Fic: "Nine Years Later," Chapter 5/7
Title: Nine Years Later, Chapter 5 of 7
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: Pike/One, Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura
Rating: PG for this chapter
Content Advisory: More music and dancing.
Word Count: This chapter, about 3900; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 5
In which things come to a head-figuratively speaking.
London: in and near Grillion’s Hotel, and at Bridgerton House
Saturday
Somewhat after noon, Alex found himself standing in front of Grillion’s Hotel. He knew the hotel’s reputation for discretion and privacy well, and still he hesitated before sending his card up.
One of the hotel employees showed him to her sitting room a few minutes later. He shifted minutely as he waited, standing by the window, for the lady herself to enter.
She did, a few moments later, dressed in a day dress of spring lawn, a lace cap on her head, hiding her short, not-European hair. “Lord Spockton,” she said.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said.
She nodded. “I understand it’s rude to be direct, but are you here expecting any special favors?”
“I am not,” he said, flushing. “I do not mean to show you any disrespect. Nonetheless, I find myself-desiring your presence.”
Miss Uhura smiled, quickly, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Alex frowned mentally at the sentimentality of such a comparison. “I understand,” she said. “I am inexplicably desirous of your presence as well.”
There were many questions he wished to ask her after such a statement, but they swirled and caught in his throat. “I am glad,” he managed after a moment.
“Shall we sit?” she suggested gently. Alex nodded mutely, and they perched on matching chairs. “Do you want any refreshments? I can call for tea.”
“Please do not cause any trouble on my behalf,” he said, and she gave a short nod and rang the bell.
“I have been thinking,” Alex said, after a moment of not-entirely-comfortable silence. “Is your surname accurate?”
“Freedom?” she asked. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Do you have your freedom? If not, I would be willing to help you procure it.”
“It is accurate,” she said. “I am owned by no one, although I am under the protection, of a sort, of Senor Garcia and Signora Lamberti.”
Alex’s ears burned at the thought of Senor Garcia touching Miss Uhura in any way other than the most innocent, but he did not say anything. Who was he to judge what a lady in her position needed to do to survive? He ached to say, “I will be your protector,” some sort of long-buried deeply possessive urge surfacing from the back of his brain. He said nothing, though, other than repeating, “I am glad.”
A servant came with a tea tray, and she served him, tea with neither milk nor sugar. He held the cup gingerly, waiting for it to cool, for a few minutes before he could come up with a polite topic of conversation. “What will you be performing for the Duke this evening?”
Miss Uhura’s face brightened at the comment. “I shall be performing several of the arias and songs from the duke's musicale, but I have a brand new song from young Herr Schubert-you are familiar with his works, I gather?” At Alex’s nod, she continued. “It has just been written, and although this will not count as the premiere, I am very excited to be performing it.”
“What is the title?”
“‘Die Forelle’-‘The Trout,’ that is. Based on a poem by Schubart.”
“Do you speak German?” he asked, in that language.
“I do,” she replied, also auf Deutsch. “Not as well as I speak Italian or English, though.”
“Pardon my excessive questions, but how many languages do you speak?”
She paused for a moment. “Three African languages and five European ones-English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish. Yourself?”
“English, German, French, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hindi, Sanskrit, and a smattering of Bengali.” His father had only condoned the study of modern languages as long as he had also concentrated his studies on the classics. “As it turned out, I have a talent for languages, much like yourself.”
“Yes,” she said, and the corners of his mouth curved up slightly. Unlike most of the ladies of his acquaintance, who denied even the most obvious compliments, she accepted his statement as if it were her due. Miss Uhura and Lady Eve would get on quite splendidly, he thought, and then banished the idea from his mind. Such a meeting-between an opera singer and the daughter of the earl of Patterson-could never happen, despite the obvious contradiction of his own presence there.
“Would you like to hear the new lied?” she asked.
Alex nodded, somewhat surprised. “I would be honored.”
“Do you play?” she said, gesturing to the spinet in the corner.
He nodded again-his mother had been fascinated with the piano, having only rarely heard one in her childhood, and he’d learned to please her. “Adequately.”
Miss Uhura rose gracefully, and he followed her to the piano, seating himself at the bench and smoothing the music she placed on the stand. He stripped off his gloves, looked it over for a moment, asked her for a tempo, and began playing.
The lilting piano part supported a jaunty melody, strophic format; his mind translated the lyrics-about, appropriately, fishing-as she sang them. He juggled analysis of the song, the words, and his own performance effortlessly, leaving the majority of his attention free to enjoy her performance, which was lively and animated.
When the song came to a close, she smiled at him. “Thank you for your accompaniment.”
“It is a lovely song, and you perform it well,” he said. “The Duke is lucky to be able to have a private performance this evening.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Do you-“ For the first time, she looked hesitant, and Alex schooled his features into something approximating open, polite interest. “Would you mind playing more?”
“Of course not,” he said, and shuffled through the stack of music atop the piano. “What would you like to sing?”
