Hannah had always been bold. She supposed she had to be, especially when it came to the career she had embarked on a few years back. Bold, and brave.
She fluffed her blond curls and made sure her light pink blouse was properly buttoned up to her neck. Just in time. She heard the door open, a curse, a mutter, a light ruffle of clothes. He wasn’t in a good mood. Now, she would need to be brave. And bold. More than usual.
“Hello, Detective Hardy,” she greeted with a smile, leaning against the doorframe to strike a pose. “Rough day?”
He didn’t even look at her. Simply discarded his glasses on the coffee table and leant back in the couch, rubbing a calloused hand down his tired features. She looked at him like a prey, waiting to be seduced, like a wild animal, waiting to be tamed. She was perfectly aware it would prove quite the challenge to dupe his mood, but never let it be said that Hannah Baxter stepped back when faced by something, or someone, challenging. Especially by Alec Hardy.
“Shite day,” he mumbled as she made her way to him - her saunter didn’t falter when he frowned at her smile. “Guess yours was better than mine.”
Oh, and now he was miffed. Miffed, but at least he had seen her skirt. Her very short skirt, with those fishnet stockings he loved - so much she had to regularly buy new pairs, as many of them somehow ended up in the bin. He often found it boring and time-consuming to properly take them off, and just as often, he would just rip them to shreds. But not this time, she would make sure of that. She wanted this to be about him.
“I went shopping,” she grinned, straddling his narrow hips with an elegant throw of her leg, despite her tight clothes and high heels.
“Good for you, Han,” he sighed, obviously not too affected by the news - not giving a flying fuck, that was the way she would have described it.
“I went shopping for you,” she repeated with that added information that made him raise an eyebrow. “I have a gift.”
“Oh… Oh, shit,” he groaned, throwing his head back against the wall. “Is it our anniversary or something? Did I forget?”
“No, you didn’t.”
Hannah slipped a finger through the knot of his tie and bent to scrape her teeth against his expose stubbled throat. The effect was immediate, and she smirked against his skin when his hands found their way to her bum. She bucked her hips, just a tentative move to see if her plan had any chance of working. Obviously, it had. Or so the bulge she felt growing through her knickers and his trousers proved.
“I just saw this in the shop and I thought you’d like it,” she murmured, trailing her lips up his chin, to his mouth. “You’ll need to open your eyes, though.”
“Han, I’m exhausted and stressed out, I don’t…”
“You don’t have to do anything, darling. Just look. And tell me what you think.”
And so he looked. He shifted slightly under her, too tired to control the reactions of his body, almost ashamed to feel his erection grow. Her voice, her smile, her eyes. Her hips rolling over his, pressing down on his crotch. He loved that woman, but in moments like those, when she could arouse him with a kiss and erotic moves while his brain was out of fuel, he almost wanted to hate her. It wasn’t fair. One of these days, she would kill him with just a look and a finger.
Still, he watched. Her deft fingers popped the first button of her blouse out, then a second, then a third, until the luscious swell of her breasts came into view. It wasn’t much. Just enough to remember how those breasts felt like in his rough palms, their round shape, their soft weight, and a quiet moan was ripped from his throat when she ground down on his erection again and spark of arousal flared in his loins. Damn this treacherous body.
“Shall I continue, or do you want to investigate, Detective?” she breathed out, cheeks flushed pink - probably as much the the tip of his ears he suddenly felt warm up.
“Keep going,” he said, dark look and heavy breath, refusing to let go of her hips to guide their slow rocking motion. “Show me.”
Hannah smiled her assent and fiddle with one more button, two more, and the black lace appeared. And it was just that. Thin lace, woven into flowery patterns, wide meshes that didn’t leave much to his imagination, full breasts lose in their nets, nipples visibly puckering under his heated gaze. She looked beautiful. It always amazed him that she always put so much effort into pleasing him when he could be a right down arse. It always galvanized his desire that she did all of this stuff just for him. His trousers were growing uncomfortably tight and he throbbed in his pants when the rest of the buttons were undone, the blouse opening on a curtain of satin shielding her abdomen. Her hand suddenly slipped between their bodies to grasp his erection through his clothes and he took a sharp breath in, bucking his hips against her fingers.
“Do you like it, darling?” she murmured, grinding down hard against him again.
“Sexy,” he could only grunt, seeking more pressure against her hand.
At this point, still tired but much less stressed, only his body and his love for her were driving him. He wouldn’t think too hard, just live through it and enjoy her touch, and he wouldn’t care if he made a mess of his pants like a bloody teenager.
“You’re… God, beautiful, Han.”
“Is that alright, then?” Hannah asked, gently digging the heel of her hand against his erection, running it up and down, following the light jerks of his hips. “Do you want this, Alec?”
“You… Bought this for me, I feel bad… Not doing anything.”
