Antony
"You don't have it as bad as you think."
I consider Charles's words, but they make no sense. This evening, I am to partake in a lush ball hosted by my mother.
The seeming purpose is to entertain the belles of London. The underlying and overarching one is to find me a suitable match.
"What makes you say that?" I ask anyway, glad for any excuse to not need to think.
I do not fancy a whole evening of lackluster conversation regarding trifling domestic politics and fashionable fabrics.
Mother tells me the way to a woman's heart is to compliment the gown she wears to such an event.
It is likely she will have planned its makings a month in advance.
I, for one, cannot bring myself to do it. I would much rather elope with a scruffy ruffian in pantaloons and a shirt, if it means avoiding talk of lace and crinoline.
"Antony Fitzroy, the illustrious Duke of Danbury," Charles replies with a ridiculous flourish, as I settle into an elegant armchair within the opulent hall of The Trafalgar Club, a gentleman's establishment situated near Whitehall.
It boasts a prime spot just a stone's throw from St. James's Park, its serene and luxe interiors in stark contrast to the political tensions swirling in the air.
I choose to visit here because of the French embassy nearby. From the club's expansive windows, I can observe the comings and goings of prominent names in French politics.
Mother would have me stop everything related to wars and death ever since I returned home after the accident. But I cannot imagine my life without the intrigue of battle.
Charles raises a glass of amber whiskey at me from his seat. "Our mothers would rather have us become family men than fight another war, Antony. Is that all that bad, though? Maybe a life of comfort isn't all too bad, my friend."
Rather than replying immediately, I take a sip of the warm liquid in my glass, allowing its burn to settle like a welcome flame in my chest. I look around the club.
It is done in rich textured wallpaper in deep shades of burgundy and gold, complemented by gilded accents and ornate mouldings.
Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the mahogany-paneled walls and plush Persian carpets gracing the floors.
All around me, distinguished men dressed in tailored coats, waistcoats, and cravats engage in conversations.
The air is rife with the scent of fine tobacco and aged spirits, and everything about being here screams indulgence.
Yet, all my heart wants to do is run free and get out. Just get out of the gold and precious stones and brick walls that define my existence and experience life once again.
"I think it's because of how I've grown up," I finally say. During his heydays, my father was a trusted advisor to the Crown, his astute political acumen serving him well.
The Danbridge family had long been entrusted with delicate affairs of the state, serving as confidants and strategists in times of both peace and war.
My grandfather served with distinction in the British Army.
Following in their footsteps, I was compelled to pursue a military career, dedicating two years of my life to armed forces. Fate intervened and led to an unexpected turn of events.
During a covert mission deep within enemy territory, I sustained a severe injury that left me incapacitated. My spirit was hurt, but my condition meant I had to come home.
From there, I healed well enough, and even longed to go back into active service. But my family would not risk it.
Besides, times have changed, and with the growing imposition of the French, the Crown has become more and more suspicious of dukes.
I blame men like Wentworth, who're openly in cahoots with the enemy. He has the Bow Street Runners and men in higher places defending him, but I know what he is. Scum of the earth.
It is not wrong for my mother to want me to settle down.
A marriage between two houses will go a long way in defending the fading splendor of our family's title and giving it a new polishing. This is particularly true if I make an advantageous alliance.
But no one cares for the ministrations of my heart.
No one thinks that it could have a beating of its own, a beating fueled by the desire to share my life not with a wet napkin, but a companion.
Someone with the same passions, the same urge for living wild and free.
Maybe I am being too ambitious.
"See how the evening goes," Charles says, after watching the hurricane of expressions on my face.
His tone is not unkind. "I've heard Carolina is attending. Her mother is very, very close to the queen. If you make a choice, dear boy, try to let it come from your brain."
I shrug listlessly. "It's hardly a choice then, is it?"
"You know what I mean."
I did. But the heart spoke another language.
"Can you imagine sharing life with someone who knows nothing about what Napoleon's doing to London? The economic blockages and his ambitions surrounding the English Channel?
