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popjunkie42 · 21 days

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The Thief and the Rake: Chapter Two

The Thief and the Rake

Chapter Two: All That Shines Isn't Sterrling

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It's their first ball in London, and everything's going exactly as one might expect. Elain is sought by all, Nesta runs fierce interference, and Feyre...well, Feyre is trying her best.

This chapter was a bit shorter (split in two) so I have the whole thing pasted below the cut! Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts in the comments. <3

Noisy, hot, bustling — the ballroom was the largest building she had ever been in and thrumming with life, the sounds and smells and heat of the room rippling like a living creature.

When the sisters had walked into the Sterling ballroom, several steps behind a bustling Aunt Ripleigh, a sense of blind panic had threatened to overwhelm Feyre at the sight.

The ballroom was large and lavish, the girls entering down a grand staircase and their arrival announced by the booming voice of a servant. The party was in full swing, at least a dozen couples dancing on patterned marble floors, the sound of the band and conversation and the tinkling of crystal building to a frenzied cacophony.

For a girl used to a two-bedroom cottage and the quiet country forests, it felt like entering the lair of a beast that might consume her whole.

Aunt Ripleigh was an old battleaxe who seemed to have suffered from an empty house with her two sons now grown and married. The gruff widow was certainly not overly affectionate nor verbose. Stout and demanding, she now lived in a row house in Mayfair with her five little dogs who were the only thing she doted on in life.

Their patron turned to nod in dismissal and left the girls on the stairs, beelining for the card tables.

Hot air simmered around them as they paused at the top of the stairs. Feyre took a deep, steeling breath.

This couldn’t be any worse than risking freezing in the woods, than the third day of hunger pangs. Than a deer in her sights when her vision blurred and hands shook from weakness. Her stomach was full and she had slept on a soft bed last night, with the knowledge her family were housed and fed for another day. Feyre let her breaths deepen and her mind quiet, looking for that center of iron she found within.

The Archerons were unknown and joining in the middle of the season, and quite a few heads had turned when they were announced.

Tension hovered in the air between the sisters, following the sound of their name across the room. Hopefully one long, long forgotten.

If Nesta had her way, their father’s name would be buried so deeply no one would ever find the connection. If they weren’t hiding from debtors, they were avoiding rumors of their father’s lost wealth and desperation that made him turn to to trade and gamble.

Convincing him to stay home had been an easy task for the eldest, his days in London spent largely staring into their Aunt’s large fireplace or walking slowly around the streets, going God knows where.

Walking down the stairs, arm in arm with Elain, Feyre had willed her heart to calm. Nesta had called these balls a battlefield, and while she had laughed, now it didn’t seem so far from the truth.

If they were going to war, she hoped they looked the part. Feyre tried not to tug nervously at the skirts of her dress, a white gown in shimmering fabric that was nicer than anything she had worn in a decade, but still was bare of the ornate beading and embroidery and shining threads she saw across the room.

She hadn’t even had money left for gloves.

Nesta was similarly attired on the other side of Elain, her slate grey dress severe and prim, the neck high and sleeves coming to her sharp elbows.

But Elain…

The sisters strategically flanked Elain, presenting her clearly as the star of the family.

For Elain, Feyre had stolen and bartered. Nesta had schemed and bargained.

The skirts of Elain’s dress hovered breathlessly over the marble, her tiny slippered feet pulling them gracefully towards the throng step by step. Her dress was soft gold, covered by a layer of finely embroidered vines and leaves and flowers encircling her body, the lovely skin of her neck and chest on full display.

Unlike Feyre, her skin was pale and creamy without a hint of sun, and one of the maids had done up her hair into a soft bun surrounded by golden-brown curls, gently brushing her temple and the long column of her neck. On her collarbone sat a short strand of pearls, borrowed from their Aunt, who was taciturn most of the time but who had been won over already by Elain’s gentle smiles and sweet conversation.

Nesta and Feyre’s necks were bare.

When Elain had appeared at the top of the stairs in Aunt Ripleigh’s manor, cheeks pink with a nervous blush, it was the first time in years that Feyre allowed herself to hope.

