CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The North Pier, Lancashire, 1895

“It is impossible to understate the importance of this promenade, my Lord,” Sebastian explained, matching Ciel’s walking pace to the centimeter as they walked down the cement, having exited the carriage a block away from the beachside pier’s entrance. Sebastian always remained in the same stride as Ciel, a fact that the Earl knew would only delight the demon if he commented on it.

Ciel had no desire to feed the ego of his condescending demon for a butler. Sebastian already gloated endlessly about his upholding of a certain ‘Butler Aesthetic’ that he’d created for himself the first night of his employment.

“You should tell her that her family always hosts the most inspired events, such as this—and you should be sure to show gratitude for her time. Dozens of men not unlike you would do anything for this opportunity,” Sebastian added, emphasizing his words purposefully when he caught on to Ciel’s lack of focus. His butler was correct: a promenade with Lady Y/n at one of TransAtlantica’s seasonal galas for its shareholders, business executives, family ties, and anyone from the business world who mattered. Every year, the shipping company rents out the entirety of the three piers, leaving its multitude of small shops and taverns open for the casual party.

TransAtlantica always picked a weekend that sat towards the end of the spring, the weather a weekend or two away from scorching the Earth. The decision always ensured the best weather—clearer skies, a light breeze, docile sun and seawaves.

Until this year, Ciel would send his regrets, in the same fashion as he would for the company’s fundraisers at the Langham Hotel each season. This event was too crucial to skip, especially after securing himself a promenade. A lot of Britain’s polite society—not just those typical of London’s social hemisphere—would be present. There were no dance cards restricting Ciel’s time with the heiress, and that meant he needed to be especially strategic with the time he managed to have in front of the Y/l/n family.

“I know,” Ciel grumbled. “The color of her gown brings out the…shine in her eyes, or something like that,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes to further his point. Another quick look around them assured him that there were no guests leaving their carriages blocks away from the entrance.

“And that cavalier attitude was what ultimately led her to all except rebuke you, sir,” Sebastian scolded, eyebrows drawing together in a brief show of frustration. “Make her feel as if she is the most important person to you—the deciding factor in which you succeed or you fail. She is just that, after all.” He said purposefully, mahogany eyes interrogating Ciel’s expression. The Earl kept his gaze resolutely forward, watching guests meet the Y/l/n family at the pier’s entrance archway, alongside a handful of the company’s executive board members. “We will be within their natural sightline in about fifteen paces, sir.”

Y/n was dressed sensibly in a light gown, the bodice appearing to resemble a man’s sophisticated white vest, which cut into a feminine design with ruffled short sleeves and lace lining the square neckline. A lot of her clothing tended to include a hint of masculinity—an effort to be taken more seriously in these executive circles, Ciel guessed. Her long blue skirts matched the clear sky, the shade matching the accents in her mother and father’s attire for the afternoon.

The Richmond Earldom always appeared as a matching set, stressing the importance of Ciel’s own apparel during these events. Lord Richmond, Y/n’s father, was searching for an intelligent man who could manage his legacy just as perfectly as his company’s prosperity. All of these simpering suitors could never seem to comprehend that they were vying for more than just a young woman’s hand. They were romancing a company and ultimately, Y/n wasn’t marrying anyone without her father’s approval.

“Remember, my Lord, I can only tip things in your favor so much when it comes to matters of the heart,” the demon lowered his voice, now that they were within earshot of the family, among the last few straggling guests stepping onto the pier.

Ciel fought the strong urge to roll his eyes at his butler’s joke. Tipping things. How cheeky.

Lady Y/l/n, Y/n’s mother, noticed Ciel first. Quickly excusing herself from the conversation she was entertaining, she aimed her publicity smile at him— Y/n always seemed to default to the same empty look without failure.

“Lord Phantomhive! How lovely it is to see you here,” she greeted, accepting Ciel’s hand in a firm handshake. Lady Y/l/n’s short lace gloves matched her daughter’s. “We’re all so thankful that you could make it all this way.”

