– Three Days Prior –
“…The trollop! The absolute nerve of it all, sir, to be publicly disgraced! You must understand my plight, this injustice – nay, a slight against mine own house.”
A halfwit all of a hundred pounds by Silas’ reckoning paces back and forth by lantern light in front of the meeting table, his overcoat weakly fluttering each time he spins on a heel.
“But yes, your services…”
The werewolf huntsman leans back in his chair, leathers and furs bundled loosely around him to shield against the growing cold of the autumn months. He eyes the waifish man, gaze narrowing into near-pinpricks as the full glare of the lantern catches his face. The reclining back upon his wooden seat elicits a creak of complaint from the well-worn furniture, balking at Silas’ bulk, more easily perceptible to the fidgety man in front of him – who finally slows as he comes to get a better look at the young lord’s impressively full stature, arms straining against his poor dress shirt as they cross in front of his chest.
“Whas’she look like, again?” He muses aloud, plucking the portrait produced as descriptor up from the table between him and his newfound employer. The huntsman takes some time to study the picture of Lydia, lips curling back into a wolfish smile; one with a pull of his tongue along the tips of his teeth as one might sharpen a blade for war. Even sketched, the brown skin of her soft, round face shines with youth, dark, thickly lashed eyes gleaming behind round glasses, as though the lady had a secret to keep.
“Alright, lordling. You’ve yourself a deal. Dead or otherwise defamed, as per the terms.”
Silas quickly flicks his chin towards the table, upon which sits a formidable bag of gold. An impeccably dressed man emerges from the dark behind the young lord to claim it, retreating just as quickly as he emerged. Silas snaps the fidgeting lordling’s attention back to him by slamming his weight down onto the front legs of the chair, seeming to force the whole cabin room to jump under his bulk.
“Now get gone. Hiring an assassin is hardly noble work, and besides..” the Lord of Vaughan leans forward, voice lowering to a snarl. “You’ve long overstayed your welcome in our woods, boy.”
Without a moment longer to think on the words offered, the lordling bows, quickly retreating from the cabin in the woods.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Silas chuckles, then breaks out into a full belly laugh, furs atop him jostled by the motion; several others in the shadows joining him.
“Easy work, lads and lasses, as ever.” He levers himself up to his feet, running a hand over his furred chin and smirking. “Alright, my fellows…a party awaits our subtle touch; the wolves of the other houses will be watching, so keep their ears pointed away, and leave me to my work.”
Silas inhales long through his nose. “I plan on savoring this one.”
~
Lydia Pembroke fans herself with her rapidly filling dance card, eyes scanning the marble and glass ballroom, filled floor to ceiling with lords and ladies, officers and servants, wolf and man alike. Her satin dancing slippers pinch her toes and she is desperate to retire to the gardens, or the library, or really anywhere with a chaise. However, any time she manages to shake male attention and inch towards a door to leave, her eldest sister, Vidalia, sweeps by, long-suffering husband in hand, tittering like an idiot about how she ought to make herself available to the “many fine gentleman, waiting eagerly for the touch of soft hands.”
Absolutely vulgar, if anyone would bother to ask Lydia. Both she and her sister knew very well that Lydia showed her face at these functions at the insistence of their poor, aging father.
“Darling Lydia,” he had said, cupping Lydia’s hand in his own, weathered by years of service, to the Queen and their country. “I’m not long to join your mother, but I wish for you to be taken care of. I will not leave you to destitution, my estate is yours, dear girl, granted, you can find a husband to manage it.”
Lydia did not argue with her father, for she too was in want of a husband, and he was too old by half to keep up with Lydia’s fits of spirit anymore. It just happened to be that every offer for her hand seemed to be ill-fated. Once, a young officer from the Queen’s Naval Brigade, kind in mouth but awful in deed and manner. Then, a bear of a man (a countenance Lydia had not found so disagreeable) from Siberia, who had seemed more interested in Lydia’s proclivity to sew clothing than her personage or wit. And most recently, a minor Lordling, clearly obsessed with her father’s title and land. He had handled Lydia like cattle, pulling her this way and that, and insisted that once she was his wife she would “need to slim down considerably”. As such, Lydia had taken great pleasure in dismissing his proposal as nothing more than the demands of a temperamental child. She had embarrassed him greatly, publicly, and enjoyed every second of it, even though, subsequently, Vidalia had raged about it for hours on end.