“I can put it back tomorrow, darling,” she smiled, her rutting now more persistent, just a little quicker and harder. “And the day after tomorrow. And the day after that. Whenever you want me to. Wherever. Here at home. Or… Say, at the police station. Fantasy of mine, remember that, Detective.”
“Tell me more,” he ordered, a grunt hanging on his lips, his hands slipping under the satin to caress her smooth stomach. “Talk to me, Han. Tell me.”
“Sometimes, I imagine the both of us alone in your office,” she started between nips on his jaw and pecks on his lips, squeezing his cock and rocking her hips. “I like that there’s just this door and those blinds to keep us out of sight. I’m wearing those fishnets you love and that one red dress you adore. I want to walk in there and drive you mad. Slip under the desk to suck you off.”
She sucked his pouty lower lip into her mouth at those words. He loved those words.
“But I don’t want you to come like that. I want you to flip me over your desk and fuck me. So hard I have to bite my hand to keep myself from screaming your name.”
A shudder ran through his body and he twitched hard under her palm, the coil tight, so tight he knew it wouldn’t be long - he had always loved listening to her deep voice talk dirty to him. That, combined with her touch and her kisses, was more than enough.
“I love the feel of your cock inside me, I love when you lose yourself and ram into me. You’re so hot and strong, thick and hard. I love when you bruise my skin and pull my hair, when it gets too much you bite my neck and rub my clit so you don’t come alone. I love to feel you inside me, come inside me, and I love it when you growl my name like a beast.”
“Fuck, Han.”
“Yes, just like that, darling. Just like… That.”
Hannah sighed, squeezing his erection one last time, and he grunted her name as his cock throbbed and pulsed in the confine of his pants, her rolling hips drawing a quiet orgasm that left him breathless. He hadn’t realized he had been so tensed, but he melted into the couch as soon as his searing pleasure dwindled down to a warm buzz in his loins, and his head thudded against the wall. Hannah slid away from his lap to snuggle on his side and he winced slightly at the wetness growing cold on the front of his trousers.
“Okay?” Hannah asked, planting a trail of kisses up his jaw.
“Still exhausted” he breathed out as he tucked her hand inside his. “But much better. Thanks, love.”
“Shower?”
“God, yes. Loved it, but… This is rather filthy.”
“Still loved it. Come on, darling, shower and bed.”
Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price Chapter: 4/? Rating:Explicit Word count: 3700 Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Mutual Pining, Masturbation
Summary:
When he decided to come to England, it was for the women. It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make. It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like. It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.
He sighed at the feel of his cane getting stuck between two slabs of the rough pavement, a murky paste of mud and rotten grass following their curves down the road that led to his destination. It had rained pebbles, that night, and the street was but a vast canvas of grey and dull colours, thankfully counterbalanced by the deep blue sky free of any clouds. He wanted this day to be a success, and the downpour had already imperilled part of the escapade he had planned. Hopefully, the sun would shine bright enough over the hill sticking from behind the landscape of this horrible city to dry the green slopes, at least partially.
It was a lively city, but much too different from the Venice he knew like the back of his hand. Back in his hometown, it was always busy, buzzing with movements and crowded with people. Portsmouth was similar, but it lacked the organization Italian people had mastered over the years. Here, everything happened in a general hubbub of confusion and chaos, everyone going in and out of small shops as if they didn’t really know what they were doing, brawls blowing up between groups of drunken sailors in front of the pubs, mothers who couldn’t handle their handfuls of kids and sought for help with the kind of desperate look that made him feel uneasy. In Venice, everyone knew where and when they needed to go, people only got drunk on expensive wine in the comfort of their homes, mothers left their kid attended by servants and went about their businesses without having to worry about one of their progeniture falling into a canal. He realized he was starting to miss his country, already.
He shoved his cane under his arm and avoided an old fisherman running down the street with a cart full of cods, sowing a few of his fish in his wake that were quickly picked up by the passers-by. His nose scrunched up at the smell - had had always loathed fish and seafood in general - and he unconsciously brushed his sleeve as if it would chase the strong and sickening fragrance. That was his last clean costume, he had left all the others to the caretaker of the inn he stayed in so he wouldn’t have to survive on one jacket and two pants for the next two weeks, and he very much intended to keep his ruby tailcoat free of any fish or mud or any other filthy treasure this dreadful city seemed to hold. Especially since he had to meet her again. She had accepted his invitation.
A shiver coursed through him at that thought and he grinned to himself when he finally spotted the sign dangling in the breeze at the corner of the street. And there she was. He wished he had noticed how much effort she had put into brushing her rebellious hair first. Or noticed she had gone through the trouble of fitting into a dress that was more elaborate than the one she had worn the day before, but was just a breadth too small for her supple forms. Or noticed, for the first time again, how beautiful she looked and how odd a feeling she made him feel. But he only noticed the way she dabbed the underside of her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and anxiously fiddled with the pair of white gloved she held in her hand.
