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James is looking forward to Lord Cho’s house party.

He does like a good house party in general, as it happens. He likes anything which involves company and society and high spirits of any sort, really, but especially a house party. A week or two in some family’s crowded home is the perfect antidote to growing up alone, in his experience. It’s quite the opposite of rattling around his father’s house as a boy and youth. And he thinks this will be a particularly cheery and crowded sort of house party, as Lord Cho has a good many siblings, and just recently took a wife, and so James thinks it likely that there will be a very great number of high-spirited people crowded into their country estate.

At least, he hopes it will turn out that way.

It’ll be just the ideal distraction from some of the troubles which are beginning to crowd in on him in town. His father’s letters have become increasingly rude and frequent lately. The man is quite obsessed with the topic of James marrying and begetting an heir, and has been for some decade or more, now. He has managed to withstand all that and stay unmarried thus far, but his father is threatening rather more often to cut him off entirely, and that’s not an altogether pleasant subject to read about.

To be clear, it’s not as if he has never tried to marry. He hasn’t tried particularly hard, perhaps. But he’s not actively averse to the idea. He would marry if the right lady should happen to fall into his lap, he thinks. Why - he did even propose to Miss Goring, last season, after word got out about all that business of them getting intimate in a cupboard together. But she decided she would not have him, compromised or not, and her mother actually managed to find her a better offer.

Really - a better offer than the man who compromised her, who happens to be the heir to a dukedom. He can’t even begin to make sense of that.

He fears he must be impressively oafish and ill-mannered if a lady known throughout London for spending a quarter-hour in a cupboard with him still won’t accept his hand in marriage.

Yes. Well. London has been getting a bit bothersome lately, and he’s damn grateful for the chance to spend a fortnight distracting himself with a high-spirited country house party.

He doesn’t suppose it’ll fix that marriage issue or that father issue, but at least he’ll be thinking of hunting and brandy and company rather than ought else.

…….

The house party gets off to a promising start.

James is amongst the last to arrive. He likes it that way - he’d rather arrive to a party already in full swing than stand around thinking too hard about what to say or how to behave. Once there are other chaps present, it’s much easier to simply join in with the crowd.

So he arrives to the news that everyone is already taking tea on the terrace, that there are a few lawn games in progress, that there will be a good dinner served shortly and plenty of brandy afterwards.

Jolly good. Ideal. Truly excellent.

He finds himself standing around on the terrace with a handful of other chaps, nibbling on a bit of cucumber sandwich.

The other chaps seem to be trying to check that they know which lady is which, seem to be engrossed in trying to determine who would be worth courting. James isn’t particularly invested in that, as conversations go, for he’s not particularly present on the marriage market - barring unforeseen circumstances with ruination and closets.

But - well - company is company, and he doesn’t tend to be choosy.

“I simply don’t understand. I thought the elder one was Miss Cordelia Cho.” Lord Ambrose is saying now.

“No - I’m quite convinced Miss Clarissa is the elder.” Lord Hardy counters.

Ah. Some confusion about which of their host’s sisters is which. The kind of thing which makes up a disproportionate amount of marriage market chit-chat, in James’ experience.

“If one of them is the elder, should we not know her simply as Miss Cho?” Lord Barnell adds now.

“Hmm - no. There’s a much older one.” Lord Corning corrects them, in a knowing sort of tone. “She’s a bit of a bluestocking, I understand, and never married. She lives with her married sister Lady Eastwick.”

James nods along. He finds that he remembers that detail, actually, and has something to contribute to the conversation. “Yes - Corning has it right. There’s a spinster elder sister - the rest of the family always seem a little embarrassed about her, from what I’ve seen.”

“The embarrassing spinster elder sister. Shockingly, I don’t generally refer to myself in those terms, My Lord.”

Oh no. Oh hell and damnation no.

The lady herself is right here.

She has just sprung from behind that unusually large patio rose, there. Was she hiding and eavesdropping on them deliberately? Or - no - it seems she was actually digging in the dirt of that plant pot for some reason.

How very singular. No wonder she never married.

The matter remains, though, that insulting the host’s sister is really not bon ton, even if she is the spinster of the family.

“I didn’t mean to cause offence.” James rushes to tell her.

She raises her brows at him. “Oh - is there an inoffensive way to call someone a spinster and an embarrassment?”

“Well - no - I don’t suppose there is. But I didn’t mean for you to hear me causing offence.”

“Ah. You prefer to insult a lady behind her back rather than to her face.”

“No. In fact, I tend to be a very direct and plainspoken person, I believe.” He argues staunchly. “But the fact remains that I have offended you and did not mean to, so I am attempting to put it right.”

“A little advice, My Lord. A more effective way of making amends might be a simple apology.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course. I am sorry for my ill-judged words.” He tries desperately.

“Oh - were they ill-judged, then? You were wrong? You take it back? You no longer think me either spinsterish or embarrassing?”

Heavens above.

How the devil is he to navigate such an awfully sticky situation? The other chaps he was speaking with have actually wandered off and left him here, even.

Well - he wasn’t truly speaking with them, was he? He was lurking, and listening, and eating a sandwich, and occasionally interjecting with insults to their host’s sister.

No wonder they’ve walked off and left him to face the situation alone.

“I certainly think you adept at arguing - will that serve as a compliment and peace gesture?” He tries now. “Indeed, you appear quite expert at the dialectical method.”

“Huh. The dialectical method. You are a scholar of philosophy?” She asks, in a suddenly less angry and more intrigued sort of tone.

“I was.” He hedges. “I - ahm - yes. I was quite fond of a bit of philosophy as a student. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I did wrong to speak so cruelly of you, and I pray you will accept my apologies, and my clumsy compliment on your skill in debate.”

“How kind. Of course, you ought not be surprised that I can argue. For I am a bluestocking embarrassing spinster.”

She leaves, then. She simply turns away, gets pointedly back to her plant pot.

James is left to stand there, watching her, wondering whether she’s going to ask her brother to have him thrown from the house.

He jolly well hopes she doesn’t. He’s been looking forward to this house party.

Hmm. Perhaps he might go and pay his host his respects and tell him what charming ladies all his sisters are.

…….

Dinner is fine. James sits between two ladies he has no intention of marrying and enjoys the sound of conversation washing over him.

Brandy afterwards is better. All the Lords he was standing with on the terrace earlier are having a bit of a laugh at his gaffe. He takes great care to laugh with them, to make it clear that he wants to be in on the fun rather than its object.

He wonders if that means they are all implicitly laughing at the embarrassing Miss Cho, and he feels a little uncomfortable at that.

No. No he doesn’t. She’s not here to take offence. He told her he was sorry, as any gentleman should when he makes a muddle of something. He must just keep his head down, keep drinking, keep laughing at his own careless words to a lady.

It’s fine. Fine. He does like a good house party.

……..

The following morning, the whole party is to go out hunting. 

James is relieved at that. He tends to be better at sporting pursuits than social ones, in general. To be sure, hunting is not much like fencing, which is his preferred sport, but he’s a decent rider and sound shot.

Indeed, he’s amongst the gentlemen who brings down game today. It’s not as big as the twelve-pointer Lord Ambrose manages to shoot, but it’s a perfectly respectable young stag and he’s looking forward to being able to talk about that, for the evening ahead of them, rather than laughing at his own gaffes.

He’s just ambling from the stable back up to the house, at the end of the day’s sport, when he sees Miss Cho scraping at the wall of some stableyard outbuilding with a small trowel.

That’s very uncommon behaviour, as far as he can see. He really does understand why she’s unmarried.

But it also presents a perfect opportunity for a more well-considered and less flustered apology, he hopes. It seems likely that he’ll be less inclined to put his foot in it, this afternoon, one day on from that awful gaffe. And he would like to apologise better, because a lifetime spent as a bit of a blundering twit has taught him that a man should try to apologise for his most twittish moments.

Why - he’s the sort of chap who would offer marriage to a lady he compromised in a cupboard, even. That’s the sort of apologetic action he has been obliged to master, thanks to his own ineptitude.

“Good afternoon, Miss Cho.” He greets her with a gentlemanly little half-bow.

She turns to him, frowns, throws some gesture which is perhaps a quarter of a curtsey in his general direction.

“Afternoon, My Lord.”

She’s already looking at the wall again.

“On seeing you here I thought I might take the opportunity to apologise properly for insulting you yesterday afternoon. It was poorly done of me, and I am resolved to think and speak better of you in future.” He tries.

“Ah. And the next embarrassing spinsterish woman who crosses your path - will you think and speak better of her, too? Or am I only exempt from your disdain because I heard you, and because my intellect has earned a mite of your respect?”

“You are angry with me for being the sort of gentleman who makes such comments about ladies at all, but I tell you, most gentlemen of the ton are exactly the same.” He argues.

“Oh - I do realise that, of course.” She agrees, nodding. “But I hardly think that a recommendation for such behaviour. Why - most people also eat carrots, and I happen to dislike them heartily.”

“No. That analogy won’t serve. That’s a - a false comparison. Social mores and root vegetables cannot be equivalent in an argument. That’s just poor reasoning.”

“I think you’re probably correct. I couldn’t think of a better point of comparison on such short notice. I did not exactly come out here this afternoon preparing to argue such a point with you.” She tells him, shrugging.

Hmm. That’s a fascinatingly straightforward way of arguing, he decides. To simply… concede and explain that she was not well-prepared? Such a novel way of handling such a situation. It must require considerable bravery, considerable confidence in one’s own intellectual abilities.

It makes him think of deliberately laughing at himself last night, of not having the social bravery to tell the other chaps that laughing at such an insult was probably rude.

He decides to have a go at social bravery, instead, now. He’s been oafish and cowardly and suchlike all too often in his brief acquaintance with this lady.

Best have a go at doing better, at being direct and straightforward and yet hopefully not ill-mannered.

“What are you doing?” He asks plainly.

“Oh - this?” She gestures to the wall. “Taking a few samples of the moss. My brother attracted my attention to this most unusual moss he has on his feed barn wall. He said I might take some samples as long as I sorted his roses out first, and as long as I make sure to see to his snails before I go - you know how it is.”

“No. I don’t. I haven’t the foggiest clue what you’re talking about.”

“I have some affinity for plants - botany, horticulture, and all related disciplines. Whenever I visit one of my relations they tend to present me with quite the to-do list.”

“That doesn’t sound terribly pleasant. Do they not invite you simply to enjoy your company?”

“Hmm. Perhaps. Or perhaps I am the embarrassing spinster of the family, or perhaps it’s a little of both.”

“I’m sure it’s both.” He rushes to assure her.

Only then he realises how rude that is. He realises he’s just reaffirmed that whole embarrassing spinster judgement.

He scrambles to repair it. “I mean - I am sure they do like to see you, as well as wanting to benefit from your green-fingered talents. I believe it is often like that when one is… on the edge of a family. My father tends to want me to give him grandchildren, or sometimes school his horses, but he does occasionally remember to tell me he’s pleased to see me.”

“Yes. It does sound very much like that.” She agrees with spirit.

He stands there a moment longer, watches a near-stranger scrape moss from a wall. It occurs to him, quite abruptly, that it’s the first genuine conversation he’s held in some time. It must be actual weeks since he last shared a direct back-and-forth exchange of information with another individual like this. It’s entirely different from lurking around the chaps of the ton and occasionally piping up with some ill-judged bit of rudeness or banter, isn’t it?

He must be losing his mind. He’s an eligible young buck, the heir to a dukedom, a graduate of Oxford and of various opera singers besides. He certainly shouldn’t be seeking company from an odd spinster who likes moss.

Why - if he has enjoyed the novelty of a one-to-one conversation, he might simply dance with some young lady later in the course of this house party. There’s bound to be some dancing after dinner one or two nights, and there’s to be a proper ball to end the whole thing.

Yes. That’s a much better idea. Dancing is supposed to encourage conversation, he understands, although he hasn’t done a great deal of it himself.

He had much better go up to the house and stop standing around here with Miss Cho. 

…….

When cricket is the order of the day, later that week, James throws himself into it wholeheartedly.

Naturally he does. He’s a chap who always wants to get stuck into whatever everyone else is doing. That is the way to be social and enjoy company, to his mind. And besides - he does even like cricket. It’s perhaps his third-favourite pursuit, he’d say, after fencing and billiards but just above riding and hunting and suchlike.

Yes. Well. He’s feeling very cheery about a bit of cricket. It’s the sort of thing an adult chap, long since out of university, doesn’t get to play very often outside of a house party.

He sets out onto the lawn, rolls up his shirtsleeves, and wonders whether this is to be a proper organised match with teams or whether it’s to be a bit of daft lawn fun. He’ll take either option, of course, but he does prefer a proper game if the option is available.

He arrives to the sight of Miss Cho arguing rather fiercely with her brother, who is of course also their host.

“We simply must have full teams.” She tells him, fire in her eyes. “I know you think that too serious for a house party, Charles, but I’ll not dumb down cricket for the sake of your social reputation. Why should you be so determined to appear laid back? I find it entirely odd and cricket your poor victim.”

James finds himself rushing into the breach. “Full teams and a serious match? I could go for that. I don’t think that contrary to the spirit of a house party at all, Cho. Why - I can’t be the only chap who would quite like a proper match after so many years without such a thing since leaving Oxford.”

“There might not be only chaps interested in such a thing.” Miss Cho points out now. “Lord Fife and some of his chaps might like it, and I certainly would like it, and there might be other ladies who play cricket hereabouts.”

“Ahm - yes - quite right. Miss Cho is quite correct that the ladies might enjoy serious cricket too.” James says, although he’s not entirely sure she is correct. But having decided to wade into this argument on her side, he surely can’t abandon her now.

“You see? There are a great many gentlemen and ladies in support of a serious game of cricket.” She concludes, triumphant.

Lord Cho nods, lets them have it. He evidently feels less strongly about the whole issue than they do.

“You’d like to captain one of the teams, I presume, sister?” 

“But of course. And I’ll have Lord Fife on my team too, thank you. We’ll go in to bat first. You’ll captain the other team, Charles?”

“Apparently I will.” Lord Cho agrees, somewhere between resigned and fond.

Yes - definitely a warmer family than James, for all that conversation he and Miss Cho lately had about to-do lists.

They separate, then, to start recruiting their teams. James finds himself walking, rather bemused, at Miss Cho’s side as she tries to flag down one of her brothers-in-law.

“Are you sure you want me in to bat so early?” He asks mildly, while she keeps waving.

“Oh - quite certain. Any gentleman who is that keen on a more serious sort of game must be competent. And besides, you’re known in the ton as something of a sportsman, are you not?”

“Am I? That’s news to me.” He says plainly.

She seems to think that’s terribly funny. She takes it as a joke, laughs a long laugh at him.

The devil of it is, he was largely serious. He presumed the ton were still talking about that cupboard and Miss Goring, not about his sporting competences.

She has managed to get the attention of Lord Eastwick, now. He’s the brother-in-law whose home she lives at, James understands. And then she’s recruiting one of her younger sisters, and now she’s directing him to go and select one of the better bats from the set and look lively.

Yes. Very good. Looking lively is one of his greater talents, he believes.

He’s been lurking at social events and looking lively for the better part of a decade now.

……..

They win the cricket quite comfortably.

Miss Cho makes a century, and James is not far behind. They declare at that point, without the rest of their team ever having batted at all, and James can’t help but feel that it renders rather pointless that entire argument about full teams.

Then it’s their turn to bowl and field, of course, and they briefly hit something of a sticking point.

“I presume you can bowl?” Miss Cho asks him abruptly. “For I shall keep our wicket, and my brother Eastwick can bowl a little but not terribly well.”

“Can you not bowl? I’m a fair wicket-keeper.” He argues.

“No. As it happens, I can’t bowl for toffee. It’s quite my worst skill. But you’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

So… he does.

He simply does get on with attempting to bowl, and although it’s never been his greatest talent, it turns out he’s more than a match for a bunch of leisurely gentlemen and a small number of ladies at a house party.

And Miss Cho is an expert wicket-keeper, for the record. He’s not at all sure whether that’s useful information, whether it will ever be relevant to his life again after this match.

But that’s how it is, and he’s approximately competent, and when everything comes together they win the match within four hours.

It’s another good development which will give James something to speak with the other chaps about over his brandy, he decides. A conversation about trouncing them all at cricket sounds a damn sight more useful than laughing at his riding roughshod over a lady’s dignity.

Lord Eastwick suddenly seems quite pally with him, after they have won the match. That’s an interesting development. Why - the fellow has even exchanged whole entire sentences with him about how to improve his spin.

It’s Miss Cho who is warmest of all to him, though. As they’re putting away their bats, she actually reaches out to shake his hand and smile right into his eyes.

“Well played, Lord Fife. I knew you were a good sort.”

“You knew I was a good sort when our first substantial conversation was begun by my insulting you?” He asks, incredulous.

“Ah - but I have very much been enjoying your ongoing bungled attempts to apologise to me. Why, I wake up every morning wondering what oddly courteous comment you will make to me that day.” She teases roundly.

He finds himself grinning at her. “I’ve not tried to apologise to you in at least three days, now.”

“No - but you did join in that argument with my brother about cricket to take my side, and I’m inclined to think that much the same sort of thing. Neatly done - and well won.”

She walks off - no doubt to scrape some moss or see to some snails or triumph over the entire world at cricket.

He’s not sure whether that makes her embarrassing or very very impressive.

…….

At the ball to end the house party, James finds himself loitering on the edges of an interesting conversation.

It’s much the same party of chaps as he was standing with on the terrace, on that very first afternoon. Lord Ambrose is wondering about dancing with Miss Cordelia, and Lord Barnell likes the look of Miss Barragan tonight.

