Realistic or Modern 𝓘𝓷 𝓕𝓾𝓵𝓵 𝓑𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓶 ~ 𝓐 𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓷-𝓘𝓷𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓡𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓹𝓵𝓪𝔂 (𝓘𝓒)

[WanderLust.]

WREN DEVEREAU

Perpetually Annoyed

Sinclaire Estate

Asher CapellaStargaze Leon Pyroclast

Dress Jewelry Hair

The Sinclaire residence was a short carriage ride from the Devereau estate, though it felt much longer to Wren as she wrung her gloved hands in her lap, the silken fabric cold to the touch despite the mild weather that evening. Her brother, Asher, sat on the bench across from her as their carriage rumbled steadily against the cobblestone road, though a single word had yet to pass between them on the brief ride. In truth, she was hesitant to strike up a conversation with him, lest it come to light somehow that Wren had been mentioned in the latest issue of Whistledown.

Of course, the first time her idol had deigned to acknowledge her existence, Wren’s name had been preceded by that of the brazzen Sinclaire brother from the horse races. A loathsome speculation, unfounded in truth, that had left her with a sour taste in her mouth for the author of such falsities. She had never taken Asher to be an avid reader and highly doubted he had ever deigned to avail himself of the finer social intricacies of the ton. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers were not something Asher would’ve read of his own free will. Wren doubted he even knew of their existence, yet still, her lips remained silently pursed. Her eyes looking everywhere but at her brother as their carriage rumbled slowly to a stop.

Their invitation to the night’s festivities had come not from the lady of the house, but instead from the Marquess himself. Weston Sinclaire was a friend of Asher’s, and thus it was of no surprise when the ginger haired gentleman personally awaited to welcome the siblings to the ball. “Do at least try to acquaint yourself with some of the ladies at tonight's ball,” Wren’s voice held an uncommon note of sincerity as she placed a sparkling silver and sapphire mask upon her face, tying the delicate laces behind her head in a neat bow. “Mother wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone.” she finished curtly, the faintest hint of a sorrowful smile pulling at the edge of her full lips.

Of course, there was something to be said about the pot calling the kettle black in the current situation. Their mother would not have wanted Wren to be alone either, of that she was well aware. But Wren wasn’t alone. She had Aunt Joanna. Besides, Wren would’ve parried such a comment with the notion that it was only her first season. Surely, she had more than enough time to survey her options before settling down and resigning herself to an early grave. For men, perhaps, marriage held the promise of comfort and companionship, they had nothing to lose and everything to gain. But for women like Wren, marriage was a sentence, the surrender of her freedom for what? She didn’t see the appeal.

One of the Sinclaire’s footmen opened the door to their carriage, offering a gloved hand to escort Wren down the steps which she accepted gratefully. “Good evening, Marquess.” Wren offered a warm smile to Weston, who returned her greeting with a similar smile. “Ms. Devereau, a pleasure as always. Please, help yourself to some refreshments inside. We had the kitchens prepare my sister’s favorite drink. Something with raspberries…” he shook his head, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“I think I shall do just that.” Wren bowed her head in farewell to the Marquess, leaving her brother to catch up with his old friend. She was sure Asher would come and find her later, when he required an excuse to avoid socializing with eligible debutantes and their meandering mamas. As she strode towards the open doors of the Sinclaire manor, her silvery blue dress fanned out behind her in an elegant display of moonlit fabric. A warm light emitted from the illustriously decorated ballroom, and Wren caught her own reflection in the frame of multiple mirrors which lined the entry hall to the main event. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a simple updo, the shortest lengths of her hair falling in gentle curls just past her chin. Perhaps a somewhat scandalous choice, her dress revealed the entirety of her neck, collarbones, and shoulders though they were far from bare. The piece de resistance was the double layered necklace hung around her neck, set with countless sparkling stones, the largest of which were six glittering sapphires.

For a moment, Wren allowed herself to marvel at her own appearance, finding it almost hard to recognize the girl who stared back at her from the other side of the mirror. When had she become so grown up? She frowned slightly at the realization… she was beginning to look just like her mother. It was only when she felt the weight of an arm wrapped around her shoulders that Wren was able to pull her gaze away from the mirrors, now glaring at her would-be assailant instead. The only unmasked gentleman in the entire ballroom, Leon Sinclaire wreaked of brandy and bitterness. Inadvertently stumbling in his steps, she could feel the brunt of his weight as he leaned on her, his appearance the very definition of disheveled.

“Welcome to my father’s second wake.” His words were slurred, but his tone was undeniably bitter and cold.

“Have you lost your mind?” Wren hissed, her eyes quickly scanning the crowded ballroom to ensure their audience was limited in number. Though they were far enough away from the majority of the guests to draw too much attention, Leon’s state of drunkenness was sure to garner more unwelcomed eyes if she allowed him to continue on in such a manner. She weighed her options momentarily as she struggled to untangle herself from Leon’s grip, though the moment she removed his arm from around her shoulders he teetered unsteadily as though he might just topple down the stairs.

Realistically, she knew what she should have done in such a situation. She should have parted ways with him, perhaps alerted a servant to his state and let that be the end of it. Rid herself of any association with the drunken rake and carried on with her night. That’s what she should have done. But instead, Wren wrapped her hand tightly around his right arm, whisking him down the hallway to their left with an annoyed urgency. “For God’s sake, come on.” Leon stumbled with every step he took, and in the secluded corridor Wren found herself faced with three closed doors, none of which were any more promising than the other. With a resigned sigh, she decided to open the door immediately to their right, practically shoving Leon into the room and shutting the door behind them before she had even had a chance to survey their surroundings.

This room, unlike the rest of the house, was dark and barren. There were few items of furniture save a large, four post bed next to which burned a single candle. The curtains were half drawn and the sheets of the bed were thrown about in a way that suggested whomever’s bedroom this was had not slept well the night prior. Reluctantly, Wren turned her attention back to Leon, truly surveying him for the first time that night as he leaned against the wall for balance. His golden hair was strewn about in messy strands, his chest exposed by the deep neckline of his nightshirt. She could just barely make out the faintest hint of several scars that littered the otherwise smooth skin of his torso, and she found herself wondering where such scars had come from. Only after several moments was she able to drag her forest green eyes up to meet his gaze. But where she expected to find defiance, she saw only pain.

Something twinged in her chest then, an uncomfortable surge of pity that she willed herself to swallow. She had heard the news of the previous Marquess Sinclaire’s passing, or rather, she had read about it in a letter from Asher shortly after christmas explaining that his friend Weston was to become the new Marquess. She hadn’t thought much of it then, perhaps a passing moment of remorse for the family, but she hadn’t known them well enough to consider the consequences with any real gravity. At the time, she had been too concerned with the passing of her own mother to grieve the losses of others. But now, face to face with the reality that the Sinclaire patriarch’s absence had left, Wren couldn’t help but identify with the tortured soul in front of her.

