The Sensualist

-

“That’s truly wonderful, Lady Mortier,” Aurelia replies, “As the only daughter in my family and well…now, the youngest child, I suppose I’ve been privy to my own indulgences,” Aurelia chuckles, though her smile doesn’t fully reach her eyes. 

Truthfully, she had been indulged more than others in her position might have. She had made many mistakes throughout her lifetime and continued to make choices that could only be described as unideal, and yet, for the most part, Charles had continued to stand by her side. As angry as she was towards him for swaying towards his new wife’s desires, she had always known a line would have to be drawn at someone. 

Still, it was plain to see that there was great love present among the Mortier family– the kind that made her long for her own childhood that had been full of such things. 

When Alex makes mention of his sister, Aurelia can’t help but light up. At twenty six, she had become rather far removed from some of the younger ladies of the ton and found the prospect of meeting one to be quite endearing. “I should be quite honored to meet her, Lord Mortier,” Aurelia grins, “And as far as parties go, I do believe I could be quite convincing.” 

“You all ought come over for tea, one afternoon. I promise by the end I’ll have your sister entirely sold on the prospect picnic party,” she invites. “I would be be more than happy to aid your efforts, however best an older lady of the ton can.” 

.

"My sympathies, that must be a strange change in your life." There was an understanding look in Daphne Mortier's eyes, but she never once glanced at her son or unearthed the sort of her unexpected empathy. Her ghosts were her own and their graveyard was private, locked against visitors no matter how kind.

Alexandre wasn't surprised at her reticence, accustomed after years of silence to know when explanations would go ungiven, but there would be an extra plate at dinner that night, of that much he was certain. No one would ask why, they didn't need to.

"Oh, my sister is extraordinary social, even more than I am. It seems as though she meets someone and she instantly captivates all their attention, becoming greater friends with them than I am." Some might have seen his words as self deprecating, but there was a bright current of pride in Alexandre's voice as he spoke of Margot - for all that they'd been through, as singed as they were around the edges, Margot was the one that still shined the brightest, undamaged by smoke and ash.

Watching as his mother wandered further away from them, eyes on the ground, Alexandre offered up a smile. "That's a danger offer you make. I think my older sister would be pleased to make a friend as well, but my brother... he's antisocial compared to the rest of us."

"Indeed," Lady Mortier agreed as she came up behind her son, just in time to hear his words before they broke off into laughter. Something glinted in her hand as she held it out towards Miss Merchant. "I believe you were looking for this. I'll be in touch soon so we can work things out with my children, I think it will be an advantageous meeting."

-

The party itself may be more overwhelming than even her wildest imaginations, but she was quite pleased to see many familiar faces, some even friendly ones, oh! That she was looking for a face in particular was not something she was ready to deal with yet, even as her feet carried her back out to check the gardens once more. 

And found yet another familiar face in a familiar face. Sarah stifled a giggle; composed herself before saying, “Your… Grace? Oh! The camellia bushes are popular tonight; you would not believe how many people have been scouring the plant life, oh!”

It had been quite a while since she had seen him, but then she had not had much chance since the Regatta to visit Gunter’s herself. 

“How has the Lady Margot been? Oh, I did so mean to pay a call but somehow there are even more events now than before. Only –”

A group of party-goers burst in; she flinched, then, gesturing, “Shall we to the fountain? It should be cooler there for sure, if not quieter. And far less likely to be subject to people rummaging through flowers.”

[OOC: The flowers hide neither treasure nor ices, but will you take the invitation to go by the fountain? Roll for round two and reply here, before posting link in the Discord.]

[Guest] / Invite No. 10 / Back garden / Roll: 3

"Why, Miss St. John, what a pleasant surprise," Alexandre said smoothly, rather surprised that Effingham hadn't extended a warning to all relations and staff that he was be escorted off site if detected. He could picture it, something akin to a wanted posted, but just for people who might sound French.

Straightening, Alexandre supposed the flowers were an obvious location, but they were lovely and there was an urge to pluck on off. "No need to explain yourself to me." Alexandre declared, finally turning to face her properly and offering his arm. He wasn't going to save her if Margot felt neglected, after all. "The fountain sounds lovely. I trust you won't mind if I snoop around there, will you?"

Perhaps if he was lucky, Miss St. John might even give him a hint and Alex was unscrupulous enough to take one. 

Dearest Alexandre, @alexandremortier

I do hope this note finds you well since I saw you last. 

I was reading a marmalade recipe this morning when it occurred to me that I have not yet visited the Royal Observatory this season. Since I rather enjoy your company, thought it might do me well to ask you to come visit it with me.

Seeing as it is dawning on the end of the season, my social calendar is rather free… Please, name a date and time to go - I am at your disposal. 

Yours,  Sophia

Darling Sophia,

Marmalade and observatories, what an interesting combination! I do wonder how you went from one to the other, dear lady, you must make sure to tell me when we see each other. After all, how could I miss out on such a charming invitation?

It's so strange to think the season is at it's end. I don't think I'll be able to picture that, if I'm honest, as the end of the season means it's the end of your time in London, doesn't it? You've always been here to me.

The 30th of July, say... 11 o'clock? That should provide suitable darkness for our purposes.

Diana let out a laugh at the young woman’s words. “Somehow I am not surprised. The ladies must flock to him, though I daresay they stay to hear you tease him,” she said conspiratorially. These two were a delight, and she hoped that this meeting would not be their last.

His words brought a faux gasp from her lips. “Well, Miss Margot, I am happy to be your audience. Although-” she now dropped her voice into a stage whisper, “Surely he does not mean for me to be an audience for long, with no introduction of either of you. I suppose I must show off my manners first.” She dropped a wink in Margot’s direction and continued. “I am Lady Diana Bartlett. It is, truly, a pleasure to make both your acquaintances.”