James finds that it’s a conversation he’s suddenly keen to join in.

“I might dance with our host’s sister, I think.” He tells the group at large.

“Which one?” Lord Ambrose asks at once. “For I tell you, I am quite earnestly interested in Miss Cordelia, but if you mean to dance with Miss Clarissa I shall not argue with you.”

“Oh - neither. The older sister. Or - well - she’s younger than our host, isn’t she, but older than her young sisters - you know. Miss Cho.” He concludes, all inept and falling over his words.

“Why would you want to dance with her?”

It’s a question he never answers - that’s in part because he doesn’t know the answer, perhaps, but it’s also because he has already started walking across the ballroom in the general direction of Miss Cho.

He could ask her to dance. It’s something he’s probably entirely capable of. She might say no, of course - or she might say yes and then be an incompetent dancer - or he might be entirely hopeless at the activity, as it’s something he rarely practises.

But he thinks he might as well try. The way he sees it, a dance with her tonight is likely his last opportunity for a real, engaged, one-to-one conversation before they go their separate ways. He might not have any interesting dialogue like that again in weeks or even months, based on his record to date.

It’s an uncommon reason to dance with a lady, perhaps. Dancing is usually a matter of courtship, not of conversation between a spinster and a chap so oafish that even a young lady he has despoiled won’t have him.

All the same, he’s resolved to give it a try.

He walks over there. He bows, and she curtseys, and her brows are knitted together in a frown.

“Do you dance?” He asks abruptly - or blurts it, honestly.

“Is this a hypothetical question or a more concrete one? Are you attempting to ascertain the extent to which I am an embarrassing spinster - whether in fact I actively abhor dancing - or have you a friend desperately in need of a partner, or is there some other explanation for your question?”

“You seem to have passed over the most obvious explanation. I simply thought to ask you to dance a set with me, if you’re willing. One more act of apology for my cruel words a fortnight ago, perhaps.”

“Ah. A pity set. Every spinster’s favourite sort.” She says, but her eyes are perhaps teasing him, he thinks.

“I don’t mean it as a pity set, and you well know it. I simply thought to dance with the captain of the cricket team with whom I enjoyed such triumph. Now will you dance with me or not?” He asks plainly.

“I will, of course. But it’s such tremendous fun to practise the dialectical method with you a little first.”

He can’t remember the last time he had a conversation with anyone else about the dialectical method. Has he meaningfully discussed philosophy at all since he left Oxford?

That seems a shame.

But he’s not going to continue the theme, he decides, as the music starts and they take to the floor. For there is a very specific topic he has wanted to try speaking with Miss Cho about for some days, now. There’s a certain conversation he’d very much like to have.

“Was it your choice never to marry, or did no one ask you?” He simply asks her outright, as they begin to dance.

She splutters out a shocked laugh. “That’s quite a blunt question, My Lord. I believe I must throw it back at you. Was it your choice never to marry, or did no one ever ask you?” She counters, plainly teasing, and yet making a very serious point all the while.

He tries to live up to that opportunity. There’s simply something about conversation with this woman which makes him want to be the best version of himself, even if he can’t entirely understand how.

“In fact, I did ask someone and she said no.” He admits plainly. “I mean - I was largely asking her because I compromised her, but it was a bit of a blow that she wouldn’t have me even under such circumstances.”

“Oh - yes. I believe I recall the incident you are speaking of. I didn’t know you’d asked her to marry you. Hold on - you’re surely not saying that you compromised her in order to force her hand? In order to urge her to marry you?”

“No, not that.” He rushes to explain himself. “We simply got a bit… carried away, and then I thought I had best do the decent thing. But - yes - her mother found her a better offer, apparently. It’s a funny business, being so reprehensible that even being the heir to a Dukedom and having compromised her too wouldn’t make me the better circumstantial offer.”

“Her mother probably thought you’d be found in a cupboard with some other lady the following week.”

“I certainly wouldn’t have done that. I did sincerely mean to be a good husband to her as best I know how.” He argues, and finds himself rather passionate on the subject. “I suppose I would likely still have - ahem - stayed late at my club on occasion, but I had resolved not to keep a steady mistress or hit my wife or be ill-tempered at her or anything cruel like that. And none of this separate households nonsense, either. I should like to be present in my children’s lives - that’s very important to me.”

He’s said too much. He’s not just spoken at too great a length, but he’s also shared far too much which is personal and a bit pathetic, for a passing acquaintance and the midst of a dance floor.

Somehow, though, he finds that he’s still not finished.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. She is happily settled elsewhere, and I’m still unmarried, and that’s an end to it. I - yes. Hark at me, harping on - I do apologise. I only thought it funny that I’d called you a spinster the other day when I must be whatever one calls an unmarriageable man.”

“I still don’t find it terribly amusing.” She tells him, more firm than annoyed, he thinks. A warning, not a bite.

“No. Of course. I didn’t mean funny amusing.” He tries to explain himself. “I meant funny in the sense of an odd coincidence.”

There’s a pause. They dance a few steps together without conversing - or without him offloading all his troubles to a near-stranger who is inexplicably so polite as to listen to him.

She’s a fair dancer, he decides. He’s no expert in dancing, of course, but he decides that she’s pleasing on the eye as she moves. He doesn’t really understand why she’s considered an embarrassing spinster, when she could surely have found herself a husband quite easily, with a face and figure like that.

And then suddenly, all at once, she’s answering his original question.

“I suppose it was my choice to remain unmarried - or my choice in a way. For I decided it was more important to be true to my character than to try to make myself marriageable. I banked upon having enough siblings that someone would support me if I occupied myself with my plants and my sports and my outspokenness rather than trying to make a match.”

“Yes. And you live happily with Lord and Lady Eastwick?”

“I suppose I do. They have been all kindness to me, and I do enjoy being an aunt, even if I might have liked to be a mother instead.”

“Ah. A creditable outlook on your part, I’m sure.”

The thing is, he actually means it. He’s not one for polite pleasantries for the sake of it.

He finds everything about her situation and choices creditable, actually. She’s unmarriageable because she is truly being herself, and now she’s trying to be grateful for such happiness as her life does afford her.

He, meanwhile, is unmarriageable because he’s trying so hard to be the image of his father, or the perfect copy of every other gentleman of leisure he sees around him - because he’s trying to fit in with the crowd and be a social chap.

And gratitude? He’s hopeless at gratitude on every level. Why - he was so ungrateful when it came to Miss Goring’s attention that he ruined her in a cupboard and then thought himself entitled to her hand in marriage for good measure.

He has no idea who he’d be if he were true to his character.

If he tried to live life the way Miss Cho evidently does, he has simply no clue who he would be. He has no idea what is him and what is his father and what is the image of a rakish gentleman.

Well - perhaps it’s not so dire as all that. Evidently he’d be a chap who does genuinely enjoy winning at cricket with an original spinsterish lady for a team captain.

He does actually like fencing and billiards and other sports, too. He did love his philosophical reading at Oxford, but naturally young bucks do not sit around reading Plato at White’s. He certainly does enjoy bedding a pretty and willing woman, but who doesn’t? Such a thing probably doesn’t make for being true to his character.

It’s something he might think about, next time he feels obliged to spend a month of the summer doing sod all in his father’s echoing home. He might read a bit of philosophy and do some philosophising of his own, might see whether the dialectical method works when he’s only asking himself the questions.

Until then, he intends to keep distracting himself with house parties and ladies and everything in between.

“My Lord? You’ve gone quite silent again. Am I such a boring dance partner?” Miss Cho asks, and he hopes she is teasing.

“Certainly not. Quite the most fascinating conversation I’ve ever had whilst dancing, truly. I say - did you find out anything interesting about all that moss?”

“The moss? You are earnestly asking me to tell you while we dance about my brother’s stableyard moss?”

“You disliked my silence, so I thought to invite you to start a conversation.” He tries earnestly.

She laughs. “Even I cannot discuss moss in a ballroom, My Lord. Come now - cricket. That will be a much more fruitful topic, will it not?”

“As you like. Go on, then - can you really not bowl?”

They manage to talk about cricket for a quarter-hour quite continuously, in the end.

It is, all things considered, a very fine way to conclude a house party. James is jolly pleased he thought to ask her for a dance, honestly. Why - some lively society and interesting conversation is exactly the reason he enjoys a good house party.

It’s something of a novelty for the interesting conversation to so actively involve him.

…….

He arrives back in town to find that the unthinkable has happened.

His father has actually followed through on his threat to cut him off, has put his foot down on the matter of James seeking a bride. He arrives home to an empty bank account and a letter saying that his allowance and rent will be paid when his father receives word that he is engaged.

Until then, apparently, he had better hope that the landlord is feeling kind. That’s exactly what his father writes to him.

James has been particularly oafish to the landlord in the past - there was an unfortunate incident involving two actresses and a great deal of lobster and a bit of human vomit, for example - so he certainly doesn’t count on the man’s sympathy now.

He wonders how long his man and the maid-of-all-work will stay without wages. He wonders how long it will take the landlord to recall just how oafish he has sometimes been. He wonders whether his subs for his fencing club are in arrears, too, and whether he will survive if he’s not able to fence for the foreseeable future.

He wonders whether there is even any bread in the place, and whether he might actually starve to death quite soon. How long does it take a chap to starve to death, anyway?

He goes to call at the house of Lord and Lady Eastwick without another thought.

The way he sees it, that’s just an obvious solution, at this stage. He’s rather desperate, and he thinks a certain lady under their roof might offer a most convenient way to resolve all his troubles. So he presents himself at their door, hands his card to a footman, and says that he’d urgently like a private word with Miss Cho, thank you very much.

The footman plainly thinks it an unusual request, and an unusual time of day for such a request, but he agrees to it anyway and shows James into a study. Evidently Miss Cho hasn’t many callers but the fellow sees no reason why she shouldn’t have a private word with a peer of the realm who looks rather troubled.

At last, Miss Cho is sitting in the study with him, and the door is barely ajar, and James sets to his point.

“I’m here to ask for your hand in marriage.” He announces plainly.

Her eyes narrow. “If this is a joke, My Lord, I don’t think it a very amusing one.”

“No - I’m in earnest.” He insists, leaning forward in his chair. “I am dependent on my father for financials and he has decided at last that he will actually force me to find a wife and beget an heir and a spare. He has entirely cut off my funds with immediate effect, and will restore them only when I send word of my engagement. So - you were the first lady I thought to ask.”

“You’re not only seriously asking me - I was actually the first lady you thought to ask?” She echoes, her eyes relaxing somewhat.

“Yes. You’re companionable and forthright and perfectly pleasant to look at. You’ve a large family so you’re as likely fertile as anyone.” He ticks off points on his fingers. “Beyond that, you strike me as a lady with enough sense to see what you stand to gain. If you’d rather be a duchess one day than bank on that sibling loyalty all your life, here’s your chance. Perhaps you might be a mother rather than only an aunt after all, hmm?”

“Oh - I have understood the benefits perfectly, thank you very much. If you’re in earnest, my answer is yes.”

So just like that it’s done. He’s an engaged man. His father has won after all these years, perhaps - and yet somehow, James has the feeling that he himself has won, too.

After all - he has an excellent cricket team captain for life, now.

“We must start seeing to the arrangements. I suppose my father will insist upon a short engagement.” He offers now, apologetic.

“That’s quite alright. A short engagement suits me fine. You’ve no need to ask my brother’s permission, of course, seeing as I’m well past being of age - but I should like the Eastwicks’ blessing. They have been very good to me since it became clear I was unlikely to marry.”

“Yes. Of course. Their blessing.” He echoes, as if he knows anything about asking for a lady’s hand in marriage.

There’s a short silence. James wonders if it’s an uncomfortable silence, or whether it only feels uncomfortable to him because he’s so accustomed to causing discomfort.

He tries to think of something to say. “So we’re agreed on a short engagement? A wedding next week, perhaps, if I can procure a special licence?”

“Next week will do very well. And - ahm - where are we to live? Will I have a housekeeper to support me in running your household? Might I bring a few plants with me? And a few books? And - well - I don’t even know your given name - what is it?” She rattles to the end of her list of questions at last, visibly tense.

Goodness. She’s actually feeling a bit nervous about all this, isn’t she? She’s been rather fearsome in all their short acquaintance to date, has been catching him on the back foot more often than being caught out herself. But suddenly, this afternoon, she seems rather flustered.

Hmm. Well. Evidently she doesn’t receive a marriage proposal every day, any more than he’s often had a proposal accepted before now, either.

“James. That’s my given name, and you’re most welcome to use it.” He starts there. “And you’re Contstance, I believe?”

“Connie amongst family - and surely therefore Connie to my future husband, too.” She manages.

“Hmm. I do like Constance, though. I might like a constant sort of wife.” He muses. “But by all means, I’ll call you Connie if that is what you like to be called.”

She nods. He nods.

It’s all a bit silent and daft and nervous again, he thinks.

“You must bring all your books and plants and so on with you, of course. I’ll not have you leave anything behind and regret it.” He insists. “As to your questions about the household, I haven’t the foggiest clue. My father has told me before now that he might buy or rent a place for me if I did settle down with a wife. One day we’ll have all the ducal estates at our disposal, I suppose. But for now I live in a set of rooms a little way away and my mother has sole use of our family townhouse. I suspect my father will become quite amenable to discussions about houses and financials and staff and suchlike once he hears I mean to marry.”

“Hmm. Yes. Very well. A question to return to in a couple of days when your father has received our news, perhaps?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Another bit of silence. It’s most uncanny, he thinks. They’ve always been quite fluent conversationalists before now. Why - they are truly expert at the dialectical method, between them, after all.

She speaks up again.

“So - the matter of asking the Eastwicks for their blessing?” She prompts him.

“Ah. Yes. That. Sorry - a bit punch drunk here, perhaps. It’s been quite the day. And - yes - you know. I haven’t been engaged before now.”

“Me neither.” She agrees, with a tentative smile.

“Well - of course. We neither of us have. We’ve established that quite thoroughly before now.” He recalls, grins slightly. “You’re right to prompt me. Let’s call for Lord and Lady Eastwick.”

They do. Then they sit there in the study for a few moments of awkward silence, and a few passing sentences sprinkled in between about how odd it is to be suddenly engaged.

At last, their hosts arrive and take seats.

It’s all very surreal. Lord Eastwick is full of bumbling confusion about why James is present, but then actually takes the news rather well. They did bond over bowling, last week, after all.

Lady Eastwick is an entirely different case.

“What in God’s name are you thinking, Connie? Whatever has got into you? He’s the worst kind of rake - with all due respect, My Lord - but he’s not the sort of gentleman a lady like you would wish to marry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean - a lady like me?” Connie counters, sharp.

Good for her. James thinks she should be sharp, honestly. He’s feeling pretty sharp himself. Lady Eastwick isn’t wrong to call him the worst kind of rake, perhaps, but all the same, it doesn’t seem like a very pleasant thing to say - all due respect or not.

Hmm. He really must stop calling ladies embarrassing or spinsterish. He must stop insulting people altogether, in fact. It’s not at all acceptable behaviour - that’s what he has decided.

“You know - you like your books and your botany and your cricket.” Lady Eastwick is reminding her sister now. “He likes - he likes - entertainment.”

She says it in much the same tone as she said that thing about rakishness. But somehow, James is even more offended, now, at the implication that a man who likes entertainment couldn’t like Connie. For truly, he does think her one of the more entertaining acquaintances he’s come across.

“If this is about lifelong security we could help you find someone, I’m sure - I’ve said it before.” Lady Eastwick offers. “I only fear he’ll treat you poorly. We could find you a secure match with someone who will treat you well.”

“There’s no need, for he will.” Connie insists, chin set firm. “He stands to gain as much from this as I do. Our success in marriage is assured by mutual need. And besides - I know what I’m letting myself in for. He may be the sort of gentleman who likes to stay out late at his club, but he is resolved not to keep a mistress, nor to be cruel, nor to keep a separate household from his wife. He intends to be companionable and very involved in the upbringing of our children.”

That speech takes his breath away, honestly.

No one has ever fought for him like that. No one has even come close.

Miss Goring wouldn’t have him even when her reputation might depend on it - and he doesn’t blame her, honestly - and yet here Connie Cho is telling her beloved sister in that firm argumentative tone that she’s absolutely determined to have him, that she is confident he’ll make a perfectly viable husband.

He’s not confident of that, frankly. But he’s suddenly determined to live up to the trust she has placed in him.

He speaks up as best he can, prays that his habit of making a muddle with his words might spare him just a few moments.

“I understand your concerns, Lady Eastwick, in light of my past behaviour and my reputation. But truly, I am determined to treat your sister kindly. I have a great deal of respect for her. And I truly do yearn for a companionable home life with my wife.”

Yearn. Yearn. He’s never used the word yearn before. He’s never dared to admit to himself that yearning might be a good fit for what he feels.

But today, it seems to be just the word to make an impact on Lady Eastwick’s resolve.

She’s nodding cautiously. Her husband is pointing out that James was a good sport at that house party lately. James himself is offering that he could have some generous settlement written into the marriage contract as a sign of good faith and generosity and determination to take good care of Connie. Connie is arguing that she doesn’t need to be taken care of, but agreeing that some provision for money settled on her and her children might be reassuring to her relations.

And all in all, it’s happening. He’s really getting married. Lady Eastwick has even managed to say that if Connie has considered it and is determined to have him, she’ll not object.

He’s to be married next week.

…….

He writes to his father to tell him of the news, makes a point of describing Connie’s various high-profile connections as well as the size of her family. His father is the sort of man who cares a great deal about a lady’s likely success at breeding.

