AN: I have received strict orders to point out that the Chuck and Blair curricle scene at the end of this chapter is taken from K.G. McAbee's novel, together with the character Claude who belongs to her. I have re-written the scene in more personal words now. I apologize for the error and/or inconvenience this caused for the idea behind this scene does not belong to me!

CHAPTER II

o

Ramifications of His Vices and Her Virtues

o

"Well, I refuse to go to that odious woman's house again, even if her deuced party is in my honour!"

Lady Rowley, shocked at her niece's attitude as much as at her language, said, "But, my dearest Blair, you cannot refuse to attend! It would cause the greatest of furors, you know, and Lady Christabel would never forgive you."

"As if that could ever be a concern of mine," grumbled Blair, crumpling the scented invitation in her ink-stained hand and tossed it onto the carpet with an expression of utter disdain. "I have no intention of toadying to that...that creature. Why, did you know of her infamous reputation in London, aunt Caroline? She is as thick as thieves with that despicable gambler Sir Edward? I have no more intention of attending this gathering of hers than I have of sprouting wings and flying over the Channel to take on Bonaparte himself!"

"If you care nothing for the Waldorf name, then at least please think of the Rowleys, I beg of you."

Blair looked up somberly but still refused to accommodate her guardian that is until the overdramatic lady's eyes began to tear up. Blair spent some time in soothing her aunt, and found at the end of it, to her supreme surprise, that she had somehow contrived to promise to attend Lady Christabel's soirée anyhow. It was to give her one last taste of the haut ton before her return to Kent.

That of course did not mean that she went along with the preparations smoothly.

"My dearest Blair, you must allow Dorota to do your hair, I vow, or you will never be ready in time, and I cannot imagine what your mother will say upon hearing this," muttered Lady Caroline Rowley with Blair's loyal Dorota in tow. A silver-backed brush hung from one delicate, rounded hand, shining bright against her pale green silk skirts of her mother's cousin.

Blair looked up from the book that engrossed her to the exclusion of all else - a most common affair with Lady Waldorf, as any of her friends would swear - and gave a distracted smile in the general direction of her aunt.

"Dearest aunt Caroline," Blair replied with a cheerful, mocking grin, "as I have been invited to the beautiful Lady Christabel Russell's house, no one will notice whether I have hair or not, much less how it is arranged. So" turning to the maid "settle yourself, Dorota and let me finish this chapter, I pray you."

Dorota gave a sniff that spoke volumes, then waited with exaggerated patience, tapping one slippered foot on the rosy Aubusson carpet. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, warming the high room, even though two windows were open to the fresh air. As fresh as one could expect, at least, in London, Dorota thought with another metaphorical sniff.

Meanwhile the mistress of the house looked disapprovingly at her niece. "Dear one, as your guardian during your visit in London, I pray you listen to me. There is a vital difference between the terms fashionably late and disrespectful tardiness. Not only is this gathering in your honour, but also Lady Russel is a member of the ton-"

Blair snorted. "Please! Aunt you were the one who revealed to me that not only is she drowning in debt all over Europe, but the woman has been passed from man to man, to now the prince!"

"Blair Cornelia! For shame! Such things are not heard of from the mouth of a young debutante."

"But I am not one, 'tis my second season."

"A coming out in Rome does not count as a proper season, it barely counts as educational. I have no idea of what your mother was thinking."

"My mother sent me off to Italy so she could mourn my father in peace." Caroline looked upon the nineteen year-old daughter of her elder cousin Eleanor, dropping the tragic subject for the time being.

"What I meant to say dear, was that despite the lady's questionable reputation, the prince approves of her and so does the Duke of Dorset. Considering his family estates in Sevenoaks bordering to yours, you must take care. We cannot insult Lord Russel's adulterous wife."

"The said royalists approve of the said coquette simply as the rumor has it that both have graced her bed. If Serena's sources are correct, the Duke passed her on to the prince over a game of cards, and the 'lady' was more than happy to oblige."

"Well, it is certainly unconventional-"

Exasperated Blair threw down her book with a disgusted facial expression. "It's revolting, that's what it is! I still cannot believe that you and mother would approve of an association with such people, no matter what title they may have!"

"Among, as you said, such people is our future King! And this event is in your honour, my dear. The lady wishes to throw a soirée as a farewell before you return to Kent. And in anyway, you've only got another two days in London, and I doubt you will see any of those people again."

Blair cast a glance out the open window, where the setting sun was casting its last benevolent glow upon the great capital city, and gave a slow sad shake of her head. Some moments passed in glorious silence, as each woman was engrossed in her own thoughts.

At last, Lady Caroline patted Dorota softly on her shoulder. "There now, dearest Dorota, Blair's head is at your complete and total disposal, to do with as you will."

The maid spent some enjoyable moments running the horsehair bristles through the shining masses of dark curls, twining them about each other, jabbing hairpins in place with a determination that would have graced a general.

"It is a fascinating book, I take it, miss Blair?" she asked while maneuvering a particularly recalcitrant curl into proper position with the ease of long practice.

"Dorota, you're as little interested in books as I am in gambling."

Blair smiled at her maid and friend." A good thing for your Thomas, no doubt, you are a treasure for him about the house. Indeed, you're as useful as I am a burden to a husband."

