secret smiles , avery

[oliver kennedy]

“OLLIE…! Ollie? Ollie-ver are you listening to a word I say?”

[/i] Oliver stared past his sister, a soft breath of smoke curling out into the still air in a twisting coil. It created delicate shapes before disappearing as quickly as it came, as though it had never existed. Sighing, he turned his azure eyes to his younger sister, eying Rosaline with disdain. “I was trying not to,” he replied dryly.

“Oh, you’re such a wit!” she giggled, happily swishing her skirts around her legs as she posed before him. “I cannot imagine why you’ve not had any success courting any of the young ladies here!”

Taking a calming drag of his cigarette, Oliver rolled his eyes before turning away from her again. “Perhaps I’ve had more success than you wish to acknowledge, my dear sister. You could learn many skills from the young ladies I’ve made acquaintances’ with. I daresay it might actually make you interesting.”

“Do you really think me dull?” Rosaline sighed, petulant. She flopped unceremoniously onto the nearby chaise, still draped with dresses that she had decided against for the evening’s impending festivities. “You are my sister, that should be enough,” he replied. Disdain dripped from his words, darkening the lighthearted mood. Try as he might Oliver was unable to escape the truth – he was imprisoned in London because of his sister, and he would remain here until she was married. He had no hopes that anyone would be fool enough to court her. “Oh, Ollie, you are such the spoil sport. You’ve said nothing of my costume for the evening. How do I look? I do hope to catch the eye of Mr. Fairchild.”

“Charming, I’m sure. I suppose I must also prepare myself for this asinine evening?”

“You didn’t even look!” Rosaline pouted and Oliver could envision her lower lip jutting out as she sulked. He may be a ‘spoil sport’ but she was utterly spoiled. Flicking his cigarette into the rose bushes below he raked his annoyed gaze over his sister’s plump figure. Her hazel eyes sparkled with hope at his assessment. The dress was a gaudy plum violet with an obscene amount of beading and pleats. Fashion had never been her forte and he couldn’t imagine what she was possibly attempting to be for the masque. “I’m going as a kitten,” she announced, standing so that he might appreciate her dress fully. She raised her mask to her face and grinned. “Ah, yes. That was my first guess – a kitten who has fallen into a vat of wine.”

Disappointment colored Rosaline’s face, her mask falling limply to her side. “And what are you going as?” she demanded. Her fingers fluttered toward his frame, clad entirely in black. A smirk tucked itself into the soft camber of his lips as he straightened his lapel. “An assassin. I kill pretentious kittens. Do consider yourself warned.”

“You are utterly impossible!’ she declared before storming from her room, much to Oliver’s pleasure.

- - - - -

Much to Oliver’s relief, the carriage ride to the masquerade had been in silence thanks to his earlier altercations with his sister. Any reason to escape her shrill voice and nonsensical observations. He could hardly recall a time where he could stand her presence – a task made more tedious with their imprisonment in London. She would make a horrible wife for any man of good standing. She talked far too often and about subjects to which she held no valid opinion. He had walked from dinner the night before when she complained that the queen persisted on wearing black for it was such a drab color. His sister was truly a fool.

Instead he had spent most of the ride staring at the passing streets, bathing in the murky glow of the gaslamps and wishing he were anywhere else. The familiar burn of ale pressed against his memory; the warm embrace of a girl perched upon his knee at the tavern as he whispered lies to her about America. At least the lower classes had personalities and he welcomed the distraction they brought to his perpetual purgatory. “Oh, Ollie, isn’t it glorious?” Rosaline breathed, peering out at the intricate paper lanterns bordering the winding driveway. Swarthy fabric in every imaginable color floated like butterfly wings as they twirled up the stairs. Beading and sequins glinted in the warm glow of candles; the dull murmur of laughter and conversation rising above the orchestra.

They had arrived.

A despondent sigh escaped as he hopped from the carriage and dutifully helped his sister to the ground. “Do not ruin this evening for me, Oliver,” she warned, her eyes glinting with intent. “And keep you from ruining it for yourself? Never.” His eyes were no longer on Rosaline, drifting to the welcoming sea of hidden identities and intent.