James knows that’s all because his mother lost a number of babies after him, and therefore never produced a spare after the heir. He’s always thought it a damn odd way of responding to loss on his father's part - to blame his mother, to insist that James himself should somehow choose a better breeder. He’s not at all close with his mother, to be sure, but all the same he doesn’t suppose she wanted to lose those children. He doesn’t suppose it was her fault.

Yes. Well. He writes to his father and explains that he is engaged to a respectable lady from a large family with noble connections, and that her name is Miss Constance Cho. His father will have heard of the family and connections he describes, presumably, even though he does rarely come to town or go out into society.

James then tries to get on with preparing for a wedding. He sends for a special licence. He writes to his mother about the news, because he supposes he should tell her, and because he doesn’t visit her, as a general rule, even though she lives but half a mile from him. He goes to the family lawyer, and discusses the marriage contract they are to draw up, and insists that a good deal of his father’s money must be settled on the bride - and manages to convince the lawyers, even, that his father is likely to wish to be financially generous at the news he means to settle down and start a family at last.

…….

Three days after James wrote to his father with the news, he finds the man himself striding into his rented rooms.

Really - it’s all most surprising. His father has never been here in person before. Indeed, James can’t remember the last time the man even came to London. So his presence can only mean that he’s in a state of heightened emotion. James wonders whether that emotion is joy or anger for perhaps three seconds before he understands.

It’s anger. Obviously it’s anger. Naive of him to think it could ever be joy, even if there are wedding bells ringing. Even if he has finally started doing what his father has been hounding him for years to do.

“What in God’s name are you thinking?” The man actually asks, striding around James’ little sitting room as if deranged. “Why the devil would you choose her?”

“You requested that I marry and start a family, and so I have secured an engagement to a lady of noble birth.” James offers, as neutral as he can.

“You should have chosen someone who would reflect well on the family. Indeed - if you are willing to marry at last, I shall find you someone who will reflect well on the family. There’s no need to go shackling yourself to some bluestocking spinster - why, she must be thirty years old or more. And people will talk if the heir to a Dukedom marries such an antidote. I hear she’s quite deranged and obsessed with ferns, of all things.”

“Not ferns specifically. She appreciates a wide range of plants.” He points out, because he can’t let that go unchallenged, he finds.

“James George Fife -”

“I’m absolutely set on her, Father. I thought you would approve - she’s from a noble and very numerous family, so it is likely that we will have a great brood of well-bred children.” He reminds him. That must be enough to clinch it, no?

“Hmm. That’s perhaps true, but there are other large noble families. And besides - the Chos are one of those new families, are they not? Their title was a new one on the occasion of the King’s marriage? So they’re not truly noble.”

James feels his jaw drop open. “Father - there have been three generations of Viscounts Cho, I believe. There have been - what? - five Dukes of Argyll? I hardly think you are in any position to argue about the longevity of their title. I assure you, no one in the ton thinks of those families as new any more. I know you have been living out in the country - perhaps you have got stuck in time. For it’s not the done thing to remark upon those more recent titles. It’s not bon ton at all. Why - it makes you sound like a chap who is set against the Chos only because their skin is a different colour from yours.”

His Father doesn’t answer that. Or at least - he says no words, and his silence is the very clearest answer that James has hit upon the absolute truth.

Ah. So his father is suspicious of his future wife’s age and eccentricity, yes, but his real objection is the colour of her skin, more even than the origin of her family’s title.

That spurs James to be even bolder in pressing on and arguing for what he wants in his life, he finds. This is the first time he has ever even tried to argue with his father in such a fashion, and he notices that an argument over Connie and his determination to marry her is the sort of argument he can feel very stubborn about indeed.

“I tell you, father, I won’t be dissuaded. I am resolved to marry, and I won’t pick another lady. Truth be told, I have some partiality for her.”

“Partiality? Partiality? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I like her and I am determined that she shall be my wife.”

“If you’re telling me that you’ve already sampled the goods, I am not at all interested. I’ll pay off her family if I must. By all means ruin as many deranged spinsters as you like, but there’s no need to go around marrying them. Partiality indeed. Or - no. Hold on. You’re not - you -  you surely don’t mean that she’s already expecting?” He asks, and very suddenly his tone is hopeful and approving and altogether brighter. Indeed, there’s an exact moment where the idea clearly strikes him and he becomes abruptly less angry.

James sees his chance. He sees a way to claim what he wants from his life, to send his father packing, and to be only a little bit deceptive in the process.

“She might be.” He says, in a tone plainly meant to imply that she is.

“Oh well done. Well played, my boy.” His father offers, suddenly slapping him on the back. “A masterstroke - test out the goods before you commit to purchase. Exactly so. Very wise of you to sow your wild oats in a Viscount’s sister. Yes - under the circumstances, I take back everything I said about the ferns. You’ll be wanting somewhere to live, of course. I’ll look into it for you, my boy.”

My boy twice in as many sentences, almost? Goodness. How the situation has turned around.

James doesn’t like to think of Connie in sowing wild oats in a Viscount’s sister terms, he finds. He likes to think of her as the only person who has ever really met him in conversation as a human being, an equal, a person, not a title gone walking or a rake or an heir for the sake of an heir. She’s that wonderful company who has truly bonded with him lately over their very different but somehow shared stories.

But at least his father is done objecting, now. He’s saying once more that James has done good work and then bustling on out with talk of finding a townhouse to rent for his future grandson to grow up in.

That future grandson may well be a long time coming, of course, but unsurprisingly James decides to keep that to himself.

…….

He takes his future wife to meet his mother the next day.

It’s an odd experience on many levels. His mother is all but a stranger to him too, for one thing. But he’s uncomfortable most of all because the way she reacts to his engagement to Connie is so opposite from his father’s response. Why - his father was only interested in the state of her uterus, but his mother tries very hard to connect with her on a human level, even though she scarcely even knows him on a human level, these days.

Indeed, his father never asked to meet her at all.

Yes. Well. James is sitting in his mother’s drawing room, sipping awkwardly at a cup of tea, listening to his mother ask Connie whether it’s true that she has some interest in flowers.

And obviously Connie does have some considerable interest in flowers and all other plants besides, so she speaks of that for a while, and his mother nods in all the right places, and James finds that he feels rather spare.

Then, as that topic dies away, he realises that his mother is addressing him too.

“I don’t yet know how you two got acquainted - you must tell me more about your courtship.” She suggests, plainly directing the suggestion to them both.

James turns to Connie with a question in his eyes.

“We met several years ago during my first season, I believe, but we have been properly acquainted since a recent house party at my brother’s residence.” She offers.

“Did we meet several years ago during your first season?” James asks now, stunned.

“I believe so. I knew who you were when we met again at my brother’s, did I not?”

“Well - yes - and I knew who you were, I recall. I’ve known of your existence for some time, and I suppose I would likely have recognised you if prompted. I was at Oxford about the same time as your brother. I’m closer with him than with most chaps in the ton.” He muses.

“So this is not exactly a tale of love at first sight?” His mother actually pipes up and asks.

He’s surprised to hear Connie spluttering out a buoyant laugh. She’s a very good laugher, in his experience, and it’s one of the reasons he is partial to her.

“I suppose it is not.” He agrees, nods carefully at his mother. “We’ve known of one another’s existence for years, and we grew closer at this house party recently - very recently - and as you know, Father does like to press me about marriage. So - I had an honest conversation with Connie about my circumstances, and told her I should like to suggest to her a convenient and companionable marriage, and she has seen fit to accept my proposal.” He manages.

“Oh. I didn't realise it was quite like that.” His mother says now, frowning. “I am sorry - I thought this all the product of some - ahm - affection and spontaneity, not of your Father pushing you. If you’d like me to attempt to argue the point with him -”

“No, thank you, Mother. I assure you - I’m perfectly happy with the arrangement. I only hope Connie knows what she has let herself in for and does not live to regret it.” He attempts to joke.

“I only hope James knows what he has let himself in for.” She argues in a similar tone. “For I intend to bring a great many plants with me, and I intend also to insist that we play cricket as husband and wife at least weekly. He might think it a more inconvenient marriage some month from now.”

He’s surprised to find his mother smiling the very widest smile at that. “I do believe you’ll deal very well together, you two. You are evidently both setting out into this marriage thinking of the other’s happiness, and I believe that’s a very sound way to go about it.”

Hmm. Yes. She might have that right, actually. James has lately found himself a man who cares rather sternly about people not being rude to or about Connie, for example. There’s some irony to that, given the manner of their becoming well-acquainted.

It doesn’t make him a saint, of course. He’s still a rake - at least, he thinks he is. He’s likely still a rake, although he hasn’t had much recent opportunity for rakishness.

But he can be a sociable chap and a frequent visitor at White’s and suchlike without actually being a bad husband.

At least, he hopes he can.

…….

Two days before his wedding, he goes to visit his future wife and tell her a most particular piece of news.

“My father has financed a townhouse and full staff for us.” He tells her, with an awkward lilt to his shoulders. “He’s looking for a country residence, too, he tells me. He might like to buy us somewhere when we’ve produced a son or two, he said.”

Connie raises her brows. “An entire townhouse and staff. Of course he has. Imagine if he had as much warmth as money.”

James only shrugs. That’s never going to happen, is it?

“What if I don’t produce these sons?” She asks. “What then? How long do you think he will give us before he starts actually chasing us into our marriage bed?”

He wonders that himself quite often, honestly. It has occurred to him before now that the little untruth about her already expecting might come back to bite them when his father realises no child is forthcoming.

But perhaps they’ll get incredibly lucky and she’ll conceive directly after the wedding. That might happen. It does happen to some people, doesn’t it?

And if not -

“Honestly, I recommend we claim some maid’s boy as our own if it comes to that.” He offers, brows sore from frowning as he considers such a situation. “My father would never know, and the maid in question would be relieved, and the child would grow up surrounded by love - every child should have that. I think it a good solution, if ever we have to resort to it. Maids do get with child out of wedlock quite often, do they not?”

“Hmm. They do. Do you think a maid conveniently in our household likely to get with child at exactly the moment your father is threatening to take away the roof over our heads?”

“I am determined to hope so, otherwise I’ll go quite mad.” He resolves. “I am sorry to drag you into all this. I should perhaps have explained his ways a little more before I asked you to marry me.”

“Not to worry. He surely can’t live forever, and you and I will do our best to stand together against him in the meantime. And then I’ll be a duchess - you did mention that part, when you proposed.”

That’s blunt, perhaps. It’s blunt to speak so plainly of death and inheritance and the fact that his father is quite the cock-headed arsehole of humanity.

Yet he likes her words very much. He does tend to appreciate her forthright manners, and he appreciates even more the confidence she has in their ability to stand together before his father.

…….

It’s quite a big wedding for such short notice. James supposes it was always likely to turn out that way, the ton being the ton. He is the heir to a Dukedom, after all.

As far as he is aware, his father manages to last through the entire wedding celebrations without saying anything objectionable to Connie directly about her uterus. Indeed, James takes a great deal of care to stick close to his wife to minimise the chance of anything like that occurring. 

Meanwhile, his mother does coo over her a lot, and fuss a great deal, and offer them both a great many embraces. It’s odd, and he feels odder still for actually liking it. For deciding that it’s pleasant to have his mother acting warmly towards him and his wife even though he is a grown man, and his father always told him it was childish to want his mother’s company.

His new in-laws are a more straightforward lot, it seems. Connie’s many siblings, and the spouses of those many siblings, all shake his hand and tell him very sternly to treat her well, and he tells them time and time and time again that he intends to do so as best he can.

The oddest experience of his wedding day is all the married and settled chaps close to him in age having something to say about this development - namely, the development of a future Duke and long-time rake marrying a somewhat eccentric and older-than-debutante lady. The Duke of Hastings, who James hasn’t seen in ages, shakes his hand heartily and tells him to enjoy domestic bliss. Mr Finch suddenly thinks they’re on back-slapping terms, and tells him it’s terribly exciting to welcome another happily married gent to their set.

James didn’t realise Finch had a set, and certainly didn’t realise he might be part of it, but evidently that’s how wedding days work.

Anthony Bridgerton brings with him the strangest interaction of the lot. For he says three entire sentences about how good it is to see another chap brave enough to go after the lady he actually wants, how he hopes it’ll be easier for their sons to be emotional and properly romantic lads one day, how James has shot up in his estimation by joining the club - namely the club of choosing an older lady for the sake of genuine affection.

James rather wonders how Bridgerton can possibly have that much to say. Is he so transparent in his partiality for Connie? For he and Bridgerton are not particularly close - they were at Eton and Oxford around the same time, but Bridgerton has been increasingly obsessed with being a family man in recent years while James has been… drifting and drinking.

Yes. Well. Perhaps that’s how it should be. Perhaps, on his wedding day, it ought to be obvious that he thinks his Connie a capital lass and quite the most comfortable wife he can imagine. Perhaps it ought to be so obvious that even old friends he has largely lost touch with might feel the need to comment upon it.

He wonders if he and Connie might have dinner with the likes of the Hastings and the Finches and the Bridgertons, now that they are a married couple too.

…….

They have a decent wedding night, all things considered.

It’s not the height of sexual excitement, to be clear. James has long understood that a wedding night is not supposed to be the height of sexual excitement, that wives are for bedding and breeding and perhaps a little household companionship, not for great adventures in bedsport.

But all the same, it’s not the worst fuck he’s ever known.

He suspects Connie has some experience at least with her own right hand, or possibly some discreet lover or two along the way. For she seems to know what’s what as he starts a conversation about what is to come. She’s no blushing maiden, that’s for sure.

“Are you ready to have at it?” He asks plainly, when he arrives at her room dressed in a nightshirt.

She’s chosen a fine nightgown, he can’t help but notice. It’s framing her full breasts rather neatly.

She raises her brows at him. “I think you are supposed to have at it, James. I believe a wife is supposed to lie back and lie still and think of her family’s future, is she not?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a wife before now, and certainly have never seen inside the mind of one.” He offers, with a shrug. “All the same - are you ready? Do you know what is to happen?”

“I believe so. That tent in your nightshirt is to reveal your manhood, and then you’re going to stick it inside me until it gets rubbed about a bit, and then you’ll shoot your load and we’ll hopefully be one step closer to having our heir.”

Yes. Well. He does have something of a tent in his nightshirt. He hasn’t stayed late at White’s for a few weeks, since he’s been at a house party and then trying to arrange an urgent wedding. And Connie does look rather fetching, as it happens.

“So - you’re ready to try it?” He checks, for the third time, by his count.

He is perhaps a little bit nervous - not nervous of performing, obviously, because he’s done this act a good few times before. But he’s never done it with a wife before, and he wouldn’t like to hurt her or appear brutish, even if she is expecting to lie back and think of her family, or whatever it was.

“I’m ready.” She agrees, with a staunch nod.

“Good. And - ahm - you’re not averse to a bit of kissing and petting along the way?” He thinks to ask.

“I can’t see why I would object to any such thing. As long as you intend to be gentle I expect I’ll be fine.”

“Very good.”

So he simply… sets to it.

He reaches out for her, kisses her on the lips a little while. It’s something they’ve never really tried before, in their short acquaintance and rushed engagement. After all - this isn’t exactly a marriage of passion, is it?

But he finds that kissing her is quite pleasant, and makes the tent in his nightshirt even more pronounced, so that’s a good start.

He pets a bit at her breasts and hips through her nightgown. She has a very pleasing figure, he decides, full in all the right places. None of this waifish debutante nonsense. He likes a good handful when he reaches for his wife’s tit.

He decides, then, that enough petting is quite enough and he might as well get on with the whole heir business.

He leads her to the bed. She’s a sensible lass, so she lies down and spreads her legs. He reaches a cursory hand in between them, just to check how the land lies.

“All ready for me down there?” He asks, as he goes.

“Serviceable enough.”

Jolly good, then.

He sticks his cock inside her. She doesn’t wince, as far as he can see, so he supposes that’s good news. She’s not exactly moaning in pleasure, either, but why should she? Wives don’t get involved with whorish tricks and suchlike, do they?

As she said - she’s expecting to lie here and conceive an heir.

He takes a few experimental thrusts. She doesn’t scream, so he takes several more.

Hers is quite a pleasing cunt, as cunts go. Warm and wet and tight just as it should be, you know? There’s certainly nothing wrong with it. The whole experience is rather pleasurable, especially considering he’s not bedded any other woman for three weeks or more, now.

He notices a sort of thumping sound, in rhythm with his thrusts, but louder than he thinks the noise of her hips being pressed deeper into the mattress each time should be.

Damn it. That’s her head hitting the wall. He has actually been fucking her into the wall above the bed. He’s been going at it hard enough to cause her quite the injury, he fears.

A good husband would not do that.

He pulls out, tries to set about remedying the situation.

“Are you done already?” She asks, frowning.

“No. But we can’t have you knocking up against the wall like that. Come here - move down. And - ahm - a spare pillow. There must be a spare pillow.”

She moves. He finds a spare pillow from an ornate chair in the corner of her room, tucks it up above her head to cushion the blow if she should end up sliding north again.

Yes. Well. That’s the sort of thing a husband ought to do, he hopes.

He sets back to it. He’s somehow even more wound up, now, after that pause, and after the whole protective mess of the head-against-wall situation. Somehow thinking of her as his wife to fuss over, whose head he ought to cushion from damage, has him all riled up.

That’s an odd turn of events and no mistake.

He’s there. He’s spilling inside of her, grunting a bit, then admitting defeat and giving a full-throated groan instead. He probably doesn’t need to pretend to be unmoved by fucking his wife. He’s probably allowed to make a few appreciative noises.

Indeed - he supposes that might contribute to a companionable family home.

“Thank you.” He says, as he pulls out afterwards.

