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Fiyero sits in his study, swirling his tumbler of brandy, watching the swish of the amber liquid with unseeing eyes. He feels guilty for missing dinner with his family, but after calling on Lady Upland, he has found himself out of sorts and in need of space to think.
It is not Lady Galinda that is on his mind. She had been perfectly agreeable, polite and interested in what he had to say. Whether this interest was sincere or not did not concern him. He had made his intention to court her known, her father had seemed more than agreeable and the plan was to promenade the next morning. So at least that business was well underway.
He felt no great affection for Lady Galinda. It sounded harsh, but it was the truth and the way he preferred it. He wished for a marriage of duty. He would offer his wife the protection of his name and his body. She would want for nothing and he would respect her as his wife and the mother of his children. But that is where it would end. He would not love her, nor she him. And when inevitably they were parted by forces out of their control, there would be no grief or break down. The remaining spouse would simply continue in their duty, care for the children, manage the family.
I will not become my mother, he vows, not for the first time.
And as it often does when his emotions are frayed, the memories wash over him unbidden.
His father clutched a hand to his chest over a seemingly harmless bee sting. The smile slid off Fiyero’s face as he watches his father grasp for his throat. His breathing labored before it simply stopped and he dropped to the ground as Fiyero watched, frozen in horror. His mother's wails of anguish as she had rushed out of the house to find her husband unresponsive on the grass. Her harsh words as she ordered him to see to the children who were watching, faces frightened. Being addressed as Lord Tigelaar for the first times mere minutes after his father had gasped his last breath.
The following weeks watching helplessly as his mother retreated further and further into her own mind. His fear for the welfare of his youngest sister, still cradled in his mother's womb. Holding his youngest brother, only 2 years of age at the time of their father's death, as he cried for his mamma. Listening to his mother beg for death as his youngest sister entered the world backwards. Finding no relief as his mother came back to herself and resumed her duties to her children and household, fearing it was only a matter of time before she would slip back into the abyss.
He places his tumbler down roughly, leaning forward and digging the heels of his palms punishingly into his eyes. He must stop this at once. It does nothing to dwell on things he can't change, he must focus rather on ensuring it does not happen again.
So he will charm Lady Galinda on the promenade tomorrow, dance with her at the balls, and if he can help it, they will be engaged by the end of the month. And if his mind happens to wander to emerald skin, mossy lips and a pink tongue, equally as skilled lashing a sharp word as it is of savouring sweet cream from a pastry, he will push the thoughts aside.
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Stepping out of the carriage, he turns to offer his hand to his sister to help her exit. She will be promenading with a certain Lord Avaric who has caught her eye. His mother and oldest brother will be chaperoning, as he will be otherwise engaged with Lady Galinda. It's a fine day indeed, and he wishes, not for the first time, that his time was his own and he could be enjoying the cool breeze astride Feldspur galloping through Calliper Forest.
As he strolls along the promenade in the company of his mother and siblings, he turns to nod at them, wishing his sister well as the pathway forks and his family must turn left to meet his sister's suitor and he must continue on to meet Lady Galinda.
He steels his spine as he catches sight of the Upland contingent in the near distance. He can see Lady Galinda, dressed once again in a frothy pink gown, though the design is more suited to a morning of promenading it is true, she is bookended by her parents who alternate between gazing at the rushing Stalintine river and sending adoring looks in the direction of their daughter.
His attention is quickly drawn from their parental bliss to the figure stood just behind them. She is dutiful in her stature, spine straight and chin titled upwards, though her expression is that of boredom. She clasps a book in front of her, and he guesses that she is waiting for the first opportunity to get lost in its pages. He is forced to temper his curiosity regarding Lady Galinda’s lovely companion; it would hardly do to appear transfixed by another while in the midst of his suit. Indeed it is an act he will come to know well after they marry.
Reaching his intended company, he greets the party politely with a small bow. The ladies curtsey in turn, and he determinedly does not notice the enticing curve of a slender emerald neck. Turning his attentions resolutely to Lady Galinda, he flashes what he hopes is a charming smile.
“My Lady, this light becomes you,” he compliments. He simply cannot compliment her dress, for it brings to mind the strawberry ice his youngest sister is so fond of.
