Top Posts Tagged with #nobility au

Deciding on the Duke

Title: Deciding on the Duke

Pairing: Duke!Steve Rogers x Maid!Reader

Word Count: 15.5k

Warnings: Modern day nobility, marriage of convenience, kissing, fluff

Summary: Y/N is a maid at Eaton Hall, one of the country residences of the Duke of Westminster. When he proposes something to her shortly after their first meeting, her life is flipped upside down.

A/N: I’m American through-and-through, so if there are details in this incongruent with how actual British nobility act or how their lives actually work, please forgive me. I researched as much as I could but in the end, this is all in good fun and I definitely took some liberties. I hope you enjoy!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Your hands smell like vinegar. Cleaning the railing of the private wing staircase is a weekly chore you’ve grown accustomed to, but the smell of vinegar is now a part of your personality. You could wear gloves, but it’s harder to grip the rags while wearing them, and if the railing isn’t shining when you’re done, Mrs. Cadden will make you stay late and do it again.

“This is ridiculous,” you grumble. You dunk the rag back into the bucket of diluted vinegar-water, then ring out the excess.

“What is?” Wanda asks. She looks down at you from five steps above. The two of you have created a strategy—she starts at the top and you at the bottom, and you meet in the middle when you’re done. You’re already a quarter of the way up, but you’ve still a long way to go before you can move on to something even minutely more enjoyable.

“Cleaning these! Nobody’s lived here in what, fifty years?”

“Something like that.”

“If they were smart, they’d just board up the place. What’s the point of maintaining it and paying dozens of people to keep it up and running if you’re never going to be here?”

“That is a fair argument,” says a voice from behind you.

You glance up at Wanda first, who’s staring over your shoulder with big, round eyes. Then, dread forming in the pit of your stomach, you swivel to look at them.

The man’s face is all too familiar. You’ve seen it hundreds of times, but you’ve never seen him.

The Duke of Westminster is much taller than he looks in his portrait. From where you stand, he looks to be over six feet. His hair is longer than in the painting of him in the saloon, though it was commissioned when he first inherited the title. He was in the military then, and both his uniform and cropped haircut had been immortalized by the painter. His eyes were painted a dull blue, but even from your place on the stairs, you can see that they’re much brighter in person. The shade pulls a memory from deep within your subconscious, but it slips away before you can grab hold of it.

For a moment, you’re frozen, staring at him with a gaping mouth and thundering pulse, but sense returns almost as quickly as it left and you drop into a small curtsy.

“Your Grace!” you greet, your mouth dry. You avoid looking at him and stare at the bottom step instead. “I beg your pardon, I was only—“

“Speaking with your friend.”

You hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

“You weren’t expecting me,” he continues. His feet appear in your line of vision as he steps onto the staircase.

You look up at him, confused. Why isn’t he reprimanding me? If he was Mrs. Cadden, my pay would already be docked, you think.

“Which is fair, given that I have not visited Eaton Hall in quite some time,” finishes the Duke.

Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you resist the urge to adjust your apron. Mrs. Cadden is always nagging you about wearing it crooked. With his gaze resting so heavily on you, you’re ultra aware of the smallest flaws in your appearance. He’s a duke, and it shows. He’s extremely put together. You’re three days past when you should’ve last washed your hair.

“Yes, sir. I mean, no sir, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I—“

“Your Grace!”

You stand a little straighter as Mrs. Cadden comes into view, her eyebrows disappearing further behind her copper bangs. The older woman looks equal parts surprised, horrified, and elated to see the Duke standing on the bottom steps of the private wing’s staircase.

He continues to stare at you for several long seconds before turning to greet Mrs. Cadden. As soon as his eyes are off of you, you adjust your apron and push hair out of your face, ignoring the damp feeling of your hand and the smell of vinegar that wafts past your nose with the motion. The rag drips onto your shirt. You quickly glance behind you at Wanda, who mouths a silent “oh my god” before she goes back to watching the Duke.

“Mrs. Cadden,” he greets, and she curtsies in response. Her own apron, tied neatly at her waist, is centered and straight. Her hair is pulled back in a clean, braided updo, just like it always is.

“Your Grace, what a surprise,” she gracefully replies. If you hadn’t seen her initial expression, you would think that she’d been expecting him all along. “If I’d known you were coming—”

He dismisses her thought with a wave and steps back down to ground level. You let out a breath, relaxing as the distance between you expands again.

“If I’d known myself, I would have informed you in advance, but my plans changed and it’s easier to stay here for the night than to continue on to Berkshire tonight.”

She nods and offers him an obliging smile. “Well, we’re very happy to have you, sir. I’ll have your rooms readied for you. Will you be eating in the private dining room tonight, or would you prefer to eat in the garden? Shall I inform the chef of any guests?”

“The dining room is fine, and no, there are no guests tonight.” He pauses. “Mrs. Cadden, are all of the staff still here even when I’m not present?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask why?”

She purses her lips for a moment, then answers, “To keep the Hall ready for surprise visits such as this, sir.”

He chuckles, and your shoulders relax a little at the sound. It’s warm and good-natured, and it seems genuine.

“Yes, that makes sense. Thank you, Mrs. Cadden.” He turns back to you and you try to wipe any emotion from your face except politeness.

“I never got your name,” says the Duke.

Mrs. Cadden is watching you with a sharp eye. Knowing this, you respond with a curtsy, then your name. When he looks up at Wanda, she does the same.

“It was nice to meet you both. Thank you for your hard work.”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he turns back to Mrs. Cadden and asks her about the gardens. She nods and leads him toward the nearest exit without a single glance in your direction.

You stand in silence, not daring to move a muscle until their voices and footsteps have disappeared entirely. Then, you whip around to face your friend. She scrambles down the stairs to meet you, leaving her bucket and sopping rags at the top.

“Oh my god!” you hiss.

“He’s even more handsome in person!”

“I’m so embarrassed.” You drop your own rag into the bucket, then press the back of one hand to your cheeks, ignoring the scent of vinegar.

“Did I sound as awful as I think I did?”

She shakes her head wildly. “No! You sounded really put together!”

“Really? Because it felt like—"

You hear your name from the bottom of the stair again and you turn to see the Duke staring at you from where he’d just been.

The blood drains from your face. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Come with me, please.”

Wanda finds your hand in an instant. She squeezes once before dropping it, but you don’t look back as her as you descend the staircase and meet him at the bottom. He nods politely to Wanda before walking off in the opposite direction he’d left with Mrs. Cadden.

You know Eaton Hall like the back of your hand. After working here for two years, it’s like a second home to you, though you wouldn’t dare be as comfortable in it as your own home in Chester. You’ve grown fond of the historic interior, and the gardens and conservatory have been a refuge to you even in the bleakest of weather. Working at the Hall has been a dream come true, but now you can feel that dream slipping away with every step you take.

The Duke leads you to his study on the ground floor of the private wing, an imposing room of dark wood, leather-bound books, and an immutable air of importance. It’s one of two rooms you’ve never been in, the other being his office. Mrs. Cadden has relegated the cleaning of those rooms to herself and one of the men who’s been working at the Hall for twice as long as you have.

“Sit, please.” He gestures to one of the chairs positioned in front of the antique Victorian desk and you sink into the leather without a word.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks, sitting down on the other side of the desk.

You lace your fingers together, clenching your hands tightly in your lap in an attempt to seem calm, cool, and collected.

You are not calm, cool, and collected.

“Two years, Your Grace.”

“Please, call me Steve.”

“I— I don’t know if I can. If Mrs. Cadden found out…”

She’s a stickler for the rules. During your second day at the Hall—and you’re fairly certain she only waited that long because your paperwork had taken the whole of your first day—Mrs. Cadden had sat you down for a long lecture about the importance of rules, respect, and the hierarchy of the nobility while working for any member of the peerage. You’d absorbed about half of the information before starting to disassociate, but you knew enough to say with absolute certainty that if she found out you’d referred to the Duke of Westerminster as Steve, even if it was just in your head, you’d be fired on the spot.

He considers you for a moment before conceding with a nod. “I suppose I can understand that. Can we at least dispense with the title? You don’t need to call me anything, not even sir.”

Reluctantly, you take a deep breath and nod. You could handle that. Not calling him anything wasn’t necessarily breaking the rules, just bending them.

“Good.” He takes a silver pen from the desk and uncaps it, then writes something on a nearby pad of paper. “So you’ve worked here two years. Have you been a maid the entire time?”

You nod again. “Yes, but I worked mostly in the kitchens and staff wing last year. I wasn’t allowed to work in the main part of the Hall or the private wing until I’d received more training.”

“And who trained you?”

“Mrs. Cadden.”

