𝑢𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑒𝑟

A CHILD WEANED ON POISON CONSIDERS HARM A COMFORT

It’s no secret that Augustus Ryder didn’t exactly come by his title honestly –– though the many solicitors who looked over the last Baron Somers’ last will and testament for any flaws and loopholes were forced to admit that his inheritance was legally airtight and binding –– but in the last four years since he received the title, rumors have swirled around the mysterious new baron. The longest running (and favorite of the ton) is that the previous heir’s death at the young age of nineteen was no mere accident. Some of the household staff alleged that the scene where the young heir’s body was discovered seemed a bit too perfectly laid out to be fully accidental, and after all, Mr. Ryder was the one who found the body…

MEME: I believe my reputation can withstand it.

Augustus watches the Ton like a hawk watches its prey. Tossed unceremoniously into this unfamiliar world he managed to land on both feet without so much as stumbling, as if he was born for more than even this. He spent nights studying, learning everything that he neglected in favor of metal work the first quarter of his life. The names of the most powerful, the relationships they share. He mapped out a plan from nothing more than overheard conversations and an understanding of the way the Ton moves amongst one another.

It takes little more than her ramrod spine to send up warning signals, muscles tensed and ready to take flight. August does not meddle in the affairs of others, possessing both little interest and patience, but it takes little convincing for him to meddle in this. He cannot help but be reminded of Alessa, forced to dance until her toes bruised with men with little regard for others. He is interrupting before his brain can catch up and though he apologizes to Giles, his eyes darken, indicating that August has left no room for discussion. 

It’s like the entire rest of the salon melts away, like the ballroom empties, until only the two of them, still staring at one another, remain. Like there is nothing and no one else left on the earth except, it seems, for him. There’s something about the way he watches her, the way his eyes remain on hers; glittering in the candlelight with some unspoken amusement, steady on hers as if trying to convey some secret message, like this conversation between them is some sort of game, and he only ever explained the rules halfway. 

She doesn’t need to ask herself if he remembers. Of course he does. It’s all there, from the carelessly casual way he crosses his arms across his chest to the way his words continue to worm their way under her skin, each one chosen deliberately in an attempt to spark some sort of reaction out of her. She has, after all, been a ghost for so long and to so many people that the fact that he seems to be able to bring about something so lifelike as derision is…unusual, to say the least. Or at least –– that’s the tame way to put it. 

Séra resists the urge to touch her fingertips to her lips only by clenching her hand into a fist, and since her other hand is still wrapped around her wrist, it feels, for a moment, as if she is caging herself in for him. Still, she cannot quite help it. There is a smile on his full lips, and his hand is extended towards hers for her to take his arm, and she cannot deny him without causing a scene, and it calls to mind another darkened corner, a lifetime ago, and that hand resting on the side of her neck with surprising gentleness, those lips sliding over hers with something almost like softness. Had he known that she had never been kissed until that moment? Did he know, now, that every feeling of desire she had felt since that moment was tied up in knots with it, twisted and braided into it, until she did not know where the wanting became the warning, where the longing and the loathing separated into two separate entities. 

I wish I hated you.

Maybe she does hate him. Maybe she doesn’t. Séra can’t tell the difference anymore. 

At least, that’s what she tells herself as she takes his arm, her hand resting on his forearm, her spine straight. “You’re lucky Lord Ludlow is next on my dance card,” she says, angling her head towards him ever so slightly. “I do hope you won’t attempt to start a fight in my honor,” she sighs, shifting away from his arm to turn and face him, taking up her starting position and resting one hand on his bicep near his shoulder, her other caught in his. A waltz. Of course. Just her luck.

Most days he feels like a stranger in this world, navigating the halls of London’s elite by the skin of his teeth. He does not want for this society in particular, these people and their ideals, the rounded upturn of their noses. He wants for their money and success, yes, but neither of those so much as he dreams of their power. The casual way they sip their punch, unburdened shoulders shaking as they laugh because they fear nothing, and no one. He has not slept through the night in twenty-eight years and he wonders if the Prince Regent is just as haunted by nightmares as he is, or if he knows what the meaning of fear is.