An hour later, they were conversing as if they had long been acquainted and performing, despite Alex’s flaws due to lack of familiarity with the music, as if they had worked together musically for months. He had never in his life felt so comfortable with another person not his mother. Even Lady Eve kept him somewhat on edge, with her perfect society manners and impeccable appearance. Miss Uhura inexplicably seemed to understand him, to know which questions to ask to invoke his mind and which topics to avoid. If only-no. He would not think about it.
Long before he had fully satisfied his desire for her company, her actual accompanist, a young man of presumably Italian origin based on his looks and slight accent, entered. “I must go,” Alex said.
“Thank you so much for helping me with the analysis of ‘Die Forelle,’” Miss Uhura said. “It was a lovely afternoon.”
“Yes. Yes. I-I thank you for your company and I am glad to have helped you.” He stood, retrieving his gloves, and awkwardly knocked some of the music to the ground. Kneeling to retrieve it, he took a couple of deep breaths, shielded by the piano. Sifting through the papers quickly, he found that it had fallen mostly in order and stood, holding the stack. “Please accept my apologies. Some of the sheets are creased.”
“No matter,” Miss Uhura said. “It appears only to be the corners. I shall accompany you to the stairway.”
He offered her his arm, something he did only rarely, disliking physical contact. She took it, and they left the accompanist warming up his fingers. As soon as the door to the sitting room closed and they were left in the small entryway, she turned to him. “Lord Spockton, I understand this is inappropriate, but . . . I would, just once, very much like to hear you say my name.”
Alex’s mouth went dry; he swallowed reflexively, and clamped down, hard, on any emotions trying to rise at her request. “Nyota,” he said, deliberately. “Nyota.”
She looked up at him, blinking, and dashed away a single tear. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said, and left, with a short bow and no backward glance. He did not feel he had the strength to do otherwise.
* * *
Christopher, Jamie, and McCoy were walking with Miss Joanna McCoy and her governess down Albemarle Street when, of all people, Lord Spockton rushed out of Grillion’s Hotel and strode down the street, dropping one of his gloves.
“Spock!” Jamie called out, and Lord Spockton’s shoulders tightened before he turned. “You dropped a glove,” Jamie said, ducking to pick up the glove and holding it out.
“Thank you,” Lord Spockton said. “Lord Prescott, Mr. McCoy, Miss McCoy.”
“Lord Spockton,” Christopher murmured, McCoy echoing him.
At Miss Colt’s elbow, Joanna piped up with, “Good afternoon, Lord Spockton.”
“If you’ll excuse me?” Lord Spockton said, with uncharacteristic vagueness. A moment or two later, though, before he could stride away, he seemed to focus on Christopher himself. “She still loves you, you know.”
“I-“ He had no idea how to respond to that, and before he could produce a good answer, Spockton was gone. Turning partway, he saw that Jamie, McCoy, Joanna, and Miss Colt were all staring at him, wide-eyed. “That’s good news, is it not?”
“Did Spock volunteer information?” Jamie asked. “Information about Lady Eve?”
“I hope so,” Christopher said. Miss Colt hustled Joanna off to look at the Royal Institution, which advertised an upcoming scientific lecture.
“I thought he didn’t like you,” McCoy said, waiting until his daughter was out of earshot.
Jamie laughed. “No; Spock doesn’t like me, because I am insufficiently dignified. I don’t know his feelings on Kit here.”
Christopher shrugged. “I don’t know him very well. His father and I have worked together in Parliament, though.”
“Anyway!” Jamie said, clapping McCoy on the shoulder (unnecessarily, in Christopher’s view). “So the Lady Eve is still enamored of you, such that Lord Emotionless knew about it. Now what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “If she would only speak to me, I might have a better clue of what to do.”
“Well, you’ll see her at the Bridgertons’ tonight, yes?”
“Yes,” he said. “If I’m lucky, I might even get to dance with her.” He shook his head and headed over to Joanna and Miss Colt.
* * *
Later that evening, Christopher showed up unfashionably early to Viscount Bridgerton’s ball and made awkward conversation with the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, the latter Viscount Bridgerton’s sister. The minute that the Earl of Patterson’s party arrived, he knew, and he braved the crowd to sign Lady Eve’s dance card (and Lady Christine’s, just because he could) without a word. She looked at him, eyes haunted, and silently allowed him to claim the supper waltz.
Jamie and McCoy showed up somewhat later; the former requested a dance with Lady Christine, and the latter made a beeline for anything that may have contained alcohol.
The first part of the evening passed in a blur; Christopher was aware that he danced with several lovely young ladies, including Miss Seabourne, Miss Rand, and Lady Christine, but nothing came into focus until the orchestra signaled that it was beginning the supper waltz. He straightened up, ignoring the twinge in his hip, and surveyed the crowd.
Lady Eve was not so far away; he saw her speaking with McCoy by the wall. As he went to claim her hand, Jamie appeared to escort Lady Christine to the floor. Christopher and Eve joined the whirl with a minimum of conversation, and remained that way until a minute or so into the dance.
