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Elucien Week Masterlist // AO3 Link // Part 2

Day Four: High Society @elucienweekofficial

Summary: A Regency AU. When her family faces the backlash of questionable business choices, Elain Archeron finds herself betrothed to Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of the duke. A past of brief interactions taught Elain that there was no good to come from the man, but she soon learns there is more to the young lord than she could have ever known. Two Parts.

a/n: I shared a small section of this story last year during Elucien week as well, so if it looks familiar, that is why! Planning on two parts. And guess what??? Part two is mostly written (and by mostly i mean 3k words and it'll probs be 6-8k).

warnings: none for this part! ~8.3k words

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When Our Fingers Touch, I Find My Way Back Home

When she thought of love, Elain did not picture her parents. They were cold, calculating, vindictive individuals who certainly deserved each other. They were so far from typical conventions of affection that tolerance was the word she associated them with.

Her parents had married when mother was fresh into her first season, seventeen and well connected. Truly, Margot St. Moore had been the diamond in her season and been used to capture the attention of Lord Elias Archeron. Elias of course was only interested in a wife who would continue to garner gossip and valuable information that he could use to further his political agenda.

When she thought of love, Elain did not picture the heroine of the latest book she was reading. It was dull, long winded, and focused only on the male perspective. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by that fact considering it was Aunt Ripleigh who’d gifted it to her, but she’d had high hopes for it in any case.

And it wasn’t that Aunt Ripleigh wasn’t a capable woman herself. No. Aunt Ripleigh simply waited to be acted upon. She hardly ever sought her own will, her own wants, her own desires. It drove Elain insane especially when she’d been forced to spend an entire winter with the woman. She’d gotten very good at baking however, so that was alright she supposed.

Rather, when she thought of love, Elain looked to her sister. Which was hilarious when one thought about it because Nesta did not believe in love. At least she hadn’t. Until war hero and decorated officer Cassian Madura returned to the city and promptly swept Nesta off her feet.

The two were so different that Elain wondered how it was possible they’d come together. They’d certainly played many rounds of cat and mouse during their courtship. At one point Elain believed that Nesta had dismissed the man for good. She didn’t know the entire story behind their coupling, but Elain did know her sister and Nesta had never truly been happy until Cassian had come around.

The strange, free-falling nature of love had long fascinated Elain. She’d had her own fantasies and desires for what love would look like for her that she’d become quite enamored with the idea. Of course, she knew that love was hard to come by. Even if she was a woman and the second daughter, she’d understood she might need to make some sacrifices in her little world. But she’d long held on to the notion that she would be loved.

Until now.

“I’m sorry father,” she said, folding her napkin across her lap. She cleared her throat and leaned forward over the table. “I don’t think I heard what you said.”

Breakfast had never been an enjoyable affair. It was insufferable in the fact that they were all forced together at Mother’s insistence. Every meal was meant to be spent together, hilarious considering none of them liked the other. But Elain new better than to comment on that.

“Oh, Elain,” Mother sighed heavily, taking a long sip of her tea. “You know perfectly well what he said.”

Elain ignored her mother and stared at her father. He was doing a rather remarkable job at examining the single missive he’d received with breakfast. A missive that was minuscule, Elain knew.

The only other person in the room, aside from the staff, was Feyre who was twirling her fork in her fingers in a very undignified manner. Younger by a nearly two years, Feyre still had time before marriage became a priority. Even then, Margot and Elias Archeron were rather bored with being parents at this point that Feyre may never be forced to find a husband.

“You’re betrothed,” Father said flatly. “To one of the Vanserra boys. I spoke with his grace, Lord Vanserra just yesterday.”

Father finally tossed the missive to the side before cutting into the sausage on his plate.

“Which Vanserra boy was it?” Elain asked as calmly as she could. But her fingers were shaking, her whole body in fact. And there was a distinct rage building in her blood that she was certain would come pouring out at any given moment.

She had to pull herself together. Ladies did not dissolve into rage at a minor inconvenience. Ladies were calm, collected, and careful.

Mother sighed again and poured herself more tea. “Don’t be so difficult, Elain. You’ve been preparing for this your entire life. After your sister married that, that brute, you had to expect that you would bring our family some honor. Honestly.”

Elain met Feyre’s gaze. Her little sister merely shrugged. Wonderful.

“And I am happy to do so, mother,” Elain said, her smile felt tight and sharp. “I only wish to know who I’ll be spending the rest of my life with.”

She simply couldn’t believe that it would be a Vanserra she would marry. Oh, they were a well-respected family. They were rich, educated, dripping with all the prestige of the world. But there were rumors too. Rumors of cruelty and spite. Just last year two of the seven sons had been killed in a horrific robbery while abroad. Elain had heard from three different ladies that Beron, the family patriarch, had his own sons killed for no reason other than the boys were useless in business. There were also the rumors of cruelty. Lady Dierdre didn’t leave the Vanserra estate often for a reason.

Elain sipped her tea, trying to calm down.

She’d grown up with the Vanserra’s though. Had endured those boys like one endured an annoying fly that would not leave you alone. And she had a sickening feeling which brother her father assigned her to.

“Lucius, Leonardo, Liam.” Father waved a hand. “The one with the red hair.”

They all had red hair.

“Lucien,” Elain murmured. Really, there was no other option. The eldest was well into his thirties the next two married and the other still abroad. Dread weighed heavy in her stomach.

Father grunted and continued eating his sausage.

“Unfortunately,” Mother said, another sigh. “I would have preferred Eris. I tried arranging him and Nesta before she sullied herself—” a click of the tongue from Feyre “—and tried again for you. Unfortunately, he has a match now.”

Mother dropped sugar into her tea. “And even if that other one is the youngest and won’t inherit a title, you will still be a Vanserra.”

“Is Father’s business truly failing so much?” Feyre, finally breaking her silence, picked up a slice of strawberry with her bare fingers. “So much that you think a marriage alliance will fix it?”

“Hold your tongue, girl,” Father barked. “We always knew Elain would marry and maintain the household. When all our holdings go to her husband it will merely procure a legitimate union.”

Elain and Feyre exchanged another look.

“I will not tolerate your attitudes anymore,” Mother said. “The both of you. Petulant children. I raised you better than this, Elain. You are a lady. You will do as you’re told. And Feyre—you will sit properly at the table or go sit in the mires.”

