Chapter Text
London, 1813.
“Where is he?!” Evanora barked, storming through the halls.
William, for all his faults, did his very best. “Viscountess Harkness, your son is a bit under the weather-”
She whipped her head towards William, shooting daggers. “Why is he still employing you? Every time I see you, you look one breath away from a fainting spell!”
“I was never dismissed,” William muttered under his breath as Evanora pushed past him and burst into the room.
“My god!” Evanora shrieked, her skirt swishing as she frantically ripped the covers from the bed.
Agatha roused, taking in a sharp breath as the chill hit her body. The women next to her stirred, only then did Agatha realize their current state—naked from the night before. Her chest was still smothered by its bindings, but it did not remedy the current predicament much. “Mother-”
Evanora flung the duvet down. “Would it cost you a great deal to show this family a modicum of respect?!” She paced at the foot of the bed while Agatha covered herself and her guest. “She is paid for, yes?”
“Yes,” Agatha groaned. “Of course.” Her mother might keep Agatha, or rather—Augustus—on a short leash, but she was not daft enough to consort with a lady of nobility. Every partner Agatha took was a prostitute who was compensated handsomely for her humility and silence. “To what do I owe this pleasure,” she grinned.
“We are to be at the Maximoff’s in less than an hour!” Evanora scowled.
“I will not be attending," Agatha stated. “I have no desire or use for a wife.” She slumped further into the mattress. “If that is all…”
Her mother nodded towards another servant, the man then shucking open the blinds. “You will be ready in the next twenty minutes, lest I drag you out by your ear.”
“I-”
“Augustus,” Evanora lowered her voice in warning. “This family will die with you unless you take a wife, it is crucial you find a lady of stature this season. I have let you have free rein for long enough.”
“Take a wife and do what, exactly?” Agatha quirked a brow. “I cannot sire you an heir. The bloodline was already destined to perish with me!”
Evanora stomped her foot, the black fabric of her gown crinkling as she did so. Even twenty-five years later, she still opted to wear her mourning attire. Agatha secretly thought it was because Evanora liked the way black made her seem cold and unapproachable. “We have a reputation to uphold.” She pointed between Agatha and the other woman. “This will not be the reputation you create for us. A viscount cannot miss a societal gathering to be entangled with a whore!”
Agatha ran her hands over her face, deflating. “Yes, mother.”
“I will await your arrival out front,” she stated. “Make haste.”
William took care of the woman, Maria, Agatha thinks her name was. She took to getting dressed, though there were many servants to aid her, she preferred to do it herself. As she did not get to pick how she presented to the world, she could have power on how she presented within the scope of what was expected. Her hair was exceptionally long, though she kept back in a neat braid. She wore trousers made of fine fabric as men of her station had, followed by a high-collard shirt, vest, and tailcoat. Agatha’s features helped her to pass in society, her sharp jawline, thick eyebrows, and prominent nose. Her mother always said she was destined to be a boy, for she did not possess the beauty to reflect a woman’s.
She slinked into the carriage, tuning out her mother’s rambles. Ultimately, for Evanora, Agatha’s search for a wife was not about ensuring the bloodline. It was about fitting in with societal expectations. Her mother chose to raise her as a boy after the passing of the former viscount Harkness, Agatha’s father. She was merely a month old when he died, and fearing losing everything, Evanora doctored the birth records and smudged the ink—claiming that Agatha was truly Augustus. As nobody would dare question a grieving viscountess, the legal change was recorded and kept.
There were pros—formal and higher education, no debut, no entertaining of men. However, she was expected to socialize with men, though not many cared for Augustus. Perhaps she had pointed out their biases one too many times, or did not see the merit in tackling one another to the ground. Men were brutish meatheads who were all obsessed with defining a woman based on arbitrary societal standards. The women were a nice touch, though. She never took any woman under false pretenses, revealing her true form before continuing—for most, it was not a deal breaker.
“I do not see why the choice is not clear, you and Wanda have been the best of friends since you were small,” Evanora said as they pulled up. “She will accept you while others will fear you.”
