damien's heart. Could Patience be tempted to accommodate her husband's unorthodox proposal in the hopes he might someday learn to love her alone?

"That preening popinjay is her cousin."

Damien frowned. He had burst into the library to find his friend standing at the window, a book in one hand and a squirming ball of fur in the other.

"What?" he barked.

"Snydley. He's just leaving, by the way. Out the front door no less." Jonathan indicated with an incline of the head.

Damien was possessed by the need to kick something. He looked down. A basket of wriggly kits lay at his feet, presided over by the imperious Penelope. Yet another wholly natural urge frustrated by that foul-tempered feline.

"He was at your wedding," Jonathan continued, tossing Damien the Debrett's. "I've only just remembered. And because I thought it damned odd it occurred to me he might be related to your charming wife."

Damien stared at the volume in his hands.

"Chin up, old man," Jonathan chided, dragging his fingers through the purring mass of white fuzz. "You're no cuckold after all."

"Perhaps," Damien countered, "But in her eyes I remain a dupe. Indeed, I'm not entirely sure which is worse."

Jonathan was clearly tempted to answer, but appeared to think better of it.

"Still," Damien mused, "Such a misapprehension on her part might be turned to my advantage." With the toe of a polished boot, Damien threatened to upset the kitten-filled basket. "I may yet reclaim the upper hand."

Penelope hissed and lashed out at the fine leather encasing his ankle. He withdrew at the fierceness of the lunge, but not before the cat had left her mark.

"Oh dear," Jonathan sighed, flinging himself into a wingback and pitching a leg over its arm. He brought the kitten before his face and addressed it eye to eye. "It seems your grandpapa has a plan."

***

Patience turned the key in the lock on her bedroom door.

"There," she smiled. "Now we're sure to remain undisturbed."

She turned to face her cousin who was presently peering through the drapes of a window overlooking the garden.

"Come away from there, you coot," she teased. "I told you, he's overseeing the removal of his things from his bachelor apartments. Has been since the day he spoiled my fun and announced to le tout ton my true identity."

Snydley scowled. "This is damned awkward, Patience. I am still baffled as to how you persuaded me to assist you in such an absurd endeavor. I think you will agree that I have already gone above and beyond any reasonable call of duty."

She crossed to the bed and perched on its edge.

"Oh, come now, Arthur. You do want to see me happy, don't you? Hm? Now, no more dithering." She patted the spot next to her. "I require seducing."

"Indeed, dear cousin. You do," Snydley drawled. "I say, it's some wonder as to why that husband of yours needs any prompting at all. Tell me, are you certain he's quite well?"

"I suppose I shall know definitively in due course, but for the moment I very much need you to concentrate on the task at hand."

She tapped the bed more firmly this time.

With a sigh, Snydley moved towards her.

"Are you sure --"

"Completely. There's absolutely no one else I might ask, and besides, you have by far the greatest wealth of experience upon which to draw, wouldn't you agree?"

"Truly, my knowledge of the fairer sex is without parallel" he conceded, indulging in a little pose against the bed post. "If any man is to teach one how to make oneself more alluring to one's paramour, even if said paramour is as banal as one's husband, it is I."

Patience suppressed a smile.

"But be advised," he continued, "we will speak only in the most general of terms as you require but the most basic guidance. You are already fortunate enough to be naturally gifted with looks and wit, and indeed were I of Lord Byron's ilk, I might be tempted to woo you myself. Now, stand. The bed is not where you start but rather where you end." He took her hand and brought her to her feet. "Of course, that needn't always be the case..."

From beyond the door came the voice of Grimm accompanied by the pounding of Hessians upon the stair.

"My lord. My lord!" the butler called ever more shrilly.

"Silence, Grimm!" Damien boomed. "No matter how long she might have languished in the provinces, she remains my wife and I will not stand for her to entertain any other man above these stairs."

Patience looked at Snydley, then at the door. She shook her head.

The knob turned, and to her horror, without intermediate pause, the lock gave.

There was nothing to be done but to turn the catastrophe to her advantage. Patience grabbed her cousin and in a single movement brought them both down onto the bed. She could never have anticipated what followed, however, for with the force of their landing the bottom seam of the feather mattress ceded, filling the room with a cloud of down.

And then there was silence.

When at last the snowy fill settled, Damien fixed Snydley with a look fit to kill. He raised his chin and with a sweep of his arm indicated the door.

