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The Opera | Evening 24/12- Xmas 1677


Defiance

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Basildon's box

 

(OOC - I shall turn Lucy over to Delight now )

 

The young duke, who never took the colder seasons well, seemed to beam at the compliment. For what young man of such blood had anything but a perfectly good conceit of himself? Somerset was no different.

 

He had thought to ask Basildon if he had heard from Danby, but the earl seemed keen to see to the treatment of Lucy. For a moment he wondered if she would say something that he had not yet heard, but it seemed he was just as informed thus far.

 

If something was amiss, surely he does not think me incapable of dealing with it? he thought, but he had not the energy to make any indication of it.

 

Instead, he let his wife talk to her brother while he stood by placidly, drinking some mulled wine.

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York' Box

 

Swordsmanship, Legge thought. Sometimes he truly wondered of his master's sanity. Had Heather fucked this chap with one eye, in one day?

 

God's Blood!

 

Sir George said absolutely nothing. Not a word. Not a look. But he did not miss very much. Right now, he had accomplished his task.

 

York, for his part, took a full, wide-eyed ogle at Heather. Had she missed his blunt looks?

 

When she pressed herself against him for a kiss, there need be no doubt that James had no issue with that in the very least, for he kissed her back. After all, she was Protestant, so the people should be happier of her than of his wife. At least, that was James' rationalization. Whether it was true or not did not matter in the heat of the kiss.

 

Why have I even bothered to attend the opera, his surly mind supplied, as he now rather wished he did not have to sit through it. There were other things he would rather be doing with far less of an audience.

 

"Of course, and it took long enough to find you!" he said. He looked her up and down again, with a smile. "What was it you all were speaking of?" He had seen part of the interplay, but it had made no sense to him. He was not sly enough to even do anything but ask directly of it. He was quite blunt in such a fashion. "You were not thinking of attending another box, were you?" he asked.

 

York did not yet see the addition to his box, but Heather might out of the corner of her eye. The two blond gentlemen kept quiet, deferring to the lady to do as she had said, no matter what either might truly wish to say in that moment.

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Heather remained blissfully unaware of Legge's assumptions, enjoying the simplicity of straightforward passion as always exploded between her and York. Alas, the same soldiery way also led him to charge straight into the melee of today. Wit or no, he was unlikely to have missed strategic struggles.

 

Heather broke away slightly from their embrace. Yes, there was no mistaking his surliness.He seemed almost as peeved as she was, but, she was convinced through his satisfying reaction, not entirely at her. "No other box even ever entered my mind. However.." she dropped her voice a little, allowing her chagerine to surface "I felt decidedly out of place, what, with Dorset preening and all. Drury Lane might have suit just as well, for are they not the King's men?"

 

Heather straightened, and put on a brave face "Well, but nothing to be done about that now I suppose. Hopefully it is blissfully short, so we can .. ah.. chase other sorts of bliss the sooner."

 

Chatham had entered behind her in the interim but she had not acknowledged him, until now. Turning slightly she smiled "Your Grace, may I present to you, Charles Audley, the right honorable Earl of Chatham?"

 

The whimsical Countess waited briefly for Charles to give the expected bow and all, before adding "This morning, in the Fencing Hall, he fought most galantly with lieutenant Turnbull of the 2nd troop. It was impressive, I tell you, for the Earl did it all on high heels yet came out the winner. Quite the audience had gathered, including some ladies of the household, for it was quite the display of skill." Heather sighed happily, for truly, one of her life ambitions had been fullfilled, a duel fought over her. How delicious.

 

She gave James a smouldering look from under long red eyelashes, and said in a low voice that would not carry beyond their box "As was agreed beforehand, the victor won the honour of a kiss from me."

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York's Box

Charles bowed smoothly once more as Heather performed the introductions.

 

"Your highness and I have met before, actually, aboard the Prince, though I would not expect you to remember it. I was plain Charles Audley then, and a beardless young lieutenant who still had both eyes."

 

At the thought of Southwold Bay, Charles absently rubbed at his right side. If that splinter (splinter! Hah- the thing had been as long as his forearm) had landed an inch or two to the left he'd have died plain Charles Audley, a beardless young lieutenant who still had both eyes.

 

He came back to the present and grinned sharply as Heather extolled his swordplay. At the mention of the heels he interjected, laughter bubbling in his voice.

 

"All part of the plan you see. I thought to beguile the lieutenant with my shapely calves." His tone sobered. "'Twas a close run thing, in the end. Turnbull has no small talent, but, well." A modest shrug, contriving to suggest that to defeat the Earl of Chatham required considerably more.

 

Charles was beginning to enjoy himself when Heather mentioned the stakes he and Turnbull had played for. Betraying no outward reaction, face still fixed in a pleasantly amiable expression, he began to gauge the distance from the box to the floor. A kiss was a small enough thing, but other men could be so bloody jealous of their women.

 

It's a manageable drop... were I in boots. In these damnable heels, I'm like to break an ankle, or my neck.

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Ernle's box

 

Perhaps it was an imperfection in her English - for Nicci had thought he meant that the Captain and herself were reliant upon another's approval for success (which would have been a surprise indeed!). But as the Captain brushed passed that topic, she surmised there was nothing to make of his comment, still, that he now closed off like he did she realized she'd missed some opportunity.

 

"I hope we might." she replied with a winsome smile and a little dip, "oh but I can find my own way back no trouble at all." she gave a playful wink. She had a performance of her own planned.

 

Back at the Basildon box

Appearing back in her families stall, she moved to settle to her seat next to Louis and softly murmured, "Another pastry in the oven, I do not know what it will bake."

 

It was not a lack of gumption that had the French lass not attempt to visit the Kings box, it was a manner of female strategy, along with respect for the Buckingham-sponsored event. Thusting herself upon him meant one thing, but it was to be summoned for that was her greater intention. Yet once settled, arranged in an elegant pose, her eyes moved directly towards the pair that were both her penultimate and grandfinal goal. Sacre bleu! Their appeal was so strong!