Who could possibly resist Elain, a vision among them walking in beauty? Feyre watched from the corner of her eye as Elain’s warm brown eyes shimmered with excitement, the pink of her mouth slightly parted as her gaze combed the party.

Feyre could have sworn the room paused when Elain took her first step, like everyone took a deep breath all at once. Elain descended the stairs arm in arm with her sisters as naturally as water flowing through the pebbles of a stream, rushing towards its delta.

Did the ton even deserve such a goddess, sweet and kind?

She supposed she would leave it up to Nesta.

It didn’t take long for a collection of smiling gentlemen to surround them, and Feyre followed her sisters’ leads in soft bows and the offering of her hand to any who asked. And when every gentleman’s attention had quickly focused in on the middle Archeron, Feyre had slipped away, ignoring the steely eyes of Nesta.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

The huntress wandered on the edges of the ball, using sly feet to tiptoe around bodies and dancers and eager servants.

Feyre clung to that girl in the woods like a lifeline, pulling the noises and smells from her memory against the numbing din of the party. The attendants were prey to be observed, the conversation and dance steps to be absorbed, and her slow footsteps let her her stalk in the shadows and around corners.

She let her smile show as she snuck up on Nesta, her sister jolting as Feyre tapped her shoulder.

But allowing Feyre the upper hand was not in Nesta’s nature.

”I hope you’re not thinking about working at the ball,” her sister said with sharp judgment.

Feyre huffed at her sister’s presumption. ”Don’t we all have a job today? Elain to be beautiful and charming, you to protect her. Why should I waste my time when there’s another ball in five day’s time? When we all need dresses?”

Nesta had frowned, a deep line forming in between her brows. “You have to be careful here. Any hint of scandal or impropriety —”

”I know.”

”Everyone will be watching. We’ll be curiosities. And gossips are everywhere. If anyone —”

”Nesta, I know. I’m not going to risk Elain. Or you. But you said it yourself, we need ball gowns, day dresses, jewelry, shoes…If everyone is as vicious as you say, we’ll be found out in days without money. So how else do you suggest I get it?”

Nesta was silent at that.

“I still wish you wouldn’t work at the parties. And keep it small. If something large goes missing, there will be an inquiry and all of this will be lost.”

Eyes narrowed on her prey: the smiles, the leers, the vicious silver tongues. She wondered if her sister would truly stop her, or how long it would take for her to come begging for more coin for the modiste. “You don’t have to remind me. I know what’s at stake.” Elain, their family, any hope at a future that was more than the cold and hungry bellies. And one sister buried in the mud, lifting them all up.

Feyre knew what she risked.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

Feyre circled the ballroom for the third time, eyes sweeping over the reveling partygoers, the sparkling chandeliers, the fine black coats and tails amongst the peacock colors of dresses.

There must be three hundred people here, large glass doors open to a breathtaking green lawn with sparkling fountains, letting in a cool night breeze. Overhead, the center of the room peaked to a domed window, the early evening stars just beginning to sparkle down on them.

Nesta had said there would be smaller balls, more intimate gatherings, if they managed invitations. There would be dancing, rooms with card games, performers and fireworks and nights at opera houses. Art and poetry and theater.

All dependent on Nesta’s scheming and Elain’s charm.

And Feyre providing the funds.

For a moment her eyes caught on Elain, in the center of the dance floor, her tinkling laugh rising above the cacophony of noise. She was in the arms of someone young and handsome. She wore a smile so wide and bright it made the breath catch in Feyre’s throat.

Feyre searched her memory for the last time her sister had smiled so. Those long years in a dank country cottage seemed to have swept away at once in the radiant light of Elain’s happiness.

“Miss Feyre Archeron?”

A hand was at her elbow and she turned to face the man, a few moments passing before she remembered to fall into an awkward curtsy.

The man laughed, a cruel glint in his eye. His suit was fine, as far as Feyre could tell. He seemed a slithery sort, somewhere in his 30’s with brown hair and brown eyes with a wide nose and a mocking look on his face.

“Archeron, eh? I’m not familiar with your family. Lucien said you’ve been settled in the country with your father?”

Feyre blinked. “My father’s family has always owned ships and harborland. It’s his pleasure to be traveling often.”

The man, Smith, smiled. Knowingly. “Indeed. Well let me be the first to welcome you into town.”

