Realistic or Modern 𝓘𝓷 𝓕𝓾𝓵𝓵 𝓑𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓶 ~ 𝓐 𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓷-𝓘𝓷𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓡𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓹𝓵𝓪𝔂 (𝓘𝓒) (PRIVATE)

[Bellz]

Letters from the Season:
Letter I: Of Lanterns, Lace, and Longing​

 

[Bellz]

Chapter 1: Of Lanterns, Lace, and Longing

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London​

Dearest Gentle Reader,
Did you truly believe I would stay away forever?

As if I could resist the intoxicating swirl of secrets, silk, and scandal that only our society can deliver with such flourish. The streets have murmured, the parlors have sighed, and more than one lady has spilled her tea wondering where I had gone. But alas, your loyal chronicler of all things deliciously improper has returned — sharper, swifter, and more watchful than ever.

Where, you ask, did we last leave this grand performance of courtship, ambition, and reputation? Ah yes — on the precipice of what promises to be the event of the year: The Moonlit Masquerade Ball, hosted by none other than the ever-industrious and socially ravenous Lady Odette Sinclaire. One must give credit where credit is due; when Lady Sinclaire decides to make a spectacle, she ensures the entire ton is there to witness — and participate.

With masks to hide secrets and candlelight to expose truths, the ballroom is set to be a theater of dreams, duels, and — dare I say — disaster. A night full of surprise, to be sure.

Speaking of surprises, let us turn our attention to the Bloomington family, who have been keeping rather a lot under lock and key. At long last, their youngest daughter is to make her debut. Yes, it is scandalously late, but as your devoted author is fond of saying: better to arrive late than to never arrive at all.

And if that weren’t enough to rattle the dance cards, a cousin from the country — or somewhere far more tantalizing — has emerged to join the festivities. From what this author has seen (and she has seen everything), he is tall, striking, and blessed with the sort of features that make chaperones nervous and debutantes dizzy. You’ve been warned.

But do not think the Bloomingtons have a monopoly on familial intrigue. The Davenports, never ones to let another family steal the spotlight for long, have revealed a bastard daughter previously kept from public view. And rumor has it, this young lady shines with a brilliance that threatens to eclipse her half-sister’s lackluster debut from last season. A bold claim, you say? Perhaps. But if one judges by the whispers echoing in drawing rooms and riding carriages, she may yet emerge as the most dazzling flame of the season — though as we all know, flames tend to consume.

Now, gather closer, dear reader. A Lady Whistledown exclusive awaits…

His Royal Highness Prince of Naples and Sicily, shall be gracing our shores — and our ballrooms. Yes, you read correctly. A real prince, with a bloodline as old as the ruins of Rome and a jawline to match. He is said to be visiting his beloved aunt — none other than Her Majesty, the Queen herself. Which leads us to the question on every parched and powdered lip: Will the Queen make an appearance at the masquerade, now that her royal nephew will be mingling amongst the mortals?

This author cannot say with certainty, but if the past is any indicator, Her Majesty does so love to oversee a spectacle… especially when it involves matchmaking.

So, gentle reader, press your gowns, polish your masks, and perfect your lies — for the season has once again begun, and with it, so too has the game. You have missed me, and I — in all honesty — have missed you. The truth is, Society without your eager eyes and hungry hearts is merely a stage without an audience. But now the curtain rises, the players take their marks, and I am once again poised in the wings… watching.


Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

Pyroclast WanderLust. CapellaStargaze

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)
Lady Celestine Davenport​

Celestine had attended more parties than one might expect for someone so young, and yet, as she stepped out of the carriage, she felt something different tonight. Surrounded by her family, all adorned in their own masks, she experienced a rare sense of liberation, as though for once, she had nothing to conceal—even if the ball’s very theme was one of mystery and disguise.

Her pearl-colored masquerade mask fit so naturally that it felt like a second skin, granting her an unexpected comfort, and dare she admit, a newfound confidence as they approached the Sinclaire estate. The sprawling gardens before them were a vision of perfection, meticulously manicured and bathed in the soft glow of twinkling candlelights. The night air was clear and pleasantly warm, much to Celestine’s delight, and the full moon cast its silvery light over the entire scene, creating an atmosphere that was nothing short of enchanting. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to simply be—to embrace the magic of the evening without the weight of past burdens.

For once, instead of her usual dread, Celestine felt a thrill of excitement she could scarcely place. The gown she wore tonight, a deep glittering blue that appeared almost black under the night sky, had once been intended for her debut season—a season cut short by illness and circumstance. The velvet fabric was an unconventional choice, but the modiste who had crafted it assured her that it would spark conversation most favorably.

Celestine had been pleased to find that the gown still fits her well, requiring only a slight adjustment to the waist, which she had managed herself. Any funds they had managed to save for Genevieve’s upcoming season were to be used for her younger half sister’s new dresses, but tonight, in this gown, Celestine felt like a princess—a sensation she had not experienced in far too long. She silently credited the masquerade mask for this newfound confidence, allowing her to emerge from the shell she had so carefully constructed around herself. The mask, though simple, was as darling as the gown, and as she caught a glimpse of her skirt in her peripheral vision, she marveled at how the glittering fabric reflected the moonlight, resembling the stars in the sky above.

Luxurious carriages continued to arrive in droves, depositing guests dressed in splendid attire and intricate masks, all eager to partake in the evening’s grandeur. The air was filled with laughter and animated chatter as they ascended the sweeping staircase, where liveried footmen stood ready to assist. Celestine stole glances at her siblings, curious about their thoughts as they climbed the same steps. Once they passed the bowing footmen, she could not help but gape at the sight before her.

The Sinclaire estate had been transformed into a wonderland of shimmering silks and rich brocades. The opulence of it all was almost overwhelming, and as they were ushered with the rest of the guests toward the main ballroom—the very heart of the evening’s festivities—Celestine nearly cursed under her breath at the sheer magnificence of it all.

"Are they attempting to rival the Queen herself?" Celestine mused aloud, her gaze drifting upward to the crystal chandeliers suspended from the lofty ceilings. The dazzling light refracted through the prisms, casting a mesmerizing display across the room. The walls, swathed in deep crimson velvet, were adorned with gilded mirrors that reflected the glittering assembly of guests. In the center of the room, a grand orchestra occupied an elevated platform shaped like a crescent moon, accompanied by a lone opera singer whose voice resonated through the vast hall. The melodies wove through the air, beckoning couples to the dance floor, where the polished surface mirrored the swirling colors of the dancers' attire.

Celestine had never encountered such opulence before, and she couldn't help but wonder what occasion warranted such grandeur. Beyond the ballroom’s splendor, even the large doors leading to the gardens revealed a scene equally enchanting. Lanterns hung from the trees, casting a soft glow over the meticulously manicured lawns. For those daring enough to escape the hustle and bustle of the masked ballroom, a string quartet played near a fountain that shimmered under the benevolent moonlight, offering a more intimate setting.

On any other night, Celestine might have sought refuge in those very gardens, but tonight, she felt no such urge to retreat. Even if her family was actively working against her. Her eyes looked to where Genevieve was. Part of her pitied the young woman, understanding what it felt like - the anxiety of her first season. But give that her father was hell-bent on seeing them as rivals, much like society did, Celestine couldn't find it, even in her sweet heart to offer assistance or comfort at this time. Instead, she found herself drawn to the dance floor—envying the dancers who danced with so little effort. She remembered the days when she could dance for hours and not feel faint...now she could hardly go a waltz without the lasting symptoms of her illness taking hold.

Morgan, ever dutiful, lingered near them out of a sense of obligation, but Celestine silently hoped he would allow himself the freedom to enjoy the evening. As they stood at the edge of the dance floor, Celestine felt no urgency to seek out interaction, yet she remained quietly hopeful, her heart stirred by the possibility of what the night might bring.
with: OPEN TO INTERACTION
mentions: Morgan, Evie CapellaStargaze

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)

Charity Gallagher​

Performing on stage at the Opera House was as familiar to Charity as breathing. The stage was her domain, a place where every step, every gesture was a dance she had mastered. Stage right from stage left, the ebb and flow of the audience's rapt attention—these were constants in her world. Yet, as she ventured into the more exclusive, private performances for those whose wealth seemed to know no bounds, she felt her once-burning passion for the craft slip through her fingers like sand.

Tonight, she had been summoned to Lady Sinclaire's grand estate, arriving early as instructed. The estate, with its opulent grandeur, demanded her attention, leaving her momentarily lost in its splendor. Lady Sinclaire herself was an intriguing figure—decisive, perhaps even imperious. But for the sum offered, Charity was willing to bend to her every whim.

Arriving ahead of time had afforded her and the accompanying orchestra—a group of musicians she often performed with at the Opera House—ample time to prepare. Yet, without the familiar sting of the spotlight upon her, the entire experience felt disconcerting. The room was still empty, save for a few attendants bustling about, oblivious to her presence. Cherry, as she was known to her closest friends, glanced at the orchestra, who were already poised with their instruments. The conductor handed her the sheet music, and she thumbed through it absentmindedly. At least the compositions were familiar, a small comfort in this unfamiliar setting.

Once the orchestra had settled into their rhythm, and Charity herself was adequately warmed up, she stepped down from the stage to retrieve her drink, which rested just behind the elevated platform—only now did she realize that the platform was shaped like a diamond-shaped star. Lady Sinclaire's penchant for extravagance was evident in every detail, and Cherry couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to reside in such a grand estate, where wealth flowed as freely as water, providing not only for one’s family but also for such lavish, and perhaps unnecessary, adornments.

After a few measured sips from her glass, the moment had arrived. Guests began to trickle into the grand salon, descending the sweeping staircase with all the grace and grandeur that the upper echelons of the Ton could muster. Cherry’s eyes couldn’t resist wandering to their attire, a silent admiration for the fabrics, the intricate designs, and the effortless elegance with which they carried themselves.

Even amidst the excesses of the Ton, Cherry always found herself captivated by the fashion—the gowns that shimmered like jewels. Her own attire, a vibrant purple gown from the Opera House’s finest collection, matched by a delicate mask, held its own against the finery of the evening.

With the guests settling into their places, she returned to the platform, the orchestra following suit, taking their seats behind her. Cherry turned her head slightly to watch the conductor, awaiting his cue. As his baton lifted, counting them in, the music began, filling the room with a melody that would soon become the evening’s most enchanting memory.

The evening brought an unexpected intimacy that Charity was not accustomed to. The guests were able to step far closer to her as she sang, and many seized the opportunity, observing her as though she were an exhibit in Lady Sinclaire’s grand display—a living art piece to be admired and scrutinized. At first, the surprise caused her voice to falter, the notes falling flat as the weight of their stares bore down on her. But Cherry quickly recovered, her professionalism taking over.

It was in that moment that she found herself longing for the familiar confines of the stage, where the audience remained a faceless, distant entity. There, she could feel a connection through the sheer act of performance, without ever meeting their eyes. Here, in this lavish ballroom, she was acutely aware of every gaze upon her, and she couldn’t decide if it would be considered rude to meet their eyes in return. Nevertheless, she continued to sing, fulfilling her duty as she had been hired to do.

By the fourth or fifth song, the intensity of the stares and the dazzling colors of the Ton began to blur, fading into the background as the music became her sole focus. It was a much-needed reprieve, the music enveloping her, soothing her frayed nerves. It was as if each note warmed her from within, lifting her higher and higher, much like the heady sensation of too much wine. When the moment was right, she allowed a natural smile to grace her lips, a reflection of the joy the music brought her.

The final song before her vocal break was one she held dear, If Love’s a Sweet Passion. As she sang, she allowed herself to be fully immersed in the melody, the words carrying her away, leaving the grand ballroom and its inhabitants far behind.

The song was slow, romantic, and a delight to sing. As the melody filled the room, a few couples had already taken to the dance floor, their graceful movements drawing a wistful smile from Cherry. Though she possessed many talents upon the stage, dancing was not among them. To see the couples engaged in such a delicate artistry, moving together and then apart with such elegance, stirred a gentle ache within her. It was a beauty she admired from afar—a life she knew she would never lead.

Cherry understood beauty in other ways, though. It lived in the roles she embodied on stage, in the characters she cherished and into whom she poured her heart and soul. Yet, outside the theater, her life felt drained of color, save for the love she held for her family, which was the one true joy that sustained her.

As she sang the final verse:

"When in striving to hide,
She reveals all her flame,
And our eyes tell each other,
What neither dares name…"

She allowed the last note to linger, carrying it far beyond the accompaniment, letting it resonate off the marble walls. When her voice finally fell silent, the room erupted into applause. Cherry offered a low curtsy, her lips curving into a modest smile.

With that, she stepped down from her little platform, grateful for the chance to take her vocal break. She needed to refill her glass and perhaps find something to eat, a brief respite from the evening’s performance.
with: nudge nudge, wink wink WanderLust.

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Garden)

Lord Rhys Davenport​

Rhys already had a fucking headache. Was it the suffocating mask, the stifling outfit, or the intolerable crowd? The answer was all of the above. None of it pleased him in the least, and he would have much preferred to drive a dagger into his own gut than endure one of these tedious affairs. Yet, here he was. Why, exactly, was he subjecting himself to this torment again?

As he lifted a crystal glass of brandy to his lips—a glass he had managed to procure through less-than-proper means—Rhys reminded himself of his primary motivation for attending: to thoroughly irritate Morgan, of course. But that was closely followed by his reluctant desire to make amends with the rest of his family. It had been years since he had been cast out. Surely, they couldn’t continue to nurse old grudges? Their father might, but some men never changed. If Morgan was still holding onto that grudge, perhaps he was no better than the old man.

“You left me alone last night.” A woman’s voice called to him from across the garden, and he nearly groaned aloud.

“That was the point, darling,” he replied, his tone dripping with mock sweetness as he turned to face her. Good God, what was her name again? He had downed so many drinks last night that it had slipped right through the cracks of his memory.

“Perhaps you can make it up to me by joining me on the dance floor,” she purred, her voice laced with an expectation he found utterly irritating.

Rhys let out a harsh laugh. “Look, uh...” Damn it, her name still eluded him. “I don’t think you quite understand how this works, luv.”

The bewildered look on her face was almost enough to make him feel guilty—but not quite.

If Rhys had been any other man, he might have felt a twinge of guilt. And if he were any other man, he would likely have remembered her name after spending the night with her. But he wasn't. “I’m not the sort you want to linger with,” he said sharply. “Trust me, find yourself another man. That’s my only warning.”

