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frangipanidownunder · 5 years ago

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Could you write a story where Mulder comforts Scully after a panic attack or nightmare?

Same Old: fic

Angsty, longish, with a trigger warning for panic attacks/mentions of depression. This is also for @kega-umi and @baronessblixen who both requested “Don’t you dare touch her!” from the angst dialogue prompt list. Thank you, guys.

It’s the biggest irony that she put her all into trying to improve Mulder’s mental health, yet she failed to see her own emotional wellbeing withering away. From the gentle exercise program they did together (“I’m only doing this because you’ll be wearing yoga pants, Scully”), the soft therapies he didn’t outright dismiss (“I used to like colouring in when I was seven, and I still can’t keep my pencils between the lines.”), the midnight conversations on the deck as silver moths flitted under the lights (“I don’t think either of us has ever truly gotten over William, Mulder.” “We shouldn’t, Scully. If we do, all hope is lost.”), to the medication (“Please, Mulder, there’s no shame in taking anti-depressants; you wouldn’t think twice if I prescribed you Ventolin for asthma, would you?”), she pushed him uphill towards wellness, never considering the damage to own her physical and mental shape.

After all, she left him.

But he’s still the same old Mulder. Believing in anything except the truth in front of his very eyes.

Now, as sweat trickles down the back of her neck, she is paralysed with fear. Her heart bursts against her ribcage, temples throb with bruising pain, skin prickles with gooseflesh. This is the third night in a row where a nightmare has ripped her from the numb comfort of sleep. Her fingers scratch at her throat, as though to open up her airways.

All she wants is to breathe. To simply breathe.

She turns her neck and it creaks slowly. Her vision hasn’t quite adjusted in the dim of her bedroom. Red numbers drip from her alarm clock, an absurdly chilling reminder of her waiting responsibilities. Surgeries, ward rounds, paperwork, Mulder. These are the compass points of her days. There have been times when she’s forgotten to eat, where she’s woken in bed with the dull ache of dehydration tugging at her limbs, where she’s driven through an intersection on autopilot.

Physician, heal thyself, Mulder regularly teased her with the saying during their tougher cases, ones where he might have received a blow to the head (that man has the skull of an ox) and she tended to him or other victims or did a string of autopsies or chased alleged mutants into foggy forests and would end up on the verge of physical or mental exhaustion. To allay her exhaustion, he might draw her a bath, order the pepperoni pizza special, plump up a pillow and pat the mattress next to him while finding a black and white Hollywood classic to fall asleep to. Physician, and Mulder, often healed themselves that way.

But that was before she left him.

She’s still the same old Scully. Denying everything except the truth in front of her very eyes.

Getting out of bed is Herculean. Every cell is screaming at her to retreat back to the safe, anaesthetic nest of covers. She feels as fragile and hollow as bird’s bones. Her feet plant on the carpet but she is graceless and uncoordinated as she moves to the bathroom. A shower will provide temporary respite, the stinging water will open her pores, and close her mind.

There’s a missed call from Mulder when she gets out. He never leaves messages, instead she is left to run through the gamut of possibilities as she dials his number – has he forgotten his house keys and can he drop by to borrow hers, has he got himself arrested for stalking a supposed shapeshifter who’s haunting children, or is he on the verge of a breakdown? She doesn’t even try to guess any more.

“I need you to witness some papers, Scully.” His voice is distant, cagey. Years ago, he might have created a slideshow to support his evasive baiting. Teased her with the promise of a nice little trip somewhere. Asked her point blank why she doesn’t believe him when he’s right most of the time.

Now he just expects her to be where he wants her to be with little warning.

Still the same old Mulder.

On the drive to the café he’s chosen for their meeting, she tries to think what papers they could be, what has necessitated the sudden need for her assistance. She doesn’t see him for weeks. He goes for days without returning her calls, spends hours away from the house on ‘expeditions’ or ‘assignments’, and she’s found him, more than once, in bed at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, wearing stubble bordering on a beard, and smelling like a laundry basket.

There was a time when they couldn’t afford secrets. It was a matter of life and death. Those days on the run, every shadow under the motel door, every lingering look from a cashier, every click on the phone line had them hastily stuffing their holdalls into the trunk of whatever rusty sedan they’d picked up along the way, and finding a back road to a new town.

As she waits in the traffic lane to turn into the car park, with a headache binding itself over the middle of her head like a steel band, she couldn’t care less if she were to sign him up to a dodgy pyramid scheme or help him cash in his father’s stocks. She sits, indicating to pull into a spot being vacated by an overly large SUV driven by an old man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Without warning, his car lurches backwards at speed. She braces both hands on the steering wheel as metal crunches against metal and her car jolts back. Her head whips forward, then rights itself, tendons groaning at the sudden movement. She’s stunned. Unable to think, let alone move. The old man is out of the car, looking at the back of his vehicle, then up at her, fear written across his face.

There’s a cold blast across her body as her door opens. “Scully? Scully, are you all right? Don’t move. I’ll call the paramedics.” From the corner of her vision, she sees Mulder tapping at his phone with his thumbs before barking something into the mouthpiece.

“I’m fine. Don’t…” she says, but there’s no energy in her voice and he doesn’t hear her.

The old man is holding the brim of his hat, mouthing something about the gas pedal, and Mulder swings round to confront him. She recognises the dark glint in his eye and tries to get his attention but she calls out too late and he’s already lashing out at the man.

The buckle of her seatbelt is jammed into the slot and it won’t release. Her finger presses the orange button over and over but nothing happens. The old man is cowering under Mulder’s interrogation and in the distance, a siren wails. A gaggle of people have gathered around the vehicles. The blink of her indicator is percussive background pollution. Rain begins to batter the windscreen. The pressure in her skull builds. Her fingers crawl up the sides of her head to cover her ears.

“You didn’t even look!” She can hear Mulder’s accusations even through her hands. The same tone he employed every time he burned her about giving up William or about her trust in him or about the value of her weekend conferences.

Not the same old Mulder, but the cruellest version of him.

Finally free, and stumbling from the car, she slides along its side. In the frigid air, steam rises like fog from the hood. Her shoulders are tight, her legs heavy. She takes a breath in but the air is sharp, and it tastes metallic. She pads at her mouth with trembling fingers. Did she bite her lip, her tongue in the impact? She can’t remember. Perhaps the seatbelt caused an injury. Looking down at herself, she sees only her feet, enclosed in black pointed boots, her charcoal wool pants, her sleek belted jacket, all designer wear, all for show. Vanity. Fulfilling a need in her to prove her worth since she left him. Not just to the new people in her new life, but to the old ones too. Her mother. To Mulder.

Mulder is still ranting at the old man. Arguing over semantics instead of trying to get his details. The siren is louder. Her chest aches and with every inhalation, it burns, as though her lungs are on fire. She can’t find her voice. It’s stuck in her throat along with the breath she desperately needs. Her knees soften but she locks them, stubbornly clinging to the mirror of the car. Rain soaks her hair, sticking it to her face, her shoulders. Stupidly, she thinks about cutting it off, clipping it so that it swings about her chin, freely.

So she could be the same old Scully.

A thousand images rush through her mind. Blood. Albert Hosteen. Ice. Lightning. Her distended stomach. Lasers drilling. Cassandra Spender. William’s downy head. The scars on Mulder’s face. His coffin. Emily’s sweaty forehead. The brooding ocean. Melissa. Mulder’s scratchy beard. His wild eyes. His bitter silence at her goodbye.

She hears herself cry out. Pitiful.

Each breath stabs at her. Her heart sprints then slows. Sprints then slows. She clutches at her chest as though it might even the keel. Sweat mingles with rain on her face. The pavement is cold, wet, unforgiving. Mulder kneels at her side, taking her arm into his hand. Fear knits his brows together. The old man appears next to him and goes to bend over her.

“Don't you dare touch her!” Mulder’s voice cuts through the fog in her mind and the old man startles back. His hat falls and she’s struck by how absurd it looks, floating on a puddle that’s formed. Mulder’s hands are everywhere, her brow, her arm, her cheek, her chest, her thigh. He is panicking, yelling for paramedics. Bellowing her name. But she keeps watching the hat listing as it's pelted by rain.

Same old Mulder.

She can’t calm him because she can’t summon her voice. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, nausea pools in her stomach, bitter, churning. Her neck stiffens as she turns her face away from the staring eyes, then she vomits. This sends Mulder into overdrive and he tugs at her chin, twisting her face painfully around, eliciting a moan from her that shocks him into pulling his hand away.

“Scully? What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

She is. She’s hurting. Everywhere. But how can she tell him it’s not from the collision. “I’m fine,” she says in the end. Closes her eyes to his dismissive headshake. “I’m fine, Mulder.”

Same old Scully.

The paramedics arrive and check her over. They declare her unresponsive in their radio missives and load her onto a stretcher, despite her weak protests. Mulder is effusive in his thanks and squeezes her hand, promising to follow. Inside the ambulance, she closes her eyes against the hazy faces, concentrates on her breathing, lets other people carry the burden.

When she wakes, Mulder is on a chair pulled up so close to her that his legs are slotted under her bed, his head pressed into his crossed arms, at her ribcage. She can see a few greys and she strokes his hair, tenderly. Turning his face, he grins at her.

Same old Mulder.

“You scared me, Scully.”

She nods, still not sure if she can speak.

“They said you had an elevated heart rate. High blood pressure. We thought you were having a stroke.” Her hand finds his. “But then the doc said it could be a panic attack.” He waits a beat, for confirmation. “Scully?”

