In truth

by fiend-for-culture (caspian)

Summary:

It's spring of 1812 and the ton is abuzz with questions.

Did you see who Miss Wellbelove danced with twice at Lady Hartlesbury's ball?

Will the young Lord Salisbury finally make an offer of marriage this season?

Has someone managed to tame that bluestocking, Miss Bunce?

Where has the remarkably talented and fashionable Lord Pitch been all these years?

In truth, only time will tell.

or

a Regency Era AU in which the long absent Tyrannus Basilton makes a reappearance in society at the start of London's Social Season much to the thrill and torment of his former roommate one Simon Snow

Written for Carry On Through the Ages 2024

Chapter 1

Notes:

It's been so long (over 8 years) since I've posted a fic and I'm very, very nervous!

These first two chapters are very short because if I don't start posting now, I'm worried I never will.

Thank you to @iamamythologicalcreature for talking to me about titles, education, terminology, and everything else! As well as for putting on this event this year!

I apologize for all historical inaccuracies. I tried but pobody's nerfect.

Will update the tags as I go!

If you're interested, you can find my playlist here. (It's also being updated as I go.)

If you want to layer in some audio, the songs I listened to on repeat while writing this chapter were:

Butter, I Knew You Were Trouble, and Hawái by Vitamin String Quartet 💛

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.”

 

Notes:

(btw i'm playing with netflix bridgerton rules here where i'm just completely ignoring period typical racism bc it's no fun and as a poc using fanfiction as escapism, i will also be escaping the racism, ja feel? ok thank u for understanding i knew you would ily bye)

Chapter 2

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who has already commented and kudos and checked this out! I cannot express how much it means to me ❤️ Here's another short chapter but I hope you like it!

The chapter count has also been updated to reflect my current outline so here's to hoping for twelve 🤞 I also do not have a posting schedule figured out but I hope you don't mind!

Songs I listened to while writing this chapter:
- Nothing Compares 2 U by Vitamin String Quartet
- abcdefu by Vitula
- Be Together by Duomo

The angst begins 💔

S.

“I’ve officially decided I hate having to call you Lord Pitch.”

When the next dance was about to be called, Shepard went off to find Penelope because he’s endlessly optimistic. Gareth excused himself to locate Rhys. And Lord Pitch and I decided to get some air. We were interrupted several times as we made our way out to the terrace which required me to introduce him over and over and over. I’ve called him Pitch more times this evening than all of our years at school and after combined.

“Baz. Oh God, it feels good to say. Baz. Baz. Baz.”

“You’re the only person in the world who has ever called me that.” His tone is flat and unamused but his expression is almost wistful in the flickering light. The terrace is empty and the chitters of conversation, cheerful violin, and click of glasses recedes with every step we take further away from the doors.

“Truly? What do people call you then? Basilton? Or are you going by Tyrannus now?” I highly doubt it as I know he hates the name but it elicits the response I was seeking. He raises his eyebrow at me and pairs it with an expression that can’t seem to decide on whether it’s a smirk or a sneer.

“Most people call me Pitch, as much as that may surprise you.” He gives me a sideways look and I can remember him giving me the same look a hundred different times. At his desk. In the dining hall. Over the edge of a book. Under the yew.

“Your family calls you Pitch?”

“My family calls me Basilton.”

“Then who are all these other people who call you ‘Pitch?’”

“Hell and the Devil, did you really haul me out here just to interrogate me?” He sighs but I spent years cataloguing his sighs and I know this one means, I’m pretending to be irritated but I’m not really. I turn to face him completely. I can’t believe he’s here. How is he here? Or rather, why is he here? Where —

“Where were you? Where did you go?” All of the questions I had been holding onto for years swell to the surface and start to spill out. “What—what happened? Why didn’t you come back?—Why did—Why didn’t—Where—”

“Christ. Use your words, Snow,” he says and it’s so achingly familiar that I bark out an unexpected laugh.

“You’re the only person in the world who has ever called me that.”

“Truly?” He mimics with a ghost of a smile.

“What happened?” I try to make the question sound soft but I’ve never been known for being delicate. “I tried—I wrote, after—you didn’t come back. Why didn’t you come back? Where did you go? I tried to—I—Where were you?” I take a breath, trying to leave him space to respond before I stumble over even more of my words.

“Away,” he sighs. And this sigh means, the mere thought of explaining this to you is tiring.

“Baz, tell me what happened.” I meant it as a genuine request, but it comes out much more bullish than I intend it to.

“Why is it of any consequence to you?” There’s a snap to his voice. Familiar and dangerous.

“Baz,” and sounds as if I’m begging. Perhaps I am.

Silence settles uncomfortably between us as I watch Baz’s stony expression solidify further.

“I was unwell,” he says, looking down at his gloved hands. I wait for more but nothing comes.

“Oh, I see…” But then—“You were ill? For the entire term?” Penelope had thought it was possible Baz was ill but what would cause him to be unwell for the entirety of our final year?

“For a significant portion and then my father,” he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t finish that thought. “I felt that too much time had passed.”

“But why did—I tried writing to you but…”

God’s teeth, I hope he doesn’t know I went to his house in Hampshire that winter to look for him.

“You did not receive my letters then?” I phrase it as a question for I truly am desperate for an answer.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” he says, dismissively. I look at Baz’s profile, his gaze locked on something unseeable in the dark.

“I posted letters.” I posted a frankly embarrassing amount of letters. “Did you—did you not receive a single one?” How could he have possibly not received a single one? At one point, it felt as if I were posting letters every three days. I think it’s possible I even had been.

“Did you not understand me the first time?” His words slash unexpectedly at my skin. “Hell, I’d forgotten how much of an imbecile you are,” he says, with an air of haughtiness only he can achieve so effortlessly.

“Right,” I say, turning to gaze into the dark of the garden as well.

Unbelievable.

It’s unbelievable that he never received any of my damned letters. The postal system cannot be so entirely incompetent. And it’s unbelievable that he would have been so ill as to skip an entire school year and yet still be whole and hale now. And even more than that, he’s being…perhaps he’s not being dishonest, but he’s certainly not being honest.

That he continues to withhold the truth and cannot answer me plainly now, years later makes me simmer with dissatisfaction.

I’m owed an explanation. I’m his—

I was his—

We started off school as friends but by the end, I was only his roommate, wasn’t I? A roommate he belittled at every opportunity the older we became. But there were times… But of course he has no interest in putting my mind at ease. Why would he? Why did I think the distance would bring us closer together? That so much lost time would lessen the animosity that began to grow through our friendship like a cancer.

Hell and the Devil, I’m as much of an imbecile as he pronounces me to be.

“‘A slobbering ape,’ wasn’t that what you used to call me?” My mind effortlessly unearths his sharp words, buried in the shallow grave of my memory and they scrape my throat raw on their way out of my mouth and into the ever growing chasm between us.

“A simpleton with more hair than wit and a title too large for my level of competence.” I wonder if he remembers when he spat that at me. It was the spring after he turned sixteen and he was already so vicious or, as he would later say, ‘efficient.’

“Or do you think ‘an embarrassment to any person who cannot easily hide their connexion to such an insufferable fool,’ is still an accurate description of me?"

Time had softened my memory of him, recounting only the good. Our playful banter and intensely bright young friendship. His talent, his quick mind. He was always so clever, so astute. In his absence, I pushed aside how barbed and cruel his wit had turned. I see now that my neglect of his thorns has done nothing to heal all the wounds I bear from his cuts to my person.

The wall he had crafted during our final year at school together has apparently remained intact after all this time as he seems to have forced it up between us once more. He hasn’t spoken a word nor turned to look at me.

“Well,” I try to clear my throat. I feel a fool. I spent so long hoping for this reunion and yet I never took a moment to consider what it would truly be like. I see it now, in tatters at our feet.

What ever half hearted lie I attempt to tell now, I’m sure he would be able to spot it so I don’t bother. I nod good bye and take my leave.

B.

Hell’s teeth.

I’ve spent years consumed with guilt over all of the terrible things I said to him in my attempts to put space between us. My only reprieve was the desperate hope that my words never struck true but instead bounced off of him or burnt up in the great golden inferno that is Simon Snow.

My heart aches horribly with the knowledge that he’s held onto my cruelty for all these years. I wanted to shout at him to stop repeating all of those barbarous things I said to him but it seemed only fair that I face what a cold blooded wretch I was. To let each cutting remark bite back. To let each unearned blow land.

I wasn’t sure if he would remember writing me those damned letters but of course he did. It felt as if he wrote every other day for the entirety of what should have been our final year together. So of course he would want an explanation about why those letters never received any replies.

I did reply. To each and every one of them. Painstakingly.

God, those letters.

With each one, it felt as if he had cut out a progressively larger piece of his heart and served it to me raw and bleeding. Each page dripping with his confusion and anger, his loneliness and distress, his grief.

So I cut out a piece of my heart in return then sealed it with wax and a kiss before tossing his letter and mine into the fire where I would watch them curl around each other until they were only ash and memory.

He came to my house that winter. I spotted him through my window as he trudged down the lane. He’s always been unmistakable, even at a distance.

I hid myself away, tucking myself behind the bed and out of sight of the doorway, despite knowing there wasn’t a chance in Hell a single member of the household would allow anyone other than a doctor to call on me for any reason.

That my absence warranted his coming to Hampshire to try to locate me sent me spiralling into a sea of bewildered fear. I couldn’t—I still can’t—conceive a sensible reason as to why he repeatedly tried so desperately to get in contact with me. Our last term together, I pushed and pushed and pushed him away, fearing that if he got any closer, he would be able to see the truth of me. That if he stepped within reach, I wouldn’t be able to resist closing the distance.

The night air is a welcome relief now and I take more than a moment to shake off the haunted cast of my former self before reentering the house.

Notes:

if you need a pick me up, might i suggest 'naked in manhattan' by chappell roan for the line 🎵 so I pushed you down a million times 🎵 which served as heavy inspo for this fic

also, simon did not walk to hampshire, he took a carriage but the horses refused to approach the house because even in this non-magickal AU, pitch manor is haunted 🖤 (i suppose that also implies horses can sense ghosts...but idk that kinda feels accurate, doesn't it?)

Chapter 3

Notes:

Thank you every one for reading and kudosing and commenting! Your comments seriously mean so much to me ❤️

Violin covers of pop songs I listened to too many times for this chapter can be found here. They're in order from Lose Control to Good Luck, Babe!

Enjoy!

B.

If the world was kind, this entire affair would be over and I would be able to return to my townhouse and wallow in peace but as it stands, I’ve only managed to get through a few hours of this circus and I have at least two hours yet to go.

Lady Newton is not known for carrying on past two o’clock in the morning, making it one of the less lengthy private balls I’ve received an invitation to this season and the sole reason I accepted.

Well, not the sole reason.

I had made discreet inquiries as to who would be in attendance this evening and upon hearing “Salisbury,” I was decided. It feels like a rather rash decision, in hindsight. 

I must admit I had not thought through what my reunion with Snow would be like in all actuality. I had played out a hundred different scenarios a hundred different ways but almost none of them were sensible or even entirely possible. And as time stretched between us, my thoughts of Simon slowly but surely detached themselves from reality.

At four and twenty, you would think I had more sense than that. 

And you would be wrong.

Taking a turn about the garden, I repeatedly replay our conversation and colour it with ‘should’ s and ‘would’ s and ‘could’ s.

I really should apologise for all of those horrible things I said. But how would I even begin to explain myself? My reasoning was childish and absurd then and it sounds all the more ridiculous now.

I could confide in him, but would it cause him to want to end our association completely? If I hold my tongue, I could at least be allowed to exist in his universe; could watch him from afar.

I should have told him the truth, then I would no longer have to hide myself away from him. And then, maybe, we could—

It feels beyond asinine to even entertain the thought that we could be—

I don’t let myself finish that ridiculous thought and instead turn back towards the house. I need this night to be over.

Had Salisbury not introduced me to half of the assembled party, I perhaps could have slipped into the night without notice but it’s far too late for that now. 

Two hours. Only two hours. I can do that. I can do this. 

I stand tall, smooth down the lapels of my tailcoat, and brace myself.

 

S.

“Baz is here,” I lean down to urgently whisper into Penelope’s ear.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Penelope says to the women she’s standing with near the refreshments table. “Lord Salisbury here forgets himself and needs me to help him relocate his manners.” The gathered women laugh delicately into gloved hands as Penelope takes my arm.

“That was rather uncalled—” I start.

“Where is he?” She says, looking around the room with a ferocity I’m glad isn’t being directed towards me at this moment. 

“I left him on the terrace,” I reply, holding firm as I feel her attempt to lead us to the very last place I wish to be right now.

“Take me to him,” she hisses, pulling subtly on my arm once more.

“I must speak with you first.” I smile at a few of the people we pass as cordially as I can manage. Although I don’t think I manage anything close to cordial if the looks I receive in return are anything to go by.

“Simon, I’ve had to hear about this man for longer than I care to examine and I greatly wish to put a much described face to the illustrious name.”

“Penelope, you were right,” I say and she immediately stops trying to pull me towards the doors.

“You could have led with that. Right about what?”

“He said he was ill,” I whisper, leaning my head down towards her ear. Our difference in height makes conversing subtly rather difficult but it’s never stopped us.

“With what?”

“I didn’t presume to ask,” I say and she huffs her annoyance at my disregard for bad manners.

“I wonder if it was—,” she glances over at me. “What’s wrong? What did you do?” 

“What?” I splutter. “What did I do? Why do you assume the worst of me and not of him?”

“In truth, I’m assuming the worst of both of you. You two could never manage to be anything but the worst to each other.” She returns her attention to the general assembly once more, pushing up onto her toes to survey the crowd.

“I have not been the worst to him!” I whisper, emphatically as my desire to shout is overridden by my grandmother’s voice in my head reminding me that, ‘Raising your voice does not make what you’re saying any truer, it only makes it louder.’

“You broke his nose,” she retorts and now it’s my turn to huff with annoyance.

“He pushed me down the stairs, if you recall.” Penelope and I have had this exact conversation before and she was firm in her belief that a push down the stairs and a broken nose are not equally violent acts. But she wasn’t there and I could have broken my nose during the fall just as easily.

Although, of course, I didn’t.

Also, she knows I apologised immediately, unlike him.

She ignores that, and instead asks, “What did he say to you?”

“I…” The conversation tumbles through my mind as I turn it over and over and over.

“Let it be known that I’m asking you about Basilton and you—”

“Give me a moment to think!” I hiss at her. Penelope has less than half the patience of anyone else I know and it makes me all the more irritated when she won’t allow me a moment to sort through my thoughts. 

“What the Devil do you need to think about? Tell me what was said word for word. Leave nothing out.”

✦

“That was a much less riveting conversation than I would have expected, especially after years of stalking the man. I thought you said he was a witty conversationalist.” Penny and I have been attempting to appear casual as we take a turn about the room, pausing occasionally to artificially admire the various paintings, sculptures, and ugly vases.

“I haven’t stalked him for years.”

“That’s news to me,” Penelope remarks, lowering her spectacles to examine a portrait of a quite severe looking man.

“Are we discussing Baz?” Shepard appears seemingly out of nowhere, holding two glasses. He offers one to Penelope, who takes it without sparing Shepard a glance.

I nod as Penny says, “Not anymore. I’m terribly bored of him.”

“You haven’t even met him,” I counter, my T’s crisp with irritation. I am secretly very surprised and grateful Penelope hasn’t stopped me already due to the ‘Baz quota,’ that she instated years ago.

“Haven’t you?” Shepard asks Penny with genuine interest. “Oh, well, he’s as tall as you described, Simon. With—” 

“Stop,” Penny interrupts Shepard with a snap of her fan. “I’ve already had to listen to this gabster,” she jerks her chin towards me, “go on and on about this man for the better part of a decade. I’m all too aware of his handsome features and dark silken hair and damned eyebrows.”

“Penelope!” I sound like a strangled peacock as I motion frantically for her to keep her voice down, quickly checking that no one has overheard us.

“That does about capture the essence of his manner,” Shepard says, sportively. Turning his attention to me, he asks, “Did you uncover what happened to him? Why he didn’t attend school during your final year?”

“He said he was ill,” I say.

“Ill? With what?” 

I open my mouth to respond, but Penny interjects.

“I cannot listen to this again. Find me when you’ve finished,” she says, and stalks off.

 

B.

“You may be unaware of this, but I attended school with your father, Lord Pitch.”

...

“You must meet my daughter, her needlework is superb and she's extremely gifted on the pianoforte.”

...

“It’s been an age, Pitch. How the Devil are you?”

...

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Grimm in attendance this evening?”

...

“You must join us at Vauxhall later this week!”

...

“My daughter rides as well. She has a great talent with horses.”

Mrs. Wellbelove speaks as if her daughter isn’t standing directly beside her.

