a servant of duty, chapter 3
May. 19th, 2008 03:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wellownedbkupThree:
The coffee Leigh has delivered is still piping hot, bitter and perfect for dispelling the last of the chill from his system. He has only a few moments to spare to read the missive from his lawyers, but what he reads stops him cold.
There is a time limit, it seems, on his betrothal. His father’s lawyers, useless sods, only found a letter determining the conditions of his espousal and marriage months after the old man's death. The letter was addressed to Anton in his father's hand, giving him only a year following his pater's demise to marry Emilyanne. A copy was also on its way to his wife-to-be, informing her of the arrangement and the circumstances surrounding it.
Anton tosses the heavy vellum back onto his escritoire, disgusted with the turn of situation. Did his father not trust him enough to handle matters in the right time? Barely out of half-mourning, and he must marry a child he can only remember in smocks and fussed about with nurses. Even the mystery he met in the rain bares no clue into why his father would make this deal, would force his hand on the matter. Time passes with each pacing footstep across his floor, a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with coffee and everything to do with this being the wrong way to inform Emilyanne about the arrangement.
He finally tears himself away to dress for the evening, not at all surprised to see his brother, fully dressed, sitting mutinously in Anton's personal sitting room. He is surprised, however, that Wills continues to glare silently until Anton has redressed and is tying his cravat.
"You did mean 'we' in the royal sense, did you not, brother?" Anton laughs and shakes his head, focusing intently on his pinning. "I thought not. It was rather pleasant to think so."
"We haven't spoken to the Darlingtons for a long while, Wills. It is a pleasure to accept their invitation and to visit with them once more." Anton holds out his arms and dons his waistcoat, rather flippantly avoiding his brother's gaze.
"And it would have nothing at all to do with this marriage business our dearly departed pater assigned to you?" He chuckles softly as Anton turns with horror-stricken look. "Leigh worries for you, Antonin. And I daren't think you would be averse to someone on your side."
"Why did you not tell me that you spoke with Emilyanne at Lady Hughes’ ball? Or, rather, why did you keep mum about this business to Emilyanne?” Anton is trembling, unsure if he’s angry at his confidential affairs being told to his brother, or some related matter that he has no wish to explore deeply.
He shrugs a shoulder and stands, gesturing Anton’s valet to continue dressing him. “It was not my affair, Anton, nor was it my news to tell.” He rests his hand on his brother’s arm after the valet leaves them, trying to reassure the older man of his sincerity. “It wasn’t fair for our father to lay this burden on you. To take away your choices.”
“We’re all duty-bound, Wills. Each one,” he sighs, and pulls himself together. “But we must be off.”
Anton cannot keep his eyes off of Emilyanne throughout the dinner. His gaze continually wanders along the soft curve of her jaw, the pearls at her throat that glow softly in the candlelight, the shadow blue of her dress. He can't help himself, but keeps the conversation with his dining partners flowing. She doesn't seem to notice him, though the way her eyes slide quickly from his tells him that she received something from his lawyers as well.
Though he watches her for a sign of how she feels about the 'happy news', he doesn't approach her. He yearns to claim her arm as they withdraw to the drawing room, to forgo the pompous talk of horses and lands and women that goes hand in hand with men and their port. He can even feel the sympathy in Wills' subtle glances as a tangible thing, a warmth that irks him as much as it comforts him, as she walks away with the rest of the guests of the feminine persuasion.
"She reminds us of Mother sometimes, though we never tell her so," Oliver Doyle says, coming up beside Anton as the door closes behind the ladies. The fellow viscount tucks his hands into the shallow pockets of his waistcoat with a contented sigh, looking like an awkward bird for all his plumage and stance. Anton nods noncommittally, and turns slightly to face his peer. Forestalling him, Oliver clears his throat. "I want nothing at all to do with our fathers' madcap scheme. It's enough that we have been apprised of the situation, and give you leave to marry when you've reached a decision."
"We?" Anton asks dumbly, struck by the no-nonsense blunt delivery.
"Simon and David know as well. We like you, Berrisford. You would be good for Em." His voice is full of conviction, like the circumstances surrounding the affair was fate as opposed to manipulation. Like they'd assumed he was joining their family all along. Anton nods, and joins the men at the table for word about the latest endeavors to put off the season in London.