Perhaps the evening would prove to be a pleasant surprise.[/font][/blockquote]

[avery mercer]

In the enclosed space of the ballroom, a bevy of colors assaulted her dark eyes. It was a wonder to her that there existed such colors she witnessed in the small time she spent in the midst of this sensory chaos. A smooth hand slipped into hers, gripping hers with a sudden spasm of excitement. “ Look at everyone here!” exclaimed the young woman beside her. The lively silver eyes of her cousin met hers just as another colorfully dressed figure joined her other side. “Aren’t you happy that we convinced you to come ?” the masculine voice of her cousin Henry added. “Words cannot describe the joy I feel that I allowed the two of you to bring me here,” she replied slipping into a sarcastic tone. “Oh, don’t complain Avery, if we left you, you would be deathly bored with Frederick and the servants. Now stop pouting and enjoy yourself,” Deidre admonished with a grin.

In her attempt to ‘enjoy herself,’ Avery had already made the discovery she would be hard-pressed to find amusement after “utterly ruining” the costume of a young debutant when she mistakenly stepped on the yards upon yards of garishly green muslin. Try as she did to apologize sincerely, the young woman remained beside herself in anger. It didn’t help that her every other moment or so, the corners of her lips would twitch threatening to break into either a grin or laughter. The costume the young woman was definitely one of the most outrageous that she witnessed and it came as a great surprise to her that anyone could be saddened by the destruction of the gown.

“Excuse me ladies, but I believe I see Lord Marshall-I'll return quickly but I have some business to discuss with him” Henry announced and off he went disappearing into a sea of color. Turning with a sly smile to her cousin, “I ’ll gamble anything that he went to see Lady Marshall instead,” she whispered into the air but the richly dressed figure of Deidre was nowhere to be found. When she did find her, her cousin was clasped by the hand by a tall young man, walking towards the dancers that occupied the center of the room. Fingers accustomed to heavy tomes of her uncle’s library, immediately went to the intricate but delicate folds of her dress, idly fingering the thin fabric. Without her cousins by her side, she felt even more out of place. In her rather plain costume fashioned to make her appear as a Grecian muse, Avery stood out as badly as a lowly pigeon among peacocks. While brightly colored gowns of outrageous colors and bits of frillery were the standard, the pale young woman instead chose a simple shift enveloped by white gauzy fabric that her cousin’s seamstress expertly molded around her slender frame to resemble her lengthy description of one of the Grecian muses, Clio, muse of history. She suddenly felt slightly foolish as she gripped the scroll painted gold to match the ornate gold mask that partially covered the freckled skin of her nose and high cheeks. In attempt to prove that she was clever, she chose a costume that she was sure none of the dancing figures would ever recognize. At most, they’d sum her up as a Greek goddess, Athena perhaps but never Aphrodite. Nearly every one of her verbal sparing partners, generally those without an inkling of imagination, made a point to remind her that the only reason young men glanced her way was for the immense fortune she would possess.

Avery’s cause for even attending the ball was all due to her cousins. The right she could claim to attend such an event before was lost after her father’s death, so she barely gave notice to the invitation when it arrived one morn. “But it’s a masque, no one will know it is you!” they explained to her, hoping this alone would convince her to come with them. “I have nothing to wear to the ball,” she interjected knowing her cousin could easily rebuke this. “ Mary will make something for you.” Excuse after excuse left her lips but each and every one was followed by a rebuttal from her cousins until finally she had no choice but to attend.

Left alone in the brightly lit hall, she began to drift steadily towards the fringes of the party. All she could do when she reached an emptied seat was wait nervously until someone- perhaps someone she scorned in the past- proclaimed her as an imposter. Idly, her hands stroked the ostrich fan her cousin passed into her hand before they left their home. Gatherings like this, where members of the upper echelons of society came together to interact and show off their wealth in their assortment of jewels and dress were never her strength. When she once belonged to their social class she disliked balls with the loathing of child for its medicine. Yet, then she accepted them readily as a necessary evil for a young woman of her standing. No other options lay before her than to be married to a respectable gentleman. It wasn’t as if her father or any man for that matter would allow her to pursue her other interests that did not involve gossip or whether she should wear this frock over another. Her situation was only worsened from her penchant to slip into her famously sullen moods that her father always said caused the young men to “scurry off like little ninnies who‘d seen a witch.”