She wanted to scream at Leon, to shout a hundred different profanities at him, scolding him for his behavior thus far. But when her voice broke the silence it was soft, gentle. “I’m sorry about your father.” she paused, her gaze searching his for any sort of confirmation that he had actually heard her, that he was even coherent enough to understand what she was saying. The open bottle of brandy hanging haphazardly in the grip of his left hand would’ve led her to believe otherwise. “I know that nothing I say will eb the pain,” she stepped forward, closing the gap between them to snatch the bottle of brandy from his grasp “but neither will this.” her voice picked up a slight sharpness then as she placed the almost empty bottle on the desk to her left.

Realizing for the first time that she was still wearing her mask, Wren reached behind her head to untie the silly little costume piece, discarding it next to the empty bottle of brandy before turning her attention back to Leon. “This isn’t the way to honor his memory.” But as she searched his gaze she found no indication that he was listening. She let out a frustrated huff, her eyes rolling upwards “Fine then. Drown in your brandy.” Wren growled lowly, moving for the door, ready to rid herself of this ridiculous interaction.

coded by natasha.

 

[WanderLust.]

LYDIA SINCLAIRE

Mildly Overwhelmed

Sinclaire Estate

Rhys Bellz

Dress Hair Jewelry

Lydia’s mother had always insisted that Lydia looked best in white. The color of innocence and purity, a symbol of wealth and influence… the very picture of a blushing bride. It was no surprise then, when Odette had swept her daughter away to the modiste to be fitted for a new gown to wear for her grandiose moonlight masquerade ball, that she had hand picked a fabric for Lydia’s dress the very shade of ivory that cloaked the moon in the midnight sky. Lydia’s entire ensemble, every item of which had been carefully curated by her mother, was a stunning shade of milky white, from her jewel encrusted, feather adorned mask, all the way down to her silken slippers.

Of course, this meant that Lydia had spent a majority of her evening so far avoiding anything that might tarnish or stain her glistening wardrobe. The kitchens had prepared her favorite refreshment for the occasion, lemonade enhanced with muddled raspberries that gave the drink a marvelously bright pink color. Lydia stood at the refreshment table for a few moments, pondering whether it was worth it to risk spilling the contents of her glass onto herself… but she was so terribly thirsty. Gingerly, she reached out and clasped her grip tightly around one of the crystal glasses, bringing it to her lips with such caution that any onlookers might’ve questioned whether or not Lydia had already had too much to drink… or perhaps not enough.

The sound of a voice behind her caused her to flinch slightly, sloshing about the liquid in her cup. She thanked every star in the sky that she had already drunk enough of the pink liquid so that it didn’t spill over the rim of her glass.

Miss Sinclaire, do you mean to taunt us bachelors with such an ensemble? As if we weren’t already aware what a stunning bride you would make.

Lydia turned her head to identify the voice of her new companion, only to silently deflate when she registered his face. Lord Monroe was an extremely wealthy and well regarded gentleman with blonde hair and deep brown eyes the color of tea before you added milk. He was the eldest of his brothers, and thus stood to inherit one of the largest and most lucrative estates in all the ton. He had once been the most eligible bachelor London had to offer. He was, of course, seventeen years her elder.

“Lord Monroe, good evening.” Lydia offered a shallow curtsy, dipping her chin ever so slightly to the floor. “I trust you are enjoying the night’s festivities?”

Of course, everything is exquisite. Upon uttering the last word of his response, Lord Monroe’s eyes roamed over the length of Lydia’s torso as though he were admiring his last meal. It sent shivers crawling down her spine and a warm blush crept up towards her cheeks.

Tell me, is your dance card yet full? I should not want to miss a chance to sample the best this ton has to offer.

Lydia’s eyes flicked down towards her very empty dance card which hung around her left wrist like a noose awaiting its victim. Her heartbeat began to quicken, thudding in her ears so loudly that Lydia truly wondered if the orchestra had begun to play a thrilling jig instead of a languid quadrille. Her mother would never forgive her should she turn down an opportunity to dance with one of London’s most eligible bachelors, but the very thought of Lord Monroe’s cold, clammy hand upon her waist caused her stomach to tie itself in a sailor’s knot.

A lengthy silence persisted between them as Lydia’s eyes searched the crowded ballroom for an escape route. Where was Weston? Or Francis? What had happened to Theodore Willowby? Had he even accepted her invitation? Forcing a pleasant smile to paint her lips, Lydia cleared her throat. “Actually, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Monroe. I do believe I require a bit of fresh air. These events can be so overwhelming.”

Surely he wouldn’t question her excuse? Setting her mostly full glass back down on the refreshment table, Lydia turned towards the doorways that led to the exterior gardens, her feet starting to move before her mind was able to catch up.

Please, Miss Sinclaire, allow me to escort you.

Lydia heard his plea, but made no move to acknowledge it, feigning instead that she had failed to hear him over the lull of the musician's instruments. Where was her mother? Had she seen Lydia turn down Lord Monroe? Was Lord Monroe still following her? What was she-

Lydia practically collided with a tall, dark haired gentleman just as she was entering the gardens. The dim light of the lanterns hanging in the trees providing little illumination for her to make out any distinguishing features apart from deep, chocolatey eyes. Lydia’s own features were largely hidden by her ivory mask, the feather of which had been bent in her collision with the man before her. Removing it, she looked down at the costume piece with a frown before pulling her eyes up to meet the gaze of the man she had so rudely bumped into.

“Please forgive me, I-”

Miss Sinclaire, are you quite alright?

Lydia remained facing the dark haired gentleman, her face contorting in a silent curse as her back remained to Lord Monroe, who had evidently followed her out to the gardens.

coded by natasha.

 

[Pyroclast]

Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Ballroom, Sinclaire Estate ~

Lord Augustus Bloomington​

As the Bloomingtons sat together in their coach, it struck Augustus that he couldn’t remember the last time somebody had hosted a masquerade ball. As expected, they had all dressed up to the nines, August and Victoria opting for their signature blue, and there was little doubt the family would turn all the usual heads upon their arrival, and more. Yet, he had to admit there was something quite amusing about seeing people copping disguises - pointed feline eyes, or a nose swapped for an owl’s beak. With all his siblings looking back at him in the carriage through their masks, August spent much of the carriage ride fighting a fit of the giggles.

Fortunately, his own mask disguised his pink cheeks and streaming eyes enough for him to feign serious upon their arrival. The London estate was certainly one to behold - even from the outside, it looked as though weeks of preparation had gone into its appearance for this one night alone. And perhaps it had, he thought. August walked with his mother on his arm, leading his siblings behind them as they entered through the doors. The first thing his eyes landed on was a great chandelier, five tiers of glittering diamonds all refracting the light. The entrance hall itself was no less grand, with huge portraits on the walls framed by ornate golden pillars - but even surrounded by such splendour, the chandelier still managed to draw attention to itself. It had as much of an effect on his mother, who was trying in vain to hide her awe.

“I believe your compliments are due not for the Dowager Marchioness, but for her parents, given it is their home we are in,” he lightly challenged, his own eyes taking in the opulence of the mansion’s interior. “Though I would venture to imagine the Sinclaire estate in Winchester just as grand as this, if not grander.”

