“Not wet enough, miss. It’s not giving us the effect you want.”
Over her head came the dress, and Trilby scooped handfuls of water from the washbasin, patting it onto the bodice of her chemise until she was satisfied with the moisture level. When she turned away to dry her hands, Eleanor took advantage of the moment to pinch her nipples, coaxing them to hardness.After all, isn’t that the point? The scandal?
When the dress was pulled back over her head and each tiny pearl button fastened, Trilby beamed in triumph. “If catching a husband is your aim, miss, you’ll be beating them off with a stick tonight.”
And now she stood waiting, waiting for her name to be called, for her presentation to the rest of the ballroom, for the moment of truth. She was not the only one with a dampened dress, she was almost relieved to see. She wondered what the lord would catch her eye. Perhaps the orc she was anticipating, or maybe something completely foreign to her, like a minotaur or serpent. Her heart was thumping in her chest like a timpani, and her lungs felt crowded. Not butterflies this time.Moths. It was the herky-jerky movement of moths fluttering within her, nervous and weaving, bumping into her lungs in their clumsy panic.You only have to get through this moment once. You can’t afford to trip and fall. You are doing this for the girls.
“Miss Eleanor Eastwick, daughter of the late Philip Exeter Eastwick, Esquire, of London.”
Stepping to the center of the grand staircase, she smiled in a way that she hoped conveyed she was both a lady and a seductress, and an excellent candidate for marriage. She kept her eyes on the unfamiliar steps, looking out at the small sea of potential suitors on every third one. There was indeed a minotaur, she saw, as well as the long, twisting tail of a serpent. There was a reserved-looking man who cast a blue glow, and the lord standing beside him had the long ears of a rabbit.
And there, directly in her line of sight, with the same lofty look and half-smirk he’d worn for the majority of the past month, was the Marquis of Basingstone. Silas Stride smiled as their eyes met, shining sapphires and blinding white fang, upending her heart and all of her plans.
The High Tea
Society Papers
Greetings, sweet sippers!
Kettles are whistling with all the buzz from the Monsters Ball, dear readers! Our keen eyes have spotted none other than the Marquis of Basingstone in attendance at this first bête monde soirée of the season —— our all-seeing serving spoons have told us he’s come to claim the heart of none other than one of the failed diamonds of the season, not a stranger to these pages. Could she be the mystery woman this unrepentant rake was entertaining over these last weeks? Is our favorite stony-hearted libertine ready to trade in his ever-rotating dance card for a marriage license?
Do mind the temperature and sip slowly as this story unfolds, dear readers!
Lady Grey
Silas
Shehaddampenedherdress. He might have laughed at the audacious brazenness had he been the lone recipient of the after-effects. As it was, he’d hardly been able to pull his eyes away from the creamy round globes of her beautiful breasts, her heavy, luscious tits that he loved so much, that place between them where he wanted to live forever, on display and advertised for the lascivious enjoyment every other lord in the room.
It was his own fault. He had told her, in the beginning, that she would need to be bold, that she would need to secure the favor of one of these noblemen by way of their cock. She was bright and witty and sparkling, and he had no doubt that all of the other charms she possessed would win over whoever set their sights on her, but in a crowded playing field with other women of the same aim, she would need to be bold to set herself apart. She’d taken his words seriously.
That was, of course, before he loved her. To be given the opportunity to rewind the past month, he would’ve encouraged her to dress like a vestal virgin at the ball, to behave modestly, to have a chaperone with her at all times, and to never, ever allow one of these desperate dandies to put their hands on her. Now it was too late. She had put her beautiful curves on display for the highest bidder in this chattel auction, and she would likely be fielding offers all night.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here, Stride.” The laconic drawl had come from the trollish lord beside him, the second son of a baron, whose elder brother had recently taken ill, according to the High Tea. “I do hope you’ve not come to simply sample all of the ladies in attendance before flitting off. I believe the Countess has strict rules over her ball being used as a catalog for common rakes.”