Feyre slowly straightened her back.

Elain gave her mother a nod. “Of course, Mother. I forgot my place.”

And then she promptly kept her lips sealed for the rest of the meal.

…

It was when Elain was twelve that she met Lucien Vanserra for the first time.

She wasn’t supposed to be outside in the gardens, but she simply couldn’t resist. It was still early enough in spring that the new blooms were still budding, and leaves were unfurling that it all had an heir of magic to it. In just a few weeks this garden would be transformed from bare branches to insurmountable beauty. And she wanted to see every moment of that transition.

Even if it was still a bit cold. And yes, the clouds overhead were gray and fierce and looked ready to pounce. But it was no longer winter. She needn’t be contained anymore.

So, Elain wandered the gardens. She could identify most of the plants by their leaves alone. After kindly bullying the head gardener to teach her about his stewardship, Elain had come to more fully appreciate this small piece of the world.

As she rounded a corner of her favorite part of the garden, she saw a flash of red and a creature dashed out of the shrubbery. It paused in the middle of the path, staring at her. A fox. Sleek and lean with large russet eyes.

“Oh, aren’t you a surprise,” Elain said, because what else was there to say? “Having a look around?”

Its tail twitched and head listed to one side. And then a great shout echoed across the garden and the fox flitted off again.

Elain couldn’t help her cry of dismay when a boy, just a few years older than her, came charging through the garden. He was impeccably dressed for a boy his age with crisp linen and shiny boots. His fiery red hair hung over his face as he ran towards Elain.

“Where is it?” he asked with obvious desperation.

“I—what?” Elain stared at him, this strange boy with a pal-mal racquet in one hand and determination in his eyes.

“The fox! The blasted thing stole through the game and ruined my shot!”

Elain blinked. “You were startled by a fox?”

The boy scowled. “I didn’t say I was scared.”

“Then how did it ruin your shot?” she insisted.

“It ran out in front of me,” he replied.

“And you got distracted?”

“No!” The boy did not appreciate her at this moment, she could see that well enough.

“Then what’s the problem?” she asked.

“It’s a menace,” the boy said. He looked at her in earnest now. Elain could see how bright his eyes were, rich brown like the fox’s. His skin was a warm, rich color, darker than most in the -ton. “I want to catch it.”

Elain’s eyes widened. “What on earth for? You wouldn’t hurt it would you?”

The boy started. “Well, I suppose I don’t know. I didn’t think that far.”

“You’re very strange,” Elain told him.

“Well so are you,” he said.

It was Elain’s turn to scowl. How dare he! He didn’t know her from Adam.

“I am a respectable young lady and I would ask that you treat me as such,” she said, and then lifted her chin in the air for good measure.

“You’re covered in dirt,” the boy said. “Ladies don’t roll around in the dirt.”

Elain glanced down. It appeared he was right. She’d knelt beside the roses pulling weeds earlier. And then there was a mess of fallen branches in the hydrangeas. Not to mention lavender.

“A lady is allowed her hobbies, and her discretion,” she said, perfectly mimicking her tutors.

The boy cocked his head. “I don’t know. Still seems strange to me, you were talking to yourself too. Or is that another one of your discretions you're allowed?”

Was he mocking her? Elain couldn’t help her scowl, even with her mother’s inner monologue raging in her head.

“At least I’m not running about like a savage waving a stick,” she said.

“It’s fun, you should try it,” he replied, “but ladies aren’t meant to be savages.”

“No,” she said, “they’re not.”

And then, for whatever reason, he grinned at her. Something wild and bright and utterly different than what Elain ever saw on anyone. He then swept into a low bow.

“Lucien Vanserra,” he said, “seventh son to the duke.”

The Duke? Elain stared at him. Her father was a lord who managed funds and trades. This boy, Lucien, so clearly outranked her in social standing that Elain could hardly even think. Mother was going to be furious for being so forward and impolite to him.

“And you, my lady,” Lucien asked, his impish grin still in place. “Might I know of your name?”

If she didn’t tell him her name then he couldn’t tattle on her for being so uncivilized.

Elain clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. Not only would mother scold her, but she could also revoke Elain’s privileges relating to the garden, or baking. If either of those things happened, Elain had no idea what she would do. She would be forced to read. Or paint. Or cross-stitch.

“Elain!”

She started, terrified that her mother had found her out in the garden, dirty, talking to the duke's son of all things. Hand clutched to her chest, she spun around, searching for who was calling for her.

Walking quickly down the path towards her was Nesta. Barely a year older than her, Nesta was already so lovely. Her dress was perfectly pressed and arranged, and her body, perfect for dancing, moved with perfect elegance.

“Elain, what are you doing?” Nesta demanded as she drew closer.

While Nesta wouldn’t tell their mother about this little venture, she would try and mother hen Elain the rest of the day. Elain glanced at Lucien. As if he could help.

All he did was offer another bow. “Lady Elain.”

And then he was scampering off the way he came.

“Elain!” Nesta finally stepped up beside her and took her arm. “Who was that? What’s going on?”

“It was, I was,” she was at a loss for words. In all her life, Elain always had the words for every situation. “There was a fox.”

Nesta did not like that answer. She tugged at Elain’s arm, pulling her back to the manor.

“Come on, you have to change before mother sees you.”

There was no other choice than to follow.

…

The winter months were long and dreary. Compared to the bright vibrant warmth of spring and summer, winter was the bane of Elain’s existence. It was barely even Winter Solstice and Elain was ready to return to the comforts of the other seasons.

“Get that scowl off your face,” Mother snapped.

Elain blinked and looked in the mirror of her vanity. Her maid, Nuala, was carefully pinning her curls into an elegant twist while her mother paced the room behind. She wasn’t scowling, was she? She was merely staring off into nothing.

“You’re going to be the center of attention tonight at the ball and we cannot have your future husband see that on your face.” Mother picked invisible lint from her dress. “You are a lady who everyone will be looking to, tonight.”

Elain straightened her shoulders and relaxed her jaw. “Of course, Mother. I’m sorry. I just can’t help but imagine how tonight will go. With my betrothal to Lord Lucien there will be a number of expectations.”

