Bonjour mes amis! I am up in Quebec for the week, so the next installment may be a little late in coming out, but it is almost done and the wait shouldn't be too long. I hope your summers are shaping up to be all full of adventure as mine is! (Or, for the no-longer-enjoying generous student holidays, shaping up to be relaxed enough for some good vacations!)

Wanted to express my thanks again for the reviews, many of whom wrote in again, which I know I often try and fail to do for multi-chapter fics. I really appreciate the feedback. Also wanted to warn that things remain a bit grisly, and this story has the rating I assigned it for a reason.

Angelus looked at his sleeves in disgust. Sometimes in the pursuit of his goal, he allowed his usual fastidious dress to be ruined, and now was one such unfortunate occasion. He was supposed to be attending the opera in less than an hour, but it was unlikely he would make it now. He had told Darla he would meet her close to the opera house, but stained with blood as he was, his entrance to that particular pillar of high society was likely to cause a bit more trouble than even he was capable, or interested, in dealing with.

Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret the cause of the mess. Angelus could not abide cheating, unless he happened to be the one indulging. Hypocrisy was the prerogative of the most powerful man at the table, and the petty sorcerer who had joined the underground gambling parlor he preferred to frequent had severely underestimated his opponents' aptitudes. Though he preferred his particular combination of mind games and precise violence to work his will, Angelus had studied magicks for a few decades, and was a fairly proficient practitioner. Anyone with enough patience and will could learn, after all, and though his patience was certainly no better than average, his strength of will was.

The man, fool enough to try using easily countered luck charms so ineffectual that mere superstitions were enough to break them, had so irritated the other players (none of who would have been so crass as to cheat so pathetically in front of those they, at least, afforded some modicum of respect) that they had left the man to Angelus with no more protest than a bit of token grumbling. He had been in a bit of a hurry, and hadn't really been able to indulge his inner artist. Still, some skills required practice, and skinning a man alive was one of those. The trick was to ensure your victim didn't go into shock. He had done a decent job on the young man, but hadn't managed to keep him alive quite as long as he would have liked.

Absently, he licked his hands clean. Magicks added a nice depth to blood, even those of a man who tasted otherwise ordinary. The taste was whetting his appetite. Perhaps, he decided, he'd be so inconsiderate of Darla as to let her find her own way home with nary a message. That was a hint even she couldn't miss.

He was still hungry, and he was beginning to desire another kill. There was a brothel a few miles away, hidden in plain sight in a deceptively ordinary neighborhood that was near to both the slums on one end and elegant ton houses on the other, which catered to those with…proclivities. Some of their clientele were human, and some were not, but with enough money, there was nothing one couldn't procure. London was full of desperate souls, and some of those were pretty girls… and some were members of their families desperate enough to sacrifice them.

He'd like a blonde, Angelus decided. A young pretty thing, perhaps a virgin, though that would cost. He was still in two minds about whether he'd want to kill her or not. Sometimes, it was best to leave these things to chance. His moods were changeable.

Hailing a coach, he settled in for the brief ride, feeling his trousers begin to grow tight as he contemplated the possibilities. Perhaps he'd leave it up to the girl; base her survival on her performance. It had been a long time since he'd had a human woman who was intellectually aware of just what he was capable of. And terror did make the blood so delicious.

In the end, the woman proved to be a little disappointing, but she had still been delicious in death. The bordello had lost a beauty, but Angelus had lost a considerable amount of money, so all in all, two out of the three parties involved were satisfied. And for all he knew, the girl was happier dead than alive. Shoving any musings on the existence and nature of the afterlife out of his mind, Angelus began to whistle a cheerful drinking tune as he sauntered closer to his current residence.

Unfortunately, as he approached the house, his good humor and gluttonous satisfaction began to vanish as he saw Darla waiting for him by the window, clearly enraged. He was in no mood for a confrontation with her, but if forced, he supposed he could be bothered to shatter some of her bones or something. Tension coiled in his body like hangmen's knots.

