Author's Note: Apologies for the delay. I've pulled a few all-nighters and no one wants to see my writing after that. Please bear with me in the next few weeks as I finish up the semester.
Spotted: Mrs. Grimaldi enjoying the day on a ride through town in the company of Lord Beaton. By all accounts, our favorite widow should be thrilled by the attention. We all know Lady Rose is. But I'm starting to get the feeling that Mrs. Grimaldi would rather undertake the detestable activity of fishing than anything else with anyone other than a Bass.
Her nails dig into her palm through the fabric of her glove as heads turn as to stare, as eyes widen in recognition, as names are whispered and spread like a wildfire. Her attention is waning; her focus confined to thoughts of how she will manage to escape from her mother's horrible designs for her life. The carriage rounds the corner to turn down the road back to her home, and even at the slow speed she slides across the seat and bumps into the driver.
"My apologies, my Lord," Blair murmurs softly as she shifts back across the seat, back to her side of the imaginary line she has drawn between them. Lord Beaton says nothing in response. The only acknowledgement of her words is the tightening of the reins in his hands.
They have barely spoken throughout the entire ride other than a quick conversation about the weather that ended in agreement over the pleasantry of the day. Blair has no idea what to bring up as a conversational topic. The only idea that comes to mind is to ask after Lord Beaton's dogs, and she is not desperate enough to subject herself to that conversation for the remainder of their time together. And so she sits in silence, keeps her gaze forward and her back straight, and digs her nails into her palms tighter and tighter.
"Do you like children, Mrs. Grimaldi?"
Lord Beaton's question catches her unaware, and she pauses for a long moment as she tries to ascertain how to answer him. To admit that she is not a motherly person would set her at odds with the expectations of society for both her gender and a woman of her age. She should long for a family of her own, long for children to hold and love, and to confess otherwise would dash all hopes of her every marrying again. Not to say that would be a bad thing, but she feels uncomfortable confessing it all the same.
"Your mother said you are quite fond of your younger brother," Lord Beaton offers. "I believe he is only a year older than my youngest."
"Yes," Blair replies, allowing the single word to answer both of Lord Beaton's statements in the affirmative. The truth is that she is quite fond of Aaron. She enjoys playing with him and conversing with him in French, enjoys his inquisitive questions and the way he drives the household insane with his disappearing act. He soothes this ache she has, fills a void that she would otherwise spend hours alone dwelling upon.
"I have three daughters," Lord Beaton says as though the information is not already common knowledge. If he had a son, more than half of the matrons in society would cross him off their list of possible suitors for their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters. "Arabella is seven, Honoria is six, and Patience is three."
Blair manages to contain her unladylike snort of disapproval over Lord Beaton's youngest daughter's name. She will never understand the thought process behind naming your daughter after a virtue. After all, virtue falls and she has never met a woman in the genuine possession of even an ounce of patience.
"Do you see much of your daughters?" Blair asks. She cannot claim to be interested in this topic of conversation, but it is a substantial improvement over the silence and she manages to grit the question out between clinched teeth.
"Town is no place for young children," Lord Beaton replies with a hint of incredulity in his voice. Blair's features tighten in surprise, unsure if he is criticizing her question or her mother's decision to keep Aaron in town rather than banishing him off with governesses and nursemaids to see to his every need and whim. "My stepmother…Lady Catherine insists the girls stay on the country estate. She says life is easier when children are neither seen nor heard."
If Lord Beaton's voice had not compressed into sadness, Blair would not have been able to hold her rage inside her. Most of society would probably agree with Lady Catherine, and there was a time with Blair too would have insisted her mother follow Lord Beaton's advice. But not anymore, not after—
"Perhaps you can bring them to town for a brief stay," Blair offers. "There is much to see and do and excitement to be had even when children are about."
It is only after the words leave her mouth, only after she feels Lord Beaton staring at her and her eyes turn to meet his eager gaze that Blair begins kicking herself for the things she has said. She had not meant her words to be an invitation to anyone but Lord Beaton's daughters, and she certainly had not meant them an invitation for Lord Beaton to presume any kind of interest on her behalf in meeting them. She frowns, contemplates how to reject Lord Beaton's unspoken happiness when the carriage begins to slow, when the carriage stops in front of Rosewood.
