Octavius and the Perfect Governess

Chapter 1-4-1

They went to Vauxhall by carriage rather than crossing the Thames in a scull, to Octavius’s relief. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to get into and out of a boat wearing a gown. As it was, even climbing into the carriage was a challenge. He nearly tripped on his hem.

The drive across town, over Westminster Bridge and down Kennington Lane, gave him ample time to torment his brother and cousins. If there was one lesson he wanted them to learn tonight—even Quintus and Sextus, who rarely played the forfeit game—it was to never choose this forfeit for him again.

Although, to tell the truth, he was rather enjoying himself now. It was wonderful to watch Ned squirm whenever Octavius fluttered his eyelashes and flirted at him with the pretty brisé fan. Even more wonderful was that when he uttered a coquettish laugh and said, “Oh, Nonny, you are so droll,” Ned didn’t thump him, as he ordinarily would have done, but instead went red and glowered at him.

It had been years since Octavius had dared to call Nonus anything other than Ned, so he basked in the triumph of the moment and resolved to call his cousin “Nonny” as many times as he possibly could that evening.

Next, he turned his attention to his brother, simpering and saying, “Quinnie, darling, you look so handsome tonight.”

It wasn’t often one saw an earl cringe.

Dex, prick that he was, didn’t squirm or cringe or go red when Octavius tried the same trick on him; he just cackled with laughter.

Octavius gave up on Dex for the time being and turned his attention to Sextus. He wasn’t squirming or cringing, but neither was he cackling. He lounged in the far corner of the carriage, an expression of mild amusement on his face. When Octavius fluttered the fan at him and cooed, “You look so delicious, darling. I could swoon from just looking at you,” Sextus merely raised his eyebrows fractionally and gave Octavius a look that told him he knew exactly what Octavius was trying to do. But Sextus had always been the smartest of them all.

They reached Vauxhall, and Octavius managed to descend from the carriage without tripping over his dress. “Who’s going to pay my three shillings and sixpence?” he asked, with a flutter of both the fan and his eyelashes. His heart was beating rather fast now that they’d arrived and his hands were sweating inside the evening gloves. It was one thing to play this game with his brother and cousins, another thing entirely to act the lady in public. Especially when he wasn’t wearing drawers.

But he wouldn’t let them see his nervousness. He turned to his brother and simpered up at him. “Quinnie, darling, you’ll pay for li’l old me, won’t you?”

Quintus cringed with his whole body again. “God damn it, Otto, stop that,” he hissed under his breath.

“No?” Octavius pouted, and turned his gaze to Ned. “Say you’ll be my beau tonight, Nonny.”

Ned looked daggers at him for that “Nonny” so Octavius blew him a kiss—then nearly laughed aloud at Ned’s expression of appalled revulsion.

Dex did laugh out loud. “Your idea, Ned; you pay,” he said, grinning.

Ned paid for them all, and they entered the famous pleasure gardens. Octavius took Dex’s arm once they were through the gate, because Dex was enjoying this far too much and if Octavius couldn’t find a way to make his cousin squirm then he might find himself repeating this forfeit in the future—and heaven forbid that that should ever happen.

Octavius had been to Vauxhall Gardens more times than he could remember. Nothing had changed—the pavilion, the musicians, the supper boxes, the groves of trees and the walkways—and yet it had changed, because visiting Vauxhall Gardens as a woman was a vastly different experience from visiting Vauxhall Gardens as a man. The gown undoubtedly had something to do with it. It was no demure débutante’s gown; Lydia was a courtesan—a very expensive courtesan—and the gown was cut to display her charms to best advantage. Octavius was uncomfortably aware of men ogling him—looking at his mouth, his breasts, his hips, and imagining him naked in their beds. That was bad enough, but what made it worse was that he knew some of those men. They were his friends—and now they were undressing him with their eyes.

Octavius simpered and fluttered his fan and tried to hide his discomfit, while Ned went to see about procuring a box and supper. Quintus paused to speak with a friend, and two minutes later so did Sextus. Dex and Octavius were alone—or rather, as alone as one could be in such a public setting as Vauxhall.

Octavius nudged Dex away from the busy walkway, towards a quieter path. Vauxhall Gardens sprawled over several acres, and for every wide and well-lit path there was a shadowy one with windings and turnings and secluded nooks.

A trio of drunken young bucks swaggered past, clearly on the prowl for amatory adventures. One of them gave a low whistle of appreciation and pinched Octavius on his derrière.

Octavius swiped at him with the fan.

The man laughed. So did his companions. So did Dex.

“He pinched me,” Octavius said, indignantly.

Dex, son of a b***h that he was, laughed again and made no move to reprimand the buck; he merely kept strolling.

Octavius, perforce, kept strolling, too. Outrage seethed in his bosom. “You wouldn’t laugh if someone pinched Phoebe,” he said tartly. “You’d knock him down.”

“You’re not my sister,” Dex said. “And besides, if you’re going to wear a gown like that one, you should expect to be pinched.”

Octavius almost hit Dex with the fan. He gritted his teeth and resolved to make his cousin regret making that comment before the night was over. He racked his brain as they turned down an even more shadowy path, the lamps casting golden pools of light in the gloom. When was the last time he’d seen Dex embarrassed? Not faintly embarrassed, but truly, deeply embarrassed.

A memory stirred in the recesses of his brain and he remembered, with a little jolt of recollection, that Dex had a middle name—Stallyon—and he also remembered what had happened when the other boys at school had found out.