 

Upon a seeming idle her fingers then moved to her cleavage, where under layer of peach satin met the pale blue gauze with a ruffle, and with a wide eyed look, tugged at something concealed there.

 

There was another gentleman in the box seats who knew of Nicolette's inclination to augment her bust line. but this tonight was some other little scheme. Tug tug tug... a flimsy silk handkerchief, improv-veil, emerged. The King had once prompted her to promise a dance of seven veils for him. Her eyes slid back to the King, hoping to smile to him, while also absorbing the marvel that was Ranelagh.

 

Yet there was time, it was a dance of seven after all, and the night was young.

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Buckingham's Box

 

"Oh, ah..." Lucas, roused from some private, pensive contemplation, seemed moderately bewildered by Lord Kingston's question. And perhaps that was why he replied; "The descending tetrachord subversion of the organum form's duplum line." He risked a brief look at Francis and, remembering himself a little too late, added, "Uhm. Diana's signature aria... I mean..." he cleared his throat, embarrassed. "It's... an understated nod to, ah, a sacred style that derives from plainchant, employed when she suggestively sings of her, uhh, chastity."

 

That said, he subsided into rather embarrassed silence, broken only when he lifted his glass to his mouth and emptied it, in one self-conscious gulp.

 

The audience seemed to be taking their seats, at last; almost everybody was settled, and engaged in light conversation... the kind Lucas found himself entirely incapable of, in this moment. He began to chew his thumbnail, anxiously.

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Buckingham's Box

 

“Indeed, Your Grace?” James arched an eyebrow in a suitable mocking of surprise, reclining in his seat slightly as he took a drawn-out sip from his cup. Idle banter and innuendo were easy enough to resort to even in the midst of the day's trying conflict. “I suppose it's only fitting, with all the talk of war on the horizon, that we find ourselves called on to perform such a duty. In the name of His Majesty's kingdoms, of course.”

 

Ingratiating himself with the Duke seemed to be progressing smoothly enough, at least from the poet's admittedly-inexpert eye. He chose to take it as another sign of fortune, the natural next step from the name recognition he'd garnered last season and his publisher's...enthusiastic favor as of late. In that vein, and thinking of Buckingham's own ascendancy as of late, he added out of curiosity, “And perhaps as a celebration as well?”

 

Lucas, meanwhile, had begun to prattle on about the mechanics of the opera, bringing an amused smile back to James' features despite any efforts to the contrary. Nerves were certainly understandable, but from what he knew of Kingston...ah, but if he's not a better man than I, trying to lift his spirits when all I can do is...No, no. Not now.

 

He raised the glass to his lips, gaze immediately falling back to the stage, and mirrored the composer's sudden haste in drinking. Saints preserve us, let the bloody thing start already.

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York's Box

 

"Pfft, it has cost us much coin," York groused in a whisper. "I don't think there's any preening by that buffoon, but as my royal brother says, there is not the acoustics at court, and it will yet be some time before Killigrew's can be functionally rebuilt. The father is still not fully recovered. Typical Charles, having his own entertainment on someone else's coin."

 

As to the new arrival, York raised an eyebrow.

 

"You are welcome to join us, Chatham," he said, simply. "Any military man shall find himself in good company here. Sir George was beardless then and is still so!" York joked with a laugh, a rare thing for him to show any wit. He was usually the sort for blunt and inartful.

 

It seemed that the opera was about to begin.

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OOC: A... sort-of pseudo-mod post, I suppose, which I wrote considerably earlier. The opera begins at last! D:

 


An instrumental toccata sounded, a bright fanfare of trumpets and drums to galvanize the audience and turn their attention toward the stage. The heavy green curtain lifted, and as the final ringing chords of the toccata died away, the strings began a gentle, sweeping melody, low at first but growing, in both timbre and complexity, as each of the instruments of the orchestra took up their parts.

 

The painted scene before the audience was one of a wooded glen in midsummer, soft green light through bright leaves; in the center of the stage was a confection of scenery to represent a shaded pool, ringed with flat rocks and little, decorative shrubs. As the music grew, picking up a delicate and lovely ritornello, complex strophic variations as smooth and soothing as clockwork, from the left of the wings the nymphs arrived. Twelve lovely ladies, all delicate hands and languid, graceful movements, dressed in gauzy green and bright gold, with flowers threaded into their hair. They moved like dancers, taking up their places and then the ritornello: the nymphs' chorus.

 

They were the very picture of exquisite femininity; every soft and lovely note and every movement married to this common cause. They sang (in English, for the librettist was an Englishman), of their delight in the wild life of the hunt, of shunning the fellowship of men, of their distaste for marriage and their disdain for all household arts... removed entirely from the world of men, a purity of womanhood... very nearly, perhaps, beyond reason.

 

And then, as the music of the nymphs chorus reached its perfect conclusion, from the right of the stage their Queen appeared. Diana, ready to begin her perfectly coquettish signature aria.

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Ernle's Box

 

Ernle felt much similarly to Nicolette as she decided that he was not worthy of any introductions.

 

THe captain was not sure whether that should sting or whether that was some sort of purposeful, teasing slight. He looked to his father as she sashayed off.

 

The elder Ernle did little but raise an eyebrow and then whisper, "What did you say?"

 

Aubrey did nothing but snicker and whisper to one of the other ladies, clearly thinking the captain had committed some faux pas.

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Onstage

 

As the orchestra's toccata rang throughout the theatre and the curtains rose, the chatter backstage gradually subsided and finally ceased altogether. From her place in the wings, Sophia could see the nymphs on the other side getting ready for their entrance. How nervous they must be, she thought. This is their first time performing on a stage. And some of them have never sung publicly at all. The blonde soprano did not share their anxiety, having sung in countless operas in Venice. While this would be a new experience for most of the performers, it would be a homecoming for her.

 

A homecoming she had longed for ever since she had left Italy.

