Aaaaaahhhhhhh-

"Thank goodness," Blanche said, coming into the entryway and now two sets of grey Blackwood eyes were skewering her in place. "That's certainly an improvement, Nicki."

Aaaaaaahhhh-

"You are looking queer," Blanche was saying, tilting her head to the side curiously as she looked up at her, still frozen on the stairs. "Did you eat shellfish again?"

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH-

"Perhaps it is merely your incessant badgering, sister, that has caused Miss Eversley to feel ill," Jason drawled, giving Blanche a wry smile that tilted one corner of those sensually wide lips upright.

Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. With a firm mental shake, Nicola forced her mind to quit the internal screaming of her horrified sensibilities, and quite possibly pin the most cadaverous smile in history to her tight, straining cheeks. Both Jason and Blanche gave her concerned looks as she woodenly completed her descent.

Oh, God, the box. He has the box. The box. The box with the letters. The box with my soul. The dirty, sordid box- "I am quite alright," Nicola explained, voice a tad too high pitched. She discreetly cleared her throat- act normal, damn it!- and tried again. "You know how I am before your grandmother visits."

A poor excuse, but it seemed to convince them that naught was amiss, even though her entire damn life was about to end! How could she be so stupid, so absent-minded as to leave the one sole object with heaps of evidence that spouted blithering nonsense about the dearest most blistering secret of her life? Oh, she was doomed, utterly doomed, she would return to London as soon as this meeting was over, she would claim a sickness, indeed she would consume mounds of shrimp willingly and render her stomach a riotous mess for days simply to eradicate herself from the Blackwoods' immediate circle.

Jason appeared to grimace slightly in sympathy and Nicola had to force her mind away from her dismal thoughts and focus on the conversation transpiring around her, her eyes desperate to stray to that dratted wooden box tucked beneath his arm but she dared not risk it lest any suspicion that hadn't already been allotted to her be strewn her way. "Lady Wilhelmina could not depart us soon enough," he agreed with a simple quirk of his lips- always humorous, always funny, as if he found amusement with everything he saw and everything he did. Nicola felt she might cast her accounts into the vase of hydrangeas that graced the centre of the hall on a polished wooden table. "But I suppose she is family." He shrugged jauntily at that and gave a very direct look towards Blanche. "Lord knows, you can't choose them."

"Oh, off with you!" his tiny sister snapped and made to leap for him but he darted nimbly up the stairs.

"Uh-uh, Bee!" Jason teased in a sing-song voice, climbing the steps two at a time with long, sure strides. "You'd best behave or our dearest grandmama will have your head!"

Fuming, Blanche glared after him for a moment, then turned to Nicola, who had hardly been paying the interaction any attention while she fought back waves of panic. Jason, with her box securely in his possession, had disappeared and he had cast nary a look of disdain, disgust, repugnance her way from the confessions that therein lay. If he had read the letters, he would know of what they contained- endless written diatribes of her unrequited love for him. He would have surely reacted to that knowledge in some way or the other. But no, he had seemed... positively normal. And, Nicola mused frantically as she attempted to reason herself into calmness, why would he cast suspicion that she were the author when none of the letters had ever been signed in her name? No, she had never used her name when she wrote those declarations... never. So she was innocent, and even if he did somehow find reason to think she contrived the words on those vellum parchments, she could deny it, for what proof would he have?

She curled her hands into her muslin skirts, wrinkling the material unforgivably. Oh, but if he should read carefully enough and recalled every moment they had a chance encounter, the evidence was surely there in every aching word. He'd be a fool not to see, she thought, but for now it appeared she was innocent so long as she too could act it, and running off to London before she was supposed to return to her father in two days... that would certainly draw attention to her as if she were the main performer on the centre stage. She would, she realised, have to somehow retrieve the box without Jason finding out that it was she who took it, and she would have to do it before he had the chance to read the contents.

"He really can be an insufferable buffoon sometimes," Blanche grouched, fuming after her brother even after he had disappeared. "I honestly do not know how anybody takes him seriously as the lord of this household."