He shakes his head at her silence, stretches, scratches at his chin. She tries to move but it’s such an effort, she slumps back against the pillow. Her hair feels tangled and she rakes her fingers through it. He takes her hand, crushes it in his.

“Scully? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

This is the man who spent days holed up in his office, poring over the same ridiculous, paranoid conspiracies, who left the house without telling her, disappearing for days on the flimsy pretext that she ‘didn’t need to know for her own safety’, who would spend more time nursing a glass of whisky than their relationship.

“It’s nothing,” she manages to say. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

His eyes roll to the heavens. There’s nothing up there that she hasn’t already beseeched, yelled at and dismissed out of hand, she thinks to herself.

“Scully, you drove into a car. You collapsed. You haven’t…” His hand withdraws from hers and he grabs a fist of the thin woollen blanket.

“He backed into me. I’ve…I’ve been…I haven’t slept well. I’m just tired, Mulder. That’s all.” Speaking is exhausting. Her words sound pathetic. He knows it, she knows it.

Same old Mulder.

Same old Scully.

A nurse enters, eyes Mulder to move his chair. He stands, loiters in the shadowy corner as she goes about her business. When she’s gone, the air in the room is dry. Mulder scrapes the chair back to her bedside and plays with the plastic band on her wrist. Laying his forehead on her arm, she feels more than the weight of him as he begins to sob quietly. His shoulders move, his chest rocks the bed. She twists and caresses his hair with her free hand. Her tears drip down her face, gathering at her chin, falling as one onto his head. His tears flow around her wrist, burning his sadness at her pulse point.

“I’m sorry,” she says gently.

He half-chuckles, a strangled sound. “For what?”

“For scaring you.”

His watery eyes find hers. “You being sick is the thing that scares me the most, Scully.”

“I know,” she says.

He sits up, brings his arm around her shoulder to pull her into a fierce embrace, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. “Don’t do that again. Don’t…please.”

She can’t promise. She won’t promise.

“What were the papers?” she asks.

“What?”

“You wanted me to witness something. What was it?”

“Oh,” he says, his body reverberating as tears turn to laughter. “I needed a new passport. I was going to ask if you wanted to go on vacation.” He chuckles, still clinging to her.

“On vacation?”

“It was going to be a surprise.”

“I’ll say,” she murmurs, letting out a small laugh too, and burrows her chin into the dip between his neck and shoulder.

She lets him soften into her and pats the plane between his shoulder blades. His heart pumps next to hers. In perfect synchrony.

Same old Mulder.

Same old Scully.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #msr angst #tw: panic attack #same old

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punk-in-docs · 8 years ago

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Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth, Chapter 10

