Prince of Wales

“you cannot imagine,” she began, “i did not even know what a mango truly was until i left england. we have them here, of course, but they arrive as ghosts of themselves. pale, timid things.” a soft laugh slipped through, warm with remembrance. “but there, in brazil—oh, they are another creature entirely. great, heavy things, warm from the sun, the skin almost blushing… and when you open them—” she paused, pressing her fingers lightly together, as though the fruit might yield again beneath her touch if she only remembered it precisely enough. “have you ever had one fresh from the tree? truly fresh?” she did not wait long for his answer, for her thoughts had already taken flight, leaping ahead like children unbound by walls or watchful eyes. “i climbed for one,” she confessed, and in the same breath her shoulders lifted in a small, delighted recoil, as if propriety had tapped her lightly upon the shoulder.

“which i suspect i ought not to admit to a gentleman.” her laughter followed, bright and unrepentant, the sound of it carrying something freer than london quite permitted. “but my cousins insisted, and there was no persuading them otherwise. we would roam the grounds of their property with baskets, picking whatever pleased us—mango, pitanga, acerola, goiaba, caju—oh, you cannot imagine the abundance of it.” her voice softened then, though it did not dim, only deepened, like sunlight passing through leaves. “and the taste…” she exhaled, almost wistful now. “nothing here quite compares. by the time it reaches london, it has already forgotten what it was meant to be.” the path unfolded beneath them, lanternlight trembling along the gravel, yet antonella seemed scarcely aware of the ground she crossed; she moved instead through recollection, through sunlight and orchard and the careless freedom of a world away.

she turned to him then fully, curiosity alight, her gaze open in a way that invited rather than demanded. and still, even in that moment, her thoughts seemed to run ahead of her again, circling possibilities, tasting them before they could be answered. “have you traveled?” she asked, tilting her head, her gaze open and searching in the most unguarded way. “anywhere warm, anywhere wild enough to grow such things? you must tell me if you have. and what will you take, if not mango? i should like to know your loyalties before we part ways at the table.” only then did miss castelo seem to catch herself, a breath of laughter slipping free as she shook her head lightly, as though waking from the gentle intoxication of her own enthusiasm. “forgive me,” she added, softer now, though no less bright. “i have been speaking as though i were still among my cousins, and not in polite society. you musn't tell anyone!”

his final question settled over her differently, not dimming her, but drawing from her something quieter, more inward. her gaze drifted briefly upward, where the sky still bore the fading ghosts of fire and light, and for a moment she seemed suspended between what had been imagined and what had finally come to pass. “in a manner of speaking, yes,” she said, her voice touched now with a gentler warmth. “it is my first season… properly so. my first time belonging to it, rather than watching from the edges.” her smile curved, softened by something almost tender. “and i think i like it very much. it feels…” she paused, searching, then laughed lightly at herself. “like stepping into something i have dreamed of for far too long.” she turned back to him then, and just as swiftly, the softness gave way again to that familiar glimmer of mischief. “though you must not call me lady just yet,” she added, playful once more, “miss will suffice for now. the rest, i suppose, depends entirely on whether fortune is in a generous mood this season. i'm antonella castelo... and you, kind sir, must be? you carry the air of someone i should remember.”

Most people of England -- no, most people of the ton, even -- he imagined to himself, were unlike to have so much as heard of mango (She must be wealthy, indeed, he concluded), and he rued his own words thinking that -- he ought to have played dumb, inquired what it was. But he'd spoken already, his breath could not be recalled, so bravely he sallied forth. He had not expected her to be an enigma, as well. Perhaps she'd ventured to the West Indies, he thought -- her father or brother or -- no, he shot a quick look at her finger. There was no ring. Father or brother or...guardian, then -- had perhaps been some naval man, or else a merchant, sailing the gallant seas. Perhaps he'd chanced to bring the rare fruit back for her to sample -- or perhaps, he thought with a small smile of his own, gaze wandering over her face -- she was one of the rare, brave ones who had ventured to sail out with her loved one. Perhaps she had been there, herself.

"I am afraid you will find the table sorely lacking. I dare not speculate with what grandeur Her Majesty the Queen may have arrayed her table, of course--" and truly even as her son, it remained as silent as a state secret to him -- more so, for the Prince of Wales had occasion at times to know state secrets, it was true, but rarely, alas, the secrets of his mother's party arrangements. "But I should be astounded to learn she has sourced so rare a treasure as that."