”That’s very kind of you.” His gaze raked over her. Feyre worked hard not to frown, or cover up her body with her arms. She was certainly no prude, but she was unaccustomed to the cool air on her chest and her bare arms, the way the rough shift tickled her legs.

The way she felt so many eyes on her, even in the shadows.

”I believe we have matters to discuss. Maybe while we take a turn on the dance floor?” He offered her his arm.

”I’m afraid I’m not much for dancing, sir.”

”Oh? I thought society ladies were accomplished in all the fine arts.”

”I believe I have other accomplishments that you have expressed interest in.”

Smith smiled, his eyes again flickering to her bare neck. Lower. “Quite right. Shall we find somewhere to discuss what you can do for me, Miss Archeron?”

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

Feyre wandered down quiet, darkened hallways, trailing her finger through the film of dust coating the walls and furniture.

Whatever rich bastard lived here, he could afford to clean better.

Shoes clipped on the wooden floorboards as she made a mental note to get softer slippers.

Maybe a darker colored dress, to blend into the shadows.

Still, this was possibly going to turn out to be the easiest job she ever pulled.

Double doors, at the end of the west wing, the master suite. You can’t miss it.

What did it say about this well-to-do, insanely wealthy prick that he let an entire wing of his house go dark and unused like this? Didn’t have enough servants to maintain, or didn’t ask them to. Her entire village in Clopton could have lived here.

Instead it belonged to one person, one man, who probably left for warmer climes half of the year.

The kind of man who would leave valuable jewels in some old dusty corner of his house. Probably didn’t even remember they were here.

With the amount her customer was paying, she was anticipating something quite impressive. It probably could provide a handsome dowry for her and her sisters all at once.

At the end of the hall, two double doors stood imposing and grimed, the moonlight streaming in from the windows to cut stripes across her path.

She laughed when the doors opened, not even a simple handle lock in place. These people, the ton, the aristocracy — they were hers for the picking.

If anyone came across her here, now, all she would have to do is simper about getting lost between sniffling tears. No one would question a sweet young lady of the ton, dressed for a ball, on the verge of an embarrassed display.

And if someone did happen to try and look under her skirts for her quarry, they’d also find her short hunting knife strapped to her thigh.

Nesta worried too much, not about the morality perse but the repercussions, whether the risk was worth it. And Feyre knew Nesta saw herself as one of them in some way – their proper position in society was something that could be won, restored.

Still, she knew Nesta didn’t love Feyre’s nighttime occupation as a thief.

Like every hand in this place wasn’t stained with blood and greed.

And even then, these people had so many rules, so many unspoken pitfalls. Nesta and Elain had done their best with her, but she was ten the last time she was in high society, and then just on the sidelines. Feyre had only just begun to learn the simpler dances, to be thrust into lessons about tea etiquette and the piano forte.

Lot of good it did her. Fortunately for her, one can’t support a family on fine needlework, because Feyre didn’t have the patience for it anyway. But of course, no one had thought that the youngest Archeron would be in the woods just a few years later, gutting a deer and hauling it alone through the forest.

She smiled, thinking about what the sniffling society mavens would say if they knew about her, if they could even wrap their minds around such a life.

But that was the thing about the rules: they only mattered if you cared about the consequences of breaking them. Feyre would be good, as much as she could. She swore to Nesta in the carriage, after Elain had stepped out onto the bright London street, that she would listen and behave.

Only to keep from anything marring Elain. Only until she was married, and settled, and Feyre could pocket enough money from her brother-in-law (whether from kindness or theft, she didn’t mind either) to start over in Europe. Maybe if the war ended, if things opened up again…she afford the ferry and train ticket and a few months rent on a decent place in some artist’s quarter, far away from the ton.

What would happen after was anyone’s guess, as Feyre’s imagination had never stretched that far. Too dulled with hunger and cold and the angry frustration seeping out the walls of their cottage.

The room was a maze of somehow heavier dust and draped tarps over furniture she was sure would be ornate and opulent. Her steps made marks in the dust like footprints in the snow.

The full moon cast into the room through a bay window, as large as the room itself, turning everything to glowing silver, the tiny particles drifting in the air like fairy dust.