As it happened, he needn't have bothered, for as soon as he approached the door she swept out with a vicious snarl. Clearly, he smirked, she hadn't wanted to try her strength against his. Wise on her part, clever as she rarely was these days. Lately he had begun to think she had gone bad like a bottle of wine.

Climbing the stairs, he decided to ignore William and Drusilla for the time being. If they couldn't look after themselves without his attention for a few days they really didn't deserve to exist. Drusilla did need more attention than he usually bothered with, but that was part of the reason he had allowed her to make William. It was also the reason William still lived, despite occasionally being annoying enough that Angelus would have put nearly anyone else in his place to death. As he entered his room, his good mood evaporated immediately. His sketchbook was left on the table, pages torn and slashed at; clearly, Darla wasn't was enamored with Buffy's fetching face and figure sketched out in charcoal as he was.

Angelus glowered at Darla's retreating figure. Once he had feared and worshipped her in equal measures. Fledglings were so often their sires' creatures, and despite all his brash arrogance, Darla had been strong enough in those days to bring him to heel. She had thrashed him and dominated him, but with his easy charm and innate strength, it hadn't taken more than a few decades for their relationship to become one where they were ostensibly equals. Granted, she had over a century on him, but he had quickly gained strength, and a formidable reputation. That in and of itself wasn't particularly remarkable, but Angelus had never been about brute force and carnage, though admittedly those held their charms. No, it was his cruelty, his viciousness, and his boldness that had eventually earned him that charming epithet: the Scourge of Europe.

Darla had delighted in him, in his viciousness, in his beauty, and in his skill in bed, or wherever else they cared to mate. A professional whore before she had been turned, she had taught him well, and despite her own habit of occasionally taking lovers, had seemed to resent the other women he dallied with. At least, those who he hadn't killed. And there had been a few vampires and demonesses who she had killed in fits of jealously. Angelus used to find it amusing. Now he found it irritating.

They days when he had defied the Master and tempted Darla away with him, when he had taken her on the altar of a church while an insane, human Drusilla watched in horror, when they had merrily murdered together were over. She had left him to die at the hands of Holtz, and he had not forgotten it.

Perhaps their time together was coming to an end. The only question in Angelus' mind was whether Darla would survive it. If she was willing to part ways peacefully, he'd leave her be. But he was stronger than she was now, and had always been the better fighter. He had killed two Slayers in the centuries since she had turned him, and their strength had augmented his own to the point where his power surpassed hers. It was possible she would attack him in a fit of jealousy. It was possible she would interfere with his plans…and he was only beginning to get a sense of how delightful the fruit of those half-formed plans might be.

He allowed a smirk to lighten his hard features.

Darla, for her part, was ignoring him in a fit of pique. Since that suited his plans just fine, he let it slide. Despite the fact that each day he grew more determined to be rid of her, there was something beautiful in the reversal of their situations. She was making a fool of herself over him, and he had all the power. It was lovely. Still, not as lovely as the other pretty blonde in his life.

Meeting her had gone well enough. He knew not when another opportunity to socialize and seduce her would present itself, and resolved to make an opportunity if one didn't present itself soon. He didn't want to get too impatient. The longer he prolonged this, the greater the pleasure would be.

Pouring himself a glass of whisky from the decanter, he silently toasted Buffy. To her health, may it last just long enough. And to her beauty, may it last longer, he thought.

"Miss Summers?"

Buffy turned to face the butler, Davies, from where she was attempting to use his absence to stare at the ceiling in the entrance at Giles' house. It was painted with an exquisite and vaguely scandalous bacchanalian scene that she had never had the opportunity to admire properly, and upon arriving home and finding the foyer empty she had glanced around guiltily, before seizing the moment.

"Hello Davies," she replied, determined to brazen her way through the interaction, acting as though just a moment before she had not been contemplating the veracity of the proportions of certain pieces of male anatomy, weighing artistic intent against gossip from married friends.