“Is that so?” I direct my question towards Miss Wellbelove who, even I must admit, is a vision in her white gown. Her father may lack a title but it does nothing to take the shine off of her. Her beauty outclasses all the other young women currently in attendance. The phrase ‘A diamond of the first water,’ has been floating in her wake all evening.

It’s obvious why Salisbury is interested. And they did make a handsome pair on the dance floor earlier, although I did not watch for long. I had to leave before I self immolated with jealousy, you see.

“Indeed,” is all that Miss Wellbelove provides.

“And do you have any other interests?” I inquire, politely.

“I…” She glances anxiously at her mother and I’m unsure if it’s out of fear of me or her mother. Or perhaps she genuinely has no other interests and is searching for assistance in answering my question.

“Yes?” I prompt. 

She stands a bit straighter before looking at me directly. “I enjoy learning about and trying my hand at new ways of arranging one's hair,” she states plainly, every line of her daring me and her mother to mock her. Her mother takes the bait.

“Agatha, dear!” Mrs. Wellbelove cuts in quickly, her voice higher and louder than it had been previously. “What of your needlework? I’m sure Lord Pitch here does not wish to hear about silly little things such as ladies hairstyles.” Her laugh is nervous and quick as her eyes dart between the two of us. 

“On the contrary, Mrs. Wellbelove. I’m very interested in hearing what pursuits Miss Wellbelove enjoys.” I’m not, but I sincerely do not wish to hear any more about any young lady’s talent with a needle. The end result may be impressive and showcase her talents “marvellously” indeed but it makes for terrifically dull conversation.

Miss Wellbelove blushes prettily and engages in the conversation with fresh interest. She tells me about the different techniques she’s attempted and while I can not bring myself to care a droplet, it is at least not another conversation about needlework.

I can’t help but wonder what she and Salisbury discuss. They didn’t seem to be chatting much as they danced. Perhaps it’s the view he enjoys most. Marriages have been based on worse, I suppose.

Mrs. Wellbelove looks bereft at the topic her daughter has latched onto and makes several attempts to change the subject with only one success.

“My daughter also speaks French, Lord Pitch. Don’t you, dear? Do you speak French, my Lord?”

“Oui, et vous Madam Wellbelove? Est-ce que vous parlez français?” // “Yes, and you, Mrs. Wellbelove? Do you speak French?”

“I’m afraid my mother knows only English.” Miss Wellbelove supplies in well accented French.

“Interesting. I wonder if she feels left out of the conversation,” I say. Miss Wellbelove glances towards her mother who looks on the verge of interrupting us once more.

“I am sure she does.”

“And yet, I’m not finding I mind at all.” I give her a long, cool look.  

She doesn’t smile but there’s something in her expression that looks more than a bit pleased. 

Her mother visibly attempts not to struggle with her worry that she cannot parse what exactly we’re discussing. Watching her mother fret is the most fun I’ve had since Snow left me on the terrace, which is to say that it is a single step above the complete boredom that’s been accompanying me for the past hour or so but it’s still an improvement, albeit a minor one.

“Neither am I,” she says.

In the ballroom nearby, the Master of Ceremonies begins speaking and Mrs. Wellbelove startles. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Lord Pitch but Agatha, dear, the last dance is about to be called.”

“If that’s so,” I say, “would you do me the honour of a dance, Miss Wellbelove?”

“I would be delighted, my Lord, but I’m afraid my dance card is full.” As I expected. As I relied on, for in all honesty, I don’t know if my leg is up for dancing this evening.

“Nonsense, dear,” Mrs. Wellbelove says, hand flapping. “I’m sure Mr. Loxleigh will understand. I’ll let him know Lord Pitch has asked you to dance and it would be terribly rude for you to turn him away before he’s had a chance to step onto the dance floor this evening.” Blazes. Though I can't help but admire how brazen a suggestion it is.

“Is that alright with you, Miss Wellbelove? I would be happy to make my excuses if there’s someone else you’ve been hoping to dance with.” I say, in French. It makes her mother look stricken once more and I don’t bother trying to hide the small smile that’s been attempting to fight its way onto my face.

“I thank you for your thoughtfulness but it is not necessary. I would be happy to join you in a dance.” Her smile is demure but earnest as she takes my extended hand.

 

S.

Penelope, Shepard, and I make our way to the ballroom once the last dance had already begun; Penelope hoping to catch a glimpse of Baz for herself before the ball is over. And, ever the gentleman, Baz made it exceedingly easy for her considering he’s in the bloody centre of the bloody room dancing like he was bloody well born for it.

“What is he doing?” I say. The question is rhetorical but Penelope can never help proffering up answers.

“Dancing?” Penny sounds slightly amused.

“Do you know how difficult it was for me to secure a dance with Miss Wellbelove? How on Earth did he manage it? I had to introduce him to half the assembled party upon his arrival.” My anger is rising within me at a somewhat alarming rate, my throat tight with it, threatening to cut off my air supply if I don’t calm down.

“He is a Viscount,” Shepard notes from somewhere over my shoulder. I can’t tear my eyes away from the spectacle before me. They look bloody perfect together and it makes me want to tackle him to the floor. “A title like that can do wonders."

“I’m well aware,” I grit out. I don't point out that I technically outrank him, my title already feels ridiculous enough as it is. The Earl of Salisbury. What a horrible joke. The Earl of Salisbury sounds like a great big grey old man with more hair in his nose than on his head. Probably because that is what the former Earl of Salisbury looked like.

“So this is the fabled Basilton,” Penny says, under her breath. “He certainly moves as gracefully as you had previously described.”

He does and it’s thoroughly infuriating. 

Graceful is not a word that has ever been used to describe me. Baz could never even work it into an insult like he was able to with splendid. “I don’t think I’ve ever met such a splendid idiot.” Or perfect. “What a perfect fool you are, Salisbury.” Or incredible and courageous. “Snow, you incredible buffle-headed sapscull, only you could think of something so entirely stupid and then be courageous enough to say it aloud.”

“They do make a fine pair,” Shepard adds, extremely unhelpfully. 

That they make a fine pair is immediately obvious to everyone in this room. It goes without saying how well matched they are. Equals in beauty, grace, and poise. Together, they would be perfection beyond measure, willowy and elegant, awash with the luminous envy of all who gazed upon them.

As they dance, Baz and Agatha seem to be in constant conversation with one another. Something I could not manage.

There are a few moments in which I think I catch him glancing at me from the corner of his eye but as soon as I try to capture his attention, he’s looking away. The coward.

My hands curl into fists at my sides as the two of them step gracefully around one another. An ugly wave of possession threatens to overtake my good sense completely.

I haven’t officially started courting Agatha due to the season only very recently beginning, but Mrs. Wellbelove has already made it abundantly clear that I would make her daughter an excellent match. 

Although, I have a sickly secret suspicion that her opinion is mostly due to my title and has nothing to do with my character.

Baz has both. Title and character. The Right Honorable Viscount Pitch. He wears the title so well; sharp and dark, powerful, striking. Singular. And when he’s not playing the villain with me, I’m well aware he’s damned charming. I suppose it’s easy for him to be so when everything about him is impeccable; every part of him pristine.

We were standing too close together before for me to properly take in how well he looks tonight. It’s clear he’s seen a tailor as he’s flawlessly dressed and his entire ensemble fits him magnificently. His clothes have always fit like they were made for him. I mean—of course they were made for him but rather—that is to say, I’ve never looked like that no matter how many articles of clothing have been made to fit me.

His only imperfection is the slight crook I put in his nose but all it does is make his face more intriguing, like you’ll never have your fill of looking at it.

He’s not outright smiling at Agatha but there’s an intensity and humour in his gaze that I loathe.

After several minutes, he looks directly at me and heat blooms across my face and chest; the attention setting me alight. Everyone around me must be able to feel the fire of my anger rolling off of me in thick, smoky waves. I know Penny can because before the music comes to a stop, she shoves me out of the door and the entire way to my carriage, watching me intently as she sees me off and Shepard waves goodbye happily beside her.

Notes:

i just love the broken nose and stair pushing too much so i've made it happen in this universe also 🩵

also mr. loxleigh is my little nod to kj charles whose 'gentlemen of uncertain fortune' books inspired a lot of this fic(reading 'the duke at hazard' changed me)

it has also been brought to my attention (by me) that it's unclear if dance cards would have actually been used in england in 1812 but for the purposes of this fic, dance cards are a thing (because i already wrote them in and i really do not want to take them out) please forgive this historical inaccuracy 🙏

also something i forgot to mention last chapter: i did a fair amount of research on nicknames, trying to figure out if the nickname 'baz' would have been historically accurate/likely/possible - turns out nicknaming structures are not well documented throughout history but i think the 'baz' sound from 'basil' (baz-il) isn't too far of a stretch (esp if someone named 'elizabeth' could have the nickname 'liz') so let's just say simon is the one who came up with it and the only one who uses it (penny and shep use it in private bc they've heard simon talk about baz for too long but they would never call him baz to his face as first names/nicknames were reserved for extremely close or childhood friends/family/spouses)(this is also why-----actually, are you interested in this? if you want to know why some characters first names are used and others aren't, let me know and i'll explain in the next notes section but otherwise, i will let you get on with your life SORRY)

Chapter 4

Notes:

Thank you to everyone for commenting, kudosing, and reading!

This chapter took me a while because I worked on this chapter and the next almost simultaneously. The good news is that the next chapter should be up later this week!

An extra special thank you to @iamamythologicalcreature for your lovely message and all your encouragement!

Songs I listened to on repeat while working on this chapter:
- Dynamite, ROXANNE, Blueberry Faygo, Life Goes On, and Strange, all by Vitamin String Quartet
- Two Hearts by UNSECRET

You can listen to the playlist here.

S.

“She seems to be the master of her own person, happy to damn destiny and fate to Hell,” Shepard says, with a level of fondness for Penelope only he can achieve.

“That’s true enough. So how do you plan on going about it?”

Shepard and I take a walk through Hyde Park almost every day. I can’t manage being indoors for long periods of time—well, I can—I can manage it too well; my body is very good at melting itself into whatever piece of furniture is lucky, or unlucky, enough to be in my path when a melancholic state overtakes my person. So instead, I walk. 

Shepard is excellent company as he’s never short on things to say or topics to discuss. Although today, we’ve almost been exclusively discussing Penelope.

“I know how much Penelope treasures the written word so I thought I could write her a letter. A love letter, I mean. I heard it’s what made Miss Brooks finally accept Mr. Thompson’s proposal.”

“I believe I heard the same. All right. So, a love letter to start, then?”

“Or does it seem like something I should save until later? It does, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it depends, what’s the rest of your plan exactly?”

At its core, the rest of Shepard’s plan is to ask if he can accompany Penny to any place she will let him and then grovel at her feet. Which I can find no fault in. But then again, I’ve never courted anyone, let alone Penelope.

“I don’t know how much grovelling you’ll need to do,” I say, with as much nonchalance I can muster.

“What do you mean?” Shepard grabs my arm, his tone brimming with hope.

“I’m not saying anything. Because if I were to say anything regarding Penelope’s feelings towards you, I would have to tell Penelope. So I’m not telling you that she has spoken to me about you.” I pause, hoping Shepard fully understands what I’m telling him by not telling him. 

“I’m not telling you that she has asked if you’re interested in courting anyone,” I continue. “And I’m not telling you that I made it clear that you were interested in only her, which seemed to please her greatly.”

Shepard lets go of my arm with an enormous smile on his face. “Simon, I could kiss you.”

“I don’t think Penelope would like that very much.”

“Then I’ll refrain for now but thank you.” He’s incredibly sincere, which is another thing I deeply appreciate about him.

"I've said and done nothing," I reply. Penelope will be a fright if she finds out I told Shepard about her feelings towards him.

“All right,” he sighs in quite a dramatic fashion. “I would ask you about your plan with Miss Wellbelove but to be honest, I think I may float away any moment now with joy,” he says, pausing for a moment to spin on the word ‘joy.’ He smiles at me as I watch him over my shoulder. 

I then proceed to walk directly into someone’s chest.

My unsuspecting victim lets out a small "oof" as we collide. The scent of cedar and bergamot envelopes me, informing me of who exactly I just crashed into without the need of my visual confirmation. My hands find his waist as I pull us apart, his own hands gripping my arms.

His eyes are the same deep water grey as I remember and I momentarily feel trapped in them. I can’t remember the last time I was this close to him. Lacking my permission, my hands tighten, causing me to squeeze Baz’s waist. He pushes me off of him with a swift shove. Looking away as his cheeks redden and his hair falls in a wave across his aristocratic brow.

“Lord Pitch! Lord Salisbury! Are you quite all right?” Mr. Wellbelove asks, breaking me out of my trance. My heart thumping oddly in my chest. The feeling is entirely unusual and quite uncomfortable.

“I really must apologise, I was not watching where I was going,” I offer. Baz continues to straighten his jacket and even his waistcoat, which is a bit ridiculous. It’s not as if I threw him to the ground and attempted to relieve him of his clothing.

“Ah, Mr. Shepard! How are you?”

“Mr. Wellbelove,” Shepard bows. “Mrs. Wellbelove. Miss Wellbelove. It’s a pleasure to see you as always.”

“Have you two been introduced to Lord Pitch?” Mr. Wellbelove asks.

“We’re acquainted,” Baz says as I say, “He was my roommate at school.”

“Oh then please, join us.” Mrs. Wellbelove says, stepping forward to link her arm in her husbands. “We were discussing The Royal Academy of Arts. Have you been recently?”

“Quite recently,” Shepard says. “I found the new collection inspired.” I quickly lose track of the conversation as I watch Baz walking slightly ahead of us with Agatha. There’s something slightly off about his step. He’s grown since the last time I saw him at school, which I did not think was possible and I am not pleased to confirm now. Perhaps his unnecessary height has affected his gait.

I must admit I spent a good portion of every evening of this past week thinking about Baz. Surprise and anger, excitement and jealousy, relief and hurt, and an overwhelming amount of unsatiated curiosity have all tangled themselves into a terrible knot that I have not been able to pick apart nor have I had the motivation to. What would be the point? He ties me into knots with his every word, with his very presence. I knew I would inevitably find myself back in this same predicament.

I catch a snippet of Baz and Agatha’s conversation only to discover the two of them speaking French. Blazes. I was always terrible at French. 

A memory faintly flickers in the back of my mind. Baz and I, sitting on his bed, my chin on his shoulder, a book open in his lap. “Almost, see it’s ‘ce soir?’” “Ce soir?” “Oui! Parfait, Simon.” Then, almost as soon as it arrived, the memory flutters away.

Agatha says something to Baz which makes him let out a low chuckle. It’s a sound I hardly recognize since it’s been nearly a decade since I heard it last. The warmth I feel at the sound is smothered by the fact that, once again, I’m no longer someone he laughs with.

“We just invited Lord Pitch to our house for a small dinner on Tuesday next. Would you two care to join us as well?” Mrs. Wellbelove says.

“I’m very sorry, but I must decline.” Shepard looks genuinely sorry because he most likely genuinely is. “I am attending a lecture that evening.”

Mr. Wellbelove asks Shepard about his lecture which buys me a few moments of time to think over an answer. I have no engagements lined up but I could easily pretend that I do. I don’t know if I wish to spend the evening watching Baz charm the Wellbeloves. However, every time Baz is out of my sight, there’s a part of me that fears he may disappear, which despite all things, I do not want to happen again. As strange as that may be.

“That sounds fascinating. You must let me know when the next one is and I shall be interested in attending myself,” says Mr. Wellbelove. “And you, Lord Salisbury? Will you be able to join us for dinner?”

“I would be happy to attend, thank you,” I say.

We reach a branch in the path and Baz slows his pace.

“Well, I’m terribly sorry but I must be off,” Baz says, curt and polished as ever. “I look forward to seeing you all later this week. Thank you for the lovely company, Mr. Wellbelove. Mrs. Wellbelove. Miss Wellbelove. Mr. Shepard.” Baz nods at me, “Lord Salisbury.” He turns and walks away.

“I’m very sorry, but we have to be off as well.” I cut in, quickly bowing.

“Have a pleasant rest of your day!” Shepard adds, cheerfully.

I try to keep my stride steady and somewhat reasonable as Shepard catches up to me.

He leans closer to me to ask, “Are we following Baz?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

✦

“Do you know where he’s taken up residence?” Shepard strolls alongside me easily. He lacks my subtlety and Baz will surely notice us if he keeps this up. 

“No, I haven’t a clue,” I say. It’s even more obvious from this distance that Baz’s manner of walking has changed. His coat is cut differently than it was at school and it hides the backs of his thighs. He’s all leg however so it’s not as if it matters much. I try to recall a memory of how he used to look as he walked.

“Where is his family? Back in Hampshire?” 

“I’m not sure…Yes, if I had to hazard a guess,” I say. Although, that’s an excellent question. One that hadn’t even crossed my mind.

“It must be difficult to be away from one’s family. Or perhaps he enjoys it as I do. I suppose it depends, does he have siblings?”