Dorota smiled at the mention of her loyal husband, the farmer, dropping a hairpin onto the thick carpet as evidence of her delight. Then the expression on her face changed to one of concern. "But I'm sure that you'll find a man who is reasonable about your books, truly, miss Blair. Do not worry about it."

Blair laughed as she regarded her maid's intent look in the dressing table mirror. "Do not let it put you into a pother, dearest Dorota. As you know, I have all the money I'll ever need, and a husband is the last thing on my list of bits and bobs to acquire."

"But, miss Blair," said the maid, stopping her ministrations in mid-stroke, "of course you must marry. Why, what about children?"

"Children! Why, what about them? Useless, puling, distracting things, and besides, they'd get in the way of my studies. No offence to your little Amy of course."

Finishing her hairdressing in record time, Dorota stood back to admire her work." There, miss, I'd vow that you couldn't have received better from a professional hairdresser, be he French at that."

Blair eyed herself in the wavy glass. She knew herself to be no beauty in the current fashion, which was all for golden curls, trailing draperies and pink cheeks. Still, the dark reddish tints in her thick hair brought out answering tints in her deep brown eyes, and her pale alabaster white complexion looked well against her simple white Empire style dress, with its low cut neck, slender short silken sleeves and long trailing muslin skirt.

"Well, perhaps I'll be lucky enough to have someone to talk to at a private dinner such as this, instead of these endless balls full of vapid young lords or bluff army men with ruddy faces and thick hands, all talking at the tops of their lungs about hunting and shooting."

"Why, miss Blair, have you not enjoyed your London season? It was very kind of Lord Rowley to invite us-"

"It would have been kind if him and my aunt and mother did not strive so hard to marry me of." She rose to her feet, her petite slender figure towering over the plump round form of her companion. "As you are well aware, the three of them offer me these occasional treats as a preliminary to start the bidding for my hand. It is a custom of which I am well acquainted, I assure you."

"Miss Blair, your mother is due your respect and affection, if for no other reason."

"Dorota, my father has gambled away most of his fortune, as you very well know. His obsession with gambling and other pleasures of sinful nature has come near to destroying our family's position in society and the Viscountcy, and we both know that it near drove my mother to her deathbed. And now the same woman who has suffered first hand from these atrocities is pushing me into the arms of men with same weaknesses as my dearest papá!"

Dorota watched in dismay as Blair turned away and marched across the room, to look out the open window down at the street below. She knew how much her young mistresses had changed since Lord Waldorf's death. The once happy young lady who enjoyed reveling at beautiful things and flaunting herself among the society, was now cynical and lived through her books, rather than dealing with reality.

"I'm sorry, miss Blair."

"It is of little consequence. Soon enough I'll be alone with my books and my gardens at Cobham Hall."

Dorota draped an embroidered silk shawl about Blair's shoulders and shooed her out the door.

Outside the large bedchamber, a flight of mahogany steps led down to the entryway of Lord Rowley's rented London residence. Baron and his wife stood there already, his dun-colored waistcoat tight across his portly body, his watch fob littered with seals, and his spindly legs showing to ill advantage in the tight pantaloons recently made popular by the notorious Beau Brummel.

"Well, dear niece, are you ready for your last supper party of this season?" asked her uncle gaily.

"I am, sir, and will doubtless have a delightful time, I thank you," said Blair wryly as her footman Claude, whom she had brought with her from the country, handed her into the rented carriage.

Blair settled back against the cushions, careful to give her guardians their privacy of an old married couple.

The curricle struck a pothole as Blair sighed irritated. There was a time when she thrived in society and would beg for another week in London, but ever since her beloved father's death she could not stand to look upon the people that drove him to the dark side. She could not wait for her journey back to Cobham.

Lady Christabel Russell was standing at the open door of her townhouse, chatting with two of her supper guests, all the while wondering where her favourite Duke was.

"La, lord and lady Rowley," trilled her ladyship, "how delightful to have guests who are on time, instead of so much out of the time, as is the current mode. These young dandies, you know, are notoriously late. It is quite the fashion with them. And lady Waldorf, my gest of honour, of course."

Lady Christabel's clinging Empire-styled gown of peach silk accented the profusion of golden curls - owing more to art than nature, though this made no matter to her gallant admirers. Her face was overlaid with dusting of powder, in which her French maid was wont to sprinkle gold dust, to accentuate the golden hair and the green of the lady's eyes.

The sound of a carriage driving up to the front door of the Russell townhouse rattled the cobblestones of the street. The door to a dashing curricle flew open from within and his Grace, the Duke of Dorset, his attire impeccable, his stock as high as fashion decreed, descended with an air. He cast a quick glance about him, then proceeded up the steps to Lady Christabel's open door.

A servant posted there for just this occurrence, flung open the front door even wider just as Lord Bass reached it. His lordship stepped inside with crisp decision.

"Your Grace," Lady Christabel purred as she floated languidly forward and clasped his lordship's proffered hand to her bosom. "How delightful of you to come. I haven't seen you in, la, these many months now. I am convinced that you have forgotten me," she finished with a trill of laughter that did little to hide her anger.

"Madame."

