Obligatory Disclaimer - I write therefore I do not own, but I like to play.
Comments - Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed Chapter XIII - I know I've been writing this for a long time now and sometimes it takes me a little while between updates to get my head screwed on and in the smut writing zone, so it's awesome to find people still reading and reviewing after all this time. And I promise, I'm nowhere near done yet - and there's plenty of pure filth (and possibly some fluff... oh!) to come.
WARNINGS - Bad language ahead. Also, I'd like to reiterate that the following chapter does NOT contain a threesome - just in case anyone was worried. I promise, smut shall follow forthwith, forsooth in the following chapter - 'Paint.' I'm also introducing a contraversial OC - not sure if it's been done yet, so let me know what you think about 'her' (I wish I could see your faces, I just know you're all looking baffled!). As always, unabashed Beckabeth - avert thine eyes if it's not your cup of tea.
The Fortunate Mistress - Part XIV - 'Threesome'
'Two's company; three's a crowd.'
(Old Proverb)
Among the residents of St. James's Square there included; five earls, seven dukes, six duchesses – one disgraced, three Lords (soon to be four), an elderly countess, a courtesan called Dolly Fletcher, and the much celebrated male actor, Quill Lawrence. Their homes were among the most desired and fashionable in London – sketched out by the best architects in the country, built from the finest materials available, and decorated to the most expensive of tastes.
Even the mud on the unpaved piazza was the cleanest in London.
Elizabeth's first glimpse of her new matrimonial lair was from the window of her husbands carriage. When it rattled to a halt in a dark, shadowy corner of the square, she wiped her gloved fingers across the window – grey with condensation – and anxiously peered out.
A wall of smooth, sand-coloured stone loomed over her – three storeys high above the street, and an iron railed cellar below. The brickwork was elaborate, artistically arranged around long sash windows, and crowned with an intricate cornice along the horizontal roof. Through the second floor windows, grand ceiling chandelier glimmered and lit up the decorative ceiling of a large room – a twilight sky, fainting blue with peach clouds, blushing seraphim and floral moulding. The front door remained wide open whilst male servants in powdered wigs wandered in and out, carrying in wooden crates and furniture from a parked landau toppling with possessions.
Elizabeth chewed the inside of her cheek whilst she studied her new home. It certainly wasn't the grandest house on the street by any means – but it was far grander than any house she'd ever lived in. She couldn't remember much of her father's London home, the way it looked had long vanished from her memories. She only remembered the silly, curious things now – like the bald, ugly looking stone bust at the bottom of the stairs he dropped his periwig onto when he came home.
The hallway always smelt strongly of hair powder, she recalled.
When her carriage door was suddenly pulled open by the driver, Elizabeth flinched He held the door in silence, whilst Lord Beckett appeared from the other side of the carriage and offered her his hand – a gesture that was infected with tedious matrimonial routine. She took a moment to gather her skirts, hoops and cloak into a portable bundle, and when she finally placed her hand in his, he accepted it with an impatient glare.
"No need to hurry," he mumbled sarcastically.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and tutted. "Oh I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that we were in a rush," she snapped – stepping out of the carriage and onto the street, her petticoats flopping down the steps after her. "Why don't you try manoeuvring through doors and down steps with the skeleton of a bloody whale attached round your waist!"
As soon as her toe touched the soft mud on the street he let go – his warm fingers slipping away as he turned and scaled the stone steps that led up to the front door with an amused grin she wouldn't see.
Whilst he vanished inside, Elizabeth lingered in the cold – glaring into the empty depth of the square and peering curiously through the windows of the house next door. She was disturbed by the silence of the square in contrast to the rest of London, with only the sound of water spraying from the fountains in the middle of the square and the wind whistling along its four walls. Next door, Coal Heavers were delivering brass buckets of coal to a chambermaid waiting in the doorway and rubbing her hands against the cold. When Elizabeth looked up into the long windows on the second floor, an elderly woman with a white cloud of curls on her head glared back down at her with a sour expression.
