1

Hello. My name is Frances Scott Morgan. As a young girl trying to make my way in the London ton, I absolutely hated my name because it was so plain, and I wanted to be seen as an exotic creature worth a second glance. Unfortunately my mother was ridiculously in love with the poet who wrote the lyrics for the bloody American anthem during the Revolutionary War and wanted a child named after the bleeding fool. Sadly for me, due to an unforeseen complication in my birth, she was left unable to have any children after me, and I was stuck with the burden of a name. I was also saddled with the general appearance of my father's kin. My skin was wan and pale, my hair was lackluster blonde, and my eyes were your run of the mill blue. None of my dresses ever complimented my too tall, too skinny form and my breasts made pebbles look huge. With a bland name and a bland appearance, it seemed that my life could not be any more pitiful, but when my commonplace personality was factored into the equation, I became nearly invisible next to the young women with whom I finished.

It was a sad existence. My mother tried to convince me every day that I would be swept off my feet one day just as she had been with Frances Scott's poetry (at which I promptly rolled my eyes). She told me once, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder," and yet no one found anything in me besides a tall, awkward girl who tended to shrink from any sort of human contact. I looked at myself in the mirror everyday and wondered, 'If only the rich silks and fancy coiffures were not necessary to attract a man. Perhaps if I could feasibly attract a man with my dowry; or, should he have a pedantic sense of humor, I could simply perform my marital duty to him then feel free to pursue my own wishes.' I wasn't sure I could muster the effort to make myself desirable to a man with slightly questionable morals, but the freedom of the life I imagined was an intense motivator.

With this plan in mind, I set out for a small soiree on an early summer's eve. I had carefully chosen the only gown I owned that did not make me look so sallow, and Alga made a special effort to twist my disagreeable hair into a fancy coiffure. I did my best to be excited about the plan I had set into action, but my eyes lacked spark, and my cheeks were still wan and colorless.

I walked calmly down the stairs and my mother looked on without emotion as I alighted the carriage. I waved from the velvety dark interior as the carriage pulled away from the curb, and I sighed. My aunt, who sat beside me, sent a wink my way. "Perhaps you will have a chance to be the center of attention now that your mother is not your chaperone. I do believe the young lads thought you to be her hawk-eyed mother!" She laughed and patted my knee fondly; her figure softly rounded with child pressed gently against my side and I was made suddenly aware of the boniness of my frame. I furrowed my brow and made a note to eat more of the greasy food our chef prepared in order to put on what was termed 'fashionable fat'. The carriage came to a stop, and I glanced nervously at the palace of a town house that belonged to the Duke of Harrington, a man whose daughter was quite fond of me and insisted I attended their party. She had insisted that the best way to meet an eligible gentleman was not at a ball, but at a small party where music might begin and dancing more intimate than by the card could be practiced.

I laughed inwardly at remembering insinuation of her raised brow and smiled politely at the man attending the door. Because my aunt and I had no wraps, we proceeded without hindrance. I saw before me a party that consisted predominantly of gentlemen and, though I am no connoisseur of men, handsome gentlemen they were. Amongst them were a few ladies in jewel colored gowns, flashing sensuous smiles and tapping the arms of the men flirtatiously with their fans.

I immediately felt like the ugly duckling against so many swans. I was not well versed in entertaining conversation with gentlemen; I could barely manage among women! So with great trepidation I entered the room with my aunt's guiding hand in the small of my back. I turned to her with what I imagine were large, scared eyes, but the she just laughed and patted my cheek.

"Just be yourself. You will enchant them out of their shoes, love," she chuckled softly then placed her hands on her swollen abdomen, "I promised Jacob that I would spend no more than fifteen minutes at a time on my feet, so I'll just retire to the sitting room while you young vixens show the men the best manners money can buy."

I stood watching my aunt waddle off, holding her ailing lower back within the span of her hands. I took a step to help her to her seat, but the soft warmth of a gloved hand on my arm stayed me. I stiffened and felt my cheeks burn as I met the gaze of an excessively attractive man. I made an attempt at a smile, but glancing in the mirrored panel behind him I saw that my face hadn't changed. I damned my failing gray matter and turned my attention back to the man, who'd begun to speak.