“Thank you?” She echoes, brows raised.

“I don’t know - what else would you have me say?”

“I’m not at all sure, but you certainly don’t need to thank your wife for doing her duty in the marriage bed.”

“I might not need to, but perhaps I wish to anyway.” He argues. “How are you, anyway? Do you need some warm milk or - I don’t know - a ladies’ salve or any such thing?”

Does she need a climax? Does she need him to try to learn his way around hands and faces for the sake of pleasure alone? He’s not at all sure he’d be very good at that.

“I’m perfectly fine.” She tells him, with even a little bit of a smile.

“Jolly good. That’s ideal. Well - we’ll have this heir before long then, hmm?”

“Likely so, I believe.”

He pats a bit more at her hip, decides he had better roll away and go to bed. He wonders about reaching out to squeeze her tit just once more but resolves that there’s certainly no need to do such a thing. After all - they’re married now, and he’s sure to squeeze these tits very often in all the years ahead of him, and there can certainly be no call to go making a fuss over them like a green lad tonight.

He settles instead for pressing a kiss to her forehead and for leaving her bed at last.

“Goodnight. I do hope you sleep well, wife.”

“Goodnight, husband - and same to you.”

Well, then. He calls this quite a promising start to a marriage.

…….

They agree to a regular commitment to their heir-making efforts on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Other nights are for him to go out to his club and for her to read her books or fuss over her plants.

Only somehow, on his first Thursday evening as a married man, James Fife finds himself sitting in the sitting room in his new townhouse and cracking open a volume of Plato.

He just thinks it would be odd to be at White’s so soon after the wedding. He wouldn’t want to attract ridicule to Connie by having people think he has grown sick of her bed so soon. Not having a honeymoon is one thing, but to go out tonight would be to actively invite talk.

And honestly? It was rather a tiring business getting married yesterday, and a quiet night in could be just the thing.

There’s more afoot than that, perhaps. Connie ordered a particularly good dinner this evening, he notes, and seems to be getting to grips with managing the household very quickly. He supposes it might be polite to show her he’s noticed that and speak of it a little. He recalls his father never thanked his mother for anything, and he always thought that certainly didn’t help their… marital difficulties.

So here he is, reading the Republic for the first time in a decade or more, and wondering whether his wife will happen to wander into this room at some point this evening so he might thank her for her exemplary housekeeping.

Or - hold on - should he go looking for her? Is that a thing husbands are sometimes accustomed to do?

He hasn’t the foggiest clue. Perhaps he should have asked some of those happily married chaps who congratulated him on his wedding day for advice about such things.

To his considerable relief, Connie bustles into the room before he can grow too awkward about the whole situation.

“Oh - are you here?” She asks, although obviously he is here.

“Where does it look like I am?” He asks her, because the dialectical method is a particular strength of theirs, after all.

“I thought you had gone to your club. Don’t you go out to your club on Thursdays?”

“I decided I might prefer to be at home tonight. All that wedding business was a bit tiring and I should prefer a quiet evening with a book.” He tells her, waves Plato in her general direction as if to prove his point.

“Of course. Certainly. Well - I’ll not disturb your quiet evening, then. I’ll - ahm - I was just -”

“You’re welcome to stay, obviously.” He rushes to assure her. “When I said a quiet evening, I meant a quiet evening in the home I share with you. I don’t require solitude - only to be in this sitting room instead of at White’s. Indeed, I don’t much like solitude in general.” He explains as best he can.

That is to say not very well at all, he fears.

Connie seems to understand him fine, though. She’s nodding, smiling slightly, and even sitting on the sofa opposite him.

“I thought to sit and read a while myself, as it happens, so I suppose we shall be able to keep company without troubling one another.” She offers, reaching for a book on a side table which is presumably about botany or bluestockinghood or whatever else she’s inclined to read about.

He nods, looks back to his Plato.

Only -

“Thank you for arranging such a fine dinner.” He remembers to say that at last, ends up half-blurting it too loudly into the space in between them.

“Oh - how kind - it was no trouble. Cook knew what she wanted to serve and made most of the decisions for me, in fact.”

“All the same, it was a good meal, and I wanted to make a point of thanking you for arranging it.” He argues pedantically. “I want to make it clear that I have remarked upon the strong start you have made in managing this household.”

“Dear me, James - you are sweet.”

Sweet? Really - him, sweet?

She’s not only saying that this was a thoughtful comment, or that it’s kind of him to thank her, but she’s characterising him as generally being quite a sweet sort of husband?

Hmm. He might like to stay home with his wife and his Plato more often, he muses. Perhaps not every Thursday, but some Thursdays like this one, when there’s a special reason to be at home. It turns out this sitting room is quite a good sort of place on a Thursday, sometimes.

Perhaps this is just beginner’s luck.

Perhaps that’s the explanation. People often speak of beginner’s luck in a sporting context, in his experience, when they are trying some new skill or activity. Perhaps marriage is like that too. Perhaps it’s random chance that Connie seems inclined to speak kindly of him on this Thursday so early in their marriage.

Perhaps it won’t happen again next week.

……

They ride together on Friday afternoon.

It seems the sort of thing a chap ought to practise if he intends to be involved in his future children’s lives and share a cheery household with his wife and suchlike. Or at least, it seems a thing a chap ought to practise if he’s ended up married to a lady who likes a bit of sport.

Jolly fortunate that she does, really. He’s quite certain he wouldn’t be much good at sitting and reading quietly but companionably with a lady whose only interests were fashion and embroidery, or something like that. He’d try, to be sure - just as he would have tried to be a decent husband to Miss Goring - but his rough edges are certainly a much better fit for Connie’s robust eccentricity.

Yes. Well. It’s a good sort of ride, and no mistake.

They don’t go anywhere particularly exciting, of course. They just meander in slow circles around Hyde Park. But they manage the most fascinating conversation all the while. Connie would like to turn her interest in plants towards helping the tenants on their estates when he inherits, she explains to him. She thinks she could probably make some progress with farming methods and crop productivity and the like. She’d have everyone who depends on the family, in Buckinghamshire and up in Scotland alike, in a healthier condition with more food on the table.

That strikes him as quite a purely good sort of notion, he decides. After all, he does occasionally read philosophy, so he has some few thoughts about what moral justice might be. But as well as being good, it strikes him as the opposite of the way the current Duke operates, and he’s not at all sure what he makes of that conflict.

He did spend a great deal of effort on trying to emulate his father in various ways, when he was a younger chap. And now he’s beginning to think he might prefer to be as different from him as possible.

Hmm. Maybe it’s all that business about being true to one’s character all over again.

That’s why he has a go at asking a straightforward question.

“What might I do to help with all that, then?” He asks her plainly.

“What do you mean?”

“How can I help with all this business of growing more crops and feeding all our tenants better?”

“Oh - well - you already are helping, aren’t you? You married me, and you’re promoting conversation about the idea, and you seem inclined to support me in it.” She muses.

“But how can I really help?”

“You are really helping. It’s quite remarkable that you have offered me this life where I might pursue such projects.”

He resolves that he’ll do better at that. He’ll buy her more plant project equipment, or whatever the proper terminology is. He’ll engage in the dialectical method regarding crop productivity over the dinner table, perhaps. Does it work like that? He’s not at all sure.

“Do you ever take up your seat in the Lords?” She asks now, as if that’s a logical continuation of the conversation.

He frowns, a little disconcerted by this line of questioning. “If the other chaps are attending, I do too. If a particular debate or vote is generally thought to be important, I take part. But I - you know - I’m not particularly informed on such matters. I don’t read the newspapers very carefully or go to the Lords unprompted.”

She nods, seems to be wearing a thoughtful sort of look.

He rushes on. “It’s daft of me really, I suppose. It’s not as if I am incapable of being informed. I mean - you know - not to be all conceited about it but I have a fair mind for philosophy and debate and all that. My tutors did used to tell me at Oxford that they thought me brighter than the average future Duke - I remember one said it in those very words, in fact. I suppose it’s rather foolish of me not to apply myself to matters of politics when I have the chance to do so.” He reiterates firmly - trying to judge himself before she can judge him, perhaps.

After all, he’s grown up with a father who does like to judge. So he’s grown adept at jumping in and anticipating such problems before they arise.

Connie doesn’t seem inclined to slap him across the wrist like an errant boy, though. She’s only smiling at him in a vague sort of fashion and watching the path ahead of her.

And then -

“Whenever you do next pop along to a debate, I should like to hear your report of what’s being said. I would be interested to discuss such a thing over the dinner table. I know it makes me quite the bluestocking - an embarrassing wife even, as I was once an embarrassing spinster - but I find such things fascinating and am so very frustrated that I may have no part in it.”

“I must disagree with you there. I can’t countenance the idea that you might be an embarrassing wife. I know I did once, in a moment of rudeness and ignorance, call you an embarrassing spinster - but now I know you better I must insist that I could never be embarrassed by you at all.” He tells her, and finds himself rather passionate on the subject.

“How gallant of you.”

“It’s only the truth.” He tells her, stubborn. “As to the other part - certainly I’ll report back next time I visit parliament. I might be inclined to go more often if it could give rise to some stimulating conversation over the dinner table. I suppose I was always rather… reluctant about the whole thing when the other chaps weren’t going and it didn’t seem the done thing to look too keen. But now that I have a wife at home who is interested in such things I could certainly be more interested in politics myself, too. Why - debating such things over the dinner table might be a lot like learning philosophy.”

“I’d like that very much. A bit of political debate with our dinner could be just the thing.”

“Then I’ll be sure to find out what’s up for discussion next week.”

He’s a sheep. He’s such a damn sheep.

He has never seen it in such plain terms before, but this afternoon the whole business is suddenly bleating right in his face.

He’s a sheep, and he follows other chaps through life like a sheep in a herd - or follows a woman instead, if the woman invites him to sheep-shuffle in her direction. His father is some frightening wolf in this analogy, presumably. He’s there to snap at his heels.

And Connie? Connie’s just ambling through the field, showing him that it’s quite alright for a man to live his life more like a goat.

Hmm. Yes. He might like to be a goat, if she’s fond of goats.

That just makes him another kind of sheep, he supposes. He’s just sheep-shuffling towards her rather than Miss Goring.

Yes. Well. It seems at least a more useful direction to take.

……..

The marriage bed is better that night.

Or - it’s better for him, at least. He doesn’t go to any great lengths to make it thrilling for his wife, because she does expect the marriage bed to be all about lying back and thinking of family. Because married ladies aren’t generally expected to be excitable about such a thing as pleasure, are they? It’s not the done thing to have a sexually enthusiastic wife, and James is all about the done thing.

But he has to admit that he does have rather a good fuck. He’s spent quite a bit of time looking at her, somehow, since he married her. She’s just around a lot, at the dinner table or in the sitting room or by his side on a horse, and so he’s spent a good deal of the last three days watching her face or figure, and now he’s quite keen on getting his hands all over her.

And, to be clear, she does have ideal tits. They’re the most perfect hand-filling tits he can imagine, actually. He really couldn’t design or dream of better.

So he pets at her a bit longer than he did on their wedding night. He kisses her a bit deeper, tries not to wonder whether he’s supposed to notice her sighing against his lips. And then he takes her a bit slower, really stretches out the pleasure of it all as long as he can, leaves himself plenty of chances to reach for her tits along the way.

He’s not sure whether it makes him selfish and unkind to act thusly. He quite literally does not know where to find moral and philosophical guidance on such an issue, and he certainly has no idea how to ask Connie what she thinks of it.

She did say she expected to just lie there and take it, did she not?

By the time he’s teetering on the brink, he’s lost his grasp of slowness. He’s getting all eager and sweary, is pawing at her breast with his free hand as urgently as ever he can through her nightgown - but of course, he’s got his other hand curled around that pillow behind her head, because it’s very important to him that she shouldn’t be bumped into the wall.

“I - fuck, Connie - you - fuck.” He hears himself babbling, as if that’s coherent. “Feels perfect. Such a perfect cunt. So fucking - hrmmmph.”

That’s it. That’s the least dignified marital climax of all time, he suspects. Other peers of the realm presumably do not conclude their business with their wives with a strangled hrmmmph and all that nonsense about perfection.

Or - well - perhaps those other happy chaps like Hastings and Finch and Bridgerton do. He ought to ask them sometime, perhaps, if ever he gathers the courage.

He doesn’t know what to say to her when it’s over. He doesn’t know whether to apologise or kiss her senseless or invite her to request some inept fumbling in the hopes of wringing some pleasure out of her, too.

He doesn’t manage any of the above, in the end.

“Thank you.” He says, as he did two nights ago.

“Thank you for the pillow. You know - the pillow between my head and the wall.” She offers, in a tone he can’t read.

Well of course he can’t. They’ve been on friendly terms less than a month. She may be the closest acquaintance he’s ever had, but that’s not saying much.

He bids her goodnight, and she bids him goodnight, and he goes back to his room.

…….

He resolves to go to his club the next night, for it’s a Saturday night which is one of his designated nights to go out and not be at home trying for an heir. After all, there’s no sense in living in town and not enjoying some society, is there? He has always been a chap who likes society - he knows that much.

He’s at the door, just faffing with the cuffs of his coat, when Connie happens to wander past. She’s heading in the direction of the sitting room, he thinks, and she’s hugging a potted plant to her chest.

“You’re going to your club.” She says, and he’s not sure whether it’s a statement or at least half way to a question.

“Yes. I do like to be sociable.” He says, as much to remind himself why he’s about to walk out the door as to explain himself to her.

“Yes - I’m aware. Have fun, then. Do remember that we are to go to church services tomorrow to make a display of being respectably married, hmm? I’d appreciate it if you came home not entirely sozzled before that.”

“Oh - of course. I’ll not drink too freely and I’ll not stay out too late. You’re wise to remind me of it - it’s important to me too that we should look respectable and attend church together.”

Indeed, he suddenly finds that he quite likes having a henpecking wife to fuss about such things. It’s rather more cheery than leaving an empty house, and then returning to an equally empty one in the early hours of the morning.

He reaches out to kiss her cheek as a gesture of farewell. She seems perhaps a little surprised by that, but certainly not inclined to complain.

She even squeezes his hand a little as he pulls away, and he likes that more than he expected to. It’s such a small thing, but again, it reminds him that he has a wife and home, now.

Goodness. He should have married years ago. A companionable marriage is a very fine thing.

He supposes, though, that it would have been a damn sight less companionable if he’d picked some other lady in seasons gone by and not Connie.

He sets out for his club, arrives shortly thereafter. There’s nothing remarkable about the journey, and honestly nothing remarkable about his arrival either.

He bustles inside, has a bit of an explore of who’s present tonight. He might like to ask some of those fellows who slapped him on the back at his wedding if they’ve any advice on how to curate a companionable home life, but of course none of them seem to be here because they’re all at home. They’re all busy having a companionable home life.

Hmm. Yes. Some irony to that turn of events.

Indeed - he can’t see so much as one happily married chap here. There’s no sign of any Finch or Bridgerton or Eastwick types at all.

That’s rather inconvenient, he decides.

He sets himself determinedly to have fun and enjoy the company regardless. He mills around for a while with the likes of Lord Ambrose and Lord Corning and Lord Hardy. He has a couple of drinks, but takes care not to get himself in a state his wife won’t like when he returns home. He plays a few hands of cards, and loses about a week’s worth of his allowance from his father but tries not to think too hard about it.

After all - his allowance is rather larger now that he has a wife, and specifically a wife whom his father believes to be expecting a child.

It’s when a few actresses and ladies of that ilk join the party that he really takes a long hard look at the situation.

This is mad. Mad. He has no particular friends here. The only acquaintance in the world who might actually notice on a personal level if he fell under a carriage tomorrow is sitting at home with her plant collection.

And a man would have to be especially mad to even consider wasting his seed on sleeping with a passingly pretty stranger when he’s under pressure to produce an heir, he realises. That’s just obvious logic, as far as he’s concerned.

Why - he wouldn’t want his father to start being rude and hateful to Connie if no heir is forthcoming. So he really must do everything he can to ensure she conceives as soon as possible.

Indeed, it’s madder still to think a chap with a perfectly good wife at home sometimes spends good blunt on sleeping with a lady who isn’t that wife.

He’s struck by another passing thought, at that. A thought just irrelevant and tangential enough that it is perhaps the product of his mildly inebriated state. But it occurs to him, quite abruptly, that he and Connie might plausibly go for an early morning ride together before church if he gets home and falls asleep within the next hour or two.

So he just… goes home. He just stands up and walks towards the door. No one even seems inclined to wave at him as he departs, in fact, and honestly he thinks that says it all.

Why, Connie squeezed his hand as he left home a couple of hours ago. She truly did - he remembers it well. She would never let him leave at the end of an evening without some thoughtful word of farewell, would she?

In fact - she does say goodnight every time he leaves her bed.

There’s a convenient Hackney outside White’s, and he tips the driver to get him home as quickly as he judges he safely may. And then, before he knows it, James is standing on his very own doorstep and facing a substantial revelation - the second of the evening, perhaps.

It’s a jolly good thing to have a proper home to return to.

It really, truly is. He didn’t think he particularly cared for these walls, when he left them this evening. But since these walls contain within them a good bunch of warm staff, and a few interesting books about philosophy, and a companionable wife he’d rather fuck than some hired stranger, he finds he suddenly feels very strongly about them indeed.

He lets himself in. There’s no footman minding the door at this hour, and the hallways are largely bathed in shadow. He tries to be quiet about it as he goes upstairs - tries to tiptoe, even, on that one step he knows is squeaky. He thinks that’s what a considerate husband ought to do.

He reaches the landing and wonders where to head next. He might just call in at Connie’s bedroom and see if she’s still awake. He could suggest that ride in the morning to her, perhaps.