 

Excitement and anticipation coursed through her veins, tempered with a healthy dose of apprehension and anxiety. To be overconfident was to fail, but realizing the possibility of failure made one strive harder for perfection. And perfection was what she intended to deliver tonight. She felt so alive, as if she was ready to take on the entire world and bring them joy through her music.

 

The tocatta gave way to the nymphs' introduction, and she watched as they flowed gracefully onto the stage, their filmy costumes fluttering with each move they made. She held her breath as they began singing, praying that their nervousness would not cause their voices to falter, but they sang just as splendidly as they had at the rehearsals.

 

Exhaling, Sophia closed her eyes, a golden desire suffusing her body as it always did directly before a performance. It was an ecstatic feeling, like the moment between dreaming and waking where everything is possible, and the fear of the unknown is eclipsed by the thrill of what is to come. Hot and cold shivers shimmered down her spine, and her body trembled with delightful sensations. And of course, she thought of Juan, her beloved Spanish Prince. He was the only gentleman who could make her feel as she did at this moment.

 

As the nymphs' song concluded, she waited for her cue, taking a few deep breaths to make the important transition from the confines of the known world into the fantastical and compelling dimension of art. Now she was Diana and the virgin goddess of the hunt would not disappoint. Although she would bathe in her sacred pool unseen by mortal eyes, her voice would soar through the forest, enchanting all who heard it. Beautiful, wild, and free, no one would be able to resist her unattainable charms.

 

Impulsively, she tugged her bodice down and pushed her bosom up, displaying a bit more of those charms. Her costume was an ingenious work of art in itself. Forgoing the usual bum roll, she wore a short flesh-colored sheath that hugged her lush form and would give the illusion of nudity when she sank into the bath. Tight-fitting breeches of the same fabric covered her legs. Over it was a filmy confection of white silk to denote her purity, embroidered with glittering gold thread and cut fashionably low. It was fastened with golden fibulae at her shoulders and banded below her breasts with a golden sash decorated with leaves and flowers. It was hemmed with a wide border of gold and the long sleeves were split along the top, draping beneath her slender arms and coming together again in the golden bands at her wrists.

 

Her hair was arranged in an elaborate Greek style and adorned with flowers, leaves, and ribbons and she wore a diadem featuring a sparkling crescent moon that rested against her forehead. A golden chain encircled her neck and from it hung a crescent moon pendant that hovered just above her ample cleavage. Although she wore golden shoes made to resemble sandals, she kicked them off at the last moment, deciding to go barefoot instead.

 

As the music swelled around her, Diana/Sophia stepped onstage, beautiful and elusive. She had a striking presence honed over nearly four years of singing in Venetian operas and as the first flawless note left her lips and soared through the theatre, she owned the stage. Although shorter than most of the nymphs, the sheer power of her voice made her seem larger than life.

 

She absolutely adored the aria Master Greyson had written for her. It was coquettish and capricious, and her entire focus was on bringing it to vivid life, so that her audience could hear, see, and feel what it was meant to convey. The clear, sweet tones of her highly trained voice somersaulted through the air performing feats of pure magic … leaping, whirling, flipping, dancing … each note a tantalizing delight to the ears as she sang of how delighted she was with her freedom and power, and how privileged her nymphs were to live in her sacred woods unsullied by the presence of men.

 

Completely comfortable in front of a large audience, Sophia's acting was as natural as her singing, and as she traversed the stage, she instinctively positioned herself where she could be seen by everyone in the theatre. Every now and then, particularly when the verse she was singing was playful and passionate, she glanced toward the King's box. She could not see him because the candles lining the stage were too bright, but she knew he was there and her purpose was to enchant him and demonstrate her gift of music as it was meant to be displayed. Oh, how wonderful she felt, belting out each note with dazzling abandon!

 

The contrariness of the aria allowed her to showcase the full capabilities of her voice. She was sweet and innocent one moment, uninhibited and untamed the next. Passion, playfulness, arrogance, mischief, confidence, sauciness, protectiveness, flirtatiousness, and pride were some of the emotions that colored her voice as it spun through the air with spellbinding precision, attempting to weave a glistening web around her audience. Diana was beauty, but no man would ever look upon her. Diana was desire, but no man would ever know pleasure in her embrace. Diana was a huntress, but she would never be hunted. “I am forever wild, a restless creature of the glen,” she sang. “But never shall I countenance the wildness of men.”

 

While her words sent one message, her body sent another. Her bosom heaved enticingly, sending her crescent moon pendant bouncing against her cleavage. As she traveled around the stage, her hips swayed seductively and while her costume was opaque, it swirled about her shapely legs, outlining them in a subtle fashion. She was a rose in full luscious bloom, but her thorns would prick any man who tried to pluck her from the bush.

 

As the aria reached its breathtaking crescendo, Sophia moved toward the 'pool' at center stage. Raising her head at a perfect angle and lifting her arms high into the air, she stretched, arching her back and thrusting her magnificent bosom outward. She then gracefully lowered her arms, and her voice became softer. Extending one leg, she pretended to test the water with her foot.

 

Stepping into the pool, she held up the hem of her gown as if to keep it out of the 'water.' Her bare feet could not be seen, discreetly hidden by strategically placed rocks and shrubs. Her voice rose again with passion, pride, and a mere hint of disdain as the aria ended with a vow of purity from the corruption of men. “I shall never a plaything be / Veiled in lust and secrecy.”

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Buckingham's Box

 

And up went Francis' light eyebrows as Lucas explained, in a rather not explanatory way, what his favourite bits were.

 

About all he understood in that was descending and chord, and he surely had not been expecting it, so he was rather thankful Lucas gave a simpler explanation. After all, he asked so that he might look for it as to fully appreciate it, so hearing for a tetrachord was not going to help Francis at all.

 

"Aha, I see. Well, I am sure that the allusion shall be very well done, but it shall be undone by the lady's heaving bosoms whilst singing about her chastity," he joked about his former ward. He had always hated her singing with such a low neckline when she was his problem, but now she was Toledo's, so if a breast fell out, Francis was blameless.