“Expectations that you’ve been training for since you could walk,” Mother replied crisply. She came up behind Elain, nearly pushing Nuala out of the way. The lady's maid said nothing, knowing better than to try and address the woman. “It is nothing you cannot handle.”

The compliment was a rare gem that Elain would savor for just a moment. She told herself to relax, to breathe evenly. It would be a successful night of celebration and merriment. Even with the official engagement to Lord Lucien, there were still holiday celebrations. The dancing would be wonderful, the food divine, and the decorations. Elain had helped the head housekeeper in all the planning. Mother only accepted the notion when Elain reminded her it was how she would best prepare for her own house in just a few months’ time.

It would be a remarkable night, and her engagement to Lord Lucien would not sully it. She loved parties and gatherings and adored the excitement that came with all the various arrangements.

“All finished,” Nuala said. She pined one more curl into place. It was lovely with the twisting curls and gentle braids she’d created. She’d even pinned a small string of pearls to act like a crown.

“Thank-you Nuala.” Elain smiled at her maid. She’d long been a good confidant and wonderful friend despite their differences in station. “You’re dismissed, I’ll ring for you later tonight.”

Nuala curtsied before hurrying from the room. Just as she was leaving, another of the maids approached, rapping on the door.

“Excuse me, my ladies,” the maid said, curtsying just as Nuala had. “Lady Arch—er Madura has arrived.”

Elain perked immediately. “Do send her up Greer.”

“No,” Mother cut in. “We are already late. We’ll see her downstairs.”

They were ahead of schedule, but Elain knew better than to correct her mother. But she desperately wanted to speak with Nesta. The two got along as well as sisters could, but they still had their differences. And while Elain had her own thoughts and opinions about Nesta’s choice in life (not that she begrudged her sister’s choice in husband nor how she took hold of her life) there were simply things that she didn’t understand.

Things that she couldn’t talk to her mother about. And Feyre, well, Feyre was ice and snow. Hard to navigate, hard to approach. Sometimes, Elain would say that Feyre and Nesta were the most similar of the sisters, but she didn’t want to get her head eaten off.

“Now,” Mother said, drawing Elain from her thoughts. “Tonight is all about your betrothal to Lord Lucien. You must dance with him and you must speak with him. Civilly. None of this running around to your every whim and fancy. I will not have you become a gossip.”

“I have to attend to guests,” Elain insisted. She did not want to spend an entire night stuck to Lord Vanserra’s side. It was laughable. Ludicrous to expect her to do so. “I am in part hosting this event, Mother.”

“The only one hosting this night, is me. I am the lady of this household,” Mother said. Her voice was stoney and viciously cold. Elain hardly restrained her wince. “You cannot flirt with every man that walks through that door. Have some restraint, Elain.”

Elain dropped her gaze, demurely. “Yes, ma’am.”

There was no point in arguing with her. Not now. Soon, she would be gone from the manor. Gone from the constant nagging and finagling. Soon, she would have her own house to tend. Lord Vanserra would allow her that small mercy, wouldn’t he?

“You’re frowning again.” Mother rapped her on the shoulder and sighed. “And your hair. Why must you have so many curls? It really would be better if it lay flat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then Elain was left to follow her mother down to the main hall where the ball would occur.

Everything had been transformed to reflect a taste of winter. Blue and white ribbons combined with simple floral arrangements. The chandeliers had all been shined to perfection and candelabras burned through the hall. The carpets had been washed, banisters polished, and every surface that was supposed to gleam did so as if set upon by the sun.

Elain allowed herself a moment of admiration for the work the staff had done. But only a moment. Mother was already halfway across the hall and trailing behind like a little duckling would not make the night any easier.

Immediately, there were names to be learned, curtsies to be given, and greetings to be issued. Elain had been trained for this. Mother had taught her everything about being a good hostess and deferring to the man of the house. Mother had also taught her how to carefully gather information from everyone that passed through their doors.

And while Elain didn’t mind a bit of gossip, she didn’t necessarily enjoy the attention this sprung on her. If she were being honest, she wished she could have a single moment for herself. Just one where she could take everything in about the decorations of the house, the music, the food. Where she could simply breathe and not worry about whether she’d done well enough or worry about how others saw the way she ran the house.

She just wanted a moment.

“Elain,” Mother hissed beside her when they weren’t inundated with another round of guests.

She snapped to attention, realizing she was giving too much attention to a snag in Lady Charlotte’s gown. The poor dear was failing miserably at hiding her pregnancy.

Elain didn’t need to ask her mother what happened because she already knew. It only took a glance.

Entering their families' great hall were the Duke and Duchess. They were resplendent in their dress, the duke formal in a black coat and rich cream shirt, trousers, and cravat. His black hair was neatly styled and those dark brown eyes shrewdly examined everything in the hall. His wife, though, was by far the most beautiful woman Elain had seen. Her red hair was twisted into a fashionable chiffon and laden with sparkling gems that matched the green of her gown. With a willowy frame and bright, amber eyes, the Duchess was remarkable.

Following right behind them were two men that were impossible to mistake. Eris and Lucien Vanserra. They were both proud and arrogant as they stood in the doorway. So similar yet so different. Where Eris had paler skin, Lucien was darker, where Eris was sharp and cut cold as his father, Lucien retained the subtle softness of his mother.

Elain couldn’t help but stare. Truly, she tried to avert her gaze. To focus on Lady Viviane who looked resplendent in a gown of pale blue. To congratulate her on her pregnancy that she had no qualms of hiding unlike most ladies of the -ton.

But once her eyes snagged on Lucien, she could not look away. And when he caught her staring, Elain knew she was lost.

A smirk tugged on his lips and his brow rose in challenge. Elain lifted her chin and looked away. There was only so long she could get away with it. Only so long until her mother forced the hired string quartet to play something. Only so long until she was thrust into the arms of her betrothed. Like an animal.

…

She was seventeen when she realized that her life would never be her own.

She’d tried to ask her mother for permission to spend time in the kitchens with the cook so she could learn how to braid bread and roll out pie dough. At first, Elain foolishly thought her mother would give her permission. Until Mother tossed her head back and laughed.

“You are a lady, Elain. And you will be married the second you turn eighteen. There is no reason for you to sully yourself with that sort of thing.”