"Forgive me for not being present, miss," the blank faced man replied professionally, "But something arrived for you earlier, and I was just arranging to move it elsewhere."

Well, that certainly pricked Buffy's curiosity.

She had spent the morning with her old family friend, William Fordham. They had met for a stroll in Hyde Park and Buffy, happy to see her friend after expecting he would remain in The United States, had lingered longer than she usually did. Still, she was seeing Cordelia for tea, with Willow Rosenburg reluctantly invited along in a surprising twist, and had begged off to give herself enough time to dress for tea and tidy her appearance.

Now that she was back at Giles' house, though, she had to admit she was curious about what had arrived and why Davies had seen fit to move it.

"What was it, Davies?" she asked taking a light step forward. The butler's brow creased.

"There was a delivery of flowers for you Miss, from a Mister Angelus." Davies expression was not quite was impassive as usual, and Buffy gave a silent sigh for the interrogation she was no doubt going to receive from Giles when they had dinner in the evening.

Still, she was both shocked, thrilled, and a little put-off. She had only spoke briefly with Mr. Angelus after all, and though she was hardly modest enough to deny that his regard for her had been clear, the brevity of their contact usually dictated that he wait until they knew each other better before he make such a bold gesture. Then again, he hadn't struck her as the sort of man who was overly concerned about society's mores.

"Where are they?" she asked, deciding to reserve further judgment until she had the opportunity to see what she had been gifted with.

"They're in the parlor, Miss," Davies replied.

Giving the butler a brief nod, she made her way there, taking care not to appear too eager. As she stepped into the parlor she stopped, shocked. Buffy had imagined he might have sent her a small bouquet, perhaps in a vase. Liam Angelus had sent what appeared to be hundreds of exquisite roses, in full, gaudy bloom. He was clearly fairly flush in the pockets. Their scent was almost overwhelming. Buffy covered her mouth with her hand, where it hung open unattractively.

Still, she was too shocked to care.

"Oh boy," she whispered. Attached to the largest vase, made of rich, cut crystal, was a small, creamy envelope. She slowly crossed the room to open it, reaching for the heavy cream paper and finding it sealed in a pool of red wax embossed with an A.

She pushed at the seal with trembling fingers until it gave way and slowly brought out the letter- if it could even be called that. It was a small envelope and the message inside was on a small piece of paper.

"Dear Miss Summers," it read.

"I hope you do not find me too bold for writing to you, but I feel that my honesty will not go unappreciated regardless of your response.

Let me speak plainly then. It was a pleasure to meet you last Friday and I must confess that though our acquaintance is brief, I hold you in very high regard indeed. Though it would be false to say that scarcely a moment has gone by in which I have not thought of you, it would also to be false to say I have thought of you only in passing. I hope that our paths cross again, and that when they do, you will permit me a dance and the pleasure of your company. In the meantime, please enjoy this token of my appreciation.

Yours with much esteem,

L. Angelus"

Buffy rapidly reread the letter, if it could even be called that. It was short and brief. It was bold and thrilling and terrifying. Taking in the roses, their rich scent, their vibrant color, she tried to collect herself. This was, well, this was significant. This was totally out of the ordinary. This was not a normal or conventional response, and was, in fact, the most unconventional behavior she had heard of. The strange thing was that it was not precisely, inappropriate, but was unusual enough that it was making her heart beat rapidly and wonder what her friends would say.

"They arrived while you were out," Davies said unnecessarily, and Buffy jumped a little to hear his voice intrude on her thoughts.

What must he think? What would Giles think? Would he assume she had somehow led this man to believe she was seriously considering him in court? But that was absurd. They had only just met, she was in mourning, and Angelus' note was entirely within the bounds of propriety. Indeed, the note itself was only slightly remarkable in its boldness. Many young men cultivated the attitude of boldness. It was fashionable, even, and so Angelus' words did not even so much as hint at any inappropriateness.