TITLE: Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth.  CHAPTER NO: Chapter Ten SYNOPSIS: Tom Hiddleston AU Love story - Set in the Victorian Era... Circa 1858 to be precise... AUTHOR:@punk-in-docs  AO3 LINK: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4108306?view_full_work=true ~ Elizabeth’s stomach, heart, spleen, liver, kidney’s, brain, and every other vital organ she possessed, was positively fluttering with nerves. The kind of nerves that make your body feel as if you are constantly twisting and moving, like a herd of bees swarming around a hive. Her body felt rootless, and itinerant. She fiddled nervously with her golden silken gloves at the tips of her fingers. Baring her teeth down on the corner of her lip as she looked into the stuffy overcrowded ballroom ahead of her. It was just Felicity and Mrs Sharpe at her side tonight, Sir Richard had declined most vigorously when it was enquired into his attending the ball. Seeing as he would end up stuffed into a corner with the Mama’s and the Matrons, he insisted that he would stay at home in his study and watch paint dry, for that was marginally more interesting than a night of discussing sordid gossip and the lace trim on gowns. Elizabeth had smiled as he offered the excuse to them all as he waved them off out of the door. Usually, Libby would have wished she could have stayed at home with him. If she had not a date with a handsome Duke to keep on Lady Hartwright’s dancefloor. And a kiss to claim from him in the Hartwright's famed gardens. She had not forgotten that sordid promise, either. Again, as was becoming routine with this week, she was hurried into a long scorching bath, scented liberally until she reeked of her staple honey and lillies fragrance, before being corseted into yet another garment. Although, for the sake of the humid air in the ballroom, that seemed thick enough to touch, she was glad that her gown was draped and flowing, and that it bared her shoulders and neck, and a large portion of her shoulderblades. To make matters worse upon this evening, it would not help being imprisoned in a body crushing silk dress which would be soaked through by nights end due to all the dancing and the general sticky heat the room provided. Elizabeth pressed a tentative hand to the corner of her golden jewelled mask, and then flat to her chest, of which was bared modestly by the draped fabric of her orange silk gown. She could feel her heart beating like a caged animal trapped in her rib cage. Yearning to be set free... Her dress was secured on one shoulder like a toga with a golden buckle holding the drapes of the fabric neatly in place on her creamy pale shoulder. Her gown had taken next to no time to slide on, yet her hair had oddly been the most time consuming trait to her appearance this evening. Nessie had her work cut out as she was titled with the job of twisting the thick red tresses back away from Elizabeths face, leaving it unbound so the long curled length of it nearly reached to her elbows down her back, like an auburn waterfall of lavender scented curls. Pinned back from her ears so it brushed against the skin at the top of her upper back. Her golden mask secured and tied in place over her curled red hair. Araminta had insisted upon the use of golden eye paint to cover her eyelids, and for Libby to darken her brows and rouge her cheeks, so under her mask, her eyes glowed bright blue from the candlelight, and the light caught urgently the shimmering flecks of gold above her lids. Overall, Araminta asserted she looked enchanting. And Libby had smiled. It wouldn’t do her well to know that after she had swept out of the house in her velvet blue cloak, and into the awaiting carriage, Mrs Sharpe then turned to Felicity and remarked with a wry grin: “One Sir Thomas sees all of her bared skin, I daresay the poor gent will perish on the spot.” She winked. Her pale powdered face and hair creasing into a smile underneath her Marie Antoinette mask and appallingly french styled make up. Her lips heart shaped with pink colour, and the beauty spot near her eye twitching as her wrinkled crows feet made it move due to her creasing leer. “Second Ward, remember, Mrs Sharpe…” Felicity growled. Twiddling her staff about in one hand, and her stuffed sheep toy bundled under her other arm. Her brown hair had been secured into tight ringlets, and Mrs Sharpe had helped make the frilly bonnet that sat atop her head. Making her look all the more like Little Bo Peep. After all, that was the only use she served, with a Shepherd’s crook in one hand, and her floppy discloured sheep in the other. But, Araminta vowed that her second youngest looked abominably cute, and, then with a roll of Felicity’s russet eyes - and after Araminata managed to manouevre her wide circa 1700’s hips out of the front door, with Hawkins assistance of prying the lady out with a shoehorn after she got stuck in the doorframe due to her cumbersome hips - they were finally on their way. Now, The Farrow Ladies three, elegantly sauntered slowly into the busy twirl of dancing and chatter that filled the heat packed ballroom. It was positively bursting with colour and magnificent other characters. Already Elizabeth had seen A Cleopatra swan by, a Mediaval Knight, sword, holy robes, helmet and all pass her by. A Mermaid, a Leprechaun had come and gone, two Musketeers, and one Parsnip, of all things.... Clearly there was much variation and imagination in abundance to society this year. They wandered closer to the edge of the dancefloor, seeing more various costumes and colour encircle them as couples swirled about in each other’s arms. One thing that Elizabeth had mentioned she adored, was that the demi masks that covered men and womens eyes alike forced her to really examine who they were. Adding a wonderful sense of ambiguity to the costumes. Of course, there would be no mistaking her for another girl, such pale colouring and fiery coloured curls could be mistaken for none other than 'that pale beautiful flame haired eldest Farrow girl' No.There was to be no hiding in plain sight for her in any ballroom anytime soon. Elizabeth heard Araminta apologise, yet again, as her vastly expansive hips clipped another person as she moved, sending them sailing to the floor. Already two footmen had been swept clean off their feet by the hoops concealed under her powder pink revolutionary style skirts, trimmed with lace and bustling over her corseted body shape. Her hair had also been piled atop her head, one ringlet hanging down at her nape, her usually mousy brown greying hair dusted a silvery white to coincide with her costume. She had dainty buckled shoes on her feet, and the palest tone that Nessie could muster using a palette of facial paints. Which made her lips and rouged cheeks stand out all the more. The choker and diamonds about the elder woman’s neck glittered with fat drops of light and wealth about her. And Elizabeth wagered Araminta would indeed, be up for the guillotine at the end of the evening, if she sent just one more poor soul crashing to the floor as a consequence of her unsafe hips. She didn’t even need to look to her left as she heard the definitve sound of a crumpling body thumping to the floor with an “AAHHACCCKK!” and a polite little whisper from her stepmother of “Oh, I’m so sorry, how terribly clumsy of me!” following not long thereafter to know it had happened - yet again. Felicity’s costume however, was causing no trouble. She wore a petticoated duck egg blue ensemble, with her laced frilly bonnet and lacy white gloves to match, aswell as a cornflower blue bonnet on her ringlety haired head. Her legs clad in white stockings and with dainty little pink ballet shoes on her feet to make her appear all the more like Mary with her Little Lamb. Elizabeth wasn’t entirely sure what her costume was, Bo Peep, or Mary, She could not be sure. But she had a sherpherds crook and a rather saggy discoloured, yet fat, toy sheep stuffed under one of her arms. So, by process of elimination and recognition that led many to assume that she was a sheep herderess of some kind. Elizabeth herself had opted for a more, traditional route. Her costume had been based on one of her favourite Pre-Raphaelite Paintings. ‘Flaming June’ by Frederick Leighton. A stunning piece of artwork which she had spent more than a couple of hours admiring at the National Gallery. That was the reason she had draped her body in a modestly revealing grecian style tangerine silk dress, and left her hair unbound, much of it to match the resting figure in the painting. Mrs Sharpe had not been initially keen on the colour of the silk, fearing it would wash her out, but they had agonised over choices at Madam Francois’s until they found a pleasing shade to make her hair brighter, and her skin and eyes aglow with graceful finesse. She felt it was no scandal that a great portion of her upper hald had been left bare by her dress. In fact, she saw many costume about the room that were of a similar design to her own in terms of baring skin. So in that respect, she was not alone. And no one could accuse her of displaying foul dress at a costume party. Not when there were women swanning around in far less than her. Using the costume invitation as a sordid advantageous excuse to flaunt their figures. Libby felt her costume was plain, elegant and classic. Three things of which she rather liked. She’d leave frippery and fuss to that of the younger debuatantes. Simplicity, she noted, and as far as she was concerned, was the key to all elegance. She watched as Araminata and Felicity curtseyed to Lady Hartwright, thanking her for the invitation. The lady herself dressed in a similar dress to that of Mrs Sharpes own, wide hipped and french style costume. Except their hostesses was a royal blue, and she held a mask on a pole to her face. She expressed her delight at seeing her friends attend, making polite chatter with Felicity and Mrs Sharpe. But Elizabeth’s mind was elsewhere, and consequently, her feet started to move her away from the crowds, to a somewhat less heated and cool corner of the ballroom. It was no hardship for her to drift away from her Sister and her Stepmother. The crowds of costumes easily swallowed her up into a sea of riotous colour. If they enquired as to her dissapearence, she could simply lay – false – claim to the fact that she had gotten seperated from them both to quell any suspicion or anger on her leaving. Her feet were in accordance with her brain and her heart, Which both had ulterior motives for steering her somewhere without much noise or company... She bit her lip as she craned her neck, scanning over the people who swarmed about the room. Her eyes trained to look for a pair of ice chip coloured blue eyes hiding under the shade of a darkened mask, perhaps? Or even the ink black shade of his medium length hair, swept back from his regally divine face that belonged in reputable and polished Art Gallerys, captured in some pedestal of appreciation. Either sculpture or oils. And Elizabeth swore now, If she had been substantially more up to the task of possessing great skill at sculpting or painting with oils, and she knew she could do his beauty justice, then she’d carve or paint the damn thing herself. Because he deserved no such less praises to his handsomeness. So caught up was she in her own reverie to Sir Thomas’s beauty, she did not see the grinning figure, clad in mediaval prince like garb, move out of the fringes of the shadowy ballroom just behind her. Having just finished engaging Miss Lucinda Edgerton, a very demure wallflower, into a dance just to make the girl smile. His mask jumped a centimetre or two up his face as he smiled widely when he caught sight of the woman ahead of him, looking pleadingly across the crowds. Searching – fruitlessly. The sight of her took away all his breath, and damn near all his sense. All he was left with was the inane desire to continue in her direction… She looked like a goddess who had the audacity to grace the mortals here tonight with her divine presence. The silken gown she wore, he wanted to feel under his hands. To test the weight of her remarkable curves under the cloak of the shimmering orange silk which he knew would make her twice as alluring to the touch. Her arms were mostly covered with golden hued satin gloves. But he couldn’t deny that seeing the small patch of her shoulder in nothing but bare skin was shamefully to erotic to be true. Her face, he decided, looked alarmingly pretty with the golden mask enhancing her eyes and setting off her sapphire irises and pale skin. He watched as her little tongue darted out to moisten her lips, before dragging her lower lip between her teeth. He really couldn’t get enough of that sight... But what he hadn’t expected