The Duke of Mason's Townhouse, England

September, 1890

"You need a wife," Sir Carlisle Cullen told his nephew as he strode into the dining hall that morning.

"I do," Edward, the Duke of Mason agreed easily, as he peered over the morning papers that the butler had just brought in.

"You need an heir, too."

"Certainly," Edward nodded, still not looking away from the article he was reading as he spooned eggs into his mouth methodically.

"Go with me to London," Emmett McCarthy, Duke of Argyll suggested, hefting his large self into the seat next to Edward. "Good morning, Sir Cullen," he greeted Edward's uncle, almost as if an afterthought. The Duke of Argyll had been friends with Edward since before their Eton days, and was no stranger to the household. Having just returned from a ten year long expedition to the Far East, tracing the Blue Nile, Emmett McCarthy had seemed to have misplaced his manners after living amongst savages for so long. Not that he had plenty of it to start with.

But Carlisle Cullen took no offense at the younger man's lack of grooming, and grinned easily. "Good morning, Emmett. I trust you slept well?"

"There is nothing better than waking up on Egyptian Silk sheets on a feather-downed mattress," Emmett assured the knighted doctor, the second brother of the late Duke of Masen. "And to breathe in the fresh, English mist - there's nothing like being back in London, Sir. I am utterly indebted to your hospitality."

Carlisle waved Emmett's thanks aside. "You've stayed with us since you were a boy. Every summer back from Eton - wrecking havoc amongst my brother's flowerbeds and horse stables - "

Emmett grinned.

"I'm only here until I locate my wife," he said. "No trampling over flowerbeds this time, I assure you. Which brings me back to the topic at hand. Edward, attend the season with me! I need to catch my wife, as much as I'd rather be fishing for salmon back in the Highlands. As do you!"

Those London debut balls are horrid," Edward shuddered, now looking away from the papers at last. "All those mothers looking at you like vultures ready to devour a fallen lion, while their daughters prance around like geese. How could you have misplaced your wife, by the way? I didn't even know you had one!"

"But there's bound to be a pretty geese amongst the flock," Emmett pointed out. "As for my wife, we were betrothed as children - when I was twenty and she was twelve- and in my haste to avoid the bounds of holy matrimony I jumped out of our marital chambers and onto a ship sailing to Africa. I just returned, and I need to collect my wife."

"Collect your wife," Edward repeated, sounding utterly fascinated. "Go on."

"What's there to go on about?" Emmett now looked up, looking bewildered.

"Why are you back to collect her now, if you had ran away to Africa in the first place? You never told me anything of this sort, you cad! All those letters you sent - waxing poetry about the Blue Nile and coconut trees, and then the sun and the sand in Greece - "

"It quite slipped my mind," Emmett confessed. "Until my father passed and I had to return, with the pressure of securing the line. I had entirely put the issue of my marriage out of my mind before this."

"I can't believe you," Edward exclaimed, sounding thoroughly impressed. "Do you even remember the name of the girl you were betrothed to?"

"The daughter of the Marquess of Hale. What's her name - Rose? Rosie?"

"Rosalie," Carlisle corrected, grinning wildly at the breakfast table entertainment.

"Right! Exactly, Lady Rosalie Hale," Emmett said, sounding relieved at having discovered his wife's name. "So as I was saying - before you so inelegantly derailed my train of thoughts - go to the debut ball of the Earl of Blatchford's daughter with me! I have received news that my wife will be there, and there will be plenty of pretty girls out there for you."

"It's not their looks," Edward rolled his eyes at his friend. "It's their brains I can't stand. Empty, like a pillow case. I won't be able to stand living with someone with naught but a few down-feathers in her head for the rest of eternity. I won't."

"But a wife has no other duties but between the sheets," Emmett pointed out. "I for one do not look for intelligence in bed."

"They're all stupid," Edward insisted, petulant.

"Your father met your mother at the ball," Carlisle pointed out, finding the need to defend the gentlewomen of the ton. "And I met your aunt at one, too. Are you saying that she's stupid?"

"Who's questioning my lack of intellect?" Esme Cullen's amused voice drifted through the dining room, before she materialized.

"No one, Aunt Esme," Edward quickly assured her, standing. Emmett grinned, nearly upending his chair as he stood too.

