I'm so excited, I got to bring home a couple of reference books from the historical museum I work at! They're PERFECT for Lambswool research; they cover some of the exact things in the period I'm most wanting to understand surrounding Tristan's world. One is a book full of letters from a young woman starting from when she was a teenager till age 25, from 1797 to 1809. The other is a giant book of text and illustrations from early children's books, spanning from 1765 to 1830. I can't wait to dive in and learn more about the daily life of children and young adults in the regency!!
This is just a sampling, I hope to scan and share more of what I find as I read these/go through them.
Hi! I'm Tess, owner and operator of a queer gothic dark fantasy WIP set in Regency-era England. And I get real weird with it. I wanted to do an updated intro since my last one was 2 years old and didn't reflect how the blog has evolved since.
Link to-> WIP Intro Post!
Quick and dirty WIP intro:
Lambswool (working title) is a novel set in the late Georgian/early Regency British Isles. It's sort of a genre mashup with elements of horror, dark fantasy, gaslamp fantasy, the gothic, and folk horror. Characters include a bratty aspiring sorcerer, a demonic changeling who wants to be human, a witch, a sin eater, and a handsome devil. Over the course of the plot the question of whether the spirit realm(s) and mortal world should be kept separate will be a source of conflict. The protagonists are young, but I would consider the story to be New Adult rather than YA, due to heavy subject matter.
The two young protagonists of our tale. I talk about them a LOT.
Comps: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, Over the Garden Wall, Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Draws from: folklore, (dark) fairy tales, the occult, paganism, mythology, 19th century literature, etc.
Status: zero drafting, 27,073 words so far
Common tags: #lambswool, #tristan, #crispin, #writing
Taglist (lmk if you want on/off): @moonrabbitwriter, @willtheweaver, @wyked-rebellion, @armentas, and @wildgeraniumwrites
About me:
You can call me Tess or Orphan, whichever. My pronouns are she/her. I'm an artist, writer, and musician and I am an Adult (32). This is my first time trying to write anything as involved as a novel. I’m having loads of fun with it, though.
On this blog:
You'll find anything and everything relating to Lambswool and its characters, who are on constant rotation in my head on a spit. I started this blog as an aesthetic inspo board for the novel, but transitioned to a writeblr some time ago. That said, I do continue to reblog and post images that inspire me, and info relevant to the research I'm interested in for the story's time period(s) and magical elements. I find this page to be very useful as a digital archive for my developing project.
But the main thing I post these days is original writing and info about Lambswool, its world, and its characters. The writing I'm currently posting is from a *zero* draft. Everything's still in development and subject to change.
I also post my original concept art, comics, and doodles of the characters. You can find my art in #my art.
It should be noted that I love to play with my characters like dolls and often draw/write them in non-canon scenarios just cuz.
I adore learning about other people's characters and stories, so please tell me about them!!! Please I am begging. I am also highly interested in linking up with other writers for encouragement/feedback and just general community!
***Content warning for some imagery/writing that may be disturbing (as can be expected, I guess, from a horror aesthetic/theme).***
I love participating in tag games and ask games, tho I may be slow to respond! My tags for these are #tag games and #ask.
OG writeblr intro
Thanks so much for reading, and feel free to like this post and I'll give you a follow!
🜲 Main Characters: Mari Rosenly | Lord Cassian Ashford
🜲 Tropes: Reformed Rake | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn / Tension-Filled Courtship | Rake Pursues Guarded Heroine | Virgin Heroine / Experienced Hero | Forced Proximity / Almost Caught Moments (alone on terraces, in alcoves, risking scandal | Protective Family / Brothers as Obstacles | Public Courtship After Private Tension | He Falls First, and harder, – his pursuit becomes obsession; she slowly admits the pull | Opposites Attract
🜲 Content Warnings: Discussions of the hero’s past promiscuity / sexual history | Angst and emotional vulnerability | Mild risk of scandal / reputation damage | Power imbalance themes | Family pressure / disapproval | Potential for mild jealousy/possessiveness from hero during reform arc
🜲 Synopsis: In the glittering ballrooms of Regency London, the infamous Lord Cassian Ashford, Marquess of Beresford, 32, a titled rake known for his effortless charm and trail of broken hearts, sets his sights on the one woman who refuses to fall at his feet. Mari Rosenly. At 26, Mari is sharp-witted, fiercely independent, and deeply distrustful of men like him, preferring her paints, published writings, and solitary life to the marriage mart. When Cassian’s persistent pursuit sparks heated clashes and stolen, scandalously private moments, Mari’s icy defenses begin to crack, revealing a pull she cannot deny. But with her protective brothers watching, her family’s reputation at stake, and Cassian’s notorious past looming like a shadow, he must prove he can forsake his rakish ways for one woman alone. What begins as enmity ignites into an angsty, slow-burning courtship, where every refusal hides longing, every glance risks ruin, and surrender might be the greatest scandal of all.
꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂
Lord Cassian Ashford, Marquess of Beresford. 32.
He is tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of effortless athleticism that comes from years of boxing, fencing, and riding hard across his estates. Raven-black hair worn slightly longer than strict fashion dictates, always tousled as if he's just come from some private indulgence. Piercing green eyes that seem to see straight through polite facades, framed by dark lashes and a perpetual hint of wicked amusement. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw often shadowed with a day's growth, and a mouth prone to smirking, full lips that promise sin even when he's silent. He dresses impeccably in dark, tailored coats that accentuate his form, favoring deep charcoal and midnight blues that make him look like danger wrapped in elegance. A faint scar runs along his left eyebrow from a youthful duel, adding to his roguish allure.
He is a rake.
London's most dangerously charming rake, that is.
Cassian has left a trail of broken hearts and whispered scandals across the ton. He's witty, effortlessly seductive, and never without a quip or a knowing glance that makes debutantes blush and matrons fan themselves. He dances attendance on beauties at every ball, but never commits, marriage is a trap he's studiously avoided. Beneath the polished exterior lies a man haunted by family tragedy, one he makes sure no one has any knowledge on, making him cynical about love and convinced that passion is fleeting.
He pursues pleasure to drown out deeper restlessness, earning his 'rake' title through countless liaisons, yet he's never cruel, only careless.
When challenged, his temper flares hot and sharp. He gives as good as he gets in verbal sparring, and he finds sharp-tongued defiance far more intoxicating than simpering compliance.
It is at a ball, hosted by the family of a newly debuted young lady, that his attention is first captured by Miss Mari Rosenly.
She is not tall, standing at perhaps five-and-three inches, yet there is nothing small about her presence. Her chestnut hair, when left unpinned, falls in a soft cascade just past the middle of her back, and her eyes, an arresting shade of storm-blue, hold a depth that is difficult to look away from once noticed. Society, in all its predictability, has already marked her as the very picture of a "perfect" bride, well-formed for childbearing, as the more vulgar whispers would have it. A notion she openly disdains. Miss Rosenly is known to meet such commentary with a sharp tongue, quick to remind any who dare suggest it that a woman's worth extends far beyond the breadth of her hips.