Chuck bowed and reclaimed his hand from its fragrant captor with some difficulty. He hoped Christabel was not going to be difficult. Their affair had lasted no longer than a week, over a year ago, as he had quickly grown tired of her everlasting demands and neediness. He prayed that she would be reasonable for a change and had not instead determined upon a scene. Knowing the light-skirt, he did not dare to believe it.

Lady Christabel shot him a sharp look from under her eyelashes, as if quite sure of what involved his mind. She offered him a tiny moue of a flirting smile, then turned to present him to one of her male guests.

About half-way through the third (and last) course, Chuck finally managed to escape from his brainless dinner companion and hostess. Naturally, lady Russel, in the absence of her husband, had decided that the Duke as her former lover deserved the honour of playing the role of her dinner companion, much to his lordship's nuisance.

After desert was served, Charles was thankful for Christabel's admirers taking up all of her attention. For the first time that evening he had the liberty of scanning the room. He avoided conversational groups of people standing in the salon, as he was in no mood for pointless chatter. Instead the Duke was in search of a plant or some sort of container where he could pour out the rest of the ridiculously sweetened port wine in his glass. That is when he overheard the end of a hushed conversation behind the corner to the parlor connected the salon, also filled with guests.

"How frightfully elegant Lady Christabel is, to be sure, Blair," whispered lady Rowley as she stood beside her niece in the crush of people, waiting for her husband to fetch them refreshments. "One would think that she entertained the Prince of Wales, instead of some miss from the country. 'Tis a great honour indeed."

The lady's companion gave her excited relative's hand a reassuring squeeze. "She may well be called upon to entertain the prince, aunt Caroline, since she knows him quite well, I have heard. But do not excite yourself, pray, if he does deign to attend."

Lady Rowley almost squeaked, "The Prince! Oh, my dear, do you think he will come?"

Chuck observed how the young miss in question sighed and turned around, rolling her eyes, before departing to the other end of the room to stand by herself watching the view from the French windows.

As she did so Charles was taken back, nearly spilling the red wine on his white cravat. It was the brilliance of her eyes that stunned him. The young lady's appearance may not have been currently in fashion, but the beauty of her slender form was striking nonetheless.

This young miss, Blair, who he has heard was the guest of honour of the gathering, was dressed in a vanilla white flowing muslin gown, with slender sleeves he preferred over puffed ones. Her dark chestnut hair was caught up in a carefully casual bundle at her nape, and she wore a single strand of pearls. Her snowy white complexion contrasted with the dark wavy hair and the deep dark eyes. The eyes that looked almost black in the shrill light of candles, lightening up the room. Her swan-like neck and shoulders were exposed by the ingenious cut of her dress.

Before he knew what he was doing, Chuck was standing next to the beautiful petite creature, his close proximity startling the oblivious young miss.

"My lord?"

Chuck's eyes were drawn to the plump, naturally red lips. He swallowed: "My lady."

An awkward silence passed between the two as Blair shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze. She quietly cleared her throat when his eyes drifted lower and lower, almost inappropriate.

"I could not help but overhear that you were looking forward to the Prince's arrival?"

The unexpected opening line made Blair blush, irritated at the intrusion. "Excuse me?"

"Why, it is just that I wanted to confirm his arrival and you seemed to be well versed in the subject."

"Oh," she sighed in relief, "I was merely pointing out Lady Russels connections and royal acquaintances among the ton."

"Ah, yes." Chuck smirked, "Her connections are indeed grand. The prince and a couple of dukes."

Blair snorted, "More like her being passed down between the prince and a couple of dukes, his favourite being one of her patrons."

Impressed by the witty shameless reply, Chuck couldn't help but feeling somewhat uncomfortable and unsettled for the first time in his life. Since the death of his father and his involvement in politics, he tried to be discrete about his affairs, but now it seemed that Christabel rectified that situation and even young debutantes knew of his disposables. Usually he would not care, but for some reason he wished that this particular miss (with apparently a very sharp tongue) would have remained oblivious. "His favourite?"

"Why yes, the Duke of course."

"Which duke?"

Blair looked away from lady Russel, and focused on Chuck with a glint of surprise in her eyes. "Why, the Duke of Dorset of course. Do not you know?"

"Ah."

The young age of her companion and his masculine beauty startled her when she looked closely on the man next to her. His hair was darker than hers, but his hazel eyes glittered with the candle light reflection. His broad shoulders, towering figure and air, affected Blair, and she was grateful for the dim lightening as the blood rushed to her cheeks. Usually her white complexion made it painfully obvious whenever she blushed.

"Ah? That is all you have to say?"

"Well I know of him of course, though I doubt you mentioned the name for praise."

"Praise! For what? I have heard of his family naturally, living close by" said the young woman in a low voice.

"Indeed?" asked Chuck, interested in spite of himself, as he gazed into surprisingly intelligent brown female eyes. "In what respect, pray, Miss?"

"Is he not a distant descendant of Don Francisco de Aragones, so prominent at the court of James the First?" asked Miss Waldorf, with a smile that he noticed, with the strangest thrill of delight, quite lit up her unexceptional features.

"Is he indeed," said Charles, surprised at her knowledge, and even more surprised at the unwarranted response within himself.