 

It had been a real fear of his once.

 

He waved over the servant to refill Lucas' cup. A few drinks and then maybe the composer could relax.

 

Master O'Neill seemed to be holding his own in wit with the Duke which was challenge enough, and Buckingham enjoyed toying with newcomers, testing them out, so he let them go, sitting down as everything began.

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Buckingham's Box

 

Lord Kingston's remark about Sophia's heaving bosoms proving contradictory to the chaste theme only served to further confuse Lucas, who shot his friend a brief, bewildered look and replied weakly, "Uhm... but... that was rather the point..." and then gave up mostly from embarrassment, lapsing into silence.

 

This awkward pause lasted barely a moment, though, for the trumpets' fanfare declared the opera begun, and that demanded the whole of Lucas' attention.

 

He watched with a kind of ferocious concentration as the curtain rose, as the music began, his eyes straying (at times) to various members of the orchestra or chorus, as though ensuring certain phrases or passages came off exactly as intended; almost as though he imagined, through sheer strength of will, he could compel the performance to perfection. When the servant refilled his wine glass, he did not even seem to notice. And with his free hand, in tiny, unconscious, and entirely unintended motions beside his thigh, he was minutely conducting the orchestra from afar... not that he expected or intended they might see him from here. It was rather closer to an involuntary rhythmic tic.

 

Poor Francis would likely get nothing more out of him at all, at least until it was over.

 


OOC: I'm going to be posting more performance periodically, the next bit goes up tomorrow. Please feel free to post reactions or conversation or whatever you prefer! Or save it to the end, if you'd rather. :3 There are four chunks total, including the one I already posted, then it's over!

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York's Box

 

Briefly Heather's green eyes travelled where Dorset lounged semi nonchalant. Dammit, was that Merriweather? Her eyes narrowed before she forced herself to look away. I must stoke the fire, so to speak, and get the the King's men moving or there will be many more of these ridiculous events. She managed a short breathy laugh at York's complaint, murmurring irreverantly "Charles will never change. Cheapskate."

 

Their attention turned to the Earl and Heather joined her prince in his amusement at George's expense, grinning widely, and allowing her laugh to rise to the rafters. See how unimpressed I am with you Dorset? There was no apparant jealousy from her protector. As long as she confessed herself, all was right. They both took the occassional other lover and as long as York felt she preferred him in the end, all was still well.

 

It was time to sit down, and with a wink at Chatham the redhead seated herself next to York. The music was excellent, compelling, but my... the Opera was off to a racy start, the woman on stage doing all that was possible to flirt with her audience. Nothing wrong with that in a theatre, but unusual in high society. To what do you aspire, my dear, and did somebody inform Prince Rupert? Heather well remembered being scolded for teaching Sophia seductive ways by the Prince's interference, looking out for the German contigent. Perhaps now that she was married into the Spanish corpse diplomatique she had lost such protectors?

 

"Goodness," she whispered to James in teasing tones "Look who is offering herself up to be a plaything, the ambitious little thing." Her fingers idly caressed his tigh.

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York's Box

...Step quickly to put her between myself and the duke, throw my cane at Legge, feint towards the edge of the box to draw the others and then out the door at best spe-

 

Oh. He's not offended. Excellent.

 

Charles laughed at York's quip and inclined his head in thanks.

 

"I am honoured your highness."

 

Charles caught Heather's wink as he moved to sit down and responded with a swift smirk and a waggle of his eyebrows. He lowered himself into the seat beside John and waved over a servant. He felt the need for a drink.

 

Brandy, I think.

Liquor obtained, Charles had barely begun to appreciate the aroma when the curtain raised and the toccata blared. The earl turned his attention to the stage, adopting the attitude of the jaded cynic. He was almost disappointed that there was nothing to draw his ire.

 

Well, I could quibble over the language but in truth I'm glad it's English. My Italian is horribly rusty.

Still, they had but begun. There was yet plenty of time for the well-travelled bon vivant to display both his cultural credentials and his snobbery. And then Diana's aria began.

 

It was the highest compliment that Charles could pay (and was perhaps indicative that there was greater depth to his character than he liked to pretend) that her appearance, utterly stunning though it was, was entirely secondary to her voice.

 

A match for anything I ever heard in Italy.

 

He listened with rapt attention, utterly uncaring of how susceptible it might make him look. He had not lied when he told Caroline he loved music. Indeed, it was the only thing he felt envy over with any regularity.

 

As the aria ended he roused himself and spoke, forcing himself into the tones of one reluctantly impressed.

 

"A promising beginning." A quick, sardonic smile. "Why, close my eye and I could be in Venice."

 

He leaned back in his seat and spoke more quietly to John.

 

"And who is our leading lady?"

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OOC: Hey everyone! I'm just gonna slide in here.

 

He was late. He was always bloody late. Thomas had promised himself that he'd show up on time like a good officer, but apparently he was anything but. He had planned to be there at a reasonable time before the performance started so he could get a feel for the audience and who would be there. He figured it would help him make some acquaintances and find his way amongst the courtiers of the King. He was a newcomer to the court, and had to make his appearance eventually. Being late however, would not work in his favour. He knew how this rich folk worked. All about the appearances. He was sometimes grateful that his eldest brother was groomed to take over his father's position. He was glad he got shipped off to the Navy. Pompous was not a trait that survived the sea.

 

Thomas let out a sigh as he stared up the steps to the theatre. He could hear music wafting through the entrance way. He started up the steps. When a curious thought passed through his mind as reached closer to the entrance. "You could bugger off, you know." the thought said. He stopped just outside the entrance. He ran a hand through his hair. It's true. He could just walk off and wait for the Christmas Ball to march around with the King's Court. "Why not? It's not like you've got anything to lose. Better to not be there at all, rather than late. the thought suggested. He was so utterly tempted. The folks in there probably won't notice if he never showed up. It left a sour taste in his mouth. He was never one to shy away from duty.

 

Duty. "Yes that is it. Just think of attending the opera as your courtly duty, Lieutenant."

