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The very thought turned his stomach, and he spun back to where his carriage had set only moments before, to find it and its driver continuing dutifully along the path to the stables. His breath hitched as he feared disappointment - the same disappointment he had battered upon poor Anne that night, in the presumptuous manner he had shown to her. He considered fleeing; calling upon the chauffeur once more and hastily pretending he had never arrived upon the doorstep. Unfortunately, that particular plan ceased as a possibility when the doors to the manor swung open; Lord Amhurst’s chest thumped in fearful anticipation, expecting to be met by that excoriating gaze of the fiery young woman he had offended at the dinner that night.
Instead, he came upon a most unexpected sight waiting for him across the small courtyard, a sight that churned his stomach nearly quite as much. Leaving the manor, flanked by attendants (beautiful young female attendants,
of course), came the Earl of Carteret, his expression twisted into a mirthful and carefree smirk as he descended the small staircase leading away from the Roxborough manor’s impressive and booming, heavy doors. A heady concoction of disappointment and disgust conspired to paint Lawrence’s expression dour, in fear that he had perhaps come too late, and that the hand of the lovely and rather unconventional woman he had met before had been claimed already by this lugubrious and wanton fellow, for whom the bile in Lawrence’s chest rose each time he encountered the man.
“Ah! Is that the Duke of Amhurst I spy, then?” Of course, Lawrence had no way of avoiding the earl’s notice, and the ostentatious young personality, amid a sea of delighted giggles from his attendants, made a mirthful advance in Lawrence’s direction, his smirk beaming and full of an intolerable sort of confidence.
“Hello, Martin,” came the duke’s dour reply, dismissive of the formalities so often observed in these manner of introductions. “I had not quite expected to see you, here.”
“I could certainly say the same for you, friend,” the earl announced confidently. “You’ve never quite struck me as the... marriage type. To a woman. Anyway.” The lord nursed no resentment for the silly gossiping he knew floated about regarding his supposed preferences; those who knew him knew the truth, and those who mongered such silly tales could think quite whatever they wish, as far as Lawrence was concerned.
“My presence was in fact requested by the lord of the manor, and I thought it rather gauche to refuse such an invite,” Lawrence said, a cutting reference to the earl’s own rather blunt and painful obsession with his ostentatious manner. A tension rose between the nobles, eyes exchanging outward pleasantness, though each knew the other to be something of a rival. Lawrence found this a mite curious; he had his reputation for being closed off to eligible women, and it was for that very reputation that he often earned the appreciation and attention of men like the earl, looking to surround themselves with men who could offer balance without offering rivalry. Instead, his arrival on this doorstep, it seemed, put him dead into the sights of the man who for so long had disregarded Lawrence as either a fop or a loveless fool.
“Perhaps the viscount of this manner doesn’t know you quite as well as I, then?” the earl joked, his sycophantic assistants offering their own echoing chorus of chuckles to accompany their master’s mirth. “I should think he knows, then, that you do not think quite so much of women like his daughter.”
“I suppose I shall have to go in and let him down, then,” Lawrence responded with an anxious laugh.
“I suppose you shall,” the earl retorted. “Besides,” he continued, “the woman - Anne, that rueful little thing - her father has taken quite a liking to me, after all. He thinks my rather stern feelings on the position of a woman in the world would do quite well for his daughter,” the earl mused; Lawrence silently balked, though he knew that perhaps there was some truth to the earl’s statement. A woman like Anne would certainly earn the ire of men of the establishment. “Perhaps I’ll take her hand as mine and teach her how she ought to be living life, eh, friend?” the earl commented with that obnoxious, red-cheeked smile on his lips; Lawrence recognized the same chauvinistic ramblings from that night at the earl’s dinner table. He remained quiet, shaking his head.
“I suppose, then, this meeting with the lord of the manor will be rather quick,” Lawrence announced with a shrug.
“Renetta, do be a darling and fetch the carriage driver for us, will you?” Martin implored from one of his servants, who gave him a giggly nod in reply. “Lawrence, I’ll be having another lovely party in the weeks coming... perhaps to celebrate my engagement to this wonderful young woman. You’d certainly deserve a place at the table, if you fancy it,” the earl tried to play friendly.
“I’d adore the opportunity,” Lawrence said deadpan.
“Farewell, then, and I’ll be in touch,” Martin responded with a sarcastic smile. Lawrence had not come to this manor with the expectation that he would see Anne again; that he would interact with her father, or argue for his own merits as a suitor. And in fact, he still did not expect such a turn of events to unfold. But as he watched the earl leave he realized that some hidden part of him knew this - that he had simply chosen to bury it, or ignore it, or drown it beneath a sea of self-loathing. He had hoped, in some weird and wicked way, to parlay this trampling trip across the hills to the Roxborough estate into a second opportunity with Anne - not for marriage, no, but simply to fix all that he had broken on the eve they’d spent next to one another.
Certainly not with a mind for courting, or marriage. No. He didn’t deserve that. He couldn’t fathom it, no matter how much his heart had throbbed when he shared those laughing and joyous moments next to her at that dinner. But now that he knew the Earl of Carteret had a mind for caging poor Anne... he felt at least compelled to warn her.