His pace grew just a bit faster, the heels of his boots clicking against the wet pavement and his pigtail jumping over the nape of his neck. He wanted to be spotted before he would let his presence known - he didn’t want to provoke her embarrassment and give her enough time to dry her tears and pretend he had been oblivious to them, should she refuse to show them. So, he let his cane fall on the hard tiles of the pavement, let the fake silver lionhead bounce and roll, all while loudly cursing in Italian at his clumsiness. He stole a glance at her, and it was only when she had managed to hide her small square of white precisely where he didn’t want to look that he picked his cane up and walked to her with a smile.
“Squisita Fanny,” he greeted with a small smile, gently cupping her fingers to brush his lips over the back of her hand - and he was glad to feel the ghost of a shiver course through her skin. “Should the sun not have woken up beside you this morning, your face would have been enough to enlighten my day. You look splendid.”
She fought the urge she had to surrender to his touch and his beautiful words - she had promised she wouldn’t let herself be tricked into believing something more could happen. Smile. Laugh. That was all that would happen, not matter where he would decide to take her. And with her face she was sure was still stained with the tears she had missed on her cheeks and her red eyes, she had trouble believing she could truly enlighten his day at all. Still, a woman could not refuse such a compliment, and she thanked him with a courtesy bow and a smile.
“Giacomo, you do look spruce yourself today,” she noted, daring to trail a finger over a golden pattern sewn into the crimson velvet. “The red suits you.”
“Italian blood, mia cara, red is our colour,” he winked as smoothed the seams of his lapels. “How are you feeling today, dolcezza? Is that sadness in your eyes, or are you disappointed to see me?”
“I am most definitely not disappointed to see you, Giacomo,” she was quick to reassure him, unwilling to let him think he had come all this way for nothing. “I am… Things at home haven’t been at their best for the past few days, my brother has just been sent away on mission with my father, and my mother… Well, she thinks I do not exist. I am left with brothers who will never consider me as a sister and sisters who blame me for leaving them behind. So… I am very pleased to see you. I was hoping you would be the one to lift my spirits now that William is gone, and I do apologize if this sounds very presumptuous of me.”
“I will do what must be done,” he sighed with a dismissive shrug - and hurried to smile and lock his elbow around her at her obvious discomfiture. “Italian humour, dispiace molto. I will do my assoluto best to please my Signora today. I have planned what I hope to be an agreeable adventure, but if at any point you are bored, annoyed or tired, per favore let me know and we’ll operate a change of course. The first stop is not far from here, if you wish to follow me, amata Fanny.”
“I should tell you, Giacomo, I do not have much money, and…”
“Everything is already paid for,” he interrupted as tried to find a comfortable position for his arm holding hers, the difference of height making it awkward and energy-consuming to keep it at the right level. “No talks of dues, reimbursements, sharing bills. Well, let’s make it simple. Forget about money. Money doesn’t exist when you’re with me, chiaro? Right now, all you should think about is a colour. Your favorite colour, mia cara, think hard, think fast, we’re almost there.”
“Rosso,” she answered without thinking about it, biting her lip when he stopped walking and looked down at her with a dazed squint of his eyes.
The word had come out naturally, and she feared he had heard way too much more in that simple word than she had intended him to. He seemed pleased to hear his own language, but there also was a flash that brightened his deep chocolate orbs that died so fast she would have missed it if she had but blinked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
He hoped she hadn’t felt his arm momentarily tighten around hers under the warm trickle of delight that had rolled down his spine. He didn’t know if the tension came from her sudden timidity, or his sudden realization he had kept this particular costume for this day, this moment, by chance or by accident. Red. Her favourite colour. Rosso. An almost flawless Italian carried by her melodious voice, a single word that was enough to wish she could hold a whole conversation and twist his loins into a tangle of lust and passion. It was just a language. Just a word. But it fell into his ears like thick honey and echoed down his abdomen louder than the bang of a gong.
“Parla italiano?” he asked after swallowing a compliment he knew she wouldn’t appreciate, let alone understand. “Perché mi piacerebbe tanto. Hai una bellissima voce.”
She drank his words, but of course, apart from the feeling of amazement and enchantment she could translate from his expression, she didn’t understand much. She giggled and playfully tugged on his arm to spur his long legs forward again, ignoring the odd looks they were given as they ambled down the street - she guessed they did form an unconventional couple, but if she could decide Giacomo would be her friend, she could also decide she needn’t care about what the others thought.
“I am very sorry, Giacomo, that was the extent of my Italian,” she apologized with a small smile, following the lead he had picked up again. “Rosso and pollo.”