She is, instead, recognized for her mind. A painter. A writer, published, no less. A woman who does not simply accept the world as it is handed to her, but questions it, reshapes it, challenges it. She is sharp, quick-witted, and often keeps to her own company, as though the trivialities of society fail to hold her interest for long.
And it is precisely for these reasons, Lord Cassian Ashford, cannot look away.
The ballroom at Lady Harrington's grand estate glittered under a thousand candles, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and the low thrum of violins. Lord Cassian stood at the center of a small admiring circle, three debutantes in pastel silks and one widowed countess whose fan moved far too slowly to be innocent.
Their giggles rose and fell like practiced notes. He answered with the easy, devastating smile that had ruined reputations and reputations alike.
Yet his gaze had already wandered, not a surprise to most.
Across the room, near the tall French doors that opened onto the moonlit terrace, stood Mari Rosenly. She looked like a storm cloud in a sea of confectionery gowns. Dark emerald silk hugging her curves, the corset cinching her waist with quiet defiance.
Her fan moved lazily, but her eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd with the bored precision of someone who had already judged every soul present and found them wanting. When those eyes flicked toward him, one dark brow arched in unmistakable disdain before she turned and drifted toward the open doors.
Cassian felt the pull, like a hook behind his ribs.
He murmured something charming and vague to the countess, enough to make her flutter, and excused himself with a bow that promised he would return — he wouldn't. The crowd parted for him without thought, and he moved through it like water finding the lowest path.
By the time he reached the terrace doors, the night air had already claimed her. She stood just beyond the threshold, half in shadow, the cool breeze lifting strands of her hair not pinned with pearls. The ballroom's glow framed her silhouette, accentuating the hourglass line of her body against the darkness outside.
He stopped a careful three paces away, yet close enough to speak, far enough that propriety could still pretend to hold, "Miss Rosenly." He said, voice low and velvet-edged, carrying just enough amusement to irritate, "You flee the festivities so soon? I had hoped to claim at least one dance before you declared the entire evening beneath you."
She glances at him, eyes flicking over his stance, waiting for a polite bow that never comes. She raised her brows, lips staying together.
She knows who he is.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes tracing the line of her profile with deliberate slowness, "Or is it only certain company you find intolerable?"
She continues to stay quiet, just for another moment, then she sighs softly, "Did you find yourself rather bored with the four who were throwing themselves at you?" She tilts her head ever so slightly, "They made it all quite easy for you, did they not... or do you prefer a challenge?"
Cassian's lips curved, not quite a smile, more a slow, predatory acknowledgment of the barb. He straightened just enough to close half the distance between them, though he still kept to the edge of propriety. The night air carried the faint scent of roses from the gardens beyond and the warmer spice of his cologne.
"Easy is forgettable, Miss Rosenly." He replied, voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to her, "And I have never been accused of lacking appetite for difficulty."
"So I have heard." She replies, glancing out at the moonlit garden as her fan resumes its gentle, unhurried rhythm.
His eyes held onto her without flinching, tracing the faint challenge in the tilt of her head, the way her fan resumed in her hand as though she refused to give him even the small victory of nervous movement.
He took one measured step closer, still respectable, still scandalously near for two people who were supposed to be strangers in all but name.
She glanced at him, noting how close he was standing, but she still stays put, still doesn't give him the satisfaction he's clearly searching for.
"You mistake boredom for indifference." He continued, softer now, the amusement edged with something darker, "Those ladies offer compliments the way shopkeepers offer wares, predictable, polite, and entirely without bite. You, however..." His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of her mouth, then returned to her eyes,"You wield silence like a blade. It's far more interesting."
Her brows raise slowly as she inclines her head, "Mm."
A beat of quiet stretched between them, thick with the distant swell of the orchestra and the unspoken question hanging in the air — how far would she let this game go before she cut him down entirely?
He inclined his head, the barest mockery of a bow this time, "So tell me truthfully, am I wasting my breath, or have I finally found a partner worthy of the dance?"
Her lips twitch, threatening a smirk of mild amusement,"I do not make a habit of associating with men who have the title of rake so conveniently attached to their own, regardless of rank."
"Oh?" His lips twitch, wanting to smirk at how honest she really is, but he bites it back when he hears that small inhale as she steps closer, continuing, "If I am to be entirely honest, and I am, you are wasting your breath where I am concerned. I will not be another name added to your list of conquests, or a passing distraction to keep you from facing the realities of the world."
His eyes never leave her face, jaw tensing as she offers him a polite, almost dismissive nod, "Enjoy your evening, my lord."
With that, she steps around him, and makes her way back into the ballroom. The terrace doors seemed to narrow as Mari stepped past him, her emerald skirts brushing the barest whisper against his leg, enough to send a flicker of heat through the cool night air between them.
Cassian did not move to stop her, though every instinct urged him to reach out, to catch her wrist or block her path with nothing more than the breadth of his shoulders. Instead, he let her go, turning slowly to watch the line of her back as she reentered the ballroom's golden glow.
Her words lingered like smoke, sharp, deliberate, and far more cutting for how calmly they had been delivered.
Not another name on your list. The dismissal stung more than he cared to admit, pricking at the carefully cultivated indifference he wore like armor.
For a long moment he remained where she had left him, one hand braced against the doorframe, green eyes narrowed on the crowd that had already swallowed her up. The music swelled, couples swirled past in a kaleidoscope of silk and candlelight. Somewhere in the throng, she would be returning to her family's watchful circle, her protective brothers, her favored younger sister, the mother who no doubt despaired of her eldest daughter's stubborn solitude.
Cassian exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been amusement or irritation, perhaps both.
She thought him shallow, predictable. A rake chasing skirts because he had nothing deeper to pursue. Perhaps she was half right. But she was wrong about one thing, he did not collect conquests so much as he collected moments, fleeting, bright, and gone before they could demand anything lasting of him.
And she had just handed him the most intriguing one yet.
He straightened his cuffs with deliberate care, then stepped back into the ballroom. The admiring circle he had abandoned earlier had already reformed around someone new. He paid them no mind. His gaze found her almost at once, standing near the edge of the dance floor now, fan once more in lazy motion, expression schooled into perfect, polite boredom.
He did not approach. Not yet.
Instead he drifted to the opposite side of the room, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman without ever taking his eyes from her. Let her think the encounter was over. Let her believe she had won the round with a few well-placed barbs and a graceful exit.
Cassian raised the glass to his lips, the faintest smirk curling as he watched her over the rim.
The night was young.
And he had never been one to walk away from a challenge worth winning.