You want to ask why he’s talking to you about this, rather than her, but you know better than to question authority. It’s what cost you your last job, and if you get fired by nobility, you’re doomed. You’d never find another job in the area, let alone in the same field. You’d have to start all over again, for the second time.

“Do you enjoy working here?” asks the Duke.

You don’t answer right away, and that seems to be enough for him.

“If I could get you another job, what career would you be interested in pursuing?”

It feels like you’ve swallowed sand. “Sir, if Mrs. Cadden believes my work isn’t meeting her standards, then I—“

He holds up a hand to stop you and you close your mouth so swiftly your teeth clack. “That’s not why I’m asking.” A beat passes and then he continues, “It seems to me that you are a dedicated employee. Mrs. Cadden speaks highly of your work and your character.”

“Thank you, sir. I mean— I’m sorry. Thank you.” The sentence feels incomplete and entirely wrong without a reference to his title, but he nods in approval.

Despite your determination not to be nosy, your gaze shifts from his face to the enormous painting hanging behind the him, above the marble fireplace. The young girl has brown hair that brushes against her shoulders. Her white lace dress looks like it belongs in a museum, but you can tell that the painting isn’t as old as someone might think at first glance. Tall green grass dotted with wildflowers blows in the wind—an eternal summer, frozen in time with nothing but oil paints and varnish.

“That’s my sister.”

You quickly look back to the Duke, who’s now turned slightly in his chair to look over his shoulder at the painting. He gives you a small smile when he faces forward.

“Rebecca,” he adds. “Technically, she’s Bucky’s sister, but we all grew up together.”

“Bucky?” you ask, too distracted by the fact that he’s telling you about his personal life to remember what you’d just been discussing.

The Duke—Steve, you think, correcting yourself—stands and walks over to the far wall of his office, near the corner. One of the built-in bookcases holds a cluster of framed photographs, a framed medal, and a small wooden chest. On the left of the chest are several photos of him and a dark-haired man, both in full military dress. They’re spread out between three shelves. The rest of the photos are landscapes or grainy, vintage candids of a woman with blonde hair. One final photo, one that’s set on an eye-level shelf of the bookcase in the adjacent wall, is of a group of men in combat uniforms. They’re posing in two rows in a field, with the first taking a knee. The Duke stands in the back between the brunette from the other photos and a Black man who has an arm around his shoulders.

Steve picks up one of the photos of him and the man, looking at it for a moment before holding it up for you to see.

“Bucky is my best friend. We grew up together, and then we served together.”

You wrack your brain for what you know about your boss. Besides being the Duke of Westminster, you know that he is a captain in some branch of the military. He’s very rarely in Cheshire, and even more rarely is he in Lancashire, where his other country house is located. You’re fairly certain he spends all his time in London.

“I’m… sure he’s great.”

You shift in your chair, trying not to seem as uncomfortable as you are, but Steve seems to have caught on, or maybe he’s known all along and he’s been choosing to ignore your discomfort. He sets the photo back down on the shelf and returns to his desk.

“I have a proposition for you,” he says. When you don’t reply, he adds, “If you accept, you would no longer be employed as a maid here at Eaton Hall, but I can promise you that you won’t lack for anything, should the need be something physical or simply monetary in nature.”

The grandfather clock out in the hall chimes the hour and you wring your hands in your lap.

“Am I being fired?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Do you have any dependents? A parent or an older relative that you care for? A child?” He says the last word almost hesitantly, and you swear that his shoulders drop a little when you shake your head.

“No. It’s just me. Well, I have a dog?”

“I love dogs.”

You’re not sure how that’s relevant.

Steve caps his pen and opens a file to his right, then pulls out several papers. He sets one of them on the desk in front of you.

“This is a standard NDA. If you want to read it, you can take as much time as you’d like, but it applies only to the conversation we’re about to have. Once you sign it, anything we discuss is not to be shared with anyone, however, you’re welcome to tell people that you and I met. The subject of our meeting can be up to you, though I would suggest you limit it to topics involving your employment here at Eaton Hall, for both of our sakes.”

Slowly, you slide the paper closer and start to skim its contents. The legal jargon seems legitimate.

“An NDA? What kind of employment needs an—“ You stop mid-sentence and lift your eyes to look at Steve over the paper. You’d read about something like this on a Reddit thread shortly before applying for your position. It had almost deterred you from submitting your application, but you’d needed money for rent and you’d chalked it up to a rare occurrence.

Maybe it’s not as rare as I thought.

“Your Grace, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

You set the paper back down and stand, heat rising to your face. Your skin itches with embarrassment.

“I’m not— I’m not interested in any kind of… affair,” you tell him. You step to the side, then back up a few steps once the chair is out of your way. It would be disrespectful to leave without permission. If you can decline him politely while still maintaining your distance, you at least have a chance at keeping your job.

The Duke stands as well, frowning. “I’m not implying that you are, nor am I asking you to be. As I said, Mrs. Cadden has spoken highly of your character. I apologize for offending you, I didn’t realize what my request may have implied. I should have known better.”

His cheeks, ears, and neck are all flushed with pink, and his expression remains apologetic as you search his face. After a moment, he adds,

“Please, sit down. Let me explain, and then you can make whatever judgement of me that you’d like.”

Reluctantly, you glance behind you at the door, then return to the chair. You lower yourself into it. Once you’re seated, he does the same. He clears his throat.

“I’ve been back from my tour of duty for several years now,” Steve begins, the blush fading from his face as he speaks. “And I’ve found that the responsibilities of my position and title require much from me, more than they did when I was a boy. They leave little time for genuine socialization.”

You can imagine. You’ve googled him several times over the years, and the results are filled with photos and articles about his visits to charities, appearances at other nobility’s social events, and ceremonies that he’s attended in an official capacity. Unlike your friends from high school and college, his online presence seems to show little in way of hobbies, vacations, or even friends.

“I need a companion, someone that I can trust to be at my side while I fulfill all of my duties, but also someone that will be good company even in private.”

The Duke continues to talk, but your ears ring as you process his admission. A companion? He’s hiring you to be a… a sugar baby?

He says your name, his eyebrows pushed together in concern.

“No, thank you,” you say, your mouth working on autopilot. You stand again, and he follows.

“Please, you look ill. Please, sit down.”

He reaches across the desk for you but you sway backwards, then drop your weight back into the chair. The room is spinning and your body feels too hot. He’s speaking again, though his voice is muffled.

You blink, and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of you, between you and the desk, and his hands are on your upper arms. He’s holding you up. Without him, you would’ve tumbled face-first onto the floor, likely hitting your head on the front of the desk in the process.

“Hey, easy,” he soothes when you jerk back out of his grip, bumping against the back of the chair. “Take it easy. You fainted.”

You’ve never fainted before. You didn’t realize you could faint out of embarrassment.

“I did?”

He nods. “You’re still pretty pale. I’m going to call for some water. Have you eaten lunch already?”

You haven’t. Your lunch was supposed to be at noon, but you have no idea what time it is now, except for that it’s later than that. You hadn’t listened to how many times the clock in the hallway chimed.

Steve takes your silence as a no. He stands and reaches behind himself to grab the landline from the desk, then presses a button as he lifts the receiver to his ear.

“Hello, Mr. Byrne? Yes, could you please send someone with two waters and some lunch? Sandwiches are fine, yes. Thank you.”

Setting the receiver back down in the cradle, he silently looks you over again before propping himself up on the edge of the desk. He’s still within arm’s reach, but you feel like you have a little bit more room to breathe. You do just that, taking slow, deep breaths for several minutes until you hear a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Steve says.

You turn your head to watch as Mr. Byrne—the trim, older man who’s been the butler since long before you were hired—enters the study. The man glances in your direction for a split-second before he’s greeting Steve and setting a tray down on the desk. Steve tries to take it from him, but Mr. Bryne insists on setting it out himself.

“Will you be needing anything else, Your Grace?”

“That’s all. Thank you."

In your head, you thank Mr. Bryne for being the only employee at the Hall that doesn’t gossip. It’s pure luck that he’s the one who delivered the food, though you know that Wanda has surely told her husband and that Mrs. Cadden has likely already decided to corner you later and ask about your meeting.

You and Steve wait until the door is closed again, and then he twists to grab one of the plates from behind him. He holds it out for you and you take it with both hands.

After murmuring your thanks, you balance the plate on your lap and pick at the food, inspecting the sandwich’s contents while you wait for him to eat. You’re not sure if that rule applies to all nobles or just the monarchy, but you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day.

“Is it alright?” Steve asks, and then he takes a bite.

