AN: I've only got four reviews for this story so far, but that's OK as each reviewer has put this on their story alert, whivh I find really flattering, so thank you! Anyway, a reviewer has pointed out something which I should have put in the first chapter, which is how the characters are related to one another, so here goes: Sierra is Jack's wife, that much is obvious; Pearl is the nickname for Isabelle, who is Jack's daughter by a woman called Beth, although Sierra is happy to raise her as her own; and finally, Beckham is the all-knowing, stoic butler who is of little importance in this story but is actually a key member of the "Livingstone" household, so I thought it'll be best to mention him.
The Quack Act
Part II: A Romantic Interlude
When Jack eventually awoke the next morning, it was to the painfully familiar throbbing of a hangover. He groaned, turning in the bed, and found that he was greeted by what sounded like an amused chuckle. For a moment he was puzzled, wondering who it was that could have found his pain so amusing, but he soon felt familiar lips ghosting his own, and a finger reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear.
"Jesus…" he greeted, his hand finding his wife's waist and pulling her close. "What have I been drinking last night?"
"Copious amounts of pretentious French wine," Sierra explained, keeping her voice low so as not to cause him further pain. "Bit of champagne… Quite mild, really, compared to what you're used to." He felt her breath on his cheek as she placed a fleeting kiss on his features, and then he felt the warm air on his earlobe as she murmured, "Anything I can do to help?"
Jack breathed deeply then, and was peeved to discover he'd inadvertently inhaled his wife's hair. Sierra giggled again, a soft, girlish sound that was rarely heard from her, and he felt her move away. He hesitantly opened one eye, and was immediately relieved to find that Sierra had the good sense to prevent the maids from drawing the curtains, as was their wont. He was certain his eyes wouldn't have been able to handle the dazzling light of the morning sun.
She was lying beside him, as he'd suspected, dressed in a simple deep blue gown with a low, rounded décolletage and undecorated sleeves ending sharply just after the elbow. He found that he recognised that dress; it had been one that he'd given her, years ago, when he had still been a penniless pirate. It had been unfashionable then, more so now, and he was touched to discover that she hadn't thrown it away.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly at the small smile on his face.
"Have you been lying here all this time?"
Sierra shook her head, and pushed herself off of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the floor.
"You'll be going back to Westminster in a few days, won't you?" Sierra asked from some point beyond his feet. "And we're for Lord Hardwicke's proposed Clandestine Marriage Act, aren't we?"
Jack furrowed his brow at this. "Is that the same act that will ensure our Pearl won't be able to just up and marry any old bastard that catches her eye without telling us?"
"It's the act that completely destroys the validity of all common-law marriages, yes," she confirmed. He heard the rustling of paper, the gentle pattering of her feet, and saw her climbing back into the bed to nuzzle under the covers, a square of paper trapped between two slender fingers. "I've been going over your speech," she said as he pried the item from her. "A few words missed out here and there, some parts I couldn't understand because it was in Latin but trust are grammatically correct, but quite good."
"So why are you frowning?" he asked her.
"It doesn't sound like you at all; the words just seem so… so wooden, and controlled…" she explained. "What makes you such a fascinating and charming orator is the way you play on words, the way you twist things to suit your own needs. You're not doing that here, and considering how a high percentage of the Lords Temporal don't much care for the act, you're going to have to be at your most… charismatic."
Jack knew from the way that his wife had stressed this last word that charisma had nothing to do with what she had in mind. (Well, to a certain extent, he supposed it did.)
"Listen, just because a high number of my peers wear powdered wigs and pastel colours and have high voices does not mean they're all sodomites," Jack explained patiently to her. "My charm, irresistible and seductive it undoubtedly is, will be wasted on them."
"Not even Harrogate?" his wife queried.
"Certainly not Harrogate."
"Jack, Lord Harrogate's favourite coat is fuchsia," Sierra pointed out.
"Yes, but I'm certain that he enjoys the company of women regardless."
"He has matching accessories!"
"Blame his valet."
"And last night he was telling me your derriere was looking particularly tight," Sierra finished, to Jack's gaping horror. "So I think that if you give him a lingering look—maybe flash him that lopsided grin of yours—you'll get his support."
"I don't want his support," Jack snapped irritably.
"You need his support—you know that Harrogate's a highly respected politician, despite his… inclinations. Get him on your side, and you'll get the vote of thirty other lords."
Jack was looking resentfully up at her. "Why can't you flash him a lopsided grin?"