Silas grinned. He was here to claim his bride, but he still had a reputation to keep up. “Good to see you, Morrington. My condolences to your family. I hear your brother is not doing well at all. I see they’re officially calling in your spare card.” The troll glowered, and Silas’s smile stretched. “As another member of the second son’s club, I welcome you to the fold. But Idohope you are going to explain to whichever young lady you set your sights on that you are merely the emergency option.”
She was ascending the steps, and he no longer had an interest in the troll. Their eyes locked, and Silas desperately wished he could have said that hers were full of joy at the sight of him, but that, too, would have been a pretty lie he was telling himself. She looked shocked. Shocked and angry, but he reminded himself that was to be expected. The rest of the ladies were called as they came down the steps, but he paid attention to none of them. The only woman in the room he was interested in was having her hand kissed by some minotaur, and his blood boiled.
The presentation and then dinner, a brief respite for the ladies to change, and then the masked ball, that was the agenda for the night. He would claim her at dinner; no sense in delaying what needed to happen. These balls were a tricky social maneuver. Chatting with a lady over dinner was only polite; giving her your undivided attention, however, was a marker of clear interest shown. To dance with a lady at the ball was, again, a nicety that was observed by all in attendance. To dance with her a second time immediately after was to stake a claim, an announcement to all in attendance that you were an interested party, and they should keep their distance. Silas was prepared to enter the dining room and stake her out, claim the chair next to her, and not allow another lord in attendance to so much as blink in her direction . . . but fate was not smiling at him that evening.
“Lords and ladies, please pay attention to your place settings. We have designed tonight’s seating chart specifically and would appreciate adherence.” The master of ceremonies was a beaming man with the shining eyes of a shifter of some sort, and finding his place clear across the table from Eleanor’s, Silas desperately wanted to fling his water goblet in the man’s direction.
“It’s so ridiculous that they have allowed such rabble in this year,” sniffed the woman seated beside him. She was tall and thin with a long neck and dark hair, and a permanently sour expression, he thought. She was seated across from a man who looked to be her age or maybe just a year or so older, clearly a relation, likely her chaperone.
Silas was too busy staring across the table at Eleanor, who was now being chatted up by a lagomorph to her left. Morrington was across from her.That’s a small favor, at least. He doesn’t have a pot to piss in.“Why, just this afternoon, I was asking one of the servants to bring me some tea, only to find out that it was actually a guest! She was dressed like a scullery maid. I don’t see how it’s appropriate to trot out a chit like that in front of genteel society. And I’ve heard there are second sons in attendance who don’t even have titles of their own. Really, must we stoop so low?”
She looked at Silas pointedly, and he realized he was expected to participate in the conversation. “Who are you?” The question was out before he could frame it more politely, deciding that the woman was being so rude he didn’t actually care. If her story was true, she was speaking of one of the other young ladies in attendance, which was exceptionally poor form, particularly considering that his Eleanor was likely to not be the most well-heeled amongst this crowd.
“Lord Archibald Skevington,” answered the man at her side, sniffing as though he were the crown prince himself. “And this is my sister, Lady Stephana.”
“The Lord of what?” Silas asked bluntly. “Your name is not one I recognize, sir, although admittedly, I don’t know every human lord. But I’ve not heard anyone address you as your grace, nor as the lordofanything.”
He raised a sardonic eyebrow as the man sputtered. The woman at his side looked thoroughly horrified.
“Forgive me, but it seems you yourself are using a courtesy title. You’ll have to excuse me for saying so, but it seems a bit odd,my lord, to speak ill of those doing the same, in the same breath as disparaging the other guests. For example, I amtheMarquis of Basingstone. The only people in this room who rank higher than me are to be addressed as your grace, like his grace, the Duke of Sackwell,“ he gestured to the duke sitting across the table, someone he’d known since childhood. “So if we are, in fact, holding those with lesser titles to a lesser degree of civility, I don’t think either of you should be speaking to me or his grace. Do you see the way that works?”
Across the table, Sackwell chuckled. “It doesn’t make a difference what that paper says about you, Stride. You are always the most amusing dinner guest.”