“You flatter me my lord,” she responds, and her voice has a breathy quality and he is unsure if it is sincere or an act. He finds he does not care.
“Would you do me the honour of taking a turn around the river?” he asks, gesturing his arm out to her. “I thought we might make our way down to the willow trees at the bottom of the park. If it pleases you, I have had our cook prepare a picnic and a footman is waiting to deliver it.”
She titters her agreement prettily, before adding, “Lady Elphaba will be joining us as my chaperone.”
This was a slight hitch in the plan, though not entirely unexpected. As lady's trusted companion, a lady-in-waiting acting as chaperone is a common occurrence. He cannot deny that he had hoped her parents would take up the mantle. He was none too interested in them, which made it easier for him to keep his attention where it belonged. Nevertheless, he must be gracious.
“Of course, as you wish my lady,” he acquiesces as they begin their stroll along the pathway, Lady Galinda's hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm.
As they walk amiably along the river, Lady Galinda maintains an ever constant conversation regaling him with excruciating details about her latest dress designs and most concernedly about her Pomeranian, who much to her disappointment, has birthed 6 puppies in her absence.
This raises in him a level of disquiet. The prospect of a mass of vapid powder puffs invading his home is not a pleasant one. He is generally fond of animals, but Pomeranians barely count as dogs, yappy and overly furnished as they are.
He is still pondering this most odious thought as they approach the picnic that has been dutifully laid out for them by his footman. It is a lavish set up for outdoor dining, the lawn has been swathed in various Persian rugs, with large cushions and small poufs added for comfortable seating. A low table sits adorned with various fruits, sandwiches and an array of treats of his cook's creation. He had specified that éclairs be left off the menu, a fact that he is most grateful for now that Lady Elphaba is indeed in attendance.
He lends a hand to Lady Galinda to assist her in settling herself in a seat. He is about to take the seat next to her, before she adamantly insists that Lady Elphaba take his intended seat. He instantly moves aside to make room for her to do so, and when he offers her his hand as he had done for lady Galinda, you might think that he had offered her a handful of worms, for her face is displeasured and she ignores his offer, in favour of dropping gracefully into the seat unassisted.
A vexing woman, he thinks irritated. Why must she rebuff his good nature at every turn.
Aside from this, he is curious about the arrangement unfolding in front of him. To his knowledge, it is usual for debutantes to relish privacy with their suitors. Well, as much privacy as can be achieved when one is chaperoned. However, he had noticed that while walking, Lady Galinda had made several attempts to draw her companion into their conversation. Lady Elphaba had declined politely at each turn, but Lady Galinda had seemed dogged nevertheless. And now, it seems she prefers to sit aside Lady Elphaba instead of him.
It does not bother him per se, but it is certainly perplexing. Lady Elphaba it seemed, shared his sentiments, for she protested the seating arrangements.
“Darling,” she addressed Lady Galinda sweetly, “surely you would prefer if I sat on the side-lines to leave you to your conversation? I am not a part of this courtship, and I'm more than happy to read while you enjoy Lord Tigelaar's company.”
It seems it causes her some pain to express the last sentence, though she does so with a noble imitation of civility. He finds himself having to suppress a smirk at her manner.
“Nonsense Elphie,” Lady Galinda chastises, “you simply must join us. And I don't want to hear anymore about that hideodeous book. The topic is frightfully dull, I'm sure Lord Tigelaar would quite agree.”
His amusement is much harder to suppress now. Elphie, is hardly the nickname he would appropriate to the woman, spirited and strong in character as she is. At the moment she simply seems put out, and she shoots him a warning glare when he chuckles at the moniker bestowed upon her.
“What is this book about Lady Elphaba?” he asks, still grinning, “I am happy to be of service settling the score.”
Lady Galinda looks delighted, seemingly anticipating a victory. Lady Elphaba, on the other hand, appears to be expending significant effort not to roll her eyes. With a barely perceptible sigh, she levels him with a defiant look.
“I am sure it will not be of much interest to you my lord, but it is a study of phrenology.” Once again, her tone is polite while her glare is nothing of the sort.
“Ah,” he responds, “and I take it you do not appreciate phrenology as a worthy study?”
“Well of course not,” she expels, pretence forgotten as she throws her hands up in frustration. “It is quite the most closed minded and bizarre theory I have ever read.”