“I…I think he has sisters.” I can vaguely recall him receiving a letter that his father’s new wife had successfully given birth.

We exit the park and Shepard slows to a stop to look into a shop window. “Do you think Penelope would like—” 

“Shepard, I promise you, we will come back and I will give you my full attention but I cannot lose sight of Baz.” I catch a glimpse of his dark hair right before he rounds a corner. “Hell’s teeth. Come on or we’ll lose him.” 

We rush down the street and when I round the corner, I spot him climbing up a small set of gleaming stone steps and entering a townhouse with a glossy black door.

“Do you think that’s where he’s staying?” Shepard asks from somewhere behind my shoulder.

“Perhaps.” That would be convenient, as we’re only about a two minute walk from my own front door. “Let’s wait and see when he emerges.”

“While I’m very fond of you, the thought of standing here for the rest of the day, all night, and possibly into tomorrow is not terribly appealing.” Shepard says, as if he would still be willing to wait here overnight if I insisted upon it.

“I suppose you’ve got a point.” Part of me remains deeply interested in seeing how long it will be until Baz emerges. Perhaps he’s merely calling on someone? He entered the house quite confidently, however. Maybe he reconnected with one of our old classmates and I was unaware. Or maybe he—Shepard sets a hand on my shoulder.

“I can see I have not fully convinced you. Perhaps we shall enquire with your grandmother to see if she’s heard any rumours of where he’s staying or who currently resides at that address. You know she has an exceedingly large social circle and I’m sure she, or someone she knows, will have answers.” 

“Yes, all right,” I say begrudgingly, casting one last look at the townhouse.

B.

I’m sure Salisbury is under the impression that he would make an excellent Bow Street Runner. 

He would be sorely mistaken.

He’s as sly as an elephant. He always has been. 

I do find comfort in the fact that some things about him haven’t changed at all in our time apart.

I glanced over my shoulder earlier and he was there, behind me on the path. Fifty or so paces back, but there. I considered the merits of leading him on a goose chase of sorts for entertainment purposes but my leg is unhappy from this afternoon’s promenade.

The last time I saw Snow, he looked about ready to march across the dance floor and darken my daylights. He’s as easy to rile and as quick to anger as he was in our youth. 

He’s always been a veritable fount of emotion, a waterfall of sentiment.

I felt drunk with it after years of sobriety.

I only glanced his way a handful of times as I danced with Miss Wellbelove but his anger was obvious. His countenance leaves nothing up to one’s imagination, all of his feelings artless and undisguised. 

It was easy enough to keep up a simple conversation with Miss Wellbelove. Commenting on a few hairstyles that are new to me and asking her opinion of them. She seemed so incredibly pleased to be discussing something of genuine interest to her. It’s an ugly thing to admit but I hardly listened to a thing she said, too distracted by Snow.

After Lady Newton’s ball, I spent an entire day toiling over my feelings and finally I decided that I will carry on with my season as planned and try my best to avoid Salisbury. 

It’s now painfully clear to me how ludicrous that plan is. Especially now that he’s following me home. 

I’ve recently taken up residence in Mayfair. My aunt Fiona lives somewhere horrid that I visited once, about six months ago, when my father first agreed to let me participate in this year’s Season. I left before the rats could take up residence in my luggage and booked myself a room elsewhere.

It’s a lovely house. Much smaller than my home in Hampshire, of course, but what it lacks in space it makes up for in charm and warmth that the Manor is devoid of. But its most appealing feature is that it’s mine. 

Not only did I select everything from the rugs to the paint colours, but every book in the library is one I selected or is my own copy I brought with me. Every painting, every hanging, every piece of furniture, it was all my choice. And there’s not a single member of my family I have to share it with. I’ve spent the last seven years under almost unending supervision, so the freedom that comes with living here is novel, and deeply appreciated, as well.

“Lord Pitch,” Percey greets me at the door, taking my gloves and coat from me. Percey is six years older than me, six inches shorter than me, and possibly knows me better than any other person in the world. He was my valet in Hampshire but came with me to London to act as my butler. I’m pleased everyday he remains in my employment as I know he finds Hampshire as dull as I do. However, I do worry now that he’s seen what London has to offer, he won’t return home with me at the end of the season.

“Hallo, Perce. I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you were meant to meet with your sister today.”

“I was, still am. About to leave now. You’re back sooner than I thought you would be. The leg?” He asks, following me into the hall.

“The leg, indeed.” Like I said, he knows me better than anyone. Sometimes even myself.

“Well, you’re in luck then,” he smirks at me, his dark eyes full of mirth.

“You and I have a very different definition of luck, I think.” He “ha”s a humourless laugh at that.

“I just finished filling the bath for you and nearly scalded myself. Should still be plenty hot.”

“What have I done to deserve you?” I say, hauling myself up the stairs.

“You pay me,” he calls up to me. “I’ll be back in three hours. Try not to drown, please.”

When I reach the upstairs hall, I walk carefully over to the window to see if Snow is lingering on the street somewhere but I don’t spot him.

He’s followed me around before and it didn’t end well for him. For either of us. 

And by that, I do not mean my extremely ill timed attempt to plant a facer that ended with him falling down a very small flight of stairs. Although, I must admit, that was far from ideal. As was the punch Salisbury doled out in return, permanently altering my face.

But it wasn’t always like that between us.

The water in the bath is as hot as Percey promised and a groan works its way through my chest unbidden as I lower myself into the tub.

Memory is a curious thing. Especially when it comes to the mundane. Certain moments slip halfway into darkness, while other parts shine through with seemingly no rhyme or reason.

I do not have very many memories of my mother. But I do have precious fragments; of her lifting me into her arms and calling me, “little puff.” Of her warm hand on my cheek. Of her wishing me good night and kissing my forehead. Of the feel of her thick dark hair in my hand. And I couldn’t ever tell you how I know, but I know she loved me. Because I remember how it felt.

It’s similar with Simon. I can’t remember what forged our friendship but the feeling of it is still there. As if the world was set to rights.

And I do have a golden pool of hazy, happy, half remembered moments that’s grown smaller over the years but still remains. Of him smiling with his eyes closed as I played violin. His voice as he begged me to read one more chapter. Of us laughing on our beds. Staying up talking until my face hurt from smiling and our voices gave out.

I sink further into the bath, bending my knees.

I wish I had never figured it out. That I love him. 

It’s only ever been a torment.

Notes:

Thanks for weighing in last chapter on the naming stuff so here we go!

Notes on the use of names/titles during the Regency Era in England based on my brief research:

-First, thanks again to @iamamythologicalcreature for sending me the link to this site, which has remained open and referenced almost every single day since I started writing this in early October. It's an excellent resource for how referring to someone with a title works in written and spoken, informal and formal speech as well as a lot of other stuff!

-Using someone's first name was usually reserved for close friends, childhood/school friends, and/or family. This also depended on what kind of title you had.

-Telling a suitor they could use your first name was a big indication that you liked them a lot.

-The Earl of Salisbury was a very real title from the 1500s to 1789, after 1789 the titled was elevated to Marquess of Salisbury (even fancier)

-Both Baz and Simon would have multiple titles (i.e. Baz would technically be Viscount Pitch and Baron Vampire and Simon would be Earl of Salisbury, Viscount Cutie, Baron Scone and possibly also Baron Spadey)

-While Simon knows Agatha's first name, he has not been given permission by her to use her first name when speaking to her/about her which is why in speech Simon (and everyone other than Penny) will refer to Agatha as Miss Wellbelove.

-Penelope and Shepard use "Baz," instead of "Lord Pitch," or "Pitch," when speaking to Simon only. This is because Simon exclusively called Baz "Baz," when talking about him over the years. Also Penny and Shep are rule breakers so they don't care that they're being improper in private. Baz would have to give Penny & Shep permission to call him by his first name or nickname BUT they can call him "Pitch," without any additional permissions after they've become acquaintances/friendly with one another.

-Shepard being called Mr. Shepard instead of Mr. Love is partially because I personally think old timey peoples would not have liked to call someone Mr. Love but what do I know? They probably would have called him Mr. Love instead of Mr. Shepard because Mr. Shepard would most likely have been a name reserved for his wife but whatever we're having fun here.

-Back to Baz for a second. His last name in this fic is technically Grimm but no one would ever call him Mr. Grimm because he has a title (Lord Pitch.) This never comes up. This is just something I have established in my mind so now you get to hear about it too.

-AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION TIME (if you want): Niall and Dev are coming up soon and I would love suggestions for last names for these two. I'm having the hardest time with Dev since his last name is neither Grimm nor Pitch. Another option is to make Dev short for his last name as well. Dev Devridge, for example. (Oh, I kinda like that, should I do something like that?) *additional note* Dev is from the Pitch side of Baz's family tree but I'm looking for a last name other than Pitch so as not to muddy the waters

Chapter 5

Notes:

Thanks all for your comments! They're seriously fueling me.

It may be a couple weeks before I post the next chapter as I'm working very diligently on my Carry On Countdown fic which is due to start posting on Monday (😅) Not to worry though, as the next chapter of this fic is almost fully written and so is the chapter after that. (I swear to god, I will not leave either you nor me hanging with this one. I am determined to finish this.)

As always, you can find my playlist here.

This chapter's songs on repeat were:
- thank u, next, Espresso, Don't Start Now, and Dynamite by Vitamin String Quartet
- Jealous by Shimmer

S.

I knew he would be here.

I was told Baz would be in attendance this evening. And I made my own inquiries as to whether or not he would be. And they confirmed he would be. And he is.

I spotted him within moments of his arrival and as soon as his eyes met mine, it sent a fizz of nerves through me. Which is truly mad because, as I said previously, I knew he was going to be here.

Apparently, even if I know something to be true, it can still take me by surprise. 

Or maybe it’s just him.

The Haddon’s residence is much larger than Lady Newton’s and much more lavish. It’s clear not an expense has been spared. The chandeliers glitter above us as Shepard and I make our way through the house, greeting those we know and receiving introductions to those we don’t. 

Penelope should be here somewhere but her height makes her difficult to spot in a crowd. I also have a suspicion that she hides from us just to see how quickly Shepard can find her. We’ve placed bets on it before. I stopped after I realised she always made sure she won by either avoiding us or making herself extremely obvious.

Shepard and I met at the beginning of last year’s season and it’s hard for me to remember what London was like before him. Probably because it was so dull. Shepard is much more social than Penelope is wont to be but he also seems to attract the most interesting people. Or perhaps, he just knows how to ask the right questions. Despite watching him charm the ton, I’m still unsure of how he does it or how he makes it seem so effortless. I must admit, I’m jealous of him.

The buzz of tension grows steadily along my spine despite doing my best to ignore Baz’s presence across the room. I cannot spend yet another evening this week thinking about Baz.

It takes me longer than I wanted, but eventually I find Miss Wellbelove, who looks beautiful in a light pink dress with pearls around her delicate neck and in her hair.

“Miss Wellbelove, would you do me the honour of a dance?”

“Of course, my Lord,” she says politely, holding her gloved hand out to me where her dance card is tied to her wrist. I open it only to see ‘ Lord Pitch’ in a thin, elegant hand claiming the final dance of the night. 

That buzzing, sparkling feeling that had been creeping up my back all evening feeling fills my throat. I try to swallow around it with no success. Miss Wellbelove looks at me curiously as I write down my name and asks, “Is everything all right, my Lord?”

I school my expression. Or I hope I do. “Yes, apologies.” I don’t bother explaining myself because I’m not sure I can. Instead, I try my best to stay present as we exchange pleasantries but my mind keeps shouting thoughts at me. Does Baz have intentions to court Agatha? Is he courting her already? Is he intending to set his cap at her?

A young man greets Mrs. and Miss Wellbelove and I see the opportunity to take my leave and seize it.

If Baz has intentions to court Agatha, how would I ever be able to compete? The two were practically crafted by God for one another.

He outclasses me in intelligence and looks. Not to mention talent and confidence. I may have the better title but who would want me as a bumbling husband when they could have him?

I grab a glass of champagne and down it entirely too quickly.

Envy, green and writhing, is a heavy, uncomfortable presence in my chest as I make my way back through the assembly.

The crowd parts ever so slightly and I catch a glimpse of Penny, in a cheery yellow dress, smiling up at Shepard, who is looking at her like she’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen. 

An expectedly sharp sting of jealousy surprises me. It’s not as if I want either Shepard nor Penelope to look at me that way. But no one has ever looked at me that way before.

I turn away as a memory of a starry eyed gaze twinkles in the back of my mind but the harder I try to focus on it, the faster it slips away. 

I pass Miss Stainton and her father hovering uncertainly near a wall.

“Mr. Stainton, Miss Stainton.”

“My Lord,” they say, almost in unison. I pause.

“Miss Stainton, I was wondering…”

B.

Snow has been openly ignoring me since I arrived. Which, for him, means staring at me fixedly from various different spots around the room and looking away or ducking his head as soon as I drag my gaze towards him. 

I make it a show too, giving him plenty of time to do a proper job of pretending he’s not watching me and yet he struggles with it nonetheless.

“Why does Salisbury keep looking over here?” Dev says, narrowing his eyes. “Is he dicked in the knob?”

“No idea,” I sigh, making eye contact with Snow again .

“He’s not still,” Niall says, looking over his shoulder to where Snow is. “By Jove, he is. Should we go elsewhere?”

“If he has a problem with us, he can come over here and bloody well say it to our faces,” Dev scoffs, giving Niall a scathing look. “We’re not running from Salisbury.”

“No, we’re not,” I say. “I would, however, like to sit down,” I admit.

I have opted for one dance this evening. The last dance. It’s all I can easily manage without having to resort to using my cane for the rest of the week.

My dance with Miss Wellbelove at last week’s ball was fine as far as my leg is concerned. Absolutely fine. 

So was my promenade through Hyde Park. It’s nothing I’m not used to managing. But then, I had a handful of quick stops elsewhere around the city, and now, I’m teetering on the edge of overdoing it. A day of rest will help tremendously. Two will do wonders. I merely have to make it through tonight. 

“Fine,” Dev says with a decent amount of flippancy. “There are cards in the library. What do you say to a game of whist, gentlemen?” 

“Dear God, anything but whist,” Niall pleads.

“All right, all right. Hazard, then,” Dev says with a wicked grin.

“No,” Niall and I say in unison. 

“Picquet it is. No arguments.”

“You cheat at picquet,” Niall says.

“Darling, I don’t need to cheat at picquet. You’re simply terrible at it,” Dev snarks. Niall gives him a flat look as he continues, “I do cheat at faro though because you’re annoyingly good at that.”

“Faro, then.” Niall smirks.

“All right, but I did just warn you that I will be cheating but best of luck.”

I smile into my champagne. God, I’m glad they’re here.

✦

We quit the card table after more than two hours of making up our own game. It was a feat but I think we managed to quite possibly devise the worst card game known to man. Absolutely farcical and with far too many rules that are far too easy to cheat. Dev, Niall, and I also managed to finish off another bottle of champagne and I’m happy to report that I’m delightfully foxed. 

It’s the second to last dance of the night and I feel fluid as silk as the three of us make our way to the ballroom. The lush golden glow of the candlelight gives the room a dreamlike quality.

My eyes immediately find Salisbury as he makes his way onto the dance floor and over to Miss Wellbelove. He takes her hand in his and gently presses his lips to her white gloved knuckles. I douse the absurd flare of jealousy that tries to fight its way to the front of my mind.

They take position and he ignores me. By which I mean, he looks at me immediately with grim determination. As if he’s ready to defend an innocent man in court, not as if he’s about to dance with the prime article. And Miss Wellbelove does look lovely this evening, loath as I am to admit. The picture of feminine beauty and charm.

The dance begins and even though he’s obviously in a dudgeon, it does nothing to temper how handsome he looks tonight.

The years have truly done wonders for him. He’s settled into his body in a way that eluded him when we were younger. He's stalwart, steady, and sure. He’s lost the boyish roundness of his cheeks but it’s only given way to cheekbones and a jaw I want to drag my mouth over. He’s also grown into his broad shoulders which look magnificent in his striking black coat. 

The last glass of champagne may have been a mistake as my mind keeps drifting into thoughts of what Salisbury looks like without his coat. Or waistcoat.

I tear my eyes away to watch the other couples in an attempt to look like I’m merely enjoying the festivities instead of looking like I’m hunting prey, which now conjures up images of me tackling Snow to the ground and biting his neck and I really must find something else to think about at this very moment.

I watch his shoes instead. Nothing arousing about shoes.

His calves however…

Stop it, Basilton.

He really is not the most accomplished dancer. It also doesn’t help that he continuously seems to fall a step behind every time he tosses a look in my direction. Miss Wellbelove has given up attempting to make conversation with him. She seems to have given up on him all together, looking all together put out by her inattentive dance partner.