 

With a shake of of his head he made his way inside. Hoping he remembered where his seat was.

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Buckingham's Box

 

Buckingham chuckled at Master Cole and Francis not understanding each other. He, on the other hand, fully understood both, musical terminology and all. However, his focus was truly on the other young gentleman with them, as he did like to deliver on a mark of favor owed and the boy was interesting to talk to.

 

"Ah, what I have done in the name of His Majesty's kingdoms, Master O'Neill, if you labour but a 1/4 as much, you shall be well-spent and with quite the education," Buckingham agreed, thinking that his service of his master was quite pleasurable. This evening, at least, he would not think about when it was not pleasurable, for all knew that the King and the Duke had a very close and loyal but stormy relationship. Things were far from always pleasurable.

 

"II would have no other master, and there is no better King for a court wit or writer," the duke added, with a nod, much like the King enjoyed all art, which Master's Cole and Greyson were benefitting from that evening.

 

As the opera began, all eyes turned to that relentless former ward of Francis. Her bosoms were to be envied. His thoughts were far wicked, and it might have shown in the twitch of his lips. A woman of the Spanish now. Very unfortunate. He would enjoy seeing who might try to satisfy the needs of young Sophia, for he was certain some opportunistic gentleman would.

 

Of course, her voice was lovely, but he still preferred that of his Gwendolyn.

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OOC: another psuedo-mod post. Next one in a few days.

 


As Diana's passionate, contrary aria drew to a close, so too did the scene; she sank into the pool to bathe, her nymphs taking up positions around her, and a ring of great filmy curtains patterned in leaves descended as if to give her some semblance of privacy. (In truth, a tantalizing outline could still be seen, the bare skin of her arms and back muted by the curtains.)

 

The briefest pause, as though the orchestra and singers alike all took a breath... and then a great surge of joyful music and Actaeon was upon the stage, surrounded by three fellow hunters, and a great chorus of hounds.

 

A rich, confident baritone, Actaeon held himself with a certain poise born of absolute confidence; he wore a green cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a brooch the shape of a crescent moon; slung over his shoulder was a bow; upon his feet, thick boots. His hounds, twelve gentlemen in mottled, shaggy cloaks and half-masks, romped boldly around him... and their music...

 

Contrapuntally and diametrically opposed to Diana's silvery nymphs, the hounds' chorus was joyfully aggressive. Borrowing from the ostinato of the first, the music of the hounds was every bit as confident as Diana had claimed herself, without ever seeing fit to name it.

 

The hounds sighted a great stag (cast in shadows upon the filmy curtains), and their baying reached a crescendo in a series of puncturing broken chords, capped by Actaeon's resonant declaration of intent. The other hunters remind Actaeon that to follow the stag is to trespass upon sacred ground, but he seemed fearless... and began to approach the grotto where Diana bathed.

 

The hounds' chorus continued in full, passionate voice as he approached the grotto, and, almost too softly to hear at first, the nymphs' chorus began once more... gradually increasing in volume as the hunters drew closer to Diana's sacred pool. And, as the two choruses became one, the silvery voices of the nymphs and the bright tones of the hounds fit together with a flawlessness that took one's breath away; two choruses, all contrast in both tone and intent, written to be sung at once, as though it were an aural sketch of how perfectly the two sexes meshed.

 

Each veil around the pool began to lift, one by one, and the combined chorus climbed to an ecstatic height, a great polychordal crescendo... abruptly and shockingly silenced. Actaeon and Diana finally meet.

 

A held breath, eight beats, and then the climatic duet began...

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As Sophia sank into the pool, continuing to lift up her gown ever higher, the filmy curtains that would hide her during Actaeon's aria cascaded around her, the timing absolutely perfect. As they descended, she unfastened the buttons on her sleeve bands and pulled the white and gold gown over her head, carelessly tossing it beside the pool, giving her the illusion of nudity. In truth, she still wore the flesh colored sheath and the lacing in back had been cleverly disguised to look like her spine.

 

The music began again, boisterous and joyful, a startling contrast to the femininity of her own aria. Now with the focus on Actaeon and his hounds, she could get into her next costume. This wasn't the first time that Sophia had changed onstage, and at least this time she was concealed by curtains and not a flimsy wall between the audience and the stage that had once collapsed, leaving her exposed for a brief second before she had dashed into the wings to finish dressing.

 

Her next costume … two pieces of shimmering golden silk … lay at the bottom of the pool. While Actaeon sang with his hounds, she carefully fastened the buttons of the front panel along the low cut bodice of the sheath and the armholes, every now and then raising her arms and pretending to bathe. It was important that the front stayed in place, as the second length would be wrapped around her like a towel. The gaps between the front of the costume and the back would give her room to move freely. Looking down, she made certain that the rest of it was in its place, draped across one of the bushes disguised as part of the scenery.

 

She had about two minutes to transition back into character before the veils began to lift. As Actaeaon moved in front of her, she rose and two of her nymphs raised the other piece of golden silk between her 'nude' body and the audience. The panel she had buttoned on could not be seen.

 

The music stopped abruptly and the two of them stared at each other. Actaeon had to remain in character but Sophia shot him a saucy wink as she quickly pulled the silk around her and fastened it below her breasts just as the music began again. With a graceful circle of her hands, she plucked the second part of her costume from the bush as if conjuring it out of thin air. It was a robe of sheer gossamer with multicolored flowers and green leaves sewn onto it so that it looked like it was made out of foliage.

 

Quickly, she slipped her arms through the sleeves and fastened it in front (with a crescent moon brooch that had been conveniently pinned to the bodice) as the first lines of outrage trilled from her lips. Except for that unfortunate duet with Ronquillo at her party last season, nobody in England had heard Sophia sing with somebody else, and she was able to demonstrate her vocal gift as it had never been heard before. This duet. she believed, was the jewel of the opera. Her soprano complimented Actaeon's baritone splendidly, their voices contrasting dramatically and intertwining playfully. Diana was furious that a man had intruded into her sacred woods and Actaeon was both apologetic and flattering, attempting to mollify her so that she would allow him to live.

