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Trigger Warnings: Implied violence, sexual thoughts and some emotional abuse.
Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.
He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.
He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.
In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.
He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.
He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
Night falls dark and still over the landscape brushed with snow. Westwell’s gardens seemed crushed under the icy weight.
It seemed the heavy blanketing of it muffled and blotted out all sound. But it’s a peaceful intrusion.
The huge square windows of Westwell Manor are flaked with frost and each square of glass glimmers gold with the tall candle holder placed in each one. A stick of fire and gold warding off that indigo night that shrouded heavy and deep in the sky above. Trying to spill into the window.
Iris is sat in her small bedroom. A tomb or a cell, really, was how it felt to her some days. Wall to wall draped in pretty Morris flowered wallpaper of white sprawling flowers with navy and blue birds and country vines.
Her double bed with twisting pillars of dark mahogany twine up to the wheat thick canopy that is draped over it. The mattress is layered in a fluffy champagne coloured eiderdown and white embroidered scalloped-lace pillows. The floors are dark walnut wood, and they creak wildly. Groaning. Cold and heat seeps easily through the cracks between them in winter. Chilling her toes. And in summer the warmth of the creaking cracking house bleeds upwards.
The walls of her bedroom are sparse but some have photo frames of embroidery or pressed flowers she’s collected over the years held neatly in small wooden frames. She has a small stool by her bed with the tapered candle lit on a brass holder. Apricot flame coming off the long drip of the Chantilly candle. Casting pools of orange up the warm-ivory-bone of the walls. A jug of dried wildflowers sat on that little stool spices up the air. Dried lavender and clary sage, wild shasta daisies and a green-pink hydrangea bulb. Her little stack of modestly worn books lay piled neatly on the floor next to her bed.
Iris is sat at her dresser, pulled near the window. With the roaring fireplace just to her left. Above the mantel hung a gilded mirror on the chain. Candlesticks alight, set on the dresser and on the alcove of the sash window. Two candles flank the oval of the mirror she’s sat looking into.
Mother is behind her, dressed and ready in her purple muslin gown and her white fichu. Stabbing pins into her daughters hair. Every time she sticks in another pin, Iris winces. Blinks through the stinging pain of it. She was attempting a more fashionable colonial coiffure. Easier to produce.
“Your hair is much too thick to curl properly.” Her mother addresses her idly. Snappily. Tugging back a section back behind her ear.
“Posy and Flora have much finer hair.” She offers.
As ever. Iris doesn’t know what to say to that. Should she offer an apology? Should she agree? Disagree? She fails to know how to be.
So she remains silent and watches her mother’s reflection in the looking glass as she almost crossly dresses her hair.
Caroline Ashton was maturely beautiful woman. With skin as clear as fine porcelain - like smooth cream. Even if sporting wrinkles by her mouth and eyes belying her later age. She had hair exactly the same as Iris’s. Except her mother’s was such an opulent shade of cinnamon-black. Stroked with streaks of silver like lightning bolts had struck through. Her eyes were clear silver. Two discs of shining moonstone. Very mysterious eyes, Iris had always thought.
Lately those eyes seemed permanently hardened over like rainstorms. Clouded over with disappointment at her eldest.
Always wishing she could do more to see more of the love that used to linger there. Nowadays it seemed like Caroline could only look at her and see the blemishes. Only see the wrongs.
The frown lines seemed deeper. The cutting remarks appeared more frequent. She was always telling her to sit up straighter, correcting her posture. Smoothing out the wrinkles in her dresses. Always picking. Forever finding something lacking.
Iris likes to think she was doing it out of an abundance of love. But it’s becoming clearer and clearer to her that it’s really about the opposite. It’s not about her wanting to provide for Posy or Flora or Father.
It’s purely selfish. It’s all about her ensuring they don’t lose any respect in the ever omnipotent eyes of society.
If her mother thought less about their image; perhaps Iris could love her more.
As it is. Coldness and distance lay weighty between them. Thicker and frostier than the snow outside. The ground between their geniality and affection lay strewn and twined with thick vines of barbed thorns. No way to tread such hallowed ground without drawing blood.
“Posy and Flora have had their hair in bows all day.” She points out. She shuts her eyes and grits her teeth as another pin slams into her skull. Yanking her hair right at the roots.
“And they’ve taken all week to fret over choosing their dresses.” Iris adds.
She looks up to see those steel swords of mama’s eyes cutting into her in the reflection. Mouth was a grim line.
“You should know by know what’s expected of you, Iris. And not take the matter so lightheartedly.” She warns.
“They can take balls seriously, as real chances of finding matrimony. Why can’t you?” She asks with a cruel tone.
“Mama. Flora and Posy haven’t taken anything seriously since they day they were born.” Iris insults plainly. Speaking truth.
“You know they only delight in attending ball’s and assemblies because they wish to make greater spectacles of themselves in front of soldiers from the militia, and get flirted with, by any creature sporting breeches.” She adds.
“Atleast they try.” Caroline cuts in.
“And I do not?” Iris asks. Flatly exasperated. She huffs.
“You only danced with three men at last months assembly. It’s simply not good enough. You must try harder. Your sisters may have prettiness and confidence in unholy abundance. And they apply it. You wither away and that will never gain you a husband. For heavens sake- What upstanding man wants to marry the silent wallflower?” She declares gruffly.
She fiddles with her new satin gloves sloped in her lap. Her dress was ivory silk printed with frail gold flowers and embroidered scalloping on the hem.
There’s Van Dyke pointed lacing around her neckline and the same embroidered trim on the three-quarter sleeves. White helped ‘lift’ her ash eyes apparantly. It was fresh out it’s box from the dressmakers, Madame Larousse, on Pembleton high street. Indian printed silk and Italian lace. The most expensive fabric in stock.
Their maid, Julia, had earlier laced her stays so tightly over her cotton chemise, Iris worried she broke several ribs. Her nails stung into the wood of her bed post.
Mother was stood getting her gown ready on the other side of the room. Watching her eldest have the breath thumped right out of her lungs. “Tighter.” She ordered. Iris clutched a hand at her stomach.
“A man could go a long way without seeing a bust like yours Iris. We must take advantage of it.” She comments wryly. Julia tugs tighter on the strings. Iris’s jaw clenched all the more.
By the time she’s finished her waist is tucked right in and her breasts clasped high on her chest, almost so high they hit her chin and there’s scant space between her cleavage and her areole tumbling free, this gown is so low cut.
She tugs it up higher when mother isn’t looking. Spectacles of her fertility not quite on such prominent display now.
She fancied this silk of it was so fine and thin - and clung so tight to her body, one breath of wind would closely reveal her wide hips. And doubtless her chemise and garters could be glimpsed through the thin sheer sheen of it.
And here she was now, submitting to her mothers inspection and brutal torture. Laced up in her silken gown. With her best stockings, and slippers. Earlobes dropping pearls, and a head full of silver decorative pins and an ivory comb.
Speaking of which, the latter is just being wrestled into the weave of her coiffured braided bun, at the back.
“There...” Her mother says. Fussing with a few strays. Tucking them in where they should belong. As she picks at Iris’s mud hued hair. She idly asks her questions.
“Will you be dancing with Armitage tonight?” She asks. Insinuated, more likely.
Iris averts her eyes and pats the back of her hair. Checking it in the glass.
“Will he be in attendance?” She asks offhand. As if she had no clue.
“Of course he will. Brendol knows the Hearst’s very intimately.” Her mother shrilled.
“You will dance the first minuet with him and I’ll hear no more fuss about the matter.” She orders. Cold eyes finding her daughters in the mirror.
Armitage Hux was the son of a strict local army colonel. Tall, dashing, hair as brilliant as copper and eyes as cool as teal sea-foam in contrast. He was lean and willowy in stature. Always bedecked finely in his uniform. Buttons gleaming, blushing blood of a red coat brushed and pressed to within an inch of it’s life.
He’s not a bad man - he doesn’t drink or laugh at her. Or try and fondle her in a darkened corner.
He just strikes Iris as being incredibly vain and undeniably haughty. He thinks all the world should be owed to him.
He only wanted to talk medals and glory and rank. How he was a model soldier. And so admired the bravery of gunfire and glory in battle. He’d never even seen battle - his father bought him a conscription and shook hands and pulled favours to get him a high rank in the military. Sergeant Hux, he now was.
He didn’t seem to be able to equate soldiers and uniforms and weapons with actual war or combat. But liked to boast about how deadly he was. His sharp reflexes. His skill as a swordsman and marksman. Iris felt like stuffing cotton in her ears - or sticking her eyes with pins all night - anything but listen to Armitage spew out his toy soldier reveries.
“He is a very agreeable man. You would do well to land him, Iris. He would make a most affable husband and a good match.”
“I barely know him, Mama.” Iris pointed out.
“You don’t need to know him. That is no hindrance to a proposal of marriage.” She says crossly. “You need not know your husband. You merely have to do your wifely duties by him.” She reminds.
My duty of keeping my mouth shut and my legs and womb wide open, Iris thinks.
“I thought I heard he was courting Mary Simpson?” Iris pipes up. Uncurling two tendrils of delicate hair from in front of her ears.
“She has barely a thousand pounds a year. Brendol would never stand for him marrying such a girl.” Caroline declares mightily. Speaking in derision of the girl who was beneath them in every sense.
“Besides. Lord Hearst says there will apparently be a very rich gentleman from the continent in attendance tonight too. A Lord Ren, from Bavaria. It would do well to seek him out.”
“Every matronly mama worth her salt will be throwing their daughters in his path. I do hope he doesn’t trip on the sheer number of them crushed underfoot.” Iris says lightly. Pulling on her gloves.
“And if he is a Lord, why has he deigned in all his lofty power to grace us with his presence, and to come to a small county rather than go to vastly over stocked marriage mart in London?” Iris questions.
“Don’t be so blockish, Iris. Maybe he has business here to attend. Mrs Wilson told me this morning that he’s bought Hellford Park out in its entirety. Now that takes an extraordinary fortune.” She corrects.
Iris looks directly at her mother. She spies the gleam of want in her eyes. The hunger that such a sum she could snatch up in her hands.
“Lord’s marry Heiresses to sugar mills who are poised for ten thousand pounds, or widowed old Duchesses with vast crumbling estates. Why would he in his lofty state and means, lower himself to wed a girl of simple country gentry, with a barely three thousand pound dowry?” Iris sarks.
Mama gives her a pointed look. Like a ream of needles pressing in her skin.
“Then you will make a even better spectacle in front of him. And show him how elegant and courteous country girls can be and see if you can’t win him over that way.” She insists direly. As if she were plotting a serious military offensive.
“If he is a Lord, he will be titled. Titled means landed money and dignity.” Her hair is yanked yet again. “He could well be the answer to all our prayers.”
Your prayers, Iris points out rudely inside her head.
“He could be a hideous old letch.” Iris says, rightly.
Mother stabs one final pin into her head. As if in revenge. “Looks aren’t everything- Money. Station, and respect? That is forever enduring.”
So are things like love, intimacy, friendship and happiness. Those things endure too. But Iris can’t imagine her acerbic mother has ever felt happy or loved a day in her life; she likes to think her marriage, when it comes, shall be different.
She ends the conversation on that dazzling note. Iris’s scalp is on sore-fire by now.
The door opposite them creaks as it’s burst open. Impending footsteps barrelling down the creaking floorboards of the corridor shortly before signalled their arrival. Flora and Posy.
Fully gowned and gloved and perfumed to high heaven, with their hair pulled in elaborate coiffures on their heads. They had perfect curls. Perfect flounces and ruffles on their dresses. Cheeks a healthy pink. Eyes wild bright with excitement.
They look like blooming silk roses in a summer garden. Iris feels more and more like a singed daisy in her own gown.
Flora was dressed in a cobalt muslin, with a roller print of dandelions laid in pinstripes down the fabric. Posy was in a demure blush pink cotton. With lace trim tumbling over the neckline. And Iris sees she wins the honour of wearing the rose silk slippers. Flora is in some ivory ones that have seen more mends and fixes than is earthly possible. For silk slippers didn’t come cheap.
Both her sisters have much lighter colouring; they both still have the chowder grey Ashton eyes.
Flora’s hair however, is darkly mousy brown. Golden like toffee leaves that come off the trees in autumn. Posy is far more chestnut red. Blazing bonfires and russet red embers. Overall more enchanting than that of Iris twigs and sticky-mud hued locks.
They are a barrage of noise and silliness as they barge into Iris’s room. Flora flops onto the end of the well made bed and Posy nosily inspects herself in the looking glass over the fireplace. Preening. Voices overlapping.
“Mama! Did I tell you what Fleur told me earlier today?” Posy insists. Flora speaks louder over her, in order to be heard.
“Mama....Have you seen my pink silk shawl for I’m sure I left it in the drawing room.”
“I haven’t seen your shawl, Flora. You should take better care. And what did Fleur say, my dear?” Caroline asks in a soft voice.
Whilst fixing strayed hairs at Iris’s nape. Pulling and pinching. She had no softness reserved in store for Iris. She rather wants to roll her eyes at that.
“There will be a gentleman of certain lordly magnificence at the ball tonight.” Posy sing-songs. Aiming her teasing words at Iris. Who gives her a cutting look at her bubbly behaviour. Steel daggers made of her grey eyes.
“He’s said to be most handsome, sable haired, and devilishly tall. And he’s single. And Lord Hearst says he’s a recluse who barely leaves his castle, so we’re very honoured he’s coming and he has eighty-thousand a year.” She awards with great enthusiasm. Flora giggles.
“Maybe you should set your cap at him, Iris.” Flora jabs teasingly. “We could all be vastly improved by such a match you know. I could finally stop wearing these hideous thin old slippers.”
Iris wished to point out that she wasn’t being induced into matrimony merely to vastly improve the quality and state of her siblings footwear.
And quite wondered if he sister knew all that she’d have to undertake in making such a match - all she’d have to give up to be some man’s wife. All she’d have to do-
“She won’t. For she’s already got a suitor whose madly in love with her.” Posy insists.
“Hux is not in love with me, Posy. Don’t be ridiculous.” Iris says. For starters she wasn’t his red uniform or his army commission. Those were the things he was resolutely enamoured with.
Standing from the dresser as she speaks, and going to where her new slippers were laid out by the maid on the bed. Flora eyes the silk things with jealous disdain. Iris fixes her satin gloves up over her elbows. Disappearing under her sleeves. Mother is too busy fussing with Posy’s neckline - tugging it up to cover more of her second youngest’s chest. She protested so at the action.
Iris took the opportunity to slide a small pearl hair comb into Flora’s hand. Her favourite one. The one with coral flowers and paste amber gems on it.
Iris flickers a look over the mother and a silent understanding passes between the sisters. ‘Put it in, in the coach in the dark. So she doesn’t see.’
Flora smiles awfully wide up at her sister. Grateful that she shared out her pretty things. Flora was the youngest - the youngest daughter deserved nice trinkets too.
“If you’re all ready we’d best be off soon. The roads are icy. It will take an age. I won’t have us be late.” Mama orders out to all her girls.
She turns her head to Iris “Fetch your things and the velvet cloak. And for heavens sake don’t be long. We don’t have all night.” She frets.
Marching out the room after rearranging some of Posy’s curls. Barking at Flora as she passed to fix the wrinkle in her gloves. The door grated and whines as she shuts it, lock rattling in the frame.
Iris savours the silence - the crackling of the fire. The owl hooting off in the tree tops outside her window. She lets it soothe her. Let’s out the deepest sigh as they’re now left alone.
She crosses to her wooden wardrobe cabinet by the door, and opens the door to search for her blue velvet cloak. She throws it around her shoulders and ties it up. Posy hands her sister her cream silk reticule.
“She just wants you to marry well.” Posy says with some attempt at comforting.
Iris nods, glumly stroking her sisters hand in thanks. Looking into her earnest young face. Still so full of innocence and hope.
Her heart shaped little face so full of impish naivety.
“She might do not to make me feel exclusively like a breeding mare to be sold to the highest bidder for marriage at every conceivable turn.” Iris says wryly.
Angrily shoving a meagre few possessions into her reticule from her dresser. She looks down at her empty dance card that mother would see absolutely filled with names by the end of the night.
She wipes away an angry tear from the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that Flora gives her. Her anger crowded and crackled the room. These two didn’t deserve her ire, after all.
She sighs yet again. Letting the churning anger eating at her bleed out. Frustration filtering away. She plasters on a smile. Posy steps forwards to her exasperated sister.
“Can I borrow your diamond droplet earrings? They’d go very well with my dress...” She asks coyly. With her hands behind her back.
Iris rolls her eyes. Maybe they did deserve just a little bit of ire after all-
“You are both enormous pests.” She says. Guiding them out her room.
“Come on. Lest we hold mother up and I don’t much fancy our chances then.”
She corrals her pests of sisters downstairs. Makes sure they too are cloaked and ready. They have their gloves and she does uncurl Posy’s palm as they’re heading out the door, dropping the diamond and earrings into them. They sparkle in the moonlight.
“Lose them and mother will have your head.” She whispers to her in caution as they alight the warmth of the house into the cold sting of the night air.
Snow crushed under their slippers as they make for the coach. Slipping to step up inside the cold wooden enclave of it. Rubbing their cold hands together to create some heat.
It was just the Ashton ladies in attendance tonight. Father cared little for balls. Something mother sniped at him for regularly. Ernest Ashton would far rather stay home of a night with his ledgers and his books and his brandy than subject himself to the silly gossip and frivolity of idiotic society people present at balls.
Her father was a tall, quiet man. Sturdy and aged as an old oak. Strong and strapping figure even in his later years. He quietly took interest in the world where her mothers inclination was to devour it.
He had an open broad face. With tame blue eyes and thick greying hair. He was a studious man. Often kept to his study or the gardens. He enjoyed his ornithology and his Entomology books. He collected butterflies. All pinned out in cases in his study. Lining the walls.
It was a place she found infinite comfort in. Wandering into her fathers study. His entomology collection like dots of silken colour in their cases. Old leather books and volumes and manuscripts. Edifying proud in their papery silence. The old wood of his desk worn by years and years. The smell of the study. Of old leather and pipe tobacco. And peppermints from the little jar he kept on his desk.
He didn’t press Iris in the same way her mother always prevails to do. But then she sees the frayed gems and worn and mended holes in his clothes. The faded material in his waistcoat. How he hasn’t bought himself new shoes in two years.
That’s how she can put up with every snipe and every cross word that spits out her mothers mouth.
Iris sometimes quite wondered how her parents ever stood each other for any length of time to bear any children. They were entirely separate people whose interests did not align. They agreed on very little. And settled for that.
It’s so cold in the coach they can see their breath as they bump and shift along the icy roads. Trees make terrible dark shapes in the near distance, beyond the frosted glass of the coach door window. Iris sits, peering out. Watching the full bowl of the moon slither white off the silver and black landscape. Off the snowy fields and perched on the roofs of the hamlet of houses they pass by.
The carriage crawls slow up the winding drive of the Hearst’s three acre estate. Horses hooves hitting the hard paved path. Clopping in the night air. Skipping over the frost. They’re but mere minutes from exiting the coach, when mother decides to speak up and issue a few last desperate words of strict orders upon her eldest;
“Take every opportunity Iris. I won’t have it said in the gossip sheets tomorrow that you didn’t even try.” Caroline insists. Fussing with her own thick muslin cloak draped over her lap.
Iris looked at her mother then. Across the dark carriage as she tuts at the specks of lint sullying Flora’s cloak where she’s sat next to her. Picking it away.
She strongly suspected Caroline Ashton could have the whole world in her palm or on a string; and even then she’d find fault in it. Pluck displeasing bits of it out like loose threads.
She has that irate frown darkening her features. Cloudy set in her eyes. Posy’s little gloved hand reached across and held her sisters tight. Squeezing it in comfort sat there in the dark. Iris turns and looks to see Posy’s heart shaped face beaming up at her.
“You should let us introduce you to Captain Clifford’s friends Iris. They really are the most splendid fun. I’ve heard many of them say they quite fancy you, you know.” Posy grins. Whispering hushed to her sister to keep her spirits buoyant.
Iris strokes her hand and she can’t help smiling. More at her always sunny hopes. How bright her outlook on life was. She saw ball’s for the fun they were meant to be.
A dance, a party, a celebration.
Posy wasn’t yet tarnished by the knowledge that her hopes for future happiness depended on her behaving well and taking things seriously. It stopped being fun and became a chore. Iris lost her starry eyed wonder about ball’s years ago.
She hoped she could help Posy keep her gleaming eyed wonder and fun for just that bit longer. She would suffer every second of misery to keep it that way if she must.
She squeezes her hand back. “Thankyou. That’s very sweet. But I fear I shall be otherwise engaged in dances.” She excuses.
Besides, most of the young Militia men she met were very wet behind the ears. And all madly enamoured with exhausting dances and infatuated with every beautiful young lady in attendance. Declaring they fell head over heels with every girl they so much as walk past. She finds their overeagerness and exuberance a little trying.
Before long, they draw up the grand old stone columns abutting the front of the huge house.
An immense hulking beast of a thing. Lit with autumn-blaze torches in the night. The coach lurches to a creaking uneven stop. Jolting. And a helpful gold liveried footman in a powdered wig steps to and opens the door to help the ladies out.
Caroline doesn’t even glance at the man. Looks right through him. Flora flutters a flirty smile. Posy and Iris offer a polite snippet of thanks.
The Ashton ladies make their way up the torch lit steps and into the greatly heaving bustling foyer of the Hearst’s grand house.
Renford Manor was one of the finest houses in the county. The gardens were splendid. There was a maze and a famed marble garden gazebo.
A great split imperial staircase opens into the large cool foyer. All ivory marble. Hues of Eggshell and ice. Imposing, echoing and cold. Footsteps rattle like claps up to the ceiling. Distant notes of the small orchestra float through the air like zipping flapping insects.