With a strange mixture of amusement and embarrassment, Elizabeth smiled and lowered her eyes as she climbed the stone steps and crossed the threshold into her new home – slipping the cloak from her shoulders and folding it over her arm.
The first thing she noticed was the sound of her heeled shoes on the marble floor. Hollow footsteps – clip, clipping off the white and gold Boiserie panelling, and resonating through the spacious entrance hall and up the sweeping staircase. Her husband's portrait sat leaning against the banister, impatiently waiting to be hung somewhere conspicuous.
The subject of the painting however, stood in a corner near the front door, silently admiring her with dark eyes and a lopsided smirk.
"Should I assume by the lingering silence that the pirate is pleased?" Beckett asked, his monotone drawl echoing around the room.
Elizabeth shot him a quick glare over her shoulder – only briefly, before her eyes were dragged upwards to a vast chandelier of gold and crystal blossoming from a ceiling rose. Her lips formed a silent 'Oh!'
"Yes… yes, it's very fine," she replied – enthralled by her reflection floating inside the wall mirrors, and the light from the chandelier blurring in the polished floor.
"…It was previously owned by the French ambassador and his reluctant wife – I'm told," Beckett continued.
"Reluctant – how so?" Elizabeth asked, inspecting the gilt frame of her husband's portrait.
"They say, she was intolerably homesick – very French, couldn't speak a word of English… and his Excellency spent a fortune on a decorator to remodel the house in the French style simply to please her," he said.
His eyes traced her back. Her bodice and her blonde hair curling over the lacing was glossed with the light from the chandelier – catching it like moving water. When she lifted a hand to her cheek and tucked a stray ringlet behind her ear he licked his lower lip – glimpsing her profile – dark eyelashes fluttering against her pink cheek.
"Oh yes? How romantic," Elizabeth muttered, uninterested.
He scoffed. "He was banished back to France by the King last year – and rumour has it that his wife didn't return with him."
"Mm hm, and why was that?" she asked, removing one of her gloves and smoothing her bare hand across the mahogany banister.
"She'd run off with the decorator," he replied bluntly.
Elizabeth blinked at him. "No?!" she gasped – scandalised.
"C'est la guerre, sweet," Beckett purred. "His loss is our gain."
She struggled to translate. Her attempt to recall the few French lessons she'd experienced was impossible – her mind paralysed by the way his voice sounded when it smoothly rattled off French phrases.
Just as her thoughts finally came together to decide that 'C'est la' meant something along the lines of 'that is,' or 'such is' – her fingers scooped up a smudge of white powder clinging to the banister, more like fine chalk or flour than dust. She brought the tips to her nose and smelt it, smiling when she recognised the scent. It was hair powder, with its light and dusky fragrance of starch and orange flower.
"Care to explain why the banister is so amusing?" Beckett asked.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and bit down on the smile. "No… it's nothing."
His eyes were suspicious when she shook her head, then softly blew the powder from her fingers – fondly watching it dissolve into the air. They grew even harder, set below a slight frown when she returned her attention to his portrait and he noticed that although the intriguing smile had disappeared from her lips, it lingered on in her eyes.
Heavy footsteps approaching brought him back, and when he tore his gaze away from his frustratingly enigmatic wife, Mercer appeared beside him – wringing his hat between his leather-clad fingers.
"We were expectin' you sooner, Milord," Mercer announced – gruff impatience in his voice.
"We took a short – albeit, pleasant excursion," Beckett replied – humour in his eyes as he gazed past Mercer and watched Elizabeth move his portrait forward to see the smaller ones hiding behind it.
Mercer frowned. "Sir," he continued eagerly. "There's someone…"
Beckett ignored him. "See to it that everything is placed its correct location – do you understand?" he said.
"…Sir, there's something…"
"Do you understand?" Beckett snapped – his eyes firm, voice biting.
"Yes, sir," Mercer sighed.
"There was something else…" Beckett continued.
"There is Sir, you see… yer–"
"…I noticed a mark on my desk when they were bringing it in – find out who's responsible, and deal with them," he interrupted, quietly.
"Done," Mercer replied.