Not many young ladies of his acquaintance had an interest in history. He took an even closer look at this paragon. The slender beauty had a certain graceful air about her, without a doubt, but there was more. The glittering in her eyes, that struck him, was not merely candlelight, but intelligence.

Lady Christabel gave another of her signature laughs, though this one sounded a bit forced to Chuck. He looked over to his former mistress and noted that she had spotted his location in the room and was already on her way over.

"I see you have met my guest of honour, lady Blair Waldorf, daughter of late Viscount Cobham. The lady is a bluestocking, my dearest Charles," said Lady Christabel, her beautiful face suffused with the first signs of anger. "One of these educated misses, with a book always in her hand. Why, when she first called on me with her guardian lady Rowley in tow, she displayed the most fascinating ink-stained fingers that I have seen since I visited those horrid bookbinders with you, on that boring trip a year ago we took together in the spring."

Lady Christabel had managed, Chuck noticed with extreme irritation, to both disparage the young lady's tastes and inform her that he and Christabel had been intimate. 'A trip in the spring' was the current euphemism for an affair, of course, and Lord Bass suddenly wished that he had never seen Lady Christabel in his life.

But Miss Waldorf did not seem to be fazed by the remark upon Lady Russel's interruption. Instead, the young woman was to his amazement to engrossed in the subject at hand. This surprising young lady asked with interest, "Bookbinders, my lord? Not by any chance a family called Escaron who escaped from the Revolution in France? I have visited their establishment in Bath many times."

"Indeed, that is the very family," said Chuck, surprised at her knowledge yet again.

"I thought as much," said Miss Waldorf with a nod and a smug little smile. "I know them well and have acquired many of my books there."

"La, how truly fascinating," said Lady Christabel with an ill-concealed yawn. Blair frowned at the hostess. "But let us go in to the gambling room, pray. Your Grace-" she began, her hand held out to be led out, but was interrupted by lady Rowley joining her niece.

"Ah, dear lady Russel. I must regret to inform you that my husband wishes to retire."

"But of course." Christabel turned with a cruel grin towards the young miss whom she already considered a rival. "Miss Waldorf, I hope you enjoy your last days in London, and I wish you a pleasant trip."

With that the two parties separated. Blair had yet to say a thing, being led out by her aunt. She was still buffled about something the hostess mentioned. "Aunt Caroline?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you know who that young man was?" Baron Rowley laughed.

"Why my dear, have you failed your duties as a lady of the ton?" he addressed his wife.

"I merely assumed that lady Russel introduced you. And I was surprised by you calm reception and conversation with his Grace, considering your prejudices against his sort." Blair stopped and looked back to the young man in question, whose eyes were already on her. Drinking her in, his eyes burning intensely, frightening her.

"His Grace?" she asked never taking her eyes of the man.

"Why certainly, his Grace, Charles, the Duke of Dorset."

Pieces of the puzzle fell into places and Blair felt anger rising within her. In the course of mere minutes the odious man has managed to both ridicule and insult her. And now he was retreating to the card room, a room filled with sins that drove her father to the grave. With his Cher Ami, who without a doubt has given him some sort of horrible disease.

Images of revolting sexual orgies she had secretly read about in the books of Marquis de Sade, involving the hostess, the duke and the prince, made her shudder as much as Justine*. As soon as she possibly could Blair turned around and went ahead of her uncle to the carriage feeling wary all the way home.

Meanwhile, Charles spent no longer than couple of minutes in the card room, before cutting the hostess and leaving the gathering. He still remembered the look that Waldorf girl gave him, while standing across the room. Obviously Lady Rowley revealed to her niece his identity, and the utter horror and disdain that shone through Blair Waldorf's blazing eyes felt insulting, but nonetheless he could not blame her for it. He knew what her opinion of his persona would be as soon as she heard his name, and he worsened the situation by ridiculing her ignorance of society.

Charles saw at once that Blair was a proud woman, and a bluestocking as such would not take an insult to her intelligence lightly. But then she was not the only one who left with wounded pride.

That look – that look – she gave him. How dares she? Her, a girl of nineteen judging him, a duke currently with more power in the Parliament than the prince. Not to mention he was her senior by six whole years. Yes, he may deserve it, and Chuck never gave a damn about what people thought of him. Why should he? He was handsome, wealthy and of noble blood. Yet, the disgusted expression on her face somehow cut him to the bone.

Those velvet eyes cold as the Russian tundra…

During the mingling after supper at the Russel townhouse the hostess was fuming.

"Delightful, delightful," muttered Sir Edward as he scratched his bulbous nose with one finger, a sardonic look in his mud-colored eyes as he observed the Duke of Dorset conversing with the honoree guest.

"La, sir, I do not know how you judge what is delightful, but I confess I see nothing so here," said Lady Christabel as she seized Sir Edward's arm.

Sir Edward looked a bit askance at the fierceness of the lady's grip, but accompanied her out of the charming and intimate supper room. Lady Christabel had initiated the custom of small supper parties that consisted of from two to a dozen couples. Her innovation was the rage of the season, on nights when there was no great ball to attend or performances at the opera or theatre. In all the great houses of London, hostesses would gather discerning members of Parliament and match them with witty ladies, or rakish young lords with simpering misses, and regale them with the most expensive delicacies and the finest of wines.

