#frank making it all the way back to the ancestral estate was not on my bingo card for this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

You're the only light I ever saw

Summary: Regency AU

When the Archeron sisters realize their father's passing has left them in dire financial straits, they agree one of them must marry and marry fast. It is decided Feyre, brand new to the season, will be the one they pin their hopes on to save the cursed Archeron ancestral estate, leaving Elain and Nesta to support their youngest sister.

Meanwhile, Lucien Vanserra, heir to Duke Helion of Dayton, is being forced to choose wife by his irritated mother after being caught dueling again. Lucien has his reasons for never wanting to marry and decides to make a good show of it, if only to make his mother happy. When he learns Elain Archeron does not wish to wed, the pair concoct a scheme. They will fake a courtship to keep society off their backs.

What could possibly go wrong?

Part 1/2: And You Know That We're Doomed, My Dear

AO3

It was Nesta’s scream that roused Elain from her sleep. For one wild moment she thought it was just more grief. Their papa had died only a week before, his body just recently laid in the ground. She lay there for a moment, heart squeezed with sympathy for her eldest sister. They were alone in the ancient family estate with no one to care for them. No one to look after them, to ensure they were well. Elain tried not to think of it.

Nesta screamed again, the sound more animalistic than anything. Elain flung the covers from her body, her feet hitting the cold wood floor before her mind caught up. She wasn’t the only one. Feyre flung her own bedroom door wide open, her dark hair wild around her soft face.

“You don’t suppose she’s dying, too?” Feyre whispered as the pair thundered down the stairs.

“Of course not,” Elain assured her youngest sister. Still, Elain didn’t relax until she’d pried open the door to their papa’s study where Nesta had camped out. His once neat office was a mess of papers and book, the physical manifestation of Nesta’s anger laid out before them. Feyre narrowly missed a thrown book, the sharp edge of the spine thwacking against the doorframe.

“Nesta!” Elain snapped. “What is the meaning of this?”

“That…that….the bastard!” Nesta all but shrieked, her usually neat hair unkempt around her lovely face. Her chest heaved beneath the high color of her navy dress, unchanged from dinner. “He’s ruined us.”

“What can you mean?” Feyre went to the desk, pulling one of the ledger sheets off to examine for herself.

“I mean he’s gambled nearly all of the family money and what he couldn’t gamble, he drank. There is hardly anything left.”

Elain sank into one of the heavy, leather backed chairs. “All of it?”

“If we fired the staff and were incredibly lean, we could scrape together one dowry…we’d probably have to sell some of mama’s jewelry to truly entice a gentleman—”

“You can’t be serious!” Feyre protested but there was no arguing with the eldest Archeron.

“It’s not as if she can wear it anymore.” Said with such coldness, such a frank understanding of their circumstances. Both Feyre and Elain winced but they couldn’t argue.

“Who marries, then?” That was what Elain wanted to know. They would have to focus all their resources on the sister chosen to wed, making her the diamond of the season, far lovelier than all other women by far.

Nesta sank into their fathers chair, fingertips pressed against her eyes. “Feyre. She’s newest. It would be unfair to rob her of this during her first season.”

Elain had an entire season under her belt already and Nesta two. Nesta had nearly found herself engaged to the Lord Beron’s son the year before and their father had cruelly yanked hope away, declaring the man unfit for his eldest daughter. Did Nesta suspect his reasons more selfish? That he knew he lacked a dowry for Nesta and instead of finding a way to finance her marriage, had simply removed her from the market entirely?

Feyre nodded her head, agreeing as Nesta must have known she would. Feyre was as dedicated to their family as Nesta and if Nesta told her to marry in order to spare them from ruin, Feyre would do so without question.

“Whoever you choose will become Lord of this family,” Nesta reminded her youngest sister.

“What she means to say is, don’t choose someone unbearable,” Elain told Feyre kindly, trying to smile despite her own misgivings.

“And when he learns it was all a manipulation?” Feyre asked without judgment. Nesta inhaled a loud breath.

“Wives are far harder to discard than men would have us believe. The family estate—and its many, many debts—become his problem.”

“What man could possibly be so stupid?” Feyre wondered, her pretty face illuminated in the soft candlelight.

“All men are stupid,” Elain murmured while Nesta nodded.

“You can hardly be blamed for our father’s mismanagement of the estate. If your husband is angry with the affair of things, claim ignorance. I will take the blame,” Nesta assured Feyre softly.

“There will be no blame,” Feyre retorted hotly. “I will not allow it. You did not put us in this mess. If my husband is angry, he can go to father’s grave and have it out there.”

Elain picked at the skin of her lips, her mind wandering. “Feyre will need new gowns, new shoes…gloves, hats…Nesta how will we—?” “We will sell whatever we can,” Nesta interrupted in that fierce, inarguable way of hers. “And be particular about the events we attend. You and I will act as chaperone, we shall enhance Feyre’s reputation and have her wed before the first autumn leaves fall.”

“We ought to concentrate on the Barons son,” Feyre mused. “Tamlin. I know he is interested, he spoke as much at the ball papa held for Elain last season.”

“Spoke out of turn, you mean,” Nesta complained, though it was clear she’d tempered her outrage. “He’s young and I don’t know much about him. Perhaps we ought to invite his mama over for tea?”

“She is not alive,” Elain reminded her eldest sister. Elain might lack Nesta’s head for sums and figures but made up for it with her inscrutable knowledge of all the ladies in the ton. “We don’t want any of them sniffing around the estate, either. No. I think it's best if we send the servants out to sell what we can, pay them their last weeks of wages and pretend nothing is amiss.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Feyre’s question wasn’t malicious. Elain understood her sister needed to know what their future would be should they fail to get a man down the aisle.

“Then we’re ruined,” Nesta all but whispered, her fear plain. There was no room not to succeed. Elain knew any one of them would take the first suitor who offered if Feyre was not made a proposal and the thought made her queasy. Tomas, another Baron, had been after Nesta for years and held off thanks to Nesta’s belief her dowry afforded her the right to be choosy. Elain knew Nesta was weighing her own options, wondering if they ought to spare Feyre and fall on their fathers sword.

“It will work,” Elain assured her sisters. “Because it must. Feyre is lovely, she is a gem in a sea of coal. What gentleman would not be delighted to have her as his wife?” “Men are famously stupid,” Nesta reminded Elain. “How else do you explain your own lack of a husband?”

“Don’t say that. Elain is holding out for a prince,” Feyre teased. “Surely that was what you told mother, anyway.”

“You hush. I was a girl when I made such plans. I can be reasonable…and settle for a Duke.”

Nesta cracked a smile at that, some of the tension in her face easing.

“You needn’t worry, sister,” Feyre assured Nesta. “We will not fail you. This time next year we will all be laughing at this memory fondly.”

“I will never consider anything about this with fondness,” Nesta assured Feyre. “I have half a mind to dig papa up myself and throttle him for answers. How could he?” “I do not think he intended to leave as he did,” Elain murmured, her sadness filling her chest. “I’m sure he was trying to fix it.”

“Well, he failed. Now it shall be our own wits that dig us from this hole.”

The three sat in quiet silence for far longer than felt comfortable, ruminating on the future, on their plan and the manipulations and schemes they would be required to concoct in order to make it work. It wasn’t just getting a man down the aisle but getting a man who didn’t immediately demand to see their family books before he made an offer of marriage.

Elain forced her sisters–and herself–back to bed before dawn. There was no use staying awake to ruminate, not when they had a perfectly fine plan. They’d need to rest if they were to see it through.

Elain could not turn her mind off, even when the inky violet sky became pink in the suns first light. What would she do, if Feyre could not secure a good, happy match? Perhaps, like Nesta, she ought to consider a backup plan of some kind.

Elain sighed, her stomach tied in furious knots. It was so like her father to do something like this.

And so like her to clean it up.

LUCIEN:

Jail decidedly did not suit Lucien. He’d been there two whole days, the longest his parents had ever forced him to sit and think about his crimes. He didn’t imagine the King would force him to rot here over dueling, of all things. It was a crime, sure, enforced with a wink and a nudge. How else were gentlemen supposed to settle their differences? With their fists? No, only a pistol would do and when it came to Graysen, Lucien would not be satisfied until he’d put a bullet straight between the man’s eyes. Graysen might be a Lord and all that entitled him to, but he was certainly no gentleman.

Graysen had run when the authorities arrived, a coward unwilling to face up to his own wrongdoings. Lucien had honor, which was currently doing him no good in the damp, dank cell he languished in. He reclined his head against the stone, eyes closed. Blocking out the sounds of the others was becoming difficult and he hadn’t slept since he’d arrived. It was wearing on him, grinding him down. Still, he knew better than to make any demands of the guards, too aware they could keep him longer simply because he irritated them.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind the thick door he was housed behind. Lucien heard the jangle of keys and a moment later, the door swung open. His father stood beside one of the unwashed guards, no trace of amusement on his features. Lucien still remembered how his father laughed the first time he sprang Lucien from jail. He supposed his father had grown weary of bailing him out. Lucien stood and offered his father a bow, careful to keep any sarcasm from the gesture. He had the feeling the Duke of Dayton was not above whipping his adult son for insolence or leaving Lucien to rot for another week, should the mood strike him.

Helion’s expression did not change. He merely gestured for Lucien to follow him, dark eyes glancing around the cell with distaste. As if he’d never spent his fair share of time in a similar cell, waiting on his own father to remove him. Lucien didn’t comment that, not when the threat remained. He followed behind Helion, down the winding stairs and out through the heavy, wooden doors. The prison was on the outskirts of the city, away from everything decent which he supposed he ought to be grateful for when Helion rounded on him.

“Your mother is on the warpath,” Helion informed Lucien, climbing into his gilded carriage after a footman pulled open the door. “You swore you would not duel again.”

Lucien joined his father, settling into the comfortable, cushioned seating with almost a groan. His bones ached after days resting against unforgiving stone. “It would have been dishonorable not–”

“Do not speak to me of honor,” Helion snapped, silencing Lucien. “You are my heir and yet you run about like a common man. Pointing pistols at whoever you please, giving no thought to the way you blemish our name. You should fall to knees before your mother and grovel for her intervention in your affairs. I meant to leave you here.”

The news that his father would have let him sit in jail rattled Lucien like nothing else. The carriage jolted forward and the two lapsed into silence. The sound of the clopping horse feet on cobblestone streets grounded Lucien as he considered her options. He knew why his mother intervened. He’d made her a promise.

He’d sworn he’d never marry. He had no interest, not after his first love, a common woman named Jesminda, had spurned him and left for the America’s with another lover. He knew he could never love so deeply, so passionately again. And his mother, unable to accept there wasn’t a lady in the le bon ton that could make him feel the same, had brokered a deal. She would accept his decision so long as he remained out of trouble. His mother firmly believed only a Duchess could keep Lucien out of jail. Lucien had insisted he could keep himself from trouble, that a wife was not required to manage him.