Unbidden, she remembered her mother’s room, foreboding and barred. First against infection and then because her father perhaps never opened it again, or so they had thought. She, Nesta and Elain had gone in there one last time, in the rush to sell the manor when the debtors were breathing down her father’s neck. The furniture was covered with yellowing sheets and everything seemed smaller, less vibrant.

And whether picked clean by the servants, or her father selling off heirlooms one by one, there had been nothing left. No jewelry or mirrors or combs with just a thread or two of hair left to remember her by. Empty of nothing but dust and memories.

Feyre wondered if her fathers mind resembled this hall. Abandoned and neglected. Soaked with something like grief.

She covered her mouth from the cloud of debris she kicked up in the air as she scanned the room. A tall thin dresser, next to a mirror, filmed over with grime, caught her eye.

Feyre stepped to it with her breath held.

Each small drawer held a trove of treasures, like a pirate’s chest from her childhood stories. Necklaces and rings and brooches, dull with age but shimmering with promise when she swiped a thumb over the smooth surfaces.

The necklace was in the third drawer, unmistakable from the description. Dark purple sapphires, mounted in fine silver filigree work, with swooping strands of pearls connecting each stone. Seven in all, as fat as her thumb.

A sense of regret, foreign and sharp, welled up suddenly within her. She used her kerchief to polish the stones, and on a whim, cleared off a section of the mirror to see her face.

A woman had loved these, once. Had brought them out for special occasions. Maybe they were a gift from a loved one. Maybe she treasured them, planned outfits around them. And now here they were, caked in dust in a bedroom that might as well be a tomb.

In the mirror, Feyre draped the necklace around her throat. She imagined what it might be like, to be the kind of woman who would treasure things just because they were pretty, instead of selling them off for food and shelter and a little bit of freedom.

“Hello, darling.”

Feyre gasped as the deep male voice, sensuous and amused, purred from behind her.

In a swift moment she dropped the necklace into her dress, whirled around and pushed.

The man, tall and broad, yelped and fell into the bed, pulling dust covers with him, the plume of dirt rising up from where he fell like a heavy storm.

Her feet flew down the hall as she left him, coughing and cursing. Ages later, when her heartbeat finally began to slow, she only had one dreadful thought:

She hadn’t seen his face. Had he seen hers?

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#acotar #feysand #rhysand #acotar fanfiction #feyre #acotar fanfic #feysand regency #bridgerton vibes #I finished season 3 and I am INSPIRED

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popjunkie42 · 12 days

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The Thief and the Rake - Chapter 3

The Thief and the Rake

Chapter 3: Picked Like a Rose

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Thank you to @witch-and-her-witcher, @howlingcaptaincommando, and @wilde-knight for the encouragement and beta reads!

Summary:

Tea and a gargle of salt water, her mother’s voice lectured in Nesta’s mind, a queasy feeling creeping in. And don’t you dare falter for a moment. The phantom tingle of pain in Nesta’s thumb reminded her how horrified the Archeron matriarchs would be at any show of fatigue, of any sign they weren’t perfect and unflappable in front of this grand audience.

Nesta and Elain do their best to entertain the novel and curious gentlemen at their first ball. But the arrival of a familiar face threatens Nesta's best laid plans. Good thing Feyre is around to cause some chaos.

The Elucien is strong in this chapter! This is baby's first Elucien and as I've said...they are excited to take over. It's going to be interesting because they're in a much different dynamic than canon. So please cheer me on and give me your thoughts :)

A snippet of the chapter under the cut!

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

Nesta’s cheeks ached with the strain of smiling. So much damn smiling for these tittering gentlemen. By the wide eyes of the one standing next to her, she was ceasing to do a convincing job.

Mr. Harding — the one next to her was Mr. Harding. And the blond one with the impressive sideburns was Mr. Blevins, and currently monopolizing Elain was Lord Rutley who had atrocious manners and seemed to be an inveterate gossip.

None of them were familiar to her now, but she was memorizing their names, their clothing, all the little tidbits they dropped as they stumbled over their feet to charm the lovely and mysterious Miss Elain.

Elain had danced five dances, and was engaged for three more. Nesta made sure to make pointed suggestions to her suitors about refreshments and breaks and made a mental note to find them good seats in the dining hall.

