MORNINGTON.

Under the guise of visiting the Countess of Mornington, Esther stood at the Wellesley’s front door, her heart pounding. Gossip had made its way to her ears that the Countess’ brother-in-law and famed actor, Frederick Wellesley, had arrived in London. It would be impolite to barge in and demand to visit with stars in her eyes, but instead Esther brought a covered basket with homemade desserts inside. Perhaps during her visit with the Countess, she could catch a glimpse of the actor himself.

The door opened and Esther’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t prepared for what she would do if the Viscount himself answered the door! “Good afternoon,” she stammered, clutching the basket to her chest. “I haven’t come to visit the Earl, but thank you anyway. Would…would you like some ratafia cakes?” A pause, then a meek attempt at eye contact. “I intended to see the Countess, but would you have a moment to talk…Edmund?” Surely, referring to the Viscount’s character on stage would tell him all he needed to know.

               The viscount glanced up at the sound of a woman’s voice, delightful surprise curling his lips into a Cheshire cat’s grin. Frederick certainly hadn’t wagered that someone so gregarious would call upon his altogether... stodgy relatives, save for his brother’s wife... yet he received the visit with an accompanying sentiment of good-will. Discarding the tincture glass into a wooden box, out of sight and out of mind as he moved toward the threshold. 

staying at morningtons’ estate had been like a beautiful holiday for henrietta but such respites were always tinged with grief, a reminder of all that had been taken away from her as a child. to combat such a grey cloud, the girl had been partying endlessly since the end of summer, her and frederick playing the hosts in a house that was not their own, inviting friends and acquaintances to nights filled with decadent foods, gambling, entertainment, and certain substances that put their bright, young minds at ease. the room was hazy with smoke and brimming with laughter and upon the sofa stood the young actress with her blonde curls and saucer-eyes regaling the men with a tale from many years prior wherein a young lord had come to her for pleasure and spent the hour calling her by the name of his father’s new little wife. the group shook with raucous laughter and hettie took an offered hand and jumped from the couch in a flurry of emerald green silk.

bidding them adieu, she wove through the throng, standing on the balls of her feet to look for her partner in anarchy, a shining star that had taken her into his orbit. “hello, pidgeon,” she greeted the dark-haired viscount, finding him sat at a table across the room. she held a glass of wine in one hand, the other gently coming to rest on his shoulder as she perched on the arm of the chair. “have you any treats for me this evening?” her head cocked coquettishly, hoping he’d have some laudanum to freshen her drink with. @viscountdungannon

              the corroded gilt and silver of london society -- actors, discarded second sons of noble houses, the illegitimate hanger-ons, illustrious brothel proprietors -- flitted in and out of the earl of mornington’s property at will, servants adorned in equally opulent garb floating on bejeweled toes dishing out silver platters laden with champagne, delicacies, and the promise of something more if the host could be pinned down. frederick, himself, was continuously slipping in and out of the public eye, retreating to the private parlour adjoining the ballroom. chewing tablets beneath his teeth, washed away with whiskey, eye lids lowering as a pleasurable groan slipped between his lips. 

’Ah, Wellesley…’ A curt purr, a hip-sway toward him, clicking her heel against marble when she halted with a flourished punctuation. The compounded playful hubris that dripped off of her had evolved unavoidable on particular nights out- even bits of her feisty presence splattered from a mere bounce of her curls- gathered and pooled over the years, so much that her very address to the viscount soaked up his surname like bread to oil. ‘Amongst the regular farm animals running about tonight, could you very well be the exotic beast here destined to ignite the trouble? My initial assumption of where I could locate such a species was incorrect. I stand before a lion who prefers the spotlight to the shadows.’

The duchess would be lying if she said she didn’t see his debut performance at Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. During his ravishing performance, she was but a doe-eyed youth- barely seventeen- not yet ripe, though freshly plucked from Gloucestershire for a trip to her London townhouse, previewing a legendary Season. For a girl who secretly wept from scouring the printed versions of classic poetry, prose, performances within the padded confines of her estate, Isabel was caught sitting at the edge of her seat for many-a-show during her time in London. Perhaps she learned the art of the upper-hand, the tease of timings, when to enter and exit through the craft– an essential component to Isabel’s evolution in society, stretching her further than any exposure her finely manicured pedigree offered. Particularly when her likeness was included in the more indulgent satires, growing ever the more prevalent as she neared the time to wed. 

She paused, eyes flashing at a challenge, teasing lilt musing, ‘I collect more secrets than I do curls piled high atop my head, viscount. Secrets I am sure your dear playwright companions would ache for, beg for on all fours. How insulting, to think me foolish to divulge in any gossip with you for a mere watch! Perhaps you have some information you could share that’s worthwhile, instead, for a fair bet?’ She glanced over his person, locating the watch and cheeky smirk growing as she tapped it. ‘A bet of secrets… as I now believe you owe me this watch as an apology present for such a silly initial offer.’ She flashed him an innocent smile. 