Wanda had been the one female friend Agatha had kept all her life, having grown up so close in proximity to one another. The redhead already knew Agatha’s secret, her real body, but their relationship was always platonic. She was a couple years younger than Agatha, closing in on becoming a spinster if she did not marry this season. The Maximoff’s were scrambling, Wanda needed to be married off despite the dowry, and Pietro needed to marry in order to keep their family afloat.
“It would be akin to me marrying my sister,” Agatha grumbled. “Wanda yearns for children, a family. I will not deprive her of a life with a real man.”
Evanora scoffed, the carriage coming to a stop and the footman opening her door. “You will be wed this season, pick a girl and marry her before she realizes your deformity. You are tarnishing your father’s legacy and embarrassing our very name. Do you hear me?”
She slowly nodded, staring at her hands. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Evanora studied her for a moment. “Now, fix your voice. I did not give good money for you to speak in such a manner.”
Agatha cleared her throat, consciously placing her voice in a lower register. Throughout adolescence, her mother had forced her to go to ‘speech therapy’ every day. No matter if it was a weekend or a holiday. As most who participated in such therapy were considered slow and dull, Agatha was too—however hers was not for a reason other than to condition her to speak in the way men did. In addition, she was made to bind her chest once puberty hit, and Evanora would know if she hadn’t. There were days at a time where Agatha would be locked in her room, weeping for her mother to let her out. The staff would try to take mercy on her, sneak her food, but that always resulted in the servant being dismissed immediately. Her hair was only long as it was now because Agatha was too grown to be pinned down as her mother cut it, a regular occurrence until she had turned eighteen and fought back.
Agatha got out, rounding the carriage and reluctantly offering her mother her arm and escorted her through the grand hall of the home and out to the lawn. A garden party was a most insipid affair, standing in the sun and sipping bland lemonade in the name of a mating ritual. Evanora almost instantly broke away, finding a group of mother hens to cluck with, whispering and judging the poor girls who were essentially up for auction. Agatha did not hate her masculinity, her relationship with it often ebbed and flowed. Gratitude often filled her lungs as she witnessed these gatherings, for she was exempt. However, she did miss existence before the rigidity of duty.
As viscount, Agatha managed her family’s estate and wealth—having found she had a knack for numbers early on in life. She participated in the House of Lords, a fancy name for standing around and holding court with drunken men. She routinely appeared in the House of Commons, though her political ambitions ended there. Most men went away to finish their education prior to university, Agatha did not as Evanora did not want her cohabitating with other boys and coming back indecent. That was before Agatha had assuaged her mother’s fears—Agatha would not be giving Evanora an heir the old fashioned way. It weighed on her, in a perfect world, Agatha would be a mother—well, father.
“Lord Harkness!” Wanda came bounding across the lawn, improperly bunching the red satin of her skirt to arrive faster.
Agatha smiled, authentically. She opened her arms to catch the other woman, chuckling as Wanda’s arms encircled her. An improper show of affection, as unwed men and women should not touch, but it was not one of romance. “Wanda.”
She let go after a beat, grabbing her—his—face. “You have left me destitute for far too long.”
“I hardly left you destitute,” Agatha snorted. “I have been in the country, at my estate.”
“Is that not what I said…in essence,” she giggled. “Your mother has been speaking to my mother.”
“Oh, well that cannot be good,” he grimaced.
“Apparently you and I are meant to be married by the end of this season.” Wanda then rolled her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her. “My parents are essentially already packing my luggage.”
“I would not curse you with such a plight,” Augustus pursed his lips. “You want for motherhood, do you not?”
Her eyes appeared near emerald in the sun, her smile as warm as the summer breeze. “I do, but I also want for a kind husband. I know you would treat me well. I could do far worse.”
He gave her hand a delicate squeeze. “A life lived as a lie is not a life lived well.”
“So, pray tell, how will you weasel your way out of this one?” She furrowed her brows. “Evanora is on a warpath, you cannot escape this time.”