“Do I want to know where you learnt those words?” he raised an eyebrow, a half grin putting his dimple on prominent display.
“The neighbours have an Italian grandmother who lives with them,” she explained as they stepped into a less frequented street that smelled of heavy perfume and rough leather. “I might have visited her yesterday evening and borrowed a dictionary designed for children. I wanted to learn more, but… You see, a big sister has to do her chores in a family like ours, even if she’s not regarded as such. I promise I will try to learn more.”
“You don’t need to learn more, dolcezza. One word is enough to…”
“To?”
“To make me happy,” he answered - it wasn’t a lie, more an innocent euphemism she wouldn’t see through, a euphemism that would keep his dignity intact. “Ah, there we are. Rosso it is, then.”
They stopped in front of one of the few luxurious shops that could be found in the otherwise impoverished city, the kind of shop only visited by the Ladies and Sirs who lived in the neighbouring countryside. A few dresses that were worth more than her whole wardrobe were on theatrical display, next to suits so expensive she was sure Giacomo would be offended by the ridiculous number written on the tag.
“I cannot go in there,” she said lowly, smiling at a wealthy woman stepping through the doors with heavy bags. “Giacomo, whatever your plan is, I cannot go in there.”
“Why?” he frowned, genuinely dumbfounded and worried he had made a horrendous mistake. “This is a shop, Fanny.”
“Yes, but there are shops and… Shops,” she emphasized, purposefully glancing at the cardinal dress she didn’t dare admit had been the subject of her wildest fantasies ever since she’d seen it for the first time during one of her many errands in town. “Look at this, Giacomo, this is not for me.”
“Oh,” he simply said - and she felt like a horrible person for bringing the disappointment and embarrassment to his features. “I thought you liked dresses of this kind. I must have misunderstood, please accept my apologies.”
“No, Giacomo, I adore these dresses, I almost sold my grandfather’s engagement ring to buy one of them,” she said with a sad smile, waving one of her gloves at the vitrine. “But they are not made for girls like me, and I don’t wish to go in this shop and look at things I can never have.”
“Primo, these dresses are meant to be worn by women like you,” he started, tapping his thumb on his index, then kept going and tapped his middle finger. “Secondo, any of these can be yours. I have already paid for it, we just need to have it tailored. This is a gift, mia Fanny, and I would very much like it if you accepted it. Per favore. Just this one time. Just this one gift. Just this one dress.”
“Giacomo, I don’t deserve such a gift, I…”
“Please, dolcezza. Please.”
He took a tentative step towards the door of the little shop, gently pulled on her elbow, looked at her with an encouraging smile, and she finally surrendered to his hopeful eyes. The little bell chimed as they stepped onto the shiny wooden floor that creaked under their feet, and the tailor greeted them with a bow.
“Sir Casanova, Lady,” he smiled - more by professional consciousness than true kindness, she noticed. “I will be done with Lady Howards in twenty minutes, if you would please take a look around and see what dress you would like.”
“I think the choice is already made,” he grinned, asking her for confirmation as he pointed to the crimson dress she had spotted in the vitrine. “Feel free to correct me should I be wrong, mia cara.”
“You’re not,” she breathed out, eyes wide in wonderment as she observed the velvet shine under the light. “It looks… Beautiful.”
“And you’re not wearing it, yet,” Giacomo whispered in her ear, glad to see his gift was not left underappreciated. “Kind gentleman, may we help you with your work and put the dress on already? We will leave the adjustments and couture to you.”
“Of course, sir, second wardrobe to the right, if you please. The changing room is through here.”
She followed him to one of the tall wardrobes, watched as he gauged her for long seconds, then picked up the dress which was pinned with a size that should roughly fit her body. He smiled and twirled around with the dress splayed over his chest, obviously delighted she had given in and was about to don the wealthy garment. She still wasn’t quite convinced she was worthy of such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, but she refused to cause him any more unwanted feelings. If this masquerade pleased him, she wasn’t about to let the wonderful occasion slip under her nose without seizing it. For the first time in her life, she would wear a dress that would make all the women in her family swoon with jealousy.
“Holler if you require any assistance,” Giacomo said with a broad grin, hooking the hanger to the screen painted with exotic flowers. “These can be tricky when you’re not used to them.”
“I’m just scared I’ll tear it,” she shrugged, unlacing the ribbon of her shoulder shawl. “Are you sure you haven’t underestimated my size? I’m rather… Shapely, you see, and the corset looks rather small.”
“It is not too small and your silhouette is divina,” he told her, brushing the back of his knuckles on her hip. “I can stay, should that make you feel better, but we will have to tell the tailor we’re married. I’m not entirely convinced he would fancy the idea of a woman showing that much skin to a gentleman behind his curtains.”
“I would rather… You stayed,” she confessed, nervously clasping her fingers across her chest.
