Chapter Text
Dearest Gentle Reader,
A new Season is upon us, and with it comes the return of certain familiar faces—some beloved, some baffling, and a select few who persist in being both.
Chief among them is Lord Hollander, whose manners remain impeccable, whose fortune remains unimpeachable, and whose continued failure to secure a bride remains a subject of increasing fascination. One might be forgiven for wondering whether such restraint is the mark of discernment, or simply stubbornness in the face of maternal vigilance.
Adding further intrigue is the reappearance of Count Rozanov, our continental curiosity, whose title is as impressive as his disregard for English decorum. That London has not yet decided whether to admire or fear him is perhaps unsurprising. That it cannot seem to look away is quite another matter entirely. This author has heard that our Russian Count scandalized half the continent since last season, yet remains entirely unmoved by London’s most eligible offerings.
That these two gentlemen should find themselves so frequently at odds, on the dance floor, in the drawing room, and wherever else polite society gathers, is, of course, only natural. Competition, after all, thrives where admiration dares not speak its name. One might almost suspect that rivalry, like all great passions, is capable of disguising itself as something more dangerous.
One hopes the Season will prove enlightening.
Lady Whistledown
***
The Hollander carriage arrived precisely when it was expected to, that is to say, a full five minutes earlier than necessary. The young earl descended its steps with the same quiet composure that had earned him a reputation for steadiness bordering on dullness, though no one who looked closely at him could reasonably make such a charge. He was impeccably turned out, his dark coat cut to perfection, his cravat tied with just enough panache to suggest taste rather than vanity.
His mother and father, also dressed to impress for the first ball of the Season, followed their son to resplendent gates of Haverinton House, festooned with garlands and silver baubles. As they made their way towards the doors, flanked by silver gilt statues of Greek and Roman goddesses on either side, Lady Hollander reached out to straighten her son’s cravat and fluff his hair.
“Smile, darling, you look as if you are going to a funeral,” she said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder.
Shane allowed himself to be fussed over, sighing internally at her ministrations.
“I am attending a ball,” he replied mildly. “Which, in my experience, differs only in the music.”
Lady Hollander shot him a look. “This is the first ball of the Season. Your second Season. Whistledown has already had more than enough to say about your reluctance to settle.”
“I am not reluctant,” he said. “Merely… discerning.”
“Discerning young men do not enter a second Season unengaged,” she returned crisply. “You are our only child, Shane. I will not be fobbed off with patience.”
Shane inclined his head in dutiful submission as they climbed the steps, and, as his mother turned away to hand off her coat and hat to a footman, tugged at the collar of his shirt to stave off the familiar tightening in his chest. Not dread, precisely, but the weight of expectation pressing down like a hand between his shoulder blades.
“At least your new suit from Stultz arrived on time. You would think they might prioritize your order for the first ball of the Season considering your eligibility,” his mother said, taking his father’s arm on the way to the ballroom.
“Leave him be, my lady, the Season has barely begun,” Lord Hollander said lightly. He turned to glance back at his son. “What was that book that had you so engrossed this afternoon, Shane?”
Indeed, Shane had spent a pleasant afternoon in the solarium reading about unusual animal pairings on farms that resulted in both increased crop yields and often resulted in unexpected friendships, such as sheep dogs becoming friends with baby chickens. He had been so interested in his reading, he had quite forgotten about the looming ball and had to rush to get ready in time.
As they entered the luxuriously decorated ballroom, Shane explained the book and his ideas for how to leverage the animals at Ottowan Cottage, his ironically named estate in Derbyshire, which boasted large grounds and provided land for several local farmers. He was so wrapped up in discussing his reading, he barely noticed the appreciative glances cast his way. However, every mother and daughter was aware that the Ton's “golden boy” had arrived, with high hopes for snagging his eye.
“I cannot imagine a sheep dog being so gentle with such small creatures,” mused Lord Hollander as they moved to the far end of the ballroom to greet their hosts. “I would need to see it with my own eyes to believe such a thing.”