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Rhys silenced her with a raised finger. “My only warning, darling,” he murmured, the tone edged with a dangerous finality. “Now, make your way back inside and leave me be.” At least she had the good sense to turn and walk away, though he couldn’t deny the small pleasure he took in watching her depart. She was beautiful, after all… Still, her name remained an enigma to him, and it hardly mattered. A new night meant a new woman to take home at the end of it.

But first, he would have his fun with Morgan. All the while, he’d ensure his family understood that he was here to stay this time. He intended to show them that he had changed—though, old habits, as they say, were hard to break.

Being compelled to travel had been one thing, but discovering the peace in doing it for himself had granted Rhys a completely new outlook on life—on family, on everything. As he glanced back at the spot where the woman had stood only moments ago, he realized that was perhaps the only aspect of himself that hadn’t changed. Yet, he would feel far less guilty about that if he discovered that Morgan hadn’t changed a bit either. At least he had earned his reputation honestly, rather than hiding behind some golden boy façade like Morgan.

Rhys found himself pacing the garden, the soft trickle of the fountain and the distant strains of a string quartet somewhere around the corner providing a momentary reprieve from his thoughts. He could venture inside now, seek out his family and confront whatever awaited him. But something held him back. His jaw tightened in contemplation as he smoothed down the fabric of his coat and took another sip from his glass.
with: nudge nudge nudge (at Lydia) WanderLust.
mention: oh and fuck you Morgan CapellaStargaze

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Conservatory)

Lady Victoria Bloomington​

"Must we always descend into the carriage like a herd of untamed beasts?" Victoria inquired, her tone laced with a delicate sigh as she addressed her children and Quinlan, who looked awkward in finery tonight. "I expect no creased gowns or disheveled coats," she continued, her voice firm yet gentle. Once the last of them was settled, she gracefully followed, allowing the footman to close the door behind her.

In this modern age, wealth played a crucial role in securing a marriage. And with Weston being a Marquess, it was clear that he and his mother had ample means. Yet the true extent of their fortune became strikingly apparent as their carriage swept into the grand, U-shaped drive, halting before the towering edifice that was the Sinclaire home, a majestic three stories in height. Though Victoria, ever the lady, would never stoop to open admiration, she could not deny her surprise. The astonishment was shared among the others, it seemed. Inside, the estate was just as lavish as its exterior, and Victoria nearly found herself gaping in awe, a reaction she quickly stifled, for such a display would be entirely unbecoming of her.

"The chandeliers are quite extraordinary, aren't they?" Victoria remarked to August, who held her arm. "Lady Sinclaire certainly has a penchant for opulence." Though her smile was warm and inviting, there was the faintest trace of judgment in her tone, carefully concealed from the watchful eyes around them.

As they descended the grand staircase into the bustling ballroom, Victoria turned to August and Francis. "Tonight will present a greater challenge in keeping watch over your sister," she instructed. "Do your utmost to ensure they do not wander too far from propriety. And for all that is Holy, make sure your cousin does not stir up too much trouble. I do not know where has gone of to already. But he's not used to such events." Her tone was serious but there was smile on her face.

"I shall be circulating the room myself, making certain Daphne does not stray. But remember to enjoy yourselves as well—mingle, dance, and take in the evening’s delights."

Her gaze then shifted to her daughter. "These masks provide men with the perfect opportunity to obscure their true intentions—do not be deceived. But above all, enjoy yourself. Should you need me for any reason, I shall be close at hand, and your brothers will not be far behind." She smiled tenderly at her children, her pride evident. "You all look positively radiant."

With that, Victoria gracefully parted from them, making her way towards the refreshment table before beginning her careful survey of the room.
was with: Augustus Pyroclast ; Francis CapellaStargaze ; Daphne WanderLust.

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)

Lady Helena Bexley​

As the golden hues of the setting sun bathed her grandparents' estate in a warm glow, Helena found no solace in the serene beauty that surrounded her. The tranquil landscape offered no respite from the turmoil within, a turmoil that had robbed her of sleep for days since her fateful conversation with August. Frustration gnawed at her, for she had laid bare her secret to him, yet the heavy guilt that pressed upon her heart remained unyielding, a constant weight she could not escape.

There was no need to ponder the source of this guilt, for Helena understood all too well why it lingered so relentlessly. The moment she gazed into his familiar blue eyes and heard his vow to remain a steadfast presence in her life, the truth became painfully clear. Three years had passed since she had last seen him, three years during which she had foolishly believed that time and distance would dull the affections that once burned so fiercely within her. But now, she realized with startling clarity that those feelings had not faded in the slightest. The fire that had once consumed her still blazed, as vivid and unrelenting as ever.

It unsettled her deeply, not solely because of the potential strain it might place upon their cherished friendship, but because of the grief that clung to her like a heavy, unshakeable cloak. Her parents’ death was a wound still fresh, a scar that had barely begun to heal. The pain of their loss was sharp and unrelenting, a grief so profound that it hollowed her out, leaving her adrift and disconnected from the world around her. It was this grief that cast a shadow over every small pleasure life offered, filling her with a sense of guilt for daring to find joy amid such sorrow.

Thus, the unexpected resurgence of love for August felt like salt on that wound. The very thought of seeing him tonight, as striking as he always was, sent a tremor through her heart. Helena knew he would be concerned for her, would look upon her with those same kind eyes, and yet the longing she felt for him seemed almost a betrayal to her parents’ memory. To be consumed by thoughts of romance when she should be deep in mourning weighed heavily upon her conscience.

Of course, Helena’s return this season was to secure a husband, a match that would serve both herself and her country. But did she need to find romance at this very moment? The notion felt overwhelming, almost unnecessary in her current state of mind. “Miss?” A soft voice interrupted her thoughts. One of her lady’s maids stood before her, a quiet presence that gently called her back to the present. “Lord Haas requests an audience with you in the study.” Helena turned her head, meeting the young woman’s gaze as she bowed slightly. With a sigh that was almost imperceptible, Helena rose gracefully from the bench. “Of course, thank you,” she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

As Helena finally tore her gaze from the documents and glanced out the window, she noticed it was dark. She would be late. “I am done for the evening,” she murmured, rising gracefully from the desk. Her lady’s maids—three in all—and Marko, ever vigilant, stood as well, each offering a respectful bow. Helena, unperturbed, swept out of the study and ascended to the third floor of the house, where her bedroom awaited. Though her maids trailed only a few paces behind, their presence did little to alleviate the solitude of her thoughts. The Ton buzzed with anticipation for tonight’s festivities, but Helena found herself unable to muster the slightest excitement—a sentiment entirely foreign to her nature. A part of her longed to forgo the ball altogether, yet she knew such an absence would attract more attention than she was willing to endure.

Why, after all these years, could she not simply move on? Why did her heart betray her so cruelly when she needed clarity and strength the most? Helena was emotionally spent, stripped bare by the turmoil. She could not escape the echo of his words: “You forget that I am a constant in your life, as you are in mine…” Her eyes fluttered shut as the weight of his sentiment reverberated through her mind. A soft protest escaped her lips as one of her maids tightened the strings of her corset, but the maid’s hurried apology went unanswered, lost in the whirlwind of Helena’s thoughts.

As she gazed into the mirror, Helena scarcely recognized the woman who stared back at her, both in form and in spirit. Her reflection blurred as tears welled in her eyes, and she drew in a deep, shaky breath. The effort to distance herself from him felt unnatural, even after three long years and the painful way things had ended. It was as though she were forcing her heart to resist its most natural inclination, like trying to hold back the tide—inevitable, relentless, and overwhelming. She knew that every stolen glance, every brief conversation, would only intensify her struggle. It would be as it had been before they were together: her watching him from afar, wondering if he felt the same pull. Only this time, she would wonder if he, too, was haunted by the memories of what they once had and held so dear.

Dressed and polished to perfection for the ball, Helena was ushered toward the carriage, once again left alone with nothing but her thoughts on the ride over. Each bump in the road sparked fresh waves of anxiety within her, and she clung desperately to the notion that it would all be worth it in the end. Yet beneath the yearning, a deep-seated fear took hold. If she got too close to August, she might foolishly reopen wounds for both of them. She also feared the judgment of society, the inevitable whispers that would follow if they were seen together too often. Their broken engagement had been the talk of the Ton, and Helena could not bear to be the subject of gossip once more, especially when she was still grieving. But the judgment of the Ton be damned—what terrified her most was the possibility of losing him entirely, as a friend. He had vowed to be a constant in her life, forever. The very thought of losing that promise, that bond, was a terror far greater than any scandal or heartbreak.

Even if they must maintain a distance now, it did not mean they could not be friends again once both are married to others and content in their lives. August knew her secret now—truly knew her—saw beyond the carefully crafted facade she presented to the world. But even before this revelation, he had known her intimately—her strengths, her vulnerabilities, her joys, and her sorrows. And she knew his just as well. The thought of losing her dearest friend haunted her most of all. Without him, life in England would have felt unbearably lonely. The grief she had been striving to manage might have overwhelmed her entirely. He had been her anchor in so many ways, even from afar through letters… and the mere thought of him drifting away filled her with a profound sense of dread. Helena swallowed hard as the carriage came to a halt at the Sinclaire estate. She knew what she must do. Their friendship was far too precious to risk, even if it meant locking away her feelings deep within her heart. It was a painful choice, one that left her heart heavy with longing, but it was a choice she felt compelled to make, to protect what little she still had left of him.

As Helena proceeded toward the ballroom, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over her. She glanced down at her gown, her thoughts plagued with doubts about whether the pink tulle was too extravagant, the bodice’s beading catching the light and shimmering as she moved. The gown left her shoulders bare, with sleeves that draped languidly on her arms. Her delicate masquerade mask, crafted with pink and gold hues to complement her dress, featured large flowers on either side and strands of gold beading cascading downward. Lightly, she touched her rose-colored necklace and traced a gentle finger over her matching tiara, silently hoping it remained properly in place after the jostle of the carriage ride.

When she entered the ballroom, the brilliance of the chandeliers illuminated the space, revealing her at the top of yet another grand staircase. The room was already abuzz with activity—some couples engaged in lively dance, while others mingled with practiced ease. At her first ball, mingling had felt so effortless, and dancing had begun to weave its way back into her life. Yet now, as she stood observing, she found herself tracing her fingers lightly along the banister, surveying the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Everyone appeared unrecognizable, but then again, that was the very essence of the masquerade, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was not that the Ton had changed during her absence, but rather that she no longer felt she belonged. It was a falsehood she had long told herself—and August—that she fit seamlessly into this world. The marriage market, already fraught with complexities, was made all the more challenging by this added layer of uncertainty. Honoring her parents’ wishes had been straightforward enough, yet the thought that others would only see her true self once her secret was revealed had been the silent force keeping her from speaking out—despite her natural gift for conversation. With August now aware of her secret and soon-to-be pursuing new interests, Helena was left to navigate this season with trepidation.

Her father's words echoed in her mind: Life was but a dance, one could either sway to its rhythm or, with sufficient courage, compose a melody of their own. Grief, however, remained a perplexing adversary. One moment, Helena felt as though she could stand resolute, and the next, she found herself gripping the banister, struggling to maintain her balance against the turmoil within. Even the cherished memories, those that urged her to summon strength in her darkest hours, were not immune to grief's relentless grasp. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she drew a steadying breath, pushing herself away from the banister and turning toward the ballroom staircase. The guilt could eat her alive but what she needed to secure surpassed her own discomfort.
mentions: welp, we can guess can't we. The man who did NOT follow her to Austria Pyroclast

 

[Pyroclast]

Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Ballroom, Sinclaire Estate ~

Lord Augustus Bloomington​

As the Bloomingtons sat together in their coach, it struck Augustus that he couldn’t remember the last time somebody had hosted a masquerade ball. As expected, they had all dressed up to the nines, August and Victoria opting for their signature blue, and there was little doubt the family would turn all the usual heads upon their arrival, and more. Yet, he had to admit there was something quite amusing about seeing people copping disguises - pointed feline eyes, or a nose swapped for an owl’s beak. With his siblings looking back at him in the carriage through their masks, August spent much of the carriage ride fighting a fit of the giggles.

Fortunately, his own mask disguised his pink cheeks and streaming eyes enough for him to feign serious upon their arrival. The London estate was certainly one to behold - even from the outside, it looked as though weeks of preparation had gone into its appearance for this one night alone. And perhaps it had, he thought. August walked with his mother on his arm, leading his brother and sister behind them as they entered through the doors. The first thing his eyes landed on was a great chandelier, five tiers of glittering crystals all refracting the light. The entrance hall itself was no less grand, with huge portraits on the walls framed by ornate golden pillars - but even surrounded by such splendour, the chandelier still managed to draw attention to itself. It had as much of an effect on his mother, who was trying in vain to hide her awe.

“I believe your compliments are due not for the Dowager Marchioness, but for her parents, given it is their home we are in,” he lightly challenged, his own eyes taking in the opulence of the mansion’s interior. “Though I would venture to imagine the Sinclaire estate in Winchester just as grand as this, if not grander.”

The ballroom below was already bustling with activity and music, the guests in their masquerade costumes filling the dancefloor with all the whimsy of a Fragonard painting. As they descended the staircase, Victoria reminded him and Francis to keep close eyes on their sister, as well as their cousin, Quinlan. Quinlan was August's age, but not being a nobleman, he only recently made his way into high society after the social successes of his father carved a path for him. In August's eyes, the man had always seemed to live happily enough beneath the realms of the upper classes, and with him quite the free spirit, he had to wonder what Quinlan would make of all the grandeur and etiquette of events such as the Sinclaire ball. However, it was not in his interest to keep anyone stuck to his side, so he let his siblings and cousin explore freely and watched as his mother eventually set off in the direction of the refreshments table, wondering how she tended to spend her time at such events while her children danced.

With this being Daphne’s first ball, August naturally felt protective. However, he didn’t keep her at his side for long, instead assuring her that he would remain nearby. Francis had made himself known to the Duchess at the races, but even Lady Whistledown hadn’t found much to say about their encounter, and Francis had had even less to say. Even so, August hoped that his brother and sister would make some headway in finding somebody suitable. Such events were full of eligible bachelors and potential brides, attractive altogether in looks, personality and fortune. Yet, for August, there was only one person occupying his thoughts, and given her circumstances, he did not expect her to be in attendance.