As her eyes drifted over the scene before her they fell to young man, a decidedly familiar young man despite the small mask that covered his eyes. Peering closer at the face, she faintly recognized the strong features of the man who was until recently her fiancé. Before she could form another thought, he began walking purposefully towards her direction. Panic immediately seized her. She should have known that he would attend. Wherever there was a room filled with eligible rich woman, Elliot Hale was surely not too far off. Grateful to her cousin’s foresight that prompted her to tie her mask firmly with a ribbon so her hands were left free, she rose from her seat, hastily grabbing a hold of her skirt as she walked as quickly without appearing too conspicuous in the opposite direction. In her haste, she hardly saw the darkly dressed figure that stood in her way. Flushing scarlet red, she peered upwards at the man she walked into, slightly embarrassed but annoyed that he had impeded her rush away from Elliot. Casting a look over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of her former fiancé weaving his way through the crowd towards her no doubt further inducing the rising waves of panic to grow. Thinking with impulse, she turned to gentleman in front of her, “Will it be presumed much too forward if I should ask you to dance?” If he was what he appeared- a gentleman - she was sure he would not refuse although her utterly bold request was not in the least way smiled upon by society. As most matters did that pertained to society, it made little importance to her, as long as she did not have to face Elliot she would take any action to avoid him - forcing herself on strangers was not as horrible compared to its alternative.

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[oliver kennedy]

The dance floor was awash with rich silks and frothy satins; of ostrich feathers and sequins slipping to the ground with the languid grace of a falling star. Several round tables stood to the side of the grand entranceway, illuminated solely by the soft glow of tall white candles resting in polished silver. Small crystal vases filled with softly blushing roses greeted Oliver with their delicate perfume. Beside him Rosaline let out a soft breath of awe, eagerly making her way to claim a dance card for the evening. Oliver had no doubt that it would remain mostly unfilled. He trailed behind her dutifully, momentarily fulfilling his duty as her escort and allowing her shrill voice to light upon his consciousness without truly registering as he listened to her idle chatter as she ‘ooh’d’ over this decoration or that dress – she even felt the need to commentate of the soft gold cord adorning the thick white card that she had looped around her wrist in anticipation of an evening of dancing. As far as he could tell the only women in attendance who were of any actual interest were those deemed invisible by those in attendance. The servants, dressed in dark, serviceable gray wool and starched white shirts slipped silently past the giggling throngs of young girls and discontented young men as they replenished crystal glasses and ensured the punch never ran dry or the platters of food were ever emptied. If he were truthful, there was a coppery-blonde who he could not keep his eyes from. She sparkled despite the attempts made to contain her; cerulean eyes drifting to meet his with hesitant curiosity as an eager smile curved upon her full lips. And, if nothing else, Oliver was certain she would help alleviate the monotony of the evening for a brief interlude.

This was not the sort of social gathering that Oliver Kennedy felt inclined to attend. His presence was required for no other reason than the irritating creature he was forced to recognize as his sister. He would spend the evening claiming that he did not know how to dance while ignoring Rosaline’s perplexed expression. Later, once they were safely tucked into their carriage and returning home he would endure her questions as she tried to find the reason he preferred to isolate himself on the sidelines than participate in the merriment she believed was inherent to such evenings. He often found himself wondering who they would have been if their parts had not been so expertly crafted by their father. Perhaps Rosaline would be tolerable and he would be worth something. But such a world did not exist, and if it did, Oliver was uncertain how to reach it. Instead he had opted to cloak himself with apathy, lingering around the edges of society like a shadow. He preferred existing this way rather than admitting who he had become. Denial was a potent drug and best administered before you were able to feel anything.

Still, he found himself plagued by his younger sister’s questioning stares and accusations that London had changed him for the worse. Back home he was a favorite companion on the dance floor. Seldom without a partner, balls were spent in a whirlwind of frothy gowns and innocent dreams. Much of Rosaline’s ability on the dance floor resulted from his tutelage. And, before London – before his father’s letter – Oliver had enjoyed such functions. The truth had changed everything and beneath it’s brilliant glare nothing appeared as it had once been. Whereas he had once lived for the superficial flirtations of the dance floor, he now loathed it. The subdued reactions of the ‘proper’ young ladies when his hand strayed too low on her back or his thumb grazed the exposed skin of a wrist. Their eyes would widen with shock, crimson staining their cheeks as they implored him. But they never asked him to stop. All of their pleading was silent and that, Oliver had come to discover, was what he hated most of all. For despite his desire for them to yell at him and create a scene he knew they never would. They were just as incapable as he was, their tongues silenced by the knowledge of what their voices could cost them.

He hated them because they wouldn’t break free and himself for recognizing the trait in the first place.

Instead he remained, back pressed against the wall, as he surveyed the scene he knew as though memorizing a script. Rosaline had found a group of friends and was giggling with them, her back turned. Every so often he felt one of her companions eyes drift to him in wonder. With a roll of his eyes, he angled his body so they could not mistake his position as interest. He was not shy or not inclined to ask someone to dance but there was no one that captivated him anymore and Oliver had grown tired of pretending.

