kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

Johanna Banana.

Banana.

Johanna.

The bedroom will become a tiresome venue, don't you think? Another year, another ten years, those not-quite-out-of-the-way closets will begin to look very inviting.

Yes. Thrill of the risk.

[...]

Would you really have challenged him to a duel? You don't seem the type.

WE are to have a banana in the family.

You are mine, and I am yours. Family, that is.

We, then. You can hardly fault me for wishing to distance myself from these walking bananas.

Suppose they reproduce. There'll be bananas for ages, Katrina. The whole of Manhattan drowned out in fruit.

And you've given your blessing. I hope you're proud of the future that awaits.

[ ... ]

Are you suggesting that those closets aren't already inviting? Were my wife to draw me in at, say, the Boyles' upcoming soirée, I wouldn't bat an eye.

I may have challenged him to a duel. I never said I'd uphold my end of the dispute.

As if I'd trust myself with any pistol. Lord.

You are inviting. The closet is a matter of location only. And I shall bear in mind that there will be no objections.

Yes, yes, Manhattan will drown in fruit. I've told you before, Van Tassels breed like rabbits. Most of them, anyhow. You had best resign yourself to our dear cousin filling the ranks of the social elite with bouncing baby bananas.

[...]

Please - refrain from challenging anyone to a duel if you don't mean to meet them on the field of honor. That has legal consequences in New York.

If you wish for satisfaction, I suppose I might manage the situation on your behalf. Mother did teach me to use Papa's pistols...

None whatsoever.

Mm. A closet or one of the illustrious hosts' rooms. Whichever you might fancy.

...I suppose the bananas can't be much worse than Manhattan's current assembly of garbage. As long as we're never obliged to spend time lost among bananas, they may do as they like.

Please. We both know I don't belong on any field of honor. And happily, it seems there's been no reason to take offense.

Still. Well done, Annaliese. Well done, Katrina. Is there anything you can't do?

It does seem as though it becomes an act of revenge when one engages in relations with one's wife in the bed of a past paramour.

Lucky for you, I have heard the word 'hogs' come out of her mouth just enough that revenge has its appeal.

[...]

Please promise not to challenge anyone. I mean it in earnest: I will manage such affairs for you.

[ He was very close to snapping back with something defensive. Anticipated rebuff and was ready to—

Well. It hardly matters now.

Wicked girl, indeed. ]

I believe love and revenge may walk hand-in-hand. Particularly if the act (in its vengeance as well as its climax) proves satisfactory for both parties.

Trust me, wife; I'll make certain you're not left wanting.

[ ... ]

You would really take up a pistol? You do have more of the temperament.

[ He might be. Sending a text to Venetia right now. A text that might read 'Kindly inform my wife that she is required at home. I'm not speaking to her myself, minx that she is, but she has duties to attend to.' ]

You haven't left me wanting thus far. For the most.

Yes, of course I would -

...What on earth did you say to Venetia? She's gone white as a sheet.

[...]

Oh, I have 'duties to attend to', have I? And what would those be? Or are you not speaking to me any longer?

[ Is he sending Venetia a follow-up text yes he is and yes it reads 'Don't let her argue her way out of it. She KNOWS what she's done, and she knows it must be mended. No, it can't wait for tomorrow. No, it can't wait for another hour. And please, Ms. Mercer. Consider that if I don't see her within the half hour, I'll know who to blame.' ]

I'm not sure. Perhaps we haven't been speaking at all. Perhaps it's Johanna who's been speaking to you all this time, while your husband stews over some mess you've created. Probably borrowed a book and failed to return it. Or left some mess that her serving girl's incapable of addressing. Johanna isn't much for neatness, after all. And I am dreadfully particular.

Perhaps your husband's growing weary of waiting for you. Perhaps he longs to see your face and brush a kiss against your cheek.

Perhaps your company has been withheld for long enough.

'For the most'? Then I'll need to work at perfecting my own approach.

'I'll know who to blame'...???

If you drive this poor girl to tears, I will be obliged to remain and comfort her until she stems their flow.

