East Coast Gazette

For years, I looked down my nose at romance novels — then I got really bored and Lyra gave me Devil in Winter by Lisa Kleypas.  Then I read one of those fucking Bridgerton novels by Julia Quinn.  NOW I AM APPARENTLY WRITING SGA REGENCY AU.  sdlkjdf.  The only thing worse than this is the newest batch of SGA spoilers — which, if you have seen them, then I’m sure you rolled your eyes as much as I did because, COME THE FUCK ON, SHOW.  COME THE FUCK ON.

Oh, but for the curious, a little peek at my newfound shame.

(As Serial Karma pointed out, somebody else is writing SGA regency, too — dude, is there something in the freaking water?)

Chapter 1: Wherein Our Hero Is Rudely Awakened

John was only half-into his breeches when Samantha burst into his room, red-faced and furious and her hair in wild disarray, throwing down a bouquet of orange roses and shouting, “John, he’s done it again!  The third year in a row!”

Trying to pull himself off of the floor, where he’d fallen with a yelp of horror, pulling all the sheets and blankets off of the bed and around him to protect his limited dignity, John said, “Sam, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, John, honestly,” she sighed at him, settling herself on the edge of his bed.  “You’re practically my brother.”

“Yes,” he shot back, struggling to his feet and still wrapped entirely in bedclothes, “which makes this delightful moment wrong and incestuous.”  He pointed at the wide-open door of his bedchamber.  “Now, if you’ll humor me and feign being a young woman of good breeding.”

Sam ignored him.  “Two dozen hideous orange roses,” she mourned, staring down at the petals.

“Of course,” John said through gritted teeth.  “And this shall be the third year you’ve stormed into my room wailing about it as well.”

“We must find him some other poor woman to marry, John,” Sam decided, looking grim.  “It’ll be too cruel, really, for us to press some girl onto him, but his insistence on courting me can no longer be endured.”  She looked thoughtful.  “Perhaps Miss Brown.  She’s quiet, and she seems to entertain thoughts that people are kinder than they truly are.”

Beneath the sheets, John tried to dress himself as well as possible, ducking his head underneath a blanket to align the row of buttons on his breeches, thinking vile, ungentlemanly thoughts toward his cousin.  Since they were children they’d played together and she’d always been a trial: too smart and too stubborn.  John half-wished she’d just marry whichever poor bastard was pining after her so wretchedly so she’d move out of the house and stop barging in on him while he was half nude.

“Given your history of suffering indignities I’d think you’d understand why I’m so upset about this one,” John grumbled, finally emerging from the covers and tugging his shirt and trousers back in good order.

Samantha gave him a considering look.  “You are perfectly aware I barely see you as a man, John.”

“Thank you,” he replied, dry as flint, hauling all the covers back onto the feather mattress.  “Now—who is the unfortunate gentleman who continues to struggle for your affections all these years?”

*

“Rodney, you must stop,” Jeannie begged.  “Must you tar the family name in such a manner?  No one will ever marry me if you carry on this way—and then you’ll be saddled with me forever!”

Ignoring her entirely, he inspected the garden—hydrangeas were blooming enthusiastically all over, but they were a sickly yellow color that reminded him of lemons and lemons in tea and other such deadly things, so he walked over to uproot some tulips instead.

“Jeannie, I’m quite certain that if no one marries you then it will be no one’s fault but your own,” Rodney said, plucking an orange-red flower and admiring it.  “Do you know, I think this will look rather pretty against Miss Carter’s fair complexion.”

“It will look tragic,” Jeannie contradicted, “and if you were not such an oaf you would know that exact color is one of Miss Carter’s least favorite.”

The garden in London was nowhere near as expansive as the one in their sprawling country estate, near wild and dreamy with lavender, with briar roses and climbing ivy creeping up the high walls.  But the country—excepting his excellent collection of books and a clear night sky—was nowhere for a debut, and Rodney had been berated into escorting his sister to their townhouse in London for her first season, a tragedy he mourned more every day.  Jeannie had run up a dressmakers bill as long as Rodney’s arm and already burst into hysterical tears on three separate occasions, weeping over one mis-curled curl.  He was giving serious consideration to running off to explore the continent again, despite the many occasions he’d gotten heatsick and seasick and all other kinds of suffering he’d endured the first time.