Elain was quickly learning that sully was mother’s new favorite word. Especially after Nesta had been seen dancing with Cassian Madura at the Berdara Ball just two nights ago. Mother had just never used it in reference to her before. Elain was always lovely and sweet and perfect.

And even if Elain didn’t like being called those things, didn’t like the way they made her feel so enclosed and trapped—she’d never thought her mother would be so blatant in her cold words and cruel actions.

Perhaps that was why Elain found herself wandering the large fields of the property that day. It was early spring and the rains had stopped for a small respite. She’d been desperate to get out of the house. To feel the fresh air and taste the sweet breeze that came with the fresh blooms of spring. Even if it was still chilly and the clouds overhead looked ready to burst at any moment.

Elain wasted no time as she practically ran across the sprawling lawn. It wasn’t long until she was far enough away from the manor that she could breathe a bit easier, that even her mother’s nagging voice disappeared.

She only came to a stop as she reached the small stream that served as a border between Archeron and Vanserra land. How they lived so close to the duke Elain had never learned and she was certain that the truth would not be comforting, so she put it out of her mind as best she could.

She wore one of her simpler dresses today which made it easier to walk and explore in. Not to mention it was a bit older too so if it got a little dirty, no one would care. Well, Nuala might give her a look, and Elain was fairly certain the maid was giving her mother reports on her actions.

That was something she could worry about later, Elain decided.

She carefully crept closer to the stream bed, the grass slick with the earlier rain. Elain had always had good luck finding different colored rocks. She loved the varying colors that could range from burgundy to pale blue. Even the dull grays were fascinating especially if they had a distinct stripe or marking that—

Her foot slipped and before Elain could even attempt to right herself, she went spiraling face first into the river.

There was no way to catch herself. She knew it the second she felt the shift of her stance. Elain let out a shriek as she fell. The cold watch sloshed around her and immediately seeped into her shoes, her dress. Gasping, Elain floundered in the water until she sat up. Soaked. Utterly soaked. And freezing.

The chill stole the air from her lungs and Elain could do nothing other than stare through the loose tendrils of her hair that had come free from her chignon.

“Lady Elain!”

She heard the voice but couldn’t focus on anything other than how cold she was. Her lungs wouldn’t cooperate either. All she could do was sit in that water and let it wash around her. It hadn’t been terribly deep, perhaps only halfway up her calves, but now it felt as though she’d been dragged hundreds of meters below the surface.

There was a loud splash from somewhere beside her and before Elain could register it, strong hands were dipping beneath her shoulders and legs and she was hauled against a broad, warm chest.

The arms that held her were firm and unyielding. Elain could do little more than cling to his front and bury her face against his shoulder as the shivers took control. She could make out a strong masculine scent of sunlight and pine, it was oddly comforting in a strange, subtle way.

When she was set down on solid ground, Elain’s knees buckled and she held on tighter to the arms around her.

“Easy,” a deep voice murmured in her ear. “Easy.”

Elain shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut. Oh she knew that voice. She knew exactly who it was that held her.

“Are you alright?” Lucien Vanserra’s low voice hummed in her ear. She wanted to push him away, to stand on her own, to—

Her knees buckled again and like some swooning heroine in a horrible broadsheet story—she clung tighter to the youngest Vanserra. Elain was still too shocked and chilled to be embarrassed by this miserable state. It didn’t help that Lucien exuded so much warmth.

“It seems I slipped,” she finally whispered. She kept her eyes closed, willing her skin to stop flushing. Maybe if she stayed still long enough, she’d just sink into the earth and vanish.

She felt the soft brush of his hand against her cheek, brushing a damp curl away.

“Indeed,” Lucien murmured. His hand moved to run down her arm, rubbing warmth back into her. “I saw you tumble. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Elain steeled herself before blinking her eyes open. His own eyes were trained on her—russet brown with golden undertones, the left eye laced with pale scars along tender skin. She took a slow breath. Ever since their brief meeting when they were children, Elain had only seen him from a distance. Nesta had whispered rumors that Beron Vanserra was not a good man and they shouldn’t engage with him or his family. Duke or no.

But here and now, amid the soggy weather and cool breeze that mixed with her wet skirts--Elain found herself unable to pull away from him.

“I’m fine,” she whispered even as a shiver wracked her body.

Lucien chuckled darkly. “Forgive me, but you look like a drowned rat, my lady.”

The haze of surprise dissipated and Elain found herself scowling. “Well then, I shall be on my way. I hate to be such an eyesore.”

She pulled away from that careful grasp he still held her in and nearly went slipping all over again. Lucien caught before Elain fell. His strong hands gripped her arms and his own sturdy build kept her grounded.

“Don’t go off in a huff,” he said.

Elain swatted his arms. She was able to keep her balance this time as she managed to put some distance between them.

“I should have remembered how rude you are,” she snapped amid her shivers.

Gathering her skirts in her hands, Elain stalked off in the direction of her family home. Lucien kept pace easily and before she could swat him again, he’d shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Warmth immediately enveloped her and Elain had to clamp her mouth shut to hold back the satisfied sigh that wanted to escape.

“We wouldn’t want you catching a cold,” Lucien said when she finally looked at him.

She didn’t know how else to respond to that other than to continue walking while he remained dutifully by her side.

…

The ball was off to a remarkable beginning. Even if her mother had dragged her away from most of the inner workings of the planning--Elain noted with satisfaction that everything was still delightful.

The lights were perfect, the food continuous, and the small quartet in the corner extremely talented. All from her careful deliberations.

Elain allowed her pride to be stroked for just a moment before it was dashed away by a familiar form approaching her side. She couldn’t help the sharp inhale nor the way she shifted just so subtly toward him.

“Well, Lady Elain,” Lucien said, “we meet again.”

In the years since that regrettable day where she’d tumbled into the stream—Elain had done her best to avoid the youngest Vanserra. At first it was embarrassment. And then it turned to something else—something Elain didn’t know how to identify, only that when she simply thought about the young lord, her cheeks would heat and her heart thudded harder. Embarrassment. Anger. Both seemed like decent explanations so in the end she focused on the latter.

Anger mostly at him for being so arrogant. And teasing.

Ever since that day, Elain hadn’t known what to think or how to act toward him. Certainly he had acted the gentleman and delivered her back home safely. But he’d never called on her after, never passed a kind note, nor paid her any heed at dances or shared meals when they arose.

