A Servant of Duty, Five
Jun. 2nd, 2008 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupFive:
Wills seems disgusted by the lack of adventure and intrigue that describes their decidedly tranquil journey to London. It keeps Anton in stitches for the better half of a day upon their arrival.
"Oh, ha ha, Anton. I lived with danger and spies and war for the better part of the past two years! That little trek was nothing more than a… a…” he flounders about for a word, something to convey how utterly childish a jaunt it is in comparison to the battlefield.
“One would think a chap like you would welcome the peace of our fair country in comparison to the wilds you faced before.” Anton can barely keep the smile off his face and the chuckle from his voice. Leigh ushers the men into the London townhouse as decorously as possible, away from the prying eyes of those in St. James Square and into the relative safety of a home away from home.
Anton breathes deep the scent of London, of this breezy house, of the ton's elegance. He knows that there’s a pantheon to which he must pay his respects, rituals and games he must play to keep his place in society. But it feels fairly liberating to leave the matters of caring for the estate in the capable hands of Leigh and his appointees for the frippery and flamboyance of a season in the city. With Wills at his side, he knows he could cut a swathe through the fashionable mass, leaving a stream of satisfied-but-wrecked women in their wake. Anton spares a moment to think of that, of allowing himself to play the rake instead of the dutiful son, before shaking his head. He’s never been one to play the heartless role. And his promise to Emilyanne was more heartfelt than even he realized.
He doesn’t delude himself into thinking he has the opportunity to play the cad with his betrothed. She wouldn’t allow it… not to mention the damage her brothers would do him if they caught wind of him toying with their sister. No, he can’t countenance that.
He sighs and settles in for the evening, knowing word will have spread about his arrival as soon as his luggage had arrived in the morning. Tomorrow, he would be expected to call upon his neighbors, to bid his Grandmother hello and to make himself available for callers. There’re fittings for new vestments, the requisite drive along the Serpentine in Hyde Park in the evening, and a reacquaintance with White’s to be made.
He drifts off to sleep with thoughts of Almacks’ vouchers and appointments with his tailor swirling in his mind. His mind doesn’t stay with the preoccupations of the day for long, preferring instead to chase illicitly after Emilyanne. The memory of her flickers in front of his eyes, twin pigtails and gingham frocks colliding sharply with the woman she’s grown up to be. He thinks of her at the dinner barely two weeks before, the bruise blue of her dress highlighting alabaster skin, the dark ringlets of her hair pulled up artlessly divine. He sees her sodden and wet, figure outlined provocatively in her sodden dress in the grotto in the rain.
He can’t connect the three figures in his mind: the child, the wood nymph in the rain, the elegant woman who captured his attention in the candlelit dining hall. His mind restlessly turns over and over, promises and actions warring against each other. He knows he’s meant to bring this complicated woman to the altar, claim her as his own before God and the law and their loved ones. He knows he has to let her choose him for herself. He knows he must act, and yet not move too quickly or too slowly as to scare her away.
He’s ill-prepared for anything remotely related to this matter, and his dreams swirl with him continually trying more and more desperate measures to make her his own. He wakes too often, body covered in a sheen of sweat, an ache solidly centered in his gut that has everything to do with a dispassionate betrothal.
When the word reaches him the next day that Emilyanne is unaccompanied in her London lodgings, that she has only scant supervision in the form of her homebody aunt, Anton can only groan in disbelief. He’s never laid much stock in dreams, but he worries that his impulses will grab hold to him, that he’ll resort to the worst of measures to gain Emilyanne’s hand. Even so, he doesn’t trust himself to visit her in Hanover Square without Wills accompanying him to serve as a buffer, a chaperone, and conversationalist when Anton’s conversation will lack dreadfully.
Wills is a rather decent chap, Anton decides not long after they discuss how to arrange their calls in the afternoon. Only a slight grunt when it was decided they would visit the Darlington heiress together, which Anton counts as a minor victory. They continue onward, set to see Humphries, their tailor, shortly after lunch.
As it happens, Humphries is full of the latest gossip from amongst the glittering throng, more reliable than the scandal rags and twice as plentiful on news. As Wills is being measured time and again for coats and breeches and fashionable boots, Anton learns more about the people he calls his peers than he could ever have hoped to know. Or cared to know. As they leave, Anton makes a note to pay Humphries a little extra with the clothes in return for a vow of silence on his reputation's behalf.
As luck would have it, they run into the Grand Dame, their grandmother, as they are leaving Humphries’ shop. They bow before her and fall into step as she continues on down Bond Street to her varied seamstresses and haberdashers.
“Well, my wayward boys, it seems you have found me,” she says, trailing several staff members and her grandsons like streamers behind her as she sails into her first stop.
Wills breaks out into a cheeky grin, lounging effortlessly on a chaise next to the woman as she sits and commands the seamstress about. Anton stands stiffly by, restless and anxious about the smile on his brother’s face.
“Madam, how could we not find you? You are the center of the universe, are you not? Or have you always been leading men astray this way?”