“You might turn your thoughts to finding a lady to share your estate, darling,” his mother chided, in a low voice after they exchanged welcome words with Lord and Lady Haverinton. “Lady Rose will be in attendance tonight. It is no surprise that she was named the Season’s diamond. She is absolutely stunning. You would do well to secure at least one dance with her. Lady Trafford’s daughter was also presented to the queen, and you know her father left her a sizable dowry…”
Shane finally turned to face the guests already in attendance, not meeting anyone’s eye directly. He tried to pick Lady Rose Landry out of the crowd, remembering that he had seen her when she was presented to the queen and proclaimed the season’s diamond. The room of faces, both familiar and new, started to swirl.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, a head of blonde curls towering above all others in attendance, and blue eyes wrinkled at the corners from a crooked smile caught his eye. It was Count Rozanov, the second son of the Russian ambassador back from the continent. He was leaning over slightly to listen to a woman whispering in his ear, but when his eyes met Lord Hollander’s, his smile widened in obvious delight.
“Oh and there is Lord Rozanov from last Season,” Lady Hollander commented. “Back in London with his father, no doubt. I do hope there will be no more scandals this Season.” Indeed, last year the young Count had been caught alone with a young lady alone in Vauxhall Gardens. His father’s status and an assumed lack of courtly manners in Britain as opposed to the continent had prevented any demands for satisfaction or a special marriage license, but the Russian’s reputation as a shameless flirt who flouted the rules of polite society had been cemented. That certainly did not stop ladies from approaching him. He had a certain charm that the Ton enjoyed.
Shane broke eye contact with Rozanov, feeling a slight flush rising in his cheeks. To distract both himself and his mother, he asked “May I fetch you a refreshment, Mother, while I circulate?” She nodded and he headed off in search of the lemonade table.
He had barely completed one circuit of polite greetings when Lord Hayden Pike appeared at his elbow, grinning only as a man who had already won the game and now enjoyed spectating could smile.
“Still unclaimed, I see,” Lord Pike said cheerfully. “Extraordinary. My wife was certain you’d be gone before the ink dried on last Season’s announcements.”
“I was occupied,” Shane replied.
“Occupied avoiding women?”
“Occupied existing,” Shane said dryly, and took a welcome glass of lemonade from a passing tray.
“Surely there is more to life than maintaining Ottowan Cottage and boxing.”
“I am content for now.”
“You would be more content with a wife. Trust me.” Lord Pike’s eyes immediately found Lady Pike in the crowd and his eyes softened. “And another little one on the way.”
“Again?” Shane was shocked. They had only been married a year and had already had twin girls who were a year old.
“It is not so difficult”, Lord Pike teased. “And I want a son.”
“Of course.”
Shane could not imagine being a parent at such a young age, much less to three children. But the Pikes were known for their large families, with no fewer than three sets of twins among the siblings.
“You might congratulate me.”
“Oh of course. Congratulations, Pike!” Shane held out his hand and gave his friend a hearty handshake. “I apologize for being caught off guard. You must be thrilled.”
“I am,” Lord Pike sighed. “A happy wife and a house full of children is a thing of joy. One which I assume you will no doubt be experiencing soon. Perhaps with Lady Rose?” He gestured meaningfully across the room.
Shane’s eyes tracked the crowd and alighted on Lady Rose Landry, already surrounded by a gaggle of suitors. With her delicate features, expressive eyes, friendly disposition, and sizable dowry from her Viscount father, it was no wonder she had been named the diamond of the season. Shane gulped down a fortifying amount of lemonade, set the glass down on a nearby table, and bid Lord Pike farewell as he waded into the fray.
He had barely taken two steps towards Lady Landry before he himself was approached by several eager mothers, vying to introduce their daughters. Sighing internally, he bowed solicitously and allowed the mothers to extoll their daughters’ virtues, repeating their names and trying to commit their faces to memory.
“And yourself, Lord Hollander? How do you most enjoy spending your spare time?” Lady Clarissa Curle asked.
“He boxes, poorly,” interrupted a deep accented voice. Shane and the ladies all turned to see Count Rozanov, dangling a lemonade glass between two fingers. “Has a weak left hook.”
Shane’s mouth snapped shut as the ladies tittered. “You are quite a boxer yourself, Lord Rozanov?” one asked boldly.
“I once knocked out a bear back in Russia.”
“Lord Rozanov exaggerates, of course. Unless perhaps it was a stuffed bear,” Shane heard himself say.
Rozanov smiled as more giggles erupted. “Lord Hollander,” he said, bowing. A bit late for a formal greeting after he interrupted the conversation. “I see London has not tired of you yet.”
Shane offered a bow of his own. “Lord Rozanov, I see London has forgiven you for your scandals last year.”