Without further ado, Snydley disentangled himself from the bedclothes and scampered from the room.

Damien closed the door after him then turned the key in the lock. After two revolutions the mechanism shot audibly home. He faced his wife.

"Well, my dear," he quipped. "It seems your level of sophistication far exceeds my imaginings. In your husband's home, before teatime? I must say, that is very modern."

Patience remained abed, but was now upright, and beginning to suspect all her plans were about to go spectacularly awry.

Damien approached and, to her horror, lay down on the bed facing her, his head propped on a hand.

"Be not afraid," he cooed. "Indeed, I cannot tell you how pleased I am with this afternoon's turn of events. It may in fact mean that we are better suited than either of us had dared to hope."

Patience looked into his eyes; they told her nothing.

"No doubt you're familiar with the works of William Godwin?" he continued. "The principles of free love? I must admit my interest in such ideas makes me something of a radical, but I do not see why we cannot come to some arrangement as to the conduct of our extramarital liaisons. Provided, of course, we agree to complete discretion. I can't be expected to challenge one of your lovers to a duel each and every week merely to maintain appearances. Wouldn't you agree?"

Patience could neither agree nor disagree. Her lips parted to answer, yet she seemed to have misplaced her voice. He reached for her and eased her back onto the bed.

"Of course," He raked the back of his hand along the length of her throat. "'Twould be a waste for two such voluptuaries as ourselves to eschew one another's company simply because we happen to be married." He reached her breasts, his breath becoming ever more ragged. Turning his hand over, he trailed his fingertips across the swells.

Patience was growing increasingly muddled. His touch, his voice: she was unsure which was her greater undoing.

Then after what seemed an eternity, he bent to claim a kiss.

In that moment, all reason deserted her, all of what he had proposed became as nothing under the ministrations of his practiced mouth. And when she felt hers open to accept the heat of his tongue, she knew that she was slipping beyond thought into a realm in which senses alone held sway. She moaned as he drew her closer and gasped when with a knee he parted her legs.

It was this last proof of her pleasure that seemed to break whatever spell had held him in thrall. For almost immediately, Damien withdrew from her and heaved himself upright. He appeared dazed, haunted even.

Turning from her he spoke, his voice rough. "I must go. You may come to me in my rooms tonight should you find yourself so inclined. I shall be waiting."

And with that he abruptly rose, and left her, reeling.

***

Just shy of midnight, Patience found herself sitting before her mirror, wondering at the face she saw there. He had kissed those lips, caressed that throat, whispered into that ear.

But what of those whispers. Did he truly wish to be unhindered by any obligation of fidelity? Or was he rather hoping to draw her out? Had he guessed at her ruse? Perhaps it was time to reveal all to him, to put an end to the games.

Patience fixed a look of determination on her face and rose from the chair.

Lifting a candle from the table, she crossed to the door leading to his adjoining room. She rapped gently.

Silence.

Knocking louder this time she listed for some movement from within, a voice bidding her enter. But again, nothing.

At last she turned the knob.

The bed was empty.

Empty, that is, with the exception of Penelope and her brood, purring fit to wake the dead.

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?"

Patience and Her Virtue (AFL, Round 2)

She was devoted to another, but even Coulter had to admit, this rival was far beyond his ken.

He was to meet her in the church where they married; she was to ask him for an annulment. But her reasons were obscure. She loved him once, she avowed, but was there now another whose claim on her was even stronger?

"Go away!"

Again came the knock.

"Monty, damn you, I said go away!"

Damien, splayed in a wingback, clutched a dampened flannel to his eyes. So this was crapulence, he thought bitterly, the woeful aftereffects of his intemperance last eve. Although, who could blame him for having partaken of more than his share of his aunt's smuggled spirits, he reasoned. It's not every day one finds oneself dancing with one's wife without one's knowledge.

With a sound that for all the world sounded to Damien like the scream of a raptor, the door to the darkened study swung open. Then the booming began.

"Before you abuse poor Montague any further, I should tell you that I forced my way in. You shall find the wretched creature gagged and bound in the pantry."

The voice belonged to Geoffrey Hawes, Viscount Lampton, as did the tut-tut that followed.

"Dear me, another of England's fair sons felled by the snifter." Damien heard a body drop into the chair beside him. "If that upstart of an emperor had only braved the steppes wielding barrels of brandy rather than the barrels of guns, all of mother Russia would have fallen prostrate at his feet."