was for the sight of her unbound red hair, and the pale slices of her shoulderblades under her creamy skin to leave him feeling quite so hot and giddy. He wanted to touch her, everywhere, leave no spot of her skin feeling unloved or worshipped. He wanted to kiss her with such ferocity and flame that she begged him to claim her. Because then, he would. He would drag her off to some quiet corner or deserted room, throw her dress above her hips, kiss her senseless, again, and own her. In all the lustful ways in which a man could own a woman. He watched her still as she bobbed and craned her neck looking for him among the throngs of people dancing and conversing. But his smile grew wolfishly wide as he pressed his wide soft hand to the side of her hip, able to feel the scorching heat of her soft skin through the fabric. His fingers molding into her fleshy hip. She gasped and jumped back into his touch. Twisting with a surprised smile to see his blue eyes glowering at her lusftully under the shady brim of his gold and black mask as he grinned like the big bad wolf at her, despite the fact he was dressed as the heroic prince. “Looking for someone in particular my lady?” He leered. ~ So startled was she by his sudden materialisation at her side, that she turned with a gasp, pleasurable shock tingling through her every pore. She became very aware that her cheeks flushed red, but whether that was due to embarrassment at the surprise, or the way his breath rolled so tantalizingly across her ear, she could not decide. “Sir Thomas.” She exhaled, through one of her finest smiles. The kind of smile that stupid young men adored to slobber over the sight of, and the kind that was mentioned, so tirelessly, in all its imbalanced charm and glory, in near every gossip paper of discernable repute in London. But, to him. That smile triggered the deepest of urges to wed her, and continue making her smile that way for the rest of his devoted life to her. It was mad, he knew, but he wanted to keep her smile under lock and key, in secret, so no other but he could admire it. A silly notion perhaps, but his mind cared not one jot about silly protectiveness when it came to her. She could not deny, she beheld - with thoughts that no unmarried maiden of four and twenty should be inclined to – that he looked undoubtedly fine this evening. Even under the dark shadowed brim of his mask, his eyes still managed to twinkle and burn vividly at her like stars in the heavens. His attire helped add to his ever prevailing character of prince like charm. His costume would have looked more in place in the previous century, he had a moss green coat which was swirled with golden leaves and vines stitched to the front of his coat. Under which, he had on a light blue waistcoat, teemed most fetchingly with a darker blue cravat, knotted about his pale neck in an unconventional style. She scanned downwards to see he had slim breeches on his legs, and tall tan leathered boots up his calves. He even had been so good as to his concern for his costumes welfare, that he had a sword strapped to his side. Whether it was real or not, she could not discern. She had no experience with swords. Archery, yes, she was proficient at that. Painting and Drawing, she excelled in, the Pianoforte even, but the art of the sword was not in her repertoire. He had drawn closer to her now, no further than was deemed inappropriate, but close enough so she could see the candlelight dance in his eyes, and make his skin look incredible, were she allowed to touch it, she daren't think how fine his silken skinned jaw would feel traced below her fingers. She wanted nothing more than to damn this propriety, and etiquette, to rip of these infernal gloves and just be herself. Not have to stand straight backed, with the prefect degree of elegance, trying to attempt looking graceful and demure. She wanted to relax. Alas, this Victorian manner would not allow her. Nor would the overstuffed fringes of Lady Hartwright’s packed fit to burst ballroom, either. Judging by the heat and volume of the place… “You look very beautiful, Elizabeth. Words cannot do you justice..” Sir Thomas afforded her the compliment, relaying it as he took her hand and placed a kiss upon the back of the glove. She knew it was a standard compliment that had been paid to her many times by men, But only when he said it in such a way did she truly believe it. He spoke with such subtle intensity that she dare not refuse it’s severity for even a second. His eyes grew warm at her, scorching her belly from the inside out. And the way he smiled made her want to frame it, admire it. For all the years life had left to give her. “Thank you, Sir Thomas. You look very dashing, dare I say, you take the masquerade invitation with vigour indeed.” She beamed back at him as he released her hand, she let her arm float gently back down to her orange chiffon clad side. “May I ask, your sword, it is real?” She asked with a touch of humour. The mirth in her eyes and smile made him realise that he didn’t just love her, he adored her. She wouldn’t just be a wife, to him. She would be a best friend. Able to laugh at unfunny things which they would find rip roaringly hilarious. He chuckled, his hand brushing down to the aforementioned weapon. “Quite real, Miss Farrow. Rest assured.” He offered. “I daresay, you won’t find much chance to use it here in Belgravia, in a ballroom filled to the rafters with such, placid, characters…” She said, the both of them watching in subdued mirth and alarm as an Octopus, all eight limbs accounted for, swaddled by them. Suckers and all on the turquoise blue tentacles. Elizabeth gave the girl under the hideous costume a pitiable kind smile. It was the Pennington’s girl under it, she deduced. Poor Primrose Pennington. Oft remarked by every mama to be ‘too frightfully pale for any colour, and too plump, buttery haired, and rose cheeked to ignore.’ Elizabeth felt a pang of sorrow for the girl. Watching miserably as she struggled along, attempting to keep her tentacles from tripping anyone. – goodness, what a sentence that was to utter… Thomas watched after the girl too. Poor thing, she already looked exerted from carting the damned silly thing about, feelers dragging on the floor like overly long skirts, hanging down from the bulbously shaped dome of a head that concealed her upper body, shoulders, head and all. He made sure to give her his kindest smile and try not to look too pitiful for her when she was turned his way, seeing that she caught it, and her cheeks flushed into a most fierce shade of pink. They both gave each other wry smiles after she tottered by, swallowed up into the crowds as easily as if someone was chucking the octopus back into the ocean where it belonged. “I suddenly feel very slighted as to the efforts of my own garment…” Elizabeth offered, placing a gloved hand to her partially bared chest. “All I can exclaim is thank goodness you are of an age, and a sufficiently stubborn tongue, to not allow Mrs Sharpe to dress you in such a manner…” He remarked. “Mrs Sharpe wouldn’t be that cruel.” Elizabeth wondered aloud, grimacing with a smile. Half praying that her hopes weren’t wrong. “I don’t think, anyway.” “Secretly now thankful you made it out of this house this evening sans four extra limbs?” Sir Thomas leaned close, asking her with a smile. She laughed. “A truer sentence has never been spoken.” She granted him. “Nor, I daresay, a more wildly inconceivable one..” She added. He laughed at that. “How does your Family fare, Elizabeth? I only pray for your sister that Mrs Sharpe doesn’t have her wandering about in some similar ridiculous garb..” He enquired kindly, like a true gentleman. “They fare perfectly fine, thank you sir, My Father cares very little for balls, I grant you. But Mrs Sharpe and Felicity are amongst this hectic crowd somewhere..” She craned her neck, seeing if she could spot either one of the two other Farrow ladies. “… Should I be talking to you without a chaperone present?” He wondered idly. Voice turning deep and desirous. Elizabeth turned back to him, wetting her lips before she answered. “Seeing as my chaperone left us unattended together for several minutes, alone, in the same room, I dare say she shan’t mind..” she spoke honestly. “Do you mind, Miss Farrow?” He dared ask. She beamed. “I care not one smidgeon for it.” She elucidated. Referring to the manner and rules that they should not have been ignoring as a single man, and a single lady. “That, I am too glad to hear.” He rasped, she became enchanted by the sight of his eyes under his dark black and gold mask. He loved how some of hers concealed her reddening cheeks. It was at this point that the crowd ahead of them seemed to bubble into activity like a witches cauldron. Many people parted, some pushing back to the fringes of the ballroom where they stood conversing. All in all, it simulated that the first dance was about to take place. “May I have this dance, Miss Farrow?” He asked, sweeping in front of her, and holding out his hand. Seeing that the room around them had fallen into a respectable hush. She swallowed, feeling hot and nervous. Her heart pounding a million times a minute, knowing that a few pairs of eyes were sticking to her, judging her, and she suddenly had an overwhelming sense of shyness settle in her gut. But she would not want to dismiss dancing with him for all she held dear in the world. She smiled, looking down to his outstretched hand as she took it. Sliding her silk covered hand into his grasp. He smiled as she did, walking slowly with her out into the dance floor that was scarcely inhabited as of yet. Only three other couples twirled about inside the large gathered circle of costumes. Elizabeth could see that Sophie Richworth glared at her, from her spot, stood still with her nasty gaggle of friends in the debutante’s corner. Making a most vicious scowl at her indeed. But Elizabeth, did not care. Sir Thomas could see she was nervous. He had dragged her into, undoubtedly, the centre of attention, in the middle of the deserted ballroom for the waltz. He could see more than a few hundred pairs of eyes were glued to them both. It didn’t bother him one bit. He was used to the attention. She. Evidently. Was not as such. But, as always. He didn't care. Especially not when he was looking at the magnificent creature in front of him. She looked downwards as he positioned himself, one hand at her waist, the other clinging to her hand, bracing it high for their dance. Hers went to his shoulder, clasping his hand back with equal keen-ness. Yet still she looked a touch pale, unnerved by all the people that were watching and dissecting them. “Elizabeth..” He whispered, seeing that she peered up at him from under her golden mask, like a shy, demure little creature emerging at last from it’s shell. She looked up to see his mystifyingly handsome face stare down at her lovingly, stretched above her looking powerful, looking like he would sell his heart to the devil to protect her. “Pretend they are not there. Pay them no heed. All that matters now, here, is you and I.” He offered her, gently. Voice still a whisper. She smiled lightly. Allowing him to lead as they started to dance. Looking deeply into each other eyes as they swayed about with one another to the 2/4 timed step beat. Both their bodies following the arc of the dance that he graciously swept her up in. And suddenly, Elizabeth found that she could do what he had asked. She could forget that everyone was there. Because she was in his arms. That was it. It was that simple fact. Watching him lead, twirling them about the room. Encased firmly in his wonderful arms. And she could suddenly not fathom a flying fig for all the Mama’s, girls, and gentlemen that were watching them so intently. She smiled, and for once, she let herself not care. ~ Minutes earlier ~ “Heavens? where did she slip away too, and so fast?” Mrs Sharpe exclaimed, turning around from thanking Lady Hartwright, to subsequently find that Libby, as her back had been turned, had taken the opportunity to slink away from her and Felicity. “She went that way, Mrs Sharpe..” Felicity nodded her head, inclining it in a north-westerly direction. Being jostled by the heavy activity of many people as they passed them by. Twice now her foot had been trodden on, she was only wearing thin silk slippers, after all. And both the women who had stepped on her had evidently not been light. She needed thicker shoes, and she was starting to get very agitated with her costume. Her bonnet strings kept on coming loose, sliding out from under her chin, meaning that her bonnet kept threatening to slide off her head. And, the cherry on top of the cake, was that she was bound to take someone's eyes out soon with her crook. Three