White Roses, Black Doves

A hunger through time-2

The gaslight flickered against the heavy damask curtains of the drawing-room, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to pulse in time with the rhythmic clinking of fine china. It was 1834, and the air in my father’s London townhouse felt thick, not merely with the scent of roasted pheasant and expensive tobacco, but with the suffocating weight of societal expectation.

"Do try to look less like a prisoner awaiting the gallows," my sister, Lucy, whispered, her fan snapping shut with a sharp, impatient click. "Father has been singing this man’s praises for weeks. If he is half as accomplished as he claims, we might actually be spared a dull evening."

I smoothed the silk of my gown, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Accomplished or not, he is a business partner, Luce. Surely that dictates a certain… decorum."

"Decorum is for dowagers," she retorted with a wink, before turning her attention toward the doorway of the parlor.

My father entered then, his face flushed with the pride of a man introducing his newest, most prized acquisition. Beside him stood Mr. Cornelius Thorne.

He was, in a word, striking. He could not have been more than twenty-three, with blonde, slicked hair that accompanied his stiff tailoring of his coat and eyes that seemed to possess a simmering intelligence. When he looked at us, his gaze didn't merely sweep; it lingered.

"Mr. Thorne, may I present my daughters, Alice and Lucy," my father boomed.

Cornelius bowed, a gesture so fluid and practiced it felt almost like a provocation. When he rose, his eyes locked onto mine. "A pleasure, Miss Alice, Though I must confess, your father’s descriptions were woefully inadequate."

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, my breath hitching. I lowered my gaze, only to find him watching me with a faint, knowing smirk. I risked a glance upward—a bashful, fleeting thing—and caught him in the act of unbuttoning his waistcoat with a nonchalance that felt entirely too intimate for a parlor.

"Is that so, Mr. Thorne?" Lucy interjected, her voice dripping with amusement. She stepped forward, effectively inserting herself into his orbit. "And just what was he saying? That we were scholarly, or merely ornamental?" Distaste was clear in her tone.

Cornelius turned to her, his smile widening. "He led me to believe you were both quite beyond the reach of ordinary conversation. I’m relieved to find he was wrong. I find myself quite desperate for something… extraordinary."

He looked back at me, his eyes dark and daring.

"I suspect, sir," I managed, finding my voice despite the thrumming in my veins, "that you find yourself desperate for many things you aren't meant to have."

The room seemed to still. Cornelius’s smirk deepened into a look of genuine intrigue. He took a single, deliberate step toward me, his voice lowering to a murmur that barely cleared the ambient noise of the party. "A bold assessment, Miss Alice. Are you suggesting I lack discipline, or that you are merely hoping to test it?"

I looked away, biting my lip to hide a smile, but the reflection in the polished silver tray nearby caught the way he was looking at me—with a hunger that made the Victorian parlor feel suddenly, delightfully small.

"I am merely suggesting, Mr. Thorne," I whispered, meeting his gaze again, "that you are a long way from the counting house, you might actually have to have wit and stamina amongst those of us who are….extraordinary."

"Perhaps," he murmured, his eyes scanning my face with a slow, appreciative intensity, "it is time I learned a new trade, Alice." His tone had shifted to something delicious.

The transition to the dining room was a blur of rustling silk and hushed murmurs, but my awareness narrowed until the world consisted only of the mahogany table, the flicker of a hundred candles, and the man pulling out my chair. As Cornelius Thorne moved behind me, his hand brushed the small of my back, a touch so light yet deliberate it sent a jolt of static through my lace-trimmed bodice.

"I believe this is the optimal position to observe the room," he murmured, his breath ghosting against the shell of my ear as he took his seat beside me. "Though, honestly, I find myself struggling to look anywhere else."

"You are far too practiced in these arts, Mr. Thorne," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the stem of my wine glass, though I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from twitching upward. I stole a glance at him—a bashful, downward sweep of lashes—and found him watching my throat with an intensity that made my pulse jump. We spoke, ate,indulged in our glasses, and shared looks al throughout dinner. His pinky would graze my hand sending a jolt of electricity through me. His breathe would ghost my ear or neck as he leaned in to whisper jokes or small

Praises. His knee would find its way to mine. He was in deed a rake, but a very good one.

Across from us, Lucy let out a sharp, audible huff, her fork clattering against her porcelain plate with unnecessary force. "It is truly fascinating, Mr. Thorne," she remarked, her tone sharp as a razor. "How you manage to devote such singular attention to my sister’s neckline while Father is attempting to discuss the logistics of the shipping manifests. One wonders if your dedication to his business ventures is as… flighty… as your social conduct."

Cornelius didn’t even look her way. He merely picked up his own glass, his fingers lingering near mine, and turned his head slightly toward me. "Your sister possesses a remarkably keen eye for observation," he said, his voice a low, teasing vibration. "It’s a shame she misinterprets intent so thoroughly. I find that when a man is truly interested in a project, he focuses entirely on the most intricate details. Don't you agree, Alice?"

Lucy rolled her eyes, a look of profound disgust crossing her features. "Intricate details," she scoffed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You speak like a man who expects to be handed the keys to the kingdom without ever having to unlock the gate. It is frankly tiresome to witness such transparent theater."

I felt the tension radiating from Lucy, but it only served to heighten the illicit thrill of the space between Cornelius and me. I turned to him, meeting his gaze fully this time, a playful, flirtatious smirk tugging at my lips.

"She thinks you are a distraction, Mr. Thorne," I whispered, loud enough only for him.

Cornelius’s eyes darkened, a flash of something possessive and bright igniting within them. He leaned closer, the scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco enveloping me. "And what do you think, Alice ?" he murmured, his gaze dipping to my lips before rising to meet my eyes, daring me to speak the truth. His hand sliding to my knee under the table, my breath catching as a volt of electricity shot through me. "Am I a distraction, or have you finally found the only thing in this room worth paying attention to?”