I'll get her a mango, he thought, wildly. If my mother has none upon her. table. And I'll not tell her how I've come by it either. And then I shall be the enigmatic one, and she the one left wondering. It sounded of fun to him. And, besides, somehow he didn't think he could brook her disappointment. The promise of it had electrified her. Her whole body seemed lit from within. It would be an awful thing, he thought, to see that light go out. There had been too much of that in this life, of late. Better, he thought, to keep the fires burning.

"Brazil?" he echoed in astonishment, brows arching. A smile tugged at his lips. "The lady is as well traveled as she is mysterious. Might I inquire as to what drove you across the seas from thence to here?" Despite himself, he laughed, merriment bubbling up as she spoke of her eager earnestness extending to the literal heights of climbing a tree. It was improper, perhaps, but he couldn't help delight in the picture of her action-oriented personality it presented. He liked a woman who did not hesitate to clamber after what she wanted -- whatever that might be, and despite the stakes. There was freedom, and there was truth, in that. "I can't say that I have, alas, but it sounds as if it has been my misfortune. I suppose I shall someday have to venture to mysterious Brazil." He paused. "Tell me -- is it truly as beautiful a land as they say?" He almost didn't need to ask. He thought he could half-envision it from her words alone.

"By the time it reaches London," she said. "It has already forgotten what it was meant to be."

True of us all, he thought, a sympathetic sound thrumming in the back of his throat. He heard the grim sound in his own hum quite before he meant to display it, and laughed self-consciously despite himself. "A habit with London, in general, I think." He turned, smiled appreciatively at his companion. "But perhaps less so with you. Might I ask, my lady -- how do you manage to maintain that genuine quality, even here?"

Sighing softly at her question, Charles tilted his head. "Sadly, no. I have always wished it -- to see the wide, grand world in its turning," he smiled wistfully. "But I have never managed it."

The Prince of Wales was sometimes lucky to be permitted to go so far as Wales, itself, it seemed. But he dreamed of distant lands, and raging seas. There was something irresistibly romantic in the idea of an explorer's life -- tasting all that was new and fresh, seeing sights never before dreamed of, hearing far-distant songs never before known to non-native ears...It seemed dreamy, somehow, as close to both excitement and fairy tale as any man now living could ever hope to come...But it was never to be his life. His was to stay here, always here -- forever. And, someday, to die that way, too.

Laughing as she inquired to his loyalties, he arched a brow. "I confess, I had maintained ambitions towards nothing loftier than a glass of lemonade -- but, I confess, you have inspired me. I do not know what refreshments await us, but I wish to try something new -- it's a small kind of travel, I think." Quickly, he shook his head as her mood turned, sorry to see it go. "Pray, do not change on my account. Fancy me one of your cousins, if you wish -- I shall tell no one."

He smiled, softly, surprised to hear it was only her debut after the colorful life it seemed she already had had. But perhaps that did explain the brightness in her -- there was a tiredness, he'd observed, that seemed to set in after awhile. Vainly, he hoped that never happened for her. It would be a shame to watch anything conquer her spirit. "It seems as if you are enjoying, then, your first proper venture in London society? It can be quite...something to navigate." Lords knows I've not yet acquired the knack of it, for all my dismal efforts, he thought.

"Then, let me pray with you that fortune will smile fondly upon you, Miss Castelo." He paused a moment. Narrowed his eyes. "I don't suppose you're any relation of...Mr. Emilio Castelo, miss?" Another thing he ought perhaps not to have said -- yet it was done. And he did not try to take it back, now that it was. He paused. "Elias Mainwaring, at your service, miss. Though I cannot make any claim for the name as profound as you have done. It is only mine." And no one else's.

