Hunters

“The Queen shall recognize our union,” Vaughan stated matter-of-factly. He absently ran his fingers across the silks and suits in the tailor’s shop.

“She has no reason not to,” Ezekiel said. The young marquis eyed himself in the mirror, admiring the fit of his new suit. His grandmother had insisted that he purchase new garments for the wedding.

“I know,” the duke sighed. “I suppose that I’ve just become suspicious of how simple all of this has been.”

“How do you mean?” Ezekiel asked while adjusting his bowtie.

Vaughan made eye contact through the mirror. “I ask and everyone obliges. I expected some degree of resoluteness, instead, not a soul has told me ‘no’.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Ezekiel turned to face his cousin. “Lecia could not have given in to you that easily.”

“But she did.” Vaughan assessed Ezekiel’s suit and nodded with approval before continuing, “she hardly batted an eye.”

“I’m not yet convinced,” the marquis raised his brow. “Never have a met a more steadfast and cunning woman. She was so clearly willing to do anything to maintain her own will. That she would simply resign herself to marriage with the proudest man in all of England seems unlikely to me.”

“But she has resigned herself. I can sense that she’s not planning to cross me, either.”

Stepping away from the mirror, Ezekiel turned to his cousin. “A lifetime of being indulged by the masses and one girl’s compliance has you concerned?”

“Appropriately placed apprehension, my friend.”

“You are the Duke,” Ezekiel laughed in defeat.

“So I’ve been told,” Vaughan said. “Now get your suit wrapped, we have tea waiting at the club.”



“I’m not quite sure why you’re doing all of this now, Vaughan, but I surely don’t miss having tea with my grandmother every day,” Ezekiel said. He stirred some sugar into his tea before taking a sip.

“She’s not so bad,” the duke smirked.

“Not so bad. Not so bad,” he laughed. “I’ve endured over twenty years of horticulture, feminism, and cross stitching. If I could stride into White’s without you, I would.”

“You are a member, Zeke; you don’t need me to escort you in.”

“Have you seen the other men in here?” Zeke asked. “I don’t want you as an escort, I need you to make sure I still have my hair.”

“Mmm,” the duke nodded. “More like you need me to make sure you don’t drown yourself in brandy and prune a moustache.”

The club was, in fact, full of liquored older men with fashionable moustaches. Some of them were bald; all of them were peers or abundantly wealthy men. The duke and his cousin were the youngest men in the club that afternoon. Considering the season, it was likely that any younger gentlemen were resting for a party or escorting young ladies around town. It was equally possible, in regard to second and subsequent sons, that some gentlemen were abroad serving Queen and Country.

“You do realize that I already have a moustache,” Zeke said.

Vaughan looked at his cousin as if the marquis was a jester. “How could I have missed your whimsical caterpillar?” Ezekiel looked on sternly as the duke continued. “It looks as though he has been trying to fly away.”

“Caterpillars don’t fly,” said the marquis.

“No, they most certainly do not, but it appears that your caterpillar is as delusional about his ability to fly as you are about your ability to maintain a moustache.”

“Grandmother said it was a charming change,” Ezekiel frowned.

“I’ve a feeling she meant that as a joke,” Vaughan replied.

“I’m never quite sure with her,” Zeke sighed.

Chuckling, the duke sipped his tea and then sighed. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “What am I doing?”

Quizzically, his cousin replied, “Well I certainly don’t know.”

Vaughan opened his eyes, only to gaze up at the elegantly sculpted ceiling. There had been a reason for this sequence of events, but for the moment the purpose had escaped him. The thought of marriage—the reality of things—was finally settling in his gut and Vaughan felt ill. Why on earth had he gotten himself into this mess?



“You look absolutely magnificent, dear,” the Baroness breathes.

Lecia eyes her mother and sister, gauging whether their words match their expressions.

“You are a sight,” Zora agrees, barely above a whisper.

Defiant, Lecia lifts her chin and peers in the mirror. “Is it appropriate for the queen?” she asks.