Everything glimmers. The chandeliers that drip with gold and crystal. The old pearl and sharp onyx pointed tiles on the floor look like they’ve been scrubbed raw. They gleam almost too brightly.
They hand over their cloaks to more footmen to be put away. Letting their ball gown splendour come forth. Iris is almost crushed by the amount of people there are in attendance here tonight. Lady Hearst was known to stuff her parties to the seams. The whole county, and all of the two neighbouring ones, had most likely been invited.
Mama encourages them all up the staircase. Idly smiling greetings in passing to her matrons of her acquaintance. Iris skims one hand along the smooth cold of the marble banister. Holding her skirts up as her slippered feet hit each step. Steps firm and steady.
They come to one of the big main ballrooms. Looking through the scope of many double doors, leading onto another room and the next and the next furniture pushed aside. There was such a crush of so many ladies and numerous gentlemen packed in. Coats of all colours on the men. The spectrum of silks and cotton dresses so vast, it quite made her head spin.
Flora excitedly giggles and slips away. A flurry of laughter erupts and she joins hands with a little gaggle of her more intimate friends.
Iris raises a brow at her behaviour, not surprised to see that she caught a glimpse of a fair few red coated members of the militia in that particular direction. Mother huffs and gruffly tells Flora, through gritted teeth, not to linger too long.
Iris and Posy linger by mother as they chat to an elderly companion. Mrs Bishop. An ever worrying woman, Who ventured the world was going to end if there was slightly too much rain. She was practically apoplectic about the snow. Iris shares a look of pain with Posy. Who excuses herself with a bob of a curtesy to go find Flora.
“Pest.” Iris smiles at her as she slips away from conversing will dull matrons about the impending end of civilisation and the earth as they knew it. Anymore and Iris will be forced to rush for a vinaigrette of smelling salts to revive the poor dear when she swoons.
Iris stands with her hands folded demurely in front of her. Her eyes wandering over the party in full swing behind her.
The crush of noise, music and heat and bodies. Candies flicker doomed shapes copper and black up the light walls. The tall windows are guarded with heavy emerald draperies. Cascading waterfalls of apple green. Spilling and tumbling like grassy hills.
The windows glimmer like yellow square gemstones from the candles in their stands dotted everywhere. The dark floorboards glow with it too. Patches of orange inbetween the shadows.
The ballrooms, of which there were three, all adjoined by French pocket doors, are kept fairly dark. Lit only by the honey slither of candles reaching apricot slithers of light at every corner. People chatter and laugh to the din of a faint violin chorus of Mozart.
Laughter, Baritone gruff and the sparkling light of ladies chuckling delight flutters up to the ceiling. The room seems to burst at the seams with it all. Like a room full of butterflies. The heat, the noise, the voices and music. It was almost too much. Everything is palpable and it stings and rips at her eyes and ears.
They eventually depart from the hysterical Mrs Bishop. Leaving her fanning herself on a settee. Trying not to succumb to a fit of the vapours.
They make their way through the ballroom. Chatting and conversing and being mangled in the almost too heaving crowds. She loses count of the amount of times her toes get stepped on. Or elbows sharply prodded into the soft of her back as people pass.
Eventually; much to her mother’s delight, Iris is propositioned by a young gentleman from the militia, into a dance. There seemed to be no sight of Hux yet. Much to Mama’s chagrin.
He’s very polite and puppyish, delivers her safely back to her mothers side when the polka dance is through. Kisses her hand, declares her daughter a fine dancer, then is off onto the next partner.
They are lingering on the far side of the dance floor, just idly watching. In full view of the doors and the adjacent ballroom. Through the two sets of double doors either side of a great roaring stone fireplace. It’s light casting copper over every dancer.
“We won’t waste our time on him.” Mother harrumphed when he leaves. Looking with disdain as they watched him ask Primrose Charleston to dance the next.
“Mama. It was merely a dance.” Iris points out with a futile smile. “Don’t tell me you were picking out wedding attire and embroidered initial pillowcases.” Iris mocks.
That earns her a sharp look. She smiles in forbearance right back at her mother.
Her cheeks now pinkened and her eyes bright from the exercise. She likes dancing. When her partner isn’t a clumsy one, or reeks of port or body odour, or wine, or has wandering letching hands. It’s actually rather enjoyable.
“We should be setting our sights rather more higher than some penniless officer.” She insists. Watching the couples twirl and sway in front of them.
“Heaven forfend I dance with a man sheerly for the joy of it.” Iris concludes.
Caroline tuts in exasperation. Mumbles under her breath. “You do so vex me greatly sometimes, Iris. Even worse than your sisters.” She grumps.
Deep down inside, Iris is a little proud of that accomplishment.
A flurry of footsteps and squeaking squeals and suddenly Flora and Posy burst into view where Iris and her mother are stood.
Their voices are high pitched and they’re panting with excitement. Flora slings her hands into Iris’s and twirls her around with elation. Iris stumbles in the circle Flora leads her in. Posy is stood by Caroline grinning up a storm.
“Mama, Iris. He’s here! He’s here and he’s coming this way!” Posy giggles. Iris and her mother remain perplexed.
“Who is, my dear?” Caroline seeks. Frowning a little.
“He is surely the most handsome man I ever seen. And so tall. Did you see him Flora? That chest...” Posy flatters.
“Taller than any man I’ve ever met. And so well built. Such stature.” Flora says back.
“And he has dark eyes, Did you notice?” Posy asks.
“Of course I noticed! Very dark eyes. They are positively enchanting.”
“Bewitching.” Posy giggles.
“And his shoulders in his coat. So large.”
“For goodness sake, lower your voice-“ Iris chides at the both of them, glancing around the ballroom. Trying to decipher who they were so flustered and flapping about.
Her eyes don’t make it past the door-
The room seems to have slowed. The dancers are distracted. People around the fringes of the ballroom chatter louder. Deafening din rising. Gossip flourishing.
For Lord Hearst is at the entrance of one of the double doors, conversing with someone, and that someone walking by his side, is one of the broadest and most strapping men Iris has ever seen in her whole life.
He wasn’t just a man.
He was entirely too much, man.
“That’s Lord Ren. The handsomely rich one all the way from Bavaria.” Flora hisses to them all. “I’ve never seen a gentleman more strongly built, or beautiful.” She giggles loudly.
“I beg of you, lower your voice.” Iris chides. Pearl earrings jitter as she moves her head. Ash eyes governed by lintels of her brows creased up in a light frown.
Everyone’s eyes in this small stale society, is fixed solid upon the sight of this newcomer. Hungrily devouring this unfamiliar brooding man.
Obsidian jacket. Snowy shirt. Scarlet cravat like a bloodied noose around his neck, with a seers eye of a winking diamond pin studded in the knot. He radiates charm and magnificence. And masculine appeal.
“He’s in mourning to be wearing such dark colours.” Mother presumes. “How unusual for a man.”
“Don’t fret, Mama. Lady Hearst assures me he’s most certainly single. Now, Iris might have her chance at him after all...” Posy cackles.
Iris rams an elbow into the bony cradle of her sisters petite hip.
“Do try and endeavour to behave.” She chides to Posy. Whispering harshly.
This mysterious Lord is unfashionably attired in all black. Perhaps he is in a state of mourning? Ink black breeches cling tight to his strong thighs and wide wide hips and shining boots come to his knees - the wrong sort of footwear for a ball but he doesn’t appear to notice. Or even care.
He had an air about him that couldn’t be ignored. The dark clothes. Sable hair. It was long too. Far too long by societal standards. It curled at his neck. Swept in tumbling waves back from his face.
He’s scanning the room like he hates everything and everyone in it. A soured scowl on his face. The softness of his full lips are pursed and there’s a predatory quality to the way his eyes flicker around the crowds. He seems above it all. Distant. Untouchable. He was a Lord - he held himself superior as one as if a different species.
“Fleur told me he’s quite the scandalous man....” Flora begins.
“I heard he was married. Once before, but she turned mad and killed several servants. So he locked her in the dungeons and she’s still here raking her fingers to the bone at the stone walls to get out.”
Iris wants to roll her eyes. Now it’s Posy’s turn for interjection;
“And I heard that his castle is haunted and full of ghosts. And he seduces young noble women and then sacrifices and feeds them to the devil. Maybe he’s prowling for next victim?” She gasps frenziedly.
“You two need to stay clear away from anymore novels.” Iris scoffs.
She lets her eyes slip back over this Lord’s frightening exterior. She focuses on the dark pits that were his eyes. They seemed oddly familiar. As if she’s glimpsed them before. In a fanciful daydream, maybe- or maybe it was a dreadful nightmare.
They’re too far away to make out their true colour. But it must be a truly dark for the way they eat up all the light and glitter like rough cut gemstones lost to shadow.
His arms folded behind his back pulls his coat right across his chest. Exposes the musculature of him: he is big and beastly. There was no denying; his figure is redoubtably masculine. Intimidating and strong- meaty arms, no tapering away at his waist. He was entirely built of great slabs of muscles.
A warriors figure through and through.
Iris thought that such a body frame belonged in a previous age. A more ravening one. A cutthroat one. That stature was suited to a gigantic rampaging viking or a crusading knight in steel armour.
Quite why she thought so she can’t fathom. That big shape of his seemed unsuited to the setting of a dainty English ballroom. It seemed more natural for him to be on a battlefield slicked up and splattered in the blood of his enemy’s.
She watches as he boredly sizes up the room before him. An arcing sweep of his eyes and he’s done with it. Thrown aside all interest. Devouring all pitiful excuses for life. As if he’s looking or searching for something...
Then he looks right at her-
His eyes spear directly into her. See’s her. Meets her grey gaze and keeps it. Steals it away beyond her reckoning.
One side of his lip curls up. His eyes churn to look nearly honey gold in the light. Trick of the mind. All in her head. It was surely just the candles malforming the shade-
But it seemed more than him just seeing her. It was as if he could gaze right through her. Pierce her skin. Puncturing her very soul - she’s sure.
Her whole body feels his looking at her. She thrashes and aches.
If she has one. Some flimsy scrap of quivering human spirit in her, it is quaking and trembling now, and very much intoxicated by this man.
Her cheeks flush and she feels that betraying annoying heat slither down her neck and flourish at her breast. She swallows and blinks and tears her eyes away. She looks at her shoes cause she’s suddenly got a spinning head and her mouth is woolly.
That look and those savage eyes had set a flame blazing right down to her bones. There’s something she feels deep down that almost seems strange. Uncertain yet resolute. A tug on her stomach. An unknown yearning.
She realises quickly that this was the same pair of eyes that stole her breath this very afternoon. The gentleman from the imposing black carriage. Twice now she’s locked eyes with him and stared.
He must think her either a raving simpleton or a gawping lunatic.
“Iris. I do believe he’s staring at you.” Posy hisses with a wide impressed smile.
“Oh he is! He’s definitely staring.” Flora squeals. Tugging and shaking her sisters hand.
“Iris. Stand straight. Stop stooping. Chin up for heavens sake- look decent.“ Mother shrills through a gritted smile. Smiling demurely in the intended direction of Lord Ren. Preening herself like a flustered hen.
Iris dares another look up. Clasping her hands together delicately in front of her. At the front of her skirts. Him and Lord Hearst are mere feet away now.
“He’s coming this way! Mama! He’s coming over...” Posy grins. Flora laughs with her.
By now, Iris’s heart resembles a mad creature clawing at its cage, desperate to be free. Thumping and thudding her neck. Quivering nervous breaths leave her lips. Heartbeat hammering and pulsing in her ears.
He’s looking at Posy or Flora, she thinks. He must be. They always draw men like magnets. He’s not looking at me- he’s not. Really. He’s not-
They are closer now. Lord Hearst and Lord Ren are mere metres away. The entire room seems to be holding its breath. Another dance starts up and she’s glad for that distraction.
Her cheeks remained flushed and she raises her eyes when the air shifts around them. She can scent the brandy and violet water coming off Lord Hearst. There is his stout waistcoat and his perfumed wig. Lord Ren appears unscented. But a fusion of aromas simply pour off his vast body.
Sandalwood oil. Probably used on that thick rakish mane of his. There’s something else too, something earthy darkly rich, that mingles with the musky new wool of his coat. Peppermint or spices. She can’t tell. It’s damnably distracting.
“Praise the lord in heaven. We are saved.” Her mother mumbles gladly under her breath. Smile wide and gentle. Artificial and superficial to hide her truer nature.
Lord Hearst and Lord Ren are right before them now. Right in front of them. “Mrs Ashton.” Lord Hearst begins in greeting. Iris watches her Mama curtesy politely to the old lord.
“Might I have the pleasure of introducing you to Lord Ren. An old acquaintance of mine...”
Iris looks from the doddery old form of the red faced Lord Hearst, up and up up, into the face of the dark stranger. The top of her head would barely come to brush at his collarbones. His eyes are still fixed on her face. A shock jolts through her like she’s been burned.
“Lord Ren, this is Mrs Caroline Ashton. And her daughters. Miss Posy Ashton. And Miss Flora Ashton...” Lord Hearst introduces. Flora and Posy bob demure little curtseys at him. Bowing their heads and smiling prettily like fools.
He barely glances toward them. His eyes were fixed on Iris.
“And this is her eldest daughter, Miss Iris Ashton.” Lord Hearst beckons to her. Stood back behind her two sisters, and almost guarded by her mother.
She curtseys. Chin to her chest and she bows her neck in a manner she hopes comes across as graceful.
Lord Ren smiles. It’s terrifying in its power and beauty.
It moves the corners of his lips. And he comes in a step closer. Advancing.
Posy and Flora flatten back a little. When one hand comes around from his back, Iris could see he had thick leather gloves on. As if entranced she reached out where his hand beckoned to hold hers.
She slipped her satin gloved hand into his big offered dark palm. It sits right in the middle of the wide thing. So dainty in comparison.
He brings her silken hand up. Bows down and lays a kind kiss to the back of it. His eyes hadn’t left her since he entered the room - they didn’t start shying away now.
This is a man who is not shy. Not any bit of him.
He draws her hand down, very slightly. Freeing his lips.
“Enchanting to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He says.
Iris never knew a voice could be so deep. His voice sunk right to the core of her. Right through flesh and bone. Sinking deep. She’d expected a Bavarian accent. Or a continental lilt. But his accent is precise, crystal-cut English.
She blinks. Remembering she had a verbose vocabulary to make use of.
“It’s an honour to make your acquaintance, Lord Ren.” She gasps out with some hint of strength in her voice. When she lets her hand slips from his, her body feels strange. Her whole arm is left tingling.
She finds herself sighing as she pulls her hand back. He straightens his back with ease. She knows her mothers eyes are looking sharply at her so she remembers her politesse.
She feels like the whole world is watching them converse.
“Are you, enjoying... your time in England?” She seeks. “I understand you are recently arrived.”
“Very much.” He looks amused. “I haven’t been on these shores in- quite an age.” He says. She can’t help but feel there is something cryptic to his meaning.
“Do you mean to stay long, in Hampshire, your lordship?” Flora asks. Batting her long lashes up at him so much she could fan out a chandelier of candles if she’s not careful.
His eyes calmly flick across to the smallest Ashton sister. But linger back on Iris.
“Not long. But after tonight I think I’ve found sufficient reason to extend my stay.” His smile twitches smoothly once again.
“Are you enjoying Hellford Park, your lordship? Surely it is the finest house in the county, is it not?” Posy enquires.
Another flicker of those charcoal eyes to the other little Ashton. Really, there were too deuced many of them, Kylo thinks.
“It is an immaculate house. The snowy woods are very pleasant this time of year.” He agrees.
“Of course. The climates in Bavaria are surely similar. I imagine there is much snow on your own estate, your lordship?” Iris asks.
He seems pleased with her interjection. As if she were the only soul whose voice he wished to hear.
When he looked at her, it was like they were the only two people in this room. The only two that mattered. It’s just them, in the candlelight, cast by flame. As if no pairs of eyes are watching - when in reality there are hundreds looking in.
“Indeed. The summers are short, and the winters are long and frigid. I am somewhat familiar with the clime of snow. It falls more gently here than in Bavaria.” His eyes glare warmly across at her. Increasing her blush.
Caroline steps in with a saccharine smile that showed far too much teeth. A leer it could rightly be called.
“You must come and dine with us at Westwell, Lord Ren. We would be honoured to receive you. We can promise you an elegant dinner service, and cards. Why we dine with six and twenty great and fine families around the county. We would be very much favoured with your visit. I wager you won’t get finer, prettier companions or better conversation elsewhere...” Mother boasts.
He smiles right at Iris and it spears into her hot chest like an iron poker stoked too long in the fire. Red hot.
“Indeed. I Thankyou greatly for the invitation. Madam.” Then his eyes grow blacker. “You have very fine daughters. God has blessed you three times over.”
Flora giggles a beaming smile. Posy bats her lashes and grins. Iris fiddles with her hands and examines the floorboards, reddening at his charm.
“I often think so, myself.” Mother preens.
“Of course all my girls are immensely beautiful. But, it is my Iris who is revered around these parts as a local beauty.” She lies.
“Mama.” Iris blushes crimson. Averting her eyes.
“A rumour well circulated indeed.” Kylo’s looking at her. And to her amazement. She bravely looks back.
“And she deserves every such compliment I can bestow.” Kylo adds.
“You are too kind, Lord Ren.” Iris smiles slightly at him. It makes his chest pound harder. Watching her bosom heave at the neckline of her dress.
His mouth waters. That same scent from this afternoon hits him square in the jaw like a rounded fist. He all but moans at the erotic pleasure of it. Of her sweet scent drifting up his nose. Stoking at his eager hunger.
He will tear something apart tonight, rip it limb from limb, and glut himself on that sweet penny-metal flush of blood spilling down his parched throat. And as he does- as he feasts and drinks and crimson drips from his maw, he will think of this moment; of her aroused scent tangled in his nose. Stirring his own lust to boiling point.
He bids the Misses and Mrs Ashton’s a goodnight.
Lord Hearst had more introductions for him to make. More simpering sickening people to meet. All the same. Savagely polite and viciously boring. Their superficial kindness and flattery turns his stomach.
A bevy of swans the lot of them. Preening and pathetic. He could barely hide his disgust at the stench of rotten perfume that beat off each one of their hot pulsing throats. All the vapid girls that desperate Mother’s shoved in his chest to make introductions.
It was like the sheep throwing their own sweet little lambs out into the slobbering wolves.
If this were a less guarded age he might have already slipped away under guise of a romantic tryst in the garden, to drink a few of them dry.
Posy and Flora squeak and shake Iris’s arm after he passes. He is led around the ballroom, that great vast man. Introduced to all the good and the great. They gabble and squawk at their sister about how she’ll be the next Lady of Hellford Park.
She shushes them and sees it makes Lord Ren lock eyes with her from over where he towered loftily across the ballroom crowds.
Her heart starts beating wild again. A demure smile and she takes her eyes away elsewhere. And that heartbeat calls out to him like the pound of a war drum. A bell summoning him to worship.
Trigger warnings; This is a slow burn story. NSFW comes later, but there is gory descriptive violence in this later on- I’ll tag the chapters with warnings-
Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.
He’s been stalking this earth long since civilisations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.
He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.
In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.
He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
Hampshire, England. 1816.
Winters here were always of the bitterest kind.
Everything hardened by frost. All of nature slaughtered and gnarled and made ugly by it. Everything deadened and driven away until yellow spring sunshine butters it all up. The ground wintry solid and as unyielding as the bite of stinging chill in the air.
Every loud footstep from under her cracked boots crackled and crushed with ice-crusted mud. Her treads echo off about her in the oppressive silence of the air.
Iris Ashton walked along the lonely pale road. The path ahead scattered with linen-white snow, thick like cloth, settling down in ghostly sprinkles - like fluttering ash.
Snow comes from a sky as thick and as soft as a eiderdown. Graphite grey smeared all over the horizon signaling the worst yet to come. Sky is heavy and blotted with it. Flecks already kiss and cling at her hair and her blue wool coat collar.
She can feel them land and melt on her cold numbed lips. Feels her raspy silver breath run them away.
The trees in the dark wood surrounding her on either side of the ribboning track and the pallid ground; stand majestic and strong. Like a darkly Prussian-blue swathed army standing silent attention. Frost crawls determined up their sturdy trunks. The horizon peeping through the trees is white, like a puff of spilt flour. The craggy black tips of the regimented trees scrape at the thick churning sky.
One hand laden with her heavy wicker basket. Hanging solidly down by her thigh. Handle creaking so under her glove from it’s heavy contents. Her elbow is locked straight and aching fully from the strain of it.
Mother had sent her off on one of her errands; paying calls to give some wrapped linen food parcels to the church. Cold meats and half-loaves of day old bread to give to the poor and needy. And on the way back she’d stopped and called for tea with her doddery great Aunt Lavinia. A more belligerent old dragon never drew breath.
Iris was her favourite of all the Ashton girls. All three of them. Unfortunately the lot of being the eldest and families general paragon of hope, fell onto Iris. Next was her sister Flora who is fifteen, and then there was Posy, at sixteen.
A whole compliment - a bouquet - of Ashton ladies. As the gossip columns always so proudly and wittily declared.
Iris was the level-headed, sensible elder sister at three and twenty. The one who was seen and never heard. The one with unremarkable grey eyes and fair skin. Her teeth were supportable, and her conversation was, well, fine, really.
She didn’t have dazzling honey blonde hair or a sultry head of brunette curls. Her hair was brown. Not chestnut. Not sizzling auburn blaze. Just. Brown. Like mud. Like bark. Like flat Turkish coffee.
The sensible Ashton girl, with eyes as dull as dust, and hair the colour of twigs.