"Trenchantly observed as always, Lampton. You really must share such staggeringly brilliant insights with Lord Wellington."

"You are in a foul temper." Lampton slapped him mischievously on the knee. "I doubt I've seen you with such a sore head since you were sent down from Cambridge. Or," he smiled the words, "since the morning after your wedding."

Another rap on the door, and a palpably nervous Montague entered.

"Slipped your binds, have you, Monty? Good man!" Lampton bellowed.

He nodded hesitantly to Lampton, then addressed Damien.

"Sir, I am exceedingly sorry to disturb you, but a note has just arrived and the man -"

"Alright, Montague," Damien sighed and flapped his hand.

Montague placed an envelope of heavy cream stock on the table by Damien's elbow and hastily withdrew.

Damien regarded Lampton from under the edge of the compress.

"Read it, will you?"

The viscount stretched lazily then reached for the envelope. He slipped the note from its sheath and waved it languidly under his nose.

"Lavender. Lovely," Lampton trilled.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. Who is..." Lampton scanned the missive. "Penelope? Do I know her?" he smiled, his voice dropping. "Would I like to?"

"Unless you've a penchant for felinophilia --"

Lampton raised a dark brow.

"I do love the cathouses, I will not feign to deny it."

Damien groaned and extended his hand. When Lampton failed to comply, he snapped his fingers. With a smirk, his friend relented.

Lifting a corner of the cloth, he peered at the note with one heavy-lidded eye.

He harrumphed.

"She wants to meet."

"At church, no less. Naughty girl."

"Evensong. I loathe evensong," he carped.

"St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Isn't that where you were married?" He inhaled sharply. "Wait a moment. Penelope. I say, Coulter - that's your wife!"


Just shy of five o'clock, Damien found himself among the good and the pious scaling the steps of Gibb's neoclassical masterpiece. His lethargy largely banished by the restorative powers of Fuller's best porter, he was able at last to consider what the forthcoming assignation might hold. Little in the way of stolen kisses or lingering caresses, no doubt; the lady's choice of venue had seen to that.

Still, he had to admit his curiosity was piqued. His attempts last night at questioning her had been summarily rebuffed, as she had quickly disentangled herself from his grasp at the end of their waltz and struck off in the direction of the oily Baron of Snydley.

He had considered following her, demanding she tell him all, but then came the seductive call of the bottle and the comparatively easy answers it promised.

It was just as he crossed the threshold of the church that he felt a small hand slip into the crook of his elbow. The shock of the pixie-like touch was startling in its intensity. And far from unpleasant.

"Why, Damien. I'll wager the last time you saw the interior of a church was on our wedding day. The black sheep may yet return to the fold."

He look down at the bright, upturned face of his wife. He could feel her warmth radiate against the full length of his arm, his thigh. By Jove, his mother would surely thrash him for having such impure thoughts in the house of God. And she would be thoroughly justified, he conceded.

They proceeded towards the center aisle, arm in arm, the mirror image of their path three years previous. As on that day, she wore a gown of white, her hair arranged in pert ringlets about her face.

To his surprise, she chose a pew at the back. And she sat close to him, excruciatingly so. Indeed, were she to move a mere inch in his direction, he was sure to end up plumb in his lap. And under the circumstances, that would simply not do.

It was not until the service began that she spoke. And when she did, it was with a subtle incline of the head and a breath that caressed his cheek like the brush of pillowed lips.

"I will be brief so that we may enjoy the service and endeavor not to beat about the bush," she whispered. "We've both of us wasted enough of our lives on this sham of a marriage. I've come to ask you for an annulment, something you've no doubt already surmised. You are, I dare say, a rapscallion of the highest order, but you have never been a fool."

He glanced at her.

"You wound me, lady. I had come to hold "scalawag" as a term of endearment, but rapscallion? You go too far...But you are correct. I had surmised as much. And while it is not something I necessarily object to on principle, I do confess to a burning curiosity to know why you come to me now with this request. Something to do with the charming Snydley is it?"

Just as on the previous eve, he felt her body go rigid.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Masquerading as a countess to draw him out? Hoping he is too far gone to care when you reveal your true - married - identity?"

"You are astonishingly prescient, my lord, but I fear the motives you attribute to me are false. I wish to draw him out, yes, but I do not nor will I ever wish to marry the worthless cad. It is my aim, rather, to expose him as the worst sort of scoundrel: one who preys on the weak and naïve and then abandons them to fortune's whim -"

At the last her voice and color had risen perceptibly.