 

Their voices played with and against each other and so did their bodies. They came together, nearly close enough to touch, and then spun away from each other, utilizing the entire stage. The attraction between them was unmistakable, and Diana/Sophia's hips still swayed enticingly as she moved around him, pleased at the affect she had on him but angry both at him for his audacity and herself for being drawn to a mere mortal man. Every now and then a flash of leg (clad in flesh-colored breeches) peeked out when her robe of flowers fluttered around her. Once, Actaeon's gaze fell to her heaving bosom until the scathing verse she delivered brought his eyes quickly back to her face.

 

Tonight she was showing the King the full dramatic potential of her spectacular voice, and myriad emotions colored each word that she sang. Her fiery rage was particularly expressive, unfolding like the velvety petals of a blood red rose, trilling higher and higher. As a rare soprano acuto sfogato, she was able to hit notes that most sopranos could only dream of. The tension between them increased as the aria neared its conclusion, and both of them circled each other, subtly moving closer as the verses became witty and subtly flirtatious. Had Actaeon finally won the goddess's favor?

 

Yet then he reached out for her and Diana/Sophia snapped. Whirling away from him, she flung one hand gracefully into the air to turn him into a stag … her curse ending on the highest note she could sing, which she held for a nearly impossible length of time as the transformation took place.

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The Basildon Box

 

Nicolette returned just in time for the beginning of the show. He offered his cousin a quick visual query as to whether all went well and then a smile. Passing the wine and basket around to the Somersets, Louis was ready for the show.

 

The Earl had not paid much attention to Sophia before; but, she grabbed his attention right away. The way she was attired, it was almost pornographic. As such, it would catch the eye of any letch in the audience, of which there were many. No doubt, that is what the playwright and composer had planned from the beginning. Well done..

 

The Baron of Toledo had managed to secure a most comely bride, leaving Basildon to wonder how he had accomplished it. The way Sophia acted, she was all but begging to be the mistress of another. Surely no one man could satisfy the blond, just as no one man could satisfy his cousin. He was defensive of Nicolette and did not wish to see fresh competition for the King's eye. Fortunately, Sophia was married, and to the Spanish Ambassador. That would all but assure that the King could not move on her. Idly, he wondered if Sophia knew that when she married. He also wondered what her strait-laced husband would think about his wife's erotic performance. Would he be furious, or was he secretly libertine?

 

The opera progressed well, though Killington did not know the Italian tongue. In opera, one did not need to follow the words. The actions and mood of the music was sufficient.

 

It did not take long, however, for Louis to watch Nicolette from the corner of his eye, and to cast glimpses towards the royal box. Nicci was playing with silk scarves at her blouse. It did not take much imagination to guess as to its purpose. He fought a smile as he thought on it. If the King could draw his eyes away from the stage towards the Basildon box, she will have won. Sophia would mesmorize all but those with eyes for another.

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The Middle Gallery

 

Catherine was fighting a blush and fidgeted next to her brother John, clearly uncomfortable. From her travels she knew a bit of opera; but, this seemed so ... libertine! She was eager to eye the hunter, but not the goddess.

 

It was quite the reverse for Lord Cavendish. He had eyes only for Sophia, fighting a smile as he looked, pausing only to cast a sheepish glance at his wife, who gave him a reproving look. "Shall you need your handkerchief for the spittle coming from your mouth husband.?" When she called him husband he knew he had been caught, so he turned away and pretended to take the play more seriously.

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York's Box

 

James snorted, "Just what my brother needs, to get into bed with Spain, too."

 

His brother was far more swayed by the fairer sex than James, giving into misbehaving mistresses far more and keeping a horde of them. It seemed every foreign power clawed at Charles through his cock.

 

"She is brazen and pretty. Good voice," he allowed. He was suitably impressed. However, Sophia was not particularly his type.

 

Beauties were too demanding. He preferred something a little more real.

 

 

 

Churchill supplied Chatham with the name of the blond, "Lady Toledo, wife of the new Spanish Ambassador. She is German, though, it is said." He shrugged. He did not know all that much about her. "Very flirtatious..."

 

There was much to be said for court rumours, but this seemed rather accurate the way she was playing the stage like a true actress.

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Their duet was a study in contrast, in harmony... a bitter and imperfect joining, time and again drawing close to some accord and then violently parting. Diana's concitato genere spoke of her rage... Actaeon's misery audible in his apologetic harmonic planing, his protests in bright, sudden inversions. As their two voices parted and came together, again and again, the tension grew and became almost unbearable... until Diana's final declaration of fury.

 

She cursed him, in tones as powerful and final as only a goddess could muster. Her nymphs surrounded him at once as he sank to his knees and disappeared behind their skirts, only to rise up once more, his cloak and bow gone, his face hidden behind the mask of a stag with great, branching horns set upon the brow. The nymphs withdrew as his hounds set upon him, surrounding him, hiding all but the horns from view... and tore him apart to a great, choral dissonance, as each musical part chaotically fell away, as surely as the stag itself was torn apart.

 

(The hounds, inventively, threw out small scraps of tanned hide to signify the tearing.)

 

And finally they withdrew, leaving Actaeon-as-stag lying motionless upon the stage. There was a great and terrible silence, everyone on the stage perfectly still. Diana took one step forward, hesitated...

 

She began to lament. Accompanied by strings alone, her second aria was the mournful mirror of her first. It seemed as though she mourned not only Actaeon's death, but, perhaps, if one were listening with the right kind of ears... her own chastity, and the sorrow it had wrought upon the world.

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Baintree Box

 

She had heard Sophia sing before but it was nothing like this! Her eyes widened at the first sighting of her as she entered the stage dressed or was it undressesed for all the Company to witness. It was unlike any Court Masque costume she'd ever seen. Twas obvious that she was outfitted as suited her character and the Myth of the Story.