“Quiet, you naughty boy. I know you. And I cannot be prevailed upon to hide you away from jealous women, cuckolded husbands or creditors. So don’t use that pretty little face to get in trouble like usual, Fitzwilliam.” Her eyes twinkle with mirth as Wills’ face drops with indignation. The fitting stretches long and tedious before the unflappable woman turns her attention on Anton.
“Now, Anton. I’ve been apprised by my sources that you have fallen victim to one of my son’s favorite pastimes.”
“Your sources, madam? Are we to assume you have your spies in Anton’s household?” Wills asks archly, knowing full well that the matriarch would not allow any tidbit of information about her family to bypass her ears. One doesn’t allow their family to sink into debauchery simply from a lack of communication.
She shushes the young major with a quelling look, and turns her regard to Anton again. “Well? Have I been deceived or did my son put you in a predicament without your knowledge?”
He bows and steps closer to her, grave and sober. “Yes, mum. I was informed no more than a fortnight ago that I am engaged to be married to Emilyanne Doyle, the daughter of the Earl of Darlington.” He hides hands that shake behind his back, hoping she doesn't pay them any attention.
She shakes her head imperiously, sending the girl entering the room with a sedate navy dress scurrying back for a different offering. "Anton, my dear boy, that Doyle girl is quite marriageable. Does she know what my son has done?"
"Yes, mum, she does. I don't believe she looks upon it with any favor. From her reaction," Anton says, as a bitter afterthought, "she seemed to want the quickest way out of the arrangement, if possible. We've agreed upon a reasonable period of courtship to ease the situation."
The Viscountess' mouth draws tight at Anton's softly spoken admission. "Foolish girls. Nothing at all in their heads about the responsibility to family." She turns to her grandsons with a sharp eye, bringing them both to order beneath her gaze. "There's nothing to be done for it now. She'll come to her senses. In the meantime, you must remember to have supper with your old grandmama once a week. Surely Miss Doyle will join you once and awhile."
They understood the dismissal when they heard it and pressed a kiss to each powdered cheek. Wills whispers in her ear about the absurdity of her being old, gaining a chuckle and a shooing motion out of the store for his efforts.
Incongrously, the mirth leaves Wills' face nearly immediately after leaving the dressmaker's. "She worries after you dreadfully, Anton."
Anton gives a cheerful half smile to his brother, clapping a hand solidly on his shoulder. "You're still her favorite, Wills. No doubt there's a sedate little home in the country that's merely waiting for her to pass it to you. Nothing but acres of green and nothing more dangerous than a hare anywhere around."
It's only by sheer dint of will that Anton doesn't laugh uncommonly loud at the look of horror that crosses his brother's face.
Wills seems disgusted by the lack of adventure and intrigue that describes their decidedly tranquil journey to London. It keeps Anton in stitches for the better half of a day upon their arrival.
"Oh, ha ha, Anton. I lived with danger and spies and war for the better part of the past two years! That little trek was nothing more than a… a…” he flounders about for a word, something to convey how utterly childish a jaunt it is in comparison to the battlefield.
“One would think a chap like you would welcome the peace of our fair country in comparison to the wilds you faced before.” Anton can barely keep the smile off his face and the chuckle from his voice. Leigh ushers the men into the London townhouse as decorously as possible, away from the prying eyes of those in St. James Square and into the relative safety of a home away from home.
Anton breathes deep the scent of London, of this breezy house, of the ton's elegance. He knows that there’s a pantheon to which he must pay his respects, rituals and games he must play to keep his place in society. But it feels fairly liberating to leave the matters of caring for the estate in the capable hands of Leigh and his appointees for the frippery and flamboyance of a season in the city. With Wills at his side, he knows he could cut a swathe through the fashionable mass, leaving a stream of satisfied-but-wrecked women in their wake. Anton spares a moment to think of that, of allowing himself to play the rake instead of the dutiful son, before shaking his head. He’s never been one to play the heartless role. And his promise to Emilyanne was more heartfelt than even he realized.
He doesn’t delude himself into thinking he has the opportunity to play the cad with his betrothed. She wouldn’t allow it… not to mention the damage her brothers would do him if they caught wind of him toying with their sister. No, he can’t countenance that.
He sighs and settles in for the evening, knowing word will have spread about his arrival as soon as his luggage had arrived in the morning. Tomorrow, he would be expected to call upon his neighbors, to bid his Grandmother hello and to make himself available for callers. There’re fittings for new vestments, the requisite drive along the Serpentine in Hyde Park in the evening, and a reacquaintance with White’s to be made.
He drifts off to sleep with thoughts of Almacks’ vouchers and appointments with his tailor swirling in his mind. His mind doesn’t stay with the preoccupations of the day for long, preferring instead to chase illicitly after Emilyanne. The memory of her flickers in front of his eyes, twin pigtails and gingham frocks colliding sharply with the woman she’s grown up to be. He thinks of her at the dinner barely two weeks before, the bruise blue of her dress highlighting alabaster skin, the dark ringlets of her hair pulled up artlessly divine. He sees her sodden and wet, figure outlined provocatively in her sodden dress in the grotto in the rain.
