AN: I read a Regency fic in the Sailor Moon section and I though I should give it a try. I researched only a bit so forgive me if I don't get some of the things right.

The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 1)

            "Where is she?" Lady Peacecraft said in ascending tones as she stalked down the upstairs hall. She had just glanced into the library, and now she closed the door of the music room with just the suggestion of a slam. Lady Peacecraft was known for her forbearance in times of stress. Her daughters, the ladies Sally and Sylvia, had reason to appreciate this quality in their mother. She had a reputation of being just and fair-minded, and her charm had opened many a door, usually closed to widows, no matter what their status. She was as popular with Queen Charlotte as she was with the Prince Regent, and even the unhappy Princess Caroline had, before she fled London for the Continent, found Lady Peacecraft one of the few peeresses with whom she felt at ease. Consequently it was a source of constant annoyance to her ladyship that despite her reputation for soothing the most turbulent of waters and setting the most difficult matters to right, she had little or, rather, no success in rendering her youngest daughter, Lady Relena, fully cognizant of her position in life and, more specifically, this household.

            "Where is she?" Lady Peacecraft repeated, a kindling eye on the stairs to the third floor and continuing up to the attic. Her question was, of course, rhetorical, for she knew full well that her recalcitrant daughter was in the attic, unmindful of the dust and probably near one of the windows, which meant that she would have displaced boxes, pushed piles of dusty curtains aside, and in the process dirtied her gown and herself.

            "Neither of your sisters," Lady Peacecraft said icily to Relena, who was indeed by the window in the attic, "ever would have dreamed of coming up here! What, pray, is the matter with the library or the parlor?" Without giving her youngest child a chance to reply, she continued, "Your grandmother will be here this afternoon at four, which gives you no more than an hour to prepare yourself. I vow, you are dust from head to foot! Your gown is filthy! There are smudges on your cheek – one would think you were a ragamuffin playing in the dirt rather than my daughter!" She allowed the suggestion of a sob to color her tones. "I am glad your poor father could not see you. I cannot begin to imagine what he would have thought!"

            "I am sure" – Relena put down her book and looked up at her mother – "that he would not have thought anything, Mama. He would not have known me, since he died a month before I was born."

            "Oh!" Lady Peacecraft exclaimed, clasping her hands to her bosom in a gesture redolent of Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse. "How can you be so insensitive as to remind me?"     

            Relena said, "What do you want with me now, Mother?"

            "Did I not tell you this morning after you returned from riding that your grandmother would be here at five this afternoon and that she wishes to see you?"

            "It is not four yet," Relena pointed out reasonably. "It lacks two hours of being five. When I came up here, I fully intended to come downstairs at four so that Lucy could dress me."

            "Can you imagine that it will take Lucy but an hour to dress   

            Relena said, "What do you want with me now, Mother?"

            "Did I not tell you this morning after you returned from riding that your grandmother would be here at five this afternoon and that she wishes to see you?"

            "It is not four yet," Relena pointed out reasonably. "It lacks two hours of being five. When I came up here, I fully intended to come downstairs at four so that Lucy could dress me."

            "Can you imagine that it will take Lucy but an hour to dress you?" Lady Peacecraft demanded sarcastically. "Look at your hair and the dirt all over you. You will have to bathe, and your hair must be washed and you know how long it takes to dry, bring so thick and worn far too long. You must come down from there this minute. I will not have your grandmother tell me again that it is shocking the way you go about. You could be some blacksmith's daughter or -,"

            "Please, Mama." Relena rose reluctantly. "I will come, though why I must be presented at court and brought out, I cannot know. I am out already – at least I have been seen in and around London and I have acquaintances here, and despite what Grandmother says, I am reasonably sure that in or out, no many is going to offer for me. You have said that yourself often enough, and so have Sally and Sylvia. They have no hesitated to quote the opinions of their friends, and also those of their husbands. I knew very well that I am not a matrimonial prospect, and I do wish I could return to the country, where I was comfortable. I am entirely reconciled to being a maiden lady, and there is certainly more room to ride at home."