“Oh? He does seem the sort to cause trouble, though I should hope he will not get the three of us expelled from Fortum & Mason, since Gunther’s is closed.” Once more, she let a falsely haughty gasp escape from her. “Why, of course a young lady should be spoiled when she comes of age. And the youngest, as well! I daresay you deserve something very fine indeed. Tell me, whatever did you have in mind?” The words, in another conversation, could have sounded like sarcasm, but sincerity shone through every syllable, and she was quite curious to know what Margot could want for her birthday.

.

"Ah, yes, that was my lapse, wasn't it? The terrible thing is that your earlier remark is correct - I make friends with people and then my dear sister seems to steal them all away. But I'm Alexandre Mortier, duc de Tresmes and Gesvres, and this, as you've gathered, is my younger sister Margot." Alexandre introduced with a wave of his hand, barely getting the words out before he muttered a thank you to the server who brought out their fresh lemonade, a wonderful blessing considering the heat.

Next to him, Margot seemed to move even closer to the edge of her seat, grinning widely. "Oh, I don't think that will be an issue. It's usually Jacques that gets kicked out of places, not Alex." Margot retorted just a shade too soon to make Alex choke on his drink. Jacques had only been kicked out of one bookstore than Alexandre knew of, but it was still a very entertaining event. "If you ever see Alexandre with another blond about my height, that's our brother Jacques. And if you see him with a dark haired woman, that's our sister Isabeau."

It was easier to talk about her siblings than it was to answer the question of what she wanted, something that initially caught Margot off-guard, although she covered it well. Humming and tilting her head to the side, there were fingers placed at the corner of her mouth as if pondering her words. "Something where people can have a good time, of course. A lot of people, maybe some music. The outdoors are nice, my siblings call me sporty."

alexandremortier​:

“Why, thank you.” Feeling rather pleased about being invited to sit down, Alexandre was a little surprised that the man hadn’t simply tossed him out yet. It would hardly be the first time, although Alexandre had the feeling that his maman wouldn’t be too pleased if she found out he was riling up the husbands of his friends again.

Really, he couldn’t help it if they fell for it so easily, and besides - if they appreciated Alexandre’s friends properly, they wouldn’t be such simple targets, now would they?

“How curious, I was going to ask you if it was an English habit to assume anyone of a friendly disposition was having an affair with your spouse!” There was a tone of delighted amusement in Alexandre’s tone, as if this was all just a fun game of discovery for him. A game, yes, but a discovery? Not so much. “Such cultural differences we have, but look at us, learning.”

Sipping at his tea, there was a bubbling sense of delight that grew in Alexandre at the man’s reaction. When it came to making men angry, Alexandre’s usual tactic was to make things worse, almost as if he wanted them to lash out at him. It was a foolish thing that he’d been chided over before, Alexandre never seemed quite capable of helping himself.

As long as there wasn’t some woman crying over it in the corner of the room, everything was fine.

“Why on earth wouldn’t I talk to your lovely wife myself?” Alexandre asked with innocent curiosity, skipping over mention of a wife. “We’re friends, I’ve told you that we talk.”

And just let him guess about what. It would serve him right to be kept up tossing and turning for being so rude, but oh, he would need to try harder than that if he wanted a reaction out of Alexandre - did he really think no one else had insulted Alexandre to his face before?

“It’s such a shame the true focus of my visit isn’t here, but it’s hardly a loss. After all, she isn’t the only person I could visit here.” A pause, then a head tip. “And it was only chance that you were here as yet another option.”

-

“Assume – assume a-a friendly demeanor means an affair? No. No – not the English in general, nor I in particular – who I presume, was the true target of your remarks. No.”

Fifteen minutes was the usual length of a formal call, he reminded himself; even if this, hrm, guest found himself above social courtesies, he as a host was not. 

“But you are not, as you claim, merely a-a man with a friendly disposition. You claim to be a friend to my wife, yet have never sought an introduction from her to her husband – presume then to criticize her private relations to her husband’s face, behind her back – well. I cannot imagine the goal of such a line of actions, other than to stir up strife in another’s marriage; I cannot imagine my wife –”

(everything I do, she said – this he held onto)

“– knows you have done this, or would thank you for it.”

No. Fifteen minutes of civility and Mum’s strict etiquette be dammed, not if it meant putting up with further slander and insult – completely unsolicited, and in his own damme house. 

He stood and rang for the butler.  

“Not even the French, I think, would call such a person a friend; I only wish my Countess has ones of better caliber and character. Mr. Butler – show this man to the door. Good day, sir.”

-

There had been a duke in Victoria’s prior Seasons, he recalled, uneasy; not this particular one, no – he would have heard of a-a French duke in London before now if so, but – still. It was no surprise his wife would attract such attention. 

What was a surprise was – was his sheer relief at the other man’s response: which, despite its-its unnecessary length and-and presumption into areas personal, boiled down to a simple no.

Thrown off-kilter for a moment, he fell back on social niceties that came automatically: “Do have a seat; one does not – does not converse at length standing up.” 

He sat himself – had rung for tea in a fog – and was now left staring at the tea tray and the prospect of a-a full social call with this impertinent French whelp, a self-titled duc who dared comment on the state of his marriage. 

Presently – once he trusted himself to-to maintain an even tone – he brought himself to comment, “Allow me to congratulate you, sir, on your – your having survived intact thus far in a London Season. Is-is it a French, hrm, affectation – to-to call upon the-the spouses of acquaintances and-and list perceived failures in their conjugal felicity? Only – such presumptions are viewed as-as grave insults here; one marvels how you have managed to-to escape the many duels resulting from such behavior.”

There was more he wished to say, but he had a wife heavily pregnant – he would not be thoughtless enough to-to instigate a duel in his own house and upset her, no matter how much the situation called for it. 

He sipped at his tea, not tasting anything beyond the burn on his tongue. 

“Your wife must benefit greatly from your sage advice, sir; what a fortunate woman. Should I warn the Countess to expect a lecture on marriage from her as well?”