Rozanov’s smile widened, slow and deliberate, as though Shane had offered him something rather than struck a blow. “Ah,” he said lightly, “Forgiveness is such a charming English concept. We prefer endurance.”
Lady Clarissa laughed, fanning herself. “You are quite dreadful, Lord Rozanov.”
“So I am told,” Ilya replied. His gaze flicked back to Shane, not lingering, but unmistakably intent. “But dreadfulness is matter of… what is the word? Ah, perspective.”
Shane felt the familiar, unwelcome heat creep up his neck. He cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I promised Lady Emma the next dance.”
“Did you?” Rozanov asked pleasantly. “How fortunate for her.”
Shane met his eyes, just for a moment too long. “Fortune,” he said evenly, “is rarely improved by excessive competition.”
“And yet,” Rozanov murmured, stepping just close enough that only Shane could hear him, “you have always risen to it.”
The orchestra struck up the opening notes of a waltz. Lady Curle and her daughters drifted away, still whispering and laughing, leaving them standing together at the edge of the dance floor.
“Seven months,” Ilya said quietly, as though remarking upon the weather.
Shane stiffened. “You have been counting?”
“I have been remembering,” Ilya corrected. His eyes softened, just barely. “You look well, Lord Hollander.”
Shane inclined his head. “You look unchanged.”
Rozanov’s eyes darkened, amused. “How disappointing.”
Before Shane could reply, Lady Emma appeared at his side, bright-eyed and expectant. “Lord Hollander?”
“Of course,” Shane said quickly, offering his arm.
As he led her toward the floor, he felt Rozanov’s gaze at his back, heavy and unyielding. It followed him through the first turn of the dance, through the polite smiles and measured steps, until the weight of it became almost unbearable. Shane steered Lady Emma to another part of the dance floor and breathed an internal sigh of relief.
By the time the song had ended, the crowd around Lady Rose had relented and he was able to make his way over to where she was seated, enjoying a sweet in between the dances. He bowed low and introduced himself.
“Oh of course, Lord Hollander. We met at the palace.” Lady Landry wiped her fingers delicately on a silk napkin. “Please, take a seat and help me eat these meringues. My brother fetched far too many of them.”
While Shane did not have a taste for sweets, he did enjoy the airy texture and how the dessert melted away in his mouth. “Lady Rose, if you’re not already otherwise occupied, perhaps I could escort you to the dance floor for the next song?” he asked.
“I would be delighted, Lord Hollander. Are you fond of dancing?” she asked, learning forward with a gleam in her eye “I have heard that you are quite the boxer so you must be coordinated?”
Shane forced himself to chuckle. “I admit, I am more fond of the ring than of the dance floor. But I promise no harm will come to you while we are out there.”
Lady Rose smiled genuinely. “I am familiar with boxing. Of course I do not participate myself, but my three brothers are all quite talented at it. One even wanted to make a career out of it before my father talked him into taking over the family business.” Her gaze drew upward to someone behind Shane. “Oh Lord Rozanov, hello again.”
“Lady Rose, may I interest you in a dance?”
Shane turned and found himself at eye level with the Russian lord’s hips. Surely, his pants were far too tight for polite society. How did the man even sit? Shane forced himself to look up and meet Rozanov’s eyes. “I believe Lady Rose promised me the next dance.”
Rozanov’s smile was more a smirk, as if he could see the flush rising on Shane’s cheeks. “Did she? How… prudent of her,” he said in a teasing tone.
“Prudence is not a flaw.”
“No, but it is rarely a temptation.” Rozanov turned his attention to Lady Rose “You see, my lady, Lord Hollander dances as though he fears offending the air.”
“And Lord Rozanov dances as though he has already offended everyone else,” snapped Shane.
Lady Rose laughed, breaking the tension between the two men. “This I shall have to experience. Lord Hollander?” She rose and Shane offered her his arm. Again, Rozanov’s gaze followed him through the dance. He was careful not to tread on her dress or worse, her toes. They made polite conversation about boxing and her brothers’ involvement, although he was more focused on remembering the dance steps and not bumping into any other couples to fully realize that he had agreed to accompany her to a boxing match.
They applauded politely after the song finished and, as they made their way back to Lady Rose’s table, Rozanov was waiting. After Shane bowed to Lady Rose and thanked her for the dance, Rozanov leaned in and whispered, low enough for just Shane’s ears, “Tell me, Lord Hollander, are you always this careful, or only when you are being watched?”
