Another warm-up oneshot. As you may be able to guess, I am historical AU trash. For all those asking for more 9 Crimes, I have to not-all-that-regretfully tell you it is not going to be completed. The writing is just not my style anymore and I have loads more projects I am far more interested in.
Ironically, he does end up falling in love with her and this time it is he who suffers agony for it. And because he loves her, he is glad that it is so. He would not see her harmed to save the world.
She is a beautiful girl, everyone says so, and her golden hair draws the eye. It is no wonder he spoke to her nearly as soon as he saw her at the ostentatious ballroom of some rich lord or other. It amuses him to learn that she is an American, come over from Los Angeles, where her father is some sort of railway titan. It amuses him less to learn she is married.
One of those, he thinks cynically, and truely, plenty of blue blooded English ponces have swallowed their pride and married the nouveau riche in order to keep their estates afloat. Dukes marry Vanderbilts these days, and there are plenty of society mamas who are all to eager to sell their daughters for a title and some hint of old world respectability.
He introduces himself to her anyway, curious at least to know who she is, what name he ought to put with the pretty face, one among hundreds of pretty faces. Her hand, in his, is small. Her gloves are clearly tailored to her liking. Her movements are elegant.
Elizabeth Pratt gives him a smile that is polite, but warm. She is gracious, she is green, and she seems too young and innocent to be at ease among London society. He seriously worries about her for a moment of brief spring madness, imagining some bud pushing through soft earth, and then retreating. He reminds himself that he is here to shake hands with investors, to help keep his family's business afloat, and after muttering a few polite inanities, he beats a hasty retreat.
He goes to bed with Darla that night. Her husband is away again, called back to the capital for some diplomatic matter or other. Her body, when he catches his breath, strikes him as as artificially lush. Funny that, since nudity means the corsets and padding that women shape themselves with are little good here. He wonders what the charming Elizabeth looks like in dishabille.
"Are you alright, darling?" she asks him, trailing a hand down his chest. He catches her wrist, smiles at her, and kisses her palm, his chapped lips scraping against the slightly rough skin.
"Yes," he replies. And after a moment, knowing that won't satisfy her, he adds: "Just thinking about tomorrow."
"Hmm," she replies, smiling coyly at him. "What in particular?" He rolls his eyes.
"Work to do," he grunts, and then hauls her giggling form closer.
William Pratt is a gentleman and poet. He is not particularly good at being either. His manners are good, and his education certainly not lacking, but he cannot ride well, dislikes hunting, politics, and most of his peers, though he does a decent job hiding that bit. Liam cannot be certain if he loves his wife, but he certainly treats her with respect, even affection in public. It is almost painful to watch. The man embarrasses himself, Liam thinks, with the fawning, the over-obsequiousness, the desperation he wears so clearly on his face.
Elizabeth is too vivacious to be with such a man. She enjoys riding, and is surprisingly adept for an American, and though she faces snobbery from some of the ton, she wears her dignity well. She laughs at her detractors. She is kind to servants and animals, flighty, quick-witted, fashionable, and has a ruthless streak that Liam observes approvingly.
Some distant cousin of her husband follows her out to a balcony, and puts a hand on her shoulder one night. Liam fairly burns with anger, but before he can cross the ballroom and follow she deftly steps aside, seizes his wrist, and leans in. Whatever she says to him must be effective because when she releases his wrist the man beats a hasty retreat back into the midst of the crowd. At the last possible moment she turns and sees him, and while her eyes flare momentarily she only looks at him wryly for a moment before turning on her heel and leaving the balcony. He knows better than to follow (not yet, not truely) but it doesn't stop him from tracking her with his eyes all the same. He idly imagines a world where she would wait for him. By the time it comes, it is not nearly so agreeable to either of them.