A pause, then, coldly:

“Although – given how you are now a duc without lands, perhaps your, hrm, former peasants appreciated your interference about as much as I do.”

.

"Why, thank you." Feeling rather pleased about being invited to sit down, Alexandre was a little surprised that the man hadn't simply tossed him out yet. It would hardly be the first time, although Alexandre had the feeling that his maman wouldn't be too pleased if she found out he was riling up the husbands of his friends again.

Really, he couldn't help it if they fell for it so easily, and besides - if they appreciated Alexandre's friends properly, they wouldn't be such simple targets, now would they?

"How curious, I was going to ask you if it was an English habit to assume anyone of a friendly disposition was having an affair with your spouse!" There was a tone of delighted amusement in Alexandre's tone, as if this was all just a fun game of discovery for him. A game, yes, but a discovery? Not so much. "Such cultural differences we have, but look at us, learning."

Sipping at his tea, there was a bubbling sense of delight that grew in Alexandre at the man's reaction. When it came to making men angry, Alexandre's usual tactic was to make things worse, almost as if he wanted them to lash out at him. It was a foolish thing that he'd been chided over before, Alexandre never seemed quite capable of helping himself.

As long as there wasn't some woman crying over it in the corner of the room, everything was fine.

"Why on earth wouldn't I talk to your lovely wife myself?" Alexandre asked with innocent curiosity, skipping over mention of a wife. "We're friends, I've told you that we talk."

And just let him guess about what. It would serve him right to be kept up tossing and turning for being so rude, but oh, he would need to try harder than that if he wanted a reaction out of Alexandre - did he really think no one else had insulted Alexandre to his face before?

"It's such a shame the true focus of my visit isn't here, but it's hardly a loss. After all, she isn't the only person I could visit here." A pause, then a head tip. "And it was only chance that you were here as yet another option."

July 1800

London, England

Dearest Maryanne,

The Hawkesbury family is finally back in London! I shall miss you dearly these next weeks- I truly do not think five days together in Truro was enough after fifteen years apart!

The last time we saw each other you inquired as to my feelings concerning the Season, and I told you I did not care as I do not think my stay in England shall be too long. I cannot say that what I have seen of London so far has been enough to make me reconsider…

“Are your white cashmere gloves in your trunk?” Adele Hawkesbury, second daughter of the Earl of Wadham, burst into her sister’s bedchamber and, without waiting for a response, proceeded to open and examine the contents of said trunk. She was closely followed by Polly, her new lady’s maid, who shared an apologetic look with Charlotte.

“Those are winter gloves, Adele, I left them in Truro.” said the eldest, attempting to conceal her annoyance, “And in any case, this is a family dinner and you are an unwed woman, you do not require gloves.”

“Oh, but they make one look most sophisticated, do they not?” The young Hawkesbury ignored Charlotte’s frown and continued her inspection of the garments inside her sister’s trunk. She was taking frocks out and depositing them on Charlotte’s bed with such cheerful abandon that Polly could hardly reorder the chaotic spread fast enough to avoid the next onslaught of petticoats. “Would you lend me the cotton ones, then?”

“… and some dahlias on the centerpieces, Mrs. Chilton, thank you. Now where on earth is your father?” Lady Eugenia Hawkesbury, Countess of Wadham, barged into her eldest’ bedchamber in exactly the same fashion her younger daughter had employed, and looked around expectantly. Charlotte sighed and closed her inkwell; her letter to Maryanne would have to wait.

“Mama, do you think these gloves match this gown?”

“Your season has not started yet, dear, you are not to wear gloves”, said the countess without breaking stride, “Charlotte, your father…”

“Attempting to defeat Napoleon from his study, I expect.” Charlotte rose from her desk in order to bodily separate her sister from her trunk. Adele pouted but was soon distracted by her reflection (“goodness, I forgot my earrings!”), and left the room in a flurry of silk and perfume. Polly followed helplessly.

“A lady does not run, Adele!”, the countess tried to reprimand, and shook her head at the lack of answer. “Charlotte, dear, be so kind as to fetch your father and brother…”

“No need, we are both here”, said young Richard Hawkesbury, entering the bedchamber with the careless lack of respect only a thirteen-year-old could possess. The elder Richard Hawkesbury, Earl of Wadham, did not follow and instead made as if to say something to his wife, who in that moment gave a small start and exclaimed:

“Heavens, the book collection! I forgot to ask Whitby to move the closed boxes into the library!” and hurried out of the room.

“Well, if only someone had suggested we wait until the move to London was complete before entertaining guests”, said Charlotte, rather pointedly, making her brother snicker. Her father made no comment, but she took his small grunt as agreement as he turned to head downstairs.

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck six fifteen. “I believe this is our cue”, said Charlotte, leading her brother towards the door. That he followed without complaint was proof of his nervousness; the young heir was not one to avoid confrontation when he felt ordered around. Charlotte found patience to be the best strategy for these cases.

Indeed, they had barely reached the landing of the first floor when Richard said, rather hesitantly: “What are the Mortiers like, Charlotte?”

It was not an unexpected question: related in that intricate way that European noble families tended to be (Charlotte could not for the life of her recall the exact connection, although it involved someone’s third cousin twice removed and someone else’s great-grandparents’ youngest sibling), the Hawkesbury and the Mortiers only had their connection to France in common, and a certain tendency to produce a decent percentage of blond-haired children.

The two families had been close before the Revolution but fell out of contact in its wake, and so Richard, who had barely been five years old at the time, did not recall them properly, or rather, at all. The reason for this dinner was more strategy than sentimentalism, too: the Hawkesbury would provide their resources and connections, and the Mortiers their savoir-faire and knowledge of the ton, all with the aim to ensure both improved their chances at a successful season.