The ballroom below was already bustling with activity and music, the guests in their masquerade costumes filling the dancefloor with all the whimsy of a Fragonard painting. As they descended the staircase, Victoria reminded him and Francis to keep close eyes on their sisters. August watched as his mother eventually set off in the direction of the refreshments table, wondering how she tended to spend her time at such events while her children danced.

With this being only his sisters’ second ball, August still felt protective. However, he didn’t keep them at his side for long, instead assuring them that he would remain nearby. Francis had made himself known to the Duchess at the races, but even Lady Whistledown hadn’t found much to say about their encounter, and Francis had had even less to say. Even so, August hoped that his brother and sisters were making some headway in finding somebody suitable. Such events were full of eligible bachelors and potential brides, attractive altogether in looks, personality and fortune. Yet, for August, there was only one person occupying his thoughts, and given her circumstances, he did not expect her to be in attendance.

Suddenly a heavy arm hooked around his shoulders and air around him was filled with the smell of brandy. In a manner most uncouth, the youngest Sinclaire brother uttered a welcome that sounded rehearsed and, despite his smile, seemed less than genuine. August was left to watch him stumble through the sea of guests, himself too taken aback to think to go after him. Not only was the younger man not in costume, but he wasn’t even in half dress - not to mention his obvious inebriation. August soon lost sight of him, but moved a little closer to his sisters to ensure that they remained undisturbed.

Concerned still that the drunken host was not in a state to guard his inhibitions, August made his way quickly over to the Marquess, whose mask he managed to identify only because he had seen him greeting guests at the entrance. “Sinclaire.” August offered him a polite smile as he approached him. “It’s me - Augustus,” he hastened to add, in case his own mask disguised him too well. “It’s good to see you again, man. A beautiful evening your family has thrown tonight - you must pass my compliments to your mother and grandparents.” His smile wavered as he remembered that the last time he had spoken to the man had been at the funeral of the late Marquess. He almost extended his condolences again, but managed to stop short. Clearing his throat, he leaned in close to Weston. “You might check on your brother,” he warned him under his breath. “It is not my place to speculate on the matter, but he is not in a civilised state…I think someone ought to put him to bed before he finds himself in trouble.”

His words were chosen with tact in mind, but they did not convey the truth, which was that August was not concerned by Leon facing the consequence of his actions but rather who his actions would hurt. His sisters were on the dancefloor, as were his friends and many other women whose evening - or even reputation - could be put at risk by an encounter with the undressed gentleman. Despite this, he knew his place was not to meddle in the affairs of the Sinclaire family, so he trusted that Weston would have the young man dealt with quietly before he could cause a scene.

Leaving the problem in Weston’s hands, August focused instead on locating his sisters, eager to make sure they did not run into the troubled Sinclaire brother, nor any other gentleman who might choose to harass them. He approached the staircase again, intending to use it as a vantage point to survey the room, but as he did he noticed someone descending the stairs - someone he had not expected to see.

Transfixed by the vision of her, August’s awareness of the room shifted. The soprano no longer sang to a room of people, but solely to the arrival of Lady Helena Bexley, Empress of Austria. It was as though he had transcended to a place beyond anybody’s reach; nobody could bother him and nothing could pull his attention away from her. After she had disclosed her situation to him, he had sworn to care for her throughout her grief. Of course, given their own situation, having been betrothed in the past, he understood that it would not do either of their reputations any good to be seen together too often, so he would have to be clever in finding ways to protect her well-being while maintaining a sensible distance.

August slipped out of his trance upon noticing that Helena appeared somewhat nervous as she came down the stairs. Her steps were tentative, unsteady, as if she wasn't quite sure whether to proceed. He resolved to meet her, and in a few moments came to stand before her on the step below.

“That shade of pink always belonged to you,” he said with a smile. “It's August, by the way. I know this mask makes me look disproportionately handsome, but I assure you I am still the same old troll underneath. You, on the other hand, look beautiful either way.” He offered his arm to her for support, and looked out at the scene below. “A lot of people in attendance tonight. I've spotted some frightful masks - don't be afraid if you see a Plague Doctor wandering about, it's only old Doctor Thompson playing a silly prank.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Still, you would be wise not to dance with him. You know what they say about surgeons - steady hands, clumsy feet!”

Once they had made it to the ballroom floor, Augustus led her to one side, out of the way of the excitable guests, and let go of her arm. “I must say, I'm…” Was it rude to admit he was surprised? Or to bring up the reason why, being that the last time he had seen her she had broken down crying in public? “I'm pleased to see you here, Helena,” was what he settled for. “I had not heard if you had decided to come, but I'm pleased that you are here. I imagine it should do you good to surround yourself with friends and enjoy what festivities society has to offer this summer, don't you think?” He smiled at her once more. In truth, he longed to ask her how she was fairing, but he didn't want to risk making her cry in such a crowded place - especially since Lady Whistledown was often in attendance at these large events.

Interactions
Bellz Victoria, Helena
SandraDeelightful Sophy
neverbackdown Amelia
CapellaStargaze Francis
WanderLust. Weston

 

[Pyroclast]

Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Leon's bedchamber, Sinclaire Estate ~

Lord Leon Sinclaire​

As he swept through the crowd with a purposeful, albeit meandering, swagger, Leon was vaguely aware of the dismayed looks that people were giving him. Whereas a right-minded gentleman would be ashamed, the alcohol in the young Sinclaire’s system made sure he felt not the slightest bit self-conscious, and so onwards he went in search of his mother, driven by a misplaced sense of righteousness.

Most of the people who had time to react to him as he passed by were shocked, disgusted, turning their daughters or sisters away from him. However, one young lady he happened to bump into was quick to respond to his insincere greeting, and hissed into his ear.

“Have I lost my mind?” he echoed, with a soft, distant laugh. “Maybe…No, I think I’m quite sure I know what I’m doing.” It wasn’t until she managed to unhook his arm from her shoulders that he came to face her, but between his compromised vision and the mask she was wearing, he still was unable to tell who he was talking to.

Suddenly Leon found himself being dragged across the floor by a tight grip on his right arm, similar to that of his mother when she was scolding him. Try as he might, he couldn’t manage to plant his feet on the floor in defiance, and so ended up resigning to follow wherever the woman was taking him. “Let go of my arm,” he protested, but his voice carried no assertion, and she seemed to have reason to believe she knew better.

Then, it was dark, quiet. A door shut behind them, enclosing them in a private space. He saw a bed - his bed. The fine clothes he had been wearing earlier, crumpled on the floor at his feet. Despite being drunk and alone with a beautiful, mysterious and assertive woman, no lewd thoughts entered Leon’s head. This wasn’t a room where magic happened. This was a room where he let himself fall apart, where nightmares crushed him, where the floorboards creaked beyond the drapes of his poster bed and the whistling wind outside carried ghoulish wails. It was where his mind unravelled fastest, in the dark, in the quiet, all alone in the room that overlooked a garden where, out of the corner of his eye, he would think he saw tragedy unfold.