The tension in his shoulder was instinctual. “You say it as though I will have swarms of debutantes after me.”
“You may famously be a rake,” Wanda scoffed. “But you are handsome, wealthy, and titled. Mothers will be hurling their daughters your way.”
“And what comes of my wife on the wedding night?” He quietly prodded. “I have trapped a young woman and crushed her hopes, stolen her innocence for my own gain. You cannot call me kind and then detail an exceptionally cruel act.”
“It is not cruel,” she corrected. “There are many women who would not take issue. Various new girls have presented and entered the pool this season.”
He huffed out a gruff laugh. “None that should deserve a burden that great.”
She turned around, interlocking her arm with his as she scanned the lawn. Her finger pointed to one young lady in a lavender gown, flowing brunette locks down her back. “Kate Bishop. Father is a compulsive gambler, but good family.”
“Wanda, she cannot be more than seventeen.” He whispered in shock. “She should be completing her studies, not sold to some man thrice her age.”
“You are twenty-five, not sixty.” She began walking with him over the perfectly manicured grass. “Cassandra Lang. Her mother has said she will not settle for less than a duke for her daughter, though.”
“Why do you keep pointing to literal infants?” He hissed.
“That is what happens when girls present before eighteen,” she shrugged.
His gaze swept along the crowd, if not for anything but to humor his friend. Blue tracked along a multitude of women, some he recognized, some he had never seen before. His eyes froze on one girl—woman—in particular. She was off near the pond, crouched down in the most unladylike way, studying the flowers that had taken root near the body of water. She was not smelling them as women often did, no, it appeared to look like she was running her hand over a singular petal, trying to commit the sensation to memory. Her hair ended at her shoulders in soft waves, a rich brown that was stark against the sage green of her dress. He could only make out her profile, but her nose was one he’d only ever seen in his art studies.
“Who is that?” He nodded towards the pond where the woman was trying to carefully avoid mud on the hem of her dress. “Most peculiar to roll in dirt at a function, is it not?”
Wanda smirked, tilting her head inquisitively at him. “Rio Vidal. Her family had not participated in years past, she presented this year—at twenty-six, god help her. Rumor has it that her father is on the brink of losing their wealth and his title. Her dowry is apparently barely over four figures, they cannot afford more. Her lineage is rather reclusive, her mother is English but her father is from a Spanish colony in the Caribbean Sea. I believe he was only titled due to his wife being an heiress.”
“Tweny-six?” He echoed. “She is, by all accounts, a spinster.”
“They are praying to god that someone will pluck her off the shelf, I fear.”
He watched as the woman, as Rio, was dragged away from her exploration by what he could only assume was her mother. “Have you spoken with her?”
She stopped walking, curling her lips. “Why do you ask, my lord? Are you taking an interest in the spinster?”
“No!” Augustus defended. “She is most odd, and I…”
“Find it endearing.”
“You did not answer my question,” he retorted.
Wanda let out a heavy breath. “She does not talk much to the other girls, I have only exchanged a few words with her. She does not seem pleased to be on the marriage mart.”
“Well, why ever would she be,” he replied, mostly to himself.
“You-” Wanda did not get another word in before her brother, Pietro, summoned her. She petted his shoulder as goodbye, a temporary farewell, there was a ball tonight that Augustus was also required to attend.
He shifted uncomfortably as young woman after young woman approached once Wanda was free of his arm, he didn’t see Rio again—despite the time he spent looking.
“Alice, please!” Rio wheezed, half bent over a chair as her lady’s maid yanked the strings of her corset.
“Tighter,” Rio’s mother demanded. “Men desire a small waist and full bosom, since you spend your days toiling in the garden, you are too lanky. Therefore, we have to squeeze everything we possibly can for your bust to attract a suitor.”
Alice hesitated, murmuring, “I am sorry,” before pulling again.
Oh, her ribs were going to crack. “Mama, I cannot breathe!”