After her dour dance with Salisbury comes to its stumbling conclusion, it’s unsurprising that the first thing she says upon seeing me is, “I must admit, I’ve been looking forward to our dance all evening.”

“How kind of you to say so,” I reply. I’m sure I could have gone with something more generous, such as “As have I,” but I’m not trying to win her. I am merely trying to maintain the guise of being interested, as I am, in all actuality, uninterested in both marriage and women. Also, it’s obvious she’ll choose Salisbury. On top of his dashing good looks, he’s an Earl, for God’s sake. She’d be a fool not to accept his proposal. As much as it pains me to see them together.

We step back to take our places across the floor from one another.

Movement in the corner of my eye turns my head and my heart stutters. 

Snow is walking directly across the floor towards me; a savage sort of delight dancing in the blue of his eyes as he approaches, chin forward, and jaw set. He’s beautiful like this. All fierce determination and untamed daring. I don’t miss the moment his eyes flick down towards my shoes and rake their way up my body; a trail of fire following his gaze. A fast, unsteady breath fills my chest and pushes its way into the spaces between my ribs, holding my spine straight. 

I’m suspended in a storm of wild, whirling madness as Snow comes closer. And closer. 

Nonsensical visions of Snow taking Miss Wellbelove’s place bombard me. He’s not—he couldn’t possibly be—

Had I had any control of my body, perhaps I would have taken a step back, but instead I hold perfectly still as Snow nearly collides with me. He turns his shoulders at the last possible moment and stands next to me in line. A brunette girl makes her way through the other couples to stand across from him, next to Miss Wellbelove, whose brow furrows ever so slightly at the new addition to our party. 

I force myself to slowly exhale as the music begins. It’s a lively, happy tune to accompany a quadrille. I glance over at Snow, who smirks at me. Then I turn my gaze to Miss Wellbelove as she and I begin to circle one another. She seems as thrown by our company as I do but attempts to smile politely through it.

I take a step forward, as the dance requires, to take the brunette girl’s hand. I’m a full foot taller than her so it’s easy to see the intense look Snow is giving me over her head. I raise an eyebrow which makes him narrow his eyes.

As the dance continues, all I can pay attention to is how close Simon is standing to me. Like the space between us is alive and pulling. Then hysteria threatens to overtake me as Simon takes my hand. It’s a part of the dance, certainly not of his own volition but regardless, I feel as if I’m going mad. He releases my hand so quickly it’s nearly comical that the action threatened to undo me so completely.

The next time he’s required to take my hand, he squeezes it excessively hard. I look at him in disbelief and he shoots me a viciously triumphant smile. It’s wildly attractive though I’m sure he doesn’t intend it to be.

I try to begin several conversations with Miss Wellbelove but Snow, the buzzard, either verbally interrupts or alters his steps in order to physically put himself between me and Miss Wellbelove. She and Snow’s dance partner are watching him with rising levels of confusion, their nonplussed expressions faltering with every ridiculous move he attempts to pull. 

And at the end of every turn, he shoots me a cocky grin.

He’s an absolute fool which must make me the world’s greatest because I’m an absolute fool for him and all of his foolish nonsense.

As we execute a moulinet, Snow takes the opportunity to step on the back of my foot, intentionally forcing my heel out of my shoe. 

I pause in retaliation, causing him to slam into my back with a sound like a furious chicken. And then, I crack.

S.

I shove Baz forward after he forced me to collide with him and then I nearly snap my neck looking up at him as he starts to laugh, my fury rising to meet his ridicule. He turns, only for me to discover he’s smiling at me. Not a smirk or a sneer. A brilliant, dazzling, heart stopping smile. Laughter bubbles out of him, light and joyful. And it’s not accompanied with an undercurrent of mockery or scorn. It’s simply laughter. Pure and true. I glance at Miss Wellbelove who looks as taken aback as I feel. 

Then, her lips slowly curve into a smile and she lets out a little cough of laughter as well.

When Baz grabs my hand, his whole face is alight with joy. And I can see it then. The past glimmering through the present. The stars in Baz’s grey eyes as he looks at me. 

And then I can’t help it. I smile back. The tension between us turning to mist and gossamer in an instant.

Agatha lets out a giggle at Baz’s champagne laughter and I join in. 

Miss Stainton looks at us like we’ve gone mad but starts smiling despite her obvious confusion.

We form another moulinet, this time Baz is behind me and he kicks the back of my shoe, giggling. I retaliate the same way he did by stopping my movement abruptly and letting him knock into my back. He’s solid against me for far too quick a moment, his laugher hot at my ear, before he’s shoving me forward again.

I feel lighter than the air itself. Buoyant. I don’t know if I’ve ever actually enjoyed dancing before. It’s certainly never made me feel like this.

I circle Baz, soaking in his joy, trying to forever imprint the starry eyed look he’s giving me into my memory. We join hands and both squeeze. He gives me a smile that makes me feel like leaping.

The rest of the dance goes by too quickly. And I find myself wishing it would never end. 

It does, of course. As all things do. The music stops and everyone applauds as the Master of Ceremonies wraps up the night. I still feel giddy and breathless with it all but my heart starts to sink as I turn to see Baz, kissing the back of Agatha’s hand. Her colour is high and he’s smiling that dazzling smile. At her.

I turn to thank Miss Stainton for the dance and she curtseys. She looks at me very intently, as if she’s expecting something but I’m not sure what. I turn my head slightly only to see Baz walking off the dance floor.

I hastily bid Miss Stainton goodnight and weave my way through the crowd to follow Baz. I’m unsure of what I wish to say to him once I catch up to him but I have the bizarre but overwhelming urge to thank him for the dance. For while Miss Stainton was my partner, it felt as though Baz was the one I was dancing with.

Notes:

Writing a dance scene is harder than I thought.

I initially wanted it to be a kind of sensual, serious, dark, jealousy fueled kind of thing (I listened to "UNSECRET's cover of Vampire" for like an hour trying to write it,) but after watching several youtube videos and reading about a selection of Regency balls and dances, I noticed that in a few of the dances (one of them being a quadrille) that the men danced together and my brain ran with it. Also all the dancing was described as so fun and the people in the videos were all laughing and smiling. I mean, they had like a ballroom rule in general that people couldn't clap or stomp along to the music because it got too out of hand and raucous.

So I thought, for this chapter, I would put a jealous, attention seeking Simon in the middle of a joyful, fun dance and see what happened. (Do not worry, gentle reader, I have plans for a waltz in the future.)

Anyways, I really liked the way the dance turned out and hope you liked it as much as I did 🩵

(oh and a moulinet is like a little star dancers form by putting one hand in the middle and dancing around in a little circle, sorry if that was unclear)

Chapter 6

Notes:

I promised I wouldn't leave you, dear reader ❤️ I'm sorry it's been so long but I'm so happy to be back with you now.

A big, huge, giant thank you to TheWholeLemon for being a fantastic beta.

This is a shorter chapter but the next one will be here soon (much sooner than last time, I swear.)

As always, you can find my playlist here. The songs I listened to a LOT while writing this chapter were Strange by Kris Bowers feat. Hillary Smith and Vampire by Unsecret String Quartet.

S.

Squeezing my way through the crowd as politely but quickly as possible, I draw closer and closer to Baz who has rejoined Dev and Niall. They were Baz’s closest friends at school—well, besides me, I suppose.

I desperately wish to reach out a hand and tug on the back of Baz’s coat to make him stop walking but I’ve been told that’s devilishly impolite. By Baz, no less.

An overwhelming urge to thank him for the dance is clamouring to the front of my mind, as if that’s a rational thing to do and yet…

I cannot hear Baz properly but I do hear him use my name in their conversation as I join the departing crowd and follow them outside to await their carriages. 

“I really do not see the appeal of such a lout,” Dev says, his slightly slurred voice carrying over the chatter of farewells around us. I tuck myself behind a column as I listen, though a significant part of me insists I will regret it.

“Salisbury is an Earl. That’s the appeal,” Baz drawls. Any residual giddiness I felt begins to slowly seep out of me.

“You’re a viscount and significantly better ton. And it’s also not as if you lack funds, dear cousin,” Dev replies in a scathing tone. Baz says something I cannot make out and Dev continues, “Well, he’s a bracket faced simkin. Well and truly a Simon . Really, you’d think for someone who spends all of his time with that notorious bluestocking, Miss Bunce, that he’d have a bit more sense these days.”

“Goodness, Dev. Are you shot in the neck? You’re being quite harsh,” Niall says.

“I’m not being harsh. I’m being honest. And do you not care that he made a fool out of Basilton? I mean, truly cousin, you looked ridiculous,” Dev scoffs. My heart sinks further. It wasn’t my intention to make a fool out of Baz. But…well, it was. Wasn’t it? At least, initially.

“I thought it looked like the entire party were enjoying themselves,” Niall says. Dev snorts derisively at that then mutters something too low for me to hear.

“Yes, well, since when has Salisbury had the good sense to leave me be? It’s not as if I’ve ever encouraged him,” Baz sighs. And I know this one. This sigh means, Salisbury is a chronic pain in my neck.

“But did you enjoy yourself?” Niall asks. And I hold my breath as I wait for Baz to respond.

Dev replies instead. “Don’t be a widgeon. Basilton has always detested the fool. And it’s not as if Salisbury’s changed much since school, besides growing into more of a pock marked barbarian.”

Baz sighs, and it’s the same sigh as before, then says, “In truth, I can hardly stand the sight of the man.” He sounds exceedingly exhausted as he continues, “I’ve wanted to be rid of him since I was fifteen.” 

I always knew, I suppose. But to hear it spoken so plainly shatters me in a way I could have never anticipated.

Something long and spindly has started crawling its way up the inside of my chest and pierces the back of my throat, making it difficult to breathe. 

“Simon!” Shepard’s voice cuts clean and clear through the night. The group I’ve been abashedly eavesdropping on goes deathly silent and my stomach sinks further than I thought possible. “There you are! Are you still riding back with me?”

It feels as if I’ve been doused in both boiling hot and icy cold water, like my body cannot decide which is worse and has chosen to suffer both simultaneously. Embarrassment and shame burn hot and caustic through me. I try to swallow but it’s to no use; hardly any sound escapes me as I shake my head and say, “No, I’ll make my own way back.”

Shepard approaches me and I glance up at him. His smile falters for a moment. “Are you all right?”

I force a smile onto my face and nod. “I’m fine. Shouldn’t have had that last drink,” I manage, thickly. Shepard knows I can be a featherweight without enough food in me.

Still, he looks unconvinced. Most likely because I’m holding back tears with the last remaining bit of my incinerated pride.

“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he says, with a hint of question in his voice. I nod, turn away quickly, and make my way past the still silent party. 

As I pass by, my traitorous eyes flick up to Baz who opens his mouth, as if to speak, but I do not slow my pace as I make my way out onto the street.

I’m thoroughly chilled through, face and fingers numb, yet my face burns impossibly hotter.

“In truth, I can hardly stand the sight of the man. I’ve wanted to be rid of him since I was fifteen.”

My vision blurs and I swipe at my face; my gloves pull against wet skin.

He hates you, something inside me whispers. And it doesn’t sound cruel. It sounds like the truth.

He hates you . I already knew that.

I know that. And I know it now more than ever. A carriage rattles past me and I turn from it, wiping my nose on the back of my glove. I can practically hear my tutors chastising me for the uncouth behavior but my fumbling fingers ransack my pockets for a handkerchief that never appears.

He wants nothing to do with you. It doesn’t matter.

I’m blowing this out of proportion. Perhaps he meant…but I can’t really see a different way of interpreting, “I can hardly stand the sight of the man.”

The gas lamps flicker weakly, as if they’re avoiding me as well.

He wasn’t interested in your company then. He’s not interested in your company now. The thought brings on another burning wave of tears and my throat tightens horribly. It feels as if my cravat is attempting to strangle me. 

No one has ever wanted anything to do with you and they never will. That’s not true. Penny. Shepard. Ruth.

They tolerate you.  

But they don’t want you.

They don’t love you. They do. I’m sure they do. Though, at the moment, I can’t fathom why.

Not in the way you love them. That’s not…

Not in the way you want to be loved. That… 

They don’t need you in the way you need them. I…

They would be glad to be rid of you as well.

How long have they been putting up with you?

How long have they watched me shoulder my way gracelessly through life? How long have they had to deal with my stumbling? My missteps. My countless foolish thoughts. All the truly stupid things I’ve said. 

I’m surprised to find myself home. I’m very nearly disappointed, in fact.

My fingers are devoid of feeling but I’m overly warm. At some point, I unbuttoned my coat and my cravat is missing.

I hold my coat tighter around myself and make it up the stairs to my room. I lie down, turn my body towards the back of the sofa, kick off my shoes, then curl myself into a ball. I wrestle the decorative pillow Penelope embroidered for me under my head and stare at the silken fabric of the sofa. It looks nearly silver in the moonlight.

Then I think of Baz’s eyes and close my own.

Notes:

I think this chapter should have been the ending of last chapter but I'm not sorry that I left you where I left you previously because I think it would have been cruel to leave you with this angsty ending for months and months before another update. And I apologize for leaving you with an angsty update for now as well but I promise, it will get better. (And worse.) (And then better.) (I am a firm believer in happy endings so do not fear!)

Chapter 7

Notes:

I promised you that there would be a new chapter "sooner than last time," but actions speak louder than words so this is for you, my dearest gentle reader. I hope it makes up for the pain I may have caused you last chapter and for how long my last hiatus was 🩵

This chapter would not have gone up today if not for TheWholeLemon. Thank you 🙏💛🍋

You can find my playlist here. I mostly listened to classical music while writing this chapter (you'll understand why shortly) and you can find the song referenced in the end notes 🎶

B.

I attempted to call on Simon the day after the Haddons’ ball, determined to clear the air, but I was turned away at the door and was told Lord Salisbury was not receiving callers. I was not given an explanation as to why.

I’d heard that he would be in attendance at the ball that was being held in honour of Marquess Salingstow’s Birthday but he was absent. His friends danced with one another and I debated asking about him. Where is he? Is he all right? Does he despise me even more? I had wanted to ask. I did not. I already knew the answer.

So I called on him again, mid morning Tuesday, but I was told the same thing. “Apologies, Lord Pitch. Lord Salisbury is not receiving any callers today.”

Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him I need to see him. Tell him it was not what he thought, I had wanted to beg. I did not.

It was my wish to speak to Simon privately, before dinner with the Wellbeloves, so I arrived early and lingered on the street to catch him before we were due inside. To my eternal annoyance, he was late and I abandoned my post on the street before I risked being tardy myself.

He came blustering in a full fifteen minutes later, apologising profusely, his smile firmly affixed and eyes slightly bloodshot. The Wellbeloves greeted him happily and seemed not to notice when Simon failed to greet me altogether.

And while my attempts to speak with Snow before now had been thwarted, it’s obvious where we stand. He ignored my, albeit minor, attempts to engage him in polite conversation before we sat down for dinner and has seemingly decided to act as if I simply do not exist.

So now, I’m stuck at a table, across from the man I’ve been in love with for half of my life while he avoids making eye contact and conversation with me.

Which I suppose is fair, though it’s making me want to shake him violently.

The only upside to him ignoring my existence is that it allows for me to inspect him more closely. His cravat has been neatly tied which helps offset how bedraggled his curls look and the grey of his jacket pulls focus from the bruised look under his eyes. 

My gut twists as I note the vacancy of his expression as he fluctuates between laughing perfunctorily at Mr. and Mrs. Wellbelove’s attempts at humor and scarfing down food like an underfed bear.

It’s not surprising to me in the least that Snow’s table manners are still atrocious. You’d assume that as an Earl, he may have had the manners bred into him, but alas, you would be wrong. Salisbury consistently defies all expectations at every possible opportunity.

For example, you would assume that his aforementioned atrocious table manners would make him absolutely, astoundingly off putting as a dinner guest to any and all members of the ton. However, Salisbury makes it seem like he’s letting you see a bit of the man behind the titles. How can you find his manners off putting when his authenticity makes such a delightful package? You cannot. He’s irresistible. Undeniable. He always has been.

“Do you play any instruments, Lord Pitch?” Miss Wellbelove asks me, cordially.

“I do,” I respond. “The violin.”

“Perhaps you could accompany my dear Agatha after dinner. We have a violin somewhere that Mr. Wellbelove never quite mastered the art of in his youth, though he still tries,” Mrs. Wellbelove says. Her smile grows more and more saccharine the longer I spend in her company and it’s making me like her all the less.

“I’d be happy to. Granted Miss Wellbelove doesn’t mind the accompaniment,” I add.

“She doesn’t mind,” Mrs. Wellbelove responds for her daughter. Miss Wellbelove’s face remains placid but there’s a dullness to her eyes that grows ever present the longer she’s in her mother’s company. “Do you play any instruments, Lord Salisbury?” Mrs. Wellbelove asks.

“I’m sorry to say that I do not,” Salisbury replies.