You nod and take a bite of your own food. It’s delicious, and quite possibly one of the best sandwiches you’ve ever had in your life. Whether that’s due to the actual food or the fact that you’d had a meager dinner last night and an even smaller breakfast this morning, you’re not sure.

The two of you eat in silence. Steve hands you a glass of still water when you’re halfway finished, which you drink in large gulps until he reminds you that smaller sips would be easier on your stomach after fainting. You reluctantly take his advice and go back to your sandwich, suddenly feeling self-conscious. You take smaller bites than before now that you know he’s still observing you.

“Thank you,” you say when he takes your empty plate and glass. He sets them back on the tray with his own, then stands and carries the silver tray over to a narrow cabinet near the door that you hadn’t seen when you walked in.

Steve is quiet for several moments. He takes his original seat, and you sit with your hands in your lap, anxiously waiting to find out if you’re free to go or if he’ll dare to continue your earlier conversation.

“Can I ask,” he starts, inspecting your face for any change in expression, or perhaps a change in shade, “Why you’ve said no without listening to the details?”

You wet your lips and look down at the rug beneath the desk as you formulate your thoughts. Finally, you answer,

“I’m not… comfortable with the idea of being a… sugar baby.”

The words feel clunky. It’s mortifying to say them aloud—you don’t think you’ve ever even muttered them. You can feel the scorching heat in your face again, but you force yourself to lift your eyes and meet his gaze. He holds it steadily.

“You wouldn’t be. Would you be willing to listen to what the position would entail?”

“If I say yes, do you still need me to sign the NDA?” you ask.

After a moment, he shakes his head and you’re treated to a small, rueful smile. “No. No, I think we’re far past that. I’ve offended you enough.”

You consider it for a moment. “Alright, I’ll listen.”

Steve opens the same file as before and pulls it in front of him. He looks down at its content for just a second.

“As my companion, your official role to the public would be my wife. However—“

“Your wife?” It’s a question and a cry all in one, and Steve has the decency to look both startled and sheepish. You sit forward in your seat, gripping the end of each armrest. Your entire body feels wound like a spring. “Marriage?”

“Please,” he says, holding up a hand, and you swallow thickly, forcing yourself to sit back.

“I’m sorry. I won’t interrupt again.”

“It’s alright.” He clears his throat and picks up a paper. Steve begins to read, not looking up again. “While we would be legally wed, it would be in name and role only. You would not be required to display or perform any physical acts of intimacy or romance with me, except hand-holding and taking my arm in public as necessary to keep up the illusion.

“As my wife, you would gain the title of Duchess of Westminster, and you would have access to all properties, including my private apartment. You will be allowed to make any one of them your permanent residence, though I would encourage you to share the London apartment with me, if only for the sake of both of our reputations.

“Your obligations would include any and all events held by other peerage members, charity events for the organizations of which I am patron, and you may select a charity or more to support as well, if you so choose. I would also request that you travel with me on occasion for my business and charitable ventures, and we would spend most holidays together, either here or abroad. If you have family members that you traditionally visit, we could discuss which, if any, days you wish us to spend with them.”

Steve wets his lips and flips the paper to read the back. Your gaze flits to his mouth, then back to the mass of print on the page in his hands.

“This marriage would be a binding contract. There has not been a divorce in my family for some time, and I would like to keep it that way. I don’t want to tarnish your name or reputation in any way, and I would hope that you would do the same for me. However, our marriage would end and the contract would be terminated in the event of death, infidelity on either of our parts, or if you reveal the contract in any capacity.”

“What if you reveal it?” you quietly ask.

His eyes flick up from the paper to meet yours.

“Very well,” he replies after a second. “I can add that, if you’d prefer.”

You nod. “Is there more?”

“Along with your title and access to the properties, you would be given a monthly stipend to spend on whatever you’d like. Any clothing needed for events will be provided, and if you choose to renovate your rooms in any of the properties, that will be paid for as well, within reason. At no point should any funding provided by this marriage be used to support another person. Your dependents, however—your dog, in this case—will be cared for, so long as they do not reveal the nature of our relationship.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem. He’s not very talkative.”

The comment earns you another small smile from Steve. “No. I don’t think it will be.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat and sets the paper back down on the desk. “There would have to be a wedding, and we would need to find some way to fabricate our pasts. I have several acquaintances that can help us gain positive press through structured appearances. The proposed timeline includes several months of dating with several of these appearances, followed by a planned engagement, then the wedding.”

“I don’t suppose you’d want people to know you married a maid you just met,” you murmur and he gives you a sympathetic smile.

“No. It would be suspicious, and the media would have a lot to say, particularly about you. They will dig, regardless of whether or not we play our cards correctly, so you would need to inform me of anything in your past that could be potentially harmful to our relationship.”

You rub your thumb over a hangnail. The smell of vinegar is still strong. You wish you could wash your hands.

“Such as?” you ask.

His focus on you is unwavering. “Ex-boyfriends or fiancés that might come out of the woodwork, former employers or co-workers that might want to stir up trouble, encounters with the police…”

You nod faintly, then look out the windows on your right. They overlook the gardens, and you watch one of the gardeners work for several moments until Steve says your name again. You drag your eyes away from the lush greenery.

“Do you have any other questions?” he asks.

Tentatively, you shake your head. “Do I need to decide right now?”

He closes the file. “Of course not. I know that this is sudden.”

“When do you want to know by?”

“Could you let me know by the end of the week?”

Four days. It’s barely enough time to make a decision about what you’ll do next year, let alone the rest of your life. Despite this, you nod, then stand and smooth your apron. Steve stands as well.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“Wanda’s likely moved on from the stairs,” you say, not moving even as he comes around the desk.

“Where might we find her?”

You know that if he walks you back, she’ll have even more questions for you. You need time to come up with a story, or at least satisfactory enough answers for both her and Mrs. Cadden. If you can’t tell them what really happened, you’ll have to come up with a convincing lie.

You eye the empty tray on the cabinet behind him. “Let me take the tray back to the kitchens for you. Mr. Bryne’s arthritis has been acting up with the rain. It will save him the trouble.”

“That’s not necessary,” Steve says, but you’re already moving.

You step around him and collect the silver tray, then head to the door. When you reach it, however, you stop short and turn to look at him.

“How should I tell you? What I decide,” you clarify.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning, but I’ll be back on Friday. Come see me during your lunch. If you’re too busy, I’ll find you in the afternoon.”

Nodding, you balance the tray on one hand and open the door with the other. You try not to look back on your way out.

The week passes slowly, but somehow you’re still surprised when Friday arrives. You’re too nervous to eat breakfast, so you pack two slices of dry toast in with the leftover stew you have for lunch, then leave for the Hall. By the time you clock in and tie your apron fastidiously around your waist, your nerves have only increased tenfold.

Wanda seems to materialize beside you as you collect your supplies to dust the saloon. You don’t look at her.

“He’s back again,” she tells you. She grabs her own tools. “Did you know that? You still haven’t told me what the two of you talked about in his study on Monday, you know.”

“I told you, he was just asking what I thought about working here,” you reply. You start walking in the direction of the doors that lead out of the staff wing.

“But you had lunch with him!” She hurries to catch up. “Vis told me that he saw Mr. Bryne bringing in a tray with two sandwiches and two waters.”

You don’t spare her a glance. “He felt bad that I missed my lunch. It would have been rude to refuse a duke, and illegal for him to send me back to work without eating. What was Vis doing in the private wing, anyway? Shouldn’t he have been patrolling the gardens?”

“He was, and I told him what was going on, so he peeked through the windows. Don’t worry, I don’t think the Duke saw.”

For a split-second, you think about asking if her husband saw you faint, but then Mrs. Cadden steps out of her office and cuts you off. You bite back the question and force a polite smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cadden,” you and Wanda recite.

She greets Wanda with a nod, then focuses her gaze on you.

“His Grace would like to see you in his study,” she says, and your stomach sinks with dread. He’d said to come see you during your lunch. It’s barely 9:15.

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply. “I’ll head there straight away.”

Wanda takes your dusting supplies without being asked, and you can see the questions in her eyes. You ignore them, ever aware that Mrs. Cadden is watching.

“I’ll escort you,” she says, and you nod in response, unable to say anything more.

She leads you away from your friend and toward the doors that lead to the private wing. You hurry to keep up beside her, straightening your apron and smoothing down your hair as you walk. You hadn’t had time this morning to do anything other than your normal morning routine. Though you planned on turning him down, you’d hoped to spruce yourself up a bit for your meeting with Steve.

“I expect that you’ll follow all proper protocols while in the presence of the Duke,” Mrs. Cadden suddenly says.

You almost gape at her, surprised that she’s reminding you. “Of course, ma’am.”