Her mother came around in front of her, getting down so her face was level with Rio’s. “This would not be happening if you were not so insistent on wasting your time playing in mud like a man. Women pick the flowers, they do not plant them. We have staff for that.”
“We will not have staff for much longer,” Rio bit out, attempting to expand her lungs and being denied by the boning encasing her torso. “So I may as well be useful at a trade.”
Victoria cocked her head, hands on her hips in offense. “We are still part of society, and we will remain to be just as soon as you find a husband.” She then walked behind Rio, placing a hand on her waist as if she could feel that her waist was now the correct size. She gave an affirmative nod to Alice before stating, “You will have a full dance card at the ball tonight, or so help me god, I will rip out all those bulbs and flowers and leave it as a dirt patch.”
She winced as Alice began tying the cords, beginning to feel woozy. “My head is light, please, just let it out an inch,” Rio whimpered. “I will attract no man if I am on the floor!”
Rio hoped to attract no man at all. Rio wished to return back home, not the countryside but Puerto Rico. She had been raised there most of her life until her mother got homesick and they returned to London, the move costing them most of whatever wealth her family had. Her papá had made several bad investments, mismanaged funds, and here she was. The likelihood of a titled man choosing her of the whole lot of women was already slim, but the ritual of it all made her sick. Her parents scraped the last of what they had as a dowry, and trussed her up like a cow to the highest bidder as a means of recuperating their riches. One could not end up on the streets if their daughter married well—Rio thought she was more to her parents than a piece of property, but you learn something new every day.
More so than that, Rio did not care for men. She supposed they were the other half of the population and that was…fine. Her dream of living her life unwed and unshackled was slowly deteriorating with each passing day, unfortunately. She wished to keep her family afloat, as every child did, but it came at a cost that she did not know she could pay. Men were oafish fools who considered women objects, nothing more than mother, wife, sister, daughter. Additionally, Rio could not understand why so many women found them attractive, they all resembled thumbs. There was nothing enchanting about being bought and made to push out a man’s child, whether willingly or unwillingly.
She wanted to go to university, ideally. That idea was crushed nearly immediately when her mother put her in society lessons on how to be a perfect wife and hostess. She was reprimanded for her mouth, or rather, what often came out of it. It was not her fault that most did not seem to see the appeal in a woman speaking her mind, men are often regarded highly for the exact same habit. Her dance card would not be full at this ball tonight, she would not allow it.
“Just an inch,” Victoria seethed. “No more.”
Alice gave the strings some slack as Rio gulped down air. Her maid then began the ties again, asking, “Better?”
“Minimally,” Rio answered, short of breath.
“Get dressed,” Victoria commanded, leaving the room. “And if I see you with that notebook recording the flora and fauna of the grounds, I will drown it in the lake!”
Once her mother was gone, Alice let the corset out more, whispering, “Do you require your flask tonight?”
“Well, if she does not permit my notebook…”
The ball was much like the others she had been coerced into attending—dull. Rio kept to the wall, observing rather than participating. Her mother was off consorting with the rest of the eager and overbearing mothers, flocking together and picking at their daughters like crows. Her dance card remained wonderfully barren, content to watch as young lady after young lady bent over backwards to please a man who would take his company to a different debutante a few minutes later. She could not wrap her mind around how Wanda was still unwed at twenty-three, all the suitors huddled around her as she laughed on cue and said exactly what they wanted to hear.
Her peace was interrupted by a man—as is the root of every woman’s suffering. He smiled, giving a small bow, which she was obliged to return. He was tall, well over six foot, muscly and hairy. The orange toned hair on his face alone made Rio heave in disgust. “Your name?” He questioned, acting rather entitled to it.
“Rio,” she politely smiled back, putting her arms behind her back to hide the dance card wound around her wrist.
“Peter,” the man gave back. “Lord Quill, if we are to be formal.”
“Goodie for you,” she said, her voice flat.
“I was hoping to be afforded the pleasure of a dance.” He outstretched his hand in offering.
Rio flailed her wrist around, the card whipping around before he could actually see. “Full up, my apologies.”