The woman, who he was only now beginning to recognise, looked at him with a commanding gaze, and he found himself latching on. Everything about their interaction was unexpected, but nothing more so than when she offered her condolences for his father's passing. Leon only held his eyes on her, wondering what she was doing in his bedroom, why she had condescended to take him upstairs. She didn't owe him anything, nor were they even friends. Yet here she was, wasting her evening on him, risking everything. And for what?

The woman continued to express her sympathy as she drew nearer until she was so close he could smell her fragrant perfume, sweet and floral. His eyes closed and his head bowed to meet her, to draw in more of the comforting scent. He raised a hand to touch her, but she leaned just out of reach to place his bottle of brandy on the vanity dresser, having taken it from him without him even noticing. Leon leaned his back against the wall for support and watched as she removed her mask. He wasn’t surprised to see the face of the woman he had met at the race the previous week, though at that moment he was too numb to feel much at all.

Wren was gentle in her discouragement, and deep down he knew she was right - drinking alone wasn’t what his father would want him to be doing, nor would it in any way honour his memory. He hadn’t even meant to get as drunk as he had. Alcohol didn’t bring his moods up - in fact it often left him even more depressed - but enough of it would slow his thoughts down to a halt, and on the worst days, that was all he wanted. Other times, such as today, it was a friend to him, spurring him on, indulging his wildest whims and filling him with the cocksure attitude he needed to fulfil them. Except that, by bringing him back to his room, Wren had inadvertently put out his fire.

She seemed suddenly to lose her patience and gave up on her attempts to get through to him, instead making her way to the door. Fear began to rise up in him, the same that had arisen after he had banished his valet from his bedroom in the middle of the night. A lost child left behind. “Wait.” Leon pushed himself away from the wall, one hand still against it to keep his balance. “Don’t. Please, just...for a minute.” His voice came deep and distant, and in the silence surrounding it he could hear the music play on from beneath the floorboards. He wished that Wren wasn’t seeing him in one of his low states. If she hadn’t diverted him from his mischievous plan and whisked him away, he likely would still be in the ballroom, feeling on top of the world. Now, in the dark, in the quiet, he was sinking into himself, and worse still, she was there to witness it.

“You drag me away from a party, say those things and then leave me alone in the dark, hm?” he said, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “What game is that?”

The atmosphere of the room was heavy with dread, like it often was at night. Guilt and shame and traumatic memories lurked in the shadows, waiting for him to be alone. Leon stepped closer to Wren, afraid of her leaving and closing the door between them. Once he was close enough, he reached out and touched her arm, as though to anchor himself. “This whole party is just…” he whispered, but shook his head before he could get the rest of the words out. He didn’t really want to bore Wren with his problems. He just didn’t want to be alone. “If you walk through that door, then I’m coming with you.”

Interactions
WanderLust. Wren

 

[neverbackdown]

Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Ballroom, Sinclaire Estate ~

Lady Amelia Bloomington
​

Whilst she found the idea of a masquerade ball charming she also found it to be quite amusing and silly especially as she sat in the carriage looking at each of her family members in turn and the masks they had chosen. A fit of giggles threatened to errupt but she managed to hold it in and keep herself together afraid that if she gave in to her giggles, she would ruin her makeup before she even reached the destination.After almost breaking into a fit of laughter at the sight of her brother, August, giggling like a school boy, Amelia spent the remainder of the carriage ride looking down at her hands to feigh off any amusing distractions. Instead she thought about the night ahead, the wonderful music that would be played and perhaps she would even get to dance with Morgan again.

As her mind once again turned towards Morgan, a regular thought for her in the last few days, Amelia instinctively looked towards Augustus who was sitting in front of her. She knew he would not be happy if his friend courted her but seeing as Morgan was a good person then maybe, just maybe, her brother would be ok with it. Everything was so just comfortable and easy with him, having known Morgan most of her life as with all the Davenport family she fully believed that if anything did happen between them this ton then the move from friends to more would be an easy one. As her cheeks began to heat up, Amelia quickly tried to distract herself from her thoughts afraid that she would give away her very thoughts as if the pink glow forming on her skin would declare all her secrets for the world to know. Thankfully, the carriage came to a stop and Amelia quickly stepped out allowing the cool breeze to wipe away her crimson stain.

As she looked up at the Sinclair Mansion ahead of her, a small gasp escaped her lips as she took in the sheer beauty of size of it. As the rest of her family left the carriage, Amelia smiled at Sophy before holding out her arm for her sister to take. "How are you feeling about tonight?" she asked her quietly so not to be overheard. The Ton had only just begun but there seemed to be a spark of confidence growing within her sister and the idea made Amelia beam in delight. She loved watching her sister grow into herself and becoming a young lady of her own right. As they walked into the room, her thoughts cast to her youngest sister and how she too would soon be gracing the Ton with her presence and what a presence that would be, Tilly was definitely the wildest of them all and it almost made Amelia laugh to think about how in the next Ton, August would have to somehow try and keep ahold of Tilly.

As their mother turned towards them, Amelia smiled softly before giving her a nod in response "Thank you Mama, I hope you enjoy yourself too". As her mother walked away, Amelia looked around the room at the other guests but found it almost impossible to tell who was present due to the masks concealing their faces. Still holding onto her sisters arm, Amelia turned to look at her "lets talk a walk of the room shall we?" she mused. After a final glance to both of her brothers and a nod that she knew they would pick up to me "ive got this" Amelia began to walk around the outskirts of the room, a smile on her lips as she took in the wonderful outfits and masks surrounding her. It was obvious that everyone had gone all out for this ball.

Coming to a stop beside a small table, Amelia took a drink and handed one to her sister before taking one for herself. "It is beautiful, is it not" she mused as she stood looking out at the dancefloor and all those enjoying their time. As she looked around the room she found herself looking for one person in particular, a dark haired man, who sadly, did not seem to be in attendance, or at least not yet. Accepting that she could not see him, Amelia took a another sip of her drink as she continued to try and place who was present.


*************

Bellz - Mothers dearest
Pyroclast - Augustus
SandraDeelightful - Sophy
CapellaStargaze - Francis (Mentions Morgan)
AnimeGenork - Tilly (mentions)

(Open for interaction)

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Garden)

Lord Rhys Davenport​

Rhys possessed nerve in abundance, to be sure. Yet summoning it now, in this very moment, seemed a far more daunting task than it had ever been. Recklessness had always been his companion, his decisions made with a cavalier ease he would never dare admit bordered on folly. And yet, his feet remained stubbornly rooted in place, refusing to carry him forward through those grand doors. He made no attempt to force them, choosing instead to cradle his nearly empty glass like his life depended on it. As if this cursed drink were the sole reason he had bothered to attend this wretched affair at all.

A string of curse words, sharp as knives, poised on the edge of his tongue, was mere moments from spilling forth when someone collided with him. His glass, fortunately too empty to spill, remained intact, but it did little to soften the scowl that darkened his features. Heat crept up his neck as his temper flared, ready to unleash itself upon the unfortunate soul who dared to cross his path. He turned sharply, a viper ready to strike, yet—he hesitated.

