kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

[...]

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.

[ He may be enjoying this. It isn't anything he's particularly familiar with, but isn't every act, every word with Katrina a matter of navigating paths he's scarcely dared to tread, perhaps never begun to acknowledge? Not for the first time, it occurs to him that she draws tenors and tendencies from him that he wouldn't have suspected. Allows him to exist in ways that would have seemed beyond his reach.

Poor girl, caught out among her friends and clearly flustered. He might almost feel sorry for her. ]

Never fear, dear minx. Should you faint, your husband will revive you. He does possess certain talents.

Certain, shall we say, graceful gestures.

They're sure to bring you back around.

[ She thinks - she will need to practice. She will need to practice saying (and writing) words like those, if she means to get some form of revenge on him.

After all, this is an offense that can't go unanswered. (One that can't be ignored. When did he get to be so enjoyable? So - fun?)

(Has he done this before, she wonders? And then immediately, she sets the thought aside. It's not likely, as put off as he claims to have been by the letters sent to him by Tricia Blackstock...and as put off as most women seem to be by him.

Clearly, they don't know what they're missing. Or perhaps only ignorant, uncouth, farm-grown harlots can appreciate it.) ]

They are sure to bring me to some other state than faint, but 'back around' is not where I find myself under your 'graceful gestures'.

None of which may be delivered with any immediacy; you are there, and I am here, and poor Venetia thinks I am quite red and trembling because I anticipate death at your hands.

Well. That is one way to make me seem as though I'm in some pitiable state, if I'm unable to cry on command. Tell me what I can anticipate at your hands, and then leave me

[...]

Aching.

You are a brute.

Aching, is it? Ah my dear, should I pity you? Perhaps retract my words, undo the damage, and vow never to offer such calamitous reveries?

Shall I bottle up my fondness for you? Let my intentions fester in cold neglect?

Is it so wretched, this state in which you find yourself?

Is that a vow you would keep, when you know how wretched your words make your loving wife? I think you delight in flustering me, leaving me to make excuses to others for my apparent distress.

I think you know how much I adore your fondness. And this state in which I find myself.

[...]

One which need no longer be subject to scrutiny, thank god. The carriage is here, and I am coming home. To you.

Observant as ever; you've pinned me in your supposition. I won't deny that I appreciate the image of your likely agitation. And the others, well. You and I know they already wonder at the state of our affairs. Might as well give them more matter for filling their days and empty heads.

I do adore you, you know.

Find nothing that can measure up to even the slightest trace of you.

Please, do hurry. I needn't say that I'll be waiting for you. The location... I suppose I'll leave that up to you. Where would you like me, darling?

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