'Did you not think it would mortify me, my lord?'
The duke tilted his head as if pondering a particularly difficult puzzle. 'Why should I? Was it not you who told me you wished to dance at one of these ridiculous balls?'
'Yes, but...' she flushed. 'I did not think you would insist we dance three times. Now every tongue in the ton is wagging. People stare at me everywhere I go, calling me a hussy, a- a-'
The duke scoffed. 'And why should they call you such a thing for the mere crime of dancing?'
Feyre could feel herself turning redder. 'Because of you. Because they think I've-I've bewitched you or some such to have you act in such a way. You never dance with anyone.'
His eyes darkened. 'I have never wanted to, until now.'
Lucien experiences a morning in the life of Elain Archeron, the ton's new curiousity. Feyre pays a visit to the Viscount's manor and the town of Velaris, seeing an unfamiliar new side to him.
Thank you @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta read!
I've been sitting on this too long, time to throw it out of the nest. Eluciens I am figuring them out - I hope I am doing them some justice!
Read on AO3 and find a snippet behind the cut.
Although Elain missed the countryside; the slower pace, the gentler summers, and the vibrant colors of her wildflower gardens, there were certainly plenty of appealing things about city life.
Like the fine tea and decadent sweets, or the heaping platters at breakfast each morning she didnât have to lift a finger to make. The vibrant hum of the London streets, even in Mayfair. Early morning sounds of carriages and mail and calling families and friends.
Like the lovely, bright sunlight streaming through the windows of the eastern sitting room, shimmering on red hair.
Lucien - Mr. Vanserra - had arrived just after breakfast. Filling up their doorway with a gentle smirk and an arm full of flowers.
Elain had been the first awake and ready to receive visitors, Feyre sleeping late and Nesta distracted in her room. Probably by a book if the tea tray sent to her door was any indication. Aunt Ripleighâs social life was bustling and demanding, and she was out on womenâs league business before breakfast. Their father took to dozing in the warmer rooms before his daughters took him for his afternoon walk.
It was fine - she thought. Completely fine. Lucien was their friend, all of them, and she had known him for years. He had been so gracious and accommodating as they prepared to come to the city.
Strange, that she didnât remember that mane of red hair to shine so brightly in the countryside. Elain sipped her tea as she watched the sunlight change its color: orange and scarlet and ruby. Maybe he blended too well into the forests and fields - falling leaves, dancing waves of sorghum grass. Somehow he shined so much brighter here in the ballrooms and dining halls, everything around him dull and drab in comparison, as if all the vibrancy from the room clung to his bright spark.
It was a good thing, a comfort. That she had a familiar face to find amidst the intimidating crowds.
Elain had ignored the odd jolt in her stomach, the prickling goosebumps on her skin as he had handed her the bouquet with a soft smile and the sweep of his hat.
Lucien was their acquaintance, a forgotten son on the outskirts of London almost as much as they were. And besides, Graysen was coming later - she had to focus.
The flowers were lovely - a bit more wild and hardy than the typical hothouse bundles of perfect roses and bright tulips she usually received. Cornflowers and ladyâs lace and foxgloves, an armful of blue and white.
He was clever, as always, Elain thought. The flowers were a perfect ruse to come visit Feyre casually and so early, like any other suitor, no one knowing their wild and probably inappropriate friendship forged in the woods. Turning to find a vase allowed her to hide the frustrating blush on her cheeks at his smile.
She invited him to the sitting room, a consummate host, ordering tea and making a whispered request to the maid to summon her younger sister.
Lucien and Elain had sat across from one another, the only awkwardness Elainâs unusual nerves, her guest all smiles and kind words. He poured her tea when her cup was empty, asked after her day, inquired as to the health of her family, the perfect gentleman all around.
She smiled to herself as she remembered him, laughing and tripping up Feyreâs feet as she fumed practicing their lessons. His good cheer filling the room with warmth, darting and dodging skillfully around that traditional Archeron fire.
Unfortunately, this morning, the cozy summer sunshine also glistened off the forehead sweat of one Mr. Fitzsimmons, perspiring on the couch next to Elain.
He had arrived just minutes after Mr. Vanserra - a nervous smile perched on top of bustling ruffled lace.
Lucien frowned, pouring more tea and tipping back the cup as if it were something much stronger.
The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the hall. Susan was in the corner knitting, an awkward stand-in for her lazy sisters who she was cursing every long quiet moment, her father snoring softly in the armchair by the corner.