It was the roses, really. Not only were they expensive, both for their quantity and quality, but the sheer size of the gift could not have been easy to arrange. Any man might have sent her an expensive piece of art or jewelry, but those would have been unseemly, and flowers were normally an acceptable expense and an acceptable token. They would wilt in a few days anyway.

What was he thinking?, she wondered. She supposed the letter could simply contain the whole of his interest, but surely there was more to it than that. People so rarely expressed the full truth of their feelings, and Angelus hadn't struck her as the simple sort anyway. What did he want?

It was fairly common knowledge that Buffy was going to make a debut this season in London, but her parents' death had guaranteed that was not to be the case. She was in mourning for them, and with their death, the main persons advocating for a marriage were dead. Being isolated from the rest of her family in a city that was not her home meant neither of her Aunts could take her in. Besides, her aunt Elizabeth, for whom she had been named, would never leave the grave of her daughter Celia, and Buffy could hardly go live with her. Her aunt Mary lived in a very remote area, and barely kept in touch with Hank. Her husband was a Texan rancher who had an aversion to travel, and Buffy was of an age where her desire to never set foot in Texas enabled her to escape that particular fate.

Thus, the majority of the responsibility for her marriage rested with Giles, who had quickly assured her he was in no hurry to see her wedded and added that she should certainly not make a debu,t but take all the necessary time to mourn the loss of her parents. Recently, he had commented on her burgeoning interest in his library and talked about engaging tutors for her, an offer Buffy had done her best to politely decline. His views on women's rights were unusually progressive, and as this was reasonably well known, Buffy counted it as another mark against her current attractiveness to anyone seeking a bride.

As for anyone seeking anything less…honorable, Buffy felt she shouldn't be considered an easy target, and did her best to banish the thought from her mind. She was in mourning and would certainly not be considered among the debutantes on the marriage mart. True, she had a fairly substantial inheritance, but it was not as large as those belonging to a number of young women of her acquaintance. Were Angelus a fortune hunter (and wasn't that an unpleasant thought?) then surely he had better targets.

Still, it was a possibility Buffy forced herself to consider. Perhaps she had been too obviously taken with him. Next time she encountered him, she ought to take care to be colder. That would help determine his motivations. At the very least, it would bring her some peace of mind.

Feeling marginally more self-assured, she began preparations to visit Cordelia for tea. Buffy was distracted as her maid assisted her as she changed dresses (it would never do to be seen in anything remotely unfashionable when visiting Cordelia) and she was distracted as she got in the carriage. Her carriage stopped to pick up Willow, as the two had decided to arrive to attend the tea together, aware that Willow likely owed Buffy her invitation.

The first thing Buffy noticed upon entering Cordelia's parlor was that her host was not looking her usual glamorous self. Buffy was secure enough to admit the other girl was gorgeous, considered one of society's beauties, and insecure enough that she worried that her friend was better looking than she was. With Buffy in mourning, Cordelia had reveled in her status as the most desirable girl of the season…though that status was by her own estimation. There were a few English girls who were close enough to her in looks, wealth, and status, that Cordelia was not as universally appealing as her behavior implied.

So it was strange that Cordelia, whose devotion to her looks bordered on the fanatical, should be wearing a yellow dress which washed her out. It was odd that her hair was done simply, and that her face was free of cosmetics. Outside it was raining again but the air remained hot and sticky. Even in her own light dress, Buffy felt weighed down. Perhaps Cordelia was also affected by the weather.

"Buffy. Willow," she said, waving them to sit down, not bothering with the usual formalities. Her maid looked at the trio of ladies in astonishment. Only Willow looked embarrassed.

It was a strange group they made, particularly with Cordelia seemingly subdued. Willow didn't seem to know how to respond to this strangely soft version of a normally fearsome foe, and Buffy was equally baffled. Cordy was blunt and a bit rude, but seemed strangely quiet and interested in what Willow had to say.

