The Red Widow...(F for M collab)

[Chantarelle]

My overall hope for this story is that it will be above all a romance whether that romance falls under fantasy (low to medium) or historical (ish or otherwise). It’s setting right now is in England late 1700’s. I’m open to edits and ideas of all sorts. So bring me your kings, your vampires, your dukes, your demons just bring me your all and let us plot together.

Please read my ON’s/OFF’s before proceeding

Lady Morrigan Kelly

Lady Morrigan Kelly, a woman descended from Irish nobility sent away at a young age from her home setting of rolling fields of green and fences made of stone to be raised in England by her Aunt and Uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Kettering as the girls raven hair had become a sore point of contention back home in Ireland. If only the girl had come out traditional, if only her locks had been red as a heated poker like her sisters before her it would not have created such a stir nor shined such a bright and condemning light on her mother’s integrity. Maybe even a freckle or two would have helped but as it was the girls existence had fated her mother eternally and so too it seemed Morrigan’s own fate was sealed along with it.

Her English upbringing seemed to  temper what might have been otherwise a feisty spirit and what discipline did not crush the grey weather subdued as the girl grew to womanhood never once questioning what was expected of her as a Lady. She would marry well, she would bear a son and she would live until she died and as quietly as she could accomplish these three important tasks the better...

Chosen for her was the Marquee Augustus Crane lV, nearing mid-fifty he was practically swamped with daughters yet he could boast no sons and it shamed him. His previous wife deceased and within certain circles one might add under mysterious circumstances though this was never mentioned to the Lady Kelly and alas, neither was the Marquees temperament nor his carnal inclinations, those she would have to find out the hard way.

They say what does not kill you makes you stronger and this is true and good because life requires a sort of hardness to fortify you against its ravages and so perhaps the Lady Kelly should have at some point before his death thanked the Marquee for making her so strong. Indeed, with every insult, bruise and inch of torn flesh she was made like marble, like granite. She was a veritable mountain after him, a current laden river, a torrential downpour. Her strength after him was the type that could step on glass and not feel a thing though blood may flow in streams and pool up to her ankles she would not wince for she felt nothing and it was counted by her as if not good, very acceptable since strength was life’s requirement especially for a woman. So yes, Augustus made her very strong. He also made her very rich.

Called the red widow for the fact that after her husbands death she wore nothing but crimson, Lady Kelly was a staple at every party and grand event as something of a necessary piece of whispered about art. The rumor was she had killed the Marquee herself and versions vary as to how but one fact rang clear as a bell that no one was sad about it least of all the Lady herself as hatred for that particular Lord seemed to saturate everyone who met him like the evil dripped noticeably from his corpulent frame and filled the room with its stink. “So, bully for her if she did do him in.” They would joke and raise their glasses to her carelessly whenever they spoke about it to each other. “Still, it was a shame though.” They would be sure to add under their breaths because they all knew that to be a widow was a forever thing and to be a childless one at that...and such a rare beauty to top it off? Damn shame.

Potential intro (can be discussed, changed, or discarded altogether to be replaced by another)

She could not move...she dare not lest this vision fade along with the myriad of sensations and emotions it invoked within her. His powerful hand, big enough to cause hurt to her body if it ever became something he so desired (a thing that she could never reckon) instead leads her out of the void and into the light of consciousness where surroundings once perceived black only in the retrospect of a mind attempting to grasp and describe the concept of nothingness into words gradually begin to solidify around her yet she cannot make out the shapes and has no intention of diverting her eyes towards them and away from his dark, soulful orbs.

Who he is matters far less than what his existence means to a woman who’s purpose has thus far been reduced to that of an ornament, a pretty decoration to adorn an old mans world without objection or protest and without any comfort or tenderness given in recompense to mention. A grey world, dull and insensate besides the always present feeling of suffocation induced by a binding corset tied excruciatingly secure around an already petite frame as if the purpose is not just to give the illusion of a dramatic and unrealistically tiny waist but to crush the wearers spirit along with her lower rib cage as well...and it works.

His thumb brushing against the plush pillow of her lower lip is what finally breaks her gaze and she shudders magnificently as her heart begins to gallop taking her breath away in anticipation of what she can only dream comes next. Her blue-green eyes the color of underwater fixate now on his own pair of lips as his fingers move to brush a fallen strand of dark hair oh so delicately away from her porcelain face and in so doing he sends a tingle through her entire body, a body once thought dead and useless along with its heart, down to her toes as he (perhaps) inadvertently grazes her earlobe, the most innocent of body parts.

Does this strangers sudden affection scare her? Yes. Does she want him to stop basking her in the warmth of his unexpected attention? Heavens no! As faint as his focus makes her feel it pleases and exhilarates her even more and beyond imagining and when with one confident digit he lifts her chin upwards commanding her without a word to fall once again into his deep pools of obsidian, to drown in them happily, he makes it clear the intention he has and to every person in the room who’s attention he has drawn to them with his improper actions.

Then he ends her with his kiss. As soft as it is its power is that of a blade driven into her heart by a beautiful but reckless man that does not fully comprehend what he wields. Indeed, even the sharp intakes of multiple breaths surrounding them cannot bother her to care as his tender mouth is killing her sweetly and she finds herself in the throes of what has to be the most loveliest death ever to overcome a soul. Where before his entrance into her world she was simply just another pretty guest at this celebratory function made up of dignitaries and other esteemed invitees from the upper echelons of England and more pointedly just another sad woman who’s fortune was passed down to her by a sadistically cruel but thankfully ill-fated man she now finds herself being turned into something else the feeling of which is strange and new. His soft, searing kiss brands her soul publicly, baptizing her, giving her new life as it destroys any blemish and memory of the old one and she could not be more grateful.

Even after it is over she still dare not move lest this all was just a dream that any form of movement might take away and leave her finding herself alone in her bed tangled amidst silken sheets trembling, cold and bitter. Oh, how she has hated life and it’s predictable ways of souring her spirit at its every turn to the gradual point that anytime she might find herself hopeful in any given situation because of experience there is found doubt ever present as it is the minds intelligent way of softening life’s inevitably disappointing blows.

His forehead still lowered to touch against hers, his hand still on the curve of her tiny red satin waist, her exposed décolletage still rising and falling with her quivering breath, along with the whispers that seem to be competing against the wafting music all should make for a surreal and mortifying moment for any Lady of high society and yet it is not mortification that she is feeling but indebtedness. She feels so intensely that she owes him, this utterly impertinent stranger, an impossibly large debt that she could never repay in multiple lifetimes and yet silently that new soul of hers is screaming out for him to make her try to.

Something convenient about the privileged elite class (a thing she is only now being made fully aware of) is that they would rather set themselves alight than make a scene in front of each other even as it seems a scene has already been made. Of course, there would be gossip absolutely, it had obviously already begun and yet no one around them on the dance floor has stopped twirling their partners and glasses of wine are still being served among the crowd by attendants dressed in their pressed liveries. Besides the lingering judgmental stares and glances, the whispers from hushed voices and the shocked faces nothing would be spoken directly to them by anyone nor would any dramatic action be taken tonight though it is clear at least to her that this is not the appropriate place for such liminal moments such as this to unfold and so taking a mighty risk of losing all that she has received...she moves.

With a flutter of blinks she presses her bee-stung lips together and licks and in so doing prolongs the taste of the stranger in her mouth. “Take me out of here.” She beseeches him softly. Her first words ever spoken to him they are unpremeditated, genuine and denote a pre-existing trust that no matter where he chooses to take her she will be kept safe.