Mari now stands beside one of her oldest friends, Deandra — tall, golden-haired, and forever too perceptive. The ballroom pulsed around them, a glittering cage of silk and laughter, but Mari felt the weight of unseen eyes even as she spoke.
She inquired about what transpired on the terrace, and Mari gives a small shake of her head, "Nothing worth mentioning. I merely called a rake what he is, a rake... and I do not believe he appreciated it."
Deandra leaned in slightly, her fan half-hiding the knowing curve of her mouth, "A rake indeed." She murmured, her voice laced with amusement, "Though from the way Lord Beresford has scarcely looked away from this corner since you returned, I'd wager he appreciated your honesty more than you think."
Mari's gaze flicked involuntarily across the room, and there he stood, half-turned toward a cluster of gentlemen, yet clearly detached from their conversation.
His champagne glass dangled forgotten in long fingers, his attention was fixed on her with the steady, unblinking focus of a predator deciding whether the prey was worth the chase.
When their eyes met, he did not smile. He simply held her stare, blue storm meeting green heat, long enough that the air between them seemed to tighten, even across twenty paces of crowded parquet.
Then, deliberately, he lifted the glass in the faintest salute, a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone else. But not by her. The corner of his mouth quirked, not in mockery this time, but in something darker, more patient.
A promise.
Mari's eyes narrowed, a slow inhale being pulled through her nose. Deandra's soft laugh pulled her attention back, "You've pricked his pride, darling." She said, nudging Mari's arm lightly, "Men like him are accustomed to surrender, not resistance. Be careful. He looks like the sort who enjoys the hunt far more than the kill."
Mari doesn't say anything, her eyes flick back to him and then she turns her body towards Deandra, hoping if she ignores him, he'll dissolve on his own.
But that was not the case at all.
Across the floor, Cassian set his glass aside on a passing tray. He murmured something to the gentlemen beside him, then began to move, not directly toward her, but in a slow, meandering path that would inevitably bring him nearer. The crowd parted for him without realizing they had done so, like they've been doing all night.
Mari felt the first stir of something unwelcome beneath her ribs, not fear, not quite anger. Anticipation, perhaps? Or the sharp edge of a challenge she had not meant to issue.
He was coming closer.
"Is he coming this way?" She ask Deandra under her breath, "That look in your eye suggests he is. Why can he not simply take a hint?" She inhales, attempting to steady my growing irritation, "I refused him once. If this is to become a recurring nuisance, I swear to the gods above..."
Deandra's fan snapped open with a soft click, shielding her mouth as she leaned closer to Mari, her voice a conspiratorial murmur beneath the swell of the orchestra, "He most certainly is, darling." She whispered, eyes gleaming with barely contained delight, "And with that particular stride, like a wolf who has scented something far more interesting than the sheep he usually chases. You've wounded his vanity, and now he means to make you pay for it... or reward you. With men like Beresford, it's always a fine line."
Mari's fingers tightened around her own fan, the ivory sticks pressing into her palm as she forced her breathing to even.
Across the ballroom, Cassian moved with predatory grace, no longer pretending to be distracted by the gentlemen or the passing debutantes. His path carved a deliberate arc through the crowd, never hurried, never obvious, yet closing the distance with inexorable certainty.
Every few steps, a lady would turn hopeful eyes toward him, only for him to offer the barest nod before continuing on.
His gaze never left her corner.
Deandra gave a tiny, delighted shiver, "Oh, he's not taking the hint because you have made it a gauntlet, not a door politely closed. Look at him." She juts her chin subtly, "He's enjoying this far too much."
Mari groans lowly, so low if her friend wasn't as close as she was, she wouldn't have heard it.
Cassian reached the edge of their small circle at last. He stopped just outside the intimate radius of family and friends, close enough that the heat of him seemed to cut through the cool draft from the open windows.
He inclined his head to Deandra first, polite, perfunctory—before his eyes settled fully on Mari, "Miss Rosenly." He said, voice smooth as dark velvet, carrying just enough warmth to make the words feel intimate despite the public setting, "I find myself in need of air once more. The ballroom grows... stifling."
"That tends to happen in ballrooms with no airflow and ladies layering on far too much perfume," Mari says dryly, and that pulls a faint, knowing smile to his lips, "Perhaps you would care to join me on the terrace again? I promise not to bore you with idle flattery this time."
His tone was light, almost teasing, but the look in his eyes was anything but. It was patient. Relentless.
A silent dare, Refuse me again. See what happens next.
Deandra's fan fluttered faster, hiding what was surely a grin. Mari's chest rose and fell slowly, taking in the act of him attempting once more, which she should not be surprised by.
The music shifted into a waltz, couples beginning to pair off around them, and the air between Mari and Cassian seemed to thicken with the unspoken tension of everyone nearby pretending not to notice the marquess standing far too close to the Rosenly wallflower who had just publicly dismissed him.
She straightened subtly, the movement small but unmistakable, a quiet assertion of control even as the waltz music swirled around them. Her tone remained dry, edged with that familiar bite, "If I say no, how long will it be before you inevitably try again, my lord?"
Cassian's gaze did not waver. If anything, the question seemed to please him, the faint curve of his mouth deepening into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.
He took the smallest step forward, just enough that the space between them felt charged, intimate, though no one watching would call it improper, "An excellent question, Miss Rosenly." He replied, voice low and unhurried, meant for her ears alone, "The honest answer? Not long."
He let the words settle, let the orchestra's strings fill the brief silence that followed. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her chin, before returning to meet her silent stare, "I am not accustomed to surrender." He continued, softer now, almost confiding.
"Clearly." She states, but he did not waiver, "And you..." A brief pause, as though he were choosing his next words with unusual care, "You do not make surrender easy. That alone guarantees I shall return, tomorrow, the day after, at the next ball, the next musicale, wherever the ton conspires to place us in the same room."
Her brows shot up, even thought his tone carried no threat, only a quiet certainty that bordered on inevitability. Yet there was something else beneath it, a flicker of frustration, perhaps even respect, that he could not quite mask.
"Say no tonight if it pleases you." He murmured, "I will bow, retreat, and allow you the victory of the evening. But know this—" He leaned in the barest fraction, close enough that she could catch the warm spice of his cologne again. "—I do not chase what bores me. And you, Mari Rosenly, are anything but boring."
Her breath defied her, hitching softly in her throat as he straightened, offering her the shallowest, most elegant bow, perfectly correct, perfectly infuriating. When he rose, his eyes held hers one last moment longer, a silent promise wrapped in challenge, "Until the next inevitable encounter, then."
With that, he turned smoothly on his heel and melted back into the crowd, leaving the faint echo of his words hanging between them like smoke.
Deandra's fan had gone still; she stared after him with wide eyes before turning to Paige, barely containing her glee, "Well..." She whispered, voice trembling with suppressed laughter, "That was... decisive. Darling, I do believe you've just made yourself the most dangerous sport in London."