The scowl faltered, though irritation still lingered on his face. The wide, innocent eyes staring back at him held such an air of guilelessness that his usual sharp retort died on his lips. And then there was the feather—a ridiculous plume from her mask, now removed, hanging limply in her hand. The woman, draped in white, began stammering an apology for her clumsy intrusion, but her words were swiftly interrupted by a male voice from behind her.

By the way she failed to turn and acknowledge the gentleman who inquired after her well-being, and by the subtle twist of her otherwise delicate features, Rhys deduced a few things rather quickly. First, it seemed Miss Sinclaire had, in fact, collided with him purely by accident. And second, she was clearly seeking an escape from this man’s unwanted company. Though Rhys was no paragon of nobility like precious Morgan, even he understood that a lady ought to move about unencumbered by discomfort. Still, this man’s loss could very well prove to be Rhys’s gain—provided, of course, Miss Sinclaire turned out to be worthy of his attention.

Rhys made sure Lydia’s eyes met his own before offering her a roguish wink. “Ah, there you are, my dear! I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” His boyish grin appeared as he took her hand, bowing slightly before placing the softest of kisses upon her knuckles. He could scarcely suppress the urge to retch. “Your dear mama was just giving me a tour of the garden, but I had to tell her the only rose worth my interest was you.” How was his brother ALWAYS like this?

When his gaze lifted to hers, Rhys feigned a sudden concern, as though he had just noticed something amiss. “Is everything quite alright, my love?” he inquired, straightening his posture and casting a pointed look past Lydia towards Lord Monroe. “I trust you are not troubling Miss Sinclaire… My lord, I do apologize, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Rhys smiled then, a sharp, unsettling display that showed all of his teeth, more a threat than a gesture of warmth. Without waiting for an answer, he looped his arm through Lydia’s. “No matter,” he continued dismissively, “I think it’s high time we return to the party. Do be so kind as to keep your distance, won’t you? Lest I find myself compelled to be rather less courteous about maintaining mine.”

The man, clad entirely in black, turned his gaze toward Lydia, his smile softening into one of undeniable admiration, tinged ever so slightly with desire. “I shall go wherever you lead,” he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth as he leaned in just a touch closer. “only show me the way.”
with: Lydia WanderLust.
mentions: the way too sweet motherf*cker CapellaStargaze

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)

Lady Helena Bexley​

Each step brought her closer to the grand ballroom, where Helena felt she would need to don a thousand masks just to endure the evening. In one way, it was no different from the life she had always led, but in another, the difference was glaring. Secrets were perhaps easier to keep than the burden of concealing the fragile state of her heart. Though hesitation tugged at her every movement, urging her back to the safety of the carriage, she pressed forward, determined. As she descended the stairs, her steps faltering ever so slightly, she was startled to find a familiar figure waiting for her at the foot of the staircase. A wistful smile curved upon Helena’s lips as August complimented her, followed by a charming introduction as though they had not shared years of friendship. A soft scoff, then a quiet laugh, slipped from her lips—a sound both steady and sorrowful—as August made a jest at his own expense, only to flatter her once more. When he offered his arm, her gaze briefly swept across the bustling ballroom before she accepted, stepping down to join him on equal footing.

"Still as dashing and handsome as ever," she began, her tone light but betraying a hint of fragility, "though your attitude may be a touch trollish." She attempted a teasing tone, though her voice cracked slightly with the effort. "Tell me, how is it that you, looking every bit the prince from a fairytale, have managed to escape the eager clutches of the season's most eligible brides?" Helena glanced up at him, allowing him to guide her. She knew well enough that her own feet would not carry her towards this place or these people. But she could not run any longer—not from this night.

"Plague doctor?" Helena repeated with a raised brow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she shook her head in amusement. August leaned in closer, his voice lowering, and though she tried not to tense at the sudden warmth between them, the weight of her melancholy lingered just beneath the surface. In an effort to dispel it, she gave him a gentle shove, their arms still entwined. "August! Surely if he were a surgeon, he’d be able to fix my poor feet, wouldn't he?" she quipped with a laugh. As they moved to a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the eager throngs who relished the evening’s excitement, August released her arm and turned to face her. The last time they had spoken, Helena had—quite unexpectedly—allowed many of her barriers to crumble in his presence, something she hadn’t anticipated. Grief was a tempestuous thing, sweeping in waves that could leave her breathless when she least expected it. Yet tonight, she was determined to remain composed, even if it meant exhausting herself to maintain the fragile mask she had so carefully crafted.

Helena’s smile, though still touched by melancholy, had softened when August expressed his pleasure at seeing her there. She nodded in quiet understanding, for she had given him no indication that she would attend. "I imagine it should," she said, her lips curving in a slight smile. But beneath the surface of this pleasantry, Helena knew well that there was a question hanging in the air, one that August had yet to voice. They had known each other far too long for him to conceal his concern. As pleased as he appeared, she could sense his worry, the unspoken inquiry of how she was truly faring simmering just beneath their polite exchange. He did not wish to upset her, especially in so public a setting. "I ebb and flow...some days I am well and...," she confessed, her voice quieter now, "and other days, everything feels far too much." She spoke plainly, her gaze drifting toward the crowd. She didn’t need to read the subtle expressions behind his mask to know his heart; she had always been able to see through to his soul. "The whispers of your question linger beneath our words, My Lord," she continued, her tone gentle. "Even if I cannot see your face completely."

Helena turned then, her gaze locking with his, those familiar eyes she had known for what seemed a lifetime. “It weighs on me,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “To indulge in merriment, to enjoy the things that once brought me such happiness…” Her hands twisted nervously before her, fingers fidgeting as if searching for an anchor. “The warmth of the sun on my skin, the music... For a fleeting moment, I am swept away by it, just as I was in simpler times. But then, in an instant, I’m reminded they will never again experience such joys. Joys they taught me to cherish.” The heaviness settled in her chest, threatening to pull her into deeper sorrow. Sensing the need to shift the conversation, Helena cleared her throat and forced a brighter smile for August. It physically hurt. “Fear not, Viscount,” she said with as much levity as she could muster, though the words felt hollow in her own ears. “I will be well in time.”

Time healed most wounds—or so they said. But standing before her now was a wound barely healed, one that still throbbed beneath the surface. Distracting her painful thoughts, Helena tilted her head playfully, a spark of mischief forcefully returning to her voice. “I do hope you will spend less of this evening worrying over me and more time on the dance floor. I fear your mother is not particularly pleased with me keeping you to myself. Her glances during our promenade were quite... pointed. I imagine they would be more of the same should I prevent you from finding a suitable match.” Helena’s tone was light now, secure in its teasing.

“But…” she added with a softer smile, “I will always appreciate your concern.” Turning her attention to the ballroom floor, Helena surveyed the assembly of ladies, both dancing and observing. “I would advise steering clear of Miss Rutledge... I’ve heard from my lady’s maid that she has her sights set on Lord Allen, and they seem to have... business together,” she remarked, her cheeks warming slightly. “But Miss St. James may be a fine choice. Her father is a Baron, and she’s quite lovely—musically inclined, sweet-natured too.”