“The pleasure is completely mine. You’ve picked an auspicious day for this gala once again,” Ciel answered, pleased with Lady Y/l/n’s social intellect. By greeting him so brightly, she had also caught the attention of her husband and daughter, allowing them to respectfully finish their current engagements.

Y/N Y/L/N

You watched Ciel enchant your mother with an entirely faux smile, not unlike the one you kept stretched across your glossed lips. He always managed to look painfully smug, no matter how he tried to soften his expression.

“Lord Phantomhive,” your father greeted, taking the Earl’s hand. He gave it two shakes, never one to waste words. “I understand you will be promenading with my daughter today?”

You flushed, now the object of Lord Phantomhive’s stare. You could also feel the craning necks of others around you, arming themselves with gossip about you.

‘Lady Y/n is promenading for the first time this season, with Lord Phantomhive!’

‘Do you think they will get married?’

You could already see the headlines. There were already peering camera lenses around each corner, the only warning being their blinding flash.

“If she wills it, we shall. A good day, my Lady,” it was your turn to offer your hand to the Earl, but not in a shake. Instead, he took special care in accepting your gloved hand and equally raising your knuckles to his lips and bowing his head to avoid moving your arm too high. His lips hardly grazed your glove.

“To you too.” You dipped into the shallowest version of a curtsy you could manage without being impolite. You hadn’t quite made up your mind about the Lord of Phantomhive, finding him to be contradictory. Sincere enough one moment, crude the other. He reminded you of a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together to make the complete picture.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste time in releasing your hand.

Lord Phantomhive righted himself, clearly attempting to dissect your tight expression. You suspected that you could see through one another as plainly quite easily, no more transparent than glass. You felt a small lump form in the back of your throat, as you were unsure how to proceed.

Unfortunately, your mother could also read you like an open book. “You’ve greeted most everyone already, Y/n. You and Daphne should join Lord Phantomhive and his butler,” she prompted in a gesture that was both helpful— and embarrassing. Particularly in front of your father.

“Right,” you answered. At the sound of her name, your maid appeared. Daphne was always close enough to be a call away—except for when she wasn’t, you thought about your first run-in with the Lord Phantomhive. Was he truly charmed by you from that encounter? You had been, admittedly, short with him because of how nerve-racking the situation was. “We will walk the pier,” you said, forcing your shoulders to drop. High shoulders suggested tenseness, which then, in turn, implicated anxiety.

You couldn’t help but feel the Lord Phantomhive could sense weakness. That was how breakout corporations like Funtom were made, weren’t they? With leadership at the helm.

“Be safe, please,” your mother gave your hand a meaningful squeeze and joined the rest of the guests with your father. Your stomach sank as if they had left you flailing in the middle of the cool sea beneath the boardwalk.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“Did you hear about the ferris wheel they are constructing here? Apparently, it is set to open this July,” Ciel said, breaking the silence with one of the many anecdotes Sebastian armed him with. While the Earl preferred silence whenever possible, apparently long silences unnerved the social butterfly in Lady Y/n. Sebastian had instructed him to keep a steady conversation flowing between them at all times—he’d hypothesized she would feel they were compatible intellectually, if he could manage.

“Oh, I certainly have,” the heiress answered brightly. “Isn’t it fascinating? My father and I visited Chicago’s Columbian Exposition about two years ago. The fuel source are steam boilers with underground main pipes that then funnel the steam into pistons that then power thousand-horsepower engines. It’s an enormous axel,” Y/n explained with an intriguing willingness and clarity.

She knew the intricacies of engineering? How curious of a young noblewoman.

“Did you manage a ride on it?” Ciel asked, not offering his arm to her. That would foil his plan, and he figured Lady Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it at this stage. She valued her independence—or the appearance of being self-sufficient, at least. Ciel had yet to make his final verdict of her disposition. After all, the rumors were that her father trained her with the same intensity he would have a first-born son.