Mr. Fitzsimmons was tall and lanky, dressed to the nines, shoes shining and cravat swallowing up his face. The man was clearly miserable under all the heavy fabric.
Elain didnât mind the ostentatious dress, might have even found it charming if it didnât also accompany a haughty, arrogant demeanor and poor conversational skills.
After the third sip of tea in the uncomfortable silence, her eyes met one of russet brown with a quiet plea. Lucien cocked his head to the side.
âMiss Elain, you simply must come to Bath for the winter - the hot springs will do you a world of good,â Mr. Fitzsimmons finally spoke.
She smiled good-naturedly. âIâm afraid weâll be headed back to the country after our invitation from our Aunt is finished,â she lied.
If there was one thing all sisters were aligned on: it was never returning to that cold, sad cabin again. No matter what it took.
Elain hoped that wouldnât have to mean Mr. Fitzsimmons.
âOh, surely you can spare a few months for some more societyâŠwhat appeal can the country have?â
A muscle in her eye twitched. It was too early in the morning for all her graces. To word just right her gentle refusal, to not give a hint at their desperate lack of any means.
âWell, I - I always thought the country -â
âI would imagine the country very appealing to you, sir.â Lucien interrupted. âI very much thought your outfit inspired by the cock-of-the-woods.â
The man huffed an uncertain laugh. Elain tensed at his displeased look, even under the smile.
âClever. Do you, ah, call upon Miss Elain often, Mr. Vanserra?â
âOh no, Iâm waiting for Miss Feyre, as it were. Iâm told she can take quite a while to get ready in the morning. Fortunately I wasnât otherwise engaged today. I could end up spending all morning here. You know these ladies and their fussy ways.â
Mr. Fitzsimmons had suddenly remembered he was late for a cricket match, and left in a flurry of lace.
Lucien watched him bow and leave with no hidden amount of amusement.
âYou know, you can ask them to leave,â he said when the man finally left the stoop.
âThey come all this way to see me. I donât want to be rude.â
âDonât you know, Miss Elain, itâs the ladies that make all the decisions in this game of courtship?â Elainâs brow furrowed in confusion. Lucien smiled. âSee how the gentlemen come to perform, to dance like plumed birds for you? You have the ultimate power: that of rejection.â
Elain hummed, turning away from that earnest look and returning to her spot on the couch beside the windows. She certainly didnât feel in control, in power, navigating the string of suitors and her sisters every waking moment. âI suppose youâre right. We have the power to say no. But itâs short lived, is it not? Only until marriage, then our lives follow our husbandâs.â
The fabric of her dress was soft under her nervous fingers. It felt odd to talk about this, so openly. Especially with him.
Her sisters were far from romantic - Nesta fiercely pragmatic about every gentleman, Feyre uninterested in the whole affair. But Elain - Elain had plenty of time to sit and think about her future. Tried on each suitor in her mind, imagining them old and grey together, trying to picture their contentment.
So many had fallen short in her mind. Until Graysen, she supposed.
Lucien had her pinned again under that heavy stare. Curious and bright. She could almost imagine the sunlight on his hair like streaks of white -
âBut the choice on who that is, is yours. As is how you spend your time. Donât let the bores and brutes hog all of it.â He gave her a roguish smirk.
âMr. Vanserra!â she chided. âTheyâre not all so bad. And how will I determine which ones are bores and which are brutes if I never give them a chance?â
âWell I certainly wouldnât take Miss Nestaâs opinion on it.â
She laughed. He beamed at her. In a way that made her quiet again, remembering Susan and her father so close by.
Elain looked away, pulling at the fabric of her skirt. âIâm sorry Feyre isnât here. Sheâs probably fussing, getting ready for Lady Morrigan.â
âThe Viscountâs cousin?â His usual jovial smile turned to a frown, a crease in his brow.
âYes theyâŠâ Elain fought the urge to tell him everything. He was their friend, who knew what they were and where they came from. And if Feyre was being foolish, as Nesta had said, maybe Lucien could be the one to talk her out ofâŠwhatever was going on with the Viscount.
But if Feyre hadnât told him, hadnât even told her sisters the detailsâŠElain couldnât betray her trust. âI guess sheâs working for him. Her usualâŠodd jobs.â
Lucien hummed, drumming his fingers against his thigh. âItâs alright, though. I wanted to see you.â
âMe?â
âDid you think I came for Miss Nesta?â
Elain laughed in spite of herself, face frozen in a nervous smile.
