Jennifer Lauren Stewart

England, 1809

George had been like a hog in new mud when he’d gotten the note of acceptance from Lord Bordeleau. According to him, and echoed by Eleanora, it was the crowning achievement of this, their first endeavor at hosting a house party as the newly-minted Duke and Duchess of Althwyn.

I tried not to hold George’s position as the Duke against him. After all, it wasn’t his fault that my father had died with no sons and that he’d been the next-closest male relative the solicitors could shake down from the family tree. But Lord, the man was a twit, and a twit determined to marry me off, which I very much resented.

As for Eleanora, she wasn’t very terrible. She wasn’t very wonderful, either, but at least she didn’t bluster about and make Becca and me call her Lady Althwyn. She often depended on me for advice on running the household, as she’d been the mere daughter of a country squire before snapping up George. The servants were all correct in their behavior but none particularly respected her, which she felt keenly.

From all the fuss she and George were making over the arrival of Lord Bordeleau, you’d have thought that the man was the King himself. I knew little about him, save what Becca and I had been able to dig up in Debrett’s: he was the head of the powerful Rohan-Bordealeau family, having ascended to the marquisate twelve years ago at the age of twenty-two, and was a close advisor to the Crown. Becca and I debated as to whether that meant that he was a man of unusual intelligence, or merely your standard puffed-up nobleman. It helped his cause, I supposed, that even we knew that he was a preeminent magician. The Rohan-Bordeleau clan was full of seers, sages, mages, scryers, and the Lord only knew what else. I didn’t trust magic much, myself. Then again, I didn’t have any.

Eleanora had insisted that I have new gowns made up for the week-long house party, and George had given in grudgingly. Becca had a new gown herself, though, as she was still only seventeen and not yet out in society, she would mostly be tucked up in the schoolroom for the duration.

Eleanora had chosen the materials and style of my gowns, and none were terribly flattering. I hadn’t really cared enough to protest, however, so now I found myself stuffed into an over-beribboned, lace-edged pink thing that showed too much bosom. I stared at myself in the mirror as Pimstock labored over my hair. I looked like a very large cake.

Becca was sprawled out on her stomach on my bed, chin cupped in hands as she watched us. “How beautiful you look tonight, Merry,” she sighed happily. “I wish I could see you under the chandeliers.”

I smiled at her reflection. Innocent lamb. I was nearly six feet tall and built, as George had told me once in a fit of temper, like a plowhand. I did have broad shoulders and strong limbs, but at least my waist was nipped in, and my bosom certainly needed no enhancers. I frowned down at it, thrust rather indecorously over the neckline of my gown, and wondered if I could convince Pimstock to let me wear a fichu.

“Do you suppose Lord Hoppleton will be pleased?” Becca mused, swinging her feet.

I frowned. “Lord Hoppleton?” George had met the middle-aged viscount on a trip to Town and had immediately become enamored with him, Hoppleton being nearly as much of a nitwit as my cousin. He had visited Althwyn Court a couple of times and had the propensity to leer up at me.

“Why should Lord Hoppleton be pleased, displeased, or anything but utterly unconcerned about my appearance?” I asked rather sharply. Pimstock gave me a look in the mirror and pulled on a curl a little too hard as Becca’s feet stopped swinging.

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I thought you knew. I…I’m sorry, Merry.”

I softened my voice. “It’s all right, Dandelion. What did you think I knew?”

Becca turned her large, soft brown eyes on me. “Why, that you and Lord Hoppleton are to be engaged.”

I choked. Pimstock whacked me on the back until the tears came to my eyes and I held up a hand. “Engaged? Becca, when did you hear of this?”

She blinked. “Why, the other day. In the library. George and Eleanora were there, and I was in a chair on the opposite side, you know, by the fire, one of the ones that faces away?”

“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “Go on.”

“Well, they couldn’t see me,” she explained. “And they were saying that Lord Hoppleton was coming to the house party, and George asked Eleanora if she had gotten you outfitted properly because he had hinted heavily that he was going to ask George for your hand. And Eleanora asked George if he really thought you would accept, and he said that you’d better or else.”