A chorus of "Shh!" flared against a lilting hymn.

"I take it, given the nature of your scheme, that you are not among those he has ruined. So tell me, on whose behalf have you become so...exercised?"

Patience heaved a great sigh.

"Sully, my lady's maid. Mother was to travel to London last season, but Mills had fallen ill and could not accompany her. As I spent all my time in the country in the company of little to no society," she shot him a pointed look, "I suggested she take Sully. While here in Town she...came under the influence of Snydley. He told her he loved her and that they would be married, despite the difference in their means. Of course, he had no intention of making good on his vow. She returned to me with child, her spirit broken..."

Damien nodded knowingly.

"So you will -"

"Get close to him, gather proof of his crimes..."

"Certainly, but I have yet to see how my agreeing to an annulment will aid in such an endeavor."

"It is so that I may devote myself to helping women like Sully, to set up a home for them and to look after them until such time as they can find their way back into society. And to do so wholly and properly, I'm convinced I must be...unfettered by other bonds."

"There's something more you're not telling me, Pene-, Patience. There's clearly someone else whose bride you seek to become. It is worthless to deny it."

"There is...someone. Only as I am an Anglican, what I want simply cannot be."

"Why? Is he Catholic? Is he - tell me he's not French."

"Oh, if only I were a Catholic!"

"I say, steady on!"

"Shh!" the worshipers protested.

She turned to look him.

"You see, Damien, I had every hope for our marriage, right up to our wedding night. I had even convinced myself I was in love with you. But then I found the letter from Lady Archibald in your coat pocket and I knew you would never be true. That day I gave up hope of ever loving or trusting a man again. Indeed, there has been but one place I have found succor, one...being to whom I have entrusted my heart and my fate. It is true. I wish to become a bride - I wish to become a bride...of Christ."

"Christ?!" Damien exclaimed, the word echoing throughout the nave.

And with one voice, the congregation turned:

"SHHH!"

A Miss Apprehension (AFL, Round 1)

He seized her, spirited her away. Might her abductor become an ally, and her ally her one true love?

Her brother is dead, and those responsible move freely amongst the ton. Disguised as a countess, Arabella aims to expose them; but Lord Coulter, too, seeks to unmask a killer. She might deny his accusations, but can she deny the truth of her heart?

It was the single eventuality for which she had not planned.

Lady Arabella Avery had scarcely crossed the threshold of the Duchess of Alderman's ballroom when she found herself unceremoniously snatched by the hand and swung onto the dance floor.

Within seconds she had been swept onto the balcony and sequestered, with great efficiency of movement, behind a monumental boxwood.

Pinned against the cold Bath stone, she felt her captor's mouth move against her temple.

"You will do exactly as I say. If you resist me, I will not hesitate to use force. The garden is dark and the walls are high. Will you comply?"

In her shock, she had hardly glimpsed the gentleman's face, yet recognized his voice at once, though it had been years since she had last heard its throaty tones.

George Damien Muir, Earl of Coulter, nephew and heir to the Earl of Fraser. Her brother's closest friend; god of her girlhood. But he was meant to be in India, not London, and certainly not here, amongst the society he so famously abhorred.

Arabella strove to regain her composure. Whether she was more undone by the shock of her capture or the fire of the body that pressed her to the wall, she could not be certain. She swallowed, searching for her voice. In its absence she dipped her chin twice in assent.

He eased himself from her, slowly, then paused, primed to catch her should she attempt to flee. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and though she strained to distinguish his features, was impeded by the darkness of the corner into which he had spirited her.

Claiming her hand, he led her roughly down the stairs and onto the lawn. As they traversed its considerable expanse, she could not help but marvel how, by sheer brute force, Coulter had in an instant rendered all her careful planning for naught.

It had begun a fortnight previous. She'd been in Ireland, in the library of Castle Ardmore, before the crackling fire of her oldest and dearest friend, the Countess of Fraser.

"But of course you must use my name," she had declared, "our London home, jewels, anything at all that will help you. Cecil and I have been married but three months, so nary a soul you encounter will question your authenticity. I have yet to even meet much of his family! And you simply must attend the Duchess of Alderman's ball. The invitation has arrived just this morning, in fact."

To be sure, Arabella hadn't imagined being feted to the extent she had since her arrival in the capital, but found the attention to be unquestionably to her advantage. Indeed, it was the gentlemen of the ton to whom she required access, and their generalized ardor - particularly in the absence of the earl - had allowed her campaign to progress more rapidly than she had dared hope.