She, apparently, was utterly uninteresting.

“Indeed,” she said crisply. She clutched her glass of punch tightly between her fingers, fully expecting the delicate glass to shatter at any moment.

“And fully set to ignore me too?”

Elain glared at him, despite her keen desire not to even acknowledge him. She lifted her chin, though it did little in making up the difference in their heights. Lucien practically towered over her with a lean, but firm build. He’d certainly filled out in the years since he’d saved her from the stream. Heat flushed her skin and she looked away.

“No need to get shy on me now,” Lucien remarked, she caught the curve of a smile on his stupidly full lips. “We are betrothed after all.”

“How could I forget?” She set her drink down on the table she stood beside. She turned her full attention to him and gave him the full effect of her scowl. “It’s only been drilled into me ever since the announcement.”

“No need to be so upset.” He only grinned at her expression. “That hardly seems a way to enter a marriage. It should be far more fun than that.”

She couldn’t do this. Elain turned away, already looking for the best escape. If only Feyre was here. But Mother didn’t allow her to come to parties even if she were of age. Nesta and Cassian were all the way on the other side of the ballroom speaking with the young Miss Gwyneth Berdara and Miss Emerie Costa. It would be painfully obvious if she stalked straight across the hall for them leaving her betrothed standing there.

Well she could just leave the event all together. Her mother hadn’t said anything about how long she would need to stay after seeing her intended. She’d fulfilled her duty so she could now leave.

She saw her escape when the young general Jurian Renault and his wife Vassa Deveraux approached. Elain was aware that her betrothed and the general had met at school and nearly been expelled together after a rebellion of sorts involving frogs, explosions, and crotchety old men. She didn’t know much beyond that, but this would certainly be the perfect distraction.

As soon as Jurian called for Lucien, Elain swept away toward one of the back stairways that was hardly used by anyone—servants included.

She'd hardly made it out of the great hall before Lucien caught up to her. He didn't try to touch her, merely keeping just one step behind her.

“Lady Elain.” Lucien cut her off before she made it even a step up the stairs. “Is this how you plan to spend our marriage? Running from it?”

“Yes,” she said simply. She tried to dodge around him but he was too quick for her. Lucien stood firmly in front of her that even one stiff shove didn’t get him out of her way. Bastard. “If you would get out of my way.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he replied. He grinned, his teeth flashing, and Elain scowled as she tried to push him again. Built like a wall, the man didn’t budge. “You and I have things to discuss.”

There was an earnestness in his words even if his face appeared cut from stone. Everything she’d heard about his father, his brothers, came rushing to the front of her mind and she had a hard time reconciling that cruelty.

“I am not a puppet for you to dress up and play with,” she told him. He let her pass him this time and she hurried up the stairs that would take her to her rooms. “Nor am I a wife you can brush aside without a second thought.”

“I never said you were,” Lucien said. His ridiculously long legs kept him in pace with her.

“Please,” Elain scoffed. She glared at him, mostly upset that she couldn’t storm away properly. It was a lady’s prerogative to have equal storming rights. “You’re getting a perfect little wife for your perfect little life. I know the kind of man you are, Lord.”

He waited until they rounded the third floor before grabbing her arm and swinging her around to face him. Elain couldn’t help the little peep of surprise that escaped her when suddenly she was staring at his chest. Steeling herself, Elain lifted her gaze and met his eyes. Beautiful and russet brown, his left eye scarred through the corner. It was, unfortunately, impossible to look away from him. Perhaps it was his broad features, the deep tones of his skin. Or even that subtle strength coiling within him.

There was something about Lucien Vanserra that called to her. She didn’t know how to describe it, and that terrified her. But she couldn’t help it. She often found herself thinking about it, wondering what might be going on in that trickster-like mind of his. And now here she was, so close she could smell whisky on his breath and cloves on his skin.

“You think I want this?” he asked. “That I asked for it? You think you know me, Elain?”

The way he whispered her name sent a shiver racing through her. She could do nothing to control it. His voice was dark and heavy as he spoke as though he were trying desperately to hold something back.

“No,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “Perhaps I don’t know you. But whose fault is that?”

A sharp smile.

“Oh?” he raised his hand to curl a finger beneath her chin. “It’s my fault, is it?”

She could only stare. She feared that if she nodded it would just give her body permission to go falling into his arms like one of the heroines from Nesta’s favorite books.

“Yes,” she replied when it was clear he was waiting for her to answer. “You are not an easy person to know.”

Lucien laughed, laughed, at her. The sound rumbled from him and sent flurries through Elain’s belly. “I’m not easy to know? You, Elain, have never met yourself, have you? For every chance I’ve tried to get to know you, you have ignored me. Hiding behind tea cups and floral arrangements. I have tried to reach out but you have said nothing. Believe you me, say the word and I will be gone.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “You won’t leave. This marriage contract benefits your father as much as mine.”

“I care not for my father,” Lucien said. The mention of his father leeched the warmth that usually accompanied him away as suddenly as if she’d smothered him. His eyes sharpened though, boring into her. “Nor do I answer to him.”

Elain’s heart beat far too heavily in her chest. They were up on the third floor of the mansion, the sounds of the party a mere hum in the background. She should have been concerned about being alone with a man, being so close to him. She should be concerned over the party continuing on without her for heaven’s sake. But all Elain could do was stare into Lucien’s gaze.

She wet her lips, speaking before she lost her nerve. “Who do you answer to, then?”

A look flashed in his eyes and Elain swore it was hunger. Desire. Want. No one had ever looked at her like this before. It sent a flush through her entire body. If she’d still had a wit of decorum left in her senses she would have shoved him away. As it was, she arched toward him. Whether it was simply for the connection of another human or for feeling more than the dainty woman everyone thought her to be--

Lucien’s eyes pierced her to the very soul. And when he dipped in closer, Elain felt her breath catch. One of his hands brushed over her cheek as though painting the blush right onto her skin.

Elain’s lips tingled in anticipation; certain he was about to kiss her. Much to her surprise, and horror, she wanted him to. In the years since the incident at the stream she’d tried not to think about him. She’d tried to forget that small taste of protectiveness and rebel against it. She'd become so used to being told what her life would be like and how she should act that now having him thrust upon her in such a manner made her want to shrink back. To fight any claim he might make over her.