How miserably he had failed.

Lucien looked to his father only to be cut off. “I will be of no help to you. Not this time. Your mother has a point.”

It kept Lucien silent as they rolled through the city, stopping just outside the gates of their home in London. Lucien preferred it and often used the old, Elizabethan style estate as his home base. His parents preferred the ancient country home, far from the busibodies of London and if his mother had relocated, it only meant one thing.

She was preparing him for the season. Indeed, when the carriage door swung open and the iron gates pulled to the side, his mother’s figure was the first he saw. Arms crossed over her chest, her hair elegantly twisted about her head in the latest fashion, Lucien was struck for a moment by her loveliness. He wasn’t the only one. Beside him, his father sighed. They were a rather famous love match, made all the more scandalous given his fathers lack of a mistress. One woman to satisfy a man for life? It was practically a joke among the men of the ton and yet Helion found it utterly satisfying.

Lucien was certain he never would.

He went to his mother, dropping to one knee and kissing her hand. “Mama.”

“You disappoint me,” she told him, her russet eyes lacking their usual warmth. “What happens when you succeed in killing a man? Even your father’s influence will not save you from the gallows.”

He stood. “You don’t understand—”

“It is well known Graysen is without honor,” his mother interrupted snappishly. “His father was the same spineless sort of man. Why you cannot just accept not all men are as fine as you and let it go is beyond me.”

“His insults are too great to bear,” Lucien retorted hotly. He and his mother shared more than just their red hair and brown eyes—the temper of the Automne family was legendary and the ladies hardly exempt.

“Was it worth it?” Amera demanded, glancing towards her grinning husband. “Did you finally manage to humble one of the Lockhearts?”

He stood, hanging his head. “I thought not,” his mother all but crowed. “And you have failed to live up to your promise, just in time for the beginning of the season.”

“I do not want a wife–”

“And yet, a wife you shall have. You would not break a promise to your mama, would you?”

Lucien swallowed his frustration. “Of course not.”

His mother clapped her hands, her delight unhidden. “Come, then. We have much to do if we’re going to make you presentable.”

And Lucien, miserable and tired, could do little more than follow her inside.

ELAIN:

“I feel like a trussed up sow,” Feyre complained, tugging at her gloves as Elain adjusted the glittering tiara in Feyre’s hair. Feyre was truly stunning in a rich gown of blue. Every inch of her was scrubbed, polished, and carefully painted. Elain could see, in her mind, the muddy little girl Feyre had once been juxtaposed against the gorgeous woman now standing before her. Nesta, too, was admiring their handiwork.

“You look lovely,” Elain assured her.

“We ought to take the money we have left and travel to a place ladies are free to make their own way in the world,” Feyre continued, stepping away from Elain to the large, full-bodied mirror standing against the wall of Nesta’s bedroom.

“Where does such a place exist?” Nesta demanded. “And do not say your imagination.” “The Americas, I hear.”

Nesta burst out laughing. “That wilderness? I hear men outnumber women ten to one. If you think its bad here, it’ll be worse there, but without any of the comforts you’ve come to enjoy. Imagine chopping your own wood or hunting your own food for some filthy, unwashed man wearing an animal pelt.” “We could open our own shop,” Feyre protested.

“You would subject Elain to such cruelty?” Nesta teased, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. Elain suppressed a smile, turning wide eyes to her youngest sister, palms facing outwards so Feyre might see the unblemished skin. “You would have her handle an axe so she might have a little warmth at night?”

Feyre scowled. “Surely there must be somewhere.”

“You would think,” Nesta replied. “And yet here we are.”

“You’re going to do great,” Elain added sweetly. Her and Nesta were in gowns from the prior season, their jewelry sparse. Elain thought no one would blame the elder Archeron’s for recycling, given their fathers recent passing. Perhaps they might be left entirely alone so the rest of the ton could fixate on Feyre.

“I do not want to see you speaking with Tomas,” Feyre all but snarled at her eldest sister. “Or I will demand you put on the dresses and hats and parade yourself about.”

“I will not utter a word,” Nesta swore. Elain thought she detected some relief in Nesta’s promise. “And you will be mindful of your surroundings. Do not go anywhere without a chaperone. We cannot risk some penniless rake trap you into marriage thinking you might solve his financial problems.”

“One manipulation at a time,” Feyre agreed. “I will be on my guard.”

Elain and Nesta shared a look, one that promised they, too, would watch over Feyre. Men were sneaky creatures, untrustworthy at best. Every season a couple was rushed to the altar after being caught alone somewhere they decidedly should not have been. Those marriages always seemed to be the unhappiest and as consequence, ladies with good standing reputations did not let a man lure them anywhere alone. It did not stop men from trying and in the heat of passion, Elain imagined a man might be quite convincing. Feyre was tough–Elain could absolutely imagine her sister thriving in the wild, hunting and cutting her own wood and otherwise being completely self-sufficient. Perhaps in another life Feyre could have been the master of her own destiny.

In this life, Feyre could only control the manner in which she married. She could have happiness and save them from ruin. She didn’t need to take the first Tomas she met. Feyre would be the jewel of the season, radiant and witty and charming all at once.

Elain could not accept any other outcome.

They’d maintained a spartan crew of servants, dismissing the rest apologetically with a month of pay they could hardly afford. They’d kept only those they could not spare and Elain knew they’d be forced to let the rest go should this scheme of theirs fail. The servants had been the ones to sell their mama’s fine jewelry and other priceless items that were otherwise worthless to the girls. They’d kept only the finest of things, knowing they’d need some declaration of wealth to make Feyre a catch. The rest was carefully earmarked for salaries and expenses, dresses and other frippery. Nesta oversaw it all hawkishly.

Duchess Dayton was hosting the first ball of the season. Elain had heard from friends that the Duchesses return from the countryside could only signal one thing. The Duke’s heir meant to find a wife. A Duke as a husband was a rare prize and Elain wondered if he might not be the match they were looking for. After all, Tamlin was a mere Baron. She was holding that little plan quietly in her chest, determined to feel the man out before she thrust him towards her sister.

Elain could not get over the loveliness of the drive, noting the rows of pink peonies intermingled between glowing lanterns guiding guests towards the rounded doors. Feyre was immediately snatched away by her blonde friend Morrigan while Nesta slipped into the marble foyer to find Emerie and Gwyneth waiting with glasses of champagne. Elain took a moment to admire the glittering crystal chandelier over the ballroom and the immaculate red velvet furniture carefully situated for ladies to sit on after they exhausted themselves dancing.

“There you are,” a familiar voice tugged at Elain’s arm. She looked over her shoulder at her best and oldest friend, Lady Arina. “You must be the last people to arrive.”

“You will understand once you see Feyre’s hair,” Elain all but giggled, weaving through the throngs of ladies and their mamas, all watching the gentlemen across the room drinking and talking.

“I saw her in the drawing room with Morrigan. She is stunning. I’m surprised you convinced her to come out this season.”

Elain shrugged. “Feyre has her own mind, she does as she pleases.”

“Speaking of, have you seen the heir of Dayton? I spotted him briefly when I first arrived looking sullen and moody. There is a rumor his mama is forcing him to take a wife though to what purpose I cannot fathom.”

“I have never seen the Dukes son,” Elain admitted, though her curiosity prompted her to look around. “You’ll recognize him by his mama’s red hair. He is her spitting image.”

Elain smiled. “Perhaps I might be a little meddlesome and introduce him to Feyre.”

Arina’s green eyes narrowed. “You’d let your sister marry a rake?”

“Reformed, if he’s looking for a wife.”

Arina only rolled her eyes. “Men like that cannot be reformed, Elain. Even you, for all your romanticism, must be aware of the fate that lies in store for any woman that makes her bed with such a man.”

“His parents are very famously in love, are they not?”

Arina shrugged, her eyes traveling over Elain’s shoulder. “He is not his father.”

“Lady Elain,” a rich, male voice interrupted Arina and Elain’s conversation. Elain turned, surprised to find the Vicounts son, Graysen Lockheart, looking at her with an earnest expression. “Is your dance card full?”

She held up her wrist. “It is depressingly empty, in fact!”

“Allow me to correct such an injustice,” he insisted as Arina melted away, eyebrows raised suggestively.

“You ought to know,” Elain began once Graysen had marked his name down twice on her dance card. “That I am here primarily to support my sister.”

After all, they could hardly afford more than one dowry and the Vicount was notoriously tight fisted. He would want a dowry for Elain if his son made a proposal.

Graysen’s soft, puppy brown eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement. “Your sisters seem well occupied at the moment.”

And it was true. Walking to the dancefloor with Graysen, Elain caught Nesta softly arguing in the corner with her familiar nemesis, the Marquess Blödshedd’s son Cassian while Feyre and Mor were giggling against the wall, utterly ignoring all the other men who gazed upon them with longing. It was impossible to say who was more radiant—Feyre, with her cerulean eyes and her rich brown hair twisted softly about her head, or Morrigan in a fine red dress and the blondest hair Elain had ever laid eyes on.

“Does she mean to be a wallflower?” Elain asked, not meaning to vocalize her worries aloud. Graysen glanced to her sister before turning his handsome features back to her.

“Perhaps there is no one that interests her. She will break the Baron’s heart when he learns the news…Tamlin was speaking of her just yesterday over the races.”

That was heartening news. Elain fell into the steps with Graysen, eyes locked. A Viscount was more than a respectable match and if Elain wasn’t so concerned with money, she would have felt more enthusiasm. She told herself that maybe, if Tamlin and Feyre secured things early, she might arrange a marriage for herself by the end of the season, too. It was a selfish thought and still one she could not help.

Unlike Nesta and Feyre, who often lamented the ways in which society would not let women be agents of their own destiny, Elain wanted to be married. She wanted to be a wife, wanted to be a mother. She always had. It had been a disappointment to her last season when she’d walked away with no offers. She’d been forced to bow out when her father became ill, taking over his care and her suitors melted away. She’d consoled herself that she’d have better luck this year and now…now Elain would be forced to wait a third. People would begin to whisper, to wonder what was wrong with her. If she was not careful, she was likely to end up a spinster.

And yet, Graysen was exactly the sort of man who would want to see their families books, she reminded herself. His father would demand to know what he gained besides just a dowry. They would need Tamlin first, if Elain was to secure Graysen. She thought perhaps she might walk carefully, play their courtship coyly, and drag it into the next season when things were settled for her family and she was free to marry without worry.

The dance ended and Elain, flushed and happy, bowed enthusiastically. “I will see you again,” Graysen promised, glancing towards Elain’s card. She couldn’t help her smile.