His shadowed gaze fell on the server once more. She smiled at him shyly before returning to her task at hand: clearing empty, used glasses on a tray to be carried back to the kitchen. He took a step forward before hesitating. He liked the working class that London liked to hide. They contained a vibrancy for life devoid beneath society’s polite rules. When you struggled to place food on the table daily there was no need to concern yourself with whether or not an occasion warranted the wearing of gloves. On most evenings he could be found at one of the many dank pubs that dotted the harbor, drinking ale and laughing the night away. There no one expected anything of him and Oliver found the freedom intoxicating.

He knew of young men from wealthy families who frequented such establishments to find pleasure with a young girl or two. Likewise, he knew of the young girls who believed they would find their prince amongst the boisterous crowd – a young man who would save them from their current circumstances. Oliver didn’t fancy himself as either of these. He was not the villain, nor was he the prince. If the night ended in the arms of a young lady he would not object but that was not the sole reason he went. He held onto that distinction as though it might be enough to save him.

It was that reason that he found himself slip from where the server was still eying him tentatively and to the other side of the room altogether. He recognized the hope in her bright eyed gaze as readily as he could acknowledge his inability to satiate it.

“Will it be presumed much too forward if I should ask you to dance?” A hesitant voice pleaded softly, breaking his reverie. Blinking, Oliver peered down at a young woman. Her skin was a soft cream, nearly disappearing into the soft folds of her dress. She stood before him like a beacon in a sea of frivolity. Eyes gazed back at him from behind her delicate gold mask as her fingers idly twisted about the scroll she held. For a moment, Oliver had the fleeting feeling of inadequacy in her presence. He would consider it later, opting to enjoy this moment as the fleeting escape it would provide. “I do believe that it is my duty to ask you to dance,” he replied smoothly, a smile tucking itself into the corner of his lips as he regarded her. “But then, I’ve always been a fan of terrible manners. It’s always more enjoyable to break the rules.” With that he extended his hand toward her. If she was the sort of person he presumed her to be, he had no doubt that this evening would not blend into all the others

[avery mercer]

“ I do believe that it is my duty to ask you to dance.”His words flowed easily from his lips, distinctly accented with a tone of nonchalance as if it were a daily occurrence for young women to forgo decorum and ask him to dance. Although it would not be a mystery to see why- he was certainly handsome. His dark mask did little to conceal the vibrancy in viridian eyes, the strong planes of his face, nor the strength of his full lips that her cousin would appreciatively remark rivaled statues of antiquity; all of which clearly marked him as a handsome man. Yet, the steady thrum of her heart continued without misstep even though his smile belied a warmth that would bring pleasure to any woman. Unlike the young women who she witnessed from the corner of her eye, whose demure gazes seemed transfixed on the sight of them; Avery was hardly ever swayed by the appeal of a handsome face. Experience had long embedded skepticism in her judgment of others. It stuck fast with the tenacity of a hardy weed.

Rather than respond in her usual fashion, her lips stiffly curled into the beginnings of a polite smile that belied her thoughts. “ I would like to believe that should a gentleman ask for a dance that it is because he desired to not due to duty,” she responded quietly. His words only reaffirmed what she believed: duty always dictated the lives of upper society. Elliot had been striking as were others who approached her for her hand. Insincerity derived from obligation peppered the conversation they held with her. It threatened to overwhelm her, falling from their lips as easily as rain the torrid autumn months when English weather proved to be the most dreary. Long before he spoke, she had dismissed him as another superficial gentleman. Whether British or American, as the apparent twang in his speech alluded to, people were more or less the same.

“But then, I’ve always been a fan of terrible manners. It’s always more enjoyable to break the rules,” he added, his tone overcast by a light, conspiring air as if only they were privy to this fact whilst the rest of the world chose to ignore it. Hidden by the golden curlicues of her mask, her fair brows shot up in surprise. A smile softened the firmly set lines of her pink mouth as Avery brought the focus of his gaze away from the immaculate cravat at his throat to meet the deep viridian of his eyes. They were hardly the words of a gentleman tethered to the strict rules of society and for that she found herself inexplicably grateful. An emotion akin to guilt flushed the sloping curve of her cheeks rose without so much as a warning. Nigh a year had past when she had felt the unwelcome sting of disapproving voices- all clamoring eagerly to list her various failures. Then, there had been very few defenses against ignorance save for apathy. It was her last wish to inherit the rash judgment they so heavy levied on her.