gentlemen had been on the receiving end of the thing being dangerously swung about at eye level as Felicity was bumped from side to side in the packed crowds. Araminta followed her youngest's inclined head, but she saw remarkably little as a consequence. The trouble with masquerade balls, was that they required such flamboyant head dress and attire. Mrs Sharpe caught no sight of her eldest's red tresses, or orange dress. No, all she could see across the sea of people, were the backs of some unfamiliar heads, outlandishly wide hats furnished with feathers that drifted in the hot air. Mrs Sharpe harrumphed. “Damn and blast, the silly gel, wandering off ahead of us.” Araminta chided grumpily to no one in particular. Her hand reaching up to touch the back of her powdered white hair, ensuring it stayed in place. Felicity rolled her eyes. Again. She seemed to be doing that rather a lot this evening. And mostly at her stepmother too. “Mrs Sharpe, I don’t think she can be truly blamed. I’m having enough trouble standing by your side as it is..” Felicity pointed out, coming to her sister’s defence. And then, almost as if to prove her point, a young couple brushed past them. Jostling Felicity into stumbling on her own two feet at the unexpected contact, making her bonnet slide forwards over her eyes once again. She scowled at the disappearing people, who were just courteous enough to sweep an apology over their shoulders. Felicity was tempted to stick her tongue out at them. Or give their toes a damn good bashing assault with her crook. But as it was they had already scampered far away to the other side of the ballroom. And there was every chance that her rude gesture of tongue poking could be seen by entirely the wrong audience. “Oh, well. I shan’t exert my nerves to the hassle of wondering where she is, a second longer…” She dismissed, sniffing daintily. Holding her chin aloft in the air, pointing her nose up, and looking alarmingly, Felicity thought, like the autocratic wealthy French ruler that she was dressed as. The youngest Miss Farrow half expected a cry any minute now, of ‘Let them eat cake…’ to descend from her stepmother’s mouth. “Good for you, Mrs Sharpe.” Felicity smiled through a laugh, appeasing her stepmother’s frolicsome wishes. She shook her head, looking about the crowds of the ballroom ahead of her, own attention rapidly lost in the sea of costumes ahead. And, good lord, was that an octopus she could see? Yes it was. It was an octopus. And it was being morosely dragged around with that plump Pennington girl under it. Whom, probably had no choice but having had the costume forced upon her by some strict Mama. Felicity suddenly felt not so foolish in her ridiculous get up. Even if she did have a sheep toy lolloped at her feet like some unfortunate sleeping pet, and she looked about three years of age in her silly over-frilled petticoat and bonnet. “Oh, is that Elizabeth?” Mrs Sharpe suddenly careened, lurching forwards like an animal set to pounce. Having seen a flash of a tangerine costume nestled amongst the cumbersome crowds. But as she reeled forwards, Felicity feared she had quite forgotten where she was, and how hefty her oversized hips were, as two unfortunate souls who stood beside them with refreshments of small pitchers of lemonade, were knocked ungraciously to the floors as a result of Mrs Sharpe’s costume. She stepped over the crumpled people with a apologetic smile, and a small giggled mumble of ‘Oh, I am so terribly sorry, so clumsy of me, I’m usually so much more agile, you know..’ before she crossed to stand behind her youngest. Felicity strained on her tiptoes, peering to try and see if it was her sister. “No. That’s Prudence Wyndam. She came as a Carrot.” Felicity added with a dry humoured smile. The girls sunset coloured costume was of a similar hue to Elizabeth’s. The Wyndam girl in question waddled about the dance floor, restricted by the close binding of her orange clad legs to form the reverse steepled shape of the vegetable, and she even had a green hat with prominent tassels on her head to complete the ‘carrot – top 'ensemble. “Good Grief..” Mrs Sharpe exclaimed in extreme perplexity, rolling her eyes, second to Lady Bashford dressing her two twin daughter’s as a pantomime horse – which had trod on her toes earlier, and sent one ill-fated gentleman sailing headfirst into the middle of the lemonade punch bowl table - Lady Wyndam deciding that a ‘Carrot’ was adequate costume for her daughter, came close to stealing the biscuit of whom was the worst willed London Mama in attendance here tonight. It was then that the band played the first few opening notes up from the balcony to signal that the waltz was about to take place. The crowd peeled back over the room. It was famously known that the waltz, the first dance, was one of the more romantic ones to which a girl should be paired to a very amiable suitor, for the first dance set the tone for the rest of a debutantes evening. No gentleman who knew what he was about, stepped out to waltz with a young lady if he didn’t intend to marry her. As a consequence of this, the wallflower girls took up their positions on the outskirts of the ballroom, the popular and nastier girls crowded about to mock those who would not dance. And a few interested Mama’s and even more silly gentleman formed the circle of people who were ringed about those who expressed their desire to dance with a partner openly for the first. Felicity endeavoured her body onto tip toes again, to see that the recently wedded Duke and Duchess of Whitmore took to the floor, looking as in love, and love sick as if they were ever the only two fools with hearts for one another. The outlandishly dark haired, but boring but gentle Sir Gideon Chittenden stood up with one Miss Flora Evangeline Gooding. A slight girl, a little shy and colourless, perhaps, but whom had rather a lovely voice. They had declared to be quite in love, and courting for several months now. And Felicity’s mouth just about hung to the ballroom floor when she saw who the third couple was… “Mama!” Felicity exclaimed in the harshest of unquiet and hissing whispers. Mrs Sharpe turned to look immediately, because when Felicity extended the title, that Araminta could never bare out of respect for Verina Farrow, then she knew nothing than to go directly to her youngest’s outburst. “What is it, my dove?” Araminta asked, whispering back in a susurrate tone over the music, looking down seeing if there were any trodden toes or broken bones to her to contend with. She sounded most shocked... “Elizabeth’s dancing. With the Duke of Chatsworth..” Felicity gaped. Mrs Sharpe moved with remarkable speed for a woman of her age, size, and thoroughly inconvenient hips. Coming behind Felicity to see that indeed, she was telling no tall tale. For there, right in front of their eyes, not ten metres away, stood the tall and dashing Sir Thomas Kenworthy, in all his princely attire, leading the beautiful sight of her eldest flame haired daughter out onto the dance floor, whispering something soft to her as he guided them into position to dance. Mrs Sharpe watched in thorough enrapturement as she could see Libby’s blue eyes glaze with love for the man who stood in front of her, and her smile was so wide and loving that a blind man would have felt it’s warmth, and know the meaning behind it was undoubtedly as such. Because as they twirled and danced in one another arms, Araminta could see that the Duke looked the same. Which led everyone in the ballroom to the same thought… They were in love. Elizabeth Farrow, and Sir Thomas Kenworthy were wholeheartedly, absolutely, unquestionably in love. Quite a sight to behold, they were, too. The handsomest couple in the room, if Mrs Sharpe could have her final say on the matter. They looked lovesick, and happy. Like they should never be parted from one another’s arms. However, their enraptured state did not go unnoticed by everyone.... Lady Hartwright’s house was large one, built with alcoves and stunning high ceilings. And looking down, next to the musician’s balcony, was a viewing gallery where a few people were mingling, chatting and watching those who danced far down below them. Amongst this crowd, was one Sir Marcus Burke. Whom, having seen the couple take the floor looking sickeningly happy with their position in one another’s hold, caused him to imbibe another sharp mouthful of whiskey straight from the flask he had brought with him. Damn society gatherings only had piddly lemonade. And as he took a swig, he glared down at the both of them, the start of a sickening smile starting to cross his lips as he felt drunken-ness overtake him. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, disturbing his mask. “Enjoy it while you can, Miss Farrow…” He hissed nastily to no one else but himself. Raising his flask in a silent toast to god or the devil before he took another long swig, chuckling. ~ “You are a divine dancer Elizabeth..” Sir Thomas granted her, as they swirled about on the floor one last time, hearing as the last few notes faded into silence. And people gathered about them offered a round of applause to the enamoured couples, now, as the gavotte started, more people fussed to try and invade the dance floor now. She curtseyed, smiling, and he bowed. Mirroring her grin. When they stood once more, he took her arm. “May I accompany you in the hopes of getting some air? Miss?” He asked, eyes burning with something playful lingering beneath his mask, and simmering away in his smile. “That would be most kind. It is quite overcrowded in here..” She offered, back. The both of them fighting to worm their way throughout the packed crowds. The heat so evident, it was all you could do to ignore it. Elizabeth felt flushed and parched. However, their path was suddenly halted by a most unwelcome figure. Three of them to be exact... Libby fought the all body revulsion that shuddered through her at the sight of her most favourite horrible tormenter stood in front of her. With both her just as horrible friends by her side. Sophie Richworth. Sir Thomas came to a halt behind Libby, watching as she sighed, and her face under the golden mask took on one of extreme dislike and irascibility. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just hazarded a very correct guess, judging by her body language, and the unpleasant glint in the girls green eyes in front of them, that they were not friends. That they were probably the vile girls whom she suffered mocking at the hands of, when she had been a wallflower. That thought made him seething mad. Not that he showed anything behind standing tall behind her, stance impassive, and not awarding them anything but a stony glare. Sophie Richworth wasn’t an unpleasant looking girl. That’s what made it worse. Elizabeth often supposed if she had fat cheeks, boils, and facial warts – with hair - then maybe she could pity the girl who was so nasty to her. But as it was, she was severely pretty in a harsh kind of way. No hint of hairy warts or boils at all. She was boil free. Unfortunately. She had green eyes that looked like two stagnant pools of water, her hair was thick and dark. Like a jet black curtain of silk. It was pulled into an elegant chignon on her head, yet her beauty is a little too severe, Libby thought, she looked sharp and pointed. Especially with the way her eyes were set in a slightly slanted way, and every facial feature was upturned and petite. She was slender too, with no hips, and barely a bust to speak of, and had quite no concern for moral decency, judging by the way she wore a very low cut gown, and was subsequently trying to angle herself for the Duke to get a better look at her. She sneered however, right at Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth.” She greeted blandly. As if this was going to be a pleasant encounter. She looked about as pleasant as a rattlesnake with a brand new button on its tail. “Miss Richworth.” Libby spoke back, equally as insipid. Thomas found her voice was nasally and rather grating upon ones auditory senses. Much alike her hideous character... he wagered. “I understand your male friend is the Duke of Chatsworth. I can’t see for heavens why he danced with you, He’s far too handsome to keep your company..” Sophie grinned, nastily, the two girls flanking her sides, to her left Miss Winnifred Darknoll, and to her right, one Miss Cynthia Sterling. Both brunette, and as ghastly attired as their pack leader. All of whom now giggled spitefully at her sneering. “No engagement ring on your finger I see, still wearing down Mr Carlton are we?” Elizabeth asked patronisingly. Thomas delighted that this made the toxic Miss Richworth's smile, fade Rather quickly. “Oh well. I’m sure a few more instances of stalking, and