#I just keep remixing Sparrow because I love to put Morgan in situations as much as I do the lads

[sentientcave]

It's WIP Wednesday! Been a while since I posted one of these. Have some Victorian era romance that I've been writing instead of new chapters of the things you all actually want to read!

Something was going on.

A few weeks ago, there had been a long list of young men that wanted to dance with her. It was as if her feet hardly touched the ground when she was out, whirling between partners, pink and breathless by the end of each glittering evening.

Danny Galkin had shown up to one of the next parties with a black eye, and refused to so much as look at her, and he’d been one of her most frequent partners on the dance floor. There had been rumours he would make a courting request. More and more of her partners began to avoid her, until she was spending most of her time sitting to the side, left out.

And it should have been just the opposite. There were officers in town, and soldiers loved to dance with pretty girls.

She had to corner Johnny Mactavish (bruised high on his cheekbone, knuckles split) to get an answer. One of the soldiers had taken a fancy to her.

Riley.

“He’s tha one with the big purple bruise on his jaw. Ye’ll ken who I mean.” Johnny grinned. “Ye cannae say I dinnae give as good as I get, bonnie.”

She did know who Johnny meant, the moment she locked eyes with the stranger across the ballroom. Tall, broad, dark eyes that burned hot like coals. The purple bruise on his face was stark against a pale, freckled complexion, the red coat no benefit to either.

She marched up to him, fury propelling her forward, overriding common sense or the desire to not cause a scene. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. He looked down his broken-and-set-wrong nose at her. “Not ladylike to swear,” he said, voice gruff.

“My apologies. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His lips twitched up on one side, eyes flicking for just a moment to a bystander who was whispering about the foul language. “Simon Riley.”

His attention was only off of her for a moment, but she missed the heat of it anyway. “Were you ever planning to ask me to dance, Simon Riley? Or is enough for you to scare off every other young man that might like to?”

He drained his glass and handed it off to someone nearby that looked both deeply offended and reluctant to say anything about it. “Olright. I’ll dance with you, birdie. Since you asked so nice.”

“Good. I was worried you were too much a coward.” She took his hand and pulled him to the dance floor.

The music started, and he pulled her into his arms.

And he never let go.