“And now how would you have this information?” Rodney asked, regarding her with deep suspicion.  There was the possibility she had not gone to church yesterday afternoon after all.  “Tomorrow is your first engagement—how could you possibly be privy to such information already?”

Jeannie scowled at him.  “I’ll have you know that we were friends at school—and had I known that the poor woman you’ve been harassing for three years now was Miss Carter, I would have shouted at you long ago,” she told him, and sniffing, added, “Besides, everyone in the ton knows she’s practically engaged already.”

“What?” Rodney exclaimed.  “To whom!”

*

Of all the fine homes bordering Grosverner Square, there was no doubt that Lantea House was the finest, soaring five stories and painted a soft, slate blue, it was elegant and well-appointed and all who had visited it had nothing but praise for its rich furnishings, its understated refinement.  It was also so well-loved for the many rumors that surrounded it and its owner, who was whispered to have sent women swooning over, for he was said to be the handsomest bachelor in all the gentry.  Of course, it was difficult to confirm given he was most often traveling to oversea the family businesses in India and America, Greece and Italy, and so rarely in London at all.  Such a shame, all the mothers said to one another, fluttering silk fans in the sultry afternoon, the Viscount Sheppard was rumored to be as charming as he was beautiful, after all, and how lovely would he be, married to their sons and daughters instead of traipsing around, growing peasant-brown in the sun.

*

At exactly that moment, as Miss Jeannie McKay was recounting to her brother, the Marquis, the well-loved tale of Miss Samatha Carter’s torrid romance with a handsome and reclusive sir of unknowable origin or family history, Miss Samantha Carter was following the less tractable Lord Sheppard through his country house.

“Samantha, I’d rather be hanged,” he told her, waving Drimsdale, the estate manager to him.

She closed the distance between them, holding her dress up a thoroughly unladylike half foot from the ground—revealing very charming ankles, their effect completely wasted on John.

“And I would rather be hanged than to suffer another Season in London with that boorish man trapping me in corners at ballrooms and explaining to me why he shan’t have any lemonade!” she said.  “John, please!  Have mercy!  I shall be in your debt eternally.”

“I thought all proper young women were taught the cut direct in finishing school,” John forced himself to say, trying not to capitulate under her blue eyes.  He’d always had a soft spot for them.

“And I had been under the impression it worked,” Samantha grumbled, catching his elbow.  “Please John, it is but one season and a few months—you may leave as soon as you have established your claim on me and freed me from his attentions.”

Drimsdale rolled his eyes, holding out the household ledger to John as he said, “My Lord—your accounts appear to be a bit unbalanced.”

“Yes,” John agreed wryly, taking the notebook, “among other things.”

Samantha glared at him.  “If you do not agree, I shall cut my hair and wear breeches and run off to join the navy.”

“Obvious flaws to that plan aside,” John said, striding toward his study, “why are you so intent on being a spinster?  I know as fact you’ve turned down no fewer than twelve proposals—why not marry someone and be done with it?”

Samantha stood at his desk, arms crossed over her chest and glowering at him.

John rolled his eyes.  “Samantha, I imagine it is safe to assume that your General O’Neill, having reached an arrangement with his dear Mister is unlikely to change preferences and marry you instead,” he told her, as gently as he could.  It had been nearly two years—surely she must be over the man by now.  John wished she was; General O’Neill was excellent company, and John had half a mind to invite him to the estate—there was very good fishing at the lake.

Samantha threw a quill at him.  “You know very well that is not it, either,” she retorted, blushing furiously.  “I am happier for Mister Jackson than anyone.”

“You certainly look it,” John said sweetly, plucking the quill from his hair.

“Then you will not help me?” Sam asked, belligerent.