Lawrence came upon the steps leading to the door and rapped upon the towering portal, the sound loud and echoing. It opened hastily, a gaunt figure of a man nodding and quiet as he invited Lawrence in with the sway of his hand. The dark entryway carried sensible style - blacks and browns and maplewood running along delicately polished floors, with tasteful dark-colored rugs and tables holding richly-burning candelabras. The manor felt far afield of the rather gaudy nature of the man who had just left it, and doubt about the earl’s heady confidence crept in to Lawrence’s mind. Perhaps the young rake had simply been bluffing. Of course, Lawrence could not quite tell why he cared so deeply - he had no intention of marrying this woman - but something sparked in his chest when he thought of the blaze inside of Lady Roxborough extinguished by so crass a hand.
“You’re awaited in the grand dining hall, Lord Strauss,” the wisp of a man at the door instructed Lawrence. Taken aback, he nonetheless followed the fellow’s directions through the darkened foyer - its few windows bore curtains drawn across the crystalline glass, muffling the overpowering glow of the midday sun. Sequestered in a rear corner of the foyer, cramped full of bookshelves and silvered dishware placed on display, Lawrence found the entrance to the manor’s dining hall. He pulled the door open to a surprisingly cozy and small room; Lawrence had grown accustomed to the dizzyingly long tables so commonly found in the manors of prestigious nobility, where one could sit at one end and not even be able to see the face of the man at the other end.
“Duke Amhurst, I presume?” A ragged voice the lord could tell once spoke full of life and pride beckoned Lawrence into the chamber. Lawrence’s gaze fell upon the man at far end of the table and immediately he felt a pit gnaw at his stomach. The man, ostensibly the Viscount of Roxborough, the man who had a storied history of subtle heroism among the nobles of England, now looked to be wasting quite literally in front of the duke’s eyes. His shoulders broad and bony and his expression sunken, the viscount nonetheless served as a slave to appearances, wearing a jacket that he had long shrunk away from, frumpy and loose across his ravaged frame. Hair fallen off his head and his eyes glazed in a medicated malaise, the lord nonetheless kept what he could of his dignity by standing to introduce himself to Lawrence. From the grimace, Lawrence could tell that just standing caused the ailing old man intense pain.
“Y-yes,” Lawrence replied, swallowing hard. “Lawrence Strauss, Duke of Amhurst, as you’ve requested, m’lord,” Lawrence bowed in a gesture of grace, one which the older man tried painfully to reproduce, though he abandoned the motion only half-way through.
“I apologize for my look, and I should hope it doesn’t put your stomach too off, for I’d like to invite you to have afternoon tea with me,” the old man asked. Vexed with thoughts of Anne and the earl, and driven by his insecurities, Lawrence paused.
“M’lord, I don’t think that’s quite necessary, as I have a suspicion of why you’ve invited me here today,” Lawrence stated politely.
“Do you?” came the canny response from the sickened man. “I’m guessing you ran face-first into that incorrigible rapscallion who dares call himsel
f an earl, didn’t you?” the viscount scoffed with as much venom as his ragged, wheezing cough of a voice could manage. “Blustery and full of bollocks, if you’ll excuse my language.” Lawrence nearly choked on a shining, brief moment of pleasant surprise at the lord’s dismissive attitude towards what most men would see as a suitable match for a wayward, wild daughter. “Anne would certainly put him out into the streets with not a stitch of clothes on his back and leave him to wander the moors, before she’d listen to a crass word he had to offer on what her position in life ought to be.”
“I did catch the sense at the earl’s dinner party that she had... quite an... independent, streak,” Lawrence observed with a sigh. “I should think she would do quite the same to me, should she know you had invited me here to speak with you.”
“Aye, Tamblyn sent word to me that you had the pleasure of meeting my Anne at that particular event,” the old man spoke with a ragged edge, before breaking into a weak fit of coughs. That would explain, Lawrence surmised, just why he had been chosen for the list of potential suitors for Anne, in her father’s head. “Crazy old bastard he is, but there’s not a man on this whole damned island I respect more when it comes to these sorts of opinions.”
“And he offered the Earl of Carteret as a potential suitor?” Lawrence implored quizzically.
“Oh, dear god no,” the viscount hoarsely chuckled. “I simply hadn’t the inclination to inspire scandal by inviting only a single man - you - to the manor, in the discussion of delicate matters. We’re all shackled by expectations, unfortunately,” the dying man grumbled.
“M’lord, I’m... not certain, what you’ve heard, but I’m... well, I’m certainly not... quite ready, for a marriage to a woman such as your daughter. She’s... well,” he thought on just how to approach the odd situation between himself and Anne, and melancholy struck his heart at the thought.
“I’m quite aware of my daughter’s manner, and how it no doubt turns away a dozen or more eligible suitors,” the old man lamented. His legs had begun to fail and he staggered along the edge of the table; Lawrence hurried to the elderly man’s side and slung the struggling man’s arm across his own strong shoulder, lifting his bony weight up. With a few grunts and mutters of protest, Lawrence gently let the man down into another of the dining room’s lavishly-carved oak chairs.
“Yes, th... thank you,” the viscount said with notes of disdain. “I... well, as I’m perhaps... sure, you can guess, Duke Amhurst, not in the best of health.”