Casting a final look for the figure of her former fiancé , she turned towards the modestly dressed person of an idle attendant, setting her suddenly frivolous golden prop into the hands of the young man who looked at her with slight surprise but uttered hardly a word, nodding in assurance that her scroll would be there when she returned. She turned to her partner, a certain softness in her expression where there once was very little. Placing her gloved hand in the gentle hold of his, she looked once more into his green eyes. “Then it should be considered a shame that it is only now I should meet you. Has it been that London society kept you terribly busy or made you a recluse?”

He led her to the colorful procession of dancers, apprehension coloring her brow as they neared ever closer. Ungainly in her movements, she had long ago decided her balls were better left if her dance card was left unfilled lest she had to endure the lengthy and painful torture of a waltz. Encircled by the strong arms of her partner, her steps instead were light and attained an grace that she rarely if ever attained. Her confidence soon grew allowing her to be swept up by the swirling motions of the dance. Even the incessant murmur of her thoughts remained silenced in her mind. Her limbs did not jut awkwardly from her as they had in the past when she all she wanted was to do was stomp away knowing her partner would not follow her. For once, Avery did not second guess the pleasure she felt as she gently gripped his hand nor did she criticize when he brought her slightly closer to him.

Over the broad expanse of his shoulder she caught the amused eye of her cousin, bright spots of excitement coloring the apples of her pale cheeks . Foresight told her before the last chords of music ceased and dissipated into the air like warm breath during the frost of winter , her cousin would be at her elbow, animation sparking her gray eyes causing them to shine as brightly as newly minted silver. As it usually did whenever Deidre perceived there to be something that upon closer inspection showed her excitement was for naught. the dance would soon end as it should. Moments such as these, where she stood suspended in an instant of contentment never lasted. They soon eroded, either by necessity or simply because her life was bound to resume the uniformity she knew better than herself.

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[oliver kennedy]

Stiff and formal, a ghost of a smile traced her lips and Oliver inwardly groaned. He was forever tired of the niceties and perfected protocols. He had believed that nothing could compare to the monotony of society back home in America but had been mistaken. They were merely playing dress up in comparison. Was it really so difficult, he wondered, for people to say what was on their mind? Shame burned beneath his skin as he contemplated his own answer – there were various prisons and each person in the room was enslaved in some form or another. As her lips parted to speak, he braced himself for whatever dull answer she would give and attempted to think of something interesting about the weather. “I would like to believe that should a gentleman ask for a dance that it is because he desired to not due to duty.” A breathy laugh escaped his throat in response and he nodded noncommittally. “Rest assured that the gentleman in question shares your sentiment. Alas, it appears more often than not we are mere pawns in a game to whose rules we are not privy.”

It was the reason he loathed attending service each Sunday. He could tolerate his sister’s insipid interpretation of the sermon and commentary on what those in the congregation were wearing (though it amazed him that she could judge two separate things at once) but had no patience for the words the reverend spoke each week. If life was nothing more than a game in which they were all pawns than God must be the one moving the pieces according to his whims. Free will was not some great gift given to mankind out of love. Instead it was a cruel ploy. For if God knew everything, Oliver reasoned, then He knew all the variable outcomes to whatever choice a person made and, if the outcome was predetermined, there was nothing free about the choice in the first place. This meant God, in His infinite wisdom, had chosen to force Oliver to endure the purgatory of London society. Rather than fight alongside his brothers and friends he remained here watching a sea of gowns twirl upon the dance floor with as much meaning as a leaf falling from a tree.

His sister remained ignorant to the changing landscape back home. If the war was mentioned she would yawn, disinterested. The only time she demonstrated an ounce of concern was when she saw a solider about town and wished to gain his attention. Her indifference was a constant source of irritation for Oliver and he wished some unsuspecting fool would become smitten enough with her so that his father would have no reason to keep him imprisoned here.

The war would be long resolved before his sister could ensnare a husband.

There was hope, however. Given the inherent dullness of social gatherings he could only surmise that standards were lower amongst the men in London. It was undoubtedly why the taverns were overfilled with distinguished gentlemen seeking to forget their stations in the arms of a woman rather than a proper lady.

