Hunters

It had been dark and uncomely for days. Though Lecia had never minded rain—sometimes relished it—London storms were not the same. While the clouds most certainly deterred arduous callers, there was far too much grey for any one person to bear. The city wept like a monstrous old hag, sopping tears that caused a wrinkled face to sag.

Time at home had always been worth the gloom, if only to spend time by the fire with her family, but these somber showers would be the death of her. The Baron had locked himself in his study, emerging only for supper and when duty called him elsewhere. His wife was losing her wits in captivity, incessantly blabbering about this Lord or that Lady to their uninterested daughter. The parties may well have been put on hold, but the gossip would never cease. Lecia would have willingly spent a day listening to Lisette gush over her single dance with the Duke if it meant being spared what was nearly a week of her mother's chatter.

But Lisette hadn't come. Not even a letter had arrived. Odd, considering her provisions were just down the street.

A rueful sigh escaped Lecia's lips as she watched the rain coat a sleek black cab as it trotted across glazed stones. She turned her head at the chime of porcelain as Nettie brought in the afternoon tea. The tray was set on the elegant new table her mother had found, arranged between two uncomfortably rigid new settees. Beneath them sprawled a vibrant Persian rug and fresh wallpaper had been put up throughout the house. The harsh scent of glue still lingered in the air, so the Baroness had potpourri set out in every room.

"Oh, thank you Nettie," the Baroness dismissed the maid, clacking over the freshly finished floors. As the serving woman bowed out of the room, the Baroness spotted her daughter at the window. "You look marvelous, sweetheart," she beamed. "The blue is a lovely compliment to your eyes. Now, come sit."

The Baroness sorted herself on a settee, her polite posture a reminder to her daughter of how odious London's societal influences were. As Lecia rose from the window she realized—rather suddenly—that something rotten had been concocted. With each step forward she noted how the elegant blue silk of her skirts moved like lapping waves, how the pristine white pleated sash made her waist look delicate, and how the draping lace bodice and sleeves accentuated the milky complexion she'd been blessed with. Her mother had insisted that she wear her best daywear as if someone was to visit. It was a loathsome afternoon; for anyone to come calling meant that such a gathering could not be postponed. There was nothing of such importance that Lecia could recall being aware of. Or, at least, nothing pleasantly important.

"What is going on, mother?" Lecia asked, sitting beside the Baroness, their backs to the only escape way.

"Your father has a very important guest," was all the woman would say.

Lecia counted two minutes as the clock ticked before she could hear the low, bellowing rumble of her father's voice. He grew closer, floorboards creaking as he guided his companion toward the sitting room.

"Oh yes, it is quite lovely at this time of the year," a second voice replied to something the Baron had said. But Lecia had no need to see the gentleman's face to know exactly who he was.

They rounded the women to sit across in the identical settee. The lack of formal introductions was a telltale sign to Lecia that this was—somehow—not a rare occasion. A Duke sat just over an arm's length away from her, his neat hair as dry as his expertly tailored suit. She eyed her uncomfortable father, he glowed from a few too many tumblers, but his unease was directed at her. A subtle gasp escaped as the Baroness wrapped warm fingers around her own frozen hand. This was dangerous; it was everything she ever feared. Everything indicated that the day would not end well.

"Lecia," the Baron addressed his daughter, "surely you remember the Duke. He was just telling me about Martis, his palace." Only slightly drunk, the older man seemed to have forgotten his decency more out of perplexity for communicating with his child than out of muddled mind function.

"The largest in the country, is it not?" the Baroness interjected before an extended glare from Lecia caused anyone to catch fire and die. "I would so like to see it at least once."

"I have no doubts that it could be arranged, my lady," the Duke smiled. It was only out of the corner of her eye that Lecia noted the way her own mother offered a traitorous beaming of approval. It seemed that her own makers were the ones to become her worst enemies. After all, it was plain as day.

A Duke on a social visit to a Baron in the midst of the worst week of weather London had seen in seasons? Not a coincidence. She just happened to be wearing her best garments on that same day while her father had accidentally had too many sips of brandy? Lecia thought not. He was here for a proposal, and her parents had already accepted on her behalf. They'd lost hope for her to find happiness and instead found a husband to secure status for the entire family.