“There are only a handful of things you need to know, really. Their father and one of the siblings died a few years ago, and you must not bring it up, remember that.” Richard nodded, eyes very wide. “The eldest, Isabeau, is a spinster, but do not use that word either, and the youngest, Margot, is Adele’s age. She is set to debut next year, so treat her as respectfully as you would a proper lady, not a playmate.” More nodding. “Then there is the brothers, Jacques and Alexandre.” Charlotte smiled wistfully. “I used to be quite close with Alexandre growing up, although it has been many years since I last saw him …”

@alexandremortier

"We're going to be late," Margot hummed as she examined her hair in a mirror, twisting this way and that as if her reflection might change any if only the light could catch at her skin in a different way. Quite frankly, it made Jacques want to dip his fingers in the nearby vase and flick water at her just to make her shriek and flail, striking at him blindly as he knew that she would. Four years apart, yet he understood her better than any of the others.

"We're French. We're always late." Jacques replied, boredom in his tone that gave away nothing of his thoughts.

Margot gave a little hmph! But didn't otherwise say anything. They were indeed French, but she was young when they left, not even a teenager, and there were some of England's habits that she picked up better than the others, faster, the reasoning not so alien. It was disconcerting at times to realizing she was the closest of them all to being English.

"We're late? Are you keeping time for us, Jacques?" Isabeau asked, a maid trailing after her as they descended the stairs together. Whatever she was muttering to Isabeau was said softly enough that the other siblings couldn't hear as they exchanged nods, the servant giving a swift little bob before turning to head back up the stairs. It was one of the newer hires, one that appeared after the mass exodus following Whistledown's rumor about Alex, and not all of them seemed to know what to do when working for the Mortier's.

"I am not a clock." Jacques replied, although he did reach and tap at his pocket watch, not bothering to check it.

Sighing and spinning around in front of the mirror, Margot flounce off in the direction of the stairs, meeting Isabeau at the bottom of them. "They're going to be late and they're not going to expect us to be late, they'll think it's rude. Tell Jacques that we can't be late." She insisted, pouty as if she was ten years younger than her true age. It was a miracle she didn't stomp her feet.

Isabeau exchanged a look with her younger brother and then back at Margot. "But Jacques is here," She cooed in soft French. "He isn't going to make us be late."

It was the wrong thing to say and Jacques knew it, but it was Isabeau's own fault she didn't have time to cover her ears before Margot was screaming at the top of her lungs, "ALEXANDRE, HURRY UP BEFORE WE MAKE A BAD IMPRESSION."

"Don't worry, Margot." Jacques cut in. "I'm sure they heard your shout and know not to blame it on you."

Margot whirled on him, expression huffy as Jacques raised his eyebrows in challenge. "You two..." Isabeau said tiredly, right before their mother called out. "Unless someone is dying, there is no reason for screaming in this house."

There, walking blessedly right behind her, was Alexandre, who appeared to be looking between them all in mild confusion, as if trying to figure out just what fight they could have all gotten into and which side he wanted to take. Isabeau's, most likely, simply because she was Isabeau and it was usually Jacques and Margot teaming up together. If they were squabbling against each other, rare though that was, Alexandre was harder to determine. He might join the one who had annoyed him least recently, or he might make things worse by egging the both of them on. He was good at doing that.

"We're going to be late, Mama," Margot said imploringly as Alexandre frowned.

"But it's still early."

"It's late by English standards." Margot argued. "Can we please go?"

"You're just excited about meeting new people." Alexandre responded, even as they all filed out, not giving Margot any cause to fuss further.

"And you're not? New people are exciting, it isn't as though I remember them."

"I do." Alexandre said. "Their oldest is close to my age, but I can't guarantee she's anything like what I remember. So it wouldn't be fair to use that as a comparison. Jacques, Isabeau?"

"Vaguely."

"I think that no matter what we remember, it will be nice to get to know them all over again."

Jacques, then Isabeau, because of course that was their opinions. Jacques, ever disinterested in people and Isabeau, ever finding the silver lining.

“two sisters? my condolences,” nik murmured, still lost in his own thoughts while his gaze swept across the painting once more. the other was right, wasn’t he—nik was looking for something and he didn’t even know it. how laughable; if that was art, he’d like nothing more than to return to his dusty bookshelves.

what was the point of attributing meaning to something that could very well hold none? if the artist was committing an image to eternity, shouldn’t it be their vision, not any arbitrary bypasser’s, that was supposed to shine through?

good heavens, he was overthinking this, wasn’t he?

“that does sound like it would require a… keen mind, if you will.” nik tore his gaze away from the painting, thus allowing himself to scan the other man more closely before cracking a grin, “you make a fine point. i have read that art is the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.”

he didn’t tell the other that he’d considered it a foolish notion, and had dismissed it just as quickly. seeing as the stranger appeared to have a better grasp of art, it felt simply impolite to be so needlessly crass about his lack of understanding.

“my family was devastated by my lack of artistic skills, even as a youth.” the pleasant smile didn’t falter, not even when he shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of near puzzlement. this wasn’t his speciality and he found no fault in freely admitting to it. “suppose i need an explanation—would you care to give one?”

"You seem more apologetic about my sisters than my brother. How many siblings do you have?" He must have them, no one else would react that way because no one else understood the intensity of a sibling bond, the way that you could want to strangle them one day, but would be really and truly willing to strangle someone else on their behalf by the time the sun had set.

Grinning widely at the stranger in what was more than just a simple return of his expression, Alexandre rolled a shoulder as if to let the compliment slide from him like water from a fowl. Alexandre didn't think it necessarily took a keen mind, but art was easy for him to understand in a way that certain other things were not.

Isabeau said that music spoke to her as clearly as any sentence and Jacques thought that cogs ticking away made sense. Alexandre couldn't say the same on either count.

"People tend to project onto art. We take our own experiences and habits and we use those to understand what we see, it's how we deal with a lot of things. If you see a man with clasped hands, is he giving thanks or asking for mercy?" The answer of that question likely told you something about a person's mental state.

