MAJOR.

How fickle were the incessant ducal obligations, dipped in gold and due to its fine glaze, heavy, restricting space to breathe from it. Though Isabel spent the entirety of her life placed under the embroidered-handled magnifying lens… though her greatest devotion was to her duties - including the harsh regret that she’d not yet produced an heir soon after their marriage bed- raw need to discover moments unfiltered, with the duke startled her. An agitation to rip away the exquisite veil she’d worked for years to linger behind, she’d harnessed a weapon. The frustration of this newfound urge, and thus repressed, buzzed underneath her skin. The draft from the windowpane whistled, like ghosts, and Is’ moonbeam skin prickled and she shivered as his palm caressed her cheek. Doe-eyes dared to stare back at him with a tinge of spirit whilst lips twitched, trying to hide vulnerable disappointment, then locked against his gently, slow. A beat’s pause after his low voice muttered over the rainstorm.

“Deceptive ambitions..?” she whispered gently. Isabel guided his palm to where Ralph’s eyes had laid path upon her, to rest on the concave of her slender abdomen- rendered translucent fabric sticking against skin, ‘A day will come when we welcome a loved heir into this world - though the world need to prepare itself for him. As he’ll arrive with your mind, your stature, that slant of your lip, my temper…’  She paused, shifted her lithe frame slowly against his hand before withdrawing, taking in a breath in as she moved back. ‘Though it seems, I’m a greedy woman, indeed. This duty that I too long for, didn’t even cross my mind, in my request to you this eve.’ She eyed him, then curtsied, before turning around. ‘Goodnight, Ralph.’

Even, just that. The gentlest shift in touch, skin against skin, or a lingering power of his sea-meets-sky gaze on hers, near-glowing against the faded boom of the night’s thunderstorm. Subtleties Isabel grappled with, herself, when unarmed, unmasked. However hard her mind willed her to ignore such a strange vulnerability, something about the night, just the two of them, exposed that foreign sensation into her stubborn conscience. 

No. Isabel reigned tigress, once self-proclaimed to wrangle courtship’s relentless destruction path, to tame it for her own folly. It used to be such a game, when the feline could often predict what reduced foolish men to puddles. Ralph was anything but. Swept in this delicate night, she resembled more the puddle… her chemise even dripped from a thunderstorm her conflicted mind tempted Nature to create. Plush lips parted, just about to mutter his first name, stuck on the tip of her tongue when…

The clock’s evenly paced ethereal chime provided an insistent militarise march trooping steadily onward towards morning. Unsympathetic to Isabel’s silent pleas for a reprieve. For just an indefinite moment alone. Daylight rose too quickly, and with it the expectations of all: from the staff, attendants, onlookers, appointments, even strangers boring their curiosity-famished eyes on The Duke’s carriage as it moved from obligation to task. ‘London is a cruel mistress, isn’t she? She always reminds us, time stops for no bribe.’ She muttered, though insisting her haughty near growl returned to her words.  

Slowly, she stood, careful not to lean too much onto him. Once upright, she paused, thumb grazed over his knuckles a moment. ‘Ralph…’ she said, slowly, cautious eyes trailing up his chest, back at him, ‘What if you didn’t retreat to your apartments tonight? What if I told you, you’re to stay here, with me, to combat the morning?’

               whilst rising once more to his lofty stature, ralph’s skin bristeled in response to the soft caress she bestowed upon his knuckles, the intricate pad of her thumb raking across worn skin as his grip eased away --- though not completely. advising himself that it would be imprudent to remain in her chambers that evening, practicalities warred against rational thought, as if taking heed of the limpid shift that hung from razor thin shoulder blades, the decisively dampened linen displaying her form to the eventide breeze. the inevitable duress placed upon their marital bond as a result of the unresolved unfamiliarity between the two had yet to thwart the carnal bond, nor had his woeful experience in the colonies quenched the urges of his flesh. but, ralph could not stay ---- or rather, he would not permit himself to. the brief respite taken from ducal duties that evening would demand retribution on the morrow. although members of the ton would be sleeping off the ill - effects of their indulgences come morning, the remainder of london could not afford the luxury of behaving distrait. there would be petitioners, redcoats and mothers of lost soldiers in his foyer as early as soon as dawn sprawled across the sky, beseeching a moment of his time. 