After supper table tonight it was made quite obvious (to everyone but the devutante herself) that the Waldorf heiress had managed to capture the rakish duke's attention. Whether they were of the carnal or purely sadistical nature was yet to be seen. But Sir Edward was quite certain it was one of the two options, perhaps both.

Sir Edward gave the pair a look - then turned his piercing gaze upon Lady Christabel with a knowing wink.

"It appears to me, my lady, that your plans of seduction may well be nothing more than impossible," he murmured in a tone just barely audible to the woman on his arm.

Lady Christabel turned to her guest and gave him a slow smile. It was not a pretty smile. Indeed, it resembled more the snarl of some canny fox. One brilliant green eye closed in a wink.

"I have no idea of you are speaking of, sir" she said before storming of in the direction of the couple in question.

"Arthur!"

The shout rang through the three-storied townhouse, echoing from the ground floor up to the garret. In the kitchens of the huge residence, a massive woman bound up in a snowy apron, said approvingly, "'Ere now, 'is lordship's awake early today, Mister Arthur. I'd best get 'is breakfast tray laid, for he'll be sharp set this morning, to be sure."

Arthur, his narrow face suffused in good humor, set down his empty cup with a sigh of total and complete repletion. It was a remarkable thing, he often thought, how he had become so enamoured of that strange English concoction, dark sweet tea. It was now his custom, of a morning, to partake of several cups. It would never replace wine, of course, or even coffee, but it had its charms.

"Yes, milord is awake early," Arthur said as he took the last bite of a hearty slice of bread spread thickly with butter and golden honey.

Being a Scot himself, did not mean he came directly from the Highlands. No, instead he spent his young years in training for the role of a manservant of highest raking, in France, serving in the Palace of Versailles. That is where he met the Late Duke twenty years ago, serving faithfully first the father, and now the son.

The news of the Terror in Paris, left Arthur with an appreciation of a full belly that he had obtained in these previous two decades under the roof of the nobleman. Three years now since his late master passed away.

Arthur was the supreme pleasure of Cook. Never was her simple soul so filled with joy as when she was stuffing endless and enormous meals into the scrawny Scotsman, never managing to fill him up but never ceasing to try, and always taking great delight in her efforts.

"'Ere now, there's no call for you to jump up like that, Mister, not when there's still a piece of bacon and another egg there on that very table as ever was. Just you gobble them down while I fix 'is lordship's tray. I won't be a minute, or even less. Beattie!"

This last shout was for the hapless kitchen maid, who had the habit of disappearing at the most inopportune of moments. "'Ere you, Beattie! The master's toast will burn, you shiftless girl!"

Beattie raced into the vast kitchen, her rosy face even rosier this morning. Arthur surmised correctly that the milkman's boy had just delivered a fresh batch of cream and milk. Thankfully the womanizing master Charles did not have a taste for servant girls, otherwise the household situation would be quite awkward.

The manservant watched in amusement as Beattie dashed to the toasting fork over the kitchen fireplace and removed four thick slices. She slathered butter thickly onto the golden squares, done to dark brown perfection. As Beattie was at her work and Arthur was finishing the last morsels of a truly heroic breakfast, Cook was loading a heavy silver tray with marmalade, eggs, ham, a fat round teapot, cream and sugar. The toast, in its own silver rack, went on last and Arthur gazed at the offering with an appreciative nod.

"Madame Cook, a masterpiece, as is usual," he said, tossing the burly cook a smile and a kiss to his fingertips. That worthy woman, her apple cheeks gleaming in delight, giggled like a girl and dropped a curtsey, then turned to her stove with a mutter about luncheon.

Arthur seized the heavy tray and departed for his master's bedroom, up a long and difficult flight of back stairs that led from the nether regions of the house to the formal rooms.

After discreetly scratching at Lord Charles' door, Arthur elbowed his way into the room with the massive tray across his arms. He was already mentally packing his master's belongings in his mind, and was wondering whether to pack the heaviest multi-caped greatcoat or wait first to be informed as to how far north they might go and how long they would stay.

"Ah, there you are, Arthur," called his master from amidst the tumbled pillows of his great bed.

Well, thought Arthur to himself with a secret smile as he pushed the door to gently with his foot, perhaps milord is less gloomy today.

The Duke sat up in his bed, his head in his hands.

Perhaps not.

He must have at least decided upon our route. Aye.

But, to the manservant's surprise, foreign travel was the farthest thing from Chuck's mind.

"Arthur, my dear fellow, you will not countenance it. I have met the most infuriating female."

"Indeed, milord?" said Arthur noncommittally as he positioned the tray across Chuck's knees. "I thought you were well acquainted with Lady Russel."

Chuck smirked humorlessly, "This one may be worse. An entirely different nudnik, I dare say."

He seized a knife and began unenthusiastically slathering mechanically even more butter on a piece of toast that was already dripping with it. "She is quite possibly the most uptight bluestocking I have ever met." The rest of the remark was unintelligible as Duke Sackville–Bass stuffed half a fried egg into his mouth and munched without much pleasure.

"And this paragon's name, milord?" Arthur asked when the second half of the egg had been abandoned along with the rest of the full tray. Apparently the woman has certainly affected master's appetite, or lack thereof.