His attention drifted back to the peculiar creature before him. She was fetching in an unconventional way. While most had opted to portray themselves as fairies or kittens, the girl before him had chosen her own path, not caring if she stood out because of her difference. Though he would not attempt to guess at which mythic beauty she had selected, Oliver knew he would forever associate this image of her with the beauty of knowledge. Within their brief exchange she had proven that there was more to her than a pretty face and he hoped that before the end of their exchange he would glean more insight into her. She was the first thing that had piqued his interest since they had arrived and he had no intention of sinking back into catatonia anew. Bemusement crept into her features, teasing her lips and bringing new vibrancy to her chocolate eyes. “Then it should be considered a shame that it is only now I should meet you. Has it been that London society kept you terribly busy or made you a recluse.”

“Both,” Oliver replied easily. “I’m afraid that I’ve been terribly busy being a recluse much to my sister’s chagrin.” Her hand slipped into his and he placed it gently upon the crook of his arm as he escorted her toward the dance floor. “Though you may think ill of me, I must confess that irking my sister has become the most enjoyable aspect to this city and I would be quite disappointed to lose such an advantageous pastime.”

The strings were a tinny murmur as the dancers positioned themselves on the floor. Bowing, he winked at her, hoping she wouldn’t disappoint him now and feign insult at his action. If she was offended she made no indication as she curtseyed. The music started, fingers twining as they moved with practiced grace. His thumb grazed the exposed flesh of her wrist as they came together, his other hand pressed lightly against her trim waist. He moved through the dance with confidence and ease. Back home he had excelled in this area and even now he hadn’t grown tired of the motions. She complimented each step, each twirl. When they broke he found himself eagerly anticipating the moment her hand would find his once more. He leaned toward her, his breath brushing against the graceful arch of her neck. “And when do you suppose I might learn your identity?”

[avery mercer]

Apathy, gradually but surely faded from her like vestiges of night in the presence of dawn. In the presence of men who wished to hold her hand in marriage, she had long been accustomed to fashioning her features into a mask of stoicism; becoming deaf to their insincere words, blind to their handsome gestures and smiles, and mute to each attempt at polite conversation. Then by mere chance she stumbled upon him, finding a willing but unwitting savior from facing her fiancé.

Tilting her head, Avery peered intently up at the young man before her, inquiry beaming behind her dark gaze. She hardly knew this man, in every aspect there was he was still a stranger . Whatever lay behind his dark mask, she could not see. Nor could she remark whether or not he was a kind man nor could she conclude if he might prove to be a good and loyal friend. Despite these reasons, she did not care.

Skepticism had always proved to be second nature to her; warranting her to quickly view each and every misstep of character as a sign that this person whoever they may be would- if not now then eventually- bring her disappointment. In spite of this, it had not always been so. When naivete had resounded in her quiet and shy words, she did not act so but steadily a cynic's mind wove its way into the fabric of her being, altering who she once was. In his presence, her skepticism struggled , bucking underneath not from the weight of his smile or words but her wish to believe, perhaps not everyone would disappoint her. Maybe this one person might chase away her doubts.

“Though you may think ill of me, I must confess that irking my sister has become the most enjoyable aspect to this city and I would be quite disappointed to lose such an advantageous pastime.”

London society, encumbered by its endless rules and traditions always made for a dull and monotonous existence. Stimulating it was not to dress in finery and parade one’s self constantly for the benefit of others. Almost unknowingly her lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth until a half-smile overtook her features.“Hardly,” she answered easily with a shake of her copper tresses, pausing to collect her thoughts before she continued. “I think I’ve come to think better of you with each passing moment then most men I know. Clearly, you are not quite like anyone and this brings me to wonder whether all American men are quite as engaging as you.”

Sidling a look from the corner of her eyes, she watched unsure as he leaned toward her. His breath lingered over her skin in a gentle caress eliciting a rosy blush on her freckled cheeks much to her chagrin. Angling her head away lest he see, her cheeks burned brighter still at the embarrassed thought she acted with as much sense as the impressionable young girls first initiated into society who fell into coquettish smiles and giggles if a man simply glanced favorably in their direction. This simply was not what she did.“And when do you suppose I might learn your identity?” his question emerged suddenly in the air between them.