 

Her gaze traveled slowly over every inch taking in the fabric, colors, and decorations that adorned her person with the eye of a skilled needlewoman observing how it all fitted together in wonderment. Whoever had constructed it had succeeded aply well.

 

And she was certainly that as well - her obvious assets being given Pride of Place that none there would miss and remember long after the night had finished. Her gaze turned to those about her seruptiously looking for the new made Spanish Ambassador curious to what face he wore but she could not find him and to turn too much would make it obvious but that had not stopped many others' from doing it.

 

Even her own brother had his eyes fixated and she'd swear later in the telling of it that he never once blinked!

 

The language was in the Italinate Fashion and she understood none of it and whilst the music was most pleasing she was not sure she actually liked this thing called Opera. She also wondered just what Lady Toledo was thinking but if her husband condoned her part well then who was to gainsay it?

 

The bathing scene began and she could hear muffled gasps and some not so whispered comments as it seemed as if she had shed her clothes and was indeed quite naked save for the sheer fabrics. It was all part of the Story she knew and yet was perhaps a bit to realistic.

 

Next appeared the Gentleman lead character preceeded by baying hounds and she watched fascinated as he made to approach "Diana" in her bathing pool. The combination of so many voices all singing at once was a bit overpowering as the two at last met.

 

A costume change had occurred with remarkabale quickness and Davina leaned forward to better see admiring the effect of foliage created by clever placement. She was curious to hear this man sing with Sophia for the last man that she had witnessed was at the party last Season so she hoped this one would be better.

 

It was perhaps unfortunate that she found little to like. Yet how could she turn away when the entire space about them was filled with Sophia's voice as she sang seeming not to even draw a breath! But then suddenly something had happened and the man became a Stag which made her whisper to her brother asking what she had missed only to be shushed.

 

Setting back she sulked a bit her interest fading. Her attentions wavered from the Stage and moved into the boxes and stalls that she could easily see. Looked to towards the box where the King sat now glad that he had not brought the Queen - if all the Gentlemen present wore the same expressions as those close by she guessed a disquited night lay ahead for many!

 

I wonder what the King thinks and if this night will be a Triumph or a Ruin

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York's Box

 

"He does like to spread his attention to ensure none claim him exclusively, and since there appears no current favourite, I am sure more than one lady has her ambition up, no doubt promoted by one man or another" Heather observed wickedly, not daring to look at the Basildon box . The poor Queen must be the only one believing he will stay faithful to his wedding vows. As she did not want to remind James of his own, the redhead didn't voice that thought. It was probably better for the Duke that he hadn't voiced his own thoughts either. Though Heather was painfully aware she may be at times called striking but never beautiful, she really didn't need a reminder.

 

"Yes," the Countess agreed, attempting not to be too sour and refusing to look in the direction of Dorset, and ignoring the fact that all gentlemen were ogling another pair of breasts "It is a grand performance." It would still be better if Drury Lane reopened. Damn, she needed a distraction. She willed her anger into another more passionate direction.

 

"James," Heather purred in his ear, her fingers still toying with the folds of his breeches, now daring to dance a little higher. Anticipation was half the fun. "When do you think the intermission will be?"

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Onstage

 

Contrary to popular opinion, Sophia did not yearn to share the King's bed, as she had no desire to be one of many and she had a royal lover already. She did aspire to seduce the English monarch, though, but only with her voice, so that he would commission another opera for her to sing in. Her goal was to enthrall the entire audience with her voice, both to bring glory to Masters Greyson and Cole and to promote the genre of opera in England. That she was considered beautiful and had such prodigious … charms … was perhaps detrimental to that purpose.

 

And while she would not have been able to perform so magnificently without the experience she had gained in Venice while singing opera disguised as a commoner, she had not learned to intermingle that period in her life with her high-born status. She was completely unaware that she had immersed herself so fully in her role that she was perceived by some as a libertine temptress rather than the proper lady she strove to be.

 

Maybe there was time to change that perception and redeem herself with her final descant.

 

Diana/Sophia watched dispassionately, her arm still raised and the final note of the duet ringing through the air as her nymphs surrounded Actaeon, confident in her vengence. It was only when he emerged from their circle as a stag that she cut the note off abruptly and lowered her arm, a smirk hovering on her lips as the hounds moved toward him, their voices expressing their eagerness to tear him apart. While the focus was on them, the nymphs surrounded Sophia, helping her pull off her floral overdress and replace it with another gown of foliage, this one brown and wilted, denoting her sorrow with what she had done.

 

A profound silence followed as the musical discord faded impressively and the hounds moved away. Sophia froze in place, still hidden by her nymphs, as Actaeon lay motionless on the stage, silently counting the beats so that she would step forward just at the perfect moment, hesitating as her gaze took in the 'carnage' she had wrought with her curse.

 

As the music swelled around her, she began to sing, slowly moving forward until she was standing next to but a bit behind the fallen form of Actaeon. This lament was perhaps her triumph, as it was unaccompanied by movement, allowing her voice to shine on its own. It rose and fell with poignant anguish as she mourned her rash actions and Actaeon's death, exquisitely haunting and ethereal, Although the words did not convey resentment of her perpetual chastity, the compelling wistfulness she expressed with each note hinted at what might have been if her very nature had not compelled her to curse him.

 

There was nothing at all seductive about this aria (except perhaps for her heaving bosom, which couldn't be helped). It was tragic and tense, sorrowful and heartrending, her overwhelming grief projected both in her singing and her stillness. Showcasing her phenomenal range from low to high, Sophia belted out each plaintive verse with a vocal brilliance cultivated by nearly twelve years of specialized training, attempting to stir the heart and soul of each member of the audience with her emotional portrayal of Diana's remorse.

 

As the aria drew to an end, Diana/Sophia fell to her knees beside Actaeon's body, real tears streaming down her cheeks as she delivered her final lines with softness and sadness, reaching out to caress the cheek of his stag mask While the last anguished note drifted to every corner of the theatre as if loath to disappear completely.

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York's Box

Charles raised an eyebrow as John answered his question.

