Because I can't seem to contain my love for this couple, this book, but mostly, Sir Percy. Hopefully it is enjoyable! Any feedback would be very much appreciated. I plan on writing a full length story soon, regardless, but it would be nice to know if people would be interested in it.

Fool and Hero Both

Marguerite came in from the ballroom, smiling at Sir Andrew as he moved to return to young Suzanne. Her husband sat to the right of the Prince of Wales, telling a delightful little story, one that, of course, rhymed, and had captured the delight of all around him. He would dance with her should she press. He was never able to deny her very long but she knew better than to ask. Rarely did he chose to dance these days. He would much rather sit on the couches with the lords and ladies, beautiful women and dapper gentleman, playing his little role to perfection.

She entered the sitting area, admiring the olive green walls, the gold paneling and portraits of the greats men and women that had played such important roles in British history. A Duke of Edinburgh hung to her right. George II, then the Prince of Wales, hung to her left. A head of her rested Queen Elizabeth I. Behind her she knew full well hung the wonderfully captured portrait of a Marquess of Rockingham. It hurt her still, to know that no salon in France would now hold the great men and women France had given the world. A rich history destroyed and forgotten, all because some men went too far…

She looked to her husband as his lazy blue eyes found her, smiling softly at him. He ceased his story momentarily, getting to his feet in order to give her an elaborate bow. The lace of his cuffs flourished as he raised a hand, his eyebrows raising, lips pursing. He bent his lean form, the lace of his other cuff splaying out to the side as he swung it swiftly to the side. His cravat fell toward the ground, but he pressed his other hand to it, smoothing it gently as he straightened and offered her his other hand.

"A demmed good time for you to join us, m'dear!" he called happily. Tony Dewhurst got up from seat to surrender it to Lady Blakeney. After a polite curtsey to her husband she took the seat, laughing softly at something the Prince of Wales said to her. A joke, it was supposed to be, and so she laughed with the others, but she hardly listened to his words. She looked to Percy, watching him raise his snuff box from his pocket, tap it once, twice, a third time, and then flip it open. He took a small pinch, white hands skillful and delicate as they placed it on the back of his other.

"Sir Percy!" Lady Ashby called, red hair beginning to fall from its magnificent curls. She took a cloth, dapping her sweaty upper lip as her husband turned his eyes toward her, bored, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "Well? Will you not finish your story?"

"Odd's fish, my dear lady, please, have patience," he called emphatically. He looked to her husband, "My dear fellow, how might you cope with such insatiability?"

The room erupted with laughter, champagne spilling over hands as they swung their glasses to the side in an attempt to hold their cramping stomachs. Lady Ashby blushed madly but laughed with the rest and Percy brought up his hand to his nose, sniffing once in each nostril. He put the box back into his pocket and sat back into his chair, flipping his coat tails back as he did.

Watching him in such a way, his foolery, the foppish way in which he carried himself, always sent her imagination to the brave, daring and cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. He was everything her husband was not. She bit her bottom lip as she listened to her husband continue on his little rhyming story, his inane laugh every time he got to a particularly amusing point. A true fool of a man he was. A total and absolute fool. Not worth the most brilliant woman in Paris, no, France, no! Europe! And she was chained to this fool, this dandy, this fop. A man who was incapable of a thought with deeper meaning. A thought with complexity. A thought that might stimulate her.

She made eye contact with him as he spoke, and her heart accelerated, not because of the man before her however. It was because of the man whom Sir Percy Blakeney reminded her. Her skin hummed and she felt herself grow hot as her husband continued his story, that idiotic look still on his face.

She stood from her chair, unnoticed by some, politely ignored by others, and watched by some of the younger, single men in the room. She glided across the door, pausing at the door, and turned. She pressed her hands to the door frame, looking over her shoulder at her husband. He drolled on, eyes scanning across his enraptured audience. A few girls giggled at him. Marguerite did not feel that stab of jealously she had some months before, when she was certain she had lost her husband's love, when she was certain soon he might stray. All he could see was her. Slowly, his blue eyes found hers, but he did not stop his words. They held eye contact a moment longer. Then he looked away and she turned around.