            "Neither your grandmother nor myself," Lady Peacecraft said firmly, if not quite truthfully, "are prepared to write you off at eighteen. You come from excellent stock and your portion is large. I, or rather we, are of the opinion that some young man will be delighted to offer for you."

            "I have seen no evidence of that delight. " Relena rose, futilely brushing some cobwebs from her skirt and clutching to her bosom the book she had been reading. "We know quite a few young men at the Hall, and while they have clustered around my sisters like so many bees around honeysuckle, at least before they were married, I have yet to notice any clustering around me. The only compliments I have received were regarding my seat on the horse and…oh, yes, young Mr. Beauchamps said he was pleased because I did not scream when I fell into the water jump. I do not imagine that suggests any lurking desire to become my husband."

            "You are pleased to be ironic," Lady Peacecraft commented. She wished that she did not have to look up at her daughter. It was much easier to give a set-down to one smaller than oneself, and Relena could give her at least three inches in height. She continued doggedly. "You do remind me of your father in that, to be sure. I will tell you that it is no one's fault but your own that you are not as graceful as your sister Sylvia, or as charming. You do not make the effort. You sit quietly in a corner, and how often have I come to find you surreptitiously reading 0 when you imagine that you are unobserved."

            "I never imagine that I am unobserved, Mama. I know I am unobserved. I could read the whole of Mr. Boswell's Biography of Samuel Johnson and no one would be the wiser. No one looks my way when Sylvia is in the room."

            "Sylvia is married."

            "I have been in her drawing room when there are unmarried young men about, and they still look at her unceasingly. The only things that Sylvia and I have in common are our voices."

            "That is true. I mean," Lady Peacecraft said crossly, "that they are amazingly similar, but that is no unusual. My voice was similar to that of my sister." Lady Peacecraft frowned and continued. "I have told her over and over again that she ought not to court the attentions of young unmarried men – but that is aside from the point. Come down and have Lucy see what she can do with you."

            "Very well, Mama." Relena followed her mother out of the attic. "But I think we are in agreement that it will not be much."

            Precisely at the hour of four, Relena stood in the center of the drawing room feeling acutely uncomfortable as, at the direction of her grandmother, the dignified Countess of Sanq, she pivoted for the second time. "Very well, you may stand still," said the countess, fixing a glacial gray eye on her. In a tone that matched and even exceeded her gaze in coldness, she said, "I can see no resemblance to my son, either."

            Lady Peacecraft said with a matching chill, "She has Edward's eyes. If you will look at them, you will see that they are precisely the same shade of cerulean blue."

            The countess raised a quizzing glass, which magnified one eye in the most startling manner. "Well, perhaps," she finally allowed. "As I have always said, there is precious little else to remind me of poor, poor Edward. I thought she might grow to resemble her sisters more, as she became older. Unfortunately that has no happened. How did she get to be so heavy? I do not recall that she was so heavy the last time I was here."

            "I do not know," Lady Peacecraft sighed. "She does not have a great appetite. Again, I would say that she takes after your side of the family." There was a certain melancholy satisfaction in her tone that brought her an icy glare from the countess.

            Glancing down at her own lithe shape, the latter said, "It is possible that she takes after her uncle. Arthur was on the heavy side. He ate a great deal, as I remember. He also had two chins. She glared at Relena. "Hold your head up, girl."

            Relena had a strong impulse to refuse. Words had been piling up in her throat for the past quarter of an hour. She would have given much to tell her tiny but commanding grandmother that she was being unkind, and futility of the presentation they had in mind, but the repercussions wee to dreadful to contemplate. One never, never, contradicted her grandmother; one never even made a comment. One was required to listen and eventually to murmur a soft yes or no in answer to questions that rode roughshod over one's feelings. Generally the countess did not question. She stated.

