Chapter Text
S.
The house is absolutely sweltering and I can’t seem to cool down no matter how many times I step outside though that has not prevented me from trying. Repeatedly.
“Lord Salisbury!” A woman’s voice cracks through the relative quiet of the dark, empty garden. Turning away from the voice, I frantically try to button up my waistcoat.
“P-Pardon me, please, I’m so—Hell and damnation, Penelope.” I continue buttoning up my waistcoat but at a much slower pace now.
Penelope peers at me from around the side of the hedge I’ve been attempting to conceal myself behind and does nothing to hide her amusement at my now receding panic.
“Sorry to startle you,” she says.
“I highly doubt that.” As I’m almost certain she did so intentionally.
“Are you undressing for anyone in particular? Or is this your attempt to liven up this incredibly dull evening?” Penny tucks herself into the shadow of the hedge alongside me.
Even though we’ve been friends for an age, it’s highly improper for the two of us to be off together, unchaperoned, especially in the dark. That doesn’t stop Penelope though, no matter how many times either I or her mother have mentioned it.
There hasn’t been a day in my life or hers where Penny has listened to a single thing I’ve ever said so it really isn’t all that surprising.
I’m trying to be better about it this season since I’ve been told repeatedly that my behaviour risks Penny’s prospects at a match. Not that I’m the reason Penelope hasn’t found a match. She has an incredibly interested suitor of which she is very aware.
“I was attempting to cool down before my dance with Miss Wellbelove, if you must know.”
“I must.” She hands me her fan.
“Thank you,” I say before I start fanning myself vigorously. Penny smirks at me and I don’t bother telling her off or ceasing my fanning as it’s providing some much needed relief from this unusually warm evening.
Inside, the music stops.
“Shit,” I say, shoving the fan back in Penny’s hands. “Thank you! Sorry! Thank you!” I call over my shoulder as I make my way back to the ballroom as quickly as possible without breaking out into a run.
The miasma of damp heat I had been attempting to escape engulfs me as soon as I’ve crossed the threshold into the house and undoes all efforts I made in cooling myself down.
It’s one of the first private balls of the season and the ton is clearly ready for things to kick off in earnest if the packed house is anything to go by. I push my way past clusters of partygoers as politely as possible.
Catching a glimpse of cornsilk hair, I try to slow my breathing as I make my way towards Miss Wellbelove.
When I reach her, she smiles wanly and curtseys.
“Miss Wellbelove,” I say, bowing. I don’t trust myself to say anything else without making it obvious I did all but run here so instead I offer her a smile that I hope distracts from my heavy breathing.
“Lord Salisbury,” is all she volunteers before the dance begins. It’s a jaunty tune and she moves easily and cheerfully around the dance floor. I do not take any time to reflect upon my own dancing as doing so will only result in an inevitable spiral of self flagellation.
The other couples around us are striking up playful conversations and my mind begins to grasp haphazardly at conversation topics but I find myself painfully vacant of a single interesting or novel thought.
I turn and something along the wall of the room catches my gaze.
It’s so fleeting I’m not sure if it was merely a trick of the light or the swaying movement of the ever shifting crowd.
I whip my head around and survey the room as rapidly as I can before the dance requires another turn. And I glimpse it again.
It can’t be.
My heart begins knocking a steady rhythm against the front of my chest at the prospect of what I may have just witnessed.
I fight the urge to quit the dance immediately and instead use the well practised, if poorly executed, dance steps to continue to scour my surroundings. The action makes my head spin.
It can’t be.
Minutes tick by and I urge the music to go faster. My desperation rising with each footfall, each note, each movement, each moment.
I only remember that I should be using this time to pay proper attention to Miss Wellbelove when the dance has finished and I curse myself for getting so distracted. I practically had to fight my way onto her dance card and this is the best I could manage?
I search for something to say to her now, but she saves me the trouble.
“Please excuse me, my Lord. I need to take some air,” she says before curtseying and turning away quickly. I’m vaguely aware of her mother rushing towards the two of us before I’m also turning away, practically tossing myself into the crowd.
It can’t be him.
I wind my way through the throngs of people while scrubbing my hand through my curls. It’s so bloody hot in here and there’s not a moment of relief between the sheer number of bodies.
Penny calls it an obsession. She didn’t—doesn’t—understand.
I smile and nod politely as I pass people I recognize, hoping I don’t look like as maniacal as I feel.
“Salisbury!” Someone calls and as I turn my heart practically lodges itself in my throat, but it’s only Gareth.
“I’ll be right back,” I call to him before darting into another room. How many bloody rooms are there in this God forsaken house?
“Lord Salisbury,” Mr. Stainton steps directly into my path and I curse his name, internally.
