Chapter Text
Excerpt from the Strabell Standard society pages, January 23 edition:
Lady Adelaide Turner was reported to have turned down the proposal of one Josiah Wilkins, stating that Mr. Wilkins was "too forward" in his declaration of feeling for her. Lady Turner, it should be noted, has repeatedly stated that she will not be married to someone who will "make a fool of himself" before the respectable people of the ton, and thus spurned Mr. Wilkins' very public proposal on those grounds.
Lady Rosella Westall and Lady Marian Hayles were seen arguing at the theater regarding a matter of honor. The Westall and Hayles families have been rather at odds ever Lady Westall (senior; nee Bright) jilted Lord Edmund Westall in favor of marrying his rival, Lord Bernard Hayles, and it is this reporter's sorry fate to report that the feud has been carried on by their progeny. The two 'ladies' were seen bickering in the theater regarding rude behavior in one of the boxes, very nearly coming to blows before being separated by their respective friends. A duel was threatened, though one seems unlikely at this time, as there was no matter of honor to be settled via swordplay, or so this reporter was assured...
***
Mama folds the paper, placing it on the table along with her spectacles, giving Mari a hard look as she does. “Darling.”
Mari, who had already read it herself, and is thus aware of the absolute tongue-lashing she’s in for, shrugs. “Yeah, I know.”
“If you know, darling, then why do you let yourself get into such scrapes to start with?” Mama sighs, rubbing at her temples. “You know as well as I do that the Westalls are not of our station – you needn’t let her goad you.”
She sighs, picking up the milk pitcher and pouring a tiny bit more over her morning porridge, stirring it with her spoon to buy time. Yeah, I know isn’t going to fly – Mama will have a hard time listening to her if she admits that she knows she was wrong, and yet –
“She was being very loud,” she says. “I could scarcely hear the players, Mama – all I did was ask her if she would not mind being quieter. I didn’t even talk to her directly – I simply knocked and said something calmly to the wall.” She had, in fact, shouted it, after banging loud enough to wake the dead, as Jocelyn had put it, and what she’d said – “would you mind keeping it down, some of us are trying to watch the play, and as entertaining as it is to hear you lie about your prowess in bed, I’d rather leave the tall tales and storytelling to the professionals” – was not, perhaps, sporting, but it hardly warranted the response it had got, Lady Westall pounding on the door of the box and telling her off.
Mama eyes her, picking up her cup of tea and sipping at it without looking away – a trick Mari has yet to learn, honestly, and one that always leaves her feeling on edge. “Is that so.”
“Jocelyn was able to turn her away, anyway – it shan’t come to a duel. We’re not so awful as that.” That she would have, had Jocelyn not managed to point out to both of them that fighting in the Capitol would see them both turned out and not allowed back for the season (something that was unthinkable, considering that the next performance was meant to be a comedy that Izzie had assured her was very good) is something she doesn’t bother to mention.
“See that you aren’t,” says Mama. “She will be at the Ladies’ Social this evening, which I know you will be attending, though I do despair of your attire. It would be good if you could go and – I know you will not apologize, Marian, but if you could make small talk with the woman without it coming to blows, it would be helpful. The society reporter from the Evening Post will be there, and while I can ignore what is written in the Standard, all the best people of quality read the Post religiously.”
Not a tongue-lashing, then, but something worse, for she’d been planning to skip the Social – Mama insists she wear a dress, among other things, and standing about with dainty cups of punch, wearing the gloves to cover up her calluses from swordplay and discussing nothing in particular (or nothing of interest, anyway, for who could be interested in learning about society gossip and who was organizing the next get-together) is not her idea of a good time. Most of the young ladies of her set would be inclined to agree, but Mama’s friends are all older, stuffy and staid in the way that makes her want to tear her hair out. “I will wear a gown,” she promises, for that is what the line about despairing of her attire refers to. “I have the yellow satin that was made for the Turner’s garden party.”