Isabel’s palm dredged over her face, chest rose and fell, failed to stifle an airy hitch of a laugh in shock of allowing her near pristine record of a lioness prowess to crack away before him with one swift swop.  Her free arm flopped to the side, allowing her to lay flat on her back and peer up at him with an earnest half smile.’Tears due to the fact that despite blasted Sheridan aimed to make a mockery of you tonight, your mere presence still outshone all other men. I swear, even the actor who played your likeness- terribly, I should add, he even missed the timbre of your voice- felt weak in the knees by having to look you in the eye!’’ She wiggled her brow, aware of the tension hovering about the air from the moment the play commenced. It caused her stomach to ache, no matter how much she tried to make light of the night’s antics. 

As he stooped to his knees, her slick hand slid into his, squeezing it gently, ‘How flattering, you think me so innocent, yet we’ve still so much to learn. Perhaps this was a form of wicked trickery, Ralph,’ she teased, cocking her head to the side as she sat up primly, face hovering near his as she shifted herself, ‘to coax you down here with me, hmm?’ Dimmed by night, stripped of all her exquisite fineries, free from attendants, Isabel felt daring, leaning in by his ear to mutter, ‘I believe it would only be fair to allow you the opportunity to try and outsmart me from here.’

                his eyes remained intensely still as isabel spoke, expression softening and touched by the undisguised devotion she invested into deriding his caricature in sheridan’s work. each facet of the author and actor’s handiwork picked apart and ridiculed for his benefit as though the play were akin to prometheus ----  prodded day in and day out by an eagle’s beak.  ❛ perhaps that has more to do with the glares the poor chap received from you than his weak stomach, ❜ ralph conceded with a light chuckle, eyes drifting to her honeyed hues and the untold depths glinting within, ❛ ‘tis not a look i strive to incur often, my own medusa. ❜ 

❛  if it is trickery than i am a willing fool ----  though you are the one at my feet, are you not?. ❜  his thumb pressed into the centre of her palm as she gripped him, smoothing against the bundle of nerves resting just beneath her dewy skin as isabel clambered into an upright position. granting an incredulous shake of his flaxen head, ralph protested in earnest,  ❛ i fear only if i were to fall i would not be able to pluck myself up so gracefully. ❜ albeit his azure eyes shined with amused warmth, there was perhaps more truth to his words than his cool demeanour let by. his injured limb was increasingly less dependable and it aggrieved him to no end. 

Fortunate, to be veiled by the tender dance of a tired candlelight flame and shroud the heat swelling across the back of Isabel’s neck. Enkindled by a mere caress of lips against knuckles,  hand daring not to tremble, lingering to greedily surrender a beat. Before her hand smoothed down the side of her chemise. ‘What’s this I hear? A welcome? You know not what could occur once you provoke something in such a fashion.. It could be all too powerful.’ she whispered with a smirk, chords hoarse in the gentle hum of encompassing silence. 

Heavy lidded gaze flickered in unison with the hypnotic starry candlelight, fleeting over his frame once more, until the gods demanded a crescendo. A flash of lightning, followed by boisterous thunder, only causing Isabel to let out a singular huff of a laugh to disguise a nervous shudder she did not know she was holding within her. ‘Are you afraid of a storm, Your Grace? Shall I have to protect you in your room tonight?’ she mused, brows bouncing with mischief, ‘I once collected fool’s hearts, so many stuffed into a box, which shriveled their strength and pride, rendering their owners useless - unable to toss a mere pebble.’ Isabel stepped over to the window, attempting to close it to no avail whilst the gap welcomed a steady spat of rain to slick the floor. ‘Perhaps the weather’s vengeance, a flood of ladies’ tears over you!’ Isabel called over another animated boom of Nature’s thunder, glancing back at him with a smug feistiness, only to slip - manner, grace, composure abandoned as she plopped to the floor with a startled yelp. 