Mari scoffs softly, "Do not say that. I have no desire to be regarded as sport. Though, I cannot decide which is worse, being looked upon as if we are livestock, or being pursued by a rake who cannot take a simple hint."
Deandra's eyes sparkled with mischief as she lowered her fan just enough to speak without being overheard, "Livestock or sport? Darling, with Beresford staring daggers across the room, I'd say you've graduated to something far more perilous, obsession."
Mari tapped her fan against her forehead with a sigh, mumbling to herself under her breath.
Deandra pressed her lips together to stifle another laugh, but her gaze darted once more toward the far side of the ballroom. Cassian had not retreated far. He stood now near a marble pillar, conversing with an elderly viscount, yet his posture betrayed him, shoulders angled toward their corner, head tilted as though every word the old man uttered was merely background noise to the true conversation he wished to have. When the viscount finally turned away, Cassian's eyes found Mari again, steady and unapologetic.
He did not approach this time.
Instead, he lifted two fingers in the barest salute, acknowledgment, not mockery, before turning toward the card room doors. The movement was deliberate, almost theatrical.
A tactical withdrawal that promised return. Several heads turned to watch him go, and of course, whispers followed like ripples across a pond.
Deandra exhaled dramatically, "There. He's given you a reprieve, for the moment, maybe. But mark my words, Mari, that man does not surrender the field so easily. He's merely regrouping."
"That is what I am afraid of." Mari says lowly, her words nearly drowned out by the orchestra striking up a lively quadrille, and the dance floor filled once more.
Mari's younger sister, fresh-faced and eager, twirled past on the arm of a pleasant but unremarkable baron's son, casting a curious glance toward her elder sister and Deandra as though sensing the undercurrent of tension.
Deandra nudged Mari lightly, "Come. Dance with someone harmless before your brothers start interrogating us both. Or better yet, let us find the refreshment table and plot your next devastating set-down. Because if I know anything about Lord Cassian Ashford, he will be back before the supper interval, and this time he may not be so gallantly restrained."
Across the room, just before he disappeared through the card-room doors, Cassian paused. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeking her out one last time. When their eyes met again, he offered the ghost of a smile, small, private, and entirely too knowing.
Then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the adjoining rooms.
But the promise lingered in the air between them, sharp as a drawn blade, this was far from over.
"I do not—" Mari cuts herself off, giving a small shake of her head, "No, forget it." She inhales, then gestures with her fan toward the refreshment table, "Do move along."
Deandra paused mid-breath, her fan stilling as she studied Mari's face, the abrupt cut-off, the quick shake of the head, the sudden shift to dismissal. For once, the irrepressible blonde held her tongue instead of pressing.
She gave a small, understanding nod, then tucked her arm through Mari's with gentle insistence.
"As you wish." Deandra murmured, voice softer now, devoid of its earlier teasing lilt, "Refreshment table it is. Perhaps a glass of lemonade will cool that flush on your cheeks... or at least give us an excuse to escape the prying eyes."
Mari rolled her eyes as she let her friend guide her away from the pillar where Cassian had last stood, weaving them through the edges of the dancing crowd toward the long table laden with crystal bowls, delicate pastries, and pitchers sweating with chilled punch. The movement drew a few curious glances, mostly from matrons who had noticed the marquess's unusual attention, but no one dared approach.
Not yet.
As they reached the table, Deandra busied herself taking two glasses from the footman, handing one to Mari without comment. The liquid was tart and cold, a small mercy against the ballroom's heat.
Deandra sipped, then spoke quietly, eyes on the glass rather than her friend, "You needn't finish that sentence if it stings to say aloud. But if it ever does, if you want to tell me what 'I do not' was about, I am here. No judgment. No gossip. Just ears."
Mari nods, taking a sip of her lemonade, "That has a high likelihood of falling into the maybe column."
She glanced sidelong at Mari, offering the faintest, most genuine of smiles, "And in the meantime, we shall fortify ourselves with sweets and pretend the rest of the ton does not exist. Deal?"
Mari nods, already plucking a macaron from the tray, "Yes ma'am."
From the card-room doors, Cassian had not reemerged. Yet the weight of his absence felt heavier than his presence ever had, as though the space he left behind was still watching, still waiting.
The quadrille ended. A new set began to form.
Somewhere in the throng, Mari's younger sister laughed brightly, carefree and untouched by whatever storm brewed at the edges of the room.
Deandra nudged Mari's elbow lightly, "One more thing before we hide behind the potted palms... if he dares show his face at the supper dance, promise me you'll let me watch you cut him down again. It was positively delicious the first time."
Her tone was light, but her eyes were kind, giving Mari the room to breathe, to decide, to say nothing at all if that was what she needed most.
꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂
The week that followed passed in a haze of deliberate avoidance and unavoidable encounters.
In Grosvenor Gardens, Cassian appeared twice, once on horseback along the wide promenade known as Willow Walk, tipping his hat with that infuriating half-smile as he murmured, "A morning ride suits you far better than a stuffy ballroom, Miss Rosenly. Care to join me?" She had turned her mare away without a word, though her pulse had betrayed her with an unsteady gallop of its own.
At Lady Wentworth's intimate musicale in her Mayfair drawing room and the Haverfords' twilight garden soirée in their Belgrave Square townhouse, he found her again, each time with a new, carefully worded invitation to walk, to talk, to dance, "One turn about the garden." He'd said at the soirée, voice low against the strains of a distant harp, "And I shall cease pestering you for the evening." Each refusal came sharper from her lips, "No, my lord, I find your company unnecessary."
Yet, each one tugged at something deep and unfamiliar inside her chest, a pull that felt less like irritation and more like confusion, like the first crack in ice she had long thought unbreakable.
Now, another grand ball unfolded at the Duke of Ashbourne's residence in St. James's Square, the chandeliers blazing brighter than memory, the air thick with anticipation. Mari stood near a gilded column, her dark sapphire gown catching the light as she scanned the room with practiced detachment.
Across the sea of dancers, Cassian's gaze found hers almost at once, steady, patient, and unmistakably intent.
He crossed the floor without haste, stopping just close enough that the warmth of him cut through the cool draft from the open windows, "Miss Rosenly." He said, the words carrying the faintest trace of weariness beneath their velvet polish, "Seven days, four refusals, and yet here we are again. One might think the ton conspires to torment us both."
She met his eyes, chin lifted, though the strange ache in her chest had returned, sharper now, "Or one might think you simply refuse to accept defeat, my lord." Her voice is quieter than she intended, "Some battles are not worth winning."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile, something softer, almost rueful, "Perhaps." He murmured, stepping a fraction closer, "But I have never been very good at knowing when to quit."
Mari kept her gaze fixed upon the swirling crowd, scanning the dancers and clusters of gossiping matrons with deliberate idleness, as though the man beside her were no more consequential than a passing footman, "I do not understand why you fail to comprehend my refusal." She said, her voice cool and measured, "I believe I made myself quite clear, did I not?"