“I look forward to it,” she informed him honestly, utterly delighted when he bowed just a little deeper than was necessary. Elain might have basked in that victory had she not caught Nesta’s warning eye. They were there to watch Feyre and as far as Elain could tell, Feyre had vanished.

She sighed.

Time to chaperone her sister.

LUCIEN:

Lucien was nothing if not a petty man. He couldn’t stand to see his nemesis, Graysen Lockheart, tramp through his ancestral home in his shoddy boots any more than he could stand to watch Graysen find love beneath his roof. The Archeron girl—Elain, he’d learned—yielded three dances before the night was half over. She seemed to split her time between introducing her sister to all the eligible men in the room and letting Graysen stumble his way through dances even toddlers had mastered.

He would not tolerate such an insult. If Graysen though he’d wed the girl then Lucien intended to be the stumbling block in Graysen’s way. Not that he wanted her. He had every intention of walking away with nothing to show for his troubles and having fulfilled his vow to his mama. He could make his excuses as to why Elain wasn’t suitable as a Duchess later—he was certain there was something. Her poor judgment in men sprang to mind. After all, if she was willing to entertain Graysen, how intelligent could she truly be?

It didn’t stop him from following after her when she went looking for her sister again. He found her in the hall, admiring one of his mothers favorite paintings. It was a pastoral scene and to hear his mother talk of the swaying lavender and how it made her wish for home in the countryside, you would think London the dirtiest of slums.

“Ah. You found the Duchesses favorite painting,” he informed her, sidling just beside her. Elain glanced towards him and he waited for recognition to dawn just as it did whenever he spoke to any of the other ladies. He waited for a smile, for her to bow or simper, hoping she might one day become Duchess if she were deferential enough.

Elain looked back at the painting. “I admire the use of texture alongside color,” she told him instead. “It gives it a sort of…nostalgic feel, don’t you think? I feel as if I miss it, though I have never once seen such a place in my life.”

Lucien frowned. “It is as if I speak to my mother. She says the same, that this makes her long for our home in the country.”

Elain exhaled a soft breath. “I feel the same. Excuse me, my Lord. I’ve lingered too long. I’m looking for my sister—”

“I’ll help.” He couldn’t help himself, intrigued by her lack of fawning. Did she not realize whose presence she stood in? “I don’t believe you told me your name.”

“Of course,” she replied, curtseying. She was lovely in that blush colored dress, her hair pulled softly from a heart shaped face. Did the other ladies of the ton weep with hatred every time she walked into a room? He thought they ought to. Her beauty was a work of art all by itself, something he’d missed as he fixated on Graysen. Alone, in the hall, mere feet apart, Lucien was certain he’d never seen a more beautiful woman in his life. How was she not married? Certainly some Lord must with an eye for such things would have snatched her up. A pinprick of yearning stabbed him in the chest, his hands aching with the urge to touch her.

Lucien swept in a bow at the last second, just barely remembering himself. “I am Lucien.”

Her eyes glittered with mischief, as if she knew he were more than just Lucien and found it amusing he would address himself as such. She said nothing, though, too genteel to call him out.

“You say you have lost a sister?” he continued, falling into step beside her. “Perhaps she has joined the others in the garden.”

He gestured down the hall where glass doors were thrown open, allowing cool night air to cool his overheated body. Elain looked at him with suspicion, as though she knew what he might attempt if he were not being truthful. He placed his hand to his heart in mock solemnity and Elain relented.

“Fine. But you should know I have no intention of courting this season, and any effort on your end is otherwise wasted.” “Does the fine Lord Lockhart know of your intentions?” he asked innocently, delighting in the knowledge. Elain frowned.

“He is charming…and I did not have the heart to break the news to him. I am focused solely on my sister and finding her an appropriate match but…” “But he is handsome and a decent dancer,” Lucien finished. “It seems you and I have share many things in common. I, too, have no intention of wedding this seasons…or ever, for that matter. Perhaps we may be of some use to each other yet.”

Elain paused just beside the doors, half hidden behind a rather large vase. “Go on.”

“If my mama believed me sincere, she would stop thrusting every young lady she finds in my face, hoping I might think her suitable. And in return, I shall pretend to court you in earnest to keep any other gentlemen from making you an offer you are forced to turn down. At the end of the season I am happy to do something unforgivably rash that sours your affection so your reputation remains in tact and you are free to start anew next year.” “That is…that's a charitable offer,” Elain began, clearly suspicious. “How do I trust the truth of your words?” Lucien only grinned. “If I was looking to trap you into marriage, surely I could just court you, hm?”

“You think it so easy to win my affection?”

“Who could say? We will never know because this is merely a ruse.” He punctuated his words with a wink, delighted he’d have an excuse to continue speaking with Elain even if he had no intentions towards her otherwise. Elain considered for a moment before holding out a laced gloved hand.

“Do not make me regret my trust.”

“Of course not. I consider myself a gentleman of the highest regard.” Lucien offered Elain his arm, a little too pleased with his scheme. It was exactly what he needed to get through the next couple months. Elain was lovely, the fake courtship would burn Graysen and most important of all, she had no designs on becoming Duchess. She would walk away exactly as she was and Lucien would work to convince his mother that the ladies of the ton would be foolish to want him so he could continue philandering forever.

He could see no way in which his plan went arry.

*~*

ELAIN:

“There is a line down the block,” Elain whispered to Nesta at breakfast that morning. Feyre was still upstairs readying herself, unaware of the conversations she would be forced to endure.

“Where is Tamlin?”

“At the very front, with a bouquet of roses,” Elain replied with satisfaction. At least that was playing out exactly as she hoped.

“And should I also expect the Duke to come calling?” Nesta asked snappishly. “His interest is all anyone is talking about.” She shrugged. The Duke had made his intentions plain and Elain believed him. “I would not count on it.” “Good. I can hardly afford two dowries and I hear his mother is meddlesome.”

“Can a gentleman not pay me a compliment without you thinking he intends to propose?”

Nesta scowled. “Half the men intended to marry you last season, and might have had father not dragged you out. I was fielding requests left and right. Whatever assurances he offered that his intentions are honorable, you should know his reputation is quite the opposite. You must admit you are far too trusting and far too lovely to believe anything a man such as that says to you.”

Elain scowled. “You think me simple?”

Nesta sighed, exasperated. “No, Elain. I think you want to believe the best in people and one day it is going to backfire on you. I would rather die a horrible death than see you waste away in some country estate while the Duke makes his rounds through the whore houses each night! If you are not careful, that will be your fate.”

“I am not going to be Duchess, calm yourself sister. It was merely one evening where he politely showed me the gardens. We did not even dance.”

Nesta grumbled beneath her breath, her protestations silenced when Feyre bounded into the room wearing one of the new gowns. She was radiant in spring green, fresh faced and filled with idealism. “Has he called?” Elain smiled, Feyre’s excitement infectious. “Yes. He is waiting for you to finish your meal and then will be let into the drawing room.”

“And which of you is chaperoning?”

“I will,” Nesta informed her. Elain wondered if Nesta had braided her hair as a crown about her head to appear more matronly or if it was the severe look causing such an effect.

“I’ll be in the library,” Elain said with a wink, pleased to escape the day. “Tamlin is not the only one here to see you.”

Feyre’s eyes went wide, surprised she might be considered desirable. Elain understood in their family, three things had always been treated as fact. Nesta was strong, Feyre was wild, and Elain was beautiful. And to realize that it had never been so cut and dry, that together they were all of these things, traits shared among sisters, caught them off guard. Never more so than Feyre, who for some reason believed she was plain when she’d always been so effortlessly lovely. Elain knew there were ladies who might kill to drink from whatever fountain offered Feyre such a lovely glow.

Elain left Feyre and Nesta to manage the suitors, doing exactly as she said. She spent the morning indoors, basking in a warm patch of sunlight while she read. She stopped only when her muscles were stiff, demanding she take a walk before finding a little something to eat. The drawing room doors were closed and many callers still remained though far fewer than before. How long had Feyre entertained Tamlin, Elain wondered? How had it gone? She looked forward to hearing more at dinner when they were alone again.

It was gloomy when she stepped outside, the sun long chased away by ominous looking clouds that spoke of rain. Deciding to take her chances, Elain made her way towards the park, thinking the misty air made everything seem almost like a fairy tale. Any moment, Elain expected some portal to open, some door to appear that might drag her to a place far from the reaches of the cruel society she found herself in. Perhaps the place Feyre spoke of, where women could make their own way without the stifling hand of men always seeking to push them back in place.

As she walked, Elain wondered if their father felt any regret before he died. She tried to fathom what it felt like, knowing he left them with nothing but her pity was hard to come by. Why hadn’t he told them? Had it been his own guilt, his shame? Or had he truly not thought of them at all?

Lost in thought, Elain didn’t notice the Lucien shaped object in her path, clearly put there in an effort to claim her attention. She barrelled right into him, nearly knocked backward had he not caught her easily. She noted his large, broad hands on her shoulders, his face entirely too close to be considered polite. He was handsome, she decided in that moment. She hadn’t let herself think it the night before but now, mere inches from the man, it could not be denied. Light brown skin seemed to glow in the gloomy afternoon sky and faintly, across one russet brown eye, was a scar she nearly traced with her fingertips. Stray red hair blew in the wind, escaping from his otherwise neat ponytail.

“Did you not see me?” he teased, stepping out of her personal space. They’d been spotted by others meandering about, their steps slowing to watch.

“My mind was elsewhere,” Elain admitted, allowing him to fall into step beside her.

“Clearly. Want to share?”

“No.” It was clear, from the look on his face, that Lucien was not used to not getting what he asked for. His eyebrows shot upwards, his surprise evident. She felt a small thrill, denying this powerful man something he desired. Even if it was merely information. Had he been a true suitor, Elain would have told him the truth but there was no need to be anything other than honest given he meant to embarrass her in some fashion at the end of the season.

“I heard your sister was popular. My mama is quite pleased to have aided in a little matchmaking.”

“Well, Feyre has her favorite.” “Do share.”

“Are you gossiping?” Elain teased, surprised to find Lucien was good company, despite his rather lurid reputation. He grinned, radiant and altogether too handsome. No wonder he didn’t want to settle down. He likely had his pick of the women wherever he went. She envied him a little, to move through the world so freely.

“My mother laughed in my face when I said I intended to court you. She wished me the best of luck, laughing all the way to tea with her friends. I mean to make her eat her words a little, and to do so, I need a little Archeron family gossip. So tell me, fair Elain- which of the Lords has captured your sisters attention.”

“It is Tamlin, Baron of Rosewood.” Lucien wrinkled his nose. “And she’d quite set on him, is she?”