Suddenly a heavy arm hooked around his shoulders and air around him was filled with the smell of brandy. In a manner most uncouth, the youngest Sinclaire brother uttered a welcome that sounded rehearsed and, despite his smile, seemed less than genuine. August was left to watch him stumble through the sea of guests, himself too taken aback to think to go after him. Not only was the younger man not in costume, but he wasn’t even in half dress - not to mention his obvious inebriation. August soon lost sight of him, but moved a little closer to his sisters to ensure that they remained undisturbed.

Concerned still that the drunken host was not in a state to guard his inhibitions, August made his way quickly over to the Marquess, whose mask he managed to identify only because he had seen him greeting guests at the entrance. “Sinclaire.” August offered him a polite smile as he approached him. “It’s me - Augustus,” he hastened to add, in case his own mask disguised him too well. “It’s good to see you again, man. A beautiful evening your family has thrown tonight - you must pass my compliments to your mother and grandparents.” His smile wavered as he remembered that the last time he had spoken to the man had been at the funeral of the late Marquess. He almost extended his condolences again, but managed to stop short. Clearing his throat, he leaned in close to Weston. “You might check on your brother,” he warned him under his breath. “It is not my place to speculate on the matter, but he is not in a civilised state…I think someone ought to put him to bed before he finds himself in trouble.”

His words were chosen with tact in mind, but they did not convey the truth, which was that August was not concerned by Leon facing the consequence of his actions but rather who his actions would hurt. His sister was on the dancefloor, as were his friends and many other women whose evening - or even reputation - could be put at risk by an encounter with the undressed gentleman. Despite this, he knew his place was not to meddle in the affairs of the Sinclaire family, so he trusted that Weston would have the young man dealt with quietly before he could cause a scene.

Leaving the problem in Weston’s hands, August focused instead on locating his sisters, eager to make sure they did not run into the troubled Sinclaire brother, nor any other gentleman who might choose to harass them. He approached the staircase again, intending to use it as a vantage point to survey the room, but as he did he noticed someone descending the stairs - someone he had not expected to see.

Transfixed by the vision of her, August’s awareness of the room shifted. The soprano no longer sang to a room of people, but solely to the arrival of Lady Helena Bexley, Empress of Austria. It was as though he had transcended to a place beyond anybody’s reach; nobody could bother him and nothing could pull his attention away from her. After she had disclosed her situation to him, he had sworn to care for her throughout her grief. Of course, given their own situation, having been betrothed in the past, he understood that it would not do either of their reputations any good to be seen together too often, so he would have to be clever in finding ways to protect her well-being while maintaining a sensible distance.

August slipped out of his trance upon noticing that Helena appeared somewhat nervous as she came down the stairs. Her steps were tentative, unsteady, as if she wasn't quite sure whether to proceed. He resolved to meet her, and in a few moments came to stand before her on the step below.

“That shade of pink always belonged to you,” he said with a smile. “It's August, by the way. I know this mask makes me look disproportionately handsome, but I assure you I am still the same old troll underneath. You, on the other hand, look beautiful either way.” He offered his arm to her for support, and looked out at the scene below. “A lot of people in attendance tonight. I've spotted some frightful masks - don't be afraid if you see a Plague Doctor wandering about, it's only old Doctor Thompson playing a silly prank.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Still, you would be wise not to dance with him. You know what they say about surgeons - steady hands, clumsy feet!”

Once they had made it to the ballroom floor, Augustus led her to one side, out of the way of the excitable guests, and let go of her arm. “I must say, I'm…” Was it rude to admit he was surprised? Or to bring up the reason why, being that the last time he had seen her she had broken down crying in public? “I'm pleased to see you here, Helena,” was what he settled for. “I had not heard if you had decided to come, but I'm pleased that you are here. I imagine it should do you good to surround yourself with friends and enjoy what festivities society has to offer this summer, don't you think?” He smiled at her once more. In truth, he longed to ask her how she was fairing, but he didn't want to risk making her cry in such a crowded place - especially since Lady Whistledown was often in attendance at these large events.

Bellz Helena, (Mama Bloom, Quinlan)
WanderLust. Weston, (Daphne)

 

[Pyroclast]

The darkest hours of the morning
Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Leon's bedchamber, Sinclaire Estate ~

Lord Leon Sinclaire​

Everything is black. Leon is paralysed. The sound of drumming oscillates past his head at breakneck speed but he cannot see to tell what it is, where it is or when it is coming. Unable to move out of its way, he feels vulnerable and defenceless, like he is about to get hit. His body is nothing but a weight, moulded into the ground, receiving every vibration. The drumming gets faster and faster, closer and closer, louder than he could scream.

Then, suddenly, there is silence. The absence of threat is not replaced by comfort, but suspense. Dread. He is back in his room, enclosed by the heavy curtains of his four poster bed, but something feels wrong.

“Stainton?” he calls out, in case his valet is nearby. But he is only met with silence. Curious as to what time it is, Leon sits up on his knees and draws back the curtains of his bed. The morning sun is spilling into the room, and he lets out a breath. His bare feet hit the floor.

“Go back to bed, son.”

Startled by his father’s voice, Leon spins around - and then stops dead in his tracks. His father’s body hangs upside down from one ankle, his body limp like a ragdoll and covered in blood. It pours from holes in his face, seeping through the floorboards and into the sunbeams, a fresh, glistening scarlet.

A blood-curdling scream woke him up and Leon found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, the curtains drawn once again. It took him a moment to realise the scream had come from him. It was dark and he was alone, but he was too afraid to draw back the curtains this time. He drew his knees to his chest and hugged them tight as he began to rock back and forth, tears streaming down his cheeks and his whole body trembling.

He was so shaken that he didn’t even hear his bedroom door open.

“My Lord?” came a safe and familiar voice. Leon would have responded but he was too busy fighting to keep his cries quiet.

“My Lord, I heard a scream,” said Mr Stainton. “Has something happened? Are you hurt?”

Was he hurt? The pain was so great that even if he could speak, he wouldn’t be able to describe it. A vicious spirit was inside him, clawing at his skin from the inside, his lungs and heart in its deathly grip. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to cry, it hurt to even be awake.

“My lord, if you do not answer me, I shall have to draw back these curtains and make sure you’re not -”

“NO!” Leon cried out. “D-don’t open them.” The choked-up trembling on his voice had given him away, now. He felt like he was going mad. In a deeper, quieter voice, he confessed, “I had a nightmare.” There was no response. He let his head sink into his hands and tugged on his hair until his scalp burned. “Leave me alone.”

“Are you sure there is nothing I can -”

“I don’t want you today,” Leon snapped. “You are dismissed. Go away, please.”

“But, my lord, today is the ball,” Stainton reminded him. “Won’t you need -”

“I SAID, GO!” he roared, wrestling with his bedspread in frustration. He unleashed a string of curses upon the man until he finally heard the door close, plunging him into silence. An unexpected yearning came over him when he heard the footsteps grow more and more distant, followed by the closing of Stainton’s bedroom door. Fresh tears welled in Leon’s eyes, and he felt suddenly like a child left behind. But unlike a lost child, he knew he didn’t deserve attention. This was his grief, his guilt, his fear, his nightmare, his pain. This was his fault. Feeling smaller than he ever had before, Leon pulled his bedspread up over his head, curled into a ball and cried himself back to sleep.


When Leon next awoke, the dark, threatening energy that had once filled his bedroom now had all but cleared. He drew back the drapes of his four poster bed and saw the sunlight streaming in. The floors were just floors. Nothing hung from the ceiling. He untangled himself from the bedsheets, having slept in an unusual position, and swung his legs over the bed. A slight wooziness struck him as he padded over to the vanity dresser, and when he bent down to check himself in the mirror, he found himself locking eyes with his reflection. The man staring back at him looked more than worse for wear, his eyes still red and puffy from his crying and framed by dark bags that aged him. His head was aching, but whether that was from all the tears he had shed or the onset of a hangover, he couldn’t be certain.

Today was the day. Why his mother had decided to throw a ball this season was beyond him. In fact, he found it insulting and entirely inappropriate. When Gregory had passed away, Leon had only been twenty years old. In some ways his brother’s death had divided the family. Weston had had the least opportunity to mourn, plunged into the role of Marquess before he was ready. Odette became insufferable in her grief, with everyone seeming to be in her way. Leon couldn’t actually remember how his individual family members had suffered, for those first few months were a blur, hardly able to form many memories for all the alcohol he was drinking. He still had scars on his chest from his feverish attempts to release the pain that dwelled in his heart. Some of the more recent ones were still struggling to heal, cuts on his torso where the anxiety gnawed at his stomach. Gregory’s death had been agonising, but his father’s death was different for the insuppressible guilt that came with it. It was a demon that lived inside him, chewing up his organs, sharpening its razor teeth on his bones. It choked him, it made him puke, it poisoned his dreams and turned him wild. Meanwhile, his mother was breaking out of the family’s mourning period to throw a ball, as if their lives had not been upturned and everything was just the same.

His loose linen nightshirt hung open as he bent over the vanity dresser, revealing scars old and new. But Leon did not notice them. He was watching himself closely in the mirror, staring deep into his bloodshot eyes until the demon inside him was the one staring back. His lips formed a grin and his breath quickened into a laugh. “Hideous beast,” he snarled, and spat onto the mirror. The spittle slithered down the glass, obscuring and distorting his reflection. Whether he was addressing himself, his demon or his mother was unclear even to him, but he felt himself brimming with a powerful hatred.

Much of Leon’s day had been spent in something of a wild, excitable mood. He started drinking early to stave off the hangover and cheerfully allowed his valet to dress him in his finest clothes. He sauntered about the house as it was being prepared for the festivities, and indulged his mother in all her desires with cheerful disdain. This powerful hatred driving him forward gave him a sense of superiority, knowing that his mother would receive her divine punishment at one time or another. In such moods he felt as though he might possess the power of God Himself, as if He had bestowed Leon the right to deliver His judgement.

One hour before the ball’s opening, Leon retreated upstairs to his room once again, where he proceeded to strip down to his undergarments. He carelessly tossed his fine clothes to the floor, which were now at risk of being splashed by the bottle of brandy that swung from his loose hand. Now that he had a plan in his head - though, it was a rather childish plan - he couldn’t wait to hear the ball’s opening minuet and see the house fill with lords and ladies from far and wide.

~ Ballroom, Sinclaire Estate ~
​

By the time the music was playing, Leon was more drunk than he had intended to get. His depth perception was compromised by his blurring vision, and so he had to take each step on the stairs with caution. Behind him flowed a floral burgundy banyan, a gift his father had given him on his 18th birthday. Leon was dressed in his bed clothes once again; his golden hair had tumbled out of place and his linen shirt, only half tucked into his cotton breeches, hung open all the way down to his sternum, exposing his scarred chest.

Leon staggered with utter disorder across the ballroom floor, and every time he bumped into someone he would sling his arm around their neck, regardless of who they were, and say with a grin, “Welcome to my father’s second wake.” The sea of masks was oddly comical to him. In his eyes, there was not a single person there in fancy dress who didn’t come across as an idiot. Even his brother and sister were dressed up to the nines, as if they stood in support of their mother’s disrespectful social event. Well, in this mood, he felt inclined to hate them, too, if they weren’t going to make a similar stand against her.

At some point, his mother would spot him, if he didn’t spot her first, and he hoped she would be outraged by his state of undress. He wanted to embarrass and shame her. He wanted to make a scene, to call her out in front of everyone and make them all feel stupid for indulging her choice to break out of mourning. He did not understand her, nor anyone in attendance - especially his siblings and his friends. Guided by his narrow, wavering vision, Leon meandered around the ballroom floor with his brandy bottle still swinging from his hand, hoping to bump into Odette so that he could deliver God’s punishment.

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)

Lady Helena Bexley​

Each step brought her closer to the grand ballroom, where Helena felt she would need to don a thousand masks just to endure the evening. In one way, it was no different from the life she had always led, but in another, the difference was glaring. Secrets were perhaps easier to keep than the burden of concealing the fragile state of her heart. Though hesitation tugged at her every movement, urging her back to the safety of the carriage, she pressed forward, determined. As she descended the stairs, her steps faltering ever so slightly, she was startled to find a familiar figure waiting for her at the foot of the staircase. A wistful smile curved upon Helena’s lips as August complimented her, followed by a charming introduction as though they had not shared years of friendship. A soft scoff, then a quiet laugh, slipped from her lips—a sound both steady and sorrowful—as August made a jest at his own expense, only to flatter her once more. When he offered his arm, her gaze briefly swept across the bustling ballroom before she accepted, stepping down to join him on equal footing.

"Still as dashing and handsome as ever," she began, her tone light but betraying a hint of fragility, “Though your attitude may be a touch... trollish, ja?” She attempted a teasing tone, though her voice cracked slightly with the effort. “Tell me—how is it that you, looking every bit ze prince from a fairytale, have managed to escape the eager clutches of ze season’s most eligible brides?” Helena glanced up at him, allowing him to guide her. She knew well enough that her own feet would not carry her towards this place or these people. But she could not run any longer—not from this night.

"Plague doctor?" Helena repeated with a raised brow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she shook her head in amusement. August leaned in closer, his voice lowering, and though she tried not to tense at the sudden warmth between them, the weight of her melancholy lingered just beneath the surface. In an effort to dispel it, she gave him a gentle shove, their arms still entwined. “August! Surely if he vere a surgeon, he vould fix my poor feet, vouldn’t he?” she quipped with a laugh. As they moved to a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the eager throngs who relished the evening’s excitement, August released her arm and turned to face her. The last time they had spoken, Helena had—quite unexpectedly—allowed many of her barriers to crumble in his presence, something she hadn’t anticipated. Grief was a tempestuous thing, sweeping in waves that could leave her breathless when she least expected it. Yet tonight, she was determined to remain composed, even if it meant exhausting herself to maintain the fragile mask she had so carefully crafted.

Helena’s smile, though still touched by melancholy, had softened when August expressed his pleasure at seeing her there. She nodded in quiet understanding, for she had given him no indication that she would attend. "I imagine it should," she said, her lips curving in a slight smile. But beneath the surface of this pleasantry, Helena knew well that there was a question hanging in the air, one that August had yet to voice. They had known each other far too long for him to conceal his concern. As pleased as he appeared, she could sense his worry, the unspoken inquiry of how she was truly faring simmering just beneath their polite exchange. He did not wish to upset her, especially in so public a setting. “I ebb and flow... some days I am vell and…” she confessed, her voice quieter now, “...and other days, everyzing feels far too much.” She spoke plainly, her gaze drifting toward the crowd. She didn’t need to read the subtle expressions behind his mask to know his heart; she had always been able to see through to his soul. “Ze whisper of your question lingers beneath our vords, mein Lord.” she continued, her tone gentle. "Even if I cannot see your face completely."

