Content warnings can be found here

Their journey in to, and across London was slow and uncomfortable, but Serafina and her mother reached Lord Forthenby’s residence without incident. It was a handsome, well-appointed house with wide, white steps in Portland stone and an imposing façade. Even in her finest day gown, Serafina felt small and shabby as she took her mother’s arm and stepped down from the carriage.

“He won’t be expecting us,” she whispered. “We shall mortify ourselves.”

“Then we may go home and consider this a fortunate escape.”

The door was opened by a liveried man in charcoal and amber, who made a perfectly proper bow and took the proffered card. 

“Mrs and Miss Tooting,” Mrs Tooting said, “to call upon Lord Forthenby.”

Another bow. “I shall see if my Lord is at home, ma’am.”

Serafina looked at her mother, and saw the tight, uncomfortable smile upon her face. She held her own hands flat against the skirts of her dress and corrected her already impeccable posture, waiting for the little lash of 'not at home'. But even as the footman vanished into the hall, a strikingly handsome young man in a dishevelled Forthenby livery came forward and took the visiting card from the footman’s hand.“Is that Mrs and Miss Tooting?”

The first man was too well trained to turn his back to them, but gave an awkward sort of nod.

“His nibs says I’m to bring them straight up.”

Serafina caught her mother’s eye.

“Henry, this isn’t proper,” said the footman in an undertone.

“So you keep saying, Lucas. You want to tell him that, or are you going to step out of my way?” The new servant did not wear a periwig, and his black hair was cropped short about a delicate face that had just a touch of menace to it.

Lucas stepped out of the way.

“Go and put the card somewhere useful. I’ve got a few suggestions as to where.”

“Should I announce the ladies, Henry?”

“If you fancy it.” The new servant turned to them, grinned, then seemed to think better of it, rearranged his face into a respectful expression. He made a bow whose elegance was ruined by the frankly impudent look he gave them both, and said, “Mrs Tooting, Miss Tooting, My Lord awaits you in the morning room.”

Serafina tried not to laugh. 

Henry - she supposed that was his name - made an expansive gesture towards the staircase. “Would you care to ascend?”

Lifting their skirts slightly, Serafina and her mother followed the man upwards, and through a series of heavy, wooden doors. They did not make eye-contact with each other, Serafina being too shocked, even a little amused, by the swaggering visibility of the man leading them. He played the servant as though he were an actor upon the stage, exaggerating and mocking the whole role for the benefit of some unspecified audience. 

And, because he was not demure, silent, invisible, Serafina found that she was looking at him, noticing him, in a way she would never usually notice such people. It was something in his swinging gait, the long, strong legs upon the stairs before her, or else the sheer indolence with which he was dressed - his necktie crushed to one side, the uneven billows of the sleeves of his shirt. Oh, no, he was not so coldly handsome as Mr Thornton, but - she felt it shamefully - there was tripping, eye-catching allure to him, something raffish and a little scandalous. He looked more like the dream of a poet than a footman, and his bronze skin was as smooth and unblemished as a child’s, his disordered clothes that seemed to beg for a pair of hands to be plucking at them, setting them straight.

Or removing them entirely.

Serafina tried to look away, to contain her thoughts. She had barely crossed Lord Forthenby’s threshold, and already her mind was already wandering to unacceptable places. 

Make virtue your armour, she thought, and focused her mind upon Mr Thornton, his solemn beauty and grave propriety. But to think of him was to think of the way that he had kissed her, that sudden pressure of his lips against her own. They had been cool, despite the heat of the day, and so much firmer than she would have thought possible in a mouth so luscious.

Stop it.

She was blushing, fiercely. Surely her mother would notice. Worse, surely this unservile servant, or Lord Forthenby himself would notice, and...