following him around London will soon grant you title as his wife. Don’t you worry. I have it on good authority that men love a stupid wife.” She offered, a small smile on her lips. Killing her enemy with point-blank kindness. Her eyes tipped back under her mask to meet his. Causing him to recall their conversing the first night they met at her jape to Sophie. Oh, help him, he loved this woman like mad. He couldn’t fight the smile that crossed his lips. And Sophie saw this. She then had the audacity to sweep Elizabeth aside very obviously, pushing her so she stumbled, and then she came up right up close to him. He stared immovably down at the repugnant girl who drew closer, far closer than was deemed appropriate. “How tall are you? You must be atleast over six foot…” She flirted, trying to look up at him prettily in a charming manner. Her voice attempting seduction. It rather made his stomach coil in revulsion, instead. “Six foot four.” He bit off. She smiled, wider. He hated the sight of it. She had an ugly manner, an ugly voice, and an even uglier soul. He didn’t like her one bit. “That’s a most lovely height…” She smiled, biting down her lip. “You really think so?” He asked huskily. “I do…” She sneered back. His eyes flickered to the side to find Libby looking confused, and a little hurt. And that would not do… “If I may…” He said aloud. Sophie’s blood boiled as he then reached off to the side and tugged, twirling Elizabeth into his arms. Angling her right up close to his chest, causing her to gasp as he wrapped a hand about her lower back and tucked her into his chest. Not sparing an inch of space between their bodies. Her hands sprawled out to go to his torso, she hadn’t expected him to do such a wicked thing. But, she was very glad he had done… They were nearly pressed nose to nose now… Goodness, he was an intoxicating creature from up close. And he had only touched or handled her like this in her dreams. She rather felt as if her heart was singing the aria from The Magic Flute, somersaulting wildly as it tripped past a high C. “What do you think, Elizabeth, is six foot four still, a most lovely height, now?” He asked, mocking Sophie in a way gentleman just didn’t do. Reaching over, and tucking a stray curl of hair back from Libby’s cheek, seeing her cheeks flush and he mouth gape in a most stunning manner. His eyes were burning at her with the aura of ‘play-along-with-this’ “Oh, well. I suppose it does for dances..” She sighed with a beam. “And shelves. I am most adept at getting things down of high shelves when the occasion calls for it…” He smiled down to her. “How very advantageous, I often find myself stuck in respects to that dilemma.” She smiled back, sliding a hand up to his shoulder. The crowds were so dense, no one was at risk of seeing their sordid position. Sophie Richworth looked ready to murder them. Both. In cold blood. “Almost as if were made for each other, wouldn’t you say?” He asked. Grinning across to Sophie before his eyes found Elizabeth once more. “I would dare declare such a truth, yes.” Libby beamed. “What do you think of it, Miss Richworth? Anything malicious to wish upon such a happy couple?” She went to speak, before more words from him cut her off. Grinding her to a halt. He was a Duke, his rank meant that his words took precedence over hers. “… Or have we finally succeeded in making you keep your poisonous opinions to yourself? Dare I risk sounding like a mother hen, here, but unless you have something to say, perhaps it is then best to not open that vulgar mouth of yours, and say nothing at all. Do me a favour, and in all future regard to this, lovely goddess of a woman, it would do you well to exercise the metaphor, silent as the grave.” He suggested. No. He told her. Sophie’s teeth ground together, before she flounced off into the crowds. Friends following in her wake, as they all sulkily stomped away. Elizabeth and Thomas smiled to one another, before their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The both of them remembering where they were. He held her hand as she straightened herself, smoothing a gloved hand down her skirts and righting herself. “That was a terribly nice thing you just did…” She assured him. “Well. What can I offer in my defence? I am a terribly nice man. And you, a terribly lovely lady.” He adored watching her flush, Because she did that right then, due to his words. They worked their way once again through the crowds, coming to the large terrace off the side of the ballroom, a large door was open, allowing the dark cool night to spill in. The anticipation of cooling down, and being alone with the man, was making Elizabeth tingle in a way she knew she ought not. “..Besides. You might rescind your statement of my terrible loveliness, it may turn to one of horrified shock at my scandalous nature, when I express my most ardent wish to get you alone in those garden’s…” He explained in a hot whisper. She bit her lip, smiling shyly, head dipping low as she walked, thankful at last to come through the door, him sliding out not long after her. Most of the peoples attention taken by the gavotte going on in the room. No one noticed the two slip silently away into the night. She sighed in audible pleasure as the cool breeze of the dark London evening washed over her. Kissing it’s cool way up the back of her neck, fluttering across her arms and shoulders. It tugged on her dress, whipping it about her ankles as she closed her eyes, thankful to be away from the heat of the ballroom. Sir Thomas watched her, he also unable to deny how lovely it was to escape the clutches of that humid room. And also to get away from the many pairs of eyes that would be dissecting and measuring their conduct all evening. And because she looked so enchanting cloaked in moonlight. It shone bright over the skyline of London, ahead of them. Bouncing off Lady’s Hartwright’s well manicured gardens. It slithering clutches came off every privet hedge, every bush or tree. Sparkled off every bright flower, shimmied in droplets up from every blade of grass. And illuminated the large marble fountain which trickled water, the only thing they could hear as they drew father and father away from the music coming from the grand house. Deeper and further into the midnight blue, cool beauty of the dark deserted garden. The moon also, seemed to make her beauty twice as great. Her skin would make statues of Greek Goddess’s howl in envy. It looked peachy soft, and supple. And the way the light refracted in the coils of her lovely red hair, why, it made him want to summon the nearest poet to take a stab at writing down how wonderful she looked in their own artistic language, so he could purr the words to her like vows, softly for all of eternity. And if he fell in love with her skin, then he was ready to elope with her eyes, they shone in prettiness like two priceless sapphires encased in some museum somewhere. She turned back from looking out across the garden’s, to see he was smiling softly at her. “You’re the most beautiful woman in all of the world.” He smiled, crossing slowly to her, standing very close – which meant he had to look down – and he took the side of her smooth face into his warm hand as he did. “Is that not a touch melodramatic? I’m sure there are far more stunning women out there in the world aside from me..” She smiled, unable to be as biased as he was. He adored that about her. “It may be, But I don’t care one bit. You see, I wouldn’t take notice if even a hundred of the worlds most beautiful women threw themselves at my feet. I don’t want to marry any of them.” He smiled, holding her close, in his arms. She felt so right, too. She felt like she belonged there. “You want to marry me?” She smiled. He is fairly certain she is asking him, but it partially sounds like she was testing the sentence out aloud, rather than to the inside of her own head. “Very badly…” He grinned. Because he did. His body and soul pined for her own. He was able to ignore the clamouring's of his soul as far as possible. But his body was both harder to resist, and to hide from. After his sordid mind conjured up the image of them in his bed together, the night after he had met her, almost three times he had occasion to call Perkin’s for a cold bath to dampen his raging spirits. His body was starting to become restless for her, and he tried in vain not to let this show too much before they were wed. But, oh. How Miss Elizabeth would feel the full raging force of it, once they were. He’d never, in all his life, forget the last time he had asked, just three days ago, and Perkin’s had raised one regal brow, face otherwise impassive and asked “A bracing dip, is it sir?” As Perkins had served Benedict for over 20 years. His station and duration meant he could say such things safely at his rank. To which Thomas had then ground his teeth and necked more whiskey from his glass. And - damn the bloody lout - Benedict had snorted into a long bout of hooting, guffawing laughter at him, because of it “I suppose I can’t deny I’ve indulged in that fantasy myself, ever since having met you at Dinner that night…” She confessed, looking up at him like he was the single most glorious thing in the world. And that was because, to her, he was. “Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, Duchess of Chatsworth… It does have a pretty ring to it, does it not?” He asked, grinning at her like a fox. She smiled. It did sound wonderful… One day she hoped that bearing his surname wouldn’t feel like it did tonight. Like she was just slipping into it once, like she was putting on a costume. She looked forwards to a time when she could wear it, day in, and day out. Proudly as his wife. “It sounds perfect.” She grinned. He couldn’t savour her smile, unfortunately, because he then slid himself forwards, crushing her to his chest as he kissed her with such savagery it made her lungs burst, and her heart feel like it had taken up residence three continents away. And then he moaned. He couldn’t help it. She was such a wildly sensual, supple and pliant creature. And he was capable of such lust, it unnerved him. It had been bottled up and building inside of him from the moment they had exchanged names nine days ago. Granted, it didn’t sound like such a proficient enough stretch of time to gather such carnal desires, yet, it was. He wanted her, with him, in whatever bed and locked room was nearest. He wanted to be underneath her, beside her, on top of her. all over her. He wanted her skin, and cause her breath taking smile to morph into a gasping cry of his name as he took her apart. Drowning them both in such pleasure, they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, ensuring both their needs were sated before he expended all of his lust on her still quivering form, until she begged him to take her. She gasped, his lips grew hungrier, and his need swelled to an unsafe degree for her. Her lower back was pressed sharply into the concrete banister behind them, that topped the stairs leading down to the gardens below. Her arms came up to rest on his shoulders, as his lips stopped twisting in sinful ways against her own, and instead pecked along her neck with soft smacks of his mouth hitting her skin over and over. Smelling deep the scent of her, getting the taste of her sweet lavender skin on his tongue. “You know, we’d have to share a bed, every night, if we were man and wife..” He moaned lowly into her ear, she could feel the side of his mask clip her skin as he spoke softly, his voice sounded like a honeyed rasp of a dream. She curved so her back arched, and all of her curves pressed lengthways into him, her stiffened as he felt her breasts push into him, aswell as the fleshy globes of her thighs. It made him growl onto her neck. And It made him so very hard. “.. Oh, my. Elizabeth. You have no idea what I’d do to you in that bed. In our marital bed. I’d take all night showing you how ardently I appreciate your wonderful body. I’d squeeze you, kiss you, hold you and make love to you for hours on end. I’d give every ounce of pleasure anyway I could…” He growled, his tongue doing something naughty to his words to make them sound like bliss, and his lips doing something equally as bad to the spot below her ear that made her startle into a gasp of desire. “You’d want for nothing, If I took you as my wife. I’d make love to you all night, and be there when you woke in the morning. I want to make you mine. Make you laugh, make you smile, but most importantly I would always try to make you happy. I want every inch of you, in every way a man can want a woman. You’re my necessity, my darling. I need you.” He gushed against her ear, his hands growing all the more restless as they slid down, cupping and squeezing her perfectly