Giacomo was a friend, she repeated firmly at the back of her head, and now that she knew that, she couldn’t see any problem with him seeing her in her underslip. It wasn’t as if she was about to completely reveal herself to him - if that had been the case, she would have refused his help without thinking about it twice. And she would really hate to spoil such a beautiful dress because of a lace pulled to tight or a seam tugged too hard, especially since he was the one spending a small fortune on it. A fortune, yes. So much money she could have opened her own shop and built an entire dynasty for the centuries to come over it. To him, it might have been but a snowflake in a blizzard or a particle of quartz in a sandstorm, a coin fished in a sea of gold and jewels, a blade of grass picked in his hanging gardens of Venezia. A little nothing in his world of so much.
He disappeared for a moment, just long enough for her to fold her shawl and smooth it down on a chair, then reappeared with a pleased clap of his hands.
“Bene, now that we won’t be arrested for indecency,” he started, leaning his cane against the wall and pushing his sleeves up his wrists, “shall we begin, mia cara. I promise my eyes will not wander anywhere they are not required and my hands know how to behave. Do you need help taking that one off?”
“No, thank you,” she said as she reached behind her neck to untie a knot. “The servants at Mansfield Park never helped me, I had to learn fairly quickly how to do it myself. The first time I put a dress with a ribbon in the middle of my back, I had to sleep in it. My best friend set me free the morning later and I was chastised by my aunt because it got wrinkled.”
“I hope you know that whatever happens to that dress, even the worst case scenario, I will always play your friend and never your aunt,” he laughed - a laugh that quickly died down when the knot was released and the nek of the dress curtained over her shoulder blades.
“Don’t cast evil spells like this, Giacomo. You know you only need talk about worst case scenarios for them to happen.”
“Scenari. But I do get your point, no more maledizioni.”
He might have crossed his fingers behind his back when he had promised his eyes wouldn’t travel a forbidden path, or he might not have. Either way, he found himself betraying her trust. Just for a second, he abused the faith she had put in hands. The pale blue dress she had donned finally pooled at her feet, her silk underslip kissed the skin of the round hills of flesh and flapped around her thighs, hidden under the thin nylon stockings. He didn’t look, merely watched it from the corner of a fluttering eyelid. He looked when she bent down to take off her shoes and stepped out of the cage of blue fabric to shove it to the side. Just for a second. A second to imagine how the crevices in the small of her back, defined under the shiny, clinging surface, would feel like against his lips. How the full cheeks of her glorious bottom would react when touched by his fingers. How the strong, curvaceous legs would feel, wrapped around his hips or around his neck, as he slowly, deeply, passionately…
“Giacomo, I know what you’re thinking,” she suddenly said, blood rushing to her cheeks as she covered herself with her brand new dress.
He swallowed a gasp and hurried to pull on his jacket to hide the proud illustration of his rampant imagination, briefly squeezing his eyes shut when his fingers inadvertently brushed against the hardened flesh. No, she couldn’t know. If she had been any other woman, he would already have his pants down his knees, her body bent over the chair and his throbbing erection ramming into her heat. This wasn’t any other woman. This was Fanny. He only had stolen one look, one quick look, not even long enough to remember if the images reeling through his mind were what he had seen or what he had invented. One look, that was enough for his desire to spark, and just enough to taste the bitter guilt at the back of his throat. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t have noticed his arousal, because he was convinced she was too pure to even consider the possibility. She couldn’t realize he was aroused, because that would mean he’d have to tell her about all those things he wasn’t ready to tell her about yet.
He desired her. Only, not like any other woman. Because this was Fanny. She was attractive. Simply, so simply, not like any other woman. She had a beautiful face, an exquisite physique, and he desired her body.
But more than that, and most certainly not like any other woman, he desired who she was. He knew that, because, though that was a foreign and oddly satisfying feeling, he wanted to protect her. To respect her. To care, to please. To make her laugh and smile. To make her happy. To lo….
“Scusi?” he asked after a particularly hard gulp of fear and culpability, chasing the unfamiliar word away from his train of thoughts. “What am I thinking about, dolcezza?”
“About my body,” she continued, unaware that her shy statement brought him to the steep verge of spontaneously combusting. “About my fat body and how it will never fit inside this dress. You really should have picked a bigger size, Giacomo, you underestimated…”
“Your body is perfect as it is, magnifica Fanny,” he hurried to reassure her, keeping his eyes firmly locked on her face. “And the dress is the perfect size, I promise. Should we try it on?”
She nodded her assent with a sheepish quiver of her lips, and his nervous fingers closed around the dress she handed him.
Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price Chapter: 2/? Rating: Mature Word count: 3000 Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time
Summary:
When he decided to come to England, it was for the women. It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make. It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like. It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.
