SCARLET BEGONIAS

“It is a heavy crown to wear, Isadora,” my mom began, tapping a heavy gold signet ring against a mahogany desk.

I sat stiffly on the edge of a brocade chaise, my 21st-birthday silk gown rustling with every nervous breath. My mind, however, was miles from Thorne-Ashbury. It was with him.

What would Alaric do?

The drawing room was thick with the scent of bergamot and a sharp, metallic tang that set my teeth on edge. Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon sun like uninvited guests over a heavy, leather-bound ledger.

Across from me sat my mother, the Duchess of Mayfair, who looked every bit the formidable matriarch in her tailored waistcoat, while my father, Lord Julian, was bent over his embroidery hoop, meticulously stitching the family crest into a fresh set of linens.

“The Amberley requires a consort of exceptional... domestic fortitude.” She continued, but what all of these make me think about is Alaric. Has he remarried?

But, are we even... counted?

Father looked up, offering a gentle, encouraging smile. He had married into the Amberley family almost thirty years ago, bringing with him a modest dowry of silver and a genius for household management that was the envy of every lady from Mayfair to Bath.

“The Season begins in a fortnight, and your father has spent months Curating the List.” Mother slid a heavy, vellum folder across the desk. It was the Directory of Eligible Gentlemen, the annual catalog of the realm’s most “accomplished” sons.

“We have narrowed the Prospectus to the most exquisite selections in the kingdom, darling." Mother continued. "Men of high breeding, low drama, and impeccable temperaments.”

“It is a particularly fine vintage of gentlemen this year,” Father noted warmly

“First,” Mother pointed to a portrait of a man with soft, soulful eyes and hair like spun gold. “First, Lord Arthur of High-Garden. His mother is the Minister of Finance. He has been trained from the nursery in the arts of herbal tea composition and the management of formal gardens. His temperament is as steady as a mountain lake. And the dowry includes three thousand acres of prime timberland.”

“And he’s a marvelous pianist,” Father chimed in, "And, he speaks four languages. Think of the dinner parties he could host for your associates, darling."

I flipped the page. The next portrait was more striking: a man with sharp cheekbones and a more athletic build.

“Lord Silas of the Northern Isles,” Mother declared. “Old blood. He is famed for his ‘Gentleman’s Diplomacy’: the ability to settle staff disputes and organize a three-hundred-guest gala without a single saucer meeting the floor. It is rumored he can balance the ledgers of three estates simultaneously. And, he has a rare talent for horticulture.”

“He looks... intense,” I whispered.

“A necessary trait for a High Consort,” mother replied firmly. "Though, he is known to be a bit... opinionated."

“But his naval connections!” Father interjected. “If you intend to run for the Admiralty, Silas is the Diamond of the Season. The prize everyone will be chasing.”

“Or, if you prefer the artistic sort," Mother said with a conspiratorial wink, "there is young Master Elian. His father was the finest ballroom dancer of the last century. Elian himself has the most delicate touch with lace-work in all of Mayfair. He would provide the Amberley name with the most beautiful heirs and the most impeccably decorated holiday tables.”

Father set down his needle and leaned forward, taking my hand. “You must choose a man who understands his place, Isadora. A man who will keep the hearth warm while you command the world. ”

I looked at the names, the most talented, beautiful, and “well-behaved” men in the region, all waiting to be plucked like ripe fruit, ready to leave their names behind for mine.

But they don’t possess a fraction of Alaric’s grace, or the way his eyes lit up. I wonder where he would be right now?

“They all seem so... 'perfect',” I whispered, my finger tracing the gold-embossed crest of the next candidate. "Do any of them... talk back?”

Mother let out a rare, sharp laugh. “Gods forbid, Isadora. We are looking for a husband, not a revolutionary.” Mother's laughter died down, replaced by a gaze as sharp as a falcon’s. She adjusted her waistcoat, her eyes narrowing on the final page of the ledger: the one I hadn’t turned to yet.