She was pale, with a oval face and a stout figure that was passably pleasing. She had a fine bosom that some men liked to gawp at, and mother insisted she had a touch of child bearing hips. Which would strongly come into her favour when she’s married. As she had once said;
“Your future husband will be much delighted with such a valuable commodity, Iris.” Her Mother remarked once when she was a young girl and she was tugging and yanking her long hair into a plait ready for bed.
Iris can remember how badly she wanted to do something out of spite purely to ruin that chance. But really she couldn’t alter the shape of her skeleton with much ease.
Maybe she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. She’ll never be one of those girls who glide elegantly through a ballroom like a bevy of silk swathed swans. Preening, poised and primly perfect.
To her own mind and credit she was just - plain. Tolerable.
Adequate.
She is sometimes remarked to be too acerbic with her tongue, or her remarks. She’s certainly got a backbone and another quality that stumped men of the ton - a mind of her own making. She doesn’t suffer fools and she likes to venture that she is a blue stocking with a decent and level understanding of this world.
She’s sufficient- she supposed. Simply that and nothing more. She’ll never have poems written about her, or have a man declare he fell wildly in passionate love with her with one glance.
It suits her well enough. The fact that she looked like a dusty dull unrefined ornament next to her polished preening sisters. She’d rather fade into the wallpaper than be a dazzling spectacle of ridiculousness, like that of her two siblings.
Her simpering, inane sisters. Who flirt with any man donning a scarlet coat in the Militia. Flora and Posy, who worry obsessively about ribbons, and seek to pay no mind to anything, of any real consequence.
Iris is never one for fits of jealousy, but she is sometimes envious of their light-hearted puerile, worries. About making up their bonnets or, the next ball, or the most unbecoming stain on their new pelisse.
Aunt Lavinia greatly despised the merest sight and intimation of the younger Ashton ladies too. Iris is usually requested to go to tea with her Great Aunt, alone.
“Silly chit of a girl. The pair of them.” Was her relative’s most favoured and overused phrase.
She’d cackle it as one of her clawed elderly hands - talons - gripped her teacup. And she wouldn’t be happy until she’d griped and moaned and complained about every beast and man put on this earth. For they’ve all been put there with the sole purpose of vexing her greatly -Naturally.
Tea today was no different to any other occasion she pays a visit.
Iris sits with the sniping old matron in her freezing-cold front parlour with a piffling fire barely going. Her Aunt is always bedecked in enough black muslin to cover all of Hampshire.
A black lace matron cap staunchly on her head. Black fichu covering at her shoulders. An inky shawl on her arms and on each of her skeletal fingers sit glimmering gleaming rings which clackclackclack and scrape when she moves and points that every disapproving finger. Big fat stones of amber and ruby and topaz weighting down her frail claws.
Iris always teeters politely on the most uncomfortably hard settee opposite her. Cradling the hot spode bone-china cup of tea that her Aunt shoves in her hands. Sugar staining sickly saccharine on her lips - she never let her guests have unsugared tea.
Quite why she is the favourite Ashton, Iris has no clue. She is always interrogated by the woman as she barks nosy question after nosy question at her.
“Yes, Aunt. No, Aunt. I don’t believe so, Aunt.” As the harridan gripes about beef or sugar or candle taxes, or the local Reverend, or the gaudy new fabric on display in dressmakers window.
A whole ream of grudges being spewed out that wrinkled puckered mouth. Face pale, craggy and screwed up with lines like a sheet of crumpled parchment paper.
Her dark eyes shine forth like raisins sunk deep into scones. Glittering black and always always always dissatisfied with the whole world, and determined to find fault with everyone in it.
Iris brings her the ointment her Aunt asked for. She was suffering a hacking cough that worsened in the winter. Lavinia insists its a damp affliction brought on by unclean air.
Iris bought the woman a bottle of liniment rub, spiced with rosemary oil, camphor and spirit of wine. Her Aunt harrumphed at her offering. Stabs her walking cane into carpet in disfavour. Shoves the bottle away and insists Willow bark tea is what will cure her ailment.
Next she’ll be insisting on leeches and blood letting to balance out the humours-
Iris doesn’t fight her stubbornness - it’s a battlefield over which she will never win or hoist a flag of victory.
She drinks down three more cups of the cloying tea, interrupts the interrogation and insists rather bravely that she must be on her way - for Lord and Lady Hearst are throwing a ball this evening. On their vast estate. And she needs to scurry home to ready for it. That earns her another harrumph in response. Lavinia detested balls.
“Breeding ground for senile men and stupid women. And all that inane leaping about they now call dancing...” She grimaces.
The whole county is in uproar for this ball - little else to recommend or appreciate in this bleak dull midwinter. Whispers flourishing around town seemed inclined to favour that a mysterious Lord from the continent is in attendance tonight...
A Lord. From Bavaria no less. Apparently he owned a vast castle high up in the snowy forest smothered mountains.
Quite why he’s bothered to travel the length of Europe to this savage spit of society in the Hampshire countryside, she cannot fathom. If she was lucky enough to live in a castle, she’d never be seen again.
She recounts that scrap of gossip about the prospective Lord to her Aunt. Who thunks her cane loudly on the floor and scoffs in derision;
“Foreigners are always a grave source of disappointment - and they are so riddled with lice and ill bred manners.” So wisely declares Aunt Lavinia.
She says that about anything to do with anything and anyone not born or formed on good british soil.
She had said the very same thing last week about the pews at Church-
She leaves the little bustling hamlet. Shuts her Great Aunt’s warped cottage door. The wood shuddered, catching on the doorstep. Her arm shot through with needles of pain. Aches slipping up her back, her neck and sparking her shoulders. She hooks the heavy basket onto the crook of her elbow and sighs as she plods homeward.
Away from the small tudor, mouldy mustard walls of Lavinia’s cottage. A pretty little house. Always cold. Formed of thick stone walls and mahogany creaking stairs. Austere bare furniture sparsely filled every room. Wedged into a street with crossed glass windows and a petticoat brown tiled roof.
It was a meagre six miles from here to home. And she appreciates the walk. Or atleast she might be more inclined to favour it, were her coat more substantial.
As it is the blue wool thing is possibly a might too small for her now. It tugs and pinches so across the shoulders. And the hem ends right up her calves. Pebble-grey Kidskin gloves on her fingers, knuckles knotted stiff and her fingertips are tingling with cold.
The hem of her plain cotton voile dress, is dark with damp from the snow. The bluebell cobalt of it leeched darker at her hem. She’s shivering because her stockings aren’t the warmest wool. Her legs are trembling cold and she only wore her lightest chemise. However she is glad she bothered with the scarf.
She hadn’t put on a bonnet today. She can’t stand the fuss of one. Ribbons flapping at her ears. It was uncommon - but she went without.
Simply tied her hair back into a low coiffured bun secured with a snip of wheaten muslin. By now and with lugging this basket across all of the Hampshire countryside, some straggles of hair have come loose. Flopping uselessly to her shoulders.
She ducks her chin into her scarf to escape the exposure of a battering bitter gale, and continues trudging on with wearied, aching determination. She always trudges on. She has too. Is always the one who must endeavour to continue, no matter how bleak she feels.
It gets tiring, carrying great tonne boulders of expectations on her shoulders. She likes to think she bears the task nobly.
As her Mother takes great pains and lengths to always endlessly remind her; she is the vessel in which all hopes for the survival of the Ashton family, are stored.
She will make a good marriage match; to a gentleman of high rank or fortune - preferably both. She will save the estate from destitution. Her sisters from ruin. And her father from debtors prison. She will be the one to keep her family in the moneyed style to which they are accustomed. They will not lose Westwell to the bailiffs.
They have risen far within the ranks of society. And they will not lose their clutch or their pride. Or their respected place among it. Her fathers estate is not a vast one; but it is more than his father before him had. A meagre merchant selling spices and furs out of Putney during the Restoration.
Now the Ashtons are country gentry. With a modest dwelling of an estate, abutting a working farm. Westwell. A manor house of not much splendour and merely thirteen rooms.
Built of gold cotswold stone with huge white windows looking out onto a self-effacing garden of some prettiness. There was a pond where swans flocked in summer. Enclosed wilderness all around. A plank of wood swing hanging off one big oak chestnut that stooped over the front of the house. To the back the garden is walled, full of sculpted beds and privets and the wide green lawn is rather uninspiring in this decimating winter
They had one gardener. Two maids. A cook and a Housekeeper. They live comfortably and hardly ever exceed their income.
Her mother hopes to change that this calendar year. She wants her eldest daughter promised to someone upstanding and rich.
Iris thinks her shrew of a mother would settle with wedding her to any man . So long as he looks pleasing in a cravat, and still has all his own teeth.
She treks on through the snow. Hoping. Dreaming. Dreaming for so many unattainable things.
Wishing her basket was lighter. Wishing her parents had sired a son. So that this evening she wouldn’t have to be bound into a pinching dress, and paraded around the Hearst’s ballroom as if she’s some prized slaughter pig at a county fair.
Wishing that she could instead stay home in her untrimmed, plain nightgown. No laced stays crushing her ribs. With a hot brick at her feet. A dog-eared Swift novel in her hands. Cracked open to the good passages. She’d read by tapered candlelight and be perfectly contented, poised to encounter spinsterhood.
Instead, a painful evening of savage society awaited her.
Poison filled smiles from nasty debutantes or their matronly mama’s. Sniping at her dress or her hair or her pale skin, or her lack of fortune. Crushed mangled toes from dancing with some portly red-faced Lord-whoever-from-wherever. One who stank of port, had bad breath, and tried to pinch her bottom with fat lecherous sausage fingers, when he thought no one was looking their way.
She has no aspirations for marriage or love. She’s not a fool. She doesn’t have her head swimming with fancies from novels. No rapturous desires of tall, sable-haired men, with chiseled marble bodies seducing her astray. No cloaked villain sweeping her away in the dead of night to send her to ruin, to then have her dashing savior ride in on horseback to rescue her.
If she’s one thing at all - it is sensible. She doesn’t like to reflect on the proposition of marrying some stranger simply to arrange the business of money and bearing him heirs. She’s not a broodmare-
She’s a woman. She has a thumping proud heart and a strong-working brain and she hopes there’s more measure to her life, than submitting her body and weak will over to be governed and quieted by a future, faceless husband.
She’s sure many girls of three and twenty have felt this way. She’s sure many generations upon generations of them will continue to do so, until women cease to be sold like chattel - or like cattle at market.
Sold solely to men for the priceless untarnished commodity that lay between their thighs. And based and viewed purely on that frail scrap of fleshed dignity, alone.
She wraps her coat tighter around herself. Distinctly feeling a sense of dread starting to slither sickly cool up her spine from the prospect of the evening ahead.
Mother will wrangle her into her finest restrictively crushing silk gown. Have the maid tug and pull her hair and wrench it into a pleasing style. Jabbing hair pins in her head. Mother will see to it that she splash plenty of Yardley’s water of jasmine blossom, orange and lavender on the pulses at her wrists, and at her neck.
Then, she’ll be practically shoved into the chest of every single eligible gentleman in the room tonight in the hope they deign her to be pleasing. She’ll be pushed and prodded and maneuvered and pummeled-
And she’s exhausted. She only hopes she finds the strength to endure such torture-
She kicks through the frosted ground. Pebbles scatter and skit in her wake. She nudges the sparkling white stones with the toe of her cracked brown boots. Her feet were slowly growing numb. Toes stinging with cold. She should have worn some thicker stockings. Then again, money was not exactly a moderate opulence at home. They had to husband their resources as a family very carefully- which meant Iris couldn’t have some new leather half-boots for romping about the wilds of the countryside.
But she could have as many new hair combs, fans, or gloves and embellished stockings as she wanted. Anything that might help snare a man into visions of matrimony. Not wasted on such a thing as a new wool coat to help keep her warm in winter; or boots that didn’t let the muddy puddles seep in.
For appearances sake, the Ashton’s wealth went solely into ballgowns, perfume and finery for their girls. Some household money of course went into sensibilities like candles, meat, flour and soap. Iris was taught that she should be hugely grateful for everything that was lavished upon her.
Flora so often griped at her that she was so lucky to have such amounts spent on her. She got new gowns of printed cottons and muslin and silks and whatever she wanted. Where her and Posy had to make do with alterations and hand-me-downs to their dresses and bonnets.
Flora was so blinded by jealousy and immaturity that she didn’t quite look - really look at her sister - and realize that Iris didn’t really want any of those things-
She ruminated on all tonight might bring her. She wondered what kind of state her silly sisters would both be in when she gets home. Already donning their paper curls, lacing each other into their stays and chemises already. Arguing over who wore the best pair of silk slippers they had between them.
Mother will be in one of her bitter moods. Trying to determinedly order all her girls ready for tonight.
Moods sour with each other already and they’d be seething and spitting nasty fury at Iris. She had new things especially for this ball tonight. New pair of satin gloves and a printed silk dress. They did not. They never did.
Iris would lend Flora her old reticule - the one Mother had bought for her from Bond street. And she’d give Posy her pearl hair comb to slide into her auburn coiffure. A little balm to both of them to gently encourage some sisterly affection. She didn’t want to be at war with them all night.
She’s halfway down the narrow pale road, kicking snowy stones, when an almighty sound kicks up over the horizon, barreling in her direction. She turns her head back and hears the distant rhythmic rumbling of hooves hitting track and the clack and creak of enormous coach wheels.
Hardly surprising when this is the biggest road leading back to Pembleton, her little village.
She sees through the fog of snow, a huge black shape dominates the road. Moving fast. She lifts her skirts and steps onto the crunching grass so that the raring coach might pass her safely by. At the tremendous speed it’s going she reckons she didn’t have long before it caught up to where she’s walking.
She hears it gaining, closer and closer. Wood and hooves and snorting horses eating up the distance of the road. She dares a glance at the impossibly loud and fast carriage.
It’s a beastly thing. All looming black wood. A black liveried driver in grey wool coat. Two footmen clad the same, on the back stand. Black sturdy luggage safely stowed on the roof. Two hulking beasts of shimmering onyx shire horses are stamping and galloping and heaving the great thing along with no difficulty. Silvery wisps of air pour from their nostrils and the dripping whites of their eyes look nearly devilish past their full cupped blinders. The tack of black leather lost on their gleaming coal coats.
The noise is deafening now. It’s almost passing her. Kicking snow and frosty gritted mud out from under the churn of the hungry wheels.
She’s curious as to who could possibly be residing in such an opulent coach. No one from these parts, she’s certain of it. The richest Lord from here was two villages over on a vast estate. Lord Hexham. Who was one and eighty and had a hunched back. And he was a doddery old recluse. He hardly went raring around town in such an imposing manner.
When it draws level with her she dares a vertiginous glance up at the small arch of the door. A crest is splashed there in gold and scarlet. Like a splash of blood on a gold sword scabbard. Or a healing wound.
It’s no shock that the crest there is unfamiliar to her. It’s entwined with wolves and scarlet banners, and a shield crossed with swords. Some monstrous carnivorous coat of arms perhaps? Maybe this person’s ancestor’s had won victory in some ancient bloody battle dating back to the Normandy landings.
She looks up from the door and to her very great shock, she glimpses a man’s face.
It was a dark carriage, drawn to privacy with scarlet velvet curtains covering at the windows. But the one this side closest to her is peeled back.
Her heart thumps loud in her neck and her chest claws with slight panic and embarrassment having caught this gentleman’s eyes.
Such savage, unyielding eyes.
Bitterly black. Slicing outwards from an alabaster pale face. She barely made out features of a full proud face. A blunt roman nose, full pouting lips, and raven sable hair. Length; rakish.
It makes her inhale a sharp breath. Quickly averting her gaze. Embarrassed. Lowering her eyes.
Gawping openly at the upper echelons was never a good idea. They probably held her in the same standing as that of the mud on the bottom of their very polished boots.
He was probably some uppity Duke or Earl who didn’t wish to be gazing at the common stock. She looks to her feet. Feels the wind whip at the tendrils of her hair. Unfolds them from her scarf and whips them back over her face. Baring her neck. Snow lands on her skin. Flecks of it melt ripping like bee stings onto her hot throat.
Pale, corded, thrumming throat. Bared to the wind and the snow and the cold-
He can hear her pulse and it’s like a sweet sirens call.
She feels the strangest sensation then; no one was looking at her. But it feels like they did. It feels as if eyes are pinning her down. Raking over her skin and assessing her.
When she looks back up, dazed, the rattling loud coach is past her now. Off into the distance, into the snow.
Foggy white and smeared and blurring into the horizon. Roaring away up the track road. Away from her sight. She blinks after it’s wake. Snow tangling into her lashes. She’s shivering now if she wasn’t before, and she can’t fathom why.
She switches the basket into her other arm. Let’s it take the painful strain of the still heavy thing. Items within clunk and thump around. She steps off the crusted grass and back onto the stony pave of the hard road.
She continues on; winding homeward. She thinks about her silk gown, and new pearl earrings. And then of darker things; like devilish horses, and eyes. Eyes darker than inky shadows and deeper rich, like charcoal.
As the coach thunders off into the snow. Rutting and cracking over every bump on the road, Kylo shifted back on the scarlet bench seat. He lifts the curtain on the back window with a suave flick of his fingers, and set his black gaze once more back down the track road.
Looks back upon the lone girl in the blue coat who was walking there.
The scent of her still cloyed up in his throat - Oh, and in all the best ways.
He scented her from a mile down the road. Lavender, clary sage and sharp heat of bursting peppermint on salty skin.
The musk of her made him pant and his chest ragged. His arousal and bloodlust stirred in his chest. The drooling gnashing hell hounds of his appetite waking up and baying to be fed.
He watches her hair sway over her neck. A big gust of frosty wind blew her flavour right into his path.
His eyes rolled back in his head as he savoured her.
It made his mouth water. He’d all but outright moaned. It’s been a few moons since he last fed. His nails dig into the upholstered scarlet bench. Muscles strained. Veins corded tight in his body. Pulled taut.
His butler, Jomar. Speaks up from where he is sat opposite.
Blue silk Dastar covering his silver hair. His goatee beard was arrowhead shaped and always neatly trimmed. It stood out all the more from his bronze skin. His Punjabi cadence Kylo always thought was like cinnamon dashed in milk. He had a comforting warm voice.
“I wonder, shall you like the society hereabouts, your lordship?” He seeks curiously. Melting walnut eyes finding Kylos over his gold half moon spectacles, and looking past the small red leather backed Voltaire, open in his hands.
Lord Ren smirks. His eyes glimmer. Cool and hungry. Silver black like daggers.
“Absolutely.” He wets his lips. “The local cuisine looks delicious.”
Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Fifteen; Anticipation.
Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver
Also on AO3-
Masterlist-
Trigger Warnings: No warnings in this chap- animal shapeshifting but thas about it really-
Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.
He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.
He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.
In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.
He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.
He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
The very next days seemed to crawl by. As if time itself was dragging through claggy thick treacle.
Nothing moved quickly and Iris knows it’s because she’s anticipating the weeks-end more than any other event she’s ever awaited on in her life.
More than Yuletide morning. More than her birthday. More than buying a new book or taking an early morning walk all to herself. More than a sunny frosted morning where everything seems to glimmer as if crafted from gold, or seeing wildflowers dot the woods with their colour in spring.
She’s waiting on that much anticipated midnight with baited breath. Every second closer to it is both torture and sweet blessed relief.
She fulfils her remaining days with a permanent smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Even her acetous mother remarks upon it. She tells her daughter the fine manner of her engagement must be bringing her joy. Iris bites her lip to keep from grinning.
She clutched her romantic secret all that tighter to her chest. Moulded it like warm clay to clasp around her glad heart.
Mother and Maratella insist on setting a date. And getting her whole ‘bouquet’ of daughters measured for their gowns.
Posy and Flora for they are of course to be bridesmaids, and Iris, of course, for her bridal gown. They get up a merry party to Pembleton one fine clear morning.
The snow and frost govern the landscape once more. Ebbing back in after the recent rain. The brown frost-hardened hills and trees and fields. Governed under the fierce cyclops of a mustard sun blazing in the effortless blue of the cobalt sky. It made Iris think of robins eggs, and the golden buttery buds of spring. When the bulbs and shoots blossom up through the earth with their sickly scent and colour.
It is a fine clear day and it indicates that the end of the long bitter winter approaches. The cold is as ferocious as ever so Maratella insists upon them not catching a chill in the vile icy winds. Shes most kind as to stop to collect the Misses Ashton’s in the Hux’s second largest coach. They are all bid to the dressmakers in the high street. Along the medieval shamble of barrel window and oak timber shops.
The news of her engagement spread far and wide. Before her boots have even touched the cobbles, stepping out the coach, their party is virtually mobbed by matrons and ladies of their acquaintance.
Iris had in mind a silly image of them prowling at the pavements like baying wolves, chasing after the muddy churn of the carriage wheels; anything for to first seize that newest scrap of gossip.
Posy and Flora ladle up all the attention. As does Mama. Proudly boasting - along with Maratella - of the suitability of such a fine match. Iris wants to roll her eyes as Flora greatly exaggerated the romantic manner of Hux’s proposition. She gabbled about a room full of red roses and how Iris wept tears of delight as he swept her into his arms.
The ravenous eyes turn toward her. “May we see the ring, Miss Ashton?” Comes out of numerous smiling mouths like a chorus of cawing seagulls. Iris feels like they’ll rip her glove off themselves if she doesn’t.
Unused to such attention, she blushes as she slips off her grey calfskin glove. Wrenching it off her hand. There is a troupe of awed gasps as they admire the diamond set in the gold band.
Iris feels as if she’s sticking her hand into a dangerous animals maw. Like some exhibit at a zoo. Feeding her hand to the rabid starving tiger’s. There’s so much gasping and in taking of breath it’s a wonder they don’t suck her up. And take half the street with them.