“That will do, if you will also wear the citrine necklace Papa gave you.” Mama sets her teacup, now empty, back on its saucer. “I am glad you are willing to be reasonable, Mari. I only want what is best for you, my darling girl – I know you think these get-togethers silly, but if you are to find a suitable spouse –”
“If I am to find a suitable spouse, one who understands the needs of our station and who does not begrudge me my foibles, I should at least show that I am willing to play along, yes.” She sighs. “When should I ask Lucy to have me ready by?”
“Half-past four,” says Mama. “The social doesn’t properly begin until six, but we are expected to help with setup.”
“Of course.” Mama is a new member, after all – finally admitted after the senior Lady Westall resigned from the board – and as such has to worry about making a good impression. Showing up early and being willing to do flower-arranging and ensure that the caterers know where everything is to be set and how the chairs are meant to be positioned is, of course, one of the ways to do that – to show that she is not “too good” for the members of the club (what Lady Westall had hinted at, for so many years, and why it is that she is still viewed with suspicion). “I will be ready.”
“Good.” Mama rises from the table, taking the society pages with her. “I look forward to seeing you then.”
The rivalry – well, more like hatred – between Lady Marian Hayles (“Mari”, to her friends) and Lady Rosella Westall was one that was well-known in society, though perhaps not always in the society pages. Ros at least made a point of not letting it hit the papers, if she could help it. Marian (she refused to call her Mari) was an absolute nightmare of a human being – stuck-up and full of herself, clearly her mother’s daughter. It was no secret in the ton that Lady Hayles senior had tossed over Ros’s dad in favor of marrying Lord Hayles – had left him at the altar, as the story went, after Lord Hayles had the indecency of crashing their wedding, showing up the day-of and declaring (admittedly rather romantically) that he could not live without Lady Hayles after all, and would she save him from a lifetime of despair and wed him instead. She’d said yes, of course, and the whole thing was spun as rather a fairytale, though the story that was run in the papers conveniently ignored the parts where she had said yes to Lord Hayles after it was revealed that his brother had been disinherited, and so Lord Hayles was to inherit the estate – and the family fortune – after all. The Westall family’s fortunes could not compare to those of the Hayles, Lord Westall – Ros’s dad – had been jilted, and as the one who was left behind, when society ought to have been sympathetic to him (especially considering that it was no secret that Lady Hayles previously spurned Lord Hayles because he was a second son who would not inherit, and thus could not keep her in the luxury to which she was accustomed), the narrative was instead rather in the Hayles’ favor, painting Lord Westall as something of a stuffed shirt who didn’t properly know how to romance a lady.
“Of course, we know better,” says Mum. “And I would continue to remind you that we know better, Rosella, and ask then why it is that you allow yourself to be dragged into confrontations with someone who is your social inferior?”
Peter, who’d showed up in time for lunch, skipping his afternoon magic lessons in favor of seeing Ros dressed down (for he’d seen the papers, the beast, and had made a point of telling Mum about them), grins. “Hell of a confrontation too – er, sorry for the language, Mum, but – ‘s true, half the theater could hear her screaming at you.”
“Screaming is certainly one way to put it,” Ros says, wrinkling her nose. “Gods, mum – I know you tell me to avoid her, and I promise, I did. I hadn’t the faintest idea she was there.” This, at least, is true – it had been her, with Therese and Helen. Therese had been relaying stories about her latest conquest, some woman she’d met at one of the salons her older sister insisted on holding – “a true ingénue – though not when I was done with her”. The story had been one that was rather colorful, and it was true that Therese was in her cups and perhaps could have been quieter – but it was also during intermission, and anyway, the play itself had been a dreadful bore. “I didn’t do anything to set her off – she pounded on the wall of our box and started screeching, and after she was done, I walked over and asked her politely to quiet down, for she’d done the very thing she was accusing us of.”