"Pleasant morning, Lady Esme," he greeted happily. "I was just telling Edward that he ought to attend the season with me. I've got to go collect my wife, and he has to fish for one - we'll have a whale of a time!"

"An excellent idea," Lady Esme beamed. "Edward, I love you like my own son - it's high time you got a wife and produced an heir! You're thirty, for goodness sake - why, your father got married to your mother at twenty-eight, bless their souls!"

The late Duke of Masen and his wife had died in a shipwreck sailing back from a holiday in France when Edward was just a boy, and his uncle and aunt had looked after him since then. He almost thought of them as his parents, and they - childless - had always thought of him as a son.

"I shall inform the Countess Renee that we shall be attending her daughter's debut ball tomorrow. No time like the present to start your fishing. And you, Emmett - how could you have misplaced your wife?"

-.-.-

The Earl of Blatchford's Townhouse

September, 1890

"What does he look like?"

There was a pause.

"He has dark hair, I think," Rosalie said dubiously. She was sitting at a dresser in her best friend's house, preparing for the evening's ball.

Isabella Swan burst into laughter, and winced immediately. Moving her cheeks was a bad idea, especially when one was bruised black and blue. Alice had to cover it up with so much face-paint and powder Isabella felt as if she'd painted on a mask.

"Don't laugh," Rosalie scowled. "Your husband isn't returning from Africa after he leapt out your bedchambers fifteen minutes after signing the license."

"I don't have one," Isabella pointed out.

Rosalie eyed her friend with pale blue eyes. "And you should put more effort into catching one tonight," she said. "You're beautiful - you could get a Duke, even - if you'd bother to smile and flirt a little. And then you could escape your father and his flying fist."

Isabella sighed.

"And sighing is not the way to catch a husband," Rosalie added firmly. "Which gown are you wearing?"

"Which gown am I wearing?" Isabella turned to ask her maid.

"The blue silk," Alice said, laying said gown on the bed.

"Ah," Rosalie grinned. "For all your mother is not worth, at least she's good at getting you the best gowns."

"She wouldn't let me out of the room if I didn't look as expensive as the chandelier from Venice hanging over the dining table," Isabella assured her friend, as Alice helped her into the gown. "It's too revealing," Isabella frowned, staring at her reflection in the glass. "I can see half my bosom falling out. And once I bend over - everyone can look straight down the bodice to my navel! What was Mother thinking?"

"That this is the best way to catch a husband," Rosalie chuckled. "You look exquisite, Isabella - stop tugging at the lace! It won't make it grow anymore fabric. And it's the fashion now to reveal your breasts - not that you have much of them. Best to show off what little you've got," Rosalie told her friend.

Isabella scowled, glancing at Rosalie's most generous amount of breasts. If all husbands wanted were breasts - well - Isabella was certain she wasn't catching one tonight. She was thin, with a miserable excuse for a chest - not even the size of apples!

"Now, wipe that scowl off your face. Men don't want guavas or jackfruits of breasts - they want perky bits that fit perfectly into their hands. You're a little small - but a Duke with a smaller hand wouldn't mind them, I'm sure. Don't look so morose, Isabella. Alice, what are you going to do with your Lady's hair?" Rosalie asked, thoroughly enjoying herself.

"Don't you have to get ready?" Isabella asked her friend, desperate to suffer this indignity of getting ready for a ball when she most likely wouldn't even be asked to dance alone. "What about your missing husband?"

Rosalie made a face, before tossing her golden curls over her shoulder as she got up. "I suppose I should get ready for that great ape of a duke I've been married to for ten years. Not that the marriage is legitimate - it wasn't even consummated!"

"You were twelve," Isabella said sensibly as Alice wrestled her Lady's thick brown hair into silky waves.

"And I've been a married virgin for eight years! Goodness - can you imagine what a virgin Madonna I positively am?"

"Not at all," Isabella told her friend. "I'm sure you'll rectify that status immediately - once your husband finds you, that is."

"I most certainly plan to," Rosalie grinned wickedly. "And so should you," she said, before leaving the room.

-.-.-

Emmett McCarthy, the Duke of Argyll walked into the ballroom, flanked by Edward Cullen. He looked about impatiently, hoping to catch sight of his wife. Rose. No, Rosie. Rosalie - but there was no sight of her anywhere. Vague memories brought forth images of a skinny girl with golden hair that shone in the sun - but there were way too many blondes at this ball to say with any certainty which one was his wife.