it was a pleasant surprise to learn that her touch was not dismissed ( or worst, treated with a measure of disgust that she would understand, considering the viciousness of their last conversation ) but rather tolerated, perhaps even welcomed, and caroline was eager to capitalize on the moment, unaware of just how much she had missed feeling his warmth beneath his fingertips until she had him, somewhat obedient under the weight of her fussing. she was careful not to show just how much this small concession meant to her, features kept purposefully blank as he spoke, even if her nose wrinkled a little at his quick refusal of a physician. ❝ ... i was too far to hear what was said, only that the both of you emerged from the maze, already in a state of agitation. ❞ good god, was it because of her ? caroline was so certain that she had steered darius from his heroics ( which were appreciated but would only lead to trouble, as the fiasco had just proven to them all ) but now, she feared even giving voice to the potential. what if it was not because of her, and she filled charles' head with untoward suspicions ? it was no more than he deserved, certainly, but caroline was not a woman who found satisfaction in debasing herself to get even, especially not if it meant fracturing the royal family. ( a small voice within her head whispered that the damage had already been done, with or without intention. ) ❝ your mother glanced in my direction, which i took as instruction to handle the matter but before i could ... oh, charles ! ❞ a little roughly, she pressed the damp cloth to the cut upon his brow to stem the trickle of blood, focusing her gaze on the small wound there. ❝ what could have driven you to fight with your brother in public ? madness, surely ... the heat ? ❞ her eyes flickered down to meet with his own, brow knitted together in concern even as her face twisted with brief confusion.

who ... ? ❝ ... oh, that was colonel stirling ! ❞ she waved the cloth around, dismissing the thought. ❝ his sister was married to bernard. he matters little in this. are you sure you're quite alright, darling ? ❞ had he been struck across the head too hard, or was it all the excitement that was now finally crashing down upon him ? she would find and apologize to augustus in a few days ─ both for the fight and for her unenthusiasm in the moment, as her hand rested upon charles' forehead, the other cupping his cheek to keep him in place. ❝ your sister is quite fine. ❞ she murmured, trying to soften her voice so that he, too, would be persuaded to calm. unthinking, her thumb brushed over his jaw, features gentling with a small smile. ❝ her pride is more injured than her body, i dare to venture, and she has the finest care there is, if she needs it. you know i would not lie to you about this. ❞ she made a small noise, as though to ask if she could continue to tend to him, and did not wait for his permission to seize it, cleaning the small cuts on his eyebrow and at his lip. it was irritating ─ how handsome he was still, and though he was lightly injured, she could not help the way her pulse began to race at their close proximity, keeping her eyes stubbornly focused on the task at hand out of fear that she would act the fool if she looked into his dark gaze. caroline could not help but tut softly, both at her thoughts and at his persistence in speaking, mouth pressed together in a thin line of disapproval, head shaking faintly even as he blurted out his question.

❝ what ? ❞ there was laughter in her voice as she focused on dabbing at his lip, holding the cloth there as her gaze lifted, feeling his eyes on her. only then did she realize that he was serious, amusement fading into something akin to dull shock. ❝ ... what ? no, of course not. ❞ denial was sharp, almost as though she were guilty of something. caroline cleared her throat and tried again, setting the cloth aside so that she could hold his face between her palms. ❝ no, my love. i will not deny that i ... i like darius very much. ❞ she allowed, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth ─ she would not lie to charles, even if lying seemed kinder in this moment. ❝ he has been so kind and so understanding of everything over the last few years and perhaps ... perhaps, in my ... my desperate for kindness and understanding, i have ... acted overly familiar with him but i do not love him. ❞ that, at least, she knew for certain. ( she also knew that she could come to love him or any one that showed her an inch of gentleness or spared a kind word, so close was she to shattering. ) ❝ please ... please, tell me that was not the cause of the fight. it is not my fault, is it ? ❞ her voice was a whisper, almost horrified at the thought of spoiling yet another part of his future.

Charles turned his face away. He hardly knew how to speak of the thing, but he looked at her, again, then, as she spoke. It seemed to him the withering ice of her eyes had turned to heady azure skies, soft and warm as a spring's day and, for a moment, he gazed, studying, as if he'd never seen her before. Her brow, he thought, crinkled. He looked swiftly away.

"Yes," he acknowledged, brows arching. "We were agitated." He pressed his eyes shut. It had been brewing all their lives, this, hadn't it? Darius had been his companion through their austere upbringing and into their glamorous youth. In every way they shared, save one. "Caro," he whispered. Shook his head, as if he could clear it away, that awful, maddening thought. "He's always been covetous," he said, distantly, as if addressing the far horizon, as his gaze flung that way. Yet it wasn't entirely true. It wasn't Darius who claimed he'd be a better king, someday. He didn't need to. It was simply the truth. Charles shook his head. But now he was covetous...Charles wasn't blind to the way his sibling looked at Caroline...