"All of my family is interested in different things, my mother said the important thing was that we had skills and knew how to apply them. I'm sure you have your own talents as well, even if they aren't in arts. Which is fine, every artist needs a muse, or a critic, or someone to give them praise."  

Or maybe Alexandre was simply skillful at knowing the roles that other people played.

"I'd be happy to give one. Care to ask a question, or should I just start talking? I've been told I'm very good at that." Alexandre said, flashing another smile.

alexandremortier​:

Nodding in a swift short motion, Alexandre’s fingers trailed along Sophia’s arms as she leaned in, the tips of their noses brushing together in an act of intimacy that was unfamiliar despite how often he found himself in close entanglements with others.

But Sophia had always been different, the first moment shared between them an intimacy in itself, the kind that showed you who someone was at night when the world was asleep and the audience couldn’t tear you apart, mask left safely at the bedside.

“Oh?” How on earth did he make anyone feel safe? That was an accident, if one he was glad to cause. “Anyone that doesn’t accept you doesn’t understand what it means to find joy in living.”

She could be so vibrant, so loud in whatever emotion she was feeling and she called out to Alexandre like a streak of bright paint slashed through dark shades, the glow of daylight at the mouth of the cave leading to Hades.

He watched her eyes close and he watched them open, he wondered if she knew that she made him feel able to breathe. It was something she deserved to know, but Alexandre lost any thought of admitting to it when she kissed him.

It would be a lie to say that Alexandre had never thought about what it would feel like to have her lips against hers. That and other, more carnal things had filled his daydreams in the time since they met and Alexandre fell into it immediately, hands traveling up her arms to squeezed at her shoulder and cup her face. Of all the skills acquired through his life, kissing was one that Alexandre was certain he was good at and this kiss felt like one that was long overdue.

He’d always assumed that she wasn’t interested in anything beyond what they had, friendship and secrets, but without this, his teeth nipping at her lower lip as Alexandre leaned in, tempted to push her back onto the floor and crawl on top of her.

“Tell me when to stop.” Alexandre murmured, punctuating the words with a kiss to her jaw before finding her mouth again, fevered and insistent on making up for lost time.

-

It had been… Too long, since she had last been kissed. A year was a long time to go without the touch of someone, the feeling of their lips, their hands… It sent a shiver down Sophia’s spine. The warmth of Alexandre’s hands radiated through her entire being, and she felt as if something that lay within her long forgotten was ablaze. 

It of course, did not help matters that Alex seemed to be a rather skilled kisser. Matthew had been lovely, but Alex… His kisses did not feel rushed, or pushed. They felt right. 

Her heart felt as if it were about to gallop right out of her chest as she kissed him back, her hands finding a home on his chest. God did he feel good.  

It was decided in no uncertain terms that Sophia could most definitely get used to kissing him. To feeling his hands on her face, and the warmth of his body radiating against her. Of course, the purity of her thoughts became rather muddled when Alexandre nipped at her lower lip. 

That fire within her surged and her fingers clutched tightly at the fabric of his overcoat. Desire was moving through her quickly, and her once relatively stable mind was beginning to fog, the only thing in focus being Alex, and how he was making her feel. 

Sophia couldn’t help but lean back slightly, attempting to move with him, as opposed to pushing against him. 

His lips, his words. Sophia was lost. Completely, and utterly lost. A solitary whimper sounded from the back of her throat, before she managed to get out a rather breathless “Don’t stop.”

-

It should not surprise him that Victoria had gentleman friends – friends who were gentlemen? – dash it all, was there a difference? She was younger, vivacious, had clear interests of her own; he was himself busy with his own obligations, between the Navy and Parliament – he could not begrudge her this. Did he not want her to have a social circle of her own?

(Everything I do is to please you, she had said – it was a statement so-so all-encompassing that it was unbelievable, like a-a line from a particularly purple novel, and yet – it stuck in his memory, turned over and over again, like a puzzle)

“A friend, you say,” he said – hands, must keep the hands clasped behind him; nevermind that he was all-too aware of the-the swords conveniently on display in the room – “A-a friend, whom my thoughtful wife failed to inform of-of the hours when she would be at home to callers – or-or who failed to-to write ahead his visit – or –”

Everything she did – ridiculously overblown as that statement had been, it would gain him nothing to-to so doubt her now, least of all before this-this – foreign upstart. 

“– or perhaps who is friend in-in delusion only, having mistaken common courtesy for-for something closer. Again – I-I must warn you sir, of taking liberties where none have been granted. Whatever you may claim, we are not acquaintances, and-and certainly not acquaintances close enough for any, hrm, unsolicited commentary or-or implied slander.”

Friends, this Frenchman said, the word rolling off his tongue as if he’d any understanding of what it meant; keeping her company – as if he were not laughing at what he was actually implying – 

His fists clenched, the pain clearing his confusion enough for him to rap out, “I shall ask you one last time: what is your purpose here, sir? Your command of the English tongue does your tutors credit, but we are in no ballroom – there is no one here to-to impress with unnecessary flourishes – I pray you speak plainly.”

A moment, a sharp inhale – then:

“If you are here to claim you are her lover, then say so.” 

.

And still all Alexandre wanted to do was laugh. This poor man, so easily twisted about just by someone being pleasant about his wife, how terribly insecure and uncertain he must be, certain that every moment he wasn't watching that she would hold a wandering eye. Marriage made such fools out of people and the English hadn't even figured out hot to be open about their extraneous lovers without having fits.

"Is that what you think?" By some measure of a miracle, Alexandre didn't laugh. Instead sympathy lined his smile as he tilted his head in regards to the man. He'd thought that perhaps the man was neglectful of his lady and perhaps he still was, but Alexandre hadn't realized how twisted up he was over her. Unless it was more his reputation that he was concerned about, in which event Alexandre's sympathy would soon evaporate.

"I'm not her lover, I'm her friend. I don't sleep with married women unless I'm also sleeping with their husband, I have some morals." Alexandre admitted carelessly, knowing better than to take anything said in a disagreement personally.