Elain swatted him in the stomach playfully. “Are you saying he is a poor suitor?”

“I suggest nothing. I am stating it plainly. Your sister could do better.”

“Like who?”

“There are many. I hear the Queen’s nephew is coming to Rosewood estate himself tomorrow. They say he is quite handsome, though I am hardly a judge of such things. And a prince, to boot. That is what all you ladies wish for dearly? A prince to call your own?”

“You are rude, has anyone ever told you that?” Elain asked with just a little sharpness. Lucien’s smile didn’t fade.

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“Your mama sounds like a wise lady. What’s wrong with Tamlin?”

Lucien’s easy going expression shifted, revealing a tightness to his pleasant features. “His temper is legendary. I would not offer my sister up to a man so easily angered.” “I’ve never heard that.” Lucien glanced down at her, the height difference between them notable. “Be glad, for I might feel compelled to duel him if you had.”

He was joking though his eyes seemed a shade too dark to be true humor. There was truth there Elain did not like, not from a man with the reputation her sister shared with her. She both never wanted to be subjected to such a look and yet felt as though no one had truly ever seen her until that moment.

“I will make note of your objections.”

“Good. Will I see you tomorrow at the aforementioned Lord’s home? Perhaps I can introduce you to the prince?” “I will be there and no you may not make any introduction. We’re courting, remember? What would your mama say if she knew you pawned me off on a prince.”

“Well, I could hardly compete, could I?” Lucien was joking again and Elain exhaled a shaky breath. “Perhaps I will lament my loss loudly from my bedroom. Oh Elain, you were the only woman I ever loved—”

“Be quiet,” she demanded when several ladies turned their heads to look at his mock wailing. “People are going to hear you.”

Lucien practically swaggered, so pleased by his own antics.

“I can see you think yourself quite amusing,” she admonished.

“Are you denying it?” “Yes.”

Lucien halted his steps just at the end of the tulip lined path, shaded by leafy green treetops just overhead. “I shall make you laugh before the end of this.”

“At you, perhaps. But with true mirth? Unlikely.”

She turned her back to him, pleased she’d gotten the last word. Lucien, unwilling to yield, called, “We’ll see, Elain Archeron!”

And Lord help her, she hoped he was right.

LUCIEN:

“You look nice,” his mother praised when Lucien bounded down the wooden steps towards the foyer. “I heard you were giving miss Elain a hard time in the park today.”

“Hardly,” Lucien replied with a relish as he straightened the cravat about his neck. “She was enjoying herself.” “Elain is a lady,” his mother reminded him. “You should consider treating her with more kindness and less like an object for your amusement. She has been through a lot in the last year.”

“Oh? Like what?”

A shadow passed over his mothers face. “Her father became ill in the middle of her first season. She was quite the jewel last year, you know. There were many men very fond of the idea of her as a wife. Her father pulled her out so she might care for him and she did so dutifully. It was all for nothing as he, of course, passed not long after the season concluded. The Archeron girls are handling their family estate for the time being while they wait on a relative to take over and it is clear at least one of them intends to marry and pass along the estate to their new husband. Don’t waste her time if you’re merely amusing himself.”

“I am not amusing myself,” Lucien lied, a touch too defensive. “I find her adorably charming.”

“I thought you did not want a wife?” his mother challenged, as though she saw through his little ruse.

“Who said anything about a wife? I am merely getting to know the lady.”

His mother was a small woman in comparison to her son and husband. Lucien towered over her, just as broad as his father and a hair taller–not that he’d ever dare say it. Still, he cowered a little as she approached, one finger pointed at his chest. “If I learn you are toying with her like you like to do with the women by the river, I will make you suffer for it.”

“Mama,” he protested weakly but Amera shook her head, her painted red lips pressed into a thin smile.

“Don’t mama me. I swear I raised a gentleman.”

“You’ll see. I shall dance with her the entire evening.”

“I will not believe you until you have a ring on that girls finger or a grandbaby in my arms.” “Mama!”

She arched a brow. “If you think you can fool me into remaining a bachelor, you ought to know I have plenty of backup options waiting for you. Your father can be compelled quite easily to force your hand.”

That was news to Lucien. He raised his eyebrows but his mother didn’t back down, daring him to challenge her.

“I will marry on my own time,” he warned her but she shook her head.

“I did not fall to my knees and beg your father to get you out of jail for you to act so ungratefully. You made a promise that extends beyond this season. Find a nice girl, Lucien, or I shall find one for you. Do not think I did not notice your interest in Miss Elain began only when Graysen showed an interest.”

“She ought to know what a scoundrel he is—”

“I do not wish to hear another word about the Lockharts!” she snapped. “I am merely warning you of the wrath you will face if this season concludes with the broken heart of Elain Archeron and news that you are back in the whore houses!”

And that was that. His father emerged from his study with a scowl, one hand on his wife's shoulder and a warning look that told Lucien he ought to just fall in line. Lucien did not want to fall in line. His life was perhaps ugly to them but it was by his own design. What did his mother know about losing love, besides? She’d met Helion and the resulting romance was still spoken of with fondness by even royalty themselves. Lucien had grown up bathed in that love and as a boy had wanted nothing more than a slice of what his parents had. He’d been foolish, idealistic even, to imagine he could have something as rare as love when his parents were one of a kind.

And Jesminda. How wonderful she’d been. So unlike the stuck-up ladies of the ton, obsessed with money and appearance. Jesminda hadn’t been afraid to get messy, had laughed too loudly and danced and sang and was alive. She’d made him feel alive, too. He’d been struck instantly by cupid’s arrow and would have followed her everywhere.

He’d intended to give it all up. Only his father knew the extent to which Lucien had been prepared to go. It was their first true fight, hidden from his mother. Lucien had renounced his title and everything it entitled him when his father forbade the marriage. Lucien had gone anyway, had gotten on one knee and laid it all out for Jesminda. It would not be a life of excess, he’d explained, but it would be a life of love.

He could still see the pity in those brown eyes as she explained he was little more than a distraction she could no longer afford. That she’d never intended for things to go so far and she had another offer of marriage to man of commerce. He’d begged her not to accept, had given her his very heart and she’d crushed it in her hand. The answer was no.

Lucien had tucked tail and returned home. Helion had never said another word about that night, had never made Lucien feel the fool. He’d merely allowed his son to continue on as his heir, assuming one day Lucien would move past Jesminda’s rejection and find a more suitable woman to be Duchess. Except, Lucien never had. His hurt became anger and then bitter jealousy when he learned she’d had children and found happiness in America. Now it was merely apathy. Perhaps she might have accepted him if he could have offered her a position as the future Duchess of Dayton. Perhaps she’d found it amusing, teasing a lord's son. Whatever her reasons, Lucien did not wish to be the subject of another woman’s fleeting affection.

It didn’t stop him from appreciating Elain Archeron, dressed in lilac, when he arrived at Tamlin’s manor. She danced with Graysen, the rogue, while her sister was thoroughly engrossed with Lord Tamlin. The Rosewood estate was Tamlin’s though it was his aunt who hosted the ball, likely in an attempt to find the surly Baron a wife that might liven up the place. Lucien stood by his earlier sentiment to Elain the day before—Tamlin would make a poor husband to any young lady.

Lucien had to wait for things to conclude with Graysen, his blood burning with jealousy at the easy smile on her face. She couldn’t marry, or so she said, though it was clear she had a favored suitor of all the men available and it was not him.

Graysen, who had nearly avoided a bullet, who had run when he ought to have stayed and accepted punishment, who tried to force himself on ladies otherwise not willing all because they lacked the social standing Elain currently enjoyed. Lucien was not convinced he wouldn’t try something similar if he were presented the opportunity.

Lucien made his way to Elain with a surliness he could not hide, well aware his mother was watching from across the room. Elain turned, pink lips curved upwards in a smile. She curtseyed as Graysen watched with the same irritation Lucien felt. Would Graysen fight him for Elain? Lucien wanted to find out.

“Would you—” The room fell silent as the Queen entered with her usual retinue of ladies and servants. She wasn’t alone. Beside her was the prince Lucien had warned Elain about. For a moment, Lucien saw every man in the room inwardly panic when they realized the prince was a younger man, with lush, dark hair and eyes so blue they were practically violet. He wore a suit of black, a golden sash cutting across his broad chest. Lucien supposed it was acknowledgement of wars won on his behalf, catching how his eyes swept the room.

“Look,” Elain whispered, tugging at his hand. Lucien didn’t know why he felt so possessive, why he put a subtle hand on her shoulder, pulling her closer to his chest without even realizing what he was doing. It took him by surprise. He was marking her, a warning to this foreign prince that whatever lady he liked was up for grabs except for his.

Elain, unaware of the troubling direction of his thoughts, elbowed him sharply in the stomach. He looked where she indicated, surprised to find the youngest Archeron pinned beneath the princes gaze. The air around them seemed electric, the tension palpable even to the most oblivious of man. Tamlin was not unaware he was suddenly standing on cracking ice—if a prince wanted Feyre, Tamlin could hardly compete.

Relief flooded through Lucien as the music began again. A hum of chattered punctuated the tightness in his chest, forcing him to look down at Elain. He didn’t want to want her. He barely knew her. She was utterly off-limits, had no intention of marrying at all. He was merely caught up in his own game and projecting the feelings he’d once had for Jesminda onto Elain.

“That’s interesting,” Elain murmured, resting her hand in the crook of Lucien’s arm. “I suppose you were right after all.”

Lucien nodded, forgetting for a moment she was speaking of her sister. “Do you want to dance?” Elain paused her steps, nearly walking into an elderly gentleman attempting to take a sip of whiskey. “Dance?”

He felt so utterly stupid. What was wrong with him? Of course Elain could have the prince, hell she could have Graysen if she wanted him. He’d sworn as much not even ten minutes before. “Dance? With ah…with me?”

Her smile was utter sunlight, her glow the softest caress. His body tightened beneath the sight of what he perceived to be affection. “Of course. I love to dance.”

He wanted to say something clever, wanted to make good on his promise to make her laugh. He was in trouble. He ought to have left her standing there, should have made her seem foolish if only to prevent her from ever looking at him with such regard ever again. Lucien tore his eyes from Elain, practically hyperventilating even as she accepted his hand.

It was his fathers face he found, watching him with open, unguarded sympathy. Understanding. Recognition. Carefully, Helion put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and Lucien saw himself in that moment, touching Elain just as his father now touched his mother. Amera had no idea, continued to talk with her friends animatedly but Helion and Lucien shared a moment of understanding.

Lucien shook his head no and his father nodded yes in response.

“Are you ready?” Elain asked, drawing his attention back to the present moment. She had her palm raised, eyes bright while he stood like a gargoyle. Utterly still. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he said, touching his hand to hers.