Helena turned then, her gaze locking with his, those familiar eyes she had known for what seemed a lifetime. “It veighs on me,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “To indulge in merriment, to enjoy zhe things zhat once brought me such happiness…” Her hands twisted nervously before her, fingers fidgeting as if searching for an anchor. “Zhe warmth of zhe sun on my skin, the music... For a fleeting moment, I am swept away by it, just as I was in simpler times. But zhen, in an instant, I’m reminded zhey vill never again experience such joys. Joys zhey taught me to cherish.” The heaviness settled in her chest, threatening to pull her into deeper sorrow. Sensing the need to shift the conversation, Helena cleared her throat and forced a brighter smile for August. It physically hurt. “Fear not, Viscount,” she said with as much levity as she could muster, though the words felt hollow in her own ears. “I will be vell in time.”

Time healed most wounds—or so they said. But standing before her now was a wound barely healed, one that still throbbed beneath the surface. Distracting her painful thoughts, Helena tilted her head playfully, a spark of mischief forcefully returning to her voice. “"I do hope you vill spend less of zis evening vorrying over me, and more time on ze dance floor. I fear your mother is not particularly pleased vith me keeping you to myself. Her glances during our promenade vere quite… pointed. I imagine zey vould be much the same should I prevent you from finding a suitable match." Helena’s tone was light now, secure in its teasing.

“But…” she added with a softer smile, “I vill always appreciate your concern.” Turning her attention to the ballroom floor, Helena surveyed the assembly of ladies, both dancing and observing. "I vould advise steering clear of Miss Rutledge... I’ve heard from my lady’s maid zat she has her sights set on Lord Allen, und zey seem to have... business together." she remarked, her cheeks warming slightly. “But Miss St. James may be a fine choice. Her father is a Baron, und she’s quite lovely—musically inclined, sveet-natured too.”

Her eyes scanned his face for longer than necessary, her heart traitorously skipping a beat before she swiftly averted her gaze. A smile dancing on her lips, she added, "Tell me, have you any thoughts on who might look beyond your trollish nature as I so graciously do, hm?”
with: the wound barely healed : ( Pyroclast

 

[WanderLust.]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom --> Leon's Bedroom)
Lady Wren Devereau

The Sinclaire residence was a short carriage ride from the Devereau estate, though it felt much longer to Wren as she wrung her gloved hands in her lap, the silken fabric cold to the touch despite the mild weather that evening. Her brother, Asher, sat on the bench across from her as their carriage rumbled steadily against the cobblestone road, though a single word had yet to pass between them on the brief ride. In truth, she was hesitant to strike up a conversation with him, lest it come to light somehow that Wren had been mentioned in the latest issue of Whistledown.

Of course, the first time her idol had deigned to acknowledge her existence, Wren’s name had been preceded by that of the brazzen Sinclaire brother from the horse races. A loathsome speculation, unfounded in truth, that had left her with a sour taste in her mouth for the author of such falsities. She had never taken Asher to be an avid reader and highly doubted he had ever deigned to avail himself of the finer social intricacies of the ton. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers were not something Asher would’ve read of his own free will. Wren doubted he even knew of their existence, yet still, her lips remained silently pursed. Her eyes looking everywhere but at her brother as their carriage rumbled slowly to a stop.

Their invitation to the night’s festivities had come not from the lady of the house, but instead from the Marquess himself. Weston Sinclaire was a friend of Asher’s, and thus it was of no surprise when the fair haired gentleman personally awaited to welcome the siblings to the ball. “Do at least try to acquaint yourself with some of the ladies at tonight's ball,” Wren’s voice held an uncommon note of sincerity as she placed a sparkling silver and sapphire mask upon her face, tying the delicate laces behind her head in a neat bow. “Mother wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone.” she finished curtly, the faintest hint of a sorrowful smile pulling at the edge of her full lips.

Of course, there was something to be said about the pot calling the kettle black in the current situation. Their mother would not have wanted Wren to be alone either, of that she was well aware. But Wren wasn’t alone. She had Aunt Joanna. Besides, Wren would’ve parried such a comment with the notion that it was only her first season. Surely, she had more than enough time to survey her options before settling down and resigning herself to an early grave. For men, perhaps, marriage held the promise of comfort and companionship, they had nothing to lose and everything to gain. But for women like Wren, marriage was a sentence, the surrender of her freedom for what? She didn’t see the appeal.

One of the Sinclaire’s footmen opened the door to their carriage, offering a gloved hand to escort Wren down the steps which she accepted gratefully. “Good evening, Marquess.” Wren offered a warm smile to Weston, who returned her greeting with a similar smile. “Ms. Devereau, a pleasure as always. Please, help yourself to some refreshments inside. We had the kitchens prepare my sister’s favorite drink. Something with raspberries…” he shook his head, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“I think I shall do just that.” Wren bowed her head in farewell to the Marquess, leaving her brother to catch up with his old friend. She was sure Asher would come and find her later, when he required an excuse to avoid socializing with eligible debutantes and their meandering mamas. As she strode towards the open doors of the Sinclaire manor, her silvery blue dress fanned out behind her in an elegant display of moonlit fabric. A warm light emitted from the illustriously decorated ballroom, and Wren caught her own reflection in the frame of multiple mirrors which lined the entry hall to the main event. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a simple updo, the shortest lengths of her hair falling in gentle curls just past her chin. Perhaps a somewhat scandalous choice, her dress revealed the entirety of her neck, collarbones, and shoulders though they were far from bare. The piece de resistance was the double layered necklace hung around her neck, set with countless sparkling stones, the largest of which were six glittering sapphires.

For a moment, Wren allowed herself to marvel at her own appearance, finding it almost hard to recognize the girl who stared back at her from the other side of the mirror. When had she become so grown up? She frowned slightly at the realization… she was beginning to look just like her mother. It was only when she felt the weight of an arm wrapped around her shoulders that Wren was able to pull her gaze away from the mirrors, now glaring at her would-be assailant instead. The only unmasked gentleman in the entire ballroom, Leon Sinclaire wreaked of brandy and bitterness. Inadvertently stumbling in his steps, she could feel the brunt of his weight as he leaned on her, his appearance the very definition of disheveled.

“Welcome to my father’s second wake.” His words were slurred, but his tone was undeniably bitter and cold.

“Have you lost your mind?” Wren hissed, her eyes quickly scanning the crowded ballroom to ensure their audience was limited in number. Though they were far enough away from the majority of the guests to draw too much attention, Leon’s state of drunkenness was sure to garner more unwelcomed eyes if she allowed him to continue on in such a manner. She weighed her options momentarily as she struggled to untangle herself from Leon’s grip, though the moment she removed his arm from around her shoulders he teetered unsteadily as though he might just topple down the stairs.

Realistically, she knew what she should have done in such a situation. She should have parted ways with him, perhaps alerted a servant to his state and let that be the end of it. Rid herself of any association with the drunken rake and carried on with her night. That’s what she should have done. But instead, Wren wrapped her hand tightly around his right arm, whisking him down the hallway to their left with an annoyed urgency. “For God’s sake, come on.” Leon stumbled with every step he took, and in the secluded corridor Wren found herself faced with three closed doors, none of which were any more promising than the other. With a resigned sigh, she decided to open the door immediately to their right, practically shoving Leon into the room and shutting the door behind them before she had even had a chance to survey their surroundings.

This room, unlike the rest of the house, was dark and barren. There were few items of furniture save a large, four post bed next to which burned a single candle. The curtains were half drawn and the sheets of the bed were thrown about in a way that suggested whomever’s bedroom this was had not slept well the night prior. Reluctantly, Wren turned her attention back to Leon, truly surveying him for the first time that night as he leaned against the wall for balance. His golden hair was strewn about in messy strands, his chest exposed by the deep neckline of his nightshirt. She could just barely make out the faintest hint of several scars that littered the otherwise smooth skin of his torso, and she found herself wondering where such scars had come from. Only after several moments was she able to drag her forest green eyes up to meet his gaze. But where she expected to find defiance, she saw only pain.

Something twinged in her chest then, an uncomfortable surge of pity that she willed herself to swallow. She had heard the news of the previous Marquess Sinclaire’s passing, or rather, she had read about it in a letter from Asher shortly after christmas explaining that his friend Weston was to become the new Marquess. She hadn’t thought much of it then, perhaps a passing moment of remorse for the family, but she hadn’t known them well enough to consider the consequences with any real gravity. At the time, she had been too concerned with the passing of her own mother to grieve the losses of others. But now, face to face with the reality that the Sinclaire patriarch’s absence had left, Wren couldn’t help but identify with the tortured soul in front of her.

She wanted to scream at Leon, to shout a hundred different profanities at him, scolding him for his behavior thus far. But when her voice broke the silence it was soft, gentle. “I’m sorry about your father.” she paused, her gaze searching his for any sort of confirmation that he had actually heard her, that he was even coherent enough to understand what she was saying. The open bottle of brandy hanging haphazardly in the grip of his left hand would’ve led her to believe otherwise. “I know that nothing I say will eb the pain,” she stepped forward, closing the gap between them to snatch the bottle of brandy from his grasp “but neither will this.” her voice picked up a slight sharpness then as she placed the almost empty bottle on the desk to her left.

Realizing for the first time that she was still wearing her mask, Wren reached behind her head to untie the silly little costume piece, discarding it next to the empty bottle of brandy before turning her attention back to Leon. “This isn’t the way to honor his memory.” But as she searched his gaze she found no indication that he was listening. She let out a frustrated huff, her eyes rolling upwards “Fine then. Drown in your brandy.” Wren growled lowly, moving for the door, ready to rid herself of this ridiculous interaction.

 

[WanderLust.]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom --> Garden)
Lady Lydia Sinclaire​

Lydia’s mother had always insisted that Lydia looked best in white. The color of innocence and purity, a symbol of wealth and influence… the very picture of a blushing bride. It was no surprise then, when Odette had swept her daughter away to the modiste to be fitted for a new gown to wear for her grandiose moonlight masquerade ball, that she had hand picked a fabric for Lydia’s dress the very shade of ivory that cloaked the moon in the midnight sky. Lydia’s entire ensemble, every item of which had been carefully curated by her mother, was a stunning shade of milky white, from her jewel encrusted, feather adorned mask, all the way down to her silken slippers.

Of course, this meant that Lydia had spent a majority of her evening so far avoiding anything that might tarnish or stain her glistening wardrobe. The kitchens had prepared her favorite refreshment for the occasion, lemonade enhanced with muddled raspberries that gave the drink a marvelously bright pink color. Lydia stood at the refreshment table for a few moments, pondering whether it was worth it to risk spilling the contents of her glass onto herself… but she was so terribly thirsty. Gingerly, she reached out and clasped her grip tightly around one of the crystal glasses, bringing it to her lips with such caution that any onlookers might’ve questioned whether or not Lydia had already had too much to drink… or perhaps not enough.

The sound of a voice behind her caused her to flinch slightly, sloshing about the liquid in her cup. She thanked every star in the sky that she had already drunk enough of the pink liquid so that it didn’t spill over the rim of her glass.

Miss Sinclaire, do you mean to taunt us bachelors with such an ensemble? As if we weren’t already aware what a stunning bride you would make.

Lydia turned her head to identify the voice of her new companion, only to silently deflate when she registered his face. Lord Monroe was an extremely wealthy and well regarded gentleman with blonde hair and deep brown eyes the color of tea before you added milk. He was the eldest of his brothers, and thus stood to inherit one of the largest and most lucrative estates in all the ton. He had once been the most eligible bachelor London had to offer. He was, of course, seventeen years her elder.

“Lord Monroe, good evening.” Lydia offered a shallow curtsy, dipping her chin ever so slightly to the floor. “I trust you are enjoying the night’s festivities?”

Of course, everything is exquisite. Upon uttering the last word of his response, Lord Monroe’s eyes roamed over the length of Lydia’s torso as though he were admiring his last meal. It sent shivers crawling down her spine and a warm blush crept up towards her cheeks.

Tell me, is your dance card yet full? I should not want to miss a chance to sample the best this ton has to offer.

Lydia’s eyes flicked down towards her very empty dance card which hung around her left wrist like a noose awaiting its victim. Her heartbeat began to quicken, thudding in her ears so loudly that Lydia truly wondered if the orchestra had begun to play a thrilling jig instead of a languid quadrille. Her mother would never forgive her should she turn down an opportunity to dance with one of London’s most eligible bachelors, but the very thought of Lord Monroe’s cold, clammy hand upon her waist caused her stomach to tie itself in a sailor’s knot.

A lengthy silence persisted between them as Lydia’s eyes searched the crowded ballroom for an escape route. Where was Weston? Or Francis? What had happened to Theodore Willowby? Had he even accepted her invitation? Forcing a pleasant smile to paint her lips, Lydia cleared her throat. “Actually, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Monroe. I do believe I require a bit of fresh air. These events can be so overwhelming.”

Surely he wouldn’t question her excuse? Setting her mostly full glass back down on the refreshment table, Lydia turned towards the doorways that led to the exterior gardens, her feet starting to move before her mind was able to catch up.

Please, Miss Sinclaire, allow me to escort you.

Lydia heard his plea, but made no move to acknowledge it, feigning instead that she had failed to hear him over the lull of the musician's instruments. Where was her mother? Had she seen Lydia turn down Lord Monroe? Was Lord Monroe still following her? What was she-

Lydia practically collided with a tall, dark haired gentleman just as she was entering the gardens. The dim light of the lanterns hanging in the trees providing little illumination for her to make out any distinguishing features apart from deep, chocolatey eyes. Lydia’s own features were largely hidden by her ivory mask, the feather of which had been bent in her collision with the man before her. Removing it, she looked down at the costume piece with a frown before pulling her eyes up to meet the gaze of the man she had so rudely bumped into.

“Please forgive me, I-”

Miss Sinclaire, are you quite alright?

Lydia remained facing the dark haired gentleman, her face contorting in a silent curse as her back remained to Lord Monroe, who had evidently followed her out to the gardens.

 

[WanderLust.]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)
Weston Sinclaire, Marquess of Winchester
​

“Devereau!” Weston mused with a smile upon Asher’s exit from the carriage. The arrival of his old friend was a welcome distraction from the tedious socializing he had been participating in thus far. “It’s been too long. Tell me, how have you been?” He placed a firm hand on the back of Asher’s right shoulder, ushering him towards the doorway to the manor and the ensuing festivities within. “That sister of yours has certainly come into her own. Her first season out if I’m not mistaken?” As the pair of gentlemen meandered their way down the flight of stairs leading down to the grand ballroom, Weston was careful not to let the conversation pause for too long.

