To Be Composed

The tapping sound of her heels was thankfully dulled by the orchestra in front of them. She had no interest in organs, brass and a conductor by whose every motion, changed the music's direction and flow. She had no interest in how her life matched the wind instruments, a tool to be used to please others, cast away when there was no longer a performance.

There were no words; absolutely none the habitual chatterbox could find to respond to the news her uncle had so gracefully delivered only a few minutes before. She was to be married, married! Wed to one of the fat Lords of a forgotten house and forced to live in his estate. A life spent caring for miniature copies of someone she had no love for, draining her of her remaining happiness, hosting one forgettable parliament member after another.

It was unfair of Uncle Carlton, otherwise known as Lord Ashmore, to condemn her to this yet her anger was more directed at herself. How foolish to have spoken of love the week before, how foolish to have not locked up her poetry, away from the prying hands and eyes of maids. That momentary lack of wisdom promised to be her undoing and there was nothing she could do about it. The trumpets got louder and the harpist placed more pressure on the strings.

In her peripheral vision, she saw her aunt's countenance, perfectly upright, face pulled into a half-smile. The ones found of a lady, never too much nor too little emotion, for her reputation and that of her blood, sat solely on her shoulders. The box room they sat in at the second level of the theatre grew unnaturally warmer, the heat creeping beneath the frills of the attire she wore that was thoroughly unpragmatic. Movement below snatched her attention as the elegant perfection of the piece was distorted by a discordant note. Who would dare?

The piece abruptly stopped, nobody able to move past such an offence when she caught a look so full of mischief, she let out an audible gasp and leaned forward unconsciously. He was dark all over, hair as black as night that shined underneath the stage lights, body draped from head to toe in the dark linen so fine it was reserved for men of noble blood. She was too far away but something told her he had every intention of causing more havoc.

Chastising herself for how quickly her heart rate picked up at the thought of someone defying their society, she forced herself to lean back. "The gall of it all, being the son of such an esteemed family but unable to compose yourself."

The sneer in her uncle's words reminded her that she could never associate with such recklessness but a pang of annoyance mixed into the deeply-settled resentment she stored in her heart. The warmth grew unbearable, flames seemed to be dancing on her skin and she jumped out of her seat, as fast as the corset would allow. Her aunt and uncle gasped, heads turning in her direction. Thankfully, she wasn't loud enough to call any more attention and with a jumble of incoherence, she excused herself.

The tapping of her heels became more purposeful as she walked out of the box room, headed for the front of the theatre, headed for cool air. The heat was unbearable and the orchestra had started, the clash of the cymbals a clang marking the beginning of a headache. What was going on? She felt the breeze of the outdoors before she reached it and standing outside finally, was a blessing. The warmth did not immediately go away but its increasing intensity seemed to abate.

Glancing around to see if she had company, she took in a deep breath and screamed. "TO HELL WITH THE QUEEN, TO HELL WITH THE KING AND BOLLOCKS TO THIS WRETCHED SOCIETY!"

Panting as her form cooled down, slow clapping had her spinning around. "Couldn't have said it better myself. Might I suggest an additional insult for the House of Lords. Those imbeciles push a button I never knew existed."

His rough voice grated over her skin as the scoundrel from the stage appeared out of the shadows. He was the pinnacle of gentleman society, Waistcoat and accompanying suit tailored to his exact form, the dark navy a stark contrast against his very tan skin. Where on earth was he from?

"I have no need to converse with you." She hated the sneer in her voice, her Lord Ashmore was showing.

Nothing prepared her for the wolfish smile that broke out, perfectly aligned teeth against tan features; a walking contradiction to most. "Well, my lady, I have every need to converse with you."

"How so?"

"You are beautiful."

Annoyance rose beneath the surface; her famed beauty was in part to blame for her uncle's haste to have her betrothed. Somehow what many viewed as a blessing made her a piece to be leveraged for more territorial control by her Uncle and a few thousand more gold pieces in the bank. Too much attention could in fact be a curse.

"That's not what you wanted to hear." The slight remorse in his tone confused her, what would it matter to him what she wanted to hear?

Her hands went to her heavy chignon, pulling out some of the clips as she settled uncomfortably on the steps at the entrance, a nervous tic that often had her scrambling to rearrange her appearance. But it didn't matter anymore. "No, it is in fact the opposite. I want to hear the truth, tell me what you see when you look at me."

His eyebrows quirked up in confusion and he opened his mouth as if to speak and closed it once more, walking closer to face her. "Right. I see someone who is confused, a little more than sad but there's a hint of something I can't quite place my hands on."

"What is it?" She was curious and a little bit hopeful that he saw something more than a coward, who feared life without this cursed structure to tell her how to live it.

His palm stretched out to cover hers as he sat beside her. "Someone who's scared and I wouldn't need England's best researchers to tell me it is anything other than marriage. Your being here means you've already been introduced to society and since no scandals of elopement or affairs are circling, it has to be marriage."

She looked at him, tears filling her eyes as she considered the sudden openness in his expression, his palm warms against hers. "You can't have figured that out so quickly, who did you ask about me?"

He looked away. "No one, you have the same look Edith wore, the night before her marriage, the night two days before she was found hanging from the ceiling of her drawing room, with a rope she had knotted around her neck."

She unconsciously cringed away from him; self-murder was one of the greatest stains your bloodline would suffer for generations to come and he spoke so freely of it. "Edith? Edith Ryton? She committed self-murder? The details of her death were so tightly wrapped, the society's gossip chalked it down to a sexual infection from a servant."

It was his turn to cringe. "My sister may have hated marriage but she would never have done such a thing."

The pieces begun to click together, slowly, his rakish features, the disdain of her Uncle and her general lack of familiarity with him besides a passing feeling of cognisance; he was Edward Everett Ryton, Marquess of Cobblestone House, the wealthiest, most influential and mysterious House of Nobles. A family so old and powerful, the queen seemed to be the only one above them. Their family head, Duke Aldrich Ryton stepped out only on deliberations of internal affairs, outside of that, the family was solely characterised by rumours and hearsay.

It felt almost like a dream to be standing next to someone who was every bit a myth. "I-i, I am so sorry for speaking so informally towards y-"

His palm over her mouth stopped her. "None of that, I beg of you."

An uncomfortable silence transpired and when he released her lips, she said the only logical thing. "My condolences for your loss, you must have been close to Edith."

"We were raised separately so I knew very little about her but in the few months I encountered her before the wedding, she showed me every loophole to an ounce of freedom in this, as you said, wretched society." A wistful smile appeared.

She had no words to say, orphaned and without siblings, she had no cause to relate. "Run away with me."

She lost her balance when she tried to turn towards him in shock and fell haphazardly onto the steps; frills and corsets were not the ideal attire for so much motion. He quickly helped her to stand upright and kept her palms in his.

"Surely you jest." Somewhere inside her, that statement stirred up disbelief.

His hold on her tightened. "I do not. This may as well be selfish but I do believe in fate and our meeting mirrors the moments before Edith was to be wed. Maybe in helping you, I can alleviate myself of this guilt, maybe in helping you, we can find a life outside of these confines."

He must have gone mad but the words sunk into her bones. What good would it do her to condemn herself to a life of misery and never be able to say she at least tried to find a way out? Her uncle's satisfied smile as Lord Pennworth's letter promised more prosperity than he could see in 3 years flashed in her mind and the warmth that she now identified as her very essence being livid returned. She wouldn't be escaping, she would be freeing herself, making a decision for once in her life.

Gazes collided and the appearance of a familiar smile of mischief warmed her heart in a different way. "Fine. Let's be absolutely mad."