Liar.

ELAIN:

There was a prince standing in their hall.. Elain and Nesta hid at the top of the staircase, peering through the banister slats at the handsome man waiting patiently for Feyre. “This…this is not what I had in mind,” Nesta admitted, her own nerves getting the best of her. Elain nodded in agreement.

“It is a good thing, though. Feyre will be a princess—”

“And who will run the estate? The crown? I should think not. He’s foreign as well. He’s likely to whisk Feyre off and we’ll see her on holidays if we’re lucky. One of us…one of us will be forced to take her place.” “We shouldn’t ruin this for her,” Elain told Nesta decisively. “Do you have any prospects?”

“There is always the bastard Marquess—”

“You should not call him that!” Elain hissed. “Cassian is an honorable man who took care of his mama when his father would not.” Elain quite liked the idea of Cassian as a brother, besides. He was kind where his father had been cruel and when the Marquess died with only Cassian to inherit his estate, Cassian had ensured his half-sisters did not end up on the streets like so many other men might have.

Nesta had Cassian had a rivalry Elain did not understand. It was more one-sided, if she had to guess, given how Cassian continued to try despite how sharp Nesta’s tongue could be. Elain stayed out of it, well aware pushing Nesta in any direction was only guaranteed to make her do the opposite.

“And there is the cousin to your Duke,” Nesta added. “Beron Autonme’s eldest son Eris requested to call on me but I sent him away…we were focusing on Feyre. I could likely salvage it—”

“Or there’s Graysen,” Elain added a little too hopefully. Nesta raised her brows in surprise.

��What of the Duke’s son?”

Elain shrugged. “I do not think he’s serious. He does not call, after all.” She knew for a fact Lucien was not looking for a wife. She’d had a moment the night before, when he’d put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her an inch closer when Prince Rhysand stepped into the room, that perhaps he’d changed his mind.

But he remained as aloof as always, barely speaking to her for the majority of the night save to make fun of the rest of the ton. It was ruse easily broken so early in the season.

“I agree we let this romance play out,” Nesta decided, rising to her feet. “Whichever gentleman makes the first proposal shall inherit this cursed estate.”

Elain accepted Nesta’s hand and shook it, leaving Nesta to greet Rhysand while Elain went to check on Feyre. Her sister sat in her large bedroom in front of a nearly blank canvas. She was working on something, the shape of it unclear to Elain. Paint dotted Feyre’s hands, a smudge of blue streaked over her cheek.

“Prince Rhysand is downstairs inquiring after you,” Elain told Feyre. Feyre glanced over her shoulder.

“Send him away.” “Send…send him away? Of course not. I saw how you danced. You must speak with him.”

Feyre turned fully in her chair, setting her brush on the easel behind her. “And what of you and Nesta. The whole point—” “Oh who cares?” Elain asked, throwing her hands in the air. “Nesta and I are not without options. Feyre, there is a prince in the foyer. He has come to see you. Go.” Feyre couldn’t, though, and Elain knew it. Not if she thought she might abandon her sisters, not if it meant Elain and Nesta would be left to fend for themselves. Elain crossed the room, putting her hands on Feyre’s shoulders. “We have already discussed it. One of us will marry instead—” “But what of all the dresses, the money spent—” “It was well worth it to see you crowned,” Elain assured her. “No one but the frigid old spinsters care that Nesta and I are recycling our dresses. Besides, who will even notice when you become princess?” “Nesta is not planning to marry Tomas, is she?”

Elain shook her head. “No. She mentioned the Marquess Blödshedd as a potential suitor, though.”

Feyre’s blue eyes lit up. “Don’t tease me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“And you?”

“I am not without options. We will be fine. I trust you will send me the finest fashion his home country has to offer, besides.”

“It’s just a visit,” Feyre whispered, walking towards the door. Elain quite admired Feyre’s willingness to greet him covered in paint, unconcerned what he thought of her appearance. It was a take her as she was sort of thing and perhaps more subtly, a test of sorts. Feyre would always be wild, even if she was a princess. Elain supposed he ought to learn that sooner than later.

Nesta was waiting by the banister with a curious expression. “The prince is in the drawing room,” she told Feyre, who scurried off. “And the Duke is in the foyer.”

“What?” Elain asked dumbly, certain she must have heard Nesta wrong.

“With lilies,” Nesta added. “I can’t chaperone you both.”

“Go with Feyre. I’ll ask him to return another day.” Nesta nodded, watching Elain for a long moment. “You’re sure he’s not serious.”

“Positive.”

Still, Elain flew down the steps, nearly twisting her ankle on a floor runner to reach the open foyer. Lucien had his back to her, his ruby red hair tied elegantly off his handsome face. Just as Nesta said, he held a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the purple of the lilies contrasted against the blue of his jacket.

“Lucien?” she asked, sure he’d come for some other business. There was no need for a chaperone because nothing was happening and nothing ever would. He watched her, eyes blazing with some strange emotion she didn’t recognize. She froze for a moment, her stomach twisting in knots. He’d come to call the ruse off, she realized. Elain squared her shoulders, bracing herself for the rejection. It was for the best. She was interested in Graysen, after all, and Lucien’s constant advances were pushing Graysen away.

“For you,” Lucien told her quickly, handing her the flowers. Elain set them on a nearby table, unable to take her eyes from his. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he must be able to see it flutter beneath her skin.

“They’re lovely,” she lied. She’d scarcely looked at them at all.

“I uh…the picnic in the park tomorrow. Do you plan to attend?”

Elain glanced over her shoulder as though she might find who he was speaking to. Lucien never tore his gaze from her, as though she were the only person he’d ever seen in his life. “Of course.”

“You’ll accompany me?”

“As…as part of the ruse?” she murmured, careful not to speak too loudly, just in case Nesta were listening. Her words snapped him out of whatever he was thinking and Lucien took a step back as though he’d been physically shoved. The intensity of his eyes was replaced by that teasing smile and though she hated to admit it, the sight put her at ease. “Of course. My mother insists I bring you.”

That made sense. He was merely ticking boxes, was keeping up his side of things. She had no business reading any more into the situation. “My Lord, I should—” she stopped herself. She’d almost told him her situation had changed, that she could now marry if she so wished. She was no longer tied to Feyre, so long as the Prince maintained his interest.

Don’t, a voice murmured. Telling him risked him calling things off and Elain did not think she could bear it. Even if they were never more than friendly, she enjoyed his company. Elain plastered the most genuine smile she could muster onto her face. “I should be grateful to accompany you.”

“Excellent. I will send my carriage for you and your sisters.”

Elain curtseyed and Lucien bowed. He offered her one last, lingering look, like likes of which were a mystery to her. He nodded once, the only farewell she was given before he vanished out the front doors for the city at large. And Elain stood in the foyer longer than she’d ever meant to, reminding herself that there was nothing happening between them.

If only she could convince her heart.

LUCIEN:

“You look nervous,” Helion commented at his son, falling into step on the gravel path. “Want to share whats on your mind?”

“There is nothing on my mind,” Lucien lied. He’d spied his carriage arriving ten minutes before and was now waiting as casually as he could for Elain to arrive. He’d prepared it all so carefully, convincing his mother a little too fully of his intentions. It didn’t matter. Feyre was already among the ton, smiling up at the dark haired prince mischievously, clearly teasing him for whatever he said. Lucien imagined that must be an Archeron trait.

“No? My son, the man who has loudly proclaimed to never take a wife, is suddenly arranging tarts and lemonade like its his only job in the world?”

Lucien scowled. “It is hardly that serious.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. I suppose it is hardly serious that Graysen has intercepted the middle Archeron as well?” Lucien spun, immediately furious only to find his father teasing him. Elain was standing beside Nesta a mere hundred yards away, an amused smile on her pretty face. Nesta and Cassian Blödshedd were clearly arguing about something, if Nesta’s scowl and Cassian’s wildly moving hands were any indication. If Gryaysen was in attendance, he was nowhere near Elain.

“You may lie to yourself but you cannot lie to me,” Helion informed Lucien. “I was you, once.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“No? I too once loudly proclaimed I would never marry. I insisted the Dukedom ended with me, that I would leave my life of pleasure when the reaper dragged me from this mortal coil himself. And your mother, well…she was all but betrothed when we met and I swore I didn’t care. That she could marry whoever she liked, that she was just another woman.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Your good luck does not mean I will have similar fortune.”

“I think we steeped you too heavily in our own mythology and it did you a disservice. My parents' marriage was famously unhappy. My mother wept tears of happiness when my father passed and I swore that would not be me. You were unlucky with the merchant's daughter but that should not keep you from—” “I don’t want to speak of her,” Lucien snapped, furious his father would dare mention Jesminda. Helion did not back down.

“She haunts you, even now. Let her go.”

Lucien dismissed his father in time for Elain to reach him, her smile unguarded just as always. “You look angry.”

“Family,” he replied by way of explanation. Elain nodded appreciatively.

“Ah. A condition I am very familiar with. I fear I should not leave the two of them alone together.”

Lucien glanced towards the still squabbling Nesta and Cassian, catching the subtle way Cassian smiled. As though he designed the whole thing and Nesta, too heated for her own good, did not recognize the trap she’d fallen into.

“We could invite them over,” Lucien offered, gesturing for Elain to take a seat on the large yellow and pink quilt his mother had loaned him. The hillside was dotted with similar couples, their intentions far more genuine than him and Elain. She did not wish to marry and that was all well and good for Lucien, who was still holding that shred of sanity reminding him he did not either. Yet as she tucked her legs beneath her pink and white floral dress, Lucien could not stop staring at the soft slope of her neck and how badly he wished to drag his tongue up the column of flesh.

He forced himself to exhale, to swallow. Breathe. Elain was utterly unaware, hands resting in her lap. “No. Let them work this out. I think they’d be a fine match if they could find common ground. After all, I think that kind of passion can yield to softer things.”

Lucien nearly groaned at her words. “Oh?” he asked, delighting in the hint of color darkening her cheeks.

“I only meant love.”

He very much doubted that, though ladies did not speak of such things and a gentleman would not press his luck. “Of course. Your sisters are all angling for a love match this season and you are hoping to remain single?”

Her cheeks darkened further and Elain looked over her shoulder for a second. “We’ll see how things play out for Feyre.”

Lucien could see the prince perfectly fine from where he sat. He held a tiny sandwich in the palm of his hand, offering it to Feyre with the most earnest expression Lucien had ever seen. Love. How easily he recognized it, yearned for it even. Even when he did not wish to. “And what of you? When your sisters leave, what will become of you?”