Therese had accompanied her, of course, and there had been some boasting on either side about swordplay – for when Ros said she ought to shut up, it’s not her fault that you wouldn’t know how to please a woman if given a manual and detailed verbal instructions – Therese had offered to show her how to be better in bed, and the whole thing had gotten well out of hand. Thank the gods for Jocelyn Simmons – she at least was of good breeding and good temperament, and had been able to talk Lady Hayles off the edge.
“I take it that you did not egg her on or engage with her at all?” Mum’s glare is fierce. “If I were to ask, say, Helen Cheadle what passed between you…?”
“Helen would tell you just what I have.” She’s loyal, anyway, she wouldn’t – she wouldn’t tell Mum that I nearly slapped her. “I did not start it, and I did not finish it. Lady Hayles embarrassed herself, Mum. I had very little to do with it. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”
“Be that as it may.” Mum’s expression remains stony. “There is a Ladies’ Social to be held this evening. I have it on very good authority that Lady Hayles and her daughter will be there. I expect you to attend, to apologize, and to be seen together interacting in a way that is bland and pleasant and which puts to rest the rumor that you are bitter rivals.”
We are, though, and it’s not my fault. Protesting this to Mum won’t do any good, though – she’ll just tell Ros to get over it and try harder. “Yes, Mum.”
“I need you to make a good impression, for our reputation in the ton is delicate – and Lady Hayles senior has certainly managed to make herself out to be the victim of my supposed machinations, again. If I am ever to regain my position on the board, I will need you to be the very picture of elegance and good breeding.” Mum sighs. “Which means burying the hatchet, as your father might put it, and making nice with Lady Marian – even if she is, how did Therese put it? An insufferable twat.”
She bites her lip, trying not to giggle at Mum calling someone a twat. “I will make nice,” she promises. “I know it’s important to you.”
“Good,” says Mum. “See that you do.”
Mari and Mama arrive at the Social early enough to do setup, which sees Mari looked at by the organizers, who clear their throats and say, with no small amount of scorn, that perhaps she ought to help set up tables, as flower-arranging or setting places is likely beyond her. She fights the urge to roll her eyes and thus confirm their suspicions (that she is not ladylike or given to the genteel arts), walking over to do table setup without complaint. She’s not unhappy about it, anyway – it’s easier than trying to make flowers in vases look nice, considering that she doesn’t have the right eye for beauty, or so her drawing master said, for he had always despaired of her, and she would rather stab herself with one of Mama’s knitting needles than lay out plates. Tables it is, then, and she will manage to be grateful.
Truly, it’s not awful – the others who do not possess an eye for beauty are not exactly friends of hers (for she has not met them before, or not properly), but they are certainly friendly enough, and before long they are chattering and laughing as they pull things out, putting everything in order, what she had dreaded (being relegated to the sidelines, for no one will wish to make conversation with her) never coming to pass. By the time the Social begins in earnest, she has made fast friends with two of the young ladies, both of whom admit that they are also only present at their mothers’ behest, the Social itself being an event they should otherwise choose to skip.
“There’s a darts tournament tonight,” says one of them – a certain Miss Georgiana (“Georgie, please, bad enough Mum calls me by my full name”) Stevens, the wistful tone to her words unmistakable. “My brother is going, and said that I could attend too, if I had a mind to – and I did so wish to, but alas!”
“Your mother lets you attend?” Mari is shocked – and unmistakably jealous. “Mine would never – they’re not for people of ‘our station’, as she puts it.”
“What Mum doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Georgie grins. “You ought to come sometime – I could probably sneak you in. Tell her you’re coming to meet me and I imagine she won’t fuss – my Mum is on the board, after all, and I know yours is eager to join them.”
They discuss this in earnest, making conversation about what it is they like to do that is not “befitting of young women of their social class”, finding that they have a great deal in common. Georgie, as it passes, has also been learning to duel, and has had a good deal of fun in the city’s clubs – “though of course, it is not the sort of thing that ought to be publicized, imagine the scandal” – as well as engaging in other pursuits that are perhaps not entirely becoming of young ladies, most notably sailing.