Simon’s young voice sounds in my mind as I stare down my dinner, “That was so good, Baz! I wish I played as well as you.”

“I could teach you.” I had said. I look at my hand as I recall the feeling of my fingers atop his, pressing down. Of guiding his elbow. Of Simon’s curls tickling my cheek. Of us dissolving into a fit of laughter as the violin screeched and wailed.

“Ah, a pity. Do you not have a fondness for music?” Mrs. Wellbelove asks, insipid sincerity coating her voice.

His favorite is Bach, unless he needs cheering. Then it’s Haydn. Or it’s raining. Then it’s Locatelli, I respond silently.

“I had to, when I had a violinist as a roommate,” Simon responds. Had to, echoes through my mind as I think of him lying on his bed with his eyes closed and his lips curved up into a serene smile. “You may not wish to have Lord Pitch accompany you, Miss Wellbelove,” he continues, “The songs he favours are rather melancholic. If we wish to end the evening on a pleasant note, perhaps Miss Wellbelove should perform solo.” 

 

S.

The lie feels strange in my mouth. Though I suppose it’s not entirely a lie. It’s not entirely the truth either but I don’t want Baz, nor the entire party, knowing that the only reason I have a fondness for music is because of him.

As we grew apart, he stopped playing while I was in the room. When the weather permitted, I would sit beneath our open window and listen to him play. When the weather did not permit it, I would sit in the hall outside of our room and wait until he was finished so as not to interrupt him. 

The part about the melancholy songs is not a lie. Though, he used to play all sorts of melodies upon request—not that I knew the name of every piece, but I could hum a bit and he would always know which one I meant. But all the pieces had a markedly morose quality to them, like his violin was crying, which in turn used to make me cry and I’d like to avoid that tonight if at all possible.

Mr. and Mrs. Wellbelove laugh at my comment and I try to force my face into something that I hope resembles a grin rather than a grimace. Agatha’s mouth is curved into something that should be a smile but her eyes remain expressionless. She cuts a glance at Baz and my eyes follow hers.

He’s watching his fork as he pushes food around on the plate in front of him. The corner of his mouth is tilted up in a self-deprecating smile but the rest of his features seem awash in a quiet sadness that sends a sharp pang through my chest. I look away quickly, relieved he didn’t catch me in the act of observation.

I’ve done my best to avoid Baz this evening, going as far as ignoring him upon greeting though I’m unsure if he even noticed. Maybe he did and was only relieved.

A chorus of “In truth, I can hardly stand the sight of the man. I’ve wanted to be rid of him since I was fifteen,” had been tormenting me relentlessly since I laid eyes on him. Since the last time I laid eyes on him.

I spent the past few days slowly melting into my settee, refusing visitors, outings, and my grandmother’s attempts to coax me into a better mood. Instead of meals, I dined on my anger. Instead of bathing, I let his words wash over me again and again and again. In the end, I went with the easiest option, letting sadness pull me under with familiar hands. 

It took Penelope sneaking into my chambers and hitting me in the face with a wet cloth in order to get me up and changed and somewhat on time to this dinner. Shepard wrote me a rousing speech which Penelope delivered in his absence but her scathing tone somewhat undercut his heartening endeavours. She took umbrage at his use of cant, specifically taking issue with the phrase, “in high ropes.”

“What does that even refer to?” she bemoaned. I must remember to warn Shepard off any use of cant in the love letter he intends to write to Penelope, for it sent her on a ten minute tirade that caused most of my tardiness earlier this evening.

The dinner hasn't been a complete and total disaster thus far but it certainly isn’t good by any stretch of the imagination.

My head and my heart cannot decide if they are furious or dejected and similarly, I still have not decided whether I wish to treat Baz with anger or hatred or something else altogether. I have therefore settled on an outward front of indifference. The hold I have over my emotions is tenuous at the best of times, though, and I fear that a single glance from him may result in me shouting or, worse, bursting into tears. 

I do not believe I’ll be able to continue ignoring him for long though, for as soon as dinner ends, Mrs. Wellbelove asks a member of her household staff to fetch the violin. When we enter the sitting room, the instrument is presented to Baz and I turn my attention to Mr. Wellbelove.

“How is your—pardon me, I’m not sure what to refer to her as—your assistant? Miss Brody?” It’s hardly a question but Mr. Wellbelove picks the conversation up easily. Agatha slowly crosses the room, as if she’s reluctant. Is she reluctant to accompany Baz? He is incredibly gifted. Perhaps she’s worried he will outshine her.

She looks at her father as he speaks of Miss Brody and I, in turn, look at her. She’s very easy to look at. She’s beautiful, of course. Like one of the oil paintings hanging in the Royal Academy of Art. Untouchable.

The quick whine of a bow causes my eyes to snap to Baz. It’s the first time we’ve made eye contact the entire evening and the spark that ignites in my chest the moment our eyes meet is instantaneous. I curse myself as I look away, my pulse pounding in my throat.

 

B.

A single look from him and I’m practically ready to collapse in a fit of hysterics. I continue to tune the violin, which should be adequate enough for this little impromptu performance, and wonder at what I must do to receive his attention once more. I should allow him his distance and peace but my traitorous heart never granted my logical mind any mercy nor understanding.

Miss Wellbelove sits down at the pianoforte and shuffles through various pages of sheet music.

“Are you familiar with any of these?’” Miss Wellbelove asks, quietly. She spreads the pages out for me and I spot the name I’m looking for. The rain started tapping on the windows halfway through our meal, so Locatelli is the only choice.

“I am. Though, do not feel as if you need to choose such a melancholy piece for my sake.”

“I am not,” she says, her large brown eyes flitting to her parents. “They do not like when I play unhappy music. I’ve been told gentlemen do not appreciate a woman who seems sad,” she adds in French. “I thought if we were to play together…”

“I see. I would be happy to accompany you. This is one of my favourites,” I respond in French, gesturing to the piece. She nods and we both settle ourselves into position.

I have the opening note and I take a deep breath in before I begin.

Will he know this is for him?

I glance towards Simon but he’s staring resolutely at Miss Wellbelove. I begin to play and let my eyes fall shut, half swept up by the music, half in refusal to watch him gaze at someone else with such intensity.

Miss Wellbelove plays remarkably well, much better than anyone in my family, though I suppose that’s not difficult when you’re in competition with a thirteen-year-old and two nine-year-olds. 

I wonder if Simon remembers the last time I played this for him. It was months after I poisoned our friendship. But it was raining and it only felt right. I missed him so terribly that the feeling was eating me alive so I played and poured every ounce of my longing into the piece. I thought I was alone in my misery only to open the door and have a weeping Snow fall backwards onto the floor at my feet.

I can’t recall what I said to him then. Most likely something horrid.

When we were close, we used to tease one another. A bit of pain alongside the pleasure of knowing someone and being known so thoroughly that we could poke fun at trivial matters or mild insecurities.

Until the summer after I turned fifteen.

I spent that entire summer missing Simon terribly. The thought of him pulled at me, hot and dry and desperate. Like he was going to pull my soul from my bones. The ache of missing him was my constant companion in his stead. 

On one very warm night in the height of summer, I thought of him. The sun had long set but the inescapable, pressing heat was relentless. I thought, this is what it must feel like to be underneath him . And once that extremely clear thought let itself be known, it never left me alone. I peered into the fantasy, of what it would be like for me to touch him, of him to touch me, and let it possess me mind, body, and soul.

My desire ran rampant. I was feverish and addled with lust. Until I realised, much to my horror, that it wasn’t just lust.

It was love.

When we returned to school, I shied away from his attention. I was sure that if he looked me dead in the eye, my debaucherous thoughts would be on display to him. Sure that my eyes would betray my feelings towards him.

So when he wouldn’t let me be, when he demanded my attention, I consulted every insecurity he confided in me, every slight against him, until I found a spot too tender to tease and struck. I pushed on the bruises. Until it’s all I could do. All I did. All I do.

The song weaves around us and, like I did then, I push every regret into each press of the strings, each arc of the bow. It’s a plea, an apology, a question; is it too late to undo the damage now? Should I try nonetheless?

Notes:

The song Baz plays is a sonata by Locatelli called "At the Tomb," which I mostly chose bc the word tomb made me think of the catacombs. (Can you blame me?)

Locatelli isn't really all that depressing usually. I listened to Locatelli: Complete Edition, Vol. 1 while I wrote a LOT of this.

I have a classical music playlist for this fic now, is that something you're interested in? Shall I share it?

 

*The word "cant" roughly means "slang." (Maybe you already knew this, but I did not know this.) I used this site for a lot of the cant in this fic.

 

I'm already hard at work on the next chapter and putting out these two chapters has felt really, really good so hopefully I'll have another update for you soon (not as soon as last time, probably, but soon 🩵)

Chapter 8

Notes:

A special thank you to TheWholeLemon for being a wonderful beta and helping me get through my very muddy mind 🙏💛🍋

You can find my playlist for this fic here. While writing this chapter, I mostly listened to "good 4 u" and "Thnks fr th Mmrs" by Vitamin String Quartet and "You Oughta Know" by Duomo & Thomás Peire-Serrate.

CW: injury, panic, flashback, nausea, allusions to violence (this makes it sound bad but it's brief) See the end notes for more detail.

S. 

Baz played so beautifully that I wept. If I could have fought the tears, I would have. I tried. But the song struck me so violently that I was helpless.

He must have known. He must have known that I would recognise the piece. How could I not? He would play it for me whenever the rain was so dreadful that we had no choice but to take up shelter in our room. It’s a sad melody but it always felt fitting for a day that was as grey as it was dreary, and especially for a night that was as dark as it was wet, as it is tonight.

Baz has never acknowledged our former friendship but this was an undeniable recognition of our past, was it not? But if it was, what does that mean? If anything, it only affirms that he remembered our friendship and still thought it was worth tearing to pieces.

The rain has only gotten worse by the time we leave the Wellbeloves’ and the street is dark and miserable. I stumbled through the rest of the evening, even more confused than when I arrived, and now I want nothing more than to lie down. 

Before I can hail a hackney however, Baz says, “May I speak with you?” Rain spatters down around us, hitting the silken brim of his hat.

“Now? About what?” I ask, my bruised heart thumping uncomfortably in my chest.

“About what you overheard the night of the Haddons’ Ball,” he says. I’m curious, to say the least. Though, I’ve always been curious when it comes to Baz.

“Fine,” I say. “But could we do it in a hackney and not in the damp?”

Baz nods and hails a carriage with ease. Once we’re seated across from one another inside the coach, he removes his hat and shakes out his dark hair. The oil lamp makes him glow gold in the dim lighting.

“So, there was something you wished to say,” I say, warily.

“Right,” Baz says. He pulls his shoulder back and looks at me down his crooked nose, haughty as the day he was born. “I’m not sure what exactly you think you overheard that night,” Baz starts, “but I would like it to be known that—” 

I cut him off. My anger is quick to ignite and happy to burn through the self-pity that has been consuming me these past few days. “I do not need you to reiterate what I overheard. I know what you said. I know you can’t—that you can’t stand the sight of me,” I continue, despite Baz’s objections.

“That’s—” he tries.

“And I know that this is—”

“Could you—”

“It’s not a new feeling. I—” I swallow, my throat constricting.

“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t—” he says, shaking his head.

“I understand you aren’t interested in my company, nor I yours.” 

“Will you let me speak without—” Baz snaps at me.

“No. I’m already all too aware of what you think about me. I cannot bear to hear anymore.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare out at the dark, damp buildings beyond. “Let us be done with this,” I conclude. I cannot handle another rejection, another slight against my character. Any more vitriol from him and I will spend the rest of the year on the settee. 

Baz pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he sighs. It’s an older man’s gesture that he had even in our youth.

“You’re not,” he says. But I can hardly hear him over the smattering of rain on the roof and the groaning of the carriage as we bustle down the street.

“I’m not what? What is it this time, Baz? I’m not clever enough? I’m not good enough? I’m not worthy of sharing this carriage with you? I’m not what?”

“You are not at all aware of what I think of you.” He’s still pinching his nose like he’s entirely exasperated by me, further proving my point.

“I struggle to think of what you could possibly say that you haven’t already spat at me a hundred times before.”

B.

He thinks I despise him. Of course he does. I spent years freely wielding cruelty against him.

I have no idea how to heal what’s broken between us now. What I broke.

Well, I suppose, there’s only one place to start.

“I’m sorry.” I nearly choke on the words even though I know they’re the right ones.

Snow looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“You’re… sorry?” He sounds incredulous. As well he might. I haven’t the faintest idea when the last time I apologised to him was.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’re sorry,” he says again, looking as bewildered as he sounds.

“Yes.” I put as much emphasis on the word as I can.

“For what exactly?” he asks, his handsome brow furrowing.

For everything, I think. “For what you overheard,” I say instead.

“You’re sorry that I overheard you but you’re not sorry you said it,” Snow says, nodding. “That—”

“I’m sorry I said it, all right?” I hiss.

“Did you mean it?” He asks.

“What?” Yes. No. Not in the way he thinks.

“Did you mean it? That you—that you cannot stand the sight of me. That you’ve wanted—wanted to be rid of me since you were fifteen. Did you mean it?”

I hesitate, unsure of whether a yes or a no would be the better or more honest answer, for I think they are one and the same.

Do I tell him that, in truth, I can hardly stand the sight of him, but that it’s only because having him so near at hand and yet so far out of my reach had been—has been— a constant torment? Every time I see him, I see what I cannot have. What will never be.

And I have wanted to be rid of him since I was fifteen, because I hoped it would cure me of my infatuation, my obsession. But all the time and distance in the world would not be enough to keep my foolish heart from wanting or hoping. The years we’ve spent apart have only proved that I cannot stop loving him and I cannot stop dreaming of a world in which he could love me. 

Snow laughs bitterly and I despise the sound.

“I did not mean it,” I say; for at its core, I did not.

“Then why say it?” he retorts.

I stare at the ceiling of the carriage and try to think through my response.

“I don’t know,” I answer, even though I do know. I said it because I cannot face my feelings for him. Because I cannot have him. And because he does not want me. Because it’s always been easier to shove him away than it’s been to face him. Because there is not only an arrest and a desecrated reputation awaiting me if I tell him the truth, if I tell anyone the truth, but also a heartbreak so great that I fear I won’t be able to bear it. 

“You don’t know?” Snow looks as confused as he did when I said I was sorry and once again, I understand. I can’t remember the last time I’d admitted to ignorance in his company either.

“No, I don’t know why I said it but I regret it,” I say. The first part a lie, the second part a truth.

“Why say it then?” he asks once more.

“Christ,” I sigh. “I don’t know, Simon.” Because I lose any semblance of sense when I’m around you. “Because I have a foul temper.” Because I hurt you to punish myself. “Because I’m cruel.” Because if you get too close, I’ll never let you go. “Because I’m jealous.” Because I love you and it makes me wretched. “I don’t know. Take your pick.”

He snorts derisively. “You do have a foul temper but I thought we were…” He swallows loudly enough that I can hear him over the din of the carriage. “I apologise, for embarrassing you. As your cousin said.”

“You didn’t,” I say reflexively. I cannot let him think that. Even as it was happening, as we danced, I knew I would forever carry the memory in my heart.

Since I became aware of my preferences, I gave up any and all ideations that I would ever be able to dance with someone I loved in public. A joy such as that was not meant for someone like me. But Simon danced with me. He twisted the impossible into reality. And I’ll never forget it; I will cherish the moment until my last rattling breath. He cannot think that I regretted a single moment of that dance.

“Well, then, perhaps you are more cruel than I thought,” he shakes his head with a disbelieving sigh, “for you certainly aren’t jealous.”

“Why would I not be jealous?” I ask. I am jealous. There’s nothing he desires that he cannot have. “You have the title. You have Miss Wellbelove. You can have whatever you want—”

“You have a title. You are a better match for Miss Wellbelove.” His voice rises again. “You have the good looks and the charm and the manners and the talent and the brilliant mind. You already have everything you could ever want.”

“I have nothing I want,” I say acidly. “All I—” My hands curl into fists as I shut my mouth, swallowing words that I will not allow him to hear.

All I want is for you to love me.

I take a shuddering breath in. “You do not know me. You do not know what I want.”

Simon turns his entire body resolutely towards the window. He shakes his head and I’m not sure if it’s in disbelief, anger, or if there’s yet another thing I’ve catastrophically fumbled in this failed apology. Exchanging words like blows probably wasn’t the brightest of ideas but he started it.

The coach rattles as rain strikes the roof, the sound of the wheels and the horses’ hooves creating a cacophony of sound that only amplifies the silence.

“I am sorry. For whatever it’s worth,” I say, even though I think it’s most likely not worth much at this point. “I’m sorry for all of it. For everything I said that night and for—” My courage begins to run thin and I rush to get the words out before it abandons me altogether. “For how I treated you. At school and after. All of it. You did not deserve it. And I’m sorry.”