The thought of her alone in that house ignited a thousand fantasies, each more lurid than the last. He imagined slipping through her bedroom window, of finding her in a night dress of even nothing at all. He could see himself sliding beneath the blankets, parting her thighs—

“There is always next year.” Elain’s cheerful words interrupted his thoughts but could not chase away the erection now straining in his pants. He took another breath and reached for the carafe of lemonade waiting. As he poured, he made himself look directly at her, to see her as she was now.

It did nothing to temper his hot blood. If anything, the sight of Elain beneath the bright, sunny sky, her freckles warming the bridge of her nose, her breasts straining softly against her dress…it only made him want her more.

“Besides, perhaps it will give me a chance to work on my garden without Nesta and Feyre constantly trampling about. But enough of me. What will you do, once you are freed from your arrangement with your mother?”

Take my new wife on a tour of Europe. The thought came to him unbidden, the idea warming him. “The future eludes even me, Elain Archeron. Perhaps I’ll come help you tend your garden.”

She laughed with delight, reaching for a little sandwich. He’d forgotten he was supposed to offer her food and was sure his mother was going to murder him later that evening for his lack of manners. For her part, Elain didn’t seem to notice or mind, chewing happily.

“Well, you’re welcome to join me, if you have nothing better to do.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Lucien asked quickly, catching her by surprise. Elain looked as though she were trying to figure out what was happening and why he might want to be over. “Help me avoid my parents? They’re about to celebrate their wedding anniversary…they’ve invited everyone to our country estate.”

“Ah, of course. Yes, you’re welcome to join me tomorrow in the garden. Nesta received the invitation, I’m certain we will join.”

Lucien’s exhale was a little too noticeable. Elain in the countryside.

What could be better?

ELAIN:

True to his word, Lucien came by the next day to help Elain with the weeds while Elain pretended his rolled up sleeves had no effect on her. She was forced to lie to herself each time the corded muscle of his forearms flexed, saying it was merely his proximity that was causing the reaction. Nothing more. They were watched by a very bored Nesta, who merely arched her brow at Elain when it was over, as though to say no intentions, hm?

She could hardly sleep, hardly dared to breathe in the days leading up to the trip to the country. Elain was practically crawling out of her skin despite his lack of proximity. It was madness the way he had infiltrated her dreams. She caught herself daydreaming about his hands, about his mouth, until she did something foolish like rip out a whole row of tulips instead of weeds.

The girls packed, excited for a week where someone else would take care of them instead of the other way around. No one had proposed and despite a literal prince walking their halls, their staff was smaller than ever. Elain was learning to cook and Feyre comically had chopped wood not two nights before when there was no one else to do it. It seemed they would be self-sufficient regardless of their own personal wishes on the matter.

They went with friends, Elain catching a ride down with Arina and her mama. Taking a carriage that far required payment and the girls’ funds were dwindling. Elain knew Nesta was rethinking the entire scheme, wondering if she ought to just cut her losses and marry Tomas to spare them any further humiliation. Elain, too, was considering that she ought to spend the week getting to know Graysen in an effort to put them all out of their misery. Someone needed to move and currently all three of them were toying with men that did not have clear intentions.

And to that end, no matter how much she wanted Lucien, he was never going to want her. Their ruse had gone on long enough but now that Elain had permission to marry, she needed to get on with it. She intended to tell him as such but when they pulled into the circular, gravel drive, it was Lucien who stepped forward to offer his hand, looking like the prince from every fairytale she’d ever read.

“Took you long enough,” he teased with a wink before offering himself up to both Arina and her mama. “Your sisters were here hours ago.”

“You must forgive us. We took the scenic route.” Arina spoke when it was clear Elain could not. She was struck dumb by her surroundings. A lush, sprawling lawn looked out before her, stretching towards a dense woodland Elain found charming. Ahead, huge pillars opened into the large estate that had belonged in Lucien’s family for centuries. The same estate he would one day inherit.

“Are you well?” he asked her, bumping her with his elbow.

“I ah…it’s just all so lovely,” she finally managed, unable to admit he was part of the beauty she so admired. Born from it, made of it, everything about the place concentrated wholly in him and Elain wished she’d never met him. It was torture to walk beside him, to following him over white and black checked marble to the bedroom chosen for her with a promise her things would sent up.

If she didn’t tell him then, Elain knew she’d lose her nerve. He’d change into formal attire, he’d ask her to dance and he’d look at her with that burning intensity she was misreading and Elain knew she’d waste a week wishing things could be different. “Ah…Lord?”

He frowned the moment she said the words. “Lord?”

“Lucien,” she amended. “I need to tell you something. I should have told you at the picnic…or when you came by to pull weeds. I apologize for my lack of forthcoming—”

He stepped closer and Elain, in an effort to avoid any impropriety, closed the bedroom door behind her so they were both fully in the hall. Light from the nearby window danced over his face, illuminating him in the glow. He was so lovely, so utterly handsome it stole her breath. Elain could hardly breathe in his presence, was sure he must have realized she felt more than friendship towards him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked with plain concern.

“My circumstances have changed and I find myself looking for a husband. As this is just a ruse, I’d like to free us both with no hard feelings. Tell your mama women can be fickle creatures. I will play along, if you like.”

Lucien stared for a moment, stepping closer still until he was fully in her space. Elain’s breath caught at his nearness. She could have touched him, pressed her hand against his broad chest if she’d chosen to. As it stood, Elain could smell the masculine scent of him, could feel his warmth. “You’re looking for a husband.” It wasn’t a question.

Elain nodded slowly. “Yes. I intend to wed by the end of the season.” He shook his head. “What changed?”

“It’s complicated. I’m sorry. I…” he waited but there was nothing else to say. He did not want a wife and Elain needed to marry. He nodded, stepping out of her space.

“Of course. No apologies are required, Miss Archeron. I wish you nothing but the best.”

It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear but it was what she expected. They were utterly incompatible but oh. How she wished the opposite were true. Lucien turned on his heel and strode down the hall, ever the gentleman. People would wonder about their falling out, would gossip about the Duke’s coldness and how Elain pretended not to notice. Who had caused the offense. She suspected the blame would lay at his feet. He was the rake, after all. Who could fault her for wanting a different sort of husband?

But as Elain changed for the ball that evening, she was forced to acknowledge the truth of the matter. Had he changed his mind, had he declared his intentions, she would have let him. Elain would have accepted Lucien, bad reputation and all, if he’d wanted her.

“You look sad,” Arina commented after they’d eaten. “Was it the Duke? I heard him speaking with his mama about a future wife…did he mean you?”

Elain’s stomach clenched painfully. “Of course not. I hardly think he is interested at all.”

“Then you must be blind. It was all my mama could speak of once we were alone. He was positively wolfish, watching you step out of that carriage.”

Elain rolled her eyes with a scoff, daring a glance across the ballroom. Lucien held a glass in one hand, his black waistcoat cutting too trim a figure. Their eyes met and he nodded towards the hall in invitation.

“Elain,” Graysen interrupted the silent exchange happening between them, drawing her back to the present. To reality. “How lovely to see you. A dance?” This was what she wanted, she reminded herself. A decent, good man who wanted her. Whatever Lucien wanted could only lead to ruin, would only break her heart. Graysen though…had she not been lamenting her inability to see him only weeks before? Had she not promised both Feyre and Nesta that Graysen was a decent choice for a husband, one she would be all too happy to be married to?

He’s all wrong. He’s not Lucien.

Her thoughts betrayed her. Of course he wasn’t Lucien—no one was. He’d had his chance to declare his intent and he’d walked away. She had no business ever speaking with him again. He didn’t want her. He’d all but said so. Elain glanced back up, hating the intensity with which Lucien watched. Waiting.

“In just a moment,” Elain assured him. “I need to speak with my sisters and then I am all yours.” Graysen smiled too wide. “For the evening, I hope.”

“As do I.”

Arina watched Elain with questioning eyes but Elain said nothing back, slipping from the large room filled with tipsy revelers. Lucien was just ahead, practically dancing through the shadows pouring from the open windows. The hall narrowed, darkening just as they reached the back patio that led to the gardens. Moonlight spilled over the floors and it was there that Lucien stood, illuminated in the opalescent glow.

Watching.

Waiting.

LUCIEN:

It was wildly inappropriate to bring her here when there was no one to see them. Anyone could stumble upon them, might find them and assume all manner of inappropriate things. They’d be right. His intentions were utterly dishonorable. She wanted a husband and Lucien intended to demand she give him the right to court her.

She followed him through the hall, stepping into a beam of moonlight, too close to him. He could all but smell her. “We shouldn’t bet here,” she reminded him softly, biting her plush, bottom lip. His fingers curled to fists at his side as he drank her in, utterly intoxicated at the sight of her.

“You’re free to leave,” he told her, stepping backwards, stepping sideways until she was the one with her back to the wall and he was the one advancing. Elain stepped as though pulled by strings until the sounds of the party were a mere whisper to him. Her back touched the marble, head resting against the white surface, eyes half-lidded with what he prayed was arousal. He was practically panting, felt as though he’d run a marathon though it was merely her presence that affected him. He could not help himself, getting even closer, caging her with his arms, forcing the coolness of the walls against his overheated palms to ground him.

“What do you want with me?” she murmured, her breasts rising and falling with each labored breath.

“Everything,” he replied. “I know it’s wrong but Elain, my heart…” She shook her head softly. "Some say you lack a heart entirely, my Lord," Elain murmured, stepping into shadow, her nearness utterly intoxicating. Lucien knew he ought to leave her there, that every second he remained risked ruin for them both. He closed his eyes, inhaling the soft scent of jasmine.

"Ridiculous," he replied, reaching out a hand. He only meant to touch that curl draped over her shoulder. He swore he meant nothing else. Yet, his fingers brushed just beneath her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts he could no longer pretend he did not want to see. "I keep my heart right here."

He heard her breath catch. “You know what I’m looking for.”

“I know,” he replied, knuckles running over the smooth skin over her neck. He reached for her face, tilting it towards him and Elain let him, pliant in his hands. She was softer than he’d ever dreamed, her breath sweet against his face.

“Let me go, Lucien,” she whispered. He shuddered at the sound of his name on her lips, dropping his face until their lips practically touched.

“I cannot.”

He felt her hand slide up his chest, her fingers curl in his collar, pulling him closer. “You must.”

He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I will not.”

Eyes closed, standing in the dark, Lucien knew one thing with absolute certainty. Elain was the only light he’d ever seen, the only clarity he’d ever had. Even there, half mad with desire, he knew what he wanted.

She let go of his lapel, misunderstanding his intent and Lucien, unwilling to waste a moment clarifying, yanked her against him and finally—finally—-kissed her like he ought to have the very first time he ever met her. It was not the sweet kiss he knew ladies hoped for. There was nothing delicate about either of them, grasping at the other as though at any moment the other would evaporate back into the dream they’d been plucked from.

