A Lady Never Ventures: Part One

London, 1816

Lady Frances was exceptionally good at doing the correct thing. Not the right thing; the correct one. She had acted extremely correctly growing up, obeying first her nurse maid, then her governess, and finally her chaperone. She had correctly married the youngest son of a marquees instead of eloping to Gretna Green with the blacksmith’s apprentice. She’d been a perfectly correct wife even when her husband was absent, managing his affairs and keeping up appearances socially as she was expected to do.

No one had ever said a bad word about Frances, and not a whisper of scandal had ever touched her name. That was, until she’d run away to the continent with a traveling companion, ignoring communication from her parents and husband for months.

She’d thrown herself a Grand Tour and gone to see the sights with her friend Georgiana Torchia in tow. They’d gone to Portugal, Spain and even France, once the war had ended and things had settled out. They’d made it all the way to Rome, and then they’d had… The Incident. Frances had judged it best to cut their trip short afterwards, and they’d returned to England. 

Frances went to visit her parents, thinking she’d ride out the scandal of her abrupt departure there. After the excitement of her trip, sitting in the drawing room while her parents lectured her on filial duty had been dull. When her brother Simon sent her a letter asking her to visit him in London, she’d leapt at the opportunity to get away. 

Being in London in August was strange. Frances had never arrived before October before. There were few society people about, and even fewer who were willing to invite her anywhere after the scandal she’d made of herself. A public reconciliation with her husband would likely appease the gossips, but Frances wasn’t ready for that yet. Not after… The Incident.

The strangest part of London, of course, was Simon’s household. Frances had assumed that Simon would hire a full contingent of staff to wait on him when he decided to stay. He had not.

“Explain it to me again,” Frances said. She sat on a stool in the kitchen, watching the knife flash in Simon’s hand as he used it to, for some baffling reason, chop up potatoes. 

“I’m making stew,” Simon said patiently, as if it was a totally normal thing for a viscount to be doing. “Anyone can make a stew. It’s all in the recipe.” He gestured at the cookbook in front of him.

“I don’t think our father has made a single stew in his entire life.”

“It’s my turn to cook. I can’t just sit around all day while other people wait on me hand and foot, can I?”

He could, in fact, do exactly that. Before the stew making and radical politics, Frances would have said that Simon was her favorite brother, and that she understood him better than anyone. She didn’t understand him anymore, but she wanted to again. With all her friends pulling back from her as they waited to see which side of propriety Frances would wind up falling on, she needed someone to confide in. If it wasn’t for The Incident, Frances would have gone to talk to Georgiana, but Georgiana hadn’t said a word to her, and Frances didn’t know what kind of welcome she’d receive. 

“Is the stew going to be edible?” Frances asked. She could always get something to eat at a hotel if she needed to. It was London, after all. 

“Nash says I make it better than his mother does,” Simon said.

“I’m not sure if that’s an endorsement.” There was no mystery at all about why Simon had started peeling potatoes and sounding like a radical pamphlet. The fault rested entirely with Nash Morgans. If Frances didn’t like the man so much, she might have said all sorts of mean spirited things about him. Unfortunately, disliking Nash was beyond Frances’ abilities. “How is the wedding planning going, anyway?” Frances asked.

“My only task is reigning Nash in,” Simon said. “He loves weddings. If he isn’t stopped, he’ll buy up every flower in a hundred mile radius. Sometimes I wish…” Instead of finishing the thought, Simon shook his head and tossed the chopped potatoes into the stew. “Are you staying the month out and traveling with us?”

“That’s the plan.” Frances hesitated before she asked her next question. “Are you happy, Simon?” He’d asked her that once, when she very much hadn’t been. She had been happy on her trip, though. She’d been happy with Georgiana.

A smile overtook Simon’s face, and he looked a bit dreamy for a moment. “Yes.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and meant it. Simon had found his way to happiness in the great mess of the world, and France couldn’t stop thinking about… The Incident. 

That moment in Rome, when she’d been alone in a hotel room with Georgiana. She'd brushed a strand of hair off her friend’s forehead, then had gotten so caught up in the moment she'd leaned in and kissed her. Georgiana tasted like sherry and moonlight.

Georgiana was her friend. It didn’t mean anything, that kiss, and it didn’t matter if in the moment it had felt like the entire world had shifted. Neither of them had spoken about it, and they’d parted as quickly as possible after. 

Frances could always be counted on to do the correct thing. For the first time in her life, she wanted to do the right thing instead, but she had no idea what that was.  

(Part Two)