Her eyes scanned his face for longer than necessary, her heart traitorously skipping a beat before she swiftly averted her gaze. A smile dancing on her lips, she added, “Tell me, have you any thoughts on who might look beyond your trollish nature as I so graciously do?”
with: the wound barely healed : ( Pyroclast

 

[CapellaStargaze]

Genevieve Davenport

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  Interactions: Celestine Bellz Mentions: Benny Bellz August Pyroclast
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Genevieve sat in the carriage with her family, staring intently out of the window. She knew she needed to secure some suitors soon. There had been too much preparation and too many sacrifices from her siblings for her to fail. She loved every one of her siblings and knew how much they did to protect her. The least she could do would be to marry someone of high status to please their father. She just hoped her siblings would leave the house as soon as she planned to.

The carriage made an abrupt stop in front of the Sinclaire Estate, breaking the uncomfortable silence of the carriage. Genevieve smoother her pink gown and moved to step out of the carriage, taking Morgan’s hand as a guide. She took Morgan’s arm silently and made her way up the steps of the estate. Her eyes darted around as she took in the beauty of the place but nothing compared to the site they were met with as they were ushered into the ballroom. She let go of Morgan’s arm as she marveled at the deep crimson velvet and extravagances. Celestine was right, this very well may rival the Queen.

Genevieve let her eyes wander around the ballroom and the dancefloor. She wasn’t particularly fond of dancing but the swirls of excitement kept her mesmerized. She watched as attendees gathered around the dancefloor either in conversation or waiting to join the excitement themselves. She let her eyes wander around a little more, grazing a man in a mask almost the same color as her own. He seemed different to her than the other men around the ball.

She turned to her sister as she asked her a question. She sometimes wondered if her sister could see in her head but she gave her a smile. “Perhaps. Might as well make the most of this evening. And you, dear sister? Does any man catch your eye this evening?”

Genevieve hoped her sister had a pleasant time. She deserved it more than anyone to at least have some fun. Maybe she would dance with Augustus again. Evie just hoped they would both leave this ball with something to show for it.

Happier Than Ever

VSQ

♡coded by uxie♡

Spoiler: Outfit

 

[CapellaStargaze]

Morgan Davenport

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  Celestine Bellz Mentions: Edmund Pyroclast Amelia neverbackdown
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Morgan stood in front of the mirror in his room, staring intently at his reflection. The silver and black mask that he wore was almost a symbol of the facade he hid behind in his day to day life. Concealing his true self was something Morgan wasn’t new to but the mask almost gave him an excuse to drop the dutiful son mask and be himself. His mind wandered to Edmund, the man he had met at Kew Palace. He took Morgan by surprise with his views on society. He was drawn to the idea that someone truly felt the way he did. He didn’t know if anything would ever come of it due to the certain company Morgan liked to keep wasn’t very common but Edmund was in his thoughts lately and the reason for a smile from time to time.

Morgan was pulled from his thoughts as his mother called them down the stairs and in the carriage. The carriage ride from the Davenport House to the Sinclair Estate was a silent one. Morgan didn’t mind the silence, grateful to stay in his own head than to force a careful and curated conversation. He knew his mother was hoping he would dance with a few ladies tonight or perhaps Amelia Bloomington, someone his mother was delighted to see dance with her second eldest son. As much as Morgan would love to write his own life, he already had one planned out for him. A life that probably didn’t need the distractions of clumsy lords. Morgan knew he needed to do two things tonight, watch out for his sisters and at least make an effort to look for a wife. He did have a nice conversation with Amelia but he knew whoever he made his wife, he could never truly love them.

When the carriage stopped, Morgan didn’t hesitate to get out to escape his thoughts. He stepped out of the carriage, holding out a hand for Genevieve to exit the carriage. He silently made his way up the stairs of the estate, his youngest sister holding on to his arm. When they got inside, he took in the over the top decorations. He gave a small chuckle at Celestine’s comment. The Queen might not like being rivaled. He looked around the ballroom intently, letting his sisters converse freely. He would like to think he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular but then he would be lying to himself as he sought out the auburn haired man.

Bad Guy

VSQ

♡coded by uxie♡

Spoiler: Outfit

 

[Bellz]

(11 days later)
Saturday, April 29th, 1815
Sinclaire Estates, London (Ballroom)
Benedict Turner​

While others may have exercised the practiced art of discretion, masking their awe at the splendor of the evening, Benedict's astonishment was all too evident, even beneath his mask. The delicate curve of his lips, forming a perpetual 'o,' betrayed his wonder from the moment he and Teddy descended from the carriage until they crossed the grand threshold of the ballroom. His usual brisk pace was markedly subdued, his steps hindered by a particularly taxing bout of his tic. Yet, the elegantly carved cane, adorned with the head of a horse, lent to him for the occasion, provided both balance and a touch of grandeur to his gait.

Despite the spectacle surrounding him—the glittering chandeliers, the sumptuous fabrics, and the swirl of gowns and cravats—it could not distract him from the discomfort of his attire. The stiff, ornate clothing clung to him unkindly, restricting his breath and movements. No amount of luxury could change that. The fabric, though undeniably fine in its craftsmanship, scratched at his skin mercilessly. Or perhaps it was simply that Benedict lacked the wealth—or the sensibility—to truly appreciate the feel of such an expensive material.

“Teddy, I am grateful for the loan, truly, but how on earth do you manage to move in this?” he muttered softly, tearing his gaze away from the opulent room to glance at his friend, who looked every bit at ease in his attire. Teddy, of course, was born to such elegance, whereas Benedict felt as though he were playing a role, one that did not quite suit him.

“And what am I to say again, if someone should ask who I am?” His voice faltered slightly, betraying his nerves. The Ton might not yet harbor any ill will toward him, but Benedict knew all too well how they would react if they discovered a mere commoner indulging in their fine wine and casting admiring glances at their eligible ladies. The pretense unsettled him, even as he tried to steady his breathing in the confining clothes.

His blue eyes flitted from one guest to another, searching for any potential ally should he find himself separated from Teddy. Unlike himself, Teddy had a clear purpose for being here. Benedict, on the other hand, was nothing more than a trespasser in the glittering world before him. His gaze continued its restless journey until it settled upon a lady in pink, her mask a delicate shade that nearly matched his own. Though her features were obscured, her eyes radiated a kindness that caught his attention, offering him a fleeting sense of calm amidst his discomfort.

Despite the persistent ache in his leg and the gnawing uncertainty of his place among the Ton (which was non-existent), Benedict turned to Teddy with a faint, hopeful smile. "I should like to speak with that lady over there," he murmured, nodding in her direction. "If things seem to be going poorly, do come rescue my miserable self, won’t you?" He clapped his friend heartily on the back, though the action lacked some of his usual vigor.

"And if I need to make a swift exit—well, a hobbling one—I’ll find you soon enough." With a wink, and as much confidence as his unsteady gait would allow, Benedict prepared to make his move. Benedict did his best to appear as though the cane in his hand was merely a fashionable accessory, rather than a necessity, as he approached the young woman. She was engaged in conversation, her expression warm yet distant, her attention on her companion.