“Truly,” she says, before the event begins in earnest, and she is called away. “You ought to tell your mum that we’re friends now, and that you have been invited for tea – we’ll do something fun!”
Mari laughs, but doesn’t say no. The first of the attendees are beginning to arrive, after all, and Mama is giving her the look that says she needs to come to heel and stand with her – “after all, Marian, one of them may be your wife someday”. She sighs, but does rejoin her, not wishing, after all, to have to deal with Mama’s disappointment on the carriage ride home.
“Lady Westall’s daughter just arrived,” Mama hisses, as they stand and greet those friends they recognize. “The reporter from the Post is not here yet, the wretch, but she will arrive soon, and when she does, it is my expectation that you will approach her and make nice.”
“Yes, Mama.” She just manages not to roll her eyes – she has her direction; after all, it’s not as though she has forgotten the conversation she had with Mama over breakfast – but the event on the whole has not been a complete waste of her time, for she did meet Georgie, and doubtless Mama will be easier to deal with if she is happy with Mari’s behavior. “Is that the woman from the Post now?”
Mama looks at where she nods, spotting the woman in question, who is wearing trousers, of all things (Mari is obscenely jealous), and a waistcoat of the sort that is lurid enough to give pause even to the most gauche of society members. Mari loves it, of course (and wishes that she was brave enough to dress in the same way, given Mama’s suggestions about her attire this evening), but it’s also a sign that she is not from this set – or at least, does not need to worry about impressing any of them, such is the power of the pen.
“That is her,” her mother agrees. “Go, then – seek out Lady Westall’s daughter and say something nice.”
“Gods” – but she walks over anyway, doing her best not to trip over the hem of her gown. She’s not used to wearing heeled slippers – had opted to do without, in light of the fact that she was liable to break an ankle if forced to walk in them – and so had worn boots instead, but the dress is not hemmed for these, and so she must swish every time she walks, so as to avoid stepping on it. “Lady Westall? A word, if I may?”
Rosella Westall looks at her, disdain clear on her pretty features. It would be easier if she wasn’t a beauty, Mari thinks. If she was plain, perhaps, I’d have an easier time not letting her get under my skin – but she is lovely, all dark hair and luminous green eyes, her complexion a perfect peaches and cream even without the use of makeup or flattering charms. It’s hard not to be jealous of her, for she knows that she is lovely, and wields that loveliness like a weapon, bludgeoning her helpless victims about the head with it.
“Goodness,” she says. “I can’t imagine what about, but I suppose – it will be quick?”
“Yes.” She’d intended to do it in the room, before everyone else, but the society reporter’s attention is fixed upon them, and she is not certain she can fake it well enough not to be the focus of tomorrow’s column. “In the corridor, if you don’t mind?”
“I suppose I don’t.” Lady Westall sighs, handing her glass of punch to one of her friends before nodding at the nearest exir. “Shall we?”
Mari pushes forward silently, holding the door open for her as they both slip into the hallway. Once out, Lady Westall’s confused expression gives way to one of annoyance.
“Out with it,” she says. “Please.”
“Oh, so you do have manners.” The words pop out before she can stop herself. Hells. “I meant, er –”
“I do, as you might have recognized, had you more than a passing acquaintance with them yourself.”
So much for small talk, Mari thinks. “I’m not the one who was bragging about – what was it? How loud I made my last conquest scream?”
“I was not the one bragging that evening, as you accuse me – it was my friend and cousin Therese, and it was during intermission – you know, that portion of the evening where we are welcome to speak?” Lady Rosella’s color is high – and, hells, why is it that the thing most notable about her now is still how pretty she is? With her cheeks flushed, it puts Mari in mind of other things – ones she’d prefer not to think about when coupled with her worst rival. “You are the one who caused a scene – and now we’ve both been in the society pages, damn you.”