So instead of running away from potential suitors, Lydia washes down her anxiety and quickly numbing, pinched toes in spiced wine and tiny, white tea cakes. The lady shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and feels the strain of her plump figure against the corset underneath her gown. When she turns to fetch another glass of wine, another gentleman is waiting for her, face full of joy and attention. He is not a stranger, Lydia knows they had been introduced before, but his name escapes her. As he speaks, she ponders it.
His eyes linger on the generous swell of her breasts over top of green silk and white lace. Round in both face and figure, Lydia was not unfamiliar with the delight of his gaze. Her hips are prominent, even under petticoats, and her waist tucks in neatly, only with aides of girdles and corsets. Her bosom, however, is what keeps many gentlemen calling, Vidalia once said, they were larger than any chest had right to be, and would feed her children well.
“Are you not fond of balls, Ms. Pembroke?”
A boring question from a pallid faced man.
“Perhaps, I would be, if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in them, I think. It would surely be much more enjoyable if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day.”
The man looks sufficiently thwarted, finding her answer to be unexpected and even less friendly, but still attempts to maintain a discourse. Lydia’s next gulp of wine is large.
~
Silas Vaughan is, as ever, given something of a berth upon making his entrance into the night’s festivities; the perks of being a lesser noble, and a reputed scoundrel, he reckons, already used to the quiet dismissal from what should otherwise be the facade of polite company. House Vaughan, while surprisingly prosperous in wealth and trade, has always garnered the reputation for being a congregation place for misfits, especially those night creatures that otherwise sully the sort of high society that is built on the tenuous foundation of blackmail and bribery. And best of all for the work he takes, Silas found himself several seats down along the Crown’s succession, enough that he could take it if he desired, but distance himself if necessary.
“Honesty is a virtue,” he muses, drinking deeply of the smells, sights and sounds of people dancing, gossiping, and of course, that which he was actually there for. “The knife ‘tween the ribs is oft as effective as one sprouted from the back.” His right hand, Florence, nods sagely, following behind Silas with his overcoat.
“We’ve a suitably quiet space picked for you, Milord, just a turn right from the entrance to the servant’s quarters. She’ll cross reasonably close to it if she seeks a respite within her own room.” she whispers, close enough for only him to hear. “I’ll excuse myself to receive reports from the others.”
The Lord Vaughan gives Florence an appreciative pat on the shoulder as she turns to leave. Having picked up the trail, Silas excuses his way through the festivities, finding Lady Pembroke already engaged in conversation with some lesser house’s son. Initially, Silas is patient, taking the time to rifle through the proffered foods; he finds a goblet of mulled ale and drags lazily from it.
When the young man inevitably fails to find purchase in conversation, the werewolf claps his shoulder heartily, practically looming over the lordling with his stature and broad stance.
“Alright, my poor milksop. I’m certain there’s a nursemaid who’s prime to go into hysterics should you not return soon. Run along.” He gives the young man a small push, enough to distance him from the table, then sidles a step closer to Lydia, waiting to see her reaction to his appearance.
~
The young lord dashes off without so much as a goodbye, face whiter than before, and Lydia hardly thought it was possible. When she turns to face the interloper, she immediately understands why. The man positively looms, his frame is large, even more so than the Siberian. Even beneath his jacket, Lydia can tell his arms are corded with muscle, and his face is unshaven, sporting the beard of a vagabond. Lydia takes a slow inventory of the man’s countenance, eyes lingering in a way that could be construed as lascivious, should anyone be watching. The abundance of wine had done it’s part in loosening Lydia’s faculties, her eyeglasses slipping a fraction of the way down the bridge of her nose. When she spots the crest adorning the man’s lapel, she gasps, and before she realizes, reaches out to touch the embroidered patch. Howling wolf head over deep blue and purple, and oak in the background. Loyalty, truth and power. Even through Lydia’s light intoxication, the crest is immediately recognizable.