He couldn’t breathe, his skin on fire. Everything was Elain, her kiss honeyed lightning against his lips. He was drunk, felt entirely too bold as he reached for the edge of her dress and began to hike it up. He had her pinned against him, his leg between her own, rubbing between her thighs until she moaned softly. Elain didn’t stop him, her tongue sliding against his own and Lucien thought it was better to take her right there than to wait another second. He’d explain afterwards, he’d make things right just as soon as he’d tasted her—

“What are you doing?!”

Lucien and Elain flew apart, Elain’s hand pressed against her mouth. Lucien stood in front of her, one arm thrown out as if to shield her from a foe that did not exist. He was her only nemesis in that moment. Her ruin.

Nesta Archeron, accompanied by his cousin Eris and Lucien’s own father stood opposite them. Helion shook his head, his disappointment plain while Nesta wrapped a hand around her neck, eyes wide with horror.

“How delightful,” Eris all but crooned, looking towards Elain, her eyes filling with tears.

Nesta looked to Helion, the deciding factor and Lucien knew his father would ask him to do nothing he did not want to. It was Eris that would be the problem and in the split second that passed between the pair, Helion’s gaze said everything. Eris would tell.

“Why wait, when she’s already accepted my proposal?” was all Lucien could think to say. Elain exhaled sharply behind him, though did not dare contradict him. It was decided in that moment, though in truth it had been decided long before. The gloating smile slid from Eris’s face and Nesta gestured for her sister. Elain didn’t budge, a wise move on her part given Lucien had not asked his father for the family ring. Nesta would surely want to see it.

“Come,” Helion murmured. “I’ll walk you all back.”

Beside Lucien, Elain was very clearly swallowing her tears. He reached between them for her hand, squeezing softly. He needed to explain himself somehow, if only to ease the tension between them.

“You two, with me,” Helion murmured when they reached a fork in the hall. Nesta looked at Elain, who hung her head like a prisoner being walked to the gallows. Lucien kept his hand in hers, guiding her out of sight from the party go-ers. It was a certainty everyone would know by the time they returned. Eris had an exceptionally large mouth.

“In here,” Helion ordered, practically shoving the pair into his study. “Do nothing until I return.”

He shut the mahogany doors firmly behind him and Lucien was surprised his father didn’t lock them in, too. Lucien rounded on the softly crying Elain, collapsed in one of the leather chairs just beside the bookcase.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered when he approached. Lucien dropped to one knee, resting his head on the arm of the chair.

“For what? It is I who ought to apologize. My behavior was…” his behavior was warranted, he thought privately. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything and could scarcely believe his good luck that she’d end up his wife. Wife.

He exhaled a hard breath, some panic replacing his desire. Wife. He could do this, could be a married man, a husband, even.

“And now you’re trapped in a marriage you don’t want,” she continued, her hysteria mounting.

“I don’t—” he tried to protest, but Helion had returned, his mother in tow. Amera was trying her very best to look sympathetic but Lucien could see she was far too pleased with how things were progressing. He turned to look at his father, rising to his feet, his mother gazing down on Elain with glittering eyes. Lucien knew only one thought possessed her: grandbabies.

Helion held the golden band to Lucien, its sparkling sapphire catching the candlelight just above.

“Elain, you can say no,” Amera murmured as Lucien turned to her, holding the ring he’d sworn he didn’t want. “Lucien will attest to your uncompromised honor.”

“But Eris—”

“Only saw a moment,” Helion interrupted.

Elain wiped her eyes, aware that for her, saying no the kiss of death. No one would go anywhere near her, not if they thought Lucien had compromised her. He was well aware of his reputation, of how he might stain her simply by having laid his hands on her.

“I mean to marry you,” Lucien informed her, resuming his position on one knee just beside her chair. Elain sniffled hard as he took her hand, sliding the ring over her finger. It was just a fraction too big, easily resized all things considered.

She said nothing, even when he rose on both knees, wiping her tears with his thumbs so he could kiss either cheek.

“I wasn’t trying to trap you,” she whispered so softly only he could hear.

“I know you weren’t,” he replied. “My offer is earnest.”

She nodded. It wasn’t the agreement he’d pictured but in Lucien’s defense, he’d imagined having her first, imagined explaining everything without his parents watching, without the looming threat of his cousin Eris breathing down his neck.

Lucien cupped her face in his hands, kissing her forehead before he stood. He nodded to his parents before stepping from the room, his father just at his feet.

“Lucien—” Helion began but Lucien would not entertain another word on the topic.

“It is done.”

#elucien #elucien fic #elucien fan fic #elain x lucien #i feel so nervous about this #like its my first fic ever #i just #THIS IS NOT MY TYPICAL STYLE #and it was harder than usual to make them dumb #while also yearn #anyway #i hope you like it #i had a good time writing it #and part 2 is SO SMUTTY like right out the gate

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cruzrogue · 4 years

Photo

The Letter

Bruce Wayne/Original character featuring Alfred Pennyworth

Sitting in a massive home office. The tick tock of a grandfather clock keeping the room from ever being silent. The shelves across a wall filled with hardcover books. Sitting upon the offered chair centered to the desk before her. The grandness is not lost on her.

Rich. Masculine décor.

It’s the small portrait of a couple that has her stand and slowly walk to it. Her eyes glued on their gazes. It’s as if they are with her as they promised they’d be. A practiced speech written by the once patriarch of this estate. She’s heard plenty say may he and his wife rest in peace since arriving in Gotham. Their deaths politicized as she heard it on a television set being broadcasted at the lobby of her hotel.

Her hand reaches up towards them. A nervousness of being here makes her forget to regulate her emotions. The woman she is becoming lost in the moment. Those very same eyes haunt her. A constant barrage of expectations. She’s back to being that eleven-year-old that woke up screaming only the arms of these two soothing her nightmares away. Now awake. A survivor. A witness.

With an intake of breath and the rhythm of the steady grand clock has her once again taking a seat. Her eyes keeping from viewing the Wayne portrait again. Trying to find a focal point. A fountain pen in its holder. Simple and elegant. Perfect chosen distraction. Waiting diligently for the very sought out man she came to take a meeting with.

The curt butler returns with a tray. Containing a cup and with its matching saucer. He’s placing the hot beverage by the extended side table as he says a few words that explain why his master is behind schedule. Amanda doesn’t show any sign of irritation for the man in question as he is beyond forty minutes late.

The subject of why she is here is secretive as the channels to get this meeting were done between Wayne’s butler and the chamberlain of her own uncle. Two men that run their master’s estates. There is a brief wonder. Does the elite man behind the wealth of this family have an inkling why she is here? It is not common to have gossip between two houses run by duty, history, an unyielding tradition. Chatter is left to the lower level servants. Ones who know nothing but what is asked of them.

Alfred Pennyworth glances at the still woman who thanks him after taking the offered cup of tea.

Noticing that she is not dressed as a socialite stands out. Simple. Plain. Not a feature that he normal sees here at the house. He can’t recall of another niece of the mogul living now in Wyoming a former Californian. The girl he remembers is one laid up in a coma for years until she vanished around what would be her eleventh birthday. He thinks foul play. The girl awoke and simply disappeared.

She is not unattractive. Simply just basic. Not thin nor tall like the normal women associated with his careful pressed care. Alfred knows that they’re being watched. The woman is under surveillance as keystrokes in a cave work to discover all that can be learned.

Her frank words as Alfred excuses himself to take the tray and the few contains away, “It seems an audience with me is undesirable.” Her eyes don’t waver from the focal point. She doesn’t need any more silence of words. The tick tock of the clock strong as ever. “He has made it clear; my presence is not welcomed.”

“Ms. Alexandre, allow me to show you the gardens.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” She rises from her chair making sure not to look at the few personal items that make powerful statements. “I must decline. Taking your time would be rude of me.”

She takes the leather satchel she carried into Wayne manor and slightly squeezes it. Leaving it upon the grand desk. The contents within the bag are meant for Mr. Wayne’s eyes. She was hoping to at least meet with him once before he’d deny her request. It was not meant to be.

“Thank you for your hospitality.”

Alfred nods and dutiful replies in his stoic voice as he helps her to the front door and watches her get into the awaiting car. Watching as it leaves the grounds.

It is that precise moment Bruce makes his appearance.

“Standing her up is not a gentlemen thing to do.”

“Perhaps. She’ll get over it.”

“She is said to be the niece of ailing man worth fortunes. A man who mourned the loss of your parents.” Turning to continue bringing the tray to the kitchen adds one final sentence, “Also recently losing his only child to violence.”

Bruce approaches the laid-out leather briefcase. A simple envelop placed on top. Taking it. Unfolding the few stationary sheets, he begins reading her message.

Hello Bruce,

I figured you would not meet with me personally. I get your reservation on my reappearance. Who am I really? Where have I been? Why would you even care? Why am I here? What do I want?

I want to start off by saying how sorry I am. On the loss of your parents. How truly sorry I am. It may not mean anything to you but learning of the occurrence broke my heart.

I am merely a shadow of a girl of a massacred family. Lone survivor. Disappearing to the wind and never talked about until now. Now an adult woman who will enter your home and if I leave this letter it means you have abstained from taking this meeting with me. Even if I understand. The resolve it took me to come here is lost on an empty gesture. Yet, I still write needing for you to understand just a fragment of why I am here. I mean why I came here.

If you’re wondering why I have surfaced. Now of all times. It is in some detail within this satchel.

He looks to the leather satchel laying upon his wooden desk. Only the tick tock of the grandfather clock breaking the silence of the room. He knows Alfred will not disturb him for a great while. They both share a certain drive of keeping occupied within these old walls of his ancestral home.

Like you, I have started on a journey parallel to yours. With that famous quote: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step… I started off running. Running from the culprits who seemed to think my awaking would cause trouble. I ran and kept on running as reasons changed but my mission to find myself became a priority.

It was always just the beginning. What I do know is that I have stopped on many occasions not far from where you stood on your own voyage. That alone might be concerning to you. A stranger a continent away following similar steps like yours.

It is concerning he thinks. How would she even know about what he was doing. That would make no sense. Then he allows himself to continue to read. Maybe it will make sense somehow.

I hope you had many happy childhood memories to fall on when the days were hard growing up. I only have serene memories of my childhood. Like you before it all came crashing down. Where nightmares took their hold. I survived when my family didn’t. When I awoke from my coma. A lone witness to the faces of evil. I was alone for so long. Hidden in corners scared of the boogeyman.

He stops reading. Deciding to leave the bag here but he’d like to be more comfortable. Be able to check the computer systems of accuracies. There is a lot yet to read. He folds the simple yet elegant stationary she uses to write back into its intent indents. Holding it beside the envelop.