Surprise quickly colored the sloping curves of her cheeks and parted her lips in question. Doubt pinched her pale brows together as her eyes peered at him. Swirling in her chest, a curious emotion she could not pin point knotted her stomach. The only time men, or people in general inquired of her identity they all wished to know where she stood in regards to status. Whether or not she could be deemed worthy of their attention. As the privileged daughter of Alistair Mercer, she had known many who piqued in interest at the mention of her surname. It had became a game of hers then, to mentally count the moments before realization sparked their eyes at how much she was worth. Yet, what could she say of Avery the governess, that would warrant the same effect in the eyes of this young man who in their few moments together unknowingly intrigued her? Without the assurance he would not care for her status, she would tightly hold onto what lay hidden behind dark eyes. Ill-prepared to answer, she bit down on her lower lip searching for words to explain.“My identity? I fear my iden-”

“ Miss Mercer? What a pleasant surprise. No one has seen you round in ages and here you are with…your companion.” a voice tinged with surprise spoke up from behind her. Apprehension seized Avery for a moment, believing Eliot had finally found her. Instead, as she turned, a young man very much unlike her former fiance gazed curiously at her behind a crimson mask. Willing a polite smile on her lips, brows arched in feigned confusion she quickly replied. “ I beg your pardon sir?” It was clear as his eyes narrowed curiously at her that he believed he had surely stumbled upon Avery Mercer. However, she would adamantly deny her identity just as he tried to convince himself of it.“ Are you not Avery Mercer? If I am not mistaken you did arrive with Henry and Deidre Mercer earlier this evening and your hair,"he motioned politely to her brightly colored hair,“ is a particular shade of copper that Miss Mercer was quite known for.” Though absent from his smooth voice, she clearly saw the hint of smugness in his dark eyes, confident that she could not refute the plain truth.

“Although I am sure you would like to believe that I am who you say I am, Mr….” she trailed, searching his features not hidden by his mask for even the smallest hint of recognition but received none. “ Mr. Dawson. Eric Dawson,” he announced. Memories she had forgotten gained alarming clarity at the mention of his name. Anger and annoyance quietly burned in her chest while outwardly she showed nothing. Images flitted through her mind as quickly as that of a book impatiently flipped through. Their courtship had lasted the brief duration of a summer shower, vanishing as swiftly as it came. He had been the first to show enough interest in her that talk of marriage soon became the topic of each awkward breakfast she spent with father. Before she could fully contemplate the thought of marriage , all talk of her becoming Mrs. Dawson ceased.

According to her stern faced father as he angrily rustled through the pages of the morning paper, “If that spoiled little knave wants a witless pretty porcelain doll like Miss Delilah Smith, let him have her! He’s not fit to be wed to a Mercer then!” Lowering his paper from his whiskered face, he leveled a large finger pointing accusatory at her “ Let this be a lesson young lady, men do not care for your petulant attitude. Every time you utter a word, you lose a prospective husband and I wonder how is it possible your mother gave her life in vain. Rather than screw that pigheaded mouth of yours into that perpetual scowl, do not speak and smile prettily for them. Continue to carry on like a bitter woman and you will find your self alone Avery and I will not care for a child unable to secure for herself even a simpleton for a husband. ” Though it had not been the first time her father’s insensible words jabbed at her, it had been the first time she felt the sharp sting of rejection from another. Eric Dawson, thus became the first man to cause her to construct the wall which over the years fortified itself until thoughtless words and actions of others struck pitifully against it.

“Mr. Dawson, though I may resemble Miss Mercer, I assure you I am not her. However, I am a distant cousin visiting from Bath with my husband hence the reason why I arrived with the Mercers and also perhaps why my hair shares the same characteristics as hers,” the lies fell easily from her lips as if she spoke the truth. Aware of the man at her shoulder, his closeness a pleasant but disconcerting warmth suddenly caused her to realize how quickly her lies would fall should he choose to disagree with her words. Placing a hand in the crook of her fictional husband’s arm, she smiled warmly at Eric happily noting how confusion arose anew. “ Your husband, you say?” he muttered, his question implying he did not completely believe her.“Yes, my husband,” her tone filled with the warmth and pride she imagined a young wife might have for her spouse.“Now, if you have no further inquiries, I believe my husband and I are missing much of the dancing.”

Her calm steps towards the circle of dancers belied the thunderous pounding of heart as it beat soundly against her chest. “I apologize for not informing you of our marriage,” she whispered, gently clutching his arm as they made their way away from obnoxiously dressed figure of Eric Dawson. “ But we English are particular to gossip and marriage. If not engrossed in one, we will surely be focused on the other. And seeing how Mr. Dawson is known for creating gossip from little I thought to dispel any harmful rumors he might fabricate by painting the picture of a young and happily married couple.” Staring unseeingly past the dancing couples, she stood in wait for his reaction, her hope wavering as the silence lengthened.