Buffy was dying to as what was going on but felt asking in front of Willow would be unwise. As they finished tea, Willow conveniently excused herself to use the facilities, and Buffy had her opportunity. As the maid led Willow out, she leaned forward hesitantly, her hand coming to rest on the other girl's.

"Cordy," she began "what's happened? You hardly seem yourself today."

The other girl frowned briefly and glanced at the door, making sure they were alone. Then she fixed Buffy with eyes filled with a mix of unhappiness and hope.

"I think," she hesitated, "I might possibly be in love. With Alexander Harris."

Buffy's mouth formed a perfect 'o'.

Later, in the carriage ride back, Buffy was so consumed by her thoughts she hardly noticed that Willow was almost equally distracted. The girl was practically vibrating with nervous excitement. It wasn't until they reached Willow's manse that the other girl pulled something out of her skirts and Buffy realized what had happened.

The Chase's library, Willow explained to Buffy, had been temptingly located on the way back from where she had been refreshing herself. She hadn't been able to resist a brief look. And apparently Roderick Chase, Cordelia's father, had a taste for exotic books. One such book appeared to contain some powerful spells. Willow had stolen it.

Buffy trailed her fingers over the drawings sketched on the thick, smooth paper. Willow entered the room and she snatched them back, as though burned. Her cheeks were pink, but Willow didn't seem to notice, as she brandished a bottle of wine and a single glass, her gaze determined.

Buffy had to stop herself from laughing hysterically. What a picture they must have made. Staid, sensible Willow with her hair falling down, proposing to get drunk while she and her well-bred American friend giggled over pornographic drawings in her pilfered prize. It was madness.

"Well?" Willow asked, moving closer. Buffy moved over on the bed to make room for her. The curtains were drawn and the gaslight that illuminated the walls cast strange shadows over the room. She was feeling fanciful that night, no doubt, but there was something inviting and sinister in the patterns made by Willow's finely carved furniture, with their curling decorative edges. Buffy hadn't the words to describe the pictures in the book, and blushingly pushed it over. The 'oh' of surprise Willow made was enough to send her into laughter, and she gave into it, collapsing on the bed and covering her mouth with her hands.

Willow quickly flipped through the book, barely pausing even on the most shocking pages. There were more than lewd acts contained in the book. There were pictures of fantastical demons that Buffy couldn't imagine actually existed, even if magic did, and there were complicated diagrams, and horrible sounding recipes for potions. Buffy stuck her hand in the book to pause Willow's movements and their eyes met.

"Maybe we shouldn't" Willow said, suddenly guilty. But her eyes were still bright, and Buffy could tell she didn't mean it.

"This was your idea," she replied in a whisper, careful to keep any note of accusation out of her voice. She had already spoken her piece after they returned to Willow's after they had left Cordelia's home the day before; Buffy wasn't happy about Willow thieving from her friend. Willow had a ruthless streak that surprised her. But once they has discovered the contents of the book, they could hardly let it go.

Buffy was resolved to return it once they learned all that the book contained, carefully ignoring her own hypocrisy. One became good at that sort of thing in the ton.

They paged through the book eagerly, careful not to dwell too long on the dirty drawings, despite their secret interest in the contents. They had heard stories of course, passed down from older, married friends and relatives. It was heresy, true, and most had insisted that the act brought no pleasure for women. But the book made mention of shocking acts and insisted that it was not only possible, but necessary for a woman to feel ecstasy for a number of powerful creative spells to work.

Other pages though, promised power. There were spells that they supposed must be beyond them now, but they read of summoning great fires and bending another's will with wide eyes and uneasy consciences.

"We wouldn't actually harm anyone, of course," Buffy insisted casually. Willow nodded vigorously in reply.

"Of course not," she said, relaxing slightly. "Of course not."

A while later, Willow posed the question they both had surely been thinking.

"Do you think it's possible," she began, "to do some of those things with another?"