Lucien opened his mouth -
âA Mr. Jones to see you, Miss.â
As Thomas the footman stepped swiftly out of the doorway, Elain watched Lucien - a quick tightening of his jaw, almost easy to miss, until he swallowed and turned back to her with a schooled grin.
She could hear the taunt in his voice, teasing but soft, practically read his thoughts through the gentle curve upward of an eyebrow as Mr. Jones stepped into the room.
If she wasnât careful, she was going to insult half of her suitors before lunch. Lucien would needle more laughter and drip measured insults like honey from his tongue until the Archeron drawing room was known across the city as hostile ground.
She had to keep her wits about her.
Mr. Jones was not a brute.
He was, however, determined not to let a single awkward silence plague the morning again.
He was short and stout, dressed plainly. The man was a widower of some years, and Elain bit her cheek when she had the wandering thought of if he had talked his late wife to an early grave.
A terrible thought. It must be the influence of Mr. Vanserra.
The man was just launching into a detailed description about his dinner last night when -
âDo you hunt, Mr. Jones?â Lucien asked.
He stuttered, the rhythm of his one-sided conversation halted. âUm, pardon?â
âHunt? Fox, deer, fowl? I was just trying to imagine you stalking quietly through the forest, so as not to disturb a hare. I found itâŠdifficult.â
Elain bit back her smile. Something in her rose to his challenge. These were her guests after all. She wouldnât allow him to steal the show. Elain was kind, generous, the perfect hostess. Mr. Vanserra wouldnât ruin her reputation for it.
She put a gentle hand on the other manâs arm, smiling serenely at Lucien. âMr. Jones is actually an amateur ornithologist. Quite knowledgeable. Why, just a few days ago he was regaling me with tales of the wood warblerâŠâ
Mr. Jones opened his mouth, a finger up to expand upon the finer points of bird watching -
âWell enough, but Iâve always thought the thing that recommends a man the most is a variety of interests and expertise - able to travel in wide circles, entertain at a momentâs notice, be of use and good cheer. An expert is only needed in the rarest of situations. Wouldnât you agree, Miss Elain?â
âWell I think what recommends a man the most is a kind heart and gentlemanly behavior towards his fellow man.â
A smirk, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. âA high standard, indeed. Perhaps if the gentleman is lacking, he may make up for it by being exceedingly handsome?â
A snort, from behind the couch, Susan covering her face with a hand.
Elain blinked once, smiling into the blush on her cheek. âPerhaps he may.â
âI do also play whist,â Mr. Jones chimed in.
Lucien coughed loudly, covering his smile, while Elain flitted to her feet.
âAh, whist! Perhaps another time Mr. Jones, thank you ever so much for your kind call!â
Confused but obedient, the man got to his feet, looking about the room and back to Elain, finally bowing and donning his hat.
The smile on Lucienâs face was uncontained, and he turned to her -
âA guest, Miss,â Thomas said in the doorway.
âGood God, Elain,â he whispered under his breath, âhow do you get anything done with your day?â
Elain let out a petulant huff, schooling her face back into neutrality.
âThe Grand Duke Nolan.â
Stillness filled the room. A sudden coldness, like a fire banked. And then the Grand Duke strolled into the room, his smile warm, energy high, pulling off his gloves with a quick movement.
He paused for a moment at Lucien.
âOh, Mr -?â
âVanserra. Weâve met.â
âOf course, apologies.â His eyes flickered to Elain. âSo you and your sisters have recovered from the Hampton ball? Is the old Viscount still pretending he isnât courting your sister?â
Graysen motioned the maid for tea, sitting down with a flourish of his hat, comfortable and at command.
Elain had to admit she liked the way he was so at ease, so always able to swoop in and smooth over any problem or hiccup with his air of confidence.
Some might call it arrogant, but it was his place in society, and she liked that he moved through it with a smile and general good cheer.
Still, Lucien remained standing.
âAre you staying, Mr. Vanserra?â the Grand Duke asked, sinking in comfortably
into the flowered couch.
Elain turned to him, feeling sick at his newly closed off look, confused at the unsettled feeling rattling around her rib cage.
Graysen required attention, her the host, and she felt some terror at the thought of Lucien tearing into him, how he might react, the two of them swiping at one anotherâŠ
Lucien looked at her for a moment, his eyes suddenly sad, then stood straight and tall, a hand behind his back. âNo, it seems Miss Feyre is otherwise engaged this morning. Thank you for entertaining me in her stead, and give her my regards, Miss Elain.â She started at the cold, impassive politeness, the formal stance, the eye that was suddenly unreadable.
I just don't have many words besides I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.
