The music swirled robustly about the crowded ballroom, the large musical ensemble playing energetically festive tunes of the season so as that it echoed sweetly from the polished wood-tiled floor to the preposterously lofty buttresses. No less than three grand crystal chandeliers shed a prism of flickering candlelight onto the merrymakers below whilst two fireplaces so extraordinarily huge that Troy was convinced they could qualify as rooms of their own helped to warm the place. The hearths roared with steady ginger flames as the youngsters amongst the revelers attempted to roast chestnuts, yelping when they popped within their hands and burnt their fingers.
The majestic room was made even more so with ostentatious garlands of evergreen and berries and bows of deep red; it must have cost a pretty penny to have imported them all the way from England to this mostly tropical climate. But then, the fat sod could afford it now, couldn‘t he? Holly and ivy were displayed quite generously over arched doorways and Troy spotted with amusement at least two hapless young men caught unawares beneath the mistletoe. In a far corner, the junior attendees had hung an apple from a doorjamb and were attempting to bite into it, two by two--one male, one female--blindfolded whilst in another, a few of the elders were exchanging stories of ghostly doings and phantasmagoria.
Taking Troy’s gloved hand, a footman in formal wear cleared his throat loudly and announced above the continual din of jollity, “The Lady Amelia Anne Alleyn of Surrey.” He raised a trenchant eyebrow at her escort, a scraggly excuse for a boy with a mess of brown curls atop his head and a tattoo of a rose adorning the left side of his slender neck from his collarbone to his jaw line. “And...guest,” the footman added distastefully.
“Servant,” Troy corrected him in the most demure tone she could manage, cringing at the sound of her own forced decorous titter. “Come along, boy,” she said through the gritted teeth of her coyly girlish smile. “Make yourself scarce, there’s a good lad.” He trailed after her like a silhouette within her shadow until they were well out of earshot. Looking about to make sure no one would notice, she took the kid roughly by the arm and dragged him into the dimness of a secluded nook. “You know what you are to do now, Sam?”
“Ow, yes!” protested the scrawny creature, shaking loose of her grip and pouting a bit, more wounded by the lack of confidence than any physical injury, though long fingers, almost absently, rubbed the upper arm where Troy had seized hold. “Get the key, up the dumbwaiter in the kitchen and out the window with it. We only went over it twenty or so times! Have a little faith, will ye! It is Christmas Eve, after all,” the youngster grinned cheekily.
“I ought to box your ears,” Troy snorted though she could not suppress the smirk spreading across her face. She gave the mischievous youth a pinch on the nose instead, laughing a little. “Well, go to it, kid! Shoo! We’re gonna have us a merry Christmas indeed! Go!”
What a place to end up on Christmas Eve, Troy reflected with a sigh. Her crew awaited her aboard the Lucky Lady, docked in a secluded and concealed inlet a mere mile away from the city. She would lay her life down that they were making merry with the Spanish rum they’d ‘confiscated’ just last week, joyously and no doubt a bit too vigorously singing carols to which they barely knew the words; they would merely concoct their own bawdy lyrics where lines had been forgotten. They had a particularly interesting verse, if she recalled correctly, inserted into ‘O Come All Ye Faithful.’
And here she was, decked out in her own holiday finery: a stylish frock of sleek gilt green poplin which she kept tugging at, especially about the chest where it was binding her the most. “Bloody tits!” she blurted out, drawing a few scandalized stares. She herself gave a look of appall, as if she had not uttered the words but was yet another innocent victim of unwittingly eavesdropping on such foul language. “Bollocks,” she muttered quietly to herself, thumping her shin with her balled fist as she made her way towards the buffet.
A solo tenor took up ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ along with the instrumental assembly as she grabbed goblet of cider and rum, downing it with two large swigs and stifling a belch. She wondered remotely how all the genteel ladies did it, all of this society shite. Perchance it was bodily impossible for the painted gentlewomen who strutted about the room to let out a fart; the thought made her laugh, nearly spitting up her beverage.
The band struck up a lively reel and Troy noticed a sway in the crowd as they surged towards the dance floor. “My Lady,” a gentleman appeared at her elbow, offering her his hand as he bowed slightly, “if you would do me this honor.”
Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Troy almost scoffed until she spotted their esteemed and rather corpulent host coming straight towards her with a young blonde trollop she was sure was not, in fact, his wife. A wife in England, a mistress in the West Indies; he wasn’t the first and certainly would not be the last. She wondered if the same could be said for the flaxen haired tart.
“It would be my pleasure, kind sir,” she fluttered her dusky gray eyelashes, grabbing one last crab truffle and popping it into her mouth before taking the moderately handsome man’s arm.
She took her place in line and smiled not disingenuously at her partner as the dance started. Mr. Welles had taught her once to jig so she was not entirely unfamiliar with the steps; she observed others and picked up on the pattern quickly. That did not, however, spare the few toes she tread on accidentally as she was spun around. She returned to the line and angled herself to intercept the man beside her partner as seemed to be the arrangement of steps. She was so busy watching her own feet--and those of others--in order to avoid an unpleasant mishap that she did not recognize the man that now came forward to converge with her. Unbeknownst to her, he was preoccupied with the same task. And so neither looked up until they collided clumsily and, in unison, hastened to give apologies.
“Troy?!” the man sputtered incredulously, his dark brow furrowing as his profound and unfathomable pools of smoldering cocoa eyes squinted slightly to make certain it was truly her under all the fancy dress. He wore a naval dress uniform with the epaulet of a captain adoring his shoulder.
“Horatio!” she gasped, at once thrilled by the unexpected sight of him and annoyed that their meeting would have to be here, now. Captain Hornblower, regaining some of his composure, draped a long, lean arm about her small form and scuttled the both of them off of the dance floor. As soon as they were safely away, Troy wasted not a moment in clutching him roughly and mashing her lips to his, pressing her wiry body to his. His full lips opened willingly to her questing tongue and his teeth playfully caught the tip, giving it a teasing nip.
“Whatever are you wearing?” he asked, frowning though a rather smug chuckle bent the corners of his full mouth upwards as it tried to escape. He held her at arm’s length, taking in the unexpected spectacle of her: The gown hugged her bosom most flatteringly; the iridescent olive green color shimmering with a hint of gold brought the hazel color of her gray lashed eyes as well as the flaxen highlights of her hair. The set of her locks was elegantly fashionable and a pendant nestled securely into her décolletage. The stirrings within Horatio gathered at his groin, and the unmistakable urging of a cockstand rose against his breeches.
She sulked, glowering down at herself as she tugged the bust line up once again. “What’s wrong with it?” she pouted. “I’ll have you know that I nicked this from one of the most stylish ladies in this side of the deep blue!” she allowed a roguish smile to steal across her face.
“No, I mean it’s lovely,” he hastened to append. “It’s really, really...” His voice went somewhat hoarse, his mouth dry as he tried to moisten his lips with his thick, hungry tongue as he gazed upon her. Oh, the things he could do to her with that tongue, the things that he longed to do. ‘Focus, Horatio,’ he warned himself, ‘you’re in society. Amongst strangers. Strangers that wouldn’t question the conduct of a naval officer towards an unattached young woman for fear of hypocrisy...’ He cleared his throat rather too loudly and said, “It is not without its...allure, I just meant to inquire as to why? What are you up to Troy?” he queried suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.
“Can’t a girl just be out looking for a good time and good company during this joyous season?” she asked with such artless false innocence, Horatio nearly rolled his eyes. “You know what they say about all work and no play...”
“Curious,” responded Horatio with equal amounts of irony and humor, “I was not aware you differentiated between the two. Now, Troy...”
“It’s Lady Amelia Alleyn for now,” Troy stood on her tip toes to whisper huskily in his ear, brushing her burning cheek against his and allowing him to breathe briefly the smoky fragrance of her mousy brown tresses. She put her fingers to her lips and cautioned naughtily, “Shhhhh.”
He sighed. “I knew it, you’re up to something. Is it to do with our host, Admiral Hargreaves? He’s a very affluent man...” Horatio observed warily.
“Yes, affluent indeed,” Troy huffed vehemently, playing with her pendant, drawing Horatio’s attention once more to the swell of her diminutive breasts. “And did you ever wonder where that wealth came from? Do you think that bloody great over-stuffed, gutless windbag is...?”