"Only two days ago, I heard he sent a secret arsenal of spies and stationed them in high places. How do we find them?
"What do we do to keep the country safe? Imagine never being able to share this with someone who's supposed to take up fifty percent of your space, Charles."
My speech has grown impassioned. I'm aware I speak in a raised voice, from the incredulous stares I'm getting. But it does not matter.
"Whoa, who says you need to share fifty percent of your life with your spouse?" Charles sounds scandalized. "You just need to marry, get her home, and stabilize your political connections with a good family.
"Who cares what you do with the rest of your time? Find someone to share your passions with." He finishes the line with a wink, and I am disgusted.
I get up and say something about being expected back at the mansion. Not entirely a lie, because mother has been hounding me about the evening's preparations since six this morning.
"See you tomorrow, same time?" Charles asks expectantly.
I don't look forward to it, but he is one of my oldest friends, and his father and mine get along well. I nod before leaving the club and returning home.
***
I step through the grand entrance of the Danbury Mansion, my footsteps muffled by the plush velvet carpet stretching across the opulent foyer.
Every wall is adorned with intricate, carved wood paneling, and the rich mahogany hue is a testament to the craftsmanship of bygone eras.
Gilded sconces, their flickering candlelight casting a warm glow, punctuate the hallways, illuminating oil paintings of my distinguished ancestors.
I swear every one of them has a thicker moustache than the last. Thank god I broke that tradition.
My mother stands near the main staircase, a sweeping cascade of wrought iron and marple. My approach echoes tentatively, not unlike an errant cub heading to meet his angry parent. She is accompanied by her bosom friend, Lady Amelia.
There is no gossip that Lady Amelia does not know.
Mother turns to look at me, and the corners of her lips rise and fall.
I can see the disappointment lingering in her cerulean eyes, and I haven't even done anything that major yet. I just skipped on the ball discussions this morning, but that's done the trick, apparently.
"Antony," she says, gesturing to me. I move forward to kiss her hand. The Lady Evelyn is forever a woman of strength and sophistication, and today, she is about to launch both against my favor.
"Why did you not partake in the preparations this morning? Julia was asking about the menu. You could have overseen that. Once you are married and settled, you must be more involved."
I resist the impulse to roll my eyes and to remind her that for all the years of her marriage, I have never seen my father bothering to be involved.
He is, as usual, just out of sight. The entanglements of women's minds bore him and cause him anxiety, and although he talks about this in an unsavory way, there are days I empathize.
My mother is not alone. Lady Amelia regards me with her hawk-like hazel eyes.
"We have a very esteemed guest list tonight," she quips. "I am certain some pretty lady will catch your fleeting attention, Antony."
The jibe isn't lost on me. She knows this is the last thing I want. My mother, Lady Evelyn, swoops in on the opportunity to share the details.
"Yes. We have the Duchess of Ashfordshire and her daughter making appearances8. Lady Isadora of Ravenswood will be attending with her niece.
"And the Dukes of Thornfield and Hartwell. You will be spoiled for choice, Antony." She leans in close and whispers the last few words, "Please, please don't reject them all."
I can just about hear the agony in her voice, and it hurts. I know she is driven by the urge to help me make a political alliance that will stop my father from going on about how I keep failing him.
I know she is doing this for me.
It's just not what I want.
"Come, let us look at the preparations."
I cast my eyes around the mansion. Skilled craftsmen and decorators have transformed the noble floor into an enchanted organism.
The ballroom, with its soaring ceilings adorned with delicate frescoes and crystal chandeliers, is bathed in soft, warm light.
Freshly cut flowers and the garlands of fragrant blossoms draped along the balustrades infuse the air with their scent.
Mother thinks of everything—including the open petals designed to softly brush against the fingertips of passing guests.
She believes in the charm of all that lingers.
Gossamer curtains, delicately embroidered with intricate patterns, hang from tall windows, billowing gently in the breeze.
As I observe the scene unfolding before me, I can almost hear the music floating through the air, and picture the strains of waltzes.
It makes me feel sick.
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