He could’ve justified this as merely wanting to be a gracious host, but in truth, he simply didn’t want Asher to bring up the recent news of the former Marquess’ passing. Weston had agonized over the details of his father’s death time and time again, and everytime another well wisher or sympathizer deigned to pay their respects to him, it was like picking at a scab that had been trying to heal, unsuccessfully, for far too long. “She’ll have no trouble securing an eligible match, I’m sure. And what of you? Are you finally perusing the marriage market this season?” Weston reached up to adjust the golden mask that adorned his face, his ensemble a mix of the lightest shades of blue and metallic gleans of amber.

If Asher answered him, however, Weston did not hear it, for his attention had been drawn by a brilliant spectacle in a purple gown, her fiery red hair tumbling elegantly down to the small of her back as he watched her lips stretch around the vowels and consonants of a melody he vaguely recognized. Atop the diamond shaped stage in the center of the room stood the opera singer whom his mother had no doubt compensated with copious amounts of coin to perform at the ball tonight, her silken voice rippling through the room as couples twirled and swayed to her rhythm. Weston watched silently as the light from the chandeliers above reflected off of her jewel encrusted mask, and he found himself wondering what beauty lay hidden beneath her lavender disguise.


"When in striving to hide,
She reveals all her flame,
And our eyes tell each other,
What neither dares name…"

The final note of her melody resonated off of the marble walls with a hypnotic tenor. Weston was vaguely aware of Asher speaking to his left, but he could hardly make out his companions' words over the thunderous applause of the crowd. In a single, graceful stride, the performer inclined her head, curtsying with a demur smile in response to the deafening ovations. In the time it had taken for her song to draw to a close, Weston and Asher had made their way within a few paces of the stage… so close now that Weston could practically smell the sweet, floral aroma of the girl on stage. As she turned to descend the steps that lead back down to the floor, he watched as her lavender slippered foot slid over the edge of one of the steps, the silken fabric of her shoe gliding without tract over the carpeted step.

Without thinking, Weston lurched forward, closing the gap between himself and the silver tongued performer as his hand slid effortlessly around the small of her back. His hand gripped firmly around her purple clad waist as he lifted her over the last step and placed her gently on the floor, his chest snug against her side as he supported her while she regained her balance. “Easy there…” he paused, his eyes searching her face for any sort of reaction, but her mask concealed all but her ocean blue eyes. “We mustn't damage such precious cargo.” The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he gestured up and down her length, insinuating that the aforementioned precious cargo was the performer herself.

“What was it then?” He asked with a tilt of his head, though the redhead peered back at him perplexed. It was clear she did not know of what he was speaking. “Your song… ‘our eyes tell eachother what neither dares name.’ What do they dare not name?”

But before she could answer, Weston was interrupted by a voice to his left. He turned to find the figure of Augustus Bloomington, spectacularly clad in an ensemble of cream and turquoise. He might not have recognized the other man had he not introduced himself, but his comments left knots to tie themselves in Weston’s stomach. “You might check on your brother, it is not my place to speculate on the matter, but he is not in a civilised state…I think someone ought to put him to bed before he finds himself in trouble.”

Following August’s gaze towards the stairway, Weston caught a fleeting glimpse of his brother, dressed in disheveled night clothes, his arm wrapped lazily around a woman in a sparkling blue gown whom he recognized from earlier that evening… Asher’s little sister, Wren. His gaze flicked to his right, where he found Asher witnessing the same scene. The two men exchanged a wary look with one another as their respective younger siblings disappeared down the hallway to the left …where Leon’s bedroom was. A cold, dark pit began to dig its way down into the bottom of Weston’s stomach. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Bloomington.” Weston forced a pleasant smile before turning back to face the opera singer.

“My deepest apologies but… you’ll have to excuse me.” He offered an apologetic smile before grabbing Asher and marching off towards the staircase, trying not to draw too much attention as they progressed. Weston mentally cursed himself for not having asked for the singer’s name at least, but he hadn’t the time. He had no idea what Leon had gotten himself into now, and his mind began spiraling to every possible worst case scenario. He needed to find his brother, fast

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)

Prince Alessandro di Borbone ft. Queen Charlotte​

Prince Alessandro di Borbone reclined against the velvet-cushioned seat of the royal carriage, his dark gaze drifting toward the window—though he stared at nothing in particular. The scenery blurred past, inconsequential and dreadfully uninspiring. Already, he was bored. These English soirées, while lauded as the pinnacle of society, offered him about as much excitement as watching frescoes dry on a Roman chapel wall. And yet, he was expected to attend each and every one. Every. Single. One. His polished boot tapped idly against the floorboards, not to any discernible rhythm, but rather out of that slow, creeping dread reserved for overly long evenings filled with shallow conversation, tepid punch, and ambitious mothers. A delicate but pointed clearing of the throat pulled him from his melancholy spiral.

His gaze shifted, and at once, the infamous smile—slow, deliberate, and disarmingly charming—slid across his face like a mask he wore far too well. Seated across from him, Her Majesty the Queen returned the expression, though hers was a far more regal, restrained version. Where Alessandro’s smile flirted at the edges of mischief, hers remained composed, queenly—an iron hand sheathed in velvet.

“I trust,” she said coolly, “that you will be on your best behavior tonight, Sandro.” Ah. Not a request. Certainly not a question. That tone could have quelled a rebellion—or at the very least, one wayward Italian prince. “Ma certo, Vostra Maestà,” he replied silkily. “My best behavior—polished, princely, and perfectly uncontroversial.” His smile deepened just a touch, as if to say though I make no promises about being dull. The Queen gave him a glance sharp enough to shear lace, but there was affection beneath it—a trace of warmth reserved for her favorite nephew, the very same boy she'd once snuck sweets to behind the back of the footmen. Of course, she’d never admit it.

“I am sure,” she said, “that your charming disposition, your dashing appearance, and the truth of your relation to me will more than suffice to secure you a bride by the end of the season.” Alessandro nodded solemnly, though inwardly, he sighed. Not a single word about his mind, his humor, his love of dogs, or the fact he could recite Petrarch from memory. No, just the usual trifecta: face, title, bloodline.

“Grazie,” he murmured, gaze flickering down to his attire. Crimson and gold, cut to perfection by the finest tailor in Palermo. He would, regrettably, be impossible to miss in a sea of pastels. These Englishmen did adore their lilacs and sky blues. “Perhaps I am too much red for such a blue country,” he muttered with a small laugh, more to himself than anyone else. His fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, the texture of the embroidery grounding him. Sicily felt like another life—one painted in sun-baked terracotta, lemon groves, and the deep green of cypress trees. His chest ached. Not dramatically, not deeply. But enough.

“Your parents,” Her Majesty said, her voice slicing cleanly through the lull that had settled between them, “have entrusted me with the task of ensuring you secure a wife before the end of this season.” The words landed with the weight of decree, jarring Alessandro from the quiet ache blooming in his chest—the ache for home, for sun-warmed stone and the scent of lemon blossoms. His dark eyes lifted at once, meeting hers. Gone was the playful glimmer from before. The Queen’s expression had cooled into something resolute, the teasing aunt replaced by the formidable monarch she so effortlessly embodied.

“Matters of the heart are delicate,” she continued, “but this—this is no dalliance, Sandro. I expect you to treat this with the gravity it deserves. I do not disappoint. And I shall not tolerate you disappointing me. Or your parents. Do you understand me?” The silence that followed was not of comfort, but of consequence. Though seated across from kin, in the safety of polished mahogany and velvet cushions, Alessandro felt a tightening in his throat. He swallowed—discreetly, but not unnoticed.

“Capisco perfettamente,” he replied softly, the smile on his lips tempered now, careful. I understand perfectly. It was not fear that gripped him, but the weight of legacy. And though Prince Alessandro di Borbone had weathered expectations all his life, this time…it felt remarkably personal. “I understand where my duties lie. My parents were extremely clear on my objections while I’m here.” No, this was not the idle call of family or country. This—this was a courtship trap finely wrapped in civility and silken masks. A farce. A dance he had long since grown weary of avoiding, though fate, it seemed, had finally insisted he attend.

Tonight would be intolerable. Draining. Utterly joyless. But he knew how to play his role, and play it well. And fortune—if one could call it that—had arranged a masquerade as the theme. The prince had long perfected the particular mask expected of him at such affairs: that charming, eloquent, meticulously mannered version of himself that kingdoms and debutantes adored. This evening, he would have both that practiced facade and a literal mask behind which to conceal any cracks should they appear. A small mercy.

“We have arrived,” came the Queen’s voice, precise as ever, slicing cleanly through his thoughts like a needle through satin. The carriage doors swung open with all the expected pomp, releasing a sharp breath of evening chill into their gilded world. Alessandro descended first, ignoring the slight chill in the air as he extended a bare hand upward—gloveless, by deliberate choice. His Aunt stared down at it for a lingering moment. Of course she noted the absence of gloves. Everyone always did.

“I detest them,” he had once told her. "They suffocate senses, and I prefer to touch the world as it truly is." After a breath that felt like a challenge, the Queen gave the slightest incline of her regal chin—a gesture of reluctant approval—and placed her hand in his. She moved with the deliberate grace of a woman who had never once lost a game of chess, nor needed to hurry through one. Together, they stood at the foot of the grand staircase, the flare of torchlight framing them like the opening scene of a carefully staged opera. Behind the golden doors, the sounds of the party buzzed like bees in spring. For now, the crowd remained blissfully unaware.

Alessandro offered his arm. The Queen took it. A shared smile passed between them—not warm, but quietly respectful, as if each knew they were pieces in the same game. And then they ascended. With each footfall further into the large estate, the murmur of conversation inside faltered, like a string quartet gone suddenly silent (which it uncomfortably did). Heads turned. Fans paused mid-flutter. A ripple across a still pond. Alessandro had been born into this—this theatre of eyes, of whispers, of scrutiny—but that did not mean he enjoyed it. He resisted the urge to flinch beneath the weight of so many gazes. His mask, mercifully, did not shift.

“The Queen is here?” someone whispered. He heard the first notes of surprise bloom in the crowd: gasps, sharp breaths, the soft rustle of silk as young women straightened their posture, adjusted their masks, their gowns, their very spirits. They had expected him. But her?

He straightened his spine with the subtlest motion, lifting his chin just enough to elongate his frame. Gone was the languid young man from the carriage—bored, brooding, and silently pleading to be anywhere else. In his place stood Il Principe, Alessandro di Borbone: composed, magnetic, every inch the heir to a crown. Which felt too heavy on his head and weighed down his shoulders. The smile he now wore was his most carefully honed weapon—a measured curve of lips that suggested warmth without surrender, charm without eagerness. Enough to captivate. Enough to leave one guessing. A glance toward Her Majesty revealed little; her expression was a masterclass in the unreadable. And yet—beneath the veil of indifference—there was satisfaction.

“Smile a touch more,” she murmured without so much as tilting her head. “You look as if you’ve come to mourn someone.” Alessandro very nearly replied that he had. He was, after all, grieving the death of his bachelorhood. The passing of personal liberty. The quiet burial of free will when it came to the matter of matrimony. But alas—he bit his tongue and, instead, allowed his smile to brighten. “Meglio così?” he whispered. Better? “Now they’ll be naming their firstborns after you,” she quipped, not bothering to hide the arch amusement in her tone. And that—well, that earned a genuine amused smile from him at last.

Together, they moved into the ballroom, not as guests but as forces of nature. The crowd shifted around them like the sea drawn by the moon—first a hush, then a murmur, then the inevitable crest of gossip. Each step was deliberate, each nod from Alessandro precisely measured. “Buona sera,” he murmured now and then, and watched as women responded with widened smiles and fluttering fans, hiding expressions not nearly so well as they believed.

“To walk among many stars,” he offered to a cluster of debutantes, voice rich and velvet-smooth, “the evening sky pales by comparison.” He flashed his pearly white teeth, in a charming grin. They giggled, of course. They always did. The Queen released his arm. He turned toward her, one brow lifting slightly beneath the edge of his mask. Too much? the expression seemed to ask. Her gaze was a simple, regal counterpoint. Perfect, it replied.

He offered a final nod to the young ladies, the corners of his mouth fixed in place, and followed his aunt toward the glittering heart of the ballroom. The music shifted—a graceful swell into a waltz—and the dancers yielded instinctively, parting like petals for royalty. “You’ve caused quite the stir,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “You’re welcome,” came her reply, threaded with wry amusement. “I thought you could use a little... help.” Alessandro allowed himself the softest of eye rolls, subtle and slow. The Queen merely gave him one of her rare, demure smiles.

“Buona sera, Sandro Mio,” she said, the nickname falling from her lips. “Do enjoy your evening. You’ve caught the eye of every eligible young woman in the room. Use your attention wisely." And with that, she left him—alone, glittering beneath chandeliers, surrounded by gazes, whispers, and expectation… and far too many young women and their mamas.

He suddenly felt less like a prince and more like the last ripe peach at the height of summer—stalked by every hand in the market.
with: COME AND GET HIM WanderLust.

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Garden)

Lord Rhys Davenport​

Rhys possessed nerve in abundance, to be sure. Yet summoning it now, in this very moment, seemed a far more daunting task than it had ever been. Recklessness had always been his companion, his decisions made with a cavalier ease he would never dare admit bordered on folly. And yet, his feet remained stubbornly rooted in place, refusing to carry him forward through those grand doors. He made no attempt to force them, choosing instead to cradle his nearly empty glass like his life depended on it. As if this cursed drink were the sole reason he had bothered to attend this wretched affair at all.

A string of curse words, sharp as knives, poised on the edge of his tongue, was mere moments from spilling forth when someone collided with him. His glass, fortunately too empty to spill, remained intact, but it did little to soften the scowl that darkened his features. Heat crept up his neck as his temper flared, ready to unleash itself upon the unfortunate soul who dared to cross his path. He turned sharply, a viper ready to strike, yet—he hesitated.

The scowl faltered, though irritation still lingered on his face. The wide, innocent eyes staring back at him held such an air of guilelessness that his usual sharp retort died on his lips. And then there was the feather—a ridiculous plume from her mask, now removed, hanging limply in her hand. The woman, draped in white, began stammering an apology for her clumsy intrusion, but her words were swiftly interrupted by a male voice from behind her.