Simon turns to look at me, his blue eyes searching my face.

“What did I do at school to make you hate me? And why didn’t you come back?” he asks me plainly, calmly. I pay the latter question no mind.

“You did nothing at school to make me hate you. It was—” How do I justify this to him? “Childish. You did nothing to earn my ire.” I never meant to cut him so deeply that he carried the scars of it out of our tumultuous adolescence. If I had known pushing him away would fail to ease the ache in my heart and that it would only ever hurt the both of us, I never would have done it. But I thought I was saving him; I thought I was saving the both of us.

“I must have done something to make you turn on me the way you did.” Sorrow paints itself in bold strokes across his perfect face and I can’t look at him any longer.

“You—” I start but I cannot finish my thought aloud. You opened my eyes, I think. You made me realise there was only you for me. You were in every story. In every poem. I heard you in every song. I felt you in each piece of music. You were there, in every part of my mind, body, and soul until I was drowning in you. Until there was nothing left but you and how much I wanted you. How much I love you. And I couldn’t let you see.

The hackney slows and a quick glance out the window confirms that we’ve arrived at my townhouse. Where does this leave us? I want to ask. What do we do now? The conversation feels unfinished. Surely, he must feel it too. Do I ask to see him again so we can continue this discussion? Or was that my only chance?

The carriage stills but neither of us move. 

“First stop!” the driver calls as the horses shift uneasily.

Snow looks at me with the same amount of uncertainty I feel. There are still a thousand things unsaid; the unspoken words hang expectantly between us. But we’ve run out of time.

“Goodnight, Simon,” I say, pushing open the door to the coach, rain smattering on the interior of the carriage.

“Wait, Baz—”

What happens next is a blur, a hand dragged across a still wet canvas.

As I attempt to step down from the coach, my leg slips out from underneath me on the rain-slicked step and the soaked street rushes up to meet me.

My entire body rings with shock like a struck bell as I slam to the ground. Icy panic races through me as pain frantically pulls me in all directions.

I’m here, in the dark, outside my townhouse. Cheek pressed to the wet stone. My ears ringing. My palms stinging. My leg flaring with pain.

And I’m there, in the dark, outside the abandoned cottage. Face crushed into the dirt. My ears ringing. My scalp stinging. My leg screaming with pain.

My leg feels—I’m—my leg—I—I—

Phantom hands pull at my hair and clothes as Simon places a firm hand on my back. It does nothing to soothe me but rather makes me feel all the more nauseous. Hands turn to fists in my memory. Simon is saying something but I can’t hear anything over the deafening clangor of fear. When I look at him, everything sways sickeningly.

“Baz!” Simon’s voice is overly loud and I shut my eyes, trying to take a breath.

“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice sounds so quiet, so distant. My body is shaking violently but I attempt to right myself. Nausea grips me by the throat and I’m either about to be violently ill or—or—

Notes:

CW: Baz falls and re-injures his leg. The pain makes him panic and there's a brief flashback that alludes to violence/pain/injury. Baz feels nauseous but is not sick.

If you wish to skip the ending, stop reading at "As I attempt to step down from the coach." (It's at the end of the chapter.)

-

🫣🫣🫣
sorry ❤️

Chapter 9

Notes:

Thank you TheWholeLemon for your comments, advice, encouragements, and punctuation wrangling. You are a gift 🙏💛🍋

You can find my playlist here. The songs I listened to while writing this chapter were predominantly "Running Up That Hill" and "ON" by Vitamin String Quartet 🎻 and "Strange (feat. Hillary Smith)" by Kris Bowers and Hillary Smith. (I listen to Strange almost every chapter. Anytime there's a sad or tense or tender or intimate conversation or moment, I listen to that song.)

S.

Baz is paler than I’ve ever seen him, muck coating one side of his face. “You don’t look fine,” I assess but as I’m saying it, Baz’s eyes start to roll back and he slumps over, his arms giving out. 

“No, no, no—Baz!” I catch him before he hits the street once more and haul him towards me. 

“Baz?” His eyes stay closed, despite the frigid rain pelting his upturned face. Concern twists itself into a tight knot of fear.

“Baz,” I repeat. His head lolls to the side as I pull him into my arms. Cold water seeps into my clothes; the rain is incessant. I have to get him somewhere dry. 

Without hesitation, I carry him up the steps to his front door. My hands preoccupied with holding Baz, I kick the door. Once. Twice. The door swings open and I unceremoniously shove past the person in the entryway. There’s a room to my right with a sofa in view and I walk over to it, indiscriminately dripping grimy water onto the polished floors and ornate rugs. I put Baz down as gently as I can before I slide my hands out from underneath him. 

The light in the room is dismal but it’s just enough to see Baz’s chest is rising and falling gently. I drop down to my knees in front of him and carefully turn his pallid face towards me. After yanking off my wet gloves with my teeth, I pull my soaked cravat hastily from my neck and start cleaning the grime from the street off his face.

Baz's dark, wet eyelashes flutter against his cheeks.

“Baz?” My hand shakes as I hold Baz’s cheek. Christ, he’s freezing. I rub my thumb over his cheekbone and my fingers creep towards his neck and behind his ear.

“Baz?” I move to find the pulse point on his neck and feel the movement of it underneath my fingers.

“Baz?” My voice cracks.

“Sir,” someone taps me on the shoulder forcefully and I have a feeling that this isn’t the first time they’ve attempted to get my attention. An ornate silver vial is pressed into my hand and I flip open the lid to hold the smelling salts to Baz’s nose.

After a sharp inhale, his eyes flicker open. The immediate flood of relief is so overwhelming that it threatens to spill out of me in a hysterical laugh. Baz recoils from the malodorous salts and weakly tries to push my hand away.

“You’re all right,” I say to him as much as I say to myself.

“Simon?” Baz attempts to say. It sounds like “Ssmmn?” 

“Yes, I’m here. You’re all right.”

His grey eyes are hardly open but they are open, at least. I let my hand slide away from his cheek and I sit back on my heels.

“What happened?” Baz’s elocution is far from its usual perfection but at least he’s able to form a coherent sentence.

“You fell,” I say.

“I remember that,” he says, quietly but with a dose of condescension. I can’t help but smile at the tone.

“Then you fainted,” I inform him.

Baz scoffs at that, as if he doesn’t believe me. His brow is slightly furrowed as he looks around the room and I wish I could press my thumb to it and smooth it out for him.

“You’re in my house,” he says, but it’s not accusatory.

“Glad to see your observational skills are intact,” I say. I aim for a dry tone but it comes out cheery and pleased. I feel nearly delirious, my heart still thumping at twice its normal rate, seemingly unaware the danger has passed. 

He narrows his already half-closed eyes at me. “How did you know this was my house?”

I smile, caught out. “I may have seen you enter this house after our promenade in the park.” 

The corner of Baz’s mouth lifts in the barest hint of a smile. “Knew it,” he whispers. The sight of his smile alone almost propels me to embrace him.

Baz’s hand shakes as he tries to sit up. I stand swiftly and he allows me to help him into a somewhat upright position but then he moves as if he intends to stand.

“Don’t you dare,” I say, stepping in front of him and placing a hand on the top of his shoulder to hold him in place.

“I merely wish to remove my very wet coat before I catch a chill or some other unfortunate ailment.” His voice is thin and reedy as he says it. “Is that all right with you?”

I step back and gesture for him to give me his hand. He eyes me with suspicion before carefully holding a trembling hand out to me. I pull off his wet gloves and take his icy hands in mine; my fingers tingle with the contact. My heart refuses to slow its quick beat. 

He looks towards the floor before using my hand to pull himself up. He looks steady enough so I push his coat off his shoulders. As my hands slide down his arms, I can feel how sodden his jacket is.

“This is wet as well,” I say, unbuttoning his coat and pushing it off him. 

B.

“Hell’s teeth, you’re soaked through,” he mutters as his hands find their way to the collar of my shirt.

“Leave it.” I bat his hand away. If he keeps undressing me and looking at me like that, my body is going to put on a showy and mortifying display. Although, honestly, I’m not sure it can based on how unsteady I’m feeling, but I would not like to be proven wrong at this exact point in time.

“You need to get out of these wet clothes,” he says. Christ almighty, can he hear himself when he opens up that ridiculous mouth to speak?

“I intend to but perhaps not in my sitting room,” I say with all the authority I can muster—it’s not much but his hands still. He looks up at me; a marvellous blush tints his cheeks and the tops of his ears pink.

“Right,” he clears his throat and retreats a step. “My apologies.” 

I take a step forward and freeze as pain shoots up my bad leg and holds me rooted to the spot.

“Baz?” Simon reaches towards me and grabs my elbow. 

I close my eyes and take a deep breath in. “I’m fine,” I say. To him. To myself.

“That’s what you said right before you fainted earlier so pardon my presumption but I think you are, in fact, not fine.”

I open my eyes and look down at him. There’s a fiery determination in his eyes that I want to bask in. I really am terribly cold.

“Percey,” I raise my voice.

“Yes, my Lord.” Percey steps into the room.

“Could you draw me a bath?”

“Of course, my Lord. Do you require any assistance up to your chambers?”

“No, I’ve got it,” Simon answers before I can and I’m filled with both delight and dread.

“Just the bath, please,” I say, and Percey bows before leaving swiftly. 

Simon looks at me as he holds out a supportive hand. I ignore it and take a step forward, putting the lightest amount of weight onto my leg. I suck in a ragged breath and hold it as I take another step.

“Hell and damnation,” Simon unceremoniously lifts my arm up and slides one of his arms around my waist. “And you call me bull headed.”

I have no audible response to that, because if I open my mouth at this moment, I am likely to let out an ungodly noise.

We make it to the base of the stairs and Simon looks up at me. “Ready?”

“I can handle them on my own,” I argue, though I’m almost entirely sure I cannot handle them on my own. But I cannot allow him to keep touching me like this. The feeling of his hand on my waist has already seared itself into my brain and I think even if given an eternity I will not be able to banish the feeling from existence. Nor would I want to.

“Not a chance,” he says, the side of his hip flush with the top of my outer thigh.

“How did I even get in here?” I ask, suddenly aware that I was out in the street before I magically awoke inside. Well, not magically; nightmarishly is the more apt term for those noxious-smelling salts.

“I, uh,” he stammers, a blush creeping over the bridge of his nose and lighting up his freckled cheeks. “I carried you,” he mumbles quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” I say, astonished. 

“I carried you inside—earlier—after you fainted,” he says, sheepishly. He ducks his head to the side so I cannot see his expression.

“You carried me?” He carried me? He—“Up the stairs?” He carried me up the stairs to my house? I cannot believe I was unconscious for that. I’m entirely furious with myself.

“It was only a small flight of stairs,” he mutters. I can almost picture it. Simon, a determined grimace on his face and me, in his arms. I nearly swoon at that thought alone but then remember that if I did, I wouldn’t be conscious when Simon carried me up the stairs once more. 

Perhaps I could merely pretend to faint.

I’ll save that one for later, when I’m not already preoccupied with holding onto the meager consciousness I’ve managed to regain thus far.

“Right,” I say, gripping the railing. “Shall we then?”

S.

“Can we…” Baz doesn’t finish his question but his intentions are clear enough. We stop at the top of the stairs and he grips the bannister until his knuckles turn white.

With each step, he grew quieter and quieter, his breathing harsh in my ear.

I’ve never seen Baz like this. I’ve seen him stoic, elated, proud, furious, unflappable. But he’s never been this… I can’t even think of a word that properly captures what I’m witnessing in this moment.

He’s… diminished.

Of course, I’ve seen him sleep deprived and pensive. But he’s never been so… worn thin. Faded. Dulled. Like the ever present glow within him has dimmed. He’s a snuffed candle. A smothered fire. A moonless night.

I hate it.

“Baz,” I say, softly. His eyes are closed and he’s taking slow deliberate breaths, his hand still clutching the bannister.

“I’m fine,” he practically whispers.

“Please don’t lie to me,” I say as gently as I can. That makes him open his eyes and look down at me.

“Sorry,” he whispers. I’d be shocked to hear him utter an apology if the last hour hadn’t been full of shocking apologies already.

“Come on,” I carefully pull him away from the bannister and towards his bedroom.

If you had asked me five minutes ago, I would have said that I’ve never pictured what Baz’s bedroom looks like. Though, if that’s true, then why am I surprised?

Perhaps I only ever pictured him in our room, which is, of course, ridiculous. It’s not as if my bedroom looks like the bedroom we shared at school. Still, I think I may have imagined something dark and dramatic to match Baz’s cutting wit and wicked smile.

The walls of Baz’s bedroom are a soft sky blue, the trim and ceiling a bright, clean white. Instead of some monstrous, foreboding bed, a handsome four poster with pale gold hangings is set against the far wall.

Baz silently tips his head towards his dressing table and I steer us towards it. He grabs onto the back of a chair as soon as he’s close enough and I slowly move out from underneath his arm. 

Instead of removing his wet clothes, Baz closes his eyes and stills, wavering slightly. I watch him for a long moment before placing a hand on his chest.

He sighs but otherwise remains stationary, his dark lashes fanned out prettily against his smooth skin. 

I begin unbuttoning his waistcoat, my fingers fumbling as I go, unsteady in the act of undressing another person. I untie his cravat and then, my hands drift towards his waist. I cast my gaze to the buttons of his trousers and then flick my eyes up to his face. His eyes are still closed, which is a relief for I suddenly feel flooded with nervous energy.

“My shoes,” he breathes. “Could you… call Percey?”

“I can navigate my way around a shoe,” I say, happy that he’s given me something to do other than contemplate unbuttoning his trousers. I drop down to one knee and pat the empty seat of the chair. “Sit.”

He does and I pull the shoe off of his foot on his good leg before moving carefully to the other. I move one hand to the back of his calf, adjusting his leg so I can free it from the shoe more easily. My hand comes to rest just above his ankle before I carefully remove his shoe. He holds his breath as I do so. I set the shoe aside and gently lower his stockinged foot, one hand still holding his ankle and the other beneath his arch.

I don’t think I’ve ever touched someone like this before and I’m struck by the strangeness of it all. There’s an unexpected intimacy in this seemingly simple act. I gingerly place his foot back on the ground before sitting back and looking at him.

I feel a perplexing blend of both relief and disappointment to find his eyes are closed. 

There’s a knock at the door and I jolt upright; Baz remains still as a statue.

“It’s Percey,” Baz says. His voice is thin and weary as he says, “Thank you for your assistance, Simon.” I hardly register it for the dismissal that it is as I am too distracted by his novel use of my first name. It’s the only reason I don’t fight back and insist on staying; I’m too stunned to disagree. 

I grant him his peace. The rain is a distant thought as I make the short walk home. All I can hear is Baz’s voice saying, “Simon,” “Simon,” “Simon.”

Notes:

So you may be asking yourself why did Baz faint? (Or maybe you're not, I don't know.) Well, dearest gentle reader, this author has an unfortunate habit of passing out or being sick when experiencing sudden pain soooo I made Baz do the same. (I dropped a tape measure on my toe and was immediately sick. So cool. Didn't even bruise.) (Cut my finger but thought it was a deeper cut than it was and passed out. So chill of me.)

Also, fun fact, I fainted in an optometrists office and was revived by smelling salts in 2012. They stink! (I'd tell you who in the office had smelling salts and why but I was unconscious at the time and then firefighters took me to an ambulance.)

Anyways, I'm fine. And normal.

Next chapter is written and I am planning on having it up on Monday :) [update bc it's Monday night...I will try to have it up tomorrow <3]

Chapter 10

Notes:

Sorry this chapter is a week behind schedule 🩵 it was written but I was doubting it and needed a little distance/perspective before I felt good about giving it to you.

Thanks as always toTheWholeLemon, who is an all around fantastic beta and who helped me round out the end of the chapter 💛🍋

There were a lot of songs I listened to while writing this chapter: Stay Gold, Last Dinosaur, Hawài and Sugar, We're Going Down Swinging by Vitamin String Quartet and Accidentally In Love by The Cairn String Quartet 💖

You can find my playlist here!

S.

I came back the next day to call on Baz and to see if he was well but his household turned me away at the door. Politely, of course, but with a lack of explanation or disclosure on how Baz was faring, much to my annoyance.

I returned the day after that and the day after that but I was told he was not receiving visitors. Percey finally put me out of my misery and told me that Baz was recovering, but refused to answer any other questions about his current condition.

It’s now Monday morning and I am determined to force my way into Baz’s house to make sure he is truly on the road to recovery and not buried in the churchyard.

As I pass by the drawing room, I hear my grandmother say, “And where are you off to looking so fine today, Simon, my dear?”

I swing back around and she smiles at me gladsomely from over her cup of tea, a book on the table in front of her. 

“I’m off to call on Baz—Lord Pitch, I mean.” The stumble is minor but Ruth catches it with a glint in her eye, causing me to flush.

“That’s very kind of you,” she says genially.