"Hmm?" Nicola made a sound as she yanked her eyes away from the pretty pink and violet blooms she had just been contemplating violating. Normal, Nicola, act normal. Naught is amiss... naught. "Oh, yes, buffoon, Jason. Of course."

"You really are in a queer mood today," Blanche pointed out, frowning at her friend for good measure. "I was not aware Lady Wilhelmina affected you so badly. You mustn't feel obliged to entertain her the next time she surprises us with a visit, I won't hold it against you."

Nicola smiled tightly, knowing full well that if she wasn't present today, The Dowager Marchioness's vicious barbs would be directed at the youngest Blackwood daughter with all the precision of a winged hornet's sting. And Blanche, for all her pretences of confidence and frivolity, always let those snide words affect her, even if she tried to tell herself they mattered not. Nicola knew better than anybody else just how sensitive her best friend was to criticism. "I wouldn't miss this for the world," Nicola told her dryly.

Soon, Blanche's other two sisters were pouring in through the doors. Grace and Diana Blackwood had arrived from London together it seemed in preparation to receive their daunting grandmother. Both sisters, several years older than Blanche, embodied the renowned Blackwood colouring of dark hair and grey eyes, but their complexions weren't as fine as Blanche's, their noses weren't as straight, their length favouring height and litheness over Blanche's short and curvy figure. Indeed, each sister was dauntingly lovely in her own right, but it was Blanche who had certainly been dubbed the Blackwood's most beautiful daughter. Not that she acted like a graceful lady, not in the least.

"Is she here?" Diana whispered, eyes darting around the hallway as if she half expected her grandmother to appear from thin air and begin to torment them immediately.

"We came as soon as we could, which is why we are late!" Grace hastened to explain once she had finished greeting her sister, and then a polite kiss for Nicola. "Mother's letter arrived but a moment ago, you must understand-"

"She has yet to arrive," Blanche told them dryly. "You may save your dithering for when she does, for I certainly don't enjoy it."

Grace threw her sibling a dark look and flicked open the dainty fan dangling on her wrist, fanning her face. "Where is mother?" she asked, ignoring her youngest sister's jibe.

Diana joined her sister, keenly scrutinising the décor of the hallway as if she were personally responsible for the design. "I forget how outdated some of the furnishings are in this old manor house," she pointed out and Nicola almost rolled her eyes. Diana had only been married a year to a very wealthy earl and they resided comfortably in a fashionable London townhouse. She never passed on an opportunity to slide into conversation just how ostensibly forward and beau monde her husband could be. "Perhaps it would have served us better if mother had insisted grandmama called upon us at my residences."

"Nonsense," Grace said flippantly. "Wilhelmina is fond of Northwick. London makes her decidedly... worse to endure."

"Girls, girls," Kathleen gushed, whirling into the hallway and embracing Grace and Diana fondly. "Come now, all of you. She'll be arriving soon, and you'll be standing here gawking at her, and then where would that get us?" She began ushering all the finely clad women into a parlour room down the hall, a flurry of colourful skirts and bonnets that swished and twittered into the next brightly illuminated room of Northwick Manor. "And where is Jason?"

"Last I saw, or smelt, he was in dire need of a bath," Blanche intoned mercilessly, earning her a reprimanding look from her mother.

"Sit, sit, no, Nicola, dear, you come here next to Blanche and Jason, whenever he decides to arrive." Kathleen coordinated them with some sort of invisible decorum only she thought applicable to the situation and forced her children (and Nicola) in various poses around the room.

Although outdated, Nicola rather thought the parlour room quite nice. Its walls were painted a muted mint green and various gilded-framed oil paintings hung on the wall. They were marvellous depictions of the Northwick landscape, scenes of woodlands and animals, hunts and horses and foxes. There was a clean hearth against the wall the settee Blanche and Nicola were seated upon, and dominating the chamber was an impressive grand piano. No doubt one of the Blackwood female children would have to plunk away at the poor instrument in a sore attempt to impress their pompous grandmother with their musical talents. Nicola only prayed that it wasn't Blanche...