"Partly because he likes men, not women, partly because the two of us are rather good friends, and partly because when I grin lopsidedly, I vaguely resemble a deranged axe-murderer." And she gave him a look that suggested Jack immediately soothe her fabricated fears, for his own well-being.
"Well, I wouldn't call you a deranged axe-murderer," Jack rushed to reassure her. "Just faintly deranged."
"Jack!" Sierra chastised, hitting his shoulder playfully. Jack smiled at the childish behaviour, shuffled to the edge of the bed, and lit the oil lamp perched on the table before carefully unfolding the sheet Sierra had sparsely annotated. He only read the first five lines (to which his wife had made absolutely no adjustments, much to his pleasure) before stopping, frowning at the wall.
"What's wrong?" Sierra asked, sensing the sudden tension in the air. She watched in a sort of confused dread as Jack turned to look over his shoulder at her, an odd look on his face.
"Sweetheart…" he began slowly, "last night, at Rochester's… Did somebody call me a quack?"
Sierra raised a quizzical eyebrow at this before bursting into laughter.
"Who?" Lord Livingstone demanded, watching his wife fall back onto the pillows in mirth.
"Only the ducks…" Sierra wheezed out, clearly unable to control herself. Her sniggering immediately ceased at the look on her husband's face. "Jack?"
"I… came into contact with ducks?" he asked slowly.
"Yes…" she confirmed cautiously. "One of them even sat on your head. It was very amusing."
"Ducks?" Jack said once more.
"Yes, ducks."
For a moment, Jack seemed too stunned to speak; a rare occasion indeed, and Sierra found herself overcome with worry.
"Darling, what's wrong?"
"Nothing!" Jack replied, a little too quickly. "I'm fine, sweetheart; why ever do you ask?"
Sierra kept her suspicions well under wraps as she shot him an encouraging smile. "I'm merely playing the role of a loving and dutiful wife, my love," she assured her husband as she moved closer and rested her hand on his smooth abdomen whilst her chin found a place on his shoulder. She felt him smile at her affectionate action, and then he turned back to his speech with the gentlest rustling of paper. Sierra settled for simply holding and nuzzling her lover (with the occasional fleeting kiss on his bare shoulder) for about a minute or so, making certain that he was completely comfortable. Then, when Jack least expected it, she raised her lips to his ear, and murmured softly, seductively:
"Quack."
Jack's reaction was unprecedented; the speech fell to the floor with the gentle grace of a falling feather; his entire body seemed to convulse with a shuddering far more violent than she had ever imagined was humanly possible; his right hand fell to his stomach to tightly grip her smaller fingers. Then, as suddenly as the wave of panic had appeared, so did it swiftly wash away; his entire body instantly relaxed, and he turned his head to glare at her.
"Very funny," he told her, not at all surprised at the impish mischief gracing her beautiful features.
"You're terrified of ducks," Sierra gloated. "It's so adorable."
"I am not in any way terrified of ducks," Jack sniffed, reaching down to pick up his speech and wincing at the exacerbating pain this movement caused. "You'd react in exactly the same way if the woman—or man, in your case—in whose loving embrace you lay said 'quack' instead of the sweet nothings that were expected."
"Admit it," Sierra persisted stubbornly, "you have a duck phobia. No wonder your reaction was so violent last night. Do you know that you got so riled up, you actually fell into the pond? I had to ask Beckham to fetch you out, and we had to strip and throw your unconscious body into a bath. You nearly drowned."
Jack was scowling, apparently having heard only the first half of this lecture. "The ducks were attacking me," he told her evenly. "It was purely self-defence."
Sierra resisted the urge to roll her eyes and leaned close once more, her lips gently brushing his. "Quack," she sighed, gently, before moving to his ear and repeating the short statement. She continued in this manner for quite some time, and was so frustratingly distracting that Jack, already testy thanks to his hangover, finally snapped.
"Excuse me," he said disdainfully, pushing her playfully wandering hands away and unsteadily wobbling to his feet, "but I've the sudden and overwhelming urge to retire to my study. I'll like to remind you that it has a strong and sturdy lock."
"But Jack!" Sierra cried out, sounding slightly desperate as she too leapt to her feet. "Please stay for a little longer, Jack. I promise I'll be good. Unless, of course," she added huskily, moving seductively closer, "you'd prefer I was otherwise…"
Her offer would have tempted any man; years ago, Jack would have found it nigh irresistible. However, the man had fast learnt that Sierra's libido, like a good hat, was constant and eternal; knowing that she'd be quite willing to sate his appetite later, he sweetly rejected her.