“Yes, well,” I shrug.

“Before you run off, tell me about the Hartlesburys’ Ball,” she says, gesturing for me to sit.

“It was…” disappointing, I think. It turns out I’m as much of a hopeless optimist as Shepard for I had heard Baz would be in attendance at the Hartlesburys’ Ball on Friday but I finally gave up looking around midnight, my neck sore from whipping my head around every time I caught a glimpse of black hair. His absence only made me all the more desperate to see him, to assure myself that he was fine. Fine in the traditional sense of the word, not fine in the way Baz says it, like it’s a synonym for on death’s door.

“That good? Or that bad?” Ruth asks, examining me closely as I drop into the seat across from her.

“A bit of both, I suppose. You know the Hartlesburys,” I say.

“I do,” she says and I chuckle at her tone. “I heard you and Miss Wellbelove cut a fine figure on the ball-room floor,” she raises her eyebrows at me and I fiddle with the cuff of my shirt sleeves.

Due to Baz’s absence, I was able to secure two dances with Agatha. To my immense surprise, the conversation flowed easily between us, though I couldn’t help but feel Baz would have made a better conversation partner based on the musical nature of the discussion. Nonetheless, I made my way through friendly chatter about concertos, trying to recall everything I’d ever heard Baz say about Mozart when we were at school.

Baz lingered at the back of my mind all night. His skill at holding one’s attentions even when he’s nowhere to be seen is entirely unmatched; it’s remarkable.

“She was very obliging. Though, we both sat out the waltz,” I say.

“The waltz?” Ruth raises both her eyebrows in astonishment. “My goodness, the Hartlesburys have no shame do they?”

“Apparently not.”

Ruth smiles at that. “Maybe I should attend a ball one of these days,” she says, jovially. “I’d love to see this waltz everyone is in titters about.”

“No one would dare waltz in front of the Dowager Lady Salisbury,” I say, standing. “Imagine the impropriety.”

“I’ll have to go in disguise then,” she says simply. “Or should we throw a ball? Then I can make everyone do whatever I wish.”

“I don’t mind the sound of that.”

✦

I expected resistance at the door from Baz’s household staff but I was permitted entry without a fuss and told he was receiving callers in the library.

The library’s walls are lined with dark wooden shelves but two grand windows allow fresh spring light to come streaming in, setting the room aglow with sunshine. Baz sits in the middle of it all, a king amongst his adoring subjects. All of their spines straight as they stand at attention, awaiting the glory of being chosen. 

He’s donned a deep blue dressing gown over his shirt sleeves, waistcoat, and trousers. I’ve seen him in far less clothing but the informality of his attire surprises me. Which is ridiculous considering I saw him in less than that the last time I was here.

“Would you like me to bring you some tea, my Lord?” Percey asks.

“Why not?” Baz says lightly. Percey nods, his brown hair flopping forward as he does so, and exits the room.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Baz asks. He’s resting on a chaise lounge and I stare at the leg he has stretched out in front of him, my eyes catching on his stockinged foot. Baz notices my noticing.

“Ah, yes. Apologies for not rising to greet you. I’m having a bit of trouble with my leg at the moment.”

“From the fall?” I ask.

“Yes. Must have landed on it in a strange way,” he says, eyes flicking down to his elevated leg.

“Well, seeing as you practically landed on your face, that’s not surprising.”

A wry smile curves the corner of his mouth.

“Indeed,” he agrees, turning his attention back to me.

“But you’re recovering?” I ask. It’s concerning that it’s nearly been a week and yet he’s unable to stand. Has he seen a doctor?

“I am,” he says. My concern must be evident as he’s quick to say, “Really, Snow. You need not worry.” The sentiment does nothing to assuage my unease. “I would have thought my temporary absence from the dance floor would only be to your advantage,” he says, his tone level.

“It—no—well—” I don’t know how to safely proceed into that conversation so I veer wildly into a new one. 

“Did you mean what you said—the other night?” I ask. No one has ever accused me of having any tact.

“Which part?” Baz asks, his voice steady but his eyes betraying his uneasiness.

“That you—that you’re sorry—about it all—about—” The words are a struggle, as if my toying with them over the past few days has made them stiff with age.

“Yes,” Baz says, meeting my eye but looking away before he continues. “I was unkind to you and you did not deserve it.”

“I’m sorry as well,” I say, moving towards a settee, across from Baz’s provisional throne.

“Whatever for?” he says, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“I’m not sure,” I shrug. “I’m just assuming there’s something I could at least offer to be sorry about.”

He smiles at that; it’s a bright, quiet thing that disappears too quickly but its outline is already imprinted in my mind.

Percey knocks on the door, then enters with a tea tray which he sets on a small table beside me.

“Need anything else, my Lords?” he asks before Baz dismisses him.

“Tea?” I offer and Baz nods. “Do you take it the same?” I ask, straining tea into a cup and hovering over the sugar.

“Yes. Do you?” he asks as I add three sugars and a heavy handed pour of milk to his tea.

“Can’t remember.” I hand him his cup and he takes it, holding it gently in his long elegant fingers.

He watches me make up a cup for myself and then says, “You do,” quite wistfully. And I don’t know how to respond to that.

“So, what have you been doing to entertain yourself?” I ask, sitting back in my seat.

“Reading, mostly,” Baz says and I feel daft for asking considering the room we’re currently occupying.

“Of course,” I say before silence settles uncomfortably between us, the air itself uneasy.

A too long second passes, then another, then another and with each tick of the clock, my mind goes horrifyingly blank as a thousand things I cannot say clamber forward.

I want to ask what this means. What does this look like going forward? Are we friends again? Is that what Baz wants? Is that what I want? The answer to that last question is obvious. It’s ‘yes.’ The follow up question of ‘How?’ has a less clear answer.

 

B.

What do we do now? Now the apologies have been made and it seems the worst of the storm has passed. Who are we without outright animosity? What does this make us? Friends? Would that even be possible?

Dust hangs in the air around us, dancing in the beams of sunlight. The room is so quiet that I’m able to hear it when Snow swallows. I wonder if his swallow is still as showy as it once was. I push aside the memory of his throat bobbing tantalisingly above the collar of his nightshirt. Now is simply not the time.

I take a sip of tea in hopes that I may find a conversation topic at the bottom of my cup. I have no such luck.

“I’m not sure how to do this,” I vocalise.

“Do what?” Snow asks, very much looking how I feel. Apprehensive. Cautious. Borderline hopeful.

“Be civil, I suppose,” I mutter and a grin cracks through his uncertainty.

“This is a good start,” he shrugs; it’s a horrible gesture but one so painfully him that I forgive him for it instantly.

“Me shutting my mouth is a good start?” I raise an eyebrow at him and I’m rewarded with another grin though I feel as if we’re juggling with knives.

“Well, I certainly didn’t want to be the one to say it but,” he’s smiling now and I can’t help but return it.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” I say, meticulously removing any trace of a bite.

“Believe what you want to believe,” he tosses back easily.

“I can and I shall,” I reply. His laughter feels like the dawning of a new day.

“So,” he says with a grin. “Tell me about the book you’ve been reading.”

✦

To my great delight and immense surprise, Snow returns the next day.

“Okay,” he starts as soon as he enters the room, “fill me in on what happened. I need to know.”

“Go buy a copy and read it for yourself,” I reply, kindly—okay, maybe not kindly, but not spitefully or angrily.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “Or, you could just get on with it already.”

✦

Wednesday gifts me a bright blue sky and Simon’s glowing company.

“Before I get too comfortable,” he says, crossing towards the settee but not sitting. “Are there scones? And if there aren’t, how long would it take for there to be scones?”

“That is almost certainly a question for Percey and not a question for me,” I say.

“Percey!” Simon calls.

✦

Never has a Thursday been such a joy.

“Did you finish the book?” he asks as he takes his seat across from me, eyeing the plate of scones that have been presented for his inevitable demolition.

“I did,” I say. He looks at me expectantly and I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, were you interested in how it ends?”

“Stop teasing me and tell me what happened,” he says, pulling off his gloves and kicking off his shoes.

I have to wrestle my smile into something resembling mild amusement instead of total glee.

“Well,” I say, as he eagerly leans forward. “If you insist.”

✦

Friday is when things take a turn, but not in the way I anticipated.

“I finished the book,” I say as Simon enters the library.

“What? The new book? The one you started yesterday? The entire book?” He looks impressed and I try not to preen. 

“It’s not long,” I say. “In fact, I was thinking you could take it with you when you go. Read it for yourself and then we can discuss once you’re finished.” I do not ask when that might be. Every day he returns is a gift horse I’m politely refusing to look in the mouth.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.

After every visit, I ask myself a hundred questions a hundred times over: Has he only afforded me his companionship for the duration of my convalescence? Will this end when I finally am back on my feet? If that’s the case, can I pretend that I’ve lost the ability to walk entirely?

I may already be doing that last bit; my leg has started to feel marginally better, though I’ve once again become completely reliant on my cane.

I toss the book at him and he catches it easily.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be able to read it, I …” He looks down at the book in his hands and I immediately regret everything I’ve done and said in the past sixty seconds.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, waving my hand dismissively. “I’m done with it anyways so it doesn’t matter. I just thought—”

“I want to read it,” he clarifies and I chance a look at him. My defenses lower when I see his doggedly earnest expression. “But I’m nowhere near as proficient of a reader as you are and I—well—I’m attending the Debenhams’ Ball this evening and—and the Haverfords’ tomorrow.” His shoulders curve forward in a sheepish gesture, guilt dripping off of him.

“Why are you acting as if I’d be upset by you having a life outside this library?” I ask. “I do understand you continue to exist as a human being when not confined to this room.”

“I’m not—it’s just—” He screws up his face as if that will make whatever he’s trying to say any clearer. “It’s strange being there, while you’re here.” He says it slowly, each word more uncertain than the one preceding it before he says, “Baz, are we—are we friends?”

The question is a simple one and yet it stuns me all the same. My ridiculously hopeful heart kicks wildly in my chest but I rein in my excitement. He’s not asking to be my friend, he’s asking if we are friends. And I have no idea.

“Would you consider us friends?” I ask carefully.

“Would you ?” he says, turning the question back onto me. 

“I could see myself being potentially interested in forming a friendship,” I say, as if the idea is only now just occurring to me. It hasn’t. I’m desperate for his countenance now that I’ve been gifted with his glorious presence these past few days.

“Is that not what we’ve been doing?” he asks. Much more of this cyclical line of questioning and we’ll be dizzy. Despite this, I continue.

“Is it?” I reply.

“Baz,” Simon says, exasperated. “Is this not—do you not enjoy this better than fighting?”

“We’re always fighting,” I retort. Case and point.

“We’re not,” Simon argues.

“What would you call this?” I contend.

“This isn’t fighting,” he scoffs. “This is,” he hassles his curls with his gloved hand, “I don’t know, a bit of banter.”

“If you say so.” I shrug. I don’t even realise I’ve done it until my shoulders drop. Curse this man for his contagious and slovenly gestures. 

“I say so,” he replies, boldly. “And I say that we are friends.” Something blindingly radiant and breathtakingly brilliant bursts in my chest at his simple proclamation. 

“Friends,” I echo. And it’s as if I set the sun in the sky with the word. Simon’s expression transforms as a wondrous smile blooms across his freckled face; the sight sends a flutter of wings through my chest. 

I may have just cursed myself to a lifetime of heartbreak, but I don’t think I mind. Not if it means he smiles at me like this.

“Since we’re friends,” I say and Simon’s smile grows impossibly brighter, “and since I am depriving you of my scintillating company at both the Debenhams’ and the Haverfords,’ I suppose the least I could do is read you the first chapter of the book, to help you get a start on it.”

Simon tosses the book back to me and I deftly catch it.

“Will you do voices as well?” Simon attempts to smirk but it’s being drowned out by a genuine grin. 

“I will not,” I reply curtly, opening the book to the first page.

“Come on,” Simon playfully begs. Recollections of similar requests flicker through my mind at the tone of his voice. How many nights did I read aloud to him before I—

There’s no use dwelling on how callously I treated him previously. I can only vow to do better. 

I will be kind this time. I will be gracious and grateful. I will cut out my poisonous tongue before I ever use it to strike him down again.

“Fine,” I say, “but I can’t promise they will be any good.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, smiling and settling back into the settee. His eyes are fire bright as he says, “but I know they will be.”

Notes:

I got my information about how scandalous the waltz was around 1810-1812 from "The Regency Waltz" on regencydances.org. Here's a snippet from that paper:

"Perhaps the crux of the problem was that the Waltz was an overly sensual dance that made the dancers giddy and disorientated, it also encouraged (or at least tolerated) uninterrupted eye contact. Such behaviour might have been dangerous in the sexually charged environment of the marriage-mart Assembly Halls."

There are a bunch of other anti-waltz sentiments/poems from that article that are hilarious, such as" the Waltz dance is objectionable on account of its peculiar and distinctive character; it is susceptible of degrees of personal familiarity which render it liable to gross abuse," which you can find in the section "Controversies, 1810-1812."

A controversial and "overly sensual" dance that includes touching, standing close together, and prolonged eye contact??? I'm sure this won't come up again 😌😌😌😌😌

 

As far as the next chapter goes, I have a decent amount written but it's a messy little pile of ideas which I'm hoping to fix up this week!

My mental health has been in the toilet so writing has been difficult this past month but I'm hoping with a new month comes new (& better) vibes. That being said, I must thank you dearest gentle reader for all your kind comments, for encouraging me, for commiserating with me, and for just being here, with me, even if it's just for a little while each month.

Whenever I don't respond to comments, it's almost always because I'm overwhelmed (in a good way) and my heart gets too full and pushes all the words out of my mind but please know that I see them and cherish them and when I'm feeling down or uninspired, I re-read all of the comments you've left and then I open up my doc and work on a story I hope gives you even a little slice of the joy you give me in return 🩵

Chapter 11

Notes:

I'm not dead! (My cat is dead tho which is why this took me a while 🫠) The ao3 writers curse got me but I'm cured (for now.) (You didn't ask but I figured I owed you an explanation of where I've been.)

I'm sorry for the unexpected hiatus and I hope this chapter makes up for my extended absence ❤️

Thank you to TheWholeLemon for being such a wonderful beta and lovely person 🙏💛🍋

And thank you to Jo for chatting with me about Regency Era fashion and listening to the half dozen voice notes I sent after my research.

You can find my playlist here.

S.

These past few weeks have been a marvel.

It was unclear to me initially how much of our friendship I had manufactured in my mind and how much of it was true. Was Baz the closest and dearest friend I had ever had or was he merely my passably polite roommate when I was beyond lonely? How much of it was fact and how much of it had I dreamt up in his absence?

As it turns out, he’s everything I knew him to be and also an entirely new man. He’s novelty and memory, a contradiction. Despite all the years that have passed, he’s still the boy I met at school, engaging and witty, his attention unwavering; still the intelligent and sharp sixteen-year-old, though now without the disdain. But he’s also playfully aloof, subtly yielding, and unfaulteringly funny.

The overall effect is electric. 

Each moment we’ve spent together over the past few weeks without insult or injury fills me with something that I can only describe as unbridled joy. I feel as though I may burst with it now. I recall Shepard spinning in Hyde Park and I think I know the feeling, like I’m a bottle of sparkling wine.

Nearly all of my daily activities have become tied with Baz’s daily activities. It’s a borderline punishing schedule of shopping and errands and outings but it’s been a great comfort to have Baz’s companionship while Shepard calls on Penelope and follows her around town like a duckling. The two of them are thoroughly preoccupied courting one another, which I might have minded if I weren’t so thoroughly preoccupied myself.

All of this running around town started a fortnight ago. I called on Baz, as I was in the habit of doing daily at that point, and he asked if I would mind moving our socialisation to the park. I had agreed until I realized he intended for us to go on horseback, whereupon I flatly refused.

“But you ride when you’re in the country, do you not?” Baz asked, his expression discerning but with the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I do not. Why would I?” I responded.

“Why would you not?”

“I repeat. Why would I? Horses are God’s most horrible creatures,” I said and he laughed, the sound so bright and genuine, it sent a spark through me that I’ve still not been able to shake.

It wasn’t until later that I realised Baz needed a horse in order to get around town, for his leg is much worse than I previously thought. We take his phaeton when possible; it’s a comfortable and efficient ride though it means I spend a great deal of time staring at the rears of not just one but two horses, much to my chagrin.

When we’re not driving, Baz has taken to walking with a cane, which is currently very fashionable, though it’s clear to me that he uses it more as an aid rather than an accessory like most of our peers.

His cane clicks against the cobblestones as we attempt to head down Bond Street. It’s just past one o’clock and the street is packed with swathes of stylish young men and women who apparently have nothing better to do than traipse up and down the street at an infuriatingly slow pace.

Our first stop for the day is at the tailor’s for a new jacket for Baz since the one he wore to the Wellbelove dinner was “thoroughly ruined” by his fall.