“He’s to be treated with utmost respect. He is not your friend.”

“I— I know that, Mrs. Cadden. I never thought otherwise.”

She responds with a quiet huff, as if your response had been impertinent. Before you can say anything more, however, you enter the private wing.

Steve is waiting for you outside his study. When you last saw him, he’d been in a pair of khakis and a teal dress shirt. He’d looked like nobility, and like he belonged in the Hall. Now, he’s leaning against the wall and checking his phone in a pair of black joggers and a gray t-shirt that you’re fairly certain is a size too small. Your pulse kicks up a notch when he lifts his head and meets your eyes. He stands from the wall to greet you by name. He bows his head, and you curtsy in response.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cadden.” He tears his eyes from yours and gives her a polite smile.

You can feel her looking between the two of you, but after a moment, she leaves and heads back the way you’d come.

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he opens the door to the study and gestures for you to walk in first. You do just that, staying silent as he closes the door and you both regain your earlier seats. After a second, however, you ask,

“Do the curtains close?”

“I’m sorry?” he asks, frowning slightly.

You point at the windows. “The curtains. Do they close?”

“Do you want them to?”

When you nod, he stares at them for a moment longer before standing and crossing the room. You watch from your seat as he tugs fruitlessly at them until you both freeze at the horrifying sound of a rip.

Steve stands poised at the window with one fist gripping the dark green fabric, and you sit gripping the armrests. After a moment, he glances back at you before releasing the curtain. It hangs haphazardly in the window, no longer a twin to the one on the opposite side of the recess.

“Perhaps,” he says, carefully stepping away as if his mere presence is what had caused the tear, “We could find someplace else private to speak, if that’s your aim.”

You nod and swallow thickly. “The stables are typically empty this time of day. All the horses are out being walked.”

He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Shall we?”

Standing, you follow him to the door, then stop as he steps in front of you to open it and gesture you through. You almost bump into him—you’re not used to people opening doors for you.

You know the way to the stables just as well you know the way to everywhere else at Eaton Hall, but you don’t dare lead him there. Instead, you wait for Steve to start walking, and then you follow a few steps behind him. After a second, however, he slows his pace to match yours, and then you’re walking together. You briefly consider slowing down to create distance again, but you have the distinct impression that he’ll just do the same thing again.

“Do you like horses?” he asks, and you glance at him.

“Well enough,” you politely answer. Truthfully, you haven’t ridden a horse since you were in primary school.

He doesn’t respond. You walk together in silence, with Steve only speaking to greet the few people you come across. Every time you pass someone, you can feel their eyes lingering on you. You don’t know any of them well, but there’s no doubt that they’ll talk amongst themselves and news of your walk through the Hall will reach Wanda long before you’re reunited.

By the time you reach the stables, your stomach is fluttering and your pulse has picked up its tempo. It feels more like you’re approaching a duel, rather than a question with a simple yes or no answer.

“I know I said that I would give you until lunch,” Steve says to you after dismissing the only remaining staff member in the stable, a boy who’d been hired on as a summer stable hand.

He continues, “Truthfully, I couldn’t wait that long. I’m impatient, sometimes to a fault. You should know that about me, before you make your decision. I expect there’s a lot of things you want to know.”

Reluctantly, you nod. “There are.” You’re glad he’s not pushing you for your answer right away.

Steve sits on a nearby stool. “Ask me anything you’d like.”

You consider him for a moment. You’re going to tell him that you can’t accept his proposal, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask him a few questions. It’s just a matter of choosing the right ones so that you don’t offend him more than you probably already will when you decline.

“Why me?”

He doesn’t look away, and his answer is instant. “You’re beautiful. That was the first thing I noticed about you.”

“That’s it? You proposed to me because I’m pretty?”

You can’t help but be a little bit offended. It’s a nice thing to be called beautiful by a duke, but it shouldn’t warrant a marriage proposal. Given the differences between your status and his, it should barely warrant a date.

“At first,” admits Steve. “But when I spoke to Mrs. Cadden about you, she spoke highly of you. She said that you were diligent and intelligent. She told me that you’re one of her most-trusted maids.”

Raising your eyebrows, you cross your arms over your chest. “You said that before, but Mrs. Cadden barely trusts me to dust. She’s made that very clear.”

“I asked her about your friend, too. Wanda? She complimented her, but not as highly as she did you.”

“So let me get this straight—you proposed to me, a perfect stranger, because you think I’m pretty and because my boss, your employee, says that I’m good at my job? That feels like the bare minimum, Steve.”

There’s a pleased twinkle in his eye and you realize that you’ve called him by his given name aloud. It didn’t feel strange or wrong to say it, and though you know it would be polite to take it back, you don’t.

He shrugs. “I can’t give you any other answer than the one I already have. I just know that I didn’t come to Cheshire planning to make this offer to you. I had the papers in my bag, sure, but I was hoping to propose to someone I knew well. Instead, I made the impatient and impulsive decision to propose to you.”

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

A beat passes. He continues to hold your gaze. “No.”

You look away. Turning a little, you look down the length of the empty stable, watching dust motes float in the rays of sunlight coming in through the open doors a few feet down the aisle. It’s the second day of warm sunshine this week. After Steve’s departure Tuesday morning, it’s either rained steadily or been so overcast that the threat of rain hung in the air all day.

There’s another question that’s been nagging at you ever since your first time in the study. It seems silly to ask it. It’s not relevant to his proposal, but if you don’t ask now, you might never know the answer.

“You said you grew up with your friend… Becky?”

Steve grins. “Bucky,” he corrects. “But I might start calling him that instead. He’ll hate it.”

“The mark of a true friendship.” You chuckle and turn back to him. “The painting of his sister, you painted it, didn’t you?”

His eyebrows squish together and a crease forms between them. The corners of his lips turn down a little, but you can tell that he’s more curious than anything when he leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“How did you know that?” Steve asks.

“The initials in the bottom corner. I didn’t recognize them from any of the art courses I took in university, and since the subject is personal, it would have to be a living artist, which really limited it down. Then I realized that it’s the same style as some of the smaller landscapes near your bedroom in the private wing. Mrs. Cadden told me when she first showed me around that the Duke of Westminster had painted them. I assumed they were from a former duke rather than the current one, but they’re yours, aren’t they?”

The stable is quiet for a moment before Steve replies, “Yes. They are.” He sits up a little. “I’m impressed.”

“Impressed? Why?”

“You have a good eye for art. I don’t think that Mrs. Cadden herself knows that I painted them,” he tells you. His eyes gleam with pride and you grin back at him.

“I was pretty impressed with myself, too. By why did you initial them as GR and not SR?”

“My middle name is Grant. I use it as an alias when needed, mostly when I’m traveling.”

You lean against a nearby stall. The horse’s nameplate reads “Nomad”, but the inside of the stall is empty except for a half-filled hay rack.

“What would my alias be?” you ask.

Steve stares at you, then looks you up and down. You force yourself not to fidget or move under his attention, but you can feel heat rising in your face. You clear your throat in attempt to compose yourself.

“Sarah,” he says, after several moments have passed.

“Sarah?”

A small smile softens his expression. “It was my mom’s name.”

The admission is unexpectedly tender, and your chest feels tight at the thought that he’d offer you his mom’s name as an alias, rather than the name of a stranger.

“It’s pretty,” you tell him, unable to say anything more, and he nods.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

Breathing in the scent of the stable, you turn your head to look down the aisle again. In the distance, one of the grooms is making their way in your direction with a large brown horse beside him.

“Why marriage?” you ask. You look back at him. “Why do you think that marrying someone is going to solve all your problems?”

“I don’t think it will,” answers Steve. “But, I do think that it’s easier to solve problems with someone beside you than on your own. Don’t you?”

You reply honestly. “Sometimes. Not always.”

“No. Not always,” he agrees.

The groom enters the stable, sparing the two of you a single glance before he guides the horse into the stall behind you. You shuffle away from it, apprehensive about the size of the animal, but Steve stands and approaches with a smile.

“How is he?” he asks.

“He’s doing well,” the groom replies. “His times are all great and we haven’t had any more issues with his back leg.”

Steve nods along, murmuring approval as he holds his hand out to the horse. It nuzzles his palm, snuffling and looking for treats, before Steve runs his hand down its neck and scratches its withers. The horse practically drapes its head over his shoulder and you chuckle at the sight.

“Come closer,” Steve says to you, though he doesn’t stop his ministrations to look back at you. “He’s gentle.”

“He’s big,” you reply. You step forward regardless, taking the place of the groom when he walks away toward the manager’s office.

“He’s sixteen hands.”