He can’t connect the three figures in his mind: the child, the wood nymph in the rain, the elegant woman who captured his attention in the candlelit dining hall. His mind restlessly turns over and over, promises and actions warring against each other. He knows he’s meant to bring this complicated woman to the altar, claim her as his own before God and the law and their loved ones. He knows he has to let her choose him for herself. He knows he must act, and yet not move too quickly or too slowly as to scare her away.
He’s ill-prepared for anything remotely related to this matter, and his dreams swirl with him continually trying more and more desperate measures to make her his own. He wakes too often, body covered in a sheen of sweat, an ache solidly centered in his gut that has everything to do with a dispassionate betrothal.
When the word reaches him the next day that Emilyanne is unaccompanied in her London lodgings, that she has only scant supervision in the form of her homebody aunt, Anton can only groan in disbelief. He’s never laid much stock in dreams, but he worries that his impulses will grab hold to him, that he’ll resort to the worst of measures to gain Emilyanne’s hand. Even so, he doesn’t trust himself to visit her in Hanover Square without Wills accompanying him to serve as a buffer, a chaperone, and conversationalist when Anton’s conversation will lack dreadfully.
Wills is a rather decent chap, Anton decides not long after they discuss how to arrange their calls in the afternoon. Only a slight grunt when it was decided they would visit the Darlington heiress together, which Anton counts as a minor victory. They continue onward, set to see Humphries, their tailor, shortly after lunch.
As it happens, Humphries is full of the latest gossip from amongst the glittering throng, more reliable than the scandal rags and twice as plentiful on news. As Wills is being measured time and again for coats and breeches and fashionable boots, Anton learns more about the people he calls his peers than he could ever have hoped to know. Or cared to know. As they leave, Anton makes a note to pay Humphries a little extra with the clothes in return for a vow of silence on his reputation's behalf.
As luck would have it, they run into the Grand Dame, their grandmother, as they are leaving Humphries’ shop. They bow before her and fall into step as she continues on down Bond Street to her varied seamstresses and haberdashers.
“Well, my wayward boys, it seems you have found me,” she says, trailing several staff members and her grandsons like streamers behind her as she sails into her first stop.
Wills breaks out into a cheeky grin, lounging effortlessly on a chaise next to the woman as she sits and commands the seamstress about. Anton stands stiffly by, restless and anxious about the smile on his brother’s face.
“Madam, how could we not find you? You are the center of the universe, are you not? Or have you always been leading men astray this way?”
“Quiet, you naughty boy. I know you. And I cannot be prevailed upon to hide you away from jealous women, cuckolded husbands or creditors. So don’t use that pretty little face to get in trouble like usual, Fitzwilliam.” Her eyes twinkle with mirth as Wills’ face drops with indignation. The fitting stretches long and tedious before the unflappable woman turns her attention on Anton.
“Now, Anton. I’ve been apprised by my sources that you have fallen victim to one of my son’s favorite pastimes.”
“Your sources, madam? Are we to assume you have your spies in Anton’s household?” Wills asks archly, knowing full well that the matriarch would not allow any tidbit of information about her family to bypass her ears. One doesn’t allow their family to sink into debauchery simply from a lack of communication.
She shushes the young major with a quelling look, and turns her regard to Anton again. “Well? Have I been deceived or did my son put you in a predicament without your knowledge?”
He bows and steps closer to her, grave and sober. “Yes, mum. I was informed no more than a fortnight ago that I am engaged to be married to Emilyanne Doyle, the daughter of the Earl of Darlington.” He hides hands that shake behind his back, hoping she doesn't pay them any attention.
She shakes her head imperiously, sending the girl entering the room with a sedate navy dress scurrying back for a different offering. "Anton, my dear boy, that Doyle girl is quite marriageable. Does she know what my son has done?"
"Yes, mum, she does. I don't believe she looks upon it with any favor. From her reaction," Anton says, as a bitter afterthought, "she seemed to want the quickest way out of the arrangement, if possible. We've agreed upon a reasonable period of courtship to ease the situation."
The Viscountess' mouth draws tight at Anton's softly spoken admission. "Foolish girls. Nothing at all in their heads about the responsibility to family." She turns to her grandsons with a sharp eye, bringing them both to order beneath her gaze. "There's nothing to be done for it now. She'll come to her senses. In the meantime, you must remember to have supper with your old grandmama once a week. Surely Miss Doyle will join you once and awhile."
They understood the dismissal when they heard it and pressed a kiss to each powdered cheek. Wills whispers in her ear about the absurdity of her being old, gaining a chuckle and a shooing motion out of the store for his efforts.
Incongrously, the mirth leaves Wills' face nearly immediately after leaving the dressmaker's. "She worries after you dreadfully, Anton."
Anton gives a cheerful half smile to his brother, clapping a hand solidly on his shoulder. "You're still her favorite, Wills. No doubt there's a sedate little home in the country that's merely waiting for her to pass it to you. Nothing but acres of green and nothing more dangerous than a hare anywhere around."
It's only by sheer dint of will that Anton doesn't laugh uncommonly loud at the look of horror that crosses his brother's face.