By the way she failed to turn and acknowledge the gentleman who inquired after her well-being, and by the subtle twist of her otherwise delicate features, Rhys deduced a few things rather quickly. First, it seemed Miss Sinclaire had, in fact, collided with him purely by accident. And second, she was clearly seeking an escape from this man’s unwanted company. Though Rhys was no paragon of nobility like precious Morgan, even he understood that a lady ought to move about unencumbered by discomfort. Still, this man’s loss could very well prove to be Rhys’s gain—provided, of course, Miss Sinclaire turned out to be worthy of his attention.

Rhys made sure Lydia’s eyes met his own before offering her a roguish wink. “Ah, there you are, my dear! I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” His boyish grin appeared as he took her hand, bowing slightly before placing the softest of kisses upon her knuckles. He could scarcely suppress the urge to retch. “Your dear mama was just giving me a tour of the garden, but I had to tell her the only rose worth my interest was you.” How was his brother ALWAYS like this?

When his gaze lifted to hers, Rhys feigned a sudden concern, as though he had just noticed something amiss. “Is everything quite alright, my love?” he inquired, straightening his posture and casting a pointed look past Lydia towards Lord Monroe. “I trust you are not troubling Miss Sinclaire… My lord, I do apologize, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Rhys smiled then, a sharp, unsettling display that showed all of his teeth, more a threat than a gesture of warmth. Without waiting for an answer, he looped his arm through Lydia’s. “No matter,” he continued dismissively, “I think it’s high time we return to the party. Do be so kind as to keep your distance, won’t you? Lest I find myself compelled to be rather less courteous about maintaining mine.”

The man, clad entirely in black, turned his gaze toward Lydia, his smile softening into one of undeniable admiration, tinged ever so slightly with desire. “I shall go wherever you lead,” he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth as he leaned in just a touch closer. “only show me the way.”
with: Lydia WanderLust.
mentions: the way too sweet motherf*cker CapellaStargaze

 

[Pyroclast]

Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Leon's bedchamber, Sinclaire Estate ~

Lord Leon Sinclaire​

As he swept through the crowd with a purposeful, albeit meandering, swagger, Leon was vaguely aware of the dismayed looks that people were giving him. Whereas a right-minded gentleman would be ashamed, the alcohol in the young Sinclaire’s system made sure he felt not the slightest bit self-conscious, and so onwards he went in search of his mother, driven by a misplaced sense of righteousness.

Most of the people who had time to react to him as he passed by were shocked, disgusted, turning their daughters or sisters away from him. However, one young lady he happened to bump into was quick to respond to his insincere greeting, and hissed into his ear.

“Have I lost my mind?” he echoed, with a soft, distant laugh. “Maybe…No, I think I’m quite sure I know what I’m doing.” It wasn’t until she managed to unhook his arm from her shoulders that he came to face her, but between his compromised vision and the mask she was wearing, he still was unable to tell who he was talking to.

Suddenly Leon found himself being dragged across the floor by a tight grip on his right arm, similar to that of his mother when she was scolding him. Try as he might, he couldn’t manage to plant his feet on the floor in defiance, and so ended up resigning to follow wherever the woman was taking him. “Let go of my arm,” he protested, but his voice carried no assertion, and she seemed to have reason to believe she knew better.

Then, it was dark, quiet. A door shut behind them, enclosing them in a private space. He saw a bed - his bed. The fine clothes he had been wearing earlier, crumpled on the floor at his feet. Despite being drunk and alone with a beautiful, mysterious and assertive woman, no lewd thoughts entered Leon’s head. This wasn’t a room where magic happened. This was a room where he let himself fall apart, where nightmares crushed him, where the floorboards creaked beyond the drapes of his poster bed and the whistling wind outside carried ghoulish wails. It was where his mind unravelled fastest, in the dark, in the quiet, all alone in the room that overlooked a garden where, out of the corner of his eye, he would think he saw tragedy unfold.

The woman, who he was only now beginning to recognise, looked at him with a commanding gaze, and he found himself latching on. Everything about their interaction was unexpected, but nothing more so than when she offered her condolences for his father's passing. Leon only held his eyes on her, wondering what she was doing in his bedroom, why she had condescended to take him upstairs. She didn't owe him anything, nor were they even friends. Yet here she was, wasting her evening on him, risking everything. And for what?

The woman continued to express her sympathy as she drew nearer until she was so close he could smell her fragrant perfume, sweet and floral. His eyes closed and his head bowed to meet her, to draw in more of the comforting scent. He raised a hand to touch her, but she leaned just out of reach to place his bottle of brandy on the vanity dresser, having taken it from him without him even noticing. Leon leaned his back against the wall for support and watched as she removed her mask. He wasn’t surprised to see the face of the woman he had met at the race the previous week, though at that moment he was too numb to feel much at all.

Wren was gentle in her discouragement, and deep down he knew she was right - drinking alone wasn’t what his father would want him to be doing, nor would it in any way honour his memory. He hadn’t even meant to get as drunk as he had. Alcohol didn’t bring his moods up - in fact it often left him even more depressed - but enough of it would slow his thoughts down to a halt, and on the worst days, that was all he wanted. Other times, such as today, it was a friend to him, spurring him on, indulging his wildest whims and filling him with the cocksure attitude he needed to fulfil them. Except that, by bringing him back to his room, Wren had inadvertently put out his fire.

She seemed suddenly to lose her patience and gave up on her attempts to get through to him, instead making her way to the door. Fear began to rise up in him, the same that had arisen after he had banished his valet from his bedroom in the middle of the night. A lost child left behind. “Wait.” Leon pushed himself away from the wall, one hand still against it to keep his balance. “Don’t. Please, just...for a minute.” His voice came deep and distant, and in the silence surrounding it he could hear the music play on from beneath the floorboards. He wished that Wren wasn’t seeing him in one of his low states. If she hadn’t diverted him from his mischievous plan and whisked him away, he likely would still be in the ballroom, feeling on top of the world. Now, in the dark, in the quiet, he was sinking into himself, and worse still, she was there to witness it.

“You drag me away from a party, say those things and then leave me alone in the dark, hm?” he said, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “What game is that?”

The atmosphere of the room was heavy with dread, like it often was at night. Guilt and shame and traumatic memories lurked in the shadows, waiting for him to be alone. Leon stepped closer to Wren, afraid of her leaving and closing the door between them. Once he was close enough, he reached out and touched her arm, as though to anchor himself. “This whole party is just…” he whispered, but shook his head before he could get the rest of the words out. He didn’t really want to bore Wren with his problems. He just didn’t want to be alone. “If you walk through that door, then I’m coming with you.”

WanderLust. Wren

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Near Dancefloor)

Quinlan Lovell​

Tonight’s affair was a glittering hellscape of silk and suffocating fashion. Quinlan Lovell stood beneath a vaulted ceiling awash in candlelight and crystal, his features half-concealed by a gold mask, though no disguise could temper the sharp downturn of his mouth. The emerald sheen of his coat—a garment too rich, too rakish—caught the light with every reluctant breath he drew. It shimmered like vanity stitched in velvet, a peacock’s preen imposed upon a man more accustomed to ink-stained cuffs and wool worn soft with time.

The laughter in the room rang too high, too hollow. The air itself seemed perfumed with artifice. Quinlan felt like a character from a novel he hadn’t written—elegantly dressed, impeccably mannered, and entirely trapped.

His presence here was not voluntary, not truly. He had been all but dragged through the threshold, theatrics and all. The Bloomingtons—earnest and infuriating—had taken the masquerade far more seriously than Quinlan deemed necessary. Aunt Victoria had, for a brief and dreadful moment, joined in the performance, only to threaten him with a night among the stables when he made too many clever remarks. He'd scoffed, of course—until her glare, sharp as any rapier, persuaded him otherwise.

And so, he had suffered the indignity of being poured into this finely stitched costume, cut from the cloth of another man’s world. He could not fathom how Augustus or Francis bore such things—though, unlike Quinlan, they had been raised amidst the glittering absurdity of it all. He had grown up on the outskirts of wealth’s great stage, until his father’s pursuit of justice had soured into political theatre. By then, Quinlan was already free—at least nominally so. A brief, disastrous attempt at university had brought him back home, but not empty-handed. He'd taken what he could from those hallowed halls: a mind sharpened by literature, a pen name, and the stubborn hope that his words might matter more than his family name.

Not, of course, that Nathaniel Lovell was ever satisfied.

Weaving through the crowd, Quinlan made his way to the refreshment table, ignoring the stir of laughter and whispered excitement that bloomed like a sudden gust among the gathered debutantes. His thoughts were elsewhere. He reached for the crystal ladle, poured a glass, and downed it in a single, inelegant motion. He grimaced. Sweet. Too sweet. And lacking the fortification he rather wished it contained.

Still, the constriction of his coat demanded hydration—if not relief—so he poured another. As he did, his gaze caught the faint shimmer of his reflection in the punch, warped by the crystal and candlelight. For a breath, the noise of fans fluttering and lace rustling faded away, replaced by something quieter….

***​

"You humiliated yourself," Nathaniel said coolly, his back turned, fingers languidly curling around a decanter of brandy. He did not deign to glance at his son. His words, precise and polished, carried the same deliberate malice he reserved for dismantling opponents in Parliament.

Quinlan lounged in the doorway, arms crossed, still clad in the disheveled remnants of his salon attire — his cravat askew, shirt creased, boots dulled with London dust. He regarded the amber swirl in his glass, catching a fleeting glimpse of his reflection before lifting his eyes.

"I made a statement," he said with careless elegance. "That it disturbed your companions only proves its merit."

Nathaniel turned then, slowly, as if the weight of his disappointment required ceremony. His brandy caught the firelight — sharp and cold as the look he gave. "You made a mockery of civility. You accused titled men — patrons and peers alike — of cowardice and deceit. Men whose favour I have spent decades securing with relentless diplomacy."

Quinlan's jaw tensed. He twirled the liquid in his glass with a touch too much force. "And yet they are both. They whisper support for reform in velvet drawing rooms, while grinding the working class beneath polished boots. But you—" he met his father's gaze, "you would never name them for what they are. Not if it meant a slightly less amiable supper guest or — Heaven forbid — a setback in your political aspirations."

Nathaniel’s composure fractured. His voice sharpened. "You know nothing of what it means to build legacy. While you gallivant from city to city, I have preserved this family's standing with discipline and sacrifice. And you—” he jabbed the air with his glass, “you repay that with derision. You dress like a bohemian, hide behind pseudonyms, pen childish tales, and still expect to be taken seriously?"

Quinlan stepped forward, his voice a quiet thunder. "I don’t seek anyone’s esteem." A breath. A truth. "I only ever wanted yours." The confession settled between them — heavy, smoke-thick, impossible to ignore.

Nathaniel’s gaze did not falter. Nor did his verdict. "Then you ought to have become a man worthy of it."

The silence that followed was not empty — it was deafening. A silence that rang like a final judgment, echoing in Quinlan’s chest as he looked at the man he’d once tried to become. "Very well," he said, the words frayed at the edges, but composed. "If I cannot be the son you desire, then I shall trouble you no longer."

He turned.

"Do not think to return when the world turns cold," Nathaniel called after him, voice lined with steel. Quinlan did not turn. "You've made it abundantly clear, Father," he said, as the door clicked shut behind him, "I was never truly welcome in it to begin with."

***​

Quinlan blinked slowly, as though the very act might erase the reflection before him. But alas, the looking glass offered no such mercy. It returned his gaze with perfect cruelty—an emerald-clad gentleman with too-bright cuffs and too-heavy thoughts. He had been pretending, quite admirably he thought, that the breach with his father did not gnaw at him like a fox in a trap. But wounds inflicted by blood run deeper than most, and Nathaniel Lovell had always known where to strike.

Since that calamitous evening 2 weeks ago, father and son had not exchanged so much as a syllable. His mother, ever the peace-seeking soul, had penned letters lined with maternal hope. None had swayed him. For all its glittering absurdity, Quinlan would rather endure the preening pomposity of a masquerade ball than subject himself to another sermon on duty and disappointment.

With a slight twitch of his head—a gesture more exasperation than elegance—he raised his second glass and downed it with little ceremony. The beverage, tragically tame, did little to dull his nerves, but he fetched another nonetheless. Perhaps if he imagined it potent, it might perform a minor miracle.

A swell of feminine laughter drew his attention to the dance floor, where a cluster of debutantes cooed and fluttered like well-trained doves. Ever the curious creature, Quinlan drifted closer. There, bedecked in a ludicrous ensemble of red and gold, stood a young man with a crown so ornate it might’ve been plucked from the prop room of a third-rate opera. Quinlan arched a brow.

How splendid. If only his father could see him now—rubbing elbows with royalty. The crown-bearer smiled with the patience of a saint, but his eyes flicked about like a hunted stag. The poor fellow was clearly being devoured—politely, of course—by a horde of debutantes with matrimonial appetites.

Quinlan let his feet guide him aimlessly through the crowd, when quite suddenly, the crowd gave way—and so did his balance. He collided with someone soft but solid, and by some divine intervention, his glass did not baptize either of them in weak punch.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly, steadying himself as his eyes lifted. “It would appear I’ve been afflicted with two left feet tonight.” The lady before him stole his breath—though he would have sooner confessed to a mortal wound than admit it aloud. She was radiant, the sort of beauty that made a mockery of ink and parchment. No sketch could do her justice, no prose could hold her light.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he mused, the words escaping like a secret, “that you belong in a painting?” He tilted his head, entirely sincere before offering the smallest smirk. “You have truly remarkable features." To those watching, it may have appeared the beginning of some calculated seduction. But Quinlan, in his quiet, peculiar way, meant every word. Beneath her mask, she glowed—not with artifice, but something far rarer: presence.
with: Evie CapellaStargaze (reply when you can no rush!)

 

[WanderLust.]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom --> Garden)
Lady Daphne Bloomington
​

The Sinclaire estate had been transformed into a glistening palace of allure and spectacle. Daphne had visited before, having become fast friends with Lady Lydia Sinclaire, who was also making her debut that season. The girls had been introduced at the Windsor Athletic Club during last week's race and had quickly bonded over their shared affinity for the four legged contestants. With the money her brother Augustus had given her, Daphne had placed a bet on the winning stallion that day, which meant she had a decent amount of pin money lining her coin purse when she left.

After their brief exchange at the track, Lydia had invited Daphne to the Sinclaire Estate for tea, where Lydia had introduced her to a tiny silver and charcoal colored kitten named Tiberius with steely grey eyes and a tail so fluffy Daphne speculated it might have been used as a feather duster by the maids. Lydia went on to explain that her mother detested the creature, but that ‘Tibby’ had been a gift from her eldest brother, Weston.