Holding back a grin at her display of obvious passion, he offers: “Does it not stand to reason that since the majority of great minds of science and philosophy are men, and therefore have larger skulls, that there might be a modicum of merit to the theory?”
He does not really believe as such, blessed as he is with a number of highly intelligent sisters and a very capable mother, but he does so enjoy nettling her. And indeed she doesn't disappoint. Fire flashes across her eyes and her breathing becomes quite laboured in her indignation. He tries valiantly not to notice the flush that adorns her modestly outfitted bosom.
“I would expect little enlightenment from one such as yourself, my lord, since you are so well served by such baseless ideology but…” her tone is no longer polite and he no longer feels amused. Her passionate exchange has stirred something in him that is sending a searing heat down his spine. Fearing that much more will put him in a situation quite unbecoming for polite company, he is grateful when Lady Galinda puts an end to her tirade.
“You see Elphie, this is what I mean,” she begins, running a hand placatingly along her friend's shoulder, “why must you read such things if they only upset you?”
Unwilling to argue, the shutters fall over her face, and Lady Elphaba once more embodies the picture of polite boredom.
“You are right darling, I quite forgot myself,” she acquiesces, sending a kind smile to her companion. “Why don't you tell Lord Tigelaar about the new piece you have been learning on the pianoforte?”
And with that, she once again slips into the background, engaging in their conversation only so much as is needed to keep Lady Galinda placated. And once again, he finds himself in a stupor, playacting as an interested conversant. Though he does take a moment to ponder that despite her sharp tongue, Lady Elphaba does appear to have a kind nature, patient and attentive as she is with Lady Galinda.
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Yet another ball, he bemoans internally. Entering the Tilbury house for their infamous fair and flowered ball, he wilts slightly under the gaze of the debutantes and their predatory mamas. It would seem that his dutiful courtship of Lady Galinda had not even granted him the small kindness of taking him off their scent.
He pulls his sister closer to him, more for his comfort than hers, as they enter the ornately adorned entryway into the great hall. So furnished is the hall with flowers, that Fiyero quite has the notion to sneeze. It would not surprise him if there was not a single flower in shop or garden from Oz to Ev.
His mother and sister at least seem thoroughly charmed and he resists the urge to bring up his brandy when Lord Avaric appears as if from nowhere, greeting them and tucking a chrysanthemum into his sister's hair.
Begging his leave with as much propriety as he can muster, he makes his way further into the crush of the ton in attendance, thankful as ever that he can leave his sister in his mother's capable hands. If he is to attend this monstrosity of an event, then he must do so with a goal in sight. His search intent, he eventually sights Lady Galinda. As usual, she is holding court over suitors and debutantes alike. Whilst it was always his intent to pursue the diamond of the season, it certainly does have its frustrations. Nevertheless he is a determined man, and eventually makes his way through the crowd to claim the lady's first dance. And two more come to that. If he wants a hurried engagement, he must make peace with laying it on a bit thick.
As he bows to Lady Galinda at the conclusion of their country dance, he pretends that he does not scan the surrounding ground with a tender hope to sight a flash of green. He finds himself disappointed. Releasing Lady Galinda to her next dance partner, he makes his way outside, craving a breath of air that is not so heavily perfumed and sickly. He hooks a glass of champagne off a footman’s tray along the way, downing it as he ducks behind a pillar to avoid a particularly ravenous looking group of mamas.
Though not his drink of choice, the champagne does something to steady his nerves. He does make a mental note not to rely on it quite so much this evening, remembering how utterly foxed he found himself after the previous ball. Inhaling desperately, he feels a moment of relief being on the side lines of the bedlam occurring indoors, it is a brief reprieve as he soon hears the crowing and jeering of a group of his acquaintances from his club who are, by all accounts, quite in their cups.
“Tigelaaaaar!” Lord Cloxham roars, and he finds himself crossing the patio to join them, if only to quiet the uproar.
“Cloxham,” he greets congenially.
"We were just saying," the man hiccups, "that you seem quite taken with the little prize of the season. So biddable she seems, and I’m sure she’ll prove just as easy to break to the bridle—though one wonders if she has the blood to keep from throwing a shoe before the first night is out."