“How fares your family?” he asked eventually. He had her in proper waltz position, which was nowhere near as close as he wanted to hold her, but he wouldn’t release her to anyone.
“They are well,” she replied, still stiff in his arms. “The Earl and Countess of Tracy-that is, my sister Caroline and her husband-are expecting their second child in December.”
“Congratulations to them.”
Another moment or two passed before Eve said, “Where were you?” Her eyes flickered to meet his before returning to look over his shoulder.
“Fighting Napoleon,” he said, torn between inward rejoicing and despair. She was finally speaking to him, but she’d started with the difficult questions. “In Europe, primarily.”
“That was the first four years,” she said. “Where were you for five years after that?”
He exhaled. “Before the first four years were up, it was requested that I stay, given a promotion. I couldn’t refuse.”
“All right,” she said.
He braced himself for her next question, but it didn’t come. A moment or two later, the words spilled out of his mouth. “I thought it would only be another year or so. I did write you a letter; I just . . .” He sighed. “I never sent it.”
“All right,” she said again, her gaze still over his shoulder.
He’d only said a tenth of what he needed to say, but the waltz was close to ending. “Lady Eve, may I call on you-” he belatedly remembered the date “-on Monday?”
“You may,” she said, her tone still dispassionate, as if he’d asked her about the weather. Her eyes met his for more than an instant, and she smiled at him-not a full smile, but a start. “You may also escort me into supper,” she said, as the music ended.
She was so beautiful. He’d always thought she was beautiful-always known she was beautiful-but he hadn’t been this close to her in years, and she took his breath away. “Number One,” he whispered.
Eve didn’t respond, except with a slight tightening around her mouth. He offered her his arm, and they entered the dining room silently.
* * *
McCoy was altogether too sober. He had been to more social events in the last week than his entire life previous, and there was rarely enough to drink. Instead, he danced with the occasional brave debutante and spent most of his time watching Jamie flirt with an entire generation of lovely blonde ladies. It was-disconcerting. He knew that Jamie did not intend to marry any of them; he’d said as much on multiple occasions, and to this point, McCoy had had no reason not to believe him. However-
He was holding Lady Christine altogether too close.
Oh, McCoy was aware that they were dancing a waltz-the supper waltz, nonetheless-but Jamie was still holding her too closely, and smiling at her. He was making her laugh, and although McCoy probably knew the story he was telling, having heard all of Jamie’s stories over the years, he still-
He wanted to be the one hearing the story.
Peculiar, that.
McCoy shook his head and headed outside, to clear his head.
* * *
Eve did a remarkable job of ignoring the warm, solid presence of Lord Prescott--oh, to hell with it, she thought. She generally tried not to lie to herself quite as obviously as that. What she had been doing was a remarkable job of pretending to ignore the warm, solid presence of Christopher just to one side of her, even as he passed her various dishes and refilled her glass. Every inch of her skin was well aware of the fact that he was there, and as much as she’d been suppressing it over the last couple weeks, she longed to turn to him and-Well, what would happen after that didn’t bear thinking about, being as she was in public.
Suffice it to say, though, any feelings she had had for Christopher Pike at age nineteen had apparently not died from how deeply she’d buried them, and his presence was, to mangle her metaphor a bit further, sunlight and water.
Eventually, though, supper ended, and guests started trickling back into the ballroom. Christopher escorted her into the room and took his leave, with a warm press of her fingers and a smile. Eve took a deep breath-well, as deep as her light corset would allow-and looked around for her parents or sister.
She did not spot either, but she did see Lord Spockton looking somewhat uncomfortable as he chatted with the Viscountess Bridgerton, generally held to be a nice if unconventional lady. Fortunately, she and Lady Bridgerton were acquainted, so Eve went to join the conversation.
“Ah, Lady Eve! You look quite lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” Eve said. She’d greeted the viscount and the dowager viscountess earlier, but not the viscountess. “You are as well. However, I believe that Lord Spockton has promised me this set.” The orchestra was playing the opening strains of a country dance.
“Oh! Oh, yes,” Lady Bridgerton said. “And I have promised this set to Colin. Or perhaps Benedict.” Colin and Benedict being two of the Misters Bridgerton, her brothers-in-law. “If I could only find my fan-”
“It is on the table behind you, Lady Bridgerton,” Lord Spockton said, and Eve smiled.
“Thank you, Lord Spockton. Lady Eve.”
Lady Bridgerton left, and Eve said, “We do not have to dance if you do not wish.” Lord Spockton still looked vaguely uncomfortable, so she said, “We could take a turn on the balcony instead.” It was, after all, her favorite benefit of being firmly on the shelf-being allowed to walk with unmarried gentlemen and not having to worry quite so much about her reputation.
“I-yes, that would be quite acceptable.” He did not offer her his arm, but then again, he only rarely did, and they walked, side by side, out into the night air.
“Is something troubling you, Lord Spockton?”
He took a deep breath before replying. “Yes, but it is of no consequence.”