Not that they were disagreeing as of yet, but it was still a good thing to keep in mind. Begin to take things personally in any conversation and you would lose, you needed to be able to deflect any inquiry and be able to turn it against your conversational partner.

"And quite frankly, dear sir, I think that it's somewhat distressing that you can't tell the attitude of a friend from that of a lover. It implies to me that you aren't much of either, which is a terrible thing in a marriage."

And a bold statement to be made by a man who had never been married, perhaps, but at least he was aware that there was a difference between friends and lovers and while the former wasn't required, the lack of the latter made matrimony seem like quite a dull assignment without any point at all.

"Tell me, have you never simply sat and talked to your wife? Found out who she likes in the ton or dislikes and why? It's really not hard to hold a conversation with her, which is what I am guilty of and something you're perfectly capable of doing yourself. Don't try to tell me that you're incapable of gossiping, as I know that to be a falsehood."

.

“Thank you,” Kate said, sincere in her soft smile at the two, her shoulders relaxing from a tension she hadn’t been aware they were holding. Something about the genuine congratulations, and the acknowledgement of her stress, rather than a comment about how foolish of an endeavor this was ––– the kindness had caught her off guard. “I –– oh, forgive me,” she laughed, the sound sheepish as it rang out through the modiste, “I haven’t even –– I’m Miss Lockhart, Miss Catherine Lockhart,” she said, laying her hand over her heart as she did, as if asking forgiveness. She realized, suddenly, that she did not have too long left to introduce herself as such, and the thought made her stomach flip over on itself. 

If the kindness had caught her off guard, the compliment could have knocked her over with a feather, and she blinked once, twice, before breaking out into a flushed smile, ducking her head a little. “That’s high praise,” she said, flattered, and nodded back at him. “Thank you, truly. I–– hmm? Oh, yes –– and yes, of course,” Kate replied, handing over the drawing so they could both see, her hands clasped in front of her nervously. “I was thinking white cotton muslin,” she explained, “with little blue flowers along the lace, and then the silver through here,” she finished, pointing out the arc of the lace, highlighting the little gaps between its pattern and the fabric of the dress itself. “To catch the light.” She raised her brows slightly. “Though I suppose if I get overwhelmed, I have a few dresses I could alter in this style –– just without the train.” Kate frowned a little, examining her drawing with her head tilted, trying to see it through another’s eyes. “It’s not my best work,” she admitted. “I’ve always preferred botanicals and people, in truth, but when one has many siblings…” she trailed off, shooting the woman a glance, smiling as she did, as if they were once again trading secrets. Then she spoke, and Kate blinked. 

“That’s so kind of you,” she replied, startled once again. “I–– that would be lovely, truly,” Kate said, waving away the idea of needing to check her work. “Even just the companionship –– needlework can be such lonely business. I’m sure you understand.” She turned back to the gentleman, grinning as she did. “And you’re more than welcome to join us; I doubt you’d find any enjoyment in the needlework, but the light in our sitting room is lovely for sketching, and the garden’s even nicer.” She wasn’t positive, of course, that he was an artist as well, but between his interest in Botticelli and her own design –– if Kate had been a betting woman, she’d have put money on it. 

.

"Alexandre Mortier, duc de Tresmes and Gesvres. This is my sister, Lady Isabeau Mortier." Not that their titles tended to mean anything to anyone in England, beyond perhaps Miss St. John, but it was a habit and what they were born as, something that Alexandre liked to remember even when his siblings were willing to change their names to fit in. No. Simply no, and not a thing to be thought of while the delicate little bride to be fluttered over his compliment and offered up her drawing, instantly catching Alexandre's attention. Stepping into her space and easily peering down at the drawing, he made an appreciative noise in his throat. "Oh, that's lovely." It seemed vaguely French as well, so of course it was lovely - even the stodgiest of English folk admitted that those of France understood fashion.

As Isabeau stepped forward, she reached out as if to trace a finger over the design, but she didn't dare touch the page. "Very delicate. I think the silver will draw the eye, but be careful for the flowers to be noticeable." Depending on the size and complexity, they may be little more than colorful blobs and it would be a shame if the details on her dress went without appreciation. "The train adds flair, almost like a cape. I like it, but it's what you feel is best suited. You know how much time you have to spare, I don't." Although sometimes no matter how much you thought you knew, family could change all of that, their needs and wants rising up in a shrill pitch that left you abandoning your own plans until the things in their world could be put right once again. "Alexandre and I are the oldest, but sometimes I still think of him as the baby. He was the first baby I ever knew." The words were teasing, but drenched in a fondness that couldn't be manufactured.

Alexandre let out a huff at Isabeau before turning towards Miss Lockhart, offering her the drawing back. "Careful, Miss Lockhart, an engaged woman shouldn't be so charming." He grinned, hearing Isabeau chide him in French and ignoring her. "I think that would be perfectly lovely. I love sketching and there's nothing better than a room filled with light. Or beneath a nice tree, I suppose." He tilted his head in thought just as Isabeau shook hers. "Perhaps you should be careful. My brother won't be moved if he makes himself comfortable, I swear that drawing is the only thing in this world that can make him hold still. But perhaps you'll see what I mean soon enough. When would you care for me to start assisting you, Miss Lockhart? I imagine that there isn’t time to waste."

Pressing her lips into a small smile, Aurelia nods at Alex’s words, seemingly sensing his mild wariness of Lady Gale. “Lady Gale, while prone to the occasional bout of hysterics, is known to be rather appreciative of those who do, indeed, help her out. I’m hopeful that the successful return of the bracelet might only earn goodwill and not…further hysterics.” 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Mortier, Lady Mortier,” Aurelia smiles at the introduction, looking from Alex to his mother. The notion of a family outing made her heart swell– she tried to recall the last time the Merchants had had their own family outing, supposed it was nearly a decade since they had all ventured out somewhere together. “A family outing sounds quite delightful,” Aurelia muses as their small group rounds a corner, “I’m afraid I’m just here with my lady maid, tonight. My brother and his wife have taken an early evening.”