delightful ass under his hands. Pushing her body up into him as he grabbed at her. His need growing more and more exigent by the moment… “Thomas…” She moaned, finally understanding that the heat unfurling low in her body was all of her desire for this man, she wanted him right back, which was something she should have never wanted. But she couldn’t help it. He growled at her desirous voice gasping his name at his attentions. The both of them entwined passionately together, swivelled round like two startled animals being preyed on as they heard more voices drift out from beyond the wide open French doors. Drifting out to them as they kissed ardently on the terrace. Elizabeth’s eyes shot wide, both their reputes would be tarnished forever should they be found in a state of slight ruination in a darkened garden. The voices became louder, which meant the figures were seconds away from being out of doors and spotting them both. “Quickly. Come this way.” Thomas grinned, whispering, his smile the most perfectly wicked gleaming spectacle she’d ever had to good grace to witness. His eyes looking like he was plotting something in the deep ice chip depths. He pulled her eagerly along with him. His hand slung about the back of her waist as he tugged her small frame sharply down the steps alongside him. She couldn’t put aside the fact that his hand resting on her lower back, felt quite lovely. “Thomas?” She laughed, asking him where he was rushing them both too. Clattering down the steps after him. He turned when they reached the bottom, his boots and her dainty slippers crunching as they sprinted across the gravelled paths. Coming to rest in the small alcove under the stairs, pausing by the marble bench that was safely tucked into the little nook that was hidden away, right out of plain sight. Illuminated by the moon’s light alone... “Surely someone will notice our absence? The crowds are not that thick, you know. And Mrs Sharpe will be circling for me like a hawk and, mnfnm- “ She was silenced as he slunk close to her again, he pressed her back to the concrete curve of the niche, her back hit the cool brick, jumping at the cool temperature on her bare shoulders, but moaning as his muscled thigh parted her legs, bracing her to him like a vice. Crushing her shorter frame to his tall one, forcing her to arch into him. The silk of her dress was thin and flimsily soft underneath his fingers, so thin, he was able to marvel at every elegant line of her body that curved and dipped under his hands. His kiss was one of a starving lover, not a gentle suitor. But dare she say she almost preferred it that way. She didn’t even feel the cold, she just felt loved. That was when she felt his fingers reach for something that made that last thought contradict itself, his mind was slowly letting his control be wrestled away from him. And every touch, and the slightest move from her only sought to hurl him further into the clutches of inescapable all consuming desire. But there was still one thing that stuck in his mind, something he had mentioned to her when they had happened upon each other in the park the other day, and he wanted to indulge himself, and seeing as they had privacy now… His hands found her shoulders, sliding down the bare cool brush of her upper arms, eventually, after what felt like a million years as he softly kissed her lips with maddening, mind stealing skill, whilst his fingers found the lip of her golden glove. And slowly, gently, for all the starving lust he had unleashed upon her tonight, slowly guided the glove down off her left arm, the rush of silk sliding off her is like an endless kiss to her skin, causing gooseflesh to ripple across her arms. What he did next, made her heart ache… His fingers pulled the glove down and off her arm, dropping it to the bench by her side, then he repeated the action with her other arm. Abandoning the glove the same way he had the other one. And then he just held her hand, twining it in his own fingers. That move stole all her breath and thought, without contestation. She looked up at him, and she was suddenly nothing but that soft cherry red smile, with cute dimples at the corner of her delectable mouth. And her eyes are nothing but wide doleful cute little things that could command him to do whatever she wished. His eyes bore deeply into her own, Even under the mask, she could still not get over how bright they managed to be. Maybe he had showed her not to be so scared of desire, or maybe it was finally that her courage managed to catch up to her. But her hands reached back, tugging through the short thorns of his silk like black hair that he shuddered out a shaky breath as her fingers slid through it. He closed his eyes, fighting the moan that rolled up, deep from the back of his throat. He felt her petite hands go to the tied tight bow of his mask, and slowly slide the two ribbons apart, holding the mask as she lifted it down and off his face. He opened his eyes as he felt the thing come away from his face as she lifted it off him. Seeing once again that stunningly perfect face of his come into view, the full angled plane of his smooth carved jaw, the handsomely set bridge of his nose, and the full view of his gorgeously shaped ice chip coloured eyes were left unhindered by the shadowed brim of his dark mask once more. She let it lower to her side, her arm falling back down with the mask in her grip. He cupped his hand to the back of her neck, leaning in with such agonizing slowness to press his mouth to hers again, taking his time in kissing her now. Needing more of how her responsive body curled and keened into him, he thoroughly took advantage of this soft little action, and darting his tongue firmly into her mouth, stroking and smoothing about in a way that left them both panting. Suddenly, Thomas felt that it wasn’t enough. He really needed her now. He either needed confirmation that she was his, or he needed to posess the freedom to press her into the wall, lift up her skirts and claim her, make her scream his name to the heavens above. “I need you. I need you so much, Elizabeth. When can I have you, I can’t hold back for much longer..” He lusted. She smiled, her mouth gaping open as he skimmed his lips up across her cheek, to her neck once more. His hot breath making her knees weak as it rushed across her skin, tinting it a hot pink. “Oh, Thomas..” She gasped. “When will you learn that you already have me...” She asked, watching as he twirled a perfectly curled lock of red hair about his finger, she lost sense as his hot fingers brushed the delicate skin of her neck oh-so lightly. He tugged her close after hearing her say that, sealing their lips together once more, growling ferally into her mouth. When they broke again after a few long moments, they found they were all tangled and twisted together once more. Her arms wrapped tight about his neck, and his clasping her close by the waist, the other wrapping as far as it could around her. “I know I’m not supposed to allow any thoughts to cross my head, especially when we’re kissing. As I am to take it, I understand that such raw passion is supposed to leave me thoughtless…” She explained. Going giddy at the way he kissed down her neck, coming to her gown, and making her bite her lip as he slid the shoulder of it slightly down to her upper arm, placing a kiss to her shoulder causing her to tingle and melt a little bit at the knees. He was doing that thing he was so skilled at, which consisted of making her brain mushy again. “It is..” He murmured onto her skin. Before his mouth lowered to nip gently at her collarbone, he strained down to place a kiss to her thrumming pulse point, feeling that her skin was still so hot. “Whilst that may be, and whilst you are continuing to weaken my knees, I cannot help but be wary of the fact that Mrs Sharpe will definitely notice mine and your absence now. She is, sometimes, you know, a clever woman. She’ll have put two and two together…” She explained, her hand going up to latch into the back of his soft inky hued hair. He stopped, sighing against her neck. “I suppose that is plausible.” He uttered, his voice a rasping kiss strained husk now. “Maybe you should slip back..and I should try and locate a.. uh, ladies powdering room.” She insinuated, her fingers going to try and tame her mane like hair now, he chuckled, his hands had undoubtedly mussed it to an obvious ruffled indelicate state, that any respectful mama or debutante worth their mettle could instantly pick up as a lustful misadventure into the shadowy gardens to accompany a rake of a gentleman into unsavoury things – and unchaperoned at that too…. He touched his fingers now to the stray swirls of messy curls. “I rather like it. That and the flushed cheeks makes you look like my wild temptress…” He lusted, kissing her cheek, tilting her chin in his hand as he did. Holding her face up to him. She smiled. “Go, quick. Before people start to gossip about our reputations. Mine can be more easily tarnished than yours..” She explained, half heartedly trying to push his chest away from her own as he leered down at her, re-securing his mask on his face. “How so?” He frowned. “You are the Right Honourable Gentleman, His Lordship, Duke of Chatsworth.” “I am a gentleman, and you, Elizabeth, are a gentleman’s daughter. Make no mistake about it. We are of the same equals in rank and station, and I will fight to the death with my dying breath, anyone who dares declare otherwise, or insinuates that we are not suited as so.” He pressed firmly, an edge of authority in his eyes that she adored grouped with those words. Still though, with a touch of a smile to his lips. She smiled, her knees as soft as melted butter at what he proclaimed. “I am just ‘That red headed’ Professor’s Daughter, or ‘That Stubborn, shy, Farrow Girl’.” She insisted. Repeating the phrases that she’d heard parroted about by many Mama’s from all the gossip papers in London. “Wrong.” He bit out. Wolfish grin on his lips, dominance in his blue eyes. She frowned. “You are henceforth about to bare the title as the my fiancée, and the future Duchess of Chatsworth.” He reminded her, sneaking forwards to place one single kiss to her lips, long enough to make sure she arched into him. Then, when he pulled away, with a wink and a smile that could fell Queen Victoria herself, he vanished off into the cool night air. She could hear nothing but his boots on the gravel until he disappeared completely out of sight. Leaving her flustered and thrilled, and oh-so very in Love. ~ She had managed to sneak in unnoticed through an unlocked side door, which luckily, led right down a darkened corridor straight to a Ladies Powdering room. Thankfully, she was able to re-tame her ‘wild’ thick red coiled hair into something resembling civility and order. Pleased to see also that her cheeks had calmed down from their previous flushed state. Pleased that she looked the same as she did before, she exited the room, clicking the door shut, and sneaking silently back down the darkened hall, able to hear the music thrum from beyond its encasing in the ballroom ahead of her. She could only hope she didn’t stumble upon a couple of trysting young lovers.. what an embarrassment that would be. But then she smiled widely, as not ten moment’s previous, she had been part of a trysting young couple. That thought warmed her from the inside out, and just thoughts of Thomas, she noted, kept her warm better than any pelisse ever could. She had just clattered lightly down a couple of steps, seeing another corridor branch out ahead of her. The music grew louder now. That was the polka If she wasn’t mistaken. But her thoughts were swiped from her brain in a startling rush as she had just gripped her hand to the doorknob, about to push the door open, when the brutal force of a hard muscled body that told her it was definitely a man, collided into her back, throwing her away from the door, and tugging her to one side. Slamming her back viciously into the wall next to the door. His grip on her shoulders hurting her, grasping her so tight she swore she’d have dark bruises by the morrow. She nearly screamed, the man who accosted her was outfitted in a costume of pure red. With a skull mask swathing any discernable distinguishing facial features in regards to his identity, to her. She felt like screaming, in fact the small yelp that bubbled up and out of her throat at the sudden assault makes her sure she just almost did. Then, suddenly, she swallows. Remembering she had seen that green ring about his irises, daring her to draw deeper into his maliciously dark eyes before. And he was dressed as the Red Death, oh, how appropriate; Marcus Burke. “Scream, and I’ll strangle you, Elizabeth..” He snarled. His large hand beginning to close