“Hello, Mr. Stainton, I’m—”
“My Lord, I believe you know my daughter, Miss Phillipa Stainton.” He inclines his head towards Phillipa as she curtseys.
“I do,” I say, bowing slightly towards her. “I’m terribly sorry Mr. Stainton, Miss Stainton, I—”
“My daughter still has one space available on her dance card she was saving for you,” he says. He certainly is bold. “Or are you otherwise engaged?”
I open my mouth, taking a breath before tossing out a hopefully somewhat convincing lie when someone brushes against my back as they pass behind me and I’m hit with the scent of cedar and bergamot.
I hold my breath as I’m pummeled directly into the past.
Our room. Sunlight streaming across the floor. The sound of a violin. The thunk of a pillow to the face.
Our room. Mussed dark hair peaking out over the top of bed coverings. Insults traded with ease. Books in neat stacks and tottering towers.
Our room. A barren desk. Silk crushed in a fist. Wind whistling through the trees outside our window. My eyes, stinging and hot.
Our room. Watery dawn light pooling on the ceiling. Throat raw with tears. Ink staining my fingers.
I whirl around and a pair of stormy grey eyes meet mine.
And the world has been made anew.
B.
His chest is rising and falling rapidly as his eyes flick back and forth between my own, disbelief colouring his features. He's looking at me as though he’s seen a ghost.
I suppose he has, in a way.
“Lord Salisbury,” I say, inclining my head. I wait for his greeting but he looks as though he’s misplaced his ability to speak.
“I’m not sure if you remember me,” I continue lightly. He makes a choked noise as I raise my hand to my chest, “But please allow me the courtesy of introducing myself.” At that ludicrous suggestion, he seems to repossess the function of his faculties.
“Oh shut it, you—” The beginning of a smile forms on his face as he gives my shoulder a hard shove. My wretched leg, which had been giving me little trouble this evening, cries in outrage as I’m forced to take a step back. Before I can master my countenance, I grimace which causes him to freeze, then look at my leg, then my shoulder, and finally my face with a wild expression.
His eyes are exactly as I recall them but I’m still wholly thankful to refresh my well worn memory.
“Apologies,” I say, bowing as I take another step back.
“No!” He reaches out a hand as if to grasp my lapel but stops and lets it fall between us. His flush blots out his freckles and I mourn the loss.
“Of course I remember you.” He says it like I was ridiculous for suggesting otherwise and I brush away my mind’s attempts to read further into his tone.
“Oh, well, that’s certainly good news,” I say coolly. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it but I would have started to fear for your state of mind if you hadn’t.”
He squawks out a strangled laugh.
“I see.” A challenging smile graces his lips. “In order to forget you, one would have had to suffer an apoplexy, would they?”
“I can only assume,” I say. “And based on your appearance this evening, I thought it was very possible you had.” I give him a polite smile and clasp my hands behind my back so their trembling doesn’t betray my excitement at this exchange.
“Is that right?” Salisbury asks, adopting a look of playful indignation. “Whereas you—”
“It is you!” Gareth claps a hand on my shoulder, much to my chagrin. I stare daggers at his wrist and he drops it quickly. “I thought I saw you skirting the dance floor but I can hardly believe my own eyes! How the Devil are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. And you?” I ask Gareth, out of politeness in absence of interest. He seemingly can’t tell my attentions lay elsewhere as he fills me in on the mundanity of his life.
My eyes continuously flick to Salisbury who appears to be cataloguing my every breath.
Hell and the Devil. I thought I had imagined the way he used to look at me but clearly not, if his current examination is anything to go by.
“Salisbury, I’ve been looking for you.” A young man finally breaks Salisbury out of his study of my features and a gorgeous smile graces his perfect face.
I forego the need for air as I watch him.
“Shepard! Come meet my former roommate.” Salisbury steps closer to me to allow Shepard into the haphazard circle we’ve created, brushing against me briefly.
Shepard looks between me and Salisbury like he can see the fire that flared into life when Salisbury’s arm grazed my elbow.
A significant look passes between the two of them that I have no hope of interpreting and Shepard says “Is this—” before stopping abruptly.
“Shepard, this is…Lord Pitch. God, must I truly call you that?” Salisbury looks at me imploringly and I fight the urge to tell him he can call me whatever he wants.
“That is my title, so yes, you do have to introduce me as such,” I look down into his eyes. His look of mild annoyance makes him look as handsome as I remember.
I raise an eyebrow in challenge and he rolls his eyes at me, the common gesture invoking an unprecedentedly strong sense of nostalgia.
“Fine, Lord Pitch, this is Mr. Shepard Love.”
“Mr....Love?”
“You can call me Mr. Shepard, almost everyone here does,” he says amiably. “Well, everyone except for the Dowager Lady Salisbury but I think that’s because it makes her laugh.”