Beckett grinned. "Good," he said, tidying the lace cuffs of his shirt.
When he looked up, Elizabeth was lifting a small oval portrait – tilting her head to admire it.
His grinned vanished – wiped clean off by the woman trapped within the frame.
Though he hadn't seen it for many years, he knew the painting well – his own father had commissioned it, perhaps only a year or so before his birth. The swirled black background and the colour of the woman's skin was too familiar – like pearl, shining off the canvas, and utterly naked if it hadn't been for the sheer linen fichu smeared in grey paint across her shoulders. Her brown hair rolled around her neck – adorned with pearls, and her black eyes smouldered off the canvas.
What he didn't know – nor could understand – was why the portrait was suddenly sitting in his hallway.
Beckett exhaled angrily through his nose. "What the fuck is that painting doing here?" he barked.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder with wide eyes – surprised by his sudden outburst. She put the portrait down – carefully.
"…that's what I've been trying to tell you, Sir," Mercer said.
Beckett glared at him. "What?" he demanded.
"She's here," Mercer replied delicately.
Elizabeth frowned. "Who's here?" she asked – confused.
Heralded by the sound of a small dog barking, the doors to the drawing room swung open, and a middle aged woman, hidden beneath layers of ruched emerald satin, diamonds and lavender powder emerged from inside. She was balancing the yapping pug in one hand and holding an elaborate fan with the other – the ostrich plumes poking from her whipped grey wig stroking the ceiling as she glided into the entrance hall.
"Where is he, where is my son?!" she ordered, searching the room.
Beckett groaned. "Here," he said.
"Son?" Elizabeth repeated silently to herself – stunned.
"There he is, oh! Cutler," she sighed, floating across the room and embracing him. "Oh! My dear boy!"
Bemused and a little embarrassed, Elizabeth watched as the woman curled an arm around her husband's neck and ceremonially kissed his cheek, squashing the poor dog between them. Beckett stood statuesquely still. Cold and detached, his eyes were the colour of stone – betraying no emotion besides simmering irritation.
"How did you know I was here?" he asked when she pulled away.
"When a son refuses to send his poor mother letters informing her of his whereabouts – she's forced find out through other means," the woman snapped, swatting him on the shoulder with her closed fan. "And you know that I have my ways…"
Elizabeth grinned. Lord Beckett had never bothered to mention his mother – now she understood why.
The small pug suddenly wriggled and barked louder than before. "Oh do be quiet Penelope!!!" she shouted – and strangely, the dog instantly obeyed.
"Why did you bring the painting?" Beckett frowned.
"Oh! Just a little house warming gift dear… you should display it in the ballroom perhaps – somewhere… visible. I want my grandchildren to see how beautiful their grandmother was in her youth…" she beamed, holding the tip of the fan to her heavily rouged lips.
"Bloody hell," Beckett grumbled beneath his breath.
"…ah yes, speaking of which… where's my daughter in-law… the pirate? I've been so looking forward to meeting her," she grinned, twirling on her heel. "…Especially as I wasn't invited to the wedding," she added sarcastically.
Elizabeth straightened, smiling nervously as her mother-in-law approached like a feline stalking a terrified mouse.
"Lady Beckett," she smiled sweetly, dropping a short curtsey. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, I've heard–"
"Absolutely nothing about me, I know," she scoffed, raising an eyebrow and lifting Elizabeth's chin carefully with her fan – inspecting her. "…and Lady Beckett is your name dear…"
Elizabeth bit her lip. "Oh, yes! I'm sorry, I…" she stuttered.
"I am the Dowager Lady Beckett…" she rolled her eyes. "Dowager – such an awful word! But we'll have none of that – you shall call me Althea," she smiled.
"Althea," Elizabeth nodded.
"No-no-no-no-no… Al-thay-ah, dear – the 'e' is silent," she corrected tiredly.
"Oh," Elizabeth replied, puzzling over vowel sounds as Althea strolled away.
"Why don't we have tea?" she suggested, gesturing wildly with the closed fan. "Oh, but I imagine your tea service is all packed up."