"Damn, I can't find her," Emmett muttered to his friend, who was being accosted by the Countess Renee Swan at that very moment.

Edward shot him an amused glance, before turning back to smiling almost robotically at the Countess.

"Isabella is a gorgeous dancer," Lady Renee was fairly gushing. "You simply must meet her."

"Of course," Edward murmured politely, nodding to the Earl who was standing nearby, his mustache perfectly waxed.

The Earl of Blatchford nodded back at him.

Now, that was someone Edward could stand. Charles Swan was a stern and respectable man, as far as Edward knew. They moved in similar financial circles, the rare breed of gentlemen who cared to play the stock markets. From what he knew, Charles Swan was a well-bred, decent gentlemen - most unlike his wife, who was chattering at the speed of an Arabian horse.

Lady Renee was towing him by the elbow through the ballroom, and now they entered a smaller chamber. A quick reconnaissance of the room told him that in matters of wealth or title, no unmarried man present matched him - with the exception of his friend, Emmett, who already had procured a wife and was simply here to collect her.

So, strictly speaking, Edward was pleased to note that he needn't waste time courting a wife once he'd chosen her. Marriage was a market like any other. When he found the right lady, he would simply outbid his rivals.

The countess was still tittering on and on about her daughter, Isabella, and Edward couldn't help but wonder if the girl would prove his Law of Opposites correct. Girls were never what their names suggested, in Edward's experience. A wench christened Lily often turned out a shrill virago with none of the grace her name might suggest. Prudence hardly ever turned out sensible, with too great a lust for frivolous pursuits. Charity was often a Grinch disguised in a ball gown.

Isabella Swan - the girl was more likely to be an ugly duckling.

The Countess drew him to one side of the chamber and stopped before a young woman.

"Lady Isabella," she said with a flourish, and Edward tried his hardest not to look surprised. For Isabella Swan was every bit as beautiful as her name suggested.

Lady Isabella did not belong in an overheated English ballroom, Edward thought faintly as he bowed before her. She was utterly otherworldly - large, brown eyes that made you think of sweet almonds, a perfect straight nose that bred true to her heritage, sweet plump lips that begged to be kissed -

"Your Grace," Lady Isabella was saying, her perfect rosy mouth curving into a polite smile as she dropped into a deep curtsy, inclining her head. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Even her voice was as lovely as her name suggested.

"The pleasure is entirely mine," Edward said, meaning every word. "May I have the honor of your hand for this dance?"

To Edward's surprise, he found that his gesture was not met by girlish eagerness, but by a composure and grace so startling for a girl so young.

With a slight inclination of her head, Lady Isabella accepted his hand with the merest of a gentle touch. As slight as the contact was, it seared through their gloves, and lighted something in the very core of the wealthy Duke.

One in the ballroom and in his arms, Isabella danced as gracefully as Edward might imagine a swan could - not that he'd ever seen the bird dance. She was quiet and pliant and utterly exquisite, and towards the end of the dance, Edward realized that they had barely exchanged a single word. Weren't English gentlewomen known for their endless chatter and gossip? Yet, this true bred lady hadn't seemed to feel the need - nor the inclination - to converse with him. Still, it was the most comfortable silence of Edward's life, and the most enjoyable dance he'd ever had the joy of partaking in.

"Dance with me again," Edward commanded, once the number had ended - and was profoundly surprise at himself.

Lady Isabella looked surprised too, for she regarded him with a slight widening of her large brown eyes.

But when he held out his hand, she only paused for a brief moment before putting her hands in his again. Carefully, as if taming a wild bird, he placed his other hand on her waist, and fought the urge to grip hard and pull her slight self against his hard body.

As they danced, and her legs brushed against his, Edward became aware of two things. First, the entire assembly was watching them. The Duke of Mason was dancing twice in a row with Swan's daughter - the news would be in every gossip rag by dawn. The second was that of a throbbing in his groin, and a tightening of his breeches. As calm and collected as the Duke of Mason prided himself to be, as full of composure as he was rumored to be - he was now in dire danger of losing his cool. Everything male in him called out to take the girl and claim her as his in front of everyone, and it look everything in his self-control not to do just that.