“Certainly!” her mother gasps, hurrying to her daughter’s side to fan out the train behind her. “She shall be as taken by your beauty as everyone else.”

“You look like a princess…” Zora sighed, blinking back tears of pride and happiness.

“A duchess,” their mother corrects. “You shall be the talk of the town; the wedding of the year!”

Sighing, Lecia took her dress in her hands and took in her reflection. “They talk about me enough as it is. Victoria Killigrew accused me of being a sorceress. They say I’ve entrapped him, as if I somehow I coerced the most eligible man in England to take me to bed.”

“Lecia!” both Zora and the baroness chastised.

“What?” she asked innocently.

Lecia raised her chin and tossed her shoulders back. She did have the features of nobility—higher nobility than birth had promised her. She knew the power of her beauty, and the curse. Men wanted her and women envied her; she’s always needed to protect herself, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. And, still, it angered her that the ladies had the nerve to blame her for being chosen by the duke. He slept with any woman who offered her bed, so why was she to be ostracized for the exact same thing when she hadn’t even done it?

“You know that everyone thinks I’m with child,” Lecia sneered. “I just pity them for inventing this elaborate scheme and mythology instead of just admitting that they’re plain, but if gossiping about me makes their lives less boring, then so be it. Who am I to cause my subjects suffering?”

The baroness frowned and took her daughter in a hug. Lecia remained stiff and rigid. Pulling back, she looked her daughter in the eyes and ran a soft hand across Lecia’s cheek.

“You are so beautiful, but your arrogance will only make you enemies,” the older woman sighed. Hushed, she nervously asked, “You know he’s not royalty, right?”

Lecia scoffed and slipped out of her mother’s grip.

“Of course! I meant that as a joke,” she groaned. “They act as though he’s some sort of god, as if he’s…beyond human—above them.” Lecia rolled her eyes. “He’s just a man. A man with a lot of money and a palace, but still a man and there are thousands more.”

Zora grinned and took her sister’s hand.

“But he’s a handsome man,” she smiled. “They’re all just jealous—and angry—but you can’t blame them. For years they’ve been lusting after him and fanaticizing that he would marry into their families, but you’ve come out of nowhere and dashed all of their hopes. In time they’ll find another boy to replace him, but for now you’re going to be their worst enemy. It’s not your fault, but how you greet this will define your future.”

“Your sister’s right,” the baroness said. “You need to be gracious and kind. More so than you think necessary. They’ll hate you for it, but without that, they’ll hate you even more. You need as many friends as you can make; the dowager duchess is in control of the ton, and until you are accepted by them, you’re vulnerable.”

“With or without them, I’m still a duchess—a real duchess, not an old widow.”

“Yes, but what will your children be; what will you be if the duke—god bless him—dies? You need allies and friends. This isn’t Yorkshire anymore, this is London; you can’t just paint pretty flowers and wait for Lisette to call. You’re going to be busy; there will be guests and parties and balls and diplomacies beyond your wildest dreams—beyond my wildest dreams. You’re legitimately in line for the throne now, Lecia. This isn’t a game, this is…politics.”

As Zora and the baroness fretted, Lecia felt all of her anger bubbling over.

“I don’t give a damn what it is,” she snapped, tearing herself away from their embraces. She kicked off her white wedding slippers and picked up the skirts of her gown to stomp away.

There wasn’t far to go: the London house was a cottage compared to Lekenbourgh, and that just fueled her fury even more. Her parents had given up everything—closed the estate indefinitely—to be in London with their dearest Zora. No one had bothered to consult her in anything, not even her future. Here she was, dressed in the finest wedding dress the century had ever seen—a gift from her betrothed—and Lecia was absolutely miserable, ridden with resentment so deeply set in her bones that she might shatter at any moment. And yet, despite the possibility of her fracturing, more pressure rested on her shoulders than ever.

Lecia slumped into a chair in her bedroom; she traced the lace of her gown in her lap. Her gut clenched as she sucked in a tight breath and blinked back tears. She wasn’t ready for this.



Second half of the update. This part is kinda short, though, so sorry...