Why must it be her? thought Charles, miserably. Any other lady of the ton would throw herself at Darius -- why must it be her at whom he looks? Was it jealousy? Was it because she was his wife? Or -- his eyes went solemnly to hers -- was it something more?

"You have brothers," he said, at last, wincing as, with rather greater alacrity than entirely comforting, she dabbed at his wound. "It cannot be mysterious to you what that means." But her brothers had never come to fisticuffs in a hedge before the whole of the ton. He owed her more of an explanation than that. Turning to her, resolution written full across his face, he reached for her hand. Held it in his. "Ours was no easy upbringing, Caro. This, I fear, was a long time coming." She need feel no guilt over this. He knew how hard she rode herself, and that much, at least, was true.

He'd be the better king, thought Charles, distantly, and certainly not for the first time. The better everything. Better king, better friend, better brother, better husband--In another world, he realized, glumly, Charles had gotten himself killed and, even now, Darius and Caroline were making each other happy. But...in a still different world...in a still different world, yes, it had begun the same way -- and it had continued. In another world, Charles was trailing kisses down her jaw and her neck and, laughing, she was weaving her fingers through his hair, gasping as his lips came to the hollow of her throat...In another world, they were happy. And, in another world, their child had lived.

Charles felt the corner of his mouth tick upwards as, so cavalierly, she acknowledged, and then dismissed, the subject of her...brother-in-law, Charles supposed. "Is he not significant, Caro?" he asked, tilting his head, unable to entirely disguise the bemusement in his tone. Was he not the symbol of her to whom they both had bowed? But he said nothing of that, and let her simply move forward.

'Darling,' she said. He blinked. Her eyes were that dreamy-soft quality, still. He wanted to touch her, feel the velvet heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. "I--" She frowned, concern listing through her expression -- a cloud to blot his sun. He shook himself. "I'm fine." He said it a touch harder than he'd meant. He squeezed his eyes shut. Caught her hand. Squeezed that, too. He didn't look at her. He let her go, let his gaze, slowly, work its way up, from her pretty chin, soft-parted lips, that familiar nose, to the intensity of her stare. His tone took on a touch of self-deprecating levity. "Though now's as good a time to hit me as any, if you'd like, Caro. I imagine you've thought on it, long, and it cannot do any more damage, than already has been done."

The softest of touches, grazing along his jaw. Slowly, slowly, he dragged his gaze to hers, breath half-catching to find her face so close. He could kiss her, now, if he chose. He could raise his hands to her face and, tenderly, he could pull her closer. Her lips were warm, he knew, soft. Pursed in concentration. He felt his own tug into a smile. He knew well that look. He thought, for the breadth of a moment, that maybe -- maybe she'd even let him kiss her. But that was a fantasy. He looked quickly away again. "I am glad to hear it," he said, very softly, strange resignation in his voice. He exhaled. His voice resumed its normal cadence. "She has never known discomfort. I would not see that change."

His heart clenched at that single word, his spine turned rigid. He drank in every look fluttering over her face -- laughter first, then paling revelation, followed by the flower of astonishment. Disbelief. He felt himself breathe out, something vice-like in his gut releasing. He sucked in a deep breath, a shaky, tremulous quality pooling inside him. Shock was good. Shock meant the idea had never so much as occurred to her. Yes, good, indeed. It didn't, of course, clear up his brother's position, but he didn't feel that required any clarification. He felt sure he'd seen looks often enough...His gaze flicked once again to his wife. Now that the idea had been presented to her -- did it still seem ridiculous to her?

Her words, their tone: too quick, too sharp. His jaw set. He looked away. His lungs were burning. He stood, pushing her away, though gently. He felt sick. "You need say nothing more, madam. I quite comprehend you. Nothing has happened -- yet." He turned to face her again. "And that is what you regret."

He looked down. "He would have made you a better husband, I do not deny. He has always been the superior sibling. In everything. It is no wonder you prefer him."

She dropped the bloodied cloth. She took his face in her hands. She spoke to him. He hissed a breath, hearing her words. They stung more than the wounds. "'Desperate?'" Charles pulled away, again. Something hard and sharp was buzzing within him. It stung his eyes. If she had been so desperate as she claimed, he wondered, why had she not come to him? Why had she pushed him away? Who could have understood better than the father of the child they had lost? But he knew why, well enough. He knew she could not stand the sight of him. He ached, ached deep in his gut, some yawning chasm opening within. It was always there, that tarry pit, constantly growing larger. He tried not to look at it, not to know it, not to feel it. But he felt it now.