Luckily, Maratella fusses that they’ll be late if they don’t make haste. She then proudly utters that the ladies five, their happy little bridal party, are off to Madame Larousse’s dressmaking parlour for a wedding gown. And Mrs Ashton and Mrs Hux are to see to both having new hats to mark such a happy occasion.
The flock of ravenous ladies ceases. Satisfied with their mauling of Iris and her news and her engagement ring. The party is able to proceed along the pavement unhindered.
They slip into Madame Larousse’s. Greeted by the lanky, heavily perfumed proprietor herself. She was a tall, ungainly woman with poky shoulders and an always over-rouged complexion. And will always, without fail, exaggerate a mildly French accent to gild her words. For she believes that all the best dressmakers and seamstresses were French.
The tall stretch of Madame claps excitedly and demands to see Iris’ hand when she hears they are here to purchase ribbons and lace and all things fit for a bride. She is whisked away by a very efficient assistant. And stood on a pedestal for the next hour and half.
Iris spends that time with swatches pinned to her. Flapped around her ears. Tucked under her collar. There’s so many back and forth decisions from her mother, it makes her quite dizzy. A tape drawn tight around her so many times to squeeze the stuffing out her. Eventually, they stumble to a conclusion. It was to be a saffron orange.
Flora remarked it made her rather look like a carrot.
Around her they lounge on the chaises provided, clutched around the mirror and the box she’s on, and they drink sweet tea. Brown sugar sprinkled and stirred into the earl grey.
They all pose interjections and opinions and preferences on her. Iris just stands there like a tailors doll. Only half there.
She’s caught sight of a swatch of ruby-wine velvet near her thigh and is stroking it fondly. Remembering Lord Rens exquisite bed coverlet. How it felt under her fingers, it took her ricocheting back to that moment. And it calmed her.
That’s how she can stand all this grousing and prodding. It reminds her of her secret and she nearly faints off that box pedestal.
They settle on a pallid frothy blue silk instead. To better bring out the excellence of her mud and twigs hair. Mama chooses the best silk madame has in stock. Says she will have to fetch more in from her supplier especially. From London.
That causes much excitement for Flora and Posy. They’d never had a dress made from material fetched as far nor from a city as grand as London, before.
Posy had selected a teasing slip of pink silk. Flora, for her more fiery hair, chose a delicate pastel pea green. Iris thinks they’ll look like a platter of French fancy cakes.
Then a pang of something hits through her heart with all the intensity of an arrowhead studding there - she hopes Mama lets Posy and Flora keep their new gowns after she’s gone. She hopes very much. They are the stillest girls in existence but they do deserve nicer things than what they get.
By Madame’s husky drawl of a smoky voice is she brought back into the room, the awful pink pink pink room. Stuffed with velvet chaises and bolster cushions and trimmed fringed oil lamps. Great big fat rosebuds sprout up the wallpaper and flourish across the fabric of the pillows on the settee.
It’s as if the whole room is the summoning of the evil fairy in sleeping beauty. Who commanded swarms of brambles and thorns and swamping plants to take over. That was this room to the last pink thread - only it was instead summoned to contain every incarnation of pink roses as far as the eye could see.
Her ears burn hot and pink as Madame talks of London. Relating the gossip back to someone in the village. Matter of fact, a certain Lord-
“Apparantly, you know he sent that tall turbaned butler of his up to London just yesterday...” Madame hushes to them in her hazy terribly-affected French.
“Sent him to Mayfair.” She grins crookedly as she measures from Iris’s hip to her hem. Barking orders at Suzy, her ever suffering assistant.
Maratella seems most diverted. “Pray whatever for?” She leans forwards. Perching her half eaten violet macaroon on her saucer.
“He sent him to Bond Street. You know there is an establishment there that supplies jewels to the palace. Apparantly he came back having purchased something.” Madame says.
“Pray why would be send his butler all that way?” Flora asks.
“Why, Miss Smith told me so this morning; she suspects Lord Ren has left his heart behind in Bavaria. He is soon to quit Hellford. She heard Clarence Pennington’s butler say that his housekeeper, Mrs Jones states that half his house is shut. And the staff vacated.” Maratella excites them all. Flora and Posy are mortified at such news.
“The house is emptying. And Lord Ren shall soon be gone.” She adds.
Mrs Ashton smiles gladly. “He is journeying back home to his castle I wager...” She delights. The spitting smug nature of her tone was clear. Good riddance.
“Who must he be besotted with I wonder?” Posy asks indelicately.
Iris tries not to be twice as smug. Thinking that she is that very woman.
He goes back to his castle and I will gladly go with him, she thinks.
The giddiness and joy roils in her stomach like golden champagne. Fizzes through her veins and she has to hide a smile. Biting her cheek hard.
“Well. if he is shortly to leave our shores. I’m willing to bet he’ll break a fair few maidens hearts in this county and the next over. Such a striking gentleman. The young ladies will certainly feel his loss most keenly.” Maratella comments in sadness for all the female admirers he’d amassed. They’d all be heart sore now he’s going away.
“You’re blushing Iris.” Flora sing-songs at her. Pointing it out. “Thoughts of your intended sweetheart?” She ribs her sister.
“You are a colossal pest. Flora.” Iris smiles at her. Matter of fact. Her little bug of a sister is quite right. She is thinking about the man she’ll marry.
Only another agonising hour whilst Mama and Maratella select their hats for the occasion. But Iris can atleast sit down and drink some much too sweet earl grey tea. Doesn’t have to stand on that wretched box for another hour.
Eventually their purchases were rung up and settled. Flora and Posy love Iris very much because she buys them two new ribbons each and some velvet buttons for their bonnets. They’re singing her praises as they quit the shop. Trilling like a pair of canaries about their gowns. Iris was glad to spend some of her pin money on them before she leaves for good.
She’s fully appraised of the weight of her actions. And the serious consequence of them. It would be ruinous for her mother and father. It would be a disaster for her sisters. But atleast she was of age and she could marry. Whatever else others might say of her - she fully believes Lord Ren’s intentions are honourable.
They can’t scandalise her for marrying Kylo. Just censure her for running away from Hux and jilting him. She’s certain he’ll recover amicably enough. He doesn’t love her. And his mother is suitably well connected. She could snap her fingers and summon another willing bride. She’s only sorry it can’t be her.
She’s despondent to remark upon the pain she’ll be causing hers and Hux’s family. But in time, they will recover. Posy would do well and Flora will follow in her footsteps. Mother will see to it they catch fine husbands when the time is right. Their mother is most skilled in that area.
The party journeys along Pembleton street. Maratella stops by the haberdashers to seek after some ribbons. Mama is in the milliners seeking after a new pair of occasion gloves. Posy and Flora amble slowly along the street with their sister. Watching the carriages and coaches trundle by. Various riders on horseback too.
A loud nickering snort behind her makes her turn. She can hardly hide the smile that quickly grows across her face when she catches sight of a lone rider on a huge stocky black stallion. Both man and his mount are furiously muscled beasts.
His Lordly attire is its usual. All black. Save for his white shirt and red cravat. The great overcoat frames his wide shoulders and his bulky chest. His boots gleam in the meagre sun. His grin tips up when he catches sight of her.
He looks terribly smug and Iris’s heart feels like it’s trying to ram out the cage of her ribs. This handsome lordly man who stole it away, sets it pounding freely and rampant in her chest.
She tries not to arouse the suspicion of her sisters. They were much too curious and meddling for their own good. She wants to protect her secret and she thinks she’s a proficient enough liar to accomplish it.
They burst into fits of giggles on seeing him. He rides Erland closer to where they are stood and dismounts. His strong boots thud into the frosty mud. His wool coat laps and swathes his body. He tethered himself to Erland. Massive gloved hand gripping the reins. The creature didn’t seem to have any care for wandering off. He just wished to see Iris - Kylo empathises with the horse. He rather feels the exact same.
Iris, Posy and Flora all curtsey to him. He bids them all a greeting. She bows her neck and when she looks up. His eyes fondly fix on her. Warm in the sun. The contrast of him is astonishing. Milky creamy complexion, bordered by the onyx shadow of his hair and eyes. Utter opposites in the juxtaposition.
“Miss Ashton. A pleasure to see you again. I trust you are still well recovered. You look very radiant this morning.” He comments. Walking Erland just that tiny step closer.
The obstinate animal his stallion is, reaches his nose out and snorts into her hand. Nudges her glove for pats and scritches of affection behind his ears. She doesn’t care that she’ll get horse hair on her. She strokes him.
“You are most kind. Your lordship. I am very well.” She smiles slightly. The pretty kiss of rose on her cheeks.
“I need not tell you Erland is pleased to make your acquaintance once more.” He remarks starkly. Hint of irony not lost on her. Erland almost nudges her to fall over with his big strong head. She laughs.
“Your ears must’ve been burning. Lord Ren. For we were just discussing you...” Posy flirts. Batting her lashes at the man.
Hands crossed in front of her. Like she was a genteel little doe. Iris glares narrowed silver dagger eyes at her sister to stop displaying herself so readily. As ever, the little vexation pays no attention. Not when there was a hot blooded male around.
Kylo tilts his head. Intrigued. “Is that so, Miss Posy?” He asks.
“We we’re discussing how heart sore all the young ladies hereabouts will be when you quit Hampshire...” Flora tells him.
Kylo takes her confession in his stride. “It’s true. And I am sorry more than I can exclaim to be leaving such carnage and desolation in my wake. But sadly I do return to Bavaria shortly.”
That handsome expression barely betrays a thing. The cold wind flounces and ruffles that wild hair. A tuft of it drifts in his face and tangled in his dark eyeline.
Iris decides in that moment he truly might be an angel sculpted by gods own hand; or a demon designed by the devil himself. She isn’t sure which of those creatures is all the more tempting.
One thing she’s certain of; He’d win that draw of most handsome, every time.
She quivers when those eyes gaze at her. Peels her right out her clothes and down to her goose pimpled skin. Then Posy has to go and open her foolhardy mouth some more...
“We were just helping Iris shop for her bridal gown.” She preens. “And our bridesmaids dresses.” She comments. Speaking as if she wants Kylo to snatch her up and steal her away to Bavaria. Stuff her in his pocket and run off with her.
“I had heard rumour of your engagement...” He lies. Iris is biting the inside of her lip and smiling genially to hide how wide her excitement wishes to make her smile grow.
“Show Lord Ren your engagement ring, Iris!” Flora bounces excitedly. Iris glares. Reminding her of the inappropriate nature of her words.
“Flora. Lord Ren is not interested in such matters. And I’m afraid we’ve already impressed upon too much of his time...” She insists.
Kylo holds out his hand to her. Steps closer so she has to crane her head back just to keep sight of his eyes. “I am certainly interested. And I might add, most eager to see the bauble that decorates such a fine, pretty hand.” He teases.
She decides he was designed by the devil. And lucifer gave him a silver tongue to boot-
Iris slips off her grey glove and gently lays her palm in his.
The way his fingers curl around hers is criminal. She tips her eyes up to his as he shifts closer and admires her ring. A soft smile tugs at his mouth. The gold winks at him in the sun. It’s a pretty delicate morsel. He can’t deny. But plain. Much too plain. Entirely humble as decoration went.
-it’s certainly nothing to the one he’d had Jomar go all the way to London to fetch for her from Bentley & Skinner on Bond Street.
“It is a fine ring. Miss Ashton. Sergeant Hux is the most fortunate man in England to have you as his intended bride. I’m quite envious of his fortuity.” He says. Bowing to lay a kiss on the back of her palm.
His eyes electrify her. He winks at her and she flushes with heat. Blood pressing up in her face.
“I’m sorry to hear of your leaving England. Lord Ren. Such a shame Hellford Park should be quitted before the summer.” She tells him.
Her palm leaving his. Sliding away from the touch of his hand would have made her wretched were it not for the heat in his bronzed eyes. Made a warmer melting shade by the shimmer of the buttery sun. And their shared secret lifts her heart.
“It is a great shame. But I’m eager to return to Ranlor. I’ve missed my homeland a great deal.”
“The rumour in circulation is that you have a certain lady in mind to return home too.” Posy dares most outlandishly. Iris chides her for her brash rudeness.
“Posy!” Iris calls out.
Kylo seems amused by it. “That would he telling. Miss Posy. Not to mention betraying the confidence of the most honourable lady in question.” He smirks at her sister.
Who giggles and blushes like it’s no ones business. His vampiric charms seeping out of his every pore, truly intoxicating to them, Iris can see it’s influence.
“Is she a great beauty? I imagine she is most elegant indeed and very superior and titled in rank and manner. And of great fortune...” Posy digs for more details. Kylo will reveal none.
“Pray. Don’t be impertinent twice-over.” Iris corrects. Posy pulls a vexed face. Shoves her tongue out at her sister.
Kylo’s chuckling. They were entertaining little chits. Relentless. But he admires something about that sparky quality. Iris had the same sense about her - only more sensible and humble.
“She is the singularly, most beautiful creature I’ve ever beheld in all my years.” He promises. “And I cannot wait to have her hand in marriage. She will make me a very blessed and lucky man.” He declares.
“How romantic.” Posy declares in a sigh. Flora dreamily agrees. They’re both veritably Moony eyed. Gazing up at him in wonder as a consequence. A silly girls kryptonite. A handsome and dark romantic man. A Byronic figure to set all the foolish girls swooning at the knees.
Kylo’s eyes sweep across to Iris at a passing glance. He smiles. And it almost undoes her.
“We must be on our way. We’ve availed ourselves of too much of your time. Lord Ren.” Iris says in parting. Trying to herd her vapid sisters away before they flirt anymore.
“We must go. For we are bid to the Hux’s tonight for a celebratory engagement supper.” Posy curtsies boasting as she’s bobbing away.
“Give the Sergeant and his family my warmest regards.” Kylo insists. Knowing what a barb that would be to Hux’s temper.
Iris turns and meets his eyes. Giving him a polite bowed head in parting. When Posy and Flora are otherwise looking elsewhere. She turns back and gives him such a look of longing and delight it makes him grin at her as she walks off down the cobbled pavement.
“Very good to see you again. Your Lordship. Have a pleasant rest of your day.” She insists.
Cajoling her sisters along the path and away before they get any notions. Erland snorts at her as she moved away. She smiles and gladly rubs the flat bone of his nose before she goes. Lord Ren stays standing until she does move away.
Kylo pats his neck, and hauls himself up on his strong stallions back once again. Booted feet in the stirrups. He adjusts on the saddle. Scanning the tumbled windows of the high street proprietors.
In the milliners, he sees a face like sour lemons and thunder glaring out at him. Mrs Ashton’s stony face peering outwards through the glass. Having seen his exchange with all her daughters.
He coaxes Erland into a slow walk. A little nudge in his side. He gives the foul Caroline Ashton his most winning enigmatic smile. And nods civilly in greeting at her as he rides off.
He sees it makes her lips purse in irritation.
Iris can’t resist glancing back at him. She knows those eyes watch her all the way down the street. She can feel them. Two pinpricks of heat, like candles, burning into her shoulder-blades.
It makes her too giddy for words.
They soon catch up with the rest of their party and are whisked away in the Hux carriage. Soaring across the dirty English roads. Mud churning in their wake as cold air and sunshine bounces off the roof.
Mama asks them what Lord Ren. Iris told them he was just politely passing the time of day. She seems satisfied with the answer. Iris fights not to squirm into shivers of desire at the merest intimation and memory of him.
Posy and Flora sing-song his romantic praises all the way home. Mother soon shuts them up with a cross cold stare.
The afternoon seems to fly her by. No sooner than she’s home and she’s readying herself for the dinner they’ll take at the Hux’s residence. Cavenham House.
The not so modest estate in the border of the next county. A gorgeous house if she’s being perfectly honest. Terracotta red bricked exterior, of modern Georgian design. Huge arched white windows. Rococo interior. All gilded with cherubs frolicking on the murky painted ceilings and baroque trim on every door. Rolling scrolls. Frescoes and pastel colours. Gilding, moulding and trompe l’oeils giving the illusion of motion and drama. Raining down from every ceiling.
A handsomely kept garden was also what it was resolutely famous for. Though it would not be pictured to its best quality in this dead winter. Spring will liven it soon. The hardy bright bulbs will crop up through the frost. But for now it remains speckled in snow with only the evergreens surviving.
Iris can see it all as they pull up the long stretch of the torch lit drive. In the coach Maratella was kind enough to send to collect them all.
Once again she was wedged beside Posy and Flora, and their shrill gossiping. Mother and Father opposite. Noiseless and as disagreeing as ever. Silence blazed between them as somber as a churchyard. They were about as animated with each other as two gravestones.
Iris dressed in her navy silk gown with 3/4 sleeves and a sheer white chemisette swirled with stitched white flowers, decorating her shoulders and neck. Meg cleverly weaves that teal ribbon into her hair coiffure again. She finishes the look with pearl droplet earrings and white satin gloves up to her elbows.
They are welcomed inside by stony faced servants in the blue Cavenham livery. Taken into the drawing room to meet their hosts. Maratella had invited some local flavour along also. Everyone’s merry and mingling. Posy offers to play a Handel piece on the Pianoforte before dinner is announced. She does so rather well. Thunks the opening notes in shocking volume but she picks up from that point onwards.
Iris is admiring the scenery from the drawing room window. Even in the dark she can see how lovely the gardens are. It doesn’t dissolve the fact that this house would still be a prison to her. There weren’t bars on the window and she won’t exactly be stitching mailbags - but it will still be her cage.
A handsome cage, she won’t deny. But a cage nonetheless as she mothers the children and lives for planning fine parties to boast of her and her husbands excellence. And slowly becomes a woman of high rank and no substance.
Hux moves to stand by her side, hands folded behind his back. A tall lean column of red, black and white in his ceremonial dress. Medals shining. Hair groomed. Perfectly respectable. Infuriatingly loveless, as always.
“You shall like the gardens in summer. I should think.” He remarks.
“They are most handsome.” She comments. “A fine prospect indeed.” She agrees.
They perfectly form the vision of lovers conversing by candlelight. She can hear Mama and Mrs. Hux cooing proudly behind them. It’s infuriating. Iris can’t spend the rest of her life in a manner such as this; being prodded and manoeuvred and gossiped over like a chess piece on a board.
“I care little for being out of doors. Save for riding with my regiment.” He impresses.
Iris nods. “I am perhaps overfond of walking. I take an excursion each day if I can.” She tells him.
He sniffs. And coldly watches the view before them. “Well. You shall have to make allowances and sacrifices when we are wed. I can’t have you scampering around the countryside when you are with my heir.” He insists.
Iris’s mouth turns dry. She makes little response to his words. He turns away to speak to someone else but she catches his arm to stop him.
“Please I just want to say-“ she starts.
She looks up into his face. The bright copper of his hair and the steel of his eyes. The surety of his rigid auburn brow. She doesn’t dislike him. He’s not an unpleasant man. Just, misguided.
She says what she’s thinking now before she loses the chance. No doubt he’ll think very badly of her when all is done.
“I think well of you. You know. You are a gallant man. Not lacking in honour or credibility. I admire that about you. Hux.” She says. Even if I can’t marry you for it.
He nods. Accepting her words. Then their granite faced butler coughs dryly and announces dinner to the room.
Maratella lets the engaged couple be seated next to each other at dinner. Wanting to encourage the tepid affection brewing between them. Iris doesn’t know what the woman expects from them. They weren’t matched for love but it’s as if that’s what she’s hoping to see blossom.
Maratella is hoping for romance to pass betwixt them.
It could and never will be that. Iris thinks.
Iris remarks inwardly to herself as she sips down her soup a la reine. Served alongside several large golden Bouchée à la reine’s.
The next course is of stewed beef and venison steaks, and a whole champagne poached salmon with slithers of white and black truffles decorating the cooked fish acting as scales.
More seafood came served in the form of fried then boiled sole, heaped in a terrine and a whole platter of pickled crab. A haricott of vegetables and mashed turnips. There was enough food spread on this very grand table, to keep them dining for a fortnight. Mrs Hux organised a feast intended to show off.
She gets everyone to toast to the newlyweds. The gentleman stand to raise their glasses and the ladies stay seated.
The pudding banquet is brought out and quite rightly enough, as she suspected, the whole table is flouncing in ruched fancy french sugar concoctions.
Silken French pies. Syllabubs of lemon and rose and brandy. Ice’s of all flavours. Custard tarts smothered with fat ripe fruit drowning steeped in syrup. Sugar plums and cinnamon and mace laced apple tartlets with baked custard. Iris indulged in some of the tarts and the fruits.
Posy and Flora fall upon creams and dainty fancies like hungry wolves. And eat until they are stuffed.
The ladies retire to the parlour for music and snifters of sweet ruby port wine. Iris indulges in a glass as her sisters and various other young accomplished ladies take to the pianoforte to sing and show off. Posy drags a reluctant Iris up to sing whilst she plays. She grumbles but bends to her sisters will.
She gives a shortly sweet chorus of ‘Let no man steal your thyme’ for it was the only song she could sing comfortably well.
She never much liked performing for amusement. Some girls were a glutton for it. Iris is no such a one. She stands with one hand on the pianoforte and the other folded behind her hip. She sings her choruses and smiles meekly at the small scattering of applause offered for her when she is done.
She heads back to her spot on the settee. Maratella is remarking to her mother how divine it will be to have a songbird in the house once again. Iris sits back in her seat and spends the rest of her evening in silence. Though she wants to say a great deal.
The evening slips past well enough. Night spills past her relatively quick. Another day gone. Another day closer to her happiness. She’s almost too giddy to contain it.
Then the time comes to bid goodnight to their hosts;
Iris watches as Hux fondly kisses her hand. Seeing her off out the rich gilded foyer out into the black black night. Sky so dark it’s a whole void studded with freckling stars. Cold shudders at the shivering trees.