“All right.” She knew when to leave well enough alone, and this was certainly that time.
Sure enough, a moment or two later, he spoke again. “I have-encountered a situation where I am well aware that I could make one decision that would simultaneously cause me to be-to be happy in a way I do not think I have been in years and to be discontent in a way I have always been discontent, but perhaps moreso.”
Eve had no idea to what he might refer, but she’d make an attempt because he was her friend. “Do you seek my advice?”
“I do not know.” He paused. “If you have any to offer, I would be grateful to hear.”
She thought a moment. “I have never known you to be truly happy, Lord Spockton, and I would support quite a few decisions you could make to increase your happiness.”
“This would-“ He swallowed. “This would not decrease my distance from polite society. I also do not think it would improve my relationship with my father.”
Eve realized he must be rather overset, to mention his father at all. Of course she knew that he and his father had had their differences; Lord Spockton’s fascination with his mother’s people and culture, especially after her death, had not brought the men closer together. “Your father married an Indian princess, brought her to England, introduced her to the queen, and has insisted that his heir be treated as an equal in every way,” she pointed out. “I do not think he can judge what you might do to procure your own happiness.”
“He did, at that,” Lord Spockton murmured, bemused. A moment later he straightened his already-perfect posture and looked directly at her, dark eyes warm in the moonlight. “Lady Eve, I thank you. You have been a fine friend these many years. If our paths do not cross, I wish you all the happiness in the world with your Lord Prescott.” She considered protesting, but he shook his head slightly and continued. “He is a good and honorable man, despite an apparent lack of aptitude in communication.”
Eve pressed her lips together, both in amusement in at the solitary Lord Spockton judging another man’s social aptitude and in sorrow, as she heard the farewell in his words quite clearly. “Au revoir, Lord Spockton. You are always welcome at any house of mine.”
Lord Spockton nodded, pressed her fingers briefly with his, and left her alone on the balcony with her thoughts.
“Did Lord Spockton leave you out here by yourself, Lady Eve?” came a familiar, faintly-Scottish voice, and Eve turned to see Lieutenant McCoy leaning against the railing a few feet away. “That was certainly ungentlemanly of him.”
“Lieutenant McCoy,” she said, and he pushed off the balcony to join her. “Lord Spockton abides by his own rules.” He held out an arm, and she took it, inexplicably grateful for some form of human contact. “I did not see you during supper.”
“I, ah. I was out here,” he admitted. “Needed some fresh air, and got lost in my own head.”
“How is your daughter?” she said. The lieutenant’s face brightened, and he spoke of Miss Joanna McCoy and her many exploits until they returned to the ballroom.
* * *
McCoy’s heart skipped a beat when he accompanied Lady Eve back to the ballroom and saw Jamie speaking with Lady Christine again; fortunately, the two couples were on a path to meet and did not diverge.
“Evie! We were about to search for you. Lord Spockton returned to the ballroom and left quite precipitously.” Lady Christine dropped Jamie’s arm to take her sister’s hands, and McCoy released Lady Eve’s arm.
“You missed supper,” Jamie said, with a shrug and a half smile as the two ladies spoke.
“Excuse us,” Lady Eve said over her sister’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, with a short bow, and Jamie followed suit. “Where’s Lord Prescott?” he asked, as soon as Lady Eve was out of earshot.
“Kit? He went home. Said his hip was bothering him.”
McCoy frowned. Fortunately, Lord Prescott’s batman-turned-valet knew something of medicine, and his assistance was not necessary. It hadn’t actually been since the war, but he had dug the ball that caused Lord Prescott’s current trouble out of his former captain’s hip, and still felt some responsibility for the aftermath.
Jamie saw the frown and said, “Oh, don’t worry, McCoy, he’ll be fine. It also may have been a strategic retreat; if I’m not mistaken, he and the lovely Lady Eve had something approximating a conversation while dancing.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “Did they.”
“Don’t worry,” Jamie said cheerfully. “We can go reconfigure the campaign plans tomorrow afternoon.”
McCoy felt a completely bizarre stab of jealousy at Jamie’s words. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever, that he should be jealous of Lord Prescott. Lady Eve was a fine example of a lady, but it was clear that Lord Prescott had managed to rekindle some kind feelings toward himself inside her bosom, and-
Wait.
No, that was incorrect. He had no reason to be jealous of Lord Prescott for monopolizing Jamie’s time. Hell, he lived with Jamie; saw him every morning and every evening and often a good deal of the time in between. He did not need every single moment of Jamie’s day.
He also did not need to be the exclusive focus of Jamie’s attention.
Although-
No.
“We should leave soon,” he said.
Jamie looked over at him. “This early?”
“Some of us aren’t heathens and would like to make it to church tomorrow morning,” he drawled, imitating Jamie’s London accent.
“Well, all right, then,” Jamie said, pushing off and heading for the door. McCoy watched him walk away, admiring the fit of his coat-No. No!
He was definitely attending services tomorrow morning. This was-
No.