I clenched my fists under the dressing table. “Or else what?”

Becca shrugged, as incurious as a child. “He didn’t say. Only Eleanora said that you might kick up a fuss, and George said that you wouldn’t if you knew what was good for you.”

The little pig. I would hang him by his feet from the parapet.

I turned back to the dressing mirror. “Pimstock!” I barked.

She eyed me warily. “Yes, my lady?”

“Take this down.” I waved at my hair, which for once looked halfway decent, pomaded free of frizz and piled atop my head with pearls interwoven.

Pimstock raised an eyebrow and didn’t move. “Take it down,” I repeated, looking her in the eye in the mirror. “And when you’re done, find a fichu.”

In the end, we were unable to find a fichu that was thin enough to be stuffed into the skin-tight bodice of my satin gown, so I added extra touches to my coiffure. I sailed into the drawing room a quarter of an hour later with half my blonde curls hanging to my waist and the other half in a teased snarl, sticking out like a halo half a foot from my head and held up with about forty hairpins that all seemed to be inserted directly into my skull. It was worth it, though, to see the look on George’s face. Especially when he caught sight of the giant ostrich feather, dyed orange and stuck directly into the top of the whole unholy mess, which contrasted garishly with my gown.

I beamed at him. “Cousin George!” I bellowed, as if I hadn’t seen him just that morning at the breakfast table. I could practically hear his teeth grinding. I charged straight to him and gave my most exemplary curtsy.

“Meredith,” he choked out.

“Lady Meredith!” I boomed cheerfully, giving him a friendly whack on the back that nearly sent him sprawling. He glared up at me with pure hatred. I grinned back.

Dinner was announced just then, and a tall man – several inches taller than I was, which was tall indeed – strode over to the knot of people that included George, Eleanora, and me. He had broad shoulders, long and rather thin legs, and, to my surprise, wore his straight jet-black hair cut to the shoulders, a silver earring dangling from his right ear. Well. I might not be the oddest-looking person present, after all.

He looked at me as he passed, and I saw that his eyes were a light silvery-grey, but they held no expression. He bowed to Eleanora. “Will you do me the honor, ma’am?” His voice was in a low register and was impersonally polite. Eleanora blushed and clutched his arm like a schoolgirl as he led her into the dining hall.

George turned to me stiffly and held out his arm. “Cousin.” As the eldest daughter of a First Duke, I outranked every other woman present, but Eleanora was hostess and so laid claim to the highest-ranking gentleman guest, leaving me to be escorted by my revolting relative.

I clapped my hand onto George’s arm forcefully. “Lead on, Cousin.”

“What have you done with your hair?” he hissed as we followed Eleanora and Lord Bordeleau through the passage into the dining hall.

I feigned surprise. “Why, George, whatever do you mean?” I looked at his sparse red frizz, not bothering to lower my voice. “What have you done with yours?”

Lord Bordeleau’s head turned slightly toward us, revealing – of course – a perfect profile. The Rohan-Bordeleaus were known for their beauty as well as their magic. This particular specimen had straight black brows, a nose that was neither snub nor beak but something perfectly balanced between the two, full lips, and a strong jaw. It really wasn’t fair. Well, at least I was as strong as a plow hand, I consoled myself, even if I did have riotous hair, a stubbornly freckled nose, and muddy brown eyes.

George brought me to my seat in dignified – and offended – silence, putting me at Eleanora’s left hand. Lord Bordeleau was at her right, and – ye gods – here came Lord Hoppleton to sit next to me. Pretending to examine it, I placed a pineapple from the center of the table between us. As the company was being seated, he craned his neck to look at me over the top of it. “Lady Meredith! How–” He caught sight of my hair, and his eyes bulged. He coughed. “Well. How original you are, my dear.”