He lets himself wonder, for a moment, if Lady Carlisle knows of such things. He looks at her curiously, trying to see past the marble of her bones to the depth of her. He wants to read between the lines of her skin, understand what it is that causes her to wrap her hand around her wrist, as if she would float away like a ghost if she was not held firmly in place. He wonders if her mouth tastes like blood from biting her tongue, the metallic of things left unsaid. He wants her to say them to him, wants her to crack open her ribs and let him understand what it means when her heart beats in staccato. 

You do not know of the things I would do in your honor, he thinks, eyes darkening. “Luck has very little place in my life,” he admits, though one could interpret his meaning a variety of ways and still end up correct. Neither luck nor any God can take credit for his lot in life, for the way he raged and fought to be where he is. It was sleepless nights, hours spent studying and leaning, days spent planning and plotting, needling his way into the right rooms at the right times. It was as much luck as it was murder, which is to say it was neither of those things.

“Though I believe that you should thank me for saving you from Ludlow,” he adds, smirking as he follows her lead as she falls into position flawlessly. She leaves a fire where her ice cold hand rests against his bicep. He is generally skilled at dancing out of nothing more than necessity, memorizing the moves as he would memorize an algebraic equation or legislation. As the music plays he moves automatically, stiff backed as he pulls and pushes, spinning her in time. There is nothing but them, but her, the rest of the ton fading into a blur of color and noise. 

Torture. She had to stop herself from a decidedly unladylike roll of her eyes at the comparison. Dancing all night without a fondness for dancing would not be torture. What would he know of torture? He, who had taken and taken and taken, bloody hands gloved and hidden in black leather, winning every challenge set before him with the attitude of a man who simply did not know how to lose. Séra began to step away, nodding her head in acknowledgement at his words, their polite societal duties done to one another by exchanging a scant handful of words.

And then he kept speaking, and it caught her mid step as surely as if he’d reached out and caught her around the wrist, black leather contrasted against white silk. He had not, of course, but somehow, still, she could feel the heat of his palm encircling her wrist, the deceptively gentle grip of his fingers around her bones. It was so vivid that she had to wrap her own hand around her wrist, rubbing at the silk encased skin as if to rid herself of even the very idea of him. His dark eyes glittered with an unspoken joke as he met her gaze, his words creating an artificial camaraderie between them. This corner we have sought, he said, as if they had made a joint venture by finding themselves near to this alcove. As if he had not followed her when she had sought out respite from the dance. Her eyes narrowed. What game are you playing, Ryder?

The irony was that the garden did sound wonderful. Séra couldn’t think of anything more lovely than the idea of a quiet walk in the bracingly cold fresh air scented with roses and alstroemeria. The only thing that kept her mouth shut was the idea of taking that walk with him, and the implications it might cause if they were caught alone together in the hedge maze. 

“I do believe I am perfectly content right where I am, my lord,” she said, her voice still soft, imbued with so much politeness that the use of his title was almost mocking. “But of course, if you wish to take a turn about the gardens, please don’t let me stop you.” 

There is no greater comfort than inspiring fear, knowing that you are the wolf because the wolf is not the victim. The wolf is claws and teeth and bite marks, the wolf is power and control.

Augustus does not want to be the wolf.

He wants to be the monster under its bed.

Augustus is silent for a moment, his dark eyes catching on hers as if to share in silent communication, translating the moment they both remember. His hand catching hers, her chin turning up, his careful steps forward until her back touched the wall. A pause, a moment for her to push him away. Her eyes were shrouded, barely a hint of emotion detected that he could not manage to decipher. His hand started at her elbow, trailing slowly up, gloved fingers barely brushing the fabric of her dress. Nothing. Leather meets skin, hand trailing up to fit against the side of her neck. He paused again, waiting.

She was motionless.

He dipped his chin, braced for the moment that she would shove him away. It never came, several heartbeats passing before his lips brushed hers. He paused there, and felt a thumping against his palm, her heart rattling inside of her chest, beating angrily. He froze, every muscle tightening as he stepped away. His hands folded behind his back, rigid, guilty. Startled, because suddenly, he realized that he does not want her see him as the monster that he wants to be. And maybe that’s what he’s trying to convey when he looks at her now, eyes darkening, skin prickling.