Weston Sinclaire, the Marquess of Winchester, was likely the type of gentleman Daphne’s mother would’ve chosen for her. With a spotless reputation, a glistening title, and a perfectly lovely face, he was admittedly not the worst choice. But during their fleeting interactions Daphne had felt little intrigue in their topics of conversation. Weston was polished and respectful but there was no… she huffed silently. Shakespeare would’ve had a more poetic way to categorize the distinct lack of chemistry between the two.

Still, Daphne felt she owed it to herself… well, moreso, that she owed it to her mother to continue pursuing such a handsome match. Victoria Bloomington was the picture of refinement and grace. Her mother strode effortlessly about the ballroom, an absolute vision in a breathtaking blue gown the color of a clear sky on a summer’s day, with an elegance that Daphne could only dream of one day achieving.

They had bickered on the carriage ride here about Daphne’s lack of gloves, a frequent argument between the duo as Daphne loathed the garments. They made everything slippery and hard to grasp, dulling her senses until she was just about the clumsiest fool in the room. Still, the quarrel between them had left Daphne feeling more than just mildly guilty. She resolved to strike up a conversation with the Marquess tonight as penance for her gloveless fingers.

But as Daphne’s eyes scanned the crowded ballroom for any sign of Weston Sinclaire, she had to restrain herself from audibly groaning. Every single attendant, from the highest born gentleman down to the lowliest of servants, kept their faces carefully concealed behind a sea of intricately adorned masks. How was she ever supposed to locate the Marquess in this mess of anonymity? It felt like a recipe for scandal if you asked Daphne. People lowered their inhibitions when they knew they could remain inconspicuous. She wondered briefly if Lady Whistledown herself was hidden amongst tonight’s congregation. It would be easy enough for her to lie in wait, nothing but another false face, waiting for the inevitable to unfold before her like a lioness trailing a sickly calf.

Finally, Daphne’s eyes landed on someone recognizable. It was not her face, but her gown that drew Daphne’s attention. She distinctly remembered the midnight blue fabric, so dark it might almost be misconstrued as ebony in certain lights. Celestine Davenport had been at the modiste the day Daphne was scheduled for her notorious ‘dropping of the hem’ appointment, purchasing a spool of that very fabric. Granted, that had been many, many months ago. But Daphne remembered having thought to herself at the time that Celestine would look the very vision of the night sky in that color. Even now, it shimmered under the glistening chandeliers in a manor that resembled twilight, her silver mask and jewelry the twinkling stars of her evening ensemble.

Daphne herself was clad in a pink gown that just about matched the natural blush in her cheeks, with delicate floral accents sewn into the fabric so that she mirrored a blossoming garden in late spring. Matching flowers had been strewn into her dark locks, which tumbled in loose curls down to the middle of her back. She was grateful for the coverage provided by her own mask as she made her way over towards Celestine. Daphne had never been particularly skilled at concealing her nerves when attending events like the one at hand, her cheeks flushed with color and her eyes wide with dread. But her rosy pink mask hid any such flagrant betrayals of her emotions as she gently cleared her throat.

“I’m pleased to see a familiar face here.” Daphne smiled warmly. The Davenports might not have been in the highest standing as of late, but Daphne had always enjoyed Celestine’s company. She was admirably genuine in a sea of performative displays. “You look lovely this evening.”

Celestine responded with a similar greeting, repaying Daphne’s compliment with one of her own but Daphne didn’t pay it much mind. The maids had done most of the work, really, having carefully styled Daphne’s hair and hand selected her accessories to create a beautiful ensemble. All she had been expected to do was don the attire and show up.

To their left, a pair of strapping young gentlemen, one dressed in a deep purple wardrobe and the other clad in a pale blue suit, began meandering their way towards Daphne and Celestine. The lull in the girls’ conversation had granted the ambitious bachelors permission to approach and settle upon them like vultures to a carcass and for a moment, Daphne’s anxiety blazed like a match to dry tinder. Yes, she had possessed every intention of socializing tonight, of exploring her potential matches and formally introducing herself to society but on her own terms, in her own time. Being approached like this felt too much like she was being hunted by a predator. She turned abruptly to face Celestine, hoping her terror was not as evident as it felt.

“If you’ll excuse me.”

Daphne cursed herself silently, hoping Celestine wouldn’t hold the interaction against her. Had she just left that poor girl to the wolves? Perhaps Celestine had yet to spot their approaching suitors. Or perhaps she had already spotted them and wouldn’t mind having them both to herself. Neither scenario did much to quell Daphne’s guilt as she proceeded forward, no real destination in mind just… away.

A hush came over the crowd then, an unbroken silence settled like the forest after a gunshot. And then the whispers began, scattered, muttered behind fans and swallowed up by the bustle of shifting silks and lace.

Is that the Prince?

Look at his crown, it is! Prince Alessandro!

Is that the Queen?

No, it can’t be.

All of which, Daphne was oblivious to, of course. For two reasons. The first? She had been far too preoccupied with her own retreat to notice anyone walking down the grand staircase, not even the Queen of England herself. The second was far less predictable. Towards the refreshment table, Daphne had spotted all but a blur of silver and charcoal, difficult to make out beyond the frustrating curves of her mask. But there it was again, darting under the table cloth, and as she squinted harder she was just barely able to make out a distinctly fluffy tail peeking out from underneath the linens.

Tiberius.

Daphne’s stomach flipped. She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting about the room for Lydia, hoping she might still have time to warn her of their feline friend’s attendance before anyone noticed, but the other girl was nowhere to be seen. She then sought Weston, or Leon… anyone she might be able to warn before the situation escalated to something worthy of a Lady Whistledown expose but they were all notably absent from the ballroom. And then, Daphne’s eyes landed on the one and only Lady Odette Sinclaire.

Odette hated that cat, Lydia had told her so in no uncertain terms. Odette had tried to toss the poor creature out on the streets but not for Lydia’s protests. Tibby’s intrusion on Odette’s grand masquerade ball would mean only one thing, and there Odette was, walking straight towards the refreshment table. Had the mistress of the house already spotted the cat under the table? No, surely she would not have looked quite so jolly if she feared her ball was about to be stained with scandal. Daphne’s heart pounded in her chest faster than the hooves of the winning stallion at Windsor Athletic Club. She had to get to him first, before Odette noticed.

Mercifully, Odette was delayed by a throng of distinguished looking women dressed to the nines in beautiful pastels and jewel encrusted masks, each of whom were intent on congratulating the lady of the house on her miraculously successful ball. Daphne’s feet were moving before she could think better of it, her skirts gathered in both hands as she dashed across the ballroom, offering brief apologies to anyone she bumped into along the way. There were a few hissed remarks thrown her way but she let them roll off of her shoulders, praying that her mask would preserve her reputation just a bit longer.

She slid to a halt just before she reached the table, but her silk slippers did little to slow her. With barely any traction, she slipped a bit farther than she had intended, bumping into the table hard enough to wobble it. The bright pink liquid contained within the crystal glasses sloshed dangerously, threatening to stain the white linens if subjected to any further provocation. Daphne held her breath for a moment, praying that she hadn’t garnered too much attention, but didn’t have the time to verify if that was truly the case. She sunk to her knees, darting under the table cloth to snatch Tiberius before he could scramble away.

The charcoal kitten was small enough to be held in one hand, though he squirmed quite a bit in Daphne’s grasp. She thanked her lucky stars that she had decided against the gloves tonight, otherwise Tiberius would likely have sprung right from her hands and onto the table by now. She rose back to her feet slowly, her eyes straying from left to right to ensure she wasn’t being watched. She let out a breath at the conclusion that the coast was clear. Now came the hard part… getting Tibby back to Lydia’s room undetected.

Daphne pivoted, about to head towards the staircase when she came face to face with a gentleman who had evidently been standing directly behind her. Daphne let out a startled gasp, pressing her hand against her chest as she willed herself to breathe. She could feel the heat creeping up her cheeks at the outburst, embarrassment heavy on her shoulders as she offered an apologetic smile. “My apologies. You frightened me.”

The man before her had certainly catered to the masquerade theme, draped in a rich scarlet cape that flowed down his back in a manor that screamed wealth. His mask reminded her of a joker in a deck of cards, white with black and red diamonds silhouetting his eyes. Atop his head of dark hair sat a rather gaudy looking crown, though Daphne almost immediately dismissed that as part of his ensemble for the night. After all, hadn’t Celestine been wearing a tiara?

For a moment, she seriously debated attempting to conceal Tiberius behind her back, but thought better of it after a brief pause. She did not recognize the man before her. Of course, it was hard to tell with the masks, but those eyes… they burned like amber gemstones held to a torch… she would’ve remembered eyes like that. In fact, she was relieved she was not able to place his face, because that meant he likely didn’t recognize hers either. If she could escape this entire interaction while keeping her identity concealed she would be in the clear. Now all she had to do was weasel her way out of a conversation. She was good at that. She’d been doing it for years.

Your move Bellz

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)

Prince Alessandro di Borbone​

Alessandro’s head was positively swimming. In all his years, he could not recall ever having endured such an onslaught of questions—delivered, no less, in the span of a mere five minutes. A dull ache had taken up residence behind his eyes, and he began edging ever so slowly toward the refreshment table, inch by beleaguered inch. Regrettably, the gaggle of ladies encircling him appeared entirely immune to subtlety—or mercy. At last, he could bear it no longer. "Perdonatemi, mie signore,” he interjected, summoning the most gallant smile he could muster, “I do hate to interrupt such scintillating conversation, but I find myself quite parched. If you’ll excuse me, I must—” He did not finish the sentence. Turning on his heel with far more haste than grace, he collided—rather unceremoniously—into something. No, someone. A soft gasp escaped her lips. Alessandro’s gaze dropped instinctively, only to be met by a pair of eyes so vividly blue, they seemed to carry with them the very soul of the Mediterranean—those quiet, hidden depths where light still dares to play. Even behind the delicate blush-pink mask she wore, her gaze held a grace that did not beg for attention, and yet—he could not look away. He was quite certain he looked a fool, simply standing there and staring, lost in her sea-colored gaze.

And then—something shifted in her arms. His attention followed the gentle line of her neck, past the modest curve of her figure, until it came to rest on what could only be described as a kitten. A tiny creature, dark as soot, peered out from her hold with equal parts curiosity and disdain. Both of Alessandro’s brows lifted. “La prego, do not apologize,” he said with a disarming grin, his voice warm. “It is entirely my own fault for failing to notice something so dazzling—though I must admit, delightfully adorable as well.” He gestured lightly to the kitten, still nestled in her grasp. “I was merely executing a most daring escape,” he added with a wry tilt to his smile, “from what I fear may have been an ambush disguised as polite society.”

His gaze returned to her, more direct now, less teasing. Those other women—fine and accomplished though they surely were—had not held his attention so completely, so effortlessly, as this masked enchantress before him. “Forgive my boldness,” he said, his tone softening, “but the shade of pink you wear calls to mind the first tender blush of sunset in my homeland—those fleeting moments when day leans in to kiss the night.” The words tasted of memory, and something far more vulnerable: homesickness. Around them, the ball swept onward—a shimmering tide of satin skirts and flickering candlelight, while music floated through the air like silk ribbons caught upon a gentle breeze. Alessandro felt the insistent weight of eyes upon him—those sharp, assessing gazes of the ton, always speculating, always prying. He loathed it with a quiet, simmering intensity: the endless scrutiny, the suffocating expectation, the ceaseless performance demanded by society.

The last five minutes had been a trial of patience—one simpering question after another, with scarcely a breath’s respite between. And yet, now— Something altogether curious occurred to him. Did this young woman truly not know who he was? She asked no probing questions, no sharp inquiries into his title or lineage, the grandeur of his estate, the extent of his fortune, the number of heirs he hoped to sire, or the prospects of his marriage. Nothing. His head tilted just so—a subtle motion, barely perceptible—to observe her more closely. She remained serene, unruffled by the invisible weight of rank and reputation that so often clung to him. Her gaze was entirely fixed on the creature she cradled in her arms—a tiny, dark-furred rebel, writhing with determined indignation.

No gloves, either.

A grin broke across Alessandro’s face before he could restrain it—so wide it threatened to pain his cheeks. Dio mio, his family would mutter disapprovingly, convinced he was courting scandal with every unconventional gesture. Yet he kept his lips sealed on the matter of gloves—not quite ready to frighten her away with his “eccentric ideals” about refusing such a sacred article of society dress. Perhaps she’d simply forgot them. Instead, he turned his attention to the kitten.

“Mi perdoni, signorina,” he said with a gentle lilt, eyes flicking briefly from the creature to her face. “Is it your custom to bring such companions to a ball? If so, I fear I have been attending the wrong sort of gatherings entirely.” There was no mockery in his tone, only warmth and honest curiosity. “I myself have a dog. Lupo. Enormous creature—far too large for such a refined setting. Un disastro completo, truly. If I were foolish enough to bring him, I imagine he would find these soirées just as overwhelming as I do.” A small chuckle escaped him then, soft and almost conspiratorial. “He is the most loyal of companions. Un tesoro, really.” He looked at her again, more carefully this time—not just with interest, but with something like quiet appreciation.

Sandro’s gaze sought Daphne’s once more, and the sight of those dazzling eyes caught his breath anew, as if the very air had been stolen from his lungs. There was a light in them—deep, luminous, and impossibly rare—that held him captive. This time, he found himself unable to contain the admiration that swelled within him.

“Your eyes,” he began softly, his voice barely more than a whisper against the hum of the ballroom, “are bluer than the deepest reaches of the Mediterranean, where sunlight hides and dances in secret. Even behind the delicate veil of your mask, they shine with a quiet brilliance that few could hope to rival. I daresay, I have never before beheld eyes so striking—so imbued with the very essence of the sea itself, as if it entrusted you with its most precious color.” A faint flush tinted his cheeks, his smile turning tender and shy, the boldness of his words softened by the warmth in his expression.

“If you would grant me the honor, signorina,” he continued, voice low and earnest, “to share but a single moment of your dazzling company this evening, I would count myself among the most fortunate men alive.” He lingered on her gaze, a silent plea shimmering beneath the surface—a hope that she might permit this rare and exquisite connection amidst the glittering throng. The music swelled around them, yet in that moment, the world seemed to narrow to the soft glow between their eyes. Alessandro’s heart beat a steady rhythm, steady but quickened by the delicate tension of the moment. He inclined his head slightly, the shadow of a hopeful smile playing at his lips.