around her throat. Feeling her pulse thrum hot and panicked under his palm, her breath heaving and pulling at her chest. Which he eyes up hungrily. She truly did have remarkable breasts. He licked his lips looking at her. His mask only covered the upper half of his face, after all. She winced, trying to squirm out from his vice grip. “Marcus, what are you doing?” She gasped, one tear bursting to slide down her cheek. She had never known such uneasy terror like this. “I’m showing you what happens when you forget who is the one courting you…” He growled, squeezing her throat tighter. She whimpered, clawing at his strong hands. He leered close to her then, she fought not to shudder in repugnance at the strong fumes of drink that his breath carried. He was drunk. To no surprise of hers. “Please, you’re hurting me…” She cried, sobbing as those dark eyes glinted in violent pleasure at seeing her like this. “And you’re inconveniencing me…” He snapped back. “Swanning around London like a gracious whore, flirting with that Duke.” He spat. There was no other way to phrase how he had snapped the words to her, spitting out each one in snarls as if they were bad tastes In his mouth. “What was I supposed to do? Ignore him?” She asked. She closed her eyes, whimpering in pain again as his hand clamped so tight, she knows there will be red grip marks when he lets her go. “Yes.” He hisses into her ear, spittle from his snarling landing on her neck as he spoke. Again, came another scared tear from the corner of her eye. “You could have adhered to your promise to marry me, instead.” “You haven’t asked me to marry you. You’ve been too busy leaping into bed with Mabel Loxley as I understand it…” She snarled, her bravado swelling up inside of her as she sneered at him now. He grimaced at how the silly tramp looked pleased with herself, he’d have to punish her for that.. He reached up to tug of his own mask, throwing it away from his face, so she could see he was glowering down at her with venom in his eyes. He chucked it away to the floor behind him with his spare hand, still gripping her throat tight. That was before he chuckled, letting go of her throat, tugging her close to his body as he braced his over hers, making her press her chest into him, aswell as the fronts of both her squeezable fat thighs. One hand went to grasp at her bottom, the other steadied himself by bracing it flat to the wall behind her head. His body felt hot, and wrong, jutting into her own in a horrible way that she hated. She twisted her head to the side as he snarled into her ear, his lips contorting, brushing against her skin as he spoke. “Jealous?” He leered. “Because the man I hate is bedding the silliest most toxic chit in all of London. No, I’m not envious. Not even one bit.” She fought back, no hint of where her bravery was bursting from inside of her. She was trembling. He chuckled again, a deep scoffing sound. “Mabel’s an easy woman to bed, unlike you. She doesn’t have to stand on principle and station.” “It sounds to me like she’s suffering the advantage’s of a woman who has none of either.” She bit out. “Oh, I do so love your quick wit…” He smiled. “But I think I love your body more. Oh, you're making me so hard, you stubborn little bitch. So untouchable aren't you. I forgot how pristine you virgins can be..” He rasped, closing his hand around one ass cheek. “God, I can barely fit it in my hand…” Another tear at that…. He lusted in amazement, leaning forwards to kiss up her neck. Each touch made her shrink away from him in horror. Black bursts of sickening dirtiness dancing through her bloodstream. He did the same to her breasts, groping them so tight, exclaiming how he could barely get his hand around it. “Does it hurt you to know that after I take you, here, tonight, in this hallway, that you’ll have no chance of wedding that bloody Duke. We can invite him to the ceremony of course, let him sit there and watch as I make you Mrs Burke, and watch him squirm as he imagines us in bed together on our wedding night.” “What makes you think I’ll ever marry you?” She snarls back, crying, fighting to wriggle out of his grip now. His words making more tears dribble from her eyes. She was so scared, yet she had never been so breathtakingly angry in all her life. “It’s what your father wants. Its what I want, and I’ll force you to want it too. You don’t want to upset Daddy and Araminta, Now do you Elizabeth?” He mocked, starting to laugh a sickeningly dark chuckle at her. She pushed her hands to his chest, moaning as she tried to throw him away from her. He didn’t budge an inch as she tried to shove him. “Oh? Are you trying to fight me? Do you want to get away, Elizabeth, Is that it?” He snarled, still chuckling his words, getting up close into her face, trying to mock her, there came more frustrated tears down her cheeks. Suddenly, she doesn’t quite know how she does it, all she knows is, that she summoned some form of discernable strength from somewhere deep in her bones. Perhaps it was the way she hated how he talked to her, how he drank, how he treated her like a trophy to be won into marriage, or possibly how she hated his guts, his eyes, his hair, and everything about him. Everything from the last tip of his hair, to his toes, hell, even his own bloody dog, if he had one. Well. She hated that too. She hated Marcus Burke with every bone in her body. And, speaking of such, there wasn’t any evidence of him having a single good one in him. She manages to shove both her hands into his torso, succeeding to launch his entire muscled frame backwards, his grip on her loosened for a moment as he stooped to laugh at her displeasure and pain. He stumbled, his ace shocked as he looked at the small, very angry creature, that was stood snarling in front of him. She looked remarkably like the calm placid girl who used to be Miss Elizabeth, demure-and-shy-and-the-living-emodiment-of-polite-charity-and-harmlessness, Farrow. But her tolerance and her usually good temper had snapped. Having been provoked into violence by this man. She prayed a swift vehement to the sweet natured girl whom he had clasped to the wall and assaulted three moments previous. She was wild now, and fuming. And she looked it, her eyes set in such anger, if looks could kill, he would surely be dead. And some strands of her hair had drifted down to float angelically about her face, her lips pulled into a snarl. Though she looked as furious as the devil in that moment. There was no one to save her, and for once in her damned life. She was going to stop wishing for the handsome prince to come along and make the day. Goddammit she was going to save herself this time… come hell or high water… Her life was at stake, and for once she would not be that unfortunate red haired wallflower… “I will NEVER marry you.” She seethed quietly in a thin reed like voice that could have killed someone it was so lethal. “I can never marry you. How could I marry a man I so obviously loathe? Your character, Marcus Burke, is no better than poison. I had the damned effrontery to think you polite at one time. But that time has gone. Nothing on earth and in all of the heavens combined could ever tempt me to wed you. I thought you a decent man at one time, but I can clearly see now it was all an act to secure my affections. But I will stand for being talked down to, and handed about like a toy no longer. I am in love with Thomas Kenworthy, and whether you like it or not, I will be his wife. And you shall never have the opportunity to ruin me. I shall not let you. Not for one second. And do you honestly think my father or my stepmother will let me marry someone who they both extremely dislike, and whom they both can clearly see I abhor? They detest you as much as I do. With all the drinking and the rude manners, and bedding women from the Gaiety, I half wonder why they didn’t dismiss you from me earlier. From tonight onwards, I shall not receive you, I shall not wish to speak to you. And Unless you never speak to or come near me again, then I shall report you to the police for harassment. Do you understand? You have lost me Mr Burke. So you and your stupid oaf of a father can take your manners and attentions for finding a sensible easily ignorable wife elsewhere. I never wish to see you contaminate my path, ever again!” She shouted. Uncaring that she was raising her voice, and shouting her words so that her words scraped through her throat painfully as she yelled. Her voice hoarse and she yelled through the tears. She didn’t care if anyone heard her. In fact, she hoped they did. And her fists were clenched so tight, her whole upper body shook with fury. “So that’s the way it’s going to be? Is it Elizabeth?” He asked with a voice like murder. She offered him no answer but a glare. “Fine.” He snarled. “This isn’t the last you’ll see of me. Tell your precious Duke to watch his back..” He promised as stood looking at her, panting in anger for a second, before he snarled at her impassiveness, turning on his heel and disappearing off down the corridor. She slipped back inside the ballroom almost instantly after he had gone, her knees wobbled and she felt parched and very weak. She shut the door after her, shakily with sweating hands under her gloves. And tried to keep her back straight, and look elegant and unaffected as she scanned the room for Felicity and Mrs Sharpe. All she could see was the blur of people dancing, and laughing around her. She actually felt quite ill now… having done something so out of character for her. She swallowed, feeling that her throat was a sticky dry channel. Bile rising in her throat. She placed a hand to her forehead, suddenly feeling rather woozy and lightheaded. Her chst was pounding and she suddenly felt herself gasping for breath. When she opened her eyes and looked to the dancing crowds in front of her. She could see nothing but dizzying drags in her vision. She tried to calm herself, placing a hand across her mouth, and it was at this point that she saw a solid wall of a man’s chest come into her vision, aswell as a silky voice. She looked up, through her compromised vision, to see that Benedict Carlton had spotted her, and broken away from the crowds to wish her a good evening. He too, was dressed in a princely manner like Thomas had been, except his coat was a blue, and his mask a deep golden colour. He lifted it from his face as he greeted her, standing with a hand behind his back. Leering handsomely at her with a polite bow. “Miss Farrow. It is such a delight..” He smiled, his grin and seductive eyes, were one’s that could have even the most stern Mama weak kneed on the spot in an instant. Elizabeth swallowed, blinking rapidly as she exhaled a breath and a shaky smile. She watched as he tilted his head, smile fading. “Goodness, Miss Farrow, you look most pale? Can I fetch you something, A refreshment perhaps..” He asked, hint of playful charm in his voice gone, he was now leaning close to see her eyes were blinking quite a lot. And he chest was raggedly pounding through her laboured breaths. She really did look as white as a sheet. “Forgive me… I..” She gusted out on a breath, clamping her mouth shut as she wasn’t so unsure that when she opened it again, she’d vomit at his feet. “I’m..” She warned, but barely were the words out of her mouth as she crumpled to the floors below. Luckily, Benedict, having been a man of action, and of extreme kindness and chivalry - when he wasn’t bedding his conquests – dived to her side in an instant, making sure her lithe form fell neatly into his arms without injury. He held her in a most intimate manner. “Elizabeth?” He asked her in a hush, as she stayed still, looking like she was deep in slumber. His lower arm had caught her across her back, and the other at her knees. One of his legs bent at the knee and braced down on the tiled floor, stooping to catch her. Her red curls thrown over his arm as he held her. One of her arms tucked into her body, the other flailing out to the side, her knuckles brushing the floor where she had been seconds from falling too. “Miss Elizabeth?” He asked, louder, seeing she did not stir. His voice was concerned and searching for her response. But she was perfectly limp in his arms: The last thing Elizabeth heard was gasps and exclaims as she fell to the floor like a useless sack of boneless skin, her dizzying vision dragging into twirling blackness as she faded out from reality into nothingness ~ @wolfsmom1 @damageditem @echantedbytwh anyone else want tagging? Let a punk know...

#victorian era #historical romance #historical fiction #AU #tom hiddleston #fan fiction #romance #falling in love #love #balls #masquerade #gardens #kissing #moonlight #threats #swooning #fainting

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