Cassian remained where he stood, close enough that the faint warmth of him brushed against the cool air between them, yet never so near as to invite scandal.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the sharp line of her profile, the way the candlelight caught the sapphire silk at her shoulder, the stubborn set of her jaw, "You were crystalline, Miss Rosenly." He replied, the words low and unhurried, carrying that same velvet edge that had begun to feel dangerously familiar, "Each refusal sharper than the last. I heard every syllable."
"Did you? Because from where I am stood, it seems you did not."
He didn't respond, he let the music fill the space his silence left behind, a slow, aching waltz that seemed to mock the tension coiling tighter with every breath.
"And yet..." He finally continued, softer now, almost confiding, "Clarity does not always mean finality. You say no with the conviction of someone who has convinced herself it is the only answer worth giving. But your eyes..." His gaze flicked to hers when she finally turned her head, just enough to meet it, "They tell a different story. They linger. They question. They burn."
Her eyes narrow slightly, and she slowly turns slightly towards him, "They do not."
He did not smile this time, the expression that touched his mouth was something quieter, more serious, almost weary, as though the game had begun to cost him more than he had anticipated, "I am not here to force your hand." He murmured, "I am here because every time you send me away, I find myself wondering what it would take to make you say yes. Not out of duty, not out of flattery. Just... yes."
"You truly do not get it, do you?" She asks lowly, the waltz reached its final, lingering note. Couples began to drift apart, the floor emptying in slow waves, "You-"
Somewhere nearby, a matron's fan snapped shut with pointed disapproval, which made her stop, but Cassian paid it no mind. His attention remained locked on Mari, patient and unyielding, "Tell me to leave." He said quietly, "Truly leave, not retreat for the evening, not regroup for tomorrow. Tell me you wish never to see my face again, and I will go. I will vanish from every ballroom, every garden, every promenade where you might be. No more pursuit. No more questions."
Mari doesn't say anything, but her eyes remain on him.
Torn. She knows what he is, how many women he's potentially been with, how capable he is of hurting her, and yet, she cannot speak those words for the life of her.
He waited, eyes steady on hers, the faintest crack of vulnerability showing beneath the polished surface, "But if you cannot say those words, if some part of you hesitates, then perhaps we are both fools standing on the same unsteady ground."
The orchestra struck the opening chords of the next dance. The crowd shifted, expectant. Cassian made no move to claim her hand.
He simply waited, for the cut, for the dismissal, or, against all odds, for something else entirely.
Mari's breath grew heavier, slow still, but heavier, as though the words themselves weighed more than she had anticipated. "This is not a conversation we should have with curious eyes and ears."
Cassian's gaze never left her face. He studied the faint rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her fingers had tightened around the edge of her fan until the ivory creaked. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting the orchestra's lively reel fill the charged silence between them.
Then, quietly, he inclined his head toward the shadowed alcove half-hidden by heavy velvet drapes at the far end of the ballroom, barely ten paces away, concealed enough for discretion, yet not so secluded as to scream scandal, "Somewhere quieter, then." He murmured, voice pitched for her alone, "No locked doors. No closed rooms. Just enough distance from prying tongues that we might finish this without an audience."
Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and unyielding. "No."
The single word cut through the air like a blade. She glanced at him, really looked, blue eyes flashing with something raw beneath the cool composure she wore so well, "Do you know what it would do if I am caught, alone, with someone like you?"
Cassian exhaled once, a sound that might have been frustration or resignation or both. He did not step closer, if anything, he eased back the barest inch, giving her the space her words demanded even as his presence still filled it, "I know precisely what it would do." He replied, low and steady, no trace of mockery now, "Your name whispered behind fans for weeks. Your mother's disappointment carved deeper. Your brothers sharpening their blades, figuratively, I hope. Whispers of 'the Rosenly girl and the Beresford rake' trailing you like smoke until the next scandal mercifully eclipses it. And you..." His gaze softened, just fractionally, "You would bear the brunt of it, while I would be congratulated for my conquest and quietly forgiven by morning."
"Astounding differences between a man and a woman, yes?" She spoke dryly, scoffing as she looked away from him.
He paused, letting the truth of it settle between them like frost, "I am not asking you to risk that." He said quietly, "I am asking you to tell me, here, now, with every eye in this room still able to see us, whether there is any part of you that wishes I would stop trying. Because if there is, say it plainly. I will bow, walk away, and make certain our paths never cross again by accident or design."
The reel ended. Applause rippled through the room. Couples separated, laughter rising anew.
Cassian remained perfectly still, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the picture of restrained elegance. But his eyes held hers with an intensity that made the rest of the ballroom fade to distant noise.
"Tell me to go, Mari." He said, softer than before, her given name slipping out unguarded for the first time, "Or tell me why you haven't already."
Mari blinked once, the motion slow and deliberate, as though steadying herself against the tide of her own words. Her voice lowered, barely carrying over the opening strains of the country dance, "You are labeled a rake, my lord. Rakes are men with enough wealth and standing to gamble, to drink, to do precisely as they please without consequence, because they simply do not care, and their title shields them from it."
Her gaze hardened slightly, blue eyes turning to steel beneath the chandelier light, "They pass through women as though they are disposable. And I will tell you plainly, I am not." She straightened, shoulders squaring as though the confession cost her something vital. Her voice broke on the final words, soft and raw, like it almost hurt her to speak them aloud, "I am not a woman willing to risk her heart on a man who cannot content himself with one."
The music swelled around them, couples forming lines on the floor, laughter and chatter rising in cheerful counterpoint to the sudden, aching quiet that fell between them.
Cassian stood motionless, the easy charm stripped from his expression. For the first time since their first meeting on Lady Harrington's terrace, he looked, unguarded. The bright green in his eyes that had always held a glint of amusement or challenge now reflected something closer to pain, brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.
He drew a slow breath, as though the air itself had grown heavier, "You are right.” He said quietly, the words measured, stripped of their usual velvet polish.
"Do not tell me-"
He tilts his head, speaking over her like she needs to hear it, "I have lived precisely as you describe. I have taken what was offered, given nothing lasting in return, and told myself it was freedom. The ton forgives a man his excesses so long as he smiles while committing them. I have never pretended otherwise."
He took half a step back, not retreat, but for space, giving her room to breathe, to strike again if she wished.
His hands remained at his sides, fingers flexing once as though resisting the urge to reach for her, "But hear this, Mari." He continued, voice low and rough-edged now, her name again slipping free like something he could no longer contain, "I have never stood before a woman and asked her to believe me capable of more. Not once. Because until you, I did not believe it myself."
"How can I believe that?"