            She said now, "I have already made arrangements for the presentation. I have also made appointments with the mantua maker. I have decided upon Mrs. Bell. The woman gets entirely too much notice in her husband's monthly journal, but she is not without taste, and she is particularly adept at clothing young women with difficult figures and no claim to beauty. I have explained Relena's problems to her, and she has already begun to make the preliminary sketches. I have also told her to prepared one of her famous Circassian corsets for Relena. Why are you make such a face, child?"

            "I…I do not find corsets comfortable," Relena dared to protest.

            "I am sure they are not, but you have no choice, not with your protruding belly. The gown will have to be white for the presentation. However, the ball gown might have a Grecian border at the hem and perhaps some decoration down the middle to minimize her unfortunate contours. Her hair will have to be cut and shaped. I will have my hairdresser attend to that.

            "Or mine," Lady Peacecraft suggested.

            She received a lightning glance from her mother-in-law. "Well, possibly," she allowed. "I do not believe we will let her wear jewelry."
            "No, certainly not," agreed Lady Peacecraft. "I would not even allow Sylvia to wear jewelry for her first ball."

            "It is a pity your girls are not more of a sameness," the countess said tartly, quite as if she were blaming her daughter-in-law for the difference.

            "I had not the ordering of that," Lady Peacecraft said defensively.

            "No, 'tis a pity," the countess returned coldly. "I will procure her a voucher for Almack's, once the presentation is over." She looked at Relena and shook her head. "Were it not for Jane…"

            "What about Jane?" Lady Peacecraft demanded sharply. "You will not be telling me that all this…this pother is based on one of Jane's predictions?"

            The countess said, "But of course, it is, my dear. As she did with your other two daughters, she has predicted that Relena will marry within three months of her presentation at Court. I have asked that that take place at the beginning of May, which means that she ought to be off your hands by August at the latest. The wedding will be held at St. James' Church, and I, of course, will have the reception at my house."

            "Ouf!" Relena could not help the exclamation that escaped her. She did manage to bite down a hysterical giggle, but the first sound had been enough to bring her grandmother's icy gaze back to her face. "What did you wish to say, Relena?"

            Relena swallowed convulsively. "My…my two sisters are…are neither one like me. It…it is possible that Jane did not take that into account."

            "Jane," the countess said coldly, "is the great-granddaughter of a woman who was executed for witchcraft. Her powers have been passed down to several members of her family, and Jane's predictions have always been uncannily accurate. I was at my wit's end when I asked her about you because, quite frankly, I could not imagine that you would ever have the slightest chance of being wed. Contrary to my expectations, Jane said…but I have already told you what she said. Your first appointment will be at three tomorrow. Your mother will accompany you, of course. I adjure you both, do not be late."

            Relena waited until her grandmother had gone. Then turning to her mother, she said succinctly, "Damn Jane."

            For once Lady Peacecraft did not protest either Relena's frankness. "I have more than a feeling that that must have taken place already. The woman is, as your grandmother has stated, most uncannily accurate, and not only at predicting marriages. She warned me regarding your poor father's early demise, and on other mattes as well. Indeed, I would not be surprised to learn that she and the devil are on intimate terms."

            It occurred to Relena that the countess, too, might enjoy that infernal intimacy. However, despite all the portents, she was positive that the devil was wrong this time.

            On the third Wednesday of May 1816, the venerable halls of Almack's were filled with those members of the ton fortunate enough to pass the scrutiny of its hostesses and thus procure a voucher for the weekly subscription ball. A great many gentlemen were on the floor going through the paces of a country dance. Others stood at the sidelines of the ballroom scrutinizing those young ladies who were dancing. Often their scrutiny was aided by quizzing glasses. None of those gentlemen – at least none of the handsome young men who thronged the halls – had so much as a glance at the several rows of chairs, where other young ladies, accompanied by their chaperones, sat stiffly at attention. Though they were doing their best to look pleasant, hope, never very strong in the first place, dwindled quickly.