“I should think that was obvious,” John answered.

She stared at him a moment longer before Samantha said, her voice dark, “Just remember, my lord, you brought this on yourself.”

*

It was a day later before John woke the entire house at 3 a.m., furious and shouting, “That accursed woman stole my horse!”

Chapter 2: A Surprise for the Season

There were few things John could think that would be less pleasant than spending a Season in London—numbered among those was torture by savages, being eaten by wolves, further lessons on deportment from old Mister Sumner, who’d hated him with a viciousness unbecoming even the most brittle and hateful old schoolmaster.  The skies grew dimmer and dimmer with each successive mile he drew closer to the city, and John sighed, slouching in his carriage, thinking even more uncharitable thoughts than usual about Samantha and her recklessness.  He could not even blame her entirely—he’d taught her that damn horse-stealing trick himself.

He’d thought originally about stealing into London unannounced and in a hired carriage, of stealing his poor steed back as Samantha had stolen him to begin with—and then he’d received a note by messenger that read simply:

Sheppard:

Come announced and in all your finery—or I shall sell him to a paste-maker.  Do not try me, for I am a desperate woman.

Regards, S. Carter.

“I’ll wring her neck for this,” John vowed, seeing the thickening crowds and feeling the beginnings of cobbled streets beneath the wheels of the carriage.

The last time John had been in London, it’d been his first season and even all the effusive, unnecessary  ceremony had been tolerable because he’d spent every evening, every afternoon tea, every carefully-chaperoned stroll down Rotten Row smiling the smile of the besotted, on the arm of a well-loved mister.  “You two are tragically disgusting,” Mister Jackson had said, but affectionately, and John hadn’t begrudged his tutor the insult, given how tragically disgusting Mister Jackson was in the presence of the General.

“A fine bind you’ve gotten me into,” John said, mostly to himself, since the object of his complaint was not there to hear it.  He watched the people that crowded the streets, the ladies fluttering about to dressmakers and cobblers and to have cards printed.  “You were supposed to have been the end of all this nonsense, you know,” he whispered as the carriage came to a stop before Lantea House, all the windows of the building burning orange with candlelight.

*

“My goodness,” Katie sighed, upon hearing Samantha’s mysterious suitor would be arriving in London, finally.  “How romantic!  Will we finally meet your sir, then, Samantha?”

“I should hope so,” Samantha said, with as much feigned shyness as possible.

News spread like wildfire, and by three, Samantha was near exhaustion, having received visitor after visitor—the silver tray of calling cards by her door nearly overflowing.  Will your sir be at the Royal Art exhibition?  Will your sir accompany to dinner tonight?  Will your sir be at the musicale later this evening?  Samantha decided he would be present, indeed, at all of these events.

At four, in a fresh day dress and in a pair of new gloves, she called for her carriage.

The John she found sulking in Lantea House’s mahogany library was in as foul a humor as she’d ever seen him, but Samantha knew she had all the cards—and his horse.

“Good day, Lord Sheppard,” she said, as pleasant as possible.

He continued to glare down at his ledgers.  “Let me guess: you’ve arrived without a chaperone to make certain that it appears we’ve despoiled one another, and will therefore be honor-bound to marry?”

“I had not even thought of that side benefit,” Samantha laughed, and at his helplessly horrified look, she said, “I am just teasing, John—Mrs. Weir is simply in the other room chatting with Drimsdale.”

“Drimsdale!” John called out.  “Send Mrs. Weir in here immediately!”

“Technically, sir,” Drimsdale called back, “a long enough period of time has passed that it is already a lost cause for your virtue.”

Samantha burst into peals of laughter, mirrored by Elizabeth’s as she strolled in, casual and unconcerned.  “Lord Sheppard,” she said, still smiling, “I’m given to understand I’m chaperoning this fledging romance.”

John frowned at her.  “And a fine job you’re doing, discussing the weather with Drimsdale when she could be having her way with me on this desk,” he muttered before turning back to glare at Sam.  “And you—you horse thief, give him back.”

TBC