Blair extracts herself from the carriage with the shortest of goodbyes and without an offer for Lord Beaton to join her for tea. If he is disappointed, he manages to mask it well as he offers her a terse bow of his head and sets off in the carriage again.
"Miss Blair!"
Her name is spoken in a hissed calling, spoken far above the whispered octave used by all the other servants to address her. She offers Dorota a glare of annoyance over her incessant impertinence and continues to climb the stairs as her lady's maid hurries to catch up with her.
"Miss Blair," Dorota repeats as she wrings her hands in worry. "Your mother said for you to come speak with her as soon as you return."
Blair glances at her clothing, glances up the stairs towards the room where she had planned to call for a hot bath to soak away the grit and grim of a ride in an open carriage. Where she had planned to change and then cloistered herself away with a book and her unrelenting thoughts until Bertram announced for dinner.
"She say now, Miss Blair. Not to worry about changing."
Blair surmises the later statement is likely the root of Dorota's worry because there has never been a day when Eleanor Waldorf-Rose was more concerned with speaking to her daughter than her daughter's appearance. She acquiesces to the maid's demands and allows Dorota to lead her to where her mother waits as she tries to squash her own worry, her own concern that the news about to be delivered to her is of the worse kind.
She sweeps into the parlor and her skirt rustles about her as she pauses just inside the room, pauses at the quaint and picturesque sight playing out in front of her. Eleanor and Cyrus are seated together on the same settee, side by side with Aaron contently and happily squished between them. The little boy is smiling as his mother rubs his back affectionately, laughing as his father reads him a story in an animated voice.
Blair blinks back her tears, blinks back her amazement because at no time in her life can she ever remember being the child lovingly squished between two parents, lovingly touched and tickled and read to by her mother and her father. It was always the later and never the former, never the two together.
"Bonjour Blair!"
Aaron's excited greeting snags the attention of his parents and causes them to offer their own salutations in greeting. Blair smiles as she responds to Aaron in French and turns her attention to her mother to ask why her attention was demanded so unceremoniously and forcefully.
"How was your ride with Lord Beaton?"
Blair hesitates as she searches for the right adjective to describe the event. Uncomfortable? Forced? Unnecessary? Unwanted? And then she settles for a simple "fine", which only causes the bright light in her mother's eyes to grow brighter in excitement and the sense of dread to grow in the pit of Blair's stomach.
Cyrus gestures for her to sit, offers to ring for more tea so she too may have some refreshments during his reading. Blair begs to be excused claiming to need a moment to change, claiming not to want to interrupt their moment as a family. The smile on Cyrus' face falters with her declaration and even Eleanor looks pained at the way Blair has delineated herself outside of the scene, but Blair pushes forward in her determination to escape and starts to extract herself from the situation.
Her movements are cut short by the presence of their butler, Bertram, in the doorway. The older man's loyalty to the Rose family is matched only by his deep and abiding affection for Aaron, and the youngest person in the room greets him with just as much excitement as he greeted his sister. The twitch of Bertram's lips deceives him through his stoic expression, through his monosyllabic announcement that a package was just delivered for Mrs. Grimaldi.
The package is offered to her on a silver tray, and Blair picks it up cautiously as curious eyes settle on the carefully wrapped packaged in her hand. She looks for a name or a note from the sender as she turns the package over in her hands, and she glances up to ask Bertram who delivered the gift when her mother interrupts to feed her own curiosity.
"Open it, Blair," Eleanor says as she shits her weight and leans forward in eager anticipation. "There will be a card inside."
Blair tears open the wrappings until her fingers touch the plush cover of a jeweler's case, until a foreboding suspicion settles over her. Dorota steps forward, offers to take the torn wrappings out of Blair's hands, and forces Blair to draw the black velvet case completely out of its wrappings.
She stares at the case, almost afraid to open it least her suspicion be correct. She steels herself, prepares her face to betray nothing to all those in the room watching her, and then opens the jeweler's case.
Instead, on a bed of bright pink, is nestled a silver necklace. The strand is interrupted in a pattern of diamonds leading to a heart nestled in the middle, to a cluster of diamonds cut very simply to showcase their beauty. Her fingers automatically reach out to touch them gems, to skirt along the appealing beauty laid out before her. And then when her fingers reach the center, when her fingers reach the heart, she drops her hand back to her side as if she has been burnt.
