Archive of Our Own ^beta

Her position in his Lordship’s house is an insult, at its core. It does not matter the sort of luxury she’s kept in; Cecelia does not care that Lothridge always keeps fresh flowers in her room, clothes her in elegant gowns, and loads her plate up with rich food for every meal. He does not treat her like a governess — therein lies the problem. Taking on a menial (yet respectable) position would be one thing. Instead, Lothridge has trapped her in an impossible half-existence: not quite a servant, surely not an equal, and definitely not his mistress.

One day, she’s going to kill him. Really. No paintings, no curses. All Cecelia needs is a butter knife and a good reason.

“I intend to host a holiday party,” Lothridge declares, his lips curving up in a half-smile. “Will you be good enough to play hostess with me?”

Cecelia’s hand clenches around her knife’s hilt.

Lothridge eyes the blade lazily. “You understand, Miss Price, that my social circle lacks a certain… gentility. A lady’s presence. With your immense charm and glittering personality, I feel certain you could fill this gap. We are in need of a lady’s gentleness.”

“You crawling wretch of a creature,” Cecelia snaps back. “If you think for a moment I will let you parade me before your dissolute friends like a two-pence slip of muslin, your brain is rotting within your head.”

“Yes, that must be it,” drawls Lothridge. “Here I thought your presence was giving me headaches.”

“Your presence makes me homicidal.”

“Ah, but it’s Sunday, dear! You must wait until Monday before committing murder. How tasteless to disturb the coroner on his day of rest.”

“Oh, they would not find your body.”

“I know all the hiding places in this house,” Lothridge replies, voice jaunty. “You are still discovering them. Why, if you had any idea how many skeletons are hidden on this property… my dear Cecelia, I hope you have not heard whispers in the walls.”

He’s smirking. Oh, he deserves her butter knife, the cad.

Still, Cecelia is not entirely without recourse. She is a bird in a cage, but he has not skipped her talons. Cecelia bides her time. The day Lothridge sends out invitations to his party, she makes sure to join him for dinner. His Lordship has a fine head for liquor, usually; he does not know she has added something to this bottle to make it a bit more potent. 

After three glasses of brandy, he’s leaning heavily against the table, stifling hiccups every few minutes. The food disappears into his mouth robotically; he chews without noticing (or caring) how quickly he clears his plate. The occasional moan escapes him as he savors the pheasant and roasted potatoes. When his plate is clear, he reaches for more — but Cecelia is already there to serve him.

“Such an attentive little miss,” Lothridge slurs. His grey eyes are uncharacteristically soft as he gazes up at her — nearly affectionate. When he reaches for her waist, Cecelia steps out of the way, and he chuckles. “No. I do not get everything I want tonight. Wouldn’t do to spoil me… hiCCURrp! Ohh…” He pauses, rubbing his chest languorously. After a moment, he drags the back of his hand across his lips and chuckles again. “Yet you are… ssso good at it.”

“Spoil you?” Cecelia echoes with dripping scorn. “No, My Lord. I’m trying to get you drunk.”

Lothridge doesn’t bat an eye. “And you excel at that too,” he muses… accepting another measure of brandy as she pours it out. He’s so clumsy, he nearly spills — but Cecelia steadies his hand, guiding the glass to his lips.

Within half an hour, he’s slumped over the table, head pillowed against his doughy arm. Soft, drunken snores escape him; he’s actually drooling into the tablecloth. As Cecelia gazes down, scrutinizing him, a wet burp rolls up. It jolts his entire body… but Lothridge doesn’t waken.

The perfect opportunity.

His Lordship controls her comings-and-goings from the house, and oversees anything she sends out — including mail. Cecelia has already written the missives, sealing them up in neat envelopes and emblazoning them with the Lothridge crest. With the footman so busy with other duties, she offered to hand today’s mail to the postman… after scribbling down the address of each party guest, of course.

That night, Cecelia sends out twelve hasty missives, following close on the heels of that invitation:

Needless to say — on the day of Lothridge’s party, he’s kept waiting. The entire day, he cools his heels in anticipation of a carriage rolling up the drive, of friends standing on his doorstep… but no one appears. Lothridge’s slick, high-flying London cronies would never risk their health (or their dignity) tending to a man with mumps.

“I just don’t understand it,” Lothridge mutters. As he paces the foyer, his heavy footsteps thunder. His bemusement is quickly shifting to rage. “The card tables have been laid. The halls are decorated. I’ve brought out the finest brandy... for God’s sake, the meals are already prepared!”

Yes, meals — because any good card party features more than one dinner. A few light repasts throughout the night, to keep the men’s energies from flagging. It is… inconvenient to have all that food and nowhere to put it.

“Goodness, My Lord,” Cecelia observes from the top of the stairs — mild as a kitten. “You have been left with quite a tangle.”

Lothridge shoots her a fiercely annoyed look. He’s suspicious, of course — only Cecelia could have anything to do with this. He’s just not sure how.

“And what, my lady,” he asks with glass-crunching civility, “will you do, now that your services as a hostess are no longer required?”

“Well, I’ll still serve,” Cecelia replies, “if you really need me.” Her lips quirk up. “Though I fear it’s a very small party.”

… at least the children have a nice dinner. They rarely eat so well — game pie and gravy, fresh greens and broiled potatoes, served to the nursery as if they’re royalty. Their delighted shrieks are audible from across the house.

Lothridge is not so merry. He sprawls in his chair under an awning of garland, brooding. His beefy thighs are spread wide, potbelly straining against his best waistcoat — he’s even dressed up for the occasion, the poor bastard. (His Lordship does love the holidays.) The drink in his hand goes neglected… but every time Cecelia breezes by, in far-too-cheerful a mood, he takes another vengeful sip.

