1815

Waterloo

War always brought out the worst in men.

It can be completely unintentional. The grim, bloody brutality of man versus man could inspire acts of cruelty that most soldiers found appalling in their previous lives as civilians. Daily deception, torture, and murder changed the men from spoiled nobles to killing machines. This was a simple, absolute fact.

Even in the case of the platoon coward, Private Rum Gold.

His hands gripped tightly around the throat of his enemy. Rum was long past the point of regret, killing a man. Sounds of the battlefield, screams and cannon-fire, were overpowered by his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His vision centered on his victim, and he prayed for time to move faster. For no one to see him. For the past year to have never happened.

The body went slack, the struggling over. Rum basked in but a single moment of relief, evolving to euphoria. Maintaining his last shred of sense, he bolted into the woods, the fear of being caught pushing him forward. He needed to get out of the country. Out of the military. As far away from himself and this fucking war as possible.

His captain, Gaston Avenant, Duke of Kent, was dead at last.

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In the case of Lady Isabelle French, spoiled took on a new definition. For the young ladies of the ton, spoiled meant greedy in fashion, jewels, and attention. But Isabelle, or Belle to her friends, had been lavished with books, maps, and her father's love.

Fathers of the ton had no use for their daughters. Most thought of their daughters as simpering, silly broodmares only meant to unite and carry on bloodlines. One or two could be taught how to ride a horse, but beyond that, they were occupied in setting up their nurseries. But in the case of Sir French, his little girl was a joy bestowed by Heaven itself.

With his beloved wife gone from childbirth, his obligation to Belle, the only connection he had, motivated him to climb out of bed every day. They were inseparable. Maurice French made sure his daughter rode horses, knew her maths, and dreamed. The child dove into books, making the estate's library her playground. There, she fought pirates, discovered many birds, and lived the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. To further her education, her father hired the best tutors he could afford.

Their lives were bliss. Until Belle's twelfth birthday party.

Fellow peers and their children came to see Belle, and as the children ran off to play games, Maurice was left with the parents, and was treated to a sit down by the mothers in the group.

"Your child is a beast," they told him. "She needs discipline, and education. A governess, not those men filling her head with nonsense."

Even though it filled him with rage to hear them speak about his precious child that way, there was a level of truth to it. He watched Belle run around, scraping her knees, and her tearing her dress. The other girls played tea party as Belle played soldiers with the boys. He could not tolerate the women calling his daughter a beast, and said as much, asking the women to leave early. But the harsh reality was that Belle was quickly changing into a young woman, and needed to start acting like one.

Children grew up, he knew that. But Belle had to be a woman, and women were meant to be married. It depressed him to think of another man coming along to take his whole world away from him, but it was crueler to doom her to life as a spinster. So, he consulted with many governesses, and they all said the same thing: Belle needed to learn how to be a lady, a whole slew of traits to make her more successful in the marriage mart.

And so, with a heavy heart, but reminding himself it was in his daughter's best interest, Maurice sent away the tutors, limited Belle's time in the sunshine, and placed her in the hands of a capable governess.

Belle, a darling child, never complained. She seemed confused at first, wondering if her father found her wanting, but quickly adapted to the new lifestyle. Such a smart girl, his Belle. After six months of etiquette and tea time, he scoured the countryside for potential husbands.

That was another task Maurice was reluctant to accomplish. He told himself she was too young for him to worry about husbands. But he was betrothed as a small child, and there was no harm in being prepared.

His large purse enticed many potential in-laws. Noveau riche still meant money. And even though he bought the title, a baronet was still a baronet. Within weeks, he succeeded in snatching a contract between Belle and a Duke's son, under the condition that she could annul the engagement should a better option come along.

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1818

London

The Season was underway, and Belle was homesick. She missed the moors of her father's country home, where she occasionally sneaked away to have adventures, or pretend she was a ghost, searching for her lost love. Her father would lock her in her room if he knew she regularly ran off unattended.

Her chaperone, Mrs. Lucas, lectured her on the carriage ride to the Nolan Estate, the first ball of the London season. Belle liked the Nolans just fine, but she dreaded an evening of ball gowns, awkward dancing, and empty conversation.

This year was her second foray into the marriage mart, her betrothed long dead, leaving her to fend for herself amongst the cads and fortune seekers. Belle knew her looks brought the men close, but she was far from being titled Incomparable. Her father's money was the main draw, and she grew tired of the unwanted attention.

Not that she did not wish to be married. All women wanted husbands, of course. Yes. But the challenge of finding the right husband was made much more difficult, because she dreamed of the love from her sensation novels. Mrs. Lucas tried and tried again to set her straight on her expectations, but Belle always kept her mind open to romance. Despite her resignation to her fate, she still insisted on control. She had the choice, she had the final say. No one was ever going to make those decisions for her.

Another trait her string of governesses tried to stamp out of her. Belle may be polite, and compliant to her elders, but she was still stubborn and strong-willed. Considered a fault by most, Belle knew this to be an advantage. Her father was not a well man, and if his estate was to be absorbed by her future husband's, she needed to ensure its future.

Within minutes of arrival, she found her dance card mostly filled. With some time left before the first dance, Belle reacquainted herself with her favorite spot in a ballroom: the wall. Watching everyone else mingle, admiring the costumes or dresses, were more enjoyable pursuits than throwing herself into the throng of the missish and humdrum. She had friends amongst the ton, but she would rather have tea than share a waltz. Tea invited pleasant conversation and laughter. Dancing left her stressed, watching her feet to avoid her partner's eyes. The intimate contact made her uncomfortable, and she always found herself tongue in a situation that forced her to converse, because spending two minutes in silence just felt all the more awkward.

In her last season, the men were always rushing to fetch her lemonade. So, to avoid those encounters, Belle poured her own and made herself at home in a corner. The crop seemed thickened this year. More ladies were out, but the same men from before showed up. That meant no one new for her to meet, besides the young women currently more considered with finding a dance partner, which suited Belle just fine.

As everyone gathered their partners for the first dance, a quadrille, Belle glanced at her dance card to see with whom she'd have the pleasure of embarrassing herself.

His Grace, The Duke of Kent

Kent… Kent… She could not picture the face of the Lord Duke Kent, and hoped he found her soon. A hand at her elbow startled her, and she looked to the person that presumed familiarity.

Belle had definitely never met the man she knew must be Kent.

An older gentleman, with dusty brown hair. Long, an outdated fashion left for dandies, but he wore it well. He dressed smart in a dark brown suit with a leather (how unusual) vest. Upon further study, she realized the suit was not a dark brown, but a dark gold.

With a kind smile, but no greeting, he led her to the dance floor.