". . . name?" he asked. I couldn't focus on too much more than the fact that his hand was still resting on my arm, and I discreetly removed it while saying, "I am very sorry, but I missed that. Could you repeat it?" I thought my voice sounded convincing, but I didn't allow myself to relax one bit.

"My name is Richard Clemens. I'm due to inherit my father's lands, fortune, and title as duke. What's your name?" his eyes hadn't lost the eager glint, and his blatant exhibit of his assets rendered me quite unable to respond. Unfortunately, it was because his touting of his status caused me to burst out laughing. The eager glint was quickly doused and replaced by one that clearly asked 'Is she quite mad?'

After I had regained my senses I apologized, "Please excuse me, but the way you introduced yourself was rather odd," I took a breath and passed my hand over my forehead before extending it and saying, "I think perhaps we'll be friends, Mr. Clemens. My full name is quite atrocious, so you may call me Miss Morgan."

It was his turn to smile; he took my proffered hand and shook delicately as if he were afraid to break my arm. "I, too, think we shall be friends, Miss Morgan."

After our rather atypical introduction, our conversation flowed quite easily; and we acquired many of the gentlemen who had been floating between groups. In fact, a few of the surrounding groups joined ours and what had been an entertaining conversation amongst a few became a rather rowdy gathering as we all regaled each other with outrageous tales about anything that came to mind. We were so intent upon our conversation that we didn't even notice when the bell rang for dinner, and we talked right through it. When the chaperones came out to check in with their wards, they found us still in the throes of laughter and conversation. A tsk of disapproval rang out over the high energy verbalization and we all halted rather abruptly and turned our attention to a bombastic looking gentleman with a woman clad in lavender silk hanging on his arm.

"I quite thought that I had left the mildly amusing and garbled talk of toddlers when I left the nursery," he said with a voice that positively slithered. "Perhaps we came to the wrong party, my dear sister."

"What a tragedy," she responded in a sickly sweet voice. "Perhaps we'd best leave the children to their night time tales." I looked around the group that had accumulated around Richard and me, and the shame in their faces ignited an anger in me that, unfortunately, I had never felt. Thus I did not know the full power of my own spite and used it rather . . . unintelligently.

"Perhaps the conversation that seems so juvenile," I said venemously, "to those whom we would call the elite is simply too much for their intolerant minds to comprehend." I stepped from the group and walked to the divider of the rooms intending to find my aunt and leave. My night had been quite spoiled by the arrival of the pompous pair, and I was in the mood to leave.

When I passed by the man he said in a soft yet chilling voice, "Perhaps now that the ring leader of fools is gone we may have an intelligent conversation, hm?"

Unfortunately, those soft words set me off and without thinking I slapped him quite soundly. My hand stung where it had struck him, and a red welt rose on his face. "I am no fool," I spat. His astonishingly violet eyes met mine for a moment before I hustled out of the room, and I was surprised by what I found there. There was no indication of resentment or even anger at my outburst. In fact, there appeared to be a glimmer of amusement, but it left just as quickly as it came.

After gathering my aunt, we left unfashionably early and arrived home long before my mother and father were home from a tête-à-tête with some of their close friends. When I was safely ensconced inside my bedroom and I was encompassed in a high collared night shift I looked at myself closely in the mirror. There was a slight change, as if the night had been magic and left its mark upon me. Nothing had changed physically. I was still tall and gangly, my hair still lacked an attractive shine, and my skin was still wan. My eyes had changed. They hadn't sparkled much before that evening, but as I stared I wondered if the adrenaline rush of my anger left my eyes shining so brightly.

Scoffing at my ridiculous evaluation of myself, I slipped between the soft linens of my bed and curled into a tight ball, as was my custom.

That night, I dreamt of violet eyes, staring at me coldly from behind a thick glass window.