Kathleen began to pace anxiously, muttering about the vexations of having a reckless libertine for a son, and finally at the eleventh hour did Jason grace them with his presence. His appearance, Nicola noted with a heartfelt ache, was flawless. His dark coat hugged his torso with nary a crease, the knot of his cravat perfect and bejewelled with a sapphire. His dark hair was swept back from his face but still maintained a quality of roguish disarray.

Clearly unable to read a room, Jason leaned against the threshold of the parlour room and gave them all an unrepentantly happy smile. "Sisters, what a merry gathering this- OW! Mother, what the-"

Kathleen, for all her small stature, landed on her son with all the force of an eagle, gripping his arm painfully in her talons and Nicola was sure she saw those deft fingers twisting in the folds of Jason's coat. "The good Lord does not have the patience to handle a son like you," she lamented with a hiss, dragging the Marquis of Northwick across the Aubusson carpet and dumping him beside Nicola on the settee. Jason pouted testily and rubbed his affronted arm with an emphasis that was borderline dramatic. "Your best behaviour today, Jason," Kathleen said firmly, waggling her finger under his nose. "Don't you even try to goad your grandmother. The last time you made her irate she stayed the month to try right the misbegotten ways of my feral children."

Nicola recalled that month in detail because it had been the longest time since she was a child that she had gone without visiting the Northwick Manor and her best friend.

"Wouldn't dream of it, mother," Jason said, and no one knew if his smile was sincere or not.

If Nicola wasn't painfully aware of her discomfort over the knowledge that in the possession of the devastatingly handsome man nonchalantly lounging beside her, so close the thigh of his leg almost brushed the fabric of her skirts, was her most closely hoarded secrets, she certainly was now. She could simply feel him, even though he wasn't even touching her, the air between them was alive with her own awareness of his proximity.

How morosely indifferent he was too all of this was evident in the manner in which he reclined back against the settee with nary a worry in the world. It made her quite miserable, that.

The ornate clock that hung over the mantlepiece above the hearth chimed, as if announcing the presence of the Dowager Marchioness herself, and as if on cue, Lady Wilhelmina blew into the Blackwood Manor House with all the pomposity of a woman who held herself with the self-imposed loftiness of a royal.

The first thing Nicola noticed about the elderly woman as she marched into the room was an abundance of lace. It poured from her neckline, covering any expanse of skin that would have gladly welcomed the air, in ruffled frills that merged and coalesced with the strings from her- yes, lace- bonnet. Her shoulders were ramrod straight, the dark green material of her gown pulled taut and straining as if even it couldn't withstand the haughty, austere countenance of its owner. Silver hair was tamed with flawless tenacity and held together with an enviable rigidity that Nicola would never be able to master, no matter what technique was implemented, and cold, fluid grey eyes peered down at the lot of them, reigning over a hooked, Romanesque nose and lips pursed so tight they were merely one of many lines of disapproval in an aged face.

The sight of her never failed to make Nicola feel uneasy and as she stood to bestow a curtsy to the surly, self-righteous old bag, she even sensed a small amount of tension emanate from the Marquis of Northwick beside her.

"Family," was all the greeting Lady Wilhelmina bestowed on them, then her astute gaze riveted on Nicola and positively skewered her alive. "And... Miss Eversley." This was said with such distaste, a clear enunciation on the miss that denoted the impossibility of ever attaining the lauded ranks of a titled lady, it was a wonder how Nicola managed a polite, unaffected smile to grace her lips- but she did, and then the dowager turned and fixed her glare on her daughter-in-law.

Kathleen bustled with the most grace she could muster and showed Wilhelmina to her seat that was, unfortunately for Lady Blackwood, situated right beside her. Tea and tasty delicacies were brought forward with aplomb, of which the dowager accepted with an air of reluctance and obligation.

"Perhaps," Blanche whispered, flapping her fan in front of her face in pretence as she leaned slightly closer to Nicola, "her face has frozen and remained fixed after sucking so many lemons."

Nicola had to bite her lip to keep from giggling, knowing that if she failed to compose herself it would be the end of the lot of them, and discreetly nudged Blanche's side with her elbow. Jason made a sound of amusement from beside her, which did not help at all.