Chapter 6 | Master Post
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: Pike/One, Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura
Rating: PG for this chapter
Content Advisory: More music and dancing.
Word Count: This chapter, about 3900; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 5
In which things come to a head-figuratively speaking.
London: in and near Grillion’s Hotel, and at Bridgerton House
Saturday
Somewhat after noon, Alex found himself standing in front of Grillion’s Hotel. He knew the hotel’s reputation for discretion and privacy well, and still he hesitated before sending his card up.
One of the hotel employees showed him to her sitting room a few minutes later. He shifted minutely as he waited, standing by the window, for the lady herself to enter.
She did, a few moments later, dressed in a day dress of spring lawn, a lace cap on her head, hiding her short, not-European hair. “Lord Spockton,” she said.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said.
She nodded. “I understand it’s rude to be direct, but are you here expecting any special favors?”
“I am not,” he said, flushing. “I do not mean to show you any disrespect. Nonetheless, I find myself-desiring your presence.”
Miss Uhura smiled, quickly, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Alex frowned mentally at the sentimentality of such a comparison. “I understand,” she said. “I am inexplicably desirous of your presence as well.”
There were many questions he wished to ask her after such a statement, but they swirled and caught in his throat. “I am glad,” he managed after a moment.
“Shall we sit?” she suggested gently. Alex nodded mutely, and they perched on matching chairs. “Do you want any refreshments? I can call for tea.”
“Please do not cause any trouble on my behalf,” he said, and she gave a short nod and rang the bell.
“I have been thinking,” Alex said, after a moment of not-entirely-comfortable silence. “Is your surname accurate?”
“Freedom?” she asked. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Do you have your freedom? If not, I would be willing to help you procure it.”
“It is accurate,” she said. “I am owned by no one, although I am under the protection, of a sort, of Senor Garcia and Signora Lamberti.”
Alex’s ears burned at the thought of Senor Garcia touching Miss Uhura in any way other than the most innocent, but he did not say anything. Who was he to judge what a lady in her position needed to do to survive? He ached to say, “I will be your protector,” some sort of long-buried deeply possessive urge surfacing from the back of his brain. He said nothing, though, other than repeating, “I am glad.”
A servant came with a tea tray, and she served him, tea with neither milk nor sugar. He held the cup gingerly, waiting for it to cool, for a few minutes before he could come up with a polite topic of conversation. “What will you be performing for the Duke this evening?”
Miss Uhura’s face brightened at the comment. “I shall be performing several of the arias and songs from the duke's musicale, but I have a brand new song from young Herr Schubert-you are familiar with his works, I gather?” At Alex’s nod, she continued. “It has just been written, and although this will not count as the premiere, I am very excited to be performing it.”
“What is the title?”
“‘Die Forelle’-‘The Trout,’ that is. Based on a poem by Schubart.”
“Do you speak German?” he asked, in that language.
“I do,” she replied, also auf Deutsch. “Not as well as I speak Italian or English, though.”
“Pardon my excessive questions, but how many languages do you speak?”
She paused for a moment. “Three African languages and five European ones-English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish. Yourself?”
“English, German, French, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hindi, Sanskrit, and a smattering of Bengali.” His father had only condoned the study of modern languages as long as he had also concentrated his studies on the classics. “As it turned out, I have a talent for languages, much like yourself.”
“Yes,” she said, and the corners of his mouth curved up slightly. Unlike most of the ladies of his acquaintance, who denied even the most obvious compliments, she accepted his statement as if it were her due. Miss Uhura and Lady Eve would get on quite splendidly, he thought, and then banished the idea from his mind. Such a meeting-between an opera singer and the daughter of the earl of Patterson-could never happen, despite the obvious contradiction of his own presence there.
“Would you like to hear the new lied?” she asked.
Alex nodded, somewhat surprised. “I would be honored.”
“Do you play?” she said, gesturing to the spinet in the corner.
He nodded again-his mother had been fascinated with the piano, having only rarely heard one in her childhood, and he’d learned to please her. “Adequately.”
Miss Uhura rose gracefully, and he followed her to the piano, seating himself at the bench and smoothing the music she placed on the stand. He stripped off his gloves, looked it over for a moment, asked her for a tempo, and began playing.
The lilting piano part supported a jaunty melody, strophic format; his mind translated the lyrics-about, appropriately, fishing-as she sang them. He juggled analysis of the song, the words, and his own performance effortlessly, leaving the majority of his attention free to enjoy her performance, which was lively and animated.
When the song came to a close, she smiled at him. “Thank you for your accompaniment.”
“It is a lovely song, and you perform it well,” he said. “The Duke is lucky to be able to have a private performance this evening.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Do you-“ For the first time, she looked hesitant, and Alex schooled his features into something approximating open, polite interest. “Would you mind playing more?”
“Of course not,” he said, and shuffled through the stack of music atop the piano. “What would you like to sing?”