                casting a look of disapprobation over his shoulder as he moved toward the window, a sonorous chuckle escaped the duke’s parted lips in response to isabel’s contentious quip.  ❛ and what, pray tell, have i done to deserve such tearful vitriol?  ❜  a dark - flaxen brow flickered upon the smooth face of his forehead as lips formed the subsequent remark,  ❛ in light of sheridan’s work, any woman of repute would be running for the hills at this precise moment ---- of that i have no doubt. ❜ 

Daring fingertips burned, singed, as they lightly drifted over Ralph’s jawline, down the nape of his neck and rested on his collar before departing from him completely. As if Ralph radiated the very energy that could shock and electrify simultaneously– an unspoken restraint deepening the impatient ache within the new bride that dared to wade into the riptide, testing the lengths she could move him. Not Ideal? The duchess’s gaze flickered as they ripped from his holding gaze, roaming over him once more as her soft smile that perked her plumped lips twitched. 

‘Don’t you even utter that-’ Isabel nearly growled, voice cracked before she could cease it from sounding resolute.  Throughout her life, Isabel toed the line in all she was: a delicate dance with an unexpected twist like an opera show, the audience lapped up her performance. Years of this behaviour solidified her strength, her reputation, thickened the mask she clutched to in order to convince herself that she maintained an upper-hand. The wedding to a legendary warrior, well beyond her years in age and experience, ghost of the past, came unexpected… particularly a newly ranked duke, pained legged. The two of them were meant to be more like a fable than anything. And still, the people lapped up the tale, the animated facts of new aristocratic titles mixing with old marble- in this twisted heaven and hell they lived and breathed, together. In seclusion with her husband, Isabel struggled to conceal untameable human emotions. Allowing a pause, she muttered, ‘If a fortune-teller revealed who would take my hand one day, my old mind wouldn’t have imagined you. You’re a man who’s tempted fate time and time again and the more I see, from a playwright’s speculation to the scarce stories I’ve heard, to the gleam in your eye and the way you look at me - like that- the more I want to know about you.’ She halted, ‘Does that trouble you?’ 

                the duke sensed that she was toying with him  ----  traipsing a delicate fingertip across his bare skin as a babe caresses the porcelain of a new doll, all the while pondering what might provoke it to change form altogether. as the whiskey hues of her eyes shifted back and forth from his line of vision, darting away just long enough for a wry grin to form upon his lips, ralph rose a hand to sheathe hers with. isabel’s hand was delicate within his, though the filigreed jewel perched upon her finger, advertising their bond, remained cool to the touch as he drew it to his lips and brushed his mouth against her skin.

That. The deep, smooth pitch drifting into the velvet midnight silence of her room sparked a new reaction for Isabel that felt alarmingly, nearly… instinctive. A concoction of fluttering nerves, curiosity, perched on the cusp of revealing itself to her husband, when they were caught alone together, when the powder and feathers and attendants- standing fine porcelain still with their ears perked- vanished.  She paused, looking him over, the man she was bound to. It was the wedding of the ages, her father ensured no expense, or attention spared, society ran amok with speculation. A rush, and amongst the flurry, Isabel found herself yearning to know more of the injured major who experienced such adventure, such darkness. Darkness of a war that hadn’t yet ended. The efforts and sacrifices satirised.  

The flicker of the candlelight illuminated his chiseled features, and as she turned to face him she paused, a light hint of a slanted smile, far softer than any sly smirk or mischievous grin she’d predominantly expose, and she attempted to push a haughtier huff. ‘And yet she is also a guardian, and a weapon by Athena, and Hercules. Unlike Medusa, I much prefer to utilise my mystic powers through challenge of clever tactic. You have seemed to survive my gaze thus far, for that you might deserve a prize.’ She teased, smile fading as she stepped up to him, hesitating before tentatively moving her fingertips to brush some of his hair behind his ear. ‘The play provoked a fact. I stand before true courage, no matter how many jokes cluttered the content this evening. And, the play brought something to my mind I can’t shake. Did it pull you back to the New World’s shores, sitting there, watching it?’