She wants to say something impactful and veiled. To speak of her regard for him. She cannot think how best to do so. She swallows down her thick tongue. Remains a coward.
She can only hope in time, after the wake of her scandal settles. That Hux will find someone better suited than her. Maybe even find someone that he can love? She prays deeply for that little happy happenstance.
She is not so unfeeling as to wish a joyless life on the man who just wasn’t correct for her.
Her teeth grits with all the things unsaid. “I hope you’ll be happy.” She smiles lightly. He thinks her to be referring to the engagement that stands between them.
“I’m sure.” He comments. “Goodnight.” Is his curt response.
It doesn’t incense her. Tonight it vexed her. Caused a tiny crease between her brows. It seemed such fickle words to part on. But she leaves them be-
Let’s those words spirit up into the quiet undisturb of the night. The heavens can have those words. Iris wishes it could have been more. But how appropriate is it that even his parting words are found wanting.
She gets into the coach after curtseying a polite goodbye to Brendol and Maratella. She says something sweet to Iris about her singing. Iris cringes a smile. She won’t be thinking such good things about her shortly. She imagines she’ll curse her name for all of hell and heaven to hear. She’ll wake the sleeping dead cursing the day Iris was born.
Iris thanks her. For her hospitality. For her kindness. Under all her airs and graves, she’s a fairly nice woman and she should find a more amicable daughter-in-law to crow over.
She slots herself into the coach beside her sisters. Listens to the door slam shut. The rattle and crunch of it shifts on the gravel. Rumbled away up the long elegant curve of the drive.
Iris twists to look back. She isn’t sure why she wanted too. But they weren’t a dismal family. And she’s sorry for the pain and offence she’ll cause to them all.
She watches Hux’s stiffly-posed, regimented figure. Shadowed against the night. The scarlet of his blood coat. The ice white of his breeches stained blue, glowing in the night. The stars glimmer off his shining boots and off the pierce of his pale eyes. She wishes him well. She truly does.
They trundle on home. Full of food and as usual with Posy and Flora spouting gossip on and on endlessly. Mother chiming in. Father and Iris retain their silence. Eyes cross firing in a glance when they all agree on something cruel and senseless.
Westwell’s windows emerge gold out the dark. Surrounded by the bustling trees. All of the landscape is merely dark moulded shapes. Looming and shifting in the shadows. The moon casts washy film of silver to try and spill over the cover of smeared clouds.
They are just to the drive when a small dark shape flits overhead. Iris looks upwards, and sees the definable shape of a bird landing on her windowsill. She smiles giddily.
She exits the coach quick. Bidding them goodnight and rushing off up to her room. Her skirts picked up in her hands. Mama remarks how odd it is. Posy shrugs and supposes she’s got a secret missive to read from Hux.
Iris absolutely flies for her door. Twists the handle and launches herself in the room. Shutting the door firmly after herself. Pressing it with both hands flat to the wood.
The warmth of the fire hits her. She doesn’t even pay mind to the tiny crack of her open window. Or her swaying curtains that shift on the breeze.
She can only focus on the huge frame of a dashing vampire stood fireside. One elbow resting on the mantel as he gazes into the flames.
His big frame swallows up the whole room and strangled out all the air. The ochre of the blazing flames captured his skin. Turned that milky-cream of his complexion into pale fire.
She smiles and he does too. “Thank goodness it’s you. I was worried I’d scare seven shades out of your maid.” He drawls softly so his voice doesn’t carry. Smirk curling at the corners.
She crosses the distance. Her feet eat up the floorboards quick. She avails herself of an embrace. Throws herself into his arms.
The cloak of his fire warmed clothing envelopes her as his arms do. He smells like the damp snap of frosty woodland and the acid tang of woodsmoke. The night air of wild outdoors clings to every inch and fibre of his clothes. Swirls about him like a clouding tempest.
He chuckles as she gets herself in his hold. The deep bass of his voice rumbled through her skin and sinking to her bones. Her cheek mashed to his sternum. His arms close around her. Stroking her body through the rasping silk of her dress.
One big warmed hand clasps the back of her neck as the other holds the back of her waist. His nose nudges into the crush of her muddy hair. Her scent teases him just as much as his had, to her. Lavender and sage. The plain spice and calm floral scent.
“I could feel the happiness pouring off you as you alighted the stairs.” He smiles. She steps back and gazed up at him.
“How pretty you look tonight. Dove. You’re exquisite in silk.” He remarks when she steps away. Hand toying with the loose tawny curl at her ear. The sapphire dark of her dress suits her very well. Throws her complexion into brilliance. Does something to make the tones of her hair look rich.
She always looks ravishing to him.
She blushes. “I missed you all day. Isn’t that mad?” She asks.
“If missing is madness, then I’m out of my sane mind whenever you’re not in my sight.” He promises gently.
Big hands cupping her hot silken neck as he leans down to plant a firm, slanting kiss to her lips. His mouth is cold and he tastes of frosty air and wine.
Kissing him is like kissing someone who just stepped inside, taking shelter from a bitter cold wind.
She’s beginning to wonder if there is some clever addiction woven into his lips. One kiss never seems to be enough. She holds his wrists as he grabs her. Makes her feel small in his arms. She’s lost in his hold. It’s powerfully thrilling.
He breaks the kiss and his thumbs stroke at her cheeks. Her eyes glitter keenly at him. He spies the ring on her finger. The one that doesn’t belong there. It makes him smile.
“I’d like to surmise you snuck in here just to steal a kiss. But I suspect a different motive altogether?” She asks.
He broke into a grin that creases his eyes and bares his teeth in a smile. She was no thoughtless woman; his darling Iris.
She’s always thinking. Always fretting. Always mulling over things in her head.
That was one of the first things that that came to his notice about her. She tended to be introspective about all manner of things in comparison to her acetous mother who spewed vile words. And her daft sisters who spouted out their every dangerously silly thought.
He kisses her for that clever remark- slow and paced and soft. Languid like melting warm honey. Lips curling to hers.
“I do have some news. But kissing you will always my first priority.” He husks against her rosy lips. Her warm cheeks blaze from under his icy fingers.
“The date is set. We must leave tomorrow eve.” He tells her with a smirk.
Her stomach completely soars in giddiness. She doesn’t have to hide her grin here.
“It feels as if I’ve been waiting at eternity to hear those blessed words.” She cries in happiness.
“Slip away to me after everyone’s gone to bed.” He instructs. She agrees.
“Mother has been pleased with my conduct of late. She’ll have let her guard down over tonight. I’ll leave once everyone is abed. Even the maids.” She tells him.
Stroking her fingers down the finery of his waistcoat where they’re still stood close to each other. The material was so soft. The softest grain of velvet she’s ever felt.
“You don’t have to bring too much. I can buy you everything you may ever need.” He leers. Cupping her cheek. Feeling the smooth of her skin. Right up her jaw.
His eyes carve flinty paths down her neck as he strokes his fingers there. Her pulse quickens. He can feel and hear her blood slushing hot through her veins.
She shrugs. “I cherish very few possessions. Posy and Flora can have the rest.” She insists. Her hand coming up to stroke over his thick crook of elbow with the hand that’s touching her neck.
He drags the edge of the chemisette down and strokes along the flat of her collarbone. His eyes turn into a palette of bittersweet autumn. Orange and gold swirled with flecks of russet brown.
“Is it difficult?” She asks suddenly.
“Restraining from the need to...” Her face fixed on his. Words trailing away. Air bursting with heat and lust. His eyes snap from her neck to her face. Her cheeks bloom rose petal red. Blood red and hot.
“To feed?” He asks her. She swallows and nods.
His other hand catches the back of her hips reels her right in close. She gasps. Air around them thick and full of snapping sparking static. Her hands press to his cavernous chest.
“I have got several hundred years of restraint up my sleeve.” He crooks a smirk.
His eyes flicker to watch her jugular pulse. The thrum of her little timpani heart makes his mouth wet. He knows she’d taste like salt and sickly Turkish roses and warm bronze coins.
He presses the chemisette aside again and nudges his nose against her pulse point. Right at the epicentre of his life’s greatest desire. He hums a kiss against her neck and she almost faints-
“You shake all those very hard learnt lessons right down to their very foundations.” He promises.
“Iris my love, you are the hardest thing, I’ve ever had to resist.” He tells.
Swooping upwards to kiss at her cheek. Sighing in need against her hot warm skin. If he indulges the temptation of tasting her blood. He doesn’t even want to fathom what the raw animal in him will do to her. Such debauchery he’d surely scandalise her innocence to tipping point.
He will have her on their wedding night and not a second before.
Though the rogue in him does think how goddamn glorious it would be to have her on that bed of hers right now, torn out of that gown. Screeching his name for the whole house to hear. And they can listen to her rapture and whimper, and beg and writhe under the man who really does love her.
Bite her neck as he pumps deep into her slick heat. Gather up every groan as she opens those sweet pink thighs for him and claws at his back. He’d kiss her neck until she yanks her fingers into his hair and tugs. Opens that sweet songbird mouth and calls for him in her bliss, with that ambrosial voice.
He holds the backs of her hips and strokes the silk there with arcing curves of his thumbs. Drawing shapes on that stiff silk.
“I must tell you-“ She starts. “I never was much good at resisting you either. Even after knowing what you are. It shocked me I won’t deny. But it somehow in its twisted way, it made all the sense in the world. It didn’t alter me for my knowledge of it. It didn’t even begin to change the severity my feelings for you.” She tells him. Reaching up and stroking along the handsome plain jaw.
Wholly, un-confinably, remarkably handsome.
“My love-“ He begins warmly. “If I had to, I would throw you over my shoulder to carry you up the aisle to marry me. Even if I had to tear you from your bed and steal you away in the dark of night to be mine. I would have done it. Because this, what we share, it cannot and will never be undone. Can never be ignored.” He promises her.
“Vampires love more deeply than any mortal longing. What I feel for you, it is not fickle. It will never fade. Never wane. We love each other and that will last for as long as we exist on this earth. I thought I had better edify you with these clear facts about my nature, before we are to be bound in matrimony.” He pledges to her. Declaring his undying devotion to her.
Iris rather wants to swoon into his chest - if she had ever been inclined to be a swooning sort of woman. Instead she just beams. A smile so glad it touches the frosty barren place his dead heart inhabited.
“These last few hours will be such a torture.” She comments seriously. But giddy. So giddy it felt like her sides would split open. And molten happy gold would pour out.
His eyes turn promiscuous. As does his domineering smile.
“I can safely offer you nothing but pleasure once the torture is done.” He filthily promises.
She blushes. He wants to lift her up and devour her in a kiss again. Taste those saccharine sweet lips in an animalistic kiss. He savours holding her instead.
Tomorrow he can let the animal roam free over his delicate dove. Tonight is the last night it must be caged.
“Not long to wait now. The last of my household servants left today. I sent Jomar and Jones off to London to make passage to France. Erland and Kana remain to take us to Scotland with one driver, and the coach.” He tells.
She liked that he’s bringing Erland to their elopement. It’s quite fitting when the creature loves her almost as much as he does.
“Then it’s just us. Riding into the wild of the Highland. Roaming over the Scottish moors, and glens and lochs, as a Lord and his Lady.” He paints a vivid picture for her.
She sighs a smile. “Us, has never sounded so splendid.” And she beams brighter than the sun.
He clutches her close for another kiss before he slips away.
The appointed hour loometh. And Iris won’t sleep a wink for thinking of his sharp smile or those savage eyes.
She eventually dreams. And thinks of kissing his soft plush lips once more. Like kissing pink rose petals.
The next time she will, they’ll be well on their way to being man and wife.
Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Four; Acquaintances.
Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver
Also on AO3-
Trigger Warnings: Nothing much to trigger in this chapter - just as the title suggests, a swooning moment or two perhaps-
Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.
He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.
He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.
In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.
He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.
He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
The sky remained hard. Resolutely letting snow sift from the thick great heavens, like icing sugar drifting down. The ground also continued to be frosty hard and scattered with patches of hidden silvery ice.
No sooner than the sun had risen over the tumbling flat frosty vista of Hampshire hills and frost crusted meadows, than Iris is up, and going about her daily chores all in the life of a gently bred - yet unwed- daughter, of fairly considerable means.
She takes food parcels to the poor. Calls on sick relatives or companions for tea. Pays calls. Fetched supplies for cook from the butchers or the grocers, or the fishmongers in town.
When one of the maids is ill, or is suffering a passing heartbreak until the next suitor comes along, Iris is the one to step into the void and fulfil their tasks. She collects the eggs from the chickens at the farm, or makes the ailing girl a hot milk posset or a cup of hot chocolate to cheer them.
It seemed like every other week their maids, Meg and Julia, seemed to go getting their hearts broken. Some farm hand. Or the boy from the butchers shop. The milliners son, or the strong handsome one who works in the drapers shop. As ever; Iris steps into the fray when - another - devastating crisis comes their way. She helps cook in the kitchen with supper. Or she helps out with idle cleaning around the house. Or see’s to the chores on the farm.
This morning is no different. Meg took to her bed with an ailing heart of the most acute kind. For the boy she fancies had become engaged to another girl. Iris brings her a cup of chocolate after breakfast and lends her a handkerchief and a shoulder so she can have a good long cry about it.
So household tasks fall onto her today. Fetching in what cook needed from market for supper. Even though she’d have liked to have spent a morning reading her book, or helping Julia get on top of the household washing. She’s wanted to take down the parlour curtains and give them a good scrub, for weeks now.
Or today she had ideally wanted to lend Flora and Posy a hand in drying some flowers, and french lavender and roses. For perfumes and bathing oils. They had to use their home grown stock from the gardens carefully. It was a long winter. And the convenience of summer blooms are far off yet. Dried flowers cost a pretty penny up the market.
Her duties are endless. She’s got calls to pay. Off to the butchers to buy sweet meats and game for the jugged hare cook is making tonight. She needs to buy beeswax candles and salt, and some more soaps.
And Posy and Flora are allowed to purchase two new ribbons each. They’ll walk into the village with her. No doubt nattering all the way there about what colours they want. And all the way back that they should’ve chosen different ones.
Iris steps outside in her wintry best and her cracked leather boots. Two pairs of wool stockings this time. Her navy blue wool pelisse over a thick white cotton dress. For good measure, she puts a bonnet on to keep her ears warm, and wraps a gold embroidered shawl around her shoulders.
Posy and Flora are trussed up as if they’re off to go personally meet the Prince Regent. Flora is in her gold pelisse with her pink dress under. And Posy had her powder blue coat over her mint green dress. They’re both wearing bonnets that they made up themselves. Their hats staggering under the weight of ribbons and cloth and trims and flounces.
Iris’s was far simpler - No fuss. No trims. A gold straw bonnet with grey ribbon tied under her chin.
Iris has to chide Posy, when they step out of doors, for forgetting to wear her gloves. She insists she hasn’t a decent pair and slips back into the house to go up to Iris’s room to conveniently borrow her grey rabbit fur lined gloves. Making her elder sister roll her eyes. The plot was clear.
They had a heavy basket each to carry. Some old granary loaves, soused herring, and some jars of Jam from their kitchens to go to the poor. They’re not even at the end of the drive and Flora is whinging about the weight of her basket. Iris heaves a sigh and grabs it off her.
She trudges behind them. Both arms carrying heavy baskets.
Her and Posy link arms, giggling, walking along merrily, animated and discussing last nights ball. Or, more accurately; making sport of the people who’d attended.
“Did you see that awful Lavender gown Jane Penwell had on?”
“I thought it suited her very ill indeed.”
“And did you hear about Lawrence Fisher? Apparently he’s now to be courting Lucy Miller.”
“I cannot stand her. Last night she was so boastful about the lace trim on her dress. She’s vile. And I haven’t had any new lace on my dress for over a year! Not since last summer. I’m sure she does it deliberately, just to vex me.”
“You are far prettier than Lucy Miller. She has ten million freckles and no conversation at all. She’s a pale ugly little thing.” Posy’s insisting fiercely to her younger sister.
Iris is amused by the sheer frailty of their worries.
“And besides, Mama said she had a letter from Mrs Thornby today, and apparently Lord Ren and Iris were the talk of the ball all night, last eve.” Flora says cheekily.
Turning over her shoulder to scrutinise her sister with a smug grin that flashes her straight little row of teeth.
Iris rolled her eyes. Strongly suspecting that as of now, her and Lord Ren would be gossiped about in front parlours for weeks. This was a sleepy country village with little amusement and not much variety to sustain it.
Mama’s and girls of the Ton would fall on the new shred of tittle-tattle like wolves.
“He left the ball last night without talking to any other girl, mama said.” Posy explains.
“The poor man probably didn’t have time enough to get through all the desperate Hampshire girls, eagerly throwing themselves at him to make an acquaintance.” Iris thinks aloud.
They walk up Westwell’s frosted drive and out onto the snowy lanes that cut through quaint countryside and woods.
The golden sun is in its early rising, striping ribbons of thick satin gold through the trees. The ruddy browns and ash greys and ochre coppery rusts of the Turner-esque English countryside. Of fields and hedgerows and treetops. The grass is no longer green. It’s a musty white. And that same cloying powder clings onto the dead taupe leaves and branches of every tree. The air is bitter to breathe in.
Iris takes a deep lungful of it, and its like a chest full of sharp pins. Needling at her lips and her neck. She should’ve thought to employ a wool scarf. As it is she can only tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Tucking the heavy baskets into to dig deeper into her elbows. The frost numbs her feet, and sneaks up her skirts and snatched cruelly at her legs.
She clenched her numb fingers, scrunching and unscrunching them up in her much too thin gloves.
Posy and Flora continue their giggling and swapping tidbits of gossip about Lord Ren.
“You know he didn’t even dance with anyone!”
“A great sin, I’m sure. Punishable by death.” Iris thinks to herself under her breath.
“He probably didn’t have time-“ Posy remarks.
“Or he doesn’t know how.” Flora supposed.
“A man that lofty, of course he can dance. Maybe he prefers not too.”
“Maybe he has a false leg, or, or a war wound!”
Iris rather wishes her ears were purely ornamental by this point.
Give me a pair of vestigial ears anytime you wish. She idly prays. Turning her eyes skywards.
“Maybe he’s shy-“ Flora squeaks. Posy clasps her hand over her mouth and laughs so loudly it startles the chaffinches out the trees.
“I don’t think he can afford to blend into the wallpaper with a stature like that.” Flora grins.
“His shoulders were twice the width of me.” Posy says dreamily.
“Did he have soft lips Iris? For you must’ve felt them through your gloves... Were they heavenly?” Flora demands to know. Both sisters walking in step alongside her now.
She side eyes them. “That is not a proper thing to discuss. And well you know it Flora Jane Ashton.” Iris insists. Concealing her secrets to herself.
She wasn’t telling her sisters how her whole body burst into shivers popping and skipping up her spine. How his touch made her skin feel like it was dancing of its own accord. Free from her body. She shivered yet she was blushing hot.
His lips were the softest, sweetest things that had ever come into contact with her body.
Her whole arm felt dizzy afterwards. It wasn’t possible. But that’s how it felt. Hours after she was still rubbing the patch where his lips had lain on her satin gloves.
When she got home after the ball, she peeled her glove off and looked at her hand.
It still looked ordinary. Her skin wasn’t red or marked - but it felt like it should be. It felt as if something utterly astounding had happened to her.
The memory of his eyes gazing their arrow-striking glare into her own haunted her head all night long. Swam behind her closed eyelids in her sleep. Those opulent piercing eyes.
“We won’t tell a soul.” Posy promises
“Oh, look. Here is the Barton’s cottage. Flora pass me the ointment for Mr Barton.” Iris demands.
Seeing the little boxy cottage coming into view. Roof thick with iced thatch. Walls butter yellow. With fat pink sickly rose vines creeping up the walls. Iris sees the chimney is smoking. They must be home keeping warm on this frigid morning. Acrid woodsmoke from the house drifts across the woods.
They deliver the ointment into Mrs Barton’s hand. Along with some jam, a loaf, and pickled goods to see them through the wintry cold week. They were a frail elderly couple after all. And Iris likes helping people. She always had. Her mother always insisted she’d been cursed with an unshakable vein of kindness.
Which often meant as a child she was forever taking in birds wounded falling out their nests in the gardens. Leaving carrots out for the wild rabbits. Seeds for the birds. Feed for the little monk-jack deers. She shared all her dolls as a girl. Forever saw to caring for the people and creatures which surround her. She visits the infirm with medicine. Reads to the lonely old matrons who’d lost all the grandchildren of their own.
Now she’s grown that inclination hasn’t left her. She likes making sure none of the infirm elderly, or the more impoverished friends of her acquaintance suffer through the bitter cold climes. They never have to struggle alone. Iris is a balm to the hurting. She gives what she can. And is a friend to everyone kind enough to recognise it.
Before long, the trio of ladies dispense their generosity upon those who need it. Giving what sustenance and leftovers they can spare. It’s not much really- when all is said and done. But it’s helping in any little way possible. And that’s what matters.
They come eventually into Pembleton high street. The every busy and jagged row of higgledy Tudor houses. Separated by a lane of sticky brown mud where horses hooves and carts churn up the dirt. Carts and stalls line the streets. Modest shopfronts sell their wares. The air is full up of woodsmoke and the scent of roasting nuts from the brazier on the stand nearby.
Iris loses Posy and Flora very quickly to the haberdashers, where the ribbons hang from great silken trails in racks from the ceiling. Every colour Imaginable.
She sees them fussing over Belgian lace and leaves them be. She steps into the butchers for Cooks desired hare and sweet meats. She buys the candles, salt and the paper wrapped little cakes of soaps from Mr Milton’s shop next door.
She crosses the street to the grocers. Fills her basket with green leeks, onions, potatoes and carrots. She tucks everything in her basket, around the poor lamented hare with its fur still on, and covers it with a patterned linen cloth.
