Hunters

XXX. Epilogue: Hunters

XXX. Epilogue: Hunters

As July commonly was, it had been an overwhelmingly heated day. Fortunately, the Duchess of Cambria and Martisine had made it a tradition for the Grand Soiree at Martis Palace to be held under the stars, so by the time the party was breeching capacity the temperature had become comfortable. However, being that it was summertime and that her younger sisters had just made their debuts at the start of the Season, Minerva Cantington would not be deterred. Especially not when someone as dashing as the Earl of Mirstone was in attendance.

The young woman was an ethereal composite of her father's glaucous eyes, her mother's celestial nose, the Queen's infallible posture, and her grandmother's ruby curls. Her disregard for decorum stemmed from either or both of her parents; in that, the Duke and Duchess were so indistinguishable that all of their children had inherited the trait—save for young Owain, but he was honestly too young to know for sure.

"Minerva!" her brother hissed, snagging her by the arm and pulling her into an empty flower den.

Eachann Cantington, future Duke of Cambria and Martisine, was not impressed with his younger sister's behavior. Having just celebrated his nineteenth birthday and graduation from Oxford, it was easy to see the faults in others. In this instance, the arguably fashionable neckline of Minerva's gown was in no way suitable for the conservative and indiscreet opinions of their mother's guests.

"What?" the debutant snapped back, tugging herself free.

"Just what do you think you're wearing?" Eachann asked accusingly.

"You don't like it?" she pouted. "It's a replica of one our mother wore."

"After she married tad, I'm sure," he exasperated.

"Well what would you have me do? Don a habit for every outing?" she asked. "I have to compete, not only with our cousin Florence—whose name, I might add, is considered synonymous with Aphrodite in some circles—but also our sisters, who are identical copies of our mother, the most perfect Duchess that ever lived," Minerva huffed, rolling her eyes.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Eachann laughed.

Glowering, she shoved her brother's shoulder. "Enlighten me, then."

The Future Duke's lips slipped into a knowing smirk. "It's not my place to say, but if I were you, I would go change into something more appropriate, and then go ask mother why Uncle Craig brought Aiden MacIomhair with him."

For a moment, the girl's face was crumpled in confusion, but as soon as she was able to recall who Aiden MacIomhair was, her expression shifted to disgust.

"The fat boy from Scotland? Why on earth would I care what he's doing here?" she sneered.

"Suit yourself," her brother sighed. "But if even half of what they say about Scots is true, your current ensemble won't do anything to dissuade him."

Fury flushed across Minerva's cheeks and décolletage, and it was within a minute that she rushed back into the palace to find a more prudent gown.

Lecia Cantington had aged more gracefully than the phrase "aged gracefully" could ever imply. She was more radiant than ever, witty as always, yet still managed to both prepare and host the most extravagant party of the year—every year—while also raising her seven children and managing an amalgamation of charities. It was often joked that the Duke was at his Duchess' side more than she was ever at his. He preferred it that way.

"There's a certain fountain that tradition insists we visit," Vaughan whispered in his wife's ear as they greeted their last guest. Lecia smiled, recalling the nearly twenty times they had sneaked away during the annual garden party to revisit the site of their first kiss. It was a simple but treasured thing, now.