He swiveled his head. “And these partners would be…?”
“Yet to surface, I’m afraid,” she nervously chuckled, he probably thought it was her flirting.
“That is concerning, a beauty such as yourself should not be stuck to the wall,” he smoothly responded.
Rio anxiously fidgeted with the top of her evening glove, her emerald gown suffocating her very being. “I do not mind the wall, at least it is quiet.”
“Do you not care for noise? I have always wished for a docile wife, soft-spoken. They make the best mothers, you do not have to concern yourself with backtalk or rebellious children.”
Her eyes sharpened into daggers at that comment, bile rising in her throat as she tried to digest those words. “And how would that work?”
“What ever do you mean?”
“The children.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I suppose my mind cannot calculate how they would come out of the womb considering their father to be so incredibly pigheaded,” she mocked. “The birth canal is only so wide after all.” Rio shrugged. “Though, perhaps my womanly brain is missing a key component.”
Peter sucked his teeth for a moment, his jaw turning to steel. “Ah, I see now why you are on the shelf. No man in his right mind would take on such an inconvenient woman.”
She nodded. “I am always amenable to help open one’s eyes.”
The lord apparently cut his losses, stalking away back to the center of the ballroom. It was stifling, the looks of others as Peter returned to his group, snickering in warning of Rio. She pushed herself off the wall, double-checking that her mother was too occupied to notice her sneaking out to the back balcony. She closed the doors in a huff, standing in the shadows near the stone railing as she rooted around in her corset. Yes, she might be thin, but the extra room in her corset that her bust did not fill made for a wonderful compartment for a flask.
Rio whipped off the cap, greedily downing the liquor and finding solace in the burn of it. She was too careless unfortunately, the sound of someone clearing their throat emanating from the other end of the balcony. She choked on the booze, coughing through the swallow as she wiped the corners of her mouth. “Oh-”
The first thing she noticed was his smile, it was lazy and undone. The next was his attire; his coat slung over the railing, sleeves rolled up, ascot untied, and vest unbuttoned. His fingers, boney and long, clutched a cigarette. His hair was braided and parallel his spine, quite unusual for a man of nobility to wear such a fashion of hairstyle. He languidly below out a drag. “Please, do not stop on my account.”
“I- I did not see you.” She pointed to the doors. “I would not have…” A debutante drinking during a ball—if her mother caught wind, she’d never see that notebook again.
“Forgive me,” she rambled. “Mr….?”
“Lord.” He flicked the ashes over the railing. “Harkness. Augustus if you’d prefer.”
She scrunched her face. “Do you have a nickname? Or did your parents not consider the history of that name and the Roman dictator that it is associated with?”
“He was an emperor,” Augustus corrected. “You may call me August if that suits your needs.”
“I do not have a need,” Rio replied. “It was a simple question.”
He smiled brighter at that, for some insane reason. August shuffled closer, extending the cigarette. “Want to share?”
She stilled, because yes, a cigarette would soothe much of her current state. But what man who was only partially appropriately dressed, could be trustworthy. “Is this a trap? Do you mean to get me in trouble?”
“It was a simple question,” he parroted, wiggling his fingers. “I should require payment in whatever the flask contains, however. It is only fair.”
“Very well, then.” She forked over the flask, taking the smoke in tandem. An even exchange. “It’s rum.”
“A woman of good taste,” he hummed. “Oh, wait.” August set the flask on the railing, taking back the cigarette and perching it between full lips as he began to unroll her silk evening glove.
Rio flinched, taking her arm back. “What on earth are you doing?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I assume you are being chaperoned tonight by your mother,” he evenly explained. “Should you return to her smelling of smoke, I do not think she’d be happy.”
She blinked a few times. Being alone with a man unchaperoned is improper, should someone find them she would be ruined. He would be fine, of course, unharmed and undamaged. But Rio’s family would be out of options. Rio rolled down her own glove, gingerly placing it over the railing, and snatching the smoke out of his mouth. “I do not require assistance for that, my lord.”