"I see your brood is in attendance and yet not much has changed since my last visit," Wilhelmina drawled in that discerningly odious voice of hers that seemed adamant to draw out the lower vowels of her wording for an impossibly long drawl. Those hawkish eyes surveyed the room, landing on the two oldest daughters across from her. "Neither of you have produced more children, it seems." An unspoken word lingered in the air, unspoken yet implied somehow, and Diana and Grace lowered their gazes, a blush of shame or embarrassment staining their cheeks. Well, if the four Blackwood children in the room presently weren't testament to the resounding fertility of the stock, then Grace's three children she had produced with her husband surely were (in the space of five short years) and Diana had only just given birth to a healthy, huge baby boy but two months prior. It was, Nicola thought, a miracle that either of them looked as gorgeous as they did and had even managed the visit.

"Grace and Diana, you will find, are paramount examples to other ladies of the ton," Kathleen was quick to defend her daughters.

Wilhelmina, for her part, ignored her and swivelled her gaze onto Blanche. Oh, damn, that meant she was next, Nicola thought miserably and endeavoured to sit up straighter and keep that daft, vacant smile pinned to her face. "Blanche," the old woman said with the faintest sneer. Blanche snapped her fan shut and her shoulders stiffened. "Since there has been no word forthcoming of any future prospects on your behalf, and do feel free to correct me if I a wrong?" A silver, imperious brow arched over one eye in question, to which Blanche shook her head, her throat bobbing. "I see. Well, in that case, I shall have to take matters into my own hands-"

"Lady Wilhelmina, that simply isn't necessary-" Kathleen protested.

"Isn't necessary? My dear, your child is of one and twenty and has yet to acquire a husband. Shameful. I know of several gentlemen, all of which are titled and of old blood, who have expressed an avid interest in marrying the girl. I insist that Blanche accept them as her callers when next she is in the London residence."

Blanche was quivering and Nicola saw the anger flare in her countenance, sure that her friend was about to implode and bring down the Dowager Marchioness's wrath on all their heads for months on end.

So, Nicola decided then and there to do the unthinkable, and address the old crone herself, hopefully drawing her attention away from poor Blanche. "Blanche has many suitors, my lady," she blurted, and was impaled by a gaze of iron. "She simply has not made her choice." She met that affronted glower with straight shoulders and a bland smile, and Nicola was so damn proud of herself she could have crowed but then...

"Has a chicken roosted in your hair, child?" Those eyes scraped over her body from head to toe, and Nicola's skin began to tingle and itch as if she longed to leap out of it and watch from afar as Wilhelmina took apart every one of her flaws.

"No, my lady. I merely have an abundance of it."

"Clearly." She sniffed, then her eyes dropped to Nicola's mouth and narrowed viciously. "I say, why do you talk like that, as if your lips are afraid to meet when enunciating your letters? They move as if you are a beetle. Surely you did have comportment lessons where proper articulation was prioritized?"

What was wrong with her mouth? Nicola thought furiously, not failing to note that every occupant in the room was now ogling her lips, including Jason Blackwood who was leaning so far forward to get a better look she thought he may very well topple onto the rug at her feet. "Of course, my lady," she said tightly, ensuring her lips were as animated as possible for emphasis. Rich, that, finding fault with her speech when the crusty witch took an eternity to pronounce a simple 'ah' sound.

"Well, we understand why Miss Eversley is unable to interest a male, but that leaves you, my boy."

"Ah, Christ."

Nicola slid an amused glance at him out the corner of her eye. Kathleen gave her son a scathing glare and Wilhelmina frowned, those dangerous brows honing down in an ominous vee between her eyes. "As Marquis of Northwick," she intoned in a voice that broached no argument, "you are obligated to produce heirs, and soon. Now, just like I have found for Blanche, I have located at least five favourable ladies that would be worthy of the Northwick title. Seeing as none of you are capable of the simplest of tasks, it is left up to me to ensure this family does not burn to ashes."

"It's marriage, not hell," Blanche whispered from behind her fan again.