Notes: mini drabble #2! And for the anon reviewer, yes I am hoping for a CYI update in the near future! It's been partially done for weeks.
Cutting In
(Prompt: KC+ Regency Era Vampires. Rated K+)
She smiles, bright and vapid, stepping quickly to avoid having her slippers trod on by the inebriated earl who's too engrossed in attempting to peer down her bodice to mind the steps of the quadrille they are attempting to dance.
The slippers cost more than his paltry monthly allowance, not that a man would care for such a thing.
He's gracious enough to apologize for the stumble. Caroline allows her brows to dip, her lips to pout, feigning puzzlement.
She's posing as foreign born royalty, is not supposed to speak or understand so much as a hint of English. Despite that, or maybe because of it, she's become very popular in London's ballrooms. Her dance card is never empty, she never lacks an arm for a stroll about the room and she's been invite for numerous turns about the garden. The matrons tut over how often she leaves the ballroom in the company of a man, whisper that she's courting her ruin, but Caroline can't bring herself to care. She has no true need to care for her reputation as she's not truly a young maiden in first bloom.
Hasn't been, for more than a century and she'll be long gone before the next season rolls around.
Caroline's always been a practical sort and she's not one to deprive herself. She sees no reason to down easy, discrete, sips of blood from a human who's bathed recently (even if the men tend to taste a bit like the starch they're neckcloths are doused in). It would be the height of stupidity. Enduring a few moments of numbing conversation is a fair trade for a good meal.
The men who attempt to do more than impress her with their wits and manners? They always regret it.
With the others, the bumbling youths seeking to impress her, the destitute aristocrats trying to beguile her in hopes of gaining control of the wealth she flaunts, a blank face is easy to maintain. Most of the prattle Caroline is subjected to is so dull. Horses and hunting, grain yields and the challenges of running a moldering old country house. Boasts of boxing prowess and rowing titles won. It's often difficult not to yawn. Human lives were so brief, Caroline's always marveled at how little they seem to care to liven up their scant years.
Playing the part of the sheltered princess has become her primary means of entertainment. Well, besides the shopping. She's seriously considering turning the clever little modiste who'd made her ballgowns. Such a talent deserved time to flourish.
She's tuned out her dance partner's mutterings, has allowed herself to enjoy the skillful playing of the hired musicians when she's pulled out of her pleasant drifting. Caroline feels eyes on her, following her, an interest that's more than casual. Her spine in straightens in response, her mind becoming immediately alert. She's survived, largely on her own, by listening to her instincts and they are beginning to clamor. She's limited by the patterns of the dance but Caroline does her best to scan the room each time she spins, searching for the person who's responsible for the raising of her hackles.
He's not hard to find as he makes no attempt to be discrete in his attentions. Across the room a man meets her eyes steadily, a smile curling his lips as he tips his champagne class in her direction. His lips, fuller than your average man's even from across the room, curl into an inviting smile, one Caroline might have been tempted to return had they been in a more private locale.
Conscious of the part she's playing, aware of all the eyes, Caroline sucks in a breath at the bold move, checks to see if her dance partner had noted it. Luckily, he's still occupied with ogling her breasts, now straining at her neckline.
Honestly. Men can be such simple creatures.
Caroline sneaks another peak at the man who had toasted her, finds his interest has not wavered. She's certain she's never met him before, just as she's certain he's not human. He's too still, too self-assured. He lacks even a hint of the nerves or twitches that humans cannot help.
His regard could very well be a problem for Caroline.
She's been careful not to call attention to herself since she'd arrived in London and she finds it prudent to give other vampires a wide berth. An unfortunate run in with a Miss Katherine Pierce, and her tragic story of persecution, had taught Caroline that lesson well. She'd never be so naïve again, not after barely escaping with her head on her shoulders.
Caroline has no desire to be caught up in a similar circumstance no matter how well this stranger fills out his evening coat, or how very boring her pretending has become.
She has to make an escape. Immediately.
She stops dancing and lays a hand over her chest, forces a cough, then another, allowing her hands to flutter in an approximation of panic. Her dance partner appears confused, then alarmed, eyes searching those nearby wildly as if looking for assistance. Before he can find it, or heaven forbid act himself, Caroline feels warmth at her side. A warm palm settles on her back. Fingertips toy with the buttons that line her spine, a shockingly familiar caress. Caroline's eyes widen, for she'd not expected him to approach her directly, not under the curious eyes of dozens of humans.
A miscalculation and she so loathes those. Can only hope she doesn't pay dearly for this one.
She can't protest his hands on her, not pretending to choke as she is. A glass of lukewarm lemonade is pressed into Caroline's hand, the bare skin at the nape of her neck is stroked, "Drink, love," a low voice urges her. "Slowly, hmm?"
With no other choice Caroline takes a careful sip, then another, allows her theatrics to taper off. Her would be rescuer remains a steady presence at her side, deftly stepping in front of any who make to draw her away, both the ladies who are sympathetic and the suitors who hover.
He doesn't stop touching her, his gloves on her bare skin a maddening distraction. Once she's finished the lemonade he reclaims the glass, passes it off imperiously. Caroline almost cracks a smile at the offended expression of the Viscountess who finds it in her hands. "Walk with me," he murmurs, following the invitation with a second, one made loudly and in flawless German.
Neatly preventing her from feigning confusion and losing herself in the crowd.
Caroline grits her teeth and sets her hand on his offered arm, allowing him to lead her away. "Splendid performance," he compliments, tone teasing and sly. "Why are you wasting your time with the haute ton when you could be having far more fun in the theatre? Actors and playwrights can be bled and compelled just as easily, you know."
It doesn't bode well that he knows her habits.
She lifts her chin, pressing her lips together, but he seems undaunted by her lack of response, "Do you just like the finery?" She feels his eyes on her, hot and admiring. She's very aware of the heat of him, the strength of his arm under her palm. "Perhaps I understand. You are ravishing, Caroline."
Her head snaps to the side when she hears her true name, the one no one in London should know. When she makes to pull away he sets his hand over hers, his grip firm enough to prevent her from fleeing, "Easy, sweetheart. I'm not here to hurt you. We've a common enemy and I thought we could have a bit of fun with her."
Caroline's young for an immortal, and careful, and she can count her enemies on just a few fingers. Only one is a woman. And that woman's greatest enemy was said to be both exceedingly charming and pleasing to look upon. All the better to hide the evil he's capable of. She takes a deep breath, forces her fingers to relax. She doesn't allow herself to tear her eyes from his. "You're Klaus Mikaelson."
This time his smile is slower, more private. "I am." Her heart beat quickens, though she finds no hint of a threat in the way he's looking at her. His reply is perfectly genial, and once they step outside he turns to face her. Klaus snares her gloved hand and he lifts it, presses his lips to her wrist, lingers over the thudding pulse he can surely feel though only a layer of very fine silk. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Forbes."