The gentlemen around her erupted into laughter and Nesta’s cheeks ached again with her smile.

“Oh but Miss Elain,” Harding was admonishing, all teeth and a flush Nesta thought had been from the room but was starting to suspect it was the wine, “Surely you’re not the kind of woman who would skip the opera for a silly play? I have box seats at Der Freischütz this week, and you simply must —”

“Harding, listen to yourself. The girl doesn’t need you dragging her to some musty German tragedy. Miss Elain, there’s a very modern pantomime at Covent Garden, and I think you and your sisters would just love it —”

Nesta saw the wearied look in Elain’s eye, the silent pleading. It was their first ball, and they knew too little of everyone to refuse an invitation. She would have to ascertain Elain’s feelings on sideburns when they were back in the carriage.

Lord Rutley cut through the conversation with a bored wave of his hand. ”I wonder what Scrivener would have to say about this ball. Too many gentlemen, and watered-down wine?”

”Scrivener?” Elain asked. Nesta noticed the hoarseness in her voice. None of them were accustomed to this sort of entertaining.

Blevins and Harding exchanged a glance, but Lord Rutley smirked, his eyes assessing Nesta. “Oh, you are new in town. Just be aware we’re being watched. There’s a penny paper with a gossip columnist, they report on all the ton’s scandals.”

”People really care so much for that sort of thing?” Nesta asked.

”Oh, indeed,” Blevins said. “It’s hard to get a copy, they sell out so fast. But I wouldn’t expect you ladies to enjoy it. What with the sedition and — well.”

Elain and Nesta locked eyes while Blevins let out what one might call a tither.

Such a strangely contained gesture from a man with teeth like a horse. The gentlemen were quickly writing themselves off her eligibility list. Their requirements may be vain but Nesta wanted to at least be able to sit in the company of her brother-in-law for a meal or two. She scrambled for a polite way to get them into another conversation.

“Blevins, please. Not in front of the ladies.”

“What’s so scandalous that has you gentlemen blushing?” Nesta asked. Annoyed.

Lord Rutley’s cat-like smirk had thoroughly removed him from Nesta’s list of eligible men. She made note to be busy if he asked to call on Elain.

“Well you see, they also publish romance serials. Only this one has the society and literati all in a riot. Not only is it terribly salacious, the main character is a woman of the ton. One with quite wanton morals and a less than stellar opinion of her conquests.”

Nesta smiled, letting a bit of the wolf show. “How terribly improper.”

“Rutley,” hissed Harding. “You shouldn’t speak of such things in front of Miss Elain.” A stretch of silence. “And Miss Archeron, of course.”

“Oh,” Elain said, blinking uncertainly. Nesta could see her struggle to find a way back to more polite conversation.

Lord Rutley’s eyes wandered to Nesta again. “Apologies, ladies. As Mr. Blevins said, it is not a publication that elevates the mind.”

Nesta opened her mouth to respond when she was interrupted.

”Miss Archeron, Miss Elain.” The deep voice was still traveling through her consciousness when Nesta saw Elain’s eyes go wide.

When she turned she saw a flash of red hair.

Lucien Vanserra bowed deeply, rising with eyes only for Elain. Elain who squeaked.

“Lucien —”

“Mr. Vanserra —”

The sisters eyed each other as their words tumbled over each other.

“What an auspicious meeting. Who would have thought I would run into the Archeron sisters at the Sterling ball, of all places.” Lucien’s smile was soft with a hint of mischief.

Even Nesta had to admit she understood Elain’s sudden case of being tongue tied. Lucien, Feyre’s half-civil childhood friend who was equally likely to be covered in mud and twigs as he was to be dressed for dinner, looked every bit the storybook gentleman.

His red hair glowed even in the ballroom full of colors, pulled up into a tight bun that did nothing to hide the casual, rakish look about him. His green velvet jacket glistened with gold buttons and he wore knee high boots over his high waisted cream-colored trousers, with a simple black patch over his scarred eye. He had a new intensity in his gaze that Nesta did not remember, the look of a man with intention.

Resting his weight on one hip with a proud smirk, he was both the gentleman and some spritely creature that had followed them from the forest.

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