An hour later, they were conversing as if they had long been acquainted and performing, despite Alex’s flaws due to lack of familiarity with the music, as if they had worked together musically for months. He had never in his life felt so comfortable with another person not his mother. Even Lady Eve kept him somewhat on edge, with her perfect society manners and impeccable appearance. Miss Uhura inexplicably seemed to understand him, to know which questions to ask to invoke his mind and which topics to avoid. If only-no. He would not think about it.
Long before he had fully satisfied his desire for her company, her actual accompanist, a young man of presumably Italian origin based on his looks and slight accent, entered. “I must go,” Alex said.
“Thank you so much for helping me with the analysis of ‘Die Forelle,’” Miss Uhura said. “It was a lovely afternoon.”
“Yes. Yes. I-I thank you for your company and I am glad to have helped you.” He stood, retrieving his gloves, and awkwardly knocked some of the music to the ground. Kneeling to retrieve it, he took a couple of deep breaths, shielded by the piano. Sifting through the papers quickly, he found that it had fallen mostly in order and stood, holding the stack. “Please accept my apologies. Some of the sheets are creased.”
“No matter,” Miss Uhura said. “It appears only to be the corners. I shall accompany you to the stairway.”
He offered her his arm, something he did only rarely, disliking physical contact. She took it, and they left the accompanist warming up his fingers. As soon as the door to the sitting room closed and they were left in the small entryway, she turned to him. “Lord Spockton, I understand this is inappropriate, but . . . I would, just once, very much like to hear you say my name.”
Alex’s mouth went dry; he swallowed reflexively, and clamped down, hard, on any emotions trying to rise at her request. “Nyota,” he said, deliberately. “Nyota.”
She looked up at him, blinking, and dashed away a single tear. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said, and left, with a short bow and no backward glance. He did not feel he had the strength to do otherwise.
* * *
Christopher, Jamie, and McCoy were walking with Miss Joanna McCoy and her governess down Albemarle Street when, of all people, Lord Spockton rushed out of Grillion’s Hotel and strode down the street, dropping one of his gloves.
“Spock!” Jamie called out, and Lord Spockton’s shoulders tightened before he turned. “You dropped a glove,” Jamie said, ducking to pick up the glove and holding it out.
“Thank you,” Lord Spockton said. “Lord Prescott, Mr. McCoy, Miss McCoy.”
“Lord Spockton,” Christopher murmured, McCoy echoing him.
At Miss Colt’s elbow, Joanna piped up with, “Good afternoon, Lord Spockton.”
“If you’ll excuse me?” Lord Spockton said, with uncharacteristic vagueness. A moment or two later, though, before he could stride away, he seemed to focus on Christopher himself. “She still loves you, you know.”
“I-“ He had no idea how to respond to that, and before he could produce a good answer, Spockton was gone. Turning partway, he saw that Jamie, McCoy, Joanna, and Miss Colt were all staring at him, wide-eyed. “That’s good news, is it not?”
“Did Spock volunteer information?” Jamie asked. “Information about Lady Eve?”
“I hope so,” Christopher said. Miss Colt hustled Joanna off to look at the Royal Institution, which advertised an upcoming scientific lecture.
“I thought he didn’t like you,” McCoy said, waiting until his daughter was out of earshot.
Jamie laughed. “No; Spock doesn’t like me, because I am insufficiently dignified. I don’t know his feelings on Kit here.”
Christopher shrugged. “I don’t know him very well. His father and I have worked together in Parliament, though.”
“Anyway!” Jamie said, clapping McCoy on the shoulder (unnecessarily, in Christopher’s view). “So the Lady Eve is still enamored of you, such that Lord Emotionless knew about it. Now what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “If she would only speak to me, I might have a better clue of what to do.”
“Well, you’ll see her at the Bridgertons’ tonight, yes?”
“Yes,” he said. “If I’m lucky, I might even get to dance with her.” He shook his head and headed over to Joanna and Miss Colt.
* * *
Later that evening, Christopher showed up unfashionably early to Viscount Bridgerton’s ball and made awkward conversation with the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, the latter Viscount Bridgerton’s sister. The minute that the Earl of Patterson’s party arrived, he knew, and he braved the crowd to sign Lady Eve’s dance card (and Lady Christine’s, just because he could) without a word. She looked at him, eyes haunted, and silently allowed him to claim the supper waltz.
Jamie and McCoy showed up somewhat later; the former requested a dance with Lady Christine, and the latter made a beeline for anything that may have contained alcohol.
The first part of the evening passed in a blur; Christopher was aware that he danced with several lovely young ladies, including Miss Seabourne, Miss Rand, and Lady Christine, but nothing came into focus until the orchestra signaled that it was beginning the supper waltz. He straightened up, ignoring the twinge in his hip, and surveyed the crowd.
Lady Eve was not so far away; he saw her speaking with McCoy by the wall. As he went to claim her hand, Jamie appeared to escort Lady Christine to the floor. Christopher and Eve joined the whirl with a minimum of conversation, and remained that way until a minute or so into the dance.