That night her intended mark had been Lord Marlborough, and she had contrived to arrive after midnight in the hope that by that time he would be sufficiently in his cups as to be willing to reveal the final resting place of Cromwell's head, never mind which of his acquaintances might have been responsible for the death of her brother Charles.

"Get in."

The menace in the earl's voice was unmistakable, the threat of violence thinly veiled.

"Get in," he repeated, teeth clenched.

Before her the door of a landau stood open. He had certainly planned well. The driver had drawn the vehicle flush with the wall so that the only means out of the garden was into the confines of the carriage.

She had but one choice. She mounted the steps.

Arabella took the banquette facing forward, he the one opposite. It occurred to her at once that she had made an unwise choice. For while she faced the direction of travel, she also found herself in the full glare of the street lamps. She was to be interrogated, and without the benefit of observing the mien of her accuser.

The carriage jerked forward as the driver set the horses to a brisk trot. For a moment they rode in silence. She could feel Coulter's eyes range over her, from the diamonds in her hair, along the contours of the low cut bodice, down the length of her silk-swaddled thigh.

"Lady Fraser," he drawled at last. "Lady Fraser. Fiona Carrington, Duchess of Fraser. I say, that is a lovely name. Yours, is it?" The last he all but spat.

Against all reason, she rose to his bait.

"Why, Lord Coulter? Are you in the habit of abducting ladies whose names you do not know?"

"Fascinating you should know my name," he mused. "We have yet to be introduced."

"And yet you have identified me more than readily, sir."

"Ah, but my lady, you cannot be unaware of the stir you have created. Le tout Londres falls at your feet. Every man desires you, every woman desires you to meet an unhappy end. Did you not perceive the dramatic hush that came over the room as you entered, the ensuing din of whispers exchanged behind marabou-feathered fans? Besides, is it not only fitting that I should take an interest in the newest member of my extended family?"

His tone was cutting, merciless.

"If my entrance caused the stir that you suggest my lord, surely those same awe-struck individuals will remark upon my absence."

"Remark, they will. Indeed, they will remark upon the alacrity with which you absconded to the balcony with one of the most notorious rakes in all the empire."

Coulter leaned his head back against the quilted leather of the seats. A sliver of light lit his face, jogging from eyes to mouth as the vehicle clattered across the cobblestones.

At last she was able to discern the fullness of his lips and dark hooded brow. When he was a youth they had looked incongruous, but were now in perfect balance with the jut of his cheek and strength of his jaw.

He smiled, a predator's smile.

"Thrust and parry. Thrust and parry," he seemed to enjoy the words, rolling them around his mouth.

In a single movement, he swung himself onto the seat beside her.

"Let me be frank. Shall I?"

He leaned in close to her ear, his breath scorching the delicate skin of her cheek.

"I know you are not the Countess of Fraser," he purred as he raked the back of her hand down her throat.

She willed herself not to succumb to his taunts, to the agony of his touch.

"Would you like to know how I know? Hm?"

She swallowed, considering whether to end the charade now, to avow her deception, if only to dispel the pure menace that had crept into his tone. For this was not mere anger. This was rage.

"I know," he breathed, his lips closing gently, briefly around the lobe of her ear, "Because I am the Earl of Fraser. Which means the only avenue by which you might become Countess is by becoming my bride."

She thrust him from her in horror, reeling in disbelief.

His glare was pitiless.

"You fiend," he ground out. "No doubt you expected to have a few more days, weeks even, before their deaths became known in town. No doubt by then you imagined yourself to have emptied the family coffers and absconded to the continent. I see you have already laid claim to the Fraser tiara."

She could not think, could not speak.

"Damien," she gasped.

"Arson, the letter said. My uncle. His young bride...You monster. You heartless harridan."

His eyes brimmed, but he set his jaw.

Then he swallowed.

His brow furrowed and he stared at her.

"You called me Damien," he whispered.

She met his gaze, her tear-streaked face open, all pretense abandoned.

For the first time he looked into her eyes.

"Who are you?"

"Arabella," she murmured. "Arabella Avery."

She watched as his expression moved from confusion to disbelief.

"Arabella," he breathed.

"I didn't know," she sobbed. "Fiona - she was only trying to help me. Charles returned to Ireland from London a month ago, and within days was dead, killed...in a fire."

"What?"