"Blair Waldorf, Arthur, the late Viscount Cobham's daughter, with an estate near Sevenoaks no less" said Chuck, dropping his fork with a clatter upon the tray, as if the name alone had struck his fingers nerveless.

"You have not crossed paths till now, your grace. And as you rarely reside in your family seat at Knole, I doubt the lady's residence will be a cause of inconveniance in the future."

"Tell me what do you think of that name – Blair? Scottish, is it not?" The duke asked ignoring the previous comment.

"Indeed, milord, it is. A name of the most pleasant nature," replied the manservant as he drew wide the heavy brocade curtains to let in the watery morning light. "But as to romantic, the names 'Henriette' or 'Germaine' seem more so to the ear."

Lord Bass finished his cup of tea.

This young woman must indeed be merveilleuse. She has managed to hold the Duke's attention overnight without gracing his sheets. "And where did milord come across such a lass? Surely not at Lady Christabel's house?"

A shadow fell across Lord Bass' handsome face at the mention of that notorious lady's name. "Damme, Arthur, what was I thinking of, when I accepted Christabel? I suppose it is never a good idea to disappoint the ladies, when they have decided to honour one with their charms. But in Lucifer's name, that woman is a bloodsucker."

"In any way. That simpleton of girl, has another thing coming for her."

"Sir?"

Ominously Arthur knew what his master was planning before the duke even managed to voice it. Poor girl. "If I am not mistaken this is a lady of gentle birth and an intelligent one judging by what you have mentioned of her interest in reading. So is it not hence natural for such as her to misjudge a member of your circle of friends, including you. Ought you not forget her and, move on to another … ehm, project?"

"What on earth are you on about?" Chuck rose from the bed, washing his hands. "Do you really think I would waste my time on an uptight debutante, who hasn't had an impure thought in her mind?"Arthur gave him a look. "Fine, I admit that I had been tempted by innocents at one time, but trust me when I say – there is nothing captivating about the half-witted light-skirts."

"Of course not, sir." The servant muttered while laying out the clothes for the day.

There was just something about her though, he admitted to himself, Chuck couldn't quite put his finger on it. Sure she was a beauty, but it was those eyes that caused his sleepless night. The disdain in those deep mysterious dark pools, the fear written all over her face when she heard his name. He could barely stand thinking about how it reminded him of his father's judgment and disappointment before their final reconciliation.

All his life women praised him and he conquered them, and then left them feeling humiliated by their satisfaction of his usage of their virtues. But this one… He has spoken to her for no more than a few minutes, but her witty intelligence yet innocent nature fascinated him.

Now alone in his chamber, with Arthur long gone with the tray, Chuck admitted to himself that he wanted a taste of it – her pure and honest virtuous essence that shone through knowledgable calculating, judgmental eyes. She has read so much, resulting in a sweet combination of innocence without naïveté.

He needed to see her again, how could he let her go back to the country, without having at least touched that alabaster skin on that neck…

"Tshst!" sneezed Serena.

"Do say you are not sickening for the grippe," said Blair, as she looked at her companion with some concern. "Daniel would never forgive me if I returned his betrothed to him in anything but the very best and rosiest of health."

Serena shook her head, setting the small blonde curls that escaped from either side of her bonnet to bouncing. "Not in the least, but these books are so dusty, I wonder you are able to breathe at all sometimes!"

The tiny bookstore was indeed dusty, Blair thought as she looked down at her grimy gloves in dismay. But such treasures! Her newly acquired hoard was worth a bit of dust and a few sneezes. But she knew she must think of her companion for a time now.

"Well, Serena, as you have been so kind as to trail around after me all morning, I shall now visit any shops you might wish, and be bored to distraction with the best will in the world."

The two young ladies picked their way carefully out of the bookshop to the street, where their rented curricle waited. Claude jumped down and held out his hands for the bulky package of books that Blair handed him, then stowed them carefully under his seat.

"Where to now, miss?" he asked with a cheerful grin and a tip of his battered beaver hat - a cast-off of their local vicar, Serena knew as she allowed him to assist her into the chaise. "I've heard tell that there are some very nice bookstores-"

"No bookstores, Claude." Blair laughed as she followed Serena into the open carriage and settled her skirts about her. "Miss van der Woodsen has put up with my academic addiction all morning, so she deserves a treat before we proceed to the dressmakers. A cup of chocolate would be the very thing, do you not agree?"

"Indeed, miss. Shall we return to that place you went to last week?"

"That will do nicely, Claude. But wait," she looked up, "let us go the long way round and have a drive through the park. That will help to clear the dust of the bookstore from us, though I don't doubt that the streets will be as dusty."

Claude clambered into the seat and picked up his long whip. Making a clicking noise with his tongue, he tapped his near grey mare with the tip of the whip, and the curricle pulled away into the admittedly somewhat dusty cobbled street. Claude was proud of his proficiency in finding his way about the great town of London. Though he had spent most of his short life in the country, he had been brought with Miss Waldorf each time she visited the huge city, and he knew she felt safer with her own servant driving her rather than being in the hands of some hired man.

"Blair," said Serena as they rode through the street, "you have not told me of your dinner at Lady Russel's last night. Did you enjoy yourself?"

Blair took so long to answer that Serena turned to her in dismay. "Oh, dear, what is it? Did your uncle drink too much port again and tell those ridiculous anecdotes of his?"