“You,” is his only indictment, when Cecelia settles down across from him.

“Me,” she chirps. He knows she did something to ruin this night — but he has no clue what, and cannot prove it. 

Without an ounce of shame, Cecelia shuffles a deck of cards and lays it out before them. Lothridge blinks like a lazy panther; she drops a few coins on the table to snag his interest. “Come, my Lord. A game of piquet. You wanted a card party, and you shall have it!” Her dark eyes twinkle like whiskey at the bottom of a glass. “Perhaps we shall even make things disreputable.”

She is not trying to lift his spirits — but she’s said exactly the right thing, nonetheless. Lothridge sits up straighter, keen gaze taking in the game. After a moment, he huffs, nearly smiles, and reaches into his own pocket.

“Be warned,” he murmurs, “I play deep.”

“Be prepared,” Cecelia replies amiably. “I chest.”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I know you do.”

The game drags on for over an hour, greased by increasing quantities of alcohol. Cecelia thinks she can sneak by, only drinking half a glass… but for every drink Lothridge pours, he measures an equal amount for her. His Lordship’s gaze is keen; he is alert to everything Cecelia is doing, every mischief up her sleeve. He will not be done in by cheap tricks.

By nine o’clock, her tongue feels like water, and her head is swimming. She laughs easier, plays clumsier. Words spill out unbidden. “You are a cad, Lothridge. Is this how you play at your many gaming hells?”

“Oh no, my dear,” he replies smoothly. When he leans back in his chair, his massive stomach rats heavily stop him. He’s nearly too large for these flimsy dining chairs, all wide waist and ample chest, a thick layer of padding contained by flawless tailoring. Enhanced, one might say. Lothridge has truly embraced the life of a fat man; he no longer has any shame for his potbelly, or the thick, soft bulge of his body. When he sits, he spreads his heavy thighs to make himself comfortable. When he leans forward, his belly sits heavy his lap; when he leans back, it’s apt to crush him. He’s got a doughy double-chin, lending softness to his harsh aristocratic features. Lately, his belly has been noises than ever, whining and groaning at will. Lothridge is… so different from the man she once knew.

Still insufferable, of course.

“In my gaming hells,” he drawls, “we play for much higher stakes. What say, Cecelia — shall I ruin you?”

Oh, he’s already done so. Cecelia squares her jaw, refusing to look him in the eye.

At the end of their third game — Lothridge winning, of course — she smacks her hand on the table and declares, “it’s time for dinner.”

Lothridge arches a brow. “Nerves failing you?”

With a huff, Cecelia gestures for the plates to be brought in.

The light repast meant for a dozen gaming gentlemen is considerably heavier when only two people are present to eat it. Especially since Cecelia has no intention of indulging tonight. She pretends to load her plate, but really, she’s watching Lothridge — always Lothridge.

“Enjoy, my Lord,” she trills… and, once he’s demolished his first plate of steak and potatoes, she has another one waiting for him.

Lothridge meets her gaze; his eyes narrow. For all his flaws, he is no fool; he understands precisely what she’s doing.

“I’m quite fu—“

“Oh, no,” Cecelia counters before he can even get the words out. “You must build up your strength before our next game. We cannot have your constitution failing so soon.”

“My constitution—“ Lothridge grouses— but cuts himself off, belching heavily into his palm. For an instant, he looks shocked by the release; then, incredibly relieved.

When his gaze flickers back to Cecelia, there’s a new gleam in his eyes. Pride in his own piggishness. Yes, he seems to say, I know the game you’re playing — but I can play it far better.

“Upon consideration," he sighs, reaching for the plate, “I suppose I could stomach a tad more.”

His Lordship is apparently the king of understatement. A tad turns into two more heavily loaded plates. He plows through each one with the vigor of a starving man — savoring the salty richness of the potatoes, the succulence of the game pie, the rich tang of gravy. He pops a deviled egg into his mouth and can’t restrain a moan. His Lordship’s eyes squeeze shut. For a moment, he can only breathe through the delicious fullness.

“Mmm… oh, damn me. I must offer Cook a Christmas bonus.”

“She certainly deserves one,” Cecelia sniffs. “No one works harder to satisfy your appetite.”

“Oh, you’re no lay-about either… oooh.” Lothridge tenses up as a cramp ripples through his taut belly. He leans back in his seat, pressing a hand where the pain is worst. Cecelia watches in morbid fascination as he massaged tiny circles, seeming to know exactly what to do… until the cramp disperses with a low groan of digestion.

Lothridge catches her gaze, and smirks. Unwilling to quail, Cecelia tilts her head, lips pursing into a Cupid’s-bow pucker.

“More pie, my Lord?”

“I really couldn— mmmph.” Lothridge is cut off as Cecelia offers him a large forkful, dripping with sweet meat and gravy. He grunts, eyes wide… but manages to chew the large mouthful down. She follows it up with a glass of wine… not pulling the glass away from his mouth until he has thoroughly drained it.

Lothridge’s eyes are wide, almost dazed. His chest rumbles with a belch he doesn’t even try to suppress... merely lets it roll out. Crimson wine stains his mouth and chin.

“Damn you, Cecelia,” he mutters, shamelessly palming his belly.

“Oh, someday,” she agrees cheerfully… and pulls the cards towards them once more. “Another round, my Lord?”

She hopes he’s up for more — after all, this is only the first of tonight’s dinners. There’s plenty of food left… and plenty of rounds still to be played. 

So long as his Lordship has the stomach for it.