Edmund must have been the only person who really made it worth staying at Mansfield Park. She thought he was the only man she had ever truly loved, and with him gone to Peterborough to be ordained, the anchor that had always kept her from sinking in her aunts’ home was gone too. She wasn’t even sure what was the kind of love she felt for him. It could be true love, and she had often imagined the both of them, together, sifting through life as a couple. Childish desillusions, that was. He was her friend. The one who had brought her up better than any adults had, the one who had always supported her despite her impoverished background and her silly antics. Her best friend, that made her feel like she belonged, that made her feel important, that made her feel loved. But he was just a best friend. A brother, that was as far as she was willing to consider him. A dear brother.
A very different brother from the one who was pulling on her hand all while pulling on her tunic to straighten it over her shoulders.
“I told them you would be there, and you will be, Fanny,” he insisted, stopping dead in his tracks as they neared the gates of the garden. “Lady Vaughan will adore you.”
“Lady Vaughan will not look at me twice because she already knows me,” she answered with a moue, fluffing out her blond locks she knew would always remain desperately messy despite her best attempts at taming them. “Do I need to remind you she and Maria have been corresponding for years? She knows I’m poor, naive and a simpleton. I don’t own any proper dress because I have never been given one, and I always look disheveled. You have the Navy, the uniform, you are polite and well-mannered, which I am not because I have never been taught how to be those things. Please, William, I think you should go on your own.”
“Fanny, don’t belittle yourself like this,” he smiled, pressing his large hands over her shoulders. “You look perfect, and you’re an extraordinary woman. Whatever Maria wrote Lady Vaughan doesn’t matter. Show them who you are. Show them you are worth just as much as they all are, if not more. Please, Fanny, don’t go back now. Who knows, you might find a gentleman that catches your fancy.”
“As if a single gentleman will even look at me,” she sighed as she swatted his hands away to properly shrug her tunic over her back and pick a dead leaf off the skirt of her dress. “Let’s just get over the greetings ceremonial so I can find myself a safe place to hide from the lot of them. I don’t need the whispers and the looks.”
“Will you share a drink with your brother?”
“If my brother so wishes,” she giggled, playfully shoving his shoulder. “But just one, then I will leave you to your friends.”
And so she had. She had locked her elbow with her brother’s, bowed before so many people she had almost been struck by vertigo sickness after five minutes, sipped on her tea for a reasonable length of time under all those pairs of eyes she could feel gauged her and her manners, judged her and her looks, then had excused herself never to go back to them. They didn’t like her. But it was fine, because she didn’t like them either. She had simply done the brother she loved a favour. Quite as predicted, no gentleman had caught her fancy, and no gentleman had looked at her for longer than the respectable amount of time, but she wasn’t disappointed. She knew that, somehow, the man she would eventually marry wouldn’t be wealthy, wouldn’t belong to the upper class, would never be as dashing as Edmund riding his black horse, nor as handsome as William in his strict uniform. She was a simple girl, with simple dreams. Just a man who would love her for who she was, not because of her reputation or relations. Just a man who would give her a roof, a decent marriage, a few kids. Just a man who would choose her, but more importantly a man she would choose herself. Those might have been the dreams of a poor girl, which only confirmed her place in this society, but they were her dreams. No one could take that away from her.
That step, that flight of stairs that led to an abandoned servant residence, was the perfect safe place she had chosen for herself. The seemingly haphazard disposition of the neatly trimmed bushes around it provided a shelter, but also a vantage point like no others. She could see without being seen. When she was just a little girl at Mansfield Park, that kind of secretive observation had been one of the best ways to learn about manners, habits and customs, behaviours. But now that she had learnt those things - not well enough to please her family, but she had hardly even seen the point of trying harder when she was more often than not sent away not to embarrass their friends - she simply liked to watch the people. Imagine what their conversation were about, read what they were feeling on their faces, decipher emotions and thoughts in their carefully measured movements.
Like that Lady who quickly switched her pink umbrella from on hand to the other when her husband arrived - a husband she most definitely didn’t love, given she used that umbrella to pretend she couldn’t offer her arm. Or that Sir, who turned his head as his wife laughed too loudly - he was probably embarrassed by the crow shriek that left her lips, a sound no decent woman would dare produce but in the privacy of her home. Or that other Lady with the beautiful red dress, who fled from a lover who had indulged in one too many glasses of champagne, it seemed.
It made her laugh, to see all those people. A sad laugh. She was just left wondering what good all that money could be when it meant matching people up according to their rank and bank account, no matter how little they thought of each other, or how obviously not in love most of them were, if not all. That was what she didn’t want. Love might very well be the only true thing she would ever get in her miserable life, and she wasn’t about to let a title or a family name deprive her of that right.