She has a shilling spare- she wanders over to Mr. Greeley. The proud proprietor of the roasted nuts stall. She buys a bag of warm, buttery sweet chestnuts.
Hides them from Posy and Flora. This was her one little indulgence for today. She sneaks one of the hot things onto her tongue and savours it.
She strides back up the line of shop windows. Looking and listening to the clack and bustle of the street behind her. Clopping hooves, rattling carts, ponies and traps clunking along the high street. Friends and acquaintances stopped to gossip and chat in the street. Young and old. Of every walk of life.
She looks in the drapers window. The reflection off the glass, showed her a watery image of a gaggle of matronly mamas stood behind her across the street, loudly gossiping in her direction. Pointing and gesturing toward her.
She rolls her eyes in huffing annoyance.
She wasn’t enjoying being the inconstant centre of attention. Open to such censure and fascination in odes to the Hearst’s ball last night.
Also in odes to the mysterious new stranger to these shores, too. The dark, dashing, and taciturn Lord Ren.
Every wet-behind-the-ears girl in all of Hampshire was busy envisioning their swirled initials joined with his in their embroidery. A big handsome stranger from far off lands. It was the precursor to the stuff of romance from drippy novels. A harbinger of a great love story.
Maybe not hers. Lord Ren may have kissed her hand and called her handsome. But so have countless other rich suitors, and then two months later them and their pretty blonde heiress of ten thousand pounds, are lavishly married and installed in a house in Brunswick square. She’s sure he’ll eventually find some far more moneyed girl to march into matrimony.
It won’t be her- not her turn to pick out her wedding clothes. It never is.
She lets the whispers and doubts about her, flourish from unimportant mouths.
She never cared for the savagery of society. She won’t start being missish about it all, now. It won’t serve her any purpose-
She can only hope the next scandal or engagement or elopement, or any other source of fascination to the bored inhabitants of this county, comes flooding in quick to snatch away all unhealthy - and rather undue - interest in her.
She waits outside the haberdashers for her pair of silly sisters. They eventually come out. Comparing their new ribbons with each other’s. Flora has a pink, Posy has some frothy white lace.
Posy hands Iris a teal silk ribbon. “For your hair. It would become you so well. And it will go with your eyes.” She insists.
Iris smiles. Wrapping the long length of satin around her grey glove. It was very pretty.
“Pray how did you afford this?” Iris narrows her eyes in smiling suspicion at the pair of them.
“I saved up my allowance.” Posy insists plainly. Iris continues her look. She tilts her chin down a notch. Let’s her eyes harden to steel. Arched her muddy shaped brows.
“...And the haberdasher’s son is so very obliging.” Flora beams. The younger Ashton’s giggle together knowingly.
Iris sighs again. Strongly suspecting she could safely boast that she had two of the silliest siblings in the entire country. Hell, in the entire British Empire.
“Let’s take our leave shall we...” Iris says. Slowly heading away. Down the street in the opposite direction they came. It took them home down on the woodland path.
She picks up her pristine white skirts and steps over the mud. Baskets heavy with her goods now thunking against her hip as they walk. One filled with meat. The other with candles and potatoes and other luxuries for supper.
Posy and Flora trail behind her. Discussing how best to use their ribbons. On bonnets or around the waistline of their favourite dresses. Iris drowns them out and listens to the crunch of her feet on the frost. The silver wisp of her breath as its whisked away up into the reach of the sky. She likes how sun glimmers off frost like sparkles and diamonds and gems. Like something fine and rich.
They just come across a curve in the lane. Leading through an open meadow full of frosted grass and withered wildflowers. When a thundering sound gallops into being, hitting the hard ground in succession from beyond the bend.
Iris looks up, attention captured swiftly by the beast of a large rider atop a colossal shimmering black horse, moving quick towards where they are walking along the quiet little lane. The peace shattered by the horses hooves pounding the earth.
A great hulking beast of a man sits astride it. Who indeed almost matches the brutally-enormous muscled intensity of the creature he rides.
Lord Ren.
Iris startled and went to move aside. But he sees them and is already slowing the horse. She draws a deep breath and watches as he tugs the reins to reel in his galloping mount. Reducing to a canter, a trot and then to a slow stop. Hooves churning up frost and spitting wet and crushed muddy grass, under its enormous stomping treads.
The sun in fiercely shining behind him. So Iris can only make out the silhouette at first. There’s no mistaking that singular body for another man. The primal size and bulk of him is unmistakable.
But then he shifts forwards on his horse as it stops. Lumbering towards them all. And that winter sun shines amber over his shoulder and she’s met with the full face of the handsome man she became acquainted with yesterday. His breath and that of his horses turn to silver smoke in the cold air
He passes the strops of its black reins into one gloved leather hand. His attire not much changed since yesterday. Still all black. The shining calf riding boots. The breeches that sit entirely too snug to the sturdy trunks of his legs and hips. The tailored black wool coat. White shirt tied with an elaborately knotted wine coloured cravat. Diamond pin studded central into the tie of the cloth.
His hair is free and rumpled by the wind. Desirable and untamed. Wild. He wears no top hat on his head like most gentlemen of civility did, when out riding.
Something about that lack of full dress she admires. Maybe he likes to feel the wind tangle his hair. The suns kiss his pale skin. The wind stinging at his cheeks. Likes galloping across the terrain at full speed on his mammoth sized beast of a horse.
“Good morning ladies.” He nods to them all. Still seated on his horse.
“Miss Ashton.” He smiles directly down at Iris as his horse shifts and stomps and nibbles the dewy wet grass below.
She ducks her head and curtseys. “Good morning. Your Lordship.” She says politely. Dwarfed by his horses shadow.
He holds her gaze for a second and smiles. Eyes more opulent charcoal in their shade than ever, this morning. He even had a kiss of pink colour in his cheeks. He looks healthy. Less alabaster pale. She strongly suspects its because of the icy wind stinging his cheeks as he rode.
He unlatched his right boot from the stirrup and smoothly swings himself off the horse. Grips the pommel at the front of the black saddle and swings himself down. Feet land to earth with a crunching thud. Frost and grass crushed underfoot.
His long wool riding coat flaps at his knees. Billowing open at his chest to show just his white shirt beneath it. Such thin layers. He must’ve been freezing.
“If I may be so bold, Miss Ashton, allow me to see you along to your intended destination?” He asks kindly. One big hand patting the solid flank of his horses shoulder when it huffs at his dismounting.
Iris’s cheeks go flaming red. She’s sure of it. Throat dry she manages to answer.
“Oh. Forgive my impertinence Lord Ren. But I don’t wish to take you out of your way. Only we are heading in the opposite direction to your path.”
“With your permission. I should like to walk with you. I’ve done a sufficient amount of riding for this morning.” He tells her.
Iris smiles. Flattered that he’d rearrange his ride, just to see her safely home. Just to walk with her for a moment or two.
Posy digs a sharp elbow into Flora’s ribs. Which jolts the youngest into speaking. “Iris. We were just going up the lane here to call on Charlotte Morris.”
Iris gazes pointedly at Flora with a piercing state that could’ve rivalled a dressmakers needle. “How remiss of you not to bring it up until now...” Iris glares a little.
“Should you mind?” Posy asks. Fluttering her lashes.
“Of course not.” Iris says flatly. “Mind the hour home and do for heavens sake be sensible.”
“We are the very vision of sensibility.” Flora beams.
Iris quirks a wry brow at the both of them. Teeth grit.
The two most transparent pests on the planet. Their plot was clear as day- One of sneaking away and leaving their elder sister unchaperoned and alone with him.
They turn away giggling and make for the little lane opposite. Gabbling and whispering all the way. Loud giggles follow them like fluttering birdsong.
When she turns back to Lord Ren he looks slightly amused. She blushes.
“I feel I ought offer an apology, your lordship. They are- most puerile and trying at times.” Iris offers as she shifts to step nearer to where he is.
He smiles gently. “They are young girls who fancy themselves cunning, I wager. No apology is necessary for that.” He declares affably. Patting his horses neck.
He brings the big horse around. Holding the gathered reins in his left hand. He leads his gigantic horse around with a click of his tongue and some soft words in urging Bavarian. The big creature follows his lead. She moves and alters the heavy baskets on her arms.
He sees this. Kylo frowns at the heavy weights at both her elbows. She shouldn’t be tasked with fetching and carrying like a damned pack horse. He extends a hand. “Allow me, Miss Ashton.”
“Oh, no it’s- I couldn’t.” By the time her protestations die on her lips. He has one basket in one hand, the other, he tied the handle to a saddle bag strap on his horse. Lays it rest against the saddle.
She’s mortified that a Lord offers to carry her basket for her.
“That’s truly a magnificent horse. I’ve never seen the like before.” She says. The steeds eyes glitter as if it knows it’s being discussed. “What’s his name?” She asks rummaging in her basket he holds. Hand slipped under the cloth.
“Erland.” Kylo says. The horses ears twitch.
“Erland. A majestic name. For a majestic beast.” She smiles at him.
She steps up to the horse and strokes her gloved hand down the flat bone between his eyes, leading down to his snout. Scents of hay and oats and animal sweat pour musky off his coat.
“He’s a lovely animal.” She says. Stroking his solid flank.
“Percheron. He’s a French draft horse. His breed originated in the Huisne valley in western France.” Lord Ren tells her.
“Bred for use as war horses, and pulling stagecoaches. This one has a fair mount of Arabian blood in him too. Makes him far too proud and headstrong.” He announces. Erland flicks his swishing tail at his owner. Snorting at him.
“I bought him with me from Bavaria. He’s the best riding horse I’ve had for a while. Stubborn temperament.” He offers. He watches her stroke his head. Touch the soft spot behind his ears.
“You like animals, Miss Ashton.” He states.
Most girls, as far as he’s aware, deigned horses as smelly, ugly creatures, whose only purpose was beneath them. Or to pull their carriages. She seemed to like this big equine creature very much.
“I do. Especially ones who are as beautiful as him.”
“Careful. Or else that flattery will shoot right to his ego.” He warns lightly.
She smiles.
Erland’s hairy velveteen muzzle cheekily nudges at her shoulder for more affection. He clearly likes her touch. Kylo tugs on his reins and frowns at him.
“Benehmen Sie sich.” Kylo rumbles in a firm Bavarian command at his horse. Calling him back. Telling him to be good. Rubbing his stocky shoulder. The round strong bones of him and the hot silk of his coat underneath his gloved palm.
She smiles. Lets the carrot she fetched from her basket, sit in the flat cradle of her gloved palm. She offers it to Erland, who snuffles it up and crunches on it. Breaking the frail vegetables skin with his big teeth. Munching it all down. Nuzzles her for more when he’s done.
He snorts when Kylo speaks up. “Anymore and you’ll get fat. You great beast.” He assures his horse in that soft foreign dialect. Shoving his snout into Miss Ashton’s hand for yet more treats. Erland’s head was so big and his power so strong, he could’ve very realistically knocked her over with one push.
She steps back and takes her place alongside a Lord Ren so they can continue in their walk. He’s a busy man. She doesn’t wish to hold him up. They fall into step easy. Her on Kylo’s left, Erland in his big lumbering enormity on Kylo’s right. His master has his right hand holding his stallions reins. The other easily carries her basket for her.
“Did you enjoy your introduction into Hampshire society, Your lordship?” Iris can’t help but ask him with mirth creeping into her voice and on her smile.
He turns his head to look at her. “The sheer amount of handsome and accomplished young ladies hereabouts is staggering.” He comments with dry humour. “I wonder if this isn’t the most accomplished county in all of England.” He states.
Iris finds herself smiling. Every desperate mother worth her salt last night would be crowing her daughters praise to high heaven. Enough to induce the possibility that her very accomplished, pretty and upstanding daughter might have a chance at landing him.
“Mothers can be so very domineering when the subject of marriage arises.” Iris promises. Looking down to step over a particularly frosty puddle.
Kylo looks across at her. Watches her profile. Along the curve of her nose and the swell of her smiling lips. It occurred to him then, that she didn’t know of her beauty. She was not aware of its potency. He could sense it; this was a girl who overlooked her own worth and highly underestimated her attractiveness.
With her pebble-ash eyes shining in the marigold sun like that, sparkling as if made of moonstone gems, and her rosy smile so unguarded and free. She didn’t see her beauty then. Not the way he could. Didn’t see it lay in the kiss of pink in her cheeks or the merriment of her face. On the geniality of her laugh and smiles.
“I know I shouldn’t comment on such things. But I do feel so dearly for every new suitor who comes to this village. Every Mama and every daughter must veritably drown poor men with their female offspring.”
Kylo raises one brow. “Rest assured. I’m not a man so inclined to favour polite safe conversation.” He promises her. He doesn’t tiptoe around propriety.
“And I will admit I lost count of the young ladies I was introduced too last eve. My ears were quite ringing with names and sickly smiles by the end of the evening.” He confesses.
She smiles wide again. Looks across. “I do sometimes wish that the people here could look beyond the scope of their own ignorance. To look beyond the defining goal of matrimony.” She confesses.
“Why should a woman’s worth be tied onto who she weds? Can she not be her own person and find a man to suit that.” She avows. Letting her stalwart brain run away with her rather passionate mouth.
“That’s very forward thinking of you.” Kylo says to her with a kind smile. Her face falls. She’s inspired insult with that comment.
She’s flushing with embarrassment.
“Mother would faint if she heard me confess that to you. Do forgive me, for the impertinence of my tongue.” She begs. Face wrinkling into a worried frown.
“You have a mind. Miss Ashton.” Kylo says. “It’s entitled to make itself known.”
“I’m a gently bred, unmarried, woman. And the eldest daughter, Lord Ren. My mind should be silent at all times. And possessed only, night and day, by thoughts and longing for matrimony.” She says. Quoting one of her mother’s rants.
“Well. You have my word. I’m most blessedly glad it’s not.” He says. Turning to look deep into her eyes.
She seems curiously confused. “You are?”
“Indeed.” He answers plainly.
“It means you are the one woman in this entire county with whom I can conduct a refreshing conversation. One that doesn’t revolve around reminding me again and again, that I’m a rich man who desperately needs a wife.” He offers.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Iris says laughing. “Not often I happen find someone on the same page as myself.”
“English men may find your so called ‘impertinence’ intolerable, Miss Ashton. For they were raised to know no better. But I am not a English man. Where I came from, it is applauded that a woman might speak her mind and have judgements and executions of her own.” He supplies.
“Our way of life here must seem so strange and strict to an outsider.” She dares. The defining pinnacle of English country society was its savage nature, after all.
“I don’t see much of the society in Bavaria.” He explains. “I see to the welfare of tenants on my land. I go hunting every season to pass the time. I’m afraid I rarely indulge in attending parties and balls.” He tells.
“A castle must be an incredible home.” She guesses.
“Even so- it can be very limiting being confined to it in the cold dark winters. Very little company. Little to entertain. I found myself wanting a change of scene. I had looked for some land opportunity’s to enclose in over here. When Hellford became available. It seemed a good opportunity to travel. Sink my teeth into a new venture.” He smarts. Eyes darkly roaming over her face with that handsome smile.
She nods. “I quite understand.” Erland clops alongside them in the misty morning sunshine. Snorting breaths silver and wispy still in the biting air.
“What are the winters like in Bavaria?” She enquires.
He smiles. “Beautiful. But bitter.” He explains. “The snow can be deep. As tall as me some days when it falls.” She smiles at his description.
“The castle stands out of a tall pine forest. A lake and a river to the east. One of the biggest woods in the country. Full of wolves, boars, and deer. It’s quite a wilderness in its own right.”
“Goodness- wolves. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?” She frets.
Not as much as me. He thinks. Matter of fact, when he steps foot in that forest, he is the most bloodthirsty dangerous animal in it.
“The beasts respect the boundary of my castle. I respect the forest is theirs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” He tells her.
“Surrounded by wolves. You must feel very at home here too, then.” She jokes.
He laughs. “There’s something familiar I grant. Though the wolves back home don’t don lace caps and thrust all their daughters at me.”
She laughs at his remark. And suddenly, she goes spinning off course. Her worn boots slipping on a sneaky patch of frost and ice. No grip to their soles in this devilish cold. A yelp leaves her mouth as she skids. Blood flashing flushing hot and terrible suddenly. The shock of slipping stabbing at her stomach.
He acts quick. He lets go of Erland’s reins and steps that big form forwards and snatched one arm out to grab her. Slips back around her waist, cups the back of her hip, and yanks her tight to him to stop her falling.
She gasps and trembles as her vision spins, to be quickly halted by a sheer wall of cold, dark clad muscle. She barely registers where she is now.
Because she’s pressed right up into Lord Ren’s redoubtably firm chest. Her palms crushed flat on his lapels. His arm seizing her back and cupping her onto him to stop her slipping. She can feel under her coat how her breasts are crushed flat to him. Can feel his breathing heaving up and down, much like her own.
A shaky gasp leaves her mouth as she looks up, peering past the peak of her bonnet with flaming cheeks. Realising that they are slanted very close together. His face is right there, and he’s gazing down at her.
She’s in his arms. Buried into his chest. And it feels incredible. Such musculature and sheer masculine mass under her palms. Her head swims. He’s dizzying. Hypnotising.
Eyes as dark as burnt-ember molasses flecked with gold, and his lips look so invitingly pink ripe and soft- she curses at herself for that treacherous thought and her blush rises more. His wool coat and cologne nearly smacks her in the nose as she almost collided into his pectorals.
Kylo can hear her fluttering heartbeat. Like a racing preys pulse beating wild. Frail and fast, like a baby birds. A huge drift of her fragrance absolutely drowns him, pulls him under. Clary sage, French lavender and peppermint. Sweet and calming. Addictive. He wants to lean down and taste the salt of it off her neck...
It seems an eternity passes before he speaks.
“Are you hurt?” He asks. Making sure she didn’t turn one of her ankles. Or damage the bone
“T-Thankyou. I’m, I’m well.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry- I” She explains moving her hands down off his chest. He nearly swept her up off her feet. Now only her tiptoes brush the icy ground. The only part of her barely rooted to earth. Lost in those eyes.
Domineering, commanding, brutal, eyes. Eyes that had seen this world ten times over. But never gazed upon anything comparable to her-
Erland brings them both back down to earth. Snorting and fussing. Swishing his tail and nudging his nose at his masters shoulder.
Sense swims back through the fog of attraction and the heady bloom of lust. Kylo unleashes her back and her hip from his hold.
Quite liking the feel of her he accidentally - and literally - caught underneath her coat. The plump of her thighs and the shapely flesh of her hip and her bottom. There’s doubtless a figure to rival Venus herself, under this shapeless coat and thin dress. She slowly drags her hands off his chest and steps back. Avoiding the ice beneath her toes. Her gloves rasp on his fine wool coat.
“You fell. Miss Ashton. No need to be sorry for such a thing.” He tells her.
“You’ve a steady hand, Lord Ren.” She compliments. Thanking him further. He still held her basket in the arm that had not reached out to catch her. He looked as if he barely had to flex out an arm to catch her. Just twisted his body. His reflexes were sharp and cunning. As strong as he was.
He reached out and retook Erland’s reins.
They continue walking carefully along the little lane. For Westwell is just beyond the tree line now. It saddens her that she’ll be home soon.
Back to her daily chores. Back to scrubbing curtains, and helping cook roll pastry and mediating the silly shouting screeching arguments that Posy and Flora have over who gets to take turns to wear their favourite bonnet
She reflects how restoring it is to talk to someone so fully - without having to watch or guard her tongue. It’s even more enlightening to talk to someone such as him. Someone who, like her, feels like an outsider. Never fully fits in. And harbouring no desire too.
She feels her heart sink, morbid mournful and grey settling in her ribs, when they come to the meagre gateway along the short drive to Westwell. The twin stone pillars signifying the gateway were old and crusted with frosted moss.
Kylo calls Erland to halt. She pats the wonderful beasts strong shoulder in goodbye. He rubs the great velvet plain of black his forehead at her. Kylo untied her basket and handed it to her.
“I’d have no hesitation in seeing you to the door directly. But I fear your mother might see fault with our being left unchaperoned.” He disclosed. Giving her back the groaning full wicker basket with a clever grin.
She shivers when their hands brush. If she had any doubts in her attraction, that betraying little Judas of a tingle that thrashed her body, made her realise otherwise.
She likes him-
“Astute observation, your lordship. I Thankyou for your discretion.” She blushes. Hooking the baskets back on her arms. Adjusting the shawl where it had slipped down from her shoulders.
She looks down into her basket, and smiles. “A token of gratitude.” She explains before handing over the still warmed bag of chestnuts across to him.
He cradled them in his leather gloved hand. Appreciative of the gift. He rarely ate food. There wasn’t much need for it and it wasn’t the manna that’s sustained him. He had little joy in any human sustenance - apart from humans themselves.
When he did eat food, it was red meat that was still rare, juicy, and dripping blood. And he only drank sharp deep red wine.
He reaches over and took her hand. Once again dropping Erland’s reins. He took her dainty hand and brought it up and bows to kiss her palm.
He’s tired of satin and calfskin under his lips. He rather wanted to grasp a taste of her skin. Soon.
“Always a pleasure, Miss Ashton. I hope the experience of your company repeats itself shortly.” He compliments.
She smiles, apples of her cheeks creasing dimples with her widened smile. She nods politely and curtseys. “Your Lordship.” She curtseys gently. Bonnet tipping forwards. Criminally covering that beautiful face of hers.
She turns and he watches her walk up the pale lane to home. Sun striping through the trees onto her bleached linen white skirts. Bleached by sunshine. And softly scented of fresh cotton and French lavender.
Miss Ashton is made up of good intentions and possesses a giving heart as pure as gold. Pure. That’s his little dove all over-
He looks down in his hand and weighs the small bag of nuts she’d gifted him. He lifts it to his nose and inhales their scent. Buttery, sweet, burnt and acrid.