Her mother looks up from the packaged draped across her lap she had demanded from Dorota, abandons her search for a card to stare at her daughter.
"There is no card," Eleanor says in surprise. "Do you know who sent it?"
"We must send it back," Blair replies forcefully. She offers her mother no explanation, looks to her lady's maid to sweep in and save Blair from herself, save her from her wish to touch it, to run her fingers along the smooth strands.
Dorota registers the look immediately, moves forward to save Blair from herself, to save her from wish to feel it around her neck. The maid takes the velvet box in her hands but fails to hold back the sharp intake of her breath when her suspicions are confirmed at the sight of the necklace nestled amongst pink fabric.
"Dorota, please arrange to have it returned."
"But, Blair," Cyrus interrupts. "If there is no card, then we cannot be sure who sent it. Who do we return it to?"
"It's from Lord Beaton," Eleanor replies knowingly as she snatches the box out of Dorota's hands, as she opens the present to see the majestic piece inside. Her husband shifts for a closer look, and Eleanor moves it out of the way when tiny hands reach out to touch the shiny piece inside.
A smile crosses her face, but drops immediately when Blair shakes her head, takes back the present, and informs them all of the sender's identity. Only Cyrus seems happy at the confession, at Blair's demand that Bertram call for a carriage to take her to return the present.
"Is that the same man who played music for Blair?" Aaron questions as his sister sweeps out of the room, as Dorota and Bertram follow after her and leave Aaron alone with his parents once more. The little boy looks up from his mother to his father, and Eleanor's eyebrows rise in surprise at Aaron's question.
"That would be him," Cyrus replies with a smile. He picks up the abandoned book in his lap, ignores the way Eleanor looks at him with sharp eyes demanding answers, and begins to read after a few final words on the subject. "Your daughter is an intelligent woman, my dear. She knows what is best to be done about this."
Vanya calls after her, worries audibly that this intrusion will cost him his job as he trails behind the intruder. The lady's maid accompanying her glances over her should to look at him, shrugs at his concern that Vanya feels neither assured nor comforted. The intruder reaches her destination, acts as though she owns the place when she swings open the door so it violently hits the wall.
"You cannot send me this."
The icy tone of her voice causes Vanya to flinch, causes Vanya to stammer out an apology as his employer glances up from the papers spread across his desk to look at the source of the outburst. Her whole body strums in fiery anger, and the heat causes everything about her to glow. He moves to stand, pushes back his chair, and appraises her entire body with his eyes without reply, without a cursory greeting.
"Vanya, leave us," he instructs firmly. The butler stops speaking, backs out of the room without a second glance because he is used to such treatment. The lady's maid, however, is not, and her eyes widen in surprise and protestations begin forming on her lips when Blair echoes the same instruction for Dorota to follow.
"Go, Dorota."
The maid nods, beings to exit the room in the same fashion as the butler when she pauses at the door. Her hand curls about the knob, and her sharp eyes train on her employer as a presentiment rises to the forefront of her mind.
"God always watching, Miss Blair."
The door slams behind Dorota, punctuating her harsh rebuttal to what might occur out of her sight behind closed doors. Blair chooses to ignore her impertinence, reminds herself to deal with it later as her steely gaze settles on the remaining man in the room.
"Hello Miss Waldorf," he greets with a mockingly low bow, with unnecessary formality to remind her of her inappropriateness of her actions. She bristles at his words, narrows her eyes even further in question.
"I thought you were going to call me Mrs. Grimaldi," she replies. "Is that not what your note said?"
"Was there a note attached? I don't recall adding one."
"No, you cad. I'm speaking of your first note. The one you sent with the peonies."
"Ah," Chuck replies with an understanding nod. He moves around the desk, moves to stand between it and her. The close proximity should force her to move backwards, to move away from him, and yet she finds that she cannot move away from the thrill of excitement, from the flare of insidious attraction. "I've changed my mind. I find Grimaldi leaves a grotesque taste in my mouth."
"And I find Bass leaves a grotesque taste in mine, but we all have our crosses to bear."
"Now you and I both know that's not true."
The confident way he speaks, the lecherous undertone of his words firm her resolve to return the unwanted present and leave before anything else happens between them. Before she can lose herself in the depth of his eyes and melodic words once more.