@millyillus/millyillus painted this absolutely amazing Regency Feyre and Rhysand for me and I haven't been able to stop staring. Do you see Rhys's cloak? His cheekbones? Feyre's gorgeous curls?
Meant to pair with my Regency fic The Thief and the Rake and now I have to make them even hotter to match...
Feyre and Rhysand are trapped in a locked room in the dark.
Hi this chapter has smut!
Thank you to @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta read!
Snippet under the cut.
Rhysandâs mouth was on hers, and his fingers grasped her hair, a sharp sting on her scalp.
Her body was frozen in shock and astonishment. Until she opened her mouth as if to protest, and he took advantage - rake that he was - by slipping his tongue in between her lips. Soft, insistent.
Her body released its tension all at once, helped along by his hand that wandered to the base of her skull - holding her still, gently kneading the knobs at the top of her spine into pliant submission. Instead of a protest of anger, she whimpered with newfound pleasure.
A desperate noise. Escaping from her throat. Embarrassing and needy. He swallowed it with singular focus.
This man â this infuriating, entitled, arrogant man who she couldnât stand â
Another tough yank on her scalp. His body pressed closer as he moved her, angled her neck. As if he had heard her thoughts, and needed to crowd them out of her mind with his sheer presence.
His other hand was on her cheek, gentle. But her head was grasped between his hands, broad and warm, holding her exactly where he wanted.
The rings on his fingers were cold on her cheek. But there was no relief to be had as the cool metal quickly warmed, heated by her burning skin. Shivers ran up and down her skin at the sensation, at too much, her skin igniting wherever they touched.
Feyre felt herself melting against his sensuous lips. His tongue tasted her, and she let herself fall into him, answering him with acquiescence as her body molded to him, her neck tilted back further.
She hated him, despised him, but oh, she loved whatever he was doing to her right now.
His hand moved, fingers now a collar around her throat, but they were gentle, just bracing her there. She should feel afraid, of the power in that hand and all the ways he could hurt her, ruin her, was ruining her, but instead she shivered, goose flesh erupting all over her skin.
Pulling back reluctantly with a soft gasp, Feyre gasped for air.
A niggling thought buzzed in the background of her mind, something about Nesta and bad choicesâŠ
Opening her eyes to him, she thought she matched his expression: his eyes were wide, lips parted and already kiss-swollen, and he looked â devastated, hungry. No sign of a sneer or an arrogant smirk. There was something dark and wild in his eyes that should have frightened her but instead â
As she watched him, a flicker of something else, something sheâd never seen on him, doubtful and nervous.
âI -â his voice was low and rough, uncertain. Feyre was terrified of that sudden look of doubt in his face - was he going to apologize?
If he did, she might melt right into the carpet.
Thoughtlessly, nervous, her hands smoothed over her ruffled skirts. She was searching his face, attuned to every change.
Fortunately for her, whatever resolve or second thoughts he may have had evaporated from his face as he looked back down at her open mouth.
âIâd very much like to do that again, Feyre.â
Guys do you know how much fun I am having writing The Thief and the Rake? Like I am typing in the dark on my phone at night, kicking my feet and giggling. I make no promises I wonât add five more new chapters to the outline before it is done.
At any rate here is a short snippet from Chapter Four behind the cut! Just a little spoilers but a nice continuation from the Chapter Two cliffhangerâŠ
Feyre looked ahead to see her sisters far beyond her, having not even noticed she wasnât behind them anymore.
âAnd ââ
âPlease, call me Rhys.â
Feyre stiffened, sure he was mocking her.
âThat doesnât seem entirely proper, sir.â
Lady Morrigan was smiling. âMy cousin is the Viscount Sterling, although he hates to stand on ceremony most days.â
SterlingâŠSterlingâŠthe ballâŠ
Oh, God. He was the host. A Viscount, the owner of that grand manor, that could house her village and feed them all with the forgotten jewelry pillowed in dust.
His smile was a vicious slash across his handsome features.
âHas my name stolen your voice away, darling, or can we be properly introduced?â
Feyre cursed the aristocracy, the King, the insufferable rules of society that were going to force her to politely give her name up to the man she had robbed. All moisture had left her mouth and amidst the cold fear in her stomach, she had a momentary thought that she would love nothing more than to claw that insufferable smile off of his face with her nails.
âFeyre Archeron.â
âMiss Feyre Archeron.â Rhysand repeated after her, each syllable rolled gently in his mouth. Like he was mocking her. Like he was dictating the conviction himself. Feyre shivered.