"Yes. It is. What a shame," Beckett replied dryly.
Althea sighed dramatically. "Well then, it's a good thing I thought ahead and brought my own along, isn't it?" she said.
It was the most disorganised mid-morning tea Elizabeth had ever experienced.
The drawing room had been near empty – only a clumsy cluster of furniture sitting in the corner waiting to be arranged, and a ceiling chandelier dressed in a dust sheet – the morning light from the two floor to ceiling windows painting the dark skeleton inside onto the opposite wall. Althea had organised the servants – directing them with a closed fan and Penelope cradled in her arms. They'd brought chairs meant for the dining room next door and placed a splintered crate in the centre – the tea service steaming away on top of it.
"It's important you do this correctly, Cutler," Althea sighed, blowing across her teacup. "If she isn't ready, it'll be like feeding the poor girl to the wolves."
Despite being the poor girl in question, Elizabeth had decided to remain quiet. She held her cup and saucer idly whilst she listened to them talk about her as if she wasn't there at all. Althea did most of the talking, whilst Beckett leant against the window – frowning out into the square and watching the servants continue to unload the landau outside.
"Wolves," Beckett repeated, his cold eyes reflected in the glass.
"Yes – and you know how their tongues and tails like to wag when one does something one shouldn't," Althea drawled, placing her cup and saucer onto the makeshift table whilst the tea cooled. "I know, Lady Salisbury is having a ball in a couple of weeks – we shall present her then. Two weeks should be plenty of time for her to brush up on her etiquette and manners at least, and… well of course she'll need a new wardrobe, I'm quite sure everything she already has will either be too cold or – uh – Démodé…" she added, her eyes trawling Elizabeth's appearance from head to toe derisively.
Elizabeth blushed. "Démodé?" she asked.
"Oh dear," Althea blinked. "French lessons as well."
"Noted," Beckett muttered.
"Not to worry dear," Althea smiled, reaching for a shortbread and feeding it to Penelope. "We shall soon sort you out."
Elizabeth scoffed. "Sorted out?" she said.
Althea narrowed her eyes. "You're very beautiful," she said – and though it seemed like a compliment, it didn't sound like one.
"Why, thank you…" Elizabeth smiled sweetly.
"It's a bad thing, dear," Althea grumbled. "Ugly girls tend to disappear in a crowd – unnoticed… whereas pretty girls never cease to be noticed. That, dear girl is almost always their downfall."
When Elizabeth caught her fierce gaze, she almost saw her husband staring out from behind her hazel eyes. She would have liked to have taken Althea's words as advice, but because of the way she said them and the way she looked at her – they sounded far more like a warning or a threat.
"Of course, you would know – wouldn't you, mother?" Beckett interrupted – speaking to her reflection in the window.
She straightened – composing herself before she spoke. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, Cutler – you must have her sit for a portrait," she said, stroking Penelope. "Un déshabillé of course – means undressed, dear," she added in a whisper for Elizabeth's benefit. "…perhaps with an instrument of some kind… what do you play, Elizabeth?"
"Well," Elizabeth began.
"She doesn't," Beckett interrupted from the window.
"Oh," Althea blinked. "Well she simply must learn something – you look like a harpist to me… yes, I know a wonderful–"
Elizabeth cleared her throat, then interrupted. "Actually, I play the harpsichord," she said, happily. "I don't practice nearly as often as I should, and I'm very, very rusty – but I do play."
Beckett glanced over his shoulder at her and frowned. "I didn't know you read music," he said, pleasantly surprised.
"You never asked," Elizabeth replied, quirking an eyebrow.
"Clearly you should lavish more attention on your poor wife, Cutler," Althea snapped, her raised voice causing both of them to flinch. "Honestly, just like your father."
Elizabeth smirked to herself when she noticed Beckett's reflection in the window. He rolled his eyes, beat his forehead against the window frame and mouthed, 'Thank God.'
Normal smutty service shall be resumed in chapter XV - 'Paint.' More soon everyone, and thank you all for your kind reviews :-)