Her eyes were suddenly drawn by a patch of bright blue in the distance, an ostentatious colour she was sure no one had been wearing minutes before. Someone new, then. And someone who was unfamiliar with the colour code of upper-class society, with his flamboyant costume and leather boots. That, or he was a foreigner. He turned his head, and she noticed the small pigtail, or a braid, she couldn’t be quite sure from the distance, held together by a silk ribbon, just as blue as his jacket, tied into an elegant knot. Definitely a foreigner. He looked unlike any man she had ever seen before. Tall, slim, an extravagant gait and and unconventional posture. She had found her attraction for the next hour or so, before her brother would accept to take her home - and if he didn’t, she was a grown girl and she would leave herself.
She wasn’t entirely surprised to watch him make his way to one of the single ladies merely minutes after his arrival. He was alone, didn’t seem to know anyone apart from Sir Vaughan who was keeping vigil at the gates, and even from behind her bushes she could see he was the kind of man to seek attention. She supposed with a face like his - not the typical British handsome, but rather an exotic beauty that came with his overseas origins - it must have been easy to seduce women. And he most likely hadn’t travelled all this way, to this little village in a lost corner of the Devon countryside, to drink tea or get drunk on expensive champagne. Maybe a wealthy French noble who hadn’t found the right wife in his country. Or a Spanish count who was looking for the kind of greener grass he had been denied back wherever he came from. She probably could have deduced his nationality if she had paid better attention during her classes, but she found it much more amusing to guess.
She watched him dance with eager eyes, mentally praising him for the ease and elegance with which he managed to move his lanky body, giggled at the way his short pigtail struggled to follow his steps, rolled her eyes at the way the Lady pretended to trip over her own feet so he would catch her and blushed at his smiles. Foolish girl, for an otherwise clever man, she thought. The dance ended on a bow, and she was pleased to see the stranger hadn’t fallen for an old-as-the-world seduction parade. He hadn’t been convinced.
He walked to another woman - Lady Edwards, she recognized, and she wondered if he knew what he was getting into. He was a bit closer, now, and she could make out his features more precisely. Electric blue eyes, a straight nose that was slightly slanted to the right, thin lips, a face as thin as the rest of his body. Most definitely not what British women would qualify to be a good-looking man. Still, he had his charm, she believed. Lively expressions, flirtatious smiles, provocative winks. A high-pitched voice the wind carried to her ears that could fall to a deep vibration faster than a wrongly-tuned bass. She couldn’t decide if she liked it, but she liked it very much when Lady Edwards threatened to whack his head with her umbrella and her husband joined the dispute.
To her surprise, and disappointment, the vehement argument she expected turned into a sharp negotiation. The foreigner left with a large roll of banknotes in his pocket and his dignity intact. Talented talker or fierce bargainer, either way, she was now sure he must have been a wealthy merchant with expensive and valuable goods. Sir Edwards had the ongoing reputation of being closer to his bank account than to his wife, so it seemed highly improbable he would have ceded so much money for a worthless trinket.
She followed his steps to the hostess of the garden party, and had to cover her mouth with her fingers to cover a laugh when he approached her, full grin and magnetic eyes, striking a pose with the obvious intent of seducing her. Maybe people in his country didn’t wear any outward signs that they were married, she presumed. Or maybe he simply was oblivious to the signs, on purpose or not, and simply talked to the Ladies he fancied. The conversation was short-lived, of course, but she almost wanted to thank him for looking just as uneasy and embarrassed as she had been when she had met that contemptuous woman for the first time. At least, she wasn’t alone in her misery.
But then, he was gone. He disappeared, behind a bush, to the other side of the party she couldn’t see from her stairs. She was just a bit dismayed. She didn’t know why, but she would have liked to meet him. Meet that man who gave an odd impression, and not just because he was a foreigner. He was different. As clever, rich and boastful as all those men she loathed, that was for certain, but he had a something more that made it all…. Tolerable. More than that, that made it all exciting - and whatever was left of her meagre reputation would burn down to ashes if, God forbid, anyone ever learnt she found a man exciting. But there were secrets and mysteries she was sure he kept hidden in the layers of his bizarre costume and she wanted to discover.
And, just as she thought that particular thought, he reappeared again. Not only did he reappear, but he was looking at her. Really looking at her, like no one had before. She had been stared at, with disdain and condescendence. She had been observed, with mockery and defiance. She had been embraced with soft looks and gentle eyes with the few who loved her. But that man was looking at her, with genuine interest and a disconcerting intensity. Her anxiety pulled her lips into a smile when she simply wanted to run away, and her hands tightened around her tunic to hide the cheap dress underneath. She knew he would notice her hair and her shoes, notice her lack of elegance and finesse, but he didn’t stop. Looking at her. She hurried to her feet and discretely cleared her throat, just as he walked towards her and grew impossibly taller, so tall he still had to lower his eyes despite her still standing on the step.