But there’s light spilling from the doorway of their little sitting room, so he heads there first.

He finds her wide awake and distributing potted ferns around various tables and shelves and armchairs. Or at least - he thinks most of them are ferns. It’s possible he will need to improve his expertise in the field of fern identification if he’s to be an adequate husband to Lady Constance Fife.

“Home already?” She asks mildly, holding two pots up against the mantlepiece as if wondering which might suit.

“As you see.” He agrees, equally mild.

“That's well, then. For I’ve been wanting your opinion on exactly how many potted plants you might tolerate my placing all around this sitting room. I am resolved not to make our public rooms look too eccentric - we might one day host guests who will see the dining room and drawing room - but up here I’m afraid my plants might take over if you don’t speak sense into me.”

“Hmm. I might recommend that you don’t place too many near the fire or obstruct our access to the windows or doors or suchlike. I might prefer not to have plants actually on the chairs. But beyond that I daresay you may fill the place with as many of your plants as you please.” He offers, fond, leaning on the doorframe as he watches her keep pottering around.

“You’ll regret that before long.” She warns him playfully. “But I’ll do my best to fill the place while you tell me why you’re home so early. Is White’s actually closed on Saturdays? Have all the gents of the ton been lying to their wives about it for years?”

He laughs. “It’s nothing so sinister as that. I only think a little more time at home and less at my club might suit me now I’m a married man trying to start a family and all that.”

“Oh. There’s a fine idea.”

That’s quite encouraging, he decides, so he presses on with a question. “Do you think we might manage to get out for a short ride together in the morning before this dutiful church appearance?”

“We might do. I suppose it rather depends how much brandy you have drunk.”

“Not a great deal, actually. As I said - I think excessive drinking and late nights at my club are perhaps not quite the right fit for this chapter of my life with a family home to return to.”

“I could certainly be inclined to agree with that. It’s rather cheery to see you again so soon.” She even says, even smiles right at him.

He watches her a moment. He just stares into her smiling face, lets his eyes occasionally flicker to that particularly fine fern in her arms. He can see why she likes plants, honestly. There’s something infectious about her enthusiasm for them.

He gathers his courage, takes a careful breath, and sets about being the best goat he can be.

“I wonder whether you have had some experience of pleasure?” He asks her, and even to his own ears it sounds sudden and abrupt and tactless, but he’s determined to press on regardless. “Have you perhaps touched yourself or had a lover before our marriage? I ask not to censure you but because I am curious as to what you know of such things.”

“I am close to thirty and expected to be a spinster, James. I do have some considerable experience of touching myself, thank you very much. Any lady in my situation would.”

He beams at her. “Jolly good. You can show me what you like, then. For I have resolved that we might as well see if we can have some fun amidst all this heir business.”

“Some fun?” She echoes, voice pitched to tease. “Were you not already having fun last night? Was I not in possession of such a perfect cunt? I seem to remember you said something of the sort.”

“I meant that we might as well arrange things so you can have some fun.” He corrects himself. “It’s a daft business, really - rushing through it all for the sake of an heir. All that lying back and thinking of your family’s future and what have you. So you must tell me or show me what you like next time. I have decided I am determined to be a decent bedmate like that.”

He has decided it might do his soul some good to have her want him, to have her happy with him, more like.

“By all means.” Connie says, nodding. “Now, perhaps? You are home quite early. I know it’s not a Monday or a Wednesday or a -”

He kisses her. He simply leans in and does it, presses his lips to hers eagerly as he might if this were one of those really affectionate marriages like those chaps who patted him on the back at the wedding go in for.

Or - well - a bit like that, except that the kiss is uniquely theirs, too. For it strikes him as crucially important that he should cup his hands over hers on that plant pot, as he’d hate to take her by surprise and cause her to drop it in her distraction. He presumes she’d be a bit upset about a thing like that.

After a prolonged sort of kiss, he pulls back to answer her suggestion.

“Yes, now. Now would be ideal, for I recently spent three hours sitting in a place I used to like yet reflecting on how much I’d rather be at home, and preferably balls-deep in your cunt.” He tells her plainly.

She doesn’t baulk at his usual brusqueness. She seems instead to think there’s something endearing about it, actually, based on the way she reaches in for another kiss.

She does, then, pull herself away and put that potted plant carefully on a side table.

But within seconds, she’s turning her full attention to him again.

“How are we to proceed? Would you like me to call for my maid and ready myself for bed and meet you in a quarter-hour?” She suggests.

“Not particularly. I do know how to undress a lady, I believe.” He offers, and wonders if that’s something he ought to be self-conscious of saying.

“Excellent. I’m not sure I know how to undress a gentleman, but I understand it’s not so complicated. We’ll manage well enough, I’m sure.”

“Jolly good. Come on, then.”

He leads the way to his room, this time. He thinks it might be just the thing to make this a marriage where he sometimes gets to see his wife all bare in his bed, rather than only visiting her in her room to work on that heir.

Why - if they grow really keen on bedsport together, she could even stay the night sometimes. He might like that, he thinks.

He’s not at all sure whether she’d like it too.

They kiss a bit longer, when they arrive at his room. They simply stand there and kiss for the sake of kissing, for several entire minutes, and James finds that it’s something he enjoys a good deal more than he realised he would.

And - well - he does perhaps squeeze at her tits through her gown a few times while they’re at it. But that seems the sort of thing to do, he hopes, based on the way she has her arms all wrapped around him and her hands rubbing over his shoulders.

At length, he decides that he’d rather do all this kissing and touching bare than with so many annoying layers of fabric in between them.

He reaches for the buttons down the back of her gown, does his best to make some headway with them. She matches him, reaches for his waistcoat buttons in turn. So it is that the first few stages of undressing each other proceed quite effectively, if not exactly smoothly. He’s a bit clumsy with his fingers, for example, since he’s trying to reach behind her as he works at those buttons.

But it’s fine. They manage well enough and are able to keep kissing while they strip each other.

They manage well enough, until they get down to her stays.

“I - ahm - we’ll have to stop a while. I don’t believe I can unlace and kiss at the same time.” He mutters, apologetic.

“Hmm. I’m quite impressed you managed with my buttons, honestly. They’re rather small and fiddly.” She notes, light, as she turns to present him with her back to unlace.

“Yes. They are, rather.” He agrees. “But I didn’t wish to admit weakness, I suppose. I wouldn’t like to be defeated by buttons.”

They’re both chuckling a little now, as he makes progress with her stays. All this undressing is a damn sight easier when he’s not trying to kiss her and occasionally boop her tit at the same time.

Boop. Boop. Is that a word? Did he make that up? Has he become the sort of gentleman who is inclined to babble nonsense words whilst overawed by his wife’s breasts?

Yes. Well. It seems likely that he has.

“How are you getting on?” She asks him, throws a glance over her shoulder.

“Well enough. I was briefly distracted by thinking of your tits. I’m very fond of your tits.” He tells her outright in plain words at last.

She throws him a smile. “I knew it. I could tell from the very first, I believe.” She tells him, triumphant.

He only shrugs and keeps unlacing. He doesn’t think it makes him any less masculine of a gentleman to have a real soft fondness for his wife’s tits.

“I’m very fond of your arms, as it happens.” She offers now. “I think so far they are much the part I find most aesthetically pleasing when I look upon you. I might even go so far as to admit that I’ve been fond of them since that day we won at cricket together, if you promise not to tease me for it.”

He’s not going to tease her for that.

He’s far too busy being utterly swept away by it, honestly.

She has a fondness for his arms? She’s had that fondness for some time, even - or at least for a long while in the context of their short acquaintance?

Hold on - how? She’s seen him in rolled up shirtsleeves a scant handful of times, had the chance to see his forearms on those occasions. He has worn a long-sleeved nightshirt every time he’s bedded her to date, he believes - and yes to be sure the sleeves might sometimes billow and move and reveal a bit more arm, or she might feel his arms through the soft linen, but all the same, she certainly can’t be particularly well-acquainted with his arms yet.

The philosopher and critical thinker within him can’t entirely make sense of it, honestly. How can she claim a real attachment to his arms on such little evidence? It simply doesn’t stand up to scrutiny.

Oh. Ahm. Yes. He’s never actually seen her bare breasts either, has he?

He whips his shirt off over his head without hesitating a moment longer. If this is something he can do to be a good husband to her - if he can somehow gift her more of his body, more time with the parts of him she’s fond of - then he jolly well intends to do so. And he’s ready at last to remove her stays, too, and to start work on the rest of her underthings.

He manages to take himself around to stand in front of her, and feasts his eyes on her naked tits at last.

Hell and heaven and everything in between.

She’s gorgeous. Far too gorgeous, probably. He simply can’t comprehend how such a specimen was conveniently unmarried just when he happened to need a wife. It’s possible that he’s a little biased, perhaps - possible that he’s experiencing that subjectivity known as a lady being just his type - but all the same, he must insist that she’s pure perfection.

He’ll have some coherent conversation with her about the theory of forms and what true, perfect beauty is, another time, he decides. He’ll try mentioning such a thing over the breakfast table, perhaps.

But for now, he must admit he rather… dives on her. He sort of launches himself in her general direction, lips first, reaches in for a greedy kiss while he boops at her tits, too. She’s giggling into the kiss, matching him with her hands skimming over his shoulders and down the length of his arms, her fingers now reaching for his waistband, as well.

“We must get you out of these breeches.” She reminds him, tugging. “It’s not at all fair that I am undressed and you’re still partially wrapped.”

He groans an agreeing sort of noise, tries to reach down and help her get his breeches and smalls off. It’s a bit chaotic, honestly - two people trying to remove one pair of breeches - but he rather thinks the chaos adds to the fun. There’s something very dialectical about a companionably married couple having a tug of war over the waistband of a chap’s breeches.

And - well - that erect cock getting in the way perhaps doesn’t help.

They’re both bare at last. They’re falling into the bed, and James is determined not to let Connie drift too far away from him in the process, and it’s all rather a mess of lips and limbs. He finds himself slipping a hand instinctively between her legs, too, sliding up the inside of her thighs and just nudging slightly at the cleft of her hips.

“What do you like?” He asks her plainly.

“I’m not fussy. Use the heel of your hand and - you know - just grind a bit first. Give me a finger or two when you think I’m ready.”

Ah. Right. There’s some good straightforward advice. She likes a bit of a press for a while before he starts shoving anything in there.

Hmm. Was it uncomfortable when he was so brisk about their wedding night? He does hope not.

He resolves that he will always offer her a more adequate warm-up in future. Why, as a sportsman, he knows it’s important to do a few lunges before a fencing bout, or to walk a horse a while before setting out on the hunt.

He supposes it might make sense that his wife’s pleasure is much the same.

So he tries not to get too carried away as he sets to it, now. He tries to do as she asked, just a bit of a press and a rub as they keep kissing and touching. He’s not at all sure he’s doing it right, but she’s groaning into the kiss, so he supposes he can’t be doing it too far wrong.

They’ve been at it a while when one of her hands stops tracing over his arms and shoulders, and slips down in the direction of his cock instead.

“Can I?” She asks, teasing the head with her fingertips.

He nods eagerly, kisses her jaw.

“I’ll need advice, please. I don’t even know where to start.”

“It’s difficult to get it wrong.” He offers, because in his experience that’s the truth. “Just rub it about a bit. Here.”

He wraps his hand over the top of hers, such that they are both curled around his cock. He guides her through a couple of long, leisurely strokes, tries to keep it slow and not work the head too hard. He thinks too much intensity might not be helpful when he’s trying to hold his wits about him and learn how to show his wife a good time.

It’s quite intense anyway, all things considered. There’s something deeply erotic about guiding his wife’s hand over his cock.

He really doesn’t know what to do with that. It’s a set of thoughts and sensations he simply can’t place or categorise or make sense of. It’s something good, to be sure, but it doesn’t fit with sport or cheery chaps or house parties, nor anywhere close. It’s an utterly new experience, and an overwhelmingly pleasurable one - but somehow an emotive and personal and perhaps even vulnerable one, too.

Hell and damnation. Intimacy has never been this complex before - but never so rewarding, either.

He hears himself getting loud, realises that Connie is in fact moaning even louder. He ought to give her a finger or two, he decides, rather than lying back and getting distracted by her hand on his cock.

He stops guiding her, lets his hand fall away and back to her tit. She knows what she’s doing well enough, he decides. And then he tries to gather his attention and concentrate on offering her that finger.

She takes him easily, and she’s all wet and warm in just the way a cunt should be wet and warm, and it’s somehow rather arousing to feel that on his finger rather than only his cock.

At that point, she takes a particularly firm pass over his cock, and he actually feels his hips shudder.

God. Hell and damnation - but the best kind of hell and damnation, to be clear. This is all getting a bit intense and erotic and - well - perhaps a little overwhelming, if he’s being honest.

He can’t shoot his load yet. He must not spill into her hand when she’s barely started touching him.

He tries to bring his concentration, once again, to that finger inside her cunt. He tries out a few different shapes and patterns and movements, finds that she seems a slow circles sort of bedmate. Or - well - she does tonight. He’s rather looking forward to learning what she likes tomorrow night, too.

Her thighs are actually shaking around his hand, now, and his cock is positively throbbing in her grasp. It occurs to him that, if perhaps they’re keen on having an heir one day, he might like to get moving sooner rather than later.

“Can I - ah - you know - get my cock in there?” He asks her.

She nods, kisses him again, all breathless and shuddery against his lips.

He rolls into place above her, slips his cock inside. And from there, really, it’s all quite a flustered mess of moans and groans and jittery hips. There’s a fair bit of cursing, too - from both of them - and Connie’s fingernails digging into his upper arms just right.

She’s there. She beats him by a fraction, is already clenching around his cock by the time he tips over the edge in turn. She’s holding him closely, sighing into his ear as he spills inside her.

It is, all things considered, one of the better fucks he’s ever known.

He doesn’t move when it’s over. Or he doesn’t move soon. He spends a good few seconds kissing her all leisurely, giving her tits a few farewell boops, waiting for the ground to feel settled beneath his knees.

He’s not sure his world will ever be quite the same again, though, after that. After a very sudden lesson in how exceptionally erotic it can be to share satisfying bedsport with a companionable wife.

At last, though, he supposes he really should move. He wouldn’t like to squash her - that’s not what a good husband would do at all.

He rolls off her, keeps hold of her hand and tries to pretend it’s an accident.

He’s frustrated with himself for that. It’s not their way, is it? They’re honest and forthright with each other, always. That’s what they do best. Clinging to her hand and trying to pretend it’s all casual and he just caught it in passing is not how their marriage functions best.

He gathers his courage and tries to be the straightforwardly good chap she seems somehow, impossibly, to always believe he can be.

“You’re welcome to stay here tonight. I’d like that, if it suits you.” He tells her earnestly.

“I believe I’d like that too.”

“That’s settled, then.”

He wonders what happens next. Is this to be a practical bit of bed-sharing, in case they fancy another round in the morning? Are they the sort of couple who go in for cuddling and kissing and all that outside of bedsport, now?

Connie answers that for him, thank goodness. She scoots up close to his side, tucks her head into the crook of his arm, snuggles her cheek against the skin there as if she likes what she finds.

He smiles up at the ceiling, and wonders whether she can see it.

And then?

Then she presses the softest of kisses to that place where arm and shoulder meet, to that firm curve of muscle which joins the two.

He feels tears spring to his eyes for the first time since his mother left home.

Truly, he does. He hasn’t wept since he was nine years old, since the day when her carriage rolled down the drive and his father told him she wasn’t coming back and he bawled like a babe - and his father hit him for his trouble.

And now - now, somehow - he’s a man who has a warm family home, even if it’s not yet filled with children. He has a happy future ahead of him, even if he’s not yet sure what it will look like.

Most miraculous of all, he has a companionable wife who kisses him like he’s something precious.

It’s an inconvenient moment to feel all emotional, he decides. His tears aren’t quite spilling over, but he’s certain Connie would be able to hear something amiss in his voice if he tried to speak to her at present. And even if he is perhaps a man who’s ready to get tearful when his wonderful wife presses a soft kiss to those arms she’s so fond of, he’s certainly not yet a man who is ready to talk about his tears.

But he does his best to show her he’s grateful for the gesture regardless. He wraps his arms around her in the tightest of embraces, holds her close a moment, presses a few kisses to her hair.

She matches him. She matches him with silence, but also with an eager embrace and a few more soft kisses.

She is, in his considered opinion, quite the most excellent wife in all the world.

…….

He doesn’t go back to White’s that week.

Obviously he doesn’t. The place is a colossal waste of his time and money, isn’t it? He has understood that once and for all, now.

So he spends the week instead on more useful activities, like reading in the sitting room with Connie, and eating dinner with Connie, and bedding Connie, and being all-round quite affectionate towards Connie.

It’s not that he never leaves the house, to be clear. He hasn’t become all sluggish and sedentary. He does sometimes ride with Connie, or pop out to his fencing club to train for a while without her, or make the occasional visit to the House of Lords, and on one memorable occasion he even visits his brother-in-law Eastwick for a friendly drink in the afternoon.

A brother-in-law is a jolly good sort of development in a chap’s life, it turns out. It’s a fine thing to know another married chap who likes a bit of an afternoon chat about the racing news but wishes to be back with his wife by dinner time, too.

It’s quite the most cheerful week of James’ life, all things considered. And at the end of it, on another Saturday - exactly one week since that night he can’t help but think of as life-changing - his wife asks him a rather interesting question.

“Are you not going out to your club tonight either?” She asks him, when he walks up to the sitting room with her after dinner.

“Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?” He asks plainly.