                he would contend that the duchess of marlborough’s charm was effortless, her grace innate, if he did not know the great lengths she went to in order to project a beneficial image for the dukedom. ralph was indebted to her in that regard, the somerset’s prestige had granted the sprouting alexandre family a great deal of credibility and standing in society ---- such things that wealth could not buy and infamy could not come close to imitating. he could not help but lend an ear to his words, his features thoughtful and pensive, amused and ostensibly pleased by her charming demeanour.  ❛ i’ve already won the greatest prize in england, ❜ he replied smoothly, his deep and honeyed baritone gliding through the fissures of the fire crackling, as a smile made crooked his lips.

ralph kept himself from jerking away from his wife’s most soothing touch with colossal restraint ------- her fingertips deftly brushing a wave of flaxen hair away from his eyes, causing each nerve to stand alert and his spine to remain ramrod straight. the duke held few regrets in his life, though to be perpetually aggravated by the brutality he experienced at the hands of patriot rebels both anguished and chagrined his conscience. albeit, to respond to her delicately worded inquiry, ralph merely released a low - sounding chuckle, granting a leisurely shake of his head. 

@majoralexandre

LONDON.

Night. The hum of the capital was not as boisterous with motion and noise once the glazed windowpanes swept open, and the grey clouds slicked the cobblestone streets with light rain. At this quiet hour, she could trick herself into believing the horses and carriage wheels were instead the rustling of the wind at Blenheim Palace, sheltered by green fields – though now her own estate shared with her husband was seldom visited, Isabel would remain a creature of the countryside. More nymph, running lightly through trails of hedges and flowerbeds, though her conscience would compel her to relish in the glow of London’s speculation. 

Undressing was a ritual in and of itself, near holy, a struggled yet indulgent task inspirited for calm shift out character for the day. Dulling for the weight of the whispers hovering around her ears, the spark of strangers’ eyes on her profile, talking until her throat grew hoarse, the addictive banter and play of cat and mouse that those who drifted in her circle constantly dabbled. The aftermath of a play, and the tension in the room. Still, not quite yet at ease, a budding marriage still present at the forefront, her racing mind stuck on what Ralph felt about it all. The horrible things he had seen in the colonies. How starkly differed, his past and present, lingering in the air as she shed jewel after pin. 

The young duchess shifted in her night chemise, hands caressing the fabric of her elaborate gown which sprawled on the armchair once more. Hearing the door creak open, not yet tearing her gaze from the fabric’s pattern, she laughed to who she believed to be her maid, ‘A little bird, Bess, told me that a caricaturist was sketching some of the play’s attendees for tomorrow’s papers…’ she called to her maid, ‘Do you think my likeness will channel Medusa? Turn the readers of such trivial gossip columns to stone? If so, I demand those shocked statues are immediately placed on my property.’ She teased.

              the fulsome quantities of champagne drained at melbourne’s expense had successfully assuaged the feelings of antipathy sheridan’s work stirred among the crème de la crème of london society. for his part, ralph graciously permitted his love for the theatre to rout the rather superficial misgivings he felt toward the character who loomed heads above the other imitations and harnessed his dukedom as a ‘crutch’ -- alluding to the duke’s own injured leg and his appointment to the patrician following his return to the british isle. perhaps a distasteful allusion, yes, but amusing nevertheless to the audience and english comedy seldom shied from ridicule even in the most delicate of circumstances.

for a short while after returning to the marlborough’s grosvenor square residence, the duke took respite in a fastidiously upholstered armchair by the fireplace --- the fire burning cheerily within its grates, a dish of tea cooling atop the mahogany side table, and a well - loved sketch book sprawled across his lap: his pen remissly capturing the profile of a noblewoman who he’d caught a bracing glimpse of that evening. 

when the hours seemed to whiz by and his eyes strained to impart the noblewoman’s visage, he resolved himself to retire to his chambers. pausing before the duchess’ door, ralph wrestled with himself; questioning whether or not he should share a word with her before retreating into his apartments for the evening. after all, the evening’s atmosphere had been, in a word, tense -- and they’d scarcely spoken more than a word of civility to each other during the carriage ride home. he rested his knuckles inaudibly against the oak panel before entering without introduction.