You don’t know enough to know if that’s small or large for a horse, so you nod and watch from the side as Steve pets and scratches the horse’s reddish brown coat. He murmurs to it, chuckling when the horse nickers in response to whatever he’s said. It reminds you of when you pet Scout.

“Nomad was the first horse I ever had a hand in training. We’ve spent a lot of time together, though not here. He’s only been here for about eight months.”

“He fits right in.”

Steve shifts, moving Nomad’s head away from him so that he can see you properly. He holds out his hand for yours.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

You frown a little, then tentatively put your hand in his. “I suppose.”

He takes it and slowly lifts it to stroke the horse’s muzzle, following the streak of white that starts just below its forehead. It goes all the way down to its mouth. The horse's coat is softer than you expected, and it stands still as you pet it, watching you with gentle brown eyes. You smile softly. Steve keeps his hand over yours for a few moments, then pulls it away and watches silently as you pet Nomad on your own.

“He likes you,” he murmurs.

“He’s beautiful.”

“Say yes,” Steve says.

The air around you shifts, and it feels like the stable has grown quieter. It’s just you, Steve, and Nomad. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t look away from what you’re doing. The fluttering in your stomach has started up again.

“What?”

“Say yes. Marry me.”

You don’t answer. He starts to say your name, and you pause, your hand resting where the white of the horse’s coat narrows to a few fingers’ width. The answer you’d practiced for the past four days is on the tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, it’s not what comes out.

“Okay.” You’re quiet, barely audible even in the calm of the stable.

Another groom enters and Nomad whinnies in response when the horse being brought in greets him, breaking the spell. You drop your hand.

“Okay?” Steve repeats. “As in—”

“Yes.” You turn to him and meet his eyes. “I’ll marry you."

It isn’t long before you’re caught up in the whirlwind of Steve’s life. You keep your house, but you end up spending most of your time in London with him. Though you decide to stay separately—him in his apartment and you under an alias at a local hotel—you travel together in his personal car, or in a hired car with a driver who speaks very little to either of you.

A host of men and women arrive at the hotel to meet with you every day. While you’d expected that you’d have to put in a little bit of work in order to keep up appearances and learn about the noble life you’re being thrown into, you hadn’t realized just how much about your life would need to change. Each one of Steve’s associates has a different specialty, and you’re taught how to walk, talk, sit, dress, and post online as a duchess.

By the end of your third month in London, your entire wardrobe has changed, except for your pajamas and the thrifted jumpers that you only wear at at the hotel. You’ve been given a new phone with a new number. Steve had also purchased you a new laptop, though that hadn’t been mandated by any of his associates, but rather something he’d done of his own volition. Apparently, mentioning once that your laptop was over a decade old and needed to stay plugged in at all times was enough to spur him into action. You’re careful not to complain about anything expensive after that.

It’s on an afternoon filled with meetings and instructions to follow that you’re slumped across the sofa in your suite when Steve video calls you. He’s not a fan of video calling—he’d much prefer a regular call or speaking face to face—so you’ve learned that video calls from him are few and far between, and usually worth taking. You accept immediately and sit up in an attempt to look more alert than you feel.

“Am I interrupting anything?” he asks.

He’s driving. Scout lifts his head when he hears Steve’s voice, but he settles back down to enjoy the last rays of sun coming in from the balcony door when you don’t acknowledge him.

“I just got finished with my duchess lessons,” you reply. You started calling them that a few weeks ago and it made him chuckle, and it still earns you a smile now.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

The idea of leaving the hotel is daunting. You turn to look out the window. It’s a beautiful November day outside, and you’d enjoyed lunch on the balcony, but going out to dinner means dressing up and acting proper for at least an hour, maybe more.

“I was thinking about ordering takeaway. I’m pretty tired,” you admit after a moment. “Will you be offended if I say no?”

He’s quiet, and you watch as he drives, then puts the car in park. He grabs the phone from wherever it’s been propped up and asks,

“Would you be alright if I picked something up for you instead? It will be faster than if you order it yourself.”

A little bit surprised by the offer, you shift on the sofa to sit sideways with your legs up on the cushion and your back braced against the armrest. The blanket you’d draped over the back of the sofa slides down a little and you push it back into place with one hand.

“That would be great, Steve,” you tell him. “Thank you.”

Steve looks fully at the screen. He’s in a light blue dress shirt, one you haven’t seen before, but the navy peacoat he wears almost everywhere now that it’s getting colder covers up most of it. His tie is missing. He’s likely taken it off and tossed it somewhere in the car after his last meeting. The last time you drove with him, there were three ties on the passenger side of the car, and you teased him about it for the rest of the week.

“Is there a specific restaurant that you want?”

You shake your head, then lean against the back cushions and use them to support your arm. Steve’s image is crooked now. He smiles at you through the screen, and you suddenly realize how good you feel when he looks at you like that, even if it’s on a video call. He makes you feel not just good, but important.

“I’ll see you in a half hour?”

“See you soon.”

The phone beeps and the screen shows that he’s ended the call. You drop the phone onto the sofa near your feet and close your eyes, curling up a little bit.

You’re shaken awake by a hand on your arm. When you flinch away from the contact, Steve moves back so you can blink at him a few times, waiting for your brain to connect. He stays crouching within arm’s reach, but clearly within your line of sight.

“Steve?” you grumble, pushing yourself upright. You squint at him. You’d slid further down the sofa and now you’re almost horizontal. You swing your legs off the sofa so your feet are back on the floor.

“I fell asleep? I’m sorry.” Rubbing at your face with one hand, you take a deep breath and try to push the residual sleepiness away.

“It’s alright. You clearly needed rest,” he murmurs. “I hope you don’t mind, I let myself in with the extra keycard.”

He stands and you continue to blink up at him as your vision refocuses and adjusts to being awake again. The room smells like hot, fresh food and your stomach growls in response.

Scout crowds around him, vying for pets and the food that he’s brought. Then sunny patch where he’d been laying earlier is gone, and outside the balcony doors, the sky is awash with rose and orange, and the city lights have begun to glow. A singular star in the upper right corner of the glass is shining brightly. As you look, a plane with blinking lights flies steadily north.

“I got your favorite,” Steve says, bringing your attention back into the room. He sets the bag on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa and pulls out two containers. He puts one down and arranges napkins and utensils beside it, and the larger one he keeps in hand. With his other hand, he scratches the top of Scout’s head, then behind his ears.

“Hey, buddy. How are you? You being good today?”

A yawn so big that you think your jaw might crack makes you pause before you can reply, “Thanks. I’m sorry I wasn’t awake to get the door, really, I—”

“You have nothing to apologize for. You were tired, you fell asleep. Everyone does it.”

You nod and reach for the container on the table. “We have a dinner planned for tomorrow, right?” you ask, glancing at him.

“Yes. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

As you inspect the food through the clear lid, he starts to head toward the door. Scout follows after him, clearly hoping to go for an evening walk. It wouldn’t be the first time that you and Steve walked him together.

“I’ll see you to—”

“Where are you going?” you ask at the same time as him.

Steve stops talking, and he pauses halfway to the door. “Home,” he answers, frowning.

Scout sits beside him. He looks between you, Steve, and the leash on the table to his right.

“You’re not… gonna stay for dinner?” You frown at him. You’d expected that he’d stay. It seems weird that he brought food to the hotel just to leave right away.

“You said that you were tired. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to entertain me or change your evening plans just because I was here. I only came to drop off your meal.” He holds his plastic container with both hands.

“Is that your food?”

He looks down at the container. “I… figured it would be easier if I just ordered my own food as well, yes.”

“Then stay,” you say. “At least to eat. It’ll be cold by the time you get home.”

Steve hesitates. You can tell he’s trying to figure out if you’re genuinely offering for him to eat dinner in the suite or if you’re doing it out of obligation, so you smile and pat the sofa beside you.

“I don’t bite.”

He smiles, looking just a little bit bashful, but he returns to the sofa and sits beside you, leaving about a foot of space between your leg and his. Scout follows, clearly disappointed. You make a mental note to take him for a long walk after dinner, and you smile at him as he lays underneath the coffee table to beg for scraps.

Maybe Scout needs lessons on how to behave as a duchess’ dog, you think, and you have to stifle the teasing comment you almost say aloud to him.

Once Steve is seated, you push the utensils and napkins to his side of the coffee table, then grab the bag and fish out another set. You peek at him as you pry off the lid on your container, only to see that he’s watching you.

“What?” you ask, freezing. You can feel the steam from the food on your hands.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Okay…” You draw out the word, giving him the chance to clarify further why he’s staring. When he doesn’t, you open your food the rest of the way and toss the lid on the coffee table, beside the bag.