"Go, then," he said, bitterly. "Go tend the brother you prefer. I'm sure he'll better show his gratitude for your wifely ministrations than I ever could. And better satisfy your desperation."

For himself, Charles preferred openness. Growing up at court had consisted of watching everyone hide behind their niceties. Every now and then, wasn't it better to simply say what one meant -- and damn the consequences? It was also true, of course, that Charles was not one for sitting still long enough to hear the negative when it came his turn -- but honesty at least so far as a concept went, was one he did prefer -- openness of temperament, in his mind, was far more amusing than its opposite. It suggested a liveliness of spirit he had always quite enjoyed.

"Besides, I find its always more rewarding to be the one to give the ton something to talk of -- than to sit on the sidelines and simply talk of others. Don't you?"

"i'm not sure if there's anything to be done about a woman that obstinate," she says — ignoring the irony that seems to bubble up whenever she discusses someone who is a bit too opinionated, even if it seems to be to the opposite side of dorothea's temperament, it still serves as a mirror to her own personality, dorothea was just a bit more at odds with society's... intricacies.

The prince exhaled slowly. He knew something of spousal disapprobation, himself, and his smile turned sympathetic. "I quite understand," he acknowledged. "For myself, I shall say nothing, though I fear, what with all those gawkers, now clearing off, the tale has likely already grown wings. Let us hope, however, it does not fly too far." There were those who delighted in sharing such details with those tangentially involved, such as husbands, and others who shied away from such indelicacies. He could only pray, for her, that it would be the latter standing close to her husband at present.

Charles laughed. "I fear you've encountered the wrong person, in me, if you are looking for advice in holding one's tongue. It is a subject about which, I fear, I also know less than one would like." As a man, and as a future king still more, he could perhaps better get away, in some contexts, with a freedom of opinion, but in some circles the consequences of such...carelessness would prove even more dire in his situation. Could not the wrong word from him threaten international crisis? At times, he did wish he knew more on that score, as a result...but more often than not, he was glad to be entirely open. "Perhaps consider this moment an outlet? We may each exorcise the wanton honesty which the ton fears by exercising it freely, now, mayhaps?"

it  was  difficult  to  say  who  had  thrown  the  first  punch  ─  something  akin  to  panic  had  seized  the  heart  at  the  sight  of  her  husband  and  his  brother  emerging  from  the  maze,  for  caroline  had  just  spoken  to  darius  about  the  state  of  her  marriage,  knowing  that  the  prince  felt  it  necessary  to  rise  to  her  defense,  even  if  she  had  persuaded  him  otherwise.  the  two  seemed  to  be  in  a  rather  fierce  conversation  and  had  drawn  the  attention  of  those  around  them,  as  well  as  the  queen.  caroline  had  risen,  hand  pressed  to  her  stomach,  intending  on  breaking  up  the  disagreement  when  the  first  punch  had  been  thrown.  she  had  been  so  surprised,  so  horrified  at  the  shame  of  it  all,  that  she  had  stumbled  back  into  the  table,  knocking  it  over  with  a  clatter  that  drew  the  eye  and  the  ire  of  her  majesty  by  the  time  it  was  all  said  and  done.  with  a  worried  glance  over  her  shoulder  thrown  in  the  direction  that  she  had  seen  last  seen  darius,  and  then  another  concerned  furrow  of  the  brow  to  where  brigitta  was  standing,  soaking  wet,  caroline  excused  herself  to  follow  after  his  husband,  fingers  reaching  for  his  wrist  for  a  moment  before  she  pulled  back,  as  though  afraid  he  might  shake  her  off. ❝  leave  us.  ❞  the  preparation  tents  were  somewhat  empty  as  the  servants  had  rushed  out  refreshments  and  distractions  to  see  off  the  guests  with  something  pleasant,  even  if  she  knew  all  of  london  would  be  speaking  of  the  disastrous  garden  party  for  days.  ❝  must  i  repeat  myself  ?!  get  out  !  ❞  the  sound  of  feet  scurrying  did  little  to  fill  her  with  satisfaction  ─  instead,  it  only  further  shamed  her  even  as  she  grabbed  a  clean  cloth,  soaking  it  in  the  melted  ice  from  the  wine  bottles  to  press  against  his  face.  ❝  the  physician  will  come  shortly.  ❞  she  said  quietly,  breath  and  anger  leaving  her  in  a  soft  huff.  ❝  i've  told  them  to  see  to  brigitta  first,  the  poor  dear.  ❞  brigitta,  she  had  said,  and  then  darius  if  he  was  near,  though  charles  needn't  know  that. ❝  tell  me  what  happened.  the  truth,  if  you  will,  so  that  i  might  begin  to  plan  what  i  will  say  to  your  mother.  ❞  for  certainly  the  queen's  children  will  receive  a  stern  talking  to  but  it  would  be  caroline  that  bears  the  brunt  of  her  wrath  and  disappointment,  caroline  who  must  work  harder  now  to  return  to  her  majesty's  good  graces  for  she  merely  married  into  the  family  and  did  not  even  have  the  love  of  her  husband  to  defend  her  or  a  child  to  prove  her  worth  to  the  crown.