Her impatience for the charade was noted by the Duke; his glistening grey-blue eyes followed the contour of her clenched jaw. In her fury she seemed to forget his presence, the dismay she felt on account of her parents was more critical than him. He was not smug, anyhow, as truthfully he retained doubts about marriage, but the displeasure of his future wife was pleasantly satisfying.

As if she knew his thoughts, Lecia turned to face the man her father would have her marry. He looked just the same as he had the night of Zora's ball, perhaps with a cleaner shave. It was in his eyes that he had known then that this moment would come—that even her father had known for so long. It was apparent in the silence that everyone but her had been informed, and that in the wordlessness she had become aware of it.

"Is this it, then?" she laughed coldly. "You'll have me marry him and that settles it? Is my happiness so disposable to you?"

Wounded, her father flinched. His cloudy eyes closed carefully as he gathered his will and banished tears. The Baroness sat calmly, unable to speak or contribute anything. It was the Duke who spoke first, to level with Lecia's pain and begin to settle the skirmish.

"I believe it might be best for me to step out for a few moments. We should all be of an equal thought before we discuss this any further," he said, swiftly rising and gliding out of the room before another word could respond.

"I thought you respected my solitude," the young woman growled.

Frustrated, the Baroness huffed and turned to face her daughter. "We're hardly in a position to decline a proposal from a duke, sweetheart. Despite what you've been deluded to believe, there is no place for you without a husband. Zora could hardly care for you in a respectable manner after your father and I leave this world, and I suppose I'm more likely to rise from the dead than any decent job be given to you," she said sternly. "Cantington is a suitable match. You should be honored that he's chosen you over all of the pretty—more notable—girls of court. He will make an excellent husband, I'm sure. He's assured your father of nothing less."

The aforementioned baron remained silent, his faraway eyes fixated on the crying sky. Lecia avoided the gaze of her mother and watched the older man, furious. It was obvious to her that he knew how wounded she was, but in his shame she knew that he was resolute on his decision.

"I have no choice? Nothing? If I'd have known you were so eager to be rid of me, I should have listened to the twenty odd men before and chosen a husband on my own. I was, however, under the impression that I was—"

"You were under the impression that I would spoil you!" the Baron interrupted harshly. "As I have these nineteen years, spoiled you unconditionally and created a monstrous brat. This was never what I wanted for you, my dear Lecia, but you've left me no choice. It is an unsound man who approaches the father of an ill-esteemed young lady. In this you will redeem yourself and be content with it, else I should be unsettled to call you my child."

His voice was hollow, eyes void of the man she used to know who was warm and wonderful. In his place was this devil, a cruel and unkind shadow dependent on injury and cruelty.

Unflinchingly she returned, "Then you are not my father." The deep, dark malice came forth from her lips smoothly and without trepidation. If he wished to wound her with abrasive words, then she, too, would be coarse.

It was for the briefest of moments that the room was silent with misery. The quietness lingered in bone-deep agony that pierced the heart of a man so sound and well that a breath might murder him. Though her words gored him, his affect remained stern as stubbornness forbade submission. She also refused acquiescence, despite her guilt.

"I daresay an apology is in order," gasped the Baroness at once. She flitted her eyes between the pair of them, so terrifyingly similar that it often crossed her mind whether Lecia had simply sprouted from his head.

"There shall be none from my end," the Baron announced to his wife.

"Nor mine," quipped their daughter. She turned to the older woman, "I suppose it best you plan the wedding; how truly lovely it will all surely be."

Noting her biting tone, the affronted man looked to her and grunted. "She already has. You'll be married in a month."

Wide-eyed, Lecia laughed harshly. "My, what everyone will think."

"And let them think it," the Baron snarled. "You're not like to produce an heir yet anyhow."

"I am perfectly capable of bearing children, not that it's of any great consequence, as I shall refuse him at all costs," the young woman roared back.

"Perhaps it shall be for the better, then, to let your insolence die with you."

"It will be your impudence to die, father, not mine."

"I knew it had been too much to hope for a son. Partiality gave me you," he bit back, a rise of rose to his cheeks as his drink began to truly settle in.