“There is, however,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “the matter of the rogue entry. One your father and I have debated for quite some time.”

Father sighed, his needle pausing mid-air over the crest. “He is a wildcard, Isadora. Highly unconventional. But your grandmother insisted he be included to fulfill an old blood-debt.”

I turned the page.

Unlike the others, whose portraits were staged with soft lighting and domestic props: a book of poetry, a silver tea set, a garden trowel, this man was captured in charcoal. He wasn’t looking at the artist. He was leaning against a stone pillar in what looked like a library, his arms crossed over a chest that looked far too broad for the delicate silks of a High Consort.

“Lord Caelan of House Vane,” I read aloud.

“A scandalous family,” Mother said, though her tone held a hint of respect. “His mother was the disgraced General who led the charge at the Battle of the Crags. Since her passing, Caelan has been running the household. He doesn’t embroider, he doesn’t play the piano, and I’m told he spent his youth in the sparring pits with the city guard.”

“He is also,” Father added, looking pained, “remarkably tall. And he refuses to wear the traditional corset-stays required for formal balls. He says they ‘inhibit his breathing.’”

I stared at the sketch. Caelan Vane had a jawline of iron and eyes that looked like they were hiding a very dangerous secret. He didn’t look like a man who waited by the hearth with a warm tea.

“He is a man of… excessive energy,” Mother warned. “He would require a very firm hand. But he brings the Vane iron mines with him, if... you want to build a new railway?”

“A revolutionary?” I teased, repeating her earlier word.

“Worse,” Mother replied, standing up and smoothing her trousers. “An original. He will also be at the Masquerade tomorrow night.”

She walked toward the door, paused, and looked back at me. “Choose wisely, Isadora. A man at home must be a comfort, not a challenge. But a Duchess who conquers the world sometimes finds she enjoys a bit of a fight when she returns to her chambers.”

As they left, the room returned to its velvet silence. I looked back at the “perfect” men. Then I looked back at the charcoal sketch of Caelan. I ran my thumb over the rough texture of the paper. “We shall see,”

The next evening, the Amberley estate was a constellation of gaslight and gossip.

I stood on the mezzanine, my face hidden behind a gold-leafed fox mask. Below, the ballroom floor was a swirling sea of silk. I spotted Arthur of High-Garden almost immediately; he was draped in white feathers as a swan, surrounded by a gaggle of young heiresses. He was laughing softly, his hands folded demurely in front of him.

“You look as though you’re calculating the tax revenue of the entire room,” a low, gravelly voice vibrated behind me.

I stiffened. I hadn’t heard anyone approach.

I turned to find a man who clearly hadn’t read the dress code. He wasn’t wearing the delicate silks of a suitor. He wore a dark, midnight-blue frock coat, and his mask wasn’t a swan or a dove. It was a black stallion, carved from matte leather.

“Lord... Vane, I presume,” I said, tilting my head up his frame. “The stallion is not a prey animal.”

“Is it not?” he replied, leaning against the marble railing with a casualness that would have made my father faint. “Technically, the rules say ‘herbivore.’ So a horse fits, even if it’s one that’s prone to kicking.”

I stepped closer, the scent of him hitting me, not the powdery rose or lavender, something like... rain, cold and earthy. Through the eye-slits of his mask, his gaze was electric.

I felt my inner Duchess bristle, some weird feeling rising to the surface.

I challenged, moving more into his space.

Caelan leaned down, his lips brushing the edge of my gold fox mask. The heat radiating from him was a physical force. “The first dance is a waltz.”

I looked down at the ballroom floor. Lord Arthur, the Swan, was looking up, as if waiting for me to descend.

Then I looked back at Caelan, extending a gloved hand.

He straightened up, then gave a mock-bow that was more of a dare than a gesture of submission.

He placed his hand in mine.

“I hope you’re prepared, Lord Vane. I’ve been told I lead with a very heavy foot.”

“Good,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to bypass my ears entirely, humming straight into the marrow of my chest.