“Vaughn?” She muses, voice coquettish, “Is your lord not eager for your return? I hear he is quite ruthless with his soldiers, not one for a party I assume.”
Lydia smiles and when a servant walks past, he refills her crystal glass, before being off on his way.
Her finger circles the rim of the glass and she absently scans the room, eyes lingering on Vidalia, who seems to be torturing the room with her piano playing. She never was very good, much to their governess’ chagrin.
The man’s upper lip curls again in that wolfish smile as he’s addressed, and touched, no less. Intoxication always makes his job easier, and often more enjoyable, and finding Lydia already in her cups proved to be something of a small joy for him.
“Please, lady Pembroke, do I appear to you as one who might turn tail when nipped at the heels?” His voice is a deep baritone, rough enough to force a shiver down Lydia’s spine. He takes another drag of the mulled ale, then turns to the table behind them for a refill.
“If your…eager gaze upon me might reveal the truth to you, I invite you to look as long as you please, else I am your mystery to unravel should you but ask.”
Self-satisfied and more than a little gratified in having Lydia get an eyeful of him, Silas presents a bit more of himself to the lady, using the adjacent side table, less burdened with food, as a makeshift leaning-post from which to converse. In the meantime, the Lord Vaughan tries to make out whatever is holding Lydia’s gaze, and finding it to be settled on her sister at the piano, makes a mental note to allow for her in the later part of the plot.
Lydia, to her own merit, is sure the man is conscious that his figure appears to the greatest advantage in his languid state. She is additionally sure she is in the company of a wolf, his mannerisms and manner of speaking mirroring that of a predator. It was welcome intelligence – Lydia knew few wolves and knew not what to look out for, but the house of Vaughn was known for its vicious nature and so Lydia would be vigilant, as much so as her lack of sobriety allowed. When she brings her gaze to his face again, she is smiling, unsure of why beyond the warmth of wine.
“Have we met before, sir? I am most sure we have not been introduced, and to approach me alone, while I am unaccompanied is most inappropriate. If my sister and her husband were to see us conversing, I would surely be chastened, and you punished by your lord, eager gaze or no.” Lydia is more teasing than her usual self, and finds herself more attracted than she likes. The werewolf in front of her is deliciously broad and rakishly handsome, every smirk revealing the sharp point of his canines.
She places down her glass on the sideboard nearby, wrapping her arms around her torso, under her bust, purposefully highlighting her most prominent feature.
“No, not as of yet,” Silas answers, deciding to keep his alcohol at hand as opposed to setting it upon the table. “Would you have me retrieve my father or elder brother, spend a week in correspondence about the…” He gestures broadly out to the other attendees to the ball. “myriad of pleasantries one might observe over the course of a night’s festivity before I formally approach you?” He asks, wryly. “Like how dearly I do so enjoy the music, and how our player here might have had..mmm, a day or two’s practice in her life?” The werewolf continues along his path of biting sarcasm.
Lydia can do nothing to stifle the laughter at the expense of her dear sister. “She is absolutely dreadful, isn’t she, Lord Vaughn?” When Lydia is finally able to address him by name, she feels as though she had spoken something vulgar, or worse, French. Still, knowing she is at least speaking with a son of the Vaughn house is a salve to soothe what little nerves she has left. He is a man of station, ill repute though it may be.
Silas, emboldened by her laughter, allows his gaze to naturally and appreciatively drift down to Lydia’s bust as she holds it aloft in her arms. To her, the effect is much the same, given the height difference between them, but the man makes no motion to disguise what he is doing as he takes a short step towards her, scooping up her discarded glass of wine. For a moment, Silas imagines exacting his plot before the entire ballroom, brushing his lips against the soft curve of her throat, if only to hear the pleasured sighs from her sweet mouth.
“Perhaps you could allow for a brief dalliance, and enjoy the momentary absence of waifish, drab suitors.” He points slightly aside them, and indeed, there’s a small berth the two of them are being given, primarily due to Silas’ force of personality, and also the influence he wields over his flunkies throughout the party. “But of course, I make no decisions for a lady so desperately sought-after for her value as a house.”