"He had come to me immediately upon his return, telling me he feared for his life. At Lady March's ball he had overheard a gentleman speaking in French, detailing Wellington's strategic weaknesses. He told his companion he must relay the information at once so the emperor might plan accordingly. In his shock, Charles dropped his glass, and they turned and saw him. He left for home that very night."

"And the fire?"

"It started in the stables, and at first we thought no one had been hurt, that Charles was off riding and had not seen the smoke. And then we found him, his head bloodied..."

"And you are suggesting --"

"I told Fiona. If it was indeed arson..."

Coulter's expression softened. He reached for her; with his thumb he brushed a tear from her cheek.

"But that would mean..."

She looked into his eyes and nodded.

"I am sure to be next."

By Any Other Name (AFL, Round 1)

He might come to know her secrets, but could he come to know her heart?

The Earl Fraser had died with neither wife nor heir, of that Lord Coulter was certain. But a dance with a lady claiming to be the new Countess left him baffled. What had happened that fateful night in Russia and how was he to resist her siren's call?

Through dark, hooded eyes, John Damien Trent, Earl of Coulter observed the assembled males of the ton prowl the perimeter of the Duchess of Alderman's gilded ballroom.

The hour was late, past midnight, and yet this, the jewel of the hostess' London home, remained filled to capacity.

Fashioned after the hall of mirrors at Versailles, the space afforded all would-be rivals the occasion to examine one another's graces and imperfections from a multitude of angles. The cut of a tailcoat, the telltale signs of a gown reworked: all were reflected thousand-fold the length of the shimmering hall.

It also made concealing oneself neigh impossible, with every entrance, every corner discoverable from virtually any vantage.

But to secrete herself was not something craved in the slightest by the lady whose appearance he - and the ton's more predatory members - awaited. Quite the contrary.

The Countess Fraser had first graced London society with her presence but a week previous; there seemed to be no other topic of conversation in any quality parlor, ballroom or bedroom in all of the capital since. She drove both women and men to distraction: the former with envy, the latter with desire.

It was little wonder, then, that even the most notorious gentlemen in attendance that evening were behaving so astonishingly out of character. The air of generalized ennui cultivated by any self-respecting rake had deserted them, to a one.

The earl's anticipation, however, was of an entirely different nature.

Whereas to most the damsel appeared upon entering a room like a galleon in full sail, slicing through a sea of lesser mortals before her, to Coulter she resembled more of a privateer, flying a borrowed flag and intent on overcoming any and all unsuspecting crafts within her sights.

But Coulter was confident he would not be among the vanquished.

For he knew something, a good deal, in fact, of the late earl. He knew, for example, that the esteemed gentleman had no daughter. Nor niece. He knew, for example, that the last of the Countesses Fraser had been his aunt Charlotte who had died when he was a child.

Coulter tugged the hem of his ivory silk waistcoat. The charade was not to be borne. Indeed, he had determined that this pretender to one of the most respected earldoms of Scotland would be subjected to a thorough cross examination that very evening, the elegance of the present company and surroundings be damned.

And when he had exposed her as a fraud? He could, of course, trumpet her deceit to all and sundry, and yet... The thought of the payment he might extort for his silence brought a smile to his lips and an arch to his brow.

For the moment, what was certain was that in anticipation of the coming campaign he would require some liquid fortification.

Scanning the hall, Coulter spotted a liveried footman in possession of a promising crystal-laden salver. He reached him mere feet from the entrance to the ballroom.

It was at that moment that she appeared. He knew at once, and without the benefit of the duchess' storied mirrors. As though all had been, of a sudden, universally deprived of breath, all discussion in the immediate vicinity ceased.

Champagne in hand, Coulter slowly turned to observe the entrance of the incomparable Lady Fraser.

A sea of humanity parted before her, then closed in her wake.

Clad in a gown of canary-hued silk and accompanied by her hostess, the countess swept toward the swirl of dancers at the center of the room and arrived, with magnificent fortune, before him.

Swiftly lifting a second glass from the tray, Coulter embraced the exceptional opportunity fate had laid at his feet.

"Your grace," he intoned, performing an abbreviated bow. "May I offer you and your charming guest some refreshment? I fear you may require it as this year's ball is, as always, the greatest success of the season."

"Why Lord Coulter, you are so kind," the duchess replied, accepting the proffered drink. "Allow me to present my dear new friend, the Countess Fraser."