“Ah, well, eighteen is indeed a rather special age to turn,” Aurelia smiles. Her own eighteenth birthday felt rather far away, now, arriving on the heels of great tragedy. There was no talk of parties or celebration and when the day rolled around, truthfully, her mother had forgotten the day altogether.

“Perhaps, the picnic idea isn’t entirely unsalvageable– I should think a large gathering outside, amongst the stars would be a wonderful way to celebrate your sister’s special day. You could have big, thick blankets, delicious food, good friends, and perhaps, even some music?” Aurelia says, with building excitement, “Now what could be more special than that?” 

.

"Ah, it's always pleasant to meet someone that acknowledges and appreciates the efforts of others." Alexandre said lightly, not so much as glancing at his mother, who he was certain was listening and plotting. Lady Gale may encounter another stroke of bad luck in the future if it appeared profitable enough.

As casual as Alex was about it, his mother seemed even less interested in her words about Lady Gale. "Ah, what a shame you weren't able to enjoy the evening with them. My children and I are close, and my youngest has often been indulged." 

There was a small little smile playing at her face, as if she couldn't quite help feeling fond over her young, spirited daughter, and while Alexandre never questioned that his mother was protective of them and loved them all with the fierceness of an inferno, he also knew that smile was for the sake of performance. Study under someone long enough and you could pick up their tells, although Alex knew he wasn't nearly as skilled in the art of pretend as she was.

"Oh. Now that sounds like a proper summer party," Alexandre said, surprise creeping into his tone as he pictured it, an open expanse of grass and blankets dotted with her friends, a band playing music to the open air as Margot indulged in doing whatever it was that made her feel like a proper adult. "I think my sister would like that idea, she's an outdoors person. Tell me, would you be interested in meeting her? I think you could do more to convince her than I could."

Though it had been a mere matter of seconds between her words and Alexandre’s reply, it felt like an eternity. As if the world had slowed to a crawl and everything else that was occurring didn’t matter. Even the clock on the fireplace mantle had seemed to slow down. 

She had never had such a feeling with Matthew, save for maybe on their wedding day. Even then, it was not as intense. Perhaps there were different kind of loves, and she was in the midst of something positively transcendent. 

Her hazel eyes searched his. All the time that had passed between them, and they had been on the same course, feeling the same. How could she have missed it? Of course, she had thought or had an inclination that such a feeling was mutual… But how could she let herself believe it? Especially when it was Alexandre? It was easier to live in denial and keep him in her life than tell him the truth. 

Of course, the truth had come out - it had had to. Quite frankly. Though their conversations had not gone to plan, indeed, she was pleased with where the two of them stood - or well, sat. She had learned something about him, something dark. Something that would normally force people to run away, but how could she, when he made her feel as if they were perfectly formed for one another?

“I make you laugh?” Sophia repeated, a warm, mirth-filled smile forming on her lips as she looked at him. He truly was a wonder. Sophia moved a little close to him, allowing her nose to brush softly against his. 

“You make me feel safe, and accepted..” She let out, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. It had been so long since she felt safe with someone. Home wasn’t a place, it was a person and being around Alex felt like being home. 

“I haven’t felt that way in a long time,” her words a mere whisper as she opened her eyes. Quickly, her gaze fell to his plump lips and before she could stop herself her lips were meeting with his. 

Nodding in a swift short motion, Alexandre's fingers trailed along Sophia's arms as she leaned in, the tips of their noses brushing together in an act of intimacy that was unfamiliar despite how often he found himself in close entanglements with others.

But Sophia had always been different, the first moment shared between them an intimacy in itself, the kind that showed you who someone was at night when the world was asleep and the audience couldn't tear you apart, mask left safely at the bedside.

"Oh?" How on earth did he make anyone feel safe? That was an accident, if one he was glad to cause. "Anyone that doesn't accept you doesn't understand what it means to find joy in living."

She could be so vibrant, so loud in whatever emotion she was feeling and she called out to Alexandre like a streak of bright paint slashed through dark shades, the glow of daylight at the mouth of the cave leading to Hades.

He watched her eyes close and he watched them open, he wondered if she knew that she made him feel able to breathe. It was something she deserved to know, but Alexandre lost any thought of admitting to it when she kissed him.

It would be a lie to say that Alexandre had never thought about what it would feel like to have her lips against hers. That and other, more carnal things had filled his daydreams in the time since they met and Alexandre fell into it immediately, hands traveling up her arms to squeezed at her shoulder and cup her face. Of all the skills acquired through his life, kissing was one that Alexandre was certain he was good at and this kiss felt like one that was long overdue.

He'd always assumed that she wasn't interested in anything beyond what they had, friendship and secrets, but without this, his teeth nipping at her lower lip as Alexandre leaned in, tempted to push her back onto the floor and crawl on top of her.

“I quite agree with you,” Diana nodded. “Personally, I think it is better than being forced to make polite conversation at a ball, but perhaps that is because balls also bring so many expectations.” She got the air that he would not mind her frankness, though she could not have pinpointed exactly why that was. Perhaps it was a vague sense of revelry that he gave off; she could not say. He struck her as being less than perfectly proper.

The woman next to him- his sister, did she say?- gave an amused little noise, and Diana bowed into her as an unconscious mirror, chuckling slightly at her jests at her brother’s expense. “Poor thing- lucky for him there are such excellent sweets here, or however would he go on?” She knew she should not tease a man she hardly knew, but hopefully he would forgive her. It was simply too easy to play along with his sister’s wit.

“I am quite happy to help you, do tell me all of your problems. His can come later, as they will be solved once the heat wave finishes, I expect?” Her smirk flashed in the gentleman’s direction, no real rancor behind it, as she hoped he would gather.

.