He scanned the pavilion area quickly, ensuring there were none left there to listen. "What did you observe, Caro? I suppose I can...fill in the gaps." He prayed she did not know she had been the cause of the...debate. He couldn't have said why, exactly. Somehow, though, he thought it might be easier were this simply a brotherly spat. Hadn't it been coming some time, now, after all, even if Caroline had never become embroiled in their family drama? Did not all the world know Darius would make a better king than his brother?

"I've no need of a physician," he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. It seemed a level of drama to him which he did not consider necessary given the peak they'd already achieved. He wasn't entirely sure that sentiment would have remained true, however, had it not been for the interference of a certain gentleman. "Caro, who was it that...came between us? Wasn't that a...cousin of yours, or some such?" He knew he recognized him, and he knew he was connected with his wife in some way, but -- perhaps it was the blow to the head -- he couldn't quite place the fellow at the moment.

His brows arched, concern rolling over his face like a cloud. "Brigitta? Is she all right? I heard she'd fallen into a pool of water -- was she harmed?"

He was glad when she said nothing of Darius, though he little doubted she had ensured his princely sibling would also be attended to -- Caroline wasn't one to let details go astray, nor to risk that anyone overhearing her orders might note the exception towards the person with whom her husband had been brawling. Still, a suspicion was forming in his mind, had been for some time, and he little liked the way it twisted, hard, against his gut.

She dabbed softly at his face, her hands gentle, eyes focused. He'd always admired that quality in her, the absolute focus which she could summon. Her will was a force, he'd often considered, sharp and shrewd, unswerving in its unmitigated capacity. He'd rarely felt its kindling force on himself, when it was bent on softness, on tenderness, on caring caresses, however unwillingly bestowed, or how much born out of simple practicality (it would not do for the Prince of Wales to bleed openly). His gaze flicked to hers, a moment, taking in her every expression, the way her brows pressed soft together, eyes narrowing in concentration, lips pursing then parting, ever so slightly, to reveal the soft pink of her tongue just behind the gleaming pearls of her teeth. Was there no world in which they could make each other happy, now, he wondered, abstractly. Was there no possibility for redress of their wounds?

the  british  sun  blazed  high  and  bright  above  the  queen’s  garden  party.  a  break  from  the  usual  gray  skies  london  was  was  shrouded  in.  in  no  way  was  queen  anne  superstitious,  but  she  took  this  as  a  sign  that  the  heavens  aligned  with  her  plans.  from  where  she  sat,  perched  upon  a  cushioned  seat  beneath  the  shade  of  the  royal  tents,  she  surveyed  the  bustling  gardens  of  hampton  court  with  immense  satisfaction  —  as  though  she  were  god  herself,  admiring  a  world  very  much  of  her  own  making.  her  majesty  had  hoped  an  occasion  such  as  this  would  set  the  tone  for  the  season,  one  filled  with  promising  matches. 

It was a glittering fireworks display that claimed his attentions, soaring up and up and up, arcing into the inky blue of night. With fire and loud acclaim it exploded into a profusion of dazzling color, glittering diamonds and rubies and emeralds which, bursting, fell, hurtling downward again in icarian despondency. Charles let out a long breath. For a moment, he'd been caught up in the wonder of it, the fantastic stars bursting to brilliant life overhead -- now, watching them plummet as they burned themselves out, they felt a great deal more fatalistic.