            Relena, who had been one of this unhappy group for a half hour this night, and for several hours the preceding Wednesday, did not join them in casting wistful glances at the floor. Despite the prodding of Lady Howard, a distant connection of her late father, she sat reading Maria Edgeworth's Essay on Irish Bulls, which she was enjoying even more than Castle Rockrent. They were both older books – at least sixteen or seventeen years had passed since their publication – but they had escaped her attention until recently, and as she read, she was having trouble in keeping herself from laughing aloud.

            "Relena," Lady Howard snapped. "No one will ask you to dance if you sit there looking down at your book!"

            Relena managed to swallow an annoyed rejoinder. She said, "No one, Lady Howard, will ask me whether I look up or down – and I must prefer to read. I an enjoying my book."

            "You are not here to read," Lady Howard persisted.

            "Judging from my experience last Wednesday, when I did not read, I am not here to dance, either. It does become exceptionally boring just to sit here for two hours having nothing to do."

            "Some gentlemen might…" Lady Howard began hopefully.

            "I beg your pardon, Lady Howard," Relena said bluntly. "but some gentlemen will not. There are girls here on the chairs who have much the advantage of me in looks, and no one asks them, either."

            "They do not have the advantage of you," Lady Howard responded in a low voice. 'If you were thinner, you would be exceptionally well-looking."

            "I am not thinner," Relena replied with an uncompromising finality. She stubbornly turned her gaze on her book.

            Quatre Raberba Winner, Lord Marne, standing at the side of the dance floor, fixed a lackluster stare on the numerous young women, now in the midst of a cotillion. With a slight shudder he turned away, thinking wistfully of the card room. He had more than half a mind to go there at once, despite the fact that he had faithfully promised his sister, Iria, and his godmother, Lady Cavendish, that he would ask some female to dance.

            "Will you remain secluded for the rest of your life?" Lady Cavendish had questioned, speaking with the freedom of one who had known him since babyhood.

            Actually it was not a question, but an order disguised as a question. In effect she had been saying, "as the last of the Marnes, Quatre, it is your duty to marry again." She had gone on to say in actuality, "I know you loved poor dear Dorothy to distraction, and I know you were eagerly anticipating the birth of your first child. It is extremely unfortunately that she died in childbed, and the poor baby with her. Yes, I know it was a boy, a double misfortune. I do not say that you should forget her or your love – but it has been close on three years, and it is time you thought of the title. It would be a shame to let it lapse."

            "Damn the title!" he muttered to that imposing presence situated in his mind's eye. He sent a brief prayer to the Almighty, thanking Him for giving her the touch of quinsy that had prevented her from accompanying him this night and choosing eligible partners for him. He sent up another prayer because his sister had also been prevented from attending the ball. Her husband truly hated Almack's and the hostesses, whom he characterized collectively as being "too damned full of themselves."

            Lord Marne agreed with him wholeheartedly, even though the ladies had been exceedingly cordial to him. Priness Lieven's greeting had hinted at something more, did he wish to avail himself of the opportunity. That it was a heavily weighted opportunity. That it was predicated on his connection with the House of Lords and the hope that her artful questions might extract some bit of useful information that she might pass on to her husband, the Russian ambassador, did lessen the excitement she promised. However, he had smilingly appeared not to comprehend her charming smile and beguiling words, and he could only hope that he had not made an enemy for life. The time was past when he wanted to complicate his life with a dangerous intrigue.

            Just as that thought let his mind, he replaced it with another that certainly should have occurred to him earlier. Since neither his godmother nor his sister were here this night, why had he come in the first place? He did not want to look for a bride; he did not want to be married again, not yet. He would leave now. He started for the door, but unfortunately he caught sight of Lady Craven, a dear friend of his sister's. Had she seen him? If she had not, there was every possibility that she would see him as he passed her on his way out, and no doubt his early withdrawl would be communicated to Iria, whom he had promised faithfully that he would attend the ball and remain there for at least an hour.