He tips his eyes back up to watch her. Thought creases up his brow. He’ll never know how it is to have such a virtue as a kind heart.
She was made up of honour and purity and softness. Doves feathers, lavender and rose petals. And he is made of cruelty. Of war and broken glass and shards of steel. He was made between ash and snow and a landscape soaking swimming festering in blood.
There’s no kindness in him. No mercy. Barely any love in him either.
He cares little for humans. After he was turned. That’s just how he became. They became meaningless specs of nothing to him. She has no idea what he is- who he is- he’s sent entire scores and countries of men shrieking to their deaths and writhing in agony into hell, cursing his name on their lips.
And here she was handing him this little harmless gift, like he wasn’t one of the most fearsome beasts put on this earth.
She’s not far away when she turns back - just as he’s about to mount Erland to ride back to Hellford Park once more. He tucks her meaningful present into his coat pocket.
“Erland... Is that a Bavarian name?” She turns and asks curiously. A kind frown on the lintels of her eyebrows. She tilts her head curiously. Her grey eyes glitter innocently off the sun like honey poured onto slate.
She’s so innocent. And it strikes him so deeply right then. How much he admires that.
He hoists himself into the saddle using the pommel. Feet slipping in the stirrups. Hips resting back onto the cantle behind him.
“It is a Norse name.” He calls to her. Erland is whinnying excitedly. Stomping his hooves to get out to the open fields and get his blood pumping. Kylo can feel the excitement shivering through his stocky legs.
“What does it mean?” She seeks.
“In old Nordic tongue, I believe it means ‘Outsider.’” He tells her.
She smiles. “Well. I trust you both know you have atleast one friend in this Hampshire county.” She smiles.
“Good day, Lord Ren.” She beams brightly. She turns away and she’s already missing the gaze of those melting cocoa eyes appraising her warmly.
Her skin still thrashes from the memory of his touch. All over her skin is alive with the memory of that strength of his. His chest under her hands she’s never felt the like- he was as cold and solid as marble. Some Greek god manifested out of carved stone and come to life.
He turns Erland back onto the snowy road. Clicks his tongue and urges him to run with a sharp dig of his shoe into his side. He feels the ice and the wind sting his skin for all the ride home.
He thinks about her parting gift and her touch against his body for the rest of the day - truly he does. It’s moved him.
He hasn’t been moved so much by another being in all of his years.
Trigger Warnings: !!! illness and swooning in this chapter, I mean, seriously, a regency era fic isn’t a regency era fic without the heroine getting caught in a rainstorm-!!!
Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.
He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.
He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.
In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.
He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.
He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
All was eerily quiet when she was returned home. The front exterior of the house is so cold and still. As cloudy as the overcast sky behind it.
The rain had eaten away all the lingering frost and snow. Cold slush now took its place. When night falls again all the wet will sharpened back into frost. More snow will doubtless come in this stinging winter. She can sense the chowder thick clouds far off in the heavens shudder with the possibility of more.
Even the icy landscape was unaffected by wind or noise. Everything was silenced. Blotted out and muffled. The woods seemed eerily quiet.
Means she could hear where her heart was thudding all the more noisily where it cowered scared in her ribs.
She alighted from Lord Ren’s carriage, onto the gravel drive, sitting the door thereafter. Thanking Ramsey, the kind driver. When he cracked the whip to start the horses her whole being tensed. She flinched.
Her heart seized up with every crunching step on the gravel. She tried to clutch to her courage. Grit her teeth and prepare for the audible assaults soon to sting at her ears. As spewed words and vitriol will doubtless fall harsh from her mothers purse lipped mouth like stabbing hard hail.
Death by ten thousand blows of her sharp disapproving tongue.
Her whole body is roiling to head back into this house. She feels nauseas to consider stepping back into the foyer of her home. She knows there will only be nastiness and questions to welcome her into the enfold. Back into the waiting room of her life until marriage comes to claim her.
She’d far rather be back at one of the most handsome houses in the county. Sat fireside, in company with the most intriguing creature she’s ever met. Knowing Kylo as she does, he’d find that most diverting.
Iris hungers much more after the presence of a deadly hulking great vampire instead. Yet she cannot fathom or stand to embrace the company of her acerbic fork-tongued mother.
He’d laugh at that crippling irony, she’s sure. Kiss the back of her hand. His eyes would glitter like two discs of a far off starry night sky. Black and full of hidden knowledge and transient things.
The eyes that had completely seared her soul. Always had done. His smile had broken open her heart and scored his very name on her weak beating muscled thing. It flutters and lives for want of loving him - and yet she can’t. Everything in her situation and home life decrees otherwise.
She wants a man she cannot have. The pain of it presses upon her greatly.
She approaches the stubborn old warped wood of the front door. Steps up onto the wonky sunken stone porch. The faded white paint. Chipped and peeling in many places. Grains of the bare wood poke through.
She wonders what censure awaited on the other side of this old chunk of oak.
She raises a hand but her veins clog with cloying uncertainty. Halting. She gathers herself up before she knocks. Stood there shivering in her laundered coat and dress. Kylo had insisted on seeing to some new boots for her. Sadly, her old-beaten cracked leather things could not be salvaged. He sent out for new ones from Mr Grassby’s store. Finest in the county.
Now whenever she has warmed toes she’ll think of him. Fur lined dark leather boots with strong laces. She can’t thank him enough.
She tugs her old coat around herself. Not aware that Kylo would’ve had her an entire new coat and dress to go home in, if he wasn’t so sure of her protest. He let her be. But he so badly wants to see her spoiled. He so badly wants to be the man who does spoil her.
Her clean cotton skirts sway about her legs. How the redoubtable Mrs Jones had gotten the mud stains out of her clothing she’d not a clue - the woman used witchcraft as an aid she’s sure. In most things.
The broth she’d served Iris was of her own recipe, harping back to her days as a ladies maid. And, she proudly exclaimed, every ladies maid worth her very honour and credibility, knew how to make a restorative broth. Iris supped four bowls of it right down. It was utterly ambrosial.
Oddly, her spirits were lifted a little by thoughts of them. Of how they conveyed their kindness to her. She’s almost certain it stemmed from Kylo’s fondness for her too. And that is such a lovely thing to consider.
She thinks of Jomar. The slender tall poplar tree of a man. She thinks of his sour wit and his ready quips to his master. His cinnamon and warm honey and milk of a voice. The way each of his fine satin coats smell like cloves and sweet fruit and honey wine and life. The fine bright silk of his turban and his coat. The slash of silver on his right wrist. Always exotic and wryly comforting.
She thinks of Mrs Jones. The stout bodacious shaped woman. Accurate as a well turned clock. She had an efficient manner. Dark brittle russet hair shot through with bolts of fantastic silver. Always styled neat as a pin. She had a handsome mature face with ruddy cheeks and a pair of warm grey eyes that turned cold like harsh heavy gravestones if she was displeased with anyone. Hinting at her years of hierarchy in the household. Wrinkles by her eyes and mouth from her smiles. The best way to age, Iris thought.
She wore her strictly pressed uniform of soft black. With a set of keys latched to her waist. Orderly and strict in comparison to the colourful candour of Jomar. They worked well as a pair of contrasting servants. And she could see why Kylo loved them enormously. After three mere days at Hellford, she did too.
She recalls fondly waking up to the sight of Lord Ren in the armchair by the end of his bed. Leafing through the pages of a book as she slept. Keeping watch. The beast Keeping thorough guard of his Dove.
She watched him, through hooded bleary eyes. Sticky with sleep but she admires the way his big hands so carefully turned the delicate pages. The span of them dwarfing the little novel he so ably devoured.
She wondered how many books he had read in all his time on this earth.... she’d have to enquire one day. She wants to hear everything he’s seen. Every truth. Every historic story or tale he carries with him. She wants to devour this man’s rich juicy brimming life whereas hers seemed so flat and stuffy and grey.
She watches him in that tiny unaware moment. How he breathed. How quickly those savage eyes demolished the words of the page. How his lip quirked at the corner if he read something amusing or interesting. How his ink hair fell over his handsome brow. He didn’t sweep it back. He left it there.
After she’d slept off the symptoms. She wakes up drowsy, and he’s still there. At the end of the bed. Hasn’t moved. And then they just talk.
Interrupted by Jomar or Mrs Jones bringing them trays of excellent food or drink. Bowls of mutton stew dotted with onions, leeks and peas, or silky lobster bisque and warm buttery bread. A tea service with plates piled with fruitcakes or ginger baked biscuits.
She regained her appetites fairly quickly. Kylo comments on this. She fears it appears unfeminine. He ensures her he likes to see a woman with a healthy appetite. Most women of his acquaintance peck at their food like overstuffed starlings.
She praises his cook as she eats through bed tray after bed tray of good restorative food, and his eyes glow with mirth.
It’s humbling. Peaceful.
She forgets that she’s an unmarried woman and he’s a single man of large fortune. Sat up there in that crimson velvety bed. Sheets pulled to her lap. Wrapped up in a nightgown and dressing robe. She must look a fright with barely combed hair and an ashen complexion from her affliction. He sat in the armchair opposite, and didn’t even see all the things she was fretting about. He just saw her. His beauty. His dove.
They just... conversed. And to Iris? It is the best evening of her life to date. She’s never smiled so much. She made him smile too. He laughed at her comments. That one evening with Lord Ren made her feel more cherished and treasured than in all her outings with the spoiled titian haired Sergeant.
She lets that thought and those memories keep her buoyant as she reaches for the door handle. But as she does she shrinks back, yelping in shock as the door is torn open from the other side.
The beaming face of Meg, their maid, greets her. There in her beige gown and white starched apron and cap. Her grin splits her face and she yanks the eldest Miss Ashton inside. Yammering on and on about something Iris’s ears can’t keep up with.
She grabs the back of her collar and spins her around, shrugging her out the coat. Still gabbing on about all she’d missed in her absence. Flora and Posy bought more ribbons. And a Posy bought an ugly bonnet to pull apart and make it up prettier. They’d not had much bother with the rain. And then she starts on asking how Iris is as she takes her bonnet and gloves off her. Snatched them away to hang them up.
Before Iris can fathom how or why, Meg is herding her toward the front parlour. Arm slung in hers, she steps her quickly across to the door. Opens it for her and almost elbows her inside. She stumbles gracelessly into the parlour. Not shocked to see her mother. Swathed in her Apple green muslin day dress. White diamond shawl around her arms.
She is surprised, however. To see Hux sat on the settee opposite her mama. Fully kitted out. Not in his uniform for once. But in a blue coat and a striped gold waistcoat. Bottle green breeches on his skinny legs, tucked into shining brown boots ending at his knees.
When she comes through the door he rises suddenly to attention. Hands tucking behind his back as he bows to her. In this pallid light his hair shone a brilliant red. Contrasting to the pale parlour. His eyes were emeralds and sapphires.
Iris can’t deny he’s a genial man. Red locks and dazzling piercing blue eyes. Curling ocean waves and blazing flames. And he is a beautiful man; were it a time before even meeting or knowing Lord Ren, she would of course comprehend the matter of his allurements.
But she’s been well and truly ensnared. Taken away heart and soul, by hair darker than a ravens plumage, and eyes so dark russet they nearly betrayed the starry sky.
She didn’t want blazing flames and ocean waves. She longed instead for onyx leather, silver steel and cloudy woodsmoke.
Mama seems pleased to see her. A sickly smile stains her lips. Iris’ heart consequently turns to stone. She expected a flurry of abuse and screeches. Instead she is offered this calm grin. It’s unsettling
She is dizzy with sickness that spreads through her. She sways on her feet. Steadies herself on the open door. Stomach squirming like maggots on rotten meat.
“Sergeant Hux...” She curtseys clumsily to him. Meg slams the door softly behind her. Iris blinks at the brute force of it. Jumping forwards a little. The sound of it rattled through the house and knocked through her brittle bones.
“Forgive me. I’d no idea you were in attendance.” Iris looks pointedly from him to Mama. Who grins wider at her eldest’s words.
“I hear you fell ill. Miss Ashton. I do hope you are well recovered.” Hux pipes up.
Standing with his hands folded behind him. Legs poker straight. Military stance infused into every grain of his etiquette. Even every ounce of his affection is quashed under it. Tamped down. His face betrays little emotion on seeing her. There is nothing but fond regard in his eyes.
“Thankyou. I am well. An affliction and a fever, caught from a rainstorm.” She explains. Knowing full well the huskiness of her faded voice supported her story.
“Lord Ren was so... kind. To offer you shelter at such a time.” Mama manages through a clenched jaw. Fussing with the corners of her shawl.
“He is very kind.” Iris defends. Mothers smile only grows all the more. Corners of her dagger grey eyes pinched with wrinkles.
“Let us not talk of that man now. We have far more important things to come to. The Sergeant wished for a moment alone with you.” Mama explains. Rising elegantly to her feet. Gliding in Iris’s direction toward the door.
Iris steps aside. But not before her mothers hand - talon - gripped her wrist and she leaned in under the guise of embracing her daughter. Something she has never done to any of her girls, or ever made any effort to do so.
“It’s so pleasing to have you home again. My dear.” She speaks as she leans in. Iris isn’t surprised that she then hisses under her breath.
“If you dare ruin this chance for us...” She snarls. Her breath lands hot on her cheek. The scent of violet perfume making Iris feel quite sick when mingled with the essence of abuse and the stinging grip on her arm.
Mother is all genial smiles again when she turns to quit the room. The door softly shutting in her wake is a delicate blotted sound.
But Iris is convinced there is some sort of tempest quaking her chest and heart. It pounds and rags the space between her lungs and shoots up her spine like a congreve rocket bursting and deafening in her blood.
She moves closer into the room. Hux stands stiffly but approaches her with timidly cautious steps. She stands with her hands folded in front of herself. He clears his throat to begin.
“I um. I spoke with your father this morning. All seems to be settled hereabouts. I won’t bother you with such details. It’s not for your knowledge...” He begins with a brief little smile. His manner decidedly offhanded.
Iris swallows. Suddenly her throat is clogged with cotton. Her mouth is as dry as a bucket of claggy sand. As if she’s swallowed great mouthfuls of it. She’s waiting for the fall of the axe.
She looks up into his face. He seems jittery. But then he’s reaching over and taking one of her hands to hold. His palms are smooth and uncalloused. She far prefers hands much bigger and with more life scarred on them than these lily white hands. He holds her fingers delicately.
And he sinks to take to one knee-
“I am not a man inundated with passion or words and thoughts of giddy romance. But I can promise you a steady home and a decent income.” He vows. Something tells Iris he would never break his word. She knew he was honest enough to see her comfortable in life.
But that’s the crux of the poison of doubt flushing in her belly - she doesn’t want to just be comfortable for the rest of her life.
“Iris Ashton. Would you do me the honour of granting me your hand in marriage?” He asks in that same loveless way. Producing a box from his great coat pocket.
A gold band with one near round diamond. Neat. Ordinary and unassuming.
She looks down at him. His eyes were clear and true. Expression so vulnerable and honest with her. Whatever else he was - rude, arrogant, pedantic and snotty - he was always atleast honest with her. Her temples strain as her brain flits and fogs with ten thousand flighty thoughts. They fidget and toss like a vicious tide breaking on rocks. Crashing and devastating.
She opens her mouth, and nothing but a choked sound comes out. She rifles every corner of her brain for thoughts or feelings. But she can find none. She can only find one conclusion- even though it shatters her heart into bleeding cold shards.
“Yes. I’d be delighted.” She rasps out. Hux didn’t notice how no light nor sparking joy shone off her grey eyes. Only the silver of tears.
Hand over her mouth because she cannot fully believe what she’s just done. Her eyes water and she suspects Hux now thinks her a very foolish fop of a chittish girl, indeed.
He takes that ordinary and characterless ring and slides it on her finger. It’s just pinching enough to fit. Her hand trembles and Hux takes it.
“There.” He smiles. Rising to his feet. Doesn’t make any move to embrace her. Or take her in his arms. It stings at her for some benign reason. Niggles at the back of her head. He was following the rules of propriety and suddenly she found an oddity in that.
“Our families will be thoroughly delighted. I feel.” He adds. She doesn’t tell him the sad irony of that admission. She swallows and looks down at the cold band of metal trapping her finger.
It felt like the parlour walls were closing in. Choking and clawing at her. Suffocating. Her blood felt ten degrees too hot. Roiling in her stupid foolish veins.
“I can safely vow I will always do the honourable thing by you.” He suddenly spouts out. “I ask you would do the same.”
“Sergeant-“ She begins. Pausing for breath.
“You may of course, call me Hux now. We are betrothed after all.” He points out. Smiling affably. Here began the journey of their affable little life.
She blinks. Stemming the sadness. “I could never presume to-“ Her words die slowly in her throat. Don’t even make it past her teeth.
“I may promise you I would never willingly dishonour or hurt anyone. Let alone my intended. I am many things. But spiteful is not among them.” She promises with a shaky smile. If he knew her better, he’d understand that.
He looks glad.
They are interrupted by the parlour door falling open and Mrs Ashton makes her entrance again. When she catches sight of their smiling faces and the ring glinting on Iris’s hand she swoops across, all charms and kisses, to wish them both joy.
She insists on a dinner party. Sends a Julia to tell cook to start preparing at once. And for Simpson to fetch the finest bottle of burgundy from the cellar. And sends out a rider from the farm with a missive for Hux’s parents to come and join them in a celebratory feast.
Posy and Flora come bouncing and screaming in to wish their congratulations and immediately ask about the wedding and their bridesmaid dresses. They twirl Iris in circles. Kiss her. Flutter with giggles and immature gleeful smiles. Mother, Hux, and her sisters all get lost in gabbling conversation. Asking questions about the estate, the land, his commission. They all get swept along and Iris is rather left out of it.
She barely feels when Hux scoops up and holds the hand closest to him. His grip firm yet gentle on hers.
She’s perfectly numb.
She sits on the settee next to a man she doesn’t and can never love, as her wedding is plotted around her. Carving around her like water. Her sisters excited whispers bubble and chirp around her ears like a flock of chaffinches.
She pasted on a smile. A false hollow one.
The hand he isn’t clutching sits dead and dull in her lap. She looks down at her palm where it rested in her skirts. Remarking to herself unfairly on the sudden ambush of his proposal.
She watches the ring glint off the amber fire, lit directly in the hearth to her left. She stares at her fingers for a moment. Transfixed. Occupied.
Seemed such an odd addition to her hand. An extension of her in diamonds and gold. And it didn’t feel right. It felt leaden. Devoid of love. Lacking- she’s been weighted and found wanting and that thought eats away at her.
She looks up into the doorway when her father comes in to wish her joy. Reticently stepping in the room. No one else pays him any sort of mind. They’re all conversing most animatedly. He catches his eldest daughters eye-
The most sad expression awaits her on his face. He looks haggard. As if this news has aged him in some newly impossible way.
Iris holds his look for a second. Gives him a wobbly smile. He looks mightily ashamed. And Iris realises it’s the first time she’s even seen her fathers eyes look so raw.
Red rimmed where he’s swiped away tears with the damp kerchief still in his right hand. He looks quickly from her over to Hux, and the message is more than clear.
She looks down into her lap. She has too. Her eyes sting with tears and her lip will tremble if she doesn’t. She can’t look at his sadness and not see her own pitiful state and woefulness reflected right back at her in his sea foam eyes.
Even he pulls on a mask. His smile grows when Hux stands to shake his hand. He looks as pleased as everybody else in the room. Wishes joy to the newlyweds. Kisses iris on the cheek and she feels the dampness on his skin where his sideburns scrape.
The dreary night wears on. Hux talks about something or other to Mama. Posy and Flora are haranguing the newly arrived Maratella with questions as to the estate. They’re all insensible and silly and they get on marvellously. And Iris listens to her sisters have the cheek to ask if they should get up a party to all of them go to Brighton in summer. As Iris is now newly engaged. She’s considered proper. She can chaperone them. Or they squeal she could have an engagement party with tea and fancy cream cakes to settle Iris at Hux’s ancestral seat.
Brendol is having a refill of wine poured by their maid. Not saying much of anything to anyone. Only some nonsense about how Iris had better bare his son a healthy string of grandsons. Who would all be soldiers like their father. Iris bites her tongue. Unhappy to think she’d go through the pain of having beloved and cherished children, only for him to sell them into battle as canon fodder.
“Excuse me. I must go change for dinner.” She smiles weakly. Hux nods. Lets her hand slither out of his. Barely looks at her as she moves off. Instead talks with her mother about a date to set the wedding. Sometime soon, he presses. As he is away in the autumn and he wants to be married, and Iris settled with child by then. Awfully grand that his goals didn’t seem to include her opinion at any turn.
Mama seems awfully excited. She doesn’t notice when Iris’s father catches her hand as she moves past his armchair. He holds it for a second and looks up at her. Doleful reproach in his eyes that spoke eloquently of his contrition.
He sighs slightly as his thumb rubs over the ring on her hand. He knows she won’t be happy. He knows how miserably she suffers all this matchmaking. He should have put a stop to it, but he was always overruled. He was a spectator watching it all unfold.
And now he has to sit here and watch the brightest spark that was his eldest, get shackled in matrimony to a man who will never grow to love her. It was clear that all Hux will ever love is his uniform and his Sergeancy. She deserves better. A better father, a better fiancé. He wishes he could give it to her.
He didn’t marry for love. He married for convenience. And his sweet girls are the only good things to come out of the loveless match to the snappish cruel woman that was his wife. Posy and Flora are perhaps silly and vapid. And Iris had more wit in her little toe, than his two younger girls had in their whole bodies altogether. But still he loves them dearly. All of them.
He’d die for his daughters merriment, and he could die of shame of this whole fetid situation, right here and now.