He catalogued her features to distract himself from the aching in his loins - before realizing that it was counter- productive. Lady Isabella was utterly delicious. Her lips held a natural curve, as if she had a secret in reserve, something Edward longed to kiss and ravish the truth out of. Her neck was long and slender. Even her collarbones were delicate, and if Edward looked further down - his breeches were likely to be tented further up.

As the final strains of the waltz died, Edward bowed to his dancing partner, and silently thanked god that his coat was long and not cut-away, as in the fashion nowadays, successfully hiding the strain in his breeches.

Another man had turned up to ask for Lady Isabella's hand in a dance, and Edward decided that he would likely be causing quite a gigantic scandal if he refused to let anyone else dance with the lady. After all, he hadn't quite asked for her hand in marriage yet. Which brought him to the next course of action - where was the Earl of Blatchford? He had matters to discuss with the man. Numerous matters now, as a matter of fact.

-.-.-

Emmett had located another friend from Eton in the meanwhile, rather than his wife.

"What were you doing in Africa for eight years?" Lord Paul Gilham asked Emmett. "Eight years! Is there a Yellow Nile or a Purple Nile too?"

"Only the blue and white one," Emmett informed his friend. "I spent some time in Africa, crossed over to Abyssinia, and then to Greece."

"Doing what?"

"This and that," Emmett answered vaguely, still looking around distractedly. "But I've came back to find my wife. A Lady Rosalie Hale - we were married when we were young - you happen to know which blonde head is hers, by the way?" he asked, craning his thick neck. A long winding line of bouncing dancers were making their way along a diagonal - and just then, a gap in the line of dancers widened and he saw a gorgeous woman laughing at a man. Her body was so indicative of desire that he felt a matching burn in his chest. She shook bright gold hair over her shoulder, and it fell like sun spun silk.

"My god," Emmett whistled appreciatively. "Who is that beautiful woman?"

"Which?" Lord Gilham asked.

"The one over there, laughing with her husband."

Lord Gilham leaned over to see, and chuckled.

"Why?"

"She's beautiful," Emmett sighed. "I'd have her in a minute if I wasn't already married."

"That isn't her husband."

"No?"

"No," Lord Gilham snorted. "You are. That's Lady Rosalie Hale, daughter of the Marquess of Hale."

-.-.-

Whatever Rosalie imagined she would feel on meeting her errant husband for the first time in eight years, she never considered pleasure. Pleasure, and lust, if she was being honest with herself.

One moment she was laughing at Lord Royce Kensington, and the next, a large male hand was turning her around, lifting her up.

"Lady Rosalie! My wife!" the owner of the large hand guffawed happily, wrapping her up in his equally gigantic arms.

Rosalie tilted her head upwards, and found herself looking into merry blue eyes and a tanned face with dark hair.

"Your Grace," she grinned, despite being squashed like a Dutch-pillow. "How pleasant to meet you, at last."

It was, because the Duke of Argyll was the largest man she had ever laid eyes on. His shoulders and chest were broader than anyone else in the ballroom, and his arms were bulging with muscles. Even his legs looked like powerful tree trunks. Everything male in him appealed to Rosalie's female nature, and she found herself unable to look away from her husband - even if he was half-dressed for a ball of this nature.

"The pleasure is all mine," Emmett grinned at his wife, wondering how fate had dealt him such a lucky hand. Rosalie Hale was easily the most beautiful women in the entire room, in a silver gown that shimmered and clung to her every luscious curve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, as another waltz started up.

Rosalie accepted his large, spade of a hand and they started in the familiar steps of the waltz. Except Emmett was not a very good dancer, to put it mildly, and Rosalie found herself avoiding his trampling elephantine foot more so than dancing.

"You're an awful dancer," she informed her husband, pulling at him sharply to avoid crashing into another couple.

Emmett simply grinned. "Father never retained a dancing master for long. I was more interested in climbing trees than skipping in a circle."

"And I don't suppose there were any dancing in Africa," Rosalie said drily.

"Oh, but there is! Whole villages dance together," Emmett told her. "Naked."

"How nice," Rosalie murmured, for lack of a better thing to say. She was starting to wonder if her husband was slightly mad - first he turns up lacking a coat and a cravat, next he picks her up like a limp rag, and then proceeds to trample all over her foot - and now he was declaring naked dancing in Africa. Rosalie was starting to rethink her initial emotions at meeting her husband as erroneous.