“...Coming this way,” Horatio shushed her with a swift motion a moment before the admiral’s rotund figure materialized close by, his plump face flushed purple with enthusiasm and drink.
“Captain Hornblower!” he proclaimed boisterously, waddling towards them rather like one of those wooden tipsy toys Troy had possessed as a child. “I was hoping to get a word in with you, sir! And this would be your beautiful lady wife...?”
“An acquaintance,” corrected Horatio, clearing his throat uneasily. “I regret that my wife was unable to join me. She is in England sharing the holiday with her family, I do believe. Admiral Hargreaves may I introduce you to the Lady Amelia Alleyn.”
“Pleased, m’dear,” Hargreaves grinned quite unpleasantly, eying her lecherously as he took her hand in the grasp of his pudgy little fingers and bowed to kiss it. She pulled away as soon as he loosened his clutch, giving him an insincerely engaging smile as she wiped the back of her hand discreetly upon her skirt. “Ooh, you must try this!” he exclaimed, snatching three cups filled with a thick off-white liquor. “Egg slip! They call it eggnog in the Americas. All the rage!” he confided.
Troy took a polite sip and concealed a gag, forcing herself to swallow. “Too heavy on the egg, not heavy enough on the slip, if you were to ask me,” she murmured to Horatio as he graciously and inconspicuously spit his into a handkerchief, coughing and clearing his throat. “Delicious,” Troy ensured the admiral, taking another sip for the sake of courtesy.
“Dreadfully short on the rum, I’m afraid,” the admiral sighed, glancing wistfully into the crystal cup. “It’s been a problematical year, what with all the pirates skulking ‘round these parts, raiding and pilfering His Majesty’s well-gained goods.” Troy sputtered and it wasn’t for the egg slip this time, her hand trembling faintly as she placed her cup down upon the nearby table. The admiral was too consumed with his own importance and cleverness to notice but it did not take Horatio’s keen sense of his surroundings to deduce a probable scenario.
“Some even have the nerve to call themselves ‘privateers,’” the admiral meandered on obliviously, “claim to be in the service of the King! Ludicrous! A pirate is a pirate, and I’d see them all hung by gibbets if it were up to me, by Gad! The only good pirate is a dead one, I’ve always said! Scum, the lot of them! I commandeer the goods they thieve, naturally; makes living quite easy. And jolly exciting when they put up a good fight!”
“And a very happy Christmas to you as well, you sod,” Troy muttered following Horatio’s best attempts to most tactfully remove the both of them from the likely volatile situation. “Fat old bastard, talking like he’s more a right to the wares we recover!”
“Is that why you’re here? Some wild scheme, an attempt at retribution?” Horatio ushered her out an intricately framed French door into the garden. “Still running about, causing trouble. Same old Troy,” he sighed.
“By Gawd, exactly when did you become such a curmudgeon?” Troy scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest and looking upon him if she were truly seeing him for the first time that evening. Horatio loathed it. “Is this what marital bliss has done to ye? Do you even fuck? Or does your Lady Hornblower have to schedule a rendezvous?”
“Don’t be incongruous,” he snapped, a bit more severely than was strictly deliberate on his behalf. Now, there was a hint of the impassioned firestorm Troy just loved playing with! “Of course I fuck! I fuck like a brute and I am quite impetuous in point of fact.” He hadn’t realized that his voice had steadily increased in volume as he spoke and that a few bleary eyed revelers had stopped to listen to the shockingly indecent conversation.
“Well, I don’t know precisely what incongruous means,” sniffed Troy, her mouth drawing a pretty little moue that Horatio found remarkably captivating in its deceit, “but unless you prove otherwise, I shall name you spoilsport and have no more of it!”
“No more of it?” he growled, the heat rising on his skin as the flame at last burst forth from within. “No more indeed! You’ll have a great deal more of it, have I anything to say about it!” She gasped, a dryly victorious grin quirking the edges of her lips, as he seized her upper arms in his strong hands, possibly bruising the sinewy flesh there as he pulled her brusquely to him. “Prove it I shall, madam, and leave no doubt in your mind besides!”