“Come now man,” he responds disdainfully, “there is no reason to speak of the lady in that manner. Did your father not raise you a gentleman?”
This is met with even more uproarious jeers.
“Look at this gents,” crows Cloxham, “could it be that Tigelaar finds himself smitten over the diamond,” he finishes with a note of scorn.
“You mistake a keen eye for a soft heart, Cloxham,” he replied, his voice cutting through the laughter with his own cold chuckle. “I seek a wife, not a muse. So long as she has a pleasing face to look at across the breakfast table and enough wit to manage the household, the rest is merely a matter of duty and anatomy. Love is for the opera; I am merely looking for an heir.”
The taunting doesn't stop at that, but it seems that their liquor supply has dwindled and they make their way back inside in search of replenishment. Turning back around to face the gardens, he takes a moment to enjoy the night air. Resolving to make his way back inside to check on his sister's progress, he hears a metallic clang followed by a muttered curse, and a rustling behind the potted conifer in front of him.
“Is someone there?” he questions curiously, making his way down the steps that lead to the lawn. Upon rounding the conifer, he is pleased to gaze upon the emerald beauty he has been working hard to keep out of his mind. She is wearing a most exquisite gown in navy blue. In accordance with the theme of the ball, it is adorned with beaded roses along the hem, and, drawing attention to her décolletage.
“Lady Elphaba,” he bows politely with a smile, “I was hoping we would meet this evening.”
It is only as he lifts his head from his bow and meets her eyes, that he realizes they are alight with fury. Non-plussed, he opens his mouth to enquire about her well being when she speaks quite venomously.
“Why my lord, so that you can assess whether my wit is acceptable and my face pleasing? Is this a standard all women in your company must meet, or is only reserved for the poor and unassuming women you swindle into marriage?”
His ears turn red and hot at the realization that she had overheard him, still he feels defensive given that it was not a conversation he intended her, or any lady to hear.
“You were eavesdropping?” he questions with a note of scorn.
“Hardly my lord,” she pays his scorn in kind, “I am surprised that the rest of the ton were not apprised of your thoughts on marriage given the decibel at which you gentlemen were making your opinions known.”
“So you take issue with my requirements for a wife?” he questions defiantly, though he's not sure why, he already knows her answer.
“I take issue with any man merely seeking a young lady to wed and bed for his own pleasure and to produce an heir,” she responds acidically. “Tell me Lord Tigelaar, is that the future you wish for your own sisters?”
This is an argument he cannot make, and he is momentarily lost for words, he can only offer a weak, “The conversation wasn't meant for you.”
This she meets with a humourless chuckle. “Well when you find this unfortunate woman, she has my sincerest apologies. But I can tell you with certainty that it will not be Lady Galinda, for she has my loyal counsel, and I sir, find your character to be as wanting as your horsemanship.”
Upon dealing this final blow, she whirls around and makes haste back into the house. He finds himself momentarily frozen. He would like to think his disquiet is born from the complications this will cause in his endeavour to court Lady Galinda, but if he were honest with himself, he would admit that the look in Lady Elphaba's eyes and her impenetrable argument against his character are what really haunt him.
He feels an untenable need to escape, so he makes his way inside to make his excuses to his mother and sister, promising to send the carriage back for them.
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Hours later, cocooned as he is in the tender embrace and lodgings of Sarima Arjikis, he runs his palms down her luscious curves. He takes a dusky nipple between his lips, laving it with his tongue before offering a punishing nip. She moans throatily in response increasing the pressure of her fingers in his hair and undulates beneath him. The motion provide just enough friction to madden him.
This he ponders, moving his attention to the neglected breast, is another thing marriage will rob him of. For no matter how determined he is that love shall have no place in his marriage, neither will disrespect. He will not keep a mistress once married. It makes his pleasure in Sarima's body that much more heady, for he knows his days are numbered.
Placing a trail of wet kisses and nips between the valley of her breasts and down the slope of her abdomen, he has a vision, quite unbidden, of a similar stretch of skin in emerald green. He can't help but imagine if those particular nipples would elicit similar whimpers of pleasure if he were to give them such attention. His prick throbs impatiently at the thought, before he attempts to push away the thought, sliding further down Sarima's lithe body, he buries his face in the generous musk of her cunt.