Drolly, he thought that perhaps he could relate. His own hopes had, ever, burned too bright. They'd been dashed to the ground quickly enough, as well.

Another gasp of shouting and clapping pulled him from his reverie, and, surprised, Charles started forward before realizing a new burst of firecrackers had broken into the sky. Suddenly, he found himself colliding with another form.

Brandon hadn't really realised how late it was until he head the sound of fireworks. Perhaps he did need to get better at that, but walking outside, he found he had become lost in his own thoughts. Terrible improper he imagined, but that would be an issue for a later date. At least for now he could watch the fireworks. Then he would have to head back to where he was staying, with some sort of explanation. He was sure he could feel a headache already.

Banishing these gloomy thoughts, he smiled wanly at the gentleman before him. He still had some armor left to him: that of civility. Best to employ it, he reasoned. Besides, it need not be so terrible. Perhaps the gentleman would prove pleasant company. "No harm done, I assure you. But I have grievously disrupted your evening. You were admiring, I believe," he gestured vaguely to the now-empty skies. "The general splendour. Vauxhall is resplendent tonight. Which delights best pleased you?"

It was a glittering fireworks display that claimed his attentions, soaring up and up and up, arcing into the inky blue of night. With fire and loud acclaim it exploded into a profusion of dazzling color, glittering diamonds and rubies and emeralds which, bursting, fell, hurtling downward again in icarian despondency. Charles let out a long breath. For a moment, he'd been caught up in the wonder of it, the fantastic stars bursting to brilliant life overhead -- now, watching them plummet as they burned themselves out, they felt a great deal more fatalistic.

Drolly, he thought that perhaps he could relate. His own hopes had, ever, burned too bright. They'd been dashed to the ground quickly enough, as well.

Another gasp of shouting and clapping pulled him from his reverie, and, surprised, Charles started forward before realizing a new burst of firecrackers had broken into the sky. Suddenly, he found himself colliding with another form.

"no bones broken," she said lightly, though her attention wandered down to the weeping mess of glass and lemon under the glow of the captive lights. "though i regret to inform you that my lemonade did not survive the encounter." she brought her hands together at her waist studying him with a poised balance of gentle scolding and vivid curiosity. the watchful shadow of her maid josette hovered a few paces away but antonella paid her no mind for the moment. "i suppose i could forgive you," she continued after a thoughtful pause, tilting her head just slightly, "but only under one condition." a smile spread across her face matching the fierce brilliance of the explosions overhead. "you must accompany me to procure another. it seems only fair that the gentleman responsible for the tragedy should assist in its remedy." she gestured lightly toward the illuminated paths of the gardens where refreshments were being served, already beginning to step in that direction. "come along then, sir. i should hate to remain thirsty on such a festive night."

The anonymous lady's reaction left him inclined to believe she existed in much a similar way -- she did not take the crush of her glass with the resignation of a philosopher nor the equanimity of a dreamer nor even the resolve of a planner. Her whole being was wrapped up in the suddenness of the action, the way the fireworks for a moment gleamed amongst the chiseled turns of the glass, before at last it shattered on the pavement below. And then -- that self-same focus lay...with him. He suppressed the widening of his smile in that moment, as her twinkling eyes met his. It had been too long, he felt, since he'd found another likeminded individual. Too many recent arguments still stung too greatly. It was a kind thing to find another such as himself. He was sure she was, after all. In such unplannable moments, he earnestly believed, truth was to be found.

"Alas," he replied in kind, with the softest of chuckles. "How is such a loss ever to be remedied?" He glanced towards the servant at her shoulder who, gauging by her otherwise over-attentiveness to their conversation, must be the lady's chaperone. He inclined her a little smile and nod of greeting as well, before returning his attentions to the engaging stranger in dire need of new refreshment. "Ah, reprieved! Name your condition, my lady."

He laughed softly. "It would be most shockingly ungallant to refuse so reasonable a request," he replied, offering her his arm. "Might I escort my lady to the refreshments table? There are, I understand, quite a number of delicacies designed to tempt one. Which shall you choose?"

As they began to step towards the table, he turned to her with interest. "Is this my lady's first sojourn at Vauxhall? I must hear your opinions on the evening's many spectacles."