But he did now want this either, did he? A forced marriage being controlled. This was never what he'd imagined for himself…was it?

And yet there was a desperation to him as his hands went to her waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of her gown. He didn't want to let her go…despite it all.

"What do you want, Lucien?" She asked when the silence stretched too long.

He leaned into her and Elain would have stumbled if he hadn't been supporting her she would have simply forgotten to stand sinking into those russet eyes of his.

"I," he began, but there was the click of a door and the two sprung apart looking for the source of the noise.

There emerging from her rooms in a simple blue dress was Feyre. She merely raised a brow. Just because she wasn’t allowed to attend the ball downstairs did not mean she was supposed to stay in her rooms. Well, their mother certainly expected it, but Elain knew her sister. Feyre had likely stolen a bottle of wine and had a little nook set up on the roof with her paints and a canvas.

Feyre crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorway of her room. “I do hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

The drawl was pointed, amused. Lucien emitted a low growl that only Elain could hear before he pulled away. He made sure Elain would keep her footing this time.

The interruption was just what Elain needed. She pulled out of Lucien's grasp, not an easy task when he seemed determined not to let her go, and faced her sister.

“Feyre,” she said. “What are you doing?”

Feyre betrayed nothing as her blue eyes widened in innocence. “Simply out for a stroll and thought I'd heard your voice.”

Her sister was a menace that shouldn't be trusted.

“Shouldn't you be enjoying the ball you planned?” Feyre continued, not moving from her perch in the doorway. She gave a pointed look at Elain’s rumpled appearance.

“Your sister was merely showing me about the manor,” Lucien stepped in lightly.

“Liar.” Amusement flashed in Feyre’s eyes.

“Feyre!” Elain could only stare at her sister. Seventh son or not, you didn't say such things to the son of a duke.

But Lucien merely laughed. “I can see why you're tucked away up here, not many could stand your sharp tongue, I take it.”

Feyre lifted her chin, eyes narrowed. “Consider it a good thing you're already betrothed. For I could make things miserable for you, Lord.”

Having had enough of this mess, Elain took Lucien's hand and pulled him down the hall, away from Feyre’s rooms. She knew her sister’s threat was mild to say the least, Feyre hardly cared about propriety or what they’re mother said.

“Perhaps you should tend to your studio sister,” Elain said. She gave Feyre a significant look which mostly went ignored.

“Good night,” Feyre sang lightly and then returned to her room, the door sticking shut behind her.

With no intention of showing Lucien Vanserra her bed chamber, Elain practically shoved him through the next available doorway, a broom closet, and rounded on him. She’d misjudged how big the closet was because when she turned to more effectively yell at Lucien, he was far closer to her than she’d expected. In fact, her nose nearly brushed his chest. There was no where she could go because she was a fool who had stuffed herself and Lucien in said closet without any second thought.

Craning her neck to glare at him, Elain crossed her arms over her chest. She ignored the fact that her bare arms ran along the soft fabric of his jacket sending small sparks along her skin.

Lucien meets her gaze, raising a brow that stretches out the scars that line one side of his face.

“Really, Elain? I thought you wanted to avoid this sort of scandal?”

As if anyone would care if they were stuffed in a closet together. If anything, it would only make her mother happy as they would be forced to move the wedding date up. A thought that churned Elain’s stomach.

Still, she set her jaw and did her best to appear to be looking down her nose at him. “Scandal. Our mothers would happily march us down the aisle tomorrow if they could.”

“Indeed,” Lucien mused. “Seems a bit silly then that we continue with a betrothal if that is the case.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll retain what little freedom I have left for a bit longer, thank-you.”

Lucien’s brow ticked higher in the silent ask: then what are we doing in this damnable closet? Or something close to it because that was certainly the thought racing through her own mind.

“By spending the duration of your party in a closet,” he murmured instead. His breath aired out against her face: warm and tainted with the spicy scent of whiskey.

“It’s my mother’s party,” Elain said, a bit too sharply. Even though she’d been the one to organize everything to confirm the menu to— “And she made it clear I’m supposed to spend time with my betrothed. So really, I’m doing exactly what is expected of me.”

A small huff of amusement escaped Lucien’s lips and he shook his head. “Well, congratulations on that, I suppose.”

“Thank-you.”

Another smile turned up the corners of his mouth, his stupidly attractive mouth.

She took a small moment to force a quick breath, praying it would calm her erratic heartbeat. It didn’t work and she felt a flush begin to rise along her skin, creeping across her collarbone and neck.

“You wished to speak to me,” she said, voice quiet in an effort to hold back her flurry of emotions, “isn’t that why you chased me all around my home?”

That smile of his remained even as he pulled back to put space between them once more. “I know this marriage is not ideal for both of us, however, it is one that will benefit both of our families. Which we’re both concerned with.”

He gave her a significant look; the kind that said he was well aware of the pressures she was under from her parents.

“And?” she pressed, ready to get out of this damned closet that was somehow getting too small--the walls closing too tight around them and the scent of his cologne too strong and delicious.

“And I propose an…understanding,” he said. He paused as he considered his next words. “There is no escaping what awaits us, but we need not be miserable.”

Elain’s stomach churned at his words and what he could mean. She wasn’t a dunce, she knew that displeasure and unhappiness prevailed in most marriages of the -ton, her parents for example. But that’s not what she wanted. She wanted a marriage and happiness and a husband who favored her. And now here was her intended off to suggest affair partners before they were even wed.

“I would that we could be friends,” Lucien said, cutting in to the spiral of Elain’s thoughts.

She frowned; certain she hadn’t heard him right. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

Staring up at him, Elain tried to read his face. It was impassive as ever, the only thing showing any trait of personality being the scars that emanated from his eye. Though, she supposed that didn’t count.

“You want to be my friend?” she asked. Such a thing had never occurred, nor been proposed, to her. Mama always said that men wanted one thing and one thing alone and they would use her for it in any way they could. Besides, Elain had never had a real friend before. She could never trust her maids or ladies in waiting—they were all too loyal to Mama. She had her sisters, but Nesta was married now and Feyre had her own little tricks up her sleeves. They’d never been close and Elain doubted they ever would.