A bumbling fool. A mindless idiot.

She skirted along the dance floor, shaking off a few men who made their pleas for a dance. She picked up a chute of champagne and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes scanned the room and raised the glass to her lips. Her heart rate accelerated and she turned. A woman as beautiful, witty, and young as Lady Blakeney would not normally be able to sneak from a ballroom without being seen. There was always a follower, a young man wishing to express his admiration of her beauty or intelligence, his regret she belonged to another. There was always a young girl wishing to ask her about fashion, where her dress was made, where she might get one just like…

But Marguerite Blakeney had learned from the very best. She found herself in a secluded hallway and slipped into the library. Slowly she closed the door behind her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Her lips curved upward in anticipation. She walked to a candle, rummaging around for what felt like an eternity for a match and lit the room some.

Finally, she had a enough candles lit to illuminate a little circle of four or five feet around her. She picked up the candle holder and prepared to turn around and place it on the side table by the couch. She never got a chance for the moment she heard the sound of the library door clicking shut she froze in place, heart pounding, breasts heaving already.

"Candles?" she heard the low whisper.

"I thought to better see," she breathed, voice trembling with anticipation.

"We need not see," he whisper. She felt him approach her from behind, his warmth heating her already burning skin. One large, strong hand gripped her waist. "We need only feel."

He leaned in close, his front pressing to her back, the cravat brushing against her neck. He gently moved her to the side, leaning down. She leaned back into him, her head resting over his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, listening to the soft gust of air leave him as he distinguished the light. When her eyes opened she was looking up at the ornate ceiling, but she knew one candle remained alight.

"I hoped you would make an appearance tonight," she breathed, closing her eyes once more.

"How could I stay away?" he asked, hands slowly moving up her sides. They moved around to feel the front of her gown, adept fingers moving over every ribbon, every ruffle. "That bumbling fool you have for a husband could only keep me contained for so long."

"When I look at him," she breathed, pausing to let out a sigh as his hot lips pressed to the side of her neck. "I can see only you. He makes me love you even more."

He breathed in deeply through his nose, nose pressed to her temple. He pressed his face close, burying his nose in her hair. One of hands moved upward to close around a breast, squeezing her close.

"Oh, my scarlet pimpernel," she breathed, his hand turning her chin so he could capture her lips. He kissed her deeply, their lips parting for the other, tongues meeting. He held her close, a hand pressing to her stomach firmly. Finally the kiss broke and he turned her, moving her toward the couch as he did so. Their lips met once more, urgently and searching, passionately. She reached around him to wrap her arms around his neck and he bit her lip. She gasped but it had her alight with excitement.

It happened fast, as it had to. Though she had no doubt he locked the door, made some sort of assurance they would not be interrupted, it was impossible to know if someone might find a way to come upon them. He laid her down on the couch, his lips still on hers as he fumbled momentarily in front her. Next her skirts were up around her hips and in an instant he was inside of her.

He stilled as he buried himself with her, breathing hotly against her lips. She threaded her hands in his hair, not caring if it might leave him disheveled. Their bodies trembled as they held each other, kissing softly, but with blinding passion.

"My love," she whispered against his mouth. He kissed her. Licked a lip. Then kissed her again.

"Marguerite," he breathed and with that he began to move. His movements were slow at first, long and steady. He kissed her hard, pressing her head back into the couch. He quickened his pace, moving hard and fast, grunting into her mouth.

"A child soon," he smiled against her lips once they had finished, lying peacefully in the dark, quiet room. He kissed the side of her mouth. Another kiss to her cheek. Her neck. The swell of her breasts.

"Soon," she smiled. How much they had been through. From love, to disdain both, back to love. But now, she could not help but feel, it was a love more profound than ever before.

"We will be missed," he murmured and stood. She watched him fix his trousers, smoothing out his clothing. How he managed to look so perfect all the time. Once finished he helped her to her feet, assisting her as she fixed her clothing.

"Until you might sneak away again," she teased. He smiled down at her, eyes twinkling.

"My darling. No fool will keep me from you long."

