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.

They were about to slip away when their eldest daughter appeared before them in a frenzied flash of silk and chiffon and ruby.

"Why is he here?" she demanded.

"Why is who here, my dear?" Lecia asked.

"The Scottish boy, with Uncle Craig," Minerva breathed.

"Oh," the Duchess realized. She looked to her husband.

Minerva was a vision in layers of blushing pink silk and cream-colored chiffon, her waist neatly cinched with a white ribbon. A pompadour of spiraling red tendrils framed her erudite expression and honest eyes. They didn't have a favorite child, but Vaughan and Lecia certainly knew which one would be the most difficult to send off. Eachann would live with them until it was they who were living with him, Vasyl was already rising the ranks of the Navy, Seren and Zella would both make excellent marriages, and Barri and Owain still had many more years at home. Though the other children had or would leave, it was a natural thing; with Minerva...she was so much a part of them that her departure would be a minor fatality.

"Did Eachann tell you?" the Duke asked. He already knew the answer. Somehow, that boy was a reincarnation of him, though he'd never died in the first place.

After a deep breath, Lecia stepped forward and took her daughter by the hand.

"Consider first that your father is arguably one of the most influential people in all of the United Kingdom, if not Europe. A marriage to you, his daughter, would be among the greatest of honors for some men, and would not occur without extensive deliberation on both of our parts. So, rest assured that this decision was not made hastily or easily.

"Second, reflect on whether you would actually like to be thrown into battle with lions and wolves and all manners of gnashing, snarling, quarreling beasts to tear one another to shreds over the prize of a toad. Because that's what the alternative is: ruthless, petty mothers who sharpen their daughters' claws to tear apart your very existence just to secure a marriage to a second son of an inconsequential, bankrupt Baronet. For almost twenty years I have watched it, and every new day I am still more thankful for the life I have been given with your father."

She could barely breathe, but Minerva managed to choke out, "Why?"

Lecia recalled the instance when she learned of her own engagement and allowed a small smile. Vaughan's hand blanketed her own, his presence at her back the greatest comfort and wonder she had ever known. There was pity in her heart for her child that she must now feel the same betrayal as Lecia had once, but the Duchess was lucky enough to have learned more joy than sorrow from her marriage and was confident Minerva's would be the same.

"Don't pout just yet," Vaughan sighed. "Your mother insisted that we not be cruel like your grandparents had been, so you are not yet promised to anyone."

The young woman perked up at the admission. Not engaged. Not yet.

"However," Lecia prompted, nudging her husband with an elbow.

"However," he continued, "We very much would support a marriage to a certain gentleman. I'll not bore you with too many details just yet, but your Uncle Craig will join us for dinner within the week, along with his guest."

"Yes," the Duchess said. "Perhaps you should withhold judgment of the young man before you've had the chance to properly meet."

"We have met. He's the horrible glutton who used to steal my paints, is he not?" Minerva frowned.

"Well, yes," her mother admitted. "But that was over ten years ago. He's much different now. Just think how you've changed."

Their daughter didn't dignify them with a response. Once she'd gone, Lecia and Vaughan were able to slip away to their fountain.

"I don't think she'll object to the match too much longer once she takes a look at the man," the Duchess laughed.

"I must say I agree," her husband grinned.

I'm gonna write less in this one because I said most everything already. Okay. So, originally I called this story "Hunters" because of a Florence and the Machine song. This is the original description: Love lost or love found? The bane of Lecia's existence also happens to completely undermine the society she's come to loathe. She's rid herself of romantic thoughts and demanded independence, but her hunt for a fantasy only unveils the terrifying reality.

I never intended for there to be any fantastical, vampire/witch/demon hunting involved in the story, and clearly was just not thinking that through when I settled on the name. Unfortunately, I think this oversight on my part has maybe affected how readers and people judge the story and thus choose not to read it. So, if you have any ideas for a new title, don't be shy! Like I said, I want to at least have a fighting chance going into this Watty's thing, and I just don't see "Hunters" stacking up.

Seriously, any advice/suggestions/ideas you have, I'm all ears. I can only hope that once I've been able to go through and revise this story and polish it as best as I can that you'll come back to read it all over again in all of its edited glory. I know this epilogue sort of suggests that maybe there would be a sequel, but I'm not planning on writing one. I just like to be a butt.

Kay.