Lydia is chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference to her bust, and is quick to respond without the careful censure of her father or elder sister. “You judge very properly, I think, and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of both flattering my station with delicacy and undercutting that of those you find disagreeable. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”
The large man turns and looks out at the assembled party, shrugging his broad, straining shoulders in just such a way that he bursts the top button of his dress shirt.
“Goodness,” he continues, visibly unperturbed. “What an embarrassing display.”
Her eyes drift to the expanse of flesh revealed by Lord Vaughn’s strain, tongue parting soft lip for mere seconds before disappearing again.
“Dear lady Pembroke,” Silas closes his eyes, drinking in the praise and the further appreciation of his form with a contented smile. “I could hardly be a man of my station without knowing when discretion is the best reply a man can give,” he replies, coy. “I’ll allow your fancy as to whichever of the two options is the more preferable, on such a matter.” He casually extends the hand holding her abandoned drink, returning her cup to her, best for his purposes to have her continue to drink away her inhibition…Besides, the near-dazed expression it puts upon her face is quite pleasant, Silas notes, gaze lingering on the well-endowed woman’s appearance, when he finally manages to drag his attention away from her figure.
Lord Vaughn’s voice washes over her in waves and Lydia takes the cup without much thought, bringing it to her lips to drink deeply. Her mouth stretches in a sheepish smile, tongue loose and careless.
Finally within arm’s reach, Silas’ voice can lower enough for it to take on a slightly huskier quality as he addresses Lydia, the size difference between them all the more palpable from this close. “How does the search for an eligible suitor go, milady?” he asks, voice alit with curiosity. “I’d make a speculation from how you’re situated by the refreshments, but t’would be good indeed to hear from your own lips a confirmation of my guess.”
“Have you not heard, my lord? I am still yet a token of my father’s treasury, for most of my callers were indeed miserly, self-important, or unsensible gentlemen, save for one Mr. Sakharov,” She grins, eyes nearly leering, “A man of your stature nearly, and kind, though I feel the cold most keenly, I had considered him, for a time, but thought better of it. And though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments from my suitors, none have struck me with any true eligibility.”
“My sincerest condolences to Mr. Sakharov,” Silas raises his own goblet, giving the lady Pembroke a small nod. “The men of the North are good folk, to be sure, but there is something certainly to be said of his offerings if the prospect of..” Silas takes a moment, emphasizing his commentary with a brief pause. “..Warmth in his company was found to be lacking amongst them. Still, more the unfortunate circumstance to not be born blessed with the gift of Turning,” he shrugs, slipping quickly in and then out of innuendo in his turn of phrase.
Lydia’s wine glass is filled by the werewolf once more before she even realizes it, and she sips again, no longer bothering with the food nearby. The awful rendition of ‘O Fortuna’ has thankfully ended, and Lydia knows it is only a matter of moments before Vidalia comes to find her.
“Will you take a turn about the library with me, Lord Vaughn? I am sure by your discourse, you are a learned man, and surely have much interest in the works of those accomplished in our time, and those before, of course. It will also give you the opportunity to put your appearance to rights, we wouldn’t want to give the young ladies in attendance more to gossip about, would we?” Said young ladies, with ornate fans to their mouths, turn their gaze demurely at Lydia’s mention. Unmarried as she was, her station still granted some favours.
The lord Vaughan listens and nods appreciatively. “Well! The much-treasured lady spares her coarse visitor the disgrace of being partially disrobed in front of her court. How gracious; I think I’d well accept such an offer.” He makes a show of attempting to pinch the top of his dress shirt shut, but even the motion of bringing his brawny arms up to shoulder height exacerbates the problem, the holes where the broken button once occupied springing back out, shirt pulled taut around the man’s formidable chest.
.
“Let us away, then. Perhaps if you see it so fit, a compliment may yet be teased from me, hmm?” Silas starts to ready himself for their trip, gesturing on ahead for Lydia to lead them.