              ❛ bien au contraire. ❜  the viscount drawled sharply, mouth hoisting into a wry grin as amber hues swept around the ballroom, attempting to appear discreet. the eyes and ears of court remained staunchly upon those of their ilk -- the somersets and wellesley’s were well - bred and widely known besides, yet isabel and frederick had been gifted with the unique largesse of having forged a name for themselves by stepping a toe outside of their respective bloodlines. his eyes returned to hers with a maleficent streak, a raw amusement that danced along the exposed ridges of her clavicle, before upheaving toward her countenance. ❛ it was no conscience choice of mine. the shadows spat me out like a pearl, and the spotlight adores me, i am but it’s fugitive muse. ❜ fred had chased the chimerical idea of being ‘renowned’ until it hounded him right back,  ❛ though i would hazard it’s taken a keen interest in you as well, lady marlborough. ❜

dungannon gestured to the gilt wristwatch clad upon his arm, glinting and glittering in the gleam of the chandelier, shimmering like diamonds. he cocked his head, chestnut curls shifting upon his forehead, ❛ this watch, your grace? i suppose i may part with it, under one condition, ❜ frederick stepped forth, the toe of his bejeweled oxfords nudging against isabel’s voluminous skirts,  ❛ a dance. with my favourite duchess. or has your husband’s pride been too roughly bruised by sheridan’s work already? ❜

               as a knock rasped upon the door --- full of surety and stride, heralding someone of importance, perhaps a guest of the earl’s -- frederick swept up to the bay windows overlooking the mornington’s vast london property: sprawling lawns, gently sloping hills, and mulberry trees. the breeze that filtered through softly rippling linen curtains swiftly masked the incense - like smell of laudanum tablets that pervaded through the sitting room, replacing the scent with a fragrance unique to london ----- smoke, greenery, oil, and parfum français. 

 THE EVENING AIR, lightly hazed by the roaring fires, clung to corsets, wigs, ribbons like honey, near coquettish, the way the stifling evening heat provided resembled the flourished aftermath of spectacled audience once the crude yet captivating premiere was complete. The true show never ceased, it only fluttered frantically with each flap of a fan. Crescendoed with every biting laugh, enraged choke, each gurgle of an implication humming underneath the spoken notes. Isabel once- a lifetime ago- thought of the women her mother mingled with to resemble the ducks and geese her father’s hunting party, ruffling feathers. Now, the Duchess of Marlborough’s near autumnal forest gaze buzzed, hawklike, a mystic spark bearing a murky mystery above the sitting flocks preening around her, careful to reveal her true reaction to such a play. Careful not to glower, not to dart her focus across the stage, to see if her husband’s likeness was there. If it was staring back at her.

And so, the game rallied onward, as she roused and glided through the dance at Melbourne house. Her lips teased a smirk or a silk murmured commentary to those curious onlookers as she passed by, abruptly whirling around to greet the figure who’s shoulder grazed against hers. Curls bounced, and gaze locked on theirs before the young duchess lilted, ‘It seems those who seek to create comedies -or tragedies- have sparked chaos. Though I am positive I could tempt you into a gamble… what do you wager far more wild animals are in our midst this eve, than the playwright’s bloated caricatures? I am sure I have seen some wildness lurking by the wine, or hiding in the shadows.’ Lips tugged into a mischievous little smile, head tilted ever so subtly. 

                the viscount found that the hot summer zephyrs that pooled in the streets of london were seemingly intoxicating aphrodisiacs that held a knack for chipping away at morals, making loose the ladies and gentlemen of the ton who frequented soirees such as this, lowered corsets and slackened cravats abounding as the temperatures boiled. frederick witnessed this in the red streaks painted across the cheeks of those who’d indulged in a sip too many of wine, in the guests who slinked away just long enough --- accompanied by servants’ whose eyes were haughty and whose hands wandered as they replenished glasses -- to return with tousled hair and moist, wry lips. it was a spectacle to behold and one that would be feverishly whispered about upon london’s return to decency upon the morrow ----- frederick himself had certainly pocketed the lurid sights and juicy exchanges he oversaw en route to the powder room, fully planning on rehashing the tale at his next visit to white’s. 

viscount dungannon plucked another glass of white wine from a silver platter passing by. he, at the very least, could control himself under the copious influence and as he made rounds about the ballroom he felt ever in his element amidst rowdy company, especially as amber hues fixed upon the duchess of marlborough. the muse of countless works; the glass and mirror of london fashion. frederick would have admired her had he not wished so damnably to emulate her.

─── ⊱ ⋆ ✧ SHERIDAN’S NEWEST WORK WAS CERTAINLY a subject of interest tonight during this gathering at the melbourne’s and alice, personally, was intrigued by the reactions of the audience. many in detest yet some in intrigue at the way that sheridan seemed to prod at many individuals. again, the girl kept to her own and conversed when prompted, but alice for the most part remained near the small quartet playing to the side of the room while quietly observing the decor hung on the walls and set on the bookshelves. her own home definitely wasn’t as exquisite, though she did have far too many volumes of her own. ❝ what did you think of the camp? ❞ alice asked a person who just so happened to pause beside her own spot. so far offense seemed to outweigh enjoyment at the play, but it was a fun tally to keep. ❝ perhaps it would have been more well received should it have been an opera – music is always more forgiving. ❞