“Yes.”

And Elain, for some strange reason, believed him. For the most part. She wouldn’t let him behave so casually and confidently though.

“And what does being your friend entail?” she asked. Curious to see how he would define the word. It wasn’t as though she had a good definition herself, but that didn’t matter.

Amusement flashed briefly in his eyes before vanishing entirely.

“Never had a friend before, Lady Elain?” He asked it with amusement and fully of jest but the question pierced straight to her soul.

Because no; she’d never had a friend before. Not really. Not a close confidant nor companion. Oh, she had her sisters, but theirs was a strange thing to where Elain wasn’t sure exactly where they stood together.

Realizing she’d been quiet for too long, Elain merely shrugged. “Never one so misbehaving as you.”

That got a full laugh out of him. Rich and bright, Elain knew she wouldn’t forget the sound of it anytime soon. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him laugh like that.

“I suppose I can try and be better,” he said, “for you.”

“That’s all I would ask of you,” Elain said, with far more bravado than she felt. She then repeated her earlier question. “What would you ask of me, as your friend?”

“To trust me, to talk to me.”

He made it sound so easy that Elain just kept watching him, waiting for the impossible requirement to rear its head.

“That’s it?”

“For now.” And just like that his roguish nature returned and whatever brief kinship Elain may have thought present evaporated. His eyes gleamed with obvious merriment and a subtle slouch entered his posture.

Elain did her best to rise to her full height as she glared at him, which only made him smirk. With as much dignity she could muster, Elain reached around him to the door of the closet to shove it open. She needed space, needed fresh air, needed to not be so close to him while her mind ran rampant and chaotic.

“Until the next,” Lucien said.

Ever the gentleman, Lucien took her hand. He leaned in to press a kiss to the back of her fingers. Elain ignored the way her stomach clenched and her skin tingled. But it was hard to ignore the way his hand practically dwarfed hers and his woodsy scent wrapped around her.

And just like that, he slipped out of the closet to leave her alone with her thoughts. Thoughts that were not conducive to friendship. And thoughts that were simply not real to begin with. Because Lucien Vanserra, and whatever understanding they’d come to, was never going to lead her to happiness.

#elucien #elucienweek2024 #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #i am the worst at moodboards apprently #yeesh not my best effort #acotar

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Why A New Yorker Short Story About Bad Sex Went Viral

New Post has been published on https://usnewsaggregator.com/arts-culture/why-a-new-yorker-short-story-about-bad-sex-went-viral/

Why A New Yorker Short Story About Bad Sex Went Viral

We’ve developed a pretty clear idea, by the Year of Our Lord 2017, of what should go viral on social media. Body-positive clapbacks. Video clips of hamsters eating tiny burritos. Bizarre optical illusions. Searing takedowns of Donald Trump (bonus points if published by unexpected outlets like Teen Vogue or Outdoor Magazine). Invitingly tone-deaf first-person essays.

Fiction? No, fiction isn’t on the list of things to go viral. At least until this weekend, when The New Yorker dropped “Cat Person” by Kristen Roupenian on the internet and sauntered away like an action star silhouetted in front of an explosion. What happened? Why did “Cat Person” catch fire while so many other great New Yorker stories have, comparatively, fizzled?

In scouting the story, before reading it, I’ll admit I thought that all the kerfuffle was because The New Yorker had published a daring genre romance about a shape-shifting cat/person and a human. (I blame the creepily ambiguous image of a kiss attached to the story.) It turns out “Cat Person” fascinated people for something else: the uncomfortable, unflinching realness with which it depicts a murky, troubling sexual encounter between a young woman and a man she recently began dating.

Roupenian’s story, if you haven’t read it, is about a college student named Margot who starts texting with Robert, a man who frequents the artsy movie theater where she works. Eventually the two go on a date; it goes rather poorly, but she still ends up back at his place. Once there, her sexual desire for him starts to fade, but she decides she’d rather have sex with him than face an awkward and involved conversation about why she doesn’t want to anymore. She has the sex she doesn’t want to have, she leaves and she stops texting with Robert ― who, spoiler alert, does not handle the rejection gracefully.

The story hit at just the right moment ― amid the #MeToo reckoning, as our society has been consumed by questions of sexual discomfort, misconduct and the toxic state of our scripts around male-female interactions.

“This particular story doesn’t concern sexual abuse or harassment, it doesn’t concern workplace abuse or rape, but it does take a look at people’s inability to read each other, inability to read each other sexually,” New Yorker fiction editor Deborah Treisman told HuffPost in a phone conversation on Monday.

The fortunate timing, by the way, was no accident. “We had [the story] in hand for a few weeks, and yes, the subject is topical,” Treisman said, “so we felt it would be a good time. We didn’t want to hold on to it for months.”

To people who frequent certain neighborhoods of Twitter (Book Twitter, but also Feminism Twitter and Media Twitter), the story seemed to be everywhere, along with that unsettling image. Nor was its ubiquity an illusion. “Of all the fiction we published this year, ‘Cat Person’ was by far the most-read online,” Natalie Raabe, the magazine’s director of communications, told HuffPost. “It’s also one of our most-read pieces overall for the year.”

So it was timely ― but there have been timely short stories before. What is the special appeal of “Cat Person”?

For one thing, it reads quite similarly to another viral-friendly form: the first-person confessional essay, as propagated by outlets like xoJane and Jezebel. Plenty of Twitter readers, rather tellingly, referred to it as an article or an essay, rather than a short story. “Cat Person” unfolds in a sort of transparent prose that’s not demonstratively artful; it’s easy to lose oneself in, and to get wrapped up in Margot’s neuroses and imagined realities, much as one focuses on the psychological revelations in a New York Times Modern Love column rather than the structure or the use of adjectives. Roupenian’s story is the fiction version of “It Happened to Me: I Had Bad Sex Because It Felt Awkward to Say No.”

The ubiquity of these essays, in a slightly earlier Internet Age, owed a great deal to the economic considerations of web media, as they require no reporting or expertise and yet tap into the reptilian click-and-share node of our brains. Though The New Yorker’s Jia Tolentino bid farewell to the form earlier this year, it will never entirely leave us. We will always be interested in how other people find love, break up, find balls of cat hair in their vaginas. (Sorry, that happened.)