You turn your head just enough so you can see what he’s doing without openly staring, all the while pretending to settle down with your food. He still hasn’t eaten, but he’s also removed the lid from his food and put it on the coffee table, and he’s grabbed a fork when you weren’t looking. It’s in his hand.

“Are you going to eat?”

“Once you do,” he replies.

“That’s… I don’t think that’s how this works,” you say. “I’m not nobility.”

“Not yet.”

“No, not yet,” you concede. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m supposed to wait for you to take the first bite.”

Steve turns toward you and you look anywhere but at his face. You’re trying hard to follow all the rules you’ve been taught. It’s exhausting and likely impossible. Plus, the fact that you’re now being caught trying to follow the rules is embarrassing. He’d once complimented you on your ability to pick up the instruction so quickly, citing the fact that it had taken him years to master some of the skills and etiquette rules you were learning. If Steve sees that you’re struggling with them now, he might change his mind and decide that you’re not as smart as you’d once seemed.

“You don’t need to follow the rules, not when it’s just us,” he murmurs.

You lift your eyes just enough to peek at him, but he holds your gaze once he’s caught it. Your heart skips a beat and you wet your lips, fidgeting with the container in your lap.

“But—”

“No buts. I don’t care what anyone else says. I didn’t ask you to do this because of your ability to follow the rules. When it’s just us, let’s forget propriety and relax.”

The fork in your hand is made of bamboo and it bends a little when you tighten your grip. You look down and stick it into your food before you snap it.

“Is that okay with you?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” you ask in response, though you don’t look up.

“I just want to be sure that you know I’m okay with you acting how you want. You’re not my employee. You’re not a maid. You’re going to be my wife, and that means you’re important to me.”

Someone out in the hallway disembarks from the elevator, and even from far away, you can hear the porter leading them to their room as he answers a question about the hotel restaurant. You watch the door, silently listening as they get louder and louder, then stop at the suite beside yours. The door is a little ways down the hall, but it’s still close enough that you can hear it open and close.

Steve says your name, and you turn your attention back to him. He’s looking at you apprehensively, though you’ve given him no reason to be nervous.

“Okay,” you agree, realizing you’d never answered aloud. “No more rules.”

He doesn’t reply. He continues looking at you for several seconds before he nods and takes hold of his fork again. You do the same. When he goes to take a bite, you release your fork and reach for the TV remote.

You can hear him sigh a little bit beside you, but he starts to eat as you press the button that slides the screen out from the cabinet. It turns on and you scroll through the different movie options until you land on one that looks vaguely interesting.

“Have you seen this?” you ask, turning your head to look at him.

He’s mid-bite and he blinks at you, then swallows hard. His head bobs as he forces the food down and clears his throat.

“What?” A quick glance at the screen. “No, I don’t think so. I haven’t watched anything in a while.”

“Really?” You press play, then set the remote on the cushion beside you and pull your legs up to sit criss-cross. “I usually put something on while I’m eating. I’ve seen most of the stuff on here.”

He doesn’t answer. You’re too hungry to care, and you preoccupy yourself with taking bites in between glimpses of the movie. You’ve already seen it, so you’re not fully invested, but when you finally look at Steve again, his dinner has been discarded and he’s watching the film with fascination.

Smiling a little to yourself, you set your empty container on the table and move his, too. You grab the knitted blanket you’d brought from your house on your last trip home and pull it over yourself.

Scout lifts his head. When you grab the remote from the sofa and pat the empty space between you and Steve, he doesn’t hesitate. He climbs up and settles down with the top half of his body in your lap and the bottom half in the space, though his tail is resting on on Steve’s thigh. Steve is so focused on the movie that he doesn’t react to the intrusion, so you press a kiss to the top of Scout’s head and whisper promises of a long walk after the movie finishes. He doesn’t seem to care either way once you start petting him.

At some point, warm from the blanket and Scout’s heavy weight on your lap, you doze off again. You wake with your neck aching from being tipped back too far and your mouth dry, but as you rub a hand down your face and look to see if Steve has noticed, you realize that he’s fast asleep. He’s slumped against the arm of the sofa with his cheek pressed against his fist and his elbow on the arm to prop himself up. His other hand rests on Scout’s back. One of his legs is stretched out so that his foot is underneath the coffee table.

It’s dark in the hotel room, except for the TV and a few lights that have been left on over the course of the day. Your phone is nowhere in sight, but a quick look outside tells you that the sun has been set for a while. Even the star you’d seen earlier is gone, replaced by a bank of dark clouds blotting out any other constellations you could’ve hoped to see tonight.

Scout clambers down onto the floor and you yawn, nodding at him when he whines. He’s long past due for a walk. Standing, you stretch your arms high above your head, then go up on your tiptoes, feeling the stiffness in your muscles from head to toe after sitting for so long.

The movie has stopped playing, but the home screen is still lit up on the TV. It casts a glow over the couch, Steve, and the remains of your dinner. You grab the remote from where it fell on the carpet when you stood and turn it off. It slides silently back into the cabinet.

The lights by the door are still on. You tread lightly across the room, ushering Scout over to the table where you’d left his leash.

“I know, I know,” you whisper when he whines again. You know that it’s been a big adjustment for him to have to wait to go out, rather than being able to access the back garden of your house most of the day. He doesn’t know why the change has happened, and you’re proud of him for being so well-behaved despite all the changes and all the strangers he’s dealt with over the past few months.

“I’m sorry, baby. I fell asleep.” You crouch down to clip the leash to the ring on his collar, scratching behind his ears and kissing the top of his head once it’s secure. “You’re being so good, I’m so proud of you.”

“Where are you going?”

You jump a little at the sound of Steve’s voice. Looking back at the sofa, you watch as he sits up and rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he yawns. When he drops his hand, he glances first at you, then Scout. He stands.

“I can take him out for you,” Steve says.

Standing back up with the leash in your hand, you shake your head. “It’s late. You should get home, Steve.”

“It’s dark out. You shouldn’t be going out all by yourself.”

“I’ve been doing this for years. I’ll be just fine.” It’s true. Before you’d lived in the house in Chester with the back garden, you’d shared a flat with another girl and you’d walked Scout to a park down the street several times a day, rain or shine.

He shakes his head and comes over, grabbing his phone from the coffee table on the way. He tucks it into his pocket, then opens the closet near the door and pulls out your coat.

“It’s cold and it’s raining. At least let me walk you downstairs.”

You watch as he holds the coat up and moves to stand behind you. After a second, your brain cues you and you stick your free hand into one arm hole, then shift the leash to your other hand to do the same on the other side. It’s strange to have someone be so thoughtful after years of living by yourself and doing everything independently.

But it’s not so bad, you think as Steve pulls on his own coat. When he’s buttoned it, he opens the door for you.

You walk into the hallway with him close behind, but he slips in front to press the elevator button. He lets you take the lead when you enter the elevator, then he does the same when you reach the ground floor. Thanks to the late hour, the lobby is empty except for the front desk staff, and as you approach, the doorman opens the door for the three of you. It’s a practiced dance of manners and chivalry that you’re still not accustomed to even after several months, but when you don’t startle when Steve puts an arm out to gesture you through the door first, a small part of you thinks that you might finally be getting the hang of it.

You give Scout a little bit more leeway when you finally make it outside. Steve had been right—it’s raining, but it’s only a drizzle. Still, you tug your hood up with your free hand. When it gets stuck halfway, he pulls it up the rest of the way.

“Thank you.”

He nods and moves to stand on the other side of you, closer to the street. When the valet approaches to ask if he needs his car, he shakes his head.

“Did you like the movie?” you ask when the man goes back to his stand. Scout pulls a little on the leash. “I’m sorry, he really needs to go.”

“We can walk,” Steve says. He gestures down the road and you eye him for a second, then concede and start walking in the direction of the park. He walks between you and the row of cars parked along the curb. “The movie was good. You have good taste.”

“Thanks…” You pause to let Scout sniff a pile of leaves, but cue him on when he looks particularly interested in a fast food wrapper that’s fallen on the pavement and gotten mixed in. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good company tonight.”

Steve sticks his hands in the pocket of his peacoat. “You have nothing to apologize for. I like being around you, even if we’re not doing anything.”

What am I supposed to say to that?

You reach the park only a minute later, and you’re thankful for the distraction that Scout brings. The lamps are on, illuminating almost all but the darkest corners, but you can feel Steve’s presence beside you like a shield. Before, walking Scout at night was something you had done only out of necessity. You’d convinced yourself that it wasn’t scary and that you were strong enough and prepared enough to handle anything that might come your way, but with Steve by your side, you realize that being truly safe is a completely different feeling. He’s capable of keeping both you and Scout safe, if it comes down to it.