I clenched my jaw at the “my dear” and gave him a smile that was more a baring of teeth. He was fifty-two or three, bald except for a fringe that went ’round his head, and corseted his paunch so tightly that he nearly had a bosom. And this was who George expected me to marry? I would run away and join the Hussars first, I thought, indulging for a moment in imagining lopping off all my hair, dressing as a man, and becoming a national hero before it was found that I was a woman. Even so, I would be awarded a dukedom in my own right. Duchessdom? I sighed. I would never be able to hide my figure, even with binding, and I could never leave Becca. I scrunched my nose.

I felt a gaze on me and looked up. Lord Bordeleau was regarding me curiously, as if he could read my mind. Possibly he could. You’re a self-important nodcock, I thought, looking into his eyes and smiling. He jerked slightly, giving me an offended look. I smirked. Don’t read my thoughts. He frowned and looked away.

Dinner was interminable. I had warned Eleanora against too many courses, but she apparently thought that no less than fourteen would cement her place in Society. Everyone was growing bored, and my bouffant was slipping further and further, even with the pins. Finally, during the pastry course, it fell all the way down around my shoulders, and I discreetly picked hairpins out of the tangles and stuck them into the tower of fruit in the middle of the table. I think Lord Bordeleau may have caught me at it, but he looked away before I could be certain.

Finally, finally, Eleanora rose and signaled to the ladies to withdraw. I would have dearly loved to stay, plop my feet up on the table, and demand a cigar, but George probably would have had me locked in the attics.

“You must go up and have Pimstock repair your hair,” Eleanora whispered to me as we reached the drawing room.

I sighed. “I’ll just stay up. I’m really quite tired, and–“

“No,” Eleanora protested forcefully. I raised an eyebrow at her. “You must play the pianoforte,” she whispered frantically.

I frowned. “Why?”

“To demonstrate your skill to Lo–to the gentlemen, of course.” She looked up at me pleadingly. “Please, Meredith. George will be angry.”

I sighed in defeat. The poor woman would probably have to listen to enough of a tirade tonight already.

I came back down in ten minutes with my hair in a simple knot. Curls fell from it down my back and around my face, but it couldn’t be helped, as most of my hairpins were currently decorating the dining table.

I sat at the pianoforte and leafed through my music, feeling disinterested. A few of the younger ladies, who had been presented to me upon their arrival but were so bewilderingly similar that I couldn’t distinguish one from the other, were sitting in a little cluster on the settee. They looked at me, whispering and giggling behind their hands. I yawned and played one limp scale. It would have to be Mozart, I supposed. I wasn’t in the mood, but his works were challenging technically and would show off my “skill.”

I dallied until the gentlemen came into the room, then started up the Fifteenth Concerto. George and Lord Hoppleton took over a small sofa near the instrument and both nodded and smiled at me, pleased to see me performing dutifully. I scowled.

Lord Bordeleau pulled out a chair slightly behind them and sat with his long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, his arms folded across his chest and one finger stroking his upper lip as he gazed at me.

Annoyed, I brought my hands down harder on the keys, practically hammering out the poor concerto. They wanted skill, did they? I’d show them skill. I played even louder, drowning out conversations and the giggling of the Milk and Water Misses.

I felt the spell sliding over me. It felt heavy and muffling, and I realized it was to quiet me. I also realized that it could have only been cast by one person. Furiously, I imagined tearing it away, and my banging bounded back to full volume.

Lord Bordeleau suddenly sat up straight in his chair, staring at me.

“Perhaps something softer, dear?” Eleanora murmured, slipping by the pianoforte to hand Lord Hoppleton a cup of tea.

I sighed, ran through a denouement, and then suddenly I knew. I chortled to myself.

Briefly as a young teen I’d had a Russian governess, Miss Ogievich. She had taught me many useful things, most of which were unfit for a young girl to know. She was jolly good fun. She’d also taught me a rather ribald piano piece, which sounded simply like a lovely ballad when you couldn’t understand the words. I doubted anyone in the room knew more than a smattering of Russian, if that.

I began.

My first love was a sailor
Thighs so strong, so handsome was he
And buttocks like two apple halves
But alas, he loved his captain more than me.