He snorted and it sounded close to the night her and papá went to the symphony. There was something rather entrancing about his face, possibly his nose. It looked to be carved from marble, his cheekbones high but not in the way that most men’s were. “You are right.” He picked up the flask and drank a shot as she inhaled a drag. “Is there a reason you are hiding?”
“Do I require one?” She exhaled a cloud of smoke, the tobacco easing her woes. “You try being paraded around and valued based on your ability to be kept and bred. It is a wretched tradition, to be sold off like you are an object.”
“I agree.”
Her face contorted in shock. “You do?”
“I have always found it quite strange that society has declared women the inferior sex when we are dependent on them to bear all life,” he rasped. “We discount half the population based on nothing more than the body they are born in. Set up rigid structures and procedures. What sex should possess which pursuits. It is nauseating.”
“Well, I…” Rio found herself a bit stupefied. “Yes.”
“I do not blame you for drinking your sorrows away,” he laughed. “My mother has most likely been looking for me, hence my own quest to find respite.”
“At least that is equal across the sexes—overbearing matriarchs.”
Rio furiously sucked in the smoke as he capped the flask, handing it back. “This has been most delightful. We should do it again sometime.”
She took the flask, knitting her brows together. “You wish to speak to me again and yet you did not ask my name.”
He threw on his coat and languidly buttoned his vest, though Rio’s eyes lingered at the sliver of collarbone still on display. “I already know it.”
She tilted her head. “You did not fasten your ascot.”
He tugged on the fabric. “I do not know how, I usually have a person for that.”
She stuck the cigarette between her lips, the shade of pink her mother had slapped on her before they left now coating the filter. Rio crossed the distance, taking both ends of the fabric and crossing one over the other. “You are meant to be highly educated, you cannot tie a bow?”
He raised his chin, grinning as he quipped, “Just because men are educated does not mean they are intelligent.”
She finished the bow, smoothing out any puckering. Rio raised a single brow as she took the cigarette between two fingers again, blowing the smoke off to the side of the man. “Another topic we agree on.”
“How thrilling,” August smirked.
“Thrilling indeed,” she deadpanned.
“Thank you for the help and the conversation.” He sauntered over to the door before adding, “I do hope we cross paths again, Rio.”
She tucked her tongue against her cheek. “How do you know my name?”
“How would I not know the name of a woman as fascinating as you,” he winked as punctuation. “Goodnight, miss Vidal.”
Her cheeks felt unnervingly hot as she echoed, “Goodnight, my lord.”
His hand was on the door, waving with his other. “It is Viscount, if we are being specific.”
Rio rolled her eyes, turning to lean over the railing. “We are not.”
Once back in the ballroom, her glove now back in place, she found Wanda. The girl was nice enough so getting intel on the viscount wouldn’t be too much of a burden. She hooked her arm with Wanda’s, gently pulling her from her engagements. “Wanda, might I ask you a question?”
The ginger seemed confused but tried to hide it. “I suppose.”
“Do you know Lord Harkness?”
“Ah, yes,” Wanda grinned. “Him and I are old friends, why do you ask?”
“Tell me more about him,” Rio requested. “He is…so confusing."
“In what sense?”
“His dress, for one.”
Wanda blew that off. “He is a romantic, a free spirit. His ancestry is Scottish, it is not uncommon for men of that lineage to keep their hair in plaits.”
“And the way he carries himself?”
“He is charming, no?”
He was, and that was why she was struggling.
“He seemed rather progressive for a man of his station…”
Wanda smirked at that. “I am not so sure, he is a notorious rake.”
“Oh, so he respects women of nobility, only to exploit the working class,” she groaned. And there was the issue, Rio knew there had to be something amiss.
“It is not exploitation if he pays them well,” Wanda argued. “And, between you and me, he is looking for a wife this season.”
“The viscount is seeking a wife?” Her jaw dropped. “Can a rake even take a wife?”
“My dear,” she joked. “Those with knowledge like his make the best husbands.”