“Not at all. I’m only puzzled. You did insist on claiming some evenings for time at your club when we first married. That was only ten days ago and yet your opinion on the matter seems entirely different since then.”

“Yes. It is, rather.” He agrees. “Or - well - perhaps my opinion is exactly the same. I’ve always been a chap who likes company. I don’t at all enjoy being on my own. I suppose that’s why I always used to spend a good deal of time at my club, but I have lately learnt that I prefer your company at home to the company of passing acquaintances who have drunk too much. Although - ahm - I must apologise, if quiet time at home without me was something you wished to claim. I can certainly take myself out for the evening if you want me out of your hair.” He concludes, and realises that, as ever, he might perhaps have babbled uselessly a little too much.

Connie, however, is simply watching him with a raised brow. “Ah - so I’m more entertaining than the chaps at White’s?”

“Not just more entertaining. More comfortable and peaceful and warm and interesting, too.” He explains as best he can.

She pats a bit at his arm for that. It’s a habit she seems to have developed since she admitted last week that she likes his arms.

It’s a habit he appreciates very much, to be clear.

“As far as I’m concerned, you may stay home as often as you like.” She tells him earnestly now. “I much prefer an evening sitting and reading with you than an evening sitting and reading without you. It’s only that I don’t want you to get bored. I fear a social husband must get bored with only my company sooner or later.”

“I don’t think so - as I said, I am social because I don’t like to be alone, not because I must be surrounded by dozens of other people.”

“That’s very well, then.”

There’s a bit of a pause. James supposes they could both sit down and set to some reading, at this stage. They’ve developed quite a companionable way of sharing a sofa and occasionally touching knees or hands while reading, in this last week.

Only there’s something he thinks a good husband would ask first.

“What about you? Do you wish we had more company?” He asks her now.

“Oh - I don’t suppose I’d thought about it in such plain terms. I grew up in a large family, as you know, and I did like all the bustle of that. I should like us to have a large number of children, if we can. But then I spent a decade or more as a spinster on the edges of any entertainment and grew rather accustomed to my own company. I hardly know what I’d choose if I made the choice for myself. I suppose - yes - a small amount of comfortable company like a husband or family is perhaps the thing, to my mind.”

“We could invite a few family or easy friends over for dinner occasionally.” He suggests now. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know my new brother Eastwick lately. Or - well - perhaps you don’t wish to see them so often as you lived with them for years?”

“I could certainly enjoy inviting the Eastwicks for dinner quite frequently.” She decides, with a nod. “Or we could host small parties of other friends. What about all those chaps you used to see at your club, hmm? Surely you wish to maintain the connection with some of them and their wives?”

And - well - that’s not exactly how it works, is it?

“I’m not so very close with any of the usual crowd at White’s as individuals.” He tries to explain. “If anything, I might prefer to forge new friendships with some of the other happily married couples in the ton. Mr Finch spoke rather warmly to me at our wedding, I thought. And - well - I was at Eton and Oxford with Hastings and Bridgerton, but I wouldn’t presume on that friendship these days. I’m sure they have better things to do than trying to recall that they used to be pals with me.”

She looks very strangely at him for that. She sort of squints at him, as if he’s a sample of unusual moss she can’t altogether make sense of, as if she’s considering something new and unexpected.

He doesn’t much like it.

The odd moment lasts some few seconds which feel endless, honestly. But then at last she shakes her head, and puts on a smile, and pats again at his arm.

“I’ll invite the Finches over, I think. They’re always very warm and straightforward, aren’t they? No need to fret about our manners or our housekeeping or any such thing if the Finches are our first guests as a married couple.”

“Yes. That’s a damn good idea, Connie. Why - they’re always high-spirited and easygoing, as far as I can tell.”

“Excellent. Good. Then I am resolved that they shall be our new closest friends. But if, by chance, I should ever see Lady Bridgerton or the Duchess of Hastings at the modiste, I think I might invite them over for tea and remind them that our husbands once studied together.” She says pointedly. “I might think that a friendship worth renewing, if we can.”

“You don’t ever go to the modiste. You have no interest in fashion.” He points out, short, over half way to rude.

What of it? She knew him for an oafish clodpole when she agreed to marry him. She can’t be surprised that he might get a bit awkward and snappish if she is going to start awkward conversations about begging well-liked gentlemen to be his friends via their wives’ interference.

“I went to the modiste while you were out fencing yesterday, in fact. Those lacey nightgowns you like so much do not buy themselves.” She informs him smartly. “I know you fear rejection, James, but I find it highly unlikely that such infamously warm people as the Bridgertons would turn down our invitation if we made it known that we’d like to befriend other happy young couples.”

“I don’t fear rejection. I just dislike it. Everyone does.” He argues staunchly.

That’s only normal human nature. Obviously he didn’t enjoy being rejected by Miss Goring, and he certainly hasn’t liked his relationship with his father being one ongoing tale of rejection for the last decade or more.

But that doesn’t mean he’s scared. Why - he’s a very masculine and sporting chap, isn’t he?

Connie leaves the topic in peace, then. She takes a seat on their usual sofa, opens a book about botany, silently invites him to simmer down and join her or to take his ill-temper elsewhere.

He simmers down and joins her, of course. He’s not about to turn down a bit of companionable time on the sofa with his wonderful wife.

He pats a few times at her knee, and wonders whether what he’s contemplating next is wise.

Sod it. He and Connie always get along best when they are forthright with one another, do they not?

“Do you fear anything? Anything at all?” He asks her earnestly. “Since the very day we became properly acquainted I’m quite convinced you’re impervious to such emotions as fear. You seem so confident in being just exactly yourself, and living life true to your character - just as you once said to me, in fact.”

She snorts out a laugh. “For about three-and-twenty years I was scared of becoming a spinster. But then it happened, and I learned to live with it well enough. In the last few weeks I suppose I have discovered a fear that you might one day wake up and suddenly regret marrying me.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’d never do that.”

“Indeed. It’s about as ridiculous as the idea that the Bridgertons or the Hastings would scorn our invitation - but fear isn’t logical, is it?”

He hums an agreeing sort of noise. She’s probably onto something. There’s probably a reason he always liked something so abstract as philosophy, rather than the more immediate reality of looking at his own life. Logic is neater and safer than the raw, ragged truth.

He kisses her briefly on the cheek, and flips open his own book at last.

“I’m damn grateful you said yes, you know.” He tells her, and knows she will know exactly what he means.

“I’m damn grateful you asked.”

He hums again, pats absently at her knee.

“I’ll invite the Finches over for next Tuesday, I think.” She suggests now.

“Jolly good thinking. An excellent plan.”

……..

The devil of it is, Connie doesn’t conceive right away.

That’s rather unfair and unhelpful, James thinks. They’re quite happy, honestly, as far as he can tell. They’re doing rather well at this whole sudden convenient-yet-companionable marriage lark. If anyone deserves a quick conception to get a grumpy Duke off their backs, he thinks it must be them.

But obviously that’s not the way the world works, and so Connie has her courses about a fortnight into their marriage - on the very same evening that the Finches have just been to dinner, actually.

Her maid is preparing her for bed when she realises it - they often separate to get ready for bed if they can bear to be apart for that long. It’s a bit more practical than him trying to deal with all those buttons and laces, you know?

So the first he hears of the whole courses situation is some half-hour after she notices it, just as he’s starting to wonder what on earth is taking her so long.

“I was just on the point of coming to search for you. Whatever is the matter?” He asks, as she walks into his room at last with her face all screwed up in a frown.

“I just learnt that - ahm - I’m not expecting yet. I have my courses.” She intones, and she’s plainly devastated about it. “Under the circumstances, I wondered whether I ought to come to your room at all or whether -”

“Of course you did right to come here.” He insists, leaping to his feet, rushing over to embrace her. “We decided we would sleep here tonight, did we not?”

“Well - yes. But that was before.”

“Ah. And - remind me - are you any less affectionate with your morning cuddles now you have your courses?” He asks pointedly.

“No. But -”

“And do you think I will suddenly start snoring unbearably loud since you have your courses?”

“No. But -”

“Perhaps you think my bed will have shrunk? Or the pillows might have grown firmer? Perhaps your courses cause problems with the furnishings like that?”

“James Fife. Will you cease being so sweet and - and dialectical and grant me leave to explain myself?” She demands, actually pokes firmly at his arm to punctuate her point.

Or perhaps she pokes him in the arm because she likes his arm, honestly.

He nods, waves at her in a sort of go on gesture.

“I only wondered whether I ought not come here because some men think their wives all unclean during their courses, and obviously I’ll be little use to you for conceiving an heir for the next few days - and clearly I have failed in my duty to produce an heir for this month at least.”

“Ah. All that.” He nods, does his best to look understanding. “I have no interest in sleeping apart from you under any circumstances, frankly. And I understand you’re upset not to have conceived - I know you do wish for a great many children - but I must remind you that all this heir business is my father’s expectation, not mine, and I’ll be perfectly content whether we fill our nursery or not.” He tells her robustly.

She smiles a tentative smile at him, but it doesn’t look right on her face. She’s still hovering by the door, still looks all odd and unsure of herself.

“Come on. We’re going outside.” He announces, takes her hand and simply leads her out through the door and down the hall.

“We - what? James? What’s afoot? Where are we going?”

“We’re going to play cricket in the back garden. You like playing cricket, and it’s a sport we have sadly neglected since our wedding day.”

She laughs a tight little laugh. “I think this a poor plan, James. This is a generous house in that it’s a house, but the garden is certainly not large enough to accommodate a game of cricket. We are only two people, not a full team, and it’s night time. We’ll annoy the neighbours. It’ll be too dark for a proper game even if we light every lamp in the house and set them on the steps. Poor light will surely stop play.”

“I don’t greatly care, honestly, Connie. I don’t care if it’s the most impractical game of cricket ever played, or if I bowl no viable balls at all. I am only determined to cheer you up somewhat.”

She laughs a better laugh now, and stops him in his tracks with a most forceful embrace. She simply throws her arms around him, there in the corridor, hugs him tight and tucks her head against his neck and chest, under his chin.

He wraps his arms around her in turn, presses a kiss to her hair, and wonders whether any great thinker ever wrote reflections on how to comfort a wife on the matter of childbearing. He might have to do a little research into a topic like that.

“Let’s try a spot of cricket in the morning.” She suggests now, a quiet whisper into his neck. “For tonight I might just like to lie in your bed and have you hold me, if that suits you.”

“Jolly good. Right you are. A quiet night in bed and you in my arms - I like the sound of that.”

…….

James knows that Connie goes to visit with his mother quite often.

He tries not to think about it too hard, honestly. As their marriage lengthens into weeks not days, it simply becomes part of their household routine. He will go out to practise his fencing or learn about the issue of the day at the House of Lords, or to play a friendly game of billiards with Eastwick or Finch. Connie will go to visit with one of her sisters, or to purchase new plants for her crop research project, or even on occasion to shop for nightgowns at the modiste.

And when she’s not doing any of those things, she sometimes visits with the current Duchess of Argyll, to learn how better to be the future Duchess of Argyll. That’s what she tells him, when he asks whether they’ve particularly hit it off.

So he determinedly keeps not thinking of it. He’s always been a chap who prefers to distract himself with pleasant diversions and lively company, rather than dwelling on what’s messy or upsetting about his life. He doesn’t see why he should abandon that strategy now, just because he has the solid comfort of a happy marriage.

After all, it’s still a new marriage. He wouldn’t like to test the strength of it too hard, too soon. A man can tweak a muscle something nasty if he runs before he can walk.

Connie, evidently, thinks otherwise.

“I’d like to invite your mother for dinner.” She announces, in the third week of their marriage, as they sit together on their favourite sofa.

James closes his volume of Plato and tries not to frown. He senses that this has the potential to be a lengthy and complex conversation, not really compatible with trying to follow a philosophical argument simultaneously.

“You see her quite often for tea, I understand. It doesn’t seem necessary to invite her for dinner too.” He argues. “And besides - one doesn’t invite a lady without also inviting her husband, and we certainly have no wish to invite my father for dinner.”

“I believe we need not think of inviting him since he doesn’t even live in town.” She argues. “And besides - this won’t be a formal society dinner party. I thought it might be pleasant to have a relaxed family dinner, just the three of us.”

“I don’t think it will be pleasant or relaxed at all.” He insists, because it won’t.

“Would you explain to me why? Could you do that?” She asks, all earnest, as if to remind him that reasoned debate is a speciality of theirs.

So he gathers his courage and does his best.

“It’s my father who is the bully, of course. But somehow he’s such an effective bully that he has always made me and my mother unkind to each other too. She left me, when I was nine years old. And these days I’m sure he must have sent her away, or forced her to go away, or something like that. But all the same, I recall all too well being a young boy and watching her carriage roll down the drive and realising she would likely never return. And - well - she has tried to write letters and invite me for tea and such since then. But it’s not the same, is it? She left.” He insists, stubborn.

Connie nods, pats a bit at his arm.

He presses on. “And I’ve certainly been unkind to her and about her. I ignored her letters and invitations, for one thing. It was easy for him to convince me that it was all her fault that our family fell apart, since she was the one who left. And then for many years I lived to grow up in my father’s image. To be sure, since I have grown up and seen more of the world, I’ve come to understand that he is the more actively cruel of the two. I’ve realised I wouldn’t wish to be much like him, too. But somehow all that has happened far too late for me to suddenly invite my mother over for dinner.”

“I don’t think it would be sudden. I’m suggesting it because I think it might be the perfect time, actually.” She tells him, soft, her hand still on his arm. “You saw how hard she tried to be warm to us both during our engagement and wedding. She speaks all the time about how happy she is to know you’re settling down and starting a new chapter of your life. Perhaps this could be a new chapter for your relationship with her, too, hmm?”

“Our relationship is not yours to fix.” He argues, hears his tone get all harsh. “I’m not one of your damn ferns, Connie. I don’t need looking after.”

“I don’t mean to - to patronise you or any such thing.” She counters. “I only hope I might do for you something kind, perhaps like what you did for me when I was all distraught about my courses. That’s one of the wonderful things about our marriage, to my mind - we have a way of bringing out the best in each other, of challenging each other and taking care of each other at the same time, somehow.”

“You put that rather neatly.” He grumbles fondly. “I might be a little envious of your way with words, there. I certainly couldn’t have put it better. I mean - yes. I do like it when you fuss over some things to take care of me, I suppose. I like it when you arrange a good dinner or when we sit companionably together on this sofa a while. But I don’t like it when you tell me to do something very difficult like invite my mother for dinner.” He tells her.

But the heat has gone out of it, now. He’s perhaps half-smiling, perhaps acknowledging that she might be correct. That perhaps this is his next challenge to face, with her help, just as he tried to nurse her through blaming herself for happening not to conceive immediately.

He takes a careful breath, tries to be all honest and plainspoken with her as usual.

“Inviting her for dinner sounds more difficult than that time we popped to see her for tea during our engagement. We had one specific piece of news to tell her, on that occasion, and a convenient reason to leave when that was over and conversation dwindled. I’m not at all sure how I feel about inviting her for a whole evening at our home and having nowhere to flee if I get all awkward or bitter with her.”

Connie nods urgently. “Indeed. A fair sentiment. So what if I invited her here for tea, next time, instead of visiting her at her home? That way you might pop in and spend a little time with her if it suits you, but you can make excuses about plans at your fencing club or the Lords or suchlike if you feel the need.”

“That sounds pleasant, actually. I would like to be closer with her, if only I could see my way clear to doing so. I have realised lately that ties with family and a happy home life and all can be good things. I do want to be warmer with her, but I simply don’t know how.” He concludes, frowning.

“Then let’s learn it together.”

Hmm. He rather likes the sound of that.

…….

He was worried about nothing, it turns out in the end.

His mother shows up for tea, and Connie invites her to talk about the Argyll estates up in Scotland, which the family visited many years ago when James was very young, and which he can’t even remember.

It makes for quite a cheery conversation. That’ll be his land, one day, and of course Connie will do all her agricultural progress stuff there. He wonders if she might like to visit Scotland sooner rather than later, actually. There’s no need to wait until he inherits. It’s not as if his father ever goes there in person - he only sits back in Buckinghamshire and collects the profits.

By the time his mother runs out of things to say about Scotland, James has relaxed so well into the conversation that he’s ready to speak up a little more himself, he finds.

“You must tell us more about which social events you recommend in town.” He tries. It’s not a thrilling or original topic, perhaps, but he hopes it will serve. “Since we married, I have been very aware that I know only what unmarried young bucks get up to. I beg you might help Connie and me to choose what to attend if we wish to make friends with more newlyweds and suchlike.”

“Ah - now there’s a fine question.” His mother muses, nodding. “It’s a bit of a social quagmire, isn’t it? Is this musicale really a marriage market event? Will there be any other young married matrons at the opera on such and such a night?”

“Exactly.” Connie joins in, nodding. “I know Lady Danbury holds events for married ladies, but I have heard they are quite… risque. And besides, I believe we would rather attend events together.”

“So you should.” His mother agrees, with a firm nod. “Why waste the best months of your marriage on spending time apart, hmm?”

“Oh - I’m certain we have even better months ahead of us, for we are still barely acquainted.” James finds he must insist now. “Why, I only learnt this morning that Connie doesn’t like marmalade at all. Can you imagine? Not liking marmalade? So I’m convinced that we will be even happier some decade or so from now when we know each other perfectly.”

“I don’t think marmalade is the be all and end all of marriage.” His mother argues, in a world-weary sort of tone.

“Well - no - of course it isn’t. I meant it only as an example. I’m jolly excited that we have all these years ahead of us to grow into our marriage and be even closer. That is what I meant to say.” He tries, and finds that he can’t be getting it too wrong, for Connie is patting at his arm as usual.