Blair looked at her companion and gave a shake of her head. "Not in the least, Serena. In fact, I might go so far as to say that my uncle was on his best behaviour ... if I had had time to notice how he behaved, that is."

"Notice?"

"Yes," replied Blair, somewhat uncomfortable.

"Blair…"uttered her companion suspiciously. "Do tell me everything at once, I command. And how dare you hide from me secrets, when you know all my sins?"

Blair smirked: "You mean all your sinful encounters with your fiancé in the stables?"

"Blair! For shame, to treat your oldest friend so!"

Naturally Serena did not know all of Blair's secrets, especially ever since the two were separated and Blair spent a year in Italy, but her friend would be better of to remain oblivious, than to know the misfortunes that had befallen her fatherless friend, during her travels among the Latin culture.

"Spit it out Blair. What is his name?"

Blair's eyes widened. "Whose name?"

"The man who clearly kept you so preoccupied that you failed to notice your uncle ridiculing himself, as we both know he most likely did."

Serena awaited her friend's response with some concern, for instead of proclaiming the gentleman's perfect suitability for a matrimonial engagement in ringing tones, as Serena expected, Blair was unaccountably struck dumb. At last the silence had gone on too long and Serena was forced to ask, "What is it? Have you heard some hideous thing against this gentleman?"

At this Blair snorted and rolled her eyes and muttered with a sarcastic air: "Some?" Her expression irritated.

"Pray tell me."

Blair looked about her as she composed her thoughts. The lush greenness of Hyde Park rose about them, the air fresh with the scent of flowers and growing things - a pleasant relief from the stench of other parts of London.

"Blair, I am begging you..."

Blair finally relented, "I am only going to mention his name and you will question me no further on the matter."

"But, how-"

"Trust me, the name explains it all." Serena nodded. "the Duke of Dorset."

Serena's eyes widened as she looked at her friend. Blair's expression was unreadable.

The kind heart of Blair's closest friend was wounded at having to inquire on the matter. Serena knew how much Blair had adored her beloved father, how she idealized him and how she had suffered when that charming but weak man had become caught up in his lust for gambling and desires of the flesh. Harold had fallen ill with syphilis after his encounters with a French nobleman, as these intercourses were more of the intimate than social kind.

Poor Lord Waldorf's lifeless body had been battered almost beyond recognition when the disease finished him of.

Serena had often shuddered to think what would have happened to Blair and her mother Eleanor if Blair's own large fortune had not been inaccessible.

"Blair, you must not, it's not as if he will pursue you ... we have herd of his reckless reputation" Serena's comment trailed away, knowing that Blair feared all association with men such as the Duke and her late father. Serena was well aware of the reason why Harold has caught the disease, and mostly men with his preferences followed the same fate. The Duke and men of royal noble blood, preferred to have affairs with noble married women and widows, not whores on the streets. Besides, this duke was a womanizer and was in fact very different from Blair's father concerning the carnal preferences. However, Serena knew that it would make no difference to her friend. She despised all dandies and erotic pleasures, fearing a man's touch like the plague.

Blair shook herself and turned to smile at her companion, a rather weak smile, but a smile for all that. "Do not think on it, my dear, I pray you. We both know that the gentleman in question is indeed that most horrid of creatures, and I shall doubtfully have any more to do with him. I am well aware, I assure you, of my duty and my inclinations in the matter."

"But, Blair, if you were so captivated with his presence before knowing his identity perhaps you are judging him too harshly, there are surely men who merely dabble in the sport of gambling and are not bad at heart, or-"

"Dabble! Well, dabble you may call it, but no man who participates in so despicable pastimes will ever be a part of my acquaintance. Now, let us speak no more of it. We have but two more days in London, after all, and if you're to have your trousseau all finished, and I'm to take back to Cobham Hall all the books I require, then we have some intensive shopping to do yet. So let us go and drink our chocolate and get on with it, shall we?"

"B, I had not wished to cause you pain-" began her companion, but Blair broke into her apology.

"The subject is closed. Ah," she said in relief as the curricle drew up to the door of the chocolate and sweet shop. "Here we are at last. Claude, we shall send you out a cup, for being kind enough to wait for us, and do take care that my books do not get wet, if it decides to shower, won't you?"

"Come on Blair, I am quite famished."

Serena followed her friend into the chocolate shop. She did not like Blair's expression. There was a deep disappointment there that seemed unwarranted for such a short acquaintance with the dreadful Duke. Perhaps, Serena decided with a silent and repentant sigh, she should suggest another bookstore to restore her friend's good humor.

The chocolate being consumed and the conversation being kept strictly to dresses and shoes and the latest edition of Punch, Serena and Blair soon returned to the refreshed Claude and the curricle.

"Shall we go back through the park, milady, as we're returning to the dressmakers?" asked Claude with a cheerful tip of his outmoded beaver hat.

"By all means, Claude. It is the closest thing in this great city of London to our country estates, after all, which both my companion and myself miss sorely."

The day, which seemed to have threatened rain earlier, had turned off fine and clear. The horses clopped along across the paving stones with a rhythmical gait, and Claude took great pleasure in his position atop the seat of the curricle.