In fact, “Cat Person” specifically tapped into a need that those xoJane personal essays also fulfilled: honest, vulnerable narration of women’s real-life experience. So much about women’s lives and bodies is framed as shameful, embarrassing. We’re taught to hide our periods, fake orgasms and say yes to a date so as not to hurt a guy’s feelings. How liberating it can be to share what we’re hiding with each other and find out that other women aren’t clean, kind, gentle paragons ― they’re complicated, shallow, misguided and sometimes gross, just like us.

I don’t really know how to do justice to the conversation that is happening around my story but I am grateful for it. I need to go take a walk in the snow and hug my dog, but if you have messaged me directly, thank you, and in the meantime: https://t.co/IjVFkzWGi6

— Kristen Roupenian (@KRoupenian) December 9, 2017

That “Cat Person” dove deep into a young woman’s consciousness, narrating the female side of a messy, disappointing sexual encounter between a man and a woman, struck many readers as refreshing. (That the young woman was a college student, and her experience a familiar one to the predominantly white, well-educated, financially well-off women who likely make up much of The New Yorker’s readership, could only have helped the story strike a nerve among the target audience.) There’s a wealth of short fiction by men, about men’s desultory sexual doings. Then again, there’s also plenty of great short fiction by women, about women having sex and relationships ― Lorrie Moore and Mary Gaitskill are just a couple of classic examples.

But unlike so many other excellent short stories about dating, sex and female interiority, Roupenian’s story ― her first for The New Yorker ― hit at a moment when we were all primed and ready to talk about it. The specific timeliness of the #MeToo moment combined with the other appeals of “Cat Person” to create an alchemical appeal.

“I’m sure [the response] does have something to do with the nature of our discourse right now, about sex, about consent,” said Treisman. “Those kinds of issues are so much in the news and in the air right now that this was a way to look at them, somewhat away from the political sphere, and the sphere of Hollywood producers and so on.”

Though, as she points out, women having these experiences is not new, it can’t be denied that we’re talking about all of those experiences, past and present, with particular avidity now. It’s as if we all signed up for a seminar on women’s bad sexual experiences with men and we’re halfway through the semester; the early foundational reading has been completed, and now we’re all on the same page. That doesn’t mean we all agree ― on the contrary, “Cat Person” Twitter was pretty divided on even questions so basic as whether Robert or Margot deserved more sympathy ― but we all recognize this story as a clear opportunity to talk about consent, communication and women’s sexual pleasure. If the same story came out six months ago, it would have been the same story, but there wouldn’t have been the same shared understanding of its resonance.

Sad as it might be to admit, a big part of the viral success of “Cat Person” might be, simply, that a work of short fiction has never really gone viral on social media before. Early on, the online conversation surrounding it was a meta-conversation: Isn’t it cool that a short story is getting read? Why is this short story getting read? Is everyone so excited because they’ve never read a short story before and don’t realize how great they can be? How can we get more short stories to go viral in the future? No post-”Cat Person” story will enjoy quite the same novelty.

Treisman, for her part, seemed as surprised as anyone by the story’s burst of popularity ― and she couldn’t put her finger on how to replicate it with future works of fiction. “In terms of the way that word spreads through social media,” she said, “that’s still something of a novelty to me at least. I’m not sure how to game it.”

But we’ve been here before and had these same conversations ― about poetry. When Patricia Lockwood’s “Rape Joke” blew up in the summer of 2013 (tellingly, it also drew in readers with its vivid, uncensored representation of a woman’s interior experience of an interaction with a man), many were flabbergasted that a poem could go viral. The Guardian credited the poem with having “casually reawakened a generation’s interest in poetry.” In the years since, poetry has only continued to strengthen its new readership, particularly online. Nowadays, a poem going viral isn’t all that noteworthy ― it happens often enough. Poetry has become a staple in how we respond to and process events on the Internet, providing a different angle on the world we live in than can a think piece or a breaking news item.

Why can’t short fiction be like that? There are artistic purists who leap to defend the sanctity of literature from such crass things as “messages” or “political relevance.” Any discussion of which character was in the right, or who behaved selfishly or whether the story fat-shamed Robert is framed as improperly treating fiction as nonfiction. “It’s inevitable that some readers view ‘Cat Person’ as weighing in on a timely issue and offering up lessons, the way personal essays are so often inclined to do,” sighed Laura Miller in Slate. “It’s easy to get into the habit of thinking that every imaginative literary work must be made to carry an unambiguous moral.”

But there’s a reason people read the story that way: It’s offering a very realistic narrative of a communication breakdown between two real-seeming people, teasing out the ways in which things went wrong. Of course we’ll want to take lessons from that, if we can. “Cat Person,” though written well before the #MeToo moment and worth reading outside of it, does offer particular relief and insight to readers in the grip of this cultural moment, just as an essay might. Roupenian and Treisman, who both emphasized the story’s ability to speak to our current consternation over dysfunctional male-female communication, seem to be embracing the political relevance of the work.

In an interview with Treisman for The New Yorker, Roupenian explained that Margot’s resignation to sex she no longer wanted “speaks to the way that many women, especially young women, move through the world: not making people angry, taking responsibility for other people’s emotions, working extremely hard to keep everyone around them happy.” In an interview with The New York Times this week, she elaborated on the loneliness women who date men might feel, having a partner, at this moment in time, who doesn’t understand their feelings of sexual vulnerability. “That’s a pain a lot of women I know have felt acutely, especially in this past year, when all of these terrible shared experiences are becoming part of the public conversation,” Roupenian said. “Women try to talk about these experiences with their partners, and they find themselves failing. It’s an isolating feeling for both people involved.”

And while we should certainly remember the story is fiction (no, Margot and Roupenian are not the same person) and can analyze the story as a carefully crafted imaginative work, it’s hard to see what’s wrong with also discussing it as a window into a real-world problem, as Roupenian does in these interviews. That’s exactly what makes it so appealing, and what has long been one of fiction’s strengths ― especially psychological realism.

That’s not to say that fiction should trade in simplistic moral archetypes. As Miller points out, “Cat Person” resists easy judgments of its characters and instead shows two complex, flawed people. That makes it all the more valuable of a teaching tool. Real life, too, is messy and peopled by complex, flawed humans, but real life is where we have to live.

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