"Ellery, it's... quite, a pressing matter," she insisted.
"What's left to worry on, lovely Isobel?" he asked, with a strain of playful courage, as if ready for their blossoming love to take on the world. He dashed from the bed, still nude; she giggled and averted her eyes with a small gasp, before remembering she need not worry herself with these sorts of societal trivialities. She embraced her desire. She turned to watch him; he threw open the curtains, the sun streaming across his bare body unfettered, much to her amusement.
"You don't think there's anything left unfinished, anything left to tend to?" she prodded him, still herself full of fleeting dread.
"What matter troubles you, love? We've put to rest the mystery of the Merry Bandits," he said with all the flourish of a dashing hero recounting his exploits, "we've seen to it that the wicked Duke of Thrushmore will face justice; we've thrown off the shackles of a controlling and restrictive society which had imprisoned us, and we've fallen into true love, Isobel," he proudly announced, the raconteur's facetious charm overflowing. "That sounds like quite a rousing tale, to me. Perhaps..." he tapped his chin as she watched him with a smile, "...perhaps it should conclude with a grand wedding, now that I think on it, love. But we can certainly arrange for that, can't we?" he smiled devilishly. Isobel's heart melted at the idea, though still fear lingered in her features.
"You're forgetting about your own chains, Ellery," she whispered warily. He looked upon her like a governess would look upon a misbehaving child.
"Come now, are you worrying about..." he drew closer, cupping his mouth with his hand, "the Lady Maryweather?" he spoke her name quietly, as if its damnable syllables would summon the witch to their bedroom, flowing white dress and all.
"Well, shouldn't I be? It's not quite a paltry matter, is it?" she murmured warily. "From the sound of her words, her lies... we've quite something to be worried on... after all, her threats had made you troubled enough for us and our relationship that you feared it lost."
"M'lady, I told you," he grinned, lips close to her ears. "Do you think that Lady Emily Maryweather is the only cunning lord or lady among those of us in northern England?" he teased. "My own little bird had quite a mouthful for me - and it was enough for me to realize I loved you, and would risk anything for you."
"And so you're saying this issue will have a neat resolution, will it?" Isobel haughtily retorted.
"In my experience, love, there's not such a thing as a simple or neat resolution in the games us men and women of power and wealth play," Lord Brighton mused, sitting onto the edge of the bed with her. "Resolutions are often rather uncomfortable; as muddied as a flowing river of silt, love," he added. "Often, they involve muddied, flowing rivers. Such as the one our lovely Duke of Thrushmore found himself wallowing in, last afternoon," he chuckled.
"You're brimming with far too much confidence to take stock in what you're saying, love," Isobel chided amiably. "Such certainty is betraying of insecurities, I think."
"Or perhaps such certainty is betraying of utter security, hmm? Had you considered that possibility?" he quipped with a facetious smugness, causing a crack of laughter to break through Isobel's fears. With the sudden shock of a lightning strike knuckles rapped timidly on the door to Lord Brighton's bedchamber, and though Isobel's heart froze in fear, Lord Brighton's resolve appeared unshaken, his mood undimmed.
"Who may I ask, is knocking?" he called across the room playfully.
"M... m'lord," the voice could scarcely be heard through the door. Isobel clammed up, her expression twisting to muted anger, as she heard Lilian's voice creep through the cracks around the door. "M'lord, the Lady Maryweather is here to see you," she announced, her voice meekly and thin. Lord Brighton's eyebrows quirked and his voice boomed with pride.
"I suppose it's time to test all that braggadocio of yours, isn't it?" Isobel smirked, shimmying out of her bed and throwing on her nightgown, white and lacy. He glanced to her with a smirk on his lips.
"Should I get dressy for this meeting of ours, love, or do you think I look quite alright as-is?" he sarcastically gestured to his nude form, and she admired it one more long, lingering moment, her cheeks blush-red in delight, amusement, and embarrassment.
"She may react quite strangely to such a sight," Isobel's voice quivered.
"That's not how you're reacting," he added with that shameless, churlish playfulness in his voice. Her legs squirmed together and she bit her bottom lip, knowing her desire to be in full bloom across a rosy face.
"Let's just settle this," she whispered, "and then we'll have all the time in the world left to discuss... other, issues, m'lord," her voice shuddered in rapturous delight at the thought. Ellery grinned, pulling his shirt atop his body, watching Isobel as he slowly and temptingly dressed himself, the grin on his lips burning bright and salacious the whole time.
And she no longer had any shame in appreciating it - or in appreciating him, and his body. Perhaps she liked the sound of that wedding more and more, each moment that passed.
He finished dressing himself - 'finished', to be generous, as he didn't tuck in his shirt, nor did he button his his waistcoat across his chest; without a tie to his neck he looked every bit the disheveled and carefree rogue she had fallen so deeply in love with, and who had fallen so deeply in love with her. Another knock sounded on the door, even more timid than the last.
"M'lord..." Lilian's voice quivered.
"Yes, my darling little bird," Ellery responded, emphasis on that silly pet name, and Isobel's eyes widened.
"You know? You knew?" Isobel asked almost wordlessly. Ellery smirked.
"You underestimate my cunning, love," he quipped.
"Why didn't... why is she still your maidservant?" Isobel queried.
"Come now, you must understand how this works," Ellery sighed in joking frustration. "It's hardly fair for me to embed a trusted spy in Lady Maryweather's entourage, and not allow her to do the same, don't you think? Besides," he continued, "she's useful. If I told her I wore ladies' dresses and transubstantiated into a howling wolf when the moon rose, she may very well believe it, and feed it into lovely Emily Maryweather's ear. Sweet Lilian would believe anything," he sighed. Isobel began to understand; a coy game, these nobles played. She didn't know that she liked it - but to happily flaunt her love for her lord over treacherous Lilian? She could think on savoring that.
"Your spy..." Isobel's voice trembled, shamefully curious on these games of intrigue. He quieted her with a finger to his lips before pulling open the door, smiling at Lilian and marching proudly into the hall. Isobel scurried behind to follow; her eyes briefly met Lilian's, whose gaze wavered, as she looked away in shame. Isobel congratulated herself with a quiet smirk as she followed behind her master. He stood proud at the top of the stairs, and already the sun streaming through the windows and reflecting off the angelic visage of a hellish harpy before them blinded Lady Duskwood. She had dressed in her absolute finest gown, perhaps hoping to look exquisite on the day she well and truly forced Lord Brighton under her thumb - though the burning fury on her reddish cheeks belied a frustrated hate welling inside of her.
"Ah, Emily, always a pleasure to have you here in Norbury Manor, isn't it, Werner?" Lord Brighton announced, his wizened butler at the foot of the stairs, a contentious stare washing over Lady Maryweather. Isobel noticed, skulking in the shadows near the grand doors to the estate, that man who sent a shiver along her spine - his sick smile ever-present beneath the wide-brimmed hat and straw hair. Arthur lurked behind his mistress, arms crossed over his cheap black suit, watching the events like a keen-eyed raptor soaring hungrily above a nest of rats.
"Emily? Lady Maryweather,"