Eleven months. Nearer ten. You need only make yourself agreeable for ten months, and then…

Henry already opening the door to reveal Lord Forthenby on a chaise lounge, his shining boots scuffing the upholstery, a small volume open in his hand. He was not formally, or even fully, dressed, wearing instead an embroidered robe over a white shirt that was all over ruffles. The blue silk of the robe was starling against the white, and threw up all the blond in his hair. 

He glanced up as they came in but did not stand.  “Peach,” he drawled, “don’t tell me you greeted my guests looking like that.” He looked back down to the book and shut it, swinging his feet to the floor and rising. “Miss Tooting,” he said, “Mrs Tooting.”

Serafina gave a small curtsey. The room was spacious, panelled with gleaming wood the colour of dark honey. The furnishings were elegant, the chairs covered with fabrics which she had admired only the week before in the windows of a draper in the West End. Wide, shining windows looked down on to the street. Beneath her feet, the carpet was thick, rich and soft. There were shelves of books along the walls, and no piano in sight.

“I must apologise for my man,” said Lord Forthenby. “His manner is deplorable. Yes, Peach, you are dismissed.”

The servant gave another of his slightly mocking bows and slipped from the room like a shadow. 

Lord Forthenby came towards them and bowed himself, the gold in his hair reflecting the bright thread that chased along his gown. “You are unusually quiet this morning, Miss Tooting. I do hope I’ve not offended you somehow.”

“No, my Lord,” said Serafina, refusing to glance to her mother for support. “I am overwhelmed by your kindness.”

He smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Well, good morning, ladies. Please, do have a seat.”

There was the awkward shifting as they crossed the room and settled themselves. Her mother - tactfully? Contrivedly? settled upon the sofa some distance from the chaise Forthenby had been sitting on, leaving Serafina a choice of chairs within his reach. She selected one and sat, uncertain of where to look. 

“Can I offer you any refreshment?”

“No, thank you, my Lord,” said Mrs Tooting.

He shrugged. The gesture was as unexpected as it was rude, but something about it surprised her. Considering that this was a gentleman who appeared to have such contempt both for herself and social conventions, it was odd that any act of discourtesy from him should seem unusual to her, so her very shock confused her. It was, she realised, not the impropriety of the action which had surprised her, but its unguarded, boyish fluidity. Accompanying it had been a slight relaxation of Lord Forthenby’s face, the coldness falling away, the resemblance to his cousin becoming more pronounced. 

It lasted but a moment, and then Forthenby was his usual, sneering self, “You will take a glass of wine, though, Miss Tooting.”

“No, sir, I shall not,” she said, before she could stop herself. “It’s a little early in the day for such things.”

“Ah, there is the Miss Tooting I recognise. Madame,” he addressed himself to Mrs Tooting, “you are blessed in having a daughter whose tone of disapproval one would recognise anywhere. She is a testament to her education.”

“I suppose you would not hold with that, my Lord,” said Serafina.

“Serafina,” her mother said sharply, but Forthenby only laughed.

“Not at all, I have quite strong views on the matter. The education of girls, that is.” He stressed a clipped, contemptuous pronunciation - gels he said, as though speaking of another species entirely.

“Perhaps a drawing room is not the place for such a conversation, my Lord,” said Mrs Tooting. “I fear that you would no doubt only confuse a pair of simple women such as we.”

“Why, I’m certain that by the look she is giving me that your daughter does not agree with you.”

Serafina felt her face grow hot. She had not realised she was glaring.

“But, please, Miss Tooting, do give us the benefits of your thoughts on the matter. I’m sure they will fascinate.”

She gave her mother a slightly desperate glance.

“Oh, my Lord, I’m sure you are being too kind. Serafina is a good girl, but she is sometimes prey to notions. A sign of youth and idealism, my Lord. Nothing harmful in itself.”

“Quite,” said Lord Forthenby, and gave Serafina another of his loathsome glances, making it clear what kind of ‘education’ he thought proper for her. “All the same I should like to hear them. One must seek amusement somehow,” he added, in a softer tone - one that would not carry across the room.