Dex Stallyon had become . . . s*x Stallion.

It had taken Dex a week to shut that nickname down—Pryors were built large and they never lost a schoolyard battle—but what Octavius most remembered about that week wasn’t the fighting, it was Dex’s red-faced mortification and fuming rage.

Of course, Dex was a s*x stallion now, so maybe the nickname wouldn’t bother him?

They turned onto a slightly more populated path. Octavius waited for a suitable audience to approach, which it soon did: Misters Feltham and Wardell, both of whom had been to school with Dex.

“You’re my favorite of all my beaus,” Octavius confided loudly as they passed. “Dex Stallyon, my s*x stallion. You let me ride you all night long.” He uttered a beatific sigh, and watched with satisfaction as Dex flushed bright red.

Feltham and Wardell laughed. Dex laughed, too, uncomfortably, and hustled Octavius away, and then pinched him hard on his plump, dimpled arm.

“Ouch,” Octavius said, rubbing his arm. “That hurt.”

“Serves you bloody right,” Dex hissed. “I can’t believe you said I let you ride me!”

Now that was interesting: it was the reference to being ridden that Dex objected to, not the nickname.

Octavius resolved to make good use of that little fact.

He talked loudly about riding Dex when they passed Lord Belchamber and his cronies, and again when they encountered the Hogarth brothers.

Both times, Dex dished out more of those sharp, admonitory pinches, but Octavius was undeterred; he was enjoying himself again. It was fun ribbing Dex within earshot of men they both knew and watching his cousin go red at the gills.

He held his silence as two courting couples strolled past, and then swallowed a grin when he spied a trio of fellows sauntering towards them. All three of them were members of the same gentleman’s club that Dex frequented.

Dex spied them, too, and changed direction abruptly, hauling Octavius into a dimly lit walkway to avoid them.

Octavius tried to turn his laugh into a cough, and failed.

“You’re a damned swine,” Dex said. It sounded as if he was gritting his teeth.

“I think you mean b***h,” Octavius said.

Dex made a noise remarkably like a growl. He set off at a fast pace, his hand clamped around Octavius’s wrist.

Ordinarily, Octavius would have had no difficulty keeping up with Dex—he was an inch taller than his cousin—but right now he was a whole foot shorter, plus he was hampered by his dress. He couldn’t stride unless he hiked the wretched thing up to his knees, which he wasn’t going to do; he was already showing far too much of his person. “Slow down,” he said. “I’ve got short legs.”

Dex made the growling sound again, but he did slow down and ease his grip on Octavius’s wrist.

Along came a gentleman whom Octavius didn’t recognize, one of the nouveau riche judging from his brashly expensive garb. The man ogled Octavius overtly and even went so far as to blow him a kiss. Instead of ignoring that overture, Octavius fluttered his eyelashes and gave a little giggle. “Another time, dear sir. I have my favorite beau with me tonight.” He patted Dex’s arm. “I call him my s*x stallion because he lets me ride him all night long.”

Dex pinched him again, hard, and dragged him away from the admiring gentleman so fast that Octavius almost tripped over his hem.

“Stop telling everyone that you ride me!” Dex said, once they were out of earshot.

“Don’t you like it?” Octavius asked ingenuously. “Why not? Does it not sound virile enough?”

Dex ignored those questions. He made the growling sound again. “I swear to God, Otto, if you say that one more time, I’m abandoning you.”

Which meant that Octavius had won. He opened the brisé fan and hid a triumphant smile behind it.

Dex released his wrist. Octavius refrained from rubbing it; he didn’t want to give Dex the satisfaction of knowing that it hurt. Instead, he walked in demure silence alongside his cousin, savoring his victory . . . and then lo, who should he see coming towards them but that old lecher, Baron Rumpole.

“I warn you, Otto,” Dex said, as Rumpole approached. “Don’t you dare.”

Rumpole all but stripped Octavius with his gaze, and then he had the vulgarity to say aloud to Dex, “I see someone’s getting lucky tonight.”

The opening was too perfect to resist. Warning or not, Octavius didn’t hesitate. “That would be me getting lucky,” he said, with a coy giggle. “He’s my favorite beau because he lets me ride—”

“You want her? She’s yours.” Dex shoved Octavius at the baron and strode off.

Octavius almost laughed out loud—it wasn’t often that he managed to get the better of Dex—but then Rumpole stepped towards him and the urge to laugh snuffed out.

He took a step back, away from the baron, but Rumpole crowded closer. He might be in his late fifties, but he was a bull-like man, thickset and bulky—and considerably larger and stronger than Octavius currently was.

Octavius tried to go around him to the left, but Rumpole blocked him.

He tried to go around him to the right. Rumpole blocked him again.

Dex was long gone, swallowed up by the shadows.

“Let me past,” Octavius demanded.

“I will, for a kiss.”

Octavius didn’t deign to reply to this. He picked up his skirts and tried to push past Rumpole, but the man’s hand shot out, catching his upper arm, and if he’d thought Dex’s grip was punishingly tight, then the baron’s was twice as bad. Octavius uttered a grunt of pain and tried to jerk free.

Rumpole’s fingers dug in, almost to the bone. “No, you don’t. I want my kiss first.” He hauled Octavius towards him and bent his head.

Octavius punched him.

If he’d been in his own shape, the punch would have laid Rumpole out on the ground. As it was, the baron rocked slightly on his feet and released Octavius’s arm.