At the moment, staying is the last thing I care to do. I find myself desperate to make my way home.

[...]

After all. We both are in need of seeking perfection.

The 'poor girl' could stand to cultivate a thicker skin.

If it spares you the half-hour of patting her back, I might be moved to send one final message. Something incidentally absolving her of all would-be blame.

Christ, she must know I'm not liable to DO anything with that blame. Frivolous woman.

Leave her, Katrina. Leave the wretched lot of them.

There's work to be done.

Shall I tell you another quality of yours that I noticed from the first?

I think you could charm the very devil if you tried. If you cared to do so. That you put effort into its aim at me is certainly part of the appeal; you leave me melting.

But you and I have very different understandings of the word 'work'. I will come home - and abandon Venetia to her fretting - but only for the promise of a pleasurable afternoon.

Just try convincing anyone else I'm as charming as you say.

You're worth the work of charm. What I wouldn't give to be beside you in this moment. The pair of us alone. Your fingers at my collar. A kiss against your throat.

A pleasurable afternoon, indeed.

You needn't give much at all. Clearly, I am easily wooed from delicate company by the promise of my husband's touch.

(Or by the threat of his ire, to hear Venetia tell it. You are a dreadful brute.)

Will a delay of ten minutes be acceptable? Then we might discuss what work I am worth.

Poor Katrina, to be so oppressed by her beast of a husband. It's a wonder you get by.

Never mind, my darling. Return, and I'll soothe away your anguish.

I believe I'll be capable of managing ten minutes. Just barely. Don't let them keep you from me any longer.

Treavor, you are flustering me.

Me.

I haven't managed a complete sentence to anyone. They think I'm frightened of returning home.

Am I? Hm.

Return to me and well see if we can startle away every sentence in your holding

I hope you realize the only possible outcome of such tactics as these is reciprocation.

There will be a time when you are caught in the drudgery of social etiquette - or business, now - and I am the one left to languish and send you appallingly suggestive messages.

While waiting at home.

In your chair.

Drinking your wine.

Wearing only my dressing gown.

Edited 2019-05-05 21:05 (UTC)

Daring, aren't you? Composing these words in public, even if they ARE in Dutch. God knows what might happen if anyone catches you at it.

[ ... ]

Interesting that you think I might dread such reciprocation. Try your best against me, Katrina; I welcome the onslaught.

Still. Not fair, bringing in your dressing gown. I can hardly reciprocate with any vision of my undress. Better that I keep fully clothed, mm?

Instead, I offer you an image, a thought near and dear to my heart: Consider that your husband appears behind you, no doubt to the dismay of your friends. Consider the press of his lips against your throat, one hand against your waist. Consider the breath of a low greeting, the drift of his hand down, down to brush your thigh. You're a beautiful woman, aren't you? Vivid, a creature worth adoring. And your husband can't stand to have you kept away.

[ There's a delay. Of course there's a delay: nevermind the loss of English entirely. Think of the shellshock of reading something so explicit - yes, from her husband, yes, from someone who has done those things, but - still, she is a good Christian girl (murder aside), she has never been spoken to in this way, certainly has never read such a thing.

In public. With aforementioned friends standing not two feet away, waiting with her for the hansom.

She drops her phone, scrambles to pick it up, red-faced and clutching it to her breast in both hands. Stares unseeing at Venetia, who believes, truly believes, Katrina is going to her demise.

Maybe she is. She is barely breathing. (That is. An image indeed, and one certain to remain.)

(Well. She started it. She did start it.

No - wait. He started it, the brute!)

The other woman says something commiserating, something about the rigorous demands of marriage. Of tending to one's household duties. Katrina very nearly laughs, half-panicked. She manages a small and ambiguous noise instead. Madeleine makes some comment that goes unmarked, but likely isn't flattering at all.

The conversation carries on unheeded as she returns her attention to the message she can barely process. ]

If I faint, the delay in my return to you will be your own fault.

I may faint.

I don't -

[...]

I have never been spoken to in that way.

[...]

Well, of course I have never been spoken to in that way. You -

You.

I.

Require a moment.

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