She reached up and touched his face. She searched his face, committing it to memory as if she might never see him again, so much did she dread this momentary desperation.

"You must go first," she whispered. "I've not yet recovered."

"As my lady commands," he said, giving her a bow. He kissed her once more before slipping into the darkness and exiting the room.

Marguerite stepped from the ball room with a smile on her face, scanning the room. She found him easily enough. As often as she was surrounded by admirers, he was never without his own court. Lord Tony was with him, Sir Andrew and Suzanne, as well as a group of others, some important, some not. It made no difference to him, so long as he could speak.

She paused, not going to him immediately, and simply watched. She watched every flourish, every quirked eyebrow, every roll of the eyes, every smirk, and then the sound of his inane laughter wafted through the dwindling crowd and kissed her ears. She could not stop the smile that came to her lips, and she felt, not for the first time, an unyielding love, not just for the man she knew was buried inside, but the man he pretended to be. She loved the way he pursed his lips. The way he would widened his eyes at the smallest fashion mistake made. The way he would move his head as he laughed, eyes half closed, lazy, and sleepy. What fun it was, to know how he truly was, the cunning the man possessed, the passion and bravery. It was a secret only a small handful of men were privy to… a small handful of his most trusted friends… and her.

He took out his snuff box, tapping the cover, taking out some snuff. He quirked an eyebrow at something he heard, eyes widening, and moved his head back to demonstrate his disgust of whatever it was that was suggested. She allowed herself just a moment more to watch and then moved to a group bordering his. Immediately she was welcomed inside, diving into the conversation with a smile.

"Lud madam!" she heard from behind her. A smile returned to her lips, a ghost of a smile really, a small curve to her lips, and she turned around slowly chin raised ever so slightly. She found her husband standing there among the group of his admirers, all ready for a new story, perhaps some advice as to what suits they might order next. "I've been looking for you positively everywhere. Where have you been off to?"

He offered a hand and she went to his side, placing one of her hands on the side of his arm, running her hand over the cream colored fabric, fitted so perfectly to his tall, lean form.

"Is it a crime for a woman to dance at a ball, Sir Percy?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"Not in London, I dare say. Faith! Were we in Paris you might be off to the guillotine this very instant."

Everyone laughed around them and she looked up into her husband's blue eyes. He looked down his nose at her, a small smirk on his face, amusement twinkling in his eyes. She slid her arm into his, hardly hearing Mr. Wentworth as he began to ask her husband about the new saddle he had recently purchased.

"A beautiful piece of craftsmanship," her husband responded, raising his monocle up to demonstrate. "Simply perfection. I shall give you the name of the best saddle maker in England should you like."

"Oh yes, Sir Percy. How knowledgeable you are."

"Only in what matters most," he responded, swinging his lazy eyes back down to look to Marguerite. She smiled up at him. How she loved the man. Fool and hero both. She could not have one without the other and she would want it no other way.

"Now, if you would excuse me. I am monstrous tired and my wife looks ready to retire. Odd's fish, dear lady, just look at the state of your hair," he scoffed, a near horrified look on his face as he ran his eyes over her. He clucked his tongue. "No, no, excuse me dear friends, but Lady and Sir Percy Blakeney must take their leave."

Everyone pouted, called for them to stay just a little longer, but in truth, many people had already began to funnel out of the home. Marguerite already looked forward to the ride back to their home in Richmond. He made his apologies, bowed repeatedly, and escorted her from the house. Their carriage was brought forth and he helped her up with a strong, guiding hand.

As she sat down beside him she leaned against him, wrapping her arms around one of his. He spurred the horses on with a skilled hand, moving them quickly through the brisk night air, as she loved most. A smile came to her lips as she breathed in deeply half an English summer coming to an end, half the smell of her beloved husband.

"I love you," she whispered and he looked down at her. "Fool and hero both."

He leaned down, the carriage still moving along the road, and pressed his lips to hers in a chaste, loving kiss. He pulled back, eyes lingering on hers just a moment longer, admiring her beauty in the moonlight. Without a word, but love felt strongly between them, he turned back to look at the road and drove them into the night.