Shane did not answer. He inclined his head towards both of them, excused himself, and left. He had already decided to go into the gardens. He needed air.
Thankfully, the gardens were sparsely populated as the ball was in full swing. Shane dug his fingers into his collar, loosening the cravat and breathing deep lungfuls of the night air. He walked a ways until he found a secluded corner with a small bench. He sat down heavily, pressing his hands to his cheeks as if that would make the blush recede.
“Running away?”
“Good Christ.” Hollander glared up at Rozanov. “No. Cooling my head.”
“You English have so many words for retreat.” Rozanov dug into his pocket, flipped open an embossed silver case, and lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke in Shane’s direction, making him set his jaw and glare even harder.
Shane shook his head, thoroughly annoyed now. “You should not have followed me.”
Rozanov took another slow drag of his cigarette, eyes never leaving Shane’s face. “And yet,” he said mildly, “Here I am.”
“This is precisely the sort of behavior that gives rise to comment.”
“Ah.” Rozanov exhaled smoke into the night air, away from Shane this time. “So that is trouble. You are concerned with comment.”
“I am concerned with discretion,” Shane snapped. “Which you seem constitutionally incapable of having.”
Rozanov laughed softly. “You did not complain of my discretion or my constitution last Season.”
The words struck like a physical blow. Shane surged to his feet. “That,” he said tightly, “was a mistake.”
Rozanov’s expression shifted. Not offended, not amused, but sharpened. He stepped closer, close enough that Shane could smell the smoke on his breath, the faint trace of something spiced beneath it.
“Was it?” he asked. “You seem remarkably upset for a man reflecting on a mistake.”
Shane’s pulse thudded painfully in his throat. “You enjoy this,” he said. “Pushing until I lose my temper.”
“I enjoy,” Rozanov said, voice low now, “that you pretend you do not know exactly what you are doing.”
Shane laughed once, humorless. “And what am I doing?”
“Standing alone in a dark garden,” Rozanov said, “After leaving a ballroom full of eligible women. With me.”
Silence fell between them, thick and charged. Somewhere in the distance, music drifted through open windows, bright and oblivious.
“You should go back inside,” Shane said, though he did not move.
“And leave you like this?” Rozanov tilted his head, studying him. “Flushed, distracted, breathing as though you have run a mile.” He dropped that damnable cigarette and ground the stub beneath the heel of his fashionable shoes.
Shane’s hands curled at his sides. “You are impossible.”
“Yes,” Rozanov agreed easily. “And yet you are not leaving.”
Before Shane could marshal another retort, Rozanov reached out, not touching, not quite, bracing one hand against the stone balustrade beside Shane’s shoulder. He leaned in, just enough to steal the space between them.
“Tell me,” he murmured, “did you miss me?”
Shane’s breath hitched traitorously. “That is not a fair question.”
Rozanov smiled, slow and knowing. “You never minded before.”
The last of Shane’s restraint gave way, not in anger, but in something far worse. He closed the distance himself, catching Rozanov’s lapel and dragging him close, their mouths colliding with a force that startled them both.
For a heartbeat, there was only the kiss, familiar and shocking all at once, months of absence collapsing into heat and recognition. Rozanov made a sound low in his throat, one hand coming up to Shane’s jaw, thumb pressing just beneath it as if to anchor him there. His tongue immediately invaded Shane’s mouth, tasting of those Russian cigarettes and something else familiar. Shane found that he could not get enough of it.
Rozanov’s other hand made its way down Shane’s back, trailing gently in contrast to the heated kiss, then becoming more confident as he reached his goal. That large hand curved around Shane’s backside, gripping it firmly and pulling Shane’s hips directly against Rozanov’s. Shane whimpered, lost for a moment in the heady kiss and the mirrored hardness he felt against his own. But then he suddenly remembered where they were, who they were, and broke away, breathless and furious with himself.
“This,” he said hoarsely, “cannot happen here.” But Rozanov’s hands did not move from his jaw or his backside.
Rozanov’s eyes were dark, unreadable. “Then stop looking at me as though you wish it would.”
Shane pushed Rozanov’s hands off him and stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. “You are infuriating.”
“And you,” Rozanov said softly, with a hint of a smirk, “are a liar.”