Lady Celestine Davenport​

Celestine’s smile, though still graceful, softened as her sister spoke, the words echoing sentiments she herself had uttered long ago. Her brown eyes lingered on Evie, searching for any hidden meaning behind her response. But Celestine knew her younger sister well—better than anyone, perhaps. It wounded her deeply to see Evie burdened with a responsibility that should never have weighed so heavily upon her. All because of Celestine's failings.

Though she was no man, could not protect the family as her brothers, Henry and Morgan, did, Celestine had strived to reach great heights in her own season. She had hoped, in doing so, to ensure that her sister would have the choices she herself had lost. When asked if any man had caught her eye, Celestine cast her gaze back over the crowd, her lips curving into a sad, knowing smile.

"Many men catch my eye," Celestine murmured softly, "but I fear your dear sister remains something of a conundrum to most." For a fleeting moment, her thoughts wandered to August, though she had yet to see him tonight. They hadn’t exchanged words since the Queen's Ball, and she expected little, if anything, to come of it. With a soft sigh, she returned her attention to Genevieve. "I am no stranger to an empty dance card, but I shall not allow you to become a wallflower like me. I may be wilted, but you—my darling Eve—you are just beginning to bloom." Her voice grew tender, "You look stunning tonight."

"Excuse me," came a soft male voice, gently interrupting the conversation. Celestine’s hair swished over her shoulder as she turned to regard the newcomer. Morgan was nearby, though his gaze appeared preoccupied, likely searching for Amelia.

"I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room," Benedict said, directing his attention to Genevieve, his cheeks warming with a telltale blush. "Forgive me, my lady, if this is improper, but you were truly beautiful from afar, and now, standing closer, I find myself..." He faltered, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. "I find myself quite at a loss for words."

Celestine smiled at the charming, albeit awkward, confession but remained still, making no move to push Evie towards the man. If her sister found his sudden attention uncomfortable, she would gladly whisk her away. However, if Genevieve welcomed his admiration, Celestine would quietly step aside, allowing the pair to converse while keeping a protective, watchful eye on them.
with: Teddy (thanks for the stuffy clothes pal) AnimeGenork and then Genevieve CapellaStargaze
mentions: August Pyroclast ; Henry (briefly) AnimeGenork
*A problem enters stage right.*

Spoiler: outfits

 

[Pyroclast]

Saturday 29th of April, 1815
~ Hennessy Townhouse, Grosvenor Square ~

Lord Edmund Hennessy​

“Why are you not dressed?”

The sound of his father’s voice made Edmund jump. He closed his book without a second thought and stood from the armchair to face the man. “I-I’m sorry, father, I must have lost track of time,” he said, with a sheepish smile. The Earl only nodded, and approached him until he was quite close. His slow, predatory steps were the kind to rob the air from Edmund’s lungs, turning him stiff as though expecting to be hit. His smile all but vanished and he found himself almost holding his breath as he stood tall, feet rooted to help him withstand his father’s attempts to intimidate him.

“Are you trying to be late?” uttered the Earl, his menacing gaze raising to meet Edmund’s.

“No - I would never do that, father.”

A few seconds passed. The oxygen seemed to have thinned. Edmund remained composed as his father eyed him up. “Please,” he said. “If you’ll allow me, I shall go and get dre-”

A loud thwack cut short his words, and suddenly his face was burning hot and tingling. He stumbled back slightly from the impact and had to quickly right himself.

“Remind me what you are to do tonight,” the Earl commanded.

“I - I’m -”

“Speak louder, boy.”

“I am to ask the ladies to dance.” His voice trembled as he forced out the words, and a heat began to flourish behind his eyes.

“What else?”

“I am not to cause a scene.”

The older man took a few steps back, his icy glare still fixed on his son. An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Edmund was observed for a few moments longer.

“Get dressed. We leave in five minutes.”

The second his father turned his back, tears suddenly sprouted from Edmund’s eyes and crashed down his cheeks. Not wanting to know what would happen if he wasn’t downstairs in five minutes' time, Edmund rushed off to dress himself. At least the mask would help to conceal any redness about the eyes.

~ On the road ~​

“Would that you would leave that behind,” his father grumbled as they sat beside each other in the carriage. Edmund had his black leather bag with him, the one that carried his medical tools and supplies. It had become something of a companion to him, given the number of houses and events to which it had accompanied him. Almost everywhere Edmund went, he brought it with him - especially to lively events with a crowd of people in attendance. After all, what was a physician without his medicine?

“You know I never go without it, father,” Edmund said flatly, having to make a conscious effort not to sigh. “I shan’t take it inside with me, if you prefer. Instead, I shall leave it in the carriage - within reach yet out of sight.”

“Not that,” Ranulph scoffed. “Your…job, Edmund. You are not a physician anymore - not while you are here. Here, you are but a young bachelor in want of a wife, and one of high favour at that.”

The sigh escaped him. “It is not a job, father…it is my calling. To heal people, to aid them.” People like Benjamin, he thought to himself, though he knew bringing up his late brother would be a mistake.

“You will leave the bag, and forget about it, boy,” Ranulph growled, snatching the black leather bag away from Edmund. “To touch the diseased and the dying is repulsive enough, but to practise such vile acts at a ball - a ball, of all places, Edmund! - where ladies may witness…” The Earl trailed off with a shake of his head. “If you don’t leave your job at home, my boy, you risk distraction from your primary task. Indeed, it may cost you your chances with the fair ladies of England. And what would your mother do then?”

Edmund didn’t merit his father’s egregious opinions with a response, instead watching out of the window as the city rattled by. Though he refused to show it, the thought of failing his mother instilled great fear in him.

“And one more thing, Edmund,” his father said, and Edmund felt forced to turn and look him in the eye. “You might work on that accent of yours. We are not in Cork anymore.”

The man smiled at him and Edmund gave a weak smile back before turning away again.

~ Ballroom, Sinclaire Estate ~​

As soon as they arrived at the ball, Edmund did his best to lose his father. The journey had left him feeling nauseous and somewhat faint, and even though bumpy carriage rides often unsettled him, he was certain the conversation hadn’t helped. His mother intended to expose Edmund for his mortal sins and write him out of the will if he failed to get engaged by the end of the season, and with the way his father was loading the pressure on him to adhere to his mother’s wishes, Edmund could only guess as to whether his father had learned the truth. The anxiety of not knowing was hard to bear at times, and not being able to distract himself with his work made it harder still.

Of course, he could not afford to cause another scene like he had at the first ball. He must be composed, attentive, charming and confident - or at the very least, appear so. Unfortunately, he did not feel up to being any of those things, at least not yet. He ambled through the ballroom, trying to appear at ease, until he reached the refreshments, and then took a glass of water to cool him. He took a seat in the corner of the room for some time until he began to feel somewhat steadier, but eventually he grew conscious of sitting on his own, not even taking in the entertainment in the main ballroom.