Lord Bordeleau choked on the tea he’d just been given. Did he know Russian? Confound the man. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

My second love was a shepherd
Oh, his staff, it did tame me
But alas, he only pulled it out
When I would crawl and bleat.

He had abandoned the tea and had a hand over his eyes.

My third love was the best of all
He trained horses for the king
And his riding crop was quick and bold
When upon–

I broke off as I was unceremoniously shoved aside, Lord Bordeleau sliding onto the bench next to me and smoothly picking up the melody line, gracefully blending a few bars with my own before giving me a glower from under those black brows. He began a colorless duet piece, giving my motionless right hand a sharp nudge where it sat frozen on the keys. I looked around. A few curious glances were being thrown our way, but it appeared that no one was paying much attention to the music, apart from Eleanora, who was giving me a look of such dread that I expected she was imagining me doling our honored guest a sound slap. Her guess wasn’t far off the mark from my present desire.

“Have you no shame?” our honored guest hissed. He smelled like a pine forest freshly covered in snow.

“I didn’t know that anybody knew Russian,” I defended in a whisper. “And I doubt that anyone else does.” I used a hand crossover as an opportunity to jab him in the solar plexus with my elbow. He grunted.

“We will end the piece after the next movement. I need to speak with you privately.” We were both whispering, looking at the music rather than each other.

I snorted. “Would you like to be forced to marry me after a duke, a viscount, two barons, and more importantly, all of their wives and daughters, witness us sauntering out of the drawing room for private speech?”

I could feel him stiffen in offense next to me. “I am never forced into anything.”

“Neither am I,” I said calmly. I glanced up at him. “If you keep grinding your teeth, you’ll wear them down and have to be fitted for wooden ones,” I said conversationally. “Quite hideous.”

He gave me a look of pure dislike. “If I were your cousin, I would send you directly to a convent.”

I smiled. “If I were your ward, I would have already written the abbess myself.”

His jaw clenched and he banged the keys slightly.

“Quietly, quietly,” I admonished as if to a child. “We must make our notes sound like the twittering of little birds.”

A vein stood out in his temple, I noted with interest.

“I will end this piece in precisely three bars,” he snapped. “I will leave and go to the library down the hall. Wait five minutes and then follow.”

“What if I don’t?” I asked curiously.

He looked down at me coldly. “Lady Meredith, don’t make me come and get you.”



I had no fear of his threat – what would he do, string me up from the chandelier with everyone watching? – but curiosity was ever my besetting sin (along with ingratitude, unwomanliness, disobedience, unnatural opinions, and speaking my mind, according to George), so I went. Lord Bordeleau was standing in front of the fire with his back to the door, feet placed shoulder-width and his hands clasped behind his back. He turned when he heard me enter.

“Lord Bordeleau.” I swept in. “I must admit that I am dreadfully curious to know what could be the cause of all these dramatics.”

He ignored my attempt to bait him. “Close the door.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Certainly not.”

He looked at me in something akin to disbelief. “Lady Meredith, I am not accustomed to having my instructions disobeyed–“

“And I am not accustomed to obeying instructions which I find ridiculous.” I smiled at him. “You can say what you must with the door open.”

For a moment, he looked thunderstruck. Then in two long strides he was beside me, swinging the door shut and frowning down at me. “In the future–“

Ignoring him, I turned to open the door. It wouldn’t. I frowned and shoved against it – still no. I checked the keyhole but knew that it locked from the inside, not outside.

Suddenly I knew.

“Open it,” I snapped, whirling to face Lord Bordeleau.

“No,” he said. “You–“

I dealt him a stinging slap that sent his silky black hair flying. Score one for the difficult-haired among us, I thought smugly.

He slowly raised his head and looked at me, and I felt a little less smug. In fact, I felt a good deal less smug. His silvery eyes were absolutely blazing, and color touched his high cheekbones. I had the feeling that he hadn’t had his will crossed in a very long time. Well, I thought, gathering my courage, he would have it crossed today.

“Open it now,” I commanded, glaring full into his eyes. “I am a lady, and–“

He laughed unpleasantly. “A lady? In name only, Lady Meredith. In name only.”