“Heavens, yes.” Lady Y/n said, making a clear effort to look ahead as they walked and maintain casual eye contact with him. Their servants lurked behind them, Sebastian entertaining Daphne with some mindless chatter while picking her brain for more information about her mistress. “There was no chance I would miss that sort of opportunity, being up so high like that.”

“I couldn’t imagine it, myself,” Ciel answered. They spoke aimlessly, cycling through topics they had in common: they were each accomplished linguists, readers, instrumentalists. Y/n even claimed to be a worthy fencing opponent, of all things.

“You are half my height,” not even the Earl could fight the amused twist of his lips at the thought of Lady Y/n parrying his advance. The top of her head just barely reached his chin by a handful of centimeters. And that was in addition to her stately heels.

“But Lord Phantomhive, all warfare is based on deception,” Y/n answered, blinking at him guiltlessly.

“Are you quoting The Art of War?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow. That would insinuate Y/n was competent in Classical Chinese, since Sun Tzu’s piece hadn’t been widely translated into English yet. A language that Ciel had still been in the process of mastering with Sebastian. The demon claimed to have been ‘around’ when the military strategist created the ancient military treatise. Presently, he felt it had important lessons for Ciel to understand.

Apparently, Y/n’s father—or her tutor—were incredibly insightful to pick such an ancient text to add to her studies. That was quite an advanced piece of literature. Honestly.

”Yes,” Lady Y/n said, as if this was obvious. “Who better to reference?”

Of course she read it. And learned it well enough to have quotes on hand. She could probably recite it in its original language, Ciel guessed. That wasn’t an unattractive quality in a woman—in fact, he felt a dim respect for it.

“I also quite appreciate Machiavelli’s inspired piece, The Prince,” Ciel answered, finding himself confident that Lady Y/n might understand his reference.

Y/N Y/L/N

His remark made you smile.

Of course, you’d heard the rumors about Ciel Phantomhive, The Queen’s Guard Dog, King of the Underworld, Police of the Underworld. While most of the public could only speculate the sorts of private investigative work that Her Majesty requested of the Phantomhive family, plenty of rumors swirled in the absence of the truth.

You heard whispers of no one daring to cross the Earl, for fear of severe repercussions. Life-threatening ones. You heard of the uncertainties surrounding the fatal inferno that burned down the manor so long ago, killing his family. His miraculous reappearance two years later. Apparently, now the Earl Phantomhive was reportedly a hardened man, callous and willing to crush any opponent in his path.

“You find you relate with the Italian diplomat?” You asked, curious about Lord Phantomhive’s response. Did he read this body of work as a step-by-step to creating a tyrannical regime, or did he perceive it as a frank reading of politics and the nature of diplomacy? It had been so long since you had a proper discussion about such matters with someone besides your father, your tutors, or Daphne, and you were decently assured they were weary of your constant need for knowledge.

The Earl seemed to enjoy this type of logical sparring, embracing it, even. It left you…curious to have more. If not, interested.

Lord Phantomhive took a brief moment to reply, leaving you to appreciate the scenery around you. The sky was impressively clear, no hint of any clouds near the horizon. Seagulls wailed to one another, fluttering about the long piers and across the empty coastline. As warm as it was, the weather wasn’t quite hot enough for there to be beach galas.

The air smelled of salt, gusts of air determined to pull strands of your hair astray. They were certainly doing a number on the Earl’s raven hair, tousling it playfully. This whole promenade, you had walked away from the direction of the gala, and now, as you reached the end of the pier, the two of you turned around, starting back.

“I think there’s more nuance—” Ciel started, “are you alright?”

Before you could process your fall, you were face-first on the sandy boards. Your knee erupted in pain, your bare skin touching your dress. You must have ripped your stockings? How could you have tripped? You had only allowed your mind to wander for a second, and there had been nothing obstructing your path, either!

Not to mention, your balance was typically impeccable. You were no ballerina, but years of fencing helped you regulate your posture and weight distribution.