When they rejoin the ladies thereafter, it's then the idea takes root.
The coffee Leigh has delivered is still piping hot, bitter and perfect for dispelling the last of the chill from his system. He has only a few moments to spare to read the missive from his lawyers, but what he reads stops him cold.
There is a time limit, it seems, on his betrothal. His father’s lawyers, useless sods, only found a letter determining the conditions of his espousal and marriage months after the old man's death. The letter was addressed to Anton in his father's hand, giving him only a year following his pater's demise to marry Emilyanne. A copy was also on its way to his wife-to-be, informing her of the arrangement and the circumstances surrounding it.
Anton tosses the heavy vellum back onto his escritoire, disgusted with the turn of situation. Did his father not trust him enough to handle matters in the right time? Barely out of half-mourning, and he must marry a child he can only remember in smocks and fussed about with nurses. Even the mystery he met in the rain bares no clue into why his father would make this deal, would force his hand on the matter. Time passes with each pacing footstep across his floor, a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with coffee and everything to do with this being the wrong way to inform Emilyanne about the arrangement.
He finally tears himself away to dress for the evening, not at all surprised to see his brother, fully dressed, sitting mutinously in Anton's personal sitting room. He is surprised, however, that Wills continues to glare silently until Anton has redressed and is tying his cravat.
"You did mean 'we' in the royal sense, did you not, brother?" Anton laughs and shakes his head, focusing intently on his pinning. "I thought not. It was rather pleasant to think so."
"We haven't spoken to the Darlingtons for a long while, Wills. It is a pleasure to accept their invitation and to visit with them once more." Anton holds out his arms and dons his waistcoat, rather flippantly avoiding his brother's gaze.
"And it would have nothing at all to do with this marriage business our dearly departed pater assigned to you?" He chuckles softly as Anton turns with horror-stricken look. "Leigh worries for you, Antonin. And I daren't think you would be averse to someone on your side."
"Why did you not tell me that you spoke with Emilyanne at Lady Hughes’ ball? Or, rather, why did you keep mum about this business to Emilyanne?” Anton is trembling, unsure if he’s angry at his confidential affairs being told to his brother, or some related matter that he has no wish to explore deeply.
He shrugs a shoulder and stands, gesturing Anton’s valet to continue dressing him. “It was not my affair, Anton, nor was it my news to tell.” He rests his hand on his brother’s arm after the valet leaves them, trying to reassure the older man of his sincerity. “It wasn’t fair for our father to lay this burden on you. To take away your choices.”
“We’re all duty-bound, Wills. Each one,” he sighs, and pulls himself together. “But we must be off.”
Anton cannot keep his eyes off of Emilyanne throughout the dinner. His gaze continually wanders along the soft curve of her jaw, the pearls at her throat that glow softly in the candlelight, the shadow blue of her dress. He can't help himself, but keeps the conversation with his dining partners flowing. She doesn't seem to notice him, though the way her eyes slide quickly from his tells him that she received something from his lawyers as well.
Though he watches her for a sign of how she feels about the 'happy news', he doesn't approach her. He yearns to claim her arm as they withdraw to the drawing room, to forgo the pompous talk of horses and lands and women that goes hand in hand with men and their port. He can even feel the sympathy in Wills' subtle glances as a tangible thing, a warmth that irks him as much as it comforts him, as she walks away with the rest of the guests of the feminine persuasion.
"She reminds us of Mother sometimes, though we never tell her so," Oliver Doyle says, coming up beside Anton as the door closes behind the ladies. The fellow viscount tucks his hands into the shallow pockets of his waistcoat with a contented sigh, looking like an awkward bird for all his plumage and stance. Anton nods noncommittally, and turns slightly to face his peer. Forestalling him, Oliver clears his throat. "I want nothing at all to do with our fathers' madcap scheme. It's enough that we have been apprised of the situation, and give you leave to marry when you've reached a decision."
"We?" Anton asks dumbly, struck by the no-nonsense blunt delivery.
"Simon and David know as well. We like you, Berrisford. You would be good for Em." His voice is full of conviction, like the circumstances surrounding the affair was fate as opposed to manipulation. Like they'd assumed he was joining their family all along. Anton nods, and joins the men at the table for word about the latest endeavors to put off the season in London.
When they rejoin the ladies thereafter, it's then the idea takes root.