            Muttering an oath under his breath, he sent a harried glance around the room and caught sight of the unfortunately females who occupied the chairs. As he regarded them he was aware of the battery of eyes impaling him, anxious eyes, unhappy eyes, the eyes of those young ladies who had come to Almack's in the vain hope of being asked to dance. He would dance with one of them, and consequently Lady craven, damn her, could tell his sister that Quatre had done his duty.

            It was a duty that grew ever more irksome the closer he drew to those hapless, hopeless females. And then, as he, feeling uncomfortably like some Oriental potentate trying to decide which houri he would select for the night, edged nearer to the chairs, he saw one who was outstandingly different from the others! It was not that she was prettier. He had no notion of how she looked. Her head was bent, her eyes fixed on a book! Surely, he decided, it must be an affectation. No young lady in receipt of a prized voucher to Almack's would be sitting there reading, rather than casting out lures, such lures as she might possess! However, this damsel, her eyes fastened on the printed page, seemed totally unaware of her surroundings, totally oblivious to the fact that she was there for a purpose, a purpose that had nothing to do with reading a book!

            Obviously she could not be well-chaperoned; else she would have been sternly reprimanded and the book put away. He glanced at her companion and recognized Lady Howard, with whom he had a slight acquaintance. Her head was bent so that he could not catch her eye, but obviously she must be baffled. Undoubtedly, her charge had a will of her own. It occurred to him that he would like to discover the identity of this surprisingly willful young woman.

            Relena, happily perusing a delightful if rather sad little tale of a cruel Welsh schoolmaster, a hapless Irish lad, and his kind schoolmate, was being by turns sympathetic and indignant. Miss Edgeworth wrote with great sympathy for the Irish, and that pleased her. She was put in mind of Tim O'Toole from County Cork, her riding master, whom she had greatly missed after his return to Ireland.

            She was in the midst of shaking her head over some piece of injustice meted out to the Irish boy by the school master when a cough caused her to look up swiftly, expecting…she was not sure what. She had entertained a vision of one of her mother's friends finding her so engaged, but even as she looked up, she realized that it had not been a feminine but a masculine cough, and then she stopped thinking about coughs entirely as she met aquamarine eyes set in a face that called up the description "classically handsome." In fact, his features might even be termed poetically handsome. The aquamarine eyes were large, the nose was beautifully shaped, the mouth was firm, the lips neither too full nor too thin but achieving a perfect median between the two. There was a sharp cleft in his chin, and she noted that his complexion was olive and his cheekbones high. His hair was platinum blond, and she had the impression of a felicitous blend of Arabian mixed with English. Having reached this conclusion, she belatedly realized that she was staring at him, and certainly he was staring at her. She blushed and darted a side glance at Lady Howard, finding her nodding.

            "But what are you reading?" the gentleman asked in a low, pleasant voice, his gaze briefly on the somnolent chaperone.

            "It's called An Essay on Irish Bulls. Maria Edgeworth's the author."

            "Ah, she also wrote Castle Rackrent, am I right?" he asked.

            "Yes, you are." Relena nodded. "That is her most famous book, I believe, but she has written quite a few others. This one has a partially Irish background. I think she once lived in Ireland."

            "I have the impression that she still travels back and forth between England and Ireland," he commented.

            "Do you know her?" Relena asked interestedly.

            "My wife used to be quite fond of her works," he explained.

            "Oh, really?" Relena was conscious of a strange little prick of disappointment. Yet of course he would be married, a man of that age. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, and he was so singularly attractive! And why should she, of all people, be disappointed? She could not hope to interest him. Probably he was on his way to meet his wife.

            He said, "Do you intend to read for the entire evening?"

            She decided on the truth, for there was no reason to dissemble. After all, she was speaking to a married man, not that she would have dissembled before – well, she might have in hopes of being asked to dance. That was, of course, a very forlorn hope, a foolish hope, given the appearance of the man standing beside her. She said, "I do not believe I will have an opportunity to do much else save read."