You let out a breath and drop your shoulders. Steve is still standing close beside you, and when you peek at him, you can see that he’s scanning the park. He must feel your gaze, however, because like a magnet, his eyes are pulled to yours. He smiles slightly before both of your attentions are caught by Scout kicking at the dirt behind him in a poor attempt to bury his own waste.

“I’ve got it,” Steve says as you pull a plastic bag from the dispenser on the leash.

“Really, Steve, I can—”

But he’s already taking the bag from your hands, crouching down, and cleaning up after Scout. You watch in subdued horror as the Duke ties up the poop bag and looks around for a bin to put it in. When he finds one, you stay rooted in place while he throws out the bag.

“Ready?” he asks once he’s back.

You swallow thickly and look down at Scout, who’s moved on to sniffing a bush nearby.

“Ready.”

The rain falls steadily all the way back to the hotel. You reach the doors right as it starts to pour, and you let Steve usher you and Scout under the canopy with a short laugh.

“I guess we’ve got good timing,” you say, and he smiles. For a second, you think that he’s been smiling almost every time you’ve looked at him tonight. It’s a far cry from the serious man you’d first met at the Hall.

“I guess so.” His eyes drift to the valet, who’s watching from the podium near the far corner of the canopy. He raises a hand at them and the man nods, then pulls up his hood and hurries off to retrieve Steve’s car.

“So… I’ll see you tomorrow?” you ask.

Say something else, Steve, you silently plead. Don’t say goodnight just yet.

He hums a little and searches your face, his expression suddenly serious. One of his hands fidgets with the hem of your coat and you look down at it, then back up at his face.

You frown. “Steve?”

His hand moves to push your hood down and you stare at him in confusion. Your face feels warm despite the coolness of the rain and night air. Scout steps on your foot, but you ignore him.

“Steve, are you—”

He’s kissing you. His hand moves from your hood to cradle your face, and his fingers weave into your hair near the back of your head.

Though you’re surprised, you don’t push him away. Instead, you close your eyes and lean into his warmth. One of your hands clutches the wool of his jacket, and the other goes up to hold onto his arm. Scout’s leash bumps against his side and he ignores it.

You haven’t kissed until now. Steve, you’ve learned, is concerned with making you comfortable almost as much as he’s concerned about his public image, and he’s kept the PDA to a minimum while you’ve been getting to know each other. You’ve hugged once. You’ve held his hand twice—once while walking through a museum gallery and once in the car, right before your first official outing together. You’d asked if you could practice, and he’d obliged. This, however, doesn’t feel like practice.

His kiss is warm and soft. There’s a coolness for a moment at the beginning, from the rain that had fallen on his face, but it’s gone almost immediately, replaced with a heat that grows as his lips move against yours. Steve doesn’t make you feel rushed; his kiss doesn’t ask too much of you, and though your heart skips a beat inside your chest and urges you, telling you to go, go, go, his touch steadies you. You could live in this moment forever, just you and him, and the pressure of Scout leaning against your leg.

When he pulls away, you rock back on your heels a little, and you feel his free hand at the small of your back, steadying you. His breath is hot and you open your eyes to find his face only inches away from your own. His eyes, though not the bright electric blue like you’d first thought on the staircase, still remind you of your trips to the ocean as a kid. You’d imagined the crystalline blue held buried pirate treasure and mythical creatures of all sorts. Your heart is galloping, making you feel just as giddy now as you had back then. If his eyes were the ocean, then you couldn’t wait to find out what buried treasure hid beneath his surface. His kiss has assured you of that.

You duck your head a little in an attempt to compose yourself, heat rising even further in your cheeks. His fingers slide from your hair and he crooks one under your chin to lift it so that he can look you in the eyes again. The rain continues to pound on the canopy above you.

“Was that alright?” he murmurs. His eyes flit across your face, lingering briefly on your lips. “I should have asked first.”

You shake your head as he drops his hand from your chin. His other hand stays put on your back, and when you glance down, you realize he’s scratching a now bereft Scout on the head with his free hand.

“I’m okay,” you promise. “You just surprised me. That was… It was more than alright, Steve.”

The light from the hotel entrance is enough for you to see that his face is flushed pink all the way down to the collar of his dress shirt. You have to hide your smile of satisfaction, knowing that you’re the one that caused it.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Steve admits. He keeps his voice low enough so that only you can hear it, even though you’re alone under the canopy. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since that day in the stable when you agreed to marry me.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

You tuck yourself against him when a cold wind picks up, and you try not to shiver for a different reason when he cradles the back of your head in his hand and presses a kiss to the top. You don’t stop the smile that forms on your face when you press it against the wool of his coat. Even through the heavy fabric, you can feel his heat, and it warms you to your core.

Behind him, the valet pulls his car up to the edge of the canopy. You listen as the man climbs out and stands a few polite meters away. He holds a large gray umbrella to usher Steve to the car door.

Reluctantly, you pull away and guide Scout away from his legs.

“See you tomorrow,” you tell him. Your cheeks ache from the breadth of your smile.

Steve is still smiling something soft and your stomach flutters a little at the way his eyes linger on you. “Sweet dreams.”

He turns and takes the key from the valet before heading to the driver’s seat. The valet has to stretch his arm almost its full length to keep the umbrella over Steve’s head. Steve stops beside the car door, watching as you give him a small wave and lead Scout inside. You hear the door open and close as the doorman welcomes you back into the lobby with a polite nod.

Your bridal suite is quite possibly the busiest room you’ve ever been in, and unfortunately, you’re at the center of all of it. The attention is overwhelming, and as you sit and wait for the photographer to finish with your dress, you slip out your phone.

You have seven notifications, all from Wanda. She wasn’t allowed to be a party of the bridal party, but Steve had assured you that she and any of your other friends that you wanted present would have seats at the ceremony and any other festivities. Ever since she’d arrived in London the week before, you’d spent every moment possible together, and she’d promised you live updates and critiques of all the other guests at the wedding today. She hasn’t disappointed.

You’re zooming in on a picture of a woman in a hat with feathers so large it blocked three peoples’ faces when the screen changes to alert you of an incoming video call from Steve. Glancing around the room, you check to make sure you’re not being watched before you sneak into the enormous bathroom and lock the door behind you. For extra measure, you sit on the bench in the spacious walk-in shower that’s out of sight from the door.

“Steve!” you exclaim once the call connects, being mindful of your volume. “It’s bad luck to see the bride on your wedding day, you know.”

He’s flanked by Sam and Bucky, who both look equally pleased with themselves. Steve looks more irritated than anything, but his expression lightens considerably at the sound of your voice.

“I just wanted to call and check on you,” he replies. He shoves Bucky out of his personal space, then does the same to Sam as he continues, “But these two idiots decided my business was theirs.”

You laugh and lean against the cold tile wall. It feels good. You’ve been overheated since you woke up, and the crowded suite isn’t helping. The quiet of the bathroom feels like a miracle.

“I’m okay.”

“Just okay?” Sam asks from somewhere out of view. “It’s your wedding day!”

Your smile falters a little bit. You have the brief thought that maybe you’ve messed up somehow already by not feeling the way you should, but Steve speaks up before the thought can spiral any further.

“Nat texted me. She said it’s pretty overwhelming over there.” His voice soothes your worry immediately and you nod.

Princess Natasha of York, Steve’s closest female friend, first interjected herself into your life two months ago. They’d grown up together, but you’d instantly decided that you loved her, and you'd formed a fast friendship. Her work makes it hard for you and Steve to spend time with her, but she’d managed to find a place for herself in your bridal suite this morning, and you were immediately grateful that she’d been the one to wake you. You have the feeling, now that you’re talking with Steve, that he’d had a hand in it.

“She’s the only thing keeping me sane,” you tell him. “And you.”

He gets up and walks into another room, closing the door behind him as Sam and Bucky call after him. “I wanted to talk to you before we get any further into this.”

Your stomach twists. “Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “No, nothing. I just wanted to make sure you had the opportunity to back out of this one last time. You don’t have to do this if it’s not what you want.”

“Why would I want to back out?” He doesn’t answer and you sit up on the bench. “Steve, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I don’t want you to feel forced into this,” he finally says, his voice hushed.

You know that he hasn’t told either of his friends about your deal, not just because it’s part of the contract, but because you know he’s embarrassed about it. Everyone thinks that the two of you met when you’d run into each other after you initial interview to be a maid, only to discover that you had several mutual friends. The only people that probably know the truth are the employees at Eaton Hall, all of whom had to sign NDAs before your engagement was announced. Wanda hasn’t spoken a word about it, though you know she has a million questions she’s dying to ask.

“I don’t. I don’t, Steve, I promise.”