“How fares your family?” he asked eventually. He had her in proper waltz position, which was nowhere near as close as he wanted to hold her, but he wouldn’t release her to anyone.
“They are well,” she replied, still stiff in his arms. “The Earl and Countess of Tracy-that is, my sister Caroline and her husband-are expecting their second child in December.”
“Congratulations to them.”
Another moment or two passed before Eve said, “Where were you?” Her eyes flickered to meet his before returning to look over his shoulder.
“Fighting Napoleon,” he said, torn between inward rejoicing and despair. She was finally speaking to him, but she’d started with the difficult questions. “In Europe, primarily.”
“That was the first four years,” she said. “Where were you for five years after that?”
He exhaled. “Before the first four years were up, it was requested that I stay, given a promotion. I couldn’t refuse.”
“All right,” she said.
He braced himself for her next question, but it didn’t come. A moment or two later, the words spilled out of his mouth. “I thought it would only be another year or so. I did write you a letter; I just . . .” He sighed. “I never sent it.”
“All right,” she said again, her gaze still over his shoulder.
He’d only said a tenth of what he needed to say, but the waltz was close to ending. “Lady Eve, may I call on you-” he belatedly remembered the date “-on Monday?”
“You may,” she said, her tone still dispassionate, as if he’d asked her about the weather. Her eyes met his for more than an instant, and she smiled at him-not a full smile, but a start. “You may also escort me into supper,” she said, as the music ended.
She was so beautiful. He’d always thought she was beautiful-always known she was beautiful-but he hadn’t been this close to her in years, and she took his breath away. “Number One,” he whispered.
Eve didn’t respond, except with a slight tightening around her mouth. He offered her his arm, and they entered the dining room silently.
* * *
McCoy was altogether too sober. He had been to more social events in the last week than his entire life previous, and there was rarely enough to drink. Instead, he danced with the occasional brave debutante and spent most of his time watching Jamie flirt with an entire generation of lovely blonde ladies. It was-disconcerting. He knew that Jamie did not intend to marry any of them; he’d said as much on multiple occasions, and to this point, McCoy had had no reason not to believe him. However-
He was holding Lady Christine altogether too close.
Oh, McCoy was aware that they were dancing a waltz-the supper waltz, nonetheless-but Jamie was still holding her too closely, and smiling at her. He was making her laugh, and although McCoy probably knew the story he was telling, having heard all of Jamie’s stories over the years, he still-
He wanted to be the one hearing the story.
Peculiar, that.
McCoy shook his head and headed outside, to clear his head.
* * *
Eve did a remarkable job of ignoring the warm, solid presence of Lord Prescott--oh, to hell with it, she thought. She generally tried not to lie to herself quite as obviously as that. What she had been doing was a remarkable job of pretending to ignore the warm, solid presence of Christopher just to one side of her, even as he passed her various dishes and refilled her glass. Every inch of her skin was well aware of the fact that he was there, and as much as she’d been suppressing it over the last couple weeks, she longed to turn to him and-Well, what would happen after that didn’t bear thinking about, being as she was in public.
Suffice it to say, though, any feelings she had had for Christopher Pike at age nineteen had apparently not died from how deeply she’d buried them, and his presence was, to mangle her metaphor a bit further, sunlight and water.
Eventually, though, supper ended, and guests started trickling back into the ballroom. Christopher escorted her into the room and took his leave, with a warm press of her fingers and a smile. Eve took a deep breath-well, as deep as her light corset would allow-and looked around for her parents or sister.
She did not spot either, but she did see Lord Spockton looking somewhat uncomfortable as he chatted with the Viscountess Bridgerton, generally held to be a nice if unconventional lady. Fortunately, she and Lady Bridgerton were acquainted, so Eve went to join the conversation.
“Ah, Lady Eve! You look quite lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” Eve said. She’d greeted the viscount and the dowager viscountess earlier, but not the viscountess. “You are as well. However, I believe that Lord Spockton has promised me this set.” The orchestra was playing the opening strains of a country dance.
“Oh! Oh, yes,” Lady Bridgerton said. “And I have promised this set to Colin. Or perhaps Benedict.” Colin and Benedict being two of the Misters Bridgerton, her brothers-in-law. “If I could only find my fan-”
“It is on the table behind you, Lady Bridgerton,” Lord Spockton said, and Eve smiled.
“Thank you, Lord Spockton. Lady Eve.”
Lady Bridgerton left, and Eve said, “We do not have to dance if you do not wish.” Lord Spockton still looked vaguely uncomfortable, so she said, “We could take a turn on the balcony instead.” It was, after all, her favorite benefit of being firmly on the shelf-being allowed to walk with unmarried gentlemen and not having to worry quite so much about her reputation.
“I-yes, that would be quite acceptable.” He did not offer her his arm, but then again, he only rarely did, and they walked, side by side, out into the night air.
“Is something troubling you, Lord Spockton?”
He took a deep breath before replying. “Yes, but it is of no consequence.”
