You hardly cared what your husband was up to. You wanted a title, he needed your family’s money. It was a simple exchange.

While he was a well known poet, always attending social events, gatherings and hosting parties of his own, you preferred the peace of your home. In the library perhaps, or riding in the fields away from London.

You were no stranger to the gossips of his many lovers. You personally had send some of them home after finding them wandering around the mansion — with the hints of what happened previous night with Byron on them.

You were his wife — dull, boring duty. ‘That’s Lady Byron, gentlemen, she doesn’t smile’ he used to say with a wicked smile almost proud of his taunting joke. They were his lovers, women he perhaps shared hobbies with but certainly shared passion, certainly in the bed of his.

To make you attend a party was a great deal. It had to be important one to get you to squeeze into those dresses you complained about and let him parade you around like you were suddenly the object of his love.

A party like that happened tonight. A banquet. Rich people chatting, drinking, young ladies trying to win a favor of older Lords, laughter, dancing, flirting, conversations of politics, poetry, society and much more. But this once you have not found yourself by your husband’s side.

You chatted with the ladies watching him trying to maintain the facade. After time you were asked to dance. Lords, sergeants and many more twirled you around while Byron watched unamused.

The ride home was silent.

Weirdly…

Silent.