“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“How can I be unhappy when I’m marrying the man I love?” you quietly reply.

His eyes widen slightly on the screen. “What?”

“I said, how can I be unhappy when I’m marrying the man I love?”

This time, you smile. The words come easily, as does the smile. You couldn’t quell them if you tried. You’ve said them in your head before, probably a dozen or so times, but you’ve never had the courage to say them aloud, especially not to him.

“You love me?” he asks. He sounds absolutely bewildered.

“Yes, Steve,” you say, still smiling. “I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

He shakes his head, a bit frantic. “No, no, sweetheart. It’s okay. I love you, too.”

“You do?”

His surprise has started to fade. It’s being replaced with a smile, the same heart-stopping smile that made you start falling for him in the first place. You’ve learned that it’s not easy for many people to earn it, but Steve is generous with you.

“I do,” he replies.

Someone knocks on the bathroom door and you look up from your phone.

“Get off the phone!” Natasha calls through the door, and you grin even wider, looking back at the screen. Steve grins back at you.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” you yell.

She knocks again, this time louder. “Don’t make me pick the lock!”

“Does she know how to do that?” you ask Steve, and he laughs, nodding.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” you echo.

He ends the call and you tuck the phone back into the pocket of your robe, then stand. Natasha is about to knock for a third time when you open the bathroom door.

She eyes you carefully. “Were you just on the phone with Steve?”

“He was just checking in on me, that’s all,” you tell her. You’re still grinning, you can’t help it, and the makeup artist waves you over with a smile of her own.

“You’re glowing, Your Grace,” the woman says as you settle in the chair.

You let her buzz around you as Natasha comes to stand nearby, just out of arm’s reach.

“Was it a phone call or a video call?” she asks you.

“Steve hates video calls.”

“Not when it’s you,” she counters.

You’re still smiling even as you close your eyes for the artist. You have the same giddy feeling you did the night that Steve kissed you outside the hotel. It’s welling up inside of you, and you don’t know how you’re going to let it out without being too obvious.

It’s my wedding day, you remind yourself. People expect me to be ridiculously in love.

“He video calls you almost every time he wants to talk to you,” says Nat. “It’s a well-known fact.”

“Is it?” you ask. The words are a poor attempt at playing it cool, but you both know that you could never fake anything well enough to fool her, not when it comes to Steve.

She’s quiet for a moment and you open your eyes when the makeup artist steps away. After a second, she smiles.

“He loves you a lot, you know. Otherwise, he wouldn’t.”

Your smile widens, which hadn’t seemed possible only moments ago. You can feel the heat in your cheeks. “I know. I love him too. I wouldn’t marry him if I didn’t.”

She nods. When someone calls her name, she looks toward the entrance to the suite. Her younger sister is standing in the open doorway.

“I need to go,” she tells you. “But I’ll find you later, and I can tell you lots of embarrassing stories about Steve. I was hoping to get some in this morning, but we’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

“I’m counting on it!” you reply with a laugh.

It isn’t until you’re at the front of the cathedral, standing beside Steve, that you begin to get nervous. You’re not nervous about marrying Steve, you’re nervous about filling a role that most people spent their whole lives preparing for you. You’ve spent less than a year.

You glance at Steve, who’s dressed auspiciously in his dress blues, and find that he’s staring straight ahead without a hint of a smile. His posture is ramrod straight. He’s never looked so imposing.

He’s nervous too, you realize, and you look forward again. But about what?

The priest continues on with the ceremony, not acknowledging your twin expressions. No doubt he’s seen plenty of nervous couples on their wedding days. When he offers you both an empathetic look, your thoughts are confirmed.

When he cues you to face each other, you meet Steve’s eyes as he takes your hands in his. His shoulders relax, but he doesn’t smile.

“I, Steven Grant Rogers,” he says. He says the rest of the vows after the priest, repeating line after line in a clear voice, but all you can focus on is the way his thumb is rubbing the back of your hand.

“Your Grace?”

Steve squeezes your hands and you blink, then look at the priest. You’re not used to being referred to by your new title yet and you silently scold yourself for already messing up.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and you clear your throat before beginning your own vows. You meet Steve’s eyes again as you do, and when he finally smiles, you can’t help but smile back.

For a moment, he’s all that exists. You can ignore the priest and the choir, and all the guests both known and unknown. You can ignore the weight of the duties that will be yours soon enough, as well as all the make-believe you’ve played since you signed the contract in his study almost a year ago. All that matters is Steve.

At some point, you slip a ring onto his finger and he does the same for you. You’re so delighted that you almost miss the priest concluding the ceremony. Steve seems to know what’s going through your head, however, because he squeezes your hands and guides you to turn toward the guests again. The choir and guests all stand, and the organ begins to play. You take your bouquet when it’s handed to you, and then you process back down the aisle at his side. He ushers you the whole way, taking special care not to step on your dress.

When you make it outside, the cathedral bells peal for everyone to hear, and the gathered crowd cheers. You look at Steve and almost drown in the joy on his face. He’s smiling wide when you both stop at the top of the steps.

The kiss he gives you isn’t a surprise. His arm winds around your waist and you cling to him, using him as your anchor in the noise and the overwhelming happiness welling up inside of you. You can feel the way he smiles into it, just like you do, and his fingers grip your dress enough that the fabric moves under his fingers. You hold onto your bouquet with one hand, but the other one still holds onto his.

“We’re married!” you cry, pulling away when your smile makes it too hard to kiss him. You laugh. “We’re married!”

“Yes, we are,” Steve replies. He helps you down the steps and you walk down the aisle formed by the crowd, ducking under the flurry of rose petals that are tossed into the air.

You’re ushered into the backseat of a waiting car, first you, then Steve from the other side. Once the car starts to move and you have the privacy of tinted windows, he undoes the buttons of his jacket, pulls you against his hip, and kisses you again, this time more fervently than on the steps. You lean into him, humming your satisfaction when his hand brushes against your face, then your shoulder and upper arm.

“We have pictures,” you tell him, pulling away. Your heart is racing in your chest and you grab his hand when he goes to pull you back into him. “I don’t want them to have to redo my makeup.”

“It’s just makeup,” he replies.

You adjust the skirt of your dress so that it’s not crushed from sitting so close to him. He helps you after a second, moving the fabric and then shifting the position of his feet so you have more room. When your bouquet starts to slide onto the floor of the car, he grabs it and holds onto it until you can take it back. You set it carefully on the seat beside you, mindful of the tiny buds and blossoms that someone had gathered for you from the Hall’s extensive garden.

“I know, but it’ll take time, and then we’ll have to wait even longer before we can really celebrate.” You lace your fingers with his so that your hand is on top, with both resting on his thigh. Your wedding band glints a little in the light coming in through the car windows. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

He’s smiling. It feels like neither of you have stopped since the priest announced you as a couple, and you laugh a little, pulling him in for one more kiss. You peck his lips, lingering only for a moment.

“I love you,” you say.

He squeezes your hand. “I love you too.”

“I’m glad you picked me.” You lean your head against his shoulder, then lift it again when you remember the tiara nestled in the elaborate updo someone had done that morning.

“I don’t think I could’ve picked anyone else,” Steve replies, his voice quieter. The sound of the crowds has faded slightly, but you still look at him when he lowers his voice. His smile has faded into something just as joyful as before, though there’s a softness to it that you know well. It’s something he’s reserved only for you.

“I think I would’ve spent the rest of my life thinking about you if I hadn’t come back to the stairs,” he says. “I wouldn’t have been able to get you out of my head.”

“You would’ve come around again to see me,” you tease, and he chuckles, slouching down in the seat just enough that his jacket wrinkles.

“Yes, I would have. I would have looked for you every single day until I felt I’d had my fill of looking at you, and then I would’ve come back again.”

You laugh. The car slows as you approach the Hall, where the photographers are already set up to take more wedding photos and family portraits.

“You are a dream come true, Steve Rogers,” you tell him earnestly. “Out of all the dreams I’ve ever dreamed, you are by far the best.”

Leaning over, you kiss him again, lingering until someone opens Steve’s door. It’s only then that you sit upright. You’re separated for a few moments. In the silence of the car, you gather up the bouquet and breathe in their fragrance, closing your eyes. The scent reminds you of the first time you’d visited the gardens at the Hall. It had only been your third day as a maid, during a tour given to you by Mr. Bryne during his lunch, but you remember feeling at home. At the time, you’d pushed away the feeling, chiding yourself for staking claim on something that didn’t belong to you. Now, however, you smile to yourself and embrace the feeling. Your first photos will be in the gardens.

The door on your side of the car opens, and Steve’s hand appears. You take it and allow him to help you out of the car, then up the steps and into your Hall.

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