            "You might dance." He smiled. "In fact, I believe that the next dance will be a country dance. Might I hope that you will be my partner?"

            "Me?" Relena said ungrammatically.

            Lady Howard, who had woken in time to hear the last part of this exchange, mentally cringed but said brightly, "Of course she will. She will be delighted."

            Relena visited a swift, annoyed look at her chaperone, and then the lady's eagerness brought a smile to her face, a natural smile full of amusement. "I would be delighted to be your partner for the country dance, sir. Except…"

            "Except what?" he questioned.
            "Well I am a much better horsewoman than I am a dancer. I find the patterns of the dance rather confusing."

            "My dear child," Lady Howard protested. "She is all unspoiled, my lord."

            "So I see," he said. He added, "Perhaps you will do me the kindness of introducing us, Lady Howard."

            "You have not been introduced?" she asked confusedly, and reddened. "Oh dear, I…I fear I am to blame. My…er, Relena, my dear, may I present the Earl of Marne. Your lordship, this is Lady Relena Peacecraft.

            "Lady Relena Peacecraft" –he bowed- "I am delighted to make your acquaintance."

            "And I yours, my lord," she murmured.

            "May I inscribe my name on one of the spokes of your fan?" he asked, pointing to the little ivory fan that lay folded in her lap.

            "You may, of course" –she held it up-"but it is really not necessary. There are no others, and I will remember the next country dance. I will be sitting right here."

            "My dear…" Lady Howard protested softly.

            "I think I will inscribe it, anyway," he said, Taking her fan, he produced a small pencil, with which he wrote his name in a flowing script that Relena thought was the most beautiful handwriting she had ever seen.

            "I thank you, my lord," she murmured as he returned the fan.

            "It is I who must thank you, Lady Relena." Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss on it. "I will be back directly they announce the country dance." He smiled and bowed.

            "Oh, my dearest Relena," Lady Howard breathed as he strode away. "Have you any notion of your good fortune?"

            "Yes," Relena said as she stared at her fan, thinking that she would keep it until her dying day.

            Meanwhile a veritable babble of conversation had broken out among the girls sitting to her left, her right, behind and before her.

            "Oh, you are fortunate," sighed a plain young woman sitting next to Lady Howard. "Imagine dancing with Lord Marne."

            Meeting yearning blue eyes set in a plain little face topped by mousy brown curls, Relena said, "Do you know him, then?"

            "My brother knew him at Eton," the girl said. "He came home with him once. He was handsome even then."

            "He is a very attractive young man," Lady Howard said. She added, "He comes from an old and extremely distinguished family, my dear Relena."

            "I knew his wife," a girl in front of them turned around to say. "At least, my sister did. They were in school together."

            "An extremely foolish young woman," Lady Howard frowned.

            "Yes, she was," the girl said before Relena could question her chaperone. "My sister said that even in school she would be walking around in a rainstorm reciting poetry."

            "But she was beautiful," the girl, with the brother, murmured.

            Caught by the past tense, Relena said, "Is his wife no longer living?"

            "Alas, no, poor Dorothy." Lady Howard sighed. "She died in childbed, and the baby with her. He was reported to be inconsolable."

            "Oh, dear, what a shame," Relena murmured, feeling a strange exultation that she dared not examine more closely. A second later she did examine it and told herself that she was a goose, a dunce, and mad, besides, to lay even the first brick of a dream castle. The handsome young Earl of Marne was not for the likes of an overweight damsel with her nose in a book while sitting in the chairs at Almack's. He was only being kind, and after tonight undoubtedly she would never see him again. Indeed, she could count herself fortunate if, after all, he came back to claim her for the dance – fan or no fan. Resolutely she opened her book at the place she had marked.

Notes: Yeah, there is a lot of OOC-ness going on but hopefully it's good OOC-ness. We all know Dorothy would never ever recite poetry…unless they were about war. -droplets- REVIEW! It keeps us authoresses going and helps inspiration strike more often.