Serena watched her friend from under lowered lids. Blair seemed to have forgotten their previous conversation and was quite her normal self. But Serena had known Blair Waldorf for more than a dozen years and knew that she was keeping something from her. Though if it had to do with the Duke, the London visit or something else entirely, Serena could not tell. Blair has always been mysterious that way.

She scouted around in her mind for some way of broaching the subject without causing further pain to her friend.

Claude turned the curricle into a long broad pathway that snaked through Hyde Park. The park was as usual crowded wuth curricles and carriages, male and female dandies. Claude carefully worked his way through the masses trying to get out onto the street clearing at the end of the lane. Meanwhile Serena remained puzzled as to her friend's contemplating silence.

A tall young man appeared beside their curricle dressed in a riding habit of the latest mode, his voice vibrant somewhere above their heads. "Pardon me?"

Blair's posture remained stoic but her hand shot out grasping Serena's in warning, "it is he" she hissed.

His hat now in his hand, he sat the puffing stallion with the easiest of seats, "Lady Waldorf, is it not?"

Blair looked up with a solemn face and gave the barest nod of acquiescence. "Your Grace".

His smile-On quite a handsome face, thought Serena- turned into a slight smirk. "How pleasant to meet you again, and so soon too. I regret that we were not formally introduced the other evening. Quite shameful of Lady Russel, wouldn't you agree?" Serena stared as Blair dismissed the superior noble with a dismissive not. "And this charming miss is ...?"

Both Serena and the young gentleman looked at Blair, waiting for an introduction. However, realizing that none such would come Serena took the initiative.

She smiled. "I am Miss Serena van der Woodsen, Lady Waldorf's school friend and companion for this season, your Grace."

"Charles Sackville–Bass, ma'am," said the gentleman with a bow.

The curricle rolled along, kept company by the slowly prancing grey. Blair said nothing. The Duke said nothing, though Serena noted a strained smile on his face as they threaded their way through the crowd. The man couldn't take his eyes of her friend, and judging by Blair's blush and stubborn set facial expression, her friend was well aware of the young nobleman's fixation upon her. Albeit it seemed it was not welcome. At last, Serena could stand it no more.

"Blair mentioned her conversation with you last evening at Lady Russell's, your Grace."

Blair slowly turned to look at her companion, her eyes wide and glaring as she squeezed Serena's hand painfully.

"Indeed, Miss." said Lord Bass. "Your friend is the most-is a most pleasing conversationalist. In fact, I had hoped...that is, I was wondering...would you two ladies care to have a cup of tea with me, or some luncheon, or..." he looked up at Blair, who gave him no notice. "…or anything at all?"

"I thank you, your grace," said Blair, her voice as frigid as her expression, "but I do not care to spend time with those, who participate in questionable exploits. Claude, drive on."

Claude tapped the handle of his whip against the seat and the horses speeded a fraction.

Serena was extremely confused. This was the notorious womanizer? The man looked completely besotted with her best friend and stumbled over his own words. Wasn't he supposed to be a rake and a scoundrel?

She looked over her shoulder, to see Lord Bass, gazing after them, his face pale and melancholic.

It appears that her humble opinionated copine had unwillingly – and unwittingly – caught Lord Charles' attention. On one hand Serena felt sorry for the duke's unrequited sentiments.

On the other hand, Serena couldn't help but be on the qui vive when she got a glimpse of the Duke's true nature as his solemn expression turned into a determined one and his eyes narrowed onto Blair, before turning around and galloping away.

"Blair, how rude," remonstrated her companion. "He was an acquaintance, after all. AND a Duke residencing in Kent! To cut him in the street like that is dangerously near to poorly bred, and is risking your reputation in society."

"Not nearly so poorly bred as to gamble and sleep with women such as Christabel Russel, Serena in my opinion, and what do I care for the ton of London, I'm leaving in a day" replied Blair with spirit. "Besides, a public rebuke may be the only way to keep him away for good, considering the distance between Cobham and Sevenoaks. Better safe than sorry."

Serena made no reply, and did not refer to the matter again as they spent the rest of the day going from shop to shop. But Serena van der Woodsen did not like the expression that she surprised in her friend's face from time to time, when Blair thought herself unobserved.

She cut him in the street! I might just as well throw myself from London Bridge if it were up to her.

Chuck stormed his house. With determined steps he approached the liquor cabinet in the parlor and filled himself a glass of Scotch Whisky. Seeing her again, was like being punched in the gut. That feeling that arose inside of his chest, it was painful yet not entirely unpleasant. Something had to be done. He was sick of his own pathetic excuses. For heaven's sake he stammered!

"Arthur!"

"Your Grace?"

"Pack my things. Order for the house to be closed. We leave in three days."

"Am I to understand, milord, that your travel plans are on schedule then?"

"Hmm, yes." He emptied another glass.

"I will contact the travelling-"

"No." Straightening up, Chuck turned around with a familiar spark in his mischievous eyes. "Order my coach to be brought out."

"Coach, milord?" Arthur's eyes bulged out of his sculp. "You mean to travel through the continent in a coach?"

Chuck smirked: "Not exactly … " he turned to face his manservant. "I do believe you were right earlier, I have been absent from home for far too long."

AN: Hope this chapter didn't disappoint.

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