“Hmm. Yes. Of course. I - ahm - I’m delighted for you - I ought to say that more often. I’m delighted that you two mean to keep practising closeness in your marriage.”

“I’m delighted that we do, too.” James agrees easily. “I only feel blessed that Connie is at all interested in such a thing, really.”

“Was he always like this? Did he always have this knack for overlooking his own good qualities?” His wife seems to be asking his mother, now, in a sort of fondly teasing tone. “For nigh on a month now I have had to put up with James making all these odd comments as if confused that I should wish to be married to him.”

His mother laughs. “I don’t suppose I know. I’ve never seen him as a married man before now, have I?”

“You must come over for dinner.” James says suddenly - another of his moments of oafish blurting, perhaps, all sudden and out of step with the flow of the conversation.

His mother and wife both look rather startled, so he tries again.

“It would be lovely to have you as our guest for dinner, Mother. We should spend more time together. Now that Connie and I are settled in town, it seems the natural thing to do.” He manages.

“Oh - yes - I’d like that very much. I don’t wish to intrude, of course, when this is very much your honeymoon…”

“Nonsense. We’ve started having the occasional little supper with family or friends, so we must have you over this week, too.”

“How exciting. Yes - I’d love to visit for supper, truly. A family supper. What a thing.”

That’s the afternoon he realises that his mother is almost as socially awkward as he is. That she doesn’t know how to navigate family collapse or all that comes with it any better than he does, frankly.

He supposes she must be about as lonely as he always used to be, too, before Connie marched into his life. He can see now that a bit of loneliness might perhaps have been the root of some of that sheep-shuffling behaviour he used to exhibit.

So he offers his mother another biscuit, and a cautious smile, and resolves that he’d better think of a few neutral topics of conversation before she does come over for supper.

…….

He and Connie actually plan some neutral conversation topics together, in the end.

They sit in their sitting room, and resolve that it will be perfectly fine to speak of his recent visits to the Lords, and her latest fern acquisitions, and perhaps even to discuss a little of his philosophical reading and reminisce about which topics he enjoyed the most during his Oxford years. After all, his mother didn't really know him during his Oxford years, did she?

It’s quite a successful plan, all things considered. When the appointed evening rolls around, supper goes off splendidly, without a single awkward moment.

Or at least - not a single awkward moment that James can notice. It’s possible that he’s too much a blundering fool to realise that there’s an awkward moment, of course, but these days he thinks he does tend at least to observe it when he has made a muddle, and try to put it right.

So, yes, on this occasion he stands by his judgement that the whole evening goes smoothly. 

It’s quite a fine thing to have a mother, it turns out. He’s perhaps past the age where a mother would have been most useful - he did rather feel the lack when he went off to school without her to wave him on his way, for example, as a boy - but all the same, it turns out that even a man of thirty might prefer to have a mother in his life than not. She’s all warm and earnest and unconditionally enthusiastic about his existence, which is a rather pleasant sort of relationship to have with a person, you know?

It’s a different sort of warmth and enthusiasm than Connie’s warmth and enthusiasm, of course. The two don’t even compare. He’d trade the entire population of the city for a life with Connie in a heartbeat, to be honest.

Ah. Well. Perhaps that’s almost what he did, in fact, that night he walked out of his club without looking back.

…….

The following week brings an even stranger development in their social calendar.

James is simply sitting on that favourite sofa, reading his book - Aristotle, today - and wondering where Connie might be. She said she had a few errands to run, this morning, as he set out for a spot of fencing. But it’s not like her to arrive home from errands after he’s spent a good long while at his sport.

He’s worried that she doesn’t get as much opportunity for sporting pursuits in town as she might like. He really must see what he can do about that. Are there ladies’ cricket clubs hereabouts, perhaps? If such things exist, he must help her to track one down.

He’s just wondering how a man might go about locating a ladies’ cricket club when he hears footsteps in the hallway which sound like they might belong to his wife.

“Is that you?” He simply calls out, in the straightforward way a man comfortable in his marriage might call it.

“Who else should it be?” She calls back, and sure enough, it’s Connie.

“You might be a footman.” He protests, because she might. Footmen have footsteps too.

“I doubt I sound much like a footman.” She argues, swinging around the doorframe at last - and making straight for him to claim a kiss on the cheek, too.

He likes that sort of thing. He enjoys the fact that they always greet each other with a little cheek kiss or touch of hands around the house. He enjoys those tactile reminders that they are fond of one another’s company, easy in one another’s space.

Indeed, on much that theme, Connie has now deposited herself on the sofa at his side and leaned right in, her hands curled around his arm.

He’s beginning to realise she’ll take any excuse for a squeeze of his arm. That’s something he enjoys, too.

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the modiste.” She tells him, in a tone which suggests this conversation is going somewhere.

“I might guess if you help me to narrow it down. Were they higher or lower in rank than a Viscount?” He asks, thoughtful.

She splutters out one of her fabulous laughs. “That wasn’t an invitation to engage in such reasoning, but as it happens, you’re right on the money. They were exactly the rank of a Viscount - if we take that rank as applying to the Lady, too.”

“So you ran into a Viscountess at the modiste. Am I to guess which Viscountess?” He asks mildly.

“That depends - are you in a hurry? For there are a great many Viscountesses in London.”

“No, I think I have this. You’d not make a point of mentioning it unless this was a Viscountess of some relevance to our lives - someone with whom we are acquainted, and yet the fact of having run into her is interesting to you. So it can’t be your brother’s wife. That wouldn’t give rise to such a tone and such a conversation - that’s just obvious. So that leaves me to consider who exists in this city, who is neither family nor very close friend, but who merits notice in such a conversation. I’m forced to conclude that you most likely saw Lady Bridgerton.” He decides, brows raised to ask her whether he has it correct.

Her face falls into a petulant frown, instantly proving him right. “It’s no fun if you’re to arrive at the correct conclusion for yourself.”

“Ah. My apologies. Would you like me to pretend I haven’t a clue?”

“Hmm. So I saw Lady Bridgerton at the modiste -”

“Blimey! Not Lady Bridgerton? At the modiste? How very exciting and shocking. I never would have guessed that.” He tries, in his best ironic tone.

Connie laughs rather loudly and swats a bit at his arm. “Anyway. So I saw Lady Bridgerton at the modiste, and she and her husband at least are to join us for dinner on Thursday. She said she might bring Mr Colin Bridgerton and his new wife, too, if that suits us - and of course I said it did - for evidently they are likewise trying to navigate the social quagmire of life as newlyweds.”

“Oh. Well that actually is exciting and unexpected. A whole dinner party of Bridgertons?”

“It gets better, in fact.” She tells him, all smug and confident as he likes her best. “We happened to have a lengthy chat about our lives and concerns - and our husbands, of course - and she tells me she’s quite convinced Lord Bridgerton hasn’t spoken to a single chap who isn’t either one of his brothers, or married to one of his sisters, these two years or more. She was rather keen to sign him up for an evening in wider company, in fact. She said - and I quote - that these gentlemen are hopeless at preserving friendships, and we concluded that it’s a fine thing when a chap is close with his wife but a husband might as well have some gentlemen friends too, and to cut a long story short she has decided that you and Lord Bridgerton are to fence together every Tuesday.”

“Ah. Erm - she has decided that? Does a wife typically make social arrangements for her husband like that?”

“Evidently it’s a habit Lady Bridgerton and I both share.” She tells him, lips twitching. “We have decided that we are to get along very well indeed.”

“Tuesday is before Thursday. That’s all a bit awkward. I haven’t had a proper chat with the man in years - well, aside from our wedding day - and if we’re to fence before we have met over dinner, I shan’t even know when or where I’m meeting him.”

“He trains at the same fencing club as you, and he’ll be there at ten in the morning.”

“Ah.”

Silence. Connie is grinning something fierce. James can’t decide whether to laugh or flush or curl up in mortification - or perhaps all three at once.

“You’ve got this rather thoroughly sewn up, haven’t you?” He asks her now.

“I do hope so. It’d be a shame if we overlooked any detail, for we were both determined to have this set up perfectly.”

“Bridgerton’s a fair fencer, from what I recall. We were head and shoulders above our peers at school, back in the day.” He muses.

“Yes. By funny coincidence, he mentioned that to his wife as they were travelling home from our wedding. He recalled that it was something you’d had in common.”

“Goodness. We’d better watch out, if you two are to become firm friends. You’ll be conspiring behind our backs about everything.” He notes, and actually manages to start chuckling somewhat at the whole situation.

“As it happens, I rather fear you two will start scheming too.” She tells him now, giggling. “It’s possible that I have unleashed chaos. But I do like the idea of us becoming close friends with some other happy young couples.”

“Of course. We have long established that it’s a fabulous plan. So I suppose I shall be obliged to go and enjoy fencing with an old friend next Tuesday at ten, hmm?”

She grins in triumph, snuggles a bit closer into his side.

“Thank you, Connie.”

“You don’t have to thank me every time we do anything marital. It’s not only the marriage bed or a good dinner - I think things like making plans with friends count as obvious daily components of being a wife, too.”

“No. I must disagree. I must insist that it’s right and proper to thank you. I am grateful for all the trouble you go to in order to - to make me happy, I suppose. I’m resolved to do better at returning the favour.”

“Ah. Of course. For it’s not as if your support or company or our intimate life or the way you recently praised that arrangement of ferns on the windowsill are at all examples of returning the favour.” She counters, all light and ironic.

Hmm. She’s difficult to win an argument with, that’s for sure.

And yet as always, so long as she’s arguing with him, he feels that he’s won at life, frankly.

……..

He takes great care to be prompt at his fencing club at ten the next Tuesday.

He used to be the sort of chap who rolled into any social occasion late in order to be beaten by the crowd, of course, and in order to be sure of finding a conversation already in full flow so that he could lurk on the edges of it.

But if he’s to start a new friendship as a sensible married chap who wants sensible married friends he supposes he should probably do better than that.

He arrives a little before the hour, and finds Bridgerton already there waiting for him.

“Ah. Apologies - am I running late?” James asks earnestly, although he’s sure that he isn’t.

“Not at all. But Kate bundled me out the door half an hour ago so I’d be here in plenty of time.”

They both have a bit of a fond laugh at that. It’s the sort of thing Connie would do, too, James thinks.

“Our wives seem very invested in our new fencing habit.” He offers.

“They do. Kate has this theory I’ve not spoken to anyone outside the family in eighteen months or more, I believe.”

“I find that hard to credit. You’ve always been quite a well-liked family in the ton, have you not?” James points out.

“Well - that’s kind - but large too, I suppose. When she counts all my sisters' husbands as family too, she perhaps has it correct.”

James laughs, shakes his head. “With a family as large as yours that must be cheating. Why - Connie has so very many siblings that we spend a great deal of time with them, too.”

“Ah, yes. The endless Cho family. How are you getting on with them, hmm? They seem like cheery in-laws. A man could have worse.”

“Oh - certainly. They’ve been very good to me, in fact. It was - ah - quite a sudden engagement, of course, and they asked a few… rigorous questions about my intentions, but since Connie decided she was determined to have me they’ve welcomed me as one of their own.”

Bridgerton grins. “Sudden is one word for it. My engagement - my second engagement, the correct one - that was a sudden engagement too. All the best love matches are like that, are they not?”

“Indeed.” James says, because he’s not sure what else to say. He’s not sure how to grapple with the idea that an old acquaintance, or possibly an estranged friend, has just labelled him and Connie a love match.

They are, of course. Obviously they are. But it occurs to him quite suddenly that he should maybe tell her as much, at some point. It’d be a bit awkward if he were getting all lovestruck and she thought it just a polite and cheery but convenient marriage.

“So - are we here to fence?” Bridgerton asks now, thank goodness.

“We’re here to fence.” James agrees with a grin.

“I’ve been half-dreading this, honestly. I recall that you’re rather better than me. But I suppose it’ll be good for me. Let’s set to it.”

……..

James buys his wife a cricket bat on the way home.

That makes sense. Honestly, it does. She has been supportive of him, and made plans for him to fence with an old friend. So he thinks she ought to have a new cricket bat, to show her that he’s proud to be married to quite an original sort, or to encourage her to play cricket with her brothers, perhaps. She hasn’t done anything like that since they married, and sometimes James wonders whether she’s waiting for husbandly permission.

Or maybe she’s waiting to give herself permission, now that she’s a married lady in a new chapter of her life, and maybe he ought to give her a little shove out the door as she did when she set him the challenge of going fencing with Bridgerton.

Either way, he hopes she’ll appreciate a new cricket bat. And it’s a good bat, too, seasoned English willow - the very finest a man could pick up spontaneously on the way through London in an afternoon.

And - well - he picks up a few balls to go with it, of course. A bat is nothing without balls. And they don’t have any proper cricketing kit in the house, yet. They’ve improvised with kitchen utensils and such for the odd daft game while she had her courses, but they haven’t attempted real cricket since their wedding day.

He’s nearly home when he realises that cricketing equipment is perhaps an odd romantic gift to buy a wife.

Hmm. It’s a puzzle and no mistake. Connie does like cricket. But if this is a love match - or if he thinks it a love match, and is trying to work up to telling her he would describe it as such - then it’s possible that a more usual romantic and wifely gift might have been better.

He’s torn. A cricket bat will help nudge her out the door to make cricketing plans with her brothers, he hopes. And he did put a bit of effort into choosing a very fine one.

And yet he does want her to feel treasured as a wife, not just valued as a cricketing captain.

He decides to procure a potted plant, too, in the end. A gentleman often buys a lady flowers for a courtship gift or other romantic gesture, does he not? And Connie prefers her plants alive, not snipped and bundled into bouquets, so he chooses a little green bit of foliage with a pleasing shape and symmetry to it.

He has no idea what sort of plant it is - none whatsoever - and he finds himself musing once again that he should perhaps learn greater expertise in such things if he’s to be an adequate husband to Connie.

He wonders for a while whether she’d like a pretty little riding hat, too, or perhaps some gardening gloves or a new bonnet to protect her nose from the sun whilst doing her digging.

But then he decides that he perhaps risks growing ridiculous, and takes himself, his potted plant, and his assorted cricket equipment home.

He finds Connie in the sitting room, of course, her gaze fixed on some book in her hands.

“How was your morning’s sport, husband?” She asks, without quite looking up. She must recognise him by his footsteps, he supposes, or out of the corner of her eye.

“Excellent, thank you. Truly excellent. We are both agreed that we look forward to the same next week.”

She nods, throws him a smile, still without truly looking at him.

He stands there a moment, feeling a little spare, and wondering what to do. He’s not alarmed that she’s not meeting his gaze, he decides. Why - that’s relatively common in situations like this. One of them will often drift into the sitting room and say hello with a passing touch of the hand, perhaps, but without distracting the other from whatever they are doing. They’re rather comfortable together like that. Indeed - he thinks that ability to simply exist in one another’s space without making a great event of it is one of the reasons he finds this marriage so easy and cheery, one of the reasons why it doesn’t bring out his awkward and oafish side.

But today he’s holding a potted plant and a cricket bat, and he’d like her to look at him, damn it.

Well - best be direct. Isn’t that how they deal so well together?

“Connie, dear - might I have your attention a moment?”

She closes her book slowly, turns towards him slowly. It’s clearly a most fascinating book. He’ll ask her about it later, he decides.

He sees the exact moment she realises what is afoot, watches her jaw drop open in surprise and confusion.

“What the devil is all this, James?”

“This is a cricket bat. I’d have thought that must be self-evident. And this is a plant, although in fact I haven’t the slightest idea what sort of plant it might be.”

“And why, pray tell, are you holding them? Why are you standing in our sitting room with a plant and a cricket bat?”

“I think that must be fairly obvious, too.” He offers, warming to his theme. “You like both plants and cricket. I’ve never brought you a courtship gift, so I thought to bring you two at once - and a handful of cricket balls besides. And - well - you know - you did make plans for me to play a bit of sport with an old friend, and I thought perhaps you needed a little encouragement to invite your brothers over for an afternoon of cricket next week.”

She blinks at him. “I don’t know what to make of this. I - ahm - that is - I am determined to consider myself a lady who does not require material gifts. I never asked you to spend your money on such things.”

“Ah. Then if you don’t like cricket bats or potted plants after all.,.” He muses, all ironic, knowing from the look on her face that she likes them very well. “In that case - if you are determined to eschew material courtship gifts - I suppose I shall have no choice but to offer you three rounds of pleasure courtesy of my right hand instead.”

She barks out a short, sharp snatch of laughter. “You are cruel. I - I mean - how would I ever choose in such a situation? To decide between cricket and plants or your right hand is an impossible choice indeed.”

He grins. “You could have all of the above, I believe, if you’re feeling indecisive.”

She seems absolutely lost for words, he finds. She’s all dazed and smiley, shaking her head a lot, looking between him and the cricket bat, him and the plant, back at his face again.

“You needn’t worry about the financials.” He offers now. “We can easily afford all the material courtship gifts you might wish for, I believe, now that I have stopped wasting time and money at my club. I think filling our home with potted plants is a much better use of my father’s blunt than emptying White’s of brandy.”

How interesting. She seems to be hugging him now, all messy and eager, but somehow reaching her arms around him in such a way as to not dislodge the plant or the bat from his hands.

She still hasn’t quite managed words, yet, but he thinks it an encouraging sort of sign.

“Connie? Have I broken you, perhaps? Ought I offer you more time to gather your composure before I next present you with courtship gifts?”

“You must stop calling them courtship gifts, husband. We’ve been married several entire weeks now. How can they be courtship gifts under such circumstances?”