 

"The wife of the Spanish ambassador? He permits her strange liberties, for a Spaniard." A mirthless grin. "Perhaps La Belle Portsmouth has forged a path for the ladies of other nations to tread."

 

A glance to the Royal box confirmed that the Queen was not present. Charles raised his glass in a salute to this Lord Toledo, wherever he was. It took uncommon sangfroid to seek to put your wife in another man's bed and a queer sort of confidence and pride to have that man be the King and invite the inevitable comparison. Charles could respect that.

 

He returned his attention to the stage and put aside his thoughts of the Great Game, letting the performance swallow him. They really were very good. Oh, perhaps not quite the equal of the best Venice had to offer, but the difference was like unto that between the English Guards and the French Maison du Roi. The former were talented and well drilled but the latter were that and had smelled powder. It was the difference between doing something with confidence and doing something with the complete certainty of success. Should there be another opera in London, Charles would wager this company would have that surety.

 

Well, saving the one that already has it. Lady Toledo seems to have taken to the stage like John took to soldiering.

Charles watched on appreciatively, feeling the familiar pangs of envy at the talent of the orchestra and performers. He ignored them with the ease of long practice. Charles had long ago made his peace with the nature of his own gifts.

 

Say that often enough and I might actually believe it.

He smiled almost involuntarily as Actaeon was transformed and torn apart. There was a moral in there about making a beast of yourself over women. Or perhaps it was about knowing which women to pursue. Perhaps both. Charles eyed his brandy warily. Unusual for him to be so philosophical while sober.

 

I'll be sobbing next.

Charles tossed back the last of his drink almost moodily as Diana's aria began. He marvelled anew at the extent of her talents. Charles sighed, bowed his head and let the sound wash over him, searching for the poise he had possessed when the curtain rose. As the last notes died away, he roused himself and looked up.

 

"I could have done with seeing this before I visited Naples. Might have been a useful lesson." It took a moment for Charles to realise the languid drawl was his own.

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York's Box

 

"I do not know if it has one, truthfully," James said, the blank sort of stare on his face. "Do operas have intermissions?" He seemed to ponder this, although the only sign of that was a slight purse of his lips. The blank stare was more an indicator of thinking.

 

However, his ponderings were cut short when her hand moved up his breeches even further.

 

"Oh ho, well yes, that would be a good reason for an intermission," James whispered. "I do not know if I wish to raise the mast in front of this new fellow." He gave her an appreciative and rather lascivious look nonetheless. "Soon enough." In the carriage if need be! His two blonds could ride in the back or find other means to the palace! "Though you are surely in need, waiting to attend on me first," he sought to clarify, looking at her probably a bit too bluntly, but that was his way. Kiss or no, he liked his assurances of supremacy.

 

His eyes ran toward Churchill and Chatham for a moment, before he raised an eyebrow briefly at Legge. Clearly those other two knew each other, and James wished to point that out silently, as if it was not already obvious...

 

 

 

"Quite...I thought Spaniards more particularly prude than most, with more etiquette and ceremony than the French," John said to his friend.

 

Whispering, he added, "Portsmouth was a nobody before the King, this lady is the daughter of a Graf! Does not behave like it, though, delectably so."

 

He could not help but appreciate the show. He might have been moved by the more morose bits if her bosoms still didn't swell so much as she performed! The music seemed to accentuate everything, commanding your feelings as much as the words.

 

"Naples?" John asked, clearly a bit focused on the performance.

 

 

 

All

 

Quite a few sets of eyes seemed to gravitate to looking for the Spanish ambassador. Was this some ploy or was the girl truly so brazen?

 

Regardless, the music and singing was rather surreal, and very few of the gentlemen would be complaining.

 

Those who looked toward the royal boxes might see the King quite focused on what was being performed for him. Every now and again one might see his lips moving just for a moment or two as he spoke to those accompanying him.

 

George Etherege was particularly enthralled. So much so that Will Wycherley had an amused smirk on his face as he watched his friend. George had always seemed to like Greyson. He knew that George was not looking at Sophia.

 

Even though George did bed women, Sophia was nothing of his type.

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Buckingham's box

 

While Lucas seemed intent upon his work's debut, Francis was content to watch as the opera began, the quiet final words between Buckingham and Master O'Neill rather filtered out.

 

In fact, everything was filtered out when Francis saw Sophia.

 

God's Blooood

 

It was not that it was not astoundingly grand, as Sophia's voice oft was, but he had no idea how her husband had agreed to this! He had seemed a rather stodgy man. It almost seemed she was truly playing to His Majesty!

 

Is this some Spanish plot of some kind? He was too inexperienced in intrigues to have the first idea what it meant.

 

The King seemed to enjoy her breasts as always, as did many gentleman if he guessed.

 

Thankfully, he could sit back and enjoy it all, because Toledo was now the governor of his own wife. Francis could simply marvel in Lucas and Greyson's work.

 

For not having seen one in Italy, they had done a remarkably job; naturals the both of them. He knew that Buckingham could be nothing but pleased. His two friends might have increasing fortunes soon enough! He gave an appreciate look to Lucas, though did not attempt to break his friend's flow.

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York's Box

Why the Devil did I mention Naples?

Oh well. Charles gave his friend a sidelong look and smirked mischievously.

 

"Oh, that particular story didn't filter home? I should be thankful. I can tell you the full tale later, if you like, but suffice to say that, over the course of an eventful weekend, I was almost killed thrice and almost married twice." His tone left no doubt that the latter would have been the worse fate. "This"- a gesture to the stage- "would have been a useful reminder that beautiful women are occasionally not worth the trouble." He looked more fully at John and laughed.

 

"Now do put your eyes back in old fellow. I didn't bring any spare patches." A look at the stage. "Though in your defense, this Diana has much better breasts than Titian's."

 

Charles had had the good fortune to see Titian's Diana and Actaeon in Madrid after a few well-placed words with a well-placed courtier.

 

Ah, blackmail. Is there anything it can't do?

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