The dance finally ended, and Emmett turned to her.

"Would you like to dance again?" he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

"Not at all," Rosalie assured him. "I think you don't quite fit in this room - let's find a quieter and larger area to accommodate your large - "

"Larger than life self," Emmett agreed happily. "I wholeheartedly agree, Rosalie. Would you like me to claw my way to the drinks table?"

"Oh," Rosalie's eyes lit up. "I would, indeed," she said, enjoying the notion of sending her barbarian of a husband on an errand. "I should like a glass of champagne, please."

Emmett nodded, looked around, and poked one of the footmen standing next to a door. "You! Fetch me two glasses of champagne, thank you."

Rosalie laughed, despite herself. "I thought you were going to claw your way to the drinks table for me?"

"I believe in delegation," Emmett grinned, nodding his thanks to the footmen as he accepted the two flutes of champagne and led Rosalie into a small alcove with a comfortable looking orange sofa.

"Looks like a pumpkin," Rosalie remarked, ducking into the alcove and eyeing the sofa suspiciously.

Emmett let the heavy gold-gilded orange curtains fall back as he stepped into the alcove after her. He sprawled down upon said orange stuffed furniture, and grinned. "Doesn't feel like a pumpkin," he told Rosalie, who perched gingerly on the edge of the over-stuffed chair.

"How are you, Rosalie?" Emmett asked, when it became apparent that Rosalie hadn't much to say about the sofa. He turned his large body so he was facing her, and ducked his head to look at his wife's face.

"Excellent," Rosalie answered, looking up at him. She seemed startled, and the way her pale blue eyes widened made her look even more like a perfect Greek goddess. So much so that Emmett had a sudden longing in his loins to kiss his wife. It had started out as a niggling thought when he first caught sight of her - but now, it was an obsession he couldn't get out of his bloody mind.

"No. I mean, how are you truly?" Emmett asked, forcing himself to make conversation rather than ravishing the woman before him. "I haven't seen you for eight years - and yet, we're married."

"I am absolutely fine," Rosalie assured her husband, unsure of where this conversation was going. She wasn't lying, she decided.

"How was living with your grandmother? The Dowager Duchess was a right tiger, if I remember," Emmett pressed.

"She died," Rosalie answered flatly, after a moment of silence.

Emmett stared. "When?" he demanded. "Who have you been living with then - in her absence?"

"An aunt," Rosalie said shortly, before turning away. She didn't want to air her grievances to her absentee husband of ten years on the first evening they spent together - there were many more evenings for that, if she ever wanted to rehash the past ten years living with a distant maternal aunt who traveled with an orchestra and hadn't the least bit of parental instinct.

Emmett watched his wife, and felt a sudden stab of guilt at having left her alone for ten years.

"Rosalie," he said, helplessly.

She looked up. Her eyes were a bewitching blue, the color of the Mediterranean sea.

Before he could stop himself, Emmett leaned over her and his lips drifted down on hers. He tasted surprise - surprise, and then acquisition - he cupped the back of her head in his large hand, and relaxed into the kiss. Her lips opened when she gasped - whether in surprise or pleasure, he couldn't tell - and Emmett took the invitation.

At which point the waltz going on outside the alcove, the ugly orange sofa, along with propriety all fell away. His groin tightened painfully as he kissed and nipped. Her skin was as smooth as silk under his callused fingers, as was her hair that he had gathered up in one large palm.

She would have fell backwards and let her husband have his way with her, except the curtains opened at that point.

"Well, I see you've found your wife," Edward Cullen drawled, a lazy grin on his face as he stood there, the curtains pulled to the side.

Rosalie scrambled upright, blushing wildly, and Emmett righted himself, still slouched. Truth to be told, his friend would have gotten an eyeful of the pole in his breeches if he bothered to stand.

"I have, indeed," he told Edward, allowing a grin to slip. "Rosalie, sweetheart - this is Edward Cullen, the Duke of Mason. Edward - my wife."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, at last," Edward grinned, bowing.

"Not as much as mine," Emmett muttered under his breath, adjusting his breeches, and Edward chuckled as he turned to leave the newly reunited couple.

-.-.-

Disclaimer:

This story is just a fiction of imagination. I do not claim to write true to historical times or events. All characters are originals of the Twilight franchise, not me!

A/N: Reviews are appreciated:)