His gaze held hers, unflinching, though the faintest tremor ran beneath the surface, vulnerability he had spent years burying beneath smirks and scandal, "I do not ask you to trust me tonight. I do not ask you to risk anything at all. I ask only that you see this truth, for the first time in longer than I care to count, I want to be the man who could content himself with one. With you."
A beat of silence stretched taut between them. The dancers spun past in bright circles, somewhere nearby, a matron's fan fluttered with pointed curiosity.
Cassian ignored it all, "If those words mean nothing to you, if they are only another rake's pretty lie, then tell me now. Send me away for good, and I swear on what little honor I possess that I will go. No more pursuits. No more stolen glances across ballrooms. You will be free of me."
He waited, chest rising and falling a fraction too quickly, the polished mask cracked open just enough to reveal the man beneath, "But if even a part of you wonders, if that ache you feel when you turn me away is not only anger, then let me prove it. Not with grand gestures or promises I cannot yet keep. With time. With patience. With showing you, day by day, that I am capable of choosing one woman and meaning it."
Her eyes hold on his, his searched hers, raw and steady, "Say the word, and I am gone. Or... give me the smallest chance to show you I am listening."
Her eyes remained locked on his, blue and unblinking, until the weight of her own question forced the words out, "You... you have been with countless women. How—" Her voice cracked, raw and thin. She closed her eyes, turning her head sharply to the side as though the admission itself burned. A slow, steadying breath lifted her chest, when she looked back at him, her composure had returned, fragile but intact, "You have been with God knows how many women, experienced women. I have not even allowed a man to kiss me. How am I to know that you will not grow impatient with me, or grow bored of me?"
The confession hung between them like smoke, quiet, devastating, and utterly unguarded for the first time.
Cassian felt it strike somewhere deep, a blow he had not braced for. His throat worked once, the polished mask slipping further.
For several long seconds he said nothing, letting the country dance's cheerful rhythm mock the stillness that had fallen over them. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rougher than before, stripped of every trace of flirtation or challenge, "Because I have never stood before a woman and felt this particular fear." He said quietly, "Fear that I might ruin something rare simply by touching it. Fear that my past, every careless night, every fleeting face, might poison the one thing I suddenly want to protect more than I want to possess."
He took the smallest step closer, not to crowd her, but to make certain no stray ear could catch the words meant only for her, "I have chased sensation." He continued, eyes never leaving hers, "I have collected moments because they were easy, because they asked nothing of me beyond the night. But you..." His gaze traced the line of her cheek, the stubborn curve of her mouth, the faint tremble she could not quite hide, "You ask everything. And that terrifies me more than any scandal ever could."
"I do not wish to settle." She states lowly with a small shake of her head, "I will not."
A muscle flexed along his jaw, "I cannot erase what I have been. I will not insult you with lies that I was waiting chastely for the right woman, or that my history means nothing. It means something- it means I know precisely how hollow those nights were. How forgettable. How utterly unlike this."
She swallowed, lips staying pressed together.
He exhaled, slow and controlled, as though steadying himself now, "You have never been kissed. That is not a flaw, Mari. It is a gift no one has yet earned. And if.. if, you ever allow me near enough to try, I would not treat it as another conquest. I would treat it as the beginning of something I have never had the courage to want before. Permanence. Patience. Learning you, slowly, without rushing, without demanding more than you choose to give."
His voice dropped to a near-whisper, raw with something he had never allowed himself to feel aloud, "I cannot promise I will never falter. But I can promise this... I will not grow bored of you. Because boredom requires indifference, and I have been anything but indifferent since the moment you looked at me like I was beneath your notice. You challenge me. You anger me. You make me question every choice I have ever made that led me here, standing before you, asking for a chance I know I do not deserve."
He paused, searching her face, "If that is not enough, if the shadow of my past is too long, too dark, then tell me. I will walk away tonight and carry the regret alone. But if there is even the smallest part of you that believes a man can change, not for the ton, not for propriety, but because one woman has made him want to be better... then let me prove it. One step. One day. One moment at a time."
The music slowed toward its final bars. Couples began to drift from the floor, laughter rising anew.
Cassian made no move to touch her, no move to claim her hand or press his advantage. He simply stood there, tall, shadowed, and for once utterly without artifice, waiting for the verdict she alone could deliver.
Mari’s eyes flicked between his, searching the green depths as though they might betray him before his words could. The debate played out across her face, push further, or let the fragile thread between them snap under its own weight.
Reluctantly, she asked, voice barely above the fading notes of the dance, "My brother saw you the other night, after the musicale. He said you were leaving with a dark-haired woman in a maroon dress, said he has seen you with her before." She paused, searching his face with an intensity that made the ballroom feel suddenly too small. Her voice went quieter, almost a whisper, "Did you take her to bed that night?"
Cassian did not flinch.
He did not look away.
But something shifted in the set of his jaw, the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth, like a man bracing for a blow he had known was coming.
For several long seconds he said nothing, letting the question settle between them like lead. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of every ounce of its usual velvet charm.
"Yes."
The single word landed like a stone in still water.
No hesitation. No evasion. Just the truth, plain and brutal. He watched her face as it registered, watched the flicker of hurt, the quick hardening that followed, the way her breath caught and held. He did not try to soften it with excuses or pretty lies, "Not that night, but I have prior... That night, I walked her to her carriage." He continued quietly, eyes never leaving hers, "She is a widow of long acquaintance, someone who has never asked for more than an evening's distraction, and whom I have never pretended to offer more. We spoke in the street for a moment. Then I sent her home alone. I returned to my own house. Alone."
He drew a slow breath, as though the admission cost him more than he had anticipated, "I will not lie to you, Mari. Not now. Not when you have finally asked something real. That night I did not take her, or anyone, to bed. But as I have stated, I have done so in the past. With her. With others. I have lived exactly the life you accused me of living, and I will carry that until the day I die."
Mari's jaw clenches once, she looks down, eyes closing for a mere second before her head lifts again.
His hands flexed at his sides, the only outward sign of the tension coiling through him, "But since the night you first looked at me with that cool disdain on Lady Harrington's terrace, I have not touched another woman. Not once. Not her. Not anyone. I told myself it was pride at first, refusing to prove you right. Then it became something else. Something I could not ignore."
He stepped the smallest fraction closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper meant only for her, "I am not asking you to forgive what I was. I am asking you to see what I have not done since I met you. If that is still not enough, if the truth of one night three weeks ago outweighs every night I have spent alone since, then tell me. I will accept it. I will go."
She swallows, "It is not.. I-" She cuts herself off, eyes growing glossy with emotion she's not exactly used to feeling.
His gaze held hers, raw and steady, the storm in his eyes no longer hidden behind amusement or challenge, "If you want more than my word, if you need proof beyond what I can give in a crowded ballroom, then ask me anything. Demand anything. I will answer. I will show you. Because I am done pretending this is a game I can walk away from."