Now he was sat here, helpless, watching that same agony of a forced match, get thrusted upon his beautiful Iris. She will grow dull and be subjugated and oppressed by this man. She’s already losing that spark that used to live in her moonstone eyes. Drawing into herself and biting her tongue.
He wished, he wished beyond everything in his grasp, he wished so hard that his bones hurt. He prayed that he could open his mouth and say all this to her. But yet again. He must prevail upon his silence.
He squeezes her hand. Bolsters her with a little comfort. He swallows and gives her a smile. “Pray- t’is nothing. Forgive me. I forget what I...wanted to say.” He confesses gently to her.
When Iris slides noiselessly out the parlour door. Caroline’s eyes slice into her husband. He looks back at her with a dull look of anger on his weathered face. Forcing Iris to join with this snobbish boy and these outlandish and boastful people. He could very well hate her for it. Her unfeeling nature of it all. He’s never been more sure of his revulsion toward her.
Iris isn’t long changing and dinner is not far off either. She drifts back downstairs in a gown of emerald silk. Let’s Hux take her arm and lead her to the table, where they all sit down to a grand dinner. As grand as Westwell could boast of, anyhow.
One of Mrs Murphy’s best spreads; A boiled joint of ham, served with parsley sauce. A leg of mutton. Enough boiled or roasted potatoes to feed all of Hampshire. Jugged hare and creamed celery and Buttered carrots. And there’s plenty of juicy platters of rich darkly opulent fruits and syrup tarts for pudding. A slate of plums and grapes and pomegranates. Surrounding a cheese plate of Stilton, Brie, and cheddar.
Iris doesn’t manage more than a couple of mouthfuls. Even though the boiled ham with parsley sauce is her favourite dish. She doesn’t manage to swallow down more than a few meagre scraps of it. The wine and the conversation flows all around her. She cannot help but be introspective about this whole sordid thing.
Her throat is cloyed. Like scraping fire and glass shards when she tries to swallow anything. It does nothing to nourish the fathomless pit that’s formed in her stomach.
Everyone raises a crystal goblet of Bordeaux to the newlyweds health.
Maratella comments that Hux has caught himself a fine bride. Winking at Iris. Crowing of how beautiful her first grandchild will be of their combined colouring. And she apparently wants a bushel of them.
“It will be so cheering to have a house full of young infants again. Little ones to dote on. I do so adore them and I’m most looking forwards to it.” Maratella cooed. Aiming her words to Mrs Ashton. But letting her daughter-in-law hear them too.
Iris swallowed her wine with a thud. She can’t even appreciate the bouquet of it tonight. Her tongue is too sour. The wine tastes like bilious floral soap and compost.
She looks down in her lap, fiddles with her napkin. Forces herself to smile and choke down the sip of it even though Maratella and her insinuation and the suffocating image of a houseful of squalling titian haired infants makes her feel quite sick.
Hux makes no comment either. He merely carries on chewing his slices of roast mutton. Flora and Posy ask Iris a million questions each, in the span of ten minutes. She answers succinctly and completely ignores their requests for silken bridesmaids dresses and new slippers.
Iris’s eyes flicker over to her mother when Maratella enquires as to her recent fevered affliction at Hellford park. Mama does not hold back in her derisions regarding Lord Ren.
“I know not in what kind of uncultured society that man was raised. But he is so uncouth. And superior.” Mrs Ashton offers.
“I find his manners a little odd. Thank goodness the attachment is severed for good now.” Maratella says.
Mrs Ashton turns to get a helping of creamed celery. Iris gives her daggers across the table.
When their guests depart to leave, after supper and after a game of whist and snifters of port or sherry in the parlour. Iris stands there in the cold foyer as her intended pulls on his coat.
She nods her goodbyes to him and his family as Brendol barks at him from the coach to get a move on. Maratella waves a hand at her husbands fussing. Cooing that they should take all the time they liked to share a goodbye.
Hux bends and places a find kiss on her hand. “Goodnight. Future Mrs Armitage Hux.” He states with a pink blush constrasting to his shock of combed copper hair.
He smiles at her before he ducks out of the door and off into the night. She watches the bare moonlight shine off his hair and his lanky shoulders in his big greatcoat. Pearled light feathering off his red locks as the blue black night swallows him up.
She doesn’t stay to watch the carriage leave. She turns and morosely trudges up to her room. Asks Meg to bring her up a cup of tea as soon as cook could spare her. She can feel Mothers eyes pin into her back like two silver needles as she ascends the creaking dark sloped stairs.
“Iris...” She calls out. It takes every ounce of energy in her body not to turn around and snarl seven thousand cursing obscenities at her.
Ensnaring her with such a sudden proposal. Gloating smug glances at her all night. Iris couldn’t stand it.
“Yes mother?” She asks.
“We are all excessively happy about this news today. I hope you’ll do nothing senseless so as to jeopardise it. Hux is a steady good man. You should endeavour to deserve such a good example of a husband.” She reminds with pinched savagery in her tone.
‘Should I?’ Iris remarks to herself.
“If you ruin such a good match. You will regret it. And no such other man may ever make an offer to you if you do.” She makes clear.
Words lingering just shy of a threat. She was much too cunning to have to threaten her eldest daughter. She speaks as if her words already make sense to Iris. As if she already had her agreement.
Iris stands still. She stares up into the darkness of the house ahead. “Goodnight mama.” She says flatly. Hiking her body up the remaining stairs.
She passes Posy and Floras room on the creaking landing. The slice of gold candlelight under the door eats at her skirts as she passes. Hears them giggling and hushing whispers to each other as they make ready for bed. The silly chits probably stole too many glasses of wine at dinner. She remembers a time when she used to join them. Sit on the end of their beds in her nightgown with her hair all plaited for bed. They’d talk - as sisters do - of silly things and gossip.
Until mama made her focus on more important things. Less sisterly affection. More concentration and focus on comportment. She sadly strokes a hand across their bedroom door. Smiles at the embroidered flower stitchings of their names pinned to the white painted door along with dried flowers. Scattered across like a meadow breeze tossing petals on the wind.
She wishes they knew how dear they were to her. Of course she calls them bugs. Or annoying pests. But she never, not once, went one day without loving her sisters for who they are. They can be acerbic like mother when gossip comes about and tongues start to wag. But they are ultimately kind hearted, affectionate and silly. She hears them giggle about the hideous bonnet Maratella wore tonight. It makes her smile and lifts her spirits for a second.
She pats the door silently and fondly before she moves off straight down the candle lit hall to her own room. She opens the whining door and looks around her meagre, half dark little room. The wall-to-wall flowery papered little cell that it was. Her waiting room until marriage came to claim her.
And come it had. On mighty swift wings thanks to her mother. She shuts her door and presses her back to it. Thuds her head back onto the wood. Let’s her true feelings come bubbling up to the surface for the first time all night.
She’s broken-hearted. Her pathetic heart feels like one of those great ice drifts in the Antarctic, a plain of land with a huge tearing rift ripped right through the middle. Severing it to clunky misshapen pieces that will never mend.
She thinks of the monotony of the life that awaits her. The house full and long line of squawking babies she and Hux are supposed to sire. Staying chained to the stove and the nursery to look after said children whilst her husband ventures off to war and glory. Being no more to him than a bedding partner and general broodmare to keep up the family honour.
She thinks sadly on having to tell Lord Ren she’s engaged. How his eyes will glitter and cut her like jagged onyx gems. How his handsome face will fall into a stoic mask. Maybe he’ll wish never to see her again? Who knows how his reaction will be.
She wished to curl up under ten thick blankets, into a little ball, and fade away to dust. Like the dead grey ashes under the fire basket in her hearth.
She thinks she might cry herself away to sleep. She can’t escape the irony of that. Most girls perched on wedded bliss didn’t sob themselves to slumber. They fidgeted and giggled and practiced swirling their initials with their intendeds in neat hand. They were struck down lovesick. Admiring their ring. Imagined themselves walking down the aisle in their Sunday best and a veil, clutching at a wedding bouquet.
Iris had none of that. The thought of walking down the aisle to Hux and the boxed in little life thereafter, made her want to dry heave until she coughed out her lungs.
She prepares herself for bed. Unlaced her new boots - with a leaden heart at the memory of who provided them for her. She slipped off her dress and stockings and when Julia brings her tea she helps unlace her stays. Asks her about her engagement.
Iris gives short, staccato words for answers. Feigning it had been a long day. The maid slips away again and Iris locks the door in her wake. Only then does she reach for her hand and wrench off the gold ring. Puts it on her vanity and the gold winks cruelly at her in the firelight.
She huffs as she undressed and slipped her nightgown on. She let loose her wild hair and tames it into a plait. Ties the end with a snippet of blue muslin. The gown slips off one shoulder as she grabs her book and balances it on her thighs. Slipping into the cool crisp sheets of her bed. The lace trimmed on her sleeves casts floral shade down her arms.
The fire cracks and she parts her book with the pressed flower she was currently using as a bookmark. She tilts into the candles light and tries to let the novel soothe her dreadful mind. It’s of little use. The words swim like black wriggling worms. She quickly abandons the idea. Tucks the book away.
Falls down into her feathered pillow. Drinks her tea and glares pointedly at the glimmering ring on her dressing table. She’s so used to feeling suffocated. But this sensation of guilt, panic and refusal churns in her belly like the worst sort of shame. Seeps out her pores like claggy grey mud. And she is made miserable by it-
A brittle tap suddenly echoes in her room. She sits up. Covers rustling about her knees. She strains her ears to make it out. Through the roaring fire and the gales brushing the stone of the house outside.
There it is. Another succession of taps. Hollow scrape. Clanking on the glass of her window. Tap-tap-tap-
She gets out of bed and pulls her heavy curtains across. The window was latched shut. And outside, being buffeted by the strong wind. Sits an obsidian black crow.
Feathers all ruffled in the wintry breeze. It’s little head twitches at her. Beady eyes shining off the glow of her room like amber marbles. And off the grey sheen of its broad beak. It sits there contented. Staring up at her.
She unlocks her window and pushes it up. The wood sticks and rubs from age. Cruel night air whips in. Flurrying at her thin dress. The cold snakes and twines around up her knees and legs. The crow makes a loud cawing sound. A rasping cry of a call.
It seems tame enough. She gently reaches a hand over and it sits there as she brushes at the downy feathers on its puffed out chest. Black silk to the touch.
“You’re rather congenial” She comments.
“Matter of fact you’re the first genial encounter I’ve had all day.” She remarks. Chiding herself for talking so animatedly to a bird - of all mad things.
It caws again and hops along her stone windowsill. She gasps, drawing back as it then suddenly ducks it head and swoops under the window frame. Breaching the gap and flying up over her shoulder, and into her bedroom.
She keeps from crying out in shock. Spins around to try and capture the crazed animal and return it to its rightful home outdoors. The curtains sway with her movement and she screams anew when suddenly a gigantic body is in front of her.
Before she can fully scream. Kylo’s warm eyes soothe her and one big cool hand clasps over her mouth to muffle the scream. It’s suddenly a warbled sound out from behind his massive palm that almost entirely spans her face.
He grins wickedly down at her. One thick finger pressed to his smiling lips telling her to hush. Night air and cold infused into his clothes, simply pours off him. Cologne and rich earth and frost.
She relaxes a little. Heart racing at the incident.
He’d crowded her back to the wall beside the window alcove. He reaches across and shuts it with his free arm. To help keep her warm. It doesn’t even stick at the sides when his strong arm yanks it down.
“Thank god for that. Dove. I thought you’d never let me in.” He explains smugly. She has so many questions about his varied animal forms. But she won’t ask them now. She’s just overwhelmed that he’s here.
He brushes off his lapels after taking his hand from her face. Pressing it to the wall beside her instead. She’s all too aware she’s clad only in a thin nightgown. And suddenly now there is a large Lord before her. Mere inches between them. Scant inches and she only has thin cotton swathing her body.
A million questions thunder and strike in her brain.
She settles on; “What are you doing here?” Whispers with a tender little smile starting to grow on her lips.
She’s aghast but ultimately pleased beyond measure to see him. She felt like she has strength again now he’s here.
His thumb strokes at her cheek. “Checking on the woman I love.. if I may.” He answers plainly.
Her heart melts into mush in her chest. Slips out and down between the cracks of her ribs like treacle. She aches for him.
He notices how her face pinched up. “Iris?” He asks.
“I am to be married.” She whispers. Thoroughly ashamed. Waiting to see his repulsed reaction. Biting her bottom lip nervously. Looking down to her feet.
He tips her chin up to look at him. Frowns at seeing the tears of shame in her eyes.
He smiles tenderly. “Dove. I know.” He explains. As he cups her cheek.
“I always knew this was going to happen. After all - courting can only end two ways. And your mother was most serious about securing a match.”
“I said yes. I hate myself for it. But I said I’d accept.” She cries. He soothes away her tears with his thumb.
Hushes her. Pulls her into his chest and holds her close.
His big hand strokes her hair and she lets herself sob into his wide firm chest. Fingers grazing his clothes. Her brow wedged into the crook of his cool neck. He tucks her into him. One hand cups her head and the other spans the back of her hips. She never had anyone to confide in. But she has him now. She’ll always have him.
She has little choice in the matter. Whether she wanted him or not. She’s got him.
“All will be well. I promise you.” He assures.
She sighs. It’s so pleasing to finally have someone on her side.
“I’ve had to sit there and listen to his mother spouting out about grandchildren and marital duty when I wanted to do was run from the room screaming.” She gasps. More tears soaking into his clothing. Eyes crinkled up shut in sadness.
She knows were he any other man, she’d have to school her words more carefully. But to him she can speak freely about anything. Her soul was stitched to his.
“Pay their vapid ignorance no mind.” He kisses a whisper into her hair. Groaning at the feel of the silk and scent of it against his lips. “You’re worth so much more to me, than all their expected limitations of you.” He speaks softly.
“I can’t do it.” She admits. She crumbles. Finally she can speak what she truly feels. Let out what was making guilt rot at her like acid all night through.
Because really those four innocent tiny-little words had been perched on the tip of her tongue all evening. She just hasn’t the bravery to let them loose.
“My little dove.” He sighs fondly as kisses her head. Pained for her from feeling her heartbreak. “You won’t have too.”
She feels him breathe where she’s cuddled into him. It’s a strange comfort. It’s the height of impropriety but she cannot care about it anymore.
She pulls back and looks up at him. Tears leak down her cheeks. He takes them away again. “Pray, whatever do you mean?” She seeks.
“Come here.” He says. Breaking away for a moment. He guides her to sit on her bed and crouches to level in front of her. Both hands taking hers. He kisses both sets of her knuckles before he begins. Looking up at her. His wrists rest on her knees.
“You think I would allow you to marry that spoilt snobbish boy?” He asks her with a careful grin. His eyes look darkly salacious.
“You think I could let another man take you, when you are mine, and mine alone?” He smiles wickedly. Seductive notes intoxicating in his deep voice.
She could kiss him to death right now if it wasn’t entirely inappropriate. She wants to hold him tight so much- she could burst. Wrap her arms around this kind man and never leave him. She can never be parted from him now.
She sighs happily through her tears. Reaching across and stroking her right hand through his thick shaggy hair. Black locks cool against her palm from his excursion out in the wild black night air. His eyes look like tempests. Black flecked with gold that rings his pupils.
Such sincerity shines out his face- it’s like a hopeful glimpse of the sun after a harsh winter. He’s saying such nice things and such nice warm words of love flow through her veins like ambrosia.
He takes her hand and kisses her palm. Sighing at the taste and scent of her skin. It had never failed to drive him wild with need.
“Run away with me. And marry me.” He offers. Eyes slicing hot into her own. Watching the flickering firelight kiss her skin.
Her mouth gapes. She draws in a breath but her head is spinning so madly she feels dizzy. He explains more to her of this sordid plan.
“Half my household is shut up. Most of my staff have packed and gone already. Left these shores bound for Bavaria. I set sail in seven days time.” He explains.
The thought of him leaving sends such a spear of white hot pain through her heart she doesn’t think she could ever survive it if he left. Madness when she’s had all these years of life without him.
She doesn’t feel the same anymore. She isn’t. She’s in love and it has changed her irrevocably. He’s burst into her life, in a big assuming dark shadowing presence and stolen her heart away. And given him hers in return.
She knows she can never be without him - it feels like it would kill her for them to be apart.
“We could elope. Make for Gretna green and be man and wife by the weeks end. We can set sail for the port of Hamburg as Lord and Lady. Until passage is booked, we could honeymoon in the highlands for a handful of days.” His eyes turn particularly lustful at that comment.
Smile is savage and sharp. So potent a smouldering look it makes her toes curl up in longing.
She could do it. She could run away with this man, sneaking off into the dead of night. To go to seize her greatest happiness. For once she could selfishly and recklessly take control of her own life.
Loving Kylo as she does, he makes her feel just brave and strong enough to do it-
She wets her lips. Giddy. This is her chance and dear god in heaven- she’s taking it.
“What would I have to do?” She asks him in a hushed whisper.
The smile that takes over his face is magnetic. She smiles and he rises up quick and fiercely kisses her.
Claims her with that passion he spoke so finely of. Cups her neck and delivers her a kiss that has her shaking. She tries to resist the heady temptation, but she cannot.
Her knees clamp either side of his thighs where his body is towering over hers. Nearly pressing her back to her pillows. His free hand cups her lower back and clasps her into his body. Her splayed legs, and between them, rubs high at his abdomen.
He growls deep and feral into the kiss. It tumbled through her wet hot mouth She pulls away. Wide eyed and innocent, wondering if she’d hurt him. She can only see his kiss bruised smile and his clouded eyes when she pulls back. Her hands press to the bed. Clutches into the sheets. Otherwise she worries she’d tangle and lose her hands in his hair.
He sighed in bliss. Ducking his head to kiss at her clothed shoulder. Nearly shuddering with need. Arching right over her. Big body completely dominating hers. He shuts his eyes and kisses the lace at her shoulder. Taste of her lips and scent of her blood and her arousal sitting on his tongue like sugar. He so wanted to taste more-
He restrains himself or he’d take her right here - drool onto that heavenly cunt between her legs and slide his cock into her perfect heat. Fuck her for the whole damned house to hear her screeching his name.
“Forgive me.” He rasps. Voice husking with desire.
Her cheeks flush. “Nothing about that warrants forgiveness.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew how I wanted to take you right here and now in your bed. Iris.” He husks. Kissing in the crook of her neck slowly and soft. Lips pressing and savouring her. Her every nerve hums with need.
He recovers his legendary discipline. Pulls back to sit at the edge of her mattress once more.
“All you’d need to do-“ He smiles. Hands settling on her knees. Holding her. Feeling the cotton and her kneecaps under his palms.
“Is dress warm, pack a manageable bag. You don’t need much. I’ll buy you everything and anything you need. Meet me in the woods just beyond the church. At midnight.” He smiles. He’d had this cunning plan circling in his head for weeks now. Now he is within grasping distance of having her as his wife. And he’s wild with love of her.
“Don’t tell anyone of this plan. Not even your sisters. Nobody. In case they try and halt the elopement...Not that anyone could stop me....” He smirks.
She smiles. “I won’t tell a soul. I’ve no one to tell.” She shrugs openly.
“Leave that foul mother of yours nothing but a note behind. That’s all she deserves for her wicked exploitation of you.” He growls.
She nods in agreement. Stroking over his big hands where they rest on her.
She doesn’t spare the energy to devote one scrap of a thought for her mother. He was right
She only wishes there was a route out of this that could mean she can say a proper goodbye to her father and her sisters. Not leave under a shroud of intrigue, gossip and scandal. Iris eloping with the dashing dark lord newly arrived to these shores would be rife in the gossip mills around here for weeks. It would quake the quiet county.
It seemed odd that it would be her. She’d be the source of ruinous ignominy. All her life she was the quiet and unassuming and plain eldest daughter. No one suspected anything of her except her obedience to blindly accept the loveless match her family provided for her. She wasn’t supposed to do anything out of the ordinary little route of her safe life.
A small scandalous corner of her heart was awfully happy to be proving all those busy bodies and old matronly gossips wrong.
“I’ll leave word for Hux too. He’s not a bad man. Just-“ she shakes her head. Watching their hands where they are joined. “He’s not the man I love or desire.” She explains.
Kylo’s eyes look warm. Like melting pools of honey and tar. They stick to her. The beauty of her blush. The prettiness of her countenance. Those ash grey eyes doused ochre in the dim firelight. A splash of honey amber whiskey poured over moonstone.
He reaches up and strokes his thumb across her cheek. “He overlooked you. Trust me. He will pay sorely for mistreating you. His honour will become quite besmirched when you elope. Stolen and tempted away by a foreign Lord with a title and an estate, to boot.” He smiles.
“Then see what he makes of his measly beloved little army commission. When he loses you.” He smirks.
“I can’t think he’ll care much about my leaving - only for the toll such infamy will have on bruising his ego.” She tells.
“Then he is the fool I always suspected him to be.” Kylo tells her seriously.
“Now. You just have to act like the most perfect doting bride-to-be for the next three days. Because come weeks end...” he trails off.
Pulling her in, sighing a soft sweet kiss onto her lips. She blushes when he kisses her. Whole body pimples in pleasure.
It’s molasses and dangerous and among all the darkly wicked things she’s never tasted. He tasted like freedom and life.
“... You will come back to Bavaria with me. And you will be my wife. Lady Ren of Ranlor Castle.” He smirks against her lips. Plucking passion into her.
He savours kissing her for a moment. Losing himself in the manna that was her lips. She’s ivory rose petals and sugar whipped with cream. Gorgeous and delicious and he can’t wait for more. Before he can kiss her lips pink and raw, he takes his leave.
“Get some sleep. Little Dove. I’ll send word when all is set.” He smirks before he’s out into that wild night again. Leaving her heart racing and her hope restored.