"We have to talk about this, you know," Sierra huffed, clearly peeved. "Throughout our relationship, I've always been the one to initiate… well, anything: a gentle kiss; an affectionate cuddle; a night of deviant passion… When will you start anything? Frankly, I'm feeling undesirable, and if I feel undesirable, I'll very probably have an affair, because I'm extremely emotionally sensitive and ever so slightly needy."
"Yes, I know," Jack said, absently buttoning his breeches; after bathing him, both Beckham and his mistress had decided that there was really no point in dressing him again, since he'd probably end up naked anyway. "Fear not, my wanton wife, I'll be more than willing to bed you later, once I've finished with the tedious business of politics."
"But that's not the point, is it?" Sierra persisted, gripping his sleeve as he buttoned up the shirt. "Jack, I want you to just… Spontaneously take me whenever you feel like it. Like you used to," she sighed, clearly thinking of better days. "You used to make me feel like I was so beautiful that you just couldn't control yourself, and I miss that—Are you even listening to me?"
"Of course I am," Jack said, shrugging on his waistcoat and leaving it unbuttoned. "You're beautiful, you're irresistible, and you want nothing more than to be spontaneously taken. I'll bear that in mind."
"And you're not going to act on that?" she asked him in disbelief.
Nope," Jack said, not even sounding the least bit affected.
Sierra made that noise that only offended or infuriated females can make, and all but threw one of her bonnets at him. Jack deftly caught the hat, and smirked triumphantly at her as he casually threw it onto the mattress. "Now now, my darling, aren't you overreacting just a tad?"
Sierra scowled at having her words thrown back at her, and stubbornly crossed her arms over her bosom, turning away from the man in defiance.
"Quack," she said sullenly, clearly attempting to rile the man standing behind her. "You are a quack; I agree with the ducks on that." She paused, waiting for his reaction, but Lord Livingstone remained impervious. "The ducks were right, you know; you're nothing more than a—a charlatan! Albeit, a disgustingly charming charlatan, but a charlatan nonetheless, and—"
She squealed as Jack's arms came about her waist, pulling her close and lifting her a few inches off of the ground as he kissed her neck. "I love you too, sweetheart," he told her before carefully releasing her from his embrace.
"Quack," she insisted, not to be deterred by his charm. "I'm not going to be won over so easily; I refuse to forgive you, quack. Call me stubborn if you must. Oh, and also—quack!"
Jack grinned (although whether it was at his lascivious imaginings or his wife's insistent quacking is debatable) and whispered something into her ear that made his wife fight down a smile. "Well, perhaps that might just do it…" she allowed.
"Patience, darling," he told her. "Let me just go and write up that speech, eh?"
"How long are you going to be?" she whined.
"Quite a while, I fear. Your sophisticated and stimulating conversation has given me an idea for an act of my own, and as such, I must now draft an entirely different speech."
"I did?" she asked, feeling delighted at such an idea. "What is it? The abolition of the African slave trade? Reduced punishment for the 'crime' of sodomy? Votes for women?"
"Something infinitely better than your three rather outrageous suggestions," Jack confided.
"Well, what?" she half-laughed as he continued to caress her.
"Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" he teased, twisting her dark curls around his finger. "Don't fret, madam, all will be revealed in due time." And he drew away from her, moving towards the door and closing it behind him with a gentle click, leaving his wife standing in the middle of the darkened bedroom with her arms wrapped about herself and a silly smile on her face.
Lady Livingstone shook her head and let her arms fall to her side, attempting to shake off the effect her husband had on her. Self-consciously clearing her throat, she smoothed down her dark dress and marched purposefully to the window, drawing back the curtains and looking down into the bustling square of St James'. Nothing outside of the window was out of the ordinary; she saw maids scurrying about as they hurried to complete their various errands; she saw men and women of leisure being pulled through the square in their fine carriages, their footmen looking rather impressive in their uniform liveries, as was their wont; she even saw the shabbily-dressed country folk escorting their animals through the city, as they did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that…
Sierra smiled as she watched a boy chasing after a rebellious sheep that had broken away from the small flock his father shepherded, dodging pass the various coaches and carriages and the occasional cartload of animals…
Her blue eyes fell upon one cart in particular, carrying what looked to be a flock of squawking geese, and her smile faded, which wasn't surprising; after all, was the noble goose not, in some ways, indistinguishable from the common duck?
"Oh God…" she said, burying her face in her hands in something that was a cross between embarrassment and exasperation. And then:
"Jack!"
TBC