"Lucky him and lucky me this time. I always seem to meet such lovely and interesting ladies when I accompany my brother about town." Margot said brightly, and this time it was Alexandre who fought the urge to roll his eyes because he was perfectly capable of reading between the lines and hearing the way she praised the other in the same breath she used to call Alexandre a womanizer. Well, Margot's giggling over getting attention was better than the way she treated Miss St. John, even if they had arranged another meeting by the end.

"I think having someone else be Margot's audience solves a problem I didn't know I had. Thank you." Alexandre said politely, shooting a smile even as he felt Margot kick him gently.

"He'll find some other way of getting into trouble after he has his ices," Margot said, getting in the obligatory quip before dismissing Alex completely. "My birthday is at the end of July and I think I deserve something nice for turning eighteen, but no one is listening to me. It's like they don't have any appreciation for the fact the youngest of us is all grown up."

•

Ophelia rolled her eyes, her annoyance scoring deeper into something that resembled true ire. Was he really getting so worked up over a music box that he insisted on questioning her contributions to society. It was absurd. Especially seeing as she was never supposed to be a part of this godforsaken conversation in the first place. But now she was, and it was not in Ophelia Vane’s nature to back down. Even if it would be in her best interest. 

Alexandre, the instigator, had been all but forgotten as her eyes narrowed in on his brother, the inventor. “I hardly owe you an explanation,” she said, tone coated in haughtiness, “But I have been penning essays on the advancement of women, and the importance of a lady’s education for years. Some of which I have submitted to magazines.” Only to be ridiculed by the editor, but that hardly mattered. “And I would hardly consider you innocent of being bothered by a stranger, seeing something so innocent as an opinion has sent you into a–”

“Oi!” 

Turning, Ophelia found the shopkeeper striding in their direction, a look of pure displeasure on written his face. 

“This is a respectable establishment where the people of Mayfair can expect to find peace and quiet as they search for their books. I will not allow a pair of squabblers to disturb the my other patrons.”

“Sir, I apologize. If not for–”

“Out!” 

Ophelia’s mouth remained open in horror. “But surely–” 

“I said get out!”

Snapping her mouth closed, Ophelia’s glare threw daggers at both of the Mortier boys. With a huff she stomped past the shopkeeper towards the door. 

With every point that she made, a counter point formed inside his mind, a tit for tat of barbs and accusations that kept them perfectly in balance and there was anticipation building inside him, words begging for the chance to escape. Manners alone kept him from interrupting her, and there was the vague thought that she might slap him if he tried talking over her.

Not that he wanted to, because then how would he be able to correct all her misconceptions?

Nearly vibrating in anticipation of his turn, Jacques felt his temper flare when someone else dared interrupt her, cutting off her lecture.

"We're hardly shouting." Jacques sneered at the moment that Ophelia apologized, drawing back in shock at the shopkeeper's pronouncement.

"Now, hold on -" Jacques started, only to shut up again when he felt hands wrap around his bicep, Alexandre once again at his side and tugging him away.

"Now isn't the time to argue." Alexandre muttered, a dim part of him feeling proud that Jacques at least bothered to switch to English to bicker with the shopkeeper.

Despite what Alexandre said, Jacques thought it was the perfect time to argue and as Alexandre pushed him out the door, Jacques found himself searching for the opinionated woman before huffing and turning to stalk off. Behind him, he heard Alexandre murmur, "Margot is never going to believe this."

There was not much that Sophia prided herself on, however, being at least moderately intelligent was one of the qualities she thought herself to possess. Upon hearing Alexandre’s words though, Sophia immediately wondered if she had been lying to herself. Was she truly so foolish and idiotic to not recognize the fact that they shared the same feelings? 

It was true, of course, that one often did not see what was right in front of them, but even still. How could she be oblivious to such a fact? 

“How would I know that? Your feelings were not at all obvious to me” She rebutted, watching as he sat himself on the floor right in front of her. It wasn’t as if she were a mind reader, she could not look into the inner workings of his brain and figure out his inclination towards her so easily. 

What a turn the conversation had taken. Though she was not exactly upset at where it was headed, a pang of guilt ran through her like a bell. He had just confessed something so shocking and yet she was focused not on that, but on her own feelings. 

Sophia took a deep breath and rolled her eyes, allowing her gaze to fall back on his countenance. He was so close, closer than before. She could see the curve of his lip, the vulnerability in his eyes - it caused her heart to race again. 

Slowly, she released one of her hands from his, gingerly reaching out to trace her thumb along the sharp line of his jaw. “Because you are breathtaking, Alexandre. You could have anyone in the Ton, I did not assume you would want me.”

It wasn't a rhetorical question, or at least Alexandre didn't think it was, but he couldn't think of a simple way he could answer it. How could he explain something he thought was obvious in a simple way she would accept when she hadn't noticed it in the way he acted?

Did she think the ribbon found its way to his basket by accident?

Did she think that he touched her without ever feeling intent, that he drew her picture in the edges of letters without having stared at her long enough to memorize the slope of her nose? Alexandre was not unaware of etiquette, he knew standards.

Using someone's Christian name was meant to wait for engagement, and yet she thought he didn't care?

Touching was supposed to be limited, and yet how often had they touched, fleeting touches stolen when no one could see.

The first time they met, it was without a chaperone. The next time they met, the official 'first time', she dragged him away to a darkened balcony. Yet she was surprised that he would want her? She wasn't foolish, she had to know why men and women most frequently slipped away to places like that.

He wasn't even supposed to send gifts if he wasn't courting her, wasn't that true? Yet what had he done that very day but send gifts? So had she, along with the letters that they shouldn't have sent.

There was so much of their time together that society dictated they shouldn't have had, that should have been restricted to courting or engaged couples, and yet Sophia, who was raised with such expectations, had never once wondered if Alexandre meant something with them, or if he was simply uncaring of such practices?

He hadn't always loved her, that much was true, and he was scared to want her, undeniably, but desiring her was easy.