“Hello, Sir,” she greeted him with a small bow of the head, hoping the blush she felt inflaming her cheeks wasn’t as bright as the jewel of his brooch. “Please excuse my ignorance, but I don’t remember seeing you before.”
She blushed even deeper when his fingers wrapped around hers and his hot breath caressed her skin, as softly as his lips did - if there was one thing she had learnt, a gentleman would have never touched her with his mouth, but then again, he was a foreigner. A clash of traditions, probably. A difference she wished didn’t exist, because she was finding out she quite liked the intimate gesture, from a man she knew nothing about, no less. She shivered, bit her lip and prayed he wouldn’t feel how clammy her hand was getting under his.
“Più bella cosa, you’ll wish you had never seen me at all,” he said softly, and that was the version of his voice she liked the most, she decided. “Call me… Giacomo.”
“Sir Giacomo…”
“Giacomo,” he interrupted before she could go any further. “Just Giacomo, if you please.”
“Giacomo, I do appreciate your kindness,” she continued, clasping her hands loosely in front of her, “but I believe I am not the one you are looking for.”
“No, you are not indeed,” he agreed as he let his eyes roam over her body and caused her already quivering smile to falter. “At least you weren’t until I saw you. What’s your name, il mio Sole?”
“Fanny. Fanny Price. Simply… Fanny.”
His eyes squinted ever so slightly at those words, and when she had already been feeling self-conscious about her clothes and hair, he managed to make it worse. His long finger brushed a strand of hair going astray on the side of her face behind her ear and pinched the knot that held her tunic around her shoulders. He certainly was bold, and she didn’t like it much. She liked his smile even less, thinking he was just another one of those men who enjoyed toying with desperate women, one of those men who found it wildly entertaining to use their charm and nice words to give hope they always took away. She wasn’t desperate, thank you very much, and she wasn’t about to let him loosen that knot. But then, he brought his second hand to one of the loops.
He only tightened the knot and made sure the bows were similar in shape and size, letting them fall in the middle of her sternum.
“Scusi,” he apologized with a soft smile, bringing his fingers back to his cane. “I like symmetry. Will you walk with me, cara Fanny?”
“I must apologize, Sir… Giacomo,” she corrected at the half grin that taunted his lips and the twitch of his eyebrow,” but I was about to leave with my brother.”
“Ten minutes,” he insisted, gently catching her wrist when she stepped off the stairs. “Per favore, ten minutes. Let me hold your arm and enjoy your warm company.”
“You should not be seen with me, I will not do wonders to your reputation,” she pleaded again.
She didn’t quite know why she was trying to get away from him, but there was something indescribable about this man. He had an aura. A powerful aura that was drawing her like a moth to a flame, and the feeling was foreign as he was. He looked at her with a smile, a very different smile from the ones he had greeted the other women with. Kind and respectful. Nothing seductive about it, apart perhaps from the way it made his dimples deeper and brought a light to his piercing blue eyes. It was seductive, in a way. But the kind of unwilling seduction.
He bent towards her and she got a full breath of his heavy cologne with the wisp of air that came with a flutter of his lace collar.
“What makes you think I have any reputation at all?” he winked, offering an arm. “Please, do me the honor. We do not have to mingle with the rest of the compagnia.”
“Forgive my asking, Giacomo, but… Why me? You’ve been after all these Ladies and I… I am not a Lady. I will never be a Lady. I fail to see what it is that made you even notice me.”
“Not being a Lady doesn’t make you any less of a woman, dearest Fanny,” he pointed out with a dismissive swish of his cane towards the general direction of the party where all the Ladies were gathered. “Just as much as not being a Sir doesn’t make me any less of a man. I am not… Coercing you into doing something you do not want. I would like it very much if you accepted to spend more time with me, but if you don’t… Fa niente. I will let you go back to your brother.”
“Ten minutes?” she sought for confirmation, anxiously looking around to make sure no one was watching them.
“Promessa,” he swore, a humble bow bending his neck. “Please?”
This is by far the stupidest thing he’s ever had to be a part of: mixing in with the crowd, undercover, at some posh sex party.
Pretentious smut, he reminds himself, feeling out of his depths. But there’s a killer at large, and if there’s a chance this will protect people, he’ll take it.
“Just pretend to be one of them voyeurs,” his boss had said.
Still, there is something undeniably enticing about the glow of the candlelight against the honey-colored stone, the chimes of champagne glasses, the brush of satin and velvet and silk on his touch-starved skin as he walks though the room.
When he sees her, she’s sitting on a widow seat, a book in one hand, a man’s head between her legs. She takes her eyes off the page and looks back at him. His heart stutters. She loses her composure for a fraction of a second but it’s enough to know she has recognized him.