“Which would not have happened, either, if you hadn’t been quite so loud when you banged on the door!” She glares at her. “No one would have been the wiser if you hadn’t insisted on tromping over and shouting.”
“Because you had been loud enough yourself that the entire theater heard you call me a slag! By name.” Lady Rosella takes a step toward her. Mari lurches back, not wanting to be any closer to her than needed, perfectly aware that, given how the conversation’s gone, Lady Rosella may take it as an invitation to slap her, and then she’d really be in for it. “I ought to have demanded satisfaction then and there, but –”
“Can’t, not by the rules of dueling.” The words pop out before she can really stop herself. “It’s not an insult if it’s true, and if it’s not an insult, you don’t have the standing to demand satisfaction.”
Lady Rosella lunges toward her. Mari backs up again, feeling her back make contact with the wall. Hells, she thinks. Now I’m in for it, and it’s my own fault – Mum’ll never forgive me when this gets out.
“I demand satisfaction now,” she says, her voice dangerously even. “For the grave insult you have made to me not once, but twice.”
“Oh fuck off,” she says. “Neither of us have swords.” She pushes back, shoving Lady Rosella away from her, fully intending to go back to the main parlor, not that she gets the chance. Lady Rosella grabs at her gown, catching at it and trying to wrestle her to the floor. “What in the names of the gods are you doing?”
“I’ve seen you at some of the exhibition fights – I watched you participate in one yourself,” says Lady Rosella. Mari blinks, for it’s true, but she’d been careful to ensure it didn’t end up in the papers, and there’s no way Lady Westall’s daughter would have been there. “Fists and teeth, just like your last fight, to the yield.”
Oh, fuck, she was there. “You’re mad,” she tries. “Absolutely not – no.”
“We do it this way, or I tell your mother you were there – in front of the society columnist.” Her eyes narrow. “I’ll say Peter recognized you – for he was there, and his friends will vouch for it – and told me about it to mock you.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “All right – fine. Count of three?”
Lady Rosella pulls her to the ground, rolling atop her. There’s no warning, no count, the way there was in the exhibition match – which is hardly sporting, except nothing about any of this is sporting, for it’s completely mad. She tries to simply push the other woman off, at first, but this is ineffectual: Lady Rosella is studier than she looks, and trying to shove her does not work.
“Gods,” she says, trying to knee her. Lady Rosella is unmoved, however, unbothered by the pain. “I –”
She bites her, teeth sinking into Mari’s neck. She draws in a breath, trying not to make any sound, give away the game – how much it hurts, though it also feels perversely good, and why is it that she is wet right now, wet and aching, surely it must be a mistake – and decides enough is enough, it’s time to fight back. Get your head in the game, hells – though the throb in her cunt is unmistakable. Just how many of her meetings with other young ladies interested in the fairer sex had started this way, anyway, and how long has it been? Daphne Taylor had been the last. She had started by pinning Mari against a wall and biting her, before hitching up her skirts and putting her tongue to good use, at one of the sorts of “tea parties” Mari knows Lady Rosella is not invited to.
Focus, Mari! What are her weak points?
Lady Rosella is in a gown that leaves little to the imagination, her decolletage on full display. There! In for a penny, she thinks, before dipping her head, squirming away, dipping her head and biting at the top of her opponent's breast.
“Oh, hells –” she moans, literally moans. “That’s not sporting –” but Mari has already decided fuck it, and set her mouth to a different spot, biting there, too. She doesn’t break the skin, but it’s a near thing, Lady Rosella stifling another noise as she does.
“Yield,” she says, shoving her leg between Lady Rosella’s, trying to get her away. “Godsdammit, if you don’t want us to end up in the pages again, stop!”