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[oliver kennedy]

Reality was suspended within a soap bubble of illusion. All around them people sipped sparkling flutes of amber champagne; ladies in silk gowns drifted through the crowds, pausing for conversation, laughing politely at unfunny sentiments, gazing longingly toward the dance floor. Men slipped onto the terrace and smoked cigars, their eyes never leaving the gilded women inside, appraising their worth by the clothes they wore. Oliver gave himself to the illusion of the evening wholeheartedly. He had never been one to care about the plights of those who were not him or who immediately affected him. All that mattered was this moment and the intriguingly beautiful woman he was sharing it with, and once it had passed, he would not think on it again.

The Kennedy’s were not the sort of family that existed solely for the moment. Each moment was carefully planned, executed and manipulated to their advantage. Since arriving in London with his sister, Oliver knew that he was no more than a pawn in his father’s chess game. He made no move of his own unless he acted on impulse. “I think I’ve come to think better of you with each passing moment then most men I know. Clearly, you are not quite like anyone and this brings me to wonder whether all American men are quite as engaging as you.” The corners of his lips quirked into a smirk, and Oliver pulled her closer to him. “I’m afraid that the rest are terribly dull; only speaking of oil and railways and war.”

A soft rose blossomed across her cheeks, softening her features. Amusement seemed to spark within her eyes, and for the first time since arriving in London, Oliver found himself curious about the woman he was with. He didn’t wish her to be another shadow – she didn’t deserve that. Instead she needed to remain set apart, distinct. Not like the porcelain dolls that lined the shelves of his sister’s room in America that would break if one didn’t take care, but something worth showing off and appreciating for its subtle intricacies. He hadn’t known her long, but he was certain that she was not the sort to break easily. Oliver watched as indecision darkened her eyes, teeth pulling in apprehension at the soft flesh of her lower lip, unconsciously tempting him to do the same to her. “My identity? I fear my iden –”

“Miss Mercer? What a pleasant surprise…” A male’s voice as polished as silver interrupted, piercing the moment, and allowing reality to reassert itself. Annoyance settled itself within the hard press of Oliver’s lips as he fought to keep his biting comments to himself. It didn’t matter that this other man had provided the woman’s name because it had robbed her of the opportunity to do so, and Oliver would have much preferred her voice to this man. To anyone with half a wit it was plainly obvious that Miss Mercer wanted nothing more than for this man to leave her in peace. Her eyes darted between Oliver and Mr. Eric Dawson, as he had just introduced himself. It was a stupid name as far as Oliver was concerned – the sort that would have made their fortune in something ridiculous like lumber or lard. Even his mask was obnoxious. He masked a laugh beneath a cough with the realization that it matched his sister’s atrocious gown perfectly and Oliver hoped that they would find one another. He had a feeling that they had much in common.

“Mr. Dawson, though I may resemble Miss Mercer, I assure you I am not her. However, I am a distant cousin visiting from Bath with my husband hence the reason why I arrived with the Mercers and also perhaps why my hair shares the same characteristics as hers.” Oliver’s brow piqued with interest as the lies slipped faultlessly from her lips. There was no waver in her voice or downcasting of eyes. Admiration and curiosity twined themselves within him as he watched their altercation in silence, contributing to her lie by stepping closer and placing his hand passively on the small of her back as he imagined a young husband would. He said nothing, watching with a smirk as the man’s confidence cracked and fell onto the floor before him, until he finally walked away, shaking his head in dismay. His hand slipped from her back, allowing her to grasp his arm as she steered him toward the dance floor once more, and he found that he didn’t want to release her; she had captured his imagination.

“I apologize for not informing you of our marriage,” she whispered. “But we English are particular to gossip and marriage. If not engrossed in one, we will surely be focused on the other. And seeing how Mr. Dawson is known for creating gossip from little U thought to dispel any harmful rumors he might fabricate by painting the picture of a young and happily married couple.”

His other hand slid to her hand, removing it from his arm and turning to face her. Bowing slightly as the music commenced for a waltz, Oliver peered up at his newly minted wife, a smirk brightening his features. “Well, Mrs. Kennedy, I daresay I am a most forgetful husband, and cannot recall your identity before our marriage. Nor can I remember your face, which I am certain is lovely as I am a man of the most discerning of tastes. I propose we create our own party elsewhere where we can assist my memory.” He paused, staring into her shadowed eyes, hoping she wouldn’t feign offence. He stepped toward her, lowering her voice so that no one might overhear their conversation. “I find that the only way I might improve upon tonight’s festivities is to leave them.”