The orchestra struck up the supper dance. Couples began to pair off, the room shifting around them like a tide. Cassian made no move to claim her hand. He simply waited, exposed, patient, and for the first time utterly without armor, while the weight of her next words decided everything.
Mari's voice faltered, the words tumbling out in fragments as though each one cost her more composure, "I do not know what to ask—or how to—" She stopped, shaking her head, hair shifting against the sapphire silk of her gown, "I have never felt a pull toward someone like this." She drew in a breath, trying to steady herself, "But I am fiercely loyal to my family. I do not wish to bring scandal upon their name, especially if I am to take yours. I just..." She hesitated, searching for the right words, blue eyes flickering with something raw and unguarded, "Tell me something, anything, you have never said or felt before, because I—" She inhaled shakily, "I feel as though my head is spinning."
Cassian stood utterly still, the noise of the ballroom, the laughter, the clink of glasses, the lilting strains of the supper dance, fading to a dull roar in his ears. Her admission struck him harder than any refusal ever had.
Not anger. Not disdain. Something far more dangerous, vulnerability. From her.
He swallowed once, the sound audible only to himself.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter than it had ever been in her presence, low, rough, almost reverent, "I have never been afraid of losing before." He said, the confession slipping free like a secret he had kept locked behind every smirk, every careless night, "Not truly. I have lost fortunes at cards, duels, reputations, none of it ever kept me awake. I told myself nothing mattered enough to fear its absence. Until you."
"Me?" She questions, like she still cannot believe this is even happening.
His gaze held hers, stripped bare, no trace of the rake's practiced charm left to hide behind, "I lie awake thinking of your refusals, not because they wound my pride, but because each one reminds me how easily I could lose the one thing I suddenly cannot imagine living without. I have never felt this... ache. This certainty that if you walk away tonight, if you choose safety and family and the quiet life you have always guarded, I will spend the rest of my days wondering what it would have been like to be the man worthy of your yes."
Her breath hitches, and if feels like her knees are about to give out as those words slammed into her.
He drew a slow, unsteady breath, the first time she had ever seen his composure truly fracture, "I have never wanted to be better for anyone. Not my father, not my title, not the ton's good opinion. But for you... I want to be the man who deserves to stand beside you at supper, at dawn, at every quiet moment no one else will ever see. I want to learn how to wait. How to listen. How to prove, not with grand declarations, but with every small, unglamorous choice that says I choose you. Only you."
"Only me?"
His hands remained at his sides, fingers curling once as though fighting the urge to reach for her. But he nods, "I do not ask you to decide tonight. I do not ask you to risk scandal or your family's name. I ask only that you let me stay near enough, properly, publicly, patiently, to show you I mean every word. Let me court you the way you deserve, slowly, honorably, without pressure. Let me earn the right to be the man who never makes you question whether you are enough."
The music swelled to its close. Couples began drifting toward the supper rooms, the crowd thinning around them, yet neither moved.
Cassian's voice dropped to the barest whisper, meant only for her, "If my head is spinning too, Mari, it is because I have finally found something, someone, worth being terrified of losing. And I will wait as long as it takes for you to decide whether I am worth the risk."
He offered no bow, no flourish. He simply stood there, tall, shadowed, and heartbreakingly honest, waiting for whatever she would give him next, another refusal, a fragile opening, or silence that might mean everything.
She inhaled slowly, blinking away the gloss that had gathered in her eyes. She nodded once, the motion small but resolute. Her voice was barely there, fragile as spun glass, "Okay."
His eyes widened a little bit, but he doesn't rush her. He lets her explain what that okay means.
She draws another breath as though testing the weight of the word she had just given him, "Okay. If you wish to prove that you can court someone properly, then court only me. See only me. One woman, no others."
Her gaze steadied, locking onto his with a clarity that cut through the lingering haze of emotion, "No more of that rake debauchery."
The supper dance had ended, the room was emptying toward the long tables set with silver and crystal, yet Cassian felt the world narrow to the space between them. Her words settled over him like a vow he had not expected to hear, not tonight, perhaps not ever. Relief and something sharper, more profound, moved through his chest in the same breath.
He did not smile triumphantly. He did not reach for her hand or press any advantage. Instead, he bowed, slowly, deeply, the gesture formal and reverent, the first time he had offered her such unadorned respect without a trace of mockery.
When he rose, his gray eyes were steady, unguarded in a way they had never been before, "I accept your terms, Mari." He said quietly, voice low enough that only she could hear, "From this moment, there is no one else. No other woman. No late-night visits, no whispered assignations, no fleeting comforts to fill the hours I once spent so carelessly. Only you."
She nods, and he straightened fully, shoulders squaring as though the promise itself reshaped him, "I will call upon you tomorrow afternoon, if your family will permit it... Properly, with a card and a chaperone and every expectation of decorum. I will walk with you in the gardens, sit across from you at tea, listen when you speak of your paintings or your writings or the things that make you brood and laugh in equal measure. I will prove it not with grand declarations in crowded rooms, but with every ordinary, unglamorous day that follows."
A small smile twitches at her lips, and that pulls a faint, almost tentative curve to touch his mouth, not the rake's smirk, but something softer, more honest.
"And if I ever falter, if even once you suspect I have strayed from the path you have set, I give you leave to end it. No explanations owed. No second chances begged. I will disappear from your life as completely as I once promised." He glanced briefly toward the supper rooms, where her family would soon be gathering, then back to her, "For tonight, I will not ask for your hand at the table, or for a dance, or for anything more than this single word you have given me. I will escort you to your mother and brothers if you wish it, or I will withdraw now and let you breathe."
His gaze searched hers once more, tender in its intensity, "But know this, I have never wanted anything as much as I want to be worthy of that 'okay.' Thank you for giving me the chance to try."
He waited, patient as he had promised to be, for her to decide what came next, whether she would take his arm for the short walk across the room, or send him away until tomorrow, or simply stand there a moment longer while the weight of their new beginning settled between them like quiet dawn light.
Mari straightened, her fingers smoothing the sapphire silk of her skirts in a small, deliberate motion that betrayed the lingering tremor in her hands. She exhaled softly, the sound almost lost beneath the murmur of departing dancers and the clink of silverware from the adjoining supper rooms, "I would like to sit with you at supper."
Cassian's breath caught, only for a heartbeat, but she saw it, the brief flicker across his features, surprise giving way to something warmer, quieter, more profound than triumph. He did not smile broadly, instead, the curve of his mouth was slow, almost careful, as though he feared startling the fragile agreement between them.
"Then we shall sit together." He said, voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a promise renewed, "Properly. In full view of the ton, with your family nearby if they wish it. No shadows. No secrets. Just supper, conversation, and the beginning of whatever this may become."
She gives him a nod, "That is right."
He offered his arm then, not with flourish, but with quiet formality, elbow bent just so, palm open in invitation rather than demand. The gesture was correct in every way the etiquette books required, yet it felt heavier, more intimate, than any touch they had shared before.