“All right.” She knew when to leave well enough alone, and this was certainly that time.
Sure enough, a moment or two later, he spoke again. “I have-encountered a situation where I am well aware that I could make one decision that would simultaneously cause me to be-to be happy in a way I do not think I have been in years and to be discontent in a way I have always been discontent, but perhaps moreso.”
Eve had no idea to what he might refer, but she’d make an attempt because he was her friend. “Do you seek my advice?”
“I do not know.” He paused. “If you have any to offer, I would be grateful to hear.”
She thought a moment. “I have never known you to be truly happy, Lord Spockton, and I would support quite a few decisions you could make to increase your happiness.”
“This would-“ He swallowed. “This would not decrease my distance from polite society. I also do not think it would improve my relationship with my father.”
Eve realized he must be rather overset, to mention his father at all. Of course she knew that he and his father had had their differences; Lord Spockton’s fascination with his mother’s people and culture, especially after her death, had not brought the men closer together. “Your father married an Indian princess, brought her to England, introduced her to the queen, and has insisted that his heir be treated as an equal in every way,” she pointed out. “I do not think he can judge what you might do to procure your own happiness.”
“He did, at that,” Lord Spockton murmured, bemused. A moment later he straightened his already-perfect posture and looked directly at her, dark eyes warm in the moonlight. “Lady Eve, I thank you. You have been a fine friend these many years. If our paths do not cross, I wish you all the happiness in the world with your Lord Prescott.” She considered protesting, but he shook his head slightly and continued. “He is a good and honorable man, despite an apparent lack of aptitude in communication.”
Eve pressed her lips together, both in amusement in at the solitary Lord Spockton judging another man’s social aptitude and in sorrow, as she heard the farewell in his words quite clearly. “Au revoir, Lord Spockton. You are always welcome at any house of mine.”
Lord Spockton nodded, pressed her fingers briefly with his, and left her alone on the balcony with her thoughts.
“Did Lord Spockton leave you out here by yourself, Lady Eve?” came a familiar, faintly-Scottish voice, and Eve turned to see Lieutenant McCoy leaning against the railing a few feet away. “That was certainly ungentlemanly of him.”
“Lieutenant McCoy,” she said, and he pushed off the balcony to join her. “Lord Spockton abides by his own rules.” He held out an arm, and she took it, inexplicably grateful for some form of human contact. “I did not see you during supper.”
“I, ah. I was out here,” he admitted. “Needed some fresh air, and got lost in my own head.”
“How is your daughter?” she said. The lieutenant’s face brightened, and he spoke of Miss Joanna McCoy and her many exploits until they returned to the ballroom.
* * *
McCoy’s heart skipped a beat when he accompanied Lady Eve back to the ballroom and saw Jamie speaking with Lady Christine again; fortunately, the two couples were on a path to meet and did not diverge.
“Evie! We were about to search for you. Lord Spockton returned to the ballroom and left quite precipitously.” Lady Christine dropped Jamie’s arm to take her sister’s hands, and McCoy released Lady Eve’s arm.
“You missed supper,” Jamie said, with a shrug and a half smile as the two ladies spoke.
“Excuse us,” Lady Eve said over her sister’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, with a short bow, and Jamie followed suit. “Where’s Lord Prescott?” he asked, as soon as Lady Eve was out of earshot.
“Kit? He went home. Said his hip was bothering him.”
McCoy frowned. Fortunately, Lord Prescott’s batman-turned-valet knew something of medicine, and his assistance was not necessary. It hadn’t actually been since the war, but he had dug the ball that caused Lord Prescott’s current trouble out of his former captain’s hip, and still felt some responsibility for the aftermath.
Jamie saw the frown and said, “Oh, don’t worry, McCoy, he’ll be fine. It also may have been a strategic retreat; if I’m not mistaken, he and the lovely Lady Eve had something approximating a conversation while dancing.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “Did they.”
“Don’t worry,” Jamie said cheerfully. “We can go reconfigure the campaign plans tomorrow afternoon.”
McCoy felt a completely bizarre stab of jealousy at Jamie’s words. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever, that he should be jealous of Lord Prescott. Lady Eve was a fine example of a lady, but it was clear that Lord Prescott had managed to rekindle some kind feelings toward himself inside her bosom, and-
Wait.
No, that was incorrect. He had no reason to be jealous of Lord Prescott for monopolizing Jamie’s time. Hell, he lived with Jamie; saw him every morning and every evening and often a good deal of the time in between. He did not need every single moment of Jamie’s day.
He also did not need to be the exclusive focus of Jamie’s attention.
Although-
No.
“We should leave soon,” he said.
Jamie looked over at him. “This early?”
“Some of us aren’t heathens and would like to make it to church tomorrow morning,” he drawled, imitating Jamie’s London accent.
“Well, all right, then,” Jamie said, pushing off and heading for the door. McCoy watched him walk away, admiring the fit of his coat-No. No!
He was definitely attending services tomorrow morning. This was-
No.
Chapter 6 | Master Post