“Could you not have requested for them to make and send you a replacement?” I ask, catching up to him just before we enter the shop.

“Where would the fun be in that?” he says with a sly grin.

“If you’re looking for fun, we could be doing something much more fun than shopping,” I say as we enter the shop. “We could be in Vauxhall.”

“We can go to Vauxhall tomorrow, how’s that?” he replies, eyes already trained on the bolts of fabric.

“We could go to White’s,” I offer. “Or the Academy.” Never in my life did I think I would enjoy spending so much time in galleries but Baz finds a way to make it engaging. As it turns out, when you spend your time with someone who is interested in everything, everything becomes interesting.

“Or we could be here , considering we are already here,” Baz retorts.

“For how long?” I ask.

“My God, Snow, you’re insufferable,” he mutters, though it lacks any sting. If anything, he sounds very nearly fond when he says it.

He pulls off a glove to trail his fingertips over the cloth. He makes an unhappy face at one fabric, then he hums as he flattens his ungloved palm against a bolt of deep blue wool.

“What’s wrong with that one?” I ask, gesturing to the spurned bolt of fabric. I pull off one glove to mirror his action. The wool is rough and wiry, like body hair. I have a flash of memory; the last night of our final year together, Baz getting back to our room sometime in the small hours, drunkenly stumbling in the dark until he eventually collapsed onto his bed with his shirtfront open, his dark chest hair on full display. The moon made his skin glow. All I could think of was fallen stars.

“Feel this one, in contrast,” Baz says, yanking me back to the present. I place my hand next to his on the fine fabric. Baz’s fingers are longer than mine. I would call his hands dainty but the memory of how his hand felt in mine as we danced, of how he gripped my arm after his fall, of how they looked as he played the violin provides other descriptors. Dextrous. Elegant. Strong. 

“May I help you, gentlemen?” the tailor asks. Baz turns, his hand falling from the fabric, but as he does so, his hand brushes lightly over mine. He speaks with the man as a shudder runs down my spine. I’ve grown vaguely aware of the unusual feeling that accompanies Baz’s touch recently, though it’s difficult to describe, like a hum across my skin.

“Salisbury?” Baz says. I look up at him, only to discover he and the tailor both eyeing me curiously.

“Yes?” I reply, suddenly aware that I missed their initial conversation.

“Wonderful, my Lord,” the tailor says as Baz smirks at me.

“In the grey, I should think,” Baz says, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“Yes,” I say, wholly ignorant to what I have just agreed to.

He dismisses the tailor before adding, “And you can wear it to the Devridge Ball.”

“Devridge? As in your cousin?” I ask. Icy shame gnaws on my nerves as I recall the last time I saw the man, when he cut me down so easily. “I haven’t received an invitation.”

 

B.

“You will,” I say. It’s honestly the least Dev could do after his horrifying little display at the Haddons’. I told Dev as much. 

“Devridge is determined to invite the entire ton and then some,” I add, to hide the fact that I bullied Dev into inviting not only Simon but Shepard as well as the entirety of the Bunce family. Simon speaks about them with such affection it simultaneously makes me thankful he has them in his life as well as heart-wrenchingly jealous that I am not amongst their cherished ranks.

“I see,” Simon says, replacing his glove. Our brush of hands was not the first incident we’ve had in the past two weeks, though it still nearly caused me to swoon.

It was an effort at first, to lower my guard around Simon and keep it lowered, but the time I’ve spent with him has passed with unexpected ease. The part that remains unwaveringly toilsome is the way he draws me in, ever closer. Simon is a painfully tactile person—not that his touch is painful in the traditional sense. Rather, it is a special kind of torture, designed specifically for me. I am of the firm belief that Simon is incognizant of it, for he’s not a malicious scoundrel nor a rake, though that does not make it any less agonizing.

There’s constantly a knee inadvertently knocking into mine as we climb in and out of carriages. Or a hand nonchalantly placed on the back of my shoulder to direct my attention. Or an elbow jabbed into my side with friendly ease after a particularly ribald joke.

I shan’t even begin to describe the feeling of his thigh pressed against mine as we trundle along in the phaeton. My thoughts are sin incarnate.

The constant jostling is only outdone by the staggeringly gorgeous smile he’ll smack me with out of the blue. It’s like being struck with benevolent lightning. Absolutely heartstopping.

“You’ll be attending,” Simon says, half statement, half question.

“Yes,” I confirm. 

“You think you’ll be recovered by then?” he asks, eyes flicking down to my cane.

He’s always been inquisitive, though it borders on impertinence at times. When we were young, his insatiable thirst for my insights or opinions was intoxicating. Never in my life had someone placed so much value on what I was thinking. When we were older, his endless interrogations were significantly less desirable, especially since I always felt one bad day away from spilling my secrets across the floor.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been happy to sate his genial curiosity. He asks about what books I’m reading, about my family, about Hampshire, about Percey; he’s not yet tread into the past. If I tell him the truth now, though, then I am opening myself up to an onslaught of questions I am not sure if I’ll be capable of answering.

“Only time will tell,” I intone with carefully casual indifference.

“Have you seen Doctor Wellbelove?” he asks, undeterred as predicted.

“I have not,” I admit. 

“Why not? No wonder you’ve yet to recover. Has any doctor attended to you since the accident?” His voice is tinged with concern and it’s making me feel more weak for him than usual.

“I’m not going to bother a doctor when I know what the issue is,” I say, attempting to brush off the rest of this line of questioning.

“How do you know what the issue is? I know you’re a genius, Baz,” he says and I roll my eyes at him, “but you’ve never studied medicine.”

“How would you know?” I reply, moving away from him. He gives chase, much to my dismay, much to my delight. 

“Have you?” he asks.

“No.” I continue to move about the shop, eyeing more bolts of fabric while attempting to not feel like a mouse being cornered by a cat.

“Baz,” Simon begins to fume. It’s an entirely too attractive look on him. I cannot stand it.

“It’s an old injury, all right?” I say, placatingly. Another patron engages the attention of the tailor as Simon follows me through to the change room at the back of the shop; the space is small and warm and smells of wool. I turn only to find Simon far too close to me.

“An old injury? What happened? When? Are you—”

I interrupt him with a raised hand, begging silence. “I took a nasty fall off of a horse a while back and injured my leg. It’s given me trouble ever since.” It’s a lie but it’s a practised one. And it’s not as if Simon can interrogate the fictional horse, though it looks like he’d like to.

“A horse injured you and yet you still ride?” he asks, disbelief and outrage at war in his expression.

“You’re making it sound like the horse shot at me,” I say. “I fell off of the horse.”

“How did you fall?” he asks.

“I just fell,” I say. I’m trying to curtail my exasperation but I have a sense that I’m failing.

“How?” he repeats, slowly, as if the imaginary horse also kicked me in the head.

“Christ, Snow, I don’t remember. It was years ago. And the horse is long gone,” I lie. It really is disturbingly easy though a bit of guilt begins to slink in. “In case you were hoping to give it a piece of your mind.”

“I—” he starts.

“If you would be so kind as to remove your coat and jacket for me, Lord Salisbury, so I can take your measurements,” the tailor says upon his sudden appearance in the change room. I silently thank the man for interrupting our conversation and take a seat in the small armchair in the corner. 

Simon gives me one last look that clearly says, we’re not done here before he turns away from me. He shucks off his jacket and inadvertently puts his entire backside on full display.

I’m quick to look at something else—anything else—but it’s too late. His breeches really left very little to the imagination and my imagination is already a vast and dangerous place.

“I forgot to tell you I’m joining Shepard for a class with the dance master tomorrow afternoon,” Simon says as the tailor moves around him with his measuring tape.

“Right,” I say, my eyes trained on the hardwood floor.

“So, we can go to Vauxhall in the morning or in the evening,” he continues.

“Right,” I repeat, moving my gaze to a crack in the plastered ceiling and willing myself not to look.

“Do you have a preference?”

I make a non-committal sound.

“Baz?”

I look.

Hell and the Devil.

Hell and the Devil and damnation.

“Baz?”

Dragging my eyes away is a herculean feat.

“Evening,” I say, staring fixedly at the back of his waistcoat. It’s not necessarily safer territory as it’s located mere inches from his absolutely glorious backside.

He turns towards me and my eyes flick up to meet his. I’m mortifyingly aware of the flush that is making itself apparent on my cheeks and I can only pray that he doesn’t make any note of it.

Simon looks at me curiously. The sun streaming in from the high window is perfectly illuminating his hair, limning his curls in gold. He’s so beautiful it sends a sharp sting through my chest.

“All finished, my Lord,” the tailor says and I look away, my heart beating too quickly. Simon collects his jacket and the tailor motions for me to stand.

 

S.

Baz removes his jacket, raising his arms as the tailor takes quick measurements. Baz’s waist and hips are narrow, his legs long and lean. When we sit side by side in the phaeton, our shoulders perfectly align. I wonder if I stood now and stretched my arms, would our fingers touch?

The tailor is finished almost as soon as he begins, confirming that Baz’s measurements are the same as when he was last in. Slipping through the heavy curtain, he disappears, leaving Baz and I alone once more.

Baz tugs down his waistcoat as I stand, putting me closer than intended. He takes a small step back, then stills. 

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to my cravat. I nod and can’t help but watch him as he tightens and adjusts the starched fabric. From a distance, his skin looks as smooth as porcelain. Up close, it’s flawless except for the shadow of his facial hair, though it doesn’t detract from the overall effect. He tilts his head in an appraising fashion, his grey eyes discerning. I’ve never met anyone with eyes like his. 

“Your eyes truly are the most unusual colour,” I say. His gaze flicks to mine and rests there. There’s a slightly darker ring of grey edging his irises. Today they look the colour of summer storm clouds, though they can look nearly blue when outdoors or very nearly green when we’re in the park. If Baz was a woman, men would write poetry about the colour of his eyes; while they might have been able to capture their colour in pretty prose, they still wouldn’t come close to describing how it feels to be the subject of that gaze.

I swallow, the sound overly loud in the small space we’re occupying. Baz’s eyes flick down to my mouth, his own lips parted slightly, dusty pink and plush. He turns abruptly and yanks open the curtain.

I follow him out of the shop and onto the bustling street, my heart thumping as I try to keep pace with Baz who has somehow managed to part the crowd in front of him.

“Baz—” I reach for his elbow.

Before I can grab him I hear, “Lord Salisbury!” Mrs Wellbelove stops in the middle of the pavement, Agatha standing just behind her. “Oh and Lord Pitch, how delightful,” she says. The flow of people comes to a near standstill as the four of us block a majority of the thoroughfare. 

“Good afternoon,” I say as Baz tilts his head in greeting.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen you, my Lord,” she says to Baz. “We missed you at the Dormestys’ and at the Vaudreys’. We were beginning to fear you had left London to return to your family in Hampshire.”

“My apologies,” he says. “I was recovering from an injury.”

“Are you all right?” Mrs Wellbelove asks, overly aghast.

“Of course. Although I’m sorry to say I will be taking a break from dancing,” Baz says.

“Oh, but you two made such a lovely couple on the dance floor,” Mrs Wellbelove says. For a sliver of a moment, I think she means Baz and I made a lovely couple on the dance floor—I really never have had so much fun dancing in my life.

“Miss Wellbelove is the lovely one,” he says, with a nod of his head. Agatha’s cheeks pink.

“I’m sure many a young man will thank you for leaving a spot open on her dance card, I suppose,” Mrs Wellbelove says.

“Bonne chance à tes orteils,” Baz says and Agatha coughs out a startled laugh. Baz is pointedly not looking at her but Agatha can’t keep her eyes off of him as she touches her gloved fingers to her lips, attempting to rid herself of her smile.

Baz and Agatha. The thought puts an unpleasant taste in my mouth, but by God do they make a pretty pair.

“Well then Lord Salisbury, you must call on us later this week. I’m sure you have a great many things to discuss with Mr Wellbelove,” Mrs Wellbelove intones, rather loudly.

 

B.

Mrs Wellbelove is easily my least favourite person in London.

I’ll give her one allowance though; she certainly is admirably cunning. 

The people who had been not so subtly eavesdropping on the conversation erupt into titters over her latest declaration.

She knows how to churn the rumour mill very skillfully. By dinner, a quarter of the ton will be speculating on when Simon will officially begin courting Miss Wellbelove. By breakfast, half of the upper ten thousand will be awaiting word of a  proposal.

“Right,” Simon sounds uncertain, “of course.” It’s clear to me that he has no idea what he’s just agreed to, nor what sort of things he’s meant to discuss with Mr Wellbelove.

“It was nice to see you both,” I say, drawing the conversation to a close before Simon ends up agreeing to an engagement on the spot.

We say our goodbyes and I cut through the meandering crowd, Simon close behind me.

My mind is still reeling from whatever that moment was in the tailors and the interruption from Mrs and Miss Wellbelove as we climb into the phaeton. I pull into the street only to be stuck in the chaos that is London traffic. It does nothing to soothe my ruffled feathers.

I blame all of that for my reaction when Simon breaks the silence to ask me, “Are you intending to court Miss Wellbelove?”

The indignant scoff I let out is both unbecoming and impolite. Recognising this, I, of course, only make things worse.

“Where did you get that idea?” I ask.

“Are you?” he persists.

“Are you?” I snap.

Simon is silent for a moment and when I glance over at him, his gaze is unfocused, his mouth hanging open.

“Snow?” I prompt.

“Yes,” he says. He clears his throat. “That’s my intention.”

It’s laughably ridiculous but my heart plummets all the same. Of course he’s going to continue to pursue a match. And of course that match is Miss Wellbelove.

I have a sudden and overwhelming urge to cry which I absolutely cannot do.

“I see,” I say. Simon remains silent.

I need a distraction. I need my mind to be elsewhere. My treacherous mind attempts to sprint towards thoughts of Simon and Miss Wellbelove. Dancing. Courting. Betrothed. Married.

“You spend most of your time in Salisbury, yes?” I ask. Simon makes a small noise of affirmation and looks at me curiously. “Tell me about it,” I say.

Simon starts slow, his thoughts disorganised but by the time we’re back in Mayfair, he’s smiling as he says, “And the mornings there are incredible.”

“You were always an unforgivably chipper morning person,” I mutter and Simon chuckles.

“Even you would like it, when dawn breaks and the fields of wildflowers get all misty and the birds are singing and the clouds are pink.”

“It sounds lovely,” I admit.

“Reminds me of when we tried to watch the sunrise after we stayed up all night, do you remember? And our blankets got all damp.”

“I remember you stole my blanket,” I say.

“We were sharing,” he argues. We were. He had put his down on the wet grass and sat there, rubbing his arms for warmth. I was shivering already but lifted my blanket to let him under. He huddled next to me; we were pressed together from shoulder to knee.

“You fell asleep with your head on my shoulder,” he adds. I didn’t; I was wide awake, breathing him in alongside the chilly morning air.

“That really was the prettiest sunrise I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“Mmm,” is all I offer.

“Tell me it wasn’t the best sunrise you’ve ever seen,” he shoves my shoulder with his own. I don’t need to close my eyes to picture it. Delicate orange light illuminating his skin, turning his curls pure gold. His breath curling misty white in the air. The birds singing. His arm warm around my shoulder. The tip of his nose pink and his cheeks reddened with cold. Thinking, I had never seen anyone so beautiful in my life. 

“I won’t argue with you there.”

Notes:

"Bonne chance à tes orteils" = "good luck to your toes."

 

I asked Jo what clothes shopping would have been like for men in the Regency Era (as Jo is my go-to for questions such as these) and we were a bit unsure if men went into the tailor's, if the tailors came to them, how fabric purchasing worked, what it would have been like for the gentry, etc.

So I bought a 400+ page book to do some research (Beau Brummell: The Ultimate Man of Style.) Beau Brummell was the influencer of the 1790s-1810s. He's the reason we have tailors. He's the reason we have suits!! He was a super well dressed catty bitch and every one in London spent years being obsessed with him. People literally used to go to his house every day and watch him get dressed. I could go on (I read a 400 page book about him) but here are the relevant bits:

-Fabric would be chosen either at the tailor's or at another location and brought into the tailor's
-Certain tailors were known for certain items, none of them "did it all," or if they did, they did it poorly, meaning that your trousers and your jacket would not be made by the same man or even at the same shop
-Multiple and numerous fittings were a new thing, started by Brummell
-And (THE BEST TIDBIT) "Some tailors were known to provide the space, facilities and alibis necessary for illicit liaisons. It could be one reason for the numerous fittings: 'it was a gentleman's world, a gentlemen's club. So they had twenty fittings at their tailors...and in the back, round the corner, there would be something else...'"

That last one inspired this chapter (and a random smut scene that had no place here but I will most likely post once this is all done.)

Thanks again for reading and for being here, my dearest gentle reader 🩵 I'll be back soon

Notes:

Thanks for reading! 🩵 Comments fuel me!