Passing a few quiet rooms until he reaches the family room where the grandfather clock waits for him to press the hands to have a passage slide open just behind the massive wooden structure. Climbing slowly down the steps he feels the weight of these sheets start to weigh more than the few ounces it really weighs. The woman he observed behind a screen seemed so reserved. A sadness he knows well radiating as she waits patiently for the master of this estate. To only be stood up and the woman’s facial features held no evidence of anger. She was already resigned for this outcome. This isn’t something he normally has dealt with. Anyone who has been in her situation has had a few choice words. Alfred the master of deflection promptly always leading the defeated individual off the premises. Yet, with Ms. Alexandre he offered her to a walk around the garden. The woman… he can’t yet say her first name. She declined the invitation. This letter is intriguing and holding some sappy dialogue. He remembers her enough. She and her older brother Collin. He was four years older than himself. Stopping at just shy of another five steps. Bruce exhales as a memory does permeate at how strong those emotions fill him. He had so much fun with this family.

Making his way to his chair in the cave he places the envelop on the console before sitting. Unfolding the sheets as a curiosity that is steadily developing. He needs to read more. Skimming the beginning parts that has been read but making sure to reread the last passage. She was on the run. He understands that the men who were responsible were never found and a lead into the investigation ended to another dead body. Doing the math, he finds that she was eleven when she disappeared from the medical institution that was caring for her. Making him a thirteen-year-old at that timeframe. Like she said, happy memories became living nightmares. He wants to know how she survived. A child alone in the world is no place to be. Beginning to read as he silences his mind allowing her words to speak for themselves again.

It took until I heard the from a radio on some ledge. A name I knew well from my early childhood. As much as a scared twelve-year-old could understand. I thought… I may not be so alone after all. Planning to meet up with the blue-eyed wonder. A boy of my dreams.

You left Gotham at fourteen to study abroad. You came back to England.

That is when I had my first tranquil dream. I woke up happy well as happy as a lonely child can get. As the eager me wanted to see a friendly face. It took some time. I found that academy. Looked for you. Kept from being noticed and I saw you from a distance. You were reading under a tree. I knew in my heart that was you. My nerves of introduction than faltered as I just watched. You have no idea how much of a foolish idiot I felt to be so close yet so far. That is when I heard those two boys taunting about you being an orphan. I fell to my knees to shed some tears. In my own anguish I didn’t see what happened next, but you weren’t sitting under a tree no more and I had to leave as it seems I brought unwanted attention upon myself. A few months later you transferred out.

She can’t be talking about… No. That is just nonsense. If this is true. He remembers a girl a few yards away crying into her hands. The taunting boys irrelevant because once an administrator came to the girl’s aid the boys left him with nothing but the usual taunt of being an orphan. He hated. The feeling of anger bubbling at the surface. He would have made things worse as fighting wasn’t permitted. She saved him the turmoil of getting into trouble. Her breakdown saved him and he didn’t even realize… he doesn’t know what he would have realized. Hindsight is that he’ll never know. Not until this moment. He thought she tripped and fell. He had better things to do than watch a silly girl get pampered for having two left feet. He had real pain to deal with. His reading session helped keep him out of his own mind.

He looks up records of an earlier time that connects to her. From waking up from a coma to her fifteenth birthday there is nothing. He finds that she is reunited with her uncle. Her education a priority. Records of her schooling pop up. No immediate pictures until… until she graduated medical school at nineteen.

Zooming the picture to take in her young face. She holds a smile but the smile never makes it to her eyes. She’s a doctor. He knows there is a lot more to read but he’s enchanted. Right now, he wants to see what medical field was her studies. He is surprised that she’s really focused on traumas. Saving lives in the field. This woman is becoming a pleasant enigma. Looking down to the unread sheets he picks it up again. He wants no needs more.

Since I knew I didn’t have the gumption I never tried to approach again. You seemed to prosper, and I seem to keep to the shadows.

I just lived in my dream recalling the few memories I shared with you. A time where I would gladly follow you and my brother around like some devoted puppy. That is until you pulled one of my pigtails to get a rise from me. I was around six and you were well it didn’t matter back then. I now know you are two years older. A concept a child like me wouldn’t factor in. It’s laughable as I look back at that timeframe. The young careless children we once were… I went to rebuff your actions for pulling my hair that is when you kissed me telling my younger self that I was to be your wife. Something silly that you must have overheard from one of our parents.

He huffs. Yet again. Placing the unread sheets down. His mind overactive as he can see one of those times as clear as day. Playing with Collin on the grassy hills of their estate. A beautiful English manor on top of hill. They were being followed by a bouncy pigtailed girl. She would follow them everywhere. Since learning to walk really.

He remembers a few tidbits of his parents talking about their close-knit friends in England. Telling him that Collin had a new playmate and how he was… he was jealous. Collin was his friend. They were going to visit soon and he’d have to fight for attention. Oh, that made him jealous. That is until he saw who his enemy really was. A pink little baby. A baby her mother softly placed into his two-year-old arms. He doesn’t remember much about it. He wasn’t angry or super happy for those memories to infuse deep in his mind. He just sees her as another member to the family. A happy family consisting of two loving parents with their young children.

He huffs again. How a letter can evoke emotions he has buried deep for so long? It is unbecoming though he is reveling on wanting more. He needs to see this through. He just hopes it doesn’t make him go through old trunks to find relics of his past. That would be too much. He snickers. He doubts that will happen. He’s beyond halfway through and taking a deep calming breath he continues on.

I remember a few visits to the Americas. You let me share your bunny until the last day of my family’s visit. You gave it to me. That is when I kissed you. I heard my daddy say he’d have to keep an eye on you. That was the end for me. An innocence lost. No matter how I try I can’t recall how many weeks or months from there before I became a statistic. A home invasion that made the headlines for some time. I will never recall those moments as I guess fighting for my existence was critical and I wasn’t meant to join my family in the afterlife. There are days I am jealous that they are free while I stay behind to mourn what I lost.

I wonder if you feel the same. They call that survivor’s guilt.

Yet again, he needs to stop. He has had many moments since the years of losing his parents that has made for some rough times. A sense of dread at the past he finds all these little breaks in-between reading has him cautious. The bitter sweetness of these memories. The still have a hold on him. Will always have a hold on him. He was an only child. He recalls it perfectly as they were leaving to go home. He looked at the bunny he adored. Glanced at the girl who he shared his prize with. Telling her how much this bunny meant to him. He handed it over because he saw how much it meant to her in such a short span and how she took to the stuffed animal. A nervousness in him at losing a cherished toy. He gave it to her. In a burst of happiness, she kissed him. Just a child kissing another. No harm of it. It’s the adults who mention a future.

A future he’s heard many times just from his father. That seeing her the mention of marriage was always over their heads. So much so that he may have casually called her his wife. It doesn’t help that Collin made kissy faces towards them. Childhood innocence pure and simple. Maybe if these two families continued to live on. Life would have… Life that was taken. There is no point thinking of what ifs. Only harsh reality exists. Bruce knows this well enough. He also knows by reading this letter so far. She knows.

I suppose there should be a point to this letter. To finally say why I am here and to get it over with what I’m asking for. Is that what you’ve probably been asking before even reading this letter? Memory lane is one thing but getting to the objective is what you just want.

You are probably aware of my cousin’s passing. He was a great guy. Good businessman but even better son and heck of a great cousin. Always going out of his way to connect to me. My uncle isn’t fairing well with his only child’s death. I am the only living heir now. He needs me to settle down.

I need a husband.

Oh, oh.

That’s right, what I am asking for is the sun, moon, and stars. It’s a huge request. One that I know you’d never take lightly. One I know you won’t accept.

My uncle agrees that the likelihood that my pick would not pan through. I still needed to ask. I hope you understand. Still in that satchel is my dowry. That is preemptive of what my uncle will also bring to the table.

I know it’s a lot to ask of you. To ask you to intertwine your fate with mine. If you got this far into the letter. Thank you. If not, why would it matter. I’d never know. You can rest assure you’d be free of me.

sincerely,

-Amanda Alexandre

He looks at the letter. Rereading about her uncle’s misfortune. Elliot was a good man indeed. They say the good die young. He is proof.

Hearing the power to the elevator he knows Alfred is on his way down. The young boy in his charge is still at prep school. Folding back the sheets of paper in a careful manner. It seems this letter is already a huge significance that isn’t something to tread lightly.

Turning to see the leather satchel in the man’s hand as he approaches.

“Sir, I though it be best to bring it down with me.”

“Alfred, I don’t know if I should open that.”

“Why not, sir?”

“It’s actually… It’s actually her dowry.”

“Master Bruce?”

“She wants marriage. Something I am not willing to even entertain.”

“I see.” Alfred still places the old leather holding what seems a dowry down before Bruce. “I should have it sent back though maybe its contents can share some light on Ms. Alexandre. She is a mystery after all.”

“I doubt that there is anything in there that will cast an interest.”

“I would believe that sir, if you weren’t holding that letter in that protective manner you seem to do with anything you consider important.”

Bruce shakes his head but looks down to how he really is holding the envelop holding the woman’s letter. Closing his eyes as if he has been caught being an indescribable child. Why does Alfred get to play him this way?

“I don’t see why she would need to show her worldly goods. The commotion of her being at her cousin’s funeral already stirred up an estimated net worth.”

Bruce flatly states, “Her being rich isn’t the problem.”

“You did stand her up. She may not be your usual taste. There could have been a spark.”

“Alfred.”

“I will not apologize for wanting more for you.” He taps the leather sack. “Are you not a little bit curious about why she would come here. Leave her finances with a practical stranger. Think you’d take a payout.”

Bruce shaking his head. He will put this subject to rest and open this bag and show Alfred that the woman is just the run of the mill socialite that wants a certain husband.

Pulling the tied buckles off and unzipping Bruce pulls out some notebooks.

“Not what I expected.”

Bruce placing a few on the console he flips through one of them and his eyes are wide. He also can take by Alfred’s intake of air that the man is surprised. Not in the wildest imagination would they ever think that this would be the conclusion. There are also some disks.

Alfred regaining his posture he looks at the younger man and clears his throat. He pulls out an invitation he carried downstairs with this leather bag. An invitation to a grand ball hosted by the man looking to see that his niece finds a mate. Bruce had no intention in going. This invitation was sent before… before she came here personally. Does her presence and the letter persuade him? If he weren’t the vigilante maybe he would entertain the idea. Now with this satchel opened to him. Not even that is an excuse he can use. She’s not just asking to marry Bruce Wayne.

“The gathering for this invitation is in three weeks. Do you want to RSVP?”

#bruce wayne #batman #original character #alfred pennyworth #fanfiction

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