“Ah - but as we did not have much of a courtship before our marriage, don’t you think it correct to label these gifts as such now?”

She doesn’t answer that. It’s a shame, perhaps. He does like a good bit of mid-afternoon dialectical reasoning with his wife.

A few seconds pass, and she speaks up again.

“You’re ridiculously talented at being a married man, you know. I’ve heard that you are some sort of fencing genius, and a fair philosopher, and all of that. But I must insist that marriage is your greatest talent.”

“No. I’ll not let that stand. I must insist that you are the one with a talent for marriage.” He argues, for it’s the truth to his mind.

“Listen more carefully to my argument, husband dear. I didn’t deny my own aptitude for it, I only praised yours. I think, in truth, it’s likely that we both have an aptitude for being married to each other. I think perhaps that’s what a happy marriage is - when the correct two people find each other, and find themselves talented at being married to their particular spouse.”

“But now I believe you’re underrepresenting the importance of effort and earnestness and hard work. For you are talented at being my wife, yes, but you have also applied yourself considerably to arranging our social life, lately. And - well - I wouldn’t claim any great talent in this area, but I don’t mind admitting that I’m trying to put a bit of time and thought into how I might make you happy.”

She squeezes him impossibly hard in that embrace, then. She properly squashes him, honestly, and he likes it very much. There’s a sheer warmth and enthusiasm to it which is hard to beat.

“You make me happy on a daily basis, husband. But it turns out that you perhaps make me even happier when you walk in the door with cricket bats and plants and invitations to bed. Shall we make an afternoon of it, hmm?”

“By all means. I’d like that very much. Only - what order? Are we to rearrange your plant collection first, or dive into bed first, or try out this cricket bat first?”

“Oh - we’re to alternate all three, of course. We’re to make a lively muddle of it. Come on.”

She simply takes his hand - wraps hers around his, cricket bat and all - and starts leading him straight down the corridor.

They do alternate all three, more or less. They play a couple of overs in their little garden - her batting, him bowling - and then then nip upstairs for a while, for a quick moment of daytime bedsport - and then he manages to set the plant down at last and arrange it neatly between a couple of her preferred windowsill ferns.

You see? He’s not entirely hopeless at fern identification.

Then it’s back to the garden, to another few balls bowled as fast as he dares in such small space, and to Connie accusing him of bowling wide although such an accusation must be nonsensical when they have no stumps to guide them.

That’s when it gets truly interesting.

“You can’t be critical of my bowling when you never bowl.” He argues, nose wrinkled in a fond grin.

“James, dear - I’m not actually annoyed at your bowling. I’m trying to provoke you to come over here and argue more closely to my face.” She hisses at him, a jovial mock-whisper.

Ah. Well. He understands that a bit better now she’s explained it.

She’s terribly good at helping him avoid a muddle like that.

So - he runs towards her and sweeps her into an overly enthusiastic kiss. That seems to be what she’s requesting, as far as he can tell.

Sure enough, she kisses him back, actually sets down that cricket bat so that - of course - she might squeeze more easily at his arms.

He admits defeat and boops her tit in broad daylight, in the garden, because he thinks really that sort of public affection is long overdue in their marriage.

She seems to like it well enough. She’s giggling breathlessly into the kiss, still holding him tight as may be.

Now, though, she does pull away for a moment.

“We’ve never tried the garden bench.” She whispers.

“I did sit there and read, actually - some ten days ago. You were out visiting your sister, I recall, and the weather was fine.”

“James. We’ve never tried the garden bench.”

“Oh. Oh. You mean we might fuck on it?”

“Or more specifically, you did offer me three rounds with your right hand, did you not? And I’ve only claimed the first so far.”

That’s all the invitation he needs. He’s chuckling from sheer eagerness, leading her over there, taking a seat. Then he’s getting her settled all sprawled across his lap, with her skirts falling open so he may reach.

The two of them are lounging on a garden bench together, in the late afternoon, laughing for joy and touching each other.

It is, all things considered, quite a good sort of development.

He simply never knew life could be like this, all those years he avoided marriage. Or - well - he supposes it’s not life which is like this, but specifically life with Connie. He supposes it’s a damn good thing he never married someone else instead.

So that’s what he’s thinking, as he grinds the heel of his hand just where he knows she likes it. That’s what he’s thinking, as he kisses her deep, boops at her tit with his free hand, tastes her fond laughter in the kiss.

That’s what he’s thinking, as he slips his fingers inside, as he coaxes her to completion.

He’s thinking that he’s the luckiest chap in the world to have found her - and that he never thought James Fife was a lucky chap to be, before he met her. Heir to a dukedom or not, he always resented the hand life had dealt him.

Today, he can’t help but feel that life has gifted him the best hands indeed.

…….

Dinner with the Bridgertons - and with the other Bridgertons, with two entire sets of married Bridgerton couples - if very good fun indeed.

James can’t believe he used to think a night at White’s counted as company, honestly. It was never anything like this. Today he has an evening of genuine conversation, of people asking him direct and interesting questions, of him posing questions to them in turn. People are actually interested in what he has to say, and he’s genuinely engaged in what they have to offer, too.

It’s simply such good fun to talk about things more fascinating than drink and mistresses. Why - sporting news used to be quite the most exceptionally interesting thing which was ever discussed amongst the young bucks, and around here, now, that counts as a slow moment in the conversation. For most of the time, they’re talking continuously about family and home - everything from how to run a household, to what they are most enjoying about married life, to which interests they share with their family or friends.

But by far the best bit of the evening, to his mind, is the chance to watch Connie hit it off so well with the two other ladies.

She’s glowing, honestly - glowing. It occurs to him that it’s frankly the only time he’s ever seen her anywhere near so easy and high-spirited with anyone else as she is with him.

Hmm. There’s a fine privilege of married life.

He comments on it, after the Bridgertons leave at the end of the evening. He happens to say to his wife, while they are lying awake, enjoying a cuddle, and wondering about falling asleep, that he was pleased to see her in such high spirits with the other ladies.

She nods eagerly and picks up the theme.

“They’re quite the best pair of ladies I ever met, honestly. Or - well - excepting my sisters, of course. But I think they will be sisters of a sort to me too. I think we will be sisters in our souls, for we have so much in common that I don’t even share with my own sisters by blood. Why - I must tell you about this - we have decided to call ourselves the spinsters’ club.” She tells him, chuckling.

“I don’t know that I like that. I believe I’d have cross words with anyone who called you a spinster - and with myself those few weeks ago, if only I could turn back the clock.”

“But don’t you see - we have found it as a mark of our sisterhood?” She presses him, and he understands that she is serious. “We all thought it unlikely we would ever marry, and now we have all somehow found ourselves in affectionate marriages. It’s a patch of common ground which is important to us - our happiness snatched from the jaws of defeat and from the corner of the marriage market ballroom, you see? We think we might get matching rosettes.”

“Yes. Yes, I do see that - I understand the way you have explained it for me, if you mean it as a rosette of honour rather than using the word to demean yourselves. For I’ll not have anyone demean Constance Fife on my watch.” He warns her sternly.

“I know you won’t.” She agrees, snuggling against his arm.

“I say - can I have a rosette too?” He thinks to ask now. “I shouldn’t like to impose upon your friendship with the other ladies, of course. But - we have discussed before now the fact that I thought myself unmarriageable before you consented to this affectionate marriage, have we not? So I believe I fit the criteria for a rosette.”

“You’re impossible. I should have learnt by now that you will always outwit me when we debate in such fashion.” She teases, poking at his chest.

“No - that won’t stand. For I believe I should have learnt by now that you will always outwit me.” He counters.

She hums a fond sort of noise, presses a kiss to his skin for no apparent reason. “I might let you have a share in my rosette on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, perhaps.”

“Ah. For what is marriage, but the sharing of such things?”

“It’s a recipe for too little sleep, I tell you. That’s what marriage is. They don’t warn you, when you accept a proposal, that you shall sleep a great deal less as a married lady if you like your husband at all. Why - all this bedsport, and all this habit we have of talking before we fall asleep - it can’t be good for my constitution.”

“Your constitution seems in fine fettle to me.” He offers, stroking a hand over her cheek.

She laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean? What sort of compliment is that?”

“I hardly know. A poor one, most likely. I’m clumsy with my words - have I ever mentioned that before?”

“Once or twice, perhaps.” She offers, all light and ironic.

He yawns, or laughs, or both at once.

There’s something particularly fine, to his mind, about the way that marriage is like a house party which never ends.

…….

They both sleep in quite late, the following morning.

That’s understandable, given they had a great night of practising being sociable last night, and it shouldn’t matter, because they are both aristocrats quite at their leisure, with only her plant experiments and his visits to the Lords for serious work. They might have a family before long - and he might like to suggest a trip to Scotland to the family estates there some summer soon, he thinks - but the point stands that they are not people with a great deal of serious and time-sensitive tasks filling their diaries.

But today it matters, because James’ father shows up at the house and starts beating the door down when the newlyweds are scarcely half-dressed.

James recognises the sound of his father’s voice, hears it drift up the stairs as the footman lets him in. So he makes haste to finish dressing for the day, presses a hurried kiss to Connie’s cheek, and rushes down to the drawing room to find out why the devil his father is here.

It’s most uncommon. The man rarely shows his face in town. Why - he’s shown it more often than usual, in the last two months, but only on account of his son’s whirlwind courtship and marriage.

All the same, James tries not to feel too fearful. He’s a more settled and sensible chap these days, with a steady wife by his side in spirit, even if she’s actually upstairs still dressing for the day. But the point stands - he’s ready to face whatever trouble his father might throw at him.

He walks into the drawing room and gives his crispest bow.

“Father. Forgive me for not being ready to receive you, but it’s rather early for a call - and in fact, we did have company last night.”

His father, of course, does not ask after their company. “Where’s this wife of yours, then?”

James blinks at him a moment, tries to remain calm. “My dear Connie is upstairs, dressing for the day, because as I just explained, we were not expecting you.”

“Well - I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Yes. That does seem to be true. James only nods.

“Come on then, boy - produce your wife. I came to town to see how she’s getting along, of course. Thought I’d better come and check how she’s showing and whether the babe seems healthy and all that. How far along was she when you married, anyway?”

James - hang on, what’s that phrase?

Ah yes - James absolutely loses his shit.

“You have no business coming here to inspect her as if she were one of your cattle, Father.” He spits the words at him. “I am your heir, and that is all you have any right to think of, and I shall be the one to think of what comes after. You certainly have no right to ask me to - to produce my wife as if she were some creature at the county show to trot out before you. I know this is in actuality your house, but I must ask you to have the human decency to leave rather than asking such impertinent questions about my wife’s health. And - and I warn you, if you make trouble, I shall take Connie and run away to become a fencing instructor before I shall back down on this matter.”

It’s perhaps not his clearest ever argument, he thinks. But under the circumstances, he hopes it will serve the purpose well enough.

It is, after all, the first time he’s ever truly managed to get his point across to his father rather than weaselling sideways and avoiding confrontation to some extent. Funny, that, when he’s otherwise such a plainspoken sort.

His father seems equally surprised by this departure from their usual script.

“I can’t understand what’s got your bloomers in a knot, boy.” He splutters, and he seems rather red about the face.

“I love her.” James announces, waves his hands in midair for good measure. “I love her, and you are being cruel about her - as you were cruel to my mother, whom I have not always loved as well as I should - and I am sick and tired of you acting as if it is just - just normal and acceptable to treat the women in your life like livestock. It’s not how the world works these days, Father. A man chooses a lady he actually likes for her own sake, and then does his best to make a companionable marriage with her. It’s what all the young chaps are doing these days. So you can take all your outdated nonsense and run back to Buckinghamshire.”

“As it happens, I did choose your mother.” His father argues - much to his surprise. “I was - you know - I was partial to her, back in the day, for your information. All this separate households nonsense was her idea initially.”

“And can you blame her?” James asks, for he’s well-practised at that sort of dialectical reasoning, of course. Connie has trained him well for this moment. “Can you be surprised that she couldn’t stand to live with you? Can you honestly deny that you have bullied her and blamed her and made her life unbearable?”

His father’s not so good at the dialectical method, it seems. He’s simply standing there, spluttering, eyes fixed on some potted plant of Connie’s on the windowsill.

Oh. How sweet. Connie’s plants have started taking over the drawing room, too.

There’s a pleasant homely touch.

It’s at that exact moment his wonderful wife strides in, of course, to carry home the victory.

“As it happens, Your Grace, I love James too, and think you’ve been rather cruel to him as well.” She announces, and of course James offers her his arm, and of course she chooses to clasp it. “He’s your son, and you’ve made your entire relationship with him centred around whether or not he’s managed to get me with child. That’s a bit odd, don’t you think? Have you perhaps not noticed that he’s a good man, with sound principles, and with a few interesting achievements in the field of fencing to his name?” She asks, all heavily ironic.

James starts kissing her at that point. He thinks it’s long overdue, honestly. No sense in wasting time on his father’s determination to be an unhappy sort of person, when they could be enjoying their own happy marriage instead.

“I love you.” He whispers, because he thinks she deserves to hear it said to her face rather than yelled around the drawing room and echoing down the corridor.

“I love you.” She echoes, with a beaming smile.

His father splutters a bit longer, and James can’t make sense of it at all - but that might be because he’s distracted by a bit more kissing, perhaps.

And then, not a moment too soon, the Duke of Argyll leaves.

…….

The strangest part is yet to come.

It’s mid-afternoon, and the happy couple are playing a little spot of cricket in the garden and finding it quite easy not to think of any ill-mannered Dukes of their acquaintance, and then James’ mother is suddenly shown out through the door and onto the lawn to meet them.

“The Duchess of Argyll.” The footman announces, as if a chap needs such a formal announcement for his own mother. 

James might have a word with the footmen to stop doing that, he resolves. He thinks they had best become the sort of household where no one stands upon ceremony in a small party of close family.

He’s half-wondering about hugging his mother for a greeting when she shares some odd news with him.

“Your father’s at the house - my house, I mean. He’s been there the better part of four hours spouting a great deal of nonsense. I decided in the end I had best come here and see that you’re both well. He did tell me he’d come here first.”

“Father’s at your house?” James asks, stunned.

“Well - it is his house, of course. That’s neither here nor there. Are you both well? Has there been some argument? I can’t make head nor tail of what he’s telling me. He alternates between claiming that you’re out of order and very insolent, but then the next moment he’s telling me that it’s good to see you all settled and happily married.”

“Hmm. As to that - ahm - I think that is about what happened, more or less.” He muses. “We did row a bit, and then he did seem to realise that we’re happily married - and then he left. But I didn’t think he was affected by our being happily married.”

“Oh - he was affected.” Connie argues, in a victorious sort of tone.

“I should say so.” His mother adds now. “He’s been saying the oddest things. Why - within a quarter-hour of his arrival, he’d told me that Buckinghamshire has grown quite lonely lately and suggested I might like to visit him this summer. Can you imagine? He even went so far as to say he’d endeavour to be pleasant if I did.”

James shakes his head urgently. “No, Mother. You mustn’t feel obliged to go there just because he has suggested it. Perhaps he is a little… affected by our argument about marriage, but that doesn’t mean a leopard can change his spots. To endeavour to be pleasant hardly seems adequate after so many years of cruelty.”

“I know. I know. But London can be dreadfully lonely, too, though it is a large city. I shall see how we get along, perhaps. It sounds as if he might even stay at the townhouse a few days. If he manages while he’s here to calm down and make any coherent promises about his manners, I might fancy a visit to Buckinghamshire.” She swallows audibly. “I might like to see the place again. And - well - you know. I didn’t marry him by accident, did I?”

James feels his heart break a little at that, honestly. He’s getting a bit almost-tearful again, and thankfully Connie has her hand wrapped around his arm, but all the same, it’s quite a lot to deal with on a fine afternoon when he was playing cricket and determinedly avoiding thinking of the issue.

Connie, thankfully, saves him from having to speak while he’s all choked.

“Perhaps we could come with you. We could all go to Buckinghamshire and make a family party of it. That way you’d have some support if - you know - if he doesn’t stay true to all this pleasantness he’s spoken of. We could have a little house party, and it could happen to be a party of family, and it could happen to be at your husband’s home.”

“I’d like that.” His mother offers, smiling a brave sort of smile, nodding fiercely.

“I’d like that very much.” James manages to add now. “I do like a good house party. And although I’m not at all convinced my father has any ability to be pleasant, I suppose we might all feel better if we tried. I suppose - if it goes well, a family house party might be even better than a typical house party. I do like both family and house parties.”

“You two met at a house party.” His mother recalls, nodding.

“We properly met at a house party.” Connie amends, grinning.

“I do like a good house party.” James adds, yet again, for good measure. “I like marriage even more, though, to be clear. A good marriage is like a house party where your favourite guest never leaves - that is what I have lately decided.”

“Best house party of my life and no mistake.” His wife agrees, because of course she does.

He kisses her for that, hugs her tight a moment, tries not to get self-conscious of his mother watching him be all romantic and newlywed and that.

He doesn’t know how that other house party will turn out, of course. He has no idea whether his father is at all capable of being pleasant. He doesn’t think his mother is necessarily making a wise choice by even giving him a chance, frankly, but of course the choice must be hers to make and he’ll stand by her as Connie has suggested.

But somehow, even though he doesn’t know what will happen, he knows they’ll manage whatever it is well enough. He knows that they’ve lately practised building the sort of family that can cope with a challenge or two.

He has Connie to thank for that, of course.

He has Connie to thank for everything.

He’d better thank her brother for the invitation to that house party, one of these days. He’d better write the fellow a long letter of gratitude for such a perfect entertainment.

Has he mentioned, lately? He’s very fond of house parties indeed.