Buffy held off a blush by sheer force of will. She never pretended to be worldly, exactly, but liked to insinuate that she knew more than she did. Innocence was fetching, but she hated not being taken seriously, and it wasn't as though she behaved as a harlot by any means…but sometimes she acted like she knew what a harlot actually did.

"I suppose," she replied, feeling uncomfortable. Logically, she knew the lower classes talked about this sort of thing all the time. And there were plenty of girls her age married and with children among them, and plenty who weren't married, but forced to work as Haymarket ware.

Buffy had never been particularly attracted to anyone to a degree where she had ever pondered the possibility of becoming…intimate with them. She had favored one or two suitors with more flirtatious attitudes of course, and had twice kissed Owan Thurman, a handsome boy who had been among her coterie of friends and acquaintances in New York. She was no stranger to desire, and knew the mechanics of how children were produced, but had never considered anything like this.

Willow had likely been raised the same way, a stranger to any substantial knowledge about intimate relations between the sexes. To have such awareness thrust upon them so suddenly… Buffy fancied such acts were both more terrifying than before but also, well, also more appealing.

A knowing face swam up into her consciousness and instead of banishing, she dwelled on the fantasy momentarily and wondered what it might be like to kiss him….and what it might be like to lie down with him.

She felt her face growing flushed and resolved to focus on their ostensible purpose.

"Should we choose a spell," she asked. Did her voice sound throatier than usual?

"Yes," Willow replied, flipping quickly to a page near the beginning of the text. There lay a small paragraph that detailed instructions for a small curse. Buffy looked at her in surprise.

"It's only sleep," Willow hastened to assure her. "And it's easily broken."

Buffy examined the passage for herself. The spell required lavender, which could be easily and innocently acquired, sand, which was much the same, and an eyelash from the…was it terrible that her mind could only supply the word 'victim'? The spell could be broken with the fang of a prialis asp ground and sprinkled over the sleeper. That would be much harder to obtain, to say the least.

"Where are we going to get an asp fang?" Buffy demanded.

Willow frowned, but did not object, and merely turned the page to another spell.

It was late when Buffy returned to her home the next evening. She and Willow had found and transcribed two spells that appeared promising during the night, and the girls had woken some time after noon. Rising late meant the servants were expressing their displeasure in small ways, and everything took longer than it should have. After the late luncheon, Buffy had returned home, but her carriage had thrown a wheel and by the time she had arrived back at Giles' townhouse she was exhausted again. She had nearly fallen asleep during her informal dinner with Giles, who had been all kinds of apprehensive, and she worried she hadn't done a good job allaying his suspicions.

The maid left her alone with her gas lamp on, and Buffy looked at her bed with longing. Soon.

First she wanted to try another spell. This one, she hadn't mentioned to Willow, not wanting to explain her concerns, or rouse her friend's temper. This concerned Cordelia. And Alexander. Cordy and Xander. What a nonsensical idea it seemed, and yet she was meeting with her haughty friend tomorrow afternoon to discuss her…love? And she wanted to be prepared.

Glancing guiltily around, she removed the spellbook from under her bed, and found the page she needed. Drawing a piece of chalk out of her reticule, she began carefully copying the symbols she would need onto the floor. Once the design was finished the sat down in the center, legs askew, book balanced on her lap, and she began to read.

As she softly intoned the Latinesque words, she felt a cool breeze stir around her. The air felt like frost, and it became hard to focus as she finished the spell. When the last word was spoken she shuddered. Something had definitely happened. Shaking her head, she stood carefully. As she tidied her room she noticed the curtains had been blown open. As she went to close them, something caught her eye.

Across the street, a figure was watching her from the balcony. She froze, and her heart beat a staccato. Had they seen her? She closed the curtains with trembling hands and focused on washing away the chalk with a damp facecloth.

She crawled into bed and tugged the covers up to her chin, trying to steady her breath. If the person had seen her, what would they do? Would they know what she was doing? Would they tell Giles? Buffy shuddered. What had seemed a great adventure no longer looked so appealing. But what could she do?

It took her a long time to fall asleep that night.