"If you will permit me..." He murmured, eyes meeting hers with gentle steadiness, "I will escort you to the supper room now. Your mother and brothers will see us approach together. They will have questions, I expect them, and I will answer whatever they ask with the truth."
She takes his arm, shifting to stand next to him, "And what truth would that be, my lord?"
"That I have asked for the privilege of courting you, and you have granted me the chance to prove myself worthy." Then did he turn, guiding her toward the wide double doors that led to the long tables aglow with candlelight and crystal.
As they walked, he kept his pace measured, matching hers perfectly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, to pull away. But he spoke again, softer, for her ears alone.
"Thank you, Mari. Not for the supper, for the trust you are extending, however small it may feel in this moment. I will not squander it."
The supper room opened before them, tables laden with cold meats, glistening fruits, delicate pastries, and decanters of wine. Heads turned as they entered, matrons with raised brows, gentlemen exchanging knowing glances, whispers threading through the air like silk ribbons.
Near the center, Mari's family had already claimed a long table, her mother's sharp gaze found them first, followed by Elijah's narrowed eyes and Vincent's protective frown. Her younger sister looked up with wide, curious delight.
Cassian paused at the threshold, giving her one last quiet look, reassuring, patient, before leading her forward.
"Your family awaits." He said gently, "Shall we face them together?"
Let's Get More Loving (Big) Families in Regency Fiction
Bridgerton the show did better than the Bridgerton books at showing us a family that cared about each other despite disagreements, and frankly, I give a lot of the credit for that to the actors who played the Bridgertons seemingly getting along really well offset and that transferring to onscreen.
But as someone from a big family that cared about each other (plus a pretty caring extended family on one side), it was cringe-inducing to read the Bridgerton books and watch a lot of the "family" moments on the show. And I've tried a lot of other Regency-family series besides the Bridgertons and every time it's cringe-inducing. (Same thing with fantasy series that try to portray a big family.)
And when you read letters from the Regency period, it's pretty obvious that (OF COURSE) just like now, there were families who loved each other and cared about each other and actually supported each other and families who couldn't stand each other.
Little ways Bridgerton did give us this:
Benedict and Eloise smoking together in the garden.
The 3 older boys taunting each other from time to time.
Anthony eventually supporting Benedict's love life.
Anthony supporting Benedict's career (TERRIBLE way to do it, but Anthony is a disaster, so no surprise lol).
Gregory and Hyacinth acting super typical for their age and being adorably at each other's throats one minute and co-curious besties the next. (Okay, 'besties' might be an overstatement.)
Ways Regency fiction/fantasy can do so much better:
Siblings who have regular co-conspirator relationships. Imagine if Colin and Daphne regularly teamed up against Anthony.
The Intelligence Grapevine that almost always exists in a family with more than a few kids, unless they're hugely separated in age and super hate each other.
Brothers! Who! Support! Their! Sisters'! Choices! (I need to write a whole post on this lol.)
Sisters being just as protective of their brothers not getting bad girlfriends/wives as the brothers are of their sisters not getting bad husbands.
.....so this list is definitely going to get long enough to require its own post lolll.
So yes, anyway, I just want big families in Regency fiction portrayed better!
On that note, I'm off to start writing a Regency fantasy series that actually does this, just to satisfy myself.
I never believed someone could legit "catch a severe chill" as the romance authors described but it seems I am stricken and as per the rules I must now die honorably so my spouse can marry the protagonist
As a rare, treasured, Omega male, you were raised with the knowledge that one day you would be mated to the highest bidder, to someone important, and as a result you were always taught the highest of society manners, used to soft fabrics on your skin, fine linen shirts and luxurious silk scarves, soft leather gloves and high quality woolen coats.
You only wanted to make a match with an Alpha who would take good care of you, regardless of his high standing in society.
When the first suitor came to your parents London home, you could feel the ton stirring with excitement. But he looked at you like a piece of meat. You couldn’t refuse though, it would be social suicide. You obligingly went to society balls with him, played cards, idly flittered about like a mindless little thing, like they expected you to be. Even though it made you want to rage against the confines of this pretty gilded cage. When you went to get air, the Alpha who was courting you joined you on the balcony, and his breath stank of alcohol. It was a little nauseating, and you’d not been left alone enough with drunk Alphas before.
When he tried to touch your neck, your neck- You startled away, hand pressed to your chest in shock, and he let out an annoyed growl. You stepped backwards, towards the glass doors, unable to face away from him lest he pounce when your back was turned, when he let out another growl, trying to command you to stay put.
The answering growl from right behind you had you nearly faint. The Alpha behind you was gentleman enough to avoid touching you as he moved in front of you, teeth bared at your former suitor.
“You do yourself and your family a disservice, Milford. Best you hurry on home and explain why you tried to violate an Omega’s personal and private space in the middle of dinner.” He snarled, voice loud enough to carry back into the room, where dukes and marquesses peered in keen interest out into the darkness of the night.
“I- Why I- This is all your fault! You should have let me have what is mine.” He snarled, pointing a finger at you, making you shy away, heat rising in your cheeks.
“Well I never.” “What a vile young man.” “Best he join the army, there’ll be not a family who would let him near their Omegas.”
The crowd were certainly disgusted with him, and the Alpha protecting you simply let out another deep growl, causing you to back up further into the room, where one of the Omega dowagers took your hand, guiding you into a more sheltered tea room where other Omegas fretted and primped and preened over the drama and romance of it all. You were shaken, carefully taking the tea that was offered to you.
After ten minutes, one of the younger Beta girls came hurrying into the room, eyes alight with excitement.
“You won’t believe it! Sir Milford was thrown out of the dinner by his grace the Duke of Donn! And now the Duke is coming back upstairs- we think he wants to speak with you!” She chirped, taking your hand with delight.
You blink, before realising that a duke was coming to see you. A startled noise leaves you as you quickly stand and make yourself presentable.
A gentle knock on the door had everyone whispering with excitement, yourself and the four other Omegas and three Beta girls all falling quiet as you opened the door to the Alpha.
“Forgive my impudence earlier, in coming to your rescue without your requesting it. I am Lord Sigtryggr, Duke of Donn, third cousin four times removed from the king. May I have the honour of knowing your name?”
Without even realising your brain had given your mouth permission to speak, you’d told him your name, and title. Being the son of a minor earl wasn’t the worst fate, but you knew you were hardly the highest ranking in his encounters. He bowed, all the same, and took your hand to kiss.
You felt a noise leave your throat, a soft little purr, and all the girls cooed, the Omega dowager making a noise in her throat akin to a laugh, and the duke straightened up.
“Mother, there is no need to laugh.” He scolded the dowager, who responded by shooting a glare his way. He couldn’t look away from you though, and you were sure that before the end of the season, he would be yours.