"That I had been a boy to squander your fortune and burn your name to the—"

"Enough!" shouted the Baroness, fists formed in her lap. "There is a Duke waiting for us to settle ourselves. Let us hope that he's scarce heard a word of this−this−foolishness," she stuttered with wild eyes. "Lecia, you will marry him; there is no contesting it. Your engagement has already been announced."

Taken aback, the young woman gaped at her calm mother. "Already announced? When?"

"The Sunday before this one," the Baroness replied smoothly.

A week. The world had known for a week—her parents much longer—yet she was ambushed with the news. It had come out the day after Zora's ball, likely the reason Lisette had not called. Her dearest friend must have been furious and devastated to hear of it. How could Lecia have not told her the truth? Truthfully it was a well-thought plan, though whether they had intended on a confrontation before the meeting that day was unclear. It was, however, common knowledge that the post would more often serve as a palette than a source of information for her. So Lecia was left to assume that her parents meant to relish in her surprise and fury.

"Why?" she finally breathed, the reality had resolved to remain. "Why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve this of all things?"

Irritated with the dramatization of her daughter, the Baroness made a roll of her eyes. "It is not as terrible as you seem to have it."

"Perhaps not," Lecia said, quieter. "But I would like to know why. Of all the men—of all the time I have yet—why is it to be him? Why is it now?"

Calmed, but brooding, the Baron pushed himself up straight in his seat. His glossy eyes met those of his daughter and he pulled his lips taut. "Because I love you," he told her. "Let them think what they will of your union, but know that I could not have parted with you for anything less that what he has offered. It was not his fortune, as you're titled to receive more than you'll have mind to use, and it was not his name, as I know that means little to you or me. He promised me… He made me a promise that this marriage would serve in your best interest." Lecia huffed at that, but her father took a breath and continued. "Despite what you have already decided about him, the Duke will be the greatest thing for you. He is not dreadful."

It is then that the unsteady man rises to his feet and beckons his wife follow. Wordlessly he asks Lecia to wait for the Duke to return, and however reluctantly, she does. For a moment she reflects on all of it. It wasn't confounding; it made sense, but it was the disappointment that flustered her.

In her reverie she had neglected to notice the return of her betrothed. His countenance offered no indication of his intentions or feelings, yet the pair studied one another just the same. Again he sat across from her in bizarre proximity.

"My Lor—"

"Vaughan," he interrupted her curt address, "will do just fine."

"Vaughan," she repeated, testing the sound of it. She watched him watch her, an awkward standoff of dominance and pride.

"I feel I owe you some amount of truth," admitted the young duke. "I initiated our engagement well before even laying eyes on you, though it was not your reveled beauty that intrigued me. However, I was convinced that you must be my wife after hearing of your questionable guiltiness of subjecting gentlemen to misery."

"Is it that you want what no one can have?" she scoffed. "Seizing and earning are not equal."

Frustrated, he clenched his jaw. "I could ask you the same thing, though I think you'll find we're chasing identical dreams. With time I think you'll understand that this is for the better. We both will have what we want. I need you just the same as you need me, Lecia."

"And what dream am I chasing that could possibly lead me to depend on you?" she asked skeptically.

"Liberty. Freedom from Society. You want to be left alone, as do I, with your life to yourself and your days your own. You expect that remaining unmarried will give you independence, but you're wrong. You'll be more trapped as a recluse than you ever were as a pawn," he explained, leaning forward. "I don't want anything from you," his voice was a whisper. "No children, no service. I merely am in need of a Duchess. You'll be welcome to do as you like in due time, I promise you that. There will be obligatory parading to be done for a while, but once it's over I give you leave to spend whatever you like: money, time, what have you. I just need you, no other young woman could understand this."

"How are you sure you've not misjudged me?" Lecia wondered after a moment.

"If I have then I have made a grievous mistake and sincerely apologize."

Sighing the young woman equaled his gaze. "There's no need. I accept your proposal, though it's useless to say so. I only hope you don't sometime change your mind."

Softly chuckling Vaughan rose to his feet and smiled. "Ah, but it is I who must fret over the changing of your heart, for I am too old and too set in my ways to be turned 'round and lose sight of everything I have ever hoped to become."

Still anxious, Lecia rose too and let her own words hang last. "You are not so old yet, and I fear that only a blind man cannot be blinded."



Thoughts would be nice.