She doesn’t yield, doesn’t stop. Mari’s knee slides between her legs, and she twists, letting herself fall forward, straddling Mari’s thigh and still pinning her to the ground. She tries to lift, moving herself beneath Lady Rosella, but it doesn’t matter – if anything, she moves against her, pinning her down even more thoroughly. “I’m not the one who needs to yield,” says Lady Rosella, her voice low. “I’ve got you beneath me. Apologize, and I’ll let you go.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” She tries to move again, free herself, but only succeeds in causing Lady Rosella to shift, her thigh making contact with Mari’s cunt through her dress. Desire, never gone, flares bright. She's soaked, can feel her heartbeat between her legs, the steady throb of it in her clit, and the contact, however unintentional, feels divine. Her turn to moan, then – she can’t help it, it feels good. She scrabbles, scratching at Lady Rosella’s back as she tries again to escape, absolutely mortified at her body's reaction to her sworn rival and trying to get away, but only succeeding in grinding her cunt more thoroughly against the other woman's leg, Mari’s own thigh rubbing over her.
“Oh gods,” Lady Rosella whimpers, her hips bucking forward, and that’s all it takes, at least in Mari’s mind, for lust to win. Did she mean to do this, she wonders even as she gives in, letting herself rut against her worst enemy, her own leg moving as she manages to pull Lady Rosella down and kiss her – not that it’s much of a kiss, all teeth and tongue, too hard, too rough, and yet somehow exactly what she wants, what she needs. Is this what we’ve been working toward? She’s awful, but I don’t want to – gods, I don’t want to yield, if this is what it takes –
Lady Rosella kisses her back, her nails digging into Mari’s hips even through the gown, pulling herself against her, even harder. She’s moaning, the sounds only partially muffled by Mari’s mouth, movements erratic. “Did you plan this?”
“No!” Mari says. “Gods, with you, no –” but Lady Rosella’s mouth is on hers again, kissing her as though she can force a yield this way, pulling herself against Mari, rutting against her thigh.
Oh gods, I’m going to –
Lady Rosella comes with a soft pant, her face contorting as she bites her lip, flushing bright red in her pleasure, her body quaking against Mari’s. She can feel the warmth of her cunt against her thigh, almost fancies that she can tell that the fabric is sticking to her. Not wearing unders, she thinks. Gods – I could have – if she’d let me…
The thought of what Lady Rosella might have done is enough to tip her over the edge herself, shuddering and thrusting against her, coming with a muffled cry.
They lie together for a moment, both of them trying to catch their breath. It has been all of perhaps ten minutes. Lady Rosella rolls off of her, sitting up slowly before offering her a hand. “I – do you know Repair?”
“The charm?”
“I tore your gown,” she says, her face very pink. “And mine. I know the cleaning charms, but not – I never got the hang of Repair. So unless you want everyone to know what just happened –”
“Oh gods.” Mari shakes her head, horrified at the thought. “Absolutely not. Yes, all right.”
She runs her hands along Lady Rosella’s dress as well as her own, repairing the popped threads and small tears. “Tidy us up?” There is, as she had suspected, a wet spot on the front of her gown – as well as on Lady Rosella’s.
“Gods,” her rival murmurs, but she does as requested, until both of them look more or less as tidy as they did prior to stepping away – though Lady Rosella has a pair of pink marks, one clearly in the shape of teeth, on her breast, while Mari can feel the spot on her neck she’d bitten throb. “This will not happen again. I cannot believe – anger, I suppose, is one sort of arousal. Now that I know the dangers of dueling you, I can’t imagine I’ll do so again. Try not to insult me, would you?”
She shudders. “Gods. Definitely not.”
“Thanks ever so.” Lady Rosella takes a deep breath before stepping through the door, back into the main parlor. Mari gives it a moment, listening for the conversation to resume at a normal level, before she walks back in herself, casting a tiny illusion charm over the mark on her neck, hoping to hide it from all but the sharpest of eyes.
Never again, she reminds herself, before stepping through the door.