I am not the monster you think I am; I am worse. I am a nightmare that you will never come to know. I can keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me.

His chin turns up, endlessly amused by her annoyance. He should not needle her but he cannot help the way his heart skips when her cheeks flush, bitterness rolling off of her in waves. He has watched her with others, of course, and she does not seem to lose any bit of control with them. Perhaps, though, he is only seeing what he wants to see.

@battleworn said “My, you’re highly desired. This is the first time I haven’t seen you dancing all night.”

The voice was low and silken near her ear, and Séra nearly jumped out of her skin upon hearing it, and realizing how close he was. One hand flew to her chest as if to contain the suddenly racing heart within, caging that bird within her chest as certainly as if her ribs were jail bars made of silver. She recognized the voice without turning around, and stared straight ahead, her eyes focusing on the groups of couples weaving and spinning around one another in the latest dance. It was true that this was the first one she’d sat out; her dance card was not full, exactly, but had most of the spaces taken up, and it was debatable as to whether this was because she so dearly loved to dance, or because she had such a hard time saying no to any of her suitors. 

Well –– any of her suitors except one. 

When it became clear that the Baron Somers was not intending to move away from her side, Séra angled her head slightly towards him, her back remaining ramrod straight, her chin lifted. He’d meant it as a compliment…she thought…but somehow, still, the words felt targeted. They always did. Something about him made her feel hyperaware of every inch of her body, knowledgable of every centimeter of exposed skin, every hidden bone, every droplet of blood running through her veins. It was an odd sensation, and, though she would deny it –– not an entirely unpleasant one. 

“I happen to enjoy dancing, Lord Ryder,” she finally said in response, her voice soft, as if she were hoping he might not hear her over the music. “But I found that I required a moment’s respite.”  

*

Augustus always thought that if Lady Carlisle could take flight, she would. Her arms were always bunched at her sides, hands gripping her dress and elbows bowed, prepared to flap her wings. When she danced, flitting flawlessly across the floor, he imagined her doing so, flapping her arms and floating beautifully to the top of the ballroom. He, who’d always held stones in his boots, was astounded by her grace.

“I would hope so, Lady Carlisle,” he replied, tone sarcastic, amused. “To dance as much as you and not enjoy it would indeed be torture.” August offset her tenseness by appearing overly relaxed, arms crossed casually as he leaned against a wall. He looked at her as if he knew her, inside and out, and in some ways he felt that he did. His determination did not leave room for the thought of failure. He intended to marry Lady Carlisle, and so it would be.

Hello, everyone! Our first meme has been designed to go with our first event, so here is a list of sentence starters you can use to prompt conversations between your character and others. You can send and answer these at any time during the event, but remember that you will received paired threads through the duration of the event. Happy writing!

“Oh, no. I think that punch was stronger than I thought.”

“No, don’t talk to me! I’m trying to hide, you’ll give it away.”

“Why would I want to dance with you? Last time you kept stepping on my toes!”

“My, you’re highly desired. This is the first time I haven’t seen you dancing all night.”

“Don’t move, I think I just heard something rip.”

“If you didn’t want to come, then why did you bother showing up?

“Are you aware that Lord Ludlow has been staring at you all night? It’s a rather unsavory look.”

“And when can we expect you to host a party?”

“Here, I brought us both a drink… although maybe you’ve indulged enough.”

“Wait, I beg your pardon, but haven’t we met before?”

“We’ve already danced once tonight, we can’t dance again! What would people think?”

“Please give me anything to talk about other than the two women who unfortunately arrived in the same dress.”

“Are you alright? You look faint, I think you should sit the next dance out.”

“Can you believe what they did? They spilled their drink on me and now this outfit will be ruined.”

“All those months apart and not a single letter for a dear friend. Were you really so busy that you couldn’t write?”

“If you’re not careful, one of your feathers is going to catch on fire from that candle.”

“Has anyone seen the royalty that’s supposed to show up yet? Or even know who it is?”

“I don’t understand why a ball that takes place before parliament starts is any more special than one of the dozens that will take place afterwards.”

“Oh, you simply would not believe the trouble I had getting here tonight!”

“Do you know who that is over there? I think they must be new…”