“I’m afraid I did not hear that last, my Lord,” said Serafina, firmly.
Lord Forthenby smiled, “I said I should like to hear your views on the matter, Miss Tooting. I spoke quite clearly.”

Serafina swallowed her anger. “They are hardly new concepts, sir. Merely that women, girls as you call them, are creatures of sense and discernment, capable of rational thought and deserving of opportunities to develop that.”

“Serafina,” said her mother.

“I’m merely complying with Lord Forthenby’s request, mama.”

“Very obliging of you, Miss Tooting. Tell me, does obliging a gentleman usually make you so very,” He paused. “Vehement?”

“I was not aware that I had raised my voice, sir.”

He smiled again, damnably so, and stood, touching the bell. She took advantage of this to peek at the book he had been reading, but it was an octavo in plain covers, with no distinguishing marks. Picking it up would have been rude, and she suspected that she would not have wished to do so.

After a moment, Peach appeared at the door looking noticeably more presentable, and thereby fading into the background slightly more. “I believe Miss Tooting wishes to see the Broadwood, Peach.”

“Very good, my Lord.”

“If you will, ladies,” said Lord Forthenby, standing.

“My Lord,” said Peach. “Hedge awaits you in the lower drawing room.”

“Hedge?” He leaned a little closer to his man and spoke in quieter tones, “What the devil’s he doing in Town?”

“If you wish us to depart, my Lord,” said Serafina’s mother, rising. 

Forthenby turned, and bowed more graciously than he had done in the entire time that Serafina had known him. “Not at all, Mrs Tooting. Merely the steward from my estates. Tell the fellow to wait, Peach.”

“We really must not interrupt your business, my Lord.”

A moment of hesitation. “Yes. Yes, in fact, Peach, show my guests to the music room. I will join them directly.” He bowed. “Please, forgive this absence.” 

As they walked from the rooms, Mrs Tooting slapped her fan against Serafina’s wrist and said, “Well done, my dear. Now he sees you as a challenge.”

Before the Broadwood, all such thoughts were forgotten. Serafina spread her fingers over the silky ivory of the keys and for a moment relished merely the touch of them. Such pleasures were vain, she knew, and shallow, and it would be perfectly possible to live without them. She would be able to give up music tomorrow, and it would never be more than the unspecified ache she felt when Mr Thornton was away from her. Yes, it would grow steadily with each day of absence, but it was a pain that could be borne. After all, Mr Thornton was giving her so much practice. 

She pressed down upon a key, hearing the slow build of a note answering perfectly to her touch. It had been tuned, recently. Serafina closed her eyes and let out a slow, enraptured breath. After a moment, she played up and down, merely scales, chords, arpeggios, getting feel for the instrument, the sweet resonance of it, the tread of the peddles. Then, pausing once again, she launched into a piece she had spent most of the last year learning. It was in the Romantic style, and her mother did not approve of it, but as it was only the pair of them in the room, she felt the Broadwood deserved the effort. Serafina kept her eyes closed and permitted the music to guide her, carrying her up and down the movement of it, her fingers swift and strong on the keys. 

She did not trouble herself with neat, society playing. Her body moved in slow sweeps as she followed herself across the keys, her eyes closed and her breathing slow. The room was designed to amplify the sound, to bringing ringing about her, sweet and deep and powerful. 

As there was no polite applause to interrupt her, and no other young women keen to display their accomplishments, she allowed her hands to run until they were tired, allowed the cascading of notes to carry her until she felt drained, dissipated by the pressure of those thick, powerful chords. Then, at last, exhausted, she drew back and breathed in the sweet, wood-scented air of the room, eyes still closed for a moment, waiting for the sound to settle back to silence. 

“You know,” came Forthenby’s lazy, drawling voice, “I could become quite an aficionado of music, if it were always played so.” 

In her mind, without opening her mouth, Serafina swore horribly.