So, at the risk of coming across his father again, Edmund snuck back into the ballroom. He focused on the opera singer, her voice soulful and calming, and even found himself smiling through the music. Frequently throughout her performance, he would survey the room in case his father came into view - but before he ever spotted the man, somebody else caught his eye. Any residual faintness was overtaken by a renewed vigour; a wave of calm washed away his unease. The very sight of him brought the colour back to Edmund’s cheeks, and even put a smile on his face.

He hesitated for a few moments. It had been nineteen days almost to the hour since he and Morgan Davenport had first met, and there was a chance the young man wouldn’t remember him, let alone care to see him again. However, he was the only person in London who had made Edmund feel at ease, and to him, that meant a lot.

He crossed the ballroom with a purposeful walk, lest his father spot him and try to interrupt. A broad, boyish smile spread across his face as he approached Morgan, deepening the dimples on his cheeks. It was only once they made eye contact that he realised he had not prepared what to say.

“Hello,” he greeted him, stopping at what was almost an awkward distance away. “Davenport, is it?” He reached up and pulled off his own mask, revealing the extent of his smile. “Remember me?” And then, lowering his voice, added: “The maze.” Only a few seconds standing before him and he already found it hard to look away from him. The Davenport son’s devilish good looks had completely disarmed Edmund, who stood silently admiring the man’s strong, chiselled jaw, his piercing blue eyes and the soft waves of his dark hair. “I find that it is harder than usual to remember people’s names tonight, with their faces all hidden,” he admitted. “But you…I don’t know. Somehow, I saw you straight away.” His own words caused his smile to falter and his cheeks to grow warm, but he didn’t give himself enough time to work out why. “Perhaps you chose your mask so well that it perfectly captures your essence.” Edmund pulled his own mask back on, in case the tingling of his face was visible. “I took inspiration from the phoenix, rising from his ashes,” he explained of his own red and gold outfit. “I thought I ought to give myself a fresh start, after last time. Hopefully people are willing to forget, but given how many people seem to read this Mrs Whistleton column, it seems the ton has quite a penchant for gossip.”

Conscious that he was talking perhaps a little more than he ought to, Edmund stepped back even farther and cleared his throat. “May I ask, how have you been since the ball at Kew? Well, I hope?”

Interactions
CapellaStargaze the prettiest gorl at the party

 

[WanderLust.]

WESTON SINCLAIRE
MARQUESS OF WINCHESTER

Worried

Windsor Athletic Field

Asher CapellaStargaze Cherry Bellz

Outfit Mask

“Devereau!” Weston mused with a smile upon Asher’s exit from the carriage. The arrival of his old friend was a welcome distraction from the tedious socializing he had been participating in thus far. “It’s been too long. Tell me, how have you been?” He placed a firm hand on the back of Asher’s right shoulder, ushering him towards the doorway to the manor and the ensuing festivities within. “That sister of yours has certainly come into her own. Her first season out if I’m not mistaken?” As the pair of gentlemen meandered their way down the flight of stairs leading down to the grand ballroom, Weston was careful not to let the conversation pause for too long.

He could’ve justified this as merely wanting to be a gracious host, but in truth, he simply didn’t want Asher to bring up the recent news of the former Marquess’ passing. Weston had agonized over the details of his father’s death time and time again, and everytime another well wisher or sympathizer deigned to pay their respects to him, it was like picking at a scab that had been trying to heal, unsuccessfully, for far too long. “She’ll have no trouble securing an eligible match, I’m sure. And what of you? Are you finally perusing the marriage market this season?” Weston reached up to adjust the golden mask that adorned his face, his ensemble a mix of the lightest shades of blue and metallic gleans of amber.

If Asher answered him, however, Weston did not hear it, for his attention had been drawn by a brilliant spectacle in a purple gown, her fiery red hair tumbling elegantly down to the small of her back as he watched her lips stretch around the vowels and consonants of a melody he vaguely recognized. Atop the diamond shaped stage in the center of the room stood the opera singer whom his mother had no doubt compensated with copious amounts of coin to perform at the ball tonight, her silken voice rippling through the room as couples twirled and swayed to her rhythm. Weston watched silently as the light from the chandeliers above reflected off of her jewel encrusted mask, and he found himself wondering what beauty lay hidden beneath her lavender disguise.

"When in striving to hide,
She reveals all her flame,
And our eyes tell each other,
What neither dares name…"

The final note of her melody resonated off of the marble walls with a hypnotic tenor. Weston was vaguely aware of Asher speaking to his left, but he could hardly make out his companions' words over the thunderous applause of the crowd. In a single, graceful stride, the performer inclined her head, curtsying with a demur smile in response to the deafening ovations. In the time it had taken for her song to draw to a close, Weston and Asher had made their way within a few paces of the stage… so close now that Weston could practically smell the sweet, floral aroma of the girl on stage. As she turned to descend the steps that lead back down to the floor, he watched as her lavender slippered foot slid over the edge of one of the steps, the silken fabric of her shoe gliding without tract over the carpeted step.

Without thinking, Weston lurched forward, closing the gap between himself and the silver tongued performer as his hand slid effortlessly around the small of her back. His hand gripped firmly around her purple clad waist as he lifted her over the last step and placed her gently on the floor, his chest snug against her side as he supported her while she regained her balance. “Easy there…” he paused, his eyes searching her face for any sort of reaction, but her mask concealed all but her ocean blue eyes. “We mustn't damage such precious cargo.” The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he gestured up and down her length, insinuating that the aforementioned precious cargo was the performer herself.

“What was it then?” He asked with a tilt of his head, though the redhead peered back at him perplexed. It was clear she did not know of what he was speaking. “Your song… ‘our eyes tell eachother what neither dares name.’ What do they dare not name?”

But before she could answer, Weston was interrupted by a voice to his left. He turned to find the figure of Augustus Bloomington, spectacularly clad in an ensemble of cream and turquoise. He might not have recognized the other man had he not introduced himself, but his comments left knots to tie themselves in Weston’s stomach. “You might check on your brother, it is not my place to speculate on the matter, but he is not in a civilised state…I think someone ought to put him to bed before he finds himself in trouble.”

Following August’s gaze towards the stairway, Weston caught a fleeting glimpse of his brother, dressed in disheveled night clothes, his arm wrapped lazily around a woman in a sparkling blue gown whom he recognized from earlier that evening… Asher’s little sister, Wren. His gaze flicked to his right, where he found Asher witnessing the same scene. The two men exchanged a wary look with one another as their respective younger siblings disappeared down the hallway to the left …where Leon’s bedroom was. A cold, dark pit began to dig its way down into the bottom of Weston’s stomach. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Bloomington.” Weston forced a pleasant smile before turning back to face the opera singer.

“My deepest apologies but… you’ll have to excuse me.” He offered an apologetic smile before grabbing Asher and marching off towards the staircase, trying not to draw too much attention as they progressed. Weston mentally cursed himself for not having asked for the singer’s name at least, but he hadn’t the time. He had no idea what Leon had gotten himself into now, and his mind began spiraling to every possible worst case scenario. He needed to find his brother, fast.

coded by natasha.