“May I be so bold as to ask your name, signorina?” His voice was gentle, respectful, yet carried the unmistakable spark of genuine curiosity. “To know the name of the lady whose gaze has so thoroughly captivated me would be a rare and treasured gift.”
with: Eyes so blue he could drown WanderLust.

 

[CapellaStargaze]

Morgan Davenport

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  The Sinclair Esate
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  Mentions: Bellz Celestine Open for interaction
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Morgan stood in front of the mirror in his room, staring intently at his reflection. The silver and black mask that he wore was almost a symbol of the facade he hid behind in his day to day life. Concealing his true self was something Morgan wasn’t new to but the mask almost gave him an excuse to drop the dutiful son mask and be himself. He knew of his duties this season: making sure his sisters found husbands and he found a wife. He wasn’t used to using sisters in a plural sense. He had a duty to Genevieve to make sure she succeeded and give his father what he wanted but he also knew how Celestine must feel. His father had all but pitted them against each other, traded in the broken model for the new and yet, here Morgan was, playing the role of the dutiful son. He had come to terms with it a long time ago on how his life was going to go. He was the eldest and that held responsibility that was chosen for him before he was even born.



Morgan was pulled from his thoughts as his mother called them down the stairs and in the carriage. The carriage ride from the Davenport House to the Sinclair Estate was a silent one. Morgan didn’t mind the silence, grateful to stay in his own head than to force a careful and curated conversation. He knew his mother was hoping he would dance with a few ladies tonight or perhaps even court someone after. As much as Morgan would love to write his own life, he already had one planned out for him. A life that probably didn’t need the distractions of wandering eyes to the same sex. Morgan knew he needed to do two things tonight, watch out for his sisters and at least make an effort to look for a wife. He did have a nice conversation with a few ladies at the last ball but he knew whoever he made his wife, he could never truly love them.



When the carriage stopped, Morgan didn’t hesitate to get out to escape his thoughts. He stepped out of the carriage, holding out a hand for Genevieve to exit the carriage. He silently made his way up the stairs of the estate, his youngest sister holding on to his arm. He gave her hand a pat, noticing the look of nervousness on her face. When they got inside, he took in the over the top decorations. He gave a small chuckle at Celestine’s comment. The Queen might not like being rivaled. He looked around the ballroom intently, letting his sisters mill about but keeping an eye from afar.

Bad Guy

VSQ

♡coded by uxie♡

Spoiler: Morgan’s outfit

 

[WanderLust.]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom --> Garden)
Lady Lydia Sinclaire​

“Ah, there you are, my dear! I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

Lydia tilted her head slightly as he reached for her hand, pressing his lips gently against her gloved fingers. “Your dear mama was just giving me a tour of the garden, but I had to tell her the only rose worth my interest was you.”

The Dowager Marchioness Odette Sinclaire, mingling with commoners in the gardens? It sounded positively erroneous. Then Lord Monroe emphatically cleared his throat behind her, and suddenly the stranger’s intended ruse dawned on her.

“Is everything quite alright, my love?”

Despite the simple fact that she knew these comments were plucked from thin air to support a false narrative, a warm blush still rose to Lydia’s cheeks at the term of endearment he’d chosen. My love. It felt so intimate here in the quiet, dimly lit gardens, with only a single thorn in her side to bear witness to their charade. “I trust you are not troubling Miss Sinclaire… My lord, I do apologize, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Lydia stifled a giggle behind a gloved hand, fully expecting Lord Monroe to lose his temper at the rogue’s failure to recognize him. She thanked the stars silently that her back was still towards him. “I beg your pardon -” Lord Monroe practically spat, his voice was laced with rage, but it did little to deter Lydia’s rescuer.

“No matter, I think it’s high time we return to the party. Do be so kind as to keep your distance, won’t you? Lest I find myself compelled to be rather less courteous about maintaining mine.”

Lydia took the arm offered by her ebony clad knight in shining armor, a graceful smile touching her lips as she dipped her head slightly in acknowledgement towards Lord Monroe. “My apologies my lord, but I do believe my dance card is full for the evening. Perhaps at the next ball.”

Lydia was swift in her departure from Lord Monroe, her grip tightening ever so slightly around the arm of her mysterious escort. She frantically attempted to recall the pages of her miniatures, of which her mother had demanded she spend hours committing to memory. Odette had ensured that Lydia was able to recite names, titles, and estimated estate value of each and every eligible bachelor in the ton. Her inability to identify the face beside her meant one of two things; either her savior was not, in fact, a bachelor, but was already off the marriage market entirely. Perhaps his willingness to assist her in a time of peril came solely out of societal obligation and not of a desire to court her… or, the more likely option, Odette had not deemed this particular bachelor worthy of Lydia’s time or efforts. He came from an ill reputed family or held no illustrious titles. Though that may have been a deal breaker for her mother, it did little to sway Lydia’s rising affections.

“My mother will have my head for that.” She laughed softly, in spite of herself. “Thank you, truly. Your courage was nothing short of commendable.” There was a glimmer of admiration in her eyes, which just barely met his gaze. She had spoken to countless suitors in the short time she had officially been ‘out’ in society, each one more insufferable than the last, which had left her social graces in near perfect condition. However, the mystery and allure surrounding this particular gentleman left her feeling inept, like a seasoned sailor struggling to gain his footing on dry land.

It was a short walk back to the main ballroom, but Lydia had deliberately slowed her steps. She wasn’t in any hurry to rid herself of her present company. The already crowded estate now held even more attendees if that were even possible. Her mother would surely be elated by the turn out. Her magnificent masquerade ball would be crowned the event of the season. Now, all that was left on Odette’s to-do list was to ensure adventitious marriages for each of her three children - a goal Lydia was actively hindering at the moment.

As they neared the staircase that descended into the grand foyer, a familiar melody began to fill the air. Lydia shut her eyes momentarily and let the notes wash over her, a melancholy violin accompanied by two overlapping cellos which melded together in perfect harmony. After a beat, Lydia turned to face the dark haired gentleman once more, a spark of mischief evident in her pale blue eyes. “I’m Lydia, by the way. Lydia Sinclaire.” She didn’t bother to mention that her mother was the lady of the house, or that her brother boasted the title of Marquess. It was common enough knowledge if he recognized the last name, and if not, then all the better.

“Surely, after all your valiant efforts, I at least owe you a dance?”

​

 

[WanderLust.]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom --> Garden)
Lady Daphne Bloomington​

“La prego, do not apologize. It is entirely my own fault for failing to notice something so dazzling—though I must admit, delightfully adorable as well.” The masked prince gestured towards Tiberius, who sat snugly restrained in Daphne’s grasp. A warm blush rose to her cheeks, though thankfully it was concealed by her mask. She had almost immediately detected the italian lilt to his accent, entirely swoon worthy. Daphne swallowed thickly.

“I was merely executing a most daring escape from what I fear may have been an ambush disguised as polite society.”

Daphne followed his gaze back towards a group of elegantly dressed young ladies with their hair immaculately styled and their gloves freshly starched, their most illustrious family jewels hung round their necks on display. A majority of the young women were accompanied by their mothers, engaged in hushed conversations that she didn’t care to eavesdrop on. They all looked so much more put together than Daphne herself. “Like vultures to a carcass.”

She froze. Had she just said that aloud? Daphne forced a sweet, demure giggle in the hopes that it would draw attention away from her unladylike choice of language. This was why her mother always suggested she carry a fan with her, to hide her idiotic face after such utterly embarrassing outbursts.

“Forgive my boldness, but the shade of pink you wear calls to mind the first tender blush of sunset in my homeland—those fleeting moments when day leans in to kiss the night.”

Her eyes locked with his for a moment too long. His words were poetic, laced with longing and romance, the kind of verses she would’ve found in one of her Shakespearean novels. She blinked slowly, the faintest hint of a smile creeping to her lips, one of the only parts of her face that remained exposed despite her mask. Of course, she couldn’t take credit for the gown, or for how its color complimented her skin tone. Her mother had been responsible for the fabric selection, the modiste had suggested it after it had arrived from Italy, of all places. She almost had to laugh at the coincidence.

And then Tiberius began squirming once more, writhing in her grasp with a fiery indignation, his patience waning thin as Daphne’s conversation with this stranger dragged on past his point of tolerance. She shifted her grip so that he was now clasped against her chest with both hands. So much for not drawing attention to her furry companion, the cat was well and truly out of the bag by that point.

“Mi perdoni, signorina, is it your custom to bring such companions to a ball? If so, I fear I have been attending the wrong sort of gatherings entirely.”

Daphne laughed nervously, a light, feathery sound that drew nearer to a grimace than a laugh really. “No, I…” She paused, glancing down at the grey kitten that had begun purring softly against her chest. She brought two fingers up to stroke the top of his head. “I admit polite society does not often permit such guests to attend. Tiberius here was an… unexpected visitor.”

“I myself have a dog. Lupo. Enormous creature—far too large for such a refined setting. Un disastro completo, truly. If I were foolish enough to bring him, I imagine he would find these soirées just as overwhelming as I do. He is the most loyal of companions. Un tesoro, really.”

“Sembra bello.” He sounds lovely, Daphne mused softly, seamlessly transitioning into an Italian dialect. “Adoro gli animali. Sono molto più gentili degli umani.” It had been quite some time since she had studied Italian, but her tutor would have praised her proficiency. She spoke with the tenor and ease of a native. Daphne had been expected to dedicate countless hours towards perfecting skills and hobbies that would elevate her appeal as a potential wife, reading, writing, dancing, piano forte, French, Greek and Italian. At least one of her many qualifications was proving useful tonight.

She could feel his eyes on her then, heavy and unabashed in a way that sent a wave of heat shooting down her spine. “Your eyes are bluer than the deepest reaches of the Mediterranean, where sunlight hides and dances in secret. Even behind the delicate veil of your mask, they shine with a quiet brilliance that few could hope to rival. I daresay, I have never before beheld eyes so striking—so imbued with the very essence of the sea itself, as if it entrusted you with its most precious color.”

Her eyes refused to part from the stranger in front of her, she was tethered to him, bound to him, subject to a gravitational pull. Was this what courting entailed? We’re all gentlemen so utterly brazzen and dissolute? Or was this one… different from the rest? She swallowed down the lump in her throat, parting her lips to speak. “Are you a poet then?” There was a playful spark to her sapphire eyes, the corners of her lips tugging upward in a coy smile.

“May I be so bold as to ask your name, signorina? To know the name of the lady whose gaze has so thoroughly captivated me would be a rare and treasured gift.”

His request brought Daphne tumbling back to reality with a jarring reminder of societal expectations. She had all but ousted herself as a wild and unrefined young lady who spent her time chasing stray cats, certainly not marriage material, the type of scandal that Lady Whistledown would have loved to pin against a well respected family like the Bloomingtons. Her mask had offered a rare form of protection that she would be foolish not to take advantage of. To offer her name now to this stranger would soil any chance she had at preserving her family’s reputation.

“Penelope.” The lie came easier than Daphne had expected, expelling itself from her lips before she had even taken the time to think over her choice. The false name belonged to a character drawn from one of her favorite books, the wife of Odysseus in Homer’s ‘The Odyssey’. “Penelope Blake.”

Part of her deflated silently after she spoke. She had just dashed any real chance she had at truly getting to know the man before her. Would she come to regret that decision? Of defining their relationship, or rather, the relationship that might have been, by tarnishing it with a lie from the very start? She grieved silently for a moment, wishing she could take the words back but they had already muddied the waters. Instead, she hardened herself, clearing her throat to break any lingering tension.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she didn’t dare ask his name, wasn’t sure she even wanted to know it, lest she spend the rest of her days agonizing over what might have been. “It’s been a pleasure, truly, but I really must return him to his quarters.” She didn’t wait for a response, turning on her heel before she could hear any protests or lack thereof, skittering towards the staircase where she ascended dutifully, eyes scanning for the door that accessed Lydia’s sleeping quarters. If she remembered correctly it was just down this hallway, the last door on the right.

Upon opening the aforementioned door, Daphne glanced about the room briefly to confirm it did, in fact, belong to Lydia. If the rose colored bedding was not enough of an indication, Daphne spotted three separate bouquets propped near the window, all from Lydia’s various suitors Daphne surmised. She deposited Tibby on the floor with a gentle scratch behind his ears and a soft pat to his rump, “Go on now, off with you.”

Daphne shut the door behind her, pressing her back to the wall and taking solace in the refreshing chill it provided. She exhaled deeply, relief momentarily flooding her system at the realization that the feline escapade was well and truly done with. Now she just needed to survive the rest of the ball… she huffed softly. Her silken slippers padded gently against the marble steps as she descended the staircase back down to the main party. The space was alive with beautifully colored silk and gossamer, a lively quadrille encapsulated multiple couples as they traipsed about elegantly on the dance floor. Daphne was distracted by the spectacle of it all as she made her way towards the refreshment table, eyeing the divine looking pink liquid that filled crystal flutes nearly to the brim. She reached for a glass as her thoughts began to stray back towards that gentleman from earlier, with his blood red cape and golden crown atop his head. His eyes had sparked like firewood on a cold winter’s night, and his grin had whispered of all things mischievous yet alluring. She sighed, an audible breathy sound, before bringing the champagne flute to her lips.

In that very moment, Daphne’s eyes landed on none other than the gentleman who had only just been occupying her thoughts, as though summoned by her unspoken longing. She nearly choked on her drink, which filled her mouth with a sour, burning sensation that was unlike anything she had experienced before. She forced herself to swallow it down, though grimaced quite obviously as she did so, her lips pulling downward in a disgusted frown as she placed the drink back on the table, determined to get it out of her sight. Splendid, for the second time that night, this stranger had now seen her make a complete and total fool of herself. Her cheeks burned scarlett under her mask as she attempted to catch her breath between sputters and coughs.

“Forgive me,” she cleared her throat one final time, suddenly feeling as though every eye in the room were on her. “The refreshments are… not to my taste.” She admitted bashfully. Did Lydia actually enjoy this concoction? The music in the room was beginning to fade, the orchestral composition drawing to a close. Couples disentangled from one another at the conclusion of their dance, and many young ladies that lingered along the frays of the crowd bustled about in anxious anticipation of their next invitation to the floor. Daphne’s dance card still hung from a thin ribbon wrapped around her wrist, notably empty. She had been so busy wrangling Tiberius that she had yet to have the chance to charm any suitors. How would she explain such an uneventful night to her mother?


An EMPTY DANCE CARD Bellz