"I've come to return this," she replies as she trusts the jeweler's case towards him. He makes no move to take it from her, makes no move to accept the reason for her interruption of his day. "You cannot send me this."
"There you go again equating cannot with should not," he says with a shake of his head, with a mocking tone. "Besides, this was a gift and someone once told me you cannot return gifts between friends."
"Is that what we are? Friends?" She questions. Yet she does not afford him the opportunity to answer because she does not want to hear his answer. But, more likely, because she does not know how she wants him to answer. "I've returned this before. And you didn't refuse to accept it then."
"Did you really think I'd send that back to you in France? Did you honestly believe I'd allow you to wear that to another man's bed?"
Any other woman's jaw would have dropped open in disbelief, but she finds that she has no idea how to respond. She had returned the necklace to him after accepting Louis' proposal, sent it back to him in Dorota's care before leaving for France because she could not stomach the idea of wearing the previously unworn present to her marriage bed.
The box slides out of her hands with a gentle tug from his. He sets it on the edge of his desk, lifts the necklace from the box, and moves to drape it across her chest and fasten it about her throat. She fights the thoughts of how well the gift feels about her throat, of how it makes her feel.
"Something this beautiful deserves to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty."
His words from her birthday nearly six years ago echo in her head so loudly she is unsure if he has said them again. The ultimate temptation to play his game once more calls out to her; supported by the brush of his fingers against the skin of her neck and his hot breath against her ear.
"What do you expect to gain by this?"
He pauses, but whether he is considering his answer or merely stretching her nerves tight, she cannot tell as she waits. Last time she had not asked him this question, had been far too busy dealing with the outcome of losing her position and losing herself to his caressing kisses to care. And now – older and wiser – the words tumble out of her mouth.
"I would expect to receive whatever response of thanks you would naturally give to one who had so indulged you."
Her eyes flash and her temper flares. With a swish of her skirts, she swings around to face him and lifts her chin.
"Thanks I would give to whoever had so indulged me?"
She seizes on the knowledge of what occurred the last time she was alone in this room with him, seizes on the idea that he expects her to allow him to unlace the bodice of her dress and play this game again. He smiles, bats away her anger as he closes the distance between them with his prowling gait. Halting before her, he raises one hand and tangles his long fingers in the strains below her throat.
"A kiss for each diamond seems apropos," he murmurs. His voice deepens to its most dangerous purr, its most dangerous calling. His fingers release the heart along the necklace, and she gasps at the heat of his hand held trapped in the charm when it falls to hit her exposed skin. "But I would much rather—"
One long finger remains hooked around the strand of the necklace, and he traces it back down to the heart resting against her skin. Her chest tightens and she drags in a shuddering breath as her eyes briefly close. He shifts closer, and she senses rather than sees or hears his movements, feels him like a flame on her skin. His intoxicating warmth, the murmuring of his deep voice in her ear, and the feeling of his fingers tightly touching her skin couple together and she tips her face towards his in a flagrant invitation.
When his lips do not close over hers, when he does not force her to surrender, she takes matters into her own hands. Reaching up, she slides her fingers into his hair and boldly kisses him. Her hands touch his cheeks, frame his face, and hold it steady as she presses a flagrantly passionate kiss on him. He remains surprised for a second, but only for that as closes his arms about her and draws her to him.
Desire swells, claws at them both like some ravenous beast, and he fights against the desire to push her back onto the desk, to have all that he wants now. He has waited so long, and playing this game is killing him, driving him slowly, steadily mad. If he doesn't have her soon—
He pushes her away, leaves her stunned for a moment until embarrassment over her actions creep over her. He reaches out to touch her, and she shifts away from him as the heat of shame burns from her cheeks to her stomach.
"I told you I don't want kisses," he replies. "I would much rather you wear that the next time you decided to take a drive with Lord Beaton."
"What?" She stammers and stutters as confusion floods her. "Why?"
"Because that way you'll remember this," he replies. And then he presses his lips against hers once more; kisses her again so deeply she cannot think, cannot plan and can do nothing but open her mouth to him and allow a shivering sigh to escape. His lips leave hers to travel over her jaw, over the sensitive skin of her throat to that spot at its base where pulse races against a diamond of the necklace strung about her neck.
"Because that way you'll know that at the end of every ride, every dalliance you decide to participate in, you will always end up back here wearing nothing but this."