My slap had made him stagger back, but now Lord Bordeleau took a menacing step toward me. I took one toward him, murder in my soul. I would break his neck. I would geld him. I would gut him and put his head on a pike by the front gates.

He wasn’t expecting the punch. It was sharp and clean, a flush hit to the right eye. He didn’t go down but he reeled a few steps, knocking over an ornamental vase, which shattered against the oak floor. Then he stood there, rubbing his rapidly-reddening eye and staring at me in open astonishment.

“Open. The. Door.”

The astonishment flashed to white-hot fury, and he was on me before I could react. He slammed me hard against the wall, barely avoiding cracking my skull open on the portrait of Great-Uncle Theodore. One hand had my arms pinned between us, and the other was around my throat, exerting enough pressure to make the edges of my vision swim. “Now,” he growled, “you will listen–“

I kneed him in the groin, hard, and he did go down this time. I leapt atop him, my knees digging into his shoulders, and reached up and grabbed the mammoth family Bible from its stand above us. I had to haul it with both hands, but I gave him a ferocious whack ’round the head with it. Which I had to pull up my blasted birthday-cake skirts to find. His face, framed in lace, gaped up at me.

“Did you really–“

I whacked him again, because clearly the first time hadn’t been hard enough.

“Woman!” he bellowed. “Will you put that blasted book down before I’m forced to actually hurt you?”

“Actually hurt me?” I laughed. “You’re the one with a black eye and a questionable ability to continue your family line. And you’re currently pinned flat on the floor.” I gave a bounce, digging my knees harder into his arms.

He flexed his shoulders upwards, and suddenly I slid down to his chest. “Oh.” I frowned down at him as he stared up at me.

I glanced around, spied the fire poker leaning against the mantlepiece, and made a dive for it.

“I think not.” I was suddenly flat on my back, my wrists held tightly above my head, Lord Bordeleau’s weight on my lower body and his thighs squeezing mine together.

He was slightly out of breath, black hair falling into his face, that accursed earring swinging.

“Is there nothing you won’t stop at, you thrice-blasted bloodthirsty Hun of a woman?”

I wriggled hard, but he held me firm and stared down at me as if I were some kind of creature he’d never seen before – possibly a very large bug, by his expression.

“Get off of me, you great lout, or I will scream the very rafters down about your ears and every soul out of the Althwyn graveyard to haunt you.”

He made a growling sound low in his throat. “If I let you up, will you stop attempting to maim and murder me? I truly only wanted to talk to you, and I have no desire to hurt you.”

I snorted. “Oh, because this is quite snug.”

His grip on my wrists immediately lightened, but he didn’t let go. I wriggled my hips experimentally. Perhaps if I could get one leg up I could kick–

He frowned. “Be still.”

“If I agree to allow you to let me up,” I said regally, “will you stop snapping orders at me? It makes me quite annoyed.”

He looked around at the wreckage of the room, the vase in pieces; the family Bible on the floor opened to – I squinted – the illustration of Christ and the harlot at the well, of all things; Great-Uncle Theodore swaying drunkenly on the wall. “Quite annoyed?”

“Possibly more than annoyed,” I allowed.

“I’m surprised your cousin is still alive,” he muttered as he sat up and swung a knee over me. “I would have expected him to be drawn and quartered, then his pieces sent to the King along with a note that you had claimed the dukedom for yourself and would see him at the next opening of Parliament.” He reached down, grabbed my arm, and hauled me up.

“I won’t say I haven’t been tempted.” I grinned. “But poor George is so happy in his new position, it would have quite cut up my peace to…cut him piece by piece.”

Lord Bordeleau closed his eyes briefly. “You have a mouth on you like a sailor.” He sank wearily onto the settee.

I sat at the far end. “The sailor with strong thighs and but–“

“Could you not.”

I laughed. “I’ll spare your blushes and swoons. I have no smelling salts to hand, anyway. What did you risk life and limb, Lord Bordeleau, to talk to me about?”