BARON OF BONES / AUGUST RYDER ⊱ @battleworn
Most days he feels like a stranger in this world, navigating the halls of London’s elite by the skin of his teeth. He does not want for this society in particular, these people and their ideals, the rounded upturn of their noses. He wants for their money and success, yes, but neither of those so much as he dreams of their power. The casual way they sip their punch, unburdened shoulders shaking as they laugh because they fear nothing, and no one. He has not slept through the night in twenty-eight years and he wonders if the Prince Regent is just as haunted by nightmares as he is, or if he knows what the meaning of fear is.
He lets himself wonder, for a moment, if Lady Carlisle knows of such things. He looks at her curiously, trying to see past the marble of her bones to the depth of her. He wants to read between the lines of her skin, understand what it is that causes her to wrap her hand around her wrist, as if she would float away like a ghost if she was not held firmly in place. He wonders if her mouth tastes like blood from biting her tongue, the metallic of things left unsaid. He wants her to say them to him, wants her to crack open her ribs and let him understand what it means when her heart beats in staccato.
You do not know of the things I would do in your honor, he thinks, eyes darkening. “Luck has very little place in my life,” he admits, though one could interpret his meaning a variety of ways and still end up correct. Neither luck nor any God can take credit for his lot in life, for the way he raged and fought to be where he is. It was sleepless nights, hours spent studying and leaning, days spent planning and plotting, needling his way into the right rooms at the right times. It was as much luck as it was murder, which is to say it was neither of those things.
“Though I believe that you should thank me for saving you from Ludlow,” he adds, smirking as he follows her lead as she falls into position flawlessly. She leaves a fire where her ice cold hand rests against his bicep. He is generally skilled at dancing out of nothing more than necessity, memorizing the moves as he would memorize an algebraic equation or legislation. As the music plays he moves automatically, stiff backed as he pulls and pushes, spinning her in time. There is nothing but them, but her, the rest of the ton fading into a blur of color and noise.
Given his refusal to a-lot a place for luck in his life, he thinks it divine intervention that the dance is a waltz, a scandal waiting if there ever was one. He wishes for a moment that he’d planned this, but maybe it is more fate than it is fortune. They are face to face, so close that he thinks he can feel her breath warm against his skin.
“No?” There was a witty retort building in her throat about the nature of luck and how she expected it to have more value to him, but it dies on her tongue as his hand rests against her waist, his fingers flexing into her side once before resting against the white silk of her gown. In that moment, it is all she can do is look at him, their gloved hands still joined, as the music begins. You should thank me. To her eternal shame and horror, she almost does; she licks her lips, they part, all in preparation of speaking, and it’s not until he leads them into the first box step that she manages to shut her mouth, the motion so quick that her teeth snap together. Like a wolf’s jaw, closing around the throat of its prey –– except she has never been the wolf in this game between the two of them. Wolf and lamb. Cat and mouse. Fox and hare. He is the predator chasing his prey through salon after salon, ballroom after ballroom, always letting her remain a step ahead, just barely out of reach.
He could catch her, if he wanted. It would be so easy to manufacture a false scandal in this society of hers. Sometimes she found herself wondering why he hadn’t yet tried that, or tried to force her hand by speaking to her father, except..but no, that was ridiculous.
She could not think about him with kindness, or with sympathy, or with empathy and understanding. He was the starving wolf, the too clever fox, the dark shape lurking just beyond her line of sight, waiting for her to stumble so that he could pounce. He was not a man to be understood, or to be fond of. If she fell into that line of thinking, it would be too late for her. He would have already won. And, dramatic though the thought may be, Séraphine had sworn to herself that she would rather die than let him win.
His steps are flawless, she has to give him that. A little stiff, at times, the movements rote and perfunctory, with none of the grace that she herself possesses, but...he’s not a bad dance partner. Not even close. And dancing has always been one of the only things that has given her joy in her life; it’s too easy for her to get caught up in the steps, the spins, the way his body presses against hers as he steps forwards and she steps back. She can feel the heat of his chest, and she understands that she’s meant to speak –– after all, she still hasn’t responded to his earlier statements –– but she can’t seem to summon enough air to do so. Something about the nearness of him, the scent of his cologne and his skin, the heat of his body, the way his dark eyes bore into hers, the strength of his arms as he twirls her away and then back to press against him –– it’s too much.
“You’ve gotten better at this,” Séra finally says, if for no other reason than simply to break the tension, the heated silence between them. “I’m almost impressed...though, your footfalls are still far too heavy, my lord.” She spins, falls back into step. “But I suppose it’s more than can be expected for someone of your...” she pauses, “birth.” It’s a petty, ill placed shot, but it’s the best she can do for the moment, and she curses herself as soon as the words leave her lips. If he catches on to how flustered his nearness is making her, she’ll never regain the upper hand tonight.
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