The countess' violet gaze met his as she offered her hand. He bowed deeply over it, lightly grazing her gloved fingers with his lips, never taking his eyes from hers.

"Lady Fraser. Enchanted," the last scarcely more than a whisper.

Her countenance changed but little. He watched closely for some flicker of apprehension, but saw only the bloom of her cheek and rosy bud of her lips.

The countess' profile was angular, patrician, yet distinctly feminine, and her coiled tresses as jet black as his own. And then there were her jewels. About her ivory throat, set amongst a constellation of scintillating gems, hung the fabled Fraser diamond.

Fingertips brushed fingertips as she received the glass. He swiftly procured another for himself. He would need that drink more urgently than he had anticipated; her brief touch had all but laid waste to his resolve.

"If you will excuse me, I must speak with Lord Markham." And with that, the duchess vanished among the multitudes.

As Coulter considered his strategy, he found himself fixed by the impenetrable gaze of his quarry. She lifted her chin and for the first time he heard her voice, low and lush.

"I am astonished, Lord Coulter, that it took you so long to find your way to my side. I was certain you would have done so as soon as you heard of my presence in town."

With the opening salvo she had outflanked him, but only temporarily.

"Whatever do you mean, my dear lady?" he drawled.

"I believe you desire some answers of me."

The challenge in her eyes was unmistakable. But then, she could not know with whom she was dealing.

He took her glass from her, and with his own, thrust it into the grip of a passing footman.

Coulter did not wait for her to offer her hand. He rather claimed it, sweeping her onto the dance floor just as a waltz began. He pulled her almost roughly into his arms, confidently, clasping her to him.

He could feel the heat of her body as she molded it to his. He could have sworn a faint gasp escaped her lips.

But then she recovered.

"Tell me," she cooed, "when did you last see your uncle, the Earl Fraser?"

He studied her countenance before replying.

"I was seven. He passed through London on his way abroad."

"And his destination?"

He sensed her toying with him, drawing him into an ambush. But the direction her questions were taking was revealing in itself, and so he complied.

"He was to be ambassador to the court of the Empress Catherine in St. Petersburg."

She smiled, slyly, seductively.

"Why is it, then, that you presume to know so much about Lord Fraser, a man you have not seen these past twenty-plus years?"

"I may not have had intimate knowledge of his daily activities, but there are a few indisputable facts of which I am in possession. For example, anyone here could consult their Debrett's and verify --"

"That it is shockingly incomplete."

At the last he saw a flash of passion, heard the faintest break in her voice. And then it was gone. The mask of composure returned.

"And how did the earl die?"

"I believe you must know already, my lady, for the answers I have provided to your queries thus far have not been in the service of your enlightenment."

She waited, with the patience of a sphinx.

"His carriage plunged into the River Neva as he traveled to board a ship to carry him home to Britain." His eyes narrowed in sudden wariness. "The cause has never been known."

"And was he alone in that carriage?"

He looked hard at her.

"No," she whispered, her eyes ablaze. "He was not alone."

The waltz had come to an end, yet he could not bring himself to release her from his grasp. Her eyes, those boundless pools of purpled blue, held him against his will.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice throaty with desire.

"I am the Countess Fraser."

As he opened his mouth to protest, she laid a finger across his lips and slowly shook her head.

"I must go," she whispered, and turned away.

With dawning horror he realized that she had at once enflamed and thwarted him: the first battle had been incontrovertibly hers.

Moments later, as he handed the countess into the carriage, he determined that the next must assuredly be his. And with her maneuverings this evening, he knew with certainty that she had left him without quarter, with but one choice: He would be obliged to seduce her.

At the threshold of the vehicle, hand still in his, she turned and fixed him with her great velvet eyes.

"Do svedanya," she whispered. Russian. Goodbye.

And without a further glance, she vanished into the obscurity of the barouche.

What is to come

"Ce qu'on peut voir au soleil est toujours moins intéressant que ce qui se passe derrière une vitre. Dans ce trou noir ou lumineux vit la vie, rêve la vie, souffre la vie."

- Charles Baudelaire

A window on my writings and my thoughts. The arts, books, film, and the like -- all will be represented here.

The first few postings will be of chapters I submitted to the Avon FanLit contest under the name Cosima. While romance writing is a new genre for me, I've greatly enjoyed the experience and have been enormously impressed with both the quality of the writing and of the individuals I have met there. It's been so enjoyable, in fact, that I might just have to carry on...