It was as if the wooden board had simply decided to loosen, give somewhat under your weight, and catch your heel between the planks in order to trip you! How peculiar.

“I’m…fine. I only scraped my leg, I think,” you said, more mortified than pained. Your face reddened as you accepted Lord Phantomhive’s helpful hand, dusting off the sandy front of your dress with the other. You forced yourself to give him a weak smile, looking back down at the flooring. The wooden panel seemed to be perfectly in place.

“I’m not sure what could have caused that,” you added awkwardly, releasing the nobleman’s hand.

You were thankful that no one else was present to witness such an unbecoming moment of yours. It was a contender for one of your worst moments with a suitor.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The panic in Lady Y/n’s face should have been enough to make Ciel regret his and Sebastian’s plan. However, he’d found it to be rather promising. If he could nail the proper response her ideal gentleman would give, Lady Y/n would feel vulnerable around him. That was key to making love inevitable. She might look to him for support going forward.

Of course she didn’t know what had caused her trip. Sebastian was fast enough to loosen the plank just enough for it to shift under her confident step and throw her off balance, only to re-tighten and return to Daphne’s side in milliseconds. Faster than a blink. That left Ciel to provide Lady Y/n with a helping hand, some validation…and apparently a young woman appreciated a man who could bandage her wounds.

“Oh dear,” Ciel said, his eyebrows drawing together in a construction of curiosity and concern. He ignored his own nagging thought that he sounded like his butler, swallowing down the embarrassment. He could feel Sebastian surveying his performance, having coached Ciel on this part of the interaction. “I wouldn’t wish for it to continue bleeding, you did scrape it,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I have a handkerchief.” He gestured to one of the pier’s benches with his chin.

“It truly doesn’t hurt,” Y/n attempted to deflect, still staring at the plank curiously. Of course, she was smart enough to know that there had been something amiss, but of course, smart enough to never consider the supernatural.

Judging from the way her fist squeezed at her side, the superficial wound stung more than she wanted to admit. There was likely sand around the injury or near it, only an added irritant.

Ciel merely met her eyes, asking her if she truly intended to push ahead in mild discomfort. Y/n surrendered begrudgingly mumbling a mildly unladylike, “Oh, alright.” Not always so untroubled as she seemed, was that it?

“You’re not in any other pain?” Ciel asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Y/n’s scrape. Daphne, unconicidentally, didn’t have any medical supplies with her. Sebastian had conveniently hid them from the maid to afford Ciel the right to tend to his intended.

“No,” she confirmed, cringing at the light pressure Ciel applied to stop the bleeding and clean the debris. “Honestly, the plank had a mind of its own, it feels like,” she mused, her tilted head racing for some logical explanation. There was none.

“And you are positive you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Ciel asked her, appreciating the ghost of a laugh that escaped her lips. That was the right thing to say, he could tell.

This battle of love was only growing easier. The Earl was growing confident, fashioning his dialogue to that of a novel protagonist’s. Bland and kind, slightly humorous.

“Positive. Unless I hit my psychotic break last week in agreeing to have you join me for a promenade,” Lady Y/n said, standing once Ciel tied the handkerchief around her leg tightly, stopping any more bleeding. “In which case, we might need some more urgent care.”

“Would it take another such reckoning for you to agree to meet me again?” Ciel asked, adding a new flair of seriousness to his voice as he righted himself in front of Lady Y/n. He took a quick moment to dust the fronts of his trousers free of sand before refocusing on Y/n, urging her for the answer he craved. The key to becoming an official suitor of hers.

One outing was a trial. Two was one step closer to serious consideration.

“No, it would not,” the begrudging grin at the heiress’ lips told Ciel that he’d offered her a masterclass in lying and deception. “Perhaps, the 1895 Grand National next weekend. My family loves to attend.”

Y/n Y/l/n was already inviting Ciel to the 57th renewal of the Grand National horse racing event? Perhaps, this endeavor was going to be easier than Ciel originally thought….